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katiexpunk · 2 days

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Fuck Me, Fill Me

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!Reader | W/C: ~4K | Rating: 18+ Minors DNI

Summary: Accidents happen all the time — people fall, knives slip, condoms break. You spent years successfully avoiding one. Except things are different now, you're ready for more. Your husband Joel is more than happy to oblige.

Warnings: Joel has one mission in this one -- knock you the fuck up (if that's not your thing, kindly move on). Heavy on the breeding kink. No age gap is mentioned (make it your own). So much dirty talk. Fingering. Dry humping/grinding. Praise kink. Size kink. Unprotected P in V. Rough sex. Semi-public sex. Sex in front of a mirror. Multiple creampies. No use of Y/N, no use of daddy. TLOU au. Reader has no physical descriptions except hair (no type or color) long enough to hold on to. Let me know if I missed anything!

A/N: I have no excuses for this one except that I have Joel brain rot and baby fever. Shoutout to the Capital One Lounge at IAD for the idea. Written on a plane.

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Accidents happen all the time — people fall, knives slip, condoms break.

It’s inevitable, really. A known fact of life. Call it Murphy’s law, bad luck, or just plain stupidity…

You’ve spent the majority of your teens and 20s successfully avoiding an accident.

If it can happen, it will happen your superstitious aunt used to say, and you were a believer.

Lord knows you've had more than enough evidence in your life to back up her words. From the tummy ache after eating way too many cherries, to the conspicuous brown stain that ruined your pristine white blouse. A blister on your heel from shoes that were supposed to be 'broken in' but never quite were, and the painful crack in your skin that followed. Proof was everywhere, and you learned to expect the unexpected.

You hold tight to that belief, while Joel does the same to your hips, fucking you within an inch of your life in the airport lounge bathroom.

But how you both ended up in this position was no accident.

++++

It never seemed like the right time—you had so much more to explore, achieve, and experience. Becoming a mother would complicate everything; at least, that's what you convinced yourself. You were content to rely on that little orange pill each day, despite its own set of side effects, because it kept your options open.

You weren't sure you'd make a good mom anyway. Your own mother certainly wasn't a shining example, and you had no reason to think you'd be any different. You couldn't even keep a cactus alive—how could you possibly care for a child?

But something changed not long after you and Joel got married. Maybe it was maturity slowly finding its way in, like warm honey filling the spaces you once closed off. It softened you to the idea of chubby cheeks and tiny fingers, gentle coos, and quiet lullabies sung in the deep southern drawl that had become so familiar.

Initially, you weren't sure how Joel would take the news, but when you told him you'd reconsidered, his reaction was beyond anything you'd expected. He was over the moon, filled with an urgency you'd never seen in him before. It was like you'd handed him the key to his deepest desires, and he was eager, almost desperate, to turn it and bring new life into your world, yours and his.

He made it clear just how eager he was when he took you in his arms and twirled you around the kitchen in joy. Then, without missing a beat, he bent you over the counter, yanked down your jeans, and made his intentions unmistakably clear. He fucked his cum so deep inside of you that night that you felt the warm dribble of him the next morning.

++++

Good things come to those who wait.

The words seem almost lifeless as they peer back at you, the paper they're printed on showing signs of age and Scotch tape keeping it glued to the break room wall above the microwave. The optimism they once held has faded, leaving behind nothing but cynicism and wear.

Yeah. Right.

The shrill beep of the microwave snaps you back to the present, your shoulders tensing. You shake off your irritation, clutching the warm coffee that’s been reheated three times, its heat barely reaching the chill of your underlying pessimism. It’s a small comfort, but enough to soften the ache of disappointment that nags at you every month when hope fizzles out.

Back at your desk, you bury yourself in work, flipping through emails and juggling various applications. Headphones in, you’re almost lost in your own world when a notification on your phone pulls you back. It's your cycle tracking app, reminding you that you're due to ovulate in a couple of days. But wait—

No, no, no. You quickly count the days in your head, then scramble to open your work calendar. The schedule's a blur until your eyes land on the words "Work Trip: Jackson, Wyoming." They jump off the screen, almost mocking you. Looks like timing won't be on your side this month. Unless —

Would it be too ridiculous to change an entire work trip just so you could make love to your ridiculously hot husband, and let him fill you again and again? You think not, but you know your boss might say otherwise.

You spend the rest of your workday figuring out Plan B. The irony is not lost on you that you’re seeking out an entirely different kind than you used to.

++++

As you settle into the couch, your legs draped across his lap, he begins to massage the soles of your feet in that soothing way that sends a ripple of warmth up your spine. You can't help but glance at his side profile—the elegant slope of his nose, the chiseled cut of his jaw, and the effortless curls of his salt-and-pepper hair that rest at the nape of his neck. He's undeniably handsome, a sight that never gets old.

His touch spreads a slow heat across your skin, your stomach fluttering in response. It's always been this way—the world could be crumbling outside, but with Joel, in your shared cocoon, you feel entirely at ease, wrapped in safety and affection.

“You're really gorgeous, you know,” you murmur, almost too quietly to be heard. You swirl the wine in your glass and meet his gaze as you take a sip.

“Nah, that's you, sweetheart,” he replies with a wink, his touch transitioning to featherlight kitten caresses as his fingers trace a path up your shin. He's not trying to seduce you, not really, but his touch and the intent gaze he holds on you are enough to ignite a slow burn under your skin.

You relax into the cushions, your head sinking back into the pillow, reveling in this moment. When he pauses, even for a second, you squirm, and he chuckles softly. “Such a needy little thing, aren't cha?” he teases, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he resumes his gentle strokes. “Mhm, sure am,” you hum, your eyes closing as you melt into the sensation of his skin on yours.

He slowly journeys upward, callused palms gliding along the smooth skin of your thigh, alternating between soft strokes and firm squeezes. Each touch seems to awaken a deeper need within you, and you're all too aware of the growing bulge beneath your calves, a silent but potent reminder of the desire simmering between you. It's enough to make you ache for him, crave his closeness, the kind of closeness only he can provide.

You lift your head, and he's already adjusting, his broad frame looming over you. He locks eyes with you as he takes the wineglass from your hand, placing it on the coffee table with care, then shifts his full attention back to you. You push your hips upward, meeting his, and he presses down just enough to make it clear that he’s in control, his body holding you firmly but without discomfort. You know he’s got you right where he wants you.

Your eyes meet his, and the intensity in his gaze leaves no doubt—this is happening. He props himself up on one forearm, his other hand tangling through your hair, his knuckles brushing against your cheek with a tender touch. He thrusts his hips into you with more urgency, his lips descending to capture yours, drawing out a soft moan from deep within you.

“Fuck sweetheart, feel what you do to me?” he groans, pressing his lips harder against yours. He tastes the wine on you, and your tongues intertwine, each movement slow but deliberate. You work your arms free from your sides and slide your hands into his hair, tugging gently, your nails grazing his scalp. The deep groan that escapes him tells you he's feeling everything—the pull, the scrape, the heat. It rumbles from his chest, reverberating through you, and it's intoxicating.

With your lips pressed firmly to his, he captures your bottom lip between his teeth, giving it a teasing bite as he thrusts against you. The rough denim scrapes against your inner thighs, and he slots himself perfectly between your legs. His mouth leaves yours, tracing a path of soft kisses down your jawline, lingering at that sensitive spot just behind your ear before he pulls the lobe into his mouth. You moan, fingers tangled in his hair, while your other hand explores the broad expanse of his back, craving the feel of him, unable to get enough.

“Joel,” you whimper, his name almost a question on your lips.

He doesn't pause, thrusting with just the right pressure, almost ignoring your plea. You move your lips to his shoulder and whisper, “I’m ovulating.”

That makes him stop. He props himself up on one forearm, his free hand on your ribs, his intense gaze locking onto yours. His eyes darken, pupils eclipsing the rich brown you know so well, and he groans deeply. Fuck.

“Yeah, sweetheart? Mmm, big mistake telling me that, now I’m just going to pump you full of my cum all night, gonna fuck you again and again, keep you so full of me that it’ll have no choice but to stick this time.”

You whimper at the thought, and his words go straight to your already wet core, your pussy fluttering around nothing, practically begging to be filled.

You want him so bad, but right now, he wants you more — wants every part of you, wants to change you forever. His head dips back to your neck, and he's practically grinding into you, the pressure so intense it feels like he's already fucking you through your clothes. His beard rasps against your cheek, leaving a trail of red marks as he works his way down to your chest, hastily undoing buttons, uncovering your breasts, and teasing your nipples to hard, eager peaks.

It would almost be embarrassing how turned on you are right now if it were anyone but him, how easily he can fluster you, turn you into a babbling mess.

“Well, not right now, but I am next —” you start to say, but quickly lose your train of thought as his whole hand comes down to cup your sex and the feel of his palm pressing against your dripping center.

“Sorry darlin’, what was that?” He asks, doing little to hide the smug tone behind his voice, obviously pleased with the effect he has on you.

“I am next week, while I’m supposed to be in Jackson for work,” you manage to get out, the words coming out soft, a barely there thought, your attention mostly on the sensation of his thick finger that has now curled its way deep inside of you, your panties pushed to the side as they should never have been there in the first place, not with him in the room.

“Come with me,” you ask, your words a tad breathless as he adds another finger to your dripping center, your slick coating them completely, and when he doesn’t answer, you’re not sure he heard you behind the haze of his arousal, the blood thrumming through his veins. Not that you can blame him, it’s so hard to fucking think, to breathe, to string together a rational thought that isn’t dirty when you’re together like this.

“Gotta feel this pussy first,” he rasps, the words slightly muffled against the tenderness of your breast. His words sober you for a brief second, as you playfully push against him in protest.

"That's not what I meant, and you know it," you laugh, and he can't suppress the goofy grin spreading across his face. He loves this—the playful banter, the way you bring out his lighter side, the perfect blend of passion and humor that flows between you. It's always been like this, effortlessly flirty, endlessly fun. You’re the perfect combination of sexy and cute, and better yet, you’re all his.

“Alright baby, I’ll come with you, on one condition,” he says, adding a third finger, and the stench of him is intoxicatingly delicious, perfect, and intense in the best way. You already feel so fucked out, you’re not sure how he’s managing to find the will to set fucking conditions right now, but still, you humor him —

“Conditions, huh?” You moan as he continues to pump his fingers in and out of you, the pads of his fingers grazing at the soft spongey spot inside of you that makes you see stars.

“Yeah, sweetheart, conditions,” he says, nipping at your chin. “You’re gonna be the good girl I know you are and come all over my fingers, and then I’ll make sure that you’re full of me all week, whenever you want it baby, I’m all yours,” he rasps, his breath coming a bit more ragged now at the thought of your proposition and his.

His fingers are still deep inside of you, he positions his wrist just right and brings the pad of his thumb to your clit. Your slick, combined with his filthy fucking mouth, and his thick cock pressed against you, creates the perfect conditions for the inevitable. He’s never not made you come, and you sure as hell know he’s not about to change that narrative now.

If it can happen, it will happen.

“Come on pretty girl, show me how pretty you come on your husband’s fingers,” he says, not really asking, but rather ordering in the tone that lights every nerve in your body on fire with arousal.

The warmth in your lower belly spreads outward, wrapping you in a blanket of pleasure. Your limbs tingle, your vision blurs, and your toes curl as the intensity builds. For a split second, everything goes hazy, and you let go, surrendering to him completely. He takes control, guiding you through the waves of ecstasy, pulling you into a bliss that only he knows how to reach.

“So good for me, sweetheart. You are so perfect.”

He makes you come once more soon after and then fucks you deep and slow. It’s all whispered praises in your ear, a firm grip on your hips, and his cock barely leaving your cunt before he’s slamming back into you, desperate to keep the tip of him as close to your cervix as possible.

Come with me, you moan, and he knows exactly what you mean this time.

“Shit, baby, I can feel you squeezing me, taking me so good —” his words break with a moan as you come for the third time, falling apart on his cock, before he adds “gripping me so goddamn tight.”

His thrusts slow and he buries himself to the hilt inside of you, and paints your insides in thick ropes of cum, holding your gaze as he throbs inside, not daring to move and risk any of his spend coming out before he wants it to.

He plants a soft kiss on your lips and tells you that you’re going to look even more gorgeous with his baby inside of you.

++++

The delayed flight to Jackson was just another reminder of life's unpredictability.

What started as a simple 30-minute delay quickly turned into an hour, then two, and now you're both three hours past your original departure time.

You find yourselves in one of the newer airport lounges, sitting in overly posh chairs. It's surprisingly uncrowded given the chaos that usually comes with airport delays. Your luggage is safely tucked away in the lockers, your bellies are full from the free snacks, and the irritation from earlier is fading thanks to the complimentary drinks. The ambiance is unexpectedly chic. Even the bathrooms feel upscale—private, enormous mirrors, fancy soap, and paper towels so luxurious they might as well be hand towels.

Joel is deep into a well-worn Western novel, its cover frayed and spine cracked from countless readings. You're scrolling through an article about the best positions for conceiving, smirking when you realize you and Joel have tried most of them, and then some. Just as you're in the middle of your read, your cycle tracking app sends a notification—you're at peak fertility, starting now. Have fun! ;)

Shit.

Who knows when you'll actually make it to your hotel room in Jackson tonight? You glance up from your phone, stealing a look at Joel. He's always handsome, but there's something about him in his glasses—the way the frames sit on the bridge of his nose, the slight furrow in his brow as he focuses on the words in his book. It's endearing how he still reads with such intensity, even though you know he's revisited these same pages countless times.

Your pussy flutters and aches at the sight, giving you a cheeky idea. He did say you could have him whenever you wanted.

You clear your throat, hoping to pull Joel's focus from his book, but he doesn't seem to notice. You try again, this time a bit louder, and all you get is a distracted, "You okay, sweetheart?" without him even glancing up.

You know you’ll need to be more direct to capture his attention.

"I'm going to use the restroom," you say, and he nods, eyes still on the page. Once inside, you leave the door unlocked and hike up your dress, exposing your bare breasts. You pinch your nipples between your thumb and forefinger until they harden, then push out your chest, angling your smartphone for the perfect shot. The result is a provocative selfie that you know will make him put that book down.

You attach it to a message for Joel and quickly type out your request — come knock me up in the bathroom, Cowboy.

He’s joining you in the bathroom faster than you thought he would, careful to avoid any curious eyes or draw attention to the fact that he’s about to absolutely wreck his wife.

Once inside, he locks the door behind him and grabs your waist, guiding you back until your hips hit the counter's edge. His hands roam over your body, lifting the hem of your dress until it's bunched around your waist. He kisses you with a desperate hunger, as if he hasn't had you in years.

"You sure you want to do this here, sweetheart?" he groans against your lips, shifting between playful nips, gentle kisses on your cheeks, and heated sucks at your jawline. The anticipation in his touch is palpable, but he's still checking to make sure this is what you want.

“Never been more sure of anything in my life except for the day I married you. Please fuck me, Joel, need to feel you stretch me out” you say, your words crossed between a whimper and a plea.

God, just when he thought you couldn’t get any more perfect.

“Yeah? My girl wants me to fill up her tight little hole,” he teases, already knowing the answer. He moves his hand to your dripping core and lets out a deep groan when he discovers you’ve already removed the barrier of your underwear for him.

“Fuck baby, I’d do anything to taste you right now, wanna hear all those pretty noises you make and the way my name sounds when you moan it for me,” and you soften more under the heat of his words, letting your mind drift to thoughts of how good it feels when his head is between your legs, gently wringing orgasm after orgasm out of you like it’s his fucking job.

“Gotta make this one quick, though. Can you be quiet for me, sweetheart?” He asks, and all you can do is nod.

"Good girl—c'mere, turn around," he instructs, guiding you with his hands until you've spun around, your hips pressing into the sink. His hand travels down your spine, making you arch toward him slightly, and he bends you over even more. In the mirror, you see him behind you, his eyes locked on yours as he quickly unbuckles his belt and lowers his jeans to mid-thigh. The anticipation is electric as you watch him in the reflection, knowing exactly what's coming next.

He spits into his hand and jerks himself, all the while holding your gaze, admiring the way your breasts are pressed up against the counter, perky and perfect. His cock twitches at the thought of what they’ll look like all swollen and full of milk.

He lines himself up against your wet and waiting hole, holds your hips steady with one hand, and gathers your hair in his fist with the other. He gently tugs it so your chin is angled up, eyes even straighter looking into the mirror. He loves watching you take it.

“You’re gonna watch as I fuck you, sweetheart,” He rasps as he presses himself into you in one stroke. You’re so fucking wet, your greedy cunt accepts him easily, despite his size. Like it knows what it wants, and what it needs. There’s a dull delicious sting at the intrusion.

“Oh my god, Joel, you’re so bi—” You break off in a moan as he pulls out and then slams himself into you deep and hard.

“God damn, look at you, my perfect fucking girl. Taking me so well, like this cock was made for you, huh baby?” His voice is firm, but quiet, just above a whisper. He’s not wasting time, he sets a punishing pace, and all you can do is let him use you.

“Fuck me, fuck me, fill me, fill me” you cry out, and he brings his hand to cover your mouth.

“What’d I say about being quiet, baby?” He holds you like that. You slip your hand between your thighs and rub your clit, a dangerous combination when he’s fucking you in this position. You come so fast that you think it might be a record. The tightening of your cunt has him on the precipice of his release.

“You’re fucking mine,” he growls, fucking his cum into you over and over, using every drop of him to give you what you want.

It might not stick this time, hell, it might not stick next time, but one thing is for certain — Joel will keep you full and fucked either way.

END

Reblog + Support Writers + Comment

A/N Continued: Thank you so much for reading! On a side note, my engagement here has been really low lately. :( As much as I'd love to say I don't care about the notes, I won't lie and tell you I don't need them for validation. If you like this, please consider leaving a comment or reblogging. I'll love you forever.

Tagging some moots for visibility (lmk if you want to be removed if the subject matter isn't your thing. No hard feelings!) @endlessthxxghts @syd-djarin @auteurdelabre @morning-star-joy@theoasisofthings @chulopascal @morallyinept @sweetercalypso @xdaddysprincessxx @burntheedges @punkshort @pedrostories @bastardmandennis @milly-louise @ghostwritesthings @josephquinnswhore @drunk-and-capable @survivingandenduring @hotgirlbedtimescenarios @ohheypedrito @joeldjarin @nerdieforpedro @amyispxnk @paleidiot @ghostwritesthings @kulekehe @darkheartgatita @goldenhxurs @javiscigarette @ro-nahime-things @gwendibleywrites @missladym1981 @morgaussy

#joel miller smut #joel miler x fem!reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #breeding k1nk #joel miller the last of us #joel miller one shot #pedro pascal character #pedrohub #pedrostories #joel miller #joel miller fanfic

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bet-on-me-13 · 2 days

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Supers and Bats

So! Jazz, Danny, Dan, and Ellie are adopted by Clark Kent and Lois Lane after bouncing around the System for a while.

Jazz couldn't legally take care them because she's just an 18 yr old in College and couldn't provide for two 16 yr Olds and a 12 yr Old on her own.

(Dan is in his Post-AGIT Body, so he looks like Danny's Twin Brother, and Ellie is still 12 because she hasn't started Aging yet.)

Anyways, eventually the Fenton Family opens up about their Powers and are accepted into the Super Family. They even Begin acting as Heroes for Metropolis, taking on their own Super names. Like Superkid, Supergal, and Superguy, all lazy but funny names that fit the Family Naming Convention.

And you know the Rule, if you are a Super, you will inevitably end up with your very own Bat.

Obviously Clark adopted Bruce as his Bat. They were the originals, the OG's, they set the precedent.

Kon adopted Tim as his Bat while on YJ, or maybe or was the other way around? They both don't know, since they were both absolutely Messes when they were on that Team. It really could have gone either way.

Jon and Damien have been eachothers Bat/Super since the Day they met. Let's even say Jon never got stuck in that Time Paradox and stays the same age (a gift from peepaw Clocky)

Barbara actually gets Jazz. She's not exactly as Super as the rest of her Family and Adopted Family, but she he up there. And she constantly studies for her Classes at Barbara's Library, so they get to hang out a lot and bond over having to take care of their respective Families.

Danny and Duke get along well, and decide that Danny is now his Super. They started hanging out when Danny decided to become the 2nd Day Shift Hero of Gotham on a whim, cause why is Duke the only one? He splits his time between Metropolis and Gotham but as a Super it's not an inconvenience. They like Joking with eachother on patrol.

Surprisingly Dan and Dick get along very well. Dick used to be extremely Agressive and Violent, and can relate to Dan who has recently begun trying to ugnore his more extreme reactions. They bond over the feeling of not being understood as kids and their shared "Extremely Repressed Anger" emotions. (Dick doesn't have dad instincts shut up jason)

Cass and Steph take one look at "Still a 12 yr old Chaos Gremlin" Ellie and decide that she is theirs now. It's okay, they can share! They absolutely love their brand new Little Sister, and let her be the biggest of Gremlins!

Most people forget but Jason has Bizzaro as his Super, while he is on the Outlaws. Once Ellie hears about Bizzaro's situation, she helps stabilize him using some of Vlad's old Tech. So Bizzaro gets to live in this! Yay!

That's the idea, thoughts?

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caeslxys · 2 days

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I’ve mentioned this elsewhere but it feels relevant again in light of the most recent episode. Something that’s really fascinating to me about Orym’s grief in comparison to the rest of the hells’ grief is that his is the youngest/most fresh and because of that tends to be the most volatile when it is triggered (aside from FCG, who was two and obviously The Most volatile when triggered.)

As in: prior to the attack on Zephrah, Orym was leading a normal, happy, casual life! with family who loved him and still do! Grief was something that was inflicted upon him via Ludinus’ machinations, whereas with characters like Imogen or Ashton, grief has been the background tapestry of their entire lives. And I think that shows in how the rest of them are largely able to, if not see past completely (Imogen/Laudna/Chetney) then at least temper/direct their vitriol or grief (Ashton/Fearne/Chetney again) to where it is most effective. (There is a glaring reason, for example, that Imogen scolded Orym for the way he reacted to Liliana and not Ashton. Because Ashton’s anger was directed in a way that was ultimately protective of Imogen—most effective—and Orym’s was founded solely in his personal grief.)

He wants Imogen to have her mom and he wants Lilliana to be salvageable for Imogen because he loves Imogen. But his love for the people in his present actively and consistently tend to conflict with the love he has for the people in his past. They are in a constant battle and Orym—he cannot fathom losing either of them.

(Or, to that point, recognize that allowing empathy to take root in him for the enemy isn't losing one of them.)

It is deeply poignant, then, that Orym’s grief is symbolized by both a sword and shield. It is something he wields as a blade when he feels his philosophy being threatened by certain conversational threads (as he believes it is one of the only things he has left of Will and Derrig, and is therefore desperately clinging onto with both bloody hands even if it makes him, occasionally, a hypocrite), but also something he can use in defense of the people he presently loves—if that provocative, blade-grief side of him does not push them—or himself—away first.

(it won’t—he is as loved by the hells as he loves them. he just needs to—as laudna so beautifully said—say and hear it more often.)

#critical role #cr spoilers #bells hells #orym of the air ashari #cr meta #imogen temult #ashton greymoore #liliana temult #this is genuinely completely written in good faith as someone who loves orym #but is also about orym and so will inevitably end up being completely misconstrued and made into discourse. alas #I could talk about how Orym’s unwillingness to allow the hells to actually finish/come to a solid conclusion on Philosophy Talk #is directly connected to one of the largest criticisms of c3 (that they are constantly having these conversations)#all day. alas. engaging with orym’s flaws tends to make people upset #it is ESP prevelant when he walks off after exclaiming ‘they (vangaurd) are NOT right’#which was not only never said but wasn’t even what they were talking about #he even admits as much to imogen like ten minutes later! that he is incapable of viewing it objectively #which is 100% justifiable and understandable but simultaneously does not make his grief alone the most important perspective in the world #also bc i fear ppl will play semantics on my tags yes the line ‘i hope she’s right’ was said but it was from ASHTON #who does not believe they are at all and wasn’t saying they actively WERE right. orym just heard something to latch onto and ran with it #ultimately there is a reason orym only admitted that he was struggling when he had stepped away to talk to dorian #who has not been around and thusly has not changed once n orym's eyes #and it isn't that the hells never check in or care. they do. they have several times over #it is dishonest to say they haven't #the actual reason is that all of this is something He Is Aware Of. he doesn't mention it bc he KNOWS it's hypocritical and selfish #he says as much!#EXHALES. @ MY OWN BRAIN CAN WE THINK ABT MOG AGAIN. FYRA RAI EVEN. FOR ME.#posting this literally at 8 in the morning so I can get my thoughts out of my brain but also attempt to immediately make this post invisibl

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gay-dorito-dust · 1 day

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Hiii how are you? Could i please request a jealousy fic with jason and dick, like how would they react? What would they do about it? I'm sorry its reallyyy cliche, but i love it anyway💕

Hi anon! I’ve been fine, been taking lots of power naps whenever I can, especially after work, but I’ve fine.

Jason’s jealously more or less comes from a place of insecurity.

He fears that one interaction with the right guy/ girl/ whomever would be enough to make you see that there were better options out there than him.

He never doubts your loyalty to him, never. He wasn’t that pathetic. He just didn’t trust everyone else that even looked at you in the same light as he did on the daily, and it was extremely evident when Jason didn’t like the looks of someone; Furrowed brows over narrowed judging eyes, his form practically towering over you protectively as he stares down the person whom he believes might take you from him.

His protectiveness tends to spike up periodically the moment he see the person get a little too close for comfort and he would clench his jaw to prevent himself from saying something he might regret later on; Jason tries to restrain himself for your sake but it was blatantly obvious that he was on the brink of exploding.

So when you both got home Jason didn’t waste any time in letting you know how he felt during the entire interaction after having forced himself to hold his own tongue.

‘Did you find that person attractive?’ He’d ask.

‘No.’ you said. ‘were you jealous?’

‘I thought me staring down the poor bastard was evident enough.’ Jason scoffs and you hugged his waist all the while pressing reassuring kisses at the base of his neck, when his hands reached to hold yours and intertwine your fingers together.

‘I know that you know I love you very much, no one else catches my eye when I have you,’ you reassured as you pressed another kiss to his neck, ‘my beautiful boy, my beautiful jay birdie.’ You added in a whisper as Jason felt the last remnants of jealously fade away into the background with every kiss you gave him.

‘Are you sure you can see yourself being with me? long term I mean.’ He then says as he squeezed your hands in his search of comfort from you and it broke your heart when he didn’t see himself the way you did, but you were more then willing to kiss and cuddle away his troubles if it meant reminding him of his worth.

‘Without question.’ You confidently told him, squeezing his hands. ‘I don’t see myself with anyone else but you because even though you may not think it, you are more then enough and you are not broken, to me you are whole and you are perfect.’ You finished by pressing a gentle kiss between his shoulder blades and resting your head there as you focused on his breathing.

‘Can…can we just forget about all this and just cuddle like any other cliche couples do?’ Jason asked, finding himself feeling a lot better upon hearing you laugh against his back as a smile crossed his face.

‘Sure big guy.’ You replied. ‘We can go cuddle now.’

And with that Jason was quick to pick you up in his arms and carry you off towards the bedroom where you inevitably feel asleep in the other’s arms, happy and content.

Dick wasn’t one to speak up on his emotions much, which was something that he knew he could better work on for the sake of your relationship with him.

He’s seen himself in the mirror. He knows his own appeal very well but physical appearance were secondary to you as it was his personality that won you over in the end. However he knew that beauty was subjective and that one day you might come across someone more physically appealing than him.

He’d act as though nothing was wrong but if you could easily tell something was off by just his stance alone, crossed arms over chest and a look in his eyes, as though he was trying to deduce the person you were trying to have a civil conversation with.

He may stand close to you and put a hand on your waist or throw an arm over your shoulders, pull you into his side and press a kiss to your forehead with a smile plastered across his face, but he wouldn’t say a word in hopes that would be enough to get across to the person that you were very much taken.

Upon arriving home however, Dick acts he wasn’t even remotely jealous to begin with, despite the glaring fact that he very much was.

‘Me? Jealous?’ He asks incredulously but upon seeing your face, he knew that this act of his had long since stopped working the moment you grew the ability to read him.

‘Yes, you were and you weren’t even trying to make it discreet at all.’ You told him as you settled aside your things on the kitchen counter and sighed. ‘I just wish you would talk to me about these things so that we could get this together like couples should.’

Dick frowned as he moved next to you and gently took your hand in his own, caressing it. ‘I know and I’m sorry that I haven’t been more open and honest with you it’s just-‘

‘You find it difficult to do so I know.’ You cut him off, looking him in the eyes. ‘I don’t blame you for that and I never would, you know that but I just wished that you trust me more to speak to me about these things.’ You tell him as you squeezed his hand. ‘I only want to help you.’

Dick kisses your forehead. ‘I know you do and I appreciate it very much.’ He whispered against your skin. ‘I just don’t know what you see in me sometimes, nor do I understand how you could have possibly put up with me as long as you have given how closed off I can be sometimes.’ He adds as he pulls away, his heart weighing heavily in his chest as he awaits your response.

‘I stay with you because I love you stupid.’ You said softly as you bumped his shoulder with your own. ‘And maybe because Hayley is too cute a pup to ever leave.’

‘I had a feeling Hayley was a major factor in you staying.’ Dick laughed. ‘Can’t say I blame you though, she is indeed very cute.’ He adds as he looks over at the staffy, who was very much fast asleep in her little bed in the living room before looking back to you with gentle eyes. ‘But I’m glad that you did stay. I love you too, dummy.’ He utters softly as he nudged you with his shoulder, vowing to himself to do better by you from this day forth.

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deathbecomesthem · 2 days

Note

got caught staring at my male coworker's hand tattoos today (there's script on one of his hands and I couldn't figure out what it said lol) and it made me think of linecook!eddie and if the reader has ever been caught staring at his hands (while he's cooking/prepping) while thinking..impure thoughts lol

This is so incredibly relatable. I have spent too much time thinking about what it would be like to be Eddie Munson's co-worker - there's no way I wouldn't be caught staring at him on a regular basis.

Here's what I've got for you. It's not exactly what you asked for, but this is what my brain said to write:

Eddie Munson x server!reader - there's a bit of smutty fantasy at the end.

+18 ONLY - MDNI

---

The new guy - Kenney? Karl? Keith? Shit, you can't be bothered to remember when you know he'll be gone in less than a month - sloshed vegetable oil on the floor as he made is his way from the storage room back to the kitchen. He knew he spilled the oil, but the head cook, Eddie, intimidated the hell out of the new guy. He didn't want to keep him waiting.

You, of course, had no idea about the oil spill. It's 11:30, and your usual set of lunch tables have just been seated. You're dancing the familiar steps you have memorized - wipe table, greet guests, fill drink orders, greet next guest, get more drink orders, and so on - making your way to deliver the first lunch orders to the line when the heel of your right foot finds the vegetable oil.

It's a slow motion movement. Your arms being to flail as you lose your footing completely. You can feel the impact of the hard tile floor on your tailbone even while you're still mostly upright. You're bracing for impact. There's no way to stop the inevitable, you just hope the damage is minimal. You clench your teeth just as you're about to feel the pain of impact when -

-you're buoyed by a firm grip on your forearms. Behind you, he clocked the sound of the rubber of you sneaker skidding along the tile. He saw the way you lifted your arms above your head, and moved instinctively. Eddie's hands grabbed your forearms hard enough to leave a mark - a small pain to save you from anything worse.

"Woah there. I got you." You can feel Eddie's breath on your neck as he allows your back to fall into his chest. An unexpected embrace that makes your knees weaker. His arms wrap around your center, holding you close. Holding you upright.

You look down and see his hands, strong and capable, holding onto you. You let him hold you, help you back firmly on your feet. You let a hand hold the small of your back, keeping your close, while you both investigate the ground in front of you. You watch those hands as they work the scrub brush against the tile to clean all traces of the offending oil. You watched those hands held out in front of him with he berated the new guy - Keith, you're almost sure of it - about kitchen safety and not killing your co-workers.

And when you climbed under the covers of your bed that night, you thought of those hands. You imaged they were pinching your nipples instead of your own. You imagine his thick fingers, rough fingertips running along your sensitive button. And when you fall asleep, you dream of those fingers inside your mouth while he's fucking you against the diner counter.

You'll never be able to look him in the eyes again.

#eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #asks #aud💜#linecook!eddie munson

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holycryptid · 2 days

Text

low honour!arthur morgan x virgin!reader

this is really just one long-winded fic idea that i need to speak into existence.

tags: literally save a horse ride a cowboy, afab!reader (feminine pronouns, descriptions, and names used), religious topics/imagery, obsessive!arthur, virginity kink, age gap relationship, loss of virginity, corruption kink

Reader is in her early 20s, privileged to come from a family with wealth from their heritage and inheritance in the oil industry.

The era of cowboys and outlaws has started to become a thing of the past from the shifts in climate and industry throughout the country. Reader has resided in Saint Denis her whole life, never needing to worry about gangs, outlaws, or even cowboys.

She has never even seen a cowboy before, but she’s heard stories; none of them particularly pretty. The presence of law enforcement throughout the streets and the sheer distance of Saint Denis from other towns is enough to deter most of them from causing trouble.

Functionally, she should never be compatible with a cowboy.

Her father has always preached about her waiting for a “good, proper man” that can marry her into another family with obscene wealth. And so, she protects her chastity and innocence just as she is expected to—just as her father expects her to.

Hell, she doesn’t even know how to ride a horse! Her father believes that riding horses is beneath them, so anywhere she wants to go is accommodated by a stagecoach.

Cut to: reader is accompanying her father on a trip to Annesburg to discuss potential investments in the mining industry. He hates leaving her alone. She knows he worries that she’ll get “up to no good”.

Her father has chosen one of their more comfortable, flashy stagecoaches for the longer ride, giving him more storage for his financial documents and whatnot. A perfect target for gangs.

And, inevitably, they get robbed.

The robbers’ faces are all concealed by hats and bandanas, and one of them ties her arms behind her back with careful hands before guiding her to her knees on the wet grass.

The man who tied her up stays close by her side, and she can see her father pleading for his life to another man who’s not listening.

“Are you a cowboy?” Are the first words she says to him, not a note of fear in her doll-like eyes that make her look so fuckable in this position with her on her knees next to him, dress billowing out around her form.

He looks down at her confused. “Uh, once, I suppose.” His voice is a little muffled by the black bandana hanging over his nose and mouth.

She can see that his hair is so long that it starts to curl up and out at the ends under his hat.

“Well, you got the hat. And the horse,” she reasons, wondering if she’s truly meeting a cowboy under circumstances she thought she’d never be in.

He looks to her again, left hand causally hooked in the leather of his belt as he waits for the rest of his gang to finish up. “I guess you’re right.” He tips his head to her in agreement.

“Leave them! These people are leeches. Let the wolves decide their fate.” A man with a deep, booming voice announces atop his white horse.

Now she starts to panic.

She pulls against the rope around her wrists, looking up to the man who tied her as he begins to walk toward his horse. “Wait! Mister, please! Please don’t. Please,” she yells to him.

He looks back to her, then his horse, then back to her again. “Hold on.” He signals to the man on the white horse before walking back over to her.

“Take me home. Please just take me home, mister. I won’t say nothing, I promise, but just take me home and I’ll give you anything you want,” she begs to him.

He sighs, but not out of annoyance or hesitation for her request. He sighs because he has no idea what she has just done to herself.

He places his bandana over her eyes and leads her to his horse. He unties her hands and lets her blindly climb into the saddle, legs shaking from unfamiliarity.

When she settles, she blindly grips onto the saddle horn for dear life, wishing her father let her ride at least once in her life so she wouldn’t appear so delicate in this situation. The man chuckles off to the side before mounting up behind her. She notices the saddle is not quite meant for two as he pushes in tightly against her ass, seemingly not even concerned about it.

This is probably the closest she’s ever been to a man.

“Where to, miss?” The man leans forward against her back to grab the reigns, caging her in with his arms.

She tells him in a quiet voice, and he kicks against his horse, setting them into motion.

When they arrive at her French two-story home on the outskirts of Saint Denis, the man dismounts swiftly, hand circling her wrist before saying, “Swing your right leg over and I’ll help you down.”

She slowly brings herself around, feeling the man lock his hands around her waist to guide her to the ground.

He tugs at the knot holding the bandana around her eyes, and she doesn’t let herself turn around until she feels he’s had enough time to tie it back around his face.

“Thank you, mister,” she whispers.

He tips his hat and leaves without another word.

In the following week, the man watches her after the sun sets. He watches her pray before bed and change into her silk nightgown, waiting for the night he can maybe finally see the more explicit side of her. But it never comes.

She’s perfect.

Eventually they cross paths again one day. The man purposefully chooses to ditch the bandana, too.

“I don’t think my daddy would appreciate me talking to someone like you,” she admits slyly as she continues her trek into Saint Denis.

The man follows beside her on his horse, left arm lazily hanging down by his side. “Someone like me? And who’s that?” he asks, a slight smile also on his lips.

“A cowboy. An outlaw,” she says, sneaking a glance up to him as his horse steps in time with her down the path.

“Well your daddy ain’t here.”

“No, mister.”

“Come for a ride then.”

And that’s how it’s starts for them. He introduces himself as they ride to his gangs camp, and she complains about how sore her legs are when they arrive.

“You don’t ride?” Arthur asks, intending for it to be a joke.

“That was my second time. Ever,” she laughs.

And that’s when he understands what type of lady he’s dealing with, so he goes for it.

“Maybe you should practice on me sometime,” he remarks, untacking his horse.

She wonders if she heard him right. “Uh, mister—”

“Arthur,” he corrects.

In that moment, she realizes he can teach her everything her father has kept from her, show her everything he had protected her from. Throw away the innocence and chastity and truly experience what life should be. But Arthur doesn’t know the entirety of her sheltered life. He needs someone like him.

“Arthur…I don’t think I’m what you’re looking for,” she admits. “I…I’ve never been with no one. Ever.”

“You’re untouched, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir. Just as my daddy said I should be. Until marriage.”

And Arthur makes it his mission to make her experience her own sexuality in its completeness, so he starts off slow.

He would always touch, never breaching her or letting her do anything to him. The focus was always on her.

Her virginity and pureness made him conflicted: he wanted to ruin her in all the ways she has never been, but he wants to tease and rile her up and watch her experience all the sexual frustrations for the first time.

It was cute. The more bold he got with his touches, the more bold she got in trying to take what she wanted. He would take her behind a tree and slowly lift up the dainty material of her summer dress, gathering it in his left hand as he used his right to rub her clit through her underwear while he licked and sucked along her neck, careful not to leave marks.

She would get weak so fast, Arthur could barely handle how virgin her body truly was. She would grip onto the leather straps of the rifles hanging down his back, trying to force his hand harder and faster.

However, the first time he made her cum was an accident.

He confidently placed a gentle kiss on her lips while they were alone in his tent—he just wanted to see how she would react.

She leaned in and returned it, snaking her hands around his neck and pulling him down to her. He pulled her into his lap, laying them down on his cot as they started making out like a long-distance high-school couple.

Arthur mindlessly starts grinding against her, ignoring the clothing separating them. She doesn’t realize what she’s feeling as Arthur’s hard cock slides against her clothed pussy.

Her orgasm just kind of happens.

Arthur watches her shake and twitch under him as he pulls away to see what happened. The wet spot on her underwear is all the evidence he needs.

Ever since, she’s been insatiable. She wants Arthur to show her everything. Teach her everything. She wants to feel everything if that means she can cum like that again.

Around the campfire she’d sit on his lap, tightly circling her hips against him until he’d grow hard before stopping. Then she’d do it again.

Arthur would mostly ignore her teasing. He didn’t want her to know how much she was driving him up the wall, so he’d retaliate in a way that was ten times worse then whatever she did just to prove a point about her innocence, how she knows so little compared to him.

The first time they fuck, he makes the horse riding joke again: “I’m sure this’ll be good practice for you, sweetheart.”

She huffs a laugh, rubbing his cock through her folds as she straddles him. He’s built up her confidence so much, it’s all been leading to this.

He’d guide her up and down, back and forth, testing her body to see what she likes. Seeing what spot makes her tremble.

He finds it. “Fuck, there it is,” Arthur groans.

She can’t even think. She doesn’t know what to think. She’s doing everything her father told her not to.

Premarital sex.

Premarital sex with a cowboy.

“Oh, Lord, forgive me,” she prays, her pussy sliding so perfectly along him as he grips her hips harder.

Eventually, he’d eat her out in her childhood bedroom. Her father sleeping in the room above her own, separated by the thin wood of the floor. She arches against the bed, and her eyes meet the iron cross hung above her bed frame.

She’d often ask him to leave the hat on, and he’d laugh, pleased that she is slowly adopting sexual preferences and interests.

She was his perfect, sophisticated woman that he was free to defile and poison with his desires.

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan fic #arthur morgan one shot #arthur morgan oneshot #arthur morgan imagine #rdr2 smut #rdr2 imagine #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan fanfic #arthur morgan fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption 2 smut #red dead redemption 2 fanfic

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lady-raziel · 16 hours

Text

long reaction to the update

ok. so they put out an update video! since i've been commentating for the last three days i might as well subject you all to more of my thoughts today.

main takeaway: this was a good apology video. i mean it. short and to the point, no overproduction, heartfelt and honest (and not a ukelele to be seen. thank god.) they took ownership of the situation, apologized, and restated how much they value their relationship with the fandom.

their solution is to make the watcher tv platform into kind of an iteration of patreon where content is available for early access before it is released onto youtube later. this is clearly a better option than paywalling everything for everyone. i'm not sure what the relative breakdown of costs turns out to be when you compare how much they were making on patreon after the platform took their cut VS how much it costs in overhead to run and maintain their own platform (how much it costs annually to contract via Vimeo, essentially). but i'm sure that's part of the calculation.

all things considered, that does seem like the best option out of all the alternatives. it allows them to not completely abandon any of the pans they have simmering over the fire for the time being. i don't think i ever thought they were going to just say "oops, forget about the streaming thing! let's pretend that never happened!" because at this point they've invested quite a lot of time and money into it, and i don't disagree that keeping it in some iteration may help them make up some of the funds they're lacking.

i would say, it's fine to keep the streamer. this is one of the ok outcomes, all things considered-- but if they're going to do it, they've GOT to do it smart from this point forward. listen to both the fans and the consultants intimately. both are going to have valid points, and both are going to be right. listening to too much of either side will sink this thing because each has motives and expertise that the other doesn't. if the fans say $6 is too much, listen to them-- but have conversations with business consultants about how much you realistically need to charge to make things work.

also, i'd use this whole situation as a learning experience. watcher is a young company, and it's literally inevitable that mistakes will happen. what's different is that the watcher crew haven't really been in a position before where they've been on the receiving end of the internet-angry-justice-hammer to this extent. it's one thing to watch it happen to others, but it's a position of extreme privilege (and a bit of hubris) to think "but that won't happen to me, because i'm built different." naw, man-- two things in life are inevitable: death and fuckups. the callout posts get us all in the end.

what's really important is that they use this as a wakeup call that even the most loyal fandoms will only follow you so far to the cliff's edge, and you don't want to push that. you have to strike a balance between the passion projects that you think are worthy and the stuff that maybe doesn't excite you as much anymore but the people want to see. a little fanservice keeps the lights on, as unfair as that might seem. i'm gonna make 50 markiplier choccy milk memes just so i can make one niche political joke once and a while for 6 likes. it is what it is.

i'd also use this as a chance to take a very careful look at company structure and finances. it's not fun to do and nobody likes it. trust me-- this is hard whether you're a single adult trying to pay the bills or the freaking US government (speaking from experience on both-- i have to read the president's budget for work frequently). but you all have to ask hard questions about the ratio of creative staff you take on VS staff for administrative and other business roles, as well as the costs and benefits of everything you spend money on. how many staff members are essential to location shoots? can this video be shot with 2 cameras instead of 3 and thus you don't need another cameraperson? you might even have to come to the decision that instead of pitching a new show it makes more sense to use those funds to hire your essential non-creative roles or contract firms or freelancers.

paying staff a fair wage with benefits speaks highly of what watcher wants their values to be. it's hard to find such a position in a creative role and still actually get to work on things you care about. but it would be much worse if watcher didn't make realistic decisions about finances and it lead to the death of the company and everyone losing their jobs. the whole watcher company can work, in my opinion, but not without some sacrifices. they're going to have to run it more like a business and less like a youtube-channel-turned-business in the future if they want to survive.

last thing i'll add is that while i do think this was a good apology video, i still think they hurt themselves by not putting out some sort of statement on Friday or Saturday just to say that they were formulating a response. As i've said in other posts, it's ok and in fact beneficial to not make a kneejerk reaction, but it's also very important to communicate that you SEE what's happening. you SEE what people are saying and THAT'S why you need more time to respond. saying nothing and leaving the angry public to wonder if you dropped your phone off the Hoover Dam or just don't care? that's a fumble. it's a common mistake companies make in a crisis, but that doesn't mean it doesn't erode trust fast.

this could have been handled better in many ways. we see that, and i'm glad watcher says they see that too. crucial going forward is taking all this and patching the errors that caused all this to fall apart and learning from the experience.

tbh at this point what i'm most sad about is that the watcher crew have probably been too stressed out and upset to appreciate some of the absolute bangers people have been laying down to clown on them. i think if it wasn't about them they might be touched by the collective attitude and creative spirit. /j

#watcher #watcher tv #after this post i have got to actually not spend time writing long reactions about this anymore because i too #have fires caused by my own fuckups to put out #alas

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queenimmadolla · 2 days

Note

eddie, "angel", and fluff

𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩

Eddie takes an aggressively long pull of the joint clasped between his fingers, dark brown eyes focused on where you occupy the other half of the couch. Your arms are folded over the arm, head using them as a makeshift pillow for the weed induced nap that came over you.

It’s dusk, the trailer park bathed in the warm copper glow of the sun’s last few minutes. The streetlights are due to come on when it disappears. Until then, the park kids run rampant, eager to play before the dark sends them home.

Crickets are already chirping, Cicadas and their annoying screams are reverberating from various parts of the park, all the sounds of an approaching summer night.

The heat had been bearable today, a nice breeze sweeping through Hawkins and encouraging most of the Forest Hills residents to keep their doors and windows open so their homes could air out.

You’d slept over the night before, and with some languid kisses, Eddie had easily persuaded you to stay. You practically lived with him already, anyways. Had your products mingled with his on his dresser, your clothes in his closet and drawers and his pillows smelling of your shampoo and perfume. It felt wonderfully domestic and Eddie was hooked on the sensation. Loved having your presence all around him.

With a summer day as nice as today, the two of you decided to wind down with some light reading and sharing a joint, some grapes, along with some water out on the porch couch.

Eddie was sitting on one end of the couch, while you were splayed out on the rest of it, bare feet resting on his lap. The two of you read your separate choices, enthralled in the last voyage of the dawn treader and a corpse, made from various beings, brought to life.

The soothing stroke of Eddie’s hands over the skin of your leg, coupled with the heat, breeze and weed had eventually lulled you into a slumber, with Eddie noticing only after he’d finished the chapter he was on. He entertained the idea of reading further, you just proved to be far more alluring than any structure of the English language.

Your face is a little shiny, obviously due to the weather, but it only makes you glow and your lips are pouty as a result of half your face being squished against your arm. You look so peaceful, so beautiful. His angel.

Eddie exhales the smoke he was holding in, head feeling even fuzzier than before. It’s nice.

Despite popular belief, Eddie doesn’t get high often. Nothing against smoking, he’d just already gone through the phase of constantly being high and it lost its novelty. Been there, done that.

Now, he only really smokes with you, more so to relax and enjoy rather than to get high out of his fucking mind and unlock an ability to understand animals or some shit. No, Eddie just likes to use it as another way to bond with you.

Eddie’s an affectionate person, he’s aware. He’d been starved for affection as a child after his mom died and his dad could barely clap him on the shoulder, he was doomed to crave it in his relationships. Always the Romantic in them, even if it left him the fool in the end.

Despite many ends, he never stopped. Maybe he held back a little, but never fully stopped, Always wanting to tuck someone into his side, moon over them, map his kisses out over sweet smelling skin, and even sweeter tasting lips that would later scorn him with hurtful words when he inevitably proved to be too much or too little.

Then you’d come into his life. You’d been present for a lot of it, a background character if you will. Sometimes sharing the same friends, sometimes exchanging pleasant greetings and maybe a short interaction.

Eddie thinks about one, in particular. He thinks about it a lot.

It had taken place at a nice little kickback with Harrington and co. Just a tight knit group of friends, some closer than others. Eddie had his then-girlfriend at his side, and arm slung over her shoulder as he conversed with your then-boyfriend, who you’d attended the event with. The conversation had been pleasant but lacking any genuine common interests or passion, until you spoke up, from your place in his arms, in defense of Michael Jackson’s discography.

Eddie enjoyed all kinds of music, dabbled in it, and while he didn't despise Top 40 music, it did become repetitive so he didn’t listen to it often himself.

After that night, and a heated debate on whether or not songs being overplayed meant it took away from the brilliance of them—Eddie found himself ducking into the local music store to pick up a tape of Dangerous.

That had been the first night he used weed for the sole purpose of enhancing an experience. It had also been the night he’d acknowledged his current relationship would not be ending with wedding bells, which granted he’d already known prior, but since it was you plaguing his mind that night (and every night after) and not her, he knew it’d have to end sooner rather than later—lest he wish to be the douche that longs for another instead of his girlfriend.

Eddie’s hands trail along your skin, a little prickly from re-growing hair but that kind of turns him on. It’s definitely the weed hyping up his senses, your skin is so fucking soft and pliable. You’re always so delicious, he just wants to bite you.

So, he does.

You jolt awake with an Ow! and a laugh once you’d realize what had disturbed you from your nap. Eddie grins, barking out a laugh as you sit up and swat his arm. You don’t have to rub over the bite mark on your leg, Eddie’s already doing that for you before he yanks you by it even closer, until he’s pulling you onto his lap, lips searing against yours. He never has to hold back with you.

You hum against his mouth, a hand moving to tangle in the curls at the nape of his neck and he sighs as he melts.

Amongst the crickets and the cicadas, Eddie swears he can also hear wedding bells.

#Queenimmadolla’s smokesesh #eddie munson x reader #boyfriend!eddie munson #eddie munson x reader fluff #eddie munson #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson blurbs #eddie munson fanfic

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alittlebitofsainz · 2 days

Text

- why am I still writing pages? -

prompt: “but if the story’s over, why am I still writing pages?”

pairing: charles leclerc x reader

summary: you and your teammate are cursed by a case of right person, wrong time. but a crash makes you both reconsider everything.

warnings: implications of sex and mentions of a crash, but nothing explicit.

a/n: lyrics of course from track #16 death by a thousand cuts by taylor swift

masterlist | the spotify wrapped collection

you knew it had been a bad idea.

right from the start, the voice in the back of your head was screaming at you not to do this. this was the only way it ever could’ve ended, and yet at the same time… you knew it would never end. not properly.

you could tell you and charles would get along from the moment you met; faces cracking into grins when you caught his eye across the debrief room, turning into whispers in ears about gossip from the rest of the grid, turning into subtle touches on the shoulder, on the knee, on the curve of your back as he passed by. you could feel yourself falling, even though you were trying so hard not to. and how could you not? he was charming, funny, handsome, and something about his unwavering determination, his dedication and commitment and loyalty to his team, to his dream, captured you in ways you never imagined anything could.

the first kiss was inevitable, a moment in his drivers room full of so much tension that you left to head to the first free practice session suspiciously breathless. the two of you danced around labelling whatever it was going on between you, until eventually there was no point pretending anymore; neither of you were interested in pursuing anybody else but each other.

but you were drivers. and drivers were competitive, and ambitious, and separating your off-track relationship from your on-track relationship…? let’s just say that difficult was an understatement.

“they told me what you said on the radio.”

charles had looked up, the irritation that had been on his face giving way to surprise as you appeared in the entrance of his drivers room. usually when you came to visit his drivers room the door was locked behind you, and when it reopened half an hour later you had to check the corridor to make sure no one saw you emerge with your hair a mess, cheeks flushed and your shirt still half unbuttoned. but this wasn’t one of those times. the tension in the air was not the welcome kind.

“what?” charles had the audacity to pretend to not to know what you were talking about.

“‘y/n’ is such a fucking idiot. what is she doing?’ don’t pretend you didn’t say it.” you replied. even having to repeat the words felt like a knife in your chest. you’d been fighting for a podium, and your defending had been a little… aggressive, more so than it probably should’ve been considering charles was your teammate. and your partner. charles sighed, dragging a hand down his face.

“I’m sorry. you know what it’s like out there. we all say things in the moment that we don’t really mean.” he apologised gently, weary eyes searching yours for any sign you forgiveness. you hummed in response, the anger that had built in you as you’d marched down the corridor from the garage to his drivers room dissipating the longer you had to process it. charles held his arms out to you, and you let out a sigh as you knew that you would forgive him, crawling into his lap as he murmured apologies into your ear.

it hadn’t been that incident that had caused your relationship to break down. it had been an accumulation of all the times that followed, all the little comments and digs over the radio about each other when you were fighting on track. it was the way the media continually pitted you against each other, the two of you constantly leap-frogging each other in the drivers standings, rumours of renewing of contracts and in-team fighting that eventually became all consuming and impossible to ignore. when charles had looked at you with a face like thunder that masked the true pain he felt, telling you he didn’t think he could do this anymore, you couldn’t find any reason to argue. to fight what was happening. maybe this was just right person, wrong time, you’d agreed. maybe in another life.

it had hurt, but at least you’d remained friends, even if it was only due to the forced proximity that came from driving for the same team every weekend. and without the added pressure of a relationship, things between you and charles actually improved, after a while. first the smiles across the room came back. and then the two of you started gossiping again, giggling at secrets that only the two of you knew, footage of you, charles and pierre laughing together during the drivers parade appearing all over social media. and then the touches, the brushing of skin, the blush creeping up into your cheeks as his fingers caught on yours as you walked side by side through the paddock. the way his knee pressed against yours during a press conference when a question came up about your crash the weekend before, the one that had had charles racing to the medical centre as soon as the race was over, almost in tears just at the sight of you.

“I came as soon as I- merde, y/n, are you okay?”

charles’ voice was shaky, his heavy breathing revealing just how quickly he’d rushed over from the garage. the race wouldn’t be restarted for at least another half an hour, the barriers requiring extensive repair work after the damage you’d caused, giving charles just enough time to come and see you.

“I’m fine, charles.” you waved him off as you pushed yourself up with a groan, “it wasn’t even that bad, I-“

“wasn’t that bad?” he cut you off, eyebrows creasing into a frown as he perched himself on the bed beside you hesitantly, cautiously, as if scared to move for fear of hurting you. “y/n, it looked… awful. for a moment I wondered-“

“I got lucky.” it was your turn to do the interrupting, not wanting charles to go down that train of thought any further. “I’m fine, I promise. a bad concussion and… everything hurts, but nothing serious.”

you’d never seen charles cry before - even when things had ended between the two of you, he’d made sure to do that in private. it broke your heart, to know he thought, if only for a moment, that he’d come so close to losing you, and you leaned forward to pull him into your arms, ignoring the ache in your limbs.

since that weekend, you and charles had fallen back into an old routine. it was dangerous, but just like that very first kiss, it had been inevitable. neither of you wanted to cross that invisible line again, both too scared of repeating past mistakes. you couldn’t afford that type of heartbreak again. but you knew your story wasn’t over. not yet.

a/n: this was becoming longer than I intended, so I might do a second part to wrap it up properly :)

#charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x y/n #charles leclerc imagine #f1 x reader #f1 x y/n #f1 x you #f1 imagine #f1 fic

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seonghrtz · 2 days

Text

𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑.

synopsis: you have a sleepover at gojo's.

No one had said that taking care of two children half your age, one of whom had a lot of cursed energy, would be easy. And maybe it wasn't supposed to be easy. After all, you were eighteen, a young adult, and the only thing you had been taught as a child was to obey your superiors and fight curses ⸻ even how to deal with the limbo that was your life, you had to learn on your own. You hadn't been given a manual on how to take care of children, let alone a manual on how to deal with the most powerful sorcerer of the generation. But you always knew your life wasn't going to be easy anyway.

You and Gojo eventually established a dynamic so that you could take care of Tsumiki and Megumi Fushiguro. During the week, Gojo took care of the children, especially since their school was in Tokyo, and on the weekends, you took care of them. Of course, if Gojo had a mission that made it impossible for him to take care of the children, you took care of them. It was basically the dynamic of a divorced couple with joint custody of their children. But the point was that you and Gojo weren't a (divorced) couple and you didn't even have children. In fact, Gojo had only taken Megumi and Tsumiki to look after, and you were accidentally involved in the whole situation.

And since it was the weekend, it was your day to take care of the Fushiguro siblings. Gojo was usually the one who took the children to your apartment, but since you had an appointment in Tokyo, you ended up arranging with him to pick up the children at his apartment. You had asked for the address of his apartment and miraculously convinced him that it wasn't necessary for him to pick you up and take you to where he lived ⸻ it took a long five minutes of arguing with Satoru before he gave in.

You walked in a bit of a hurry until you found the street where Satoru lived. You looked up the numbers of the houses until you found Gojo's. It was a tall building that gave you a headache just looking up, and it was fancy, completely different from your building, which was much smaller and much simpler. This building certainly showed how well off Gojo Satoru was financially. He had luxurious comfort.

The two of you were different in many ways ⸻ the only thing being that you were both Jujutsu sorcerers ⸻ and sometimes, it was inevitable not to wonder why he needed your help, you of all people. It was an unlikely action coming from Gojo Satoru, but if that was the price for Megumi and Tsumiki to have a normal, healthy childhood, then you were willing to pay it.

You approached the building, double-checking that you were in the right place, though you didn't need to, the whole atmosphere matched the lust that Gojo himself exuded.

"Excuse me, good afternoon" The access controller got your attention before you could pick up your phone and tell Gojo that you were already outside his building.

"Good afternoon." You bowed slightly.

"Are you Kamo Y/n?"

"Yes, that's me."

"Gojo-san asked me to let you in as soon as you arrived," the loud click of the apartment gate opening was heard as soon as the access controller spoke. "You can go up, the apartment is on the twelfth floor."

"Thank you very much." You thanked them and headed for the elevator, obviously not up twelve flights of stairs after a relatively tiring day.

When the elevator arrived, you entered it and looked at the button panel, there were twelve buttons for the floors of the building. Of course, Gojo Satoru wouldn't live anywhere but the penthouse. When the elevator doors opened, you stepped out of the elevator and noticed that there was only one door on the twelfth floor; if there was only one apartment per floor, at least you wouldn't be confused as to which apartment was Gojo's. However, before you could touch the elevator, you had no choice but to do so. But before you could ring the bell, the door opened to reveal a smiling Tsumiki.

"Kamo-san! Are you here to pick us up?"

"Uhh." You nodded.

"Ah, but we were going to marathon the Barbie movies..." Tsumiki said sadly

"Hey Kamo-chan, don't just stand there in the hallway!" Gojo appeared next to Tsumiki and grabbed your wrist, pulling you into the apartment.

“Gojo-san!”

"'Gojo-san'? Kamo-chan, we're the same age, there's no need to be so formal."

"What happened to your hair?" you asked, noticing the ribbons in some of his hair.

"This is called style!" Gojo put his hands on his waist in an odd pose.

"Fushiguro?" You looked at the little boy who was walking towards you with his backpack, ready to leave.

“Oi Megumi, do you want to leave so badly?" Gojo put his hand to his chest and pretended to be offended.

"Ah, but what about Barbie?" Tsumiki looked at you sadly and then at Gojo."Well... ah... you can watch it at my apartment..."

"NO!" Gojo shouted, interrupting your speech. "That's not fair!" A pout formed on the white-haired boy's moist pink lips. "I also wanted to watch Barbie too and watching it alone is no fun since I won't be able to sing the duets from the movies..."

"If you want, you can stay at Gojo's for the weekend, it's no problem." You've given a simple and practical solution.

"I don't want to." Megumi said, attracting the attention of everyone present.

"Megumi!" Gojo said dramatically, "Don't you want to spend a super fun weekend with me and your sister?" Gojo looked at the little Fushiguro, hoping that he would give an affirmative answer, but Megumi just stared at him with a serious face.

"Why don't we all stay here together?" Tsumiki suggested with a smile, "That way, we can watch Barbie and have a fun sleepover!"

"That's a great idea, Tsumiki!" Gojo said excitedly, he'd been trying to convince you to spend a day (or night) in his apartment for a long time, he knew it might cheer up Megumi's constant bad mood, but it was hard to convince you to stay. And now he had the perfect opportunity.

"I'm sorry, Tsumiki," you said, putting an end to Gojo and Tsumiki's happy murmurings about a possible slumber party, "I don't think today is a good day for that."

"And why not?"

"The only thing I have with me right now is my wallet" and a pocket knife, but you omitted that information from the girl.

"No problem!" Gojo said with a smile on his face, "I can lend you the towel, toothbrush and clothes, don't worry about it!"

"Please, Kamo-san" Tsumiki's bright, hopeful eyes made you look away.

"Ah... okay," you gave in and watched as Tsumiki and Gojo celebrated while Megumi hid his relief, at least you were with him and he wouldn't have to endure Gojo's taunts alone for another night.

"Tsumiki, you can choose today's Barbie movie, Megumi, you're responsible for building our hut in the living room, I'll order the food and Kamo-chan, you can take the part of being pretty and sit in that chair." Gojo smiled and put his glasses on his face. Tsumiki smiled excitedly and pulled her brother into the living room.

"Let's make dinner together." You said, drawing Gojo's attention back to you.

"What?" Gojo looked at you in surprise.

"Let's cook dinner instead of ordering in."

"Are you sure about that? It's easier to order in, not to mention there's a really good restaurant I always order from."

"If you want me to stay, we'll cook dinner together."

"What kind of bribe is that?"

"You promised to feed them well." You crossed your arms and stared at your own reflection in the sorcerer's glasses in front of you.

"All right," Gojo sighed and led you into the kitchen.

When you entered the apartment, you were surprised by the size of the place. Everything in Gojo's apartment was double, if not triple, the size of your own, but it was still surprising to see the size of this kitchen that was almost unused by its owner. You went through the fridge looking for ingredients to give you an idea of what you could make for dinner.

"Are you sure you don't want to order something? It's a lot easier." Gojo said, watching you take out the ingredients and put them in the sink.

"Peel the vegetables." You said, ignoring Satoru's question.

If you had the chance to ask your past self how she saw herself at a certain point in the future, she would certainly never tell you that she would be taking care of two children half her age, much less that she would be cooking alongside one of the strongest sorcerers, much less that she would see him cut off his own finger while chopping vegetables. You probably didn't expect him to be a disaster in the kitchen. But as they say, you learn by making mistakes ⸻ even if you seriously doubt that Gojo has learned anything from what he's learned in the kitchen.

When dinner was ready, you gathered in the pantry. You and Megumi ate in silence while Gojo and Tsumiki had a deep and serious discussion about the best characters, dresses, clothes, everything related to Barbie animation.

Everything went perfectly and although you would have preferred to stay in the comfort of your small apartment, seeing Tsumiki's radiant smile and Megumi's relaxed expression made your decision worthwhile.

It didn't take long for your regrets to show.

Watching Gojo and Tsumiki perform the songs from Barbie & the Diamond Castle at midnight certainly made you rethink many of the decisions you had made in your life. The scene of Tsumiki singing and twirling in front of the TV was quite cute, what was hard to bear was Gojo's thin voice every time it was his turn to sing ⸻ it was inevitable not to get a headache at that moment. You took a deep breath, the movie was only half over, and according to Gojo, this would be the last of the movie marathon, you had to be strong and hold on until the end.

When you least expected it, you felt something touch your arm and turned around to find Megumi sleeping peacefully next to you. Afraid of waking him, your body stiffened and you waited for a quieter moment in the movie to ask Gojo which room Megumi was sleeping in. Before you could do or say anything, Gojo picked Megumi up in the most tender way you'd ever seen and carried him to his room. Tsumiki, now without her duet partner, turned to you with a sleepy smile.

"Kamo-san"

"Yes, Tsumiki?"

"Thank you for joining us today. It was a lot of fun."

"Oh, that's okay, it was no big deal." You shrugged with a slight smile on your face.

"Can I... can I give you a hug?"

"Oh?" Your eyes widened slightly, surprised by the sudden question from the girl in front of you. "Yes... yes, of course" You opened your arms so that Tsumiki came closer and hugged you, snuggling into your arms.

"Thank you for taking care of me and my brother." Tsumiki whispered into the hug.

"Um... no problem." You murmured and felt your heart warm. "I think you better go to bed, Tsumiki, it's getting late."

"But what about the movie?" she asked through a yawn.

"We can finish it tomorrow at noon."

"Will you stay with us until noon?" A small smile appeared on the girl's face.

"Um," you said with a nod, "I'll make your favorite if you like."

"Ah, you're the best, Kamo-san!" Tsumiki hugged you once more before going to her room, leaving you alone in the huge living room of Gojo's apartment.

A sigh left your lips and your attention turned to the television, which was showing the movie you had forgotten a few minutes ago. You weren't familiar with the movies that Tsumiki (and Gojo) loved so much. During your childhood and teenage years, you had only one concern: to stay strong enough to survive. In a lifeline like that of a jujutsu sorcerer with a born technique from one of the greatest clans, you felt more like trapped and powerless prey about to be devoured alive than the predator about to strike. The world you were a part of was for the smart, the strong, the influential, and in this game, you ultimately chose to learn the rules of the game rather than how to beat it.

Cartoons, movies, and even fiction books were a privilege your lifestyle didn't allow you, not when you were in the clan domain, bound by the ideals of the terrible elders who looked no further than their own navels, trained tirelessly to become a fighting machine whose goal was to put an end to what they called curses.It didn't take you long to discover that you were just a disposable pawn in the elders' game. And that it would be an uphill battle to break free of their control.

"I still can't believe that was your first time watching Barbie" Gojo sat down on the other end of the sofa "You should have more fun, that's for sure!"

"I never had time for it..."

"You're so boring." Gojo sighed and threw his arms up before he let out a sigh. "I have to kill myself working to make money and ensure my independence," Gojo lowered his voice in a failed attempt to imitate you, "Do you work so hard to impress daddy?"

"My father is dead." You said in a serious tone.

"Ah... well... ah..." Gojo swallowed, shocked by your statement. "Wow, you really know how to create a tense atmosphere," he murmured.

Silence fell over the room and you turned your attention to the television, which was paused at the end credits. It hadn't been your intention to create a tense and uncomfortable atmosphere at that moment, but the words had come out without thinking. And when you least expected it, you felt something soft and cuddly hit you hard.

"What?" You turned your head to see Gojo holding back his laughter.

"You were too serious!" He smiled and threw another pillow in your face. "Come on Kamo-chan, aren't you going to fight back?"

"Fight back?"

"Yes, throw a pillow back at me?"

"What's the point when you can manipulate and distort the space around you with your limitless?"

"Come on, Kamo-chan, I was trying to make us have fun! Why do you always have to be so serious? Can't you just laugh at me like last time?"

"I've never laughed at you."

"Okay, will you stop gaslighting me?" Gojo stood up from the sofa, hands on his waist, indignant, "You know what? You should take a shower!"

"Are you telling me I stink?"

"No!" Gojo quickly denied, "I'm saying you need to relax, I can see your muscles tense from here."

"Um, okay then." You shrugged and followed Gojo to the bathroom down the hall.

While Gojo left you in the bathroom to get you some clean clothes, a towel and a toothbrush to use, your eyes wandered around the relatively large bathroom (like everything else in his apartment). The white and blue details in the bathroom reminded you of Gojo, and you wondered if he might have patented those colors for himself.

"I didn't have any panties to lend you, so I took some new underwear I've never worn before." Gojo said, looking away, his hand on the back of his neck trying to hide the blush on his cheeks.

"Oh, that's fine," you picked up the things he'd brought for you and waited for him to leave before closing the bathroom door and getting ready to shower.

In a way, Gojo was right. In the end, the shower helped you relax and get your mind out of the way, and not think as much as you used to.

When you finished showering, you put on the clothes Gojo had brought for you. The white blouse was soft and sweet-smelling, it looked big on you, but it was just right and gave you a comfort you couldn't quite explain. You put on the black shorts and hung the towel on a rack in the bathroom, along with two other towels, and took the opportunity to brush your teeth with the toothbrush Gojo had given you.When you came out of the bathroom, your body shivered as you came into contact with the cold air of the apartment as opposed to the warm air of the bathroom, and you walked into the living room and sat down on the end of the sofa where you had been a few minutes ago.

"If you want to sleep, my room is the last door on the left." Gojo said as he looked at you, feeling a blush on his cheeks as he noticed a certain more domestic area around you.

"Your room?"

"Yes, my room. The guest room is being used by Megumi and Tsumiki, so if you want to sleep, you can go there."

"I will not sleep in your room."

"Why not? My bed is quite comfortable, you know?" he said proudly.

"This is your house and you should sleep in your room. I can sleep on the sofa without a problem."

"I'm not going to let you sleep on the sofa?" he said more like a question.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want to," Gojo crossed his arms in front of him.

"Come on, Kamo-chan, don't be stubborn!"

"Look who's talking" You rolled your eyes.

"Okay, since I'm the owner of the house and I'm the one who makes the rules here, you have to sleep in my room."

"I never thought of you as someone who respects the rules..."

"I don't, but you, being a good girl, will respect the rules," he smiled sideways.

"Will you stop bothering me if I sleep in your room?" You arched your eyebrow in doubt.

"Yes!" Gojo replied quickly with a smile on his face.

"Okay, then I'll sleep there." You rolled your eyes and got up from the sofa.

"Everything is already prepared for you there, Kamo-chan, I hope you have sweet dreams."

"Um... good night, Gojo." You mumbled and went to the boy's room.

For some reason, the simple decoration of Satoru's room didn't surprise you. Maybe your subconscious had already imagined something similar in his room. You closed the bedroom door behind you and let out a sigh before sitting down on the huge bed, which was strangely soft and comfortable, just as Gojo had told you. You glanced at the bedside table and noticed a vintage lamp and had to fight back the urge to smile, Gojo had good taste in decorating.

"What a treat..." You muttered as you noticed the light switch next to the bed. You turned off the light and ducked under the covers, and couldn't help but compare all this comfort to the equivalent of lying on a cloud ⸻ if that were possible, of course.

But when you thought you were about to fall asleep, your brain decided it was time to make you overthink about the day you had.

Why did you agree to stay the night?

Why had you showered at Gojo Satoru's house?

Why did you wear his clothes and now lie in his bed?

Why did you accept all this?

To see a sincere smile on the faces of the Fushiguro siblings? Yes, of course, but that wasn't the only reason. There was something else that even you didn't have the answers to. Not there, not in that moment.

Satoru had everything and he made you feel as if you had nothing or as if the little you had was insignificant. It still didn't sink in that you were lying in the bed of the most powerful sorcerer of the generation and that you were only there because of his insistence.

Perhaps you should be more honest about your feelings, not only with those around you, but also with yourself. Even if it's incredibly difficult, since you've spent your entire life up until this moment hiding your feelings so they won't be used against you. And sometimes old habits die screaming in a deafening silence.

And maybe, just maybe, it's time for you to stop seeing Gojo Satoru through his titles and start seeing him as an equal...

memory garden masterlist !

☆! tag list : @arminswifee . @khaleesihavilliard . @chieeeeeee . @manooffline . @shybananabagellover . @r0ckst4rjk . @sad-darksoul . @chuluoyi . @stormflysaysstuff . @arminsarlerts

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semisolidmind · 1 day

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So, in your college au, assuming catnap does end up murdering y/n, why? for what reason would the prototype ask for y/n's execution?, also how would dogday and the others feel? does dogday ever find out who murdered y/n or if he was even murdered? are they just reported missing? does catnap get away with it?, and if he doesn't and dogday ends up finding out, what's his reaction towards his brother's actions? Sorry if this was long I got questions and they need answers😭

ive been thinking about it, and i think that the prototype (which is a demonic entity in this au) wouldn't really have a good reason to command catnap kill y/n.

y/n is good to catnap. you'll see after i finally draw him, but cat is skinny. mans forgets to feed himself, and the red smoke drug throws his mindfulness and metabolism all outta wack. y/n, good friend that they are, reminds catnap to eat. they'll bring him food that they make. they let him "steal" food from their plate at lunch time. (dogday, being a good brother, does these things too, but it's kinda his job so it doesn't make as big of an impact).

the "angel" is keeping his executioner functioning when he can't, so the prototype shouldn't have a reason to want them dead. unless, perhaps, he thought that they were making the executioner soft. that's not the case (he does his job just fine regardless of any growing attachments), but if it were and catnap was slacking...

the prototype would take over. he'd have his acolytes send catnap a very high dosage of the red smoke drug, allowing the demon to take hold of him fully. catnap would black out.

the next morning, he startles awake in bed to the sound of his brother's cry of anguish. he goes into the kitchen to see dogday clutching his phone to one ear, hunched over and crying. the canid can't speak through his tears for a long while. catnap stands awkwardly, waiting for him to speak as the dread creeps up his spine.

catnap's heart stops with dogday's stuttered admission of what has him so upset; y/n is dead. the police found them this morning.

the feline says nothing, does nothing, but feels the sting in his eyes, tears on his face, and the impact of his brother's arms solidly embracing him.

why...why would the prototype do this? there was no reason to kill the angel, they hadn't done anything wrong, they weren't in the way, hadn't crossed him, there shouldn't have...

he doesn't understand.

when he goes to the bathroom later to freshen up, catnap notices the small flecks of blood under his claws. he feels like throwing up.

but he doesn't. he washes the blood away, and leaves the bathroom.

catnap remains as silent as he always has. he says nothing when he and dogday are inevitably questioned by the police (as two people who were close to y/n), the grief (and the prototype's voice) rendering him unable to even write out a response. they let him go, accepting his alibi. he was home all evening, of course.

he attends the funeral in a daze. he stands and watches the casket be lowered into the ground, far away from his body. he can still feel the fog of the prototype's influence hovering in the back of his mind.

for the first time in a long time, catnap's faith in his god is shaken.

———

dogday is never the same after y/n's death. the light in his eyes is gone. after the funeral, he isolates himself, only leaving to attend class and complete errands. he barely speaks to his friends, though they continue to visit him and offer their support.

eventually, each of the critters is murdered by catnap at the behest of the prototype. these murders are completed by a much colder and less caring catnap, who, after y/n's death, has no mercy left to spare (the prototype takes advantage of his vessels' grief to take further control of him).

dogday's reaction to each death becomes angrier and angrier.

he's wanted to find the killer ever since the string of murders started, but now he's searching with a single-minded purpose.

he gets better at wielding a pistol, better at wielding a hunting knife...he takes self defense and fighting classes. dogday slowly turns himself into a weapon.

dogday finally figures out where the cult is hiding. an abandoned mine system in a nature reserve a short drive away from town, converted into a "holy site" and the place where the cult sacrifices their victims. he drives out there to confront their executioner.

when he finds out that it's catnap, his own little brother...it's too late for sentimentality. his friends are gone. the love of his life is gone. countless others have lost their lives to this... this thing wearing his brother's skin.

at this point, the prototype has almost fully possessed catnap. the transference into the felines' body is almost complete, and during this time he is most vulnerable...but still incredibly powerful.

the fight between the dog and cat is climactic and bloody. a clash of claws, knives, and a struggle for dogday's gun. the forest floor beneath the struggle is spattered with blood, both men covered in open wounds.

it's a close battle, but catnap, despite being nearly fully under the prototype's influence, breaks the hold long enough to allow himself to be killed.

it's the least he can do, after all the trouble he's caused.

dogday pulls the trigger. a clean shot through the heart. killing catnap kills the prototype.

dogday glares down at the body that once housed his little brother. there is nothing of him in the battered corpse before him now... aside from the small, satisfied smile on his muzzle.

months pass. with their god dead, activity from the cult peters out.

dogday finally allows himself to break down. he sobs over the many great losses he's suffered. but...but he has to get out of there. the cult members will be there any minute, and he can't be there when they do. he calls from a campsite phone booth to report catnap's body, and leaves it in the woods.

dogday does his best to recover.

#this is a tragic turn for this story to take #this is why yn cant die first #i see this playing out like an old slasher movie since i am in that headspace recently #this stopped weird but i ran outta steam

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sapphicseasapphire · 1 day

Text

Living in a world as populated as it is by mortals, it is rare to come across a being who is not so. Rarer still is it to come across one who is both mortal and immortal- those who toe the line between Life and Death.

Reapers are abundant but undetected, doing their work for the spirits while hidden in a mortal body. They are bound to no Gods, serving only the lost souls of the land and answering only to the inevitability of Life and Death.

Hylian legends depict Death as a woman clothed in flowing white fabric, serene and tranquil, everlasting and inescapable. Some fear her, some hate her. Most bunch her up with the Goddesses.

She is not a Goddess.

She is… a promise.

And just as they’ve cast Death’s image onto a Goddess that doesn’t exist, they attribute Life’s gifts to Hylia, singing her praise. Hylia, the little sister of the Golden Three, tasked with protecting this world, is not Life.

Life has existed here for far longer than Hylia has. Some say that she was created with the breath of Farore, others speculate that she came before.

People think that Death exists in Life’s shadow, that they are entirely separate from one another. One brings joy, the other brings pain. This is, wholly and entirely, untrue.

For Life and Death wear matching white cloth, and they stand so closely together that they are indistinguishable from each other. One cannot exist without the other. They are… the same, in nature. They are patient. They take nothing more than what they are given; they give nothing more than what they take. It is balanced, in that way.

Everyone must face them, one way or another. Even Gods cannot deny the push and pull of Life and Death.

Although, there are occasions in which they can be swayed. In the case of a young boy who’d met his end during his quest, so beloved by the spirits, Death chose to wait. She did not claim his soul, not yet. She heeded the pleas of the spirits and allowed him to continue on- to finish what he had started. But this was not without a cost.

The boy- only twelve years old- was named Link, and he was not unique. Those who are favored by the spirits and succumb to illness or injury are often granted these second chances. They may never remember that they had died, but they are forever changed.

These people are known as Reapers. They recruited by Death to guide lost spirits to the afterlife. They have heartbeats, they breathe, they require sustenance. Reapers are mortal, normal people.

Until it becomes time to do the reaping, that is.

In order for a Reaper to find and guide spirits, they must use spirit magic. Spirit magic is as potent and variable as any other type of magic, except its power source is distinct: it is fueled by the power of an untethered soul. It comes naturally to Reapers, except in order to use it, they must free their soul.

Reapers have the ability to separate their souls from their bodies, becoming nothing more than a spirit. Once freed, they are immediately pulled to the nearest lost soul and it is their duty to aid them in their journey to the next life. The pull of a Poe is just as potent as the pull of a portal: demanding and unavoidable. Reapers feel it physically.

When their soul is outside of their body, a Reaper will appear comatose to the waking world. Unresponsive and unmoving, almost like they’re asleep. Their hearts still beat, their lungs still breathe. They still live but there’s nothing there. If their body is moved during this time, the Reaper will have a difficult time returning to it. Their survival will depend on whether or not they can find their body.

Link is one of many Reapers that serve under Death, and he is not unhappy. He sees the Threads of Fate that bind all things- the red ones of the living, the black ones of the dead, and the white ones of the immortal- and he takes pride in helping wayward Poes follow these threads home. He… has experience guiding souls, after all.

Link doesn’t remember when exactly he died, but he knows it had to have happened during his quest to rid the Demon King from Princess Zelda’s body. With her spirit by his side, he felt unstoppable. And his new job isn’t much different. He doesn’t feel sadness when he guides a Poe to their next adventure. No, he feels… at peace.

Death is extremely welcoming to him, for she knows that in time, he will return to her. Just as all things do. Link- our Spirit- admires Death. He serves under her but he is not opposed to it. He’s wholly dedicated to his job. He takes pride in it. It doesn’t interfere with his waking life too much and even as he cast on another adventure, it’s not too much to manage. Death treats him well, and he’d never denounce her.

When he’s reaping, he’s making a difference. He’s helping people. Is that not what a hero should strive for?

He’s… home.

Some notes!

• This kind of turned into a post about Reapers specifically and less about Spirit, but ehhh lore is lore

• Spirit and Wind are BEST BUDS. I’ve been referring to them as “the twins” in my head this whole time

• Spirit’s pupils glow when he is looking at the Threads of Fate. He can’t see them all the time, just when he really focuses on them, or else he’d be blinded by all the string everywhere!

• More on that- he doesn’t only see the threads that bind people to each other. He also sees the threads that bind people to objects. Everything has a memory, everything has a story.

• Something about Spirit’s presence is so inherently peaceful. He speaks quietly and clearly, he moves like a whisp, he smiles so gently. He can 100% be a little goblin in his own right, but he can be incredibly comforting when he wants to be.

• He cannot swim. Wind is APPALLED.

• He knows that Time is a God right away. His string is white. He doesn’t tell anyone, though, because it’s not his place. Everyone has their secrets, everyone should have the right to reveal themselves at their own pace.

• He and Wild sure do have a relationship. Yep. Just. The Reaper- the one who is tasked with guiding lost souls. And the literal spirit, actual ghost. Uh huh. They. Um. Yeah, they definitely have a dynamic. (This dynamic is the reason that I was convinced to add Spirit to my Cryptid Chain)

• A spirit is any soul without a body. A Poe specifically refers to a spirit that is lost. Hopeless. One who needs help. Wild is not a Poe. (Kind of)

• Spirit is like Time in the sense that he has not fully ascended, and won’t until his mortal lifespan is over. When he dies, he will continue to be a Reaper, but much more powerful as he will not be bound to a body. But that’s far, far off. He’s twelve, I won’t be cruel to him

• hehehehe

• He’s so incredibly good at playing the pan flute.

• Also this kid’s hilarious without even trying. (Spirit Tracks is the funniest Zelda game of all time)

• NERD. HE LOVES HIS TRAINS. HE IS IN PHYSICAL PAIN THAT NONE OF THE OTHER LINKS EVEN KNOW WHAT A TRAIN IS!!! SEND HELP!!! TELL HIM ABOUT YOUR FAVORITE TRAINS!!! HE MISSES HIS TRAIN!!!

• He has the unique ability to talk to Poes and Spirits directly, so he’s gonna be the best bet when it comes to translating for Wild. If Wild will let him come close, that is.

• “Don’t disturb me guys, I have some reaping to do,” he says, and then takes a nap. The others can’t tell.

• Or, mid battle, the decides they could really use a blast of spirit magic to aid them. So he just. Separates his soul from his body, as one does. Falls limply to the ground as the monsters they were fighting just suddenly all die. What just happened???

• Do monsters have souls? Do they become Poes? Thoughts that keep Spirit up at night.

#CAC origins #the legend of zelda #chain as cryptids au #cryptid lore #cryptid spirit #cac art #spirit tracks #loz spirit tracks #THE BOY #HE’S HERE #my art #links meet au #I know I’m not doing this justice but tumblr deleted my original draft #so definitely let me know if you have any questions haha #I’m so tired

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allmyocsarebritish · 15 hours

Text

Unspoken words, still recieved

Pairing: Alastor X reader

Warnings(?): fluff, mentions of drugs and alcohol, 5+1

Husk

Husker was the first to know about your feelings towards his overlord. It had been a long, stressful day filled with Charlie's 'bonding exercises', and you wanted nothing more than to crash at the bar with a strong drink in hand. So, that was how you ended up swirling a glass of alcohol, taking the occasional sip which scorched your throat and fogged your troubled mind. Naturally, in your tipsy state your tongue was greatly loosened. Husker knew this; he was an experienced bartender, and used to listening to the bitching and whining of those intoxicated. What he didn't anticipate was exactly what slipped out.

"What would you do if you really liked someone, but you knew that they hated that kind of thing? And they'd probably hate you too if they found out?" You asked, lazily drawing circles on the counter top with your finger. Husk sighed deeply in slight irritance, once again ready to assume the role of therapist, offering a listening ear to your irrelevant problems.

"I wouldn't know, kid. I lost the ability to feel years ago." He continued to wipe the countertop, a slight frown prevalent on his extended eyebrows (what kind of description is that lmfao).

"Pfft, edgelord." You scoffed light heartedly, to which Husk offered a small smile of amusement, still not meeting your eyes.

"I guess I'll just keep it all to myself then. I doubt Al would appreciate any sort of elaborate romantic gesture anyway." You downed the last of your drink, hopping off of your stool and fishing into your pocket for change. Husk's eyes narrowed at the mention of the Radio Demon, a shadow of concern crossing his features. He gently grasped your sleeve as you reached out with a few coins, tip included, stopping you from placing them on the counter.

"Al? As in Alastor? Oh, Y/N, you've got to be fucking kidding me."

Your eyes narrowed at this. You expected the miserable old bartender to be disapproving, but hearing him voice his doubts was unpleasant to say the least.

"No, I don't think I am."

Husk rolled his eyes, your sleeve now firmly held between his claws, in a way that would rip the fabric should you try to pull away.

"Listen, kid. I know I'm not here to be your pop or anything but please, for the love of everything, stay safe. He's a dealmaker, and I wouldn't put anything past him." He could feel the invisible neon green leash uncomfortably cold against his furry neck.

"Fuck off, Husker. I can look after myself. Thanks for the drink." You scoffed, pulling away, not caring for the fresh tear in your shirt.

Husk's eyes continued to fix on the direction you exited long after your shadow had disappeared.

"Good luck, kid."

Charlie

Charlie was next to know, which, was inevitably going to happen eventually. It was a few weeks following your drunken outburst at the bar, and you could frequently feel Husk's eyes boring into you when you looked away. The pity was infuriating, who the fuck was he to tell you what your Alastor was like?

Charlie, ever the curious devil, noticed the tension radiating from both you and the cat, and decided to involve herself in an attempt to force the two of you back into your companionship.

"Sooo, Y/N," She clasped her hands together, bouncing up behind you as you crossed through the lobby of the hotel, her doe eyes wide and practically pleading. "I noticed you and Husk fell out. But you seemed so close to him!"

"I mean, not really." You shrugged, already trying to walk away from the awkward conversation. "He gave me whiskey, I paid him, we talked a little. I wouldn't call that 'close'."

"But what happened?" The little hellborn princess was persistent, you'd give her that.

"Husker won't understand that he doesn't dictate how I feel about someone." Deep down you knew that was a massive escalation to the situation. It wasn't Husk's fault, he was trying to keep you safe. But you weren't a child, and certainly not his.

"Wait, how you feel about someone? Y/N, do you have a crush?!"

Shit.

"It- it's not a crush." You fucked up. Big time.

"You have a crush!"

"Charlie! Stop!" Your tone was harsh, potentially too much so, causing the demon to back off slightly, although not completely.

"Oh, okay, well I've been known to be an excellent wingman! Woman? Wingwoman? It doesn't matter, if you feel comfortable I'd be absolutely honoured if you trusted-"

You zoned out halfway through her tangent, not having your usual energy to find amusement in her theatrics. You promptly excused yourself, slipping out of the hotel, preparing yourself to take a walk and clear your mind.

"Princess, I know you want to help her, don't push it. The best thing you can do is let her deal with it herself. Trust me, I'd know." Husk warned following your departure, memories of your hostile response to his advice fresh in his mind.

Charlie absolutely did push it.

In fact, you could probably consider her behaviour that followed for the next two weeks low-level stalking. It was her mission to set you up with whoever you fancied. After all, all she wanted was for you to be happy.

Although, after 14 whole days of trying her hardest, she had almost given up on finding out who it was that caught your eye. That was until she saw you with Alastor. It was subtle, not something anyone would notice had they not been searching. But the level of digging she had done on you made it obvious.

The respect you held for the overlord was unmatched by any other. Your usual fairly hot-headed personality had much less of a bite, more aimed towards others than the radio star. Not to mention the way your eyes lit up as soon as he entered the room.

Oh.

Well, this was a spanner in the works she didn't expect. But it was alright, if there was a way for you and Al to be together, Charlie would do her best to help you both reach that conclusion.

Vaggie

Naturally, as soon as Charlie knew of your feelings, so did Vaggie. This was to be expected, even though you weren't necessarily aware that the princess was onto you, it wasn't rocket science that word would pass eventually.

"I just need to find a way to set them up! Oh Vaggie, how cute would they be?!"

Charlie paced through their shared bedroom, ranting to her girlfriend as the fallen angel sat on the bed.

"Cute? Alastor?" Vaggie snorted, refusing to accept that as a way to describe him.

"But Vaggie!! Imagine them together! Oh, she could absolutely soften him up! Imagine Alastor all sweet and in love! Maybe it'll push him into redemption and they can be all smiling and happy in heaven!!"

"Babe," Vaggie interrupted the ceaseless yapping (I'm so sorry but there's no other way to accurately phrase it lmao. Charlie's a yapper) "Seriously don't push it. You know Alastor isn't the type to go all gooey eyed over some girl, even if it is someone he's close to. So don't expect anything, just leave her to get over it herself."

Charlie drew out a long, exaggerated sigh, showing her disappointment.

"I know you want to make them happy, sweetie, but some things just aren't meant to be." Vaggie held her girlfriend's hands in one of her own, the other resting on the Princess's cheek.

Ultimately, Vaggie held a high level of concern for you in this scenario. She hoped and prayed for your safety, though she knew better than to meddle in your business. Despite this, she did make a mental note to keep an eye on you, the angel would never forgive herself if you made a deal she could have prevented. Of course, none of this she could voice to Charlie; her girlfriend adored Alastor and looked up to him, so she opted to keep this to herself, as she hoped you would do also.

Angel

Angel was someone in the hotel whom you truly did consider a friend. And, friends trust friends, or at least according to your wasted brain they did. So, you came clean to the spider, and, in the process, subjected yourself to an eternity of even more torment. For fuck's sake, you were already in hell.

"Angel?" You asked cautiously, tone sending a shiver of worry into the demon. Your voice held an aura of seriousness, something that made him rather uncomfortable.

"Ya'lright, toots?" He asked, his own words reflecting the slight anxiousness you had bestowed.

"Yeah, just got a 2am confession to make." You responded, eyes focusing on the ceiling, your body draped over Angel's bed. The two of you were sprawled over it with your heads together in the middle, although the spider was substantially closer to toppling off than yourself. He chuckled at your revelation, feeling the slight worry vanish.

"Well, then go ahead."

You took a deep breath, drug induced confidence already beginning to ebb. Another long drag of your joint however, and sobering up was no longer a cause for concern. Yet.

"You know Alastor?"

"Yeah?" Angel asked, already suspicious of how this was going.

"I'm just saying-"

"HeAr mE oUt" Angel mocked, to which you swatted his arm, leading to the star erupting into a fit of laughter at you retaliation.

"You're inta Smiles?!" Angel laughed "Well, Sugar tits, now I've seen everythin!"

"Shut the fuck up, Anthony." You grumbled, despite suppressing a smirk at Angel's antics. There was no getting yourself out of this one now.

Niffty

Niffty was not one you were expecting to have to explain yourself to. But, being the nosy little bug she was, you realised only too late that she was peering at your phone screen as you texted Angel Dust.

"You like Alastor?"

"What? No! I-" Niff's singular, unblinking eye bore directly into you soul, unsettling you and making your mouth run dry with unease. You sighed, holding up your hands in submission.

"Maybe."

"I think you should go tell him! You know he really likes you too? I honestly can't blame you, he is a bad boy" the little bug let out an unhinged, slightly manical laugh. You cringed at the way she referred to your Alastor, almost entirely missing the part where she said he liked you back.

Wait.

He liked you back?

You tried your bloody hardest not to raise your hopes after that one, this was Niffty we were talking about. But regardless, there was a possibility!

"Wait, he likes me too?" You asked, trying not to show the way adrenaline and excitement pumped through your body at this potential revelation.

"Oh, yeah. I heard him talking to Rosie about it a couple weeks 'go. Said it was a 'disgusting weakness he couldn't show to anyone'"

Oh.

Well.

That wasn't exactly helpful.

But at least he liked you back?

"So what did she say?!" You asked, suspense rising.

"Who?" Niffty asked, eyes wide and staring at you in utter bewilderment.

"Rosie!" You responded incredulously.

"About what?"

"Alastor!"

"Oh! She said that he should get over it and just tell you, that he'd feel better and even if you didn't feel the same way you'd understand 'cause you're human too. And if not he could just eat you."

"What?!!"

"Although I might have made that last part up." She tapped a spindly finger against her chin in concentration, trying her hardest to recall the conversation.

Your brows raised in concern before shaking your head and resigning not to question her.

"Okay, well, thanks, Niff. I gotta go now but I appreciate you telling me!" Your exit was rushed, but you really didn't want Niffty to catch you delighting in your newfound optimism. (Kicking your heels and squealing).

Alastor

Two days. You had spent two days preparing what you would say to Al and how, yet no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't for the (after) life of you think of what to do or say.

The worst part was the fact your favourite bartender was no longer there for you to turn to when life got tricky. So, you resolved to drowning your sorrows in your own alcohol, and, in the process, inexplicably and subconsciously avoiding your Alastor.

The Radio Demon did not like this.

Every time he descended to the lobby you were missing. Every time he walked to Cannibal town you weren't accompanying him. Every time he broadcasted you weren't waiting for him outside the tower.

This was becoming a problem; Alastor held you so highly in his estimations that he found your presence more than tolerable. So the fact that you just up and disappeared left him feeling an odd sensation.

Emptiness? It was strange, unpleasant and Alastor didn't like it. He was no fool: he knew of his feelings for you, and, after months of denial, finally reached some sort of acceptance of the merciless scenario he found himself in. Such a powerful overlord resigned to a schoolboy crush. Pathetic, really.

But, this loneliness wouldn't do. No, it wouldn't do at all. So, Alastor was going to do something about it. Force proximity with you? Of course not, that was far too desparate, even for these circumstances.

His eyes trailed across the lobby before landing on the bar, and subsequently, the bartender. Bingo!

"Husker! My dear fellow~"

"Go fuck yourself." The cat raised a middle finger to Alastor, bottle held to his lips and tilted.

"Now is that any way to talk to your old pal?" Al taunted. Oh this was fun; how he adored pissing off Husk. In fact, he almost even forgot the motivation for his inquiry.

You.

"Say, Husker. Is there a chance that you've seen Y/N around here recently? She seems to be avoiding me for some strange reason."

Husk scoffed and rolled his eyes. "I wonder why."

Alastor's eyes narrowed as his smile tensed. "Careful, my friend." He warned.

"Listen, boss," Venom spiked the cat's tone, insincerity lacing the word. "I haven't seen her in a week or so. We had a... disagreement and she's avoiding me. Go find her yourself if you're so fucking concerned."

Well, that was conclusive. "Indeed I will. So long, Husker!" Al hopped off the barstool and made for your room, hoping you would be there, as to not look a fool.

Yes, that was it.

Raising a fist to the door, the Radio Demon knocked.

Once. Twice. Thrice.

At the third and final knock, you opened the door, recognising the clear, precise knock.

"Hello, my dear!" His transatlantic voice rang out, laced with static as ever.

"Hi, Al." You responded, quiet and solemnly.

"Why so glum? Smile, my dear! You know you're never fully dressed without one!" His clawed fingers came to rest at the corners of your mouth, delicately and fondly pushing upwards. His own permanent grin softened as he looked at you, and you couldn't help but lean into his touch.

"Have you been intentionally avoiding me, Cher?" He blurted out, surprising even himself.

"What?! Ha, Al, don't make me laugh! I'd never avoid you, how ridiculous!"

He narrowed his eyes at you. "Cher."

"Al."

"Be honest with me."

There it was. That thing he had about him, making it impossible to lie.

"I wasn't intentionally avoiding you." You drew out. " And I'm sorry, I didn't mean to."

"But, why?"

"Because I love you."

After freezing like a deer in headlights, (HA) his face morphed into an expression entirely unreadable, even to you.

Shit.

Fuck.

Bollocks.

You fucked up. That was it. Friendship over. Potentially even afterlife over.

"Al? I'm sorry I-" you were interrupted but the feeling of his arms wrapping around you. It was slow and gentle, as though you were made of fragile porcelain, easily breakable beneath his warm embrace.

"It's okay, Cher"

I love you too unspoken words, yet still received.

Bonus:

You hopped onto the barstool as Husk refused to meet your eyes. A long, awkward silence drew out, and you kicked your legs, fingers drumming on your knee. Realising there was no way the bartender was speaking first, you resolved to dive straight into your apology.

"Husk? I'm sorry. I was a bitch and shouldn't have taken it out on you because you were only trying to keep me safe-"

Your apology was cut short as a shot of whiskey slid across the counter towards you. You smirked and brightened when you looked up to meet Husk grinning at you.

"Well if that wasn't the most insincere fucking bullshit I've ever heard."

You rolled your eyes, downing the alcohol in one, causing your throat to sting and eyes to water.

"Just stay safe, kid. That's all I ask."

"Deal." You joked, sticking out your hand.

"Deal." Husk responded sarcastically, though the both of you knew it was lightheaded. You were just grateful to have your favourite bartender back.

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kings-highway · 3 days

Text

was thinking a lot about the end of S3, where Tendou and Ushijima are stretching and Tendou, in the past tense, tells him that he "will brag about having been best buds back in the day," and I think about what we know about Tendou, and Ushi, and how Tendo had probably never had a best friend before then, had probably fallen into it by accident and found himself swept away by someone with such a resolute simplicity to his friendship-making that even all of Tendou's weird tendencies, offputing jokes or niche interests still made the cut. How Tendo had, probably, looked at the end of his volleyball career as the end of his first and his last best friendship, because Ushijima is overt about wanting to go pro and surely, surely, being his closest friend is a case of convenience, where they are in the same dorms, the same classes, the same gym. When Tendo is no longer standing beside him, someone of Ushijima's disposition will probably just look to whoever is standing there instead. Tendou thinks will complete confidence that they will not keep in touch after graduation, he thinks Ushijima is bound for glory and does not see himself worthy of a position at his side. I wonder if he kept thinking this while they were packing their bags. While Ushijima was celebrating his acceptance into a French school with him, while he was hugging him crushingly tight goodbye in the airport. I wonder if he still thought that it was an inevitable future when Ushijima was calling him after practice and making time for messages despite the time zones. I wonder if there was ever a specific point in which Tendo realizes that it was not some playful joke, that when Ushijima had returned the sentiment and called him his best friend, he had meant it with his whole heart, the same ferocity used to dominant a volleyball court turned into tenacity in the face of a long-distance relationship, a refusal to let go of his first and last best friendship. I wonder if Tendou in high school, who admires Ushijima so much, could ever have convinced himself that that same Ushijima holds so much admiration for him in return that he would fly across the world to meet him in Paris just to tell the world that they were best friends on international television.

#Haikyuu #Haikyuu ushiten #ushiten #ushijima x tendou #ushijima wakatoshi #tendou satori #haikyuu ships #haikyuu timeskip

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digital-domain · 1 day

Text

Retrieval

Alastor x Reader // word count 4.4k

Pt 3 to Spring Cleaning and Clean Slate

In which you attempt to leave.

Tags/warnings: yandere, intimidation, noncon kissing, choking, Alastor’s shadow doing things a shadow should not be able to do

A/N: Really thought this was gonna be a one-off but here we are. I usually don’t even write one follow-up, much less two, so this is unfamiliar terrain for me. Alas, I could not resist. Enjoy (or don’t. I’m not in charge.)

You remember a time when this was good. Well - no. You’re sure, now, that it was rotten from the beginning. But there was a time when it felt good. When you invited it in. When you wanted more.

Time for bed, my dear.

He’s said this to you many times. Now, each repetition deepens the never-ending pit in your stomach. But the first time…how long ago was it? You don’t remember. You don’t even remember how long you’ve been here. Here at this hotel, or here, in hell - each one distorts hours and months in its own way. They tug at you until you slip through the fingers of time, and end up on a day you don’t remember arriving at, in a place that is only yours if you forget what has happened there.

It’s far too late for you to be thinking as deeply as you are.

You’d been sitting on the top of the stairs for a long time that night, however-long-ago, fending off the inevitable onset of your dreams. He’d been gone all day, and when he had finally returned (from where, you never found out), he’d seen you from the lobby. Called out to you, in a voice far too quiet and gentle to carry to your ears as well as it did. It wasn’t the first time he’d spoken to you, but it was the first time he’d spoken to you alone. And even if that wasn’t true, there would have been something different about it.

And, in my opinion, far too fair a night for such misery.

From the beginning, you’d known that nothing about him was entirely unfiltered. The first time you’d met, he’d given a wonderful little performance. Shaken your hand, taken you by the shoulder, quickly escorted you away from the people who would soon warn you not to trust him. And you’d known it was fake. Of course you had. You weren’t, perhaps, the most excellent judge of character, but you knew no one acted like that by instinct. It was calculated. Not to be trusted.

It struck you oddly, then, to hear such an allegedly inhuman character talk about something as mundane as the joy of pleasant weather. It felt entirely real, even at an hour when almost nothing seemed real at all. Hell did have its decent moments, now and then; there were no seasons, so to speak, but very occasionally you’d get a day that felt like summer, and a night to match. It was nice, when it happened. Delightful, even.

But, if you insist upon staying awake - and I admit, I do understand that impulse better than most - I suggest you do it somewhere with an open window.

The realization had hit, somewhere in the middle of this, that he was being kind to you. You hadn’t wondered why at the time. You’d take anything you could get, in those early, confused days after your death, and receiving it from an unexpected source somehow made it better. He didn’t do things like this out of obligation. He cared, for some reason you could only guess at.

You’re still guessing, now. But that night, you hadn’t thought so deeply about it. You’d only stared back at him, and nodded almost imperceptibly at his suggestion.

He’d paused, matching your silence for a long stretch. Considered your expression, in the way those unblinking eyes always seemed uniquely suited for.

Shall I escort you to your room, my dear?

You’d nodded mutely, and he’d ascended the stairs, offered you his hand, helped you to your feet, guided you to your door.

And then, a mistake. Grateful, exhausted, feeling utterly alone in a strange world - you’d invited him in.

He’d opened your window for you, and lingered beside it for several quiet seconds before you asked him to sit down in your desk chair. He’d smiled strangely at that, softer than you were used to, and left quickly, almost hastily, after only a few minutes. But he’d stood motionless in the hallway for several seconds before you’d heard him walk away.

After that night, you never invited him in again - you didn’t have to. He came of his own accord. Only occasionally, at first. Then, more often, until hardly a day went by without it. It was almost pleasant, at first, and then a slow, unyielding creep towards what you have now. Something you don’t understand. Something you only started resenting after it was too late to back away.

You’ve spent a long time wondering why he chose you, of all people. Why he feels so entitled to your space, to your life, why he wants it to begin with. Why he holds onto you so tightly. You’ve even asked him, in roundabout ways, to no avail. But somewhere in your mind, a shoved-down place that only now rises to the surface, you think that it might be your fault. Your fault, for being so desperate for solace, for company, that you’d take it from anyone you could. For feeling proud to have gained his attention, long after the point where it stopped doing you any good.

Now, lying above your bed covers, you toy with the hem of your slip, which you’ve absently pulled up to mid-thigh. Perhaps you don’t need to be wearing it tonight. Alastor has been mysteriously absent from the hotel in the two days that have passed since his last appearance in your room. You doubt whatever’s called him away has left him much time for spying upon you. And still, you feel compelled to act as if he is watching. As if he might return to your bedside at any moment.

Your memory flashes back to two nights ago, and you try to yank it away. You don’t want to think about what he did to you then. You certainly don’t want to think about why. The way his eyes were fixed not on your body, but on your face, as if it was your shame he wanted to see, and nothing more.

It was unsettling. But perhaps not surprising. If it was only your body that he wanted, after all, he wouldn’t be trying so hard to control the rest of you. That, you don’t understand. That - it’s what really keeps you awake.

The light from your lamp, which you have no intention of turning off, stings beneath your closed eyes as you lie rigidly on your back. You barely slept the night before, either, so this day passed in a sort of stupor, the adrenaline of early morning giving way to a numb, heavy feeling as the afternoon dragged on.

But the numbness is good, in a way, you think. It lets you do things you wouldn’t otherwise. With your eyes still closed, you bring your other hand to the hem of the slip. The lace and the silk above it are delicate, and you pull hard with both fists. The light ripping noise that follows is beautiful, for a moment.

Then, the familiar dread snaps back into place, worse for your act of stupidity.

He will be back, before long. His sudden absence has not been a reprieve, but a looming threat, a two-day stretch in which you have not taken one proper breath, and you have the feeling that he will know what you have done the moment he returns.

If he does not somehow know already. If you haven’t already summoned him back by the rebellious movements of your hands. There is panic coursing through you, fear not of what is here now but of what has been, and what will be. It’s not the panic you’d feel at an immediate threat, like a wild animal baring down on you in a dark forest - instead, it’s the sort of inescapable head-buzzing sensation you experienced often in life, when you’d been in a room for far too long, and were not yet allowed to leave. An overwhelming feeling that you are trapped, not by physical bonds, but by the consequences that might ensue if you walk away.

If you were to walk away, to run away…what would happen? You do not know, and you don’t want to think about it. You want to leave. No - you need to leave. If you do not do it now, now, you never will. And the idea of never leaving, of this stretching on until he decides that it’s time for it to end - if he ever does -

You sit up, and swing your legs over the edge of your bed. He will be back soon. You’re sure of it. And you cannot bear the thought of being here when he returns.

What can you do about it? You can do something. You can stand up. You can find the large backpack stuffed into the corner of your closet, and start shoving things inside. You don’t have many things at all, and most of the things you do have are not important enough to keep. You’re certainly not bringing any of these clothes with you.

All these things, you do quickly, in a sort of daze, driven by a single motive. Get out, get out. It is easy, if you don’t stop moving. If you don’t think more than you have to, if you let this one idea drive you all the way out the door. One set of clothes, you do have to bring - the one that goes on your body. The only one that you feel even remotely comfortable wearing. Black trousers, red sweater. The contents of the small compartments of your dresser have been replaced, so you do not feel comfortable with the things you are wearing underneath these clothes, but they are quickly hidden. You are not in strong enough possession of your body to feel them clinging to your skin.

You’ve discarded the slip onto the floor, and with the way it’s crumpled, you can’t even see the small rip in the hem. It’s not enough. You pick it up and rip it further, until it is torn all the way to the neck, before dropping it like it’s on fire. Perhaps it would be better to take it with you, to get rid of it in a place where he won’t see the remains, but you do not want to have it for a second longer. It flutters back to the floor, and you cover your clean, white, unfamiliar socks with the ragged sneakers you’ve somehow been allowed to keep.

Where do you go? Where can you go? For reasons that you certainly didn’t come up with yourself (reasons that seemed like cloying but utterly convincing advice, at the time) you barely speak to anyone outside of these walls. You haven’t even got a phone. And even if you did, you can’t imagine pulling anyone into this mess - your mess, a quiet voice in your head reminds you. This is your creation, and you will see it through alone. There is a motel, you remember, a shoddy building a few streets away that you’ve taken notice of every time you’ve passed. You will go there, and you will sleep, and tomorrow -

Tomorrow does not matter yet. Tonight, you only need to leave.

You’re sure that no one in this building is awake. Or at least, no one is awake enough to check on the noises your feet make as they collide, painfully loud, over and over, with the creaking hallway floor. And yet, you advance as slowly and carefully as you can manage, barely keeping at bay the adrenaline that urges you to run. The night is pleasantly warm, but a shudder runs through you as you crack open the front door of the sleeping hotel. This, too, you keep at bay, instructing your feet to keep moving until you dislodge the disarming chill from your bones, and settle back into your skin. You are walking quickly, but not running, as you wade into the dark streets before you. It is a bad idea, being out here alone, at this hour, and running is loud.

Then again, you think your breathing might be harsher, at this moment, than any noise the soles of your shoes could create.

You didn’t realize until now that you already had this route mapped out in your head, so clearly that you can follow it without thinking. It’s not far. Quicker if you slide through the little alley to your left. Quicker still if you speed up, just a bit, just enough that your breath catches oddly in your throat, exertion mixing with the faintest glimmer of hope. There is a breeze flowing out from behind you, gentle against the nape of your neck. The streets are mercifully quiet.

You are not thinking. If you were, you might not be able to tell yourself that all was well.

As it is, you buy yourself a few more seconds of hope. But your eyes are wide. Too wide and too alert to miss the strange thing that comes your way. Once you see it, you cannot look anywhere else.

Your stomach drops. You slowly ease your bag off of your shoulders, and let it fall to the ground beside you. You will not be taking it any further than here.

You know this, because there is an inexplicable shadow pressed against the side of the alley. It is cast by nothing, darker than the night that surrounds it. A long, abstract shape unfurls bit by bit, extends its tendrils across the worn brick, and drips down until it spills onto the polished boots that have appeared suddenly on the ground in front of you.

There’s a horribly familiar sigh, but no words. No touch. Not yet.

Soon. Too soon, you’ll hear his voice.

But you find that you do not have the impulse to scream, like anyone else might in this situation. Nor do you want to run. You do not want to take so much as a step backwards. You do not do these things, because you are not scared like you might have expected. No. The thing that quickens your pulse is not fear, but anger. You were so close. You could have made it. And you should have made it.

You should not have had to run to begin with.

You answer a question that you didn’t realize you were asking until this moment. This is not your fault. None of it. Nothing that makes you feel like this could possibly be your doing alone. So, instead of looking up and apologizing, you stare at the ground, and imagine that your eyes shine as intensely as the ones above you. It’s a striking contrast, your worn, comfortable shoes toe-to-toe with polished leather. A victory, in its own small way.

You feel Alastor lean over you, and your hands curl into fists of their own accord.

“Do you have any idea,” he murmurs, his voice deceptively calm, “what a terrible risk you’ve taken?”

“Some idea.” You’re seething, just as you know he must be underneath the surface - the only difference is that you aren’t bothering to hide it. “You’ll forgive me.”

“Oh…I’m not talking about my own impulses, my dear. Running was a terrible idea for many reasons.” His glove catches you beneath your jaw - you press back against it for a moment before following its guide. Before looking up into the eyes you never wanted to see again, and the grin that bears down upon you. “You might find it hard to wrap your head around, considering its current misguided state, but I assure you that I am far from the only threat that the nights of hell have to offer.”

“But you are a threat.” He’s shown his hand, you think. It’s satisfying to point out - until it’s thrown back in your face.

“Only when provoked, darling.” His eyes are a brighter red than you’ve ever seen them, glowing with some intense emotion - whether it’s hatred or a deep appreciation, you don’t know, and will never know. He releases your jaw, runs his finger slowly down the line of your neck. “But you’ve no need to worry…it would take quite a lot of provocation for me to hurt you. Even now, I’m not even close to taking such drastic action.”

Your teeth grind together, clenched as tightly as his pasted-on smile, as the fist wrapped around his staff. “You think you haven’t hurt me already?”

“Oh, my.” He laughs gently, dismissively - but it’s not quite as convincing as usual. He’s standing rigidly, pressing the bottom of his staff tightly against the ground, holding his free hand not behind his back, but at his side. Fingers stiffly curled, practically trembling with the effort of holding still, as if they’re itching to grab onto something.“You are feeling bold tonight. Not as if I couldn’t tell by the little present you left behind in your room…but it is rather strange to experience it in person. You’re usually such a sweetheart.”

You tune out the syrupy condescension of his voice. You’re done with listening to him. Done with beating around the bush, done with getting brushed aside again and again. “What do you want from me?”

“Cliches don’t suit you, my dear,” he intones darkly. “Especially not when paired with that expression.” He slowly raises his hand, and reaches for your face, as if he hopes to rearrange the features he finds so unpleasant. Without a second thought, you jerk backwards, and slap his hand away.

He holds it frozen. Poised in midair. The last time this happened, it was enough to make you tug back everything you’d just done.

Not this time.

“What,” you hiss, taking another full step back, “do you want from me?”

The corner of his grin twitches so severely that you can almost imagine it dropping from his face. “At the moment, I only wish for you to return home.”

“That’s not what I mean.” You hold your fists at your sides. Spine straight, shoulders pressed back. Toes curled inside your shoes. You can feel the unfamiliar undergarments clinging to your hips, your ribcage - you want them gone. You want him gone.

“Then pray tell, my dear”-

“All of it.” You hold his gaze as his head tilts slowly to one side. Listen to the cracking of bones, and press on, before you can think better of it. “You won’t let me go. You can’t. And I don’t even get to know why.” There’s a desperation in your voice, rising with the volume of it, quickly spiraling out of your control. “All I know is that you’re - you’re trying to control me, and that I hate it, and that I don’t fucking understand it.”

Images from two nights before descend upon your mind, and your train of thought comes entirely undone. It’s more than images, really. You can certainly picture him standing over you, his red eyes flaring as you stripped yourself bare in front of him, but you can also feel it, the awful heat under your skin battling with the chill of the air, the brush of his finger along your hip, the gentle kiss to your forehead. The hands pulled tightly behind his back. And the way you felt then, the thing you’d be afraid of, if it was anyone else.

“You - you don’t”- You feel strangely distant from your body, as if your mind is a separate entity, floating somewhere slightly outside of your skull. Your mouth takes a sharp breath, and more words cascade out before you can return to stop them. “I was fucking naked in front of you, and you didn’t feel anything. If you don’t want - that”-

Any other stupid words you might say are cut off by a rising buzz of static, which emanates from him as his staff disappears before your eyes, and his newly-free hand takes on the stiff, barely-restrained posture of the other. You wonder, in that detached manner your thoughts take on when you are frightened, if he’s doing this on purpose, or if it’s somehow leaking out in a way that’s beyond his control.

You feel tears welling in your eyes, and try in vain to shove them back down. You don’t know where they came from. “I don’t understand.”

For the first time, you see his grin drop - not all the way, but enough that the line of it changes, enough that it becomes a grimace. It’s so unsettling that you wish the usual, terrible smile would return. “That much is obvious, my dear. I wonder if you even realize how tragic what you just said really was.”

You freeze as your wrists are snatched by coils of shadow, smooth and inexplicably solid. Your arms are yanked straight down, and when you try to tear them away, you fail. Your hands are free to form fists, but remain trapped against your sides.

“That you can only fathom being desired in such a shallow way…”

His image flickers before you. You’re already half-turned around when he reappears behind you a moment later, but there’s nothing you can do to stop his hands from curling, one finger at a time, around your shoulders, far too close to your neck for comfort. You stare straight ahead as his face twists into the periphery of your vision.

And he whispers in your ear, his voice bare of any effect, just the hint of some old, earthly accent slipping through. “I’m afraid that I want much more than that.”

He slides around you at the same moment the bonds around your wrists release, and effortlessly turns you by your shoulders - he does not push you against the wall that now stands behind you, but you step back out of instinct and flatten yourself against it. He matches your steps with his own, traps you between himself and the rough brick at your back, and latches his gloved hand beneath your jaw, wrenching your face upwards. With his other hand, he reaches down, flips your palm so that it’s no longer facing the wall and interlocks his fingers with your own. His grin springs back into place, and oh - you wish you could run now. You would, if you could.

His eyes slide away from you for a moment as he puts something together in his head. “These little acts of rebellion from you…I think I ought to thank you for them.” He blinks slowly, and returns his gaze to your face. “I don’t think I would have realized just how close I wanted to keep you, if you hadn’t attempted to leave. And now…oh. I understand perfectly, now. I know exactly what I want.” He bows his head, lowers his lips to your ear, so that you can hear the shudder of his breath. “I’ll have your soul one day, my dear. A day when you’re already bound so tightly to me that such a contract will be a mere formality.”

“And until that day comes…” He draws back from the side of your face, stares not into your eyes, but through them. His teeth part. His tongue flicks out from between them, and slides quickly over their jagged edges. “I feel as if I’m prepared to do anything, if only it will bring you closer.”

The last vestiges of your anger burst forth, and you attempt to wrench your face out of his grasp. He lets you, and moves his hand to the back of your neck, his long fingers pressing harshly into the sides. You look up, eyes wide with terror, as the palm that has been flattened against your own releases your hand from the wall, and rises to curl tightly around your waist.

He pulls you close. You do not see the moment that his smile disappears, as it surely must - your eyes are already closed when he kisses you, screwed tightly shut as his hot, rancid breath works its way into your lungs. There’s a hint of whiskey beneath the rot, and something metallic, the same taste that floods your mouth when you bite the inside of your lip a bit too hard. His hand slides around from the back of your neck, and closes at your throat - he keeps it there after he’s pulled away, and watches as you struggle against his grip.

“You have a decision to make now, darling.” He takes a deep, satisfied breath, the tension leaving his posture even as you fight to breathe beneath his hand. “You can return all by yourself…” His fingers curl tighter around your neck, and tendrils of shadow lash at your wrists and ankles, slowly twisting their way up your limbs. “Or, I can bring you back. I imagine that would cause quite a scene..but the choice is yours.” He tilts his head, stares down at you through narrowed eyes, and - after another moment of watching you struggle - eases his grip just enough for you to answer.

You don’t hesitate for a moment. Even if you had the air to argue, you wouldn’t dare. “I’ll - come back” -

“Lovely.” He releases you, and takes a step back. Pulls one hand slowly behind him, as if doing so takes a tremendous amount of effort. “Since you’re so attached to your freedom, I’ll allow you to walk back unsupervised.” He traces the back of his other hand gently down your cheek, stopping only briefly to press the tips of his fingers against the hardened clench of your jaw. You let it go slack - only then does he pull his hand away. “But as I told you before, darling…there are many threats lurking in the shadows of these streets. So I do suggest that you watch your step.”

His image fades away before you. In the same moment that you watch him disappear, there is a shift in the surface under your feet. You no longer feel the familiar soles of your shoes, but the ground beneath, rough with the texture of cracks and debris. Cold. Not damp, exactly, but carrying the faint suggestion of something wet having only recently become dry.

Your toes curl inside your pristine white socks, which will soon be stained by the filth of the ground beneath them. There’s a new shadow against the wall - it slides along with you as you carefully retrace your steps home.

#yandere alastor x reader #yandere alastor #alastor x reader #tw yandere #tw power imbalance

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barnesafterglow · 17 hours

Text

night shift

summary: your growing fame becomes too much for bucky

pairing: actor!bucky barnes x singer!reader

word count: 2k

warnings: fame au, dual pov, unreliable narrators, idk how the grammys work (clearly), angst angst angst, steve is a good friend, bucky is Going Thru It, if you think this is joe + taylor coded you're prob right, directly inspired by night shift by lucy dacus

a/n: yearly fic, dedicated to new lovers

masterlist - i no longer have a tag list but you can follow @theafterglowlibrary to get updates! 🤍

You shoved him off of you, heart racing, breaths coming fast. You had said Bucky’s name, had whispered it in your most intimate moment, and now you needed to leave.

You said nothing else, gathering up your clothes and pulling them on as quickly as you could.

“Wha-”

The door slammed behind you, cold winter winds whipping around you as you realized you’d left your jacket on the hook by the door. It was your favorite, but one you were okay sacrificing as long as you didn’t have to face your embarrassment anymore.

Huffing a breath you could see in front of your face, you called an Uber - at least you had remembered your phone - and paced anxiously a block away from his building, hoping and praying he wouldn’t follow you out.

The entire ride home your mind spiraled until you turned off your phone, terrified this would make headlines already and, let’s be honest, no one would be surprised if it did. You hated that was the life you lived. As if your breakup with Bucky hadn’t already been tabloid fodder for weeks now, the public speculating every detail and warping every comment and photo posted. You had taken to keeping off social media altogether in the time since, trying to disguise your outings as much as possible and take back alleys to recordings and friends’ houses.

Your biggest supporter through all of this, surprisingly, had been Steve - Bucky’s best friend. He hadn’t been your friend first, sure, but he had become like a brother to you nonetheless, and he knew the situation better than anyone. You knew he still talked to Bucky just the same and, while that stung a little, you couldn’t fault him for being there for his childhood best friend too.

Which is how you ended up outside his apartment the very next morning, clad in your typical-as-of-late attire of a hoodie and a hat and sunglasses. It was also how you came face to face with Bucky for the first time since that fateful night.

“I didn’t come to sit here and watch you stare at your feet, James.” You stood from his couch, starting to seethe with pent up anger from your gradually failing relationship, all to end up here. What did he want? To absolve his guilt and shake hands and everything would be fine?

No. You had been the victim of his petty remarks and anxious jealousy for so long. You wouldn’t let him think he deserved your time when he didn’t respect the person you had become.

Your anger flashed back to the week before, the last time you had been seen out in public together as he was breaking up with you at your favorite coffee shop, where he had paid for your drink and you gave him a hesitant kiss, even though you knew it was inevitably coming. He had led you to a table in the corner and proceeded to tell you that he was sorry but he couldn’t do this anymore, it was too much for him - you were too much for him. Okay. That’s all you said was “okay” before you pushed out of the chair and walked around the city until the sun went down.

By the time you got home that night, the headlines were already speculating your breakup, though neither of you had yet to shed a single tear.

Bucky blinked as you shuffled on Steve’s doorstep, eyes wide and contemplating the quickest escape. He didn’t blame you.

He had admittedly not handled your breakup the best; in fact, he regretted it almost immediately at the stricken look on your face, clearly not expecting it. He didn’t blame you for that, either, seeing as it had slipped out in a moment of panic.

You had gained a lot of fame over the course of your relationship, even more than him, and he didn’t quite know how to cope with it. And so the words had poured out, unable to be taken back, and here you were, weeks later, still at odds.

He thought every night of how to make it up to you. Public displays weren’t your thing and you had blocked his number the night of your big fight, so that was out of the question, and he didn’t fancy showing up to your house only to have the door slammed in his face either.

But now, now maybe that you were here on the most neutral ground you could stand on, maybe he could keep his foot out of his mouth and apologize. Words stirred in his hindsight, unable to string together a coherent sentence as your face morphed through the stages of grief in record time. Then, just as he was about to speak, Steve placed a hand on his shoulder and gently guided him back into the house. Relief flooded your face as you drifted out of his sight, and he realized this probably wasn’t going to be as easy to take back as he thought.

“Buck,” Steve said as the two of them turned around the corner. “You need to leave.”

Bucky felt his face do something awful, a mixture of confusion and guilt, but he decided to keep his mouth shut. He simply nodded and kept his head down as he shrugged on his jacket and passed by you in the doorway.

He could hear the soft sound of your sobs as the front door clicked shut.

Songwriting could be as easy as breathing and as hard as climbing a mountain. Right now, the words flooded out of you like a tap of water.

And so did the tears, staining your notebook paper and smearing ink, but still in your heart you knew you would never forget these lyrics - these words that so painstakingly came from your soul and laid it bare.

As you finished the last verse, you took a deep breath, sucked up the tears, and called Natasha.

“Steve, I need to talk to her,” Bucky whined over a beer in a rundown bar in Brooklyn.

“No, you don’t.”

“I can fix it, I know I can.”

“I don’t think you can, Buck.” Steve ran a hand through his hair, a deep sigh leaving his lips. “She’s trying to move on. Don’t ruin that for her.”

“But-”

“No.”

Bucky mimicked Steve’s sigh and leaned back in his chair. It had been increasingly hard to justify his decision to end things with you. He didn’t know what he was thinking and he regretted every moment of it since then.

“Do you think she misses me?” Bucky looked so hopeful, but he could see the sorrow in Steve’s eyes.

“I don’t know.”

The Grammys, the fucking Grammys, and you were performing. You were nominated for a couple, and the Academy had asked you to sing - preferably a new song - in honor of that.

Natasha wrapped you in a hug, twirled you around, and announced you were going out to celebrate. You hesitantly said yes, knowing the press would be everywhere and there was always the possibility of seeing Bucky.

But fuck him. This was your moment.

Which is how you ended up at your favorite dive bar in Brooklyn. Your first mistake.

It was your favorite because Bucky had taken you there so many times. But you couldn’t think of another place you would celebrate than the place where so much inspiration and so many lyrics had come from.

You didn’t scan the room as you walked in with your hand clutching Nat’s, the rest of your small circle of friends following close behind. Your second mistake.

Walking straight to the bar, you didn’t notice Bucky in the far corner, watching your every move. It wasn’t until you were a few drinks in, feeling the celebration kick in, that you spotted him.

At first, you intended to ignore him. This was your time, your night, your moment. He didn’t get the spoil that.

That is, until you went to the bathroom and he trailed you into the dimly lit hallway.

“Baby,” he whispered, his voice a harsh rasp of beer and no sleep. “I’ve missed you.”

Your heart stopped beating in your chest.

You weren’t prepared to see him tonight, not that you ever were these days. But tonight of all nights, the one that should have been carefree and fun and a glittery memory for years to come, was smeared with anger and heartbreak as you spun to face him.

“What the fuck,” you snapped as his fingers grazed your bare arm. Immediately you felt bad, seeing the hurt on his face, and your expression softened. “Sorry.”

“I-it’s okay.” The catch in his voice broke your heart, your own watery eyes matching his. For just a moment.

It took you too long to come to your senses - this was the man who had shattered your heart without a second thought - but he was already so close to you. His body only inches from your own, his hot breath fanning your face, and goddamnit you missed him. You missed him so much that your heart broke all over again.

Your mind cycled through a thousand different thoughts all at once: get away, come closer, touch me, keep your hands off. You couldn’t decide what you wanted in the moment.

You were so, so angry, and yet you couldn’t stop yourself from reaching out to him. His hands settled on your waist as the lights overhead flickered. Your hand pressed gently to his cheek, completely of its own volition. Suddenly, you were tracing the planes of the face you had once known so well. He looked older now, like your time apart had aged him, yet his was still as handsome as the day you had first laid eyes on him.

His eyes locked with yours, and neither of you said a word - not him to ask, not you to stop him - as he leaned in to kiss you.

It should have felt like a victory - it did feel like a victory - but there was something else there. Something dark and twisted and Bucky couldn’t figure out if it was coming from you or him.

The kiss could have lasted moments or a lifetime, he didn’t really know. All he knew was one second you were holding him close to you and the next you were shoving him off.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” your voice came out in a whisper, like you didn’t want to draw attention from the steadily growing crowd of the bar. He supposed you didn’t.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” You nodded at his words, your fingers pressed to your lips like you could still feel him there. “I’ll just go.”

You nodded again, your eyes vacant, and he made his way back to the main room of the bar. He looked back in time to see you slump against the wall, and he knew that you were thinking of a way to erase any trace of him on you.

The stage lights came on, you strummed your guitar and started to sing.

The first time I tasted somebody else’s spit, I had a coughing fit.

You let the lyrics you poured your heart into spill out across the stage. Still, somehow - in the crowd of hundreds of faces - you spotted Bucky.

This time, it didn’t make your heart clench. Didn’t make you shed a tear or run away.

No. This time, it empowered you. Let him hear the lyrics he inspired. Let him feel that pain of your words and feel the hole in your heart where he had broken it. Where you were now healing.

Bucky watched as you sang, and you were mesmerizing. He could feel the echoes of hurt in your words, the hole in your heart he had put there. He knew, despite the last time he saw you, that there was no making up. There was no fixing what was well beyond broken. No chance for him.

In five years I hope the songs feel like covers,

Dedicated to new lovers.

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