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#hes ugly but DAMN can he SING
ktsumu · 4 months
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— am i the asshole?
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+ pairing: ghostface!osamu miya x f!reader
+ word count: 2.5k
+ cw: MDNI 18+ NSFT, dubcon, unintentional cheating on your part, rough sex, semi-public sex, oral (f!receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, ghostface!samu, ooc osamu
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+ synopsis: the miya twins have worn the same costume every halloween since they were born — it’d be pretty easy to get them mixed up, right?
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+ note: this is my contribution to @k9nto's reddit collab! find the masterlist for the event here!
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“Miss me?”
Atsumu’s hand rests on your shoulder from behind, and he snickers when you jump from his sudden reappearance. He hands you the cup you asked him for. “Ooh, Halloween’s got ya jumpy, has it?”
“Or maybe it’s the guy who never announces himself when he’s coming up behind me?”
“Aw, where’s the fun in that, princess?” he teases, his finger tugging at the fishnets beneath your little dress and belt. “Mm, still hot even with an eyepatch.”
“You got a thing for pirates, ‘Tsumu?”
He pulls you in closer by your lower back, making sure you can hear the lust in his voice where you can’t see it in his eyes. “I’ve got a thing for pretty things in tiny dresses,” he murmurs, “especially when I get to take it off—“
“Woah, slow your roll there,” you giggle, pulling his hand away from where it tried to sneak beneath the hem of your dress skirt. “Remember that we’re in public, Atsumu?”
“So? Half the people here are either waitin’ for a bathroom to fuck in or are already doing it on the couch, we’re nothin’ special.”
You roll your eyes when his hands start to wander again, swatting them away with a glare. Well, as much of a glare as you can show with one eye.
 “I thought you wanted to find your brother, hm?”
“Oh, yeah! Gotta get the annual Halloween Twins Pic,” he remembers. He and Osamu always get their routine picture of them in their identical costumes, every single year — they both dread it in their own way, but you think it’s sweet. “Have you seen him?”
“It’s like a needle in a haystack.”
“Okay, not that many people showed up as Ghostface.” 
You raise an eyebrow. 
“Fine, so it’s a popular costume! Whatever — I can recognize my own brother.”
“Good luck, ‘cause I can’t.”
Atsumu says something in reply, but you really don’t hear it under the mask or the music. You follow him around by his back, letting him lead you blindly through the house until you eventually end up in the kitchen. 
You hear insults being traded and assume that they’ve found each other well. 
“About time I found your ugly ass,” Atsumu grumbles, playfully smacking the back of Osamu’s head. Osamu raises a hand and Atsumu dives away with a yelp. 
“Yeah, whatever,” Osamu mutters, before his head turns to you. He’s got the same mask that Atsumu has on. “Hey.”
“Hey!” you greet back with a smile. 
“Ain’t her costume cute, ‘Samu?” Atsumu sings. “Pretty.”
Osamu leans on the counter like he’s tired. “That’s a trick question.”
“Ooh, yer gettin’ good at this.”
You scoff, rolling your eyes and holding out your hand, empty palm facing up. “So, whose phone am I taking the photo with?”
“Right! Here,” Atsumu hands you his phone, shoving Osamu into place so they’re back-to-back, arms crossed. They’re clones, all right. “Look spooky?”
“Terrifying,” you laugh, snapping a few pictures and handing the phone back. 
Atsumu lifts his mask, giving you a quick kiss on your waiting lips. “Thank you, baby,” he says quietly. Osamu watches you from the side. “Me and ‘Samu are gonna go find an old buddy, wanna come?”
You smile, shaking your head. “I’m okay. I’ll watch our drinks — you won’t be long, will you?”
“Now, how could I stay away from ya? When you’re lookin’ this damn good?” he teases, slipping a finger in through your belt. “Be back in five, baby.”
“Ugh, I’ll be waiting,” you taunt, glancing toward the hallway where the rooms tend to be. You watch as Atsumu’s head tilts; though you can’t see it, you know his face is awestruck. 
Osamu groans, grabbing his arm. “I’ll have the freak back ASAP,”
“Hey!”
You snicker with a nod, saluting him. “Good luck.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
They disappear into the pool of people as Atsumu keeps on whining about something, probably you, and Osamu drags him by the bicep to the other room. It’s pretty clear which one of them is more excited to see the friend they’re trying to find. 
You sigh to yourself, leaning on the counter as you wait for them to get back. 
You’ve always been pretty good friends with Osamu — you haven’t been with Atsumu for that long, but while you have been, you've been on good terms with his brother. 
They almost remind you of parallel lines, Atsumu and Osamu; they’re alike but still separate, moving along beside one another. It’s probably why it’s so easy to get along with both of them all the time, despite the fact they get at each other's throats. 
It isn't too much longer after they disappear that strong hands come to rest on your waist from behind, making you jump. You turn around to find that it’s just Atsumu’s dumb mask looming over you, his head tilted to one side. 
“Jesus, ‘Tsumu,” you grumble, “I just told you to quit it with that.”
Atsumu hums to himself, pulling your hips closer to his. He cages you in between the counter and himself. 
“Didn’t we also just talk about this?” you complain, but your brows relax when you feel his hand smooth down your hip from your waist. 
“Please,” Atsumu murmurs, playing with your tights. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“About what?”
“About what’s under that fuckin’ dress.”
Your face goes hot; he moves closer. 
“Please,” he repeats. 
You don’t care about what you talked about earlier — all you’re capable of doing now is nodding and taking his hand, letting him lead you out of the kitchen. 
Your eyes train on his back as he knocks on doors, checking rooms and bathrooms until he finds one that opens without resistance. The second you’re both inside, he’s shutting the door blindly, locking it the same way. 
The bathroom is cramped, but it’s enough space to get you up on the counter, your legs spread apart as he drops to his knees. 
“Holy fuck, Atsumu,” you breathe, goosebumps running across your skin when he looks up at you in that stupid mask. He doesn’t say a word, but you figure he has other plans. 
His hand guides one of your legs over his shoulder, and he pulls the mask up on top of his head. It’s long enough that it makes a cover over his face — like the bill of a baseball cap, or something. 
You almost complain about it, about the lack of view between the mask and his hood staying up, but you fall short of words when he rips your fishnets apart at the crotch. He tugs your panties down your legs. 
“I — you’re so goddamn lucky those were cheap,”
“Uh-huh,” he groans, tugging you closer to the edge by the hips. 
You gasp, hands gripping the counter’s edge. “Can you at least warn me before you — oh,”
You come up short for words as he flattens his tongue against your cunt, his hold on your thighs tightening when you arch your back. 
Atsumu has always been good at this, but you find yourself at a loss this time; everything you want him to do, he does without request — like he’s tracking where you want his tongue by the way your hips roll alone. 
His tongue flicks over your clit, drawing circles before starting over again. “Shit,” you whimper, looking down at his fingers digging into your legs. “So fucking good,”
You can feel his spit running down to your ass, you can hear how messy he is — he sucks on your clit with a low moan, one of his hands slowly moving from your leg to where his tongue was before.
Your deep breath shatters into stutters when he slowly pushes in his spit-soaked finger, kissing your clit as he drags it up against your walls. Everything he does is deliberate. 
“Oh my god,” you whisper, your head tilting back against the mirror as you grind against his face and hand, making sure he’s buried himself to the knuckle. “Please, more, please,”
“Fuckin’ begging,” you think you hear him murmur, his finger squelching as it drags out of your cunt. “I'll wanna hear this again,”
You can’t even ask what he means before he’s slipping in his ring finger, too. His lips move to gently kiss your inner thigh as his fingers do the opposite, quickly thrusting in and out of your pussy, feeling it flutter around them. 
The pressure in your gut builds quicker than you acknowledge it’s there, but you’re guessing he knows that by the way your breathing gets faster; his fingers drag against the sweet spot he was searching for. You feel him grin against your skin like he knows. 
“I’m gonna cum,” you gasp, knuckles turning white from gripping the counter so hard. “Atsumu, I’m gonna cum,”
“Do it, then,” he growls, and it takes you no more than a few more thrusts to clamp down on his fingers. 
You cum with a cry, back arching and hips pushed forward. Atsumu doesn’t stop until you’ve rode it out fully, until you reach down and grab his wrist to force him to stop. 
“Oh, fuck,” you breathe out, fixing the strap that fell off of your shoulder. Below you, Atsumu slips out his fingers; you can’t see him, but you can hear him suck them off. You think you hear him groan. “Need you, ‘Tsumu.”
He hesitates, pulling his mask back down before standing back up. Your eyes follow him until he’s above you again, and the way his hands drop to the button of his jeans alone makes you lightheaded.
His hands work to tug them loose, unzipping them as you eagerly sit up. You feel him over his boxers, nearly dropping dead at the way he bucks his hips into your palm. He rests a hand on either side of you on the bathroom counter, leaning in on it, rolling his hips as you pump him through the fabric. 
“Mm, fuck,” you practically drool, “need you to fuck me good,”
You giggle when his head tips back, your other hand pushing his sweater up so you can watch his abs tense; watch his v-line dip beneath his waistband. 
You’re sick of waiting. 
Spitting in your hand, you take his cock out of his boxers and pump him up slowly, watching the way his body reacts to your touch. At first, you were a little curious about him keeping the mask on — but now? You’ve never seen anything hotter. 
Atsumu grabs your hand the same way you grabbed his, tugging you off the counter. You almost trip over your panties, silly you and your shaky legs, but he’s quick to wrap an arm around your waist, nudging you to bend over the counter. 
You look back at yourself in the mirror, his frame looming behind you. He holds the hem of his sweater halfway up his body, and the dim light against his glistening skin is enough to make your pussy throb. 
“Watch,” he says lowly, his hand straightening your head to look forward again when you try and look back at him. He pushes your dress up your body, his hands smoothing up the dip of your back. 
“Fuck,” he groans, the tip of his cock tapping on your ass before it teases your cunt. “Been waitin’ for this.”
Your jaw drops as he slips into you with ease, dragging himself back out just as slow; he builds his pace with every thrust. 
Your fingers search to grip something, anything on the counter. His hands grip your hips as his own press flush against your ass, his cock reaching as deep as it can go. 
“Fuck, ‘Tsumu,” you whimper. He fucks into you harder, his grip tighter. “Shit!”
His balls slap against your clit as he fucks you up the counter, your breath leaving clouds on the mirror. Your tits spill out of the neckline of your dress and your ass stings where a fleshy handprint starts to form, yet you’re still fucking yourself back on him. “Atsu—“
He grabs the back of your belt that's somehow stayed on and yanks you back with it; you stare at yourself getting fucked in the mirror. 
“Who’s fuckin’ you this good?”
“You!” you cry, gasping when he bends and pushes up one of your legs to rest on the counter. Your pussy squelches with every thrust, his cock bullying your cunt until you can’t forget the shape of it. “You are—“
“Damn right,” he grits, reaching a hand around your body to circle your clit. “And I’m the one makin’ you cum, too.”
“Yes! Fuck, yes—“ 
“Come on, baby,” he asks; his voice sounds like he’s taunting you. It’s deep and unsteady, but the slight rasp nearly makes you cum on the spot. “You know you want it, fuckin’ take it,”
You cry out in rhythm with his thrusts, his pace unrelenting, both of you so fucking close and slowly getting louder — you tighten around him and he’s murmuring next to your ear: “Cum on me, baby, you can do it,”
Atsumu gropes your chest as you let go with a shudder, creaming around him as he makes no effort to slow down; he only stills inside of you once your whole body is filled with a hot tremor, his cum leaking out of your pussy only for him to slowly fuck it back inside. 
You slump forward when he finally lets you go, your leg falling off the counter as you look at your disheveled appearance in the mirror. 
The familiar sound of his jeans being zipped back up again comes from behind you, and Atsumu hands you your panties from the floor.
You snort. “What a gentleman,”
He shrugs, crossing his arms as he leans up against the door. He shamelessly watches you fix yourself up as best you can — you pull your dress back down, try to make your fishnets look as normal as possible. 
“Way to fuck up my costume, though,” you grumble, crossing your legs to try and ignore the way cum soaks your panties. “I have to look somewhat normal, you know.”
“Mm, you should. Better look nice so my brother doesn’t think you fucked me.”
You furrow your eyebrows. “Why would Osamu care?”
He breathes out a laugh. “Oh,” he says, lifting his mask up. This time, you see him, and your blood just about runs frigid. “I don’t. ‘Tsumu might, though.”
You blink, shaking your head. “I — you —?”
“I’m not gonna tell him,” Osamu says, running a hand through his hair. His cheeks are flushed red — you just want to disappear. You feel nauseous, but you can’t take your eyes off of him. “But, you know. Might happen again.”
“Wh—no, it can’t. It won’t.”
Osamu shrugs. “Okay.”
You stare as he unlocks the door, opening it as the noise from the rest of the party floods your crypt. He leans down towards you, tilting his head. 
“Remember how I made you cum,” he says in the quiet, “and then remember how he does.”
You swallow the lump in your throat, but it doesn’t help the pit in your chest. Osamu laughs shortly again, “Right.”
“I’ll give you an excuse, buy ya some time.” His eyes flicker from yours down to your open mouth, your glossy lips. “Make sure you’re not still droolin’ over it when you come out, ‘kay?”
And with that, he pulls his mask back down over his face and leaves the bathroom; you only watch him head down the hallway for a second before slamming the door shut, left with the sound of your heart beating in your ears.
Looking back in the mirror, you don’t even know what to do with yourself. So, you wipe off your lips. 
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glittersstuff · 18 days
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Rude - Luke Hughes
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Warnings; hate, fluff, bad language, insecurity, good boyfriend. Please read it to the end, you'll not regret it!
Rie's note; Everything is fictional, nothing against the fans. (I'd insult myself, too). It's honestly a very emotional story for me, hope you all like it 🫶🏻
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You're afraid to open your apps on your phone. Literally terrified. Your heart feels heavy, your eyes begin to get wet and some tears run down your face. You imagined some rude comments but there are not some, there are a lot of hate massages. More than you can handle.
"Look at this nose, like a witch"
"Luke only wants her because he just wants some fun"
"golddigger"
"Please eat less, you're fat!", and even more mean things.
Luke's away for a week full of games so he usually doesn't look on social media about comments. About a week ago you had birthday and he posted a picture of you two together with a sweet caption, without thinking what if it means for you. You're sobbing for six days now, overwhelmed about everything what's going on and avoiding your phone. You avoid going out, looking in the mirror. You stayed home sick from work, afraid of mean comments.
If Luke tries to FaceTime you, you let it ring until he hangs up. The only person you talked to was Jim, he's like a second father to you and you're sure he keeps secrets on his own. He just said, "Haters are gonna hate. None of these things are true. Try to ignore that.", would be easier said than done. To tell Luke is no option, he has so much stress with hockey, you don't want to bother him with your silly problems.
You lay down and drifted to sleep quickly.
"Why didn't you tell me?!", a voice wakes you up. Your eyes see a manly figure, a phone in his hands. Seconds later you can see clearly Luke with your phone in his hands, looking not amused.
"What do you mean?", you ask.
"The comments. Dad told me to look after you, he was worried and didn't tell me why. I left the road trip earlier. I had no clue what they wrote about you, baby!", Luke scrolls through the comment section. They never were like that to hate anybody in his life. Never.
"Are you okay?", his voice gets lovely and his beautiful eyes carefully searching for yours. You're laying in bed with puffy eyes at this time, 2pm, is not typical for you. Of course nothing is ok. He gets angry about these haters. You're nose is straight and no witch nose, you're not fat and damn never a golddigger. You're not just fun, you're his love of his life.
"Yeah I'm ok", you try to smile.
"Do you want to go to the mall with me? I need a new suit. My blue one got dirty", he explains. Honestly he doesn't need a suit but knows shopping cheers you always up and he misses your real smile. He knows you wouldn't tell your feelings, you're that type of person who hides the problems until a burndown comes. He missed you for seven days straight and thought the post on instagram makes you happy and the fans support that. "Okay, give me 15 minutes", you stay up to find an outfit where you look not fat. Luke's waiting with his keys on the door. He looks on his clock, you're never a girl who needs tons of time. "Can we-", he comes back to you, shocked.
You're doing make-up. You're more natural to go out with and he bites on his lips - you look like a barbie doll. It's too much. "You don't need make up", he smiles gently. You just do that to cover your ugly face and the witch nose.
"I'm ready, lets go!", putting on your fake smile and you both drive to the mall. In these 30 minutes you would sing every Taylor Swift song you could but today you're singing absolutely nothing.
"Do you want to go to the bookstore first or our traditional hotdog?", Luke takes your hand and walks happy, he misses holding hands with you. He missed your smell, your laugh, your bad singing in the car, your nerdy side, everything.
"Uhm I think we begin with the bookstore",you reply. He nods.
You're reading for hours your romantic books. You inhale these books when he's on trips so his hope is to buy you some. You pay the grocery, you pay for devils tickets like everyone else because you want it. Luke knows you don't have the money like he does, you work your ass off in different shifts just to get pockets compared to him.
You walk around with three new aduld books in your arms straight to the salesman. Luke puts out his wallet because he wanted to, but you just shake your head and say, "I'll pay on my own, but thanks". His jaw claps down. He loves to spoil you. Do you really believe you're a golddigger?
He suppresses a comment about this. "Oh look at this suit Lukey! You should try on this one!".
Luke stands next to you, holding hands watching into the store window. "Okay, are you rating like everytime? Love your style advice", he compliments you. "You can go, I'll wait here. Your style is better than mine", without an answer you stop holding hands and sit down on a bench near the store. Luke groans, its not the way he wanted. He wanted to make you happy. You love to give advice for his suits, always cheering when devils post about him in these she choosed.
20 minutes later he comes out with a new one, you're sitting exactly on this bench like these minutes before. He's worried, you can't sit still. You look so depressed with curved back, shoulders pulled forward and your face looks to the ground. Your stomach is making noises because you're hungry but trying to eat less. Luke heard the noises and grins. "I think its time for our tradition! hotdogs in the mall!", he pulls you closer that he can put his left arm around your neck and walking to this little sale stand.
You love to eat hotdogs, if you're down it's the one to let your smile grow. But not today. "Lukey, I'm not hungry", you say. Luke raises his eyebrow completely confused. You never said that in two years of the relationship.
"I need to pee, can I leave you for five minutes?", he asks. You shake your head as a yes. Luke walks with big steps to the toilet, taking his phone.
"Dad? I need your help for an official announcement", he speaks. Your stomach cramps, you ate one banana for 14 hours. Tears are rolling down your cheeks again, you try to wipe them off with your jacket before Luke could see them.
He comes back, hiding that he saw your tears. Luke wants to give you the chance to talk to him, when you're ready. He kisses your forehead in the mall until some teenager comes along for the permission to take pictures with Luke. You take their phones as a photographer. "We're sorry for these rude people. We just want to say you're cute together and we'll support the relationship. The comments are unfair", the young teenager with glasses and red hair speaks out for all her teeny friends. You're not able to speak, Luke says thank you. After this you both drive home, this try to cheer you up gone wrong. You look even unhappier than before.
"Sooo babe you can choose between ordering some pizza or I cook for us but it's burned after", Luke cheesy smiles.
"Pizza please, just margarita", you don't want to be fat.
"Baby I love you. These rude comments mean nothing. You're not just fun you're my soulmate and I love you don't need all this make-up. I love to spoil you. I'm sad I couldn't pay for your books. You are not a golddigger!", Luke places his hands on your cheeks, kisses your lips and has a daydream look in his eyes. "please eat as much as you can because you have a perfect body for me and I care more about your inner side. You're beautiful inside and out! My dad wrote an official statement. Everyone who goes too far with commenting rude things carries serious consequences in the future. He sent it to my management to protect you!", Luke hugs you, places his head in your neck like the best he can with his short girlfriend.
Your eyes get filled with tears again. "You really did that?", "I won't allow unknown people to destroy your confidence and happiness because they're jealous. I miss your happy smile and I'm so sorry it happened that way", Luke hums in your neck.
"Can i have pizza with champignons?", you ask for your typical order.
"I'll pay and if you try to pay baby I throw your wallet out of this window. I swear!", he laughs, kisses you again and orders the food.
You're so thankful to have him in your life.
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1-800-hwahui · 1 year
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driving me crazy
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member | bandmate!seungcheol x reader genre | smut, enemies to lovers word count | 1.3k warnings | reader has a vagina and breasts, unprotected sex (reader is on the pill but be safe irl or i'll hit you), name calling (slut, whore, cumslut, cumdump), cumshot, creampie, masturbation (m), mentions of degredation & humiliation, one mention of spanking. this is pure rough hate sex but it gets really soft at the end notes | so i was writing this in @duhnova's inbox to attack her and all of a sudden i checked how much i'd written and it was fuckin,, over a thousand words?? this isn't really a "fic" per se, it's more like a headcanon (there's no dialogue) but i thought it was long enough to share. i don't know where this came from or how it happened but- enjoy! - june 💒
you and seungcheol are in a band together– maybe he's the guitarist and you sing, and since the day the band formed you've had it out for each other. neither of you are willing to give in to what the other wants, even when you both know you're in the wrong. he wants the chords a certain way? nope, because you need them this way so you can sing them. you want to write your own lyrics for this one song? nope, he criticizes every word.
and the tension just keeps growing and growing until one day it boils over and you find yourself underneath him, back pressed against the sofa in his garage after band practice when everyone else has gone and he's fucking you like you're the last person on earth. pushing his lips to your neck to call you filthy names, things he's never wanted to say to your face before; but something about this time, with his cock splitting you open and you fighting to hold back tears of pleasure because like hell you'd let him get that reaction out of you, he can't help but want to tell you how much of a slut you are. you hate each other, yet you'd let him fuck you like this, hm?
and you'd die before you admit it to him or to yourself, but just this one time with him will completely ruin you for anyone else's cock. no matter how hard you try to forget him and how many shitty tinder hookups you suffer through, he's the only thing on your mind every single time you cum. and so finally you give in, and you come back to him, practically begging him to fuck you again, and he'd be more than happy to oblige because you're the only thing that's been on his mind every time he jerks off after you leave practice, his cock throbbing in his fist and milky white cum splattered all over his hands as he realizes he just moaned your name out loud. so at the end of the day maybe you do still hate each other, but damn if you aren't the best sex each other's had.
so despite how much you supposedly hate each other, now that neither of you can deny how insanely horny you are for each other you're fucking all the time. and i mean all the time. of course, it starts out as only after practice in his garage, and occasionally in his car when practices are at your other bandmates' houses. but one day a couple weeks later when he's fucking you in his bed, on his kitchen counter, even in his front doorway because you're both so impatient you can barely keep your hands off one another long enough for him to shut the door, that's when you realize how fucked you are—metaphorically and literally.
if your friends are shocked at the fact that seungcheol, your literal worst enemy, is suddenly driving you home every night, they don't mention it. there's no way they don't know by now, but you won't hear a peep out of them, because in practices, you're actually… managing to get along with cheol now. it turns out that having the roughest, nastiest (aka best) sex of your life with the man you hate most is doing wonders to relieve the tension between you two; so much so that the only arguments you can muster with him are about how the color of his new guitar looks ugly compared to his old one, or that your singing would be better if you actually looked at the microphone for once instead of looking at him.
by day you're cooperating enough to make music together for once, and by night you're getting fucked like the cumslut you are, cheol slapping your ass and roughly handling your hips into place so he can push into you even deeper so you can feel him completely filling you.
and after a while, you can't even remember the reason why you hated him in the first place. because maybe the tension between you two was just sexual tension all along. getting dicked down like a whore makes you happy, and having his own personal cumdump makes him happy. it's a win for everybody.
one day he's fucking you in his bed after a really successful practice and it's... unusually soft. he's not calling you filthy names or humiliating you for how hard you came from just his fingers. he's holding you so close, praising you for how well you always take his thick cock, squeezing around him so perfectly, so warm and wet and tight just for him and him alone. he's not calling you "his hole" or telling you to crawl across the floor and beg him to allow you to suck his cock. his words come out no more a soft growl by your ear, low moans scattered in between the praises.
and that's the first time you let him cum inside you. you're on the pill and you've both been tested so there's been no reason for him to use a condom any of the times you've been together, but he's always pulled out to cum on your back, your pussy, your stomach, or his favorite place– your face. 
but this time when you feel his thrusts start to stutter and he begins to let go of you to slip out of your aching cunt, you just wrap your legs around his waist and pull him back in, whimpering and pleading for him to stay inside, to cum inside, to fill you up and claim you as his. and he can barely stop himself from cumming on the spot as he stumbles into the hardest orgasm of his entire life, spurting rope after rope of liquid into you.
and afterwards, when you're both laying there panting, stuck in a post-orgasmic haze as it begins to dawn on you what just happened, he does something that makes you doubt any of this was even real in the first place, that it was all a dream and you haven't actually been having sex with him on almost a daily basis for nearly the last month. because the seungcheol you know, the seungcheol you hate, would never say this. the seungcheol you used to hate would never own up to anything, would argue about anything and anything and refuse to apologize for his words, no matter how hurtful.
at least, that's what you thought. because now you've realized you never actually hated him, not even before you two were involved like this. you would argue for the sake of arguing just like he would, because that's all you knew how to do around him.
you didn't yet know this side of him; not just the side that makes you cum over and over and refuses to stop until you have to pry his mouth off of your pussy, but the side of him that always gives you rides home, even when the night doesn't end in sex. the side of him that lets you use his shower to clean up afterwards and always leaves a stack of fresh towels out for you that you can tell he warmed up in the dryer. the side of him that, even the first time when you hated each others' guts, asked if it was okay to do something before he did it, because even though he can't stand you, he doesn't want to hurt you intentionally.
so you're laying there on his bed, and he holds you tighter, burying his face into the crook of your neck, and he sighs. and for the first time ever, he says,
"i'm sorry."
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loveinhawkins · 1 year
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They’re sitting in the grass, home-made weapons cast aside in favour of trying to enjoy the last of the daylight. Eddie had found one last can of Pringles leftover from the food (… and drink) shop he’d asked for, and he’d done a stupid little celebratory dance, holding the can above his head, just to make the kids laugh.
“Dude,” Dustin says now, around the last Pringle, “you keep humming.”
“Oh.” Eddie often finds himself humming along to something unconsciously. He tilts his head in thought as he listens to himself, then snorts. “That’s your fault, man. ‘Cause you keep mentioning The Upside Down.”
“Huh?”
Eddie grins, leaps to his feet dramatically. “Upside down,” he sings, adopting a ridiculous falsetto, “boy, you turn me inside out, and ‘round ‘round.”
Nearby, he hears an honest to God cackle. He turns and is delighted to find that it’s Steve, that he can actually get an ugly laugh out of him. It’s a fucking spectacular laugh, Eddie thinks.
“God, why’d you have to do that?” Steve says. “Now it’s gonna be stuck in my head.”
“Aw,” Dustin says, dry as the Sahara, “maybe we don’t need your guitar, Eddie. We can just sing that and embarrass Vecna to death.”
Before Eddie can even begin to act all mock offended, Steve laughs again and says, “That’s rich coming from you, Henderson.”
And well, Eddie knows a story when he hears one. “Oh?” he says, giving Dustin an over the top waggle of his eyebrows. “Have I been missing out on your dulcet tones?”
Steve grins. “Something like that.”
“Nope!” Dustin gives Steve a harsh glare. “That information is classified and it’s, uh, not essential to the lore, okay and—”
“To the what?”
“—and,” Dustin presses on, “Eddie still thinks I’m cool, don’t you, Eddie?”
“Coolest person I know,” Eddie says, and though he delivers it tongue in cheek, he does mean it.
Steve’s teasing grin softens into a genuine smile, like he can hear Eddie’s honesty. “Fine, fine. You’re safe for now. But Eddie is owed a dramatic reenactment at some point, dude.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Dustin waves Steve aside, runs off to play an impromptu game of tag with Erica. He calls back, “Keep it for after we’ve saved the world! Again.”
Eddie chuckles. “Very cool kid,” he reiterates.
Steve scoffs, but nods fondly. Then, after a moment, he says, “Damn you, it is in my head.” And he gives Eddie a tiny wink, and does the world’s most ridiculous little shoulder shimmy as he sings under his breath, “I said, ‘Upside down, you’re turning me, you’re giving love instinctively…’”
Eddie almost wishes he could invent time travel, just so he could tell his younger self that one day Steve Harrington will sing fucking Diana Ross to him.
And maybe it’s foolish, to feel so happy right now, in this moment, but Eddie can’t bring himself to care. All he knows is that his stomach gives a little swoop as Steve trails off from singing into more laughter, and it feels warm. Feels something like hope.
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eddiemunsonswhxre · 2 years
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dude i need more angsty fights with eddie ps ur writing is very swaggy
thank you love, i hope this meets your needs lol
you’re the reason / eddie munson
part two , part three
cw: cursing, fighting, name calling, violence, blood, no happy ending
you never wanted the night to end like this, but sometimes his insecurities ruin everything.
the car ride home from the bar was torturously quiet. eddie had been silent since they finished their set and you couldn’t figure out why. you thought maybe he was just stressed or had messed up his throat when singing again, but when he slammed the van door and didn’t talk to you as he stormed inside you knew he was pissed. you rolled your eyes and braced yourself before following him in. as expected, he was popping open a beer bottle and shoving it to his lips as you opened the door.
“eddie,” you said calmly, trying to get his attention. he ignored you and walked over to the couch to sit down. “eddie, what is up with you?” you ask, sighing slightly. you make your way to the living room slowly, watching eddie eye you then look away.
“do you even care? or are you just looking for another excuse to fight with me?” he asks bluntly, taking another swig.
you look at him in slight shock. what the hell? “what do you mean?” you ask, crossing your arms in a defensive manner. you hadn’t done anything.
eddie grunts, still refusing to look at you. “we fight constantly. it’s like one wrong breath around you and you’re at my throat again,” he sneers.
you’re taken aback by his attitude. he was right, you guys did fight a lot yeah, but it wasn’t all on you. “i don’t think you’re being fair, eddie. you start shit too, just how you are right now,” you say causing him to roll his eyes.
“this is your fault,” he says, his knuckles turning white around the beer bottle.
you scoff, walking to instead stand in front of him. “is it? please enlighten me on how i’ve pissed you off this time,” you say.
eddie bites the inside of his cheek, nostrils flaring. “are you just gonna act like you weren’t flirting with the bartender? right in front of me? while i played your song?” he asks, cocking his head to the side.
your jaw drops. “are you fucking kidding me, eddie? i was not flirting with the ugly ass bartender!” you defend yourself, hands flying.
“then what were you talking to him about? he seemed pretty fucking insterested!” he boomed, rising to his feet to tower over you.
you let out a little scream of frustration behind gritted teeth. “we were talking about you, asshole! you and the band!” you say, rage beginning to bubble over.
“bullshit,” he drags.
“why don’t you believe me?” you ask seriously.
eddie rolls his eyes. “i don’t know, maybe because everyone in this damn town knows you’re a whore?” he questions rhetorically.
you gasp, shoving him but he doesn’t move. “that’s not true anymore, ever since we started talking it’s only been you!” you yell, jabbing a finger into his chest. “how could you even think i’d cheat on you?” you ask angrily.
“so what? im just supposed to ignore the way you and harrington act around each other? aren’t you the one who told me you’d fuck him?” eddie keeps going, his voice raising.
you feel tears building behind your eyes, you always cried when you were angry. “that’s not what i said and you know it!” you yell.
“right, right, and those fuck me eyes you give him? nothing right?” he laughs humorlessly.
your lip quivers in rage as the first tears start to fall. “i don’t want steve, eddie. i only want you! i tell you i love you everyday and i do everything i can to be a good girlfriend. what did i do to make you think i’d do anything like that to you?” you ask, your vision becoming blurry.
“stop fucking crying, you know i hate when you cry it’s so annoying,” he huffs, looking away from you.
you feel your heart crack at his words. “you- you did this!” you yell in his face, your fists now shaking with rage.
“oh, so now you wanna play the victim? great,” eddie taunts.
you turn around, screaming in annoyance as you take a few steps to put distance between you two. “i didn’t do anything!” you cry out, hands covering your face.
“yes, you did! you’re the reason we’re having this damn fight, you’re always the fucking reason!” eddie screams, his breathing becoming uneven. you cry, still not knowing what you did.
you shake your head, knowing you don’t deserve this. “you’re fucking psychotic, eddie! you’re delusional!” you scream at him in a heartbroken voice, your voice cracking.
eddie’s eyes turn into a sharp glare. “what did you just say?” he asks, his voice deadly low.
“you’re a fucking psycho!” you scream at him, choking on your words. your eyes widen as his arm raises, and you barely duck in time as the beer bottle goes whizzing past about a foot to the side of where your head was. it shatters on the wall behind you as you fall to your knees with your hands covering your head, screaming in fear. you stay low to the ground, sobbing as the beer drips down the wall behind you.
eddie freezes up, taking in the sight of you cowering on the ground as sobs leave your body. he glances at the wall behind you, seeing the marks of beer dripping and the broken glass on the ground. he didn’t aim for you, but he also wasn’t thinking. that bottle could’ve hit you. he takes a step closer to you as guilt flood through his body.
you see his boots come into view and you fall onto your butt, scrambling back a bit. you were scared of him. “no,” you cry, shaking your head at him.
“y/n…” he says broken heartedly. he saw it on your face, you were terrified. he tried taking another step towards you slowly, but you backed up more.
your hands landed in the glass of the broken bottle, causing you to cry out as it pierced the soft skin of your hands. you held them out in front of you, watching the small drops of blood start to form scattered across your palms. “y/n!” eddie said with a gasp, falling to his knees in front of you and reaching out for you.
“don’t touch me!” you screamed in his face, twisting your body away from him. eddie face dropped as you did so, feeling his heart fall into his stomach.
he searched your face for the anger, but all that was left was fear. “baby, just let me help you get the glass out,” he begged, reaching for you again.
“no!” you screamed, throwing yourself to the side. “don’t fucking touch me,” you cried, scrambling up on to your feet. eddie was quick to follow you, tears gathering in his eyes as he took note of the blood on your legs as well.
“y/n, baby, please calm down. i won’t hurt you, baby, i love you,” he begs, trying to carefully approach you.
you shake your head sobbing. “get away from me,” you say, backing your way towards the door. he gulped, his heart breaking in two as he saw you were heading for the door.
he shook his head, wanting so badly to take back his actions. he should’ve never let his insecurities take over him, but they always did. “y/n, please don’t leave,” he whispers. but you just shake your head at him, and then turn away and bolt for the door. “y/n, please! i'm sorry,” he calls, running after you. you run down the steps quickly, and over towards max’s trailer.
eddie stops in his doorway, watching you run from him. “damnit,” he cusses, kicking the door frame. he watches max let you in, her glaring his way before slamming the door shut. eddie closes his door before sliding down it, tangling his fingers in his hair and pulling as he sobs over losing you.
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faorism · 1 year
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(really in my feels about the ot3 because of the @powerpolyculeshowdown so here's some propaganda)
parker and hardison allow eliot to be sillier. more ridiculous. outragous, even. eliot sings the stupid ditties hardison writes special for him, and he rolls his eyes at parkers pokes and prods and the occasional "accidental" face slap, and eliot can express himself for what actually bothers him no matter how nitpicky, versus having to calculate what he should say. (he still argues with hardison that throwing in on a brewpub was a stupid plan given its risk, no matter how many times hardison claims it was always a gift for him.) eliot laughs more. real laughs; you can tell because his smiles look more and more like grimaces: the way his ma perked her mouth which his dad always teased her about (though it was his favorite thing about her), rather than the wide toothy grins eliot learned because he knows, tactically, they are best for charming. parker and hardison let him not feel like he's a monster. or... parker tells him she always thought the big bad wolf had a bad rap, and hardison says some stupid shit about monsterfucking being the hip thing the kids are into these days, anyway.
hardison and eliot allow parker to feel deep. it's food that tastes like a hug and it's gadgets made just for her and it's loving and being loved and it's being one another's real families. she doessn't want to run away, anymore. or... she wants to run but with her friends beside her. or... running cons is all she's ever wanted to do, and all she did, for so long. parker is good at it. she loves it. she loves that hardison and eliot love it too. but... feeling deep is also being deep. she's no longer just her piles of money because she is no longer afraid of herself. her past. the memories that hurt. the habits she thought she needed to grow out of but always missed. these habits, like bleeping sounds that arent words and hands move move moving. hands that were once made to stay now can fly because hardison buys her fidgets and designs some just for her and keeps locks in lucille for when parker feels like infinity and needs the vibrations of ticktickticks to bring her back to herself. and eliot lets her braid and unbraid his hair; he won't let her blow dry it, not yet, but... he lets her pet his hair while it's still hot, now. it frizzes his hair a little, and parker feels her pulse rush throughout the day knowing she did that to him. eliot and hardison kiss her knuckles when they burn.
parker and eliot allow hardison to be mean. vindictive. he is nicer than he needs to be. wants to be... what he needs to be is nonthreatening, for the most part, in many places. he knows what it means to be him: tall and black and queer and gaining muscle and too smart for his own damn good and so very, very tenderhearted. hardison loves so damn deep, and he cares so damn much, but part of caring (the other side of a coin) is not giving a fuck. it's the boiling point of rage and betrayal. the i need to walk away from this fight because you are dead wrong and imma about to say something imma regret, so go fix yourself. the im not gonna forget, im not going to forgive, and im going to get my revenge. parker and eliot would not have questioned hardison's joy at securing the capture of the men that put him in that damn coffin; they hold space for him to be fully himself with all his ugly parts and his petty parts and the parts that do bring hardison shame if he thinks about it for too long. they know he's not perfect, and that? that feels like safety and love and forever to hardison.
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amphibiahawks321 · 4 months
Text
[Y/N Rubs his Eyes]
[Pantalone looked at Arlecchino with a confused expression]
Arlecchino : his very tired so he decided to come along for the meeting because he gets to be next to me
M!Reader : [Yawn] yep... [Yawn]
Pantalone : Y/N don't you think it's time for you to take your leave? I'm not demanding of course it's just that this meeting is really important
[M!Reader clearly isn't happy with his statement]
M!Reader : Pantalone out of everyone here your the wealthiest but your stupid ass thinks the best place to have a meeting is fucking church? You should spend your money more on your brain and not your outfit cause nobody is gonna notice you change your wet noodle hair
[Childe let's out a laugh]
M!Reader : Oh don't get me started on your 2.0 Ron Weasley haircut ass ever since you fall into the abyss not only did you get more annoying but you also lose your sense of fashion like who the hell wears a scarf when it's morning time?
Childe : .....Ouch
Dottore : Hahaha!
M!Reader : Wow I didn't know a man that wasted his life time doing experiments that always end up a completely utter disappointment could laugh
Childe : Ha!
Capitano : Y/N you need to understand that-
M!Reader : Understand that you wear that mask to cover your ugly face? Trust me if you took off that mask everybody here will end up washing their eyes with bleach
Capitano : .....
Pierro : Y/N this is seriously an important meeting-
M!Reader : Pierro shut your old ass up just because you wear fancy clothes doesn't mean you're gonna look any younger and what is up with the half mask? Is the covered part hiding all the wrinkly and old looking part? Because I can see that part fits in perfectly well with your whole face
Columbina : Y/N I think you're going just a little bit overboard-
M!Reader : Columbina out of everyone here I like you the second most but if you sing a song when I'm in my casket I'm gonna raise up from the dead, leave my casket, go to a store to buy headphones and go straight back into my casket wearing my new headphones so I don't need to hear you sing
Columbina : ......Ouch
Childe : I know right?
Sandrone : How about we all calm down for a minute-
M!Reader : Sandrone i don't want to hear criticism from someone whose friends are robots that can't even feel feelings without commands
Pulcinella : Y/N this meeting is very important you can atleast wait outside Y/N I'm pretty sure there's a bench nearby
M!Reader : Pulcinella out of everyone here you are the most I respect
Pulcinella : oh Why thank you-
M!Reader : But then again I don't want to hear someone telling me to go wait outside especially from a person who looks like a dwarf that's about to say "First you must answer my riddles of three"!
[Arlecchino thought 💭]
.....Damn that was kinda hot
[After the meeting]
M!Reader : Ummmm am I in trouble? Or probably in the Harbingers hit list?
[Arlecchino places a gentle kiss on his cheek]
Arlecchino : Don't worry you're not in trouble or on a hit list love
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starstruckmoony · 11 months
Text
style.
masterlist
pairing - sirius black x fem!reader
summary - you and sirius start dating after accidentally running into each other at a concert but confirm nothing, just to watch everyone lose their shit online.
trope/tags - band/celeb!au, instagram/social media!au, modern!au, fluff, terrible humour
word count - 1k
warnings - language
part 1 / part 2 / part 3
yourusername
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❤ liked by starmanblack, cissy_blck, r.a.black and 804,337 others
yourusername mirror's dirty but i felt pretty
7,164 comments
starmanblack damn smash
yourusername thirsty mf
starmanblack you're not wrong
cissy_blck i promise i'm cooler than your boyfriend
luciusssy i love you too bae
cissy_blck 🥰
bartyyy can you sign my house?
yourusername i'll see what i can do
lily_evans UMMMMMM MOTHER?
mmmckinnon mommy.
prongsyboy mama?
starmanblack PRONGS
user128836 i don't know the colour of anything
user702655 YOU HAVE A BOYFRIEND????
user358991 sirius said smash and i agree
user073823 the only man we trust
user662627 i'm gonna clown so hard but why did half of sirius family like this post?
user491175 i almost sent a thirst tweet
starmanblack
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❤ liked by yourusername, ev.rosier, marymacdonald and 799,853 others
starmanblack boyfriend vibes 😩
6,897 comments
yourusername very real
starmanblack i'm flattered
yourusername you better be
yourusername you still smell like horse tho
starmanblack go away
prongsyboy did you tell him i said hi?
starmanblack i got you his autograph
mmmckinnon you didn't even tag the photographer smh
starmanblack why are you offended in the name of the photographer?
mmmckinnon i'm just defending my wifey
casmeadowes i wasn't there???
user075764 DATE ME
user246766 you single?
user113388 he's dating y/n l/n
user300722 i volunteer to take your bf photos 🤚
user943534 CONFIRM THE RUMOURS I'M BEGGING
user855465 y/n has a boyfriend and you just put boyfriend in the caption so i'll live in delusion from now on
user464646 i wanna be a horse
prongsyboy added to their story
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yourusername
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❤ liked by starmanblack, pandorasbox, rjlupin and 844,008 others
yourusername london, i'm speechless. i had the most amazing time with all of you last night and i can't wait to perform for you again 💞 hearing you guys sing your hearts out with me was truly magical, thank you sooo much and i love love love every single one of you 💕 also! a special thanks that friend group from the first row who gave me a bunch of plushies, my heart is extra happy 😚
tagged ev.rosier
8,677 comments
starmanblack i was there, i can confirm
yourusername I COULDN'T SEE YOU IN THE CROWD AT FIRST AND I GOT SO SAD
starmanblack lol i love you sm
starmanblack my guitar fits your aesthetic nicely
yourusername i know right?!? me and her were meant to be
marymacdonald when i say best concert of my life i mean it
yourusername i don't deserve you
bartyyy first row seats hmghnhm 😩
yourusername perks of dating the photographer
ev.rosier you're welcome bartemius
user201010 i cried ugly tears
user927161 i formally apologise to the people who were near me 💀
user472738 ARE Y'ALL SEEING THIS??? THEY'RE DEFO DATING
user928312 YOU PLAYED MY FAVOURITE SONG AND I WASN'T THERE 😭😭😭
user446286 one of those plushies was from meeeee
user018381 lost my voice but it feels so right
starmanblack
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❤ liked by yourusername, marymacdonald, lily_evans and 810,777 others
starmanblack ok.
7,995 comments
yourusername he loves you
starmanblack he bit my converse
yourusername it was an act of love
starmanblack AND HE STOLE ONE OF MY DOCS
yourusername IT. WAS. AN. ACT. OF. LOVE.
yourusername bet you deserved that
starmanblack you were just saying he loves me?
yourusername was i though?
vance_emm what in the gaslighting hell is going on above me?
r.a.black wdym? i'm loving it
user242539 i've yet to see a normal picture of this little guy
user301453 THE BICKERING LMAOOO
user463646 HELP HE'S VIOLATING YOU
user857433 he's in his reputation era
user302770 THIS DOG PLS
yourusername added to their story
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celeb_gossip
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♡ 37,022 likes
celeb_gossip a scandal is on its way! 👀 there's been word on the street that sirius black and y/n l/n have had a little something going on since the beginning of the year, and we are almost certain that this isn't just another case of senseless rumours. 🙈 other than constantly interacting with one another on social media, the two have been pictured entering l/n's apartment after what seemed like a romantic night out. 😌 several sources can prove that the couple has been caught in ways that scream everything BUT platonic, and we deem them quite credible. 😉 but in the light of all of this, the two singers haven't said anything. what do you think? 🤔 are they secretly together? 🤭 or are they secretly laughing at all of us? 😶 leave your opinion in the comments! 😘
12,558 comments
user438185 oH
user019570 EVERYBODY STAY CALM
user837999 i hope they sue you lol
user262626 they're defo laughing at us
user823715 THE POWER THESE TWO WOULD HOLD AS A COUPLE
user192072 LMAO THEY'D BREAK THE INTERNET IF THEY CONFIRMED IT
user137753 get a life wtf
user020191 pretty sure they're together
user647275 this is out of line
user244411 nah cause paps should be illegal
user302906 I NEED THEM TO SAY SOMETHING I'M LITERALLY FREAKING OUT
user522727 dunno but i want whatever they have going on
yourusername
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❤ liked by bellatrixieb, cissy_blck, r.a.black and 855,006 others
yourusername tea pages are saying that i'm dating this weirdo 🤪
tagged starmanblack
10,675 comments
starmanblack people just love being funny
yourusername making me shed tears
starmanblack you could have found a better picture at least 🙄
yourusername fym? this is top tier stuff
starmanblack you're not getting your shades back
yourusername funny 🤣 i'll steal them back today 😐
vance_emm yeah and i'm a hamster
marymacdonald you kind of look like one though 🥺
mmmckinnon LMAOOOOO
starmanblack not you talking
mmmckinnon lmaoing ≠ talking
user283800 guess this confirms it ☹
user916373 WHY DO REG AND SIRIUS' COUSINS KEEP LIKING ALL YOUR POSTS THIS MAKES ME CONFUSEDDDD
user758234 does this mean you're free to date me?
user424116 YOU'RE TROLLING US
user021725 double meaning? (pls say sike i'm desperate)
user024477 calling sirius up rn
user555641 GUYS THERE'S STILL HOPE MAYBE THEY'RE JOKING AROUND
user828295 okay but does it actually matter 💀
starmanblack
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❤ liked by lily_evans, pandorasbox, casmeadowes and 873,253 others
starmanblack feeding the paps
11,994 comments
yourusername bet they're still starving
starmanblack we should make out and post it
yourusername twitter will go CRAZYYY
yourusername we look dead tho
starmanblack i reckon it's the cheap wine
yourusername you calling me poor?
starmanblack 😇
prongsyboy i still don't get how or why you had my glasses
starmanblack aesthetic purposes
xeno_lovegood that's cute 🤩
starmanblack facts ong fr fr
cissy_blck reggie's sil
bellatrixieb i'm so jealous
user472721 I WANT
user882923 I CAN'T DECIDE WHO THE LUCKY ONE IS
user382541 NAUR STOP MESSING WITH US
user773724 WHATTGEDHQUXJQDJJQSJJW
user482972 OH MY GOD?????????
user362613 narcissa's comments making me all hopeful
user924474 I'M SO STRESSED
starmanblack added to their story
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Text
☈ your bones singing into mine ii
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one - two
nikto x gen!bio-weapons engineer reader (no use of y/n) 3.4k words cw: honestly just the relationship being dysfunctional, also like warlord sugar daddy overtones, but that's just how this cookie is gonna crumble Nikto has swept you out of the darkness, and into an intact world burning full of ugly lights. He meets your every need as you work to create weapons to supply him an armory of shock and awe. He buys for you a place in Bruges, a rowhouse right on the water, and your only desire is a romantic dinner with him. He does not have it within himself to deny you.
Nikto brings you out into a world that is bright and burning, but mostly whole. He tells you that things are tied on a shoestring of balance, that any strong enough blow of breeze could tip the whole house of cards, and he has a look in his eyes that names himself typhoon. 
He is one of the most complex and deeply locked men you have ever met in your life, and you have met a great many men with secrets that could turn cities into subatomic particles in a blinding flash of a second. He wants to father a new world, a savage paradise, and, yet, he holds you in the palm of his velvet-covered iron fist as his finest treasure.
Penthouses are cleared out for you–places high in the sky, in any number of cities, so far away from the ground and the dark. He pours money into your comfort like hemorrhaging, and he cares not that his funds bleed, because he can always dump more into the wound. 
It’s a wound he wants to sustain, because he likes to see you clean, and comfortable, and sparking electricity as you work. He provides makeshift, mobile labs for you. Thousands upon thousands of dollars for computers, and programs, and security. Though he lifts you into the light, he makes you a small space of darkness, allowing you to run and return to your work.
He begins to call you Spider, or Pauk, depending on whether his English is dropping your name like a threat, or if his Russian is soft and trying to entreat you.
There is a place in Bruges, right on the water, that he pulls together for you. It is smaller than your other hideaways, cozier. Bulb-lit with warm wooden flooring and tall walls. He walks stiffly through the halls, watching for your reaction, and his shoulders relax when you turn from the window watching boats on the water to give him your cracked grin. 
“It’s out of a book,” you say, “the buildings are such bright colors. How is this real?”
“It’s always been this way here,” he tells you. He shuffles a moment, bringing his clasped hands from his back to his front, before he adds quietly, “We’re glad that you…find it acceptable here.”
Surely he is remembering the blocs he grew up on, all the colorless brutalist construction from the Soviet era. Houses for workers, starvation in the streets. You wonder if his place had heriz rugs all over the floors, to insulate sound and cushion steps and provide color. 
You press your fingertips into the cool glass, looking at him, wondering about him. You’d like to see his face, though he’s told you that it is a nightmare. You’d like to kiss him. You know he loves you, just as you love him.
“It’s perfect. I’m going to like it here,” you tell him, and your heart swells and patters when his shoulders raise a little bit, proud of himself for his pick. With his hidden face, you’ve become an expert in his body language. All his little tells become clear to you, the more time you spend with him.
He is slow with you, cautious. Not as if approaching a wild animal, he would never treat you with such base suspicion and wariness, but as if he is the animal, well-aware of exactly how powerful his bite is. He treasures you too much to damage you. 
Such brutality is held within this many-faceted man, vast and damning. He is a gentleman though, through accident or practice, and he puts that hardwork into effect with you.
It causes you to make the first move most of the time. 
“I want you to have dinner with me tonight,” you say, tapping your fingers against the glass, feeling the condensation cling to your fingerprints. 
He shakes his head. “Your value is too high for us to allow you out of the flat, Pauk,” he says gently, misunderstanding, as if reminding you. There are so many beautiful homes he has carved out for you, but you’ve never stepped foot outside of them. 
He thinks you want to, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth. The reality is that you are brimming with hatred at the fact it still stands. That your suffering was for nothing, and the apocalypse still lies dormant but rumbling, a stalled birth. You love your closed spaces and your blackout curtains that hide the world and your tall walls and bright lights.
“We can have something ordered and brought to you,” he continues, trying to soothe the blow that never landed.
A grunt of annoyance snaps out of your throat, hand pressing flat to the glass. “Nooo,” you draw out, turning to face him in full. “I want you all to eat here, with me. Only us, none of the guards making all that fucking noise with their heavy boots. And I want to pretend that we’re all just having a nice night. And there are no contagions or stadiums or belt-fed guns.”
In shame, his head drops a degree, arms tightening in front of him. The supple leather of his gloves creak. “Apologies, Pauk.” His head remains that one slice lower, but his eyes flicker up like a bird’s from beneath his rippy lashes. “We…” he pauses, trying to formulate the words, “we will put that together. For you. What do you want to eat?”
Your hand comes away from the glass, and you press your palms together like a prayer, holding the sides of your hands to your lips. “I want something bloody and buttery. Something good made by someone that doesn’t love me.”
A small noise like a laugh sounds behind his heavy mask, and his neck relaxes. It puts together a picture of thought: it’s a good thing we do not cook for you, then. “We will find something.”
+
Neither of you cook. It’s a sad reality. You were too built up for epidemiology and plague-practitioning to have the room or time to learn the skill, and Nikto readily admits that he’d long ago lost his sense of smell. “Nova gas,” he explained, funnily enough. “That was your grandfather’s work, yes?” It was. He and his team. You are a legacy leper-making, just like God and all of his followers.
The sun has settled fully in the city of Bruges, and the light of street lamps, the running lights of boats on the water, and fairy lights around shopfronts make the water glitter. It is warm here, with all the brick and cobblestone soaking up the yellow light, and for once you are fine with the curtains open.
Nikto has spoiled you rotten with clothing, all of it fine and soft and rich. You dress comfortably, beautifully, and wander the flat, looking over things leftover from past tenants, waiting on his return. He always leaves you with a guard when he is gone, and tonight it is a short but sturdy woman from Montenegro who does not speak. She sits on the small leather couch in the living room, reading a book with horses on the cover, rifle across her lap. You do not bother her, but you cannot wait for her to leave.
When Nikto arrives, it’s with yet another guard, this one in plainclothes, carrying two large paper bags in their arms. It’s always seemed funny to you that he just goes out in the mask, nightmare beneath it or not, and that people must have reactions in public. But, you don’t think Nikto travels anywhere that people would dare comment on it. He has lackeys for embarrassing, mundane duties. 
He takes the bags from the second guard, and dismisses the woman on the couch, letting you approach to lock the deadbolts on the back of the door when they’re out. It is your comfort and your right, he will not interfere with it.
Meeting his eyes, you grin a cracked grin at him. “Smells good. What is it? What was the restaurant called?”
He makes another laugh-noise, looking skin-close to bashful. “We do not know. We sent Dejanović to get it, he knows the city.” He peers into the bag. “He said foreign dignitaries enjoyed the place. We don’t feel like that always speaks well to quality.”
You try to take the bag into your hands, but his arm tightens. He does not like you doing menial tasks. He likes it only when you are free to tend to your work and whims. It is much preferable to him that your needs are met, and he is glad to tend to those tasks when he is with you.
“If it’s all rot and garbage, we can make zakuski instead, and wash it down with vodka,” you tell him, swaying a little, hoping the promise pleases him. “Tahumi brought me a can of caviar, and even found a mother-of-pearl spoon for it.”
His eyes grow hard at the mention of Tahumi giving you a gift. That is another thing that heckles him. He does not like others knowing about you, much less providing for you. That is his honor, and an honor he thinks it is.
Your mouth starts to curl. “Don’t eat yourself with knots,” you instruct him, but his eyes only grow harder, his posture stiffer. “I wanted it, and Tahumi saw it, and he bought it. He did it to please you, because you are so here-and-there with your underlings. Your favor can’t be curried because it doesn’t exist.”
“They are warm, walking corpses, and nothing more,” he says, stone-solid, cold. “We don’t need them for anything more than catching bullets and carrying out orders. You are not a tool to buy their way into security. There is none, and you–you’re–” 
He turns his head and breathes out hard. His body is held so tightly it paints pain on the walls behind him. His molars squeak as they grind together, trying to collect himself, but he is upset.
“Andryu,” you say, pulling his diminutives, trying to pluck the chords that will bring him back to you. You bend your body to swerve, attempting to capture his eyes. “Andryusha.”
There is a little break in the armor, a crack where you can push your fingers in, to find contact with him. There is a little light in his eyes. “We cannot allow you to be taken advantage of. Your wholeness is…” he trails off, struggling, and you provide him the territory to prowl, find his words. He turns and meets your eyes, and there is his passion. “Our last shred of warmth is you. If you are pained, or used, or discarded–it is a blow that would destroy the last human thing in us.”
And, here, your scant humanity answers his. You fold, slope, ease. You nod in agreement. “I know, Andryu, I do. But all of you know where my loyalties lie. You know I wouldn’t hesitate to find you if I felt targeted.” You want so horrendously to reach out and touch him, but you don’t. You have to allow him to initiate, otherwise he cannot handle it. “My lot is in your lot. I go where you go. Everyone else is a corpse that forgot to lie down and die.”
Using his language in ways that he understands it unlocks him to you. His gloved hand comes up, hovering just to the side of your jaw. But he doesn’t touch, he only traces the air in a line down the bone structure. 
+
He allows—or, rather, you give him no in allowing you to stand in the kitchen as he unpacks your meals to plate. It could be call an awkward affair, if either of you had the social graces to register that feeling in your minds. 
He’s taken his gloves off and swatted at your hand trying to take the paper bag for recycling, giving you a sharp look borne of the love he holds. Again, not allowed to lift a finger. 
There are faded Cyrillic characters tattooed across his knuckles, the black ink bloated and faded to blue. SOS across three fingers: either spasi, otets, syna or Suki Otnyali Svobodu. Save me, father, your son. Bitches robbed my freedom. 
He’s never told you which in specific, though he’s offered both as options. Tattoos are carved into so much of his skin, and he’s given you brief walking tours of them when he’s stripped down enough for them to appear. A warping on Russian prison tattoos, repurposed for the Spetsnaz. 
Epaulets on his shoulders—horses die from work. Devils just below those, oskals, hatred of authority. ‘I Fuck Poverty and Misfortune’ in Cyrillic, riding his Adonis belt. A lighthouse on his forearm, yearning for freedom. His skin tells his story, hard-lived, a language known to few. 
His plating skills are what cause him minor self-consciousness. He’s not an artistic man, and he has no eye for aesthetics. The blood-rare ribeyes are just placed and pushed to one side of the plate, crumbled blue cheese dumped artlessly on top. Creamed potatoes end up slopping over roasted asparagus, and he growls in his throat, frustrated. He is trying incredibly hard to make it pleasing. The more he moves it around, trying to be careful, the worse it looks. 
He wouldn’t care if it was solely for him. His frustration is because you will not be eating something pretty. In his mind, the only things you deserve are pretty and perfect. 
His hands stop fussing, resting on the edge of the counter, glaring down at the plates. “It looks like shit,” he renders his verdict. It sounds like he is considering throwing it away and ordering something else.
“Pelmeni look like shit. So does poutine. But it all tastes good, so we still eat it,” you push back. “No one eats shiny plastic or tinsel.”
He grunts again. “People eat shiny plastic and tinsel all the time, because they are fucking stupid.”
“If any of you are insinuating that any of us are fucking stupid, you’re being a fucking child.” Despite the content of your words, it is not said with heat. It is an olive branch, trying to reach him across the expanse of his dissatisfaction. You’re not sure you’ve made contact until his fingers start tapping on the counter, and he hums Krokodil Gena’s Birthday Song deep in his chest. He is calming, rectifying reality with himself. 
After a few, long moments, he picks up the plates, nodding at you, and carries them to the dining table outside the kitchen. It is situated in front of a set of big picture windows that he honestly does not like you standing near, ever, but it is for the sake of the evening. He sets your plate down, and pulls out your chair for you, before he seats himself. There are already sets of silverware and water on the table. A bottle of vodka, and two small glasses to drink from. 
You start by pouring two sips of vodka, offering him one. A toast falls out of your mouth, unthinking, and he clinks your glasses together in agreement. When you put your shot back, he hands you his glass, and you shoot that, as well. He has not removed his mask. He will not. But he overturns his glass next to yours.
It’s an odd affair, how the meal goes. Conversation picks up, on plans and your work, on the state of the world as it stands. That will run out, and you will both turn to other topics. Books, movies, cars. Oh, Nikto has such a soft spot for cars–he could talk about them from dusk until dawn. Luxury cars, supercars, performance and rally cars, working vehicles, even an astonishing breadth of consumer cars. He has opinions that stretch the globe, and you soak it up like a dry sponge. 
The oddest thing is that you eat, and he does not. He keeps his hands resting on either side of his plate, guarding it as if he was a prisoner, but he does not once touch his silverware. He won’t eat in front of anyone. He can’t, not without taking the mask off. It’s something he didn’t have to explain to you, you just understood it by studying his patterns. It’s something that made him even softer toward you. 
You finish, part of your steak left–you intend to slice it up and put it on some grilled crusty bread with piles of caramelized onions later–resting your fork and your knife on the edge of your plate. “That was good. Despite the dignitaries and dog shit. I want a copy of their menu, to tear up and eat bit by bit. I want all of you to have more dates with me, this one dripped romantic. All the seams were splitting up, and it went drop by drop by drop.”
“Date?” he queries, looking at you across the table as he reaches for your plate.
“Date.” You nod once, emphatically.
He shudders, smothering something that sounds like a sigh, averting his eyes. “We…will make sure there is a menu for you, next time,” he starts, unphased by your request. “Roses, if you like.”
You shake your head. “No use for roses, they wilt and die. Flowers all-wilted smell like the dark parts of the bunker, and my stomach eats and eats away at me because of that smell.”  You send an apologetic look across the table, thinking. “I’ll take tokens in trinkets. Whenever you bring me jewelry, I don’t take it off.”
As if in example, you pull up your sleeves, showing him the bracelets he’s brought you, left for your discovery on desktops and dressers. Next, you tug at your collar, showing him a pile of necklaces. 
His fingers twitch, looking at you helplessly. Not even he can prevent the swallow that goes down his throat, when he sees that you hoard the fine things he brings back for you.
Another long moment passes, and he is hoarse when he agrees, “Jewelry. We will bring you jewelry, then.”
In as much of a rush as you’ve ever seen him, he collects your dishes, and the bottle of vodka, storming back through the kitchen door. It doesn’t latch behind him, and you know he will be a while. It feels dirty, destructive and found and deceitful, but you sneak up to the crack, wanting to watch him.
His back is turned, his mask removed. Hair so deep in darkness it shines white under lights sticks up from his head at all angles, some of it missing from the side of his skull, along with an ear. He eats quickly, in clipped bites, gorging himself, stopping only to tip back the vodka bottle. It’s almost an ugly display, brutal necessity, and you know as well as you know the own pounding of your heart that he is uncomfortable, that he hates this. He hates to be bare.
You cannot see his face, and you would not try to see it. You want to see it someday, and that will only happen when he is ready to show you. You will not steal that freedom from him. You will not sneak looks when he is unawares. It is the same courtesy he has afforded you, and you are hellbent to pay it back in kind.
With that prickling your skin, you back away from the door, allowing him his needs. 
When he returns, sitting next to you on the couch, he is warmed-through and softened by the alcohol and food. He takes hold of your ankle, pulling it into his lap, rubbing the knob of your bone with his bare fingers. His masked head tips back, resting against the back of the couch, and he heaves a heavy sigh.
Your stomach clenches, and your heart races. There is so much love between the two of you, so impossibly massive that it cannot ever be feasibly dealt with, and that is something you are fine with when his eyes meet yours in a crinkled smile. 
Perhaps your union will kill the world as it stands, but you don’t particularly mind. His hands are warm against your bones, reaching deeper than any other human possibly could, and he looks at you as if you are his only purpose in life, even if that is not true.
“Andryusha,” you greet him quietly, turning your leg in his touch so he can have more skin.
Another small noise, pleasure, and he rubs deeper, followed by a soft, heartsick request, “Say it again, Paukya.”
283 notes · View notes
theninthwonder · 7 months
Text
Hurt, Part II
All actions have consequences...
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Pairing: Jey Uso x black!female!reader
Content Warning: Mentions of cheating, language
Word Count: 1770
tagging: @siriuslyblackonback , @whatdoeseverybodywant , @southerngirl41 , @nayys-world , @reci24 , @bebesobrielo , @empressdede , @1-800anklebully , @christinabae , @jeyusosgirl , @m3llowww , @harmshake , @kyleoreillylover , @wooahmiri
Enjoy! If you'd like to be tagged in my future imagines and writings let me know <3
°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•
You couldn’t say how long you kneeled on your bedroom floor, holding the evidence of your boyfriend’s betrayal in your manicured fingers. An earring that you knew didn’t belong to Jey and sure as hell hadn’t come from your jewelry box. Gold piece aside, the empty condom wrapper spoke volumes; you and your boyfriend hadn’t used condoms since month seven of y’all relationship.
You could still hear the water beating against your shower tile as he cleansed himself. If it weren’t for the blood pounding in your ears, you’d been able to hear him singing. Anger coursed through your body, so hard that you could literally feel your skin growing hot.
This lying, no good, mothafuc—
When the water stopped, your stomach grew impossibly tight. You stood to your feet, holding the earring and Trojan package, inhaling a deep breath. His voice grew louder once he’d turned off the shower—Jodeci is what he was singing. Obviously in a good ass mood, and why wouldn’t he be? He had been up to God knows what and all up in God knows who. Jey had no idea what awaited him the moment he stepped out of the bathroom.
“I can’t leave you ah-looooone—“ Jey sang as he opened the door, his bottom half covered in one of your oversized towels. He used a separate one to dry his hair, totally oblivious to the fact that you stood a few feet away. He soon realized when he tossed the towel into the hamper and looked up at you.
“Oh shit,” he reacted, startled. “Damn babe, you scared me… ay, you alright?”
You held up your left hand. His eyes followed your motion and when he saw what you were holding, you swore his smooth brown skin lost a shade of its hue. Those brown eyes of his filled with shock, widening as he fell silent. That was all you really needed to see. His reaction said it all… but you weren’t about to let it go that easy.
“So, you out here fuckin’ around on me, huh?”
Your voice was impossibly calm. That was probably the scariest part of what was to come. You had been to this place before, but for some reason, you never expected to revisit it because of Jey.
“Y/N… no, I’m… I—” Jey stammered.
“Y-you what? What is it you can tell me that’s gonna make this make sense? Better yet, what type of lie can you come up with on the spot that you think I’m gonna believe?”
Jey held up a hand. “Baby, please, it’s not what—look, it’s not what you think. The condom wrapper is old, I never took it out since the last time we used it. And the earring… I… it might’ve fell in my bag at the locker room or something.”
Something inside of you broke. Listening to his weird, stammering explanation is what caused your impossible resolve to shatter like glass. Your heart shattered along with it. Because instead of actually admitting to what you felt in your core to be true, Jey boldly took you up on your challenge and lied. Straight to your face.
You tossed the evidence at him. The foil fell between y’all, but the earring hit Jey square in his chest. He caught it, but he didn’t have the time to catch you. Your words flew at him first before your hands did.
“You fuckin’ bastard! Do you think I’m stupid?!”
It was ugly. Your hand connected to his cheek, the resounding slap hitting your ears doing only a little to soothe the pain you were feeling. You wanted Jey to feel every ounce of it as you tried and failed at wailing on him. He caught your hands, both frantic and desperate to stop you from whooping his ass. He used those muscles of his to capture your arms against your body, hugging you. Yelling and begging you to stop.
“How could you?!” You screamed. Tears rolled down your face, having not even realized you’d begun crying.
“I’m sorry, Y/N,” Jey began to say, his voice filled with distress. “I’m so sorry, baby, I’m sorry—believe me. I love you, Y/N, I would never hurt you.”
“Too late! Get the fuck off me!”
Jey complied with your wishes, backing away from you and retrieving the towel he’d dropped in y’all tussle. You reached over for his bag, snatching it off the floor and throwing it at him. You caused him to stumble as he lost his towel once again to grab the duffle, his expression a mixture of pain and disbelief.
“Y/N, please. Just let me explain…” Jey begged.
“You had your chance to explain, but you chose to lie. So fuck you. I told you what I’ve been through—and you turn around and do that same shit to me. Just get out,” you cried.
When he didn’t move, your voice rose. “Get the fuck out!”
Hours later, after he was gone, all you could do was cry your eyes out. Misery gnawed at your heart—well, whatever was left of it. If it weren’t for the intense pain you were feeling, you’d be sure you weren’t even living. Your phone laid unmoved on the living room table, as you were curled into a ball on the floor, but you could hear Jey’s specific ringtone. Again and again. Until you couldn’t take it anymore. You grabbed the device and threw it, hearing it smash against a glass object that turned out to be the picture frame that held a photo of you and Jey.
It took a few days. You were thankful to be off the following two days; you needed some time to get your mind right. You allowed yourself to feel what you needed to feel, and it was all raw. You felt stupid for not trusting your intuition three weeks ago, when you first suspected Jey. You knew better than to allow your love to cloud your usually correct judgment, but you did it anyway… because, yes, you did love Jey. Fuck, you’d fallen in love with him. He’d made you feel safe to do so.
Soon, you had to get back to reality. You reunited with your best friend at work; the two of you were co-founders of your own catering business. Work was a welcome distraction for you, but all she wanted to do was find out why you’d gone ghost on her and the rest of your crew. You felt like you were going to be sick when you said the words, and couldn’t even look at your best friend in the aftermath.
“He cheated on you? Oh my God… girl, I am so sorry.”
Tears threatened to fill your eyes. “Yeah, it’s not your fault. You was the one to tell me not to date him, remember?”
Your bestie looked sympathetic. “In the beginning. I was scared he’d do what my ex did to me, men like them have an unlimited access to all types of thirsty ass hoes. But after I met him and we all hung out those times, I really thought he’d be a good guy.”
“So did I,” your voice cracked. Your face twisted in agony, but bile rose up from your stomach. You held your hand over your stomach and ran away from your bestie, the urge to vomit too strong to fight. Your bestie was on your heels, concerned as she saw you bent over the toilet. Spitting up the breakfast you’d eaten.
“Damn, you okay, girl?” she asked, offering a napkin when you came up for air.
You were a mess. Tears ran down your face, spit on your lips. “I can’t believe he did this to me.”
“Y/N, please go home. You’re in no condition to be here. I got us for the day, I can take care of the orders and the rest of what we have to do.”
“B-but you—”
“Girl, I will drag you to my car, drive you home myself, and toss you on your front porch like UPS. Come on now.”
You didn’t have it in you to fight her, and honestly, you were grateful she had your back. You promised to text her an update on how you were doing tonight, just so she wouldn’t worry. She was more concerned about you being ill, but you were sure it was just a one-time thing. Your emotions were all over the place, so you thought nothing of your body reacting to the turbulence within. You fixed yourself some soup when you got home, sipping at it to refill yourself with some kind of sustenance. And just like you thought on the next day, you were feeling better.
Better. But not yourself.
A week rolled into two, then two rolled into four. Although you occupied yourself with work, you didn’t feel right. You were fatigued more than usual, in spite of the sleep you were getting. You’d even fallen asleep once at work. You also didn’t want to eat that much, which alarmed your friends. It was so unlike you to not want food. You just didn’t have much of an appetite; anything more than a couple bites either had you full or had you nauseous. Considering all you’ve been through, you were afraid of depression being the culprit. You did your best to deal with it on your own, but your symptoms weren’t going away.
A three day long stomach ache had you at the urgent care on a Sunday morning. You were flustered explaining your symptoms to the doctor, hand over your stomach as you winced from the pain of constipation. On top of that, your head pounded like crazy. You were fucking dying, surely, and you just needed her to give you your death certificate so you could be on your way.
“Well, Y/N, I think we’ve figured out what’s going on with you,” the doctor announced as she returned to the exam room with a clipboard. She’d taken a urine and blood sample from you, before leaving you on your own for at least twenty minutes.
“Oh, thank God,” you breathed out. “What’s happening, doc?”
“Well, your blood test will take a while to come back but we tested your urine… and those results are ready.” When she turned the clipboard toward you, all you saw was a bunch of gibberish. You didn’t understand what you were looking at, so you asked her exactly that. That’s when the doctor gave you a soft smile and placed a gentle hand on your shoulder.
“Y/N, you’re pregnant.”
280 notes · View notes
some-thirst-here · 5 months
Text
Pretty shy
Leo x Reader
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There was always something good about the acoustics in the gym. Which is why you like sneaking away to sing after school, when there isn't any sporting practice of any kind. You waste no time in slinging your backpack down on the bleachers. You start pulling homework out and singing along to the song coming through your headphones.
"My names Noel. In gym class I mostly duck, and I kinda smell. Puberty really sucks. I like this one guy but he's pretty shy."
You belt out the song while moving around gently to the beat. The next part of the song is louder and you raise your voice to match it.
"He doesn't know who I am, and he doesn't give a damn about me. Because I'm just a teenage dirtbag baby."
Bumping into someone behind you knocks you out of the cosy little world you were just in. Heat crawls up your neck as you turn to see who. It's not one, but four guys you have never talked to. The heroes from the news. Your heart drops into your stomach.
The one in blue reaches a hand out to you, while opening his mouth to speak. Without thinking you flinch back and immediately start cramming the homework right back into the backpack. Throwing your backpack over your shoulder, you bolt. Tripping over your own feet as you run out the doors. You don't see the dejected look on the turtles face.
A moment after April walks up to the guys. "What was even that?" She can't help but ask.
Raph snorts. "They took one look at nardo here and ran." Raph pats Leo's shoulder. "It must be hard being that ugly bro." Leo promptly smacks his hand away.
April frowns, not liking that answer.
*****
For the next few weeks you make yourself scarce. The only glimpse anyone can get of you is the back of your head. You're determined to stay far away from the turtles. It was working pretty well. Unfortunately for you today is a pep rally in the gym.
The whole school is packed in the gym. So many people everywhere. Luckily your headphones do block some of the noise. You decide to sneak up to the top of the bleachers. While squeezing your way up someone knocks into you. The momentum makes you lose your balance. Your backpack is not helping as the weight helps pull you over the guard rail.
A surprised gasp leaves you as you tumble over. Your headphones hit the ground first. Squeezing your eyes closed you try to brace for impact. The sound of sneakers scuffing the floor is all you hear before you land.
"Hey, I've got you. Are you ok?" A voice very close to you asks. It takes a moment for you to open your eyes. You realize the turtle in blue has caught you bride style. He gives you a nervous smile waiting for you to speak.
"Your eyes are brown." You say without thinking. He blinks in confusion. Your heart thunders in your chest. Why did you say that?
You are once again scrambling up and out of the gym. The first thing you do is run and hide in the bathroom. After closing the door, it swings right back open and smacks against the wall. You nearly jump out of your skin. April O'Neil herself is marching up to you. You very visibly gulp. She backs you up to the wall.
"What was that? Do you have some problem with mutants or something?" April asks, clearly annoyed.
"Wh-what? That's not-." Your eyes widen as you try to reply. April raises an eyebrow.
"Well, what is your problem then?" She asks curious. You sigh, your shoulders sagging.
"I just... They saved a whole city. But every time they see me, I look like an idiot." You finally admit. You run a hand down your face. April's eyes widen. Her annoyance dissolving.
"Oh, I wouldn't worry about it. You should try actually talking to them. They're all kind of huge dorks." April gives you a small smile. Thoughts of bacon, egg, and cheese fill April's head. You rub the back of your neck.
"I'm not sure that's a good idea." You mutter. April ignores your protest and grabs your hand to pull you along.
"Well, I mean Leo did just save you from a potentially broken neck, so I think the least you can do is say thank you."
"Oh ,um, right." Heat creeps back up your neck. You don't have to go far as Leo is waiting outside the bathroom. April officially introduces the two of you.
"You dropped these." Leo says holding up your missing headphones. A bright smile spreads across your face.
"Thank you." You say. Leo gently places them into your hands. You pull the headphones around your neck.
"Thanks for catching me too." You say softly looking away from Leo's face.
"Yeah, no problem. It was nothing. Not that you're nothing, you're totally something. It was just easy..to do." Leo rubs the back of his neck. Why did he say it like that?
You can't help, but smile at his rambling. Maybe it wasn't going to be so hard to get along with them.
179 notes · View notes
kanmom51 · 6 months
Text
Jikook - what we see is what we get
When we get to see it.
Not seeing it doesn't mean it's not there though.
Was sitting today BTS songs just playing in the background while I'm working on my post. All this shit just happening around us, around JK and JM (yes, JM is part of it, he's also affected by it all), and The truth untold comes up.
This version:
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One of, if not their best performance imo. The emotion just pouring out of them.
This song. It kills me every single time. Brings me to tears every single time. JM turned away from JK singing "and I still want you" in every performance. Well, other than their last 3 in Seoul, changed by them, performed by them, ending facing each other JM singing "but I still want you". Defiant.
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All about the need to wear that mask to hide your true self for fear you might not be loved for who you truly are, that you might be seen as ugly, a monster. And the two of them, changing the staging, turning to each other, looking into each other's eyes, while changing the "and" to "but I still want you"... do people understand this? The enormity of this moment?
And then this song comes up, this performance:
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This was on day 2, while on day 3 we had this:
Omg, my YT logarithm is trying to kill me today.
And got me thinking about this moment we got on day 3 as well.
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This love, people, this chemistry, us not seeing it as often for the lack of BTS ot7 content doesn't mean is gone. It's very much still there. We just aren't as lucky to be able to see them in that one frame as often or even at all. But when we do, there is no denying it. Even if it's for the shortest of moments.
We saw it in 2020 (have people forgot memories 2020 for god sake?)
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We saw it in 2021
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So much more, so little image allowance... But you can find it all in my masterlist.
We saw it throughout 2022 in their Seoul and LV PTD concerts.
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And in JITB even if briefly,
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And in Busan and Run BTS episodes.
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And we even got a little touch of it in 2023, when there was no way of keeping them out of the frame, like in Jhope's enlistment BTB, D-Day in Seoul and even when not being in one frame, in those lives we got to enjoy when the one joined the other in their comments and even without the other even making that kind of appearance.
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Letter, goddamnit.
Oh and then we had JM literally flying across the world to be with JK for his Solo debut (if only GMA concert wasn't cancelled, damn it), and them dipping off for their 4 day private trip in CT.
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It's sad how short people's memories are. Really. I am reading all sorts of fanfictions being put forward as "this is what happened with Jikook over the years", stating facts that are not facts, creating non existent drama, because people love the drama.
This is a loving couple in a long term relationship. You know, that boring kind. The stable, loving, filled with respect and no drama. The one where one supports their partner when they are struggling. One where just being with each other is fulfilling (cough JK coming to JM's room in LA just to be with him in the same room for hours cough).
Funny how people are talking about them breaking up 2020-21 during the pandemic when JK literally had a slip of the tongue spilling the beans they live together, they are one household, in Run BTS episode 142 they were each gifted a knife. JK all proud and piping up "we got 2"...
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JM just sitting there all quiet, smirk on his face.
Stories about breakups. Stories about sexually experimenting but no actual emotional commitment. All while ignoring the constants. Those things that are just there, all the time, whenever we do get to see them:
That electrical chemistry between those two.
The way they look at each other constant over the years.
The way they talk to each other constant over the years.
The way they touch each other constant over the years.
The way they talk about each other.
The way their interactions are so different from the others or their own with the others.
The way the others are around them, their reaction to Jikook.
All still there!!!
*PS:
I wrote this post yesterday before JK's Radiohead appearance and his TikTok post-delete.
I guess now would be a good time to repeat what the wise @ourwinterspring (yes, I'm mentioning you again, lol) once said (well a couple of days ago, that is):
Rumors are created by haters
accepted by fools
and spread by idiots
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lousirs · 20 days
Note
Here's a thought: Velvet and Veneer trying to extract the "talent" out of Lou in thinking he's some weird Troll-Rageon hybrid
(thought process is "it can sing like a troll but looks like a tiny Rageon,, let's suck it's magic—")
oh! interesting idea :O
idk how lou made it into this universe, but if anything this probably happened after the events of uglydolls, cause lou 'isn't being put to use' or whatever, and the noodle duo is using his talent for him (or so they say). what kind of singer would lou be? pop? so v&v would still have the same type of music...
...velvet would fucking HATE lou's attitude though, even though they are so similar xD
veneer is just watching as the two argue about the pettiest stuff like:
lou: "Just what is your fashion sense? It's so ugly." velvet: "EXCUSE YOU, YOU LITTLE--"
and if lou's talent gets sucked out of him, he'll be looking like those grey prettydolls before they go through the machine to get their looks... i have done a (not-so) quick drawing of it:
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(velvet and veneer with lou's outfit though... damn)(i've doodled this before but the doodle looks horrible so i ain't showing it)
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m1ssunderstanding · 3 months
Text
Get Back Rewatch 55 Years On: Day Five
The thing is I absolutely love the album that comes out of this mess. Like I know a lot of people do not like Let It Be, but so many of my favorite songs are on it. One of them being “I Me Mine.” The walz element is haunting, and I can read the lyrics as anti-capitalist even though George himself mostly wasn’t. 
Laughing my head off at two boys from one of the best grammar schools in England, who have at this point made millions off of their writing, genuinely not knowing whether it should be “more freer” or “more freely”
The difference in how George shows Paul his new song vs John is striking. For Paul, he’s relaxed, nonchalant. For John, he stands up and performs it. And I think both are a defense mechanism, poor baby, because clearly, although Paul was very supportive of the song while they were alone, when John is roasting it, Paul just laughs along and George has to go “I don’t give a fuck whether you like it.” 
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Ah, the famous “up-against-a-wall” conversation. Paul comes in all dominant and sure. “Haven’t you written anything else? Haven’t you?” But then John touches him, and makes him laugh, and Paul’s a melted, goo-goo-eyes mess. This is the real reason why John got to be the leader isn’t it? Because Paul was too damn soft on him to ever follow through with his bossiness.
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Their scouse sounds BEAUTIFUL compared to the stupid ugly RP and MLH’s transatlantic shit.
“And now John’d like to say a few words on the subject.” John starts singing, Paul strums along and joins in on the “chorus.” They can’t communicate like healthy people, but they Can do this. 
So Peter Jackson took out Paul’s bitchy nod at Yoko as he’s stealing her man in real time right in front of her eyes. Unforgivable. But he kept in this adorable laugh, so that’s something. 
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Three more covers that I think *mean something* “Stand By Me” and “Spinning Like a Top” by Paul, followed by “You Win Again” by John. Yoko’s sweet little shoulder kiss. Thank you for taking care of the poor wet kitten, girly. Maybe don’t introduce the poor wet kitten to heroine, but you do you, I guess. (OP recognizes that poor wet kitten is also an adult capable of making his own decisions)
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The cut from Paul literally dancing to get John’s attention straight to John dancing with Yoko while inside Paul’s head a silver hammer is clanging ominously. I can’t. Followed by the knowing, loving smile from Ringo to Paul. You know, those moments when you validate your friend’s bitchy thoughts with a look. 
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George is literally SO big inside himself, you know? You have to have superhuman self-love abilities to watch your friend – who is supposed to be helping you – shamelessly make fun of your art . . . and just “Do you wanna do that walz on the show? That’d be great.”
But did you guys know John was actually a really great mover?
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“Yes, alright. Just sod off.” I love John. Paul’s people-pleasing ass would literally die first and he needs John to do this kind of shit for him and John’s only too happy to.
The moment when Paul and John are on the same wavelength about Dennis O’Dell’s stage. 
OK but. Did John get the clear plastic idea from Yoko’s art exhibits? 
“Any time we do anything it’s always got to be the best.” Poor Ringo. They’re all literally so tired of carrying so much weight for such a long time. 
“See, I’d watch an hour of him just playing the piano. Cause he’s so great.” With that fond, loving, smile. SUCH big dick energy here. The others could NEVER. 
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“And I’ll have the plastic when you’re finished.” Literally for what, though? John, you little hoarding goblin. 
And then Ringo responding to MLH’s “I love you” with “Yes, I love you too.” Yeah, Ringo wins the prize for most healthy beatle of the day. 
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*Pattie Boyd voice* “I just wish I knew what was going on there. But something. Something.”
Ugh, John looks so hurt. So tender. So heartbroken. While Paul is over there playing a damn funeral march because that’s the only way he lets himself express anything. But I actually love how Dennis O’Dell knows the clearest path to cheering John up is to say that Paul liked his idea. And how well it works. They’re literally so obvious to everyone but themselves. 
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I love the bit when John walks in on the rest of them discussing the live show and MLH calls, “We’ve decided. We’re going to Africa.” And Paul hurries to cut in, “No we’re NOT.” Because he knows exactly how John can get and he’s going to nip this in the bud before John gets let down. And of course, John is all “YEAH LETS GO LETS GO!” And he’s talking about how they always wish they were recording abroad. “We could be in LA, or FRANCE.” (side eye emoji) 
Paul’s “Well said, John.” and “I’ve seen it, John. I went to the premiere. I thought you were great.” Why do all your compliments to him have to be in silly voices? Like, I know you think everyone is going to call you a pussy for saying something genuinely kind to your best friend, but they’re not, and he needs it. 
Holy shit this was a long day. See you all tomorrow with another long-winded-ass post.
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widowsofchaos · 25 days
Note
could you please do prompt 168 with carol x fem reader? if you’re comfortable writing that of course:)
𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐥 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐨𝐭
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synopsis: Trying to find peace at your job’s gala, but a familiar haunting shadow finds you once more.
pairing: dark!Carol Danvers x brown!fem!reader
ao3 // modern au // 5k words.
warnings: dubious wlw smut (forced stimulation, vaginal fingering), stockholm syndrome, toxic established relationship, domestic violence, mention of childhood abuse.
a/n: Carol’s outfit reference. title is a reference to the song, Mary by Alex G. requested 168. “Don’t get too close to that one, she’ll singe your fingertips and have you on your knees.” from this dialogue prompt list. dog metaphors, because I must write pain. Channeled my inner amy dunne for Carol. I’m sorry that I’m just finishing this 2 years later, but I hope whoever requested this, I hope you see this! <3
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“She became the parent, the lover, the friend you’ve always craved for—- and yet, here you are,”
The truth can sting, just the sharp tip of a knife, flickering at the raw flesh. Poking and prodding till there’s small plots of ichor forming.
“——broken…” Her index finger arched, halting her words, still a vivid memory, “…. but not beyond repair.”
A scoff escapes.
“What is love without hate, I guess.” Unconsciously it spewed from your lips, the vowels felt like acidic vomit. A pregnant silence arose.
That all knowing head tilt, with those observant eyes—- always earned uncomfortable tension within you.
“Love isn’t meant to be confused with hate.”
The cigarette burns slow between your clenched fingers, nursing three fingers deep. Brown liquor swishes against the carved rocks glass, its clear silver grooves twinkles under the gala’s vermilion hues.
Fragments of words compulsively knock against the walls of your brain; as you mull at the gala’s open bar. A scorned woman who just wants peace, and quiet. Lingering stains of hurt that can last a lifetime settles to silence for once in a long time.
Showered an ugly duckling with affections, and built the pillars of security. Growing up in a childhood filled with anxiety and fear of attachments, lingering stains of abuse from the very beings who birthed you into this world.
She cleaned you, bandaged the scars, and assured you that she was the only one who adored you—- persisted that she was the only one who would.
Now, fighting violently in the legal battlefield of divorce, these past weeks have been mentally exhausting —- all whilst handling the burdening responsibilities of your profession.
Your very mind and hands helped craft this sophisticated gallery.
Your boss, Mr. Laufeyson, opened a new exhibit in the National art museum—- Norse history, one of his niche fixations. A man birthed on Norwegian soil, but raised in the monarchal land of England.
An established man who often seeks to explore the rich culture of his ancestors with much sophisticated adoration, and esteem. The Norse exhibit is now the largest section of the institution, with vast collections of rare artifacts protected behind hard stainless glass.
He breathed down your neck for long weeks, you had the task of restoring each piece that had been brought in, nearly breaking your damn back from all the hovering.
A gala bustling with a sea of middle-class folk, and self-proclaimed aristocrats of New York. You sought solace at the open bar, smoking a stogie—- and slipping into the whiskey.
It wasn’t a preferred choice, but it helps give a quick kick to your nerves. Seeking solitude away from pressures to gallant with faux professionalism, and an particular noisy friend, who should be presenting the Norse gods section.
Earlier, she was pestering with a thousand questions flying by the mouth —- if you ever gave thought to rekindling with Carol.
Dissociating into a mindless static, flickering at your clear square nails, as your cigarette burns slowly. At first, the mention of this exhibit with your boss months ago sent you into a frenzy of joy, but now—- it’s a dreadful experience.
All you long for is to start your weekend, to cuddle with your daug—-
“What an incredible scent you have—-”
Oh God, no.
“—- is that Histoires de Parfums, 1969?”
Fuck.
“I haven’t been around that perfume in a long time.”
It’s as if she can smell you a mile away.
A sensual, purring voice whispers near you. A shadowing silhouette eclipses the shimmering ceiling lights from your peripheral vision.
Your lips wrinkle, restraining the foreboding tears of frustration. Tightly nodding, swallowing a sob. Your breathing becomes heavier.
A hum, “It really smells wonderful.” With precision, the shadow sits onto the empty seat beside you.
“Thank you.” A forced smile curls at your mouth.
“With that scent, I’m surprised you’re not being hounded by the men here tonight.” A subtle wordplay, are you looking for anyone tonight?
As if your mind has forgotten all the bad, and reminisces on the good, all the fun, all the beauty that once blossomed.
“It’s not men I'm looking for.” You whisper, snuffing the cigarette into a provided ash-tray. A creamy hand strokes your knuckles, and your skin shivers under your blouse.
A jolt to your groin, and your breath hitches. All she can do is just touch you, and it’s as if you can get on your knees, and forgive her for everything.
“Why?”
You can see that pearly grin, from the corner of your eye, teasing and twisting.
“They’re too easy to hunt?”
You exhale a chuckle, eyes still trained onto the glistening counter.
“They bore me.”
“So—” Her voice lulls as a moan, “—- see anyone worthwhile?” Her fingers curl around your glass, twirling it by the rim. Your lipstick stain faces her direction, and bold as always, she lifts for a sip. Connecting the lip stain to hers, her eyes never leave yours.
It’s not tacky, nor forceful. How she moves is as if it is her nature.
Your eyes gaze over your shoulder, taking a full look. Finally, to drink in the force of nature that is your estranged wife—- Carol.
Her blonde tresses cascade on her shoulders, milky breasts on display. A pristine, black dress, that cuts and splits at the chest hem, polished nails, and clean skin. Her dress halts near her knees.
“Well, I have my eye on a blonde tonight.” You say timidly. Tenderly, your eyes glance fleetingly, a quick trace over Carol’s bodice, nearly losing your composure.
A pregnant pause.
That pretty pink mouth stretches smugly, as if the cat that got the cream. The hooks caught the flesh.
“You like blondes.”
Her tone lingers as an open question, guising the truth.
“Just one in particular.”
Sinking now, the hooks are tugging.
“Really?” Carol leans, her eyes hooded. “Which one?” Pretending to scan her eyes across the ocean of people.
But your eyes remain fixated on her. As if you were a lost puppy, just gazing at its human. Lucidly, influcating between the spaces of yearning, and guilt.
How at ease Carol is, as if nothing was wrong. The charming woman, the woman you thought she was. The woman she wanted you to think she was.
“The one in the black dress.” You say softly, and defeated brown eyes.
Carol’s eyes gaze back at you from the corner of her oculus, downcasting with a mirth, humming a chuckle. “Don’t get too close to that one, she’ll singe your fingertips and have you on your knees.” She shakes her head, an enticing warning.
A dangerous but delicious fruit hanging at your reach. She wants you to take the bait, urging you to—- to get you back in her grasp, and if she does, she won’t let you go.
This game, a cat and mouse play, is all too familiar. Playing as strangers, attracted together by lust, and curiosities—- the type of curiosity to feel the other’s flesh, subtle carnality. Act out, with playful words, pretend to be different people.
It slowly suffocates you, a twang in your chest, a reminder that this isn’t normal.
She isn’t normal.
Carol can be an array of personalities, she can be the doting wife, the whore in bed, the mother—- she can be the bitch with a violent mouth. Different faces for different folk, no one knows her true self, and she’s good at it —- real good.
So, when you tried to seek help from friends, they couldn’t believe it, nor did they want to. You’re not surprised that Carol snuck into the gala—- your co-worker, Maria, who you thought was a true friend —- the matchmaker from hell, let her in, unknowingly allowing the terror onto you.
But, that’s no surprise. Maria has been Carol’s right hand since their days in the Air Force.
None of your friends believe you—- and, it’s hurtful to admit, you’re too scared to speak about all the hurt Carol made you endure over the years.
Barely spoke of the discomfort Carol used against you, and all your shared friends thought you misinterpreted. All saying that Carol is just head-strong, and that you two are perfect together.
Carol feeds the fire with a ‘She’s just going through a tough time.’
Boundaries aren’t respected, everyone trying to push you back together, inviting Carol in social events —- to the point where you didn’t go out anymore, and just drowned in work.
“I like challenges.” Carol softly leans in, her breath fans the bare skin of your shoulder, “All the more fun when I win.” Her voice drops low, to a wispy whisper.
Her body heat engulfs you, and your eyes droop with haziness for a slick second. You can’t—- not again. No matter how intoxicating she can be, how delicious, it’s not worth your peace.
You’re too drunk for this.
“This cat is too tired to entertain.”
“Who said you were the cat?” Carol’s brow arches, halting you in your step. Carol’s infliction hardens, from the corner of your oculus, you can see the clench of her jawline. That pretty mouth morphed into a restrained frown, the same one you see before a punishment.
An offense has been made.
“I didn’t realize the roles were switched.”
The mask slips.
It’s always her way, her rules. Because no matter how clever, how coy the mouse can be, the cat always wins.
“You’re getting brave on me?” Carol asks.
And now the mask has been dropped.
“I think it’s best I leave.” You quickly collect yourself, a bit wobbly from the alcohol. Leaning against the counter to regain your composure, trying to stand upright.
Not this time. You won’t fall for her charm.
Carol sucks her teeth, “You’re seriously going to leave? Aren’t you tired of this childish bullshit?” Crossing her arms against her chest, lips wrinkling into a scowl. Carol talks as if scolding a child.
Your body twists in a haste, “My bullshit?” Your teeth are gritting harshly, hissing. Angry eyes pierce over the hill of your shoulder, fingernails digging into the leather of your purse; if not the leather, her eyes preferrable.
But this is a place of work, no matter how elegant the night is, you will scream if you have to—- just to escape her. You click your tongue, shaking your head in disbelief.
“I mean I’m usually amused by your brattiness,” Carol laughs sarcastically. “But, now it’s gotten too far.” Her fingertips graze your arm, toying with you, soft and playful—— her fingers grasp your arm in a clutch, earning a whine.
Her eyes are hooded, nearly tugging you downwards. A whine bubbles at the pit of your throat, too terrified to even move.
“You have to come back home.” Carol says, a strain to be sweet, but it’s as if a monster tries to be human. “I miss you.” She purrs, but her eyes … are cold, and agitated.
You remain silent, closing your eyes shut, gliding down in your seat. “Carol… have you signed the divorce papers, yet?” Your eyes stay glued to the sticky counter.
Carol chuckles, “You’re going to try to talk business to me, and you can’t even look me in the eye?” Her baby pink polished nails thump against the bar, thump thump thump.
“I don’t want to fight anymore.”
“And neither do I.” She sips her drink, smirking into the cup, “But it seems my wife likes to play games.” So light, so sarcastic, chastising you as if this was a running joke on your end.
“Carol, for fucks sake.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, “You made me go crazy.” You bite on those words, full teeth. Fingers curling into makeshift claws, vowels spilling as acidic vomit.
“Controlled me, like I was your puppet.” Your fingers curl and slither in gesture. “Manipulated me against the world, against our friends.” Your mouth opened again, the words weighing heavy against your mouth, but a hum interrupted.
“Look up at me when you talk.” Carol says, your eyes peer up through your lashes, owlishly. “If you’re going to lie, you might as well make it convincing.” She licks her lips, tasting the remnants of her liquor.
“I —- I—” you can’t find the words to even respond. You stare at her incredulously, she will never admit to it. Even now, she has you questioning your own sanity, if it was even worth fighting against her.
It’s not worth screaming about it. Not anymore.
“I have to go.” Swiftly, you stand up, with a bated breath.
“That’s how you talk to the mother of your child?”
Stiffening, as the hairs that align a cat’s spine, “Don’t you dare!” Your index finger pointing, shouting in a hush. “Stop using Kamala against me—” your voice wavers, throat nearly choking a sob, “You did enough of that in court.” Big brown eyes sheening wet, the last nerve shot.
Trying to maintain a level of calm, eyes fluttering back and forth around, seeing if anyone has witnessed your outburst.
“I don’t even have to do that,” Carol’s open palm gestures to your rigid stance, “she can see perfectly fine how erratic you’ve been.” Carol hisses, making your nose scrunch up.
Kamala adores — idolizes— Carol. So memorized by her strong, willful mother, since she was a waddling baby.
You haven’t dared utter a bad word about Carol in-front of Kamala, fearing to shatter the fragile bubble you curated as a shield for her. You wouldn’t let her witness the court meetings, especially the negotiations of joint custody.
By every fiber of your being, you’ve tried to make this separation as discreet as possible—- but Carol has been a devil, bulldozing those efforts. To make you appear as the bad parent.
You can’t stand her lawyer, Carol hired one who hails from Hell’s Kitchen—- fitting since he’s a thorn upon your rib. Subtlety bringing up your mental health, questioning your abilities as a mother —- no doubt, Carol was chewing his ear off about your past.
All Kamala knows is that her mothers are splitting up, with foreign lawyers, and that she now has to split weekends—- those pained brown eyes, her puffed cheeks, it kills you deeply—- all the guilt weighs on you, it feels as if you’re to blame for all the problems.
“You’ve taken so much from me, Carol.” You lean in, kneeling at her eye level. “My dignity, my peace— shit— even my sanity.” Your body anxiously fidgeting, breath quickening.
“But I will not, let you take my child away from me.” Your fingers dive into your purse, fumbling with irate, snagging the last cash you had—- with the finality of this conversation, slamming the money onto the marble countertop.
You carried Kamala, incubated inside you for nine months, fed her from your breast—- you will not lose her, not over your cold dead body.
“Goodnight, Carol.”
Sharply, you turn on your heel, leaving Carol without turning back. Walking with a gait, faking confidence, but truly at your core, a gnawing sense of uneasiness.
-
The corridor stretches as a miniature maze, the more you descend out of the gala, the less crowded it is. Turning left and right, trying to find the exit.
The ambiance is of grainy gray, the tinted blurred windows are foggy with the night’s shadows.
The echoes of clicking heels are faint, your mind doesn’t register, as your own feet and mind are stuck on auto-pilot.
“There she goes again,” an agitated voice snags your attention, brows furrowing, “always acting like the little victim.”
Not granted the chance to realize, in a flash, just as quick as you turned your head, rough hands grab you by the curve of your shoulders, throttling you against the chilled wall pavement.
Earning a hiss, and a gasp, stinging pain births and stretches along the muscles of your spine. Quickly, your fingers fruitlessly try to claw at Carol’s, but all it does is make her more enraged.
Carol thrashes you once more against the wall, and another for good measure; airy gasps of pain escapes you, tears beading at your lashes. That militant discipline seeps from her pores, it’s not a stranger to you, the rough edges of her touch is a familiar bruise.
“It may have worked with the rest of the world,” Carol barks in your face, nose to nose, “but it’s not going to work with me.”
Sniffling, your chin wobbles, trying to restrain a sob that burns your throat raw.
Carol hums, that tut of a sympathetic mother, “Look at us.” Her thumbs rubbing your shoulders, pressing on the blooming bruises. “I don’t like it when we fight.
Eerily, she influcates from predator to savior, “You always get erratic, and you know it upsets me.” Leaning in, her pink lips press a kiss on a falling tear.
“Where’s my special girl?” Carol whispers. Fear is beating inside of you, buzzing as tv static. Staring at Carol through your hooded lids, terrified, and confused.
Carol purrs, awaiting for an answer.
“I’m here.” Barely a murmur, you speak softly.
Carol thrives off of her aggression. But it’s not the traditional masculinity that some women possess in their personalities. She feels it’s the only gift her father ever gave her.
“It’s very cute that you try to fight me.” Carol mocks, her knuckles stroke your cheek. Carol hums, her eyes tracing over every facial feature.
“Let me see if she missed me.”
A string of no no no slip from you meekly.
One of Carol’s hands graze over your shoulder, twirling her fingers into your hair—- gripping between her fingers tightly. To then cup the nape of your neck, her thumb pressing slightly over your pulse point.
As she has you pinned by the scruff, her other hand flows down your cavlices, to your clothed breast—- she snags the collar to expose skin.
Groping a handful of your tit, she mutters still so soft, traveling down the path of your navel—- with a quick precision, Carol snatches your groin; more like clawing.
A sharp gasp escapes you, and all she does is laugh.
A quick glance at the end of the hallway, praying that nobody turns the corner. Carol snickers. “Afraid someone will catch us?” You exhale a huff, nose flaring.
“I remember you used to be quite adventurous.”
“That’s when I was young and stupid.”
Her eyes narrow, pinching your vagina in her hand even tighter. With her knee, she wedges her thigh between your shaky legs, spreading you more open.
Slithering her hand through the stitched fabric, her knuckles stroking your sensitive skin. Your breathing becomes heavier, and all she does is smirk.
Moving your panties to the side, Carol’s makes herself home to your body. Ashamed to feel yourself grow wet, and Carol moans.
“It seems she missed me.”
All unbridled frustration hits the hilt, you cry in a stretched whine, thrashing in her hold. In need to escape, you wanted to go home, away from her.
All these weeks of trying to flee from her, do the right thing to gain custody, to live a good life, give your daughter stability —- all of it goes down the drain by her simple touch.
Beating on her arms with fists, slapping and trying to knee her in a weak spot. Carol’s eyes darken—- as if she’s bored of the insolence.
Carol pushes her weight onto you, pinning to the wall. And her fingers don’t cease on her assault.
“I hate you.” You choke on a wail, your head tilting up as a child.
“I’ve saved you.” An expert circular motion of her fingertips, sending a jolt to your bundle of nerves.
“Who else can say that?” Carol leans in, her head tilting, as her lips meet your cheek.
Softly, she kisses you, caressing and grazing against the skin of your cheek.
“I took care of you, and you just want to leave?” Carol’s pink tongue slithers between her lips, licking and nibbling. Boldly, her fingers dove between your folds, playing with your wetness.
“You wanted a savior, baby, I’m it.” The bridge of Carol’s nose traces yours, humming at the wet sensation of your tears. “You were nothing before me—-” another finger plunging inside you, “—- and you will be nothing after me.”
“I — I — would rather be alone.” You say with a stammer, lips wet with tears. Mouth curling into a brave scowl, regaining some bravery, “I’ll be fine.”
Carol’s face leans a little back, tilting her head mockingly. “When I say nothing after me, I mean it—-” Carol’s teeth bare as fangs, “you’ll be buried six feet deep, before I let you go.” Her fingers grip the nape of your neck, tugging you in.
“No one can ever have you.” She whispers.
Your eyes are owlish, you don’t doubt her…. her time in the boot camp was extensive, you felt her trained strength many times—- she loves like a knife. Many bruises healed over the years.
Not brutal beatings, but very handsy.
A glimmer of fear suffocates you, your body keels as a leashed dog.
Her fingers slither against your peach fuzz, slipping between your mound, toying with your wetness. Splitting your velvety folds apart, Carol vulgarly strokes you with her fingers sloppily, staining the hem of your panties.
Carol grinds herself onto your thigh, you can feel a wet spot pooling at her silk panties. Your fingers are digging into her forearms. A rough dance of humping and grinding, both reaching for a high.
Your wet walls can’t help but suck her inside, clenching tight. Fiercely plunging in and out—— it’s been some time. Since the last time, you were touched. It’s bordering on painful, a bit tight.
You did entertain another for a while. A woman you met at a bar. Short dark chestnut hair, a soft posh english accent, a bold yet cheeky mouth. She said her name was G’iah, you never met anyone with such a name.
Despite the attraction, the idea of offering yourself physically was too overwhelming. But, the emotional energy was wonderful. It was a breath of fresh air.
You just couldn’t bring yourself to love another.
Skin screaming for touch, yet your heart is trying to fight back. The flesh only reminisces the good, but all the hurtful memories are chained to your mind.
Carol’s mouth ajar, hovering over the meat of your cheek. Your face scrunches, eyes tight, a whine boils at your throat. She breathes a chuckle. She always finds amusement in your misery.
Carol loves to play God—- the Old Testament God. In the carnal sense, and in spite. Worship her, and only need her, obey every command, but commit a sin—- and she shall see to it, that her pettiness will rule over your life.
Her fingers spread, your slick connects to her fingertips, flickering the gossamer thin threads between her expert fingers, diving into you.
Her teeth grazes your cheek, her warm breath cascading against your mouth. Torn between closing your thighs to stop her, or thrust your hips into her hand.
Carol’s tongue slips out, and kitten licks your parted lips. Her pink tongue licks your canines, inhaling your breath. Sweet scent of liquor coats your tongue, Carol suckles into her mouth, moaning at the taste.
A lewd pop comes from Carol pulling back on your tongue, as her fingers curl harsher. Bordering on pain, the pleasure is electric. Pulsing through you, as her thumb toys with your swollen clit.
Her moans are animalistic, you can feel her pussy splitting, a sensation of silk and waxed bare skin. Her clit is grinding fully onto your thigh. It feels so damn good.
A part of you wants her to cum on you. To use you.
Carol’s face tilts away from yours. Her brown eyes swirl with malice, narrowing for a split moment. A smile stretches.
“Kamala would be so hurt to lose her mommy—” Carol’s words earn a mean eye from you, but all she does is laugh humorlessly. “How could you abandon our child?”
Like a stab to your heart, Carol just twists the edge deeper. Her fingers still deep inside you, clenching in need for her to finish— to get you right at the precipice.
“I would never leave Kamala,” you speak with a strain, a rough slice at your throat. “I love her.” Bordering on pleading, your eyes water-sunk.
“Then why do you make her cry?”
“What?”
“Every night she asks why her mom isn’t home,” Carol leans more of her weight on your belly. Her fingers fucking you harshly, hitting that sweet spot so perfectly. Your juices are now soaking down her hand.
“She cries till she falls asleep. She thinks you hate her.”
Torn between rutting your hips into her palm, grinding and fucking her fingers as if it was one of Carol’s toys —- and the need for space, to free yourself from these clutches.
Salty tears fall to your wrinkling lips, shaking from silent tears.
“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Carol says, her voice smooth and affectionate. Her lips pouted, “We can be together again.” Her shiny blonde hair kisses her lashes, in the grainy city lights, she looks innocent.
“Don’t you want to be a family again?”
She pushes her fingers further, slowly playing with your clit— and then stops, edging you. She can feel your spongy walls nearly spasming. Carol knows how to play the strings of your flesh.
Damn her.
“I do.” Your voice gurgles in a sob.
You know she’s tricking you… and you enjoy it.
In some deep seeded—- an absolutely fucked —- part of you, relishes in it. Because it’s all you know. But, it’s that glimmer of tenderness, the kisses, and honeyed words that pulls you back in.
Back to mutilate yourself on her knife over and over again. And isn't that what love is? Carol would say, time and time again, after the dust settles from her fits of rage.
Wet squelching floods your ears, echoing throughout the empty hallway. Your hand trails to her waist, gripping her dress, roughly grazing the smooth skin of her waist.
Legs entangled, and Carol’s thrusts are getting faster, sloppy. Her moans are getting high-pitched, away from primal and more girlish.
You cling to her, in this moment, you just need to feel anything. And you know she needed it too.
A burst of euphoria, hanging onto each other, as if both would fall apart. Carol felt it, how you spasmed on her fingers. Clenching so tight, trapping her hand for a moment.
Bated breaths dance against each other, hair flying by the breeze of huffing. Yours are gasps of relief.
In a desperate plea, you reach for a kiss, but Carol pulls away.
“I hope you learned something …” Carol hisses, her fingers stroking between your slippery folds, agitating your over-stimulated clit. The meat of your thigh quivers, tailbone pinching as you try to mesh into the wall, far from her.
Carol takes her fingers out, leaving behind an empty feeling—- like a void. Without blinking, Carol unabashedly suckles on her two fingers, tasting you.
“I hope you make the right decision.” Carol whispers against her tips. Pulling her warm weight off of your bodice, a chill sweeps against the tepid sense of your belly.
Carol hums for a moment with a stony face. She tugs on the collar of your dress, the top of your bosom exposed —- it was a stiff gesture.
Without a word, Carol posed her spine, and walked away, a snide side-eye.
Leaving you behind with an ache between your thighs, love bites across your chest, and fresh bruises. Left behind in the chilled hallway, and in wrinkled attire —- as if you were a used whore.
Your head falls, crying into your chest. Your fingers pulling your dress down, your inner thighs tender. Your fingertips touch the wet spot Carol left behind near your knee.
A pause.
It’s wrong, but you crave her taste. Suckling your fingertips into the cave of your mouth.
You can still smell her fragrance lingering—- and yet, you crave it, hoping it clung to your dress.
-
Timid footfalls carry you through the high-end residential hallway. Bated breath, and in wrinkled clothes, you lift and loosely drop your luggage in your grip. Pacing back and forth, trying to salvage any scrap of courage to knock.
Your head is bowing down, chin to chest. A stop in-front of the door. The reasoning motivating your surrender blurs—- is it for Kamala only, or is it also that a loyal dog who always forgives?
A silent white flag has been waived.
A lonely dog always comes back.
Dull steps creep closer, syncing with the beat of your heart. One unlock, and another follows. Defeat seeps from your pores, a bone-rattling warning siren echoing in the rush of your ears.
The door knob slowly twists, as if she’s mocking you. But not a second more, the door creaks open. Green eyes blink back with mirth, and a smile.
No words are needed.
Carol hums, stroking your hair, fingers gliding down the terrain of your neck, guiding you inside by the nape of your neck.
-
Awaiting on the bed is a silk nightie, and skincare, curated by Carol’s choice. Pristine, wrinkled-free silk. Not one flaw in sight.
She knew you would come back. A cocky woman, and yet she’s never wrong. A stir of irate coils in your belly, but it’s snuffed before it can disrupt.
-
In the dark, you tip-toe down the hall. Elated and relieved, it felt like a century crept by, but it was only a week of separation.
Weekends weren’t enough. You needed to see her everyday.
Brown fingers slowly grasp at the knob, twisting open. The white walls are adorned by the flash of a night light that glows small stars glimmering against the ceiling.
A room of action figures, anime, music posters and a wall dedicated to her drawings. That familiar scent that never really went away, that baby smell that clung to her as an infant.
Kneeling into her bed, curling under the blanket. Legs curling underneath you, knees bent, as you caress Kamala’s scalp, furling her hair behind the shell of her ear. Your brown fingers melt into the onyx shine of her tresses.
Her sleepy cheeks puffed, she looks like a sleeping cherub. Silently, tears cascade against the hill of your nose, staining the pillow sheet.
For months, you’ve tried to conjure ideas on how to run away from this life with Kamala, but all your ideas end up in the possible reality of being arrested with charges of kidnapping, and never seeing your daughter again.
The truth of the matter is -— you will crawl skin bare in the deepest parts of hell just for her. Suffering silently in these marital ruins, for the sake of being able to raise your only child, is what you will do.
You don’t know what you want with Carol —- you don’t have anything else to offer as a wife, besides submitting your entire being as a sacrificial offering.
It’s all she ever wanted. Wholesome love is seen as a defect in Carol’s eyes, a trait taught to her by her father. Control over everything is what brings her peace. And being cared for is what brings you solace.
The only person in the world Carol doesn’t unleash her wrath upon, who she adores entirely, is Kamala. Never once has Carol raised her voice, nor her hand at Kamala.
It’s disturbing, to see Carol be so genuine in her affections.
But, you’re ever so grateful. Despite being a masochist, under all the rubble harboring in your cavity— is a little girl suffocating for tenderness. For anything, just for someone to hold her.
Carol is a peculiar creature, and yet she has driven you to the brink of madness over the last stretched months, because she can’t bear to lose you —-- that has to mean something, right?
But as you lay here, wallowing in the dead silence, staring at Kamala slumbering —-a thought came to you; a lingering fear. Paranoia gnawing at you, chewing away bit by bit.
You wouldn’t want Kamala to suffer like this one day.
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lulublack90 · 2 months
Text
Prompt 8 - Headphones
@jegulus-microfic February 8 Word count 940
Previous part First part
CW- Blood, cuts, the aftermath of torture.
Time slowed as they descended the stairs. Each step took an age. By the time he reached the bottom and stood at the door to the cellar, he was certain that an hour had gone by. In reality, it had been less than a minute. 
Sirius reached around him and opened the door. 
“Come on, James. He needs us.” Sirius urged him, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing. James nodded and walked through the door. 
He was immediately hit by a strong, metallic smell—Iron—Blood! It was too dark to see clearly, but he could make out a figure slouched on a chair in the middle of the room. 
Sirius muttered a charm. A floating orb appeared, illuminating the small room. 
James gasped at the sight before him. Regulus’s head was lolling back, his face swollen and bruised. His body was covered in thin slashes, slowly oozing blood. James looked down at the pool of red collecting on the floor around the chair and grimaced. 
This was his fault. Regulus suffered because of him. 
He rushed forward, determined to help him. He yanked at the ropes, binding Regulus to the chair. Regulus groaned weakly at the movement. 
“It’s alright, love. I’ve got you.” He murmured into Regulus’s ear. Sirius had pulled open the slim cupboard in the corner and started rummaging through the collection of glass vials. 
“What do we need?” He shot over his shoulder at James. 
James looked Regulus over again. 
“Blood replenisher, pain potion and dittany if they have it.” James heard the clatter of vials being moved aside, and then Sirius was beside him, ripping the stoppers out with his teeth. 
“Reg, sweetheart, I need you to open your mouth so we can give you the potions.” He carefully lifted Regulus’s head upright and tried to pry his jaws apart. But Regulus chomped down, refusing to cooperate. 
“Regulus you absolute prat. Open your damn mouth, and let us help you!” Sirius butted in, taking a different approach to James. 
James stared in wonder as the younger man shot daggers at his brother but opened his mouth just wide enough for the potions to be poured in. 
“That’s the blood replenisher. The next one’s a pain killer, okay, Reggie. You’ll start feeling better in a minute.” Sirius assured his brother as he tipped the second vial into his mouth. 
James started using the basic healing charms that he knew. At least nothing seemed to be broken. He could heal cuts and bruises alright, but bones were another matter. 
Soon, Regulus’s face looked almost back to normal. The bruises would fade completely in the next day or two.  
James decided it would be easier for Regulus and themselves if he laid down, so he transfigured the chair into a cot and helped Sirius to lie him down flat.  
Sirius pulled out his headphones and carefully placed them over his brother’s head. 
“What the fuck have you just put on me.” Regulus’s hoarse voice croaked. He seemed more alert, so the potions must be helping.  
“Headphones,” He said as he pressed play on his walkman. “Brand new muggle technology. Thought it might help you relax while we fix the rest of you.” James had already started healing the cuts along one of his arms. 
“Ugh, fine. Who’s singing?” Regulus didn’t have the energy to fight his brother, and the music blocked the sound of his healing skin. 
“Bowie,” Sirius answered simply. 
“Bowies shit,” Regulus complained through gritted teeth. 
“Only because you’re a heathen. Bowie is magical. Do not dis, Bowie!” It took James a few frustrated moments to realise that Sirius was deliberately bickering with Regulus to keep his mind off what they were doing to him. 
He healed the last cut on Regulus’s left arm. His fingers brushed against the ugly black brand on his forearm. How different their lives could have been if Regulus hadn’t joined Voldemort. He drew his eyes away from the mark and started healing the next section. 
They healed every cut, and Sirius had the bright idea to add the essence of dittany into his body cream to make it easier to get it on all of Regulus’s sore body. 
When they were finished, Regulus cracked open an eye. 
“Can I go to sleep now?” He asked quietly. James and Sirius looked at each other, knowing they needed to get something from him, or Moody would come straight back down here, and they wouldn’t be allowed back down again. 
Not yet, love. We need some information. Something important that we can give to Moody.” He stroked his cheek delicately with the backs of his fingers. 
“Was this the plan all along? Bad Auror Moody, and then you two come in all, ‘let us save you, Reggie.’” He looked hurt like they were playing with him. 
“What? No, of course not. We had to plead with Mad-Eye just to be allowed to come down here.—”
“We’re trying to help you, you git. Do you really think James would try and trick you like that?” Sirius butted in, trying his more direct tactic again. 
Regulus looked up at James sadly and nodded. 
“Okay. I’ve got something. But I get to keep these things.” He pointed at the headphones. Sirius looked outraged. 
“I’ve only just got them. Plus, you don’t even like Bowie.” Regulus gave him a small smirk. 
“He’s growing on me.” 
“Gah. Fine. Keep them. Now tell us the information you have.” Sirius gave in quickly. This was more important than a walkman. Regulus swallowed hard and stared into James’s eyes as he told them.  
“He’s going to attack the Ministry.”
Next part
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