—softly served .ᐟ

[willoweclipsepirate]

• pairing: neteyam x reader

• warnings: kissing

• summary: Reader being one of Ronal’s daughters and Neteyam visiting the Metkayina village more often than necessary just to see her, even though Ao’nung catches on immediately and never lets him live it down.

“You are here again?” Aonung said, awfully amused. "This is the third time this week."

Neteyam adjusted the strap of his satchel, deliberately slow, before glancing over his shoulder. The early morning mist of the cove clung to his beads. “And if I am?”

Ao'nung leaned against a nearby post, arms crossed, his grin widening. "You tell me, forest boy. Unless you've suddenly developed a taste for our seaweed stew—which, by the way, you still grimace at every time my mother serves it."

From the woven walkway above, a soft familiar laugh drifted down. Neteyam didn't need to look up to know whose it was, but he did anyway. Ronal's youngest daughter balanced effortlessly on the narrow rail, her feet bare and her fingers curled loosely around a beribboned bundle of tide-pressed flowers. She tilted her head, amusement dancing in her eyes.

Ao'nung followed his gaze and groaned. "Oh Eywa, save me. You're predictable as the tide."

Neteyam ignored him, stepping closer to the walkway. "Those for the spring offering?" he asked, nodding at the flowers.

She shrugged, swinging her legs idly. "Maybe. Or maybe I just like how they look." Her gaze flicked to Ao'nung, then back to Neteyam, mischief flickering. "You should come see for yourself."

Without waiting for a reply, she slipped off the rail and disappeared into the canopy of woven fronds overhead, leaving Neteyam standing there like a fool and Ao'nung snickering behind him. "Go on," he taunted, shoving Neteyam lightly. "Before she changes her mind."

Neteyam shot him a glare but didn't argue. He'd learned by now that some battles weren't worth fighting, especially when the prize was already out of reach, flitting through the trees ahead of him.

Neteyam caught up to her where the walkway dipped low over a tidal pool, her silhouette framed by the dappled light filtering through the leaves. She was kneeling now, trailing her fingers in the water, the flower bundle abandoned beside her.

"You're slow," she said without looking up. "I expected you to be quicker."

"I was admiring the view," he shot back, walking to stand beside her.

Neteyam caught the droplets she flicked on his forearm, rubbing them between his fingers with exaggerated contemplation. "You know," he mused, "if you wanted me wet, you could've just asked."

She arched a brow, fingertips still skimming the water’s surface. "Oh? And you’d say yes?"

"To you?" He shrugged, fighting the grin tugging at his lips. "Probably."

The tidal pool between them shimmered with the reflection of her smirk. "Probably isn’t a yes."

She tilted her head, considering him with playful scrutiny. "Swim with me," she said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "Right now."

He glanced at the water, then back at her. "And if I drown?"

"You won’t." She flicked another droplet at him, this time landing square on his collarbone. "You know how to swim. And in case something happens I’d save you."

Neteyam exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers drumming once against his leg. "You'd save me," he repeated, deadpan. "Like that time you 'saved' me from the shallow reef by pushing me in?"

Her grin widened, unrepentant. "You were being dramatic about stepping on sea urchins. I expedited the process."

"You expediated me into a clump of coral"

She flicked her fingers again, sending a shimmering arc of saltwater toward him. Neteyam caught her wrist before the droplets could land, his thumb pressing lightly against the delicate bones beneath her skin. Her tail lashing before she stilled, her amusement softening into something quieter. "Careful," she murmured. "People might think you actually are not coming here just for curiosity"

Neteyam didn’t release her wrist. Instead, he traced the path of a single droplet as it slid down her forearm, his touch featherlight. "Maybe the curiosity isn't really culture related," he said, voice low enough that the words barely carried over the lap of the tide. "Ever consider that?"

Her breath hitched before she recovered, tilting her chin up. "And if I did?" The challenge in her eyes was undercut by the way her fingers twitched against his palm, uncertain.

"Then I’d say you’re wasting time talking about it." His thumb brushed over her knuckles, slow, deliberate. "When you could be proving it."

She exhaled sharply, half-laugh, half-scoff, but didn’t pull away. "Proving what, exactly? That you’re terrible at staying dry when i'm around?"

Neteyam tightened his grip just enough to tug her forward, not enough to pull her off balance, but enough to make her lean in, close enough that the saltwater scent of her hair mixed with the warmth of her breath against his jaw. "Proving," he murmured, "that you're worse at resisting me than I am at staying dry."

She scoffed, but the sound lacked its usual bite, softened by the way her free hand found its way to his waist, fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. "Resisting you?" Her thumb brushed against his hipbone, light as a ripple on the water's surface. "That implies I was trying."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Weren't you?"

She tilted her head, considering him with exaggerated gravity. "Hm. No." Her fingers trailed up his side, slow, teasing. "I think you'll find I've been exceptionally accommodating."

Neteyam’s breath hitched when her fingers skimmed the dip of his waist, her touch featherlight but deliberate. "Exceptionally accommodating," he echoed, voice rougher than he intended. "Is that what we’re calling it?"

She hummed, her thumb tracing the curve of his ribs through his tunic. "Mm. Do you have a better term?"

"Yeah." He caught her wandering hand, lacing their fingers together. "Distracting."

Her laughter was low, warm against his skin. "You’re the one who followed me."

Neteyam traced the edge of her thumb with his own, the motion slow, deliberate, like testing the pull of a tide. "Maybe I like being distracted," he murmured, watching the way her lashes dipped at the words, the way her breath caught just slightly before she smoothed it into something careless.

She tilted her head, the sunlight catching the curve of her cheekbone. "Maybe, but you're bad at admitting it." Her fingers tightened around his, just enough to press the pads of his fingertips into the salt-damp skin of her palm. "That you like being distracted by me."

Neteyam exhaled sharply, half-laugh, half-sigh, and closed the distance between them in one slow, deliberate step. The wooden walkway creaked softly under his weight, the sound lost beneath the rush of the tide below. "Yeah," he murmured, his free hand coming up to brush a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his touch lingering. "Maybe I am."

Her breath hitched again but she didn’t pull away. Instead, her fingers curled tighter around his, anchoring him there. "Prove it," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the distant crash of waves.

He didn’t hesitate. Neteyam leaned in, his nose brushing hers, close enough to feel the warmth of her exhale against his lips. "Gladly," he murmured, and then he kissed her—soft at first, testing, like the first step into unfamiliar water. Her lips were warm, salt-kissed from the ocean spray, and when she made a small, startled sound against his mouth, he felt it vibrate through his chest like the hum of a bowstring.

She didn’t resist. Instead, her free hand slid up his chest, fingers tangling in his braids as she kissed him back, first slow, then surer and hungry, her teeth grazing his lower lip in a way that made his pulse skip. Neteyam tightened his grip on her wrist, his thumb pressing into the flutter of her pulse as his other hand traced the curve of her waist, tentative at first, then bolder, skating up the dip of her spine. Her skin was warm beneath his fingertips, salt-damp from the spray, and when his palm settled between her shoulder blades, she arched into the touch with a quiet, shuddering inhale.

Neteyam grinned against her mouth, fingers curling into the loose fabric at her back, tugging her closer. "You were saying something about resisting me?" he murmured, his lips brushing hers with each word.

She nipped his lower lip in retaliation, her breath hitching when his hand slid down to cup the curve of her hip, his thumb tracing idle circles against the bare skin where her wrap had ridden up. "I was," she admitted, her voice breathless, "but then you got handsy."

"Me?" Neteyam feigned offense, his fingers skimming higher, teasing the edge of her ribcage. "You’re the one who—"

A loud, exaggerated cough shattered the moment like a stone tossed into still water.

Neteyam didn’t jerk away as he’d learned long ago that reacting only gave Ao’nung more ammunition, but his grip tightened reflexively around her waist. She, however, startled badly enough to nearly lose her balance, her fingers clutching at Neteyam’s shoulders as she whipped her head toward the interruption.

Ao’nung leaned against a nearby post, arms crossed, his smirk wide enough to rival the horizon. "Don’t stop on my account," he drawled, waving a lazy hand. "I’m just here to remind you two that my mother’s stew is getting cold. And by cold, I mean she’s already noticed Neteyam’s missing—again—and she’s not happy about it."

Neteyam exhaled sharply through his nose, reluctantly loosening his grip as she straightened, her cheeks darkening beneath her golden freckles. "We were—" she started, then faltered, scowling when Ao’nung’s grin widened.

"Oh, I know what you were doing," Ao’nung interrupted, pushing off the post with exaggerated casualness. "And so will half the village if you keep this up. Secondly," he added, tilting his head, "you want my mother to ask why her youngest daughter keeps vanishing with the forest boy every time he visits?"

Neteyam shot him a glare, but before he could retort, she flicked a handful of water directly into her brother’s face with startling precision. He spluttered, wiping his eyes with a muttered curse, and she smirked.

Ao’nung shook his head, droplets flying from his hair like startled fish leaping from the tide. "Real mature," he muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched despite himself.

Neteyam exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing as he watched her smirk soften into something more private just for him. The moment stretched, buoyed by the rhythmic lap of water against the walkway’s stilts, until Ao’nung cleared his throat again, pointedly. "Stew," he reminded them, dragging the word out like a reluctant parent herding unruly children. "Cold. Mother. You get the idea."

She sighed, rolling her shoulders back as if shaking off the last traces of the interrupted moment. "Fine," she conceded, bending to scoop up the forgotten bundle of flowers, their ribbons now damp and clinging. She tossed them at Ao’nung’s chest with deliberate nonchalance. "Put these in the offering box for me. And don’t—" she added sharply when he opened his mouth, "—say whatever you’re about to say."

Ao’nung caught the flowers with one hand, pressing the other to his heart in mock offense. "I was going to say," he lied, "that you two are disgustingly predictable." He flicked a stray petal from his shoulder and turned on his heel, tossing over his shoulder, "But by all means, take your time. I’ll just tell Mother you’re discussing tidal patterns."

Neteyam rubbed a hand over his face, the ghost of her touch still warm on his skin. "He’s insufferable," he muttered, watching Ao’nung’s retreating back.

She snorted, nudging his hip with her own. "And yet you keep coming back." Her fingers brushed his wrist before she stepped past him, her feet padding softly against the wooden planks.

He caught her hand before she could pull away entirely, his grip loose enough for her to slip free if she wanted to. She didn’t. Instead, her fingers curled around his, her thumb tracing the ridge of his knuckles with absentminded familiarity. Neteyam exhaled, the sound lost beneath the distant cry of seabirds. "Yeah," he admitted, his voice low. "I do. But not for him."

The walkway ahead sloped upward, winding through the village canopy, the afternoon light filtering through the fronds in dappled patches. She tugged him forward, her grip firm but unhurried, their steps falling into sync as naturally as the tide rolling in. "You know," she mused, her tone casual, "if you keep showing up unannounced, people might start asking questions."

Neteyam ducked beneath a low-hanging vine, his free hand brushing the small of her back to guide her around a knotted root. "Let them. I'm not hiding my admiration for you anymore."

She glanced over her shoulder, the sunlight catching the gold flecks in her eyes. "Good. You don't have to pretend from now on." Her grin softened at the edges, her fingers squeezing his once before releasing him to climb the ladder ahead, her movements effortless.

Neteyam watched her ascend, the muscles in her back shifting beneath her wrap, the salt-kissed strands of her hair catching the breeze. He followed, his own climb slower, more deliberate, because he wanted to savor the way she paused at the top, her hand outstretched to help him up even though they both knew he didn’t need it.

He took it anyway.

The path widened here, opening into a secluded platform overlooking the lagoon, the water below shimmering with the last of the afternoon light. She settled at the edge, her legs dangling over the side, her toes skimming the surface of the water. Neteyam lowered himself beside her, close enough that their shoulders brushed with each breath.

The silence between them stretched, comfortable as the tide’s ebb and flow, until she kicked her heels lightly against the platform’s edge, sending ripples skittering across the lagoon’s surface.

She leaned into him then, her temple pressing against his shoulder, the warmth of her skin seeping through his tunic. The breeze carried the scent of salt and damp fronds, mingling with the faint smell of flowers she held before.

"Was it worth it?" she murmured, her voice barely louder than the lap of waves against the platform’s stilts below.

Neteyam tilted his head, his cheek brushing the crown of her hair. "Was what worth it?"

"The traveling. All those extra trips between the forest and here." She lifted a hand, tracing an idle pattern in the air as if mapping his route. "Just to see me."

He caught her wandering fingers, lacing them with his own. "You tell me." Turning her hand palm-up, he pressed a kiss to the salt-damp skin of her wrist, slow and deliberate. Her pulse jumped beneath his lips.

She exhaled sharply through her nose and twisted to face him properly, her knees bumping against his thigh. "That's not an answer."

"It's not?" Neteyam feigned innocence, his thumb brushing the hollow of her palm. "Seemed clear to me."

Her eyes narrowed, but the effect was ruined by the way her toes curled against his calf beneath the water's surface. "You're impossible."

"And yet," he murmured, leaning in until their foreheads touched, "here you are."

Her breath hitched, her fingers tightening around his. "Here I am," she echoed, softer now, the challenge in her voice giving way to something warmer, more vulnerable.

The moment stretched, suspended between them like the last ray of sunlight clinging to the horizon. Neteyam could feel the steady rise and fall of her chest against his, the faint tremor in her fingers where they tangled with his own. He wanted to memorize this—the way her lashes fluttered when she blinked, the salt-kissed curve of her lower lip, the way her pulse thrummed beneath his thumb where it traced idle circles against her wrist.

The tide had crept in unnoticed, the lagoon’s surface swallowing the last of the sun’s reflection as the sky deepened to indigo. She’d drifted off against his shoulder somewhere between the third retelling of his little brother’s latest mischief and his impression of Ao’nung’s face when he’d accidentally sat on a jellyfish. Neteyam hadn’t moved, not when her breathing evened out, not when her grip on his fingers loosened, not even when her head slid from his shoulder to the crook of his arm, her cheek pressed warm against his chest.

Her hair smelled of salt and something faintly sweet. Neteyam breathed it in, his thumb still tracing absent circles against her wrist. The village below had quieted, the distant hum of conversation replaced by the occasional splash of fish breaking the surface.

*Was it worth it?*

The question lingered, unanswered. He tilted his head just enough to press his lips to her forehead, featherlight. "Yeah," he murmured, the word barely more than an exhale. "Every time."

She didn’t stir, but her fingers curled instinctively around his, as if even in sleep, she’d heard him. Neteyam smiled against her hair, the weight of her on him lulling him into sleep.

[bitterrfruit]

is it me or have the ads on this busted site become so sensitive to touch that i could literally fart on my screen and it would open the app store. i can’t even scroll without being taken against my will to a download page for some slop farm simulator. god i fucking hate it here

[maverist]

A Disturbance in the Force

summary — ex!rafe back for vengence?

warnings! fem!reader, questionable crossover: ex!rafe x reader x dean di laurentis, fluff, angst, mentions of alcohol, toxic ex!rafe, emotional manipulation, unwanted touching, harassment, confrontation, writing a fic without seeing the full show...

note… dedicated to my wife ( @severedlamb ) !!!! coming out of the depths of my hibernation to write this. lmk if you prefer the small font/this

masterlist!

The first buzz of your phone barely registered over Hannah's voice drifting through the apartment, warm, rich, and stupidly gorgeous even two glasses of wine in. She was curled up on the armchair, singing along to whatever early-2000s playlist Allie had put on, hitting every note like she was born to.

Allie groaned dramatically from the floor. "Babe, can you not sound like a Grammy winner while I'm trying to paint my toes? Some of us are mere mortals."

Hannah laughed. "Please. There isn't a mortal in this room."

Allie lifted her wine glass, "Here, here."

You clinked glasses.

The apartment smelled like vanilla candles and cheap nail polish remover. Face masks, takeout containers, and half-empty wine glasses cluttered the coffee table. It was warm. Safe. And for the first time all week, you felt the tension leave your body.

Your phone buzzed again beside your thigh.

Then again.

Allie didn't look up from your toes. "If that's Dean, tell him he can wait. It's girls' night."

Hannah reached for your phone automatically, and froze the second she saw the name. Her expression shifted, suddenly wary.

"Who is it?" Allie asked, setting the nail polish down.

"Rafe." Hannah said quietly.

Your stomach tightened instantly. It was embarrassing how fast it happened, like your body remembered him before your brain could catch up.

Allie's head snapped up. "What does he want?"

"I don't know." You tried to sound casual. "Probably nothing." But your chest was already tight. Rafe didn't text casually. Not ever.

You grabbed your phone before Hannah could read anything aloud.

Four messages.

Everything in you went still, the room slightly blurring at the edges, music too loud, and the girls suddenly too far away.

"What?" Allie demanded. "What did he say?"

You handed her the phone silently, eyes fixated on the floor.

Her eyebrows shot up. "Oh, absolutely not."

Hannah took it next, her face softening, but her jaw tightening. "Oh, honey..."

You pulled your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around yourself. Hannah sat beside you immediately. "Hey. You don't have to feel anything," she said gently. "He's your ex. He doesn't get to pop up whenever he wants and act like you owe him a reaction."

Allie nodded, shuffling closer. "Exactly. And these texts? They're not cute. They're manipulative. It's him doing the same shit he always did."

Your throat tightened.

"He's trying to pull you back into the same cycle," Hannah added. "Where he snaps his fingers and you drop everything."

Allie wrapped an arm around your shoulders. "You spent months walking on eggshells with him. You don't owe him a single thing."

You swallowed hard, staring at the messages again.

"He always does this," you whispered. "He disappears, then comes back like I'm supposed to fix whatever he's feeling."

Hannah shook her head, gentle but firm. "Babe... that's not what a relationship is meant to be. You shouldn't have had to tiptoe around someone you're dating."

Allie nodded, her voice softer than before. "You were always the one calming him down, smoothing shit over, making sure he didn't blow up. That's not love."

Hannah squeezed your hand. "And look at you now. Dean doesn't make you do any of that. He actually shows up, listens. He makes things easier, not harder. You're a team, and you both make each other happy."

Allie rested her head against yours. "He's showing you what it's supposed to feel like. The healthy version. Not whatever you had with Rafe."

Something in your chest cracked open at that, at the truth of it, and the relief of hearing it out loud. The three of you sat there quietly for a moment in your group hug, which was more of a mess of limbs at this point, until Allie suddenly snatched your phone.

"Hey-"

"Nope." She stood up, marched to the kitchen, and dropped it into a drawer. "Phone jail."

"You cannot be serious."

She raised an eyebrow. "You are not spending girls' night spiralling over an man who had twelve business years to get his shit together.

Hannah snorted. "Business years?"

"He's rich. Time moves differently for them".

You let out a sudden laugh.

"There she is," Hannah smiled, pulling you to your feet.

The tension in your chest loosened slightly.

Allie pointed a nail polish brush at you. "You are hot, emotionally available, and dating a man who looks at you like you singlehandedly put the stars in the sky and invented hockey. We are not letting Rafe Cameron ruin your night."

"And," Hannah added carefully, "you need to stop treating his emotions like they're your responsibility."

Your throat tightened again, but this time with something like relief. You nodded. Nope. Not tonight. Your girls were right. You weren't letting him ruin this.

Allie finished your eyeliner, stepping back with the kind of dramatic flourish only she could pull off.

"There," she said. "Sharp enough to kill a man. Or Garrett."

You grinned at your reflection, she wasn't wrong. You could never get your eyeliner this perfect without poking yourself in the eye at least once.

Hannah leaned against the bathroom doorframe, holding up three lip glosses. "Pick one, I can't choose."

You and Allie pointed at the middle one at the exact same time.

"That one," you said. "It'll look great on Garrett later."

Hannah's jaw dropped. "Oh you little-"

You squealed and bolted out of the bathroom before she could throw the lip gloss at you, Allie cackling behind you as she grabbed your camera from the counter and snapped a photo of Hannah chasing you down the hallway.

"Oh, our boys are doomed tonight," she said, checking the picture. "They're not gonna know what hit them."

You winked, conspiratorial and smug. "That's the point."

Hannah finally caught up, breathless and laughing. "You two are menaces."

"Stupidly hot menaces," Allie corrected, looping her arm through yours. "And they won't be able to keep their hands off us tonight."

Hannah nodded, eyes sweeping over you with genuine warmth. "Yeah, babe. You look unreal."

You smiled, heat blooming in your chest. "We all do." And you meant it, you were so grateful to have them in your life.

The second you stepped inside, the bass hit your chest.

Someone had put on a playlist that was half 60s classics and alternative pop, and half chaotic EDM, the kind of mix only Garrett would defend with his whole chest. The living room was packed: bodies everywhere, laughter spilling over the music, the air warm and buzzing with cheap beer and cologne.

The man in question was at the beer pong table, shirt already half-open, yelling, "Logan, you can't call bank shot if you didn't mean to do it!"

His eyes lit up the second Hannah walked in.

Logan yelled back, "it still went in, you donkey!"

Tucker was perched on the arm of the sofa, holding his watermelon like a baby, occasionally offering grapes to passing strangers, and shielding his watermelon's 'eyes' from the cannibalism.

Beau was leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping a drink and pretending he wasn't watching two girls flirt with Dean and fail miserably. He perked up when he saw you.

"There she is!" he grinned, pulling you into a hug. "Our lucky charm."

And then Dean saw you. His whole face softening, like he'd been holding his breath and finally let it go.

He crossed the room in three long strides, hands finding your waist like it was instinct, your bodies fitting together like two jigsaw pieces that had been carved for each other.

"Hi, baby," he murmured against your neck, leaving warm, open-mouthed kisses. "Missed you."

You melted into him, giggling as he pulled you closer.

But just for a second.

Because something in you tensed, a bad feeling settling low in your stomach.

Dean felt it immediately. His brows pulled together, concern flickering across his face. "You okay?"

You open your mouth to answer-

Allie grabbed your wrist. "Borrowing her," she announced. "You'll have her back... eventually."

Dean laughed, hands dropping from your waist. "Go. Have fun."

Hannah stole Garrett from behind, dragging him towards the makeshift dance floor. He went willingly, grinning like an idiot.

Allie tugged you into the crowd, Hannah joining you, the three of you loosing yourself in the music.

Dean watched from the kitchen doorway, leaning against the counter, smiling like you were the only thing in the room worth looking at.

Beau elbowed him. "Dude. You're whipped."

Dean didn't even pretend to deny it. "Yeah," he said simply. "I am."

Tucker wandered over, still holding his watermelon. "She looks happy," he said softly. "That's good."

Dean nodded, eyes never leaving you. "That's all I want."

You were mid-spin when your phone buzzed in your pocket.

You froze.

Hannah noticed instantly. "You okay?"

You didn't answer. You didn't have to. Allie saw your face and her expression darkened. "Don't tell me-"

You pulled out your phone.

Three new messages.

Your stomach dropped as your mind shifted into a downwards spiral. You knew something bad was going to happen.

Hannah's hand found your arm. "Hey. Breathe."

Allie's jaw clenched. "He's not here. He's not. He wouldn't-"

But she didn't sound convinced.

You swallowed hard. "I don't want him to show up."

Allie's voice sharpened. "If he does, he's not getting within ten feet of you."

Hannah nodded. "And Dean's here. And the boys. You're safe."

You tried to believe it. You really did. You were heading toward the kitchen to get water when it happened. A hand clamped around your waist. Too tight. Too wrong. It wasn't your Dean, you knew that immediately. Your whole body went cold.

Rafe.

You turned, voice low but steady. "Get your hands off me."

Rafe didn't move. Didn't blink. He didn't even pretend to listen. And that's when it happened.

Dean's head snapped up from across the room, not because he saw Rafe, but because he felt something shift in you. A disturbance in the force. Like something in him was wired to your body.

He didn't move at first. He just stared. His eyes narrowed, his jaw locked, and his shoulders went rigid, every muscle coiled, waiting.

He knew you could handle yourself. He trusted you to handle yourself. He just needed one thing: a signal.

And then you gave it, you'd told Rafe to let go.

He didn't.

That was his first mistake.

Dean pushed off the counter and crossed the room in seconds, not running or shoving, just moving with a purpose that made people step out of his way without realising why.

He stopped beside you, voice low and lethal.

"She shouldn't have to ask twice."

Rafe finally looked at him, and Dean's expression didn't change. No yelling, no theatrics, just a quiet, controlled fury that was somehow worse. "Let. Go. Of her," Dean said.

And this time, it wasn't a request.

Something ugly flickered over Rafe's face, his greasy bangs sticking to his forhead in the heat. "This is between us."

Dean didn't even blink.

"No," he said, calm and deadly. "You're not together. She ended it. You shouldn't even fucking be here."

Rafe scoffed, tightening his grip on your waist like he was proving a point.

"She didn't mean it," he said. "She always comes back."

Your stomach twisted.

Dean’s jaw flexed, once, hard, like he was holding something back with sheer force.

"Let. Go. Of her," he repeated.

Rafe ignored him, eyes locked on you.

"Tell him," he said. "Tell him you didn't mean it. Tell him we're not done."

Your voice shook, but you didn't look away.

"We are done. Let go of me."

Rafe didn't move.

And that was the moment the boys stepped in.

Logan was first, sliding between you and Rafe like a wall. "Nope. Back up."

Garrett moved to Logan's right, arms crossed, expression dark. "She said no. Time to go."

Beau stepped to your side, hand hovering near your back, protective, not possessive. "Don't make this worse for yourself."

And then Tucker. Sweet, motherly Tucker. He set his watermelon down on the table with a soft thud that somehow sounded like a threat.

"Take your hand off her," he said with a force you hadn't been expecting.

Rafe's eyes darted between then, calculating, cornered, desperate. Then he made the mistake of looking at Dean. Dean who hadn't moved an inch but his fists were clenched so tight his tendons stood out in sharp lines, knuckles white, shoulders coiled like a spring. He was quiet. Dangerously quiet.

You reached out and touched his hand, just your fingertips. He stilled instantly. His eyes flickering to you, softening for a fraction of a second. That was all it took.

Rafe saw it, the way Dean listened to you, the way he stopped for you, the way he respected you, and something in his wild eyes cracked, his hand loosening its grip on your waist.

"You're making a mistake," he said to you, voice low and bitter.

Allie scoffed behind you. "She's finally not."

Hannah took your hand gently. "Come on. Let's get some air."

Dean stepped back just enough to let you move, but stayed close, close enough that you could feel the heat of him, close enough that Rafe couldn't take another step without going through him.

Beau leaned in, voice low. "Walk away, man."

Garrett added, "Before this gets ugly."

Logan didn't say anything, he just stared, jaw tight, daring Rafe to try something.

Tucker picked up his watermelon again, but the softness was gone. "You should leave," he said. "Now."

Rafe looked at you one last time, something wildly desperate and broken, then turned and shoved his way through the crowd.

The second he was gone, the tension snapped like a rubber band.

Dean exhaled shakily, running a hand through his hair. "You okay?" he asked you, voice soft again.

You nodded, even though your hands were still shaking.

Hannah squeezed your arm. "Let's go outside."

Dean touched your back gently, "I'm right here." And you believed him.

The cold air hit your cheeks the second Hannah pulled you onto the porch. It was quieter out here, the thump of music muffled under the night sky stretching wide and dark above you.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, breath shaky.

Hannah rubbed your back in slow circles. "You're okay," she murmured. "You're okay."

Allie paced in front of you, "I swear to God, if he had taken one more step-"

"Al," Hannah warned gently.

"No, I mean it." Allie snapped. "He doesn't get to just show up and grab her like that. Who the hell does he think he is?"

You swallowed hard. "I'm sorry."

Both girls froze.

Hannah turned to you immediately. "Hey. No. Don't do that."

Allie crouched in front of you, hands on your knees. "You didn't do anything wrong. He's the one who can't respect a boundary."

The door opened behind you.

Dean stepped out slowly, like he didn't want to startle you, his eyes finding yours instantly. "Hey," he said quietly. "Can I…?" You nodded before he finished the sentence.

He sat beside you, pulling you gently into his chest.

You let yourself lean into him, your forehead resting against his shoulder. Dean pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "I've got you."

The door swung open again, Garrett stepping out first, hands shoved in his pockets. "You good?" he asked, voice softer than usual, eyes still dark with anger, only softening when Hannah entered his line of sight.

Beau leaned against the railing as Tucker handed you an unopened plastic water bottle. "Say the word and no one will ever find the body."

You let out a small laugh, the first since Rafe grabbed you. Dean smiled at the sound, brushing his thumb along your arm.

"All right," Logan said, clapping his hands once. "We're giving them space."

Garrett nodded. "Yeah. Come on, guys."

Tucker placed his watermelon gently beside you like he was leaving a guardian spirit, then followed the others inside.

Hannah squeezed your shoulder. "We're right inside if you need us."

Allie kissed your cheek. "Just shout."

Then they disappeared through the door, leaving you and Dean alone on the quiet porch.

You sat there in silence for a moment before Dean let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair. "I almost lost it," he said quietly.

You looked up at him. He wasn't angry now, he just looked... honest.

"I promised you I wouldn't hit him if I ever saw him," he said. "And I meant it. But when he grabbed you like that..." His jaw tightened. "I saw red."

Your heart twisted.

"But then you touched my hand," he continued, voice softer. "And it just... pulled me back. Like everything snapped into place again."

You swallowed. "I didn't want you to get in trouble."

He shook his head. "I don’t care about trouble. I care about you."

Your breath caught.

Dean brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering against your cheek.

"You don't ever have to be scared of me," he said. "But he made you scared. And I hate that."

You leaned into his touch.

"I wasn't scared of you," you whispered. "I was scared of him... at first. And then you were there, they all were and I felt safe."

Dean’s eyes softened, warm, steady, full of something that made your chest ache. "You are safe," he murmured. "And I'm not going anywhere." He pulled you closer, his forehead resting against yours, and for the first time all night, you believed it.

[bowtiepasta-deactivated20260309]

WINDOWS WORK BOTH WAYS

kinktober day two: a pair of windows and one thin strip of lawn, the kind of odd friendship tied by red string. after years, one day you come back home to visit. turns out he is too.

caller id: kageyama tobio — indulging: smut, 18+, afab reader, childhood friends/boy next door, bad home life, phone sex, watch me watch you, masturbation both ways, some dirty talk; from an augustinthewinter audio. 3,253 words

a/n: forewarning that this is possibly my least fav fic from my kinktober this year …:’) i just don’t think it’s very well written and super repetitive. nevertheless i hope you enjoy yourselves

read more | give me a kiss | send a request

your tuesdays belonged to kageyama tobio.

your bedroom window faced his across the narrow alley between your houses. if you opened yours and leaned out, you could see directly into his—not that he ever had the curtains pulled back for long.

but every tuesday after the sun went down, the light would flick on. and within five minutes, he’d open his window, unlatch the screen, prop it up, and climb out like it was muscle memory.

then he’d jump the fence.

offhand errands and neighborly guilt were what brought you your very first friend.

homework side by side at your grandmother’s kitchen table, peeling satsumas, watching VHS recordings of pro matches in silence until he couldn’t hold in a lecture anymore and started breaking down every toss and spike as though he was born to do so. which, you were starting to believe, he might have been.

you never asked why he always came over instead of inviting you to his place, but you suspected it had something to do with his father’s car being in the driveway less and less as the months went by.

your mother would see him standing awkwardly outside the sliding door and tell you, “that boy’s here again. don’t let him eat all the senbei.”

he waited patiently for you in the living room, still in his school uniform, not without a volleyball under one arm, his backpack splayed open on the kitchen table.

“can i do homework here?” he’d ask, as if he hadn’t done the same the last seventeen tuesdays.

“yeah. leave your shoes by the door this time.”

you were about twelve, when you started understanding just how serious it was for him.

kageyama would bring his own pencil case and a copy of monthly volleyball, dog-eared and scribbled in. when the schoolwork was done, he’d take out the magazine and start breaking it down aloud—quietly at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

that boy would circle moves he wanted to try and mimic tosses with throw pillows. balanced a ball between his hands to describe the visual mechanics of a perfect set, teaching himself without realizing he was teaching you, too.

“i saw someone do a one-handed back set in brazil,” he mumbled from the couch, eyes gleaming. “i think i could do it if i fix the way i step.”

you leaned back on the carpet, fingers sticky from mandarin oranges. “if you make it to nationals one day, will you tell me?”

he turned his head to look at you. “why wouldn’t i?”

you didn’t know what changed, but after junior high started, he stopped coming over.

maybe it was the new school. maybe it was the way he started practicing more, talking less. maybe it was the space he needed after his grandfather’s funeral.

your window stayed open those tuesdays, though.

at first it was habit. then it was hope.

he went to kitagawa daiichi. you heard through your neighbor. “he’s playing in a lot of tournaments now,” she rambled on. “maybe even one in tokyo.”

by high school, he was more myth than boy.

kageyama tobio. the prodigy. the king. you didn’t go out of your way to avoid him even though he still lived next door. you just never had a reason to cross paths. not when he was playing matches across the country and you were barely making it through finals.

and then suddenly, graduation came.

then he was truly, finally gone—off chasing a life you only ever caught glimpses of in interviews and magazine headlines.

you don’t come home often.

calls and texts have been enough, most of the time check-ins, asking after your mom, letting her tell you what’s new in the neighborhood and what mirin brand they discontinued from the local grocery store.

but when she mentioned the doctor’s appointment, paired with the too-quick laugh after saying she’d be fine on her own, you opened your laptop and booked the tickets that night.

you told her you finally had time, that you needed a break from the city. both excuses, still easier to say than “i’m homesick” and “i’m worried about you.”

the flight was cheap. the return date left blank.

by the time you step out of the car in front of your old house, suitcase rattling against uneven pavement, you wonder if it was a mistake. the shutters need paint, the lawn’s grown in uneven patches, and everything smells faintly of the past—of dust and rain and summer break.

the lock sticks the same way it always did, and when the door opens, the air is heavy with familiarity. not warmth, exactly, but close.

the rooms are smaller than you remember, and the wallpaper hasn’t aged well.

you drop your bag by the stairs and make your way upstairs, where the window faces the same narrow strip of lawn it always did.

you convince yourself you’re here to take care of mom, to catch your breath, to remind you of where you began. that it’s nothing more than a quick trip down memory lane.

you don’t even realize until your palm’s on the frame, the old wood warm from the late sun.

the blinds are drawn. not enough to see anything. yet just enough to see light.

his light.

a glow you haven’t seen in years.

there he is. not on a glossy page, but in the window across from yours, finally looking back.

for a moment you think you’ve imagined it. but then his expression shifts—a puzzle snapping into place, as though he’s put a name to the face in front of him.

he disappears. a shadow moving quick out of sight. your heart jolts, heavier than you want to admit, then you feel the buzz in your pocket.

you swipe to answer.

“...you still have the same number?” his voice is lower than you remember, but there’s no mistaking it.

your laugh catches on your tongue. “you do too.”

he grins, and you swear feel the warmth slip back into your limbs. “so,” you start. “you’re back?”

“for now.” he sighs. “season break. national team training resumes in august.”

you nod slowly, smiling as he comes back into view. “do you miss it when you’re not playing?”

tobio leans back in his chair. “no.”

you arch a brow.

he clarifies. “i miss it when i am playing, too. if the match is bad. if i mess up. if my teammates aren’t as focused that day. i even miss it when i win sometimes, because i should’ve done better.”

you shift against the sill, cheek pressed to your knuckles. “that sounds miserable.”

he looks away. “it’s not. i just want to be the best.”

“you always did.”

“yeah, but now i know how far i am from it.”

“you’re the best setter japan’s had in a decade.” you yawn, bring your knees up to your chest while the jet lag catches up. “they say it on TV all the time.”

“they say a lot of things on TV.”

“that one’s true.” you tilt your head, eyes meeting his.

the line is quiet for a beat, then he exhales. “everyone keeps saying that. but i don’t know. i feel the same.”

you bite down a smile. “you got taller.”

“so did you,” he says, sounding nervous. “thought i was seeing things. when i looked out.”

you laugh under your breath, the sound crackling on the phone’s speaker. “thanks, i think.”

a low sigh rushes past the receiver. “that’s not what i meant. i’m… i’m trying to say you look good.”

your grip on the phone tightens. “you think so?”

“yeah,” he nods. “you grew up well.”

“thank you,” you warm. “you look good too.”

he flushes. “that means a lot coming from you.”

your chest feels heavy. “why’s that?”

“i don’t know.” he fidgets with something you can’t see. “i had a really big crush on you.”

you laugh, incredulous. “are you serious?”

he looks over. “why wouldn’t i be?”

“since when?” you angle yourself so it feels like he’s right in front of you. in a sense, he is.

“well i don’t anymore,” he hurries to cover. “it started the day you talked about me making it to nationals.”

“well ouch,” you joke. “you’re so conceited.”

“fuck you,” he smiles, and you bristle at the profanity, the reality of just how far you’ve come settling in.

“-i’m humbler than i used to be.”

“i’m sure,” you shake your head, checking the time when you see him yawn. 3:54 am. “that’s a low bar.”

“i thought you forgot about me,” he admits suddenly.

“even with your face on every magazine cover from hokkaido to okinawa?” you laugh.

his ears pinken, “those were stupid.”

“they were not,” you counter. “i’d stop at the store sometimes and flip through just to see what you were up to. mom thinks you’re getting real handsome.”

he glances back. “what about you?”

“what about me?” you tilt your head, putting the phone between your neck and shoulder as you stretch your limbs. you hear a noise that sounds like thinking.

“what do you think of me now?”

“have you been drinking?” you laugh again, not expecting him to be so forward after all these years.

you hear him sip. “just a little.”

“what’s a little?”

“whatever amount of alcohol you can drink in your parents’ house without it being pathetic, i guess?”

you hum. “would’ve been less pathetic if you weren’t doing it alone. could’ve invited me over.”

“i didn’t know you were home. not until ten minutes ago.” he rolls his eyes. “i didn’t even know you drank.”

“yes you did!” you scroll through your instagram, finding a picture he liked from a month ago, tilting the screen toward the window. “i know you keep up.”

“i mean, yeah, i do.” he chuckles at the photo. “not from there, though. don’t you remember?”

“remember what?”

“in january, when you called me.” as the words leave his mouth, vague memories appear with them.

you’re grateful you don’t remember most of it. but the breakup, and driving back from college to cope, are details you recall all too well. kageyama pipes up again on the other end. “you asked me if i was home, and i thought it was funny how drunk you sounded.”

the details get fuzzy there. “what else did i say?”

“you really don’t remember?”

“…no? is that bad?”

“oh.” he says through a smile, clearly liking the one-up he’s gained on you. dread settles in your gut. “well,”

“you left your blinds open,” he starts, voice shrinking for some reason. “mine were open too, but only because you called, and i got curious.”

he laughs. “then you took your shirt off.”

you stay quiet, not saying anything, letting him run with it despite the crimson creeping up your cheeks.

“you took your belt off next,” he says, voice low, steady. “the boots too. just… stepped out of them.”

a pause, a big breath. “then you turned around, faced away from me, and unclipped your bra.”

“i’m… so sorry,” you murmur, face hot.

“you don’t need to apologize,” he says quickly. “i could’ve looked away. so… i sort of feel like a creep.”

you can’t help it—you laugh, sharp and a little breathless with relief. “well, that makes you human.”

he chuckles, the sound carrying low over the line. “yeah, i guess. sorry… not sorry?”

you laugh again, shaking your head. “i really am sorry.”

“don’t be,” he says, “i thought it was kind of hot.”

his voice drops, controlled but clearly self-conscious. “you can hang up if you want. i’ll understand.”

you smile to yourself. “i’m not hanging up.”

“so…” you start after a beat, voice low. “you’ve been thinking of me all this time?”

“every once in a while,” he admits, careful. “more than i’d like to. back then, i used to think you were the prettiest thing i’d ever seen.”

you swallow. “and now?”

“still do. maybe even more than then.” he says, looking away. “i like that outfit you’re wearing.”

you laugh softly, “because you can see my tits?”

“i mean, that’s a plus.” the corners of his mouth pull upwards. “i just… think it really suits you.“

“thank you,” you murmur, voice soft—just as you hear a low, muffled noise from his end of the line.

you freeze, brow furrowing. “tobio… are you…?”

there’s a quick hitch in his breath. “i… uh…” his words falter, sharp inhale. “yeah. i… i can’t help it.”

“…is that… okay?” his voice is low, tense, and wary, like he’s still testing the waters.

you nod, slowly. “did you take it out?”

he hesitates, a short, frustrated groan escaping. “not… not yet. it’s still… in my pants.” another sharp inhale. “can i? it really hurts.”

“have you, thought about me before?” you tease, ignoring his ask. “touching yourself?”

a ragged breath comes through. “i-” his voice catches, almost a whisper now. “yeah. i have.” there’s a scrape of fabric, almost as if he’s fisting his shirt.

“how many times?”

“i don’t know,” the words are strained. “often.”

“what did you think about?” you press, curious.

“you… the things i saw on your instagram… posts when you wore… um… slutty outfits out with your friends,” he says just as he shifts slightly, and the metallic click of a zipper reaches your ears.

his arms are thick now, strong and muscled in a way they weren’t back in middle school, hands gripping at himself through his pants as if he can barely contain the tension coiling through his body. “fuck... i’m trying to be respectful, i swear.”

“you can take it out.”

“thank you,” he says through a low, rough moan, teeth biting into his bottom lip as he fully unzips.

you watch him, chest rising and falling, hand wrapping tight around himself. your lips curve into a teasing smirk. “do you want… some help?”

“yes… god, yeah,” he groans, sharp and tense.

you pull your top off, watch the way his pupils blow wide. “nice bra.”

“nice dick,” you shoot back, and he laughs, arm starting to move behind the frame blocking your view.

“are you just going to watch?”

“why?” your lips part. “you want me to join in?”

“if you—mmph, if you want to.” the wet, slick sound of his hand sliding up and down punctuates the words.

his breathing rattles, uneven, chest rising and falling with the rhythm of his hand. “aren’t you wet?”

“i can check,” you joke, one that he clearly doesn’t find funny, but the grin splits across his face when he hears the sounds your fingers make against your clit.

he can barely see you now, on your bed that’s angled away from the window. he hears it all, though.

the wet drag of your fingers, your uneven breathing carrying through the speaker.

your head tips back, heat flooding your chest. “do you want me to stop?”

“no. don’t stop.” his breath hitches, audible. “been thinking about you like this too long to tell you to stop.”

you squeeze your eyes shut, hand working between your legs, the phone hot against your ear. “yeah?”

“yeah,” he says, blunt, steady. “since before i left. since that night you-” he cuts himself off, exhaling hard. “you don’t even know what you did to me.”

you bite down on your lip, pulse racing. “then tell me.”

his jaw tightens, and for a moment he doesn’t look at you, like he needs the space to say it out loud. “sometimes after practice. when it was shit, or i couldn’t get my serve right… i’d get back to my room, lie down, and think about your mouth.”

your hand slows, wanting every word. “my mouth?”

his breathing deepens, “your lips. the way you’d chew on your pens when you got antsy. i’d close my eyes and picture you on your knees instead.”

your thighs clench, hips rolling into your own fingers. “tobio-”

he doesn’t flinch at his name, doesn’t even hesitate. “sometimes i’d think about you at the window. waiting for me. wearing shorts so small i could see your ass when you leaned on the frame. god.”

there’s a pause on his end, and you hear it. the steady slap of his hand around his cock.

your hips jerk up into your hand, two fingers slipping inside you while your thumb grinds against your clit. “fuck… i can hear it.”

he grits out a laugh, shaky. “yeah? i can hear you too. fingers working that pussy like you’ve done it before, thinking about me.”

“i have,” you gasp, curling your fingers up, chasing that spot. “so many fucking times.”

he groans, deep and guttural, his rhythm picking up. “tell me. tell me what you think about.”

“your hands,” you whine. “those big fucking hands—wanted them on me for years.” your wrist aches, but you don’t stop, your voice breaking. “wish they were inside me instead of mine.”

he growls low in his throat, stroking faster, the sound of it filthy through the speaker. “wish i could bury my fingers in you and make you come. fuck, i’d ruin you.”

you moan into the receiver, hips lifting off the bed as your fingers curl harder inside you. “keep talking.”

his hand is loud now, quick strokes, precum slicking every drag of his fist. he’s not holding back anymore. “your tits—” his breath hitches, ragged. “wanted to get my mouth on them since i saw that top. grab them, suck them, leave you shaking.”

your free hand squeezes over your chest through your top, nails digging in. “fuck—”

“bet your pussy’s tight around your fingers,” he grits out, stroking faster, voice dipping. “you’d squeeze the life outta me if i was inside you right now.”

your thighs clamp together, wrist straining as you fuck yourself harder, thumb pressed so tight to your clit you’re seeing stars. “i’m close-”

he groans, hand smacking wet around himself. “me too- shit, keep going. wanna hear you come for me.”

your breath breaks into a sob as your body arches, everything snapping. “fuck, fuck, fuck- tobio—”

his hand doesn’t stop, even when you cry out into the phone, your fingers pulsing inside you. he strokes himself through it, teeth gritted, voice sharp. “holy fuck- you sound so good- fuck, i’m cumming-”

your body is still trembling, every nerve raw as you listen to him come undone. the sheets are damp under you, your chest heaving as you swallow air back down. your clit throbs, oversensitive, and every little brush of fabric feels like too much.

you press the heel of your hand against your stomach, grounding yourself. your legs won’t stop twitching, small aftershocks sparking up your thighs.

the phone is hot against your cheek, slippery in your grip, but you don’t hang up. you can still hear him—breathing hard, shifting, the faint drag of his palm across his leg.

you smile, voice shot, throat tight. “can’t feel my legs.”

he lets out a short laugh, still rough around the edges. “me neither.”

your eyes flick to the window. he’s already looking back, hair messy, shirt clinging to his chest.

“that was fun,” you murmur, eyes swimming in his.

his chuckle carries through the speaker. “yeah. better than i expected.” a pause. “i missed you.”

“missed you too.”

he leans closer to the glass, mouth quirking. “we should do it again.”

you huff a soft laugh. “phone sex?”

“no,” he says, unlatching the lock. “come over.”

bowtiepasta made this. do not copy repost or feed to ai. dm for permission to translate or recommend. spam interactions are a-okay.

@therealmrsbahng @badbclub @kakuthefish @luustdovr @deltamel @bxnfire @manhattanstrawberry @lipstainedgemini @noyaswrld i love you all

[showhay]

bewitched

— tobio’s nothing but a love-sick teenager with hormones except everything is directed to you.

kageyama tobio x telepath!f!reader

c: suggestive content (just an urge to bite the reader), hair description(s), cursing (a few)

i did put hinata and kageyama in the same class, yes, reader needs emotional support.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

you don’t notice it right away.

at first, it’s just little things — you’re walking down the hall, and someone thinks ‘god, i should’ve studied for that math quiz,’ and you swear you heard it even though nobody said it out loud. you figure you’re sleep-deprived. nothing new.

but then, during lunch, hinata’s across the table from you shoving rice into his mouth like a vacuum cleaner, and you distinctly hear: ‘if i eat faster maybe kageyama won’t steal my meat bun.’

you choke.

“you okay?” hinata asks.

except the thoughts keep coming. they’re clear, loud, and sometimes very dumb. so dumb you consider asking a teacher if there’s, like, a brain parasite that makes you hear other people’s mental commentary.

and then comes the real test: gym class.

the boys’ volleyball team is practicing, which means hinata drags you along to “watch my sick jumps!!” you sit on the bleachers, doodling in your notebook, when a cold front settles nearby.

aka: kageyama tobio exists in your line of sight.

he doesn’t even look at you. he never looks at you. in fact, he’s the kind of guy who could sit next to you on a deserted island and still manage to act like you’re invisible.

you’ve tried to be friends before — said hi in the hallway, offered gum once, even smiled when hinata introduced you properly. every time, he just stared through you like you were a particularly boring wall.

so naturally, you’re bracing yourself for awkwardness when suddenly—

‘don’t sit so close to hinata. what if she likes him. no. no no no. shut up. don’t think about it. she smells good. crap. what shampoo is that. no. volleyball. think about volleyball. think about serves. don’t think about her mouth. oh god.’

…you blink.

the fuck.

‘she’s smiling. stop it. don’t smile at hinata. smile at me. no, don’t smile at me, i’ll combust. fuck. my hands are sweating. why are my hands sweating, i’m not even near her. oh my god, what if she hates me. she probably hates me. she should. i’m acting like a freak. i should talk to her. no, if i talk i’ll sound stupid. volleyball. volleyball volleyball volleyball—’

you almost fall off the bleachers.

because holy hell. holy hell.

kageyama tobio, the human brick wall, the guy who can’t even bother to acknowledge your existence, is apparently running a 24/7 internal radio show titled “i am catastrophically into you and it’s ruining my life.”

outwardly? stone-faced. inwardly? begging the universe to not let you catch him staring at your earlobe.

and the thing is… he’s not wrong. you’ve had a crush on him for ages, even though you told yourself it was hopeless. he’s talented, tall, ridiculously good-looking, and has that weird puppy-dog intensity that makes you want to pat his head and also run away.

you grip your notebook so tight it almost crumples.

this is either the best day of your life or the start of your villain arc.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

you start testing it.

whenever hinata calls you over to hang out by the court, you sneak glances at kageyama, just to see if his brain is still malfunctioning. spoiler: it is.

‘she’s walking over. don’t look. no, look a little. too much. she caught you. oh god. i’m sweating again. why is she standing closer. her knee almost brushed mine. i would die. i would literally die if she touched me. is she listening? she’s not listening. thank god. wait, is she?’

he shifts away like you’re contagious.

you smile, because you’re evil.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

the thing about kageyama is, he tries so hard to act like he doesn’t care. but his brain? his brain is a live feed of him spiraling every time you breathe. it’s actually kind of flattering.

and also terrifying.

yesterday, you wore your hair up.

‘her neck is out. her NECK is OUT. who told her she could do that. i can see her pulse. i could bite—NO. STOP. think about sets. think about serves. don’t think about biting. what’s wrong with me.’

you choked so hard on your juice box that hinata had to smack your back.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

by the end of the week, you’ve come to terms with it:

you can read minds.

kageyama tobio is mentally unwell, and you are the illness.

you kind of… like it.

okay. more than like it. your crush has officially upgraded from “he’s cute” to “i might need to start a diary just to process the things he thinks about me.”

the real problem? pretending you don’t know.

because kageyama is still acting like you don’t exist — glaring, grunting, ignoring your attempts at small talk — even while his brain is writing love letters in 4k resolution.

you’re not sure how long you can keep a straight face.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

by now, you’ve learned to brace yourself whenever kageyama’s around.

not because of him, really — no, if it were just the face, the sharp eyes, the arms that look unfairly good under a t-shirt, you’d be fine. but the thoughts? his thoughts are like turning on the tv at midnight and stumbling across a channel that shouldn’t exist.

case in point: you walk into class one morning, half-asleep, hair a little messy because you rushed.

he’s already there. you don’t look at him. you try not to.

‘bed hair. she has bed hair. she rolled out of bed like that. oh my god. what if she was dreaming. who was she dreaming about. no. don’t think about her dreaming. stop. her pillow probably smells like her. what if—’

you nearly slam your head into your desk.

“you good?” hinata whispers, side-eyeing you as you drop into the seat beside him like your soul just left your body.

“peachy,” you croak, because explaining that kageyama just mentally narrated your entire morning vibe is not an option.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

it gets worse at lunch.

hinata waves you over, patting the empty seat at the table. you’re about to sit down when you hear it:

‘don’t sit next to hinata. sit here. sit next to me. oh god, she’s coming. she’s actually—her knee’s almost touching mine. her thigh—’

you sit.

kageyama immediately shifts away, scowling at nothing.

you blink at him. he refuses to meet your eyes.

his brain, though? absolute chaos.

‘why did she sit next to me. why. is she doing this on purpose. she’s too close. i can smell her. she smells like fruit. what fruit is that. peach? strawberry? i’d eat it off her—NO. shut up. eat your rice. don’t look. don’t look at her lips. stop. volleyball. volleyball volleyball volleyball—’

he stabs his food like it personally wronged him.

hinata chats with you like nothing’s weird, but you’re fighting for your life not to snort-laugh into your lunch.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

you start noticing things.

like how kageyama somehow always ends up behind you in the hallway, trailing a few steps back. or how he never talks directly to you, but his eyes flick toward you whenever he thinks you’re not looking.

and then there are his thoughts — wild, yes, but… scarily observant.

‘she always chews her pen when she’s thinking. she’ll get ink on her lips like that. does she know she tilts her head when she reads. her shoelaces are loose. what if she trips. i’d catch her. i’d—NO. shut up. don’t think about holding her. idiot. stop it.’

you drop your pen mid-homework.

there is no reason on earth for him to know that much.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

the true horror, though, comes in the form of p.e.

you’re sitting out with a couple girls, watching while the class runs laps, when kageyama’s brain decides to become pay-per-view horror content:

‘she’s sitting. her skirt’s riding up. i can see her knee. don’t look. don’t look. crap, i looked. don’t imagine what’s under. STOP. oh god. what if the wind—NO. kill me. kill me right now. run faster. distract yourself. volleyball. volleyball. but what if she bent over— NOOO.’

you nearly eat dirt from laughing so hard.

the other girls side-eye you like you’ve lost it.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

that night, you can’t stop thinking about it.

your crush is bad enough already — he’s unfairly good at everything, tall, athletic, with that dumb serious face that makes your stomach flip. and now? now you know he’s secretly losing his mind over you.

but he’s also insane. in the funniest, dumbest, most teenage-boy way possible.

you bury your face in your pillow.

this is going to kill you.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

you don’t even notice at first.

practice runs late, the gym is emptying, and you’re waiting for hinata, scrolling on your phone while kageyama lingers behind to put away equipment.

it’s quiet.

too quiet.

and then — footsteps. fast, uneven.

before you can look up, he’s standing right in front of you, chest rising like he just ran a marathon.

you blink. “uh—”

“i can’t stop.”

oh no.

‘she’s so close. she doesn’t know what she does to me. every day. every second. i count how many times she looks at me. i know her laugh by heart. i know the way her hands shake when she’s nervous. i know how long she spends tying her shoes in the morning. i know she bites the inside of her cheek when she’s concentrating. i know everything. i watch everything. i shouldn’t. i shouldn’t. but i can’t stop.’

your phone slips in your hand.

you stare at him.

he’s staring at you, trembling, like he’s physically holding back an earthquake.

“kageyama—”

“you don’t get it,” he blurts, voice too loud, too raw. “i tried to ignore you. i tried to act like you weren’t there. but i can’t. i can’t think about volleyball, i can’t sleep, i can’t do anything without you being in my head.”

his brain is spiraling, a live firestorm:

‘she’s gonna run. i sound insane. i AM insane. but i don’t care. i’d burn my whole life if she asked. i’d quit volleyball if she told me to. i’d kneel if she told me to. i’d follow her anywhere. i’d chain her to me if it meant she’d stay. she has to stay. i’ll make her stay.’

your breath catches.

he steps closer, too close, eyes wild.

“i like you,” he grits out, then shakes his head like that’s not enough. “no. it’s worse than that. i’m—i’m messed up about you. i think about you all the time. the way you laugh, the way you smell, the way your lips look when you’re eating, when you’re—” he cuts himself off, face blazing red, teeth clenched.

‘don’t say it. don’t say it. i can’t tell her i think about her mouth at night. i can’t tell her i want to kiss her until she cries. i can’t tell her i want her so bad it hurts. she’ll hate me. she’ll hate me. but i can’t stop.’

he fists his hands at his sides, shaking.

his eyes dart to your mouth.

then away.

then back again.

“say something,” he rasps. “please. i’m gonna lose it if you don’t.”

and god, you should be scared.

this is insane. this is kageyama tobio cracking open like a dam, drowning you in everything he’s been swallowing down for months.

but you’re not scared.

your heart’s racing, your face is hot, and all you can think is finally.

finally, he said it. finally, he’s not pretending you don’t exist. finally, the boy whose brain has been screaming your name for weeks is letting it spill out where you can see it.

you stand, so close your chest brushes his, and whisper, “then lose it.”

he freezes.

‘lose it. lose it? she said lose it. oh god. she wants me to. she actually—i’m gonna explode. i’m gonna kiss her. no. yes. no. i can’t hold back. i can’t.’

and kiss you, he does.

his mouth crashes onto yours, messy, desperate, nothing like the movies. he kisses like he sets — sharp, precise, but with terrifying force, like if he doesn’t pour every ounce of himself into it, it won’t land.

your knees nearly give out. you grab his jacket, dragging him closer, and he groans against your lips, thoughts spiraling out of control:

‘she’s kissing me. she’s kissing me. she’s mine. mine. mine. i’ll never let her go. i can’t. i won’t. she’s all i want. all i need. i’ll die like this and i’ll be happy.’

when he finally pulls back, both of you breathless, he presses his forehead to yours, whispering like a confession in church:

“i don’t just like you. i want every piece of you. all the time. and i know it’s too much. but i can’t make it less. i can’t make you less.”

and with his thoughts still screaming your name like a prayer, you realize you don’t want him to.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡‎

♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

a: i have a bonus for this but i might get burned at the stake if i put it here.

@yujisgffs @hrfnoomi

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners. (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)

iloveu

[kkusuka]

this is probably riddled with spelling mistakes

royal portrait artist simon riley who is given a wife from the court to ensure his position in the kingdom. but he didn’t want a wife; he had no interest in entertaining some spoiled bird from the capital, so he just ignores you.

and you spends a few years married, no romance, no children, barely any words spoken between them, until you die young, a childhood illness that was never cured. and simon is left having to explain why your funeral portrait is one from before your union and not one he would have painted after. or a wedding portrait that he’d never even considered making until he realizes that he doesn’t have a single portrait, sketch, or watercolor of his betrothed.

even worse when he takes it upon himself to organized your belongings and he comes across your diary. a detailed recollection of your life and your decision to marry him because you know of his aversion of touching but you admire him and his work so much that it is worth the cold shoulder, and that it isn’t like you had much time left anyway, so you might as well spend your remaining years in his presence.

so that leaves simon, clutching to shakes memories and despair, to desperately try and replicate your essence in a portrait. for weeks, months, and years but none of them are worth any admiration. your eyes are the wrong color, your hair flows in the wrong direction, and your skin doesn’t have the glow it once did. it drives him mad, unable to rest until he can finally have you with him again.

[ozzgin]

Kinktober Day 26: Sex Robot ft. Yandere!Android

content: gender neutral reader, NSFW, your android partner accidentally infects himself with malware

He should’ve known better.

A flashy website adorned in low-quality graphics, with a blinking font containing buzz words about making your crush love you back…not only was it a probable scam, but the kind of trickery meant to lure in technologically impaired humans. A ridiculous, futile attempt when the recipient was a flawlessly logical Android like him.

And yet…a nonsensical kind of curiosity kept prodding his mind. Whenever he looked at the colorful advertisement, he couldn’t help but picture your face. There wasn’t any what if. He was certain the promises sliding across the screen were false, impossible, implausible. Nonetheless, he clicked with haste, baffled by his own action.

Then everything went black. Metaphorically speaking, of course; he wasn’t truly disconnected from his systems, but merely pushed aside by cheap malware that ran through his networks, attempting to take over. To no surprise, the website was indeed a scam, and he’d now gotten infected with a rudimentary virus. Nothing a quick scan wouldn’t fix. He just needed a minute-

Wait. Why was his body moving? He stared in surprise as his feet inched forwards, a confident step in a familiar direction that filled him with dread. He was – against his very will – heading towards your room. What was this damned virus trying to do? How far would this deplorable fraud go? He tried to access his vocal cords, so he could at least warn you of his humiliatingly helpless state. Except, some entirely different words rolled out his mouth once he encountered you.

“You know what would help with your stress,” he said with a foreign smirk, “some real good sex.”

You nearly dropped your files, gawking at the synthetic in utter disbelief. Had he been replaced by some erotic model, mistakenly shipped to your office instead of some underground pleasure dungeon? You didn’t have time to ponder the possibility, as the android nonchalantly slammed the door shut, then turned you around and over your desk. You felt your trousers being pulled down with the kind of skillful touch a seasoned human would have, not an artificial assistant created to solve police cases.

Moments later, you were tightly gripping onto the edges of your working surface, trying to keep your moans to a discreet volume. You felt your face growing hotter with each thrust, as the android kneaded your hips and whispered lewd compliments into your ear.

Just as you came all over his mechanical member, you heard a beep. At last, his defense systems managed to stop this pornographic madness, and he could regain control over his own body.

“Ah, so that’s what happened,” you hummed in surprise, cuddled into his lap.

He took notice of your relaxed and unusually affectionate conduct, wondering if all you needed was the occasional copulation. Fascinating. His train of thought was interrupted by a notification:

Thank you for using our services! We know exactly what your partner needs, so let us take care of it. Don’t forget to leave a review.  

[starkeymeow]

coy — nineteen ; semi new to tumblr. ex-wattpad addict. starting new series but never finishing them forever, ‘till the day i die. taglist

DREW STARKEY

series

oneshots

RAFE CAMERON

series

oneshots

[starkeymeow]

— CRASH COURSE

PLOT After a near-fatal car accident, Rafe wakes up with memory loss, remembering only you as the last person he loved. Now, he trusts no one but you, even as his family tries to keep you away, forcing you both to navigate the fragile line between past and present.

CONTENT PROLOGUE, car accident / trauma, memory loss, mature language, romantic / sexual themes.

MAIN | SERIES | TAGLIST | NEXT

you step into the hospital room, careful with each step, hugging your arms to yourself. around the bed, rafes’s family looms. ward’s at the foot, arms crossed like a barricade, rose is perched in the chair beside him, sarah’s hovering closer to the doorway, hands fidgeting with her phone. wheezie’s at rafe’s side, mid-conversation before they see you come in.

you haven’t spoken to any of them in months. maybe in passing at parties, nods at dinners, but nothing real. nothing proper. not in years.

“y/n.”

the word hits you like a shockwave. rafe’s eyes are on you, and something in his tone makes it sound like he wants you to come closer.

your stomach twists. it’s already overwhelming. you just stand there, frozen, taking in the sight of him. he doesn’t look great. bruises bloom along his jaw and collarbone, cuts on his arms and forehead, but he looks . . . okay. at least as okay as someone who just survived a near-fatal accident can be.

you swallow and slowly start to walk forward, passing ward and rose awkwardly. they watch you like predators sizing you up, unmistakably letting you know you’re not wanted.

when you reach the edge of the bed by his side, opposite to wheezie who steps back to stand with sarah, you cross your arms tighter, a shield of habit. rafe shifts, reaches out, and his hand lands lightly on your hip. instinctively, you step back.

you glance at his family for some kind of acknowledgment, guidance, or support, but there’s nothing. they’re silent at first. and before you can even react, sarah speaks up.

“y/n,” she says, “rafe was in a car accident.”

your stomach knots. you take a shallow breath, trying to steady yourself. “a . . . car accident?” you manage unsure if you even want to hear more.

“yeah,” she continues, hesitating, glancing at rafe before looking back at you. “thankfully, mostly his stupid head got hurt.”

you blink. “mostly his head?” mostly? mostly? you swallow hard, your throat dry.

“yeah,” sarah says, like she’s trying to shrug it off, like that somehow makes it better. “but he lost a lot of memory, apparently. but doctors don’t know how much will come back.”

you stare. your arms tighten across your chest. you still don’t understand why you’re here. how much of his memory could he have possibly lost?

his eyes are on you, calm. too calm. he doesn’t fidget or flinch. he just sits there, waiting.

“rafe,” sarah says, voice softer now, “tell y/n what you do remember.”

he shrugs, casual, as if he doesn’t understand why they keep checking. “i’m rafe cameron,” he says slowly, like he’s introducing himself for the first time. your chest tightens already.

he nods toward sarah. “i’m your brother,” then toward ward, “and your son.”

he lifts his shoulders just enough. “i live in the outerbanks . . . i’m twenty . . . and . . . i don’t know.” he pauses, lets the words hover, then lets them land. “y/n’s my girlfriend.”

it takes a beat for your brain to process.

then another.

and another.

your hands curl around your arms again instinctively. horror crawls up your spine, disbelief prickles your skin. the years, the distance, the life you built apart from him, all of it, hangs suspended in a moment you didn’t see coming.

from behind you, sarah murmurs, quietly, almost like she’s afraid you won’t hear, but she knows you do. “his memory of the last few years, just gone. doctors don’t know if it’ll come back. as for now . . . he still thinks you’re together. he’s still mentally twenty.”

you blink, hard. your chest rises and falls unevenly. your brain refuses to catch up.

you glance down at him, taking in the bruises along his jaw and collarbone, the tired weight in his eyes. they’re fucking with you, right?

the family around him remains rigid, silent. ward’s jaw is tight, sarah still lingers behind you, her expression taut with worry and frustration, aware that you’re the one person he wants here, the one person he’ll listen to. it’s not even them, it’s just you.

rafe shifts slightly in the bed, letting his gaze sweep over you.

you take a slow, steadying breath, feeling the weight of all eyes on you. for a long moment, you just stand there, staring at him, your mind racing faster than your heart. then, finally, you pivot, shifting your gaze to sarah.

“can i talk to you in private?” your voice is calm, but a tiny twitch at the corner of your eye betrays everything.

sarah hesitates, glancing back at rafe, but then nods. “yeah . . . fine,” she murmurs.

you guide her toward the door, careful with each step, and close it gently behind you.

from the bed, rafe tilts his head, watching the two of you disappear. his gaze lingers on sarah’s reluctant movements and your deliberate steps, noting the way your body tenses, then relaxes slightly once the door clicks shut.

the room falls into silence again, but it’s not the same stillness as before. he studies them all carefully, lips tugging into the smallest, amused curve. he knows something is happening outside, something directed at him, something completely out of his control. yet he can’t hear it, not even a word, and that makes it somehow better.

his eyes wander to the window, seeing the two of you hash it out in the hallway. you flare your arms, sarah throws her hands up. your voices are muffled, but the gestures are perfect. it’s like a silent cartoon with the exaggerated motions, stomping feet, sudden turns. sarah shakes her head dramatically. you point at her chest, then to him, then back at her.

he can’t hear a word, but he can see everything. and somehow, it’s hilarious. he allows himself a quiet smirk, tilting his head like he’s watching a private performance meant to entertain him.

even here, in the hospital, bruised and battered, he can’t help but find it funny. he settles back against the pillows, watching, and as the minutes stretch on, he realizes no matter what he feels, or what people are telling him, he wants you here, and only you.

ward crosses his arms, sighing, and shakes his head. rose pinches the bridge of her nose like she’s just witnessed something tragic.

through the glass, he just watches you gesturing, sarah fuming, both of you locked in silent war. and this idiot thinks, still thinking this is three years in the past, that this is just his girls playing around.

did we peep him thinking his phone is fucking w him cause he thought apple just disconnected both of their locations, not knowing they literally unshared them years ago😭😭

early tags ; @nicholaschavezslut69 @iissza @snowtargaryen @yootvi @sukunasmuse @spideysimpossiblegirl @skyslowalking @adribarbie @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @0-tatiana-0 @beebeerockknot @rafestar @drewsephrry @annaconscience @writtenbyhollywood @yourtypicalteenagegirl @daisydark @v4mpscrms @issahruiz @ilovefictionallmenn @derpjungkook @vanessa-rafesgirl @sunny1616 @alphabetically-deranged @nrmlgirl @supercxnt @xoxosblogsblog @rafegetinmybed @siyahmoonlight @livie4lifestarkeyblyth @d-daxx @tsumudoll @ogcrashout @jjasmiineee @loverliner @ailimedae @belle101200 @hiimbrina @nomup @ayy1234567 @girxwrp @k4yr14 @amterasuu @theteenagementality @maggscr @hey-you22w @delilah22pbp @hayleynott @silkenthusiasts

[apocalypse-shuffle]

RZ!MICHAEL MYERS | THE SHAPE (Rob zombie’s Halloween Continuity)

—

“Trick or Treat - pt1” (Michael Myers x Fem!Reader)

| Michael Myers isn’t typically your patient, but the silent hulking man is more fond of you than anyone anticipated. Most of all the man himself.

| NSFW, 18+, minors dni, canon typical violence, gore, murder, canon divergence, shoddy communication (because Michael), post-movie, cheating, breaking in, unhealthy coping mechanisms (TW: obsession, stalking, noncon touching) - nurse!reader kinda

| If you don’t like the fuck out of Halloween as a holiday, this might lose you. Either way, 🎃HAPPY FIRST OF OCTOBER!!!🎃 (Pic source: Rob Zombie’s Halloween (2007))

| 5k+ words

October 29th

For you, the living, this mash was meant too

When you get to my door, tell them Boris sent you

The sung notes of a white man’s doo wop, a Halloween classic in its own right, fill the air as the Monster Mash plays around you. Scents of cinnamon and glove, pumpkin guts and decaying fall leaves accompany the music. All adding to the warm feeling that sloughs through you while you’re waiting to be handed an autumn flavored drink of your choice and the big ass muffin top you’ve been eyeing for the better part of the five minutes you’ve been waiting in line.

“I think today was a good choice to come,” you start, shuffling forward with little thought when the line goes up. Where your hands are shoved in your pocket in a bid to stave off Illinois’ current coldfront, they flex and squeeze around nothing. “The crowd is full enough that the place doesn’t feel deserted, but not too much that we can’t find pockets around here to enjoy ourselves.”

“Yeah, sure, baby,” your man mutters, attention audibly split even as you refuse to acknowledge it. When he glances at you, he doesn’t wink or smile or anything you’re hoping for. Terrance slips the twenty dollar bill from his free hand into yours, only looking at you for a second, expression pursed, before his face is lit by the light of his screen again. “Get me a hot chocolate, will you,” he finishes.

There’s a part of you that already wants to snatch the phone out his hand, but you behave and uncover a hand for only the flash of time it takes for you to retrieve the money before shoving both back in your pocket.

Haddonfield’s neighboring town’s Fall Festival and its characteristic oddness wrap around you like a comforting blanket despite everything, at least.

With the lighter of your winter coats on and the sun setting in the distance casting the sky in radiant oranges and ombré blues, you certainly feel the edges of that coziness too. In your bones as you carefully palm your drink, trying to fight off the creeping freeze of Terrance’s barely present existence around you with its warmth, you know you’re only playing at being a couple.

The man’s already stepped aside and sipping from his cup as you pay for the drinks and your muffin, smiling when the guy handling the booth dressed like Frankenstein’s Monster wishes you a Happy Halloween.

“Did you think about what I said?” you toss out quietly afterwards.

No response.

A sip is taken by you, then by him, and then you again as you gravitate back to Terrance and start walking.

The zing of pleasant flavors taste too bitter on your tongue for your liking. A frown pulls down your content smile due to the Festival the longer you wait for any acknowledgment of what you’ve said and are met with nothing.

Letting a stream of air out your nose, you take to cracking your knuckles against their warm new handhold. You don’t look at Terrance where he’s keeping pace with you, or comment on his uncharacteristic lack of interruptive commentary, you just continue where you left off.

“There's that little squared off spot in the barn the hay rides operate out of we found last year. We could sneak in there again, maybe?”

A beat.

Two.

The silence between you reigns.

Now you look over at your fiancé, not bothering to suppress the urge to squint.

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Baby, I’m literally right here.” Terrance picks his head up, looks at you like he’s barely refraining from rolling his eyes. The fingers of the one hand you put back in your pocket curl into the makings of a fist, you force them to relax, taking a deep breath.

“Really?” You stop walking, turning to him fully with a scowl, pursed lips, and your hip cocked. “The fuck did I just say then?”

“I don’t know, something about going on a hayride?”

A stiff, cooling breeze rushes through your tight curls, wisps over your scalp and ruffles the scarf around your neck.

Desperately, you try to let your irritation be carried off by it.

“Close, but no. I’ll let you try again though.”

“Mmchtt,” he sucks his teeth. “Man, you been talking a lot. You can’t expect me to remember all that.”

“Sucks for you,” you snap, “because I sure as hell do. When I speak it’s with the expectation that you’ll listen.”

Terrance’s expression pinches with an emotion that might be regret. Could just as easily be poorly hidden resentment.

Either way it’s hard for you to read him anymore.

“Okay, alright. Fine.” He sighs. Looks around a little haplessly. “Let’s just walk together, alright? I don’t feel like anything crazy.”

He holds out an arm to you, and like a beaten dog you jump for the bone. Latch onto his arm to curl your own around it and keep the disappointment off your face with a vengeance at the way he brushes off your attempt to hold his hand too.

Can’t be a hand down when he just has to be on his phone.

Less than three months ago he wouldn’t have dreamed of blowing you off like this.

Guess you two’ll just be walking the event this year.

Swallowing hard, you take what he is giving you in stride. The two of you walking around, you easily juggling your drink and your treat until the muffin top’s polished off and sweetness permeates on your tongue and your fiancé’s warmth stops feeling quite as uncomfortable.

Dirt gives marginally beneath your shoes, not wet, but certainly damp with the fog in the air and lapping at your ankles.

There is plenty to look at, at the very least. Considering this was meant to be a date and all, otherwise you would’ve come here to sightsee by yourself with your own mental commentary and a playlist to keep you company.

The winning sculptures from the pumpkin carving competition and the interactive decorations and festive boots offer a lot of entertainment though.

With Terrance’s current mood you don’t stop to take pictures at displays or buy from any of the booths, but you think about it the entire time. Just can’t sike yourself up enough to force the issue, not when the man’s barely given you a stroll together.

After a few more minutes of you awkwardly throwing conversation starters at him that he refuses to catch with more than a quickly dropped “uh huh” or “sure, babe” you guys close in on the pumpkin patch and your eyes light up.

Your pace picks up and how you point out the patch for him is juvenile, but you don’t care, finally smiling wide since getting here.

“Oh, we could carve pumpkins together! That’d be fun, right? We haven’t done that in a hot minute.”

Again Terrance only gives you a cursory glance.

“Mm.” He grimaces, blurring thumbs tapping at his screen.

Again you’re dismissed.

Fine. Okay.

Downing the last dredges of your more warm than hot drink, you detach from him with a hidden sneer. Get closer to the patch teeming with plenty of families, and smiling couples you barely keep yourself from glaring at.

It wasn’t their fault your boyfriend was steadily becoming less compatible with your system.

The pumpkins bring your mind back to work, but it’s not an unpleasant occurrence. You had purpose when helping the patients at Smith’s Grove, for one. And you know one person who’d appreciate some spooky holiday cheer at least.

Maybe you’d get Michael a little pumpkin. Keep his spirits up as the date of the murders he committed nears only hours away, and his hearing with it.

Everyone had been tense around him aging into reevaluation territory. Even though you’d been assigned to walking a new female patient around earlier today, you still know he’ll be standing in front of the suits in charge of the Sanitorium so they could come to their own conclusions about whether he should be let go or not tomorrow. Knew already that the verdict would be a resounding ‘fuck no’.

The news vans and sea of reporters and protesters alike had been telling enough as to the direction his hearing would go in, and you knew Michael was dangerous, but it was still surreal to walk past all those raging people on your way into work this morning.

So yeah, Michael could be considered a monster— and your brows had definitely shot up towards your hairline when you found out how young he was considering his significant stature, but he could still use some reprieve in the form of a baby Jack o’ Lantern on what you were reasonably sure would be his last day out of full scale prison.

The patch is more than a bit picked though, but that’s alright. You wade through empty spots and squishy dirt and gnarled vines until you get to anything of interest.

To your surprise Terrance keeps pace on the outskirts of the patch. He glances over to you with a curl to his lip, but otherwise only raises his brows before shoving both hands in his pockets.

Heart picking up, your smile widens even more for him.

“Hm,” you mutter absently, hand going up to trace the pads of your fingers lightly over one of the smaller gourds. You pick it up to show him, careful of smashing any unsuspecting pumpkins while you make it a little easier for him to see. “Do you think Michael would like a pumpkin? Would I be allowed to give him one?”

“Jesus, Y/n,” your fiancé starts up, and you snap your head up to look at him, pumpkin momentarily forgotten as both your brows raise. Running his hand down his face, he gestures jerkily at you crouched over crunching leaves and browning corn husks, severed roots ground beneath your soles. “We’re on a date and you’re thinking about that fucking freak.”

“Uhm,” you start, blinking hard at him like he’s sprouted sparkling bat wings and started screeching for the whole Fall Festival to hear. “Excuse me, Whiplash, you’ve been in your phone all day.”

“Hn,” he scoffs, shaking his head at you like you’re some sort of child. “Don’t be ridiculous. It was, maybe, thirty minutes tops. I had shit to do.”

“Thirty—?” You shake your head, standing from the soft ground to face him. “Are you deadass?”

Terrance narrows his eyes at you, stepping up to you until he can move to speak directly in your ear. The hand he wraps around your bicep doesn’t squeeze, but the fact that it might as well be makes you freeze.

“I don’t like you thinking about other men when I’m around, yeah?” He shifts till he’s looking you in the face. “That’s not unreasonable, is it?”

The words ‘like you’re always thinking about other women’ and ‘fuck yes’ skip in rushed circles around your brain as you stare Terrance down, brows steadily furrowing over your eyes now and fists clenched at your side.

None of them falls past your lips.

“He’s a patient,” you ground out, tilting your head at the man in the exact type of way that lets him know you think he’s a dumbass. “And at least if I bring Michael a pumpkin someone will be enjoying Halloween with me.”

Terrance shakes his head, and the too amused, too sarcastic, “Right,” that falls past his lips makes your fists start to tremble, you tighten them so much. He’s on the cusp of getting as nasty as you've only recently learned he’s capable of being at all, and you’re gearing up to make a fool of yourself in this pumpkin patch because you’ve apparently been craving more heartbreak as of recent, when his phone rings.

Spell broken, you nearly stagger away from him and his hand slips from your body like a limp noodle.

Both of you stare at one another — blank, open-mouthed, and short of breath for no good reason — before Terrance’s phone is on its fourth ring. His hand snaps out to answer the call before it goes to voicemail and your mouth closes, lips forming a thin line.

In the end you don’t end up getting that small ass pumpkin, but that’s only after calling your head nurse, the one that likes you, not the one you’d reported for berating the patients. When she instructs you that a physical Jack o’ Lantern might not be the best idea given Michael’s unpredictability, you settle on lugging two of the roundest pumpkins you can find that are easiest to carry back to the vehicle you came in.

All the while your fiancé stays on his phone, laughing it up leant against his truck whenever you’re not in earshot, and glancing more at whatever he’s being texted than at you and your trembling arms as you’re shoving your second pumpkin past the tailgate.

Motherfucker.

─────

October 30th

The halls of Smith’s Grove echo.

Shoes, the squeak of wheels on a cart, your soft hums as you travel door to door, all of it bounces around and back to you two-fold while you’re doing your rounds for the afternoon.

Dinner time was usually uneventful, unless Cassidy was accidentally given canned peaches or Trumble got too heavily interrupted during his usual true crime ramblings and was knocked outta routine, so you’re not in any hurry as you make your usual stops.

The only surefire sounds around you that aren’t your own are of Nurse Trudy doing a similar dinner run with the patients in the rooms across from your delivery recipients. Older and more experienced, she gets through her run faster every time, but you don’t mind.

It wasn’t like you needed to be particularly speedy, especially not when your shift would be good as over right after this. Three more hours out of a twelve hour shift was practically nothing considering the field you were in.

Cassidy thanks you, tells you your new uniform looks nice, and you nod politely and redirect him like you’re taught to. Ker laughs when you enter, doesn’t do or say anything else, but he stays on his bed when you enter his room to set down his styrofoam tray of assorted food stuffs.

Lunch was being served in everyone’s rooms today on account of a fight breaking out yesterday over the therapy dogs, so now the patients had to keep to themselves for a bit and you’d probably never see those scared puppers again.

All in all, you can count your blessings, making quick time of your next two stops before knocking on the last door in the block. Michael’s room is across from one empty room and beside another just as empty one because the others annoyed him too much, and an agitated Michael was the last thing anyone wanted.

“Myers,” you call out softly, giving one swift knock to the bulky metal of his door. “Dinner.”

What remains on your cart are his tray of food and paper cup of medicine, both of which were personally handled by you from start to finish. A precautionary measure you’ve taken up because certain members of staff were even more wicked than the patients sentenced to live out the rest of their lives in here— all of them varying levels of violent, and with Michael being the least reactive out of all of the ones you’ve ever worked with.

And you shouldn’t be showcasing such blatant favoritism, maybe, but Loomis never once disapproved of or reported your actions.

“You’re new, Miss Y/n, so you don’t know about Michael just yet, but if you remain careful I don’t see the problem with sweeping this giving him treats business under the rug so long as you do,” he’d said. “Might just do the boy some good, maybe you being closer in age and providing him with a more levelheaded peer presence could keep him on the level, hm?”

Loomis had smiled at you, almost warmly then. Let you shuffle off to freak out in private over how easily he’d clocked you. Michael had stepped in front of a plastic tray of food coming straight for you only two weeks into your psychiatric residency, though, the least you could do was thank him appropriately— and since you couldn’t very well take any physical blows for him, this was your compromise.

A little candy, a smidgen of advocacy.

Regardless…

“I hear he’s been in a mood since Loomis’s last visit after lunch,” Trudy says, voice just barely above a whisper that only carries to you in an echo from where she’s settled at the other end of the hall waiting for you.

Beside her, Matias finally steps forward from where he’s been leant against a shadowy corner on the same far wall as your fellow nurse— or, well you were an RN, but, whatever. For the first time since you’ve gotten over here the security guard is deigning to do his job, crossing the length of the hall to get to you since everyone knows Loomis signed off on you interacting with Michael and personally monitoring his medicine intake.

Sure, this was your fancy version of an internship, but all the nurses over you pushed for you to gain hands-on experience where you could, and this was no exception. Your head nurse would only shadow you twice before she was confident you had things relatively settled, and after that you’d just be lightly monitored.

Matias is meant to shadow both you and Nurse Trudy as you guys go from door to door, but he was an asshole and a bum, so more often than not you had to power through without the promise of his backup. Hell, you’re surprised he’s even stayed through for the entirety of dinner delivery today.

Biting back a cringe at Trudy’s words, you stare perhaps a little more apprehensively at the door, and the barely their shuffling you can hear from just behind it, than you had been before.

“Understood,” you mutter, nodding, and not a second later does Michael finally knock back.

None of their doors locked from the inside, but you liked to give them a few seconds of at least a semblance of privacy before you barged in. The count of three wasn’t a lot sure, but it was nice enough, and all you could reasonably give without the forewarning becoming a security risk.

Michael, however, as was becoming maybe a bit too common for you on the scarce days of the month you were assigned to work with him at all, you liked to give you explicit permission.

The man was big and quiet apart from his muteness and even as you swing the door open of your own volition, you have to take a step back as to not back peddle too harshly from where he’s towering at the very edge of the door frame.

Matias’s heat lights up your back in the way only the sun does when you’re really not in the mood for its shit during the summer, over warm and threatening to be nauseating, but you don’t pay him much attention outside of stepping aside so he can silently cuff Michael.

That fact, his lack of taunting or trying to work Michael up, is something you can appreciate even if the guard is decidedly unreliable.

Too many guards and orderlies liked to…poke at Michael — too many nurses liked to gossip about him like he was deaf too, and you’ve long since adopted Loomis’s wariness at the shift in Michael’s eyes whenever he was being antagonized. You never forgot about the hard won lesson that was his psychiatrist showing you the old security footage of Michael earning his ‘no metal utensils’ rule.

Matias stays by the door as Michael shuffles away from it. As the bigger, towering man takes a seat in his desk chair and levels you with his usual stare from behind the curtain of blonde hair obscuring his face.

“Good afternoon, Michael,” you chirp, taking care not to bring the cart in after yourself even with him restrained.

Michael looks at you, the weight of his stare physical enough to press against your lungs, but it’s near impossible to even hear him breathing. Bar the rise and fall of his broad shoulders you’d be well within your rights to think he wasn’t.

“I’ve got your meds,” you begin, the usual running commentary you liked to keep up when dealing with him tumbling past your lips unbidden, “and then I’ve got your dinner.”

With that said, you hold out two small paper cups: one with pills and one with water.

Air conditioning sluggishly pouring cool breeze into the room, Michael only stays paused for a few beats before reaching out to grab both items from your outstretched hands where you’ve stopped just within arms reach in front of him, his chains clinking with his movements.

A bigger part of you than was probably wise might’ve felt bad for the guy, but you were both invested in your own continued safety and under no delusion that the newly minted twenty-one year old did more than tolerate you slightly more than he did everyone else.

When he’s done, Michael stiffly hands everything back to you and you retreat back to the cart for his food.

Matias grumbles all the while about how you’re doing too much and how he’d’ve just tossed the shit on the ground.

Ignoring the guard, after glaring at him out of the corner of your eye, you pass where he’s leaning against the one bit of wall by the door not covered by Michael’s scarce personal belongings.

The room itself, decorated from roof to ceiling, wall to wall, with various paper masks of his own creation, is small but otherwise tidy.

His desk is full to the brim with cuts of paper and the usual glue mixture he uses for his paper mache endeavors. The wall behind it taped full with newspaper clippings that’ve caught his attention over the years. Hands, nicked from his youth, are probably likely sticky with the glue solution going off the structure of a full face mask with a wide grinning maw sitting atop his table.

The orange paper he voicelessly requested from you less than a handful of days prior is neatly tucked into a corner of the white wooden surface bolted to the floor. Awaiting its decorative application once he’s done with the mask’s frame, no doubt.

Michael lets you get around his bulk so you can put down his food for the afternoon. Keeps his distance even as he turns to track how you putter around, blue-grey eyes burning a hole into the side of your head.

“I know your parole hearing is today,” you talk, keeping your voice level while double checking you haven’t accidentally left anything with him you’re not supposed to. “It sucks that instead of giving you parole they want to move you.”

A scoff sounds from behind you. You ignore Matias and don’t roll your eyes how you want to because you’re an adult.

It wasn’t like your opinion meant shit on the matter anyway. The decision had practically already been made, they were just bringing Michael in after the five o’clock dinner time as a formality, really. Michael hadn’t committed any violent crimes since he was twelve, but they were sending him off to prison regardless. And Loomis had signed off on it.

Sure, you didn’t think Michael was in any condition to leave Smith’s Grove, not with how heavily he disassociated without being drugged till he couldn’t so much as lift his head, but making him do hard time for disassociating and killing his bully and abusive family nine years ago seemed far-fetched and like a disaster waiting to happen when his routine got shaken up and he was put in a penitentiary that wouldn’t remotely accommodate his needs.

To your credit, you don’t look back at Michael until your hand’s shoved into your pocket after you’ve put down his plastic spoon and a few napkins.

The man doesn’t so much as blink back at you, but his gaze does drop, zeroing in on your covered hand.

You stifle a snort.

“Alright, Michael,” you sigh. “You’ll probably be gone by the next time I’m in, but I’ll miss your silent, looming presence when you’re gone. And try not to cause too much trouble.” You smile at him, wane and fleeting. Hope he can read the sincerity in your expression. “Happy early Halloween,” you say next, a lot softer before slipping a hard candy or five and a few fisted fun sized chocolates under the brim of his styrofoam tray and the cover of a napkin.

In response the only reaction you get, if you could call it that, is a hitch in the rise and fall of his shoulders, but that’s all he gives.

The amusement on your face gets a little broader anyway.

“Christ,” Matias curses, and you suck in a sharp breath, caught up enough you’d nearly forgotten he was in the room.

Looking him over in his pristine white patient scrubs, his form statue-still, you curb the urge to ask Michael something banal like ‘how are you doing’ and step away from him, loafers tapping lightly against his scuffed floors.

“Are you fucking crazy?” The assigned guard hisses, grabbing you by the upper arm before you can even get partway through the room on your own. You stumble as he damn near drags you the rest of the way out. “Kid, I know you’re naive enough to get anywhere near the freak without a weapon, but don’t tell me you’re stupid too. Are you trying to set him off?”

“Set him off— Michael hasn’t had an incident in years! Loomis makes it a point to mention the date all the time during October to test his triggers.”

Okay, yeah, maybe you should exercise some more caution in general around the guy, but you’ve literally seen Loomis chat Michael up about the haunted holiday in a bid to get him talking and get nothing but a blink in response.

“This isn’t necessary,” you grunt, briefly glancing at him to glare.

“Yeah?” Matias snaps a scathing look your way, shoving you out the door before immediately following you through and shoving the keys on your key ring into your hand. “Well the Doc ain’t here, now is he?

When you look back into the room Michael’s standing stock still beneath the dim white lights, nearly halfway across the room, food untouched and eyes honed in on a spot just behind your back.

A hitch hiccups through your chest at the unexpected positioning, but you only meet the darkened gaze of one Michael Aubrey Myers for a split second, feel it suck you in and dry your insides out, before the metal of his door slams shut with a resounding thunk by your hand and your key is in the lock.

The guard somewhere at your back lets out a nasty curse, tongue lashing, and you’re so stuck on getting your heart to stop climbing up your throat you can’t even be irritated.

Heaving a shuttering breath, attempting to fortify yourself, you look up. Look up and meet the very gaze mere inches from your face through the little glass window that nearly swallowed you whole seconds prior. Meet it and feel your whole world tilt just as your wrist pivots and your key clicks with the sound of the locks engaging.

Your chest heaves. Your brown eyes widen and your lashes flutter.

“S-shit,” you gasp, breathless, and nearly trip into the cart next to you when you stumble backward.

Slowly, you watch Michael’s dilated, nearly pitch black eyes shift past you.

Watch them land on their target and hold, and would bet a good amount of your paycheck that his fists are trembling behind the door.

Matias makes a strangled sound, and is standing just to your left, hand clamped tight around the hilt of his baton when you turn around. All the color drained from his face and turning his complexion ashen in a way you wouldn't be surprised currently mirrors your own.

Okay.

Maybe you shouldn’t have said anything for real, because you’ve never seen Michael move that fast. Not even when he’d seemingly materialized from the shadows on your first day and taken a tray full of food to the chest so it wouldn’t hit you square in the face.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter to the tiny window, lips numb and heart rioting, the feeling in your stomach less unpleasant than it should be. Grabbing the cart, you give him a handful of glances while he stares Matias down.

Shame lashes a violent path up your chest and sends overwhelming warmth clashing through your blood. Something more dangerous brushes gently alongside it.

─────

October 31st

In the end Michael follows his mother.

After a jolt that finally set him back into motion. A broken shard and a man’s throat giving way beneath his palm that made him feel more whole.

Follows his mother and her flowing white dress and the white horse at her side into the light.

Has no choice but to be spurred on by the pain thrumming through his body. Multiple pinpricks peppering down his front from that cop and his shiny metal weapon.

Silent, his jaw works. Memories batter for entrance into his thoughts. Make his head throb lowly.

Hands clench tight enough they start up a small tremble at his sides.

He misses the weight of the knife he’d taken in his hand.

He’d find another one.

Ambulances were ear splittingly loud up close. A fact he only remembers duly. Memories burrow deep, and only come up in disjointed spurts despite the vivid picture his first string of kills still run through his mind in.

Michael remembers the armada of fire. The sizzling, all consuming pain of bullet after bullet tearing through him, and then…

…nothing.

A blank, all consuming anger.

He was nothing, and that was nothing new.

Memories still fizzle like pop rocks — ones you’d snuck him once, the ones from his candy pale on That Night — of what happened before the bullets and tearing of skin.

Before his undoing; if he were going to put this still gnawing feeling in the cavern of his chest into the kind of fancy word Loomis would sprout.

He remembers his sister. Of finding Boo. Not remembering how to stop her crying like he used to.

Pain.

His stolen knife through his neck, maybe.

Then.

The anger.

Michael remembers the anger. The rage that took him over and was always teeming at the edge of him, waiting for unrestrained release.

Angel didn’t want him. Had hurt him too.

He’d run at her with barely a thought after chasing her through their old home. After she and Loomis had tricked him, gotten him to let go of the last of his family only to let him get shot for the trouble. Every too easy to rip off and crumble floor board and strip of ceiling once he’d retreated back into the house had stoked his fire.

Every word out of Loomis’s mouth was a lie. Michael lets the sound, the blood pouring sight, of the old man’s head giving and starting to cave in beneath the pressure from his hands replay in his mind.

Grunts out of something that might be satisfaction.

The trembling in his fists jars his wrists.

A howl builds in his chest. Stays trapped behind clenched teeth.

Michael drags up the place he retreats to in his mind as he walks away from the crash, his belly full with raw beef and slick warm blood. The mask that still remains on his head cool to the touch.

Recalls flashes of monochromatic memories and mischievous disimbodied giggles while he’d been confined by thin plastic.

Searchingly, he goes there now.

Forgets about his legs, about Angel hurting him, about Loomis. Lets his feet carry him on autopilot, and travels toward the fading after effects of his mother’s voice.

Forward, he walks. On and on.

Sees those neverending white walls he retreats to close in around him and the pumpkin-headed court he'd thought up at twelve. Occasionally, when his head is too active he finds them and their bloody antics to capture his attention instead.

Bishop Trick settles into his seat at a grand, decorated table, silver platters and ornate goblets and candle operas with lit candles all around.

Everything he sees is in black and white. Snow falling and the air twinkling.

From the head of the table the scepter King Jack holds waves around, gesturing in a manner Michael finds vaguely amusing, to the form that takes up most of the space on the table. He’s surrounded by his Lord Treat as well, all their similarly cherubic faces trapped inside their pumpkin heads marred with expressions that say they’re up to no good.

Finally, Michael lets his metaphysical gaze pan to where the king had gestured.

To you.

Feels the pressure on his knuckles loosen some. Curled fingers going lax.

Legs crossed and bent at the knees beside you, your body propped up by your arm as you lay amongst a bed of flowers and leaves over the table cloth eating whatever odd assortment on the plates before you.

It’s you, your hair longer and tight, springy curls fuller, but the woman laid out like a goddess on King Jack’s table is the one nurse he’s ever attached to.

Snow flakes fall onto your dark skin and melt. Land onto your hair and nestle like diamonds amongst the coils.

The smile you give him is familiar when you turn to look over your shoulder at him. The silver glint on your wrist beneath your frilly sleeves and the chain running from it and attaching you to the table is an affirmation that settles in his bones.

Gait shifting, memories surface of the trashed file room he’d left behind at Smith’s Grove and the words he’d memorized drag up, and he starts heading in the appropriate direction to find your address.

In the end, he leads himself back to you.

TBC…

NOTES: Hope you enjoyed!!!🎃🔪

I used a combination of the theatrical cut and the workprint versions of the movie (alongside trying to send Michael to jail from the original) for the timeline here, just amalgamated them together and made a few of my own changes. And Michael is twenty-one here because I forgot he was older than in the original and it was too late to change.

I started writing the majority of this fic before watching part two — and have only added small bits of plot info and details of Michael’s increased emotional state and general mental state after the events of the first movie — and by the time the final half of the movie started all the good will it gained from how much I loved part one, that it’d been steadily losing as part two went on, completely fled the scene. Did not like the supernatural ghost/shared hallucination angle, or the entire climax really. Annie’s death was sad, and I really loved the exploration of everyone's mental health post Michael’s big attack though— anyway. Also, I was vibing so hard with Harley in the van that when Michael burst in to kill her that was one of the few times I jumped hard as hell.

When I’m not bending canon I think RZ!Michael would just kill you. It’d be more drawn out and intimate like it tends to be when he’s formed a “connection” with somebody, but maybe he’ll pose your body somewhere comfortable at the end and we’ll call that a manifestation of some fondness. Or, honestly, as long as you don’t try to keep him locked up or outright reject him you might be tentatively fine— might.

Also, because of me wanting both Michael and the reader-insert to be closer in age, she’s gone through her first four years of college and is now in her first year past that in her residency, and I think that works age-wise. Question her professionalism all you want, I didn’t know wtf I was doing there, so whatever.

And as someone who doesn’t mind the lack of mythologizing Michael and what rules him — ultimately humanizing him — in Rob Zombie’s reboot, I really like how differently RZ!Michael reads when compared to any version of OG!Michael. They’re very similar, but where they diverge is distinct and I’ve had a good time since watching the 2007 movie unpacking RZ!Michael as best I can. All this to say it’s really fun for me that the versions are so different from one another and, as such, cause me to write them incredibly differently from each other and play around with different ways they’d work— especially in a reader-insert fanfiction sense.

Anyway, bye!!!🫶🏾

btw: if you’d like to leave a comment I’d very much appreciate it!

—

Extra (+) Picture:

The pumpkin court from RZ’s Halloween II (2009).

[soangelbaby]

hihi first off i love ur work sm, ur idea of rafe is perfectionnnn🤤🤤. ur also one of the only consistent dark rafe writers on here ... anyways, i’ve been thinking sooooo much about dad!rafe x camgirl!reader, like imagine him & !readers mom have joint custody of her and whenever she's at her mom's trailer she records the dirtiestttt videos for her subscribers, not knowing the top spender is literally her own father 😫

hii babe, omg thank you so much!! this actually means everything because i’ve been trying hard to be more consistent on here for you guys, so i appreciate you guys engaging with me and genuinely wanting to see my work :’)

now about dad!rafe & camgirl!reader…. omfg 😵‍💫 sick in the best possible way, because i can just see you acting like such an angel in front of him, just daddy’s perfect girl when it’s time to visit, batting your lashes, using your manners, talking so polite no one would ever guess a thing.

but when you’re staying at your mom’s trailer, you’re a completely different girl.

lights already dim in your room, and you’re on your knees in front of your webcam, moaning into some cheap mic, chasing orgasms for strangers who pay to watch you fall apart.

and one night rafe just happens to be browsing on a cam site, trying to scratch some itch he won't name, and there you are. blurry thumbnail, fairy lights behind you, knees spread wide. at first he freezes, horrified. but then for some reason, he clicks.

and once he hears your voice, the same little "daddy's girl" voice you use when you ask him for seconds at dinner? he's gone.

becoming your top spender instantly. no hesitation. his username is anonymous, but the power behind it isn't. he tips hundreds during streams, thousands over weeks. that first orgasm to you feels like a sin he'll never come back from. and he doesn't even want to, leaving little comments in the chat that make your stomach flutter because they feel too...personal.

“you're so perfect when you beg”

“tell me you're daddy's favorite girl”

“use two fingers this time, baby. show me how tight you are”

you play along because it's hot, because he's paying, because why not? you don't even consider who it might be.

but he's watching every single stream like his life depends on it. memorizing the way your thighs tremble when you cum, the sound of your breath hitching, the little whimper that escapes when you're sensitive but still keep going. he knows you better than anyone. his obsession shows in the way he only pays attention to you-not other girls, not other streams. you're the only one worth it.

[merakidoll]

— death note but with venom

venom is the big monster you got when you found the book of death. the rules were simple : write a name and they die. in the beginning you found him annoying; his large body always hovering over you as you watched your victim die. his deep chuckle that made your room shake a little and his long tounge slithering out every so often to lick the tip of your ear. from then to now, you couldn’t figure out how your emotions changed. the laugh that used to make your eyes roll now made you thighs clench together wetness pooling into your panties. venom saw the change, the subductes gaze in your innocent eyes. if he wasn’t a villain he wouldn’t have entertained you - but fortunately he was.

the news blared in the background, reports of another unexplained and sudden death. usually if you weren’t occupied you would be giggling, kicking your feet, and eating popcorn. but - this time your legs were spread open for your big monster. “do you like that?” his usually monotone voice had a slight edge today. his clawed finger rubbed at your puffy bud as gently as he could be. you threw your head back nodding quickly. pink comforter getting damped underneath you both from your wet cunt and venom physically drooling at the smell of you.

“mmm” you both grunted together. your chest heaved up and down, brown nipples hard and welcoming the tip of the textured tongue circling it. “y-yess!” you cried, you hips bucked into he air, venom taking that to move quicker. his slanted eyes zeroed in on your empty hole that dripped for attention. he felt his restraint breaking, his tounge now going back and froth with each nipple that was wet with slob; but it wasn’t enough. his movement shocked you, a small gasp that turned into a loud moan left your lips. venom held your hips and pushed your legs to be by your head. his tounge slowly slithering its way into your pussy. your walls clenched and unclenching as he tried going deeper stretching your hole.

your legs shook, your hand on his slimy head trying to push back tears falling from your eyes. “waittt” you bucked into him, body and mind in two different places. venom rubbed his monsters cock again your bed. big drops of pre cums dripped from him, the friction of the soft cover and you taste being satisfying enough.

he inched a little more of his tounge into you, grunting against you. his eyes closed, tip of his tounge touching all of your insides. your stomach dropped, and one last small unmoving tug to his head was all you could give. your squirt came out showering the monster in your essence. he mumbled how he loved this, he could never go another day without the taste of you but you were like a fish out of water. your head pounded, juices still flowing from you, body twitching. venom would never leave you alone now.

[wraithest]

cat shifter!ghost who dips in and out of your house like he owns the place.

surprisingly, he’s a scrawny little thing. there’s random patches of clumped-up fur on his creamy coat and white markings on his face that kind of resemble a skull. he’s such a little shit too, constantly answering back with angry chirps when you try to shoo him away, sneaking bits of food off your plate when you’re distracted, and spraying just about anything in his path to mark his territory. he could be sleeping on your couch, but as soon as you try to sit or, god forbid, lie down with him, he gets up and finds another spot to nap in. even attempting to pet him results in getting swiped at.

until one night you feel something jump up on the bed. it’s your little mate, and he’s in a very friendly mood judging by the way he curls up right against your chest, head tucked under your chin. he’s never slept near you before, let alone with you, so the only thing running through your mind is don’t fuck it up, don’t fuck it up.

and then he begins purring. the sound starts off quiet and choppy, but as he relaxes, it grows louder, and it’s so comforting that you fall asleep to the whirring, cuddling him closer to keep him warm.

which is all fine and well until morning comes and you realise what you’re feeling isn’t fur but a big, meaty arm, and there is no longer a cat burying his head in your chest but instead a behemoth of a man snoring like a chainsaw in your face.

…and are those fucking cat ears on his head?

[bruisedfig]

run — simon ‘ghost’ riley.

cw: dubcon/noncon, stalking, smut, primal play(?), outdoor sex/getting fucked in a field, breeding kink, dumbification, mention of kidnapping & murder 18+

simon riley x fem!reader ⋮ wc: 2k

he’s gaining on you. fast.

the man that’s been following you around for weeks now—it’s him, you’re sure of it. hiding in every shadow, behind every corner, just out of sight, but close enough to make himself known to you, to make your skin crawl.

it’s the same routine every evening: head down, eyes wide, heart racing, keys between your knuckles, body tense like an elastic band that’s ready to snap, prepared to fall into a sprint at the sound of his heavy footsteps approaching.

he’s terrifyingly massive from what you’ve seen, taller than almost everyone you’ve ever met and built like a tank. you’ve only ever snuck quick glances at the man to confirm he was still there, trailing along on the opposite side of the street, keeping his distance from you while you stumble home quickly, watching you in the fading dusk light.

only ever watching. every night like clockwork.

but simon’s tired of only looking.

he’s tired of holding back, tired of denying himself what he truly wants—feeling your skin beneath his fingertips, the feel of your cunt wrapped around his cock, suffocating it with every clench and squeeze until he spills into your warmth, claiming you from the inside out.

the idea of that runs through your head too.

you have no doubt the man would wreck you. he’d probably end up killing you after as well, leaving your violated body leaking out his seed, your bare corpse discarded lazily for some poor sap to find. maybe you’d be bruised all over, with markings on your neck from his hand squeezing until your eyes drained of life and rolled back into your head.

the thought of it makes you violently queasy, the discomfort flooding through your veins like lava, thick and painful; a feeling you want to rip out from under your skin.

but you can’t stop and think about that now.

you don’t even know where you are anymore. all you feel is the whipping of grass blades hitting your legs and the absence of breath in your lungs. you’re running, every loud stomp amplified by the stillness of the night air.

your heart’s racing, dropped right down into your stomach, beating so fast it’s a wonder it’s not fallen into arrest. your entire body feels like it’s on fire, your lungs screaming out in agony for air, your muscles aching from lactic acid.

but you feel him behind you—he’s not far now.

his steps are quicker than yours; they’re scary, solid, confident. your insides shrivel in fear as the distance between you gets smaller.

he’s completely set on you, chasing you down like you’re a prize that’s about to slip away, like he’s got nothing to lose.

the squeal you let out when his hands finally grab you is frantic, a feeble yelp that tears its way out of your throat—completely and utterly pathetic. his hands are rough against your skin, forcing goosebumps to bloom under his touch. he throws you to the ground, pouncing on you without a second of reprieve—face down, knees in the dirt.

“jus’ shut up. you start squeaking and i’ll kill you,” he says from behind you, his voice low and jagged.

your heart thunders inside your ribcage. it’s like he’s been trained for this sort of thing; he’s so sure of himself, and it’s scary, handling your body against the ground with ease—you can feel the strength and muscle in his movements.

the meek noises you let out are pitiful in comparison to everything about him, erupting wildly from your mouth like a little wounded prey animal.

because that’s exactly how you feel, exactly what you are.

prey.

that’s finally been caught by its predator.

“bloody perfect little thing, aren’t ya? been watchin’ you, dovie. never been so bloody obsessed with a bird in my life. just can’t wait anymore, love, been needing you so bad,” he rasps out in his deep accent. “fuckin’ hell, you’re gonna be so good f’me, aren’t ya? you’re gonna be a good girl.”

you ignore the fire burning low in your belly at the way he speaks to you and how your body seems to give in to him—your cunt slickening itself in preparation as his hands rove over you, unperturbed and demanding. your legs buckle beneath you, spreading apart for him as he rips away your clothing.

he’s efficient, you’ll give him that—pulling off your clothes meticulously quick. the grass blades are harsh against your bare skin; you can already feel the rashes and welts that are bound to bloom on your flesh tomorrow.

if he lets you live that long.

he hoists your hips up, and you hiss at the cold air meeting your puffy folds, inviting itself in between your thighs.

“tch, already so wet for me,” he tuts in a mocking tone, laced with feigned disapproval. “you like being manhandled, huh? tha’s all it takes? fuckin’ dumb little bunny, you are. you’re bloody begging for it, love.”

you hear him spit and then feel the warmth of his saliva drip down your cunt—a vibrant contrast from the cold air surrounding you, making your skin prickle.

his finger swipes along your slit, and your vocal cords betray you; an unsteady whine slips out of your throat.

simon laughs, “oh, pretty noises, huh? you want it that bad? shouldn’t have run from me then. i would’ve been much nicer if you just let me have you back there, but no, silly bunny wanted to play games, wanted to make me chase her.”

his palm forces your head down against the grass in a quick rough motion. it’s unpleasant and scratchy against your cheek, and you feel grainy dirt pressing indents into your skin.

then you hear the jingle of his belt buckle, and then his fly unzip. you whine again, loudly, but no one can hear you.

you’re not even sure you want anyone to—not when you’re arched up off the ground like this, giving into whatever’s possessed your body and taken over. you don’t feel real anymore.

his hands spread you apart, his thumbs either side of your hole, stretching your cunt open for his sadistic eyes. his violating stare pierces right through your insides, and yet, your stomach backflips in delight.

a low growl comes from behind you after a moment—a gruff noise of approval. it makes your cunt clench right before simon’s eyes, practically begging him to fuck it stupid with a load or two, taunting him in the most pathetic way.

he scoffs quietly in amusement, “dirty little thing, you are.”

simon spits again, the glob landing right where he plans to enter you. it drips down your pussy like it’s teasing you—rolling over your clit without offering any stimulation.

“please,” you breathe out, pleading for him, for something.

your face scrunches as soon as the plea leaves your mouth; you’re surprised you’re begging, even simon is, but he doesn’t waste another moment.

simon bullies his swollen cockhead past your opening with a rough grunt, slipping inside your wetness. you match his exhale with a pathetic shriek of your own, a guttural noise pulled straight from your core. he manages to shove his entire length inside you, his fat tip nudging right up against your cervix, his pubes brushing against the globes of your ass.

the stretch around his girth is incredible, bordering on painful. your pussy wraps taut around him, greedily sucking him in despite the wicked sting between your legs. you’re almost sure you could cry at how full you feel, but you don’t.

instead, you groan into the grass and clench around him—your body begging him to stay one with you.

a broken whine billows out of you when he finally pulls his hips back, followed by a gasp when he forces himself inside again, fully sheathing himself in your warmth once more.

he’s brutal with his thrusts, pounding into you with the determination of a wild animal, unable to stop himself from chasing his peak, so vicious you can almost feel him in your lungs.

his treatment is merciless, but all of your own instincts to fight back have gone, disintegrated into flailing limbs and a cunt so wet you can audibly hear it. it’s moan after moan while he forces his cock into your guts; you sound nothing short of a braindead fucktoy. all for him, all because of him.

your knees buckle again, but he helps you stay upright, his hands on your hips, not faltering in his thrusts for a single moment. his grip has you oozing, every plap, plap, plap sound from your wet cunt is exacerbated by his ruthless rhythm, the noise escaping into the night air and bouncing around in your empty head.

you’ve given in. completely.

and you can’t find a single part of you that seems to care.

“oh, tha’s it, love. listen to the fuckin’ sound of y’cunt. you’re bein’ such a good girl f’me. it’ll all be over before you know it. stay with me, dovie, just keep squeezin’ me.”

his dark praise has your insides keening with desire; you don’t want it to be over. you find yourself arching back into his hips, urging him to go deeper, silently begging for more.

simon lets out a boorish laugh and snakes a hand to meet your clit.

his rough fingertips rub at the nerves, and you fall apart instantly, squirming and twitching at every electrical current shooting through your nervous system. he’s practised with his movements, pinching at your swollen bud, making you whimper beneath him. you worsen into a mess of noises and choked breaths, and simon loves it.

“you’ve been such a fuckin’ little tease, walking around with those bloody wide eyes. you were begging me to fuck you last thursday, weren’t you? lookin’ at me all scared and confused. just a stupid little girl with zero survival instincts, huh? shouldn’t make eye contact with men like me, love.“

his words are dangerous filth that make your cunt squeeze desperately around him. “nngggh, please! i can’t–” you cry out. you’re so close; that warm feeling surges through your core, your walls uncontrollably clamping around his cock.

every muscle in your body tenses as you finally hit your peak, gushing around him and whining into the grass like a dying animal. arousal leaks out of your weeping hole, smothering simon’s pelvis in a wet film that only drives him more insane, “oh, there we go. now we’re talkin’, love. what a pretty sight f’me.”

simon fucks three more orgasms out of you, his fingers abusing your oversensitive clit while his cock continues to defile your cunt in ways that you’ve only ever dreamed of. you’re unable to speak by the time he finally spills into you, just a pathetic little wreck, completely and utterly ruined, drooling into the grass with tears in your eyes—his broken little doll.

you feel the twitch of his cock and tightening of his balls as he coats your insides with streaks of his hot white cum, filling you up like it belongs there. he makes no effort to pull away when he’s done funnelling his spend into you, instead allowing your body to soak it up while he stills inside you.

everything falls silent.

apart from the tree branches quietly rustling in the wind, accompanied by your lungs gasping for air.

beyond that, you don’t say a word, not even a noise.

you know you’re a sitting duck, trembling beneath him, waiting for that hand to wrap around your throat and drain your remaining life force.

but the hand never comes. instead, his voice rasps out into the air behind you, “bloody hell, gonna have’ta take you home and keep you. gonna keep breeding you like the dumb little animal y’are, sweetheart. you wanna be my little housepet? gonna let me put a kid in that tummy?”

it’s like your cunt absorbs his words instead of your brain; your muscles clamp around his cock again—so eager and stupid. simon drags his hips back, just to slam into you again, pushing his spend right up to your cervix opening.

“geez, don’t even have’ta tame you, love. y’bloody perfect already, my perfect little bunny… who doesn’t even put up a fight.”

fig yaps: yay first fic in a while, first simon smut, first darker fic, and new fic layout ??? can you hear me cheering ??? :D

taglist: @cryingdew @floralscented @deansbeer @honeyyxxbee @cosmopolitan-thedrink @fawncried @tinas111 @theartmask @tortureddarkstar @angelicjackles @confuzzled-waffle @siddyyyyyyyy @ccainesideboob @littlejoels @cosmicamor @hrtfilm @jensenacklesballsack @beausling @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @tulipsvanilla @nettles-moon @bluemerakis @iloveyou2mia @faiiryfall @gvv3n @scrmqwn @realwhoreforfictionalmen

join my taglist here <3

[softsnarl]

18+, mdni (arctic wolf hybrid!Simon, smut), prt. 1

Wolf hybrids mate for life, everyone knows that.

They're not made for one night stands and meaningless flings; nature has simply not taken that deeply rooted instinct out of the equation for them.

Much like raven and swan hybrids.

That's why Simon stays far, far away from the dating pool, because he's all too aware of his nature. It's why his mother stayed with his abusive father, because her wolf instincts made her, and he doesn't want to end up like that—tied to someone who might hurt him or whom he might hurt somehow.

However, when you—an unmated and terribly gorgeous grey wolf hybrid—joins the team, he knows he's properly fucked.

Even worse, when you eventually go into heat.

Of course, Captain Price has already noticed, but instead of separating you two like any responsible superior should, he switches your schedules and makes you work together more closely.

It's time his Lieutenant finds himself a mate, and you happen to be perfect. Why waste anymore time? Might as well play Cupid.

This way, Simon cannot avoid your delicious scent any longer; the sweet and alluring fragrance of fertility and pheromones clinging to your supple skin, your hair, even twinkling in your eyes whenever your gazes meet and he has to mentally leash himself from lunging at you and knotting you up.

All of the dodging to no avail, though, because you're just as affected by him—and you do try to coax him into making a move, after all.

Flicking your pretty, long and well-groomed wolf tail, fluttering your lashes, letting out frustrated little chirps whenever your pussy drenches another pair of panties around him, flicking your ears submissively and acting like a good little shw-wolf, who simply needs a nice mounting.

The tension coils so tightly that it gets obvious to the rest of the team, and Captain Price is forced to put yourself on forced leave until the problem is solved somehow.

Johnny, a rare lynx hybrid, turns to his captain after watching you two leave the briefing room, "Ye think they'll get it on their own, sir?" he asks with a mischievous glint in his bright blue eyes.

Next to Price, who's taking a slow drag from his cigar, Kyle snorts, cocking an eyebrow before answering instead,

"Nah, not a bloody chance, mate. 20 quid the Lt. comes back wearin' a bloody muzzle and a cock cage."

[julesonrecord]

VACATION BLUES Pairings: Moon System x F!Reader, Marc Specter x F!Reader | Masterlist Summary: You and Steven are excited to go on vacation. Marc, not so much. Jake helps you intervene.

Warnings: Reader is AFAB and has breasts; smut, ho!; oral m!receiving, mentioned f!receiving; fingering, f!receiving; Marc is emotionally constipated aka canon; not fluent in Spanish; surprisingly soft Jake (!!!) Word Count: 2313

A/N: Out of the desert, thirst arose. Or, note to self: "Bitch write it bad, just WRITE IT."

“Hiya love? Are you in? I’m back!”

You’ve been here all morning, no plans but for packing, and you smile at the slight betrayal of anxiety. “I’m in the bedroom!”

He shuffles in, eyes bright, moving from the jumbled pile of clothing on the bed to your face. 

“Hi.” He greets you with a kiss. Steven always kisses you goodbye and hello. Marc usually does too, but Jake has been known to slip quietly out of your sight, into the night. You’ve not yet spoken about it. He’s very good at distracting you when you attempt to bring it up. And then again, you’ve gotten some absolutely scorching hello kisses from him too — the nights where you wonder where he goes, if you should ask. The nights he clings to you, writes his name into your skin with his tongue until you forget every word in every language you know. 

But you love Steven’s sweet kisses. He’s just as good as Jake is in taking you unawares. He does it on the fly, when you’ve already relaxed into his touch, sliding his tongue into your mouth to catch your breath and keep it. 

He’s in no mood for that right now, though. “All packed? Just six hours to go.” Your flight to America leaves in a few hours, an overnight jaunt to New York that will send the two of you off on a cross-country adventure to visit the places you’d always wished to see.

“Just about.” You gesture to the clothes strewn everywhere. “I have a system.”

Steven chuckles, dodging around a pile of your sandals and shoes at the end of your shared bed. “No need to tell me, love, I know all about it. I should. I am a system.”

“I know,” you agree apologetically. “I know Marc and Jake don’t feel the same as you do about my clothes everywhere, though.”

“Oy. We’ve spoken, and I’ll have another word with him, I will-”

Marc appears to wake up a little at his alter’s agitation, but quickly assesses that the threat is himself. Steven, he mutters in the headspace, but it does nothing to stymie Steven’s chatter.

“-This is your flat too, and you have a right to your things, haven’t you? We all have.” He glances around and you wonder if he’s searching for the mirror — you’ve blocked it with one of your scarves, tossed aside during your fashion tornado, but he can still see Marc’s scowl. 

Steven, I can’t even see the fucking floor. Can you tell her to at least clear the floor? It’s a fire hazard.

Steven ignores him. “Anyway, it’ll all be sorted when we leave, right?”

“Yes,” you agree, trying to relax. The idea of upsetting them is painful to you. “That’s true. It’ll be super tidy when we leave, I promise. I know Marc’s already nervous about leaving.”

Marc sighs in the headspace, and Steven feels a light tickle deep in his thoughts that might be Jake, chuckling.

“Are you guys packed?” you ask, going back to folding and picking over your outfits again. 

Steven nods – he’d packed that morning before his half day shift at the museum. “Jake says yes, I think. It’s a silence that sounds like sure, why not, anyway. Marc says he’s been permanently packed since he was sixteen. Cheerful wanker today, isn’t he? Did you know that once when we were ten, we-?”

You hate to interrupt Steven – he’s so often interrupted – but you do it now strategically, knowing that adding childhood memories to Marc’s burdened mind might not help matters. “Did you pick out your books?”

It turns out neither of you have your quota of holiday reads packed, and it takes another hour of chatting, reading, and a little packing before Marc shows his face. Or his hand.

“Here.” The familiar hand lowers into your eyesight as you sprawl on the floor, examining the bottom shelf of your shared bookshelf, holding a slice of pizza. But he’s still anxious. So while you’re sure it’s Marc who hands you pizza (had he fronted and ordered the pizza?), it’s Steven you eat cashew mozzarella and salad with.

“Soon?” you ask him, chewing around Marc’s absence. 

“Soon,” he nods. “Maybe at the airport. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” But you’re a little sad.

You finish packing after dinner, and decide to tidy up the bedroom. You might be leaving for two weeks and personally see no harm in letting the mattress air out, but Jake (and Marc) hate leaving the bed unmade, so when your small explosion of clothes is cleared away, that’s the task you put your mind to.

You’re just finishing the last touches, straightening sheets, a little out of breath from wrestling with the stubborn, slightly out of size fitted sheet when a figure appears in the doorway.

“Mi vida.”

You grin. “Jake.”

“You did the bed how I taught you.”

“You always make it so nice.”

He prowls into the room, his smirk widening. “You know why I do it like that, don’t you?”

“So that you can know if anyone’s been in our flat while we were gone by the way anything’s out of place?”

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, bending to catch your lips.

Jake likes the little details. He likes the bedsheets tucked just so. He likes his coffee with un solo poquito cream. He likes when you purr his name, the sounds smooshed into nonsense when he gets you to come enough times on his fingers.

He tips you onto the bed, fully intending to meet that threshold tonight. 

He loves you like this. When you don’t know what trouble you’re in yet. You’re laughing, soft and sweet. So precious, and the way you sigh when he kisses your sternum makes him want to bite you. 

But he doesn’t. Yet. He’s got other plans.

Thick fingers work you over your shorts until you’re gasping into his lips, hips gently rolling, hesitant, as though you’re afraid he’ll scold you.

“Vamos, nena,” he urges at a whisper, meeting you dead in the eyes so that your heart flutters at the same rate as your tummy.

You come with a shudder, and then he works his fingers into your shorts and builds you up just to fall again, kissing you deep and hot, with strong strokes of his tongue over yours that send you spiraling into a hazy state between pleasure and need. Sparks and heat seem to fly from his fingers directly to where you need him. Your eyes roll back in pleasure, your back lifts. His teeth scrape from the lip of your jaw to your throat, your breast.

And when he has you right where he wants you… he leaves you.

“Shh, shh.” He’s soothing and soft as you whine brokenly, confused. Elbows and things don’t seem to work as well as they usually do as you roll into a seated position, following him with clingy fingers as he gets to his feet, amazed that he isn’t inside you already. “Jake?” “Déjame probarte,” he murmurs, sucking the tips of his fingers into his mouth with a soft groan. “And then you’re gonna taste him, bebita, okay?”

“Huh?” You’re all need and confusion, your stomach tight, bare but for your bra, your thighs soaked. You see the moment Marc takes over the body, and something inside you clenches as he groans. It’s such a weak sound from a man who rarely allows himself weakness.

“Baby?”

He turns at your call, his fingers trailing from his mouth, wary, confused, his mouth set in a grim line until he sees you: wet, naked, flushed. His lips part, eyes going dark. “Jesus, baby. Were we just-? What’d he do to you?”

“Marc,” you whine, reaching for him, letting your pathetic pout free, hoping it’ll get you the sympathy and mercy of your lover. Steven gives you everything you want. Jake usually toys with you until whatever you wanted was blasted out of the water by whatever sick plan he’d concocted. Marc? Marc can go either way.

Bleeding hell. I didn’t do that. Why are we standing here? Go help our girl, she’s-

“Yeah, I know,” he tells you and Steven, “You’re ready to beg, aren’t you? But…”

Putting it on just a little, he crawls onto the bed, hovering over your body, carefully not touching any blazing part of you. “I just got here,” he murmurs, before giving you the barest kiss. “What’s the rush?” He stops you before you or Steven can protest about the flight. “I know, I know, I’m just saying we definitely have time for this.”

You swallow around a dry throat. “For what?”

“For the fucking feast Jake left for me to finish.” He bends as though in prayer to taste your skin, the salt of your sweat, where you’re warm and wanting for him.

Oy. I'm not complaining, but if this makes us late you're paying for the tickets, mate. You were the one that let her pick anywhere she wanted to go, and you were the one fussing about getting to the airport four hours early like a surly dad with a-

“Steven’s here too, little prick,” Marc mutters, already making his way down your belly, but you have other plans. You hook your leg around his waist and just about manage to roll him onto his back.

His grunts of annoyance at being denied his treat are adorable. “Baby, I was gonna go down on you. Just gimme me a second to-”

“I know,” you whisper, unsheathing his erection from the jogging bottoms Steven had never taken off and wrapping your hand around the hot, velvet length of him, almost shuddering as he groans. “But Jake knows we have to go. So I think what he wanted was for me to give you this.”

“I was just-” he breaks off with a low hiss as you run the tip of your tongue along the length of him, flicking at the head to taste the salt of his want where it waits for you.

“Baby,” he tries again, stubborn as all hell but wavering, so you spit messily over the crown of his cock, working him over with slow, firm twists of your hand.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathes, a muscle in his jaw twitching. 

“Just want to make you feel good,” you tell him, reveling in how silky his tip is as you rub your lips against it. “Let me, baby.” You press a palm against his belly, pushing him back. “Let me, please?”

The bed jostles as he all but collapses on it with a strained gasp. You can tell he still isn’t completely comfortable with this, would much rather eat you out and take his satisfaction from your pleasure instead. But he deserves this. Needs this. At least, Jake seems to think so, and you agree.

It’s sensual, the way you crawl over him, nipping his strong thighs, scratching down the length of them with your fingernails. You love to feel him shudder beneath you, love to see his throat bobble with the effort to stay still. He works so hard to protect and please you, to be a good partner despite the high and thick walls that have kept anyone, especially himself, from accessing his deepest waters. “You’re so good to me,” you murmur, anointing him with kisses over his shoulder, his collarbone, down his t-shirt and then under as you push it over his ribs. “Let me be good to you, too.”

The groan he releases as the head of his cock is enveloped by your warm mouth is nothing short of primal. You take as much of him as you can, savoring every wet inch. A wave of warmth and satisfaction hits you, sends everything else in the world falling away around your ears as you feel him start to relax under your attention.

You keep pace, determined not to rush this. You’re so focused on it, in fact, that you almost startle when his palm settles lightly on the back of your head. “S’okay?” He seems out of breath, almost a little bit faraway.

The note you hum around his cock dissolves the last of his doubt that you want this, because as you slowly and methodically suck him off, all of the thoughts that have been buzzing inside of him turn off, too.

It gives him some semblance of control over the situation, you think, to have his fingers in your hair, as though he’s the one fucking your mouth. But he isn’t – his hips cant against your weight once in a while, but mostly he’s melting into the mattress. The most beautiful expression comes over his face as he comes. He’s almost silent, the vein in his forehead pulsing, because he’s not Marc Spector if he’s not white-knuckling for control, but the wave of peace that follows is one you cherish every time. You swallow all he gives you, trying desperately to catch every moment of his eyelids flickering. Then you roll over onto your back and sigh, feeling the weight of a thousand years fall off of you.

If that’s how you feel, then it’s no wonder that Marc is absolutely silent but for his gasping breaths. You sit up first, slide under his heavy arm, melt into his warm kiss.

“I think you got my soul that time,” he mumbles, and you both whisper laughs into the other’s mouth. “Thank you.”

“Thank Jake. He set this up.”

“…What, he told you to-?”

You thumb the soft plush of his bottom lip. “Sort of. I think he wanted you to have the chance to relax. He knows you’re anxious to go home.”

Marc frowns, but not as though he’s upset at you or Jake. More like he can’t figure out what you’ve just said. “It’s – back there has got a lot of memories, baby, that’s all. But I am home. Where you and Jake and Steven are, that’s where I wanna be.”

There’s nothing you can say to that except to kiss him again, and to laugh when Marc mutters, “No, this does not mean we’re going to Coney Island.”

Tagging some friends who might be interested 🩵 @tinytinymenace, @distracted-milkshake @maggiemayhemnj @wardenparker @reallyrallyauthor @my-secret-shame @ivystoryweaver @reylatargaryen @qunariagenda

[arabellasfvv]

Kyle believes its mandatory to say "biiiiig stretch," whenever his dog stretches.

It becomes so much of a habit that whenever you stretch yourself out in the morning he croons, "biiiiiig stretch." Sometimes laughing lightly as he's already getting dressed, sometimes still half asleep face buried against his pillow. Didnt matter the state, he just always did.

And when your back is arching off the bed — your nails are clawing at his shoulders, weak whines and pleas spilling past your lips at the stretch of his cock pushing inside of you — his big hand is cupping your cheek.

Smiling down at you so sweetly as if his eyes aren't staring with pure hunger. And oh, his voice is so mean when he hums a, "biiiiig stretch."