#(there are bubbles there too but they’re faint)

[moonstruckme]

Dizzy

summary: when your roommate James comes home after a night out with his friends, he's acting even more affectionate than usual

cw: alcohol

modern au

roommate!James x fem!reader ♡ 2.7k words

You can always hear when James’ friends come over. The door opens and the sound of them comes pouring through into your flat, the boys always in the middle of bickering or joking or telling some incredibly animated story. 

When you hear their noise late on a Friday night, you pause the movie on your laptop and head for the door, drawn towards their loudness. James’ friends are rowdier than anyone you hang out with, but it’s a happy sort of ruckus. They’re fun and hilarious and surprisingly kind, and you enjoy chatting when they come over. 

“Hi, gorgeous,” Sirius sing-songs, spotting you as soon as you emerge from your room. You laugh at his scratchy, worn-out voice. He sounds like he’s probably been singing at the top of his lungs all night. Dark eyeliner has transferred to the skin under his eyes, but Sirius is the only person you know with his particular ability to make dishevelment look rock-and-roll instead of slobbish. 

“Hi,” you say back, grinning at him. Your eyes search behind him to find Remus, just coming through the doorway. As always, he looks completely different from his other half; whereas Sirius has unmistakably just gotten home from a night out, Remus could just as easily have been at the library in his jeans and t-shirt, except for the faint black smudge where Sirius’ eyeliner has seemingly rubbed off on his cheek. Then you catch sight of James, drooping like an overwatered flower with his arm slung around Remus’ shoulder. “Is he okay?”

“Yeah, he’ll be alright,” Remus grunts, heaving your roommate through the entryway. He tries to send you a smile of greeting, but it’s more of a well-meaning grimace. “He just needs to drink some water.” 

“I won,” Sirius says giddily, stumbling over and grabbing your arm. “I outdrank James Potter.” 

There’s a nervous edge to the laugh that bubbles out of your throat. “That’s great, Sirius, congratulations.” You cast an alarmed look towards Remus. “You all had a competition?”

Remus shakes his head. “They had a competition.”

“I won,” James says suddenly, picking his head up as if revived from a deep sleep. “Don’t listen to him, Y/N, I’m the winner.”

Sirius makes a derisive sound. “You can’t even walk, Potter.” 

“I can,” James defends himself, and slips his arm from around Remus’ shoulder. Both you and Remus put your hands out cautiously like when a toddler takes its first steps, but James totters safely to the couch, leaning against it like he’s just finished a marathon and directing a smug smile towards Sirius. “Suck it, Pads.” 

Sirius’ lips curl impishly. His unsteady gaze settles on Remus, still hovering by the door. “Gotta get home to do that.” 

“Alright,” Remus says quickly, stepping forward to take his boyfriend by the shoulders and steering him towards the door. “We’re gonna go home and get to bed—to sleep.” He’s blushing something fierce, and you do your absolute best not to smile. “Prongs.” James looks up from where he’s been toying with the fabric of your couch throw. “Drink some water, and then go to sleep, yeah?” Remus raises his brows, waiting for confirmation, and James presses a solemn hand to his heart. 

“Your wish is my command, Moony-boy.” 

Remus rolls his eyes but turns to go, sending you a quick goodnight with an apology embedded in his voice before he shuts the door behind him. You lock it, and turn back around to find James performing a lazy somersault over the back of the couch and onto the cushions. 

“James,” you laugh, and he smiles up at you like he doesn’t know what’s so funny but is happy to be a part of it anyway, “do you want to come into the kitchen to have some water?”

James turns pensive. “Is that where you’re going?”

“Mhm.” 

“Then sure.” He hops up a bit too fast, and has to put his arms out in front of him to regain his balance. 

You take his forearm in your hand, knowing you won’t be able to support his weight if he really falls but hoping you can at least slow his descent, and begin walking him toward the kitchen. “Are you feeling dizzy?” you ask him.

James hums. “A bit. But in a good way, you know?”

You don’t, but you nod anyway. “Well,” you say with certainty you can’t feel, “that’s good. Chill here for a second, okay?” You prop him up against the counter, and James melts against it instantly in that easy way he has, leaning back on his elbows and crossing his ankles in front of him. The edge of the counter has to be digging into his back, but James makes it look like the most comfortable spot in the flat. 

You start to grab a glass from the cabinet but then think the better of it, opting for a less destructible plastic cup. You fill it with icy water from the tap. 

“Alright.” You pass it to him. “Don’t drink it too fast.” 

James takes the cup with a smile that’s really much sweeter than your tiny gesture warrants. Then he proceeds to slide the rest of the way down the counter, until he’s sitting with his legs spread out in front of him on the floor. After a moment, you decide to join him, crossing your legs under you and letting your back rest beside his. The floor just seems like the place to be right now. 

For the first time since you’ve known him, James seems content to sit in silence, sipping at his water. Neither of you are looking at each other, or really anywhere in particular. It’s definitely a Friday night, more of the noise of voices and traffic making their way up to your flat than you hear on most days of the week, but your home itself is quiet. The light in the kitchen is dim, coming in from the lamp you’ve left on in the living room, and your body relaxes instinctively in the peaceful dark. 

James has nearly emptied the cup when he says, “Hey,” as if he’s just remembered something important.

You look at him. “What?”

“There’s no ice in here.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Did you want ice? I can put some in, I just thought you preferred drinks without ice.” 

Even in the dim light, you can make out enough of James’ eyes to see the brown in them go absolutely molten. He turns toward you more fully, his shoulder and cheek squished up against the cabinets. “Aww, you knew.”

You laugh at him, his smushed cheek pushing his glasses up on his face and his bottom lip jutting out slightly. The effect is that he looks both worryingly drunk and decidedly endearing. “Of course I know,” you say. “We’re roommates. I’m bound to pick up on things.” 

Your words do nothing to curb James’ adoration. “Still, you noticed,” he says, maudlin. “Thanks, sweetheart.” 

Sweetheart. The word resounds in your head like the happy chime of a bell. James is always calling you that, but usually it seems thrown away, a light little endearment he tacks onto his addresses without thinking. This feels different. It lingers on his tongue like caramel, soft and sticky sweet. Sweetheart. 

“Of course,” you say again, and you’re grateful for the poor lighting that’s hiding your blush. “Ready to go to bed?”

James looks at you like you’ve asked him to solve a calculus equation, thick brows knitting together. Maybe it’s the endearment still ringing in your head, but you really want to smooth the crease from between them with your thumb. You don’t. 

“I dunno,” he says after a moment. “Are you tired?”

“A little,” you admit. “Aren’t you?”

He shrugs. “I could be.” And then he’s hauling himself up, an overly complicated process that involves getting his feet underneath him while he’s already using the counter to pull himself off the floor. You have to bite back a smile as you watch, and when he’s done James extends a hand to you. As if you’re the one who needs help. 

You take it but don’t actually put any of your weight on him as you stand, grabbing his empty cup from the counter. James’ hand is big, engulfing yours easily, and the condensation from the cool water still lingers on his palm. He doesn’t let go as you start towards his bedroom. You tell yourself it’d be mean to pull away on your own. 

“Oh!” he exclaims, once again like he’s discovered something fascinating. “I haven’t even asked—how’s your night been?”

You laugh again. You can never seem to stop laughing around James. “It’s been good, thanks. Not as eventful as yours, I take it.” 

James hums in unhappy affirmation. “Lucky you.”

“Well, seems like you got the true night-out experience.” You bring him to sit on his bed, bending to untie his shoes for him and setting them by the door. “Do you wanna sleep in that or change into pajamas?” you ask, fighting the urge to tack on the honey that pushes at your lips. 

There’s no deliberation there. “Pajama pants, at least. I can’t wear jeans in bed, m’not a monster.”

You smile to yourself, locating a pair of pajama pants on the floor and holding them up for him to see. “These okay?”

“Yeah, thanks.” 

You toss them to him. James starts to strip, and you turn around quickly, going into the bathroom. “So, aside from the drinking contest, did you have a good time tonight?”

“Yeah,” he says lightly. You fill the cup with water from James’ sink and find a bottle of ibuprofen in the drawer underneath. “It wasn’t bad. Remus is so busy lately, it’s good to get to see him at all, and beating Sirius is always fun.” He gives a little laugh. “He’s such a sore loser.” 

“He seemed to think he’d won,” you say, your tone teasingly dubious. 

A harrumph. “If Remus doesn’t set him straight on that, I’ll do it tomorrow.”

You chuckle.

“You’ll tell ‘em, won’t you?”

“For sure. Do you have your pants on yet?”

“Oh. Yeah.” You go back into the bedroom to find James comfy under the covers, smiling sheepishly. “I didn’t know you were waiting for me to tell you, sorry.” 

“No worries.” You smile. He looks so sweet like this, curls splayed out around his head on the pillow the way a kid draws rays around the sun. You set the cup and pill bottle on his nightstand, using your proximity to study his face. His pupils are huge and unfocussed, and the smile he’s aiming at you is a bit too dopey for your liking. “You said you were dizzy…do you think you’re going to be sick?”

“No.” James starts to push himself up as if to make his point, then decides against it, resting his head against the edge of the mattress with a tiny grimace. “Maybe.” 

“That’s okay,” you reassure him, grabbing a wastebasket from under his desk. “Here, I’m going to put this by the bed just in case, okay? And you’ve got water and ibuprofen on the nightstand.” 

James doesn’t respond. He’s looking at you dazedly. 

“James.” You tap his cheek lightly. “Do you understand? You need to use the wastebasket if you feel sick.”

His hand emerges from beneath the covers, fingers braceleting your wrist. “Stay with me,” he mumbles. You’re glad he’s definitely too out of it to feel the quick bumping of your pulse beneath his fingers. When you hesitate a second too long, James tightens his grip beseechingly. “Please, sweetheart?” 

There it is again. Your brain buzzes in response. 

“Alright,” you whisper, brushing a soothing touch against the inside of his forearm, and James releases you. “I was watching a movie before you got home. Want to finish it?”

He agrees, and you go across the hall, retrieving your laptop. You climb over him on the bed, pretending not to feel the brush of a big hand across your hip as though meant to steady you. You settle your laptop between the two of you and press play on the movie.

James leans over, resting his head on your shoulder. “You’re always watching this,” he murmurs. “You don’t get tired of it?”

“Not really,” you reply. “It’s my favorite. But if you are, I can change it.”

He makes a humming sound, and you feel the vibrations in your shoulder. “No, s’alright. Bet you can quote half the film, though, can’t you?” 

You grin. “I’m scared,” you say, in time with the actress on your screen. “I don’t wanna get hurt.” You can feel James smiling, his cheek smushing against your shoulder. You lower your voice into a gruff mockery of the male actor’s intonation. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

James makes a soft sound of amusement. “Cute,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. 

You fall into an easy silence, blue light cast over your features as the familiar scenes play out quietly on your laptop. You keep sneaking glances at James, thinking he’s either about to fall asleep or be sick, but he’s watching the movie contentedly, head a solid but welcome weight on your shoulder. He’s evidently decided to discard the shirt he’d worn to the bar, and the skin of his bare shoulder is warm where it presses against your arm. He adjusts his head a little, and his curls tickle the underside of your jaw. You don’t know how he gets them so soft. Not through any strict regimen or product, apparently. One good thing about having a guy for a roommate is that he’s never the one who runs out the hot water; he’s in and out of the shower in ten minutes every time. And yet, if you look closely enough, you can usually find at least two or three perfect coils in his hair. Genetics, you suppose. James was blessed with a good lot of them. 

The movie’s not half done before you’re yawning, your eyelids feeling like someone’s sewn fishing weights into them. You try not to shift, but your shoulders rise with the involuntary inhale, and James looks up at you. You yawn again, covering your mouth with one hand as a tear forms in the corner of your eye, squished out when you blink. You wipe it away. 

“Wait,” James says. You go still, looking over at him curiously as he adjusts against the headboard of his bed, pushing himself further upright. He tilts his head. The back of his index finger brushes gently under your lashes. “You always get teary at night,” he says softly. 

You know you should get out from under his touch, but you can’t make yourself. “I tear up a lot when I yawn.” 

Just thinking about it has you yawning again, and James takes your face in his hand, catching the tear that falls from one eye. 

“Don’t cry,” he begs you. “If you cry, I’ll cry.” 

You take his wrist in your hand, giving him a small smile. “I’m not crying, James. I’m just tired.” 

“Okay,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss, feather-light, just next to your eye. You freeze, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “Okay, m’sorry. You’re tired? Wanna go to sleep?”

You have to clear your throat to make sure your voice comes out right. “Sure.” It’s still a bit hoarse. “Wake me if you need anything, okay?”

James takes your hand, a willing captive between two of his as he draws it into his lap. He settles his head back onto your shoulder. “Okay. You’re too nice to me.” 

“I’m not,” you say, before you can think the better of it. “You’re the nice one.” 

James only hums.

You swallow. “Goodnight.” 

You’re waiting for a response, the movie on your laptop just now getting to the scene where the love interests give in and confess their feelings for each other, when you feel a wet spot forming near the collar of your shirt. Slowly, careful not to jostle him, you tilt your head to look down at the source of the drool puddle. 

James already asleep.

#roommate!james #roommate!james potter #roommate!james x reader #james potter #james potter x reader #james potter x fem!reader #james potter x y/n #james potter x you #james potter x self insert #james potter fanfiction #james potter fanfic #james potter fic #james potter fluff #james potter imagine #james potter oneshot #james potter drabble #james potter one shot #james potter scenario #marauders #marauders era #the marauders #marauders fanfiction #marauders fanfic #marauders fic #the marauders era #marauders fandom #hp marauders

[lovebugism]

I heard you’d like some requests, don’t mind if I do 👹 I could’ve sent 62 but I restrained myself:

*grumbling* "Some people are waaay too touchy."

if it inspires you, please!

emmy (upsidedownwithsteve) 🧡

@upsidedownwithsteve, my love! it was an honor to write for you! i hope you like it :D — eddie munson's a big, jealous grump at the bar (established relationship, fluff, 1.1k)

Eddie’s having a piss-poor night. His beer’s lukewarm, the music’s too loud, you’re too far away, and Steve Harrington hasn’t shut up in ten minutes. 

He could hardly stand the dumbass everyone used to call The King, but even less when he’s got a golden arm thrown over your shoulder. And, yeah, it’s all friendly or whatever, but that hardly quells the wildfire burning in his chest. “What right does he have to touch you like this? Fucking none,” grumbles the wild-haired boy’s inner conscience. 

But then again, no one does. Not even him.

“Think I should go buy her a drink?” Steve asks you over the blaring pop music. His honey eyes are pointed across the bar at a girl way out of his league. His slick mouth is far too close to your ear.

You roll your eyes. “I think you should be a gentleman and feel things out with her first—”

“Oh, I’m gonna feel things out with her, alright,” Steve scoffs, bringing the lip of the beer bottle to his mouth.

“—Before jumping into a one-night stand you only halfway recover from.”

The two of you turn to glare at each other, then. Gazes unwavering. Noses mere inches apart. Eddie makes a faint grumbly noise of protest about it, but the boyish sound of disgust goes unheard under the music.

But when I see you hanging about with anyone—

It’s not unusual to see me cry; I wanna die!

Someone’s been plugging the same goddamn Tom Jones song into the jukebox for six minutes now. Eddie feels like he might as well be in hell at this rate. It’d hurt less, he figures.

You and Steve seem to communicate telepathically until he inevitably caves first. He huffs until his puffed-out chest deflates, along with his stupid ego. He doesn’t know how you always seem to be right about everything. He fucking hates it, actually.

“Right. Whatever. I’m gonna go find Robin. She’s probably lost,” Steve deadpans with a sigh as he slides out from the booth. “Want anything?”

“Can you get me—”

“A spicy margarita?” he finishes for you — like he can read your fucking mind, Eddie grouses bitterly to himself. He hates that someone else knows you as well as he does.

You squint. “How’d you know?”

‘Cause it’s your favorite thing to drink after shots, Eddie answers in his head.

“Because we just had tequila shots. And you always want a spicy margarita after tequila shots,” Steve deadpans, then chuckles when your face scrunches. He pokes the very apple of your cheek and turns to the pouty boy across from you. “What about you, Eds? Want another beer while I’m up?”

Eddie shakes his head with a flat face, then takes a sip of his warm and hardly-sipped beer.

“Next round’s on you two, alright? I’m not your fucking boyfriend— you’re not getting free beers off me all night,” Steve chides lightheartedly before disappearing into the crowd. 

You only smile to yourself as he goes. You know he’ll buy the whole damn bar out if you ask him to. ‘Cause that’s what best friends are for and all. Especially when they’re rich.

A groan bubbles in Eddie’s throat when the upbeat song starts all over again. It’s not unusual to be loved by anyone! the man croons. He drops his head to his elbow and bellows an annoyed moan. His chestnut curls spread wild over his shoulders.

You hide your grin behind your fist. “What’s wrong, Eds?”

“Nothin’,” he monotones, face still hidden.

“You haven’t said a word in twenty minutes.”

“Well, Steve hasn’t shut up in about thirty, so…” he retorts and lifts his heavy head, faking a smile as he tilts his flushed cheek to his shoulder. “Getting you two idiots into a room is fuckin’ crazy, you know that, right? Neither of you knows when to stop talking.”

Your nose scrunches. “Well, that’s what usually happens when you have friends, Eddie. You have conversations.”

“You sayin’ I don’t have friends, sweetheart?” he questions with narrowed, chocolate eyes.

“No,” you answer, grinning all pretty. “I’m sayin’ you’re jealous for no reason.”

His face falls flat at having been found out so quickly. Though he figures he wasn’t exactly being discreet about the whole thing. He grumbles and shifts awkwardly in his seat, feeling too seen beneath your unwavering stare.

“Some people are just way too touchy,” he grouses with a boyish sneer on his features, trying desperately to hide his pout behind the amber bottle in his fist. He takes another sip of the lukewarm liquid and averts his gaze.

Your beam widens until it brightens the dim bar. “You’re the one sitting all the way over there, you loon,” you tell him with a soft giggle that squints the edges of your eyes.

Eddie perks at the invitation. His doe eyes flit from the sticky table to your twinkling eyes. He’s been waiting on the offer all night, too much of a coward to ask you himself, and it shows on his suddenly hopeful features.

You nod your head to the empty spot beside you. “Get over here before Steve comes back and starts yapping again.”

Eddie rises with a newfound life, rounding the table and sliding into the squeaky booth beside you. He clutches his beer with his left hand and throws his right around your shoulder. His arm rests over the back of the booth where Steve’s once was, holding you like he’s been dying to all night.

“Better?” you grin.

He nods wordlessly, wild curls tickling your jaw. He takes another sip to hide his quiet smile when you press your lips to the flushed apple of his cheek.

Steve returns then, with your spicy margarita in one hand and Robin’s wrist in the other. She stumbles in behind him and sways in place ahead of the table — freckled cheeks rosy, ocean eyes glassy.

“Have fun?” you wonder with a teasing lilt.

“I saw something shiny on the way back from the bathroom,” the brunette girl confesses in tiny slurs. “Then I get lost…”

You nod sympathetically. “We figured.”

Steve nudges her ahead of him until Robin gets the hint. She slinks gracelessly into the booth. The boy squints as he slides you your drink. “You’re in my seat,” he observes, as if it weren’t blatantly obvious.

Eddie shrugs. “…Yeah?”

“You could’ve just asked to switch,” he scoffs and slips in beside Robin.

“I was fine,” the wild-haired boy insists, then nods his head over to you. “She’s the one that wanted me to move.”

And even though that’s not exactly what happened, you nod anyway. “Yeah. I got too tired of sitting next to you, Stevie,” you tease the boy ahead of you. “Your cologne’s too strong— you smell like a fucking high school boys’ locker room.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you had a ton of experience in those back in the day, didn’t you?” Steve scoffs.

Your eyes narrow. “Dick.”

“Jesus,” Eddie grumbles like a storm cloud. “Stop flirting.”

#published by bug #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson #stranger things #stranger things imagine #stranger things x reader #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfiction #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #st drabbles #eddie spaghetti drabble

[leviathans-watching]

lucifer, mammon, diavolo apologizing after a fight

includes: lucifer, mammon, diavolo x gn!reader (no pronouns mentioned)

wc: 1.2k | rated t | m.list

a/n: i guess i was in the mood for some mild hurt/comfort and fluff lol. thanks for reading and my inbox is open for reqs, feedback, and just to talk so come talk with me!

please reblog <3

lucifer shuts the door behind him quietly, listening intently. the house is silent, but he knows you’re still awake. trying to shake himself free of his nerves, he checks over the bouquet of flowers, making sure they’re in top shape, then straightens his tie.

making his way through the house, he checks each room for you, each as dark and empty as the last. until he gets to your shared room, where the door is shut. he listens at the door, and can faintly hear music and running water. you’re likely in the bath.

pushing the door open, lucifer sees then ensuite bathroom’s door cracked and can now distinguish faint splashing. you’re definitely in there. calling out your name so he won’t startle you, lucifer waits until you allow him to enter.

“what?” you ask irritably, not meeting his eyes, and his heart skinks. he feels terrible for the earlier argument especially since it’s clear you’re still upset.

“darling, i wanted to apologize for earlier,” he says, dropping to his knees outside of the bath. you pop some bubbles, resolutley ignoring him, so he goes on. “i was being stubborn and knew even in the moment you were correct. there are no excuses for my earlier words and actions and i am truly sorry.” he offers you the flowers. “will you forgive me?”

you finally look up at him, and his gut tightens. how could he have been so cruel to you?

you take the flowers, smelling them for a long, painful moment. then you give them back and he feels like he’s been punched. until you speak.

“thank you for the apology. and for the flowers. of course i forgive you. but,” you warn, “you must never, and i mean never, lucifer, speak to me that way. do you understand?”

“yes, darling, anything,” he promises, overpowering relief crashing through him. you lift a wet hand up and pull him to you by the tie, bringing his face to yours.

“good. and i’m glad you realized i was right.” you give him a peck, lips there and gone before he can act. “now, to fully make it up to me, will you wash my hair?”

“you don’t even have to ask,” lucifer replies, already rolling up his sleeves. as he helps you wash, a finally peaceful silence falling between you, he thinks of how lucky he is to have you, something he’s aware of each and every day.

mammon jumps up when he hears the door open, rubbing his sweaty hands on his pants. you’d gone for a walk after the earlier fight and every moment without you was excruciation, especially after he’d finally admitted to himself he was in the wrong.

“hey,” he breathes as you remove your coat. you give him a look, and he knows he’s got to do better. “i’m sorry, mc,” he amends, feeling like he’s speaking too loud for the distance between you. “i seriously fucked up and i’m so, so sorry. i was angry but that was no excuse to treat you like that or speak to you that way. i’m really sorry.”

“thank you,” you finally say, breathing out a sigh. “and i’m sorry too. i overreacted.”

“no!” he says quickly. “you were only reacting to my aggression. it was my fault. and you were right. i understand if you want more space from me.”

“to be honest,” you begin. “that’s the last thing i want right now. come here and give me a hug.”

mammon moves faster than he should, almost tripping over the coffee table, and wraps you in his arms tightly. it’s only now that he realizes he’s practically trembling–man, he must have been really nervous. you hug him back, just as tight, and his eyes are only bringing because he’s got some dust in them, okay? absolutely no other reason.

after a long, long moment, you pull back from him, giving him a watery smile. “i love you,” you say, and he presses his forehead to yours, feeling your warmth.

“i love you too. i’m sorry.”

“you already said that,” you tease, and he smiles sadly.

“’m still sorry. and, to be honest, don’t want to cook. so whaddya say we go out for ramen tonight?”

“only if i get to pick where,” you say. “and if you pay.”

“well i thought that was obvious,” he huffs. your stomach growls then, and he grabs your coat, motioning for you to let him help you put it on. he grabs your hand when it’s all buttoned, wrapping his fingers around your tightly. he made the mistake of letting you go earlier and he’s not going to do anything like that now.

diavolo frets, looking over everything once again. he truly has no idea how to apologize, and though asking barbatos had crossed his mind he knew he couldn’t ask another man to help him with this. not when it concerns you.

as son of the demon kind, diavolo’s never really been wrong before. demons just kind of…listened to him, and in cases where he was really off the path barbatos and lucifer would often guide him without explicitly crossing his orders, something he knows they think he hasn’t noticed. but navigating life with you is nothing like ruling over the devildom, and in many ways, diavolo finds it much, much harder.

but he’s going to admit he was wrong and apologize! if there’s one thing he can remember from when he was very, very young, it was watching his father, the king, apologize to the queen, much as he’s doing now. the only difference is that he hasn’t officially made you ruler alongside him but that can be thought about later.

he checks his ddd for the time, and exhales nervously. he’d asked you to meet him at the spot of your first date and it was nearing the time that he’d written, and you never were one to be late. as if he imagined you, you appear, hesitant and nervous. but you’d come, and that’s enough for him.

“diavolo? what is all of this?” you look over the picnic, from the expensive chocolates to the wrapped gift and then back to him.

“i wanted to say i was sorry,” he says nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “when we argued, i wasn’t fair to you, nor did i listen. and then i reacted poorly and in a way that’s never okay. and i truly apologize.”

“you did all this to apologize?” you ask, and he nods.

“was it too much? i don’t really know what i’m doing but i know i want to make it up to you. can you forgive me?”

“of course,” you reply, and he feels like he can finally breathe. “and while this is nice, it is a little much. i really only wanted to hear you say you were sorry.”

“i’m sorry.”

“i know. thank you for saying that. and for doing all of this. and i’m sorry too,” you continue, holding up a hand before he can say you have nothing to apologize for. “i should have talked to you instead of just running away. now, let’s enjoy this wonderful picnic you’ve prepared.”

“i love you,” he says. “so much.”

“i love you,” is your simple reply, but for him, it’s more than enough.

leviathans-watching's work - please do not copy, repost, or claim as your own

#obey me #obey me game #obey me shall we date #obey me x you #obey me x reader #obey me x mc #obey me x y/n #obey me fluff #lucifer obey me #mammon obey me #diavolo obey me #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me diavolo #diavolo x you #diavolo x reader #mammon x you #mammon x reader #lucifer x you #lucifer x reader #obey me hurt/comfort #leviswriting #leviswriting-obeyme

[himbofan4444]

“Another day…” I say to myself as I walk through the parking garage. The is air still damp from the rainstorm yesterday. I look around. The garage is oddly vacant. Perhaps I’d come in when the buildings closed again. Determined to finish the day and get home quickly, I trudge past the puddles and cigarette butts. “God it’s freezing,” I say to myself, shivering.

I look around again. I’m used to a long walk to the stairs but today’s feels… really long. I can’t see my car but that’s all thanks to the thick fog that has been settled in town for a few days. I can’t see the stairwell either. The only thing I can see is the fog surrounding me. I sigh and continue my trek forwards, unsure if I’m even moving forwards anymore.

After a few more minutes of walking, I stumble upon an odd sight. In front of me is a shopping booth, something I’ve never seen the liking of before here. A faint concoction of aromas reach my nose: a strange mix of perfume, wood, leather, and some other implacable scents. At the booth stands a broad man. On the table, there are a variety of brightly colored liquids contained in erlenmeyer flasks. The man waves me over, a toothy grin across his dark, bearded face.

“Well hello there fine fellow! How can I help ya?” the man asks. His voice is gravelly and deep, the kind of voice that makes you weak in the knees.

“Oh, I’m not interested in buying anything, sir. I’m just trying to find the stairs,” I respond.

The man lets out a hearty laugh, “Please, call me Rohan! And I insist. I’ll even give you a hefty discount.”

I eye the flasks, taking in the colorful liquids. Each is bubbling and emanates an odd warmth, much preferable over the freezing air of the rest of the parking garage. “So, what are they?” I ask.

“Oh, just some herbal remedies. They’re very common in holistic medicine,” Rohan says, lifting up to of the flasks. “Would you like one, sir?”

“Oh I’m not sure if I should. I’ve tried these things before and they haven’t… agreed with me,” I say, letting out a small chuckle.

“Don’t you worry about that, sir. These are all natural. I insist, try one. Here,” Rohan picks up a pink one and holds it out for me. I reluctantly grab it and give him a half-smile. “That’ll be $5, sir,” Rohan says as he holds out his large palm. I search through my wallet and find a crumpled up $5 bill and hand it to him. He smiles and says with a certain satisfaction, “Have a lovely day, sir!”

I walk off with the flask in hand, still unsure of where the stairs are. I check my phone for the time. Shit! I’m late! I briskly walk through the parking garage but to no avail. I’m still lost. At least until I see my car. Damnit! I just walked in a big circle! Exhausted and angry, I get in my car and sit down. The car is almost as cold as outside, a small remnant of the heating still present. I start the car, deciding to head home.

Before I can put my foot on the gas pedal, my gaze drifts down to the flask in the passenger’s seat. “I should probably drink that…” I say to myself. I reach down and grab it, bringing the beverage to my lips. It smells like perfume. I lift the flask, the contents of which pouring into my mouth and down my throat. It’s almost unbearably sweet. So much so that it’s almost bitter. There’s also a strange salty aftertaste. I cough and drink from my water bottle, the flavor lingering in my mouth.

I drive home in silence, allowing myself to be bitter about today’s events as of now. As I drive home, I notice an odd, unfamiliar tingling in my butt. I itch it but it doesn’t help. “Maybe I just worked legs a little too hard yesterday,” I say with a shrug. Soon, my whole body feels tingly, almost numb. My work clothes begin to feel a bit tight on my body, specifically my pants. I’m sure I grabbed the larger size I have but maybe I didn’t. This morning was quite hectic after all. I shrug off the odd occurrence and continue my drive home.

On the way home, I pass a Starbucks and turn into the parking lot. I usually don’t buy such frivolous things, but I’d already bought that horrible drink so why not? As I walk inside, I notice a strange quality to my walking. Usually I have a quite confident strut but that has been replaced by something almost like a waddle. Odd.

Once inside, I’m finally warm. The warmth of the store is so refreshing. Before ordering, I sit at a table by the window. Sitting here feels weird. I’m not used to this amount of cushioning on these chairs but maybe I misjudged them. I take off my winter coat, setting it on the high top table in front of me. I catch a glimpse of my arms in my tight dress shirt sleeves. Jesus! I’ve always been in shape but I’ve NEVER been this big. I flex a small bit, blushing at my public flexing session. Damn, the gym’s been doing me good recently.

A short blonde barista walks over to me. She’s very cute but my still bitter attitude puts a damper on my lustful looks. She pulls out a notepad and a pencil, “Would you like anything sir?”

“Oh no-“ I clear my throat. My voice sounds less deep than normal for some reason. “I mean, sure. Could I have a vanilla latte?” Why did I order that? I always order black coffee, never that girl shit. The barista smiles and nods, writing my order down, “Got it. Is that all?”

“Yes ma’am,” I respond. Handing her the money for the beverage.

She walks off, immediately going to make my drink. I rub my throat. Why do I still sound so weird? She comes back over, my drink in hand. “Here you go sir,” she says, “Oh and by the way, I love your hair. Blonde is so your color. You look fabulous.” She walks away to serve other customers.

What? Blonde? I’m not blonde. I’ve always had brown hair. And… fabulous? Who does she think I am? One of those queers? Does my hair really look blonde to her? I pull out my phone and look at myself in the selfie camera. Jesus! My hair IS blonde! And it looks… curly. What the hell happened?! And my face… It looks off. Something is uncanny about it. I look like myself but also not… Like my lips look bigger and so do my eyes. My eyebrows look a bit neater than they should and my stubble is shorter than normal.

I get down from the stool, ready to leave and deal with this weird stuff at home. As I walk out, I feel a strange jiggling in my rear. I crane my neck around my shoulder to see what was going on with my butt. Holy shit! My ass is huge! I run out to my car, my big fat ass jiggling like crazy as I run. I quickly drive home.

Once inside, I strip off my damp clothes to assess the damage. My muscles do look bigger than normal, especially my pecs. They look like fucking tits. Jesus, they’re huge. My ass is enormous, any movement causing it to jiggle wildly. And that tingling in my ass still hasn’t gone away. I look like a poster fag. Like the dictionary definition of a faggot. Fuck…

I go up to my room and find a cardboard box on my bed. After opening it, I see a huge pink dildo and a pink jockstrap, both the same color as the drink. The dildo is easily a foot long. I shiver in disgust looking at the items. An odd feeling comes from my ass. My ass is tingling worse than before, specifically directly in my asshole. God I just wanna shove that dildo up my ass… No! I can’t be thinking like a fag! Looking like one is bad enough!

I shove the grotesque items back into the box and chuck the box across the room. I look at myself in the mirror, hesitantly touching my pouty lips. They feel almost numb, as if they aren’t real. Come to think of it… I feel my pecs and my ass, both having the same numb tingling. Oh my god…

My body stiffens up, my back arched, showing off my large muscle tits and fake fuckable ass. Goddamn why am I thinking like that? Against my will, my buff arms reach up and turn my baseball cap, which had gone from a cream color to a black and pink one, backwards. It’s like a switch got flipped. My brain goes from active and agile to slow and dull. MY thoughts become more lustful and… gay.

Damn, I wish Rohan fucked me earlier. He like totally has a huge dick. I pout, crossing my arms across my inflated chest. My heads turns, facing the discarded box. My body prances over to the box and extracts the faggy… I mean sexy things. I pull the pink jockstrap over my big round ass, doing a few hops to see my bubble butt bounce in the elastic material. I snatch up the massive dildo and lay in my bed, my thick beefy legs spread out. My body instinctively shoves the dildo as far up my ass as it can.

My hole feels oddly loose despite the lack of penetration it’s received. My brain pushes those thoughts into the garbage, conjuring up new memories of me being fucked by hoards of men, each hung like a horse and concerningly aggressive. I let out shrill, feminine moans with each thrust of the toy. Each thrust causes my room and house to become more pink and slutty looking. My wardrobe emptying of my work clothes and instead having pink slutty outfits. My bed begins vibrating, my old bed replaced with a vibrating one.

I cum out of my shrunken cock, my small load leaving me gasping for air. I’ve never felt this much pleasure in my whole life! I sit on my knees in front of the full length mirror in my room and take a picture for my Daddies.

This is me now, a stupid, horny, bouncy slut for any man who’ll take me in for the night.

#straight to gay #top to bottom #gay tf #gay #tf #transformation #dumber tf #dumber #himbo tf #himbo #musclegrowth #muscle growth tf

[bloompompom]

♡ content: ~1k word count. eren jaeger x fem!reader, free use, established relationship, oops just filth, PIV sex, mentions of aftercare, explicit language, explicit sexual content. reader discretion advised. 18+ only

I don't know about you, but I find free use super hot, and I can't help but think Eren would agree

Like, there’s just something about it, perhaps the devotion aspect—about you, his baby, his one and only, being available, willing, and happy to satisfy him, any time he wished.

Your agreement is meant for nights like this: a Friday evening after what you know was a long week for Eren. He’s been coming home late every night, practically working two jobs while his boss scrambled to fill the newly empty role at the company. For whatever reason, the responsibility fell on Eren, leaving him exhausted, tense. The kind of tense that naps and shoulder rubs can't relieve. 

And that’s where said agreement comes into play. Whenever you wear this pajama set, specifically this one—skimpy, sheer, short—it’s code for ‘anything goes.’ Anything he wants. That’s the only rule. 

Phrasing it like that makes it sound as though he’s the only one to get pleasure out of it, but that couldn’t be any further from the truth. It’s almost like foreplay, really. This little secret you can't wait to reveal. All day, anticipation bubbled low in your stomach from the moment the idea popped into your head. ‘What would really cheer him up?’ You can already see the look on his face, imagine how desperately he’d take you right then, like he couldn’t bear another second without being inside you, however he wanted. 

You’ve been thinking about your husband so much that the creak of the front door opening and closing makes your thighs clench, like you’re no better than one of Pavlov’s trained dogs. 

Assuming he’d be late again, you haven’t gotten any further than spreading some ingredients along the counter before you hear him announce himself. But tonight, he’s right on time. Even better. 

Eren finds you in the kitchen, already starting his usual ‘work sucked’ rant, when the sight of you has him shutting up. He stops dead in his tracks, just like you’d hoped. He’d undone the first button of his collared shirt, tie loosened around his neck, and he wore this look on his face like you were a welcomed—very, very welcomed—surprise. 

Rush hour was a bitch; Eren was too busy white-knuckling the steering wheel to consider this as a possibility for tonight. But then you greet him with that soft smile of yours, the one that would appear innocent to anyone else, and he almost wants to laugh like he should have known better. But you’re like a magnet; he’s only capable of drawing in closer. 

He comes to hug you from behind, his hands smoothing down your sides as he holds you close. He nestles his face into the crook of your neck, warming and tickling your skin in a mixture of kisses and faint breaths through his nose. 

You’re already spilling giggly moans when you say, “Hi to you, too.”

It’s met with a drunken ‘Hi,’ murmured against your skin between open-mouthed kisses. His hands never slow, enjoying their way over every inch of your body. They slide beneath your tank top and up your front to cup your breasts, squeezing and massaging, rolling your nipples in his fingers until he can pinch and pull flimsy whines from you. With each one, you can feel another of his needy ruts, his cock incredibly stiff against your ass even through his slacks. It only takes a few of those before you’re biting your lip at the metallic rustling of him removing his belt. 

Once that’s out of the way, his pants now pooled on the kitchen tile, the only barrier remaining is your sleep shorts. Hardly a barrier, if you ask him; they’re shamefully thin, after all. Perfectly made for pushing aside for easy-access fucking, and you were even considerate enough to forget your panties.

Eren slips a hand between your legs, trailing the tips of his fingers through you. It ignites a shiver through you, has your hips wiggling for more. But Eren isn’t any better. When he discovers how wet you are already, how you probably spent the afternoon fantasizing about being used, it absolutely wrecks him. 

Eren licks his hand before returning it to your pussy, rubbing tight circles against your clit. Then, without warning, his fingers only leave you to grab your ass, spreading you for him. His other angles his cock against you before thrusting inside. 

“Fuck, I missed you,” he says as he bottoms out. The end of it’s nothing more than a hedonistic hiss, lost in the feeling of you squeezing him, trying to accommodate the sudden intrusion. 

Your mouth gapes on a hitched breath, eyes screwing shut as your palms press into the counter in a vain attempt to keep yourself upright. But it only takes another thirty seconds of snapping hips, the head of his cock reaching that ‘don’t fucking stop’ spot deep inside you, before your arms start to stutter. 

He pins you to the cold granite with a hand flattened against the middle of your back. It’s soon replaced by him—the weight of his body, the heat of it—against yours as you’re smushed and bent over the counter. 

Eren’s hand bullies its way between you and the counter to play with your clit again. He likes it best when you come together, if he can manage it. 

And he does tonight. The moment he feels your body twitch beneath him, hears the intoxicating tune of your depraved cries, the steady pounding of his hips falters. As you teeter the peak of your high, your pussy fluttering oh-so nicely around his cock, he comes, hard. You swear you can feel the pulsing of his cock as he fills you, fucking it deeper as he eases himself down. 

You’re both trying to catch your breath when you feel him rest his forehead against the sticky back of your neck. He leaves you with a kiss on the same spot before turning your limp body to face him. You’re so tired he thinks it’s cute.

Eren scoops you into his arms. You know the drill, so you loop your arms around his neck and hook your legs around his waist.

Still a bit delirious, that fuzzy, warm feeling still burning in your chest, you say, “I need to make dinner.”

“No, you don’t,” he says, walking you through the house. “We’re ordering in tonight, after I draw us a bath.”

#eren x reader #eren jaeger x reader #eren yeager x reader #eren smut #divider by @/cafekitsune #cw free use #tw free use

[midnightarcheress]

Simon takes you to the museum.

pairing: bodyguard!ghost x actress!reader cw: implied ptsd. 4 | gold rush masterlist.

the timid yellows creeping up the tree leaves announce the beginning of autumn, crisp air filling their lungs as they walk through the Tuileries Garden. Simon tries his best to act calm, focusing on how you make your way on the footpath around the octagonal lake, but the city’s sounds and the bustling crowd in the park keep him on edge, fingers rhythmically touching the dense fabric of his jeans for a faint sense of safety in the present.

despite his anxiety levels spiking, he still manages to appreciate the view. the remaining flowers from warmer days paint the grass with vivid colours and, on the horizon, he catches a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower on the other side of the river. the sun shines brightly in the sky, almost casting a golden halo over your head, the tender heat warming his brittle heart in a brief moment of peace.

“the museum is that way,” you look back at him, pointing to your left. ever since Daniel complied with your request for time off, you’ve been researching the perfect spot to spend your free afternoon, ultimately landing on the Orangery Museum. at least a museum is supposed to be a quiet place, Simon thinks.

“did you know that this building was actually a greenhouse?” you ask, walking through the entrance, “it was created to store the citrus trees from the garden, that’s why this side has so many windows.” your head tilts to the riverside facade and he silently hums, acknowledging you.

his lips involuntarily curve at your enthusiasm. the two of you don’t talk much on the daily, but it was endearing to see how happy you were for being surrounded by art, and he didn’t mind hearing you babble about the paintings. or about anything, honestly. the sound of your voice was soothing, pacifying the nerves that had been eating his insides since he stepped out of bed. 

“oh, those are my favourite!” you tug on his forearm, pulling him into an oval room with huge panels, the tiny inscriptions on the side reading ‘Claude Monet’, “those are water lilies, y’know, the flower? he did two-hundred-and-something paintings based on a pond in his property, can you imagine that?” 

“they’re pretty,” he mumbles, observing the thin brushstrokes. art is far from his strong suit, but he liked how the paintings captured the fickles of light and how they lacked the usual restrained aspect seen in other pieces – they seemed relaxed, floaty, free. so different from your life. maybe that’s why you loved it so much.

you drag him through the whole exhibit, explaining little details of the museum, the garden, the techniques, and he listens closely, his attention never leaving your mouth, completely entranced by your words. he didn’t feel the weight of the duty nor the need to protect you there, it was a different world. your own little bubble, and you allowed him inside. 

his hand brushes on your shoulder while exiting the building, guiding you through the door. he’s not keen on being outside again, sirens already buzzing in his brain with the idea of potential threats lurking in the shadows.

trying not to let the perpetual concern flood his mind, he clears his throat and sparks up conversation, ignoring the rules pairing over his head. no talking, no touching. “so, how did you learn so much about... all that?” he gestures back to the museum.

“oh, uhm, i used to paint,” you start, hiding the smile sneaking up your lips at his unexpected interest, “took a course in art history too.”

his eyebrows raise. “used to?” 

“yeah, when i had more time to myself,” he notices your sigh, studying the sudden solemn expression that outlines your face. your beautiful face, “but i wasn’t very good at it.” you chuckle, downsizing your abilities, and he snorts, not fully believing you. it’s the first time you’ve seen him showing any sort of emotion besides indifference, and he prides himself on the surprise gracing your features. 

it was nice, walking with you. not behind you. did he enjoy the view? yes, but this – him by your side, arms swinging together, matching steps – was real. genuine. it almost felt like a date, not that he would ever dare to say it out loud. everything was perfect.

until it wasn’t.

it happened so fast. a loud blast on the street made Simon wrap an arm around your waist and pull you to the nearest alley, one hand firmly pressing you against his chest and another holding your head, broad shoulders covering your body as the intense blood pump on his ears muffle the deafening ringing rattle. he stays in the position for a while, blown-out pupils frantically darting around and searching for any indication of danger. 

he takes a deep breath and his head dips down to you. for a minute, the only thing he sees is the gash on your forehead and your bleeding eye. you’re paralysed, partially because you’re brain is still catching up on what’s going on, and partially because his tight grip doesn’t admit any movement. 

“Ghost? what’s wrong?” the scared tone of your whisper readjusts his vision to what really is in front of him – you. safe, without a single scratch, tucked in his arms with a strength he hadn’t used to this extent in a long time. and he feels bad, pathetic even, because nothing happened. the blaring sound was a car crash in the avenue, not a grenade destroying everything in sight.

“it’s nothing” he pulls back, averting your eyes like the plague, “i'm sorry.” stupid. 

you frown, overlooking his avoidance with utter sympathy, “are you alright?” he grunts, unintelligibly, reverting to his cold stance and nodding. you don’t buy his half-answer, but decide that it’s better not to pry.

he knew it was coming, the uneasiness brewing in his gut was only waiting for the right trigger to crawl up his oesophagus and spill all over you. 

the rest of the walk is quiet, with him returning to his position a few steps back. never should’ve left. you sneak glances at him, checking, but his gaze seems too far gone. next thing he knows, you’re both on the jet, Daniel snoring in the front seat, him looking out the window, lost in thought. of course i'd fuck up. 

he barely hears when you approach him, trembling fingers handing him a card. the card. you’re trusting him. he glares at you for a second, hazel irises shifting between your spooked appearance and the paper. ‘don’t like you travelling without me, darling. i’ll be waiting for my souvenir  – your prince.’

i've never been to france lol. and yeah i had a monet phase when I was fifteen.

little fun fact - the painting in the fic masterlist is part of his water lilies series.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost #ghost cod #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #f!reader #fem!reader #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost imagine #ghost fanfiction #bodyguard!ghost #bodyguard!simon #actress!reader #bodyguard au #cod mw #cod mw2 #cod mw3 #gold rush #bodyguard!ghost ☾ #nyx writes ☾ #midnightarcheress

[angelwonie]

LET ME IN || elijah hewson

PAIRING: elijah x reader

WORD COUNT: 3.3k

GENRE(S): fluff, a bit of angst, friends to lovers, hurt comfort

SUMMARY: when your best friend turns up at your front door unannounced, you decide to find out why he's acting so strangely. what you don't expect is for some repressed feelings to bubble up to the surface.

WARNINGS: smoking, mentions of drinking + being drunk, kissing, eli has daddy issues oops

this is it y'all i've gone insane... he looked at me once and this is what happens. @boobyskeetz made me post this btw

It’s far along in the evening when you come home to find Elijah Hewson sitting on your staircase with his head in his hands. 

He’s slumped over, leather jacket around his shoulders and a slowly burning, unattended cigarette in between the pointer and middle finger of his right hand. The sky is pitch black, the only source of light being an ancient lantern whose shine just barely reaches Elijah’s hair. 

You’re shocked at the sight, to say the least, the heaviness of your grocery bags suddenly a faint background noise. 

“Eli?” you move closer, albeit hesitantly, and your voice makes his head snap up.

When he looks at you, you fight back the urge to gasp. His eyes, half lidded, just barely glimmer in the faint light provided by the moon overhead, leaving room for his undereye bags to stand out. And they do stand out — so much that you almost don’t catch him stumbling over his feet ever so slightly as he walks over to where you’re standing. 

Almost. 

“Are you alright?” 

It’s not a question, not really, but he winces either way. You stand close enough to see it, but immediately, his lips pull into a lopsided grin to hide his initial reaction. 

“‘Course I am,” he takes a drag of his cigarette, and uses his other hand to take one of your grocery bags. “Just wanted to see you, that’s all.”

You nod, watching him drop the unfinished cigarette to the ground and step on it. You wonder how many he’s smoked today and consider asking, but decide against it upon realizing you probably don’t want to know. Instead, you let him take your grocery bags wordlessly, following him up the stairs. 

It’s a short staircase, but you’re walking slowly – too slowly for your liking – and there’s a million questions burning on your tongue. You hold them back, mostly because you’re tired, but also because something in Elijah’s eyes tells you not to push. 

He’s the one to speak first when you reach the right apartment. “Hey, your flowers are still alive.”

He’s referring to the roses he helped you pick out last month. It was a treat for yourself, for finishing all your assignments, and you had taken the whole ‘plant mom’ job pretty seriously, even putting the roses in a prettier vase and putting it on display outside of your apartment. 

“Yeah,” you chuckle. “They’re holding up really well.”

Elijah waits for you to unlock the door, then walks inside with you in tow. He wobbles a little as he drops down his shoes where he always puts them — where he’s put them ever since you told him three years ago it could be his spot. 

You watch him shoulder off his jacket and start organizing the groceries in the fridge from afar, slowly taking off your outerwear. It’s warm inside, and your skin feels like it’s about to be set on fire after being out in the cold for so long. You think of Elijah sitting on your doorstep. How long was he waiting for you? 

“Mind if I take a beer?” he cuts off your thoughts and you look up to find him with his hand on your fridge, an inquiring look on his face. 

Now the lighting’s better, and you can clearly see his face. The creases between his brows, the focus in his gaze, the stubble that he’s let grow just a little longer than usually. Whether that’s a deliberate choice or simple forgetfulness, you’re not sure, but it worries you. His state worries you. 

“Suit yourself.”

Maybe you should have said no, you think as he takes a sip of the drink and you’re reminded of the wobble in his walk. He’s probably had enough to drink already. To be fair, though, Elijah can be stubborn when he wants to, and something’s telling you today is one of those days. 

When everything is either in the fridge or in a cupboard, you and Eli wander into the living room, shoulder to shoulder, without much to say. It’s messy, and he scolds you playfully for it — like he’s not the guy whose dorm you have to clean each time you come over. 

You join his laughter though, and plop down on your couch a little more relaxed than before. 

“How long did you wait for me?” 

This time you manage to ask him the question, and he shrugs.

“A couple hours.”

He lifts the beer up to his lips and empties it, the can blocking out his view of you and your widened eyes. 

What the hell is going on? His gaze tells you nothing. It’s so indifferent it makes you want to rip your hair out, because no matter how much he wants to pretend spontaneously coming over at three am is normal, it’s not. Especially when it comes to him. 

Sure, if it were Robert, you would’ve figured it was just him acting on impulse, but it was never like that with Elijah. 

“You could have just called,” you say finally, a slight quiver to your voice. “You should have just called. You know that, right?”

He meets your gaze, but not for long; after a second it drops down to his lap, like he’s embarrassed. You hold your breath, awaiting an answer. His fingers drum against the side of the couch, but then he changes his mind about that, too, and brings his hand to scratch the side of his face. God, what is he even doing? Trying to see how long it’ll take for you to snap and throw him out of the apartment? 

Suddenly, he sighs deeply, dropping his hands in his lap. “Didn’t wanna bother you.”

You can’t help yourself from scoffing. That’s it? He ‘didn’t wanna bother you’? Maybe you would’ve believed it hadn’t he shown up unannounced at your front door in the middle of the night. 

You almost open your mouth to say just that, but stop yourself when Elijah looks up again, and his bloodshot eyes meet yours. Something’s definitely not right. You can physically feel it, the tightening of your chest, the anger somehow pushed to the back of your head. 

“Why are you here?” you ask him sternly, keeping your eyes on him. This time, he doesn’t look away. 

“Do you want me to leave?”

It comes out meek, frail, as he almost chokes on his own words. You’re taken aback by the shiver in his voice, the drop of his shoulders. He places the beer can on your table and you swear his hands shake — just barely, but enough for you to see and for your heart to clench in response. 

You shake your head. “No, I want to know why you’re here.”

He laughs humorlessly, leaning forward in his chair. His hands are definitely shaking, but you’re not sure whether it’s from the alcohol or something entirely different. 

You know this face on him — he’s bothered by something, but doesn’t want to admit it. He’s always been like this, ever since you met him at school and watched his eyes glow with the same sadness after his teachers told him he should work on his grades. It was the same look on his face, the same millions of feelings threatening to bubble over the surface. 

The only difference seems to be that now, he’s got no cap in his hands to close the bottle. 

“I’m just tired, that’s all. Wanted to talk to you ‘cause the lads are too much noise.”

You frown and send him a look of disdain. Perhaps this isn’t something you should push on him, but seeing as he just magically appeared at your apartment while drunk, you do have a right to at least inquire what the fuck is going on.  

“If you’re going to lie to me, you might as well leave.”

Silence follows your statement; silence so loud you almost regret saying anything at all. He grits his teeth, and you swear you can hear it from across the table — though that might just be your brain playing tricks on you this late in the evening. 

“It’s my dad,” he mutters finally, scratching his stubble. “Not that that’s much of a surprise.”

“What happened?” 

“Nothing new, really,” he exhales, closing his eyes briefly. “Just, you know, the usual ‘you’re wasting your life by not going to college��� talk. Total bullshit, as always. The only thing wasted is those twenty minutes of my life I spent listening to him talk about it.” 

You breathe out slowly, fighting against the urge to look away from his gaze. He keeps it on you, unwavering, but you don’t know what to say. It’s dangerous territory, one you haven’t ever entered fully, and the worry of hurting him pangs at your chest; the legitimacy of his vulnerability scares you and moves you all the same. 

You bite the inside of your cheek.

“He’s just worried, you know. I would be, too.” 

“Why?” his lip quivers and your heart sinks in your chest; so quickly it forces a sudden nausea upon you. “Because I’m not cut out for this?”

“No, Eli, that’s not what I–”

He cuts you off — not with his words, but with his hands gripping the arms of his chair to help him stand. It’s so abrupt your words die down in your throat, leaving a dryness behind. Hovering above you, he still looks small, like he’s fading into the light above; barely even present as Elijah but rather as some mass of feelings clumped together, ready to explode. 

“Do really none of you think I can make this work?” 

It’s the alcohol, you think, god, you shouldn’t have let him drink any more — how could you be so careless? But no, it’s not your carelessness or his, and you know that, even in this state of panic, it somehow reaches your mind — the revelation that this isn’t a random outburst. 

It’s the fruit of a tree that’s been growing for a long time; the ripeness isn’t fake, even if you’re unprepared to pick it.

“Do you really think that?” he asks this quietly, his voice barely audible, but it feels like he’s tearing your skull apart with a scream. 

Do you really think that? The very assumption, the very thought, disgusts you. The thought that you could ever believe he won’t make it — it’s so unnerving you let out a shaky breath. 

A movement of your legs from underneath you and you’re standing. Your feet tap against the floor as you walk up to him slowly, like approaching a scared deer. He is scared, you realize. Your fingertips tingle with the longing to run your hands over his face, but you hold them back, instead answering his question.

“No.” 

He blinks, and you say it again: “No,” and again and again, “No, no, no, no,” until it almost doesn’t feel like a word anymore and more like some sort of bandage wrapped around a bruised bone. 

“Your dad doesn’t think that, either. He’s just worried because he cares. Because he loves you.” 

He falls silent. “I’m not so sure.”

“About what?”

He doesn’t reply instantly. You look down on his hands, only to find that they’re still shaking, and take a couple steps forward. Elijah doesn’t notice, you think, or if he does, he doesn’t show any disdain for your closeness. 

“About love,” he says finally. “Isn’t love supporting someone unconditionally? Rooting for them, no matter what? That description doesn’t really fit my dad.” 

“I think you’ve got it all wrong.” 

You suppress the smile that threatens to form on your face when he sends you a confused look, his nose scrunched. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, you can support whoever you want without much difficulty,” you look at the floor, thinking of what to say next. “That doesn’t mean you love them. If you love someone, it means you’re willing to suffer through discomfort and pain to make them happy. You’re willing to spend your nights worrying if they’ve chosen the right path. You let them into your apartment at three am. That type of thing.” 

Thirty seconds pass before you finally look back up, internally shivering at the way his stare bores into your soul. 

“You…” he trails off, wincing like it’s painful. Uncharted territory, yet again — that much is obvious from how your heart bangs against your ribs. The silence in the room makes you worry if he might just be able to hear it.

You hear him inhale sharply, taking a step back so he can sit at the edge of your sofa. Following suit, you observe his eyes shining in the light, less red than before though still uncertain. His shoulder brushes against yours and you breathe in — he smells of alcohol, but it’s oddly comforting in the storm of your thoughts. 

Elijah’s head turns to you. 

“Have you… ever thought this is all for nothing? That I keep leaving the tour bus with more and more bruises for no reason at all?” 

Your fingertips tingle again, and this time you do nothing to stop them from brushing over the back of his hand. It’s stupid, probably, but it feels right, his skin against yours. He’s warm, really warm, but it doesn’t bother you in the slightest, even when he leisurely drags his forefinger down the side of your hand. It tingles, but you don’t move away. 

Elijah’s hand doesn’t shake anymore when you interlace your fingers together. Finally, you get the courage to speak. 

“I’ve held your hair back while you were throwing up, Eli. Tied your shoelaces after a tiring show. Corrected your lyrics until four at night so you could send them to your manager before dawn. I wouldn’t do any of that if I didn’t believe you were on your way to the top from the first time I saw you,” you take a deep breath, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before you look directly at him. “I wouldn’t do any of that if I didn’t believe in you.” 

It’s silent after that. For a long time. But his hand sits clammily in yours like a pearl in a clamshell, and you hold onto it for dear life, praying he won’t slip out from your grip. 

“Promise me you won’t stop.”

Your head turns, startled by the sudden statement. His gaze scans you from head to toe, lingering on the curve of your lips, then your nose and finally your eyes, where it stops and plants its roots. You feel it spreading almost like wildfire, the warmth that comes with it. You almost tremble underneath it, squeezing his hand a little harder. 

“Won’t stop what?” you whisper, eyes wide.

“Letting me into your apartment at three am.”

His gaze drops in a manner someone might’ve mistaken for lazy, but you know him well enough to recognize the vacillation in his eyes. You feel his fingers shiver in your embrace, every breath strained. 

“Why not?”

You move closer, only by a centimeter or so, but he senses it — all the cells in his body seem to tingle with the paradox of wanting to touch and wanting to run all the same. Maybe it’s the unexpectedness of it all, or maybe rather it’s the arbitrary comfort that comes with it, that scares him to death, but whatever reason, he feels like he’s entering a deadly storm. 

And perhaps it’s the alcohol and he’s not thinking straight, but this storm appears more inviting than any sunny day he’s ever witnessed. 

He squeezes your hand tighter and leans down until his lips are impossibly close to brushing against your nose. You feel his hot breath on your face, sparks dancing across your skin to the smell of cigarettes and whiskey and beer, his hand shaking ever so slightly. 

“Because I still haven’t gotten the chance to let you into mine.” 

You smile — a real smile that you no longer manage to hold back. He mirrors the expression, albeit softly, lines appearing in the corners of his mouth. Let me in. Hues of colors appear in his eyes just as his shaky pointer finger grazes your jaw. Let me in. He cups your cheek gently, his lips parting in a breathless exhale. 

Let me in, let me in, let me in.

He does. Just when the clock shows 3:47am and your shirt feels like it’s sticking to your skin, he finally closes the distance between you.

His lips brush over yours — it’s featherlight and careful, but you accept it all and kiss him back nonetheless. You can taste cigarettes on his tongue when he opens his mouth. Suddenly, the clock’s sound doesn’t reach your ears anymore, and all you can hear is the beating of your heart inside your throat. His finger strokes your cheek and his nose bumps into yours, but it’s fine. It’s more than fine. 

You breathe in the scent of him, bringing your hands to tangle themselves in his hair in a moment of recklessness. Yeah, you’ve definitely gone absolutely crazy — but that’s a problem to solve later. For now, you’re kissing Elijah Hewson.

You’re kissing Elijah Hewson. It’s almost a revelation that dawns upon you like the waves of a tsunami, knocking the breath out of your lungs. It squeezes at your heart, a drawstring closing around it, and you have to pull away to breathe, to examine his face, puffy lips and tired eyes, to understand the gravity of your situation.

“We just kissed,” you say, and your voice shakes even though you strain to keep it calm.

“Yes,” he affirms, like it’s nothing. But it is something, and his eyes can't hide that. “We did.”

“But you’re drunk.”

“You think that’s why I did it?”

“I don’t know.”

He smiles and you swear your heart almost leaps out of your chest. “You do.”

“I don’t.”

He looks at you for a moment – your messy hair, reddened lips, the hesitation in your gaze – and makes his decision. 

In less than a second, he drops down to his knees and you’re about to protest (because what does he think he’s doing?) until he grabs your hand and holds it between both of his. You furrow your eyebrows to hide the fact that you’re taken aback, though from the glint in Elijah’s eyes you figure you’re not doing a very good job at it. 

He looks at you, like really looks at you, and you look at him the same. The fruit lies in the palm of your hand and squeezes to the beat of your heart when he speaks. 

“I love you.” 

Your breath catches in your throat when he kisses your knuckles softly, and keeps them against his lips. “That’s why I kissed you, why I turned up to your apartment at three am, why I don’t regret it. Any of it. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

Something pulls at the very back of your throat. You keep your mouth closed, but even that doesn’t stop a choked whimper from leaving you — a sound that makes Elijah’s lips quirk upwards. He smiles, and you attempt to do the same, yet all you manage is a half-laugh, half-sob that shakes though your body. 

Embarrassed, you look down, and you can hear Eli chuckle before the warmth of his arms envelops you whole. He hugs you tightly against his chest, fingers coming up to stroke your hair as you partly laugh, partly cry into his shirt. And even though it should be humiliating, the act feels so powerfully comforting that you let him hold you. 

“I love you too.”

You whisper this into his chest, breathing heavily. He pulls away and you look up, confused, but he smiles that gorgeous smile of his, with teeth on display and smile lines appearing, and cups your jaw. His eyes shimmer with undoubtable joy. 

He doesn’t have to say anything. You know.

“That’s a fucking relief, huh?” he whisper-laughs and you join in on it.

“Yeah.”

And you smile.

He’s let you in, and you don’t think you’ll be leaving any time soon. 

#inhaler #elijah hewson #elijah hewson x reader #inhaler dublin #inhaler x reader #inhaler imagines #ryan mcmahon #robert keating #josh jenkinson

[crybaby-bkg]

cw: this got long sorry 😔 but creepy/perv bakugou, recording, film major bkg x art major reader, masturbation, coercion, dubcon before it just becomes con, voyeurism/exhibitionism

as an art major, you typically did some works for a few students on campus; for their plays, as background pieces while they danced, a cover for their released songs. it wasn’t out of the ordinary for people to ask you to create something for them, and you enjoyed it more often than not. but, you weren’t usually the art itself.

Bakugou is a friend’s friend that you’ve seen a few times, ran into at the library or at coffee shops. he’s a film major, and always looks so unhappy about the whole thing, as if he didn’t choose it himself. you joke to Mina that you think he’ll graduate and become one of those directors that hate everything and yell at the actors constantly and later on get sued for being a dickhead. you never say it to him though—you’ve never spoken more than a couple words to the man.

it’s why it shocks you when he approaches you one day. it’s after one of your painting classes, and he stands outside the door with a frown and his hands shoved in his pockets, his eyebrows scrunched as if pissed at the mere sight of you. he asks you, in that low and gruff tone of his, if you could star in his final project for the semester. says it’s supposed to be a film made with this criteria and that, but, you’ve kind of checked out on the conversation after the first sentence.

“You mean, you want me to create something and that be the star of your film?” you ask him, feeling so intimidated at his stature. he always seems to loom, his hair shadowing the lights above, creates a cast over a portion of his face, makes his eyes look…unsettling. like they’re looking straight through your flesh, can find the marrow in your bones. he scoffs like you’ve offended him, rolling his eyes into his skull, mouth pulled tight.

“No.” his voice is firm, gaze concentrated only on you, like the halls are empty and you’re the focus of his lens. “I want you to star in it.”

his words confuse you—you’ve never presented yourself as an actor before, never alluded to wanting to be in the spotlight if not for what you create with your hands. but he shuffles on his feet, looks desperate even. there’s some hemming and hawing for a minute or so—why not choose Mina?—she’s busy—why choose me?—‘cause you’d be perfect for my short film—what’s it about?—you’ll find out once you get the script.

and even after you hesitantly agree and get the script—you still don’t understand what you’re doing. why you’re here, why you’re the only person, why it has to be a solo film, why there’s damn near zero lines in the entirety of the have-to-be forty five minute film.

the scenes are all so long, and maybe it’s because movies aren’t your forte or chosen major, but you just don’t get it. one scene; you’re staring at yourself in the mirror while Bakugou holds a small, black camera over your shoulder. he’s eerily quiet behind you, whispers out a faint fuckin’ go when you have to wash your face in the sink, makes you do it over because your movements are too jerky and unnatural.

the rest of the scenes go that way; you doing regular at home activities, being put under a lens, quietly barked at to do this and move that way and fix your hair and remember to frown.

“Isn’t there another way to film this?” you ask him on the fifth day of shooting in his spacious loft. there’s a bubble bath scene coming up, one you dont understand the importance of, but Bakugou tells you it’s the most necessary part of the entire thing.

“No,” he grunts out, looking at you from under his lashes as he sits on the lid of the toilet. “But I’ll make it soapy, so the camera won’t see much.” the camera? much? you weren’t worried so much about what the camera captured as you were the man behind it. he looks at you with such intensity, you feel naked already despite the robe you wear that’s suspiciously already your size.

he leaves the bathroom when you sink in the hot water, returns before you can say it’s okay, hears the water splashing and thinks that’s good enough. he kneels on the floor beside you, camera pointed directly in your face, makes your chest hot and your skin feel prickly. the scene passes on regularly enough; you run the water over your arms, tilt your head back as you sigh, whisper the few lines scripted, lean back and close your eyes, sigh again. it’s almost relaxing, makes you forget about the friend of a friend recording you naked right now. almost.

“Touch yourself.” Bakugou suddenly demands, hushed and quiet behind the camera. your eyes immediately shoot open, looking to him in question, how he’s eerily still in his spot hovering over you.

“Huh?” you ask, unsure if you heard him correctly, looking around the rounded lens in your face, trying to ignore the red blinking light. but Bakugou only frowns.

“It’s a masturbation scene. Touch yourself.” he repeats, voice louder, more demanding this time. your stomach twists at the thought of doing something so intimate in front of him. he’s a handsome guy, for sure, even made you consider asking him out after this, figured he was just serious about his work and awkward about certain things. but…something had been off about this entire thing since the start.

“But—but I don’t, I’m not,” you stutter, sitting up a little, the bubbles covering your chest starting to disperse with your movements. but Bakugou only sits a little higher on his knees, finally pulling the camera away from his face for the first time since he’s asked you to do this for him.

“You want me to fail?” he asks, booming voice eerily quiet in the silent bathroom, carmine eyes dull, shaded over with something terrible. “Then do it.” he tells you when you shake your head quickly.

you stare at him until he gets back into position again, camera back pointed at you. when he doesn’t say anything else, you swallow thickly, wondering if the art that will come out of this will be worth it. so you listen, sneak a hand under the water, start touching yourself in a way you never have in front of anyone.

is it bad to say that it’s exhilarating? being watched and recorded by someone who breathes so heavily every time your voice hiccups? being directed to touch your chest next when the suds start to disappear and your nipples start to peek through? is it bad that you want him to send you this portion of his film, only, just so you can watch yourself again and again? make a portrait of yourself with your fingers on your nipples and your knees raising from the water and your head thrown back from the intensity in oil pastels?

“That’s a wrap.” Bakugou announces when you finish, head spinning and still panting. you look over to him, how he closes the camera, the obvious bulge in his pants. “I’ll get you a towel.”

you wonder when’s the next time he’ll need you. or better yet—maybe he could be the star in your final drawing project? you had finished it already but, what was the harm in starting over with him as your muse? as naked as you are? camera not blocking his face so you can paint the similarities of his blushing cheeks and eyes when you direct him to look at you? to touch his chest? to play with himself just like that?

#this got. so long. sowwy #but I thought about this ummmm Sunday night #but I was DRAINED from writing 7k words of scorned past midnight and then having to edit it skdjfkf #so I was like. okay. put this idea in the drafts. NOW ms dory memory #anddddd I love this so very much #would’ve loved to turn this into a full fic #but it’s so exhausting trying to write long fics recently bc of this multichap #I’m just not used to it and I can’t do two things at the same time #and I already have like 9 fics on my list to write!!!! lol #but there is something so alluring about film major bkg 2 me #I think hes awkward and comes off as mean but he really is just that serious about his work #but he’s #also a creep for you LOL #definitely think he agrees to become ur muse for art as like a trade off #and you get that boy into SO many humiliating positions 😵‍💫 #I need. to lie down. anyway. #I wrote this at 1am and was scared to post it then cause I didn’t think anyone would see it #so here it is in the morning :) #bakugou treats! 🍬 #—new treat in the streets! 🍫

[llondonfog]

MILK & HONEY. + dazzling fic art by @suntails <3 (also available on ao3)

“It will be alright, darling boy, I promise— everything will be alright.”

There’s no response, but Lilia doesn’t mind. His son has always been the quiet, thoughtful sort. Humming faint snatches of a lullaby long forgotten, he threads a hand through the boy’s moonlit strands, apathetic to the copper rust smears left behind. The child’s bangs have grown, he notes idly, fussing with the strands that have fallen over the boy’s face. Lilia ought to cut them soon.

“There will be time for that later,” he finishes his thought out loud, bending forward to press his lips benevolently to his son’s cool forehead— a blessing, Lilia thinks privately with a smile, examining the faint crimson outline of his lips against that pale skin. Blood of the father, blood of the son; sacrament and all that.

“But for now, my dear,” he gently strokes the backs of stained claws against the side of his boy’s face, leaving a virginal blush behind on a bloodless cheek. “It is time for you to wake up.”

Silver is five years old and held at knifepoint when he first meets his father. 

There is a man holding his small arms behind his back, another grasping at his feet, while a third laughs grimly down at his rapidly watering eyes and traces the blade delicately against his temple.

“You’ve been a burden on our village for far too long, brat,” he sneers while Silver’s rabbit heart beats fast and panicked within his heaving chest. “No mother, no father, cared for out of the kindness of our hearts, and you have the nerve to go about stealing our scraps to feed the animals?”

They’re hungry too! Silver wants to cry out, if opening his mouth wouldn’t drag the blade against his hairline. And they’re his friends, when no one else would be. 

The man, unfortunately, is right.

He has no family to speak of; an abandoned babe with odd-colored eyes, silkspun hair, and a debilitating tendency to sleep without cause like the dead themselves that had everyone in the village whispering fearful tales of curses and changelings. It didn’t help that the spring of his arrival had marked the beginning of a painful famine that would relentlessly grip the decaying land, crops failing out of a barren and cracked landscape as rivers began to bleed thin and dry. Changeling or not, it hardly took much time at all for any sympathetic feeling towards the foundling child to metamorphosize into bitter resentment at an extra mouth to feed when their own fevered children were crying out for more. Was it any wonder that he had turned to the few remaining woodland creatures for comfort, saving meager portions of his already miniscule meal to share in gratitude for their simple acceptance and affection? 

The man with the knife doesn’t wait for any answering explanation, merely smacks the blade pointedly against his cheek with a cruel, hungry gleam in those dead fish eyes, and the other two holding him still trade malicious grins. 

“It’s only fair that you pay for what you stole,” the man continues, almost kind and patient in his rationale— (I didn’t steal! Silver wants to shout, mouth dry and empty with fear. I only ever gave them food from my portion!)— and he hums with a terrifying softness at the way Silver’s frightened gaze tracks the knife’s every teasing glide about his forehead and his limbs tremble in their brutish hold. “Oh, not with your life— not at first, anyways. We’re going to scalp you; I can only imagine the price your pretty hair will fetch when we tell the traders that it's woven out of pure silver. It’s a start for what you owe us all for taking care of your worthless and lazy hide for the past five years, and then—”

He pauses as if for some grand operatic effect, savoring the way the tears helplessly gather and bubble at the edge of Silver’s lashes with a wicked smile. 

“Then, we’ll kill you and plate you tonight as dinner. I think there’s enough to go around for the rest of the village, don’t you?”

Two things happen: First, Silver bursts into tears. Second, a dark shape drops from the trees above and latches onto the man’s throat, tearing it open in one fluid movement and soaking the entire scene, Silver included, in a hot spray of blood.  

The entire woodland clearing erupts into chaotic, frenzied screaming. The other two men violently shove him forward in a futile attempt to use him as a shield and escape, and he falls numbly to the ground, limbs frozen in place out of dumb shock as shadows leap effortlessly over his head. The knife that had been so sinister just moments ago lies dull and dirtied in the forest floor by the now nearly headless corpse, and in the dim reflection of its blade, Silver can make out the similar gruesome demise of his other captors. The shrieking fearful sounds are silenced just as abruptly as they began; in less than thirty seconds, the forest has returned to its quiet, sedative self, at peace with the justice that has been served. 

Who . . ?

Quiet, gentle footsteps sound from behind him, their stride unhurried and at ease as they round his quivering, prostrate frame, and something hysterically yells in his mind that it’s poor manners to not at least look his rescuer in the eyes. 

“Hello, child,” the angel (for surely that must be, he fell from the heavens, did he not?) smiles down at him through dripping fangs.

Silver stares up through blood-splattered lashes at his savior and wonders if this is what it’s like to be stricken with love. 

The vampire takes him home. 

He laughs uproariously when Silver so shyly and seriously wonders aloud if he was truly an angel, with hands as kind and gentle as the spring sun upon the muddy bruises and dried wounds from the knife split across his face. 

He laughs at a lot of things that Silver says. It’s uncannily loud and booming for such a small man, but Silver instantly decides that he likes it.

The vampire explains that he is, well, a vampire. He even lets Silver curiously brush tiny fingers over his fangs once they’ve been cleaned of blood and gristle, smiling down at him all the while without a trace of malice that he’s grown so used to seeing. 

He tells Silver that his name is Lilia, Lilia Vanrouge. It’s a difficult name, a weighty name for Silver’s tongue to pronounce, but he rolls it softly in his mouth to savor it all the same, marveling at how much it feels like royalty. 

Lilia explains to him by the light of the fire that he’s lived for a very long time, that he’s enjoyed a life rich beyond anyone’s comprehension from all of the sights he’s seen and the wonders he’s traveled. But no creature is immortal, not even vampires, as long-lived as they may be— the years are heavier now, they ache and sting at his bones as if he’d soaked them in baptismal water. And in his many travels, he had so happened to stumble upon this empty cottage tucked away and abandoned inside this quiet, peaceful forest—

(“Like me,” Silver whispers solemnly. “Is that so?” says Lilia, summer-cherry eyes brilliant against the flames.) 

—and so he had thought, what a nice place to relax and rest his weary soul, a place for him to enjoy a rare moment of serenity before the next grand adventure swept him back out to sea. 

“How silly of me at my age to think that I could anticipate the future,” Lilia brushes his hand gently through Silver’s tangled hair, the knots easily coming undone from a mere sweep of his fingertips. Silver can’t quite recall how and when he had made his way onto the vampire’s lap, only that he is leaning his head adoringly against the man’s chest, staring up at him with bated breath.

“I didn’t expect to have to rescue my newest venture!” 

There’s no need to discuss it after that: Lilia never asks him to leave, and Silver never thinks to do so. 

It’s idyllic. Lilia feeds him, clothes him, lets him play with the forest animals for as long as he wishes. They take care of the little cottage together— Silver discovers a patch of land in the back that at one point might have been a sad attempt at a garden, but under the patient toil of the two of them, burgeons into life with all manner of flowers and vegetables. Lilia teaches him how to darn his socks and how to properly use a whetstone. He tucks Silver into the small bed alongside him and paints visions of faraway worlds upon the thin wooden walls, a better storyteller than any traveling bard that had come to the village before.

When Silver calls him ‘Father’ for the first time, he doesn’t laugh. 

In return, Silver doesn’t complain when he helps Lilia mop up any traces of blood from the traveler he’s feasted upon for the night. 

His father is not a monster, this Silver knows as truly as the sun travels through the sky. The weary men and women who wander across their little abode are treated with nothing but kindness— a warm seat by the fire, a fresh meal to eat, and a soft place to rest their heads. All that his father asks of them is to spare what little coin and wares that they are able to part with, a strange gleam in his eyes and a sincere smile on his face.

Without fail, the strangers comply. They always do.

And in the morning, if they’re a little more woozy than when they laid down to sleep, Silver reassures them that the small satchel of strong-smelling herbs and wrapped provisions for the road will do them a world of good. Together, father and son stand in the doorway of their humble home, hands raised in gestures of well wishes and farewell, as good hosts ought to do. Their visitors stumble down the chrysanthemum and lycoris-lined pathway back to the welcoming arms of the forest, and Silver flexes his toes in his new shoes while his father indulgently twirls his latest trinket around his fingertips, admiring the glint of it in the pale sunlight. 

(“Not all vampires are as kind as I am, child,” his father explains to him as he tucks a sheathed blade into the drawer of their nightstand, under the pressed and faded flowers that Silver had brought for him over time. “There are those who would see longevity as the means to power instead of the humbling blessing that it truly is. There are those who have let their years sour their minds like fermented wine, who have only steeped in cruelty instead of basking in the innocence that still exists in this world. And I would not have you defenseless inside our own home.”

Silver looks at the dull sheen of the knife and thinks back to the cold sting of one flayed against his cheek, and he wonders if those who lurk in the shadows of the night are truly the ones he ought to fear.)  

The years pass in this necessary fashion, seasons tumbling and turning over themselves with a prevailing peace that Silver had once believed could only exist in storybooks. He outgrows his sleeves faster than travelers pass by, and it isn’t long before he finds himself a whole head and a half taller than the vampire. His father laughs at his shaggy bangs, proclaiming Silver to be more sheep than boy, and attacks his hair with all the ferocity of a mad barber. The lasting effect leaves something to be desired and Silver could swear that the bluebirds by their window are chortling to themselves instead of singing. 

His father ruffles his sharp nails through the butchered mess of Silver’s hair and laughs again, proclaiming them to be matching lopsided twins, and Silver is unable to imagine a moment that he’s ever been happier. 

What a shame it is then, that all good things cannot last. 

The summer of Silver’s sixteenth year is a cruel, unforgiving one. 

The August sun swelters the earth with a breathless heat, insidious like none before. It is relentless in its seething anger to drive the woodland creatures to the deepest burrows in search of shade, the birds to practically droop like molten taffy in their water bowls, and his father to haunt the shadows of their home, face flushed and eyes feverish in a way that no cool rag could soothe. 

There could be no greater pain in Silver’s heart than this: the wilt in his father’s proud spine, the light tremors that seize his clever fingertips. He hovers over the vampire like a fretting maid, hands wringing uselessly as nothing short of the obvious will soothe his father’s condition, and travelers have been few and far between. Lilia conjures up smiles for him and swears that he’ll be alright, it’s simply a harsher season than before, and Silver cannot help but get the distinct feeling that he’s being placated. Even worse, it mostly works, the lonely and frightened child from the woods who sleeps deep in his soul comforted by that unsinkable paternal reassurance. 

Still, Silver is unable to completely shake the feeling that something is amiss. 

Lately, his rest at night has been disturbed. He wakes to the faint sounds of ruptured inhales so very close to his ear, of something in the clear throes of distress, with choked noises of desperately sought after air as if the deprived creature was suffocating. The noises are so frightening, so animalistic in nature that Silver can only think to associate them with his beloved woodland creatures, and yet when he hurries to his bedroom window and peers outside with his heart in his throat to find the poor animal that had been mauled by a predator— there is nothing but the silent gleam of moonlight, shining down upon his deflated flower beds. 

His father merely purses his lips in worry when Silver brings these odd instances to him, and wonders aloud if these are queasy dreams brought on by the heat; with little else to explain, Silver’s inclined to believe him. 

But these events are pushed out of his mind when salvation finally approaches one late afternoon in the weary figure of a man, clinging to the reins of a stumbling horse, at the end of their pathway. 

His father must have sensed the newcomer’s presence too, for Lilia is at the door before Silver can even call for him, ever the gracious host and smiling beatifically at their wayward traveler as if Silver hadn’t needed to shake his shoulders thrice in mounting worry to wake him that very morning. The man eagerly accepts the offer of nightly shelter, passing the reins of his horse to Silver to tie to a post in the welcome shade of a nearby tree, and Silver watches over its broad shoulder as he gently rubs the creature down. His father, ever the effortless conversationalist even at the height of his malady, needs no reins with which to lead the man into the cool, womb-like darkness of their home, and Silver feels a rush of palpable relief at the familiarity of the old song and dance— perhaps at last, his father might finally take a turn for the better.  

The next morning, Silver checks on his father first and smiles to see the vampire snoring away in what must have been his first blissful sleep in weeks, bedsheets haphazardly tangled about him in an ocean of white. With practiced motions, he leans down to straighten the blankets fondly around the slumbering figure, only to wrinkle his nose at the sharp scent of iron heavy on his father’s breath. After such a dry spell, the bitter tang scratches at his senses, and he can’t help but take a glance into their tiny living room where their guest yawns and shuffles in his borrowed blankets. 

Perhaps a breakfast with a healthy side of dark, leafy greens was in order. 

Morning is a quiet and simple affair— his father is sleeping in for once it seems, and Silver makes efficient work out of the early meal for their guest who must have had a rough night of tossing and turning judging by his wrinkled clothes and constant, belly-deep yawns. Silver even offers for the man to stay a while longer if he isn’t fit yet for travel, but their guest insists (rather strongly for his exhausted nature) that he could not impose on their goodwill much longer. With a mental shrug, Silver bows his head and allows the man privacy to retrieve his things, heading outside with the intent to bring the waiting horse to its owner. 

Only, the horse is nowhere to be seen. 

Silver’s heart falters in his chest, and he turns to their departing guest with a litany of apologies on his lips, for he had been so sure of tying the creature up safely for the night, but the man waves him off with an unsteady hand and a smile that keeps attempting to slip from his face as if greased, proclaiming that he had no need for what had been such an aging beast. He could continue his travels alone, and Silver can only watch and uneasily curl his fingers into his palms as the man cuts a wavering figure back down their pathway despite his bewildered protests. 

(“We ought to warn those who stop by that there may be a bear in the woods,” he tells his father later, the vampire having woken long past their traveler’s departure. “The noises I’ve been hearing and now the horse’s disappearance. . . someone could get hurt.” 

His father doesn’t seem too concerned with Silver’s hypothesis, and he supposes that’s simply how one behaves after centuries of besting mortality. Still, he resolves to be more cautious in his time spent outdoors.) 

The man’s arrival marks a turning point in the summer, the blistering dog days giving way to the cooler promise of autumn. It also marks a turning point in his father’s health, one that Silver is initially so incredibly grateful for as the vampire seems to perk up and become the very picture of rosy, energetic grace. The weakened figure of mere weeks prior haunts the corridors of his mind, and Silver finds himself making excuses as his father welcomes the oddly increasing number of strangers who have found themselves down their homely path with open arms and glittering eyes above a wide, gleaming smile. It had simply been a veritable drought of company, and his father, gregarious as he was, was in his element now, thriving off the attention almost as much as the blood that came with it.

And perhaps that is what itched at his nerves most of all. It was one thing to suddenly play house with the travelers that seemed to constantly appear on their doorstep—

(Silver had questioned them, a discomforting notion to learn that not only had they been told of the cottage’s existence by those who staggered off in the mornings, but almost fervently urged to visit.)

—but never before had he witnessed his father drink in such abandon. With such a slow, but steady, trickle of visitors, his father may have sampled another’s blood once or twice a month at most, always cautious enough to not take too much. His father is not a monster, and his kindness exceeds that of all the humanity that Silver had known in his short life— this he tells himself as he averts his gaze from the still-clotting punctures, glistening and accusatory over rumpled shirts. 

His father is not a monster, and he still tells himself this as he stumbles out of his bedroom one cold winter’s night, awoken once more to that strange, garbled collection of sound. His father is not a monster, because it simply could not be his father crouched before him on the floor of their living room, an all too still and silent figure splayed out beneath him like a rag doll. He surely must be dreaming, as those muffled, wet noises pause in their desperate slurping and enlarged fangs draw up and away from a ruined shoulder, dripping in a dark, glutinous substance. His father is not a monster, because the creature hunched in the shadows of a dying fire looks nothing like the angel who had rescued him in the forest all those years ago— whatever this, this thing is, slavering wildly over a face locked in a euphoric death mask, it is not his dearest father.

They behold each other in the scant space of a fragile moment, a bewildered gaze still frozen before the onslaught of horror could possibly sink in opposite that of unmoored feral hunger. Silver thinks back to the knife hidden beneath the drawer of his nightstand, cloaked in dust and dried flowers and the somber protection of a father’s love. He thinks back to the incredible speed that had disposed of the men who had intended to kill him on such a similar frigid night, a speed unmatched to the naked eye. 

The vampire utters his name like a prayer, smeared tenderly in lamb’s blood.

His father is not a monster.

Silver opens his arms, and waits for his angel to carry him home. 

In response to the delicate graze of his father’s gore-drenched claws against his youthful face, the boy’s eyes flutter open at last. Lilia does not seem to notice the vibrancy that has vanished from them, leaving behind the dull haze of a mist-choked morn where once the dawn light soared; perhaps he simply does not care. “Oh, Silver,” he breathes in reverence, the miraculous wonder of a father witnessing his child’s (re)birth for the first time, and he throws his arms around the boy’s stiff shoulders. There is no response, but that is to be expected when one is missing a greater third of their tattered and torn esophagus, the mutilated remains of which are strewn across the floor or smeared over Lilia’s mouth.  “My darling boy, my precious son, how perfect you are at last.”

Silver trembles in his arms like a newborn fawn, and Lilia coos reassurances to him, helps his boy to his feet and steadies his legs as he leads him over to where their meal now lay in a crumpled and tangled heap. It is always cumbersome, the first feeding, and Lilia had no one to guide him through the carnal, mindless greed of his own— no such fate shall befall his son. He will share with him the abundance of milk and honey, lift it to his frozen lips where those new, budding fangs peek innocently above, and watch with boundless pride as new life, a near eternal life, is bestowed upon the one timeless treasure he has coveted in over six hundred stolen centuries. 

Later, they will bury the body together, sink the flesh deep within the garden where the others take their rest, a cluster of pearly white bones only disturbed by an odd set of larger, equine-shaped ones. Later still, when a young man approaches their home in the evening gloom to seek shelter on the long, arduous journey to his grandfather, Silver will greet him. He will smile enchantingly over his new high-necked shirt and take his hand, drawing him deep into the clutches of their wonderful little home, deep into the blessed darkness where his father waits. The table will stay barren, the bed unmade— there is no more need for pretense between the two of them. Not now, and not ever. 

Lilia can see it all. And with pleasure, he smiles. 

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland fanfic #twst fic #twisted wonderland silver #twst silver #lilia vanrouge #twst lilia #diasomnia #twst sebek #sebek zigvolt #happy belated halloween :) #everyone say thank you catriona for bringing my wild visions to life beyond anything i could possibly imagine <3 #lettie writes #art for lettie

[drewsbuzzcut]

Big Boy And The Hot Tub

Jeremy Swayman x Lyla Blair

A ‘The Masterminds’ small fic

Warnings: slightly alluded to sex, some kissing and I think that’s all (this was quickly written and slightly edited sorry)

Takes place during the 2024 offseason

“What, big boy?” Lyla cocks an eyebrow up at Jeremy as he slowly makes his way over to her.

They’re inside a hot tub, enjoying the warm water and the bubbles that surround them. Originally Jeremy was seated across from Lyla, but soon his hands come in contact with her thighs as he opens up her legs and fits his hips between them. He delicately guides her legs to wrap around his waist as he has multiple times before.

Despite the warm water pooling around their bodies, Lyla feels goosebumps unleash all over her the moment she’s touched by her boyfriend. A harsh shiver rips through her body, moving her closer to him. Her bikini clad breast press against his bare chest and her arms loop around his neck, fingers finding their way in his hair.

“I love you,” he nudges his nose against hers, crowding her space but it’s no big deal to her. If crawling under your lover’s skin was a thing, Jeremy would be doing it.

“I love you,” she says with a lovesick grin, eyes sparkling and hands cupping his face. Her nails scratch at his beard, further allowing him to relax. Lyla leans back and closes her eyes, trying not to become distracted by the butterflies roaring in her tummy.

His face goes into the crook of her neck, wiggling around to tickle her with his beard. She lets out a small shriek, body withering against his, but she doesn’t dare try to pull away. No, his warmth is the best comfort she’s ever come to know.

“Jeremy,” he laughs, full bellied, in sync with her pounding heart.

“I love your little giggle,” he kisses her irritated skin, feeling overwhelmed with pride when she melts into him. He’s the only one who can get that reaction out of her.

“You’re the only one who can make me giggle like that,” she peers into his eyes, something a lot like lust and adoration swimming in her orbs. A smug smirk flashes over his face. Of course he's the only one.

They let the water lap at them, drowning in a comfortable silence and the low tune of the music flowing through the speaker. She looks down, a single finger dotting the random moles on his arms. She knows Jeremy like the back of her hand, so she really didn’t have to look where she’s touching him. Another smile flips her lips up, so amazed and excited that she’s getting to experience the love of her life’s hometown.

Alaska is Lyla’s new favorite place on earth. Everything has been sweeter and more convincing that Jeremy is her person. She knows that she’ll be thinking of this trip for the rest of her life.

“Today was fun, baby. I enjoyed learning how to fish,” Lyla whispers and caresses his head as he nuzzles into her.

He’s nosing at the side of her face, the tip of his nose stroking her cheek to elicit another round of giggles from her. His lips ghost around her jaw and leave faint kisses on the skin.

Jeremy only hums in response. He’s too busy pawing at her exposed form. The scent of her sweet perfume still resides on the dip of her collarbone -where she spritzed it this morning- and it keeps him grounded.

“I can’t believe you grew up here. It’s so beautiful,” Lyla awes, looking over Jeremy’s shoulder at the breathtaking view.

She’s met with the smacking noises of his lips repeatedly pecking her cheek. She smiles cheekily, a red flush dusting her features.

“Oh my gosh! I cannot wait for tomorrow. Your family is so sweet, so I am very much looking forward to spending some time with them,” the girl gasps, body popping up in excitement and her eyes growing wide. Jeremy continues to hold her to him, a grin painting on his face. He absolutely loves the tiny bikini Lyla chose to wear, just for him. Her breasts bounce with her movement, pulling him under hypnosis.

She’s met with more kisses being delivered below her ear. Her heart flutters at his endless display of affection, although she isn’t sure what spurred it on. Not that she’s complaining.

“I’m,” a kiss is pressed to her chest. “So happy,” a kiss is pressed to her neck. “You’re here,” a kiss is pressed to her jaw. “With me,” Jeremy finishes his prolonged sentence with a mind tingling kiss to Lyla’s lips.

Her eyebrows rise in delight, eyes closing in utter bliss. Her body feels on fire from the inside out, and it’s not due to the temperature of the water.

Her hands glide over his shoulders, her anchor so she won’t float away. His tongue pushes into her mouth, wrapping around her own. He sets his hand on her throat, keeping her pressed to him as he consumes her.

Despite initiating the heated lip lock, Jeremy is the first to pull away with a tug of Lyla’s bottom lip gripped between his teeth. A small whimper escapes her, her hands connecting behind his neck to pull him into another kiss. Using her upper body strength, she pushes him back to the other side of the tub and straddles his lap. Her fingers grip his curls and she pulls his head back, tongue devouring his mouth.

“I love you, my beautiful girl,” he says into their kiss.

His eyes are a shade darker, but he looks so enticing- especially with the way his hair is disheveled and lips are puffy.

“I love you, big boy. Thank you for having me here. It’s really lovely,” she whispers, her eyes crinkling up with her big smile. Lyla doesn’t think she’ll ever stop smiling and she’s perfectly fine with that, because when she looks at herself in the mirror, she’ll be able to recall each beautiful memory that lies within her smile lines.

Their moment of contentment and sharing a loving gaze is interrupted by Jeremy lifting both their bodies out of the water. Lyla goes over his shoulder with a loud smack delivered to her ass. Her low moan fuels a deep hunger in the pit of her hockey player boyfriend’s stomach. A hunger that they’re about to indulge in. Lyla really loves Alaska.

a/n: Enjoy this little idea I had in my head!!

#lyla x jeremy #oc!singer x jeremy swayman #jeremy swayman #nhl imagine #nhl fic

[renecdote]

In case you want mORE :’)

cuddling in the first morning light + buddie anniversary? ❤️

hi amy ily I hope you enjoy these sappy boys (ft party dog socks as requested) mwah 💛 [Read on AO3]

It’s a miracle, really, that they make it out of the ER before five a.m. A miracle that they make it out of the ER without an admittance at all, Buck thinks privately, but that’s more to do with his shitty luck with ending up in the hospital than any feeling that he actually needs to be there right now. If it had been up to him, they wouldn’t have come at all.

“Which is why it’s not up to you,” is all Eddie had said to that on the drive in, his hands tight around the wheel and his foot a little heavier than normal through the yellow lights. The real miracle, honestly, is that Buck managed to talk his way out of an ambulance trip. He only fainted, like, one and half times, he’s fine, but you have one little history of cardiac arrest after being struck by lightning and suddenly everyone is more worried than they need to be.

No. That’s not fair. He’s just—he’s tired. He wants to be home already.

Eddie’s hand guides him back to the car and Buck tries not to lean into it too much, more unsteady than he is willing to admit but not wanting to keep worrying Eddie. He focuses on putting one foot in front of the other, thinking dreamily about getting home and sinking into their very comfortable bed with his very snuggle-able husband.

He slumps against the window, eyes closing as he lets out a shaky breath, and he only remembers to put on his seatbelt when Eddie gets in the driver’s seat and clicks his own belt into place. The snap is loud in the quiet bubble of the car. Buck winces at the pulse of pain through his head. The fluids the hospital gave him did something, he’s pretty sure, but the headache is clinging tight.

Eddie fiddles with the radio, searching for a traffic report, and Buck winces again when a host far too cheery for the early hour informs them that there has been an accident so they’ll have to take a detour.

“Sorry,” Buck sighs. He has said it too many times already, he knows, but he can’t help it. It doesn’t make sense that traffic would be his fault but it feels like one more thing he needs to apologise for anyway.

“You don’t need to apologise, Buck,” Eddie tells him, and somehow there’s still none of the exasperation Buck keeps expecting to hear there. He sounds more tired than he did at the start of the night, exhaustion dripping from his consonants and his shoulders as he glances in the rearview mirror before pulling out of the carpark, but his voice is just as patient as it was the first and second and tenth time Buck said he was sorry.

“It’s just.” Buck bites his lip, working through the frustrating press of tears behind his eyes. He’s just tired. He’s tired, and feeling more like crap than he wants Eddie to know, and, “It’s our anniversary.”

Eddie glances at him then. His hand twitches towards the gear stick like he wants to shift it into reverse and back up down the road until they’re back in front of the hospital.

“You said you didn’t hit your head when you fell.”

Buck groans. “Please don’t turn the car around.”

“Our anniversary is in March,” Eddie reminds him, as if Buck doesn’t know that. He was the one who wanted a spring wedding and then he spent the whole day sneezing because of hay fever. It would have been miserable if it wasn’t the best day of his life.

“I know it’s not March,” Buck insists, fully aware that he’s being too insist-y about it. He’s just so tired. “I didn’t mean that anniversary.”

Eddie frowns. He opens his mouth, then closes it, and in the flash of orange streetlights, Buck can see him flipping through a calendar in his mind, Chris’ school events and work shifts and all the important days in their lives marked on it with colourful pens and stickers. Buck can see him coming up blank on anything that matches today’s date.

It’s stupid, really. Extra stupid because Buck didn’t even know about it, not consciously, and then he accidentally caught a glimpse of Eddie’s personnel file in Bobby’s office on Monday and—

“It’s the day we met,” he says, playing with the plastic band around his wrist. “The day you joined the 118.”

The day their lives changed forever, even though they didn’t know it at the time.

“It’s stupid,” Buck adds, mumbling.

They’re at a stop light now, and the cross street is clear, but instead of accelerating forward, Eddie puts the handbrake on and leans across the console to pull Buck into a kiss. A sound of surprise catches in the back of Buck’s throat, but then he curls his fingers into the front of Eddie’s hoodie and kisses back.

“I love you,” Eddie says when they pull apart, his eyes crinkling with his smile. Buck can hardly see it in the dim interior of the car, but he can hear it in Eddie’s voice, the kind of warmth and fondness that is so sticky Buck will find traces of it clinging to him for the rest of the day.

“I love you too,” he replies, a little breathless. He hopes Eddie thinks it’s just from the kissing.

“I’m gonna take you home,” Eddie says, thumb a caress at the edge of Buck’s jaw. “And we’re gonna sleep for at least five hours. Probably more.” Buck smiles. “And then we can celebrate our anniversary, okay?”

“It’s not even a real anniversary,” Buck tries, not even really sure why he’s arguing. A more sensible person would just agree, and maybe remind their husband that they’re stopped in the middle of the road, so maybe they should put the car back in gear and hurry up with the getting home part of the plan? Any minute now some early morning commuter is probably going to come along and beep at them.

Eddie kisses him again, quicker and chaster than before, his lips gone before Buck can even try to chase them.

“It can be an anniversary if we want it to be,” he says, shrugging the kind of one-shouldered shrug that means he’s trying to seem unbothered when he’s actually feeling a lot of things, probably very deeply. Then he puts the car back in gear and checks both directions are clear before continuing to drive. It’s not fair, really, because it means Buck can’t work through the many, very deep feelings in his own chest by kissing Eddie stupid.

When we get home, he tells himself. But by the time they pull into the driveway, Buck is flagging.

They shower together—“it’ll be faster,” Eddie says, as if Buck doesn’t know it’s just so he can make sure Buck doesn’t pass out and crack open his skull on the tiles—and with the smell of the hospital gone and the bone-deep exhaustion amplified by the heat, Buck is half-asleep before he makes it into bed. He seriously considers not getting dressed at all, maybe not even drying off, just rolling under the covers and passing out (metaphorically, this time). But then Eddie is in front of him with a t-shirt and sleep shorts, a pair of party-themed dog socks tucked under his arm, and it’s just as easy to let him help.

“Bet you didn’t think we’d end up here,” Buck finds himself saying, watching Eddie roll the socks onto his feet. He could do it himself, but.

“No,” Eddie agrees, looking up at him. His smile is teasing when he adds, “Especially not those first few days.”

The embarrassment Buck used to feel looking back at that has been tempered by time and the life they have built together.

“I was a dick,” he says easily.

Eddie snorts. “You thought you were so tough.”

“Hey,” Buck protests, unable to fully bite back his own smile. “I am tough.”

“My tough firefighter husband.”

Only half teasing.

"Don’t worry, Eds," Buck tells him, “you’re my tough firefighter husband too.”

Eddie’s knees crack when he stands and they both laugh.

Eddie holds out a hand and Buck takes it, bracing himself before Eddie pulls him to his feet. He sways there a second, takes another second to figure out it’s because Eddie is pulling him in, not because of head rush, then he’s ducking his head down to Eddie’s shoulder while they hug. He likes hugging Eddie. He likes pretty much everything about Eddie, likes doing pretty much everything with him, but even before they started dating, Buck always liked the way Eddie hugged him. Liked the way it made him feel held.

“Good?” Eddie checks.

He’s not really asking anything, but he’s also asking everything, so Buck takes the time to squeeze him a little tighter before he answers, “Yeah, ‘m good.”

They separate just long enough to climb into bed, then Eddie wraps an arm around his waist and Buck melts back against him. Behind the blinds, the sky is probably just starting to lighten, alarm clocks starting to go off around the city, birds chirping, a thousand days starting while theirs finally ends. Buck closes his eyes, breathing slow and deep with the rise and fall of Eddie’s chest against his back.

“Wake me if you need me, okay?”

Buck wants to say that he won’t need him—he’s fine, really, the doctor said so and everything—but he just yawns and agrees with a half-garbled, “Uh huh.”

Eddie presses a kiss behind his ear. Or maybe Buck just imagines that he does. He can’t be sure whether he really hears the whispered, “love you,” either. It doesn’t really matter; they’re just words. He can feel all the branching, overlapping layers of Eddie’s love even without I love you.

It’s nice, though, hearing the words anyway.

Buck falls asleep wondering whether Bobby knew just how much he would change their lives when he asked Eddie to join the 118.

#Evan Buckley #Eddie Diaz #911 Fox #fic #sorry this is kinda dumb akskdk

[p1nkcanoe]

the polaroid collection: dewdrop

this is part three of the polaroid collection, based off of 'picture this'. you can either find the masterlist here, read on ao3, or read below:

!! this one's a little intense, warnings for crying, breeding kink, aftershocks of rough sex, and a bit of subdrop !!

---

“I can’t– I can’t take any more– so full, Swiss. I’m so full, I don’t know if I–” 

The air reeks of sex and sweat, cinnamon, woodsmoke, and weed. Sweetened with potent desire. Electric with the need to breed and claim. Swiss snarls, bares his teeth, and leans down to nose at the junction just below Dew’s jaw where it’s sticky and soft. 

“You can take it, I know you can–I’ve seen you do it. And you want to,” he says. His voice is too even, too calm for how he’s been fucking him relentlessly for the past hour and a half. His muscles burn from the exertion and he’s far past being exhausted, but he’s not done with him yet. Not even close. His tongue darts out to taste a mark blooming on the fire ghoul’s skin. Purple and red and bubbling with blood where the multi ghoul had accidently bit him too hard with the tip of a sharp fang. 

“You love this cock, don’t you? You love it when it fills you up, gets you all filthy, and stretches that tight hole wide, yeah?” 

Dew whines because he knows deep in his head that Swiss is right. No matter how much his bones ache and his muscles stretch beyond their limits, he’ll always bear the pain for a little bit of heat. Especially if it’s coming from Swiss. That dick, that body, that tongue… they’re parts of him that Dew dreams about. Never sated. He’ll never get enough. 

“Fuck,” the larger ghoul grunts and buries himself so deep inside of him that Dew’s jaw falls slack but the only thing that comes out is a pitiful little squeak. His hands scramble for a hold on sweaty skin and Swiss hisses, pain burning red hot into pleasure, when suddenly unglamored claws tear angry red lines across his back and into the grooves between his ribs. 

“You’re so pretty, Dew,” he compliments and kisses him all over his face. “And you know it, don’t you? Prettiest ghoul in the abbey.” 

He continues to fuck him with bruising punches of his hips and each one knocks the breath from his lungs and leaves him gasping for air. Even if he really wanted him to answer his question he couldn’t. 

But he knows it anyway. He is the prettiest. That's how he always gets himself in these kinds of situations. 

“I mean, look at yourself–” A hand detaches itself from his lithe waist to reach at a photograph and somehow the stretch pushes him deeper. Dew’s more than a little out of his mind. The way his eyes roll back into his skull is enough proof of that. Swiss holds the photo up close to his face and grins wide and full of teeth before turning it around and showing it to the other ghoul, who looks at it through unfocused and watery eyes. The colors are distorted and faint, still developing from when the flash went off only minutes prior, but the picture is there, and oh is it something. “–beautiful. Even when you’re crying on my cock.” 

If the shine on his cheeks wasn’t enough to convince Swiss that he was fucking him good, the visible wetness lining his eyes and trailing down into his hairline, frozen in time in the photo forever certainly is. He’d been nearly in hysterics when the flash had gone off. Thoroughly used and pinned by his shoulders with crushing weight until the other filled him up full with his third orgasm of the never-ending night. Even though the photo was taken with arms stretched up high, it’s still so clear how much Dew wants him. And Swiss is right–he’s so pretty when he’s messy. So pretty when he’s got his knees up by his chest and his puffy hole exposed for the lens to see. So pretty when it leaks a creamy mixture of his own slick and Swiss’ cum. His thighs are covered in little nips and impressive outlines of Swiss’ entire bite. He’d nearly screamed and ripped the sheets to ruined shreds when he’d made those–nearly unhinged his jaw to sink his teeth into the flesh of his thighs–and when Swiss gives him a sudden sharp smack to the back of his thigh to reward him for the good work the noise he makes is no different. More tears well up in his eyes, thick and hot, and turn the room wavy. 

“I just can’t get enough of you, baby,” Swiss starts again, placing the photo down and out of the way, and Dew knows he’s really in for it when he straightens up and shuffles his knees forward into a kneel. What he does next has the fire ghoul preparing for the worst. He grabs him by the waist and pulls him up so their hips meet again, and Dew holds onto the back of his knees just a little tighter. If he thought Swiss was relentless before, he’s about to nearly be fucked out of his mind. 

“I mean I came here for one photo, but now that I’ve got you I can’t help but think I need another. Something good for wank content, don’t you think? Something only for me… Something filthy. Something really nasty.” 

Something about that last part sends the smaller ghoul into a bit of a spiral. He says it so casually, like he’s talking about taking him out on a date to the lake instead of preparing to fuck him to his limits and beyond. Of course the previous photo he took of him isn't exactly the type of one you frame and nail to the common room wall, but he’d thought it was nasty enough. The glimpse of his hole could make Mountain cream his pants in an instant. 

Clearly Swiss thinks he can do better… 

Dew isn’t sure how much more his body can take. 

He digs his fingers into the meat of his thighs, his fingers dimpling the flesh and the tips of his claws poking out and threatening to bury themselves into his own skin. Swiss drags his dick against his sensitive insides until his head catches only slightly on his rim, loose and wet with fluids, and Dew holds his breath. 

“Swiss–! I–!” 

The force that he slams their hips together with makes him lose his grip and he goes boneless within the hands that hold him up. He’s a mess in a matter of seconds. 

Thrust after bruising thrust. His cock slaps hard and heavy against his belly, leaving shiny droplets in its wake where it bounces. He’s been leaking like a faucet ever since Swiss came deep inside of him the first time. He hasn’t cum once. He’s gotten close countless times but he’s been tortured with pleasure for so long that the build up is dull and persistent in his belly, threatening to spill over with every touch and slide from the other ghoul inside of him, on top of him. He’s flushed so deep he’s almost purple and his balls ache. If Swiss would just grab him, grip him in that big hand and give him a few good strokes, a thumb just against the underside of his head, he’d cum so fast. So hard. He’s sure of it. But Swiss hasn’t touched him once and he knows well enough that his own hands are for holding himself open, not shooting ropes. 

He’ll be good for him, he thinks and squeezes his eyes shut tight. 

He has been. 

He needs to be the exceeding amount of nasty that he needs, so he scrambles for a weak hold on his legs but his hands keep slipping off of the slick sweat that covers him like a film. He gives up and they flop down into the damp sheets, useless and spent. 

“That’s okay, Dew,” Swiss says so fondly, so sweet despite how hard he’s pounding into his little body. His hands hold onto his hips just a little tighter–he’ll be covered in bruises where his fingertips break delicate vessels–and pants heavy into the air. The sound of their skin slapping together bounces around the room. “Just take it. Take it for me like I know you can.” 

Dew whines and it sounds weird in his throat. Strained. Slightly pained. And the tears start flowing again when Swiss nails his prostate over and over again with that thick dick. 

Every nerve in his body feels like it’s on fire. He can feel it all. Every nerve and every fiber, every signal that zips up like lightning to his brain and fills his bones with a violent buzz. He’s so sensitive all over, so sensitive inside that Swiss’ gorgeous dick feels twice as large, his head blunt, thick, as wet as ever. He can feel him leaking inside of him and he matches him with his own dick that has progressed to a steady stream that slides down the flat plane of his tummy towards his chest. 

“Yeah, you’re doing so good, Dew,” he pants, lifting him up even more and making the angle that much more devastating. His spine is far too curved like this. His back burns and his thighs fall like dead weight to either side of his chest, his knees nearly up by his ears. He doesn’t even have to hold them to keep them there, he just has to make sure he doesn’t accidentally knee himself in the face. “Just a little more and I’m gonna blow in this hole, get it all sticky and full that you’ll have no choice but to leak with my cum. You ready? You want it? You better because it’s coming.” 

He has just enough of his wits left to give him the slightest little nod from where his chin is pressed between his collarbones. 

He wants it. Oh, he wants it. 

His dick twitches when it bounces with each one of his thrusts and he nearly blurts a fat glob of pre onto his nose when Swiss decides to lean forward. 

“It’s coming,” he gasps, eyes wild and dark.  

His grip tightens and he starts to really pound him and Dew’s lost all control of his muscles, flopping like dead weight against the sheets, anchored in place solely by Swiss’ hold on his hips while he chases his final orgasm. He wants it so bad, needs it more than any of the previous loads that he pumped into him, and he surprises himself when his hole manages to flutter around his dick, making Swiss mewl between gritted teeth and his breathy moans pitch up and up and up until he’s nearly crying out and pulling the ghoul as far as he can possibly go onto his cock, spilling inside with an astounding amount of cum for it being his fourth. 

“Fuck, Dew–! Fucking shit!” 

He continues to fuck him through it until he begins to soften, and the moment that he finally sets him carefully back down on his back and pulls out is about as nasty as it gets. The sound makes them both moan and Dew’s face scrunches up when Swiss grabs him under the knees and pushes his legs up and open, barely giving him a moment to recover from the brutal position he’d been contorted into. 

It squelches. Swollen flesh, red and throbbing, and an obscene amount of cum and slick that drip out of him like his own body produced it in mass. He can feel the mess all over his skin, dripping down between his cheeks towards the junction where his tail meets his spine, and he watches through tear-brimmed eyes as Swiss licks his lips and raises his right hand into the air. The smack that follows makes his ears go a little sharp and his scream gets caught in his throat. His eyes squeeze shut, sending thick tears into his hair, and once the right hand returns to his knee, the left one pulls back to give his other thigh a matching mark. The outlines of Swiss’ palms bloom almost immediately on pale skin. A perfect silhouette. Red and angry. 

Dew leaks another puddle onto the mess on his tummy when Swiss bites at his lip and moans nice and pretty at the sight. 

He reaches for the camera. 

“Hold your legs open. Just like you did before. Nice and wide. Lemme see that hole, Dew.” 

Dew, by some brilliant act of Satan below, manages to get his hands under his knees and take over the hold, pulling with the last of his strength to get himself open and as exposed as possible. 

He shakes with violent sobs and the aftershocks of Swiss’ abuse on his body, but still spreads himself wide. His hole gapes–red and puffy. He leaks–creamy and slick. Ruined. His thighs, his cheeks, his skin–irritated and red with how their bodies slammed and slapped together for hours. He aches all over, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“Perfect,” Swiss says, leaning in real close, almost too close that Dew can feel the puff of his breathing against his hole. “I’ll be cumming to this for fucking years.” 

He presses the button and Dew hears the photo dispense from the photo slot for the second time that night, his arms giving out just as Swiss straightens back up and pulls it out, giving it a little shake. 

“Now why don’t we make that little dick cum, yeah? Then maybe take a nice long bath? Cuddle up and go to sleep afterwards? That sound good?” 

Swiss leaves the camera and the blank photo down on Dew’s dresser, an afterthought, and returns to the trembling ghoul, scooping him up into his arms and laying him down against his chest. One of his big hands combs tangled strands of golden hair out of his face and a kiss is planted on his temple. The other trails down his tummy before finally curling around his flushed and painfully hard dick. He spasms with it, his whole body jerking from the suddenly overwhelming stimulation, and Swiss shushes him sweetly, holds him tight and whispers softly into his ear to bring him back down to him. 

“Shhhh, Dew… C’mon, baby. Stay with me, gonna make you feel so good… ‘t’s your turn now, pretty boy…” 

He kisses him again, this time on the top of his head, and begins to stroke him slowly from root to tip. 

Dew wraps an arm around his bicep and sobs harder.

#dewdrop ghoul #nsft #swiss ghoul #swiss x dewdrop

[autisticlancemcclain]

Pidge dreams of a swamp. She wakes up hot and sweaty and miserable. She’s sticky, all over, and especially below the waist. The air smells of iron.

“Oh, fuck,” she mutters, and bursts into tears.

She knew this was coming. She’s fifteen — beyond a late bloomer, really — but some part of her hoped she would hold off on it. Forever, maybe.

Or at least until she’s with her mama again.

She drags herself upright, gagging at the feeling of wet sheets smearing on her bare legs. The smell of blood is almost overwhelming (Lance not moving behind them blasted already barely woke up blood everywhere whole room smells nothing she can do Hunk knocked out covering her six information is vital they can’t pull back nothing she can do Keith scratched to hell lightyears away Red yelling nothing she can do Allura dragged away by the Galra they’re hurting her on the way own splitting the skin nothing she can do her team her friends her family broken and hurting nothing she can do never anything she can do). She shoves her face into her knees, trying to muffle her cries, but they burst out of her, rough and raw and scared and mourning. She chokes on her own sobs, wailing, everything hitting her at once.

Panic that is not her own pushes at the back of her mind, head butting her brain.

Cub, the Green Lion says, distressed. Breathe, cub. Please.

“I want my mom,” Pidge wails. “She’s supposed to be here. She’s supposed to be here!”

I know you do. The Green Lion’s tone is gentler, this time. Less prodding, more…resigned, almost. Pained. I know, Kathleen.

Pidge’s Lion tries to placate her, flooding her brain with comfort and love, but Pidge can feel herself getting hysterical, feel her breathing getting short.

“I wanna go home, I wanna go home, I wanna go home —”

“Pidge?”

The door creaks loudly, making Pidge flinch, and faint light shines into the room. The smell of juniberries pierces through the pungent smell of blood. A soft hand rests on the back of her tangled hair, brushing through the knots.

“Oh, Katie,” Allura sighs. She slides her hand down to Pidge’s shoulder and pulls her close, squeezing her gently. Pidge goes willingly — Allura isn’t her mother, and she’s nothing like her mother, but Allura is sweet and kind and knows everything, and Pidge needs that right now.

“Just take some time, asteraki. We’ll figure it out soon.”

Pidge leans into it. Her lower stomach aches, constantly, and her eyes sting. She still feels sticky and gross. She needs to comfort. She cries until she doesn’t think she can anymore.

“Okay,” Allura says gently, God knows how long later. “Come on up, okay? Let’s go to the washroom. I’ll draw a bath.”

Pidge drags herself out of the bed, stumbling after her. Allura tests the water three times, making sure it’s perfect, and dumps in way too many bubbles. She helps Pidge out of her ruined bottoms, guiding her into the bath. She carefully rubs shampoo into Pidge’s hair, rubbing out the pain in her roots, combing out the tangles.

She says nothing for hours, just quietly helping Pidge put herself back together. She drains the bath when it goes lukewarm, laying out fresh clothes. She strips the sheets, tossing them in a random hamper, and turns over clean ones, guiding Pidge into them.

“Move over,” she says, when Pidge settles into the middle. She glances at Allura in mild surprise, too tired to summon up something more verbal, but complies. To her further surprise Allura scoots in after her, half-reclining against the headboard. She gently tugs Pidge towards her until she gets the hint, leaning against Allura’s chest, gripping her shirt. Allura’s hands slide into her hair again, twisting the wet curls.

“My mom prepared me for my period,” Pidge says quietly.

Allura hums, gesturing for Pidge to continue.

“She told me what supplies to use, what to expect. Very scientific, my mom. But it was just — I don’t know. I wanted her to be there. I wanted to talk to her about it, when it happened.”

“My experience was similar,” Allura says quietly. “I had a — list of letters, from my mother. She knew she was ill, that she wasn’t going to be there for long, so she wrote a series of letters for me for various milestones. I had one for my first period, but it wasn’t…the same.”

Pidge squeezes her hand.

“This no mom shit sucks.”

Allura snorts. “It does.”

Allura keeps her hands clutched with Pidge’s. She holds her tightly, and Pidge doesn’t feel good, but she feels — better.

Big sisters make everythint better, Pidge is learning.

#apparently i can only write pidge angsty #vld #voltron #pidge #pidge holt #also i know her name is katherine but idc i like kathleen better #allura #princess allura #big sister allura #allura & pidge #pidge & allura #platonic love #pidge angst #my writing #fic

[jaywonjuice]

🪵🍃— sunflower. ~ k.sunoo

synopsis the fluffiest evening park date with your real life angel of a boyfriend

pairing bf!sunoo x gn reader

warnings sfw intimacy, kissing

wc 394

a/n pls when is sn coming to take me on our park date ..’) i’m so soft for bf!sunoo i could write him all day long

the golden glow of the early evening sunlight washed over the hillside where you sat. the grass was soft against your bare legs as they lay outstretched in front of you, and faint shouts and bubbly laughter drifted up to you from the hubbub of the park below.

something about this moment felt infinitely peaceful.

shifting your gaze to the pretty boy with his head resting on your thigh, you watched as the gentle breeze toyed with the ends of his fringe playfully.

damn, he really was pretty.

‘sun?’

‘mmm?’ came the hum of reply.

‘what’s your favourite flower?’

you weren’t exactly sure what had prompted the sudden question in your mind, but now that you had asked it you were keen to hear his answer.

he tilted his head back to look up at you inquisitively. ‘my favourite flower?’

‘i just think that one needs to know their boyfriend’s favourite flower, y’know, just in case… of emergencies.’ you avoided his eyes to prevent your cheeks from flushing. seeing this, a smile played on his lips.

‘hmm,’ he scrunched his nose up, thinking. ‘oh, i got it! daffodils. my answer is definitely daffodils.’ he plucked a blade of grass and began twirling it idly in his hands as he continued. ‘i think they’re underrated - they’re so bright and cheerful, and they get to be so many different shades of yellow, and… and honestly they kinda look like they’re just going like this all the time.’ he pouted his lips out as far as they’d go and turned his head to widen his eyes at you dramatically.

caught off guard by his sudden silliness you burst out laughing. ‘daffodil suits you then,’ you quipped.

he beamed, and all of a sudden a thought popped into your head. ‘aren’t you curious what mine is?’

he nodded eagerly.

‘mine is definitely… a sunflower.’ you smiled shyly.

sunoo blushed up at you. he propped himself up on his elbows, and his face suddenly felt a whole lot closer to yours.

god, he really was just too pretty.

his lips finally met yours softly. the way he kissed you was always so loving yet gentle, like you truly were precious to him. everything about him just felt right. when you finally broke away, he rested his forehead against yours, and made you an offer.

‘i’ll be your sunflower.’

©jaywonjuice | do not copy or re-upload my work on any platform

#enhypen #enha #enha fluff #enha x reader #enhypen reactions #enha drabble #enhypen scenarios #enhypen fluff #enha scenarios #enhypen drabbles #enha sunoo #enha imagines #enhypen imagines #kim sunoo #enhypen soft hours #enha soft hours #enhypen soft thoughts #enha soft thoughts #sunoo fluff #enhypen sunoo

[crowborn666-writes]

hi anon here! i was wondering if u could do a platonic aizawa x student reader? basically reader gets really overwhelmed (sensory wise) at the feeling of clothes on their skin sometimes and it happens one day when they’re in their dorm and they just dunno how to cope with it so they end up accidentally sh relapsing cuz they just need to get their frustration out. aizawa ends up finding out about it and confronts them about it one day after class. gender neutral reader btw. this is oddly specific LMFAOO sorry bruh it’s totally cool if u cant do it! <3 (bonus points if reader is autistic)

Sense

(Sensory overload? Autistic? Sounds like me already lol. I’m more familiar with noise and lighting sensory overload than fabric, so hope it’s ok I stuck those in here as well!)

Aizawa x Student!Reader

Genre: Comfort, Fluff, Platonic

Summary: Too much leads you to a relapse, your teacher finds out and wishes to help.

TW/CW: mentions of accidental self harm, mentions of blood/bleeding, sensory overload caused by touch, light, and sound,

(If I missed any, pls lmk!)

~~~~~~

Breakfast was slightly rowdy as usual, Bakugo griping about how Denki and Shoto shouldn’t be allowed in the kitchen as he fixes the mess they made. Iida running around handing everyone plates, Kirishima giving everyone a warm good morning with Mina.

You’d no less than sat down in your usual spot when Iida came whizzing by with your usual breakfast, you toss a quick thanks over your shoulder, beginning to eat.

Minutes went by, you quietly eating when the noise seemed to get louder. A glance up made you wince, the lights seeming brighter. Your clothes then began to itch.

You bit your lip, glancing around at everyone’s smiling faces, perhaps if you found something to distract yourself with, you could ignore it.

You focused on your food, trying to focus on the nice taste when someone’s voice went a level higher. Your hand reached for your sleeve, beginning to scratch at the skin just underneath.

The voices only got louder, the light brighter, your clothes scratchier. Louder, brighter, scratchier. Louder, brighter, scratchier. Louderbrighterscratchie–

Breakfast was over, Iida coming by to scoop up your empty plate, most everyone heading to the common room to watch TV together. You changed your usual course, instead of going to the common room with everyone you moved past it, off towards your dorm room. Panicked breaths left you, feet a near blur across the carpet.

The dark quiet of your room was welcomed, but you found yourself clawing off the offending, itchy fabric on your skin.

You lose yourself for a moment, coming back to find your teeth sunken into your flesh and your nails digging angry red lines across your forearm. Small dots of blood bubbled to the surface from the injuries. A small, quiet cry leaves you as the pain registers, both from the injury and from your mind. You’d been doing well…

You shake away those thoughts, taking a shaky breath before moving to your bathroom to clean up.

Faint teeth marks, scratches, nails dug into your palms. You cleaned them all and bandaged the ones needed. You were thankful for the long sleeves on your uniforms, as well as the usually comfortable baggy clothing you wore.

You picked your safest outfit to wear, drawing the curtains slightly to limit the amount of light in your room.

Deep breath. In and out.

You’d be okay. A bit of time here to calm is what you need.

School was a wreck, people were being loud and seemingly more annoying with their antics than usual.

And worst of all, your uniform was starting to itch.

A shaky breath, the urge to scratch and bite and pick and—

You shook your head a little, shaking away those thoughts.

You didn’t bother staying in the lunch room, not wanting to throw yourself into another sensory overload.

A gentle hand brushed your arm as you moved through the hallway, and you turn to see Aizawa-sensei there.

“You don’t look so good, (L/n). Do you want to eat lunch in the classroom?”

You almost wanted to cry tears of relief. You nodded, following behind him to the classroom with your lunch.

“Sensory overload getting to you?” Aizawa piped up, glancing your way. “Iida said you didn’t look so well yesterday morning.”

“Yeah..” you murmured, your wrists trying to urge you to scratch them. “It got bad yesterday.”

“You’re free to talk about it if you want.” He replied, flipping all but one set of lights off as you both entered the classroom.

“…I relapsed…” you breathed, avoiding his gaze.

“May I see the damage?” He asked, setting his paperwork down and taking the seat next to you as you sat down.

You nodded, sure your teacher didn’t miss the way you tried to avoid your sleeve touching your skin as you tugged it back, showing the scabbed over scratches.

“The fabric of my clothes gets itchy, and it’s hard not to scratch sometimes.”

Aizawa nodded quietly, taking your hand gently to assess the damage. “I’ll see if Nezu can get in a change of fabrics for your uniform. The damage here isn’t too bad.”

“I know… but I hadn’t in a long time and—“

“It’s not about how long it’s been, in the end, it’s about if you choose to keep fighting.”

Aizawa let go of your hand, sitting back. “Eat some food, you’ve got hero class next, and you’ll need the nutrition.”

“Thank you, Aizawa-sensei.” You replied as he stood, scooping up his paperwork as he moved to his desk.

“If it gets bad again, you’re free to come in here to relax.”

#mha #bnha #mha x reader #platonic #aizawa x student reader #Aizawa x reader #x reader #aizawa #shota aizawa #mha aizawa #bnha aizawa