#his voice is probably higher and softer than mine

[ace-in-a-very-distressing-hole]

had to explain in the most basic terms what nonbinary was to a six year old earlier. i asked him what he thought i was and he said “well you look like a boy but sound like a girl” so i said “well actually i don’t quite feel like a boy OR a girl. and this little bitch looks at me and just goes “so you’re a monster??”

well i’ll take that

hell yeah im a fucking monster

*monster mash starts playing*

#nonbinary #lgbtq #we’ve found the secret third gender #this is for all of us who have been equated by children to aliens and robots and Creatures and angels #it feels quite poetic #kids are so real for their perspectives on life #also i love how he was only confused about my gender because i have a more feminine voice #genuinely #his voice is probably higher and softer than mine

[tommybowefuneralattendee]

trust fall

spommy || 8k || rating: E || find it on ao3

Like so many other bad decisions, this one begins when Tommy bothers to pick up his phone.

"Okay, so I may have made a few questionable decisions," Spencer says apropos of nothing, his voice a little too quiet across the line.

"Always a great way to start a phone call. Hi, Spencer, how's your evening? Good? Good! Oh mine? Well-"

"Tommy, this is an emergency," Spencer interrupts, the stress in his voice coming clear in the increased volume of it.

"Then why did you call me?" Tommy asks, his voice panicked and high before he forces himself calm, "what's going on?"

"So I may have made a few questionable decisions," Spencer repeats, his awkward fear laugh coming across the line. Okay, so he's scared. Tommy softens his voice.

"What's up?" he coaxes, wishing he could put his hand on Spencer's shoulder like he usually might while assuring the other man.

“Well, I. Well,” Spencer says, stopping and starting, hemming and hawing like he has no idea how to crack into this. Tommy hums.

“It’s okay, I’m not going to make fun of you. Unless it’s funny. Then I might, a little. But I promise to be as gracious about this as I can possibly be. You can trust me,” he says, voice softer than he means; he didn’t mean to say that last bit at all.

“You know I trust you. So. Well. I,” Spencer starts, clearing his throat, then in a rush, “I have a silicone dick stuck in my ass.” Though his mind desperately wants to linger on the idea of Spencer trusting him so implicitly, Tommy can’t help the helpless laughter that spills out of him at that.

“You what?”

“Tommy, I know you heard me. I don’t know what to do.”

“Well what do you mean by stuck?”

“What does anyone mean by stuck? I mean I can’t get it out, dude. How do people do this?” Spencer asks hopelessly, the end of his question curling into a whine. The reality of the situation strikes Tommy suddenly. His straight best friend (who he would not admit to having feelings for under pain of actual torture or maybe if Spencer was upset) has a dildo in his ass, and his first idea was to call Tommy. Stuck. A light bulb might as well shine above his head.

“Oh, you bought one without a base, didn’t you?” The noise that Spencer makes then is higher than he knew Spencer's voice could go.

“I didn’t know!” he exclaims, obviously frustrated. Tommy can practically see the other man pulling at his own hair even over the phone. He cannot think about what Spencer looks like right now. Once more unto the breach.

“Okay, okay, I just need to know a few more details. Does it hurt?” Tommy asks, lowering his voice back into that coaxing place he can't help but fall into with Spencer sometimes, always wanting to preserve Spencer's peace, to soothe any of his aches.

“I mean, no? It’s not exactly pleasant but there’s definitely no, like, tearing. Or whatever.” Another laugh spills out of Tommy without him bidding it.

“Oh my god,” he says, helpless still, and Spencer groans.

“Tommy, can you please be normal about this?” he says. Tommy's laugh this time is terribly high pitched, but he can't help the panic spiking it.

“Is there a normal reaction to this? Because I certainly don’t know about it!”

“Okay, yeah, true, true, I’m sorry,” Spencer assuages pitifully, obviously caught between freaking out and assuring Tommy that everything is, in fact, fine. He hates when Spencer feels like that; if they were in front of each other, it would be showing all over Spencer's face, and Tommy would do anything for him not to look like that. To make him smile after feeling like that. Fuck. He pulls a teasing comment from the back of his throat.

"You're probably being a little baby about it," he says weakly. Spencer snorts.

"What, so, should I just yank it out?" he asks, teasing him right back. Fuck him for being so good at it. Tommy gasps a panicked oh my god beneath his breath.

"Oh my god, no, just stay where you are, I'm coming over," he rushes out, most definitely not thinking it through.

"You're coming over to look at my asshole," Spencer says flatly, which is fair. Tommy bursts into giggles, halfway to hysterical and completely unsure how he's gonna come back off that ledge.

"Absolutely," he says, hopefully leaving no room for argument. Like clockwork, Spencer sighs.

"Alright, fine. You still have your key?" he asks, and Tommy's heart, ever the betrayer and ever a cliche, skips a beat. Spencer had let Tommy borrow a key to his apartment to drop something off between shoots once, months ago, and had never asked for it back. This is the first time it's ever been called Tommy's key. Tommy had been trying to find a way to give it back for months, telling himself that he would feel better once it was done, but he's glad that he didn't now. Spencer called it his key. Tommy clears his throat.

"Yeah, I'll be there in fifteen," he says, and he hits the disconnect button before Spencer can get another word out. What he just agreed to hits him over the head one more time. Fucking hell. He never can see a bad decision without running full tilt towards it, can he? He sighs, making himself get up off of the couch. He's just going to Spencer's, so it's not like he needs to change out of his joggers and t-shirt, even when that voice in the back of his head insists that he really should. Like he should dress up to go help Spencer out of a tough situation. Or, rather, help a tough situation out of Spencer, maybe.

The task at hand, Tommy, the task at hand.

Socks, shoes, wallet just in case, keys, lock the door on your way out. Slip into the routine of it all so the crushing weight of your anxiety falls back into a manageable class. Awkwardly wave at your neighbor as they take their trash down to the shoot. Box breathe in the elevator like that's something that makes you feel more normal.

He feels marginally more put together when he climbs into the driver's seat of his car, the route to Spencer's place so ingrained in him that he doesn't really have to think about it, even in this inky darkness of night. For a moment, the drive soothes him enough to wipe his mind blank of what he's about to do- walk into Spencer's place and walk back to the bedroom, open the door and see his best friend- help his best friend- he's not thinking about it. The image of Spencer on his back, whining and begging, fingers spreading himself open, and Tommy nearly swerves off the fucking road. Focus. He puts the image away.

Shamefully, he knows he'll be revisiting it later.

"Hey?" he calls as he open Spencer's door. Toeing off his shoes at the door is automatic at this point, just one part of spending time at Spencer's place that makes it feel a little more like something he shouldn't let matter as much as it does. At least one stray shoe tries to trip him as soon as he clears the entryway; Tommy catches himself and moves determinedly to the bedroom. Jesus Christ. The bedroom.

"Back here, man!" Spencer replies. A giggle bursts out of Tommy. He pushes open the door, never in his life happier to see somebody covered in a blanket. He doesn't know how well he would have coped with coming in here directly to seeing his best friend's whole... situation. His single ball. Tommy holds back another helpless laugh.

"Hey, Spen," he says, riding that intersection of gentled and amused, "How you holding up?" Spencer, being Spencer, shrugs his shoulders. Tommy keeps his eyes resolutely focused on the other man's face. He tries to think of another person he would be at all willing to do this for and comes up empty, besides maybe Alex, and only because his other best friend has already seen him at an even lower point than this. 2017 was a wild time.

"Well, I got bored about ten minutes before I called you and I had finished the book I was reading on my phone, so honestly, mostly just glad you're here," Spencer says, stealing back the attention Tommy had so desperately been trying to put somewhere else. Of course he read, bored, before he was willing to call for help. Men.

"Florida man loses interest while fucking himself in the ass," Tommy jokes, knowing immediately that he should not have said that. Spencer's hand comes up to rub at his eyes. Tommy still hasn't looked away from his face.

"Dude," Spencer says. Tommy snorts.

"Dude," he says back, finally crossing the room to sit down delicately on the edge of Spencer's bed, enough space between them for another person to occupy it. Spencer holds the blanket up beneath his chin. Tommy doesn't know how to broach the subject, let alone tell the other man to let him look so he can start helping at all. Jesus.

"It's not even that I lost interest, I guess? Like. I think I don't get it," Spencer says, the blanket coming down a little, enough so that Tommy can see the hair on his chest. He keeps his gaze on Spencer's face anyway. That way lies trouble and all of that. Just because Spencer trusts him to help him out doesn't suddenly give Tommy permission to look. He doesn't get it. What does that even mean?

"Could you... elaborate? On that? I guess? You don't have to, we can just do the damn thing and move on with our lives," Tommy suggests, thinking suddenly of the fact that Spencer might not be super comfortable doing things like having a conversation during the duration of what he's going through right now. Hell, he might not want to look Tommy in the face for a while. It's a cross that Tommy is willing to bear.

"I trust you, man," Spencer repeats, then "I guess I wanted to try it out because- it doesn't matter why I was trying it out. But, like, it wasn't bad? But it also wasn't mind blowing? I don't know," he finishes, running out of steam and confidence long before he finishes speaking. Curiosity burns beneath Tommy's breastbone, begging him to ask about the why of this completely unprecedented what, but he pushes it down in favor of keeping Spencer as comfortable as possible. He pushes down the flutter that Spencer's trust ignites in him as well. There's too much going on. He can't even briefly pause on the idea of Spencer not finding the process mind blowing, and yanks his mind away from how good Tommy could make it for him. Now is not the time. It never will be. Anyway.

"You wanna show me what we're working with, or are we just gonna talk about it all night?" Tommy asks, injecting levity into the situation as best he can. If possible, Spencer goes an even deeper red at the suggestion. He clears his throat.

"Please be cool about this. I know this is weird. You were the only person I could think of to call. For help with this anyway."

"Is this a because I'm gay thing?" Tommy asks, tilting his head to the side. Spencer makes a face as if the thought had never even occurred to him, briefly confused but also a little offended.

"No, this is a you're my best friend thing. Who the fuck else am I gonna let see me like this, dude? Be realistic," Spencer says, but the last bit is said with just a little bit of Spencer's laugh sprinkled in, and Tommy can't help but smile. Spencer fucking Agnew. The idea that Tommy is the only one Spencer wants to see him naked is more difficult to push down than one might originally suppose, but Tommy's not thinking about it.

"You're still stalling, bub," Tommy notes instead. Spencer sighs.

"Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Okay," he says mostly to himself, like he's hyping himself up to take the blanket down from his chest. That thought is cut short almost as soon as it occurs to Tommy, because Spencer whips the blanket away all at once like ripping off a band-aid. And it's Spencer. Tommy saves himself just before choking on his own spit, really.

Hair trails down Spencer exactly as Tommy already knew it did, even if this is the first time he's seeing it for himself. The flush on Spencer's face goes straight down to his chest, rosy tones creeping lower than Tommy knows what to do with. He wants to put his mouth on Spencer's skin, put his lips to the pink there and know how Spencer tastes under his tongue. But that is not an appropriate thing to think about one's friend. Tommy scoots a bit closer on the bed with the awkward grace of a boy that spent far, far too many years keeping his eyes on the ground whenever other boys undressed. It's a hard thing to be normal about, even now. God bless the south, right?

He still hasn't made himself look away from Spencer's face. His eyes had gone down to Spencer's chest before he snapped them back up, too nervous to look even in this moment of permission. Tommy starts hard when a hand comes into contact with his own. He hadn't even noticed Spencer reaching for him. Fuck.

"Hey, man, it'll suck, but I'll go to Urgent Care before I make you do anything you're super fucking uncomfortable with. You don't have to do this," Spencer says, low and soothing, and Tommy is a fucking coward. He's a fucking coward, and he almost takes the out. Almost being the operative word.

"Okay, we're going to be as normal as possible about this. For me. Now, I'm assuming you used lube? Spence, please tell me you used lube," Tommy teases, falsifying worry easily for the sake of the smile Spencer gives him in return. He also rolls his eyes, but hey. You win some, you lose some.

"Yes, I used lube this time." Tommy's attention catches on the phrasing.

"Was there a time in where you did this without lube?"

"Not, like, the dildo. Just fingers. And just the first time. It was in the shower anyway, it was fine. Bought lube after, though," Spencer says, unknowingly giving Tommy a very clear image of the other man in his head. Tommy clears his throat. He wills the image out of his mind, too conscious of popping a boner while doing this. He cannot afford for that to happen. That would suck so bad. Don't think about sucking right now. 

"Okay, where's your lube? And do you want me to, like, direct you, or..." Tommy trails off, unable to voice the alternative. Spencer grabs the lube from between his pillows, coloring deeper as he hands it over to Tommy.

"You can- um. If you're okay with- whichever you're more comfortable with, man," Spencer stutters, and Tommy takes a moment to flounder with the decision. Just a second to freak the fuck out about what he's about to do. Then, he squirts lube in his own hand, taking a settling breath.

"Let's do this," he says, and the way that Spencer immediately spreads his legs saps all the moisture from his mouth. Jesus. He has to at least try to be clinical about it, because there's no other way he's going to survive this. He kneels between Spencer's knees, meeting his eyes for a moment before he finally allows his gaze to travel downward, over the expanse of Spencer's throat, the range of his hairy chest, the trail of hair that leads down to his pelvis. It feels weirder to be doing this without having kissed Spencer, but he's not even going to joke about that, let alone verbalize it genuinely. He bypasses Spencer's dick and ball, the thought of which nearly makes him burst into laughter, though he has to admit that the sight itself isn't funny at all. He tries not to wonder what it would feel like in his mouth. Instead, he trails his fingertips across Spencer's perineum, warning him before he actually breaches the other man's body.

Pressing inside of Spencer is an exercise of self control. Spencer makes this sharp little humming sound as Tommy's fingers enter him, starting with two given that Spencer is already stretched. He resolutely does not picture Spencer doing this himself earlier. His fingertips quickly reach the toy, just about half an inch deeper than it was ever meant to go. There's a suction cup on the end of it just slightly more flared than the base of the toy itself, and it's not difficult to grab onto- it's just that when he does, he curls his fingers to do so. In doing so, he bumps the toy, and that does a little more than he bargained for.

"Oh my god, what did you just do?" Spencer asks, eyes locked on Tommy even as his cheeks go a red that's getting darker and darker by the second. Impulsively, Tommy repeats the motion. Spencer moans, high and reedy, and Tommy quickly gives up on the idea that he's going to get through this interaction without getting hard. It's important to know how to take your losses, you know? He can't be held liable for getting hard when Spencer fucking Agnew is moaning underneath him, clenching around the tips of his fingers. He should get a pass for that, honestly. Guilt roils in his stomach still.

"God, I- well, I think I know why it wasn't mind blowing for you, bub. That would be your prostate, and it's like half of the point of this whole gig," Tommy jokes, because he has to joke because this is fucking insane. It really is an accident when his knuckles brush over it again as he pulls the dildo out, and Spencer's reactions are only getting louder.

"Tommy," Spencer says, his voice already a little ragged and punched out. Tommy's stomach drops, heat crawling up his spine.

"You can't say my name like that," he breathes out, not really meaning to say it at all. He sets the dildo down on Spencer's bedside table, but he can't make himself move from his novel position over Spencer. He swallows thickly, gearing himself up to move, but Spencer wraps his hand around Tommy's bicep.

"Tommy," Spencer says again, and it's softer but no less laced with lust, and Tommy can't do this. This cannot be expected of him. He's just a guy. Just a guy with an adorable best friend and a hopeless crush on a straight guy. He tries harder to push himself up, but even now he's not trying hard enough to even break Spencer's grip. He gives in and leans lower instead, resting his forehead against Spencer's.

"What are we doing, dude?" he says, his voice as raw and rough as Spencer's, and no less turned on. He hopes Spencer can't hear that as clearly as Tommy can in his own voice.

"This situation was like 75% your fault," Spencer blurts out, obviously unintentionally given the expression that moves across his face as soon as the words break free. Tommy reels for a moment, blinking rapidly and putting space between Spencer's face and his own. Spencer wrinkles his nose, embarrassed.

"Pardon?" Tommy asks, endlessly curious and just this touch hopeful, and he shouldn't foster that emotion. All this is going to lead to is him getting hurt. He should get out while he still can. Spencer pulls him back down, just enough so that their foreheads rest against each other once more. This feels more intimate, more raw, more exposed than any actual sex Tommy has ever had. Maybe it's because it's Spencer. Maybe it's because he wants Spencer like he wants to breathe, like he wants food and water and shelter, so deeply fucking essential that the need is inextricable from the very fabric of Tommy's being. Maybe it's just the situation. Who knows?

"Your- um- your funeral. The will. At the- at the end," Spencer clarifies nervously, as if Tommy doesn't remember his own funeral roast. He has to think back on what he said at the end, what he left to Spencer in the will specifically, but Spencer keeps talking before Tommy can bring it to the forefront of his mind. "You. You implied that I should- that I should try it out. Fingering myself. And I couldn't stop thinking about it- about you- and, well. Now we're here."

Heat rips through Tommy like it has some place to be, and like that place to be is directly to Tommy's groin. Spencer was fingering himself because of him. Because Tommy joked that he should. Because he was thinking about Tommy and couldn't stop thinking about him and that led to him putting his fingers inside of himself. He had touched himself because he couldn't stop thinking about Tommy.

"That was months ago," he says instead of any of that, because all of that is not pertinent to the discussion. Or maybe it is. Tommy can't give himself over to pipe dreams this close to the real thing. "Have you been- when did this start? How long after?"

Spencer looks away from Tommy's face, looking off into the middle distance somewhere behind Tommy's left shoulder. "I showered after I got home from work that day," Spencer says. It takes a moment for Tommy to realize what Spencer is implying.

"You've been fingering and fucking yourself for months? Because of something I said?" he asks, unable to hold the question. Spencer closes his eyes.

"Because of you. Just, like, you. You're crazy smart- even when you think you're dumb, you're one of the fucking smartest people I know- and you're wicked funny and so, so out of my league. And just the idea of being with you like that. I got a little caught up in it," Spencer trails off, shame curling around the end of his sentences, and Tommy's running his hand up and down his side comfortingly before he can think any different of it. Spencer's eyes snap open at the feeling of his touch.

"Being with me?" Tommy asks, thin. He has to be sure.

"Tommy. you know what I mean," Spencer sighs. Tommy bumps their foreheads together softly.

"Tell me anyway," he says softly, his thumb rubbing over a swath of skin just beneath Spencer's rib cage. Spencer's anxious expression starts showing the cracks of hope across the surface.

"You- you made me think about- I already knew I liked you more than any friend I'd ever had, different from every friend I've ever had, but I guess I hadn't ever really unpacked it? Like dude, I'm in my fucking thirties, I didn't think there was anything to unpack. But there was. There is. And I have no idea what to fucking do with that," Spencer says, and dipping down to kiss him isn't even a decision on Tommy's part. Spencer squeaks but relaxes into the kiss nearly instantaneously. Tommy keeps his hands holding Spencer by the waist, too scared of the bubble popping to let them wander at all. He's always looking for the second shoe.

"Was that okay?" he asks, cautious, and Spencer laughs.

"Tommy, I just told you I've been thinking about having your dick in me for months when I didn't even know I was interested in dick beforehand. This is more than okay," Spencer says, leaning up to kiss him again with a hand on Tommy's cheek. When Tommy finally makes himself pull back, Spencer's pink lips are kiss bitten and shiny, and he looks so fucking pretty Tommy could cry.

He can't help but stare; it's not until Spencer releases a nervous chuckle that Tommy realizes how long he's been staring, though. "You look really good," he says. It does not even vaguely summarize the overwhelming affection (he's not going to call it love, even if he would have said he loved Spencer before he walked into this room today- it's a more difficult idea when there's no way they're going to manage just friends after this) that is swollen within him like a balloon, hot air rising in his chest. Spencer is looking up at him like he said something revolutionary and not the most boilerplate take of all time: water is wet, grass is green, Spencer looks good. He just happens to look particularly good underneath Tommy, bright eyes focused on him and only him, beautiful.

"Shut up, man," Spencer says, turning to hide his face in the pillow beside his head. Tommy's hand is moving before he really makes a choice of it, fingers gentle when they grab Spencer's chin, guiding him so that he's looking up at Tommy once more. Tommy runs his thumb over Spencer's bottom lip. Spencer presses a kiss to the pad of it. Somehow, this is what makes Tommy feel the most potent overwhelm of the entire night thus far.

"I really like you, Spencer," he whispers, too aware of himself and this boy, too aware of their hands and the skin they touch. He doesn't know that he's ever felt this way about someone. Spencer looks up at him with those round eyes, shocked all over again. Tommy can't not kiss him, moving the hand at his chin to cup his jaw, fingers just touching the soft, buzzed hair behind his ear. Spencer rocks his hips up and, not expecting that, Tommy's fingers clench and bury his nails ever so slightly into Spencer's scalp. The noise that Spencer makes then is one Tommy will remember for years to come.

"I- I really like you too. This is crazy," Spencer says; Tommy giggles. He doesn't know that he's ever laughed during sex as much as it seems like he might with Spencer. Given that they do this again. Tommy likes to think they will. Spencer is looking up at him, watching him with a wonderstruck smile on his face, and that stripped raw feeling that should hurt feels like someone is catching him in a free fall, like there's nothing to worry about. It's a very new feeling.

Spencer's legs twitch around Tommy's hips, and the reminder that Spencer is quite literally ass naked hits like a boxer. When Tommy tries again to move, Spencer holds him still. He raises an eyebrow in question.

"You um. You don't have to move. If you don't want to. We could. I mean, I'm already- and you- I really don't want to mess this up, dude," Spencer trails off. He leans down to kiss him softly for just a moment. 

"You're not gonna fuck this up, darling," Tommy says, the pet name coming out as natural as you please given how many times Tommy has imagined calling Spencer that before without it being in jest. "We're already friends. We're not getting to know each other. You don't have to impress me, or try to make me feel comfortable. I'm already comfortable. Because it's you. Whatever you want from me, you can just say." Spencer's looking at him like he build the sun in his fucking tool shed, and if Tommy could keep Spencer in his hands, could keep him happy and safe and sleepsoft and pleased, he thinks he might could be happy like that for the rest of his life.

"You're not allowed to be this nice to me," Spencer says stubbornly, pulling Tommy down more so that he can hide his face in the other man's shoulder. A laugh bursts out of Tommy, quickly interrupted by a choked gasp as their bodies align. The soft texture of Tommy's joggers does nothing to hide how the proceedings have affected him physically, and Spencer makes that pleased little humming sound again. He doesn't release his grip on Tommy's shoulders.

"You can have whatever you want, but you're gonna have to tell me what that is, Spence," Tommy coaxes at a whisper, even though he certainly has an idea of what might be wanted from him. He's surprised still when Spencer's fingertips pull at the bottom of his shirt, not trying to pull it up and off, but just a pinch of the fabric, like how a child might get your attention. Tommy smiles. Spencer's entire hand splays across his lower back then, big and warm.

"I've been thinking about it so long, Tommy." he whispers, resting their foreheads together again. Fondness shoots through Tommy like lightning, sweet and hot. He presses a quick kiss to Spencer's mouth before stripping off his shirt, getting up on his knees to do so without leaning too much weight on the man beneath him. God, Spencer is under him. The thought makes Tommy feel on top of the fucking world. Spencer trails his fingertips just underneath the waistband of Tommy's joggers.

"What'd you think about, baby? How do you want me?" Tommy asks, pushing down his joggers but leaving his boxer briefs; Spencer's knees close against his hips not a second later. The barest hint of Spencer's nails scratches across the small of his back.

"God, fuck, Tommy, how don't I fucking want you, dude? The thought of- it sounds dumb because I didn't realize I was- that I wanted you for real til the roast, but God, Tommy, the first time I thought about what you'd look like under me, we hadn't been friends a year yet. And, and, and I thought about getting on my knees for you probably- fuck- it must have been not long after the first time I thought about fucking you. And it took wanting this," Spencer says, pulling Tommy down between his legs more thoroughly, making Tommy moan, "for me to figure out that all that wanting actually was something. I want this. I want your dick in me. This is what I want. But it's just what I want first."

And oh. If the aftermath of this encounter had been Spencer realizing that this wasn't for him, that he hadn't thought it through beforehand, if the result of this was that he and Spencer had a few awkward months before they came back together again as friends, Tommy was ready to deal with that reality. But Spencer wants him. Spencer wants him on top of him and under him and wants to get on his knees for him, the picturing of which nearly derails this entire interaction. The idea that Spencer has wanted him this long, wants him at all, has Tommy chasing the other man's mouth, kissing him hard. Spencer moans pleased and pretty as Tommy finally lets his hands wander, one of his hands migrating to thumb over Spencer's nipple while the other slips to cup and grab at Spencer's ass.

"Fuck, you are so pretty," Tommy says as he breaks the kiss, trailing his mouth down Spencer's jaw, his throat, his collarbones. He stops there to suck and bite just because, Spencer's hand coming to hold his head there like it's the best thing he's ever felt. His hand moves from the back of Tommy's head to cup his cheek instead, pulling him back up and into another kiss. His mouth is hot and soft against Tommy's own, the smooth glide of his kiss quickly overwhelming Tommy's senses. Tommy doesn't think anything of it when Spencer takes hold of one of his hands. It's not til he realizes that Spencer isn't holding it but guiding it that he pulls back to ask.

"Please, Tommy," Spencer says simply, looking up at Tommy with those big dark eyes, and Tommy couldn't tell him no if he tried. He follows Spencer's desire, wrapping his hand around the other man's erection. A punched out moan comes out of Spencer then, like just the touch of Tommy's hand is more than he can handle. The head is sticky with tacky pre-cum, evidence of Spencer's activity before Tommy ever got there maybe, and if he didn't already know what Spencer wanted from him, he'd be moving down Spencer's body to put his mouth where his hand is. It buzzes in Tommy's skull, the idea of looking up at Spencer when he's bringing him that kind of pleasure. He has to table the thought for later.

"How many fingers did you use before your toy?" Tommy asks, not relenting in his slow, loose strokes of Spencer's cock. Spencer's hand moves then from where he had still been holding onto Tommy's wrist, sliding up to wrap around his bicep once more. He squeezes lightly when he gets there.

"I didn't do anything stupid, I used two," Spencer says, smiling like he and Tommy are just having any conversation, like he's just looking at Tommy to look at him. Tommy can't resist giving him another quick kiss before returning to his point. He runs his nose along Spencer's hairline, nuzzling into the other man. He doesn't know that he's ever felt like this.

"I'm gonna take you up to three, and then I'll give you what you want, yeah?" Tommy proposes, pressing a kiss to Spencer's temple. Spencer opens his mouth with an air of obvious protest, but closes it when he catches eyes with Tommy. Instead, he nods. Tommy drops a kiss on his cheek with a muttered thank you beneath his breath, sliding down between Spencer's legs and leaving biting kisses as he goes.

Giving in to impulse, once he has poured more lube in his hand and is ready to begin, Tommy runs the head of Spencer's cock along his tongue. Spencer's fingers clench in Tommy's hair, right up on that line of pulling til it hurts. Tommy moves his hands further down, tracing his fingers along Spencer's sensitive skin. Spencer's grip turns gentle, stroking his fingers over Tommy's scalp. Tommy's glad of it a second later, because it means he's looking up at Spencer's face as he pushes his fingers into him. He's still looking when he curls his fingers with practiced familiarity, when Spencer's eyes shut tight and his teeth bite into his bottom lip. He's so fucking beautiful. Tommy sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of Spencer's pale thigh, reveling in the humming groan it pulls from Spencer.

"Oh my god," Spencer whispers, mostly to himself it seems like, but Tommy grins against his skin either way. The thrusts of his fingers remain shallow, spreading them instead to stretch the muscles around them. Spencer's hand moves from Tommy's hair to the side of his face, his thumb rolling over Tommy's lips, and he understands the decision Spencer had made when he had done it, though it's not the one he makes. Instead, he opens his mouth to it, letting Spencer's thumb roll over his tongue in much the same way as he had done with Spencer's dick. Tommy grins at the noise he makes then as he pulls it out of Tommy's mouth.

"More than you bargained for?" he jokes, his voice falling into that deep, flirtatious tone he gets sometimes; it's gratifying to see Spencer shiver at the sound of it. Spencer strokes the side of Tommy's face, running his thumb along the cut of Tommy's cheekbone.

"You're gonna fucking kill me, babe," he says, his words joking but his tone awed, nearly bewildered. Like he doesn't know how he got here. Tommy feels the same way. He kisses the inside of Spencer's thigh over the bite he had left before, pulling his fingers out of the other man. The quiet noise Spencer makes in response could probably be called a whimper. Tommy presses another kiss to the budding bruise helplessly. This boy is gonna kill him, indeed.

"I'm adding the third now," he warns, squirting more lube onto his fingers just in case. He's not going to hurt Spencer. He remembers his own first time bottoming, the way that both he and his partner hadn't had enough experience to know exactly how much preparation fucking someone in the ass takes. It wasn't awful, obviously, or Tommy probably wouldn't be as fond as he is now of receiving, but Spencer deserves better than not awful. With three fingers inside of him, the tips pressed snugly up against his prostate, Spencer writhes, those whimpering noises coming closer together as Tommy spreads his fingers.

"Tommy, Tommy, Tommy, baby, I'm good. I'm okay. We're good," Spencer stutters out, his voice a little higher than it would be typically. Tommy grins and spreads his fingers just one more time, making Spencer groan. "Please, Tommy." He finally relents then, pulling his fingers out and wiping them on the bedspread- it's going to have to be washed after this anyway. He crawls back up from his place at Spencer's hips, hovering over Spencer's face and just looking for a moment, enraptured, before he kisses the other man.

"Condom?" Tommy asks, pulling back. Spencer points at his bedside table, using this opportunity to lean up and kiss and mouth and bite at the skin of Tommy's throat, the swell of his Adam's apple. It's terribly distracting when Tommy is trying to grab a condom so he can actually fuck Spencer, but he also doesn't want to move out of Spencer's reach because goddamn, his mouth. The image of Spencer on his knees returns to him like a weight in his stomach, pressing down on that desperate feeling he's been determinedly ignoring thus far. Just as Tommy's hand closes around the top in an open box of condoms, Spencer's connects with Tommy's pelvis, rubbing at the head of his dick through his boxer briefs. Tommy fumbles the condom but recovers quickly, now more balanced as he resettles evenly over Spencer. Spencer plucks the condom from his hand.

"Let me. Take these off," he says, running his fingers along the inside of the waistband of Tommy's underwear in much the same way he had with Tommy's joggers. The idea that that was only a little while ago, that he hasn't spent his entire life in the cradle of Spencer's hips, sounds very distant right now. He pulls his underwear down from around his hips, pushing them off the bed with very little regard for where they end up. If he has it his way, he and Spencer won't be getting up for a while anyway.

"Jesus," Tommy breathes out as Spencer's fingers wrap solidly around his cock. He tucks his face against Spencer's throat as the other man strokes him a few times, the foil packet of the condom breaking open a secondary noise to the sound of his own moans. The next down stroke has Spencer rolling the condom down Tommy's dick, tightening his hand around the base for just a moment before pulling it away entirely. He brings his hand up now, holding Tommy's cheek in his broad palm once again.

"You ready?" he asks softly, like Tommy is the one doing something difficult (trusting someone enough to let them inside of you, letting someone hold themself over you and feeling safe with their body so close to yours, all of it) here. Tommy presses a gentle but thorough kiss to Spencer's mouth, telegraphing every bit of wordless emotion running through his body right now. Spencer pulls him in, maintaining the kiss, his tongue running along the roof of Tommy's mouth, but his real goal is pretty obvious. He grabs Tommy's cock in his hand again and guides Tommy til he's resting against Spencer's hole, just at the precipice of pushing in. Spencer breaks the kiss just to look at Tommy, to see him as Spencer uses his hands, his hips, everything to pull Tommy inside of him. Tommy groans, leaning his head down against Spencer's collarbone.

"You feel-" he starts, but he incidentally cuts himself off, his hips snapping forward without his thought or regard. Fully engulfed in the heat of Spencer, the tight and warm grip of him, Tommy bites lightly at the skin in front of his mouth. Spencer's hand curls into the hair at the back of Tommy's neck.

"How do I feel, Tommy? Is it good?" he asks. Tommy can hear the smile in his voice, and somehow that makes it all the better.

"So fucking good, Spence. So fucking good," he repeats. Spencer's free hand, the other one occupied in what seems to be holding Tommy here on this fucking planet, moves to Tommy's hip, slowly encouraging him to pull out before pulling him back in fast. Tommy takes a ragged breath to fortify himself. His first few thrusts are slower, gentle slides of pressure before he finds what he's looking for. Spencer's hand tenses around his fist full of Tommy's hair, and the pleasurepain pulls a noise out of Tommy that he didn't know he could make. He copies the exact angle over and over again, pulling more pretty noises out of Spencer even while he's still not going too fast, obsessed with the feeling of the other man clenching around him.

"This is so much- ah- so much better than I imagined," Spencer says, casual, again like they are not engaging in anything other than their absolute normal. Tommy laughs, and then Spencer is laughing with him, bearing down on his cock in the process. Tommy groans.

"You're fucking incredible," he says, his voice just this shade of too earnest for the occasion. Spencer whines against his mouth and tightens the grip of his legs around Tommy's hips. The hand in Tommy's hair traces down his shoulders, fingernails scratching deliciously down the line of his spine. Spencer is grabbing at him like Tommy would ever want to be anywhere else, like Tommy wouldn't stay exactly where he is, in this intimate place with Spencer, for as long as Spencer would have him. The next roll of his hips is purposefully gentle, teasing, and the grabbing of Spencer's hands is rougher. Tommy loves it, maybe more than he should.

"Need you. Come on, Tommy. Not gonna break," Spencer whispers, his expression so fucking fucked out and happy, and what is Tommy gonna do? Not do everything Spencer asks him to? It's Spencer. Spencer could ask him to do almost anything, and if he said jump, Tommy just knows he'd ask how high. The best part is that he knows Spencer would too. Spencer's his person. Overwhelmed by all of the love and the affection and the staggering lust, Tommy braces one of his hands on the bed next to Spencer's head, fucking into Spencer faster.

He fists Spencer's cock then, and stroking with a tight grip and an efficient pace; he knows he's setting a pace that isn't particularly sustainable. Spencer's nails are buried into the skin of his back now, just enough of a sting to bring everything else into focus. Spencer's pretty little noises are starting to take on a thicker note of desperation, his mouth catching on whatever skin of Tommy's he can reach. Tommy leans down to kiss him sweetly, the sweetness trickling quickly into something hot and dirty that makes Tommy feel like Spencer is trying to climb into him, like he's trying to bond them together even more. On a particularly good stroke, Spencer breaks the kiss just to throw his head back, whining. Tommy grins.

"Come on, pretty boy, you can do it. Cum for me," he says, and he doesn't get through another stroke before Spencer gives him what he wants, shooting white between them. He takes his hand off of Spencer and goes to pull out of him, not wanting to overstimulate his partner, especially not on his first time receiving. Spencer's grip on his hip stays him.

"You could... I'm definitely not opposed. To you fucking me til you cum," Spencer says, somehow both blunt and shy, that shot in the middle where Spencer's sarcastic earnestness finds its place. Tommy raises an eyebrow at the man underneath him, inquiring silently. "Yes, I'm sure, Tommy," Spencer confirms with a groan, grabbing Tommy's ass and urging him forward. He mutters a little oh beneath his breath, like he really didn't think this through but in a really good way. Tommy kisses him, short and sweet. He can't help opening his mouth after that, speaking low into Spencer's ear.

"You feel so good. All fucked out and soft. I love that I did this to you," he says, walking around that word- love- with a dangerous closeness, overwhelmed as he presses into Spencer even faster and harder than before. Spencer is whining every time Tommy hits his prostate, his grip on Tommy's hip tight enough now it's fit to bruise. He doesn't even realize he's making comforting little sounds at Spencer, cooing and coaxing, til the other man presses his face against his throat, muttering himself.

"Please, please, please, please, please, please, please," Spencer is saying, so obviously overstimulated and so fucking beautiful taking Tommy like he was made for him, so pretty and pink underneath him. Tommy drops lower, not taking long strokes into Spencer anymore in favor of being chest to chest, his mouth biting into the top of Spencer's shoulder. Spencer closes the hand in his hair and pulls, ripping Tommy's orgasm out of him like a fucking exorcism. He bites into Spencer's shoulder hard enough that he's probably just short of drawing blood, but Spencer is stroking his hair when he comes back down, holding him like something precious, something delicate.

Laying there, head against Spencer's shoulder and not even out of Spencer yet, a bolt of fear lights its way back through Tommy. Spencer said he liked him. That he had wanted this for a while. Tommy has to trust that. He kisses the rough bite on Spencer's shoulder and pulls out gently, tying and throwing the condom in the general direction of his trash can. Spencer wraps both arms around his shoulders and pulls Tommy back down onto himself. A smile stretches across Tommy's face unbidden, and he kisses up from his place at Spencer's sternum til he's looking the other man in the eye again, a peck pressed against his lips. Spencer rubs his nose again Tommy's gently, letting their foreheads rest together.

"You're fucking incredible," Tommy whispers, tucking it into Spencer's cheek with a kiss. Spencer cards a hand through his hair, his touch so gentle that it sends a shiver down Tommy's spine. Spencer's cum is growing tacky between them, and dealing with it now would mean they wouldn't have to deal with it later. When Tommy goes to push himself up, conscious of exactly how annoying cum can be when you're covered in hair, Spencer whines at him, his hand solid on Tommy's lower back.

"Stay," he says, not so much a command but perhaps a bit more than a request, desperate hands pulling Tommy down. Adoration curls up in Tommy like flames licking through him, warm and beautiful. He kisses Spencer's cheek again before actually pushing himself up, only going so far as Spencer's bathroom. He grabs a washcloth out of the bathroom closet, wetting it with warm water in the sink before bringing it back to the bedroom. Spencer reaches up for him as soon as he enters the room.

"I'm back, I'm back," Tommy teases, pressing a kiss to the side of Spencer's face as he swipes the rag across Spencer's soft stomach. He dips down to kiss Spencer's chest gently, not trying to start anything up again, just wanting to touch him. Spencer settles his hand at the back of Tommy's neck. Done with the cleaning up, Tommy drops the washcloth off the side of the bed without much thought; Spencer doesn't seem to think much of it either, taking the opportunity to pull Tommy fully back over him. Tommy goes willingly, tucking his face into the hollow of Spencer's throat. He takes a deep inhale of the other man's scent, his sweet soaps and spicy deodorant, all of the smells of Spencer that make the other man's arms feel like the walls of a home around him. God.

"You're with me on this, right?" Spencer asks- it takes Tommy a second to figure out what he's asking. Is Tommy with him? Is Tommy as bowled over by this, as disbelievingly happy, as overwhelmed in the most positive and lovestruck of ways? The simple answer, yes, is not what Tommy gives him. Instead, he kisses along Spencer's shoulder, head dipped with honest reverence.

"I'm with you, bub," he whispers, quiet but the most sure he's ever been. Spencer presses a kiss to the top of his head. Falling asleep is the easiest it has ever been laying there in Spencer's arms, the warmth of Spencer beneath him, Spencer's fingers carding through his hair, the smell of the other man surrounding him. He feels so safe it's almost fucking sickening, not used to letting himself have something, someone, like this. It feels like Spencer is holding him to the earth. He loves him. He fucking loves him. Now is not the time to tell him that.

But, one day it will be. Tommy's sure enough about that.

#smosh fic #rpf #spommy #tommy #spencer #hope y'all like this bc i cannot believe i actually finished it #mine

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

what are Austen's tattoos

Okay so I spent a bit thinking about her personality and what would suit her and I’ve decided on a few major ones!

For her chest tat, she has an open book centered along her underbust and down her sternum, she has a feather quill dripping ink onto the pages below (I don’t have a pic for this one, I couldn’t find one that fit the image in my head).

Then she has two big symmetrical skeleton hands on the front of her thighs (one hand on each leg) and the shading makes it look like the hands are gripping onto the skin. Here’s a basic reference picture, just mentally add the extra details I mentioned!

And then down her spine she has a type of nsfw line art tattoo of a woman’s figure

And then she probably has random little ones littered around her body in other places. Y/N and Harry would be talking about their tattoos one night and they’d bond over how they had both gotten some stupid ones in their lifetime.

“I have the word ‘big’ on my big toe.”

“I have ‘fuck you’ written down the side of my middle finger.”

“I had to get ‘you booze, you lose’ from when I lost a bet during beer pong.”

“I have ‘Andy’ printed down the center of my left foot; I got shitfaced during my twenty-first birthday and spontaneously decided to commemorate my favorite childhood movie.”

“That’s pretty cute, actually.”

Y/N scoffs knowingly. “My mom didn’t seem to think so.”

“Mm.” Harry nods in solemn understanding, keeping his sight trained on her delicate fingers as they absentmindedly trace the scales on the mermaid inking sketched upon his forearm. Her touch is practically addictive. “Mine nearly had a stroke when I got back home for winter break after my first semester. Walked into the house with a half sleeve she knew absolutely nothing about.”

Her attention jets up to his face, her digits stopping their soothing caresses as her lashes flutter with newfound curiosity. “What’d you say?”

Harry swallows down the noise of protest hinging along his teeth, opting to let the corners of his lips twitch at the funny memory instead. “I told her that I fell asleep on the plane and the kid sitting next to me decided I was the perfect canvas.”

Y/N sputters into airy laughter, shaking her head in amusement as she retakes her feathery motions across the drawing on his arm. “Did she light you up?”

“Brighter than our tree-topper, yeah.” Harry chuckles in return, sighing lightly through his nose as he reminisces the story. He then proceeds to square his shoulders grandly and clear his throat dramatically, pitching his voice higher and emphasizing his accent with a certain female twang, obviously intent on imitating his mother with his following monologue. “‘Harry Edward, what the bloody hell have you done to yourself?! You think you’re hot shit now just because you’ve been mucking about the States, is that it? Wipe that stupid smirk off your face before I shove your head into the fireplace and burn it off myself!”

Y/N’s giggles rise in volume at Harry’s little act, and he can’t help but quietly appreciate how beautiful she looks when she’s grinning so freely. She appears softer and less intimidating— her features supple and her smile lines more prominent— and he has to resist the urge to reach forward and pinch her silky lips fondly.

“Fuck, that’s priceless.” Y/N snorts faintly, knuckling at her glossy eyes and wiping away the tears of joy that had gathered along the ducts. “It’s a wonder you made it back alive.”

“A proper Christmas miracle if I’ve ever seen one.” Harry agrees sagely, fiddling with a loose thread on one of his mismatched socks in order to give his itchy hands something to do. “The holiday spirit convinced her to spare me, it seems.”

“I think she just didn’t feel like scrubbing blood out of the stockings hanging from the mantel.” She counters sarcastically, shrugging her brows jestingly. “Is she okay with them now? Your tattoos, I mean.”

“She couldn’t care less about them now. Thankfully.” He twists the frayed lining of his Nike accessory around his index finger and gives it a rough tug, snapping it off and tossing it onto the concrete floor of his balcony, to be carried away by the wind. He wants her to keep touching him in more places than just his forearm. “Got used to my bullshit, I suppose. Though I reckon that would change if she knew about the miniature hairy dick and balls I have stamped on one of my arse cheeks.”

“Pause.” Y/N blinks at him owlishly, her fingertips faltering yet again, much to his dissatisfaction. “The what?”

“Dick and balls.” Harry repeats slowly, gesturing vaguely towards his crotch for extra significance. “Cock and sack. Peter’s pecker and pickled peppers.”

“Oh, I understood you the first time.” She clarifies, waving away his immature synonyms with a flick of her wrist and a wry tilt of her head. “I’m just trying to gauge if it’s true.”

Harry’s two front teeth dig into his bottom lip suggestively, his gaze flickering down to his belt buckle with a certain devious glint shining in the olive hue of his eyes. “Only one way to find out.”

#anthropologyrry!ask #anthropologyrry

[dead-byte]

Sooo... some of you might not be aware, but Mine Laru received a new voicebank like a week or two ago ( a whooping 8 pitches, jesus, not even a lot of native voicebanks are that big ), and I have a lot of ( mostly positive ) thoughts on it, along with the new ARPAsing reclist made with it. I wanted to compare it with an older Mine Laru bank in my possession, thus the audio clip above. You can find the new bank here:

Now, some of you might know of the new AgO voicebank, but not know of the 2020 voicebank. Let me explain that one. There’s a bit of a story here.

A couple of years ago, Minato ( Mine Laru’s VP ) set up a website called the “Mine Laru Lab”, and it was to help test out and give feedback for a lot of new voicebanks that were made for various languages that weren’t Japanese. Among them, was a dipitch English ARPAsing voicebank based on the 0.2.0 list.

I offered to configure it in a Twitter comment, and Minato seemed to welcome my help, so I did that as soon as the site went up. After I finished, I DM’d Minato, letting him know I’d finished, and that I had suggestions. I never received a response, and in retrospect, I’m thinking he probably didn’t have his DMs open and I simply never realized. I never followed up though, because I didn’t want to bother him.

Sometime around then, the Mine Laru Lab was shut down, and access to the various voicebanks was seemingly discontinued.

I could be wrong about this, but I think this might be the voicebank that was once called “Mine Laru PRIMITIVE”. I don’t know that for certain, so that’s merely a guess.

So… I’ve basically just had this obscure completed English voicebank sitting around on my computer for the past couple of years. I’m not going to distribute it or anything, unless I get explicit permission to do so. I figure showing it off is probably okay based on what I remember of the Lab TOS, but I will delete this post if Minato asks me to, on the off chance that happens.

Anyways, the AgO voicebank came out recently, and it sounds pretty different from this older bank, so I wanted to make a more direct comparison. The 2020 voicebank is a lot more similar to Mine Laru’s more powerful voicebanks, such as his 14-scales or his “query” voicebank. The AgO voicebank sounds more like his “parse” voicebank, with a more neutral tone becoming softer in higher ranges.

I also want to talk about the reclist, because in my opinion… the AgO reclist is kind of a stroke of genius. It’s such a simple idea that I’m embarrassed I didn’t think of it first. An easy word-based list based mostly on singular words, most of which being easy to pronounce for non-native English speakers. That’s just… sort of brilliant.

And this might be controversial to say, but… it’s leagues better than the 0.2.0 list. The AgO list has just about every CV, VC, and VV diphone you could need for English. There are some exceptions, it’s not 100% complete, and it is missing a lot of CC diphones, but it’s so much more useable than 0.2.0. Reading the blog post on the process of making the list is extremely fascinating too.

I also made an experimental dictionary for AgO to hopefully rectify some of the diphones that are missing. Again, mostly CCs. This dictionary isn’t anywhere near as chaotic as my 0.2.0 dictionary thankfully. Though, there are still some rather obtuse transcriptions I had to use to get around the list’s limitations.

As for the voicebank itself - Mine Laru has always had good English. Even his old “multilingual normal and weak” voicebanks were really good. Mine Laru in English is the kind of voice where he has a notable accent, but in a good way, like how Megurine Luka and Tsurumaki Maki do, where the accent adds charm and personality to the voice instead of making it more difficult to use. The AgO voicebank is no different.

In contrast to the 2020 bank in particular though, having gone through a lot of those old samples, it’s clear that the VP struggled with the 0.2.0 list. Most people do after all, even native speakers. For all its simplicity and compactness, I cannot tell you how many times I’ve gotten a commission to configure a 0.2.0 voicebank, and the voice provider audibly has trouble in the samples - and to be clear, that’s not the voice provider's fault, 0.2.0 is just a bad list ( I’m looking at you “yamk”; that’s not even a word ).

In the AgO voicebank however, the pronunciation is so good. Like, his pronunciation is good to begin with, but with the AgO voicebank, his pronunciation sounds a lot more relaxed and comfortable. And even better, the AgO voicebank actually distinguishes between aspirated and unaspirated plosives via alternates. By default, most plosives are unaspirated, but if you cycle through its first alternate ( by typing "1" at the end of the diphone ), you get an aspirated consonant. This is the kind of weirdly specific English voicebank construction that makes me absolutely giddy. Clearly a lot of thought and care was put into this voicebank.

My only real criticism is… the oto.ini. It’s got some problems that can lead to the voicebank being rather choppy. A lot of start-phrase consonants and CC diphones have problems too.

I kinda… want to stick the voicebank in vLabeler and try to refine the oto.ini some. I might do that.

Anyways, I just wanted to dump my thoughts, in case anyone wanted to listen.

#Youtube #mine laru #ミネラル #水音ラル #みねらる #utau #english #ARPAsing #AgO #Arpasing AgO Dictionary #experimental #comparison #vocal synth #vocaloid #openutau #it's been so long #the living tombstone

[jakekgs]

pretty crier, jake sim.

those pics from that enha concert after jake’s birthday 💔all i know is pain. (this is mostly fluff w a ‘deep’ kiss though!).

your throat grows dry, heart heavier, when you feel his arms around you tighten as another sobs falls from his lips and into the material of your hoodie. with one hand raking through his hair, your other rubbed his back, drawing shapes when the movement tired your muscles.

“i-i’m so..” he stops, catching his breath for a moment. “so sorry.”

“please stop apologising, baby.” your voice is soft, he notices. “you’re allowed to be upset.”

“i’m r-ruining your hoodie.” he attempts to joke, his shoulders easing when you laugh at his words.

“this is yours, not mine. besides, my mascara has ruined more of your white shirts than i’d care to comment on.”

this time he really does laugh at your words, loosening his grip on you to stretch a little and climb a little higher in to your hold. now, he nestles his head in the space between your shoulder and your neck.

“thank you.” he mutters into your skin, lips leaving an even softer kiss there when he was done.

“you don’t have to thank me.” you shake your head mindlessly at his words.

losing someone was never easy, losing a loved one that lived in a different country on your birthday however? that was hard. truthfully, you wanted nothing more than to wrap your boyfriend up in blankets and keep him safe forever, hiding him from everything big, bad and dangerous, but for now holding him was enough.

“i know this probably isn’t the right time, but,” he pulls away from you as you speak, looking up to listen to you. “you’re a really pretty crier.”

at your words, you witness what can only be described as the jake sim blushing. had you not seen it, you wouldn’t of believed it.

with a boyish smile taking over his face, he leans closer to you and kisses you as though he’s never going to get the chance to again.

seeming to forget his inhibitions, your boyfriend leans even further in to you, a hand coming up to cup your cheeks as you angle your head, making it easier for him to deepen the kiss.

“i love you.” he practically whispers against your lips.

smiling like a child, you connect your lips once more before pulling away again.

“i love you too, pretty boy.”

masterlist, requests.

© JAKEKGS 2022

#🫀. jake! #🧸. enhypen #jake sim #jake sim imagine #jake sim x reader #jake sim fluff #sim jaeyun #sim jaeyun x reader #sim jaeyun imagine #sim jaeyun fluff #enhypen #enhypen imagine #enhypen fluff #enhypen x reader #enhypen drabbles #jake sim drabble

[rengoku-loves-you]

rengoku x confident!reader (who showers him in kisses)

(not requested by anyone, i just wanted to write a little something for myself! i’ve seen plenty of x readers where the reader is shy and hesitant and rengoku ends up confessing first, but since that just isn’t me, i decided to write my own! enjoy, lovelies!)

rengoku has liked you since he first met you. you’re straightforward and blunt - he likes that! he has a hard time grasping double meanings, so he appreciates that you don’t beat around the bush. as much as he enjoys talking to his fellow slayers, it can be exhausting trying to figure out exactly what he said that set sanemi off, or trying to decipher the strange poems gyomei seems to speak in. 

with you, it’s easy. refreshing. you don’t waste words. you don’t let time whittle away by talking pleasantries and nonsense. you say what needs to be said and nothing more or less. at the same time, whenever he talks, you listen like it’s the most important thing you’ve ever heard, unbothered by his volume or intensity.

not many people do that, and he treasures every moment with you.

it’s unfortunate that you don’t see each other often, he thinks. while he patrols his region, you’re everywhere else, hunting demons in other regions and only crossing paths with him when your missions overlap. but that means he treasures those chance meetings even more, remembering them happily and always looking forward to the next time you cross paths. he’s grown extremely fond of you in a little less than a year.

which is why, when he sees you on the horizon and recognizes you, he waves with both hands and rushes to greet you with a smile.

something is different this time, though. he doesn’t know it, but you’ve been looking for him for a few days now. you’ve been attempting to track him on his mission, hoping to catch him before he slays the demon and heads off again. 

see, on your last mission, you realized something. you’d had a near-death experience, like many before. but for some reason this one had shaken you more than the others. it had been a fire-based demon, and when it touched its fingers together and blew, fire spewed from its lips. you’d been burned badly, but you managed to defeat it in the end, watching as it screamed about phoenixes and rebirth. you’d been afraid it would somehow rise from its ashes.

it didn’t. it burned out like a candle, crying about how alone it was until the very end. 

and then for a brief, nauseating moment, the demon’s dull yellow hair had become brilliant gold with crimson flickering at the tips, and you watched rengoku’s face crumble in front of your eyes.

you didn’t know why. you didn’t have much, you were used to losing. rengoku was a friend. one you treasured, but still just a friend, and a pillar at that. you were sure you would end up dying before him.

but in that moment, hallucinating as you were, the idea of rengoku dying before you, dying alone, hit you like a train.

and when you see him again, hurrying towards you with the biggest smile on his face, the lowering sun making his golden hair glow like true flames, haori flapping dramatically behind him, you realize why. somehow, someway, you’ve developed something for him without noticing.

you step forward, and then you’re running to meet him halfway. you see him falter, confused. normally, you wait for him to come to you, but this time you don’t want to wait. even when rengoku comes to a near stop, you don’t slow. you’re close enough to see his lips form the beginning of your name.

then you crash into him, and even though you know he could easily withstand it he lets you take him down with hardly more than a sharp breath, rolling in a tangle of limbs. when you finally stop, you’re lying on your back, rengoku sprawled on your chest with your arms tight around him. if he were normal, you’d probably be crushing him, but he merely lies there for a long moment, breathing with you.

eventually, he squirms, and you loosen enough that he can push himself up, sitting on your stomach while your hands fall to his hips. he crosses his arms and raises a brow at you, but he’s smiling.

“what was that about?” he asks, grass tangled in the spun gold he calls hair, dirt smudged on his face and uniform. you stare. it’s only after he calls your name, his amused smile turning worried, that you remind yourself to speak.

“i missed you,” you say, smiling at him. he blinks at you. and then he blinks again, lips parting. and then he presses them together, grinning again as a huff of laughter escapes through his nose. he leans forward, strands of sunlight spilling over his shoulders.

“i missed you, too,” he says. “it’s only been a week, my friend. you’re not normally this excited to see me.” he lifts a hand to swipe away a streak of brown on the tip of his nose, then lets it fall back into the crook of his elbow.

“well, i realized some things,” you admit, starting to rub your thumb over the jut of his hip through the uniform. he glances down briefly, then back at your face, curious but not bothered. you chuckle, moving your other hand up to the back of his neck, gently tugging him down while you lean upward. he goes willingly, and you stop when your noses nearly touch. 

from this close, he has to look at you, not the space around you like he normally does. his crimson-gold gaze is intense, full of questions and expectations. you’re not being yourself, he thinks. you aren’t saying what you mean, and your actions are confusing him. you notice him prepare to speak, shifting and furrowing his brows.

you sit up a little further, brushing your lips against the corner of his mouth, because you only say what needs to be said.

when you pull away, his eyes are wide, so wide he looks like an owl. you laugh, releasing his neck to lean back on your elbow. you know he might not accept, but you don’t mind. you’ll still be friends, and as long as you can see him smile and live you’re content with just being that.

“ah,” rengoku says finally, and his arms uncross. he touches the spot you kissed, tracing his fingertips over it. “that was... not just a friendly kiss?”

“nope,” you say, and he gives another “ah,” softer than before. his fingers slide across his face, and then his palm is covering his mouth, his cheeks starting to tinge a lovely pink. his gaze flickers away from your face, down to your chest, down to himself, and he flushes further as if just realizing how you two are sitting. you, leisurely stretched out in the grass, smiling. him, straddling your lap.

he can’t help but admit to himself that he doesn’t feel too uncomfortable, just awkward and a little embarrassed. he knows he’s not light. 

“well,” he says, loud and clear as ever as he lowers his hand, “i’m not sure if you realize, but you missed.”

“did i now?” you tip your head, almost sure you can see steam rising from his head.

“yes, but i don’t blame you! it is, after all, getting darker and harder to see!” never mind the fact that the sun still isn’t fully set, washing everything in tones of orange and red. “worry not, i have an idea! i can guide you this time so you don’t miss!” his words speak confidence, but his cheeks match the tips of his hair and you can feel how tense he is.

“really.” you move upwards again, letting your breath ghost over his face. he shivers, looking at some point over your left shoulder.

“yes, really! so... whenever you’re ready, try again!” and then he sits, still and stiff with anticipation. adorable. you laugh, tipping your head forward and kissing his jaw. “ah, missed! higher than that!” you stretch, kissing the middle of his forehead. “missed again, lower! lower!” you’re giggling by the next kiss, right under his eye, and you can see his lips trembling as he fights a smile of his own. “to the right!”

“mine or yours?” you don’t wait for him to answer, tucking a wavy lock of hair behind his ear and kissing his temple.

“my right!” his voice is shaky with laughter, and you move over, pecking the tip of his nose. he wiggles it. “close! a little lower!” you pull back slightly, letting your hands cup either side of his face. a silent demand that he look at you, and eventually, he does. you ask him if he’s okay with this.

he responds by kissing you first.

#demon slayer imagines #demon slayer rengoku imagines #rengoku imagines #kny imagines #kny rengoku imagines #kyojuro rengoku imagines #rengoku x reader #self-indulgent #i hope you all enjoy! #my plan is to make a lot more of these little ficlets in the future #please send me requests! #i'd love to hear them! #and please let me know if this was any good #it's my first time writing one of these! #i just love rengoku too much to not share the love aha

[your-daily-biaswrecking]

hii :)

could you do a drabble where the reader and yoongi were in an arranged marriage for a while. She thought that Yoongi cheated on her so she asked for a divorce. Yoongi as a cold husband pleaseee !! So Yoongi gives her a rough + angry sex ?? to prove he's not cheating? hehehhe

love all your writings btw, you have so much ideas to be posting lots in a day !!! :)

thank youu !

damn this turned out bigger than normal cuz-- plot... and i didn't want to write a pt2 so i'm just putting it under the cut and let's just still pretend it's a "drabble"

You didn’t remember much from that night. Just some general feelings, like how annoyed and lonely you were. How you needed your husband but he wasn’t there. When you woke up the next morning, head throbbing from your hangover, Yoongi was missing from your shared bed. And even though you didn’t want to assume things, when you noticed multiple hickeys on his neck later that day, you had no choice but to think of the only logical conclusion: your husband was cheating on you.

It hurt. Sure, your marriage had been arranged, so perhaps he didn’t really want to be with you. But somewhere in the process of it all, you had fallen for him. He was always serious and keeping his guard up around you, but there were moments that you thought deep down he was actually a nice guy. And that he cared for you. I guess you were wrong. Who would ever do such a thing to someone they care about even the slightest?

At first, you thought you could put it past you. This was more of a contract than a marriage anyway, from the beginning. But it hurt you every time you saw him, every time he did a tiny, little nice thing for you, like cooking you breakfast or texting you to let you know he would be home late. As if you two were actually a couple. It hurt you so much you needed to put an end to it.

“I want a divorce.” You didn’t wait for the right time or something like that, just blurted it out one evening right after you had gotten done eating in mostly silence.

Yoongi was still in control over his facial expressions, yet barely. A tiny frown, a tiny widening of his eyes gave his shock away. “What? Why?”

You took a deep breath, looking away to be able to keep your composure; looking at him made your knees too weak. “I agreed on this marriage. I agreed to try and make it work even though I knew it would be hard,” you explained. “But I will not tolerate cheating. I want a divorce.”

“Cheating?” His voice was low, truly confused. “What are you talking about?”

“I know, Yoongi. You don’t need to pretend.”

“What? I never-”

“I saw the hickeys you had all over you last Sunday.” The sentence shut him up, blank face taking its place over his shocked expression and you couldn’t read him. You gulped. “Or are you gonna claim those were mosquito bites?”

And then Yoongi laughed. Sound so contrasting to his usual attitude, sending chills down your spine. It didn’t last long, however, face serious again as he stared at you intensely. “Are you serious right now?” he barked, and you were starting to feel a bit scared. He took a step towards you. “You really don’t know who gave me those hickeys?”

You frowned, taken aback by his answer. “How would I- What does it matter?”

Yoongi chuckled again, reaching you across the kitchen until he was just a breath away. Looking down at you with dark eyes. “You were so fucking wasted that night, I guess I need to refresh your memory,” he whispered. And before you could even react, he lifted you up, legs straddling his waist as you yelped, arms snaking around his shoulders awkwardly as you were trying not to fall while he carried you to your bedroom.

“Yoon-”

“See?” he said, dropping you on the bed sideways. And his body loomed over yours. “This is where you laid while you were begging me to fuck you dumb. Do you not remember?” You gasped at his words, squirming in order to escape. But his hands were on your waist, pinning you down, and suddenly you knew the feeling wasn’t unfamiliar. This had happened before. “Now what?” Yoongi growled into your ear. “You want to divorce me because you were sucking my neck and I was too weak to pull you away too fast? I did. It was so fucking hard but I pulled away and left because... I told you many times that if this was gonna happen, it should happen the right way. Not when you are black-out drunk. But you were crying and telling me how badly you wanted me. I had to jerk off alone because of how hard you got me with your begging. Was that all the alcohol talking? You didn’t even look at me the next morning.”

You had never heard him talk so much. And your face was burning as that night got clearer in your memories. As the realization that Yoongi wanted you as much as you wanted him settled in. “Yoongs, I-”

“No, shh…” He placed a finger over your lips. “You really have the audacity to think I’m cheating on you when all I’ve been doing is falling for you? Trying to turn this marriage into something actually nice? I’ve been trying to fuck you for so long, you really think I give a shit about fucking anyone else?”

The way his words affected you was surely clear to him as well. Your legs tried to close, yet only resulted in caging him against your hip harder, pushing him down until you could feel his hard dick through his pants. “I- I didn’t know, I…”

Yoongi ground down on you harder, breath unsteady and hot over your lips. “Tell me now, once and for all,” he whispered while his hands started roaming over your body, not even touching you anywhere specifically yet making you gasped with every graze. Distance between you so short it was intoxicating your brain. “Tell me if you want me to stop right now, and I won’t bother you again. Otherwise, I will not stop even if you’re begging me later.” His voice was so coarse you could tell his brain was rotten with want as well. Staring at your lips, waiting for the green light to devour them, probably barely registering anything else.

“Yoongi,” you whined. “Need you… Don’t stop…”

His mouth on yours was such a relief, lips and tongue soft as they played against yours. It didn’t last long before he was groaning, backing off to pull your shirt over your head aggressively, discarding his as well, and grabbing you by the waist to push you further up the bed. His skin was hot on yours, his mouth instantly back on your neck, giving you the treatment you had given him that forgotten night. And his roaming hands found your pants to pull them down while you were distracted. One slipping in your underwear to steal a touch of your center.

“Fuck,” he choked. And then he grabbed a fistful of your hair to turn your head to look at him. “What a nice, wet pussy. And you really thought I’d wanna fuck anyone else’s?” He looked mad when he pulled your clothes completely off you, getting naked as well. Hand wrapped around his thick member, allowing you only one glance before he was over you again, tip brushing against your entrance. “Let me show you, baby,” he rasped, and you were mewling under him. “This pretty pussy is mine, this is the one I want.”

“Yoon…” Your whine was interrupted when he pushed into you, not giving you any room to get used to his dick. His lips were on yours again, hand on your hair pulling it harshly as he started thrusting into you right away. You felt euphoric, your husband finally fucking you hard after all this time of suffering the sexual tension alone. And your fingers scratched his back while moans escaped into his bruising kiss.

Yoongi gave you a few very deep thrusts, hitting your cervix and making you cry before he pulled away again. “Feel that, baby?” he groaned. “Feel how well I’m fucking you- that’ll shut you up, won’t it?” He pulled out, grabbing your hips and flipping you around with no warning. He grabbed you by the ankles to drag you closer to him, and then slapped your ass hard.

“Ah, Yoongi!” You raised your ass higher, on your knees while your face was buried in the sheets.

“That’s right, baby,” he said in a low voice. And he spanked you again. “Scream my name.” Another spank, softer than the others, while he stroked and kneaded your ass. “Scream your husband's name to let everyone know who’s fucking you so hard.” And he buried his cock deep inside you again. “Scream my name to remind yourself that you have me, baby.”

You were a panting mess. Your orgasm building inside you so wildly that you felt like you were about to combust instead of cum. And you dared sneak a hand down to rub your clit while you were moaning his name like a prayer. “Oh, Yoongi, please… Fuck, please…”

He smacked your hand away when he noticed, growling and grabbing your hair to pull it until your back was arched, mouth coming right next to your ear to whisper dangerously. “If you’re gonna cum, you’ll cum because of my cock inside you. Got it?”

You were nodding immediately. Although you were probably gonna cum because of his deep voice and harsh dirty words. “I’m gonna…”

“Good girl,” he growled, diving his teeth in the side of your neck. And it was what did it for you, shouting out while your eyes rolled to the back of your head and your vision turned black, pussy pulsing frantically around him.

“Shit,” he gasped, hips faltering. Then he let go of your hair only to grab your neck from the front, still pulling you back to have his face buried in your nape. “Gonna let me paint those pussy walls white with my cum, baby?” And you were moaning again at that, feeling like you were gonna cum again before you even came down from your previous high. Yoongi smacked your ass abruptly, making you yelp and give him the permission he needed. And he hummed, satisfied, his hips finding the rhythm he needed to finish. “My lovely wife,” he whispered sweetly even though his actions were anything but that. “Don’t worry, I’ll fuck you good all the time. Just so you know I don’t even have the fucking time to be seeing anyone else.” And then he spilled into you for the very first time.

Masterlist

#bts #bangtan #min yoongi #request #yoongi #suga #drabble #smut #arranged marriage au #yoongi drabble #yoongi smut #bts drabble #bts smut #suga drabble #suga smut #yoongi x reader #yoongi x you #suga x reader #suga x you

[hockeylvr59]

Collide Part 2 || Sidney Crosby

Summary: Life as a single foster mom and a pediatrician didn’t leave much time for dating. But when Dr. Erin Lancaster becomes the pediatrician for Pittsburgh Penguins Defenseman Brian Dumoulin's baby boy, her association and quick friendship with his wife Kayla turns her crazy but quiet life upside down. 

Requested: [ ] yes [x] no

Authors Note: Apparently my brain is just on a Sid kick lately. First a blurb update, now this one. Let me know what you think. 

Warnings: alcohol consumption        Word Count: 2,001

~~~~~

The weeks leading up to the holiday season were usually some of the best as a foster mom. The kids that I called my own, even temporarily, generally didn’t have a great experience with family holidays in the past and it was always exciting to teach them the magic of the season. The joy of watching the Macy’s parade and then football before having a big meal, going looking at Christmas lights, and everything else that filled the days between Thanksgiving and Christmas. 

This year though, this year was tough. A few weeks ago, just days after my trip to the hospital, the seven year old I was fostering was moved to another placement. More biological siblings had popped up in the system and taking them would have placed me over my permitted limit. So instead, the rambunctious boy I was finally starting to make strides with was moved so that he could be with siblings he had never met, all because of the preference of keeping siblings together. A week later, my five year old was transferred back into the care of his mother who had successfully completed a rehabilitation program. I wasn’t sure the woman could be trusted but the court had decided she was fit enough to regain custody and there was nothing I could do about it. 

Finally, yesterday, my newborn had been deemed stable enough to be placed with a paternal grandmother now that he was completely off the drugs. I had done my limited job of making sure that he got elevated care and now he was in the placement I knew he’d end up in all along. 

It was the weekend before Thanksgiving and for the first time in a long time I didn’t have any kids under my roof. Honestly, I couldn’t remember the last time I didn’t have any kids placed with me, it had been that long. Yesterday, it had been easy enough to ignore, I went into the office to catch up on paperwork, I picked up dry cleaning and went grocery shopping before drinking half a bottle of wine and falling into bed exhausted. 

Today though, things were quiet and now that the world had stilled around me, my normally thick exterior cracked and I found myself sobbing steadily. I loved being a foster mom, I really did, but it was heartbreaking to know that these kids would never be mine for one reason or another. That while most days my house was full of laughter and as much love as these kids could manage, days like today would always be waiting at the end of it all. 

While drowning my sorrows with a pint of ice cream I definitely didn’t need to be eating at 11am, my phone buzzed beside me with a message from Kayla Dumoulin. She had texted more than once over the past few weeks with worries such as whether Brayden’s cord was healing normally and whether she could cut his nails because he didn’t like the mittens but she didn’t want him to cut himself. Through our text conversations she had learned of my rapidly emptying house and her message this morning was just to check in and see how I was doing. 

She was such a sweetheart and I replied with a shrug emoji declaring that if sobbing over a pint of ice cream at 11am was normal then I was doing just fine. The phone rang a moment later and I sighed seeing her name pop up because the message wasn’t intended to make her feel guilty or anything, it was just genuine honesty. Still, I answered the phone, setting the pint of ice cream aside for a moment. 

“It sounds like you need some baby cuddles.” Kayla stated, the sound of soft chatter coming through the line. “Why don’t you come over. Brayden wouldn’t mind seeing his favorite doctor.” She suggested. 

“That’s sweet but I’ll be okay.” I assured her. “I don’t want to impose. I’m sure I can find something to do.” 

“You’re not imposing.” Kayla insisted. “Me texting you at 2am with a breastfeeding question was imposing.” Her voice was teasing and I sighed softly remembering being up with my own newborn when she had a question about hers since Brian was on the road. 

“Seriously.” She continued. “Come over, snuggle Brayden, and give my husband a second opinion on this bottle of wine he just got since I can’t drink.” She suggested. Sensing that she truly meant it, I sighed and agreed reluctantly telling her to send me the address. 

____

45 minutes later, I had cleaned myself up so it didn’t look like I had spent the last few hours sobbing. After putting on some light makeup, I had thrown on some black jeans, a striped long sleeve tee, and a tan pullover before deeming myself decent enough to head out. 

Plugging the address in my phone’s gps, I drove over to Kayla and Brian’s neighborhood, parking down on the street in front of their house. It didn’t even register that there were approximately a half dozen cars spread between the driveway and the street already as I made my way up to the front door. 

Kayla greeted me after just a minute and I gently teased that if I didn’t know better I wouldn’t believe she just had a baby as she let me inside. That made her smile, and as she guided me to the kitchen for a glass of wine I realized that there was a significant amount of noise coming from the living room. It wasn’t until she was murmuring for me to make myself comfortable that I realized the living room was occupied by almost a dozen Penguins players, football pregame on tv. 

“Alright Muzz, you can give my baby back now.” Kayla declared half-joking, half-serious. As soon as the goalie handed the baby over, Kayla was crossing the room back to me and handing off the little boy who just snuggled into my chest as soon as he was placed there. “There...baby snuggles.” She murmured. 

“Thanks.” I whispered, resting a hand over the infant’s back before taking a sip of wine feeling slightly uncomfortable as eyes slowly landed on me. 

“Hey doc.” Brian greeted appearing from somewhere else in the house. “Let me know what you think of that wine, not sure if this brand is a keeper or not.” He stated simply portraying the feeling that I wasn’t at all anywhere I didn’t belong and that this was a normal occurrence. Nodding I promised to do so before just focusing back on the baby in my arms. The physician portion of my brain noted that he was doing well and had certainly been growing while the rest of me just found myself relaxing at the feeling of a baby’s steady breaths. 

Most of the guys paid me no mind as the game started. Yet I felt one pair of eyes linger. As I stepped outside after handing Brayden off to feed just before halftime, a four legged companion joined me and I chuckled petting the Dumoulin’s dog Roo while sitting on the steps of their patio nursing my second glass of wine. 

The patio door slid open and then shut before a body slid down next to me on the steps. 

“So where are your foster kids?” A familiar voice asked and glancing over my eyes met those of the Penguins Captain. 

“With another foster family, with their mother, and with their paternal grandmother.” I whispered, quickly taking another sip of the wine to try and push back another round of tears. “The sucky thing about being a foster mom is they always go away in the end.” 

“I...I didn’t know.” Sid mumbled after a moment and I waved him off petting Roo and wiping at my eye with the back of my hand. 

“I didn’t expect you to.” I stated simply. 

“So that’s why…” Sid trailed off, stopping when I nodded. 

“Baby cuddles to try and make everything better.” I shrugged. “To fill the three new cracks in my heart. It’s been a long time since I was childless.” I whispered. “I’ve been trying to recall when it was and I honestly can’t remember. I feel like it had to have happened at least a few times but I really can’t recall not having anyone since I became a foster mom in the first place.” 

“How long is that?” Sid asked, tone softer now than it had been that day at the hospital. 

“Two...almost three years. I applied to become a foster parent toward the end of my residency.” 

“Can I ask how many?” Sid questioned. 

“36.” 

“In three years? That’s...wow.” Glancing over I could see the genuine shock on his face. 

“I don’t know what the turnover rate is generally but I’m fairly certain my rate is higher than average. I get a lot of the drug addicted babies because of my skills and they’re generally only with me 2-3 weeks until it’s safe to move them into a more permanent placement, often with other family members.” 

“How do you handle that?” He murmured, reaching down to pet Roo as well who had rolled over onto her back for belly rubs. 

“Usually I just focus on my patients, on the kids that I do still have with me because they deserve all of my love and attention. This time? Crying over Ben and Jerry’s at 11am until Kayla insisted I come over.” A smile cracked Sid’s face and he apologized quickly declaring that this isn’t something to smile about. 

“No it’s okay. You can find it amusing, I know it wasn’t the most healthy coping method.” 

“Are you going to be okay?” He inquires softly. 

“Yeah. Well, I should probably lay off the wine. Dumo has really good taste.” Sid’s eyes crinkled a little bit and he looked at me like be serious. “I will be. I mean it’s only a matter of time before I get the call that another child needs me.” I assured him. “I just...sometimes...days like this...they make me wonder whether I still want to do this, you know…” 

“Go on…” Sid urged. 

“I just...it’s so hard. Never knowing whether I’m going to wake up and have to say goodbye again. Constantly giving away pieces of my heart that I’ll never get back. Days like today make me just want to be a mom. Not a foster mom but a mom. To have my own kids who won’t be there one day and gone the next.” 

“I get that feeling.” Sid murmured after a moment. “Not the ‘here one day gone the next’ part, but uh, wanting your own kids part, that I get.” He rubbed the back of his neck as he spoke before dropping his hand back down to pet Roo, his fingers brushing against mine. Immediately my mind flashed back to the feeling of his hand wrapped around mine and I quickly pushed that aside. 

“There you are!” Kayla exclaimed, popping her head out the door, her eyes shifting back and forth between you and Sid and noting how close you were sitting. “We just put out some food if you’re hungry and want something other than ice cream.” She grinned, dipping back inside looking like she was about to burst with what she just saw even if it was absolutely nothing. 

When Sid stood he offered a hand out to help you up, murmuring for Roo to come inside and he’d see if he could find her a treat. The bulldog was eager for that and followed after him as you brushed yourself off and picked your wine glass up moving to rejoin the group. 

Ridding of your buzz with some food and water and more baby snuggles you finally headed home with the feeling that there was something more to your conversation with Sid that you hadn’t put your finger on.

Outfit: 

#sidney crosby #sidney crosby imagine #pittsburgh penguins #pittsburgh penguins imagine #nhl imagine #nhl imagines #hockey imagines #hockey imagine #ppenguins #019

[hansoulo]

lay back in cloying sin

part three of “Pillar of Salt”

Pairing: Boba Fett/Princess!Reader (she/her pronouns, no Y/N)

Warnings: NSFW-ish; references to marks and bruises, kissing, probably inaccurate descriptions of ballroom dancing, fluff, mentions of alcohol consumption

Word Count: 3.3k

Gif Credit: (x) by @/ktfhett

A/N: boba & reader: [tyler the creator voice] oh no i hope i don’t fall 

༓ series masterlist ༓ 

Dinner was a tedious affair, filled with hollow pageantry. It was one last hurrah before the send off of the honored guests, one of which you’d never talked to and the other who was nowhere to be found. The former, Lord Vader, sat at the head of the long table and made for very unamusing company. You had the distinct impression that he’d rather be anywhere than here, having to listen to his uniformed subordinates squabble in grating voices and your father simper about mining collectives. That made for two of you.

But the cavernous banquet hall was always beautiful, if a bit ostentatious, and the food never disappointed, so you consoled yourself with a loosened corset and the promise of a second dinner by servants who pitied your forced small portions.

You floated into the large room, shuffled through by the compounding procession before an older man offered to help you into your seat. The ornateness of your evening wear made you grateful for the help, watching in sincere thanks as he pulled out the high-backed chair.

“Thank you, um…” the color of his robes and the softness of his hands signalled high rank and you chanced a guess. “Duke...?”

“Sagcock,” he finished for you. “Jovron Sagcock.”

He has got to be joking.

Evidently, he wasn’t.

If the man saw you choke on a laugh, sputtering it into a hiccup as you sat down, he pretended not to notice. After all, princesses knew better than to be unbecoming or crass or know why any part of that exchange could be fodder for humor.

Fighting down one last cough, you attempted to regain some sense of decorum. What a wonderful start to the evening.

The arrangement of persons on this particular night was strange though, even disregarding the title of the man now seated beside you. There were more people than usual filling out the hall tonight, all fancily clad and buffed to shining. Boba wasn’t anywhere to be found.

The supposed importance of the occasion probably necessitated a shuffling of seats to soothe egos and encourage conversation, but you weren’t used to being so close to the head of the table, near parallel with your mother. Usually your elder sisters sat higher and provided you the benefit of distance. Of course, they were all gone now. Your brother was still too young to be at evening dinners, so there was no buffer between you and your parents’ ire.

Maybe this was the Maker’s way of getting back at you for your tiny tryst. Maybe they all knew about what happened in the garden and were just waiting for the shoe to drop, branding you as a harlot and finally letting you free. Vader’s static words travelled down the table and mingled with your father’s but you were too busy entertaining worse-case scenarios to understand conversation.

People were observing you, you realized partway through the first round of courses. Watching you with strange eyes as if you were the last scrap of halfway-spoiled meat for imperial officials and all the nobility that had come to pay their prostrate respects. No one had really given half a damn about you before, which made it all the more strange.

A heel foot softly kicked at yours underneath the table, breaking you out of your glazed thoughts. The fork you had been mindlessly moving across your plate stopping mid-swirl. Looking up, you met the quiet glare of your mother and cleared your throat.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” you asked. Your question was punctuated with a smile too large to be genuine. The queen’s head jerked towards the grizzled man seated to her right and you turned towards him at her behest, face open in trained invitation. “Oh, hello, General.”

General Enes, current commander of the army of Quas Killam. Not strictly Imperial, but aligned close enough to have him in the king’s good graces and to reside permanently at court. He was also a Duke and probably a cousin thrice removed, but who was counting?

“No need to stand on pleasantries, your Highness,” the gray-haired man assured you, one large hand resting over his stomach as servants replaced the dirtied plates in front of you with new ones. You only sipped delicately at your algarine as he chortled and remembered, “It seems like yesterday that you were running around the palace with your sisters. A little sprite of a thing, weren’t you?”

Was he drunk already? “Yes, I remember,” you tread pleasantly; carefully.

The general settled and let out one last chuckle before his eyes grew hawk-like again, trained in the jewelry and accoutrements that signified your being old enough to marry but young enough to have not yet been taken. Like a prize. Or a charity donation. “You’ve grown into quite the young woman, you know.”

So that’s where this was going. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes and tried to look gracious. “Thank you, sir. That’s a high compliment.”

“How old are you again, dear?”

Masking your surprise at the forwardness of the question, you supplied your age to a nod of approval from both him and your mother.

“A good age, I’d say. ‘Round the same as my youngest.”

“Yes, I’m aware,” you shot a look down the table and caught a glimpse of cropped flaxen hair, its owner sitting enough seats down to prevent any shared conversation. You counted your blessings for it and smiled, tight-lipped. “Your son and I shared company when we were children.”

“Well that’s very nice,” the queen interjected quite loudly and looked around the long table with a light laugh but cold eyes. “Isn’t that nice?”

Your father looked at you for the first time all evening as if on cue, boring a hole into your face with the words he seemed to be telepathically trying to put in your mouth.

The taste of bitter wine on your tongue made your thoughts fevered, though not borne out of alcohol so much as the memories of someone else’s touch in the same places. “Yes,” you repeated vaguely. “Very nice.”

Darth Vader apparently didn’t remove his helmet. You wondered why he came to dinner at all.

The remaining evening hours had been whittled away by dessert and drinks. Everyone who cared to stay shuffled into the ballroom, a behemoth of a thing filled with inky windows and sparkling artifice. It was a blur of waltzes and predetermined couplings with boys you’d been ignoring since you were old enough to kick them in their shins, but you didn’t care enough to go to pains to avoid it. They broke up the monotony of introductions, at least, and let your mind and body be somewhere else for a while.

All compounded, the night left you flushed and tired. You needed alcohol. Or air. The latter was probably the more reasonable choice of the two.

Being in the midst of ballroom theatrics allowed for an easy enough escape, and a side entrance to a balcony overlooking the palace grounds became the object of your attention.

The tall double doors lay open in their glass encasings and spilled out lamplight refractions on the guests’ gaudy clothing and gaudier jewelry, everything sparkling and warm. But you were far enough away from it to still be chilled by the night air, a balm for your flushed cheeks and fizzling temper.

Usually guests ignored it in favor of staying indoors, so you were fairly confident in the promise of solitude and an undisturbed breeze.

But someone apparently had the same idea as you.

“Hello,” you ventured out a greeting to the silhouette not yet fully in your vision. You stepped closer and the heels of your shoes echoed on clay tiles. “I’m sorry, am I bothering you?”

Royal Highnesses shouldn’t really care about whether or not they were disturbing strange party guests, you could make them leave if you felt so inclined, but something in you was feeling magnanimous tonight. You tried not to think about why.

The figure didn’t turn back towards you, still facing out towards the blurry glitter of urban lights far off in the distance. It looked pretty this far away, all glowing masses and amorphous buildings that scraped the sky. You’d never  been close enough to see all the dinge and smog that made its home in places not populated by princesses. Marble felt more familiar than metal.

The man wore metal too, and his voice scraped at your chest when he answered. “You’re not bothering me, princess.”

Oh.

You ventured cautiously towards the balcony’s edge, next to the man you now could recognize as Boba. The thick stone railing was cool to the touch. “Hello.”

His helmet tipped to the left, which was probably his way of saying it back.

“I didn’t see you at the dinner,” you noticed quietly. Would it be presumptuous to assume he was avoiding you? Intellect said yes, but ego didn’t listen. You leant forward, the speckled marble digging into your elbows as you mirrored Boba’s sightline out into the city. “You know, you wouldn’t have needed to make conversation. Lord Vader was the guest of honor and all he did was sit there.”

“I don’t like crowds.”

“Ah.”

A silence lapsed between you, awkward as if you were strangers. You were though, weren’t you? Strangers. Not friends. Not lovers. Not really.

But if he asked you to crack yourself open for him, you would. You would rip apart every satin petticoat and snap the boning in your corsets until your hands were raw if it meant he would touch you; skin to skin. You’d run away and cite a hidden fountain as the reason why.

You didn’t know what he’d give up for you, if anything. Boba didn’t seem like the type to have much in the first place. Either by choice or by necessity.

The garden afternoon nagged at you after having time to form coherent thoughts, and the fizzy shine of palace lights reflecting off his helmet reminded you of what you’d been meaning to ask.

Night made you softer-spoken. “Why did you let me take off your helmet?”

Night made his edges sharper. “Why did you want to?”

“I asked first,” you volleyed back as reason enough to get an answer first.

Boba wasn’t a Mandalorian in the true sense of the word, at least that’s what gossip told you, so it didn’t really matter if he took the helmet off or not. But he kept it on in front of everyone else.

The hunter gave you visor-silence and your impatience made you concede. “I just wanted to see you,” you breathed out, still not looking at him.  The admission sounded much more naive than you intended.

His words held their characteristic aloofness but were edged by gentle teasing. “What if I said the same?”

That he wanted to see you?

You still didn’t understand half of why he did what he did and what he wanted, but you turned to face him head-on anyway. Cold moonlight fell on your neck and the air cracked with fever. You tried to reply in jest. “Then I’d say that you were being stupid.”

“You’d be right.”

A swallow bobbed in your throat. He always seemed to take up your vision; fill it and suffocate you with seemingly no effort. “And then I’d ask you to do it again.”

“Do what, princess?”

He knew. He just liked seeing the words come out of your mouth.

“Let me take your helmet off.”

This time, he guided your hands up himself. They were slow and almost careful running across your palms, placing them on the mechanisms your fingers found in quick memory. Set on the balcony railing, the helmet seemed to be a prop. An upside down bucket filled with all the things you had yet to say to each other, spilling out onto the ground in a fog.

“I like you better without it,” you decided when he turned back towards you, his weight still resting on the railing with one cocked hip. Everything about the way he looked was dark: inky black curls and scarred brown skin and eyes that pushed the air in your lungs with a stall and a catch. They looked even darker next to tan clothes and green armor.

His voice wasn’t entirely lacking in humor. He did that. Humored you. “Do you now?”

“Mhm.” you nodded with fake seriousness, slightly giddy and slightly too brave. You blamed it on an excess of wine and good company. “Better-looking.”

He only scoffed, a flash of pearl-white canines serving as one half of a smile. A smile that had been wider when it was against your collarbones, your neck, your mouth. A smile that you wouldn’t mind being in other places.

You nudged Boba’s shoulder with your own when a waltz kicked up in the background, faint through the open ballroom door. “There’s music,” you implied, half-joking and half-expectant. There had been this whole time, of course, but acknowledging it now seemed better than never. “You should ask me to dance.”

“I’m not one for dancing, your Highness.”

The title made you roll your eyes, a commonplace formality that you usually insisted on but now found overly facetious. Coming from him, that is. “Clearly not,” you almost snorted. Pushing away from the marble ledge with a finality that seemed almost comical, you held your hand out and waited, eyebrows raising and fingers beckoning. Well? your face seemed to say, Are you coming?

His sigh was bone-deep and settled in your chest like chunks of black plaster, but it felt good. “You’re not going to let me leave, are you?”

“No, I’m not,” you replied, as if it’d be ridiculous to expect anything else. Princesses danced with men at parties. You were a princess. Boba was a man at a party. In a roundabout sort of way. “It’s easy, I promise,” you assured, wrapping your hand around his wrist and pulling him away from the balcony. His glove slipped down a bit; just enough that your thumb could press one soft circle against the tan skin over bone.

Uncomfortable wasn’t really the correct word for how you thought he felt. You doubted Boba could ever be uncomfortable. No. No, the right word would probably be… bemused. Like he was in a menagerie watching a creature, something exotic and pretty, with mild interest while it still had his attention. But you did have his attention. That was something.

“You put your right hand on my waist,” you moved to reposition the large fingers more accustomed to blasters than they were to bodices. Boba smirked, almost boyish, when you caught his hand wandering someplace else. “Not that low,” you chided with quiet exasperation, placing your palm atop his and guiding it back up.

The pale leather was warm underneath your skin and you bit down a smile, almost awe-struck at how strange your hand looked next to his. Yours was polished, weighed down by heavy gold bangles and softened by years of idle play. His, you suspected (for you didn't actually know; hadn’t yet actually seen), was anything but.

“That’s good,” you supplied lightly. “And then I do this,”your other hand reached to rest on Boba’s shoulder. “And then- no, no you give me your left hand. Hold it out- good.”

Still looking down, you were careful not to trip over your skirts or his boots. “And now we just-” you breathed out and glanced up, surprised to find his expression strangely careful. Almost tender. You gulped down the quiet notch in your throat. “-now we just um… sway. Like this.”

You eschewed complication in favor of a simple rhythm, just letting your feet fall wherever they liked so long as they didn’t tangle in themselves. Now wasn’t the time for anything laborious; you didn’t have faith enough in Boba’s footwork. But he actually wasn’t too bad all things considered. A bit stiff and a bit gruff, but those were part and parcel. It was a bit like dancing with a tree trunk. A very handsome, very broad, very taciturn tree trunk. It was easy to let yourself sink into it a little with how solid he felt.

The man arched an eyebrow when your fingers stretched to thread together with his. “Just sway?”

“You’re welcome to do a jig instead if you’d like,” you replied wryly as your weight shifted from foot to foot. The hand around your waist stiffened at the prospect and a grin escaped your face.

“Nevermind.”

The amusement that had previously only been in your throat escaped in a quiet laugh. “Thought so,” you whispered, victorious. Tension, bunched up in your shoulders and collected in your bones, melted completely when he pulled you closer and let your head fall against the space of his neck. Sinew fit against silk like puzzle pieces and warmed the quiet moment that followed. Neither of you spoke for fear of disturbing the fresh peace.

You found yourself dwelling more and more on hypotheticals. Unrealistic and stupid, you knew, given who you both were. But still you dwelt, unable to fathom a reality outside of the last nine hours and inside a reality within which Boba was gone.

Would he fit here, with the stucco and plaster and ivy? With all the sheltered society of an insignificant court? With you?

You wondered if he dwelt on hypotheticals, too.

Swallowing cold air as Boba thumbed the collar of your dress, you felt the light scatter of broken blood vessels from hours before smart again. Your cheek pressed against the pauldron of his beskar, but neither of you were really dancing anymore. “I- I wanted to talk,” you began quietly. “About earlier.”

“Did you not like it?” Did you not like me?

“No! No, I…” you shook your head, trying to rid yourself of his assumption. The crystals hanging from your headpiece tinkled with every soft movement. “No, I… I liked it. I like…” The lump in your throat seemed to travel down back into your stomach. “You,” you finished, swallowing the final word and leaving all its implications to settle in the night.

He could feel the rise and fall of your chest; delicate and airy and resigned. You spoke again. “But you’re leaving tomorrow and... and we could’ve been caught. And the more I think about it the more I really am not looking forward to the idea of some court scandal or being cloistered up like a nun because I—”

He called you your name.

He’d never used your name before.

You lifted your head off his shoulder, desperate-eyed and looking for answers you both knew he couldn’t give. “Yes?”

“Kiss me.”

You barely breathed out an okay before the arm around your waist tightened, crushing you against cold metal and a warm body.

He kissed you how a lover would. Like how a first kiss should’ve been.

It was gentle. Warm. Tender-mouthed and aching, placing promises down your throat with a soft hand and closed eyes. It was… It was…

It was broken up far too quickly.

A voice called out your name from somewhere far-off, regally accented and not at all welcome. It called your name again, first middle and last with all the titles in between with much less patience. Your mother, queen consort.

The groan of displeasure that escaped you was muffled in Boba’s mouth and swallowed up before it could give either of you away. He recovered much faster than you did, peeling back from your body with eyes already alert and scanning the shadows for passersby. There were none. For now.

“It’s my mother,” you whispered, letting your eyes roll seemingly out of your skull. “They’re probably doing some send-off for Vader’s entourage.”

Neither of you mentioned the fact that Boba was part of that entourage too.

Your last words were rushed before the footsteps became too close and the mercenary pulled away. You didn’t really want to stay to hear the answer. “Will I see you again?”

Boba Fett, you’d come to learn, wasn’t the kind of man to offer more than what he knew he could give.

The helmet went back on. “I don’t know.”’

#boba fett x reader #boba fett/reader #boba fett fanfiction #boba fett x you #boba fett imagine #boba fett oneshot #star wars fanfiction

[dizzydancingdreamer]

“So that’s how you want to play this, love?" | The Mikaelson Boys

Hey My Lovelies! I hope all is well today! I received a request ages ago from @activist-af to do something like this, as you will read below. I honestly aimed to fit the movie night theme in there but it was swallowed up pretty fast! I only meant for this fic to be 3000 or so words but, as it always seems to do, it got away from me.I truly hope that you enjoy this, you've given me an unwavering amount of support these past few months while I was battling a major bout of depression and writers block. I can't repay all the kindness and love you've given me but I hope this is a start! Much love darling! And much love to all of you lovelies! Please have a fantastic evening for me! <3

Please read before continuing: I usually wouldn't write this much before my story but I wanted to add this: this story is my first full blown smut. I'm honestly not sure how well it will go over but I tried to make it as loving and healing as I could. I take my writing very seriously. I know sex for many is a touchy subject, and that truly pains me. I sincerely hope every single one of you reading this feels all the love and saftey I tried to incorporate into this peace. I wish you an eternity of love and healing. Be safe my loves!

Request: "Could u do a mikaelson boys x reader? Any plot really, but I’d very much love it if it was a bit more Kol focused. there’s just such a lack of content for all three of them and I love your writing so much. If u need any plot point ideas maybe a movie night kinda thing? I really hold him a bit higher than the other boys. Or something similar to the fic with the Klaus + Eli being injured? Fluffy ending please, smut is fantastic too 🖤"

Description: Y/n is upset that the boys won't let her come on their mission with them, feeling isolated and useless. Kol is supposed to stay behind and watch out for her however things get heated after she tells him off.

Pairing: The Mikaelson Boys x Fem!Reader, mainly Kol and Elijah

Warnings: THIS IS AN 18+ ONLY FIC!!! This is a full blown smut, I honestly do not know how it happened, probably 4000/5000 words are pure sex scenes, also there's a bit of fighting/angst at the beginning of the first scene but it doesn't last

Word count: 5343 (I'm so sorry)

Tags: ANGST, SMUT (full on), FLUFF

(Pics aren't mine but the moodboard is :) )

“I really don’t see why you guys are leaving me behind, again,” you run an agitated hand through your hair, huffing indignantly at the two boys in front of you.

Yes, boys. Not men. If they aren't going to treat you like the full grown woman you are then no way in hell are you going to give them any validation either. Even in your head.

“It’s too dangerous,” Elijah’s chocolate eyes are stern, his hands clenching at his sides, “I can’t risk the witches doing anything to you as a way to get to us. You’re too important.”

Your chest warms slightly at his words but it isn’t enough to break down your resolve. Three hundred years under your belt; they’re going to need to do better than that if they want to keep you away. There are only so many times you can stay away from a fight, only so many times you can watch them come home hurt knowing that if you had gone with them then maybe you could have prevented it. You’re a family and you’re tired of feeling like you aren’t pulling your weight.

You narrow your eyes at the tall boy, still not man, trying to peer through all the red you’re seeing, “I’m not a child, Elijah.”

He stares right back, not backing down, his face cut like marble, unwavering. Beautiful but harsh. Stone. He wears a white shirt, the first button popped and the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His veins are prominent and tempting. Elijah means business. You swallow the lump in your throat, pushing away the heat growing in your stomach.

“Love, trust me, we know you aren't a child. Any other time I would gladly rip you upstairs and prove it. Right now, though, I agree with him. You’re staying here,” Klaus’ softer voice pulls your attention from your staring match with the eldest Mikaelson.

He has a leather jacket on, the material clinging tight to his arms, ready to burst. He’s smiling but it doesn’t reach his crystal eyes. He folds his arms neatly in front of him. He’s not going to budge either.

You scoff at him, shaking your head, “I want to come, Klaus. I need to.”

A new voice joins the three of you in the foyer, “I can make that happen, darling, but you’ve got to stay home with me if you want that.”

You don't even need to turn around to hear the smirk on Kol’s voice but you do anyway, meeting the youngest Mikaelson face to face. He has a grin on his lips, one that, in any other situation, would have you weak in the knees. He has a sweatshirt on and a pair of sleep shorts. He’s on babysitting duty, he doesn’t need anything else. You only roll your eyes at him before facing Elijah once more.

“I’m part of this family, too, you know. It should be my choice,” you have to will your voice not to crack, keeping your tone as low and as steady as you can, “I’m not useless, Elijah, as much as you’d obviously disagree.”

You rub your hands over your bare arms, fending off a sudden chill. You feel like there’s ice coursing through your veins. A traitorous tear tracks down your cheek but you make no move to get it. Elijah’s hardened face softens when he notices.

“Baby, come on,” he reaches to grab you but you step back, not allowing him to touch you.

He can’t do that, make the decisions for you. Maybe if you were still human it would be called for but now it’s not. Sure, you aren't a millennium like they are but you’re not a piece of glass either. You’re strong, whether they want to acknowledge it or not.

“Don’t, Elijah,” you back away further, your cheeks drenched but your eyes fierce, “I’ll see you guys in a few days. Be safe.”

You turn and walk away, ignoring all three brothers as they call out to you, heading up to your room before any of them decide to follow you. You close the door, not slamming it but not exactly shutting it gently either. You can hear Elijah sigh from the front hall and you know he’s tugging on his hair. Klaus swears, his frustrated voice floating up to your ears. More tears fall but you brush them away angrily, lifting a pillow from your bed and screaming into it. No doubt they can hear it but, right now, you couldn't care less. The front door shuts and your heart plummets.

You sit on the edge of your bed, gripping your dark comforter tightly. Usually you like being the one they take care of. You like being held, how small they make you feel. Right now, though, it’s too much.

A soft knock draws your attention to the door, Kol’s careful voice cutting through the wood, “darling?”

“Leave me alone, Kol,” you try your best to make your words harsh but you only sound tired.

“Not likely, love,” he presses, “you know I can go all night, now it’s up to you what that means.”

Your cheeks flush and, as if he can see you through the door, he chuckles. The sound echos through your chest, stirring the remains of anger and frustration and mixing them with something hot and untamed. You pull the door open, coming face to face with the smirking Mikaelson.

“Sorry you landed with babysitting duty, Kol, but I’ve kept myself alive for three hundred years now and I’m pretty sure I can handle two more days on my own. Why don’t you go help Elijah and Klaus, yeah? Seeing as you are the only three who can actually do any good. I’m clearly not strong enough to do anything so I’ll just sit here and look pretty and do absolutely nothing at all because I’m useless. Okay?”

With that you close the door in his face. Well, you try to but he wedges his body in the way so you can’t shut him out. Whatever smile had previously been on his face is long gone and in its place sits a deep frown. His brown eyes ice over slightly and he stands taller than he did mere seconds ago. You can feel a switch in the atmosphere and suddenly you’re face to face. You honestly can’t tell which one of you is more pissed off.

“So that’s how you want to play this, love,” he pushes closer to you, “you want to get angry, yeah? Alright darling, I can do that.”

You open your mouth to protest but before any profanities can fly out his lips are on yours, fierce and strong. He uses his foot to kick the door closed, slamming it into place. It’s done merely for effect. No one is home but the two of you. He spins you around aggressively, pushing you roughly against the hardwood. His teeth sink into your bottom lip, no doubt drawing blood. As if on cue a copper taste fills your mouth, drowning your senses in red. This time, though, the anger is mixed with a wicked kind of lust.

Your hands find his hair without your permission, tugging harshly at the roots. He groans into your mouth, a sound that makes you want to slap him across the face and wrap your legs around him all the same. His hand snakes around your waist, squeezing your hip with a fervour that will no doubt leave bruises that will take longer than usual to heal. He pushes against you, every single part of him rock hard.

“God fucking damnit, Kol,” his lips find your throat with painful ease, sucking the sensitive skin into his mouth in a way thats just this side of painful over pleasurable.

Right now, though, you crave every bit of pain that Kol lays on you. In a sick way you’re proving that you can take it. That you’re strong enough to do the things that they do. Another flash of red floods your vision when you think of the other two Mikaelson's who refused to let you help. You drag one of your hands down Kol’s back, scratching hard enough for him hiss against your neck.

He jerks away from you quickly, only long enough to rip the sweatshirt over his head before he attacks your neck again. He sinks his teeth in at the same moment he rips your tank top in half, lulling you into that sweet mixture of pleasure and pain, hate and lust once more. His shoulders are deliciously toned under your searching fingers and this time when you drag your nails down his back you know you draw blood. Serves him right anyway.

“Fuck, baby,” he wraps a hand around both of your wrists, pinning your hands above your head, “that kinda hurt.”

You want to claw the smirk off of his face. Or kiss it. You can’t quite decide. His other hand is slowly sliding up your back, inching towards the clasp of your bra. His eyes burn into yours, the inferno behind them nothing less than intense. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears so loud it’s almost hypnotic when combined with the tantalizing draw of his hand. It lulls you into a false sense of security, your eyelids heavy in anticipation. He stops moving when his fingers are about to undo the hooks.

He pushes his hips closer to yours, locking you between his body and the door. His stomach is hot against yours and cut like marble. Your fingers itch to feel every bump and dip with agonizing intricacy. Every inch of your skin is alight, every hair raised waiting for anything to happen. You can feel every breath he takes as if it’s your own, your covered breasts just barely grazing him with each rise and fall of his chest. It’s delicious torture.

“Before we go any further here, I need to know what you want. Do you want some quick fuck that’s going to leave you more angry when it’s done?” He rolls his hips against yours, sending sparks flying through your body at the first real touch you’ve had tonight, “or do you want me to make love to you like you know I can. And make all these terrible feelings go away. It’s your choice, darling?”

His words tangle and knot in the pit of your stomach, weaving through the white hot hatred that had been building in your stomach until it explodes. They hit you right at the source like missiles aimed with the utmost precision to destroy every bit of anger left in you. Tears prickle at the edge of your vision, your senses overloaded from the sudden loss of your fury. All that’s left in its wake is this gut wrenching feeling of not being good enough. It’s the original problem and he just effortlessly broke through to it.

“I,” you tug your bruised lip between your teeth, if only to keep it still, “make it go away, Kol. Please.”

“That’s all I want to do, darling.”

He releases your wrists, opting instead to haul your body into his arms and slamming his lips against yours once more. You waste no time running your freed fingers down his sculpted chest, admiring the way his muscles tense as he holds you up. You push yourself as close to his body as you can get, wrapping your legs around his taught stomach and clinging on for dear life. He kisses you slowly, as if drawing all the negative energy out of your body with his lips.

He walks the two of you backwards towards your bed, sitting on the edge, leaving you straddling his hips in the most delicious way. You push your hips to bring you closer together, wanting to feel every part of him that you can. He meets every movement with his own energy, wrapping an arm around you back to keep you pressed against him. Your body is warming up once more in his arms.

He pulls his lips from yours reluctantly, his hand snaking back to the clasp on your back, “this needs to go.”

You shiver at the light touch of his fingertips on your spine, arching with the click of the hooks coming undone. He pulls the lace from your chest slowly, his thumbs grazing down your arms, memorizing every inch of skin he can get his hands on. His eyes meet yours again and he drops the fabric on the ground next to your bed. His hands, now resting on your hips, trail fire up your stomach as they trace their way over your ribs.

“Kol, please,” you wrap your arms around his shoulders, reveling in the warmth of his chest so close to your own, “I need you.”

There’s a glint in his eye again but this time you don’t want to slap him. No this time you want him to do heavenly things to every part of you. You want him to take the last remains of this awful feeling and snuff it out with his mouth. His hands finally crest the remainder of your ribcage, his thumbs teasing the underside of your breasts with tantalizingly careful circles. Tears sting your vision again from all the pent up energy inside of you.

“What shall I do, darling,” his thumbs draw along the sides of your breasts, stoking the untameable fire in the pit of your stomach once more, “tell me how you want me to touch you.”

His fingers dance closer to their target, each stroke driving your brain further into it’s Kol induced frenzy. All you can see, all you can hear, all you can smell is the boy in front of you.

“Kol,” his name falls from your lips in a desperate moan, “please just do something, god.”

He chuckles, a sound that flows like honey and wraps around every inch of you like silk. His eyes sear into your own, daring you to break his stare but you don’t. You can’t

“Well I could do this.”

His thumbs roll over your hardened nipples, as if to punctuate his words, and you see stars. You don’t even try to stop the moans that tumble from your lips, turning to clay in his hands. You give him free reign to mould your body in any way he desires, as long as hands never leave your skin. He pinches each bud between his fingers gently, pulling more praises from deep within you. His eyes never leave your face, drinking in each expression with unashamed greed.

“Or maybe I could do this.”

You know what’s coming when he leans forward, It’s quite clear what his intentions are. However, what you aren’t expecting is for the first gentle nip to send you so violently crashing over the edge that you have to squeeze your thighs around him to avoid falling off the bed. He doesn’t stop when you cry out and you don't want him to. Every swirl of his tongue around your nipple sends you spiraling further into the sweet oblivion he’s created just for you. He rocks his hips against yours while his mouth assaults you, pressing the delicious hardness against you while you fall apart.

He detaches his lips from your lips when you start to come down from your high, kissing his way up your sternum, over your collar bone, before settling on your throat.

“So beautiful darling,” he pulls your skin into his mouth as if he didn't just get enough just moments ago, “so damn beautiful.”

You press down on his hard length again, pulling a groan from deep within his chest, “I want all of you, Kol. Please.”

That's all the encouragement he needs to flip the two of you over and lay you on your back. He kneels between your legs, hooking his thumbs in your plaid sleep shorts and pulling them off much faster than he had down with your bra. He’s more than warmed up now, something that excites you to no end. You’re left laying in a pair of black lace panties that match the bra on your floor.

Kol’s eyes go dark at the sight, a growl that hardens your nipples again rumbling through the air. He leans down, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh before pulling the lace off of you once more and adding it to the growing pile of clothes. He kisses the junction of your thigh next, sending electricity rippling through your body. It restarts the heat once more and the familiar wildfire rips through your abdomen. You’re not sure if you’ll be able to stand many more orgasms if each one is to be like the first.

“Please just make love to me, Kol, I need to feel you.”

He lifts his head from your thighs, a sight that you will never grow tired of, and his eyes set ablaze, “I was made for nothing more.”

Your heart flutters rapidly in your chest, a warmth spreading like butter over your bones. He kicks his own shorts and boxers off quickly, moving back up your body to rest between your legs. You drink in the heat radiating off his body, allowing it to soothe the remaining ache leftover from your small throw down. His one hand slips under your head, lacing through your hair gently. The other reaches between you, lining himself up against your opening. The slightest touch of him against you is enough to have you mewling his name already.

He teases you slightly, taking his sweet time before pushing in. The first thrust is pure magic, filling you in the way that only Kol can. Each of you boys feel different. Kol lights every one of your nerves on fire with his slow movements. He makes you feel every deliberate movement. He makes you know that every circle of his hips, every time he joins you together is done to perfection exactly how he intends. Kol makes you aware of your entire body and just how much control he has over it.

He pulls back slowly before thrusting back inside of you hard enough to rock your bed into the wall. You clench around him without warning, pulling your name from his lips with mouthwatering ease and sending small shocks through your lower half.

“Christ, baby,” he rocks his hips deeper into yours, burying himself all the way inside you, “how are you so close again already.”

You giggle quietly from underneath him, wrapping your legs around his hips and rolling your own to meet his thrusts. Your hands glide over his shoulders, soothing the scratches you left earlier. You draw his face to your own, pulling his lips down to graze yours. You want him to feel every word you say.

“Don’t play coy, you know exactly what you’re doing,” the end of your sentence is blurred with unrelenting moans.

His hand grabs your leg, pushing your knee to your chest before pushing you into the mattress with a world altering thrust, “you’re right darling, I just like to hear you say it.”

He closes the gap between your lips with another shattering push, your walls clenching harder than before around him again. You swallow each moan that slips from his mouth and into yours. His nutmeg scent clings to you and you know it will take days to scrub him off of you, not that you want to. You could very well spend the next century wrapped up in Kol in every single way possible.

He picks up the pace, slamming into you with controlled ease. Your hands lace through his hair, keeping him as close to you as possible. Your senses are overwhelmingly heightened, allowing you to feel every damned inch of him. You’re in serious danger of falling apart. The fiery ball in your stomach is at its peak once more. When he pulls your lip between his teeth, and you taste the crimson, it explodes.

This time you don't just see stars, you see the sun and the moon and every planet in the solar system. He continues to move in and out of you, drawing out the intensity of your orgasm as he rides his own out. You cling to him with everything you have, refusing to breathe anything but Kol. Everything in this moment is about him and the way he makes you feel. Nothing else matters anymore. Perhaps nothing even mattered before. All there is, all there has ever been, is this one moment.

When you finally land back on earth, he slowly pulls out of you, giving you one last taste of electricity before drawing you to lay on his chest. Your ears ring from the energy you just exerted at Kol’s mercy, your skin deliciously sticky against his own. You're completely and undeniably spent.

You don’t realize that you’re crying until you go to speak, “Kol.”

You feel the sharp inhale he takes rather than hear it. Before you can blink the fresh wave of tears away he’s flipped you around, laying between your legs again and propped up on his elbows. His face is pure concern, his eyebrows creased together in a way that makes you want to smooth every harsh line away. It makes you cry that much harder.

“Darling, talk to me,” he runs a soothing hand down your thigh, pulling you close to him, “what’s wrong baby?”

The tears pour faster at the gentle tone in his voice, drawing an answer to the surface before you even process what you’re saying, “Do they think I’m useless? Do you?”

Your voice is shattered, all the emotions from today coming together in yet another crescendo. You can hear your blood rushing through your ears, drowning out the sounds around you. It’s probably the reason you miss the footsteps pounding up the stairs. You can feel Kol’s soft caresses but just barely. The only thing registering in your mind is the feeling of being completely and utterly weak. Why do they keep you around if you can’t even hold your own?

“God’s no, never. Not even a little bit,” just as Kol speaks, the door opens.

Well, the door slams open, hitting the wall with a crack that echoes through the large house. Kol isn’t startled. He should be but he doesn’t even flinch at the bang. You, on the other hand, tense underneath him, the pounding in your ears still as intense as before. A woodsy scent flows through the now open doorway, pine mingling with your already nutty skin. The pieces start clicking together, albeit at a slower pace than you like.

You’re almost certain you know who’s in the doorway but you look anyway to make sure, “Elijah.”

His name is a whisper and it gets lost under Elijah's own words, his dark eyes searing into yours, “Kol, do you mind giving us a moment?”

Kol glances down at you, a small smile playing on his lips. You plead with him to stay but this is Kol, he’s your hell-raiser. He places a soft kiss on your forehead before he stands, still completely naked, and walks out of the room.

He pauses on the other side of the door, settling a hand on his brother’s shoulder, “careful brother, she scratches.”

Elijah shuts the door when he leaves, much gentler than he had been when opening. Your boys, always the ones for theatrics. He leans against the frame, folding his arms over his chest. You stand from the bed, trying to meet his height but failing. You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand but it doesn’t do much to clear the droplets. He tracks your every movement with a fire raging behind his chocolate eyes. You’re painfully aware of how much of your skin is on display for him; that is, all of it.

“What,” you pause when your voice cracks, stealing a moment to compose yourself, “what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be off saving the day.”

He pushes off the door, taking a few steps towards you. You can see he's fighting back a lot of primal instincts. He's as affected by your lack of clothes as you are. His eyes shift rapidly between his usual brown and a deeper coal colour. Despite the situation, you can’t help the heat seeping from between your thighs. He stops a few feet in front of you. There’s no way he can’t smell you right now.

“I was needed elsewhere,” his eyes dip down momentarily, his jaw clenching, “by someone infinitely more important.”

You watch him squeeze his fists together, forcing his eyes to remain on yours. The determination in them is unwavering and fierce. He takes another step towards you.

“It seemed important a few hours ago,” you drop your eyes to your feet, breaking his stare.

He grabs your chin, forcing you to keep looking at him and, in turn, igniting your body, “I assure you it was not nearly as important as making sure that you’re ok.”

Your throat tightens, aching with the promise of even more tears. You wish you could just stop. You’re not afraid to cry but usually you can control it. Right now you can’t. Everything has been building, every little insecurity has pooled, and today was the chip in the damn needed to make the whole thing collapse. It’s too much.

“I’m not,” you wrap your arms tight around yourself, gripping your arms with bruising strength to try and hold back the tremors, “ I am not okay Eli. I feel so helpless. Everytime you come home bleeding and exhausted and where am I?” You run a trembling hand through your mussed hair, yanking at the roots, “Here. Always just here, useless, letting you and Klaus and Kol take it all for me. Am I really that weak? That I’m just extra collateral damage to worry about? What is it, Elijah?”

The words pour from you, each one making him flinch like he’s being hit by an invisible enemy. Every syllable is a bullet to his chest. His body tenses further, his eyes no longer holding any trace of their usual warm brown. Instead they're pitch black, the veins under his eyes a deep plum. The veins in his arms pop as well, his fists iron tight. He curses under his breath when you finish. His voice is gravelly and scrapes the deepest pit of your soul.

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, whatever resolve he had been clinging to snaps. He pulls you towards him, wrapping his strong hands around your hips and lifting you against him, giving you a second to wrap your bare legs around his clothed hips.

“Elijah, what are you doing?” You cling to his chest, trying to avoid tumbling out of his arms when he begins walking you towards your bed once more.

He doesn't answer your question, laying you down against your ruffled comforter, “You aren’t collateral damage, baby.”

His voice is the lowest you’ve ever heard it, emanating from somewhere deep inside him. He opens the first few buttons of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head before making it even halfway down his chest. He drops it, much like he Kol had not long before, next to your bed. Kicking off his shoes, he kneels on the bed, coming to rest between your thighs. The heat emanating from you is now a furnace and it in no way goes unnoticed by him. His dark eyes swim across your naked body, drinking in every inch.

“Eli-” whatever you’re going to say is obliterated when he leans down and attaches his lips to the crook of your thigh, dangerously close to being exactly where you need him.

“You aren't weak,” he moves to your other thigh, nipping at the delicate skin and pulling unintelligible murmurs from your throat.

He kisses his way to your center, the anticipation growing like a knot in your stomach, begging to be unraveled once more. Even in the midst of falling apart you can’t get enough of these men. He lays a soft kiss against you, offering you the slightest glimpse of what you know his mouth can do. In the exact same way you had with Kol earlier, every part of you craves Elijah.

Your body arches willingly to meet the first swipe of his tongue, his name falling from your lips like a praise, “you aren't a burden to me, you beautiful creature.”

You cry out as he works his mouth expertly against you, his words humming ecstasy into your skin, melting away any trace of doubt in your mind. His arms wrap around your thighs, bringing you as close to his face as he can get you. The sight of him completely engulfed in your heat is almost enough alone to send you tumbling right there and then over the edge.

“You mean more to me than anything else on this fucking earth,” his dark eyes meet yours as he works you dangerously close to breaking before letting up once more, “and if I have to spend every hour for the next hundred years worshipping you to prove it then consider it done.”

He lowers his mouth against you harder, sucking your electrified warmth with renewed vigour. Your hands seek out his hair, tugging him against you and raising your hips to meet every pass of his tongue. The smell of pine trees and sex envelope you, brining you the closest yet to the kind of high only Elijah can draw from you. In this moment you’re nothing more than entirely his.

“I cannot lose you, baby,” he slips a few of his fingers inside you, “please let me protect you. I need to. Please.”

He curls his fingers just as the last syllable rolls off his tongue and into your core, shattering you into a million tiny pieces. Your hands fist his hair as your body clenches around his hand, pulling a delectable groan from his lips. Your third orgasm almost puts you to sleep on the spot, each of your muscles completely exhausted. Elijah watches you come undone the entire way through, nothing less than reverent awe locked on his face.

He wastes no time pulling your spent body into his arms, wrapping you as close to him as he can manage. You bury yourself against his neck, admiring how even the most unassuming parts of him have an undue amount of strength. He truly is your warrior.

“Eli,” you yawn into his chest, basking in the warmth of his skin, “I can protect myself.”

He tightens his arms around you, “I know you can, baby, but you shouldn't need to. I’ve been searching my entire life for a meaning. A thousand years of trying to be honorable. Then I found you and, all of a sudden, it all makes sense. All the searching and fighting and pain finally has a purpose: to protect you. Let me take it for you. Please.”

You’re speechless, there isn’t anything else to it. His words hit you with immense power, sinking into your skin and settling around your bones. You’re his, all of theirs, to watch over. You really didn't know he felt this strongly. You’ve always had to defend yourself. Perhaps you just aren't used to someone else being so willing to take on that task. Someone begging to take it.

He stands suddenly, with you still in his arms, and walks out of your room, starting down the hall. The faintest sound of rushing water fills your ears, lulling you into a welcome daze.

“Where are we going, Eli?” You have yet to open your eyes, stuck in the soft between being awake and falling asleep.

He kisses your forehead, resting his head on yours, “Niklaus said he wanted to take a bath, my love.”

#the originals #the vampire diaries #tvd #to #kol mikaelson #kol mikaelson x reader #the originals imagine #the vampire diaries imagine #elijah mikaelson #elijah mikaelson x reader #klaus mikaelson x reader #klaus mikaelson imagine #klaus mikaelson #elijah mikaelson smut #kol mikaelson smut #smut

[pomegranates-and-blood]

νοσταλγία (Chapter 42)*

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Word Count: 4.2k

Warnings: 18+, this is smut folks. Plus, the usual warnings, and a focus on Ivar’s past experiences/trauma regarding sex, and related issues. Also, idk if I still need to let you know, but I write Ivar as a sub/bottom, always will.

A/N: Hi, thank you so much for being patient with me for taking an extra week to post this update after my return from the hiatus, I think I can get back to a more regular writing/uploading schedule from now on. Hope you like this chapter!

Alongside this chapter I posted an Ivar’s PoV. I very much encourage you to read it. You can find it here :)

Your fingers are quick making the knot, and you find yourself chuckling.

“What is it?” Ivar prompts, but the trail of kisses he leaves down your neck distracts you for a few breaths.

“I married you in red. It means nothing to your people, but does to mine,” You explain, before lifting the wrist that now bears your pendant like a bracelet between you, and tracing the inside of his wrist right under the leather knot. “And now our fates are tied as one, just as they would have in my homeland.”

“What do you mean?”

“When two people get married, amongst the things we do is tie their hands together. Like this,” You demonstrate, putting your palm against Ivar’s, fingers still greedily tracing the inside of his wrist that now bears the mark of your promise. “And a Hiereia would tie a knot to symbolize the union,” Your smile is a little dazed, more than a little lovesick, but you can’t find it in you to care. “Similar to how I did just now.”

“So we are married now?” He teases, and you chuckle, rolling your eyes. Ivar persists, though, a tad more serious, “Before your Gods, are we…are we husband and wife?”

“Of course we are,” You reply, almost affronted. Your brow presses against his, and you turn your hand to intertwine your fingers. “I swore before your Gods and mine to become your wife, did I not?”

He searches your gaze, or is lost in it, for a few breaths before he gives any answer.

The answer, it seems, is a soft smile and a slow blink of his eyes.

“I love you.” He tells you, an answer as well.

He lays his body over yours, and your senses are overwhelmed by his warmth, his scent, him. His hands settle comfortably on your waist as he explores your mouth, tongue seeking entrance you willingly give, but he doesn’t waste a moment to grip surely on the curve of your ass when you bend one leg to bring him closer.

“I want you, I want…” He doesn’t finish his train of thought, choosing instead to trail open mouthed kisses down your throat, nuzzling at the dip between your collarbones, before his kisses grow more heated, gentle sucks and scattered bites over the tops of your breasts.

He is stopped by the nightdress you still wear, and resting his chin in the valley between you breasts, Ivar looks up at you, big eyes dark and plump lips bearing the reddish mark of your kiss. The sight shouldn’t be as distracting as it is, but you still lose yourself in it, and you think he speaks but you cannot hear it, too focused on reaching with one hand and trailing your fingers in through his loose hair.

Ivar says your name, a question, and all you can reply with is an inquisitive, hm?

“Can I…?” His hands bunch up the sides of your nightdress, the intent obvious.

It makes warmth and something else, something darker and made of iron more than silk, blossom in your chest, to hear him ask, to have him await your permission, to have him…surrender.

You nod your head, barely having to put any strength in lifting your body off the mattress to get the dress of since Ivar lifts most of your weight. That will never cease to surprise you, and you don’t think it will ever cease to make you want him even more either.

Laid bare before him, as you have been many a time before, you look up into his eyes. He doesn’t bother hiding anything right now, maybe if he tried he couldn’t, and you are witness to everything that swims in those pale blue eyes. The desire, the awe, the lingering frenzy from when you first told him of your choice, that frenzy of not wanting to waste a moment, a breath.

You had never felt want like this, not until him. You hadn’t felt wanted like this, not until him.

Not until the wide blue eyes that gaze at you like something out of a dream, not until the voice roughened by desire breathing out your name, not until the reverent and frenzied hands exploring whatever part of you that they can reach.

Ivar continues his previous trail, sealing lightning against your skin with every press of his lips over your body, with every caress of rough hands on delicate skin.

Nestled between your legs, he looks up at you with a smile that speaks of arrogance but something sweeter too, something softer.

Hooking one of your legs over his shoulder with practiced ease, Ivar licks a stripe up your center, making you shiver.

One of your hands tangles in his hair as it always does, and as Ivar starts working his tongue against you, your fingers tighten and pull at his hair, only succeeding in making him redouble his efforts, drawing the occasional moan from him that reverberates through you.

He takes his time slowly making pleasure build inside you, tightening like knot in your lower stomach, to the point where your body is begging for release.

In between tight circles of his tongue against the bundle of nerves in your core, Ivar puts his fingers inside you, skillful curling of them making your legs tremble and your breaths stutter.

Praise is falling from your lips, you aren’t sure if in any language he knows but certain he understands regardless, judging by the bite followed by a reverent kiss that he presses to the inside of your thigh.

And you climb higher and higher, lost in him, lost in the pleasure he so willingly seeks to draw out of you as if it your moans were the most exquisite form of praise.

With one last cry of his name that sounds high and breathless, you reach your peak, feeling as if the waves of pleasure rolling over you are never to end.

As you come down, you blink past the daze of pleasure and draw him back up to you, bringing his lips to yours.

You never hesitate in kissing him, even when the evidence of what he has done to you is still on his tongue. If you are honest, tasting yourself on his mouth sends a pang of heat through you each and every time.

And you are hungry and desperate, hungry for pleasure that isn’t yours, desperate for giving him the pleasure you know you can.

Your hand trails down his chest as your mouth demands entrance into his, tongue exploring his mouth leisurely. Your free hand tightens on his hair, and you pull him closer, while you reach exactly where you wanted.

You barely are able to cup your hand around him when Ivar pulls back, breaths ragged.

His hand grips at your wrist, stopping you. You expected that, though.

Ivar takes a deep breath, and states, “It won’t work, you know that.”

Your free hand reaches for the side of his face, trailing down the side of his neck, and you search his eyes as you promise fervently,

“Even if it doesn’t work normally, you can feel pleasure, Ivar. I know you can, I h-…”

“I can’t,” He interrupts you, eyes wide. You remain silent after his words, and a shaking breath leaves his parted lips. Voice low and rough, he explains, “It feels…painful, and…do you think I didn’t try, after that first night with Margrethe? I-I couldn’t go to her again, o-or anyone else, but…I believed she had done something to me, I believed-…she had to be the reason why, it had to be her fault.

You think of how long it has taken him to feel comfortable around you, how much he still struggles with the soft intimacy of just the two of you, how aware he is of his own body and where and when you touch him; and you cannot help but think he most likely wasn’t ready at all to be with that girl. You know him well enough to assume it was probably something having to do with his pride, with that public image that seems to seep into how he sees himself all too often.

Ivar continues, “I tried using my hand to-…I tried, and it…and it was useless. It is of no use,” His expression tightens, a furrow in his nose of old anger, of resentment at the world and Fate itself. “Being touched…it-…I can’t bear it.”

“Have you felt that way with me?” You ask quietly, suddenly sickened by all those times you felt him lean into your touch or almost surrender to the press of your body or your hand against him and believed you were offering pleasure. “Is it painful when I touch you?”

More than anything you wish you could be in his head right now, you wish you could know which are those thoughts that make for a few moments his breaths slightly more panicked, that make something like anguish cross his features before he can offer any words.

“No,” He tells you, letting you breathe easier, “I-It always felt…good with you. But I can’t, you know I can’t.”

Something in you steels at the way his eyes fall from yours. There is no reason he should ever feel he cannot hold your gaze, least of all for something like this.

Your hand on the side of his face is gentle, and he obeys the silent command and returns his eyes to yours. The sight of tears -this time not overwhelmed, happy, disbelieving tears at hearing you are to stay, but defeated, humiliated, helpless- makes you strengthen, offer certainty when he has none.

“It will feel good with me, Ivar,” You say, unwavering. You know it is true. Still, even if you ache to show him, you offer your words and your sincerity and nothing more. “It will feel good, because you are mine and I am yours. There’s no room for pain, for anything else, not when it’s us.

He starts shaking his head, words stuck in his throat but trembling lips trying to form them anyways. You lean closer, the hand on his cheek moving to grasp at the back of his neck.

“You can feel pleasure, my love,” You promise. His eyes -wide, uncertain eyes- jump in between yours, frantically searching your gaze as if truths can be found in you, as if he’s desperately hoping he can believe what you tell him. “Let me show you.”

“I…I’m-…”

You press your lips gently to the corner of his mouth, and even that simple and intimate touch makes him jump, makes the faint tremble of his body slightly worse.

“Shh,” You soothe, daring to put a hand on the center of his chest, the caress firm but soft as you try luring him to a normal breathing. “It is alright. I will stop if you want me to. Is that what you want?”

You lean back just enough to meet his gaze, your heart suddenly picking up speed at the sight of him. Ivar’s eyes are wide and his breathing hasn’t slowed down, and it is after a few shaky breaths that he manages to give you an answer.

The barest movement as he shakes his head, and promises, “I want you.”

Simple words, but they make pure and raw hunger run through your veins like wildfire. A wilder part of you, a part of you that lingers in all the ways he has proved he is yours, wants nothing more than to satiate this hunger with starved touches, demanding kisses and hurried and desperate proof that you want him, however you can have him.

But more than anything you want to erase any memory of any hands on his body that aren’t yours, even if they are his own, when those memories bring forth pain. You want to show him there’s no pain to be felt when it comes pleasure, you want to show him there’s no humiliation to be dreaded when it comes to intimacy.

Pleased with the answer and unable to help yourself, you capture his lips on yours, a leisurely exploration of his mouth as you press as close as you can. Ivar moans against your lips at the first of presses of your mouth on his, leaning into your touch with barely any hesitation.

When you pull back his brow is furrowed and his breaths are fast, and a pang of heat goes through you at the way he licks his lips, already missing the taste of you.

“Then trust in me,” You ask softly, your mouth moving slowly through the curve of his jaw to reach his ear. Voice low, you demand, “Give in to me, Ivar.”

The effect of your words is immediate, and Ivar doesn’t bother containing the overwhelmed little sound, somewhere in between a whimper and a moan, that leaves his parted lips. Your hand on the back of his neck is the one thing that keeps his head from falling back, and the only thought that runs through your head at the sight of him is that he is yours, yours, yours.

Past the daze of hunger and desire, you remind yourself that there will be time for hurried, there will be time for desperate and hungry. There will be time for you to leave your mark on him, there will be time for his skin to bear the reminder that he is yours and yours alone.

But now, now you want to explore every part of him, with hands, with tongue and lips. You want him to feel safe with you, you want to get him drunk on nothing but you.

And so you do.

With aimless but gentle touches of your hands over his body, with presses of your mouth that linger between hungry and soothing, with whispered praises of how much you want him, of how no one compares to him in your eyes, of how good he is for you; you make the lingering tension in his body give way to something else, you make him give in to the lull of touch and the high of being just the two of you and the intimacy between you.

And this time when you reach down and palm him over the thin barrier of his pants he doesn’t even try to stop you, instead offering a haggard breath of your name and nothing else, surrendering to your touch.

He tenses underneath you when you move your hand to reach for him under his clothes, but you press quick and soothing kisses to the exposed skin of his neck and remind him quietly,

“It is just me, Ivar. All I want is to give you pleasure, nothing will change that.”

“Y-You know I-…”

“I know,” You tell him softly, “Just focus on me, focus on how it feels.

After lifting your hand back up to your face to spit on the palm of it and make things easier, you whisper your instructions as you circle your fingers around his cock.

“It feels good when I touch you, doesn’t it, love?” You ask, not expecting an answer, but you do get one, a choked hum of affirmation. You smile against his neck, “It feels so good to finally be able to touch you, to be able to make you feel good.”

Slowly but surely, you feel him hardening slightly under your touch. You still keep the pace of your hand steady, as well as the flow of praise that falls from your lips, certain that if you draw attention to it he will close up or revert to the defeated certainty of before.

When you get him hard enough that even he cannot ignore it anymore, Ivar gasps your name, a call to stop even if you don’t obey it.

“H-How-…? I don’t-…”

“Focus on how it feels, Ivar,” You reiterate, not wanting him to overthink things, not wanting the past to have any reach in this moment. “Focus on me.”

You make sure to keep talking. He has told you many times, and proven even more, that there’s something soothing to him about you talking, either because of the sound of your voice or what you have to say, you truly don’t know.

So with your fingers toying at the waist of his loose pants, you look up and ask,

“Can I see you, my love? All of you?”

Ivar licks his lips, but they still part helplessly as he looks down at you, barely daring make a sound past the gasping breaths that leave him.

And he nods his head. His eyes remain intently on you as you take off his pants, remain on you searching for something in your gaze as you take in all of him.

Bare before you, his skin baring the faintest shine of sweat and a few marks that may be the result of less-than-gentle exploring on your part, you feel your throat tighten, your mouth dry. You want him, you want to make him moan, you want to make him surrender, you want to make him yours.

But, teasing both him and yourself it seems, you take your time, slowly crawling up his body until you are face to face with him, straddling his hips but not close enough for you to be pressed together.

Ivar looks up at you, wide eyes asking -pleading- for something that he doesn’t yet dare voice, chest rising and falling rapidly with each expectant breath.

Your mouth slowly curves into a smile, and keeping your eyes on him in a silent command that he keep looking at you, you reach for his hardening cock.

At the first of your touches Ivar lets out a haggard moan, head craning back and leaving his throat exposed, tempting you to place a few more marks here and there. But you want to see him, you want to see the effect of your touch on him.

“Look at me,” You order, a pang of heat running through you at how quickly, how pliantly, he obeys the command, forcing heavy eyelids to remain open and dark eyes to remain on you. “I want your eyes on me, love.”

His cheeks are tinted red and his eyes are slightly moist as he looks up at you, his hair roughened my movement and the passing of your fingers, he looks like every desire you’ve ever had made man.

The strong body, open gaze, the moans and whimpers he tries and fails at keeping hidden. Perfect. Yours.

You run your thumb over the tip of his cock to gather the moisture that slowly starts forming there, turning your wrist slightly when you stroke upwards. Ivar gasps, almost sitting up, but you put your hand on his chest to stop him.

And…Gods, how easily he complies, leaning back and letting you continue to touch him, surrendering his pleasure to you. And still, in the daze that makes moans and whimpers fall from his lips so easily, he still remembers to keep his gaze on you, to keep endless blue eyes focused on you. The sight of his surrender is enough to make a woman mad.

His lips form helplessly around the words before he even utters them, but eventually Ivar gasps, “It…ah, it feels…”

“Good?” You ask, and he nods his head frantically.

“Y-Yes,” He promises, eyes wide, “Don’t…don’t stop.”

You don’t stop the movements of your hand, but you move down his body, and settle between his legs. Ivar’s eyes are wide, and he looks tortured when he looks down at you.

Licking a trail from the base of his cock to the tip, you delight yourself in the tremble you make take over his whole body, and after a few tentative licks that are there just to see if you can make him beg without having to tell him to, you take him in your mouth.

He moves as if to sit up again, unconscious movement of his body against the new feeling, but you still put one hand against his stomach, keeping him down even if it is not through brute strength that you do so.

Ivar cries out your name as you start moving your mouth over him, while your hand strokes the base of him. And you try keeping your eyes on him as much as you can, not wishing to lose a moment.

You don’t keep track of time, couldn’t even if you wanted to, but you do notice him climbing closer and closer to that edge. It is written in the tension of his arms and shoulders, in the red that starts spreading over his chest, in the way the sounds he makes are broken by whimpers, in the breaths that stutter over one another.

But he stops you again.

“S-Stop, pl-…ah, please stop,” He pleads, taking a few shallow breaths when you pull back. His hands grip tightly at the sheets underneath him, and breath by breath he starts to let go. Once his hold on them is almost loose, he speaks again. “Stop, or I will…I…don’t want this to end yet.”

Your heart does a strange thing in your chest, and you move back up to be face to face with him. Your eyes linger on the few details that make him look so utterly wretched, from the faint shine of sweat on his forehead to the bite marks on his lip.

You want to kiss him, but hesitate, wondering if he will be disgusted by his own taste. Ivar doesn’t even think about that, it seems, for when you are close enough he lifts a trembling hand and tangles it in your hair, bringing your lips to his, kissing you slowly and deeply.

You pull back, a hand on his chest, and promise, “It isn’t the end, love.”

“I want to be inside you.” He argues.

“And you will be,” Is the answer you give, before kissing a quick path down his chest. Grasping him in your hand once again, you look up at him. Unable to resist the temptation, you grant the faintest of licks to his tip, making a ragged groan leave his lips. “But before that, I want to make you come undone, using just my mouth.”

He doesn’t offer any resistance after that, but judging by the way his breaths get quicker and his eyes flutter shut before you even get to put your mouth around him again, your words had a deeper effect on him than you had anticipated.

Bracing yourself on his thighs, you take as much of him in your mouth as you can, ignoring the discomfort of your jaw as you move your mouth over him.

The litany of sounds that leaves his lips becomes more ragged and broken the longer you pleasure him, even if it isn’t that long until you notice the clear tells of him being close to the edge again.

This time you redouble your efforts, daring to moan slightly around him, making a string of curses leave Ivar’s lips. And when you reach with one of your hands to play with his balls, his hands grip desperately at the sheets underneath him once again.

As Ivar’s voice begins to give out, head turned to the side and nothing but broken moans leaving his lips as you get him closer and closer to the edge, you try your hardest to commit this moment to memory. This moment, of his voice sounding so beautifully wretched by the pleasure you give him, of his body pliant under your every touch and desperate in equal measure.

Ivar reaches his peak with a hoarse shout, his back arching off the bed, wide eyes looking at the nothingness above him. You are lost in the sight of him lost in the throes of pleasure, and you can almost ignore the bitter taste of his seed as you swallow.

He loses all strength and collapses against the bed, gasping breaths as he comes down from his high. You move back up against him, pressing a kiss against his chest and resting there, soaking up his warmth.

His hand settles on your waist, but it does so with such effort that pride surges through you. His chest still heaves under you, and as you lay your cheek against his heart, you hear it beating wildly under your ear.

“That was…” He lets out an incredulous laugh, a breath past parted lips. His eyes meet yours, “Thank you.”

“Hm, so polite,” You tease, pecking his smiling lips. “I’m still going to insist that I told you so.”

And for now you remain in this moment you wouldn’t change for anything, this moment of leisurely traces of hands on each other’s bodies, this moment of kisses exchanged like secrets, this moment of a beginning in more ways than one.

____ ____ ____

So that happened! Hope it was okay! Thank you for reading!

You can find Gǫfga, the Ivar PoV that continues from this chapter, here.

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius​​ @heavenly1927​ @toe-vind-ek-jou​ @xbellaxcarolinax​ @pieces-by-me​​ @angelofthorr​​ @samsationalwilson​​ @peachyboneless​​ @1950schick​​ @punkrocknpearls​​ @ietss​​   @itsmysticalmystery​​  @revolution-starter​​ @the-a-word-2214​​ @fae-sedai​​   @crazybunnyladysworld​​ @funmadnessandbadassvikings @stupiddarkkside​​@aprilivar​​ @msrawog​​    

#ivar the boneless x reader #ivar x reader #ivar the boneless imagine #ivar the boneless #ivar #νοσταλγία masterlist

[ranboo5]

Dropping the Ranboo mixtape

Anyway at time of starting to write this post I had two likes and two affirmative replies, which is Good Enough For Me, so here I am :D I was gonna link the YT but on second thought my YT channel is a mess so this is gonna be one of the annoying ones that doesn’t link to one you can actually listen to but 

This is also a running list and currently organized roughly by increasingly hotter takes and it’s under a cut bc it’s 13 songs and I justified all of them 

Everybody Likes You (Lemon Demon) - LISTEN THE ANIMATION MEMES WEREN’T LYING THAT EVERYBODY LIKES YOU CAN RANBOOCORE. The increasingly distorted, incredibly bright repetition of EVERYBODY LIKES YOU EVERYBODY LIKES YOU EVERYBODY LIKES YOU until you can hear it morphing in and out of EVERYBODY LIED TO YOU? Tell Me That’s Not Him In The Spiral Depths 

Tall (Naps the Block on YT) - This is a) literally a theme for the End, b) sounds stumbling and anxious/high-strung, and c) echoes the Pigstep melody in the middle while still very much doing its own thing this is self explanatory 

Dance of Thorns/Old Secret mashup (Tensei and James Roach respectively, feat. woodfur00 on YT) (yes this is Homestuck music) - It’s just the vibes. The energy. The way the elegance of the violin lines of Dance of Thorns sounds almost nervous especially against the almost noir mystery vibes of Old Secret, and the guitar lines of Dance of Thorns add like. Initiative/urgency especially when they underlay the other music it’s so good I don’t think either song alone is Ranboo vibes but this remix definitely is. Just the mix of perseverance and desperation and melancholy and mystery and Class 

Touch-Tone Telephone (Lemon Demon) - This one is old news but tbh it just works. Man decides he’s the correct one in this situation and he’s losing his entire mind that no one is listening to him because he just is not 

2012 (Will Wood) - This one isn’t really clever it’s just about memory loss, derealization, identity, and often self-hatred (“A miserable fuck, but a loud Tao mystical” is a lot). “Did you lose yourself?/It’s always in the last place that you check” sounds so mocking in ways internal monologues like Droice have been and “I might find myself/By retracing my steps” is literally just Ranboo dealing with the Enderwalk; “And not until lobotomy abolished my monotony/Did I applaud autonomy, and modify a lot of me!” works so much for him Dealing With Himself generally, and also “I heard the world would turn to hell/Compared to that, I’m doing well!” is a Him sentiment 

Hand Me My Shovel, I’m Going In! (Will Wood) - Jokes about the three hour mining/grinding streams aside. Not only is the chorus so heavily a spiral/self-evaluation mood, but literally consider his thought processes abt the things he’s done/allegedly done and then consider “My dreams were shattered like a stained-glass window/Jesus in pieces! I believe I through a brick right through Him/But my memory could not be saved!/It just seems unlikely that it’s me who was to blame/So I bookmark my DSM, ‘cause I need to remember my place.” And now with the advent of the “experiments” the second verse’s “Take the road on higher ground, and tell me ‘don’t look down! You’ll fall and break your back’/But that just reminds me how there’s more to be found beneath the black!” is more relevant than ever 

Friends With You (The Scary Jokes) - Oh my god. Oh my fucking god man. This could be on here for “I put myself to bed just halfway through the party/I love all my friends, but I hate when their eyes are on me” alone but the general almost empty saccharine vibe of the song is immensely his vibe; the humorlessly-smiling vocal fry on “don’t know” in “Why do you pretend/You don’t know who’s to blame?” is probably responsible for 80% of this read. Not to mention the first lyrics are literally “How long do I have to wait/’Til my lonely days are over?” which is really the. The waiting it out man the So When Do I Get To Be Okay of it all. Shoutouts also to “And the crumbling infrastructure no one else can see,” the self hatred of “I miss being friends with you/But what can I do/What can I do/But leave you alone?” and to “And I can tell you really love me/Can you tell I’m really sorry?” Just. The mix of hope+affection and dejected cynicism and self-hatred in the lyrics

Saline Solution (none other than Mr Wilbur Soot) - Remember what I said about waiting it out until you get to be okay? Anyway that’s crystallized in “If I could just break one more night/Maybe I could wake up and feel alright” and also this is literally a song about catastrophizing and self-evaluation just,, in general and I will not be highlighting all the lyrics about this but I will highlight the fact that he literally calls himself pragmatic and also the lyric “blurring the facts and the fiction.” Also, the sheer desperate anger-concealing-breakdown vibes of “I think I’ve made my choice” to “I think I’ve found my voice” deserves a mention, as does the culminating end of “saline solution to all your problems” with the tears+now splash water motifs of it all with Ranboo I am going to die 

Funny (The Scary Jokes) - This is actually a softer take but not only does it literally start with the singer pleading with the addressee to look away, it  continues with “I went up in the middle of the night and I climbed right onto the stage/And I raged/And I cried/Oh, what a funny joke am I” disregarding everything as performance, reemphasizes the opening demand with the qualifier “it’s not that I hate you, it’s just that I’m funny these days,” and then kills you with the last couple lines which. Yeah he does care and it does,,, just,,,,, a

Chemical Overreaction (Will Wood) - This is where the mood VIOLENTLY whiplashes because this is where we get unhinged. Anyway “I won’t stop to drop to draw a line in the sand/’Cause I’ll be picked apart to pieces by coyotes!” is LITERALLY the whole “I don’t do well with ‘peer pressure’” thing. “Where the sentimental value of the city around ya/Is deleted obsolete, but still completely will stun ya” is the single most L’Manberg lyric I’ve ever heard, especially from the perspective of a character whom I will repeatedly insist is narratively in the role of someone who’s shown up and seen the status quo as an outsider after it’s been established (hence the eternal New Kid vibes). Chorus very much has vibes of Ranboo Is Seized By The Urge To Do Something, and like. The entire dramatic end part. The last two lines especially (be very careful if you look up the vieo for this by the way it is NOT pretty; cws in the video for flashing, blood, suicide imagery) 

A Mannequin Adrift (The Scary Jokes) - The Bitterness. This song is just fully The Bitterness at the environment he’s stuck in; the saccharine comes back as does the “peer pressure” thematic and just the Having An Awful Time; the sarcastic saccharine comes back too, which is always good I love passive aggression. Honestly the first verse is just everything like just listen to it it immediately makes sense

Poison Ivy Grows (The Scary Jokes) - This is overall a song about having bad brain and not knowing what the hell to do about it; it’s so faintly bitter and distant and melancholy and also so zoned out. Also, it’s not the only lyric that matters here but it is enough to be a full argument on its own: “I used to spend so much time/Wandering around outside/Now I’ve got too much on my mind/Now I’ve got too much on my mind” 

Spring Haze (Tori Amos) - Listen. Do I know what Spring Haze is about? No. Is that gonna stop me from saying it’s about Ranboo? Also no. I just think “You say we’ll never make it there/So all we do is circle it” is so much, the fact that the bridge at the end is just “Why does it always end up like this?” repeated, and that it just feels so much like overall the song feels like a desperate attempt to figure Something out, and the chorus is just inexplicably him? It might be partially influenced by the fact that “Uh-oh, let go, off on my way” and, to a lesser extent, “Uh-oh, way to go” is not only in accordance with character vibes but also vaguely evocative of Ranboo’s speech pattern

#this also has a couple songs pending addition #this post is just That Enderman Is Deeply Troubled. Listen To Scary Jokes

[witchyfrankincense]

La Méprise (part three)

Spencer Reid x fem!Reader

Summary: You start history with Spencer Reid in your university auditorium.

Warnings: violence, fight, reminding of trauma, season 13 spoilers, prof!Spencer, student!Reader, suggestive.

❁❁❁❁❁❁

Like clockwork, Spencer had turned around faster than you realized no one was following your steps next to you. Your heart dropped more than it already had as you understood that there was something, some nick, that you had failed to catch. But maybe you were the lost one here?

It seemed like Spencer had no doubts about his forthcoming actions – you watched him take quick, aggressive strides towards Mike. Seconds later, his tensed fist made contact with Mike's face. Spencer's act made you jump. Your usual first instinct would have been to yell, to interfere. But this time you didn't.

Right after the action, Mike was angrily pushed against the wall.

"You should stop talking," Spencer mumbled, angrily shoving him at the wall for the second time, pulling the man by his bunched-up jacket. Mike let out a pained groan and scoffed, later inhaling a deep breath of air. "Okay," he spat out. "Okay. Man."

"If you ever even look at me again," Spencer spoke, a harsher than usual undertone in his voice. However, soon after, he just went silent, staring at Mike for a few more moments before releasing him from his grip. You breathed out, shoulders dropping. You felt tiredness wash over you, obvious from all the stupidly scary events that had just happened.

After seeing Spencer turn back around and start walking towards you, you nodded and turned away from the sight of Mike silently chuckling and wiping his bloody nose. You opened the door. The fresh breeze of the outside air lifted your mood and you took a wide step outside.

"Can you still walk with me?" your voice reached both of yours' ears after you closed the door. "Oh, yeah. I'll join the team later," he replied, glancing in your direction. You both went quiet, still walking, Spencer seemingly following your lead of way. "Thank you," you suddenly muttered, placing your hands into your jacket pockets.

"Hm?" Spencer replied to your unexpected gratitude. You let out a small sigh, looking down at your synced-up footsteps. "Thank you for doing that. I would've punched the bitch myself, but, you know," you softly spoke. He smiled. "I'm not...usually a puncher," he weakly mumbled, shoving his hands into his pant pockets.

"I could've guessed," you joked, instantly frowning on yourself. "It's, not like you, you know, look like you wouldn't be able to, uh, punch someone, I was just—,"

"Joking. Yeah. To be fair, I agree," Spencer finished for you, making your shoulders drop in relief. You both let out chuckles. Continuing to walk down the asphalt path, you looked around the university campus. "Yeah, I usually take the bus to university. Quicker that way. I don't have the ability, nor want to sprint here at 8 a.m. Though, I enjoy a walk sometimes," you craned your neck to his side, sharing a random daily life thought. He nodded, straightening his shoulders.

"That is very true, actually, did you know that walks are extremely good for your well-being? Just 30 minutes every day can increase cardiovascular fitness, strengthen bones, reduce excess body fat, and boost muscle power and endurance. It can also reduce your risk of developing conditions such as, uh, heart disease, type 2 diabetes, osteoporosis and some cancers. Unlike some other forms of exercise, walking is, you know, free and doesn't require any special equipment or training," he finished talking, glancing at you brightly. You raised your eyebrows in shock and cheered.

"Wow! Spencer—,' you stopped, realizing your lack of knowledge about his last name. "Reid," he mumbled back, continuing to walk. "—Spencer Reid, the fact machine! Hey, buddy, does that head ever get too heavy for you?" you laughed out, crossing your arms and raising your head. "Hey," he mocked your tone, "That, is downright mean," he raised his voice playfully, his eyebrows furrowing.

You both bickered as you rounded the corner. And, you continued talking while walking down the lonely road. And while you pointed out the apartment building you were staying at.

And when you both said goodbyes after he had led you to the building door, a creeping feeling of awe kept trying to make you fall – to slip down the very stairs you built.

Five days later

Thursday.

"Spencer?"

Three mornings. After the boringly passed weekend, you had spent the last three mornings walking into the auditorium and longingly glancing at the seats – hoping to see the familiar curly-haired persona. But you never did, as each time you looked up, the seat was empty. Had you scared him off? Or maybe he thought you were weird? Many questions swarmed your mind constantly, and, well, there was really no hope of distracting it. Because the only person who could, wasn't showing up.

On the blessed fourth day, you walked into campus, sipping your new-bought iced latte with caramel, dressed in dashing black baggy jeans and 90's-esque top with a bunch of shiny silver jewelry all over your neck and hands, not expecting anything to be different. Because you got it, you understood – obviously he had a job to do, a terrifyingly important one, at that, and going to these lectures and meeting you was just a side mission – a pastime.

However, as you were making your way to the door, you noticed him – Spencer, standing near the entrance.

"Spencer? Hey, you're back," you exclaimed, quickly swallowing your sip of coffee and smiling. He returned the smile, nodding. "I am, uh, I had a bunch of cases, so, didn't really have time," he spoke, joining your stride to the door. "No, it's all good, Spence. I get it. Your job is extremely important, and I definitely don't expect you to, you know, always be here." Seconds later, you mentally cursed at yourself after realizing your accidental use of a nickname instead of his full name. "Shit—, sorry, I called you Spence," you pointed out quietly, glancing at him to watch his reaction. He, however, gave none.

"It's okay—you know, this teammate of mine, JJ, she's my best friend—, she also calls me Spence, so, yeah, you can, if you want," he mumbled out, a smile playing on his lips. "Wow, didn't know you had a girl best friend! I bet she's super cool," your voice rose in slight excitement.

You realized that you both had stopped walking.

"She is," Spencer replied wholeheartedly, smiling. His eyes then dropped down to your outfit. "You look pretty today, by the way," he pointed out, seconds later turning back to face the entrance and beginning to walk forward. Your mouth hung open in slight shock and it took you a good second to catch your expression, shake your head and speed walk towards Spencer.

He complimented you.

"Thank you," you mumbled after catching up to him, flashing him a grateful smile. He nodded. "You know, there's something I want to tell you," he suddenly spoke up, his lowered tone making your heart drop for no other reason than worry. "What is it?" you instantly asked, grasping the handle of your bag.

"Oh," Spencer lightly laughed, glancing at your direction. "It's nothing bad, I promise. I mean—I'll just tell you. I'll be in temporary teaching at this university," he mumbled. You raised your eyebrows, aiming your gaze at the ground. "Really? That's cool," you answered, smiling through your words. "So, you'll be my professor?" you blurted out a thought, regretting it a moment later.

"Yeah," Spencer chuckled back, looking at you. "Guess I will."

Butterflies suddenly erupted in your stomach, and your expression changed as you realized that. Shut up, you softies. You had no idea why you felt so warm out of the sudden, as all you did was think about Spencer being your professor.

Spencer being your professor? Did you have some weird professor and student fantasy?

You subconsciously shook your head and continued walking in silence alongside Spencer, deep in thought. However, a moment later your inner mind light bulb lit up and you lifted your head up, straightening your posture. "Wait, what trained FBI team member takes up temporary teaching for some inexperienced students?" you asked, shooting him a quick look. You saw him tense up, visibly sighing. He looked at you and weakly smiled.

"I really wished you hadn't asked me that," he muttered and you frowned. "Oh—I'm sorry, I didn't—,"

"It's okay. You have the right to know. I've—uh, I've been to prison. Falsely accused," he began, nervously correcting himself after noticing your intense stare. The both of you blinked in shock – you because of Spencer's sudden confession, him – probably because of the same thing.

"Of what?" you asked carefully. Spencer swallowed. "Multiple drug possession. Suspicion of drug distribution. Murder of Nadie Ramos," he muttered quietly. You felt your eyebrows furrow, mind running through all possibilities. "Oh."

"I was framed. But I still spent almost three months there. It was, uh, bad," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I'm sorry," you replied, feeling at a loss of appropriate words. Spencer quickly shook his head, smiling. "You don't have to be. That's why I'm teaching. I was recommended to do it. It's like a...break, I guess."

You returned his smile, looking back at the ground. "You start today?"

"Yeah."

You began walking through the corridors, making your way to the auditorium. "I bet you'll make a great professor," you quietly exclaimed, watching his somewhat anxious expression shift into a softer one. He chuckled. "Thank you. I hope I'll live up to your expectations." "You will," you muttered almost instantly, voice higher. Once again, seconds later regretting even opening your mouth. Spencer laughed again. Walking through, Spencer pushed the already open door further, stopping so you'd walk first. You thankfully nodded back to him and smiled. "Go sit," he suddenly mumbled behind you and you felt him place his warm hand on your bare lower back, softly pushing you towards the seats.

You inhaled harshly, barely containing the need to arch beneath his hand, and quickly nodded, hurrying to the stairs. Spencer visibly grinned behind you.

Hopelessly ignoring your previous spot, you hurried to the second aisle, quietly hoping that the seat you chose wasn't taken. After all, you were fully ready to support Spencer on his new-found teaching, you obviously knew him more than the other students.

"Hello, uh, my name is Spencer Reid," he started, voice raising on his last name. The others quickly settled down, slightly interested in their new professor. He was easy on the eyes. You grinned to yourself, still gazing at him. Apparently, Spencer did indeed feel your stare at him, so he looked back, a smile beginning to play on his lips as he breathed in. Moments after, he began going on about a whole cluster of themes and subjects he had decided to teach you all. You failed to take your eyes of him.

<>

"Yes! So, this'll be it for today, don't forget to buy or get that book from somewhere else because it shares extremely good opinions and is very important for your understanding of what we're going through! And have a great day!" Spencer raised his voice to express his last thoughts to majority of the students who were already getting up from their seats and heading towards the exit door. You stayed, a wide smile on your lips as you noticed him glance at the leaving students with brighter than usual eyes. You stood up, fetching your bag and dropping it on your seat. You slowly walked towards Spencer, him finally looking back at you.

"See, you were great, Professor Reid," you jokingly exclaimed, seeing him laugh while packing his belongings behind the desk. "Thank you, Y/N, guess I am pretty great at teaching. I just, I don't know, felt as if you were all so interested in what I was speaking about, so, yeah, that was pretty great," he expressed, running his hand through his fluffy hair.

Your eyes subconsciously traced his hand, cheeks somewhat heating up, and you smiled. "Yeah, we were all pretty into your teaching. It's cool, your way of talking, I mean. But I think that wasn't the only reason why they were so immersed in you," you spoke, not realizing your accidental change of view. You both chuckled, Spencer seemingly deepening his gaze at you. "I wonder what that is," he teasingly replied, leaning down to get his case full of books and teaching material, however not turning his eyes away from yours.

You broke the eye contact, deciding that the conversation was way  too teasing for your liking, and laughed quietly to yourself.

Oh, shut up, Ms. I-might-have-a-professor-kink, I know you'd love for this mood to go on for the rest of your pitiful life.

"I wonder, too," you mumbled, feeling warmer. Spencer returned a light scoff. "Well, you seemed to know it when you first brought up the fact, so, tell me. I'm clueless, Y/N," he replied again with a tiny bit of a smooth velvet tone in his voice and your heart almost dropped in fear of his words. Why was he so confident? "Well, I think we're both kinda', you know, aware?" you hesitated, looking back at Spencer. His tongue darted out of his mouth, wetting his lips and he stood back, sliding his chair under the desk.

"Are we? Am I?"

You swallowed, trying to regain your usual snarky mood, while also moving back to your seat and snatching your bag from it. "I think so, yes," you exclaimed, sighing and joining his stride to the door. You both walked beside each other, Spencer sheepishly smiling and looking straight ahead. He didn't say a word until you reached the door.

"Well, why don't you think about that like a good student and tell me tomorrow, hm?" Spencer suddenly spoke up, making you freeze in your step. You widened your eyes at his words and looked up at him. His eyes were shimmering. You both stopped walking and you nodded, feeling awfully hot at his title for you. He smiled and unexpectedly raised his hand, leaning in closer and brushing a strand of hair out of your face, pushing it behind your ear. You continued to stare at him, wide-eyed, and he seemed to enjoy your confusion.

"Goodbye, Y/N," he muttered and lowered his hand near his side, opening the door and closing it behind him. You began feeling weak, reaching behind blindly in search of the wall. After you had found it, you leaned against it, trying to regain your breathing.

What just happened and why did you like it?

<>

#spencer reid #spencer reid smut #smut #fluff #criminal minds #derek morgan #david rossi #jennifer jareau #emily prentiss #aaron hotchner #penelope garcia #love story #bau team #fanfiction #professor #spoilers

[sabraeal]

Provocateur, Prologue

[Read on AO3]

Written for @krispy-kream in honor of her birthday. Many years ago, back when I first joined fandom, I came up with the idea for an Obi Works For Izana AU, and both Sharon and I ended up writing small pieces of a much larger whole. And now FINALLY...I’m actually writing the very beginning 🤣

When it comes down to it, in terms of area and amenities, the royal dungeons has some of his last few flats beats.

There’s light, for one. He’s never liked basement apartments-- he’d take a stifling attic room over a place with only one exit any day-- but the windows here are high up on the wall, enough that he can watch the sun paint his cell floor as the hours pass. They’re ground level, at least by the foot traffic outside of ‘em, and with how loud these guards gossip, he’ll know whose girlfriends are pregnant and who’s nursing a nasty boil by shift change. Just like sitting in a tavern for a few hours, only with less ale.

There’s a cot too, straw-stuffed and a little too soft, with a blanket that doesn’t even itch. Seems like it might be warm too, for when the nights get cold. Not that he has an intention of testing out that particular hunch.

The guard down the hall is decent in the way authority figures never are; when he calls out to ask where his piss bucket is, the man-- boy? It’s hard to tell beneath those helmets-- ushers him down a hall to a water closet, and when he pops out, reminds him to take care to wash his hands. He’s prompt about mealtime too; when supper comes, the man says to expect three square and leaves him with with a dinner that would put most publicans to shame.

All in all, this isn’t the worst trouble he’s gotten himself into. Worlds better than that stint he’d had in Eurikenna’s gaol. Or that night in Port City.

Still, he’s got no plans to linger. No point in sticking around for a punishment when he's got no interest in redemption. But he’s got a prince to wait for.

Oh, His Highness might say he’s above getting his hands dirty, might look down that noble nose at a man like him who makes his living in trade, but he’d seen his look. Not the first, when his little mistress was watching, all puffed cheeks and disapproving brow, but the second, that glance over his shoulder as the Big Man frogmarched a dirty rat down into the dungeons.

That one was a man who had found the right tool for the job. Hands don’t stay clean without gloves to cover them, especially if they mean to hold a mistress who collects trouble like some ladies collect hairpins. If he wants to keep his side piece quiet, it’s only a matter of time before he’ll have to make a statement. And nothing says don’t touch what’s mine like a few accidents. All he has to do is wait out a royal conscience.

The light fades as he waits, just the last stretch of dusky light yawning on the sill. It’s almost time for all good little princes to be in bed, but this one-- this one will be working instead. The hand that grabbed him had been stained with ink and calluses both; the kind of man who longed for action but was stuck behind a desk. He’ll be up late, managing men and supplies miles away on paper, but in his head--

Oh, in his head, he’ll be thinking about the man he’s left to rot in the dungeons. The one that might be just the right fit for what he needs, for the jobs he can’t give that giant or the pretty girl at his side. It’s the sort of idea that’ll eat at him when the lamps are low and the night is quiet, and oh, how a conscience can gnaw when there’s no more work to feed it. There’s a reason he’s never idle. Not usually, at least.

He casts a long glance down the silent hall; the guard sits at his table, log book spread in front of him, another smaller one laid atop. A novel, by the slack-jawed look that’s slapped across his face. In Eurikenna, his reputation had preceded him, and they’d bound him hand and foot, bolting his wrists to the wall and his feet to the bench. Viande had put him in a cell with a single window and stone on all sides, his only escape leading into a moat rumored to be prowled by sharks.

Here he has a single guard and bars he could probably squeeze through if he skipped a meal or two. It’s insulting to be so underestimated-- or it would be, if he wasn’t already planning to stay. He’s paid out his room at the inn for a week; a few days to enjoy the impeccable food and passable mattress he’s got here won’t hurt-- just as long as he makes it back before the innkeep tosses all his worldly goods in the gutter. And if he does need to make a quick escape--

Well, it’s hardly the first time he’s slipped the noose. But it won’t come to that. Younger Highness is on the hook.

The door to the dungeon clanks open; it’s a softer sound, barely loud enough for him to hear, but he hasn’t made a name for himself by being the sort of person who only hears what he ought. The guard’s gone-- book too-- and his hand itches to have something that ends with a point in it. He should have known, this was all too easy.

A shrouded figure sweeps through the threshold, prowling with the easy confidence only men born to power possessed-- or a professional. His hands flexed, too empty. He’s a loose end, an embarrassing stain on a proud man’s reputation, and there’s only one thing to do with that-- rub it out.

“You’re not the prince,” he says, keeping his voice even, maybe a bit petulant. Boldness wins a bluff; all he needs is time. Just a second, a hesitation--

Which he gets; the figure’s boots scuffing to a stop. Its head cocks, curious. “Is that so?”

It’s a man’s voice, higher than he expects, but resonant. The sort that people listen to when they’re not looking for a way out. The sort that won’t care for a man turning his back on it.

“You’re too tall.” He saunters to his cot, the mattress sinking under his weight. Not quite the attitude he’d been hoping for, but close enough. Gives him enough time to realize his cloaked friend isn’t talking-- no, instead he catches the barest tremble of cloth before a gloved hand tugs it smooth.

“How...astute,” the man hums, a strange lift kicking that first vowel before he smooths that out too. Everything about this man is slick, from the shine of his boots to the way he says, “That must be the observational skills that tempted even the marquis to hire you.”

His grin flicks into a grimace, but habit wipes that all clean before he says, “I wasn’t hired by anyone. Just wanted to...advertise my skills. In case anyone with a fat wallet found themselves needing a problem taken care of.”

Another pause, this one heavier. “And this girl seemed like a likely target?”

“A commoner nosing around a prince?” A laugh huffs out of him. “What about that isn’t a problem? At least when it’s a lady, she doesn’t have pockets that need filling, but some little herbalist girl? There’s a long way between lady slippers and slippers for a lady. And not everyone wants to kiss hems to get a mistress in their pocket.”

Not when it’s just as like to be covered in mud. If there’s one thing he’s learned about these bluebloods, it’s that they only suck up, not down.

The shroud shifts, arms folding across a chest too slender to be called broad, and shoulders too wide to be scrawny. Lithe, perhaps, the perfect size to slip through a man’s guard.

“The job is over, you know.” Boot heels clack as the man draws closer, just enough to see a defined chin beneath the shadows of his hood. “There’s no need for all this cloak and dagger. Haruka has already confessed to the crown that he was the one to hire you.”

His fingers flex behind his head, longing for something besides bristle to cross his palms. “Don’t know why he’s going through all the trouble. I don’t know him.”

This isn’t his first interrogation, but it’s certainly the slowest. The man stands silently outside the bars, a single finger lying along his diamond-cut jawline. No questions, no speculation, just a shadow staring out of a hood, observing. This must be what it’s like to be boiled alive; put in the pot when it’s barely a simmer, the heat raising so gradually that it’s not until his chest is near bursting to speak, to fill the silence, that he knows he’s been cooked.

“What would you have done?” the man says, finally. “If you had your way with the girl.”

The girl who, in the face of danger, tore an arrow from the wall rather than run. “Nothing permanent.”

What little he can see of the shroud’s mouth curves. “How very vague. So many unpleasant things only take a moment.”

“The job was to scare her off,” he admits, wondering why his belly quivered in his gut. There’s bars between them, and his hands are faster than any nob’s, no matter how good the costume. But still, his muscles lay coiled against his bones, ready to strike. “Seduce her, if she seemed...amenable. Bribe her if she didn’t.”

“And what then?” It’s a quicker response than he expects, but the man isn’t agitated-- far from it, he’s never seemed calmer. “If the girl proved impervious to your more...gentle measures.”

There’s a question in that, one the shroud won’t voice. But he hears it, loud in his ears as a bell’s gong.

“I’ve killed before,” he says, each word on thin ice. “And I still sleep at night.” Barely. “I could have done it again.”

“But would you?”

For once, he hesitates. Imagines looking into those bright eyes, the ones that flamed so fiercely in defiance, and with the flick of a wrist, snuffing them out.

“It’d be a waste.” His hands tremble where they cradle his head, a command he hasn’t given them. This is the last thing he needs right now, losing control. “That girl’s got a lot of pluck. And if rumors around the pharmacy are right, a lot of brains too. Besides, bodies make more talk than bribes.”

“That they do.” There’s a lilt to those words, almost amused. “You know, you called it a job. Implying that you received compensation for your services.”

It’s a sting to realize he’s slipped. “Doesn’t mean it was the marquis.”

“It certainly doesn’t,” the man agrees, and if this room weren’t so dark, if this conversation wasn’t so serious-- well, he’d be tempted to say this guy is laughing at him. “Do you have a name?”

He turns to him real slow-like, one utterly dubious brow arched toward the guard’s register. “You want me to believe you can’t read?”

That shadow of a mouth lifts again. “Am I to believe a man of your skill gave your birth name to the royal guard?”

His mouth cocks into a grin. “You must if you think I’m gonna give it to you.”

The man comes closer still, one gloved hand wrapping around his bars. He’s visible to the tip of his nose; a long, patrician one.

“Of course. But you must have something you would like to be called.” His lips-- bowed, the most fashionable in Clarines’ court-- twitch toward a smile, but fall perilously short. “An alias, if you will.”

“Obi.” It’s too short, too quick, but already he likes it. It’s a more playful name than he’s had in a long while. Easy to lose, too, if he needs it.

“Well then, Obi.” His arm rests over one of the cross bars of his cell. “I believe I have a proposition for you.”

“Haah.” He hops to his feet, hoping to seize the high ground. “I appreciate the interest, but I’m already waiting on an offer.”

To say the hood recoiled would be an overstatement, it merely pulls back, barely more than an inch. “An offer?”

“Well, maybe more like...I have prospects.” Obi restrains his grin to little more than a twitch. “I just gotta see if they’ll pan out.”

The hood stills, thoughtful. “What if I could guarantee you a better offer?”

“You couldn’t.”

The man hums, amusement changing his pitch. “I quite sure I could.”

“Nah.” Obi shakes his head, almost wishing it weren’t so. This guy seems like he could be real fun, if he got his hands on his reins. “I don’t think so.”

“Please.” He opens a hand; an invitation. “Try me.”

“Fine.” There’s nothing to lose by telling, besides some face, if he’s wrong. Which Obi knows he’s not. “I got a feeling the next guy through that door’ll be His Highness.”

The man rocks back, like he’s been hit. “Zen? You think...?”

Obi expects some bargaining, some disbelief, maybe even some haggling, but--

He does not expect the laugh.

“Oh,” the man coughs, lifting a hand as if he might wipe tears from his eyes. “I promise you, I can give you a...far more attractive offer.”

Now that’s a rich one. “What could be better than a second prince?”

The man’s hand raises past his eyes, right to the edge of his hood. With the barest flick of his fingers, the cloth falls back, baring bright gold and Wisteria blue.

“Why,” drawls His Highness Izana Wisteria, crown prince, soon to be first of his name, “the first.”

#obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #obi works for izana au #my fic #ans #listen it's obiyuki as a WHOLE but in this chapter there's just little hints #but truly this is just our excuse to have: #1) obi work with the smartest man in the manga and have his whole skill set utilized #2) enemies to friends to lovers #also torturing zen and obi with the friendship that could have been #that too #you know how it is

[solarune]

between the lines

Anonymous said: can I req an imagine with johnny where your their songwriter and he catches feelings for you? 🥺  thank you!

pairing: johnny seo x fem!reader

genre: fluff

warnings: swearing, hyuck is annoying as always

word count: 1,947

a/n: i’m going to consider this my official “i’m back!” post since it’s been a while since i’ve written. for anyone who cares, yes i will still be uploading my summer fic that’s literally a month late lol don’t worry. life happens, what can i say. i think this is my first request that i’ve gotten so thank you to this anon for sending this in, i hope you like it :-) also dedicating this to @127-mile​ who i, for some reason, always associate w johnny even though i know that ten is your ult. surprise, i’m your 💚 anon!!

Has that painting always been there? I don’t think I remember it- Wait, why am I trying to think of something else, it’s not like he can read my mind. 

Your shoulders sag.

Wait. Can he?

You stare at Johnny as he talks to the producer beside you, looking for the slightest hint that he’s capable of reading minds.

If you can hear me, look at me right now.

When he doesn’t look up at you, you let out a breath that you didn’t even realize that you were holding. You definitely wouldn’t have been able to handle it if Johnny was capable of reading your mind. It’s already driving you crazy that this is the fifth time that you had to break eye contact with him while he was singing one of your more romantic lyrics. You’re not sure if it’s the exhaustion that you’re feeling from how late it is or your overthinking brain but you swear he does it every single time, and your heart feels like it’s about to beat right out of your chest when he looks at you.

“(Y/N)?” Jaehyun calls out, pulling you out of your internal existential crisis. “What do you think? You’re the songwriter after all. How did you want it to sound?”

Your mouth opens and closes as you struggle to find the right words while also avoiding Johnny’s gaze on you. You grab the lyric sheet from the table beside you—not that you actually need it, you just want to have something to do with your hands—and look down at it. “Can you guys sing it one more time?”

You force yourself to not look up, even when you feel the man’s stare on you once more, instead acting like you’re reading along with the lyrics while they’re singing. The way that they’re singing is wrong, the hours that you spent writing this song already telling you that, but you pretend to be contemplating just to give yourself a few moments to breathe before putting on your professional persona. You have no time to be acting like a teenager with a crush when you have a job to do. 

“Try singing a bit softer,” you suggest as you finally look up at the two idols. “Imagine you’re saying this to someone who’s sitting right in front of you.” Your eyes flicker to Johnny for a brief second before looking back down at the paper in your hands. “So you shouldn’t be belting the lyrics out because you’re not yelling this to them. Your voices should be… full of fondness rather than happiness, if that makes sense. I can’t really think of any examples that you might be able to relate to.”

“Like you’ve known them for years and they just did something really cute that you can’t help but smile at,” Johnny says, and you nod along quickly.

“Exactly like that,” you agree. “This song should bring out feelings of contentment, warmth, and stability. It’s about a timeless love so you shouldn’t sound like you're bouncing off the walls because you just told that person about your feelings and they reciprocate them.”

“Warmth,” Johnny repeats softly, and when you look over at him, he’s smiling at you in the exact way that he had just described moments before. Like everything you do is just completely endearing to him. 

You blink and the expression is gone, and before you can even begin to comprehend what just happened, the producer is already ushering the two into the recording booth. Your eyes follow Johnny’s every move, watching the way he puts the headphones on, the curve of his lips as he laughs at something Jaehyun says, and the way his fingers nervously tap at the music sheet stand.

“Okay is it just me or did Johnny just give you the look?” someone asks loudly in your ear, causing you to jump in your seat and the other producing staff to glare and shush the boy beside you. You turn around to see Mark with his knees bent so he could speak into your ear, a blush on his face for being scolded while Haechan snickers from his spot on the couch.

“A look?” you ask, not quite sure at what Mark is trying to get at. “What look?”

“No, not a look,” he shakes his head, a few strands of his unstyled hair moving out of place as he does so. “The look. The Look, you know?”

You stare at him in the hopes that you would magically understand what Mark is trying to tell you and he stares back, as if trying to connect with you telepathically. It doesn’t work. You shrug and wave your hands in the air, encouraging him to go on.

“You know,” Mark mumbles as he scratches at the back of his neck. You would think it was Mark that was caught staring from how shy he’s suddenly become. “He was staring at you and smiling at you… and stuff.”

“Oh my God, it’s even more confusing when you try to explain what you mean,” Haechan groans in exasperation. The youngest sits up straight and looks at you pointedly, and even though you’re older than him, you feel like you’re about to get scolded. “Johnny’s into you, (Y/N). Broke his promise of No Simp September because that man simps hard for you, he literally doesn’t shut up about it. So please either accept or reject him soon because I’m tired of hearing him talk about your ‘eyes that hold all of the universe’s stars in them’ - his words not mine.”

“Thank you for clarifying,” you respond drily before spinning around in your chair and scooting closer to the sound board. 

You cross your arms over your chest, and any outsider looking at you would think that you’re some hard-at-work songwriter observing the artists to make sure that they don’t mess up. In reality, you’re having yet another existential crisis because Johnny likes you? Johnny Seo, the man that you’ve had a crush on literally since you were first hired at SM Entertainment years ago to become one of NCT’s main songwriters, has a crush on you? You didn’t want to get your hopes up but Mark and Haechan’s words only seem to confirm your previous suspicions that Johnny was indeed staring at you before. 

You let your mind wander as you only half pay attention to what’s going on around you, not even noticing that everyone has decided to take a break until Haechan is shutting the door behind him and you’re the last person left in the studio. Or at least, you think you are until you turn around and see Johnny lying on the couch that the youngest was just previously occupying.

“What are you still doing here?” you ask him as you stand up to stretch out your limbs with a soft sigh. “I thought you would’ve been one of the first ones out so you could get some coffee with Jaehyun.”

“Well I wanted to talk to you about something,” Johnny says while rubbing at the back of his neck, and you have to stop your eyes from widening because this cannot be happening right now.

“A-About what?” you stammer, and it’s taking everything in you to not burst out the door and run all the way back home just to avoid the specific scene that’s been playing over and over in your head every single week before you fall asleep. “Are you worried about the song still? I think you guys did great this time around.”

“No, it’s not about that,” he says with a shake of his head. “I wanted to talk about the lyrics to your song. You told us to imagine saying this to someone sitting right in front of you when we’re singing this. Is there someone you were thinking of when you were writing the song?”

You really wish that the ground would swallow you up right now. 

What the fuck are you supposed to say to that? Oh yeah, I was thinking about you actually, haha funny right? You know because I’ve been in love with you basically since I’ve met you and all that. And if you read in between the lines of all of the love songs I’ve written, all you would see is your name because it’s so painfully obvious that they’re all about you.

“No one in particular,” you reply, your voice higher than normal and you rush to clear your throat. “I was just trying to help you guys out.” Johnny nods and you mimic his actions, the awkward atmosphere almost suffocating you as you look anywhere but at the man in front of you. “Is there someone that you were thinking about?” you blurt out before you can stop yourself. It’s now or never. If you don’t have the guts to confess—and assuming that Haechan and Mark are right—then maybe Johnny does.

“There is, actually,” he nods and you feel your heart rate increase at his words. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about; I need some advice. There’s this girl- obviously- And she’s just, like, amazing. She has this loud laugh that’s so contagious and she gets so excited about such small things and I don’t know what she puts in her hair but it always smells really good. And I’m pretty sure I’ve liked her ever since I first met her but I didn’t figure that out until like last year. But ever since I did figure that out, I’ve been trying to drop hints whenever I’m with her but she just doesn’t seem to get it. I’ll visit her randomly on my days off and bring her coffee when she’s at work and send her videos that remind me of her. I look right at her when I say something romantic but nothing works. Even now, I’m literally telling the girl that I like that I like her without actually saying it out loud and she probably still doesn’t get it.”

It feels like your brain short circuits at that last sentence. Well, your brain felt like it was short-circuiting throughout the entire thing, so it’s more like it just stopped working at that last sentence. “Wait- what-”

Johnny stands up and moves close to you until he’s only an arm’s length away with his dark eyes looking straight into yours. “(Y/N). I like you. Like, I really like you. And I would like to take you out on a date- if you’ll let me.”

Instead of answering his indirect question, you opt to confess your own feelings. “There is someone that I think about when I write all of those love songs. It’s only ever one person. And it’s only ever been you, Johnny. I think about you every single time, ever since we first met.” Your cheeks feel so warm after your confession but your heart feels like it’s soaring when you see the wide smile that breaks out across Johnny’s face at your words. “I really like you too. And I would love to go on a date with you.”

“Fucking finally!” Haechan exclaims as he bursts into the studio while Mark tries to pull him back and Jaehyun just stands there laughing. The boy’s yelling causes you to jump and causes the smile from Johnny’s face to fall as he glares at his roommate. Haechan ignores that, walking right past Johnny and flopping down on the couch before he takes a sip from his iced coffee. “Now that that’s over with, can we hurry up and finish for today? I wanna go home and play Valorant.”

#cznnet #neowritingsnet #kwritersworld #johnny seo x reader #nct x reader #johnny drabble #johnny scenario #johnny seo drabble #johnny seo scenario #nct au #johnny fluff #johnny seo fluff #nct fluff #nct fic #nct 127 fic #nct 127 drabble #kpop imagine #kpop scenario #nct imagine #nct 127 imagine #johnny imagine #nct romance #johnny seo romance #what are tags

[miss-tc-nova]

Five More Minutes - Eraqus x Reader

Hey, you guys remember the Five More Minutes - Brain x Reader story? Well thanks to a CERTAIN SOMEONE, the character for the prompt changed from Eraqus to Brain because Nova is a petty bitch. 

And AT LEAST ONE OF YOU UNDERSTANDS THAT! THANK YOU!

However, I’ve been thinking about this WIP for a while and I put myself out there, so I’ll kinda forgive ffm-non’s heinous crime for now and post Five More Minutes with Eraqus. 

Music Inspiration: Hikari (Godson Remix) by Hikaru Utada

~~~~~

              Rushing through the streets of Scala, I bob and weave between unsuspecting citizens on my way to the theater. Today’s the day—hopefully. I’ve spent the last week trying to get a ticket for this show but it’s been sold out every day. Both my saving grace and the bane of my existence is that they aren’t pre-selling tickets, so it’s first come first serve for who gets to see the show.

              I’m heaving like I just ran halfway across the city—because I did—but I finally make it to the theater. Unlike the last few days, I find myself in luck at the sight of the relatively short line. With excitement bubbling in my chest, I race to join the queue.

              Just as I reach the line, something jumps in my way. I garner the embarrassing attention of several people in the vicinity as I topple to the ground, taking the obstacle down with me.

              Hastily, I pull my face from the white fabric.

              “Oh gods! I’m so sorry!” I say, scrambling my feet and taking the strangers hand to pull him up. “Are you okay?! Did I hurt you?!”

              Suddenly, I hear my name and finally get a look at the young man I’d practically tackled. I know him. While my family does not follow the noble keyblade warrior tradition like his, our magic has been revered so our families have been amicable for years. At least once or twice our year, our families get together for dinner and we almost always see each other at events for the more affluent people in the city.

              “Eraqus?”

              A beaming smile crosses his lips. “Hey! What’s up!”

              Heat surges into my ears. While I’ve been forced to be within proximity of this boy for years, I’ve never been caught alone with him before. He’s certainly cute and, while our parents may not think so, I find him kind of funny. Still, while I kind of know him, because of our families’ differences we’ve never actually been friends.

              “Uh, not much. I was just trying to get in line for tonight’s show. But seriously, I didn’t see you. Are you okay?”

              This kid’s laugh stirs something in my chest.

              “Yeah, I’m good. My friends hit me harder than that in training.”

              The sheer happiness rolling off him is distracting. “I…I don’t think that’s a good thing.”

              “Nah, it’s alright; we make each other stronger.” His eyes glance away. “So, I guess you wanted to see this show too?” An arm gestures to the moving line that we scoot along with.

              “Yeah. I’ve been trying to see it the last few days, but it’s been sold out. What about you? I wouldn’t have guessed theater to be something you enjoy?”

              He folds his arms. “Mmm, I like some of them, but my friends really wanted to see this one.”

              I take a moment to take in our surroundings. “Um, what friends?”

              His cheer is bright and captivating, but even the defeated frown it morphs into is somehow endearing.

              “Nobody wanted to come early to wait in line, but we probably wouldn’t get tickets if we came on time.”

              I nod, understanding the dilemma.

              “So Bragi suggested rock-paper-scissor.”

              Now it all makes sense. “And you lost, so now you’re here to buy tickets for everyone.”

              “Yeah…” His pouting is so cute.

              A small giggle escapes me. “So it’s sheer coincidence I happen to literally run into you today?”

              That smile’s back. “Or! We could call it luck.”

              “I would assume bad luck; you lost a game of chance and I literally ran into you.”

              “Details.”

              And so we keep each other company. The more I talk to the boy, the more I can confirm how fucking adorable he is. His smile is infectious and I find myself hanging on every word, no matter how wild the tale is. I can barely even drag my gaze away long enough to take a few steps before I’m staring at his beautiful face again. Before long, I can already tell I’m head over heels for him. Even after tickets are purchased, we find a bench nearby to continue our chat.

              It only ends when someone calls his name. There’s a small herd of people making their way closer.

              Getting to his feet, Eraqus greets his friends. “Hey guys, what’re you doin’ here early?”

              “Early?” snorts the girl with silver hair. “The show starts in twenty minutes.” Her golden eyes catch sight of me. “Who’s this?”

              I wave to Baldr and Hermod, both of whom I know from similar family social events. They do the honor of introducing me to the gaggle, which is both a bit lighthearted and overwhelming. They seem like a great group of friends to have, despite their differences.

              “It was good to see you again,” Hermod says, leading the mass towards the entrance. “But we’d better take our seats before the show starts.”

              “You got the tickets, right Eraqus?” Xehanort asks.

              “Right here.” He pushes all but one into his friend’s hand before turning to me. “Which seat are you in?”

              I look at my stub. “E7.” The look on his face is disappointment. “Where are you at?”

              “N24,” he mutters. That’s literally on the other side of the theater from where I am and I find myself similarly disappointed with the arrangement.

              “Guess I’ll have to get your opinions on the show some other time,” I say, trying to make the blow a little softer.

              Our eyes meet and I feel myself being drawn in.

              “Maybe we could meet up at that little café around the corner?” he asks.

              “The one with the fancy s’mores?”

              “Yeah! That one!”

              Eraqus detours the conversation with a tale about the time he and went there with his friends and one of them ended up spilling a drink on everyone—pretty sure it was Eraqus by the way he kept switching names. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help but laugh.

              “Eraqus, the show’s about to start!” I don’t even know which one it was that yelled at him.

              “’Kay! Just gimme five more minutes!”

              Excited chitchat continues, following tangent after tangent and never with a lull. I could continue on like this for ages, happy to spend hours in his presence, enamored by the boy I never really knew.

              I drag my hands down my face. “And then, because I stupidly thought things couldn’t get any worse, I tried to use a fire spell to dry him off and set him on fire.”

              Eraqus is laughing so hard he’s crying. “Wait wait wait! I remember Hermod came to school with a huge hole in his jacket! Was that you?!” I nod in sheepish shame. “Oh my gods! We thought he got mugged or something! He wouldn’t tell us what happened!”

              “Every time our families get together, our parents won’t let us live it down. Mine won’t even let me join them anymore without asking me to ‘please not light their colleague’s kids on fire.’”

              “And here I thought you were the smart, cool type,” he teases.

              “As much as I’d love to be, I’m actually a total mess.”

              “That’s okay; I am too.”

              “Oh really? I always thought you were laid back and easy going. With our families’ prestige, I was always kind of jealous of how calm you are about everything.”

              “Then you have clearly never seen me wake up late for class.”

              The laughing between us dies down, but before I can make another comment, I realize that he’s watching me. This isn’t watching like two people waiting for cues in a conversation, but watching as if he’s looking for something very specific.

              Beneath his scrutiny, my brain starts to malfunction, causing my ability to speak to take a hit. “Um, I…I’m pretty sure anyone would…would panic if they woke up late for class.”

              “I guess.” The softness suddenly introduced into his voice feels like an arrow through the heart. “But it’s probably not the same when it’s a weekly occurrence.”

              Is he leaning in?

              “No…I guess not…”

              He is—he is very much leaning in.

              “Eraqus.” I can’t even speak above a whisper.

              “Hmm?”

              My heart is pounding in my ears, trying desperately to drown out my thoughts.

              “I think our show’s started,” I breathe.

              “Five more minutes,” he murmurs against my lips.

              Not a single protest is heard from me. No, I’m too preoccupied with electricity coursing through my veins. For a moment, Eraqus leads the way, soft and slow, likely assessing my shock. Honestly, I’m not entirely sure what my reaction should be, but my body tells me to just see where this goes. And with each passing second, I’m falling down the rabbit hole with him.

              The world suddenly jars to when the source of my euphoria breaks away. His brows pinch together, concern written across his face.

              “I’m sorry,” he mutters, his voice wracked with uncertainty. “I thought—”

              Without asking my head for permission, my hands snag his haori.

              “Five more minutes,” I say softy.

              Our lips connect again and, though I’m prepared for the jolt, I still feel the weight of the world disappear around us. This time, I lead, hoping my confidence sends the right idea to the young man. I think he gets it, happily matching my every move. His little sighs cause my stomach to squirm, making self-control difficult. But there will be plenty of time for the rest later, for now, I want to take my time and get a grasp on how his lips feel against mine.

              I pull away, using a deep breath the calm my racing heart and ground me back in reality. Eraqus, too, breathes a little heavier, and yet he continues watching me as if he’s still fully enraptured. That look is hypnotizing, subtly—easily—luring me in again.

              That quickly goes out the window.

              “Eraqus!”

              Flinching, he whirls back, where his entire group of friends is standing with mixed expression. My blood freezes.

              “What?!” he shouts back.

              “Are you comin’ back to the dorms with us or not?” Urd demands.

              My eyes dart to the sky. It was dark when the show started, but the moon sat higher among the stars than it had moments ago—or what I thought was only moments ago.

              Eraqus’s gaze flips back and forth between me and them. “Did…Did we miss the whole show?!”

              “Yes, you dingus!”

              Hermod gives a soft smile. “C’mon guys, give him a break.”

              The red-head, Bragi, snickers. “Yeah, the kid’s only been dreaming of this moment his whole life.”

              My mouth falls open but I can just see Eraqus’s face burning brightly.

              “BRAGI!”

              “Oops.” The offender grins unabashedly. “My bad.”

              Xehanort folds his arms, smirking. “Ooooh, so this is that cute little mage he’s been crushing on.”

              “You mean that one he always talks about after he visits his family?” Her tone is full of innocence, but the grin on the little blonde’s face is pure evil.

              Oh my gods, I might implode.

              “YOU GUYS!”

              “What was it he said last time?” Urd asks, also basking in Eraqus’s flustering.

              Baldr answers, “I believe it was something along the lines of ‘I would give up naps for an entire year if the gods would just let me have a single—‘”

              “I’LL DO EVERYONE’S HOMEWORK FOR A MONTH IF YOU JUST GO AWAY!” Eraqus yells, waving his arms as if he might fly away from this mess.

              Hermod begins ushering everyone away. “Seriously, guys, let’s go.”

              “Wait! I don’t want him doing my homework!” Bragi protests. “He’s failing like half our classes!”

              Glancing back with one last devious look, Xehanort responds, “Let him have his moment; we’ll just make him do something else later.” The expression softens when he gives me a genuine wink.

              Finally, after instigating all the butterflies in my stomach to the point I might vomit sparkles, they leave. We sit in suffocating silence for an awkward moment. Then, one of the butterflies must’ve escaped into my brain when I suddenly crack a laugh.

              “An entire year without naps, huh?”

              Still cherry red, he looks at me, mortified.

              His floundering gives me the bit of confidence I need to close the gap once again. “And what was it you so desperately begged the gods for?”

              Eraqus’s back meets the wall, but he still puts on a smile, even if it is bashful. “Let’s just say I’ve already lost my napping privileges for the year.”

              “Yeah? So if the gods were to grace you a second time, would that be two years without naps?”

              His nerves seem to melt and those stunning gray eyes glitter in the moon as he watches me. “You gonna stick around and find out?”

              “How long were you thinking?” I slip my arms around his neck, unable to stop myself from twirling a strand of ebony hair between my fingers.

              “Oh at least five more minutes.”

              “Just five?”

              He feigns mulling it over in head. “And maybe five more after that.”

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