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moonstruckme · 2 months

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I know we have emt mauraders (and I absolutely love them with all of my heart), but I can't get the image of fireman James out of my head. He's just so beefed up and just has that build about him. You know? 🫠

So true babe <3

cw: reader is trapped in elevator for a bit

firefighter!James x fem!reader ♡ 753 words

It took you some time to work up the courage to press the HELP button. Your building’s elevator has always been a bit scary, shuddering and screeching ever since you’d moved in, so you’d hoped for a while that it would just fix itself, remember that it was supposed to be moving and deliver you safely to your floor. No such luck.

You’re endlessly glad that you’re going home and not running late to work when it takes the fire crew another twenty minutes to show up. You’re guessing elevator rescues aren’t at the top of their priority list. When someone finally bangs on a door somewhere below you, you scramble up from where you’ve been sitting on the floor.

“Fire department,” a man’s voice says.

“Hi,” you call back, feeling immediately stupid for it. Were you supposed to say your job description back or something?

“Is everyone okay? How many of you are there?”

“It’s—it’s just me.”

“Alright,” the voice says, “we’re gonna get you out of there, just give us a second.”

You hum back though he probably can’t hear. There’s a lot of creaking metal and muffled voices, and then the door to your prison squeaks slowly open. Most of what you can see is clearly elevator shaft, but there’s a small opening at your feet. Once it’s a couple of feet wide, a curly head pops through.

“Hi,” the voice from earlier says. It comes from a lovely face, all tan skin and warm eyes and a radiant smile, like this man finds everything about his day genuinely cheering. “You alright in here? Injured at all?”

It takes you a second to find your voice, and even once you do it sounds pitchier than normal. “No, I’m fine. Thanks.”

“Perfect.” Somehow, his grin seems to widen, which is a bit much for you right now. Suddenly you’re kind of dizzy. “Okay, I’m just going to have you scooch on your bum over here and stick your legs out, yeah? I’ll pop out so I can lower you down.”

He’s going…he’s going to grab your legs. Okay. Awesome. This is totally your everyday.

Some of your hesitance must show on your face, because the man’s expression softens. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even introduce myself,” he says. “I’m James. What’s your name?”

You tell him, so quietly you’re not sure he can hear, but James nods anyway. “Y/n, you’ve got nothing to worry about. You’ve already been stuck for god knows how long, and I’m sure you’d like to get to where you’re going. This is the easy part, okay?”

“Okay,” you echo.

James gives you an encouraging smile, retreating from the opening. “Alright, just set your legs out here,” he calls up.

You sit down on the elevator floor, slipping your feet through so your legs are dangling in open air. A second later, strong hands grip the undersides of your thighs.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” James says. “I’m gonna ease you out, and I just need you to lean back so you don’t bump your head on anything, yeah?”

You hum in response. He starts pulling you out of the elevator, his grip moving up your thighs to your bottom once it emerges. Your heart thunders, both from the intimate contact and from trusting your weight wholly to someone else. Soon you’ve cleared the opening. Another set of hands cups the back of your head to ensure you don’t hit it on the elevator floor, and then you’re sitting up, your hands landing on James’ shoulders for balance. They’re really quite substantial, you can’t help but notice, wide and full of thick, corded muscle. He tilts his head back, grinning up at you.

“See?” he says. “Easy.”

A dizzy little laugh escapes you, and James’ grin takes on a whole new quality. Something curious about it. He hoists you up in his arms, grip transferring to your waist so he can lower you to the floor.

“Thanks,” you manage, looking up at him. You look at the other handful of firefighters around too, the embarrassment of your situation finally sinking in. Your face heats. “I really appreciate the help.”

“Anytime, sweetheart,” James says. As the others start packing up equipment, his attention stays on you. “You sure you’re alright? Where are you going from here?”

You do your best to give him a smile of your own. “Yeah, I’m good. I’m just going home. I live on the sixth floor.”

He hums. “Best take the stairs this time.”

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istherewifiinhell · 2 years

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Convinced myself to watch the failed karaoke scene and one. Excellent material for the voice headcanoning. Two. Kim likes it no matter what 🥺

#some shit #disco blogging #exposure therapy video game embarrasment. no lok #cause the 2 versions are the real deep one where its pretty monotone (is it called smth else when your singing?) and high pitchier one #and im like.. ohhh no voice control. hell yeah. i cans work with that.

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plutopitou · 7 months

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◇ Limitless

gojo satoru x reader

It felt so real.. Gojo Satoru was dead. Or so you thought until you woke up in a cold sweat staring in the eyes ot your one and only.

wc 1.9k

warnings: basically sfw besides death (everyones alive lmao. He’s just a sweetheart in this one.

hope u all enjoyed as i havent had the time to write with passion until a couple days ago!

They said he was the strongest.

The six eyes.

The untouchable.

The one who stood tall over everyone else with unforgiving grace and supremacy.

Your lover..

Was dead at your feet.

His eyes that glittered effortlessly- shinier than an afternoon sun on blue ocean water blew out quicker than a fire with no wood, leaving it lifeless with the rest of his body in the center of his own blood like a seance.

Dead eyes stared up towards heaven, arms sprayed out ready to be taken where the god’s felt he shall rest for good.

You couldn’t hear your own scream of despair over your rapid heartbeat and ringing in your ear that seemed to get higher and higher.

Pitchier and pitchier.

You couldn’t even feel yourself being pulled back by his students as you tried to launch yourself to his still body; to hold his hand one last time even if it wasn’t warm anymore from the fire of his passion.

Why are you just laying there?

Get up, Satoru!

“Satoru!” You called out for him again, a glimmer of hope wishing the anguish in your voice was enough to jumpstart his heart back alive.

Satoru.

“Satoru!” You cry out, feeling wetness drain down your cheeks and swept away as they fell.

The ringing in your ears was still present as you jolt up, taking in your surroundings in a frantic state as cold shivers run up your spine from anxiety and shock.

He’s dead..

The space in front of you was a blur leaving your body in a fight or flight response, hitting whatever was in your sight- a dark silhouette of warmth grasps your shaky wrists together condemning you a danger to yourself.

He’s dead.

Another hand holds the plush of your cheek, wiping away the tears from your hot, damp skin.

The ringing slowly subsides as your name being called repeatedly echos around the room to your ears and your vision becomes clearer.

“(Y/n)..? Hey, look at me..” He calls out for you.

That velvety voice is more coarse than usual as the morning hour slowly rises to shine at you both through the thin black curtains.

Your breath starts to slow, turning into feint, uncoordinated hiccups of air; the cool breeze of the open window wisps by the curtains, lifting to let the moonlight illuminate the figure by your side.

Satoru.

The light of the moon casts over his pale skin and white hair in a sapphire blue sheen, eyes glittering down at you in confusion and worry; lost of its usual unserious nature.

The air hits your sweaty face as you begin to let yourself feel.

His warm hands you thought you’d never feel heat from again.

And the blood running through his veins, continuing to let his heart beat.

His hair messily frames his sharp face as he digests what is happening.

There was no way to describe the fear dragging in his stomach like an achor from waking to the screams of his name wailed out by you at his side.

You don’t answer his questions, instead pulled into his lean chest, basked into the healing sensation of love radiating from his lively body to yours. The thump of his heartbeat to remind you it’s still there,

that he’s still here.

His sweet words muttered quietly to the shell of your ear that it is alright,

“Everything’s okay. I’m here, baby, I’m here.” He whispers running slender fingers through your hair, lulling your worries away. “What’s wrong?” He asks full of soft fret.

Your eyes are clenched in this neck, the mental picture of his morbid body etched inside. “I’m scared to go back to sleep.” You choke out.

It hurt to even say it outloud.

But he didn’t need to hear it to know what you dreamt about.

You now lay down, head to his chest while running your fingers down his now grown out hair that tickles the base of his neck.

Gojo lays you on him, purposefully letting your head rest of the gentle thump of his steady heartbeat, large palm petting down your hair. Your breathing becomes stable, softly huffing breaths as you slowly fall asleep in his comfort.

It pinched his heart knowing dreaming of such things was an internal fear you’ve always had coming to fruition through your consciousness. He lays there wide awake listening to your light snores of sleep. Gojo couldn’t exactly blame you for having nightmares like this. He practically was playing a risky game of chess with the grim reaper every other night.

It wasn’t death that scared Gojo Satoru, the afterlife was the last thing he was scared of.

As a man whose mere existence puts the rest of the world in check, there were many things he could control. But he hated to admit there were some he just couldn’t.

However leaving you alone in a world where he watches cruelty rule over compassion, that is what scared him the most.

Your sweet, angelic self that only deserved to live a life of happiness and self-fulfillment. He was too selfish to leave you by yourself, refusing to ever let it happen.

Even if he was on his last leg, fighting the red devil to crawl through limbo to come back to you, he’d win and succeed to your embrace.

Before he met you, he’d always wondered if death was more kind.

His thoughts are cut off hearing you stir in your sleep, shifting to another position clutched on his body, heart skipping just from how peaceful and enchanting you are.

A world with you without him just simply did not exist in his eyes , and he’d keep it that way.

He’d always win, for you.

So happy to have finished this I kind love it and tried to have a more serious theme in the literature; so I hope I expressed that a bit better 🫶🏻

Really needed some copium if y’all know what I mean :(

Please follow, like and reblog ʕ⁎̯͡⁎ʔ༄

#gojo satoru x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk leaks #jjk oneshot #gojo x reader #geto suguru fic #nanami x reader #pitou.writes #gojo x y/n #gojo x you #pitou.fics

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bluejeanstrash · 1 year

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distracted.

Summary: You get distracted by Seungcheol’s arms during your dinner date. That’s it.

Word count: 604

Warnings: suggestive conversation, mild smut.

————————————

‘….you know what I mean?’

Somehow, you had zoned back in just in time to catch the end of Seungcheol’s sentence.

You, in fact, did not know what he meant, having gotten distracted by your boyfriend’s massive arms which only seemed to be getting bigger every day.

‘Were you even listening to me?’ He tilts his head, lips in his signature pout.

‘Uh, yeah’ You lie - a lie he immediately catches you in.

‘Fine! Sorry! I got distracted. Anyway, tell me again. I’m listening’ You say, taking a sip of your drink.

‘By what?’

You stare at him for a second, confused, and then get what he’s asking.

‘Oh, nothing. Just stuff..’ Another lie.

But Seungcheol already knew you were lying. Not just that, he knew exactly what it was that distracted you - the way your gaze had dropped from his face to linger on his arms was not subtle at all. But he wanted to hear it from you.

‘What stuff?’ He shifts in his chair, folding his arms tighter so his muscles look even more defined. You have to physically stop yourself from looking down.

‘Just stuff! Stop being annoying and tell me the story!’ Your voice coming out a little pitchier than usual.

He narrows his eyes and takes a breath, letting out a deep sigh. He then stands up, moving to the seat adjacent to you. You watch as he slips his hand under the table, his palm resting on your knee as his thumb caresses your skin - a touch innocent enough but it still makes you erupt into goosebumps.

‘What stuff?’ He repeats, his hand sliding a little higher, pushing the hem of your dress back. You suddenly feel really glad that the table you both wanted wasn’t available and they had to seat you at a table for three instead.

He slides up a little further, his hand now mid-thigh. ‘Hmmn?’ He gives your thigh a tight squeeze, his arm flexing.

‘Your arms’ you blurt out, turned on by how veiny his veins look. Everything about him was so big - big hands, thick fingers, broad shoulders, big di-

‘What about them?’ He continues, his tone just a tad bit cocky. You were stroking his ego so good and he couldn’t get enough.

‘How big they are...how strong they look...how good they feel on me...’ you instinctively open your legs slightly as his hand reaches the top of your thigh.

‘Hmmn’ he smiles, seeing how naturally your body reacts to him. ‘And where do you want my hands on you tonight?’ He asks, fingers lightly brushing against your panties. You look around, nervous, making sure there’s no one approaching your table.

‘Tell me’ His firm voice brings you back.

‘I want them…’ you swallow ‘…spreading my legs open as you eat my pussy. And...wrapped around my neck when you fuck me after’ your head reeling at the thought.

He presses two of his fingers against your core as you gasp ‘How filthy…’ he teases, loving every word coming out your mouth. And then, to your extreme disappointment, he pulls away, readjusting your dress before getting up and going back to his seat.

‘Seungcheol, what the fuck!’ you whine, flustered, but mostly frustrated.

‘Eat’ He says calmly as the waiter approaches your table, serving plates of food you’re no longer hungry for.

‘Would you like to order dessert now? Or later?’ The waiter looks over at the both of you.

‘No, thank you, no dessert’ Seungcheol smiles politely.

‘We have other plans’ he grins, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms before giving you a little wink.

#seungcheol drabble #seungcheol smut #seungcheol x reader #seungcheol imagine #seungcheol oneshot #scoups drabble #scoups smut #scoups x reader #scoups imagine #scoups oneshot

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merowkittie · 1 year

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nsfw imagine <3

Imagine waking up to feeling something hard against your ass and you turn to see Gojo slyly (not really) humping his cock against your butt thinking you’re still asleep. He’s slowly but roughly rutting into your plush ass, grabbing onto your thighs and moaning so quiet and softly in your ears. His hot breath tickling the shell of it. You start to push back into him, meeting his sloppy thrusts half way and now he’s moaning louder because of the friction of his boxers and your ass against him. Soon he’s rutting faster and harder and his moans get pitchier and now you’re pretty boy is cumming in his pants from just dry humping you :(.. he kisses your neck with soft thanks you’s after and now he whispers that it’s your turn to cum in your cute little panties <3

(I feel like I should’ve specified before but obvy this is all consensual, pre consented <3)

#reader insert #black reader #gojo imagine #jjk #jujutsu gojo #gojo saturo #gojo x reader #gojo x black reader #gojo smut #gojo x reader smut #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk imagines

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elusivecagedmockingbird · 3 months

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Orbiting: pt.3,5°

[icehockey!jungkook x figureskater!reader] [1.4k filler, it was supposed to be a drabble, but oh well; fwb to lovers; less plot, more smut, but basically, this is how Jungkook and Y/N came to their fwb agreement; slightly drunk sex, unprotected sex but irl plz don't be silly and wrap his willy; not proofread, heh.

You didn’t expect your night to end up like this.

Thursdays were yours and Jungkook's torturous days. Waking up at 4 a.m. and every second, minute, and hour that followed was spent practicing on the ice—you nailing your skating routines and Jungkook running through hockey plays. Some days, you practice on different ice rinks, each on opposite ends of the town, the other days, like today, you share the big dome rink close to your apartment.

By tradition, Thursday nights with Jungkook are spent letting out steam—here is what you do as follows: 1. Rant about how hectic the day was 2. Eat an unhealthy amount of junk and sweets 3. Share a bottle of soju, or two, or more while a movie plays in the background. When the day has you beat, ideally, Jungkook makes you his infamous highball drink, and in return, you cook him extra strips of samgyupsal. A win-win.

But tonight, it seems you and Jungkook have explored a new way to let off steam.

What started out as a night full of frustrated rants turned into frantic rutting against your best friend's thigh.

You remember watching a rom-com film, and a soft porn scene came on the screen, and your inebriated brain struggled to filter your thoughts that they just spilled out, “If you weren't here, I might have touched myself over that.” Followed by downing a shot as if your words hadn't short-circuited Jungkook's own brain and went straight to his dick.

“Gguk,” you struggle to speak, lips caught between Jungkook's teeth as he playfully bites and pulls.

He's become a little more cheeky. But you wouldn't deny how seeing this side of him makes you yearn for him. Here you are, wrapped around each other's arms, but you want him closer. He's so close, yet so far. This is uncharted territory, restricted even. And you can reason that you're too far gone to just stop and cockblock yourself, but the truth is, you're being selfish. You want Jungkook. You want him all to yourself.

You lean your forehead against his, the close proximity has you feeling how Jungkook steals your breath; he breathes you in as you breathe out. You lower your eyes to look at his parted mouth, and you smirk. His lips are swollen and stained with the color of your lipstick.

“Make me feel good, please,” you scan his face, from the mole on his chin to his eyes, and pull the most seductive look you knew worked on guys.

At your beck and call, Jungkook crawls down on your body, stops at your crotch, and noses at your pussy. His hunger grows as you take over his senses—his sight focused on your arching back as he touches every skin his hands never caressed until now, and the taste of your arousal with the ripe smell of your pheromones flood him.

“Mmm, so sweet,” he hums, “I love it.”

You’ve never felt fiercely desired. You want to believe that this is more than lust. But before you can overthink and float away, Jungkook brings you back to the ground.

He doesn't bother to remove your panties. In fact, today, Jungkook discovered he has a thing for lacy underwear. Or maybe it was just having you under him, so responsive and alluring. He eagerly lays his tongue wide on your clit and laps like a thirsty kitten, the rough texture of the lace intensifies the pleasure.

With each pant and whine of Jungkook's name that leaves your mouth, his tongue dives deeper and harder inside you. The sounds you make are music to his ears that he doesn't want to stop. The call of his name grows pitchier by the second. Before you can warn him, you reach orgasm in strong spurts and the sight has Jungkook almost cumming as well.

“Shit, Y/N,” he exhales, “That was so hot, baby.”

Your body acknowledges the pet name before your brain can overthink it. You reach for Jungkook's dick, tongue wetting your lips, ready to take him, but he stops you.

“I'm close,” he shyly admits, “And if I'm cumming, I want it to be from your pussy.”

Hand still wrapped around his leaking cock, you keep stroking as you guide him to your cunt. Soft squelches are heard as you rub his tip to your pussy lips.

Jungkook groans, “Stop teasing.” He removes your enclosed palm around his dick and intertwines your hand with his as he briskly pushes it to the bed.

A moan is pulled out of you as he plunges himself inside you. He eases in so easily, but there's a burning stretch that satisfies you as Jungkook pushes his cock further. Like magnets, your legs are hooked around his waist as soon as he bottoms out.

“Shit,” you both curse. You wipe at the accumulating sweat on his forehead. His bedroom eyes chase your eyes, and when you lock gazes, it's only then that Jungkook pulls out his cock and then plunges back into your wet walls with a hip roll. The bed squeaks as he thrusts into your pussy. Breaths are once again exchanged until Jungkook feels his climax coming; he kisses you roughly, tongue and all, and releases himself.

You're awakened with hot and heavy air blown on your neck. Turning around with a groan, your sight lands on a sleeping Jungkook, his mouth parted as snores leave his lips.

The events of last night catch up to you and you harshly sit up from the realization. The sudden jerking of blankets wakes Jungkook. It takes him a moment to re-orient himself where he is and you see it on his face when realization hits him.

“Morning,” he greets, “So, last night was wild, huh?”

You're stunned. “Is that all you have to say?”

No, it's not, Jungkook thinks. In fact, much like you, he's panicking internally. Last night, you got carried away and went over the line. But he knows that if he mirrors your reaction, there's no saving your friendship. He's considering if he could take this moment to confess, but judging how you're pacing the room now, he thinks now is not the time. He just might lose you for good only because his dick did the thinking last night. He knows how you think, Jungkook admitting how he feels now might be misconstrued as a last resort than an honest profession of love.

“Uhh, I'm not gonna lie, Y/N, that was one of the best sex I've had in a long time.” Correction, it was THE best sex he's had ever. It was with you.

“Are you really okay with what happened?” At least now you sat on the bed. Jungkook feels the chill of the morning and he thinks it's easier to pull your body for warmth than pick up his clothes across your room.

But your needs come first. And what you need right now is reassuring words to quash whatever roaming destructive thoughts you have running wild in that pretty head of yours.

“Y/N, if you're uncomfortable, we can forget about it. I mean, was it so bad for you?” The last question came out as a jest to ease your nerves and it seemed to have worked.

A snort leaves your nose. “No. It felt... good.” Too good, you think.

“Yah! Just good?” Jungkook uses this chance to pull at the duvet, but your grip is unrelenting, so you topple over his chest, giggling.

You roll your eyes. “Fine, it was one of the best sex I've had, too.”

“Just think of it as us helping each other release our... frustrations.”

You grimace. “Classy.”

Jungkook chuckles. Your grip on the blanket eases and he slips inside the comforter for warmth.

“You know,” you trail off, waiting for him to look at you. “I don't mind, uhm... I mean, with the competition coming close and you know, uhm, frustrations pile up... I think it's good if we can help each other more than just this one time?”

Jungkook knows what you're asking, but at the same time, he also doesn't know what you're asking.

“You want like a friends with benefits thing?” The last word came out hoarse from his mouth.

“Only if you're comfortable,” you were quick to assure him. Of course, Jungkook would love to have a repeat of last night, but he's not sure if agreeing with this setup will push him into the friendzone or if it will finally let you see him differently. Still, he agrees.

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shoyoist · 1 year

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content: established relationship. unprotected and public sex (in the view of cctv cameras), voice kink, rough sex, brat taming, slight dubcon if you squint.

itoshi rin isn't much of a talker. he fucks you hard, makes you make all the pretty sounds that fill up the room as he thrusts into you, bodies sweaty and glowing with bliss— but he doesn't talk much, not with his mouth. it's his dick that does the talking.

you feel it throb inside you, twitching every time you tighten around him, leaking precum into you whenever you make a pitchier, prettier sound than usual. he takes his time pulling out — you feel how every inch of him moves past your slick walls, till just his head is inside.

then he pistons in without warning, forceful and sharp, and his tip hits your deepest spots, his length and girth stretching you out and fucking you full, and just like that, he sends you to heaven with his cock <3

rin isn't much of a talker, but that's not to say he never talks. push the right buttons, tease him and mess around more than you usually do, and he'll snap. "fuck, you just can't wait to have me, huh?" he'll say into your ear, pushing you against a wall and wrapping his hand around your throat.

"'s why you're acting out here? can't wait till we get home? to the car, even, huh? little slut." he hisses, as he slides his other hand between your legs, even though you could get caught any minute on this stairwell. what about CCTV?

you can't even look around and check for cameras, because rin has you caged, the hand he's got around your throat tightening when you try to move. "gotta give you what you want, yeah? so stay fucking still now, angel. i'll fuck you good."

#in commemoration of rin visuals<3 #this got way too long i should tag it as a fic #but i cant bother rn lmao #itoshi rin smut #itoshi rin x reader #rin smut #blue lock smut #blue lock x reader #bllk smut #rin x reader

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angelmichelangelo · 1 year

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the dad diaries for @turrondeluxe ❤️

if anybody doesn’t know, the peepaw and babies au has TOTALLY taken over my brain like. in the best way possible so of course i just had to write a lil fic for it <3 i hope u like this, amigo! i have other little ideas floating around in my head if you’d ever want more fic version of your au :) anyway enough rambling ENJOY!! everybody go check out the au i’m fairly certain everything is archived on @peepawronin for your enjoyment :-)

His coffee, as strong as it may, didn’t deter the headache that was blossoming behind his tired, weary eyes from expanding; creeping across the front of his skull with each steady pulse of his heartbeat.

He takes another sip, steels himself to see if perhaps the magic he knows does not truly exist has worked and…

“Papa!”

There’s the sound of his youngest, voice thick with babyish chub still, carrying across the lair with determination, tallying around inside his squeezing head like a brash drum cymbal.

Before he can push himself up off his stool, it goes off again, shrill and impatient,

“Papa! Papa! I’m telling!”

That was nothing new for Michelangelo these days, that familiar old phrase, minced with saccharine dramatics, he’s blinking his eyes hard to starve off the rest of the headache that threatens him; the kind that travels down the back of his skull and towards his shell and over his spine and makes him feel about a million years old.

He heaves a sigh. He already feels a million years old these days, what with the trophies of his days gone by evident across his aging body, like his trick knee and the ache he gets in his elbow when it perhaps rains a little too hard. It’s one thing to feel it physically, but the added bonus of it being emotional as well weighs just a touch too heavy for his liking.

He comes to a stop in the pit where the sounds are louder and more pitchier, and there’s two little turtles to accompany them, faces all pinched into varying degrees of annoyance.

It’s Odyn who reaches him first, as it often is, he’s a daddy’s boy at heart, little tiny legs carrying him the small distance that separates them, he goes barrelling into the larger, older turtle, face first into his pant leg. He’s gripping the edges of the fabric with three little fingers, giving it a sharp tug when he says with a rush of air,

“Papa, Uno is being mean again!” He whines, pressing his snout into Mikey’s leg. “He keeps calling me names!”

Uno has since joined their fray now, chest heaving with each stuttered breath as if the idea of being accused of such a thing is stunting each draw of air into his lungs.

“No I didn’t!” He retorts, voice all pitchy and nasally. Michelangelo groans softly to himself. “He’s just being a baby! Like he always is!”

Such a spiteful word directed towards their youngest is enough to erupt a hurtful sob from the smaller turtle. He buries his face further into his fathers leg, his voice warbled and muffled from both the tears the the mouth full of pant he has right now, but Mikey is able to carefully decipher it of something along the lines of, (in true irony),

“See! He keeps calling me a baby!”

He pries his son’s iron grip off from his leg, forcing him to look upwards with a tap of his finger beneath his damp chin. Fat tears roll down his cheeks, framing his face almost perfectly, he looks at his child sternly.

“You know not to take it to heart, hm? Do you eat baby food and wear diapers?”

Odyn sniffles, bringing a fist up to scrub away at the snot collected beneath his snout.

“No?”

Mikey hums. “And do you chew on furniture and need papa’s help to feed yourself?”

Odyn shakes his head. “No, papa.”

Michelangelo grins softly. “Then you’re not a baby. You know that, I know that.” He looks pointedly at his other son who is unmovable under his gaze. “Uno knows that. He only says it to get a rise out of you, right?”

Odyn’s bottom lip wobbles dangerously. “Yes,” he says in a rush, “but—”

Michelangelo is swift to cut in. “But I will deal with your brother. Okay?”

Odyn doesn’t seem entirely swayed; Michelangelo thinks that maybe he wanted some sort of permission to perhaps say a bad word directed at his brother, or maybe to have it out in a short scrap and there as kind of emotional compensation that only siblings would believe to be a reliable source of insurance against name calling.

But the smaller turtle eventually heaves a heavy, wet sigh, and nods his head solemnly.

“Good. Go play with your sisters,” Michelangelo instructs him, tapping him gently against the ridge of his shell. “I think they’re coloring. Will you make me something pretty?”

That gets his spirits up, the smile beaming across his face so bright, it might as well evaporate his previous tears left behind on his cheeks.

“Okay!” He calls out with delight as he toddles off to join his other, much quieter siblings on the far side of the room. Mikey watches them as they scoot aside and make space for him, offering up a fresh slice of paper, he’s already making grabby hands for the brightest crayons they own.

“He’s always getting me into trouble.”

That’s Uno’s low, forbidding voice, all full of that way too early angst that he recognises from himself and his brothers in their adolescent years, and when Mikey turns to face him, he’s sullen.

He doesn’t wait to hear whatever wisdom his father might be able to offer, instead, his bottom lip is trembling like it’s heavy with the weight of all the words he wishes to say; all the woes and the hurt that comes with having little brothers, and suddenly, with his face drawn in such an expression and his eyes narrowed and his mouth tight, Michelangelo sees a glimpse of Raphael in this child.

“You know, I was the youngest of my brothers,” Michelangelo explains to him. He motions for him to follow as they leave the pit, letting the soft voices of the other children behind them as they walk back towards the kitchen from which he came. “I pulled the same tricks he pulls from time to time.”

Uno pauses his end of conversation to clamber on top of the barstool that wobbles slightly under his swaying weight. Michelangelo steadies it with a hand until his son is fully situated, and once he is, he’s swiveling around to face the older turtle, still sporting the same, sour expression across his younger face.

“Then why’d you let him get away with it?” He says, words barbed, like this was somehow his fault now. “It’s not fair, papa.”

And Michelangelo chuckles softly. There are the glimpses of Donatello that shine through, like bright sunshine filtering through curtains in the early morning in hues of gold – that sharp intellect that constantly comes with its millions of almost unanswerable questions.

“Because I also know what my older brothers were capable of,” he tells him gently. “They did all they could to push my buttons, to get me in trouble. They knew how to play the game without getting themselves a foul.”

Uno heaves a loaded sigh, his plastron rising and falling, his hardened glare seems to melt away a little as he allows his father’s words to soak in.

“I just hate him,” he says suddenly, words dark and low. “He’s so annoying.”

Michelangelo stiffens at that. And at his father’s physical reaction, Uno shrinks a little, aware of what he’d just said; how loaded his words were.

“You don’t hate him.” Michelangelo tells him, Uno’s gaze gingerly lifts to meet his. “You are annoyed by him, yes, but hate is such a strong word, musko-san.”

Uno’s dark eyes flicker across the room with nerves, caught out, he wrings his hands together, as if trying to rid himself of the nervous energy that this conversation was building within him.

“I’m sorry chichi,” he says in a small voice. “That was mean. I don’t hate Uno.”

Michelangelo hums. “I know.” Then, “You know how I know?”

Uno shakes his head.

“The time you taught him kanji,” he begins to list. “Or when he lost a tooth and you soothed him because he was hurt.” He watches with pride as a small smile ghosts across his child’s face. “Or whenever you read to him before bed, even when it’s the stories you have already heard before.”

Uno rubs tiredly at his eyes; all of these emotions are a lot to bear for such a small boy.

“I know you love your brother, Uno,” Michelangelo tells him, tapping a green finger beneath his chin to gather his focus. “I know because I see so much of your oji in your soul.” He smiles warmly at his son. “Each one of them,” he adds, moving his finger down from his face to rest across his plastron, right over where his heart lies. “Right here, hm?”

Uno shifts in his seat, the old, worn barstool groans under his growing weight, he pitches himself as far forward as he can go without toppling off, looking up at his father with big, round curious eyes.

“Really?” He says, voice clinging to an awed whisper.

“Really.” Mikey tells him with a stern nod. “Now go play,” he says quickly, flapping him away with a dismissive hand.

“Papa hasn’t had enough coffee this morning,” he mutters, pinching his eyes narrowly to try and avoid the impending headache that’s crawling back across his skull. “Try not to have anymore arguments until at least late afternoon, yes?”

Uno hops off his seat, almost tripping in the process, he stands tall when he tells him,

“That’s okay!” He’s smiling now. A sight Mikey is sure he’ll never truly tire of, no matter how many headaches life brings. “Maybe I can ask the others if I can draw too, and we’ll make you something nice to make you feel better, hm?”

Michelangelo reaches across the countertops for his discarded beverage from earlier. Curling his fingers around the mug, he finds with welcomed surprise that it’s still warm. “You better,” he tells him with an entirely serious tone surrounding his words, raising one brow ridge for emphasis. “I didn’t spend hours scavenging those crayons for nothing.”

And with that, Uno is padding off in the direction of where his other children are gathered; straining an ear he can hear their excitable chatter and babble as they continue to work together.

And when their eldest sibling joins in, there doesn’t seem to be any lasting animosity; Odyn shows off what he’s already made, pride and excitement swelling over whatever leftover hurt from their spat, and Michelangelo chuckles to himself as he listens to Uno’s gentle encouragement that floats through front the other room.

He brings the coffee mug to his lips, steam curls itself around his snout, and a smile touches at his face, the slightest of turns. He awards himself with another mouthful, and whilst it doesn’t do much to quell his migraine, it does feel deserved.

And later that night, when he has all four of his children growing heavy in his arms, fighting a battle against fatigue that they are bound to lose against, as it is most nights, he watches his as Uno shuffles in closer to his brother, his pudgy little arm draped across the slope of his shell, and Odyn, his jaw slack, drool dried across his chin, his soft snores only just about disturbing the silence that falls across the room, he seems to curl into his brother’s offered warmth and Michelangelo smiles softly to himself.

Here in his lap are his children – the little turtles that call him papa and rush to him to settle disputes and disagreements, and to kiss scraped knees and to devote each of their wobbly crayon drawings to him that end up covering the fridge and the kitchen walls in a decoration of color and love and he knows that even with coffee, even with the best coffee in the world, all of this is worth a thousand bad headaches. Tomorrow might bring peace and tranquility and ease, or perhaps it shall be Yi and Moja that decide to scrap and fight or maybe all four will fall out of love momentarily, as siblings often do.

Michelangelo should know, he’s been one his entire life, even if his brothers are no longer here to push his buttons or fight him or argue over petty, useless things, he knows with great ease, that despite it all, they always found their way back together, whether it was over something big or small – that was the love between brothers and family.

He presses his sleeping turtles closer to him, curling his arms around them, they melt around his warmth and he knows that much like his group of siblings, these four here, were no exception to the same rules.

He closes his eyes and basks in the moment, acutely aware in the moment of quiet, of the headache that has finally shrunk itself away.

#tmnt idw #tmnt last ronin #tmnt the lost years #tmnt fanfiction #tmnt fanfic #tmnt fic #tmnt michelangelo #tmnt au

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froggyfeetsies · 1 year

Text

Gonna be honest, I’ve looked at this too long 😂😂😂

#Rotg #guardians of childhood #rise of the guardians #my art #pitch black #kozmotis pitchier #I tried doing a lineless start for fun and ended up in a rabbit hole

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strawbsj · 2 months

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I feel like hanni is the type of girlfriend to praise reader for her beauty while pleasuring reader at the same time like that would be so sweet of her and after the sex she took care of reader like a caring girlfriend she is🥹

YOU UNDERSTAND!!! HANNI IS A SOFT DOM😌😌 like I can’t see her being rough or that mean dom😵‍💫

She would be so gentle and soft with you and oh my god the amount of compliments you’d get from her?!?!?!😮‍💨

“Princess is so pretty for me!”

“You look stunning baby!”

“You look gorgeous, taking my cock so well!”

The compliments and the pleasure she is giving you making your moans get louder and high pitchier and your substance soon pushing her cock out.

And don’t get me started on the after care!!! She would make a hot bath, just how you like! The bathroom would smell heavenly and she would wash your body so delicately and softly! Peppering kisses all over your bare shoulders, stomach and chest in the most intimate and innocent way!🫣❤️ After the bath she would brush your hair and help you wear your clothes and cuddle you under the sheets warmly!!🥹😍

Honestly we all need Hanni in our lives!!😌🫂

#jwan answers🎧#new jeans hanni x reader #new jeans hanni smut #hanni x fem reader #pham hanni smut

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ghostinthelibrarywrites · 11 months

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If you still want prompts, how about someone saying 8 to Jaskier? <3

Here's some Geraskier! Can be read as gen or pre-slash.

8. “Put your head on my shoulder.”

Geralt grits his teeth as he hauls Jaskier back to their camp, the bard a limp weight in his arms. Jaskier appears to be awake, but in shock; his wide eyes stare blindly upwards. His doublet has a tear in it, the gash left by the grave hag’s tongue traveling from the center of his breastbone to his left shoulder. It will probably scar, which is the least the idiot deserves after strolling up to a grave hag to “get a closer look.”

“Geralt, I can’t see,” Jaskier says again, his unseeing eyes darting about frantically. “I can’t see.”

“I know.” Geralt is more gentle than he would like to be as he deposits the bard on his bedroll. “That’s because you didn’t fucking stay back when I told you to.”

“I thought it was dead! It was on the ground!”

“It was injured, not dead. That made it even more fucking dangerous.”

“Is it permanent? Oh gods, Geralt, I can’t lose my sight! That hag’s hideous maw can’t be the last thing I ever see! Why couldn’t it have been a comelier monster, like a succubus or a—”

Of course that’s the first thing he thinks about. “It’s the venom from the grave hag’s tongue. It almost always wears off in an hour or two.”

“Almost always?” If possible, Jaskier’s voice gets even pitchier.

Geralt thinks about lying, but the bard needs to realize how easily carelessness could get him hurt or killed. He thought Jaskier learned that after nearly getting his throat cut by elves a month ago and then nearly getting carried off by a wyvern a week after that. Not to mention all the times Geralt's had to haul him away from an angry father or husband. “Occasionally, the blindness is permanent. It’s rare, but it happens. Mostly to the sick and the elderly.”

“How sick? Because I was feeling a bit sniffly this morning.” Jaskier’s heart rate is getting faster, his breathing growing quick and raspy. “And how elderly?”

“Jaskier, you’re eighteen.”

“Almost nineteen!” His voice rises to practically a wail. “And I like to think I have an old soul.”

“You have an almost-nineteen-year-old soul,” Geralt says with his last scrap of patience. “I told you, you’ll be fine in an hour or two.”

“I’ll most likely be fine in an hour or two! What happens if I’m not? You won’t leave me here, will you? Geralt, you probably haven’t noticed, but I have no fucking idea how to survive on my own.”

“I’ve noticed.”

Jaskier doesn’t seem to hear him. “I can’t light a fire! The last time I tried to set a snare for a rabbit, I got caught in it. I get sick at the sight of blood, so I can’t hunt! Please don’t leave me here on my own.”

“I’m not going to leave you.” Geralt has tried to lose Jaskier a couple of times, but quickly realized that abandoning the bard in the wilderness was practically a death sentence for the lad. He’s been tempted to reconsider a couple of times, but he doesn’t actually want Jaskier dead in a ditch.

“Gods, I’ll have to return to Lettenhove, won’t I?” Jaskier’s blank gaze is fixed somewhere over Geralt’s shoulder. “Cordelia is never going to let me live this down. She told me I wouldn’t last a year on the road and I didn’t even last a season.”

Geralt goes to his saddlebag to get supplies to clean and stitch the wound. When he comes back, Jaskier is enumerating all the things that he’ll never lay eyes on again. It’s hard to tell what he’ll miss more: sunsets or tits. As Geralt dabs the dried blood and venom from the wound, Jaskier seems to settle on tits.

“And yes, I know I’ll still be able to feel them, Geralt, but it’s really an altogether different—”

Geralt can hear the hitch in the bard’s breathing that tells him that Jaskier is perilously close to hyperventilating. Fuck. He puts aside the supplies—the wound has stopped bleeding, stitches aren’t a necessity—and pulls Jaskier into his arms. Jaskier makes a startled noise, but comes willingly.

“Put your head on my shoulder,” he says.

“What?” Jaskier squeaks.

“Just do it.” When the bard complies, settling his cheek against Geralt’s shoulder almost tentatively, like he thinks it’s some kind of trick, Geralt adds, “Listen to my breathing. Match it with yours.”

Jaskier’s quick, panting breaths slow down, bringing his hammering heart rate down a notch.

“Just concentrate on breathing.” Geralt keeps his voice low and soothing, like he would if it were Roach startled by an unexpected noise or a rabbit in her path. “You’re going to be fine.”

“What if it is permanent?” Jaskier whispers.

“It won’t be.” With the arm that isn’t holding Jaskier against him, Geralt cups the back of the bard’s head, stroking slowly with his thumb. “But if it is, we’ll figure something out. You’ll still be able to play the lute and sing. Still be able to talk.”

Jaskier lets out a shaky laugh. “You say that like you think it’s a good thing.”

“Hm.” Since the bard can’t see him, Geralt lets himself smile. “Better than listening to you shriek about tits.”

“I don’t shriek.”

“You sound like a grave hag in heat when you get worked up.”

“Thank you for that horrifying mental image. Really, today hadn’t been trying enough.”

“Your own fault.”

“And here I thought you were being nice to me for once.”

“Saved you from the grave hag, didn’t I?”

“Not in time to save my eyes.”

“Your eyes will be fine, Jaskier.”

“So you say.” But the anxiety is slowly seeping out of Jaskier’s scent as he curls closer to Geralt. Geralt will probably regret letting him get this touchy feely, but that’s a problem for later, once the bard can see again and his heartbeat is back to normal.

“You’ll be able to see again by sunset,” Geralt tells him. “But I don’t think you have any chance of seeing tits tonight, not with the shit job you did flirting with the alderman’s niece.”

“Shit job? Geralt, she was charmed!”

“Have you ever met a woman before, Jaskier? One that you’re not paying to put up with you?”

Jaskier is so indignant that he spends a good part of the next hour telling Geralt about the people of various genders who have been won over by his charm and good looks. He doesn’t even seem to notice when his sight comes back.

(And Geralt doesn’t notice that he’s still holding Jaskier until the bard pulls away.)

***

Hurt/Comfort Dialogue Prompts

Tag list: @kueble @mollymawkwrites @feral-jaskier @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @dawnofbards @thisislisa @tsukiwolf42 @mosaicscale @rockysstupidity @fontegagrilledcheese @kuripon @help-i-need-a-cool-username @julek @flowercrown-bard @eveljerome

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #ghost's writing #prompt fills

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