#probably from the lack of water i’ve had this week

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Hal congrats on the 5k you absolutely deserve it.

I have a request for the 5k event so here it is

The reader is John's wife who's 9 months pregnant and basically about to burst. Reader goes into Labour while John is out on the field.

Again congratulations on 5k you absolutely deserve every single follower since your Storys are just chefs kiss. I'm very glad i found your blog when i did!

—Here Now

⇢ ˗ˏˋ 5k Drabble Masterlist ࿐ྂ

╰┈➤ ❝ [He nearly misses one of the most important moments of your lives together.] ❞

You had told him you would be fine, and, of course, John knew he could take your word—even if over these nine months he’d been more worried than he had been in his entire life. It would have been difficult for you to say how you were truly feeling about being home alone two days past your due date with no one but the birds outside to give you company. 

He had been up at arms about being with you through this, and the man’s stubbornness about that fact had made your face go soft with love. John was the most loyal man you’d ever met; add in a child on the way and he became no better than a hound baying at the scent of a fox. But this had apparently been so important that he’d asked you about the idea of being away for a day—a single day, the man had emphasized, even if the others had to stay wherever they were going for longer. He’d take the red-eye back the second after the time was up, a whole military Heli and all.

One day was far better than one week—far better than one month. So, you’d agreed albeit a bit reluctantly as the man reassured you he’d be back safe and whole. He’d be back for the birth. 

Yeah, that was a load of bullshit. 

You lay in the hospital room, panting and trying to keep your eyes open as the contractions hit once more; a whimper hidden as you bend your neck forward to let your chin hit your chest. 

“Shit,” you breathe, the nurse moving out of the room quickly to grab more water and the doctor for you. 

This had been going on for a good four hours—levels of shaking pain that lasted upwards of a minute and had been increasing in frequency more so in the last sixty minutes. They’d finally had you lay back on the bed only a little bit ago, and you knew at that point that John would be unable to make it for the birth of your first child.

The thought terrified you. 

You place a hand on your stomach and blink down at it, the raised half of the bed behind you and the chill of the room making you shiver. The buzz of the lights—the closed windows. Your heart is running not only from the thought of this, of all that could go wrong, but also because you now lacked the most steady rock you’d had in your entire life: John. He’d know what to tell you to make you calm down, to make your mind stop with all the panic. 

But he’s not here, and that alone makes you want to—

The door opens so quickly it nearly busts off of its hinges.

Your heart sputters, head jerking back as you wince from another contraction, this one far more painful and promising to stay for longer. Closer now. But your eyes blink on something more important. 

“I’m here, Love.” As if a phantom, John hurries through, a gaggle of wide-eyed nurses behind him before the door to your room is shut by firm hands. “Fuckin’ hell, Sweetheart, I’m ‘ere, it’s alright.”

He’s still in his gear—lacking weapons as those had probably been tossed away on Base—but vest and hat are present; the large boots with tucked pants and that compression shirt. You watch in shock as he speeds up to the side of your bed, taking your hand in his large one and squeezing. His other grabs the motion-less chair and drags it over with a grunt. 

“Now,” John says, shaking his head at you as you simply stare. “You squeeze my hand as hard as you well please then, yeah? Don’t care if you break a few fingers, Love, I’ve been through worse.” 

“How…” You mutter, tears welling in your eyes. “How did you…?”

He blinks those tiny blues at you, twitching his nose as his gaze darts down your body. 

“Had a feeling,” is all he says. 

You laugh through a sob and he presses his forehead into yours, hand on the base of your skull. 

“I’m here right now,” he utters. “Gonna have to have a few words with the little Muppet when they’re out about timing. Nearly made me bloody miss it.” 

“John Price,” you scolded lightly, laughing. 

He only hums and tries to hide his wide grin, eyes shimmering. 

By the time it’s all over, he holds the both of you to his vest-less top as he leans back beside your bare dewy skin, the small bundle kept to your chest with its gripping hands. John’s arm was around your shoulders, drawing you to him. You had fallen asleep not minutes prior, and the soldier kept watch as he always had when his girl was needing him. 

Well, girls now. 

He watches, not speaking, barely breathing, only pulling you closer to him as you sigh and shift. The baby, his and yours baby, gargles and kicks her little feet until he shifts a hand to assist your own in cupping her higher. His smile is uncontainable, just like the sudden glossiness to his eyes at such a tiny weight in his grip.

John watches, and he comes to a conclusion as he presses a deep kiss into your scalp, his thumb taken into the smallest grip that has ever held it. 

There was never a more beautiful sight than the one right in front of him. 

#girl dad price - that is all #cod #cod x reader #cod x you #cod mw22 #call of duty x you #call of duty #mw2 #mw2 2022 #pregnancy #giving birth #x female reader #call of duty mw2 #john price cod #john price #captain john price #captain price #cod mwii #cod mw2 #john price call of duty #john price x reader #john price x you #drabble

[happy-beeeps]

Sweat it out

Summary: tav comes down with a nasty flu, and one of her travel companions begins to worry... and maybe realize his feelings

WC: 1.3k

warnings: none i think! idiots in love

f!tav x reader

It’s quiet outside Astarion’s tent as he paces back and forth. Halsin has been inside with you for far too long, and the lack of communication has him worried. How long has it been since he hasn’t ended the night with your words, your breath near his? Weeks, months?

He doesn’t like to think of it. In fact, he’s doing an excellent attempt at thinking about anything else as he paces, and fails to notice the clatter of their camp members walking over to him.

“Chin up soldier, the rest of us seem okay, it probably has nothing to do with her tadpole.”

“Karlach is right,” Gale agrees, “it seems unlikely that the rest of us would be spared the same fate if this truly was connected to our wormy affliction. She will pull through.”

As much as it pains him to admit it, Gale is right. For all logical sense, this should have nothing to do with the mind flayers—but the thought offers little comfort (few things hinging on Gale’s ideas rarely do.) 

It has started this morning, you had remarked how your head felt wrong. You felt wrong. You had ignored it, had soldiered on. As the day progressed, you complained of aches that had not been there, of chills that ran down your arms. Your skin grew pallor, covered in a sheen of sweat. By the end of the night, a cough ragged at your chest, and you could do nothing f else but whimper to yourself. The slightest motion had set tears out of your eyes, your skin burning itself to rid your body of whatever was happening.

Only Halsin, Lae’zel, and Shadowheart accompanied you now, the two healers were working overtime on an attempt to find your ailment, and Lae’zel was not easily persuaded to leave behind one of her dearest friends.

Astarion thinks of the dagger pressed to poor Wyll’s throat when he kindly attempt to guide her towards a spot nearest the fire.

He’s worried about you. This isn’t new, he’s made peace with the reality that he cares for you, he just hasn’t figured out how to say it. Now, he fears the opportunity may be slipping from him.

It’s Halsin’s booming voice that calms his nerves, he and the other two step out from the tent, his grin palpable even from where Astarion is standing. “She’ll be fine. It’s a nasty virus, I’ve given her a brew to aid in the healing, and I’ve created tonics for the rest of us.”

As he passes them out, Shadowheart walks up to Astarion, who is quickly making his way towards your tent. “You… don’t need a tonic. On the account of you being, you know. Not really alive.”

“You’ve got such a way with words, really,” he breathes, but his eyes flicker to the flap of your tent, “so I can go see her?”

Lae’zel speaks up, placing a firm pat on his arm as she walks by, “she’s certainly been asking for you.”

* * * 

You have two clear, feverish trances.

The first is of your mother. A memory that’s not uncommon, one you drift back to anytime you attempt to rest an illness away. Its familiarity brings comfort as you attempt to sweat this bug out, and ignore Halsin and Shadowheart’s proding over your body. 

The other is… newer. One you hadn’t expected. You’re in a secluded section of camp, feet tapping against the water, skin swathed in moonlight. Your wearing nothing other than a long, white shirt, unlaced dangerously along the neck. This is no more than two days ago. 

You follow the memory along, watch from your eyes as you trace circles along your bare thighs, until you look to your side. Astarion is there, eyes swimming with emotion, as he gnaws on his lip.

Memory Astarion reaches out, grabbing your hand, weaving your fingers together. “I’m glad you’ve convinced me to stick around after our escapades, you are entirely addicting.”

Memory you leans against him, pressing your weight against his. His skin is cool, the chill sending tiny bumps along your exposed legs. “I’m glad you’ve decided to humor me, Star.”

You’re mortified when your eyes flutter open, your mouth in the process of muttering his name, to realize he’s here. Next to you. In your tent. As you sweat through probably a third pair of smallclothes.

“You rang?” He’s cheeky when he speaks, but his hand goes to palm your stomach quickly, as if he’s checking to make sure you’re here, you’re still you. The concern is sweet, and it sends an all new kind of flush across your body.

“Feel so sick, Star.” Shit. Is that tiny little voice coming from you?

He moves then, gentler than he’s ever moved before, carefully contorting his body around yours and pressing you against him. In an instant, it’s like a salve to your soul. You’re covered in him—his smell, his weight, his temperature. The chill itself is a whole other soothe to your aches. 

“I know you are darling, but Halsin said you’ll be better soon.”

“Can’t get you sick,” a cough takes your lungs briefly, “who’s gonna pick the locks for us then?”

He laughs, and smooths a few stray hairs out of your face. “I won’t. Officially medically cleared, according to Shadowheart. On the account of my ‘not being alive.’”

You move to nod your head, but the pain makes you stop. Astarion is quick, and he cushions the movement with his hand before pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I hear you were dreaming about me?”

“Maybe. Lots of trances. You know how it goes.”

“Was it particularly scandalous? Is that why my little love is so keen to swear?”

“Don’t have it in me to hit you.”

“You wouldn’t dream of it.”

It’s a calm silence that takes you next, Astarion stroking your hair as you listen to the distant clamor of your friends. You break it, after another moment.

“I remembered my mother.”

You don’t often talk about your family, and he knows this. He moved just slightly so you can see his face, curiosity and warmth covering his eyes. “What was it?”

“When I was little, I got sick, nothing bad but still sick. My mother, she’d rub my hair and sing to me,” you pause to close your eyes, as if you could will her here right now, “she’d go to our kitchens and shoo the cooks out, she’d make me her special soup, and when she brought it to me she’d promise me she’d teach me one day.”

“She sounds lovely.”

“She was. Smart too. She always knew things about me that I didn’t know.”

“Oh, like what?” Astarion’s face shimmers with a laugh and you use the last bit of your strength to attempt a shrug and burrow into his chest.

“She used to tell me she knew I’d end up with someone older. Don’t know if she knew how old.”

After your words, as if in cue, your chest begins its steady rise and fall, and Astarion recognizes the twitch in your fingers. You’re trancing again. Which means he’s stuck with your words and their heavy implications.

Still, with the way your overheating body simmers against his cold touch, he resolved that he doesn’t mind their weight, not at all. In fact, he’d like more of your burden.

You don’t slip out of your trance that night, but feel the briefest ghost of a kiss on your forehead.

When sunlight rolls around, your eyes blink awake. You’re weak, you can feel it, but better. You go to sit up, but realize quickly Astarion’s weight is still against you, one arm cradling your head to his chest, one arm twisted beneath you. 

You’ve never quite felt so comfortable, so held. You don’t remember what you told him last night, don’t remember exactly what he said. Instead, you decided to live in this moment now, and pray to all the gods you’ll get to relive it again soon.

#astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion bg3 #bg3 #bg3 tav #bg3 fic #astarion ancunin #astarion ancunin x reader

[xztloux]

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿

↳˗ˏˋYandere/Dark Percy Jacksonˊˎ˗ ↴

▸ content warnings: kidnapping, injury, swearing, my shitty writing 🫶

▸ summary: Percy, a lonely god finds you injured in his temple and decides to keep you..

▸ A/N: this is my first time writing something yandere or dark or anything like that so sorry if it’s bad. No spell checks so stupid my be spelt wrong.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿

Perseus, son of Poseidon hero of Olympus, god of loyalty. Well, at least thats what camp taught you.

Percy accepted godhood many, many, years ago. Now the days blur together and as the days blurred together Percy stopped looking after his temple. He has outlived everyone he loved, his mother, his friends, everyone.

He locked himself in his temple letting years, decades, pass not caring for mankind, he became selfish like the rest of the gods. That was until one day, you, stumbled into his temple, an injured demigod. His temple was overgrown with vines and the smell of sea water lingered in the air.

You felt so happy to find a place to shelter in for the night until the rain passed, and to patch up your injuries, the place looked and felt abandoned so you just stepped right in. Yet you didn’t know how much you’d regret finding this temple in the future..

You stumbled through the doors wincing in pain as you held your side, that had been badly injured from a monster. Throwing down your backpack you slid down the wall, quickly searching for the bandages. The wound caused sharp and stinging jolts of pain but you powered through.

"The rain must be rather inconvenient for you."

Percy spoke as his voice carried through the entire temple, he had been woken up from his sleep when you stumbled in. He seemed rather calm for someone who had just been awoken from their slumber. Although, his voice was rather cold and detached, lacking any emotion."You're a demigod I presume."

Not expecting to have company you practically jumped out of your skin.

“Shit!” You yelled quickly grabbing your weapon (which really hurt your side) before you realised who or rather what he was, a god.

“Sorry—sorry you just made me jump..” you muttered looking up at him while holding your side trying to make the pain go away, you had this..weird feeling about him but you didn’t know what..

“Come here.”

You were in not position to refuse such help, especially from a literal god. So, you walked up to his throne and sat down, it was a bit cramped. Percy started to look at your injuries, analyzing them as he grabbed your wrists to pull your sleeves back and get a better look. He seemed to be rather interested in the way your injuries looked. His grip was also rather tight causing you to wince in uncomfortable pain. Yet the he seemed to completely ignore your flinch.

“I’ve heeled your minor injuries but the one on your side will take another week or two, to heal fully.” He stayed almost as if he was talking past you and not to you. You nodded in response getting off his throne and picking up your bag. It was a bit pathetic really you could hardly walk.

"You should probably rest a bit more."

He spoke bluntly as he watched you struggle with walking, his tone of voice was still cold. Which is weird seeing as he was talking to you. Usually the gods have a more.. friendly tone when speaking to demigods. It was all strange. He seemed to want you to stay here.. for a reason he hasn't told you yet..

“I don’t wanna cause any trouble..” you chuckled awkwardly “like you said my side will take about a week or two to heal..”

He raised a brow as he tilted his head to the side. The blank stare was growing more prominent in his eyes now. It was as if he couldn't understand why you'd want to leave, especially while you were still injured.

"Rest."

He spoke once again as he gave a firm nod. He was telling you to stay put.

“Okay..thanks..” yoh said smiling slightly before you put your bag down he led you to one of the bedrooms in the temple for you to sleep in. It was a nice place really considering the temple Was overflowing with vines.

Percy watched you as you made yourself a bed. His gaze was still focused on you as you got yourself comfortable enough to rest. He watched you settle for a while longer. He was rather silent as he continued to stare at you. When he finally spoke up he was still stoic and expressionless.

"You're staying here."

He spoke firmly and clearly. He was ordering you to stay here... not asking you.

You nodded slightly “till I’m better yeah.” yawning slightly your energy had been drained from his healing.. your head hit the pillow and immediately you fell asleep. Percy on the other hand..continued to watch you. He wasn't planning on letting you leave his temple until you were healed. As you laid down he just stared you down.. his eyes following you as you turned to your side.. he was.. fixated on you.. even while you slept.. he continued to watch you for what must have been hours..

finally two weeks had passed, you could finally leave and make your way back to camp, over those two weeks he’d warmed to you slightly but that bad feeling was still present. Packing up your stuff into the bag getting ready to leave.

“thank you again” you smiled at him as he sat on his throne, you were great full that he had helped you.

He had crossed his legs as he spoke monotone as always..

"It was no issue."

Although his response had been short and rather emotionless, he spoke with rather clear.. authority. He sat there watching you now. Watching you pack up as you got ready to leave.

"Are you sure you are well enough to leave?"

“Yeah.” You smiled at him before walked towards the doors of the temple. you tried to push open the doors but they wouldn’t move? You’d opened them easily before but now they wouldn’t budge..

“hey um..i think there locked or something..?” You asked awkward the bad feeling grew and grew..

He looked at you as you tried to open the doors and noticed that they were.. locked.

Percy then tilted his head to the side as he spoke.

"I locked them."

For some reason his response caused your bad feeling to grow further. He didn't say anything else other than that.. He seemed to wait for you to ask why he locked the doors.

“Well could you open them for me?” You asked him tilting your head slightly, you hoped he forgot to unlock them..

"No."

His voice seemed to have gotten more monotone as soon as he spoke, his stare was still cold as ever. His response just further added to your bad feeling.. you didn't know how much longer you could stay locked in here with him.. for some reason he seemed to want to keep you here.. before you could speak he spoke again.

"I do not want you to leave the temple."

He spoke rather bluntly as he leaned back onto his throne. He didn't elaborate on that response, though.. He didn't really seem to want you to know why he didn't want you to leave.. he just seems to want to keep you locked in here with him for some odd reason.

“B—but..” you tried to argue as you looked at him sitting on his bloody throne “but—“

He cut you off before you could even properly argue by speaking once again.

"Do not argue with me.

He stated plainly as the god spoke he looked down at you as he straightened out his legs that were crossed. He seemed rather serious, almost to serious when it came to you.

His expressionless stare was still fixated on you as he continued to speak.

"You will stay here, with me.”

You were trapped with a god who’s loneliness had driven him mad.. and there was no escape..

#yandere #yandere percy jackson #dark percy jackson #percy jackson x reader #percy x reader #percy pjo #pjo #pjo books

[hardly-an-escape]

A Close Shave | Dream/Hob | 2150 words | Rated G

tags: retired!Dream, shaving, unmitigated yearning and longing, the pining is probably mutual but you only get Hob's POV

“Been meaning to ask," Hob says. "How are you feeling about... this?"

He gestures to his chin, the stubble there, and across the table, Dream slowly puts down his spoon. Even more slowly, he raises one hand to his own chin and runs the backs of his fingers along the newly-grown layer of hair there.

It’s been a little over a month, and by now Hob is used to the speed – or rather, lack thereof – with which Dream finds it necessary to live his freshly-human life. A month, since Dream had chosen to live, and chosen to live with Hob, taking over the spare room and filling it with books and soft cardigans and snacks as he learned his own likes and dislikes as Dream-the-human.

It still feels to Hob as though there’s a minor miracle sitting across the breakfast table, now thoughtfully fondling the brand-new beard on his chin.

“Ah,” Dream says eventually. “You mean this. The hair on my face. Yes, I have noticed it.”

“I’ve never seen you with a beard before,” Hob says neutrally.

“I suppose I never felt the need to manifest one when I visited the Waking World,” Dream says. He returns most of his attention to his oatmeal. It still requires some concentration, to hold the spoon steady; to make sure it reaches his mouth without spilling. Hob watches for a moment, impressed all over again with Dream’s willingness to try.

“Does it bother you, having one now?” he asks.

“Why would it bother me? It is a part of my body, is it not?”

Hob, wisely, refrains from mentioning the other body parts and functions – the sunburn, the stubbed toe, the sensations of hunger and dizziness and nausea, the need for sleep and to relieve himself – which have bothered Dream an inordinate amount over the past four weeks.

“But do you like it?” Hob presses gently. “I mean, one of the great things about being human is that it’s pretty easy to change our looks, generally speaking. Maybe not as easy as just… manifesting. But still. You get to choose what you look like, whether it’s a beard or clean-shaven, or, or pink hair. Or anything. Infinite variety.”

Dream puts his spoon down again and brings both hands up to his face. His palms cup either side of his chin and his long, narrow fingers stroke gently, from the downy hairs peppering his cheekbones, down into the hollows of his cheeks (not quite as gaunt as they used to be, Hob notes with a swell of gratitude), and then along the line of his chin to where it ends in a devastating little point.

In the morning light, with his face framed by those artistic fingers and a look of such solemn concentration on his features, he looks like a statue; a religious icon, perhaps, contemplative and blessed. His eyes are closed and his rosebud of a mouth is very pink and very slightly open.

Hob has to dig his fingernails into his own thigh to stop himself from reaching out and running his own fingers down Dream’s cheek, or brushing his thumb along that unfairly soft-looking bottom lip.

“Hm,” Dream says finally. “I do not think I dislike the beard. But equally, I am not sure that I like it. I am not sure that my face… feels like me.”

“Well,” Hob says. “You can shave it off, if you want. See if you feel more like yourself. I can – I can help you. Obviously.”

Obviously. Obviously. He supposes it is obvious – it must be – how desperately he wants to help Dream. How abject his desire to make this fragile, human life a little more bearable, in any small way he can.

“Yes,” says Dream. “I would… like that. Thank you.”

Hob drags a kitchen chair into the bathroom. Digs out his softest hand towel and wets it with hot water before wrapping it carefully around Dream’s face and neck. He chatters idly as he gathers his supplies: random recollections about his favorite Turkish bath in London, which had gone out of business during the Great War, and the Russian steambaths and Finnish saunas he’s seen during his travels.

He doesn’t use his old straight razor much anymore, preferring a good reusable safety razor for himself when he’s going clean shaven, but he’s always found a well-honed, old-fashioned cutthroat to be more comfortable when shaving someone else. And he keeps his razors, like any tool, in good condition whether he’s using it regularly or not; the mother-of-pearl handle is clean and polished, the joint moves smoothly, and the blade gleams.

Dream watches through hooded eyes as Hob strops the razor and mixes up the suds of shaving foam. He loads up the soft bristle brush before removing the towel and making sure Dream is positioned in front of the mirror.

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” Hob says. “I’m going to start by just doing your neck and cheeks, clean up the edges a bit. You might like it more when it looks like an intentional beard, not just a couple weeks’ worth of shaggy growth. And if you’re still not feeling it, we’ll shave the rest. Sound okay?”

Dream nods, and Hob goes to work.

Touching Dream is – not difficult, not exactly. If anything, it’s too easy. Hob’s fingertips hunger for the soft brush of Dream’s skin, for the fluff of his dark hair, for his stubble and his slender hands and the little creases in the corners of his eyes. In those earliest mad days, when Dream hadn’t even been strong enough to walk on his own, Hob had manhandled him matter-of-factly. He’d helped him walk, and dress, and eat; taught him how the bathtub worked and washed his body, cheerfully ignoring the furious flush on Dream’s face at the indignity of needing to be cared for. They’d gotten through it.

He’s mature enough to admit to himself that he misses it, now that Dream has gained enough strength of body and mind to do it all for himself. There’s something so intimate about that contact with another person: about being needed in that particular intense way. It’s heady. The longing for it almost chokes him, sometimes, with how badly he wants it: to hoist Dream in his arms and cradle him against his chest. To wash his hair and rub him gently dry. To hold a cup of water or warm milk to those perfect lips.

But Hob, for all his faults, is trying so hard not to be an asshole these days. So he doesn’t touch Dream that way, now that it isn’t needed – now that he isn’t needed. No matter how much he might like to.

Until now.

Now, for just a moment, he lets himself indulge. Runs his hungry fingertips along the soft, vulnerable curves of Dream’s throat and the firmer lines of his jaw as he brushes on the shaving foam. Tips his head gently this way and that, revels guiltily in how biddable Dream is as he sits quietly in the chair.

Hob takes his time with the actual shaving, both out of caution (perhaps even a bit of terror, that he might inadvertently mark that precious skin) and out of a desire to linger over the experience for as long as he can get away with. Unfortunately, shaving just a person’s neck doesn’t really take that long, regardless of how carefully one does it. Within just a handful of minutes, he is carefully wiping the last spot of soap from the hollow of Dream’s throat and turning him fully toward the bathroom mirror.

“What do you think?” he asks.

Dream doesn’t answer right away. He turns his head from side to side, surveying his reflection. Then he tilts his chin up and runs his fingers down the newly-soft skin of his neck. Hob’s fingertips tingle. He knows the sensation Dream is experiencing, knows it intimately: the smoothness of the hairless skin, the slight tackiness of the moisturizer. Knows it from his own face, and from the faces of lovers over the decades, and even from poor, long-dead Robyn’s face, when he’d taught his son to shave.

He doesn’t say anything, and after a moment Dream meets his eye in the mirror.

“I think I would like to have the rest of it off,” he says. “If you would not mind…?”

“No problem,” says Hob softly.

They go through the whole ritual once more: the hot towel, mixing up the foam. Hob strops the razor again, just to be sure. This time he carefully rubs a little pre-shave oil into Dream’s beard to soften the hairs as much as possible, then covers his face with the thick foam.

“I don’t really know if the oil does much,” he admits, “but the last time I went for a proper shave at a barber’s, the bloke who did it swore by the stuff. I guess I’m a sucker for a good upsell. And it does smell nice.”

It takes much longer this time, of course. He finishes the first pass, wipes Dream’s face, lathers him again and goes for a second pass. He leaves Dream’s sideburns mostly alone, just taking them up enough to blend in with the hair falling shaggy over his ears – if Dream wants a haircut that will have to be another adventure, to a real barber or a salon, because Hob doesn’t trust himself with that kind of artistry, not where Dream is concerned.

He narrates as he goes, describing the best angle to hold the blade, how to gently pull the skin taut to avoid nicks, when to go with the grain of the hair and when to scrape against it. Reminiscing further on his favorite barbers and spas and on a broad history of facial hair and shaving. He is babbling a bit, he knows, but he tells himself it’s for educational purposes; that this kind of general knowledge could potentially serve Dream well as he navigates a new human life.

He’s certainly not talking in order to distract himself from the sensation of Dream’s skin and the soft sounds of Dream’s breath, or to stop himself from saying something much more revealing and embarrassing. Like how he wants to take care of Dream for the rest of time. Or how badly he wants to see if his skin is as soft all the way down as it is in the tender place just behind his ear. Or how fiercely grateful he is that Dream has chosen to live, to try, to be here, to sit in a kitchen chair and eat oatmeal, to sit in this bathroom and let Hob run his fingers down the line of his jaw, over and over, trying to memorize the feeling of every inch of skin he’s allowed to touch as he runs the razor over the valleys of Dream’s cheeks.

He will never run out of words to say to Dream – or words he wishes he could say – but eventually he does run out of skin to shave. At his direction, Dream leans over the sink and rinses his face with cold water, then gently pats in aftershave while Hob meticulously dries his razor and clears away the shaving tackle.

Then it’s quiet in the little bathroom for a long, long moment while Dream reexamines his face in the mirror.

“Well?” Hob says eventually, so low it’s almost a whisper. He allows himself one last touch. Drops his hand onto Dream’s shoulder and squeezes gently.

Dream makes eye contact in the mirror, and Hob is shocked by a swift bolt of recognition. Here, in front of him, is Dream – his Stranger, his centennial mystery – so different, so human, and yet, suddenly, so familiar. It could almost be 1489 again, save the electric lighting; his hair is nearly long enough, and the imperious pout is back on his lips.

And then he opens his mouth.

“Hob, I –” he trails off. Breathes. “I am me.”

Hob squeezes his shoulder again. “Of course you are.”

“No, you misunderstand. I – I recognize myself,” Dream says, unconsciously echoing Hob’s thoughts. “I see a man, and he looks like me.” He meets Hob’s eye in the mirror once again. “I – thank you.”

Dream’s eyes are, unaccountably, welling up with tears, as beautiful and delicate as the rest of him. Hob does the only thing he can think to do, which is to drop his chin to Dream’s shoulder, lay his own hairy cheek alongside Dream’s newly-smooth, freshly-scented face, wrap his arms around Dream’s bony chest, and hold him.

One of Dream’s hands comes up and wraps itself around Hob’s wrist, and they stay that way for a long time: Dream in the kitchen chair, in front of the bathroom mirror, and Hob behind him, holding him, crouched somewhat uncomfortably, but exactly where he wants to be.

---

this has been languishing in my drafts for absolute ages and I wish it hadn't taken me so ding dang long but it is what it is || this two cakes situation is inspired by @watercubebee's art and dedicated to her and @valeriianz 🎂🎂 || art, Kris's ficlet (plus part two)

read on AO3 >>>

#hello I am once again posting barely edited fics in the wee hours AS IS MY WONT #do you know how long I've had a tab open with the wikihow article on shaving with a straight razor?? it's been WEEKS #someday I will improve on my current writing speed of twelve words per day smh #my writing #dreamling #the sandman #dream of the endless #hob gadling

[drferox]

My MS Diagnosis

So I’m approaching the 2 year mark since my Multiple Sclerosis diagnosis and I thought I’d better document how I got here, because being the patient is a weird experience, especially for a condition that had kind of vague symptoms that needed a fair amount of work up.

My symptoms actually started in early 2020, when I was in the third trimester of pregnancy. The main symptom was mistaken for carpal tunnel syndrome - numbness in my fingers that would progress to increasingly violent pins & needles sensations, that would progress to burning if I tried to push through it. Only this sensation would extend all the way up to my shoulders at times. I stopped performing surgery, because not only was I unsatisfied with my lack of sensation to know what I was doing with my tissue handling, but the pain would get worse quickly in constrictive surgical gloves in the presence of patient warming. So I stopped performing surgery in late pregnancy and was told it would get better a few months after giving birth.

It did not.

So six months after giving birth, finding myself able to use my hands for short periods but still unable to perform surgery to my standard, I went back to complain to the doctor. I also couldn’t play video games properly, my arms would often be numb when I woke up, all the way up to my shoulder, and they were super temperature sensitive. Even hot water from washing dishes would set them off.

They sent me down a carpal tunnel work up - ultrasounds and talking to a neurologist. The short version is they did tell me I had mild carpal tunnel… on one side only.

Which did not make any damn sense considering I had symptoms on both sides all the way up to my shoulder.

The worst neurologist in the world could not explain to me why a mild problem on one wrist was affecting sensation all the way up to the opposite shoulder, and just said ‘it happens sometimes’. Now, I like to think I have a solid understanding of the basics of how a body works, and was really unsatisfied with this answer. They recommended I talk to a surgeon, since I’d already been doing a bunch of physiotherapy, but I decided not to. Surgery could have put my hand in a cast for up to 6 weeks, I had a 6 month old baby to care for at home and a partner who was useless at best, and abusive at worst. I could not afford the time in a cast.

So I went to try something else, visiting an osteopath to see what they could do about my ‘mild’ carpal tunnel, and while I’m there, these headaches I’ve been getting.

She spent a good long while stretching out different muscle groups, and found that certain neck muscle stretches changed the sensations I was getting in my fingertips. So whatever was causing the hand problem was coming from somewhere in the neck, and she recommended I get a CT scan.

Went back to my doctor to get a referral for a CT scan, and explained what was going on. He thought about it for a minute, didn’t voice his concerns, and upgraded it to a neck MRI.

That MRI found a demyelinating lesion in my neck. So went back for a full Central Nervous System scan and found a couple more borderline ones.

That sent me back to a (different) neurologist, had a proper neurological exam that found a few random patches of altered skin sensation in addition to the arm weirdness I had going on. So I was probably a MS case, but not particularly severe as MS goes.

To confirm it I needed a lumbar puncture to look for oligoclonal bands in by CSF. The lumbar puncture was a moderately unpleasant experience which then mandated that I remain lying down for 24 hours so that my spinal fluid didn’t spring a leak. With a baby and a distinctly unhelpful partner, I barely made it to that 24 hours.

And then… I sprung a CSF leak. Which is a jolly weird experience I can tell you.

When your CSF leaks from a lumbar puncture you will feel perfectly fine… when you are lying flat on your back, because your spine flops over the hole and plugs the leak. If you’re upright at all the spine flops away from the hole and it slowly leaks out, and you get more of this weird frontal headache that gets worse the longer you’re upright, standing there talking to the ER admissions nurse. And the info I had explained that it can progress to seizures and similar the worse it gets, but I only got as far as pain and fuzzy vision. I seriously could only be upright for ten minutes without pain, and had to lie down to resolve it.

That required some medicine-that-looks-like-magic to fix, called a blood patch. Doctors took some of my blood, fresh out of the vein, and inserted it into my spine approximately where the leak should be, so that the clot would cover the leaky patch. Self blood magic. It worked brilliantly, about an hour later.

The CSF tap ordeal confirmed the presence of the oligoclonal bands, and then I got stunted into the public health system, in a department specifically geared towards managing Multiple Sclerosis patients. They debated for a little while, at a multidisciplinary meeting, whether I was really MS or a Clinically Isolated Syndrome (which is like Multiple Sclerosis but without the ‘Multiple’ part), but settled on MS. Yes, Tumblr, I was nearly diagnosed with CIS.

The shoe thing took about a year from when I actively complained to doctors, or about 18 months from the first probable symptoms. That’s approximate because some things that were thought to be pregnancy symptoms could have been due to MS, like fatigue and leg weakness. I’m pretty lucky that I’m comfortable in hospitals and with medical procedures, am reasonably medically literate. I think the magic phrase that got things to happen quickly was ‘these symptoms are greatly affecting my ability to do my job’.

I don’t think my MS has progressed since starting the medication (and I’ll talk about the medication in another post). I’ve acquired one additional brain lesion since diagnosis, but I have no clue what physical symptom it’s associated with.

While some symptoms are better, I still cannot perform surgery to the standard or with the endurance that I used to,so I basically don’t any more. I can do about ten minutes, which is enough to bail a new graduate vet out of trouble, but not enough to take over completely for them. I’ve had a few years to think about it but I don’t know what the MS is going to do to my career, only that I can still practice for now.

It’s not great, but it could be a whole lot worse, and that’s how I got here.

#multiple sclerosis #MS #medical diagnosis #me the patient

[decaying-church]

Slashers: First Time Headcanons

Slashers x male!reader

Requested by anonymous: “Billy lenz, Stu Macher, Billy loomis (+whoeer else you want) first time with m!reader?????No pressure thank you in advance <33”

Summary: Slashers firsts time with the reader.

(A/n: I’m sick and it’s sucks :))

Warning: smut, overstimulation, cumming untouched, dacryphilia, cumming dry.

Characters (in order of appearance): Billy Lenz, Stu Macher, Billy Loomis, Brahms Heelshire, Herbert West.

Billy, in spite of his vulgar and lewd words, was a virgin. There’s not many opportunities for sex when you’ve been hiding in a attic for your entire life. Despite his lack of experience he can go for hours. Probably due to how much he jerks off- you were almost surprised at how long he held out- round after round, cumming on his own chest over and over again until he physically couldn’t anymore. Once he finally came dry, you knew it was time to stop, even though he wanted to keep going. He felt the effects of it the next morning. Feeling a bit lightheaded whenever he stood on his overly sore legs, whimpering whenever he sat down. He clung to you for a few days after, for safety reasons.

With Stu, it’s definitely not his first time having sex. Man’s a hoe. He’s been with many people, he’s topped and bottomed, he’s done it with complete strangers. Stu has been around the block, okay. But it was different with you, because you were actually dating and he actually loved you. That being said, he nearly lost his mind the first time you fucked. He’s been with many people, but none had him biting down on his pillow, cumming untouched with tears running down his face the way you did. Despite being a sobbing, overstimulated mess, he constantly begged for more. When you're done and you’re taking care of him afterwards he’s going to go be a little out of it, a dopey smile on his face as you tried to get him to drink some water.

Another hoe, just like his best friend, Billy has been with many people, but before you he's only ever topped, because he's a stubborn bastard who'll never admit what he wants. And what he wants is to be topped. Even if it takes many, many weeks for him to admit that. When he finally does, he's a natural. Truly and honestly. From his experience as a top, he knows which positions will feel good for you and even better for him. Definitely, the type to shoo you away after. He does want to be comforted and held but he won't let you do it because he's a fucking masochist.

A surprise to no one, Brahms is a virgin. Again, there aren’t many opportunities for sex when living in the walls of your parents house. He’s nervous, but his excitement overrides it. I’ve said this before, he’s touch starved, overly sensitive, and quite loud. All things that became obvious during his first time. His thighs twitched and tried to slam shut around your waist, clawing at your back as he let out a long moan. You’d hardly even done anything yet, just barely pushing inside him and he was already panting and whimpering. He doesn’t really know what sex is supposed to feel like so he keeps asking you to try different paces and positions with him. He ended up cumming before you, and he wanted to hold out until you finished but it quickly became too much and he had to tap out. He felt a little guilty about it but you reassured him that it was okay, he was able to enjoy that post-sex feeling a little more after that.

Herbert isn’t a virgin. He’s had sex before, but only as a form of manipulation. It’s fucked up but honestly you found it kinda cute. He’s never had sex for pleasures sake, so you decided to give him as much pleasure as he could handle. It happened in his lab, bent over the only clear surface. In a weird way, he's kinda used to sex. Well, normal, primarily straight, 10-20 minute quickies. So going into having sex with you he expected it to be just as dissmisable as the other times had been. But it wasn't, it was passionate, and loving, and probably rougher than it should have been. But above all else it was good. Something Herbert hadn't thought about sex…ever. In the end he's laying on the table, trying to think of something slick to say, but nothing comes to mind. The two of you do eventually have to sneak upstairs, but not before Dan makes a comment from his room about the noise.

Reblogs>likes

#billy lenz x male!reader #billy lenz x male reader #billy lenz x reader #stu macher x male!reader #stu macher x male reader #stu macher x reader #Billy loomis x male!reader #billy loomis x male reader #billy loomis x reader #brahms heelsire x male!reader #brahms heelsire x male reader #brahms heelsire x reader #herbert west x male!reader #herbert west x male reader #herbert west x reader #slashers x male!reader #slashers x male reader #slashers x reader #male reader #male s/o #male!reader #male!s/o #reader insert

[cupcakeslushie]

Hello,

HOLLY SH*T (about the last update)

When Leo gets his memories back does he also remember those (f*cking)400 days?

How would Leo have grown up to be like, if his memories weren't taken from him? (would he have become kind of like Donnie?)

will he ever open up to someone about this?

Does he have some kind of triggers left from the experience, even though his memories wee taken from it?

I adore your work and Have a great week 😁

1. 🤗

2. So, Leo’s issues are like a leak in a dam constantly trying to be held back. Kitsune’s magic can suppress or manipulate his memories, but a lot still manage to get through. Hence the need for the repeated sessions, and then later the Empyrean, to act as a booster to her magic—as Leo has built up a tolerance over the years, making it less and less effective. Leo does remember some things. Unfortunately, every time he starts to ask questions, he’s been so conditioned to seek out Kitsune to ‘fix’ his mind and suppress his emotions. But some of his memories were impossible to erase completely. They followed him around like little shadows, haunting him, and his choices. Leo is not stupid. He more discerning than he let’s on, and like Saki said, fear can be a powerful motivator. By the time Leo’s managed to claw his way up to a better position, he’s been fed so many lies that he doesn’t even trust his own reasoning. It’s just easier, and less painful to follow orders, no matter what his brain is constantly trying to tell him.

3. Tbh Leo probably wouldn’t have been very different from how he is. Shredder is a lot more…calculating in his abuse of Leo, than Draxum was for Donnie. Draxum was so unpredictable and volatile in his abuse. Everything that Donnie tried to do better, never seemed to help lessen his torture. It was just pain for the sake of pain. Shredder may be a monster, but his abuse had a goal—to make a warrior he could puppet into killing Yoshi. Saki didn’t just provide constant trauma, he gave positive reinforcement when Leo did something right, and used careful manipulation to bend Leo over to his side. All Kitsune’s spell did was make it easier and faster. If Shredder hadn’t had magic at his disposal, then it would’ve just taken more time and effort to break Leo and remold him, or Shredder might’ve just cut his losses and killed him.

4. Leo doesn’t want to burden his brothers with things that have already passed, and that feeling only gets stronger after he’s been saved from the Dark Armor. He’s constantly insisting that he doesn’t feel one way or the other from those days. It happened, but he says he feels so disconnected from it all. Leo’s earlier return to his family had already been filled with so much fighting, thanks to his withdrawals when he was first brought home causing him to act so erratic. Leo thinks as long as he’s not shouting at his brothers, or trying to attack Splinter, that he’s dealing with everything pretty well. Obviously that’s bullshit. But he’s gonna do a lot of healing during his trip with Usagi.

5. Leo’s worst triggers are when his family is in danger. Those times are when he falls back into either total bloodlust, or a more ruthless mentality, in order to protect them. Leo getting recaptured and thrown back into a cell will be like a wave of memories and trauma hitting him at full force. Like I’ve mention in point 1. He never totally forgot certain things, but the months spent free of Kitsune’s influence makes his second capture so much worse. He’ll be feeling all that fear and panic unfiltered, for the first time in years, and he’ll be able to recall the true horror of it—not the watered down, warped simulacrum Shredder wanted him to remember. Which loops back to point 4 about Leo’s lack of admitting his feelings being a coping mechanism. Once he gets rescued, unconsciously, he’s trying to mimic the dampening effect of Kitsune’s spell, by insisting through sheer force of will, that everything is fine. He can only convince himself that he’s unaffected by everything he’s experienced for so long.

6. Thank you!!! I hope you have an amazing week as well!

I’m sorry if this is kinda rambling, all these ideas be more clearly implemented in the comic, (at least I hope lol).

I also can’t remember how long ago I’ve even talked about Leo’s memory problems in one of these replies. I might be totally backtracking cause I think I’ve said before his memory was wiped completely, but I’ve been thinking it would give more complexity to his choices, if it was revealed his memory was actually more intact than Mikey’s this whole time. Mikey brain just needed a little boost from Raph, because his issue came more from him being so young that things faded over time. With Leo, it’s like a battle where his brain is trying to latch on to what it can to fight the effects of Kitsune’s spell. So his memory may be full of holes and beaten with a stick over and over, but it’s still knocking around in Leo’s head.

#rottmnt #ask slushie #rise of the tmnt #rise leo #Sep!au infodump #rottmnt separated au #separated au #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #ew au #empyrean weeping au

[jeni-furinasdarling]

College!au Furina finding out that you’re sick and takes care of you <3

cw(s): fluff, babying, praising, usage of petnames, not proofread, kind of rushed, men dni.

pairing(s): furina x fem!reader

a/n: first yet tiny fic about furina! enjoy <3

in you and furina’s dorm, you were studying for the upcoming college midterm exams that was already in two weeks. you started to feel lightheaded due to the lack of sleep but you didn’t mind it. the room got slightly colder despite the ac’s temperature being at normal and you were already shivering a bit, but you didn’t mind it either. you were too focused on studying.

after a few hours of studying, you fell asleep on your desk, giving in to your tiredness.

“I’m back!” furina suddenly screamed from the living room as she closed the door behind her and took her shoes off, placing them on the shoe rack. she just came back from buying groceries (probably bought macaroni again) as she placed the bags on the counter. then, she went to your room and saw that you were sleeping on your desk. she smiled softly at how adorable you looked, sleeping on your books and notebook before approaching your sleeping figure.

“such an adorable sleepyhead I’ve got here,” furina muttered to herself as she ran her fingers through your hair. then, her eyebrow raised when she felt how warm you were. then it hit her. “fever...” furina muttered again. she had to wake you up.

“pretty girl, please wake up. your temperature is high,” furina whispered softly as she gently shook your shoulder.

you stirred awake and slowly opened your eyes to see your pretty girlfriend. you let out a quiet and tired groan as you sat up, looking up at her.

“you’re home..” you whispered with a weak smile. furina then pressed her hand against your forehead, frowning at how hot you felt to her hand. she then cupped your face in her hands.

“yes, baby. I’m home, and you’re burning up.” furina whispered. “allow me to get you to bed.” she added as she was about to wrap her arms around you, but was stopped when you shook your head.

“no.. I have to study.” you whined.

“I barely even studied for midterms yet and now I have to take care of my sick girlfriend.” furina retorted with a giggle. “so be a good girl for me and let me take you to bed.” she said firmly, seeing the way you pouted. you had to surrender yourself to her in order to not have a pissy lover in your room. furina lifted you up in her unexpectedly strong arms, carrying you bridal style. her strength was not to be underestimated.

as she did so, she walked towards your bed and carefully placed you there, tucking you in. she placed a gentle kiss on your forehead as she whispered,

“wait here, okay? I’ll go get a glass of water for you and some medicine. don’t try to stand up or else I won’t cuddle you.” she warned. she knew you were going to protest.

“gosh, fine.” you rolled your eyes and sighed. furina smiled and patted your head before walking out of your room, leaving you sleepy.

moments later, she came back with a glass of water and medicine in hand. she walked towards you and sat beside you on the bed, giving you the medicine and water.

“drink up,” furina ordered gently as you obeyed. as you drank the medicine and water altogether, she took the glass and placed it on your nightstand. then, she got under the covers with you and shared her body heat to you by cuddling you close to her. she ran her fingers through your hair in a soothing manner as your face was buried into her neck, taking in her scent as it brought comfort to you and your mind.

“thank you, my love..” you whispered tiredly with a yawn as you started to get sleepy because of furina’s fingers playing with your hair. it just felt so comforting, as furina gently pressed a kiss to your forehead, the tip of your nose, your cheeks, and lastly—

“h-hold on, I don’t want you to get sick..”

“oh, come on~ just a tiny little peck on your lips. I wouldn’t get sick by just that. what’s the worst that could happen, my dear?”

the next day...

“look at you, all bedridden. and who said that she wouldn’t get sick just by giving a sick person a kiss or a peck on the lips?” you shook your head with a sigh, seeing the way furina started to sneeze while laying on the bed. she flashed a shy smile at you.

“a-as long as it’s from you, I wouldn’t mind getting sick at all!”

#furina x female reader #furina x reader #furina fluff #genshin impact furina #furina x you #genshin impact imagines #x female reader #genshin x reader #x reader #genshin impact x you

[frozenjokes]

Another Much Needed Follow Up About Love and Aromanticism, Where It’s Time We Cleared Things Up. Oh, And Mumbo Is Here Too.

this fic can be read on its own as a one shot, but I would recommend reading this first, as the context provides a little more insight on why the characters are reacting the way they do to each other

Over the course of a couple weeks very little changed. Mumbo spent the majority of his time planted in one place, anchored somewhat in the shallows so he could lift his head and listen to what the humans were doing on the days they came around. As much as it pained Mumbo to be so still so much of the time, it was a necessary evil if he ever wanted to heal, and he very much did. It didn’t matter how little he moved his tail at this point, anything he did would only result in his condition worsening.

If it wasn’t for Scar, he would have left a while ago. The humans didn’t come every day anymore, but they came often enough, and they certainly noticed Mumbo’s lack of activity. Grian tended towards keeping his distance, which didn’t bother Mumbo at all, but Scar really went out of his way to be there; sitting close (a gesture Mumbo was beginning to mind less), bringing him human trinkets to look at and play with (always exciting), but most importantly Scar brought food, and a lot of it at that; Mumbo wouldn’t have been able to stay without it. He often wondered where Scar got the many bags of fish he brought; it wasn’t all very fresh, so it was probably supplied from a human stockpile, but regardless, Mumbo was grateful. He wasn’t often in the best of moods and didn’t speak very much despite the fact he was sure Scar would have been ecstatic to talk with him, but he hoped regardless that Scar knew how deeply grateful he was.

Today, Scar and Grian were sitting on the shore together, shoulder to shoulder as they bent over one of their human activities. The first time Mumbo saw them drawing together, he had asked to see (saying ‘What’ over and over again seemed to have gained several different meanings over the weeks), but Scar had showed him that the paper they wrote on got ruined in the water, ripping easily, so it wasn’t something Mumbo could learn about personally. That was okay though, he was content to watch.

“Okay,” Scar began tapping the writing utensil (‘pencil’) to his lips, “Do we have anything to revise about the list this week? I don’t think very much new has happened.”

“Read it again, will you?”

“It’s right here in front of your face, do I really have to?”

“We’ve been over this Scar, I’m conditionally illiterate. Like right now, you got me up early and I’m tired and the words are so far away and I don’t want to. Also your handwriting is atrocious.”

“I’m tired too! It’s not my fault my fish guy needed me to show up at 6 AM.”

“You have a car, Scar. And a license.”

“Oh hey! Look at this cool list!” Scar directed Grian’s attention back to the paper, Grian only rolling his eyes before letting Scar continue. “Well, I won’t go into detail on my notes about what he eats because that’ll just bore you, but to put it simply, basically everything that’s got meat on it. Fish, shellfish, red meat, chicken, mostly just fish is what I’ve been giving him though, since I’m assuming that's what makes up most of his diet. Want to make sure he gets all the proper nutrients, you understand, you understand.”

“Uh huh.”

“As for ‘Likes,’ we’ve got fish, human stuff, Scar, Grian-”

“Scar first?” Grian cut his friend off with a raised eyebrow. Scar blinked several times before answering.

“What?”

“Scar, Grian. You put your name before mine.”

“Well this list wasn’t meant to be in order, but if it was, my name would absolutely go before yours.”

“What! No it wouldn’t. He likes us equally. Mumbo and I have a mutual understanding that we do not want to be anywhere near each other most of the time. We respect each other. From a distance.”

Scar smirked, throwing Mumbo an amused look as if he understood anything that was going on. “You know if you wanted to you could also bring him gifts and stuff. Nothing is stopping you. You could even bring him his fish if you wanted to, he wouldn’t know the difference. I wouldn’t care. There’s really nothing to be afraid of, especially now when he’s so docile like this.”

“I’m not afraid of Mumbo.”

“No?”

“If anything, he’s afraid of me, Scar. I got him in that net, I’ve gotten close to killing him a couple times- he knows it, Scar, he knows. He knows what’ll happen if he steps out of line, that’s what. I told him. I told him all about it.”

“Did you now,” Scar chuckled, nudging Grian playfully, “Well in that case, I’m definitely sure he likes me more. And I’m sure you’re perfectly content with being feared, but if you ever change your mind, I’d be happy to help.”

Grian huffed, “I won’t. Continue though.”

Scar lingered for a moment, a gentle fondness etched on his features before turning back to the paper, reading, “Well, he plays around with those vines and roots and things sometimes, he clearly is very curious, he likes to learn, and I think he likes birds, but he might just be staring at them because he wants to eat them. I put bugs in our ‘Neutral’ category since every time I try to give him a bug he just eats it, but I can’t tell if he just eats bugs or if he’s scared of them or something.”

“I highly doubt Mumbo is afraid of bugs. I doubt he cares.”

“Well, you never know! In ‘Dislikes’ we’ve got nets, sleeping bags, being touched, fighting- actually this isn't super related, but I really want to set up a Good and Bad system with him. A thumbs up thumbs down kind of situation. I was thinking about it all last night- we aren’t very good at communicating what we like or don’t like, and this feels like a good solution, but I’m not exactly sure how to tell him clearly what I’m trying to do. How would he know thumbs up means ‘good.’ And vice versa? Maybe bad would be easier to start with, but at the same time he kinda seems like a bite first ask questions later kinda guy.”

“Oh, that’s a good idea. Definitely start with thumbs up. With any luck he’ll understand that thumbs down is the opposite and you can go from there. I think you could probably associate the gesture with things Mumbo likes. The tape measure, fish- he knows smiling is a positive thing even if he doesn’t smile himself, and he knows what ‘yes’ means as well. With enough of that, I think he’ll grasp the meaning pretty quick.”

“I think so too,” Scar paused for a moment, thoughtful, “You know, this doesn’t just have to be a me effort. You could come and speak to him as well. He would know you’re putting in the effort if you wanted him to like you more.”

“He likes me plenty!” Grian switched from relaxed to exasperated on a dime, throwing up his hands as Scar laughed. “He likes me, Scar.”

“I know he likes you. But I also know he doesn’t have the full picture. He doesn’t know how much time you spend brainstorming how to teach him things, or how to relieve his stress, or worrying when he’s not feeling well. I just want him to know you aren’t as distant as he probably thinks, especially if it bothers you. If you wanted to get a little closer and help me with the ‘good’ and ‘bad’ gestures, that’d be a start.”

Grian was silent for a long time, brows creased tight above his eyes. “Maybe,” he said finally, almost quietly, “But not today. I’m too tired.”

“Yeah, me too,” Scar sighed, content, letting his head fall to rest on top of Grian’s, who squeaked, jumping so hard he accidentally jabbed at Scar’s chin with his shoulder. It must not have hurt though, because Scar didn’t seem to mind at all, unmoving. Slowly, Grian untensed, his head falling gently on Scar’s shoulder. Mumbo had a somewhat ridiculous pang of longing despite still holding a strong aversion to any human touch at all. They just looked so relaxed- anyone would wonder what it was like to be human. Though, while Scar closed his eyes, Grian didn’t quite look satisfied, something like conflict sitting across his features. He sat like that for a while, eyes moving, but not quite looking at anything at all, apparent restlessness building. Then he stopped. Closed his eyes. Opened them.

“Scar, are you aromantic or are you just fucking with me? Because I outright refuse to believe anyone is actually this clueless.”

Scar opened his eyes. Silence. “Uh oh.”

“Uh oh???” It was safe to say the two of them did not look relaxed anymore, Grian jerking away, “Scar, what does ‘uh oh’ mean. You can not just say ‘uh oh’ and nothing else.” Mumbo’s fins raised at the tone of his voice, but Mumbo cringed back when Grian whipped around to face him with an aggressive point. “No. You stay. Scar, I need you to say more right now.”

“I-Sleeping, I mean, we weren’t sleeping yet- but resting like- not friends? Not normal? Bdubs- I am going to strangle that man!”

“So you’re aromantic?” The words leapt off Grian’s tongue like an accusation, but he relaxed almost immediately after, sighing into his hands, “You’re aromantic. Okay. Good. Okay.”

“I- I mean I don’t love labels. I don’t really know, I don’t know much of anything at all, really. I’m sorry, Grian, I didn’t- did no one tell you I have a horrible track record for these things? Did you want me to ask you out? I still can.”

“Goodness, Scar, no! You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, you’ve just been sending incredibly mixed signals and I needed to know what was going on with you before my head exploded and my brains went all over the place and poor Mumbo would have to witness that and we don’t want that, do we? We don’t want that. This is fine, though, we just need to work out some boundaries.”

“What if I did want to though? To ask you out?”

Grian stared. Scar stared back.

“You do not want to.”

“I’ll have you know, I like you plenty a lot! I like you all sorts of ways, and if you also like me, then that’s cool! I’ll tell ya, when I had my little politics phase, my campaign manager was this great guy, Bdubs, we’re still friends, too, have you met him? Anyway, he’s a pretty touchy guy as well and he convinced me all sorts of things were totally normal friend stuff. Oh, we had this great cushy chair in our office and it was only really meant for one person, but sometimes we’d both be so tired and just squeeze into it and it wasn’t any sort of comfortable at all, but in a way it kinda was. Like inside. You know?”

“Scar, do you actually want to ask me out or are you just saying that because you think that’s what I wanted.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Not what I asked.”

“Well, Grian, it really doesn’t matter to me either way!” Scar gave Grian a big smile, like these words were the ones that would definitively solve their dispute, but the expression started to drop when Grian looked mortified. “Is..” Scar started, unsure now, “Something wrong?”

Mumbo had never seen such a wide range of emotions cross Grian’s face before his head dropped onto his knees with a soft thunk. “No. It’s fine.”

Scar stared for a long while, a gentle churning of thought moving behind his eyes. He relaxed, scooching to give Grian a little space before smiling again, the expression soft. “Can I tell you a story?”

“Sure, Scar.” Grian’s voice was muffled between his knees, and given his face was covered, Mumbo had no idea how he was feeling.

“So there was this one time in high school where I was good friends with this girl, and she was awesome, just the best, and we hung out like constantly, and y’know how people get sometimes all pushy asking about dating and stuff, but you also know high schoolers who can’t communicate if their life was on the line. So all my friends are like dude, you guys are literally dating, aren’t you? And I say no! I insist we’re not every time, I insist! Yes, we went out together often and we talked for hours and her family had some money troubles so a lot of the time I offered to pay, you know, normal stuff, it was normal, I promise, but one day I get this call, right? From one of her friends! And this girl just starts ripping into me, like, seriously! She’s telling me all this stuff I had no idea about- telling me my friend is so confused, that she doesn’t feel pretty around me, that I’m always trying to avoid intimacy- that I refused to kiss her! And I was like what, whoa there! No one has ever tried to kiss me! Why are we talking about kissing people? She thought we were dating, Grian.”

“I got that.”

“And then she dumped me! My first breakup, and I didn’t even know! I was kinda bummed, too, I had always kinda wanted to kiss someone, but I thought they’d tell me first! Y’know, that they wanted to. I would have been so ready! The worst part is I think my guy friends were trying to tell me we were dating, not just teasing me. They also thought it was funny though, so. Who knows.”

“Yeesh.”

“I know, right! And this other time in college there was this other girl- we had mutual friends and stuff and we were at a party and just absolutely wasted and she grabbed me by the collar and she said ‘SCAR,’ she yelled in my face, she said ‘I’ve been FLIRTING with you for WEEKS and YOU’VE been flirting BACK. ARE YOU GAY?’ And I said, drunk, ‘A little bit!’ And then we danced all night. It was awesome. She was so cool. That kinda stuff happened a lot in college, actually. Guys are a bit more direct, which I appreciate. I’m a little stupid, I need the extra help sometimes.”

Grian tensed where he was sitting, quiet for a short pause before speaking, “You’re not stupid, Scar.”

“I mean. A little bit.”

“No. You’re not stupid.”

Scar was silent for a long while, staring despite Grian’s head still being buried in his knees. “I don’t know about that.”

Grian lifted his head, shaking it ‘no.’ He blinked a couple times before shaking his head again, a little more forcefully. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. I shouldn’t have done that, I should’ve just talked to you like an adult and told you how I was feeling. Sometimes you’re just really confusing, and that’s not your fault, you just.. go about the world in a different way. And it’s not a bad way either, it’s not wrong. If people can’t communicate exactly how they’re feeling to you, that’s a them issue. You’re not stupid. I’m sorry I made you feel that way.”

“I didn’t mean to lead you on. I never meant to hurt you.”

“I know, Scar. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“I really thought we had some sort of understanding- and I did mean it when I said we could give this a shot. I like dating, Grian, I always have a lot of fun! I can be- I know I can be- I have trouble sometimes, I just ruin good things-”

“Scar, stop, please. I don’t want anything you don’t want. Period.”

Scar didn’t seem to know what to do with that, staring uselessly at his own hands before looking back up. “I want it, Grian,” he stressed, his arms trembling, but Grian only stared, lips gently parted.

They both looked.. So sad. Mumbo longed to help, to sing, to do something, but he was stuck outside of their world.

Grian extended his arms. “C’mere, buddy.”

Scar collapsed into them, shaking as he did. Grian didn’t move, rubbing slow circles on Scar’s back while he cried. There was a certain focus behind Grian’s eyes, a certain calm as he held his friend close, and Mumbo.. well, it was clear Grian didn’t need Mumbo’s help. So that was the power of human touch.

He’d have to learn it one day.

#hermitcraft #gtws #goodtimeswithscar #grian #mumbo jumbo #hermitcraft fic #hermitshipping #scarian #desert duo #mumbomaid au #hermitfic

[juneknight]

.Be Lost.//1.5

Really wanted to offer something to yall while I deal with all the ramifications of real life right now. This is continuing the request a donator made for soft dom Marc <3 1k

*

“Glad we’re on the same page,” he says. “But this next part is just as important okay, so make sure you’re listening, yeah?” 

“I’m listenin’.” 

“If you want to cum, you get permission from me, first.” 

*

If there had been a masturbation hiatus before, there was a masturbation embargo now. Just as you were coming to terms with the fact that you could probably think of Marc (and have the best orgasm of your life) without feeling guilty or perverse, he dropped the permission bombshell, and suddenly the rug was pulled out from under you again. The last thing you wanted was for Marc to know how desperate you were all the time. 

But the thought of going behind his back, touching yourself and cumming without his approval…no. You just couldn’t do it. This dynamic was built on trust. He trusted you to tell him the truth, and you had given him your word. 

It was going to be a long winter. 

A week and then two comes and goes. Most mornings you wake up with a pillow between your thighs, foggy remnants of your latest Marc-dreams drifting away like smoke on the breeze. You don’t think that it counts, what you get up to in your honest-to-God unconscious sleep. You don’t feel the need to tell Marc every time you wake up hot and bothered, and you don’t feel guilty about withholding such information. 

One day he finally messages to ask: 

You been doing as I ask? 

Of course! you text back, a little waspishly. If he’s noticed your increasing crabbiness since that conversation in the dark two weeks ago, he hasn’t mentioned it. Yet. 

Alright, he messages benignly. He moves the conversation on to something else, but there’s no chance you can let that topic come and go so easily. 

Why do you ask? 

I was just curious, he says. But I figured maybe you just weren’t in the mood. 

Not in the mood? Has Marc lost his mind? That night two weeks ago you had been so turned on that you stepped out onto the porch, the bitter night air, whipping at your bare legs, just to calm yourself down. 

Before you can message back, your phone buzzes again: I’ve been jerking off every day.

You’ve never known words to have such a visceral affect on you. You feel like you’ve been punched in the gut, winded, lightheaded from lack of air. The image is in your head now. You can almost see Marc’s tidy apartment. Does he touch himself in the shower, let the water wash away his spend? Or does he do it late at night or early in the morning when he is still laying in bed clinging to the remnants of sleep? 

You ache. You shut off the stove burner so that you don’t burn your dinner and sit heavily at the kitchen table, phone on the oak in front of you. Bold as can be, you arch up and work your sleep pants off your hips, taking your panties with them. 

One hand pecks at your phone: Just go ahead and give me permission now then, and I’ll do it later after dinner. 

The other hand ghosts between your legs. Even this barest hint of a brush leaves your fingers coming away wet. You feel like you’ve been edging yourself for days with your own thoughts. Brushing the pads of two fingers over your swollen clit, you let out a choked moan that echoes around your tiny kitchen. 

I don’t think so, he says, phone buzzing on the table to get your attention. It has to be in the moment.

Whyyyyyyyyyy, you text, letting out an audible groan. You are so close, and you have barely touched yourself. Your fingers dip into your folds, tracing along the slick, swollen flesh. When you drag the wetness up over your clit, you nearly cum—it takes all your deep breathing exercises and relaxing the twitching muscles in your pelvis to let the pleasure recede. 

Your phone buzzes. 

So I can touch myself and maybe cum with you

Yeah, there’s no holding back anymore. Your body stiffens, a ripple passing over you from head to toe making you flash cold and then so, so hot. Your cunt clenches tight around nothing. 

You just have the foresight to smash keys and ask: 

can i ?,

And he must be sitting there with his phone in one hand (and his other in his pants, perhaps) because he messages back almost straight away: 

Fuck. Go ahead, baby 

It is the weakest, lamest orgasm ever, and it still leaves your legs shaking. Your head drops to rest against the wood of the table while you spasm and clench, emptier than you’ve ever been. It isn’t enough. 

again? you ask. 

Holy shit. That quick? You’re right there again already? 

marc pla, then you have to correct yourself; pls 

Go ahead, he sends. But you see him typing, and so you slow the frantic, messy rubbing of your fingers, edging yourself unconsciously. It is worth the wait: Can’t wait for it to be my fingers that you’re cumming on

Your next peak is stronger, deeper. Your back bows against the dining chair, cunt spasming as you work yourself through the release. You are so empty that you tuck two of your fingers into yourself afterwards, wishing they were thick enough to mistake for Marc’s. 

Sweat clings to your temples. The warmest you’ve been since winter began. Your phone buzzes on the table and your eyes widen at the preview of the text: From Marc 🌙 : Send me a picture of yo…

With your non-dominant hand, you type in your phone’s passcode and read: 

Send me a picture of your messy fingers

Fuck, he’s filthy. You’re filthy—literally, when you work your fingers out of your wet pussy and sneak them from your pants to look at them beneath the fluorescent kitchen lights. 

Your fingertips are fucking pruned. You’re soaked down to the base of your fingers, where they meet your palm.

“Oh God,” you groan. Shaking, you do your best to take a picture with your weaker hand. You send it before you can chicken out. It takes six entire minutes for Marc to message back: good girl.

*

Next Chapter: Here

#marc spector x reader

[odyssean-flower]

A random deleted scene from chapter 9

(have another deleted scene hahahaha i think i will get the next chapter done this week hahaha)

“Do you stare so intently at all the ladies you bring here?”

“No, only you,” Then, as if realizing what he just said, he hurriedly added, “Ah, what I meant is, you are the only one I’ve brought here.”

“Really?” That was unexpected. Or maybe not. He probably took them to high-class restaurants or society balls.

They were probably better conversationists, too, you thought as you looked at Neuvillette, who was now looking anywhere but you.

You had never asked Neuvillette about his romantic history. It was none of your business, and it had nothing to do with you, just like how your romantic history (or lack thereof) had nothing to do with him. You weren’t interested, really. Not even a little bit.

“Yes. Would I lie to you? I’m the Chief Justice, I would never do such a thing,” Neuvillette said. “And I am under the assumption that people on dates generally look at each other.”

“…I don’t see how being the Chief Justice preclude you from lying. And how would you feel if I stared at you in the way that you stare at me? Would you enjoy it?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “Perhaps, perhaps not.”

“Why would you not be sure? You didn’t like it when I did it before, did you?” Maybe he’s taking revenge on me? I did apologize, though!

“Have I ever said I disliked it?”

“It upset you, didn’t it?”

“I was more upset about how you avoided me.”

“Very well. I shall stare at you closely as well. I’m sure that will teach you how off-putting it is once and for all.”

You leaned forward and fixed your gaze on him. He looked back at you. Nothing could be heard except for the chirping of birds and the gentle lapping of water against the boat.

Three seconds passed. The sun was now high in the sky, but there was also a cool wind blowing, which helped offset the heat. Neuvillette’s hair swayed gently in the breeze, along with those long blue floppy things in his hair. What were they, anyways?

Five seconds passed. Neuvillette’s face so much as twitch. It was as though it was carved from marble. His eyes never left yours. He really was very handsome, wasn’t he? Come on, focus.

Ten seconds passed. If someone was watching the two of you from outside, they would probably assume that you were a couple of passionate lovers absorbed in each other’s eyes. It wasn’t that far off from the truth, though.

Fifteen seconds passed. Your eyes were beginning to water. You needed to blink. But blinking means I lose! Not that this is a competition…right? Neuvillette took another sip of water. He’s mocking me!

Seventeen seconds passed. You no longer remembered why you were doing this. You really needed to blink. A breeze blew a strand of your hair into your face and you tucked it behind your ear. Neuvillette’s eyes followed that movement. You smacked your suddenly dry lips together. Was it just your imagination, or were his ears turning red?

Nineteen seconds passed. You decided to throw in the towel. Your eyes were beginning to tear up. But before you could do so, Neuvillette cleared his throat and looked away.

“I see your point, Madame. I must apologize to you for my discourtesy. A lady shouldn’t be stared at in such a way.”

Hmm, so now he remembers. “As long as you understand,” you said.

There was another stretch of silence.

He really did look picturesque in the sunlight, even though he disliked it. Was that the curse of being beautiful?

A familiar urge rose up within you. It was the same feeling you had when you saw a pretty landscape, or when you spotted an unfamiliar flower. You wanted to preserve those things in some form and look at them again and again. You wanted some way to recall the feelings they inspired in you.

The question was perched on the edge of your tongue. It refused to come out. You felt your palms becoming slick with sweat. Your heart was pounding. Why were you so nervous? It was a reasonable question. It was normal to do such things on dates, wasn’t it? You had too many pictures of the scenery, anyways. And surely it would be smart to have proof of this date to show Furina…

You didn’t realize Neuvillette was calling your name until you felt him shake your shoulder. “[Name]!” Neuvillette’s eyes, filled with concern, were peering into yours. “Is something wrong? Are you getting—”

“Monsieur Neuvillette!” the words spilled out from your mouth before you could stop them. “May I take a photo of you?”

Neuvillette’s brows knitted together, as though he found your question incomprehensible. “I beg your pardon?”

Oh great, now you’ve done it. “What I mean is…would you give your permission to allow me to take a picture of you? Just one, I promise. I will never show it to anyone, it will be for my eyes only. If you want, I can even sign a wai—”

“Yes, I give you my permission. But on one condition.”

You stared at him. He looked deadly serious. Well, he always looked serious. “What is it, sir?”

“That you allow me to take a picture of you as well.”

“Huh? …Um, I mean, sure, if that’s what you want…”

You held the Kamera up to your face, aiming the lens at Neuvillette. The willow tree was behind him. He looked stately and dignified, if a bit stiff. He wasn’t smiling, which was disappointing, but that was alright. The shot had an air of mysticism to it. You adjusted the focus until everything was in sharp relief, before clicking the shutter button. You were no photographer, but you liked the result.

“Your turn,” you passed the Kamera to Neuvillette. You looked at your reflection, checking your hair and makeup.

The boat approached the island in the center. It seemed that Neuvillette wanted to take a picture of you in front of the willow tree as well. He helped you out of the boat. You expected him to tell you where to stand, but instead studied you, looking deep in thought. He seemed to be taking this much too seriously.

In the meantime, you decided to look around. The aquamarine branches of the willow tree seemed to cover the entire island and blot out the skies. You could definitely see why the ancients used to worship it. Maybe you could find some ruins of that worship here, some small fragments or something…

Snap! You heard the sound of a camera shutter. You turned and saw Neuvillette holding the Kamera to his face.

“Did you take a picture of me just now?” you were a bit alarmed. “I wasn’t ready yet.”

“My apologies,” Neuvillette said lightly, but weirdly enough there was a distinct lack of his usual sincerity in his voice. “I could not help myself.”

“We can do a retake,” you said.

“There’s no need for it. The photo is perfect as it is.”

#idk what i was on when i was writing this #my works #neuvillette x reader #neuvillette x female reader #genshin impact x reader #the winding path of fate

[imrllytootiredforthis]

Christmas Miracles

Pairing: Chan x reader

Summary: It’s Christmas Eve and Chan is still working, no matter how much you try to convince him to take a break

Warnings: Dom reader, sub chan, handjob, use of petnames (good boy, baby, etc), slight exhibitionism, probably more that I forgot

Word Count: 5.8k

A/N: This is way, way too reflective on my mental health rn, but really, who needs to actually confront your problems when you can just write an angsty, smutty christmas fic abt them?

That being said, 18+ minors DNI

It’s Christmas Eve.

Christmas fucking Eve and your boyfriend hasn’t left the studio once.

Not for food, not for water, not to simply say hi to you or the others, not for a bathroom or brain break. 

Not once. In fact, you don’t even think he’s taken a break from working at all in there. You know because you check in with him every hour and half.

And-you guessed it!

Every. Single. Time. He’s. Working.

Headphones pulled over his ears, fingers clicking keys and eyes glued to that computer.

And frankly, it was getting frustrating. Frustrating because you and the others have been waiting out here all day, talking, chatting. You’d come a few hours early to the secret santa gift exchange you and Felix had set up, with your gift for Han.

You made sure that you were there extra, extra early. Made sure to give your workaholic boyfriend lots of extra time to finish up his work, giving him periodic warnings every half hour to let him know just how long he had left. 

Every time he’d nod offhandedly, hum in acknowledgement but not really listen before he’d shoo’d you off, saying he knew and that you could stop mothering him.

And so you gave him some slack, getting off his back a bit as he requested, trusting that he would be able to regulate everything by himself. 

And when everyone finally got there, gathered around on the floor, ready for the gift exchange, you stood up and said that you’d get Chan and the activity could commence.

You popped your head into his studio, gently asking if he was ready. “It’s time, you ready? Got your gift?”

He spun around on his wheelie chair, looking at you, confused. “My gift?”

“What do you mean ‘My gift?’, Chan? We’re doing a gift exchange. Everyone’s here, that’s what I’ve been bothering you about for all day!”

Blank. Not a single thought in that pretty head of his.

He did not.

“Huh?”

Your jaw clenched. “You did not. Chan.”

He rubbed at his red eyes, the bags under them prominent from the apparent lack of sleep despite how many times you’ve told him to stop working and get a full proper night of it. 

“Wait-we’re doing a gift exchange-since when?”

You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. “The one that Felix and I set up like three weeks ago! We picked names from a hat!” You paused, remembering the day with a heavy sigh. “No, you weren’t there, but I gave it to you when you got home that night. I even remember-you had Hyunjin. You were asking me what I thought you should get for him.”

He nodded slowly, pursing his lips, eyes not meeting your’s. “...Still don’t know what you’re talking about. I have no memory of this happening.

“I remember, I told you that you were supposed to come up with it yourself, it was supposed to be special that way.”

Running a hand through his unruly hair that didn’t look like he had brushed in a while, he shook his head again. “Look, I don’t know, maybe it just slipped my mind, I don’t remember any of this.”

“Fucking hell, Chan! I told you about this, weeks ago! I told you last week. I told you a few days ago, I reminded you over and over and you told me you had it covered!” 

Finally leaving the doorway you stepped inside, shutting the door behind you, hoping no one else heard the outburst. When you looked back to him, it seemed you had already lost his attention, his eyes turned back to the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Turn off the damn computer and listen to me!”

And that was the final thing to have his headphones coming off, hesitating for a minute over the shut off button before deciding your rage over fighting over this particular thing wouldn’t be worth it.

The screen went black and he turned to you. And it finally hit you, the extent of his overworking.

He looked tired-exhausted, pale and unruly. He looked as if he hadn’t eaten or slept or drank anything in days. 

Rubbing a hand over his face, he groaned. “Look, I’m sorry! I’ve just been so busy with work-”

“And that’s it! All you ever do is work now! You cancel plans to work! We barely spend any time together because you’re working! The others barely ever see you because you’re working! Look at yourself Chan, you don’t look like you’ve even been taking care of yourself!”

“I just need to finish this one project and then I promise-I’ll take a break!”

“That’s what you always say! That’s what you said for the last project, for the one before that and the one before that and that’s what you’ll say for the one after this!”

He opened his mouth, but you cut him off. “You need to take a break and take a break now! No ‘one more hour’, no ‘one more day’, no ‘after this project is finished’! You are going to take a break now and you are going to not look at your computer until after Christmas.”

“But-”

“I don’t want to hear it.” You grabbed his arm, opening the door and pulling him out of the studio for what you could only guess and hope you were wrong was the first time in days.

The others smiled and greeted Chan happily when the two of you walked in. You smiled, pretending you didn’t see the obvious looks of concern passing between the boys. The walls were too fucking thin for this. 

They began shouting exclamations about how they felt like they hadn’t seen their leader in forever, congratulating you for finally being able to get him out the studio for once.

You side-eyed him all the while as he looked down at his feet, rubbing his neck and apologizing sheepishly. 

“Sorry guys, I’ll try to be more...present from now on...”

The others nodded and you clapped your hands together, gaining everyone’s attention with a “Well, anyway...does anyone wanna start this gift exchange?”

Cheers filled the room as you led Chan to the couch, sitting him down before taking your place next to him.

--

The rest of the night was fun, you received a spray bottle from Seungmin, telling you to spray Chan with it whenever he worked for too long. Everyone got a laugh out of that.

Chan got a ‘World’s Best Dad’ mug from Han and you could see him almost getting teary-eyed as he read it, pulling Han in for a hug and thanking him for the somewhat of a joke present.

Hyunjin seemed fine with the lack thereof of a gift but played it up a lot, pretending to be wounded by Chan, grabbing at his chest and falling to his knees in a fake sob of agony.

Truly, you enjoyed it.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d hung out with all the boys and Chan, forgetting sometimes really how close they all were, how well they knew each other and how much more than coworkers they’d become over the years.

You also greatly forgot how loud they all were. 

The laughing and constant clapping to accompany it, things shouted, so unhinged it had everyone laughing from just the absurdity of it.

Several times they got into ‘fights’ that were really just shouting with the escalation of someone trying to yell louder than the other until everything was incoherent screaming. It ended when suddenly the entire thing turned to laughter, all eight boys pretty much rolling on the floor with it while you sat there, very confused and slightly amused by it all.

It was the first time in a while you saw Chan so carefree and happy, so relaxed. 

It was nice to see.

Well, it was nice to see until he wiped the tears from his eyes from laughing too hard and suddenly he didn’t look so relaxed.

He looked tired again, woozy like he might pass out or something. 

You take his hand at look at him with a soft smile. “You good, Channie?”

He nods but his skin has taken on a sickly pale colour. “Yeah, yeah. I-i’m good, I think-I think I just need to go to the bathroom, yeah?”

“Okay...”

And like that he stands up, announcing to the others that he has to go to the bathroom, saying to not wait up for him as he trails down the hall in an almost unsteady manner.

You’re overreacting you tell yourself. You’re overreacting, he knows himself best, he knows his limits. He knows how to take care of himself.

You. Are...Overreacting.

And then he’s gone for ten minutes...

Fifteen...

Twenty minutes. 

“Wait, where’d Chan go?” Han questions, popping his head up from where he lays on the floor, rolling around and gasping for air from something Changbin’s said.

“He went to the bathroom, remember?” Lee Know replies, not even lifting his head up from where he lays.

You sigh, standing up. “I think, uh, that I’ll go check on him.”

They all echo okays and laughter, jokes about how Chan can’t even go to the bathroom in peace anymore, but at this point you could care less about the heckling.

All you care about now is hoping that this wasn’t what you had an itching feeling it was.

That he isn’t doing what you think he is.

But perhaps that’s too much to wish for on this Christmas Eve as you knock on the bathroom door twice, leaning in in wait for his response. “Chan? You okay in there, baby?”

No reply.

“Chris?”

Nothing.

“Chan...I’m coming in, okay?”

You try the handle first, unlocked, then you slowly push the door open, looking in to see...that you were right. He isn’t in there.

He better not.

You rush down the hall, hoping-desperately hoping that you’re wrong and maybe...you don’t know, but hoping that he had some kind of excuse as to why he wasn’t in the bathroom and you’re assuming that he never was.

Well maybe, maybe...he needed to grab something from the studio. Maybe when he went to the bathroom it was already in use, so he went to the one on the other side of the building. Maybe he...went to get fucking take-out...without telling you or the others about it...

They were all lame excuses and you knew they were all wrong as your feet led you to the one place you knew he would be. The one place he would be, doing the one thing you knew he would be doing.

“Chris?”

Your voice is wary, tired as the door creaks, slightly screeching as you pull it open.

“L-look! I can explain!”

And there he was. 

Sitting at his desk, his headphones pulled over his ears, his fingers hovering over the keyboard, on that goddamned computer.

The boys continued to laugh and yell outside but you still close the door, hoping that with their level of sound and the door it would be enough to mute your sounds. 

Your voice is deadly calm when you speak, masking the anger burning inside of you. “Then explain Chan-because I am really hoping right now that you have a good explanation.”

He looks down, hanging his head in shame and you know he doesn’t. “I’m...I’m sorry, I’m trying, I really am...it’s just there’s so much work to do and so little time to get it all done. I wanna take a break, I wanna spend time with you and the boys...it’s just...”

“It’s just what! I get it-you wanna get this finished,” The calm in you is gone, replaced with a near hysteria, shutting your eyes and clenching your fists as your voice rises in pitch. “You feel rushed and you feel as if you need to get it all done as soon as possible but you can take a break! You need to take a break!”

You move toward him, turning that spinning chair so he’s facing you. You take his face in your hands, forcing him to look you in the eye. “This isn’t healthy how hard you’re working! It’s Christmas-it’s a damn holiday and, and you’re working! Do you not understand, do you not hear what I’m saying?”

He opens his mouth, trying to look away but you don’t let him, don’t let up on the grip you have on him. “I-I do, it’s just-”

“No, do you actually hear what I’m saying? Cause Chris, I need you to hear me right now. I need this to cement in your mind, I need you to think and realize that this isn’t healthy! This isn’t good for you and it isn’t good for us and if that’s really not enough of a reason for you, then it isn’t good for the company. They can’t have you passing out on-stage because you haven’t been sleeping or eating or drinking.” 

You drag in a heavy breath. “So, do you actually hear what I’m saying?”

“Yes, yes, I hear you.”

You don’t notice the tears spilling down your face until his eyes are getting watery too and he’s wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you into him.

He buries his head into your stomach and shakes with heaving sobs. You pat his back, trying to soothe him the best you can as you cover your mouth with the opposite hand, trying to stay silent as you do the same.

And suddenly all of the energy drains out of you. The anger is replaced by pure exhaustion.

You’re crying and he’s crying and you’re clinging to each other, grasping at the comfort the other provides, the small cracks built over the past while finally breaking until a flood is released. 

Everything that’s happened, everything that hasn’t happened, everything that had to be said and everything that didn’t. It’s all there, silent and unspoken in the embrace.

It’s all there and you both understand it without a single word having been said. With just the tears and the touch and the wet spot that you’re sure is staining your shirt now as he buries his head into you. 

And suddenly you’re laughing, watery, hiccupy laughs that don’t really sound like laughs-and nothing going on right now is really funny but you can’t help it-because it’s Christmas Eve and you’re supposed to be happy, and it’s supposed to be the happiest time of the year, bright lights and warmth and family and you’re the exact fucking opposite right now. 

Because you’re both so, so fucking burnt out, so, so fucking tired and you’re both really, really done and all you can really do right now is cry.

You don’t know how long it’s for.

Until the tears run out and you’re staring at the wall blankly, playing with Chan’s hair as he clutches onto you, the waterworks stopped with the after breakdown sniffles present.

You’re not sure and don’t really care if the others heard you but if you strain your ears you can still hear their distant laughter clearly.

“Y-you okay?” You whisper, snivelling in a way you’re sure is unattractive but in all honestly you’re much too far past that at this point.

He doesn’t reply, only pulls far enough away to look up at you with big, sad, red eyes and even redder cheeks...and...oh.

Oh.

He pushes himself against you and you can clearly feel the large bulge pressed up against you as he looks up at you with those big sad eyes.

And now you’re kind of confused.

You’re not really sure what this means.

Now?

After that?

Maybe you’re just reading the context clues wrong but he looks at you and bites his lip, looking away shyly.

You sigh and pull him up off the chair, pushing him over to the couch in the corner of the room. He lands on it with a small oomph, still holding you by the waist and pulling you in close to him.

It’s a weird transition, from what just happened to this. From the tearstains still prominent on either of your faces to whatever this is. Whatever this is turning into.

But if this is what he wants right now, what he wants from you. Well then you’re going to give it to him.

“You’re gonna need to tell me what you need baby. Verbalize it for me.”

He sniffles again. “I just...I really need you right now. Will you just...” He mumbles the last part, turning pink under your gaze.

You sigh, looking at him with gentle eyes before settling against the opposite side of the couch against the arm of it. “C’mere.” 

He scrambles across the cushions to meet you, kneeling between your legs and tilting his head, waiting for you to give him direction. “C’mon baby, turn around,” He follows your lead until he’s sitting between your legs, his back against your chest, your resting chin on his shoulder. “Okay honey, ‘M gonna need you to tell me exactly what you need. Loud and clear so I can hear you.”

He shudders and you can tell he’s struggling to get out the words. “C-can you please...take care of me? Just wanna feel you.”

He paws at the sleeves of your shirt and you can tell what he’s asking for. Another time you might’ve teased him, played a little dumb, asked to elaborate on the request. But neither of you have the energy for that right now, so he’s granted that small mercy.

“Good boy, Channie,” He shivers at the words, squirming as you shift him slightly in order to pull off your own shirt, dropping it onto the floor to find later before feeling at the hem of his. “Can I take this off for you?”

“Yeah,” His voice is small and shaky as you pull it over his head, lifting his arms to make the job easier. And when it’s off and joined your own on the floor you’re already touching him.

You’re touching him and he’s sighing, relaxing, falling so quickly as your fingers graze his abdomen, tracing over his hard-earned abs and pecs, brushing over his sensitive buds. They harden quickly and he’s moaning, breathy little pants falling from his lips as his eyes slip shut-as you continue. Continue to touch and pinch and stroke and grope.

And over everything, it’s your voice that has every last drop of remaining tension in his body melting away, turning him into putty in your hands. Your voice as you whisper into his ear how good of a boy he is, how much he deserves this, how much he deserves everything and more.

He doesn’t think he could move even if he wanted to-and he doesn’t. Chan never wants to move from this spot-from this moment-here with you.

Your breath fans over the side of his face, leaving small kisses over his neck between every word. “Does it feel good Channie?”

"Nngh," he whines, not answering the question but this time it’s okay, this time you let it slide, continuing as his breathing quickens, moaning climbing higher in pitch as you gently ask the question again.

“Channie, baby? Asked you a question baby.”

He drags his eyes open just enough to look at you, pulling you against him into a short but sloppy kiss. “So, so good-please-please touch me, need it~”

For once you don’t ask him to clarify, if the bags under his eyes are anything to go by, he deserves this, deserves a break-a reward if you will-after working so hard.

Your hand fall to his hips and he whines at the loss. Chuckling lightly you kiss his cheek. “Patience baby.”

He nods breathlessly and gasps as you push his pants and boxers down, shivering at the cool air meets his heated skin and his cock slaps up against his abdomen. “T-touch me, please-please, need it so ba-”

His breath hitches, voice cutting off as you lick a strip up his neck, dragging your hand over his cock at the same time. You tsk him as he lets out an especially loud moan. “Patience, no need to get all worked up, s’okay.”

His is breath is gone, gone, gone, gone as his thighs reflexively shut at the sudden touch. You coo at him, placing your own legs between them and prying them apart.

His hips rock forward gently as you thumb over his slit, gathering his arousal and using it to slide your hand up and down him easier. “P-please.” He doesn’t know what he’s asking for but the words slip out instinctively, they feel right for the moment, for the desperation and need he feels, coursing, burning through his veins.

Your lips skip across the skin of his neck, nipping and licking at the unmarked skin. Hand starting slow and gaining in pace to match his pulse against your lips, squeezing the base as he loses more and more control of his body. His hips jumping up erratically, noises coming out louder and louder, higher and higher in need. 

“Gotta be quiet, darling, the boys are still outside.” You breath.

He freezes for a second, horror crossing his mind at the thought. But then the way your hand feels...gripping him, sliding up and down him. Sparks of pleasure explode behind his eyelids and all he can do is dig his teeth into bottom lip to keep quiet.

His hand falls to where your’s trails, up and down, up and down his chest, teasing and stroking. He grasps at your fingers, pawing at them clumsily. “N-need you,” He whispers, voice light and airy. Cute. Adorable in the way his body squirms against yours, cock pulsing in your hand. 

A small bead of pre-cum pearls at the tip, spilling over your fingers. “P-please,” he moans. “H-hold, nngh, h-hold my ha-hand.”

Your heart melts and you oblige his request, turning the hand over to intertwine your fingers with his. “Of course, such a good boy for me. Such a good, good boy.”

His body tenses, abs clenching and unclenching as he squeezes your hand tighter, almost painfully but you could care less as you continue, movements getting smoother and smoother due to the arousal leaking. 

He whimpers out loudly, toes curling as his body convulses. “Please-please-please-please, can I cum, can I cum, can I please-please can I cum?”

You hush him, kissing up his cheek, his temple, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. 

“It’s okay. Cum for me Channie.”

With the words his body tenses, breath hitching in his throat as his legs tremble, letting out a high-pitched whimper and, with a last throb, he cums.

Sticky white liquid spills over your fingers as he falls lax into your arms, panting and sweaty. His body’’s energy used up and drained. 

Completely and utterly boneless as you pull your hand away from his and use it pet back his sweaty hair. “How’d you feel baby?”

He sighs, “Great. Really, really great.” His eyelids flutter in a struggle to keep them open. “Thank you.” You hum, watching his eyes finally slip shut, lips pouting up. “Kiss me, please?”

With a small giggle you do, pecking those pouted lips once, twice, smiling while he pouts further, letting out an indignant whine. “Kiss me.”

You heart flutters in your chest and he moans as you claim his lips with your own, softly sliding your tongue into his mouth, kissing him breathless until you have no choice but to pull away.

Glancing over to his moniter on his desk the time shows clearly and you give him one more peck on the nose.

“Merry Christmas Channie.”

Tiredly, he whispers back, eyes already shut. “Merry Christmas, love you so, so, so much.”

You smile, pausing for a moment to hear that the boys outside have gone quiet-probably from having gone home if the time is anything to go by. 

“Love you too baby.” You murmur back, but he’s already asleep, lightly snoring with a slight smile on his lips.

He’s sleeping. Calm and relaxed, and finally, he’s taking a break.

Maybe it is a Christmas Miracle after all.

A/N: My taglist is open now here, hope everyone enjoys this and has a happy holidays!

@imsolovelylovely​, @hobihearteu​, @lino-jagiyaa 

#bang chan x reader #bang chan smut #chan x reader #chan smut #stray kids x reader #stray kids smut #stray kids #sub bang chan #sub chan #sub!stray kids #sub stray kids #dom!reader #dom reader

[pennyserenade]

wish you were here.

chapter five - fade into you | ao3 link | previous chapter

pairing: javier peña x female oc, javier peña x named female oc (mariella) rating: t (teen) tags/warnings: angst, brief mention of infidelity, alcohol word count: 2.1k summary: Mariella and Javier continue to feel their way through a friendship. a/n: sorry this is taking me so long to write. love you

A tattered floral scrapbook of Mariella’s sits, face up, on the table. She stands in the corner of her kitchen, looking at it as though it has wronged her in some way. And in some ways, it has. 

In one hand she holds a glass of water and in the other, her telephone. Henry Rath’s number has been typed in, and her fingers hesitate to dial it. The trip down memory lane has proved to be a bitter one. So much of her life had been documented in that scrapbook, from graduations to weddings to the first house, to the very last birthdays she and Henry would spend as a couple together. It was hard to ignore him when he was all there—a little piece of him merged forever with a little piece of her. 

She knew it wasn’t fair, what she did to him. Or rather, what she’s doing to him. In the past three months, he’s left a handful of voicemails she’s deleted before even finishing. She screens most of her calls, just on the offhand chance that it might be him, and each time it makes her feel wrong. At first, it started off with good intention—she wanted to leave him alone, to let him go back to his life. But eventually, the more she thought about what they had done, the more ignoring him became less altruistic. Every time she hears the phone ring, she thinks of him in that hotel room and that little girl that hung on his hip, and she wants as far from it as possible. 

She places the telephone back in its cradle. The excuses are endless: it is Tuesday and she works tomorrow, so she shouldn’t start something she doesn’t know she can’t stop; he probably isn’t home from work yet; he’s likely forgotten about it and to call and remind him now would be cruel; his wife could pick up; closure isn’t the sort of thing either of them are particularly good at. 

Mariella picks up the telephone again. She waits patiently as it rings. 

“Hello?” Chucho answers. 

She leans back onto the counter, swirling the water in her cup. “Hey, Chucho. I was wondering if Javi’s home.”

“Javi?” he asks, sounding surprised. 

“Yeah, Javi. I never thanked him for helping me with my classroom last month and I’d like to.”

There’s a beat of silence before Chucho speaks again. “Javi’s always home, just never know where,” the man laughs. “Would it be alright if I had him call you back? I gotta go find him.”

Mariella glances over at the scrapbook on the table. “That’d be lovely, Chucho. Thank you.” 

When he hangs up, she moves over and closes the book shut. If she wasn’t so goddamn sentimental, she might throw the whole thing away but she is, so she can’t. Instead she tucks it away in the cupboards over her oven, where she’s stored a lone bottle of tequila for about two years now, and then she sits back, waiting. The phone rings a few moments later and she doesn’t hesitate to answer it. “Hello,” she picks up. 

“Mariella?” Javier asks. His voice is low, almost a whisper. 

“I’m sorry I haven’t called you sooner. I wanted to thank you for the classroom. I’ve been using it for about a week now, and it looks wonderful.”

On the other end, she can hear him shift with the phone. “It was no problem,” he replies softly. Then, after a pause, he says, “How are you, Mari?” 

“I’m good, Javier.”

“That’s, uh, that’s good.”

“How about you?” 

More movement. “I’m good too.” 

“My dad says he hasn’t seen you in the movie store as of late,” she says. Javier coughs awkwardly. 

“No? I guess I’ve just been busy.”

“Busy avoiding me? ‘Cause if so, I assure you that’s a safe zone. I don’t work there during the school year, remember?” It’s meant to come out teasing, but, at the current moment, she lacks the exact humor needed to pull off the weight of that sentence. She punctuates it with a laugh that is more of a huff than anything.

He protests. “I—That’s not why.”

“No?” she asks simply. 

“No, not really. There’s just been a lot to do around here. We got new horses. There’s a fence that needs to be built. Chucho just needs me more than the television does.” He attempts to laugh, but it sounds forced. She doesn’t acknowledge it. 

“Think you could spare an hour or two to go get dinner with me?” 

“You want to get dinner?” he sounds in disbelief. 

She can’t help but laugh. “Yeah. One of my new student’s parents owns the bar downtown. They gave me two coupons for a free dinner.”

“Oh,” he replies. “Well, I’ll have to get cleaned up. Can you wait?”

“Sure.”

“Alright. I’ll meet you there at, uh—“ Another pause, “—how about seven?”

“Sounds good.”

“Alright, see you then,” he replies. 

“Yeah, bye,” she adds awkwardly, hanging up. 

Slumping her shoulders, she lets out a deep sigh. Why must everything feel so fucking hard lately?

—-

“Thought you didn’t go to bars,” Javier says, bringing his beer to his mouth. He’s teasing, she can tell: that slanted brow, the pursued lips working hard not to press into a comely grin. She takes a sip of her own drink, and shrugs her shoulders. 

“I don’t,” she hums in response. 

The dinner crowd at the bar is surprisingly large, but conversation is easy to have. It’s nicer, really, in a place like this - too busy to have to worry if the table next to you is listening in. Not that she and Javier have ventured to any topics unsafe for public consumption. They’ve been good, drinking their beers, making small talk the way one might with a friend they’ve grown apart with. It’s got an intimate air to it, but it’s stilted for a strange, heartbreaking reason. 

They don’t talk about all that happened weeks ago, or why they’re sitting here now. Mariella doesn’t mind, really. This is the thing she enjoys about Javier, what she has seen in him since the beginning: he isn’t interested in brewing in the past. If she were a better woman, this might worry her, but luckily enough she isn’t. She understands all too well the temptation to look forward and never backward. 

The beer is making her feel warm and pleasantly buzzed. In the corner, there is a jukebox playing soft country songs and some people are dancing slowly in the middle. She and Javi watch them curiously, resting back in their chairs. 

“How’s the teaching going?” He looks back over at her. 

“It’s going well. The kid’s are as brilliant and witty as ever,” she smiles softly. “How’s the farm?”

Javier shrugs his shoulders. “It’s work. For the first time in months, I’m finally getting a full night’s rest, though, so I won’t complain too much.”

“I’ve always loved that piece of land,” Mariella says, looking back at the dancing patrons. “Miles upon miles of greenery. And the horses! I love driving up and watching them run.”

This makes Javier smile. “Chucho is proud of it and he should be, I suppose. I certainly appreciate it more now than I used to. In Colombia, it was like that—beautiful, I mean. And so green. Standing out in the fields sometimes reminds me of being back there.”

“Do you miss it?” she asks, before she finds the sense to know better. 

Javier’s eyes rake over the crowd, too. He watches a young couple in the corner for a bit, smiling as the boy’s hand gradually works its way lower on the girl’s back. Before he touches her ass, Javi looks back to Mariella, his smile faint but present. “Sometimes,” he answers. 

“I’d love to go someday.”

“You should,” he encourages. “It’s magnificent, really, unlike anything else. That shit they say in the news—it’s true, but not nearly that bad. Not for regular people with clean hands.”

Mariella shakes her head. “Just when I thought you had me sold, you had and go say that.”

“What, your hands dirty?” he narrows his eyes. 

She holds her palms out. “Red,” she nods, though they aren’t. He breathes out a quiet laugh. 

“I think you’d be alright—but go to Mexico first.” 

“You sound like my mother,” she laughs too. 

Looking over at Javi, Mariella debates whether to ask him if he wants to dance or not. The beer has made her feel a little more relaxed, but she’s not without her reason. She remembers the first day they met - really met - and how he said he didn’t know how to dance anymore. She also remembers the kitchen, and the incident that has driven them apart for a month. 

Before she’s given the chance, a woman stops in front of the table. She’s pretty — big blue eyes, an endearing grin — the kind of woman for whom the country accent was made to be spoken by. “Javi,” she says, someplace between shocked and amazed. 

Mariella feels bad at first, thinking this is going to be another one of those small town run-ins he hates, but when she looks over at him, she can tell it’s not. Something softer takes hold of him, something almost tender.  Mariella feels almost like an intruder as he says, “Hey, Lorraine.”

Lorraine’s eyes meet Mariella’s, and then go back to Javi’s. Javi understands. “Mariella, this is Lorraine. She’s my—“

“His old friend,” she finishes for him, extending her hand for Mariella to shake. “It’s nice to meet you. I’ve known about you for years. You’re all your Daddy talks about on Sundays sometimes.”

Lorraine can’t be much older than she is—maybe five or six years—and yet she seems so much more mature. She looks like what Mariella feels she’s been trying to attain her whole life: this perfect, well-rounded, soft-spoken girl who says words like ‘Daddy’ and manages not only to sound sincere, but sweet. 

Mariella shakes her head and smiles politely. “It’s nice to meet you too.” 

Lorraine glances over her shoulder, holding her finger up to a man standing by the entrance. “My husband,” she supplies, looking back at them both. “Listen, I better get going but I just wanted to say it’s nice to see you out and about, Javi. A lot of people here missed you.” Lorraine looks over to Mariella. “And really, it’s lovely to meet you, Mariella. I wish I had more time to sit and chat, because so many people have been telling us about your school. I’ve got a little one about school going age, and I’d love to put her in it.”

“Oh,” Mariella says, “Well, I can give you my number if you’d like.”

“Could you?” Lorraine smiles. “Oh, that’d be lovely.”

Mariella reaches into her purse and rummages around for a pen. When she finds it, she takes one of the napkins from the table and quickly jots down her information. “I wrote down my home number and the school’s. I wouldn’t mind answering any questions you have, but if you’re interested in enrollment information, the office number will be most helpful.”

Lorraine nods. Her hair bounces with her head, and Mariella can’t help but feel like she’s encountered a real life Barbie of sorts. She can imagine that she and Javier must’ve been real good friends, but it doesn’t do anything more than amuse her. 

“Bye, Javi,” Lorraine says, throwing up a hand. She pats Mariella on the shoulder on the way out, “Thank you again,” she says softly. 

Mariella rushes out an “Oh, you’re welcome” and Javier offers a wordless smile. They both watch her return to her husband, but Mariella returns her eyes to Javier long before he does to her. She watches the way a frown takes over his lips. 

Javier brings his beer back to his lips, seemingly shaking the encounter off. The tenderness is replaced by whatever was there before. It’s no less kind, but certainly not as intense. 

“She was my fiancée, once upon a time,” he explains. Mariella wouldn’t have asked, but she’s happy he’s willing to give her that information freely. She nods her head, not saying anything in reply. 

Her eyes return to the crowd, and they both settle into an introspective silence. Mariella forgets she ever wanted to ask him to dance in the first place. For a little bit, she even forgets her own troubles, too. 

She didn’t entirely know why she had called for Javier like she had earlier. He’d been on her mind, sure, but no more than Henry. In fact, a lot less than Henry. Something inside of her had told her to do it, so she had. She’s happy she did, now. 

Misery loves company they say, and she thinks she might’ve found herself a companion in one Javier Peña. 

#javier pena x reader #javier pena #javier pena x you #javier pena x female oc #javier pena x oc #javier peña x reader #javier peña x you #javier peña x female oc #javier peña x oc #javier peña #javier pena fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal character #narcos fanfiction #narcos fic

[stusbunker]

Spotless: Lontano

Chapter Seven

Featuring: Dean Winchester/Reader, Dean/Bela

Other characters: Crowley(mentioned), Sam, Annie, Madison, Lee, Gibson (child OMC), Pamela, Kevin, Bobby, Claire and Krissy

Word Count: 2250

Warnings, etc: Mutual pining, Reader is left in the dark (for now), Reader's lack of self esteem, Pamela being kind of blunt, hinted past Sam/Annie, unbeta'd

Series Masterlist

Divider courtesy of @cafekitsune

You laid in bed staring at the burst of sunlight sprouting out of your valances. You did not want to get up, or check your phone. It was a rare, quiet Sunday morning and you had no plans besides laundry. Bela had a big event the night before, so you weren’t meeting for brunch, for which you were kind of grateful. It felt like you had been staring at her face all week anyway, as much as you had been scrolling for chatter about her and Dean. You groaned and buried yourself beneath your comforter.

 The outside world could wait for another few minutes, not to mention the constant nagging worry of work could fuck right off. 

Because that’s all this anxiety was, work stress. The pressure from the label felt like it weighed solely on your shoulders, despite the band’s extended recording schedule for the new album and everyone’s thinning patience with Dean’s perfectionism. There was nothing else even going on in your life that could even compare. You were probably dehydrated. You shifted to peek out of your covers to find your water bottle empty on your nightstand, oh well.

Eventually, you got up, went about your business, and started a pot of coffee. Resigned to checking your phone while the coffee brewed, you shuffled back to your bedroom to pull it off the charger. Before you could even begin to sort through your text notifications, a headline alert glared at you from your lock screen. Panic flooded your uncaffeinated mind and you clicked on the link.

Gaping, you scrolled through the short article about the benefit filled with speculation about Dean’s presence at Bela’s side. You backed out of that article and dove into the rest of your updates. The pictures were fantastic, filled with easy smiles and casual touches. Dean in a tux was a rare thing, but he kept up his end of the bargain and dressed to match Bela’s standards. Your brain still stuttered over seeing them together, two parts of your life that hadn’t really overlapped until now. A silent ‘how was I not there?’ popping up as you continued to scroll.

The shrill beeping of the coffee pot pulled your eyes off your phone and back into the kitchen around you. It was just after ten, and you had to stop yourself from texting Dean or Bela an interrogation length message each. For the most part, the publicity seemed positive and more than curious about these two from such different worlds. 

Was it actually working?!

You inhaled and finally poured yourself a mug, letting the hope fizzle in your chest as you sat down at your desk and really began to dig. Sometime after one, you were pulled out of your email inbox by the doorbell. Who in the hell? Dumbfounded, you threw on a hoodie as you rushed to answer the door. You had to kick the rug because it always folded on itself underneath the lip of the door. Grunting, you gave up, sticking your head out to answer a disinterested floral delivery driver.

“Uh, I’ve got flowers for Ms. Y/L/N?” They checked their tablet. 

“That’s me,” you said, straightening up to look at the bundled bouquet as they handed you the stylus to sign confirmation of the delivery. You had no idea who would be sending you flowers, and it definitely wasn’t your birthday.

“Alright, that’s all I need. Here ya go,” they said, presenting the vase to you with the practiced ease of a single balanced hand. “Have a good one.”

You took the flowers, which you could smell through the paper barrier and watched them get back into their truck and back out of the narrow driveway that no one ever used. Confused, you set the package down on your kitchen table and started to tear out the perfectly spaced staples. They were gorgeous, lilies in whites and oranges. Tucked into the ribbon tied around the vase was a handwritten card.

Keep up the good work. Regards, Crowley

“You’ve got to be freakin’ kidding me!” you balked. You checked the back of the card, there was no ‘gotcha’, it really was from the label exec. You set the card down face up, resting beside the vase and snapped a picture. No one was going to believe you, you needed the proof, right?

You told yourself it wasn’t bragging, no matter how smug it made you feel.

 The adoption event was something the band did every year, helping Annie (and now Madison, too) with a pre-holiday push to clear out the animal shelter and also spend time with adorable animals. Sam was in heaven, taking dogs through the yard, parading the dogs along the side of the building in the makeshift track, and running around with the excitable pups. Madison mained the welcome table while Annie oversaw a lot of the paperwork inside, helping people get approved and matched with pets that would fit each prospective adopter’s lifestyles and hopes.

The staff knew everyone by reputation, though Sam had been a regular volunteer since before Madison had even been hired on as a receptionist. So, they helped you all get eased into your rolls for the day, however informal they were. Lee brought Gibson along and they were making small talk with a family as the mother filled out forms. Kevin, new to the event, stood back and waited to be told what to do. Bobby kept the breakroom and the waiting room stocked with coffee and pastries. Though Dean’s allergies and his unwillingness to budge on his no pets rule with Sam meant he always bowed out, you knew he was a regular not-so-anonymous donor. 

Which left you and Pamela in the cat room, playing with a litter of kittens that were too young to be adopted out this round, but were all the more frisky with all the excitement buzzing around the shelter. 

“Oh my god, hello, tough stuff! Aren’t you the biter?!” Pamela cooed at a gray tiger who was overly fond of her jewelry.

“No fiercer a predator was there ever,” you agreed, dangling a stick with feathers on the end in front of its sleeker, paler littermate.

After a few minutes Pamela leaned back and let the kitten attempt to scale her lap. “God, I needed this. This album— fuck, it’s been brutal,” she sighed.

Worry clouded your thoughts, but you knew better than to ever say the first thing that came to your mind around Pamela, she always read between the lines. 

“Everything going okay?” you asked, hearing about the sessions from Dean was one thing. He may be the lead singer, but he really was only one dude in a band of five differing personalities.

Pamela huffed and tilted her head, you felt like she was measuring your capacity for the truth. “The sound is good. We’re meshing. It’s just— since Cas leaving for that ephemeral crap or whatever that pipsqueak is calling it— Dean’s been on edge about every fucking thing. And Lee’s offered to help, hell he’s got a half dozen songs ready to go, but—”

“Dean feels like he has to do it all himself,” you finished for her.

“And he’s being a complete martyr about it.”

You nestled a kitten against your chest and hummed, ruffling its ears as you thought. You hadn’t really talked to Dean all week, after all the publicity you had to sift through after Bela’s event and trying to line things up with Meg at Rolling Stone, finally. You couldn’t have known any of this, since you were so separate from that part of the process.

“And no offense, but this friend of yours? Was it really the best timing? He’s just getting his groove back— he doesn’t need more distractions,” Pamela tacked on in her no-nonsense way.

You couldn’t stop your eyebrows from raising in surprise, because this was coming from the woman who had married and divorced her bandmate multiple times. But Lee wasn’t Dean, and you knew they still played their parts despite whatever was going on at home. The band came first, well, after Gibson.

You told yourself it was Sam that agreed it was best to keep it from the band, the extra pressure you had inadvertently put on Dean. You knew you had to toe that line. 

“Dean’s a big boy, Pamela. If you think he needs to loosen up, you gotta tell him. He listens to you more than anybody, probably even Sam. Especially when it comes to music stuff. Bela and him— that’s his business. I’m not even sure how serious it is, as much as I love them both—.”

Pamela chuckled, breaking your momentum, but you pushed on.

“I’m staying a neutral party. I can’t really play matchmaker and then question if it’s a good idea. They can make their own choices.”

Another kitten crawled into your lap and you set the one you had been holding down next to it, so they could play. You felt Pamela watching you with her knowing eyes and from experience you knew she was going to continue to throw you for a loop with whatever she said next.

“Now who’s playing the martyr?”

You sighed and looked back at her, and luckily it seemed like she was at least teasing and not being snide. One of the kitten’s claws dug through your jeans and you yelped, pulling it off of your thigh. You stood to put it back in the crate with the rest of the litter.

“Just talk to him, he’ll let Lee get a song down, I can almost guarantee it.”

You gazed down at the innocent fur balls and wished your life held more silly little pleasures than it did. But you knew you didn’t deserve it, deep down.

You dragged out your phone and snapped some pictures of the kittens, then held it up to Pamela in question. She nodded and snuggled her kitten against her cheek, scrunching up her face for the shelter website. You’d send all of your shots to Annie later, let her pick and choose how to celebrate the event and advertise for next year.

Throughout the day, you got plenty of shots of the band with animals and the workers sending happy families off with new fur members. The day was winding down, but you stuck around to help anyway you could. You wiped down the breakroom table as Sam hauled the last of the pastries out to Bobby’s truck to bring home for Dean and to the studio if they lasted until Monday.

You tried not to pay attention when two of the younger staff members came in muttering, the blonde girl making the brunette openly gape. 

“No way! Grossssssssss.” 

“Shut up, she’s still got it, for her age.”

The brunette sighed and shook her head. “Sure, I guess, but didn’t she like set them up?”

The blonde shook her head. “I don’t think so, he was just here a lot when his brother was being a dick, and then Madison and him like bonded over shit.”

After that you couldn’t help but listen, because they were obviously talking about Sam. 

“Besides the thing with Annie was like forever ago, she’s been married for like three years or something and Madison just started here over the summer,” the blonde seemed unfazed by the amount of gossip she was conveying.

“I guess I just didn’t think about how well everyone knows each other.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” the blonde smirked.

Lee chose that moment to come into the breakroom with Gibson thrown over his shoulder, but the crook in his eyebrow told you he knew the college kids were being snarky. “Hey, Trouble, you ready to go? Little man here said his Uncle Dean told him everybody could come over for grub.”

The girls seemed to freeze in place, having not noticed your presence. You looked around the room, checking to see if it was cleaned up enough to call it a day. “Uh–”

You had no reason to bail on the band, but you had been looking forward to a night alone at your place. As lame as that seemed for a Saturday night, something was telling you that you’d make an idiot of yourself if you were left alone in Dean’s presence, or even Sam’s after the juicy details you’d just heard.

“I’ve actually got to get home and start sorting through the photos, but thanks for the offer.”

Lee’s face changed, bright eyes squinting in suspicion, but Gibson started to struggle. “You sure?” he asked, flipping his son over in front of him so he was back on his feet facing you, a giggling, miniature version of himself standing guard.

You looked down at the six-year-old and couldn’t help but grin. “Buddy, will you tell your Uncle Dean that I’m busy working and I’ll see him later?”

Gibson nodded excitedly, showing off the gap where he’d lost a tooth, and gave you the thumbs up, happy to play messenger for his favorite uncle.

 Lee spun towards the door, guiding Gibson at his side, “I guess that means it’s just us in the car cuz Mom’s already headed out. Later, Trouble!”

You shook your head at the adorableness and pulled out your phone to order a ride. Sometimes it was a real pain not driving by yourself, but you made your peace with never getting behind a wheel again long ago.

Tagging: @deans-spinster-witch@mrswhozeewhatsis@cosicas-cuquis@fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like@suckitands33@ladysparkles78@deans-baby-momma@stoneyggirl2@sassy-pelican@leigh70@globetrotter28

Chapter Seven: Lilt

#spotless series #dean winchester fanfiction #dean/reader #dean/bela #rockstar au #fake dating #slow burn #angst #spn au #supernatural fanfiction #au series

[awaytobeunshaken]

Ashrym Week Day 2: Been a While

They don't like the unsteady way that Orym is stumbling away from the battle. “Hey, you need a hand? Let me call F.C.G.”

Orym shakes his head. “I don’t think they got a hit in.” And after a quick circuit around the halfling, Ashton has to agree; he doesn't have a scratch on him. “I guess it’s just been a long day, we could all use some dinner and some sleep.”

Despite his request for dinner, Orym only picks at his meal before starting to nod off in his seat. “Hey . ” Ashton reaches out to give him a shake, and it ' s only then that they notice the heat radiating from Orym’s body. Shit. He wouldn ’t normally do this, but he scoop s Orym into his arms to carry upstairs.

“Hey, you should get out of that armor,” Ashton mutter once they manage to settle Orym onto the bed, not wanting to take the initiative on that front.

He still end s up having to help out a bit, or a lot, as Orym clumsily struggl es with the buckles. But eventually they manage to get Orym stripped down to his smallclothes and tucked under the bedsheets. “I’m going to get you some water.”

Ashton returned with a full pitcher and a towel, managing to rouse Orym enough to drink before filling the basin and laying the damp towel across Orym ’s forehead. F.C.G. had told him they could try to cure the illness, but it would have to wait until morning, so all Ashton could do now was try to bring his temperature down.

He sleeps fitfully, sitting with his back against the bed frame, jerking awake every so often to freshen the cloth on Orym ’s brow. Eventually, they’re awakened by the squeak of F.C.G.’s wheel as he scoots through the door. They place a hand on Orym, and Ashton sees a faint pulse of blue light, just for a moment before it fizzles away.

“Any luck?” F.C.G.’s magic has been tricky lately; they’d reported themself that the Changebringer was becoming harder and harder to reach, and Ashton isn't sure if the spell actually took hold.

“I don’t know. I felt something, but I think he might need to get better on his own.”

Ashton look s at Orym now, and put s a hand on his shoulder, and the sheen of sweat tells him that the fever has broken, at least.

Orym stirs at the touch, and a soft smile spread s across his face as he meets Ashton ’s eyes. “Hey, Ash. What’re you doing here?”

“Keeping an eye on you; you were pretty out of it last night. How’re you feeling?”

“Like something big and nasty just pounded me into the ground. But I’ll manage.” He moves to sit up, but it barely takes any pressure from Ashton to keep him in bed.

“You need to rest. You’ve got the flu or something, we're gonna hole up here until you’re better.”

“There’s no time.” But Orym’s words lack the steel Ashton would have expected from the statement and Ashton can tell that he’s fighting himself more than anything. “You should go, then. Don’t want you to get sick, too.”

“Nah.” Ashton let a smile creep across his face. “Thing about being made of rock, it’s surprisingly disease resistant. I’ve barely gotten a cold since I changed.”

“Still, you shouldn’t have to be stuck here…”

“Hey.” Orym was sounding an awful lot like… them, Ashton realized. “When’s the last time you let someone take care of you?”

“A while,” Orym admits quietly. “Will. Although I probably took care of him more; he was such a baby when he got sick.”

“And no one after? Because I’ve met your mom and I refuse to believe that.” Ashton knew what it was to lose the most important people in their world. Granted he’d lost a lot more than that, but still.

“That’s not the same. I didn’t need—”

“What, because you wouldn’t have straight up died otherwise? Because you were technically physically capable? Because I’ve had more than my share of days I didn’t want to get out of bed, and it wasn’t from the pain. Now, I'm gonna find you something to eat. Assuming you're feeling up to it."

"Yeah. I could eat." And a long silence hangs in the air until Orym's next words follow them out the door. "Thanks, Ash."

ao3

#critical role #ashton greymoore #orym of the air ashari #ashrym #ashrym week 2023 #cr fic #my fic

[freshtoes]

another fluff before the like 4 smuts I’ve got lined up. for me. excuse the Google translate Spanish I wrote this whole thing in one sitting

You’ve Got Me

Hurt/comfort

Miguel/Afab! Reader(no gendered pronouns or (Y/N), reader has a uterus)

You felt stupid. You knew you shouldn’t, this was fully a roll-the-dice, cross-your-fingers-and-hope-Lady-Luck-is-on-your-side thing, but you couldn’t help it. After all, the only real safety measure to not get pregnant is to not have sex at all.

You were lonely, sue me, was the thought. Anyone would’ve done the same thing. It’s not your fault the guy was a pump-and-dump either, he hasn’t returned any of your messages since that night. It sucks because you really liked him, he was so sweet that whole night and it’s like the second you got out of his car, you weren’t a person anymore. You should’ve known, he wouldn’t even kiss you.

You were hurt. You felt even more hurt staring down at the positive test two weeks after. You can’t help but feel your heart in your throat when you read it.

Of course, the universe has its way of doing these funny, silly, downright infuriating things, and just at that moment, your fancy-dancy-I’m-gonna-chuck-this-thing-at-the-wall watch went off.

Urgent meeting with Miguel O’Hara— Report ASAP.

You groaned, dropping your upper body so you were slumped past your knees on the toilet. As soon as you were able, you gathered yourself up, pushing your emotions down to your feet, and walked on them as you made your way to put on your suit.

It’s a temporary fix; and it feels like broken glass every step.

——————————

In any other situation you’d commend yourself on your ability to not snark at or prod Miguel, it was just too easy to do. But now you just didn’t have the energy. It was gone, not even three cups of the water the HQ called coffee could bring it up, now you just jittered, trembling slightly. You hoped he was far enough away you couldn’t tell, and that he didn’t ask questions that’d bring out your wavering voice.

On the other hand, it also seemed your lack of response was making him more infuriated. Going on about this thing and that and gesturing broadly, but clearly seeing his words go in one ear and out the other. He thought you just weren’t paying attention, making him feel hot with anger behind his eyes. That’s when he jumped down from that stupid lift, sauntering up in front of you with a hard look and scowl.

“You got a good explanation for why you’re not listening right now?” He said it in a low voice, and by the jump you gave him when you heard it, you didn’t even notice him approaching. He scoffed, “No puedo más, esto es ridículo.”

That’s when you looked up, and the look you gave him was a hard punch in the gut. Your eyes were red, glossy and all the eyelashes were stuck. Your face was wet all over, like you’d been trying to wipe tears away but they would just keep coming. You were biting so hard into your lips and cheek he was surprised you didn’t have blood on them.

Worst of all, you didn’t look angry. You just looked…

Wounded.

“I—I,” you started, feeling your voice fail you as you tried to find the words, “I’m sorry— Miguel.”

“Hey, hey,” His tone was much softer now as your gaze dropped, “¿Que paso…?”

And then the dam broke.

You were immediately shaken by a sob, a full body convulsion that sounded painful, your hands shooting up to hide your face from him. You shook your head, hard, you couldn’t even find the words to tell him.

How could you? He’s Miguel. He doesn’t do mistakes or accidents and he certainly doesn’t understand when someone else does either. He’d probably blame it on you, or tell you how stupid you are, or, or—

You felt large hands grab at your shoulders, before moving to wrap tightly around you, and before you knew it, Miguel had you enveloped in a tight hug, holding you to his chest as you shook and sobbed into him. Only then did your hands come down to grip at the back of his spider suit, not wanting to let go no matter how the delicate tech under your fingers protested it.

“Hey, hey, I’m sorry,” He started, his head resting on yours, “I-I didn’t think you’d— cry—“

He felt your head shake in its spot smushed to his chest, “No, no, it’s not that.”

You sniffed hard, taking a deep breath and steadying yourself before looking up at him. His face was contorted into so much worry you’d have though your eyes were hanging out of your head.

“Then… what’s with—?”

“I-I’m pregnant,” you said, like it was the hardest words in the world to say, “And—and I’m really scared. I took all the precautions I needed to, he got me Plan B, he wore a condom, and-and they didn’t work and the guy dumped me the second he was able to, and I really liked him so it just sucks, and I’m tired, and I’m lonely, and I’m— and I’m so sick of being the only one that takes care of me, as if I don’t have enough being spiderman, and—and fighting inter-dimensional bullshit—!”

“Shhhhh, hey, hey hey,” Miguel’s voice was like a blanket as he pulled you back into him, stroking at your hair as he did, “Estarás bien, confía en mí. I’ll make sure of it.”

You looked at him in surprise, wiping your nose on your suit sleeve, “Re—really? You do that for me…?”

He nods, “This isn’t something you do alone. And it’s not your fault, these things are a two person effort after all. And that guy— él no lo vale. He’s not even the shit on your shoe from now on.”

You laughed at that, soft and pitifully, but Miguel could’ve seen heaven in it if he looked hard enough. Miguel swallowed, closing his eyes as he weighed his words in his mind. He needed to pick them carefully, he knew that, you were delicate right now and he needed to respect that, digging up all the bedside manner he could surface from when he was a genetics undergrad. Knowledge wise, at least, he knew he’d be the best option for you to talk to, but emotionally you’d be better talking to a rock.

“Whatever you want to do,” he said, cupping under your face to look up at him, “I’ll help you. And I do mean whatever you decide because it’s your choice.”

You sighed deep, feeling as if the weight you’d been carrying was finally off your shoulders as you sank so far into Miguel, his hand and his arm and his chest. “Thank you, Miguel. You’re— you’re really sweet.”

He shook his head, “Well, I don’t know about…. Is there anything else you need? Anything I can do in this moment?”

You looked up at him, racking your brain for anything, anything but the thing that came to mind. When nothing popped up, you went with your impulse.

“Could you please… hold me? Just like this, for a little while?”

Miguel could feel himself melting at the plea you gave, how clearly starved for affection you felt and in that moment he doesn’t think he’s wanted to truly kill another man more. He would do anything to make sure you never cry or sound like that again. So he nodded.

“I’ll hold you forever if thats what you want. Me tienes.”

#hurt/comfort #fluff #agnst #atsv miguel #miguel o'hara #across the spiderverse #x reader fanfiction #afab reader #miguel o’hara x reader