#...eventually. maybe let them keep doing this for a little while

[karikitdemonrp]

Kari rubbed her eyes with a soft sniffle and took a breath. Hawks words and presences had helped her calm down. Sure the pain still lingered, but it didn't hurt as much. "I... I wanna keep going. No, I need to keep going." She chirped softly after a moment. "I can't just stop now. Not yet." She informed and turned back to look over more hero logs for her father.

Training logs showing his improvement, journals that dated before Kari's birth, interviews, news reports, and so on. Eventually Kari stopped on a journal entry dated a few weeks after Kari's birth.

"August 5, I brought Kari home for the first time. She's gained a bit of weight which is good. She's such an active little girl. Kitearo was immediately so protective despite how he acted before. I guess seeing how small she was and having processed what happened helped him a lot. Therapy has been a huge help for all of them. Shade us still sneaking top shelf books when I'm not looking, last time I saw her reading Moby Dick to Kari and immediately stepped in. We made an agreement that if she didn't read these to Kari then I'd allow her to read certain top shelf books with supervision. She's enjoying spending time with Kari, reading her books while she's is in Shade's lap. Boom and Beats always love to play with Kari, running around happily with toys and including Kati in their games. Flo shows Kari a ton of different plants, mainly flowers. Fino likes to have Kari ride on his back while in a random animal form. I feel like these kids will super close when they're older. Sure they'll get into arguments and maybe even fights, but thats life. I'm just happy it looks like things are gonna be alright. Still waiting for Boom and Beats to get their quirks, I'm not sure what they'll be since Mikomi's quirk is so different. She never explained why, but I have a rough understanding. Either way, I've made up my mind and I'll help with hero work in some other way, but I'll be retiring as a pro hero before Kari's first birthday. I can't risk it right now, there is too much at stake. I'll keep doing my best for them. - Lynx Himura."

Kari gave a soft smile then went to type in her mother's hero name and began looking through the hero logs there. Eventually she came across an interview, roughly around the same time as Lynx, though it was off by a few days.

"Hello, thank you for meeting with us, Angelic."

"Of course, I'm glad I could make it work. Been super busy and all." Mikomi laughed. Her eyes, while a different color, were roughly the same shape as Kari's. Though Kari's were a bit more pointed and Mikomi's slightly more rounded. But it was easy to see the resemblance.

"Yea, you've been very busy it seems. Your already the number six hero and you're still pretty young. Any insight as to why you're working do hard?"

"Ah, going for that question already. Fair enough. Well, it's kinda has to do with my quirk being so easy to... adapt to different situations so I can help out in many areas. So I'm able to be noticed more often and so on. That and I just like helping. It feels right to me. Don't get me wrong the money is nice too but I'm not wanting for anything. I'm actually only using what I need and saving the rest for future emergencies or plans."

"You planning on starting a family?"

"Maybe, maybe not. But I'll never let that information slip. I'm aiming high after all. If I have kids and I'm in the top three, their lives could be in danger so I'm keeping stuff like that close to my chest." Mikomi looked to the camera and smiled knowingly almost, in Kari's direction. Kari shivered a bit.

"Thats fair," the reporter hummed off camera and Mikomi looked back at the reported. "Now, about your quirk--"

"Sorry but I'm not divulging information about my quirk either." Mikomi was quick to interrupt. "I know it is different and rather weird but I'd like to keep that to myself as well."

"Ah, I see. Well, what about your relationship with Redone?"

"Oh, I--" Mikomi blushed a bit with a grin. "Well, it's a long story but after moving back from America, I had to go cuz of my mom's job, we reconnected in highschool and haven't really been apart since. He's really sweet and caring. We've been together for a while actually."

"Can we plan on a hero wedding anytime soon?"

"Ya know, I watched his interview last week and I tried asking him when he came by with the sweet buns. He just laughed and told me he'd propose when the time is right. I'm not sure when but I'm sure everyone will be made aware eventually." Mikomi chuckled softly. The interview went on, more questions, some dodged some answered. But all in all Kari got a good feel for Mikomi's personality. Kind but firm, not willing to take bullshit but not rude either. Stands her ground and proud of it.

Kari smiled and went on to find some missions, training logs, and a family tree. Kari widened her eyes. There she was with her siblings, her mother, her father, even her grandparents. There was Maica, Core, Core's father. Her whole family.

Looks like Lynx had two younger brothers one of which was deceased while the other was still alive but no where in Japan and no contact information listed and he looked to be estranged. Lynx's parents were listed too though his father passed away the same year as one if his brothers while Lynx's mother passed two years before Kari was born. Kari frowned, concluding an accident happened that took Lynx's father and brother. She shook it off and opened up a journal from her mother, taking a breath.

"I'm simply writing this so it is on record in case something happens to me and one of my children develops my quirk-" Kari perked up a bit. "I don't know if it'll come to that but dad said it's better safe than sorry. He probably knows something since we share a quirk and all. Thats besides the point. I plan on having this under heavy lock and key until I die or if one of my children requests it or whatever. I'm not the best with formal stuff but I'll try my best. Either way, I am Mikomi Himura. Mother to Kitearo Himura, wife to Lynx Himura. My quirk is called All of the Above. It is a highly adaptive quirk, able to integrate any other quirk upon seeing it, though it takes time. My DNA is very unstable for lack of a better way of putting it. My son's quirk is vastly different to mine. Well, it's going to be, he hasn't developed it yet but I already know. Sir Nighteye's quirk has been super helpful in calming the nerves of a new mother. For the most part at least, but I'm keeping that close to my chest for now."

Kari shivered a bit, having a feeling she knew what Mikomi was referring to but kept reading.

"As for the specifics of my quirk, I'm able to use a quirk I've copied with in a certain length of time after seeing it, depending on the type. A week or two for emmiter quirks, two to three weeks for transformation and accumulation quirks, and four weeks for mutation quirks. I don't just copy the quirk, but a snap shot of the person as well for lack of a better way of putting it. It can be refreshed if I see that person again but yea. Ugh this is more difficult to explain than I thought. Uh, the reason there is a snap shot is because I can call on it to help learn quirks more effectively, they take over my body and I learn through muscle memory. The quirks I have copied as well as the snap shots of the people will be passed on to which ever of my children inherits my quirk but those quirks will be locked until certain things are met, I'm not sure how that all works. Dad hasn't explained it and I haven't figured it out. It's weird to explain and better to show but I don't plan on dying so ill be able to show my kid when the time comes. Regardless, this is just a precaution and I don't plan on needing it. With that I'm closing this journal."

Kari blinked, moving to look through more journal entries. Some where around the time she was pregnant with her siblings. Then another caught Kari's eye.

"It's July 20th today. I'm feeling pretty weak from this pregnancy. Little Kari is really sapping me, but that's fine. I've had six kids before her so I'll be okay. But I'm not gonna lie this one has been rougher than all the others so I'm a bit worried. My due date isn't for another two month so it's fine."

"July 25th, something isn't right. I asked Lynx to take me to the hospital to have a check up. I might need emergency surgery. Kari might be born sooner than expected."

After that journal entry Kari found an obituary for her mother. "Number 3 hero dies for unspecified reasons." It lists the funeral date as well as other information.

Kari sighed softly, going over to Hawks and clinging to him, shaking and crying in weak sobs. She just needed a moment to process it all. "I... I know it's not my fault... but a part... A part if me still... still hurts." Kari hiccuped, nuzzling into Hawks' leg, just letting it all out. "I wanna know her. Who would she have been? What would be going on right now if she were alive? Why did she have to die cuz of me? It's not fair." The child cried, trying to hold back a bit but still needing to let out some emotions before continuing, if she even wanted to.

Hawks stood beside Kari the whole time, his usual laid-back expression softened into something quiet and pained. He didn’t say much while she clicked through the files—he didn’t need to. His hand gripped hers back just enough to remind her he was there, grounding her, steady and real in a space full of shadows from the past.

When Kari tried to lighten the mood at the end, Hawks crouched down a little to her level and gently brushed a few strands of hair out of her face. His expression didn’t shift into pity—it never did. Instead, it was the expression of someone who understood, who had lived through too many ghosts of his own.

“Two pounds, huh?” he murmured with a gentle smile. “And now look at you. Tough enough to face all this head-on, brave enough to want answers even when you knew they’d hurt. That kind of strength? That’s rare, Kari. That’s hero stuff.”

He let the words settle before continuing, his thumb brushing over her knuckles where their hands were still locked together.

“Your dad loved you. All of you. You can feel it in every word he wrote—even when things were falling apart, his thoughts were on keeping you safe. That’s not something a lot of kids get to grow up knowing. But you? You’ve got that. You’ve got him with you every time you use your quirk, every time you snort like he did.” Hawks grinned a little at that, trying to lift her spirit without pushing her too fast.

He then stood and offered his other hand to steady her.

“We can look for more when you’re ready—your mom’s records, maybe some old hero logs. But we don’t have to do it all today. There’s no rush. What matters is you have this now. It’s a part of you, but it doesn’t have to define you.”

He gave her hand a soft squeeze, his wings flexing slightly behind him.

“You wanna keep going? Or you want a break, maybe get something warm to drink, clear your head?” he asked gently, letting her take the lead again. “Whatever you choose, I’m here, little bird.”

[batsandbirdbrains]

I need Bruce trying to gentle parent Dick as a child. Like maybe Bruce isn’t exactly a good parent but tries. When Dick starts throwing massive tantrums, he just puts Dick in an empty room for time out. This does not stop Dick as he ends up destroying the room despite nothing being in it. When Dick does something Bruce doesn’t approve of, Bruce just says softly “Don’t do that.” Dick does it again. Like I need him trying and failing. Nothing he does works. Then Dick decides to turn that gentle parenting back on Bruce. No whenever Bruce makes him mad, he puts Bruce in a time-out room. Whenever Bruce is being dumb, he just gives him a pout and says “Don’t do that.” Bruce actually does his best to listen to Dick because he thinks it might foster trust or encourage Dick to follow along when Bruce does it to him. It doesn’t really work. Dick still doesn’t listen and now Bruce is being parented by the child he’s supposed to be raising. The only plus is that it calms down Dick’s more violent urges because instead of destroying shit he just sends Bruce away.

Then Dick gets shot, and something in Bruce snaps. There is no more gentle parenting, no more kind words or soft punishments. He needs to make Dick listen, and if that means hurting him, then so be it. He loses sight of the fact that Dick is still a kid, an incredibly traumatized one at that. He still lets Dick parent him, although he’s more snappy about it. Dick stops being soft with him, too, instead telling him harshly to get to bed, threatening to sic Alfred on him, or screaming in his face about how he’s the worst. Somehow they’ve fallen into this horrible dynamic and neither of them know how to get out of it. Dick blames himself for being such a troubled kid, and though Bruce never says it, Dick knows he blames him too. So Dick leaves.

Eventually, over the years their family grows, but Bruce’s softness never really comes back. He’s meaner, more controlling, even downright cruel at times. And one day when the entire batfam is arguing with him over how unreasonable he is, one them snaps and says “Jesus, B, who turned you into such a fucking asshole?” and before Bruce can even think about it, he responds “Dick did.” He closes his mouth in shock, face going ashen while everyone else freezes. The words cut straight into Dick’s heart. He replies with the only words he can think of at the moment “Don’t do that.” He meant for the words to be cold, confident. Instead they came out soft, chiding and pained. Before anyone can say anything else, Bruce turns on his heel and leaves. They all try to follow him to argue more but then stare, confused, as he walks into an empty room, locking the door behind him. He doesn’t come out for a long time.

🥺 rip out my fucking heart why don’t you, damn.

But now I’m just thinking of the scenario with Bruce saying Dick turned him into an asshole, and the whole room freezes.

Jason didn’t expect an actual answer. Tim and Damian thought Bruce would have just chided Jason for his language. Dick thought a Bruce was just going to keep yelling.

But then the way he says, “Dick did” without even thinking about it, without hesitation, it shocks everyone.

And Dick feels like he wants to cry, because sure, he knew he was a pretty fucked up kid. He was troubled. Traumatized. A problem child. But Bruce for the most part had been so patient when he was little. And when Bruce started being an asshole after Dick got shot, it wasn’t like Dick couldn’t fight right back. It was almost like a game, sometimes. But Dick has always felt so guilty about it, because Bruce had been so soft spoken and patient and nice, and then Dick went and fucked him up. Dick ruined him. It’s all Dick’s fault.

Dick has always had that thought in the back of his mind. But he’s never had any real proof that Bruce felt the same.

Now he does. And Dick’s chest feels hollow as he stares at a horrified looking Bruce.

All Dick can manage to say is a soft, desperate, “Don’t do that,” just like Bruce always tried to use with him, before he started using yelling as his go-to response.

Then Bruce turns without saying anything and walks right into an empty room, and Dick feels like he’s going to throw up. He turns too, towards his bike, and he ignores the way his siblings are calling after him. He turns off his comms and rides home, going way too fast, feeling the wind whip around him, and tears blurring his vision until he blinks them away.

When he gets back to his Blüdhaven apartment, he slides in through the window and doesn’t even change out of his costume before he’s puking in the bathroom.

He silences his phone, turns in his security system, and then spends the next hour sitting under the water in his shower, spacing out until the water goes ice cold and he has to get out. Then he crawls into bed, pulls out Zitka from under the pillows to hug to his chest, and buries his head under his pillows. If he doesn’t pay attention to it, he can pretend he’s not still crying because of the guilt.

He stays like that for a long time, not moving. He falls asleep for a while, wakes up in a panic, rinse and repeat.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been, but the next thing he knows, someone is sitting down on his bed next to him, laying a hesitant hand in his back. And he knows it’s Bruce, and it just makes him feel even worse.

“Go away,” he begs, the words muffled under his pillows.

“I didn’t mean it,” Bruce tries to tell him.

“Yes you did,” Dick says miserably. “And it’s true. I know it’s true, you don’t have to pretend it’s not.”

“It wasn’t you who made me an asshole,” Bruce says. “The situation-”

“Caused by me,” Dick argues.

“You were just a child, Dick.” Bruce sighs.

“A horrible, no good, rotten child!”

“Don’t say that about yourself,” Bruce says firmly. “It’s not true, Dick. I don’t care what anyone says, you were not a rotten child. You were just a little boy. I was the adult, and I should have found other solutions that worked for you.”

Dick doesn’t say anything, but he eventually moves out from under the pillows to curl up with his head in Bruce’s lap. Bruce plays with his hair, and the two of them stay quiet for a long time. Neither of them really knows what to say. They’re both still upset. And they’re both awful at dealing with their feelings.

The sadness and anger and guilt they’re feeling from this fight won’t be resolved. They won’t really talk about it. It won’t be talked about without someone else bringing it up, and that won’t happen for a while.

But for now, Bruce is going to comfort his son. And for now, Dick will let him.

[snail-day]

I'd like to think that domestic moments must be strange, especially with yan! Satosugu. The illusion of normalcy.

There’s a rhythm to things now, one you didn’t exactly choose, but Suguru swears it’s what’s best for your fragile little mind. A schedule, down to the hour. Down to the minute. Satoru gets his alone time with you in the dead hours of early morning, when the moon is still out, when your body is still limp and sore from the night before.

It’s his favorite time, honestly.

He’s never had a girlfriend before. You can imagine how much he enjoys having you around. So even if you’re not quite awake, even if it’s only because you’re too exhausted to say no, he’s cherishing it. It would be sweet if you weren't, you know kidnapped against your will.

Which is why he’s dragging you out of bed at some ungodly hour. Barely three hours of sleep. Your back still sore, inner thighs sticky with the remains of last night. And yet he’s carefully and so gently, settling you on his lap at his gaming setup. Bare chest warm against your cheek, his strong arms wrapping a throw blanket around your naked body, close to something romantic. You'd like to pretend that he isn’t disturbing your rest for a dating sim.

“Baby, look,” he grins, clicking into Date Everything. “You can romance alllll these characters. They all have voice actors too!”

You mumble something unintelligible. Half-asleep. Saliva already pooling against his skin as you doze off again.

“No no nooo,” he whines, bouncing his knee under you - just enough to jostle you awake, but not enough to hurt. “If you fall asleep it’s cheating! I can’t cheat on you and Suguru.” He sounds genuinely upset. Lower lip jutted out. A wounded sort of pout that only deepens when you glare up at him, grumpy and frowning and way too tired to care about which character he dates.

What makes things worse is that you’re not even allowed to touch the keyboard. Suguru’s rules. Not after you locked them out for a week. Not even able to guess the simple password of your name and date of birth. So you’re just a warm little accessory, sleepy, leaking, tucked into your boyfriend’s lap like a doll while he excitedly narrates every dialogue option.

Eventually, you hear the soft chirp of Suguru’s alarm.

He pads into the room barefoot, hair still messy from sleep, loose pajama pants hanging low on his hips. You barely manage to lift your head before you’re in his arms, plucked from Satoru’s lap like a kitten.

“That’s why you’ve been grumpy, huh?” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep and fond disapproval. “Satoru isn’t letting you rest. My poor girl.”

He doesn’t give you the luxury of going back to bed though. No, he keeps you nestled in his lap now, rubbing soft circles into your thighs while Satoru keeps playing. They talk around you, over you, about you. You barely register their words until you hear Suguru hum thoughtfully.

“You’d look cute in that bunny girl outfit,” he says, nodding at the screen where Dolly the dust bunny just appeared. “Just as sweet as her. Sweeter.”

Satoru chirps, “Right?! I was thinking the same thing!”

You groan softly, trying to melt into Suguru’s chest. But he tuts when your eyes flutter shut again.

“Mm-mm. Don’t do that, sweetheart. You’ll ruin your sleep schedule.”

As if you have one.

You’re not even sure what day it is anymore. You think, maybe, this might feel like domestic bliss, to them. But for you? It’s something closer to hell.

Still… you guess you should be thankful. At least neither of them has mentioned cockwarming this morning.

Small mercies, wins, etc.

[slattlicker]

can u do one where maybe schlatt or reader dont see eachother for a while (maybe like a month or so, one is on a bussines trip maybe schlatt recording something in japan again or whatever u get the point) and in the meanwhile reader gets her nips pierced and donesz tell him and when they reunite again they do the woohoo and schlatt goes feral over them

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * return of the rack ���.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: your long-distance boyfriend finally comes home. he’s jetlagged, lovesick, and touch-starved—and you’ve been hiding something from him. but when he finds out? it’s over for both of you. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: for the anon who sent me that amazing piercing reveal request—this one’s for you ♡ thank you for such a juicy prompt!! i’m just a little english major with no self-control. hope this hits everything you wanted.

warnings: explicit content (MDNI !!!) · long-distance reunion · emotional sex · tit worship · oral fixation · titfucking · praise-heavy filth · funny, filthy, tender

✧✧✧

you’ve been trying to take the perfect photo for almost forty-five minutes.

not that you’ll ever admit that out loud.

your phone’s propped against your dresser mirror with a half-dead candle and your old student id keeping it steady. the lighting in your room is this golden kind of lazy—just late enough in the day to paint everything amber, just warm enough to highlight the soft swell of your chest and the barely-there glint of silver beneath your shirt.

you tug the tank top down again. carefully. slowly.

it’s one of those old sleep shirts, kind of loose, kind of sheer—the kind you only wear when you’re feeling soft and a little scandalous in private. and right now? it's doing exactly what you need it to: showing just enough, but not everything. you lean forward slightly, testing how the fabric stretches, how visible the piercings are when you breathe out—

yeah. you snap the pic.

and immediately toss your phone onto the bed with a quiet, “jesus christ.”

the nerves are stupid. schlatt’s your boyfriend. he’s literally seen you shirtless. he's had your boobs in his mouth. he’s buried his face between your thighs more times than you can count. but this?

this feels different.

maybe it’s because you did it while he was gone. maybe it’s because it was spontaneous. impulsive. a little selfish in the best way. he’d only been gone a week when the idea hit you like a train—like something small and bold and kind of reckless that you needed to do for yourself.

you remember walking into that piercing studio like you weren’t shaking the whole time. you remember gripping the sides of the chair so hard your knuckles ached. you remember the piercer’s gloves and the clamp and the—

okay. no. you’re not reliving it. you’re healed now. mostly. you can touch them now, at least, and you do—gently—fingertips ghosting over the metal like they’re something precious.

they're still so new.

your first piercings, even. not a single earring to your name, but now you’ve got twin bars sitting proud in your chest like little secrets.

and maybe that’s what makes your stomach twist.

you didn’t tell him. you wanted to. so many times. every phone call, every stupid “i miss you” text with the heart emoji that made you melt. but the words just wouldn’t come out. you wanted to see his face when he found out. you wanted to feel it—the surprise, the want, the slow unraveling of him going feral in real time.

you wanted him to react.

so now you’re taking pictures. for yourself, mostly. just to see what you look like. to test your angles. to pretend, maybe, that you’d have the guts to send one. eventually.

another photo. this time lying on your back, shirt off, hair a little messy, hand ghosting over your ribs. the bars peek out just enough to catch the light.

you look good. you look hot, actually.

and that’s when the facetime rings.

incoming call: schlatt ♡

you let out the loudest full-body gasp known to man, scrambling for the shirt you just peeled off. your phone nearly topples off the bed. you answer, breathless.

his face fills the screen—messy curls under a hoodie, earbuds in, smile lazy.

“hey, baby.”

your heart is racing. “h-hi—hi. hi. what’s up?”

he tilts his head. “why do you look all flushed?”

you whip the blanket over yourself like a sinner in church. “i don’t—what? no. it’s hot in here.”

he grins, suspicious. “mhm. right.”

you glance around, looking for a distraction, anything. and then his voice cuts in again—so casual, like it doesn’t make your chest ache.

“think you can pick me up from the airport in like… two hours?”

you blink. “wait. what? you’re—you’re coming home today?!”

he nods. “figured i’d surprise you.”

he pauses, then leans a little closer to the screen.

“you miss me or what?”

your brain is screaming. your nipples definitely throb. and you’re sitting here, clutching a blanket like a victorian widow, pretending like you weren’t just arching for your own camera three minutes ago.

“…yeah,” you say. “i missed you.”

✧ ✧ ✧

you’re pacing by baggage claim, heart hammering, lips bitten raw, and currently being smothered alive by the most padded, over-engineered bra victoria ever refused to admit was a war crime.

you hadn’t worn this one in months. maybe years. it was a last-minute decision, panicked and breathless, the second you started imagining all the ways schlatt might react. the teasing. the staring.

you chickened out. and now?

you’re wearing a bra that might as well be classified as personal armor.

it’s one of those ridiculous contraptions with thick molded cups that force your boobs into a shape not found in nature. the kind with wire that digs into your ribs if you so much as exhale wrong. the kind that lifts, separates, compresses, confuses the populace. you feel like your chest is being served on a tray.

and yeah. you look obscenely stacked proportionally. like “local woman found toppling over in terminal c” kind of stacked. boobs up to your throat. they bounce when you breathe. your tank top is straining like it’s fighting for its life.

you don’t even look like you. you look like someone trying to distract airport security.

and of course, that’s exactly what schlatt sees first.

he’s walking out of the gate like a damn slow-motion movie—duffel bag slung over his shoulder, hair a little messy, hoodie pushed back, that familiar tired grin spreading across his face the second he spots you.

“there’s my girl.”

your breath catches. your limbs move before your brain can. you run to him, full-speed, sneakers squeaking against the polished floor.

the hug is immediate and full-bodied, like instinct. he drops his bag with a soft oof and wraps his arms around you with the force of someone who’s been waiting weeks to do this. his hoodie smells like plane air and cologne and cheap ramen and him. you bury your face into his chest, letting your whole body melt into him.

“missed you so fucking much,” he mumbles into your hair. “jesus, you feel good.”

you smile into his hoodie, voice muffled. “missed you more.”

it’s warm. familiar. a little unreal. he sways with you, just slightly, like it’s muscle memory. and for a few long seconds, there’s no airport. no gate. no anxiety gnawing at your ribs. just him. just this.

and then—he pulls back a little.

just enough to look at you.

his hands stay anchored to your waist. his eyes scan your face like he’s checking for damage, soaking you in like a man starved. there’s something so soft in the way he looks at you—lids a little heavy, lips parted like he wants to say something but doesn’t want to break the moment.

then his eyes drop.

they linger. and linger. and then…

they squint.

“…what the fuck happened to your tits?”

you slap his arm. “schlatt—!”

“no, i’m serious. you been eatin’ whole cows while i was gone? you get a boob job?”

you laugh—sputter, really—shoving him a little while heat climbs up your neck. “it’s the bra, jesus. can you be normal for like five seconds?”

“i am being normal,” he mutters, eyeing your chest again. “it's just that you weren’t packin’ double m cups when i left.”

“it’s just…” you fidget, gripping your bag strap. “i didn’t know how you’d react...we’ll talk about it at home, okay?”

he raises an eyebrow.

“so you did do somethin’. uh huh. yeah. i knew it.”

he grabs his duffel bag, slings it over his shoulder, and leans close, voice low and just the slightest bit smug:

“gonna get it outta you one way or another, sweetheart.”

and he does not let it go the entire walk to the car.

✧ ✧ ✧

you’ve been trying to take the perfect photo for almost forty-five minutes.

not that you’ll ever admit that out loud.

your phone’s propped against your dresser mirror with a half-dead candle and your old student id keeping it steady. the lighting in your room is this golden kind of lazy—just late enough in the day to paint everything amber, just warm enough to highlight the soft swell of your chest and the barely-there glint of silver beneath your shirt.

you tug the tank top down again. carefully. slowly.

it’s one of those old sleep shirts, kind of loose, kind of sheer—the kind you only wear when you’re feeling soft and a little scandalous in private. and right now? it's doing exactly what you need it to: showing just enough, but not everything. you lean forward slightly, testing how the fabric stretches, how visible the piercings are when you breathe out—

yeah. you snap the pic.

and immediately toss your phone onto the bed with a quiet, “jesus christ.”

the nerves are stupid. schlatt’s your boyfriend. he’s literally seen you shirtless. he's had your boobs in his mouth. he’s buried his face between your thighs more times than you can count. but this?

this feels different.

maybe it’s because you did it while he was gone. maybe it’s because it was spontaneous. impulsive. a little selfish in the best way. he’d only been gone a week when the idea hit you like a train—like something small and bold and kind of reckless that you needed to do for yourself.

you remember walking into that piercing studio like you weren’t shaking the whole time. you remember gripping the sides of the chair so hard your knuckles ached. you remember the piercer’s gloves and the clamp and the—

okay. no. you’re not reliving it. you’re healed now. mostly. you can touch them now, at least, and you do—gently—fingertips ghosting over the metal like they’re something precious.

they're still so new.

your first piercings, even. not a single earring to your name, but now you’ve got twin bars sitting proud in your chest like little secrets.

and maybe that’s what makes your stomach twist.

you didn’t tell him. you wanted to. so many times. every phone call, every stupid “i miss you” text with the heart emoji that made you melt. but the words just wouldn’t come out. you wanted to see his face when he found out. you wanted to feel it—the surprise, the want, the slow unraveling of him going feral in real time.

you wanted him to react.

so now you’re taking pictures. for yourself, mostly. just to see what you look like. to test your angles. to pretend, maybe, that you’d have the guts to send one. eventually.

another photo. this time lying on your back, shirt off, hair a little messy, hand ghosting over your ribs. the bars peek out just enough to catch the light.

you look good. you look hot, actually.

and that’s when the facetime rings.

incoming call: schlatt ♡

you let out the loudest full-body gasp known to man, scrambling for the shirt you just peeled off. your phone nearly topples off the bed. you answer, breathless.

his face fills the screen—messy curls under a hoodie, earbuds in, smile lazy.

“hey, baby.”

your heart is racing. “h-hi—hi. hi. what’s up?”

he tilts his head. “why do you look all flushed?”

you whip the blanket over yourself like a sinner in church. “i don’t—what? no. it’s hot in here.”

he grins, suspicious. “mhm. right.”

you glance around, looking for a distraction, anything. and then his voice cuts in again—so casual, like it doesn’t make your chest ache.

“think you can pick me up from the airport in like… two hours?”

you blink. “wait. what? you’re—you’re coming home today?!”

he nods. “figured i’d surprise you.”

he pauses, then leans a little closer to the screen.

“you miss me or what?”

your brain is screaming. your nipples definitely throb. and you’re sitting here, clutching a blanket like a victorian widow, pretending like you weren’t just arching for your own camera three minutes ago.

“…yeah,” you say. “i missed you.”

✧ ✧ ✧

you’re pacing by baggage claim, heart hammering, lips bitten raw, and currently being smothered alive by the most padded, over-engineered bra victoria ever refused to admit was a war crime.

you hadn’t worn this one in months. maybe years. it was a last-minute decision, panicked and breathless, the second you started imagining all the ways schlatt might react. the teasing. the staring.

you chickened out. and now?

you’re wearing a bra that might as well be classified as personal armor.

it’s one of those ridiculous contraptions with thick molded cups that force your boobs into a shape not found in nature. the kind with wire that digs into your ribs if you so much as exhale wrong. the kind that lifts, separates, compresses, confuses the populace. you feel like your chest is being served on a tray.

and yeah. you look obscenely stacked proportionally. like “local woman found toppling over in terminal c” kind of stacked. boobs up to your throat. they bounce when you breathe. your tank top is straining like it’s fighting for its life.

you don’t even look like you. you look like someone trying to distract airport security.

and of course, that’s exactly what schlatt sees first.

he’s walking out of the gate like a damn slow-motion movie—duffel bag slung over his shoulder, hair a little messy, hoodie pushed back, that familiar tired grin spreading across his face the second he spots you.

“there’s my girl.”

your breath catches. your limbs move before your brain can. you run to him, full-speed, sneakers squeaking against the polished floor.

the hug is immediate and full-bodied, like instinct. he drops his bag with a soft oof and wraps his arms around you with the force of someone who’s been waiting weeks to do this. his hoodie smells like plane air and cologne and cheap ramen and him. you bury your face into his chest, letting your whole body melt into him.

“missed you so fucking much,” he mumbles into your hair. “jesus, you feel good.”

you smile into his hoodie, voice muffled. “missed you more.”

it’s warm. familiar. a little unreal. he sways with you, just slightly, like it’s muscle memory. and for a few long seconds, there’s no airport. no gate. no anxiety gnawing at your ribs. just him. just this.

and then—he pulls back a little.

just enough to look at you.

his hands stay anchored to your waist. his eyes scan your face like he’s checking for damage, soaking you in like a man starved. there’s something so soft in the way he looks at you—lids a little heavy, lips parted like he wants to say something but doesn’t want to break the moment.

then his eyes drop.

they linger. and linger. and then…

they squint.

“…what the fuck happened to your tits?”

you slap his arm. “schlatt—!”

“no, i’m serious. you been eatin’ whole cows while i was gone? you get a boob job?”

you laugh—sputter, really—shoving him a little while heat climbs up your neck. “it’s the bra, jesus. can you be normal for like five seconds?”

“i am being normal,” he mutters, eyeing your chest again. “it's just that you weren’t packin’ double m cups when i left.”

“it’s just…” you fidget, gripping your bag strap. “i didn’t know how you’d react…we’ll talk about it at home, okay?”

he raises an eyebrow.

“so you did do somethin’. uh huh. yeah. i knew it.”

he grabs his duffel bag, slings it over his shoulder, and leans close, voice low and just the slightest bit smug:

“gonna get it outta you one way or another, sweetheart.”

and he does not let it go the entire walk to the car.

✧ ✧ ✧

the door barely clicks shut before he’s on you.

his mouth is on yours, greedy and hot and so fucking needy it makes your knees buckle. you giggle into it—already breathless—as he walks you backward, one hand still gripping his duffel and the other sliding down your back like he’s checking if you’re still real.

“didn’t think i’d be gone long enough to forget how you taste,” he murmurs between kisses, voice all low heat and gravel.

“you’re ridiculous,” you breathe, clutching at his hoodie. “you’re the one who ran off to japan.”

“and you’re the one who picked me up looking like that. you knew what you were doing.”

you didn’t, not really, but you’re not exactly complaining.

he drops the bag somewhere behind you. kicks the door the rest of the way shut with his heel. you barely have time to register the living room before your back is pressed to the wall, his thigh sliding between yours, his mouth dragging down your jaw.

“whole car ride, babe,” he mutters against your skin, “i was sittin’ there just tryna breathe...relax after my long ass flight, and you’re over there yelling at the guy in front of us like your tits aren't beeping the horn for you. what was i supposed to do?”

your laugh turns into a gasp when his hands find your hips, yanking you closer.

you should stop. you meant to stop. meant to say something. to ease him into it gently. but he’s kissing you again, hard, one hand already sliding under your shirt—and you forget. you completely forget.

because it’s just him. home. warm. wanting. and it feels so good to be wanted.

he breaks the kiss just long enough to tug your shirt off.

“c’mere. let me get this armor off you.”

his fingers fumble at your back—expertly, annoyingly fast—and with one practiced flick, the bra gives way.

he peels it off.

and then he freezes.

you blink up at him, chest rising and falling, lips kiss-swollen and barely able to catch your breath.

“schlatt?”

he’s just staring.

then slowly—like he’s afraid to jinx it—he cups one breast in his hand. runs his thumb over the metal.

“…no. fucking. way.”

oh.

oh fuck.

“i forgot,” you blurt, eyes wide. “i meant to—schlatt, i meant to tell you—”

but he doesn’t even hear you.

his pupils blow wide. his hand tightens on your waist. he’s grinning, borderline maniacal, voice suddenly raspier than it has any right to be.

“you got your nipples pierced,” he says, half-laughing. “you went and did this while i was gone? and didn’t tell me?”

“i was nervous!” you squeak.

“you were nervous?? baby, i’m—i’m losing my fucking mind right now.”

and then he’s on you.

mouth on your chest, fingers everywhere, muttering curses and praise and wild, unhinged things like “how the fuck do you expect me to be normal ever again,” and “you want me to die, don’t you.”

he doesn’t even wait.

his mouth is on your chest like he’s starving—tongue hot and wet, dragging slow between the piercings before closing around one with a groan that vibrates through your whole body.

you gasp—sharp and shaky—because they’re still sensitive. still a little too new. but god, it feels good. it feels like everything in you tightens at once, toes curling against the floor, thighs squeezing around his hips like muscle memory.

you can’t help it. your body knows him. remembers him.

“fuck,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to look. really look. his thumb brushes over the barbell, slow, reverent, like he’s not sure it’s real. “you are so fucking hot. i can’t—i literally can’t believe you did this. how the fuck did i land you.”

you can’t think of a single coherent word, let alone say one.

your chest feels like it’s glowing under his hand. every nerve from collarbone to navel lights up like electricity, sharp and dizzying and hungry. and then—your back hits the couch.

you barely realize he’s walked you there. you just know you’re sitting now, breath punched out of you, and he’s already dragging your leggings off—voice low and shaky and nothing like the cocky tone he usually has when he teases you.

“you’re so fuckin’ pretty,” he mutters, like he’s scolding himself. like he’s pacing in his own head. “so fuckin’ perfect. brand new tits for me and you didn’t even tell me? shit, baby—i’m gonna lose my mind.”

his hands are on your thighs, spreading them apart, rough palms sliding over skin like he needs to memorize every inch before it slips away again. like he doesn’t trust that you’re really here.

you open your mouth to say something. anything. but then his hand cups between your legs and your whole body jumps.

you’re soaked.

you feel embarrassingly exposed—slick and warm and pulsing, thighs trembling with how much you’ve missed this. him. the way he touches you like he can’t help it. like you’re the only thing that exists.

“fuckin’ missed this,” he says, and it’s not a line. it’s not dirty talk. it’s just true.

you nod, because you’re the same. you missed this so much it ached. you slept in his old t-shirts and reread your text threads and counted days until he was back. and now he’s here. and he’s hard. and he’s pushing his sweatpants down just enough to free his cock and you swear your lungs stop working.

you reach for him.

he catches your wrist. not to stop you—but to kiss it.

soft. stupidly soft.

and then he’s pushing into you.

you moan—loud, desperate, your head falling back with a dull thud against the cushions as he sinks in deep, all at once. there’s no teasing. no slow adjustment. it’s just full-body contact, heat against heat, everything you’ve been starving for crashing into place in one sharp, overwhelming moment.

you forgot how good he feels. thick and hot and perfect, pressed flush against your hips with a groan that curls through your ribs and lives there.

“jesus christ,” he mutters, hands gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise. “you—baby, you’re fuckin’ tight.”

“you’ve been gone,” you breathe, voice cracking like you’ve been holding it in for weeks. “i missed you.”

and he loses it.

he leans in, presses his forehead to yours, thrusting hard enough to make the couch creak beneath you both. your legs wrap around his waist out of instinct, trying to hold him closer, tighter, deeper. you can feel yourself squeezing around him with every thrust, and you know he feels it too by the way his jaw locks and his breathing falls apart.

and then—god,—his hand finds your chest again.

thumb brushing over the piercing, palm warm against your skin.

you gasp. again. high and helpless.

“still sensitive, huh?” he whispers, voice just rough enough to send a shiver down your spine. “bet you touched yourself thinkin’ about me sucking on ’em.”

“i didn’t,” you gasp. “i—I wanted it to be you.”

his hips stutter, eyes snapping open to look at you—something sharp and stunned swimming behind the want.

“fuck,” he groans. “you’re gonna make me cum so fast, baby.”

and for a second, you think he might.

but then—he swallows. hard. sets his jaw like he’s fighting with himself.

and you watch it—watch him choose not to let go. not yet.

he’s breathing like he’s been running, chest rising and falling fast against yours, sweat starting to bead at his temples. but his pace slows, just barely—enough to make every thrust feel deeper. heavier. drawn out like he’s trying to memorize the way you fit together.

“i missed you so much,” he says, voice rough and uneven. “you don’t—you don’t fuckin’ know.”

you do. god, you do. it’s all you’ve felt since he walked through the airport gate—like your body had been waiting without you, aching in your bones and your blood and your fingertips.

you open your mouth to say it. to say me too, or i love you, or something that doesn’t make your throat feel like it’s about to close.

but then he rolls his hips—just right—and your voice breaks on a moan instead.

he groans. low, desperate.

“that’s it,” he whispers. “so fucking good.”

your legs tighten around him, body arching into his, fingers gripping at his shoulder like he’s all that’s holding you up. and maybe he is.

he slides his hand between you—presses his palm flat over your chest again, thumb tracing your piercing in slow, lazy circles like he knows exactly what it does to you now.

and it’s too much.

you’re already so full. already so close. and the added friction, the heat, the thrill of being seen like this—laid out and shaking and known in this way—it’s all stacking on top of itself in your stomach, hot and heavy and tight.

“schlatt—” you gasp, voice cracking.

he looks at you. really looks. and his face softens.

“i got you,” he murmurs. “just let go. i’ve got you.”

and you do.

you come with a cry—loud and open and shameless, your whole body tensing, then breaking. it rips through you like a snapped wire—sharp and fast and blinding, curling your toes and flattening your spine against the couch as your hands clutch at him for dear life.

and he feels it.

he lets out the most wrecked groan against your throat, holding you through it—letting you ride it out with slow, shallow thrusts as your body jerks around him in waves.

you’re gasping. whimpering. blinking hard against the blur in your eyes.

“fuck, fuck, baby,” he breathes, voice coming apart. “you’re so fuckin’ pretty when you cum.”

your muscles twitch. your thighs are still shaking. your whole body is buzzing with the kind of heat that leaves you boneless and ruined.

he kisses your cheek. your jaw. the corner of your mouth.

“that’s my girl,” he whispers, all hoarse and reverent. “you did so good. so fuckin’ good for me.”

and you believe it. even if your brain is barely working.

you’re so gone, you don’t realize he’s pulled out until his cum-slick cock presses against your stomach, twitching in his hand.

you blink at him. still breathless. still warm and open and raw.

he’s staring at your chest again.

then—quietly, still panting—he says:

“lemme cum on ’em.”

your stomach flips.

“wha…?” you manage.

he swallows. nods, like he’s reassuring himself. like he’s asking permission, even as his hand keeps moving around the base of his cock.

“your tits,” he says, eyes locked on the piercings. “lemme fuck ’em, baby. i gotta. i have to. please?”

and you—you don’t think. you just nod.

he kisses you, fast and crooked, missing your mouth a little like he can’t think straight anymore. like he needs to touch every part of you to stay grounded.

“fuck—thank you,” he mutters, voice gone wrecked. “fuckin’—thank you.”

you barely process him moving. you’re too loose-limbed and blinking slow to react. he kneels back, pulling you with him gently until you’re upright, your spine brushing the back of the couch, thighs still parted lazily across the cushions.

your chest rises and falls. your skin’s still flushed from the orgasm. and your tits—

they’re still shining. spit-slick from his mouth, flushed and sensitive, the tiny metal bars glinting in the low light like jewelry.

you glance down and see them like he’s seeing them.

and yeah.

you’d wanna fuck ’em too.

“press ’em together for me,” he says, rough. “please, baby. lemme—lemme see it.”

his voice breaks on that last part, and it does something to you. you bring your hands up, slow, still shaking slightly, and squeeze your breasts together between your palms.

you can feel the cool metal of the bars press into the softness of your skin. can feel the sweat, the heat, the need.

he groans—loud. hand stroking himself at the sight, chest flushed, eyes wide and ravenous.

“jesus christ,” he breathes. “you’re—you’re gonna fuckin’ kill me.”

he shuffles forward on his knees until he’s right there, cock in hand, flushed and glistening, already leaking at the tip. his fingers tremble as he slots himself between the valley you’ve made, pressing into the warmth of your skin with a shuddering inhale.

“ohhh my god.”

he thrusts once—just once—and it punches a sound out of both of you.

the slick slide of him between your tits is obscene. hot. messy. you can feel every ridge of him drag over the swell of your chest, the way his tip nudges the curve of your collarbone. the way the piercings barely catch on the motion.

he’s already losing rhythm.

“you’re so hot,” he gasps. “you’re so fucking hot. i’ve been thinkin’ about you like this the whole fuckin’ trip—shit—baby—”

you just nod. can’t speak. can’t look away.

his hand joins yours, squeezing around the outside of your tits, fucking up into the softness like he needs it. like he wants to burn the image of it into his skull.

his eyes flicker—up, down, back to your chest, your face, the piercings again.

“gonna cum,” he pants. “gonna—fuck—lemme cum on ’em, please. fuckin’ lemme—lemme—”

“yeah?” you breathe, voice wrecked and sticky-sweet. “you want these that bad, baby?”

your thumbs flick over the barbells as you squeeze your tits tighter for him, watching the way his eyes snap to the movement.

“then fucking do it.”

and then he does.

with a shout that comes from deep, he cums hard—thick and hot and everywhere. ropes of it across your chest, your throat, your collarbones, dripping down the piercings like they were made to hold it. he keeps thrusting through it, jerking slightly, riding the last of it out until he’s completely spent, cock twitching between your tits as he collapses forward onto his elbows.

his forehead drops to your shoulder. he’s breathing so hard it rocks you both a little.

you sit there, still holding your tits together, heart hammering, cum cooling on your chest, mouth parted in absolute disbelief at what just happened.

and then—

“...okay,” he pants, hoarse. “next time? warn me if you upgrade your body again. i’m not emotionally prepared for this shit.”

you wheeze out a laugh.

“i’ll consider it.”

“consider it strongly. i’m tryin’ to live a long life.”

“you just made a mess on my chest.”

he groans, flops fully onto you, kisses your shoulder like an apology and a thank-you and a “holy shit” all at once.

“worth it.”

[sealcowboy]

can i please request a pool / beach day fic with any of your joosts or regular joost 👉👈 best writer on joostblr love ur work so much

beach day

joost klein x reader the one where you go to the beach with him

rpf || dni if you don’t like, just block

you don’t really know who suggested it, but somehow you and joost ended up spending the whole day at the beach.

you didn’t expect him to be a beach guy, but here he is. shirt halfway off, towel slung over his shoulder, sunglasses slightly crooked.

“you forgot the umbrella,” you say, squinting at him.

“you said we’d only be out for a few hours,” he says back, adjusting his sunglasses like that makes his argument more valid.

“you��re acting as if i’m your mom.”

he doesn’t deny it. just shrugs, tosses the towel onto the sand, and starts setting up your little spot. two chairs, a cooler, and a tote bag full of random stuff you probably didn’t need to bring but brought anyway.

once he’s prepared everything properly, you’re lying on a chair in the sun, half-asleep, half-listening to joost complain about how much sand is in his shoes.

“you could just take them off,” you mumble, eyes still closed.

“i did take them off,” he says. “and there’s still sand in them. it’s multiplied. how is there more now?”

you laugh without opening your eyes. “that’s how beaches work.”

he drops down beside you with a dramatic sigh and a small thud, kicking a bit of sand your way on accident.

“hey,” you say, brushing it off your arm.

“sorry, schat” he says, not sounding sorry at all.

you peek at him. he’s already lying back on his towel, arms crossed behind his head, eyes on the sky. his hair’s a little messy from the breeze, and there’s a faint sunburn already starting on the bridge of his nose.

“you need more sunscreen,” you tell him.

“i put it on like an hour ago.”

“and you burn like toast. sit up.”

he groans dramatically but does what you say, letting you dig through the bag and pull out the sunscreen bottle. he closes his eyes as you dab it onto his cheeks and nose.

“this feels like a trap,” he mutters. “you’re gonna smear it and then laugh at me.”

“maybe,” you say, rubbing it in way too carefully to be mean. “but you’ll thank me when your whole face doesn’t peel off.”

he opens one eye. “are you secretly a lifeguard or something?”

“no, i’m just smarter than you in the sun.”

he squints at you. “wow. rude.”

you smile. “i’m just truthful.”

he tilts his head a little, like he’s about to say something smug, but then he just goes quiet. lets you keep rubbing sunscreen on his face.

after a while, you both end up lying back again, side by side on your chairs, watching the clouds and people-watching in silence.

you point out a dog chasing a seagull. he points out a kid with an entire bucket of wet sand who keeps running around the shore with it and you two giggle about it like idiots.

eventually, you get hungry and dig into the cooler you packed together that morning. mostly snacks—grapes, chips, a couple sandwiches wrapped in foil.

later, he tries to convince you to go in the water. you agree on the condition that he doesn’t dunk you. he pretends to agree but immediately betrays you ten minutes in, lifting you off your feet while laughing like an absolute menace.

you shriek. everyone around you stares. joost apologizes by carrying your towel back and buying you a popsicle from the little stand near the parking lot.

it’s fine. he’s lucky he’s cute.

you end up sitting on the sand again while the sun starts to dip lower, the light turning softer and golden.

he leans back on his hands, legs stretched out, eyes half-lidded from the warmth. he looks peaceful. kind of sleepy.

“this was a good idea,” he says quietly.

“yeah,” you say, resting your chin on your knees. “we should do it more.”

“you mean go outside?”

“don’t get ahead of yourself.”

i actually don’t know how to swim…….

[hoeforhockey]

Dad and Daddy. Pt.1

-S.C #87

AU: So...I'm back! um, this is quite literally going to be disgusting. So good luck. But like..the only other old man i could think of to use for this was letang..so, yea. Um basically, this is pure filth with a plot..so yea. The title ends up making sense eventually i promise. And these pics literally suck bc pintrest won't let me log in on my laptop. So.. and good god the digging I had to do for that damn picture

Warnings: none really, it’s just kinda suggestive

Did he really need to parade around your backyard with no shirt and swim trunks three sizes too small?

Apparently.

It was so wrong. So, so wrong. he was 37 and you were only freshly 22. Did i mention it was wrong? Every single day this summer your stupid dad had invited him over to parade around in all his half naked glory while you were stuck watching. Becuase he would never feel the same right? He was 37, there's no way he liked you even remotely close to the way you liked him.

While Sidney stood half underwater in the pool talking to your father, you noticed how his eyes drifted your way every few minutes. Granted most peoples wpuld given the bikini you had on was almost two sizes to small and practically squeezing your boobs right out of the fabric. But it wasn't directed at you..right? Or at leat thats what you told yourself.

It wasn't until your dad annoucned that he needed to leave to go deal with something that he finally confrimed what you thought would never happen.

He pulled himself out of the water, his arms flexing like a damn Greek god. *What you wouldn’t do to hold one..* Snap out of it. He’s your dad’s teammate.

But oh how his arms looked…

No. It’s not possible.

“You look good..” he murmured as he walked past you, sitting down in the chair next you. Well shit, maybe it is possible.

“What-?” You asked, caught of guard as you looked over at him, your eyes raking over his torso without even realizing

“You look good.” He said again, this time louder. Like he really meant it.

Oh…OH.

“Thanks..” you said as you snapped your eyes back up to face only to find them clued to your boobs. Which, in all fairness they are actually about to break your swimsuit straps, but that’s not the point. “I see the way you look at me y’know. I’m old, not blind.” He said as he looked back up at you, meeting your gaze

“I don’t look at you like anythi-“ Your tried to protest before it died in your throat, because it just wasn’t true. “Ok fine, but I see you to.”

“Good. That’s the point.” He said with the tiniest little grin

“Come here.”

“For what?”

“Just do it.”

You rolled your eyes, standing up and walking over. You stood over him, your hands on your hips

“Happy?”

He didn’t say a thing, his hands pulling yours away from your hips and pulling you down ontop of him. Your thighs were next to his ,and you were quite literally straddling him. And damn, if you were ever curious how big he was you definitely weren’t now.

“Now I am.” He said with a smirk, his hands finding their way to your highs

“Sidney wha-“ you tried to say before you were cut off by his hand squishing your cheeks together

“Quiet. I know you want it.” He murmured

He let go of your fave, his hands finding their place on your sides

“You wanna tell me why you keep staring at me like you want to eat me?”

“You walk around like that all the time. What was I supposed to do?” You exasperated, you head dropping into his shoulder

“You act like you don’t do the same thing.” He scoffed quietly

“Yea well-“ You started before he cut you off

“Nope. Don’t even. I know what you try to do.”

“it works by the way.”

He stood, his hands still under your thighs, as I he walked towards the sliding doors of the house.

“Where’s your room?” He asked as I shut the door behind him.

“Upstairs..down the hall.” You said as your hands held into his arm. This was not how you expected today to go.

Well, here it is 🤗 Im planning on making this a mini series, so we’ll see where it goes from here. Also..bear with me here, I don’t know how to write super suggestive stuff so I’m trying my best. This might suck but oh well

[seven-oh-four]

no siffrin got to him first <3

that was so fast... someone needs to stop this guy

[vantablackdraws]

Delicious Things

[paranoiddreams]

Yuji having one of those mini-remote-controlled trucks that he can control from his phone so he can follow you around your house. There’s a little camera in the front so he can see your feet shuffling across the floors of your home, and keep track of where you are. If he’s at your house, he still uses it too.

He’ll put little candies and snacks in the bed of the truck then drive it across the house into your room and on your bed so he can deliver them.

You can constantly hear the little motor of the damn thing, and when you try to trap the little truck under a bin so he can’t knock into your ankles anymore, you get a million calls from him.

“Baby?! Why’d you put me in a bin?!”

“Because you keep following me Yuji! And when you bump into my legs it hurts!”

He’s pouting over FaceTime while trying to control the truck at the same time, but the little wheels aren’t strong enough to escape.

Eventually, you do let him out because of his nonstop pleading; and maybe you do miss the sound of the motor signaling to you that your sweet, sweet boyfriend is actively trying to get your attention even if he’s miles away.

Idk if this will make any sense, but idc I need to write abt this man. Based off of this adorable video I saw. It just screamed sweetheart boyfriend!Yuji to me, what can I say?

[savanir]

Finding Andy (Curry)

Danny zips around the massive dark aquarium with a net carefully snatching up all sorts of colourful marine life before going up and gently depositing them in smaller tanks that Sam prepared.

"You do realise this is extremely illegal, right?"

"Taking these poor endangered fish from their homes is extremely illegal. We're righting a wrong here Danny, and you still owe me one"

Danny sighs and goes back down but keeps talking.

"I just don't want to be accused of stealing again"

"Tucker got us covered, we'll be fine. You just keep fishing Danny, I think we're almost done. "

Danny carefully goes through the dark depths of the aquarium again and it's then that he sees a much bigger shape dart away from him.

Sam said this entire thing was filled with poached endangered marine wildlife so everything in it needs to be retrieved. Aka, Danny goes in pursuit.

It takes some doing but eventually Danny gets a hold of it and it's worryingly little girl shaped.

He holds the little girl in front of him and just kinda looks for a second at this squirmy child that can apparently breathe underwater.

"Sam! Sam, holy Fffffffuudge"

"What!? What??"

"There is a baby in the aquarium!" He holds up the squealing little red head who has apparently decided what's happening now is funny actually.

"A baby!?"

"In the aquarium!" He points down at the water.

"Why is there a baby in the aquarium!!?"

"How am I supposed to know?! Maybe these weirdos accidentally fished up one of Aquaman's people?"

"Oh my god, we need to bring her back!"

"How the ff-frick-" the little girl giggles and goes, "Fik!" Making Danny wince,  "-are we supposed to do that, I don't know where Atlantis is at Sam"

"Call the justice league?"

"Didn't they disband again not too long ago?"

"... shit, you're right"

Danny rushes to cover the little girls ears while hissing, "language" and Sam slaps a hand over her mouth.

"Sorry..."

Danny floats in a circle above the water bouncing the child who seems fascinated with his glowing white hair, "Okay, okay, here's an idea. Jazz has her drivers license. We'll do an impromptu road trip to the east coast"

"... yeah, sounds good, let's go"

Sam holds the little girl as Danny stacks up all the tanks filled with fish and they quickly leave the premises.

"Can I just say I love you hair little miss, Naturally dark red? if only I was that lucky."

The now empty tank is surrounded by a gaggle of awkwardly shifting henchmen.

"So who is gonna tell the boss we lost the princess?"

[honey-tongued-devil]

[Arcane preference] reacting to a s/o falling asleep on their lap

The reason I have to post requests like this is because, for some reason, if I post them as Tumblr requests, I can’t find them again when I search for them. Making the masterlist was a real struggle. As usual, I’m using the headcanon to promote my longfic on Arcane, Everytime It Rains.

socials: | INPRNT | | Tip Jar | | X | | BlueSky | | Ao3 |

Jayce:

It often happens when he spends the evening working instead of giving you attention.

You know he doesn’t mean it in a bad way, so you settle for climbing onto his lap, letting your limbs dangle, and resting your face against his chest.

He stays focused on studying the documents in front of him, but one hand holds your head steady to keep you from losing your balance.

He strokes your hair absentmindedly.

When he notices you’ve fallen asleep, he feels a warmth, a tender sort of affection. He doesn’t want to wake you but wishes he had something to drape over your shoulders.

After a while, it becomes his signal that he’s pushed himself too far with work.

That’s the moment when he lifts your face to kiss you before carrying you to bed.

Viktor:

The classic "working on the couch" position, where you first sit next to him to avoid disturbing him, then drape one leg over his lap, and eventually both. By the end of the evening, you’re fully curled up in his arms.

He holds your side, resting his cheek against your head while continuing to read his notes, basking in the warmth of that shared intimacy.

He asks you several times if you’re tired, and when you don’t respond, he smiles softly, realizing exhaustion has won you over.

He pulls the blanket up to cover you both, and even when you grumble in annoyance at his movements, he chuckles and just says, “Just a second”

He works for another couple of hours but never stops stroking your side or giving you small kisses on the forehead.

Ekko:

“Aw, someone’s sleepy here,” is the first thing he says when you take the overboard from his hands, and let yourself plop into his lap, already wrapped in a blanket like a cape.

He doesn’t even try to go back to what he was doing. Instead, he pulls you close, rubbing his face against yours, taking in your scent.

He loves it—maybe even more than cuddling lying down. He enjoys the weight, the shape of your body, and being able to cradle you.

Because of this, he doesn’t ask if you’d rather lie down; he stays put, ensuring your rest is protected.

It’s only when you’re fully asleep and start shifting to find a more comfortable position that he decides to carry you to bed, staying there with you afterward.

Vander:

I’ll be honest, would.

The underground city is freezing due to the lack of light that filters in, all the glass and steel radiating cold from the outside. That’s why there’s no place more comfortable than this man’s laps.

You usually do it when the bar is still closed, and only a few close friends are inside. When you know he isn’t on the defensive and you won’t slow him down.

He laughs, keeping one hand on your back to support you, and points out to anyone around him that it’s good for you to get a little rest.

If you stay asleep even after the bar opens, he’ll grab a chair and sit it beside him so he can take care of the larger tasks first and then return to you in his lap.

But if it’s the weekend, when things can easily heat up, he’ll delay opening just to get you to bed, give you a kiss, and apologize for leaving you alone.

Silco:

Can we normalize this man as a piece of furniture?

It’s not even about being tired or wanting attention, sometimes it’s just the comfort the situation itself provides.

The way the swivel chair rocks, the vinyl on the record player, the intense, greenish light pouring through the window, and enjoying his delicate fingers in your hair while the entire city stretches out beneath you.

He doesn’t ask why you do it, nor if you want to move. He assumes that if you wanted something different, you would simply ask, so he continues to give you those small attentions endlessly.

He keeps you on the side of his good eye, so he doesn’t have to turn his head to check on you, but can discreetly notice if your expression changes or if you fall asleep.

These are the moments when Sevika knows that no one is supposed to enter his office, so you can have a bit of peace.

Jinx:

She’s always busy, always active, always too loud. Sitting in her lap sometimes seems almost like a necessity to keep her still and focused on just one thing.

“Awwww, my little bug is sleepy?”

She hums while holding you in her arms, one hand still trying to get her projects done.

If too much time passes, she’ll bend her knees and push herself forward, making the swivel chair move in the direction she wants so she can stay occupied while talking to you about whatever crosses her mind.

If she feels your breathing change, that you’re falling asleep, she suddenly freezes, as if to let you rest.

She pulls you closer, caresses you, kisses your temples, and carries you to her little couch.

Vi:

If manhandling were a woman

When you sit on her lap, she treats you like you’re a cat: fine. It will end there.

Does she need to pee? No, she doesn’t anymore.

She can’t disturb you, or you might get up and leave.

But when it starts to become a constant, she’ll cover your back and simply hold you while she does what she needs to do.

If you complain, she’ll kiss you, apologizing and reassuring you that you’ll be back on the sofa soon, asking you to hang on.

She enjoys that closeness, your breath on her skin, the trust in that action.

The moment she sits back down or rests, she’ll shower you with cuddles, even if you’re asleep or pretending to be.

Caytlin:

She’s the one to ask if you want to sit in her lap, worried that she’s neglecting you.

She keeps you with her, even if you’re asleep, supporting you to make sure you don’t hurt yourself or lose your balance.

Her biggest fear is not being able to express how much she cares for you, how happy she is to have you there.

The quickest way she knows to do that is through physical contact—the reassuring, warm kind.

“How was your day?” she asks, giving you space to talk and feel seen. She doesn’t want the things she has to do to take away from you, from the two of you.

If she still feels like she’s ignoring you, she’ll ask you to sit on the couch with her to watch a movie, or maybe in bed, cuddled up, just being close.

Mel:

I recognize mommy issues when I see them, and so does she. You’ve been caught.

She welcomes you into her arms almost playfully, gently caressing your hands and arms, speaking softly with her head turned toward you.

She knows it’s the easiest way for you to ask for attention, and she simply accepts it, letting you rest either in her arms or with your head on her lap.

She talks to you about her day, her plans, her worries as if telling you a lullaby, letting you rest on her concerns, including you in her mind so that you don’t feel like a burden.

If you fall asleep, she rests her chin on your shoulder and closes her eyes as well, enjoying a few minutes of peace, trying to sync your breathing together.

Sevika:

You live on the lap of this woman.

When she adjusts her arm, when you eat something on the couch, even at the bar while she plays cards or drinks, you’re always there.

The safest place in the underground city is on the massive legs of a woman with a mechanical arm, and that’s a fact.

Her initial fear, especially in public, was that someone might associate you with her and harm you.

But over time, it’s almost become a flex -you, pretty thing, are hers,

Every now and then, she checks to see if you’re okay, if you want to go to bed, if you’re comfortable, and with her healthy hand, she caresses your cheek while doing so.

At home, she always makes sure to cover you, to keep you close.

She doesn’t even go to bed unless you ask, enjoying the feeling of your body against hers.

[erwinsvow]

soft-spoken but bright shy reader who loves day shift. she can hide behind the scenes, take her time with the waiting room patients while letting the other residents duke it out for the more urgent, trauma cases that roll in. her skills aren’t rusty but she just prefers a different approach, still in love with the quickness and urgency of the er but not in the right mind set for the competition and favoritism. but after pitt-fest she really can’t look at day shift the same again. becomes even quieter, even more withdrawn, flinches at every noise and not defending herself when the occasional patient chews her out for taking too long.

it’s not good for you. not sustainable. robby thinks the solution is to give you a change of scenery. asks if you’d want to give night shift a try for a week or two. it’s quieter—though he makes sure to mouth that word instead of actually saying it—and in a twisted way, a little more balanced. it actually calms down eventually, gets into a lull where you can catch up on notes and eat granola bars while the place fills with some snores. you can’t lie, it does sound pretty appealing. so you take a chance and switch with some other resident who grumbles something about finally being able to get some sleep. but you’re not phased. maybe this is what you need.

you know the night shift. you thought you knew them well, but it turns out you just know them regular. you’ve interacted during trade offs, those group bonding activities they really try to push every other month, and throughout little stories during the day, reports of something funny or crazy that happened during the hours of the infamous night shift. but actually being one of them takes you a little by surprise.

shen has a secret drawer of snacks in central. underneath the handle there's a label that says something inconspicuous, and even then, the food is hidden under a stack of papers and a box of pens. your second night he shows you the hiding spot, so you don't have to run to your locker for your protein bar like yesterday. ellis is the one you reminds you not to get sloppy just because it's late. you don't know how she can tell, but your body hasn't really adjusted yet. you got a few hours of sleep but the sun was really bright and the dark grey curtains that had always been sufficiently dark were suddenly not. she's the one who airdrops you the link to proper black-out curtains, standing somewhere across the room when you look up to thank her, giving you a nod.

but you're still deciding if this is really better for you. it's hard to leave the routine you've known for almost two years and expect a decision overnight, even though you do expect it.

at the end of your first week, the curtains have been delivered and you're sleeping a lot more soundly. from seven to ten you handle the overflow from the chairs until it's more or less settled. you're never really going to catch up, but there's more movement some nights than others. you report your orders to ellis, make sure to debrief shen every hour on the status of your beds. the charge nurse tells you who next up and where to take them, and you do, no cherry-picking allowed. it might be a fraction less busy, but it just seems a little more organized, more managable. you might be able to see yourself here for a little longer.

and of course, he doesn't help matters. dr. abbot. shen and ellis and the other handful of residents keep the place running but dr. jack abbot is what keeps all of you running. you knew that robby had told him something about you, something about how you need an eye on you for now, that you're not acting like yourself. you know this because abbot checks in on you no less than once every two hours, more if you're swarmed.

you didn't think he'd be interested in hearing about the allergic reaction in bed eight or the sprained wrist in six, but he does. watches you with that gaze from across the room, observing, noticing. you don't know exactly what, but you hope it's good. he stays a couple steps behind you for some of the first few shifts. when you closes the curtain and move too quickly, you've even bumped into him, not realizing how close he was. you stammer out an apology while his hand is on your shoulder, steadying you from losing any more of your balance.

"doin' okay, kid?" he asks, and you hope the heat on your face isn't as visible to him as it feels to you.

"y-yeah. i'm good. sorry-"

he settles down eventually. then there's the other things.

a hot cup of coffee at nine-thirty, closer to the ending half of one of the bigger rushes. you're getting your bearings, yawning at the screen while you type out some orders. he just sets it in front of you and walks away, doesn't even stay long enough to hear your thank you. (but he does hear it, and walks away from you smiling. not that you could see it.)

tea closer to one in the morning. you could try to get sleep but that's pretty impossible, and you think mostly frowned upon. the day shift doesn't get to sleep, so it'd be unfair if you snuck off for a nap. and besides, the er never really quiets down that much—there's always some car accident or late-night injury while making dessert. the middle of the night is a haven for falls—in the hallway on the way to the bathroom, getting out of the car in the dark, missing a step in a sleepy state.

so tea. energy drinks aren't really your thing, but english breakfast or earl grey has just enough caffeine to get you through to another hot cup of coffee around four or five. but somehow, without you ever telling abbot how you take your coffee and tea, he's figured it out. each cup is always perfect, always exactly what you needed.

the silly girl inside you thinks it's so sweet. your attending is so caring, so attentive to everyone on his night shift. you hear him take over for shen when he's had four or five back to back, interrupting ellis before she takes on another, instructing her to go take five minutes and that he'll deal with it.

and now you're one of them, and you get cups of coffee and tea, gentle encouragement with nods from across the room, asking you questions throughout so you don't feel like you're missing anything from the day shift. he's even gotten you to trend to incoming traumas with him. at first you'd tried what worked during the day—letting the others fight for it, but it's not like that past a certain time. in fact, shen and ellis think you should take all the incoming traumas, get more experience that way.

"incoming," jack says, and you look up at him, and then around to see if you can find who he's talking to. there's no one else but you and the nurses. "with me, kid, let's go."

shit. you follow his lead, not exactly sure how to tell him that this isn't the part of the job that you're perfect at. you're better with patients who are awake and alert, families that want answers, people that need things explained to them with patience.

"you sure you don't want someone else to assist? i'm-i'm not-"

"i want you to assist," he says, handing you a gown and then pulling one on himself. "turn," and you comply immediately. he ties the neck and back for you, and then you tie his. you reach for gloves but he's already pulled ones in your size.

the paramedics roll in, rattling off a long list of things that you try to organize in your mind. the patient is groaning and bloody, shirt ripped in half and mumbling something you can't make out from over the oxygen mask. you realize the last time you'd really been forced to deal with incoming traumas was the day of the shooting, and your mind wanders briefly. what if he liked this shirt? where is his family at? it's two in the morning, they're probably sound asleep, about to wake up to the worst news in the world if you don't get it together and save him.

"hey," you hear jack's voice over the milion other noises in the room. it's grounding. it whips you into shape, answering his questions and ordering scans and drugs and not stopping until his heart is stable and surgery is aware that he's coming.

outside of the trauma room, you rip off the bloody gown and gloves. when you turn to confront jack, he's already right behind you, the two of you almost colliding.

"i'm so sorry. i-i don't know what happens in there, i just, i freeze, and-"

you feel a hand guiding you, hovering over your lower back. so warm that you can almost feel the heat radiating from him. he takes you into a quiet, empty little corner and doesn't start talking until you meet his eyes.

"what you went through, it's not nothing. it's scary for all of us, but especially if it's the first time."

"i've been here two years. it's not the first time. i shouldn't be reacting like this."

"and if this was happening to me, would you tell me that i was overreacting? hm?" the way he asks the question and the way his eyes don't leave yours makes your face feel warm again. "there's nothing wrong with needing to ease yourself back into it. i'm not gonna lose it if you can't answer every question. no one's judging you for needing a minute to get started. but if you don't stop judging yourself, you'll never get better. and i need you to get better, okay? the whole night shift does."

you nod, coming to terms with what he said. and for the first time in a long time, you do feel better. the patient's fine. jack's fine. you're fine.

until one day, he refills your water bottle for you. cold water, a little bit of ice but not too much. the bottle is easter yellow, the brightest thing at the desks at central, and it looks weird in your attending's hands.

"oh," you get out, a little softly. it's two in the morning, and your tea is almost empty, but you might need another cup. you're not alert enough to notice that your bottle even went missing. maybe fifteen minutes ago, you tried to take a sip but it was empty. your eyes flick between the yellow of your bottle and the brown of jack's eyes for a moment, brain not functioning. "thank you."

"no problem," he says, walking away before you can even process what happened. besides you, the nurses try to conceal their laugh. across from you, you see ellis and shen whispering to each other, but you can't put two and two together.

"is everything okay?" you call out to them. they make their way over, leaning against the counter while stretching. when you look next to you again, the nurses are gone.

"yeah," ellis starts. "it's nothing-" you interrupt.

"-what? did i do something-" those little fears creep their way in, starting at the back of your neck, spreading like ice water throughout you. it seems stupid, but you've always been anxious, and sometimes your field helps you stop being anxious, and instead puts you in go-mode. it's what you used to like about the day shift. so much to do, there's not enough time to sit and think about what everyone else is doing and thinking all the time. but night shift is just a smidge different.

"no-"

"really, it's nothing-"

"-it's just that he's never filled my water-"

"-or gotten me coffee-"

"-i don't even think he knows what my water bottle looks like-"

"-and he's definitely never asked me if i drink tea-"

"oh."

oh.

[batsandbirdbrains]

Pls just imagine how dramatic a young justice fic would be if it was like

The one where Batman and Robin are magically de-aged to when they first started working together

So now you’ve got a very paranoid and over protective Batman who hasn’t actually met any of the other justice league members yet and an itsy bitsy Robin who looks like he’ll tear someone’s head off. The Justice League has them quarantined in the Watchtower, they’re not letting them go home to the batcave or anything, and Batman is arguing with Green Arrow while holding a flailing Robin by the scruff of his neck. He looks like a feral kitten.

Now keep in mind, no one in this scenario knows Batman and Robin’s secret identities. They’re not even really sure if they’re father and son, brothers, uncle and nephew, or maybe strange mentor and protege picked off the streets, they’ve no clue. So seeing what is now clearly a young twenty-something Batman trying to wrangle in a wriggling eight year old is both highly entertaining and totally baffling. Where the hell did these two even come from. And how has that tiny kid been around longer than some actual adult heroes.

“He bit me!” Kid Flash cries, running away from a glowering Robin.

“Don’t try to touch me next time, asshole!”

“Hey!” Batman barks, holding Robin up by an arm and dangling him in front of him. “We don’t bite super-powered strangers. Who knows what kind of radioactive germs they might have.”

“But B!” Robin’s voice is so high and whiny, Conner is starting to feel dizzy. “He tried to pick me up! He called me cute! I’m not cute I’m terrifying.”

And the two just keep bickering back and forth, Robin eventually hanging with his ankles and hands hooked around Batman’s arm. Batman is trying to shake him off like a bug. They are both still arguing with each other as this happens.

“Did Batman just accuse me of having radioactive germs?” Wally is gaping at the scene in front of him.

As is everyone else. This is a total mindfuck. Who let Batman be in charge of a kid.

The two of them do eventually, reluctantly, start to trust the league. And they’ve been told they have to stay on the Watchtower until their magic expert gets back from a mission. Four days from now.

There’s one point when most others stationed on the Watchtower are sleeping or taking a break, and Batman is holding a drowsy Robin close to his chest and looking out the windows of the observation deck. Someone brought them some casual clothes to wear during their downtime, but they both have domino masks over their eyes. Those who see them like that can’t quite comprehend just how young Batman looks without the cowl.

“The moon looks so big,” a sleepy Robin mumbles, his cheek squished against Batman’s shoulder.

“That’s ‘cause it’s so much closer here,” Batman tells him, his voice incredibly soft. “Can you see where Gotham would be?”

Robin’s head turns just slightly, looking toward the Earth, and he hums, a fist moving up to scrub at his eye.

“S’over there,” he points. “With all the clouds ‘n stuff.”

“Looks tiny from up here, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Robin mouth opens in a comically wide yawn, then he shoves his face in Batman’s neck.

“S’not gonna fall from the sky, is it?”

“Nah.” Batman shifts his arms, holding Robin a little tighter. “This place is in orbit, kinda like how the moon is. It’s not gonna fall.”

“Would you catch it if it did?”

“I’d steal us a ship from here so fast, I wouldn’t need to catch it.”

“Kay.”

Batman presses his cheek to the top of Robin’s head, stray curls tickling his nose.

“Do you wanna practice your flips and shit in the morning? I’ll spot you.”

“Yeah,” Robin mumbles, “And I wanna scare Green Lantern by poppin’ outta the vent again. He screamed like a little girl when I landed on the table.”

“Do a flip when you do it and I’ll smuggle you an ice cream bar from their kitchen.”

“Deal.”

Batman has to twist his left arm funny so he can shake Robin’s hand, his right arm occupied by holding Robin up, and they shake on it.

Batman lets out a snort of a laugh, looking at Robin with an incredibly fond look on his face.

For everyone else, it’s a very long four days of them being menaces and encouraging each other to do more and more odd shit.

When they get turned back, they act like nothing was out of the ordinary. They’re not even phased when they’re reminded of some of the things they got into.

[libingan]

—no questions asked.

you’ve always been his, even before the words were ever said—no labels needed when everything else speaks for itself.

i remember candace and jeremy's relationship in phineas and ferb. i liked how jeremy assumed they were already dating and thought to myself "simon riley" so here it is.

it’s always been this way with simon.

the little things you’ve shared, those moments that nobody else gets to see, have slowly built up over time. long drives where the silence is comfortable, quiet moments when you’re wrapped up in a blanket together, his arm draped around your shoulders. you’ve shared soft kisses in the early morning light, whispered words when you think no one’s listening, and occasional touches that linger just a second too long to be deemed innocent. his gruff voice calling you his—just “his,” as if you’re already a part of something bigger, something unspoken.

but the question always lingers in the back of your mind: what are we?

because in your head, you’re not his girlfriend. you never really were. sure, you’ve done couple things—spent hours together, laughed over inside jokes, shared moments that feel like they belong to only the two of you. but whenever you think about it, you can’t quite place a label on what you are. you never had that conversation, the one where he asks you out, where you define what this thing between you is.

and deep down, you’ve always known. maybe it’s not meant to last. maybe simon’s just passing through your life like a storm, wild and unpredictable, leaving you wondering if you’ll ever feel whole again once the dust settles. you’ve never asked for a commitment. it was enough for you to just be close, to keep things easy and fluid, without any promises that might eventually break.

but then, everything changes the moment you decide to confront him.

it’s a quiet night, the kind where the world outside seems to stop, and you’re sitting in the living room, the only sound being the soft hum of the kitchen light. simon’s sprawled across the couch, eyes half-lidded as he scrolls through his phone. you’re sitting on the floor in front of him, leaning your back against the coffee table, and you can’t stop your thoughts from swirling.

the truth has been eating at you for weeks now, months maybe. you have to ask. you need to know if this is really what you want, and more importantly, if it’s what simon wants. so, you let the question slip, unsure of how it’ll come out, but it tumbles from your lips all the same.

“simon,” you begin, your voice quiet but firm, “what are we?”

he doesn’t immediately look up from his phone. it’s as if the question barely registers, but you know he’s heard it. you can feel his attention slowly turning your way, as if his brain needs a second to process the weight of your words.

he puts the phone down, tilting his head slightly to get a better look at you, his gaze soft but intense. he doesn’t say anything at first. instead, his lips curl into a small, knowing smirk.

“what do you mean?” his voice is low, almost like he’s testing the waters.

you swallow, feeling a tightness in your chest, and you try to make your words come out right. “i mean… we do all this stuff, simon. you call me yours, and i… i don’t even know where i stand. we’ve never really talked about what this is. are we… are we dating, or what?”

he blinks at you for a moment, clearly taken aback by your words. it’s almost funny, how much you’ve thought about it, how much you’ve analyzed your every interaction, while simon has likely never questioned it. it’s simple to him. and that’s when it hits you—he’s never even considered that this could be anything other than what it is.

he sighs, a deep, exasperated sound, and leans back into the couch, his arms crossed over his chest. his eyes lock onto yours, unwavering. “what are you on about, woman? you’re my girlfriend.”

the words hang in the air, and for a moment, you can’t quite process them. you blink, unsure if you’ve heard him right. it almost sounds like he’s stating a fact, like it’s something as simple as breathing. his voice is firm, unwavering, as if this was always meant to be the case.

you feel your breath catch, the weight of his words sinking in, and then—just like that—all your worries melt away. you don’t even know why you were so worried in the first place. the uncertainty, the anxiety, it all seems so silly now. you’re not sure whether to laugh or roll your eyes at the absurdity of it all. simon is, as always, so simon about it. there’s no drama, no overthinking, no need for big conversations or declarations.

you’re his. you’re his girlfriend. and there’s no debate.

the relief hits first, followed closely by a mix of amusement and a small flash of annoyance. you try to hold back the grin tugging at your lips. “wait... just like that? no question, no ‘will you be my girlfriend?’ just… you’re my girlfriend?”

he meets your gaze, nonchalant, and shrugs. “that’s right. you’re mine. no need for any of that nonsense. i’ve already decided.”

you stare at him, feeling a warmth spread through you that has nothing to do with the temperature of the room. it’s the way he speaks, like he’s already certain, already claimed you. and it feels… good. reassuring, even. but also, just a little bit frustrating. because, honestly, how do you even argue with that?

“god, you’re impossible,” you mutter, a grin breaking through as you roll your eyes. “seriously. you’re so damn sure about everything.”

he just smirks back, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. “you should be glad i am, sweetheart. now, come here.”

he pats his lap, and before you can protest, you’re already moving toward him, the tension from moments before completely gone. his arms pull you close, and you settle against him, feeling his familiar warmth. you don’t even need the words anymore. somehow, just being with him like this is enough.

and that, you realize, is exactly what simon’s always known.

[lonely-moons]

⁀✶the bomb | bucky barnes x reader

title: the bomb

pairing: thunderbolts!bucky x avenger!reader (who is also a thunderbolt now yayy trauma bonding family)

warnings: established relationship tension ooOoOOo but then fluff, suggestive language

summary: things have been tense recently with your boyfriend bucky. but now it reaches a new high... when he blows up the limo that you're riding in.

wc: 1,811

notes: wrote this to try and suppress the urge to see the movie a 5th time. didn't work i still wanna go but my god the cinema is expensive

masterlist

you want to scream so badly that your throat hurts with the restraint of keeping it in. your entire body feels ablaze with anger, irritation pounding faster than your heart and infecting your blood so that all you can see is red.

or maybe it's just that you've been staring at the red guardian for the past five minutes.

it's a glare, really, but even though it's firmly set on him right now, he's not your end target. you think he probably knows this, since the two of you had taken a small liking to one another in the past hour. he had come to save you, after all, and even made you laugh with his crude humour. but he's the closest to you, and you're sure that if you let go of this restraint, you might just knock one of the walls down. which would crush all of your tied-up... teammates? acquaintances? you aren't quite sure yet.

what you are sure of is that you can't quite look at the man standing beside you. your boyfriend, but that's a little too endearing of a term for you right now.

you'd woken up in this dilapidated gas station the only one not tied up, other than bucky. the sharp ache in your head and pain in your limbs had demanded all of your attention at first, making you forget what had happened before blacking out. but then bucky entered your vision, all concerned and apologetic in your face before you remembered the events. you'd shoved him away, refusing to even glance in his direction, and thankfully his attention was directed elsewhere when the others began to stir.

you let them do the explaining, fully aware of the glances bucky keeps throwing you. you don't pitch in, not about following your friend yelena since you've been worried about her recently, not about the incinerator, not about the elevator shaft - not even about bob. but eventually everyone's caught up, and you can't be left to scowl in peace for any longer.

bucky says your name now, soft in a way you haven't heard in a while. it reminds you of sleepy mornings, of late nights tangled in sheets and whispers so light they could just be breaths. it used to melt you, but this time it burns.

"look, can we talk? please?"

you try not to react but can't help the scoff that breaks free. so now he has time to talk to you? figures. apparently blowing up a limo with you in it shouldn't deny him the privilege of talking.

"i think i'm good, barnes," you say.

your first words since waking up are accompanied by your first steps towards the others. you head for yelena since she's the only one you're really sure about, but before you can reach her, bucky's arm grabs your wrist. it's not painfully tight, but it is a warning, and you can't help but notice he's used his flesh arm, despite the fact the metal one is closer to you.

it had taken a while, even in your friendship, before bucky became comfortable enough to touch you with it. that almost started anew when you got together. he'd said that it was a symbol tainted with blood and destruction, that he hated the thought of any of that reaching you. you'd taken ahold of his metal fingers, bringing them to cup your face and shifting your head to place a kiss to his palm, effectively beginning your process of wearing him down.

he always refused to let it near you if either of you were angry at the other. said that he would never hurt you, but he didn't want to risk even the slightest possibility of a too-tightly-clenched fist or exasperated hand movement.

it'd been a while since he'd intentionally kept it away. now you feel a sting in your chest but try not to let it move your features.

"oh-ho," alexei laughs, looking between the two of you. "it is lover's quarrel, yes? i had fight once with one of my loves, too. she was beautiful, beautiful woman... the teeth, the hair, the thighs... but she always telling me, 'alexei, you can't keep coming in shower with me if you are going to go toilet -'"

everyone erupts into noises of protest, yelena the loudest of all. alexei looks around, mouth open slightly as if shocked his story is not being met with enthusiasm.

ava, who sits beside him, drops her head. "throw me back in the incinerator."

"what?" alexei asks, offended. "it is lovely story about -"

"i'd even take falling down the elevator shaft," says john, shaking his head slightly.

"we don't have the time for any of this," yelena protests. she looks around the group, but her eyes land on you.

"agreed," you say forcefully, ripping your arm out of bucky's grasp, but you don't make to untie the others again either. you hold eye contact with him when you add, "i think getting blown up knocked us off our schedule a little."

"you know i never would've done it if i knew you were in there," he says immediately.

his eyes are soft, but there's that crease between his eyebrows that deepens the more worried he is. you nearly hate that you have so many times to compare it to, because with a quick glance you can easily tell that this is the most worried he's been in a while. more than the night before any congress meeting, more than waking up sweating from any nightmare. this time he knows that it's not just a job or a few hours of sleep that he could lose. it's you on the line, and the panic bubbles so forcefully that it has his blood pounding in his ears.

it manages to evaporate a little of your rage.

"oh, thank you," says ava, sending a sarcastic nod to bucky. "it's good to know that you have no problem with blasting other people into the sky, very nice."

bucky sighs, running a hand down his face. "please," he says to you again, "just... hear me out. one minute."

your eyes still blaze as you stare him down. while that doesn't crack, something in your heart does, and you find yourself giving a stiff nod. "fine. one minute."

his lips twitch, eased a little by hope, and he guides you to another section of the abandoned gas station, much to the protest of the other four. you give yelena a quick apology, promising to get her out after this, but then hurry up your steps as you hear alexei begin another story about young love. they become background noise by the time you reach the door at the far end.

"i'm sorry," bucky says after you turn to him expectantly. "no, that doesn't cover it, you don't even know how sorry i am, i -" as if sensing that he's about to ramble, he cuts himself off with a sigh. "i never would've done anything to that car if i'd known you were in it. i was always planning on getting the others, but you didn't answer your phone all day, and i thought they might've -"

"shot at me?" you supply pointedly.

"well, i was gonna say known where you were, but... yeah. that too." his smile is small, sincerity preventing it from tipping fully into hesitant. "but i'm not just sorry for all that, i... i miss you. i miss us. and maybe that's not fair since i've been the one not making enough of an effort, but i just..." his arm moves, like he's about to reach out to touch you before he thinks better of it. "i just miss you."

it's as though the tight ball in your chest gets unravelled with each word. you knew, of course, that bucky would never hurt you, would never have blown up the limo if he'd known you were inside. but you've been missing him too, for a while now. with his job in congress and your job as a kinda-avenger, there'd been a lot less time together and a lot more time working. neither of you had managed to quite figure out the work-life balance of the relationship, and the tension of that had finally snapped when you saw bucky coming to save you, only to end up pointing his gun in your direction and shooting.

"i miss you too." you look up at him, into the blue eyes that look different now. they're still tired, evident by the dark circles beneath them, but they have some of that warmth back. you smile, then one side tips higher into a smirk as you say, "but, you know... i think talking about it is a much healthier way than trying to blow up your girlfriend. maybe we should get dr. raynor back, go over some old notes about healthy coping mechanisms..."

he huffs out a laugh. "well, i am planning on making amends."

"oh, are you?" you raise an eyebrow. "and what does that entail?"

"i have a few ideas." he grins at you in a suggestive way, widening when you laugh. knowing he's now in safe territory, he steps forward to cup your face with both of his hands. when you lean slightly more into the metal one, he receives your unspoken message, thumb stroking your cheek. a moment of contemplation soothes his expression into something more tender, and he rests his forehead against yours. "but mostly i'm putting you first. i need you. and i need you to understand how important you are to me."

your hand comes up to his wrist, finger skimming over his pulse. "i do know. we're both just shitty at time management."

he snorts. "yeah, can't argue with that. but i mean it. maybe it had to take throwing a bomb at you..." you smile and, as if it's an automatic trigger, so does he, "but this is a wake-up call."

and then his lips are on yours, slow but strong, like an assurance all on their own. you return it immediately, trying to convey the same unspoken promises.

"i love you," you say when you part, and the words are so familiar on your tongue even though they haven't been used in a while. neither of you part too far, so your lips brush his as you say it.

"i love you, too." then a soft smile graces his face. "hey, on the bright side... i'm definitely getting fired."

you can't help but laugh. "oh, that's a bright side now?"

bucky shrugs, like the answer is obvious. "means i get to spend more time with you."

you're about to reply when alexei's laugh booms from the other room, followed by a shout that finally manages to reach you:

"bucky, we'll give you whatever you want, just please make it stop!"

[nochepsicodelica]

NSFW

Toji calls you pup or puppy sometimes and you've always thought that maybe it had something to do with you being so playful and energetic at times, but those were always just your assumptions. Not a single one of those assumptions was confirmed by Toji, so you took it upon yourself to ask for the truth...

"Toji?" You call, looking up at him from where you sit on his lap.

"Hm?" He hums in response, looking away from the commercial on the TV and down at you.

"Why do you call me pup? Don't get me wrong, it's cute." You smile, feeling the warmth of the seemingly endearing name in your stomach. "But, I wanna know why."

"Mm... do you really wanna know?" You nod, bubbly giggles erupting from your chest in anticipation. You're so excited for this reveal. It's been a mystery for months. "Well, it's because you let out these high pitched, little whimpers, that sound like a puppy when I touch you, sometimes."

Glass shattered. Illusion crumbled.

Your face immediately heats up. "No... No! Really?!" You groan, shifting to lay back in his arms while covering your face in embarrassment.

"Don't be embarrassed, baby. It's cute. You're a sensitive little thing." His hand comes forward to rub your tummy over your shirt.

You huff, an audible hum of annoyance sounding out. "Well, I'm never gonna do it again. I'm just gonna stop. I'm done. Never again."

"You wanna test that out?" He asks, mischievous eyes watching your pouty expression. You nod, accepting the challenge. "Sit on my lap properly, like you were before." You shift back and sit up straight against his chest. He pulls your hands away from your lap. "Keep these here, and don't move them. Understand?" he asks, placing your hands on his thighs. You nod, again, and grip onto them.

His left hand snakes up your shirt, his fingertips teasing the skin of your stomach until goosebumps rise. It goes further up once the goosebumps have spread all over, sliding beneath the cup of your bra to rub your already pebbled nipple. So far you've only let out a couple sighs, so he adds in his other hand. It slips into the front of your shorts and beneath your panties, until his fingers make contact with your slicked up slit.

"Already so wet for me, mama. What happened?"

"It's always like this for you," you say, quietly, suppressing the urge to whimper as the pads of his middle and ring fingers rub your clit in such a tediously, slow manner. Your hands part from his thighs and attempt to grab onto his forearms, causing him to immediately pause the movement of the hand that plays with your nipples as well as the one in your pants.

"Hey." His tone is questioning of your actions, but there's the touch of a smirk on his face, like he knew you'd need more than gripping his thighs to keep you from folding so quickly.

"S-Sorry. I'm sorry."

He presses a chaste kiss to your temple. "Let's try that again."

Soon enough, those little breaths you released through your nose, became small, quiet whimpers, that you didn't think Toji would hear. He had to correct you so many times about the way you were sliding down his front. Eventually he decided to lift your bra entirely and just wrap his arm around your chest to hold you steady because of how much you were squirming.

"Toji, I'm gonna..." A louder whimper comes out, effectively bringing a victorious smirk onto Toji's face. He heard those quieter ones, but he didn't count them for your sake. You're his baby, after all.

He speeds up the movement of his fingers, his rough pads adding delicious friction to your sensitive clit. You tense in his hold when your orgasm hits, plenty of moans and those pet name earning whimpers, flooding out.

"There you go, puppy," he purrs, into your neck, slowing his strokes to not overstimulate you so fast. You grab onto the arm that's secured at your chest, your nails digging into his skin through the pleasure. He doesn't stop because you've already proven his point and he sees no reason to punish you anymore.

A few seconds pass and those whimpers return, accompanied by your thighs shutting around his hand. You curl up a little, holding on tight to his arm.

"Had enough?" He asks, stilling his hand between your legs.

"Mhm, no more," you mumble, sounding defeated after thinking back to the sounds you made and how this backfired entirely.

He pulls his hands out from your clothes and wraps his arms around you. "So pup and puppy are fair game?"

You sigh, and reluctantly nod.