#flustered energy

[aventurineswife]

Can I geeeeet Alhaitham, Kaveh, and Ratio waking up with their s/o (male reader please?) after an “eventful” night and the reader apologizing profusely for how many marks he ended up leaving?

“We Made Love, and I Bear the Proof”

Tags: Alhaitham x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Kaveh x Reader, Male!Reader, Established Relationship, Post-Intimacy Fluff & Teasing, Suggestive Themes, Light Angst (Guilt/Shame Over Marks), Banter & Playful Arguments, Mutual Affection & Possessiveness, Soft/Teasing Dom Energy (Alhaitham & Ratio), Flustered/Subtly Needy Energy (Kaveh), Morning After Vibes, Physical Affection & Gentle Comfort.

Warnings: Suggestive Content (Mentions of intimacy, marking, and possessiveness, but no explicit smut), Marking/Biting/Scratches (Characters are covered in hickeys, bite marks, and scratches from the previous night), Mild Alcohol Mention (Kaveh’s piece briefly implies he might’ve had a drink the night before), Light Power Dynamics (Ratio & Alhaitham being smug/teasing about being marked up, Kaveh being flustered about it), Mild Swearing (Casual cursing in dialogue).

A/N: I may have went a bit overboard... Whoops-🧍‍♀️

The early morning light filtered through the curtains of Alhaitham’s bedroom, casting golden hues across the sheets. The crisp Sumeru air carried the scent of sandalwood and ink—his usual. The warmth beside you remained steady, unwavering, even as you stirred.

You blinked blearily, still hazy from the eventful night before, and shifted slightly. That was when you noticed them—faint scratches trailing down Alhaitham’s toned back, deep red marks along his throat, and a particularly dark bruise blooming just above his collarbone.

Your stomach dropped. "Shit."

Alhaitham’s eyes fluttered open, his gaze already fixed on you like he had woken long before you. His expression remained unreadable, but there was something smug in the way his fingers traced absentmindedly along your wrist, as if committing the weight of you to memory.

"I'm so sorry," you groaned, face buried in your hands. "I—uh, I didn’t realize I got that carried away—”

"Clearly," he cut in smoothly, voice still thick with sleep. "But I don’t see why you’re apologizing."

You peeked through your fingers at him. "Because you look like you got into a fight with a particularly aggressive lion—and lost."

Alhaitham hummed, finally sitting up, the sheets pooling at his waist. He stretched, his toned torso catching the morning light in an unfairly appealing way, before he turned his head slightly to observe the marks you had left on his skin.

Then, in a tone far too nonchalant for the situation, he smirked. "If anything, I’d say it’s a victory."

Your face burned. "Alhaitham."

"You’re the one who couldn’t keep your hands to yourself," he reminded you, shifting so that his lips ghosted over the shell of your ear. "And now you’re embarrassed?"

"I wasn’t trying to maul you—"

"Hm. Could’ve fooled me."

You groaned, shoving your face against his shoulder in sheer mortification, but the warmth of his skin, marked by you, only served to make you more flustered. His chuckle rumbled in his chest, sending a shiver down your spine.

"It’s fine," he murmured, fingers threading lazily through your hair. "Besides, I like the reminder."

His lips brushed against the fresh mark on your neck—the one he had left in return. A possessive streak glinted in his gaze when he pulled away.

"Now, are you planning to take responsibility for them, or shall I return the favor?"

You swallowed thickly. Oh, fuck.

The soft glow of morning bathed the room in warm gold, but the real warmth was beside you—Kaveh, tangled in silk sheets, his hair fanned out like the most intricate masterpiece ever crafted.

He looked peaceful, lips parted slightly in his sleep, his breathing steady. And then—oh.

Your eyes trailed down his bare skin, and guilt punched you in the gut. His porcelain skin was covered in evidence of last night—deep, dark bruises along his neck, light scratches ghosting over his shoulder blades, and a particularly harsh bite mark at his hip.

You barely had time to process it before Kaveh stirred, blinking sleepily at you with those vibrant eyes. He stretched with a soft groan, his arms raising above his head, exposing more of your handiwork.

Your guilt doubled. "Shit—Kaveh, I—"

His gaze followed yours, and when he spotted the marks littering his skin, his face exploded into color. He immediately yanked the sheets up, flustered beyond belief.

"You—!" His voice cracked, and you had never seen him this red before. "You—look at what you did!"

"I'm so sorry," you rushed out, hands raised in surrender. "I—uh—I wasn’t thinking—"

Kaveh buried his face in his hands, groaning in a mix of mortification and something dangerously close to satisfaction.

"I look like a damn canvas!"

"You are an artist’s muse," you teased, earning a weak swat to the arm.

"Don’t flatter yourself," he mumbled, voice muffled. Then, after a pause, his hands lowered just enough for his eyes to peek through his fingers. "...You really got carried away, huh?"

"I didn’t mean to—"

"You bit me, you menace!" He gestured dramatically to the mark at his hip, and you covered your face in shame.

"I’ll make it up to you," you promised, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder in silent apology. Kaveh sighed, still visibly flustered, but he didn’t pull away.

"You better," he huffed. Then, quieter, "But... maybe I didn’t totally mind."

Oh? You grinned against his skin. "Noted."

Morning arrived in quiet stillness, but your mind was not at ease.

Ratio, the insufferably intelligent, sharp-tongued man currently lying next to you, was covered in proof of your inability to control yourself. His skin was marred with bruises—your fingerprints at his waist, faint bites trailing up his chest, and a particularly deep mark at the base of his throat.

You were so fucked.

"Uh..." You swallowed. "Ratio, I—"

His striking eyes, sharp even in the haze of sleep, cracked open. He studied you in silence, gaze flickering down his own body as he took in the damage.

Then, in a voice infuriatingly even, he mused, "Fascinating."

You choked. "Fascinating?"

"Your enthusiasm last night was... excessive." He traced a faint bruise at his wrist, lips twitching slightly. "But I’ll admit, the empirical evidence is intriguing."

"Ratio, I practically mauled you!" You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. "I—fuck—I got carried away—"

His amused hum interrupted you. "So, you’re apologizing?"

"Obviously?"

Ratio tilted his head, violet strands falling over one eye as he considered you. His lips curved ever so slightly.

"Then allow me to pose a counterargument," he murmured, leaning in, his breath warm against your ear. "If you were truly remorseful, you wouldn’t be looking at me like that again."

You froze, heat crawling up your neck.

Shit.

Ratio chuckled, the sound like silk and steel. "What? Cat got your tongue?"

You scowled, shoving him back onto the mattress in sheer frustration.

"You are insufferable."

"And yet, you seem to enjoy suffering." His smirk deepened. "Shall I prove that hypothesis?"

You barely had time to react before he flipped the situation entirely—pinning you against the sheets, his sharp, knowing gaze drinking in every ounce of your flustered state.

You were so, so screwed.

[sticks-stones-sonic-insanity]

Guys I think they might like each other

[nightmarearian]

this is odydio to me

[bennetsbonnet]

Just returned from a very long and tiring but absolutely amazing day out where I was lucky enough to see some costumes from Pride and Prejudice (1995) at Sudbury Hall. There was an impressive array on display with lots of historical context included. It was a seriously well done exhibition, with many more costumes than just those belonging to Elizabeth and Mr Darcy as above (I will share them eventually).

It was so surreal but wonderful to stand in front of the costumes that were used to bring my favourite characters to life onscreen. I noticed so many little details that you just can't pick up when you're watching it (even some amusing stains!) and gained a new appreciation for the care that went into crafting each outfit (some were only worn once).

Plus, to see them in the space where they were actually worn, in the house that was used for the interiors of Pemberley (especially the dress in the second picture which was worn by Elizabeth while she played the very same piano mere feet away) just made the entire thing even more special. What a day!

(Please credit me if you repost these pictures anywhere!)

[angelzembrace]

hey guys has anyone considered boothill purring. have. have we pondered. hes a cyborg. he needs cooling systems to ensure his body doesn’t overheat. therefore. when he gets flustered or excited. he purrs. discuss

[rambamthxman]

Eddie got what he wanted but now he's plagued by the constant urge to touch his man 🥵

[samazing0831]

Teenage Dirtbag - Eddie Munson x Reader ONESHOT

TW - mentions of alcohol, minor language

Eddie Munson never expected the quiet girl at the jock tablet to know Iron Maiden, let alone invite him to a concert instead of going to Homecoming with her jock boyfriend. But one skipped gym class, a shared detention, and a life-changing night at a metal show later, Eddie's realizing maybe he's not just a background character in someone else's high school story. Maybe he's your main event. And maybe, just maybe, the dirtbag finally gets the girl.

3.5k words

Lunch at Hawkins High is a sociological experiment.

That’s what Mr. Clarke called it once, anyway. Social hierarchies, patterns of movement, predictable behavioral norms. Eddie thinks it’s more like a zoo.

The jocks claim the middle tables, naturally. Center stage. Theatre in the round. Their laughter echoes like a laugh track from some cheap sitcom Eddie refuses to watch on principle. They wear varsity jackets even in the September heat, as if the rest of the world might forget they play football unless it’s sewn onto their chests.

And you - you - you sit right there with them.

Not a cheerleader. Not a loudmouth. Not cruel, at least not in the obvious ways. Just… there. Always there. Smiling at the right time. Quiet when you’re supposed to be. You bring lunch from home, always in a neat little bag, no cafeteria tray. Sometimes you read between bites, like you’re above it all. Like you don’t need them. Like you could be somewhere else.

And yet, you’re still there.

Eddie watches from his spot on the edge. One leg up on the bench, biting the tip of his straw like it’s a cigarette, pretending to listen while Jeff and Gareth argue over whether Black Sabbath or Metallica has the better sophomore album. He pretends not to notice how often his eyes drift your way. Pretends not to care that your boyfriend - Chad or Brad or Tad or something equally cursed - is laughing too hard at something someone said, a smug arm thrown over the back of your chair like you’re furniture.

You’re laughing too, but softer. A little delayed. It doesn’t reach your eyes.

He sees that.

Eddie rips the straw wrapper into tiny pieces under the table.

When did this start, anyway? This stupid fixation? Maybe it was last year, when you dropped your book bag and he helped you pick everything up. You said thank you. You looked him in the eye. You didn’t flinch.

Or maybe it was two weeks ago, when he heard you humming Iron Maiden - actual Iron Maiden - in the hallway before English class. Just a few notes, barely audible over the slamming of lockers and the shrill bell, but he knew it. Recognized it like a secret handshake.

And then, like a coward, he ducked into the bathroom before he could say anything.

You probably don’t even remember it. But he does.

He remembers everything.

You shift in your seat now, crossing one leg over the other, leaning away from Tad-Chad and staring out the window. Sunlight catches in your hair and for one second, Eddie lets himself imagine something insane.

You at his table. Sitting here, next to him. Eating cafeteria pizza and trading band recs. Laughing for real. Maybe even leaning into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He snorts out loud.

Gareth stops mid-rant. “Something funny, Munson?”

“Yeah,” Eddie mutters, popping a fry into his mouth. “Just thinking about the cruel irony of the high school caste system.”

Gareth blinks.

Jeff says, “Dude, what?”

“Nothing. Just -” Eddie gestures vaguely toward the jock table, where Tad-Chad has moved on to pantomiming a wrestling move with one of the other gorillas. “One day, we’re gonna be rich and famous, and they’ll all be working in tire shops or selling insurance.”

“Or dead,” Gareth adds cheerfully.

Eddie grins, but it’s thin. Forced.

Because the truth is, he doesn’t care what Tad-Chad does with his life.

He just cares that you’re sitting next to him.

And not even seeing him.

Eddie stares at the clock on the wall of the detention room like it personally offended him.

It’s ticking too slow, which is a metaphor for his whole damn life.

Mr. Callahan, nose buried in The Old Man and the Sea like it’s the world’s most riveting thriller, hasn’t looked up in twenty minutes. A dead fly spins lazily on the floor near the heater vent. Someone in the back row is breathing too loud. The overhead light flickers like a dying star.

It’s hell.

And then the door opens.

His pen drops.

You walk in, solo, a little breathless like you ran down the hallway. Hair a little out of place. Pink in the cheeks. You’re holding a pink slip like it’s dipped in acid. Disbelief is written all over your face.

You scan the room - and see him.

Your brows lift slightly.

Eddie blinks. He looks behind him, like maybe there’s another freak you were looking at. But it’s just him. Alone in the front row. He offers a two-fingered salute.

You roll your eyes - but you also smile.

The chair next to him is the only one open. Naturally.

He swears the universe is mocking him.

You walk over, your shoes squeaking on the tile. Sit down with a soft sigh and lean your cheek into your hand. He watches you out of the corner of his eye for a full minute before he can’t help himself.

“So,” he says, voice low, “what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

You snort. An actual, real-life snort.

He files it away in his mental scrapbook.

“Coach caught me skipping gym,” you mutter. “I was in the library.”

“Rebel,” Eddie teases.

You glance at him. “What about you?”

“Littering,” he says, proud. “Threw a Hot Cheetos bag at Jason Carver’s head.”

That gets a full-on laugh. It’s soft and surprised, and you catch yourself halfway through like you weren’t expecting to enjoy his company.

He wasn’t expecting it either.

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s… charged. Buzzing. Eddie fiddles with his rings and tries to keep his leg from bouncing off its hinge.

“You’re not what I expected,” you say eventually.

He tilts his head. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”

You smile again, this time with teeth. “I haven’t decided yet.”

He swears, he actually swears, he feels it in his chest when you say that. Something curls and claws and wants.

“Can I help you decide?” he asks, half-joking.

You rest your chin on your hand and stare at him like he’s a puzzle you didn’t mean to start but now have to finish. “You know Iron Maiden?”

Eddie blinks. “Do I know Iron Maiden?”

You smirk. “I figured that’d get a reaction.”

“Sweetheart,” he says, leaning closer, “that’s like asking Dracula if he’s into blood.”

Your smirk grows. You reach into your bag and pull out your spiral notebook - lined paper, doodles in the margins, and the unmistakable edges of song lyrics scratched into the bottom of the page.

You tear off a piece. Slide it across the desk.

“I have two tickets,” you say. “Homecoming’s next Friday, and I’m not going.”

Eddie’s heart skips like a scratched record.

“Iron Maiden’s in Indy the same night,” you continue. “I was going to go with Brad, but he’s a douche and I finally broke up with him. Thought I’d ask someone else.”

He blinks. The world feels like it just tilted sideways.

You.

Just asked him.

To Iron Maiden.

Instead of Homecoming.

He tries to play it cool. Really, he does.

But his voice cracks when he says, “Are you serious?”

You shrug, like it’s not a big deal. Like you didn’t just reach into his chest and squeeze his teenage dirtbag heart until it lit up like Christmas.

“Think about it,” you say, turning your back to your notebook like you didn’t just rearrange his entire week.

He doesn’t think about it. He knows.

He knows he’s saying yes before you even finish the sentence.

Your bedroom is a war zone.

Sweaters hang from the headboard. Black tights dangle from a drawer. There’s a suspiciously sparkly scarf on the lampshade, and your bed looks like Hot Topic threw up on it. At the center of it all is you, standing in front of the mirror, one boot on, one boot off, eyeliner half-done, and a growing sense of doom simmering in your chest.

“I look like a poser,” you say flatly.

“No, you don’t,” says your cousin Marley from the floor, where she’s cross-legged in your discarded jeans. “You look like a hot poser. There’s a difference.”

You groan and flop back onto the bed. “That doesn’t help.”

Marley rolls her eyes and chucks a studded belt at your stomach. “You’re going to a metal concert, not your wedding. It’s Eddie Munson, not Robert Smith. Just pick something black and tight and maybe rip it a little.”

You sit up and glare. “It’s not just Eddie Munson,” you mutter, tugging at the hem of your vintage Iron Maiden tee. “It’s Eddie Munson after I dumped Brad the Jerkface in front of his entire football team and then asked Eddie to a concert instead of Homecoming.”

Marley shrugs. “Sounds iconic.”

You sigh. She’s not wrong.

You study your reflection again: black ripped jeans, your combat boots (finally both on), and the Maiden shirt you’d half-forgotten you owned. You tied it at the waist just to make it look cuter. Added a cropped black denim jacket and just enough eyeliner to make your eyes look deadly.

You look…

Cool.

Not cheerleader-cute. Not prom-date ready.

Just you. And maybe a little bit of Eddie’s version of you, too.

Marley grins at your expression. “There she is.”

Your stomach flips. “Do you think he’s nervous too?”

“Oh, definitely,” she says, hopping up. “He’s probably pacing around his van blasting Dio and rewriting his pickup lines.”

You laugh - and then freeze when you hear the beep-beep of a horn in the driveway.

Oh God.

He’s here.

You bolt for the window and peek out through the blinds.

Sure enough, Eddie’s beat-up van is parked in front of your house, the side still bearing a faded “Hellfire Club” decal and a bumper sticker that says My Other Ride is a Demogorgon. You can just make out his silhouette in the driver’s seat, drumming his fingers against the wheel.

“I’m gonna throw up,” you whisper.

“No, you’re not,” Marley says, handing you your bag and shoving you toward the door. “You’re gonna go outside, get in that van, and have the time of your life with a guy who looks at you like you’re his favorite guitar.”

You pause at the top of the stairs, heart thundering.

“Do I really look okay?”

Marley gives you one last once-over, then grins. “You look like someone who’s about to ruin a metalhead’s whole life.”

You snort, roll your eyes, and head down the stairs.

—

Eddie wipes his palms on his jeans again.

The van smells like cheap air freshener and nerves. He double-checked the tire pressure this morning, vacuumed the front seats (twice), and even took down the plastic skeleton that usually hangs from the mirror. He’s chewing his lip and trying not to rehearse what he’s going to say when you come out the front door.

You look amazing.

That shirt is criminal.

I would commit crimes for you.

All too much.

The porch light flicks on. The front door swings open.

And then you step out.

Eddie forgets how to breathe.

You look like every teenage fantasy he’s ever had - confident, dangerous, and completely real. That shirt, those boots, the way your eyes meet his and crinkle just a little like you’re happy to see him…

He might die before this night even starts.

You slide into the passenger seat with a grin. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he echoes, stunned stupid.

You pull your seatbelt across your chest. “Ready to blow out my eardrums?”

Eddie grins, fingers already drumming against the wheel. “Only if you promise to scream-sing every lyric.”

“Ironclad deal,” you say.

As he pulls away from the curb, Eddie lets himself glance over at you again, just for a second.

You’re taping your fingers on your knee. Your hair’s catching the last of the sun. Your knee bumps his as the van hits a pothole, and you don’t pull away.

Oh yeah, he thinks.

Tonight’s gonna be legendary.

The road stretches out ahead of you, all cracked pavement and the golden blur of an Indiana sunset. Eddie’s van rattles a little when he shifts into fourth, but it’s a comforting sound - something you’ve come to associate with him. With this.

He’s got an Iron Maiden cassette in the deck. The Number of the Beast. It roars through the speakers, a little scratchy, a little warped from love and overuse.

You tap your fingers against the passenger window in time with the drums. He taps the steering wheel.

It’s easy. Strangely easy.

Until you glance over and realize he’s way too quiet.

He’s usually buzzing by now - running his mouth about Maiden’s setlist or how much he hates stadium merch prices. But instead, he’s chewing the inside of his cheek, eyes on the road like it might do something interesting if he stares hard enough.

You nudge his leg with your boot.

“Earth to Munson.”

He blinks and glances over. “What?”

“You good?”

Eddie hesitates. Then, with a sigh, he kills the volume. Bruce Dickinson fades into the background, replaced by the hum of the tire and the sound of your breath catching.

“I just…” He shrugs, drumming lightly on the wheel. “It’s dumb.”

“It’s you, so it’s not dumb,” you say gently. “Spill.”

Eddie exhales. “You ever feel like someone let you into a place you’re not supposed to be? Like… like you’re just playing dress-up, and sooner or later, everyone’s gonna figure it out and kick you out?”

Your eyebrows knit. “Like imposter syndrome?”

“More like…” He smiles without humor. “Teenage dirtbag syndrome.”

You pause. “You think you’re a dirtbag?”

“I know I am,” he laughs, shaking his head. “I mean, c’mon. You just dumped a perfectly normal jock boyfriend, and now you’re in a deathtrap of a van with a guy who sells bootleg tapes in the school parking lot. I get it if it starts to feel like a downgrade.”

You stare at him.

Then, without a word, you reach over and flick him hard on the arm.

“Ow! What the hell was that for?”

“You moron,” you say, grinning despite yourself. “Brad was the downgrade. You’re the upgrade.”

He blinks.

You keep going, quieter now. “He never listened when I talked. He never asked about the music I liked. Never made me laugh so hard I cried. You did all of that before I even thought about kissing you.”

Eddie’s grip tightens on the wheel. “You thought about kissing me?”

You raise a brow. “Eddie.”

He smiles, slow and stunned.

And you let the silence sit, humming between you like the soft, secret start of a song.

—

The venue isn’t huge - some outdoor pavilion on the edge of Indianapolis, tucked behind a strip mall and a gas station. The smell of fried food and spilled beer hits you before you even hand over your ticket. The air’s already pulsing with the first opening band, and people are yelling, laughing, jostling for a better view.

You’ve never felt more alive.

Eddie’s hand brushes yours as you make your way toward the middle of the pit, and you don’t even flinch anymore. It happens again. And again.

By the fourth time, you hook your pinky through his.

He looks down, and his face softens.

Neither of you say anything about it.

It’s loud - too loud, really - but in a way that wraps around your ribs and shakes loose everything you didn’t know you were holding. People are already jumping. Screaming lyrics. Throwing devil horns. You do the same, and Eddie throws his arms around your shoulders, drawing you into him like it’s instinct.

It doesn’t feel like acting.

It feels like arriving.

By the time Iron Maiden takes the stage - guitars screaming, lights blinding - Eddie’s hand has moved to your waist, your fingers are tangled in the fabric of his jacket, and you’re so close you can smell the cigarette smoke clinging to his collar.

“Best seat in the house,” he yells in your ear.

You tilt your head to look at him.

“I’m not even looking at the band,” you shout back.

Eddie goes still.

And then - then - his grin cracks open, big and unfiltered, and his forehead bumps yours like it’s the only way he can stand not kissing you.

You dance. You scream. You forget about the dirtbag voices in your head and the douchey ex-boyfriends and the fact that this moment might end. You don’t think about any of it.

You just think about him.

And how you’re standing in the middle of a sweaty, swaying, ear-splitting crowd with a boy who once called himself a dirtbag -

- but who, right now, feels like the main event.

The night gets louder, hotter, faster.

Iron Maiden storms the stage like they own it - because they do - and the crowd answers back with that kind of wild, desperate joy that only comes when your favorite band plays your favorite song live and loud and real.

You and Eddie are right in the middle of it, a tangle of limbs and laughter and leather. His arm wraps tight around your waist when the crowd shoes forward, and you grab the front of his jacket to stay upright.

You don’t let go.

He doesn’t either.

Bruce Dickinson screams something into the mic and the first notes of Run to the Hills hits the speakers like a thunderclap. The crowd erupts. You shriek with them and Eddie throws his head back and howls, so alive it makes your chest ache.

Then - boom. Fireworks. Real ones, from the stage.

Your heart jumps, and you flinch, just a little - and Eddie leans down, mouth near your ear, voice low.

“You okay?”

You nod, breathless. “Perfect.”

His eyes flicker down to your mouth for half a second too long.

And still - he waits.

The kiss doesn’t come. Not yet.

But the night is full of almosts.

You dance like no one’s watching. He watches like you’re the whole damn show. You scream until your throat’s sore. He throws a devil horn in the air and grins at you like you’re already his.

By the end of the last song, your head is spinning and your body is sore and sweaty and so full - of adrenaline, of heat, of the very specific kind of happiness that only ever happens by accident.

You don’t even mind when he threads his fingers through yours on the way back to the van.

You squeeze back.

—

The highway is quieter now, stars blinking over dark cornfields. Your ears are still ringing. Your heart’s still beating double time.

Eddie’s got a half-crushed bottle of water between his knees and both hands on the wheel. He’s humming something under his breath - maybe one of the songs, maybe just the sound of contentment. It’s too dark to see much of him, but his expression is soft in the passing streetlight glow.

You tilt your head against the window, watching him.

“You know,” you say, “this was the best night I’ve had in, like… ever.”

He glances at you, smiling. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Didn’t think I’d be here a week ago.”

Eddie chuckles, dry. “Me either.”

There’s a pause.

Then:

“You remember when I said I felt like a teenage dirtbag?” he asks quietly.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He drums his thumbs on the wheel. “I always figured people like me - we’re the guys girls only notice when they need something. A ride, a party, a good story. Not a… not a real date.”

You sit up straighter. “Eddie -”

“I know, I know,” he rushes. “You said I’m not. But tonight? That’s the first time I actually believed it.”

You reach over and place your hand on his thigh - just a grounding touch.

“You’re not a dirtbag, Eddie.”

He looks over at you, a flicker of something real in his eyes.

“You’re the guy I chose.”

That shuts him up.

He stares ahead again, biting his lip.

And then, in a voice so low it almost disappears under the hum of the road, he says, “I wanted to kiss you all night.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He breathes out a laugh. “Because it felt too good to be true. Like if I did, you’d vanish or wake up or tell me I was dreaming again.”

You smile softly.

“Guess you’ll have to kiss me now,” you say.

—

He pulls into your driveway, the porch light throwing gold shadows across your front lawn. The engine dies with a shudder, and the van goes still.

You’re both quiet, looking at each other.

Eddie leans forward, slow and uncertain and reverent, like this moment is sacred. His hand comes up to cradle your jaw, calloused thumb brushing your cheekbone.

And then -

Finally -

He kisses you.

It’s soft at first. Testing. Like he still doesn’t believe you’ll let him.

But you do more than that.

You kiss him back, firm and sure and full of everything you didn’t say at the concert, everything he felt when your pinky hooked through his in the crowd. He tastes like sugar and smoke and sweat and him.

It’s not a firework.

It’s a slow burn - the kind that starts in your bones and spreads like heat under your skin.

When he finally pulls back, breathless, he presses his forehead against yours.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he murmurs.

You smile.

“Good.” 

[robotwrangler]

I think it’s funny how the fandom’s portrayal of Spamton has shifted ever so slightly since the release of the new chapters. In the olden days he was a sad wet pathetic little loser 95% of the time and fanartists & fic writers would mostly only portray him as dominant or confident in NEO form, but now that we’ve discovered his ex is even more miserable and soggy, I am seeing a lot more fanart of normal tiny Spamton having the upper hand & looking smug. So happy for him!!!

[lostlikesaebyeok]

HEYYY 🥳🥳🥳 CAN WE GET A OVERLY MEAN! SAEBYEOK X OVERLY NICE! READER PRETTY PRETTY PLEASEE

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 𝒌𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒂𝒆-𝒃𝒚𝒆𝒐𝒌 :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

★彡 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒚 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒏!𝒔𝒂𝒆-𝒃𝒚𝒆𝒐𝒌 𝒙 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒚 𝒏𝒊𝒄𝒆!𝒇𝒆𝒎!𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 彡★

“why do you keep being so nice to me?”

[ wlw | kitchen tension | enemies to lovers-ish | kind of nsfw implied | angst turned heat | oneshot ]

kang sae-byeok was not warm.

not to most people. not to strangers. not even to people she liked, if she ever did. her words were sharp like shards of broken glass, her expressions unreadable, her tone so often clipped it felt like an art form. she existed in the world like a bruise, something you noticed only when you pressed too hard.

and you? you were the complete opposite. you were the sun.

not in a loud way. not in a look-at-me way. just... warm. impossibly, irritatingly, relentlessly warm.

she hated it.

she hated how you smiled at the old man running the corner shop. hated how you said thank you too many times when someone passed you something. hated how you called her name in that soft, lilted way that made it sound like poetry.

"you don't have to be so nice," she snapped at you once, arms crossed, leaning against the wall outside your shared lecture hall.

you blinked. then smiled. "you don't have to be so mean."

her mouth twitched. you almost thought she smiled back. almost.

it started with group projects. sae-byeok picked the corner seat and never spoke unless absolutely necessary. you sat next to her anyway. kept sitting there, week after week, until she sighed and shoved a textbook your way.

"highlight chapter four," she said.

"please?"

she gave you a look. flat. annoyed.

but you just smiled, took the book, and did it.

she didn't know when you became a fixture. how your voice slipped past her defenses. how your presence stopped feeling like noise and started feeling like a lull.

she’d snap at you for waiting outside her dorm, only to accept the coffee you brought.

you’d giggle when she rolled her eyes.

"you know i like seeing you," you'd say.

and she'd pretend not to hear it.

one day, she was walking you back to your dorm after you spent the whole day out at an amusement park (which sae pretended like she hated every second). not because she wanted to walk you back. because it was late. and dark. and you were too trusting. and she told herself someone had to make sure you didn’t end up in a ditch.

"you're quiet today," you said, hands in your coat sleeves.

"and you’re not? shocker."

you laughed. she hated that she liked the sound.

"i know you like me," you said, out of nowhere.

she stopped walking.

"i never said that."

"you didn't have to."

she looked at you, at your too-kind eyes, your soft lips. the way you tilted your head, waiting, calm and unafraid.

"what if i don’t?"

"then i'd keep being nice anyway."

she felt her chest physically ache.

the first time she kissed you, it was angry.

"stop being so nice to me," she growled, cornering you in the hallway.

"make me," you breathed.

and she did.

but it didn’t stop there.

her hands slammed against the wall on either side of your head, trapping you. her eyes were wild, furious, and burning.

"i can't stop thinking about you," she whispered.

"good," you whispered back, breathless.

and then she kissed you.

it was hot. and sharp. and messy. teeth clashing, lips parting. she kissed like she fought, rough, unyielding, and full of desperation.

your hands curled in her jacket, pulled her closer. you kissed her back like you'd been waiting for this, dreaming of it, aching for it. you moaned against her lips and felt her whole body react, tense and trembling.

when she finally broke away, her breathing was ragged.

"i hate you," she whispered, forehead pressed to yours.

"you love me," you replied, smug.

she groaned, then kissed you again, harder.

and neither of you stopped smiling the whole way back to your dorm.

she didn’t even let the door close behind you at your dorm room.

"get over here," sae-byeok said, her voice all low and husky, grabbing your wrist with a force that made your breath hitch. in one smooth motion, she spun you around, picked you up by the waist, and placed you on kitchen counter.

"sae–" your voice broke off when her mouth met yours again, this time deeper, hotter.

her hands gripped your thighs, pushing your knees apart just enough to step betwen them. her fingers curled into your hips as if she needed to hold you in place, like if she didn’t anchor herself with you, she might fall apart completely.

"you always smile at me like that," she murmured between kisses, pressing them to your lips, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. "like you're not scared. like you know i'm going to melt."

"aren't you?"

she didn't answer. she didn't have to. you already knew.

her lips crashed into yours again, all teeth and heat and longing. it was rough around the edges, unpracticed, raw, but it was real. her kiss was all the things she never said. all the walls she'd built breaking down in the fire of that moment.

and when you pulled her even closer, wrapped your arms around her shoulders and smiled against her lips, she finally understood something she’d never admit out loud:

you had her. completely.

thank u for reading, angel ♡

(*´∀｀*) likes = sae kissing u breathless <3

[javierduffy]

ch2 javi gives boaz a chili pepper leaf once as a treat (because javier himself loves chili peppers) and the capsaicin gives him a tummy ache but javi doesn’t know that capsaicin is bad for horses so he has no idea what the problem is and is freaking out a bit so he very incredibly begrudgingly drags himself to kieran, whom he knows probably will have an answer, and kieran is like “he just has a tummy ache, he’s okay :)” and javi is so unbelievably embarrassed but kieran was so nice to him that he’s also a little … charmed ?

[mrsoharaa]

I feel like sparring with Suguru (especially with cult leader! suguru) he would be sooo intimate and mischievously coy with you. Like, it'll be the little fragile finger grazes slipping across your hips, agonizingly slowly. The hot, prodding whispers of encouragement and slight taunt bellowing directly into the depths of your ringing ears. And god, don't even get me started on the way this man swiftly and easily maneuvers manhandles your every abrasive attack, how easily he pins you to the nearest solid object. Hips solidly connected with yours, eyes leering ever so intently and strictly into your own — creates a massive swarm of unwarranted butterflies deep within your fluttering tummy.

[cellgatinbo]

pac: and by the way fit, you look so, um... so bald today. fit: oh, t-thank you? yeah, i- (richarlyson attacks pac and downs him) fit: no- richas! calma calma calma calma calma-- pac: ok ok ok ok, you know, actually, i'm sorry, okay- [not again, that's enough-] pac: you know, you actually- y-you look good today, you look good today. fit: oh! huh- Well, uhh- thank- thank you, pac? you-you, uh. you look good today as well- a-as well! as well, as well. pac: thank you thank you thank you :D

[hyperkitten224]

oops, it looks like a specific jester got a bit too excited about our favorite ribbon woman...

[lazycranberrydoodles]

kinktober day 7: swapping clothes

yippee yay xie lian in red! follow 4 more hua cheng bait 🚩

[speedgravity]

I wonder if they ever explored each other's bodies

[fatedroses]

The overwhelming power of the doting grandparent.