#shelf clouds slap

[meltingcore-end]

YEA 💙 🌩

[littlelamy]

            you’d spent all day cleaning the baseboards in the upstairs guest bathroom—on your knees, humming disney songs, hair tied up in one of those giant puffy scrunchies that matched your apron. the idea of putting on makeup, or heels, or trying to sit still for hours at a place that used real cloth napkins and tiny forks for god-knows-what? it made your tummy feel twisty but a little excited.

but rafe had asked; in that voice that didn’t really ask, more like a direct demand. he’d leaned against the pantry door that afternoon, arms crossed, one brow raised while you tried to reach the top shelf for a cake plate.

“you do anything tonight?”

you blinked. “me?”

“no, the other barefoot girl in the house.”

you giggled, clutching the plate. “no plans, mister rafe. just a bath and maybe folding towels. i was gonna reorganize the drawer where we keep the twisty ties—”

“stop.” his mouth twitched. “you’re coming to dinner.. wear something cute.”

“oh! um—okay! i can be cute! i mean i am cute—i’ll be cuter. where are we going? will there be breadsticks?”

“get in the car by seven,” he said, already walking off. “remember to wear heels, baby.”

and now here you are. squeezed into the passenger seat of his sleek black car, nerves curled tight in your belly like a sleepy kitten. your dress was short, pink, and so shiny. your shoes are taller than you're used to. your lipstick keeps sticking to your teeth because you picked a new gloss called 'strawberry fizz' and maybe it’s too much, but rafe had looked at you when you came down the stairs and said “fuck, you look edible,” so you didn’t dare change.

the restaurant was fancy. all soft jazz and dim lights, plates that look more like art than food. rafe’s friends are already there, guys who look like rafe but definietly weren't as cute as him. you sit beside him, hands folded in your lap, smiling sweet as sugar while they talk about things you don’t understand—hedge funds? market something?

but rafe’s hand stays on your thigh, grounding you through all this real estate nonsense. his thumb strokes gentle circles into your skin, and every time you start to drift into a cloud of fizzy nothing, he squeezes just a little. like he was saying 'stay with me, bunny.'

as you begin to dream about a furture with rafe, you hear a loud, obnoxious laugh. “wait—no fucking way.”

your head turns. the guy was sitting at the bar—a group of three, all wearing button-ups, loafers, and a big red face.—and sadly, he’s looking right at you.

you blink as he continues, “bro,” he slaps the guy next to him. “it’s her! it’s fucking her! girls of gulf coast, spring 2022! pink heels, yellow lollipop, ass for days? you know—the one in the bunny ears with whipped cream on her tits?”

your stomach drops. even rafe’s hand tenses on your leg.

you try to smile and laugh. try to pretend you didn’t hear that. but you can feel heat crawling up your neck, all the way to your ears. oh no. oh no.

you haven’t heard that name in months or seen those photos since you stuffed the sample polaroids into a shoebox and slid them under your bed. you weren’t her anymore. you were a house manager. you made jam, organized spice racks, even kissed wheezie on the forehead before school.

but he keeps talking, not reading the room.

“dude, i jerked off to that spread like every night of senior year. girls of gulf coast, man, that issue was legendary.”

the guy next to him whistles. “no shit? that her? y/n something, right?”

you stare at the linen napkin in your lap like it might swallow you whole. your hands shake as you hear one of rafe’s friends laugh, very awkward.

“damn, rafe, you didn’t tell us your girl used to be in magazines.” it’s a joke. it’s all a joke, you think to yourself. well, this joke made you want to melt through the floor.

rafe stands slowly, you could almost see steam coming out of his ears. he turns toward the bar. “come again.”

the guy blinks, grinning. “what?”

“say it one more fuckin' time.” his voice isn’t loud, but it’s sharp which make the whole table go quiet. “you wanna talk about my girl? say it again. real slow so everyone can hear your bitch ass.”

the guy scoffs. “chill, man. it’s a compliment—”

“a better compliment would be you shutting up and mind your own business instead of talkin' about my woman.” his jaw ticks, as you go to hold his arm. fingers caressing his forearm, leading to his hands.

you whisper, “rafe, it’s okay—”

he looks at you and leans close, lips brushing your ear. “you don’t ever say it’s okay for people to talk about you like that.”

“but—”

“baby,” he cups your cheek. thumb brushing the sticky corner of your mouth where your gloss smudged. “you were art..still are.” you blink up at him. “they don’t get to mock art just because they can’t touch it.”

your throat tightens before he turns back to the bar. the guy was already avoiding his eyes now, nervous laugh dying in his throat.

rafe smiles, coldly, “look at her again, and you’ll be drinking out of a straw for a year.”

then he sits, completely casual, like nothing just happened. you’re stunned, staring at him. he could feel your eyes on him making him glance over with a smirk on his face.

“you want to leave?”

you nod, fast. "please." he quickly grabs your hand.

you don’t say a word until you’re back in his car. “i didn’t want you to be mad,” you whisper.

“i’m not mad at you.” you blink, confused. “i’m mad someone thought they could say your name like it was a punchline.”

you sniffle. “it was just a phase. i needed money. and i thought it was fun. i didn’t think anyone would recognize me in the real world.”

he squeezes your hand, reassuringly. “i did.” your head snaps up. “saw the spread. remember thinking, no fucking way someone this pretty’s real. i tore that page out and kept it in my glove box for three months.”

your jaw drops. “you—what?!”

“uh-huh. told myself if i ever met her, i’d marry her.”

you blink fast. “you’re lying.”

he shrugs. “maybe..but why would i?” and then he leans over, presses a kiss to your cheek. “either way, you’re mine now. magazine girl, house manager, whatever. all mine.”

you blush so hard your knees knock. you whisper, “you really think i was pretty?”

he grins, reaching out for you. “baby..you were and are so fuckin’ gorgeous.”'

❤︎ tags below

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[specsthesecond]

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°

The sunlight tries in vain to pierce through the cloud covered sky as you make your way under the canopy of conifer trees. Winter will only last a few more weeks but for now you must trudge through the hardened snow on the forest ground.

You clutch your new book close to your chest, peeking again to see if the piece of paper you slipped between the pages hasn't somehow fallen out despite your tight grip. You look up from your graphite stained fingers to the stone cottage in the middle of an increasingly familiar meadow. Drawing in a breath, you adjust the bow and quiver slung over your shoulder and clamber through the pasture, watching smoke rise from the old chimney.

This time, you don't panic when you reach the door, you knock before the nerves can even seep in. He opens the door for you, eyebrows scrunched in confusion just like the first time. He looks ready for the weather outside, snow boots, axe in hand, he's even wearing his big fur coat. He clearly had other plans today but he still looks pleasantly surprised by your presence and gestures you inside.

You shake your head lightly at him, feet stuck to the stone veranda. He looks more worried than confused now as he looks down at the book in your hands, you try and not let all the determination you just had flutter away. Hands shaking more than you'd like, you slip the piece of paper out of the book and hand it to him unceremoniously. You can't will yourself to watch his reaction, it's weak but you can't seem to look away from the floor.

A shame really, because if you were watching, you'd see his face grow pink in real time as he reads in your terribly scrawled Orcish -

"Hunt with me?"

He has to read it ten times before he can believe it's real. He looks down at you and then back to the poorly drawn Orcish characters, mouth agape. He turns to the shelf next to the door and gently places the piece of paper there before turning to you. You fiddle with the book in your hands, biting your chapped lip. He rests his hand on your shoulder making you look him in the eye, when you do you're taken back by the look he gives you. It's an expression you can't describe, appreciative doesn't cut it but you wouldn't dare say affectionate.

He nods his head firmly.

Now you both sit amongst the brush, target birds nest only a few meters away. Your Orc friend sits quietly, leaning on a stump next to you, waiting for you to make the shot.

Little movements in the nest have you tensing up and pulling the string back. You wait patiently for the birdie to peak its head over the weaved twigs of the nest but you wait too long and before you know it the bird's wings flutter for takeoff. You panic and shoot the arrow before the bird can fly away but the arrow shoots just a bit too high, piercing the tree trunk as the bird takes flight in a rush of feathers.

An agitated sigh leaves you and you turn towards where the Orc roars out laughter. He quickly tries to muffle his laugh when he sees your pointed, deadpan expression. You point towards where your arrow is stuck in the bark of the tree and hold out your bow for him. He goes to decline the offer but you fix him with a challenging glare that says "If it's so easy then why don't you do it?" You shove the weapon in his hands and hand him an arrow as well, then take a seat on the stump.

He breathes in and positions himself on his knees, just like you were. You sit back and watch him fumble with the bow, failing to notch the arrow against the string for a while before finally aiming the thing. He makes the bow looks so small, it's like a thin stick in his hands instead of a deadly weapon. He pulls the string back and you worry for a moment that it might snap before he lets go and the arrow whizzes through the air and into the canopy of pine needles, never to be seen again.

You burst out in laughter, slapping your knee with a hand on your chest. He huffs and hands you back your bow, grabbing his axe from the stump. He aims it carefully and chucks it into the tree. It lands exactly where your arrow landed, splintering it into pieces. You're shocked to silence for a moment before letting out an impressed "Huh". He seems very proud of himself, giving you a cheeky bow, making you click your tongue and shake your head as he walks off to pull his axe from the tree.

He slumps beside you on the frosty dirt as you hastily page through your book. It's a shame you don't see how he leans his head on his hand and stares at you, not even trying to hide the admiration. When you find the word you were looking for you slap his arm hard with the book, he flinches back playfully. You point to the word "owe" in the book and look at him sternly.

He looks back with a blank stare.

You point to him accusingly, point to the Orcish word for "owe" and then point to yourself before getting an arrow out of your quill, pointing towards it and putting up two fingers.

You think he gets it, if his bashful face says anything. He rubs the back of his neck with an apologetic look. He stands up, axe in hand and nods to you with a look of determination.

Now the sun is gone as you walk alongside him, on route to your home, belly full, carrying a basket of fresh bread. You tried telling him you were only teasing, but he insisted on taking you back home and making you a meal. You were never one to turn away a meal, especially if it was his cooking. Hours went by as you sat in his living room, comparing translations in each other's books and trying, mostly in vain, to write in the others language. You didn't even notice the sun setting until you had to light a candle to see the scribbled mix of Human Common and Orcish on the white papers scattered across the table.

He offered to walk home with you and you, once again, didn't put up much of a fight. Maybe it's just the moonlight or the after-taste of his food but you can't stop stealing glances at the orc as he walks alongside you. His dark eyes reflect the warm light of the lantern so beautifully. Little flakes of snow decorate his hair, they look like stars amongst the inky black mane. You can feel his body heat more than you can feel the heat of the lantern, he's always so warm and it makes it very frustrating to be close to him. He looks over and catches you staring, you quickly avert your gaze to the snowy ground, embarrassment bubbling up again.

You come to a break in the trees and all your thoughts are slapped away. You stare fear-stricken at the massive lake in front of you. A deep chill crawls over you as it always does when you see it now, you meant to avoid it entirely, just like you've been doing since the incident but you must have been more distracted than you thought.

Frost nips at your nerves as you stare at the deceptively thin ice covering the lake and remember the cold, dark depths just beneath. Remembering how difficult it was just to breathe after being plunged into those waters, like spikes of ice piercing your lungs with every breath. You clutch your chest as your breathing quickens, ghosts of pain nudging closer.

Your sight is cut off from the lake by a dark brown furcoat. You look up at the worried face of your friend, eyebrows scrunched and frown deep. His pretty eyes are now filled with concern and it only makes the pain in your chest worse. You turn away from him, you can't look him in the eyes like this. This has happened before, when you wake up in your bed cold and crying. At least then you're alone, now you're outside, in the dark, with who is essentially your closest friend watching you break down.

If he didn't think you were weak before, he definitely does now. You let out a choked sob as your legs crumble beneath you. The orc falls with you, he lightly holds you closer, hands just brushing your shoulders. He clearly doesn't know what to do or what the boundaries are for something like this, and neither do you really.

He's right there. You can feel how damn warm he is, you just want to give in, why won't you let yourself give in? His gloved hands gently urge you to look up at him and you struggle against it but when you eventually meet his gaze, his expression punctures right through the cold panic. You expected to see pity but what you get instead is plain tender worry. He looks ready to help but he's waiting for instruction, like he'll do anything you ask him to, even in your state.

You wipe your cold, wet cheeks and push your head into his chest hard, clutching his waist under his coat in the tightest squeeze you can manage. He squeezes you back and you finally get to feel his warmth surround you again, just like that first night. His body surrounds you, like he's trying to protect you from the cold night air itself. The hug is just tight enough that it encourages you to breathe slower, you can hear and feel his heart beating in his chest and you press your face even closer to his chest to hear it better.

Eventually, your breathing and heart beat evens out with his, only letting out the occasional hiccup. Even then, he doesn't loosen his protective hold until you shift to stand up. He helps you up and you meet his gaze, his dirt coloured eyes hold something you can't place. His hand shifts up from your arm to your cheek to warm the puffy skin. You don't think when you take his hand in yours and hold it against your cheek, even through the leather of his glove you can feel his body heat.

You close your eyes and savour his touch for a minute before turning around and pulling on his arm. You hold onto his hand for the rest of the walk home, only letting go when you reach your front door. You both try and decipher the others gaze for longer than you should've until you wrap your arms around his shoulders in another embrace. He reciprocates, hands winding around your back, breathing into your shoulder. You whisper, "Be safe" into his ear and retreat from the hug, missing his warmth the second it leaves you. If he knows what it means, he doesn't show it.

You watch him leave from the front door, basket of bread in hand. When he turns to give you a little wave goodbye, you return it with a smile. You only step inside when he's out of site, lamp light disappearing amongst the trees.

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°

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[kentoruuu]

regionalmanager!kento who fucks up into you in the supply closet at work. one hand slapped over your mouth to keep you quiet while the other is busy circling your clit. the soft whimpers exiting your mouth drives him crazy to the point he doesn't care who hears he just wants to hear more and wants to hear them louder. picking up the pace of his thrust earning a loud embarrassing moan from you

"k-kentoo nghh not fuck so f-fast" you moan grippin onto the supply shelf for comfort

"oh but i thought that's how you like it baby. i know you like the feeling." he was right so fucking right. there was no way you could ever lie to him cause your pretty pussy always speaks the truth. he was so so good at bringing out that wild side in you and vice versa.

"you feel that baby." fuck he made you feel good, so good that the calculated thrust of his hips, the feeling of his mouth leaving open kisses all over you body was pure existential bliss but all good things must come to an end. "ohh kento p-please let me cum" you moan staggered from the immense feeling of overwhelming pleasure

"shhh princess go ahead and f-fuck l-let go for me, make a mess all over me" he groans speeding up the stimulation of your pretty little bud. "ohhhh fuuuuckkk kentoo". Cumming so hard you swear you were on cloud nine. the clenching and spasming of your sloppy wet cunt sent kento into overdrive, "f-fuck baby take my cum. take it like the good girl you are", filling you womb with his hot white load feeling a warm sensation fill you up

he turns your head over your shoulder to give you the sloppiest wettest kiss as he pulls out leaving your pussy feeling empty. he took one last good look at your cunt drenched in both of your mixed juices admiring the mess you two made.

but alas all good things must come to an end with him returning to his office and you returning to your cubicle

sadly pleasure cannot last forever

[random-writer-23]

Giving Logan head while wearing his helmet, gotta test out the blowjob handles somehow. What's this? Me actually posting something impossible! This is just a short lil thing for y'all, hope you enjoy it. Mostly edited, just something I slapped together before class this morning <3

TW: Smut! MDNI, oral (M receiving, allusions to f receiving), head pushing, established relationship.

Word count: 2k

I creep into Logan and my shared room making sure the coast was clear. He shouldn’t be home from work for another few hours, and thankfully I had the day off, I peek my head out of our room looking down the hall. 

“Wade?” I call out listening for any sounds, at the sweet sound of silence I speak up again. “Al?” I listen again smiling when I hear no noises, I knew they wouldn’t be home Wade took Al to bingo for the night. I smile to myself re-entering the room, making my way to the closet. I open it pulling out Logan's x-men suit humming softly to myself as I run my fingers over the bright yellow fabric. I put the suit back in the closet hanging it back up, I reach up to the top shelf in the closet standing on my tiptoes trying unsuccessfully to grab Logan's helmet. I huff running to the kitchen sliding my socks on the wood floor grabbing a step stool. I carry it back to the bedroom setting it up, silently cheering as I’m finally able to reach his helmet. I pull it down off the shelf stepping in front of the floor-length mirror, I put it on my head and smile at my reflection in the mirror. It’s a guilty pleasure of mine wearing Logan's helmet, he never lets me wear it when he’s here but I think it’s fun to put on. I stand in front of the mirror posing, giggling to myself. I strike a pose I’ve seen Logan do when watching the news about him and Wade's ‘heroic’ endeavours. Spreading my arms out to the side and letting out a goofy roar. Immediately exploding into a fit of giggles, halfway through my posing I stiffen up at the sound of a cough behind me. I look past my reflection in the mirror letting my eyes focus in on Logan leaning against the doorframe of our room behind me. I spin around, my face heating up as look at him sheepishly. “you’re home early,” I say softly, slowly taking the helmet off my head. “I am…” he grins, “what are you doing?” He pushes off the doorframe and takes a few steps towards me, taking his helmet from my hands. My mouth twists into a nervous frown, gnawing on my bottom lip.

“M’ sorry” I murmur looking up at him and he chuckles the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “I just wanted to try it on, I couldn’t help myself” I explain quickly, my voice faltering as he looks at me with a raised brow of disbelief. His eyes flicker back down to the helmet in his hands and he tosses it playfully from palm to palm before looking back at my face. My breath hitches as he holds up his helmet examining it carefully for any dents or scratches I may have left. I rock from side to side, the nerves in my body growing hotter the longer Logan stays silent. He nods slowly his gaze shifting away from the helmet in his hand back down to my face. 

“Well if you want to wear it so bad...” He lets his sentence trail off raising the helmet and slipping it back onto my head. My breathing stutters as the solid frame of the helmet touches my head, my vision clouding over slightly as it covers the top half of my face. I try to contain the smile on my face only realizing I failed when I feel Logan's hand brush my cheek, his thumb rubbing the skin lovingly. Logan’s hands grip my shoulders, spinning my body to face the mirror again, making eye contact with my reflection I admire how the helmet looks on my head. He rests his hands on my shoulders his thumbs slowly digging into my back, massaging the muscles. I close my eyes letting my head fall back against his chest, the helmet on my head jostling slightly at the movement.  

“I have to admit, you wear it better than I do” I open my eyes again watching him in the mirror, a smile making its way onto his face as his hands continue to work at the muscles in my shoulders, before falling away. The rough pads of his fingers trail down my arms and I shiver slightly. His hands rest on my waist massaging the skin there for a minute before his touch fades completely. My ears prick up as I hear the jingling of his belt buckle as he undoes it, I turn to face him, reaching up to take off his helmet, but he grips my wrists bringing them down away from my head. I furrow my eyebrows a confused expression on my face. “Leave it on baby... you look hot” He chuckles, his head dipping down so he can leave hot kisses on my collarbone. His hands gingerly work their way up my body thumbs digging in between my shoulder blades massaging the sore muscles.

“I thought you don’t like it when I wear your gear” I grin leaning into his touch, watching him through the mirror.

“I don’t… but I’ll make an exception, just this once” He smiles, his hands halting their movements trailing back down my arms. “Y’know..” He says smugly, and I hear the soft clink of his belt hitting the floor. “Wade and Al are still at bingo” I watch his eyes flicker over to the clock on the bedside table. “We’ve got some time” He grins letting his head fall against my shoulder, wrapping his arms around my waist pulling me flush up against him. I laugh as he takes a deep breath, sighing against my neck. 

“Perv” I laugh, and he lifts his head off my shoulder with a loud groan. 

“I can’t help it if my girl is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on…” He smiles,  his arms tightening further around me, pressing his hardening cock against my ass. “C’mon pretty girl” He whispers lowering his voice to a husky Purr, his hands work at my shirt writhing underneath the hem to rest his palms possessively on my hips. They continue their path upwards bringing my shirt up with them and before I know it my shirt is tossed into some forgotten corner of the room. “Look at you… so beautiful” He murmurs nipping at my neck, large purple welts blooming wherever his lips touch.“Fuck… Logan” I groan softly turning around to face him, weaving my hands through his hair pulling him away from my neck, tugging him in for a kiss, his hands fall to the dip in my back squeezing the fat of my ass as he pulls me closer against him, his tongue swiping against my lip begging for entrance which I eagerly grant him moaning against his mouth. He pulls away reluctantly a hazy mist of need in his eyes. He fumbles with the button of his pants unzipping them and dropping them down to his ankles, kicking them aside. His boxers do nothing to hide the raging boner straining against the fabric. He pulls me in for another kiss hands kneading the fat of my thighs as he walks me backwards towards the bed, I pull away from his kiss, giggling softly as I shake my head stopping his movements. I lower myself down, sinking onto my knees in front of him, he groans his head rolling back, as I free his hard cock from his boxers stroking the length in my hand I watch as his eyes narrow in on my movements his pupils blown wide with lust.

“That’s it baby” He grunts, precum already beading at the tip of his cock, I swipe my thumb over the tip and his dick twitches in my hand. I smile up at him and he grips the wing tips of the helmet. “Don’t get cocky” He growls, using the wings of the helmet, to push his cock against my lips, he reaches down hand enveloping mine around the length, coating my lips in a thin layer of precum before pulling my head back. “Give it a taste baby” He demands and my tongue darts out to clean up the mess. “That’s a good girl” He grunts, “c’mon open up” he urges, rubbing his dick against my lips parting them with ease. He groans as the warmth of my mouth engulfs his throbbing cock. “Oh fuck” he grunts pushing his hips forward, his hands gripping onto the wings of his helmet like his life depends on it, keeping my head still as he gives a few tentative thrusts deeper into my mouth. I moan around his cock, spit building at the corners of my lips. He grunts quietly holding my head still as he pushes deeper into my mouth. I gag as he hits the back of my throat, my nose brushing against his happy trail. He pulls his hips back only to drive his cock back into my mouth. I press my hand against his stomach pushing back against him I gasp for breath drool dripping down my chin. “That’s it sweetheart, take a big breath” He chuckles patting the top of the helmet. I smile up at him lifting the helmet up slightly so I can stare at him without the interference of the helmet, he lifts it off my head rubbing my hair, and I smile taking his weighty cock back into my mouth. He groans putting the helmet back on my head gripping the wings tightly as I bring my hand up to fondle his balls. His head falls back as my other hand engulfs half the length of his cock stroking eagerly slurping along the length. He grips the wings of the helmet resuming the thrust of his hips nudging his cock deeper in my mouth. I gag as it hits the back of my throat again, and I feel his cock twitch on my tongue. He looks down at me lovingly, speeding up the thrusting of his hips. “That's a good girl, you can take it” he grunts out his grip on the wings keeping my head steady, “fuck, just like that, almost there baby” He groans his hips stuttering slightly. I hollow my cheeks, my hand stroking the length of his cock while the movement of his hips falters slightly. “Fuck, fuck, fuck” He pants above me trying his best to keep his pace, I bob my head along his cock coaxing him towards his climax, and his hips falter stopping completely as he chokes out a gasp. His cock twitches on my tongue and a wet warmth spreads along my tongue, as he shoots ropes of cum down my throat. He resumes his thrusts at a leisurely pace, he groans softly pulling his softening cock out of my mouth, smiling as he watches me swallow down his cum. He helps me off the floor, pulling me in for a passionate kiss moaning at the mix, he walks me backwards towards the bed. I fall backwards onto the plush bedsheets with a quiet gasp, crawling backwards till I’m. I beckon him forward and he grins, peeling off his shirt and tossing it aside, making himself comfortable between my legs, his hand cupping the back of my head as he pulls me in for a passionate kiss, he lifts the helmet off my head smiling as my full face comes into view. “Let's take this off, I wanna see my girl's pretty face” He chuckles setting his helmet aside and nuzzling his nose in the crook of my neck breathing deeply, nipping gently at the skin. “I love you so much baby” He whispers kissing down my body reverently. 

“I love you too” I grin running my hands through his hair, gasping at the contact of his lips on my skin. He trails his lips down my body kissing down the plush fat of my stomach down to my thighs. Taking extra care to pay equal attention to both of them, he takes a deep breath burying his nose into my clothed pussy. “She smells so good, all f’me” He whispers huskily placing more kisses along my thighs. He taps my thigh and I lift my hips so he can pull down my panties, he tosses them aside his pupils widening as he catches sight of my bare cunt. “Oh fuck baby” He groans, the warmth of his breath spreading across my pussy making me shiver. He looks up at me a sly smile on his face, “I think it's time for me to wear the helmet” He grins and I furrow my eyebrows in confusion, and he reaches across my body to grab it, putting it on his own head. He grabs my wrists guiding my hands to the wings of the helmet, his head finding its place between my thighs. 

[burningcheese-merchant]

I know you're a burningcheese merchant but can we have some hcs or snippets for mysticcacao 👉👈

You don't have to do it if you mind

Popping back in for just a minute to become mysticcacao-merchant, just for you 🫵

They'd probably take things quite slow, mostly due to Flour's shyness and embarrassment (and a bit of honest shame, really. She never thought she'd be shackled by meaningless emotions again, love least of all. But Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome came and stole not only her Soul Jam, but her heart... truly, life is suffering). But Cacao doesn't mind. He's very much a gentleman (more so than even Pure Vanilla), he will not say or do anything she doesn't want him to and respects her boundaries with zero complaint. (He's a bit nervous and uncomfortable for a while, too, so she's not really alone there lol)

They end up doing a lot of activities together where they don't really talk. Lots of long walks through the mountains, many games of Go, even meditating together (first they sat a ways away apart from each other, then when they became comfortable enough, they started sitting back-to-back). The silence doesn't bother them at all; they're both the sort of person who appreciates quiet moments like that, and they don't necessarily need to talk to understand each other.

He once gave her his coat to wear (the one that's part of the "Vanquisher of the Two Dragons" costume) because he noticed she was cold. Later, when it was time to part ways, he asked if she wanted to hold onto it. She said no. He reached for it and got slapped really hard with her ribbons. This happened several times before he got the message and just went home without it lol ("why are women like this", he wondered to himself)

She's not that far from him height-wise (5'9'' vs 6'1'', in my headcanon), so he never has to bend down much to kiss her. (He likes to just get close and press quick little kisses to her forehead)

This moment? In both of their heads?

RENT. FUCKING. FREE.

They went to the Dumpling Soup Hot Springs once and Flour saw Cacao take his shirt off and almost fucking died (he kept his pants on, thank goodness, she would've returned to flour on the spot if he stripped any further than he did)

They exchange letters a lot because Flour refuses to leave Beast-Yeast and Cacao can't visit her often (he has a kingdom to run and bad guys to fight). Flour arranged for a bird native to her mountain to be the one to come and go with letter deliveries, since it's very tough and would remember how to make the journey. Cacao keeps her letters in a box hidden somewhere in his room, Flour keeps his tucked on a shelf in her study in the Ivory Pagoda. They both really like each other's handwriting/calligraphy

Their kisses are almost always quite chaste. Flour is too hesitant to ask for more and Cacao will not push unless she explicitly asks for it... but they both want it lol. It's just a matter of Flour learning to be bold and allowing herself to indulge her own wants

They're able to get along a lot easier than the other Ancients and Beasts might because they already aren't that different from each other. Both are very calm, disciplined, serious people who tend towards stoicism and asceticism (or just rejection of base wants and desires in general). They just get each other right away, after putting away the "mortal enemies" thing haha

Cloud Haetae is really jealous of Cacao in the "kid is jealous of the man their mom is dating because they're scared he'll take her away and she won't love them anymore and the kid doesn't know better" sort of way. Cacao demonstrates his surprising skill with animals, dogs especially thanks to the cream wolves (Haetae is not a dog but it works anyway lol), and wins the little guy over pretty fast lol

[velvet-paradox]

Redeemed

Fandom: Call of Duty Pairing: König x Female reader Summary: While helping your boyfriend do a little spring cleaning, you come across his old gear. You've seen him wear it in pictures but to have him put it on for you… Length: Medium/Long Warnings: NSFW 18+ ONLY, strong language, explicit content, established relationship, kinda' sorta' roleplay even though is himself, degradation, name calling, fingering, pussy slapping, edging, p in v (unprotected, wrap it up!), creampie, oral (f & m receiving), detailed smut. ENJOY!!!

beg me for it (bitte mich darum) my love (meine liebe) my honey bee (meine honigbiene)

"What about this one?" You call out, shifting a rather large cardboard box away from the dusty window. You sneezed for the tenth time. Helping your boyfriend clean out his attic before the fall came. You'd gone through old clothes, holey jackets, boxes of books, notepads dated from before you two had started seeing one another.

"Nein. That is just some old paperwork, put it over there by the others." König answered, tearing open a box of his own at the opposite side of the attic. It wasn't a big space, it did not accommodate his size at all as he was crouched down in a squat. His ass looked great, you thought as he was none the wiser of your ogling.

You moved another box and saw a big, beige duffel bag high on a shelf. It called out to you.

TAKE ME DOWN! TAKE ME DOWN!

"What's this?" You mumbled, mostly to yourself as you reached up on your tip toes, hands reaching out for the thick black straps.

"What's what, meine honigbiene?"

"Whatever it is it's fuckin' heavy! Ow!" The bag came down, hard against your chest making you topple over into yet another cloud of dust. Like clouds of it making the air up here a little thicker than need be.

"Be careful, my dear." König said, spinning on his feet. He coughed and you heard him walk over to you. He wasn't a gentle stepping giant by any means. "Oh liebe don't look in there-"

You unzipped the bag just as he reached you, his hands on top of yours to stop you but it was too late. You saw a helmet that resembled a spider, there was another mask that looked similar to Simon's, along with an array of secured weapons and flares. "This is your old gear."

"Ja." König hummed behind you, pulling out a foreign piece of material to you, completely nostalgic for the man. You'd seen it in pictures around his home but to see these key pieces of his past self was something different. Vulnerable. König mused over a pack of unopened flares, a few ammunition magazines. "I haven't put on the mask in so long… there was a time, believe it or not that I never took it off. Only to wash it of course but, this was my face. This was König."

"Will you put it on for me?" An intrusive thought popped in your head like champagne bubbles. You bit your lip before your brain could short circuit that you would ask such a thing. You knew he was an operator, high ranking, cultured and experienced. He'd mention some things in passing that were a bit on the grim and dark side. He'd dealt with the trauma and guilt, what he had to do to survive, to make it out and up rank. To be praised for his hard work and dedication.

"The mask? Certainly not. That version of me is over, I couldn't begin to tell you what that man has done, who I'd become if I were to put this thing back on. 's not for your pretty little eyes, honigbiene."

"Bitte? Just once. For me."

"Oh no, don't start with talking my language to get what you want."

König held your face with the other hand, shoving his mask back into the duffel, he kissed your head. "And don't pout, you're face will remain that way."

….

You heard him before you saw him. Sure he wore boots, custom Doc Marten's to be exact, so hearing him clunk around wasn't out of the ordinary but- he sounded heavy. The sounds of his outfit, the light SWISH of his standard issue pants got closer, he was getting closer.

You covered your face with your hands. You had to. It felt like instinct. Once König was in the living room with you, the air felt different. Your skin felt hot even though a chill went down your spine once he stopped walking. You heard his gloves creak. He cleared his throat and tapped his foot.

The only coherent thought once your eyes adjusted to the sight before you, was a gentle "Oh."

Your lover was… fucking massive. The way his shoulders rounded, he stood a little taller, a little prouder. That glitter in his blue eyes let you in on the smirk that laid hidden behind his black and red streaked mask. Especially with his hands behind his back, standing at attention.

Helmet, vest, forearm plates, shin guards, enough cargo pockets to put damn near anything but the kitchen fucking sink.

"Do like what you see, my dear? Your legs are practically falling open for me."

He wasn't lying.

Sat on the couch, your legs moved apart at the sight of him covered head to toe in tactical gear.

"What do you think?" König asked, rocking in place. His waist looked good enough to eat. The urge to bite him all over was overwhelming and you'd be lying if you told yourself this wasn't a major turn on, or that you were in fact getting excited. The damage, the chaos, the bloodshed he'd left behind while wearing his tactical gear made you itchy.

"It's different. I mean, I've seen pictures of you in your gear but. Woah. It makes you look… bigger." You spoke with your hands as he nodded slowly.

König moved one of his hands from behind his back, made a fist then motioned for you to come towards him. You did so on shaky legs and tiny feet. He towered over you on a usual day, he's a behemoth of a man and yet when you looked up and up at him, you couldn't help but feel like a bug. An insect about to be squashed.

"You wanted to see me in my uniform," König softly spoke, putting his gloved middle finger under your chin and gave it a light tap. "Here I am. Up close and personal."

You licked your lips. "What did you do in it?"

"Everything. Fight. Kill. Fuck."

Your eyes darkened. You weren't a jealous person and obviously he'd had a life before you much like you did yourself. But to hear him speak so clearly, so thorough, clinical even about the adventures he'd had in this attire had you weak.

"Will you fuck me in it?"

König snorted, his mask puffing out a little with his breath. "You're quite serious?"

You nodded.

"Then I am afraid mein liebe… it wouldn't be me that fucked you if that's what you're looking for."

You furrowed your eyebrows until his words started to make sense, stringing and looping together to make loose ends meet.

Of course you would be fucking your lover but… with him dressed in his old gear, old habits would die fucking hard. He'd be König, your König. But if you wanted him like this… you would be fucking KorTac's colonel.

….

König grabbed you by the waist and pushed you up against the wall behind him, grabbing both of your hands in just one of his, the rubber pads of his gloves marking up your skin. You gasped. He chuckled and dug around in one of those cargo pockets on the front of his vest, without breaking eye contact he pulled out a pair of zip tie handcuffs.

They dug into your flesh, pinching just enough to air on the uncomfortable side, in front of you before König pushed himself up against your back, mentioning that if you were to refer to him as anything other than sir or colonel you were to be sorely punished. Spanked within reason. Broken with trust. Fingered without mercy in any hole of his choosing. You clenched around nothing.

You felt the foreign pockets of his vest dug into your shoulders, he circled his hips against your rear with a low hum that vibrated through you.

"You've got yourself a safeword, have you?"

"Mhmmm. Pocket knife."

"Good girl." König praised in your ear, grunting when he slipped his hand between your thighs, clicking his teeth when you wiggled back against him. "Spoke too soon, apparently. You're radiating heat, honigbiene. Are you wet? Should I inspect?"

"Bitte."

König snarled and grabbed your leggings and yanked them down to your ankles, he moaned when he realized you weren't wearing anything else underneath. He moved his hand to the front of your face.

"Take it off."

"How?"

"Bite down."

You whined and took his glove between your teeth, he pulled his hand out and cupped your sex. You writhed in his hold. His hand was so hot and so big and it felt so damn good between your legs.

"Wet already? What a little horny thing you are, my dear. You like this don't you? Pinned down, held in place, vulnerable in the best way possible. "Give in to me, biene. Give in to your colonel."

You yelped when his fingers, testing your leaky entrance for awhile, coating the pads and finally breached your hole, splitting your folds apart to get to the softest, spongiest, spot inside you.

"Well well…" König pressed his face to the back of your head. "What have we here? Is this turning you on, biene? The way your sweet little pussy keeps sucking in my finger is giving me the answer your voice cannot."

"Please!"

"Please what, my dear?" He asked, making his palm flat, your clit throbbed and ached to be touched, the friction of it hitting once more as he fingered you deeper, his thick thumb tapping the hood of it gently which each thrust.

Suspended between bliss and absolute torture, your body betraying you by twisting and rocking back and forth, pushing yourself back against his ministrations with your hands splayed on the wall in front of you.

"I need more."

"More what?"

"More of you. Inside me, König."

He tsked and removed his hand completely, making you hang your head in shame.

"Failure so soon, pet? Gonna' have to work on that," his heavy presence and warmth left you too suddenly, he peeled himself off your back and turned you around once more, eyeing your lower half. "You can be obedient, can't you honigbiene? Desperate to be a good girl for me. Show me your dedication."

König thudded his big boots over to the couch, plopping down with too much weight the whole scooted back at least an inch, legs splayed out wide, hands on his thighs. His still gloved one patted an inner thigh.

It proved to be difficult to shimmy over to him with your leggings around your ankles, stuck to your crew socks. You were careful not to slip on the silky material. It felt hamulating to shuffle over like that but also the way you needed to keep your knees together, your thighs together, rubbed your sex deliciously.

Once in front of him, he rubbed the warm skin of your outer thighs, then between them spreading your legs apart until the fabric of your legging tugged and pulled at your feet.

When his gloved hand slapped against your cunt you jumped. "Bad girl. What two names we're you given to address me?"

You whined, locking your fingers together, desperately wanting to close your legs. You were already a pulsating mess but this… oh this was something else.

"Tell me!"

"Sir." You jumped.

"And?"

"Colonel."

"Good job, biene. And what do you just call me?"

"Kön--König."

Another slap to your center made you shut your eyes and bite your lip.

"Did I not promise punishment if you did not behave."

"I forgot!" You whined and twitched when he switched hands, teasing your entrance once more, just pressing, not intruding, just letting you know he could pierce through you. " 'm sorry, sir. I won't forget again."

"Hmph. We'll see about that."

König is a very calculated man, knew how to draw you i like a moth to a light source. He grabbed you, pushing you down to the couch with a bounce and grabbed at your legs, kneeling down in front of you. He pulled off his vest to reveal the tightest looking thermal shirt, it made his muscles look huge, he could choke you out in seconds with how they moved. And that made you wet and weak to the manhandling of your body. His hands pulled at the back of your knees, just your lower back on the cushion now and he hooked your legs over his massive shoulders.

"Show me your pussy, baby. Go on, open her on up for me now." With your bound hands and aching sex, the way his eyes fixated as you spread your legs.

"Good job, pretty. So wet. I think I just saw her clench, are we needy biene?"

"Yes sir! I am I am so fucking needy for you."

"Good." König moaned as he lifted up the hem of his mask, licked his fingers and spread your folds before diving in to worship you.

….

He had you where he wanted you, tettering on the edge of the couch cushions, lost in pleasure as König ate you out, tongue fucked your cunt, spat on your asshole until you screamed for mercy. Grabbing at his hair. The hot and cold juxtaposition from his tongue ring brought your orgasm closer and closer.

"Colonel bitte, I can't… I can't take much more." You sobbed and bucked your hips up into his face, he chuckled darkly, smacking his lips and moaning as you felt the bridge and tip of his nose bump up against your clit.

"You're gonna' take a lot more once you cum," König groaned, rubbing all of his fingers, rather quickly over your pussy, making you feral. "Oh biene, can you hear that? You're fucking pussy is juicing up just right, you're gonna' cum aren't you, princess? Cum all over my fingers or my face, you've redeemed yourself so far."

"I um I--"

"Keep them open now. Come on pretty thing, I am giving you an option and if you don't use your words I'll just-"

"I'm so close, please!" You whine, tilting your head just right to watch in awe and bliss how fast you were losing control, your legs jerked against the sides of his head.

"That's not what I asked, sweetie."

"Fingers! Please colonel, fuck. Fing-ger fuck me, make me cum please." You sounded pathetic but it was just too much, his mouth, his fingers, his words and sprinkles of praise lit you up like the Fourth of Fucking July.

He quickly switched tactics, as he usually did to keep you on your toes. On edge for what he'd planned for you two next. But this complete dominance, his control, left you dizzy.

Instead of curling his two fingers deep into your core, hollowing you out to make room for his thick cock, he turned his wrist, palm down as he rocked them into that way. Magnificent.

You squirmed and squealed and shouted out profanities in English and a few you'd learned from your lover, like you were speaking in tongues.

Almost there, almost there, almosttherealmosttherealmostthere…

Then-- there was nothing.

No fingers, no mouth, no tongue!

You opened your eyes to see König standing above you, taking off his belt, unzipping his pants.

"I was so close."

"I know," he tilted his head and took his cock out. You clenched around nothing, licking your lips when he moved the mask just out of the way for him to spit on his own dick. You loved watching him do that. The first time you two had sex, he spat on it while staring at you, a smirk on his handsome and scarred face. It was hot then and even hotter every time after.

His boots pounded against the floor, jerking himself off as he got closer, slapping his cock against your pussy, your arousal making the stickiest noises to fill his living room.

"Colonel!"

"What a needy little slut. Just a little bit foreplay and you're a fucking mess, look at you. You think you deserve to cum, have you earned it?"

"You said I, you said I was gonna' be redeemed." Tears filled your eyes as he slapped your inner thighs, one after the other. He then dragged his nails down your heated flesh.

"Changed my mind, now sit up and open your fucking mouth." König helped you by placing his hard and cold shin guards against your knees and helped to push up. "Lift up your shirt too."

With the way your hands were bound, thumb to thumb in a praying motion, proved to be a little too difficult and König was getting impatient. So he grunted and grabbed your shirt, yanked it up, your tits spilling out from your bra and on a whim, it seemed, he just hooked it around the back of your head. On perverse display.

"That's much better. You look like a fuck toy, is that what you are, baby? Just a hole to fill, keep my fat cock safe and warm. No teeth. Stick out your tongue." König barked at you. Cursing something in German soon after you obliged, followed orders.

He plopped his cock against your tongue, you could faintly taste yourself on it, mixed with the beads of pre-cum. Delicious. You moaned around his length, his hand on the back of your skull, which he could easily squeeze and crush it in an instant, and had you bobbing, and gagging and drooling over it.

König made the dirtiest sound, low in his throat as he face fucked you, every time you pleaded with your eyes for a little release he'd slap your cunt again. Over and over until it was sore. Your clit aching and throbbing for some attention, your pussy reacting to his purposeful ministrations to make you as messy and sticky as possible.

Your König did not treat you this way, at all. In fact he made love you almost every night, claiming feeling you there, on him, in you felt safe. Comfortable. You were home. So this filthy pace, his thumb pressing down on your clit, that twisted look in his eyes as he watched you slobber all over him, down your neck and over your chest was a sign of delight.

"What a good little throat slut you're being honig, just delightful! You suck me down like you were made for it, were sweetheart, were you made to suck this cock so well?" He chuckled and finally pulled off when you nodded dumbly.

"Good girl, now then," he sighed and took a step back, a heavy string of saliva connected your swollen lips to the crown of his cock. "Do you prefer to look at me while I take you, or do you prefer to be hollowed out on your hands and knees?"

"Both." Came out of your mouth like you'd had one too many, trying to catch your breath.

"Both? You are greedy. Come here now! Hold still." He grabbed your hands and lifted you to your feet like it was nothing, and held them up above your head, your wrists screaming. "Keep them there."

He tore off the other glove and pulled down the cups of your bra, uncaring that your spit would be all over his palms as he kneaded your breasts, thumbed over your nipples.

"Oh colonel, please sir, that feels really good. Keep going."

"Sounds like it, you are so… breathy." You could hear the smile in his voice, his voice low and swirled with lust. "I love these tits so much, I just…"

He was on his knees faster than you could blink, for a man of his stature he's quite swift. He lifted his mask once more and mouthed of your breasts, groaning and growling and holding you close under the ribs, pulling at you to get further into his mouth. "I love you."

"Th-thank you sir. I love you too." You tried to remain calm but this fucking behemoth was working you over and for fucks sake would he fuck you already. You could another flood of desire and wetness slip through your folds as he licked and sucked. That damn tongue ring was worth the investment.

He pulled off your left nipple with a light pop and got back up to his feet and spun you around, you fell over on to the couch the long way, scrambling with your hands to push yourself up and into position, only to have your lover mold you to his liking. Whacking your thigh and hoisting up your hips against his groin.

"Now pretty thing… say that again for me, say it back to König."

"Oh fuck."

You did eventually find your voice after being rocked back and forth, his cock slipping in between your legs, gathering more and more of your arousal, the head of his cock bumping into your clit on purpose. He pushed into you slow for the first inch, feeling your walls spasm made him pause for a moment before you gave the go ahead with a pat to knee underneath you. He split you open, humming at the sounds coming from you, wiggling and trying to fit him all the way in at this angle. He pulled all the way out, spread your cheeks and spat once more before easing his way back in. Only to do it again and again, moaning how perfect you looked all gaped and wanting.

He fucked you hard and fast after that, the cushions feeling scratchy against your sensitive skin, your heated and exposed chest and stomach. The jangle of his belt knocking against your hip, the crotch of his pants getting soaked with your juices. He's never been this harsh before!

"Can't say anything, can you biene? Good. You don't need to fuckin' talk, just give and take. Feels so good."

"You always f-feel good, sir."

"Good answer!" was followed by a hard spank as he pounded into you even more before stopping all together to circle his hips and rub against that spongy bit that made you holler.

"Sir! Can I cum now? Bitte, I've been so good. Please?" You gasped into the cushions, your face wet with drool from all your whining and moaning. Your shoulder pushed deeper into it.

"Ja, ja! Cum on my cock, honigbiene. Cum for König."

You instantly came.

And came some more.

He couldn't wait for you to face him, see him in all his glory. So he gripped your shoulder, fisted your shirt for extra leverage and rolled you onto your back. He flicked one of your nipples harshly, enjoying the reaction and sunk back into your cunt.

Unrelenting as König massaged you from the inside out, letting you push and pull him back in like the tide. You arched and damn near fell off the couch but he caught you, cradling your hips, slipping off your socks and leggings, chucking them to the ground his his vest.

"Keep holding yourself open for me, honig. You're doing such a good job, what a good girl you turned out to be tonight hmmm?" König said while spitting on and stroking his cock again above you.

"Please sir, I'm begging you to fill me. I need to be stretched out." You cried, keeping your legs open was tedious at this point but necessary to get what you wanted.

"Bitte mich darum."

The wheels of your brain started to reel, you knew the words separately so… oh.

"I need it, colonel. I need you so badly, inside me sir, bitte bitte."

"Wanna' cum together, pretty girl. Show me that face."

He grunted when saw you smile and reach for him, wrapping your arms around his neck, drawing him in.

"Do one thing for me honig, grab my cock, that's it," König moaned around your fist, feeling your juices on your palm as he shifted. "Can you guide me in, show me the way?"

You rubbed the head of him between your lips.

"That's it."

You helped him glide back home, in and out, safe within the confines of your pussy. His neck rolled under your hands and you moved up your pelvis. He sunk in deeper.

"Good girl now," he gulped, framing your head with his forearms, his chest lowering down to yours. "Fuck yourself with it."

"What?"

"You heard me. Fuck yourself with my cock, like you do with one of your toys."

In. Out. In. Out.

Just that simple action had you open mouthed and pouting at how good he felt. You already came hard once, another explosion was nearly the horizon the more you fit him in, the more fuller you felt. You used him as a fuck toy, crying out his title's, holding onto his mask.

"Kiss me."

König flipped the mask up enough to comply, he tasted salty and sweating. He fucked his tongue into your mouth to the rhythm of you fucking yourself. He grunted you name against your lips. You sucked on his tongue.

"I'm going to cum if you keep that up, honig."

"I want you to. I need you to. Cum inside me."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. You wanted me to beg for it so I am- oh fuck yeah. That's it."

"You fuck…"

You hurried your wrist, looking up at König, with his eyes trained on yours, thrusting into your hand to finish together.

….

König collapsed on top of you, panting and out of breathe and hot. Both in appearance and body heat. That black thermal of his came off at the lightning speed after he came. He hugged you tightly, resting his face in the crook of your neck as you stroke his back. Full, sated and complete.

"I did not hurt you, right? I was a little--"

"You were perfect," you breathed and kissed the top of his forehead, tracing the scars on his shoulder. "Can I ask you one thing, though?"

"Anything, honig." König said and looked at you with curious eyes.

"Can we do that again?" Tagging: @goblinmodetweeker @poohkie90 @satakingslime @wrenwrites @mochimycat @bowsforsienna

[kazutora-kurokawa]

Could you pls do nsfw headcanons for toman division captain & vice captain with a short curvy reader.

💦

Toman Captains + VCs x Short!Curvy!Reader

♡ NSFW, Fem reader, reader is around 5'4 for reference, reader is busty, reader has hips wider than her waist, reader has thick thighs, biting, size kink, breeding, ass slapping, just average smut ♡

Captains: Baji, Mitsuya, Pah-Chin, Nahoya, Mucho

Vice Captains: Chifuyu, Hakkai, Peh-yan, Souya, Sanzu

note: thank you for requesting anon 🩷 I wasn't sure if you wanted Takemichi or Baji as the first division captain, so I just chose Baji. If you want some headcanons for Takemichi just let me know 🫶

note 2: shout-out to all my short followers, I'd grab stuff from the highest shelf for y'all 😚

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

Baji

🔥 Bites you all day everyday (he calls it love biting)

🔥 Especially likes to bite your thighs

🔥 He can take your bra off with his teeth

🔥 Grips your thighs when he eats you so you can't squirm away from him

Chifuyu

🩵 Your body is a temple and his preferred place of worship is in between your legs

🩵 Gets hard when he sees you wearing a form fitting dress for the first time, it's like a life changing experience for him

🩵 Takes photos of you just so he can jerk off to them later

🩵 Always grabbing on your tits when he fucks you

Mitsuya

🪻 He bases designs he makes on your figure

🪻 Asks you to model clothes for him and he always ends up taking them off of you as soon as you walk through the door

🪻 Soft and sweet during sex, praises and compliments you every five seconds

🪻 Kisses your tummy and hips when he eats you out

Hakkai

🫐 Likes to eat you out because he doesn't have to make eye contact with you (poor nervous baby)

🫐 He'd be really unsure of himself during sex, but as soon as you start whining for him to go faster he's on cloud nine

🫐 Likes when you ride his thigh and when you're on top of him in general

🫐 He's absolutely submissive and prefers to let you take the lead

Pah-Chin

☁️ Always has his hands on your hips, especially during sex

☁️ Likes when you wear his jacket while you fuck, it fits you perfectly and he just thinks you look so cute in it

☁️ He loves fingering you, he gets a great view of your body

☁️ Kisses you on your thighs and clit while he's fingering you

Peh-yan

🤍 He has crazy stamina and always tires you out

🤍 Asks you to wear tight clothing when you go out on dates (he always ends up taking you to a secluded spot to fuck)

🤍 Let's you ride him but he'll be gripping your hips and controlling your pace the whole time

🤍 Has his face buried in your tits the whole time you're riding him

Nahoya

🪷 He's a pro ass slapper and makes sure to slap your ass every time you walk pass him (leaves handprints on your ass too)

🪷 69 (no rapper) is his favorite position, he gets to eat you out, your ass is in his face, and he gets his dick sucked. It's a win-win-win

🪷 Likes your ass tooted up and your face down (y'all know what song I'm referencing?)

🪷 Moans when you grab his hair during sex

Souya

💠 Likes to lay his head on your thighs (preferably while you're jerking him off)

💠 Prefers to be on top because he'll cum quick if you're riding him

💠 Gets overstimulated really easily but he won't say anything because he doesn't want to stop fucking you

💠 Loves when you sit on his face and run your fingers through his hair while he eats you out

Mucho

🎀 Enjoys the height difference between you two and uses it to his advantage

🎀 He'll hold you and fuck you while he's standing

🎀 Loves fucking you against walls

🎀 Knows you can barely handle his dick and loves seeing you whine about how big he is

Sanzu

🌸 Teases you about your height during sex (he'll call you short-stack while he's balls deep inside you)

🌸 Likes when you ride him because he gets to hold you close to him

🌸 Loves to cum inside you, always tells you he's gonna get you pregnant while you're fucking

🌸 Lays on your chest and kisses your tits after sex

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

Taglist

@arlerts-angel , @i-literally-cant-with-this , @trevengersprincess , @happy-trenchcoated-impala , @giugiette , @katkitkats

[gf2bellamy]

valentine's day — jonah simms

pairing: jonah simms x reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: you have to set up the valentine's day display with jonah content warnings: nothing i think

Valentine’s Day—a day of romance, chocolate, and grand gestures for some, but for you? It was just another day at Cloud 9. Sure, the store was decked out in shades of red and pink, with aisles bursting with heart-shaped boxes and stuffed animals, but you couldn’t exactly share in the excitement.

Not when you were nursing a not-so-secret crush on Jonah Simms, the guy who somehow managed to make Cloud 9 a little less miserable.

The problem? You had no idea if he felt the same. 

You sat in the break room, your fingers tapping on the table as you half-listened to Cheyenne and Matteo gossip about one of your coworkers. Their chatter was the only highlight of your morning so far—well, that and the fact you hadn’t had to deal with a single customer yet.

That peace wouldn’t last, but for now, you soaked it in. 

The door to the break room swung open, and before you even looked, you knew who it was.

Jonah.

His footsteps had a distinct upbeat energy, and sure enough, he plopped down in the chair next to you.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice bright and annoyingly charming. 

You stifled a yawn, turning to meet his gaze. His dark hair was slightly tousled, and his smile was warm.

“Morning,” you replied, your voice still groggy. Your heart gave the tiniest lurch as his eyes met yours, but you quickly looked away, trying to focus on the coffee cup in front of you. 

Before Jonah could say anything else, Glenn walked in, followed by Dina, who had her usual no-nonsense expression plastered across her face.

Glenn cleared his throat dramatically, his high-pitched voice already grating this early in the morning. 

“Hello, wonderful people!” Glenn exclaimed, clasping his hands together like he was about to deliver a sermon. 

You zoned out almost immediately, tuning him out as you often did during these little pep talks. You nodded absentmindedly, catching bits and pieces about the “beauty of Valentine’s Day” and something about sales goals. Your mind wandered as you stared at the table, your fingers still tapping. 

Then you heard your name. 

Your head snapped up. “What?” you said, your voice a little too loud as you jumped in your seat. Jonah turned to you with a curious look, while Glenn’s wide-eyed smile remained unwavering. 

“I said, you and Jonah will be setting up the Valentine’s Day display today!” Glenn repeated with enthusiasm.

Your stomach did a little flip. “Oh. Right. Yeah. Sure,” you muttered, your voice awkward as you avoided Jonah’s gaze.

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him smile slightly.

“That’s so cute!” Cheyenne chimed in from her seat, grinning from ear to ear. “You two working on the love display together? It’s like... fate or something.” 

Matteo smirked, leaning forward on the table. “Yeah, nothing says romance like slapping some heart decals on a shelf of half-off chocolates.” 

You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. Jonah chuckled beside you, and you could tell he was enjoying their teasing more than he should. 

“Well, we better get started,” Jonah said, pushing his chair back and standing up. He turned to you, his hands in his pockets and that easy smile still on his face. “Ready?” 

“Yeah,” you said quickly, grabbing your coffee cup and standing up. You followed him out of the break room, your mind racing.

Spending the entire morning alone with Jonah? On Valentine’s Day? This was either going to be the best day of your life or a complete disaster. 

Forty minutes later, you were still struggling to set up the Valentine’s Day display. The two of you had managed to unpack boxes of heart-shaped merchandise, but actually arranging it to look presentable?

That was another story entirely. 

“Jonah, no!” you laughed, your voice echoing through the aisle as you watched him place yet another box of chocolates in the wrong spot. “The hearts are supposed to face the customers, not the wall! Are you even trying?” 

Jonah turned to you, holding the box with an exaggerated look of confusion. “Oh, you mean the hearts should actually be visible? Weird, I thought the whole point was to confuse people.” 

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed your amusement. “Very funny,” you said, stepping closer to grab the box from his hands. “Here, let me—” 

But as you reached for the box, Jonah held onto it, a playful grin lighting up his face. “Wait, wait. I’ve got this. Trust me.” 

“Oh, do you?” you challenged, raising an eyebrow as you both held onto the box, neither of you willing to let go. 

Jonah’s grin widened, and before you knew it, he tugged the box gently, pulling you a little closer.

You stumbled slightly, and when you looked up, you realized how close you were—close enough to notice the flecks of green in his hazel eyes, the way his hair curled slightly at the ends, and how his smile softened as he looked at you. 

Your breath hitched, your hands still gripping the box between you. “Jonah...” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. 

“Yeah?” he asked, his tone just as quiet now. His eyes searched yours, and for a moment, the rest of the store seemed to disappear.

It was just the two of you, standing in the middle of an unfinished display with hearts and chocolates scattered around like some kind of romantic cliché. 

You could feel yourself getting nervous, and you were about to say something—anything to break the tension—when Jonah beat you to it. 

“Do you want to go out with me?” he asked suddenly. “Like... on a real date? Not just setting up displays and stocking shelves.” 

You blinked, caught off guard for a moment.

“Jonah, are you seriously asking me out in the middle of the store?” you teased, a smile creeping onto your face despite the butterflies swirling in your stomach. 

He chuckled, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand. “Well, I figured if I was going to be cheesy, I might as well go all in. Hearts, chocolates, and all.” His grin was sheepish but endearing, and you couldn’t help but laugh softly. 

You shook your head, still smiling as you let go of the box and took a step closer. “Fine. You win. I’ll go out with you,” you said, your voice light but laced with genuine excitement. 

Jonah’s eyes lit up, his grin widening in a way that made your chest feel warm. “Really?”  

For a moment, the two of you just stood there, smiling at each other like a couple of teenagers. Then, with a newfound confidence, Jonah reached out and gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “So, tomorrow night?” he asked, his voice soft. 

“Tomorrow night,” you agreed, feeling like your entire day had just turned around. Maybe Valentine’s Day wasn’t so bad after all. 

[i-nssomniia]

«Spoiled date»

Pairing: Hyuk x reader x Wooin

Tags: polyamorous relationships

Note: I don't know, I just want two of them. well, please

@shintaru @dzvelinaskebiyars

you look up at the sky, seeing the clouds gathering, a sure sign that it's about to rain, or more specifically, pour.

"We should hurry home if we don't want to get wet" - Hyuk takes your hand, starting to walk forward, when you feel another warm hand on your waist. Ah, Wooin.

you nod curtly as you walk between them. you were actually so upset. the two of them are so often gone for training or their part-time jobs that you rarely spend time as a three, except for the night, but that was different. and now on your shared weekend, you were able to get the two of them on a date to spend time together, but even so, it was all ruined by the weather. you're sure you checked the forecast several times in the morning and even before you left, but there was nothing about a downpour.

"Hey", - you feel a hot breath near your ear as thunder rumbles in the sky. You shudder slightly at the sound, and the rain is about to start. "Are you okay?" - You turn your head to look at Wooin. It's an uncharacteristic display of concern, rather than teasing or random acts of affection towards you or through Hyuk.

You nod at him curtly, trying to hide your disappointment, but even Hyuk, who does not recognize emotional signals well and does not understand other people's actions and their mood, sees that you are not okay. You can feel the small droplets of water beginning to settle on your skin and hair before a full-fledged downpour strikes, forcing you to run and seek shelter in a convenience store.

you look out the store windows, see the strong wind, and realize that you're stuck here for a long time. and it could have been a good chance to spend time as a three-piece, but your mood was so much worse and it was so stupid. you leave the two of them behind as you walk past the store shelves to grab your favorite treat, but even that doesn't have the enthusiasm you just hang in front of the shelf.

"why are you upset?", - Hyuk approaches you with his hands in his pockets, his wet hair sticking to his face, covering his forehead.

"I'm not upset, I'm just-"

"nonsense", - Wooin snorts, placing her hand on your shoulder and reaching for a pack of Poki tubes on the shelf, - "you're acting like it's someone's funeral, seriously."

You sigh, covering your face with your hands. You didn't want to tell them that you were just feeling sad about something small. After all, you spend time with them separately, you share the same apartment, have each other's belongings, and-

"because the date was ruined?" - and you just hate all of this insight from Wooin. You didn't want to look like a fool in front of them, but you just nod, running your hands through your hair, combing the wet strands back.

"We don't spend much time together, and we see each other separately, but it's different. Being on a date with you two when you both have time, but now it's just ruined, and I feel like-"

your stream of complaints is interrupted by a simple question, "why?" from Hyuk, who tilts his head to understand your train of thought. You and Wooin look at him, sighing briefly.

"why what?"

"why is the date ruined?" - he frowns in confusion, shrugging, - "we're all three together now, just like you wanted, so-"

"because it's different, damn it", - you click without even thinking to turn yourself around, - "because it's one thing to be on a date, and another thing to be locked in a store because of the weather. It's different for me. Because when tomorrow comes, everything will start over, but..."

your lower lip trembles as you bow your head down, breathing through your nose. it was so silly and you tried to stop yourself, and you knew you were starting a tantrum out of thin air as you closed your eyes to stop yourself from crying. a few moments pass when you are slapped on the cheeks, lifting your face in warm hands.

you look up, seeing Hyuk looking from Wooin, who's sitting behind you, his arms wrapped around your back now, to you and your face, his gaze skimming over your features.

"We can take a few days off"

your breath catches when you hear those words in front of you. we? a few days off? spend some time together? this is..

"let's take Wooin's car, a small house by the sea", - Hyuk shrugs, brushing your hair. you hear a soft snort behind you, but you stand there, staring at him like a deer in headlights.

"really? a vacation together?", - you receive simultaneous assent from both of them. it sounds much better than a date, to be honest..

You nod briefly, smiling softly as you bask in the arms of the two men, your eyes half-closed. You don't notice Hyuk and Wooin exchanging glances, clearly relieved that they've managed to cheer you up.

Later, you might learn from them that they've been planning this little getaway as a surprise for a while, but they had to tell you to make sure you were okay now.

because even if you spend time with them separately, it doesn't mean they don't notice how good you feel in their arms when they're both around.

MASTERLIST

[kentoruu]

regional manager kento who fucks up into you in the supply closet at work. one hand slapped over your mouth to keep you quiet while the other is busy circling your clit. the soft whimpers exiting your mouth drives him crazy to the point he doesn’t care who hears he just wants to hear more and wants to hear them louder. picking up the pace of his thrust earning a loud embarrassing moan from you

“ k-kentooo nghh not fuck so f-fast” you moan gripping onto the supply shelf for comfort

“oh but i thought that’s how you like it baby. i know you like the feeling.” he was right so fucking right. there was no way you could ever lie to him cause your pretty pussy always speaks the truth. he was so so good at bringing out that wild side in you and vice versa.

“you feel that baby.” fuck he made you feel good, so good that the calculated thrust of his hips, the feeling of his mouth leaving open kisses all over you body was pure existential bliss but all good things must come to an end. “ohh kento p-please let me cum” you moan staggered from the immense feeling of overwhelming pleasure

“shhh princess go ahead and f-fuck l-let go for me, make a mess all over me” he groans speeding up the stimulation of your pretty little bud. “ohhhh fuuuuckkk kentoo”. Cumming so hard you swear you were on cloud nine. the clenching and spasming of your sloppy wet cunt sent kento into overdrive, “f-fuck baby take my cum. take it like the good girl you are”, filling you womb with his hot white load feeling a warm sensation fill you up

he turns your head over your shoulder to give you the sloppiest wettest kiss as he pulls out leaving your pussy feeling empty. he took one last good look at your cunt drenched in both of your mixed juices admiring the mess you two made.

but alas all good things must come to an end with him returning to his office and you returning to your cubicle sadly pleasure cannot last forever

[pullhisteeth]

worry lines | eddie munson

requested here -`♡´- your ex turns up and Eddie gets jealous. idiots in love! 4.7k

cw !!! for a borderline abusive (ex-)boyfriend. 18+ please and thank you x

contains hurt/comfort, fluff, jealous!Eddie, fem!reader, conflict, shitty ex-boyfriend. everyone’s in their early 20s

-

He was cruel, Eddie knows that much. Cruel enough that it took weeks and lots of gentle handling to coax it out of you. 

You were a shell of yourself until you weren’t. Eddie doesn’t know the details, because who would he be to make you relive it if you didn’t want to? But he knows enough to sear a tar-black scorch mark in his gut, a branding, a fury reserved only for him.

And he’s perhaps a little oblivious to it, but Eddie’s patience never went unnoticed by you. The two of you might be like parallel lines - apparently doomed to just miss one another forever - but you’re still filled to the brim with giddy love for him. The fact he stuck around through it all only adds fuel to the fire. Something unruly burns behind your eyes every time you think about him.

“What about this one?”

You hold up a record and show him the front while you peer at the back. Eddie looks up from the stack he’s been flipping through for the past three minutes.

“Garbage,” he mutters, eyes back on his busy fingers. 

“What?!” you exclaim, mouth wide and attempting to hide a grin. You’re fighting him for fun, really; you’re already putting the record back where you found it. “It came out, like, a month ago! How’ve you heard it already?” 

“Gareth’s mom got it for him for his birthday,” he tells you without looking at you, side stepping only slightly to move onto the next box of albums. He’s close enough now that you could lean over and bump his shoulder with your own. You don’t.

You sigh, though it’s bright with amusement. You go back to your own shelf, eyeing up the scarce new releases stock that Trax only manages to update every few months.

“No shit,” you whisper, grabbing with greedy hands at the record you’ve spotted. You catch Eddie’s attention, his own hands stopping as he looks over. “I’ve been looking for this everywhere!”

He smiles, not because he likes the album - it’s The Cure, and they’re far too British, even for him - but because he likes your smile. Sometimes you make a face, with your mouth twisted to the right, because you’re holding it back. You told him once that you don’t like your smile very much, that it’s too wide, too toothy. He couldn’t disagree more, and when he catches you in these moments, the ones just before you realise you’re grinning and close your mouth, he cherishes it.

“You want it?” he asks, tone nothing but genuine.

“Fuck off, Eds,” you say anyway, still smiling. He’s lapping it up. “I can buy it myself now, don’t need your filthy drug money.”

He elbows you softly with an expression of faux offence. “Hey, y’didn’t mind my filthy money all those times it got you food at Benny’s.”

This makes you giggle, and Eddie is on cloud nine.

You tear your eyes away from the cover to meet his and he damn near keels over; it’s like a mallet on his temple, a slap across the cheek. He could look at your eyes forever and it’d never not hurt.

“Can I buy you one?” you ask him, adding “please?” when he gives you a look like he’s about to tell you no.

“Absolutely not,” he says, still grinning.

“But you’ve bought me so many!” You’re closer now, toe to toe with him, beaming back at him and gripping the record between clenched fingers. “I make my own money now. Consider it me payin’ you back, or at least starting to.”

“You don’t have to pay me back,” he mutters, “I like buyin’ you records. At least it meant you listened to somethin’ other than this shit.” He bumps the bottom of the cardboard sleeve with his fist.

“Hey,” you bite, pulling it out of his reach. “I like The Cure.”

“I know y’do, that’s the problem.”

You look at him for a beat, one so brief he only just gets a chance to take in your pensive face - adorable - before you scrunch your eyes and stick your tongue out at him.

“Suit yourself,” you say, turning on your heels and marching down the aisle, heading for the cash register.

He watches you cross the store, the way your walk shifts from comical to confident. This walk is familiar to him; it’s your I’m-nervous-because-I’m-in-public walk.

His eyes are still on you when you take your change from the girl behind the desk. He watches you pocket it, and catches your self-satisfied smile as you turn. And then he watches as it falters, and your face drains of colour, and he feels himself walking over to you before he has time to think about it.

You’re looking at the door, where the bell’s just chimed, and the bottom of your stomach’s fallen away. Heart in your throat, you stare blankly at the man who just walked in.

“Oh, hey,” he says, though he may as well be on the other side of the glass for the way he sounds so distant. He shakes snow off his hair and you feel the ghost of it between your fingers. “Fancy seein’ you here.”

You feel Eddie before you can muster up a response. He stands behind you, just close enough that, if you wanted to, you could reach behind and take his hand.

“Hey,” he says lowly, just by your ear, words for you alone. “Who’s this?”

There’s something simmering in his voice, something defensive. He knows.

“Uh, hi,” you squeak, fingers clutching the plastic bag you’re holding to keep them from shaking. “Hi- uh, Eds, this is, uh-”

“Tom,” the man says, sticking a gloved hand out to Eddie. You feel him shift slowly behind you; his eyes move between the back of your head and the man in front of you a few times before he returns the gesture.

He’s handsome, Eddie thinks. Better looking than he is, anyway. Cleaner, softer; none of the hard edges Eddie harbours that he doesn’t know you think are soft as anything.

“We used to go out,” you say quickly, before Tom tries to explain it himself and makes you feel smaller than you already do. You hope Eddie gets the hint.

He does. The burning in his gut flares and his hands clench into fists without him meaning them to.

“Eddie,” he states, sharp and blunt.

“We were just, uh- We’re headed out,” you say, and the way you’ve come over all nervous and quiet is almost enough to make Eddie’s heart split right down the middle. He hovers a hand over the small of your back and steps around you, around Tom, until you follow him.

“Well, see you around,” he says as the bell chimes again and Eddie damn near pulls you out into the snow.

The cold, damp flakes that land on your flushed cheeks are a sweet relief. So are Eddie’s hands, which wrap around yours to take the bag from you. He doesn’t miss how they shake.

“Fuck,” you breathe. The air escapes your lungs and doesn’t return for a second, long enough that you have to think to inhale. Eddie looks you over, desperate to pat you, fawn over you, kiss the snowflake off the bridge of your nose.

He opts for something safer. “You alright?”

The busy Indianapolis sidewalk doesn’t allow for too much fussing, and you’re quietly grateful for the bustling Saturday afternoon crowd pushing the two of you along and away from Trax.

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, breathless again, trudging through stomped-over snow. “Just took me by surprise.”

“Yeah, no shit. When’d you last see him?”

“When I picked up my stuff from his place.”

“Shit.”

You walk aimlessly around the corner, until Eddie begins to lead the way. Wordlessly you follow him for six blocks, and think to yourself that maybe he’s getting you as far away as he can.

He knows a coffee place, apparently, one so much better than any of the ones around Trax that you know are just as good. He ushers you into the warmth and buys three pastries - one each and one to share - and you eat until you’re not thinking about Tom anymore.

-

Robin sidles into the booth beside you, the familiar shape of her slotting into your side without care. She nudges her hip into yours, a wordless signal for you to move around and make more space.

The six of you squeeze around the tiny table as Eddie and Steve place drinks down across it. Pints of beer, far too big glasses of wine and six sickly coloured shots decorate it and all of a sudden you’re counting to five and banging a tiny glass on the varnished wood.

It tastes of sour apple and coats your lips with a shiny, sugary lacquer. Eddie sits opposite you harbouring a fiery urge to lean over and kiss you clean.

You grin at him, missing the flicker of affection in his tipsy eyes, and lean into Robin, who takes a swig from one of the pint glasses.

“Rob!” Steve shouts, reaching over and grasping at the glass. “You asshole, that’s mine-”

“What’s yours is mine, dingus,” she slurs, her dopey smile met not by something frosty but by Steve’s own grin. The tenderness inside your stomach is just as sickly as the shot; you’re drunk on sugary liquor and an unbridled love for your friends.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The bickering stops as Eddie raises his glass from the table.

“A toast,” he says, “to the newly-weds.”

You grasp your own pint and raise it too, along with everyone else, as Nancy and Jonathan beam back at you. They’re the picture of happiness, her rosy cheeks blooming from joy and champagne, his smile so wide you’re scared he might split in two. Nancy’s so pretty in a simple, short dress, Mrs Wheeler’s pearls around her neck, and Jonathan looks so smart in his suit, fresh from the dry cleaners courtesy of Joyce. A long day of family celebrations ends here, in this bar on the east end of Indianapolis, four walls that have seen the six of you grow up and into yourselves.

Nancy and Jonathan thank everybody, and Steve disappears without a single one of you noticing, reappearing with a new round of shots. Robin takes your hand in hers and squeezes, which tells you that she’s putting off crying. You’ve already covered the shoulder of her new shirt in tears. Happy tears.

If some benevolent force happened to be looking down and caught a glimpse of your happy little table, they’d find that your mind and Eddie’s look very much alike right now. Dizzy daydreams of a future neither of you are confident in, that neither of you think the other would ever even dare to consider.

The distant call of your name pulls you up off Robin’s shoulder. You hear it again, and the voice it’s called in sends your blood running cold. Regardless it beckons you and you turn to look, seeing him approaching like a fucking stalking lion.

“Oh,” you breathe, “hi.”

His unwelcome hands spread over the back of the booth, his fingers brushing the back of your neck. You bristle.

He grins down at you and then looks up and around at everybody else. “Hey, guys. I guess these are your friends?”

All you can do is look up at him. Eddie can see you recoiling and his stomach churns.

“Oh, hi again,” Tom says, spotting Eddie. This is your nightmare situation, frankly, and you’re afraid of where Tom might take it.

“Hey, man,” Steve says. His words are lopsided because he’s three pints and four shots in and too giddy to recognise this for what it is.

“Steve, right?” Tom asks. His knuckles whiten as he grips harder.

“Mm-hm,” Steve hums, leaning just enough to the left that Eddie has to push him upright. In the brief moment he’s preoccupied with his untrustworthy friend, he doesn’t see the way Tom dips his head to meet yours, or the attempt at a kiss on the cheek that you dodge, or even the quick words whispered in your ear. He does see you flush, your face, already warmed by wine, becoming even brighter. Before he can ask what’s happening, Robin’s scooting out to let you stand, and Tom’s hand’s on your waist and you’re off to the bar together.

Nancy shifts uncomfortably beside Jonathan, her hands on the table. “Is that…”

“Yeah,” Eddie says.

“Fuck,” Jonathan breathes.

“No way,” Robin barks, almost loud enough for Eddie to chastise her; you’re only twenty feet away.

Despite the stretch of time separating this moment from your last one with him, Tom’s hands haven’t become any less curious. They paw at you, never settling but instead trying each possessive spot he loved to frequent before you left him. Your waist was his favourite, but you’ve felt the unwelcome impression of his palm on each arm, your shoulder, the small of your back, and when he goes for your hip you twist just enough that he’s forced to drop it.

He’s telling you about his promotion. When you left, he’d been clamouring for it, doing everything he’d once confessed to hating: sucking up to his boss, shmoozing, working late. It pays well, apparently; well enough that he’s got his own place. It’s a five minute cab ride away. Want to come see it?

“Why would I want to do that?” you ask him, emboldened by the fiery rage his wandering hands are reigniting within you.

“Oh, c’mon,” he says, cooing your name with a sincerity so false that you taste the saccharine flavour of it on your gums, “you’re not telling me you haven’t missed me, huh?”

“No,” you tell him honestly, “I haven’t.”

“What, you with that metalhead or something?”

“Eddie is just a friend”, you bite.

“Yeah, right,” Tom scoffs, slamming his glass on the bar. He’s leaning closer, crowding you, and there are too many people behind him and all of a sudden you’ve lost sight of your table. “Knew I was right to put a stop to that.”

“Fuck you, Tom,” you spit, trying desperately to wriggle free. “I want to get back to my friends now, please.”

“Had his fuckin’ hands all over you the other day,” he continues, ignoring you. “Bet he tried it on when we were together, didn’t he?”

“No, he- Fuck, Tom, will you please just let me out-”

Eddie catches glimpses of you between passing bodies. He sees the way Tom’s crowding you and how you’re squirming and, honestly, he wants to walk into the sea.

Tom was never introduced to your friends. It was mostly his own choice, but Eddie and Robin and everyone else saw it for what it was. You just managed to get out before he cut you off from them all completely.

Now, in the low light of the bar, he’s not so certain that you’re done with him. Sure, you seemed unnerved when you bumped into him at the record store, but he begins to wonder if maybe you’d just been caught off guard, and if you’d thought about him since then. Had you called him?

“Hey,” Robin mutters, leaning over the table to Eddie with her eyes on you, “I think- I don’t know, she looks annoyed.”

Finally, there’s a gap in the crowd, and he sees it too. The pinch of your brow, and the squirming that isn’t squirming. You’re scared.

He stands so quickly that his head spins. He sees Nancy in his peripheral vision standing too, though she’s penned in by Jonathan and Steve. Eddie’s heavy footsteps take too long, he’s too slow; Tom’s hand is around your arm and he’s leaving, taking you with him, willingly or not.

He follows the silhouette of Tom, dark against the brash streetlamp light coming in through the glass doors. He can see the top of your head and feels himself pulled to you like a fish on a line.

He catches up just as Tom pushes the door open and stumbles into the snow, blinded by the fluorescent bulb in the lamp above. You feel the inebriation seep out of you with every second spent in the cold, your bare arms covered in goosebumps.

“Tom, what the fuck?” you spit, finally separating yourself from him. You feel the burn left by his tough grip on your upper arm. He’s still close, close enough that he can take your head in one firm hand.

“Just wanted to see your pretty face,” he says, his voice suddenly softer, his breath too hot on your face, “couldn’t see you properly in-”

“Hey.”

You turn just as Tom does to find Eddie in the doorway. His fists are clenched again and so is his jaw; you know him well enough to see your own anger reflected back at you.

“You okay?” he asks, looking at you, tender as always and it does something to dampen the fiery rage you’re keeping at bay. You nod as Tom drops his hand and scoffs.

“See,” he spits, “loverboy won’t leave you the fuck alone.”

You take three steps back. Eddie comes closer.

“Go home,” he says to Tom as you reach out and take his fist into both hands. He relaxes, and you wind your fingers together. 

“Oh, c’mon,” Tom says, “you can’t be serious? Look at him, babe, he’s…”

“Can we go back in?” you whisper to Eddie, whose stern face is beginning to worry you. He says nothing but tugs on your hand and, to your relief, Tom seems to back away around the corner as you retreat indoors.

The door shuts and Eddie turns, but before he can say anything you throw your arms around him and push your face into his neck. He’s startled, but not so much that he can’t return it, his own arms around your back, the pressure a welcome thing.

“Hey,” he coos, “are you sure you’re okay?”

“Thank you,” you say, muffled by his shirt. “Thank you.”

He pulls back, too worried to care to hug you any longer. Instead he lets himself fuss over you, a tentative hand at your jaw as he looks you in the eye.

“I’m okay,” you finally say, sighing. “I hate him.”

Eddie can’t help but laugh. “I do too.”

“Thank you for not hitting him,” you murmur.

His fingers hover by your ear and just as you think he’s going to touch you, he lowers his hand.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I knew you’d hate that.”

He takes your hand again, a gesture which sends both of you independently loopy, and returns with you to the table, where Nancy nearly falls over Robin to get to you. As you reassure her and take your seat again, sandwiched between the two girls, Eddie takes a long swig of beer.

“Hey,” Steve slurs, leaning over to you. “Did y’know Eddie’s ears go red when he’s jealous?”

You look back at him with wide eyes as Eddie gives him a swift thwack to the arm, telling him to fuck off.

“It’s true!” Steve assures you. “I saw it with my own eyes! Like, five minutes ago, I-”

He’s stopped by more of Eddie’s playful hitting.

Quietly, just to you, Nancy says, “It’s true.”

You turn to look at her. She’s got that sparkle in her eye. It appears when she’s got a plan, or an idea, or knows something.

“For a minute, it looked like you were enjoying it,” she continues. “I bet he could’ve burned this place to the ground with how jealous he was getting.”

She nods to her left, where Eddie is dealing with a still restless Steve. He senses you looking and meets your eye, and the pretty pink blush that covers his cheeks is enough to make you look away.

-

The coffee machine pings just as the doorbell goes.

You jump, startled by both noises. Leaving the coffee to stew you pad through the apartment and open the door slowly, making sure to hide behind it to save the postman seeing you in your pyjama shorts.

When you pull it back, you’re surprised by the sight of your best friend, standing at your door in his own pyjamas.

“Morning,” he says, chuckling lowly.

“What are you doing here?” you ask as you let him inside. “Did you- Did you walk here in that?”

“God no,” he says, “have you seen it out there?”

Truthfully, you haven’t dared pull the curtains back yet. “No,” you admit, locking the door again and wishing you’d had the sense even in your drunken stupor to put your good pyjamas on. You pat the front of the crinkled cotton at the top of your thighs, smoothing it down to no avail.

“There’s coffee in the kitchen,” you tell him as you step over to the living room window and pull back the blind to reveal what can only be described as a blizzard.

Eddie comes in behind you with two steaming mugs. “Slept on Steve’s fucking couch,” he says, laughing again. “Dimwit couldn’t get himself into bed and then the weather got too bad for me to get a cab home.”

Steve lives two floors above you, in an apartment much the same as your own. His couch is small. Eddie’s back must hurt.

“How is he?”

“Steve?”

“Hm.”

“He’ll be fine,” Eddie sighs, throwing himself onto your couch and kicking his feet up, socked toes just missing the side of your bare thigh. “Probably regrets the fourth round of shots, but at least he had fun.”

“Did you have fun?” you ask softly.

“Yeah, I mean- Of course.” He reaches over to pick up your coffee and leans over to pass it to you. “Didn’t you?”

You take it from him and sit back, sighing. “Yeah, yeah, just…”

Your throat is suddenly too thick to drink the coffee. You stare at it, the deep mahogany liquid pouring steam into the tepid room.

“How does he still manage to ruin everything?” you ask, the question more an abstract frustration than anything aimed directly at Eddie.

He stiffens on the other end of the couch. He knows you don’t mean Steve, that your mind is elsewhere, on the impatient hands that couldn’t keep themselves from pressing painfully into your arm or the coddling of his hot breath on your face out in the snow.

“Hey,” Eddie coos, softening when he notices your hands shaking. He takes the mug, his own hands gentle on you to save from startling you, and replaces it on the table. “Here, c’mere-”

You lean into him, pushing your face into the softness of Steve’s sweater that he’s wearing. You keep apologising - variations of I’m sorry spat out between quiet sobs - and he keeps telling you it’s okay. One hand holds your elbow while the other smooths up and down your back, his cheek pressed to the top of your head.

“Thank you for saving me,” you say, and he exhales when he hears the smile in your words.

“Y’don’t have to thank me again,” he says. You lean back and the two of you sit as mirror images of one another, one knee up on the couch and the other foot on the floor. You wipe your eye with the back of your wrist. Eddie yearns to knock your hand away and do it himself, to clean you up and kiss you when he’s done. He keeps his hands to himself instead.

“I dunno what I’d have done,” you whisper, “I mean, I don’t think he’d have done anything, but I still don’t wanna think about it.”

“I don’t either,” Eddie agrees before he can stop himself.

You look at him. There are deepening shadows beneath his eyes that you’re sure the couch is to blame for, and his hair’s unruly, matted from what you can only imagine was an useless night’s sleep, but your favourite thing - the mellow brown of his eyes - is just as pretty as ever. So’s his skin, pale and imperfect where he’s inked the left side of his neck and you can see the very top of the scar that stretches over his collarbone. He broke it when you were both ten, and he still teases you about how quick you were to run from him when you saw the bone and the broken flesh. You’re desperate to know if it’d be warm under your fingertips, your lips, your tongue.

“Do your ears really get red when you’re jealous?” you ask him. You see him stiffen at the question, his eyes narrowing just so, as his hands flex over his knees.

“Steve’s an asshole,” Eddie says.

“I know-”

“But yeah,” he says, the corner of his mouth breaking loose into a smile, “He’s right. It’s stupid.”

You kick his foot with your own softly and laugh.

“Why were you jealous?”

“Oh, seriously?”

“Yes! Why were you jealous?!” you repeat, grinning.

“You’re really gonna make me say it?”

“Yes.”

He sighs, all dramatic and silly and you laugh until his restless hand lands on your knee instead of his own.

“I thought you were glad to see him,” he admits.

“I don’t know how you got that impression,” you say. You’re trying to ignore the soft rumbling in your chest, lest it take your breath away.

“Dunno,” he says, and suddenly he reminds you of sixteen-year-old Eddie, awkward and goofy, the boy you fell for.

“Well,” you say, “I’m very glad you came to my rescue.”

“I didn’t rescue you, you’re perfectly capable of doing that yourself,” he says, laughing. His knee knocks yours and his fingers spread until the tips of them are meeting the middle of your thigh.

“Still, it was a nice thing to do.”

He hums and you inhale as you place your hand on his. He looks up at you and the contact seems to provide some courage.

He says your name, and it’s softer than ever in the quiet of your living room. As far as the two of you are aware, there’s nothing beyond here; no blizzard, no hungover Steve two floors up, no shitty ex-boyfriends. Just you and Eddie and the string of starlight pulling you together.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks in a whisper, leaning in, already resting more weight on the hand on your thigh. Somehow, it feels like the most natural question in the world.

You nod. “Yeah, please.”

He closes the gap with his forehead to yours, tilting his head enough that his nose slots beside yours as he kisses you. You expected a peck, something nervous, but that’s impossible when there’s a decade of want behind it. He’s firm and certain as his hands finally take grateful handfuls of your hips, and your mouth burns as you kiss him back. He worries he’s being too handsy, especially after last night, but when you feel him retreating you take his larger hands in yours and keep them there.

This morning, as his tongue moves past yours, Eddie tastes like spearmint, coffee and tobacco. You miss the taste as soon as his lips paint tender kisses at the corner of your mouth and over the hill of your jaw, but you keen at the sensation anyway, arching into him.

“This okay?” he asks in a pant, pulling back and hiding a smile as he hears you whine.

“Yeah,” you breathe. You use shaky fingers to push curls back so you can see his face and, holding him in both hands, kiss the swell of his cheek followed by the other. “Thank you.”

“Stop thanking me,” he says, chuckling.

“What do we do now?” you ask him.

He looks back at you, feeling more whole than ever, and notices the creeping worry lines between your brows. Pushing against your hold, he leans forward and kisses you there. The satisfaction of feeling you relax is enough to keep him going for a thousand years.

“Well,” he whispers, and his breath isn’t too hot like Tom’s. It’s warm and friendly where it blooms over your closed eyes. “Go take care of Steve, probably.”

“Kiss me again?”

He does, wordlessly, softer than before, once on your mouth and another on your forehead. You wind your arms around his back, and with cheek resting on the top of your head, he says those fateful words into your hair: 

“Love you.”

You squeeze without thinking, smiling into his chest.

“Love you too.”

-

[jiubilant]

Ao3 (2800 words)

In Betony, she had flown goshawks with eyes like coins of fire. In the frozen north, she flies stranger birds. When the enormous sea-eagle beats its beak thrice against her windowpane, insistent as a door-to-door peddler, she stands calmly from her desk to let it in.

“Well?” she asks, unsmiling.

The barbarian of air wings in on a gust of wind and snow that whips through her papers, scattering some Synod tract and an adept’s treatise on runestones. Its talons clack on the back of her chair. Beneath the fierce, hoary brows of old men and birds of prey, its mismatched eyes—one brown, the other bluish-green—flash with a question of their own.

She gestures, eyebrows raised, to the cloak hung by the door. Then she turns to close the window. When the click of claws on tile becomes the slap of bare feet, she repeats herself. “Well?”

“He’s as stubborn as ever,” a querulous voice grumbles at her back. Cloth rustles. Her spare chair scrapes across the floor, then creaks. “Heard me out and sent me off. It can’t be done, Mirabelle.”

“If it couldn’t be done, Tolfdir, I wouldn’t ask it of you.” Mirabelle Ervine, Master Wizard of the College of Winterhold, thumbs a smudge from the stained glass. It squeaks. “I would do it myself.”

She would have harsh words, under any other circumstances, for a mage foolish enough to alter his own shape—but her Master of Alteration has walked the world as wolf and otter, elk and wild boar, since she was a child struggling to cast colored lights. When she turns from the window, she almost smiles to see him hunched hawkish in the cloak: a frail old man who, in three days, has flown a journey that would take her several sennights.

“You ought to have gone yourself,” he says anyway, patting his windswept beard back into place. He seldom looks weary after his adventures. The light in his eyes—one brown, the other bluish-green—is the light of one who has outraced clouds. “He never listened to old men. But to old friends, my dear, he may yet unbar his door.”

Mirabelle waves a hand. The sheafs of strewn paper stack themselves on her desk, probably out of order. “I’m needed here. I can’t be long away.”

“Phinis could.” Tolfdir helps himself to her tea. Miraculous, she thinks, that all his flapping hadn’t sent the cup skidding to Atmora. “I remember the three of you knocking about as prentices. Couldn’t separate you.”

Mirabelle tries to picture poor Phinis, who pales when asked to venture into town, on the next karve to the Hjaal. When she surfaces from the fancy, less plausible by far than the Synod’s treasure-maps, the old man’s welkin eyes are watching her.

“Why now, Master Wizard?” he asks, not ungently.

His tea, now, Mirabelle thinks. She goes to the shelf for another cup. “Pardon?”

“Falion left us years ago.” The eagle looks out at her from Tolfdir’s face. “You let him go. Why ask him back now?”

Mirabelle’s fingers pause in midair. Most of her clayware is chipped. Ancano, when she’d interviewed him last, had lifted the cup she’d set out for him with near-imperceptible amusement—as if, she’d thought then, he were indulging thoughts of dropping it.

“It seems to me,” she says, her voice hard for all its softness, “that we have invited enemies into our house, and shut friends outside.”

“Ah.” Tolfdir’s cup clinks on her desk. “I saw a knarr sailing this way, you know, while I was up.” He pauses, then clears his throat. “East Empire Company, I thought.”

* * *

When she takes the stairs of the Archmage’s tower two by two, wound tight with the news, Ancano is already in yarak. Perhaps he has his own eyes in the air.

“No good will come of a Haafing ship testing these waters,” he’s saying when she slips into the Archmage’s study. She’s come to know Ancano better than she’d like; whenever he’s pressing a point, as he’s doing now, his voice takes on the high, humming urgency of a kite’s whistle. “We must signal at once for it to turn about.”

“Turn about?” Savos Aren’s hand is already tangled in his beard. The bewildered crease in his brow unbends when he sees Mirabelle, but does not disappear. “The College of Winterhold is not a port authority, Emissary. Nor is it a lighthouse.”

“Indeed,” says Mirabelle crisply, taking a stand beside his chair, “I should think that much good will come of a merchant ship, under the circumstances—this is the first,” she points out, “since the leads opened in spring.” They’d lasted the winter, as usual, on lutefisk. Even she is beginning to tire. “Our stores are running low.”

Savos, heartened, tries weakly for a joke. “Much goods?”

Ancano’s golden eyes glint up at Mirabelle. He and the Archmage are at table, lit blue by the drifting magelights: Ancano leaning forward, Savos huddled in his robe of office like an old man in his shawl. He never drinks anything stronger than the watered-milk tea favored so far north, where vegetal life is scant. His cup sits untouched. Ancano has supplied, from some shelf of his own stores, a jug of wine.

“Mistress Ervine,” he says with a courteous smile. The magelights chase a shadow across his narrow face. “You must sit.”

She must do nothing. She holds her face immobile.

“I was sharing my concerns with the Archmage.” If Ancano sees the pack-ice in her eyes, he gives no sign of it. He waves a black-gloved hand. His servant, an ancient elf with a blotch like a winestain on his cheek, hastens forward to fill a third cup. “I fear that this vessel, if it persists in its course, will be seized by the Jarl as a prize for the Stormcloak fleet.”

Mirabelle ignores both the wine and the servant, who always smiles in terror when acknowledged. “Korir lacks the men.”

“Then the ship will blunder into Ulfric’s blockade.” Ancano’s smiling again, close-lipped and motionless as an Aldmeri bust. “That it hasn’t already is miraculous.”

“The College is not party to the recent—rising tensions, shall we say, between Haafingar and Eastmarch,” says Savos, who has as many euphemisms for civil war as a skald has kennings. “I fail to see how the requisition of a knarr—by either fleet, Emissary—is a matter in which we have any right to intervene.”

Ancano’s face falls into a prim, prudent frown. “You must see, Archmage, how a disturbance in Winterhold’s waters would endanger the College’s neutral position—”

* * *

“—and on it went, like that,” Mirabelle finishes, stoic. “The Archmage remains undecided.”

“Of course he does,” says Faralda, reaching for the pitcher. “More blaand?”

She’d come to Faralda’s gatehouse to compare admission records—and, she admits, to cool a headache in the courtyard’s frigid wind. She’s stayed for supper. Her Master of Destruction is the terror and delight of the village’s braver children, who rattle her gate and barter foodstuffs for feats of witchery: fountains of sparks, sky-whales shaped of smoke, magefires juggled from hand to hand. One small petitioner had traded a fat square of blubber, now cubed and salted in Faralda’s only bowl, for a field of ice on which she and her siblings could play stickball.

Faralda refills their cups with the Vetrings’ creamy whey-wine, then takes another morsel from the bowl—with finger and thumb, as the villagers do. Her elbows brace the table like an old salt’s. “Company knarr, Tolfdir said?”

“Yes.” Faralda had been a ship’s mage, once. Mirabelle studies her for a moment—her hair that musses in all weather, the rigging-lines of laughter in her face—then rubs her forehead, resolving to drink no more blaand. “This ship. Why would it—”

Faralda, looking pained, says, “She.”

“—why would she sail into Stormcloak waters?”

A pause.

“You seek counsel,” says Faralda, a slow smile sharpening her face, “from your future Master Wizard—”

“Faralda.”

“East Empire Company,” says Faralda, as if that explains everything. She waves a hand that shines with grease in the firelight. “The Imperial Fleet can fit in a puddle. Mede could float out his toy ships to be rammed to flinders by Ulfric’s drekar—or,” she says, longships burning in her eyes, “he could let Cousin Vici and her mercenaries defend their searoads.”

Mirabelle frowns. “With one knarr?”

“A maiden to lure out the dragons, perhaps.”

Always evocative, Faralda’s fancies. Mirabelle pictures a line of dragon-headed longships gliding to the knarr, their oars churning, their painted snarls crusted with ice—and their hulls splintering, brittle as kindling, beneath the bolts and prows of a host of Company ships.

“Let us not speak of dragons,” she says, reaching wearily into the bowl. Since the recent news from Helgen, she’s caught herself eyeing the sky every time she crosses the quadrangle. “Ancano has the right of it, then, that this ship is likely to stir trouble.”

Faralda sniffs. “You ought to do the very opposite of whatever he suggests.”

“His counsel is often sound. That’s the trouble. If it weren’t, Savos—the Archmage,” Mirabelle corrects herself, “would not entertain him.” She thinks of dragons settling on the ramparts, crushing the crenels between their toes. “What can he want with us?”

“Remember how he tried to cram that monstrous desk up the stairwell? The one he brought out of Valenwood?”

“Solid graht-oak.” Enthir, pacing her office, had almost wept with rage. She can’t laugh, now, recalling how the thing had rained drawers on several Aldmeri attachés.

“He wants what that knarr wants.” Faralda’s smile is thin and taut. “Something costly to bring home.”

* * *

Evening creeps early, on misty feet, into the lumber-town of Morthal. The watchmen have been jumpy, of late, as well they should; their torchlights bob past the wizard’s window in twos, like great eyes gleaming in the dark, as they creak up and down the bridge. The fog muffles their steps. The wizard, going about his evening chores, smiles and listens.

“Is he in there?” asks one of the watchmen.

“Aye,” says another, and spits.

If he were out, they’d spit at that, too. The wizard raises his eyebrows, nonplussed, and scrubs a crust of pottage from a pewter plate—

Falion.

The plate clatters to the floor. When the wizard whirls with a spell on his lips and a washrag in his hand—anticipating fiends, fire, fool neighbors with pitchforks—he finds his hearthroom empty.

He stares about him at what his sister, with twinkling eyes, calls his instruments of sorcery: the great cookpot, the garlic-strings, the besom and staff by the door. Then he sighs and flicks the rag aside. “You would bespeak me while I’m scouring dishes.”

The voice, cool and familiar, rises in his mind like a wry notion of his own. I trust I did not catch you unawares.

“I will tell you what I told Tolfdir, and no more.” Things stranger than Mirabelle Ervine have spoken into Falion’s mind. He stoops for the plate. “My talents are much needed here. Much maligned, as well, but no matter—I have found in the marshes of Morthal my masters, my mystic tomes, my métier.” His own stern, seamed face frowns back at him from the pewter. “If Aren himself groveled at my feet, I would not return.”

Apprentices had been awed, once, by his dire proclamations: heed my words, and meddle not with each other's summoning-circles, and so. Never Mirabelle. Perhaps I wished only to speak to you.

“Speak to me, then, of the sorcery of Winterhold.” The face reflected in the plate would make a bitter meal. He sets it aside. “Of the marvels its mages have wrought. Of Mirabelle Ervine”—his voice gentles, then—“and her miracles.”

He can almost see her desk, cluttered with distractions of all description, and her terse smile. She strikes back. How is Agni?

“My young ward,” says Falion, after a pause, “shows some promise.”

To clasp one's mind with the mind of another mage—master, pupil, friend—is to do more than converse. He’s known Mirabelle since she was a prentice; the keen and steady stare that had followed him in his youth passes through him now, insubstantial, searching his mind for the child. The byre in which he’d found her—the reek of damp, the rotting straw. The murrain she’d spelled from Eivor’s cattle. Her first magelight, bright and startled as her smile. His terror that he’ll teach her ill, that she’ll end like his last pupil—

That, says Mirabelle softly, was not your fault.

“I know.” Falion flicks a taut hand. The fire in his hearth bursts up; the dishes, clattering like a draugr’s mail, stack themselves on the shelf. “And you know. And the rest of you, chasing shadows and squabbling over chairs—Mirabelle,” he murmurs with ferocity, sweeping his arm in an arc that rattles every shutter, “how can you stay?”

A pause.

These are tempestuous times. Mirabelle’s voice, to his surprise, is tinged with weary humor. If a dragon lands in the forecourt, who will remind it that we wizards are beyond worldly affairs?

Falion blinks. Then, despite everything, he smiles.

“If you need me,” he says to the empty room, “truly need me, my old friend—I will come.” He shakes his head. “But not before.”

“Falion,” calls a small voice from the doorway, “are you talking to dwarves?”

He turns. The child, picking sprigs of heather from her hair, greets him with a hesitant smile; she’s been in the marshes again, loosing coneys from his snares. The presence in his mind, with mingled frustration and warmth, flickers out.

“Agni.” He’ll scold her later. He raises an eyebrow and plucks a twig from behind her ear. “I was speaking with—a former colleague.”

“A wizard?” Her grin has a gap in it; the loose tooth must have come out. “A College wizard?”

“Were the snares empty again?”

“A College wizard, Falion?”

She’d been baking bread with Jonna when Tolfdir arrived. Small mercies. “Perhaps not for much longer.”

His apprentice still believes, somehow, in wonders: need-fires and marshfires, fish that grant wishes, wizards in the north that make the skylights dance. She frowns as if betrayed. “Why?”

“If you saw the College, child,” says Falion, kneeling to help her with her boots, “you would know.”

* * *

On the deck of the Valravn, the knarr creaking through the ice off the Vetring coast, a man in shabby furs smiles in surprise. His eyes have frozen shut.

“Sten, lad,” he calls to the steersman who’s been kind to him, kinder than he deserves, on the long, careful journey through the leads: a young man, quick to laugh, whose brothers have all gone south to war. They could be in his daughter’s centuria, he thinks, joking with her over a supper of mashed grain. They could be heads on spears. The wind saws his face like a carving-knife. “My pipe’s out.”

“Here you are, then, Master Clerk,” says a good-natured voice by his ear, followed by the mineral clack of struck flint. A hand swathed in fishskin turns his face for inspection. “Kyne caught you a nip, has she?”

“Don’t fuss.” His face is nearly too stiff to force a smile. “It’s only the lashes.”

“Well”—the hand tugs gently at his sleeve—“come away from the side. You’ll have your last cold bath, sir, if we meet a floe and pitch. And I want to watch you sell snow to those Vetrings.”

Lumber, in fact, and gruit, meal, mead. None are why the clerk is here; someone else will get rid of them, in due course. He doesn’t move. “In a moment. I want to see the school.”

Sten brushes the snow from his shoulders—fuss—and bustles off to haul some line or other. The wind that freezes men solid in their sleep closes around the clerk, whirling away the creak of rigging, the grumble of ice, the boatswain’s busy shouts. He’s alone with it again. When he breathes in deep, it burns on the way down like a clean, destroying flame; when he holds his pipe-bowl to his eye and waits for the lashes to thaw, the warmth is no different than the chill.

The dead in their doorways of fire, he thinks, must feel this way: blind, bright, with all that they love behind them. He leans forward a little. Let this sermon be consolation to those—

Something trickles down his face. His eye unsticks.

“Ai, cardehni,” he says, appalled. A great grin cracks the ice of his face. He steps back, leaning on his cane, and cranes his head to better see. “Sten, lad—what happens if a wizard sneezes?”

The boy’s laugh bursts over the ice. High above them, rearing out of a screaming cloud of kittiwakes, towers the wizards’ school: a fortress leaning, on its chunk of frozen rock, as though a sudden noise might knock it over.

[have-you-seen-my-sanity]

Yandere Oscar character of your choice with a petite SO. They don't have to be younger, just small. Tiny little babygirl. Like a Kristin Chenoweth or Annasophia Robb type. Just a little thing with a not so big but very scary yandere.

Not so big, you say? A bit tricky with this one.

But scary? YES!

I think Miguel O'Hara fits this one perfect.

Yandere Miguel O'Hara with petite s/o

It's so cute how you are a peanut compared to him.

That's the main reason why he became so obsessed with you. Your adorable size.

Miguel loves watching you struggling to reach something on the higher shelfs. It's so cute to him, how you stand on your toes but you still can't even reach high enough to brush your fingertips on the edge.

He loves it when you have to ask him for help.

It's so cute to him when he just stands behind you and seeing you flinch when you turn around and having to tilt your head up in order for you to look at him.

Daydreams about having you to himself.

Miguel likes flashing fang-revealing grins towards you, loving the nervous expression you have.

He also collects small personal things you may have forgotten, keeping them in a small box under his bed. If you're missing them, he just blames the janitor for it.

Miguel makes sure he is always the last one you see before going home. No promises for the rest of the night though...

But your size makes him feel overprotective for you, you're just so delicate in his eyes while he is this big man. Doesn't that fit?

But overprotectiveness isn't the only thing he's feeling... he has major size kink...

Miguel isn't a creep, but around you he can't help but be a little scary. He thinks if you're scared you would want to be around him more often.

Miguel also has this habit of stalking you. Making sure you're safe of course. But he can't resist the urge of wanting to see you even more.

He wonders if you catched his red glowing eyes watching you through the window? Maybe you literally felt his stare in your sleep? The purple-ish spots around your throat were easily disappearing, don't you think? How did you get those? Will you wear a scarf to hide them?

How much would you really weight if he decides to just pick you up? Can you even defend yourself (against him)?

Miguel is pretty sure he could web you against a wall in one single shot.

If it comes to it, could you even run from him? He has to smile to himself everytime the thought comes up in his you-clouded head.

How would your pretty delicate neck look like with his bite marks? Miguel would make sure to renew them constantly.

Miguel has high jealousy and possessiveness around you. He just wants to web every guy onto the ceiling who even dares to talk to you.

Sometimes Miguel has to mentally slap himself to stop him from just snatching and kissing you.

How he would love kissing your precious lips.

It would be easy for him to snatch you away, he has already marked you up in his mind.

There is no mistake that you will belong to him in the foreseeable future. His petite little darling.

------------------------

Tags:

@nekoyin @iolaussharpe-24 @steven-grants-world @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @buckyssugarchick

@krakenkitty @alexxavicry @mochiitoby @tokkiwrites @sugarplumz100

@ghoulzsstuff @basicalyrandom

Wanna get tagged?

[lvndrfucks]

Could you do a a cute fall Cole fic? Your writing is so cute and there’s such a lack of wallows content on this app 😭

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆ you know, i’m such a fool for you｡˚🍂 ࣪𖤐☕️

It was that time of year again. The weather had cooled, dry leaves crunched under your feet and clouds appeared when you breathed out. Arguably, the best season ever.

But, for you, that also meant a lot of work to prepare for. You had shopped for decorations ahead of time in August and they were already up by the next day. Now that it was October, though, the decor felt more effective.

Cole walked into the kitchen one morning to the smell of cinnamon rolls. He saw you cleaning the aftermath of the kitchen counter, still in your pajamas.

“Good morning,” you greeted.

He hummed, rubbing his eyes. He moved to stand behind you, one arm wrapping around your waist as he kissed the back of your head.

“It’s so early,” Cole said. “What are you doing up?”

You glanced at the oven clock. “Baby, it’s already eleven.”

He groaned into your hair. “My point still stands.”

You laughed and turned around to face him. “Once these are done, I was hoping we could go pick out some pumpkins to decorate. Oh! And we need to figure out what to dress up as for Halloween. Eva has been bragging her and Braeden figured there’s out already.”

“Well, whatever ideas you have, I’m all ears.” Your smirk made his eyes narrow. “Am I going to regret this,” he questioned.

You kissed his cheek. “Of course not.” The oven dinged, making your face light up. “They’re done!” You slithered out of his arms to take them out.

Cole chuckled under his breath. “I’ll make the coffee.”

After breakfast, you and Cole drove out to a nearby pumpkin patch. Thankfully, there weren’t a lot of people, just a few families with their kids.

“We should do that thing where we take photos with pumpkins on our heads,” Cole suggested.

“We’ll need to find one big enough for your head,” you teased. He started poking at your sides, knowing how easily tickled you were. You slapped his hands away while laughing.

The both of you continued looking. A few feet ahead, you noticed a kid trying to lift one that was almost the size of his body. Without a second thought, you walked over to help him.

Cole waited patiently as you helped the boy carry his pumpkin to his family. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his jacket with a faint smile on his face. The family thanked you as you waved, walking away. He admired the smile on your face and the tip of your nose growing red as you stood in front of him.

“What,” you queried.

“Nothing. Do you think these pumpkins work?” He lightly kicked the ones at your feet.

“Yeah.” You both bent down to pick up your pumpkins.

Once that was done, you had Cole stop by Spirit Halloween. You were going to do a couple’s costume, obviously, but weren’t sure what as yet. Cole was messing around with the props and accessories as you walked around the store.

“Cole, I’m not dressing up in an inflatable suit,” you stated, disregarding the costume in his hand.

He placed it back on the shelf. “Why not? I think you’d make a sexy dinosaur.”

You rolled your eyes with a small smile. A gasp emitted as you spotted the perfect costumes. You raced over to pick them up. You showed Cole who raised his eyebrows.

“What?”

“This is what you wanna dress up as?” He examined the costume.

“Yeah. Isn’t it cute?”

“I’m gonna get called a furry,” he slightly whined.

“No, you won’t,” you defended. “Everyone loves Nick Wilde. Plus, you’ll see me in a sexy police uniform.” You turned the bag over to read what was inside. “It even comes with handcuffs.” You smirked while nudging him exaggeratedly.

“Hmm. Tempting.”

“And you kind of remind me of him. Tall, sarcastic, sexy voice.”

Cole’s jaw dropped. “Don’t compare me to an animated fox.” He saw the hopeful expression on your face and sighed. “Fine. I guess we can be furries together.”

“Yes!” You took both the costumes and placed them back, ushering him out.

“I thought we were gonna buy them,” he quizzed.

You scoffed. “We’re buying them on Amazon. At least I can return them afterwards. I just wanted to come here for ideas.”

Back at home, you and Cole started carving the pumpkins. He was excited about his idea from earlier.

“We should’ve worn gloves,” Cole said.

“I don’t know. I kind of like the feeling.” You scooped a handful of pumpkin guts onto a plate.

He side-eyed you. “You’re weird.” You glared playfully, slinging a bit of leftover guts at him. “Oh, you wanna go there?”

You started back away while laughing. “No, no, no, I’m sorry. It was an accident. I had a muscle spasm.” You had your arms out in front of you as he approached.

You squealed as Cole started chasing you around the counter. He eventually grabbed you from behind, his stained hands smearing your shirt. You squirmed as he purposely squeezed your sides, causing you to laugh louder.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry! Truce!” You shouted, out of breath. Cole was laughing as well. Now, the two of you were chest to chest. He moved your hair out of your face. “Hey, don’t get pumpkin in my hair.”

“Well, guess we gotta shower.” Seeing the suggestive look on his face made you slap his shoulder gently.

He leaned in to connect his lips with yours in a steady kiss. His palms rested on your waist while you had one on his bicep and the other on the side of his neck.

The pumpkins would have to wait.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

A Guiding Hand 6

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, parental neglect, depression, inference of self harm, violence, abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: your online academics are affected by your personal struggles but your professor won’t let you give up so easy.

Characters: Raymond Smith, Lee Bodecker in the background

Note: My dudes.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Your shoulder hurts. Your ribs too. You keep your arm across your middle as you drag your feet down the pavement. The impact of the bed frame continues to throb tenderly in your flesh. 

The embarrassment is worse than the pain. You barely hold back the hot tears behind your eyes. You can still hear Professor Smith’s voice. He was mortified, just as much as you. How can you ever face him again?  

You’re not going to. You give up. Lee is right. You’re too stupid. You’re useless. You’re destined to end up just like your mom. Not quite. You doubt there will ever be a man who would waste his time. 

You dab away the moisture along the brims of your eyes before you enter the convenience store. You nod at the cashier and duck down the middle aisle. You find a canister of your usual brand and linger before the shelf. You don’t want to go back yet, but you know the longer you take, the more reason there is for Lee to complain. 

You pay and head back out into the street. The sky is grey and clouds dampen the air. There’s a rainstorm coming. It’s a perfect setting for today. 

The apartment rises before you and you sigh in resignation. This is it. The rest of your life. Well... 

One day your mother will cast you out. It might be sooner than later with how Lee hangs around, how he commands her. He doesn’t see a place for you there. You don’t see one for you anywhere. What will you do then?  

As it is, all you have to your name is your laptop, your ratty clothes, and the debt you won’t be able to pay back when you fail this course and drop out. You’re defeated by the time you get to the top of the stairs. You keep your head down as you enter the apartment and slide the chain into place. 

You’re met with thick grunts and the slap of flesh. Your mom’s whimpers are muffled but Lee’s carnal noises are untethered. Your breath traps in your chest and your skin razes hotly. You try to ignore it as you enter the kitchen and set the canister on the counter, leaving the change on the lid. 

As you back up, there’s a glimmer of movement from your left. The bathroom door opens, revealing the back of Lee’s rutting body. You cover your eyes in horror as he huffs and puffs, your mother’s strangled cries trickling out as she’s hidden behind the door, between him and the sink. 

“Put a pot on,” he demands as he grips the door and bites his lip, putting more into his thrust, “we’re almost done.” 

He smirks and winks before he snaps the door shut. Your stomach stirs with nausea and you quickly spin away. You shake as you near the counter. You have no other choice. You know if you ignore him, he’ll make sure it all gets worse for you. He’s already ruined so much. 

You put the change aside and uncap the canister. You peel back the freshness seal, your bandaged hand making it all the more tedious. The coffee grounds catch on the gauze. You fill the tank of the machine and set the pot in place. You measure out the coffee and flip the lid down, hitting the red button before you walk away. 

You can still hear them. Even as you shut your bedroom door. You face your room and turn on the light. It’s worse than when you left. 

Your bed is half off the frame, your bookshelf’s been cleared onto the floor, your laundry basket is overturned, and your laptop... It’s under the chair. You cross the room and bend to pick it up. You examine it; loose hinges and the frame is peeling away from the monitor. Your heart plummets and you drop into the chair. 

You have to prop the screen up against the wall to keep it open. Awkwardly, you reach across the desk to reach the keyboard and hit the power button. To your surprise, it boots and the screen lights up. The colours are all off; the dark is now light and the reverse. The mouse pad doesn’t work, or half the keys. 

It takes you twenty minutes to sign in. Aside from your burnt hand, the state of the laptop is more than enough to deter you. You watch the desktop load helplessly and several notifications pop up along the right side of the screen. You don’t read any of them as you see the name; Dr. Raymond Smith. 

You know what they are. Just like before. He's repulsed by you. By the way you live. He saw the truth and you can't hide it any longer. It's not worth it to deny it any longer. 

It was all a stupid idea. As stupid as you. It's easier to just give up. You don't know why you tried in the first place. 

You'll put in a request to drop the course. If you can. You can't do much given the state of your laptop. You can't do much at all in life. That's the way it will always be. 

📓

The last... however many days you've been awake. Waiting. Dreading. Expecting Lee to burst in and humiliate you again. 

Every time you try to close your eyes, you swear you hear the door knob. You put the chair under the knob. You're so tired. Exhausted to the bone. You need sleep badly. 

You lay down, head swimming with agony, and your eyes close without another thought. You can't resist the heavy blanket of fatigue that drapes over you. There is nothing. A void of sheer desolation that wraps around your body, submerging you like dark water. 

You wake with a start. The vision of blue eyes fade in an instant. Eyes you know. Not the vivid irises of the sinister man in your mother's room, no a pair of almost crystalline orbs, soft and diligent. You shake of the thought and rub the stitch from your forehead. 

You smell. You've been wearing the same clothes since that day. How long ago was that? You can't count. You haven't showered, the room is the same mess he made of it, your life too. 

You don't move. You don't want to. Not until the gentle tap comes at the door. You groan as the handle turns but the chair keeps the door lodged in place.  

"Sweetie," your mom calls through, "will you let me in?" 

You stare at the door. Your limbs refuse to move. You can't lift even a finger. You close your eyes and listen to her beg. You hate that. You hear it constantly, the way she begs him to stop, to listen, or just to be kind. 

Go away. 

When you open your eyes next, there's a banging on the door. The chair lurches and the legs scrape on the floor, but the door stays shut. You hide again, pulling a pillow over your head. 

Time flows into vague droning and shades of grey. Your head is foggy and thick. Suddenly, you're awake and staring up at an angry face. You're torn out of the bed and dragged to sit at the edge. Only Lee's unbreakable grip keeps you from flopping onto your back. 

You stare up at him dumbly then your eyes search past him. The chair is broken on the floor. You look back to him, head lolling. You blink as he snarls. 

"What're ya doin'? You're drivin' your ma batty! And I gotta listen to it so you get your ass up." 

You try to swat him away and whimper as your hand pulses and fire course through your skin. You force your spine rigid and try to shrug him off. You shake your head and cradle your hand in your lap, the bandage stained and smelly with puss. 

"Get on you fucking feet," he lifts you as if you weigh nothing. You as good as dangle from his grasp, "cupboards are empty." 

"Sweetie," your mom's birdish cheep comes from the doorway, "we got the credits. I wrote a list for you." 

"Laying in the dark all day, what else you got?" Lee scoffs and lets you go. You waver on your feet and look dully over at your mothers shadow. "Fucking stinks in here." 

You shuffle past him silently. You don't know what to do, you just know you need to be away from him. You feel sick. You're dizzy and drained.  

You put out your uninjured hand to take the list from your mom. Your stench ripples off the hoodie. She smiles through a curled lip. 

"Sweetie, you should get changed first," she slurs and give a doelike flutter of lashes. Drunk, as always. Maybe you should start. Maybe you wouldn't have to feel so much. 

You nod and go to the closet. Lee prowls around your desk but you're too hazy to care. You pull out a new hoodie then go to the dresser to find some loose sweats.  

You stop and stare at the man standing by your bed. The thick silence strangles you as he growls under his breath. Your mom trills with nervous laughter. 

"Lee, come on, she gotta put new clothes on. Honey, can you make sure you grab an extra chop for him?" 

You shrug and you hug the rumpled clothing with one arm and stare at the floor. He can have yours. Your stomach is so empty, the very idea of food makes you want to wretch. 

"Mmm, stop dragging your ass," he snarls as he stomps to the door, "fucking starving." 

You wait until he slams it. You expect that. You don’t even react. You lay the clothing on the desk and peel off the dingy layers. You pull on the sweats and swoop the sweater over your head. If you keep the hood up, you won’t have to worry about your hair or face. 

You take the list and stuff it in your pocket. Each step is a stagger. Your body is stiff and sore. You go out into the hall and brace yourself for another attack. You only hear your mother murmuring in the kitchen. You edge away and sit on the floor as you put your shoes on.  

You stand and fumble with the locks on the door. You can barely get your fingers to co-operate and your burnt hand is in flames. The bandages barely cling to the flesh. You shut the door behind you without using the key and head down the hallway. 

Down the stairs, you can see the yellow sunlight seeping in through the front doors. You emerge, squinting into the shine, and raise your hand as you try to see through it. Your head pounds at the intensity of daylight.  

You trod between the freshly mowed plot of grass before the building and stop by the sidewalk. You sway and try to shake the cobwebs out. You look one way then the other. The heat gathers under your sweater and you hunch down even more. It’s an unusually warm day. 

Your name startles you before you can find your bearings and set off for the store. You must be delirious. Maybe you should’ve found some stale bread to chew on. Rings of colour form in your vision as you turn around to face the echo of your name. 

The figure moves decisively towards you. You have to be hallucinating. It can’t be him. It’s probably that guy who always asks for a light between puffing smoke towards the doors. 

“I’ve been emailing,” Professor Smith says. You lean back on your heel and grimace. He isn’t real. “You... are you well?” 

You stare at him. You try to see through the delusion but can’t. You look down at your trembling hand then turn to peer down the street. 

“I have to go,” you croak over your dry tongue. 

You turn away, feet tangling, and stagger on. You can hear him following. His steps are fleet and light. In a moment, he’s at your side. 

“Please, you look ill, slow down,” he touches your arm and you rip away from him. 

“Leave--” you stumble and throw your arms out to balance yourself, stopping short as you nearly keel over. “I’m okay.” 

“You clearly aren’t. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for over a week. After our last meeting, I’m certain you can understand my concern--” 

You face him and scrunch up your nose, “Professor,” you stammer out, “you don’t have to worry about me. No one does.” 

You quickly veer past him and fall into a clumsy sprint across the street. You barely dodge a car on your way to the other side and you’re out of breath as you meet the curb. You keep your head down as you hurry away, hoping he’s not persistent. He’ll go away. He’s not real, so you just have to stop thinking.