#than. y'know. a month and a half

[front-facing-pokemon]

Bro what do people have against green shinies... Some of my favorite shinies are the ones everyone hates... Ugh. In fact some of my favorite pokemon are the hated ones. I'm the OG klefki defender.

Anyways I'm the resident blastoise hater of the pokemon fandom. Wartortle had so much potential but they fucked him up and now like everyone likes it for some reason???

-The ranting rambler

hello, ranting rambler! it's been like a whole month since i've answered any asks, hasn't it? rest assured, i've not fallen off the face of the planet—and i should really answer these more often as i used to. but here we are! you've got me this time. before i get into answering any asks, though, i've got a question for you, tumblr! no, not you, userbase (though perhaps you, if you know the answer)—i mean a question for you, [tumblr]! the website!

my inbox claims to contain 20 asks, before all of these i'm about to answer have been cleared out. however, i counted, and there are a grand total of seven asks here! this is not 20!

and for the record, when i answer asks all in one big post like this, i screenshot them and then delete them, then leave one there to actually put the post on, and after that, when i can confirm there are exactly Two asks remaining in my ask box (this one i am answering right now, and the original nose rater ask with anon turned off), and it claims that i have fourteen asks left in the box. this is blatantly untrue! what is going on. anyway, now onto the asks!

i don't remember if i was on the side For green shinies or against them, to be honest! i think it's a pokémon-by-pokémon basis for me. alien espeon is a little jarring, but can be cute when drawn like a screebo blorbo alien thing like folks tend to do. i like alien espeon when it's drawn like that. but in-game, it does come off as somewhat jarring!

it does make me wonder what's. so wrong with wartortle. i think it's cute enough—the wings on its head make no sense, and the color is definitely off when it's rendered as purple, but i don't think it's a total miss as a pokémon– wait, i stopped in the middle of writing this to go to a meeting and now i came back and re-read your ask and it turns out you're talking about not liking blastoise! although i still don't see why. it's the same color as squirtle, at least—and i think a turtle with big water guns on its back is just straight-up cool

unfortunately, the pokémon models don't include guns, typically! but it's long passed by now because i rarely answer asks anymore :(

well! i didn't expect those little words to catch on like they did. glad i could contribute to your brainrot, soldier o7

saw this one in the comments a couple times—today-i-learned! i do wonder why it didn't really get translated at all and just remained japanese. typically with names like these that are references to normal words they'll at least translate them into english—but this one remained the same

the models resource! this, the sounds resource, and the sprites resource are lifesavers when it comes to game archivism

okay. maybe blacephalon is slightly cute. when it's drawn like that. perhaps its model isn't doing it any favors

YES THIS IS THE VIDEO I MEANT!! although i referenced that a WHILE ago by this point because LOL it's been a month and a half since i answered asks!!! lol!!!!

anyway that's all the asks in my askbox. if you count these you'll notice they don't add up to 20. and that my askbox still says 14 despite the fact that there is only two asks in it:

there are evil phantom ghost asks in my ask box. they are going to attack me

[trollamulet]

i've been thinking of adding the sturges to my multi; i already have a slot for jack, but i've been thinking of adding james & jim as well. or i might put them on the other multi under literature since theyre slightly different? idk.

& even then, jack's a little different on the blog than what he is in novel because i have jack as a changeling because fuck you thats why and i need to have an asshole fifteen-year old kid that's spent too much time around trolls. (i do think a bit of book jack leaked into my jim here but hey whatever its just fun)

[lacyblades]

౨ৎ choso's a sweetheart. he really is. when you're out, with him, in public, girls will fawn over him — much to your dismay. but, you don't blame them. your boyfriend has a certain look in those big, brown eyes, and paired with those messy pigtails, he's adorable.

naïve, too, to a certain point. half the time, he doesn't even realize he's being flirted with. some woman could be practically drooling on him, complementing his big, strong arms, and he still wouldn't realize. sure, he doesn't like the way she's touching him (mostly because she isn't you), but he's too nice to push her away.

in public, that is. in private, not quite. not quite the guy, who just months ago, was a raging virgin — peering up at you with the question of how babies were made.

in private, some flip must've been switched. he wasn't anything like that innocent, pure little guy. nope.

"look at you, fucking slut. taking my cock — shit — like that." you're folded into a cruel mating-press, choso's hands digging into your sides, sure to leave bruises in the morning. his pace is relentless, as he fucks you deeper and harder.

his cock stretches your tight, little pussy hole, knees hooked around his waist. your eyes hit the back of your head, in pure ecstasy. you can't fathom ever being able to respond with anything other than pathetic moans.

"sooo tight f'me," he groans, sweaty bangs plastered to his forehead. choso clicks his teeth, eyes dropping to your lips, swollen from kisses. "open."

all you can do is comply, tongue lolling out. he sharply spits in your mouth, and on instict, you swallow. "ha— whore," he chuckles. "dirty fuckin' cum-rag."

you whine, tears streaming down your face. "looking pretty like that, y'know. you're so much better when you aren't talking," he teases, "jus' making t- those lil' noises."

"chooo— 's too much. no- no more," you beg, wanting to pull away from him, though you can't bring forth the strength to.

"shut the fuck up," he mutters, lips coming to crash down onto yours. your noises are muffled, swallowed by his mouth. "you're not going anywhere."

he sinks his teeth into your calf, and you hiss in pain. "pleasepleaseplease— can't!"

choso grunts, bucking his hips into you. "yes, you can. you can, and you will."

the second he was cumming hot ropes into you, dick going soft in your snug cunt, he was back to being doe-eyed. panting heavy, he presses a sloppy kiss to your forehead.

and, as if he hadn't just rendered you practically immobile for the next two days, he tilted his head, his voice soft and innocent.

"can we order takeout, baby?"

[theabstruseone]

I slept in and just woke up, so here's what I've been able to figure out while sipping coffee:

Twitter has officially rebranded to X just a day or two after the move was announced.

The official branding is that a tweet is now called "an X", for which there are too many jokes to make.

The official account is still @twitter because someone else owns @X and they didn't reclaim the username first.

The logo is 𝕏 which is the Unicode character Unicode U+1D54F so the logo cannot be copyrighted and it is highly likely that it cannot be protected as a trademark.

Outside the visual logo, the trademark for the use of the name "X" in social media is held by Meta/Facebook, while the trademark for "X" in finance/commerce is owned by Microsoft.

The rebranding has been stopped in Japan as the term "X Japan" is trademarked by the band X JAPAN.

Elon had workers taking down the "Twitter" name from the side of the building. He did not have any permits to do this. The building owner called the cops who stopped the crew midway through so the sign just says "er".

He still plans to call his streaming and media hosting branch of the company as "Xvideo". Nobody tell him.

This man wants you to give him control over all of your financial information.

Edit to add further developments:

Yes, this is all real. Check the notes and people have pictures. I understand the skepticism because it feels like a joke, but to the best of my knowledge, everything in the above is accurate.

Microsoft also owns the trademark on X for chatting and gaming because, y'know, X-box.

The logo came from a random podcaster who tweeted it at Musk.

The act of sending a tweet is now known as "Xeet". They even added a guide for how to Xeet.

The branding change is inconsistent. Some icons have changed, some have not, and the words "tweet" and "Twitter" are still all over the place on the site.

TweetDeck is currently unaffected and I hope it's because they forgot that it exists again. The complete negligence toward that tool and just leaving it the hell alone is the only thing that makes the site usable (and some of us are stuck on there for work).

This is likely because Musk was forced out of PayPal due to a failed credit line project and because he wanted to rename the site to "X-Paypal" and eventually just to "X".

This became a big deal behind the scenes as Musk paid over $1 million for the domain X.com and wanted to rebrand the company that already had the brand awareness people were using it as a verb to "pay online" (as in "I'll paypal you the money")

X.com is not currently owned by Musk. It is held by a domain registrar (I believe GoDaddy but I'm not entirely sure). Meaning as long as he's hung onto this idea of making X Corp a thing, he couldn't be arsed to pay the $15/year domain renewal.

Bloomberg estimates the rebranding wiped between $4 to $20 billion from the valuation of Twitter due to the loss of brand awareness.

The company was already worth less than half of the $44 billion Musk paid for it in the first place, meaning this may end up a worse deal than when Yahoo bought Tumblr.

One estimation (though this is with a grain of salt) said that Twitter is three months from defaulting on its loans taken out to buy the site. Those loans were secured with Tesla stock. Meaning the bank will seize that stock and, since it won't be enough to pay the debt (since it's worth around 50-75% of what it was at the time of the loan), they can start seizing personal assets of Elon Musk including the Twitter company itself and his interest in SpaceX.

Sesame Street's official accounts mocked the rebranding.

[vaguelydefinedshapes]

phone? dead

charger? no

i am all alone with naught but my laptop and my wild berry tea monster rehab,,,

[usedtobecooler]

the sinclairs' new neighbour arrives out of the blue on a random friday night in may and subsequently becomes the object of eddie munson's desires.

tw: explicit sexual content, 18+ minors dni. virgin!eddie, oral male receiving, eddie's pov. pathetic amounts of pining. no use of y/n.

you've been around after every hellfire meeting for a month now, waiting with legs crossed and swinging from a fold-out table as you sit patiently for them to wrap it up, and fuck if you're not the most distracting thing eddie munson has ever laid eyes on.

you join in on the end-of-game conversations every week, a genuine little interest in the lilt of your voice as you ask questions and join in with the banter, which usually consisted of ribbing mike wheeler for being a little shit.

and, eddie's not dumb, okay? he knows you're only here because you're picking up the sinclair siblings every week, taking a bit of the load off steve harrington, who's been designated chauffeur for a year now, much to his own dismay.

but, sometimes, he thinks you maybe like being here and spending late friday evenings in their presence. and it's a nice little delusion for eddie to live in until he's home and safely tucked under his sheets, thinking of your cute laugh and your flirty smile when he slides a hand under his sleep shorts.

he's only a man. a pervert of a man, absolutely. but he'll feed into his delusions and feed into his daydreams, because it's not hurting anybody but himself in the confines of his room.

things are shadowy and hazy this particular friday, and eddie sure as shit is not on his game. he's stuttering and fumbling over his words, which wheeler is using to his advantage like the dickhead he is, mocking eddie with every fuck up with that stupid fucking face he makes.

eddie calls it a day earlier than usual because his head just isn't in the game damnit, and henderson claps him on the back on his way out, giving him this sincere smile which eddie kind of hates because dustin usually takes every opportunity to add himself into their shithead-ery.

oh god, he was worse than he thought. he needs to hang his hat up and give his job over to zombie boy byers immediately.

eddie doesn't get out of his head quick enough to realise that harrington arrived and left with all of the kids in tow, the sinclairs included.

so when you arrive at the door a half hour later, a confused look on your face, eddie's face fucking falls.

"damn, did harrington want his old job back that badly he kidnapped my kids?" you laugh quietly, all sincerity and jokes as you look around the empty room, eyes landing on eddie with a sparkle.

"it's my fault, i let everybody go early and i-" eddie groans, putting his hands on his hips then dropping them to his sides, "i didn't think. sorry, sweetheart."

sweetheart. why'd he fucking say that? someone needs to get the shotgun and put him down like old yeller.

eddie makes himself busy by packing away all his stuff, pointedly not looking in your direction because he's an idiot piece of shit, and who knows what other mess will come out of his mouth if he keeps letting himself look at you.

"you seem stressed, eddie," you observe quietly, a statement. you cross your arms behind your back, fingertips linking together, "is there anything i can do to help?"

eddie lets out this little self-deprecating laugh, a mirthless smile on his features, "unless you stop showing up here, no, there's nothing you can do."

a hurt look flashes across your face momentarily before it disappears again, masked over with a confused furrow of your brows, "oh. i'm sorry, have i done something wrong?"

eddie's fucking this up. he's a fucking idiot, who apparently can't talk to any girl who isn't ronnie or little erica sinclair.

"just, y'know, consuming my brain so much that i can't focus on anything else lately, so." eddie admits, deflated as he slumps into his chair and rolls his neck until he's looking up at the ceiling. his throat clicks audibly, dry and scratchy.

"oh." you say again, a relieved sigh escaping you as you kick a leg out to bash his shin lightly with the toe of your boot, "why didn't you say something? that's- that's okay. lucas kind of figured, he told me your moon eyes were annoying him."

eddie's kicking them all out. hellfire will be no more. he's sick of these damn kids.

he covers his face with his hands, rubbing against his two day stubble with calloused fingertips. a useless groan escaping him, "sorry, i wasn't trying to be obvious. girls don't. hmm."

eddie stops himself with a grunt, trying to narrowly escape the word vomit that threatens to spill out. he's nervously jiggling his leg, the chains on his jeans clattering together obnoxiously loud in the otherwise quiet room.

he feels your presence enter his orbit, the soft press of your hand on his knee stopping the motion of his jerky leg.

"don't be so nervous," you scold playfully, voice light like you're trying to hide a smile, "i'm not anybody to be nervous around. i like that you noticed me, that i'm somebody you're interested in."

eddie's hands fall away from his face at that, and he blinks blearily, head lolling until he catches sight of you crouched down in front of him, staring up with these gorgeous eyes that eddie just wants to get lost in.

"really?" he asks dumbly, brain short-circuiting at the sight of you knelt down like this in front of him, his stupid mind wandering into filthy territory.

"really." you nod, smiling up at him with this thousand-watt thing that he's sure could power the whole of hawkins, "i'm interested, too. in case i wasn't being obvious enough by hanging around here willingly every week."

you weren't obvious at all. not at all. or maybe you were and eddie's just a fucking moron.

"can i help relieve some of that stress now?" you ask, head tilted to the side in question, "i'm only down here anyway."

eddie's brain melts out of his ears, he's pretty sure. his tombstone is sure to say here lies eddie munson, killed by the insinuation of a blowjob.

"oh, you don't have to- you really don't have to, ha, your hands are on me, fuck-"

the conversation kind of fades out after that, and you're all action dropping from your deep squat to thud your knees against the floor softly.

and you're so pretty on your knees for him, eyelashes fluttering across the apples of your cheeks that are flushed and warm. eddie practically melts into his chair as you paw at his jeans, fluid motions and featherlight touches like you've done this before, and god he doesn't want to think about that right now, that you've done this for other guys before him. not when you're laid out below him and nudging in between his spread legs with pursed lips, spitting over the flushed head of his dick to dampen it further.

"you should- you should know i've never done this bef- fuck, fuck," eddie stutters over his words, fingers clawing into the arms of the chair when you begin mouthing hot and wet over the leaking slit that continues weeping pathetically with every lave of your tongue.

he tried, okay? he tried to tell you, but he's a weak man and - and you're fucking looking at him with these pretty, knowing eyes like you had a clue from the beginning, and fuck was it really that obvious?

he clenches his eyes shut, trying to will away the images of a neon sign over his head that scream eddie munson, adult virgin.

you start off slow and savouring, lapping at him with these kitten licks and mouthing down the bulging vein on the underside. eddie thinks he's delirious, because he's surely imagining the way you're inhaling the musky scent of him, moaning prettily as you do.

"mm, fuck," eddie groans quietly, hips shakily punching up when you finally sink down over the head of his cock properly with your lips wrapped tightly around your teeth, the wet heat of your mouth enveloping him in a way that makes him feel fucking insane.

he didn't know it would feel like this. his brain is gonna explode, scanners style.

your hand reaches blindly for his, guiding his fingers to slide into your hair, and his eyes fly open to meet yours, a pretty haze covering your orbs as you nod slightly to give him the go-ahead to curl his fingers.

"ha, you're gonna fucking kill me," eddie murmurs, but he's gently pulling ever so slightly from the root at the base of your skull, because he may be a virgin but he's not fucking clueless, right? he's read enough skin mags to know how to pull hair properly.

you whimper high pitched and your eyes finally flutter closed, letting eddie move you up and down with his firm hand as you alternate between sucking and drooling all over his length.

he's aware that he's looking at you like he's in love, okay? he can't help it. you're literally sucking the soul out of him, moaning around his girth and running your tongue over him like he's the best thing you've ever tasted. like he said before, he's weak.

"you- you're so good at this, oh my god," eddie's eyes roll back into his head when your free hand runs from where it's gripping the meat of his thigh to slide between his obscenely wide legs and cup his balls, rolling and squeezing them between your fingers.

the room is filled with the whining, high-pitched noises that eddie's really trying his best to hold in at risk of sounding like an absolutely pitiful virgin, and the wet noises of your mouth working over his cock, the slick slide of your fist jerking off what you can't quite reach.

eddie's stomach clenches, and holy fuck this is over too quick, but he can't find it in himself to be embarrassed because, because-

"i'm coming, you're making me come, holy fuck-" eddie's words die with a groan that sounds breathy and pathetic even in his own ears, his fingers burying so tight in your hair and pulling as he arches in on himself and jerks his hips in aborted little thrusts. he feels the plush of your lips brush against the wild, untamed curls at the base of his cock and he lets out a weak grunt, feels his length throb and spurt out another weak dribble of come at the sensation.

he's so delirious when he finally comes to that he's all but dragging you up from where your knees have to be aching on the floor, dragging you into his lap, and fuck sake his soft cock is still out and covered in spit and come and-

your mouth is on his in a hot press of lips and teeth and tongue, eddie's so out of his element here but the taste of his own spend on your tongue is as addictive as it is mildly disgusting.

"you got a mattress in the back of that van of yours?" you mumble between kisses, smiling into it.

"mhm, yup, a-ha," eddie nods wildly as he chases your mouth with his own, "i think i need some more stress relief. i hear burying your face between a pretty things legs helps."

eddie definitely does feel like he's dying when your thighs wrap around his ears and lock him in face-first.

and what a way to go that is.

[verystressedcollegestudent]

im just so fucking done

[malkaviian]

I can't stop imagining this character in situations so I'll share him now

[captain-huggy-bear]

The Sleeves

Pairing: Quinn Hughes x Short Fem!Reader

Warnings: Quinn thinking you're hot af, so slightly mature in that sense but nothing extreme.

Summary: Jersey sleeves are just a little too long for you.

Notes: Reader is described as short but not a specific height. I, a short person, could be wrong here, but I assume the taller you are the longer your arms are hense the height focus in this fic. Also it's a 43 Hughes jersey not Quinn's own one because we're all different sizes and I don't want anyone to be unable to imagine it, y'know????

Had this idea cause my Jack Jersey has super long sleeves and it makes me feel safe and silly (I'm getting a Quinn jersey for X-mas from my brother and i'm very excited)

It's baffling actually, when you really think about it, that you'd been dating a pro-Hockey player for nearly 8 months and hadn't owned a single jersey until now. Sure, Quinn had tried to convince you to just borrow one of his, his desire to see you in his jersey practically an obsession, but half the time they were sweat stained and stinky and you kind of just wanted one designed for you and your body. So you'd gone to his games in just your normal clothes, sometimes you wore the stupid t-shirt Jack and Luke got you with Quinn's face on it for your birthday, but you'd never worn a hockey jersey.

This had seemed a shame and you'd decided enough was enough. You went to all Quinn's home games and tried to go to as many away games as possible, you thought that surely you should, as a dutiful girlfriend wear a #43 jersey. It felt wrong, somehow, not to have at least one, to wear one at least once.

So you'd bought one, taken your time considering which version to get, which size you preferred. You hadn't told Quinn because any time you wanted to buy something for yourself he always did it for you, claiming he had more money than he knew what to do with. As sweet as it was, sometimes you wanted to spend your own hard earned money. Plus, you'd wanted it to be a surprise. It was practically on his bucket list at this point, it felt like something...big.

So you'd kept it quiet, bought a #43 Hughes black skate jersey in a size just this side of too big, oversized for the comfort factor. What you hadn't anticipated was how you felt wearing it...or Quinn's reaction.

It was just fabric, just a jersey but the moment you slipped it on you felt...safe. The fabric was soft against your skin, not tight or claustrophobic and the sleeves...oh the sleeves were your favourite part. You were short, that was a fact of life, you hadn't grown upwards since you were 14 and you'd made your peace with it. Didn't really have a choice, given that you spent all your time around hockey players. Some of whom were absolute giants, Meyers came straight to mind. Quinn was considered a smaller player in the business and even he made you feel short. Being short, had the effect though of making the sleeves of your jersey gigantic.

You couldn't really describe the sheer joy you felt when the sleeves went past your fingertips absolutely swallowing your hands. You felt like a little kid again, you felt comfy, and safe. Maybe it was scratching some sort of anxiety itch in your brain or maybe it was that you'd missed this feeling from when you were a kid, the feeling of being so so small that everything else felt giant, but you loved it either way.

Your plan was to hide the jersey until Quinn's next game, ready to surprise him when he looked for you during warmups, ready for him to realise you were finally wearing his name and number. Something he'd been not so subtly pushing for months every single time he conveniently left a jersey out next to your game day clothes before he left for the rink.

The moment he left for the game after a goodbye kiss and some I love yous, you'd put the jersey he'd left on the bed away (no matter how many times he washed it it still had the lingering smell of hockey...) and reached into the back of the wardrobe, underneath a series of boxes and miscellaneous items, for your own. You'd hidden it well, so far back, it was actually a struggling to get to.

You'd slipped it on over your jumper and layers, letting the sleeves fall over your fingertips. That familiar safe, giddy feeling filling you as you twirled in a circle in front of the mirror before dropping your shoulders, closing your eyes and just enjoying it. There was something about the physical sensation that was enjoyable, the way it felt, the sense of comfort it brought, but it went past that. It felt good to look in the mirror and see Quinn's number on your arms, across your back, his surname plastered in the large font. It felt good to wear a reminder of him.

You opened your eyes after a few moments of flapping the long sleeves about, a childish joy in the flap of fabric. Your sight snagging in the mirror on the doorframe behind you, Quinn leaning a shoulder against it, kit bag at his feet. He had softest smile on his face, the sort of smile that made his eyes crinkle gently and had his teeth poking out just so.

You spin around to face him startled, not expecting him to be back. Your fingers meeting and twisting together, hidden beneath the lengths of sleeve fabric.

"Did you...did you forget something?"

It's obvious to him that you're trying to avoid the elephant in the room, the surprise he's clearly ruined. It's not his jersey, but it is and it's all he's wanted to see you in for months now...Fuck, you look good in his jersey. You've brought it in a size that's just the right sort of oversized, swallowing familiar curves under layers of black, yellow and red fabric. How you make something that hides every part of you look so good he doesn't really understand, but he thinks that maybe that just says more about how he feels about you than anything else.

Your hands are invisible, swallowed by fabric and his name and number across your back were practically searerd into his retina. A memory pressed into the pages of his mind. It's stupid, possessive, ridiculous, caveman-ish but, fuck, he likes that you're saying you're his, likes that everyone can see it. That it's his name across your back.

"My number looks good on you..." Quinn bites down on his bottom lip, tilts his head to the side as his eyes trail over you. The way he's looking at you, you'd think you were stood there naked, not swallowed in fabric. It makes your cheeks warm.

"Quinn..." You let out and embarrassed whine, hands coming up to cover your face as he trails his way closer, feet padding softly across the carpet. His gear forgotten in the doorway, the sense of urgency to get the last piece he forgot and get to the rink, gone. Game? What game?

You feel his presence first, feet stopping close to your own, his form towering over you as he wraps his hands gently around your wrists and tugs them free from your face. He's practically grinning at you, that one strand of brunet hair falling across his brow as he leans down towards you.

"The sleeves too, you look cute in it, fuck..." He tugs on the ends of the sleeves, examining the way your hands are swallowed by the fabric. The cute wiggle of them from underneath before being swallowed whole.

"This for me, pretty girl?"

You nod, feeling oddly shy in front of him as his eyes keep following your form like he can't quiet get enough. It's surreal, you've had boyfriends who didn't even look at you like that when you were dolled to the nines, you're just in a jersey, some ordinary clothes, everything covered, nothing special, "...It was supposed to be a surprise...for tonight."

"Ah," he fills in the blanks. He's ruined it by coming back unexpectedly, because he forgot his stupid mouthguard of all things. He imagines it though, being on the ice, looking for you like he always does, his eyes gravitating towards you like he's stuck in your orbit. He can see the way you'd look in the lights of the rink, his number proudly displayed. Could see the way he'd probably stop dead on the ice, probably get a bunch of shit from the guys, can see Petey shoving him with a laugh, but he'd not care at all because you're finally wearing his jersey and he's been waiting for this for months.

"Can you, uh, never take it off?" he laughs, tugging you closer, arms wrapping around you as his fingers trail across the letters making up his name on the back. Memorising the feel of it, his name on you, finally.

"Quinn..."

"What? You look...fuck, you look so good in my jersey, baby, like...unreal..." He means it and you know he means it because he's got that sparkle in his eyes that screams his feelings out loud without a single word.

"...you have a game to get to.." you mumble, face pressing into his chest, trying to hide from him because only Quinn can make you quite this bashful after this length of time together. Only Quinn can seemingly disarm you completely.

He presses a kiss to the top of your hair, cheek pushing against the crown of your head as he rocks you side to side.

"Mmm, you're not gonna take this off, right? You're still going to wear it to the game for me, baby?" There's a little slither of fear that he might have embarrassed you, that you'll hide the jersey away somewhere and he'll never see you in it again.

"...Yeah, i'll still wear it for you..."

He thinks this might just be what he wants for the rest of his life. You in his jersey, you with his name across your back, you...with the name you might one day share proudly taking up space for everyone to see.

In that moment, he realises, he's a complete fucking goner for you. He's well and truly fucked in the best sort of way.

[star-crossed-sluts]

Matt Murdock X Chubby!Fem!Reader

Contents: 2.2k words, love confession/discussion, cheeky reader, giggly sex, chubby female reader, slight insecure reader but that's quickly solved, mentions of bullying regarding weight though very brief

Minors DNI

You are responsible for your own media consumption

You've dealt with strange looks all your life. It wasn't surprising their whispers had infiltrated your mind. Often you managed to catch yourself, stopping the thoughts that weren't quite yours. When you first met Matt, the most frequent one was, of course, you could only get a blind man to like you. It was cruel, and you tried to chase it away every time, but there was a small part of you that thought, if only I can keep him from touching me, we can go on like this. 

Because you were a fool. 

He always grabs your hips first, almost a warning of the devil to come. 

“What’re you doing up,” he rumbled against your neck, voice thick with sleep. You're half-sure he’s subconsciously tracking how long you've been away from his arms every night, waking himself when the timer passes your usual bathroom breaks’ duration. 

His hands push even further, rubbing your sides until he's gripped two handfuls of your soft stomach. Bare chest plastered against your back, his grip manhandling your hips back to meet his. You used to shy away from his touch, wanting to keep the you from reality separate from the you he's crafted in his mind's eye. 

Little hard to feel ashamed of your body when he was rocking his hard-on against your ass.

“You're insatiable, Matthew.” 

His groan was pained, like you were terribly twisting his arm instead of letting him fondle you in the kitchenette. “Don't call me Matthew,” he griped, one hand searching for the bottom of your nightshirt. “Reminds me of my priest.” 

You leaned into him, a fond smile playing on your lips as he found the edge of your panties, starting to leave open-mouthed kisses down your neck. “Because you’re such an altar boy,” you joked as his fingers trailed the hem, outlining the curve where your leg met your mound. You know the moment he thinks of a retort, because his lips twitch against your pulse.

“Well, I do seem to spend a lot of time on my knees-” He burst into laughter as your elbow came back at him, letting you attack his ribs to distract you from the way his hand explored your upper thigh. “Abuse,” he accused, “attacking a blind man!”

“It’s alright, I know a great lawyer.”

Matt chuckled against the thrumming vein in your neck, his grip on your stomach pulling you tighter against him. “Yeah? You know, my rates are pretty steep, but I think we can come up with some alternative payment.”

“I was talking about Foggy.”

His laugh flew out of him, taken completely off guard, and sent you into manic giggles right along with him, throwing yourself back against his chest to hold you upright. “You're terrible,” he cackled, tugging you to shuffle backwards to the bedroom with him. “Come back to bed, trouble.” 

“Oh, don't you start with me,” you faux-threatened, but still gave in and helped him navigate the living room. “You're so much more trouble than I am.” 

He pretended to mull it over, hmm-ing and mmm-ing between soft kisses on your neck. “Alright,” he decided, “I'll let you have that one. Y'know, since you obviously need a win right now.” 

You hit the mattress, helping each other climb into bed like you hadn't been in months, as opposed to the twenty minutes it took you to make and drink your sleep aid. Only when you were wrapped in each other's arms again did you gush, “oh, yes, obviously. How can I thank you, Matty?”

Who could ever think you were anything but beautiful - that he thought you were anything but stunning - when he got such an eager, bashful grin at the suggestion. When his entire face lit up with a pink hue, as if he hasn't helped himself to your body any chance he got. How long have you lived together, and he still got that cute crinkle in the corners of his eyes with the force of his beaming as he dove for your lips. 

“Y'know,” he murmured into your mouth, “I was disappointed when I woke up and you were gone.” 

You dragged your hands down his bare back, snapping his waistband with a grin. “Oh yeah?” 

“Yeah,” he emphasized, like he was offended by the teasing tone you took with him, snapping your underwear. A warning that he was ready to give as good as he got. “It's not nice to leave your boyfriend all alone in bed.”

You hummed, pretending to really consider that as you let him pull you to straddle his hips. He helped you out of your night shirt, tossing the thin fabric aside and letting out a pleased groan as you plastered your chest to his. You dragged your lips softly over his jaw, a smile twitching into place as he chased you, trying to catch a kiss. “Are you saying you think I should make it up to you?” 

“I'm saying it's been entirely too long since you've sat on my face.” 

A laugh burst from you at that, even as Matt peeled your underwear down your thighs. “Oh, yes, it's already been several days!”

“Exactly: it's been days,” he groaned, offering his hands for you to balance as you tossed around to escape the cotton around your knees, working them down one leg, then the other. 

“Next time,” you promised with a soft kiss, nimble fingers working the strings on his pants. “I drank my-”

“Your sleepy girl mocktail?” He grinned like he could feel your embarrassed glare, kissing the pout off your lips. “Can taste it. You added honey tonight?” 

“I needed something to make it sweeter,” you huffed. A tap on his hip and he lifted them for you, helping you work his pants off. You couldn't help a smile as his dick slapped his stomach, leaving a smudge of pearly precum on his smooth skin. “You're such an evil man,” you accused, wrapping your fingers around his base to watch the way his hips jerked into your palm. A stroke with your thumb along that thick vein and he leaked another stream, dripping down the side of him and onto your hand. “You're this hard when you've been teasing your poor girlfriend?” 

Your hips moved on their own when he slid two thick fingers between his lips, grinding against him as he laved his tongue over the digits. That smug grin you hated to love spread across his face as his wet fingers fit themselves to your slit, one rubbing soft shapes into your clit while the other pressed inside you. “My poor girlfriend,” he mused, “who never gets off on teasing me?” 

You shut him up with a kiss, trying to smother his chuckles that told you he knew exactly what you were doing. Still, it didn't stop him from taking advantage, pressing his tongue into your mouth, tasting every inch of you. The bitterness of the tart cherry juice and the sweetness of the honey from your drink dancing on his tongue, disappointingly hiding the taste of you that he's begun to crave. If he pushed deeper, he could almost imagine he found it again, in the back of your throat where nothing could reach but him. Somehow it felt even more intimate than the way you worked each other up with your hands: being the only one to know what you taste like behind the toothpaste and soda you cycled through daily. 

Matt's no idiot. He hears the comments you get, feels the stares - sometimes even more than you do. He wished he could find a way to tell you how wrong they were, but how would he even begin? How do you tell someone that when you wake up alone, the first thing you do is listen for where your girlfriend’s gone? That you could sculpt her exactly from how much you touch her, desperate to commit her to memory. How do you tell someone that even without your sight, your every sense is devoted to her?

He supposed he could settle for making you see stars while he figured it out.

You grinned against Matt's lips, a slight giggle falling out, as he rolled you onto your back. You were always tempted to make fun of him for his favorite position, but there was nothing Catholic about the way he took you.

Your hands kept working his cock as he arranged you - hooking your knees over the crooks of his elbows so he could feel your thick thighs pressed against him - to hear him curse under his breath. “Careful,” he warned, kissing his way down the side of your neck, “or we'll be up all night,”

“Mm, is that supposed to discourage me?” 

A strained laugh against your tender skin as you gave a particularly harsh tug. “You think you're so cute,” he managed out, trying to sound anything other than reverent.

You shared a chaste kiss as you guided him between your thighs. “I'm adorable,”

“Yes, you are. Arms around my neck, angel.” 

You always ended up the same way when one or the other needed some love. Nose to nose, lips glancing off each other like you were shy teenagers again. Your legs over Matt's arms gave him the feeling of holding you completely, letting his hands wander to feel every reaction your body gave him. Your arms around his neck, letting you claw up his back or card through his soft hair, pull his mouth wherever you wanted it. 

A match made in heaven. 

Matt had long since broken you of your bad habit to muffle yourself, the breathy moan falling unhindered from your lips as he pressed into you like coming home. Your voice rang in the empty bedroom, more beautiful than any song, perfectly accompanied by the slick sounds from your cunt as he started a slow, grinding pace. Your hands clenched and unclenched, scratching the base of his neck as you lost yourselves in each other. Lips connected in passing swipes, sharing a deep kiss and almost separating before diving back in. His fingers traced every curve, dip and fold of your soft skin, reveling in your body the way only a man truly in love could. 

The word haunted him until he told you. “Love you,” he managed through heaving breaths, soft and quiet in the privacy of the bed you shared. Then, as if afraid you hadn’t heard him, he said it louder. “I’m in love with you, y’know that?” 

“Matty,”

A great big grin spread over his face when you whined, ankles locking together behind him like you thought he’d stop talking if he fucked you deeper. “Why so shy,” he hummed, stealing another wet kiss. “You didn’t know that? I don’t tell you enough?” He felt your feet kick and your lips turn into a pout, laughing at your mini fit. 

“‘S different,” you insisted, dragging him back to your lips, only to pull him back once you’ve thought of a defense. “In love is bigger than love.” 

It’s a conversation you had in the early stages, when friendship was just barely turning into something more, when you were both stuck dropping hints, hoping the other would make the leap. You didn’t think he remembered until he managed to quote you with his hips pressed into yours. “‘Love is a feeling you can’t control, being in love is a choice- a commitment,’ I know.” He plunged into you as deeply as he could, bringing your lips to his with his palms cupping your round cheeks. He only pulled back when you were both struggling to breathe, searching each other’s air for anything you could get from it. “I,” he enunciated carefully, making sure he left no room for misinterpretation, “am hopelessly in love with you, darling. I choose you every hour of the day. I would choose you in a room of women, I would choose you if you were a worm, and in every other ridiculous scenario that you let keep you up at night.” He heard your lips part as your jaw went slack, smelled the salt of your budding tears as he ranted to you. He pressed a chaste kiss to your parted lips. “I know it’s bigger, and you don’t have-”

“I’m in love with you.”

He felt his heart thump in his chest, beating its way out as you dragged him down to your level, smacking a hundred split-second kisses to every inch of his face. “I love you, I am in love with you, I would pick you- I love you so much, Matty!” 

He pulled your hips up higher on his lap so he could get closer to you, arms wrapped around your waist pulling you into his chest until there wasn’t a breath of air between you. His firm body pressing into your soft one like he could make a home in your chest, let you surround him until you would never have to be apart. 

“I hope you realize we’ll definitely be up all night now,”

“I’m not the one who has court tomorrow,” 

A giddy laugh smothered in the crook of your neck as his hips started pumping into you again. “You are trouble,”

You pressed your lips to his temple. “Perfect match for you, then.”

“Yes, you are.”

[shiroselia]

Do find it really funny how in like March I was 100% prepared to only buy one horse this year because I didn't expect economical-crisis-SSE to pull out three weeks of sales each involving The three breeds I had prepared at the time putting me at four horses this year, but even then I didn't expect that I'd have five more horses lined up, although I'm expecting I'm gonna only get three more cause unless they pull another Bazaar Manda-cathered full combo there's No Way that the morgan nevertheless the lipizzaner go on sale this year, so I'm banking on the Tennessee and the Belgian being on sale, with the only full price horse I'm buying this year being the Sylvan, which is Still insane based on where I started the year

[whirlybirbs]

— NOISE COMPLAINT ; eijiro kirishima ; 切島

summary: red riot feels really bad about absolutely wrecking the shit out of your treasured plants, or eijiro kirishima falls in love at first sight. pairing: f!reader / pro hero!red riot word count: 3.7k tags: mutual pining, fluff/comfort, humor, very gentlemanly make-out, reader is a fan of red riot, mention of ingenium thirst (truth) a/n: kiri might be a twenty-seven year old pro hero in this fic but he is an absolute lovesick virgin who gets all his romantic cues from k-dramas. you cannot force me to think otherwise.

This is exactly the sort of night you needed.

The television, low and quiet, drones on as a deep-dive video on terrariums plays. Your apartment is clean — dishes done, laundry folded and trash taken out. There's a new candle burning on the coffee table, and a Dynamight-themed, cucumber-melon eye mask plastered to your delightedly thoughtless expression.

It's supposed to be good for dark circles. It kinda burns. You wonder if maybe that's, like, part of the gimmick. Y'know. Burns. Dynamight. 

Whatever.

No thoughts. Only the pleasure of turning everything off — brain included — for a perfect Friday night, complete with a mediocre glass of wine and no pants. 

The oversized Red Riot t-shirt clinging to your frame is your favorite. You've had it since college — it's a simple red tee with REAL MEN RIOT blazoned across the front, complete with your favorite hero popping a cheeky, shark-like grin and a double bicep. It's faded, stretched out, and broken in but it's also clean, and it smells like fabric softener and comfort.

This is the life. 

Even Twitter is decidedly pretty calm tonight. 

You're scrolling through your timeline, snickering at your friends' recent thirst tweets over Ingenium's recent GQ Japan shoot when it starts.

Apparently, your upstairs neighbors are home.

You thought those guys were out of town for the week. 

You've had beautiful, silent bliss for too long. The buck stops tonight, you suppose.

There's a shout overhead, then a scramble. Another voice joins the fray, and you swear you hear someone call someone else an idiot. You frown deeply as your eyes trail upwards. You wait, expecting more noise, but unsettling silence follows.

Your eye twitches.

Annoyance tips into a simmering rage.

The apartment complex is old. It's in decent shape, and the rent isn't half bad, but the walls are thin. Your upstairs neighbors have been like this as long as you can remember: shouting, stomping, fighting... Some nights it's like being subjected to musical chairs, modern contemporary tap dance, and experimental sound drum solos all at once. 

Your first week was the worst. You dragged yourself up the back to knock on their door and politely negotiate some silence — but the man who opened the door was less than pleased to have his little dude-bro circle-jerk interrupted. He told you to fuck off, get bent, and leave him the fuck alone. 

Then, before he slammed the door in your face, he procured the sort of audacity only assholes possessed and laughed at your Red Riot shirt — which is just plain unforgivable, frankly. 

"That guy's a fuckin' pussy." 

Sure, sure, sure, right, right, right.

The interaction told you everything you needed to know about the two (or four?) men who lived upstairs. They were losers. And they were fuckin' annoying. 

And, as it turns out, manufacturing bad batches of Trigger. 

You don't know that yet, but truth be told it isn't exactly shocking.

Maybe it's your fault for picking an apartment complex in this part of Tokyo. This part of Arawaka Ward is rarely found on those top-ten-neighborhoods-for-young-professionals lists, but it's affordable! And for day laborers like you, it worked. And hey, in recent months, the crime rate has gone down at least 5% — which only quelled the anxieties of your mom and dad by about the same percentage. 

The candle on the coffee table flickers, and you're about to turn back to your slow Twitter feed when there's another bang upstairs — this one admittedly loud enough to send a wave through your wine beside you. You slip your eyes slowly to the glass, perched on a coaster, as another bang rattles your apartment. You reach to still the vibrating glass on the side table. 

That's when the shouting really starts.

And it's when you notice the growing brightness of red and blue lights outside the window.

The apartment complex is pretty big. There are about sixty residents and six floors. You lucked out and managed to snagone of the last available Western-facing studios with a balcony — which made for a perfect plant haven. 

It was a recent hobby, but one that quickly became your calm after the chaos of the day-to-day. Working for the city's Heroics Response Department left you picking up the physical pieces (literally) of a lot of lives. Your quirk might be the usual, run-of-the-mill strength-based ability, but it comes in handy in the aftermath of property damage due to — what the Nation's Safety Commission has labeled — "villain-aggressed encounters". 

All in all, it's a good gig. It's physically demanding but rewarding. The pay is good, you've got union benefits, and you even have a per-diem schedule. It keeps you busy, and though it's not your father's construction business, it's a career path your parents are proud of. 

The slice-of-heaven balcony is bustling with plants. Some are happier than others, sure, but it's pretty. You've admittedlyformed an emotional bond with those vines, leaves, and flowers. 

It's perfect.

It's also perfect for snooping whenever things like this go down in your complex, or the sister complex across the parking lot. 

The shouting match upstairs is escalating, and you take the moment to tip-toe towards your balcony door to peek outside. It looks like two or three police cruisers have pulled up outside. Maybe someone called for a noise complaint? Maybe the property manager was tired of dealing with those losers?

Cackling to yourself, and hoping for a vindicating show of revenge (NO ONE CALLS RED RIOT A PUSSY), you yank open your balcony door and slip outside just as the sound of a pot crashing meets your ears.

Then:

"Shit, shit, shit—"

There's someone on the balcony. That someone's boot is currently stuck in an empty terracotta pot you were saving for spring. Your eyes are wide as you watch the shadow leap to his other foot, lose his balance, and unceremoniously knock over your entire, six-foot-tall, and well-treasured plant stand. You slap a hand over your mouth mid-shriek, hands flying to try and save whatever you can. 

You fail.

Eijiro Kirishima freezes.

What the fu—

It takes a second.

Like, a full second. Maybe even two. Your brain can't make sense of the sight before you. Neither can his, really. 

There's a girl on this balcony. A pretty girl. Like, mega pretty. Like soft and warm and cute and you smell kinda like vanilla — and there's... You're wearing his merch. His merch and... nothing else. Nothing else but a Dynamight eye mask and a pair of fluffy socks. 

...Is this what it's like to fall in love at first sight?

Shit.

Red Riot is on your balcony.

The Red Riot.

Red Riot, the hero in question, catches himself staring. His wide eyes openly wander over your figure (woah, okay, hello thighs), and the second he realizes it, he quickly snaps his eyes up to your face with a mortified expression. "Uh... hi!"

"...Hi...?"

Your expression is tied between shame, fear, and sheepishness as you blink once at him, then twice at the mess of your hobby's destruction. There's dirt everywhere, a plant stand blocking the doorway, and carnage. Your precious babies have been murdered. 

By Red Riot.

And... Red Riot is on your balcony. 

You repeat: Red Riot is on your balcony. 

Abort mission, abort mission.

Your lips part, your mouth hangs open, and every single thought in your head seems to stutter. Kirishima winces as you look down dejectedly at your plants (or, what remains) before he speaks.

"I, uh— is it cool if I..." he points upwards, "Use your balcony?" 

You're speechless.

You draw your mouth shut and nod hurriedly.

"Thanks," he grins, giving you a thumbs up — and a smile. A toothy, cute, nervous smile, "Lemme just... I gotta handle something. B-But, I'll be back. I'll help fix this mess — just... five minutes, okay?"

It hits you suddenly that his voice sounds different from all those interviews you've watched. It's a little warmer, a little raspier, a little less heroic. It's cute. 

Your brain is still having a hard time connecting the words coming out of his mouth to the scene before you — like, yes frontal lobe, this is real. This is happening.

Red Riot is real and Red Riot is on your balcony. 

He's shockingly gentle when he finally frees his boot from your terracotta pot, setting it down with purposeful delicacy — he even whispers 'please stay' as he props it upright — and then steps back to eye the balcony above yours like an athlete remembering a gameplan. 

He's trying to figure out the best way up. 

How he even got up here is news to you. 

(It was Uravity, as it turns out. They've been patrolling together more in this Ward.)

Red Riot is huge. Like, huge. 

Broad shoulders, rippling biceps, and long, fluffy crimson hair. It's daunting to realize how tall he is in person. The guy is a beast — everyone knows it — but his chivalrous nature is that thing that usually draws in his fans. It's no secret that Red Riot is sweet. He openly champions the need to be a good role model for men everywhere. Y'know, you can be strong and nice!

A sharp canine glints in your apartment's light as he pokes his tongue out and thinks for a second. 

Then, he settles on his plan. 

"You might wanna head inside," Red Riot says as he rolls his shoulders and bounces on the balls of his feet; he's readying up for a fight — and you blink as the beautiful realization dawns on you, "This could get kinda loud."

Loud?

Oh my god.

Is he here for your upstairs neighbors?

Oh my god, he is. 

Your jaw falls open as you bark out a laugh — it's an incredulous rasp that sends you into a spiral of joy; you're not a vengeful person by any means but...

"They're gonna shit themselves," you grin, your eyes alight with pure delight and a spark of something that reminds Kirishima a lot little bit of Bakugo, "They called you a pussy—"

Kirishima's brows shoot upwards as he pauses. He was about to jump and dig his hands into the underside of the balcony, but his quirk is stalling at your words. There's a roaring fire blazing in your eyes, one that screams retribution. 

It's... comical.

You cackle again at him with a wide grin, hissing conspiratorily. "They made fun of my shirt!"

You point down at the REAL MEN RIOT tee with both hands, your face set in a look of vindicated glee. Then, the second realization of the night hits — that you've got no pants on, and that stupid, goofy Dynamight eye mask is still on your face. You make a soft sound of embarrassment and tug your shirt down lower, trying to cover up. He cannot see your underwear. No. No way, no fucking way. Without a single word, you reach up, snatch the Dynamight eye mask off your face, and whip it off the balcony without a second thought. 

Slowly, Kirishima's face splits into a pointy grin. 

Holy shit, he's so fucking hot. 

"Oh, man," Red Riot rumbles, his face cracking into a sharp, playful smirk, "That's real rude. I might have t' teach these guys some manners."

Your smile returns, washing away the wobbly look of embarrassment sticking to your cheeks. 

Man, it sure is cute.

You are really cute, Kirishima realizes.

"Right! And who calls Red Riot a pussy?" you counter excitedly, before reigning it in and awkwardly lowering your arms as you try to tug your shirt down to hide the tops of your thighs again. Your glee has stifled a little bit, but it only reaffirms Kirishima's duty to wrap this all up. 

"Yea, that's, like, super misogynistic," he muses as his quirk kicks in and his hands flick into a hardened state. It's insaneto witness the way his large hands transform into weapons with a single breath. You can see the jagged extension of his quirk working up his large arms, too, "Lemme just have a lil' word with these boys, alright? Head on inside, I'll be back in a sec'."

Then, with graceful ease, he hops upwards with a little hup before latching to the base of the upstairs neighbor's balcony. 

It's insane how effortless it is for him to haul himself up the balcony, his hands dug into the cement. His upper body strength is insane. He's scaling the terrace, alternating his grip. He disappears into the dark, swinging his body upwards and reaching his destination.

You tamp down your awe in favor of heeding his directions: head inside.

You're closing the balcony door when you hear Red Riot's voice greet the unexpecting gaggle.

"Hey, fellas! I heard you guys are some super fans. Got anything you want me to sign?"

You snicker to yourself as you hear the beginning of a fight. 

Again, as it turns out, the guys upstairs sucked. Like, mega sucked. They'd been responsible for several recent Trigger overdoses; Uravity and Red Riot were working with law enforcement to track the small-time manufacturers — which explains why they'd been so quiet lately. They suspected someone was on their tail. 

As Red Riot scaled their balcony, law enforcement waited to break down their door. They arrested the four men (Seriously? Four? In that studio?) without much incident — however, you did spy a broken nose on one of them as they were hauled into the back of the awaiting cruisers. 

Sweet, sweet revenge. 

By the time your neighbors are carted off, you've shimmed into some sweats and made a half-assed attempt to look sort ofpresentable, all while firing off a few contextually incomprehensible texts into your group chat.

red riot has seen me in my underwear wtf do i do know kiss him?

You're really weighing your options when there's a knock on your balcony entry. It's gentle and cordial. You turn, head snapping, and spy that trademarked (and a dozen times retweeted) smile through the glass. He waves. 

Your heart leaps into your throat. You try to remember to breathe as you shuffle over and tug the balcony door open. The night air is cool.

Be like the night air.

Stay cool.

Eijiro feels so silly. And guilty. And honestly? Really into you. 

You're still wearing that shirt — the one with his face on it. You have opted to put on pants, but Kirishima still reminds himself to keep his eyes on your face. No ogling. That's not very gentlemanly. 

There's a beat of awkward silence as the two of you wait for the other to speak, and Kirishima is the one to break it with a raspy laugh.

"I wanted to apologize about your plants," a large hand moves to rub the back of his neck, "I cleaned up as best I could. I'm really, really sorry."

You wave him off, leaning into the doorframe. "No, it's okay! It's nothing I can't... fix. I think?"

You look beyond him to the catastrophic mess of plant matter. He must have tried tidying up while you rattled off the rapid-fire texts in the group chat. 

Red Riot's face warbles into something tied between mortification and guilt. "Please forgive me."

"Seriously!" you cry, waving your hands as you try to placate his dejected expression, "Please don't feel bad. It's a fair trade, y'know. Those guys upstairs were, like, the worst."

"I can only imagine," Eijiro concedes, frowning a little, "They didn't give you too much trouble, did they?"

You shake your head and laugh a little, "Aside from insulting my favorite hero to my face? Not really."

Kirishima can feel his face get a little hot. He shifts from boot to boot. His smile is a little woozy. "So... you're a fan?"

You don't need to tell him the underwear you have on matches the shirt — red, with an embroidered RR on the front. You keep that to yourself. You just nod happily.

"Really?" his grin cracks into something so excitable it makes your entire stomach flip, "I don't meet a lotta fans who are..."

His words drift off.

He's staring at your eyes. You're so... soft. Warm. Your eyes are swirling with quiet, astonished adoration and it's making Kirishima feel like he's floating. 

"Who are...?" your brow quirks as you lean deeper into the doorframe, trying to coax out the rest of the sentence.

"Gorgeous," he breathes, his posture relaxing a little as he soaks in your expression.

It's like getting sucker punched to the sternum.

All the wind rushed out of your lungs.

The soft moment only lasts a beat, because suddenly Red Riot's face screws up and he waves his hands hurriedly. "Wait, no. Hold on, I mean — all of my fans are gorgeous, because, uh, they're my fans and I love them, right? It's not like they're not gorgeous, I just — I'm... I... My fans are, like, usually dudes? A-And that's totally cool because dudes can be gorgeous, too, y'know? But—"

You're laughing.

Kirishima is realizing he was not paying enough attention in his agency's PR training last month and you're laughing.

"I get it," you giggle, crossing your arms and grinning up at him, "I mean, I definitely don't think I'm gorgeous but—"

"You are," he assures firmly, his expression serious.

Are you dead?

Are you, like, literally ascending to a higher plane right now?

There's no fucking way this is happening. 

Your lips part in quiet shock as you bite back a smile that threatens to cramp up your cheeks. Kirishima eats it up, his posture perking up at the way you seem to melt at his compliment. His smile is boyish — almost dizzy. 

You duck a bashful look towards the tiled floor of the balcony, not really giving a singular shit that your beloved monstera has been stomped on.

Kirishima clears his throat, then — in a move he totally hasn't swooned over in those K-dramas he's secretly obsessed with, that'd be ridiculous — he props his arm up against your door and leans over you. Your faces are close in the warm light of the balcony. 

Your eyes stutter up his abdomen, chest, jaw, lips, and eyes. Kirishima notices. It's really, really cute.

"Are you, uh... Are you seeing anyone?" 

Of course, Red Riot would ask that. Red Riot, the king of chivalry. How is something like that so endearing? For the tenth time tonight, he makes your stomach flip.

You shake your head no, a little too stunned to speak.

"Cool," Eijiro musters over a shake of nerves, "Cool. Okay. Uh, then would it... would it be okay if I bought you some new plants?"

You nod, swallowed entirely by his shadow. He's so fucking huge. 

"And if I took you to dinner?" 

Another nod.

"...And — shit. You're, like, so cute," the smooth persona he's put on melts a little as his eyes roam your face; you feel so... shy, "I was gonna ask you something else but..."

"My number?" you offer, fiddling with the hem of your shirt as you maintain eye contact. 

Is it hot? You're sweating. Is he sweating? He's hot. 

Eijiro nods, absolutely mesmerized by the way you tug your lip between your teeth. "That. Yea."

He has to fight back the urge to bite his knuckle when you turn away and move towards your kitchen to snag your phone. Kirishima stays put, allowing himself one moment of ogling. When you turn around, he's clearing his throat and crossing a boot over his ankle. 

He's still leaning up against the doorway.

"Here," you slip him the phone.

Eiijiro takes it — then hesitates for a second.

"...You're not gonna leak my number, are you?"

You have to laugh. You rub your cheek and shake your head before crossing your arms and looking up at him. "If you think I'm going to do anything to fumble this, you're wrong." 

Fumble this? Fumble him? He's the one that is at risk of fumbling, are you serious?

Eijiro barks out a surprised laugh as he enters his number, shoots a quick text his way then ignores the buzz in his back pocket. He hands your phone back and tries so fucking hard to ignore the way your fingers brush his. 

He got your number.

Holy shit, he got your number.

"Hey, Red Riot?"

He blinks down at you. "Y-Yea?"

You gesture for him to come closer, and he obeys easily — he bends a bit at the waist, his hair falling along his shoulders as he smiles down at you in the threshold of your apartment.

"Is everything alri—?"

You pop a chaste kiss against his cheek. 

Or, try. 

As you hop up onto your tippy toes to kiss his cheek, Eijiro is turning his head at the sound of Urvaity calling his name simultaneously. Trajectory failed, and now it's lips and lips instead of lips on cheek — and honestly? He owes Ochaco one for this. 

Red Riot melts — actually, truly, genuinely melts. His posture slumps down as you let out a shocked little sound of apology. But, Eijiro doesn't mind, and fuck, neither do you — because one hand braces against the doorframe above your head while his other hand is suddenly on your waist. He steadies himself, and damn. Damn. 

He breaks away when Uravity calls his name again. Kirishima is breathless and blushing, and your knees feel like jello. 

"I... Uh, I gotta go—"

"Yea, totally," you breathe, swallowing down the burn of unfiltered attraction, "Sorry, I was trying to kiss your cheek—"

Another call of his name. Red Riot curses softly before hollering a 'COMING!' over his shoulder, out past the edge of the balcony. 

When he turns back, he's fast to sweep you into another kiss — this one hotter than before. This one draws you into his chest, sending your hands colliding with the hot skin of his chest. There's muscle and scars and heat beneath your fingertips. His hand curls around your lower back, and you nearly moan. 

He peels himself away with an apologetic look as he backs towards the edge of the balcony. "I gotta go — I'll text you once patrol is over. Is that okay? I'm serious about the plants. And dinner." 

All you can do is nod.

Eijiro is kinda proud of himself for stunning you stupid with that kiss.

This is exactly the sort of night you needed.

[peachesofteal]

Through Me (the Flood) Simon Riley/female reader (mama)

"Orion!"

You shake your head at him as he pushes himself to his feet, making a sour face at the dirt on his hands. You tell Simon all the time, how similar he is, how his facial expressions are the same, his nose, his eyes, his shoulders, and in moments like these, you see it more clearly than ever. "If she doesn't want to play, she doesn't have to." Nix openly glares at him and then lifts her nose, scurrying away to where you stand, Pyx shoved between your knees.

"I don't wanna play chase!" She laments, and you smooth some of her baby hair, brushing the dust from yard away.

"If you don't want to play that's okay. Why don't you go in and finish your coloring pages from earlier?" She nods agreeably, running past Simon as he steps out, molding himself to your back, mindful of the toddler still clinging to your leg.

"Hey mama." The bowstring between your shoulders loosens at just his voice, and you tip your head back.

"Your kids are going to be the death of him." He smiles into your neck.

"Yeah, but they're cute." Goosebumps ricochet across your skin where his lips slowly drag up to your jaw. "Got that from you."

"Uh huh."

"Shoulda had one more, balance it out, y'know?" You half heartedly nudge him with your elbow, still grateful for his vasectomy. You have no doubt that if he wanted another one, you'd give him one. He nips beneath your ear and then kisses it, catching the eye of the chubby little girl at your feet.

"Stop." Pyx demands, little frown tugging at her lips, and you sigh. She's in a mood. She's been in a mood for months now. Sassy. Demanding. And daddy's girl everyday.

"She's due for a nap." He bends to scoop her up, her little frown splitting into a smile and then widening as he half flings her into the air.

"Hey little miss. You sleepy?"

"No daddy. Story?"

"Hmm, mama says it's time for a nap. What do you think?" She shakes her head again, and you reach up to rub her back as she fights a yawn.

"Daddy's going to read you a story before your nap, how about that?" She wriggles, but nods, and he presses a kiss to her chubby cheek.

"Okay." It's been years of watching Simon be a father, but it never gets old. You never get tired of watching him take care of your babies, holding them, loving them. Giving them his whole heart, his everything.

The same way he gives it to you.

[27spoons]

There's No Pleasure in Resisting | Natalie Scatorccio

pairing: natalie scatorccio/fem!reader

request: could you write smut or fluff with wilderness nat and reader? they do not have an established relationship, but a bunch of girls stranded in the wilderness is bound to lead to lesbian stuff? (anon)

wc: 2800

warnings: smut (afab!reader), fingering (nat receiving), minor hair pulling and biting, canon-typical survival stuff (mentions of starvation/discomfort), banter as foreplay, technically fluff by my standards

a/n: set in mid s1, pre-doomcoming, travnat never happened. regretably, i made the ending fluffy instead of angsty. who am i and what have i done with spoons

ao3

Two months, three weeks, and four days since that stupid fucking plane went down.

Two months, two weeks, and six days since you were supposed to be back home. 

You weren't even supposed to be on the plane. You were Van's backup goalkeeper, the same person who had never missed a single game unless they were literally dying. You had played maybe two games the entire season. The only reason you even agreed to go was because it was free (thank you, Mr. Matthews), and you'd do anything to get out of Wiskayok.

Now you had an actual role to play. Survival. It's hardly the same as sitting on the bench and watching everyone else do the hard work while you cheer them on. You're no hunter. You don't have first aid training. You don't stitch pelts together or know what berries won't kill you. Mostly, you just do what you're told and try not to be a burden.

The cabin is loud, and you miss having your own sleeping space. Desperately. So, you slip away when the others start getting pissy about dinner again (namely Mari, who constantly whines about the lack of seasoning). They won't miss you.

You wander for a while before ending up at the lake. It's quiet, almost peaceful. True, it's hard to find peace out here, but you'll take the reprieve when you can. There's a stillness out here that sometimes you could find in the late nights behind the school after a soccer game—smoking a joint or sipping on warm beer with the rest of the team.

This isn't that. But it'll do. 

You stand on the shore for a beat or several, staring into the massive body of water as you idly skim stones across the surface. It's not that hot—nothing is out here—but it's warm enough. Warm enough that your sweat sticks to the pits of your shirt and makes you want to claw at your skin. At least in Jersey, you were close enough to the ocean that the heat was never totally intolerable. Here? Here, you sweat like you're in a sauna the moment it hits seventy.

Without even really considering it, you strip down to your bra and underwear and wade in. The water's colder than expected, but so worth it. You would have never disrobed so easily when you first crashed out here. But by now, you've seen just about everyone half-naked, if not fully nude.

You float on your back, eyes closed, letting the cool water lap at your skin and erase some of the noise rattling around inside you. It's the first time you feel even remotely clean in days—maybe weeks. If you were worried about the plane crashing, you would have brought more than just a travel bottle of shampoo and body wash.

Oh, well.

The sun is warm on your face, cool water prunes your skin the longer you remain in it, and the stillness suddenly doesn't feel as oppressive as it did mere moments ago.

You're almost asleep—just barely hovering in that place between consciousness and rest—when you hear a familiar dragging of boots across the rocky shore. You don't need to crack an eye open to see who it is—you've come to memorise the distinct gait that everyone walks with.

When the sound stops, you crack an eye open and see the familiar sight of Natalie Scatorccio standing on the shore. The hunting rifle is slung across her back, hands on her hips, and a smirk on her face.

"This is how horror movies start, y'know?" she hums idly, tossing the rifle onto a large rock before untying the laces on her combat boots. "You'd be the first to die, too."

You bark out a laugh at that, turning your head to look at her as you continue to float. "Yeah? You gonna be the one to kill me, then?"

Nat scoffs as she removes her right boot, "Nah, I'm not giving you the easy way out. I'll let a bear maul your ass before I shoot you."

Her second boot gets tossed beside the first, and she pulls her socks off with an overdramaticized grimace. "Jesus. I think my feet might be starting to rot."

A sound of disgust leaves your mouth before you can stop it, face contorting at the thought. "Oh, gross. That's your own fault for wearing the same socks and nasty-ass boots since the plane crashed."

"Yeah, well," Nat grumbles, kicking her socks away like they've personally wronged her. "Didn't exactly pack a summer wardrobe, so."

You shrug lazily, letting yourself drift a little farther out. "That's your own fault for failing to bring into the equation that we would crash…" You gesture to your surroundings vaguely, "somewhere. Should've planned ahead."

A dry laugh spills from her as she peels her sweat-stained shirt over her head, tossing it onto the pile with her boots. "My bad. Should have packed less booze and more… jackets, or whatever."

She doesn't hesitate much after the shirt comes off—you've seen it all before, anyway. Her red sports bra is a little damp with sweat, sticking awkwardly to her skin as she tugs it into place. Her hands, adorned with rings of various shapes and colours, move to her belt next, undoing it with a practiced flick of her fingers before pushing her pants down and off. She stands there for a beat in her stripped boxers, pausing long enough to glance at you floating just beyond reach.

"What? No comment on my hot new summer look?" she asks, cocking an eyebrow as her feet disappear under the waters surface. 

You crack a grin, letting the current push you back towards her. "If that's hot, I'd hate to see what you'd call tragic."

"Tragic is what I'd call your little… floaty starfish routine," she fires back, wading in until the water is just above her hips.

"Rude," you say dramatically, mimicking Jackie's voice. "Some of us like pretending to be at peace."

"Peace is a myth," Nat snorts, moving to float on her back. "Don't know who lied to you and said that it was."

"Oh, that's cynical Scatorccio, even for you."

She doesn't respond with anything more than a roll of her eyes, letting the water move her around as she lazes in the lake with you. 

It's nice, admittedly. There are no expectations right now, just two teenagers relaxing for what feels like the first time in years.

The corners of her mouth twitch, but she says nothing else. Just tilts her head and watches you. Her legs drift towards you as she floats around, casually brushing yours under the water—except not really. Because when you don't move, she does it again.

And whether it's the water or of her own volition, she's drifting closer. Her thigh bumps yours, slower this time, and then lingers. Not aggressive. Not even bold. Just enough to make you aware of every inch of space between you, or lack thereof.

You glance at her. She's staring at the setting sun, still pretending it's nothing.

You could say something. Crack a joke. Splash her. Look away.

You don't.

She doesn't look at you, but her body shifts just enough that her thigh presses flush against yours. Unmistakably intentional, but you don't comment on it yet.

Maybe it's because you haven't touched anyone in months, and you're starting to get an itch. Maybe it's because it's Nat and she's hot. Maybe because it's Nat and she's a decent fucking human that you've had a crush on for ages, but you find yourself licking your lips as your eyes trace the slope of her jaw.

Then, slowly—almost lazily—she turns to face you. Her eyes flick over your features as her brow creases, like she's taking mental note of how the setting sun reflects in your sclera, or how your damp hair sticks to your forehead. 

Without much thought to the action, she reaches a hand forward to brush some loose hair out of your eyes, then lets it linger on the side of your face.

"Y're quiet," she murmurs.

You blink once. Twice. "So are you."

Natalie snorts, and for a second, it's light again. Almost nothing. But then her thumb swipes across your cheekbone, and you know you're fucked.

She doesn't pull her hand away when you think she will.

Instead, her eyes flick down to your mouth and back up again, giving you an unreadable look that makes your stomach twist. Her fingers twitch slightly where they rest against your cheek, like she's fighting some internal debate.

Whatever it is, she loses.

You don't know who leans in first. Maybe it was mutual. Regardless, it doesn't matter. Not when her lips are on yours, warm and wanting. It isn't dramatic, like something out of a movie scene where the guy gets the girl. It's not hungry. No, it's tentative. Careful, like you're both exploring the other and ensuring this isn't a mistake.

There's a beat of that gentle exploration before Nat exhales hard through her nose, then starts kissing you for real. It's open-mouthed and desperate, like she's needed skin-on-skin contact as much as you have. Her hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair and pulling you towards her.

Your hands find her waist without thinking, thumbs brushing along the edge of her boxers as you draw her in. You don't know when you started treading the water or when she draped her free arm over your shoulder, but you do clock the moment she shifts in the water and begins to draw you deeper into her orbit.

The lake laps gently around you, cool against overheated skin. Natalie's legs bracket your hips now, water beading off her shoulders and rolling in small rivers down her torso. Her arms dangle loosely around your shoulders, like she's trying to play it casual, like this isn't about to turn into something else entirely. 

"Not gonna drown, are you?" she murmurs, eyes flicking to your mouth, still trying to keep up that facade of nonchalance she tries so hard to maintain. 

You scoff, "Not unless you hold me under."

"I can make that happen if you're into it, y'know?" Her fingers tangle in your hair, tugging on the wet strands. "I'm willing to work with you."

You huff a laugh, but it breaks halfway into a gasp when she rolls her hips forward. 

"Jesus, Nat," you whisper, breath catching as your fingers dig into the curve of her ass. "You always this charming?"

"Only when trying to get someone off," she says deadpan as her lips move to your jaw, tracing a bead of water with her tongue. 

You grunt at that, feet touching against the stony lake floor. "You trying to get me off, then?"

Nat laughs softly against your ear, sending warm puffs of air against your slick skin. "Was that not obvious?" She punctuates the words with a steady roll of her hips against yours, teeth catching on the lobe of your ear as she does. 

"You could make it more obvious, I think." Your hand slips around her front and beneath the waistband of her boxers, finding a warm heat that's slick from more than just the water. 

She sucks in a sharp breath at your touch, and her hips jerk forward reflexively, grinding against your hand. 

"Fuck," she hisses, voice shaky as her nails dig into your scalp. "God, shut up���"

And then her lips are on yours with a feverish desperation, kissing you as though the world were ending—maybe it is. Maybe it already has, given the plane crash and the hell you've since walked through.

Her lips are rough from sunburn and too many days without balm, but it doesn't stop her. Doesn't stop you from biting on her lower lip, either.

While your tongue runs along the seam of her lips, your fingers slide seamlessly through her folds to tease her aching cunt. Usually, you'd probably draw this out. Make her work for it. Maybe see if you could get Natalie Scatorccio to beg—but you're feeling kind today. 

Your middle finger slips into her around the same time you bite down on her lower lip, earning a soft hiss at the duelling sensations of pleasure and pain. A full-bodied shudder runs through her, her hips stuttering forward as her hands scramble for purchase—one clutching at your shoulder, the other so deeply wound up in your hair you worry she'll rip it out from the root.

"Jesus," she breathes against your mouth, eyes screwed shut as though the feeling is too much to look at.

You curl your finger inside her now, testing the waters before you add your ring finger to the mix, and start slowly pumping them in and out of her. She's tight, warm, and impossibly wet around your fingers, muscles clenching rhythmically around your digits as they tease her slowly, searching for that one spot that makes her whine and fall apart beneath your touch.

You find it on the third pass. All it takes is just the slightest shift of angle, a curl of your fingers upward—and her whole body goes taut.

"There—" she gasps, voice cracking like a snapped branch or sudden gust of wind through a warm summer's day. "Fuck, right there—" 

You keep the pressure steady, pressing up into that spot with every stroke, your palm grinding against her clit in time. Her thighs twitch around your waist, as though she's still trying to pull you in deeper. 

She's panting now, trying to bury her face in your shoulder, but the involuntary moans keep escaping despite her best efforts. Her nails scrape down your back the next time you crook your fingers, hips jerking helplessly against your hand as you work her open, coaxing her closer to the edge with every perfectly timed thrust.

"Yeah, that's it, c'mon." Your own breathing has picked up, coming out in sharp puffs against Nat's temple as she clings to you. "You're already so close, aren't you? I got you. I got you, Nat. C'mon. Come for me."

And, for once in her life, Nat listens the first time she's told to do something. Her orgasm washes over her like the water lapping against your bodies, her heels digging into the backs of your thighs as she tries to hold herself steady. She isn't loud—not that you expected her to be—but she doesn't need to be loud when you can feel her walls clamping around your fingers, her body unable to decide whether to keep your fingers inside or force them out. 

Nat slumps against you after the final tremors leave her body, forehead resting heavy on your shoulder. You don't rush her despite the constant need for movement out here. Instead, you press a gentle kiss to the crown of her head and hold her there, your fingers still curled lazily inside her.

Eventually, she lifts her head (with great effort) and meets your eyes with a lopsided smile. "C'mon. Your turn."

Before you can respond to that, she's already moving, untangling her limbs from around you and dragging you toward the rocky shore with a hunger in her eyes that has nothing to do with the minor starvation starting to set in.

The rocks dig into the backs of your knees as she pushes you gently down onto your back, but you barely register the sharp dig of stones against your skin as she hovers above you, hair wild and eyes wide.

"Y'gonna let me return the favour?" she murmurs, dragging her lips against the hollow of your throat as she speaks. "Or y'gonna be difficult about it?"

Usually, you'd fire back with some sort of fiery remark. Something about how she's being far too cocky for someone who literally just came on your hand—but then there's a loud rustle in the trees.

"—I'm just saying! You could be less of a bitch about it sometimes, Shauna!"

"You can't keep not pitching in! People are noticing, Jackie!"

Nat freezes.

So do you.

There's a beat of dead silence before Nat collapses sideways beside you with a frustrated groan, dragging her forearm over her eyes. "Un-fucking-believable. This goddamn uptight, prudish little bitch and her—"

You have to bite back laughter as you sit up, readjusting your soaked underwear. "You think they saw?"

"No," Nat scoffs, and you swear you can hear her rolling her eyes. "But they're going to. We've got about sixty seconds before they start acting like they invited skinny-dipping."

You lean over and press a quick kiss to her shoulder as she drops her arms from around her eyes, glaring at you heatlessly. "Rain check?"

Her lips twitch upward despite everything, and you wonder what kissing her on dry land would taste like.

"Yeah," she says quietly. "Rain check."

a/n: natalie scatorccio in boxers and a sports bra save me..... natalei scatorcio in a boxers and sports bra sav me........ nataliescatoriucopsaveme

[thestarfishinjootsoffice]

Old writing especially on Bo's and then Vincent's part. I realised that I was writing as if their s/o showcased their strength during later on into their relationship in the first three slashers, apologies.

A/n: I am no longer writing for Hannibal or any hannibal characters as I myself have forgotten my own perspective of them.

Slashers x reader who's stronger than them but doesn't look like it!

Warnings: blood and death on the ghostface duos part, very slight mentions of nsfw. But mostly fluff.

Slashers in this: Bo sinclair, Vincent sinclair and Thomas Hewitt, Michael Myers, Billy Loomis and Stu Macher (poly)

Relationship: romantic!!

Bo

It clawed at his ego, he's a pretty mean bastard and you know it 🫵.

He first thought of you as the most fragile and weakest person ever (and cutest), I mean, could you even lift a pot half filled with water?

Undoubtedly he used this assumption to 'help you' or more so at times tease you. He loves seeing your reactions and most definitely not because you're so small and kind to him, pfff of course not.

He just absolutely loves lifting you up and over his shoulder and he's definitely an ass guy. He loves ogling and smacking your ass but he won't get to that level until many many months later on. But he's still going to stare.

“Oh Bo, I think there's a rabbit under the truck!” You exclaimed to Bo as you noticed something white and moving below.

"An animal? *sighs* hold on, I'll get rid of that p-" He suddenly loses his ability to formulate words as he witnesses you lift the goddamn fuckin truck with one arm, and indeed there was a rabbit underneath.

“*gasp* it's so cute!” Bo cannot believe what he just saw. Damn, he gotta stop smoking so much it's messing with his brain. He's just staring at you as you pet the timid rabbit with your 'scrawny' arm.

He must admit he does fantasize about you lifting him up and shit, or topping him in bed. Whatever he's feeling that day, and he would rather swallow sand than ever admit that last part.... But y'know if you're up for it-

His cocky and prideful attitude seemingly making an apparent change, he would hold a cup or item you need above your head with a shit eating grin watching you get frustrated with him. Or when he would make jabs about you being too weak to lift three chairs at a time and would offer to help you. (So he could walk beside you.) But now... He still fucking makes jabs at you being weak, just to fuck with you even though he knows it's far from the truth. He loves making you seem like the little helpless princess and him being the asshole shining knight in armor.

You wouldn't mind tho would you? It's a win-win, you get to spend more time with your boyfriend and he gets to spend time with his girlfriend.

Vincent

So gentle and caring with you. He's gentle and caring with whoever he is with but your size just makes him think one wrong move and he's accidentally breaking your arm. And cause of this he can't help but be a worry wart at times and way too protective. Not budging even if you reassure him you're perfectly capable of doing something that requires strength.

During one of the dark evenings you walk with your lover in the forest, the side of the forest where there isn't roadkill so that you can breathe without torturing your nostrils. And finding some fire wood to spend the next dark hours star gazing and ranting to him while the sound of the fire crinkling and burning the wood serves as a nice background music.

Every step you take you hear the crunch of the dead leaves get crushed under your foot, both of you holding your flashlights. You have the warm and slightly calloused hand of your Vincent holding yours affectionately as his thumb brushes against the back of your hand and knuckles, gently tracing over and feeling the ridges and bumps.

You notice some fallen bark and shine your flashlight on it. "Vinny, look there's some firewood over there!" You exclaimed and shined your flashlight elsewhere, looking around more until you had shined it directly on a tree right in front of you that was occupied by a scary looking arachnid, its front limbs moving in a sluggish and relaxed fashion.

You let out a startled yelp and out of instinct your fist went to swing at the spider who somehow successfully managed to not get hit in the nick of time. This also startled your boyfriend who looked worriedly at you, his eyes scanned over to see that you were.. Fine! But the tree you punched wasn't. It has a big dent in it while the flesh of wood was cracked and damaged severely around the impact along with many splinters.

"I'm so sorry Vincent! There was a spider and I got scared!"

He almost let out a breath of relief knowing it wasn't anything serious but he can't get his eyes and mind off the injured tree. Did you... seriously do that? He gently took your hand and examined it, it seemed perfectly fine except for redness, light bleeding and a couple splinters on your knuckles.

He slowly raised one of his hands, pointing towards the punched tree. 'Did you do that?' Is what's probably going through his head. You chuckled sheepishly and nodded in confirmation. He sighed. For now, he'll worry about your fist.

Does this interaction change how he treats you?... Kind of. He isn't too pushy as he was since he now knows how capable you are of handling yourself but there's still that feeling in him, something that gnaws at his inner core for him to help you. He wants to feel useful and to serve you in any way he can, so...please let him dote over you still..? (Of course you will, you can't say no to him.)

If you want to pick him up he'll entertain you, though he'll be extremely flustered and giddy about it. He likes this way more than he should (in his opinion). How comical is it? He's a large 6'1 grown man being carried princess style by his tiny s/o. Despite all this, he still hopes you need him as much as he needs you.

Thomas

Trust me when I saw it really took Thomas by surprise. He's a really big guy and you say this little thing is stronger than him? Oh please, humor him after dinner.

He's a busy man with a lot on his plate, and you seemingly looking like the most harmless person in the world doesn't help, he constantly feels like he has to tend to you and supervise you from a certain officer.

Will usually not allow you to help him when he's working, it depends. He feels guilty letting yourself get caught up with all this but if you insist he'll gladly accept the extra hand with honest gratitude. But generally- 'Back away honey, you might get dirty.' Is what he wishes he could say.

In his eyes you're a saint, an angel. Made perfectly to fit in the space between his thighs he's sitting down and there's no flaw in the way his large hands cups your cheeks with those pretty eyes of yours staring into his – no room for mistake or complain. You're adorable.

The first time he allowed you to help him you admire your handsome behemoth of a lover chopping wood. Appreciating the rolled up sleeved that gave you a good view of his arms, his muscles flexing as he brought the axe down – after he was done with the first small batch of logs you hurried to grab the others.

Tommy watched with amusement and adoration before shifting his weight to help you but stopped as you started walking towards him five logs resting effortlessly in your arms. It didn't even seem to faze you as if it was just you were only a bunch of baby ducks.

Tommy watched in silence as you laid them out on the table, still kind of processing it before nodding his head in gratitude and resuming to chopping them up. He'll bring this up later, maybe. For now he'll focus on getting his work done and spending more with you, and your soft words.

He doesn't really care if you're stronger than him or not, as long as you love him and don't try to run away it's all good. If you want he'll stop trying to do everything for you even though he knows you don't need any assistance – he's so used to working around the house he feels restless not doing anything at all.

If you want to carry him, do it. He's all yours but please do it in private he won't be able to handle the embarrassment if his family sees it. And although he prefers to be the dom he doesn't mind it if you wanna take charge every once in a while and throw him around.

Plus, it creates something pleasantly warm in his stomach.

Michael.

He thinks he's going insane. (He already has.)

He's Michael Myers, the most ruthless killer Illinois has ever seen for the past decades. And you're saying this small creature that he's inhabited has greater strength than him... Yeah, no.

And then he sees you picking up three bodies out of the house with your bare hands while cleaning up the evidence of his the murder he left, quietly observing you. He won't admit it but it kind of irks him. He's supposed to be the one with power in this relationship and quite frankly he doesn't know the true extent to your power.

He warms up to it eventually – although it's more of he doesn't give a fuck anymore. You're not completely weak and helpless? Great, he doesn't have to worry about you as much. Key word: as much. He still does worry a lot when you're out for long hours – he's not worried you're injured or in danger (not anymore) but more as in you're not leaving him, right? Or ratting him out to the police?

Do not ever attempt to pick him up or anything even remotely close to that unless you want a glare from those void, soul-less eye sockets of his mask Or if you want a love tap on the head and cheek. If you give him enough guilty smiles and let go of him he'll let you off the hook. if not, bear the consequences. (They don't even do anything anyways, lmao)

He feels so incredibly annoyed when you start treating him like a child, telling him to go sit down or lie down in bed after he pulled a few all nighters and the fact you successfully manage to pull him back into bed: God dammit, why the hell are you even so strong and you're so small!? Grumpily he does stay put but only if you're with him too.

A man feared by hundreds, if not thousands because of the sheer power and mercilessness he leaves in trails of every step he takes in public... And then there's you, you're half his size and you have more control over him than he'd like. He'd never kill you though, not intentionally, but that will also most likely not happen.

Speaking of killing, don't think he won't murder someone if they attempt to hurt you and gets their ass kicked by you anyways. You attack, he lands the finishing blow. Don't protest, he won't listen.

Billy n' Stu

They're both pretty lean so you can believe it, if not for your given figure. They both adore it, so who cares? Billy and Stu will, eventually.

It was in the heat of the moment, you tell yourself but you remember in vivid detail the day where you saw the bloody escaping victim running towards you – adrenaline pumping in your veins, your mind immediately went into fight mode and swung a fist at their skull. You remember the sickening crunch as blood slowly pooled from their fractured cranium when they lifelessly fell down to the floor.

They first helped you with the lingering guilt first before Stu started annoying you.

''Can you punch me like that next but with a bit less-''

"No!"

Alright, no worries but now he's asking you to lift him up to reach things that he does not need help on. Maybe even just carry him and run around the house. (Don't be fooled, he just wants to be carried around like a child again.) Fluttering his eyelids at you and holding up a jar of pickles. 'Y/n, I can't get this to open!' Yes he can.

Billy, although tries to act neutral but can't help but let his thoughts wander. 'Wow... Strong girl... Can choke me...' He thinks to himself as he watches you and Stu. Not as if he'd ever admit that. He pretends he's disinterested in getting in your arms - no, he just doesn't wanna embarrass himself. But if you persist he'll begrudgingly agree. He indeed liked it.

Stu obviously takes a positive reaction, he loves getting dominated. You can take that however you like. Billy on the other hand feels conflicted, if he's not stronger than you then how will he stop you if you try to leave them or plan to rat them out? Assuming this is during the beginning of your relationship. But overtime the more he takes a good look at your face those thoughts will slowly drown away, there's no way you would, right?

The slashers will probably swoon if you agree to help them place the bodies where they want them to, like hanging them in the trees or something.

Billy keeps it more lowkey. Preferring to keep you in his lap and rest his chin on top of your head. Stu takes your strength to his advantage. When he gets drunk he'll whine and ask you to carry him to bed, and take his socks off. Annoying fuck but you love him either way. And Billy too.

[liiixsturniolos]

"Tease..."

sub!matt x dom!fem reader fic

in which : bestfriend reader talks virgin!matt through his first time.

[virgin!matt, big dick!matt bsf!reader] smut p in v, riding, awkward!matt.

...

All day long, you'd been teasing your best friend, Matt. You didn't even feel bad about it. You thought it was fucking hilarious. He'd get so flustered and nervous as you walked by him, brushing your ass against his waistline to get to the other side of the kitchen.

The lights were dim, and the room seemed almost moon-light as Matt sat restlessly on the couch, shuffling around. "Maaattt.." You giggle from the kitchen holding a soda can, "What's all the twitching n stuff for?" You say, as if you're clueless and innocent, as you stroll upto him on the couch with the lacy strings of your red panties peeking out.

You'd never fucked before but you'd made out in secret from his brothers, and everytime you were over he'd secretly rest his hand on your thigh under the blanket.

"Y'know what you're doing to me.." he mumbles under his breath quietly. "Sorry, what did you say?" You ask with a smirk, sliding your hand onto his leg. He clears his voice, turns his chin up, and he repeats his past sentence. "What am I doing to you?" You tease.

He twitches submissively beneath your touch, your hand creeping to his inner thigh, nearing the bulge in his grey sweatpants. He stutters, searching for words. "Tell me what you want, Matt." You ask firmly. You wouldn't ever do anything unless he told you that you could, you knew he'd never done this before.

He begins, "i-i want you too..ride me." He confesses, like he'd been thinking about it for months which he probably had been.

You accept his dirty request, slowly positioning yourself on top of him. You start to grind yourself against his pants, he let's out quiet whines as you rub your pulsing clothed clit against the hardness in his pants. "Take these off?" You ask him sweetly with an understanding smile for his nerves, stroking the waistband of his pants.

He nods yes, removing them, you strip too. You take a second to look at him, shocked, for such a shy, quiet guy you wouldn't expect this. You let out a small gasp, looking down at it all and realising he was a lot bigger than anticipated..

"Is... something wrong?" He asks wearily, looking at your open jaw and wide eyes. "N-no," you laugh,snapping yourself out of it, "It's good."

You place yourself on his lap, sinking down on his dick,taking it all in, and you moan out at the size. He let's out quiet grunts as you jerk your hips back and forth on him.

He let's out soft whimpers and whispers your name as you push back and forth on him, getting closer and closer to release he holds onto your hips, rubbing them with his black fingers, pushing you over the edge.

your eyes are half lidded, lashes fluttering with each blink as you swing back your head a little, closing your eyes as you and Matt release simultaneously with a loud moan.

"Thank you." He says, as you pull yourself off of him. You giggle at his appreciation and lean in kissing him softly, "You're welcome Matt."

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tags: @matthewsroses @chrislilcumslvt @pvssychicken @ivysturnss @chrisfavoritewhore @sturniolo-fann @ivysturnss @emely9274 @sophand4n4 @mattsbitchh