#Cobalt drabble

[justmoreocs-writing]

Renée forced her breathing even, forced herself to try lowering her temperature so the flames on her hands finally petered out. And yet her thoughts kept swirling back to everything that had happened. To the danger Peter had already put her friends in. She couldn’t ignore the anger, the hatred, which bubbled up inside her at seeing him.

‘Ren?’ Stiles’s voice was soft, and yet somehow it managed to reach her through the thrumming sound of blood thundering in her ears. Still, she couldn’t take her eyes off Peter. Off the way he seemed to sneer even when he was already in pain from the previous attack. Not her attack, she hastened to remind herself. As of yet, her conscience was clear of having hurt him.

‘Go on,’ Peter baited. ‘Come on, little Elemental, why not use all that power?’

The words were like dousing her in ice water. Renée shook her head, felt the flames receding as she took a step away from him. As she backed into Stiles, who placed a cautious hand on her arm.

‘You wouldn’t,’ he said as she hastily pulled away from him, terrified of accidentally injuring him with any remnants of her power still lingering on her skin.

‘I might,’ she whispered, glancing down at her hands. It was difficult to know what could happen. Her powers seemed to be flaring more than ever, especially with emotions running so close to the surface.

‘I trust you,’ Stiles told her, the sincerity behind those simple words was almost enough to shatter her. Even after everything, the lies and secrets she’d kept from him. Even the times she’d so very almost lost control simply because it was too much, he trusted her. He trusted her, and he trusted Scott, and even though people seemed to dismiss Stiles as having no powers, Renée was certain that was it.

‘Thank you,’ she said, before crashing against him in a hug. A hug she was grateful he quickly returned.

[prevailinghatred]

UPDATE | Just dropped some new tags behind the scenes, yo.

⤙ blog aesthetic / vibe ⤚ — music / aesthetics that give The Energy I'm after for this blog; usually 80's-related or scifi-related stuffz. Also great inspo for me to write to, because I have a soft spot for 80's pop / dance / techno / funk.

⤙ drabble ⤚ — what it says on the tin; a drabble tag!

⤙ mun’s music — the Realest G ⤚ — A funny lil Galvatron music tag! Usually intersects with blog / aesthetic tag, because the two are so adjacent to one another.

[trendywaifus]

Cuddles with Jane! She needs to be taken care of, gotta cook food for her since all she eats are snacks. Good food and cuddles and sleepy time and soft kisses to her ears and face

‘saved my soul like jesus!

this was basically the majority of the Jane asks and i’m glad we all agree that she deserves to be pampered and loved. i’ll put this drabble under this ask. each time i came back to this, it got longer and longer. ahem, just to let you know everyone, im one of the jane doe ceos!!! (i’m a good little ceo btw)

more fluffy (maybe even a lil angst with comfort) jane doe asks r welcome for more of these as we wait for part 2 of the jane fic and other stuff.

inspired by glue song. i rec u listen to it while reading this!

if someone were to ask jane years ago if she ever thought about settling into a relationship in the future, she’d laugh and say, “ we’ll have to see. though, i think i’ll be better off on my own given i dedicate the majority of my time to my ‘side jobs’. lastly, it’ll be strange for someone like me to be tied down into a relationship. i’m not exactly the ideal partner someone would want after all. “

years later, at the age of twenty six, here she was, stepping into the security of her own home that was once dark and quiet as a mouse—now bright and smelt like dinner at 2am. the exhaustion weighing heavily on her shoulders, departs and is left at the door. then here you go, stepping out the kitchen with a heart-warming smile on your face. her tail immediately sways at the sight of you, reactive rodent ears fluttering, and the thin line of her faded, pink lips curls into a soft smile.

“ jane, welcome home! “ you greet her, walking over to your girlfriend and embraced her. since it’s fall transitioning into winter, it’s been getting colder. her coat felt cold to the touch and so did her cheek as you nuzzle it against yours. you almost flinched. she chuckles happily, intertwining her tail around your leg. “ hey, you, “ her smooth voice drips with affection, “ it’s almost three. i thought i told you to not wait for me and sleep. “

you pull back and she does too. jane drapes her arms loosely around your waist. she takes a moment to drink in your features she’s been wishin’ to see all day. honestly, she can’t believe that got the chance to experience love. it’s a pure and wonderful feeling that she chased for during her rough teen years and gave up in her early twenties once she became a specialist. then you suddenly came along, like a flare of light and enlightened her to a path she can never walk alone now. “ i was going to but i didn’t want you to come home hungry. “

she raises a brow, snorting, “ i would of been fine. i could’ve just eaten a few snacks or noodles. you sleeping matters more than my appetite. “

you shake your head, giving her a, are you serious look? you press her more into your body and rest your forehead against hers. “ absolutely not jane. like i told you before, you need to be eating proper food and i’ll make sure of it. i can’t let the woman i love eat unhealthy when she needs to be in top shape for her job. “ you argued. her cobalt eyes flicker with prized endearment. how did she get so lucky?

“ come here. .” she murmurs, leaning in for a kiss and you gladly do. her soft lips felt cold against yours but you don’t care. it’s a gentle caress that doesn’t represent how much she truly missed you. jane will be sure to she kiss you more later as you fully break away from her. “ the food is waiting for you, love. slip off your coat and those boots so you can eat. i’ll meet you at the dining table. “

after she takes off her combat boots, coat, and her pouch, she follows after your steps to the dining room. as promised, you’re sitting at the table, waiting for her to come join you with only a singular plate that consists of her favorite comfort food and a canned cold beverage beside it. “ come, come! “ you wave her over eagerly and she snorts again through her nose. jane sits down next to you and plants a lingering kiss on your cheek as thank you. “ just what i needed at 2am. “ jane jokes playfully, digging into her food.

a protracted, peaceful silence falls between you and jane as she eats.

“ soo, “ you speak up, breaking the silence.

“ hmm? “ jane hums.

“ it’s getting really cold outside and i know a thiren’s ears are sensitive this time around—i was wondering if i can buy you a few pairs of thicker leggings and some ear muffs. i know that ear muffs doesn’t really fit your style but—“

“ i’ll wear them. “ jane simply responds, after swallowing a piece of her food. “ anything you buy, i’ll wear it. . as long as it isn’t too tacky. “

she feels her heart skip a beat when she sees that happy, pretty smile on your face. jane feels like a lovesick man whenever you smile. the warm atmosphere makes her feel belonging, like yeah, this is home and i wish it stays like this forever feeling. you two converse and laugh until jane finishes her late dinner and you take the empty canned beverage and threw it in the trash. you grab her plate and placed it into the sink to clean it.

while you spent a few minutes washing the singular dish and wiping down the counters, the rat thiren sneaks up behind and wraps her arms around your waist for a moment. she buries her reddened nose into your shoulder blade, breathing in your welcoming scent. her tail swishes lowly with satisfaction. “ cuddly at 2am, are we jane? “ your body shudders as you giggled.

she kisses at the side of your nape a few times and sighs with content. “ can you blame me? been missing you all day, baby. hurry up and let’s get ready for bed. i have more of where that came from.”intrigued by her words, you hurried up with your current task to finally get in bed with your girlfriend.

once in the bedroom, you climb into bed while the rat thiren rummages around in her drawer for a simple oversized shirt, and enters inside the bathroom. she turns on the light, briefly lighting up the bedroom before she closes the door. you yawned, adjusting the thick covers over your body. after a little over thirty minutes, jane comes back out in nothing but the over-sized t shirt she picked. even when she wearing just that, she’s breathtaking. “ it took you nearly an hour to put on a shirt? “ you joke, jane rolls her eyes playfully as she gets straight into the bed, under the covers and slides ontop of you. her elbows sink on both sides of your head, thighs press firmly into your hips, straddling you.

“ you’re not taking to account of me undressing myself, wiping off my makeup, and doing my nightly routine. “ jane bends down to your face, lidded, teal eyes staring down at you as they softly glow in the dark. her lips hover over yours, the proximity between you is nearly nonexistent. jane waits for your reply one more time before she can get her kisses in.

“ whatever, “ you murmur, your hands finding purchase on her hips, “ don’t know why you even wear makeup when you already look so gorgeous. can’t even tell the difference when you do. “

a half chuckle escapes her and she finally locks you into a slow, passionate kiss. jane exhales through her nose. now, this is what she wants every night, slow kisses in the dark after a long day of work. your hands run up and down her sides sensually, feeling her perfect curves through the cotton fabric. nails scratch along your scalp while her plump lips languidly move with yours. with each soft kiss, the tender smacks of your lips internally sends jane over the moon. her palm finds your cheek as she deepens one of many kisses shared between you currently. your hands ride under jane’s shirt and scope the gentle arch of her back.

“ mmmm. . “ the rat thiren lets out a drawn-out hum from her chest as the warmth of your palm travels against cool skin. in your arms, she turns puddy and that’s how it should be every time; melting into you. “ don’t want no one else but you. . “ she confesses between kisses under the stillness of the early morning but it’s anything but that with you and her. “ so stay with me. .by me. .“ her honeyed voice is hushed yet fierce in your ears.

“ what makes you think i won’t? “ you inquire softly, drawing loose circles into her back as you held her close.

there’s a small pause before jane replies and she momentarily rests her forehead against yours. she exerts out a soft chuckle that sounds melancholic.

“ . .because you’re too good for me. “

your brows furrow together at that. “ that’s not true, you’re saying that like you don’t deserve me or something. “

she kisses you again but it’s brief. “ i’m saying it like it is, baby. .”

“ and don’t. you deserve everything. . “ you mutter, moving your head a bit to kiss at the corner of her lips, jaw, cheek—everywhere on her face where you can reach. jane’s teeth softly grinds together with contentment, her own rat thiren way of her purring, one of many natural reactions you love to pull from her. “ and of course, i’ll stay with the woman i’m planning on marrying. “

her breath nearly gets caught in her throat. jane quickly recovers and gives you an amused, lop-sided smile. the softness in her eyes shows you how she really feels as clear as day.

“ haha, marry? me? you sure you want to? “ she asks jokingly.

you take one of her hands and brought her ring finger to your lips. “ 16k carat diamond ring. i don’t care if you can’t wear it on your missions, wearing it around me is enough. “

jane doesn’t even reply, instead, she replaces her finger with her lips in a ardent, heady kiss. her hand clasps around the back of your head. you’re too good to her, for her. there is absolutely no chance jane’s letting you slip away from her when you’ve changed the direction of her life in two years. she doesn’t care for marriage but it’s starting to have a nice ring to it now. a woman who lives up to her rat thiren species, who goes from one fake identity to another, and mostly is seen in the shadows of the night—is actually married. .

huh. that’s a funny and interesting thought.

she kisses you until your lips are swollen and your lungs are struggling for air. “ you know i’m not letting you go after this right? “ jane whispers possessively, running a quick thumb over the curvature of your bottom lip, a prominent devoted look in her half-lidded eyes as they bore into yours.

“ wouldn’t have it any other way, future wife. “

it’s your turn to be in awe with jane’s warm, breathtaking smile. she rests her head on your chest, legs tangling with yours as she finally stops straddling you. her body weight over yours grounds you. your arms tighten around her frame, holding her close to your chest.

a few minutes pass and it’s just you occasionally planting soft kisses to the crown of her head while she traces nonexistent shapes into your side with a delicate finger.

“ you should sleep, jane. don’t you work in several hours? “

“ oh, i forgot to tell you. .i’m actually off. “ jane mutters, her smooth voice beginning to sound tired and soft. you break out into a happy smile and firmly squeezed jane into you, pulling a quiet squeak from her.

“ you’re off, babe? that means we can sleep in together! more morning kisses and cuddles with my beautiful woman! “ you squealed, following up with a angelic laugh that sounds like music to jane’s ears. she giggles into your chest and finally closes her eyes.

i’m glad i’m yours.

“ i love you. “ jane murmurs under her breath, allowing sleep to finally overwhelm her consciousness.

jane peacefully falls asleep in the arms of someone who loves her back.

[firenati0n]

"i can explain" - a david double drabble for the lovely @lilythesilly 🐕

Henry’s walked in on something he’s clearly not meant to know about just yet. Too late to close his eyes and back away, he just stands there, arms crossed, smiling at the scene before him. 

Alex finally looks up at him from where he’s fiddling with something on David’s neck. “I can explain.”

“Please do.”

David is currently wearing little Union Jack socks, a sash, a bowtie, and a cobalt jacket. He looks like—

“Okay, so I actually can’t explain, but you will be abso-fuckin-lutely delighted. In, like, three weeks. Now go away.”

Three weeks and two days later, there’s a flat rectangular package on the kitchen table, wrapped up with a sticky note on top. Birthday Present One / ?

“Open it,” Alex urges, camera at the ready. 

It’s a calendar, each month a different version of David. In one, he’s David Bowie. The next, he’s a little writer, pencil in paw. July he’s Uncle Sam—

“Treason,” Henry laughs. 

March, however, is where David is dressed like Henry. Down to the socks. 

“Isn’t our son the cutest?” Alex asks. 

Our son. Henry is emotionally compromised. He may or may not tear up on camera. 

It hangs right by their front door. 

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Congrats on 5k!!!

I love little off-duty tidbits about the 141. What they get up to when they’re not on a mission, what do they do for fun on base, what do they do in their private time etc.

—Count The Hours

⇢ ˗ˏˋ 5k Drabble Masterlist ࿐ྂ

╰┈➤ ❝ [Collection of what the One-Four-One do on their down-hours with their Lovers] ❞

John Price: Reading ➺

It was no secret that John liked to indulge in quiet time whenever he got the chance. Always surrounded by soldiers and hurling orders eventually got to even the most skilled Captain—he was no different even if he’d been at this for countless years. 

On the days when the silent sounds of the house were able to be appreciated for what they were: the running of the laundry, the small creak of the kitchen cabinet that needed to be oiled, and the sound of your soft humming, it was a sacred turn of events. Such mundane, and normally labeled nuisances, were an excellent backdrop for the words on the page of his book that flew from the paper. Scenes unfolded from times and places long past; everything was separate. A perfect way for the mind to unwind. 

You pass by silently as John reads, kissing his forehead when he grunts in pleasure. The man lets his fingers brush your thigh as you move off to do whatever you wish. He knew you’d join him eventually. 

Reading was good, but nothing quite beat the perfect distraction that was you. 

John flips a page and absentmindedly itches at his beard.

Simon Riley: People Watching ➺

“I bet she works in a cafe,” you mutter softly. “Look at her clothes—those are cafe clothes. Gorgeous.”

Brown eyes blink at the woman in a long skirt and a neat blouse, coffee cup in hand as she walks the ground before disappearing around a bend. 

“What are bloody ‘cafe clothes’?” Simon grunts, giving you a strange look from over his balaclava. The bench you two sit on is far removed into the trees of the park, and you smile as you lean into the man and intertwine your fingers with his, stealing his body heat. 

“I can’t explain it,” you wave your free hand as Simon chuckles lowly. “Your turn.”

“Pick one for me,” he grumbles. You point to a man dressed sharply from across the path, bending down and tying his shoe as a child plays with their mother near a picnic basket and blanket. Your lips twitch into a smile. 

“Accountant,” Simon says easily, squeezing your hand as he blinks slowly, casual with his guesses. “Child’s birthday—he’ll ‘ave to go in soon.”

“Really?” You chuff under your breath. Simon hums, vision sliding about as his thumb runs over your knuckles. “I guessed a hitman.” 

The man at your side looks down once more. “You what?”

Johnny MacTavish: Hiking ➺

The both of you are covered in dirt and sweat, lying on your backs with your packs about a foot or so away; lungs working inside of your chests as you smile like fools. 

“Remind me to let you carry me back,” you pant, chuckling as the form beside you rubs at his face—pushing back the grime. Nature is all around you two, the grass behind your bones and the open sky above your heads. Johnny and you rest for a short while on top of the hill, the wind picking up from the East but not so to an unmanageable degree. 

It had been on a whim to come out here on such short notice, but it didn’t mean that it wasn’t enjoyable. 

Johnny always made hiking trips enjoyable. 

“Aye,” he laughs. “Don’t worry, Dearie, I’ll manage.” A moment of shared smiles passes between you two—you reach out and push at his cheek teasingly.

Johnny chuckles and grabs at your wrist, bringing it back and laying a firm kiss on the palm that leaves your already hot cheeks burning. 

“Ready to keep going?” You’re asked delicately, those cobalt eyes crinkled with love. 

“Oh, if I must,” you tease. 

The man kisses you once more before standing, offering you a hand without a second thought through a gentle smirk.

Kyle Garrick: Cooking/Baking ➺

Kyle’s rolled-up sleeves are pushed back even more as he hums under his breath, the gentle jazz filling the room to mix with the scent of fresh bread and stew. You rest your head on the island table of your shared flat, watching as the man glances back at you and your arm pillow.

He chuckles. 

“You don’t have to watch, Love.”

“Want to,” you mutter, eyes soft. The man’s smile turns sheepish as he glances away.

The man adds what he needs and says over his shoulder cheekily as you blink. “Well come on then, I’ll need you to taste test. Tell me what it needs.”

You chuckle and stand, walking over and sliding up beside him as Kyle takes a spoon and brings some of the broth to your lips. Your hand cups under the utensil, sipping it down. 

You hum under your breath, glancing at him. 

“It’s delicious, Kyle,” your fingers go to steal the spoon, but it’s moved away from you swiftly with a teasing tsk of his tongue. 

“Ah, ah—it’s not done,” the man beams, kissing your cheek and putting the spoon down. “Patience, Love.” 

“C’mon,” you lean into him, looking up into his face. 

Instead, a kiss is pressed to your lips, making you melt as a hand comes to circle your waist. 

Kyle leans back, smirking as he licks his lips.

“More salt,” he mutters, pulling back and disappearing into the pantry as you gape after his tall form.

[the-darkestminds]

go now, quietly

pairing: azriel x eris

I wrote this as part of a 5-word prompt game. My first ever drabble!

Azriel steels himself and glances down.

There is a peaceful expression on Eris’s pallid face, one Azriel didn’t see often in their short time together. His eyes are closed, and there’s a stiff, white sheet framing his overly-pronounced collarbones. 

He could be sleeping, if not for the too-pale shade of his lips and the dulled sheen of his red hair. It’s as though a veil of gray has been drawn over the world, muting the vibrant colors Azriel has always associated with the male lying before him. 

Azriel blinks a few times, hoping to clear it. In a moment, that wicked mouth will split into a sly grin, and Eris will sit up and say something like, Really, Azriel, don’t be so dense. You of all people should know better than to believe everything you see.

Ordinarily, the taunting annoys Azriel, and he once might’ve snapped back, Do you always have to be such a prick? 

He wouldn’t now, though. Now, he holds his breath and hopes and hopes and hopes to the gods that Eris will open his amber eyes and say anything at all, no matter how cutting.

Azriel stares down at him, searching for a twitch of a muscle, the flutter of a pulse.

Eris remains still. His skin is fresh snow against the aged wood of the table upon which he rests. There is nothing on his body to suggest the cause of his death, and Azriel isn’t sure whether or not he should be grateful for it.

Carefully, he brings a single scarred finger to the edge of Eris’s jaw, traces it down the bone and ghosts it over his cold, unsmiling lips. 

Azriel can count on one hand the number of times he’s heard Eris laugh, and even those had been tempered by the cruel reality of life with Beron as a father. He will never hear his laugh again.

The jarring realization opens a chasm in Azriel’s chest. The grief that hits him then is immense, ineffable, and he thinks he might truly die from it. 

Azriel closes his eyes, breathes deeply.

Birds twitter whimsically in the nearby trees just outside. Their song filters in through the open window. It might as well be a portal to a different world, another life, where this unthinkably awful thing has not happened and he does not feel the crushing weight of loss. In a moment, he will wake up and discover it was all a bad dream. Eris will be lying beside him, sleeping soundly. 

A chilled breeze kisses his skin. The rough paper sheet shifts, crinkling softly.

Azriel inhales and opens his eyes.

In the end, he selects the cobalt-accented suit for the Burning, because Eris always joked about how lovely it looked with his hair, and Azriel knows exactly where it hangs in their closet. Mostly, though, it’s because it’s Azriel’s favorite. 

He wants to see Eris in his color one last time before the pyres are lit.

special shoutout to @mistandmemories who shared the same brain as me for this piece 🤣

Azris tag list: @jules-writes-stories @mistandmemories @g00seg1rl @chunkypossum @pippsmcgee @nightsandflamess @wrraccountant @olenvasynyt @astro-h0e-4azris @iftheshoef1tz @greenvelvetcouture @ysmtttty @mudandmire @jolenes-library @nus4y @palomita-de-la-sangre @makinglongwordsslutty @thesourcabbage @talibunny30 @shadowsandlint @neciebee @aurorasleeps-27 @fourteentrout @eatsbooks @buffy-vanserra

Let me know if you want on or off!

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

[the-flaneur]

hello my very helpful assistant 😄 flan's busy cooking up something in her dru- sorry, very ethical laboratory. anyways, here's how you can help her today:

ENTER ONLY ONE OF THE FOLLOWING LABS

LAB ONE

☆ write a brief description of what you want the request to feature (can include smut, kinks, dialogue and more) as well as the driver

LAB TWO

☆ from below - pick a flask, choose a label, select up to four chemical compounds, choose up to three catalysts and call out who the other assistant is (driver: im down to do anyone or the grid or "recently" retired)

☆ NOTE: the final item is very important, so please never forget it, otherwise flan won't be able to start the reaction

SOME REQUESTS WILL BE 18+ and ALL REQUESTS will available under the tag (see below) #chemical attraction ♥︎

all of your concoctions/requests can be made to my asks or inbox (here), and i'll get to producing it as soon as possible.

EXAMPLE REQUESTS

hi flan! with lewis hamilton and a boiling flask labeled with a sticker i am looking to mix together, fluorine, calcium, arsenic with nail polish.

thank you <3

flask

conical: fluff

boiling: smut

round-bottom: hurt/comfort

label

sticker: fic

marker: drabble

washi tape: smau

ribbon: texts

hairtie: combination (please specify)

chemical compounds

hydrogen: "oh, shut up." "you shut up." "make me." "okay, but you might moan a little."

helium: "i'm not the jealous type, but what's mine is mine. end of story."

lithium: "don't kink shame me"

beryllium: "we shouldn’t do this" "you’re absolutely right. we should not do this"

boron: "you're so cute when you pout like this"

carbon: "move my arm is falling asleep"

nitrogen: "the problem is, if i kissed you, i don't think i'd be able to stop."

oxygen: "you've ruined that song now, thanks."

fluorine: "don't talk with your mouth full"

neon: "if you can’t take it, why did you talk back"

sodium: "fucking is a reward, but you haven’t been good.”

magnesium: "is it really that hard to love me?"

aluminium: "why aren't you dating him?" "because i'd destroy him" "he seems like he'd be into that"

silicon: "i know they're just stuffed animals, but it feels like they're watching us"

phosphorus: "you know, i could always get you off here right now"

sulfur: "you deserve so much better than me" "stop lying"

chlorine: "give me a little show"

argon: "why are you being like this?"

potassium: "watch you mouth before i decide to spank your ass"

calcium: "it's going to sound controversial, but i think that went well"

scandium: "oh my god are you actually reading the terms of service?"

titanium: "the next time you pull something like this, i'm telling your mother what we did in vegas that one time"

vanadium: "if you don't like being called a whore, then stop acting like one."

chromium: "everything you own, everything you wear i paid for. so i guess that means i own you."

manganese: "i might have slept with your shirt while you were gone"

iron: "i'm not moving, your lap is comfortable"

cobalt: "please..." "you need to learn to be better with your words, don't you think? tell me what you really want,"

nickel: “are you my cum dump?”

copper: "you're not allowed to touch my pussy"

zinc: "you could've just told me"

gallium: "are you trying to flirt with me?" "is it working?"

germanium: "if i buy it, will you stop pouting?"

arsenic: "you're just mad that that my cock fits perfectly in you now. must be a blow to the ego that we're a perfect match."

selenium: "how long have you been covering/covering up this?"

bromine: "you're like my arm rest'

krypton: "i know i'm warm, but we really have to get up now"

rubidium: "you’re starting another cult. you bitch."

strontium: "it’s broad daylight, if someone looks up they'll see you pressed against the window."

yttrium: "you're not alone i promise"

zirconium: "im sorry but i'm done waiting"

niobium: "i promised to give you something, but i didn't promise it would be an orgasm."

molybdenum: "i'm bad at texting, so i always hope that you're the first one"

technetium: "let me take care of it. let me take care of everything"

ruthenium: "is it a bad time to tell you i have [your phobia]"

rhodium: "im so horrible to you" "no you're not"

palladium: "why is there rope next to the bed"

silver: "i don’t want to be able to walk tomorrow.”

cadmium: "you dumbass, don't ever do that again"

indium: "would you like to explain..." "no, but maybe there is something I could do to make you forget about it?"

tin: "i know for a fact that you can be a hell of a lot louder than that.”

antimony: "after all this time and you still can't look me in the eye"

tellurium: "i can't remember the last time i did something so fun with someone"

iodine: "i was expecting a written apology, but this is so much better"

xenon: "i have a headache and it looks just like you.”

cesium: "stop throwing things at me"

barium: "do you really think you can get away from me?"

lanthanum: "do you trust me" "no" "smart"

cerium: "i like the way your hand fits mine"

praseodymium: "because i care about you"

neodymium: "i trusted you...with everything"

promethium: "if you stay, you'll get hurt too"

samarium: "would you have believed me if i did?"

europium: "don't make promises i know you can't keep"

gadolinium: "can you please just hold me?"

terbium: "can i bother you for a sec?" "you always bother me, but go ahead"

dysprosium: "you cancelled plans for me?"

holmium: "my clothes look better on you that they do on me"

erbium: "i dont like it" "you don't like anything" "well i like you and [you specify]"

thulium: "no tickling, or no kisses"

ytterbium: "did i mean anything to you?"

luteium: "does your daddy know you call me daddy too?"

actinium: "n-no, don't cry. i hate it when you cry"

thorium: "but you have me now"

protactinium: "please don't go"

uranium: "i’m literally naked on your bed and you’re talking about work?”

neptunium: "you're hurt, let me take care of you"

plutonium: "you're staring" "i like seeing you happy"

americium: "stay...please"

curium: "i...i just needed to know you were ok"

berkelium: "you'll back off if you know what's good for you"

californium: "didn't you say we were friends"

einsteinium: "this is why we can't have nice things"

fermium: "not out here please"

catalyst

flan: au [request a specific one]

red pill: sub!character

blue pill: sub!reader

glue: dom!reader

lip balm: dom!character

lemon juice: driver!reader

sand: idiots in love/denial

salt water: crack fic

bath water: size kink

soap: exes to...

bubbles: fix it fic/sickfic

nail polish: daddy kink

shampoo: overstimulation

lotion: possessive/jealous sex

slime: accidentally launching relationship

copper coin: cnc/dubcon

flowers: leaving the window open/door unlocked

silver jewellery: age gap

gold jewellery: miscommunication

rock: neighbours

paper: love triangle

plastic bag: enemies to...

tissue: rivals to...

ink: 100% platonic friendship

foam: found family

water babies: secret admirer

ceramic: forced proximity

yarn: roommates

water: childhood friends to...

fruit: married couple/established relationship

beads: fake relationship

heat: brother's best friend

ice: best friend's brother

bark: body swap

grass: reverse tropes [specify]

© the-flanuer || do not copy, rewrite or translate any of my work on any platform.

[redskybluemoon]

A Good Hatake Kakashi-Centric Fanfictions

These are my absolute favorite fics of Baddass Kakashi Hatake / Kakashi - Centric, which I definitely will read and re-read every one of them in my free times.

This list will update frequently. :) Feel free to recommend me some Kakashi-centric fics. ♥

Oneshot or Drabble or Short Story: - Kit and Kin Series by Lolistar92. Rated T. Part 1 - the slate gray charm Part 2 - the antique silver wisdom Part 3 - lingering smoke clears Part 4 - the vermillon vanguard Part 5 - the amber orchestra Part 6 - the saffron reprieve Part 7 - the sage rampart Part 8 - the cobalt crossway - birth of a cell ; death of a star Series by thesaintraphael. Rated T Part 1 - an exercise in patience Part 2 - jigsaw falling into place

Chaptered Fics : - Nukenin by WhisperingDarkness. Rated T. (Status : Completed). - Life as a Nukenin by JKblue. Rated T. (Status : Completed). - Lichtenberg Figures by Asteroid_Duck. Rated M. (Status : Completed). - Out of the Dark by LittleBirdWrites (Pairing : Hatake Kakashi/OC). Rated M. (Status : Completed). - Daybreak Never Comes by Myst_Marshall. Rated T. (Status : On-Going). - Ear to the Wall by Vodkassassin. Rated T (Status : On-Going). - It Happened Once in a Dream by SunshineAndRainbows. Rated T (Status : On-Going). - They shrunk sensei?! by RandoLan. Rated T (Status : On-Going). - For Tomorrow Never Comes by SoaringPigeonShovel. Rated T (Status : On-Going). - The Executioner of the Mist by Veronero. Rated T (Status : On-Going).

- Scaring Crows Series by scrappybook. Part 1 - Year of the Ghost. Rated T. (Status : Completed). Part 2 - Beneath a Shared Sky. Rated T. (Status : On-Going).

Crossover Fics : - Unforeseen Mayhem by Aerugonian. Rated T. (Naruto, My Hero Academia). Oneshot. (Status : Completed). - CCG Public Enemy No 1 by euphoricimage. Rated T. (Naruto, Tokyo Ghoul). (Status : Completed). - Reddit, is my neighbor a kidnapper or just weird? by Asteroid_Duck. Rated T. (Naruto, My Hero Academia). (Status : Completed). - Edo Tensei by Asteroid_Duck (JustThatOneGirl1815). Rated T. (Naruto, My Hero Academia). (Status : On-Going). - Scarecrows Don’t Fly by Asteroid_Duck. Rated T. (Naruto, My Hero Academia). (Status : On-Going). - Wonderboy by Tsume_Yuki. Rated T. (Naruto, My Hero Academia). (Status : On-Going, possibly abandoned). So freaking good, I wish they will continue someday, :( - The Taste of Lightning on Your Tongue by PenguinEmperess. Rated T. (Naruto, Jujutsu Kaisen). (Status : On-Going, possibly abandoned). So much potential, I wish they will continue someday, :(

Kakashi/Sakura Fics. Check this link

[hellishjoel]

he with the dark curls, you with the watercolor eyes

883 words / drabble main masterlist | notifications blog | ko-fi

summary: you've fallen in love with the man with the dark curls who makes your coastal life with him idyllic warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), food consumption, reader is has no physical description, brief smut, frankie fluff

a/n: I have no idea what this writing style is, but it was fun! banners by @cafekitsune &lt;3

frankie has always been a man who 'doesn't need much' he tells you this every birthday, every christmas, every anniversary he's happy with what's in front of him that includes his cottage on the water, his big dogs, and, of course, you there's nothing more he needs than waking up with your warm body curled into his side your features softened with sleep, your arm outstretched along his tan torso wedding ring wrapped around your pretty finger

he'll lean over and kiss the crown of your head before blindly reaching to his side table where dirty coffee mugs and half-read books pile up your portrait eyes meet his own honeyed amber once the dogs join the fray, jumping onto the bed and loving licking your sleepy faces, you're both as awake as you'll ever be if it's not raining and not too cold, you'll both sit on the bench at the end of the pier, wrapped up in a slate gray wool blanket as you drink a coffee in a spirited mood, frankie will fish the moody water ripples upon the hook plopping into the cobalt water frankie tugs the bait along until he feels a subtle drag before you know it, you're fondly smiling as he reacts to catching a fish as if it's his first time leashed up and wiggling with excitement, you walk the dogs along the water their noses are glued to the ground, snorting and sniffing with curiosity your boots dig into the ground and slosh with each step the dirt is still loose and wet from the recent rain that's come through you make small talk and capture pictures of your life to send back to your family and friends leaving home was difficult at first, but your coastal life has been such a dream and with frankie, you've come to realize you've never needed much else for dinner, frankie cooks the fish he caught earlier in the day you're his sous chef, working in your quaint kitchen with fuzzy slippers on, candles lit and glowing the somber home to an orange, flickering haze the dogs lay tiredly on the rug, and watch with sleep-happy eyes the cast iron skillet sizzles upon frankie flipping the fish while you work on the sides of mashed potatoes and asparagus your kisses grow lazy and sweet by the end of the night the silver moon dances across the midnight water, lighting your bedroom in a pale pearly film frankie kicks the bedroom door closed with his boot blindly, his pretty mouth smirking he always touches you like a delicate petal at first, anyway he likes to feel your skin, his palm attaching to your hip under your shirt as he walks you backward toward bed you let out a silken moan as frankie's lips work their way down to the column of your throat his teeth graze the soft skin that grows goosebumps in his wake his stubble scratches and it's just yet another reminder of how perfect he feels without trying your body has become his home being his home has become your sanctuary his hips bracket between your pretty thighs he thrusts languidly in rhythm with your heartbeat the drag of his thick cock causes your back to arch he traps you with his thick arms, your hand clutching to his bicep blinded by pleasure, frankie moans sweet nothings in your ear he whispers how much he loves you how perfect you are how amazing you feel how dedicated he is to you how happy you make him how much he loves you, again your fingers weave into his nest of dark curls, loosening the hat hair from earlier in the day his actions cause sweat to glimmer across your skin bodies glittering like the waves under a full moon the coil in your stomach is close to snapping your pleas and moans for him to finish inside of you sweetly echo in his ears he groans, feeling so lucky to have someone to spill into someone to make his own and paint in his name you reach the edge of the universe together shaking, clenching, squeezing, crying, kissing

frankie brings you back with gentle kisses, breath lost in your lungs, now retrieved you can't help but smile as he presses his forehead against your own, pulling the bedsheets up to your chest he coasts his fingers along your body mindlessly memorizing the curves, slopes, and dips like a beautiful map to his favorite place lips meet, hands hold, noses nuzzle, I love you's exchanged more than once it's a sweet mantra at this point to tell someone you love them this much, yet the meaning only grows stronger despite sharing the same three words and eight letters over, over, and over again it only heightens the sentiment frankie is reminded that he doesn't need much what else could he ask for when this is his life? how much more perfect could this get? there was no waiting to win the lottery waiting for a big, well-deserved raise waiting for his life to feel complete 

because at the end of it all when summers burn and the days are long he feels grateful to spend them with you he with the dark curls, you with the watercolor eyes 

[ninibeingdelulu]

Beach date ✧ pt. 2

Plot: A date at the beach with your grumpy boyfriend after one of his big games.

.part one.

Two hours lazed by in that perfect beach idyll. The sun had drifted lower on the horizon, casting everything in burnished hues of tangerine and blazing crimson.

Foamy wavelets lapped almost soothingly at the shoreline only paces from where you and Sae reclined on that frayed, sand-dusted towel.

You laid splayed on your stomach, chin propped on folded forearms while chasing the last few rays attempting to bronze your bare back and shoulders.

Occasionally tilting your head sidelong to shoot Sae those bright, rambling commentary on every stray thought bubbling up.

"...and then Yumi-chan goes, 'No, that's not at all how you're supposed to crimp pie dough!' while my aunt just stands there covered in flour like a blushing ghost. I swear, those two are hopeless together sometimes..."

Despite the thick lenses shielding his eyes, you could feel Sae's flat, glazed-over look boring directly into your animated profile as you prattled on.

Huffing out those short, dismissive grunts whenever prompting a response that never really arrived beyond his usual blasé acknowledgments.

At one point, you rolled halfway onto your side - propping yourself up on an elbow to affectionately brush the salt-stiffened strands away from his furrowed brow.

Sae regarded you through those blank, barely cracked slits with the minimal required movement of shifting his lips.

"You do realize I'm only listening to around twelve percent of the drabble leaking out right now, yeah?"

He drawled in that signature monotone laced with blatant disinterest.

You simply grinned back unperturbed, poking that protruding lower lip playfully before snuggling your cheek into the warm divot of his pec - absorbing the steady thrum of Sae's heartbeat beneath the heated skin.

"Mhmm, and yet I can feel those glacier eyes drinking in every single twitch across my face like I'm the only damn interesting thing for miles, babe."

A withering snort gusted across your crown while Sae's heavy arm draped over the dip of your waist - thick fingers idly tracing shapes along your lower spine in that easy, practiced manner.

Wordlessly absorbing each animated lilt and cadence pouring from your lips like a man entranced.

Because beneath all those curmudgeonly layers, you recognized Sae's version of openly soaking in these simple yet coveted pockets of tranquility.

Living solely for the ephemeral instances where he could steal you away into his world for awhile - snarls melting into unguarded appreciation while committing every molecule to his steel trap of a memory vault.

He'd never voice that sentiment in so many words, obviously. But you heard that silent confession thundering through the steady cadence thrumming beneath your cheek and the scorching brand of his sidelong stare roving every sun-kissed curve on display nonetheless.

Eventually dozing against that solid bastion, lulled into a light slumber by the rhythmic push-and-pull of waves overlaying the breaths puffing through your tousled tresses.

Leaving Sae free to admire your tranquil state at his leisure with those hungry cobalt pools - hungrily drinking down another cherished memory to stoke the smoldering fire always simmering within...

[freelancearsonist]

in shades of gray and candlelight

➔ Marcus Pike x fem!Reader - 7.2k

➔ Nothing good starts in a getaway car, but you sure do have fun delaying the inevitable.

➔ Rated MA for artist!reader my beloved (reader is able-bodied, basic female anatomy and feminine pronouns used, reader is described as having hair that is long enough to be put up but otherwise she’s a blank slate), unprotected p in v sex, cum swallowing, creampie, semi-public sex acts, oral (r + m receiving), handjobs, fingering, very light switchy dom/sub dynamics, a couple spanks, pet names (sweetheart, pretty girl, baby, honey), heavy praise kink, light size kink, consent king!marcus, just like the song it does not end happily [please let me know if i missed any at all :)]

➔ this is my (first 😈) submission to @beskarandblasters Taylor Swift Drabble Challenge! i really did mean for this to be a drabble especially since i didn't know anything about marcus before receiving this prompt but he has my whole fucking heart and mind now 😩 thank you so much for the challenge lovely kel, and special thank u to my baby @fhatbhabie for betaing and screaming with me ily <3 (dividers by the amazing and talented @saradika-graphics)

You meet Marcus Pike on a Friday night and it’s obvious from the start that he’s going to change your life forever.

He looks a little disheveled when he enters the gallery–brown hair ruffled and standing up in places, tie loose, top shirt button undone. There’s an alluring five o’clock shadow burgeoning across his jaw and cheeks. He looks like he’s had a long day, and it’s only going to get longer. It’s all part of the plan, of course. He’s supposed to look like a standard blue collar worker, and he pulls it off with ease.

It’s the exhibition’s opening night, so it’s a little more packed than the gallery normally would be. It works in his favor–he’s able to collect a plastic cup of champagne from the refreshment table and blend seamlessly into the crowd.

His eyes are diligent as they scan the faces that come and go. He tries to commit them all to memory–the tall woman with the slight limp, the short guy wearing the Hawaiian patterned shirt. There’s dozens of people that pass by, and so many of them are forgettable. It’s exhibitions like these that make him dread undercover work.

The art on the walls isn’t exceptional, but it’s not bad. Nothing that seems worth stealing, that’s for sure. But his source is good, and his source said that this place was getting hit tonight. So he keeps his watchful eyes vigilant and pretends to sip the champagne in his hand.

Until he finds your exhibit.

There’s a depth to your art that he’s come to be familiar with–something he sees often in work of high value. Anyone can make abstract art, it’s as simple as flicking paint at a canvas. But few can charge it as emotionally as you have. To convey feeling and passion and heart through abstraction is a separate art form all its own, and it’s one you’ve mastered.

He’s seen original Rothko’s, Van Gogh’s, Kandinsky’s; he’s held their frames in his own two hands. But nothing’s ever made his breath hitch in his throat quite the way yours does.

He stands in front of a canvas simply labeled “Waves In Motion” with your name printed neatly underneath, brow creased with a concentration that seems a little unnecessary given the subject matter of the painting. It’s all shades of blue and violet, swirling together in a way that seems partly sensuous, partly violent. It makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle, and he takes a step closer. That’s when he notices it: a single dot of red paint right in the middle, a focal point of all the swirling cobalts. So small that he wouldn’t notice it if he wasn’t close; so small it could almost be interpreted as a mistake.

But he knows without having to ask that it’s not an answer. He wonders who that dot represents: you, the artist? Most likely.

Without meaning to, he smiles. It’s been a long time, years really, since a piece of art provoked such thought. 

“Hi.”

The voice Marcus hears next to him is soft, dulcet. He doesn’t turn to the noise quickly–from the tone in that word alone he senses a hesitance, as if you’re a fawn that’s lost its mother and you’re bound to run if he makes any sudden movements.

And, truth be told, part of him thinks he might not be able to look away even if he tried right now. There’s something so beautiful about this painting–and underneath, something so ominous. There’s an air about the work that says he might unlock the secrets of the universe if he just keeps looking.

“Hi there.” He keeps his eyes trained on “Waves In Motion” as he responds–playing the game. He’s here to brush shoulders, after all; to be the right amount of forgettable yet memorable. 

“This is my best, I think,” you murmur while taking a step closer. “It took the least time of all of them, surprisingly. But… I think when you know exactly what you’re trying to convey, it just comes to you easily.”

“These are yours?” There’s admiration in his eyes and an air of something akin to disbelief in his voice as he takes in the group of canvases proudly displayed on the plain white gallery walls.

And then he turns and lets himself take you in. More specifically the curling strand of hair that falls out of your updo to frame your face, the deeply plunging neckline of your dress, the way your calf muscles work even standing still in your high-heeled shoes. You’re a work of art in your own right; the most beautiful piece he’s seen in a long time.

“Yeah.” You duck your head–shyly, modestly–and he’s hooked. There’s one thing in this building that deserves awe and reverence more than your painting, and it’s you. “You know, you’re only the second person who’s come over tonight.”

“No way. They’re all just working their way back here,” he whispers before he can calculate a more articulate response.

But it works in his favor–your giggle is gorgeous, if a sound can be described that way. Sweet and syrupy, it seeps over him as if he’s standing under a cracked honeycomb. He hasn’t actually taken a drink of his champagne, and yet he can feel his nervous system tingling. You’re just that intoxicating.

“The gallery closes in half an hour,” you tell him–a little wistfully at that. “In my defense, I don’t have any family or friends in the area. I wasn’t really expecting anyone to show, not with so many other talented artists here.”

It seems so indignantly unfair to Marcus. That you’re shoved into the far back corner of the gallery, that people haven’t come in droves from all over the country to see your work.

“Where are you from?” He asks as his mind finally starts to clear from the haze it’s been in the past few minutes. With only half an hour left on the job, he allows himself a small sip of the drink that he’s been cradling all night.

“New York. This is actually only my second exhibition,” you explain, and you almost sound shy about it; as if you need to be embarrassed about being young and fresh-faced in the art industry, as if you aren’t the most talented artist Marcus has ever met in person.

He hums in response, eyes unconsciously dragging over you once more. “You came a long way for this.”

You smile so prettily up at him, and in that moment he sees something in your eyes. He can’t describe it–maybe it’s something akin to longing. Something incomplete, unexplored. It’s familiar; it’s the red dot from your painting. Solitary amidst the swirling, lost yet not hopeless.

And just like your painting, he finds himself wanting to get lost in your eyes.

“Well, it’s not every day a gallery wants to host you,” you say after another sip of your drink. “Plus, I’ve never been to Texas before, and I needed a change of scenery.”

There’s something so charming, so boyishly intoxicating about the smile he graces you with. “How are you liking it so far?”

“It’s hotter than I’m used to,” you say with a chuckle that he echoes. “And I haven’t been able to do any exploring yet, my flight only got in a couple hours before I had to be here.”

“That’s a shame,” he hums in a tone that reveals deeper meaning. “How long are you here for? Do you have any plans?”

“A week,” you murmur. Subconsciously he leans in closer, on the edge of his proverbial seat. To seal the deal, you lean in too. “And not a damned one.”

There’s no air between you and Marcus. You exist in a vacuum for this moment–unable to breathe, choking on anticipation. He’s so close, yet way too far away. You want to be consumed by him–for him to be swirling blue; and you, a single speck of red in his midst.

The moment shatters with an audible sound–a deep, penetrating voice. “He’s still not here, huh? I don’t think your boyfriend’s coming. If he even exists.” There’s something strange in the raspy voice that drawls these words–something strange enough to immediately put Marcus on the alert.

You flinch at the sudden intrusion into your vacuum, but you recover quickly. You have to, because this intrusive stranger is standing way too close and has way too much alcohol on his breath.

And then something strange happens–you worm your arm around Marcus’s waist and press yourself firmly into his side.

“Actually, he’s right here,” you say. There’s a quality to your voice that wasn’t there before when you were just talking to Marcus–it’s firm, clipped, bordering on hostile. “He just got held up at work. Isn’t that right, babe?”

Thankfully, Marcus has always been one to think quickly on his feet. He wraps his arm around your shoulders and pulls you closer, unconsciously moving an inch or two in front of you. Protecting without really meaning to. “I’m sorry, honey. I got here as soon as I could.”

The man–burly and balding, probably a good twenty years older than you–scoffs. “Unbelievable.”

“Is there a problem here?” Marcus draws up to his full height–towering a good few inches over this strange intruder.

Whoever this guy is, he’s not completely stupid. He senses this isn’t going to be a fight he’ll win, so he backs off. “Not at all, man. Just didn’t want little miss standing here all alone the whole night.”

“Thanks,” you say with bitter reprehension. You wind even closer to Marcus–closer than this sudden farce demands. “But we’re fine now.”

He nods once–curt and unhappy, but seemingly satisfied that he’s not going to get what he wants. “Have a good night, ma’am. Sir.”

Marcus takes a mental inventory of the man as he storms off, committing his physical description and his outfit to memory. He doesn’t look like a casual art viewer, and he doesn’t look like a collector. He’s exactly the type that Marcus came here to look out for.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper as you step out of Marcus’s personal space. “He’s been hovering all night, asking me who I’m going home with and shit.”

“That’s the other guy who came over to talk to you?” It brings a deep frown to his face, a crease forming between his brows. It certainly raises a red flag–if the guy has any eye for value, of course he would be drawn to your exhibit. And if he has an eye for value, he could be the guy Marcus came for.

“Yeah.” You rub the back of your neck awkwardly and avert your gaze, as if you should be embarrassed for drawing that guy’s attention. “It’s not been the greatest night.”

Marcus hates that. He hates that you came all this way to be let down, that this is only your second exhibition and you’ve had such a bad experience with it. More than anything, he hates that he can still see the spark in your eyes when you look up at him, and he can tell that it’s dimmed.

“Gimme just a minute.”

He doesn’t mean to be so abrupt, but he wants to make it quick. He hustles to the single-stall men’s room and tugs the radio out of his inside jacket pocket to call in the man’s description. Then he turns it off, tucks it back into its concealed pocket, and goes over to the sink.

He thought he looked perfect for the part he had to play when he left his house to come here. Now, he’s too disheveled. He wets his fingertips and tries to tame the mess on top of his head; he re-buttons his shirt and tightens his tie. He looks flustered, and he’s not even surprised by it. You’ve got his heart pounding with anticipation in a way he doesn’t think it ever has before.

Butterflies fluttering on in his stomach, he emerges from the restroom to resume his position by your side.

Except you’re not by your exhibit anymore, and the crowd has thinned considerably. He checks his watch and realizes there’s only five minutes before the gallery closes for the night. Maybe you’ve decided to cut your losses and leave early.

He hates the way his gut twists with disappointment, but then he reminds himself that he didn’t come here for you. He’s working, and he needs to stay vigilant. No distractions, no complications.

“You’re still here.”

There’s a wave of relief that washes over him as he hears your voice, and this time he’s not too timid to turn towards you. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Thought I might’ve scared you off.” There’s a fresh cup of champagne in your hand and a hint of vulnerability in your voice, and it makes his heart pick up pace just the slightest bit. You duck your head–that shy, modest gesture again. “I… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have just done that without permission.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he tells you, more earnestly than he’s ever said anything in his life. “I didn’t mind at all, I swear. Just had to hit the head.”

You look so deeply into his eyes he almost wonders if you aren’t looking through him. But whatever you find, you must like it.

He clears his throat and tries to not show how thoroughly unraveled he is by your gaze. “I’m Marcus, by the way.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Marcus.” You pause for a moment, and he can tell that there’s something else lingering on the tip of your tongue–so he remains silent in hopes of drawing it out.

“Do you have someone to go home to?”

There it is–the invitation he was both dreading and hoping for. He should really lie. He’s here on a job, after all–he’s supposed to avoid complications, and some instinct tells him you’re going to be much more than a simple distraction. But he’s told you the truth so far, and he doesn’t want to stop now.

“No. No, I don’t.”

This is everything that Marcus has never even considered doing. It’s late, it’s dark, it’s a little chilly for spring in Austin. The alley is grimey and drafty–your hair blows in the breeze even as you kneel down before him.

All he can do is stand there, dumbstruck with his back up against the rough brick wall, and stare down at you. 

He’s still breathless from the way you’ve been kissing him–all heat and passion, fire and brimstone. Your hands ran through his hair and undid the effort he put in while in the bathroom, and his hands clutched your waist in a futile attempt to ground himself. Your lips are so soft; he thinks he could kiss you forever and never get tired of it. He was certainly planning on finding out, until you dropped to your knees in front of him.

“You… you don’t have to–”

But the way you look up at him through your lashes makes his throat close up around whatever protest he was going to try.

“I want to,” you assure him–more of a purr than a spoken statement.

And this really isn’t the place. He shouldn’t let you do this here. But he’d be lying if he said the thought didn’t make him harden in his boring gray work slacks.

Marcus has never been about excitement. He’s always strayed to the comfortable and familiar–he falls into the sweet, caring companion role with grace and ease.

And tonight doesn’t have to be that different. If you’re going to suck his dick in a dark, dingey alley, he’ll let you. But he’s going to lay his jacket down on the ground so you don’t scrape up your knees first.

You keen at the thoughtful gesture and grace him with a grateful smile as your adept fingers work his belt open. He’s straining against the seam of his pants now, begging for the attention that your gaze promises him.

If he didn’t know better, he’d think you’re every bit as eager to get his trousers and boxers down as he is.

And Lord help him, he delights in the gasp you emit when his cock springs free from its confines.

“Fuck, Marcus.” Your lips actually part as you freeze for a moment, just taking him in. He’s thick, maybe an inch longer than average, swollen head peeking through uncut skin as if begging for your waiting mouth. He curves to the left just a little bit, and you can almost see his pulse thrumming through the prominent vein that runs along the length of him.

“S’not that impressive,” he mumbles, and you know that he knows that he’s full of shit.

Your fingers almost don’t wrap all the way around him, and suddenly you’re second-guessing this back alley stint, too. You want him in bed. You want him deep inside you, kissing your face as he fucks you, hands all over your body, thrusts hard yet slow. You want it languid, you want it desperate, you want it any way he’ll give it to you. You don’t want to blow him and say goodbye.

He calculates your hesitation as something other than pure unadulterated lust, and he lifts your chin gently with his index and middle fingers.

“Hey, we don’t have to–”

Again, you cut him off–this time, by dragging your tongue from the seam of his balls all the way along his length to swirl messily around his tip. You taste every heady inch of him and then moan at the salty foreshadowing on your tongue when you catch a droplet of precum leaking from his slit.

Your hand springs into action with a long, slow stroke along his cock, and then you sink your mouth around him and he moans. Without caution or pretense, like you’re not in an alley that anyone could walk down at any moment. It’s a little more high-pitched than he’d like for it to be and his head thumps back against the brick wall hard enough to hurt, and even still he’s never felt so overwhelmed with pleasure before in his life.

Your nose meets the neat patch of hair at his base and your free hand comes up to his hip, effectively pinning him against the wall when he tries to buck greedily even further into your mouth.

No one’s ever taken him so relentlessly before. You’re insistent, pressing onward even as you gag on his length, and it makes his balls tighten in a way he’s never felt before. It’s like you’re hungry for him; like you’re doing this more for your own pleasure than for his.

Marcus Pike has been a giver his whole life. Tonight, with you, he finally decides to take.

He’d be embarrassed about how fast he comes if you weren’t so eager for it. You moan around him and push yourself as deep as you can, throat working around him desperately not to choke on the size of him. Before he can warn you he’s spilling into your mouth, maybe more than he’s ever come before, thick and salty but undeniably sweet too. You allow yourself a moment to savor him as he pulses in your mouth, tongue swirling around the sensitive head of him in a way that makes him shiver and whine.

He’s panting, nearly light-headed, when you finally pull off of him and press one last gentle kiss over his slit.

“Holy shit,” he murmurs, because there’s nothing else to say.

You giggle, and he realizes with a strange wistfulness that he would do anything to keep this girl–a girl he’s just met, a girl who’s leaving to go back to her home on the other side of the country in just a week–smiling and laughing the way she is now.

“My hotel is only a couple blocks away,” you tell him as he helps you to your feet. “Would you like a nightcap?”

You pick up his jacket and dust the grime off it–it makes him chuckle. Everything about this encounter has flown in the face of what he’s used to. 

He’s never felt so alive.

“I would love a nightcap.”

Your senses wake up slower than normal.

First it’s your eyes–they tune in on the bright mid-sunrise light streaming through the open balcony blinds on the far wall. It falls in slivers and shards over the rumpled white hotel-standard bedding–the second thing your senses tune into. Everything is so soft and light, but it’s a little cold too. Especially the other side of the bed; there’s no heat remaining there at all.

You push yourself up with a grunt and let the sheets fall away from your bare torso, tired eyes scanning around the room. You notice clothes scattered all over the floor while your ears wake up enough to hear water running in the bathroom, and you can’t help the involuntary smile that spreads over your face. He’s still here.

Marcus lets the too-hot water wash over him in scalding waves, muscles still a little sore after a long night tangled together with you.

He checked his phone first thing this morning, and the gallery was quiet all night. They think the suspect he radioed in was the guy they were looking for, but they weren’t able to apprehend him. The running theory is that he might’ve recognized Marcus and decided low-value art wasn’t worth the hassle, but one guess is as good as the next until they can bait and catch the guy.

It’s the weekend now, and Marcus is thanking his lucky stars. Not only does he have a successful mission to celebrate, but he has the most beautiful woman in the world to celebrate it with.

He emerges after a few minutes, wet hair messily scattered over his forehead and wide hips straining against a low-slung hotel towel. He’s a languid Saturday morning wet dream on two legs.

“G’morning,” he hums with a smile–he doesn’t even try to hide the way his eyes dip down to hungrily take in your naked torso.

“Good morning, Marcus.”

He stalks towards you slowly, eyes darkening with each advancing step. It doesn’t take more than a second to realize he didn’t get his fill of your body last night, but you’re certainly not complaining.

He’s already starting to harden as he drops his towel and crawls over the foot of the bed, surging forward to capture your lips in a sweet kiss. If last night was desperation and passion, this morning is syrupy and sweet. He explores your mouth slowly, tongue sweeping between your lips and tracing every curve and ridge he can–almost like he’s trying to commit you to memory.

There are universes in the depths of his dark eyes. He may not say exactly what he’s thinking, but you can see it playing out in those baby browns of his. There’s something simmering underneath the surface–something more than just lust or desire.

Something dangerous.

You tug him closer and cup his face in your hands, enjoying the gentle scratch of morning stubble underneath your palms. He surges forward and presses you into the pillows as he settles himself comfortably between your spread legs. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs through kisses scattered along the length of your jaw.

You know you probably look like you got run over by a bus–you toss and turn in your sleep, and it always leaves your hair a matted mess. And that’s not even mentioning the slight tremble in your thighs, left over from Marcus’s enthusiastic attention last night. But there’s so much sincerity in his voice; you don’t think he would waste his breath saying it if he didn’t mean it, and that fact alone makes your heart pound with desire.

There’s a syrupy slowness to the way he moves down your body, lips leaving behind heavy wet kisses as he works down your chest and over your stomach.

And it’s almost like he senses the protest working its way up your throat when you feel his hot breath on your thighs, because he looks up at you and there’s sternness in his gaze. You got your fill last night, and now it’s his turn.

“May I?” He looks up at you from the apex of your thighs with big, round puppy eyes that are impossible to refuse–so you nod eagerly and don’t even try.

If you were eager to have him in your mouth last night, he’s desperate.

There’s no hesitation, no build-up. It’s almost aggressive, the way he buries his face in your heat. He laps like a dog at a bowl, hips canting into the mattress involuntarily as your taste floods his mouth.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he growls into your sopping cunt. “You taste incredible.”

You keen at the praise and card your fingers through his hair, tugging slightly at the damp, spiky strands when his tongue laves heavily over your sensitive clit.

Marcus’s greedy hands grip underneath your thighs and push them as far as you can comfortably spread them. You’re still so sensitive after at least three orgasms last night–you lost count after a point–and it serves to wind your nerves tighter than they’ve ever been wound before.

One hand slides to the junction of your thigh and his thumb comes to take over the pressure on your clit as his tongue plunges between your soaked folds. It’s even more overwhelming like this, and there’s not a thing in the world that you want to do more than let him have his fun. Especially when that hand and his tongue switch spots–his lips seal and suck around your clit while he presses two achingly thick fingers into your waiting entrance.

It actually makes your muscles tighten and your back rise off the bed as he curls his fingers just right to find that spot that makes you fall apart for him. 

He can tell you’re getting close–he’s already so intune with the way your muscles twitch, the change of pitch in your moans. You whine and cry for him the tighter he winds the rubberband, and he’s eager to make it snap.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he says over the overwhelming flutter of his fingers scissoring and curling inside you. “Let me have it.”

You squeeze your eyes shut so tightly as pleasure wracks through your body that you can see constellations. Large hands come to pin your thighs open as his tongue keeps working, lapping and gliding against your cunt with ease as a wave of arousal gushes from your entrance.

You’ve never been so wet in your life, and he’s just getting started.

He trails open-mouthed kisses up your body as you catch your breath–his slick-soaked lips coat your skin with your own arousal as he works his way up to allow you a taste of yourself.

The first wet lick of his tongue into your mouth makes you moan. It’s not the first time you’ve tasted your own slick–you’ve had a moment or two of curiosity–but it’s never been quite as enjoyable as it is on his tongue. It pairs so perfectly with the minty tang of toothpaste left on his breath and makes you hungry for more.

He moves fluidly under your direction as you push him onto his back and roll to straddle his lap all in one graceful movement. It’s perfect like this–he doesn’t have to support his weight so he can run his big meaty hands all over every inch of you, and you can kiss him as deep as you want while you grind down on his aching length.

“Shit, baby,” he pants against your lips. Those aforementioned beefy palms grasp hard at your asscheeks to guide your hips, pulling you into a slow, long grind that bumps the head of his cock against your clit deliciously.

Your pulse thrums with desperation until you’re seeing white–no more teasing, no more preamble. You take his girth in your hand and give him a firm stroke; if you had a little more presence of mind, you might be embarrassed at how wet his dick is simply from grinding against you for a few seconds.

“Go ahead, baby, take it when you’re ready.”

He gasps at the first press of his cockhead against your entrance, head flopping back against the pillows as his hands squeeze your asscheeks with bruising force.

“Shit, you’re tight,” he murmurs, throat working around a thick gulp. “You can take it baby, I know you can. Did so good for me last night.”

You think you would honestly do anything he asks of you so long as he just keeps talking like this.

It takes a moment for you to work your way down his length–he’s so mouth-wateringly thick and the curve of his cock hits the most delicious spot inside you that you didn’t even know existed.

“Atta girl,” he praises breathlessly as your hips settle flush against his. “Just sit there for a minute. So pretty on my dick.”

God, he makes your entire body flush with heat. He turns your blood to molten lava with his words, lighting every inch of skin on fire. You’ve never felt a sensation like this–so overwhelming yet so intoxicating.

You start with slow movements as his hands trace up and down your sides sweetly–it’s more like you’re grinding on him than anything else. His thumbs rub abstract little patterns into your skin as his hands work up to your tits; when he finally takes them in the palms of his hands and squeezes all pretense of soft, sweet morning-after sex flies out the window.

You drop down hard on his cock and it nearly punches the wind out of him. 

“Yes!” He growls darkly. His eyes flash with something dangerous–it’s the only warning you get before his hand slaps the meat of your ass and grabs a greedy handful. “Just like that baby, use my fuckin’ dick.”

And maybe, if he was someone else, you wouldn’t be nearly as eager to follow instructions. But with Marcus, you’re nothing if not obedient.

Last night was exploration and discovery–hours into the early morning spent learning each other’s bodies, finding what makes the other squirm and whine and beg. This morning is in perfect juxtaposition to that sweet, soft, probing sex–you know what drives each other crazy now, and you each use it to your advantage. Aggressively.

He surges up to suck a pert nipple into his mouth as you set a hard pace on him, long fingers pressing into your skin hard enough to leave marks. He lands another sharp smack to your ass when your thighs start to shake–a reward for using his cock exactly how he asked.

”M-Marcus—”

”I know, sweetheart,” he purrs through a guttural moan. He cants his hips up to meet your thrusts at just the right moment—he hits something so devastatingly pleasurable that your vision prickles white around the edges. “I know, it’s so much, isn’t it? It’s okay, you can let go. Come for me.”

There’s a condescending note to his voice that only makes you squeeze harder around his cock, and within seconds you’re hurtling uncontrollably into ecstasy.

He fucks you through the telltale fluttering of your cunt even when your hips stop moving; strong hands hold you in place and work you through the ebbing waves of pleasure that wrack through your entire body.

”M’so close, honey,” he grunts with a particularly sharp thrust upward. One hand comes up to cradle your jaw in his hand, forcing your eyes to meet his. “Where do you want me?”

”I-inside,” you gasp. “Come inside me, Marcus.”

He fills you as soon as he has your instruction—hard thrusts punctuated by breathy moans as he pumps you full of his release.

There’s a long, silent moment where Marcus pulls your bare chest tightly against his own and you pant into the crook of his neck while trying desperately to even-out your breathing. His fingertips dance across your skin-feather-light, soothing.

The sun is higher in the sky now and meets your eyes with blinding rays through the balcony shutters when they finally open again.

”That was amazing, honey,” he murmurs into the crown of your head. He’s caught his own breath now, but he doesn’t make any attempt to let you go. “How’re you so perfect?”

”M’not perfect,” you mumble into his shoulder; but even to your own ears, it sounds half-hearted. The truth is, he’s so earnestly honest that you believe him.

He hums his dissent with a kiss pressed to your hairline. ”You are to me.”

And you so desperately want to believe him that you don’t even try to argue.

You bask in this warm, lovely afterglow for a few moments longer before Marcus gently taps your hip. ”Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get cleaned up and I’ll buy you breakfast.”

You pull off of his softened cock with a whine and try not to get worked up all over again at the feeling of his cum leaking down your thighs. ”Th-there’s a free continental breakfast downstairs.”

”Oh, then I’ll definitely pick up the tab,” he jokes with a smirk—all you want to do is kiss his goofy, stupidly handsome face.

He pulls you into the bathroom and starts the water running to fill the tub—he’s never really been a bath guy, but your legs are a little too shaky to endure a shower. He’s so attentive—from running a damp cloth between your legs to helping lower you into the water. He doesn’t complain in the slightest when you catch his hand and ask him to join you; he just shuffles you forward and slides in behind you like it’s a casual act that he performs with every hookup.

It’s intimate. That’s really the only way to describe it. You sit between his spread legs, back to his chest, head rested back against his shoulder while his fingers ghost idle paths over your skin. You don’t talk; you don’t really need to. Somehow, you fit together like souls who have known each other for years. Like all you’ve been missing is each other.

You drift off in his arms as he traces soap over all the curves and ridge of your body, the steady beat of his heart thumping in your ear.

It breaks his heart a little bit to wake you—the fact that you’re so comfortable with him, that you trust him with such vulnerability, makes his head spin a little bit. But the water’s turning cold, and the last thing he wants is for you to come down sick or something.

He rouses you with gentle, feathery kisses scattered over your rosy-scented shoulders and neck.

”Mmm… what time is it?” You grumble, pressing your sleep-addled face further into the crook of his neck.

”Just after noon,” he whispers into your hair after glancing up at the clock on the wall.

He can feel the way your mouth shifts into a pout. “Shit. We missed breakfast.”

The adorable downward tilt of your frown as you lift your dad to look at him makes his heart flutter. “Let’s go out, then. The first farmer’s market of the season is going on downtown. I’m sure we can find something good for brunch.”

”Kinda sounds like you’re asking me on a date,” you hum with a slight smirk dancing at your lips.

”Maybe I am.” His tone is light, his meaning clear—he knows this goes beyond a one-night stand, and there’s no harm done if you’re not wanting to cross this boundary. He’d understand not wanting to get too serious about someone who lives thousands of miles away from your home, of course. He’d never blame you.

You give him your best appraising look, staring deep into those constellation-filled brown eyes. ”You’re not sick of me yet?”

”I have a feeling I couldn’t get sick of you if I tried.” There’s nothing but sincerity in his tone, in his eyes. He genuinely wants to spend time with you, even if there’s nowhere for this to really go.

You hum thoughtfully. “I do love farmer’s markets.”

You’re with Marcus more often than not over the course of the next week.

He takes you sightseeing to some of his favorite spots around Austin, brings you to his favorite restaurants, shows you his favorite movies. But he multitasks—while teaching you about himself, he learns as much as he can about you and picks activities he knows you’ll love, too. 

He’s a pragmatist; he knows your time together is short, and he wants to make himself unforgettable. If he never sees you again, he wants you to think about him every once in a while and look back on this time fondly.

You spend your days while Marcus is at work painting or drawing or lingering around the gallery, and you fall asleep in his arms every night. With shades of gray moonlight and candlelight cast over your hotel room, it almost feels like this could go on forever.

He tells you to wear something nice before he picks you up on the last night–he wants to celebrate in style, which starts with reservations at an up-scale restaurant. 

He’s so achingly handsome. He’s in a matching gray suit over a white button-up, top two buttons undone and no tie to be seen. His face bears the slightest five o’clock shadow and your eyes gravitate to the curve of his lips–the instant smile that takes over his face when those gorgeous brown eyes of his land on you.

If you never see him again, this is exactly how you want to remember him.

“Wow,” he whispers reverently. “You look amazing.”

It’s not the most impressive dress you own, but he looks at you like you’re wearing something worth millions–like you’re worth millions.

You lean up and kiss him, and everything feels right. His hands rest on your waist and it’s so easy to pretend that you won’t be on the other side of the country twenty-four hours from now.

The restaurant is beautiful. Dimly lit and romantic, tables spaced enough to give you some privacy. He takes your hand on top of the table and holds it the entire meal. The conversation is light and airy–you’re both stubbornly dancing around what really needs to be said.

Dessert is cleared and the wine bottle is empty by the time Marcus finally works up the courage to acknowledge the elephant in the room.

“I don’t want you to go.”

You knew this would be coming, but it doesn’t make it any easier. You avert your gaze, instead focusing on his large hand wrapped around yours and the windshield wiper motion of his thumb tracing back and forth over your palm. No one’s touch has ever sent such electric tingles through your nervous system the way his does.

You don’t know what to say, so you say nothing at all.

“Look, I…” He takes a deep breath and straightens his spine a little bit, hand leaving yours to gently cup your chin. He forces you to look him in the eyes as he breaks your heart. “I think this could really be something, if we gave it a shot.”

You haven’t lied to him yet, and you don’t plan to start now. “I… I think it could, too. If I didn’t have to go back.”

“Don’t go back then.” There’s a firmness to his voice, but it couldn’t be any more obvious that he’s begging if he actually got down on his knees. “Stay here with me. We’ll figure this out. Just… don’t go.”

And here–with his earnest eyes on yours and his gentle, loving touch on your skin–it’s easy to pretend that it’s that simple.

He takes you back to your hotel room and sheds you easily out of your dress. As cliche as it sounds, it’s not just sex this time. Things that it’s too early to say are buried deep within every kiss, every thrust. He hooks your legs over his shoulders and looks deeply into your eyes while he fills you and you’ve never felt so overwhelmingly connected.

The thud of his heartbeat is insistent in your ear as you come down from your high–so calming, so heartbreaking. You lay on his chest while his breathing evens out and soak up these last few moments of bliss. And then, once you’re sure he’s sound asleep, you carefully worm out of his grip. There’s one more thing you have to do before you go back to New York.

Loud, insistent ringing pulls Marcus from the depths of sleep. He tries to ignore it and go back to sleep, but now that his senses are alert, the sound in combination with bright Saturday morning sunlight won’t allow him the luxury. He presses his face deeper into the pillow that he’s somehow wound himself around in his sleep, but that damned ringing won’t stop.

He sits up slowly and tries to rub the sleep from his eyes–and that’s when he notices the empty sheets next to him. Your side of the bed is long cold, and he knows. Before he even sees the note on the dresser and your room key next to it, he knows you’re gone.

He finds his trousers discarded halfway between the bed and the door and pulls his blaring phone out of the pocket.

“The gallery got hit sometime early this morning. They took everything. Every goddamn piece. You need to get here now.”

His body moves on autopilot as he pulls yesterday’s clothes back on, fingers numb to all sensation as they work to button his shirt. This can’t be happening. It can’t be you.

He notices the note on the dresser as he’s threading his belt through the loops of his trousers, and his gut twists with a sickening sense of foreboding.

I really did fall for you, Marcus. But nothing good starts in a getaway car.

He’s not sure if you knew who he was the whole time and this whole thing was calculated, or if you just got lucky. He doesn’t want to believe you’re that cunning and cruel. He wants to believe that this is just a misunderstanding, that you’re out for ice or something and you’ll walk back through the door at any moment.

But you don’t.

The note is enough of a confession for him. He’ll have the power of the FBI on his side to find you–and he will find you. What he’ll do when he does, he’s not sure. He guesses he’ll know when he sees you.

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[cybrasigilism]

you’re watching

C Y B R A S I G I L I S M

welcome to my blog! my name is lydia, and i hope you enjoy your stay here :)

masterlist here ←

i love to write, obviously, and right now i’m focusing on squid game— HOWEVER, some new fandoms are coming and i hope that those of you who love my squid game writing stay along for the ride 🧡

a little bit about me! ↴

➤ my favourite shows are squid game and yellowjackets!

➤ my favourite colours are cobalt, vermillion, and yellow 💙🧡💛

➤ i adore all kings of music! my favourite bands/ artists are cocteau twins, tyler the creator, björk, slipknot and fiona apple :)

•──────•°•❀•°•──────•

my fic guidelines | stuff i will/will not write for! ↴

Yes ✅

➤ fluff (however cheesy it may be!)

➤ smut

➤ sub + dom reader perspectives

➤ angst

➤ headcanons/drabbles

➤ AU posts!

No ❌

➤ big age gaps

➤ rape/non-con/dub-con (consent is always implied at the very least in my fics)

➤ abusive dynamics

➤ waste kinks

➤ unnecessarily violent themes

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

love a theme redo 😈🙏

[staleclown]

drabble-burnt blue

ao3 link

A/N: Little summery drabble! Rated teen for very very mild swearing and some mild descriptions of pain. WEAR YOUR SUNSCREEN, KIDS!!!!!

“Connor. Kid. Sunscreen. I hate to break it to you, but you don’t exactly look like the type that tans.” Hank insisted, tossing Connor the bottle.

Connor caught it easily, then tossed it back onto the towel spread over the sand. “Nonsense, Hank. Androids can’t tan, and they certainly can’t be burned by the sun.”

“Fine, I trust you. But don’t come crying to me if you end up being wrong.”

…

Connor had been wrong. The day trip to the beach had been one of the most fun days Connor had experienced in his deviancy, though the water had been a bit cold. But now, back at home and several hours later, he was bone tired and couldn’t rid himself of sand no matter how many times he showered. There was also the odd, yet painful, blistering feeling blooming across his shoulders and back. The softest of the bath towels had felt like sandpaper on his unusually sensitive face, and Connor felt overheated no matter what his actual temperature was like. 

Connor winced as the soft cotton of his t-shirt agitated his raw skin. His diagnostic scans had shown minor damage to the synthetic skin layer, but the sensation was awfully intense for such a minute issue. He pushed himself off of the couch, where he had been sprawled with the ceiling fan on high, and pushed into the bathroom once more. He hadn’t really looked at himself in the mirror since arriving home, the oppressive heat and exhaustion tightening his focus. But he had to see the damage that was causing him so much discomfort. 

Across the hall, Connor could hear Hank’s snores, even through the door. Hank had taken what Connor was sure was the fastest shower in human history, and then disappeared into the bedroom where the snores had started up approximately a minute after. Connor, biting back a pained groan, pulled his shirt over his head before turning toward the mirror. 

Connor’s face, shoulders, back, and even ears were all tinged a muted thirium blue. And anywhere in the perimeter of angry cerulean hurt. Almost excruciatingly so. He winced, gently prodding at a damaged shoulder, the synthetic skin layer hot to the touch. He even thought it might have been more painful then than when they had arrived home. 

Steeped in his misery, Connor missed the cessation of the snores and the few soft thuds from across the hall. And, ever since Connor’s WD40 raid of the entire house just a few weeks prior, the usual telltale creak of Hank’s bedroom door was absent. Thus, Connor didn’t know Hank was behind him until he spoke. 

“‘Can’t get sunburnt,’ my ass.” Connor jumped, grimacing as he turned to Hank, who was smugly leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. His own face was burnt, just barely a little pink, but was very clearly doing much better than Connor was with his large swathes of boiling cobalt. 

“Well, technically, it isn’t a sunburn,” Connor replied, stubborn as ever.

Hank cocked an eyebrow. “Then what is it? Because it looks a lot like a damn sunburn to me, just blue.”

“Long-term exposure to UV rays can cause temporary damage to the nano-mechanisms that enable the fluid synthetic skin layer to project properly, which may cause discomfort in deviants. This gives the layer a blue tint in affected areas as, like the inner biocomponents, the outer mechanisms require thirium to function and self-repair properly.”

“Sooooooo…a sunburn.”

Connor sighed. “That is a very rudimentary way to put it, but it is very similar to the human experience of a sunburn, yes.”

“Well how do we fix it? Because I don’t think aloe vera will exactly help you.”

Connor winced for the millionth time as he pulled his t-shirt. The agonizing scrape against his raw, traumatized skin made him want to pull it right back off, but he refrained, afraid that the excess movement would only increase the pain. “That is correct. Keeping external conditions cold and adequate thirium levels will resolve it with time.”

Hank frowned. He had been right, but it didn’t mean he wanted the kid to suffer. Android painkillers were still in the very beginning stages of research and development, which meant Connor would have to just bear the pain until his systems healed the “sunburn.”

Connor swayed on his feet a bit, and Hank caught him by the upper arms before he could think better of it. Connor let out a gasp of pain, and Hank immediately shifted his hands so they rested closer to his forearms. “Sorry, son. I’m sorry. I was just worried you were going to fall. You feeling okay?”

“I feel a little…” Connor paused, as if he couldn’t exactly describe what the feeling was.

“Feel a little what, Con? You gotta talk to me, kid,” Hank urged, tightening his grip around Connor’s elbows. 

“Lightheaded? I think? My thirium reserves are a little low. A lot evaporated in the heat.”

Hank sighed, leading Connor slowly from the bathroom and back onto his usual spot on the couch. “Ah, kid, you’re dehydrated. Stay here and I’ll grab some blue blood from the fridge for you.”

Hank retreated to the kitchen, grabbing two cold thirium pouches from the fridge and an ice pack from the freezer. When he returned to the living room, he dumped all three items into Connor’s lap, who jumped at the shock of the temperature. 

Hank slumped onto the other end of the couch while Connor tucked the ice pack between his back and the couch cushion, sighing with relief, before tearing open the first pouch. 

“Thank you, Hank. This feels a lot better already.”

“Well it’ll feel a whole lot better next time if you put on the damn sunscreen when I tell you.”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

I've never asked anyone in my entire tumblr presence, I'm excited you'll be the first, even if it doesn't get done 🙏☆♡🥬

Anyways, I feel like there is a very sad amount of Soap content on here so like..idk maybe pining Soap fluff??

He's totally the type of guy to follow someone around like a lovesick puppy and everyone notices except the person of interest LOL

Congrats on the milestone btw!! You deserve it 😼😼

—Oblivious Pining

⇢ ˗ˏˋ 5k Drabble Masterlist ࿐ྂ

╰┈➤ ❝ [Johnny hangs off you like a silent beast. Not that you would notice, of course.] ❞

Everyone had seen it, and at this point, it had just become painful. The soft, gentle eyes—the instantaneous smile whenever your unit showed up, your form not for a second missed to those cobalt blues. The deepening color of his cheeks was another tell, along with how he would clear his throat whenever your eye caught his, quickly looking away as if a teenager sneaking glances at his crush.

Which was what precisely was happening, actually—minus the teenager part.

But the worst of it was that you had absolutely no clue.

Perhaps it was because you’d grown so used to his teasing attitude, or even his touches or his open expressions, but you, truly, hadn’t the faintest clue that those actions were Johnny’s way of saying he was interested in you. You went about your joint missions together, touching shoulders and smiling widely, and everyone was about ready to go right back to war just so the two of you could stop it with the puppy eyes already. 

“I’m losing my mind,” Gaz utters, blinking in rapid succession at the two forms as they walk side by side across the tarmac. “I am absolutely losing my damn mind.” The exasperation can be taken and scooped with a spoon. The Sergeant gestures with his hand. “Are they bloody blind? Both of them?”

“Seems like it,” the Captain grunts, eyes narrowed and arms crossed as Soap’s hand comes up and ruffles your hair, you swat him away and playfully punch his shoulder. The Scot fake balks back in imaginary pain. 

Price rubs a hand over his beard with a sigh as Ghost blankly stares from behind them, leaning back against the base’s walls. The Lieutenant breathes out, “Fuckin’ hell. Gonna be dead ‘fore these bastards figure it out.”

Your unit was sharing most of the same looks, rolling their eyes and placing bets once more on whether one of you would make a move. Across the way your face is comfortably heated, heart hammering and yearning for something more. Johnny thinks the same as he chuckles, one hand going to itch at the side of his head.

“Well, it was more than good to see you again, Dearie.” He says, and you huff a laugh. “There’s nothing better than watchin’ you work, eh?” 

It’s a tease laced with truth, and you shift your feet, trying to hide the sudden flip of your intestines.

“Quit it, MacTavish,” your smile is infectious, and you send a glance at the setting sun before your smirk gradually grows. “In my opinion, you all hot and sweaty beats that out of the park.”

“Oh, aye,” the Scot cockily tilts his head, raising a brow as his stubble moves back. “Know it does.” 

You chuff, head looking away in childish glee. “You’re impossible.” 

“Ah,” he licks his lips, leaning back on his heels. “Don’t worry now, Little Lady, I’m all yours to figure out—I promise.” The flirting was a constant from both parties, and neither of you tired of it. 

A small silence grew, and over the course of the last month or so, the pauses had become more and more frequent when the want to speak prevailed, but no one knew what exactly to say. You both blink at one another, noticing that you’ve both been staring heavily. 

Johnny’s throat clears, and he licks his lips before quickly looking away; you awkwardly chuckle and decide that his vest is the most interesting thing in the world.

Both small teams want to bash their heads into a wall. 

“I’ll be seeing you?” Johnny sighs softly, speaking as his accent grows deeper with thought. He wanted to scold himself for his cowardness but had no idea that you were doing the same. 

“Of course,” you nod firmly. “I’m not as big of a fool to ignore my favorite Demolitions Expert.”

“You’re makin’ go all shy now, ya little beast,” Johnny levels, his cheeks gaining a reddish hue. 

You spare a laugh, and that silence once more returns. He wants to tell you, but he’s not sure how, and that itself makes his body tense with indecision—tell you the truth, or live with his own hesitation on your answer. Spare the man, he was too blind to see how much you already adored him.

Blinking away, you clench your jaw and hold out your hand. “Until next time, Sergeant.”

Johnny smiles lightly, eyes going soft. There were so many things he’d accomplished in his life by running head-long into them; by barging down doors and thinking of an exit while his foot was already halfway outside. But this…this he didn’t mind taking his time with. 

You were worth every second. 

Johnny gently grasps your hand, squeezing it as he hums, lips twitching. The teams would have to wait in their annoyance for another day. 

“Until next time, Dearie. Don’t be a stranger.”

[wistfulwatcher]

Wow, this is a follower milestone I absolutely never expected to reach! I am beyond flattered that so many of you have followed me over the years, and especially that so many of your have stuck with me through the many, many, many, fandom changes.

In celebration of this milestone, I am taking gif and drabble requests! Please send me one of the words below, and an additional prompt(s) appropriate to the category.

FOLLOW; tell me which fandom/character/ship/etc. you followed me for, and I'll make a gifset of it. INTRODUCE; tell me one thing I introduced you to, and I'll make a gifset of it. MISS; tell me a fandom/character/ship/etc. you wished I giffed or wrote more often, as well as a 1-2 word prompt, and I'll make a gifset or write a drabble. REMAKE; pick a specific gifset I've made and I'll remake it now that my skills have (hopefully) improved! REMIX; pick a specific post I've made (gif, graphic, fic, meta, etc.) and I'll remix it by changing POV, colors, style, etc. CONTINUE; pick a meme from my open projects list and I'll make another gifset in the series. TEXT; give me a lyric or quote and a fandom/character/ship and I'll make a gifset or write a drabble inspired by it.

It's also been far too long since I've done a follow forever, so I'd like to give a special thank you to the mutuals I can't imagine tumblr without:

Some of you have been with me for over ten years, which makes me stupidly emotional tbh! Since there's a mention limit I have to be extra choosey, but even if I don't tag you directly please know that I truly value each and every mutual's presence on my dash ❤️

THE BESTIES AND IRLS: @dykedolly, @laurabenanti, @cobalts-beau, @samcat18, @its-a-pack-thing-babe, @ladysarabii

BLOGS THAT HAVE MADE MY TUMBLR EXPERIENCE EXTRA SPECIAL OVER THE YEARS (IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER): @acheleismyobsession, @aflawedfashion, @agathasajax, @alinaandalion, @banrions, @chilly-flame, @chocolate-cream-soldier, @damelola, @darthsavior, @debbielouocean, @delilahmidnight, @evilswan, @fireracesundermyskin, @fitchersvogel, @imusthavebecomesomething, @iwouldlovetoeatyourtoast, @jewishsuperfam, @kutekoolkat, @lesbiangabriellle, @littlebamflamb, @lizbethborden, @lizmitches, @lluthor, @loveexpelrevolt, @lucyllawless, @mariskahargitay, @missgrantscheerleader, @phoenix-91, @reflectingiridescent, @shatterthelight, @shinyalice, @singinprincess, @sophiedevreaux, @strangesmallbard, @tessaservopoulos, @thesnowymeadows, @tunemyart, @warningsine, @whenfatecollides, @when-fates-collide, @whodoesnataliehave, @xxtorchxx

and an extra special shout-out to my longest mutual @redfield5x5 ❤️ I am just as thrilled to see you on my dash today as I was 10+ years ago!

[scoutofmymind]

SCOUT omfg i just read your latest drabble and i’m on my knees begging you to write a little scene where hasan actually says the words ‘That’s my good boy. That’s it, baby.’ to Lu??? pretty pleaseee?

HAHAHAAAA IVE GONE MAD AND LASAN IS IN ITALY

We love them, we cherish them, we are small but mighty my precious Lasan Lovers

THIS IS GIVING SLIGHT CMBYN AND IT WASNT ON PURPOSE MORE SO JUST THE FACT ITS BASED IN ITALY AND ITS GAY???

Luigi is a mouthy brat and Hasan truly tries to be the Responsible One ™️ but who can resist a gorgeous needy boy with lashes LIKE THATTTT??????

I told yall I know how to write smut…… I’m just best at writing the gay kind.

This might be sloppy , I did a very quick edit!

Also I added one Turkish word bc I couldn’t stop myself. balim means my honey 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

"No," Hasan swats at Luigi's wandering hand as it reaches for his cobalt swim shorts, watching Luigi's brows furrow at the quick retort, a flash of defiance crossing those dark eyes. "Hands off, Casanova."

Luigi doesn't even try to mask the whine in his voice as he asks "Why?", his index finger finding and curling around Hasan's pinky in a gesture half-pleading, half-playful. He shifts his weight on the old storage chest at the foot of the bed, the weathered wood beneath him housing memories in the form of childhood blankets.

Hasan occupies one of the villa's many guest rooms, while Luigi claims his childhood bedroom — the same one that had sheltered his summer dreams until he was seventeen.

These days, the short hallway between their rooms no longer feels like the museum of expensive maiolica it once did. Now, when the house grows quiet and still, Luigi finds himself padding barefoot across cool tiles to slip beneath Hasan's sheets, or sometimes it's Hasan who appears like a shadow in Luigi's doorway.

“Your billion year old grandmother is here.” Hasan says harshly, his tone hushed and secretive as if her hearing was better than theirs.

Luigi scrunches his nose, his chin tilted upward to look at Hasan, “Nonna’s in the kitchen.” He trails, as if he wasn’t understanding the concern. His voice is rough around the edges from being his rowdy, mouthy self in the pool earlier when water volleyball became competitive, his cheeks rosy from the sun, lips pouty with thought.

"I don't understand what you're not grasping," Hasan murmurs, his attention drawn to the wide-open door where Mediterranean light pools across the terracotta tiles in molten streams. A deceptive silence flooding through the entrance — not true silence, but rather an orchestration of summer sounds devoid of human voices.

Goldfinches trill their melodies from the ancient olive grove, their songs weaving into the crystalline cascade of the centuries-old fountain that whispers through the shuttered windows. "I like it here," he continues, his voice mellowing into something tender and uncertain, "and I'd like an invitation ba-“

Luigi unfurls his body in one fluid motion, his toes catching the edge of the heavy door and easing it shut with practiced grace.

He nudges a Ferragamo against its base — a charmingly futile attempt at fortification. "My Ma loves you," Luigi breathes, a drowsy summer smile blooming across his sun-kissed face. His fingers find their way back to the drawstring of Hasan's swim shorts, tugging with newfound boldness while droplets of pool water still trace lazy patterns down his wrist. "Haven't seen my Dad laugh that hard in ages," he adds, voice warm with affection and tinged with something deeper, more meaningful — the unspoken suggestion that Hasan belongs here.

With him.

"Exactly. Again, Lu." He threads his fingers through Luigi's damp curls, still cooling from the afternoon swim, and Luigi melts into the touch with the same yearning intensity he's shown since the very beginning. "I don't understand what you're not getting."

"No one else is here," Luigi murmurs, pressing his head further into Hasan's palm like a sun-drunk cat seeking affection. His fingers find their way to Hasan's waistband again with practiced familiarity — four digits slipping beneath the fabric while his thumb traces a bold path over Hasan's steadily hardening cock, the dampness of the swim shorts doing little to mute the sensation.

“Your fucking gran-“

“She can’t hear or see shit, Hasan.”

The birds seem to grow a little louder, the wind in the trees making the noisy leaves dance right outside his window.

Earlier that morning, Luigi's cousin Elena — a precocious eight-year-old with limited English but boundless enthusiasm — had claimed Hasan as her personal project over breakfast.

While he'd sat there in his morning stupor, dark hair still mussed from sleep and heavy eyelids behind his glasses, she'd meticulously painted his nails the same blue as his swim shorts. Between careful brush strokes, she'd taught him Italian with all the authority a child could muster, her small hands gesturing animatedly as she pointed to objects and pronounced their names.

That was the moment, really — watching Hasan repeat ‘forchetta’ and ‘cucchiaio’ with exaggerated care, his newly painted fingers splayed across the weathered garden table, that Luigi felt something fundamental shift in his universe.

Luigi had barely cleared the lingering taste of Hasan from his mouth before desire bloomed anew in his chest — though this time, it stemmed from something deeper than physical hunger.

It was the way Hasan had leaned down to Elena's level, matching her enthusiasm with patient smiles and careful pronunciations, and the tender manner in which he'd guided her small hands through Turkish letters drawn on napkins, trading ‘günaydın’ for her ‘buongiorno’, his voice dropping to a gentle murmur that made Luigi's heart split open.

It transcended mere attraction — It was paternal, it was nurturing, it was so achingly domestic.

"You're making me feel like a fucking dog," Luigi grumbles, rolling his eyes with the dramatic flair of someone who's never learned the art of patience, someone used to getting what they want, the afternoon sun catching the green flecks in his irises and turning his frustration into something almost luminous. "Since when do I have to beg to suck your dick?"

"Since we came to your childhood summer home, where your parents and grandmother fucking adore me," Hasan counters, his fingers sliding down to the nape of Luigi's neck where they press a gentle reprimand into warm skin. The touch carries equal measures of affection and restraint, his thumb tracing absent patterns against Luigi's hairline. "And I'm sorry, Lu — for or some weird reason, I don't want to ruin that."

Luigi already knows how desperate he must look, pupils blown wide and lips parted, but something about Hasan's determination to preserve his standing with the Mangione’s only stokes the fire burning beneath his skin.

There's something devastatingly attractive about this man who charmed Elena over breakfast, who laughs at his father's terrible jokes, who helps his mother with the dishes — that still makes Luigi ache with want.

Another not-so-silent silence stretches between them, filled with afternoon birdsong and distant fountain murmurs, while the cogs in Luigi's usually-genius brain whir into motion.

His expression shifts from frustrated to calculating, that familiar spark of mischief igniting behind his eyes — the same look that preceded every brilliant idea and terrible decision since he was a teenager.

"Will you watch me, then?" His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip, a deliberate provocation disguised as an innocent gesture.

Hasan's shoulders ease their tension, his thumb circling around to trace the delicate geography of Luigi's Adam's apple while his palm finds its familiar haven at his nape. "Yeah," he murmurs, the word carrying both permission and warning.

He pulls away with visible reluctance, each centimeter of separation a small sacrifice, before settling onto the bed.

Luigi pivots on the storage chest to face him, movements fluid and deliberate. His swim shorts hit the terracotta tiles with a wet slap, revealing the stark boundaries where golden Italian sun meets paler New York skin — a map of summer days spent in the pool, of mornings tending to Elena's herb garden, of lazy afternoons stretched out on the villa's stone terraces.

"If anybody walks in, Nicholas," Hasan drawls, wielding the middle name like a weapon that makes Luigi's breath catch, "I'm closing my eyes." His voice drops lower, honeyed with amusement. "And you'll look like a fucking perv jacking off to me sleeping."

The warning only serves to paint a deeper flush across Luigi's sun-kissed cheeks, his pupils dilating at the dangerous game they're playing. He masks his excitement with a scoff, shifting on the wooden storage chest until he finds the perfect angle — one that displays everything, that turns his vulnerability into a weapon.

His hand wraps around his cock where it stands proud against his belly, already slick at the tip.

"Wouldn't be the first time," he manages through quickening breaths, leaning back on his left hand while his right traces lazy circles around the head of his cock. The afternoon light streaming through the window paints him in chiaroscuro, highlighting the tremor in his thighs, the way his chest rises and falls with each carefully measured breath, the flash of teeth against his lower lip as he fights to maintain his composure under Hasan's steady gaze.

"Do you know how ridiculous you are?" Hasan's brows furrow, head propped against a pillow still carrying the scent of his cologne. His gaze rakes over Luigi, who had shed feelings of shame like an ill-fitting uniform years ago. "You can't even go twelve hours, Lu. It's concerning." The judgement carries the familiar cadence of lectures past, delivered in that same tone that walks the razor's edge of disappointment and arousal.

This is the typical lecture, one Luigi has heard countless times — in their apartment's kitchen, in museum bathrooms, in the back of taxis.

Always with that same undertone of feigned disapproval that does nothing to mask the way Hasan's pupils dilate, the way his breath catches, the way his fingers twitch with the effort of maintaining control.

Though Luigi has never truly figured out if Hasan means it, because inevitably, invariably, Luigi will break him.

It's as certain as the tides, as predictable as the sun setting over the horizon — Hasan's resolve crumbling like ancient ruins beneath the persistent waves of Luigi's appetite for him.

The only variable is time.

The siren at their imagined shoreline — in reality, just the foot of the guest bedroom mattress — knew precisely how to arrange himself for maximum effect.

Luigi had mapped every microexpression that crossed Hasan's face over the years, catalogued each caught breath and stifled groan.

He knew Hasan preferred him in positions that highlighted his strength; the corded tension in his forearms as he braced himself, the fluid roll of muscle beneath sun-bronzed skin, the way his biceps flexed and shoulders strained under his own weight.

So he puts on a show of muscle and sinew.

He arches his back just so, letting afternoon light catch the dips and valleys of his body, knowing how the shadows will pool in the hollow of his throat, the curve of his spine, the planes of his abdomen. Each movement is deliberate, designed to chip away at Hasan's infamous self-control.

The first fracture in Hasan's defense manifests in that telltale gesture — his hand splaying flat against his stomach, just above the waistband Luigi had been desperate to breach moments ago. His eyes remain intent but soft and Luigi can't help but smile at the familiar sight of Hasan's resolve beginning to crumble.

"You come every time I do," Luigi retorts, voice rough with promise as he spits into his palm. The crude gesture is transformed into something almost elegant by the deliberate way he wraps his hand back around his cock, the afternoon light catching the gleam of wetness on his skin. "So, I don't see you making it twelve hours, either." The observation lands like a well-aimed arrow, precise and devastating in its truth.

Because for all Hasan's lectures about restraint, for all his carefully maintained control, he's just as helpless against this gravity between them — this pull that makes every separation feel like withdrawal, every touch like salvation.

Hasan groans softly, the sound caught somewhere between surrender and amusement as his lips curve into that familiar smirk.

He melts further into the mattress, whether from the plush comfort beneath him or his perpetual weakness for Luigi remains unclear. "Guilty by association, hm?" The words carry a warmth that belies their teasing tone, heavy with years of shared moments just like this one.

Luigi feels the gentle nudge of Hasan's foot against his folded knee, a casual point of contact that somehow manages to send electricity racing through his already oversensitive skin; his breathing has turned ragged, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow pulls, and a delicate flush has spread across his body like watercolor bleeding across paper. "Mhmm," he manages, the sound more breath than word, his usual sharp wit dulled by the heat building low in his belly and the intensity of Hasan's gaze tracking every minute movement of his hand.

His movements grow more desperate, jaw going slack as he works himself with practiced precision. His attention fractures, torn between Hasan's steady gaze and the evidence of his own arousal — the pearl of precome catching the light as it slides over his knuckles, his nipples drawn tight against the cool air, the hypnotic flex and release of muscle beneath golden skin with each wave of pleasure that crashes through him.

Every stroke brings him closer to that precipice, his body an instrument being played to perfection.

"On the bed." Hasan's command comes rough and low, accompanied by a pat against the empty space beside him — another crack in his carefully constructed restraint. “C’mere, balim”

The words carry enough weight to make Luigi's breath catch, even as a triumphant spark ignites behind his eyes.

He relocates with fluid grace, positioning himself at an angle that lets Hasan see everything, the mattress dipping beneath his weight as he spits into his palm again. The new position brings them close enough to share breath, close enough for Luigi to catch the subtle changes in Hasan's expression as his control continues to slip away like water through cupped hands.

"Fingers this time." Hasan's words hover between question and command, but Luigi nods eagerly regardless, as if this had been written into his strategy all along, another step in his careful choreography of undoing.

And that's when the final fracture appears in Hasan's carefully constructed stronghold, bringing the entire fortress tumbling down.

His palm finds home against Luigi's burning thigh, his own cheeks flushed with more than just the afternoon heat. The pretense of a mid-afternoon nap abandoned, he's now fully present in their shared moment, caught in the gravity of Luigi's orbit as he always inevitably is.

Luigi huffs out soft breaths, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Touch me," he whispers, voice tight with need, but Hasan remains unmoved by the request.

"Not how you ask for things.” Hasan reminds him gently, thumb tracing idle patterns against Luigi's thigh.

Another quiet sound escapes Luigi's throat, followed by a more earnest: "Please touch me." The words carrying all his vulnerability, all his trust, laid bare in the afternoon light streaming through the opened windows.

"Mm, that's my good boy," Hasan murmurs, the praise falling soft and private between them, his hand wrapping around Luigi's length, finding it hot and slick against his palm. The effect is immediate — Luigi's face transforms with pleasure, lips parting on a silent gasp as his body responds with involuntary tremors, hips seeking more contact with desperate, aborted movements. "That's it, baby.” Hasan breathes, his voice carrying that particular tenderness reserved only for moments like this, when Luigi finally lets himself be guided instead of leading.

"Just as bad as me," Luigi manages between ragged breaths, his usual composure fracturing under the onslaught of sensation.

His own rhythm falters, fingers slipping free as he braces himself instead, palms pressed hard against the sheets as his hips roll with deliberate precision into Hasan's grip, each movement drawing another soft sound from his throat.

Sweat gleams across his skin like morning dew, and his dark green eyes, heavy-lidded but intense, lock with Hasan's amber gaze in a connection that feels almost tangible in its electricity.

"Look at you.” Luigi breathes, the words carrying equal parts wonder and satisfaction.

Hasan's movements slow to an almost lazy pace, his body shifting toward Luigi with the casual grace of earlier sunbathing. "Always gotta run your mouth, don't you?" The words carry no real reproach — instead, they're wrapped in something closer to reverence, as if Luigi's endless commentary is as essential as air. "Hm?"

His free hand traces idle patterns against Luigi's hip, a counterpoint to the deliberate stroke of his other hand, the touch both grounding and maddening.

Luigi huffs softly, his hips working in desperate rhythm against Hasan's grip. "No," he manages through clenched teeth, a whimper catching in his throat. "Just wanna remind you—" The words come between heaved breaths, defiant even now. "The soapbox makes you taller, but you don't really need the height."

The gentle flame in Hasan's eyes ignites into an inferno.

In one fluid motion, he has Luigi on his back, his own swim shorts joining the growing collection of discarded clothing on the villa's tile floor.

Luigi's thighs fall open in welcome, bracketing Hasan's broad frame like they were made for this exact purpose. "Is that right?" The words rumble low in Hasan’s chest as he spits into his palm, adding to the slickness already there, his fingers find their target with practiced ease and Luigi's body responds like a well-tuned instrument — a moment of tension followed by immediate surrender, as if his sharp tongue and Hasan's touch are the only constants he truly knows.

"Sì." Luigi whispers, his eyes heavy-lidded and unfocused, fingers weaving through Hasan's soft waves, "And as much as you might wanna deny it," he draws in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, the sound dissolving into a gentle moan, "You want it just as bad as I do."

Hasan hums in agreement, leaning down until their foreheads touch, finally letting their lips meet in the messy, desperate kisses. The contact feels like coming home after too long away, like the first rain after drought. "Of course I do." Hasan's nose brushes against Luigi's, tender despite the heat between them. "It's my self-control I'm hoping to instill in you."

A breathy laugh escapes Luigi, more air than sound, interrupted by more desperate, messy kisses that speak of long-denied hunger. "Yet, here you are.” he breathes against Hasan's mouth.

Hasan can't argue — doesn't want to argue — with the clever demon beneath him who's managed to back him into the sweetest of corners. "Mhm. Here I am." he rumbles, the words vibrating through both their chests.

In one fluid motion, his fingers withdraw and he pushes his hips forward instead, their bodies connecting like puzzle pieces finally finding their match.

A whimper tears from Luigi’s throat when Hasan bottoms out, the sound raw and honest, stripped of all pretense as afternoon light catches the sweat on their skin, turning them both to gold.

Luigi's body arches beneath him like a drawn bow, every muscle pulled taut with pleasure, his smart mouth finally silenced except for the desperate sounds Hasan pulls from him with each careful thrust.

He unravels completely, his cheeks flushed deep crimson, dark curls dampened anew with sweat. His eyes struggle and fail to focus as Hasan begins to move — a deceptively gentle rhythm that lasts only moments before transforming into something more primal, Hasan's hand finding purchase on the aged wooden headboard to muffle its protest against the villa's ancient walls.

And now, in a turn that would be almost amusing if they weren't both so far gone, Luigi finally seems to grasp the virtue of obedience and silence.

His hand clamps over his own mouth, overwhelmed by the cascade of sensations that wash over him with crystal clarity, each one distinct yet harmonious in their assault.

The way the gentle sway of Hasan's gold 'L' necklace between them catches the light with each movement, a hypnotic pendulum marking time.

The slick heat where they're joined contrasting sharply with the cool breeze drifting through the windows, making his nipples tighten to aching points.

He feels full in ways that transcend the physical — not just from Hasan inside him, but from the weight of this moment, from the particular tenderness Hasan maintains even in his fierceness.

It's a contradiction that makes perfect sense; how Hasan can be both storm and shelter, both force and gentleness.

"Look at me, baby," Hasan whispers, fingers gentle as they brush sweat-dampened hair from Luigi's forehead, thumb tracing the arc of his cheekbone with impossible softness.

Luigi tries to comply, but his world has split and doubled, everything soft at the edges like a painting left in the rain.

This version of Luigi — undone, unguarded, stripped of his usual sharp edges and clever deflections — is Hasan's favorite, though it's a rare gift to witness it.

Completely enthralled, taken, and surrendering every ounce of control.

“God, you’re so fuckin’ pretty.”

Hasan probs comes inside him and like eats it out by the window to make a point that if Luigi wants to take it there, he’ll take a it a mile further.

Thank you for reading I love you