#Did not proofread

[childrenofcain-if]

How would the RO's change MC died after they were romanced?

C LACROIX

C wasn’t made for grief.

they were made for insulting words and cutting smiles, for elegant lines and perfected exteriors. loss was not something they wore well; it settled wrong, like a coat several sizes too heavy, dragging them down. they didn’t know how to process it, not when they first heard the news, not when they saw your body, not even in the quiet moments afterward when the world felt like it had slipped out from under them and left them hollow.

it was a plane crash. nothing grand or cinematic, just a routine flight that went horribly wrong, the kind of accident that everyone reads about but never imagines happening to someone they love. one second, you had been flying back from a conference, and the next, you were gone. just like that. no warning, no chance to say goodbye.

C had stared at the TV when the news broke, their face frozen in something close to disbelief, their hand still clutching his phone like maybe, just maybe, you would call and say it was all a mistake. it was supposed to be a big fucking joke, wasn’t it? it had to be. you were too alive to just disappear. you were too vivid, too present, too… everything.

when the silence settled, after the news anchor had moved on to some other tragedy, C let their phone fall from their hand. the sound of it hitting the floor was distant, a hollow echo that meant nothing. everything meant nothing.

they never cried. not at the funeral, not during the long, agonizing weeks that followed. people expected them to, C could tell. they waited for the breakdown, the outpouring of emotion, the proof that C.A. Lacroix was, in fact, human. but it never came. instead, they stood by your grave, their hands in the pockets of their coat, their eyes as dry as the winter air around them.

“i always thought i’d be the one to leave first,” they said quietly, their voice almost drowned out by the wind. it was a bitter truth. C had lived their life like they were invincible, like nothing could touch them. and now, standing there in front of the cold stone with your name etched into it, they realized how utterly foolish that had been.

one night, weeks after the funeral, C found themself in your apartment that you’d rented after graduation, sitting on the edge of your bed. the door had been left unlocked for them by the landlord, who had given them a look of pity before leaving them alone with the memories.

the apartment was the same as it had always been. same stupid art that C had painted on the walls. same worn leather couch. same lingering scent of lavender in the air—so faint now it was barely there, but enough to make their throat tighten. they walked through the space like a sleepwalker, their fingers brushing absentmindedly over the coffee table, the kitchen counter, the handle of your favorite mug.

this is it, they thought. this is all that’s left of you.

they then proceeded to walk to your bedroom. it was untouched, as if you might walk in at any moment. they picked up one of your books from the bedside table, thumbed through the pages without really seeing the words. it was a tattered old paperback you’d read a dozen times. they flipped through the pages, stopping at the footnotes you’d scribbled in the margins, half-formed thoughts, sarcastic remarks, things you’d meant to tell them but never got the chance to.

their fingers traced the words as if that action would bring you back to them.

“you were always smarter than you’d think,” C murmured to the empty room, their voice rough, broken at the edges.

but there was no answer. there never would be.

the door creaked slightly, and C’s heart leapt for a fraction of a second before reality crashed back down. It wasn’t you. it would never be you again. they closed their eyes, trying to will the ache away, but it only spread deeper, gnawing at the hollow space you had left behind.

***

for a long time, they did nothing. they went through the motions of life—work, social engagements, even the occasional meaningless flirtation—but it was all mechanical. they weren’t there, not really. they were somewhere else, trapped in the memory of what you two had, of all the things they never said to you when they had the chance. the words that stuck in their throat now were the ones they’d dismissed as unimportant then.

because they thought you still had time.

“come back,” C would whisper into the dark of their empty apartment one night, drunk and foolish. “you’re supposed to be here, damn it.”

C hated how small their voice sounded. they hated the vulnerability that seeped in when no one was watching, when the mask they wore for the world slipped just enough for the cracks to show. they didn’t want to be vulnerable. not to anyone. especially not to a ghost.

***

years passed like water through cupped hands, but it didn’t heal the way it was supposed to. instead, it twisted the wound, making it fester in the quiet moments. C became colder, more rough. people commented on it behind their back, how they’d changed, how they’d become more distant. as if they hadn’t always been distant. they avoided relationships like a plague, finding them tiresome, pointless.

they took to spending more time alone. alone felt safe. alone meant no one could disappoint them. alone was all they had now.

***

C never married. they never loved anyone after you, not in the way that mattered. there were flings, of course—fleeting, shallow things that never stuck. they didn’t want them to stick. they’d feel sick everytime afterwards; it was a subconscious way to punish themself.

when C died, at the age of 74, it was in a quiet, sterile hospital room, their body finally betraying them to some nameless illness they didn’t care enough to fight. no one was at their bedside. no family, no lovers, no friends. just them, alone, the way they had spent the last decades of their life.

the nurse who came to check on them found a small silver bracelet on their wrist, the only piece of jewelry they ever wore. it had been there for as long as anyone could remember, though no one ever asked them about it. but rumours are fickle, and there were many. they believed it belonged to the only soul C had ever loved; they’d be right.

alas, there was no confirmation. C never talked about their past, never spoke of the person who had owned their heart so completely all those years ago. but the bracelet stayed with them until the very end, a quiet reminder of the love that had once been, the love that had shaped them in ways no one could see.

and so C.A. Lacroix left the world as they had lived in it—cold, distant, and untouchable. they were buried next to an heir who died young, a fortune to their name which C had inherited and then donated to several charities around the globe.

V NÆSHOLM

V would’ve never imagined that their life could unravel so completely in the span of a single, terrible moment. they’d spent so much time wrapped up in their faith, in the steady rhythm of prayer and the familiar weight of their cross resting against their chest, that the thought of losing you seemed almost impossible, even when they whispered it in the quietest corners of their mind.

but now, you were gone, and all V could do was stand there in the hospital room, staring at the empty bed, their mind slow to catch up with the horrifying finality of it all.

it had been a car accident. quick, brutal, unexpected. you had been walking home, your usual route through the city, nothing unusual. just a random, terrible twist of fate—a driver who wasn’t paying attention, a red light ignored. and then the call. V had gotten the call, their heart dropping into their stomach the moment they heard the voice on the other end, calm but clipped, like they were just delivering bad news in a routine, detached way.

at first, V had held out hope. they’ll be fine, they told themself, clutching the metal cross around their neck so tightly the edges dug into their palm. they’re strong. they’ll be fine.

but you weren’t fine. you didn’t wake up. you didn’t squeeze V’s hand back or open your eyes when V whispered their name. the machines hummed, the doctors muttered their apologies, and in the end, it was just… over.

***

in the days that followed, V couldn’t seem to find solid ground. the world tilted around them, spinning out of control, but they kept moving as if through thick, suffocating fog. people spoke to them—friends, family, even strangers at the funeral—but none of it registered. the condolences, the words of comfort, they slid off V like rain on glass, unable to penetrate the haze of disbelief and sorrow that wrapped around their heart.

they spent hours alone in the small church near their apartment, staring at the flickering candles that lined the altar. the scent of incense hung heavy in the air, but it didn’t soothe them the way it used to. nothing did. not the prayers, not the hymns, not even the familiar rhythm of the rosary beads sliding through their fingers. they prayed, but the words felt empty now. they didn’t know what they were asking for anymore. forgiveness? strength? understanding? none of those things seemed to matter when you were gone.

one evening, weeks after the funeral, V found themself at the spot where it happened. it wasn’t a conscious decision; they had just been walking, trying to escape the suffocating quiet of their apartment, and their feet had carried them there. the street was busy, cars rushing past, people laughing as they walked by, utterly unaware of the history beneath their feet. V stared at the pavement, at the place where you had fallen, and something inside them broke.

“i should’ve been there,” V whispered, their voice swallowed by the noise of the city. “i should’ve… i should’ve done something”

they didn’t know how they could’ve stopped it, but the guilt was there, gnawing at their insides like a slow, relentless tide. they wrapped their arms around themself, clutching at their cross like it was the only thing holding them together. but the truth was, they weren’t holding together. not really.

“i don’t understand,” they murmured, their voice trembling. “i don’t understand why god took you. you didn’t—” their voice broke, and they pressed a hand to their mouth, the tears coming faster now, hot and relentless. “it wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

V stood there for what felt like hours, the world blurring around them as their tears blurred their vision. they had no answers, no solace. only the terrible, aching silence of a world without you in it.

***

in the months that followed, V’s faith began to falter. they went through the motions, attending church, praying before bed, but it all felt distant, disconnected. the questions swirled in their mind, louder and more insistent with each passing day. why would god take someone so good, so full of life? what kind of plan was this? V had always believed in a higher purpose, in the idea that everything happened for a reason, but now? now, nothing made sense.

V stopped wearing their cross. they couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it happened—one day, they just forgot to put it on, and then the next day, and the next. eventually, it stayed in the drawer by their bed, tucked away like a relic of a life that no longer made sense. their prayers, once a source of comfort, felt like words spoken into a void. and V, for the first time in their life, felt truly alone.

***

time passed, but the ache never really went away. V learned to live with it, the way one learns to live with an old wound that never quite heals. they moved on, or at least that’s what everyone said. they got a new job, met new people, filled their days with distractions. but every time they walked past the spot where you had died, they felt that same hollow ache in their chest, the same weight of regret pressing down on them.

V never got married. they didn’t believe in soulmates anymore, not in the way some people did, but they knew deep down that they’d never love anyone the way they’d loved you. they carried that love with them, quiet and steady, like a flame that never went out, even as the years blurred together and their hair turned gray.

when V died—peacefully, in their sleep, at the age of 83—they were found with an old, worn photo of you tucked under their pillow. the photo was crumpled and faded, but V’s fingers had held onto it until the very end. they were buried with it, and when the priest spoke at the funeral, he didn’t know the story behind the photo. he didn’t know how V had spent a lifetime missing someone they’d lost too soon, someone they’d never stopped loving.

but that love? it stayed with V, even in death.

W OSTENDORF

W had never been good at letting go. of anything. not of people, not of feelings. so when you died, it was like losing gravity, like the world had unmoored itself from beneath their feet and left them floating, untethered, in an endless, cold space.

for a while, they had you. they had you in all the small ways that mattered—the quiet moments in the morning when you would drink coffee together, the long, easy silences that wrapped around you like a second skin, the unspoken understanding that nothing could break them.

until something did.

it had been an illness, terminal and insidious. at first, W thought it was just exhaustion—long nights of work catching up with you, a bout of stress, nothing that couldn’t be fixed. but then the doctor’s visits turned into hospital stays, and the vague reassurances became grim warnings.

you got weaker, thinner, your voice a little quieter every day until W couldn’t ignore the gnawing dread that curled in their stomach every time they looked at you. you tried to be brave about it, for them, for everyone, but W could see it in your eyes—the fear, the acceptance.

“i’m not scared of dying,” you had told them one night, your hand trembling as you reached for them. “i’m scared of leaving you.”

W had kissed the top of your head, their lips pressed hard enough against your hair to hide the fact that they were shaking too.

“you’re not going anywhere,” they’d whispered, because the alternative was impossible. they couldn’t lose you. not you. not again

***

but you did go. slowly, painfully, slipping away in a way that left W feeling raw and powerless. they were there, at the end, holding your hand, their voice cracking as they begged you to stay. but you didn’t.

and W broke.

it wasn’t a loud break, not at first. it was quiet, a silent shattering of everything they had built around themself, a slow unraveling of the person who had once known how to smile, how to laugh, how to love. they went through the motions at the funeral, shaking hands, offering nods of thanks to the people who said they were sorry. they were all sorry, but what did it matter? sorry didn’t bring you back. sorry didn’t fill the gaping void that swallowed them whole every time they closed their eyes and saw the empty space beside them where you should’ve been.

***

in the weeks that followed, W became a shadow of themself. they stopped going out, stopped answering calls. their apartment was too big, too empty, every corner of it a reminder of the life they’d lost. the couch where you used to sit together. the kitchen where you would make fun of their terrible cooking. the bed—god, the bed—where your absence felt like a punch to the gut every night when they lay down and realized they’d never feel your warmth beside them again.

they didn’t cry, not really. not like they thought they would. the grief was too big for tears, too vast and strangling. instead, it weighed them down, pressed against their chest until it hurt to breathe. every morning, they woke up and went through their routine—shower, coffee, sit at their desk—but it was all mechanical, all pointless.

emerson tried to reach them, worried out of their mind. their aunt asked if they were okay. but W couldn’t answer them. they didn’t know how to explain that the person they had known, the person they used to be, had died the same day you did.

***

time passed, but it didn’t heal. W didn’t move on. they didn’t want to. moving on felt like a betrayal, like erasing the only part of them that still felt real. they didn’t go on dates, didn’t flirt or laugh or even think about love. they couldn’t. not without thinking of you, not without comparing everyone to you and finding them all lacking.

sometimes, late at night, W would pull out the old letters you had written them. small notes, tucked into books or left on the counter, filled with inside jokes and quiet declarations of love. they’d read them over and over until the words blurred, their vision clouding with tears they never let fall.

“i miss you,” they whispered one night, the paper crinkling in their trembling hands. “god, i miss you so much.”

the apartment echoed back in silence.

***

W never married, of course. people talked about it sometimes, behind their back, wondering why someone like them—successful, good-looking, with their whole life ahead of them—never found anyone else. they didn’t understand. they didn’t know what it was like to have your heart buried with someone else.

they grew older, their hair turning silver, their body slowing down in ways they hadn’t expected. but they kept going, day after day, carrying the weight of their grief with them like an old companion. it wasn’t sharp anymore, not like it had been, but it was always there, lingering at the edges of their mind, a dull, constant ache.

when W died, quietly in their sleep at the age of 79, they found them in their armchair, a book in their lap and a small silver band on their ring finger. it was worn, the inscription inside barely legible after all the years. but if you looked closely enough, you could still make out the initials: three letters which belonged to a young heir of a massive fortune who died a long time ago.

W hadn’t spoken about you in decades. they hadn’t needed to. you were always with them, in the silence of their apartment, in the spaces between their thoughts, in the worn pages of the notes they had never thrown away.

D DIACONU

D—rook, as many would know them—had always been too good at running. they knew how to leave feelings behind, how to laugh things off, how to keep people at arm’s length so nothing ever hurt.

“flighty little wolf,” mihail, their older brother, would laugh when they were younger. the sentiment didn’t lose itself even as D grew older.

it was easy, life was easy, until you. and suddenly, nothing was easy anymore. they were flirty by nature, playful, keeping everything light, but you were the exception to every rule D had lived by. the one person they couldn’t outrun.

but even then, D didn’t want to acknowledge it—not completely. love was an unwelcome thing, something that made people weak, made them care too much. so, they danced around it, avoided the word, kept things just close enough but never fully admitted it.

they were still D, still flirty, still detached on the surface. yet, whenever you were around, something about them softened in ways they’d never allowed before. in those moments, they were scared shitless. because what if one day you weren’t there? what if you disappeared like everything else D had been too afraid to love?

***

and then it happened. suddenly. the kind of thing that’s supposed to happen to other people, in distant stories, not to you. you were in an accident—an unforgiving, tragic turn of events that left D shattered. they were at the scene. D could still remember the way the sky looked, overcast and thick with grey, how the sirens sounded distant, like they were underwater. it wasn’t real. it couldn’t be real. they stood there, frozen, heart in their throat, staring at the wreckage that used to be a car, and everything in their world stopped moving.

D didn’t say a word, not to the paramedics, not to the people around them. they couldn’t. there was nothing to say. nothing mattered anymore. you were gone.

***

“you’d laugh if you knew,” D muttered under their breath one night, sitting alone in the corner of some dingy bar. they stared down at the half-empty glass in front of them, spinning it slowly between their fingers. “all this time, you thought i didn’t care. that i didn’t... feel. but here i am. utterly wrecked by you.”

they chuckled, but it was hollow. the kind of laugh that only came out when the truth was too heavy to hold in. because you had gotten under D’s skin in a way that no one else had. even after all those times D had told themself not to fall, not to let you get too close, it had happened anyway. and now, D was stuck with all these feelings they didn’t know how to handle.

so they write and write. songs after songs, pages after pages filled with their long-gone eternal muse. the band’s popularity skyrocketed, the producers milked it for as long as they could.

D could not bring themself to give a shit.

***

months passed, and D became a ghost in their own life. they showed up, sure, but it was like they weren’t really there. they’d skate through the days with the same careless swagger, but something was missing. people started to avoid them. it was too hard to be around someone who looked alive but was dead inside. it seemed like the only people who tried to be there for them at that point were their bandmates and C.

they would laugh it off when their friends asked if they were okay. “me? i’m fine. never better. just living, you know?” and they’d wink, flash that charming smile that always got them out of trouble.

but the world became smaller, dimmer. D moved from one party to the next, one high to the next, chasing something they couldn’t name, something they had lost with a bright-eyed heir with an evergreen heart. nights blurred into mornings, and nothing felt real anymore. nothing except the ache, the emptiness that had been left behind.

on some nights, after too many drinks and too many bad decisions, D would find themself sitting in a bathroom, staring at their reflection in the mirror. their pale face would be gaunt, their gray eyes hollow. they would look like a stranger.

rook didn’t know who they were anymore.

***

D died young. too young. it was late one night, after another wild party, and they had pushed things just a little too far. the drugs had been an easy fix—an easy way to drown out the feelings they didn’t want to face. but this time, their body couldn’t handle it. the paramedics found them slumped on the floor of a room at chelsea hotel, empty pill bottles scattered around like confetti from a life that had spiraled out of control.

but what was strange—what the paramedics couldn’t quite understand—was the look on D’s face. even in death, behind the glazed-over eyes and the pale, lifeless skin, there was a smile. a soft, almost peaceful smile, like D had finally found what they’d been searching for all along.

in the end, D had stopped running.

M WHITLOCK-SINGH

the news of your death came to M as a whisper, traveling through the rigid, polished halls of their life before it reached their ears. at first, it didn’t make sense. death, for someone like you, felt improbable, impossible even.

you had been everything untamed in M’s world, everything wild and unpredictable, a force of nature that couldn’t just stop. yet, the world had stilled. all the reckless plans you had made—the fleeting escapes, the late-night laughter—had ended in a way too final for M to comprehend.

M grieved in silence. royals were trained for composure, for duty above all else, and M had mastered that lesson too well. there were no public displays of despair, no headlines that suggested the depth of the loss they felt. even when they stood at your graveside, surrounded by others who wept openly, M stood perfectly still, a model of grace and solemnity. inside, though, their chest felt hollow, as if someone had reached inside them, twisted through the maze of their ribs and snatched their heart away.

after the funeral, M’s life became a carefully curated performance. they married—someone of equal status, someone safe and suitable—but it was all a façade, a slow march into an existence they hadn’t chosen. the marriage was a duty, a requirement. it lacked everything you had ever been. The late-night conversations that made the world feel infinite, the reckless plans that filled the air with electric energy—all of it was buried with you, and M was left with nothing but a name and a title they never cared for.

they’d close their eyes at night and still hear your voice, soft at first, then louder, like a song they couldn’t forget but could never play again. the world, once vibrant with you, felt drained of color. the laughter that used to spill from M’s lips was replaced by brittle smiles, the kind that didn’t touch their umber brown eyes.

they never spoke of you—not to their spouse, not to anyone. it was as though speaking their name aloud would unravel M’s delicate grip on sanity, on the life they were barely holding together.

***

a few years passed. M became more distant, more remote, even within the walls of the palace. their marriage grew cold, each day more formal and lifeless than the last. they were trapped, locked in a gilded cage with no way out. your memory remained, a quiet presence that lingered at the edges of M’s mind, haunting them with the life they could’ve had, the person they should’ve been.

there were whispers, of course. rumors about M’s detachment, their coldness, their increasing absence from royal duties. but no one knew why. no one could have guessed that their heart had been buried in the grave of a lover they couldn’t even publicly acknowledge.

***

a scandal. a disappearance.

the royal family awoke to find M gone, their accounts drained, their titles stripped of meaning. no one knew where they had gone, or why. the official story was vague—an extended sabbatical, perhaps—but there were no answers. their spouse, barely more than a stranger, said nothing. the media speculated for weeks, but no trace of M was found.

***

years later, in a small village (zaanse schans) in the netherlands, a farmer passed away in their sleep. they had been quiet, unremarkable, living in a modest cottage on the outskirts of the village. they kept to themself, never married, and was mostly known for their collection of british royal memorabilia. it wasn’t until after their death, when the local authorities came to settle their estate, that they discovered who they truly were.

a runaway royal. third-in-line after their mother and older sister.

the village was stunned. for all the years they had lived among them, no one had guessed their identity. but as they sorted through their belongings, the truth became undeniable. among the memorabilia were photographs—of you, smiling beside M in moments no one else had ever seen. there were letters, too, carefully folded and kept in a box, written in a hand that only M could recognize. letters that had never been sent, but that held all the words M had never been able to say.

the villagers spoke of them with quiet reverence, a kind and humble individual who had always paid their bills on time and helped their neighbors when they could. they didn’t know about the wealth that had quietly flowed into anonymous accounts over the years. they didn’t know about the palace, the titles, the life of privilege M had left behind. all they knew was that they had lived simply and that they had loved someone fiercely until the day they died.

***

and that was how they were remembered. not as a royal, not as someone of wealth or power, but as someone who had once loved deeply and had chosen, in the end, to live for that love, even if it meant leaving everything else behind.

M’s name would never appear in the official histories, but in that quiet village in the netherlands, they were remembered for who they truly were—someone who, despite it all, had found a way to keep you with them until the very end.

[anarcoqueer1994]

Never Have I Ever (Steddie Ficlet)

The older teens—Jonathan, Argyle, Nancy, Robin, Steve, and Eddie,-- had been hanging out drinking at Steve’s house. No one can remember whose idea it was, but they ended up playing “Never Have I Ever” with who ever being the one who has done it having to take a drink. It was fun, mostly dumb ones, like “Never have I ever been out of Indiana (excluding the Upside-Down) or “Never have I ever smoked weed.” It was one of Robin’s though, that nearly gave Eddie a heart attack.

She looked around the table, smirking, half tipsy. “Never have I ever slept with a guy.” She laughed. Eddie thought nothing of it. He figured she used this one to get as many people at the table to drink as possible. Eddie wasn’t surprised when Jonathan, Argyle (they are dating now, he thinks), and Nancy take a drink with him. What nearly causes him to choke on his own beer is seeing Steve also pick up his glass and take a sip.

His shock causes him to cough up his drink, and though his reaction may have been the most dramatic, but other than Robin, everyone else looked confused too. Steve was oblivious to the looks around the table though, only drunkenly turning to Robin saying “That’s not fair, dude. You knew you would be the only one not to drink.” He playfully complains. 

Eddie clears his throat, being the one to ask the question everyone was wondering. “Harrington, you slept with a guy?”

Steve looks around, first confused with the reaction, slowly realizing that everyone was looking at him. They weren’t judgmental, of course, just surprised. He looks awkwardly at Robin who just shrugs her shoulders, before he says. “Oops I guess I forgot to tell you guys. Kind of figured you all knew since we are all…you know…queer. “

Robin laughs at the absurdness of his statement. “Aww Steve, they thought you were our token straight.” She sticks out her tongue.

Eddie doesn’t know why but he kind of feels…jealous. When he thought Steve was straight, it was easy for him to just accept that Steve in unattainable, that he doesn’t like guys. But knowing he does…changes things. Steve was into dudes, and he is a dude. But now he feels like Steve is unattainable in a new way…he is out of his league. Steve can’t want Eddie, no matter how big of a stupid crush he has on him. That hurt more. He can’t explain why he said what he said next, maybe he is a masochist. But his mouth works faster than his brain. “Who?”

“What?” Steve scrunches his eyebrows together in confusion, a strand of hair falling across his forehead. Eddie hates that this makes him more attractive.

He wishes he could pull the word back in, he wishes it would have stayed trapped against his teeth, but it didn’t so he has to go with it. “Um…I mean who was the lucky guy that slept with King Steve?” He tries play it off as a joke, like he’s teasing but honestly part of him wants to know what Steve’s type is.

“Oh, um a few guys, I guess. The first one was Tommy. Before Nance and I dated, I used to hook up with Tommy and Carol sometimes. Most of the time it was the three of us, but I have been with both of them separately.” Steve goes red, realizing all the attention is on him now.

“You were like a …throuple with Tommy and Carol?” Nancy asks in disbelief.

“No, nothing like that!  What we did was just for fun. Those two were their own thing. “ He put his increasingly flushed face in his hands before continuing. “Let’s…uh move on from this embarrassing can of worms Robin has opened.

Everyone nods, but Eddie’s big mouth strikes again. “You said there was a few…”

“Eds, you really wanna know all the guys I slept with?” Steve raises his eyebrow, embarrassment going to amusement. He shoots Eddie a smirk before adding. “Why? You wanna be on that list?” He winks.

Shit. Eddie was too pushy. He doesn’t need to know. His face turns red. “Uh no. I’m sorry, I’m just being nosy. I’m sorry.” He repeats without his usual confidence. He continues to ramble apologies.

“Eddie…” Steve interrupts. “I’m just messing with you, man. It’s fine. I don’t have secrets with you guys. There were a few random hooks ups from the gay bar Robin, and I go to in Indianapolis, and um my senior year, I hooked up with one of the guys one the swim team. See no big secrets.” He laughs.

The tension Eddie was feeling dissipates with the sound of Steve’s laugh. Steve doesn’t care…Eddie is reading too much into this. “No big secrets.” He parrots back. And with that, they were back to the game, no one bringing up Steve’s “come out,” No mention of Eddie’s weird reaction, nothing that should make him nervous. But part of him swears he notices Steve staring him down more as the night goes on.

They end up all watching a movie, everyone passing out in the living room, half tipsy, and just feeling safe. Robin and Nancy are cuddled together on the couch while Jonathan and Argyle are tangled together on the love seat. Eddie had been on the chair and Steve was on the third cushion of the couch. They had been the only two still awake, neither very comfortable where they are. When the movie comes to an end, Steve whispers, “Eds…come on man. Let’s go upstairs.”

“up..stairs?” Eddie stutters out like some pathetic 13-year-old kid with a first crush. But he couldn’t help it. Was Steve asking his to go to bed with him? Maybe he wasn’t crazy. Maybe Steve was flirting with him earlier. Maybe he was staring.  

Eddie watches as Steve stands up, walks closer and holds out his hand, Eddie instinctively responds, taking the other man’s hand, letting him pull him up. “Yea, upstairs. That chair is not comfortable.”

“No, its not.” Eddie agrees as they head for the steps, still hand in hand. When they get to the top of the stairs though, Steve lets go. He starts leading Eddie to the opposite end of the hallway from his bedroom. When they stop in front of the door at the end, Eddie understands. He feels his heart drop as Steve opens the door to the guest room. “Finally have an excuse to use this thing.” He softly laughs, before turning away, saying over his shoulder “Night, Eds. Let me know if you need anything.”

All Eddie can do is nod lamely, as he steps into his room for the night. He closes the door before collapsing on the bed. His brain is on an emotional roller coaster. He feels stupid thinking that Steve Harrington, queer or not, would be into him. Before he can spiral into self-deprivation, he is pulled back to reality by a knock on the door.

When he opens it, there is Steve Harrington, now clad only in the tiny red shorts he sleeps in. It takes every thing in him to keep his brain from short circuiting. “Steve? What’s up?” He hopes he sounds casual.

“Eddie, why did you react that way earlier when you found out I like guys?” Steve cuts to the chase.

“I..I told you man, just surprised.” He tells a half lie.

“I know, I know. You said that but why did you want to know who?” Steve continues, gears obvious turning in his, trying make the connections he thinks he sees.

“I don’t know.” Eddie looks down at his own feet. Looking at Steve feels dangerous right now, Like Steve could see right through him.”

“Eds? You don’t know?” Steve asks skeptically.

“Yea I don’t know. I just asked. Making conversation, man” Eddie deflects, still looking down.

“I don’t believe you.” Steve says back plainly. Eddie was about to protest, insist Steve was wrong. But before he can, he feels a gentle hand under his chin, pushing his head upwards, so Steve can meet his eyes. He’s frozen as Steve smirks whispering, “I think you wanted to be on that list too.”

Eddie can feel his cheeks going red. Without thinking he replies, “I want to be the end of that list.” As soon as the words leave him mouth, he wishes he could pull them back in. “Oh god, I am so sorry. I don’t expect you to just settle with me or anything. I’m sure you have better.’

“No Eddie. I wouldn’t be settling.” He lets out a sign. “ I should have phrased this better. Eddie, I want you. And not just for sex. Like don’t get me wrong, that’s part of it. You’re so fucking hot. But you are so funny and smart and dorky and such a good friend. I’ve been into you for so long. So um, what do you think?” All confidence and charismatic attitude is gone.

“You like me?” Eddie sputters out.

“Oh my god! Yes, Eds. I do. I like you. Honestly, I think I love you and I don’t know how else to spell it out to you. I just don’t get it, Eds? What more…” Steve is cut off by the soft lips pressed again his. It takes him a moment to realize Eddie is kissing him but when he does, he finds himself kissing back. His hands tangle in Eddie’s hair while Eddie wraps his arms around Steve’s waist.

When they finally pull apart, Eddie asks “So you wanna add me to that list?

“Yea, I do. Eventually. But for tonight I just want to cuddle with me…boyfriend?” He asks, worried he jumped the gun.

“Yea…I want to cuddle with my boyfriend, too.” He smiles, pulling Steve into the guestroom, closing the door behind them.

[nicospen]

Traitor.

Pairing: Dazai Osamu x Nakahara Chuuya (soukoku)

Mischaracterization!!

cw: blood, slight angst, swearing, mentions of suicide

mlist

Chuuya sighed deeply. He gritted his teeth as sweat and blood dripped onto the cave's floor cold floor. Chuuya pressed on his wounds to stop the bleeding. He closed his eyes as the warm liquid seeped through his fingers.

His stab wound stung, but it didn't hurt as much as the lingering betrayal in his heart. Everything Shirase said was far more painful than anything. It hurt because it was the harsh truth.

“You had no family before the Sheep took you in, Chuuya!” Shirase had yelled at Chuuya.

The look on their faces, the look of coldness in their eyes...

“Chuuya,” Dazai called out to him.

Chuuya slowly opened his eyes, the metallic scent of his own blood invaded his nose.

“What are you doing here, Osamu?” Chuuya spat out like Dazai's name was a curse.

The ginger shifted his position, shifting to a more comfortable pose. He pressed down harder on his wound, teeth grit and eyes bloodshot.

“Since when were we close enough for you to call me by my first name?” Dazai asked, but he had to admit it was refreshing to hear someone call him by his first name.

“Tsk,” Chuuya clicked his tongue.

Chuuya raised his head to look at Dazai. Slowly, he opened his eyes and stared at the boy before him. Skinny, pale, dark clothes, partially sunken eyes, and lifeless eyes.

Lifeless as ever, Chuuya thought bitterly.

“Answer my question you prick!” Chuuya demanded.

“I came to get you, Chuuya.” Dazai stated before smiling. “I can't let my dog wander astray now, can I?”

“Damn you...” Chuuya muttered. “You emo kid.”

Chuuya winced as his wound started to throb once more.

“You're a kid too, and shorter than me at that.”

“Shut it.”

“Dazai,” a voice called out— it was Odasaku. He stood behind Dazai. He snatched a med kit from one of the members and rushed towards Chuuya, med kit in hand. “Don't bully him now. He's still injured.”

~

Chuuya now stood awkwardly in front of the Armed Detective Agency, or ADA for short. He stood behind Sakunosuke Odasaku, a former Port Mafia (PM) member who defected to ADA. And of course, his defection came with another member, Nakahara Chuuya.

During the past days, some sort of “initiation” test had been inflicted upon him, and it really gave him a fright. Though the others did apologize to him afterwards (he's traumatized).

“Nakahara-san, Odasaku-san.” Kunikida called out for them.

“Er... Kunikida, right?” Chuuya asked.

“Mn,” Kunikida agreed. Kunikida took a deep breath and launched a tirade of scolding. “Nakahara-san it's your first day on the job and you're already late. I'll let it slide because it's your first day. And you, Odasaku-san.”

Chuuya paid the blond no mind. Kunikida was like a wife. He was uptight and always nagging. He stood there silently watching Kunikida nag.

“Oh! Looks like mister fancy hat passed the test!” Kenji squealed as he rushed towards the ginger. “Hey, mister. Do you want to go cow riding with me? It's really fun! All you have to do is—”

It's overwhelming, Chuuya thought. A nice kind of overwhelming. It was a nicer feeling than the things he experienced in the mafia. This reminded him of all those years ago with the flags, his first real friends per se.

Chuuya chuckled as he looked upon the situation he was in now. It was such a domesticated scene. One he would have never thought of happening in his whole life.

For the first time ever he felt relaxed, content, and this unexplainable warmth he was feeling.

Odasaku stared at Chuuya, his expression softening ever so slightly.

“Beautiful, isn't it?” Odasaku smiled at Chuuya. “Was it worth it defecting with me? I mean becoming a traitor?”

Chuuya nodded before answering,

“I would have never expected a scene like this if I was still in the mafia.”

To be frank, he did experience a scene like this at least once in his mafia days.

It was with the flags.

Back then, he was too depressed to notice. Too focused on his work to see that he should have spent every single second with them.

The past is the past, Chuuya thought. Besides, I at least found more friends to fight beside with.

Kunikida led Chuuya to his desk while he was in deep thought. He made Chuuya sat down before dropping a stack of papers in front of him.

“Huh? Uh?” He looked up at Kunikida then looked at the papers before him.

“You can read, right Nakahara-san?” Kunikida asked as he adjusted his glasses.

“Yes, I can. Just call me Chuuya, and my old job also required me to read—”

“Good.” Kunikida cut him off. “Since you're new, all you have to do is sort these out, for now.”

Chuuya stared at the stack of paper before him. He started crying inside. If there was one thing that never changed between working in ADA and PM, it was the absurdly huge amounts of paperwork.

He turned to Odasaku, who was sat beside him doing paperwork as well.

“Odasaku-san, do you ever wonder how Dazai's doing?” Chuuya muttered.

“Oh? Hm... Osamu eh?”

Odasaku pondered for a bit before shaking his head.

“Don't even think about it.”

To Chuuya, Dazai had always been a thought that was often stuck at the back of his head. Even though Dazai manipulated his friends to turn on him, he knew Dazai probably had his reasons.

He didn't know Dazai for long, but at least he liked to think he knew what Dazai was thinking.

He remembered the way Dazai's face drained of color when he confided his departure of the mafia to him. The way the faint light in Dazai's eyes disappeared.

Before leaving, the two even argued which led to some hurtful things spilling out of each other's mouth, and a few physical altercations.

“How would you know?!” Chuuya demanded. “You don't even feel human emotions!”

Dazai was unfazed. He grabbed Chuuya's wrist and muttered, “don't leave me here, Nakahara. You have to stay with me. You can't leave me here. Shoot me instead, Nakahara.”

“No. I already made up my mind.”

“You claim that I don't feel human emotions, then what are you? You aren't human as well. You're nothing more than a shell of a human. A vessel for the chaos inside you.”

Chuuya grit his teeth before punching Dazai in the face. He stared at Dazai who was on the floor with a broken lip. He turned around and walked away. He left without ever looking back.

This is only part 1 of this stupid ass fan fiction. I'll write part 2 when I have the energy and inspiration.

Tbh I was planning to make this only a one part fanfiction but im already posting ts because im too lazy to write the continuation. SO I'LL WRITE PT.2 SOON (POSSIBLY)

BUT LIKE SKK FANFICTION with barely any skk😍😍

First / Next

[cannibalgoldfish]

Unavoidable (Part three)

Paring: Price x Trans Male Reader 

Summary: The rest of the unit finds out about reader's and Price's little secret

Part one Part two

Wordcount: 962

Warnings: Not full on smut but slightly steamy near the end (AFAB parts mentioned but no use of feminine language or gendering for the reader)

A few days had passed since the "incident" that resulted secret meetings, hidden kisses, and many (MANY) excuses to talk in his office. Price kept up his performance of professionalism , although a little less cold than before, he had let some time pass before speaking with you in public to seem as if the problem wasn't in fact you but was some personal issue that was brought up by the former mission. The rest of the team had felt the tension dissolve and gone back to their normal routines, not worried about certain topics or if you and Price where in the same room together.��

Gaz, revamping his chef skills (a hobby that seemed to only come to life when you all where stationed anywhere for more than a month or at home base), introduced the old tradition of weekly dinner again. This week's meal was spaghetti paired with some fancy wine he had chosen and convinced the rest of the unit to lend him money to pay for the near ridiculous price tag while they went shopping earlier. 

The door to the base swung open right as Gaz had finished plating the food, you chuckled at Gaz scolding Ghost and Soap for coming in late. (Apron on and spoon in hand, it was hard to take him fully serious) "Blame the big guy, he's the one that insisted on staying until-" Soap responded, getting cut off when Ghost slapped him upside the head. 

"Some people are actually hungry over here you know.." You jokingly call out as the duo sat down (Soap pouting and rubbing the back of his head), Price pushing the chairs out from under the table with his foot for them. Gaz began setting down the food, detailing the ingredients and cooking specifics that was only of importance to those who understood the culinary arts. The meal continued with conversations and laughter until a gentle pressure brought you out the little bubble you where in. Sitting directly across from you was Price, smirking and moving his boot slowly up and down the length of your leg. The others not noticing the interaction, where busy chatting away. The tension filled gaze filled your core with heat, hiding his smug grin by taking a drink of wine when Soap turned his attention to Price. 

two can play at that game 

Playing innocent, you allow him to keep playing his little game. Pretending like everything is normal, you continue the dinner ignoring his looks and talking with the others. Finishing the meal, Ghost and Soap offer to do clean up duty while you gather the dishes. Getting up you begin collecting the plates as Gaz and Price sit at the table, strategically leaning over at the right moments you smile to yourself as you catch Price try to not make his staring obvious. Once the area had been cleaned and cleared the others slowly retreated back to their rooms. You had waited leaning against the counter, refusing to leave first, a challenge against Price's actions. 

"Shall I walk you back?" You grin at him, teasing the implication. He looks at you, a smile growing as he stands to his full height, he nods and motions the way to his bunk. Walking back, near shoulder to shoulder the entire way, you two stop at the door. Price steps in front of you, one hand holding on the door knob, a shy but excited expression on his face. 

"I'll leave you to it then." You grin almost giggling at the sudden emotion drop on his face, "I said that I'd walk you back, nothing else" You turn to go back your room, leaving a shocked and dumbfounded captain behind you. 

___

The next morning, during your routine inspections of the base and the refilling supplies for future missions, you where grabbed from behind and dragged into the nearest room. Your eyes slowly adjusted to the sudden dark, a hand removed it self from your mouth as the figure let you go. "Thought I'd get you back" Price's voice gruff and filled with smugness from being able to catch you off guard. 

"You're the one who started it" You shot back, letting out a small laugh as his arms wrapped around your waist pulling you in for a kiss. You could feel him smiling as his hands moved ever so slightly downward, leading you on him as his knee gently pushes between your legs. You let out a groan, grinding on to him as he kisses your collarbone leaving hickeys just low enough to be hidden by your shirt. "Here?" you ask, arching your back and pressing into him as the heated coil builds within you. He says nothing, humming in response, his hands making their way up your shirt before moving back down, dipping into your waistline. 

A noise cut through the air, causing you to freeze. "Shit" You half laughed half grumbled, body going slack at getting caught. Soap's wolf whistle faded into his giggle as you looked over to seek Ghost's shoulders moving in laughter. "Seriously?" Price muttered, hands still on you, face buried in your neck in embarrassment.

"I see you two finally made up" Soap says with a smirk and wink, looking between the two of you taking in every detail. (most likely for "blackmail" later on) Ghost, amusement raiding from him in waves, grabs Soap by the back of his collar to yank him away, "Let the love birds be Johnny." You feel Price straighten up, watching the two walk away leaving the door open. You look back at him, both serious for a moment before cracking into quiet laughter. 

"Wait- why were YOU TWO looking in a closet anyways?!" you call out after them, already knowing the answer. 

Tag list:

@homicidal-slvt

@b0g-b0y

@ghost-2513 - Credit for most of the plot lmaooo

@tapioca-marzipan

Sorry it took so long! (got like several months of writers block) also anyone have any advice on making a pinned post for guidelines or organizing the posting of fanfics? I'm fr just freeballing it rn....

[hawkssucks]

I checked out of MHA as well.

During the Vigilante Arc.

It was sooo bad, it made me hate the entire story. Then the war arc happened and well... you said it best 8 Years.

HONESTLY. I didn’t mind vigilante arc, again it was one of those things were I was like “yeah theres issues, but a lot could be resolved in the ending” which was my mindset for a lot of stuff, since Hori tends to leave things that suck open-ended. But then we got that terrriblyyyy rushed ending, with no resolution to a ton of stuff. Just “well. We’ll get ‘em next time” it’s so upsetting. I still like mha, but the ending will forever leave a bitter taste in my mouth.. Hori literally put all the pieces in place for so many great things too. And honestly? There’s so much stuff he did in the ending that I would’ve been fine with, if we had gotten just a bit more for everything to sink in with these characters. Anyways. Hawks’ ending can be read as intentionally bleak as his punishment for his sins or whatever. That’s definitely not was intended but I’ll take it. Still depressing…

God I’ve been so inactive on tumblr.. I miss it HEREE. So peaceful.

[gloombby]

“4 page essay” yr getting 3 1/4 n im getting a failing grade and some fucking sleep

[fandomfantasyy]

𝜗୧ ,, danganronpa: unknown hope !!

꒰꒰ note ;; offical posting schedule will be editted into intro / pinned post ,, ꒰꒰ previous stories ;; prologue ,,

⌒ 𓈒 fanfic under the cut !! ꒱

ㅤMy name is Sadow Misaki.

ㅤI remembered the small "interview" that happened an hour or so before we got on the bus. We found out what we were invited for and were told what the schedule would be. God forbid they followed it, apparently.

ㅤI was taken in for my talent as an "influencer", whatever that meant. I just posted on social media and somehow hit it big. I didn't really mean to be an influencer. Was the talent part of it blowing up without even trying? Because that was just luck.

ㅤIt didn't matter to me at the time. After all, it didn't matter what I was going on this camping trip for. It's an extremely prestigious trip that some kids even transferred to get a chance at. Only seventeen kids went on this trip, so you can imagine how disappointed many were.

ㅤAs I heard "Monokuma" (at least, that's what people called it) announce that were were in a killing game, my heart sunk. My eyes widened as they drifted to the floor. I saw a few sink to the ground in pure fear, and I wasn't too far to follow.

ㅤA killing game? I'd heard of these before, yeah, but I didn't expect it to happen to me. I was always a quiet and reserved one.

ㅤ"Wellll!" Monokuma hummed. I was already sick and tired of that voice. "Since you all are processing, I'll leave you to it! Merry killing!"

ㅤJust like that, the bear disappeared. What about my friends? My family? I didn't want to die like this. I didn't have a choice though.

ㅤSADOW MISAKI ;; ULTIMATE INFLUENCER.

AGE ;; 16

GENDER ;; FEMALE

PRONOUNS ;; SHE/THEY

HEIGHT ;; 5'5

BIRTHDAY ;; SEP 28TH

ㅤEND OF IDENTIFICATION. ♡

[mistytanzanite]

Imagine riding Toby into the mattress, bouncing on his cock like he’s a toy. Being so mean and degrading him. His moans are so fucking loud and sweet, those beautiful brown eyes looking up at you like you hung the stars.

Then, you let a little praise slip out and suddenly he’s nutting into you, moans increasing in pitch as his eyes roll into the back of his skull.

Toby loves getting degraded, sure, but don’t praise him unless you want him to nut right then and there.

I haven’t written smut in like a year so its not very good lol

[giveme-allofthat-ultraviolence]

yk sometimes i wish i did tell the councilor about how i really feel instead of making up some bullshit story but we all know better than to trust the school councilor

i mean come onnnnnn it’s either keep my mouth shut until i turn 18 and leave or end it all orrr my mom checks me into some psych ward like she said she would when i was 10

[luvrrszn]

nasty old dog

SIMON "GHOST" RILEY x FEM!READER

summary silent, broody...how can you resist your mysterious older neighbour?

warnings fluff-ish, age gap (early 20s, late 30s), nsfw (smut), bad brain-rotted writing

a/n heh......send requests pls

masterlist

the first time you meet him, he’s standing at your front door in full tactical gear.

not just a vest or boots—everything. black from head to toe, a skull-print balaclava covering most of his face. there’s a duffel slung over one shoulder, and your parcel in his hand.

you freeze.

he doesn’t say anything at first—just stares at you. and then, quietly, almost too quiet to hear:

“this came to mine.”

you take the box slowly, fingers brushing the gloves he hasn’t taken off. your eyes flick to his—dark, heavy-lidded, with a hint of tiredness that makes something twist in your chest.

“…thanks,” you manage, trying not to sound nervous.

he nods once and turns without another word. just disappears into the apartment across the hall like this is normal. like he’s normal.

you close the door and stand there for a long moment.

“…what the hell.”

—

you tell yourself not to be weird about it. but every time you see him—taking out the trash, coming back from a run, carrying enough groceries for a family of five—you get more and more curious.

there’s something about him. the way he’s always alone. how he never quite makes eye contact. how your cat likes to sit by the front door, ears perked, tail twitching, every time his boots echo down the hallway—like she knows exactly when he’s coming home.

he’s strange. broody. definitely hiding something.

so of course you bake cookies.

and occasionally leave them on his doorstep.

because you're a nice neighbour!

because you’re nosy. and maybe a little reckless.

and because god help you, your mysterious neighbour is hot.

—

at first, it's subtle. a soft nod when you pass by each other in the hallways, and even an occasional gruff "mornin'" from the man.

simon doesn’t exactly do small talk—but he starts remembering your name, starts holding the lobby door open a little longer when your arms are full of groceries. he even helps you carry them once. gruff, silent, but his hand wraps fully around the handle of your tote bag like it weighs nothing.

there’s a moment, that day. where your fingers brush his. and he flinches—not from you, but from himself. like he wasn’t expecting how warm you’d feel. how soft your hands were, untouched by the horrors of the world.

then it’s a sticky note.

you find it one night, stuck on your fridge in all caps, scrawled with a heavy hand:

“FIXED YOUR SINK. STOP USING THE DUCT TAPE.”

you don’t even know how he got in—must’ve used the spare key you gave your building’s maintenance guy. you leave a tupperware of cookies on his doorstep the next day. he doesn’t say anything, but a week later, your broken curtain rod is magically fixed too, and your empty tupperware sits on your kitchen counter.

and somehow, this becomes your thing.

he drops by after missions—always late at night, always quiet. you never ask questions. he never offers answers. but he shows up with oil stains on his shirt and shadows under his eyes, and you let him in, let him rest. you even start cooking bigger portions, just so he'll have some home-cooked food to eat when he drops by at night. you don't ask questions, you don't say anything. you just give him some food as he tugs off his skull balaclava.

sometimes he falls asleep on your couch, jaw slack, brow still furrowed like he’s expecting a fight even in sleep. other times, he just… sits with you. watches whatever’s on the tv without a word. you talk. he listens. and every now and then, when you say something funny or dumb or weird, the corner of his mouth twitches. barely noticeable. but it’s there.

eventually you get comfortable with him. you curl up against him during movie nights, head resting on his chest. his arm rests on the back of the sofa behind you. his hand doesn't wrap around your shoulder. he makes sure there's some sort of distance between him and the little young thing sitting beside him.

you learn he likes his tea strong. that he only takes sugar when he’s had a rough day. that he reads, sometimes, when he can’t sleep. that he has a soft spot for your cat, even if he pretends to ignore her—pretends not to notice when she curls up beside his boots. (you even catch him smiling at her once, but you pretend not to notice)

you start to learn the rhythm of him. the little ways he says “i care” without ever saying it at all.

eventually, you stop pretending he’s just your neighbour.

but he doesn’t.

he keeps his distance, even as he inches closer. never lets himself touch you for too long. never stays the night, no matter how late it gets. you catch the way he looks at you sometimes—like he wants something he doesn’t think he should want.

he’s careful. too careful. because you’re bright and soft and still figuring things out. and he’s lived a thousand lives in the dark, each one heavier than the last.

and maybe that’s why it nearly breaks something in you when one night, after a silence stretched too long, he just says it.

quietly. like he’s scared he’ll ruin it.

“i sleep better here.”

you don’t say anything. just reach for his hand and squeeze. and this time, he doesn’t pull away.

—

and one day, he comes back more broken than usual.

you can see it in the set of his shoulders, the way he lingers in the doorway like he’s debating whether or not he should’ve even come. his jaw is tight. his knuckles are bruised. and when he finally steps inside, he doesn't say a word—just drops his gear by the door, like always, and sinks onto your couch like gravity's finally gotten the best of him.

you sit beside him, quiet. you let the silence stretch.

until you finally ask, “si, are you okay?”

he doesn’t answer right away. just stares ahead, breathing deep, like your soft little apartment is the only thing keeping him tethered.

“had to do lotsa' things i didn’t wanna' do,” he mutters eventually. voice low. rough. “a lot more than usual.”

your hand finds his and you squeeze. your grip is gentle. grounding. “you’re home now.”

he turns to look at you then. and there’s something in his eyes that makes your breath catch—something sharp, haunted. but under it… there’s hunger too. not just for you, but for the comfort you bring. for the peace he only finds in your presence.

and maybe that’s what makes you brave.

maybe that’s why you shift closer, crawl gently into his lap, hands bracing on his broad shoulders. you feel the way his body tenses beneath you, the way he swallows hard when your fingers ghost along the back of his neck.

“let me take care of you,” you whisper.

“sweetheart…” he warns, already shaking his head.

you start grinding down on him a little, just to test the waters. but his hands come to your waist. but they don’t push. they just hold. “you don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“i do,” you murmur, leaning in so your lips ghost along his jawline. “i know exactly what i want. i want you, si."

his breath stutters. you press a kiss just below his ear. his grip around you tightens into somewhat of a hug.

“don’t do this,” he says, but his voice is wrecked. you notice the slightest tremble in his hands and voice. barely noticeable to anyone else, but you can feel it.

“why not?” you whisper. “i know you want me too.”

“you’re young.” he finally says it. the thing that’s been sitting heavy between you both.

“you’ve got your whole damn life ahead of you. you shouldn’t be wasting it on some old bastard who drags death with him wherever he goes.”

“i’m not wasting anything,” you whisper, pulling back. you look into his eyes and your hands come up to hold each side of his head. “i’m choosing you, you old dog. doesn’t that count for something?”

and it’s like that finally breaks him.

because the next thing you know, his mouth is on yours—desperate, almost angry, like he’s been trying to hold himself back for months and he just can’t anymore. his hands grip your hips tight, dragging you closer, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you in his lap.

and when he kisses you again, it’s not hesitant. it’s hungry.

his lips are hot, almost feverish against yours, and you can feel the desperation in every movement. his hands are everywhere—palming your hips, sliding beneath your shirt to feel the warm curve of your waist, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

and you? you just melt for him.

you thread your fingers through his short crop of hair, tugging gently, and he groans low in his throat. you whisper his name, over and over, like a prayer, like something sacred. and it's music to his ears.

“fuck,” he breathes against your mouth, “you don’t know what you do to me, sweet girl.”

but you do.

you feel it in the way he grinds up into you, slow and controlled, like he’s still trying to restrain himself even now. like he doesn’t want to hurt you. like he wants to worship you.

you pull back just enough to look at him—his eyes are dark, pupils blown, lashes fluttering as he blinks up at you with something close to reverence.

“i want all of you, si,” you whisper. “please.”

his jaw clenches, like he’s fighting every instinct to be good, to be safe, to keep distance. but you see the moment he gives in. the moment he realises you’re not afraid of him. you want him. all of him.

he stands with you in his arms, effortless, and carries you to your bedroom. he lays you out so gently you nearly cry. and when he finally takes off your clothes, it's like unwrapping something precious—his touch is rough in places, but careful where it matters.

“you’re so fuckin’ soft,” he murmurs, dragging his mouth along your collarbone, “so goddamn perfect.”

your fingers fumble with the hem of his shirt, and he helps you pull it over his head. you take a moment, just looking at him—all scars and strength and something broken that only you ever get to see.

“you’re beautiful,” you say, and his breath hitches.

he kisses you like you’re the only thing that’s ever made him feel alive. like the war stops when your mouth is on his.

and when he finally slides into you, it's slow. unbearably slow. you feel every inch of him, the stretch, the fullness, the way his breath stutters when you moan his name. but he fits perfectly. like he's the puzzle piece you've been searching for. like this was meant to be.

one hand toys with your nipple while the other rubs soft circles on your clit.

he’s whispering things between gritted teeth—“that’s it, sweetheart,” “so good f'me,” “i’ve got you”—his voice like gravel and honey in your ear.

and when he finally loses the last bit of restraint, it’s devastating—his rhythm picking up, hips snapping into yours, his forehead pressed to yours as he groans your name like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

"f-fuck si—oh yeah right there—oh!" your moans are almost pornographic, only spurring simon on as he picks up his pace. faster, deeper, and soon you feel the familiar warmth in your belly as your stomach coils.

you fall apart beneath him, trembling, gasping, held together only by his arms around you and the heat of his breath against your cheek. your walls tighten around him, squeezing him. and soon he follows with a low, broken sound and your name on his lips like a plea.

he spills deep inside you, your walls milking him for all that he is.

and then it’s quiet.

his body curled around yours, still catching his breath as he pulls out of you. your fingers tracing lazy circles along his chest. his thumb brushing soft over your waist like he can’t stop touching you, like he doesn’t want to.

you feel his lips press into your hair as he mutters, barely audible:

“don’t know what i ever did to deserve you.”

[astroellies]

˚༄࿔ thinking of musician ellie who’s a total yapper on stage

i’m imagining those tiktok compilations like “… core” with music in the background

⭐︎ reading signs from the audience while her band (jesse and dina ofc) prepare for the next song like…

“this one says ‘ellie why did you invite so many people to our first date?’” the audience laughs and so does ellie, “sorry, the next one will just be us.” she says with a wink.

⭐︎ girls throwing lacy bras on stage and ellie holding them up to her own chest (that look comically big next to her) and saying, “this is not my size.” >:(

⭐︎ her going on absolute rants in between songs like “dude the weed in europe is way stronger, what the fuck are you putting in this shit? i thought i was dying.”

⭐︎ if her band is just her, jesse, dina she’d be like “we’re like boygenius…but with a man.” and they spend five minutes arguing about who’s who.

“how did we decide i’m julien?”

“because you’re short and gay, ellie.”

⭐︎ her trying to hold a lesbian (or other pride flag), getting tangled in it, and whispering “fuck” into the microphone in between lyrics.

⭐︎ tripping over wires on stage and telling everyone in the crowd to “delete that video right now. i’m not kidding.” as dina is laughing in the back.

⭐︎ reading more signs. “okay, okay this one says ‘it’s my birthday’ guys we gotta sing.” and singing happy birthday to a random fan.

⭐︎ handing fans the microphone and letting them tell stories about their crazy exes “she slept with your mom?” and she’d look the camera projecting her image on the screen behind her and back at the person. “what the fuck, dude.” while laughing behind a hand.

[kaisentine]

5 things itoshi sae will do.

he will make you cry.

intentional or not, this man has the magical ability to turn the faucets behind your eyes. the once warm salty tears running down your cheeks become cold the moment they make contact with that one spot below your eyes.

he will force you to attend his games.

you’re immediately obligated to attend his matches as soon as you two make it official. he’s not embarrassed about you watching his matches like at all because he’s quite confident in his abilities. you technically get dragged into the stadium by the team’s guards who escort you to your seat.

he will let you see him walk around with his fuckass bangs down without any hairspray.

he’s quite shameless when he’s alone—except he isn’t, he’s in the room with you . . . but you don’t count as someone to be wary about. so when he first came to you with his bangs down, you almost squealed. it’s somewhat of a reward when you see it. he still looks like he came straight out of the photos his mom sent you from when he was younger.

he will tolerate your touches.

nope, he is not known for his affection. even with you, he doesn’t initiate it. not like it would kill him to do so, he’s just . . . clueless—you could say. but when you wrap your arms around him, hover your hands over his body, entangle your fingers with his hair, touch his face, kiss him—he’ll accept them.

he will leave you on seen.

yup. either one : he doesn’t know how to respond so he just looks stares at your text like a clueless child—debating whether he should send a stupid millennial gifs or not respond at all. or two : he’ll respond you when he meets you. “i’ll buy you dinner.” “what?” “that text. you asked what you should get for dinner.” “sae, that was 4 days ago.”

5 more things itoshi sae won’t do.

he won’t let you cry in front of him.

he’ll turn you away or he’ll walk away. look, he’s trying to give you some space but honestly, it isn’t helping. it’s not that he doesn’t want to comfort you—he just doesn’t know how to handle his own feelings, let alone yours. so he’ll leave you alone. however, when your tears dry up, he’ll come back to you and pray to God that you don’t hate him.

he won’t lie to you.

even white lies. it just isn’t part of his vocabulary. but it does come in handy—for example, when you see an article about some stupid ship between him and another celebrity, he shuts it down and you know he’s telling you the truth. then there’s the down side . . . “do you think this shade suits me?” “no. you should find another one.” he finds there is just no use in coating lies.

he won’t put you above soccer.

it sounds harsh but he doesn’t expect you to expect him to give up his livelihood for a relationship and neither should you give up yours for him. he’ll love you to the end and back—soccer isn’t on his love spectrum, more like his obsessive spectrum. so yeah, he’ll love you more than soccer but he doesn’t put you above the sport.

he won’t hide you.

it’s actually futile to get him to listen to his PR team. no, he is not ashamed going to an event with you in hand. no, he is not ashamed with keeping one highlight of you on his inactive instagram account. no, he is not going to entertain other set-ups. no, he won’t give a fuck.

but he won’t ever hate you.

don’t even try because it won’t happen.

sticky note. ARLENE IS BACK??? this week has been crazy as fuck like hello? i need a whole separate post to talk about it but you guys BETTER promise me you WILL read it.

[zevrra]

𝐢𝐢𝐢. 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫

synop: (this is the final part to this series) ; you somehow manage to take on both viktor and jayce inside the lab.

wc: 2k

includes: smüt(ns//fw), fem!reader, threësome, fïngering, ëdging, v peneträtion, double v peneträtion, semi-public sëx, dirty talk

extra: make sure to read part 1 & 2 as well!! thank you all for the love and support on this <33

“shit.” jayce groans at the sight of you. neither he nor viktor could argue against your wishes when you looked so damn good like that, begging for them both. you watch as both of them blush a soft red before both nodded in agreement. “it’ll take some…time.” jayce adds with a slight gesture to his own twitching cöck; pride and worry in his tone.

but none of that mattered. you said what you said and you’d live up to it. “don’t care. i want you both.”

and he wasn’t kidding when he said it would take some time.

after what feels like an eternity of jayce fingering you, stretching you out, drawing you closer and closer to a second orgasm only to rip his fingers away from you, you’re beginning to fear you might lose your mind. you sit in his lap, as he’s returned to sitting on top of the desk, with your legs spread open wide for all to see. and if you were in any other state of mind, you might have been a little embarrassed about being so exposed. but not now, now you were simply dumbed down with pleasure as jayce’s hand sneaks its way back to your aching pussy.

“no more.” you weep, tensing up as his fingers press back into your core. he easily slides three fingers clean up until the second knuckle inside of you.

“sorry pretty, gotta make sure you can take us both.” jayce mumbles softly into your hair, almost apologetically but he’s not really that sorry. he’s not sorry at all, especially when his fingers slip oh-so-easily inside of you and the noises he forces out of you and your soaking cunt. listening to you moan while your core makes the most embarrassing, wet noises; oh no it turned him and viktor on extremely.

viktor stands between your thighs then, kissing the top of your head as he presses two of his own fingers inside you, sliding right up against jayce’s fingers and stretching you even further. “you were the one who begged for both of us, weren’t you?” vik hums in a teasing tone, a smile on his face. he flexes his fingers inside of you, just about the same time jayce does and it would have pissed you off how in sync they were but the mind numbing pleasure shut you up far too quickly.

“just a little more.” jayce encourages sweetly, placing a kiss against your head.

you whine in response to both of them, panting heavily as their fingers begin to work faster inside of you. they both finger you in turn, matching each other’s pace effortlessly, as they stretch you more and more. jayce’s fingers push deep, viktor’s pulls out, jayce slips his fingers out, viktor pushes his right back in. back and forth they work on your cunt until you’re growing hotter. lava burns in your lower abdomen and in your thighs and it makes you fidget against jayce’s lap. you whine at the tight feeling at your core, begging for any kind of release. and as the tightness grows closer and closer, you get louder and louder with each press of the fingers inside of you. the threat of coming again makes your toes curl, back arching, fingers gripping into the closest arm you can grab onto as your orgasm burns in your lower half.

but just like the several times before, the two men remove their fingers just at the last second. your orgasm threatens to break open the floodgates but is quickly retreating at the loss of stimulation and the edging leaves you gasping while tears cling to your eyelashes. “‘ts enough! i can’t take it anymore!” you plead.

jayce returns to placing soft kisses wherever he can reach while his hands smooth along your arms and the rest of your body. “you did amazing.” he praises, adjusting your body as he speaks, so now you can fully lean your weight back against him. hands sliding under your thighs and keeping your legs open for the next part to come. “viktor, give her what she wants.“

you could almost weep at his words but instead you nod as quickly as you can. “please.”

“mhm darling.” viktor softly hums in response to your begging. one of his hands presses against jayce’s knee as he angles himself right up against your core. his other hand wraps around his overly aching cock, giving it a swift tug with a low groan, before he’s pressing forward. the tip of his pink head slides easily against your wet cunt; and he slides even easier inside of your waiting body.

you tighten at the intrusion but quickly welcome it as viktor bottoms out. his hips press against your own as he slips his cock all the way inside you, reaching deeper than their fingers could have and it makes you cry with relief. “yes! god, yes.” you groan as you take all of viktor with ease.

who in turn mimics your groan at the warmth wrapped around him. he braces himself completely down onto jayce’s thighs now, forcing himself to still for a moment. “shit...” viktor comments with a whine before he slowly pulls out, his pretty eyes never leaving where the two of you connect, staring as he disappears once again inside of you. and he whimpers when he bottoms out for the second time.

you can’t help but chuckle a little at his fixation on your bodies meshing together. you reach with a gentle hand and caress the side of his face and he melts into your touch, glancing up at you while his hips begin to move ever so slightly. “you ok?” you ask sweetly, thumb rubbing across the high of his cheekbone.

“i am better than okay.” viktor replies with a small smile. the pupils of his eyes are wide upon looking up at your mutually red face and you manage a weak smile right back at him.

“c’mere. you’re making me feel so good.” you hum and your words make his hips stutter. he moves just a little faster, leaning forward with your guiding hand to allow both of you to kiss. and you kiss him oh so sweetly. your tongue running across his bottom lip and he gladly matches your movement while he keeps his pace thrusting inside of you.

jayce bites down on your shoulder, not to hurt you or anything, just to get your attention as you and viktor share a heated kiss. “don’t forget about me…” he mutters, pouting as he shifts his hips to press his own angry red head against your body.

you gasp softly at the thick of his tip pressing into your skin, causing you to briefly break the kiss with viktor to glance over your shoulder at the pouting man. “well, come on then. make me feel good too.” you tell jayce and it’s all he needs to hear before his hand slips from the back of your thigh to wrap around his thick cock, pressing the head right up against where viktor steadily fucks into you. you return to kissing viktor, eating up every whimper and groan the other man lets loose into your mouth.

jayce times everything else perfectly. as viktor pulls out, jayce rushes inside. his thick cock spears you deeper than vik’s had and you hate to say it but thank fuck for all the prepping jayce had insisted on. he slips deep inside and before you can fully adjust to his size alone, viktor is slipping himself right back inside of you; right next to jayce.

to say you’re stuffed full is an understatement. they both sit deep inside of you, moving just enough to continue to stretch you further now that they’ve managed to fit inside. you can’t help but cry into vik’s mouth, and it’s his turn to eat up every noise you make. and just like with their fingers before, the two fall into a perfect rhythm. viktor dives in, jayce slips out, viktor presses back inside; the combo leaves you breathless.

jayce’s hands return to your thighs as he ruts inside of you, messy but he makes up for it with his girth while viktor places perfectly angled thrusts into every sensitive bit inside your throbbing pussy. you break the kiss with a sharp cry as the two continue, hearing vik whimper at how much tighter you must feel now. meanwhile jay is in your ear grunting harshly with each thrust. “fuck.” he groans, hips never faltering as pleasure takes hold of him while he slips and slides right up against viktor. his nose digs into the crook of your neck and he practically pants against you, fingers tightening on your thighs.

you can’t even respond. words are nonexistent to you anymore as you’re split in half with both men fucking you; and all you can do is weep with pleasure. your orgasm is quick to build up again, it doesn’t take much now anyway, as the burn returns inside of your lower half. viktor presses his head against your other shoulder and somehow the two know to turn and place kisses against your throat. you were definitely going to be sore tomorrow but would need a damn turtleneck at this point too…you can’t complain though.

“going to…” viktor whispers against your neck and you nod in agreement. you were also getting closer and closer to the edge of your orgasm too.

doesn’t help when jayce suddenly ups his speed and deepens his thrusts, throwing both you and viktor into a spiraling mess. “j-jayce!” you cry, his fingers tightening again against your thighs as he practically piledrives inside of you, wildly thrusting against viktor as well.

“can’t last.” jayce grunts, burying his nose as deep as he can into your neck once more. “finish together.” he adds with a deep groan.

viktor is the first to lose himself. he slips out, whimpering, thrusting into his hand to finish himself off across your hip. you, mere seconds after vik, finish with jayce still pounding into you. he fucks you through your orgasm as it crashes down on you like a wave. you try to form any semblance of words but nothing slips past your lips besides pathetic whines. and with you squeezing tight around jayce through your much needed orgasm, it brings him into his own. his hips stutter harshly a few more times inside your spent pussy before he’s slipping out of you, quickly fucking the rest of his climax out against his hand, roping every last drop out onto your thigh and hip.

after his finish, all three of you return to mostly silence then, the lab being filled with nothing but your shared heavy breaths in the wake of your orgasms. you slump against jayce as viktor leans against you, running a hand to smooth through viktor’s hair as you all try and collect yourselves. and to think this all happened because you were too impatient to wait for nightfall. the thought put a small smile on your lips.

“gods. i need a shower.” you cut through the silence, smiling fondly as both jayce and viktor manage weak laughs. “but i don’t think i’ll be walking for a little while.” you add as you semi stretch out along jayce’s strong lap, soreness already settling into your hips.

as if sudden dots are connected, both men realize that they’ve completely—for lack of better words—soiled you; covered in their sticky mess during the midst of their highs. viktor scrambles to find something to clean you up with as jayce shifts and adjusts you onto the desk he previously had been sitting on to help in the search with viktor. shamefully, they come up with nothing besides jayce’s large shirt and he tries cleaning you up the best he can with it.

meanwhile, you try your best not to laugh as he forfeits up his clothes, staining his shirt with the mess he and viktor shared. you watch with soft eyes as jayce cleans you up while vik dresses himself, handing you jayce’s jacket to semi cover yourself with. “next time…let’s use a bed. and be closer to a proper bath.” you hum ’innocently’.

with both men staring at you with shocked faces, you’re unable to hold back anymore; you break out into laughter as viktor and jayce both chirp a surprise; “next time?“

[traumaone]

abbot forgot the concept of personal space a long time ago.

it's not like he can remember a time when he's had any of his own. field hospitals aren't built for comfort or movability, they're built to save live as quickly and efficiently as humanly possible. that meant compromising personal space for for getting the job done and abbot made that trade willingly.

but you're a civilian, trained in wide open labs and spacious trauma rooms, so of course you're left speechless the first time you run a code with abbot, standing nose to nose at the side of a patient while he walks you through what is possibly the most intimate procedure you'll ever perform.

it's hard to think, let alone breathe with him standing so lose, yet somehow you manage. but even when the procedure's done, he doesn't step back. no, he clings to that closeness while he tells you just how proud you should be for pulling that off.

you're lightheaded for the rest of your shift. drunk on the scent of cologne and antiseptic that is just so him.

it becomes the expectation. leaning shoulder to shoulder against the counter in central while there's a lull in patients. thighs pressed against each others while the two of you stand over a patient arguing over proper treatment with walsh and garcia. his chest almost pressed to your back while you're getting screamed at by a patients mother. he's not interfering because he knows you don't need his help. it's just a reminder. not only to you, but to the mother. he's got your back, but god help that woman if you decide you're tired of being the one to deal with her.

so when the entire pitt crew ends up in a bar down the street from the hospital after a particularly nasty car pile up that had required all hands on deck, you don't flinch when takes the seat next to yours in the booth. or when presses himself closer to make more room. and especially not when his hands finds its way to your back, tracing along your spine while you lean across the table to talk to another resident and he chats about something nonsensical with robby.

you've both had a couple of drinks and abbot has little regard for personal space sober, so of course he'd be extra touchy under the influence of whiskey. but when his hand finds it way to the nape of your neck, fingers weaving into your hair, and you catch him smirk when the gesture makes you stutter around your words, you know this more than just the influence of booze. it's an overflow of tension. built up after weeks being so close you could practically crawl into each others skin.

when you go out for a smoke break despite the fact that you quit years ago, it's no surprise to either of you that he trail after you, palm burning through the skin of your shirt where it rests on your lower back.

he doesn't waste time once he has you outside. calloused palms cradling your hips with a reverence you've only dreamt of while he pushes your back up against the against the cold brick. you spend what feels like an eternity with your foreheads pressed together, lips ghosting over his while you silently debate who'll take the first move.

jack breaks first because he's always been the weaker of you two when it comes to this kind of thing.

in any other situation you would've been embarrassed by the sound that left your mouth when you tasted the whiskey he'd been sipping on his tongue, but not tonight, not when that sound makes him pull you closer, makes him tug on your hair in a way that has your knees weak,

he kisses like a man who's been deprived of human touch for centuries. as if you're the only person in the world who has finally seen him.

you get so lost in his touch you're not sure you'll ever find your way back. but jack guides you with a careful hands. leaves your lips to press a kiss to your cheek. the corner of your jaw. that sensitive spot just below your ear. the dip of your collarbone. and he stays there, breathing in your scent.

'want you to stay this close' he nips at your skin. 'need you to.'

[deansbeer]

when your car breaks down in the middle of nowhere, you call the one person you shouldn’t — your ex, dean winchester.

♡ ⋮ minors do not interact.

warnings -> smut | angst | unprotected sex (use the damn rubber) | rough sex | possessive behavior | dirty talk | praising | size kink | mutual pining | semi-public sex | feelings confession | exes hooking up.

the engine dies with a pathetic sputter, and you barely manage to coast to the side of the empty highway before your car gives up completely. “you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you mutter, turning the key again. nothing. not even that clicking sound that means a dead battery. just absolute silence except for the wind whistling through the kansas plains.

you pop the hood even though you know it’s pointless. you can change a tire, check the oil, jump a battery — basic stuff. but whatever’s wrong with your car right now is beyond basic, and you’re stranded on a stretch of road that hasn’t seen another vehicle in the past hour. the sun’s starting to set too, painting everything in shades of orange and pink that would be beautiful if you weren’t completely fucked.

your phone has two bars of signal, which is a miracle out here. you scroll through your contacts, thumb hovering over the name you haven’t called in exactly three months. not since that night when everything imploded, when you’s screamed at each other in bobby’s salvage yard about hunting and danger and how tired you were of patching him up just to watch him throw himself into the next fight.

but dean’s only forty minutes away, still in lebanon according to sam’s last text. and he knows cars better than anyone. knows your car specifically, since he’s the one who helped you buy it, who spent a weekend underneath it making sure everything was running perfectly. “reliable and safe,” he’d said, wiping grease off his hands. “nothing fancy, but she’ll take care of ya.”

ironic, considering you’re now stranded because of said “reliable car.”

you hit call before you can talk yourself out of it. it rings once, twice, and then— “sweetheart?” dean's voice is rough, surprised. the nickname slips out like he can’t help it, like the past three months haven’t happened. “everything okay?”

“my car broke down,” you say, hating how small your voice sounds. “i’m on route 36, about thirty miles east of smith center. it just... died. won’t turn over, no clicking, nothing. i think maybe the ignition?”

there’s a pause, and you can practically see him straightening up, switching into problem-solving mode. “you somewhere safe? off the road?” when you confirm, he’s already moving — you can hear keys jingling, boots on floor. “i’m leaving now. forty minutes, maybe less. just stay in the car, doors locked. you got water?”

yeah,” you manage, throat tight. this is so unfair. three months of silence, of trying to move on, and one phone call has you remembering why you fell for him in the first place. the way he drops everything to help, no questions asked. “dean, you don’t have to—”

“yes, i do,” he cuts you off. “just... stay put. i’ll be there.” he hangs up before you can argue, which is probably for the best. you slouch in your seat, watching the sky darken. this is fine. should be fine. he’ll fix your car, you’ll thank him, and you’ll go your separate ways again. simple. easy. no need to think about how good he looked the last time you saw him, or how your body still remembers the shape of his.

thirty-five minutes later, you see headlights in your rearview mirror and hear the familiar rumble of the impala. your traitorous heart speeds up as dean pulls up behind you, parking close enough that his headlights illuminate your car. he’s out in seconds, and damn him for looking even better than you remembered. worn jeans, that damned leather jacket of his, dark blue flannel with the buttons unfastened revealing the tight gray t-shirt underneath, that concerned furrow between his brows.

“hey,” he says softly when you get out to meet him. his eyes do a quick scan, checking for injuries even though you told him you were fine. “you okay?” the question carries more weight than it should, like he’s asking about more than just the breakdown.

“i’m fine,” you lie, wrapping your arms around yourself. the temperature's dropped with the sun, and you’re in just a thin sweater. “thanks for coming. i know things are... weird.”

he shrugs off his jacket immediately, holding it out. “put this on before you freeze.” when you hesitate, he just steps closer and drapes it around your shoulders himself. the smell of leather and him overwhelms you. “and things aren’t weird,” he says, but won’t meet your eyes. “you needed help. end of story.”

“right,” you mutter, pulling the jacket tighter. “so, the car?”

he’a already popping your hood, pulling a flashlight from his pocket. “tell me exactly what happened.” you explain while he works, trying not to stare at the way his shoulders move under his dark blue flannel with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the competent way his hands check wires and connections. it’s been three months, but your body remembers exactly how those hands feel on your skin.

“found it,” he announces after a few minutes, pointing with the flashlight. “ignition wire snapped. must’ve been wearing thin and finally gave out.” he straightens up, wiping his hands on his jeans. “i can fix it, but not here. gonna need to tow it to bobby’s.”

“shit,” you breathe. bobby’s is two hours away, and it’s already dark. “okay, i’ll call—“

“i’ll drive you,” dean interrupts. “we can call for a tow in the morning. no point paying extra for night service.” he’s already closing your hood, decision made. “grab what you need from your car.”

you want to argue, but what’s the alternative? spend a fortune on a late-night tow to a shop that won’t even look at it until morning? “are you sure? i can get a motel or something...”

“there’s nothing out here for miles,” he points out. “just... let me help. please.” the please gets you. always does. dean winchester doesn’t say please often, and the vulnerability in it makes your chest ache.

you grab your phone and purse from your car, locking it up even though there’s literally nothing around. the impala is warm when you slide into the passenger seat, and muscle memory has you adjusting the vents the way you like before you remember this isn’t your place anymore. dean pretends not to notice, just puts the car in drive and pulls onto the empty highway.

the first ten minutes are silent except for the radio playing low — some classic rock station you know he’ll never change. you sneak glances at him in the dashboard light, noting new lines around his eyes, a healing cut on his knuckles. he’s been hunting without you, and the thought makes your stomach twist.

“so,” he finally says, voice carefully neutral. “how’ve you been? still working at the clinic?” he remembers. of course he does. the veterinary clinic job you’d taken in the next town over, trying to build something normal.

“yeah,” you answer, grateful for safe territory. “it’s good. steady.” boring, your mind supplies. nothing like the adrenaline of hunting with the winchesters. “how’s sammy?”

“he’s good. still a pain in my ass.” there's fondness in his voice though. “keeps asking about you.” he glances over quickly. “told him to give you space, but you know how he is.”

you do know. sam winchester, ever the optimist, probably thinks you and dean are just taking a break. probably doesn’t know about the screaming match, the accusations thrown like weapons. how you’d told dean he was reckless, that he had a death wish. how he’s shot back that you were asking him to be someone he wasn’t, that hunting was in his blood.

“i miss him,” you admit quietly. “both of you.” the last part slips out before you can stop it, and dean’s hands tighten on the wheel.

“yeah,” he says roughly. “we miss... sam misses you too.” the correction is obvious, and something in your chest cracks. you turn to look out the window, watching empty fields fly by in the darkness. this was a mistake. you should’ve called a tow truck, dealt with the expense. anything but sitting in this car that holds too many memories, breathing in the scent of leather and gunpowder and dean.

“i can drop you at a motel,” dean offers suddenly. “in smith center. get your car towed there instead.” he’s giving you an out, even though it makes no practical sense. that’s dean though — he’ll inconvenience himself before making you uncomfortable.

“no, it’s fine,” you say, because you’re apparently a masochist. “bobby’s makes more sense.” what you don’t say is that you’re not ready for this to end. three months of missing him, and having him this close is torture and relief all at once.

the next hour passes in fits of conversation and comfortable silence. he tells you about a vengeful spirit in iowa, you tell him about the Great Dane who ate an entire thanksgiving turkey. it’s easy, too easy, falling back into this rhythm. by the time he mentions being hungry, suggesting a diner he knows, you’ve almost forgotten why you’re not supposed to be here.

“i should probably just wait in the car,” you say when he pulls into the parking lot. it’s one of those 24-hour places, neon lights flickering, maybe three other cars in the lot. “not really hungry.”

he gives you a look. “when's the last time you ate?” when you don’t answer immediately, he shuts off the engine. “come on. my treat. least i can do since i’m kidnapping you to kansas.”

“you’re not kidnapping me,”, you protest, but you’re already unbuckling your seatbelt. “i called you, remember?”

“details,” he says with that half-smile that always made you weak. inside, the diner is exactly what you’d expect — cracked vinyl booths, ancient jukebox, waitress who looks like she’s been working since the place opened. dean guides you to a corner booth with a hand on your lower back, and you pretend the touch doesn’t send electricity up your spine.

you order coffee and a sandwich you probably won’t finish. dean gets a burger and fries, and when the waitress leaves, the silence stretches awkward for the first time. here, under fluorescent lights instead of dashboard glow, the reality of your situation is harder to ignore.

“this is weird,” you finally say, fidgeting with your napkin. “right? this is weird?”

“yeah, it is,”, dean agrees, but he’s smiling a little. “good weird or bad weird?” the question catches you off guard. you look at him, really look at him, and see the same conflict in his eyes that you’re feeling.

“i honestly don’t know,” you admit. “both? neither?” you take a breath. “i wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon. or at all, maybe.”

something flashes across his face — hurt, maybe. “you really thought that was it for us? one fight and we’re done forever?” he leans forward, intense now. “baby, we’ve been through too much for that.”

“we broke up, dean,” you remind him, voice sharper than intended. “that usually means done forever.” but even as you say it, you know it’s not true. nothing about you and dean has ever been usual.

“we had a fight,” he corrects. “a bad one, yeah. but i never said... i didn’t want...” he runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “fuck, i’m bad at this.”

the food arrives before he can finish, and you both pretend to be very interested in your meals. but the tension’s there now, thick between you. your sandwich tastes like sawdust, and you notice dean’s not really eating either, just pushing fries around.

“i’m sorry,” he says suddenly. “for what i said. about you not understanding the life, about being clingy. i was pissed and scared and i said shit i didn’t mean.” he meets your eyes. “you weren’t asking for too much. you were asking me to be careful. to come home. that’s... that’s what people do when they care.”

your throat feels tight. “i’m sorry too. i knew who you were when we got together. hunter first, everything else second. i shouldn’t have tried to change that.” you pause, chose your next words carefully. “i just... i got tired of patching you up. of wondering if each hunt would be the one you didn’t come back from.”

“i know,” he says softly. “i get it. hell, sometimes i wonder the same thing.” he reaches across the table, stops just short of your hand. “but these past three months... hunting without you, coming back to the bunker and you’re not there. it’s been...”

“i know,” you whisper, because you know. you’ve felt it too. the empty spaces where he should be. waking up alone, no one to call after a long shift, no one who understands the nightmares. “dean...”

he does touch your hand then, fingers brushing yours. “i fucked up. letting you walk away. not calling. being too stubborn to...” he takes a breath. “i missed you. every damn day.”

you turn your hand palm up, letting your fingers intertwine. “i drove past the bunker,” you confess. “two weeks ago. almost stopped.” you’d sat at the end of the road for twenty minutes, engine running, trying to find the courage. “…missed you too.”

the moment stretches, both of you holding on like letting go means losing this again. then dean’s phone buzzes, breaking the spell. he checks it with his free hand. “sam,” he says. “making sure i found you okay.”

“what did you tell him?” you ask, curious despite yourself. dean types one-handed rather than let go of you.

“that i got you. that we’re stopping for food.” he pauses, then adds something else. when he sets the phone down, there’s color in his cheeks. “he says to tell you hi. and that your room’s still exactly how you left it.”

your room. not the guest room, not a room. your room. like you still belong there. “dean...” but you don’t know how to finish. everything’s too complicated, too raw. three months wasn’t enough to get over him. you’re starting to think three years wouldn’t be enough.

“i know,” he says. “i know it’s complicated. but...” he squeezes your hand. “just come back tonight. we’ll figure out your car in the morning, and then... then we can talk. really talk. if you want.”

you should say no. should insist on a motel, on boundaries, on protecting whatever healing you’ve managed. instead you find yourself nodding. “okay. but just tonight.” it’s a lie and you both know it. nothing with dean is ever just anything.

he pays the check despite your protests, and then you’re back in the impala, except now there’s this thing between you. this acknowledgment that you’re not over, maybe never were. his hand finds yours across the seat, and you let yourself have this. for tonight. when he parks behind the bunker two hours later, you’re still holding on.

“home sweet home,” he says, but catches himself. “i mean…”

“i know what you meant,” you tell him. because despite everything, part of you has always known this was home. not the bunker itself, but wherever dean winchester is. that’s the problem.

that’s always been the problem.

you don’t make it inside the bunker. dean kills the engine and the silence is deafening, both of you still holding hands across the seat like teenagers. “we should go in,” you say, but neither of you moves. the air feels charged, heavy with everything unsaid. “sam’s waiting inside.”

“yeah,” he agrees, but his thumb is stroking across your knuckles and his eyes keep dropping to your lips. “he is probably waiting.” another beat of silence. “fuck it,” he mutters, and then he’s pulling you across the bench seat and into his lap.

his mouth crashes into yours and it’s like coming home and drowning all at once. three months of missing this, of pretending you didn’t need him like air, and now his hands are everywhere —. tangling in your hair, gripping your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. you kiss him back just as desperately, grinding down against him and swallowing his groan.

“backseat,” he pants against your mouth. “now.” you scramble over the seat ungracefully, dean right behind you. the space is familiar, how many times you’ve done this before, but it feels different now. charged with the weight of your separation, the raw need to reclaim each other.

“missed you so fucking much,” dean breathes, pulling you back into his lap. his hands slide under your shirt, rough palms against soft skin. “thought about this every night. how you feel, how you taste.” he mouths at your neck and you’re already falling apart, three months of built-up want making you hypersensitive.

you gasp softly, rocking against him. he’s rock hard already, denim rough against your core through your thin leggings. “please, i need you inside me.” there’s no room for putting on an act here, not when you’ve been starving for him. your hands shake as you work at his belt, desperate to feel him.

he helps, lifting his hips to shove his jeans down just enough. then he’s pulling at your leggings, the fabric catching awkwardly in the confined space. “these fucking things,” he growls, and you laugh breathlessly, helping him get them off one leg so you can straddle him properly.

when you sink down onto him, both of you moan so loud it could probably be the only thing heard for miles and your heavy breaths start to fog up the windows. “fuck, baby,” he grits out, hands gripping your hips bruisingly tight. “so perfect. always so perfect for me.” you can’t speak, too overwhelmed by the stretch, the fullness, the rightness of having him inside you again.

you start moving and the impala rocks with it, shocks creaking with each roll of your hips. dean’s making these broken sounds against your neck — grunts and whimpers that shoot straight to your core. “that’s right,” he pants. “ride me. show me how much you missed my cock.”

the dirty talk unlocks something in you and suddenly you’re bouncing on him hard, the car protesting with every movement. “missed it so much,” you confess in a whimper, nails digging into his shoulders. “nothing else... mmm, nobody else feels like you.” he groans and bucks up into you, feet planted on the floor for leverage.

the position changes everything, letting him thrust up deep and hard. the whole car is moving now, rocking obviously with your rhythm. “everyone’s gonna know,” he grunts in your ear. “gonna know i’m fucking you so good you can’t keep quiet.” as if to prove his point, he hits that perfect spot and you cry out, not caring who might hear.

“i’m so fucking close,” you gasp again, that familiar tension building. dean’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight circles as he continues pounding up into you. “dean, shit , i’m gonna—“ you come with his name on your lips, clenching around him.

he follows right after, arms tight around you as he empties himself inside with a broken whimper. you collapse against his chest, both breathing hard as the car finally stills. “definitely not making it inside anytime soon,” you murmur against his neck, and feel him laugh. “good,” he says, arms tightening around you. “not done with you yet.”

[muqingslover]

[ Sooooo, happy easter my pookies! 🐰 So sorry about being dead for a bit I was hospitalized LMFAO!? I'll be going through requests soon! Dw guys, I see you and I hear you!!

In any case, what better way to kick back and relax than to write about the LADS boys jorking it ]

For personal enjoyment only I believe Sylus has a rut cycle. I mean, c'mon who hasn't thought about this at least once? Bc I sure have and I could make a whole post about thi— *gunshots*

Now, if I'm honest, he doesn't feel the NEED to masturbate like, ever. Nor does he really enjoy it.

His libido (and attraction in general) is directly connected to you so, if you're not actively riling him up or hanging around, he's just chilling.

Except during his cycles when his hand is forced (literally) and he'd rather blow his load than blow his own brains out.

Sylus is a growler! Though the low, almost rumbling sounds that escape his throat are not stemmed from desire, but from genuine frustration.

Why so angry, you may ask? That is because he knows it would be so much more enjoyable if you were there with him and it feels meaningless to do it by himself.

" He is rutting his sore, dripping cock against a pillow on the bed, bath robe sloppily slipping down his shoulders as he lets out another low, breathy groan. His hand grips the headboard of the bed tightly, nails digging into the wood hard enough to leave claw marks behind. His jaw is tight and sweat trickles down his forehead, each thrust into the soft cotton doing very little to soothe the hot, bubbling frustration in his gut.

'Help me, please.' He asks in his thoughts again. Will you hear his prayers this time? "

Xavier however doesn't need you physically present to get worked up.

Not particularly ashamed about it either. You're welcome to watch him anytime if you want.

He enjoys masturbating a normal amount but it's done veery sporadically. Usually he has to be in the right mood and have the right circumstances presented to him.

It happens when he's feeling lonely and needy for your presence next to him. You have been gone for longer than originally intended and now he is like a dying bunny starving for attention.

During sex Xavier is usually a quiet groaner or more of a "soft breaths" type of guy, but when he's alone? WHINY AS HELL.

" 'Mhn-mn...' He agreed softly, though his mind didn't register a single word that came out of your mouth besides the fact your voice sounded so close to his ear. He swears this hadn't been his intention when he came over to nap on your bed, but that raspy, tired edge to your tone began to make him feel tingly and before he knew he had his face buried into your fuzzy blanket while his free hand stroke his poor, messy cock. His other hand is busy covering his own lips to muffle his whiny moans, only letting go to answer when you ask if he had fallen asleep.

'Please keep talking..'

It's needless to say he enjoys the post-orgasm sleep.

I see him as the type that feels guilty about his sexual desires.

Zayne knows it's a chemical bodily reaction, but he just feels so....shameful. Especially since the reason for said "reaction" in his pants is you.

He does it quickly and quietly somewhere no one will see or interrupt him such as in the bathroom or his (locked) bedroom.

He's so quiet. I wish I was joking. Besides his heavy breathing there are no other real sounds from Zayne.

The only exception is right when he cums because then a strained, gasped moan escapes him without fail.

" 'Damnit...' He cursed under his breath. His glasses slip to the very tip of his nose as he pants, shirt trapped between his lips to muffle himself as an extra precaution and his hands work fast up and down his length. He can feel himself boarding so close to the edge and he knows just what he could do to achieve that bliss, but his moral compass holds him back from letting his imagination further any more into his fantasies. "

The post-nut clarity hits him like a damn truck exactly ten seconds later and he goes on a cleaning spree like there's no tomorrow.

This guy canonically went into heat. I rest my case.

Fine fine, since you insist let's push that aside and talk about just him feeling perky.

Rafayel is the type to masturbate after you do something that turned him on without meaning to.

Originally, the intention was to take a loooong, cool bath to calm himself down but in my twisted little mind being in the water makes him 10X hornier.

His voice is lower and quieter when he's excited. A moaner through and through, and occasionally will let out a curse or two.

" His knees fall further apart, spreading himself on the large bathtub as he comfortably leans against the edge. His eyebrows are furrowed in a way that makes him look almost angry, one of his fangs digging into his own lip as the sensitive scales on his skin react to the small ripples in the water around him, sending mind numbing tugs directly to his boner.

'Fuck...mn..' He murmured to himself, his thumb pressing against the pink, swollen tip and causing his head to tilt back in pleasure. "

A wise person (me) once said: Life is hard, but Caleb is always harder.

Pookies how many times have we been over this? He has his hand on his stiff ladies and gentlemen ! He's not a pilot for no reason ! ! And he's a FREAK about it ! ! !

His self-restraint is GOD given but his horny meter is also through the charts. Those pent up needs have to be released one way or another.

During teen years Caleb would use your clothes, his imagination and whatever else he could get his sticky little claws on to make his fantasies a bit more palpable.

Now that he's older though he barely has any time for himself and just kinda forgets about such things.

Or well, that was the case until you walked through the gates.

" The door to his office was locked, but if anyone was to pay a bit more attention they'd be able to hear to quiet grunts coming from the other side. The dog tag between his teeth did nothing to muffle the pathetic sounds leaving his throat, his sweaty forehead softly thudding against the metal when he leaned forward, one hand clenching the doorknob while the other moved quickly on his aching cock. 'Please, please please—' He begged between raspy whimpers, making a mess on the floor in front of him less than a minute after.