#Splash Proof

[gadgetguruarena]

[breezere]

people dont draw kokichi wearing silly lil capes/cloaks more often and i think thats so tragic

[grenadehearts]

soft domestic katsuki sighhh

Thinking about Bakugo—all grumpy and exhausted from a grueling day at work. New scars stretch across his rough skin, marks you’ll be sure to kiss better come morning. But right now, you’re peacefully asleep, and he knows it—knows it before he even reaches the front door of your shared home.

He wants so badly to slam that door, to let the pent-up rage from the day crash out of him in a storm of noise and haphazard explosions. He wants to stomp through the house, muddy boots and all. But he doesn’t. Why?

Because his precious baby is sleeping.

So instead, he exhales through clenched teeth and fumbles with the keys, biting back the frustrated grunt that aches in his throat. The door opens with a soft click. He knocks his heavy boots off by the mat, not bothering to untie them, too worn down to care—but careful all the same, because you're upstairs, dreaming peacefully.

He creeps up the stairs, every muscle in his body burning with fatigue. He's got a raging migraine, grime still clinging to his skin, fingers twitching from adrenaline mingled with leftover fury, and a desperate need to touch you. But none of that matters. Not when he sees the little signs you left behind—proof you tried to stay up for him.

A blanket tossed over the couch. A half-melted pint of your favorite ice cream abandoned on the counter. A tipped glass of wine, the red staining the coffee table in a messy splash. It should annoy him—hell, with anyone else, it would—but with you? You're so messy and soft and sweet that he could drown in it. And oh, he would. Happily.

Everything that spills from your mouth is like honey to him. He’s desperate to lap it up, memorize it, let it coat every raw part of him. He makes a silent promise to himself to clean everything up in the morning. Maybe even stop by that café you like on his morning run. The thought soothes something in him.

But for now, his soul aches for you.

His body is breaking down, his head pounding, but his heart won’t let him rest until he’s by your side—until he’s close enough to feel your warmth in the quiet dark. So he continues up the stairs as silently as a man of his stature can manage.

And there you are.

Your pretty, doll-like head rests on the pillow, soft locks spread around you like a halo. Your lips part slightly with every gentle breath, forming a perfect “O,” and your lashes flutter in sleep like you’re dreaming something sweet. He stares, caught in the stillness, overwhelmed by how much he loves you.

He wants to crawl into your arms, bury his face in your neck, and feel the steady beat of your heart against his chest. But he needs to shed the day first—to wash the grime and blood and exhaustion from his bones.

So he moves to the bathroom, runs the water scalding hot, and lets it sting as it washes him clean. He stands there, eyes closed, letting the heat dig into his muscles while images of you flicker behind his eyelids.

When he finally steps out, he dries off, slips on a pair of boxers, and pads back to your room. The bed welcomes him like a sigh, and he lowers himself slowly beside you, careful not to wake you—at least not fully.

But like always, you stir.

Just enough. Your lashes flutter again, and your body shifts instinctively, head turning until your ear rests over his heart. You don’t say anything, and neither does he. You never do.

But both of you lie there, breathing together, listening to the rhythm of each other's heartbeats in the dark.

Because everything is okay, as long as you end the day in the same bed together.

masterlist link here. i lwk hate this bye

taglist: @lotusstarr @luvseraphh @candiiee @xoxojisu @cvnt4him @cupkiki @wokar @soundtrqck @princessshnazzy @chlosology @203steph @chitteringcicadaeyes @idk1187 @notartemis777 @chosostonguepiercing @chocolatedefendorbaa @t33th--r0t @3lenaatvt @the-faceless-bride @tuneinwlosers @moonstonejpg @dollyfetti

[blueheron15]

FIGHT FOR ME

pairing: soft!jj x innocent!reader

summary: jj maybank confuses the fuck out of sarah cameron

warnings: violence, gun

a/n: not proof read oops but anyway this is my fave obx scene ever and one of my favorite concepts, hope you enjoy!

"hey, john b, don't make me drown you like your old man, alright?"

sarah heard the gasp from y/n as she watched the offensive words hurling out of topper's mouth.

mindless teenagers that had formed a circle around john b and topper were chanting "fight, fight, fight" as john b lunged at the kook.

the two boys fought and punched at each other, dragging themselves closer to the ocean as the crowd grew more rowdy.

jj stood in front of y/n, blocking her from the violence, but also granting himself a better view.

"yeah, c'mon!" he cheered, pumping his hand in victory as john b was able to grab a fistful of topper's shirt.

"topper, no!" sarah cried.

"john b, you gotta stop!" y/n pleaded, as her friend and topper circled around each other like the sworn enemies they were.

"let's go, topper!" john b hollered.

sarah locked eyes with y/n for a brief moment, a similar look in both of their gazes. they both just wanted this to fucking end.

her gaze flicked down to where y/n was clutching on to jj's bicep in fear. the girl turned back to the scene and sarah watched her nails curl into jj's arm even deeper as she let out another wail of distress.

sarah whipped her head around just in time to see her boyfriend kicking john b in the stomach, effectively knocking him down. water splashed upward as john b's face met the ocean floor, but before he had the chance to resurface, topper was knealing down, arms extended, shoving him back under. he held john b's neck and kept him there.

"he's drowning him!" pope screamed.

"you guys, we needa do something!" kie whimpered, threading her fingers through her hair.

"get up, john b, c'mon!" jj grunted.

"please, oh my god! jj, do something!" y/n cried, tears pooling in her eyes as she shook jj's arm, making him face her.

sarah watched as something clicked within jj. he quickly turned around to glance at topper drowning john b before turning back to the girl.

"stay here." he urged, tailing a rough hand down her small arm before marching towards the fight scene, boots sloshing in the salt water.

sarah squinted as she saw him reaching for something in his back pocket.

a gun.

he pulled it out of his cargo shorts, holding it against the back side of topper's head, clicking the safety off.

"yeah, you know what that is." jj panted, the adrenaline coursing through his veins. "your move, broski."

the whole crowd began fleeing, unlike sarah, who took a cautious step forward, and held out her hand in protest. "jj, stop. put the gun down."

"did you say sumthin, princess?"

topper held two shaking hands up in surrender, releasing john b from his death grip and rising slowly. "we're good, we're good." he attempted to say calmly.

"can y'all check your psycho friend please?" sarah remarked.

as she collected a dripping topper in her arms, jj watched the rest of the teens from the kegger fleeing.

"okay," he screamed. "everybody listen up! GET THE HELL OFF OUR SIDE OF THE ISLAND!" surging back onto the beach, he raised his gun into the night sky, shooting it not once, but twice.

"are you crazy?!" pope exclaimed, shoving jj's shoulder. "why would you do that?"

"you idiot!" kie chimed in.

"i'm saving his life, okay?" jj fired back.

"jj!" y/n whimpered, jumping into his arms, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck.

for a moment, jj stood useless, arms dangling at his sides.

was y/n fucking crazy? sarah wondered. he had a loaded gun in his hand!

but, eventually, he clicked the safety on, wrapping his arms around the girls back and burying his face into her hair.

sarah turned her attention back to topper, placing a comforting hand on his elbow. "oh my god." she panted. "are you alright?"

he gulped, and threaded a hand through his drenched hair, nodding.

when she scanned the beach, the pogues were gone.

after her and topper rested on a piece of driftwood for a little while longer, allowing him to cool down a bit, sarah made her way to the tree line to get top's truck and pick him up, so they could get the hell home.

but, as she got closer to where all the cars were parked, she spotted the twinkie, and figured the inhabitants of the van couldn't be far.

and then she heard soft whispers.

she spotted jj and y/n resting against a tree, the girl practically in his lap.

"i'm sorry." jj soothed, caressing her hair. "i'm so sorry, pretty girl. i know you hate the gun. but... you wanted it to stop, and... i didn't know how else to do it."

sarah had never heard jj speak or act so softly before. here he was, rocking y/n back and forth- where was the boy that was just threatening the whole beach?

"i d-didn't want you to get hurt." y/n mumbled, leaning back from his neck to look at him, sniffling slightly.

"i know baby. i'm all in one piece, but i'm hurt seein you cry." he cooed, using the pad of his thumb to wipe away her tears.

she leant into his hand, pouting at him. "just be careful next time." she conceded with a whisper.

"stupid things have good outcomes all the time." he grinned as she shook her head in protest.

“you guys,” pope called to the two, sliding open the door of the car. “john b's eye is starting to hurt. can we go?”

"let's go, mama. i'll make it up to you tonight. promise." jj said, standing without breaking contact with y/n, her legs wrapping around his waist, one of his hands around her lower back and the other palm blatantly gripping her ass cheek.

the two walked right past sarah, not even seeing her in the darkness. which was her sign to get topper's truck and head back to figure 8, because jj maybank confused the fuck out of her.

[rafesapologist]

if you would've been the one ─ rafe cameron

summary: rafe gets engaged and you find out.

warnings: angst, swearing, not proof-read

author's note: if you guys didn't know, i love writing angst so enjoy!!

The Pelican Yacht Club hums with the familiar buzz of a humid summer day. You stand behind the bar, the scent of saltwater mixing with the tang of citrus as you slice limes for the afternoon rush. The air is thick, almost suffocating, but you’ve gotten used to it. It’s a typical day—until it isn’t.

You glance up when the door swings open, letting in a flash of sunlight that makes you squint. It's Sofia. She isn’t scheduled today. The sight of her here, so out of place in this moment, makes your stomach twist. You force yourself to look away, feigning interest in the drink menu as she walks past. You can’t help but feel a twinge of resentment as she greets the staff with her bright smile, as if she’s the sunshine that everyone’s been waiting for.

Part of you hates her for that smile, hates the way she effortlessly lights up the room. But it’s not really her you’re mad at—it’s what she represents. Rafe Cameron’s new girlfriend. The girl who has no idea about the summers you spent next door, about the nights you sat on the dock with him, talking about everything and nothing. The girl who has no clue about the history between you and Rafe before she ever came into the picture.

You find yourself inching closer, pretending to fix a shelf of liquor bottles while you strain to overhear her conversation with your boss. Sofia’s voice is low but excited, the kind of tone people use when they have news that’s too good to keep quiet.

You catch bits and pieces of the conversation—something about a new start, a fresh chapter. Your heart pounds as you try to piece it together. Then you hear it, clear as day.

“I’m engaged,” Sofia says, a soft, dreamy smile spreading across her face. “Rafe proposed last night.”

You freeze. The glass in your hand slips slightly, a cold splash of water running down your wrist, but you barely feel it. You’re too stunned, too caught in the moment. Engaged. She’s not just his girlfriend anymore—she’s his fiancée. And she’s leaving. You hear her tell your boss she’s quitting, planning to move in with Rafe, start their new life together.

Your heart sinks, the words echoing in your head like a tolling bell. Engaged. Moving in with him. The world blurs around the edges, your fingers gripping the counter as you try to steady yourself. You force a smile when your boss catches your eye, but it feels thin, barely there.

Your heart thuds violently against your chest, every beat echoing like a cruel joke pounding in your ears. It feels as if your very emotions are ripping at your heartstrings, tearing them apart one by one. The realization claws at you, raw and unyielding. Engaged. You can’t even say the word in your head without feeling your throat tighten, a wave of nausea creeping up as if the world itself has betrayed you.

Your lips curl, the bitterness flooding your mouth as if you’d just bitten into a sour lemon. It’s a twisted smile, one that burns with hatred and betrayal. She had no idea—how could she? How could she possibly know the history, the gravity of everything she just shattered with those simple, giddy words? Bitter tears prick at your eyes, the kind that sting and make you blink rapidly, as if you could will them away.

Without thinking, your fingers fumble at the ties of your apron, ripping it off with a sudden, violent tug. The fabric falls to the floor with a muted thud, but it feels like a thunderous crash in your ears. You don’t care who’s watching; you don’t care what they’ll say. The room seems to tilt around you, your vision narrowing as your breaths come in shallow, rapid gasps.

You place your trembling hands on the counter, feeling the cool surface beneath your fingertips as you try to steady yourself. It doesn’t help. You bow your head, squeezing your eyes shut as you suck in a ragged breath, trying to rein in the flood of emotions threatening to drown you. The noise of the yacht club fades to a dull hum, everything around you blurring as you fight to keep it together.

Suddenly, nothing around you matters anymore. The clinking glasses, the murmur of the club members, the dull chatter of your coworkers—all of it fades to a distant, meaningless buzz. Your job, your manners, your reputation—all the things you’ve been clinging to for a sense of normalcy—seem laughably small in the face of what you’re feeling. The rage and heartbreak surging inside you demand an escape, a release you can’t find standing behind this bar pretending everything is fine.

Without a second thought, you shove the door open, storming out of the yacht club. No one notices. No one even calls your name. The warm, sticky air hits you like a slap in the face as you step outside, but it does nothing to calm the storm brewing within you. You stumble forward, gasping for air, your chest heaving as if you’re drowning. You bend over, hands clutching your knees as you choke on your sobs, each tear hot and unforgiving as it spills down your cheeks.

You force yourself to look up at the sky, its bright blue taunting you. The sun burns harshly, casting long shadows over the marina, but you only feel the darkness wrapping around you. A bitter laugh escapes your lips, followed by a curse you fling at the heavens. You want to scream, to demand an answer from whatever cruel force is out there pulling the strings of your life. What about her? you think desperately, the words echoing in your mind like a broken record. What about her made her deserve a ring, Rafe’s ring?

Your hands clench into fists as you straighten up, trying to find your balance, but the ground feels like it’s shifting beneath you. The memories of Rafe slam into you like a tidal wave, overwhelming and inescapable. The late nights by the dock, the way he used to look at you when he thought no one else was watching, the soft, fleeting kisses that felt like promises he’d never actually made. They all flash before your eyes like a haunting nightmare you can’t wake up from.

It hits you then, like a punch to the gut—the realization that everything you shared, everything you held onto, meant nothing now. He’s chosen her. He’s given her everything you once dreamed he’d offer you. And in that moment, the weight of it all is too much to bear, your knees nearly buckling as you clutch your chest.

A rush of adrenaline surges through your veins, and before you can even think, your feet are moving. You take off, sprinting away from the yacht club, away from the suffocating weight of it all. Where you’re going? You have no idea. You just need to move, to run until the pain isn’t the only thing you feel. The wind pushes against you, almost as if it’s trying to slow you down, but you ignore it. You let it whip through your hair, the strands tangling into a mess of disheveled curls as you race forward.

Your feet pound against the pavement, carrying you closer into town, toward Figure 8—the gilded paradise of the wealthy, where your story with Rafe first began. The roads twist beneath you, familiar yet foreign now, each corner a sharp, painful reminder of the past. You pass the spot where he kissed you for the first time under the flickering streetlight. The bench where you once sat for hours, talking about dreams that were never meant to be. The old corner store where he’d steal glances at you when he thought you weren’t looking. It all burns a hole straight through your chest, the memories hitting you harder than the humid wind in your face.

You don’t stop. You can’t. The images flash by in a blur, each one slicing deeper into your already bleeding heart. It’s like you’re running through a living nightmare, haunted by ghosts of the life you thought you might have had. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, the tears streaming freely now, hot and unrelenting. Mascara streaks down your cheeks, black rivers tracing the contours of your face—a perfect, messy representation of where you were mentally.

You push yourself harder, faster, until your legs scream in protest and your lungs burn with every gulp of air. The world around you blurs, the people, the cars, the houses—none of it matters. You keep running, driven by the pain that won’t let you rest. Your chest heaves, a raw ache settling in as the adrenaline begins to fade, replaced by the crushing weight of exhaustion. You stumble to a halt, bent over, hands on your knees once more as you gasp for air.

You’re breathless, hair a wild halo of loose curls sticking to your tear-streaked face. Your vision swims, a cocktail of sweat and tears blinding you as you look up at the sky, feeling nothing but the hollow ache in your chest. Here you are, in the place where you once made all your memories with him. But it feels like a stranger now—empty, cold, and unwelcoming.

You stand there for what feels like an eternity, hands braced on your knees, gulping down air as if you’ve just surfaced from drowning. You can’t even process where you are—all you can feel is the tight, agonizing pressure in your chest, like your heart is being squeezed by an invisible fist. You’re vaguely aware that people are walking by, probably staring at you, but it’s like they’re part of a distant dream. Their gazes feel like nothing more than a blur on the edges of your vision.

But you don’t care. You’ve been stripped raw, exposed in a way that makes everything else fade into insignificance. You push yourself upright, your fingers digging into your waist as you take in deep, ragged breaths, trying to slow the pounding of your heart. The mascara streaks have dried, the salty residue of your tears leaving your cheeks tight and sticky. You close your eyes for a moment, just a moment, trying to pull yourself together.

Then you hear it. A voice—his voice.

"Y/N?"

The sound of your name hits you like a bolt of lightning, jolting you back to reality. You freeze, your heart skipping a beat as the familiarity of it wraps around you like a cold, clammy hand. You know that voice better than your own, and yet, hearing it now feels like a punch to the gut. It’s haunting, the way it slices through the air, so soft and unsure, as if he’s almost afraid it might actually be you standing there, looking as broken as you feel.

Slowly, you turn around, your eyes widening as you meet his gaze. Rafe Cameron stands just a few feet away, his expression a mixture of shock, concern, and something else you can’t quite place. For a second, it feels like the world stops spinning, the sounds of the town fading into the background until it’s just the two of you, standing there like the past has come back to drag you under.

He takes a hesitant step closer, his brow furrowing as he takes in your disheveled appearance—the wild curls, the streaks of makeup, the look of utter devastation in your eyes. You can see the questions forming on his lips, the confusion in his eyes. But you’re too stunned to speak, the words trapped in your throat. All you can do is stare back at him, feeling the sharp sting of fresh tears welling up again.

“What happened? Are you okay?” Rafe’s voice is laced with genuine concern, the sincerity in his tone unmistakable. His eyes scan your face, searching for answers, and for a fleeting moment, he looks like the Rafe you used to know—the one who held you close on quiet nights, the one who made you feel like you were the only person in the world.

But the sound of his words makes you feel sick to your stomach. The irony of his compassion now, when it feels like he’s the one who drove the knife into your heart, twists inside you like a dagger. You let out a bitter, humorless laugh, the sound cutting through the air like shattered glass. It’s as if he’s playing a cruel joke, and you’re the punchline.

“What do you care?” you snap, your voice raw and venomous. You can feel your top lip quiver in disgust as you shake your head, unable to look at him without the pain flaring up like a fresh wound. His expression falters, the shock evident in his eyes. It’s like he’s been slapped, his confusion deepening as he takes in the sheer hurt radiating off you.

“You don’t get to act concerned,” you spit out, each word drenched in the bitterness that’s been festering inside you. “Not after everything. Not after this.” The last word comes out almost as a whisper, your voice breaking under the weight of it.

Rafe’s expression shifts, a deep crease forming between his brows as he stares at you with wide, bewildered eyes. It’s almost laughable—the look of shock, the utter confusion twisting his features as if he genuinely has no idea why you’re standing here, mascara-streaked and heartbroken. He takes a small step closer, his voice soft and pleading.

“What did I do?” he asks, sounding clueless, like a child who doesn’t understand why they’re being scolded. His tone is so sincere, so filled with concern, that for a split second, you almost believe him. But then the truth crashes over you again, sharp and unforgiving, and it sends a fresh wave of anger coursing through your veins.

You scoff, a bitter sound that feels like acid on your tongue. His naivety, his complete obliviousness to the damage he’s caused, only fuels the fire inside you. You look up at him, your eyes blazing with the kind of betrayal that words can’t fully capture.

“I don’t know, Rafe,” you say, your voice dripping with venom as you take a step closer, your gaze piercing right through him. “You tell me. Maybe an engagement, perhaps?”

You spit the words out, practically throwing them at him, your voice cracking under the weight of your own disbelief. You watch as realization dawns on his face, his eyes widening slightly, the color draining from his cheeks. He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. It’s like he’s been struck dumb, caught off guard by the sheer force of your anger and the pain radiating off you in waves.

The silence between you is deafening, charged with the weight of everything left unsaid. You can see it in his eyes—the moment he pieces it together. And it’s almost satisfying, watching the horror settle in, watching him realize that the life he’s built, the future he’s promised someone else, has shattered you in ways he never anticipated.

“You didn’t think I’d find out, did you?” you whisper, your voice hoarse as the tears well up again. “You didn’t think it would matter.” The words hang in the air, heavy and accusatory, and for once, Rafe Cameron has no response. He just stands there, staring at you like you’re a mirror reflecting all the mistakes he’s made.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.”

The words fall from his lips like an empty promise, and you can’t help but scoff, the bitter laugh bubbling up uncontrollably. You know it means nothing. It can never mean anything. No apology, no amount of regret can ever take back what’s been done, what he’s taken from you. Your chest tightens as the anger swells up, hotter and sharper with each passing second.

“Oh, you’re sorry?” you spit, your voice rising in pitch with every word. You can feel your fists balling at your sides, your body shaking with the weight of everything you’ve tried to swallow down, tried to bury. “You’re sorry?”

You throw your arms up in the air, an exaggerated motion of frustration, a physical manifestation of everything inside you that’s about to break free. “You think some bullshit apology is going to make up for what you’ve put me through?” you shout, your voice rising to a scream. The words burst out of you in a raw, jagged rush, like you’re finally tearing through the wall of calm you’d built just to keep from falling apart. “You think saying ‘sorry’ is going to make me forget everything? Forget you? Forget the way you made me feel like I was the only one in the world and then turned around and chose her instead?”

Your breath is ragged, your chest heaving as your emotions spill out of you uncontrollably. You’re not even sure where the words are coming from now, but they come in a torrent, desperate and aching. "How am I supposed to wonder for the rest of my life," you continue, your voice shaking, "why you chose her instead? What was it about her that made you pick her over me, Rafe? What the hell did I do wrong?"

You step closer, not caring anymore about the distance between you. Your face feels hot, your pulse pounding in your ears, but you can't stop yourself. "You think I won’t wonder, every goddamn day, why I wasn’t enough?" you add bitterly, the weight of your words crashing down on you.

“I didn’t do it to hurt you, I… I did it because she’s stuck by my side through all of this stuff I’ve been going through.”

The words hit you like a slap, but you don’t let him see the sting. Instead, your head snaps over to him, your eyes narrowed so dangerously that if looks could kill, he’d drop right there, dead. Every ounce of frustration, anger, and betrayal gathers in the pit of your stomach, and your mouth twists into a bitter frown. It feels like your entire body is ready to explode.

“And what? I wouldn’t have?” you snap, voice raw with fury. “You didn’t give me the fucking chance to, Rafe!” Your heart is pounding now, each beat a furious reminder of everything you’ve been through—of the way he’s shattered you, piece by piece. “You gave up! The second things got a little hard between us, you gave up. We could’ve worked through it if you actually tried!”

The words fly out of you, harsh and cruel in nature, but they don’t feel like enough. You shove him, your hands landing firmly against his chest in a fit of frustration. “I love you, Rafe!” you scream, the sound of your voice trembling with the weight of everything you’ve been holding back. “I fucking love you, and it has destroyed me watching you give your all to someone else. You have ruined me!”

And that’s when it breaks. The dam cracks, the tears flood, and you’re not just crying—you’re sobbing, your body wracked with the weight of it all. Your chest aches with the sobs, your body collapsing under the strain as you stand there, shaking uncontrollably in the middle of the street. All the rage, all the hurt, all the unanswered questions spill out of you like a river that’s finally burst its banks.

Rafe stands frozen for a moment, as if unable to process the sight of you, broken and vulnerable in a way he’s never seen before. His face goes pale, his eyes wide with guilt and horror, realizing that he’s the one who’s caused all of this—he’s the one who’s done this to you. And the weight of that realization hits him harder than anything else could.

Without another word, he pulls you into his chest. The gesture is sudden, almost desperate, as if he needs to hold you as much as you need to be held. His arms wrap around you tightly, firmly, like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go. You can feel his body against yours, the warmth of his chest as you crumble in his arms, your sobs echoing between you both.

For a moment, you stand there in his arms, the two of you swaying slightly as if the ground beneath you is unsteady. His grip on you is firm but gentle, like he’s trying to hold together the pieces of you he’s broken, letting you cry out your frustrations, your sadness, your heartbreak. The tears flow freely, soaking into his shirt, and he just holds you tighter, his chin resting on the top of your head. He doesn’t say anything, because he knows there’s nothing he can say to make this better. So he lets you cry, lets you release everything you’ve been carrying.

For just a second, you almost let yourself lean into him. His hold feels like comfort—like a memory of what it used to be, back when you felt safe and wanted. But then the reality slams into you like a tidal wave. He’s not yours anymore. He belongs to someone else now, someone who wears his ring, someone who gets to wake up next to him every morning. The realization crashes down on you, a flood of emotions so overwhelming that you choke on your own sobs, the pain squeezing your chest until it feels like you can’t breathe.

“I can’t stand to see you like this, Y/N,” Rafe says softly, his voice trembling as he looks down at you. His eyes are filled with a deep sadness, like he’s finally seeing the full extent of the damage he’s caused. He pulls back just enough to see your face, his hands cupping your cheeks, wiping away the tears with his thumbs. The way he’s looking at you—it’s almost unbearable, like he’s mourning something he’s only just realized he lost. “This isn’t your fault,” he continues, his voice cracking slightly. “You’re right, it’s my fault. It’s my fault for not trying harder.”

His words are raw, filled with a regret you’ve never heard from him before, and it makes your heart ache even more. You want to scream at him, to push him away and tell him that it’s too late—that his apologies don’t change anything. But you’re too exhausted, too broken to fight anymore. You just stare at him, tears still streaming down your face, your lips trembling as you try to find the words to respond.

“But it doesn’t mean that I don’t… love you,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. The confession hangs between you like a fragile, broken thing. You can see the truth in his eyes, the love that’s still there, buried beneath layers of mistakes and regret. It’s there, as real as the pain in your chest, and it cuts you deeper than anything else he could have said.

The words sink into you, bittersweet and hollow. It’s what you’ve wanted to hear for so long, and yet it feels like a cruel joke now, a confession that comes far too late. You let out a shaky breath, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt as you try to steady yourself. His love—it doesn’t change what’s happened, it doesn’t erase the hurt.

“You don’t mean that,” you whisper, your voice breaking as you shake your head, refusing to let his words sink in. It’s almost like you’re trying to shake them off, as if denying them will somehow lessen the pain. You close your eyes tightly, squeezing out the last of your tears because looking at him—seeing the raw, honest look in his eyes—will only make it hurt more. It’s too much. The truth you’ve waited so long to hear is finally being spoken, but it’s laced with the bitter sting of timing that’s all wrong.

Rafe’s grip on you tightens, his hands trembling slightly as he holds your face, desperate to make you believe him. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he searches your expression, as if he’s looking for a way back to you, a way to undo everything that’s happened. “No, I do mean that,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. He pauses, the words hanging between you, heavy and filled with a regret so palpable it feels like a punch to your gut.

“I’ve known it since the day I met you,” he continues, his eyes boring into yours as if he’s trying to imprint this moment into his memory, to make you feel the weight of his confession. “But I made a mistake. Letting you go was the biggest mistake of my life, and I know that now. I’ve known it every single day since. And that—” his voice cracks, and he looks away for a brief moment, as if he can’t bear to see the pain on your face—“that is going to haunt me for the rest of my life.”

The sincerity in his voice sends a fresh wave of agony crashing through you. You want to scream at him, to tell him that it’s too late, that he’s made his choice, and there’s no going back now. But the words get caught in your throat, choking you, leaving you gasping for breath. Because as much as you want to deny it, as much as you want to hate him, there’s still a part of you—deep down—that wants to believe him. That wants to believe you’ve always been the one, that he’s just as haunted by the loss as you are.

But it doesn’t change the fact that he’s made his choice. He’s with someone else now, someone who gets to have the version of him you once dreamed of, someone who’s standing by his side while you’re left picking up the pieces of what could have been. And that reality cuts through you like a knife, leaving you reeling.

“I wish that mattered,” you manage to whisper, your voice barely audible, each word a struggle as you force yourself to look him in the eyes. The storm of emotions churning within you feels like it might tear you apart from the inside, but you need him to hear this, to understand the depth of the pain he’s caused. “But it doesn’t change anything, Rafe. It doesn’t change the fact that you’re engaged to someone else, and I’m just… supposed to accept that.” Your voice breaks on the last word, the sound coming out fractured and hollow.

Rafe’s expression drops, and for the first time, you see something close to genuine despair flicker across his face. His blue eyes, which once held a spark of recklessness and life, now look empty, consumed by a dark realization. It’s as if he’s seeing the full weight of his choices for the first time, the horrifying dread of what he’s done sinking in like a stone dropped into still water. You can see the exact moment it hits him—the gravity of the mistake he’s made.

When he proposed to Sofia, he thought he was finally getting his life together. After years of chaos and self-destruction, he believed he was taking a step towards stability, towards becoming the man he always felt he needed to be. He convinced himself that this was the right path, that Sofia was the safe choice—the one who could ground him, the one who would stand by him through thick and thin. But now, standing in front of you, seeing the devastation in your eyes and hearing the brokenness in your voice, he realizes the truth he’s been running from all along.

He’s made a grave mistake—one he can’t undo.

The realization tears through him like a knife, and his knees nearly buckle under the weight of it. He looks at you with a mix of horror and regret, his face pale, his eyes glassy as if he’s about to crumble right then and there. He reaches out a hand, hesitating, his fingers trembling as if he’s afraid to touch you, afraid that this might be the last time he ever gets the chance.

“Y/N…” he breathes out your name, his voice breaking on the syllable. He looks utterly lost, like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, staring into the abyss. “I—” His words falter, and he closes his eyes, a shaky exhale escaping his lips. When he opens them again, they’re filled with a sorrow so deep it takes your breath away. “I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I was finally getting my life together. But I was wrong. I was so, so wrong.”

You shake your head, feeling your heart shatter into a million pieces. His confession feels like a dagger twisting in your chest, confirming what you’d feared all along—that he never truly let you go, that you weren’t just imagining the way he used to look at you, the connection that lingered despite the time and distance.

“But you chose her,” you whisper, your voice laced with a bitter sadness. “You chose her over me, Rafe. And now you’re standing here, telling me this as if it changes anything. But it doesn’t. It’s too late.”

The words hang between you like a death sentence, and you can see it in his eyes—the crushing realization that he’s lost you for good, that this is the consequence of his choices. The haunting realization that he’ll have to live with this regret, this aching emptiness, for the rest of his life.

[bleach-your-panties]

level up - nerdmin x fem reader

a/n: tiktok is going off with these edits of the nerdarmin fanart with the tongue piercing (thank you @musapylsa) and I am eating it all up, so hope all other armin girlies enjoy this! 'swimming pools' is his theme song in my mind, so ofc I had to use some version of it~

c/w: alcohol, oral!fem receiving, spit, manipulative armin, slight!dub con, friends to ?

w/c: 929

"it's been so long, since I've been on this level right here..."

+++

Armin's ocean blue eyes swam as his head lolled from side to side, a half-empty, red solo cup nearly-crumpled in his hand from how tightly he was gripping it. The ends of his golden blonde hair swayed back and forth with the fluid motions of his body that ground salaciously against yours.

You smiled seeing your best friend let loose at this random college party. Pulling him away from his small, cramped study desk had taken quite a bit of convincing, but you managed it.

Statistics could wait, after all.

The spacious living room was dark, the only light that could be seen was from the cell phone screens of other party-goers making TikToks or recording on Snapchat to garner proof that they were able to attend such an event.

DJ made a song switch and Armin perked up, but as he did so, the clear liquid inside his cup splashed over the rim and landed directly in the middle of your white lace cami.

"Oh fuck, Y/N - I'm-I'm so sorry!"

Frantically, he began to look around the darkened room, searching for where the kitchen might be before grabbing your hand and pulling you along with him in a random direction.

"Armin, wait- that's not the way to the kitchen..."

You spoke a bit sheepishly as the blonde turned to you with a look of confusion before noticing that the two of you were indeed not in a kitchen, but a bedroom.

"Oh fuck," he repeated, hands moving to muss his already messy blonde bangs as he chuckled awkwardly at his mistake, "m-my bad, I was just trying to find something to clean you up with..."

Shrugging, you glanced around the room to see that it had a small bathroom connected to it.

"There may be some towels in the bathroom..."

+++

"Damn, Y/N...you're dripping all over my face..." Armin groaned, pulling his face from between your soaked thighs and wiping it off with the sleeve of his shirt. His cock twitched in his jeans at the sight of your swollen pussy, covered in your cum mixed with his saliva.

The towel that you thought would be used to wipe you off was placed beneath your ass while the blonde licked and slurped at your pussy like he was dying of thirst.

What had started as an innocent gesture of him helping you get cleaned up turned into soft, wet kisses on your belly and the nastiest head that you'd ever received in your life.

There had always been a little sexual tension between you both, but neither of you ever acted on it. Tonight, there was something different about Armin, and it was more than just the fact that he was tipsy.

He was determined. Confident. Ravenous.

"Armin..."

Your back arched against the stark white sheets of the bed, legs dangling off the edge as Armin knelt between them. His warm hands smoothed over the length of them, then down, down and down until they were gripping your ankles.

"Ar-wait!"

Squealing as he bent you in half, you were now eye to crystal blue eye with your friend and his glossy lips coated in your slick.

"I-I thought you were drunk off your ass by the way you spilled that drink on me! You were even swaying on the dance floor...you..."

His glasses dropped to the bridge of his nose as he smirked down at you.

"Really, you thought that? That's cute..."

Soft blonde locks splayed across your exposed skin as Armin nipped and sucked at your neck, surely leaving a trail of love bites in his wake. Moaning his name in broken syllables, you brought your arms up to wrap around his back and bring him closer.

"Sorry, Y/N, but I didn't know how else to get you alone...fuck, I've been dreaming about having you like this for so long..."

His breath came out in ragged puffs as he moved his kisses across the expanse of your chest, then down to your breasts. You squealed when the head of his tongue piercing rubbed your sensitive nipple.

He flicked the cold metal repeatedly against the hard bud while has other hand squeezed the opposite breast.

"Fuuck...A-armin...please.."

Armin knew what you needed. His fingers tapped at your lips, and obediently, you opened your mouth.

He spat a clear wad of saliva on your tongue. It tasted of the liquor you'd both been sipping on, spiced and sweet.

"I'll give you what you want, baby..."

Armin may not be the most popular guy, but he knew what he wanted and how to get it.

He'd decided that he wanted you - this side of you - in all your orgasmic glory, and he'd have it if it was the last damn thing that he'd do.

Slotting his lips over yours, he sucked the saliva off your tongue and slid off of you, back between your thighs, and spat it directly on your clit.

Your body responded kindly by twitching and spreading open for him to cover the lips of your cunt with his tongue, that sinful piercing bumping your clit before his lips closed around it, sucking gently.

Now your head was spinning as if you were the one drunk while your best friend feasted on your pussy in a random bedroom.

"Y/N..?"

It was hard to focus with Armin's tongue circling your clit, but you were able to manage a small 'hmm' in response...

"Do you think we'll be able to take our relationship to the next level now?"

Shit, you sure hoped so... +++

"cause i ain't never babysittin', i be linin' up shots, imma show you how to turn it up a notch.."

+++

©bleach-your-panties 2016-2025.

[aussie-engene]

Dad!Jungwon x mom!reader

Fluff

Warnings: kisses, baby bath time~

You and Jungwon have been married for two years now, and you have a sweet baby boy. He's like a mini version of Jungwon, and you can't believe that he didn't get anything from you. You don't complain much, tho. Junwon is at work almost the whole day, and having a mini him for company is amazing.

It was another typical day. Jungwon would leave early for work. Your son would wake up a out an hour later, and then your day would evolve around him.

It was about 5 pm, and it was time for his bath. You got everything ready and only laughed at his cuteness in the baby robe that was obviously too big for him.

He had just started saying some syllables, and he was struggling with making you understand what he meant. You had caught him plenty of times trying to talk to Jungwon, but he just laughed at him, nit understanding what your son was saying.

You got him in his baby tub and played with him in the warm water. He was splashing around, smiling and laughing, making you grin since he looked exactly like Jungwon. That smile that you loved.

As he was playing suddenly, you saw him stop, and he tried to say something. You looked at him and waited for him to finish his try. Suddenly, you heard it.

"Da-da" you looked at him, eyes wide in shock. He said his first actual word. Well, not exactly words, but it was something that had a meaning.

"Baby~, what did you say? Dada?" You were smiling like crazy

"Dada!" He was laughing again, and you shook your head in disbelief

"So your first word is dada after being with me the whole day, huh?" You tickled his belly, causing him to laugh even more

"He says what he sees" someone spoke behind you, causing you to slightly flinch. You quickly turned around only to be met by a familiar figure with a familiarsmile on its face. The smile that you fell in love with.

"How long have you been standing there?"

"He told you, but you were too shocked to understand." he chuckled and moved towards you, kneeling down beside you. He placed a kiss on your lips, causing your son to scream in excitement. You both laughed at him, and Jungwon said

"What? You like it when I show your mom that I love her? You like this?" And he kissed you again, making your son scream again.

Jungwon took the robe and gently took his son out of the tub, placing him on his lap. You were smiling the whole time, and once Jungwon noticed, he understood that you were the source of his happiness. You had given him his son, of course, but that wasn't just it. You were with him always, and your son was just proof of your love.

He smiled sweetly at you, and at this point, he was just admiring you. He leaned on and placed another kiss on your lips but held it more this time. Your son was a giggling mess, and once you broke the kiss, you both looked at him once, then at each other. You shared a knowing look, and you both started kissing him, making him laugh. A sound that you both loved and would want to hear forever.

[kiplex]

✧ Thinking abt Lover boy Caleb ✧

Lover boy Caleb x F reader

NSFW, Minors DNI

Tags: Lover boy Caleb, yearning?? Kinda??, established relationship, mentions of body marks ie: scars, stretch marks ect., a splash of smut towards the end, mentions of overstimulation, mentions of cøçk warming, not proof read lol

A/N: Hi all!! Okay so I'm working on a drunk Caleb fic but it's taking a lot longer than I expected... So here's a little snack to hold you over. I also have a Caleb and Gideon fic in the works 👀 as well as some Zayne HCs so please stay tuned! If you wanna send me a request my requests are open!!

Shout out to sserene_m on TikTok for the pose idea for the Caleb photo

Lover boy Caleb who crumbles anytime you initiate any sort of intimacy with him. Your fingertips graze his to hold his hand? He's fighting back tears of joy.

Lover boy Caleb who refers to you as “his wife" despite not being married. All his subordinates know you as “Caleb's wife." And honestly you can't really be too mad at that.

Lover boy Caleb who refuses to let you pay for anything. He's fully aware you're self-sufficient, but can't bear the thought of you spending your money on a sweet treat that he could easily buy for you.

Lover boy Caleb who is attached to your hip at all times. You're going to the store? Cool he'll drive. Do you have a doctor's appointment? That's fine he'll be there for morale support. He can't stand the thought of being away from you :((

Lover boy Caleb who’s phone lock screen is a collage of candid photos of you. He couldn't just choose one!? How could he!?

Lover boy Caleb who is the first to fold in an argument. It isn't because he feels bad, it's a combination of him not being able to stand the fact you're mad at him and how cute you look when you pout.

Lover boy Caleb who kisses you like it could be the last time everytime. Sometimes soft and slow, sometimes desperate and fast, but savors it regardless of the pace.

Lover boy Caleb who secretly buys your perfume and sprays it on his sleeves when he misses you because it makes him feel closer to you :((

Lover boy Caleb who loves tracing your scars, stretch marks, connecting freckles or moles like a game of connect the dots. He loves everything about you that makes you you.

Lover boy Caleb who is a pleasure dom at heart. He swears he can't cum until you've came at least twice. In reality he's fighting off an orgasm anytime he feels your snug walls clamp down around his thick cock

Lover boy Caleb who could go down on you forever if you'd let him. He loves the way you squeeze your legs around his head when you're on the brink over overstimulation because he doesn't give your poor cunt a break <\3

Lover boy Caleb loooooves cock warming. Not even in a sexual manner sometimes, just being connected to you in such a way makes him dizzy.

Lover boy Caleb who is actually the king of after care. He'll wipe you down, kissing you all over. Alternatively he'll run you a bath. He'll have snacks ready, and if you aren't in the mood to eat he'll get you all snuggled up beside him as he holds you like his life depends on it.

[itzpookiepooh]

Bad Habit

You’re caught smoking a cigarette

Let’s be real he doesn’t play like that. When he says he’ll spit bubbles at you, he means it. You guys were walking along the beach when he told you he’d be back. You rummaged through your pockets for your lighter and loose cigarette. You would’ve brought the whole pack but you’ve been keeping this a secret from him.

You checked your surroundings, clear as day. You crouched down and lit it before you inhaled and exhaled. You felt your muscles relax as the cloud of nicotine disappeared. You were itching for this, it had been the most stressful week of your life and this was your answer. Nothing else worked in your opinion.

Raf suggested a walk to clear your mind right as you were about to disappear somewhere for a smoke. You wanted to say no but he was already dragging you away. Little did you know he found out about your little habit when he went to hang up your jacket and the pack fell out. He was too stunned to talk to you about it. He knew you’d deny it so he had to catch you in the act. You went to take another pull when you were splashed by the sea.

“What the fuck?” You mumbled to yourself because it wasn’t a small splash, no it was a good amount. Enough to put out your cigarette.

“Next time I’ll spit on you.” The Lumerian threatened as he got out of the water snatching it out of your mouth and crushing it in his hand.

After that he watched you like a hawk. No outside time alone, no unsupervised purchases, nothing. He would rather you be here as long as you can than put your life at risk for a stick of nicotine. He helped you find other ways to deal with the stress of work. Lately it’s been going for a swim which you hated to admit, worked.

He caught you when you were coming home from work. You smoked by the apartment building before coming in. He saw you put it out before taking the elevator to your home just to go on the balcony and smoke again. He thought that was a lot in just a day and began to wonder if these two were your only cigarettes today. He became lost in thought on how this all started.

One day you guys were hanging out and he could see how bothered you were. Not by him, never by him. By the fact that you haven’t smoked today. Anxiety was eating you up as your leg bounced at such a fast pace. He just watched as you were developing habits you didn’t have before.

“I’ve thought about picking up smoking.” His voice breaks the ongoing silence (other than your tapping foot) in the room. You looked at him as if he lost his mind.

“What? No. You’ll ruin your lungs.” You object with a shake of your head. He tilted his head at you with a raised eyebrow. “So then you’ll stop?” The question shocked you.

You thought you had been pretty stealthy but the longer you did it the less secretive you became. You stared at him knowing you were caught. You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose. You didn’t want to disappoint him so you agreed. He crumpled all your cigarettes so that they were ruined and you couldn’t use them. He worked with you on finding ways to stop the urge. You settled on chewing gum which was fine with him. He would rather you have packets of gum hiding all over your apartment than cigarettes.

Immediately goes through the house looking for your stashes. He found a few empty packs and some with a few left in them. You hid a newer pack in a fake plant you brought home to “liven up the space”, which shocked Zayne a little. He sighed at the thought of you smoking especially with your heart condition. He thought this was rather foolish but he didn’t want to judge you.

He monitored you closely before making any rash decisions. You got home from work and when you thought he was showering or working you’d step outside, smoke, and then come back inside to quickly shower before he could smell you. It was fool proof however you didn’t think you sat out there long enough for it to stick to your clothes. That’s what gave you away because no matter how quick you were he could smell it. He decided to bring it up over dinner.

“You have a heart condition, you shouldn’t be smoking.” He was blunt, no need to be soft with you because he knew it wouldn’t work.

“I’m not smoking that much—“ Arguing was futile when he showed you how many packs he found in the house alone. He hasn’t even checked your bike yet. You felt a bit of shame especially since you knew how bad your condition is.

He talked to you about things you could do to reduce the urge. He didn’t want to make you go cold turkey so quickly. You spent the next few weeks trying different things, you only broke the rules once when you left early for work to go to a gas station. Zayne confiscated those swiftly and luckily you didn’t do any damage to your condition. Now you were on a patch with regular counseling sessions. You were just stressed with the events of Josephine passing away which was understandable. Zayne made sure to remind you to lean on him more often.

He has heightened senses so he smelled what you tried to cover with perfume. The scent lingered on your clothes almost irritating him. As soon as you went to shower he sent your clothes for a wash. When he picked up your sweater loose cigarettes fell out of the pocket. Did you lose the case? What was going on here?

He frightened you when he came home causing you to drop the pack earlier. You gathered what you could because the wind swept up the packaging. He rolled his eyes throwing away the loose cigarettes while covering his nose from the stench stuck to your clothes. That night when you thought he was sleeping you tried to sneak out of bed to go indulge yourself. His evol wrapped around your waist like a boa constrictor, pulling you back to him.

“That’s a nasty habit you’ve got there sweetie. Its stench is hard to get out.” You were shocked he knew until you remembered he has an extremely good sense of smell. He told you to use him more often, tell him what was bothering you.

“I can quit cold turkey.” You told him with your arms crossed. He knew you wouldn’t it was a hard habit to kick. In order to help you he told you a fact about it he knew you’d care about.

“The worse your condition, the less you’ll be able to go on missions. Also your teeth are turning yellow.” You cover your mouth rushing to the bathroom to brush your teeth. He snickers waiting for you to come back out. He has you tell him if you have anymore lying around which lucky for him you don’t. You were on your last pack and were going to reup in the morning.

Now you spent mornings before work doing boxing with Sylus. If you weren’t boxing you were drinking a detoxing tea. If it was a really long day he would put on a record to lull you to sleep. He would do anything to keep your mind off of whatever was stressing you out.

He immediately confronted you. It turned into this whole thing. You stormed out of the house not wanting to hear him nag you. You were being scolded like you were a child. You were irritated listening to him yell as you sat on the couch. So when you got far enough you went to pull out your cigarettes only to find your pockets empty. You groan in frustration as you grip your hair.

“Looking for these?” His voice rings as he waves the pack in the air. You glare at him as he comes to sit next to you.

“Come here to nag me some more?” You pout your cheeks falling into your palms. He chuckled sadly as he pats your back.

“I just want what’s best for you and this?” He waves the package at you. “Is not what’s best.” He had a point you couldn’t lie.

“I’m just stressed out that’s all. Tired mostly.” You mumble. He pulls you into him as he comforts you.

“Then tell me these things. I want to help but I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.” You eventually agree and ask him for the package which he reluctantly gave you. You threw them in the nearest garbage can with pursed lips. Was this for the best? You hated burdening people but this was Caleb who would do anything for you.

He spent countless amounts of time working with how you could deal with cravings. It chopped down to sweets, not too much to where you’d have a stomachache but enough to get over this hump. He was proud of you for quitting and as a reward you got to fly his ship…with his guidance of course.

If you smoke don’t kill me I had this random idea and had to write it 🙂 also I wanna do more bad habits like nail biting and stuff like that I had fun writing this!

Hope you liked it 💋

[sp0o0kylights]

Has anyone explored the idea of sort of S1/S2 AU wherein Eddie, or Corroded Coffin as a whole, are out smoking in the woods and encounter the combined military unit that is Steve Harrington, Nancy Wheeler, and Jonathan Byers, standing around a corpse?

(“We didn’t get a close enough look, we can’t say for sure that it was a corpse.” Grant is saying, voice high and frantic in his panic. 

“Two legs, two arms,  torso, greyish skin tone?” Jeff counters in a mutter, because unlike his friends he goes rabbit-quiet when terrified. “What else could it be?”

“Maybe they got into filmmaking.” Gareth says pleadingly, over Grant’s half-hysterical muttering about aliens. “Harrington’s rich enough to have a camcorder.” 

He then cringes under the three, disbelieving stares he gets for his stupidity. 

"You really think King Steve and his priss of a girlfriend joined forces with Jonathan Byers to make a horror movie?" Eddie scoffs, his voice eerily even despite the tremor in his fingers as he grips his third (fourth?) cigarette "In the middle of the woods? After Byers rearranged Harrington’s face?"

“It doesn’t have to be a horror movie!” Gareth counters, defensive. “It could be a murder mystery!” 

“Guys.” Jeff says abruptly, in a much louder voice than the one he had been talking in. “You know how they found Benny shot in his diner? You don’t think…”

He trails off, and his friends can only share horrified looks back.) 

Problem 1: No one is ever going to believe them. 

Even if it was an actual serial killer looking, well, serial killer out there in the woods and not three teenagers, Eddie knows damn well the police would think they’re being prank called. 

And sure, maybe that’s because they have been pranked called, but Eddie can’t see anyone taking him seriously even if he hadn't fallen prey to that little crime. Not unless they thought he did it, and he is not going down for a crime King fucking Steve committed! 

Problem 2: The body is gone the next day. 

Eddie knows, because he went back, dragging Jeff and a tire iron along with him.

Jeff halfway manages to convince him they simply smoked too much weed and shared some sort of hallucination, until they find the clearing. The same one with splotches of dark, sticky liquid splashed all across it. There's long gouge marks in the trees, like something with claws had gored them and yeah, nope, no sorry Jeff, they definitely didn't hallucinate it!

Problem 3: The killers are planning something. 

Now that they know, it’s easy to see the already weird relationship between Byers, Harrington and Wheeler in a new and horrifying light.

They’re not in some sort of “freaky threesome situation” like Carol Perkins keeps crowing, but they’re definitely secretive.

Jumpy.

Nervous--and blatantly up to something, given all the hushed whispers and the way they keep piling themselves into empty classrooms and sneaking out through the side doors. 

Which leads directly into Problems 4 and 5, two problems that Grant loudly floats during band practice.

“Guys it’s been a week and the news hasn’t said anything. So…who exactly did they kill--and who are they after next?” 

(“You really think they’re going to kill again?” Jeff asks, but it’s pleading, the tone of someone who watched Harrington pace around his car that morning with a fucking walkie talkie and hiss into it like a man possessed, and knows a storm is coming.

“I think if someone doesn’t do something,” Eddie says slowly, feeling the truth of the words fall like rocks down a cliff as he speaks them, “we're going to find Hawkins staring in one of those true crime documentaries. The really fucked up ones."

“You’re saying 'someone' like you mean us. You don’t mean us, right?” Grant says, with large, pleading us. 

“I mean…” Eddie trails off, before visibly steeling himself. “We don’t have to stop them in the act. We just have to find indisputable proof that they did it.” 

“Oh, God.” With a moan, Gareth dramatically slides off the stool of his drumset, sinking to hide behind the round form of his base drum. “We’re gonna die.” 

“We’re not gonna die.” Eddie responds, and now there’s a fire in his eyes, a feverish look that his bandmates know all too well. “No one is going to die. Not on our watch.”

“We’re fucked.” Grant morosely tells Jeff. 

“Yeah.” He says in response, because they all know they’re going to following their DM and friend to the pits of doom and despair.  “We are.”) 

There’s a Problem 6 of course, and that problem is that Steve, Nancy and Jonathan are not in fact, murderers, but unfortunately for Hellfire, that problem comes into play much, much later into their investigation.

[lev1hei1chou]

A What?

Gojo x reader Genre: Fluff Synopsis: You ask for a baby out of nowhere Masterlist Requests open!

"Hey, Satoru, I want a baby."

The man choked on his cereal. Milk splattered across the table, and he coughed, looking at you with wide, incredulous eyes. "You what?"

You grinned, loving his reaction. "I want a baby."

Gojo blinked, processing your words. "Like...a human baby? With diapers and all?"

You laughed. "Yes, Satoru, a human baby. Not a cursed spirit baby or a baby goat. A tiny human."

He leaned back in his chair, still stunned. "You can't just drop a bomb like that while I'm eating my Froot Loops, babe. Give a guy some warning."

You shrugged, leaning over to wipe a speck of milk off his cheek. "I thought you could handle anything."

"Yeah, curses and evil sorcerers, sure. But this...this is a whole new level of scary." He ran a hand through his white hair, making it stand up in more directions than usual. "Are you serious?"

"Dead serious." You sat down across from him, your expression softening. "I think we'd make great parents."

He looked at you, eyes softening. "Of course we would. I mean, look at us. We're awesome."

You snorted. "Modest, as always."

"Hey, it's not arrogance if it's true." He grinned, then grew serious again. "But...a baby? That's a big deal."

"I know. But I want to start a family with you, Satoru."

He was silent for a moment, then his lips curved into a smile. "Okay. Let's do it."

You blinked. "Really? Just like that?"

He shrugged. "Why not? I've always wanted kids. Didn't think about it too much because, you know, job hazards and all. But if you want a baby, then I want a baby. Simple as that."

You laughed, feeling a wave of relief and excitement. "Simple as that, huh?"

"Yep." He stood up, suddenly energized. "Alright, let's make a baby right now."

Your eyes widened. "Satoru, we can't just...it's the middle of the day!"

"Details, details." He waved a hand dismissively. "I'm the strongest sorcerer in the world. I can make time for baby-making."

You couldn't help but laugh at his enthusiasm. "How romantic."

He waggled his eyebrows. "Oh, I can be romantic. Just you wait."

The next few days were filled with Gojo's attempts at being "romantic." You came home to rose petals scattered all over the living room (which the cat was now batting around), a candlelit dinner (where he nearly set the kitchen on fire), and a bubble bath for two (where he splashed so much water that the bathroom flooded).

"You're really trying, aren't you?" you said, toweling off your hair after the bath fiasco.

He pouted. "I'm trying to set the mood."

You kissed his cheek. "I appreciate it, Satoru. But we don't need all this. Just you and me, together. That's enough."

He smiled, pulling you into his arms. "You're right. As always."

That night, lying in bed, he turned to you with a mischievous look in his eye. "So, about that baby..."

You laughed, swatting his chest. "Okay, okay. Let's do this."

A few weeks later, you found yourself holding a pregnancy test in your hand, heart pounding. Gojo was pacing back and forth in the bathroom, looking more nervous than you'd ever seen him.

"Okay, okay, okay," he muttered. "It's fine. Whatever it says, it's fine."

You glanced at the test, then at him. "Satoru, you need to calm down."

He stopped pacing and looked at you, taking a deep breath. "Right. Calm. I can do calm."

You held up the test, a smile spreading across your face. "We're having a baby."

For a moment, he just stared at you, then he whooped, lifting you off the ground and spinning you around. "We're having a baby! I'm gonna be a dad!"

You laughed, holding onto him. "Yes, you are. And you're going to be amazing."

He set you down, his eyes shining. "We're going to be amazing."

Months passed in a whirlwind of doctor's appointments, baby shopping, and Gojo's over-the-top preparations. He baby-proofed the house, even the ceiling, "just in case the baby is super strong and starts climbing walls."

"Satoru, that's ridiculous," you said, watching as he padded the corners of the coffee table with foam.

He looked up at you, serious. "Safety first, babe."

When the day finally came, Gojo was more nervous than you. He held your hand in the delivery room, eyes wide as he watched the process.

"You're doing great," he whispered, though it seemed like he was saying it more to himself than to you.

Hours later, when the baby finally arrived, Gojo stared at the tiny bundle in his arms, tears in his eyes. "Hi there, little one. I'm your dad."

You smiled, exhausted but happy. "And I'm your mom."

He looked at you, his expression full of love and awe. "We did it."

You nodded, feeling a surge of emotion. "Yeah, we did."

[miange1]

RYOMEN SUKUNA♡ — beach day

pairing: husband sukuna x husband male reader

summary: you, sukuna, suko, and uraume go out on a beach day. but of course, the day can never run smoothly

genre: fluff

tw: small arguments, flirting, sukuna almost kills someone, sukuna is domesticated, he never calls reader by name only 'husband' unless during sex, sukuna hates everyone, reader basically tamed him but he's just in love, you can decide if suko is by mpreg, reader is ftm, or adopted, suko has a skin condition

note: part 1. i never proofread.

finally. the beautiful season of summer. the sun shining, kids playing around, bathing suits and pools, icy sweet treats. so yes, this would be the perfect time for a sort of field trip or a "vacation" as you would describe it.

"sukuna, honey? did you pack suko's sunscreen?" sukuna grumbled, re-checking the duffle bag settled on the ground. sunscreen, extra towels, extra shirts, warm snacks, suko's specific sunscreen. he had it all, needed it all or you'd lose your ever loving mind.

"sukuna—" "i've got it!" you peeked behind the door, squinting at him with agitation. "what have i said about you raising your voice at me?" he went silent, and he pouted. "i apologize, husband." your smile came back to your face, and you went back to what you had been doing.

suko had been far too excited, bouncing up and down and it was to the point uraume needed to hold his hand. their hand had to have been agitated and red from his squeezing and constant pulling.

"young master, please contain yourself. we will be at the beach soon." uraume reassured him they would only be in the house about a minute longer.

"alright!" you came into the living room, clapping your hands together and looking around. your eyes landed onto suko's fidgeting form, and you just couldn't help but laugh. "i've got him uraume." you grabbed suko's hand, hoisting him up into your arms so you could carry him.

"sukuna, pack your sunglasses you won't like the sun in your face." you'd unlock the door letting the other two come outside and then you'd lock it back.

the sand dug into his toes even through the sandals, he'd watch as the children and adults would play. the beach balls bouncing around, people giving money to popsicle stands, the shouting and laughing and the waters splashing.

too many people.

he would follow behind you as you looked around for a clear spot to lay your things down at. finally finding one, he would help set up. laying out the towel, sunscreen, the snacks. it was perfect. he nodded to himself at his work, before he felt someone run past him quickly– embarrassingly almost knocking him over.

he already knew who it was. the little brat who couldn't sit still for the life of him. "hey! stand still."a visible shiver went up his son's spine as he halted and stood still, almost dropping his swimming gear.

he dug out sunscreen from the duffle bag and squeezing a good amount on his hand, and then smearing it all over suko's face roughly. you might beat sukuna to death if you found out suko played without his sunscreen, couldn't have that now could he?

"dad, it hurts!" sukuna hushed him up, "silence. it is supposed to hurt." it wasn't, it was just funny smooshing his face all around. "now. go play." suko had his jitters back, putting those overly big goggles on his face and swimming into the water like he owned it.

sukuna had caught himself smiling. it was adorable, even for him he couldn't decline that. the way his son's body was trying to overpower itself and attack the water like it was his enemy. he raised him well, and this was proof.

he turned his head back to you, walking towards the laid out towels.

you were busying yourself and applying sunscreen to your own skin. "husband, do not." he would do it himself, no need for you to. your smile was his life, you gave a quiet thank you as you'd lay down onto your stomach so he could rub the rest of the sunscreen into your skin.

he'd crack his fingers, leaning over you so he could massage you correctly so you felt good. your head was laid down sideways so your cheek rested along your folded arms. his hands worked carefully, letting the cream blend through and disappear.

though the whole time, he was squinting his eyes. that sun was distracting him from what he needed to do. and it was just annoying.

you'd sigh, your eyes opening and taking a look at his agitated expression. "honey, i already told you to pack your sunglasses." he forgot, clearly. your body sat up, searching through a smaller bag you brought yourself and pulling out a pair for him to wear.

"here you are," if the sun wasn't already flushing his face, you could probably see him blushing. he set the sunglasses to his face, feeling much better. the towel itched at his skin, but he ignored it just so he could lay in peace next to you.

he felt your hands curl into his, holding them with a few squeezes. he'd squeeze back, making sure he'd keep an eye on suko– yet all his attention would stay on you.

[harbours-lighthouse]

BLOOD TRACKS IN THE SNOW - PART ONE

— PAIRING: Joel Miller x F!Reader

— SUMMARY: Dying in the snow seems like a pretty poetic way to go, but it seems that's not your fate when a stranger finds you. Amidst the wariness of meeting someone for the first time, you're offered something warm and new: hope.

— AN: Lol, I wrote this on my phone before proof-reading and editing it on my computer. Unconventional but it works!

cw: post-outbreak setting, description of blood, mentioning of betrayal. wc: 2.3k

THE BLOOD on your face keeps you warm. You're trembling, curled into yourself like a bunny burrowing into the ground—you want to burrow. Bury yourself deep into the snow, dig at the frozen ground underneath until your nails are ripping. But all you can do is shake with sticky blood freckled along your cheeks, dripping from your temple and down your nose until it hits the snow. It doesn’t splash or splatter. It's simply soaked into the snow where it leaves a stain, blurred around the edges.

If you weren't so numb, maybe you'd scream—call out for help. It's a risky thing to do, but people are driven to do things that could get them killed when they're faced with death, which is ironic so to say. Maybe when the survival instinct locked away in your mind is given free reign, it knows what decision—what split second choice—will be more probable of welcoming your death with a metaphorical tip of your hat.

As you lay bent inward, spine pushing against the tattered remains of your jacket, your eyes begin to droop. Snowflakes fall on your lashes, but they don't melt along the swell of your cheeks like they should. You're too cold. The chill has settled into you, permeating your pores and coating your lips with frost.

But the cold doesn't affect your hearing as much as it does everything else. Falling deeper into the snow, hands flinching with tremors that run deeply through your whole body, the crunch of snow beneath heavy boots joins the wail of the wind. Shuffling. Hot breaths puffing into the air. You can hear it all, but you can't move. Can't think.

Can't fight back.

The thought brings along miniscule movement: a jerk of your bent legs, the sharp jolt of your heart against your aching ribs. Your lashes are frozen, and it feels like stones are weighing down your eyelids as you peer upward.

Through the grey haze of snow and wind, a broad-shouldered shadow stands in front of you. A whine in the back of your throat joins the howling wind. The rush of snow.

Is it a bear? A moose? An infected? A person?

You'd be happy with either option, as long as it meant that you're not alone right now. Isn't that what this world is good at now? Turning people into unmarked graves devoid of wooden crosses or tombstones? You don’t want that for yourself, and you've been fighting against that normality for the last ten years.

Crazy how one ill-timed blizzard could knock you off your a-game.

The shadow shifts. Snow crunches. Your vision is hazy at best, crowded with tears and black dots. There's something warm in front of you, that much you know, so even with the threat of being mauled to death or killed brutally, your fingers twitch for the heat—desperate to gather it up into your hands and smear it back into your skin. You'd paint yourself with sunlight if it meant that you never felt the cold again.

Through chattering teeth, you beg.

"H-Help me. Pl-Please."

The last thing you remember is something warm and heavy settling on your shoulder, and it felt like the shape of a hand.

—

Sound begins to filter in slowly, like water dripping from a tap—except that's exactly what you're hearing. The drip-drip-drip echoes inside your ears as it breaks through the milky film cast over your thoughts.

Then you feel the heat. It burns.

With the grace of a spooked deer flailing on the ground, your neck jerks upward to look down at your body, and pain spikes through your skull. A thick and fraying wool blanket covers you, draped over your body like a veil. After staring at the stiff fibres for a second too long, you flick your gaze upward to see what’s around you.

The first thing you notice is wood. Lots of it. Wooden rafters. Wooden walls. None of it smooth and sanded, instead rough and splintering along the edges. The drip-drip-drip is coming from a singular sink that's nearly completely detached from the wall, save for the yellow-stained pipe that keeps it there. There's a plastic table, the metal legs bent so it wobbles with each shake of the house. 

Through the headache pounding inside your head, your thoughts start crashing into one another with the speed that they come to you.

Where am I? Where did this come from? How did I get here? The blizzard is gone? Why am I in pain? Where am I? What is this place? How did I get here—

The creak of wood sends them lurching to a halt, kick-starting your heart to thump against your sternum like a rabbit.

"Was startin' to think you wouldn't wake up."

The gruff, masculine voice has you flinching upright, hands pressing against the wooden floor beneath you. Pain skewers itself through your ribs and down your spine, and the headache pulses between your temples like a hammer slamming against your skull repeatedly.

A groan vibrates in your throat, which you now realise is painfully dry. Your lips aren't frozen anymore, but the parched flesh splits.

"Easy. Ain't gonna hurt you. Not yet, at least."

Your eyes snap to where the voice comes from, and hidden in a shadowed corner of the room, sits a man in a rickety chair with a rifle balanced between his legs like a cane, hands folded and resting on the stock.

Dark brown eyes meet yours. They remind you of the dark soil you'd find during the rainy season, when the rich scent of the earth hangs in the air. It would be comforting if it weren't for your vulnerable state and the fact that you don’t know this man.

You shrivel inwardly as those dark eyes bore into you, and you feel like an item being cataloged, stored away in some sort of file. What exactly is he noting? Your mangled hair? Flighty eyes? Blood stained face and fingers? Tattered clothes? The list goes on.

The man clears his throat. You watch his Adam's Apple bob.

"Couldn't find any wounds on you," he says. Silver and brown facial hair moves as he speaks, sticking to his jaw and along his upper lip like fine snow. His hair is fluffy, you notice. More like a cloud that's heavy with rain, streaked with muted brown light as a sun sets.

He lifts a finger, pointing at you. You only stare with half of your body ready to bolt to the door—which you noticed in a very quick, terrified glance to your right. The rest of your body feels numb. Shocked into stillness by the cold.

"So I wanna know why you've got blood all over you."

There's an edge to his tone, something that tells you that he's a man who will get answers regardless of what steps he has to take to get them.

You swallow, but the minimal saliva in your mouth barely does anything to soothe the aching dryness of your throat. Opening your mouth, you flounder for a moment, before making a bold move.

"D-Do you have any water?"

You don't think that's what he expected from you, because the man regards you for a moment with creased brows. Then he sighs heavily through his nose, and you watch with bated breath as he leans to the side, rifling with one hand through a backpack that's slumped on the ground beside the rickety chair. You didn't even notice it before.

"Here," he mutters as he tosses a plastic bottle your way. You catch it with a sloshy thud, fingers quivering along the ridged material. You unscrew the cap and gulp down generous sips, feeling the cool liquid soothe your throat like a cold balm.

The man's brows furrow even deeper (they must be like that permanently).

"Easy, you'll make yourself puke."

His words register—sounding more concerned than you think they should be—and you slow down before pulling the now half-empty water bottle away from your bleeding mouth. Inhaling sharply, you speak quietly.

"Thank you."

He doesn't say anything else, simply looks at you like he's gauging your character. Are you a threat? Is there something you're hiding?

"Listen," he shifts, broad shoulders hunching forward as his elbows lean against his knees. "I found you out there in the snow—nearly frozen to death. You're gonna tell me why."

Your chest shudders with a broken breath, feeling fear prick behind your eyes. Those dark eyes are piercing through you, but you wonder what they might look like if you prove that you're innocent. Harmless—to an extent.

"I..." you breathe out, fingers picking at the wool blanket. Around you, the house holds its breath. "My group turned on me."

The man straightens a touch.

"They, um—" you glance around, feeling exposed, "they thought I was sabotaging the camp. So they...tried to kill me."

"Were you?"

The question throws you off. Your eyes snap up to the stranger, and he's already watching you.

"Were you sabotaging the camp?" he elaborates, brows raising. The gravel in his voice should make you afraid, but indignation burns in your belly, and you frown at him. The same anger and betrayal you felt barely ten hours ago rears its head.

"No," you grit out, "I wasn’t. The camp was failing because no one else was doing what they were supposed to—I was the only one putting in the effort—"

The man lifts a placating hand, nodding his head.

"Okay, okay," he assures, "relax."

He pauses, eyes flitting along the blood that's caked along your face. He juts his chin up, gesturing to the dried crimson stains.

"So that's not your blood."

You shake your head slowly, swallowing.

"No. It's not."

"So you killed someone."

"...I had to."

He nods, brushing his hand against his arched nose. A question lingers on your tongue, fighting against your sealed lips before you finally give in. 

“Why’d you bring me here?” 

There’s a long pause as the man flicks his dark gaze your way, combing along your face. For a moment, you think he might brush off the question.

He shrugs his shoulders. “It would’ve been like leaving behind a dying animal.”

“I’m sure you’ve done that before.” 

“Yeah, I have.” 

Silence stretches. The drip-drip-drip seems even louder than before, and your chest feels stiff with air that you've trapped in your lungs. Trepidation settles beneath your skin alongside the pain that continues to pulse through you.

The man breaks it with a gruff sigh. You watch with your heart throbbing against your ribs as he rubs his hand along his scratchy jaw. When he looks at you again, you see wariness etched into the fine lines along his eyes and forehead.

"Alright," he sighs, and you stiffen like a deer caught in headlights as he stands. He slings the rifle over one shoulder, before bending to pick up the backpack and haul it over the other.

He studies you, leaning more on his left leg than his right.

"I ain't gonna kill you. You seem like you're tellin' the truth, so I'm taking you back to Jackson."

"Jackson?"

"Yeah, it's a town up north. Protected, warm. Probably give you something better to do than die out in the cold."

Hope begins to brew inside your chest, but your hand moves to press against your sternum as if to smother it. Hope is a dangerous thing now. Often it leads to nothing.

“How can I trust you?” you ask, and you know that it's a dangerous question because his answer might not be what you want. 

“I saved your ass.” 

Yeah, okay. That works. 

"C'mon. Get up. But listen," he points a finger at you, and the ruff edge of his voice has your skin prickling. "If you try anything, I won't hesitate to kill you myself. Understand?"

Fear trickles into your stomach, but so does determination. You know you're not going to do anything—you're not that kind of person. But there's a darkness in his eyes that only comes when you follow through on your word, and when you've put a bullet between someone's eyes before. You know that look. You've seen it in your own reflection.

Nodding your head, you shift onto your feet, holding back a whine at the ache that blooms along your ribs and behind your eyes. The room sways, but your vision doesn't go black and your stomach doesn't heave. 

The man watches you steadily, before turning his back to swing open the door. Cold wind bursts into the house, so you make sure that the wool blanket remains cloaked around your shoulders. Your jacket barely does anything against the cold as it is.

You notice that the blizzard has calmed, though, but the snow rushes all the same. You follow behind the man, the first few steps slow and strained.

"What's your name?" you ask, feeling desperate to latch onto something that seems a little more normal—not that anything has been ‘normal’ in the last ten years. 

The man turns, eyes squinting against the snow and the wind that digs into his cheeks like needles.

"Joel," he answers after a moment. “Joel Miller.”

It seems fitting, you think. A name meant for a man that seems rough around the edges, just like the wooden boards that make up the house—the one you’re leaving behind. It sends dread spinning inside your stomach. 

Joel pulls up the collar of his jacket and glances at you. "Yours?"

You blink, pulled away from your racing thoughts that are only making your headache worse. You tug the wool blanket closer around your frame, and your name falls from your split lips. Joel nods and you don’t catch the way he says it quietly to himself, as if tasting it on his tongue.

"C'mon," he grumbles, before walking ahead into the snow. The blizzard tugs and pulls at his hair, painting it white with snow. The rifle along his back stares back at you and you swallow harshly. The wind pushes against you as you follow behind Joel, shoulders hunched against the chill. His footsteps leave behind deep holes in the snow, and you let your feet fall into them.

There's relief knowing that they're not stained with blood.

Thank you for reading, God bless <3

top divider credit: @/saradika-graphics © harbours-lighthouse 2025 / i do not give permission for my work to be reposted, translated, or fed into ai. all works belong to me unless stated otherwise.

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Choiceless Hope in Grief

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x f!reader Warnings: Angst, smut. Word count: ~2k

Summary: Following the events of Rook's Rest, Aemond seeks refuge in the only person he has left.

Author's note: Day five of Smuffmas - fireplace and face fucking. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

“He is waiting for you,” Lysa informed her, poking her head through the gap in the soft linen of the curtains that afforded her privacy while she bathed.

She sighed at the interruption, loathe to be pulled from the relaxation that the warmth of the jasmine infused water afforded her. Taking her time was a luxury she often indulged in, her rank and demand within Mother’s allowing her to keep her clientele waiting. However, this particular patron was one that insisted upon punctuality, and his status ensured no leniency for this particular rule.

The steam that wafted up from the tub obscured her view slightly as she peered over her shoulder at the serving girl. “Has he been prepared?” she asked, not wanting to rise from the water until absolutely necessary.

“Yes,” Lysa nodded, “exactly as you instructed. And he has had his draught,” she added, lifting up the empty tray that perched precariously upon her upturned palm, as if to emphasise her point.

“And the payment?” she enquired, turning away and leisurely lifting a leg from the bath, pointing her toes up towards the ceiling and watching as the wetness of her skin glistened in the candlelight.

“Paid up front,” Lysa informed her, “two golden dragons and a silver stag.”

She raised an eyebrow, her leg dropping back into the bath with a splash as her lips parted in surprise. That was more than double what he usually paid her. “Any particular requests?” she asked, attempting to mask the apprehension in her voice, as nerves fluttered in her belly. When patrons paid so handsomely, it was usually in anticipation of services that were considered illicit, even for the Street of Silk.

“Just the usual,” the serving girl replied, shifting from foot to foot with impatience, “shall I tell him you need a minute?”

“No need,” she insisted, with a dismissive wave of her hand, “I shall be there momentarily.”

Lysa disappeared from the gap in the curtains, and she rose slowly from the tub as water dripped down the curves and planes of her naked body in rivulets. She didn’t bother to dry herself – high status clientele often preferred tangible proof that the women they had purchased for the evening were clean. She draped a silk robe of emerald green around her body, tying it closed at the waist; the fabric clung to her dampened curves, accentuating the shape of her breasts and hips. She pulled her hair free of the clasp that held it fastened to the back of her head, allowing it to fall in soft, loose waves around her shoulders. She would ordinarily go to the effort of braiding it, however, with the considerable amount that had been paid for her time this evening she decided that it would not be wise to keep him waiting any longer.

Sliding her feet into slippers, she walked quickly through the pleasure house. The heady scent of fragrant oils and incense hung in the air, doing little to mask the pungent aroma of sex and sweat, instead they clung together, creating an oppressive feeling of humidity.

Moans of pleasure, giggles and the slap of flesh against flesh floated out from each curtained partition as she passed, the thin drape of fabric doing little to protect anyone’s modesty, though all occupied within were too far gone in their carnal acts to mind.

Since having been burst in on by his brother and his retinue a month ago, the man she would be entertaining this evening had insisted upon more private quarters for his subsequent visits. He had been granted use of Madame Sylvi’s personal bedchamber for the services he paid for – an unusual privilege for paying customers, but one that Sylvi had been more than willing to offer to ensure his continued custom.

She pushed into the room, the warmth of the lit hearth heating her still wet skin as she stepped inside, allowing the wooden door to close heavily behind her. Though Sylvi had gone to great lengths to decorate the room with vibrant coloured silks, plenty of candles and plush sheepskin rugs, it did little to distract from its modest size. The space was just large enough for a double canopy bed, a modest table and chair, and the small fireplace that was kept lit day and night to keep out the chill and scare away the rats.

There he was, just as Lysa had said he would be. His pewter cup had been drained of the milk of the poppy it had once contained and now sat upon the table. He knelt, stripped bare, in front of the cracking fire – Prince Aemond Targaryen – the most fearsome dragon rider in all of Westeros, kneeling before a common whore as though their roles had been reversed. In this room they were, at least that was what he paid her for.

She allowed her eyes to linger upon his lithe, yet chiseled physique. Though his hair was loose, hanging in long, silver strands around his sharp features, it did little to obscure the sapphire which sat snugly within his left eye socket - the gemstone glimmered in the firelight, reflecting the dancing of the flames.

She stepped in front of him, gazing down upon him as she crooked a finger beneath his chin, encouraging him to look at her. She could tell from the lack of focus within his seeing eye that the opiates had begun to take their effect, and this pleased her; he was always so stiff, much too closed off before it did, which made her job harder. He was more pliant like this.

His hands reached up to rest upon her hips and he pressed his face into her lower belly, cuddling tightly into her, the tip of his nose flush against her soft flesh. She moved her hand away from his chin, bringing it to rest upon the crown of his head and gently stroked his hair. They remained like that for several moments, the only sound in the room was the occasional crack of a log on the fire.

“They have made me prince regent,” he finally said, his voice muffled against her robe. He pulled back to gaze up at her, his expression was soft, almost tired looking, “are you proud of me?”

Her eyes studied him carefully, taking in the darkness beneath his eye sockets. She knew that for Aemond to be made regent, the king would need to be indisposed, but Aegon had been in excellent health on the many occasions he happened upon this particular establishment in recent weeks. “How did you come to be made prince regent?” she asked softly, trailing her fingertips along his prominent jawline.

Aemond’s eye fluttered closed as he leaned into her touch. She watched the bob of his throat as he swallowed, before looking up at her once more. He answered as a child would when being asked who spilled their milk. “He fell from his dragon,” he said simply.

“How?” she pressed more insistently, tilting her head slightly as she stared intently down at him.

“He was in the way,” Aemond whispered, snuggling his face back into her belly, his grip on her hips tightening ever so slightly.

“In the way of what?” 

She combed her fingers through his hair, watching how the paleness of it shone in the firelight. It was easy to envision how Targaryens considered themselves to be closer to gods than men, when their hair resembled spun silver.

“He was not supposed to be there,” he murmured against her robe, “he would have ruined everything, Rhaenys would have killed him.”

A pit of dread formed in the pit of her stomach at the mention of Rhaenys. She had seen the dragon’s head that had been paraded through King’s Landing, an ill omen if ever there was one. Of course Aemond would have been the one responsible, not Aegon. She felt foolish for not having realised sooner.

“So, what did you do?”

“I burned him,” he replied simply, pulling back to gaze up at her once more, “and I will burn you too if you tell anyone.”

It made her blood run cold how effortlessly the threat tumbled from his lips, how little awareness he had of the consequences of his actions or the true weight of the power he wielded. It was almost childlike to witness, which made it all the more terrifying.

“I will not tell a soul,” she reassured him, cupping his cheek, “but you must realise that what you did was wrong. Did you want to kill your brother, so that you could take his place?”

He lowered his gaze, his brow furrowing as he looked pensive for a moment. “I…no…no, I do not think so. I just wanted him out of the way. But I am better suited to rule than he is, and I will never even get to wear a crown.”

“Be that as it may, even princes cannot simply take whatever they please whenever they please.”

“My own mother thinks I tried to kill him,” he said, looking back up at her, “I see how she looks at me, she is afraid of me. She said I am too impulsive to rule.”

“And what do you think?”

One of his hands moved from her hip, slipping inside the opening at the bottom of her robe and gently stroked her thigh, causing a shiver to run through her. Her core throbbed in anticipation for what she knew he was silently asking for. “I want only what’s best for her. To protect my family. To win this war.”

“That is good,” she whispered, and gave his hair a tug at the roots, making him hiss through his teeth. “Now show me just how good you can be.”

She widened her stance slightly, allowing her thighs to part, as she urged him forward by his hair. He went eagerly, pulling open her robe and using his thumbs to spread open the damp folds of her sex. A groan reverberated through his chest as he swiped a broad stroke with the flat of his tongue against her sensitive flesh, causing her to sigh softly, her head tilted back slightly.

“That’s it. Good boy,” she urged, holding him in place by the back of his head as she ground her hips against his face, working herself upon his tongue as he flicked the tip of it feverishly against her swollen pearl.

The sensation made her thighs tremble, the steadily building ache made it an effort to stand, and she wondered fleetingly how he was not uncomfortable having knelt for so long. The thought was immediately pushed from her mind as he latched his lips upon the delicate bundle of nerves and suckled hard. She mewled, bucking her hips, anchoring him to her with the vice like grip she held upon his roots.

His hands moved to her hips once more, holding her steady as he plunged his tongue inside of her, the tip of his nose adding additional stimulation to the outer parts of her, as he thrust the muscle into her repeatedly. Her skin grew hot and clammy with exertion, exacerbated by the crackle of the flames within the hearth.

The coil within her grew taut, and as though sensing it, he pulled out of her with a lewd squelch of saliva and arousal, redoubling his attention upon her bud, alternating between precise kitten licks and forceful sucks.

Finally, she cried out, holding him tight against her as she shuddered in ecstasy. White hot waves of pleasure rippled throughout her body as her inner walls spasmed with the force of her peak. Only when the final tremor had coursed its way through her body, did she release Aemond’s hair and allow him to draw back.

She gazed down at him, her mind now felt as foggy as his must. He was a vision of beauty, staring up at her, lips and chin shiny with her slick, his pupil dilated with arousal, as his cock stood rigid between his thighs.

“Are you proud of me?” he asked, repeating his question from earlier. “Yes,” she breathed, “my good boy. I am so proud of you.”

Read on AO3

More Aemond fics

[ravenclaws-stuff]

For my Weasley Boy Event, I wanted to add some of my own ideas. So i present you:

Bill Weasley: Insecurity

Summary: Molly leaves Bill insecure about his newly inquired scars. Luckily for him, he has you there to help him out.

Tags: mention of scars, mention of Greyback, Molly being Molly and making her kids feel bad, fluff

The door clicks shut as Molly leaves your home. Your head hits the wooden door with a soft thud. You love your soon to be mother in law, you truly do, but if she makes Bill feel bad for his scars one more time, you will lose it.

Flashback

Molly sniffs, her eyes tracing over Bill’s face. “It's truly a shame what happened. You had such a beautiful face.” Bill’s hand clenches, trying to calm the wolf inside. Sure Bill doesn’t have to worry about transforming once a month, but he still has to deal with everything that goes along with it. “Mum please.” Molly shakes her head. “Molly,” I interrupt before she could input anything else. “We enjoy when you visit but if you continue to make my fiance feel uncomfortable in his skin, I am going to have to ask you to leave our home.” She huffs, but thankfully drops the topic. Bill wraps his arm around your waist, squeezing your hips gently.

You find Bill on the couch, head in his hands. You place a cup of tea on the table in front of him, chamomile with a splash of honey. “Do I really look that bad?” Bill mumbles into his hands. It tears your heart in two hearing the vulnerability in his voice. You thread your fingers through his long copper hair. “Do my scars look ugly?”

His head snaps up, eyes flashing gold. Seems that the wolf did not like that question. “No, of course not. Why would you ask that?” His fingers reach out to trace along the scars you had gotten during a mission. You nod, cupping his cheek. Your thumb brushes over the scar on his cheek. “Your scars are proof that you lived. They show your strength. Shows that you went against Greyback and won.” You smirk, pinching his cheek. “Plus they make you look badass.” Bill chuckles, turning your hand to kiss your palm.

“So what I am hearing is that you're only with me for my rugged looks.” You nod, trying to hide the smirk. “Of course, why else would I be with you?” Bill chuckles, pulling you onto his lap. “You’re right. It's not like you love me and plan on getting married to me when this bloody war is over.” Bill mumbles, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. “Thank you.” You smile before ruffing his hair. “Anything for you, Wolfie.”

[biteyoubiteme]

cat got your tongue?

yeonjun x fem!reader

synopsis: you and yeonjun are both models.

warnings: 🔞!!! spit kink if you squint, no protection, creampie, dom!yeonjun, manhandling, bondage (uses his tie on readers wrists), fingering, oral (f!rec),mentions of cum eating prob forgot some sorry

wc: 2.7k me when I lie and say these will all be 1-2k

an: I do not think this is my best work I think I just struggle with dom!member and I apologize lol this wasnt really requested but was taken as such ily @apeachty this was sent before the event post but on the same day so im adding it to the tag anyways lol this is not proof read forgive me sweet angels ill fall on my sword for you.

[m.list] [1kevent m.list]

You would have to spend over a month traveling together. Over a month of back and forth, car rides, flights, hotel rooms, runways, and photo shoots all while trying to deny dating rumors. The contract was easy enough, but the money earned was less impressive than the exposer. To be the face of a company for an entire season, tied to one of the biggest names in modeling history, not only the fashion house but the model himself who set trends and made people famous for one little interaction. It was a brand deal people dreamed of. 

The pen cleared the signature box faster than you ever thought you could sign your name. But then the nerves set in. It wasn't over doing your job, modeling, although hard, was now second nature. You worked well with almost every photographer you came across, following instructions without a fret, even when it came to runway you knew your walk was one companies begged to have on their sets. 

But it was him that left you questioning your abilities. He had been the only clause in the contract that made you second guess yourself. Yeonjun was well known not only in the modeling community itself but globally. His face was splashed across countless brands, ads, and billboards. You couldn't go a day without seeing him at least once on your timeline. Even at the grocery store, in line at the checkout, he looked back at you with his perfect pouty lips from the front of a magazine you could only dream of being on the cover of as often as he was. 

“You were specifically asked for,” your agent reminded you after you brought up the status difference. It wasn't as if you were not known, companies wanted you well enough that you wouldn't need the check from this single one month booking. It was the caliber at which he was held. “They want you and I wouldn't be the one to turn them away when this much press will be on you. Imagine the number of people calling to get one shoot in with you, he brings eyes,” 

It wasn't until your first photoshoot that you realized that he would be more of a pain in your ass than an inspiration. He was never mean, you would have to give him that. But it was his overwhelming kindness mixed with the teasing tone he always used on you that somehow pushed your buttons just right. It didn't help that the first time that you walked into the studio you were so shy, little smiles shared with your hands folded in front of you trying to wring out your anxiety. Yeonjun wasn't even on set yet, having shown up a few minutes later with his arms full of coffee, passing them out to each staff member, knowing them all by name. “It's nice to meet you finally. I didn't know what you would like but this is what I picked out for the little mouse,” 

“Little mouse?” it was the first thing you said to him, your head tilted just enough for him to take in the question and know the slip up of a nickname was going to stick especially when you couldn't get through the photoshoot without an apology. Shoulders stiff with his eyes on you, your nerves making you angry instead of anxious and it all had to do with the little grin set at the edge of yeonjun mouth. “I'll just step out,” and you hated how improved your film was from his absence, your heart calming down its rapt beading. 

Of course you got over it eventually, or at least the stiffness. You couldn't afford to be stiff when standing next to yeonjun who was naturally relaxed about everything. He would slink to his spot on set, lay his lazy gaze in your direction, and get all of his shots in the minimal amount of frames as if he was born to be in front of the camera. It was annoying. 

The two of you would be set up next to each other in hair and makeup, your bottom lip is finely brushed with the end of a glosses wand when he would lean on the back of your chair. His hands were always just hovering over your shoulders, never quite touching but enough to feel the heat from his palms, his head leaning next to yours looking back at you in the mirror, “You guys did such a good job, don't we just look like the perfect pair?” he would quirk an eyebrow at you, the two of you staring each other down while the staff agreed, but he was always waiting for your answer, “don't we little mouse?” 

“If you think so,” your response always made him chuckle as if you didn't see the way the media was talking about your contract together, as if you didn't feel the chemistry between the two of you. People were still talking about your first runway together, the closing of the show for one of the best collections put on display that week. 

The lead up was so chaotic, with dressing rooms stacked full of models and assistants, the floor a mess of people undressing and trying to make their quick changes as fast as they could before their names were called. Even yeonjun could feel the pressure in the room, the two of you in your designated corner stripping down back to back. 

The crowded space made everyone bump into each other. For the smallest second you were caught by the sight of him taking his shirt off, pulling it at the back of his collar showing the way his jeans hung so low on his hips that his happy trail was on display. You had turned, taking off your shirt, shoulder knocked by someone coming to do your hair, it made you stumble back into yeonjun, his hand right at the small of your back holding you upright as you fumbled with the zipper on your pants. “Careful,” he muttered, your heart in your ears as you kicked your shoes away from your space. 

The two of you were used to seeing each other in different versions of undress after all the photoshoots shared together. Comfortable enough now to be somewhat friends after all the car rides, the few interviews, and hours spent on a set together. It's what you accounted for as your key element to having such a good walk together on the runway. Every step matched, the energy vibrating off the two of you as if you had been a duo your whole life instead of just having been paired together less than a month ago. 

Even at the afterparty people swarmed you two, asking about your relationship as if they could sense the livewire of that conversation hanging around your heads. It was the first time you had ever seen him flustered enough to stutter over an answer. “I um- you never know,” 

The paparazzi loved the two of you, the crowd outside any event was packed full of them, their cameras following you around the city. The two of you always shared a car to your hotels, yeonjuns hand warm in yours leading you through the flash of every blinding light while you tried to shield your eyes. He would pull you in front of him when you finally reached the waiting car door, hand on your back gilding you in before climbing in after. 

Even shutting the door behind the two of you only muffled the sounds of their questions to a faint murmur. It isn't until the car pulls away from the venue that yeonjun speaks up. 

“You did well tonight, you looked…” 

“Good, I hope,” 

“You always look good, better than good, i was trying to come up with a different adjective,” it wasn't the first time he's complimented you, but it never stopped you from logging it away to giggle over it in private. “Sometimes I don't know what to say to you,” 

You chuckle, “I never took you as shy,” 

Strands of his hair hang in his eyes, head tilted just enough to catch what little light makes it in from the tinted windows, “no, not shy, just cautious,” 

“What, afraid you'll break me? Hurt my feelings? Or maybe my ego will get too big,” 

He lets out a soft breathy laugh, the sound taking up the space in the backseat. You loved the way his chuckles went down your spine, like a caress of his fingers on the skin you wished he touched. “You’d let me get close enough to break you?” 

“I don't think you could,” it's a light jab and yet it sets everything off kelter. The car ride charged with an energy you couldn't get back into its box. Now opened, the two of you looked back at each other as if you hadn't felt this pot simmering over. 

His eyes flickered down to your mouth, his tongue running over his bottom lip before he shrugged, “Okay,” he loved that you wanted to play this game with him, as if you hadn't always been slowly picking away at the short wall between you two. It was inevitable that you would end up pressed up against the mirrored walls in the elevator up to your hotel floor. 

He wasn't even going to do anything, he was going to let you go to your room while he mulled over your conversation, picturing exactly what he wanted to do to you. But then you leaned back against those mirrors, your body reflected around him as the doors slid closed behind him. Your eyes traced the line of him, lashes hooded just enough for you to look through, like a siren on the rocks, beckoning him closer. You didn't stop him when he cupped your jaw, thumb running over your bottom lip, nose dipping to yours. Even when he gave you enough time to pull away, lips ghosting over yours when he asked, “You'll be good for me, won't you?” 

Your answer is hummed right into his mouth when he kisses you, devouring you, pushing you into the corner giving you nowhere to go. His body is hot against yours, cageing you in as he kisses down your jaw, sloppy wet spots cooling in the air as he nips at your neck. “God, imagine them having to cover up all the marks I leave on you during tomorrow's shoot,” his hand is heavy on your hip, dragging down you cup your cunt over your jeans, “Everyone is going to know I fucking ruined this pussy for anyone but me,” 

Your whimper is eaten by the sound of the doors opening behind him, your tight grip on his shirt not loosening when he drags you out after him. He pushes you to his bed when you get past the threshold of his door. His slow walk to the nightstand to flick on the light gives you enough time to think about exactly what's happening. 

He loosens his tie, veiny hands curled around the fabric as he nods his chin in your direction, “Take your clothes off,” it was only a few hours ago when he saw you topless, and yet your fingers shake when you reach for your hem. “Don't be shy now little mouse, always all talk and no play,” 

The heat on your cheeks spreads to your ears at the nickname. Yeonjun takes to matching your state of undress by tossing his tie next to you before unbuttoning his shirt, the outline of him in his pants is mouthwatering. He watches the way you try to speak, hands twisting in the duvet not realizing he's come up so close to you before he's hooked his hand on your chin, tilting your head up before slipping his thumb into your mouth and pressing down on your tongue. He swirls the digit around, grinning at how willing you are to follow his command even without words, “one day ill fuck this pretty mouth, but for now, I need you on your hands and knees for me,” he shoves your face away, putting his slick finger in his mouth to taste you. 

Turning around and having him at your back is both chilling and exhilarating, not knowing when he's going to touch you until his hands are sliding up your back, unhooking your bra, and letting it fall off of you. He lets his hand press between your shoulder blades, pushing down hard enough for your arms to give way beneath you, the side of your face pressed into the sheets. “Every photoshoot I kept thinking about what it would be like to finally get you into my bed, I kept thinking about how I would finally fuck you, how exactly I could use your body,” 

His hands slide down your arms, tugging them behind you until you whimper, the silky material of his tie sliding along your fingers as he wraps up your wrists to keep you in place. “And every time I just came right back to thinking about putting you just like this, fucking you dumb; using you like my perfect little toy,” 

With one hand holding your tied wrists his other slips down to tease you over your soaked panties, fingers following the lines of your cunt like he was made to map you out by touch. You can't even form words and he hasn't done anything, your pathetic little whimpers pushing him further and further. “So quiet now, I wonder if it's because someone's scared I'll break her?” 

“Please,” it's so soft you don't think he's even heard you, but he's aching for every little sound. 

“Please what? What do you want me to do?” he pushes your panties aside, grinning at how wet you've gotten over so little. Your hips push back into his hand, his fingers slipping into you just enough to prep you for the stretch of taking him. 

“Fuck me, break me, anything-” he's so quick to press his cock into you that you're gasping losing all thoughts. His fingers had done little to let you grasp the sheer size of him, even all your slick couldn't help that pleasure mixed with pain as his tip kissed your cervix. 

He doesn't even hold off from moving, not once he's finally felt your warm gummy walls sucking him, so perfect he doesn't know how he will ever stop from coming back to you. He keeps one hand on your hip, fingers digging into your flesh, the other wrapped around the slack of his tie, tugging your arms and using them as leverage to keep his harsh pace as he fucks into your greedy cunt. 

You feel so full, so completely stuffed that you're a mess of incoherent moans mixing with the slapping sounds of your connecting bodies. Yeonjun is mesmerized by the way your ass ripples with each slap of his hips; mesmerized by the way his cock is disappearing in and out of you. “So fucking perfect,” he's grunting, “I'm going to fill up and then eat my little mouse out until she screams, kiss your pussy better after taking me so well, does that sound good?” 

“Yes, god yes!” Your voice is muffled by the way you are pressed into the mattress, arms slightly numb as he pummels himself into you, thrusts getting sloppier with the build up of his orgasm. He tells himself that he will pull out but then he's cumming, body shuddering as you clench around him, his rumbling moans following the steady pulse of his leaking cock. 

When he pulls out of you he watches the way the dribbling cream coats your puffy lips. Untying your hands he lets you roll onto your back, slotting himself between your legs and attaching his mouth to your swollen clit. Your fingers still gaining feeling fall to his hair, pulling on the strands and he brings your orgasm back to the surface. The obscene sounds coming from his fingers trying to match his previous pace makes him chuckle, the feeling of his laugh vibrating against your clit. It takes little work for you to tumble into your orgasm when he curls his fingers just right, your body following every command he lays down. 

His hand is covered in your combined cum when he's done with you, the stickiness capturing both of your attention before he shoves them into your waiting mouth.

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