#and a bit more fluff

[the-meme-monarch]

was thinking abt how anya sleeps by the polle statue. which is motion activated to start talking.

+ i like drawing polle as a Character

[snail-day]

Geto is secretly a clingy man, especially after becoming a ruthless, merciless cult leader. In the mornings, you’re practically his personal stress relief, nestled in his arms while he keeps you close. If you’re spooning, his hand always finds its place, either resting between your breasts, cupping their softness, or splayed across your tummy, fingers absentmindedly kneading the plushness of your skin. If you’re sprawled over his chest, his hand settles on the leg you’ve draped over his waist, rubbing slow, soothing circles into your thigh or idly tracing the curve of your rear. Other mornings, his fingers tangle in your hair, twirling the ends as he silently maps out his day, but never once pulling away. He needs the contact - needs you.

When the burden of his new world weighs too heavily, he buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, letting your scent ground him. A deep sigh escapes him, tension melting away, if only for a moment. After all, he’s just a boy who took over a cult - clinging to the one thing that still makes him feel human.

[kitlandslot]

My hottest Arcane take is that a lot of caitvi antis come across as complete wimps whose only exposure to lesbian couples are kids cartoons and vanilla yuri manga. Like I’m fairly certain half an episode of Killing Eve would instantly make these people pass out if caitvi of all ships is their limit for fucked up relationship dynamics. Please I am begging you watch/read more lesbian media made for adults, there’s an entire world out there that you’re missing.

[crimsonspring]

"What's wrong, sweetie?" Sylus, the leader of Onychinus, once most loathed creature of Tarus City, looks and sounds almost unrecognisable as he stares down at his sniffling beloved, with crimson eyes that twinkle with specks of admiration, yearning and concern. His strong arms, so used to battles and defending himself from acts of violence, now cradling his treasured lover ever so kindly and tenderly. His voice, often rough and speaking out of pain and anger, hardly louder than a decibel and soft enough to lull an infant to sleep when he speaks to her.

His calloused fingers comb through her hair, and he reminds himself to ask her another time if he could braid her hair, just like when they were in the Grasslands. But not right now, not when his other hand is occupied with rubbing the small of her back in soothing circles. His actions has practically turned her body into putty, melting it deeper against the mould of his body as she lays atop him, face buried into cotton of his shirt. She looks so vulnerable at this very moment, a little different from the fearless hunter everyone is accustomed to seeing and knowing. He feels the atoms of anger (on her behalf) and natural protectiveness form in his chest as he tries to think of what possibly could have upset his lover tonight. This damned world is undeserving of her, he thinks, so he tries his best to fill in the cracks the world has left her with.

"Everything has been so tough," her tiny voice answers. In the midst of the ever-changing, Sylus seems to be the only constant she has. It feels like as everything is against her, and he is the only one for her. "I'm so scared," her voice barely audible, yet Sylus doesn't miss the crack at the end of her sentence. Instinctively, his palm stops its ministrations of the gentle circles on her back. His knuckles now bending ever so slightly to clutch onto her back more protectively.

"What can I do to make you feel better, sweetie?" His voice is low, the vibrations grumbling from his chest against her own. Almost desperate to make her feel better, he starts peppering kisses into her hair. It's a win-win, Sylus thinks. While she finds some comfort in his affection, he gets to indulge in the faint smell of her strawberry shampoo and the way she melts further into his body. It causes his hold to tighten around her. "What can I do to make you feel... less afraid? Safer, if you will," he asks, noting her admission of fear.

She pauses, as if to think, then moves to rest her chin on his chest as she stares at him for moment. They simply gaze into each other's eyes, a silent language both of them are fluent in. Sylus doesn't want to get ahead of himself, but could it be that her eyes are mirroring his; the way it screams of pure and true love. Sylus knows that without a doubt that he'd love her even if it was never reciprocated, so when the familiar gaze is reflected in her eyes, a breath gets stuck in his throat. He clears his throat, fingers brushing away a lock of her hair, "What is it, beloved?"

She stays silent for a moment more, and Sylus bears in mind the way he grows a little nervous under her loving yet intense gaze, though he tries to mask it with a raised brow. "Well?" Her hand finds his own that had tucked her hair away, bringing it to her cheek. Like clockwork, Sylus moulds his palm against her soft cheek, his thumb grazing the smooth skin.

"I think I only feel safe with you."

It knocks the wind out of him. Sylus is self-aware of his reputation- once, he was the creature so feared by humans that it ignighted much self loathing. And even now, people fear him as the infamous figure that breathed danger in the N109 Zone. Sure, it is for different reasons now, but Sylus has always felt to be synonymous with Monster.

"With me?" he repeats, a crease forming between his brows as his heart begins to pound against his chest. She simply nods and confirms, "Yes." One word to cause a visceral reaction in his heart.

She doesn't say anything more and doesn't elaborate, and Sylus is far too taken aback to push it further either. Thinks he needs a moment to himself to take in this revelation. A monster like me... that is what makes her feel safe? He sighs, shakes his head as if to deem herself almost foolish for feeling as such. there could be trillions of creatures in the entire universe, and she would be the sole one who'd find safety with him.

And if Sylus hadn't already made it his mission to keep her in safety, he makes a silent oath with himself at the moment; he'll protect her until his dying breath. This woman shall never have to worry for as long as she decides that he lives.

He pulls her in impossibly tighter, "That's the first time someone said those words to me." He echoes words he has said before (albeit she doesn't and won't remember a thing) and he reminisces the memory for a bit. The same way she sees the beauty in him, the similar softness she so graciously graces him with - such a stark contrast from what others are to him. It reaffirms to him though, that she is his one true soulmate, across all universes and through time. He'd burn the world for her take a claymore to his chest, if ever need be. In the previous and present lives, she would always be kind to him and he would always be hers.

She hums, then nuzzles her nose against the crook of his neck where she presses the petals of her lips against his warm skin. "Well, everyone else doesn't know you like I do." she mumbles, and sylus chuckles.

The whole world can cower in fear and misjudge him, for all he cares. He is simply Sylus in her eyes, "I don't want anyone else to know me like you do."

[fromdove]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ⁞ what is wrong with me?

word count: ~4025 words

pairing: damian wayne x fem!reader

warnings: no warnings!! just damian wayne in agony (in-love)

content: damian wayne can't stop sketching you or thinking about you

dove's notes: this has been sitting in my drafts, waiting, begging to be released. also i was listening to artic monkeys when i was editing this. also this is my longest work yet .. lord.. enjoy!!

© fromdove— All rights reserved. Reposting, translation, or modification of these works is strictly prohibited, regardless of whether credit is given.

∿　 �� . `💭` ㆍ

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Damian Wayne has officially lost his mind. (Or—at least, that’s what it feels like, which is almost worse than it being true.)

It doesn’t come on all at once. It’s not loud like breaking a door down a flash of gunfire. no, it creeps in slowly. subtly. It starts with the nausea, the quiet kind, not the kind that doubles you over or makes you rush to the bathroom. not food poisoning. not a training injury. nothing that can be pinned down to anything practical.

It's just this low, burning discomfort that curls in his gut and stretches upward, making a home beneath his ribs, curling around his spine. the kind of unease that originates from something deeper, something more inconvenient. something more emotional.

He can’t stand it.

His palms are sweating, and that alone is enough to make him scowl. his shirt sticks just a little too tightly at the collar, suffocating in a way it never has before. there's a feverish heat crawling up the back of his neck, winding behind his ears, and it makes his skin itch with irritation.

he’s already scanned himself for symptoms. checked his vitals, ran through every checklist and possibility in his head. besides the nausea, he’s not actually sick. his pulse is as steady as it can be. reflexes are sharp. no bruises he’s missed, no toxins in his system. nothing out of the ordinary. on paper, he’s fine. perfectly functional. but something’s still off.

because no matter how hard he tries, he can’t stop thinking about you.

your face has apparently decided to move in and take up residence in his mind. your face has staked a claim on his sanity. It keeps showing up, again, again, and again. relentlessly. a ghost with no regard for personal boundaries.

there you are, when he closes his eyes. when he blinks. when he spaces out for a single second.

the image of you burns at the backs of his eyelids with a persistence that borders on cruel. It’s not just your laugh, though that’s bad enough. It’s the details, the things he shouldn’t have noticed. the things he has no business remembering.

The way you hold a pencil, balanced so precisely between your fingers like it grew out of your hand. the way you bite your bottom lip when you're focused, completely unaware of the way it softens your whole face. the furrow between your brows when you’re reading something the teacher assigned. the exaggerated eye-roll you give him when he’s being, as you so kindly put it, “uptight.”

he hated the word. he still does. but the memory of you saying it loops in his mind anyway. the way your nose scrunches when you laugh. the way you tuck your hair behind your ear. the way you exist, so thoroughly and vividly, in every god forsaken part of his head.

He clenches his fists and holds them there, knuckles white and aching, like if he grips hard enough, he can force the thoughts out of him by sheer will.

Enough.

A breath hisses through his teeth, tight and thin and far more emotional than he’d ever allow himself to sound out loud. he throws himself onto the old leather chair shoved into the corner of his bedroom.

The thing groans beneath him like it’s just as exasperated with him as he is. It’s been his brooding chair since he was ten. It’s seen everything: blood, bruises, silence. tonight, it sees a kind of ache it's never seen before.

Rain drizzles down the windows in a soft, half-hearted rhythm. It’s the gotham kind of rain. but this time it's not the angry kind, not storming kind either. just tired. persistent. the sky outside is a smear of cold, colorless gray. he doesn't need to check the time. not again. he already has multiple times, it's 2:00 am.

Wayne Manor at night is its own sort of living thing. It breathes in silence and exhales memory. every hallway feels too long. every portrait watches too closely. the air seems too still. you can hear a clock ticking from three rooms away. even the shadows feel old. and when the house is this quiet, his thoughts get loud. they expand. echo. and right now, his thoughts are the last damn thing he wants amplified.

His sketchbook rests open on his desk. The page stares back at him-blank. waiting. taunting. page number... who knows. It doesn’t matter. he’s filled hundreds of these pages by now. but somehow this one feels heavier. more expectant. like it already knows what he’s going to draw. and like it’s laughing at him for trying to fight it.

It’s mocking him.

the blank page. the pencil in his hand. the silence of the room. all of it. mocking.

he would say it aloud-confess that he can hear it laughing at him. that would sound insane. and Damian Wayne doesn’t do insane. at least not the kind that makes you talk to paper. but sounding crazy isn’t even what’s bothering him right now. that’s how far gone he is. that’s how bad this is. right now, everything else seems like a minor inconvenience.

he’s not worried about sleep or the exam he has tomorrow in a class with the worlds most insufferable teacher. what’s getting under his skin is the idea that his own brain has decided this piece of paper knows him better than he does. and the fact that tonight you've followed your own yellow brick road right into his head and made yourself at home.

To be honest, quietly, bitterly honest, this isn’t the first time you’ve found your way into his head.

It started the day he met you. he doesn’t know why. you weren’t the loudest voice in the room. you didn’t chase the spotlight or try to charm everyone like the people he’s seen at his father’s galas. their perfect smiles and polished words. that kind of performance never worked on him anyway.

You didn’t demand attention the way those people did. didn’t perform for the room or try to catch anyone’s eye. but by some divine intervention, you slipped past his guard like it was nothing. beat the odds of staying in his head, like the kind of odds and luck people win the lottery with. only, he wouldn’t call it luck. it's not lucky for him though. If it were luck, you wouldn’t be there all the time. you wouldn't be there constantly, threaded through his thoughts, sitting stubbornly in the back of his mind when he’s supposed to be focusing on literally anything else.

you showed up, a director to his brain, and announced action and his brain has been following your lead ever since.

you’ve been showing up in his dreams. in quiet moments between drills. between breaths. between the pages of books he doesn’t finish anymore because he ends up thinking about how you’d probably like them. he’s tried everything to push you out. he meditated until his limbs went numb. that didn’t work. tried ignoring you which lasted two days before he cracked and said something cold and clipped just so he could break the silence, he trained until his hands were shaking from exhaustion. that didn’t work either.

he also can’t talk to anyone about it. he has to deal with this on his own, despite having no experiences with feelings like this.

not grayson, who would tease and then say something ridiculous like “it's just a crush, it's okay to feel like this yada yada.” because it wasn't okay. and this obviously was way worse than just a crush.

he couldn't ask father, who would raise an eyebrow and say something vaguely wise and completely unhelpful. not todd or drake. and definitely not his mother. she’d sneer. call it weakness. maybe it is. maybe she’s right. maybe he agrees with her.

what kind of warrior gets undone by a girl?

the thought of therapy crossed his mind once. he’s heard of it. read enough reports to understand how it’s supposed to work. talk. process. heal. whatever. but it’s not for him. he’s Damian Wayne. he doesn’t talk about feelings to some stranger in a white coat. he gets through. he survives. therapy was never for someone like him. and even if he did try, what the hell would he say?

that there’s a girl stuck in his head and it’s annoying? that it gets under his skin in ways he doesn’t have names for? that some days, it feels like your voice echoes louder than his own thoughts, and no amount of training, of silence, of bruised knuckles can push it out?

he would never say that some part of him, some small, treacherous part, would give up the fight, the league, all of it, just to sit across from you in peace, to live a life where he never has to say the words “assassin” or “bloodline” again. nope. he will also never say that your absence leaves a sharper ache than any blade he's ever taken to the ribs.

It sounds weak. soft. pathetic, even.

something he would’ve scoffed at not long ago. something he might’ve called pitiful in someone else.

but it’s so very real.

because he’s been shot. stabbed. left in the dirt with nothing but the sound of his own breathing and the sting of his own failures. he’s taken hits that shattered bone. fought through pain so sharp it made the edges of the world go white and still, none of it ever made him feel this exposed.

this unguarded. like someone cracked open his chest and left everything on display. every nerve, every feeling he never wanted to name. It’s not physical pain that unsettles him. he can handle pain. he can't handle the fact that you matter though.

somewhere along the way of all those thoughts, the pencil made its way into his hand. he doesn’t remember reaching for it. doesn’t remember curling his fingers around it. but it’s there now, resting lightly between calloused fingers, like it always does. he’s on autopilot. which is already a bad sign.

he tells himself to get it together. to sketch something practical. a bird’s wingspan. a new gauntlet modification. the layout of a building if he has to. something tactical. something with purpose.

but when the pencil meets the paper, it doesn’t obey. his hand moves on its own. long, confident strokes, trained muscle memory. a familiar line forms. then another. the slope of a jaw. the curve of a mouth. the arch of an eyebrow that always seems to rise whenever you’re being particularly annoying. and then, worst of all, the eyes. not just generic ones. yours. the ones that squint when you’re holding back a laugh. and the ones that widen when you taste something you really love, so much so that you’d swear it’s life-changing.

He doesn’t even realize what he’s doing until it’s already done.

he scowls, swears under his breath in arabic, and slams the sketchbook shut. the sound is loud in the silence, but not loud enough to drown out the sound of his own heartbeat, which seems to speed up at the thought of you. he tosses the pencil down with too much force. it rolls across the desk, hits the edge, falls. he lets it.

damian leans back in the chair and stares up at the ceiling, jaw clenched, hands pressed together. His arms are stiff. His spine aches. His chest feels tight, like there’s something inside him clawing to be let out.

he tells himself- no, commands himself to draw something else. anything else. a skyline. a katana. the curve of a rooftop edge, the silhouette of a bat against the moon, the outline of a fucking grapefruit. this time he doesn't care about drawing something tactical or practical. he just needs to get you out of his mind, or try to.

he should draw something safe. neutral. objective. Something that proves he is in control of himself and his brain and his hands. something that proves he is not thinking about you.

but.

of course.

you’re already in his head.

you’ve moved in and brought noise with you.

not actual noise. not your voice. he knows that much. he hasn’t quite crossed the line into hearing things that aren’t there. at least, not yet. but with how things are going, he wouldn’t be surprised if that happened soon.

you’re probably asleep right now, tucked away somewhere on the other side of the city, curled under a blanket with half your face smashed into a pillow. the same pillow you shamelessly drool on, though you’d deny it if anyone called you out.

he knows how you sleep and how you sprawl. it's in the way that looks like your limbs forgot they belonged to one body. arms flung this way, legs tangled that way, taking up every inch of the bed.

he’s seen it.

on movie nights you insisted on. when your eyes got heavy halfway through some old black-and-white film you were adamant on watching. you’d knock out leaning against him. mouth open, breathing slow, completely unaware of what you were doing to him. and he let you. sat there like a statue, an idiot statue. but letting you rest against him was a test he refused to fail. he could’ve nudged you off. could’ve cleared his throat, shifted away.

but he didn’t.

not once.

he told himself he didn’t care.

he told himself it meant nothing.

but that was a lie.

and he hasn’t stopped lying since.

back to the sketch. or the lack thereof. he's starting over.

he doesn’t bother picking up the pencil that rolled off the desk. just lets it stay there on the floor, like it’s exiled. maybe it deserved it for betraying him by drawing you in the first place.

instead, he grabs another.

the graphite scratches quiet across the page.

the first line is nothing. a curve, shapeless and vague. could be the edge of a rooftop. the arc of a blade. the bend of a cat’s back mid-pounce. it doesn’t matter. he keeps going. another line. then another. his hand moves on instinct, not intention.

It should be nothing. just muscle memory. just form and technique.

but it’s not. he knows where this is heading.

his wrist keeps moving. thoughtlessly. confidently. it seems his fingers have a map his mind hasn’t seen yet. and by the time he registers what he’s doing and really, truly looks down, it’s too late.

there’s your jawline.

crisp and familiar.

Your cheekbones begin to form, graceful and sloped in that way he won't admit he’s spent time analyzing. the bridge of your nose is there now, and worse, his hand has already started filling in the curve of your lips. he’s not even halfway done and his body has betrayed him once more. his heart beating fast and loud and infuriatingly alive.

no. no, no, no.

this is not happening. he’s not doing this. he cannot be doing this.

and yet, he is. he is doing this.

his grip tightens around the new pencil. of course, this one ends up turning on him too.

his stomach twists, it’s punishing him for something he hasn’t come to terms with yet. His shoulders lock out of habit, discipline digging in where softness tries to get through.

it’s really annoying.

his body already made a decision his mind hasn’t agreed to. he's feeling like every hour he spent learning control, precision, resistance-- every scar, every strike, every silence, meant nothing the second he laid eyes on you.

He shuts the cover of the sketchbook gently before he even finishes the drawing. the lines are still half-formed, the image incomplete, but he can’t bring himself to keep going. his hand stills, hovering for a moment like maybe he’ll change his mind and re-open the book, but he doesn’t. the pencil drops beside his sketchbook with a soft, final sort of sound.

he sits there thinking about how there’s something unkind about it. about what's happening to him. about what he's feeling. that even now, even with everything he knows about control, about restraint, about keeping his distance, his hands still choose you despite him not wanting them too.

maybe it’s karma. he wouldn’t be surprised. that would make sense, wouldn’t it? he’s not naive enough to think he’s owed peace, or grace, or anything soft. he can admit he’s made mistakes, though even that word feels too gentle, too forgiving.

“mistake” sounds like tripping over a crack in the sidewalk or saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. he wouldn't consider what he's done as "mistakes". they’re not mistakes. they’re choices. intentional. calculated. final. blood on his hands that no amount of training, time, or water can wash off. every decision, every action, feels etched into him in a way that no word can fully capture.

and then there’s the thought. an ugly, persistent whisper in the back of his mind, the one that won’t shut up: what would you think if you knew everything? If you knew the full measure of his deeds, the cold precision with which he carried out his orders, the blood and ruin left in his wake and also the way he’s thinking about you right now.

would you recoil in horror? Would you look at him with disgust, seeing in him a monster too far gone to be redeemed? the idea gnaws at him, twisting his insides until it feels like his stomach has tied itself in knots.

Why is he terrified of what you’d think? why would he care if you see him as a monster? Why is it that, at the same time, he thinks about the fact that you make him forget all of it? even if it’s just for a second. the way his mind turns to you, even when he knows he has no right to feel this way.

the guilt presses down hard, suffocating. But what hurts more is the disgust. the way he can’t stand the idea that he’s even capable of feeling this about you.

he tells himself he deserves every ounce of this self-reproach. he’s not innocent, not in the slightest. but despite all the harsh logic and unyielding discipline he’s clung to, there’s a softness in his heart that makes him long for redemption, or perhaps even forgiveness. every heartbeat is a reminder of his past, echoing the silent question: Could you ever see beyond the sins of his past to something different?

Would you? He knows you. or at least he thinks he does.

He knows the softness of your expressions. the curve of your smile. the light in your eyes when you’re teasing him. the exact tilt of your head when you laugh, and the way your eyes crease at the corners. he remembers everything.

and all of it has bled onto the pages of his sketchbook. line by stupid line.

there’s a dull throb behind his eyes. he blinks, finally, and swallows hard around nothing.

What the hell is happening to him? deep down he knows, but he won't accept it. so for now, he'll play the fool.

his body feels wrong. slow. off-balance. his thoughts are moving faster than his skin can keep up with. It's like he’s chasing something in a dream and keeps waking up just before he catches it.

And you are the center of that dissonance.

he shouldn't crave any of this. not for warmth that asks nothing of him. not for feelings that arrive uninvited. quiet, persistent things that slip beneath his guard in the dead of night and make a home out of the places he swore were impenetrable.

they settle in his chest like they’ve always belonged. but they can’t. because Damian Wayne doesn’t fall apart. he doesn’t lose focus. he can't afford to. he can't want something just because it makes him feel good.

He was trained before he knew what it meant to choose anything for himself. before he had a chance to want anything. and yet here he is, wanting. but at the same time not wanting to want. and it’s unbearable. he's so very conflicted.

there’s no margin for any of that in his bloodline. no one trained him to sit still with his feelings. no one handed him the cure for this kind of ache. there were no lessons on vulnerability. only on how to strike first, how to read a threat before it made itself known, how to shut every door that made him human. he was taught to break bones, not fall in love. he certainly wasn't taught how to navigate the tremble in his hands when he sees your name on his phone screen.

this thing he's experiencing takes up too much room inside him. this ache in his chest that spikes every time he sees you talking to someone else. this frustration that coils in his stomach when he can’t seem to find the right words to say to you.

no one gave him a blueprint for this.

and he never asked for one.

but now he thinks maybe he should’ve. despite whatever answer he would've gotten.

because whatever this is, this thing with your face tangled in every corner, this thing with your name written all over it, is not fading. not blurring. not leaving like it should. it’s staying.

He's angry. at you. at himself. at whatever cruel, laughing god decided this was his fate. why the hell is he here. sitting in the dark with a sketchbook on his desk that he closed after whatever just happened and your face living in every corner of his skull?

he forces his eyes shut. breathes in through his nose, slow and deliberate, he wants to believe discipline alone might save him from whatever the hell this is. He sits motionless for a beat, jaw tight, spine stiff, a soldier awaiting orders. maybe if he holds still enough, it’ll all fall away.

because he is not some moonstruck teenager. He does not sit around sighing at ceilings like an idiot with a crush in some poorly written teen drama.

his childhood was silence where there should’ve been comfort, order where there should’ve been chaos, expectation where there should’ve been choice. He was built to survive, not to feel. everything he’s ever felt, he’s learned to hide. emotions are weaknesses. vulnerabilities. and he’s always kept his locked away, sealed tight like volatile gas behind reinforced glass. out of reach. out of sight. contained.

he tells himself once more that he shouldn’t be feeling any of this.

He hates how much he does.

this entire spiral feels beneath him. It’s inefficient. irrational. weak. there is no function to this emotion. It doesn’t sharpen his aim. It doesn’t enhance his reflexes. It clutters his thoughts, derails his focus. and he prides himself on focus. discipline. efficiency. his brain has always been a fortress. impenetrable. calculated. he trains harder, pushes longer, endures more than anyone around him. because he has to. because he always has.

His breathing stumbles, uneven, shallow. and it disgusts him. he presses his fingertips to his temple like he could physically push the thoughts out of his skull. his other hand curls into a fist in his lap, nails digging into his palm. he can feel the pulse in his jaw. fast. reluctant. he’s getting a headache, and he can’t even sketch his way out of it this time.

he tips his head back, eyes open now, staring at the ornate ceiling of his room like it might offer some sort of answer. It doesn’t. It never has. the silence in Wayne Manor is heavy and constant, stretching through the halls like a second atmosphere. He’s used to it. but tonight, it feels suffocating.

there’s no solution in the ceiling. no clarity in the walls. only this feeling. this wild, rising pressure inside him that he doesn’t have the words for.

“What the hell is happening to me,” he mutters under his breath, voice low and ragged.

He lets the question hang in the silence. no answers come, only the steady pulse of his own breath and the distant city sounds bleeding through the windows.

[thegingerwriter]

I would literally die for avengerz tower, fluffy Bob smut pls and ty. Like the team go out on a mission (not realising that reader/ Bob are together) and they have the whole tower to themselves!! Like anywhere they like to be together!! Maybe even the group couch!! Or the shared kitchen!! Or their games room!! The possibilities are endless 💞💞

A supposed 3-4 hours

Summary: Basically what the ask says lol I really liked it. Bob Reynolds x Fem!reader.

Warnings/content: Some smut! Very fluffy, very sweet. Some dom/sub undertones if you squint.

Word Count: 1.3k Little story. Support me on my Ko-fi so I can write more!

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"How long will you guys be gone?"

Yelena looked up at you as she picked up her bag off the ground next to the kitchen counter you were sat on.

"Uhh...Buck, what do you think?" Yelena said as Bucky walked into the room, and she threw her bag at him which he easily caught with his vibranium arm.

Buck thought for a moment. "3-4 hours give or take? We'll pick up Ava and Walker on the way back. Alexei...No idea when he'll be back up."

Your heart fluttered with hope at the idea they would be out for a big chunk of the day. You looked over at Bob, reading on the couch and gave him a slight smile. "Well, hopefully I don't disturb Bob's reading. But I doubt he'll even notice I'm the only one here, he's been stuck in that book for days" You joke, and nearly laugh as Bob sits up, clearly a little offended.

"Excuse me, I am not deaf and also I have not been 'stuck in my book for days'. It's been like...1." Bob says, sending a smile back as he defends himself.

"At least 2." Bucky says matter-oh-factly, heading towards the door with Yelena in tow. "Alright you two- we're out. Don't cause any trouble, don't burn the tower down."

You decide to sell it just a little harder as you call at them right as they enter the elevator. "You sure you don't need our help with this one?"

"We know the people involved, we got it. Enjoy the break." Bucky replies, and Yelena sends you a wink right as the doors close.

A beat. Silence. The elevator makes a soft humming sound as the others descend down to the bottom of the tower and you make brave the storm, choosing to look over at Bob.

He's so red. You waste no time, barreling towards him on the couch, tackling him in an instant as he yelps, tossing his book on the floor before it accidentally gets bent.

“Woah-Jesus.” Bob has barely enough time to get the words before you tackle him on the couch, forcing the book out of his hands and tossing it gently on the floor next to you. You pause on top of him, his face red and his body heating up beneath you.

He sucks in a breathe. “Uh-hi…sweetie.” Bob’s voice cracks a little and you give him a smile.

“Hi Bob.”

“Can I um…can I help you?”

“I think you can.”

You pull him up by the collar of his shirt, and he finally takes the hint, his body pressing up against yours as he cups your face and crashes his lips against yours desperately. You run your fingers through his hair- the length longer now but still somehow knotless and silky.

You let out a quiet moan, trying to repress it. The two of you are desperate for each other, kissing and grabbing at hair and whatever skin is available. It’s not like you two haven’t done anything lately. But the desperation around the excitement of being alone in the tower was great.

Just two nights ago, Bob had been fingering you through your 3rd orgasm of the evening, his other hand free for you to suck on his fingers in a desperate attempt to keep you quiet at 2am.

You bring yourself back to the present as you let Bob tilt your face up so he can slip his tongue in your mouth. It’s warm against yours and you let out a quiet moan at the action. You whine softly as he pulls away from you to look at your face.

“Why are you being quiet?” Bob asks plainly. Your heart flutters as you try to find an answer.

“Um,” You swallow, steadying your voice. “Force of habit I guess. We’re not properly alone often.”

Bob looks you up and down, his hands sliding up under our shirt and you shiver, sucking in a breathe and waiting. But he stops right before his hands can glaze over your nipples.

You go to speak, but stop yourself and Bob tries not to smile.

“Yes?” Bob asks, feigning innocence as you hold back a whine.

“Bob…” Your voice is barely above a whisper. His fingers just brush delicately over the hardened tips before pulling back again.

“I can’t hear you sweetheart. I want to hear you.” His voice is low but more audible than yours and words send heat right to you core.

“Robert.”

“Yes sweetie?”

“Please.”

He takes pity on you, his fingers finally pinching the sensitive flesh , pulling you towards him as you fall into little him ravish your mouth again. You kiss him back, breaking the kiss only for a moment to tear his shirt off and throw it carelessly behind you.

You continue to whine quietly, and Bob finally has enough, breaking the kiss and gently pushing a hand into your hair before closing his fingers and gripping it harshly, pulling your head to the side so he can kiss the spot right below your ear.

“What did I say?” His voice sends shivers absolutely everywhere as he whispers directly into your ear and you try not to squirm, the firmness not new but still surprising.

“I-I can’t help it-.” You stutter, and Bob grips your hair harder and you finally let out a moan, echoing into the empty tower.

“I want to hear you.” Bob says again, continuing to kiss down your neck. He pulls away, grabbing the bottom of your shirt and giving you a look that says he’s asking for permission. After a quick nod, your shirt is off and on the floor next to his.

“Fuck-“ You whine loudly as he grips your nipples again, the cool air hitting them and making you squirm in his lap.

“That’s my girl.”

Bob makes quick work to flip you over on the couch, the air rushing out of as you hit the soft surface with surprising strength and force, his arms staying at your sides. You try to calm your beating heart, but the way he’s looking at you- like he wants to eat you- it’s too much.

“Pants. Now.” You demand, and Bob laughs, his hands reaching for your waistband, undoing the buttons slowly.

But it’s not him undoing the buttons on your jeans that makes you freeze. It’s what you hear that makes both of you freeze.

“Dude, we all hang OUT ON THAT COUCH!” You immediately recognise Bucky’s voice.

You look past Bob’s shoulder, seeing Bucky, Yelena, Walker and Ava. Ava has her hands over her eyes, and your face heats up so much you think you might actually combust.

“OFF!” You yell, pushing Bob a little too harshly off of you, but he’s already on it, tumbling onto the floor and throwing you your shirt as he scrambles for his as well.

“Oh this is so funny.” Yelena says, the biggest smile on her face. “Wait till I tell Alexei.”

“Fuck…” Walker says, reaching into his back pocket, pulling out a wallet and a $10 note, dropping it into Ava’s open hand, the other still over her eyes.

“I-what are you guys even doing here!?” You shirt is on, and you try to desperately smooth out your hair as well but it’s really no use.  

“Turns out they were already on their way back, and we don’t have to go anymore.” Yelena shrugs.

You look at Bob, standing there with his shirt too big hanging off of his body, scrunching his arms around his body to keep himself from being perceived. You reach out and grab his hand and he relaxes slightly.

“They were gonna find out eventually.” You try to comfort him, and he gives a smile back.

“Wish it wasn’t like tha-.” Bob starts but is cut off by the elevator dinging and a loud voice with a Russian accent cutting him off.

“I FUCKING KNEW IT!”

[shouyuus]

direct continuation of this; part of the apt neighbor!vi au

apartment neighbor!vi who disappears, or at least tries to -- no more weekend visits, no more tuesday night movie dates -- you still see her, or rather, catch glimpses of her here and there, but she's always ducking away or off somewhere before you can catch her, and for a someone who's so conspicuous, she's more slippery than you could've ever imagined. and at first, you're angry -- hurt, confused -- but the pain dulls after a week, two, and soon enough, there's only the barest flinch whenever you see her silhouette slipping down the hallway when you catch her coming back from the gym, or in the mail room --

once, you catch the bright chime of powder's voice as vi opens her door, and you could've sworn you heard your name, but the next second, the door's slamming closed behind her, and powder's voice cuts off like an old record.

apartment neighbor!vi who still goes to the gym, and it's the only real place you see her, but she's always got her headphones banded over her bright red hair, her eyes narrowed -- the bandages around her knuckles are tattered, stained with what looks like blood. there are new cuts and bruises scattered along her arm and what looks like a fresh scab at the corner of her lip.

you don't ask; you figure that if she'd wanted you to know, she would've told you by now.

apartment neighbor!vi who is not there the first time you let curiosity get the better of you and maps the way to her family's pub -- it's a divey kind of place, but spacious and well-kept, with dartboards lining the walls and an old fashioned jukebox in the corner. the man behind the counter glances up with a grin, a slight dip between his brows, an old pipe between his lips.

"bit early for a girl like you to come wanderin' in here," he says, with a voice that rumbles through you, even from a distance. you clear your throat and check your watch -- yeah, 2pm on a wednesday isn't peak hours for a bar like this but it's what you were hoping for.

"oh -- sorry, are you guys not open yet?" you glance back at the door, afraid that you'd missed some sort of signage but the man just laughs and shakes his head.

"nah, we're open. c'mon in," he gestures to the empty bar top, and sets down a glass with a heavy hand.

you eye it for a second before skittering over and sliding up onto one of the barstools, glancing around to take in the scene.

"lookin' for vi, i assume?"

you jump at the sound of vi's name, your eyes slingshotting back to the man, who breaks out into a loud bark of laughter, pouring you a full glass of water.

"h-how did -- has vi said something?"

the man shrugs, pushing the water towards you; you grab it for lack of anything better to do, taking a tentative sip as he eyes you with beady, beatle-black eyes, shining with mirth.

"you pour people drinks for long enough and you start to get a knack for puzzlin' out what they want when they walk in -- kinda person they might be, why they're comin' in -- gets to be a kinda game if you get good enough at it," he leans in with a conspiratorial wink that sets you at ease. you feel your own shoulders drop a bit as you set the glass back down on the counter and lick your lips.

"so you must be vander," you say, the name ringing back through your sifted memories -- vi on a tuesday night, after a movie about race cars or something, chattering about the bar and how her stepdad always gets on her about flirting with the customers too much.

vander nods, taking a soft puff of his pipe and leaning back.

"and you must be the neighbor girl that vi's not been able to shut up about," he muses, making you gag on your next sip of water. he lets out another booming laugh and reaches behind the counter to hand you a stack of napkins. you mop at the water dripping down your chin, feeling your cheeks burn.

"sorry, sorry -- forgive an old man his good time," he says with another good-natured wink before his jovial expression flattens, "but if you're here wonderin' what she's been doin'... then you're fresh outta luck, darlin'."

you frown, cupping your fingers around your half-drunk glass of water.

"i'm just... worried about her."

vander grunts, shrugging up a single, massive shoulder.

"standing room only on that bus, i'm afraid."

you let out a soft scoff of laughter, nodding.

"it's sweet of you to come knockin', but... she's a stubborn one, and if she doesn't wanna tell us then..." another shrug, another sigh, "no one's gonna be able to force it outta her."

you nod again, feeling rather wilted as vander reaches over to pat your shoulder with a large hand. he chuckles.

"tell ya what, here -- have a drink -- on the house."

he grabs a wine glass and sets it in front of you with a tiny flourish. as second later, a deep red liquid fills your glass and you stare up at him as he grins.

"i figured you were a cab sav kind of girl -- but tell me if i'm wrong, and i'll swap it out for anything else you might like."

you shake your head, laughing as you tug the wine glass closer, "nope. you're spot on."

apartment neighbor!vi who shows up hammered, with no preamble, banging down your door a on friday night (though it really is late enough to be called saturday morning) -- you answer with a frying pan clutched in one hand, a hissing sigh whistling through you the second you see who's on the other side. the pan drops and you're about to be angry, but your eyes catch on the fresh bruises blooming across the high of her cheeks, a bump the side of a golf ball swelling up above her right eye.

"o-oh my god, vi! what happened?!" you jump back as she nearly collapses into your doorway, barely catching herself against your shoe-rack.

"jus... missed you, sugar! can't a girl... miss... someone she likes?" she slurs, shaking her head as she pushes herself up; you blink rapidly at her, your chest a tight whirlwind of questions and concerns. it's all eclipsed, however, by alarm, as she lurches into your apartment and nearly smashes into your hallway wall, looping an arm around your shoulder -- you stumble beneath her weight, struggling to keep her upright.

"vi? vi -- you're drunk --"

"nah this ain't nothin' -- just wanted a few after -- after getting beat up, ain't that normal? damn -- got so fucked in the ring -- that match was fixed -- shoulda known smeech couldn't be trusted -- that slimy, money-hungry bastard --"

you somehow manage to half-drag vi into your living room and dump her on the couch, fluttering around for a large glass of water and a first aid kit.

"what -- what're you saying?" you ask, even as you force her to take a large gulp of water (she makes a face as if it's vodka before downing the rest in a few long gulps -- a few beads of water trickle passed her chin and into the collar of her stained tanktop). but in between the fragments and incoherent mumbles, a slow realization starts to coalesce inside you as you inch closer to her and convince her to sit still.

"vi...?"

"mm." she hiccups, flinching slightly as you dab at a cut on her cheek with an antibacterial wipe.

"are you... in some sort of... fight club, or something?"

vi makes a grumbling noise, her eyes fluttering closed; she sways a little as you continue to gently clean out her wounds. her breath carries the sharp, turpenic smell of cheap alcohol as she lets out a long sigh.

"somethin' like that... kinda like a boxing ring -- i'm pretty damn good at it, most nights," she adds, hissing again even as you jerk back, pursing your lips. she crinkles her nose before wiping a hand across her mouth, staring blankly down at the fresh blood smeared onto her skin.

"and... i'm gonna go out on a limb and guess that this boxing ring thing... isn't legal, right?"

vi tries her best at one of her usual, charming, lopsided grins, but it just ends up looking something like a grimace instead.

"legal's not where the money is, sweetness."

you lean forward with a fresh sanitary wipe and motion for her to hold still again. she does, offering you her other cheek, her eyes now startlingly clear as they flicker over the planes of your face. you wonder how drunk she really is, or if she's just gotten terribly good at hiding it.

"but... i thought that you guys were in a rent-controlled unit? what'dyou need all this money for?"

vi scoffs, her eyes lowering.

"pow's university tuition isn't gonna pay for itself."

her voice is soft, low, her words steady. you pause, frowning slightly at her as she sighs and leans back to cast you a sad little grin.

"ah... now that i've told you, 'fraid i'm gonna have to killa ya," she winks. you don't smile, only turning to discard the dirty wipe for another fresh one.

"i thought the bar --"

"it doesn't make enough -- and powder -- she --" vi sucks in a long breath, her eyes fluttering closed. when she opens them again, it's the eyes you remember, the eyes you'd spent so many afternoons and evenings staring into -- there's light and laughter, a fire that can't be extinguished, a light that can't be dimmed, a hard-lined conviction that makes them shine even on the darkest of moonless nights.

"she deserves every opportunity. that girl --" vi lets out a helpless little scoff, "she's gonna change the world one day, i just know it. if we can only --" she makes an abortive gesture with her hand.

you nod, reaching out to wipe away a small smudge of eyeliner beneath her eye. she stills beneath your touch, the cool of your skin against her burning cheek makes her shiver.

a thin tendril of tired, incredulous laughter slithers up your chest; vi's eyebrows kick up as you let out a giggle -- the only warning she gets -- before you're toppling into a fit of truly stomach-clenching laughter, leaning back into your sofa cushions, clutching your belly.

"a-are you alright?" vi asks, blinking at you with mild alarm as you shake your head, flapping your hands at her, unable to form any kind of coherent thought. you wipe at the tears forming at the corner of your eyes, and somewhere between one breath and the next, your laughs turn into frustrated sobs, and you shove vi reproachfully as she stares at you, totally nonplussed by this strange turn of events.

"y-you're such an idiot!" you say between heaving breaths, rubbing at your eyes. you feel lightheaded; the clock on the microwave blinks a bleary 4:42AM at the pair of you.

vi stares, completely nonplussed as you sniffled and reach over to snag a few tissues, daubing at your eyes.

"there're so many things you can do to get money -- you don't have to --" you gesture at her, "get yourself killed in an illegal fighting ring -- and you don't --" you jab a single finger into her chest, hard enough for her to flinch back, "have to try to do it alone."

she blinks, once, twice --

"uh..."

you sigh, rolling your eyes, "god, you're so stupid -- for someone with a genius sister --"

vi makes a slightly affronted noise, "i got good grades in school!"

you tear open a packet of neosporin with perhaps more savagery than necessary, nearly dropping it. you glare at the tiny packet before squeezing a large dollop onto your finger and motioning for vi to lean in. she eyes you for a solid three seconds before slowly leaning forward.

you lave the gel onto the cut on her cheek before peeling open a bandaid to cover it up.

"there. that's waterproof, so it won't come off when you take a shower."

"when i take a shower?" vi asks, her head cocking to one side.

you cast her a sharp look, "you're so gross right now, of course you've gotta shower."

vi hiccups into her fist before shooting you a sheepish grin.

"i could just shower at home."

you narrow your eyes, "it's 5am -- and i'm pretty sure powder's got a massive midterm tomorrow. you're staying here tonight."

"ah. yes. of... course," vi says, biting back an amused chuckle before looking around at the couch beneath her.

"well, i've always liked this couch."

you close the first-aid kit with a sharp snap.

"if you shower within the next --" you glance back at the clock on the microwave, "10 minutes or so, you can sleep in the bedroom. but if i'm asleep when you're done then you're gonna have to sleep out here -- i don't like being woken up." you try to sound stern, though it might have just come out sounding petulant.

vi grins, the expression so familiar to you it singes a line of heat down the center of your spine.

"oop -- guess i'd better shower quick then!" she pushes off the sofa and jogs for the bathroom, swiveling around by the door to give you a soft smile and a -- "hey... thanks."

you roll your eyes at her and flap your hand, "go. shower!"

you slip into bed, listening to the shower water run, a twist of something collecting in your gut as you hear the sounds of the water turn off and the unmistakable noises of vi toweling off. you burrow further into your blankets as her footsteps thump through the apartment, the slight creak of your bedroom door swinging open as she slips in, the shape of her limned in moonlight as she slowly makes her way to the other side of the bed.

"hey sugar... you still awake?"

you crinkle your nose, and for a second, consider feigning sleep. but the next second, she's slipping into the blankets next to you, her skin warm to the touch as she shuffles closer.

"yeah," you answer, a second later.

she shuffles just a bit closer; you flip around to face her, gasping as you realize how close she is -- your noses almost touching. her eyes widen as they meet yours, and you could swear that even in the pre-dawn dark, you can see her cheeks rioting with color.

she clears her throat but doesn't make to pull away.

"y'know, usually when i get invited into someone's bed... it's a lot sexier than this."

you puff out a breathy laugh, "yeah? i'm sure. why don't you tell me about it tomorrow, when we're compiling all the scholarships that we're gonna help powder apply to?"

vi falls quiet, her gaze going startlingly liquid, and for a second, you wonder if she's going to cry too. but then, she's leaning in, pressing her forehead to yours --

"god... sweets... what the fuck did i do to deserve you?"

you snuggle in closer, your heartbeat a livewire thrum at the back of your throat.

"nothing... you were just... you."

vi lets out a shaky breath, her eyes falling shut.

"shit, sugar... what the hell, man... it wasn't supposed to be like this."

you laugh as she sniffles, tugging you closer, her palm warm along your waist, her fingers pressing into your skin.

"yeah? did you have it all planned out? help the new girl move in? watch movies and make food with her on the weekends till she falls in love with you?"

vi's breath hitches. you bite your tongue.

still, she doesn't refute you. finally, she manages --

"i just... never thought it'd... get this bad..."

you sigh, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her forehead.

"y'know, for a smart girl, you're really dumb sometimes."

vi pulls back, sighing, "yeah... i -- i know. and i know that powder and vander probably know too -- they just -- they just... knew me too well to try and --"

"force it out of you?" you supply. vi nods, her hair tickling your skin as she burrow in against you, her body curling in till she's in a fetal position, her face pressed into your chest, her breath fanning hot against your collarbones.

"well, lucky for me --" you say, reaching up to run a hand through her hair, caressing at the still-damp ends, "i didn't have to -- you came knocking all on your own."

vi's quiet for another few beats before --

"i wasn't lying y'know... i really did... miss you." her voice catches, the words cracking over one another like river stones.

you graze your lips along her hairline, nodding, "yeah, i know... i missed you too, vi."

she wraps her arms around you and pulls you in, pressing you to her so completely your chest almost starts to sting with the pressure.

a few minutes later, she relents, releasing you just enough for you to suck in a long, steadying breath.

"did you really mean it? that thing about... the scholarships for powder?"

you nod, "course i did. and we can look up loans too! i had to take one out when i went to college too, so i'm pretty familiar with them. it's alright -- we'll figure it out -- together."

vi nods, chuckling softly against you.

"mm... before all that though..." she tugs back just far enough to look at you, her voice husky as she leans in to brush her nose to yours --

"d'you think... you might allow me the honor of making you breakfast?"

[uzurakis]

after you reveal the meanings behind his names, michael kaiser’s cocky attitude seems to never not get in the way.

“do you know the meaning of your name?” you ask, glancing up at him. both of you are lounging on the couch, enjoying a rare moment of quiet as kaiser takes a book in his right hand and stroking your hair with his left from behind.

kaiser looks at you, his expression indifferent. “as if i give a damn about it,” he replies, shrugging, back to his pages. “it was given to me by that one hell of a father, and at times, i don’t even like it.”

“hmm,” you smile, knowing you can get a reaction out of him. “well then, 'kaiser' means emperor or a ruler higher than a king.”

a spark of interest lights up his eyes. he leans back, a smirk forming on his lips. “i know i’m the best striker out there, mein liebling. no need to tell me,” he brags, mood visibly improving. “emperor, king, whatever. i own the field.”

enjoying his reaction, you chuckle at his boast. “of course, you do, baby.”

“but do you know what 'michael' means?”

he raises an eyebrow, genuinely curious this time. “no, what does it mean?”

“it means 'gift from god,'” looking at him fondly as your hand touches his cheeks, rubbing them softly. “you're my gift from god.”

his eyes widen slightly, and for a moment, you see a glint of genuine emotion. then, true to his nature, he grins and leans in. “well, that makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? that’s why i am pretty amazing,” he boasts again with a playful wink. “in fact, you should probably start addressing me as 'your highness.'”

you roll your eyes at his flamboyant response but can’t help smiling. “you get cocky too easily, michael.”

“i thought you love me as i am, mein liebling,” he says, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you closer. “i mean, who wouldn’t love having the greatest striker in the world as their boyfriend? you’re one lucky person.”

“c’mon, mein liebling, say it, 'i am more than grateful to have the world’s greatest striker as my boyfriend,'”

“yeah, yeah,” you say, trying to sound annoyed but failing as a smile breaks through. “you’re full of it, know that?”

“full of greatness, you mean,” he corrects, puffing out his chest. “c’mon, admit it. you’re blessed to have me, for i’m a gift from god itself.”

you tease, leaning into him. “sure, whatever helps you sleep at night, 'boyfriend,'”

“you forgot the ‘world’s greatest striker’ part,”

“i sorta regret having this conversation with you.”

@uzurakis

[lxvchrismd]

| Wandering Eyes |

| Pairing: Alfie Buttle x Reader

| Summary: As Y/n finished her leg extension set, she lets her gaze wander. As she does, she spots a relatively attractive guy on the pull up bar. She’s too engrossed into checking him out, to realise him staring right back at her.

| Warnings: Moderate smut, MDNI 18+, Swearing.

| Notes: Hey ml! This is my first ever attempt at smut, so it may not be amazing. I hope you enjoy! <3 (I hope someone gets the Clash of Clans reference 😭)

✎ lxvchrismd writing below ✎

As she was looking around, she spotted a guy at the pull-up bar, who looked like he’d just finished his set. He was attractive, to say the least. Brunette curly hair, tall, and bulky as all hell. She was too distracted on thinking about how attractive he was, to realise he was staring directly at her.

As soon as she noticed, she was quite literally mortified. She quickly looked away, face red. She immediately walks towards the changing room, gets her bag and leaves.

Y/n and “hot gym guy” had ran into each other a few more times since the first embarrassing interaction. At the gym, grocery store, the parking lot of the gym. There were only a few limited “Hello’s”, nice smiles, and a few nods, but other than that they never really talked, just two random strangers.

Until, fate took its course. Y/n and her girls were currently on a girls night, a reoccurring scene every Friday. She was currently sitting at the bar with her friends, halfway through her cocktail as she felt someone tap her shoulder. As she turned around, she seen those oh-so familiar eyes again.

“I didn’t know you cleaned up this well outside of the gym, otherwise i’d have asked for your snap earlier”. He says, his signature smile on display. “Mmh, yeah? Well I didn’t know you were capable of expanding your vocabulary from the word “hello”. She says, smiling widely.

He rolls his eyes playfully, before pushing her shoulder gently. “I’m Alfie, you are?” “Y/n.” She answers, a cheeky tone behind it. “Are you always this sassy, or is it just the vodka?” “there’s only one way to find out.”

Its safe to say that they didn’t last long at the bar. Ten minutes later, they were in the back of an Uber, his hand on her thigh, her lips brushing against his jaw, tasting whiskey and want. The ride was a blur. They crashed into his apartment like a storm.

Alfie pressed her against the wall the second the door shut, his mouth crashing into hers, hot and hungry. His hands gripped her waist, sliding up her sides like he was trying to memorize every single curve.

They stumbled toward the bedroom, clothes falling in their path. Her dress hit the floor, followed by her bra. His jeans and top were next. He laid her on the bed like she was fragile, as his head automatically went between her legs.

Y/n sat up against the headboard as she looked down at Alfie, her chest rising and falling quickly. Alfie slowly takes her panties off, throwing them behind his shoulder. He looks up ar her, silently asking for permission. She immediately nodded her head with no hesitation.

He slowly stuck his finger inside of her, watching her reaction. She leaned her head back, letting out a small moan as she felt his finger stretching her out. “Alfie!” She moans, her back arching as her hand lands of top of his. He starts to move his fingers faster, wanting her hear more of her moans.

“Alfie- OH! Alfie, I need you. Please!” Hearing this; he snaps. He immediately takes off his boxers, and slides himself inside of her. It was slow, deep. A stretch that made her bite her lip to stifle the moan. He filled her completely, holding her legs apart, watching her fall apart under him. “Fuck,” he groaned. “You feel like heaven.”

His rhythm was teasing, almost like he was testing the waters with how much she could take. But as soon as she dug her nails into his back and begged for more? that’s when things started to speed up. He gripped her hips, thrusts hard and punishing. But his mouth never left hers for long.

Even though this was their first time together, it felt like he knew her body inside and out. She began to clench, her moans turning into loud whimpers as she gets close. She closes her eyes tightly, throwing her head back in ecstasy. However, Alfie didn’t like this. Not one bit.

“Look at me,” he growled when her eyes fluttered shut. “I want you to look at me when you cum.” And she did. Loud, messy, clenching around him as he followed not long after, spilling into her with a strangled moan of her name. They lay there for a moment, breathless, sweaty, bodies tangled together.

His body collapses next to hers, chest rising and falling heavily as he catches his breath. After a minute or two, he finally speaks.

“So… you play clash of clans?”

Y/n immediately looks at him, eyebrows raised. the room goes silent before they burst out into laughter. Needless to say, this isn’t their last time.

[moonydanny]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged (last week but shhh) by @ambernotember 💜💜

I really, really wanted to write at least one little ficlet for the 911whatisyourpride event, so here's a little snippet of the one I'm cooking for this week.

Buck didn’t notice at first. Actually, it took him a while, but once he did, he couldn’t unnotice it. In fact, it’s all he'd been able to think about, to the point where Tommy had called him out for being unnaturally spacey while they were out at the farmer’s market.

But who could blame him, when what he’d noticed was the fact that Tommy kept rubbing his thumb on Buck’s ring finger whenever they held hands. 

Holding hands had become one of Buck’s favorite things while they were dating before the infamous breakup. Something about the simplicity and casualness of the gesture, how warm and big Tommy’s hands were, how natural it felt, made Buck giddy in a way he had never felt in any of his previous relationships—admittedly, one of many things that had made him giddy about dating Tommy. 

Buck had been racking his brain trying to remember if Tommy ever brushed his ring finger like this before or if it was a new development, but he couldn’t really recall. He was pretty sure he hadn’t noticed it quicker because Tommy did use to rub his thumb on Buck’s hand often—when they walked side by side, arms swinging with their hands clasped in between them, when they were out at a coffee shop or having dinner at a restaurant and their hands met on top of the table. It was another reason why Buck loved holding Tommy’s hand. Such a small gesture, Tommy’s thumb tracing soft patterns on the back of his own hand almost absentmindedly, like a reflex, but one that made Buck feel cherished, that always left him with a warm, soft feeling in his chest. 

Now, the caress seemed just as absentminded, but it wasn’t random patterns anymore. It was almost exclusively his left ring finger. Buck had noticed it a few days ago, as they were cuddling on Tommy’s infuriatingly comfortable couch after dinner, watching something on TV that you couldn’t pay him to remember. Buck had been snuggled right up against Tommy’s side, with Tommy’s arm over his shoulders. At some point, Buck had lifted his hand to lace his fingers with his boyfriend’s by his left shoulder, and he’d felt the familiar soft caress of Tommy’s thumb against his knuckles.

More precisely, one knuckle. 

So he started paying attention, thinking he had to be reading too much into it and was probably just a coincidence. But no, it wasn't.

np tags @qwordavoider @quintessenceofdust88 and @jcneseymour (mostly I just want you guys to see this 'cause look! I'm writing! 🥹😅)

[starsintheskyandtheeye]

Respect for the Dead

By Lois Lane and Clark Kent

1,436 words

By now most of the world has been shaken by the news.

Ghosts are real! And ghosts are in danger! The original publication written by Lois Lane can be found here but we are not here to follow that well trodden avenue of discussion.

Here at the Daily Planet we have elected to focus on speaking to the ghosts themselves, rather than debate their existence alongside our fellow papers. During the hunt for the new source of Kryptonite that sparked this discovery Lois Lane made contact with one Danny Phantom. Originally he chose to anonymous but since the outpouring of support from much of the world he has since chosen to come forward publicly.

Given that the ghostly teenager is operating as a hero similar to our own Superman much of his personal history could not be shared. What was safe to share however was very different from what this reporting team had been expecting.

We had gone in prepared to hear the story of what caused a ghost that looks like a schoolboy to lead a life of ghostly vigilantism.

What we got was sweetly sarcastic individual giving us amusing anecdotes of his start as a hero, descriptions of the stranger habits he's gained since his death, and many many tips on how to politely interact with a ghost. At our confusion (who knew there were so many different types of ghost!) Phantom went on to explain and correct several common misconceptions about ghosts. So without further ado; here are the highlights of that discussion.

We begin with what was given to us as the number one rule of human/ghost etiquette. Never ask the individual, be they glowing werewolf, ghostly lunch-lady, or undead rock star, about the circumstances of their death.

It seems simple does it not? A matter of everyday politeness, and yet that is the number one reason for communication breakdowns between ectoplasmic entities and still living humans. Fortunately for the health of the interview this reporting team did not make that mistake. Phantom did not explain the nature of the offense but did not need to. It was clear that the, until then, friendly conversation would have ended abruptly if we had gone any farther down that path.

What we were encouraged (and warned) to talk to a ghost about was their obsession. As Phantom explained, "It's what drives a ghost, why we are still here, or why we formed at all."

When asked about his own obsession Phantom laughed a bit and said, "I'm a bit young for a ghost, so I don't really have one yet, I bounce around a lot. My doctor, he's a yeti, says it's normal for me though! The options are all over the place though. I know one ghost that haunts the high school to prevent bullying, a really nice guy. Another just wants to have her music heard by the world. Unfortunately her music brainwashes people to love her so we aren't super close. Or another that is all about granting wishes, but not in a singing blue genie way, in a fairy tale way, it's a mess whenever she gets over here."

That seems to be a common theme in ghostly/human interaction. Ghosts largely mean no harm but the pursuit of their own obsessions can have devastating effects on any that stand between them and their goal. Something to keep in mind if you're ordering pizza when the Box Ghost is at large.

Hoping it wouldn't cross into the realm of ghostly faux pas we went on to ask how old Phantom is. Once again Phantom seemed somewhat awkward although no more than what seemed to be his baseline when talking to (self claimed) famous reporters, saying only, "Time works differently in the realms. It can be really weird sometimes, you'll be talking to someone that looks like a toddler only to learn that they were last in a human world during the 1400s or something."

As Phantom continued to share however, the everlasting aspect seemed to be the least interesting part of the Infinite Realms, or the Ghost Zone as the Doctors Fenton, previously mentioned as ghostly experts here, call the place where the vast majority of ghosts dwell.

Ghostly yetis practicing medicine, while certainly not the least of the inhabitants were just the start. Phantom went on to share with us a sampling of the being he has encountered in his travels, medieval women moonlighting as temperamental dragons, the very concept of time, a warden of any ghosts that cross his path, and of course the ubiquitous creepy toddler so often featured on the silver screen.

According to Phantom up until extremely recently (whether by ghostly or human terms we were unable to determine) the Infinite Realms was closed off from our own home except for the occasional haunting. Which was explained to us by the telling of what was, to Phantom, a very funny joke about pop culture influencing ghost culture as people died and brought it over with them. From this we can glean several things. That the realms of the living and the dead have never been so far apart as it would have seemed to the living. That the near future will hold many changes as major religions, governments, and the common people hear what the dead have to say as they weigh in on what respect for the dead really means. And that while many things do translate, ghostly humor is not one of them.

Although of course that may be that, despite his real age being possibly many times our own - combined, Phantom is still eternally a teenager. And a teenagers jokes are often incomprehensible to any who do not share that state.

When asked about the sudden ghostly interest in our own living Earth Phantom had this to say, "Lots of ghosts want to go to the lands of the living. Especially anyone that used to be alive themselves. And anyone that didn't is curious what the fuss is about. Earth is so different from the ghost zone but it's still where a lot of us came from. If someone gets a chance to hop through the portal they'll go, to see how things have changed, or to keep things from changing, or just to stretch their obsessions. Really it's a chance to go home, just for a little while," he said, reminding us that for all they look like aliens ghosts are just as human as you or I.

With a few caveats.

The portal Phantom spoke of is an invention by the Doctors Fenton, Ectobiologists. Up until recently Jack and Maddie Fenton had been the worlds foremost ghostly experts, building a portal to the "Ghost Zone" in order to study what up until recently had been considered to be a non-sentient classification of emotional ectoplasmic imprintation.

We spoke to the researchers after our interview with Phantom, at his request. Despite the recent evidence come to light the couple remain the foremost (living) human scientists in the field. When asked about the setback to their work they had this to say, "We were devastated of course. To learn that we won't be able to study spooks -" Jack Fenton broke off there, at an extremely well executed elbow jab from Maddie Fenton who then said. "We got an extreme tunnel vision, a hazard of obsessive science. We were told we were wrong about the existence of ghosts for so long that we forgot to check that we were correct about their nature. We look forward to pivoting to ghostly anthropology and human/ghost interaction technology."

Ultimately we did not learn any groundbreaking secrets, but then if a ghost willing to go on record ( a written record at least, our recorded transcript of the conversation was near unusable due to static) you sit down and listen. We can never anticipate what a reader will take from an article but if we could make a suggestion? In this reporting teams opinion, the balance of ghost and human realms is not unlike the inversion of a mirror. We are reflections of one another. Opposite, yes, and dangerous to one another for it, but ultimately we are all the same. After all what is a ghost but emotion and ectoplasm (according to current science)? And for all that we try to rise above it, what is a human but emotion and flesh?

Fin.

Coming Soon!

Keep an eye out for top ten tips on ghostly interaction and interviews with the Justice League on diplomatic efforts with GHOSTLY ROYALTY!!

[starrywyatt]

full machine - will lenney x reader

will and reader are in monaco for the f1 and reader is having an anxious day but will is too busy to notice

mentions of panic attacks and anxiety, some angst but is mostly resolved

2.7k words

it was a sunny day in monaco and it was another day for y/n to paint on a brave face as everyone talks to will and ignores her existence. she was having fun don't get me wrong, but she didn't quite realise how much of an intense few days socialising it was going to be. y/n didn't know much about f1 but will had asked if she wanted to come along with him and watching him in his element was her favourite thing and he told her becky would be there so it was enough of a reason to go.

she smoothed the final creases on her already pristine floral dress. "is that new? i really like it" will says, ruffling his hair, coming out the bathroom. "yeah, bought it for the special occasion" y/n smiled. "well it looks great" will came round and pecked y/n's lips and she smiled.

the pair made it downstairs, hand in hand to breakfast and loaded up on chocolate croissants and sugary cereal. "free bar today, so eat up" will smiled, knowing how much of a lightweight y/n was.

it was a 20 minute walk to the dock where the yacht was where they would be spending the day. "this place is just actually crazy. they have more money than they know what to do with" y/n says, looking around in shock. "right, i think we're down here" will says, leading the way and checking his phone. "surely we're not on that" y/n laughs in disbelief before noticing becky waving her arms like a crazy person. "i think we are" will also laughs and the pair make their way up the ramp, will leading the way and holding y/n's hand to help her up the step like the gentleman he is. "right, where's the alcohol?" will joked, rubbing his hands together. "will! it's 10am!" y/n scolds back, laughing until becky appears, beer in hand. "5 o clock somewhere" she says and y/n face palms before there is a waiter waltzing around with champagne and will takes two, handing one to y/n. "just one" he says and she rolls her eyes jokingly but accepts the drink, knowing full well it won't be just one. will turns around, "i'm just gonna go say hi to chip, stay with becky" he kisses y/n's cheek and takes off into the crowd in front of them. "how have you been?" becky asks y/n as they sit down and chat. the girls chatted for about 20 minutes before will appeared again with a freshly topped up glass. "think we're setting sail in a minute" will says holding y/n's back. "okay, great" y/n smiles and before she knows it, he's taken off again, talking to someone else. "another one?" becky asks, referring to her empty cup. "i'm good for now" y/n smiled and becky furrowed her brows as if to ask are you sure but accepted the no and drank alone.

will was right, the boat set sail and the networking commenced. becky wanted to go and see alfie, so grabbed y/n's hand and pulled her to his position. there was AB, chip, arthur and some other people y/n didn't recognise. she'd never met alfie so didn't know what to expect. "hi boys" becky said, slotting herself right in between them all on the bench. y/n stood, looking around for will but couldn't see him until she heard his laugh. her snapped in the direction and saw him talking to two girls. 'that's fine' she thought he'll come back over soon. becky made room for y/n too and she awkwardly sat in between the boys. luckily, arthur was chatty as always so y/n made conversation with him and chip joined in eventually. "where's your fella?" he asked. y/n just shrugged, beginning to feel anxious at the lack of his presence.

the rounds of drinks continued and will still hadn't returned. "i'm gonna go toilet" y/n said, getting up and headed towards the bathroom. on her way, she finally found will. he was sat down, talking to one of the girls from earlier and y/n felt a pang in her chest. will noticed her heading to the bathroom and flashed her a smile before diving straight back into whatever conversation they were having. y/n didn't smile back, just headed straight to the bathroom. she could feel the anxiety rising in her chest and needed a second to breathe. she sat on the toilet seat and clutched her chest, trying so hard not to turn this into a panic attack. thankfully after what felt like only a few minutes, the feeling subsided with the waves of her breathing.

y/n exited the toilet and headed back up the steps to the deck. and could hear a lot of commotion, chip and the fellas camera man were out and everyone was gathered round and will was the centre of attention, smiling away. y/n hovered behind, not wanting to be on camera until she noticed the same girl from earlier, getting insanely close to will and trying to talk into the tiny mic that was clipped to his shirt. y/n's brows furrowed slightly at how will was letting all this happen but it was now around 2pm and he was clearly pissed and enjoying being the centre of attention. becky ushered y/n over and will finally noticed y/n's presence but didn't push the girl attached to his chest away as she was still rallying off predictions for the race that y/n knew nothing about. will laughed again at one of her predictions, "that's just not going to happen!" he says as she finally straightens up and moved away from y/n’s man. "if it happens, i will get you a drink later" will says and the girl replies, "will, the drinks are literally free!" and he just laughs before turning around and sitting down to watch the race happening over the edge of the boat. everyone slowly disperses, y/n walks over to will and takes a seat next to him. "you okay?" he asks, eyes not leaving the track. "um yeah" y/n slightly whispered, uncertainty in her voice. "ah, can you do us a favour love and go and grab me a beer from the bar?" he asks and y/n feels even more deflated. "sure will" she says before sighing on her way to the bar, the girl that's been glued to will's side walks past "i love your dress" she says in passing, probably on her way to chat to will. y/n musters the fakest smile she can and orders will's beer at the bar.

she takes it over to him and as predicted, the girl was sat at will's side but so was becky, so y/n's lucky escape was also ruined. she accepted her fate and held her breath as she walked over. "oh y/n, sit next to your man" becky smiled and shuffled over as y/n handed will his beer. "thanks sweetheart" he smiled at her and she mustered up as much of a smile as she could right now. she tried to calm down, she was safe, she was with will and becky, nothing bad was gonna happen. "come on! come on!" will yelled watching the cars zoom past. "y/n, who do you want to win?" the girl who still remained nameless asked. "umm-" y/n was cut off by will. "oh she don't know anything about this lot" he says pointing to the track and him and the girl laugh together and y/n raised her eyebrows in shock at will's comment. "well actually, i want norris to win" y/n says and they both nod in agreement but the conversation ends. y/n began anxiously tapping her foot, no one noticed. becky got up to get more drinks and the nameless girl followed her. "who's the girl?" y/n asked will. "oh, it's bella. she makes F1 content, i met her at some quadrant stuff. she's really nice" will says and y/n nods. "why? you jealous?" he asks, raising his eyebrows. "no" y/n says, eyes not leaving the track before the two girls re-appear.

the rest of the afternoon y/n spent in anxious silence and becky was the only one seeming to notice. after the race finished, music blasted on the boat and everyone was dancing and singing and y/n felt like a party pooper but the one champagne she had at 10 this morning was not carrying her through this. "i'm just gonna go toilet" she told becky.

and that's when it happened. her chest got tight, her breathing uneven and hands sweaty. y/n really didn't know what was happening today, normally she could drink and socialise with everyone but today she really wasn't feeling it and the one person that she depended on to make her most at ease was basically ignoring her existence. the room was spinning but y/n focused on her breathing as much as she could. about 30 seconds later, there was a banging on the toilet door. "anyone in here? we're leaving the boat now" it was a man's voice that y/n didn't recognise so she quickly wiped her eyes and tried to hold her breath as much as she could before exiting the toilet, thanking the man and heading upstairs. she noticed becky waiting for her. "will and bella are just up there" she said and y/n muttered, "of course they are". becky didn't notice, just lead the way off the boat.

"what's the plan, guys?" bella asked the group. "i'm up for a drink" chip says. "yeah i could go for a drink" will says and y/n internally sighs. "will, i'm not feeling well can i take the keys?" y/n turned to will and he handed the keys over before running over to the rest of them and jumping on chip, definitely drunk. becky stays with y/n for a second, "sure you're okay going back alone?" "well, will doesn't seem to care, does he?" y/n rolls her eyes. "i think he's just drunk and wanting to carry on the fun" becky says and y/n just nods. "get back safe, okay? love you" becky hugs y/n and attempts to run and catch up with the rest of them. y/n turned on her heels and walked alone back to her and will's hotel.

becky catches up to the group. they walk to a nearby bar. once they're all sat down, bella asks, "where did will's girlfriend go?" not even remembering y/n's name. "she went back" becky said. "did she even drink today?" bella slightly laughs. "i don't think she's feeling well" becky says and will turns around. "was she okay?" "i think you should've gone with her" becky says and she can see will internally debating. "fuck" he sighs, downing his beer. "right guys, i better go check on the mrs" he says, standing up. "nooo, stay for one more" bella calls out and will does debate if he's making the right choice, i mean you're only going to get this moment once, in monaco with all your friends. but y/n was also important to him. "no no, i better go" will looks down at becky for reassurance on his decision and becky nods.

will completes the 30 minute walk and knocks on the hotel door. "who is it?" he hears y/n call out. "it's me, will" he says. "ello ello" he cheerfully says as he enters the door. however, his smile drops when he notices y/n's eyes. "y/n, have you been crying?" he asks. and she quickly wipes her eyes. "no" she says but her voice cracks. "babe, what's wrong?" y/n crumbles immediately, tears flowing. will reaches forward to hug her and y/n falls into his arms. "what's going on? you not feeling well?" he asks, sobering up quickly to deal with this situation. “how have you notched noticed will?!” y/n almost shouts. “what?” will asks in genuine confusion, pulling away to look y/n in the eyes. “you’ve ignored me all day when i needed you the most” she continued. “well it’s not my fault you’re so co dependent on me that you can’t even get through a social situation. you had becky! i’m sorry for wanting to have fun with my friends!” y/n was shocked at what came out of will’s mouth, she’d never seen him like this. she just shook her head. “sorry for being so co dependent i ruined your day. go back out and be with your friends” y/n sat down on the bed, waiting for will to leave. “go” she said when he hadn’t moved. “no, y/n i’m sorry. i didn’t mean that” he says, realising what he’d done. “will, go” she said sternly, facing away from him. “y/n, i didn’t mean it, i’m sorry” he tried to sit down next to her. “seriously will. you’ll only be in monaco with your friends once and i already ruined your day so go and have fun” she said, standing on her word. “but y/n/n, i want to be with you” he said softly, now sat on the bed but giving her her distance. “if you wanted to spend time with me, you wouldn’t have ignored my existence today” she says, anger slowly turning into sadness. “i’m sorry, y/n i really am. i just got ahead of myself, there was lots of people that i knew and i just got sidetracked” will said sincerely. “yeah but it wasn’t loads of different people was it?” y/n asked snarkily. “are you… jealous?” will almost laughed, trying to lighten the mood. “no” y/n said, trying not to smirk. “i think you are” will laughed. “you’re cute when you’re jealous” will added on. “will, i’m not jealous!” y/n said adding a tiny of seriousness back to the conversation. “i had my first panic attack in months today and i just wanted you there” she says and will immediately snaps back to reality. “oh lass. i’m so sorry, i had no idea” he says, moving slightly closer to touch y/n’s arm. “i try so hard not to be co-dependent on you but it’s just you’re the only one who can help me in situations like that” y/n finally turns around to face will and he can see the softness in her eyes. “y/n you’re not too co dependent, i should’ve never said that. i’ve been anxious, i know how it feels and you helped me out of that. ugh i hate myself for not noticing this and i’m sorry for being an arsehole” will runs his hands through his hair frustratedly. y/n would forgive will eventually but she wasn’t letting him down easily because truth is, he did upset her and he did say some hurtful things but deep down she knows he loves her. “it just hurt when it felt like you were ignoring me, like i don’t expect you to cling to my side but just checking in now and again would’ve been nice… away from that bella girl” y/n grunted the last bit under her breath. will did hear but ignored and let her have her anger. “i promise to do better” he said and y/n nods. “can i have a hug?” will asked and y/n nodded and moved into will’s side. he reached his arm around her and her head rested in his neck. will rubbed his hand up and down her arm. “you’re the most special and beautiful person to me in the world and can’t afford to lose that. i’m sorry about today, i’ll make it up to you i promise” he kisses the top of her and they stay like that for a while before getting an early night and getting ready to start all over again tomorrow but this time with better intentions.

(idk if this fic entirely fits the song but there’s deffo elements there lmao)

[dollyfetti]

i wanted this to rhyme like a dr seuss story but lowk some of them don't make much sense so i apologize!! working on other katsmas stuff now, will hopefully get them out soon <3

grinch!bakugou once celebrated christmas, just once, in his life. though truly, it was only because of you, the perfect girl he'd envisioned as his future wife. he remembers it oh so clearly, that day, so grim and dreary when his punk 8 year old self felt the most bleary. stupid shoto todoroki, with his stupid calmness, had stolen your heart with ease on christmas eve.

grinch!bakugou doesn’t recall how you stared at him in agony when he’d threw a heartbreaking fit over the cruel laughs that had pierced him. he never saw the angry tears in your eyes, the hurt that you couldn’t speak. your quiet sorrow made him believe you were just as weak.

grinch!bakugou spent most of his life on a tall, lonely hill, avoiding the world below, hiding from all the chill. every few weeks, when couraged dared to grow, bakugou would venture to torment whoville, that idiotic little town, to spread his own woe. 

grinch!bakugou hated when little eri strolled into his cave and begged him to come to her town to celebrate christmas. he hated it even more when she whispered with a grin, that you’d be there too, at the whobilation as you'd always been.

grinch!bakugou not so subtly quizzed the precious girl about her “interview” with you, in a twist of a swirl. he’d scrunched up his nose when she shyly quoted your words, “he was a gangly thing, katsuki. i almost fell out my seat when he threw the christmas tree.. nobody knew he had such muscles.” if only you could see him now! all grown and spry, with jacked arms and thighs that could surely defy. bakugou's pride swelled, though he’d never admit, he'd certainly show you, just wait, just sit.

grinch!bakugou who had an internal wrestling match with himself before deciding he’d go. 

grinch!bakugou never hated shoto todoroki as much as he did this day, when he came upon him, the mayor of whoville, standing besides you in his usual cool sway. you, his darling, love, and lady. and believe it or not, bakugou was quite shady, throwing grunts and growls of curses toward the man.

grinch!bakugou couldn’t believe it when the whos around him began cheering at his participation in the whobilation traditions. when he’d harshly judge their puddings with a scowl, they cheered. when he rode around in the chair of cheer as the crowned cheermeister of the year (an odd affair), they cheered louder. when he won the sack race, you cheered too loudly, by mistake, joy bubbling from you, making his heart start to shake.

grinch!bakugou’s festivities were cut short when todoroki handed him a hateful “present” to cause pain, to remind him of his past days as a measly 8 year old strain. his scowl grew bigger still when half and half proposed to you with an abnormally large diamond ring with an icy thrill, along with a brand new car. whoville truly believed the brawn was going to blow up into the stars. 

eri thought for sure that he’d blow them all away, but the grinch had his own role to play. he didn’t like the spotlight, not unless it was for praise, but this time, he took it-- much to their daze. with a sharp nail, he scratched the shiny new ride before grabbing some mistletoe, standing with pride. he flocked up next to you with almost cheeky eyes, and bent over, yelling to all of the town, "KISS MY ASS WHOVILLE!"

that's when chaos began.

the great christmas tree, right in the square, caught fire, ablaze with a fiery flare. but that was just the start of grinch!bakugou’s plan to steal christmas away and ruin the the whos' year.

in a manner so vile, he dressed up as santa, sneaking through homes with a wicked smile. he swiped all the presents, the food, the lights, the furniture too-- and the evil did it with delight.

the next morning, whoville awoke with a cry. the town was in shambles, with no gifts left to buy. while eri’s father, aizawa, stood filled with shame as the mayor accused him at fault, eri climbed the eerie mountain once more, calling bakugou’s name.

she pleaded with him, "save the town, please do!" but he'd come to a realization before she arrived. however, her kind words still reached him, and his heart grew. so down he came, with a sleigh full of loot, riding through whoville to present their belongings.

the whos cheered with relief, but then you cried out, “wait!” you took your ring from the sleigh, and handed it to shoto, sealing your fate. "i’m sorry, my dear, but my heart belongs to another," you said, and then turned to bakugou, who also, turned around, before realizing you meant him!

grinch!bakugou, surprised, paused for a beat. though quickly, a wicked grin spread across his face, his joy complete. with a cruel cackle that rang out, dark and sly, he wiggled his finger at an astonished todoroki who'd sighed in defeat.

grinch!bakugou wrapped an arm around you with a loud, proud shove, still laughing in the mayor’s face. his true love was love. “i guess,” said the crowd, “he’s not changed that much, but perhaps he's found a soft touch.”

[katsu2ji]

mha boys as texts

a/n: finals szn as an english lit student has drained all the writing energy from my brain, but i hope you enjoy this in place :') (all credit to the owners ofc!)

↓ izuku

↓ katsuki

↓ hanta

↓ shoto

↓ eijiro

katsu2ji © 2024. please don't copy, modify, or do anything of the sort with my work! i work very hard and you simply do not have my permission.

[hungharrington]

please could i request a smutty fic with “i like being close to you. you’re warm” & “is this okay?” from prompt list 1? maybe some soft, cozy, sexy time after a group bonfire on a cool summer night? 🫣🫣🫣 and maybe x curvy!reader?

anon i'm so sorry i hijacked your request so badly, its not smutty nor did i do too much with a curvy!reader, please forgiv..... what this does have is lots & lots of mutual pining fluff <3 getting together, gn!reader, 1.7k, sfw but beware this blog is 18+

in the firelight

The logs glow a bright orange, flames curling around them like hungry tongues. The low sound of crickets fill the trees around you, a chorus of the natural world, the soundscape of wilderness all around.

If you strain your ears, you can hear the soft sounds of the lake nearby, water lapping at the shore. Combined with the crackling of the fire and crickets, you can’t help but sink back in ease.

You’re at Steve’s lake house— well, his parents’ lake house. It’s a little down south from Hawkins, tucked away from civilisation, and decked out with the swankiest furniture set good money can buy.

It had been unused when you arrived, plastic covers still on.

“Mom bought before she found out about Dad’s next affair. Haven’t been down here since then, either of them.” Steve had quietly told you on the way in.

So, you’ve all got the honours of breaking in the new stuff — Eddie especially, who tore the plastic cover off the table with a rabid fervor. He then tussled with it, eventually launching it into Robin’s head as hard as he could. It had quickly dissolved into a vigorous game of tug of war until Steve warned them to knock it off.

But it means you’ve all pushed the beach loungers around the fire. Earlier, you had roasted all manners of things over it, enough snacks and sweets to count as dinner.

Now, you’re one of the few stragglers left gathered around it. It’s late, the sky dark.

There’s only three of you out here. To your left, Steve sits at the end of his own lounger, straddling it with his legs off either side.

He’s got a poker from inside the house in his hand and he’s bravely taken on the task of making sure the fire burns strong. He’s prone to poking it now and then, expression serious.

Watching him makes you laugh under your breath. It’s endearing, you think, the way he still doesn’t quite slip out of caretaker mode, even without the kids around.

Directly across the fire from you, Eddie sits in a much more relaxed way.

There’s a joint held loosely between his lips, still burning, and he’s gazing into the fire as if it holds the answers to life.

In fact, you wonder how long it’s been since he’s blinked.

A wind passes through the clearing, inspiring a shiver from you. The temperature is dropping as night falls, but you don’t quite want to go inside yet.

It’s a soft atmosphere outside. The smell of the fire is like an old memory and you’re enjoying your less than subtle glances you get to share with Steve, the way his eyes reflect the firelight as he smiles back at you.

It’s actually making you delusional enough to entertain the idea that your big fat crush on Steve might not be so severely one sided.

When you go inside, the bubble will pop. Sue you if you just wanted to prolong that a little longer.

You shiver again as another breeze blows through and Steve notices the motion. He frowns, brown knitting together.

“You cold?” He asks, hazel eyes concerned.

“A little,” You admit. You tuck your sweater closer around you and wonder if you should move closer to the fire.

Abruptly, Steve clears his throat loudly and jabs the poker into the fire, his head now facing the fire’s only other occupant. The harsh motion into the fire, sparks flying, seems to startle Eddie out of his stupor.

His lazed eyes drag over to Steve and then after a long moment, he seemed to blink in realisation because he springs to his feet.

“I take my leave.” He announces, voice still strained from the smoke.

He tumbles forward into a bow that has you concerned about his hair catching fire— but he straightens up before anything sets alight.

“And I bid thee birds o’ love goodnight,” He says, more pointedly this time.

Your eyebrows scrunch together at his words. Birds o’ love?

Steve, however, only jabs the fire again and Eddie disappears along the path up to the house.

“Should we be worried if he’s gonna make it back alright?”

You’re peering over your shoulder, watching the metalhead go. It’s not far to the house but there’s only lights right by the stairs. And he’s stoned to high heaven.

“Nah,” Steve’s voice is suddenly much closer, right beside you, and you jump as you turn back. You hadn't heard him move by he's sitting on the edge of your lounger now.

“Budge up, I’m keeping you warm.”

Bewilderment flounders through you, warm and fringed with nerves. For a moment, you just stare at him before something clicks and you sit up to shuffle to the side.

The loungers are big and roomy. However, evidently they are not designed for two people to lie side by side.

As Steve squeezes in, your body ends up pressed flush against his warm and toned one, thigh to thigh. He leans back easily but you’re still frozen a bit, apprehensive about your next move. If you lie back, you’ll be practically lying on Steve’s chest.

Your mouth twists in your nerves.

Leaning back means leaning your weight up against him, nearly goddamn cuddling. Your twitchy gaze meets Steve as you look back at him — but he only smiles handsomely, beckoning you down with a tip of his head.

Christ almighty, you have such a crush on him.

You close your eyes momentarily and send a quick prayer to whoever’s listening—either grant you strength or some insane luck that gives you want you really, really want.

You lay down and melt into his side. Your cheek finds his shoulder, squishing against it, and your heart worms its way up your throat in nerves.

You hope he can’t feel how hard your heart is beating.

“Is this okay?” Steve asks, murmuring now he’s much closer. The smoke of the fire swirls with his cologne. He's warm like a furnace. “Not too close f’you?”

“I like being close to you,” You say without thinking.

A second later, you realise how betraying that might sound, body stiffening as a fluster rolls through you.

“'Cos you’re warm.” You tack on quickly, as if that’ll save it. You very purposefully keep your eyes on the fire, away from his prying gaze.

Fuck, fuck. That’s basically a confession. You’re basically cuddling, legs touched, your head touching on Steve’s shoulder and you just said that.

Steve gives a quiet laugh that rumbles his chest.

“That’s good.” He says quietly.

Then he inhales deeply, a breath you feel under your cheek. He releases in slowly, calmly, then swallows.

“And…” He’s turned his head towards you, your faces close. Something nudges at your jaw—his hand, sliding gently across the skin to cradle it.

“Is this okay?” He whispers. This close you can see individual eyelashes. A part of you quietly yearns.

You have no clue what’s happening.

You know what you think is happening — which is that Steve, handsome, caring, entirely out of your league Steve, might be about to kiss you.

“Yes,” you say, just in case you’re not dreaming the whole thing. “I, uh- you— what is happening right now?” You whisper, hardly daring to breath.

Your eyes roam Steve’s face fervently, searching for something, anything to explain this.

But there’s only an ardent fondness in his face, a softness in his gaze that’s directed at you.

Your heart reaches a concerning speed, pounding in your chest hard enough it must be bruising your ribs. The skin pressed against Steve's blazes warmer than any other part of you, your thigh against his, his hand resting on your face.

“What’s happening is,” Steve says softly. “I have been waiting for Munson to leave for twenty minutes, so I could come over here and,” He swallows, eyes dipping down to your lips momentarily. “hopefully… kiss you.”

You blink.

“Why?” You whisper.

You scrunch your eyes closed the minute you say it, scowling at yourself for potentially stepping on your own damn moment. Never mind if it was the burning question you had, never mind if Steve just wanted to kiss for the night.

You’d take it even if it wasn’t quite what you yearned for. You'd take anything he offered to you.

Steve laughs lightly and your eyes open. His eyes are still tracking over your face with an adoration you can’t quite believe.

“Why?” He echoes.

The hand on your face shifts, his thumb petting along your cheek gently. You see him swallow and realise with a spark that it’s because he’s nervous.

“Because I like you.”

It’s a whisper. None of that charm, just a genuineness that threatens to make your heart explode. His eyes shift across your face, as if committing it to detail in the shadow of the firelight. “And I have for awhile now.”

Your lips wobble a bit before they form their smile, catching up before your mind can grapple with the idea truly. He likes you. Steve likes you.

“Okay,” you say back stupidly.

Fuck. You’re really crushing this whole interaction, aren’t you?

But Steve only laughs again, his thumb tracing another line over your cheek. “Okay? This is okay?”

Heart bursting, you nod against his shoulder, already tilting your face up towards his. You hope you don’t look too eager—then remember it really doesn’t matter. Steve likes you.

Enough to come sit by you, to lean in first, to take the leap and say the words even though it's scary.

Leaning in, his nose brushes you, just the softest graze. It pulls a sharp breath from your lungs in nerves, but Steve only pauses there. Lets you sit in the moment, then melt into it.

The fire crackles and pops loudly and you hear the soft hooting of an owl in the trees. And only when you relax—when you tilt your head up and close the gap first, lips ghosting across his—does he kiss you.

Steve's mouth presses against yours softly, the shape of his lips fitting like a daydream, and when your eyes flutter close, you remember only the hazel of his eyes.

(if u wanted, i would maybe do a smutty part two if people were interested?!)

[pinescent-and-gingerbread]

Hi Pine!! shamelessly requesting Arthur Morgan x female reader... Reader patching up Arthur after a fistfight in Valentine? She's chiding him but also her heart is fluttering and she's blushing because her big man protected her

Thank you lovely!!!!!!!!!!

Heeey Cassie!! Thank you so much for your ask, I love it! Felt like it has been done a lot already, so I never dared do my own version, so thank you once again for giving me an excuse to write it eheh! (Also this is pretty funny because it could be a sequel to this mini prompt!)

"Just, stay seated, for God's sake!"

Arthur grumbles, not hiding his discontentment for a bit. It had been a struggle to drag him and make him sit on a box behind the supplies' wagon.

"Look at you..." You sigh, tilting his head up with your index finger under his scared chin. Arthur looks at you with two puppy eyes, their blue color so bright, even more vibrant than usual, compared to the black of the bruises dappling his skin. Even like that, he was so beautiful, in his rugged kind of way. This man could have been a painting; you were just sorry that it would be a violent one.

"Always been ugly darlin', a few scratches ain't changing much..."

"Hush now. You're not getting up from that box until I take care of you, Mr Morgan." Your tone is firm and soft at the same time, and he knows you're right. There's just something in his guts that tells him it's not right. That he doesn't need any of that, that you shouldn't waste your time on him. He doesn't deserve it.

He concedes and nods without another word. Finally. You grab the medical supplies and start working, focused. You clean his cuts, and you notice how he stiffens at the pain when the alcohol reaches his flesh. You gently apply ointment to his bruises, trying to be as delicate as possible. He doesn't complain anymore.

You try not to look too flustered when he undoes a few buttons from his shirt, pulling his it down to grant you access to a big cut he had right between his neck and shoulder.

"It's going to sting." You warn him, and he nods again, knowing already how it feels to get patched up after a lifetime of fights turned bad. He only grunts when the needle pierces through his skin for the first time.

"That one was a really close one. Do you ever think, Arthur?" You scold, realising just how deep he was willing to go to defend you.

"Not that close." He mutters, his eyes looking away from you as he tries not to look at your chest bent over to him as you're patching him up. The way you were so close, he could even smell your heady scent, his heart beating faster at this sudden proximity. "Would do it all over, if I had to."

You feel your cheeks heat against your will. Fuck, blushing isn't going to help your credibility reprimand this six foot tall beast of a man. There are a few moments of silence as you finish with a small knot, and you catch his cerulean gaze, fingers lingering on his skin more than necessary.

Through those eyes, you know the man before you could handle a hundred more wounds like those, just for you to be safe and sound, and this vertiginous idea never leaves you as you cross all limits and gently press a kiss on the side of his face, scratchy stubble tickling your lips. It was the least you could do in return, after all.

You don't see it, but your blush spreads and leaks onto his own cheeks, a timid and juvenile flame igniting two souls and consuming them silently.