#but i had to wear one for my smear test

[commander-damneron]

Healthcare facilities have got to make up their minds on whether they want people wearing masks or not

[steddielations]

Steve walks into utter chaos.

He was stopping by just to see Max, but all the increasingly concerning noise coming from the Munson’s trailer drew him over there instead. Worried that all the cursing and clattering would drown out any chance of a knock being heard, Steve lets himself in. 

Eddie doesn’t even notice him come inside, too busy scrambling around the complete wreck of a kitchen.

“Dude, are you cooking or just banging pots and pans together? I thought you were dying in here.”

Eddie squawks and jumps about a foot in the air. His hair is even more disheveled than usual, barely tied down with a bandana. He’s got flour splotches on his face and all over the frilly grandma apron he’s wearing (which Steve is definitely getting a photo of and showing Dustin later) along with a suspiciously sticky goo on his fingers.

“Stop laughing at me,” Eddie groans. 

“I’m not laughing,” Steve laughs, going to join him in the kitchen, “What are you doing, man?” 

“Well, I’m trying to bake Wayne a cake, but at this point, I might as well give him a frosting covered rock for his birthday,” Eddie sighs, frustrated hands scrubbing the flour off his apron, “I don’t know, man, usually I just get him another mug and a pack of smokes, and he’s never asked me for anything, but I’ve put him through hell this year I just wanted— I don’t know like, to do something special but I can’t even—”

“Alright, take it off.”

Steve folds his arms and waits while Eddie just gawks at him for a moment, cheeks reddening under the patches of flour.

“What?”

“You heard me. Take. It. Off.”

Eddie scoffs, starts muttering like he does when he’s nervous and Steve cracks a smile when he realizes why.

“The apron, Eddie,” he gestures, “Hand it over.” 

Another moment of confused staring and Eddie slowly gives it to him.

Steve wastes no time shaking out the flour and tying it around himself. He moves past Eddie, gets right to work clearing the mess and salvaging what ingredients he can.

“You…” Eddie peeks over Steve’s shoulder, “You know how to bake?”

“I can make a cake,” Steve shrugs, “Robin obsesses over shit sometimes, calls them her “little brain worms” or whatever. She couldn’t stop thinking about this cake she swore she had for her 5th birthday but couldn’t remember the flavor. So we made every cake recipe in her mom’s cookbook until we found the right one.”

“So Harrington’s got a secret Betty Crocker power-up, impressive.”

“Nah, just small stuff. I help Claudia with Dustin’s birthday cakes. Little shit is very particular about his red velvet.” 

Eddie snorts and Steve waves him over to start washing the dishes. He does so with a small salute that smears more flour on his forehead. The word cute comes to Steve’s mind but he just rolls his eyes. 

“So you dusted off your oven mitts for little old me, hm? I’m flattered.”

“Only because I like Wayne and I’d prefer if you didn’t give him food poisoning,” Steve teases, dumping out Eddie’s abomination of batter into the trash. Though he softens when he sees the way Eddie winces at it. “And I think it’s nice, you know, you doing this for him. I wanna help.”

Eddie clearly holds back a smile, looking down at the bubbles in the sink, and the cute word comes back to Steve’s mind.

“Okay well, take it easy on me. Not everyone has a bunch of mom friends teaching them to bake.” 

“Oh yeah, then where’d you get this grandma apron? You just had this little number in the closet with your leather and chains?”

“No, it’s Mrs. Bennet’s and she’s not my friend,” Eddie bristles and Steve senses a hell of a backstory there, “I stole it off her clothesline.” 

Steve laughs and makes Eddie tell him the whole story, all the inner workings of Forest Hills feuds. It’s nice, Steve’s been spending more time here since everything, listening to Eddie’s stories and sharing his own. It’s easy to be around Eddie, even though that pesky word won’t get out of Steve’s head.

Once the batter is finished, Steve dips a finger in to test.

“How does it taste?” Eddie asks, “Better than mine I hope.”

Steve hums around his finger, “So good, here taste,” he meant to slide Eddie the bowl, but the wires must’ve gotten crossed somewhere, because now he’s holding out a dollop of cake batter on the tip of his finger to Eddie’s mouth. 

They both look down at it, then at each other again. Steve knows he should apologize, drop his hand and say it was a mistake but there’s something about the way Eddie’s looking at him, the way he subtly licks his lips is almost like— He wants this. 

So Steve lets him have it.

Eddie leans in, keeps his hands at his sides and slowly guides himself down on Steve’s finger. His eyes fall shut as his mouth closes around it, like it’s too much, watching Steve watching him. It’s a lot for Steve too, the wet warmth of Eddie’s mouth, one swirl of his tongue almost makes Steve’s knees buckle. 

Something comes over him, he presses his finger down just slightly, feeling Eddie’s tongue curl around the tip. It elicits a soft noise from Eddie that sends heat thrumming all through Steve. Eddie’s eyes flutter open, brows turned upwards and mouth in a plush little O around Steve’s finger, looking up at him through dark lashes, a dot of flour on his nose. The sight makes Steve’s breath catch in his throat. It’s fucking cute and hot.

Steve has to swallow his own noise when Eddie pulls off. 

“Yeah,” he breathes out, a slight grin on his lips, “Really good.” 

Steve’s about to do something crazy, put his finger back in Eddie’s mouth, maybe more than one this time, or just his lips on Eddie's, maybe even slip his tongue inside instead of his fingers, lick all that sweetness away until he just tastes Eddie, something— but a sudden loud knock on the door has him dropping his hand like it’s made of cement.

It’s Max, wanting to know why Steve ditched her for Eddie. She comes inside to ‘help’ which means she leans against the counter, talks about her day, complains, teases Steve and makes fun of Eddie for being demoted to dish duty. 

Steve puts the cake in the oven and focuses on cleaning and composing himself. He can feel Eddie trying to meet his gaze, trying to see if Steve's going to freak out on him after that. Once Steve can look at him without feeling like he’s going to burst into flames, he gives Eddie a small reassuring smile, even throws him a wink when Max isn’t looking. Eddie gives him a smile back.

And later, after Wayne comes home and they sing happy birthday and eat the cake that Steve insists Eddie helped him with— Just the tasting part, Steve says and revels in how Eddie covers a blush with his hair— and after they walk Max home, Steve pulls Eddie behind the trailer and kisses him until he doesn’t taste like cake anymore.

for the prompts "You heard me. Take. It. Off." and "Stop laughing at me" for @highkingpenny and anon, thank you and I hope you enjoy this!!

[redcoralpot]

Eleganti - Poly!Stuilly x FTM!Reader

If you saw this before it was reposted, no you didn't.

Warnings: Implied internalized homophobia.

Summary: The heat has managed to affect all of you, and the only solution? A date at Stu's house with a dash of nail polish. You're sure they were both thrilled.

-

The summer heat truly had gotten to the three of you, with not even a cool breeze to give you relief. Rich boy Stu Macher’s parents were away for the weekend, again, which left his house the ideal place to take shelter in. If you had to be honest, you did not mind the temperature– kind of. The bottles of nail polish in your bag clinked together as you walked up the stairs; you knew Billy would be able to sit still long enough for it to dry. Stu, on the other hand, you weren’t so sure of. Not without heat and plenty of air flow.

Speaking of the devil, Billy glanced up from his book as you creaked the door open, leisurely spread on Stu’s bed. He raised an eyebrow at your appearance, before going back to reading, shifting a little to the side so you had more room to sit down. A smug grin slowly spread over your lips as you set your backpack down on the bed and unzipped it, making a show of the little, colorful bottles you displayed inside. You scooched beside it, and after setting down a towel in front of you, cracked open the first container.

Seeming to catch the smell, Billy spoke up, “Nail polish?”

“Yeah, want some?” He watched as you meticulously picked the colors you wanted, his mouth pursing.

“Not right now.”

You shrugged, applying a lavender base to your fingernails, “Suit yourself!”

Your hand flinched as the door was shoved open, smearing the liquid down your skin, only to be greeted by the eccentric figure of Stu. Upon seeing the predicament he caused, he bounced his shoulders and held up his hands beside his head, with an exaggerated frown. 

“Uh… whoops!”

He sauntered over, pressing his face into your shoulder. In response, you slapped the towel onto his face after wiping the spilled polish on the material. Stu grumbled something; it was ineligible. 

It eventually slid off on its own, with a little help from the teen shaking his head, “Suffocate me, why don’t you?”

Chuckling, you said, “You were the one who made me mess up, tough guy.”

“I totally meant for that to happen.” He slipped his arm over you, hanging like a sloth.

“If you meant it, then you have to be my test subject!”

Stu made a noise, contemplating. You wouldn’t force him to wear it, of course, but it was funny threatening something so harmless anyway. After just a few seconds, you felt the weight on your back release; Stu had moved in favor of shoving your bag into Billy to make space for himself. Then, the noodle of a guy flopped across from you, sitting criss-crossed with the most shit eating grin you have ever seen. Billy scowled at the rough treatment, but the expression was covered by the other’s knee.

He leaned forward, “Gimme orange.”

“Good choice!”

To prevent smearing, you blew on your covered nails as best you could, before bright orange coated the tiny brush in your hand. Stu seemed giddy as you took his hand, peering down, applying the cool liquid with precision. It was such a contrast to what his hand felt like; rough and as warm as a furnace. In the corner of your eye, you could see Billy’s eyes watching over Stu’s jeans, his book long forgotten. Finally, you finished, and allowed the fidgety boy to hold up his palms. His eyes were wide as he admired your handiwork, flexing his fingers with pride.

Stu tapped the top of Billy’s head with his elbow, “Hey, dude, want some of this?”

“Hm.”

“C’mon—”

“Black.”

You snickered, “I knew you’d crack.”

Billy rolled his eyes and leaned on Stu, holding out a hand. He shivered when you made a slight mistake, and gave you an unimpressed look as you fixed it with the edge of your towel. You could only complete one hand before he stopped you.

“Look who’s gonna be Cruella this Halloween!” Stu sneered, poking the other’s nose.

“Hey, hey, it’s nothing to be ashamed of.” You shut the bottle, carefully sealing them all back in your bag, “Fuddy duddy William could be making a new trend.”

“Never call me that again. Is this enough for you two?”

Stu cocked his head, “Lemme think… nope.”

You stretched your body out, setting your belongings on the ground. Opening Stu’s own closet, you ran your fingers over the variety of shirts and robes the guy had. In the very back, there was a band shirt, obviously too small for Stu; he grew out of it by the time he was sixteen. You held it out, studying it, before shrugging and taking it off the hanger. Your shirt flew over your head and smacked Stu in the face, but the air soothed the sweat that was gathering under your double sport bras, at least for a moment. Then, the newer shirt covered everything back up, and the dark material banned anyone from clocking the extra layers underneath.

“Why don’t we go out for ice cream?” you suggested.

Stu pumped his fist, even though your shirt was still clinging to his body. Billy shook his head, a little smile playing on his lips when Stu ran out the door, presumably to get his car keys. You, on the other hand, hesitated when you saw a shadow underneath the shirt, where your chest lay. The only other boy left in the room must have caught on, because you felt a passing hand on your shoulder and a whisper in your ear.

“You look fine, it’s normal.”

He met your gaze. However, someone was getting impatient, as a muffled shout rang through the closed window, “Coming? I’m totally getting pistachio this time, and you gotta be here to see me try it!”

-

[tboybuck]

here, have a little modern steddie meet-cute. meet-ugly, maybe? idk. 1k words, mostly dialogue

"uber for, uh," the guy in the beemer at the curb looks at the phone in his hand, "eddie m.?"

"hey, that's my name!" eddie shouts, stumbling toward the car. the world is tipping sideways a little, but it's been a good night.

he wrenches open the passenger side door and slides in.

"cool if i sit up front, man? i get motion sickness sitting in the back, and you would not like me when i'm motion sick."

"uh, sure?"

eddie pulls the door closed behind him and says, "so what's your name, pretty boy?"

"you don't check the app before getting into some random guy's car?" the guy asks with a huff.

"oh, no, i never order these things for myself." eddie laughs. he tries to think back, remember how many jameson shots he put back tonight. can't. oh, well. "my roommate always sets it up beforehand when i come down to the styx for a show."

"a show? like a concert?"

"uh, no. drag show. styx is a gay bar." the guy's quiet at that. "that a problem? still dunno your name."

"oh. steve," the guy - steve - says shortly. "no, it just... looks more like a... metal bar, or something."

"sometimes things are both, can you believe it! they do a drag show last wednesday of every month. good show tonight, all the girls looked great." he kicks his feet up on the dashboard of the car, watches steve's eyes cut sideways at them as he does. "do you like drag shows, steve?"

he's testing the waters, feeling steve out to see if he should be worried about getting into some random guy's car outisde a gay bar with a dead phone. eddie's definitely had a little too much tonight. he's probably got glitter in his hair. there's definitely black lipstick smeared across his cheek from when allison chaynz planted one on him earlier during her set.

"only been to a few, but yeah. they're a good time. good show."

safe, then. tentatively.

eddie studies steve for a moment, trying to figure him out. he's got this thing he does sometimes, in an uber; eddie's an easy read - he gets into an uber and the driver immediately flips their spotify over to a metal playlist.

the driver's are usually easy to read too, and it's eddie's favorite game; he tends to know when he's got a country boy behind the wheel, or an emo transplant from the mid aughts, or the indie girlies with their iced coffees and perpetual dark undereye circles that all the concealer in the world can't hide.

the guy looks like he wears teenage boy deodorant and smells like repressed trauma. he has the indie girlie dark circles under his eyes, an apple watch strapped to his wrist. rich boy. drives a beemer. good hair, stupid highlights. there's a tube of burt's bees cherry lip balm in the center console and a days old energy drink in the cupholder.

"hmmm, the front bottoms," he decides at last, after staring at steve for what must have been an uncomfortably long time.

"i'm sorry?"

"i said, the front bottoms."

"is that a... what's the word... a euphemism?"

"no, steeeeve. it's a band. check 'em out sometime, your daddy issues'll thank you. do you like music, steve?"

"sure."

eddie clicks his tongue. "smells like bullshit. no one who likes music says sure when someone asks if they like music."

they're stopped at a stoplight. from behind the wheel, steve is studying him right back, looking him up and down, his gaze coming to rest once again on eddie's shoes on the dash.

"get your feet down," steve says, pushing at eddie's shins. "do you have any idea how dangerous that is?"

"fine, fine. so if you don't listen to music, steve, what do you listen to in this fancy bmw?"

"sports, mostly," steve shrugs. "podcasts sometimes."

"oh, boy, you are a walking red flag, aren't you? shame you're so pretty."

"well what about you? what do you listen to?"

"guess."

"i dunno, probably that metal shit. five finger whatever, or something."

eddie presses his hand to his chest. "five finger - oh, stevie, i am wounded. i wouldn't be caught dead listening to bro rock."

out of the corner of his eye, he definitely catches a smile from steve.

steve holds an aux cable out to him. "here, then. wow me. show me some real metal or whatever."

"god, i'd love to take you up on that," eddie says, huffing out a little laugh. he holds his phone up. "this sucker's been dead for hours."

this time steve's the one to click his tongue. "shame."

"truly. so what's your story, steven? what's got you out at three in the morning?"

"it's my night off," steve shrugs. "just started night shift at the hospital, trying to get used to the new sleep schedule."

"mmm, the hospital. you a nurse?"

"i am. trauma nurse."

"nice. ever see any gnarly injuries?"

"had a pretty fucked up dog bite come in the other night."

"shit."

"yeah." another stoplight, another unsubtle once over from steve. "so what about you? what do you do?"

"line cook."

steve's eyes linger on him a little longer than necessary. "oh, but i'm the walking red flag. got it."

"whoa," eddie laughs. "what's that supposed to mean?"

"i've dated line cooks. everyone's dated a line cook."

"sounds like something a slut would say, steve. craziest dick you've ever had, huh?"

"mmm."

it's not a denial.

they're getting close to eddie's building now, and that's an actual shame. because steve's cute. he needs a haircut maybe, and the stubble around his mouth and chin is just on the wrong side of five o'clock shadow, but he's got these distracting little moles along his face and neck and arm that eddie's been itching to play connect the dots with since he got in the car.

"wait, i know this building," steve says as he slows at the curb and looks at the address on his phone again. "my roommate's girlfriend lives in this building."

it clicks into place, then, for eddie.

"oh, shit! you're robin's steve!"

steve's eyebrows draw together as he gapes at eddie, and then his eyes go wide with realization. "chrissy's ed?"

"eddie," he corrects. "gotta be a level twenty friend to call me ed. and chrissy's the only level twenty friend i'll ever have."

"noted. good to finally meet you, man. i, uh. i guess this is you, then, huh?"

"yeah, sure is. maybe i'll see ya around." eddie goes to get out of the car.

"oh, you will," steve says, his smile lopsided and goofy. "i'll make sure of it."

"hold ya to it," eddie promises with a wink.

steve wiggles his fingers in a flirtatious wave as eddie walks backward on the sidewalk toward his building.

so robin's steve is cute. maybe he should have been letting chrissy set them up this whole time.

still. sports and podcasts. guy's a walking red flag. who knows, maybe they're green. eddie's never been able to see the difference anyway.

[drabblesandimagines]

You said it yourself for the request trope: "forbidden love of best man and bride" 😉 Of course, with who else other than LEON S. KENNEDY!!! ❤️❤️❤️

Forever Hold Your Peace

Female reader x Chris Redfield, x Leon Kennedy, angst Leon feels like he can’t breathe. There’s a phantom pressure around his throat, like any breath he takes in is barely skimming the top of his lungs.

It’s not the tie – he’s checked, loosening it several times before doing it back up again. He hardly wears a tie, it had never been his style, really. That, and too obvious to be used as a weapon against him in hand-to-hand combat.

Not that he’s expecting to get into a brawl today.

A heavy hand slaps down on his back, jolting him out of his train of thought. “You look more anxious than me.”

“Nah,” he turns and steps back, creating a bit of distance between him and Chris.  “You’re just projecting.”

“Maybe.” Chris approaches the mirror in two long strides and sighs. “You know what? I’d kill for a cigarette.” “Want me to go grab a packet?”

“Nah,” he shakes his head, straightening his tie in the mirror. “I quit. Promised I’d be shot of it by the honeymoon. You could do me another favour, though.”

Leon lifts his arms wide, gesturing to his appearance. “Being your best man not count as enough favours for a lifetime?”

“Technically this falls into the responsibilities of a best man.” Chris squats down and Leon braces himself to hear the fabric rip - they’d spent an afternoon being fitted at a tailor, Redfield’s thighs and forearms were never gonna be accommodated off the rack – but it holds true. He stands upright, a silver giftbag held out in offering. “Could you take this to my bride-to-be?”

“Oh.” There’s the phantom squeeze again. “Don’t you… want to?”

“I can’t. It’s bad luck to see each other before the ceremony,” Chris shrugs, holding the gift bag out again in expectation, but Leon still doesn’t try to take it.  

“And you believe in that?” He scoffs as he puts his hands in his pockets.

“No… but I’m not jinxing anything today. It won’t take long – the bridal suite’s the floor above. Please?”

Leon sighs and accepts the gift bag at last.

--

You take a tentative sip of champagne to calm your nerves. It was the first moment all morning you’d been on your own – the room being a hub of activity since your alarm had gone off. The wedding planner had hit a snag with something or other and Claire had hurriedly offered to go and sort it in your steed.

This is it - in over an hour’s time you’d be Mrs Redfield. You hadn’t thought the day would ever come, but now, as you sat in your wedding dress that made you feel like a princess, sat at the dressing table in the bridal suite, you allow yourself to get a little bit excited. It had been a long engagement and you’d been fine with that, truly. What did a piece of paper saying you were husband and wife matter anyway? But Chris had returned from Romania, stoic and silent for a few days before mumbling in bed late one night that he wanted to start looking at venues. Soon after, a date was booked, a wedding planner hired, invitation cards sent out, food and wine tasting, a visit to a bakery when you’d smeared frosting on each other’s faces as you taste-tested what would be your wedding cake and, finally, bought your wedding dress – none of it had felt real. There was bound to be something that came up, a mission that would take him to foreign soil and mean the wedding had to be delayed.

There’s a hesitant knock at the door and you swivel on the stool, curious who it could be.

“Come in!”

The door opens, slowly, and a suited Leon S Kennedy walks in.

“Leon.” You hitch your skirt up to get to your feet, inexplicably feeling silly in the dress that had made you feel like a princess moments before. “Hi.”

“Wow. You look…” He trails off, breath caught in his throat at the sight before him.

“Terrible?” You tease, wanting to break the awkward silence.

“No.” He replies quickly, leaning back up against the door to close it. “You look beautiful.”

“Oh,” your cheeks prickle with heat at his compliment. “Thank you. You look great too.”

“Yeah, reckon I scrubbed up all right.” Leon chuckles with a shrug, before remembering the gift bag in his hand. “Er, here.” He straightens up and walks forward to meet you halfway across the room, holding it out.

“You shouldn’t have.” You accept it, your fingers brushing over his and goosebumps running up your arm at the contact. “Thank you.”  

“I didn’t.” He answers, abruptly, pulling his hand back and slipping it in his pocket. “I mean, I… There’s a card downstairs in the box. This is from Chris – he asked me to drop it off.”

“He did?” You can’t help the giddy smile that crosses your lips and Leon casts his eyes down to the ground – it’s not for him. You place the gift bag down on the table and pull out a small jewelry box from within, a notecard on top.

We made it, sweetheart. All my love, Chris x

You open the box carefully – scared of scratching off your nail polish – and find a simple silver heart-shaped pendent on a silver chain.

“What is it?”

“A necklace,” you hold it aloft in demonstration. “I didn’t get him anything, I didn’t even think to. Isn’t that awful?”

“You turning up at the altar will be gift enough for him, I’m sure.” Leon jokes, but he knows it lands flat from your polite laugh as you place the necklace carefully back in the box. “Aren’t you going to put it on?”

“Oh, erm, I don’t think I can, what with the veil and the hair, I’m scared I’ll detach something. Claire will be back soon anyway.”

Leon steps forward. “I can help?”

“Honestly, I’m sure she won’t be long.”

“I want to. Call it part of the delivery service.” His hand hovers over the jewelry box, awaiting permission.

“Okay.”

He picks it up, delicately, and steps right in front of you, before fiddling with the clasp of the chain. He’s careful as he holds both ends of the chain and reaches around your neck, impressed by how steady his hands are when his heart is pounding in his chest.

He withdraws one hand and hooks a finger under the chain, nestling it so the pendant sits just right in your decolletage.

This is the closest he’s been to you in years, your signature scent overwhelming his senses - of course you’d want to wear it on your wedding day – and somehow his hand is now on your cheek, tilting your head up to meet his eyes.

He shouldn’t.

He really shouldn’t.

But he does, pressing his lips softly against yours.

For a moment, you reciprocate. Your hand automatically lifts to tangle in his locks before you regain your senses. “No.” You pull back, mad at yourself, mad at Leon. “No – this isn’t fair. You had your chance, you had multiple chances. You said you didn’t want a relationship.”

“I couldn’t give you this.” He gestures to your dress. “Not with my lifestyle.”

“I didn’t care about any of that!” Your voice breaks, tears burn at your eyes.

He scoffs, now defensive. “And look where we are – at your wedding.”

“No. Just because Chris did what you were never willing to do-”

“What, paint a target on your back?”

“Open up. Compromise. Literally anything.” And the dam breaks, tears trickling down your cheeks. It hadn’t even been a relationship, not in any proper sense of the word. Late night fumbles, broken promises, a note left on your pillow that he couldn’t give you what you wanted, despite never having the discussion.

“I couldn’t.”

“You didn’t even want to try!”

The door opens and Claire strides in, dressed in a vibrant red gown, tucking her cell in her black purse as you hurriedly try to wipe your face.

“Crisis averted and nearly time to head downsta… Leon - what are you doing in here?”

“Chris asked me to drop off a gift.” His tone is blunt.

“Y-yeah,” you sniff, hooking a finger around the chain to lift up the pendant. “It’s perfect, right?”

“Oh, he got it!” Claire squeals, taking a step forward to get a closer look. “He was so worried you wouldn’t like it.”

“No, I love it.” A rogue tear rolls down your cheek.

“Oh, sweetie, your make-up.” Claire fusses, heading towards the box of tissues on the dressing table. “Sit down.”

“Sorry.” You mumble, sitting down heavily on the stool. “I haven’t ruined it, have I?”

“Not at all.” She smiles, beginning to dab at the tear trails on your face. “Leon, shouldn’t you be heading back to Chris?”

“On my way.” He mocks a salute, before dipping both his hands back in his trouser pockets.

“Leon,” you call and he swings back round embarrassingly fast on his heels at your voice. “Can you thank Chris for me? Tell him I love it. And him.”

He nods and leaves.

--

“Should anyone present know of any reason that this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony,” the minister begins as you stand opposite Chris at the end of the aisle, your eyes flickering from the loving gaze of your groom to meet the best man’s icy blue eyes for a moment, your heart skipping a beat, “speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Leon clenches his fists.

-- Thank you for all your wonderful support, @porcelainseashore ❤️❤️

Masterlist . 1,000 followers event Comments and reblogs make my whole day!

[a-d-nox]

nox tests hypotheses: "saturn tells you what annoys you"

this is one of shawtyherbs hypotheses. this is how i feel this manifests for me in my chart and why i believe this hypothesis works. my saturn is located in my 3h, in taurus at 29°... let's take deep dive!

taurus saturn

a lack of discipline: i feel like i have a strong work ethic - i value hard work. i despised when i did group work in school and i was paired up with procrastinators or people who were unwilling to put in the necessary effort to achieve a good grade. it felt like every time i had my part done i would start getting anxious that the other person/people didn't. it felt like a manipulation - like we were playing chicken. if they didn't do it, would i do it for them? how long did they have to wait until i stepped in?

instability and unpredictability: sudden changes, chaotic environments, and erratic behavior can make me uncomfortable, anxious, and annoyed. i guess it's sort of like a trauma response from childhood except now i get irritable... everyone know my dislike for surprises.

wastefulness: i get easily irritated by wastefulness, whether it's wasting time, money, or resources. again maybe its from my childhood and having those experiences. but i am the type of person who arrives on time. if i buy something and don't like it i use it until it's gone, i eat it til its gone (even if its stale), or i use it til its paid itself off (if i buy a shirt and can't return it and it was $30, i am wearing it 30 times). it sounds strange - i know - but it is how i am...

superficiality: i really value authenticity. i feel like i am easily annoyed by superficial behavior, materialism without substance, and people who put on mask to fit in... like so what if you don't laugh at someone's shit joke, so what if i am happy with my hydroflask and want nothing to do with a stanley (it's all the same to me), and who cares if your true self is not everyone's favorite (you'll find your people a whole lot faster if you're your self).

resisting practicality: you know how much advice i have given throughout the years THAT WAS ASKED FOR and people did what they wanted anyway??? why even waste my time if you don't want outside perspective. or something its just kind advice to help with ease like hi you are using a stain on the deck, i recommend you wipe as you go so it dries quicker and you don't accidentally smear/smudge later. but nooooo.....

saturn at 29°

arrogance: you know it's okay to be wrong... it's not okay to pontificate about how you were right in some alternate scenario. just admit you were wrong in this situation and move on or better yet say nothing...

irresponsibility: when you say you are going to do something do it. if you are a leader then lead and know that you are responsible for anything you designate to someone you view as your subordinate (especially when you don't train them on what you want them to do for you). if you can't commit to having a task or being in charge than don't do it. someone is relying on you - it's 10 times worse when its yourself and you push goals to the side.

unfounded claims/criticisms: perhaps i am overly sensitive to criticism because i tend to take my work and my self a bit too seriously. but if you can't take yourself and what you do seriously, then who will? i take everything personally too. so when i get criticism and its said in a nasty way (at least how i interpret it) or there is a lack of explanation or no backing i will get annoyed. you bet my humor will be ill-tempered... you can't expect me to react well to a comment like "you're wrong". like wow okay so detailed, i'm glad you decided to write one word and a contraction to dismiss my 2k essay. like if you are going to criticize me or disprove me make it detailed and make it sound. and if i do something wrong its probably because no one told me how to do it in the first place (cough cough work) so don't snap at me, walk me through it.

lack of respect: now listen - i'm no angel, i was a teenager once - eyerolls and all. but now that i am a bit older (she said at 23) i am getting to the point where respect isn't freely given (unless its to build a good first impression) but instead its earned in a pre-existing relationship. i don't tolerate disrespect, no one is going to snap at me and tell me what to do. you do that and you will get the opposite reaction that you expect from me (speaking from real life situations). asserting dominance doesn't make you worthy of respect, it makes you a bully.

3h

superficial conversations: i said it why back when in one of my get to know me posts. i prefer deep, meaningful conversations and i find small talk / superficial chatter frustrating or pointless. like skip to the meat bruv - we don't have all this time for "hi how are you?" "good how are you?"

disorganization: a lack of structure, whether in communication, in a learning environments, or my daily routines, irritates me. i feel like it effects me most in the routine bit. weekends are my prime culprit because my schedule falls apart. during the week my meals and tasks are standardized, but on the weekend, i somehow manage to always get annoyed because i eat lunch late or what i had in my mind to do gets tossed aside...

gossip/rumors: i feel uncomfortable with gossip, i prefer facts and reliable knowledge. which i know facts seems shaky when i am posting the content i do... but generally facts over fiction in conversations. gossip and the like almost always gets me in trouble - i struggle with holding my tongue especially when i see someone regularly who has been gossiped about frequently. withholding information is a form of lying in my opinion - and lying makes me extremely uncomfortable.

impulsive decisions: i am trying to get better about this because i tend to carefully deliberate everything. but i don't like when others around me make impulsive decisions that effect me because it ruins the plan i already had in my mind. for example, last weekend i wanted to go to an all day fall festival with my mother (and yes i told her tuesday my plan) but last minute my mother's boyfriend-not-boyfriend said he needed her help with a project and it was going to be an all weekend thing. so friday night my plan went out the window. so quickly had to make a new plan consisting of paid readings, trader joe's, and shampooing my couch (fun stuff i know...).

a lack of respect for rules/boundaries: a disregard for social norms, etiquette, and established rules of communication annoys me so badly. like it is common courtesy (at least for how i was raised) to call or write in advance of stopping over at someone's house. my mother's boyfriend-not-boyfriend is the biggest perpetrator of this behavior. they aren't technically dating anymore so hello hi in my opinion he should be giving us a heads up if he will be stopping over. also switching gears when i say "no" or "i don't want to" i feel like a lot of people around me push me and test me to see if i will change my tune. i don't appreciate that in the slightest. i make clear boundaries in all the relationships i have (even here i have guidelines) - so yes, you bet i get frustrated when i vocalized or wrote my boundaries and yet they get ignored.

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[ddejavvu]

Eddie, your boyfriend, and you discussing having a threesome at some point. And then he offers you a threesome with Chrissy. You get confused like does Eddie wanna sleep with Chrissy? I just thought they were friends? But then he explains babe, Chrissy wants to sleep with YOU. She, like, is always telling him how pretty you are

You were only eager to explore the idea of a threesome with Eddie until he had a name already locked and loaded for your third party. You thought you'd scout a bar together, or rope one of your friends' friends into a one-time test that would determine whether 'the more the merrier' applied to sex. But when Eddie responds to your initial proposal with a quick nod, and a, 'Chrissy?' you start rethinking your offer.

"Uh," You flounder, stomach starting to churn, "I guess- maybe? I thought you two were just friends."

"We are," He nods, still absent-minded until his brain catches up with him. Then he's dropping his pen onto the scribbled doodle he'd been sketching, looking up at you with wide eyes pooled with understanding.

"Wait, wait, wait, not like that." He reaches for your hands, and you hear him out with dread still pooling in your stomach.

"We are just friends," He assures you, pretty brown eyes dripping with sincerity behind his long lashes, "But she likes you. She talks about you all the time. At first she was just, like, asking me how you were doing when she saw me and stuff. But then she came to my van to pick something up," He clears his throat, politely leaving the name of whatever drugs she was buying out of your conversation, "-and out of the corner of my eye I saw her slip something into her pocket. I only realized later, when you couldn't find it, that it was your lip gloss that you keep in the cupholder. And when I saw her again she was wearing it, now it's the only thing she wears."

You mull the information over a bit, deep in thought. Then, in a quiet voice, "That doesn't mean she wants to have sex with me, Eddie."

"That's... not all of it." He admits, raising a hand to scratch at his hair, "I tried to be casual about it. I said the stuff she was wearing looked like yours. And she got all red, started talking about how pretty the color was. I was starting to get a little suspicious, but I really couldn't tell if she was after me or you, y'know?"

You nod, and he squeezes your hands tighter.

"Then the next time I sold stuff to her, she asked about you again. I teased her a bit, asked if she just wanted to come over and see you. She heated up again, started smoothing out her skirt and messing with her shirt, asking if I meant 'right now?'. That's when I figured it out."

"I kinda elbowed her, y'know?" Eddie mimics the gesture, rocking his body to one side, "And I said 'Holy shit, you've got a thing for my girlfriend!'.

--

"No!" Chrissy stammers, shaking her head so that her ponytail bounces, "No, Eddie, that's- I would never do that to you!"

I don't blame you," Eddie shrugs, a smug smirk on his face, "I've got a thing for her too."

"I think she's really pretty." Chrissy admits, eyes wide and glued to her feet, "But that's- she's your girlfriend! And I know it's not fair, I- I'm really sorry, Eddie."

"Really," He laughs, knocking his shoulder into hers, "It's fine. I know you won't try anything. Hell, you're so sweet you'd pr'y come crying to me feeling guilty before you'd even made a move. You are not a cheater, I know that."

--

"Thing is," Eddie picks away a smear of nail polish that's stuck in the crease of your finger, "Now that I know, she won't shut up about you. She just talks and talks and talks, all day long, about how pretty she thinks you are, how lucky I am, and I don't really disagree."

"That's.. crazy." You shake your head, not because you're upset, but because you're surprised. You've interacted with the girl before, and she's been almost unbearably sweet, but you hadn't thought anything of it. You'd heard only good things about her, so you just assumed her saccharine demeanor was the default. You have to say, thinking about the starry-eyed girl having a puppy crush on you is making your heart beat just a bit faster.

"Well, all I'm saying is, she's a willing candidate. We'd have to break our 'no kissing' rule, though," Eddie grins, "I think she wants to give back some of that lip gloss she snatched."

[howlingday]

What would happen if Jaune got the Berserker armor?

"What are you wearing?"

"It's this new armor I found in my room." Jaune rapped his knuckles against the heavy metal guarding his body. "I think it's an upgrade to my old armor set."

"It is?" Ruby asked while circling him, poking and prodding into every ornate detail and crevice on his new, black armor. "It doesn't look like it. It looks like it's a new armor set entirely."

"I like the cape, though." Nora chimed. "Makes you look like a fairy tail hero!"

"It doesn't look clean, though." Ren commented. "In fact, it looks like it hasn't ever been washed."

"Well, I like it." Jaune gave his chest a pat and a rub. "It covers and protects me more than my old armor did, and even though it felt heavy picking it up, it doesn't weigh down on me at all!"

"It's still weird. We arrive at this new place and the first thing that you find in your room was a new suit of armor, and your old set can't be found?"

"It's weird, but it's not like we can't find the old set later. That is, if this armor doesn't work out!"

"Ready to go test it out?" Nora giggled, a wide grin on her face.

"You bet!" He beamed just as wide.

--------------------------------------------------

"JAUNE!" Nora screamed as she watched her leader get slammed into the brick wall. The mission had gone from bad to worse, but she couldn't leave him! Even as she was being dragged away by more senior huntsmen, she couldn't stand by and watch as the blood smeared on the wall grew bigger. "LET ME GO! LET ME GO!"

"Will you shut the hell up?!" One man cried out. "He's as good as dead, but at least let his corpse buy you enough time to get away!" She swung at him, but the only thing that got thrown off was her balance and she was pulled in. "We've got her! Go! Go! Go!"

Nora agonizingly wept as the doors shut, and her horrible screams were replaced with the roar of cowardly bullhead engines. Jaune's team escaped, and that was not good enough for him. Dying at the claws of this bastard Hound was almost enough to make him smile, if he had any human strength left to move. It dug its filthy talon into his chest, trying to sever his armor from his body.

"Bad." Growled the monstrous Hound. "Must. Get. Bad."

A baneful Nevermore perched atop a shitty building's corner, watching as it's evil ash-skinned master's pet tried to pry him open.

Jaune felt a sorrow as the traitorous bullhead carried his team away, and finally the tears began to flow. Hot tears began to pour from his eyes, mixing with the blood spilling from his stupid dying body. How dare this beast make him bleed? How dare this filthy, disgusting, putrid monster single him out and force him to be so weak?! Jaune's breathing began to increase as something inside him snapped.

And snap, it did. The armor that he wore into battle snapped around his broken arm, forcing his hand to grab hold of the Hounds' arm. Then another snap came, making it scream in agony and forcing it to drop Jaune to the ground. But before he touched the dirt, the greaves of his armor snapped his legs to keep him standing. Blood began to spill from the armor.

"Kill..." Jaune groaned as blood filled his mouth.

"Kill!" The Hound barked at him. More Grimm began to gather from the distance.

"KILL... YOU..." The helmet snapped shut over his face and a new monster, one worse than any Grimm ever seen before, was born into Remnant. "KILL... YOU... ALL!"

[sanguineterrain]

Somebody to You - s.h.

Summary: You've never been kissed. Steve changes that.

Pairing: best friend!Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Word count: 2.1k

Warnings: first kiss, sweet soft Steve (lub him <3), inexperienced!reader, fluff fluff fluff. A reminder that Steve and the reader are always 18+!

divider by s-tarksintern

Follow @sanguine-stranger for all my Stranger Things fics updates!

"You're gonna get sick."

"No, 'm not," Steve insists petulantly, ice cream smeared on his chin. 

"It's fall," you sigh. "You didn't even zip up your jacket. You'll get a sore throat."

"I won't. I'm a trooper."

"You're an idiot."

"Yes," he agrees solemnly. "An idiotic trooper. God's bravest soldier."

"Brave or stupid?"

Steve licks his cone. A smudge of chocolate lands on his nose. 

"It's a fine line," he decides. 

You crumple your napkin, wiping away the ice cream. He grins, too goddamn cute for his own good. 

"How do girls like you? You eat like a toddler."

"I eat like a man." Steve thumps his chest. "This is how men eat ice cream."

"Definitely an idiot."

"Yeah, but who's hanging out with me, hmm? Riddle me that, Y/N."

"What was I thinking?"

"Hard to say."

"At least wear your scarf properly," you say, stopping in front of him. "Doesn't do much hanging like that."

"It makes me look cool."

You ignore his protests, handing him your own cup of ice cream so you can fix the scarf. It's nice: a ruddy red color, made of angora wool. You'd borrowed it many a time, but Steve is pretty horrendous when he gets sick and it's important to nip that prospect in the bud as early as possible. 

You wrap the scarf once, twice, then tuck the ends. Steve's neck is warm, jaw slightly rough with stubble. Plumes of breath fade into the air between you. When you meet his gaze, Steve is looking at you funny, lids heavy. You nearly trip on the sidewalk as you turn. 

"Your cup," he says, nudging your shoulder. 

You take your ice cream back without meeting his eye. Steve falls into silence beside you, matching your steps so he doesn't leave you behind with his longer strides. 

"So," he clears his throat after a few minutes. "You gonna tell me why we went for ice cream?"

"What do you mean?" you ask, scooping another bite of your treat. 

"Do I look like a sucker to you?"

You open your mouth. Steve hurriedly covers the lower half of your face with a big hand. It's cold from the ice cream, rough with calluses. You want it there forever. 

"Nevermind," he says. "Don't want you answering that."

"Mmfph!"

You bat his hand away. Steve's fingers dance across your arm. 

"The answer is yes," you say anyway. 

"Walked right into that one."

"Sure did."

Steve unlocks the car door, swinging into the driver’s seat. As soon as he turns the key, you blast the heat. 

"You're gonna eat up the gas," he groans over the roar of the heater, turning the knob.

"I'm cold."

"Who wanted to get ice cream in the first place? And who lectured me about wearing my scarf properly?"

"Dunno but she sounds really smart," you say, mouth full. "Maybe you should listen to her more."

Steve's cone is down to a nub because he inhales everything he eats. You take your time on your cup, stirring the melting ice cream with your spoon. 

"Y/N."

"Yes, Steve?"

He fixes you with a look.

"Don't yes, Steve me. You think I forgot? You had that big date planned tonight."

"It wasn't that big a date."

"Oh, I disagree," Steve says, turning in his seat. "Very much so. You were gonna pop your first date cherry. If that's not a big date, I dunno what is."

The entire week had been test prep for your first ever date. Steve and Robin had both lectured you on first date protocols, trying to soothe your nerves. In the end, it didn't matter. You hadn't gone through with it. 

"First anythings mean nothing," you mumble. 

"Did this guy do something? What's his name? Phillips, Philly, Philbin…"

"Fuller," you correct. "Jake Fuller."

Steve snaps his fingers. "That's the one! So, what, do I need to defend your honor and go rough him up?"

"And lose another fight?" you shoot.

"Oh, now you're gonna get it.” 

Steve puts his cone between his teeth to free his other hand and leaps over the console, sliding both cold hands under your shirt. You squeal, trying in earnest to bat him away. He lets you take his wrists, one knee perched precariously on the edge of your seat. 

"You're a menace," you declare.

Steve finishes his cone in one bite, crunching obnoxiously in your ear. 

"I'm a what?" he asks. "Come again?" 

"A menace!" you laugh, shaking his hands. 

Steve sinks back to his side. His hair is slightly tousled from his antics. 

"Seriously, Y/N." And this time, he really is serious. "What happened?" 

"Nothing!" Truth. "I don't even care." Half truth. 

"Did he cancel?"

You wince. "No. I did." 

"What? Why?"

You shrug one shoulder. 

"That's not an answer," he pushes. 

"I don't know, okay? Just didn't feel up to it. I—it would've been awkward. He's one of Nancy's newspaper buddies and I'm sure if she hangs out with him, he's probably not, like, a serial killer. But the more I thought about it, the more I decided I couldn't do it. I wouldn't have anything to say."

"But that's everyone's first date," Steve reasons. "My first date ever wasn't amazing."

"You? Steve Harrington? That's who we're talking about?" 

"The sass is unnecessary," he says with an eye roll. "Yeah, my first date was awkward just like everyone else's. But then you go on second and third dates and it gets better. You get practice. Like kissing, y'know?"

You sink into your seat, scratching the bottom of your cup with your spoon. 

“Right,” you mumble. 

“Wait.” Steve leans in, arm draped over your headrest. “What is that?”

“What is what?”

Steve’s so close. He smells like lemon shampoo and the expensive cologne you’d been clueless about buying for his birthday. He wears it everyday. You cross your arms.

“Why’d you respond like that?”

“I acknowledged your statement, Steve.”

You feel his eyes boring into the side of your head. 

"You've kissed people before, haven't you?"

"People? Am I planting one on everybody at the A&P?" 

“Holy shit," Steve says. "You've never kissed anybody?" 

Oh, this is torture. Spending the night locked in Family Video with Keith would be less painful.

“You don’t have to say it like that,” you huff. “Like I’m a spinster with eleven cats.”

Steve gently plucks the empty ice cream cup from your hands, setting it down in the cupholder. You tuck your hands under your thighs.

“I didn’t say it like that,” he says, softly earnest. "I just… I'm surprised, y’know?"

"Surprised that I'm a freak of nature? Well, you wouldn't be the first, Harrington."

"You're not a freak, Y/N. There’s nothing wrong with not kissing anybody.”

“Easy for you to say. Girls fall over themselves wanting you. Nobody's ever wanted to kiss me and–and I don't know. It felt like something that should be special."

"I seriously doubt nobody's ever wanted to kiss you, Y/N," Steve says quietly. 

You scoff. "What then? I'm just clueless?"

Steve shrugs. "Have a little confidence in yourself is all I'm saying. You're pretty, y'know? Guys would love to take you out." 

"You're serious."

His brow scrunches. "I said I was.”

"I'm not like you, Steve. Jake would’ve tried to kiss me and it would’ve been weird and gross.”

“That bad? You hardly know the guy."

"That's the point!" you groan. "I don't know him. You can kiss girls and it's fine, it's cool." 

"Well, I’m a great kisser," Steve smirks. "I've had a lot of practice to make it fine and cool."

“Great kisser, huh? That hair is getting a little too big, hotshot."

“Oh, baby, I only get five star reviews,” he grins, looking and sounding very much like the King Steve you remember and could hardly stand. The Steve who's good at this, good at making girls melt and kissing the air out of their lungs. The Steve who renders you shy and too quiet; who, despite his throne, has always been a pretty boy with pretty lips. 

“Hey.” Steve taps your temple with one finger. “You still there?”

“Yeah,” you say in a breath. "Still here."

"Okay. That's good."

You pull your knees in, fingers curling around the seat cushion. Steve slouches against his seat. His fingers lazily drum on the steering wheel. A sliver of freckled skin peeks underneath his jacket. You tear your gaze away. 

"Are you actually that good at kissing?"

Steve glances at you, brows raised slightly. 

"Haven't had any complaints. And most girls have no problem letting you know."

"Is it, um… fun?"

What a silly word. Fun. Like you're talking about a new video game. Why can't you be like other girls about it? Other girls make out with guys in their cars and then brag about it the next morning. I hooked up with Steve Harrington. He's so hot. Jealous?

"Yeah." Steve laughs a bit, not unkindly. "It's kind of my favorite part, actually. They become addictive when you're with the right person."

"Like Nancy?" 

Something flickers across his face. Nice, Y/N. Way to go. 

"At first," he replies quietly, because Steve never gets cross with you, even when you're the idiot, bringing up his ex. "Then it changed. Some things do." 

"Oh," you breathe. "You don't love her anymore?" 

"No," he says, staring at you. "Not sure if I ever did." 

You bend and pretend to tie your shoe. Steve sits up and unravels his scarf, tossing it into the backseat, then does the same with his coat. You steal a glance and watch his biceps shift under his pullover. Golden sunlight catches the outline of his Cupid’s bow. Your chest tightens. 

"Wanna get food? We did the backwards thing eating ice cream before dinner," Steve chuckles.

You sit up and lick your lips. Steve digs through the center console for stray cash. His long, long lashes fan over his cheeks. You flex and unflex your fingers.

"Hey, Steve?" 

"Hmm?" 

"What's, uh, what’s it like? Kissing, I mean."

He stops, lifts his head. You swallow. He squints slightly, like he can see every thought in your brain. You shake your head when he’s quiet for too long, nerves nosediving. 

"N-nevermind. Stupid question, forget it."

"It's not stupid," he says gently. "I was just thinking about how to explain it. It's kinda hard to. But you feel… connected? With your mouth. It's warm and a little wet but it shouldn't be that wet or you're probably doing it wrong."

You scrunch your nose. Steve grins. 

"But it's good. Really good. And you can put your hand on their face. Like this."

Steve shifts in his seat so he's facing you. Then his palm slides onto your jaw, thumb resting on your cheek. Your heart knocks against your ribcage. Steve has that half-lidded look again. He draws tiny circles into your cheek. 

"It’s—it’s nice,” you squeak.

"Yeah?" 

You nod. Steve glances at your lips. The leather groans as you squirm. 

"Steve." Your voice is barely a whisper. 

"Uh-huh?" 

Your brain is sludge. The longer you look at him, the hotter you burn. 

"Are–are you going to kiss me?" 

Steve goes very still. His hand doesn't move from your cheek. 

"Not if you don't want me to."

The light makes his cheeks glow, hair framing his face like a halo. Steve's hair always looks so soft. You ache to run your fingers through it. 

"I want you to."

Steve inhales sharply. He leans in, his other hand coming up to gently hold your jaw. 

"Tell me if I do anything you don't like," he says. "Okay?" 

"Okay," you promise, eyes closing instinctively. 

Steve tastes like chocolate ice cream. He kisses you with his whole being. You fumble against him, trying to follow his lead. And Steve—sweet, best friend Steve—is forgiving, patient, hungry. He presses you into the seat. You make a soft noise, grip tight around his bicep. Your arm curls around the back of his neck and you tug him in a little too hard. Steve grunts, catching himself on your hips. 

"S-sorry," you sigh into his mouth, eyes fluttering open. 

He shakes his head lightly and the mistake is forgotten. Steve sweetly squeezes your hip, drags his hand up your ribcage like he needs to be everywhere at once. Then his teeth graze your lower lip. Addictive. The word slips from his tongue to yours.

Steve pulls back first. He seems to know instinctively you both need air. But he doesn't go far, hands clutching your waist. You breathe on his shoulder, clinging like he might disappear if you don’t. And what if he does?

But you know Steve. You know he won't.

“Wow,” is the first thing you hum.

Steve’s laugh is shy. He pushes a lock of hair behind his ear, looks at you through his lashes.

“Did you like it?” he asks.

There’s a million things you can say to that. You settle on:

“I don’t want to kiss anyone else.”

Steve’s grin is blinding. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you confess. “Will you do it again?”

Steve can only oblige.

[hhonghu]

Pretty boys showing off their midriff,,,, currently going feral

Heizou's here too because of his shirt, giving me glimpses of his waist like that

[Thirst]!

feral anon my beloved bc why?? why are they dressing slutty and showing us their waists as of we don't wanna do unspeakable things to them >:(

i can imagine heizou pretending to be coy, wanting to lure you in of what he was wearing. see how he wears a literal shirt with open sides?? don't tell me this is for you to have easy access on him. he'll even tease you too, pulling his shirt a bit to the side so you can catch a glimpse of his nipples, already hard and puffy. you snap. you would come up behind him and put your hands under his arm to the holes of the side of shirt and grab his chest. he would act startled, muttering "what a pervert you are, just grabbing me like that.", "shut up, slut." you growl, signaling to lift his arms. you begin to toy his nubs, pinching and pulling while he moans, a ditzy smile on his lips as he feels sparks of please. he grinds his ass back to your, trying to feel more from you. "quit that, better have not tested my patience or you could've gotten more." heizou whines, wiggling his hips in dismay. "i'll keep playing with these," you pinch hard, making him mewl out your name. "all i want, so deal with it."

for aether, our beloved aether, he teases you with his stomach. especially after defeating an enemy, sweat would be running down his stomach and you would just stare. with his outfit, you can't help it, it just has your mind running. and he knows it. he knows how his exposed stomach riles you up and he likes it. he would push you back against a tree standing up and fumble with your pants, dropping it down and stroking your half-hard cock. "you were staring so much, [name]. what were you looking at?" he giggles, swiping his thumb across your slit. your eyes become hazy as he nudges your tip with his stomach, smearing pre-cum all over. "pervert. wanna cum on my stomach, don't you?" his strokes become faster on your shaft while feeling stimulation from your tip because of his stomach. you feel your legs wobble as your orgasm approaches, thrusting your cock in his hand. "that's right, [name]. cum all over me, cum all over my stomach.."

cyno.. just cyno. have you seen what he wears? hoyo missed the chance to make his nipples visible, he is literally not wearing anything even a shirt!! why can't they do that?? but i digress, because honestly ogle at him all you want, his body is too pretty not look at. so imagine finally camping to rest for the night after exploring the dessert with cyno. you get to rest after a long time of defeating and.. distraction. the entire time you two were fighting enemies, you can't help but sneak a glance of his body. his biceps, his waist, his chest? you were holding on to the last straw of focus you had or you might've just ended up jumping him instead. so while you two were resting, you passively said to let you use him for the night since you barely focused and almost got killed multiple times (pathetic excuse yes but its effective) and surprisingly, he agreed. you didn't waste any time, pushing him down on the sand and straddling his chest while he watches you, curious what you'll do.

you undo your pants and take your cock out, stroking it. "haahh— you don't what you were doing to me out there, cyno. you got to cover up sometime or i might just pounce on you out in the open." what you said made his eyes widen and his face suddenly felt warm. "how vulgar." he mutters as you eying his nipples. you pressed the tip of you cock to one of his hardened nubs, circling it around as you kept stroking your shaft, making you groan. his back arches, eyes watching you intently as your cock plays with his nipples and strokes your cock. he can't look away. you free hand comes up to his other nipple, tugging and pulling while you stroke yourself faster, making sure your tip keeps pushing to his nub and he whines, his hips writhing around. you feel yourself about to cum, getting you to pinch him harder. "[n-name], you're so nghh— filthy.. getting off to me like this. maybe i should keep mmmph— showing myself like this to you.." you give pull on on your cock and groaning as you cum, spilling it all over his nipple and chest. you catch your breath and look at cyno and his mouth was in a frown. he grabs your cock and pulls it, "i was expecting you to cum in my mouth.. so do it again."

hehehehe i had something in mind with cyno and honestly it was probably bc of a twt vid i saw or smth lol . thank you for anon again for the food! <33

[makeyoumine69]

𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐓𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐓𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟│𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍

— 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: 𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐁𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐱 𝐈𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭!𝐅𝐞𝐦!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

—  𝐀/𝐍: I had it in my drafts for too long, many thanks to @sleeplessphantom for inspiration. Hope you like it! 🖤

— [𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓] 🪓

You were so embarrassed and yet so thrilled as you lay on Patrick’s king-sized bed, wearing nothing but the white robe he gave you after you showered, wondering what was going to happen next.

His low, velvety voice echoed across the bedroom, and you immediately began to fidget in the sheets.

"Little one," Patrick called to you, and you got up to see him standing in the doorway. His pinstriped suit, red tie and blue shirt left you no choice but to tremble in sweet anticipation. "Take off your robe."

You gasped but obeyed, revealing your pretty curves that made his already hard cock throb in his pants, but Bateman just ignored it.

"C'mere, doll," he demanded, coming closer and patting the spot on the edge of his bed before sitting on it. "Have you ever touched yourself?"

With a shy smile, you settled down on the place he showed you and answered a little breathlessly: "How?" You were teasing him, but he noticed your playful tone and smiled at you from above.

Slowly, Patrick pushed on your shoulders and induced you to lie on your back and spread your legs wide.

A muffled wail escaped your dry lips as you suddenly found yourself on the edge of your self-control.

"Such an innocent blossom," Bateman mused, tracing his long fingers along your delicate petals. "Does it feel good?"

“Y-Yes, Daddy, mmm…”

He just chortled and repeated the motion again, sweeping his thumb over your lower lips, but avoiding touching your blushing clit.

God, he was definitely testing your limits.

Possessively Patrick took your hand and put it between your legs.

"A-aw!" You moaned as you felt your own fingertips on your sensitive bud.

His coquettish laugh compelled you to shut your eyes in humiliation, but his next words almost made you squeal: "Now show me how you do it."

Dear Lord!

Timidly, you looked up at him from under your lashes and began to brush your fingers across your swollen folds, smearing your slick over them.

"Good girl," his voice lowered, his cheeks now slightly flushed as he watched your fingers play with your tender flesh. "Don't be afraid to rub harder, darling."

"Pat-Patrick!" you tilted your head back as he grabbed your hand again, applying a little more pressure to make the friction against your little tip more palpable. "Ah...mmm...t-this is too much!"

"You are really so innocent and pure, Jesus," he admitted, smirking at the way your face tensed every time he forced you to touch yourself more persistently. "Play with your nipples, honey, it'll help. Like this …"

With that, Bateman pinched one of your taut peaks before twisting it several times, and the way he did it almost pushed you over the edge.

"Ahhh," you continued to toy your feverish tip as he showed you, feeling the orgasm building in your womb faster than you could imagine. "Mmm, please!"

“Please what, dear?”

"Don't s-stop," you nearly begged him, your fingers continuing to work on your burning flesh as you felt vivid tingles cursing through your lower abdomen.“I … a-awww …  I’m so close.”

"All right, since you are behaving so well, I'll help you, but only this time." Patrick crooned in a sweet tone, encircling your other nipple with his digits and starting to roll both of your tips with his skillful fingers.

“Aah-Patrick, so … so close, mnhhm!”

"Keep going, girl," he leaned closer to your ear and added: "Focus on my voice and your sensations.” Bateman mumbled and tongued your earlobe.

You nodded, seeing nothing but fucking sparks on the ceiling above as you seemed to lose control, your fingers now stimulating your throbbing clit in a crazy rhythm.

"Good girl," damn, that was too much. "Such a good little girl, playing with her little bud like Daddy taught her."

“Daddy … Daddy  …mmm-my GOD!” 

You could swear you almost blacked out as you reached your high, only Patrick's raspy voice managed to bring you back to reality as he yelped: "I didn't tell you to stop!"

He painfully pinched both of your nipples and you moaned so wildly that your throat definitely wouldn't appreciate it.

Shaking erratically, you gave him what he wanted as you continued to rub your pulsating nub, even though it was so hard because of how overstimulated you already were.

"That's it, sweetheart," Patrick gently stroked your inflamed cheek before planting a loving kiss on your temple. "You made Daddy so proud."

I don’t have a TagList. You can follow my side blog @makeyoumineagain and turn on notifications to know when I update! 🖤

[silentwhispofhope]

*Limping to your request box* I MISSED YOU AND I WANT TO GIVE YOU AN IDEA FILLED WITH FLUFF!! Is it okay to request?

💞[Skin Writing/Drawing Soulmate AU]✍️ 🖌️ - Reader is an artist and constantly draws many art in their skin because it's just so satisfying! Their soulmate Vash feels appreciated, in love, and beautiful whenever Reader's drawing appear on his skin. Their art just gives him a reason to love his skin despite skin scars 🥺 🖋️ - Reader does calligraphy, and they sometimes quote the bible doing it cause why not? Soulmate Wolfwood just looks with a soft, maybe teasing smile as he sees his soulmate's work. 😎 📜 - Reader is a poet and they randomly have ideas and prompt all throughout the day, so they grab a pen and start writing all the poetry from their head. Soulmate Knives who's intellectual and curious admires whenever his soulmate's writing appear on his skin, he just covers it from others eyes because pest don't deserve to see this beauty. 🌱

YOU CAN PICK TWO OUT OF THE THREE!! IT'S YOUR CHOICE MY FRIEND!!! 😍💝💌

- Sugar Plum Anon 💟

A/N: Just for you Sugar Plum Anon, I’ll do all three <3 I do hope you’re alright though! Please do stay safe! Since I’m doing all three, I hope you’re alright with headcanons instead of normal lil’ one shots. :)

Skin Writing/Drawing Soulmate AU Headcanons

Vash

He was absolutely scared out of his mind when he first saw the ink appear on his skin. He even went as far as to try to scrub his skin raw, and the ink was still fresh as ever. Poor blondie is wondering how the hell something like this is happening.

Meanwhile, you’re doodling like there’s no tomorrow with your ballpoint pen, tracing the outlines of your veins and doodling smiling faces.

Over time, Vash learns to just accept the random appearance and disappearance of drawings across his body. At the end of the day, it’s like a fun little game to see what’s been sketched on him underneath his turtle neck.

It takes a while for Vash to realize that it’s his soulmate doodles appearing on his skin. Warmth floods his heart each time he thinks of this, causing him to lovely trace the marks across his own skin.

He would laugh sometimes at the sudden ink smear appearing on his skin before new sketch marks appeared, your work hypnotizing him. He especially loved when you used different colors, almost painting his skin like a canvas. Eventually, he makes the move to respond.

So imagine your surprise when you find a poorly drawn flower appear on your skin. Ensue the same panic Vash experienced when you remembered you didn’t draw that.

Wolfwood

Scrubbing his skin did nothing. Seeing the scripture on his forearm made him wonder if he had perhaps gotten too drunk the night before and had gotten a tattoo.

The fancy calligraphy was choice, especially with that proverb. For the lips of the adulterous woman drop honey, and her speech is smoother than oil. Wolfwood decided that there could be worse things etched into his skin from that old religion.

You, on the other hand, were giggling to yourself. Oh, the irony of something appearing to beautiful but naughty. A snort escapes from one of your nearby friends.

He didn’t put anymore thought into it until the next day when the ink disappeared. Lowkey, thought he was super dehydrated for him to imagine that, but nope, even after drinking tons of water, the ink was no longer on his skin.

Cue some praying. He nearly has a heart attack when more ink appears on his skin. He has to go back to the orphanage and ask the elders for help on understanding the situation. Turns out it’s a soulmate thing, one which they didn’t even bother to mention until now.

Overtime, he appreciates the calligraphy he appears on his skin, particularly when new motifs appear. Wolfwood liked seeing you test new things and watch as the ink appear on his skin.

However, he was very glad to wear long sleeves when you would write down a particularly dirty proverb like 5:19. He would always end up blushing a bright red like a tomato, a huge contrast to his normal, stoic personality.

Imagine, your surprise when you notice fresh ink on your skin. For your ways are in the full view of the LORD in basic script.

Knives

He almost didn’t see the script appear on his arms, the ink nearly blending into his suit and pale skin. His fingers traced the letters he could make out. Knives immediately knew what this meant, it was his soulmate reaching out- most likely not knowing what was happening.

He tried to ignore it the best he could and kept himself covered with his cloak. Having someone would just drag him down, make it harder to reach his goal of eradicating humanity. However, his curiosity got the best of him.

Taking another look, the bleach blond quickly recognized the letters as chords with their denoted accidentals. Luckily for him, he new how to play. It was child’s play, really.

Meanwhile, your trying to understand how to play different songs only by listening too them. You were too stubborn to look them up, very confident in your ability.

And so it became a pattern for him to decipher your song you had written on his arm. He would spend hours playing the piano, watching the notes on his arm be crossed out and replaced. The composition rarely stayed imprinted on his skin for longer than a day.

Often, Knives would see lyrics being written with the chords. A little artist are we now? His small joke to himself caused a small smile. He would end up humming them, his low voice cutting through the air. It was for the sake of rhythm, he told himself.

Imagine your surprise when you saw a new. mark you knew you hadn’t inscribed into your skin, a word marked out for another.

[wmarximoff]

𝐚𝐛��𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 | 𝐰. 𝐦𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐟𝐟

summary: no one needs to know that the president of the most admired sorority on campus has a crush on you.

warnings (18+): a brief smut, Wanda cussing like a mean girl, R being a little shit, slight corruption if you squint. MINORS DNI.

pairing: sorority!Wanda x dirtbag!reader

word count: 3k

A/N: this is definitely not my best work by far, but I'm testing the tone of sorority!Wanda until I can write her in a way I like, so whoever reads this will be my test subjects lol

masterlist|

༺ᱬ༻

A pale and motley patch of white sunbeams smearing the glass of a nearby window was what captured your attention for a few bits of seconds that, together, would complete more than the whole of a minute. The window opened to the blue sky outside, to the large green trees rooted there near the building in a healthy lawn, with brownish and thick trunks spaced by stripes of daylight that sent a forest air to that specific region of the campus, which used to be well ventilated.

A deep yawn was stifled by a mouth just behind your head, both your elbows raised across the face of the hard plastic table. In the middle of that spring semester, the white-painted walls of the tapering classroom, which inclined down in steps from student seats that sloped toward Professor Harkness's rectangular desk, into a lesser concavity when pitted against the chairs of the students, they looked chubbier and sunnier than usual, which is why you had to wear light clothing with few layers to make it through that class until the end of the term without sweating to the point of dehydration.

“Shit...” was the tiniest curse uttered under your breath.

The friction caused by the tip of your pen across the paper ended up writing an inexact word in your fast informal handwriting, which you, annoyed, tried to cover up with an eager flick of the wrist towards the right. A wide thin line had slipped above the dashed letters in dark blue ink – because you saw yourself viscerally unhappy about your succinct spelling error (since it is written “economy”, and never “econonomy”). Several other students eagerly tapped their fingers on laptop keyboards (clatter of keys pounding across the classroom), but something nostalgic in you preferred to stick with good old paper and ink.

After scribbling such inaccuracy into your handwritten notes, you resumed your transcripts of what was taught by your teacher, trying to record the minimum necessary. You chewed gum with a cinnamon-synthesized flavor, a customary practice. A pen rolled and clattered to the floor, and then someone reached down to pick it up.

Your committed gaze, therefore, migrated from the articulated writings in your notebook to the professor's figure in front of the rest of the room, leaning with her hip against her long and low table, facing a certain handful of vivacious and diligent students. Agatha Harkness kind of reminded you of the Wicked Witch of the West from the Wizard of Oz – maybe it was her long, thin nose, or the exotic mannerism of her hands.

“So, ladies and gentlemen, to fully understand Austen's novels it’s first important to understand the finer points about economics and mid-nineteenth-century class relations that are portrayed in the relationships between characters in several of her works.”

Blustered Miss Harkness with her thick chestnut locks, her cashmere waistcoat looking more violet than usual on this hot sunny day, her arms clasped close to her ribcage, her cream-colored button-up shirt with the sleeves perched up to her elbows.

“It's not just about dating and marriage or strong female characters that this work is about, however that is what some uninformed people out there might assume. Of course, female empowerment is a crucial part of these novels, but it’s actually important for us to recognize the irrefutable fact that Austen has always dealt with social classes in her works, and because of this she is full of important economic themes that can be pointed out by the reader. Does anyone know what I'm talking about, people? Somebody? Anybody?”

You kind of chortled to yourself, reaching into your chair for a more comfortable position than had ever been found. You could well respond to such an inquiry, so much so that you could presage the formulation of the words that climbed your throat and lodged at the tip of your tongue, prepared to be pronounced in front of the rest of the class. But you just knew there was someone else who would be frothing to answer that question.

The right hand raised in the air, greedy for the intellectual realms of the demanded explanation, had not been yours at all. And silently, just an unimportant listener, you waited for the well-known answer to come, never exposing yourself any further than was necessary like a withdrawn, flowing animal of self-preservation and self-doubt, a silly little smile forming the outline of your lips.

“Yes, Miss Maximoff ?” Agatha pointed with her chin at a few tables behind yours, two steps up from where you were. Her neck craned back, and air seized her lungs in anticipation.

Wanda Maximoff, self-absorbed and with a shrewd, focused countenance, could be found just a tiny amount of meters uphill from where you were located. She was liked, adored and revered, a name passed around campus with airs of admiration, high in the social hierarchy of sororities and fraternities around the university. She had kind green eyes, but the kind of kindness that shouldn't be confused with naivete, something Wanda didn't have at all.

She was a president, the most prudent of them all, appealing even to the eyes of the university who were excluding or not adept at the Greek way of life, known for leading the chapter where some of the girls who turned heads around resided. She was a necessity, a public figure among other young people her age. And, in front of her, you smiled small. She was the most beautiful girl you would ever meet in your life.

Among your many other classmates scattered throughout the classroom, she was the only one wearing high black stockings under a pleated skirt checked in a gray fabric, highlighting the soft skin of her legs so strictly stunning and painstaking.

The long, dark locks were thus partially held back from covering her stunning face, tucked behind the shells of her ears. Fingers with polished black enamel nails, pale extensions adorned with silver rings of the most variegated shapes and sizes, parked the digits over a keyboard of a small portable computer placed right in front of her.

Her wardrobe always looked like a venustic mix of Cher Horowitz clothes and Nancy Downs accessories, choosing to constantly alternate between the two extremes of preppy and dark, usually finding herself somewhere in the middle of the two.

“Most of Austen's characters can be classified as belonging to the middle class of society, and she has never had a problem portraying the inequality between them and members of other social classes, both lower and higher,” irises jadish seethed in a well-educated glow, since it came as no surprise to anyone just how enthusiast of Jane Austen literature Wanda Maximoff could be.

“In fact, Austen's novels portray various socio-economic factors in 19th century Britain, specifically in matters of wealth and poverty and the values of coins at the time, as well as how much capital these people could have even at that time. It was never just about love and marriage.”

Wanda finished off in superb mastery by flashing an exultant little smile, scrunching a patch of skin from her nose like a fluffy little bunny, exuding airs of quite self-satisfaction. When her emerald gaze engaged yours across that sea of heads, you offered her a funny wink with your right eye, to which Wanda only chuckled and shook her head provocatively.

“You are absolutely correct, Miss Maximoff,” Professor Harkness greeted the student proudly from the front of the students as she stood, “I couldn't have said it myself in better words than that.”

You just rolled your eyes in their sockets playfully, resting your chin in the palm of your right hand whose elbow was supplanted by the face of the table. Someday Agatha would still end up adopting Wanda if she could.

ᗢ

“Oh fuck , Y/n!” The lascivious voice growled, reverberating, like a breath of apex, through the walls of the second-floor women's restroom of the university's Languages and Literature building.

“Just like that baby, oh–!” Wanda trapped her bottom lip with her own incisors, confining a moan to the deepest core of her being, her two inner thighs constricting her ears almost deafeningly.

Even that same morning after the classroom, with the emptiness there, a faucet dripping, only the linoleum floor could hear the hums uttered by a breathless Wanda, with her mouth tightened and her face burning in red embers like a peach in her sharp cheekbones, feeling just as satisfied as you prolonged her peak smearing your entire face in erratic movements of her taut hips.

You rubbed her swollen clit against your upper lip, that little knot of nerves squirming blindly in search of prolonging that sensation of pleasure that seeped into her bones, the plaid skirt sharply bunched below her navel. The two of you were squeezed into a bathroom stall, you on your knees and she sprawled all over the sides of that tight little space.

“Fuck,” Wanda gasped in a blink of slow eyelids, very sparingly holding your head against her pussy with the open palm of her right hand, “Fuck, baby…”

Ring-wrapped fingers found themselves fondling between the roots of your hair, the other girl's head hunched back, her lip gloss smudged. When you, as serene as you could be in the face of the beautiful sight of her orgasm, sank your teeth into a light open bite on her inner thigh just to make fun of her, Wanda moaned sensitively and increased her grip of deferred fingers against the roots of your hair.

“N-no,” she squealed in a breathless fashion, her brow creased like someone in pain, “No more, please, I can't take any more.”

“Okay, fine,” you smiled before gracing the bite mark with a slightly swashbuckling chaste kiss, a silent apology so close to her abused cunt dripping in a hangover of pleasure, “I want you to walk out of here with your own legs.”

You, kneeling down to her level, turned your face away from the gap between Wanda's opalescent crotch, still pulsing on your tongue the vigorous taste of the juice coming from her pulsing vagina – the skin down your chin and around your mouth completely burnished in a brilliant radiance from the president's overwhelming orgasm just above your head, chest heavy into her thin fabric blouse, uneven breathing and vaguely wobbly knees.

You scrambled to your feet, stretching your knees inside your baggy jeans, not much to say after accomplishing your mission but offering the sorority girl a smug crooked smile, bringing your knuckles up to sweep away the wetness out of your face. Wanda looked even prettier being panting and flushed after you wrung an orgasm out of her guts.

“My God, pretty girl,” you bit back a smile at the commission of your glossy lips by her cum in a brief tone of astonishment, “You really made a whole mess of my face, huh–”

“Shut your pretty fucking mouth, you're pissing me off.”

Before you could even entertain the idea of cleaning yourself with soap and water, however, a hand pressed the skin on the back of your neck and, in a reckless way, pulled you into a rough kiss, Wanda going forward toward your face sipping from her own orgasm built up by your mouth. And then, a tongue emerged between the pulps of her lips, dragging itself through the commission of your mouth, so much more ecstatic after an extravagant orgasm.

As you parted when oxygen was needed in your burning lungs, you blinked slightly foolishly, so that both your noses were almost touching in midair as Wanda smiled voluptuously at your lethargic blinks, her upper lip pressing lightly on her rosy, somewhat puffy lower lip.

The dark gazes screwed into an invisible line, the verdant darkness taking pleasure in your goofy silence, amused by your silliness. Wanda smiled catlike, the soft fingers of digits stroking the skin from the nape of your neck just below your hairline.

“Well,” you lisped somewhat not knowing what to say under your breath, “Maybe you don't need to walk out of here on your own two legs exactly…”

And your mischievous right hand threatened to touch her again, making your way to the center of her thighs, but as overstimulated as she was, she was firm in preventing you from squeezing her one more time before your fingers crossed the hem of her skirt.

“Don't you even dare to start,” the girl finally walked away, barely managing to unfold the skirt from her upper thighs and smooth the creased fabric with her fingertips before pushing the laminate door out, her lacy panties vaguely forgotten inside the back pocket of your jeans.

“I need to study for a test because you know, unlike you I really care about my grades. We value our good academic performance at Omega Mu Zeta and I am their president, so I–”

“You need to set a good example, yeah, I know.”

Wanda, however, just threw you a glare over her shoulder, as flippant as could be, “You're annoying.”

You rolled your eyes out of their sockets dazedly before following Wanda's sweetly woody scent out of the bathroom stall. That girl was your personal glory, but she would be your undoing at some point in the near future.

“C’mon pretty girl, my grades are pretty good, if you really wanna know,” you propped your hips low beside the pale china sink she was standing in front of, taking in your own appearance reflected in that rectangular mirror on the wall.

“Not being a teacher's pet doesn't necessarily mean I'm a bad student, y’know? That's a very bad impression you have of me, it's almost even offensive.”

“Fuck you,” she stared at her own reflection in the mirror, fixing, with the tips of her fingernails painted in dark nail polish, the cherry gloss on her lips, “I'm not a teacher's pet, I just work hard in understanding the subject. Unlike you.”

You smiled, scrutinizing the sight of the emerald-eyed girl reflected in the mirror – and how beautiful she was, Wanda Maximoff with her cherry lip gloss.

“I certainly have not the talent which some people possess, of converting easily with those I have never seen before,” you recited aloud, your gaze never letting go of hers which, by the reflection in the mirror, turned all emerald attention to her figure with arms crossed before her chest.

“I cannot catch their tone of the conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done.”

Wanda then turned her face towards him, and one dark brow creased mockingly towards the middle of her forehead. The makeup was very little, accentuating her natural beauty by her cheekbones and jawline curved around the edges, and the dark eyeliner was always sharp, done with exquisite mastery over the almond-shaped eyelids.

“Did you just recite a line from Pride and Prejudice to me just to prove you know what you're talking about?” she smiled a little at your boldness.

“Maybe,” you shrugged smugly.

“That doesn't prove shit.”

“Proves that I’ve read the book,” you offered her a mocking brow lift.

“How old are you, you idiot, five?”

“Six actually,” you kind of chuckled in return, “But then, did it work? Did I impress you?”

Wanda looked at you for a studious half second, scrutinizing your figure with smart green eyes shimmering the color of summer grass.

“I hate you, you little shit.”

With intensity similar to the magnetic pull of a magnet, Wanda stepped forward with her white boot and took your face from the sides with both hands, merging your lips in a rhythmic kiss in harmonic cadence, which quickly made you whimper in dizzying contentment sharpened through your veins. Lovingly, you allowed yourself a smile at the corner of her pink lips, your heart pounding in the right side of your chest as her forearms laced tightly around the outline of your neck.

The kiss deepened into a need, their tongues twining until they were both panting softly, wet foreheads touching each other. You smiled mischievously against the commission of Wanda's swollen lips.

“My room on Friday after school?” you breathed in front of her face, “Darcy is going out with someone, so... I'll have the room all to myself.”

“Y/n,” Wanda whistled your name, her frown creasing slightly at your not-so-innocent suggestion, “I really have to study for that test, you know Mr. Pym is a real dictator in his classes–”

“And who says we are going to do anything other than study?” you smiled complacently, “Geez, Wanda, that perverted mind of yours goes everywhere, doesn't it? And here I thought you were a good girl, who knew you had that in you?”

“Stupid,” she twirled with her eyes comical, bent wrists resting above your shoulders, “Seriously, I need to keep my grades up—”

But the phrase died in her throat when voices could be heard in loud laughter pouring through the bathroom's main entrance, away from the secluded area of prying eyes where you belonged together. And at that notion something shriveled and deflated inside your chest. You actually looked forward as little as you could to those moments out of situations where you could rob her of the rest of the outside world, because that meant the fantasy was coming to an end.

Wanda was the respected president of Omega Mu Zeta, she was a social figure, she was anything she could be, except being yours. She was nobody's, indeed, but that also said she wasn't yours. But when she threatened to draw her body heat away from your torso, you kept your solemn grip firm on her hips through the fabric of her gray skirt, pinning her in place.

“Y/n,” she tried, hands squeezing your shoulders, a warning that reality was piercing sharply into that little bubble that encompassed you and her.

"Friday night? C'mon pretty girl, please? We'll just study, I promise. Girl Scout word.”

A brief shadow of conflict seemed to glide through the swirls of emerald irises, deepening that clear hue of her eyes, before Wanda tipped her chin back over her left shoulder covered by a blazer with a matching print and skirt, searching for an onlooker who wasn't there, only then to turn to your face and, in such a way, sigh a lame sigh before your expectant gaze. You always brought down all the resistance she seemed to want to lift.

“Okay,” Wanda relented, her shoulders slumping into the plaid blazer, “Okay, Friday after school. But as long as it's for us to actually study, you hear me? And I mean it.”

“Sure,” you muttered in jovial good humor, “We'll study, trust me.”

“Seriously, Y/n, no jokes,” a pair of glossy velvety lips pressed against the contour of your jawbone, right next to your pierced earlobe, “Or you're going to regret this,” Wanda it whispered on a warm breath, before there it plunged a painful bite into your epidermis.

A tiny squeak of pain piped out of your throat, shrugging your shoulder closer to your jaw and away from the other girl's half-open mouth, “Ouch Wanda, what the hell, what did you do that for?!”

“For you to remember to behave yourself,” she smiled with a darkly mischievous gleam, “Now I really have to go, baby. I text you on Friday.”

And then Wanda walked away, and with her went the enticing aroma of woody perfume mixed with strawberry dry shampoo, a fragrance that couldn't be described in any other way than just scarlet, closed, imposing and absolutely sexy in the right dosage. But the next person who squealed in pain was the president herself, whereupon you playfully raised your right forearm to deliver a slap of stiff, splayed fingers against the smooth skin of her panty-less ass beneath her pleated skirt, rocking the fabric of the short garment.

When Wanda tipped her chin back to curse you under her breath “Asshole,” the tops of both her cheeks gleaming in a caustic blush, you just grinned mischievously with your tongue sticking out between your teeth. And so, you knew that on that Friday, she would pay a visit to your room. After all, you didn't need more than that.

[zialltops]

honeysuckle’s & huckleberry’s

Cowboy!Joel (41) X F!Reader (25) | 27.7k | wip | explicit | 18+ minors dni | enemies to lovers | slow burn | au: no cordyceps outbreak

After four years away at collage, you’re finally home with the tools and knowledge to save your family ranch. That is, if their ranch hand would stay out of your way.

Or: Ranch hand Joel doesn’t know how to handle the return of his bosses prodigy daughter, her snarky little attitude, or her sinfully tight jeans.

a/n: howdy ya’ll! This chapter took me a HOT minute to finish because i’ve been severely sick (if you’ve been on this ride with me since esos you know i struggle with my health) but it’s finally here! I cant thank everyone enough for reading and as much as I wish i could hear from you guys more often, i’m just going to keep writing along and hope someone likes it! The smallest interactions bring me so much joy.

Masterlink

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Chapter 5: On My Way To You

He’s never been more humiliated in his entire fucking life. Never—not ever, has he ever felt this embarrassed about someone seeing him naked. He’s been shot down mid alleyway make-out when she’d pressed too close and felt it. He’s been left in a hotel room when he had a woman naked under him and he finally pulled his pants down. Hell—he’s been told it hurts, asked to stop—asked to leave. But never has it made his heart pound and his cheeks stain red, never made him wheeze from anxiety and dread.

He didn’t mean for it to happen—he’s been doing his best to avoid you, give you the space you want, but you’ve been nicer lately and it makes him want to get closer, test those waters and get to know you, but the second he lets himself start to give in, his body goes full force and he has to get away. Today was a hard day for him because he’d been up late the night before trying to rewire a break in the fence that let out three heifers and the little calf you’d saved on Christmas.

He’d crashed hard last night and woke up too late to work himself over before starting his day—it usually helps him keep his cool, but today he spent two hours hours in the saddle of one of Hank’s horses, moving the heifers getting ready to calf to a smaller pasture, the older steer that were about to be sold off from last years calves to a quarantine pen. It was mindless and easy and Joel spent the whole time thinking about you and your pretty eyes and the way you still wear that necklace every day, like you haven’t even thought to take it off.

By the time he stops by the house for something to drink, he’s already spent half his morning picturing you in every position possible—real like he’s never had it before. He’s smack dab in the middle of one of his favorite fantasies, one where you’re going down on him, fully aware of what’s under his belt buckle and wranglers. You’d be so sweet to him, make him feel desirable without feeling like a chore. You’d kiss the length of him over his denim, drag his pants down his thighs and you wouldn’t gasp in shock. You’d want him—your mouth would water for him and you’d give him those pouty lips and bright eyes when you finally run your tongue from base to tip—it would be perfect—

“Morning Joel.”

He’s so caught up in his vision of you in his head he’s completely unprepared for this version, with berries smeared on the corner of your mouth, like the jam is just too sweet for you to leave untasted—you’re swimming in a sweater too big for you and christ he hates when you wear legging, hugging every curve of your body, filling in the shape of your body like a shadow. He does his best to form a sentence, keep himself from staring at the necklace chain he can see poking out of your collar. you’re wearing it, you’re wearing it, you’re wearing it.

When you lick the spoon clean, his stomach hits the floor and his head spin’s suddenly from loss of blood as everything warm and tingly in his body travels south. He knows he has to get out of there, doesn’t have time to stand here for another second if he wants to keep what's going on in his pants to himself.

He’ll kick himself later for not giving you an excuse to run off, but he doesn’t have a choice in the matter right now. He practically runs for the barn, the small bathroom inside is a well learned friend, where he can rub one out fast and get it out of his hungry system. His body is famished, starved for your skin and he isn’t sure how much more of this he can take.

He gets his pants down as fast as he can, spits in his hand and starts quick. God, the way you’d looked at him when he walked in there, like you were happy to see him for once, glad to share his company—if only he wasn’t such a complete piece of shit who can't take a kind gesture for just that.

He sees your smile and he wants to dig his hands into the meat of your ass and hoist you up. Wants to hold you down and take you apart with his mouth. Your eyes meet his and he wants to watch them roll back when you take all of him, like no one ever has, ever will but he can let himself imagine it in this tiny bathroom that smells like livestock and dirt. He can imagine the way you’d want it, want him. The way you’d tell him how good he felt, how good he made you feel despite what he’s always been told about himself.

Just a few more—a couple more tugs and he’s almost there, so fucking close to the thought of your body and his, and…and…

The next thing he knows your eyes are on him, then tick down to his hand wrapped around himself like the pathetic man he knows he is. He’ll never forget the way you looked at him, the way you told him how traumatized you were to see him like that, he’s sure it would have hurt less if you’d stabbed him in the heart with a dull knife.

He fucking runs back to the cabin and get’s himself under a cold shower, trying to keep his hair from getting wet so you don’t know while his body takes a shock to its system, flushing out the desire and replacing it for his shame. When he’s red and shaking from the cold, he re-dresses and heads back towards the house. The longer he hides, the more likely you are to piece together the odd string of occurrences surrounding his disappearances. The longer he waits, the more guilty he looks, so he forces himself up the stairs, trying his best to catch his breath outside of the door until he finally has the gull to knock. He knows you’re in there, he can faintly hear something, soft little sounds that he can't quite make out, so he calls your name when the small rasps don’t catch your attention.

He nearly leaves when the door finally comes open, and…fuck if you aren’t a sight for his painfully sore eyes. You’re red all over, stunning, breathing hard with wide eyes like you’ve been caught at something. Maybe you have, he can imagine, maybe you were touching yourself—thinking about him. It's a futile dream, but he lets himself have it anyways.

No matter how much he runs, how much he tries his hardest to stay away, everything you do ropes him in and hog ties him up, unable and unwilling to be moved until you’ve decided what to do with him now that everything he is, is yours.

It’s shame that keeps him from embarrassing himself again once he drives into town, because the way you press against him in the truck makes his skin boil. He doesn’t deserve to have you beside him after what you’d been forced to witness, but that doesn’t stop him. He wants to slip his hand along your thigh, wishes Tommy wasn’t sitting beside you and he could stuff his hand down the front of your leggings and show you a thing or two—he knows he’s good with his hands—his mouth, he has to be if he wants to get a woman off. He wants to show you exactly what he could do for you, to you, but he keeps his mouth closed and taps his fingers against the steering wheel the whole way. It’s infuriating, how much you get along with Tommy now, who’s been nothing but crude to you, making passes at you left and right and god help him, you let him. He wants you to talk to him like that too, he wants to make you laugh, make you giggle and blush prettily.

But he just loads the truck. Watches when you and Tommy snicker over a bottle of whiskey he knows he can't touch because last time he made a fool of himself. He tries not to intrude on your space, tries not to bother you and Tommy around the fire later after he’s done unloading the truck alone. Not even Tommy helps him around here anymore, too far up your ass that he’s damn near useless.

He watches from the window like a fucking creep, trying not to work himself up over the way you smile at his brother, the way you throw your head back laughing at something stupid he probably said. He wants that to be him, sitting beside you with whiskey making him bold, faking it for him since he doesn’t have the ability to just talk to you. He’s sure he’d tell you everything, how beautiful he thinks you are, how much smarter than him you are. He’d probably tell you how many times he’s thought about you with his hands wrapped around himself, in the dark of his room with your name on his lips.

He doesn’t do any of that, instead he watches you from the window and lets his heart ache and pound until he sees the way Tommy lingers closer, touches your leg absently and you let him. He has to put a stop to this, so he tracks out into the cold and tries to put his foot down. Maybe Tommy will go to bed, you’ll let him walk you home and it will be so cold that you’ll ask him to stay again. But before he has a second to beg you otherwise, you’re kissing his brother.

You’re kissing his brother instead of him and he can't watch for another second, so he hightails it inside and slams his bedroom door behind himself. He can usually hear right through Tommy’s wall, but he holds his hands over his ears and tries his hardest to keep the sound of his ragged breaths from making it through the walls. At some point, he falls asleep, wishing you were laying right beside him, sprawled out, satisfied and spent with the shape of his teeth on your shoulder.

When he wakes in the morning, it’s not even close to sun up yet. He has a long day ahead of him, has to ride up to the north pasture, acres upon acres of beautiful pine covered land, but Joel has to ensure that the streams aren’t frozen over if he wants to move the heifers and their calves there soon. He gets dressed with a ache in his bones that he knows didn’t come from his age, his stomach is in knots because he knows what's been done, he knows he can’t change it—that he might not ever stand a chance with you now that you’ve been with him. Women always preferred Tommy over him, all the same cowboy charm with a bit more confidence.

He slips on his boots and places his hat on his head before lingering in the hallway for a long moment. He stares at Tommys door and imagines you sleeping on the other side of it. Did you like it? Do you like him?

He turns and starts down the hallways when the door comes open with a slow creak. He turns back around in the dark light of the hallway and, there you are wearing one of Tommy’s shirts and nothing else, your hair is mused and you have this look on your face, one that reeds shame and worry and for what Joel just can't quite put his finger on. You don’t say anything for a long time, just Joel and you and the fading darkness outside, your eyes tracking over him with a shiny hue to them.

“Where are you going?” Where is he going is the first thing you have to say to him? Like he climbed out of your bed and snuck off. “I uhm…I have a long ride up to the north field, thought I would get a early start on it.” He clears his throat and glances down at his boots, then back up at you. “Though I should give ya’ll some space, no one wants their brother listenin’ in.”

He starts to turn away again because he can’t look at you for another second when he knows you have his saliva on your skin and the shapes of his hands on your body.

“Can I come with you?” Go with him? You want to go with him when there’s a warm body waiting for you in a warm bed, where you can hide from the cold world, the impending darkness and a man like him. “You want to go? Why?” You close the bedroom door behind you like you don't want to wake Tommy and it makes Joel’s heart pound out of his chest for reasons it shouldn’t. “I don't know, it’s cold out there, you’re uhm…you’re naked.”

He tries, really tries to keep his eyes off your bare thighs, the shirt hanging off your frame and your sock-less feet on the hardwood. “I’m not naked, I have underwear on,” you lift one side of the shirt like you have to prove it to him and his eyes track to the black lace hugging your hips. Saliva builds in his mouth and he clears his throat, needing to turn away from you again. “If you want to come you should probably put some clothes on, I’ll meet you in the stable.” He starts to gather up his things, a light and his phone, trying to make himself busy so he can get away. “Well, will you wait for me—I don’t want to walk alone.” And Joel doesn’t want to do this right now, walk with you for a half mile back to the stables, sit beside you, wondering if it aches sitting in the saddle because his brother fucked you.

But he waits anyway, fiddles with the brim of his hat while he sits on the couch in silence as he waits for you to get dressed. You come out in your clothes from the night before, bundled up in a big jacket with your hair tied back. He tells himself not to think about it and heads towards the door. The walk to the stables is nearly silent, but the pounding in his ears drowns out the awkwardness in the interaction. How can he stop thinking about it? How you slept with him but dragged yourself out of bed to follow Joel into the cold? How you would trade a warm body for Joel’s cold shoulder?

“Need help with your saddle?” His voice feels raw from not using it, his hands aching from the cold while he cinches up the girth strap. This time next year, hell be saddling up Cersi to take this trip, he cant wait, but for now he’ll ride Hanks sturdy horse through the mud and snow. “I’ve got it, thank you.” There's no snap in your tone like he expects there to be and you work with him in unison, getting your mounts ready while the sun starts to climb into the atmosphere. By the time he gets out of the barn, you’re smiling at him. Smiling from your spot in the saddle with the reigns in your hands like you’re made for that.

“You ready to get a move on, cowboy?” His chest tightens at the way you gaze at him, wondering if you’d given Tommy that same look the night before. He wants to pretend it was all for him, pretend that you’re looking at him like that because you see something you haven’t before.

“You ready, cowgirl? When's the last time you were in a saddle?” He tries his damndest to keep his tone light as he hooks a foot in the stirrup and hoists himself up. “Been a couple years, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget how to ride.”

Did you practice last night? He shakes his head and wills away the image. He doesn’t think he'll be able to stop thinking about it for the rest of the ride, he can’t get the image of your mouth on his out of his head no matter how much he tries. It’s always fucking Tommy. He’s always been the favored brother, no matter how much of a fuck up he is. He’s always been the one to get the girl, the popular one in school, hell even his wife—

“You okay in there cowboy?”

Your voice comes like a shock to his system, snapping him out of another unpleasant memory. “Huh?” He looks around until he lays eyes on you, riding beside him with your hands resting on the horn of the saddle. “I was asking if you’re okay…you’ve been really quiet for the past half hour.” Half an hour? It's been a half hour since he started this ride? “Yeah, no, sorry. I have a lot on my mind, is all.” You pick up the pace beside him a little, till your horses are walking alongside each-other on the path. “Anything you want to talk about?”

He sits on the words for a second. He doesn’t want to talk about it, not particularly—but its you and your asking him and fuck, he wants you to get to know him. Maybe if you knew who he was, maybe if he had a chance to explain why he’s like this you might change your mind.

“I was thinkin’ ‘bout my ex-wife.” He keeps his eyes ahead of him, because he doesn’t want to see the look on your face when you hear that, that he had a whole other life away from this place. “My mom told me you had an ex-wife. She didn’t tell me what happened.”

You knew? He’d told Hank and Louise a lot about his life, he had to if he wanted them to trust him. He wasn’t a bad man, just a burdened one. “We uh…we had a rocky marriage. Got together young, right out of high school. I was learning to work a cattle ranch and I thought I would be able to give her a good life but—she wanted more, I suppose. Started steppin’ out on me. She got pregnant by another man, but I still didn’t leave. Helped raise that little girl like she was my own.”

He thinks about Sarah and her curly hair that definitely didn’t come from him or her mom, her sweet smile, her first day of school—all the things he missed.

“What made you finally leave?” Your voice is so quiet beside him. He looks over at you under the brim of his hat and sighs. “She slept with Tommy. Came home from picking up Sarah from school and I…caught ‘em together in bed. Tommy said he did it because he wanted to prove to me that she wasn’t any good for me but, I don’t know, I’ve never been very good and stayin’ angry at him.”

Your eyes look far away in that moment, like you’re clouded in some kind of guilt, maybe because you’d slept with Tommy, too. “I’m sorry that happened to you, Joel.” He clicks his tongue and shakes his head absently. “Ain’t no thing. I’m used to it by now, he’s always had a way with ‘em that I never had.”

He has, Joel can't even recall every encounter he’s had with a woman that ended with them leaving with his brother. Hell, it had been five years since the last time he’d (kind of) had sex, no thanks to his cockblocker of a brother. The first time in years since he’s felt more than just attraction to a woman and Tommy takes that from him too.

“We should get a move on, we don’t have all day and I have a lot to do when I get back.”

He digs his heal in and the horse picks up speed and to his surprise, you keep gate with him along the trail.

When he gets to the gate of the north pasture, his ass hurts from being in the saddle and his face feels wind chapped, but you don’t complain about a lick of it, like you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world right now. “Joel?” He’s closing the gate behind you when you call his name. It makes him look up from the latch. “Yeah?” He gets it in place and mounts his horse again, adjusting his hat on his head. “I’m really sorry, about how I treated you when I first came home.”

Fuck do you have to do this right now? Out here, where he has nowhere to run off to? “You're not the one who needs to be sorry. I never should have done half the things I did to you. I didn’t even know you and I assumed the worst of you. Should’ve never done any of that to you.” He never should have left you in the cold, never should have treated you any differently than anyone else because he thought you came from somewhere that didn’t like folks like him when he really likes girls like you. So smart and put together, so capable and confident.

“We got off on a bad foot, I suppose…do you think maybe we could…start over?”

You want to start over? With him? give him a second shot to not fuck this up again? Or maybe you don’t mean it like that, like he desperately wants it to mean, even if you fucked his brother last night, he doesn’t care, he’d take his sloppy seconds any day because it’s you.

“I’d really like that.” There's a sweet kind of shimmer in your eyes when you smile at him, rosey cheeks and a crinkle by your kind eyes. His sight ticks down to your chest, where he can see the necklace he’d given you sticking out of the top. You’re still wearing it, had you worn it last night? When he laid you down on his cold sheets while Joel wished desperately it was his?

Despite the pang in his chest, the rest of the ride is easy and light, you talk about nothing and absolutely everything, your favorite color, your favorite time of the year, Joel tells you how much he loves the spring and you excitedly agree, going on and on about watching the world come back to life.

You tell him about college, how out of place you felt surrounded by people who were so different from you. How nervous you were for the first year, but you’d made a best friend out of your room mate Mel, and you finally got the hang of it in your second year.

He tells you about drifting from place to place because Tommy usually stirs up some trouble and runs them out of town. He tells you about all the times he’s had to save his ass to your parents and how much he’s tried to hang on to the one good place he’s had in so long. He could talk to you for hours, all day if you’d let him, and you do. You hold his conversations like you’re a pair of old friends, catching up after years spent apart.

He’s so lost in you that he doesn’t even realize you’re back home until the house comes into view. He’s spent so much time immersing himself in talking to you that he’s completely lost track of where he is, letting the miles blow past him. It’s mid day and he still has a lot to do and he can tell you’re starting to get sore in the saddle. “I’ll get them cooled down, you should probably get some rest. You couldn’t of gotten much sleep last night.” He swings his leg over and climbs off the horse before taking yours by the halter so you can do the same. “Thank you for today…it’s been a while since I’ve had a good reason to ride.” You give him one of those smiles again and it takes everything in him not to lean in and kiss you because of it. He’s wanted to kiss you all damn day, slide his fingers into the hair at the base of your skull and hold on tight, slot his lips over yours and breathe you in deep until he can’t let you go again.

He doesn’t and you head off towards the house while he looks on. He watches till you make it inside and then some before getting back to his chores.

Work consumes the entirety of his day, until the sun sets and it starts to get dark and chilly when he’s finally got the animals fed and the equipment locked up. He knows Tommy is back at the cabin because he dropped off a plate of dinner to Joel in the stable on his way home. He’s about to start the walk back to the cabin himself when he hears the creak of the screen door on the house just across the yard. He closes the barn door behind himself and follows the sounds. You’re standing on the porch in a pair of sleep shorts and slippers, a tee-shirt that's too big and a nervous look on your face. You don't say anything, but Joel’s feet carry him to the steps, then up them one at a time, carefully and painfully slow, like he might spook you away if he moves too quickly. The wind is absolutely howling right now, whipping your hair around and cinching your shirt tight against your frame.

He hits the landing and takes a few more steps forward, until he’s a foot away from your shaking form, your big pretty eyes that are searching every corner of his. He should say something, he should say how much he enjoyed today, how much he wants to do it again and again and again.

“I didn’t have sex with him.”

It’s not what he expected you to say standing out here in this unforgiving cold, but its the best damn thing he’s heard you say all day. It feels like an endless weight coming off his shoulders and he lets out a loud gush of air he didn’t know he was holding. “What?” You puff your chest out a little, like you’re trying to get a point across to him. “I didn't have sex with Tommy last night.” You say it so matter of factly.

“Why didn’t you?” He reaches up and pushes his hat up a little, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His heart is pounding, his limbs shaking at the admission. “You know why.”

All at once, his pounding heart comes to a staggering stop, standing there on the porch looking down at you while he tries to keep himself upright. He doesn’t know why but the way you're looking at him now tells him there's something else here besides anger and hatred and shared distaste. You didn’t sleep with Tommy, because on the other side of that wall you were wanting him just as desperately as he wanted you.

“It’s cold out here…do you want to sleep on the couch tonight?”

Joel’s bottom lip quivers so much he has to suck it into his mouth to make it stop, bite down on it to put it at ease. “Yeah, I…I’d like that.”

A warm little hand finds his, tentative fingers intertwined with his while you lead him inside of the house. You don’t take him upstairs, Joel doesn’t expect you to. You lead him to the couch and he sits down, kicking off his boots when you reach up for his hat. You set it on the arm rest beside him and grab a blanket off the back of the couch when he lays himself back on the pillow.

His body aches, his eyes feel heavy, but he doesn’t dare close them when he’s got an angel standing right before his eyes. “Goodnight, Cowboy.” You hum sweetly, lean down and press your lips against the apple of his cheek, more delicate than he’s ever been touched before in his entire fucking life.

When you pull away, those same cheeks are painted pink and he does his best not to grin too stupidly. “Goodnight, Cowgirl.”

You take the stairs up to your room but Joel rides the elevator to heaven from his spot on the living room couch.

[wroteclassicaly]

Just thinking about you being such a brat towards Eddie all day and especially at Hellfire.

Warnings: Dom/sub, kind of intense. NSFW.

When he gets you back home to his trailer, you think he’s going to punish you and (as he calls it), that ‘pathetic little thing between your thighs’

He doesn’t. What he pulls from a small lock box he sometimes has you wear the key to during the day, because of moments that you’ve had your tantrums and you know he’s going to make sure you remember what it costs every single time—makes the shivers electrify your spinal cord, contorting your body into a gravitational bend. Fuck, you’re his puppet, after all. A whimper caresses your lips as you bite in your lower, leaving a crimson smear behind. In Eddie’s ringed hand is the large silicone cock. At your displeasure, despite approval, he tuts.

“You don’t deserve my cock tonight, sweetheart. Or shall I say,” he knees his way into a crawl across the mattress, one set of thick digits still wrapped around the faux shaft as he continues. “you. fucking. brat.?” His hot, nicotine stained breath pushes across your mouth, his spare hand reaching to caress your face, thumb pad tracing away remains of blood on your shredded lip.

“M’ sorry, Sir. Didn’t mean to be so bad.”

Eddie full on cackles, wiping the head of the dildo across your mouth. You don’t dare nip against his instruction. “Bad? Oh, princess. You were downright fucking disgusting to me during a very important campaign. And you knew exactly what you were doing, didn’t you?”

You nod, no point in denying what he already knows. You’re a soaked mess and you’re desperate for whatever he’s going to give you. A few little sounds topple free and he shakes his shaggy mane. “Am I gonna have to turn the stereo up so the neighbors don’t call the cops for your screaming again? Cover that sinful mouth or stuff it full?”

You don’t answer and he taps your jaw with a slight smack, enough to test the waters. His brows raise, doe eyes shining with concern, checking in. You nod, kneeling for him on the bed without being asked. His cue is phoned and he lays a biting smack across your jaw, your glazed over pupils drinking in his sweetheart as it hangs on the mirror. You’re transported to the nostalgia of that night when he had you bent over his dresser, using his belt on your ass with heavy handed swings, Judas Priest’s Beyond the Realm of Death blaring through his speakers and vibrating things that littered his dresser and nightstand.

And you saw that fucking guitar he drove you crazy with, right in front of you, like you’re seeing it now. “Touch her, baby. Touch my sweetheart when I make you fucking cum.”

Eddie smirks as he notices you looking at the guitar, your body beautiful and made for him, just like the instrument. Both of you he could make cry for him, pour out different melodies by the touch of his fingers in all the right places. He’s tapping your hips to help you remove your underwear, the creamy essence sticking against the saturated crotch, to you, webbing a stringed shine. Eddie’s chocolate eyes are gone, blown to hell by pupils darker than the gates of hell itself. Your chest is heaving beneath winded breaths, swaying into his inked flesh like puzzle pieces, magnets finding one another once more.

“You’re so fucking wet, princess. Sloppy little cunt, just made for taking whatever I fill her with. Whatever I desire to put inside, isn’t that right?” He wraps his hand around your neck’s nape and dips into a rough tug.

“Fuck yeah, Sir. Shit… whatever you want inside of me, even if it’s nothing.”

He pushes you back onto the bed and crowds into his rightful place between your legs, his denim a rough friction over your aching pussy. His mouth finds the curvature where your shoulder meets your neck, and he bites down. “Could make you ride my guitar, get it nice and wet. Maybe even sit back and stroke my cock as you suck on some other girl’s clit for me. And everyone would get to cum but the whore.” He nips the shell of your ear, your nipples hardening at the gruff action. “And who’s the whore, sweetheart?”

“I—I am, Sir.”

“You do anything I tell you, with whoever and whatever it is I want. If I want to rent out your stupid pussy, I would. My dumb bunny.” Your thighs attempt to clench together and he smacks one with a harsh precision, purpose to leave a deep enriching mark behind. You’re so incredibly sopping wet that it’s leaking down the crack of your ass. You’ve never been this far gone. Eddie steals a violently uncoordinated kiss from your mouth, shoving apart your legs and kneeing your underwear off, not caring where they go.

He’s got the cock in his hand this time around, already geared to follow through with you. He leads himself into another check in, to which you’re practically vibrating into a plentiful beg. “Hurt me, Sir. Fuck, just fucking do it. Don’t hold back!”

And Eddie doesn’t. He mocks your neediness, your cries, he pries your lips apart to spit onto your tongue, alternating through a cycle of letting it slowly drizzle from his mouth into yours, all the while his bat stained forearm flexes in defined movements of thrusting the toy in and out of your cunt, splashing your cream all over his sheets and hand. You’re not hiding the noises, there’s no music, only the lewd sounds of your blissful torment. The band in your abdomen is swelling, seizing a hold with the flick of a forked tongue across your muscles. Eddie recognizes but shows no mercy.

“You cum and I will beat your ass so hard that you can’t sit down, princess!”

It’s almost a challenge, one you want to teeter on, but decide not to. It’s gonna be one hell of a night.

[amorgansgal]

A Familiar Face

Hello all, had a busy weekend so I've not had much time for writing. And this proved a good way of testing my WPM speed by writing out all this dialogue from listening to youtube videos! Here's part 5 of my fat female tav x Gale fic! You can read part 4 here, part 3 here, part 2 here and part 1 here. Enjoy!

It had been a long, exhausting day in the grymforge and you were glad to see the back of it. The dark, hot tunnels smeared in soot and smelling of sulphur had not been your favourite place to be, especially with how hot and sweaty you were. You didn’t think the shadow cursed lands would be much better, but at least you might get some cool water to wash in. The ancient lift you were riding in creaked and groaned its way to the top and as it came to a stop you breathed in the cold air. Granted, you could tell you were already close to the curse, the air wasn’t just chilly, but an ice cold shock that sent shards through your nose and lungs, as though you had stepped into a frozen lake. 

“We should set up camp soon,” Karlach suggested. “At least rest a bit before we head on into the curse.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” Shadowheart said. “I’m exhausted.”

The room the lift had arrived in was gloomy and the only feature you could really see were two flights of stairs running to a doorway on a platform. As you climbed up, Gale’s had briefly brushed against yours and you gave him a small, tired smile. He reached out to touch your shoulder. 

“Not long to go,” he said, though you weren’t sure if he could make such a promise. You reached the top step and frowned on seeing a wizened looking old man, dressed in a thick cloak and with a long grey beard… 

“Ho there, wanderer,” he greeted Shadowheart who had long reached the top step before you. “Stay thy course a moment to indulge an old man.”

You almost missed the final step in surprise. You would know that man anywhere, hells, any wizard, sorcerer, bard or cleric worth their salt would know Elminster, renowned wizard who had saved Faerûn more times than you could count. He had sometimes been a guest lecturer at the Waterdeep Academy, and granted, while Elminster was an incredibly powerful wizard, he didn’t seem the best at instructing students. His lectures would overrun, sometimes by an hour or more, even when there weren’t any questions. And even if many of your peers struggled to stay awake during his meandering, seemingly endless stories and anecdotes, he would still get several questions that would lead to more stories and more anecdotes. 

“Elminster?” Gale asked, evidently just as surprised to see him as you were. 

“The very same, Gale. And a fair bit miffed he is, too, finding himself forced to expose his best pair of boots to so many miles of country road on your behalf.”

“Why did you wear your best pair of boots if you weren’t sure where Gale was?” you asked, the question was out of your mouth before you had the sense to stop yourself and you flushed as Elminster turned his stern gaze to you. “I’m sorry, it’s been a long day and I wasn’t-” you began.

His brow furrowed and he raised a finger. “I think I know you, do I not? You raised an interesting question about necromancy when I gave a talk at Waterdeep Academy.”

You were rather staggered he could remember that. It had been your first year as a university student there, the first time you had attended an Elminster lecture. You hadn’t expected the question to prompt an hour long ramble afterwards, but the lesson was learnt!

Gale beamed. “Yes, this is Y/N. Bit of luck we met again, after all those years. So why are you here, Elminster? For what purpose?”

“I was bid to spare neither time nor my own self to find you.” Elminster’s eyes suddenly gleamed with excitement. ”She sent me, Gale. You know of whom I speak.”

You felt your throat tighten a little and your heart rapidly beat in your chest. There could only be one ‘She’ who had sent Elminster of all people out on a search for Gale. Did she want him back? Did Mystra miss him? Love him still? People said she was a jealous goddess. Was the few kisses you had shared enough to frustrate her and demand that Gale… You shook your head, you were not important enough for that, surely? To Mystra you were of no more interest than a small fly battering itself against a closed window.

“But why?” Gale’s voice brought you back from the wanderings of your mind. “Out with it, Elminster. Please!” he demanded.

“Young man, has your sojourn away from Waterdeep washed away your decorum as well as your patience?” Elminster chided, and you could’ve screamed in frustration. Why could he just not spit it out? You bit your tongue as Elminster complained about the lack of decent food and wine while on the road. You couldn’t help but think of the ways you and your companions had to check through old cupboards and barrels to see if any food had been left in them if you wanted something good for supper. Gale had often griped to you about what he could make from a fish head, an apple and a dry crust of bread, though he seemed to work some magic at conjuring up a fairly good meal each evening.

“We were planning on making camp anyway,” you said, before Elminster could really get into it. “Why don’t we rest up, have a meal and find out why Elminster has come all this way during the course of the evening.”

“Oh, for the love of…” Gale muttered, as Elminster whittered on about manners and having some cheese and a cup of wine. You smiled at Gale and surreptitiously took hold of his hand, his smile returned briefly and he stroked his thumb over the back of your hand. Though he frowned a little as the others passed you both by and began to set up camp. 

“Are you alright?” you whispered.

“Yes, yes, fine,” he said, though he didn’t sound it and he only gave your hand a quick squeeze, then let it go and began work on setting up his tent. You would’ve loved to ask him more about what it could possibly be that Mystra wanted from him, but he seemed entirely focused on the task at hand and you decided your energy would be better spent setting up the campfire and beginning the evening meal.

~~~

Once dinner was over, you made your way over to Elminster and Gale. You weren’t sure if you would really be welcomed. Your little foray into helping some nearby towns and villages with a few magical based problems now seemed so insignificant in contrast to everything they had done. Sometimes you had been little more than a cleric, healing injuries, removing curses, ridding places of magical weeds. 

“... Doesn’t do to parlay on an empty stomach, you know. Makes one's words frivolous when they should be grave,” Elminster was saying. “Plenty to digest, after all.” He suddenly perked up and chuckled softly. “A good deal to stew over, if you will. Words ladled with import should be savoured…”

You were about two seconds from fireballing the old man into oblivion, as it seemed so was Gale. “Elminster!” he cried furiously, his eyes filled with rage. 

“Right… um… you see…” Elminster mumbled. You were surprised to see him suddenly look so nervous and apprehensive about speaking further. “Gale, my boy, I’ve come to address a most pressing matter. I’ll speak as plainly as I can, forswearing the accustomed frills that decorate my speech. I’m here on behalf of Mystra. The message and the charge I bring you are hers.”

You had guessed it concerned Mystra, but your stomach still curled uncomfortably. “What is the charge?” you asked.

Elminster’s eyes briefly flicked to yours and then returned to Gale. “You know where you went wrong, Gale. We needn’t dwell on that here and now. But even so, you’re to be given a chance of redemption.”

Your heart was beating loudly in your ears and you felt rather dizzy. You clenched your hand into a fist, pressing your nails into your palm to try and keep your cool and not rush to assumptions. You shouldn’t be jealous, you shouldn’t be selfish. It would be far better if Gale was redeemed in Mystra’s eyes and had the orb removed, than continue to suffer and deal with the difficulty of it all.

“Mystra would consider forgiveness?” Gale breathed, and the sour taste of fear slipped onto your tongue. If Mystra was so inclined would she want Gale back? Did he want that? Surely he must do.

“She would consider… what she considers to be forgiveness,” Elminster said. “Mystra is aware of the misadventures that have befallen you both. She knows of your strife with the Absolute, that most insidious of evils.”

You swallowed down your pride and forced yourself to say, “If Mystra is aware, then I wouldn’t say no to some divine intervention.” 

“The very purpose of my presence - in a roundabout sort of way. You must know that the Absolute is more dangerous than you can possibly conceive. It threatens all who live, even those who are undying. It threatens the gods, the Weave, the very fabric of the universe itself.” He looked back to Gale. “That is why I have come here to charge you, Gale, with its destruction. It is Mystra’s belief that only you can.”

“How?” you asked.

But Elminster didn’t have to reply. “The orb,” Gale said, his eyes were still fixed on Elminster, though you looked at him frantically trying to understand what he was getting at.

“Precisely. Mystra has granted me the power to stop the clock, as it were, on the orb’s rush to overpower you. Instead, you will be able to unleash its lethal combustion at will. You must find the heart of the Absolute, whatever that may be, and use yourself as the… um… catalyst to burn it from this world.”

“No!” you cried and Gale and Elminster looked at you with some surprise, as though they had been so swept up in what they were speaking on they had momentarily forgotten you were still there. “It is cruel of you to demand that, monstrous.”

“He is not. But it seems that Mystra is,” Gale said, and you were a little surprised at how terse and resigned he sounded. He was not seriously considering it, was he? He couldn’t. He mustn’t. Gale was too important to both you and magic itself to just be blown up!

“It brings me no pleasure saying this, my friend, but such is Mystra’s will. Yours must be the sacrifice that will undo the Absolute. And for your sacrifice, you will be redeemed - such is Mystra’s promise.”

You were too horrified and caught up in your own thoughts to even wholly take in anything else Elminster had to say or really see the bit of magic he did to ‘stop the clock’ on the orb, though it certainly cemented in your mind that if Mystra wanted to wholly stop the orb she probably could and your heart clenched tightly at the thought. You only managed a short nod and brief smile at Elminster’s parting words, and then you were left facing Gale, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself.

“An audience with Elminster is never less than memorable,” he said.

You nodded. “He hasn’t changed much from the lectures he did.”

“Ah, don’t be fooled, the doddering act is merely an illusion. When I trained under him-”

“You trained under him?”

“For a time, you must’ve trained under some great wizards too.”

You thought back to the drunken wizard who barely could summon magic missile at the best of time, leaving you to finish most of the fights you found yourself in. Or the professor you worked under who had no interest of doing anything out in the field, he had spent his days pouring over the books he had written and you were little more than a glorified assistant, fetching a mended robe from the local tailor or food for the evening meal. The most magic you got to do was lighting candles or cleaning pots with prestidigitation. It only highlighted all the more how much of the world Gale got to experience and how he had been given guidance by some of the greatest wizards in the land, while you were figuring out how to wipe out a pack of gnolls whilst in the field and your drunken mentor had fallen flat on his face and was mumbling spells that were simply hitting the dusty road around you.

“You aren’t going to do what Mystra says, are you?” you asked.

“Of course, it offers the clearest solution to our problem. All I have to do is find the right place and time, close my eyes, and let go. Then the slate will be clean, wrongs will be righted, the Absolute will be gone and I along with it.”

It left you reeling. He sounded so blase about the entire thing. A small needle pricked at your heart. ‘What about me?’ you thought. ‘What about us? What about all the kisses we’ve shared, all the things we’ve talked about, the magical items I’ve gone out of my way to look for, the way we’ve sat together late at night by the campfire talking about our school days and the lives we led and reading from books we’ve scavenged from old village schools and forgotten libraries?’ 

“Don’t…” he said. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” you snapped.

“Like you’re heartbroken. This is the best way, this stops the Absolute from-”

“Of course I’m heartbroken,” you interrupted him. “Why would I not be? I get to see you again after all these years, after we’ve both lived with so many regrets and you now are quite happy with just blindly obeying her and killing yourself?”

“If it meant sparing you and gods knows how many lives, then yes, I’ll gladly take it.”

“No,” you said again. Frustratingly, tears welled up in your eyes and you tightened your arms around you, looking away from Gale so he couldn’t see. “You don’t get to do that.”

“Y/N…” he murmured gently and took hold of your arms, tenderly rubbing them and pulling you close to him. “If Mystra and Elminster can’t think of a way of stopping the Absolute…”

“Then we have to think of a way of stopping it that doesn’t involve blowing yourself up. I don’t care what she’s said. I don’t care that she’s charged you with this. I care about you, more than anyone else, and I won’t… I don’t want you to… I can’t…” you babbled on, unable to even come up with anything to say to convince him otherwise. Gale pulled you close and kissed your forehead, he tucked your head under his chin so you were pressed against his chest and you were grateful that you could hide your tears, though a little embarrassed you might be getting them on the soft velvet material of his robe instead.

“We’ll see what happens when it happens,” he said.

You looked up at him, though you were certain you looked a mess. “No, it won’t happen, Gale. I won’t let you. I meant it.”

He smiled, as though he was still flattered by your stubbornness and optimism, and you could’ve punched him for the little condescending look he wore. But he silent all thoughts of that with a kiss. When he broke the kiss, you did your best to wipe away the tears that were still on your cheeks, but he stopped your hand and gently pressed his lips to your cheeks one after the other. Then kissed your lips once more.