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grandlinedreams · 5 months

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|| i regret nothing I need Cooper Howard viscerally both pre and post Ghoulification

|| notes: semi Canon compliant, spoiler-ish for end of s1, semi-shifting pov, Lucy is adorable but baby girl you will be chewed up and spat out pls grow more spine, Dogmeat has never done anything wrong ever, godbless Cooper having a southern accent bc that's my accent, yeah, gonna do a sequel to this and a prequel on Coop and reader's first meeting, ok bye

|| warnings: weapons supplier!reader, couple of allusions to cannibalism, reader is not specifically gendered, NSFW ㅡ fingering/touching

“Where are we going?”

Not for the first time today, or even the last week, Cooper questions why he's letting the Vaultie (“Lucy,” she informs him primly, “my name is Lucy.”) tag along. The dog, at least, is a good, reliable companion. Dogmeat trots dutifully at his side, her tail wagging as he stops to glare at Lucy.

“Supplies, Vaultie,” he tells her, relishes the flicker of annoyance in her eyes. “Need supplies or we'll both be knee deep in shit.” He pauses. “More than we already are.”

She mumbles something he doesn't care to catch as he resumes walking, rolling his eyes as he adjusts his hat. He knows he could stand to be a little more sympathetic with the bombshell she's still dealing with, but he can't bring himself to ㅡ not when his daughter might still be alive out there, somewhere. (And his ex-wife, who he's pointedly trying to not think about too much.)

Lucy is blessedly quiet for a good while, all the way until they get closer to where they're going. Cooper doesn't need that piece of shit vault-tec device on her arm to know where he is, but Lucy says it anyways.

“It's a town,” she mumbles at the cluster of ramshackle buildings, surrounded by the clustering of trees so much like Filly ㅡ but isn't. “Is thisㅡ”

“Yes,” he answers, “now shut it and walk.”

Lucy huffs. “I don't know if you've realized neither of us have means to pay for anything,” she protests, “but the general rule ofㅡ”

“Vaultie.” If looks could kill, she'd be six feet under. He's never had much patience, but she’s already reached the bottom of it and keeps digging. “Shut the fuck up about your goddamn rules. If you haven't noticed, nobody up here gives a damn about playing by what's wrong and what's right.” He gives her a meaningful look. “Now if you don't want me to leave your ass to whatever comes along next, you'll be quiet and let me handle it.”

Lucy's mouth shuts with an audible click, and Cooper turns on his heel to resume walking, Dogmeat at his heels.

Like Filly, the center of buildings bustle with the day to day of so many others, the cacophony of animal sounds along with chatter ㅡ Cooper spares Lucy a brief glance to watch her struggle to keep up and scoffs to himself, shaking his head as he continues.

He knows where he's going, a little shop shoved between two others, narrow but deeper than the other two, because he's been here before. Several times, actually. Which accounts for the familiarity with which he strolls over the threshold and leaves Lucy and Dogmeat to follow.

There's the jingle of what might be a bell over Lucy's head when she follows, blinking at the interior. Neat and tidy, or at least as much as can pass for such things on the surface ㅡ rows of weapons and other assorted things on shelves and stands.

Lucy watches The Ghoul rap his fist on the counter. “I know you're here,” he calls, “you never leave this damn place!”

She expects whoever it is to come scuttling out with the tone of voice he uses and being as accustomed to his rougher attitude, and she listens to the clatter of something further in the shop.

“If that's your greeting nowadays,” comes the answer, “you can fuck off.”

To Lucy’s surprise, The Ghoul husks a laugh instead of offering another threat. Footsteps approach, and Lucy blinks at the person who rounds the corner.

“You,” you accuse, finger almost into his chest, “thought I told you I was done dealing with you if you couldn't work on your manners.”

Lucy stares, and watches as you turn towards her and raise an eyebrow, eyeing her with unrestrained curiosity, then at Dogmeat. “A vaultie and a dog,” you say, then glance back at The Ghoul. “So, taking in strays, huh?”

The Ghoul grimaces. “Guess so.” He clears his throat. “Need supplies again, sweetheart.”

“Figured as much,” you say, arms folding across your chest. Lucy decides she likes you, because you're standing up to him ㅡ and he's letting you. “Take it you have no way of paying, again.”

Lucy wants to tell The Ghoul I told you so, because he can shit on all her little rules all he likes but the surface still deals in keeping the scales balanced. You have to eat too, so it's fair that you're expecting payment in the nonexistent caps they have. The Ghoul, on the other hand, tries a different route.

“Oh come on now sugar,” The Ghoul wheedles, tone almost what could be considered as sweet. Playing at a gentleman for the way he leans against the cobbled together counter, even goes as far as to take his hat off and place it down. “Don't be like that.”

“Don't you sugar me,” you counter with an attitude that honestly startles Lucy for both the lack of genuine bite or answering hostility from The Ghoul. This isn't the first time you've met, she realizes, and is also quietly a little horrified to register that this almost sounds like flirting. “You're a pain in the ass, you know that?”

The Ghoul almost grins. “At least I'm consistent. Besides, you know you miss me when I'm gone.”

You snort, pressing your lips together to hide a smile. Lucy feels a tiny bit uncomfortable with the atmosphere, like she's watching something she shouldn't be privy to.

“Yeah, yeah,” you answer, bustling around to shove several fabric wrapped packs into his chest and giving him a meaningful look. “You owe me.”

It's definitely flirting now, Lucy notes as The Ghoul's face lights up in a way that's still entirely human, tracking your movements with something far softer than anything she's ever seen from him.

The turn towards her and head jerk to her and Dogmeat is as clear as dismissal as she's ever seen, to make herself scarce ㅡ so she does, but not before she catches the peripheral glimpse of the way you let him reach for you, almost melting into him for the way he moves to undoubtedly murmur something.

That something is not the sweet words of a long time lover, but it's probably about as close as you're going to get with things the way they are.

“Anyone causin’ you trouble lately?”

You roll your eyes. “Besides you?” He gives you a look, and you shake your head. “No, and even if there was, you know I can handle myself.” You turn to throw him a teasing look over your shoulder. “Don't tell me you're getting soft on me, old man.”

It's Cooper's turn to snort, even as he moves to follow you. There's a sort of peace to watching you sort through boxes of shell casings and bottles of powder, letting his gaze drift over your body.

When you turn, he doesn't even bother to hide the way he's watching you, and you arch an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothin’,” he returns. “Can't I admire you?”

You roll your eyes. “I'm too expensive for you, Cooper.” It's a playful taunt, one that incites a little flare of something in his eyes as he approaches, the jingle of his spurs as he comes to loom over you, cages you in against the shelves of “inventory”.

“Really now,” he drawls, leans in, eyes predatory dark. A lifetime ago, you might have been scared. But the wastelands made no qualms about beating fear out of people just as quick as it snuffed out life all together. “Here I was thinkin’ I might get a discount.” He reaches, thumbs at your bottom lip with his gloved digit. “What's the askin’ price, sweetheart?”

This close, he smells like the wastelands and sunbaked leather, with a little bit of blood ㅡ but you don't mind. Never have, not sure you ever will. Not when it comes to him, anyways.

He's a dangerous man. A man with a reputation that's well-earned, spoken in hushed whispers and anything but nice. But you let him slot a leg between yours, lean in, press his lips to your hair. You smell like gunpowder and hot metal, grease stained fingertips and more than a couple bruises and scars for your efforts.

Sometimes Cooper contends with the idea he might need you just as much as he needs that chem that keeps him sane. Admits it here and there, quietly to himself when he wanders in, squashes it down that he makes the trips sometimes just to make sure you're still alive. Not like he'd know if you were, till he sees you. Not sure what he'd do if he someday came up and found you gone. No note, no goodbye ㅡ quick and quiet, the cruelty of the wastelands.

“Didn't answer my question, darlin’.” He mumbles, lips to your cheeks now. Soft skin, kept carefully with rationed doses of radaway and a healthy heap of keeping your cute little self out of business that doesn't involve you. “Come on, I asked you real nicely.”

You hook your fingers in the loops of his belt, pull him closer. He can feel the jump of your heartbeat under his lips, now at your jawline. A soft, shaky inhale. Selfishly, he wants to keep you. Steal you away, greedy to keep you for himself. Hates the idea of whatever scum that rolls in that you have to deal with on your own. You can handle yourself, he knows that.

Doesn't stop that little piece of him that's still truly Cooper Howard from worrying. But he knows better than to think he can protect you, because he can't. So he does what he can.

Your skin is soft under his teeth, forgiving to the nip of them, the blooming blossom of pink that reminds him of strawberries. The noise you make is just as sweet, and he wonders if you'd taste like that, too.

“I'm waiting,” he prompts between little nips, mouth curving against your flesh when you grip at him tighter. There's a lot he could do to you, and not a lot you wouldn't let him. “Don't tell me this big ol’ cat’s got your tongue, little songbird.”

Your lips part, and he expects either a sparky response or a soft plea for what this is tilting towards, partaking of something far softer than anything he's used to nowadays ㅡ but you’ve always had a taste for throwing him for a loop, and you do it now.

“Take me with you.”

That snaps him out of his little hazy, touch-greedy daze, enough that he pulls away to look at you properly. “Repeat that?”

“You heard me.” You tug at the loops of his belt, eyes steely, expression firm. “Take me with you. Tired of this shitty little outpost. Figure it's time to move before I get myself into trouble I can't get out of.”

Cooper laughs. “Think you're runnin’ straight into that fire by askin’ what you're askin’, sweet thing.” A warning and a plea, mixed mish-mash in his words. Part of him wants you to stay here. Concrete, much as it can be, where he knows where you are. Other part says it'd be easier to watch your back if he saw it all the time.

“That's not an answer, Cooper.”

He snorts, softens at the edges again, a little sadder as he reaches to stroke your jawline, leans to bump his forehead to yours ㅡ radiation warm against radaway cold. “Wanna make sure you know what you're asking for, darlin’. I ain't your babysitter. Got my own shit to do.”

“I know.” There's that fire in your voice, the kind he loves and hates at the same time. “Wasn't asking for you to babysit me.”

He swallows roughly. Lets his hands drift up your sides, tug at the tuck of your shirt, underneath to drag sun-worn leather against the soft skin of your abdomen. Relishes the way you shiver, leaning into his touch. “Can't promise nothin’, you know that.”

Your smile promises the same kind of heartbreak his own words do, the kind rooted in the reality that the world doesn't deal in any absolute but death, and sure as shit won't give happy endings. Not anymore. “I know.”

Cooper can't think of what to say to that, at least anything he's ready to, so he kisses you. Your lips are too soft against his, the warmth of your mouth reigniting that greedy, needy, human thing inside him. He pulls, digs his fingers into your soft, pliant skin, and he takes.

Takes what you willingly give him, hand over hand with nothing but that pretty little smile of yours. He muffles your gasp as he wedges his leg a little firmer, coaxes the part of your legs with a rough husk of, “just like that, dollface,” and delights too much in the sound of you moaning for him.

Hushed, quiet enough that there's no reason for Dogmeat or Lucy to come back yet (he doesn't know what they're up to nor does he really fuckin’ care at the moment), he lets himself indulge in the pleasure of your body against his. The sweet little sounds, half-gasped as he mouths at your neck, hitched to something almost like music as his hands wander.

Pauses long enough to bite at the tip of his glove and tug, one then two, the bare, radiation scarred wander of his fingers over your body. It's selfish, the way he covets every little twitch and jump of your muscles, the choked gasp as he guides you into rocking against his leg.

“You're so sweet for me, sugar,” he coos, syrupy as he picks you apart meticulously, piece by piece. Fingers still far too good at what they do when he replaces his leg with the press of them against you, remnants of a past life for how well he gets you to whimper his name. “Like ambrosia.”

His fingers stroke, deceptively gentle, working over your slick, too-hot, achy skin until you’re panting and gripping at him, pleading for a relief only he can give you. And that’s exactly how he wants you, where all you can see and think of is him.

The expression you make when he finally lets you come might truly be the most beautiful thing he’s seen in a very long time. Headier than the Jet, dizzying and making him swear as he jerks his clothed hips against yours, breath sharp in his chest.

“Gonna be the death of me, I swear.” He bites at your neck, digs a little harder, scrapes his canines into your sweet, yielding flesh. He could devour you, take bite after sweet, sweet bite and actually test that theory about the strawberries. Crack the cage of your rib, feast on that beating yolk of heart that thumps so hard in your chest.

“Gonna let me do it, sweet thing?” He rumbles against your ear. “Let me have it all?”

Your eyes flash, lips pretty and swollen as they part to answer ㅡ and the bark of that damn mutt ruins it all. At least it's a warning for you both, because he's stepping back and letting you fix yourself with surprising speed as Lucy and Dogmeat return, an expectant look on the fuckin’ vaultie's face.

“Well? Got what you need?"

Cooper snorts, tracks you instead of answering as you press your hand to his for a second, gone around the corner. Lucy frowns when you return, pistol strapped at your hip and a bandolier slung over your shoulder like his, broad pack strapped to your back. Like you planned for this.

And you did, he notes, but it hadn't been contingent on his agreement. Idly, he notes he never did answer you, not really. But he just hums, then turns towards Lucy, who looks between the two of you, confused.

“Yeah,” he finally answers, “got what I need.”

#ㅡmine.#fallout series #fallout x reader #cooper howard x reader #the ghoul x reader

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randomshyperson · 6 months

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Five Times Carol Danvers Kisses You

Summary: The five times Carol Danvers kisses you until you two finally get together.

Warnings: Mentions but nothing explicit, a lot of fluff, mutual pining (and typical angst of trope), best friends to lovers, pre-canon-compliant (takes place before Carol is taken), kissing, happy(ish) ending. | Words: 4.836k

A/N-> As mentioned on this blog before, I absolutely love the dynamics of "Five Times Something" and after watching The Marvels I became obsessed with Carol Danvers, and here I am with something about my beloved blondie. It's short and sweet, and I didn't want to write anything too angsty but you can get hints of what's to come from the canon (Dr.Lawson being a Kree in disguise and what will happen to Carol). But the fic doesn't address this directly and ends up with a happy scene. Let's all live in denial.

General Masterlist | AO3 | Wattpad

-&-

One.

“This is not a place to raise a child” was the justification your father used when he left. Funny enough, he didn't take the child, you, away from all the high-tech military weapons that he described as inadequate for a child to grow up around.

His lost, it what your mother said, an easy smile on her lips while she offered you a gentle squeeze on the shoulder. She still had some grease on her jacket and a lot of dust on her hair but she looked beautiful. That was just how things were for Wendy Lawson.

And because she was the best mom anyone could ask for, or at least that was what you would perceive it with your limited references of healthy families. She was the best because she would let you sit around while she worked for the Shield, casually teaching you advanced engineering like it was the same homework you had from secondary school.

That was the only life you knew: Afternoons of trying to stay out of the way of Shield Agents and their big weapons until you were old enough to have a gun yourself.

But before that time came, some of them worried you weren't having a decent childhood. Away from guns at least.

You don't know which of the Agents suggested to Doctor Lawson the kart track, but you wish you could thank them. Your mother, as the busy cientist she always has been, was not available to be around all of the evenings you wished to spend there but she trusted your independence to use the bus after school. Besides, you had the impression that there were always Shield Agents keeping an eye on you no matter where you went.

Só for three whole years, that old place was your favorite. You would run out from the classroom with the first ring of the bell to get to the kart track as fast as you could, and for all those three years, you were also the best runner there.

Of course, it cost you some bloody noose and bruised hands. Especially with sore losers little boys who were very unpleased to be second placed by some random girl. There were also the parents, who would whisper not very lowly on how absurd it was to let an unsupervised little girl in such a violent activity.

As luck would have it, someday you were no longer the only little girl around.

The Danvers were local, and you always thought there were only three of them. The grumpy father and the loud and popular sons. But one day, the one with the warmest smile, the youngest son brought someone with him.

His little sister's name was Carol. She had her blonde hair tied down and she looked ready to punch anyone who gave her a hard time. All the Danvers kind looked the same to be fair. Blonde, strong and angry.

Unlike her brother and their free pass to do as they please, Carol was constantly reprimanded by her father. Even there, in front of the whole crowd and runners, he would scream and pinch her ear, adding to the fury that shone behind Carol's little blue eyes.

The other children would whisper just like their parents but growing up with spies and secret agents gave you this second nature to sneak in and out of places without being noticed. You weren't supposed to hear some of the adults whispering how Mr.Danvers drank more than he should or how his older son was leaving next summer for the army with a purple eye he didn't get in the training. You weren't supposed to but you did.

So the next time Carol crashed a car with one of the other runners, you messed up your perfect record to help her.

Her dad screamed again, as usual. But he left, muttering she could find her way home since she was so clever and Carol had those thick tears in her eyes that made them bluer, so you were helping her before you could give a second thought to it.

She didn't mind that you took her hand and brought her to the administration lobby. She's more interested in knowing how the hell you knew how to get there in the first place.

When you told her you grew up with spies she laughed thinking you were joking. You decided to tell her more stories in the hope it would distract her from the pain of the cuts she got in her legs from the crash.

It worked.

Carol had colorful patches on both her knees when you two sneaked out of there to the bus stop. You could take her home if she wished because you knew a lot about public transport but Carol smiled and said she could do it alone; Her dad was often not around and with soldiers brothers, she knew a lot about doing things by herself.

Yet, she appreciates the gesture and the thought. Her bus should be here in 25 minutes so you sit next to her and let your healthy knee brush her bruised one.

“My name is Carol Danvers by the way.”

You have to chuckle at her line.

“I know who you are, Danvers.” You retort with an easy smile. She looks up with curiosity. You chuckle again. “You know your name is on the scoreboard, right?”

She laughs, almost shyly. You don't know that yet but Carol is not the best at making friends. Especially girlfriends because apparently, every girl hated how not 60s girly behavior she acted on as much as any boy.

You didn't mind. If anything, it kinda made you like her more.

“You didn't have to do that back there you know?” She starts over, fingers tugging at the bandaid you put above her knee. “Lose the race to check on me.”

You shrug, eyes on the road. “No worries. There'll be other races. Besides, you're the only real competition I get there. If you're not participating, what's the fun in winning?”

Carol's cheeks grow a little hotter, but you're both too young to know it has nothing to do with the sun above your heads. You offer her a smile and she gets up to signal to the bus.

But before she leaves, she turns to you again.

It's quicker than her crash that morning, the thank you little peck on your right cheek but is as meaningful as losing a three-year Invictus status on a track race for someone.

Carol nearly flees the scene once she catches the first glimpse of surprise in your expression. You were caught off guard, that's all. But all you can do is laugh to yourself as you watch her run to her bus.

Tomorrow, when you are back here, you'll find Carol so you can share your lunch with her. Today, you would walk home with no clue why the spot she kissed was tingling.

-&-

Two.

Shield Academy is not the army.

It is, as the name suggests, an academic program for the gifted-minded. It's a place where a child who grew up surrounded by the brightest minds on the planet can get it easily.

Well, of course, there's a lot of studying and tiring exams that you wouldn't describe as easy but when taking everything into consideration, the only place a brainy - or huge nerd as Carol would call it - could end up was there.

So while you had big dark blue sweaters with the Shield logo on them, Carol had worn out public school uniforms.

But she was doing okay. In fact, if anyone asked you, even though you were the nerd one in that friendship, for you, Carol was quite brilliant. She had a quick mind and such a strong, well, everything. She was as clever as she was kind. She was passionate about anything she cared for and she was easily your favorite person.

The kart track gave space for the public library and the green plains behind Shield Academia as you two grew up. Carol would take her bike from across town and spend the whole day after school in those green yards with you. Often, she had a football with her while you had a book.

And while you tried to escape your Shield colleagues, Carol would find her spot at your side. She would watch those training agents and wish to be like them, while both of you knew she would follow her brothers to the military when the time came.

But for now, you're sixteen. And Carol has been your best friend for almost 6 years now. You're not sure if friends have anniversaries or if it's something reserved for dating, and since you're not gonna ask any of the agents around, especially not Doctor Lawson, you just assume is okay to get Carol a gift.

She had been wishing for a walkman for so long - she had three already, all broke down during some of her naughty antics, from jumping into the reservation without remembering to take them off her backpack to get into a fight with older kids who thrown her stuff just for the fun of it. So yes, she had those before and she loved music but somehow she always ended up breaking them so you thought maybe because you were the one gifting it, she would be more careful.

You were right of course, but that's hardly the point.

Carol started to act strange after the gift. Even days later, during movie night at her house, she got quiet, which is definitely not a Carol Danvers kind of attitude, so you started to wonder if the present was a good idea at all.

That of course, until Carol clarified the whole thing.

“I got you something too. For, hum, the anniversary thing.”

You pinched her ribs, the nearly shy behavior was such an odd thing to testify that was actually terrifying you. Carol has been your best friend for way too long for that or anything to be awkward between you two.

But then again, adolescence makes everything weird.

You don't open the gift very graciously. Because you were in the middle of movie night, of course, hands full of popcorn butter and Carol was being weird and suspect that you just wanted to put an end to it.

You chuckle at her worn-out team jacket there.

“So your gift to me is your jacket?” You asked with a confused frown, watching your friend struggle with her words the next moments.

“No, I mean yes. But not, just that.” She starts and it's quite the scene. Carol Danvers not being able to talk when that's all she does. “It's my favorite jacket. I… really like it.”

“Do you want it back then?” You suggest with a confused laugh but Carol shakes her head immediately, her cheeks rosy.

“God, no, that’s not…” she takes a deep breath. “I like the jacket, a lot, but not as much as I like you. So I thought, maybe if I can give you something that I really like, it will mean…”

“Oh, I get it.” You say with a smile, holding the jacket against your chest as Carol switches the weight in her foot. “Thank you, blondie. But you don't have to give me your favorite stuff to show me you like me. You don't have to give me anything at all really. Perhaps, all you have to do is say it and I'll believe you.”

Carol nods, shallowing dryly, and without missing a beat, she repeats her words from before: “I really like you.” It's nearly a whisper, and the way she struggles to hold your gaze tells you everything you need to know.

You smile, aware of the warmth spreading in your cheeks and ears.

“I really like you too, Carol.” You tell her and with no hush, you put her jacket on. The blonde in front of you takes a shaky breath once the jacket is properly around your body. You're distracted with the new outfit to take notice of the new dark shine her eyes hold. “Gotta admit it, Danvers, I could totally worm the athletic style. I mean, I look super cool don't I?”

But your question goes unanswered. Carol moves forward, her hands grab the collar of the gifted jacket and just like the first time, she kisses you quicker than you can manage to process.

Her lips are dry against yours because she's nervous. Trembling and terrified. You pull away, and Carol has her eyes closed tightly, breathing unevenly.

You take a deep breath and lick your lips to moisten them a little and the second kiss is much better.

There's this soft noise she makes when you move your mouth but the second you feel her tongue on your lower lip, there's noise around you two.

As if getting electrocuted, Carol jumps away just in time for her evidently drunk father to stumble inside the garage.

Carol is not eight anymore, but she's the only one left in that house. Her older brother taught her five different ways to break someone's noose, but Carol still shakes like the leaves if her father is around with his harsh words and angry looks.

This time, however, he takes a long glance at you both. The guilty looks, accelerated breathing, and he just laughs.

The only thing he says is a slur that makes Carol flinch. Then he turns his back and climbs the stairs to his bedroom, passing out in the hallway before he can make it through.

“Carol, I-” You try but she forces a smile and nods at the door.

“Please go.” She asks. “I have to take him to bed and you don't have to stay.”

“But-”

“Please.”

You leave. And Carol doesn't bring up that night for the next two years.

-&-

Three.

Graduation means Army. More specifically, the Air Force because of course Carol Danvers wants to fly away from everything and everyone.

“Not everyone.” She frowns when you tell her that. Then she smiles, legs brushing yours at the back of her truck. “I would love to have you up there with me.”

You chuckle, giving her shoulder a little bump with your own.

“Sorry Blondie, you know I hate planes.” You joke but the shine in her eyes is deeper now.

“What about spaceships?” She insists it.

You sigh into the night, pensive for a second.

“Well, Mom would probably love it if I ever suggest anything that involves flying.” You say, breaking into a chuckle as your hand moves to the leg you have bent in that position, which allows you to trace your fingers toward your ankle. “Of course, anything other than my secret little Pegasus.”

Carol gives a compliance smile at the mention of the secret tattoo you got on her seventeenth birthday but continues to watch you in silence.

The stars are shining bright above you two, and the parked truck gives as much privacy as one could get in that neighborhood. If you and Carol weren't girls, people would make conclusions.

Perhaps they’ll do it anyway.

“What would I even do up there, Danvers?” You ask her because Carol is so passionate about flying that you're starting to wonder if she is able to see a whole different world up there that you can't.

This time, her hand finds you before her lips. She brings her fingers to yours resting on the truck and locks them. She gets closer and closer and gives you all the time in the world to push her back.

But she's Carol, and she's beautiful and she's your best friend. Why wouldn't you want to kiss her?

There's tongue this time. Hesitant at first then curious, until finally hungry. Of course, Carol Danvers is a good kisser, this asshole.

You break apart, to complain with a husky tone that is unfair but Carol only chuckles before kissing you again. And again. Until somehow you end with your back against her truck, painting into her mouth.

And Carol is seventeen years old and she's a huge virgin like you who really wants this to change tonight. Not just that, of course, but she's still a teen and that's exactly what she chooses to say in order to make this less life-changing than it is.

Because sleeping together as a way of ending high school without the V Card has a completely different meaning than sleeping together because you really want to ruin a friendship.

You swallow at her suggestion, aware that the heat in your veins doesn't cover for the way your heart just broke inside your chest.

But you smile and tell Carol you love her, making sure it sounds platonic. Just to hurt her just as much.

It works, but she kisses you anyway.

-&-

Four.

Maria Rambeau is the most incredible person you have ever met. She's clever and fun and kindhearted. It's so easy to love her and it comes so naturally, that you can't really blame Carol.

You also have no right to be jealous, you tell yourself.

After all, Carol asked more than once for you to at least consider following her to the Air Force. You both had military families, so it made sense for her that you both ended up following the same path.

You were not entirely excluded from that, of course. But unlike Carol with her soldier training, you had medical classes. And while she and Maria learned to shoot people, you learned to heal them.

That of course until the third year, when Carol's training moved to space crafting and yours moved to biological charts. The Pegasus was not the only military project available for you, and being home was good but every time you caught a glimpse of the empty fields near the station, you remember afternoons with Carol and the lack of her ache a hell lot inside your chest.

But visiting her at the base and then at a local bar was a bittersweet occasion.

Because time went by and Carol made a new friend. A lovely and brilliant and apparently less confused woman new best friend. Maria who made her laugh and blush and was such a great company that you couldn't hate her no matter how much the jealousy burned inside your veins.

Somehow, no matter how many dove eyes Carol threw at Maria, she didn't catch them. Immune to her charm entirely. You kinda wished she would teach you that.

The last free week you had was spent visiting Carol and ending up in a bar. But Maria's night was continuing with a good-looking soldier somewheres else, so yours and Carol's would continue with cheap drinks.

It was probably common sense, not to mix alcohol with feelings but you and Carol clearly skipped that class.

You ended up pressed behind the bar's wall in a messy attempt of drunken make-out with your former best friend.

Carol tasted like beer and the army's year changed her. Even drunk, she knew her way around a woman's body now and you had to force your stupid brain to stop wondering about who she had been practicing with. Perhaps Maria was not immune to her charm as you thought she was.

Just as things were getting out of hand, that is, it was probably against some army rules to have sex behind one bar in the military area, Carol pulled away.

She looked so good like that, with messy hair and flushing cheeks, her lips swollen due to the whole thing.

But her eyes were so sad. And you couldn't push the alcohol and the lust away to have clear thoughts on that.

“We can't do this again.” She declares with a seriousness that makes you swallow hard. “I can't.”

She stumbles away and you nearly slip down the hall on your shaky legs. Carol is looking for her car keys but she will definitely fall asleep on the seat.

To be fair, you kinda wished that night would end in her car seat, just in very different scenarios.

“Why not, Danvers?” You manage to question once the anger pushes a little of the alcohol away. Carol sighs tiredly. “Why?” You almost scream and she stops in her tracks, turning to give you a hurt look.

“I can't do this again, okay?” She retorts and she's drunk but she's so hurt. You can see it in her eyes and it kills you to think it is something you have done it. “I don't have the strength in me to get over you again”.

Your world freezes for a whole second. Your mouth is bitter suddenly.

“O-over me?” You repeat her words, confusion mixing with the pain you feel growing in your chest. “When… When were you under me?”

The question is the best of what your drunk brain can come up with but it's enough for Carol to understand.

She lets out a sad chuckle. “C'mon, Lawson. How could you not know? Everyone did. Even my dad, especially my dad.” She corrects herself then, bitterly before taking a deep breath. “It's past. It doesn't matter anymore. We are no longer kids, messing around with things we don't understand. I know what am I. And I know we shouldn’t. I won't jeopardize our friendship again for someone I cannot have.”

There are tears in your eyes, and Carol has the fucking worst timing in the world because your brain simply can't catch up with the meaning of this conversation with all the booze in the way.

“Carol, what are you even saying?”

She just smiles, giving a nod to the bar.

“Let's get inside, I'll get you a cab back to your hotel.”

She doesn't let you question further and the next morning, when the hangover barely allows you to open your eyes, Carol says the worst thing you did last night was try dancing with a Statue.

-&-

Five.

Doctor Lawson has been acting strange lately. She says it's work stress when she returns your calls and ignores your advice about her retiring.

You use your mother's stress as an excuse to come home, and it seems ridiculous that you have to invent reasons to see Carol, but she gives you no choice. Things have been very strange between you in recent months.

The house is a mess, and it's the first time you've worried about the possibility of dementia.

Strange phrases, disconnected words. You think about calling the head of Shield when you put Dr. Lawson to bed after making her some hot tea, but you end up calling Carol.

Your former best friend brings her old truck into your garage.

"Hey, blondie." She hugs you first at the greeting, and you sigh with satisfaction at the contact. You almost forget the stress of the whole meeting with your mother. "It's good to see you."

"I missed you." Carol says with a smile, squeezing you tighter before letting go. "What happened? You sounded worried on the phone."

You sigh before telling her everything you saw, standing there leaning on Carol's truck in the dim light of the garage. It's her turn to sigh when you finish.

"Good thing I brought beer." She comments, getting a laugh out of you.

You don't even notice the time passing that night, but it's like being back in senior year, sitting side by side in the back of Carol's truck, forgetting the world around you for a moment.

When the case of beers is about to run out, you've said almost everything you have to say. Carol thinks she needs to add something more.

"I know the circumstances aren't the best but... I can't say I'm sad." She begins, looking straight ahead, a half-full can of beer in her hands. "With the possibility of you coming to live here again, I mean. I've kind of hated Washington since you left. And Shield too, for taking you away."

You giggle shyly at this and don't know what to say to Carol, so you just decide to hug her. But you're a bit dizzy after the third beer and miscalculate your approach. You end up too close to her face and can see almost in slow motion how the blue darkens or how Carol chokes on her breath.

"I'm sorry, I-" you begin in a hoarse voice, but she doesn't let you finish. The beer can slips out of her hand as she uses both to pull your face towards her.

It's an intense, messy, and passionate kiss. Carol swallows all the sighs that escape your lips as she presses her mouth to yours. Her tongue doesn't ask for passage. You melt against her and try your best to match her energy, suddenly feeling very dizzy, unrelated to the beer.

Her hands move from your face to your neck and down to your waist. Carol mentions pulling you onto her lap, but the balcony lights flicker on and she grunts as she pulls away.

You're still blinking spellbound at the whole thing, trying to catch your breath as she stands up, adjusting her hair.

"Fuck, I shouldn't have done that." She mutters more to herself than to you, hoarse and upset. You swallow dry. "I'm so stupid."

"Carol."

"You're so fucking stupid, Carol Danvers, I swear to God." She ignores your call, continuing to curse quietly to herself. You frown, but end up looking at the porch; your mother has woken up and looks just as lost as before and you really need to check on her.

When you get out of the truck, you touch Carol on the shoulder, and she turns around almost in despair.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that, I'm leaving-"

"Carol, shut up." You cut her off and don't let her say another word.

She shuts up immediately. "I really have to get back inside, and make sure my mom doesn't turn on any water or store the cat in the fridge again." You chuckle apologetically, stroking her cheek. "But I need you to understand that this isn't a mistake, an accident or a thoughtless act after a few beers. At least it isn't and it never was for me. We need to start talking to each other."

Carol nods quickly, swallowing as she looks down at your swollen lips. "Yeah, talking is good."

You smile, and hear the sound of the cat in the house and think you'd better start running. "Later, okay?"

"Later."

But your mother doesn't have dementia. She's not even allowed in a regular hospital. Shield is strangely private about everything, but you're practically coerced into signing confidentiality papers about the current state of Dr. Lawson, who seems to miraculously improve after spending an hour in a room with other agents.

Carol is the only person you can talk to about things, and she has news of her own.

"Maria is pregnant." She tells you, with a twinkle in her eye, without waiting for you to finish absorbing the news. "And she wants me to be the godmother!"

You're happy for Maria, especially perhaps because she's seeing that handsome soldier and she and Carol have nothing going on. Also, you need to tell Carol that you can go back to Washinton now that your mother is better.

"Oh, I thought..." The blonde hesitates as she hears the news, trying not to look upset by forcing a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "I thought you'd decided to stay."

You're having breakfast in the living room of your house, Dr. Lawson is working upstairs. You swallow the bitter feeling of hurting Carol again.

"I would, for Mom. But why would I stay in Louisiana?" It's a rhetorical question because you both know very well what would make you stay. Carol laughs sadly, looking down. You get tired of pretending. " I would stay for you. I would stay for... us."

She looks at you in silence, a conflict of emotions on her face. "Don't be ridiculous, you can't just give up your career for a friendship-"

"Carol." You cut her off seriously, and she choked on her sentence, her eyes as tearful as yours. You give her a small smile, trying to ignore the way your heart is pounding in your chest. "You know that's not what I'm saying."

She swallows dryly, and despite reaching out to take your hand, she insists; "I'm gonna need you to say it."

"God, you're such an asshole." You gasp with emotion, laughing as tears of happiness escape yours and her eyes. Carol also laughs but waits. "Okay, Danvers. You've got me. I'm completely, irrevocably in love with you. I have been for a long time, maybe since the first time I saw you. And I'm sorry it took me so long to tell you."

Carol almost knocks over the coffee table when she moves in to kiss you but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

#carol danvers x reader #carol danvers fics #captain marvel x reader #captain marvel imagines #captain marvel #marvel imagines

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norristri · 2 months

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landoscar fic recommendation

this wld be a full ao3 fic recos :D anw message me if u want your fic to be removed here thnx

that one from work can come over on monday night by higgsbosonblues

tags: Alternate Universe - No Girlfriends/No Wives, Slow Burn, Canon Compliant, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Miscommunication, Coming Out

mclaren 2023 season canon compliant ; i really really love the getting to know part even though you know each other all through out the years hahaha this fic gives me the "all along there was some invisible string tying you to me?" :DD this was such a fan read to me as a new landoscar shipper that time <33

purring in my lap ('cause he loves me) by nyoomfruits

tags: cat!oscar, as in he shapeshifts into a cat lmao, Crack Treated Seriously, Mutual Pining, Idiots in Love, Miscommunication

oscat !! OSCAT !! OSCAT !! lando's "Over me? When the fuck were you even under me?" he's so so so funny and oblivious lmao and them being each other's comfort after a bad race :(( this was so adorable

#814 | Communication? The Kardigans | Long Gone | 4:18 by Anonymous

tags: Social Media, Implied/Referenced Sex, Lando I Don't Drink Norris Can't Hold His Alcohol Smh, Layout Is Entirely Social Media, Getting Together

i love LOVE social media format aus!!! so soo refreshing and creative the use of spotify playlist was GOLD and idk if it's a reference of gen z's and their spotify playlist for every situation but but!!!! i get it!! the name changes in every convo hahahaha they r so chaotic but at the same time so landoscar

from the start by tiredwishes

tags: modern setting, fluff, love confessions, getting together

this had me hooked so easily??? like i was just scrolling through the landoscar tag then i refreshed the page boom there's a new fic posted :DD the awkwardness, the ODDS!!!!!! i love how it has the dynamics of canon!landoscar :>> of them having the same people around them then boom they collided and the ending was perfect aaaaaa <33

for keeps by ipleadbritney

tags: spy au, fluff, light...angst? happy ending

read this after death and other lies bcos i can't move on LMAO took me a while to digest and it was honestly so good!! the humor was fantastic I DID NOT EXPECT EVERYTHING ABT LANDO landoscar

no proof, not much (but you saw enough) by ipleadbritney

tags: magical realism, pre-relationship, qatar GP '23

LOL THIS WAS SO FUN TO READ ??? lando's dramatic ass and him comparing themselves to BROCEDES ++ i like that it's magical realism but at the same time canon hehe :DD "He spent the majority of his junior years chasing after Lando Norris, a dream blisteringly quick and blinding in its brilliance." this line reminds me of, "Loving you is synonymous to breathing" :)

Death and Other Lies by finifugue

tags: spies & secret agents, mature, angst, hurt, comfort, happy ending

i love LOVE the world-building & everything!! prolly in my top 3 landoscar fics <33 the lando-charles siblings relationship had me SOBBING ;-;; “The things that we have lost were wonderful when we had them, do you not think? And that means they are not properly gone. And even if they are gone forever, that means that I can spend more time being sad in here, with you. And that is nice in its own way. We have not had a reason to go here for a long time, and it is more cramped than it was, but it is still good.” :) the twists, the turns, everything !!!!!! my friends were probably annoyed at me because i talked abt this fic ALOT lol i usually don't like spy aus bcos i don't like actions that much lmao but this??? THIS IS A MASTERPIECE sorry i cannot put how much i love this fic into words hashjdhasdjhsa BUT YOU GUYS SHLD READ THIS!!!!

scenes from a social media admin by ipleadbritney tags: social media admin!lando, driver!oscar, social media au, getting together

ipleadbritney your existence in this fandom is EVERYTHING !!!! lando's list of things.... lando's list of things he finds hot :>> this fic made me smile the whole day, hehehe :))

sink your teeth into me by nyoomfruits tags: vampire!oscar, werewolf!lando, soulmates, racing drivers

LANDO was so fcking oblivious *face palms* the travel coffin was my fave part hehe ok oscar is so vampire coded dhsjadhajshdas “Lando’s own driver’s room is right across the hall, stocked with his own hoodies and sweatpants, but those don’t smell like lemon and home, so he wisely keeps quiet and accepts the ones Oscar gives him.” :)) :)) I LOVE THEM maxiel tolerating lando's dumb ass HWJHAJS SO ENTERTAINING

note: will be updated !!!!!

#landoscar #lando norris #oscar piastri #ao3 #fic recommendation

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leclsrc · 2 years

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blurred lines ✴︎ cl16

genre: pwp, like really just pwp, fem!reader who is also max’s best friend (I needed a forbidden element my apologies), canon compliant

word count: 2.5k

Things with Charles finally come to a head. In a cramped room. In the Red Bull garage. Of all places, really.

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because… penetrative sex, public sex, dirty talk (degradation & praise), crying, oral (m receiving), cum eating, minor choking, rough sex, size kink and descriptions of size lol

SHE IS BACK... hope you like it everyone (again)

Charles is better than this.

He’s better than letting this happen, than leaning against the wall, skin hot and flustered from something other than the humid Singapore air. He should be stopping you, because the part of his brain that isn’t totally clouded over is aware of the amount of people who could open the door, jiggle the lock at any moment and what the hell is going to happen then? There’s an entire garage outside, a garage not even his, preparing for a race and it’s extremely likely that someone’s going to need to piss in the next several minutes.

He’s calculated the odds, like a mathematician, like the way he does when he races, reviewing all possible methods to somehow get the both of you scot-free. But this isn’t a circuit, it’s a bathroom; this isn’t a race, it’s your hands at the button of his jeans. He’s better than this, than being so compromised in public spaces with—with anybody. Especially you.

You: Max Verstappen’s best friend, a minx and total menace in your own right, but also Max’s. Your otherwise quiet and composed nature always goes on pause when it comes to Charles—your history’s always been complicated. From both your adolescents you’d always been on the edge of flirty with him, but Max has never failed to let Charles know the minimal amount of hesitation he’d have in the off chance he has to punch Charles in the face for sleeping with you.

So. Well. This isn’t sleeping with you, Charles tries to reason with himself. It’s waiting until the garage was empty of Max and Horner and every last strategist for a pre-race briefing. It’s dipping down to initiate a kiss first, to grab a handful of ass from where the hem of your embarrassingly short skirt sits. It’s temptation. But there’s no bed. There’s no undressing. This is not sleeping with you. This is not sleeping with Max’s best friend.

But it’s still wrong, he can still close his eyes and realize this, it’s still wrong. And still he’s letting you back him up against the wall, your voice light and giggly when it breaks the thick silence. Hearing it lets him hear the noise outside again, the entire Red Bull horde having walked back in a few minutes after your rendezvous started. His voice is throaty when he says, “What the hell are you doing,” and it tapers off when you unbutton his polo.

“Just having some fun,” you laugh lightly. You move so gracefully, but now you’re rushed, like you’re never going to have this chance again. Your dress strap is thin and slips off your shoulder. “Don’t you want t’have fun?”

It’s not fun. It’s a move that’s clinically insane and that could cost Charles his dignity at the hands of Max Verstappen. It’s insane because it’s taken this long for it to happen, for you two to finally go past stolen glances and drunk kisses that go unspoken the morning after. It’s also insane because it had to happen here? In a restroom? In a Red Bull garage? But still he heaves a shaky, shaky sigh, weighing the pros and cons on a scale so totally unfair—and then he bends down to kiss you again, growling in the process.

He shudders when you lick into his mouth, feels you smile like the menace you are, and his hand, which had been resting idly by his side, comes to cup your jaw. His thumb sneaks onto the other side of your face so he’s almost choking you, and the power trip gives him a thrill. This is oh, so fucking insane. It’s so insane. You murmur a have fun with me, Charles, rubbing a hand against the hard-on in his denim jeans, and yes.

“Ah,” he heaves out, his voice thin. “Ah, putain. They’re—do you even realize who could—”

You gasp in faux surprise, looking up at him, blinking slowly, lips formed into a pout. He wants his cock in between them. “Who could what, Charles?” He tries to muster composure, a semblance of composure he possessed when you pulled him in here and he was still trying to halt the both of you. But, by his own accord, he’s beginning to realize he doesn’t want you to stop. He watches, his eyes lidded and dark, as you sink to your knees, a dopey smile on your face.

You lean forward, press your half-open lips to his hard-on, mouthing at his cock through the thick material. He sucks in a breath through his teeth, trying not to buck up into your face. For leverage, a hand comes and tangles in your hair, pulls you back roughly and you giggle at the force of it, meeting Charles’ eyes again. “Hmm?”

“I should—we should really—you should—” He stutters his way through an incomplete sentence, his lack of composure getting the best of him and causing him to curse and mumble incoherently.

“I should,” you agree, cutting his already half-assed spiel off. You pull his zipper down, the sound almost damning. “I should get you off. You deserve it, Charles. It’s been a while.”

He will try to say something, because he knows none of this is safe for either of you, that Max will not beat you up if he sees you both like this, or the media outburst that might come of this, or the fact that even a random Red Bull engineer could knock and neither of you would have a place to hide. He’ll say something, Charles is composed that way; but right now, all he wants is to fuck your pretty little throat until it’s spent.

You tug his cock out, pretty and thick, heavy in your hand when you stroke over it. Already there’s precum smeared messily all over your fingers, and you can’t help but moan at the depravity of it. Your eyes flit upward again, just so you know he’s watching when you swirl your tongue around his tip, letting spit get everywhere.

His mind is gone—gone like the thoughts, the ideas of the people outside, of being caught. Your mouth feels too good around him, taking him all the way, choking a little, like you know it gets him off when you do. You go all the way, until he’s balls-deep in your throat, the tip of your nose against his pelvis. Your eyes look smug even when they’re tearing up from how much the stretch of your lips burn, how deep he is in your throat.

You lean upwards imperceptibly, but he gets the message, fists your hair again and rattles out a hesitant Are you sure? The way you swallow around his cock is enough of an answer for him to nod once, still lost in how good your mouth feels, and then he’s fucking into it.

He goes slowly first, because there’s still a layer of concern, and uses this as a brief window to catch his breath. But it foils immediately, because he’s building a steady pace now, and the sound of his dick hitting the back of your throat is incentive enough for him to keep going. Every time he bottoms out you gag, spit around his dick growing, until it’s slippery and debauched and messy. He bottoms out hard once, twice, and then pushes you off, his cock swelling with the need to release. You mouth against the slip of your spit and his precum, the scent of his dick heady, and move downwards to suck his balls into your mouth.

Jesus, you’re filthy. He pants, his grip knotted so tight in your hair it sends a dull ache all throughout, his hips lifting off the wall from the pleasure of it. His other hand comes up to palm his face; he finds it’s the only other thing he can grip to try and paw at the last bits of his sanity. You return to his cock, and then you swallow around him, moaning, the vibrations coming like hymns, like mantras to let go, for you, on you, all over you.

“You like this?” He grits out. His accent is so much heavier when he’s barely thinking.

You don’t need to nod. He knows you do. So he keeps going, like this is his leverage, his grip, his vice. “You do. You like when I fuck this pretty mouth. You like when I’m shutting you up. Do not look away from me. Shit.”

He pulls you back and your scalp stings, but this way he gets a full view of your flushed face, tear streaks half dry and mouth shiny with spit. He jerks himself off just twice before he’s spurting his release all over your lips and cheek. You lick it all off because of course you do, your middle finger collecting the splashes on your face so you can suck them off yourself.

“Putain,” he says. “What a fucking…” He trails off, language obsolete. You emerge, on your feet now, and dazedly pull the strap of your dress back up.

“Aren’t you gonna fuck me?” He hears you say, and even the idea gets his cock stirring again, even after he fucked it into your throat within an inch of its life. Your hand wraps around it again, pumping once, and he’s hard. You giggle.

“I—fuck. Maybe we can focus first on…” He tries to grasp at his objectives. “On escaping.”

“Escaping?” You pout, feigning disappointment. You let go of his cock and cross your arms, and suddenly your tits are visible, pressing against him through the thin material of your dress. “But Charles… I wanna get fucked.”

“Really?” He tests. He knows he’s only getting himself in hot water here, by asking you to elaborate. But you do it so well.

You nod sympathetically. Despite himself, he finds his lips latched onto your neck, inhaling you in, sucking a faint bruise. He can’t get enough of you. “Don’t you want to fuck me?”

“I do,” he says, it’s almost a whine with how desperate he sounds. “You’re gonna have to be good, be quiet, because if we get caught—”

“—it’s over, okay, I get it,” you drone. “You’re so boring.”

He cuts you off with a kiss, his hands hot and heavy as he feels his way up the bottom of your dress. He doesn’t do much work—it’s cut out for him already—but he walks you to the opposite wall, to the vacant spot just beside the door.

You whimper for more, already losing grip on the confidence you’d had just minutes ago. He’s growing impatient, antsy, spinning you around and shoving you up against the wall. Your cheek smushes against the cool concrete and you shiver when he tugs your panties down, rubs his cock over your pussy lips. He slides back and forth and you let out an ah ah ah.

He pauses. His breath is damp against your ear. You have no time for pausing. You don’t want him to pause. Your movement is quick and sly, your ass coming backwards to rub against him, as if you’re telling him to do it, now, quickly, fuck me.

“Patience,” he says, and then he’s budging himself in. Your years of flirting, of kissing, of teasing, could never have prepared you for how big he is; he felt big in your mouth, and even bigger now, stretching you out like it’s a chore. He’s barely in before you begin to feel an onslaught of pressure, like a freight train, and your eyes shut from the dull burn, the overwhelming pleasure.

You both moan at the same time, a long, quiet fuck leaving your mouths. He’s big, filling you up and knocking you dizzy. Okay, you hear in the fog. Okay, ange. Okay?

You nod so he knows you are, pushing back to feel the burn. He shudders and you heave out a moan, so overwhelmed with his size it’s driving you crazy. “Deeper,” you say with a tremor in your voice. Your mind is so cloudy his dialogue comes late. Yes, you hear. Yeah, I know.

“P—fuck, please,” you beg, “I want all of it, Charles. Want you t’fuck me full of your cum.”

“Can’t do that,” he says, but he wants to—he knows as well as you.

“Mmmmf,” you say. “But I want you to.” And then he’s sheathed fully in you, pulling out and then slamming back in so you can really feel him. And you feel him, everywhere, filling you up and drawing you out, stretching you so hard it burns. You feel his lips against your neck, his five o’clock shadow rubbing the skin raw. One hand is on your ass, guiding you, the other plays with your necklace, also guiding you.

He fucks hard and slow, deep dirty grinds that have you seeing stars. But you don’t have time for the slow—there’s a host of Red Bull engineers outside who probably wouldn’t want to see this, or have to investigate the locked restroom. “Faster, Charles,” you say, and then, “please.”

He does go faster, until the slapping of your skin is loud, until your moans are knocked out of you involuntarily, breathy and windy and eventually muffled by Charles’ palm. He finds himself dwindling into that—that state of limbo where he’s grappling for release, for control. He presses his lips right by your ear.

“Like this?” And you nod, yes. Yes, you want to say, but it’s stuck in your throat. “Love the way this pussy feels around my dick. So tight,” he continues. “So fucking tight.”

“For you,” you mumble, and your voice cracks from how intense he pounds into you. “All for you, Charles.”

“I know.” He goes faster, “This pretty cunt’s all mine. And it’s all wet, so easy for me to stretch this hole out. Yeah?”

You shut your eyes. The hand over your mouth comes to press against your neck and you squeeze around him. “Answer me.”

“Yes,” you muster. “Yes, fuck yes.”

“You like being railed like a whore in some garage”—he grunts, losing resolve—“public fucking restroom that’s not even mine?”

You nod. It’s true. You do. “Please, please I want to cum,” you plead. He’s staving you off an orgasm, slowing down and speeding up exactly when you don’t need him to. You cant your hips back but he’s fucking into you too fast it’s impossible. He’s set the pace, you’ve realized, you just need to submit.

“Feels so good, ange, fuck,” he says, teeth gritted. He fucks you harder, faster, grip tighter, because he’s getting closer. You can hear it and feel it, the sensation of his dick getting wetter, more of your slick getting on it from how he’s deprived you of release since he got you up against the wall.

You inhale and push back. “Gimme,” you try, and your words are lost on you. “Gimme more.”

“You want this cock?”

“Yea,” you say, “deeper, more of it, all of it, make it hurt.”

He buries his face fully into the side of your neck, inhaling as he goes, bottoming fully into you once, twice, thrice, and then your whines taper off into silence. You spasm around him, your release hot and wet and slippery inside, the feeling too much for Charles. He thrusts again and asks, stupidly—Where, ange, where?

The answer is as evident as he is clueless, and, in the throes of your orgasm, legs shaking in between Charles’, you pull him close and slur, “Inside, Charles, fill me up.”

Fuck, you hear him say, weighing his options for only a second, then. “Yeah, baby, okay. Ah, putain—fuck—” he snaps then, like an elastic band, and with a shiver that vibrates through him and you, he pumps you full of his release, warm around your walls.

You both pause, quiet when he pulls out. A shudder of arousal goes through you (and no doubt him) when you feel his cum dribble out of your cunt, trickling through the curve of your inner thigh. You laugh, sweaty, fixing your panties first then your dress. Charles is first to wipe you clean—thank fuck we’re in a bathroom, no? he asks, and then you tie your hair up to avoid the appearance of rough sex in a public restroom.

There’s a brief few moments of peace before you both crash back to reality, and the door that dooms you both. You stare at each other, a faint giggle escaping your lips.

“I could exit first, then give you the green light when nobody’s looking,” you offer.

“I don’t want to gamble on time,” he reasons. “I don’t know when they’re going to need me.”

You debate back and forth before you finally decide the only plausible solution is to face the music and hope nobody notices the two of you sneaking out. As a foolproof safety net, you come up with a fib about a broken zipper and Charles’ inexplicable handyman seamstress skills.

You place a hand on the knob and turn to him. “Fuck.” You pause. “Ready?”

“More than ready. And next time this happens,” he says, sending your face into warmth at the proposition of next time, “can we maybe do it somewhere else?”

You roll your eyes. “Whatever. Come on, let’s hurry. All we have to do is make sure that the one person who doesn’t see us is—”

“—Maaaax here!” The door shakes with the force of three loud knocks. Your face pales and you turn to find that, naturally, Charles’ looks even more panicked. “I can hear you, man,” Max hollers, addressing you. “I gotta piss so bad, open the fuckin’ door.”

Well.

#f1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc fluff #f1 x reader

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tojiphile · 1 year

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ALL FAIRYTALES HAVE A HAPPY ENDING + GOJO SATORU

a/n. comfort fic. non-canon compliant. slight angst but happy ending of course <3 pre-established relationship with satoru, kissing, cuddling, words of affirmation.

most nights, satoru comes home late. when you first started dating him, it used to worry you. his absence plagued you with thoughts worse than cheating. you’d spend hours wondering if your boyfriend was still safe, praying for him to just be alive.

now, you’ve come to understand—he has a role, a part to play, a cog in the machine that makes the world run, that allows it to survive. still, that didn’t mean you had to like it.

now, on most nights when he’s back home late, you’re able to crawl into your side of the bed, and go to sleep. you stir when he joins you, cuddling up into you and pressing a kiss on your forehead. “you’re home?” you’d sigh into his neck. “i’m home.” he’s reply, whispering sweet nothings in your ear until you fall back asleep.

but tonight is different. you’re not one for superstitions (satoru proves them all wrong), but you can’t help but feel a sick sense of dread in your stomach. something was wrong. you ate dinner alone in front of the tv, flipping through channels. you stopped when you saw the news.

“this just in: shibuya is under attack! as of 7:00pm, shibuya has been placed under lockdown by a mysterious invisible wall. government officials are looking into the situation now. our sources tell us that the civilians trapped are crying for help desperately, all looking for one satoru gojo.”

you freeze.

“if anyone has any information on the situation, please call the hotline below…” the announcer’s words faded away as all your intrusive thoughts raced through your mind, your heart hammering in your chest. where was satoru? was he okay?

hands trembling, you reach for your phone and dial your boyfriend. it rings exactly three and a half times before the call ends. you call again, and again, and again, but he never picks up. so, you ring the only person you can think of—kiyotaka ijichi. satoru might jokingly insult the man sometimes, but all in the times you’ve been worried, kiyotaka had answered your questions, trying his best to remain calm, giving you answers as to where your boyfriend was.

he doesn’t pick up either.

you pace the living room. you know that satoru can handle anything. he was a living reminder of it. even in the times he’d come home, battered and bruised, he’d give you that same cocky grin, pointing his thumb at himself and declaring, “i’m the strongest!”

so you try your best to calm down, breathing deep breaths. whatever this was, satoru would come home. you just have to take a shower, go to bed, and when you wake up, he’ll be right there next to you, warm and inviting.

and you do just that. but as you lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling full of little glow in the dark stars that satoru helped you stick up, you couldn’t fall asleep. this was different somehow, you could feel it.

you return to the living room after pouring yourself a glass of wine. but just as you’re about to sit down, you hear the jingle of keys, a heavy sigh, a click, and the front door swings open.

“i’m home.”

satoru stands in the doorway. he looks too exhausted to move. there’s dried blood on his face and his eyes are glowing a vibrant sky of blue. you drop your of glass of wine, not caring as it shatters to the ground and race to your boyfriend. as you approach him, he finally lets his guard down, eyes returning to their normal hue.

you wrap your arms around him, clasping him tightly as you press your head into his chest. you can’t help the hot tears of relief that spill as you mumble, muffled by his clothes, “welcome home.”

he pulls you in, squeezing you tight, as if he was trying to mould the two of you together so you would never have to leave his side. he hugs you in all his despair, because you were the only reason he still fought.

after suguru passed, satoru lost the will to live. he fought, yes, he fought. but battle after battle, the bloodshed was never worth anything. there was no joy, no happiness because there was no love left to lose. he fought a good fight, but if he had lost, he would have stopped fighting.

but now, here, with you in front of him, holding onto him like he’s everything you’ve ever needed packed into a man-sized box, he knows that in your eyes, he’s more than just a figure of greatness. gojo satoru is simply a man who has wants and needs and flaws and feelings.

so for you, who sees him for him, he fights. everyday, he fights to come back home to you, to take you in his arms and hold you tight. he wants to press his body against yours and feel your warmth, and he doesn’t want to let it go even as he sees the morning light.

he kisses the top of your head and whispers, “i promised you i’d come home. i don’t break my promises. and after all…”

you can feel him smile into your head, “i am the strongest.”

(extra:

at his cheeky comment, you give him a firm whack on his buttocks, and he yelps in surprise, pulling away from you.

“mean!” he pouts, “i just got back from a long fight and won against the king of curses! shouldn’t you, my lovely girlfriend, be taking care of me?”

you shoot him a glare. “i thought you died! don’t play around at a time like this!”

he chuckles, “aw, was my poor baby worried about me?”

satoru wraps you up in another an embrace, but as you’re about to return he hug, you let out a yelp as he throws you over his shoulder and says, “let me take care of you now!”

you try to squirm out of his grip, but he’s holding onto your waist tightly. you can only see his ass from this point of view but you yell at him anyway, “i hate you!”

a smile. “i love you too.”)

#tojiphile #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jujutsu kaisen comfort #jujutsu kaisen angst #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru comfort #jjk

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ladyloveroll · 1 month

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(These are my ACTUAL notes from my friends birthday party full of people who absolutely did not know who the fuck Itachi and Kisame were or how pairing names work or what a ship is.)

Writing kisaita (on and off) for 15 years

Never get tired of the ship

Excellent, friendly people in the fandom to keep making content (Cynni)

Presentation is less about the specific ship and more about the general qualities that make their ship S-tier. You may find this echoed in your own OTP, IDK.

Powerful, badass characters who can kick anyones asses no problem, as depicted where they are casually taking a stroll after Kisame (who still has his little fo-hawk) casually takes down the four-tails

Kisame is noted as the ‘tail-less jinchuuriki’

Itachi is clearly a fucking powerhouse, we don’t need to debate that

Working with strong characters means you are more easily able to portray their weakness and explore that side of them since that rarely gets screentime

Auxiliary, not main characters

Main characters are harder to write because they spend a lot of screen time accomplishing their goal and doing Plot

Auxiliary characters are more malleable, and morally gray ones especially so

Depicted here are Itachi and Kisame, separately, being ordered by their villages to kill their own people. They carry this order out, but do not particularly like it. Nor are they particularly loyal to their own villages, despite carrying this order out. It’s hard to say where their loyalities lie.

The answer is WITH EACH OTHER OBVIOUSLY

Any ship that has a timeskip has LOADS of canon-verse material you can work with, especially if it feels like the characters have changed or their dynamic has changed.

For Naruto especially, WTF are Kisame and Itachi doing for three years? Clearly neither of them are out capturing jinchuriki. They aren’t seen lounging around Amegakure or Akatsuki headquarters. They are just traveling the world. Probably doing hits. Probably hitting on EACH OTHER WOOOOOO

Long time skips mean a few thing: 1) Canon divergence, 2) Canon compliant, 3) pre-time skip, 4) during time skip, 5) post time-skip; and that’s not even the AU’s

They clearly haven’t made any other friends during this time either so lots of relationship to explore

The Naruto franchise is notorious for retconning. Probably because Kishimoto (the writer) was pushed to create at a pace that was impossible for any sane or healthy man to keep up with.

Fanficition writers can take advantage of this poor writing by interpreting the character in a lot more ways than if the character was solidly written.

There are a lot of different ways Kisame is written, and accepted as so

Itachi less so but we don’t have time for that

Retconning allows you to take a writers mistake and turn it into utter brainrot that ten other people (me) will reblog every 3 years

This one is kind of specific, but if you like angst then OH BOY this ship has a lot of potential for it

Any OTP that involves an angsty edgelord and a sadistic tagalong can indulge in either EXTRA ANGST and be able to balance out the angst with humor

The KisaIta ship has 4 great themes about it:

Redemption

Acceptance

Forgiveness

And Existentialism of course

Dynamic:

Sharkboy / lava girl

Edgelord / goof

Leader / follower

Maybe old? / a touch too young

Respect for each other

S-tier OTP because of strong themes and repeatable dynamics

Kinkfest here we come

S-tier OTPs must be able to withstand an intense variety of smut writing

Powerful level = able to handle pain and dish out pain

Body things? = more positions

The Shape of Water was one of the single best thing to happen to the KisaIta 18+ fics because (even though it existed before the movie came out) a lot more readers were into it now

Also, Kisame makes this ship work more than Itachi. He is fucking DEVOTED

at this point I was running out of my 10-minutes (THEY HAD THE AUDACITY TO PUT ME ON A TIMER) so i just backfilled the rest of the presentation with fanart and memes i like

Why do I like KisaIta?

I mostly write smut

They’re great at smut

I also like angst

They’re always great for angst, either character

Also look at them they are hot AF

Beefcake service-top vs. ‘shaped like a katana’ masochist

Healthy dose of hurt-comfort

They’re extremely flexible to write and so there’s a lot of stories you can create

thank you for not reporting me to the powerpoint police

#naruto #uchiha itachi #hoshigaki kisame #kisaita #itachi #kisame #naruto meme #despite the fact i've only been writing kisakonan for the past four years #i still have loads of old kisaita and unpublished kisaita sitting in the bank #RIP my old FFN account

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buff-muffin · 9 months

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I’ve been slowly brewing up little One piece canon compliant head canons. These could be used to write little stories if I or someone else wanted. But I just want to get them out of my head so here you go.

Just an FYI. I’ve only finished pre-timeskip so spoilers for till the end of marineford ig and if something is proven different by Oda or later on in canon. I want y’all to know I really don’t care.

1. When Shanks was visiting Foosha village he had never actually heard of bug fighting neither had almost any of the crew. To little Luffy that was essentially a hate crime and he ran out of the bar so fast all of them thought they had upset the boy. He returned around an hour later with two large bugs in his hands and the crew got to watch them fight. Thoroughly smashed and here to enjoy Luffys interests they got WAY too into the fight and started placing bets and were screaming, cheering for their chosen bug. Never had the town seen so many grown adults so worked up over two bugs on a bar table.

2. Nami helps Usopp with his hair care. Back at Syrup village he normally had the kids help out when it finally needed to be washed. But now on the Going Merry he didn’t exactly trust a man with three swords or Luffy near his hair. And Sanji wasnt much help either. He was scared to ask at first but after Arlong Park Nami agreed and it soon become tradition for them to kick Sanji out of the kitchen for Usopp’s hair day and spend the whole time talking and gossiping. Sanji was and still is jealous about it but it’s completely platonic

3. (continuing after 2) Chopper was the next member to join the ‘hair care club.’ While his hooves aren’t the best for helping out with washing or braiding, and his human form’s hands were too big. He liked hearing about what went into caring for different hair textures. And he just liked to be helpful. However it was through being in the hair care club did Chopper realise that being part human because of his devil fruit meant his fur needed to be washed way more often than it did. And after some trial and error with wash frequency and products, they found the perfect combo that leaves him adorably soft.

4. (also continuing after 2) Robin was the fourth member and was invited to join before the events of Skypia. Nami asking if Robin could braid her hair while she did Usopp’s. But Robin just quietly confessed she had no idea how to braid hair. Seeing as no adult in her life wanted to sit down and teach her at Ohara. Seeing that as an atrocity, the hair care club had their first offical meeting. Where they showed Robin all sorts of braids on both Nami’s hair and Usopp’s

5. (continuing after 4) Robin quietly found herself very proud of the knowledge of knowing how to braid. And on quiet hours on the ship while she was reading and everyone was doing their own quiet things. She often used extra hands to add little braids to Luffy’s hair while he either fished or napped. Luffy is completely aware she is doing this yet never thought to bring it up. He loves little acts of affection from his crew and waking up to braids in his hair never fail to make him smile.

6. (continuing after 2. This is the final one I swear) Brook is the last member of the hair care club. While he lets Chopper check his ‘roots’ and general hair health he actually knows how to do different hair styles for Usopp’s hair texture and happily teaches him as well as the others and now Usopp can finally branch out in hair styles

7. one of Luffy’s favourite pass times is to listen to his crew mates talking about their dreams. He sits at the table listening to Sanji tell tales about the all blue. Or listen to Franky and Robin ramble about work. He listens to Zoro talk about people he wants to fight, and the islands Nami wants to visit. He’ll listen to Chopper’s doctor mumbo jumbo and Usopp talking about plans for new weapons. He loves listening to Brook’s songs but he’ll also hear tales about the skeleton’s old crew and stories of Laboon. He tries to ask questions to sound interested but it normally just gives people the idea he’s not paying attention. So instead he gives them encouragement. Because his favourite part, is seeing the way their eyes light up talking about something their truly passionate about, and the shameless smile they give him knowing their captain would never once make fun of their dream.

8. Robin quickly found comfort in Luffy after joining the crew and for a while she couldn’t figure out why. Until she realised his ‘shishishi’ laugh sounded just like Jaguar D. Saul’s, the giant she met growing up. And when she realised it was the first night she slept soundly on that little boat.

9. After loosing his arm Shanks went through a really annoying yet hilarious adjustment period of getting halfway through a task before realising he needs two hands. His crew always laughed when Shanks did his ‘wait how am I gonna do this’ pause. And while they always help him out when he needs it. They know he will figure out how to open things himself. Hopefully without his teeth.

10. Ace very proudly has a scar on his arm from where Luffy accidentally bit him once way too hard while fighting. When Dadan patched him up and told them it was probably gonna scar Ace was pissed, Luffy was wailing in apologies and Sabo had been dying of laughter that Ace’s first ‘cool fighting scar’ was his brothers teeth mark. Now though? Among the other battle scars Ace’s skin bares. That scar is his favourite story to tell. And all of the Whitebeard pirates know to. Never let their fingers near Luffy’s mouth.

#if there’s a spelling or grammar error suck my metaphoical dick #one piece #one piece headcanons #luffy #monkey d. luffy #shanks #red haired shanks #straw hat pirates #nico robin #portgas d ace #I have a few random ideas for a modern AU but I think I might make that a separate post #no one spoil me for post time skip stuff #let me have my little corner #I NEED SO MUCH ASL BROTHERS CONTENT BUT IM SCARED OF SPOILERS #SO ILL MAKE IT MYSELF #the hair care club tm #soft headcanons #thoughts #rambles

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sl-vega · 5 months

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✧.* DREAMS LOST, LOVE FOUND

pairing: Chigiri Hyouma x [IDOL!] Reader

genre: fluff, angst if you squint, oneshot, strangers to lovers, strangers to friends to lovers, pre-bluelock au, canon compliant

synopsis: in which two former geniuses bond over their potentially lost dreams (or in which two strangers develop feelings by making fun of cheesy news articles about themselves)

CW: potentially ooc chigiri, possible innaccuracies with vocal chord paralysis conditions/symptoms

"(Y/N) (L/N): A Bright Star that Burned out too Quickly"

"Idol (Y/N) Retiring?!"

"ASRUN's (L/N)'s Career Over?! Get the latest scoop now!"

You scrolled through the magazines in the waiting room. So many cheesy tabloids talking about your latest concert, and possibly last. You froze up on stage, and your voice just didn't work. The gossip columns came up with so many reasons, ranging from fairly possible to completely bizarre. But they all seemed to come to the same conclusion.

Your career was over.

Ended, finished, decimated, completely and utterly over.

And deep down, you knew that. The doctors said that there was a chance that you could recover, even if it didn't occur naturally, surgery was always an option.

You had recently been diagnosed with vocal chord paralysis, which prohibited your ability to talk and sing. And no singing meant no concerts.

No concerts meant no more performing.

No more performing meant that you couldn't be an idol anymore.

You were told your worsened condition had something to do with your hectic rehearsal schedule, and how you pushed yourself to the point of self-harm during practice. Suzuki, the nurse that had been assigned to assist you, insisted that you come to the clinic for weekly check-ups and vocal warm ups.

Your agency managed to fund all of this because they wanted you back performing with the rest of your group members as soon as possible.

But you weren't sure if you could even continue to perform. You could deny it all you wanted, but you weren't in shape to be an idol anymore.

So here you are, rotting in a waiting room, waiting for your parents to come and get you. Once a musical sensation, once hailed as the pride of the idol industry.

Now I'm nothing more than a helpless patient.

You leaned back in your chair, a random sports article in your hand. You hadn't paid any mind to what it was about when you picked it up, all you knew was that it wasn't about you and your doomed career, and that was all you needed.

But your parents weren't coming anytime soon, and you needed to kill some time, so reading a couple pages wouldn't hurt. You glanced at the front cover. It appeared to be some local newspaper that covered soccer teams in the prefecture.

"Chigiri Hyouma: The Red Leopard!"

The front page had those words printed out in a vibrant pink font. You snorted, it would be one thing if this was about some world-class pro, but all this fuss over a high school kid? The picture on the front page wasn't the best either, it was a blur of bright red hair and you could make out what seemed to be a jersey.

But you couldn't discern a clear image of his face though. So naturally, out of curiosity, you had to flip the page.

Chigiri Hyouma huh? You heard that name mentioned somewhere before. You remembered passing by a few girls a couple of months ago that couldn't seem to shut up about him.

Please, he's probably just some amateur that happens to be somewhat good looking, there's no way he's actually all that-

But, it certainly wouldn't hurt to read about him a little more...

And so you did just that, flipping to the next page due to your insatiable curiosity about this Chigiri fellow.

Let's see what you're all about Mr. Red Leopard-

You finally flipped the page not expecting much, but then you were greeted by a very flattering image of the very subject that peaked your interest.

Holy fuck he's really pretty

Luscious red locks, bright pink eyes that you could get lost in, gentle, feminine features yet he still looked so god damn handsome?!

Your eyes widened as a blush crept up to your face. What was this guy doing playing soccer?! He could've easily been a model, or an idol, or a movie star, you weren't even that pretty what the actual fu-

You had to stop your train of thought. You weren't seriously crushing on a photo of some stranger were you?

Yet, against your better judgment, you continued reading the article, it listed a few details such as his stats, position, and his high school among other.

You were consuming all of this information at an oddly fast rate. Why was this guy so captivating to you?

Before you knew it you had sped through the article. And you had somehow memorized everything on those few pages.

God, I'm pathetic...

You rubbed your temples and sighed, you put the article down, and you were about to read a different magazine about something other than your new found infatuation, but as your hand was about to reach to some political newspaper, your gaze quickly shifted to another photo of a familiar red head.

Another article about him?

Looks like someone's local celebrity...

You moved your hand away from the previous paper you were about to pick up, and you exchanged the current article in your hand for the other one about your newest subject of interest.

Surely one more magazine about him wouldn't hurt....

The front cover was a clearer photo of Chigiri, but it wasn't the happiest. It was a picture of him leaning against one of his teammates for support as they escorted him off the field.

"The Red Leopard's Career: OVER?!"

It was from the same local paper that you were reading earlier, seemed the editors had a soft spot for him.

"Chigiri Hyouma damages his leg in his most recent match?! Further statements are awaited from his family, could this be the end of the genius speedster?"

You sighed at the writer's attempt to dramatize the situation, surely Chigri was in pain. Having something you're so passionate about being taken away my your own physical limitations. You definitely knew the feeling.

The feeling of your dream being snatched right before your eyes. The feeling of a critical condition with some complicated-sounding name being the only thing keeping you away from your goal.

He's just like me...

Wait- what were you thinking? First you ogle at a bunch of photos at him, now you're coming up with a bunch of weird parasocial fantasies about how the two of you actually have some things in common?!

I need to get a grip...

You absentmindedly flipped to the next page of article, somewhere you had made peace in the back of your mind about your attraction to the boy. You were like some little school girl, crushing on some cute actor or model that you saw in fashion magazines.

Of course you were soon snapped out of that trance by an unfamiliar voice.

"Didn't know I was such a big deal that a world-class idol would be reading about me."

You lifted your head to the source of the voice, standing in front to you was a young man around your age leaning against a crutch.

Of course before you noticed any of that, you saw the same red hair, gorgeous pink eyes, and soft features that you had been religiously staring at for the past hour.

Holy shit it's actually him.

Holy shit, he knows who I am

HOLY SHIT CHIGIRI HYOUMA KNOWS WHO I AM-

You had a whirlwind of thoughts about the situation. And you had made a countless amount of observations about him. His hair was longer than it was in the pictures, he looked a lot leaner too, but taller as well.

You were probably shamelessly checking him out right about now, but who could blame you? If it wasn't for the crutch, and the evident exhaustion on his face, you would've thought he was an angel rather than a patient.

And so you did what you always did when confronted by an incredibly attractive person.

You panicked.

Am I checking him out? I'm probably checking him out, I should look away. But what if that's rude?! Should I continue making eye contact? Or should I avoid it?! WHY DIDN'T THEY TEACH ME HOW TO TALK TO BOYS WHEN I WAS A TRAINEE?!-

"It's rude to stare you know."

He had nonchalantly said, snapping you out of your thoughts.

Oh god, even his voice was gorgeous

"Sorry..."

You muttered, looking down at the floor, averting his vivid eyes using any means necessary.

Great, now he probably thinks I'm a creep, nice going...

"Nah it's fine, sorry if I startled you when I came over, I recognized you 'cuz my sister's a fan, and you looked so engrossed in that article about me so I was pretty curious."

You simply muttered a quiet "Oh" in return.

Why am I like this?! He's trying to make an effort to talk to me, and I'm not even contributing at all!

He moved closer to you, he sat himself down on one of the seats close to you, and pulled out another sports magazine with his face on it.

"I never quite liked that one author that you're reading right now, has a habit of exaggerating the least important details and not giving the full story."

He handed the paper he was holding to you.

"This one's one of my personal favorites."

He smiled and handed the magazine to you. Your hands brushed, and you felt your heart skip a beat. His hands were really soft and gentle.

You took the article from his hand and opened it, your eyes greeted by a huge headlines in all caps; "Chigiri; RISING STAR OF THE FOOTBALL WORLD!"

You couldn't help but snort at the title, these editors were really something else.

"Cheesy I know, but it's better than most."

You giggled again, flipping through the pages of the booklet in your hands. You had pointed to a paragraphs that you had found amusing, to which Chigiri had said "Not everyone is a famous idol you know, some of us locals have to take whatever we can get!"

Next thing you knew, the two of you were talking like two old friends, giggling over silly comments and misconceptions that the media had about the two of you.

You didn't know how, but much time had passed, and quite frankly, you didn't care, Chigiri was charming, and rather fun to talk to.

Now, you were showing him a tabloid about some dating rumour about you and some model that your agency had done a collab with.

"Seriously? One slightly suggestive photo and now they think the two of you are hooking up? Wouldn't your managers be scrambling to cover that up? Doesn't it ruin your "idol" image or somethin'?"

"The higher ups at my job were trying to cover it up before realizing that this sort of publicity was actually pretty positive for my image."

You laughed as you pointed to a few more photos of you and said model. It was nice, being able to laugh about this with someone, it was nice, letting the pain go away, even for a little while. But, Chigiri was a lot more than just a distraction at this point.

Suddenly your phone buzzed.

"Sorry, let me check this real quick."

You took your phone out of your pocket, and it turned out that your father was outside of the clinic waiting for you. You tried to hide the disappointment on your face. You didn't want to leave just yet, not when you were finally making some progress with Chigiri.

But, your dad definitely wouldn't take it well if you wanted to stay out later with a boy, a new boy no less.

You sighed, shoving the device back into your pocket.

"I take it that you need to leave now?" Chigiri asked, maybe your mind was playing tricks on you, or maybe you were just super delusional, but it almost sounded like he was disappointed that you had to leave.

"Yeah, sorry..."

"It was nice meeting you, by the way."

He held out his hand.

"Chigiri Hyouma, but you probably know that by now."

You were confused by the gesture at first, you certainly did know his name by now, so why was he doing this?

Oh right, I was too busy crushing on him, so we never formerly introduced ourselves...

You placed your hand in his, reciprocating the handshake.

"(L/N) (Y/N)."

He smiled as you got up, your hand still intertwined with his, you felt butterflies in your stomach, and you almost felt your heart jump out of your body."

You really have me under your spell, Chigiri Hyouma...

#chigiri x reader #chigiri hyoma x reader #chigiri hyoma #bluelock x reader #bluelock x y/n #bluelock x you #bluelock #reader insert

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crystallizsch · 4 months

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[💜|| Yuusha Tala (she/they) ━━━━━━━━━━━━✦

(slightly not canon-compliant / set in an AU where everyone is 18+ like a university)

Forcibly brought to Night Raven College by the black carriage for unknown reasons. She is enrolled as a student with a feline monster named Grim as her “familiar” — her magical half to compensate for her own lack of magical ability — and is appointed the “beastmaster” and the prefect of Ramshackle dorm.

Dorm: Ramshackle Grade: Freshman (First-year) Class: Class A (No. 9) Birthday: July 22 (Cancer) Age: 18 Height: 5'8 ft / 172 cm Dominant Hand: Right Homeland: Modern Earth Club: None Best Subject: Music Hobbies: Sketching Pet Peeves: Making contact with anything filthy Favorite Food: Anything with noodles Least Favorite Food: Soft drinks Talent: Playing instruments

Yuusha Tala is the witty and sarcastic prefect of Ramshackle who tends to be open and blunt with people depending on the situation (this bluntness sometimes lands her in trouble). Sometimes her confident facade fails her because, for the most part, the way she presents herself is an attempt to exaggerate herself in order to make herself seem more outgoing. In any case, the prefect still doesn’t fail to be also headstrong and stubborn, refusing to let others step all over her.

[💜|| Quick Notes ━━━━━━━━━━━━✦

I made Grim more cat-like in this yuuniverse just for fun :3

Has the same birthday as me aaaa

Like I said, this is also set in an AU where NRC is more like a university so that everyone is at least 18. So like:

First-years -> 18 Second-years -> 19 Third-years -> 20 Fourth-years -> 21 Leona -> 22

This ask lives in my head rent-free whenever I think about Yuusha's backstory and personality, so at this point, I just have her twisted from Frozen characters (mainly Elsa) when I hadn't initially intended for her to be so.

Another ask rambling about an overblot yuu + bits of her pre-twst.

[💜|| Random Facts ━━━━━━━━━━━━✦

💜 For the DND nerds: Yuusha has a high charisma stat who manages to roll consistently low and nat 1s. (For everyone else: Yuusha is a girlfailure whose social interactions fail her despite her confident attempts.)

💜 Can be very affectionate with people whenever she starts to vibe with them. And she tends to unashamedly throw around “I love you” a lot to those she genuinely cares a lot about to the point where it sounds disingenuous even though she does mean it earnestly.

💜 Caffeine addict™ and refuses to sleep unless necessary due to her nature as a workaholic. Yuusha knows that she becomes a very heavy sleeper and that she can be hard to wake up.

💜 Yuusha has an affinity for playing instruments. While she has her specialties in certain instruments, generally she can work pretty much any instrument she can get her hands on (and despite whether or not it can be considered a “normal” instrument).

💜 Her memory is abysmal when it comes to small things so she makes little notes in different ways to remind herself of things. But for some reason when it comes to sketching, suddenly her memory is picture-perfect.

💜 Started to work part-time in Mostro Lounge after Azul's overblot, admittedly a desperate choice to earn some income.

💜 After the Scarabia episode, Yuu often gets her extra food from Scarabia as long as she helps to cook (and is totally not an excuse to hang out with the Scarabia duo).

💜 Yuusha gets anxious and restless during dark mirror ceremonies. They remind her of orientation which was really not the best memory for her. She often has to go outside to catch a breath.

💜 She generally remembers bits and pieces of her past life when certain things cause her to remember them. She still feels extremely homesick despite the hazy memories. The one thing she cannot remember is the very moment she got taken by the black carriage, and has some fear of heights and being in deep water in relation to it.

-> art masterlist -> relationship dynamics (tba) -> extended lore (tba)

#i just wanted to finally release her out into the wild 😭#i went overboard with some writing so i'll have them as separate posts #[—✦-#-✧ my art #twst art #twst #twisted wonderland #twst yuu #twst yuusona #(💜) yuusha #-✦—]

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pkmoth · 2 months

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THE ASK-A-PALOOZA HAS STARTED!!! [AUGUST 4th–31st]

Happy asking, and happy answering!!! Askers, make sure to read people's intros/FAQs before asking stuff, and participants, make sure to have fun and pace yourselves!! If you're an artist, make sure to take breaks and stretch regularly :]

Also, in case you missed it (because it was kind of spontaneous and recent), I will be reblogging all event related posts to @motherbound-askapalooza!! If you don't want me archiving your posts, just let me know!!

ALSO also, if you're not on the list but decide you want to participate, you can still join mid-event!! All are welcome :D

PARTICIPANTS:

(I tried summarizing your intros in 1-2 sentences, let me know if anything seems off!!)

FULL MONTH:

*@defector-commander [INTRO] - A canon divergent AU where Claus malfunctions two years into the timeskip and breaks free of his brainwashing, going into hiding inside the chimera lab.

*@askmagicantprince [INTRO] - Magicant!Ninten AU! Everything is perfect in Magicant :)

@pk-ghost [INTRO] - Ness and Lucas take a break from SSB to visit different worlds!

*@commandernachos (most weekends + fridays) [INTRO] - A Chimera Ness and Porky AU!

@turnaboutfromnowhere [INTRO] - A Mother 3 x Ace Attorney crossover AU, where askers take the role of Phoenix Wright in Claus's trial for the murder of "Mr. Pig".

*@jefferson-earthbound [INTRO] - A Jeff RP account!

*@stearix-ask-magikin [INTRO] - An AU where Lucas is raised by Locria after Hinawa goes missing and Flint spends all his time trying to find her.

@kerushi-lemonz [INTRO] - Their Reliving the 80s AU! Tatsuro (Ness) and his friends are having strange dreams where they have different identities (their mother series counterparts).

@nucas-roof [INTRO] - Ness, Lucas, and the OMINOUS HOLE IN THE CEILING?!

@askfuelcas [INTRO] - Lucas and Fuel, featuring Claus as well!

*@ask-commander-arild [INTRO] - Post-Mother 3, the pigmask army is repurposed by Claus in he name of peace. Arild, a former captain of the old army, is now the commander of the new army.

@ghostbox99 [INTRO] - Porky wakes up in an abandoned city one day, with only an old computer (and you, the askers) to keep him company.

*@theworldreturning [INTRO] - A post-Mother 3 AU, where the new world takes place in an alternate post-Mother 2 universe (with the inclusion of the Nowhere Islands).

@quirkyearthboundinspireddinner [INTRO] - The protagonist of eggnogisdead's comic! Ten years after the events of Earthbound, Giegue's planet wages war against earth.

@butacyanide [INTRO] -The Earthbound characters!

*@daily-dose-of-lucas [INTRO TBA] - Ask Lucas!

NOT FULL MONTH (in order of week(s) participating):

@misticfog (week 1) [INTRO] - Li'l Miss Marshmallow!

@tonys-room (weeks 1-2) [INTRO] - Mostly canon compliant, except Tony has PSI and the ability to see through the fourth wall.

@twothpaste (weeks 1-2) [INTRO] - Their Intermission AU! A modern AU of the Earthbound/Mother 3 casts in college, dealing with real-world problems (and, of course, playing D&D).

*@judgment-days (weeks 1-2) [INTRO] - Corruption AU trio! King Lucas and a severely mushroomized Ness are brought in by Giygas and Cosmic Commander Ninten for questioning.

*@kellanzy (weeks 2-3) [INTRO] - Lovebound AU: a post-Mother 3 AU where all the protagonists (and Giegue) meet in the newly made world.

@projectc-114 (weeks 2-3) [INTRO] - Takes place after Claus is kidnapped and brainwashed, but before he becomes the commander. The scientists at the lab call him C-114.

*@pkmoth (weeks 2-4) [INTRO] - Swap AU Claus and Lucas in Smash Mansion! (intro TBA)

*@tanejineri (week 4) [INTRO] - An AU Claus called Commander Samuel!

PRE-EXISTING ASKBLOGS JOINING:

*@plutothenotdwarfplanet [INTRO] - A gieeg OC!

*@masterporky [INTRO] - A Pokey/Porky Minch RP blog!

*@ask-the-fever-four [INTRO] - Mayhem AU!

*@ask-clausten [INTRO] - Clausten! >:D

*up for rp

#YIPPEEEEE SO EXCITED #HAVE FUN EVERYONE!!#motherbound-askapalooza #motherbound askapalooza #mother series #mother 1 #earthbound beginnings #earthbound #mother 3 #update: ok fyi i cannot edit this post on mobile or else the bullet points break #so erm. thats gonna suck when im away from my computer

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thevoidcannotbefilled · 1 year

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I really don't like love at first sight Jmart or even, early season 1 canon compliant crushes. I think Martin got an early crush and Jon started to tolerate/care about him after Martin got back after Prentiss, but I don't think they really understood each other for awhile. Which to me, is part of the reason I really like their dynamic

Idk I keep thinking of the moment where Jon gets back to the archives in season 3. Most people focus on Martin making sure Jon's okay. Making moments where he takes care of Jon's wounds.

I keep thinking of the part where Martin apologizes for reading the statements. Where Jon is surprised, says it's not a problem. Critically, in context, Martin basically believes that Jon cares more about the statements than Martin's wellbeing.

It just. It's so tragic. At this point we understand that Jon is becoming more and more of a monster because of the statements. Martin knows something is up with the Institute but not enough to be able to ward Melanie away from the job. In regards to their relationship, they obviously both care a lot about each other but neither know how to show it. They are not to the point of communicating that care except in ways that are not direct.

This moment shows just how far they have to go in both how much they can communicate but also, just how much the other knows they care about the other. Their roles as boss and assistant are still there, parodies of that dynamic but still there nonetheless, and their previous interactions haunt them.

As much as I adore the concept of a pre-Unknowing kiss, canonically I'm glad it didn't happen. S3 Jmart cannot communicate beyond their previous dynamic no matter how flimsy it may be. Jon keeps it up as a way to protect them while Martin keeps it up as to keep the peace. Perhaps if one of them broke it, Jon may not have gone to the Unknowing. After all, Jon in s5 was willing to give up on his plan to destroy the world to destroy the fears for Martin, I wouldn't doubt he'd do the same in season 3 with enough insistence.

But they didn't. They both waited for things to get "better". For a "good" moment that would never come. For a change to happen that would make a romance more convenient, an end.

But there is no end to the fears. Their unfair nature are a quintessential part of their universe and there is no moment where love could be convenient. It happens in spite of the fears.

The messy nature of Jon and Martin are part of why I adore their dynamic. While the fluffy versions of romance is nice sometimes, I find the depth of them so much more tragic in nature. Not only because they could have had a better ending but also that ending did not happen because the lack of response on their end.

Jonmartin to be is a tragedy of what if. What if Jon was nicer. What if Jon didn't suspect Martin. What if Martin had the courage to tell Jon how he felt. What if Jon told Martin he loved him before the Unknowing. What if they ran away together. What if, what if, what if-

But they didn't. They waited for something more ideal.... until the end of the world and there was no chance for a happily ever after ever again.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #tma meta

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akallabeth-joie · 4 months

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Barricade Day Fic Recs, Fixit & Crack Edition

More light-hearted barricade-relevant fics (either because more characters survive, or because things get really silly). In no particular order:

The Hieroglyph of Truth [I lied, this is first because it's both crack and fixfic]

On Burnt Lilac and Public Safety [pre-canon but barricade-relevant]

Some Friendlier Sky [So many things get fixed, not 100% survival]

Everbody Lives, Take One [What is says on the tin]

Clickety-Clackety [Somehow the body count is lower than canon]

Blondeau in umbris inquietari [Yes, they died, but it's still fun]

To Do: [The Goose!]

The Not-Particularly-Secret Diary of Lt Théodule Gillenormand [canon-compliant crack]

#les miserables #barricade day #fanfiction

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steviewashere · 9 months

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Hold My Hand and Look Me in the Eye

(also on ao3)

CW: Canon Compliant Violence/Gore, Slight Panic Attack

wc: 2,251

Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington & Eddie Munson

Tags: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Steve Harrington is Traumatized, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Post Season 4, Brief Mentions of Character Death, Eddie Munson Lives, Pre-Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Hopeful Ending, Steve Harrington Loves Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Sort of Love Confessions in Here

------------ In Steve's lap is Eddie's head. His wild, scraggly, curly mane of hair. Relaxed face—closed eyes and neutral lips and button nose. Tens of freckles and fanned eyelashes and straight cut eyebrows. Him and his soft puffs of air. All of him, facing up to Steve's torso and own face and his shaking hands.

He wants to run his fingers through Eddie's hair. Feel the dry ends and the knotted strands and how it's all soft in the end anyway. Wants to hear him hum in contentment, because that's what's missing in his demeanor. But there's one problem. One huge problem that threatens to gape Steve's mouth and make him puke. That causes him to rip his eyes away and stare at the wall.

For a while, he thought it was love. Something simple and mundane as that. Well, sort of simple and mundane; Steve's never loved normally a second of his life. He wished it was just this wonderful, bright thing that causes his insides to flutter and his heart to cease and his tongue to pool saliva like a hungry dog. Maybe, if he were to close his eyes and feel Eddie's skin against his own, he could admit out loud through a waned, hesitant, soft breath: "I'm so in love with you." Because he is. He's so madly, terribly in love—he wishes sometimes he could consume all of Eddie, stuff him behind his ribcage, squish him around his heart where all the holes are, and feel Eddie's sinew combine with his—feel them coagulate and meld and stick to one another like dried blood in lifelines. Maybe he's possessive, obsessive, beyond freak and human nature. But maybe tasting Eddie between his teeth would cure his sickly insides.

But no, he's just sick. He's sick with want and need. He's sick in the head, unable to imagine anything else but...blood. Eddie's blood. The torn, shredded skin on his limbs. All the wet layers of muscle that dried in the air of the Upside Down. That's all Steve can see when he looks at Eddie. When he feels him. When he hears him, even. That death rattle. The thing that haunts his sleep. The thing that threatens his very being, his solitude, his touch starved sin. The thing that makes him lean close, too close sometimes, and make sure Eddie's breath is solid and long and passively peaceful—or there at all, for that matter.

Steve can't look at somebody he wants like no other. Can't stare without imagining death and grief and sabotage and broken ribs under his palms and the metallic taste on his own lips, the metallic strings of saliva that connect him to the Eddie of yesterday—the one who laid stock still in a field of rock hard dirt and blue skies. He wonders how Nancy can ruminate on pictures of Barb. If her stomach and heart lurch the same—if her insides know her betrayal, like Steve's insides know his and Eddie's betrayal like the alphabet. (Steve can recite it all backwards, forwards, misplaced but with the same end result.)

So, instead of running his fingers through Eddie's hair, Steve tucks his hands under his armpits and looks off at the wall. He wants to touch, but can't. Just...can't.

---- It comes to a head one evening in Steve's living room, miles of space beyond them, and yet. It's the same predicament, of sorts. Eddie's too close. Steve's too hungry with want. Too devastated by what he's seen. And makes last ditch efforts to not look Eddie in the eyes. But the one time his sight locks on with Eddies, by accident because Steve would never allow this, all he sees is anger.

"You don't look at me," Eddie bites.

Steve flinches. And, even though it's being Brough to light, he still looks away. His tongue too heavy in his mouth, he doesn't dare open to respond. There's a million things he could say. The trauma. The heartbreak. The devastation. His messy over the moon feelings. Put his beating heart into the open air, it pulsating and tender and red raw. He could look Eddie in the eyes and feign annoyance. He could look Eddie in the eyes and break out into tears. He could cry, that's it. That's what he wants to do every time he sees Eddie, and how awful is he?

"Seriously, man?" Eddie asks aloud, annoyed. "You're unbelievable. Maybe I should just go home."

He whines pathetically at that like he's a wounded animal. Some little thing laying battered on the forest floor behind his house. A three-legged dog with a sprained foot and wet eyes and malnourished belly. The mewling cat that lays prone in his neighbor's front yard, also hungry, also sad, also injured like a shot-to-the-head mistake. Steve shakes his head. Inhales something stuttering and scrunches his fists in his jeans. If Eddie goes now, Steve knows he'll never see him again. And if Eddie goes, it'll be just like what Steve thought back in the Upside Down: I will never see him again and I will miss him with my whole body and I will wish that I was his friend. I will love somebody I could've loved harder.

"Look at me," Eddie demands. "Look me in the eyes and tell me that you want me here."

And Steve should. He should stare and gaze and ignite with fury. How stupid of an idea, that he doesn't want Eddie in his home. He should say something, really. Get down on his knees, maybe. Beg and plead. And tell Eddie all the ways in which he's charmed Steve's soul. With every flourish and every stuttered sentence and every half-assed doodle. All the smiles he presents because Steve can remember, if he tries hard enough, though he truly isn't sure he could. Recite word for word how Eddie orders his cheeseburgers and his breakfast platters and his coffee. Make list after list of every band that's ever inspired Eddie to be a musician or to fall in with music. Paint over all the ugly Harrington portraits with all the colors staining Steve's heart—the rainbows and pastels that Eddie has somehow bruised him with. But it's futile.

He can't look and can't speak and can't stop the lurching of his own stomach.

"See," Eddie hisses, "this is exactly what I'm talking about. I'm going home."

Eddie stands. And he’s tall. Well, as tall as Steve. Lithe and long and movement after movement after movement. Steve has always loved to watch his back as he enters rooms or exits doors or turns and stretches and—But Steve doesn’t like to watch him leave.

His chest boils with unkept feelings. The want, the desire, the multitudes. Throat stinging and nose pinching and eyes…He begins to cry. Softly, at first, as Eddie grabs his coat from by the front door. As he bends down to tie his shoes and untuck his hair from the collar of his jacket. As he chases around his pocket for his keyring. But as his hand lands on the doorknob—

Steve sobs, at least he hopes he did. The sound that escapes him is halfway a cry and halfway a scream. Raw and bleeding and hurting. He can’t stand to look at Eddie always leaving, nearly leaving, leaving Steve’s heart like a steadfast bullet.

And that’s when, for all the energy and movement constantly leaving Eddie’s body, Eddie goes stock still. Head angling to look over his shoulder, though not quite peeking. Fingers scrunching around the doorknob.

“Wait,” Steve gasps, “Eddie, wait.” He scrambles up from the couch as fast as humanly possible, clumsily ambling around his coffee table, nearly tripping over the floorboards. “Eddie,” he whispers, pleading, “please don’t go. I can—Please let me explain.”

“Then explain,” he demands once more.

Steve, for the first time, reaches out. He gently brushes the back of Eddie’s right hand with his fingers. The skin under his fingertips is warm, thin, malleable. It’s wrinkling and pushing with Steve. It’s warm. On a real body. On an alive body.

His breath stutters in his chest as he attempts to get himself under control. He swallows back the rest of his tears, they go down harder than he would like to admit. “It’s really hard to—To really look at you sometimes,” he admits, voice quiet and trapped. “But I always want to look at you. I just can’t bring myself to do it.”

Eddie shifts in front of him. His hand moving away from Steve’s fingers. Face directed at Steve’s head. Probably looking, but Steve doesn’t actually know. His own face is pointed down to where his fingers were, eyes dim and closed off. “Why, though? You too good for me or something?” Eddie asks. And Steve feels mad for a second, that that’s the assumption that he goes to. But also, he knows that Eddie has every right to ask. It’s not everyday that one of your close friends admits that it’s hard to look at you.

“No,” Steve breathes. “I just can’t look at you without—“ And his voice stops there. Trapping in his throat as if two hands wrapped themselves around his neck, pulling him back and restraining, forcing him to choke and heave and fall silent. He just shakes his head and sobs again. He feels so weak, unable to explain himself, unable to put himself back together enough to get the words out in the open. To finally let Eddie truly decide if he wants to leave or not.

And at this point, Steve would understand if the door slammed in his face. Opportunity now forever closed off to him.

But instead, there’s a soft touch to his shoulder. Fingers gently creeping up the side of his neck, probably able to feel his rabbit like pulse. “Hey,” Eddie whispers, “just tell me. Let me understand what’s going on in that big brain of yours.”

Steve lets out a self-deprecating chuckle. “You’re going to hate me,” he chokes. “You’re going to hate the reason.” He thinks, as he always does, Please don’t hate me, Eds. Please don’t go around and hate me.

“Stevie, if you just tell me what’s going on—No—“ Eddie’s hand scoots up to Steve’s face, his palm barely cupping his cheek, a thin gap of air and palm. “—Stevie, I don’t know what’s happening, but I assure you that I won’t hate you. It’s too easy to love you for that to happen.”

He peels off the bandaid at that. He loves me, Steve glows, he thinks it’s easy despite me. “I look at you and see blood, Eds. I see…I see death. And I hear that—That stupid fucking rattle. I can’t escape it,” he rambles on. “I go to sleep and have nightmares about you laying on the ground and I’m able to see all your muscles and your bones and—The blood, Eds, I see the blood.” His breath leaves him haltingly. Sharp and fast and panting. “I’m sorry,” he croaks. “I love you, but I can’t even fucking look at you. I don’t know—I don’t know how to fix it.”

Eddie makes a soft sound. Something like a coo. A gasp. A gentle, unmoored, sad sigh. “You don’t need to be fixed, Steve. That’s—God, you’re traumatized. Fuck,” he whispers. “I fucking scarred you.”

“Eds, you didn’t—“

“But I did! I changed the way your brain functions. But I—You don’t need to be fixed. We…” Eddie’s hand flexes on Steve’s cheek. His other hand cups Steve’s face. They bring him up to Eddie’s eyes. And Steve, for all that he usually can’t handle looking at, sees color. Like the transition in The Wizard of Oz. Blushing cheeks and dark brown eyes and rose petal pink lips. “We’re going to get you through this,” Eddie devotes, determined and still. “What makes it easy to hang around me? Like…What do you do to even let me be in your home?”

Steve squeezes his eyes shut and sighs through his nose. “I keep my music and movies low. To hear when you move around or when you breathe. Like when you stayed the night a few days ago, all I did was lay awake in my room to hear you shift around your bed,” he concedes. “I know that sounds…It sounds really creepy now that I say it out loud. When you laugh, I like that. Or when I can feel your skin under my hand, it’s warm. I like the warmth.”

Eddie blinks, thinking too. “What if,” he tentatively starts. “What if when I stay the night, we share the bed? Or when you listen to music, I sing along? Or if I blink really fast and you look at me?” Steve huffs a laugh and opens his eyes, feeling already a tad lighter. “It could work! Even if you just watched my mouth when I talk? Or when I snore, because I know that I snore.”

“God, you really want me to look at you,” Steve teases.

“I want you to be comfortable. Also—“ He drops his hand away and grabs Steve’s left. “What if I just hold your hand all the time, squeeze it every once in a while? Maybe that will tell you that I’m alive.”

Steve’s smile is small, but there. “I’d like that.”

“Good, then I’ll hold your hand every step of the way.”

-----------

#stranger things #steddie #fanfiction #steve harrington #eddie munson #angst #hurt/comfort #traumatized steve harrington

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