#cold World Frozen goods

[awstenlookbook]

For the Sneaking Out of Heaven Tour show at Stage AE in Pittsburgh, PA, Awsten wears Cold World Frozen Goods Drop 16 "Retired" tee in grape ($48).

📸 Instagram: photos_jessl

[galpalkirk]

happy birthday folklore

[peachesofteal]

Light On - single mom/neighbor fic - PTSD, mentions of death, trauma Simon Riley/female reader

Simon’s boots are sticking to the floor.

He had scrubbed and scrubbed them, scratched a sponge against the sole and up over the toe, used coiled wool to try to scrape the bits and pieces from the bottom, digging deeply into the cracks to try to dislodge anything leftover from the last month. The heat made it a particularly difficult task, melting together the dirt and blood, sealing it to the rubber in a congealed mess that he couldn’t clean off.

It’s spring now, and his breath doesn’t fog through the air like it did before he left. The mornings are coated in a prickly frozen dew that sparkles just right in the sunrise, refracting orange and pink hues into the building’s front lobby, washing over the bland egg white walls and coloring them into a spectacle, cold shadows of night chased away by the long fingers of warm daylight.

His boots scuff along the hallway, squeaking like they’re trying to announce his arrival, trying to give up his position before he deems it necessary, before he gets inside the entryway, blasting a signal through the flat that he’s home, that he’s made it. The sound of his boots competes with the buzzing that’s bouncing around in the back of his skull, sawing through the soft, pink mush of his brain, trying hack away at the only good pieces he has left. It’s gotten louder since he parked the car, competing with the drum beat of his heart, the churning of anxiety and anticipation in his stomach. He’s so, so close, and still a thousand miles away from you, even though he’s in the kitchen. His fingers grip fast to his bag, canvas straps twisted around his wrist, and he holds his breath, world rotating in slow motion as he listens for you, catches the musical note of your voice in Emma’s room. His spine stays stiff, unsure, and the buzzing that bites at his synapses gets louder, fills his head with the low rumble of fear that’s been simmering beneath the surface since he stepped out this door a month ago. You’re safe. You’re here. You and Emmaline are fine. You’ve been texting him everyday. You’re safe. You’re-

“Simon?” He blinks. You’re in the kitchen with him, eyes sleepy, Emma in your arms. One of his t shirts sits at your hips, plaid robe half falling off your shoulder. She’s more awake than you appear to be, and he begs his mouth to work, encourages his tongue to move so he can talk to you, so he can say “good morning, sorry I didn’t call, wanted to surprise you.” Or “hi, good morning, I missed you so much.”

But he can’t. Because all he can see, all he can taste, is blood. He doesn’t see his girl, he sees you broken and limp on the floor. He doesn’t see his baby, he sees Joseph’s lifeless body. He sees the carnage of this last op, hears the dying draw of a last breath, over and over.

“Hey.” Your fingers tentatively skim along his forearm. “You’re still dressed.” You note, and he nods, locked up, trying to push the buzzsaw in his brain away. He didn’t change, showered at the safe house before the flight home, and then immediately headed your way, his uniform clean, untouched by the gore and misery, still starched and formal unlike his tac gear, all of it made to wring the blood from its stitching over and over again. “Simon, someone wants to see you.” Emma’s now half in his arms, cooing at him, carefully supported in your hands, and he instinctively curls around her, swooping low to nose along her scalp.

The reverberations cease. The buzzing and gnawing and stabbing into his brain silences, just like that, and he fills his lungs with air, one hand now cradling your face, the other warm beneath Emma’s weight.

“Welcome home.” It’s a whisper, the softest, sweetest thing he’s ever heard, and he smiles beneath the balaclava, pressing his lips to your forehead. “We missed you.”

“I missed you too.” He murmurs. He wonders if the moment has passed, if he should be stepping away now, and he flexes, testing- only to be pulled back, an arm sliding around his back, anchoring him closer, tighter.

“Just stay here for a minute.” Stay. Stay here with you, stay with his girls. His voice roughens as he croaks out an answer.

“Always.”

[mariahcarreyyy]

.ೃ࿐𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒𝐍’𝐓 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 | 𝐦𝐯𝟑𝟑 |

max verstappen x fem!reader

plot. when max visits years after your split, the strong facade you've worn crumbles at his fingertips

wc. 3.4k

warnings. smut 18+, angry n rough sex, p in v, degradation kink, reader cheats on her longterm boyfriend lol, oral sex (f!recieving), rough fingering (f!recieving), dry humping, name-calling, doggy + missionary style, dom!max and reader who thinks shes a dom, hairpulling, slight choking, and very angsty in some parts

Two seconds.

The amount of time it takes Max to grasp your door handle and trudge into the dimly lit apartment instead of patiently allowing you to let him in is two seconds. A fitted black suit adorns his body. His body, who glides assuredly into your humble kitchen. His eyes, who choose to ignore your irritated frame.

Then his lips. His big, red lips, who swallow the copious amount of popcorn that his hands were shovelling down his throat. His massive, veiny hands who used to intertwine perfectly in yours.

Him, Max. The figure leaning over your marble counters with slouched shoulders and forearms resting against the cool surface is Max. Two cups, he notices, stand side by side on the sink. A pink Stanley cup and a cheap protein shaker that isn't his.

Max’s fingers twitch.

From where you’re frozen by the door frame, only his side profile is visible. You curl your fists tight. Suddenly, wearing an oversized Metallica t-shirt and panties didn’t seem so comfortable.

“Max.”

Your eye twitches at the acknowledgement you receive. Or lack thereof. The recently crowned third-time world champion huffs at the bowl of popcorn in his hands before turning to open the fridge. He doesn’t look very satisfied. But then again, he never really was when it came to you, was he? 

The light of the furniture illuminates Max’s face rather annoyedly, contouring his sharp jawline and the curve of his lips like it had a point to prove. This is what you could’ve had, it taunted, if you hadn’t broken up.

Much louder and more irritated than before, you call out for him. And then, your eyes meet. You had spent the last few years meeting his gaze solely through the rectangular box in your living room; now, you pinch yourself in disbelief—anger, as well.

“What,” you stutter, and almost curse yourself when you catch a glimpse of his cocky smirk you remember all too well. “What are you doing here, Max?”

The fridge begins beeping loudly. Rolling his eyes, the Dutch slams it closed, slipping past you and into the living room. You follow him. The room is lit up by what feels like a thousand scented candles and it’s cold despite it.

The blond collapses on top of your couch, and the cushions pull him in like they missed him. It’s been so long, they think, and you feel better than the girl who’d been crying on us when you left.

“Where’s that guy?” Max asks bitterly, eyes stubborn on the television before him. “The one you posted yesterday at that restaurant.”

Max doesn’t follow you on any social media anymore, and an evil part of you feels content with the fact that he’d had to manually search your name to see that photo. Last night, Scotty had made a reservation at a fine, respectable Italian place to commemorate your one-year anniversary. 

You had a good time; Scotty would quip about everything and anything, and you would laugh exaggeratedly. You two were a great pairing, you think— hope, for the sake of your sanity.

You make yourself home in the space next to him, pulling your knees to your chest and tugging at your shirt to cover your bare legs. “You need to leave. Now, Max.”

A quiet ‘hm’ slips past his lips. But he’s still stuck on the couch, toeing out of his dress shoes and crossing his legs together like it was his home—but, it isn’t. Not anymore. Not while you are evidently a meaningless speck in his glorious life.

When Max turns to you, disgustingly pretty blue eyes and all, you succumb to the tight grasp he has on all of your logic. “Business trip. Milan.”

An empty chuckle raises the tiny hairs on your arm and echoes across the room. Max clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth; his eyes refuse to leave yours. He brings a cold hand to tuck a fallen strand of hair behind your ear; his fingertips leave burn marks against your cheek.

“You don’t even like Italian food,” he continues, because does he ever really know how to stop? “Does he even know you?”

And that. It shouldn’t have made you as frustrated as it did, not when you had gotten over Max. Totally. Completely. Utterly. “What, like you did? Max, you wouldn’t even give a fuck to remember our anniversary!”

The sarcastic glint in his eyes turns sour. “I had to race—Fuck! y/n, I was leading the championship, you knew that.”

“Yeah, Max, how could I forget? Red bull this, Red bull fucking that,” you seethe through gritted teeth, face inching closer to him and squinting eyes shining predatorily. “It’s been two years, Max, two years since you broke up with me. So, congrats. You got what you wanted—a trophy and a name under your belt. Why don’t you fucking leave me alone?”

Max’s breath hitches, but your uncontrolled panting inhales enough air for the both of you. Then, his hand wraps around the side of your neck, not squeezing, but it’s there. It’s warm, and it feels painfully refreshing against your skin, and your protests die in your throat.

The Dutch whispers an octave lower, and only then, when his minty breath tickles your cheekbones, do you perceive your proximity, “Because I think if you really wanted me gone, I would be by now.”

And, well. He might as well be ripping open your ribcage and twisting your heart until it breaks in half, crimson blood making a mess of the carpeted floor. 

You’re left speechless under his gaze because as much as you try to deny, you know it’s true. Max would leave as fast as he did two years ago if there was even a hint of honesty in your words.

“And you know what else I think?” Max takes your silence as encouragement to continue. “I think he doesn’t fuck you well enough if you’re this desperate for it.”

Somehow, you muster up enough irritation to murmur, “I—m’not desperate.”

“No?” he taunts, extending his thumb to the underside of your chin and tilting it upward. “Why haven’t you properly kicked me out, then?”

You rack your mind for a response, a reaction—fucking anything to prove you aren’t wishing he’d just inch a bit closer to close the gap between you. 

“I . . . I hate you, Jesus Christ,” you curse defeatedly, craning your neck upward and frantically meeting his stupidly large lips.

The kiss isn’t slow or loving; it’s wet and filthy and you wouldn’t have it any other way. There’s a lingering taste of honey on his tongue when he brushes it between your parted lips, and you can’t help but pull him in deeper for more. 

The hand on your neck tightens significantly, Max’s breath tickling your upper lip as the other seizes around your under thigh and swiftly pulls you onto his lap.

A gasp flows out of your mouth and he greedily swallows it. You want to skin him alive when you feel him grin arrogantly, but then he presses a hand on your ass and lowers you flush against him—Him, and the massive bulge straining his black trousers—and the thoughts spill right out of your head into a gooey puddle beside your feet.

“I hate y— oh,” your murmur morphs into a shaky gasp when he rips his lips away from yours and attacks the canvas of your neck; you say those three words like you could them words into existence. 

And I hate that I still want you so fucking bad; those eleven words are left unsaid like you expect him to read your mind. But Max couldn’t two years ago, and you know he can’t now.

Your hands glide over his muscular frame, relearning the sharp edges and smooth skin of his body and you moan breathily when Max sucks on the sweet spot beneath your ear. “Y’might hate me, baby, but your pussy doesn’t. Fuck, she’s dripping all ov’me.”

A pathetic whimper slips past your lips. He’s not wrong— you could feel your slick coating your panties and rubbing against Max’s pants. You were usually one to stand your ground, but fuck, you need him. Need him the same you did the first time you met, both young and inexperienced. Maybe more.

Probably more.

But he isn’t doing anything to relieve the ache between your thighs, so. Before you take matters into your own hands and grind your pussy against his covered dick, Max’s hands cup the mounds of your ass and lift you sideways to splay your body on the couch.

“Max,” you say like the breaths have been knocked out of your poor lungs, but it might not be so far from the truth.

Max positions himself in between your legs, hips and thick thighs parting them wide, and the itchy fabric against your naked skin spins your head in dizzying circles. You could fucking see the damp patch your slick left on his crotch. Your hips buck into the air; you hate him, you hate him, you hate him.

His dishevelled hair lay atop his head and you want to pull. His flush trails down his neck and you want to bite and kiss and mark it till pretty bruises litter his soft skin. Your hands and lips stay pliant under his body instead.

“Y’d only get this wet f’me, though, hm?” he groans when his fingers push your skimpy underwear to the side, unblinking like the sight of your glistening folds would disappear if he looked away.

I’m always like this for you, you feel the need to reassure, even when you aren’t here—especially when you aren’t here. But your blood still boils at his stupid hair and stupid smirk, so. He’s met with silence.

Growing impatient, Max slaps at your swollen clit, humming satisfactorily at the loud gasp you let out. He grazes his digits past the bundle of nerves, and your incessant need to murder him and fuck him till he realized he’d made a mistake letting you go only intensify.

“Answer me or I swear to fucking God I will leave you like this, shatje,” he ends up growling lowly, thick fingers hovering over your hole. “And then it’s your boyfriend’s problem.”

“Max, fuck off–”

The warm body abruptly stands up, and you don’t think you’ve ever been this cold. But the empty sensation doesn’t last long, anyway. Max barely has any time to walk away before your fingers latch onto his forearm tightly.

You splutter, “M-Max wait, wait.”

When he tilts his head down to meet your eyes with a raised brow, you have no recollection of what you'd even wanted to say. 

“Please…please, just fucking help me.”

And apparently, that's all Max needs because his hands are immediately tugging your shirt off, lips trailing hot kisses in the divot of your tits. Your lips part around a moan when he purses his lips around your hard nipple, stomach stirring uncomfortably with need. His mouth leaves marks like cigarette burns in its wake; it stings against the wounds that have already healed years ago.

The Dutch doesn’t leave you much to dwell on before he lays between your thighs again, trails his hand across your body till his fingers nudge at your lips, and shoves his index and middle finger inside the wetness of your mouth. if you were slightly more desperate, you would've whimpered at the pleasent pressure on your tongue.

If.

“Fuck, lieverd,” Max exhales when you suck your cheeks in, wet muscle darting over and between his digits— wide, innocent eyes and all. “Can he get you like this? Fucking dripping and desperate for dick?”

You shake your head frantically because it’s true. Because he couldn’t, not like Max can. Satisfied, Max only presses against your throat slightly to watch you gag around him. He brings his hand back down to the space between your legs agonizingly slow and alas, pushes them both in like he’s in a rush.

“Max! Oh, oh m’God, fuck,” you gasp, the twinge of pain is quickly overshadowed by the hot pleasure bubbling in your lower stomach.

Your hips involountarily buck upwards into the fullness, but Max flattens his palm on your lower stomach to shove you down. Eyes rolling back and threading your fingers through his hair before tugging his insatiable mouth on your pussy.

“He doesn’t,” Max cuts himself off with a groan when his tongue flicks at your clit, familiar tasting slick pooling on his taste buds. “He doesn’t know you like I do, can’t make you cum as hard as I do, can he?”

He doesn’t expect a response; it isn’t even a question, as well as you’re aware. Max knows he’s the only person who can have you writhing and moaning on his fingers, cock, tongue— all three, one night.

And he’s right. But. Max’s control of the situation makes you feel queasy, so.

“No– ohh, fuckfuckfuck,” you moan, high and needy, when Max curls his fingers upwards, like a reward for agreeing with him. “He–, he fucks me better.”

From under you, Max’s face visibly dims, but you aren’t able to bask in the satisfaction it gives you before he drags his thick digits out of you—your hole clenching in protest, crying out at the emptiness when it fails to keep them inside—hooks his hands into the small of your waist, and your ass meets the hardwood floor.

“What the fuck–”

Your breath hitches when he flips you over on your elbows and knees. Back arched almost uncomfortably, furrowed brows with Max’s bruising hands on your hips to lift your ass further in the air. 

When Scotty slips into bed tomorrow morning, you hope he’ll see the ugly hues of blue and green on your tainted body and leave soundlessly.

Shaking your head at the intrusive thought, you curse internally. Scotty’s nice, and you don’t deserve him. Not when you’re willingly presenting yourself to Max, the folds of your pussy connected by the lewd lines of his spit and your slick.

"Y’wanna act like a whore?" Max whispers hotly from behind you– his breath tickles your ear and his hands rise to your hair, gather your locks into a makeshift ponytail, and tug it forcefully to tilt your head back, making you wince. "I'll fucking treat you like one."

A string of your desperate whines fills Max’s ears like a symphony, and he groans with you when you begin to grind your ass backwards against his dick. His dick. Fuck, Max needs it wrapped around your tight walls, milking him for all he has; needs to watch you writhe on his cock like it was what you were made for.

“I hate you,” you repeat, much more breathless than the other times you said it, and Max has the audacity to laugh.

Though, you guess it has more to do with the fact that all the while you were saying those three words, you were still needily humping your ass against his covered dick.

You still are, and it’s driving him fucking insane. Max curses when he realizes he’s still trapped by the confines of his pants. Whoever thought wearing clothes was a good idea?

Clumsily and with only one hand whilst the other grips your hair, he fumbles out of his suit. And Max throws the articles of clothing mindlessly—on the couch, on the floor. He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t fucking care. 

A relieved sigh fills the room as the cool air wraps around his painfully hard cock. Your breath hitches when you feel the thick tip graze your pussy. His hand hastily grips at his base, aligns it to your folds, and coating it in your slick as he strokes it once, twice.

“Ah! Max, holy shit,” you blabber when his cock nudges against your swollen clit, and finally, thrusts his hips forward, the tip fitting snugly against your walls. “Oh, oh, fuck, moremoremore, please.”

And Max. Well, Max is doomed.

“Fuck, liefje, your pussy missed me so fucking bad, I know, I know,” Max coos when your hole clenches around him greedily, and spreads your cheeks with one hand, gazing obscenely at the sight of you sucking more and more of him inside.

The familiar stretch burns and yet your hips push back against his cock— three words ringing in your otherwise empty mind: full, full, fuller. Max’s hips stutter as he meets your movements halfway, fucking his stupidly massive cock into your wetness and tightening his hold on your hair.

You wish you could say you hate the pain as much as you hate him.

“Max, Max, Max,” you urge him as your eyes roll to the back of your head, but you don’t really know what for; your neediness took over your senses the moment Max kissed you.

But Max, he’d already memorized all of it— all your tells, those things that pushed you over the edge—, protected them inside a dust-covered chest buried in his mind. It was no surprise he knew what to do with you now, filling you to the brim and pounding into you ruthlessly.

“Yes! Yes! Mm fuck, please, don’t stop, don’t stop,” you sob happily, and Max wouldn’t fucking dare.

The man behind you tugs you upright with the hand on your hair, his chest flush heatedly against your back and tilting your head to pounce at your neck.

“Tell me,” Max growls slowly, slowing his assaults on your wet pussy, and now, you’re almost sure that your hate is reciprocated. “Tell me he means nothing to you.”

A loud yelp leaves your lips when he slaps your clit again, and a slight gush of slick slides down your walls, dripping lewdly onto his balls. Your hand reaches up to grip his hair and pulls his pillowy lips back onto your neck; tears brim at your waterline. You aren’t sure if it’s because of how badly you want to cum or miss him— you blink.

No, no, no. That wouldn’t be possible because. Because you don’t miss him.

“He’s nothing, Max, nothing compares to you,” you cry out, and Max falters.

Then, he pulls out.

“Huh? Wha…” You inhale sharply, feeling so stupidly empty.

Before you dig a hole for you and your pussy to crawl in and die, Max is swiftly turning you over by your hips and engulfing his dick in your walls again. Your mouth falls open again; Max takes it as an opportunity to press his lips against yours.

Your hands cradle his face and kiss him back gently like he isn’t fucking the life out of you. Like he isn’t projecting his pent up frustration for the last two years onto your wet, tight pussy. A muffled cry escapes your mouth when Max thrusts into you with newfound fervor.

His lips detach from yours, burrying his forehead into the crook of your neck to, hopefully, muffle his groans. “Max– ah! Oh m’God, I’m so close, please just.”

Max nods, wild and frantic and horny, slipping a hand between your sweaty bodies. He tweaks, pinches, and rubs at your clit until you let out a shriek and your thighs close instinctively around him.

He bottoms out, grinding helplessly inside the heat of your pussy. “Cum f’me, shatje, wanna feel you cum on m’cock. Fucking cum.”

And, well, if you were even the slightest bit good at denying Max, you wouldn’t even be in this position. So. You arch your back off the ground with a high, loud moan and savour the white specs in your vision that only Max seems to bring out of you.

He fucks you through your orgasm—chasing his own with short, wild thrusts. “Ah, fuckkk, if only y’were as good as y’pussy is to me, liefje, y’d be getting m’cock like this every fucking night— Fuck!”

Beads of Max’s thick cum fill you to the brim with a loud groan and a long string of curses, tainting your insides a heavenly white. His hips stutter when you clench around him, milking him for all he has just like he’d wanted. And, when Max pulls out with a shaky gasp, he takes another piece of your heart with him.

Maybe, if you make this same mistake enough, he’d realize he has your heart already, full and pieced together.

But Max was never one to take a hint, never one to read your mind, so you settle for the parts of him you can have once in a blue moon; you settle for him picking you up, carrying you to your bedroom, cleaning the mess between your legs, and pulling the covers above your naked frame; you settle for the scowl on his face when he notices the polaroid of you and Scotty on your bedside table.

“I hate y—”

Max leaves the room before you can finish your sentence. 

He knows.

authors notes dedicating this to @enchantecafe + @scuderiahoney bcs they were hor knee for max on this poll (me too) i hope you guys like it and thank you to @cafekitsune for the dividers once again xx

i feel like this isn't my best work but i'll post it anyway because i spent a lot of time on it and yolo. also i think i fried my brain with it.

also, writing this fic made me realize idfk how to write angry sex it just ends up being angsty so. i think at times theyre angry but as they go on, some of that tension dissipitates and they both realize they want but cant have each other. tried my best tho!! xx

lemme know how you liked this story or give me some feedback in the comments or my inbox! 💬🐢

taglist in separate posts bcs tumblr chooses to be annoying <33

p.s reblogs and likes are always appreciated 💚💚

[utahimeow]

cw — reader and gojo have a daughter, established marriage, gojo is sad but reader comforts him

satoru gojo is not a man of many fears. heights, spiders, needles, death—fearing these is alien to a man who’s looked death itself in the eye and refused to let it touch him. however the words that his five-almost-six year-old daughter just uttered send shivers down his spine.

he’s frozen, eyes wide, face pale. he thinks his lungs stop working and his heart stops beating.

big, blue eyes round as a bug’s stare up at him, oblivious to the implications of it all.

the sentence echoes in his head like a taunt. he thinks he’ll hear it in his nightmares tonight.

then, her little hand as she tugs on his pant leg yanks him back to reality.

“daddy, i said my tooth fell out!”

satoru gulps, gaze falling to the crumb of bone in her hand, then to the tiny gap that’s now in the front of her mouth.

he didn’t think it would happen so soon.

you’re home from work not long later and the girl rushes to greet you at the door, screeching with delight to announce the loss of her tooth to you.

you’re gasping dramatically, gathering her up in your arms as she gives you a gummy smile so wide her eyes scrunch shut. staring at her is like looking in a mirror, a perpetually perfect reflection of you and your love combined into one small being.

“it didn’t hurt, did it?” you ask her.

“nope! i didn’t even cry,” she tells you, beaming with pride.

“oh, how brave you are,” you tell her, kissing her soft cheeks, grinning as her giggles bubble throughout the entire foyer.

she wriggles out of your grasp and then she’s off again, bounding back upstairs to her room to the pile of plushies upon her bed so she can continue to brew up tales and backstories for each of them. now that both her mother and father have heard her big news, she’s satisfied enough for it to no longer need to be on her mind.

you’re not surprised to find satoru in the kitchen, rummaging through the snack cupboard. you are surprised at the fact that he doesn’t turn to greet you like he always does. with a pout, you stride over to his towering frame and snake your arms around his slender waist, pressing yourself flush to him.

“hi, lover,” you hum.

in your embrace, satoru becomes lighter. the tension in his hard muscles lifts, his shoulders dropping, his back shedding the weight of the world.

“hi, pretty,” he replies, uncharacteristically quiet, yet somehow his voice still drips with affection for you.

“what’s the matter?” you ask him. you’re well aware of your husband’s melodramatic nature, and it’s because of that that you don’t find yourself worrying over his state of despair. still, you’re rather filled with a curiosity—what minuscule nonsensical issue has him down today? did they discontinue his favourite kitkat flavour?

hands migrating up his torso and finding his chest, you squeeze your fingers into the fat of his pectorals. in the blink of an eye, satoru is facing you and his cold hands have grabbed hold of your wrists. he grins down at you softly, amused by your antics as always, but you blink again and his face drops, growing almost grave.

“talk to me,” you urge, prying. his soft grasp leaves your wrists, moving to envelop your hands which drown in his. he brings them to his lips, kissing at your fingertips, making your heart beat in your ears and your face grow hot. it’s strange to think he once shrivelled away from your affection, convinced he was not worthy of it.

“how was work?” he asks.

“fine. good. same as always,” you tell him. “but you’re avoiding my question. and your feelings.”

he shakes his head, a child through and through. “tell me about your day.”

“satoru,” you say, stern, and it feels like you’re scolding your daughter for not listening to you. “i hate it when you’re… off like this.”

his eyes pierce through yours then, filled with unspoken apology. then, he exhales, long and hard, a sigh that’s heavy with weariness. for you, he’s learned to surrender.

“our daughter losing her tooth today made me realise that she’s getting older and i can’t stop it,” he admits.

you sigh along with him, half relieved that your conscience had been right in believing that it wasn’t anything serious. well, in the sense that no one had died. the rest of you knows he’s not being irrational. since becoming a father, and even before that, when having children was just a distant fantasy for him, an anxiety had lived inside of him. an anxiety of fucking up, of being inherently unsuited to fatherhood, of the idea that she may suffer the consequences of him being her father.

and now, a new anxiety sprouts.

“true, but we get to watch her grow, satoru. don’t you think that’s amazing?”

he stays silent, mouth forming an absentminded pout.

“i just keep thinking about when she was a baby… how tiny she was, how she would waddle around, and drool on my chest. soon she won’t be my little girl anymore, you know?”

“satoru,” you say firmly. your hands curl around the back of his neck, scratching at the snowy hairs of his undercut. “she’ll always be your little girl. i know that because she’s your whole world, and you’re hers. she may never be that little baby again, but she’ll never be as little as she is now either, so love and cherish her now instead of moping about the inevitable passage of time.”

satoru smiles a dopey smile at you, the same one his daughter has.

“i’m so glad i married you,” he says. his hands are warm now as they settle on your lower back, dipping down, down, down.

you roll your eyes at him, opening your mouth to reply with something witty, but he beats you to it.

“i’m being serious now, baby. you always know what to say when i’m being stupid.”

“when you’re being overdramatic, you mean,” you say, grinning playfully.

“hey, it just shows that i care, doesn’t it?”

you pull him down to your face by his neck and kiss him, moulding your lips against his, tender and warm and home. it’s not just his thoughts that melt away when he kisses you, it’s his entire head, until all that’s left is a man with nothing but his wife on his mind, heart beating for no reason other than to keep him alive so that he can keep thinking about you.

briefly, you pull away, in spite of how he chases your lips with his, because he could kiss you until the end of time and you could do the very same, but there’s something weighing on your mind suddenly.

“if you want a second baby i can make that happen, by the way,” you tell him, your hips pressing against his.

“oh, now you want another one? but every time i ask for one i get an earful? heh,” he says, quirking a brow, but unfortunately for him he’s hard in his pants in an instant.

“yeah, but now i feel bad for you.”

“babe, i don’t want a kid out of pity!”

[unclewaynemunson]

Something nameless is growing between Steve and Eddie. Steve wonders how long it'll take until this thing has a name, but for now, it's enough that it's just something. Something good. Something just for them. A secret of the most delicious kind.

He doesn't necessarily want to lie to Dustin, of course, but he doesn't really know what else to do. Not as long as this thing between him and Eddie is still nameless and Dustin is basically cornering him in the Hawkins High parking lot, way too enthusiastic about the fact that he's there to pick up Nancy.

'No, it's not a date, you little shrimp,' he repeats for what feels like the millionth time. And that statement couldn't be more true: he and Nancy are long past their weird post-breakup-end-of-the-world confusion. It's been good to reconnect with her and he's glad that they can truly be good friends, now.

Dustin shoots him an unimpressed glare and Steve groans in frustration when the boy opens his mouth to retort.

'I'm actually seeing someone else,' he says before Dustin can speak again. If he has to hear him say one more time that he should date either Nancy or Robin, he might actually punch him in the face. And he doesn't want to do that. Not really.

Dustin gasps.

'Why didn't you tell me?!'

'Because you're being annoying as shit about my love life,' Steve shoots back.

Dustin already opens his mouth for some smartass reply, but they get interrupted by a high-pitched scream. Steve whips his head only to find Eddie dramatically running towards them, limbs flailing and a huge grin on his face.

'Stevie!' he shouts out while crashing into Steve like a cannonball. Steve huffs, but is all too happy to catch him in his arms. He knows he shouldn't let his touch linger too long, not with Dustin right there, but it's really fucking difficult to pull back within an appropriate timeframe.

'What are you doing here?' Eddie looks hopeful, like he's suspecting that Steve came to the school for him.

'I'm meeting Nancy,' he admits, feeling almost guilty about it.

'He was just telling me about this girl he's seeing!' Dustin exclaims. 'Can you believe he didn't tell me? Did you know about this, Eddie?'

Eddie's smile falls off his face within a split second, and he takes a stumbling step backwards.

'You're seeing a girl?' His voice has gone cold. Betrayal shines from his big brown eyes.

'Eddie,' Steve starts, but he doesn't know what else to say – not with Dustin standing right there and hearing every word of their conversation.

'Go fuck yourself, Harrington.' He spits the words out and turns around, leaving Steve frozen and Dustin open-mouthed.

'Eddie, wait!' Steve calls out behind him, but Eddie only throws his arm up to flip him off, without looking back.

'Shit, fuck, damnit,' Steve mumbles under his breath as he runs after Eddie.

'Eddie, listen.' He grabs his leather-clad arm, but Eddie breaks himself free from Steve's grip with force. He finally looks at Steve again, tears in his eyes.

'I don't wanna hear it,' he says with a trembling voice as he reaches his van and climbs inside.

'But Dustin was–'

'Dustin was pretty damn clear.'

'No, it's all a –'

But Eddie slams the door shut while the word misunderstanding dies on Steve's tongue unheard. Steve watches helplessly how Eddie roughly wipes a hand over his face, puts his keys in the ignition as if he's stabbing someone, and drives off.

'Steve, what the fuck,' Dustin's voice says; when Steve looks to his right, he sees that Dustin has appeared next to him. 'He thought you were his friend! Why didn't you tell him about your girl?' It sounds accusatory, and Steve can't fucking deal with this right now.

'Why didn't you shut your goddamned big mouth for once in your life?' he snaps at him.

Dustin's eyes go wide with the surprise of Steve talking to him with that much venom in his voice; it's clear that he finally realizes he did something wrong.

'Steve, I – I didn't mean to – I didn't know he'd get mad!'

Steve sighs, long and heavy.

'Go home, Henderson,' he says stiffly.

He wishes that the genuinely apologetic look on Dustin's face would be enough to make it all good, but it isn't. Not as long as he still has the look in Eddie's eyes when he drove away burnt on his retina.

'I'm sorry, Steve.' And with slumped shoulders, Dustin turns around and trudges towards the bike racks.

Update: you can read pt2 here

[urhoneycombwitch]

foreword: have u ever had a buddy so good you jack off with him <3 roommate!Eddie x reader fic for ya. 

cw: drug mention, R wears a bra, has breasts (implied to be large enough to “spill”) + V, no pronouns used only petnames, nipple play, R is queer (talks about Molly Ringwald in a sexual nature <3), praise kink, mutual masturbation, but as friends, we’re all normal here okay, we Do Not talk about our hidden feelings in this one soz

wc: 2.3k

___

An unfortunate shift of the pillows supporting your body pulls you from the depths of sleep, consciousness surfacing, breaching with a soft huffy groan. 

Waking up on a normal day is hard enough. Waking from a good dream, one where someone’s head was between your legs and everything was swelling lush with heat? Now that’s torture. 

You burrow the cold side of your face under the covers, eyes still screwed shut in defiance of being awoken before the dream could pay off. There’s a heartbeat pounding near the apex of your thighs; with one leg stretched out and the other draped around the curve of your body pillow, your hips roll forward automatically, seeking friction.

The soaked front of your underwear drags against the pillow’s seam, catching your clit on the next glide of your hips. Another soft moan, breath fanning from your parted lips. If you can stay in this grey area of sleep and waking, maybe the horniness will swallow your mind back to the dream…

When someone’s hand brushes your bare shoulder, your movements freeze. Goosebumps prickling in the palm-owner’s wake, you blink against the morning light pouring in through your bedroom window and try to orient yourself.

Your head is nestled in the curve of someone’s neck, left arm tucked secure around their chest. Leg hitched over their waist, cotton boxers band digging at the plush of your thigh- something else solid and warm trapped against their stomach.

A snuffle from your human body pillow, and the waking world hits you sideways, all at once- Eddie. You’d fallen asleep with Eddie last night, after helping him play-test a new hybrid strain and dancing to records all evening, until you both collapsed in a heap of giggles. In your bed. 

Which means that you’ve been humping Eddie’s leg in your sleep. And the thick length trapped under your thigh belongs to him, too. 

Before you can even fully process or think up an escape plan holding the least amount of embarrassment for you both, Eddie’s stretching the arm that isn’t cupping your shoulder up and out with a long yawn. 

His hips shift, pressing himself into your leg unintentionally, and you can feel the moan that rumbles through his body- at your ear, vibrating under your hand on his bare chest. Eddie mumbles something incoherent and sleep-addled, pulling you in closer, nosing at the crown of your head.

“Uh-” your voice comes out half-squeak, half-croak, not fully pushing off Eddie but keeping your frame tight enough to roll away at a moment’s notice. “H-hey.”

Eddie’s palm smooths down the plane of your upper back, stopping at the wide band of your bra. He makes another noise, this time a bit less sleepy- and then he, too, freezes, all those points of contact along the length of your own body stiffening, muscles tensed with realization. 

“Oh, fuck. Shit.”

Eddie’s voice is like rocks on pavement, three shades of gravelly, really not helping your whole ‘wet as a river’ situation, one that he can probably feel leaking onto his bare leg at this point. He doesn’t immediately roll away, though; he remains in that freeze-mode, tense and poised, holding you against the span of his side still.

Well. As frozen as one can be with a throbbing case of morning wood.

“I guess we… fell asleep,” you say, carefully, adopting the same cat-like stillness, the pause before a big leap. “Sorry-”

“You’re sorry? I’m sorry. Jesus.” Eddie uses the hand that’s not cradling your shoulder to scrub down his face. This close, nestled into his neck, you can feel his loose hair tickling your cheek, the light scratch of his day-old stubble against your forehead when he speaks. “I’m gonna… go take care of this. And then maybe. Breakfast? Christ. Can’t think. All my blood’s elsewhere right now.”

You breathe a chuckle. His arm is still wrapped around you. 

“Yeah. Okay. Or you could just- take care of it. Here, I mean. With me.”

Eddie’s breath stops, actually stops, then stutters back into steady rhythm under your hand. “...yeah?”

He sounds unsure but curious, excitement bleeding into the edges of that one word as your thumb sweeps across the spot where his ribcage meets. “Yeah. Be doing me a favor, too- I was kind of in the middle of a… a good dream. Prob’ly me that woke you up, anyways.”

Eddie’s hand drops from your shoulder, slithers back to his own space, disrupting your head rest briefly- until you realize he’s doing it to make enough room for you both to stretch out flat (on your mattress that was barely designed for one full-grown person). 

“A good dream,” Eddie parrots, as you both re-situate under the thin cover of your floral-patterned top sheet. Shoulder to shoulder, skimming the heat from each other’s bare skin as you stare resolutely at the ceiling, there’s a frizzy mass of black hair in your periphery. A hint of a smile in Eddie’s voice as he asks, “What were you dreamin’ about?”

You can feel the rippling shift of his bicep as his arm moves, hand sliding unseen beneath the sheets- a sharp inhale as his hand finds purchase over the bulge in his boxers. 

In response, your own hand follows the contoured path to the spot below your navel, toying with the band of your panties before slipping underneath. Cupping yourself, feeling the heated slick coat your fingers before dragging it back up to rest your middle against the beating pulse of your clit- “Ah- um. Was dreamin’ about. Uh. Molly Ringwald.”

A few days from your latest John Hughes marathon, it’s the first feasible famous person that comes to mind. Luckily, Eddie just laughs, in a stilted gasp when his fist finds his aching cock- “Oh, fuck- yeah? Redheads do it for you these days?”

“Uh huh.” Maybe if you keep the focus on someone else, you’ll both be able to come out of this event unscathed. Walk away with your hands clean- er. Well. Nope. 

A better analogy is gonna have to wait, because your abdomen’s tightening with each pass of your wet finger over your clit, pleasure licking and sparking, the usual slow-build to orgasm forming with shocking rapidity.

“What was she doing?” Eddie, sounding strained and strung-out already (really makes you wonder how long you’d actually been using each other, in sleep, grinding and working the other person up), hand moving in long strokes- “In your dream, I mean. Licking you out? Did she use fingers?”

It’s not like you haven’t heard Eddie’s dirty talk before- in fact, you helped cultivate it, years ago when he was nervous for a third date and wanted some advice. You’ve coached him on sex techniques, he’s given his own expertise, you’ve both appraised the other's nudes, for christ’s sake- this is just a natural extension of your friendship. Your closeness. 

Eddie’s feeling awfully close, now, his arm bumping against yours with each pass of his fist over his dick, your leg periodically grazing the downy hair of his shin as your hips jolt upwards, into the electricity stemming from the pad of your finger. 

Choking on your words around a bright surge of pleasure- “Y- yeah. Her mouth. Fingers. All of it.”

“Fuck.” Eddie’s form lurches, doing a half-crunch forwards- risking a glance, you catch a glimpse of the sweat beading at his temples, the dark slant of his brow in concentration, jaw working through the grit of his teeth- “Why don’t you use some fingers, then.”

Like he’s got you under some sort of command spell (because you’re not touching the alternatives with a ten-foot pole), you obey, middle and ring fingers curling into the tight channel of your cunt. There’s a spot you hit on your front wall, gummy and responsive, muscles reacting on instinct by contracting and spasming around your fingers.

You’re close already, panting, head tipped back against the bottom sheet, neck bared, eyes squeezing shut at the wave of pleasure that begins to pulse insistently. “I’m- fuck, Eddie. Keep talking, please-”

“So good,” Eddie says, almost funny in how quick he is to interrupt your pleading. “So good for me. Sound so wet, too, bet you’re soaking…”

You are, in fact, rivulets of slick joining into one just under the globes of your ass, cooling and sticky, a bit uncomfortable but since it’s laundry day and you feel this good you can’t really bring yourself to care.

A half-gasp whimper as you writhe your pelvis up, again, chasing that edge, tantalizingly close, the wet noises from your weeping cunt and plunging fingers spurring Eddie on.

“That’s it, baby.” He’s encouraging even in his own heady fog of pleasure (must’ve had a good sex-talk coach), voice low and rough at your ear as he drops his chin to get closer. “Tell me what you need, hm? Lemme get you there.”

“Need you- you, to…” Frustrated by your lack of breath, in lieu of communicating with words you slide your fingers from yourself, seeking Eddie’s hand before you can overthink the action. You leave a trail of slick against his hip bone, and Eddie releases himself to give you his hand- moaning, cock twitching, as you coat your own heated wetness over his dry palm. 

This time, when you both get your hands back on yourselves, it’s with a tandem whine, Eddie’s ending with a hiss through teeth- “Fuck. Fuck, yes. So wet. So good.”

“Yeah?” Like you never left, your pussy molds easily to the shape of your three fingers again. Your other hand leaves your side to paw at your clothed breast, nipples peaking through the lace. “I gotta- I’m gonna take my bra off. Please.”

You don’t actually wait for permission, but Eddie gives it anyways as you slide the cups down, babbling encouragement- “Shit, sweetheart, yeah. Whatever you gotta do. So good for me, tellin’ me what you need. Good job.”

One day, you’re gonna regret telling Eddie you get off on praise, but not today; with one nipple pinched firmly between thumb and forefinger, your other breast spills to the side, resting against Eddie’s upper arm.

He groans, from his toes, fist slipping over his cock with ease thanks to your contribution. The sounds filling your small room are obscene, sex-dipped moans and glossy wet hand movements all reaching a crescendo as both your hips jerk up at the same time.

Keeping the same pace against your clit as Eddie’s keeping on his dick, the spark of pleasure has turned into a roar that swims up to your ears, a white-out of an orgasm fast approaching each time the heel of your palm slams into your clit. 

“Eddie- jesus, Eddie- Eddie Eddie Eddie-”

You’d feel sheepish about how desperate you sound if Eddie wasn’t matching your energy two-fold. His lanky frame thrashes when your speech devolves into a repetition of his name, keening as his fist staves off tipping over the edge with a tight ring at the base of his cock- “That’s it, baby, y’can do it, angel. Come on. Come with me. Please, please-”

With a final cruel twist to your breast, you come undone, orgasm spooling heat throughout your whole system, Eddie’s name unraveling in a long cry. Eddie follows you, fucking up into his fist, ropes of cum shooting to the top of the sheets tent he’d made, hunching against the spasms crawling up his abdomen. 

You ride the last of your orgasm out on the stretch of three fingers, releasing your nipple when the pressure turns to a twinge of pain. Under the covers, your bare chest heaves around the stretched elastic band of your shoved-down bra; with shaky, uncoordinated hands, you reach behind and beneath yourself to undo the hooks, flinging the offending clothing in the general direction of your hamper.

Eddie chuckles, breathless, bellows of his ribs nudging your forearm as he sinks back into his (your) pillow. “Christ. Good thing it’s laundry day.”

There’s no room for shame, no ounce of you that wants to dwell on what this could mean, right now- although there’ll be plenty of time for that later. As it stands, you’re both swathed in a quiet, post-sex bliss, neither wanting to disturb the peace. 

In a dreamy haze, you take note of little things- the drag of Eddie’s pinky against the back of your hand. The glint of his rings stored in a neat line atop your nearby dresser. A block of mid-morning sunshine from the window cast over the bed, prickling at your legs with warmth.

After a few minutes of this, Eddie sits up, mumbling apologies when you snatch the sheets to keep yourself covered. “You want first shower?”

He looks at you over his shoulder, down the lovely arc of his nose, brown eyes tender and staying on you for a beat too long. Squirming under his gaze, you find anywhere else to look (other than the pale slope of his back, smattered and dotted with freckles), shaking your head. “Nope. All yours.”

You flick your interest back to the ceiling as Eddie pulls up his boxers, grimacing at the mess he’s made of your sheets; before leaving, he bends to scoop up your tossed bra, snapping his own underwear to emphasize- “I’ll start this load before showering, then I’ll come back for your bedding.”

At your nod, Eddie leaves to clank around in the laundry closet; then there’s a rusty squeak of the shower handle, a subsequent rush of water, and Eddie’s pleasant husky humming floats down the hall through the open doors. 

You roll onto your front with a contented sigh, burying your nose in the pillow Eddie was just lying on- it smells like him, now, smoky and spicy and familiar. 

You spend the rest of his shower time coming up with a good excuse to save this pillowcase from being washed.

[fourmoony]

𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬

remus lupin x f!reader

smut. p in v. creampie. unprotected sex. fingering. sex with a friend. language. 18+ content minors DNI.

3.2k - masterlist

summary - reader can't sleep. remus helps out. not with warm milk, though.

i'm supposed to be working on an assignment for college. but remus lupin is taking up space in my brain. so, enjoy :)

-

The air feels stuffy, too hot against your slick skin.

You blow a breath out in frustration, a piece of hair stuck to your forehead refusing to budge and you groan. The house is silent apart from the droning on of the electronic device between your legs that does little to abate the feeling clawing at your insides and it only makes you more frustrated. The lights in your bedroom are turned off, the world outside asleep. Everyone apart from you. You’ve spent two hours tossing and turning, and a further half hour trying to cure the ache between your legs.

It’s futile. You’ve tried everything. Every speed your overly expensive vibrator has to offer, every position, you even got out the glittery pink dildo Marlene got you for Secret Santa the previous year, leaving it out to the side after coming to the heart-breaking decision that it simply wasn’t big enough.

You feel like nothing will be big enough. Nothing feels right, nothing feels good enough, nothing is even close to tipping you over the edge. You shift, further to the left, and whine again, pressing the vibrator to a higher speed. It moves as you press the button, and the feeling of closeness is gone just like that. You growl, pushing the blankets off in a fit of rage and choose to stare at the ceiling in defeat. It’s not going to happen. You should just accept that. But you’re worked up, horny, and too fucking clammy.

The flat is quiet. Remus is asleep – the only reason you’re so nonchalant about the noise of your vibrator still buzzing against the mattress next to you, taunting you. You reach to turn it off, sitting up and putting your hair into a makeshift bun. You stare with narrowed eyes at the shadowed outline of the sparkly pink atrocity of a Secret Santa gift. It was given as a joke to make you blush. Your friends like to tease you for your innocence. It’s not something you ever would have bought for yourself. You’d blushed furiously and everyone laughed. It was addictive for the first few weeks, being able to explore your own pleasure. But now. Now, it doesn’t feel enough. Doesn’t feel as good. As big. As filling.

It’s a quick thought, a fleeting thought. A memory that makes your cheeks flush and your eyes close in embarrassment. Remus, fresh out of the shower, two seconds away from closing the towel around his waist. He hadn’t locked the door. It was an accident. You hadn’t meant to walk in on him. You’d been half asleep, bursting for a pee, and he hadn’t locked the door. Even worse, you hadn’t meant to look. But he was wide eyed and frozen, and your fight or flight had you trying to assess every part of the situation. And his nakedness was a large part of the situation.

You’re not proud of it. But you’d looked. And you liked what you saw.

And now.

Well, now, you can’t stop thinking about it. About Remus. Kind Remus who makes you tea on cold mornings, puts your pyjamas in the dryer for you when you get out of the shower, who cooks you dinner and leaves it in the oven when you work the late shift at the café down the road. He’s kind and attentive and always there to lend a helping hand. You feel silly as you clamber off your bed, knowing there’s a high likelihood that Remus will tell you you’ve taken his kindness to its boundaries.

Your feet pad quietly down the hallway of your shared flat. The under counter lights in the open plan kitchen at the end of the hall illuminate the space enough to see. Remus’ door is closed, but you twist the handle and push, wincing when it lets out an annoying squeal. Remus rouses at the sound, squinting sleepily at you as he turns. He lets out a breath, sits up on his elbow and pulls back his blanket to offer you the space beside him.

It’s not the first time you’ve climbed into bed with Remus, but you still shift nervously on your feet, biting at your lip.

“You okay, love?” Remus asks, voice deep and croaky.

It makes you flustered in your reply. Voice quiet, unsure, “Can’t sleep.”

Remus nods, reiterates pulling back the blanket to make room for you. You cross one leg over the other in front of you, fiddling with the metal daisy chain ring on your middle finger. Remus got you it when you got into university last year. It’s your favourite piece of jewellery you own, overpriced tennis bracelet from your overcompensating parents be damned. He catches your nervous tic and his eyes narrow, his head tilts, messy hair flopping sideways with the movement. There’s a slight stubble on his chin from running late this morning and skipping his daily shave and he’s sans pyjama top, having clearly also felt the heat.

He sits up fully and the blanket pools around his waist. His skin glows in the low light of the moon through the window beside his bed. He’s beautiful. This you’ve always known. Now, it’s tenfold because you’ve seen all of him. And all of him is what you want, in this moment. Your face is flames as you edge closer until you’re hovering beside his bed.

“Have you tried warm milk?” Remus asks, his voice almost teasing.

“Don’t want warm milk.” You pout.

There’s something about the way he’s looking at you, trying to sus you out. He knows. He must know something. You’re hardly being subtle. Remus’ lips twitch in a smile when you squeeze your legs together in front of you, again, lip between your teeth, eyes watery.

“What do you want?” He asks, voice breathy.

He wants you to say it. But you can’t. You won’t.

“Rem, please,” You whine, “I’ve tried everything.”

His hand reaches for yours, pulls you until you’re straddling him. His lips are a centimetre from yours, hot breath fanning out over your mouth. You press down hard against him, lips pouted. He doesn’t let up, just raises his eyebrows. A question. What have you tried?

“I couldn’t get the angle right with my vibrator,” You whisper, cheeks bright red and warm to the touch, where Remus’ thumb is gently rubbing back and forth, fingers cupping your wobbling jaw, “Then the thingy Marlene got me wasn’t-“ You huff.

Remus chuckles softly, endearingly.

“It wasn’t enough.”

Remus smiles, “You want my help?”

You nod eagerly, “Please, Rem.”

He’s on you in a second. Lips and tongue and teeth, so hot and heavy it knocks the breath from you. His hands fist the thin material of your shorts, at your waist and you bend into him, hands running up his sides, over his shoulders, into the hair at the nape of his neck. He’s hard beneath the flannel of his pyjama bottoms. You can feel it against the crease of your thigh. It makes you whine into his mouth, shifting until you’re perfectly aligned over him. His grip focusses on your arse cheeks when you grind down, a bruising grip that you relish in.

His hands push you forward, you pull yourself back. His lips leave yours, trailing along your jaw, down your neck. Your head tilts back, panting for breath, lost in the pleasure. Your stomach tightens the harder his grip gets, the harder you press down, the faster you move. You feel like a seedy teenager, dry humping yourself against him. Remus’ teeth nip at your collarbone, only to soothe over it with his tongue. You whine again, making your impatience known, but Remus doesn’t speed up.

He looks up, lips mouthing at the underside of your chin until you tilt your head back up to look at him. His pupils are blown, eyes hooded, lips curved into a sinful smirk.

“So needy.” He mumbles into your lips.

You push down harder in response. Remus grabs your hips, stills you. You pout, doe eyes watery. Remus tuts, shakes his head, “You want my help, we do it my way.”

He shifts until you’re lying beneath him, legs hiked up around his waist. He doesn’t waste time in stripping you. Your shirt, then your shorts, your panties following. He throws them across the room, and they fall into the shadows of his darkened room. You’re glad they’re gone. Your body feels like it’s burning up under his touch, featherlight as he traces the goosebumps across your skin. He presses kisses in the wake of his fingertips, to your collarbones, your chest, the tops of your breasts, your stomach, navel.

His lips are warm, wet, pressing kisses to the insides of your thighs. You’re high strung, keening, and needy. He comes back to face level, and you grumble, deep in your throat. So close. He was so close to where you need him. He’s smug. You’re about to protest when he slides a finger into you. Your mouth opens, head pushing back into the pillow. His fingers are long, but slender, and it’s not long before he adds another. Your back arches, eyes closing. The minute you close your eyes, Remus stops. You look up, furious, to find him smirking something evil down at you.

“Eyes on me, pretty girl.” He whispers, nose bumping yours.

You comply. Remus resumes, fingers pumping steadily in and out. When he’s knuckle deep, he curls them and your body jerks in response. It’s too much and not enough, a dizzying euphoria of Remus’ casual confidence and his skilful fingers. His thumb brushes your clit gently, the bundle of nerves swollen and begging for attention. You moan his name, thighs squeezing against his hips where they’re splayed open. It urges him on, he whispers quiet encouragements – good girl, that’s it sweetheart, you’re so wet for me – and you continue to writhe beneath him.

“Rem,” You gasp, hand encircling the wrist that’s pumping in and out of you, “Need you.”

“Soon,” He promises softly, lips pressing to the swell of your breast, teeth lightly nipping at the skin there, “Want you to come on my fingers first.”

His thumb moves in tighter circles, his fingers curl deeper, move faster. He adds a third, the stretch burns but in the best way. Your jaw opens on its own accord, a string of moans emitting from your throat, and you arch into Remus. His eyes meet yours, blazing with lust.

“C’mon, baby,” He urges, voice sinfully deep, demanding. “Come for me.”

You clench around his fingers, and he groans as you gush around his hand, voice high pitched, your grip on his shoulders vice like. He’s surprised you don’t snap in two with how high your back arches. His fingers pump you through the rush in your veins, his quiet reassurances blacked out by the sound of blood rushing to your ears. Your head spins and you see white as the orgasm you’ve been chasing for what must be hours by now crashes over you. You babble nonsense, buck against Remus’ fingers, mouth open, eyes wide, back arched and head pushed violently into the pillow beneath you.

Remus hovers over you when your breathing evens, eye’s a little less clouded, and his usual concerned look on his face. You smile dopily up at him, eyes bright.

“Good?” He asks.

It’s a double ended question – you good? Was that good?

You nod.

“More.” You whine, attempting to pull him closer with your legs around his waist.

“You’re insatiable.” He laughs lightly, head bending down to peck your smiling lips gently.

You nod in agreement, head tilted as you look up at him, “I’m blaming you.”

“Of course.” Remus nods, placating you.

He shimmies his pyjamas off, kicks them off the end of the bed, and comes back to crowd your space, again. Hard, he’s much bigger than you saw from Shower-Gate. Your mouth waters as his hand wraps around his dick, pumping a few times before looking back to you. His face softens when he notices your lip trapped between your teeth.

“Baby?” He questions and you soften.

“That’s,” You sigh, embarrassed, “That’s not going to fit, Rem.”

Remus laughs, the apples of his cheeks rounding out, his teeth appearing from behind his lips. His head hangs over your shoulder and you hide in his hair, mortified. The hand that isn’t supporting his weight runs softly up and down your thigh. You groan to show your mortification, heels digging into Remus’ tail bone to try kill his laughter.

“Rem,” You protest, letting a chuckle of your own slip.

Remus looks up, eyes soft, lips pressed together to stop his laughter, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, pretty girl. I’m not laughing at you. No one’s ever said that before, you just caught me by surprise.”

You giggle, squeezing his waist with your thighs, “They’ve definitely thought it.”

Remus shakes his head, “We don’t have to.”

It’s your turn to shake your head, “I want to. I really want to.”

He smiles, leans in to kiss you. When he pulls away to pump himself again, you let out a low breath. He brushes the tip against your folds, wet and puffy, a couple times before he pushes in slowly. He groans, you moan. You’re tight, fitting around him like perfection. He goes slow until he’s buried to the hilt. You allow yourself to get used to the feeling, whimpering softly when his thumb comes to circle your clit again, working you up.

“That’s it, baby,” He speaks softly, so softly, and you moan.

He pulls back, pushes back in. Takes it slow. Allows you to adjust.

But it’s not enough. You need more. You need the raw pent-up aggression you’ve seen Remus show pervs at bars when they touch you inappropriately. You need angry Remus, who threw a book at the mantle place when your parents missed another birthday. You need the Remus who tries so hard to hide the aggressive side of him but can never fully rid himself of his primal urges, of that white hot fury and determination.

“More,” You breathe, “Faster. Harder. I need more, Rem. Please.”

You’re babbling, begging. But Remus complies. He snaps his hips forward and you all but scream. He groans, breath hot and heavy against your neck. He’s attentive, hips attacking your pelvis. His wooden headboard slams against the wall, your hand reaching up to hold on and stop you from sliding further up the bed. An arm wraps around your waist, pulling you up, closer to him. He feels deeper at the new angle, hips battering into yours. He’s relentless, hitting every spot you need.

You’re babbling nonsense, but so is Remus. Words of encouragement, words that tell you how good you’re taking all of him, how tight you are, how perfect you are. You’re meeting his every thrust, hips grinding against him, the stubble creating friction that tightens the coil in your stomach.

Remus attaches his lips to your shoulder, biting down as he pounds harder against you. You say his name like a mantra, unable to think of anything other than the feeling of him, all over, everywhere, filling, stretching, pounding.

“Rem,” You whine – so close. So, so close – “Come in me.”

Remus’ head snaps up, pupils blown, mouth hung open. He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t falter, “What?”

“Pill. Just,” You gasp when he hits that spot, “Come in me. Please. Wanna feel it.”

Remus moans. Dirty and deep. He fucking moans.

He’s relentless, sweat dripping from his forehead, he releases your waist, hikes your thigh up over his shoulder, you scream. He urges you, tells you sweet things, details how he’s going to fill you up, bites the skin of your calf. His other hand reaches down, draws tight circles that have you seeing stars. You scream his name, loud enough for the entire street to hear, using the leverage on his shoulder to lift your lower back off the bed.

The feeling is dizzying, all consuming. It’s feverish, frantic, a wild chase to the end.

You clench, he hits the right spot, the sting of his teeth on your calf emulates up your leg, the stomach muscles holding you up clench, and he calls you baby, all at the right time. You see white. It feels like your entire body explodes, lights on fire, crashes and burns. You convulse, twitching and screaming, broken words and moans of his names, clenched vice-like around him.

You’re begging. Begging him to follow, to finish in you, even in your pleasure.

You’re still floating, but coherent enough, when Remus grows sloppy, uncoordinated, drops your leg from his shoulder, falls forward, hands at your sides to hold himself up. He jerks, groans, his head falls into your shoulder, and you whine, happily, dopily, when you feel the white-hot spurts of his come against your walls.

He’s breathing heavily, both your bodies slicked with sweat. He drops his weight onto you, and you welcome him happily. Your legs wrap around his lower back, you both wince with the movement. You can feel the slickness between you both, the way he’s dripping out of you. But you’re comfortable, lips pressed to his damp hair. You trace shapes on his back until he comes to, pushing up to press his lips to yours.

The clock on his nightstand reads four in the morning.

He gets up to leave and you whine, “Don’t go.”

Remus chuckles, “Just going to get a warm cloth. Be back.”

You allow him that, grateful he had the idea. You hear him running the tap in the bathroom and he returns with a warm cloth. He’s gentle when he wipes you clear. You wince and flinch, blushing when Remus presses gentle kisses to your thighs as he works. He whispers softly between kisses how pretty you are, how well you did.

He discards the cloth in the wash basket by his door and returns to the bed.

He groans as he settles, holding his arm out for you to fall into him. You do so, swinging a leg over his thighs. It’s then that you realise you’re both still very naked, and your shyness returns. Remus traces shapes on your arm, tucking his head over yours, lips to the crown of your head.

“I can hear your cute little brain running laps, you know.” Remus teases.

You roll your eyes, push your face further into his neck.

“I just came to you in the middle of the night for sex,” the post coital dread sets in tenfold, despite feeling the most relaxed you’ve felt in weeks, “I’m so sorry, Remus.”

You feel Remus shrug, “Don’t fret, sweetheart. I was more than happy to oblige.”

“But-“

“Get some rest, honey. We can talk more tomorrow.” He assures you, pulling the blanket further up your naked bodies.

You concede, pressing a kiss to the underside of his jaw, the stubble tickling your lips, “Okay.”

He pulls you closer, settles in. You allow sleep to wash over you, let the relaxation in your bones pull you under. It’s a dreamless sleep, a comfortable sleep, wrapped in Remus’ arms.

[rosereign]

So my dad used to be an educator/principal and he just helped me make a homeschooling schedule for little. Unlike other little kids her age she will not be going to pre k

[greenteabtch]

in disco elysium the only satisfying ending is helping ur community. It is not satisfying to put away the murderer, an old revolutionary man who is ill and frail and fallen through the cracks of the centrist government, it is not satisfying to be welcomed back into ur old precinct and rejoin the unfeeling hash and grind of your perpetual violence on the side of the trigger puller, it is not satisfying to interrogate and accost the suspects Klassje or Ruby or the Hardie boys and divide them apart when they are just trying to protect their orphaned own, it is NEVER satisfying to always follow Kim’s advice and it is certainly not satisfying to face down ur own personal ghost of idolization worship and perfection. it is not even satisfying to give up on all of this world and return to the primordial muck.

the only good ending in Disco Elysium is finding a home and musical passion for Andre Egg Noid and Acéle where they would have frozen or drowned in the ice, solving the “mystery” of the doomed commercial area and talking about cockatoos with Billie Mejéan, making sure Anette doesn’t have to stand outside in the cold and Plaisance doesn’t lose her daughter while cooking under the pressures of capitalism, learning about Gaston and René’s life long friendships and loves, cheering on Cuno’s fucking Night City of locusts, knowing the Hardie Boys will be checking on the Pigs, waiting on the swing sets and whistling a tune with your friend. Talking long enough with Little Lily that you feel Lamby pressed to your cheek, redeeming Fortress Accident under Soona’s guidance, spitting poetry with Tommy Le Homme and singing your heart out in the Whirling in Rags to a cafeteria full of townspeople who have only one place to gather at the edge of forgotten Revachol.

The worst part about Disco Elysium is being a cop 👉 hands down. It is an examination of many things, but especially what it means to truly change your Community for the better and how that is absolutely impossible as an agent of the status quo.

[awstenlookbook]

For Phem's cheerleader (ft waterparks) music video, Awsten wears Cold World Frozen Goods EVERYTHING IS GREAT tee shirt in white (originally $44, no longer available). *Note other colorways are still available.

Styled by Josh Madden

[bogchampion]

this is either a really cold take or extremely controversial one but i think both pre- and post-war fallout should be weirder about food. sure pre-war we saw a lot of predictable 50's shit like tv dinners and novelty fast/frozen foods coming about, but i also think there was absolutely a continuation of the trend of deranged midcentury foods that cropped up in america. and that should continue in post-war because there's a lot of the same forces at play, except instead of the novelty of new food sources and storage methods, it's a scarcity. and frankly even by the time the bombs were about to drop, it's implied that supply chains were breaking down, rationing was kicking in, and resources were drying up in the states, so even more reason for that to still be culturally rooted down. throwing some of your limited remaining production capacity into making marshmallow fluff so people can continue to make their weird salads as is their god-given right as americans, even as cars run out of fuel and folks riot in the streets. is that anything.

there should be more insane improvisation, making casseroles or salads out of literally whatever you find that's edible. wastelanders figuring out how to make aspic again. combinations that have no business tasting good together but they manage to. sure i am also in favor of people trying to replicate GOOD old world foods and recreate things like seasonings but. more weird cooking

please help there's gotta be at least person in this fandom with historical culinary autism who understands my vision and can elaborate

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

Can you please do a azrielxreader,where she is from winter court and they are mated and elain is jealous and tries to hurt reader and just azriel being protective with lots of fluff?I am begging you

Part II

Never again

Azriel never imagined finding her. It was never meant to happen in his books. Azriel was convinced that he wasn’t built for love. That he was destined to share his bed with females that came and went. They warned him for a night or two and then rushed back to their lovers or found their mates.

But then you had stormed into his life. You two met on frozen river in the winter court. Azriel had noticed you first. Twirling around the ice like a snowflake. The air seemed to seize at the power you radiated. Never had he seen such a mix of elegance and power. And then your gaze had met his and the world truly had stopped. In the blink of an eye, he knew. Felt it. Deep within him. That it was you. Had always been you.

But Azriel respected your wish to keep it slow. To get to know each other. To not jump head first, to cherish the little blossom of feelings that clicked into place without a word.

So he had dropped most of his priorities in Night court. Had only agreed to do the most necessary of things. Just so he could be making trips back and forth to winter. He was thrilled. For the first time in what felt like forever, Azriel woke with a slight smile on his face. What he failed to notice however was that Elain had grown frustrated with him. Her cunning gaze following Azriel.

And yes, the spymaster had been pinning after her for some time. Azriel had called it helping her adjust. What Elain thought he didn’t know. Never asked. Assuming that she two knew that this would never go anywhere far. But he was wrong. So wrong.

Azriel had brought you for your first-ever proper dinner in the night court. The house of wind had been buzzing from the early hours. Everyone was so happy for him. Happy for you two. But the cold eyes had met you across the room. Sending a shiver down your back, making you instantly hold onto Azriel tighter.

“It’s so good to finally see you”, Rhys had cut in, stepping closer and blocking the view of the girl. “We all had been so excited to meet you, Azriel just turned into a caveman and forgot all his manners”, a light chuckling sounded around at the high lord's words. Azriel let out an annoyed grunt, “You do not need to scare her away with your fussing”. More laughter echoed.

Your eyes darted to your lover. His shoulders weren’t tight there wasn’t a sight of worry. Meaning that you were imagining things. “It’s truly an honor to finally meet you all”, you smiled at the happy face in front of you. “Now would be a part where you say he told you so much about us but it’s Azriel, so…”, Cassian chirped, making you chuckle as Azriel launched forward to pull his brother in a headlock. “Welcome to the family”, Feyre linked your arms through hers, leading you closer to the table.

The night had been nothing but beautiful. Getting to know Azriel’s family was lovely. You leaned back, pressing a kiss to your lover's neck before muttering, “I’ll go to the restroom”, Azriel turned to you, “Want me to go with you?”, he was already pushing back his chair, “No, silly, I’ve got this. Stay with your family. I won’t be long”, you cupped his cheek. “I already miss you”, he sighed, before flashing you one of his killer's smiles.

You had been heading back when you noticed the door to the backside balcony. Your skin instantly itching to feel the cold of the night. There had always been something so special about it. The view of the Velaris only made it more beautiful. You were about to turn back when a hand wrapped around your throat, forcing you forward.

You let out a gasp, grabbing onto the railing for support. “He was mine first”, a voice sounded, one that you hadn’t heard tonight. “I had him, he was in my bed and he was happy”, she hissed, you had turned slightly to see the side of her hair flouting in the wind. The girl with the same cold eyes.

“He’s my mate”, you argued back, trying to push her back, only to feel a sharp end of a blade against your back. “He will be mine soon”, Elain mussed, pulling you closer to the edge, before shoving you forward. You let out a scream, nails digging into the metal. “You were never meant to be here”, she breathed, you could feel your fingers slipping slightly, the black void that looked straight at you made your stomach turn.

“Elain”, a sharp voice cut into her snarling. Her body seized. She must have turned back to see who had come. Then panicked. Shoving you firmly forward as if she was discarding the evidence. You shrieked, legs scraping against the rocks as your body shifted into the free fall. Eyes burning as your lungs emptied with a scream. Azriel. Your mind was full of him. The fear of him having to deal with this. A warm embrace found you next and for a second you were convinced that it was death claiming you, until a familiar scent of your mate filled your soul. Your hands wrap around his shoulder tightly. “I’ve got you”, Azriel muttered, “You’re safe now. No one with harm you”. And you trusted him.

The muffled noise from the balcony found you soon. The screaming. The arguing. “Get Madje”, Azriel cut through it all. “There’s no need”, you muttered under your breath. “Get Madja, she needs to look at YN's leg”, but this time it wasn’t him asking if was a demand, and from the sounds around someone had taken the demand seriously.

“You held me like that once”, that same desperate voice reached you making you flinch. Azriel’s arms only held onto you tighter. “I’m sorry Feyre but she’s going into the dungeons”, was all he had said. A quiet cry followed suit. Before the trashing and filthy remarks filled the air and then it all stopped within seconds. “I’m so sorry”, Azriel breathed, kissing the side of your head. But you didn’t have it in you to even talk about it. The rush of adrenaline that had ripped through you had drained your body fully. So you simply nodded, “Just stay with me”, “Not leaving you for even a second ever again”, he promised, stepping into the warm corridor.

[billyrayjo]

A Night Snowed Inn

Azriel x F!Reader (one bed trope!! EEEEK)

Warnings: fluff, implied smut, angst, hurt/comfort, makes you all tingly inside

Announcement: it’s been a while! I got sucked into some books and haven’t written in a few months, but I’m going to try to start being consistent again!

You wiped at your eyes for the dozenth time of the hour, snow clinging to your eyelashes and clouding your vision.

You and Azriel had been sent on a scouting mission, trudging through the snow for hours now. Your assigned target was a group of enchanted autumn court soldiers, but in the relentless weather you hadn’t even gotten a peak of the crazed men.

Stomping further forward, you tried to step into Azriel’s already sunken tracks, but it seemed that by the time you found your footing, the snow had already filled the once dug-out footprints.

“You good?” sounded from in front of you, the only sound to be heard over the roaring wind and snowfall. Azriel was stopped, turning to look at you over his shoulder. You almost recoiled at how unfazed he seemed, suddenly noticing the chattering of your teeth and numbness of your toes tenfold at his unbothered state.

“Just cold. Nothing serious” you waved off, stubbornly trudging forward another step. You suppressed the violent shivers your body had started half an hour ago, refusing to let the SpyMaster see just how miserable you were.

As you got closer to him, you stretched your foot out for a final step. When it made contact with the ground, instead of the fluffy crunch of snow, a shattering sound met your ears. Suddenly, your foot was no longer supported, sending your leg into a substance so cold it burned your skin at impact.

With nothing to grab onto, your body free fell instantly into the freezing water below the surface. Without so much of an “uh o-”, the world was disappearing from in front of you, your eyes being met with nothing but darkness.

At the shrill of the freezing temperature, the only thing your body could do was tense. You didn’t kick, didn’t scream, didn’t fight, it’s like every muscle went into immediate shutdown and numbness. You vaguely felt the feeling of something under your arms before you were surged back up to the land of the breathing.

Something was touching your face. At the whirlwind of motion you just went through, your muddled and frozen brain was struggling to keep up with everything going on. You felt the plushness of snow beneath your back, the wind biting at your cold and wet leathers. “Hey. (Y/n). Please, look at me.” echoed above you. After blinking the frost out of your eyes, you came into focus of a stressed Azriel staring down at you.

His hands were gently brushing up and down your arms as your body involuntarily convulsed from the cold. “Come on. We need to get you warmed up. Just focus on me, angel.” muttered from his lips, his amber gaze still taking in your figure from head to toe, assessing for injuries.

With Azriel’s help, you stiffly rose to your feet after another 30 seconds of examination. Once he deemed you okay to walk, he assisted you into a standing position before wrapping your arm around his neck and trekking forward. “There’s an inn close by we can stay in for the night. It’s just a few miles ahead.” He reassured into your ear, free hand still rubbing up and down your arm for warmth.

After what felt like hours of hobbling, twinkling lights and the smoke from a fireplace appeared in the distance. At the sight, you unwillingly let out a sigh, but with the current situation you realized it came out as more of a whimper. “I know. I know. We’re almost there I promise.” Azriel all but whispered, his free arm coming down to scoop up your legs, taking your body fully into his embrace.

“I’m okay, Az. I can walk” you whispered, teeth chattering so much it sounded like more of a stutter. “You just fell into a frozen lake in the dead of winter. I’m allowed to mother hen for a moment.” he rebuttled, sharp eyes catching yours in a no-nonsense gaze. You couldn’t help the small smile pulling on your lips, Azriel’s eyes taking it in until his lip was lifting slightly as well, pulling out that crease in his cheek you adored.

“Your lips are blue.” he stated, almost to himself as his eyes landed back on your mouth. At the admission, it seemed as if something clicked in him, his head turning and body surging forward once again. With nothing else to do, you lowered your head onto his shoulder and allowed your eyes to close for the remainder of the trip.

When shuffling and the muffled sound of a door closing filled your ears, you slowly raised your head to take in your surroundings. You were still in Azriel’s arms, stood in the middle of a small room. The room was dull, old wooden floors and ancient wallpaper adorning every surface. There was a small dresser, an armoire, a nightstand with a small lamp adorning it, and a very uncomfortable looking bed pushed into the corner.

While it wasn’t extremely inviting, you felt the weight of the world ease off of your shoulders when your eyes caught the hearth of a fireplace across from the bed. Gently rubbing your eyes, you felt Azriel release your legs and set you gently on the floor, his arms staying wrapped around you for assurance before releasing you entirely.

“Let me get the fire started so we can get you warmed up.” he muttered, already set in his task. Your cold fingers started working nimbly at the buttons of your leathers, fighting with each one much harder than you would have if your fingers were behaving properly. You cursed yourself as you failed at the second button, frustrated tears forming in your eyes as your fingers slipped off of the cool metal for the third time.

Right as you went to try again, a warm, textured hand gently laid over yours. “Let me” came from his lips in a whisper, his hand gently pulling yours away from the cursed contraption before he got to work. He slowly undid each button, looking up into your eyes as he worked.

“Would you like me to run you a bath before you change into dry clothes?” he asked, eyes bouncing from your own back down to the buttons repeatedly. You nodded your head eagerly, almost moaning at the thought of sitting in water warmer than -12°.

Once you were freed from the confines of your frozen tunic, Azriel helped you slip off your pants, leaving you in an undershirt and pants that were also frozen. After laying your leathers to dry on the dresser, he made his way to the bathroom.

Instead of feeling useless, you decided to tend to the fire while Azriel was preoccupied. Crouching in front of the hearth, you used the metal poker to stab and adjust the logs to your liking, ignoring the shooting pain in your legs at the squat you were maintaining.

After you were satisfied with the logs, you dropped the poker and wrapped your arms around your knees, resting your head atop them and soaking in the warmth from the flames. After a few seconds of silence, you heard Azriel’s footsteps approaching from behind.

His hand came down to rest on your back, his own legs bringing him into a squat beside you. “The bath is ready. I laid out some clothes for you on the sink.”. You slowly pried your eyes open, taking in his appearance slowly from underneath your lashes. His hand began absentmindedly rubbing up and down on your back soothingly, his soft gaze maintaining your stare.

“Aren’t you cold too?” you muttered, words muffled by your arm pressing into your lips. Azriel’s fingers came up to gently push a strand of hair behind your ear as a soft smile grazed his features once again. “I’ll be okay.” he whispered, grabbing your hands and pulling you to stand once more. “Yell for me if you need anything. I’ll be right here.” passing his lips as he walked you to the bathroom door.

Once in the safety of the bathroom, you felt a warm blush spread over your cheeks. While you undressed, you couldn’t help but let your mind wander to Azriel and his sudden protectiveness of you.

You had been friends with the shadowsinger for years, close enough to share sleepless nights together and find comfort in each other’s presence. While it was mainly a platonic relationship, you sometimes felt a twinge in your heart or an increase in your pulse when he would cuddle up to you. It wasn’t rare for him to seek you out after a long mission and rest in the comfort of your embrace. That’s what friends were for though, right?

As your final piece of wet clothing thudded onto the floor, you dipped your foot into the warm water with a sigh. Azriel had somehow found a bottle of bath oils and dumped them in with the running water, leaving a calming earthy scent wafting throughout the room. As you lowered yourself in, you couldn’t help but let out a groan at the warmth encasing you.

You stayed until the water got lukewarm, scrubbing and relaxing to your hearts content. Once you declared your spa night over, you lifted yourself up, albeit ungracefully, and wrapped yourself in a towel. Reaching for the clothes on the counter, you noticed your usual nightly attire replaced by a large t-shirt with cutouts in the back and some undies.

Back home, Azriel would often slip you one of his t-shirts whenever you complained about how uncomfortable your attire was to sleep in. It seemed like every week he would suddenly have a pile of clothes he no longer wore, coming to your room to drop off his “donations” with a soft smile and a teasing smirk. It didn’t pass on you that each one smelled more and more like him, rising confusion into just howww old each round of t-shirts was. You felt a giddy feeling ignite in your chest at the thoughtfulness of him laying one out for you.

Emerging from the bathroom, you suddenly felt the nerves of wearing so little in Azriel’s presence. Sure, he had seen you in this exact outfit hundreds of times over the years, but something about being in the small confines of the inn made it feel different. Almost like your teenage boyfriend seeing you in your swimsuit for the first time.

You padded lightly over to the fire, Azriel’s head snapping in your direction as you made your way towards him. While you felt a million times better, there was one small issue. You couldn’t clasp the buttons on the back of the shirt. Having a shirt made for Illyrian wings meant two gaping holes in the back, requiring multiple buttons to be clasped for each one to remain closed.

Turning around in front of Azriel, you pulled your damp hair over your shoulder to offer him your back, mewing out a weak “button me?” as you stilled. Gently, his large hands came to rest on the open fabric, pulling and buttoning each one slowly.

“Do you feel any better?” he asked, voice muffled by the concentration he held over the buttons. A wave of shivers went up your spine when his hand brushed the bare skin of your back, an uncontrollable goosebump breaking out in the open space. With a nervous giggle, you squirmed a little at the feeling, a small “so much better” leaving your lips in a sigh.

Once he was satisfied, Azriel gently gripped your wrist and turned you to him. Unbeknownst to you, he had taken the time you spent in the restroom to change, dry himself off, and even heat up some of the soup he had brought in his pack. He wore a simple black t-shirt, tattoos peaking out from the collar, with gray sweatpants. You felt your mouth water slightly at the sight of his shirt stretching over his taught shoulders, choosing to keep your gaze on his face instead.

Pushing down the blush forming on your cheeks, you prayed to the mother Azriel hadn’t caught your ogling, but the small smirk on his face crushed some of that hope. Without warning, he pulled you forward by your wrist, dragging you down into his lap. Your legs rested across his thighs, dangling on his other side, and your arms involuntarily wrapped around his neck. Almost like an instinct.

Azriel wrapped himself around you, one arm coming around your lower back while the other grabbed the back of your head gently, pulling you into him as he buried his face in your neck. You felt him take a deep inhale, his shoulders relaxing under your grip, before he muttered out an “I thought I lost you today.” against the skin of your shoulder. You let your eyes close and your body relax, pushing your face further into his collar like he did yours. An overwhelming scent of pinewood and man invaded your senses, immediately relaxing you and making you crave more.

“I’m sorry Azzie” you whispered, tightening your grip around his shoulders. “I should have paid more attention to where I was stepping.” following your confession as you slowly pulled back to meet his gaze. His eyes immediately found yours, amber glowing in the firelight as they took in your small, apologetic smile. His gaze searched your face for what felt like centuries, eyes catching on your mouth as you unknowingly bit down on your lip before his brows furrowed and a frustrated look took over his features.

“I-uh. I’m going to go get some water.” he rushed out, gently pushing you off of him and standing, leaving you with a pang in your chest. You watched his figure retreat to the door, brows furrowed and silent curiosity taking over when he didn’t even look back at you before he walked out, closing the door behind him.

After slurping down the rest of your soup, your eyes started to close tiredly as you sat patiently on the bed for Azriel’s return. He had only been gone for half an hour, but something in your chest was aching at his absence. Had you done something? Said something? You had been racking your brain endlessly for any hint as to what his distaste could be from, but were coming up empty.

Feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on, you grabbed a pillow and small blanket from the bed before setting up your spot on the floor. Mother forgive if Azriel couldn’t even look at you and you forced him into sharing a bed. He had to be just as exhausted as you, and rather than face the awkward encounter when he returned, you decided to make the decision for the both of you.

Tucking yourself into the thin blanket, you laid your head on the pillow and closed your eyes. The only sounds in the room were the occasional dripping of the bathroom sink, and the cracking of the fire in the hearth. If you hadn’t have been so in your head, it would have been oddly relaxing. Well, relaxing for having your hip stabbing into the hardwood…

Somehow, sleep took over you, the crackling and dripping dwindling into silence as your body fully relaxed into the darkness. It felt like you had only dozed off for a few moments when you heard the door shut quietly on the other side of the room. You had laid out your palette in front of the fireplace, so whoever entered got a good look at your back upon entering the room.

Deciding you didn’t want to face the impending awkwardness, you remained still with your back turned to the door as you tried to listen for Azriel’s movements. He stepped a few feet into the room before you heard his footsteps pause, a quiet “Oh, angel.” coming from him before his footsteps resumed. You heard his footsteps carry over to the nightstand, something sounding like glass being sat atop of it, before he was on the move again.

Realizing he was coming towards you, you quickly shut your eyes and relaxed your features into the likes of sleeping. You knew it was childish, but you had no idea what to say after Azriel’s obvious discomfort. Maybe he would assume you were asleep and leave you be, everything going back to normal once the sun was shining and everyone was fully rested.

Those prayers were squashed when you felt his footsteps come right behind you, a thud escaping from the sound of his knees meeting the hardwood. He gently rolled you onto your back, his hands being as gentle as always with grabbing your shoulder and waist to assist him. Now that he was moving you, there was no way you could fake sleep without it being obvious, so you slowly peeled your eyes open to look up at him.

His gaze was saddened as he took in your features, his hand coming to rest on your cheek as his brows furrowed, leaving a crease between his brows. You blinked a few times to clear the fog, eyebrows raising in question as he stared down at you. “Why are you on the floor, angel?” he whispered, finger grazing your cheek gently as he awaited your reply.

You took a few seconds to generate a response, teeth taking claim to your lower lip as you weighed out your response. His amber eyes watched your movement for a second before coming back up to meet your own.

“I. I thought you were upset or uncomfortable or- I just. I didn’t want to force you to share a bed with me.” coming out weakly, your voice scratchy and worn from the sudden awaking from your slumber. You felt embarrassed at the admission, slowly tearing your gaze from his to look beside you at the fire.

At the turn of your head, his fingers gently found your chin before making you look up at him. “Force me?” rushed past his lips in an astounded tone, his frown getting even deeper at the thought. “Angel, I don’t give a damn how upset I seem.. Never. Ever. make excuses for me if it affects your well-being.” he demanded, eyes not leaving yours as he continued. “I could never be upset with you, angel. Never” his voice started out strong, but by the end of his sentence his voice came out more strangled than you had ever heard him.

Scrunching your brows in even more confusion, you opened your mouth to reply but couldn’t muster up a reply. When your mouth gently closed again, Azriel began sliding his arms underneath you, quick to scoop you off of the floor.

“Az- wait. It’s fine. I was comfortable.” you rushed out, fighting his grip to go back to your spot on the thin blanket. A scoff left his lips as he rounded the bed, gently sitting you down before turning your chin to him once again. “Gods this is all my fault” he muttered to himself before backing away from you again, going to grab the pillow and blanket off of the floor before returning to your bedside.

He gently ushered you to the other side of the bed, between him and the wall, before tucking you in and making sure you were fully covered. Once he was satisfied, he lowered himself into the bed, covering himself before propping his head on his hand to look at you.

Feeling nervous, you slowly began to roll the opposite way, hating the way his eye contact affected you. His hand shot out to grab your wrist at your movements, gently pulling you back around to face him as he scooted closer to you.

“I’m sorry, angel. I didn’t mean to make you think I was upset with you.” he whispered, a serious concern taking over his features. Both of his hands came out to cup your face, his face so close to yours you could see the flecks of amber in his irises.

You pondered your response for a millisecond, deciding to just be honest. Wrapping your hands around his wrists, you admitted, “It just seemed like you were angry with me by the way you left the room. Its okay. We can just go to bed and talk about it tomorrow.” you offered, a slight smile taking over your lips in reassurance.

Azriel groaned, dropping his forehead to connect with your collarbone before letting out a pained “Fuck, angel. You’re killing me.”. He slowly lifted his gaze back up to you before a saddened look took over his features as he took you in. “You have no idea what you do to me, do you?” brushed past his lips as his thumbs rubbed soothing lines under your eyes.

Feeling a sudden wave of boldness, you let out a weak “show me, then.”, eyes staring deeply into his. You felt your heart rate pick up in anticipation, a flutter raising into your chest at the close proximity. At your words, Azriel let out a deep growl, hands sliding to the back of your head to lace into your hair. He cursed under his breath before exhaling, and the next thing you know his lips were on yours.

Azriel kissed you like a man starved. He craned your neck back for better access, kissing you deeper than before. His tongue invaded your mouth, your hands instinctively coming up to grip his t-shirt, eliciting another growl from him. As his kiss grew more desperate, you clung to him. A small throbbing began in your lower abdomen, a whine being pulled from your lips as Azriel ravished you.

He pulled back from you slightly, growling a quick “you have no idea how long I’ve needed this, baby.” before he pulled you back into him, one of his hands leaving your hair to graze down to your hip. Suddenly, he gripped your thigh, pulling it to rest over his hip before angling you to where he was slightly above you.

You moaned at the feeling of his length pressed against your core, his member already hardened from the short exchange. With a few thrusts of his hips, you were a whining mess, thoughts clouded and lips swollen from the intensity.

Just as he came down to kiss you again, a soft whine sound escaping from his throat as his dick grazed your center again, there was an overwhelming tug in your chest. A tug so tight and so intense it had you gasping at the feeling. Just when you thought your heart was about to explode, an invisible golden string appeared, tying you to the man above you.

“You- you’re. You’re my. My mate?” came from you in a rushed intensity, eyes flying open to meet Azriel’s piercing gaze.

“It’s about time you figured it out, baby.”

THE END. EEEEK I HOPE YOU LIKE

[eilidh-eternal]

Hmmm, how about some Little Red Riding Hood reader and Big Bad wolf-shifter Price???

18+ MDNI | This is a DARK FIC | cw: blood, drowning, predator and prey dynamics

You heard drowning is quick. Painless.

Whoever said that has never drowned before.

In the bleak midwinter, when water turns to stone, the blades beneath your feet find fissures and fractures and carve a place for you in the dark depths beneath the ice.

Falling through ice feels a lot like stepping beyond the warmth of one’s home into the howling, biting wind of a winter storm. It hurts, for a moment, before it numbs you. Right down to the bones. But this is an all encompassing numbness, the kind that seeps through fabric and flesh and bone—that kind that floods burning lungs and creeps into your mind.

Layers of winter garb, thermals, sweater, down coat and jeans, all soak up the frigid water and turn to a leaden weight on your body. You kick, claw at the fading sliver of caustic light, but it slips through your fingers like the rest of the water does—flickers and wavers at the disturbance. A sick parting wave as you sink further and further beyond reach. Beyond saving.

The burning in your lungs from the cold is a thousand times worse when you suck in nothing but water, unable to fight the instinct to draw breath 10 feet below the surface. Thrashing against the frigid clutches of the frozen lake is meaningless. A foolish final attempt to fight for life above the surface, to save yourself from a watery grave.

Another burning breath.

More gelid water to fill your lungs.

Another.

The world grows darker. Maybe it’s because the light at the surface is so, so far away now. Maybe it’s your body succumbing to its fate.

One.

Final.

Breath.

Everything hurts. Glacial waters are good at numbing one’s pain in their final moments, but millions of crystallized frozen droplets feel like they’re slicing into your skin as you cough and splutter, heaving up lungfuls of water and bile. Trying to roll, to wretch onto the frozen ground packed with snow to spare your clothes, is a moot point. You’re already soaked.

The whipping wind off the frozen lake is likely to fuse the fabric to your skin too, and the longer you lay here the quicker frostbite, and hypothermia, will set in. You need to get up. Get up and get moving, or whatever miracle that dragged you from the water will be squandered.

Lifting your head is a monumental effort. It throbs, feels like a ton of bricks, and the cold stiffness that’s settled in your bones creaks and pops as you go, until you can see your bare toes, already turning a dangerous hue in the cold. You linger on that.

Bare feet.

No skates.

No thick wool socks.

An unfamiliar jacket draped over your shivering body like a blanket.

Pushing through the ache in your muscles and the cramping from the cold, you manage to get yourself upright and you quickly pull the collar of the jacket closer to you as a gale of wind barrels into you, plastering wet strands of hair to your face. A shuddering intake of breath fills your nose with the scent of pine and musk. Not the synthetic kind you find concentrated in pretty bottles on a perfumers shelf at the department store. Something wild and incapable of being replicated.

There’s a pile of discarded clothing, a man’s by the look of the enormous boots, flannel shirt and canvas work pants, and tracks in the snow leading away from you into the forest. Wherever they came from, and wherever they’ve gone to, is your best chance at finding warmth.

But wait… Someone had saved you, given you their jacket, stripped, and then left? Maybe they’d stripped down before they’d jumped in, no heavy clothes to weigh them down in the water. They look dry, and that’s motivation enough for you to maneuver stiff, frozen limbs through the snow to get to them.

When you twist to drag yourself closer pain slices from your hip up to your ribs and you suck in a sharp breath that comes out in a strangled moan and a cloud of air in front of your face. Peeling away the jacket reveals the tattered thermal that clings to your skin, grey fabric stained a deep crimson where blood seeps from a gash in your side, dripping onto the snow beneath you.

Fuck. Must have clipped the ice on the way down…

Gritting your teeth against the searing pain that radiates from the wound you manage to reach the clothes, dry by some miracle, and strip down as quickly and carefully as you can. Waterlogged jeans are traded for canvas that still feels warm despite laying in the snow for god knows how long, bloodstained and torn thermal for thick flannel, and you waste little time slipping on the socks and boots, lacing them extra tight. It’s all big, you practically swim in it, but you won’t complain about a little extra fabric to bundle up with inside the similarly large jacket.

Getting to your feet feels like twisting a knife in your side, and you take gasping breaths as you push off your knees, bite down on a whimper when you finally get your feet under you and a fresh wave of pain lances through torn muscle. But you’re up. You have dry clothes.

Someone pulled you out of the water. You’re still here.

Bleeding.

Breathing.

Alive.

Trudging through the snow in boots nearly twice the size of your feet slows you down even more than the shin deep drifts, and you have to stop frequently to take a break, to let the pain subside. Blood has begun to seep into the flannel, fabric clinging to your skin beneath the coat, and it drips, stains the beige fabric at your hips, and splatters onto the snow. A trail of blood left like breadcrumbs as you follow the tracks between towering pines.

It would seem your streak of luck has run its course though. The tracks have vanished, come to an abrupt halt in the middle of the forest.

Panic creeps up on you like a prowling wolf, slinking up your spine and lunging, sinking claws and teeth into your terror-stricken mind.

No, no, no! This was supposed to be your way out, dammit!

You twist around, looking for more tracks in the snow, wincing against the stinging pain in your side, and a scream bubbles up in your throat when you find none.

How the fuck do tracks just disappear?!

Gripped tight by the claws of panic your mind reels with worst case scenarios. Blizzards. Hypothermia. Frostbite. Too busy spiraling to notice the very real threat that stands at your back.

A snarl carries on the wind like a knife, slices through the air and buries itself in your back where the hairs stand on end, every single one from your nape to the tips of your fingers.

A low growl, closer this time, sends a shudder down your spine. But you haven’t come all this way, survived this long, just to tuck tail, curl up and accept defeat. So you steel your spine, ball your hands into fists, and turn to face whatever predator has no doubt followed your crimson trail advertising your weakened state.

A wounded little fawn, separated from its herd. Easy prey.

You may be brave enough to face the thing that’s hunted you down, but it doesn’t stop your eyes from widening, doesn’t stop the fresh wave of panic that courses through your chilled veins and drains the blood from your face, when you’re face to face with the massive fucking wolf ten meters away, golden eyes narrowed with a single-minded focus.

His hunt is over. All that’s left is the killing blow.

Part 2>>>

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[motimatcha]

rings

hazbin hotel Adam x fem!reader. Adam boasts; you think; a little hint of something more at the end.

— Yo, [name] check out what I have, — Adam says enthusiastically, bursting into your shared bedroom.

By the time the angel entered the room, you had just finished changing into your home clothes in the form of a very long and loose shirt, which hid your home shorts. The shirt, by the way, previously belonged to Adam, but he was nice enough to share part of his wardrobe with you.

— Oh, how sweet, apparently someone missed me, — Adam says touchingly, and stars are reflected in his eyes when he pays attention to your appearance.

Taking off the mask from his face and turning his head in different directions, allowing his gray hair to take its natural position, Adam plops down on your bed. He lies in place for a while, allowing himself to stretch out to his full height, until a joint crack and a sigh are heard. And only after that he rises again on his elbows to take his place next to you.

Adam falls silent again, enjoying the silence of the moment and the fact that you both are together again. Your hand falls on his head, closes in his gray hair and twists individual strands around his fingers, prompting the man to blissfully close his eyes and practically fall asleep under your gentle hands. His golden wings flutter from this sensation and he, more instinctively than acting on his own will, covers your body with one of his wings.

Adam puts his hand under your body, you feel something cold, but you prefer not to pay attention to it, thinking that the angel’s hands were simply frozen; Adam’s other hand rests on your stomach, his long fingers tracing circles and patterns on your skin.

— So, what did you want to show me?

— Oh, fuck, that's right. I almost forgot about that, — Adam snaps his head up, causing you to remove your hand from his hair. — Look look.

He shows you the hand that was rubbing your stomach. In the light of the room lamp, you notice that something shines on his fingers and a second later you realize that they are black rings: one on the little finger, two rings on the index finger and one on the thumb — made of black metal, without any inserts or decorations, The rings complemented his rock star look and definitely suited him in his exorcist attire. But it could not be denied that the rings on his long fingers, as if designed for wearing such accessories, looked delicious. And it's hot…

— A gift after the concert from… whatever that bitch’s name was… it doesn’t matter, — the angel explained, taking your long glance as a question. — It’s on the other hand too. By the way, I left you one too.

…you imagined how those ringed fingers would tease your pussy…

— …I’m thinking about getting myself a piercing…

…you imagined how those fingers with rings would clasp your neck, tickling your nerves from the feeling of the coldness of the metal and its hot skin…

— …Maybe I’ll pierce my tongue and put something in my ears.

...you imagined how Adam would plunge his fingers into your mouth, making them suck like the sweetest candy or his dick...

— What do you think, sweetie?

— What?

— Hey, weren’t you fucking listening to me? — Adam asks with offense in his voice and looks into your face. Your gaze is distant, thoughtful, lustful… Adam's lips are distorted into a smirk when he catches the motive of your thoughts. — Oh, baby, I see you like my ideas. And my rings.

Adam’s voice is deceptively gentle, practically purring in your ear as he shifts his position. The man sits down at your bent knees and in one smooth motion pushes your knees to the side to make himself comfortable.

— I think I can give this good girl all my attention.

the idea came into my head after a tik tok video where adam had rings and piercings and now i can't stop thinking about it. Maybe it's time for me to go touch the grass. I don't think the world will collapse if I send you a link to the video.