#he is feeling so exceedingly sorry for HIMSELF

[mzcain27]

My Buffy rewatch/first Angel watch is taking a very long time but I thought I’d update y’all

Xander still fucking sucks

[skitskatdacat63]

okay but Fernando IS kind of napoleon coded the minute I saw that I was like you are so right. is it the demonic short king energy??? what is it???

You guys are not prepared for the deranged Fernando-Napoleon web weaving post I'm inevitably going to make. Or should I say...Nandopoleon Alonsoparte.

No, because seriously there are way too many parallels and similarities, it's kind of insane. I was comparing quotes from s1e1 of Fernando, where his friends/family/himself are basically giving testimonials as to what he's like, to quotes from the personality/image section of Napoleon's wiki....theres so much that's practically verbatim. Just as people, as well as how they chose/choose to present themselves on a greater scale, I think is very similar. Their personality traits, their mindsets, their motivations, their goals and ways they go about obtaining that, all very similar imo.

But please, come and join me and @sweatyflytrap in the Nandopoleon brainrot, it's very disconcerting to me how well it fits!

[anantaru]

DAY 19 — EDGING

kinktober 2023. — masterlist | ao3

𖧡 — including — welt, dan heng

𖧡 — warnings — fem! reader, edging & orgasm denial, dom/sub dynamics, sprinkle of dacryphilia, rough and needy, kinda messy, mean dan heng alert

𖧡 — WELT

welt was evidently aware that he shouldn't torture you with repeatedly robbing your climax from you over and over again, until you sniffle between your moans, your eyes bloodshot and puffy from the intensity of another growing orgasm just dissolving from your aching frame— but you need to understand him, because you were just so sweet, ugh, so innocent and pure that it almost makes him feel bad for your current state.

because in reality, it didn't require welt much of work to form you into a frustrated mess of a person— your wet, warm cunt soaking his length and clamping down on him for the dear life of you, and in secret, it made him feel more wanted, more powerful and it thoroughly stroked his ego when you begged him to continue despite losing yet another blissful satisfaction.

"don't be like that," he mutters as you refuse to meet his gaze, and you unlatch the sobs hidden behind your frustration when he takes the chance to thrust into you again ever so slightly, ever so soft, and only distantly, with barely any strength behind and being aware that you must be exceedingly reactive to his every movements right now.

"look at me," welt whispers, mouthing a wet kiss on your bottom lip before looping one hand around your knee to spread you further apart as he grinds himself closer, even better, drinking in the moans that fell straight in his mouth as your hands tightened their grip on his biceps.

fuck, you just cannot be mad at welt, it's futile, not when he hums appreciatively the moment you accept his gaze, his hips thrusting back and forth as you jolt your little cunt up to match his movements, your clit buzzing with need to be given attention next, whining against his lips as he mumbles once again;

"i'll give it to you this time, i promise."

𖧡 — DAN HENG

"hold on, love, hold on," the expanding warmth of dan heng's weight leaning on top of you was bulging into the puffiness of your cunt as he nibbles on your earlobe, deliciously experiencing how you're spreading yourself for him, "you're not there yet."

your boyfriend seemed to have become utterly maniacal in your eyes and you frustratedly furrow your brows before gnawing back a bubbling moan when he slides himself back inside— dan heng has been playing with you for hours now, so strong and reckless that endless tears had began to form and cling to your lashes as every square of your body felt like someone has set you on fire.

"it hurts," you complain, blinking repeatedly to get rid of the blur before desperately squeezing your hips up at him, as if that would somehow change dan heng's plans for you, "i know, i know," he feigns the sense of understanding you and the perception of actually feeling sorry, "but you're doing so good right now, and you're almost there," and he'd even feel a little guiltier if your whines weren't this delicious to indulge in, not to mention the harsh clamps of your creamy hole constricting around his girth like that, before letting go again and fluttering over the fullness while milking him with your hot, wet warmth.

adding another sharp and calculated thrust, the stretch of dan heng's girth piercing over you was beginning to feel surreal, listlessly holding back the air in your lungs as you cry out at the sudden overstimulation catching your body by surprise as dan heng fucked you silly, the force of his raw drags pressing you into the drenched mattress that your head was beginning to spiral— each rut of his dripping erection beckoning your mouth to gape open in a broken consonance of whines and pitched up moans only for him to drink in.

alas, the man wasn't done with you yet, he might as well just lied to you earlier, and the buzzing ache in his groin wouldn't hold him back on edging your poor, little self as much as possible, not before dan heng would grace you with the most intense, most intoxicating climax you have ever experienced— so you wouldn't be too mad at him afterwards.

©2023 anantaru's kinktober do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[muddyorbsblr]

onyx pt2

See my full list of works here!

Summary: Thor's return to the Compound reveals that your new pet kitten wasn't quite what you thought he was

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: language (it's like 2 cuss words but i'm still not sorry, Rogers); the lightest sprinkle of angst [let me know if i missed anything!]

Things to be aware of: himbo Thor hours

You couldn't believe what you were hearing from Thor. Implying that the sweet tiny kitten on your shoulder was actually the god that wouldn't even spare you a single glance sideways. The one that barely even registered that you existed.

"Thor no. It can't be. This little bub is small and baking biscuits on my cheek. He purrs. He's cat-shaped. Onyx is a cat. He's my cat. And right now you're scaring him being all up in his face like this. I say this with so much love…Thunder? Back the fuck off." Your kitten shivered even harder as he snuggled into your neck, keeping his little face buried in your hair.

"Lady Y/N, I know my brother's eyes anywhere. Especially after he disguised himself as a snake when we were merely eight years old and--"

"Changed back and stabbed you. Bleh it's me. I know the story, Thunder," you finished for him, suddenly exceedingly aware of the weight of maybe-Onyx-maybe-Loki on your shoulder despite the tiny feline frame. "But I'm telling you there's just no way that my cat is--"

You looked into Onyx's eyes and immediately your shoulders dropped, realizing that it wasn't a coincidence that his eyes were a familiar shade of blue. Thor was right; he knew his brother's eyes anywhere. The kitten embraced your face, pressing his nose to your cheek repeatedly.

"Onyx, look at me." He stilled against your cheek, his wide pleading eyes looking into yours with something that looked akin to resignation. "You were hissing at FRIDAY and Shaun about getting chipped because you understood everything we were saying. Am I right?" He didn't move, the pupils in his eyes growing wider and the corners of his eyes starting to fill with tears. "Because you're Loki?"

He took a deep breath, this little chest puffing up with air and suddenly looking significantly less cat-like than he did a minute ago. Onyx -- actually, Loki -- pressed his face to your cheek again, the action now making your breath hitch in the back of your throat. Then finally he nodded,  and the air left your lungs.

You walked over to  your apartment, Thor's heavy footsteps following just behind you, and placed Onyx/Loki on your desk in front of a notepad and a pen. "Talk." He looked up at you again with those wide pleading eyes. "Please," you added, unsure of what to feel now that the last few hours you spent with your newfound pet was being colored with the context of who he actually was.

Too many thoughts, too many questions, floated around your head, nearly overwhelming you, as your last round of pain meds began to wear off and the discomfort you were feeling gradually became a throbbing pulsating sensation throughout your left side.

Most of them revolving around why he acted the way that he did in this tiny form with you, and how long this could have gone on if Thor hadn't revealed his identity within ten seconds of seeing him. The blond god pulled out a chair for you to read along as Loki's green magic surrounded the pen and words began to form on the paper.

I made a misstep while practicing my magic and cast a spell that turned me into this diminutive feline form. I had exited my quarters earlier today to find assistance in retrieving the spell I require to reverse its effects.

"Hold on." The pen stopped mid-stroke, the cat looking at you with your hand held up. "If you can make things move with your mind, why couldn't you just get the spell book--"

"Grimoire," Thor corrected you. "He gets a bit testy when you use the other word."

"Right then, why couldn't you just move the grimoire down and reverse the spell on your own?" The pen lifted again, you and his brother crowding around the paper to read his answer.

When I scale down my form to something so vulnerable, my magic is not as potent. In theory the grimoire is only just at the limit of my powers' reach in this form and I run the risk of crushing myself with the tome.

"Loki, are you telling me you need help reaching the top shelf?" Thor chortled at the question, sounding like he was struggling to keep his chuckles at bay. "Can it, Thunder, it's not that funny." The cat nodded at you, starting to stand on his back legs again. "Okay, so why not ask your brother? He's way taller than me."

"Oh that I can answer for him, Lady Y/N," he quipped, raising his own hand up in the air. "My brother doesn't trust me around his possessions. Something about how I have a tendency to break his things."

"You know what, that tracks," you muttered, standing and presenting the kitten your hand. "Come on then, let's get you back to normal." He hopped onto your hand and you were about to put him on your shoulder before you stopped, keeping him perched on your hands instead. He meowed at you, starting to climb up your arm before you picked him up again, keeping him in your hands.

"Think my brother wants to be on your shoulder, Lady Y/N. Seemed quite comfortable there," Thor spoke up, letting out a soft chuckle when the kitten started nodding enthusiastically, agreeing with him. "Perhaps you should--"

"I let him stay there earlier because he was my cat," you shot back. "Now he's your brother, it's not the same thing." He whimpered, his little cat body shaking in your hands, taking every ounce of strength you could spare not to give in and just place him back there. He kneaded at your palms the entire way to his apartment, Thor carrying around your stepping stool.

You all got to Loki's study, setting him down on the desk as he guided you to the grimoire he needed, shaking his head at each tome on the shelf that you'd pointed at so far.

"My word, Brother, your attention to detail in these sketches is remarkable, you even got--" Loki hissed at his brother, who was currently standing by a stack of journals, a small sketchbook in his hand. "Alright alright I desist. I shall take my leave. You shall be the one to divulge this information once you are yourself again."

The blond Asgardian's heavy footsteps sounded throughout the apartment until he left, then a few moments afterward you faintly heard his booming voice as he rejoined the rest of the team. You pointed at another grimoire that finally had him nodding his little head, stepping aside on the desk to make room for you to set it down.

"Okay then," you spoke up once you stepped back down to the ground, suddenly feeling more awkward as you stood alone with him in his apartment. "I'll uhh…I'll leave you to it."

You made it to the door of his study before you heard his tiny meow again, seeing him standing on his back legs at the edge of his desk, grabby hands outstretched towards you.

"I'll see you when you're…you again. Later, Loki." The sound of his little meows tugged at your heartstrings, nearly making you turn around and…honestly you didn't even know why he'd want you there with him but you'd stay if only to wipe the sad look from his face. You couldn't deny the adorable little cat much anyways in the hours he was yours.

Then again, you probably couldn't deny him anything in his Asgardian form, either.

An hour after you walked out of Loki's apartment you were hobbling your way back to yours, having eaten enough to take your next round of medications and toting a compound that Banner whipped up in his lab that could maybe help your injuries heal a touch faster. You had half a mind to just cut the sweatshirt off of you once you got inside to avoid the lingering discomfort, but ultimately decided against it.

That wasn't a good enough reason to let a perfectly good forest green sweatshirt go to waste.

You were about to start using the compound on your ribs first when a voice stopped you. "Darling…"

That voice. You recognized that voice anywhere. Giving you butterflies whenever you heard it in mission briefings. Haunting your vivid fantasies regardless of the time or appropriateness. The voice that had you incapable of forming words on any other day.

"Good to see you back," you said, trying to keep your composure around the god.

You reached for your sweatshirt again to cover yourself from his piercing stormy gaze, but before you could, he stood before you, his hand gently grasping your arm while the other rested on your waist. "I received a message from my brother while I was in my feline form, asking if I could check on your injuries. Aid in your healing somehow, if I feel inclined. His words, not mine." Your breath hitched when his thumbs stroked at your skin more tenderly than any of your former lovers had ever touched you. "I would have done it regardless."

Your pulse was thumping in your ears from his proximity, from the way he held your gaze. From the way he held you like he was fighting every urge to pull you to him. Like he would let you step out of it if that was what you wanted.

But all you wanted at the moment was to ask him, "Why didn't you tell me who you were the second you saw me in the pantry?"

The journal Thor was holding earlier materialized on your desk, diverting your attention to the open page. Probably the page that he was commending earlier that made the raven-haired god hiss at him in cat form. The image on the page had the air leave your lungs.

It was a sketch of you.

"My refusal to look at you before was not from disdain, little mortal," he spoke, taking a step closer to you, his hand traveling up your arm and framing your face. You could feel his breath on  your skin. "It was because every time I would look upon your features, I had to fight back every compulsion to do this."

He tucked his finger under your chin, turning you to face him before pressing a tender kiss to your lips that had you weakening in his hold, your stomach violently fluttering as his lips moved against yours. You whimpered against his lips, making him pull you into his arms, weaving his fingers into your hair.

"I've longed for you, precious mortal," he whispered once he pulled away, pressing kisses along the side of your face while you caught your breath. "To know the taste of your lips on mine. The feel of your supple body pressed against me." He kissed you again, lifting you off your feet and carrying you deeper into your apartment. Into your bedroom. He laid you down on your bed, briefly licking into your mouth before pulling away, making light wash over the room with a wave of his hand. "May I heal you, darling?"

Words failed you at the sight of him hovering over you, eyes wide and pleading as he looked on at the bruises and cuts that colored the left side of your torso. You wordlessly nodded your head to grant him the permission he needed to go forward, giving you a soft smile before he leaned down and pressed his lips to your bruises.

"Much better," he breathed out, nipping at your skin before moving his hands down to the waistband of your leggings, lips traveling down to your thigh and kissing you over the fabric. "Once I have seen to your injuries, you should know that I have every intention to make you mine." He kissed you just below your belly button, humming against your skin as you squirmed underneath him, deft hands working the tight fabric down your legs. "If you wish to be, that is."

"I do," you gasped out, ceasing to give a flying fuck how desperate and wanton you sounded at the moment. "I'm yours, I'm all yours."

He smiled against your skin, kissing away at the injuries you sustained on your left leg before making his way back up your body. "You've no idea how delighted I am to hear those words from you, my darling." You felt what remained of your clothing melting away along with his, your moan when skin met skin muffled by him slanting his mouth over yours.

You woke up the next morning to the feel of Loki's nose brushing against yours, pressing kisses along your face until you let out a soft giggle from his attentions. "Good morning, sweetheart."

Your response had him running his fingers along your sides, turning you into a squirming giggling mess as you tried to wrestle your way out of his hold. "Good morning, Onyx."

A/N: I heavily debated w/ myself if I was gonna put smut in this but ultimately decided not to because it's a fluff story and I wanted it to stay a full fluff story 🥴 Just know that he did, in fact, give her plenty a mango ride 😏😏

This is probs the last story I'll post for 2023, so I'm gonna wish you all a Happy New Year and here's to the whorish insanity we'll all get up to in 2024. I have a whole lot planned out, starting with more horny bitches cuts and…a certain celebration I've been putting off because I'm drowning in a sea of WIPs 😂

'everything' taglist: @simplyholl @loopsisloops @imalovernotahater @coldnique @loz-3 @huntress-artemiss @salempoe @vickie5446 @athalialaufeyson @lokiprompts @kats72 @kikster606 @asgards-princess-of-mischief @lokixryss @thomase1 @mischief2sarawr @peaches1958 @lovingchoices14 @lunarnights95 @goblingirlsarah @iamlokisgloriouspurpose @creationsbyme @maple-seed @mjsthrillernp @ladyofthestayingpower @mygfloki @sititran @glitterylokislut @ozymdias @fictive-sl0th  @lokidbadguy @mochie85 @silverfire475 @joyful-enchantress @elizabethmidnight2017 @holdmytesseract @smolvenger @gigglingtiggerv2 @lokidokieokie @lunarnights95 @superficialdomina @anukulee @kmc1989 @november-rayne @goddessofwonderland @buttercupcookies-blog @peaky-marvel @lokiified @tom-hlover

[freedomfireflies]

for mine what if they were picking out a christmas tree or something and got a little frisky…. we know they love their exhibitionism👀

You are so right, it wouldn't be Mine Harry without some exhibitionism hehe I love it

“Harry…Harry, please—”

“Shh,” he coos, nosing under your jaw to place a gentle kiss. Ignoring your needy pleas. “Thought you were gonna be patient, mama.”

And despite his soothing tone, you only pout, fingers curling into his red and black flannel as you plead with him for more. “Can’t. Hurts.”

“Hurts, hm?” Another kiss. Soft and not nearly enough to satiate you. “Oh I bet. If only you had done what I asked, yeah? Then I could have taken care of you.”

Your frown deepens as you recall his earlier instruction. You hadn’t meant to cum after he specifically asked you not to. Really.

But he’d been so determined. So eager to please and make you feel good. And really…you just couldn’t help yourself. 

“I’m sorry,” you nearly whine, clinging to him almost frantically. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. I promise—”

He shushes you again and cups the cold skin of your cheek. But he’s smiling, rather smug about your desperation. “I know, sugar. But actions have consequences, yeah?”

You know he’s right, but you’d rather die than admit it. Especially now. “Daddy,” you sniffle, attempting to push up onto your toes in order to kiss him. “Daddy, please—"

“Uh-uh,” he warns, pulling away just before you can reach. “You made me a promise that you were gonna be good today, yeah? That we were gonna pick out this tree and you were gonna be on your best behavior. So you will be. Understood?”

With a huff, you glance around the glistening woods, the idea of Christmas exceedingly less appealing to you now.

You’d been so excited to pick out a gorgeous pine and take it home to decorate. Had been excited to give in to the holiday spirit and spend your first Christmas with him. Just the two of you.

Now, however, the idea of staying out in these godforsaken woods any longer just about kills you.

He’d been so cruel after you’d cum. Met your disobedience with a strange quiet before he was taking his cock from you in order to lick up the remnants of your orgasm. And bring you to a second, as well.

But Harry wouldn’t be Harry if he let you get away unpunished. No, instead, he dangled you there on the precipice of pleasure before abandoning you with no way down. Had given you just a taste of that euphoria before ripping it away.

Leaving you edged and desperate for the foreseeable future.

Which is exactly where you’ve been ever since. And you’ve been edged before. You know what to expect, how to navigate the neediness.

But the moment you got to this Christmas tree farm, you knew you were doomed. Because having to watch him – clad in his soft flannel and dark beanie – as he swung the ax at the tree over and over? As his muscles strained beneath his sleeves and his cheeks flushed from the cold?

Well…he can’t exactly blame you for your reaction.

You feel inconsolable. Clawing at him like a child. Fighting a kind of lust that you rarely succumb to. Because he’s so beautiful, and so strong, and so good. And you love him. More than anything in the world.

And you need him. Need his hands, his mouth, his fingers. Need anything he’s willing to give you. And you don’t even care that you’re in public. You don’t care that you’re out in the frosty air attempting to cut down a tall pine. You don’t even care if the few people traipsing between the trees see you.

You just…you need…you need—

“Daddy,” you try again, bracing yourself against the bark he has you pressed against. “Daddy, please, I’ll…I’ll be so good. Be so good. Do anything you want, I promise. Promise, promise, promise.”

He chuckles to himself, and you almost hate how nonchalant he remains. As though he doesn’t care about the pain you’re in. As though he doesn’t mind if you wither away from the lack of release.   

And you don’t expect him to do much. Just…just fix it.

“Is that right?” he hums, and you nearly wilt from the dark, low sound that reverberates from his throat. Sensual and slow. “You’ll be good for me?”

You nod so quickly, your head spins. “Yes. Yes, Daddy, I will.”

And you think he understands now. Think he can see you beginning to slip away – into the kind of headspace you occasionally find yourself in. 

And even if he loves to punish you – push you, test you – he loves to care for you more. Make things better, make you feel everything.

You imagine he’s anxious to do that now. You don’t think he enjoys your punishments as much as he claims, not when the alternative is making you feel as pleasured as he can.

The tips of his fingers begin to trace the waistband of your jeans, just below your sweater. Tempting you with a taste of more.

“Do you think you deserve to be touched, mama?” he murmurs now, stepping closer as though to shield you from anyone that might pass. “Think you deserve to cum after making me so sad?”

Somehow, just the thought of upsetting him puts a deep pit in the center of your stomach. “M’sorry, Daddy. I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

He smirks again before leaning in to kiss you. Quickly and with just enough understanding to ease the anxious flutter in your chest. “I know, sweetheart. Sometimes you just can’t help it, yeah?”

Another fervent nod that amuses him, and with that, his hand slips down.

The cool brush of his palm against your warm skin makes you shiver, pussy throbbing from the switch in temperature. 

But it’s perfect. He’s so…safe. So delicious and kind and practiced. Feeling you out with a determined precision that nearly has you cumming right then and there.

“Oh, sugar,” he coos, glancing down to watch as his touch disappears between the material around your hips. “S’all wet, isn’t it?”

You can only pant. After all…he knows.

“Bet it’s all achy and empty, huh?” His fingers smooth through your soaked folds, and you suck in a sharp breath. “Bet if I just play with your little clit, you’ll cum all over my hand, won’t you?”

Your head drops back against the tree, and you almost start to cry. He’s so close and yet still too far.

“Is that you want?” he whispers. “Want me to make you cum in front of all these people? Like you’re in fucking heat? Just begging me to touch you?”

You can hardly hear him. Certainly can’t respond. Because he’s right, you’re already close. And if he just…if he keeps…if he’ll only—

“Look at you,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to yours before slipping the tip of his finger inside. “So goddamn impatient. Can never wait for Daddy. Can never obey. Just so fucking greedy—”

“Har…I—”

“S’that why you were squirming in the car, sweetheart? That why you kept trying to put my hand on your thigh?” He begins to pump the long, middle digit slowly, and your toes curl. “Cause it hurt so bad? Cause you just needed something to fill you?

“Yes…yes—”

“But you didn’t ask, did you? No, you tried to be sneaky.” His thumb presses into your clit and you whimper so lewdly, you’re surprised the whole forest doesn’t hear you. “Clinging to my shirt, grabbing my arm, grinding against my leg—”

“Please—”

“And I’m good to you, yeah? Daddy’s good to you? Takes care of you even when you misbehave?”

“Mhm—” You suck in a sharp breath and drag your nails through the curls against his neck. “So…so good, Daddy, please—”

“Maybe I should just fuck you right here. Show everyone how sweet you really are for me, hm?” He adds a second finger, and you can feel your stolen orgasm bubbling to the surface. “Bet you miss an audience, don’t you? Miss having someone watch as I stretch this sweet little pussy with my cock.”

Your lashes fall shut, stomach twisting.

“Cause you like it, yeah? Like the looks they give you. The way they watch you fall apart for me—”

“Harry—”

“Is that what you really want? Want me to spread these pretty thighs and take you? Right here?” He’s pumping harder – pinching tighter. Determined to make you cum before you can stop it. “Want me to make you call out my name so they know? So they fucking know who you really cum for?”

“Daddy, please—”

It’s right there. You can fucking taste it. Can feel it already unraveling, and you know it’ll be strong. Be enough to knock the wind from your lungs and leave you slouched in his embrace.

Then…it stops. All of it. Disappears just as quickly as it approached, and you feel the water rush to your eyes.

He rips his hand out and away before you can fight him, placing the soaked fingers in his mouth with a satisfied hum.

“Uh-uh,” he warns the moment your lips part to speak. “You disobeyed me, mama, and I told you. Actions have consequences.”

Your expression drops, and your insides turn to jelly. “Da…Harry, please—”

“No.” It’s firm. Resolute. “We’re gonna pick out this tree, and then we’re gonna go home. And you will only cum when and if I decide you should. Is that understood?”

“Harry—”

“I said, is that fucking understood?” he repeats strictly, grasping onto your chin to force your eyes on his.

You swallow thickly, the first tear falling free and into his waiting thumb. “Yes, Daddy.”

He swipes it away with a soft smile. “Good girl.” Suddenly, his focus moves to the tall pine just behind you. “What about this one, hm? Think it might look nice by the window. All lit up and sparkling.”

And despite the ache in your cunt and the desperation still clawing at your chest…you laugh. Squeezing onto his wrist with everything you have left.

“I think…it’s absolutely perfect.”

LISTEN, I JUST THINK THEY'RE CUTE AND HE'S SO SWEET WHEN SHE'S ALL CLINGY BUT ALSO HE'S KIND OF MEAN BUT WE LOVE IT (also I swear he made up for it later hehe)

THANK YOU FOR READING!! I will see you tomorrow for One for the Money!! 😭💞💞

~ Full Mine Masterlist

Taglist: @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @keepdrivingkisses @swiftmendeshoran @tiredinwinter @straightontilmornin @justlemmeadoreyou @harrysdaydreams @tiaamberxx @peterparker1sgf @myfavfanficsever @littlenatilda @vamprry @fdl305 @tchalametishot @ssaama @indierockgirrll @likeapplejuicenpeach @vane28282 @lukesaprince @closureesny @lc-fics @0nlythrowharrybeaux @hannahdressedasabanana @iguessyourejustwhatineeded @dylanobandposts21 @butdaddyilovehim-hs @acesofspadess @stylesfever @caynonmoondreams  @virginvirgo @pagesfalling @creativelyeva @char112244 @snwells @armystay89 @oh-my-hecky-padalecki @blackbookwhore @nellylayhoohoo @22fallenangel22 @watercolorskyy @ilovedilfs32 @nicodoesntexist @lelenikki @happypoptart 

[avis-writeshq]

pairing: early seasons!spencer reid x sunshine!fem!reader genre: fluff, pining, best friends to lovers warnings: reader struggles growing her nails out, reader gets her nails done. vietnamese women are the best at doing nails i swear (also if you get the reference you win another kiss) wc: 1.08k

Spencer thinks you deserve all the best things in life. There are various reasons for this but the one that sticks out to him the most is that fact that you have always been exceedingly kind to him. You have always listened to him when he talks and never once tried to belittle him for any of his interests. A part of him thinks that it’s because your ages are so similar. Another part of him thinks that you’re just pitying him. He truly hopes that isn’t the case. 

He makes you your coffee in the mornings. He knows how you take it– which milk you prefer, the amount of sugar. He has even gone as far as to buy your favourite instant coffee brand– the kind that are unreasonably expensive and have to be bought through a weirdly sketchy website despite its raving reviews. He remembers the way your eyes lit up as you held the familiar box excitedly and he can’t help but preen at the memory. 

“Thank you for coffee, Spence,” you chirp as you spy your unofficially assigned mug on your desk. You’re wet from the rain, the shoulders of your coat darkened from where your umbrella has dripped water onto it. “Hotch would’ve killed me if I had to spend another five minutes at the kitchen. It’s not my fault my train came fifteen minutes late.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, watching as you shake your hair away from your face before warming your hands with the mug. “I did tell him that there was a correlation between rainy weather and increased train delays which could have been a reason that you were late.”

You smile, clearly amused, asking, “how did he take it?”

“He pointed out that I’m still earlier than the rest of the team,” Spencer responds sheepishly, his cheeks growing pink. “I planned my train route for when the rain would be the least heavy.”

“I should follow in your footsteps,” you muse, sipping at your coffee and sighing in relief. “You always make this better than me.”

“I’m glad you like it,” he murmurs, his hand brushing against his scarf. “I was– um, I was wondering if you wanted to get lunch together later?”

You laugh softly and he relishes in the sound. “I only just got here and you’re already asking about lunch?”

He feels his cheeks glow hotter as he scrambles to explain himself. “Well– usually– uh, JJ usually asks you so I guess I wanted to ask before she did. And you have lunch with Garcia a lot so I thought I should ask when you get here and– sorry, is that wrong?”

“No, of course not,” you assure, beaming. “I’m touched that you think that I’m so popular that you need to book an appointment with me.”

“You are popular?” He says it like a question because a part of him is genuinely baffled that you don’t realise how well liked you are. He has found that you always manage to command the attention in the room and he has seen first hand the way people would be instantly drawn to you. He finds that he is no different. 

“I promise you that I am not as popular as you believe I am,” you say with another laugh. “I’m flattered though, truly. I’d love to have lunch with you.”

Spencer cannot stop smiling.

*** 

“You’re whipped.”

Spencer shoots JJ a look, his cheeks glowing hot with embarrassment. “I am not whipped.”

“You have been staring at her talking to Officer Deetmore for the past six minutes and twenty seven seconds,” she points out, her eyes narrowing. 

“They’re probably just making small talk.”

Emily shrugs from her desk, mixing her cup noodles around. “I don’t know, I’m surprised that she can hold a conversation with someone so intellectually disinclined.”

JJ snickers. “You’re just mad that he mislabeled a file and spread the profile.”

“Intellectually disinclined.”

“Guys,” Spencer pleads, inconspicuously gesturing to you saying your farewells and already heading in their direction.

You’re smiling although it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Your arms are folded over your chest, a classic sign of discomfort, and your hands are tucked into your armpits. “Hey. What’s going on?”

“Are you alright?” Spencer asks instead of answering, soft enough as not to call attention to your little group. “What’s wrong?”

“Hm? Oh. I broke a nail.” You show him briefly– your natural nail has split at the corner just where they’re gaining length. “I’m a little bummed. It caught on the zipper of my go-bag.”

“Do you want to get your nails done after the case?” He asks, brows furrowing. “I have a nail clipper and file in my bag.”

JJ can’t help but be amused at this new fact. “You have a nail care pack in your bag? What, do you just take it around with you everywhere?”

He shrugs, ignoring the slight jab, pulling out the little pack from his satchel and handing it to you. He is well aware that you take pride in what you look like, especially your nails. You’ve told him the reason before, that your school was so strict that they wouldn’t let anyone grow their nails long and if they did they would be cut short by the nurse. He thinks that it’s borderline abuse. 

“Manicures are expensive,” you murmur, your eyes downcast as you focus on clipping each of your nails to an equal length. “Are we even allowed to have our nails done?”

“Federal Enforcement Resources states under grooming guidelines that ‘Makeup (including fingernail polish and artificial nails) may be worn by employees but must be professional and must not interfere with the proper use and handling of equipment necessary for their assigned duties’,” Spencer provides helpfully. “I can pay for your nails, too, if price is the issue. The bakery I buy my banh mi from has a nail place next door. I’m sure I can get a discount.”

You laugh as you file down your nails into a smooth edge. “You want to pay for my nails?”

“Oh, um, yeah.” He nods, cheeks suddenly hot and he wipes his palms on his slacks. “If you’d let me.”

“Gosh, well, at least take me out to dinner first, Spence.” You say it with jest, your eyes lighting up with mirth.

He doesn’t seem to catch your joking tone, nodding in earnest. “Alright. After the case, how does Saturday sound? I can pick you up at 6?” 

Emily and JJ are all too pleased. 

reblogs are always appreciated !!

[bruisedboys]

your Peeta fic was EVERYTHING!! So soft and lovely.

Could I request established Peeta x reader where maybe reader somehow gets a concussion and Peeta takes care of her? Obviously only if that sounds interesting to you.

I’ll read whatever you write for him 🫶🏼

thank you my love !! I was really proud of it so I’m very happy you enjoyed it. thank you for your request too! here’s a little something 4 u <3

peeta mellark x fem!reader vaguely in universe but no specifics, can be read as an au or just post-mockingjay

Peeta’s exceedingly gentle as he asses the damage to your head. One hand at your jaw tilting you up towards the light, the other pressed to the side of your head that you didn’t whack on the lip of the bathtub. He angles you this way and that, careful fingers pressing down around the spot you’d bumped.

He presses down on a particularly aching spot and you can’t bite back the whimper it entails. Peeta cringes.

“Sorry, I’m sorry, baby,” he hushes you softly. “That’s where it hurts the most, yeah?”

You nod. You feel a bit like you might cry. You’re embarrassed at your fall, dizzy and sore, too. “Yeah. S’there a bump?”

“Not a big one.” Peeta finishes his examining and moves down to sit with you on the bathroom floor. He presses a warm, soothing hand to your neck. “Are you still feeling dizzy?”

“A little bit.”

Peeta hums. When you’d first bumped your head you were so dizzy you couldn’t stand. Peeta had called Katniss’ mother on the phone in the living room and she’d diagnosed you with a mild concussion. Normally you’d be worried about it, but Peeta’s been so lovely and patient you’ve got no room for worry, just love. Plus, you’re pretty sure his hands have magic healing powers. You feel better already and it’s only been ten minutes.

“Okay,” he’s saying. “That’s okay, honey. How about I help you get up and we’ll move you to the bed?”

Bed sounds nice. You do your best to smile at your lovely, caring boyfriend. “Yeah, please.”

Peeta slides his hands under your armpits to help you up. You’re already in your pyjamas, which is just pure luck — you’d been getting ready for bed when the accident happened. Peeta had come running the moment he’d heard the thump as you slipped. He’s been worriedly doting on you ever since.

He sits you on the bed and lets you press your heavy head to his abdomen for a few moments. He holds you steady, one hand stroking the hair at the back of your head, steering clear of your bump. You breathe him in, his sweet, woody scent, the soft cotton of his t-shirt.

“Sweetheart,” Peeta pulls back, but rather than let you hold your head up on your own, he takes your face in his hands, holding you up himself. “I’m gonna get some ice for your bump, okay? Want to lie down?”

You nod around his warm hands. Peeta helps you lie down on two pillows and then straightens up.

“Do you need anything else, sweet girl?”

You know it’s pathetic, but you’re feeling miserable and needy. You tilt your chin up. “A kiss would be nice.”

Peeta grins. It’s pretty on him, especially when he’s been so worried for you he hasn’t properly smiled since your fall. “One kiss, coming right up.”

He kisses you sweetly, his mouth pressed to yours in a kiss that almost crosses the border of chaste but not quite. You hope he’ll give you more later. If you ask for them, he definitely will. He’s not one to deny you anything you want.

“Thanks,” you say as he pulls away. “For the kiss and for everything else.”

Peeta smiles at you and you know you’re in good hands. The best hands. “You’re welcome, lovely.” He moves away and you miss him already. He must know, because he adds, “I’ll be back really soon, don’t go anywhere, okay?”

You weren’t planning on it.

-

thank you for reading! please consider reblogging if u enjoyed 🤍

[theragethatisdesire]

show off - eren jaeger x afab!reader x jean kirschstein, 18+!!

something wild and wicked came over me while considering the dynamics of the erejean threesome, and i realized we all deserve to see the incident that started it all. this is the official part 2/prequel to three's a... and it is very very fun and tasty. i feel like i haven't been posting as much, so i am super excited to get this up. i hope you guys enjoy as much as i did writing it :) it's also from eren's pov which you guys know i adore

pairing: jean kirschstein x reader, eren jaeger x reader, a lil bit of eren x jean tension but nothing physical

wc: 6.2k

DISCLAIMER: this post contains MATURE CONTENT that is intended only for those over 18. if you are a minor, please do not read below the cut.

CWs: swearing, smut, threesome, implied internalized homophobia??? (literally just like, a pinch. eren has a "no homo" moment at the end lol), oral sex (male receiving), pet names (slut, brat, bitch, baby, princess), eren's a bit of a hard dom in this one, degradation, humiliation, penetrative vaginal sex, thick tension between eren and jean, eren's a menace

enjoy :)

-

Eren should be mad.

Eren should absolutely be mad, waking earlier than normal and padding into his kitchen, finding this scene waiting for him. You, wearing nothing but one of his t-shirts and a stringy thong and leaning over the counter enough to make that fact exceedingly obvious, and Jean, his roommate and friend since high school, shirtless and smirking, flirting over coffee. When he announces his presence, the shame and surprise on both of your faces is evident enough to confirm his suspicions; there’s definitely something building between the two of you, and whether it be a harmless crush or more, it’s there. Eren should be mad.

He’s just…not.

Despite his constant struggles to bite back his temper, especially when it comes to you, Eren surprises himself by the pointed lack of red in his vision. The heat’s still there, though; something coils in his chest that reminds him of anger, has the same flavor and the same spark, but none of the pulsing rhythm is there. Only something slow and catching, simmering in the pit of his stomach.

You come over again that night, winding up snuggled into his bare chest and intensely concentrating on the newest episode of Game of Thrones that Eren’s been dying to watch, but can’t bring himself to pay attention to. The image of this morning, you and Jean leaning into each other and smiling conspiratorially over whatever conversation had been struck up, is burned into his brain. And he’s still not mad.

“Do you want to fuck Jean?” Eren doesn’t parse his words; he’s no good with them anyway, and he’s a straight-to-the-point person as it stands.

“What?” You shoot up off his chest, eyebrows furrowed and eyes narrowed accusingly at him. “What gave you that idea?”

Eren’s not buying it, though; there’s a little flush rising to your cheeks, and it betrays you. Not only do you flirt with Jean when Eren’s not watching, but you do want to fuck him. And Eren’s just not mad.

“You two were flirting in the kitchen this morning– I saw you,” Eren snorts when you try to interrupt him in protest, “and it’s not like we both haven’t known about Jean’s little crush on you for the last couple months.”

“We’re friendly,” you shrug, looking down into your lap guiltily, “we’re trying to be friends.”

“Well you’re both doing a damn good job of it,” Eren rolls his eyes.

“I’m sorry if I made you mad, I wasn’t trying to be flirty with him, I just–”

“Want to fuck him,” Eren finishes for you, carefully watching your reaction. You scowl at him, irritated, but your heart’s not in it, he can tell.

“Why are you so stuck on this idea of me wanting to sleep with Jean? I’m sorry if I went a little too far in the kitchen earlier, but that doesn’t mean I want to fuck him.”

“You keep bringing up this threesome idea,” Eren strikes right where he knows your mind’s already headed, “is it because of Jean? Is he the guy you want us to fuck?”

“You said you’d never do that,” you bite into your lip, suddenly so embarrassed. Eren’s overcome with a sudden urge to comfort you, to smooth the crease between your eyebrows and tell you that it’s okay. It confuses him, and he knows he can’t do that without betraying whatever…odd feelings are brewing in his stomach at the idea of you and Jean together, of you Jean and Eren together.

“Is it Jean?”

“It’s not Jean,”  you huff, crossing your arms like a petulant child.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not–”

“I mean, if it was going to happen, I’d rather it be Jean than some fucking rando.”

Eren’s caught you off guard, and he can tell. Your mouth hangs open a little, trying to mouth the words that you want to say, but nothing comes out. The flush on your face grows deeper, and Eren wants to kiss you. He’s always loved this about you, that you’re so filthy deep down, but you get so shy about telling him what you really want.

“W-why is that?”

“At least he’s our friend,” Eren shrugs, trying to seem nonchalant despite the bulge that’s already starting to grow in his pants at the thought, “he wouldn’t cross any lines or pull out any crazy shit on us.”

“I guess so.” You’ve returned to fiddling with the hem of your shirt, avoiding his eyes. Eren reaches out, tilts your chin up to look at him.

“C’mon, be honest with me. Is it Jean?”

“Maybe a little.” Your words may be reluctant, but your eyes have taken on that glossy, distant look that Eren knows so well. It is Jean.

Eren pauses to wonder what you’ve fantasized about in the dark, what you’ve been holding back from him. Maybe one in your mouth, one thrusting into you from behind? Riding one and taking the other down your throat? The pictures that flash through his brain have a groan threatening to slip from his lips, the raw hotness of it cutting straight through the weirdness that he’s sitting here, staring at his girlfriend, and thinking about Jean with a tent in his boxers.

“Would you do it? If you were put in the right position?”

“I…yes. I would.” Your words come out in breathless gasps; oh, you have it bad, for both of them, Eren realizes. You catch yourself before he can drag you down too far though, reining yourself in with an airy chuckle. “But I doubt Jean would even go for it. He doesn’t seem all too freaky.”

“You never know,” Eren concedes, letting the matter lie for now and pulling you back into his chest, “but you would do it, right? If he was into it.”

“If you both were, then yeah, absolutely.” Eren can feel you subtly rubbing your thighs together, and he smirks above your head where you can’t see him.

“Maybe one day we can ask him.”

A lighthearted laugh shakes your frame. “Yeah, maybe one day.”

From then on out, Eren can’t escape the plaguing thoughts of you and Jean and himself, tangled up together in a mess of sweaty limbs. Images of you gagging on Jean while Eren has a hand on the back of your head, shoving you further along his length, keep him distracted while he’s at work. Making himself cum into his hand in the shower thinking of watching Jean, face between your legs and two knuckles deep in you, Eren telling him how to make you cum, how to make you scream.

It’s become a private obsession for him, one he can’t run away from. Eren has you over at the house every night nowadays, insisting he’s been going through a lot at work and he misses your company. You, being the sweet little thing that you are, have no idea that he’s watching, baiting Jean into coming clean.

Eren has happened to “lose” all of his sweatpants but one pair, forcing you to walk around their apartment in those short little sleep shorts you favor, or ideally, just your panties and a t-shirt. He observes Jean as you pitter patter around their kitchen, keeping track of just how many times Jean’s eyes flit to where the shirt rides up as you reach for something high in the cabinets. He’s not just watching Jean, he’s watching you too; the way your breath hitches in your throat when Jean slicks his hair back, when he stretches, arms over his head, and lets a little slip of skin show.

And when he can find the presence of mind to focus, late at night with your mouth on him or his face buried between your thighs, Eren listens closely, and he’s rewarded. There’s the telltale creak of feet on the carpet, of someone lurking just outside of Eren’s barely-cracked, “accidentally” left-open bedroom door. If he listens close enough, sometimes he swears he can hear little grunts and groans coming from across the hall.

You two want each other badly enough that it’s practically weighing the air down, and Eren’s not mad, he’s frustrated. You’re both so shy, so clearly uncomfortable with the attraction between each other, how is he ever going to manage to get you both to just say it?

It turns out that Eren’s not just an observant hothead, he’s a lucky observant hothead.

It’s been three weeks since you let Eren in on your little crush, three weeks of mind-numbing observation and little bits of bait thrown out, but neither you nor Jean have risen to any of it. It’s not until you’re finishing up dinner with Eren in the kitchen, wearing nothing but a tank top and the tiniest shorts he’s ever seen, that Jean comes home, sweaty and out-of-breath from the gym, and Eren sees his opportunity.

“Hey,” Jean breathes out in greeting, whipping his sticky shirt over his head and tossing it to the ground.

“Hi, Jean,” you smile amicably at him through the doorway. Eren watches as Jean’s expression lightens, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a wide smile.

“You save me something?”

“Always.” You shake a full Tupperware container at him meaningfully before sliding it into the fridge.

“You’re too good to me,” he whistles, hands running through his hair, “I’ll get to it after I shower.”

“How was the gym?” Eren makes his presence known, looking up from his phone where he’s seated at the dining table they’ve put just outside the kitchen. Jean meets Eren’s gaze with an all-too-obvious blush rising to his cheeks; Jean always gets that little embarrassed look when Eren catches him flirting with you.

“Fine,” Jean shrugs noncommittally.

“Any cute girls?” Eren asks, returning his gaze to his phone. He can viscerally feel the startled look you give him, the stuttering of Jean’s fluid movements next to you across the room, getting a cup from the cabinet.

“What?”

Eren lifts his gaze to find exactly what he expected: Jean, subconsciously having drawn just a little too close to you for comfort, glaring over at him; you, eyes wide and questioning, the slightest hint of a frown creasing your forehead. Eren lets an easy smile grace his mouth, shrugs.

“Were there any hot girls at the gym?” 

“No,” Jean answers carefully, slowly pulling his arm down, cup in hand. Eren doesn’t miss the way the two of you glance at each other, the unsaid what the fuck? passing between you two in the air.

“I figured as much,” Eren shrugs again, scrolls on his phone, “not like you’d notice, considering how much drooling you do over my girlfriend.”

The words hit the floor like a shattering glass, spreading a heavy, thick silence over the room. Eren doesn’t dare look up from his screen, doesn’t want to disturb the aura of casual conversation that he’s worked to establish. He can’t jump in to reassure Jean that he doesn’t mind the other man’s flirtation and ogling glances, not too quickly. Eren has to spin this just right, back the both of you into the corner you so desperately want to be in.

“Eren,” you finally hiss, scowling at him. Eren knows you must be confused, but you’ll understand in a moment if he can play his cards right. “What the hell?”

Jean, for his part, is stock-still and bright red, looking between you and Eren like a deer caught in headlights.

“Oh, don’t pretend like you don’t know,” Eren rolls his eyes and stands from the table, leans against it with his hands in his pockets, twitching with anticipation, “we’ve talked about his little crush on you.”

“I– I don’t,” Jean tries to stutter out a rebuttal, but Eren cuts his words short with a cool, calculated grin.

“Yeah, you do,” Eren saunters over to the kitchen to place firm hands on your shoulders, turning you to face Jean, “but if you haven’t noticed that she has a little crush on you too, then you’re blind.”

“Eren!” Eren can hear the panic in your voice, can feel your shoulders tense up with embarrassment, but he’s hardly paying attention. His eyes never leave Jean, watching as the muscles of his chest and shoulders flex with the tension humming through his body.

“What are you playing at, Jaeger?” Jean narrows his eyes, finally picking up on Eren’s little game. Eren bites back a grin; if only Jean understood what game they were actually playing here.

“Nothing,” Eren says innocently, knowing full-well that the dark glint in his eyes is telling a different story, “it’s not like I blame you, I mean, look at her.”

Eren rubs relaxing circles into the skin of your shoulders, urging you to loosen up under his touch. You’re still strung tight, practically vibrating with confusion and shame under him, but Eren can feel the way your skin’s starting to run hot. Most of that tautness in your muscles is nothing but pure, unadulterated want, Eren’s felt it enough times now to know the difference.

“Eren…” the pinch of anger has faded from your voice now, and Eren can hear the cautionary, are we doing this now? tone hiding behind the words. In response, Eren digs his thumb into a particularly tough spot between your shoulder and your neck, wrenches an unwilling gasp from you.

“She really likes you, Jean,” Eren’s leaning over your shoulder, ignoring your warning completely, practically nose-to-nose with Jean now, “wants to fuck you, wants us to fuck you.”

Jean’s face stutters while his mouth remains silent, but just before he hardens his mouth into a flat line, schools his face back into that perpetually suspicious scowl of his, Eren catches it. Jean’s trying to keep himself closed off, but Eren’s faster, and he can see the flicker of arousal that floats over Jean’s face.

“You’re fucking with me,” Jean counters, but there’s a questioning lilt to his words. Eren grins, shakes his head. Jean looks down at you, trembling and frozen in Eren’s grip. “He’s fucking with me, right?”

“Tell him,” Eren coos, leaning down to whisper hot against your ear the way he knows will get a fire started in your belly, “tell him the truth, it’s okay.”

“He’s not,” you choke out, strangled and nervous, “it’s…it’s not a game.”

Jean blinks once at you, twice at Eren. Eren grabs you by the chin, gently guides your mouth to his. All of his suspicions are confirmed when he kisses you; you open up for him a little too easily, let him suck your tongue into his mouth with no resistance at all. And when he releases you, looks back up at Jean with a question in his eyes only to find that Jean’s gaze has darkened, mouth just ever-so-slightly ajar, Eren smirks. He’s got both of you right where he wants you.

“What do you think, Kirschstein?” Eren brings his hands up to hold your breasts, twisting your nipples through the thin fabric of your tank top. “Isn’t she cute?”

“I, I mean–”

“She’s so pretty,” Eren nips at your ear, pulls a little whimper from you, but he sees how your eyes never leave Jean’s, “and she listens so well, such an obedient little thing.”

“Eren,” you pant, the last bits of your anxiety showing in the tremble of your voice. Eren shushes you disapprovingly, sneaks a hand down between your legs, applying just enough pressure to make your knees weak.

“Gets bratty when she’s nervous,” Eren explains, flitting his eyes up towards Jean, who looks like he hasn’t taken a breath in several minutes, “don’t you want to show Jean how good you can be, hm?”

“Mhm,” you hum. It’s quiet, but it makes Jean’s eyes widen, makes him suck in a sharp fuck between his teeth.

“Why don’t you kiss her, hm?” Eren shoves you into Jean’s arms, startling both of you.

“Jaeger, I don’t–”

“I’m serious,” Eren backs away a few feet to prove his point, smiling earnestly, “kiss her.”

Jean scowls, looks between you, Eren, back to you. Eren takes note of how Jean’s hands haven’t left their grip on your waist where he caught your stumble from Eren’s push, how your arms are tucked into Jean’s tacky, strong chest.

“Is he serious?” Jean murmurs down at you.

“Only if you want it.” Eren hates the self-conscious waver in your voice, wishes he could have told you everything he’s seen over the last few weeks, all the evidence he’s collected that yes, Jean very much does want it. But then again, if he had, he wouldn’t be treated with the sight before him now: you and Jean, nervous in each other’s arms, practically vibrating with the idea of exploring each other for the first time.

“I,” –Jean licks his lips– “I want it. Want you.”

“Me too,” your voice is hardly louder than a breath, Eren recognizes the sound in a heartbeat. You’re already strung out, fingernails digging ever-so-slightly into the skin of Jean’s chest.

“Can I?” Jean’s so sickeningly sweet with you, Eren almost wants to roll his eyes. He likes to be sweet with you sometimes, but if Jean only knew how much you could take, the dirty, mean things that you beg Eren for…it occurs to Eren that maybe he can show Jean sometime, and his boxers start to tent underneath his sweats.

“Yes,” you tilt your chin up to Jean pleadingly, and Jean’s resolve finally breaks.

Eren’s delighted to see that Jean’s chasteness doesn’t hold out long; after only a few minutes have passed, your hands are flying all over each other, breathless little moans passing between your mouths. Jean’s hand trails down to cup your ass, and Eren looks on intently as the flesh gives under Jean’s grip through hooded eyes. Eren’s hand has subconsciously traveled down to the front of his sweats, palming roughly at the erection that’s showing through the thick fabric. 

Jean starts to wander away from your mouth, eyes shut as he peppers gentle kisses along your jawline, feather-light nips down your neck. As if he’d forgotten about your clothes, Jean’s eyes widen when he feels the strap of your tank top under his mouth, and his eyes flit to Eren in question. Eren nods at him, tries to offer an encouraging smile that comes off more like a wicked smirk.

Jean slowly– ever so slowly– slips the strap over your shoulder, kissing at the newly-bare skin. Eren already knows you’re sensitive there; Jean quickly learns from the quivering gasp that reaches his ears.

“Is this okay?” Jean mumbles against your skin; Eren has to choke down a gag at his sugary tone.

“Take it off,” Eren answers for you, cheeks burning at how coarse he already sounds, throat swollen and thick with arousal. Jean scowls at Eren over your shoulder, turns softer eyes back to you.

“Please,” you echo Eren’s sentiment, raising your arms to emphasize your answer. Eren doesn’t miss the slight shake of Jean’s fingers as he reaches for the hem of your tank top, rids you of it slowly. Once you’re bare, Jean’s eyes darken, almost glossing over.

“Fuck,” Jean breathes out, ghosting a thumb over one of your peaked nipples. Eren’s chest swells with pride at how completely wrecked you’ve gotten Jean already; he’s practically drooling down at your half-bare form.

“Told you she was pretty.” Eren grins, gripping his erection harder through his pants. You were right about this, you were so right. There’s not enough blood flow above Eren’s waistline for him to focus on how bizarre it is that he’s getting off to another man, his friend even, pawing at his girlfriend; all he can process is the tangible heat of the room, memorizing each little spot on your body Jean’s hands return to in admiration, learning which parts of you Jean likes and which actions of Jean’s make your knees shake.

You peek over your shoulder at Eren, as if you’ve just remembered he’s in the room, and his knees nearly give out. Your lips are swollen and wet from Jean’s slow, strong kisses, from pulling your lip between your teeth in shame, and your eyes are glistening with unshed tears of pure want. Eren’s never seen you so beautiful.

“Do you want to…” you trail off, offering Eren a beckoning hand, but he declines, grinning at you.

“Have your fun,” Eren says, words a sharp blade against Jean’s steadfast comfort, “you begged for it enough.”

Your mouth stutters open in embarrassment, a half-formed protest on your lips, but Jean’s deft fingers grab your chin, gently directing you back to him. He gives Eren a chastising frown, clear disapproval of Eren’s snark. Eren thinks that he likes the contrast they give you as a team; Eren the firm hand of discipline, and Jean the soothing balm to ease your cries.

“Is he telling the truth?” Jean questions you softly, free hand cupping your breast ever-so-tenderly. Eren watches your back arch, watches the way you lean desperately into Jean’s touch. “Did you beg for this?”

“Yes,” you say, voice breaking under the weight of your arousal.

“Okay,” Jean nods, as if he needs any more reassurance, Eren thinks with a roll of his eyes.

“Her mouth,” Eren calls out, unable to rein in the telltale rasp of desperation in his voice, “she’s good with her mouth.”

Jean’s eyebrows furrow in thought; Eren can see the choices flying across his face, to have you spread on the counter before him, feel the warmth of your walls around his fingers, or the soft give of your throat around his cock.

“I like doing that,” you whisper, so low Eren almost doesn’t hear you. Jean’s eyes shoot open in surprise, until a slow, understanding smile spreads over his face. Eren almost wheezes with relief.

“You like using your mouth?” Jean thumbs lovingly at your lip, smiles wider at your enthusiastic nod. Without being told (Eren decides to reward you later for being so good for your guest, showing off how well he’s trained you) you climb down onto your knees, sitting back and waiting patiently.

Jean looks back to Eren, the last thin string of hesitation taut between them and aching to be cut. Eren snaps it with an affirmative nod of his head, shoves his pants and boxers down to finally free his dick and bring it against the familiar skin of his palm.

Jean’s eyes flick to Eren’s length, pausing just a little too long. Eren doesn’t have the wherewithal to think too much into that now, only to appreciate the rush of heat it sends through his veins. In answer, Jean pushes his shorts down his legs, sending the compression boxers he’d worn for the gym sliding to the floor with them, cock bobbing free and dangling in front of your face.

“Pretty,” you murmur, wrapping your hand around the base and pressing a light kiss to the tip affectionately. Jean’s head falls back, and he groans; a throaty, appreciative sound.

Eren was growing frustrated initially with Jean’s softness towards you, but it hadn’t occurred to him that you might behave differently towards Jean than you do towards him. When you take Eren in your mouth, you’re all enthusiasm, dipping as far as you can go the moment he taps your tongue, retching on him, drool hanging in long strings from your tongue and wetting your chest.

With Jean, however, you place curious little kisses up the bottom of him, deliver kitten licks to the tip before swirling your tongue in long, slow circles around where he’s flushed and dripping for you. Jean swears repeatedly under his breath, brings a tentative hand to the back of your head to run his fingers through your hair. Eren’s own hand slows where he’s jerking off, his gaze honing in to look on in wonder as a woman he thought he knew so well reveals a new side of herself to both of the men watching her.

“That’s– shit,” Jean groans, head lolling off his shoulders and eyebrows knitted in pleasure.

Eren feels a poignant rush of pride at watching Jean become unraveled from your mouth, watching how good you make him feel. It’s a relief for Eren as much as it is for Jean, he thinks, to watch some of that iron-clad composure drop, see the way Jean’s jaw drops slack, his shoulders slouch. 

“She’s good, isn’t she?” Eren hardly recognizes his own voice, gravelly as he speaks into the sticky air. Jean meets Eren’s eyes, both of their gazes half-lidded and desperate.

“So good,” Jean answers, only breaking eye contact when a satisfied little hum rings out from you, sending vibrations ricocheting through Jean’s body and making him roll his head back again, a little moan echoing out into the room.

“Doing so good for him, baby,” Eren strides closer, bold and half-mad, wanting to see the way your cheeks hollow around Jean, the way that drool is starting to collect in a glossy sheen on your chin. “You like it? Like having him down your throat?”

You nod, mouth still full and eyes shining up at them, glazed over and content. Eren softly cups the back of your head for a whisper of a moment, loving that he has this relationship with you, loving that he can watch such a sacred sight and know that you love him all the same, loving what a filthy little thing he’s turned you into.

“Fuck,” Jean exhales, eyes widening as Eren’s tenderness morphs into something urgent, shoving you further along Jean’s length, “don’t– don’t choke her–”

“That’s what she wants, isn’t it?” Eren’s affectionate gaze turns hard and expectant, hand forcing your head to move faster, harder, further. “You love having your mouth full, don’t you? Nasty little slut.”

“Mhm,” you whine around Jean’s cock, pulling a throaty groan out from him.

“You’re being– shit, too rough with her,” Jean tries and fails to shoot Eren a glare, eyes flitting back down to you when your throat constricts around him with a gag.

“She loves it,” Eren corrects him coolly, mouth quirking up at the corner when you retch, “loves being whored out. You want his cum down your throat? Show him how bad you want it.”

You slip your tongue out, letting it rub down the thick vein on the underside of Jean’s cock, opening your throat that much more for him. Jean nearly whimpers, bringing his hand to the other side of your head, holding you softer, more gently than Eren, but clearly beginning to lose himself.

“So good for me, princess,” Jean murmurs down at you, chest beginning to heave with the growing intensity of your movements. You blink up, hearts in your hooded eyes, humming around Jean affectionately. Eren chuckles darkly.

“Is that what you are? Jean’s little princess?” Eren shoves you down particularly hard, grinning cruelly as your body constricts with a vicious gag, Jean groaning loudly next to him.

“F-fuck, I’m–”

“Getting close?” Eren murmurs in Jean’s direction, never taking his eyes off of where you’re on your knees, crying and gagging and working so hard for Jean’s cum, “I bet. She’s fucking good.”

Your eyes flick between the two men towering over you, trying desperately to keep your throat open to receive the little thrusts of Jean’s hips, hands folded in your lap obediently as you squirm, rubbing your thighs together in a fruitless attempt to gain some much-needed friction. Eren notices the steady, needy rocking of your hips, smirks triumphantly.

“Look at her, like a bitch in heat,” Eren sneers, “squirming and shit, trying to get herself off with your cock down her throat. Give her what she wants, Kirschstein, come on.”

Your gaze lands on Jean, watery eyes blinking pleadingly. Eren can hear the little hitches in Jean’s breath growing more frequent, more urgent, and he isn’t sure where he wants to look more: down at you, so needy and pleading on the floor, throat stuffed and wet between the legs, or Jean, strung out and panting down at you, hips canting into your mouth harshly.

And then Jean’s cumming, and Eren realizes where he wants to look, has to squeeze the base of his cock hard. Jean throws his head back, eyes screwed shut, hand fisting into your hair and fingertips rubbing against the back of Eren’s hand, a deep, raspy groan clawing its way out of his chest. His hips push forward of their own accord; Eren can hear you coughing as Jean cums down your throat, a lot by the sound of it, but Eren can’t be bothered to look away from the other man, fucked out and untethered all from your mouth. Eren’s damn close to busting from just watching Jean cum, knowing the feeling all too well and never having anticipated how erotic it would be to watch another man be brought to his knees by you on yours.

“Holy shit,” Jean breathes, barely a whisper of a statement, chuckling airily down at you when you release him with a little pop.

“Was that…good?” You venture, smiling shyly. Eren nearly scoffs; you’re so good at playing the part of the innocent little thing, when he knows better. You’re a menace, a vixen.

“That was incredible,” Jean says, and Eren can hear the bare honesty in his statement.

“Up.” Eren interrupts your little moment with Jean to tug you to your feet. It prompts an expression of bewilderment to appear on your face, as if you’d forgotten that he needs to get off too, and so do you. Eren turns to Jean, appraises him. “I’m going to fuck her, you’re more than welcome to stay.”

“Wait, Eren–”

“Wait?” Eren chides, ripping those tiny shorts from your body like the inconvenience they are, leaving you bare and wanting. “Don’t you want to get fucked? I mean, look at you. You’re soaked.”

There’s a little glisten at the apex of your thighs, the evidence of you rubbing your legs together in a desperate attempt for stimulation shining in the low lights of the kitchen. Eren pulls you over to the chair that had started it all, where he’d been sitting when this beautiful opportunity had stumbled across him. He sits, tugging you into his lap with a smack to your ass, settling you over his cock and letting you grind yourself against it, slick him up.

“Tell me,” Eren pinches your chin, forces your eyes to his, “don’t you want me to fuck you?”

“Please, please,” you gasp, working your hips over him like a woman starved, like your last chance at salvation is getting Eren as deep inside of you as he’ll go. Eren smiles, pleased with your answer, and lifts your hips, letting you sink down on him with an endless, pitchy moan. He glances over your shoulder to see Jean, sitting across the table from you both, tugging absentmindedly on his half-hard cock and watching intently. The sight of it fuels the fire in Eren’s veins, convinces him to convince you to keep showing off, show Jean how hot you two can be when you get into it.

“Give it to me then,” Eren slaps your ass again, nips at your jaw, “show me how bad you need to be fucked, baby.”

“E-Eren,” you whine, rolling your hips down on him the way he knows you love, the way that makes a little bulge appear right at the base of your tummy, the evidence of just how deep he is.

“There you go,” he coos, grabbing your hips and working you faster, forcing you towards your orgasm as fast as he can because he knows good and well he’s not going to last, “all better, yeah? Little slut likes having her cunt stuffed full?”

“Yeah I do,” you say dreamily, eyes rolling back as Eren starts to thrust up into you in tune with the canting of your hips. He can see Jean over your shoulder, fully hard again and pulling at his cock, looking mesmerized. Eren catches Jean’s eye, smirks like a cat that’s got the cream.

“He’s watching you,” Eren murmurs to you, purposefully loud enough for Jean to hear, “watching you get fucked dumb. Gonna show Jean how pretty you are when you cum?”

“I-I–” A well-placed thrust from Eren makes you cut yourself off with a sob, hands flying to his shoulders for support. Erin grins, something feral and predatory, snapping his hips up into you harder.

“Gonna cum so fast I bet,” Eren grunts, “so needy for it, my spoiled fuckin' brat. Can’t ever be satisfied, can you?”

“Uh-uh,” you whimper, thighs already beginning to shake around his hips. Eren’s eyes are glued behind you, on Jean’s strung-out gaze, on the desperate motion of his hand around his cock. Eren wonders if just the sight of you fucking him is enough to make Jean cum again; the thought spurs him on, has him jackhammering up into you like his life depends on it.

“Quit holding out on me, then,” Eren growls, “can feel you clenching down on me, know you want to.”

“I w-want to.” A fresh wave of tears has escaped your mindless eyes, dripping down the side of your face, off your jaw, onto your chest.

“Fucking do it then,” Eren snaps, growing closer to the end of his line with every punch of his hips up into you, “show Jean what a little slut you are, how hard you cum for me. Go on, show him.”

“E-Eren, I– oh, oh fuck, I’m gonna–”

“There you go,” Eren snarls like he’s tired of waiting on you, feeling your body break and bloom all at once in his hands, “there you go, good girl.”

Eren watches Jean look on as your body thrashes, rolls with the waves of your orgasm quaking through you, the way his jaw drops a little when you wail and leave dark half-moon indentations into Eren’s shoulders. Jean’s hand is moving impossibly fast in time with Eren’s hips, and when Eren feels himself getting close, only moments away from his release, he meets eyes with Jean. Something overtakes him, something dark and unfamiliar, and Eren flits his eyes down to Jean’s cock, back up to Jean’s gaze, and nods. Jean cums with a loud groan and a shudder, triggering Eren’s orgasm. Eren clutches you to his chest desperately, pinning you down onto his cock and filling you with his cum as deep as he can manage, groaning in your ear amidst the sound of your whimpers and whines.

A beat passes, heavy and pregnant with tension. Eren and Jean are still locked eye to eye, watching each other to see who will make the first move. Jean, coated in his own release, glances down to see Eren’s cum dripping out of you, seems to come back to himself with a shudder.

“I…I’m going to shower,” he says, clunky and awkward, standing and pulling his shorts back over his softening cock, mindless of the white ropes decorating his abdomen.

“Jean?” You murmur into Eren’s skin, sitting up slightly and wincing at the feel of Eren’s half-hard cock still digging into the most sensitive parts of you.

“Yeah?” Jean stops in his tracks, looking over at you and Eren with all the tension of a wild animal that’s been caught.

“That was fun,” you smile dreamily, slumping back into Eren’s chest and blinking up at him, “don’t you think, babe?”

“Lots of fun, baby,” Eren strokes your hair, urging you to stay curled into him, knows you need to for a few minutes after he’s fucked you half-dumb, “what do you think, Kirschstein?”

“It was…” Jean gulps, looks around the room with a pink stain to his cheeks, “it was fun, yeah.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed us,” you giggle deliriously, “we’ll have to do it again sometime.”

“Is that so?” Jean eyes Eren, narrows his eyes suspiciously. Eren almost rolls his eyes, out of patience for this Jean, all cautious and nervous like he hadn’t just cum down your throat.

“I think so,” Eren says in confirmation, trailing a hand up your back soothingly, “anything for my girl, right?”

“Right,” Jean frowns, almost as if Eren had said something in another language.

“See you soon, Jeanie,” you wave him off to the shower sleepily, biting a smile back behind your swollen lips. Jean makes a swift exit, still blushing madly. “Do you think he liked it?”

“I think he loved it,” Eren chuckles down at you, still cording his fingers through any parts of your hair that aren’t a tangled mess.

“And you?”

“I’d do it again,” Eren answers you with a noncommittal shrug. You cock an eyebrow at him.

“Seemed like you really enjoyed yourself. Am I the only one with a crush on Jean?”

“I’m not gay,” Eren scoffs, rolling his eyes. You simply keep your disbelieving glare on him for an extra beat or two; Eren squirms uncomfortably under your knowing gaze, not necessarily wanting to confront this while he’s still balls-deep in you. To his relief, you ease up, gingerly stepping off of him and offering him a hand.

“Mmm, okay. We’ll talk after a shower?”

“Fine,” Eren grumbles, letting you pull him towards his half of the apartment and hoping you don’t notice the quick glance he shoots over his shoulder, catching a flash of Jean’s bare skin as he steps into his bathroom.

[wood-white-writer]

"Didn't mean to make your heart Blue" || [8/...]

— OPLA! Buggy x F!Reader

"My love is mine, all mine. I love, my, my, mine. Nothing in the world belongs to me but my love,"

— Mitski, "My Love Mine All Mine"

Pairing: Buggy the Clown (Live Action) x F!Reader

Parts: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

Summary: You were an apprentice of Gol D. Roger’s crew in your youth, long before his eventual demise. Along with the Red-Haired Shanks and Buggy, you were a formidable trio; the embodiment of a new generation of pirates yet to come. But times changed, and so did you and your friends.  Buggy, desperate for your attention, can't help but think about what led to this situation.

Warnings: fem!reader, LA!Verse, slight canon divergence, morally grey reader, depiction of blood and wounds, DIY suturing, slight alcoholic indulgence, Buggy realizing he's fucked up big time

Buggy recalls the first time he caught your smile.

It had been several months since the Captain introduced you to the crew. Despite the sorry state you were in at the time of your debut, your eyes were so bright even back then, as though illuminated by something internal.

He’s heard about fish glowing in the dark even when in the deep depths of the ocean, thousands of miles out of the light, and they require nothing but themselves to keep the light on.

He wondered if you’re like that. You didn’t look like a fish, nor did you remind him of any fish people he had encountered; too pretty and earthbound but glowing all the same.

Glowing, but dull. A knife that's not been polished for long, but still being used as intended.

Everything about you, how you walked and moved, all the way down to how you blinked, felt placid and stale from his perspective. He himself was an expressive man, never denying himself the capacity to show how he felt, so to witness it from you felt like a foreign sight. 

You didn’t smile, nor show much of anything really. No sadness, anger, or joy. Just a blank canvas without any colors.

He compared you to a doll; a mannequin having come to life from behind a display case, breathing and blinking and moving, yet maintaining its lifeless nature all the same. You were strong, exceedingly so, and you followed orders without question or complaint. Like a machine working on auto.

He wondered whether you had been a slave or some kind of child soldier before Rogers found you. You must have been because no one becomes this … this … cold of their own volition.

He found that your apparent incapacity to live annoyed him, and so he set out to change it. He didn’t know why, but he just had to.

Quite frankly, he didn’t know what he said or did. Maybe he told some silly joke, the kind his crew mates usually smacked him in the back of the head for due to its cheesiness, but you smiled. 

The image of that remains stuck in his head like a stain that won’t wash off. He remembers everything about that moment. The way you wore your hair, with a singular braid on the right side of your face. Asymmetrical and messy, yet you made it look just right.

He remembers the way the gray sky parted just in time for a ray of sunlight to shine across the deck, further illuminating your face. It was like the heavens above decided to put a spotlight on you.

He recalls the way your eyes glistened in the sun.

He remembers it all.

Maybe that’s when it first began? This … thing that’s been gnawing at him for so long? This feeling that won’t leave him in peace, even in his sleep. It tugs at his chest, pinches his stomach, itches his skin, and warms his face. 

This feeling that’s been clawing at him in the twenty years you were parted.

The source of that feeling that’s currently looking at him from across the room.

His eyes light up like fireworks upon seeing you enter the kitchen area. “Hey! Look who it ...—!" The moment he sees the state you're in, whatever words were about to exit subsequently fall dead on his tongue. "— ... is."

You look like shit, mildly put. He's never seen you look as terrible before save for the time you first joined Rogers’ crew, and it feels like he’s back there again.

Back to sitting on the sidelines as the Captain procured you from under his oversized coat; a kid who looked smaller than she really was, now with a fresh bruise in development across your cheek, sunken eyes, and a pale complexion to your skin that wasn't there before. 

You're leaning onto Rubber Boy like he's your only lifeline from falling headfirst into the floor, and upon squinting his eyes, Buggy notices the edge of a bandage peeking out from under your shirt, with a drop of blood staining the material.

In all the time Buggy's known you, he's only seen you bleed maybe once or twice. It was a rare occurrence; no blade could pierce your skin, nor daggers or swords. Your hide was impenetrable, like molten armor in the flesh. Arlong really did a number on you. He couldn't see much during the time he was stuck in that God-awful bag, but by the sounds of it, it was not a fight you were winning. He always held onto the notion that you were unbeatable; unbroken. Nothing could hope to harm you. 

However, this diluted image of you he’s presented with confirms the opposite. You’re not invincible. You’re human. Faster, stronger, indefinitely more dangerous than the rest if your track record is anything to go by, but still bitterly human to the core.

When he led Arlong to Baratie, he thought you'd be able to finish the fucker off without a struggle. He'd watch the spectacle from the front rows, popcorn in his metaphorical hands while cheering you on from the sidelines. 

Now, seeing you like this, like you've just walked through hell and back, he can't help but acknowledge the fact that he did this to you. He led Arlong to you. 

He swallows the lump in his throat and stores the guilt away for another day.

Your eyes finally meet, for the first time since Orange Town, and he can see the confusion in your eyes. The hesitation that gradually morphs into the anger that he's become acquainted with as of late. You promptly yank yourself free from Luffy, stomp over to the table with uneven and unsteady steps that threaten to topple you over, and finally slam both of your hands on each side of Buggy's head.

The table cracks lightly under your grip, sending several splinters flying in every direction. Buggy gulps nervously.

"H-Heya, doll," he tries, but the darkness over your eyes leaves no room for sugarcoated words. They never did.

"Luffy," you say calmly while never taking your eyes away from the clown's, unbridled rage simmering in their depths despite your compromised state. "Why is he here?"

"About that ..." Luffy sheepishly scratches the back of his head. "He's the only one who knows the way to Arlong Park."

"To Arlong P— … " Your nails leave crescent-shaped holes in the soft tablecloth, and you glance at Luffy from over your shoulder, looking far more tired after seeing Buggy for ten seconds than you did beforehand. "And you're sure there'sno other way of getting there?"

"Nope!" Buggy interjects with a prominent pop!, hoping to catch your attention again. "He was real secretive about where his little fish-mancave's located. Lucky for you, I memorized the way back to my body!"

He's disappointed that you won't turn to even acknowledge his contributions to the conversation. You won't look at him again, and he discovers that he can't bear it. 

Please look at me!

But you don't. 

The silence is suffocating until you push yourself from your table, and he notices the way you cradle the side of your stomach while doing so. A silent hiss leaves your lips that he would've been unable to catch onto had he not been so focused on your reactions.

You look at Luffy, your back turned to Buggy, and limp over to the pathetic captain. Buggy predicts you’re about to shout at him, tell him the stupidity of this decision, and maybe even smack him across the face for emphasis. He hopes you will; the kid needs to have his ass kicked a few times to compensate for the humiliation the clown suffered at his hands.

To his bitter disappointment, you don’t commit yourself to any of the aforementioned. Really, not even a smack? Instead, all you do is heave an exhausted sigh before you prepare to exit the kitchens. "It's your decision," you say, and that's all you say before Buggy has to suffer your absence again.

———

It's the bounty hunter's turn to keep watch over him tonight, and Buggy, for one, would rather prefer to get tossed into the ocean than suffer like this.

He finds that this asshole is the worst one among the bunch to be keeping an eye on him. While the waiter and the long-nosed idiot would rather ignore him and leave him be, Moss-hairs over there seems like he has it out for him the most. Maybe it has to do with the fact that he almost killed him, but hey, all is fair in piracy?

"YAH!" Buggy shrieks when the asshole yanks him by the scruff of his hair with an iron grip, pulling out several blue hair strands while doing so. "CAREFUL WITH THE HAIR, SHITHEAD!"

"Shut up."

He can only hang when Zoro takes him inside to the kitchens, where the pretty-boy with the blonde hair is already cooking something up. Even before they entered the threshold to the kitchen, Buggy could hear your voice. You were talking to the blonde, and judging by the lightness in your tone, you were at ease enough not to be spiteful.

Buggy feels himself become annoyed, and not even the smell of food can tame it regardless of how hungry he is.

"Also, you should stitch up that wound soon," says the blonde, his voice growing more audible the closer they get to the kitchen. "Wouldn't want it to get infected."

"I'll handle it," you say in turn. "Wouldn't be the first time I've had to do something like this."

"You know, if you want to, I can lend you my hands. I'm told I have quite dexterous fingers, molded for delicate work."

"I'll pass, thank you."

"As you wish, but my offer is still on the table should you have a change of heart."

Buggy doesn't even know the guy, and he already wants to drown him. Whatever hunger occupied his stomach miles away with the rest of his body gets promptly replaced with something far sharper. Far uglier. It has teeth long enough to bite through flesh, claws that can tear open flesh, and it’s starving.

They finally enter the kitchen area, and whatever conversation previously took place shifts into silence upon their entrance.Buggy grins as he meets your eyes. "What's tonight’s specials?" he asks, hoping you'll actually respond with something this time, regardless of how sardonic it is.

He wouldn’t mind it if it’s something along the lines of “Fuck you” or “Eat shit” or “I hope you die, asshole.” It only has to be something, but it seems that even that is too high of a criterion for you to bother with.

You merely get up to your feet, unsteadiness painting your steps, and try to excuse yourself from the room without as much as a look his way.

For the duration of his uncomfortable stay with these shitty nobodies, Buggy's main priority aside from navigating this useless crew and getting his body back is your attention. 

However, whenever someone — whether it be that shitty cook or the bounty hunter or the slingshot — brings him someplace where you coincidentally happen to be, you excuse yourself from their company and go someplace else. 

He finds it more torturous than the bounty hunter's hold on him. It's been like this for the past two days. You won’t talk to him, won’t look at him, you won’t even acknowledge him even when he’s being the loudest head in the room.

Sure, he can piss off the rest of the bunch without even trying, but no matter how much he tries to catch your ire, you don’t take the bite. 

The string that’s been dangling him above the water is just about ready to snap at this point. 

"Hold up," Zoro says and proceeds to hold up Buggy's head for you, ignoring the string of curses that flow from his lips. "I want to eat my dinner in peace, so you take him."

Your face, while blank, cannot disguise the irritation laced in your words. "Give him to Ussop."

"He's on watch duty tonight,"

"Sanji?"

"My fine lady, as much as I'd desire to ease your woes, I'm currently preoccupied with preparing the meals." The blonde raises his pan for emphasis. "I would have lent you my aid, do not doubt that."

You’re not convinced. "… Right." Your eyes finally settle down to Buggy, and with great reluctance on your part, you slowly raise your hands up to take him. 

Zoro smirks and deposits the clown into your hands. The absence of pressure at the top of his head is a welcomed reprieve. Your hold — while firmer around his cheeks than he'd prefer — is not uncomfortable per se. At least, not in comparison to your other crew mates.

He considers this a win. It's been far too long since he's been granted your touch, the last time being when you bid him a bitter goodbye back in Orange Town. 

"Also," you say to Zoro. "I need a bottle of rum and a rag."

The swordsman tilts his head skeptically to the side. "Haven't you had enough to drink?"

"I need it to sterilize the sewing equipment."

Realization dawns on his face and Zoro relents. He hands you a bottle of rum from the kitchen cabinet, and after thanking him, you make your way to your cabins with the bottle in one hand whereas Buggy rests in the crook of your other elbow.

The walk is excruciatingly quiet, only the sound of your feet making any noise. It's deafening, and he can't stand it. He needs noise, preferably from you, but he doesn’t mind being the instigator.

"... So," he begins. "You know how to stitch yourself?"

You don't answer, and when he peeks up at you, your eyes are solely aimed at the path ahead. 

"You gotta have the right technique," he continues, a little more energized. "Or it'll become an ugly scar. I can help you with it, I'm a pretty good seamster if I do say so myself."

Again, you don't dignify him with a response. He bites his cheek. Fuck, this is getting tiresome.

He looks up at you again, and he notices just how different you've become from when you were younger. Your eyes were bright, but your smile was even brighter. You'd happily chat with him for hours and hours on end without ever growing bored of the conversation. You'd joke, you'd playfully hit him (though your definition of 'playful' usually had him stumbling in his steps), and you'd smile.

Now, your eyes are dark, and sunken, and there are several wrinkles in development; not from age alone, but simple exhaustion. The years have truly changed you, and the itch nagging him at the back of his head reminds him that it's partially his fault.

He decides to shut up until you reach your cabin.

Your place, he discovers, is vaguely minimalistic at best. You have the basics: a hammock in the far corner, a chair with a small table next to it, a barrel serving as both a nightstand as well as what he assumes to be a storage space of sorts, and a lantern on the top that's already been lit.

You close the door behind you and head for the table. He expects you to all but pummel him down on it, like your crew mates, maybe even drop him altogether for the heck of it. He braces himself for impact and shuts his eyes when you raise your hands.

To his surprise, you simply put him down on top of it without any unnecessary pressure or force. He feels the wooden surface under his neck without any discomfort, and he can't help but notice that you've deliberately positioned his face towards the window. 

He tries to plop around, like a fish out of water, but your hands - a little tighter around him this time - retract his movement. "Hey, what gives?!” 

He doesn’t know why he’s even bothering to ask, already knowing that you're probably not going to answer.

To his surprise, you actually do this time.

"Don't look." Despite the sharp enunciation of your voice, the one he's been aching to hear for the past two days, it sounds hushed. 

Not wanting to piss you off in case you decide to completely ignore him again, now that he's regained a smidgen of your notice, Buggy complies and elects to stare out of the window in spite of the desperate need to remain focused on you.

However, Buggy's never been one to completely follow the rules, so he decides to bend them. The window provides him a half-measured view of you in its reflection, with the dark waves serving as an addition to your image. A beautiful addition at that.

How sad is it that this is the only way he can look at you now?

He listens and watches as you put the liquor bottle on the table inches away from him, and then you proceed to retrieve a box of something hidden under the wood. It's not until you put it down next to the bottle and open it that he discovers that it's some kind of sewing kit. 

You take a small mirror and put it on the edge of the window frame at a very specific angle.

Eyes sharp and focused on the task at hand, you withdraw a needle of adequate size from the box, carefully pull a thread through the pinhole, and douse them both with booze. Shortly after taking a generous gulp of the liquor yourself, you put them both to the side to draw up the side of your shirt.

Buggy pales slightly when he sees the bloodied bandages hidden under the fabric. If the semi-transparent reflection of it is enough to make him nauseous, he can't imagine what the real deal is like. 

The three marks that stretch across your ribs look ugly. Scratch that, they look grotesque. Old blood rests dried and cracked along the edges, and the fresh flesh between your severed skin looks even worse. Like an animal maimed you and left you to rot on the ground. He’s seen his fair share of shitty shit in his life as a captain, but this is something he considers almost too much for him. It doesn’t make sense, he’s seen someone amputate on themselves due to a canon blast, but he only considered it a nuisance at best.

Maybe it’s because it’s you this time?

“God,” he whispers more to himself than anyone else. When snap your eyes to him, having heard him speak, he is quick to deflect. “I- Erhm, I never noticed how shitty the weather is tonight.”

He can’t tell if you buy it or not, but if you do, you don’t voice it and continue with your makeshift patchwork. With the rag you procured, you pour some of the alcohol over and press it tightly against your open wound with no delay. Buggy winces at the same time you do. He's had to disinfect wounds similarly before, and it hurts like hell. Fucking hell. He doubts you disagree with the notion. 

You grit your teeth tightly, face contorting and your lips wobbling as a quiet "Fuck" leaves you. One second becomes two, two become four, four become eight until finally, you withdraw the now stained rag. He notices your hand shaking, your breath hitching, and the way you're all but forcing yourself to stay calm. 

Since when did you limit yourself like this? Deny yourself the capacity to feel? Fucking scream, he wants to yell at you. Feel something. Say something! Show him that you still feel anything. Don't pretend like you don’t.

If that pot ain't calling the kettle black, he doesn’t know what is.

He looks at your reflection, watches as you pick up the needle and inching it towards your severed ski— 

“DON’T!”

You abruptly stop and snap your eyes over to him, and he realizes he’s efficiently blown his cover. While still selectively mute, all the anger and irritation you need to convey is done so through your glare alone. Scorching. Sizzling.

He licks his lips. “If you do it like that, it’ll scar real fucking bad and won’t hold the skin together.”

At first, you only stare, and he thinks you’re going to ignore him again. However, like some miracle, you answer. “I know how to patch myself.”

“Sure as shit don’t look like it,” he retorts snidely. “With an angle like that, you’re lucky if—”

“I didn’t ask for your input.”

“Fucking looks like you need it.”

“I don’t need anything from you.”

You all but throw the needle into the nearby wall, which just happens to be the same one he‘s positioned next to. The needle lodges itself right into the wood, sticking out with the thread still dangling from the eye.

Buggy stops breathing, and a drop of sweat trickles down his forehead. He expects you to throw the bottle at him next, just for good measure.

But you don’t. You don’t do anything.

He spends a minute deliberating whether it’s appropriate to continue the flow of conversation. “Look,—” He turns his head around to face you directly. “I’ve been around the block; I know what is best suited for your kind of scratch.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Between the two of us, who do you reckon has the most experience with having their asses kicked? The walking-talking tank who can launch people twice her size in the opposite direction, or the clown?”

“Thought you couldn’t be cut.”

“Correction; I can’t be sliced. There’s a difference,”

The look you give him is a culmination of everything ranging from indifference, irritation, boredom, and subtle agreement towards the statement. In lieu of an answer, Buggy prevails, "If you move the needle in a wavelength through the skin, it keeps it together better and is easier to remove. I know your name would make crossed stitches better fitted, but it sucks by comparison. Trust me."

You don't. Buggy knows that already, but if only for a second, your eyes shift to something other than the four aforementioned. Maybe it's contemplation, perhaps a softer edge around your crow's feet, but it's indecipherable from where he's perched. If he got closer, he might have a better chance at figuring it out.

To his surprise, you actually follow his word on it ... after retrieving the needle that's been embedded into the wooden wall with at least two-thirds of its length.

He corrects you here and there, and provides you pointers while weighing his words. He's just now got your attention, he's not about to risk losing it. "- Not too deep, remember? God, what are you trying to do, give yourself another scarring? Keep it tight!"

... Well, he weighed his words, but maaaan, is he bad at measurements.

After a few more glares from your side and some non-verbal threats of bodily harm, you finally manage to stitch the skin together. Your hands, while precise and experienced in the art that is self-suturing, didn't get to do it perfectly. He knows it hurts like a bitch, he winces every time he sees the needle protrude through your flesh, and while you show no facial reaction, he knows it hurts you as well.

If he'd had his own hands at disposal, he would've made it perfect. So perfect that you'd not even have a scar at all. That, and he’d finally be able to touch you.

But this is as appropriate a substitute as anything, and all in all, it's not too bad. It's you, of course, so nothing you do can be too bad. He keeps that thought to himself as he watches you wrap up your midsection and put away the equipment.

"So, how did I do as an instructor? Pretty damn flashy, am I right?" He says with a low chuckle, only for it to disappear once he's discovered that you're not talking or looking at him anymore. "What? Back to the silent treatment?"

Evidently, yes.

He chews on the inside of his cheek and comes up with another approach to get your eyes on him again. It’s a risky one; might get him your attention, or it might land him into the opposite wall, but it’s a risk he’s willing to take. "I heard what you said, you know? To Rubber-Boy."

He observes no palpable reaction, so he tries again. "Shanks seriously never told you what happened that day it all went down?"

There it is. The fish on the line. Bull’s eye. He sees you stiffen just slightly, and he gets his wish. A shiver runs down his spine when your eyes fall on him again; he can feel it, even from miles and miles away. 

No distance can hope to expel the feelings your gaze bestows him with.

You speak one word. Just one. So low, yet so clear all the same.

"No."

... Buggy the Clown wants to vomit. 

He's not sure if his current disproportionated state can manage it, not to mention it's been days since he last had a scrap of food, but it does not ease the nausea that threatens to overwhelm him. 

Fuck.

When he first heard you tell Luffy this, he thought you were ... lying, somehow. It was stupid; you're not the kind to lie, always telling things as they are without skipping a beat. But he could not see your face, could not see the face you were making, and so he took it with a grain of salt. Or a bucket-load of it.

There was no way you didn’t know, no way Shanks didn’t tell you… Right? Buggy used to come up with excuses for his own righteousness, telling himself that this thing that happened was never his fault.

Now, he knows for certain. He knows you're telling the truth, he sees it, and he feels a bile rise in his throat.

One conclusion is made in the messy pile that is his brain.

He fucked up. 

He fucked up BIG TIME.

It's a fuck-up that'll go down in history as the biggest fucking fuck-up ever to cross the seven seas in all fucking time. He fucked up so bad, in fact, that it cost him more than he'll ever be able to pay for.

The sound his throat makes is pathetic.

"Oh."

BANG!

A good-sized piece of the wooden table snaps under the pressure of your fist and descends to the floor with a plat. Buggy imagines if that was him instead, getting crushed to the floor like a maggot crawling in the dirty as an unsuspecting hiker walks across..

With the shove of your chair, you get to your feet. "I'm getting Zoro."

"NONONONO! WAIT! PLEASE, ANYONE BUT HIM!"

You don't care. You're already halfway across the room when he, in his desperation, shouts two words he's never said before. 

"WAIT! I'M SORRY!"

… You stop.

He takes the moment right out of fate's hands.

"I didn't know, alright! I didn't know that you didn't know, and I thought you knew." He hopps his head a little closer to the edge of the table, right where the cracked piece currently on the floor once was. "I thought you knew, and then went with that fucking red-haired asshole! How was I supposed to know that you didn't know?!"

Wrong words. Very wrong words. He finds out soon enough just how wrong they were.

You're inches away before he can even blink, hands clenched on the table counter with one at each side of his head. Your noses almost touching, and he can feel the fire in your throat threaten to scorch him alive like a pig above the pyre.

"You could've asked." You say, softly at first, but bit by bit, your voice opens up to the deep-rooted anger that's laid dormant for years. "You could've asked me." 

Craaaaack, and another splinter pops off the table and lands in his hair. 

"You could've talked to me."

The entire table shakes now, and Buggy struggles not to slip from it. He thinks you're about to tear the whole damn thing to shreds with the way you're clenched around it. It's on-brand by now for you, comes with the name and everything.

"Cross-Hairs. Captain of the Cross-Haired Pirates, the Beast of the East, and Breaker of Tables and Faces and Bones and Jaws and Clown Noses."

He expects the additional titles to apply to him any moment now. He'll have to jump around the ship in search of his misplaced jaw next time, and probably the nose too. The crew of nobodies will have something to laugh about in years to come, and he'll never live the shame down.

But like with Orange Town, instead of the hand that will bring about his demise, all he feels is a breeze across his cheek. So light, and so brief, yet there lingers a warmth he wants nothing more than to grasp it. A thirsty man searching for his oasis.

You remove your hands from the table. "I would've traveled across the seas with you if only you'd asked it of me."

... What?

He feels his head freeze for the umpteenth time as your words circle in his head, garnering a storm of long-forgotten memories and feelings and hurt and betrayal.

You would? 

You really would? 

You would have gone with him all those years ago, if only he'd asked it of you?

He looks at your hands; the cracked knuckles and bruised skin, adjusted fights and blood and the impact of bones. The same ones currently threaten his safety as a dislocated head. He looks right into your eyes despite the risks it warrants.

You refuse to look at him, more now than ever, like there’s a rope wrapped around your neck that’s forcing you to face down. Like you're afraid that he might see something you'd prefer to keep in the dark. And yet he sees something wet and salty gathering in the corners of your eyes, and he sees the ways your body scrunches like a child wanting nothing more than to curl up to the floor and cry.

When was the last time he saw you even come close to crying? You never cried, for as long as he’d known you. If there ever was a time, it was the day he left you behind on that dock so long ago, and he had already turned his back before he had a chance to see the waterworks leak.

He finds it strange how some things seem to change whereas others don't. When Rogers first brought you onto the crew, disheveled and thin as you were, you never made a sound or showed any emotions. Being a man who wore his feelings and thoughts on display, he found it fucking weird. You were weird. You are weird, now more than ever.

Now, seeing you like this, knowing he's the one who brought it out, he doesn't know whether he's the detonator or the executioner. Maybe a bit of both?

His general nature is to deny accountability and put the blame on something or someone else to save face. It's always been like that; a habit by now. Call it cowardice, but he calls it a way of life. A bank getting robbed after the employees got knocked out by Muggy Balls? Not him. The white lion having a stomachache after eating old slabs left for too long in the cooler until it developed an ecosystem of its own? Not his fault.

But you crying?

You being hurt.

You hurting.

His fault. All his.

You, the strongest person he knows of; the same person who laughed at his jokes, worried about him, kicked ass seven days 'til Sunday, and shone so brightly in the moonlight by the docks, crying ... 

His fault.

You're the strongest person he knows. Hell, you're probably one of the strongest people in all of East-Blue, yet still, he's the one who managed to make you cry. A beast rendered to a tearful child, still so small even after all this time, all because of him.

What does that make him? The strongest person in the East Blue? Or the worst? He's never minded being the worst at what he does, but he realizes in that moment, perched on the tabletop, that he can stand anyone's tears but yours.

Never yours.

You’re fighting those tears the same way you fight everything else; putting every ounce of strength your body has to offer, clawing at it, gripping it, doing everything in your power to keep the tears from spilling and potentially revealing something more.

Still, it doesn’t matter how strong you are. You could’ve lifted the world and held it in the palm of your hands, and the tears still would’ve proved the biggest challenge you'd face yet.

If he had his hands, he’d cradle your chin, hold you close, and promise to never let go ever again. You’d fight him all the same, kick his ass, claw at him, break all the bones in his body, and he’d let you.

He’d endure your strength, dance across the blazing charcoal that is your wrath, but nothing you’d do would make him let go, even if you were to separate every atom in his body one by one.

He'd hold on, and when he gets his body back, that’s what he’ll do.

“I’m sorry …” he whispers, the apology tasting like bitter peppercorns on the tip of his tongue. “I … Shouldn’t have left. I shouldn’t have” Fuck, he sounds pathetic. “… I’m so … so fucking sorry.” 

For all of it.

He’s never once apologized in his life, not to anyone, but for you, he’d apologize a thousand times over. He’d learn “I’m sorry” in every language known to man, recite every prayer, suffer every penalty in the book.

This could all have been avoided if he’d just fucking talked to you that day instead of running. As if divinity decided to deliver punishments, he was haunted by that thing he ran from for twenty years; torturing him, driving him mad with longing.

Twenty years of bullshit in your absence … all of it avoidable had he not been the fuck-up he acknowledges he’s been.

He’d dive head-first into the ocean if it meant he could take back what he said that day. He’d take on the Marines too if he had to. He’d find the One Piece and give it to you, forgo his own dreams. He’d do anything, just to take back what he did.

Just to have you look at him with something other than scorn. Just to have you look at him the same way you used to.

A few drops of salt land on the table right in front of him, and save for the occasional sniffs and heavy inhales, you remain stubbornly quiet. This time, he keeps his mouth shut and awaits your judgment. The likelihood of you refusing to forgive him is the most probable one, and he can’t fault you for that as much as he’d hate it. The chance of you forgiving him just like that … is less. 

A minute of silence becomes two minutes, and two become three, and five, and ten.

You raise your head to peer down at him, your eyes reddened and heavy, but you finally do look at him. He holds his breath in anticipation and wonders what’s working behind them.

What are you thinking?

What are you feeling?

Is it rage? Is it vengeance?

Will you wrap your hands around his neck and squeeze until there’s nothing left but an ashy head? He doesn’t know if asphyxiation will have the intended effect given his condition, but there’s only one way to find out.

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and imagines that it will be his last.

The door slams and the room rattles, throwing him off in surprise.

Buggy opens his eyes and sees that you’re not here anymore.

You’re gone, again.

He releases the breath he’s been withholding, not knowing what to make of this. Will you come back, or will you leave him here by himself: put him through the same state as he left you in?

His head burns thinking about it.

Not even a minute later, you return to the room, and the scent of something delicious fills the atmosphere.

You’re holding something in your hand, a plate. It takes him a while to realize what it is, and as he’s about to open his mouth to ask, you wordlessly put the plate down in front of him.

Buggy drools like a dog. It’s food. Actual fucking food. Some kind of dish (fish?) with boiled potatoes and cabbage on the side, with sauce distributed evenly over it. He usually hates cabbage, but as hungry as he is now, he thinks it looks like the most delicious thing of all. Even better, the food is still hot, and it’s been cut so that it’ll be easier for him to take in.

He looks up at you expectantly and watches as you sit down, cross your legs, and put a glass of water with a bendy straw next to the plate. Did you bring him a bendy straw? Holy fuck, you brought him fucking bendy straw! He can’t help but stare at you like you put the sun in the sky because, how could he not? You brought him food, you brought him a drink, YOU BROUGHT HIM A FUCKING BENDY STRAW! 

Bored eyes turn to him as you rest your chin in the palm of your hand. “It’ll get cold,” you state matter-of-factly, which he interprets as Hurry up and eat, asshole.

Buggy doesn’t have to be told twice, and he digs in like an animal. Decorum was never his thing anyway.

Maybe this isn’t forgiveness, and maybe you’re still rightfully pissed, but that’s alright. This gesture implies that, at the very least, there’s a bridge now. It’s made of rusty nails and unsteady planks and runs over a shitty river, but it’s a milestone from his point of view.

He’ll wait for as long as he’ll have to, even if it’s takes another twenty years to make up for it, even if it takes a hundred. He'll wait and he'll work for as fucking long as he have to, just to see your smile again.

He knows your dream.

He knows you care; you protected him, after all. You held him close, put yourself in harm’s way just to keep him safe.

That means, even after all this time, you still consider him yours.

All that remains is for you to finally find our for yourself.

-----

Taglist: @kurinhimenezu, @carpinchootaku, @ay0nha, @teh-vampire-bunny, @lokiscure, @internationalsuper-spy, @detectivesparrow , @yuriwk , @notyuralycat , @angeli-fucking-cat , @machinema7k , @shuujin, @avatar-lover, @gingernut1314, @autumn-slaves. @marvelouskatie, @floristoflillys, @dizzyenby, @redpool, @deliri-yum22, @aemondsb1tch, @ackroxia, @gayandfairycore, @knightsfavoriteprincess, @asterizee, @aamethyst23, @lizzie1107, @cyberwears, @heylookliisten, @f41k47, @beep-beep1, @crimsonflameproxy, @unpopular-sober-thoughts, @rayleeya, @timeladyrikaofgallifrey, (If you want to be tagged for this story, just send me a message or leave a comment :))

[luvh4nji]

𝐓𝐎𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖 𝐗 𝐓𝐎𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 + 𝐉𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐘

warning: none really, soobs is taller than reader

yeonjun ; he hates being jealous, but he seems like the type to get jealous often. he's so possessive and protective, but he tries to keep it under control for you. still, he'd step in immediately, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and pulling you into his side, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head before looking at the guy, giving him a humorless grin.

"whose this, babe?" he asked, his hand rubbing up and down your arm sweetly, keeping you close. and he loves how the guy who'd been talking to you starts stuttering when he introduces himself, his gaze rapidly going between you and your boyfriend. "did you know him?" yeonjun would ask when the guy eventually left, saying he hopes to see you later, muttering a small "good" when you shake your head.

soobin ; he doesn't seem like the jealous type. at least, not very often. he knows you love him and he loves you and he trusts you and the people you choose to associate with. however, that changes every so often when one of your friend gets a little too close to you. suddenly, soobin's hanging all over you, his arms wrapped around you, his head resting on your shoulder, pressing kisses to the crook of your neck.

"'m sorry, honey." he apologizes when you scold him for making your friend uncomfortable. "something didn't feel right. he has a thing for you, i swear." and you can't stay mad at him, not with the way he's looking at you, not with the way he rests his big hands on your waist, gripping onto you tightly like he's scared you'll disappear.

beomgyu ; gets jealous very, very easily. he doesn't want to, but he seems like the type to not be very secure in a relationship. when he sees you talking to another man, giving too much attention to somebody else, he can't help the way his chest tightens painfully. but he doesn't do anything, he keeps his feelings to himself.

"no, i'm okay." he says, trying to mask what he really feels. but you see right through him, nuzzling into his side and telling him how much you love him, how he doesn't need to be worried about you and your relationship. and he just blushes, nodding in affirmation. "i know, i just can't help it sometimes." and, although he feels a little bad, he's still eagerly agrees when you offer to go home.

taehyun ; he doesn't get jealous often, if at all. he seems like the type to be very secure in a relationship and he trusts you more than anything. still, the moment he sees you in any sort of discomfort, he's on his feet and coming over, wrapping an arm around you, fixing the guy you'd been talking to with a unfriendly stare.

"hey, baby." he says softly, his hand running down you arm and grabbing your hand, lacing your fingers together. "it's getting a little late, you ready to head out?" and he completely disregards the man in front of you, giving you a sweet smile when you nod, tugging your hand gently as he moves towards the entrance of the bar. "let's get out of here, honey."

kai ; he gets sad when jealous. he's the type to watch from a distance as some guy comes out of nowhere, cornering you by the bathrooms of the restaurant. his big, brown eyes get all big and sad, lips forming a pout as he watches you talk to the guy, before he gets up and walks over to you, standing behind you and grabbing your hand in his.

he doesn't even need to say anything. he's not entirely aware of it, but he has a very intimidating presence. his tall stature lingering behind you, fixing the guy with a stare that makes him exceedingly uncomfortable before he eventually leaves you alone. and kai's so confused on what he did exactly to make the guy leave, but he's happy nonetheless that he could help you and also be the center of your attention.

[ghouljams]

Please more knight ghost it’s unhealthy at how attached I am to your writing at this point like omg the way you write is perfect . Also your characterization is amazing.

I would do anything for you, thank you. Knight!Ghost always has me the most worried about characterization but also feels the closest to Canon ghost in my mind. I could probably expand on that but I'm not gonna do it here.

"I'm going to teach you how to hold a knife," Ghost tells you on your third night in the woods. He'd been quiet all day, you wonder if this is what he'd been thinking about. You try to contain your excitement. "Don't look so giddy."

"I'm not," you school your features.

"You are, I can feel it," he grumbles, tugging his knife free from the sheath on his belt.

"Bull-" you cut yourself off when he glares at you, twisting your fingers against your mouth like you could hide the intent from him. Princesses don't swear, and he's chastised you enough about stealing words from the knights that you don't need another lesson. "I'm sorry," you mumble.

"Don't apologize to me," he tells you, the only thing you think he hates more than your swearing, "princesses don't apologize-"

"-they receive apologies," you finish for him. Except it isn't just anyone you're alopogizing to, it's Ghost. The only man worthy of an apology, the only person you care about staying in the good graces of. Besides, you're only a princess. Even when you're queen there will always be someone above you, a king you'll have to get used to apologizing to.

Ghost knocks his knuckles against your head, exceedingly gentle despite the casual airs he puts on. You frown and swat at his hand. You can see his eyes squint, smiling behind his mask.

"Chin up princess," he shoves the hilt of his knife into your hands, "give us a slash, eh?"

You stare at him, swallow, and grip his knife tight. He lifts his tunic and pats his stomach, the mail and padding makes this feel much less intimidating. Not enough that you don't hesitate slashing at him. You can feel Ghost's impatience radiating off of him.

He grabs your hands and adjusts your hold, batting one of your hands away from the hilt and holding it at the wrist. "Keep this one out in case you need to grab your opponent." He instructs, you nod still trying to gain the courage to slice your closest companion. You wind your arm back and- "Eyes open."

You huff and pout at him. He raises a brow. "You wanted to learn to fight." He sounds like he's trying not to laugh. You don't appreciate it. This is harder than you thought it would be, you didn't think you'd be practicing on Ghost.

"I don't want to fight you," you tell him.

"I'm flattered," he deadpans.

"What if I hurt you?" You wince. You've already stitched him up once, you don't want to do it again.

"It would be an honor."

Your breath catches. He says it so sincerely. You know that line, it's an honor to die for the monarchy, to be injured protecting them -you- but this. You don't know what this is. You don't know or understand the look in Ghost’s eyes. Or maybe you do, maybe the ache in your chest that it conjures is responding in kind to a similar one in his. Maybe it isn't the monarchy that brings him honor, maybe it's just you.

"I don't want to learn anymore," you whisper, you can't raise your voice past that, too consumed by what it would mean to cut Ghost. It would mean he's a man, something flesh and blood that you can hurt. Not the larger than life figure he presents, not the thing only monster can touch. It would mean you could hurt him the same way anything else could.

Except he'd let you. He'd bare his flesh for you, show his stomach, strip himself of all safeguards, all teeth and claws. You could cut him and it would be an honor.

"Ok," he says, his hand wrapping around yours, his voice low and gentling, "let's stop." You nod, taking your hand from the knife quickly. He drops to one knee in front of you, tips your head with two gloved fingers under you chin, drawing your gaze to meet his. "I'm at your command, my lady." He reaffirms, reassures.

He'll never force you, never disobey your "no", always on a short leash your dog. How could you ever hurt him? How could he ever ask you to?

[albertasunrise]

Hope - No Hope

Masterlist

Summary: After Joel loses his wife and your best friend during childbirth. You support him as he takes on parenthood on his own at 22. But when feelings start to develop, you battle with the guilt you feel for falling for your best friend’s husband.

Relationships: Joel Miller x Reader

Warnings: Like AO3 I choose to give none. Read at own risk. 18+… this is to avoid spoilers! (I am so sorry this has taken so long. As many of you know I am expecting my first baby and the little miracle has been draining the lift out of me 😂 but I am getting over that now and so I will be updating my fics over the coming weeks 🥰 hope you enjoy!)

Series Masterlist - Part 1, Part 2

One year later...

Weekends at yours with Alec grilling had become a tradition. Noah and Sarah still adored each other and were practically joined at the hip at this point. You'd been with Alec for over a year. Moving it with each other not long after getting together Joel had been left to try and pull himself out of the dark hole your leaving him and Sarah had left him in. Yet, despite the crippling jealousy that he felt towards the other man for capturing your heart, he could not hate him. Alec was the perfect gentleman. You and he flourished together and helped Joel whenever he needed it. It was impossible to be anything but happy for you both. 

"Sarah come." Said Noah as he took her hand and helped her waddle over to his jungle gym "Play princesses." 

Joel watched with fondness as his 18th-month daughter walked with the little boy, her legs still a little wobbly but getting stronger every week. He kept an eye on them both whilst listening in to the conversation that was flowing between the adults. Tommy laughed as he told them a story about one of his friends, the older brother smiling at how enthusiastically his brother spoke about his brothers in arms. 

"How's work been for you Joel?" You asked, pulling his gaze away from the kids and towards you as you smiled sweetly at him. 

"Business is good." Joel answered with a shrug "Can't complain really." 

"How did your date with that client's daughter go?" Tommy asked as he gave his brother a wink. 

"You had a date?" You practically squeaked, looking between the two brothers with giddy excitement. 

"Was fine." Joel shrugged "She was sweet but we just didn't click." Joel shrugged, looking down at the beer in his hand in hoping that you would drop it. 

"What really happened?" You pushed and he sighed, there was no hiding anything from you. 

"She uh... Well, she freaked out when I told her I had a kid." He answered honestly "Can't blame her. I'm 22 with a toddler. Not exactly what you expect or what from a relationship in your early twenties." 

"Joel..." 

"It's fine... Honestly, what 20-something What's a kid right?" 

Your mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. Unable to find the words to say to make him feel better. He was so young and yet he seemed so set that he was to face life alone. 

"Foods up" Stated Alec as he placed the plate of burgers down beside the salad you'd placed there a few minutes ago.

"KIDS." Joel shouted, smirking when just their heads appeared in the doorway of the fort "FOOD!" he finished, outright smirking at how their eyes widened before they scrambled over to the table. 

Lunch passed with ease. Noah found it exceedingly funny how his little friend pulled her burger apart so that she could eat it all in separate pieces. Then after the dishes were cleared away and the kids were out down for a nap the four of you sat in the garden and enjoyed the piece and quiet. The conversation flowed easily and everything was relaxed. 

Until you and Alec dropped your news. 

"We're real glad that the two of you were able to make it." Alec said as he glanced at you and smiled. 

"Why's that?" Tommy asked as he eyed you and Alec. 

"Well, we got some news." 

Joel's stomach dropped. 

"Y'all getting married?" Tommy fired at them and they chuckled.

"No... Although we have been discussing it." Alec chuckled. 

"What is it then?" Tommy pushed and Joel wished his brother wouldn't. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. 

"We're gonna have a baby." You gushed and Joel swore his heart stopped altogether.

"What?" 

Your brows pulled together at his question and he internally scorned himself for his reaction. He hadn't meant to say that out loud but he couldn't believe what he was hearing. 

You were pregnant? 

"What my brother meant to say was congrats." Tommy piped up, pulling Joel back to earth with a crash. 

"Yeah... Course I did... just caught me by surprise is all." Joel stated, giving you what he hoped was a convincing smile. 

"Yeah... we uh..." Alec chuckled as you both gazed at each other a moment and grinned "We were too. Would be lying if we said we planned this." 

That didn't make Joel feel any better. 

"We have one too many bottles of wine to thank for this." You sniggered as you placed your hand on the bump that Joel had completely missed before. 

"Well, we already know you're both gonna be ace parents." Tommy said as he jumped to his feet, bending down to hug both you and Alec. 

Joel's heart was in his throat. He had worked so hard to bury his feelings for you but this news had just dredged them from the depths and shoved them in his face. He felt like he was under a spotlight as you all turned to look at him, waiting for him to speak. Sarah crying down the baby monitor couldn't have come at a better time. 

The tearful daddies had him standing from his seat quickly and muttering a few nervous sorry's before he sprinted inside to his daughter. You couldn't help but be confused by Joel's reaction to your news. You'd thought he would be happy for you. 

Meanwhile, Joel was rocking his sniffly little girl as she settled in his arms, placing soft kisses on her head of curly hair as he whispered how it was okay to her whilst swallowing back his own tears. He soothed his little girl back to sleep, laying her back down in her cot before stumbling back onto the couch behind him, falling into it and throwing his head in his hands as he allowed his tears to flow. 

Something you watched from the shadows as your heart shattered for him. You weren't sure why he was so broken but you hated seeing him hurt. Little did you know that he was mourning the fact that you were completely and utterly lost to him now. He officially had no hope of sharing his life with the woman who had pulled him from the deepest pit and brought him into the light. The woman who had taught him that life was worth living. 

That everyone has a second chance at love.

...

Tommy watched his brother from the kitchen as the man finished cleaning away the mess Sarah had left from dinner. They had left a short while after you and Alec had made your announcement, Joel remaining quiet the rest of the time they were there. He knew something was up. His brother wasn't good at hiding his true feelings, he wore them on his sleeve and he felt conflicted about his sibling's reaction to your pregnancy. Part of him felt for Joel. Knowing that for longer than his older brother had realised, he'd had feelings for you and how this bombshell must have shattered him. The other part though was angry that Joel hadn't even tried to pretend that he was happy for you. 

"Joel." He called out when his brother's cleaning got more erratic "Joel!" He said a little louder when his first call fell on deaf ears. 

"What." The older man growled, coming to a stop and gripping the edges of the counter as he stared at the bottles now soaking in the sink. 

"You could have been nicer about her news." He said plainly, pulling Joel's gaze to him. 

"What?" He asked again, but his tone changed. 

"I get that you're probably feeling a bit bummed about this but-" 

"Bummed?" Joel snarled, stopping his brother in his tracks "You think I'm feeling bummed about this?"

"You know what I mean... I get you're disappointed but you could have at least pretended to be happy for her." 

Joel said nothing. 

His chest heaved as his brother's words whirled in his brain. Bummed... he thought to himself. BUMMED?? He hadn't meant to yell that last thought at his brother. 

"I am fucking devastated." Joel choked, taking his brother by surprise "A year and a half ago... I lost my wife on what should have been the happiest day of my life." 

Tommy flinched at the mention of Joel's dead wife. 

"I drove home alone... with this tiny person beside me and I honestly thought that my life was over..." He trailed off as he scraped a shaky hand over his face "And then I walk into that very lounge and there's this ray of light shining back at me. 

"She pulled me back from the brink and despite my brain telling me it was wrong... I fell for her. But my wife had just died and I had a new baby so I pushed it away... Pushed her away..." Joel was sobbing now, his cheeks glittering with the tears that tracked down them "I pushed her away and she stumbled into the arms of another man. A man that I can't even hate because he's so fucking perfect for her!" 

"But you are-"

"I'm a fucking wreck, Tommy." Joel interrupted "I am nothing but bad for her and my feeling devastated about her happy news just proves that." 

"Joel..." Tommy trailed off, his heart aching for his older brother now. 

"I fucked up." He finished, shrugging and leaving the room. 

As the weather grew a little more changeable, dinners at your home became more scarce. Instead, you had started to have Sarah over for a few hours in the evening as Joel's hours had gotten longer. He never stuck around when collecting her though and you knew he was avoiding you. You hadn't pushed the subject of witnessing him crying. You'd barely mentioned the pregnancy around him in the short moments you did share any conversation. One month merged into two. Two into three and you felt him grow more and more distant with each one. 

You ached to talk to him though. To try and understand why your happy news had affected him the way it had. You wondered if perhaps it had brought up the hurt of losing Ali. They had broken the news to you in a similar way. Dinner at there's with you and a few other close friends, they had announced that they were expecting. Perhaps it had brought up memories and feelings he'd not dwelt on for a while. 

He never gave you a chance to find out though. You would share a few words. Mostly about what Sarah had been up to at nursery and with you before discussing what she had for dinner and any other days he may need you to have her. Your friendship had become little more than a business transaction and it was breaking your heart... And Alec could see how much it was breaking you. 

He only allowed one more month of this to continue before he finally decided that enough was enough. 

...

Joel glanced up at the door, glancing at Tommy before pushing himself to his feet and walking up to answer it. He had no clue who would be at his door at 9 in the evening but if he had hazard a guess, he wouldn't have ever thought it was Alec. 

"Hey." Alec said as he gave the man a smile "Hope I'm not interrupting." 

"Tommy and I were just watching the game." Joel replied and Alec nodded "What can I do for you?" He asked as he glanced over the man's shoulder "Everything okay?" 

"Oh yeah." Alec nodded, giving Joel's arm a friendly pat "I just thought you and I could go for a drink. Catch up... It's been a while." 

"Oh, I don't know... Sarah-" 

"Can be sat by her uncle Tommy for a few hours." Piped up his younger sibling as he walked up behind him "Go, I can handle shit here for a while." 

"You referring to it as shit doesn't give me much confidence." Joel grumbled as he grabbed his jacket and followed Alec to his car "Page me if you need me." He threw over his shoulder as he turned his head to look at his brother who was waving him off from the front door. 

"Won't need ya, brother." 

...

Alec drove to a bar not far from Joel's. It was fairly busy but not so much so that they couldn't hear each other talk. The conversation had flowed surprisingly easily at first. Something that Joel had always admired about Alec was that the man loved to talk about his kid. He sat there and gushed about how well Noah and Sarah played together. How she seemed to hang off of his every action. 

"He's constantly talking to baby." Alec chuckled "Telling her all the games he wants to play and-" 

"Her?" Joel piped up and Alec grinned and nodded "Shit... yeah I wasn't supposed to say anything." He let out an awkward chuckle as he took a sip of his beer "We're having a girl." 

"Wow, that's... That's great." Joel replied, his tone turning flat as he took a large swig of his beer in the hope that it would mask his disappointment. 

"Yeah... We're excited." 

"I bet." 

An awkward silence fell over the duo a moment before Alec spoke again. Leaning forward in his chair and forcing himself into Joel's eyeline. 

"What's going on man?" He asked and Joel was surprised at how surprisingly soft his question was.

"What do you mean?" 

"I mean that since we announced that we're having a baby you've been off." He stated plainly "I've been watching you break your friend's heart month by month as you grow more and more distant with her." 

"Alec-" Joel was stopped by a raised hand and he sighed. 

"I know our news must have dredged up some memories for you but you can't push your friends away." Alec pleaded "We're here to help you, Joel." 

"That's not... It didn't..." Joel couldn't string the words together but Alec knew what he was trying to say. 

"Well if it isn't that... the only other logical reason for your reaction is that you're..." He trailed off as he put two and two together. His eyes trailing up to Joel as the last puzzle piece falls into place. 

"You're in love with her... Aren't you?" 

Joel's eyes filled with tears as he nodded numbly. His eyes squeezed shut knocking a few of them free. Alec sat there in shock as he processed what he'd just learned. Joel's heart was in his throat as he watched the man work through everything he needed to. He had hoped that he would take this secret to his grave but in reality, he knew it had only been a matter of time before it came out. 

"Alec I'm sorry..." Joel choked, his eyes pleading with the man to believe him "I had feelings for her way before she met you but I was struggling with losing Ali and the fact I'd developed feelings for someone so soon after that I suppressed them and pushed her away and then she met you and I... Well, I was too late. You're good for her and I would never get in the way of you guys I just... I'm not good at handling this." 

This statement made Alec snort. He finally looked at Joel and the younger man readied himself for the verbal bashing he was undoubtedly about to receive. It never came. 

"I won't lie to you, man." Alec started with a sigh "This is not what I expected when I decided we needed to talk." 

Joel nodded, his eyes dropping to his beer bottle. 

"You need to buck up your ideas now though man." The man continued "She needs you... She needs Sarah. You're all she has left of Ali and she's been slowly killing herself trying to work out what she did wrong to make you so distant." 

"I didn't mean to hurt her." Joel mumbled and Alec nodded.

"I know man and I get why you've been behaving as you have. It's not gonna be easy learning the woman you love is having a baby with another man but we are your friends Joel and we can help you get through this. So let us." 

Joel nodded and gave the man a teary smile. 

They finished their beers before heading out of the bar and back to Alec's car. Joel had always admired the man's car. A black 66' Mustang that he had rebuilt with his dad as a kid. Alec had regaled the story fondly the first time Joel had set eyes on the car. 

"Wanna drive?" Alec asked as he waved the keys at Joel. 

The man's eyes widened as he nodded eagerly and Alec grinned as he tossed them to Joel as they swapped sides. To say Joel was excited did not do what he was feeling justice. He had been trying to think of a way to ask the man if he could take it for a spin since he met him, so to finally get the chance was beyond exciting. 

The straight six sitting under the bonnet roared to life and Joel and Alec both groaned before the younger man peeled out of the carpark and onto the main road. No words passed between them a while before Alec rolled his head to look at his friend, smiling at the giddy excitement plastered all over Joel. 

"I'm sorry you've been hurting man." He said simply "I want you to know that I genuinely care about you and I don't want to see you suffer." 

Joel shot him a smile, before returning his focus to the road. 

"We'll work this shit out." He finished, giving Joel's knee a friendly pat before turning his attention to the buildings that flew past his window. 

"Thank you." Joel said as he smiled over at Alec, his eyes then greeting the headlights of a truck that had just jumped a light. 

It was the last thing he said before the sound of metal being crushed rang in their ears. 

Then everything went black. 

Next

For updates follow @albertasunrise-ficsblog

[raz-writes-the-thing]

Trans Pride (Doctor Who One Shot)

Tenth Doctor x Masc!Reader (FTM specific) / requests are open

Summary: You can't believe the Doctor didn't know you were trans.

CW: not really any cws but reader has had top surgery and the Doctor is an oblivious idiot (and we love him anyway)

Doctor Who Tag List: @nyxiethesimp @quickslvxrr @midnight--raine @blueberry-sunshines (send an ask to be added to a tag list!)

___ ___ ___ ___ ___

It’s not something you’d ever had to bring up with the Doctor. You just were who you were. You had to admit even to yourself that you passed well on the average day-to-day. You had your less confident days, of course, but deep down you knew even on those days that unless someone was really, really looking- or already knew, most people wouldn’t be able to tell that you were assigned female at birth. Which was how you liked it, anyway. Given you weren’t female. 

As far as you knew the Doctor was aware, but it wasn’t something you needed to clarify either. It wasn’t something you went around announcing just like a cis-gendered person didn’t wander around announcing their gender either. 

And so when you’d needed to change your shirt after your shower, but realised you’d left it hanging over the bannister in the console room, you hadn’t thought a single thing of it.

With a sigh, you haphazardly dried off and wrapped the towel around yourself. Opening the bathroom door, you peeked both ways down the hallway to check for the Doctor before making your way in a little bit of a rush to find your missing tee. 

You entered the console area and clicked your tongue when you saw the offending article sitting over the handrail just where you thought it would be. How you managed to leave it out in the open when you went to shower was beyond you. 

“There you are,” you hear a very familiar voice. The Doctor’s face pops up from around the centre console, glasses pushed back against his face and expression screwed up as he attempts to get his eyes to focus on you from that far away. His frames were mostly for close-distance viewing. 

You shuffled closer and whipped the tee off the railing. 

“Here I am,” you replied, placing a hand on the knot of the towel. The Doctor pushes his glasses onto his hair like sunglasses and blinks to clear his vision. 

“Wondered where you’d got off too. Left your shirt.” 

You wave the shirt softly in your hand. 

“Thanks, Doc.” 

The Doctor’s brows draw down for a half second before straightening out again, and you look down at yourself, wondering just what it is he’s looking at- oh. Oh, it’s your top scars. You look up at him and cock your head to the side in confusion. 

“Uh, did- sorry, I need to ask you a question,” you say, not wanting to make assumptions.

You all but hop up the stairs so you can stand in front of him. The Doctor stops what he’s doing on the monitor immediately to give you his full attention. 

“Shoot-” he says before cutting himself off. “Well, ask away.” 

“Did you not know I was trans?” Your lips trip up into a grin by the end, and you can feel a laugh bubbling up in your throat. “Like, did you- did you not know?” 

The Doctor’s mouth opens and closes for a second, and you marvel at the fact that he is speechless right now. The Doctor, the man who always knows exactly what to say- speechless! This was absolutely priceless. 

“I may not have known, no,” he says after another couple of seconds scrabbling for words. “I mean, you pass exceedingly well. I had no idea. None! Brilliant, isn’t that brilliant?!” 

You puff out a laugh and nod, shoving at his shoulder playfully. 

“I’d say so, yeah,” you agreed, letting the Doctor’s infectious grin pass over to you as well. 

The Doctor put his hands on his hips, shaking his head with that unshakable grin.

“Blimey,” the Doctor breathed back. “Think I need a minute to soak that all in. Had no idea, me. Well, handsome- where would you like to go now?” The Doctor blinked and looked down at your towel. “You know, once you’re dressed and everything.” 

You hummed thoughtfully. 

“What’s Pride like in the twenty-eight-hundreds?” 

The Doctor lets out an excited and elongated ‘ohhhhhhh’ as he starts fiddling with the controls. 

“You’re gonna love it. It’s brilliant!” 

You don’t think there’s any doubt about that.

[luveline]

Could you write some more steve fluff literally anything I love your writing so much.

omg i def can tysm for reading

Steve loves the feeling of your naked knee against his thigh, that tiny press of warmth. You’re cross-legged to his slouched, sideways to his forwards. Your open nail polish balances precariously on your foot, the smell sharp in his nose. 

“So Cindy-”

“Who’s Cindy?” he asks, pulling his gaze from your knee to your face, the tip of your tongue poking between your lips in concentration as you paint your index fingernail with careful strokes.

“She was in Algebra 02 with us.”

Steve makes a noise of realisation and you dip the brush back in the small glass bottle, careful not to tip it over. Steve sighs, taking it between his fingers and you smile gratefully, continuing, “So Cindy gets all sulky and of course her boyfriend doesn’t notice ‘cos he’s a total deadbeat.”

“Of course.”

You grin at him. “Anyways, Warren turns up and he’s doing his ‘I’m so handsome and nice’ thing that he does and asks her what’s wrong. She tells him and she’s crying, and oh, Stevie, isn’t it something straight out of a teenie boppers movie?” Your voice goes all high and dreamy, your hand thrown carefully against your head in theatrics. “They share a kiss and go home together.”

“He’s handsome?” Steve asks, bemused. 

“Not as handsome as you,” you say without missing a beat. 

He grins and he knows he looks smarmy but he doesn’t care as he leans in, trying to catch a kiss any way he can. You seem like you might let him have one when you turn your face and his lips land on your cheek. He reaches out, mock furious, hands at your neck and holding you firmly still as he kisses a path from your cheek to the corner of your lips, then finally atop your giggling mouth. 

“You can’t go to these stupid parties without me if you’re going to tell me how handsome the dudes are when you get back,” he complains into your skin. 

Steve thinks this might be when you look your prettiest, after the party with your make up all smudged up and your lip gloss kissed off by no one other than himself, in ratty soft pajamas a half hour from passing out for the night. Your tiredness shows in the rasp of your voice and the half-lidded nature of your eyes. 

“You should’ve come to the party with me,” you say lightly, hands scrunching in the neckline of his shirt. 

“Dustin needed supervision,” he says apologetically. 

“I know, baby,” you say, kissing him again. “I don’t really mind, but I do miss you when you can’t come with me, and- oh, fuck.”

Steve follows your eyes down, your fingers bunched in his shirt. You pull away and there’s polish all over his collar, dark and definitely permanent. 

“Your shirt,” you say worriedly. 

“Your nails!” Steve says, taking your wrist into his hand. “They took so long.”

“Steve, I’ve ruined your shirt.”

He hardly cares. Anything for a kiss. 

“And your nails. Want me to do them for you?” he asks.

You smile at him, a soft, fond tilt of the lips. “You want to?”

“Of course I do, I bet I can do them faster, too. I’m good at everything. This’ll be a piece of cake, then my girl can finally get some shut eye.”

You roll your eyes but extend your hand obligingly when he takes it. Steve wipes the ruined polish off of your nails and skin with one of your q-tips and begins to paint your nails again, clumsy though exceedingly careful strokes. He’s trying hard enough to have broken a sweat by the time he’s finished, long minutes later full of your yawns. 

“Shit,” he says, pulling back to look at his work from afar. 

“Thanks, Stevie,” you say, holding your wet hand away from your bodies as you dump yourself onto his shoulder. You kiss his ruined shirt, his bicep through fabric. “You’re the nicest.”

“They’re awful. Here, I’ll do them again.”

“You will not,” you murmur, sounding dangerously close to sleep. He watches you lose the battle with your tired eyes, lashes fluttering uselessly until they stay closed. 

“Sorry about your shirt,” you whisper.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. He’s not sure if you’ve heard him. You draw silent and he watches your hand slowly fall, threading his fingers through yours cautiously, hoping to stop from another ruinous nail polish incident. 

Something in you must be awake. You squeeze his hand, your cheek rubbing into his arm slowly. He ducks down to kiss your forehead, wondering fondly why your nails couldn’t have waited until morning. 

[vaporwavebeach-writes]

Kinktober Day 18 (Body Modification)

Victor Zsasz x Reader (NSFW)

(1,152 Words)

Summary: Zsasz makes his mark

Warnings/Tags: 18+, female reader (I got self indulgent sorry LMAO), knifeplay, bloodplay, scarification, penetrative sex, love confessions (yeah, I got REALLY self indulgent), aftercare, fluff (SLAYYY)

Notes: God, I love him. I got SO self indulgent with this one bc I’ve been having a shitty week. All my mutuals should’ve seen this one coming LMAO anyway, enjoy the fic!!!

-

Victor Zsasz loves to make his mark. Most infamously known, are the vast array of tally marks that are carved into his skin. Every mark, a symbol of every life he’s ever taken; every light that’s been snuffed out. In his mind, the marks serve as mementos; being made in the moment as a reminder for a lifetime. It’s an act of permanence. It’s an act of devotion.

So to him, it only makes sense to mark you just as he marks himself.

Apprehension and anticipation linger all around you. You sit there, completely still. Your upper half is completely exposed to him, save for your bra, leaving every inch of your blank, unmarked flesh in his view. Your shirt is discarded, laying in a crumpled pile on the floor. The soft sound of Victor’s footsteps fill you ears, pacing slowly behind you. Suspense and excitement fill your stomach. A deep inhale makes its way into your chest when you feel the cold metal of his switchblade touch your skin.

“I’m not gonna lie to you,” his voice is honest, firm, yet comforting. “This is gonna hurt…” you can feel the warmth of his hand on your shoulder, smoothing down your arm. “…A lot.”

“I appreciate you doing this Victor,” you turn to look at him. “But honestly, I’m a little scared.”

He stands over you. The blade, lightly trails along your chest, just below your collarbone, where you assume the mark will be made, your nerves spike, but you choose to swallow them down, knowing this is how Victor expresses love, in his own, sick way- not that you minded. He kneels, making his way down to your level. His hand guides you chin down to gaze into his dark eyes, filled with reassurance.

“I can promise you,” you feel his thumb gently rub over your cheek, “The pain won’t last long.”

His gaze is intense. Taking a deep breath in, you nod. “I trust you.”

He lets out a grin, tucking your hair behind you ear. He plants a soft kiss to your cheek where he was caressing over it. “Attagirl.”

Your heart flutters at his assurance. For someone so keen on sadism, getting off on the pain of others, Victor was being surprisingly comforting with you.

You can feel his body looming over you, feeling his head look over you to find the exact spot where he would mark you. He makes contact with your eyes, giving each other nodded approval to do it.

The metal is cold and exceedingly sharp. You can hardly feel it when he cuts you. The sensation almost feels pleasant as the blade glides through your flesh. You feel yourself bite back a shriek when he digs the knife deeper into your skin, making sure the cut will leave a lasting scar. Your breath hitches in your chest as he continues dragging the knife into you. Fresh crimson spills out from the cuts being left in the blade’s wake.

“God,” Victor lets out a soft growl, “I wish you could see how beautiful you look right now.”

He’s in awe of the blood trickling down your chest. It coats your chest, running down, nearly dripping down to your bra. You let out an abrupt whimper, unable to hold in the increasing pain.

“Fuck!” you cry out. Your bra strap slips past your shoulder. You feel Victor’s body directly behind you, almost in an hug. His hand smoothes your shoulder firmly, comforting.

“It’s okay,” He hushes you. “I know, I know.”

Those next few seconds, the pain is excruciating. You get up, turning around and steadying yourself on him, wanting nothing more to be enveloped in his embrace. Your eyes meet his, gazing at each other for just a second before crashing your lips together.

You feel yourself being carried over to the bed, feeling Victor’s hungry grasp taking off your already disarrayed bra. You suck in a harsh breath, feeling his tongue lick up the blood that dripped down your tits.

“You did so well,” Victor praises as he devours your bloodied flesh, slowly trailing downward, “I’m proud of you, taking that like a champ.”

“Oh god, V-Victor,” you whimper. You feel your pants being slipped off from under you. Your cunt aches, dripping with arousal as Victor thumbs your clit through your underwear. “I fucking need you.”

Victor gazes at you, carnally. His eyelids are hooded, lust swirling within his eyes. He pulls out a condom from his pocket, tearing the wrapper quickly with his teeth. He urgently slides the rubber onto his cock and eases himself inside you.

You can feel Victor’s body on top of yours, being careful to avoid the cut-up area of your chest. He positions himself, leaning on his shoulders to look at you. He rocks into you slowly, feeling your soaked cunt clench around his cock. As he picks up the pace, he presses his lips to yours feeling yourself moan into his mouth. His tongue feels heavenly and you feel yourself melting into him, letting out a hushed breath when he bites your lip, pulling away.

“You like that?” He asks breathlessly

“Y-yes,” you grunt out tenderly. “You feel fucking amazing.”

Victor chuckled, rolling his hips. You feel your cunt flutter around him as he continues to fuck you. You grip onto him tightly, nails sure to leave some marks on his back. He lets out an amorous groan, enjoying the way you hurt him.

“I love what you do to me,” Victor moans. His pace is rapid, hitting the deepest parts of you, making it hard to keep yourself quiet. You can feel your orgasm swiftly approaching, and judging by his pace- utterly frantic, so could Victor. “Your my girl, and I fucking love you.”

You’re taken aback by his abrupt confession, but honestly? You feel the same. Your hand drops down to your clit, rubbing it quickly, desperate for release. You cry out after he hits a particularly sensitive spot, once again slamming your mouth to his as you ride out your orgasm. He thrusts himself deep into you, a guttural groan escaping his lips as his orgasm isn’t far behind yours.

When all is said and done, you’re completely fucked out, disheveled, and exhausted. The air grows thick, heavy around you as he crashes onto your uncut side.

“Thank you,” you breathe out. “You are so good to me.”

Victor smiles, pressing a loving kiss to your lips. He runs a hand through your hair, before holding out a hand, pulling you up. He turns around, grabbing some towels and antibiotics for the cut “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“Hey Victor,” he looks over at you, head cocked curiously. “I love you too.”

You couldn’t wait for the cut to heal. The healed scar in the shape of a heart would soon be a testament to the love you have for one another.

[formereldestdaughter]

ok wait i need to hear more of your thoughts on peeta owning a bakery....

This is one of those rare times where I’m pretty sure this anon isn’t someone I know personally bc I’ve subjected anyone who will listen to my rant about the Peeta Bakery Headcanon. Anyway, you’re gonna regret asking this anon bc there are fucking Layers here.

I know this is probably a controversial take based on the number of fics where I’ve seen it, but I simply do not think that Peeta would open a commercial bakery after Mockingjay!! Like on a metatextual level, I don’t think it really fits with the point of the ending of the series. It actually sort of fascinates me that it’s just such a common headcanon because the ending of Mockingjay is exceedingly vague. I think that vagueness invites us, as readers, to imagine a better world post-revolution. A world where Katniss would feel confident that her children would be safe from injustice, where she’d feel confident that her children would never know want the way she did as a child. A just world. A kinder world. Can a capitalist society ever be just? Is a capitalist society where a disabled teenager has no other means to subsist himself (or feels like there’s no other way he can be a contributing member of his community) really the post-revolution world we dream of? Is that really the best we can imagine?

(This got so insanely long I’m adding a read more lmao)

I get that showing a better world is not always the point of post-mockingjay headcanons/fics. Like there are plenty of really great post-mockingjay fics I’ve seen where, yeah, part of the fic is that society like ISN’T all that different or all that much better. I’ve seen that really well done! Hell, I’ve written them myself! It’s easy to imagine how a lot of aspects of society would not get an overhaul, a lot of the same structural inequalities would continue to exist. One headcanon that really stuck with me (I can’t remember which fic it was from) was that Peeta sells basically mail order baked goods to people on the Capitol, sending them iced cakes and pastries by train, because there are still people who were “fans” of theirs during the Games. And idk this doesn’t actually have much to do with my point lol but I liked it because it’s kind of fucked up and like! Yeah! It makes sense! If he needed money that would be a good way to make it! War often makes people rich, often for horrible reasons, and often it’s people who already have capital in the first place.

Anyway, more about the hypothetical bakery because alright. I bring up the fact that “yeah society not being all that different post-revolution and still being an unjust capitalist hellscape” could be a reason why Peeta re-opens a bakery because that’s actually never the types of fics where I see the bakery headcanon. Fics where Peeta opens a bakery are usually trying to make the exact opposite point. Like. Things are getting better, now he can open a bakery! Look at how much better the world is now, plus he’s got a bakery! Peeta is healing, that’s why he can open a bakery now! And I am so, so sorry to inform everyone who’s never had the grave misfortune of owning a family business, but there is truly nothing further from the truth lmao. Like just putting aside the immense amount of emotional baggage that Peeta has about his family, running a small business is an insane amount of work in any context and being a baker especially is physically grueling and involves early hours (and long hours) that aren’t really the best fit with the multiple ways that Peeta is disabled now. (I could go into this more because I have a lot of thoughts. But I will spare you.). I also think it’s seen throughout the books that Peeta is someone who needs time to pursue creative outlets to process his feelings and someone who values leisure and values quality time with his loved ones. And having grown up in his family’s bakery, I think he’d understand the reality that running a bakery wouldn’t leave much space of those pursuits and wouldn’t leave much space for him to have the things that keep him healthy and stable. I think he’d know that the way he is now— after two Games and the war and unspeakable torture at the hands of a dictator—isn’t compatible with the lifestyle necessary for running a commercial bakery.

And tbh with that in mind, I don’t think he’d push himself to re-open a business (one that would be a constant reminder of his dead family and his complicated relationships with them that got no closure) that would require him to sacrifice his physical and emotional well-being. Like I think he might look into the possibility, I think he might even start trying to open a bakery out of a sense of obligation/duty, maybe harboring some idea that this is who he was supposed to be, who he would've been without the Games, or that it’s this last piece of his family that can live on, or that it’s this last connection to his family so he can’t let it die too. But ultimately, I think any attempt to open a bakery wouldn’t get very far. Maybe he'd start wading into the logistical nightmare that is small business ownership and realize it's not for him (because it's probably also true that as much as him and his brothers were involved in the business, there's almost certainly parts they weren't involved with and didn't see, i.e., filing taxes). Or maybe looking into opening a bakery— how triggering it is, the stress of it— causes a downward spiral. Maybe he hates how much he's worrying everyone by unraveling. Maybe having a breakdown from the stress of just trying to open a bakery makes him realize, yeah, maybe in another life he would have ran his family’s bakery but the way he is now just doesn’t work with running a bakery, not without great sacrifices he's not willing to make. I just can’t see a bakery coming to fruition.

I know a lot of fics include Peeta deciding to reopen a bakery as a big step in his healing or include him rebuilding a bakery as part of his healing process but honestly, I think the opposite would be more true: I think Peeta either trying/failing to open a bakery or ultimately deciding not to open a bakery would be hugely healing for him. I think it would be a huge part of him accepting the way he is now as a person, his new limitations but also his strengths. I think it would be a huge part of him accepting the way his life his now and accepting that he likes his life the way it is, that he’s satisfied with his life without needing to own a bakery. I think it would be an important part of him coming to terms with the loss of his family. I think he knows he can never have things back as they were and I don’t think he would try to recreate them, especially because his family’s legacy isn’t a business. I think he’s emotionally intelligent enough and self reflective enough to realize that what mattered to him about the bakery— taking care of others by feeding them, being integrated into his community and being actively involved in it, brightening people’s days with delightful things whether that’s beautiful cakes or hearty food or delicious treats— and the things he learned from his family through the bakery, are things that he can carry on in other meaningful ways.

(Do you regret sending this ask yet, anon? Because if not, you will soon. I’m not done yet. There’s more.)

I wasn’t really sure where to put this next part in what is rapidly becoming an essay because it sort of combines the points about like “what do we imagine a post-mockingjay society to look like” with the practical difficulties of starting this bakery but here’s another thing: do people really think that the Mellarks owned the land the bakery was on?? Like, sure, the merchants are the petit bourgeois of Twelve but I still don’t imagine they really own anything. In a society where houses are assigned to people upon marriage, where property ownership and capital are so closely interconnected with citizenship (as shown by the Plinths who, by having immense capital, are able to leave their District and become citizens of the Capitol) do people really think the Mellarks would be allowed to own the land their bakery is on?? I always imagined it sort of like a tenant farming situation: the Capitol gives them the raw materials for the bakery and in return the bakery give them some absurdly high portion of their profits, or the Capitol sells them a year’s supply of raw materials at a premium on credit and at the end of the year the Mellarks have to use the money they made with those materials to pay it back, except it’s never enough to turn a profit so they always have to buy next year’s materials on credit and the cycle continues.

We (understandably) get a really skewed view of the merchant class through Katniss’s perspective so I can see why people come to the conclusion that his family owned the property and, as the last surviving member, he would’ve inherited it. I’ve seen the inheritance thing in fics a lot or a hand wavey “well Twelve was decimated to no one owns anything anymore so it can be his” or even like an almost sort of reparations type situation where he’s entitled to the land as a surviving refugee of Twelve. But I don’t know. I guess I don’t think it fits with everything else we know about Panem that the Mellarks would’ve owned that land and I think the question of whether the government would’ve let him take ownership of the land post-revolution brings up a lot of issues about the structure of society post-Mockingjay that I find more interesting to explore in other ways, especially when, from an emotional perspective, 1) I find the idea of Peeta not opening a bakery more compelling and 2) I don’t think it really fits his character arc by the end of Mockingjay to reopen a bakery, as I went on about at length above lol.

On the flip side: literally who cares!! Do whatever you want!! Headcanon whatever you want!! I get why people go for the bakery!! It’s fun, it’s wholesome, it’s a built in bakery AU that isn’t even an AU. It doesn’t matter if it’s practical or realistic!! It doesn’t need to be practical or realistic!! It’s fanfic of a dystopian YA series!! My unfortunate affliction is that I grew up in a family that owned a restaurant and that I have multiple degrees in the social sciences so I can’t see the bakery without being like “What about the overheard? What about the start up costs? Who’s spending long nights balancing the books? Is Peeta covering shifts when an employee calls in sick? Is Peeta the sole person working there until the bakery is open long enough (often a year or more) to start turning a profit? How does that sleep schedule work with his nightmares? How does that work with Katniss’s nightmares? What happens when he has an episode and suddenly needs to take the day off before he has any employees? Does the bakery just remain closed for the day? Can the profit margins withstand regular unexpected closures? Can the supplies withstand regular unexpected closures?” And if the answer is “Elliott none of those things matter he’s not doing the bakery because he needs the money but because he wants to”, then my question is why does he want to? Does he not get the same sort of satisfaction out of feeding his loved ones? Doesn’t Peeta seem like someone who would rather give away baked goods than sell them?? Doesn’t Peeta seem like someone who would prefer to make cakes for people’s special occasions upon and then when they insist on paying him for it, he only lets them “pay for the ingredients” which actually cost significantly more than he says they did??

So yeah my point is that it’s a matter of personal taste! It doesn’t fit the way I see the series but that doesn’t mean it’s like wrong, I’m not an authority on Peeta lmao.

It’s also a matter of personal taste in the sense that I find the themes that most resonate with me at the end of Mockingjay (and the end of Peeta’s arc specifically) more interesting to explore in other ways. Grief, living with loss, relearning yourself, finding hope, figuring out your place in a dramatically different world when you don’t even know who you are anymore, healing, building a new life after such complete and total destruction of your old life— those are all things I find compelling about the end of Mockingjay but for me the bakery isn’t the most compelling way to explore them.

Not to say I find the concept of the bakery totally uninteresting. I have this fic about Johanna that I’ll probably never finish where the point sort of is that, yeah, her life really isn’t all that much better after the war. It’s been years at this point and she’s still miserable and she doesn’t know how to be a person but by the end she’s trying to figure it out. And towards the end, Peeta tells her that he’s spent years sort of passively, half-heartedly trying to figure out how to inherit the land his family’s bakery was on, only to find out it was never theirs in the first place. They’d been renting it the whole time and he’d never even known as a kid. So he sort of passively, half-heartedly went on another wild goose chase to find the owner and now, finally, after years of writing to various government agencies and being sent in circles and things being barely functional, he’s managed to track down the owner. Now it’s owned by the daughter of the man who owned it when he was a kid because the original owner (who was likely up to some sketchy war crime shit) died during the war and she inherited it (the irony…). He got in contact with her and asked how much it would take for her to sell it and she told him she’s not interested in selling but in light of the situation, in light of the fact that he’d have to build a new building in order to operate a bakery, that she’d cut him a deal— she’d only require 50% of the bakery’s profits as rent instead of the 80% his family used to pay. And of course Johanna is outraged, that’s not right, the owner shouldn’t be allowed to do that, they should do something about it, they should fight back. And Peeta is like. Not interested. He was actually sort of relieved that opening wasn’t very feasible. Getting the answer was a lightbulb moment where he saw that over the years of trying to look into this, he’s built a life that he likes— one where he’s stable, where his loved ones are stable, where he’s cared for and can care for others— and he doesn’t really want to change it drastically by opening a bakery anyway. He just needed an answer, one way or another, before he could get some closure and move on. (And the point of the conversation is Johanna is having her own lightbulb moment that it’s okay to move on, it’s okay to change, it’s not a betrayal of the people and things she’s lost but that’s not my point here!!).

But anyway. That’s obviously not about running the bakery— it’s about the choice to not run one.

Anyway!! Anyway… are you satisfied anon? Is this what you wanted?

Lastly, here is my most important qualm with the bakery headcanon: must Peeta be gainfully employed? Is it not enough for him to be Katniss’s boytoy? Can’t he just paint and garden and bake and hang out with his girlfriend all day? Is that really too much to ask?