#they should remove that in the next life patch

[ethernetmeep]

as much as i don’t know what its like to be a house, as i’m a living breathing being and houses are generally not portrayed in those ways, i still believe i can adequately understand and comprehend the hurt one must feel when it gets demolished or abandoned. yes, a house can’t feel pain— or can it? maybe not in the way we see pain as through nerve receptors or neural cords, but pain in that this was something once utilized for shelter, now being left as rubble and ruin for something else to take its place.

i have something to do, but i really don’t want to do it. if i do decide to do it, i’ll be afraid that i’ve lost the one thing which shows even the most minuscule of physical record of the fact i’ve existed. lost the one thing which holds memories for not just me but something, a concept i thought i knew but only just barely know the outline of. a concept i never had? maybe i never had it; it wouldn’t be too surprising. maybe i just imagined it was there, having it never actually be the case and yet another scenario of my own blindness to things being the death of me.

..i was confused over something an acquaintance said to me today; still am. im unsure if she read this book or not, and im getting aggravated at the fact i can’t understand. not aggravated at her, at myself. i wish i was able to understand certain things so, so badly, and the fact i get confused over little things like this makes me feel even more distraught. its like being at the very end of an OREO prank back in middle school and not knowing it was a prank until someone snickered and laughed; maybe the first time it was funny, but now its humiliating.

…back to the point i wished to make, i’m sure ill do said thing i didn’t want to do; it’s important, and i’d feel terrible if i didn’t. i already feel terrible, so it’d only stack and be a double trouble scenario. i remember wishing to do something whence i finally made my way through the scattered writings and quotes, but now that seems decades away. granted, didn’t even finish it; maybe that makes this hurt even worse.

somewhat related, my mother brought up a point in the car; something i hated, because she was right. i was trying to find some kind of retort, some kind of thing i could say in tandem and argue that no, i’m sure theres something there, but no, nothing, not even the tiniest speck of something similar as that never did happen. at all. it stung. i tried to recall anything, anything truly, but nothing.

at least i didn’t puke today.. i thought i was. i mean i was gonna, i was in the nurses office and everything, but i calmed down. also thought i was going to stay home today; didn’t. i think i’ll go tomorrow, cause i have that thing to do. also because i have a test.. only just now remembered that.

last add on; curious what ill do with this other big book which i bought. i can’t give it, because that ships already sailed. i think. have no clue and am too frightened to try. yes, frightened! scared! petrified, even! petrified of both interfering more than i already do by existing and also in general afraid. probably not good. also can’t return it because the guy who made it seems really nice and is probably an underpaid fellow. whatever, i’ll figure it out. maybe tomorrow.

[appocalipse]

the same thing ・❥・b. barnes

summary: during a mission, you put yourself in harm's way to protect bucky. back at the avengers compound, he wants to know why. | 1.4k words, angst with a happy ending

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

"You should be resting."

You don't turn your head as the familiar voice comes from behind you, too focused on the delicate art of making the perfect sandwich to look away. You are a woman on a mission. "I was hungry."

A few seconds later, he's standing next to you, leaning back against the countertop with arms folded across his broad chest. "It's been less than twelve hours since they patched you up."

He's not going to stop hovering, you realize, because that's what Bucky does when he's worried.

"Want half?" Maybe you can distract him with food.

He regards the towering monstrosity on the cutting board and the chaotic layers of meat, cheese, and veggies sticking out at all angles.

You can't help but grin as you slap another slice of bread on top. "A quarter, then?"

Bucky has the audacity to look offended. "I'm not eating that thing."

You cradle the plate in your left hand, holding the sandwich with your right, and give him a pointed look. "Your loss."

Bucky just watches, arms still crossed, as you take a huge bite. His blue eyes remain narrowed, his mouth pressed into a thin line. He's like a one-man intervention waiting to happen. You shrug and wander over to the kitchen table.

Sitting down is a bit of an effort. The wound on your side pulls as you slowly lower yourself onto the chair, but if you can keep from grimacing too hard, Bucky won't be able to tell, will he?

Your smile probably gives you away. He narrows his eyes further. "Why did you do that?"

"Because I'm hungry?"

"No." Bucky takes a step forward. "I meant why did you get between me and that shot?"

Good question. The answer is embarrassing and you'd sooner walk barefoot over hot coals than tell him the truth.

"Hm?"

Another step. "I have superhuman healing powers."

"I'll live."

"It was stupid."

"You're ruining my—ow," you mutter, dropping the sandwich as you instinctively put your hand over your bandage. There goes the carefully maintained poker face. You force yourself to remove your hand and look up at Bucky with what you hope is an innocent expression, even as your side throbs in protest. "My sandwich. You're ruining my sandwich. Are you sure you don't want a bite?"

Bucky is too smart to take the bait. He moves around the table, coming to stand in front of you. The whole 'arms-crossed-stern-glare' thing again. It would be intimidating if you didn't know him so well.

"You could've been killed," he's like a dog with a bone, you swear.

"But I wasn't," you say pointedly. "I'm fine."

"Fine? You were shot."

"Will you just let it go? It doesn't even...hurt...that much," you lie.

It will take a while for the super-soldier serum in your blood — a weaker variation of the same stuff that runs through Bucky's veins — to kick in and accelerate your healing.

Bucky exhales. He looks about ready to give you an earful, but then his gaze shifts and he notices the way you're holding your side, how stiffly you're sitting.

You move your traitorous hand away like you've been burned.

"How bad is it?"

"Huh?" you say in a deliberately casual tone. "It's...totally fine. Not bad, really. Don't worry. I don't even feel it."

There's the reason why you've never been a spy. You can't lie to save your life, apparently.

Or maybe just not to Bucky.

"Okay. It hurts, like, just a little bit...like—like not even hurts hurts, just..." you trail off with a grimace as he comes closer. "More of an itch?"

"An itch?" Bucky sounds dubious.

"More of a burn," you concede. "A...mildly annoying but totally manageable sort of a burn."

"You are a terrible liar."

"Okay, so it hurts," you snap, the last vestiges of your patience vanishing. "I have an extensive hole in my side, I get it. It's not—I don't want you to feel bad about it. It's really not terrible, I can take it."

Bucky shakes his head. "What if it had been worse? What if they'd shot you somewhere vital?"

"They didn't."

"But what if they had?"

"Then I would have died!"

Bucky looks at you like you just kicked him. "Yeah. That's what I'm trying to say."

You open your mouth, then close it.

"You think I want that?" he asks softly.

"No." You suddenly feel very small. "Of course not, I just...just..."

"Just what?"

"I don't know," you admit with a sigh. "It's just that you are...people need you, you know? And you have a life, people who care about you, but I'm just..."

A nobody. A girl with no past, who can barely make sense of her present.

"...it would be better if it was me. That's all."

"It would never be better if you were hurt."

"Bucky—"

"You don't get it, do you?" he asks in a low voice. "People need you too."

You roll your eyes. "Please. You mean the team?"

"Me," Bucky says pointedly. "You think it's easy for me? When you get hurt? It kills me."

The sandwich lays forgotten on the table, squashed flat under your clasped hands. "It...kills you?"

He just looks at you for a long moment.

Your heart flutters in your chest. You have a sudden, intense urge to break the silence with a terrible joke, a quip, something light and witty to dispel the heaviness in the air and make this moment go away. But before you can open your mouth, Bucky shakes his head.

"You kill me."

Okay, that's not where you thought this was going. "What?"

"When you say stuff like that. When you make it sound like you don't matter, like it's okay for you to get hurt. Or worse. It's not."

Oh.

"Bucky," you try again, with a more serious tone. "I don't—"

"Stop saying that," he cuts you off.

You realize your mouth is still hanging open and snap it shut.

"You want to know what I think?" Bucky is so close now you could reach out and touch him, if you were brave enough. "I think that you got this...thing in your head, that you're not good enough, or strong enough, or that you're broken somehow. I think that you forget that it's okay to want things. I think that maybe you think nobody needs you. That no one wants you."

You swallow. You're afraid to say anything, to move, because your heart is hammering against your ribs and Bucky is looking at you like he can see straight into your soul.

"But I do."

"Do...what?" you whisper.

"Want you."

It's the last thing you expect to hear. "Bucky, you don't mean that."

His voice drops an octave. "Don't tell me what I mean."

Your cheeks are burning. You feel pinned under his gaze. Your side is throbbing again and you have a mouthful of butterflies and it's all just too much.

You move to get up but only make it halfway before the wound pulls again and you wince. "Shit."

"Where do you think you're going?" Bucky reaches out to help you, one hand braced against your shoulder as you sink back down into the chair. His expression has softened. "You need to rest."

You really want to kiss him right now.

It's the closest he's ever been to you, perhaps. You can feel his breath on your face.

"I need to...? You really confuse me, Barnes."

"How so?"

"Well, first you tell me that I kill you, and then you say you want me. It's kind of a mixed message—"

"I'm not interested in being just friends with you," Bucky cuts you off abruptly. "Is that clear enough?"

Your lips part but nothing comes out. There's a warm, tingling sensation in your chest and you suddenly can't breathe properly. "That's—you—"

Bucky smirks, just a little. He looks almost...proud of himself? Like he's happy he's rendered you speechless for once.

You decide to take a page from his book and put him on the spot. "And what do you think I want?"

"I don't know," he murmurs, leaning even closer. "But I hope it's the same thing."

His lips brush against yours, soft and gentle. He pulls away and you want to chase after him but then he's back again and kissing you harder this time, all teeth and tongue and ragged breathing and heat.

You close your eyes. Your head is spinning and you can't get enough air but you're kissing him back now, both hands coming up to fist in his shirt, holding on for dear life.

His mouth trails down your neck, leaving hot kisses along your jawline. You let out a breathy sigh.

"Is that...supposed to help me heal faster, mhm?"

Bucky just smiles against your skin.

[nahoyasboyfriend]

Helping hand

Warnings: shameless smut, handjob, unprotected sex, rough sex.

Word count: 2.4k

Tagging: @doll3tt33 @fear-is-truth @coentinim

A/N: this is literally pure filth. I'm not sure what possessed me to write this, but I did. Sorry for any typos or bad writing.

Staying up late with Kyle had become sort of a routine. Sleeping didn't always come easy to you, and getting Kyle to bed without you was always a struggle. Sitting with your legs crossed on the bed, you ponder over what you should do. It couldn't be too loud and it had to be something you were certain he'd enjoy. You glance at him for a moment, he was laying down on the floor watching something on his ipad, so he was occupied for now.

You grabbed your laptop, blankly staring at the screen while you skimmed over your options. Then it hit you— a movie! You could put on a movie. After five minutes of scrolling, you decide to put on a cheesy comedy. you were more of a horror movie enjoyer, but you figured Kyle wouldn't like it. He was a sensitive boy, now more than ever, and you didn't want to stress him out. Especially after the whole being brought back to life ordeal.

"Kyle, honey, come here," you gently call out, placing the laptop on the edge of the bed so you could lay down. You could hear the creak of the floorboards as he slowly ambled to you. He laid down next to you, throwing his arm over you to pull you closer. Stuck in his hold, your hand slapped around until you found the edge of the covers, slinging it over the two of you. You settled in, squirming around until you were comfortable, and then you pressed play.

The plan had been to watch the movie, and then head to bed, but that was ruined when not even ten minutes in he kept shifting. “Ky, what's wrong?” You whisper, tearing your eyes away from the screen to look at him. His bottom lip was caught between his teeth and his eyebrows knit together in discomfort. “H-hurts,” he murmured. You sat up, gently removing the cover from the two of you. “Where does it hurt, kyle?”

He propped himself up until he was sitting on his knees. Confused, you watched silently wondering what he was trying to show you. Maybe he had scraped his leg, or he had a bruise. His lack of motor skills was a major downside of being frankensteined back together. "Here," he grunted, looking down at his pants. You followed his gaze until you were meant with the obvious bulge in his pants. Oh.

Unsure of what to do, you just sat there. Shit. Should you help him? Would helping him be the right thing to do? Seemingly annoyed at your lack of response, he took your hand placing it over his groin. He whined at the desperately needed contact, rolling his hips. "Touch, p-please."

This quickly snaps you out of your thoughts, it’s hard to worry about the consequences when he’s so needy. "Are you sure?" You ask, just to check, accidentally pushing his boundaries was never something you wanted to do. He nods, and you start to unzip his pants. Despite the initial struggle, you're finally able to get his pants down, revealing the blue boxers he had on underneath. His precum stains the fabric, making a sizable dark patch.

"Poor boy, you must be so worked up" you coo, running a finger over the length of it. Kyle's pupils swallow the already deep brown of his eyes as he watches you. Meeting his intense gaze is enough to make you look down again, goosebumps pricking at your skin.

With more zeal than before, your fingers hook the band of his boxers, slowly pulling them down. His cock bounces free, hitting his stomach, and you have to stare for a moment. The tip is flushed pink and precum drips from the slit like a broken faucet. Your eyes slowly trail up his body, from his stomach, to the scar wrapped around his neck, till you're finally looking him in the face. His cheeks are ruddy, his lips parted ever so slightly, and he has this look in his eyes like nothing matters but you at the moment. Maintaining eye contact, you gingerly wrap your fingers around it.

He lets out an airy sigh, that you assume is of relief. You carefully start to move your hand up and down. You watch his eyes slowly flutter shut, and revel in the way pathetic whines begin to fall out of his mouth. To ease the friction, you let a glob of spit dribble onto the tip, using your hand to coat his entire length in your drool. His cock twitches in your hand. He must be close, you think. You work your hand faster, trying to push him to the edge as quickly as you can, but suddenly he's pulling your hand away, shaking his head.

"n-need you," he mewls, finger latching onto the band your shorts trying to tug them down. Throwing all caution to the wind, you oblige. You yank down your shorts and panties, throwing them on the floor. You crawl to him, tossing your legs over his thighs to straddle his lap. His hands fly to your hips, rucking up your oversized shirt to reveal your chest. He stares at you with wide, pleading eyes, silently begging for permission. Once you give a quiet go ahead, he’s instantly taking your nipple into his mouth. It's an odd sensation. His tongue is cool against your warm skin.

You let out a soft whine, and lift a hand to cradle the back of his head. You card your fingers through his hair, while you mutter soft praises, gently rocking yourself against his aching cock, but not letting it slip inside. His arms were wrapped around your middle, pulling you closer to him, like he wanted to be in your skin. You both stay like this for a while, soaking each other in. While it wasn't enough to get you off, you decided that was fine, and instead focused on getting him off. You were trying to make him feel good after all. You could help yourself later.

You were sure he could have came like this, and he seemed to realize that too because he reluctantly wrenched himself away from mouthing at your boob to line his aching cock with your slit. But he was clueless and couldn't quite get it so with a loving smile, you gently took his hand in yours and directed it to where it needed to go.

You slowly sink onto his cock, taking him inch by inch. You got about halfway before you decided to take a second and let yourself adjust to the size. Placing his hands on your hips, he forced you down. You let a startled gasp because of the abrupt fullness. The stretch burns, and he doesn't let you adjust before he begins to buck up into you.

You rest your hands on his shoulders for support, slightly digging your nails in to deal with the ache. You can barely gain your bearings with the way he forces you to bounce on his cock. The pain slowly melts into syrupy sweet pleasure, and everything quickly becomes overwhelming. The sound of his skin on yours, the feeling of his cold tongue on your skin, and the pangs of pleasure shooting through you.

You crash your mouths together because even if you don't want to admit it. You're just as attached to him as he is to you, and the urge to get closer than you already were was becoming unbearable. This kiss is awkward, but you can't bring yourself to mind. Your teeth clack together and your noses keep bumping. His tongue curiously prods into your mouth. Still, you melt into him, letting him explore every inch of you for as long as he'd like. His spit tastes earthy, and surprisingly it isn't that bad. You pull away to breathe, and he follows, pitifully chasing after you like a lost puppy.

His powerful thrusts have devolved into quick, shallow bunny humps, so you take it upon yourself to finish what he started. You place your hands on his chest lightly pushing him back. He doesn't resist, letting himself fall onto his elbows. He looks confused, kiss-swollen lips pulled into the cutest pout. It makes you want to smooch it off of his face. You lift yourself up, and it seems like you're about to pull off, but before his hands could rush back to your hips, you slam back down down.

The sound he lets out is guttural and loud. Your hand slaps over his mouth. He blinks, puzzled. You pull your hand away to press a finger against your lips. “Be quiet, they'll hear us,” you whisper, glancing behind you to make sure nobody is at the door. In the blink of an eye, you're not on top of him anymore. You are on your back now. Stunned, you stare vacantly at the ceiling. His hands grip your hips, sheathing himself back into the warmth of your cunt (when did he learn how to do that without you?)

He starts up that unforgiving pace again, ramming into you so hard the bed is wobbling beneath you. All you can do is take it. Silently praying that your bed will make it through the night. He effortlessly brushes that spongy spot inside of that has your eyes rolling into the back of your head. you're quivering beneath him, unraveling like a ball of yarn in his hands. Pleasure sweeping any coherent thoughts away like a hurricane. That familiar ache builds in your stomach. Your cunt clenches around him, begging for release. Everything feels so good, it verges on painful. Your hands latch onto the sheets, holding on for dear life.

Kyle leans down to press wet, slimey kisses on your clavicle, lightly dragging his teeth against your skin. A few more brutal thrusts, and you're digging your nails into his back, softly whining. Your orgasm crashes over you like a current. You bite your lip to muffle the moans that threaten to come out, blinking away unshed tears. After your orgasm subsides, you're instantly being ushered into another one. “s too much, ky, I can't take another,” you hiccup, pressing a hand against Kyle's chest in a feeble attempt at pushing him off. You don't know if he just brushes you off on purpose, or if he did it without realizing because in spite of your pitiful request. His pace sped up.

He's grunting in your ear now, you can feel the hot puffs of air tickling your cheek. Plump tears roll down your face, your body trembling uncontrollably. He cums deep inside you, a blossom of warmth filling you up, but he doesn't stop rutting into you. Fucking it in further. You let out woeful, little squeaks. You're sniveling, and your poor, aching cunt weeps. You feel your second release rushing towards you, and all you can do is brace yourself. He's fucking you like he despises you, and if you didn't know anymore you would have been convinced you were his sworn enemy with the way he was bullying your cunt.

Your orgasm hits you like a strike to gut, somehow more intense than the last. Your back arches off the bed so far that someone might think you're possessed. The bitter taste of iron pervades your mouth. You didn't realize how hard you'd bitten your lip trying to be quiet. (Which is turning out to be an impossible feat, but at least you're trying.) you're gushing around him. Your arousal spills down onto the bed beneath you. You can feel the sheets sticking to your skin, and you remind yourself to lay down a towel or something next time. A few more agonizing seconds pass, and he's finally pulling out of you.

He collapses on top of you, and you take a moment to collect yourself. The icky feeling of laying in a pool of bodily fluids is the only reason you haven't passed out yet.

“Kyle, we gotta get up and take a shower,” you mumble, your body aches and your bones feel like jelly, but you can't go to sleep in these conditions.

He grumbles for a second. “sleep.”

you sigh, “i know, but we're all dirty now. We gotta clean up.” begrudgingly, he peels himself off of you. You get up rather slowly because of how unsteady you were on your feet. You snatch some clothes up for you and Kyle. You haul yourself to the bathroom, dragging Kyle behind you. You turned on the shower, letting the water run until it was warm enough to get in. “C’mon in,” you utter, stepping into the tub. You watch Kyle sluggishly walk to you. He looked so tired. Poor baby.

“Do you want me to help you bathe?” you inquire, quietly. He doesn't respond, just follows you in. He can barely keep his eyes open. You decide it's easier to just wash him instead of trying to wake him up. You grab a washcloth, apply some body wash, and massage it in till it lathers up. You start with his arms, and you can't help but follow all the veins as you travel your way up. Then you moved on to his chest. You could feel the bumps from where his head was sewn back on, your heart ached for him. He didn't deserve such an untimely death. You frown, shaking away those thoughts. He doesn't need your pity.

The rest goes relatively fast. He listens to your request to lift his legs and turn around, so you could reach his back. You speed through washing yourself, so you can get back to bed as soon as you possibly can. Once you’re done, you hop out and dry yourself off. As usual, you help Kyle dry off too. The two of you shuffle off to bed clean and content. You toss a blanket over your sullied sheets, you'll wash them later.

Collapsing onto the bed, you let out a relieved sigh. Sweet, sweet relaxation. Kyle follows suit, pulling you onto his chest. You grinned, silently enjoying his unending clinginess. “L-love you,” he murmured, and you feel a warmth beginning to bloom in your chest. “I love you too, Kyle,” you whisper. You don't know if he truly understands what he just said to you, but you choose not to think too hard about it. Scooting closer to him, you feel the tiredness hit you all at once. The comfortable arms of sleep luring you in.

[tsukimefuku]

content warning: fluff, hurt and lots of comfort, written in mixed style (head canon + fic), non-explicit smut, post Shibuya scarred Nanami. Loosely inspired by the song “gilded lily”.

Nanami Kento, who opened his eyes while on a hospital bed, barely feeling the left side of his body after Shoko tended to him, just to find you by his bedside finishing wrapping him up with bandages as a hurricane of emotions took over your face — fear, panic, anger, sadness, eagerness... 

Relief.

Nanami Kento, who reached towards your forearm with his unburnt hand, completely ignoring the bandages covering a good portion of his own face, glad to know that the last time he saw you wasn’t, in fact, the last. He had lived a proper life without regrets, or so he thought, up until those fateful moments in which he believed he was about to die without ever telling you how he truly felt.

Nanami Kento, who for the next few days, while bedridden and feeling useless after Gojo’s sealing in the prison realm, had the time to contemplate the life he’d been living so far, and wondered with an untapped honesty if the death of a pawn soldier — what he had been reduced to after such an influx of special grades — would really be relevant in this war. Would he be missed?

Nanami Kento, who had many visitors throughout the following days, such as Yuuji, Ino, Ijichi and Megumi, and shared the quiet comfort from your companionship every time you weren’t elbow-deep assisting Shoko with the wounded. He’d ask you to read for him. He said it was only needed while he got used to seeing with one eye, but the truth of the matter was Nanami just enjoyed listening to your voice. You knew and you didn’t mind. In fact, you actually enjoyed reading aloud by his bedside as you both ventured through Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms.

Nanami Kento who, for some reason, woke up on the wrong side of the bed the morning he was to remove his bandages, and cringed as he saw the scarred, burnt skin that was hidden underneath. Not because of any aesthetic discomfort, — he’d grown accustomed to seeing far worse on the daily — but because now he’d forever be engraved with the violence and viciousness of the life he chose. A constant reminder, literally in the flesh, of everything he almost lost. Every future, chance or opportunity that would’ve been thrown away on a whim during that night in Shibuya. 

Nanami Kento, whose jaw unclenched and shoulders untensed when you wrapped your fingers around his burnt hand, and who turned to regard you with his bandaged head and eye. Who genuinely and warmly smiled when you gave him the small eye patch in yellow splattered fabric you had sewn using one of his ties, apologizing in advance for rummaging through his things without talking to him first. You explained about asking for Ino’s help to fetch one of those. With this eye patch, you told Nanami, he would “have an all matching attire.”

Nanami Kento, who made a half-hearted remark about chastising Ino for using his copy of Nanami’s apartment key to go behind his back, but spared no time in actually removing his final bandages — while turning away from you — and covering the gaping hole where his eye should be with the accessory.

Nanami Kento, who one day before getting officially discharged, felt he was once again letting the opportunity of telling you how he felt slip through his fingers. The fear and the urgency from before were gone, life was once again moving in its own settled way, and you both would surely go back to tiptoeing quietly around the unsaid.

You both knew what it meant, and neither could muster up the courage to say it out loud, even with him having just survived certain death. Not even then.

Nanami Kento, who on that very evening wrapped his fingers softly around your wrist as you got up to leave for the night. Who, after you asked him if he needed anything, absentmindedly answered “you,” making your heart skip a beat.

Nanami Kento, who instantly regretted it, and wondered what could’ve possessed him to say that, but as he began apologizing, his words got muffled by the pressing of your lips against his. Who didn’t think twice before pulling you closer, having you almost fall on top of  his supine body.

Nanami Kento, who was too tired. Exhausted, even. Exhausted of waiting, of pretending, of denying himself the comfort of a less grueling existence in the comfort of your embrace, of your kisses, of you. 

Nanami Kento, who gasped into your mouth the moment you straddled over him, so gently that the bed barely moved, and drew his hands up your back, leaving a trail of heat wherever they traveled. Who hesitated for a moment when your fingers motioned to remove the eye patch you gave him, but obliged after you asked him “please, let me see you,” melting into the soft pecks you laid all over his scarred cheek, imprinting your affection on him one kiss at a time.

Nanami Kento, who was genuinely surprised to see that you, too, had a good portion of your body covered in scars from previous missions after you propped yourself up and took off your shirt. He gently descended the tips of his fingers in between your breasts, where the deepest of the marks laid gravely over your sternum. “I never knew,” he whispered, to which you replied “It comes with the job, I guess. None of us survives this truly unscathed.” 

Nanami Kento, whose dexterous hands kneaded around your body, committing every inch to memory, as all of your garments slid down onto the floor, like all the other things that didn’t matter at that moment — the losses, the fear, the past, the duty.

Nanami Kento, who had you with urgent kindness, as you both gave yourselves entirely to each other. He felt your body wave and flow on top of him, just like the soothing, fresh waves from the beach he thought he’d never get to see.

Nanami Kento, who for the first time ever since waking up from a sure death, felt a warmth capable of pushing away the cold grip of death around his throat, your warmth. 

Nanami Kento, who had survived. Who was glad that you did too, and loved you with no apologies through each second of it all, all touch, and kiss, and tongue, and smell, and taste, and breath, and promise.

Nanami Kento, whose arms wrapped around your body as he whispered against your lips, soft pleas none of you could put into words, but both knowing what they meant. He held you tightly as you unraveled for him, muffling your cries of his name with his mouth.

Nanami Kento, who was enthralled by the sound of his name in your voice, your need, your pleas, your smell, your flesh, your desire, and it was all too much, as he filled you whole while sinking his palms over your thighs, pushing himself as deep as he could.

Nanami Kento, who kept you in his embrace while your ear rested right over his chest, and you could hear each and every heartbeat echoing through him. Who asked you to stay the night, and you knew, right then and there, that you would.

You, who knew that no matter what happened, you’d never leave Nanami’s side from that day on.

End notes: I always wanted to write a post-Shibuya Nanami piece, and the inspiration finally hit! A huge thank you to @redlikerozez and @rahuratna for beta reading this.💜

written by tsukimefuku ㋡ comments and reblogs are appreciated. do not copy, translate or repost. copycatting is for losers.

[nariism]

a place to call home — k. shinsuke

one bed + childhood rivals/friends to lovers

synopsis. "be kind, shinsuke." that's what yumie always told her grandson. and he would live by those words—even if it meant sleeping on the floor every weekend.

wc. ~2k

— for @mastering-procrastinating & an anon bff! 🫶 | event masterlist ✉️

The day after Kita Shinsuke turns six years old, the vacant house across the street suddenly springs to life with occupants.

His life spirals from being humble and quiet to chaotic in 24 hours. Suddenly, he's responsible for taking care of the bratty kid next door even though they're his age. His bedtime gets thrown out the window because he needs to chase them down to get them to brush their teeth, and his dinner always has some suspiciously missing elements that he never finds.

You become the centerpiece of his entire existence—a floating memory in every crevice of his mind.

Kita hears your laughter in the songs of his childhood; feels your hands roughly pushing him and dragging him around by the wrist; smells the minty toothpaste he forcefully shoved into your mouth after finally catching up to you. 

It seems as though you and him were born to be polar opposites. Where he climbs you stumble. Where he sits quietly at the dinner table, you have a never-ending stream of anecdotes to tell Granny (even though half of them are greatly exaggerated—he was literally there to witness it). Where he behaves like a normal child, you can't even sit still during storytime in class.

However, your differences do little to remove you from his life. Where he goes, you go.

It's a consequence of growing up thirty meters from your front door and having you over when your parents suddenly uproot to go on week-long business trips.

And he wouldn't care so much, really, if it weren't for the fact that Granny had equal amounts of love to go around. That, and he would have to sleep on the floor whenever you came around.

For someone so disciplined and grounded, Kita Shinsuke was an envious child. He hated having you in his home, because it meant that his beloved Granny had to split her attention between the two of you. Because she would always tuck you in before him. Because you were louder, more needy, more everything. Because he often woke up with back pains at the ripe age of six years old.

When Kita turns eight, he finally bubbles over.

You're on the swings behind one of your friends, standing on the back of the seat and clinging to the chains. You're being careless, and he would be remiss if you were to hurt yourself.

"Get down from there," he scolds, standing in front of the swing set to stop you from continuing.

"Make me!" You exclaim back, childishly sticking out your tongue and rocking the swing back and forth, gesturing to your friend to keep going.

"Stop."

He comes up behind you and tugs at your shirt, making you wobble.

"Quit it, Shin!"

"You'll hurt yourself!"

He convinces himself that he only cares so much because Granny would have to spend more time with you to patch you up if you fell, and not because he would hate to see your snotty, crying face.

No, it doesn't make his heart squeeze. Not even a little.

Eventually, you end up face first in the wood chips anyway, with Kita hovering over you looking guilty as ever. He hadn't meant to pull you off so roughly, nor had he meant for you to land on the ground like that.

Oh. Why does it hurt him so much?

That night, you don't sleep in his room.

You end up tucked into Granny's bed instead, down the hall. He misses your presence—he even ends up on the floor though the bed is empty for him to take.

He blinks up at the space where you should be and feels bitterness swelling in his throat. 

"Shin." His Granny calls softly when she eventually comes into his room. She doesn't sound the least bit angry, but he still aches with nothing but guilt.

"M'sorry." He knows the apology should be for you, but you couldn’t even look him in the eye over dinner.

His Granny only sighs, kneeling down beside his futon with a tired huff. A reminder of her age. He only feels worse.

"Be kind, Shinsuke."

"I'm tryin'," he argues weakly.

She's silent for a pause before she carefully tucks the silver hair from his eyes.

"You'd be lonely too if I were gone all the time, eh?"

"..."

Kita pulls the covers closer to his chin. Yes, he was aware there was a reason you were always here. There was a reason your house was devoid of life despite being filled with furniture. There was a reason you wanted Granny to love you so much, cementing in the gaps where your parents were always absent.

Did you ever want him to love you like that, too?

The next night, he sits you down on the edge of the tub with no complaints. And he's surprised that you accept the toothbrush into your mouth so easily, no resistance and no qualms like you usually have.

He sees the tired defeat in your eyes, feels the awkward tension in the bathroom, and guides your hand to the end of the brush so you can do it yourself.

"I'm sorry," he tells you without elaborating. You never need him to. (When you reminisce about this day, you sometimes laugh to yourself. You always did love how straightforward he was.)

His words are followed by a tense hug, his hands holding your head against his tummy. The brush stops moving in your mouth as you hug him back.

It dawns on him then: he's just as much of a kid as you are—feeling something as petty as jealousy when all you needed was a hug.

One day, he swears, he'll make it up to you. And he'll be nicer, too. It's the least he can do if he's all the company you have until your parents return.

Be kind, Shinsuke. That's what Yumie always told her grandson. And he would live by those words—even if it meant sleeping on the floor every weekend.

The day after Kita Shinsuke turns twenty-two years old, your apartment floods.

Of course he's the first one there, helping you move what you could salvage from the apartment into suitcases and onto the back of his truck. Of course he's the one to offer a place to stay, because if not him, then who else? And of course he's the one who holds you when you're stressing about what to do and where to go, hand firmly on your back as he lets you snot on his shirt like you've done since you were six.

For a brief moment, it feels as though he's just a little kid again with you making a mess of the home he grew up in.

Well, mess is a stretch—you've infinitely matured since starting food wars with him over dinner, but the point stands when he ends up helping you with an assignment. It had been pushed to the backburner with everything going on, whilst you were moving essentially everything you owned into his house as if you paid rent there.

He should have known that some things never change.

"I can't believe you kicked me out onto the floor."

Kita shuffles in the comfort of his duvet, resting atop his mattress. He stares at you with honey brown eyes swimming in conflict from the bed.

You curl tighter into a ball on the futon. And he knows this ploy—knows that you're trying to guilt trip him into swapping places with you. You've always been manipulative when it came to him, and god-forbid he be anything but an angel to you. (Because his Granny told him to, not for any other reason at all.)

"M'not the one who made a bet they couldn't win."

Words straight and cutting as ever, like a blade through your heart. You pout childishly, rolling over so that your back is turned to him.

It was your idea to challenge him when he said you were on your phone too much while working. It was your idea to be a brat and defiantly say that you could finish your assignment by midnight. It was your idea to bet this all on the most beloved yet war-inducing place in the entire house: Kita's bed.

It's hardly his fault that you got distracted with YouTube.

"I hate you, Shin."

"No y’don't."

"I do."

"No. You don't."

"Okay fine, I don't, but can we please swap now? It's freezin’ down here."

He can practically hear the pout still engraved into your face right now. And it takes every ounce of fight in him not to give into you with the snap of a finger. To argue back and list a million reasons why he should be allowed in his own bed.

Yet here he is, slipping out of the sheets almost instantly and crouching down beside the futon. He shakes your shoulder.

"Fine. Get goin' before I change my mind."

Any resolve left in his body melts away when you shoot upright with a bright smile, victorious as ever.

Sometimes you made it hard for him to imagine why he cared about you at all. You were too sly for your own good. How could he ever deny such a smile? It's not fair.

You scurry into his bed instantly, making yourself comfortable where you have hundreds of times before. "You should make sure I'm comfy. I am a guest in your house, y’know?"

Yes, Kita knows this all too well. You're trying to provoke him, to see how far you can push him until he breaks. Stubborn and obedient, he reaches down to slowly pull the blanket over your body.

There's a pause from you as he drapes you in warmth, blinking up at him dumbly as if you weren’t expecting him to do so without complaint.

"I'm..." You seem to choke on your own words, silently contemplating whether or not you should push further. "My face is still cold."

His hands hold your face instantly, warming your cheeks skin-to-skin. You stare at him with wide eyes, looking so surprised that he wonders if what he's doing is a mistake. But then your hands gently cover his, and you tug him closer until his knee is sinking down on the mattress beside you.

"M'super cold."

"It's twenty-two degrees in here," he informs you flatly.

You make a face, nose slightly scrunched in thought and brows pinched. It's such a troubled expression that he can't help but scoot a little closer.

He's being kind, that's all. He's just making sure you're okay as a friend. No, not even a friend—an obligatory companion. The lifelong thorn in his side. The reason why his back still aches some days.

Be kind, Shinsuke.

When did being kind turn into this? Into moving involuntarily, into having a second nature response to you? Into a stubborn body only movable by one soul, one voice, one pair of hands?

"Keep me warm, Shin."

He gives in to your whims without reason, without logic or hesitation. You are the sole person able to break down any semblance of routine that's been methodically coded into his muscles.

He doesn't get you, perhaps he never would. He would never completely understand your wishes, or how your cheeks were so cold yet burning hot at the same time, or why he was submitting to you so easily.

The only thing he knows is that you are still somehow the centerpiece of his life, dancing in the middle of it all like a black hole sucking in everything else; the whirlpool swirling in the center of calm waters; the supernova of his galaxy.

"...'Kay."

Maybe he doesn't need a reason to care about you. Maybe your very existence is reason enough. And he’s okay with that for once in his life. He had never been the type to go with the flow, but your hands are dragging up his neck and pulling his body onto the mattress.

That night, you both fall asleep in the bed.

© ALABOADOA 2023 — please do not translate or post my works to other platforms.

[hbdttg]

“Hold the elevator!”

The elevator doors are mere inches from closing, but Steve dutifully shoots a hand out to stop them. They slide back open, revealing a flustered-looking man about Steve’s age on the other side.

He’s dressed head to toe in black, decked out in a simple black pullover with a modest V-neck, snug black jeans, and all-black leather Chucks with a messenger bag slung across his chest. The messenger bag is, unsurprisingly, also black, but covered in a collection of tough-looking patches and pins in varying shades of—well, it’s mostly red, dark red, white, and some yellows, but the pops of color still stand out against his otherwise monochrome ensemble.

His dark, curly hair reaches a little past his shoulders and he’s got this frankly outdated fringe that, despite its very 80’s vibe, frames his face perfectly. His eyes are large and expressive, and he’s got this frantic energy about him that reminds Steve of a live wire. He’s nothing like the buttoned-up suits Steve usually shares his elevator rides with each morning, and it’s a refreshing change of pace.

The man gives Steve a thankful look before stepping into the elevator and leaning against the side wall. “Thanks,” he says, a little distractedly. He’s got a pair big of headphones on and Steve realizes he’s in the middle of a phone call when he adds, “No, not you, Gare, I was thanking the guy who held the elevator for me. Yeah, this building’s crazy. There’s a whole-ass sixtieth floor—guess I’m kind of a big deal now.” He lets out a small, self-deprecating chuckle, reaching for the panel beside him.

As the doors close and the elevator starts to slowly ascend, Steve notices the man pressed the button for the floor above his. Both the fifty-second and fifty-third floor buttons are lit in a halo of green.

“You know I didn’t want to leave you guys,” the man continues, a bit more quietly now that he and Steve are sharing the same small space, “but shit, I couldn’t turn down the pay.” He scoffs. “Ugh, listen to me, just another cog in the capitalist machine. Man, if high school me could see me now. High school Eddie used to talk big about forced conformity and rising up against the man, and now here I am—”

Steve tries not to listen to the one-sided conversation going on beside him, but it’s difficult when a moment later, he hears his own name.

“—clocking in for my first day at fuckin’ Harrington Hargrove Hagan. The pretentious bastards can’t even shorten it to an acronym or something. God forbid they have to miss out on the sound of their own names.”

Steve manages to hold in the obnoxious snort that threatens to escape him. He’s starting to think he might like this guy—Eddie, his mind supplies helpfully—but Eddie’s next words have him freezing in place.

“And it’s nepo baby central. Yeah, pretty sure all the H kiddies are hotshot brokers with the company. All the biggest accounts—gee, I wonder why.”

Steve can feel the back of his neck burning hot with a mixture of annoyance and shame as Eddie cracks a caustic joke about silver spoons and trust funds.

“You’re kidding, one of them works at this branch? Damn, I guess I’ll just keep an eye out for the guy who most looks like he’s got a giant stick up his ass.”

This is quickly becoming the longest elevator ride of Steve’s life. He grits his teeth and stares fixedly at the floor display panel above the elevator doors, watching the numbers climb higher and higher. Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight.

“Listen, I should go, but let’s grab a drink at the Hideout later. Cool, see you then. Bye.”

Forty-one. Forty-two.

Eddie removes his headphones and shoves them into his bag, angling slightly toward Steve. “Sorry about that, man.”

“You’re good,” Steve says shortly, not looking away from the changing numbers. They reach the forty-seventh floor, and all the while, he feels Eddie’s gaze on him.

It’s not like he’s openly staring, but there’s a certain weight to his furtive glances that completely counteracts his attempts at subtlety. It’s the type of gaze Steve’s familiar with, one that he’s been on the receiving end of since his sophomore year of high school when he hit a growth spurt and actually learned how to style his hair. Assessing. Appreciative. Interested.

And in any other situation, Steve would gladly engage. He’d turn on the charm, quirk the corner of his lip up in that way Robin always rolls her eyes at but reluctantly acknowledges as ‘passably effective’, and maybe even make up an excuse to sidle a bit closer.

But he’s not giving this guy his A-game.

Instead, Steve waits in stifling silence until the fifty-second floor is announced and the doors slide open. He steps forward to exit, but at the very last moment stops in the doorway.

He initially wasn’t going to say anything—though, a past version of himself would have definitely spat something biting and bitchy to Eddie about his snark, would have snootily told him to take his little assumptions and shove them where the sun don’t shine—but sooner or later Eddie’s going to realize he and Steve are colleagues, and he’s going to remember shit-talking him in an elevator on his first day of work, and it’s going to be awkward and uncomfortable.

Steve’s just speeding up the timeline, pushing for the sooner rather than the later, when he decides to spin around and fully face Eddie.

“I think you pressed the wrong button,” he says, all sweet and helpful like he’s talking to Dustin’s mom over a sink full of soapy dishes. “Couldn’t help but overhear that you work at Harrington Hargrove Hagan. It’s on the fifty-second floor, not the fifty-third.” Then he takes a small step backward, moving out into the carpeted hallway.

“Oh.” Eddie scrambles for his phone, unlocking it and scrolling quickly until he finds something that has him straightening up and smiling gratefully at Steve. “I guess I remembered it wrong. Thank you.” He pushes away from the wall, takes a step forward to follow Steve out, but then stops dead in his tracks.

Steve gleefully notes the line of Eddie’s gaze, how it lingers at the breast pocket of his shirt, where, clipped to a retractable badge reel, his building keycard hangs. Eddie evidently hadn’t noticed it during the elevator ride up, but he’s certainly fixated on it now.

Perhaps on the abstract yet easily recognizable Harrington Hargrove Hagan logo in the top right corner.

But more likely, based on the positively mortified look growing on Eddie’s face, on the name clearly printed underneath Steve’s photo in bold, black lettering: STEVE HARRINGTON.

Slowly, Eddie drags his eyes back up to Steve’s face. He stares in silence, eyes bugging nearly out of his head, face turning a concerning shade of pink, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, and his reaction is extreme enough that a small part of Steve is almost inclined to take pity on the guy and laugh it all off.

Unfortunately for Eddie, a bigger part of Steve thinks Eddie looks kind of cute all red-faced and embarrassed like this. So he glances down at himself thoughtfully before turning his attention back on Eddie. “Wow,” he says with exaggerated astonishment, “now that you mention it, I guess I do look like I’ve got a giant stick up my ass.”

As if on cue, the elevator chimes in warning. The doors begin to close, but Eddie just remains rooted in place with that same wide-eyed, horrified expression.

When it becomes clear he has no intentions of actually exiting the elevator, Steve chuckles and wiggles his fingers in a cheeky little wave. “Welcome to the team,” he says airily, before Eddie’s still-blushing face disappears behind the elevator doors.

/ Now with a Part 2!

[ellejos]

Night Routine for Insomniacs

for my fellow insomniacs who struggle with sleeping: some ideas to improve your night routine and sleep

How to get in the mood:

Light your candles

brew yourself your good night tea or drink (when I was younger I always drank hot milk with honey)

lower your lights and close your curtains

play relaxing music

prepare your bedroom (windows open or closed, hot water bottle in bed, etc.)

best ideas for resting:

watch an episode of the show you're currently watching or watch a film from your watchlist (because otherwise you'll never gonna see it anyway)

connect with your partner or the people you love <3 these people make life worth living and deserve your attention and time!

this is non negotiable: read at least 1-2 chapter, or if you're not into reading listen to an audiobook or podcast

do some yoga or stretching

journaling

Preparing is Key:

Lay out your outfits for the next day, pack your bag, prepare your gym bag, declutter of your clothing laying around - cleaning and preparing your space in order to get these tasks out of your mind for a good night sleep and a fresh start in the morning

Update your planner and to do list for the next day

set your alarms to get up on time

turn off your devices! if you are using your phone as an alarm clock set it into flight mode or create a night mode for yourself

put on your bed clothes

Night Skin Care Routine:

Remove Make Up with oil-based Makeup Remover

Cleanse face (don't forget about your neck and ears) with water-based cleanser (preferably the same cleanser you use in the morning)

Exfoliate your skin or use a face mask, massage your face while applying or try a sheet mask and use a face roller get the best benefits

use a toner afterwards to prep your skin for following

acid treatment and serums

if you're having break outs you can apply spot treatment

eye patches and eye cream

night cream or night mask

Your skincare routine in the evening should moisturize your face so that your skin is soft and glowing after waking up.

Ultimate hack for soft lips in the morning: you can create a lip scrub with sugar and honey and afterwards apply a thick layer of vaseline on your lips - it's a low budget game changer.

sleeping beauty tips:

brush your teeth before going to bed

spray your pillow with lavendar or diffuse some calming essential oils

listen to sleep meditation

absolutely no phone, tv or any devices for sleeping!

Have a good night rest angels!

[notjustjavierpena]

Late Night Feelings

Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: Hey people, my first fic in a while. Hubby will be back soon but be patient.

Summary: Lucien enjoys phone sex with you… his ex who is in a relationship.

Pairing: Lucien Flores x f!reader/you (no y/n)

Tags: +18 smut, phone sex, mutual masturbation, dirty talk, verbal humiliation, infidelity 

Word count: 2k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55842253

Late Night Feelings

It is like clockwork by now. Lucien has made a ritual out of it and set up a routine for himself. He waits with his phone lying next to him on the couch, a box of tissues nearby, and a beer bottle, half-drunk, on the coffee table in his living room. He is already hard and aching in his underwear from the anticipation and knowledge of what will come, already without his usual slacks on and with his shirt unbuttoned to expose his beating chest. 

You should have called him by now, so why haven’t you? He impatiently shifts a little on the spot. To distract himself, he takes another sip of his beer and drums his fingers on his thigh to not think about the iron grip you have around his balls. 

You have had him in the palm of your hand like this for almost two months now. You call once a week, every Wednesday after your boyfriend has gone to bed, and then you beg him to talk you through it and remind you of how he used to fuck you when you were together. The first time around, you had said that he was the only one who knew your pussy well enough to do it and his ego soared above the clouds. 

Lucien knows it is wrong but the forbidden nature of what you are doing makes him have the best jerk-off sessions of his life. He doesn’t care about your motives, can’t be bothered to even ask because it is none of his business and he gets to come. People suck and fuck, it is in their nature, so he has no intention of playing the detective.

He adjusts himself in his briefs as an excuse to touch himself, hissing bitterly as time goes by without you, and he cannot keep himself from palming his cock through the straining fabric. He lets his head fall backward on the back of the couch, a groan slipping past his lips as he starts touching himself on top of his underwear. Steadily, a patch of his precome forms on the front because you are dancing naked and sexy behind his lids in his mind. 

The phone ringing nearly has him coming from the surprise because he has worked himself to the edge without even holding his dick in his fist. He swears under his breath, removing his hand to frantically search for his phone on the sofa only to find that it has slipped into the space between the two cushions. 

He answers with annoyance, “Where the fuck have you been?”

“Got held up,” you don’t apologize. He notices your ragged breathing almost immediately, can almost feel it against his ear and through the receiver. You are panting a little, probably flustered, cute, and wet from having been denied him like he has been denied you.

“Started without me?” He asks with a shit-eating grin, clenched fist lying along his side despite wanting to finish the handjob he was imagining you giving him.

“Not exactly,” you say without elaborating and the water in your shower turns on in the background. It is different from your usual pattern. Usually, you use the toy that you keep in bathroom drawers next to your hairdryer. 

Lucien narrows his eyes in suspicion. When you refrain from answering a second too long, his eyes widen when he figures it out.

“You little whore,” he smiles into the phone after the initial shock settles. In his underwear, his cock moves involuntarily at the thought of how used and desperate your pussy must be now, “You’re freshly fucked, aren’t you?”

“Stop,” you whimper with shame at his crude words.

“So how was he? And why do you even need me?” He pushes your patience, gives in to temptation, and lifts his hips to shove his briefs down over his thighs. His cock springs free and stands in the air in its touch-starved state, the head reddened from having been edged once.

You are silent for a moment but then sigh in defeat, sounding annoyed but it can only be with yourself from the words that leave your mouth and stroke Lucien’s ego dangerously, “He was fine but he can’t make me come.”

“That’s what I thought,” he says triumphantly, squeezing around the base of his excited cock. He gets comfortable on the couch, scooting towards the edge a little, “So tell me what you need, baby. Are you getting out the toy?”

“No, I need to clean up,” you tell him. He groans when he realizes you are probably naked on the other end of the line, most likely dripping with your boyfriend’s come - you always liked getting creampied when you were with him - and feeling horny out of your mind because your boyfriend has left you unsatisfied. He’d never do you dirty like that; clit throbbing with the need to get its sweet release, blood rushing through your lower body until it aches and has you squeezing your thighs together. 

“Tell me what you’re doing,” he orders to find out exactly how far you are in your session, not wanting to start without you in case he comes too soon. He hears you stand in the tub to detach the shower head from the wall. 

“Using the shower head,” you say simply and he spots a bead of precome running down the side of his dick, “It’s quick and easy.”

“So you have that in common,” he smiles at the scoff you let out, hearing the sound of water hitting the bottom of the tub while you move to lie down on your back. He dares a few strokes to his cock, his heartbeat all over his body, “You make it so difficult to wait. Need to hear you.”

“Gimme a moment,” you reply and there’s more shuffling, “There’s actually a lot at risk taking my phone with me in he— mhm…”

Lucien nearly loses his mind at your soft moan. He squeezes his cock again, wanting to tell it to calm down like he would a happy and excited dog. He breathes your name slowly. 

“Talk me through it,” he demands as he touches himself carefully, “Fuck, I’m so hard.”

“I’ve turned on— oh god, the jet stream,” you sigh in satisfaction, giggling a little like all his snark is forgiven now that pleasure starts flowing through you, “It’s so good, I wish you could feel it.”

Lucien swears under his breath, moving his hand languidly up and down his cock until his pelvis starts moving involuntarily. How he misses being inside of you, feeling you giggle like that when he gets you in the mood. He had never imagined that it would be hearing you use the shower head to come that would make him all nostalgic. 

“You are so fucking adorable when you get your clit played with,” he muses with a slightly breathless voice. 

“And I still smile when I come,” you say and he tenses up when the image flashes in his head. It doesn’t help when you moan a little louder, “It’s really intense.”

“How the hell are you doing that?” He groans. He strokes a little faster, trying not to get lost in the relief that it brings to finally get himself off in case he doesn’t concentrate properly.

“It’s just moving the stream up and down on my clit,” you explain, breathing heavily into the receiver, “The water feels warm and— oh, Luce.”

“And?” He almost gasps for breath by now, heart slamming against his ribs. 

“And then I just hold it steady when I’m just about to—“ you are interrupted by a sudden loud moan and he knows that you have moved the stream to your center, letting the water pound down on your clit until you cannot help lifting your hips towards more. 

He cannot help himself; his imagination goes wild. It wasn’t supposed to happen so quickly and he almost wants to mourn that it’s almost over. He speaks filth as his cock throbs from teetering on the edge together with you.

“Is the orgasm I’m giving you gonna make that little pussy cry?” He asks with a mocking tone, a moan slipping from his lips as pleasure starts to build at the bottom of his spine. He can see your pussy in his head, spasming with each excited jump of your clit, “You gonna spill his come all over the bathtub?”

“I’m giving me this orgasm,” you correct him during your climbing cries, panting into the phone and he starts going faster on his dick to meet you there. Fuck, he loves coming alongside you. 

“Bullshit. Say I’m the best you’ve ever had,” he barks out and follows it up with a desperate swear, reaching up to focus on the head so he doesn’t have to move his hand a lot. He closes his eyes and he can see you, brows furrowed and eyes rolling back as if you are possessed by pleasure. 

“You’re the best I’ve ever had,” you don’t even hesitate to respond. He can hear that you have started to hold your breath, gasping for air every few seconds, and he knows you’ll come even if you didn’t announce it like you always do for him.

“I’m gonna—“ you gasp again and he knows you’re concentrating on getting there. Another gasp and he knows you are quivering, “Gonna come. Fuck, Luce, I’m gonna come. Gonnacomegonnacomegonnacome, I— ah!”

He remembers what your face is like when you peak - that dirty little smile that turns into furrowed brows - and the image of the last time he had you on your back with him pops into his head. He can’t contain himself anymore, hearing you sob through the water cascading down on your swollen clit, knowing your thighs are tense, and your cunt is pushing out the last evidence of another - more unworthy - man. His balls draw up, his dick throbs and then he grunts a fuuuck as come shoots from the tip of his dick. He strokes himself through it, timing it with each spurt of white from his cock until he has milked himself dry and he grows so sensitive that he has to stop.

“All I have to do is ask you, isn’t it? Then you’d leave him,” he taunts you as you both come down from your orgasm, breathing softly against each other’s ears through the receiver. You usually hold a hand over your mound as you relish in aftershocks, sometimes daring to touch your overstimulated clit to see if it’s all over. 

“Luce,” you drag out his name with a breathy moan and he knows you are doing exactly what he imagined. There’s a hint of annoyance in your tone because how dare he remind you of such a true fact? 

“What?” He challenges, pulling a few tissues out of the box on his coffee table. He has the phone neatly tucked between his shoulder and head as he wipes himself down and tries not to hiss at the sensitivity, “Don’t deny it.”

“Fuck you,” you say bitterly, “I’m hanging up the phone now.”

“You want it so badly,” he continues to taunt. He throws the crumpled tissues onto the coffee table (he’ll clean it up later), “Why don’t you break up with your little boyfriend and then come over so I can get you fucking pregnant?”

“Lucien,” you say his name sharply, “Stop it. I can’t do that.”

“I would stop if that’s what you really want,” he replies, amused. He loves shocking you. 

You fume quietly on the other end, “I’ll call you next week.”

He doesn’t manage to answer with some other bratty remark as the line disconnects. However, he isn’t worried because he knows you will… and he knows he is right.

.

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[cokou]

𝙿𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚗 × 𝙵! 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

sum. Assigned with laundry duty with penguin, maybe things got out of hand. ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ tw. Panty stealing. Getting caught. Fucking on the floor. ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ a/n. I SWEARRER PENGUIN IS SO HOT. Pls no transfer and translate to any other media, this is my only account!😿😿 I LOVE YOU GUYS // Masterlist 💗

You head towards the laundry room, carrying a basket full of already worn clothes. As you enter the room, you were met with Penguin looking at the dryer with the most confused expression you've ever seen. It seemed like he was skeptical and the look of 'im fucked' on his face.

"What's wrong?" Placing the basket into one corner, you approach him ready to help on whatever he had caused once again.

"Uhm, maybe I twisted it wrong?" He looked at you, his arms crossed and tapping his feet into the floor.

"Twisted it wrong? Context please?" Now even more confused, you take a look at the dryer, the buttons twisted, yet not working. The machine lets out loud noises of brr's and it smelled like smoke inside the room.

"(Name), I think I broke the dryer! Captain is totally gonna make me pay for it!" Penguin's voice was mixed between a nervous and a panic soring through him. Part of him was already prepared to do all punishments that the captain would set up for him.

"Calm down! Uh— Maybe you just twisted it wrong!" You tried retwisting the timer control towards the right, nothing happened. You retwisted it towards the left, and suddenly it jolted open, spinning fastly, the sound of revving filling the room and the machine reeked of the smell of smoke even more.

"Well look at that! I'm such an engineer when it comes to this." You proudly put your hands on your waist as Penguin looked even more concerned as the machine revved like crazy and spurting out smoke.

"(Name)! It's spurting out smoke! Turn it off, turn it off!!" As you hurriedly turned the machine off, it wouldn't turn off. Luckily Penguin had removed the sockets quickly.

"This machine's such a bummer... I'm ready to do 3 months worth of duties for the next few days of my life." Penguin sighed as he looked at you frowning, making you feel guilty.

"Well Peng, you could use another machine in a while."

"You're right, well atleast you'll help me out here, so it's less of a bummer."

Penguin knew it himself that whenever Law partners you two up for duties, he's always the one to enjoy it the most, not even complaining. Maybe his crush on you has been going on ever since you stepped into the submarine itself.

You smiled at him and reminded that you two have to be done before midnight or everyone would freak out of nothing to wear. Both of you returned to work—, however at the worst timing ever, Penguin had an idea of taking care of your clothes first. Rummaging through the baskets to find your laundry basket.

He picks it up swiftly, ready to toss them into the machine. Opening it up, his eyes widened at the sudden cloth that met his eyesight.

"(Name)'s panties.." mumbling to himself after the discovery, he held it and inspected it. A wet patch displayed on it, he felt himself get tighter at the groin as he looked over to your direction. Everything in him is telling that this was wrong, and that maybe he should just pick another basket until you pick yours up, right?

"Hey Peng? Are you okay? You've been—" drifting your eyes to his hand, you noticed a familiar pattern of cloth on his hand. "...Drop that!"

"Im sorry! I didn't even—" he slowly panics as he returned your underwear on the basket. "I didn't even mean it! I just saw it and—"

"No it's okay..I was wondering where it went, i guess i accidentally tossed it on the laundry basket."

"Uh— i'll..wash it if it's okay for you?" Regretting his words, he looked at the floor fidgeting with his hands. Thinking about it, he thought that he'd eacape the room with your panties.

"Oh sure, thanks?" You turned around to get back on whatever you left, leaving Penguin on his state. He quickly takes your underwear and stores it on his pocket for 'later'. Trying his best to keep his dick inside his pants until he was done doing his part.

Unfortunately for him, he couldn't just forget what had happen and his erection is starting to hurt. Looking towards your direction every 10 seconds, it felt like an eternity whenever you were in the same room as him.

However, he watches you bend over to pick up the basket and tossing them inside the machine clearly doesn't help at all. He could just tell you he'll be taking a break for a while, but he already had taken his break an hour ago. Thinking for more excuses to get out of this hell situation, he was even gladder you haven't noticed when you decided to talk to him.

This was clearly his last straw, when you bent over to check on a prnny that fell under the washer, he finally lost it. Walking over to you, he inspects the curves of your ass hugging those tightly worn pants that you decided to wear today. You didn't fail to notice his presence, but he isn't talking, thinking that maybe he's just looking for something.

Wrong. He presses his erection on your ass, making you gasp loudly. "Penguin?! Wha—"

"Hey, be quiet..you wouldn't want anyone hearing." He feel his dick twitching in his pants as he presses deeper into the curves of your ass.

Deciding to finally move, you helped him get your pants and everything off you to save some time, he doesn't waste time and quickly gets his bottoms off, shoving them on floor. Grabbing his dick and pumping it a few times, he positions it on your entrance.

Hoping that holding against the floor stabilizes you enough from the upcoming thrusts. He slowly enters your core, giving you a few minutes to adjusts him. He was big, just like you expexted it to be.

After a while he finally moves at a slow motion, being careful to not hurt you. His thrusts were sensual the faster it goes, it almost felt like he was holding back especially to not cause any harm.

"Ouhm...Peng, don't..hold back." You beg him, you were positioned with your ass on the air just how he found you looking for what dropped underneath the machine. You felt Penguin stiffen as you say those five words, making him even more nervous.

"R—Right.." He doesn't dare to hold back now, he paces quite fast, skin to skin noises flooding up the room. You hopefully tried to try keeping your noises to yourself, atleast. Releasing only heavy breaths and broken gasps as his motions turn sloppy and faster, you were sure with how big he was that it was already hitting your cervix.

He starts moving faster, chasing his high. Trying your best to keep your noises kept, you were already faltering from the ecstacy Penguin was causing you, remotely releases fairly loud moans.

You felt yourself closer to climax every thrusts he gives you, loud noises of squelching from your wet cunt covering the whole room.

"Fuh—ck, (Name).." Penguin releases groans and slight whimpers.

Being too busy with each other, both of you hadn't heard the noise of the doorknob switching.

"Penguin, (Name)—" 1, 2, 3. It was Law, having to see you both on a fucked up situation right infront of his very eyes. "Are...you two...done. What." He shoves his hand across his eyes and turns around, trying to process what he had just caught.

"Oh. My. God. Captain! I—It's not what it looks like!" Penguin quickly pulls out, having you release a moan, he grabs his pants to quickly dress himself up as you do the same.

"U—uhm..." You looked at the floor trying to play cool.

"I should've known not to partner you two up for duties!" Law the person he is, decides to scold you two in the middle of the laundry room where everyone could hear it. Obviously everyone started eavesdropping on the door. He gave you two 3 hours of full scolding while explaiing that everybody needed their clothes by midnight.

However letting everything get worse, he discovered the broken machine that you and Penguin both fucked up earlier. Making the punishment much heavier.

"6 months, 6 months of duties for the. Both. Of. You." Lesson learned, not to fuck in the laundry room. Dismissing the both of you from scolding and telling you two both continue everything by tomorrow.

Whatever Penguin was happy to be able to keep your panties with him, maybe he'll continue the scenario with it.

©Cokou 2024, all works belong to me.

[whydoeseveryonewanttobangchan]

PART 1: 🚪 Whats wrong with a little privacy, huh? 🚪

✎ Pairing: Chan x fem!reader

✎ Genre: Slightly smutty fluff (?)

✎ Summary: Your boyfriend takes you out to a nice restaurant, but you end up eating something not on the menu.

✎ CW: Tbh kissing. I hope you like kissing.

✎ Word count: 2,118

✩ A/N: Spicy part 2 is live!✩

❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥

“You look beautiful tonight, by the way,” Chan says, shooting you a quick smirk while he drives.

He always looks effortlessly sexy in the car: one hand on the steering wheel, one somewhere on your leg. Tonight, it’s high up on your thigh, squeezing and rubbing the bare skin just under the hem of your dress.

“Thanks, baby,” you reply. “You, too, of course.”

“Oh, stop,” he chides. “You’ll make me blush.”

But he does anyway. Even in the dark, you can see his cheeks take on a slightly pink hue. It’s so easy to make him flustered sometimes.

The way the moonlight hit his skin was enough to make you giddy, too. His umber eyes glancing back and forth between the road ahead and your thigh, the way his wide nose slopes down and curves just above his plump, pink lips, his silver hoops swinging back and forth in his earlobes when you hit a rough patch of pavement. He was like living art. And he was all yours.

“So….” he starts, trying to change the topic inside your brain to something less… him. “You excited for the seafood?”

“Mhhmmm,” you mumble, still entranced by the god next to you. He’s gonna have to try harder than that.

He catches your eyes for a second and giggles before squeezing your thigh.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he says sheepishly. “I can’t handle that look in your eyes.”

“What look?” you ask, fully aware of what look it is. But it’s always fun to hear him describe it.

“Like… like you’re…” he says between glances. “Like you love me. A ridiculous amount.”

“Like you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life?” you add.

“Yes, that,” he says with a laugh. “It’s making me nervous. And… excited. I have to focus on driving and you’re over there looking at me like that — it’s so distracting.”

“Fine, fine,” you surrender and smirk. “I’ll save my lovey-dovey eyes for when you’re not operating a murder machine.”

“Thank you, my love,” he says appreciatively, reaching for your hand to bring it to his lips. “So, as I was saying… seafood. What do you think you’re gonna eat?”

“I’m not sure,” you say, shifting your glance to the road. “Clams definitely. Oysters maybe? Do you wanna share something?”

“Yeah, that sounds good. I’d love to share with you,” he says, squeezing your hand he still holds between the two of you.

The rest of the drive isn’t long, but keeping your eyes on the road is agony. Every brush of his thumb on the back of your hand fills you with raw emotion you need to channel back to him, but you fight to keep your eyes to yourself for the sake of his sanity — and your lives, apparently.

The car pulls into the parking lot, and he finds a spot easily. Once it’s in park, Chan removes his seatbelt, shoots you a wink, and says, “hold tight.” He exits his side, shuts the door, and hustles over to the passenger side where he opens the door for you with a slight bow.

“We’ve arrived, my lady,” he says and holds his hand out for you.

“Oh, thank you, good sir,” you reply, placing your hand in his to help you out of the car. “What a lovely gentleman you are.”

He shut the door, places his hand at his waist and holds out his elbow for you to take.

“Shall we?”

“Of course.”

You walk arm in arm toward the entrance, both smiling wide as you ascend the stairs.

“Good evening, sir and madam,” the host greets in a similar — but less sarcastic — tone of voice. “Do we have a reservation this evening?”

“Yes, should be under Christopher,” Chan answers.

“Ah, yes. Mr. Bahng. We have you in the private room this evening.”

“Oohhh, the private room, huh?” you whisper in his ear. “Ok, rich ass.”

He holds back a smile but squeezes your arm as the host extends his arm and gestures to follow him.

You weave through tables and up stairs and around hallway corners until the man opens a tall door and steps to the side so you can enter. Inside is a table for 4, but with only two seats. A small chandelier hangs from the tall ceiling, and the windowless walls are nearly bare, except for a themed photo or two.

“Will this do, sir and madam?” the host asks politely.

“Of course, this is perfect, thank you,” Chan replies. “Will a waiter come to us, or…”

“Yes, sir, they’ll come by and knock before entering.”

Oh, you sly piece of shit.

“Sounds perfect, thank you so much again,” Chan says.

The waiter nods and steps out of the room, closing the heavy door behind him.

“You fucking…” you tease, slapping Chan’s toned arms lightly. “Private room? The waiter has to knock? So pretentious.”

“Listen, I didn’t know it was this private, but yeah,” he defends himself, but his face softens again when he pulls you into his chest. “What’s wrong with a little privacy, huh?”

“You better be good,” you warn, looking at him sternly.

“I will, I promise,” he smirks, but then he holds you tighter and kisses your neck just below your jawline, so you’re almost certain his fingers must be crossed.

“Yeah, ok, sure,” you say sarcastically and lift his head to plant a quick kiss on his nose before heading to your respective sides of the table and sitting in the outlandish chairs — they’re almost like mini thrones.

“Well, these are… a lot,” Chan scoffs and turns his attention to you. “But they do suit you well, my queen.”

“And you, my king,” you say, barely holding in a giggle.

A knock at the door ends the role play — for now — and a waiter enters with two glasses and a bottle of wine.

“Good evening, can I get you two anything else to drink or eat?” he says politely as he pours your first glasses.

Chan skillfully orders a bottle of champagne, a tray of oysters, clams and other shellfish, and a pasta dish. The waiter takes note and leaves almost as quickly as he came.

“Wow, ok,” you say in amazement.

“What? Not happy with the selections?” he replies with a grin.

“No it’s fine, that was just… quick,” you marvel and pick up your glass, taking a sip of the Malbec.

“Yeah, hopefully the food comes quickly, too,” he says, then his expression turns much more serious, seductive even.

“Until then… wanna come sit in my lap?”

“Hm?” you ask. “You want me to sit in your lap… in a fancy restaurant?”

“Well, it is a private room…” he muses and grabs his glass, taking a sip and pushing his chair back from the table. Even confident Channie can’t help but blush when he gets excited, and you can’t resist those rosy cheeks.

“Well… will you? Please?” he repeats the question.

“… just because you asked nicely.”

You stand from your chair and slowly round the table to his seat, standing above him for a few seconds before lifting your dress enough to straddle his legs.

“Hi,” you chirp once your faces are only inches apart. “How are you?”

“Better now,” he says with a grin as he placed his glass back on the table and snakes his arms around your waist, pulling you closer so your noses touch. “How are you, darling?”

“I’m ok, a little hungry,” you answer, wrapping your arms around his neck and rubbing your nose against his. “You smell amazing.”

“So do you,” he says softly, leaning forward to inhale your exhales. “So sweet… I want to taste you.”

His lips gently press against yours as his palm travels up your back and stops at the base of your neck. His fingers close around it just enough to keep you steady, to keep you close.

He opens his lips then, slipping his tongue out to run along your bottom lip. Your tongue meets his there before returning to its original position to let him explore.

Soft sighs and moans bounce back and forth between your mouths as the kiss deepens. Heads tilt to gain better access, and hands travel to necks, to hair, to cheeks… to hold, to stroke, to savor.

Both of your eyes are squeezed shut, too overwhelmed by your other senses to process anything else. And you don’t need to see to understand the map of his mouth. It’s a place you’ve been so many times before. A place that stays with you even when you’re away. A place that feels like home.

Your mouth tastes like wine, but as more of his saliva sits on your tongue, the flavors change. The acidity drops away almost entirely, letting notes of vanilla, dark chocolate and blackberries shine through.

“Mmm,” he hums, breaking the kiss for just a second. “This wine is delicious.”

“I was just thinking the same,” you say, amazed for the millionth time how in sync you are. “Want some more?”

He nods, and you turn to grab his glass from the table and hand it to him. But he holds his hand up,l and gestures for you to drink.

“No, you go ahead, baby,” he says. “But don’t swallow it.”

Your eyes narrow at him, but you do as he asks anyway, taking a sip and letting the liquid slosh around between your cheeks.

“Good girl,” he says. “Now, come here.”

He places his palms on either side of your neck, pulling your mouths together once again. He presses his bottom lip firmly beneath yours and uses his tongue to separate your lips, letting wine spill from your mouth into his.

Your bodies stay eerily still as the stream falls between his lips, onto his tongue. If a waiter walked in right now, he may think he stumbled upon an ancient stone fountain, lovingly crafted by skilled and passionate hands.

The last drop falls, and his hold on your neck disappears. He closes his lips and lets the wine sit on his tongue for what seems like hours, though it was only a few seconds. Then he swallows.

“Hmmm,” he hums, his face scrunching up. “Vanilla… berries?”

A smile spreads across your face.

“I got that, too. Blackberries,” you say excitedly.

“Oh, yeah, that’s it,” he confirms. “Blackberries.”

He looks up into your eyes and sends that same smile, that same expression of understanding and love, right back at you. And you’re so synchronized, you dive back in to taste his lips at the same time he does, roughly bumping foreheads and noses in the process.

“Ow! Fuck!” you exclaim, moving your hand to the bridge of your nose to assess the damage.

You clearly got the worst of the collision, though, because he just sits there smiling and giggling.

“Come here, dumbass,” he says softly, placing one big hand on the back of your neck to guide you safely back to his lips.

His lips are softer now. Maybe it’s the wine, maybe it’s the swelling. But it’s like closing silky pillows between your lips again and again and again. There’s something so comforting, so safe, about being trapped there.

“I love you,” he mumbles into your mouth, too entranced to bother breaking the kiss for three small words.

And you’re too lightheaded to even form words, so you settle for a soft moan in reply and let your fingers find his hair.

You run the soft strands through your fingers and lure sweet sounds from his mouth, like you’re playing with a marionette. Pull this strand, he moans. Pull that strand, he sighs. Rub his scalp…

The hand on your neck travels down slowly, between your shoulder blades, and follows your spine down to your ass. He grips one cheek and squeezes just enough to make you groan. He knows how to pull your strings, too.

That hand travels forward now, around your hip to the top of your thigh. It sits there for a few seconds, enough time for its owner to slide his tongue behind your teeth, feeling every ridge as he goes.

He must’ve found some confidence there, because he takes that big hand and slides it over and down, between your legs.

You stifle a moan at the same time a knock sounds from the door. The knob twists before he has time to lift his hand out from under your panties, let alone get you off his lap and back to your seat. As the door swings open, Chan whispers in your ear.

“Looks like somebody’s getting a big tip…”

…continued in part 2...

[itsabouttimex2]

Stuffie Reactions Two:

Tang, Macaque, Red Son

(Part One: Sun Wukong, MK, Azure Lion)

(Ok, all yandere stuff aside? This man has plushies. No way he doesn’t have a finished Journey to The West set. I refuse to believe otherwise.)

As with most of your quirks or interests, Mr. Tang maintains a consistently supportive attitude. He’s not always the best role-model, what with being both somewhat lazy and a little bit of a mooch… but he’s got a good heart.

Even with a plague of obsession to cloud his mind and heart, Tang is still rather rational. He understands the sentimental value your plush has to you, and also knows very well that he’d massively be on your bad side for interfering with it. So there’s no threats of destruction, no forced removal-

Unless you’ve done something that seriously “warrants” one of his very rare punishments. Things like: putting yourself in serious danger, underage drinking, any type of drug use, starting fights, etc.

(He shares most of these rules with Pigsy, though the demon is quite a bit more strict.)

He’s more of a “lock it away in a cupboard for a few days” guy than anything, and gives it back after he’s worn you down into writing a full-length essay about what you did wrong how you’ll do better next time.

Could be worse, frankly.

Alright, let’s get this out of the way- Macaque is a pretty awful person. He’s often cruel for the sake of being cruel. He enjoys hurting people and brags about doing it. We also see that he’s not exactly sentimental about the past- not like Wukong is, not how MK misses the simplicity of his early adventures. I can’t imagine he’d care much about one little toy, especially if it’s particularly worn out or well-loved.

Our Six-Eared Simian is pretty high on the list of character who would outright destroy your plush. (Alongside Demon Bull King, Red Son, Huntsman, Spider Queen, and Lady Bone Demon.)

But usually; aside from mild teasing, he pays it no mind. He’s on the move with you frequently, and at least ensures that the little thing never gets left behind. Hell, when he’s (very, very rarely) feeling soft? Macaque might come around while you’re asleep and tuck the plush into your arms.

So, what could prompt him to destroy your toy? Here’s a few- running away, calling him out for his crimes, helping Wukong or MK, trying to fight him, repeated refusal to obey his orders, frequently “hard” swearing at him, substance use, etc.

(Interestingly, he won’t tear it all at once- swearing at him causes him to puncture a small hole in the fabric, running away causes him to tear off a limb… after, why throw away a useful tool of punishment when he can stretch it out for all it’s worth?)

Lots of landmines to avoid, basically.

Out of all characters, Red Son may well be the one who cares the least- he doesn’t see much value in any of your possessions, except those that he himself gifted to you.

Other characters like the Mayor or Azure might understand the plush’s importance, but choose to use it as a tool of punishment. Someone like Syntax (or Mei, but we’ll get there) would modify it to accommodate a camera. The Spider Queen would probably destroy it to sever connections to your past life- and then tsk and half-heartedly try to patch it up with her silk when she sees how distraught you are.

Some like Sandy would spoil you with plushes and stitch up any rips by hand. Iron Fan might use it to belittle you when she sees fit to lay down some “discipline”, hoping to make you feel insecure and childish.

But Red Son? He simply… doesn’t care.

It’s a possession. An item like any other. No dearer to one than a shirt or chair should be. (Unless he/his parents gave it to you. Then, and only then, will Red Son muster some genuine sympathy and understanding for how precious the object is to you.)

I’ve spoken about this several time, but I’ll say it again here- in most cases, Red Son starts off viewing Y/N as a pet. As the seasons progress they move upwards in Red’s personal hierarchy, from worthless peasant to funny pet to dear friend to cherished family.

So not only does Red not really respect your possessions- but he doesn’t really respect you, either. You’re a silly little human, meandering and small.

So, if you do ever act up, or try to escape…

He really doesn’t see in harm in torching the thing to ashes.

Nor will he understand why you’re crying.

But at least you’ve learned your lesson.

[stories-and-chaos]

Shrike: New Neighbor

[Hazbin Hotel reader insert as Alastor’s “darling life and death partner” Ace x ace relationship, both parties are moderately sex favorable.]

[Word count 1210 Cw: blood, foul language]

————————

Even while recovering, Alastor had to be dramatic. So when he dropped you both into the group in front of the rebuilt hotel, his joining the song and grand gestures did not surprise you. What did was Charlie suddenly hugging him and Alastor allowing her.

The princess was stronger than she knew. Alastor was more stubborn than anyone but you realized. So even though his theatrics and her squeeze tore some stitches, he refused to show it. The benefit of entirely red clothing was that a bit of blood wasn’t noticeable.

As soon as you could manage, you insisted the pair of you look over your new suite. Walking to the top floor would have been a struggle and you weren’t up to flying again yet. Fortunately the new building had elevators installed.

Alastor had recreated his broadcast studio on a corner penthouse level and naturally had claimed the closest rooms for you both. He hadn’t recreated the bayou yet, but there were more pressing concerns. Namely redoing his stitches.

Once in the room you ordered, “Sit down Alastor.” You didn’t let him argue as you removed his jacket and shirt. The bandages wrapped around his torso had absorbed most of the blood but now they definitely needed replacing. “Zut alors, you just had to overdo it out there.”

You brought out both a last aid kit and your sewing kit. As you gathered up towels, warm water and disinfectant, you continued to vent. “I know you like to cultivate an air of invulnerability, cher, but that was too much.” Returning to his side you started unwinding the bandages. “Granted you didn’t expect Charlie to hug you like that, but all that flailing about did not help.”

His hand shot out and grabbed your wrist. “That’s enough,” he growled hoarsely. His antlers were starting to grow in anger but he didn’t put any pressure on your wrist.

“No Alastor, it’s not,” you replied firmly. You didn’t pull your hand away but you did turn his head to face you. You locked eyes with your husband, staring straight into the radio dials. “If you get hurt, I’m the one that patches you up. If you get hurt doing something stupid, I’m still the one patching you up, but I’m allowed to be angry about it.”

He huffed and released your wrist. You continued unwrapping and cleaning that gash across his chest. “I don’t want to be stitching you back up constantly because you’re pretending to be invincible.” You might have said more but a voice at the door interrupted.

“Lover’s quarrel? You really should close the door if you’re going to do that.”

“Fuck!” you screeched, reflexively launching a stiletto at the voice.

“Whoa!” The figure blinked away in a burst of sparks, popping back into existence next to you. The blade thudded into the hallway.

“Careful there!” Lucifer admonished. “We just built these floors.”

You hissed at the fallen angel. “I wouldn’t have to be careful if someone wasn’t eavesdropping.”

He just smiled as you returned to focusing on Alastor. “Someone wouldn’t be eavesdropping if someone else had closed their door properly.” He leaned down to look at the wound you were starting to stitch together again. “Oof, that from when Adam swung at you? You took quite a hit there buddy.”

Alastor glared at him furiously. “GET. OUT,” he snarled, his ever present smile straining in his anger.

As much as you agreed with him, what Lucifer said made you start. “How did you know Adam hit him? The only ones that saw the fight were the exorcists and me.” Some of your flock might have seen it, but they were rather occupied.

“I was watching the whole time,” he replied blithely. With a snap, he produced an ornate set of opera glasses on an elegant handle. “Had to keep an eye on my little girl in case she needed help.”

“You were just watching?!” You and Alastor yelled together. If he had shown up before the angels arrived, he could have handled everything.

“Yup! Charlie didn’t ask me to join the fight, so I wanted to give her the chance to take care of it.” He paused. “I do feel bad about the snake guy, though. Oh, and that you two got banged up by that douchebag.”

You hissed again, feeling your feathers turn metallic. Still, you turned back to the curved needle in your hand. Alastor’s claws dug into the chair; you couldn’t be sure of it was from anger or the feeling of needle and thread sliding through his skin. Probably both.

“GET OUT,” he repeated, now looking like he’d enjoy tearing Lucifer’s throat out if he wasn’t stuck in place.

“And leave my new neighbors in their time of need?” He shook his head mockingly. “Charlie would never let me hear the end of it.”

You did your best to focus and finish quickly. “Got it back together, cher.” His grip on the chair didn’t ease up. He really is a terrible patient, you thought as you placed a gauze pad on the gash. You reached for a roll of bandages, only to find Lucifer holding it out to you.

Annoyed, you grabbed it with a quiet “merci.” Winding the bandage around Alastor to keep the pad in place, you could feel Lucifer’s gaze on your back. Your husband was getting more and more irritated as the king of Hell kept watching you.

Then, as you finished securing the bandage: “You’re gonna need a splint on that wing.” You blinked in confusion. Alastor was similarly surprised at Lucifer’s statement.

“Never had a wing injury before?” he prodded. You shook your head. “You’re one lucky gal.” He clapped his hands and a small pile of supplies appeared. “It’s got to be stabilized. And no attempts to fly until it’s fully healed if you want it back to normal.” He gestured for Alastor to get up, not caring at all that he was ordering the Radio Demon around. Of course he didn’t, he ruled over all of Hell. He outranked every Sinner, Overlord or not.

With permission, he examined your wing. “Alright deerboy, I’ll show you what to do so you can take care of your missus.” That did seem to calm Alastor down a bit and he begrudgingly let Lucifer demonstrate. Shortly, your wing was braced by thin rods and bandages. “Remember, no flying at all.”

You grumbled, only for Alastor to lean down (slowly, taking his wound into account) and say with exaggerated sweetness, “I’ll be patching you up, cher. And if I have to resplint your wing because you did something stupid, then I’m allowed to be angry, yes?”

Dammit, you thought to yourself. Aloud you said, “Fair enough,” with equal sarcastic sweetness.

Satisfied, Lucifer grabbed his apple topped cane with a twirl. “I’m making pancakes if you two want any.” He sauntered out, humming contentedly.

You sighed gustily. “Let’s get you a new shirt, darling.” As you helped Alastor button up the bright red shirt, he realized something.

“He said ‘new neighbors,’” he stated, the static disappearing from his voice. You both stopped dead, processing what that meant. Meeting each other’s eyes, there was only one thing to say, in unison again.

“Ffffuck!”

———————

Taglist: @whitewolfsoldat @edgyboi10000 @ch3sire-blu3 @clearly-awkward @badatpunz @bengewatch @chewbrry

[libraryofgage]

SpiderPool Steddie Part One

So, this is definitely gonna have multiple parts lmao

It's been bouncing around my brain for a while like the Addams Family Steddie AU lol

Anyway, lemme know if you'd like to be tagged for future parts ^_^

----

Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Girls is, at best, a dive bar. At worst, it's a cesspit in which the scummiest people in the city gather to bask in each other's scumminess. To Steve, however, it's the perfect place to collapse after a long patrol, splayed out like a starfish on the roof as the music playing inside vibrates the building itself.

Steve takes a deep breath, setting his bat down next to him before pushing his mask to the bridge of his nose. He then lies down on the roof, wishing not for the first time that the city's light pollution wasn't so bad. Seeing the stars and hunting for constellations would really help him ignore the cracked ribs screaming inside his chest and threatening to break if he even breathes wrong.

All things considered, though, it could be worse. Steve doesn't have any morning classes, Vecna didn't beat him up nearly as bad as he usually does during their fight earlier, and his accelerated healing means Steve will be able to breathe normally by morning. Robin would tell him he has a very low bar when it comes to judging how shitty his life currently is, but she isn't here, so her opinion doesn't matter. Dustin would tell him he should try not getting his ass whooped in the future. Thankfully, he also isn't here, making his opinion as meaningful as Robin's.

Steve closes his eyes, letting his shoulders relax and trying not to think about anything. It sort of works until his entire body suddenly tenses, every nerve on edge and goosebumps shooting across his arms. He shoots up, ignoring the harsh twinge in his ribs as he turns in a crouch and grabs his bat. Steve clenches his jaw, breathing harshly through his nose to keep from groaning in pain, and feels relieved he didn't completely remove his mask completely.

Over by the door leading to a staircase is a guy with ripped jeans, a worn-out shirt with "HELLFIRE CLUB" across the chest, a jean vest covered in patches and pins, and hair pulled back out of his face with a few wavy strands stubbornly escaping his hair tie. He's breathing a little heavily, his face flushed like he's just climbed a few flights of stairs. Actually, he probably has.

"Woah," the guy says, his voice soft enough that Steve would have missed it if not for the enhanced hearing. The guy clears his throat and holds up both hands, showing off a bottle of Jack Daniels in one and a bag with a grease-stained bottom in the other. "Uh, I come in peace. I didn't realize the rooftop was taken."

Steve has no clue what possesses him, but he forces himself to relax and set the bat down. "No, it's okay. I can head out," he says, staying seated despite his words. He's really hoping the guy will insist he doesn't need to; his ribs are still aching like a bitch.

Thankfully, the guy flashes a grin and slowly lowers his hands. "Nah, you're all good. Not every day I get to eat next to a hero. Want some fries?" he asks, walking over and sitting a good two feet away so there's plenty of room between them.

He tears open the bag to create an impromptu plate and puts it between them, the smell of greasy and undoubtedly delicious fries tempting enough that Steve picks up a smaller one and pops it into his mouth. "Thanks. Where are these from?" Steve asks, glancing over as the guy twists the cap of his bottle and takes a swig.

"A burger joint two streets down and one street over. On the corner."

Steve nods, making a mental note of the directions so he can get a burger before swinging home. He's got just enough in his pocket to afford one. "So, got a name?" Steve asks, figuring he's already eating the guy's fries and they're about to spend some time together on this roof. He should know the guy's name.

The guy's grin returns, and he sets the bottle down between them as well. It's tempting, but Steve doesn't trust his alcohol tolerance to hold up while his body is busy fixing his ribs. "Eddie. Do I get to know your name, too?"

Steve snorts and leans away slightly, putting a bit more distance between Eddie and his entirely too-grabbable mask. "Nice try," he says.

"Worth a shot," Eddie says, shrugging as he picks up a few fries. "So, Spider-Man, what brings you to Sister Margaret's? You enjoy the gay metal scene?"

"What's the difference between gay and regular metal?"

"Our hair is better," Eddie explains, dramatically flipping the few strands of hair escaping his tie.

Steve has to hold back a second snort, taking another fry and chewing on it before saying, "I like resting here after patrol. The whole building shakes with the music."

Eddie lights up, his eyes brightening and his back straightening some. "So, you're a fan of Corroded Coffin," he says, taking another swig of the Jack Daniels. It's only now that Steve realizes it's already a quarter of the way gone, and he wonders if Eddie's liver can handle that much alcohol all at once.

"Is that the name of the band?"

"Yep. They play here almost every night."

"I'm guessing you like them, too, then?"

Eddie hums, amusement dancing across his expression now, giving Steve the distinct feeling that there's some secret he simply isn't in on. "They're the best band I've ever heard. Their music is incredible. They really push the boundaries of the genre. And their lyrics? Amazingly layered with at least three meanings per line. I highly recommend actually coming in for a listen one of these days," Eddie says, leaning a little closer to Steve.

A beat of silence passes in which Steve holds Eddie's gaze. Or, he holds the gaze on his end; he's sure Eddie can't actually tell with the mask covering his eyes. "You're in the band," Steve says.

"Lead guitarist and singer, yes. I also write the songs."

"You're incredibly critical of yourself, really grounded in reality."

Eddie barks out a laugh. "I just happen to know my worth incredibly well."

"You have all the confidence of a mediocre white man on a job hunt."

Eddie gasps, placing a hand on his chest as he looks at Steve. "How dare you call me mediocre. I am revolutionary at worst and the second coming at best."

"You know the second coming involves, like, an apocalypse or something, right?"

"I'm Jewish, why would I bother with the fine details?" Well, Steve will give him that. "By the way," Eddie says, gesturing to Steve's bat as he continues, "do those nails actually see any use? Or are they just there to act as a threat?"

Steve looks down at his bat, considering it for a moment before carefully holding the middle and offering the handle to Eddie. Now that he's giving them a few moments of attention, he's realizing the nails embedded in the end are a little rusty and definitely need cleaning. "I try not to be deadly with it, but Vecna's got these lab-grown demon dogs and bats that always manage to break through my webs," Steve explains.

He watches as Eddie takes the bat, weighing it in his hands before shoving his palm into the nails. Steve jerks, a wordless shout escaping his throat as he launches himself over the fries and in front of Eddie. "Are you okay?!" he asks, grabbing Eddie's hand and shakily inspecting the nails sticking through it. Fuck, those are going to be a bitch to get out, and he'll probably have to swing Eddie to the hospital for a tetanus shot.

Being angry doesn't even register in his brain as Eddie laughs. "Don't worry about it, Spidey," he says, pulling his hand off the nails with a slight wince. He wiggles his fingers, letting Steve have a front-row seat to the injuries closing. "See, good as new."

And he's right. The injuries are good as new. In fact, there isn't even any scarring, and Steve almost rips his mask off to take a closer look but stops himself at the last minute. Instead, he grabs Eddie's hand and yanks it closer, turning it over to check his palm, too. "What the fuck?" he asks, looking up at Eddie, still gripping his hand tight.

"Super healing," Eddie explains. "Like, super duper. If I ever get decapitated, just hold my head to my neck, and I'll be right as rain."

"I'd rather not put that claim to the test," Steve says, frowning slightly as he runs his fingers over Eddie's palms, just to make sure the injuries aren't somehow hidden from sight.

"You know, I kissed the last guy who touched my palm like that," Eddie says, leaning in again with that grin.

Suddenly all Steve can think about is how Eddie's lips do look soft. And it has been a while since Steve actually kissed anyone. And he does think Eddie is funny. And he does find himself wondering if his smile will taste like the Jack Daniels and fries. And...and...

And Steve needs to go before he does anything he shouldn't be doing as Spider-Man.

He jerks back, dropping Eddie's hand like it burns, and ignores the ache in his ribs as he grabs his bat and stands. "I, uh, I need to get going. Thanks for the fries, Eddie," he says, hurrying over to the edge of the roof.

"Woah, just gonna eat and run on me, big boy?" Eddie asks, scrambling to his feet and over to where Steve is climbing onto the edge of the roof. "That's not very hero-like of you. You haven't even left me your name or number. How are you gonna pay me back $2.50 for the fries?"

"I had five," Steve says, turning to look at Eddie as he webs his bat to his back and pulls his mask down over his chin.

"The economy sucks, man."

Okay, he's got Steve there. Again. "Nice try, Eddie."

"Can you blame a guy? Your ass looks great in that spandex."

Steve is suddenly relieved his mask is back down, covering the furious blush spreading across his cheeks. He'd think it was just a joke, but the sincere and somewhat goofy smile tugging at Eddie's lips tells him it's more genuine than anything else. "Thanks," Steve says, giving Eddie a two-finger salute before taking a step back off the roof.

He shoots a web at the edge of the building, using the momentum to swing around the corner. His ribs are killing him with the movement, but he still manages to throw a, "See you later, Eds!" over his shoulder before he's completely out of earshot.

Later, Steve will wonder how Eddie got his super healing, if he's that flirtatious with every guy he meets on the roof of Sister Margaret's, and if he'll be there the next time Steve swings by. But that's for later. For now, he's just enjoying the breeze rushing over him and thinking about Eddie's eyes and his smile and his long fingers.

[moonlightazriel]

Chapter 7: Pain is what makes us /// Azriel X F!Reader

Summary: Y/N and Nesta have a nice bonding day. Elain is forced to face her feelings.

Word Count: 1,8K

Warnings: None for this part.

Notes: This fic is becoming my favorite...

Main Masterlist

Worlds Apart Masterlist

“It will definitely scar.” Madja warned as she removed the stitches from her wound two days later.

“It wouldn’t be the first time.” The words slipped from her tongue with a darker meaning than she intended. Nesta watches as three faint lines remained and a more protuberant one stood in the end of her ribs, that might’ve been painful as fuck. 

“Do you feel any pain?” She pressed her warm fingers against the sore patch of skin.

“Nope, i’m good as new.” The female smiled at her, a comforting smile that she received just a couple times in life, making her heart swell.

“Then you’re good to go, please be careful next time.” She warned with a stern look. Y/N jumped from her seat, pulling her shirt down and nodding her head.

“Thank you Lady Madja.” She giggled.

“Oh sweety, just Madja, it's fine.”  Nesta laughed too, thanking the healer again before dragging Y/N out of her office and towards the busy city streets.

“We need to find you a dress for the Hewn City trip.” Nesta had their arms intertwined as she walked around towards her favourite boutique. 

“What is Hewn City and why does everybody just talk about it?” It was true that since the announcement all they talked about was the upcoming trip, Nesta had promised to tell her the details but in between her training with the Valkyries and Y/N spending all of her time down the library with Lucien, they barely had time to talk about it. 

“It’s the Court of Nightmares.” Nesta eyed the female. “They are kinda independent but they still answer to Rhysand, we go there sometimes to ensure everything is working as it should.” 

“Sounds like a lovely place.” Nesta snorted.

“You’ll see.” She dragged her through a door to a small building, dresses were displayed in front of the glass windows. 

A bell rang when they crossed the threshold, a lovely lady was behind a counter, hands pressing a purple fabric down the surface, while she marked with a piece of white chalk the parts where she had to cut with the giant scissor laying beside her hand.

“Nesta, welcome back darling.” Her brown eyes lit up as she turned her head spotting the female that had just entered.

“Nice to see you again, Imelda.” She smiled at the lady. 

“What can I help you with today?” She crossed the counter, her eyes scanning Y/N’s silent form behind Nesta.

“I need a dress for my friend. Court of Nightmare dresses.” She winked. 

“Over here, darlings.” The elderly lady turned her back leading the way to a section of the building that had various dresses in different dark shades.

“She makes the dresses for the inner circle, especially the ones we use there.” Nesta whispered as they followed Imelda. 

“What kind of dress do you have in mind?” She asked Y/N and honestly? She had no idea what to answer, she had never worn a dress in her long existence, only her riding outfits and pants, they were easier to fight and run in case she needed to. No extra fabric to allow someone to grab at her and slow her down. 

“I have no idea, but I trust you.” The female’s eyes lit even more with excitement. 

“You can undress and wait behind that curtain, please.” The store was warm, Y/N found herself bare in front of a mirror, her eyes scanning the new scar on her side, then roaming over her frame and catching every single one of them, like she always did whenever she had to face herself. 

The first dress was simple, just a floor length black dress with a halter top. Nesta scrunched her face at the sight, she looked good in it but it wasn't the one yet. That’s how she found herself opening that curtain to reveal dress after dress, just to be shoved back inside and try a new one. 

“This is going to be the one.” Imelda warned, before her hand placed the dress on a chair by her side. 

She slid the soft shimmery black fabric over her head, looking at herself in the mirror after she finished adjusting it. It was floor length like the previous ones, but it had two slits that reached the top of her legs, exposing so much skin, but she liked that. The upper half hugged her breasts perfectly, with a deep cleavage and just a strip of fabric holding the two parts together, the sides of her waist and a bit of her belly exposed. She turned around, swallowing hard past the lump on her throat at the exposed back and the scars marring her skin there. 

“We want to see.” Nesta urged her outside, she took a deep breath, pushing the curtain aside and stepping outside. Nesta started to cheer, claiming that this was the perfect dress for her and telling Imelda to pack it cuz they were getting it. “You look breathtaking.” She complimented and Y/N blushed.

She looked at herself for a couple of minutes, how the dress complimented her figure, her full breasts spilling from the fabric and making her look beautiful. She faced a ginning Nesta outside the curtain, gently taking the dress out of her hands and giving it to Imelda.

“I have no money to pay for that.” She suddenly remembered and Nesta brushed her off.

“It’s going to the inner circle tab. Don’t worry about it.” The female smiled again. “Ready to walk some more? I need to go to this bookstore.” Y/N lit up.

“I could read something that doesn’t include very long rants about old gods being dicks.” Nesta nodded.

“I have the perfect books for you.”

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆ 

Another cosy and comfortable store, the smell of books lingered in the air and made her want to stay there forever. Not many people were inside, some gave Nesta a nasty glare and she noticed how she shuddered at them, curving her body to appear small.

“Why do they look at you that way?” Y/N asked when they were alone shuffling through books.

“Some think I'm a witch, that I'm evil. People call me Lady death.” Y/N raised an eyebrow.

“You say witch like it’s a bad thing.” Nesta turned to her ready to apologise. “I’m not offended, it’s just that they can think what they want of you, only you have the power to make their assumptions true. Let them think you’re a witch, we’re pretty cool anyway.” 

“You’re right.” Nesta almost melted with the sympathy she found on her blue eyes. She didn’t know about her past, and it was a nice feeling knowing that someone had sympathy for her just being herself. “I should take you to Windhaven. They almost shat themselves at the mere thought of me being a witch, imagine if they saw you?” 

“Terrorise males for no other reason than to have fun?” Nesta nodded in agreement. “Count me in then.” The two females laughed.

They had spent the whole day shopping. Nesta brought her new books, new shoes and jewellery to go with her dress, a nice pair of sapphire earrings and an arm cuff with a matching stone. Nesta was easy to talk to, warm and welcoming. At first she seemed cold and distant, but once she opened up she was a great person and Y/N was glad to be meeting her.

She had told her about her life, confiding in her with her story and that was something Y/N would treasure forever, that trust that she knew someone like Nesta didn’t give easily, but decided to give it to her. And that only made her more respectable, she was someone with flaws that everyday tried to do better than she did yesterday, she still failed sometimes but she didn’t let that stop her from getting up and trying one more time.

Y/N knew how it felt to see your world crumbling down and not being able to stop it, being stuck in the shambles of what you once were, not knowing how to find a way out, not being able to breath and just suffocating in the never ending pain. She had more in common with Nesta than she would've imagined and that brought the two closer. 

And when they got back to the House of Wind, flying Meraxes together towards the residence, she knew she had made a friend for life, whether she got back to Erilea or not, the bond she shared with Nesta was engraved in her heart forever, to never be broken. 

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆ 

Azriel curled his arms around her waist, and his touch never felt heavier against her skin, wrong. Y/N’s words have been stuck in Elain’s head for two whole days, replaying themselves like a torturing symphony, driving her insane.

She hated to admit, especially cuz no one had ever called her out on this before, but deep down her gut, she knew the female was right. It wasn’t fair to Lucien to keep doing it, getting mad at every being that approached him, not allowing him to live. She was a coward that couldn’t bear the thought of letting him go. At least not yet.

She wanted to have a choice, choose differently from what people expected of her, her whole life was wasted in fulfilling other people’s expectations of what they thought she was. Choosing Azriel was her act of rebellion against the box everyone caged her in her whole life.

But now that she had experienced what choosing was like, she understood that she chose wrongly, Azriel would always have a place in her heart for helping her adjust to a new world, helping her out of her shell and teaching her how to live again, but her heart belonged to another, claimed and yarned for another touch, another gaze, another love.

She loved Azriel, but no longer how a woman loved a man, the love she had for him turned into a love a friend had for another. Whenever she thought of him the feeling of gratitude was bigger than anything else, but when she thought about Lucien, love was the only thing she could distinguish in between so many feelings towards him. 

She didn’t want to hurt Azriel, not as he already had been hurt before, but was the right choice to keep pushing forwards just to make it more painful at the end? Wouldn’t it be better if they stopped here before she caused an unnecessary heartbreak in the male that didn’t deserve it? Azriel had a heart of gold and she would hate herself if she broke it. 

She blinked, watching the ceiling in the dark. Shadows moved around it, his shadows that never dared to touch her, not like they did with the witch. Maybe they also knew that this wasn’t right and were just trying to protect their master. Elain took a deep breath forcing herself to go back to sleep so she wouldn’t be so tired on the next day. 

For their sake and his, she would fix everything soon. 

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆

Taglist: @fieldofdaisiies @blackgirlmagicforever @a-frog-with-a-laptop @going-through-shit @asweetblueberry2

@roses-r-red54330 @mis-lil-red @sheblogs @hibye02 @impossibelle

@glitterypirateduck @zeroangelo13 @sekiro1310 @nelapeach14 @annamariereads16

@just-here-reading @celestialend @donttellthecats @scatteredstardustt @snoopyspace

@asterinblacksword @tsumudoll @georginat12 @skyjasper @anuttellaa

@willowpains @quinzzelx @amysangel @fightmedraco @puttyly

@lees-chaotic-brain @thisblogisaboutabook @esposadomd @stained-glass-eyes0708 @brujitafantomatico

[oleander-nin]

Valen-Time 01: Hand Sewn(Rise! Raph x Reader)

A/N, not important: Guess who's writing for 29 days straight again! Or, I'm attempting to at least. This is what I needed lots of luck on lol, mostly because February is a bit busy for me, but I really wanted to do this again for Valentine's day. Any criticism is welcome, constructive or not. This is supposed to be a gender neutral reader, so if I screwed up somewhere, please tell me.

-Ollie

CW: needles(sewing), stitching, teddy bear, fluff(hopefully)

Words: 1039

Summary: Raph tore his stuffed animal and you agree to help fix it.

Tag list(I didn't actually know if I should add it or not, but I'm going with yes for now. Tell me if you want your name off): @f1oricide @itsyagurlchip @lordfreg @acutiewithagun @rottmnttmnt2012 @lixnininotnay @lexiechr @ssak-i

The ruined stuffie in your hands made you frown, it’s torn stitching letting the stuffing that once shaped it fall out. Raph sat next to you, a tight-lipped frown on his face as his fingers twitched on his led. He watches you inspect the bear in silence, his shoulders brought forwards and touching his jaw. You don’t comment on the stench of nervous sweat filling the air, not wanting to bring down his mood even more. This was the bear you gave to him when you confessed, and now it sat ruined in your hands. While the sentimental value of it wasn’t huge to you, Raph was practically attached to this bear by the hip, which would eventually be the poor stuffies' downfall.

“I can just get you a new one, it’s not a big deal.” You assure him, trying to help bring up the large terrapin’s mood. Raph shook his head, his snaggle tooth biting into his lip as he frown deepens.

“Raph doesn’t want a new one.” He says, a tone of distress lingering in his tone. you watch as his eyes linger on the ripped stitches and protruding filling, knowing he felt bad for breaking his stuffed animal. You purse your lips, trying to decide how to move forwards. You flip the stuffed animal over, inspecting it from top to bottom. You weren’t new to fixing broken stuffies, many of your own having been patched over the years, but his spikes really did a number to the one in your hand. 

“If I were to try and sew it,” You start hesitantly, your hand caressing the black buttons the small teddy had for eyes. “I think we could patch it back up. It would look a bit messy because I don’t have extra fabric on me, but he would be fixed.”

Raph visibly brightens at the idea, his arms wrapping around your shoulder and pulling you into a tight hug. “Thank you. Dad has a sewing kit in his room, we could ask him for it.”

You fondly roll your eyes and pat his forearm twice before starting to ease the stuffing back into the bear to try and fatten it out. Your hands twitched at the scratchy feeling of the cotton, Raph’s weight on your shoulders making it harder to move your arms than you wanted. You don’t say a word though, letting Raph continue to lean on you as he watches you remove whatever stuffing refused to back down. Although his eyes hold worry for the removed stuffing, he doesn’t say a word about it. 

“Raph will go get the sewing kit.” He remarks, finally letting you go as he stands up. His chasm deepens as he glances back at the stuffed animal in your hands, but he says nothing. With no more words exchanged, Raph disappears from your room and presumably heads off to where Splinter keeps the sewing kit, leaving you alone with the bear.

You softly rub it’s torn stitching, pulling loose thread to make it easier to sew back up. Its bright eyes reflected the light above you, making the inanimate object seem as if it had life breathed into it. It's limp arm stubs laid on your knees, asking for a hug. You chuckle lightly to yourself at the thought of the bear wanting affection, as being hugged was what destroyed it in the first place. 

You continue messing with the stuffing as Raph re-enters, a small dingy shoebox so full of thread and needles and spare fabric, the lid couldn’t close. The bed dips to the side as Raph settles next to you once more, head peeking over your shoulder and hands tucked into his chest. You don’t say a word about the feeling of his breath on your neck, merely turning slightly so you wouldn’t have to deal with it as much.

“Was your dad a seamstress?” You easily tease, the bear left to lay in your lap as you start to dig through the extensive yet scattered supplies. Raph gently shoves your shoulder as he grins.

“Nope, we just kept tearing everything he gave us. Some of the baby clothes he has stashed away are basically patchwork at this point.”

You smile fondly at the thought of a younger Raph and his brothers with their clothes that were a medley of colors, having seen some of them yourself. You finally pull out brown thread and a thin needle, sticking the chosen needle into the thread of the spool so it would stay put. “Have you ever sewn before then?”

Raph shakes his head, his lower lip jutting out in a slight pout. “Nope. There wasn’t much of a need, and Dad fixed everything we ripped anyways.”

“Would you like to learn?” You offer, gesturing to the stuffie's open stomach. Raph tilts his head as he looks down at the teddy bear, considering your offer for just a moment. 

“Yeah,” He nods, looking both determined and excited. “I would.”

You beam at him, quickly shuffling around until you’re facing Raph so you could show him what to do. The bear is soon found in Raph’s lap instead of yours, the fallen stuffing in between his thighs to keep it safe. You thread the needle and wax it for him while describing to him what he was going to do, assuring him he couldn’t really mess it up even if he tried. You hand him his needle, gently guiding his hands through the first few stitches. As he continues to sew the rest on his own, you start to add the rest of the stuffing into the bear so it wouldn’t flatten.

The final stitch is soon placed, and you easily instruct Raph on how to secure it, only having to help him once before he got it. The stitch job down its stomach was sloppy, but secure, no more stuffing leaking onto the floor. You return the needle and thread and set the box onto the floor, watching fondly as Raph admires his stuffed animal. It doesn’t surprise you when Raph pulls you close, whispering his thanks into your ear. You simply smile, kissing his jaw and praising his needlework.

[franglishetchocolat]

Started the project of renovating Riverview , lot by lot , without using custom content - except for RH rugs - . I'm also going to be using some free Store items, from time to time. Once done (which should take a while, I’m taking it slow), there should be a save file with all of the makeovers, in the meantime here is the latest one.

RIVERVIEW GYMNASIUM

Renovated on patch 1.67 -Originally in Riverview (Size: 30x45) - Lot Label: Gym

It is quite big and tall, my bad! I wanted a gymnasium for the school next door.

Front part of the building is actually smaller than the original version, so there is that :-)

Using Items from: 

No Custom Content

Some Free Promotional items from the Store (included in the download as .package). They are not available anymore on the Store. If you want the whole sets (and some more), I found some links (see below the video on YT)

EPs: WA, Ambitions, Late Night, Generations, Pets, Showtime, Seasons, University Life and Island Paradise.

 SPs: High End Loft, Fast Lane, Outdoor Living, Town Life, Mastersuite. I also own Diesel, the 70s, 80s,90s and the Movie Stuff packs, not sure if I have used anything from these on this lot.

DOWNLOAD

I use markers on my lots: skip level, hidden room, public room… So to be able to modify any of  these buildings you need to have cheats on:  ‘testingcheatsenabled true’, then ‘restrictbuildbuyinbuildings false’ To see/remove the markers you need ‘buydebug on.