#was too lazy to try to figure out how to edit his fingers just to hold the plate so it's perched on the stack of dishes

[fullscoreshenanigans]

BIRTHDAY BOY........

Birthday boy with cake or present, such choices,,,

Another one of those situations where if the younger Grace Field kids present the crown to him he's on board with little to no fuss, especially if they frame it as a celebration of the day they started their path to freedom, or note it's the day where they first noticed where the way he carried himself was lighter and happier than how he was back at the house (but especially after Norman was shipped, although that's a sad time they all try to forget). And how can he say no to that when it shows how much they care.

(Norman being the one to originally find it while discreetly guiding Emma's attention toward it so she can throw 110% of her energy and enthusiasm behind him wearing it because "it matches your eyes when the sun hits them" and "they're happy every year they have a chance to celebrate it with him" optional.)

Pepe made the cake, but kept it a secret to pull a bit of a mini-prank on everyone.

He knew Ray would appreciate it after their many conversations in the quiet of the kitchen where it was just the two of them enjoying each other's company and getting lost in the soothing rhythm of cooking and baking.

[wonderlandwalker]

Off the Record (and on his knees)

𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 / 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 / 𝐏𝐭. 𝐈𝐈 ?

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: rockstar!eddie munson x famous!reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.8k 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: A rockstar who claims to thrive on indifference, a secret that's about to make headlines, and the kind of bad decision that tastes like more. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: just a lot of cliches probably, smut, mdni, honestly idk i need sleep

𝐚/𝐧: was supposed to be taking exams but ended up in the hospital so i had some downtime, hopefully this will bring some positive energy my way for resits (also a massive shout-out to @littlexdeaths for helping me edit this!!)

There are two fundamental truths that make Eddie Munson into the glorious, unrepentant disaster he is to this day.

One: He couldn’t give less of a shit what the world thinks of him.

Take seventh grade, for example���back when his voice still cracked mid-sentence and his hair was an unholy tangle of DIY bleach jobs, a walking middle finger to both genetics and good taste. He’d been a scrawny thing back then, all sharp elbows and a sharper tongue, but what he lacked in muscle he made up for in sheer audacity. Tommy H., in his puffed-up, wannabe bravado, had cornered him in the locker room after gym class, sweat still gleaming on his forehead like he’d just run a marathon instead of dodging dodgeballs for forty minutes. He’d squared his shoulders, puffed out his chest like a rooster preening for a fight, and sneered, “You’re a waste of space, Munson,” like he’d just invented the insult. Eddie’s response? A slow, shit-eating grin, a lazy glance up through the mess of his bangs: “Takes one to know one.” And then he’d just… walked away. No fists, no shouting, just five words and a smirk. The other kids had gasped, like he’d just pulled the pin on a grenade and tossed it over his shoulder without looking. (He’d found out later that Tommy had punched a locker hard enough to bruise his knuckles. Eddie had worn that knowledge like a badge of honour.)

Or fast-forward to last year, when Gareth somehow—through a combination of dumb luck and family ties that shouldn’t have counted as networking—scored them an appointment with his aunt’s ex-husband’s nephew, who just so happened to be a mid-level A&R guy at Universal Music Group.

The band had collectively lost their shit; Jeff had stress-bought a button-up shirt from some overpriced boutique, then spent twenty minutes in the van trying to figure out how to tuck it in just right so he didn’t look like he was attending his own funeral. Gareth had rehearsed his "professional musician" voice in the mirror until he sounded like a Wikipedia article narrated by a malfunctioning robot. Even Don, who usually had the emotional range of a brick wall, had gone suspiciously quiet, staring out the window with the vaguely nauseous expression of a man mentally preparing to sell his soul. Eddie had simply rolled out of bed that morning, pulled on the same ripped jeans he’d worn the day before, finger-combed his curls into something that defied both gravity and basic hygiene, and strolled into that glass-and-chrome office building smelling faintly of cigarette smoke, cheap diner coffee, and zero fucks given.

The exec—some slick-haired suit with a watch that probably cost more than Eddie’s entire van—had barely looked up from his phone when they walked in. His office was all sharp edges and sterile lighting, the kind of place that made Eddie’s skin itch just by existing.

So Eddie did what Eddie does best.

He cracked his knuckles, dropped into the chair across from the guy like he owned it, and said, "Wanna hear some real shit or what?"

No pretending. No apologies. No watered-down pitch about marketability or brand synergy. Just him—raw, unfiltered, a little too loud, a little too much.

For a long, excruciating moment, the guy just stared at him, eyebrows creeping toward his hairline. Then, he smirked. Leaned back in his stupid ergonomic chair. Muttered something under his breath about "angst sells, I guess" and "decent fucking tunes" before reaching into his briefcase and sliding a contract across the desk. Gareth had nearly choked on his own tongue. Jeff’s carefully tucked-in shirt had come untucked from sheer shock. And Don? Don had actually smiled—an event so rare it should have been documented by National Geographic.

Two: Eddie Munson doesn't get nervous. Never has, never will. It's practically part of his DNA at this point, woven into the fabric of his being as tightly as the faded tattoos on his knuckles and the ever-present smell of leather and Marlboros that clings to his clothes. 

Not when Corroded Coffin played their first sold-out stadium show, amps screaming loud enough to shake the teeth in his skull and the foundation beneath their feet. He'd stood at the edge of that stage, sweat dripping down his temples, staring out at a sea of faceless bodies that stretched so far back even the stage lights couldn’t reach them—and instead of freezing up like some wide-eyed rookie, he'd just grinned like the devil himself, cranked the volume higher and played the opening riff of "Blackened Skies". 

Not when they were nominated for their first Grammy—or the second or the goddamn third. Each time, he'd strutted up to that mic like he owned the place (and in his mind, he did), tossing off irreverent quips that had the crowd howling. "Guess hell really did freeze over," he'd drawled the first time, dangling the golden gramophone from two fingers like it was a beer he'd just been handed. The camera had caught the exact moment some blue-haired socialite in the front row had choked on her champagne.

Nerves? Nerves are for people who give a shit what others think. For choir boys and politicians and anyone with something to lose. Eddie thrives on the chaos, feeding off it like some kind of beautifully messed-up symbiotic organism. The louder the crowd, the brighter the spotlight, the higher the stakes—that's when he comes alive, electricity crackling under his skin like a live wire just waiting to set the whole damn world on fire.

So why the hell is he suddenly hyperaware of every rumour that clings to him like cheap cologne? America's favourite Casanova. The man who could sweet-talk the habit off a nun with nothing but a crooked grin and a well-timed power chord. Sure, maybe there's some truth to it—he's got charm coiled in his veins like nicotine, confidence that borders on pathological, and absolutely zero shame. Flirting is his native language; he thrives on the electric back-and-forth, the dangerous tilt of a smile, and the way pupils dilate when he crowds just inside someone's personal space like he's got every right to be there.

Five minutes ago, he'd been holding court across the room, spinning that ridiculous story about smuggling a live chicken into the Bellagio as part of a bet with Ozzy's bassist. His hands had painted the scene in the air—the squawking, the feathers in the minibar, the security guard's face when they found the damn thing wearing Eddie's sunglasses. The crowd had eaten it up with fucking spoons because Eddie Munson could make reading the phone book sound like a rock opera if he felt like it. He'd been radiant, incandescent, the human equivalent of a lit match in a fireworks factory.

Now Eddie’s tongue feels like it’s been swapped out for wet cardboard, useless, sticking to the roof of his mouth as if his body’s forgotten how to function. His fingers twitch at his sides, restless, aching for the familiar weight of a guitar pick between them, the grounding burn of a cigarette, anything to steady himself as the world tilts violently beneath his feet.

And then there’s you.

Leaning against the bar like some fever dream made flesh—all sinuous curves and effortless grace, the kind of quiet confidence that doesn’t need to shout to be heard. It screams louder than any of his stage antics ever could, louder than the roar of a sold-out crowd. The dim lighting catches the edge of your signature ring—that ring, the one from the Gucci campaign that had been plastered across every billboard last summer. It glints as you tap it absently against your glass, a slow, hypnotic rhythm that matches the erratic thud of his pulse.

He should look away… 

He can’t.

Because you’re not just beautiful—you’re impossible. The kind of impossible that makes his chest ache, the kind that shouldn’t exist outside of late-night fantasies and the pages of his most dog-eared poetry books. And yet here you are, real and radiant and right there, close enough to touch.

And Christ, he knows you. Not in the way of shared cigarettes backstage or whispered confessions after last call, but in that primal, bone-deep way sailors know a storm rolling in—through the electric charge in the air, the ominous stillness before the first crack of thunder splits the sky. The kind of knowing that prickles the back of his neck even as it pulls him helplessly closer to the cliff's edge.

The headlines from the Met Gala flash behind his eyelids like a vintage film reel stuck on repeat: you in that scandalous embroidered silk dress that clung to every curve like liquid gold, the neckline plunging with the same reckless abandon as a dive into midnight waters. The world had collectively lost its goddamn mind—fashion critics penning breathless odes to your "rebirth of modern glamour", Twitter wars erupting over whether you'd "saved or slaughtered" haute couture. Half the internet had clutched their pearls raw over the "death of modesty". The other half had been reduced to a single, guttural scream for you—your name trending with fire emojis, your walk immortalised in grainy cellphone footage that still played on a loop in Eddie's darkest, most private moments.

And now here you stand, all that barely contained lightning in human form, close enough that he can see where your perfume clings to the hollow of your throat. The realisation hits like a cymbal crash: he's spent months watching you through screens and tabloids, but nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for the reality of your presence, for how the oxygen seems to thin when your gaze drags over to him.

Your head turns.

Your eyes meet his.

And just like that, his entire fucking operating system crashes.

The clever greeting he'd been mentally workshopping? Deleted.

His usual arsenal of one-liners? Corrupted file.

Every ounce of that legendary Munson charm—the same silver tongue that had talked his band out of a back-alley brawl in Berlin, flirted his way past VIP bouncers in LA, and charmed a room full of jaded music critics into giving his album a standing ovation—has short-circuited into white noise. What emerges instead is a strangled "Hey" that cracks halfway through, the single syllable tilting upward like a question, like a prayer, like he’s not entirely convinced you’re not some whisky-fuelled hallucination conjured by his traitorous subconscious.

His pulse thrums erratically at his throat, a wild staccato beat visible beneath the edge of his collar. For one horrifying second, he’s just a man reduced to bare wiring and exposed nerves, utterly certain that if you asked him his name right now, he’d stare at you like a dial-up connection trying to process the request.

What's worse? You know who he is. Or at least, you've absorbed the stories—those wild, larger-than-life legends of Eddie "The Freak in the Sheets" Munson that circulate through VIP lounges and gossip columns like holy scripture. The stories about him talking his way out of actual police handcuffs in Munich. The whispered accounts of how he once seduced a Rolling Stone journalist mid-interview, resulting in a profile so scandalous the magazine's servers crashed from traffic. The kind of reputation that usually has strangers crawling into his lap before he's even finished his first drink.

And yet…

The way you're looking at him now—head tilted at that precise angle of clinical fascination, like a virologist observing a particularly intriguing strain under glass. Your lips quirk in faint amusement, not the starstruck grin he's accustomed to, but the expression of someone who's just discovered the magician's trapdoor. There's no awe in your gaze, just patient analysis, like you were promised a category-five hurricane and got a stiff breeze that barely ruffled your hair.

Your lips twitch, not quite a smile but something far more dangerous—the smirk of a chess grandmaster who's already played this match twelve moves ahead.

"Hey," you echo, your voice smoother than the whisky in his abandoned glass and twice as intoxicating. Eddie catches the glint in your eyes first—mischievous, daring, the same glint he's seen in mirrors right before doing something stupid—and feels his pulse kick up a notch. Then your fingers skate up his arm, nails dragging just barely hard enough to raise goosebumps under the sleeve of his blouse. His breath stutters like a dying engine when your lips brush the shell of his ear, warm and teasing. 

"Are you going to stare all night, Munson, or are you actually going to say something?"

The slow arch of your eyebrow is the most devastating thing Eddie's ever witnessed—a silent challenge that hits him like a well-placed chord vibrating straight through his ribs. That deliberate lift, paired with the smug curl of your lips, sparks something primal in his chest. You look like the cat that got the cream, the guitarist who nailed the solo, like you've just won some private bet he didn't even know you were playing. 

And that—that smug little quirk of your mouth—is what finally kickstarts his brain. Because Eddie Munson doesn't lose. Not at banter, not at bets, and definitely not at whatever this sudden, unspoken game is that you've started between heartbeats and heated glances.

He exhales sharply through his nose, the sound almost a growl as he straightens to his full height. When he finally speaks, his voice is all rough edges and smoke, the kind of tone that precedes either a killer riff or someone getting thoroughly wrecked against a backstage wall. 

"Funny thing about staring, sweetheart…" his fingers dart out, catching your wandering hand just as it begins its ascent up his chest. He twines his fingers through yours, pinning your palm against the rapid-fire beat of his heart. "—it takes a hell of a view to make a man forget his words." 

The corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk that doesn't quite reach his eyes—because the joke's on him, really. You haven't just stolen his words; you've taken the air from his lungs, the rhythm from his pulse, left him feeling like an overstrung guitar about to snap from the tension.

Just as Eddie begins to find his rhythm in this dangerous little dance—just as he starts to anticipate your steps, to recognise the subtle hitch in your breath when he leans in too close—the music screeches to a halt.

Someone materialises from the crowd like a poorly timed jump scare, designer cufflinks glinting under the club lights as his arm slides around the sliver of exposed skin at your waist. The touch is possessive, practiced, the kind of casual intimacy that makes Eddie’s molars grind hard enough to spark.

And you—

You don’t even flinch.

The realisation hits Eddie like a kick to the ribs. He watches, jaw clenched, as the guy leans in—close enough that Eddie catches the cloying scent of his expensive cologne, the glint of veneers too perfect to be anything but bought. The way he kisses you is all performative passion, a showy press of lips that lingers just a beat too long, complete with a theatrical tilt of the head, like he’s mentally checking his angles.

Christ. It’s like watching a bad rom-com.

The guy pulls back with the smug satisfaction of a man who’s never been told no, his thumb brushing your hip in one last obnoxious display of ownership before he turns to Eddie. He extends a hand, his Rolex glinting under the strobe lights.

“It’s Edgar, right?”

Eddie’s eye twitches.

“Theodore”, the guy continues, flashing a smile so white it’s practically radioactive. “I take it you’ve met my girlfriend?”

Checkmate.

Fuck.

How could he have forgotten?

He’d been too busy writing sonnets in his head about the cadence of your voice when you whispered in his ear and too busy memorising the way your nails felt dragging up his sleeve to even fucking remember you have a boyfriend.

And not just any boyfriend.

No, it’s Theodore fucking Langley. Actor. Heartthrob. The guy whose face is currently plastered on every teen magazine from here to Tokyo, the same guy who got voted “Most Likely to Make You Swoon” by Seventeen or some shit. The kind of guy who probably has a skincare routine longer than the Lord of the Rings trilogy and a publicist who writes his posts for him.

Eddie forces a grin, sharp enough to draw blood, and shakes the guy’s hand just a little too hard. 

“It’s Eddie. And yeah, she was just warning me to steer clear of the right-hand stage.” He nods toward the VIP section, packed to the brim with Hollywood’s most gossip-hungry vultures. “Unless I want to end up as tomorrow’s TMZ headline.”

The excuse rolls off his tongue smooth as honey, but inside, his thoughts are a fucking hurricane. 

Because, honestly?

He doesn’t get it.

Not just because he’s got the hots for you (which, yeah, okay, he definitely does), but because the whole thing is so goddamn ridiculous. From what you even see in this guy to what the two of you could possibly talk about—Eddie knows the type⁠ in the way you know a bad sequel—overproduced, underwhelming, all flash and no substance. He’s met a hundred variations of Theodore at industry parties. ⁠Does he even know you? The real you? Or just the version that looks good on his arm during red carpets?

The tabloids are eating it up, of course. “Hollywood’s New It Couple!” bleeds across magazine covers in obnoxious neon fonts, while gossip sites run breathless slideshows of you and Theodore at every red carpet event, gala, and painfully staged coffee run. The cameras love the way his Armani-clad arm possessively anchors you to his side, how your designer dresses complement his tailored suits like you were manufactured as a set.

But they're not looking closely enough.

If they did, they'd notice how Theodore's fingers indent the fabric at your waist just a fraction too deep—the kind of grip that leaves bruises blooming like ink stains beneath fabric. They'd catch the microsecond delay in your smile when his lips graze your cheek, the way your eyes flicker toward the exits like a caged animal calculating escape routes. They'd see what Eddie sees with devastating clarity:

A mismatch.

A performance so polished it's rotting at the core.

The greatest fucking waste he's ever seen.

And then—the moment Theodore releases you to go charm some studio director who could "really take his career to the next level, darling," your hand snaps out with viper precision, your fingers curl around his wrist with deliberate precision—not tight enough to leave marks, but firm enough to make the veins in his forearm jump under your touch.

"Meet me backstage."

The words lick against his ear, molten and venomous—a command wrapped in velvet. Your teeth graze his earlobe just hard enough to remind him this isn't surrender. It's an ambush.

It's not a request.

Eddie's no stranger to the value in playing along, but Christ, the sixty seconds he forces himself to wait feel like slow torture. He counts each heartbeat against the sticky bar top, his fingers drumming an erratic rhythm that betrays the calm facade. The ice in his whisky melts unnoticed as his pulse hammers in his throat, torn between walking away and breaking into a run toward whatever fresh hell you're offering.

The hallway to the dressing rooms is a study in controlled chaos, narrow enough that Eddie's shoulders nearly brush both walls as he stalks forward, the buzz of faulty fluorescents casting strobe-like shadows that make the space feel both claustrophobic and thrillingly illicit.

And there you are—a vision of calculated nonchalance leaning against chipped paint that flakes under your fingertips. One foot props against the wall behind you like you've been waiting lifetimes rather than minutes. When your eyes lock onto his, they're dark with knowing amusement, your lips curling into a smirk that says you've already scripted this encounter and he's just now catching up to page three. 

"Took you long enough," you tease, your voice a velvet-wrapped blade that cuts through the bass thumping from the main room. The words dance across the scant inches between you, each syllable weighted with unspoken challenges.

The dressing room door clicks shut with finality behind you, the sound louder than it should be in the sudden quiet. Eddie's body thrums with restrained energy—you can see it in the way his carotid pulses against the collar of his shirt, in the white-knuckle grip he maintains on his own belt loops to keep from reaching for you. The air between you crackles with the kind of tension that precedes summer storms, heavy with the promise of lightning.

You'd expected him to pounce—to back you against the nearest flat surface and finally give in. But instead…

He hesitates.

The space between his eyebrows furrows into a crease—the one that appears when he's tuning a stubborn guitar string or trying to decipher some cryptic lyric. But now it's deeper, more vulnerable, as his dark eyes roam your face like he's searching for answers in the slant of your cheekbones, the part of your lips. When he finally speaks, his voice is wrecked—rough as sandpaper and twice as raw, like he's been screaming himself hoarse backstage. "Is this what you want?"

The question hangs between you, weighted with something that makes your ribs ache. There's an unfamiliar tremor beneath the words. "Really?"

You blink up at him, and for one terrifying heartbeat, your carefully constructed mask slips—the one you wear at press junkets, the one you've perfected for Theodore's arm. Your breath catches audibly before you can school your features back into indifference. "What, don't you want me?"

The words slice through the charged air, sharper than you intended, laced with a surprise that has nothing to do with the game you've been playing. Eddie drags a hand through his hair, sending those riotous curls into glorious disarray. The movement makes his biceps flex, the tattoos peeking out from his sleeves suddenly vivid in the low light. "I don't give a fuck about my reputation, sweetheart." His usual smirk is nowhere to be found—just raw honesty that terrifies you more than any of his staged bad-boy antics ever could.

He exhales sharply through his nose, the sound almost pained, like the next words are being ripped from somewhere deep and rarely visited. "But yours?" A muscle jumps in his jaw as he gestures between you, his rings glinting. "You really wanna risk it all for this?" His usual swagger is fraying at the edges, revealing something far more dangerous beneath: a man who cares too much.

You tilt your head, lips quirking in a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Since when do you care what people think, Munson?”

“I don’t,” he snaps, stepping closer—close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, smell the leather-and-cigarettes scent of his jacket. “But you should. That boyfriend of yours? He’s got the media eating out of his palm. You really think they won’t tear you apart if—”

“If what?” You step into him, chest brushing his, and watch his throat bob as he swallows hard. “If they find out I’d rather be with you?”

Your fingers twist in the front of his shirt with deliberate purpose, the fabric straining under your grip as you yank him down into a kiss that's more collision than connection—all clashing teeth and shared breath and the kind of desperation that borders on violence. Eddie makes a raw, punched-out noise against your mouth, something between a groan and a curse, before his hands find purchase on your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to leave tomorrow's bruises as he walks you backward until the sharp edge of the dresser cabinet bites into your thighs.

The moment your legs hit solid wood, his tongue swipes against yours with devastating precision—hot and demanding and tasting faintly of whisky and the cigarette he sneaked between sets. And fuck, he kisses like he plays guitar: all calloused fingertips and effortless skill, bending you to his rhythm until you're gasping against his mouth. There's that same reckless passion he channels into every riff, that same single-minded focus he reserves for chasing the perfect note—except now, he's chasing you, chasing this, like he's reaching for something sacred in the space between your bodies.

Your back arches instinctively, pressing every inch of yourself against him, and the sound Eddie makes—a broken, shuddering groan muffled against your jaw—sends a thrill of power straight down your spine. One of his hands slides up to cradle the back of your head just before it would've connected painfully with the mirror behind you, his touch unexpectedly tender even as his hips grind forward with unmistakable intent. The contrast makes you lightheaded—this is Eddie Munson at his most dangerous, equal parts rough edges and brutal softness.

But then—

He tears himself away, breathing raggedly. “Wait. Wait. What about—?”

“Theo?” You nip at his lower lip, relishing the way his fingers dig into your waist. “What about him?”

Eddie’s brow furrows, that crease between his eyebrows deepening like a fault line splitting open. “I don’t want people thinking you’re—”

“A slut?” you murmur, dragging your nails down his chest in one slow, deliberate scrape, revelling in the way his breath hitches, the way his muscles jump under your touch. “A cheater?”

He flinches like you’ve struck him. “No.” His voice is rough, almost angry—not at you, but at the idea, at the world that would dare reduce this to something cheap. “I just—fuck—” His hands flex at your hips, like he’s holding himself back from something far more dangerous. “I don’t want you to regret this.”

And that—that just drives you crazier. Because Eddie Munson, the man who’s built his entire life on not giving a single fuck about consequences, is suddenly terrified—not for himself, but for you. For what this might cost you.

It’s the most reckless thing he’s ever done—caring.

Your hands slide under his shirt, tracing the taut lines of his abdomen, fingertips mapping the heat of his skin, the ridges of scars and ink you’ll ask about later. You grin against his mouth, all teeth and no mercy. “Stop telling me what I’m supposed to do.” Then, softer, a whisper against his lips—“And just fuck me like you mean it.”

Eddie’s restraint crumbles.

One of his fists twists in your hair, tilting your head back as his mouth crashes into yours again, harder this time, hungrier, like he’s trying to rewrite every kiss that came before this one. His other hand skims up your thigh, hiking your dress higher, and when you gasp, he swallows the sound like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, like he’s been starving for it.

Then he’s hoisting you up onto the dresser with effortless strength, the cold surface biting into your bare thighs as he drops to his knees like a man preparing for ascension. 

And he tries to be patient—he really does. 

He presses open-mouthed kisses up the inside of your thighs, savouring the way your muscles jump under his lips, the way your breath hitches when his stubble drags against your skin. But Christ, he can already smell you—that heady, intoxicating mix of your desperation and his own name lingering on your tongue. It hits him like a punch to the gut, leaving him dizzy in a way that has nothing to do with the liquor he’s been nursing all night.

Vertigo. 

A full-body shudder. 

The kind of high no drug could ever replicate.

And it’s not like he has a reputation to uphold—so he doesn’t bother hiding how fucking gone he is. He nudges at your clit with his nose, just to hear the way your breath fractures, just to feel your fingers twist in his hair like a silent please. Every flick of his tongue makes your hips jerk, every low, filthy noise you make going straight to his dick, and he’s already praying for a way to freeze time, to get to stay here between your legs forever. ⁠His tongue drags a slow, torturous stripe through your folds, and the sound you make—fuck—it’s enough to send a bolt of heat straight down his spine. Higher pitched, broken at the edges, like you’re already halfway to ruin.

Heaven shouldn’t even bother trying. There’s no way it could top this.

Eddie dives in like a starving man, hands splayed over your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh. And God, he’s insatiable once he starts. Eager. Determined. Like he wants to memorise every twitch, every gasp, every time your legs tighten around his ears like there’s a part of you that’s worried he’ll change his mind. He licks into you like he’s trying to devour you, like he’d happily suffocate right here if it meant getting one more taste. Your fingers tug at his hair, and Eddie groans against you, the vibration wringing another broken sound from your throat.

This isn’t a sprint. It’s not even a damn marathon—it’s a relay race, and Eddie is eagerly playing each part, trading one touch for another, one filthy whisper for a bruising kiss, until you’re gasping, wrung out, and still begging for more.

His hands are everywhere—skimming up your ribs, gripping the back of your thighs—each touch deliberate, each movement calculated to drag another broken sound from your lips. His mouth is relentless, trailing fire in its wake, teeth scraping just hard enough to make your back arch off the wall. He eats you out like he’s got something to prove, like he’s mapping every gasp, every shudder, filing them away for later.

And when you think you can’t take any more, he drags you right back to the edge, his lips finding that spot that makes your breath hitch. Your head falls back against the mirror with a thud, his name spilling from your lips in a moan that’s half plea, half prayer. The glass is cool against your heated skin, a stark contrast to the feverish press of his body against yours.

Eddie’s teeth scrape over your pulse point—claiming, punishing, worshipping—before his tongue soothes the sting, his breath hot and uneven against your skin. His fingers dig into your hips like he’s memorising the shape of them, like he’s trying to brand himself into your bones.

And when you kiss him, when your hands are fisted in his hair as you drag him towards you, as your tongue swipes against his, you can taste yourself on him, sweet and sharp, and it makes you whimper, arching into him⁠. Eddie groans, low and rough, his grip tightening like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. He kisses you back just as hungrily, like he’s been starving for this, for you, and suddenly, there’s a certainty in his chest, bright and terrifying, that he doesn’t know how he ever lived without this. 

His usual moves—the ones that earned him that damn Freak in the Sheets nickname—are nowhere to be found. There’s something ruined in the way he touches you, like he’s not just trying to wreck you but worship you, like every sigh you let out is a prayer he wants to memorise. When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, his breathing ragged. His dark eyes search yours, thumb brushing your cheek in a gesture so soft it makes your chest ache.

“You okay?” He murmurs, voice wrecked.

It’s such a stupid question—of course you’re okay; you’re better than okay—but the way he asks it, like he genuinely needs to know, like your answer matters more than his next breath, it lights something inside of you as well. Because you feel it too—the way the air between you crackles even when you’re not touching, the way his hands linger even after he’s pulled away, like he can’t stand to let you go.

You swallow, suddenly too exposed. “Yeah. Just… didn’t expect you to be so…”

“So what?” He grins, but it’s not his usual cocky smirk—it’s lopsided, almost nervous.

“Attentive,” you admit, and his grin softens into something real.

Eddie huffs a laugh, pressing his forehead to yours. “Yeah, well. You’re… special.”

Eddie exhales, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your waist—slow, possessive circles that leave fire in their wake. His voice drops, rough with something that isn’t just want but need.

“Let me take you out.”

His eyes meet yours again, dark and pleading, his thumb brushing your lower lip in a touch so tender it makes your breath stutter. His gaze is unbearably fond, like he’s already memorised every freckle, every hitch in your breathing, like he’s been waiting for you forever and just didn’t know it until now.

“Somewhere that’s not a dressing room,” he murmurs, lips quirking in that half-smile that’s equal parts mischief and vulnerability. “Somewhere with… chairs. And menus and shit.”

You laugh, but it comes out shaky, because, fuck, this isn’t how this was supposed to go. This was supposed to be a distraction, a one-night rebellion against the perfectly curated life you’re supposed to want—the one where you’re Theodore Langley’s golden girl, where your smiles are scripted and your hands are meant to linger on his arm, not tangled in Eddie Munson’s hair.

But Eddie?

Eddie’s looking at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered.

And that’s terrifying.

Because you feel it too—the way your chest tightens when he smiles, the way your skin still hums where he touched you, like his hands left permanent fingerprints.

“Why?” you whisper.

He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. His thumb stills against your lip, his voice raw. “Because I don’t think once is going to be enough.”

And God, the way he says it—like it’s already a lost cause, like he’s doomed, like he’s been ruined for anything else and he doesn’t even care.

You swallow. “What if I say no?”

Eddie’s grin is all teeth, but his eyes? Soft. “Then I’ll wait for you till you say yes.”

“For how long?”

He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. “However long it takes.”

And fuck, he's in trouble.

Because maybe there's a third thing that makes Eddie who he is right now—not just the leather-jacketed rebel who flips off convention, not just the raw-nerved artist who bleeds his truth into every chord. 

But Eddie Munson, the man who never begged for anything in his life, who would get on his knees for you.

Eddie Munson, who built his career on not giving a single fuck, would burn down every bridge if it meant keeping you warm.

Eddie Munson, the self-proclaimed freak, has never felt more terrifyingly human than when you look at him like he's something precious instead of dangerous.

[daycourtofficial]

Blessed with love, cursed with folly

Pairing: Azriel x reader x Cassian x Nesta | WC: 3.5k | Warnings: mentions/concerns of infidelity

Summary: being mated to the Night Court’s shadowsinger is where the story should end. You have your happily ever after. Everything is fine - until the little, teeny tiny crush you had on the mated pair you live with begins roaring back to life.

Author’s note: basically idiots in love (my favorite!). I had initially planned this for last poly week, but it sat in my drafts rip. Want to thank everyone who gave me the push to finish this and also I am not editing this bc I’m lazy and am now obsessed with another fic. Also happy end to @polysjmweek !! Hope you had a great time 🫶🏻

“Nesta!”

You are sitting on the loveseat in the foyer of the House of Wind, Nesta on your right, the books you handed to each other open on your laps.

“What?” She asks, not looking up from her own book as she eats a handful of almonds.

“This is entirely smut!”

“No it’s not - they have a few conversations and they go to dinner.”

“Then have sex in the restaurant’s bathroom!”

You laugh at her, hitting her with the book. She watches you from the corner of her eye, noting that despite your protests, you’re still reading it as you talk to her.

And if your smell is anything to go off of, you’re enjoying it too.

You stretch your legs out, putting them over Nesta’s lap as you continue reading. You’re trying to figure out exactly how their bodies in the book are contorted - somehow he was behind her but kneeling in front of her too, when Nesta’s hand gently rubs up and down your calf.

Your breath hitches, but you try to keep reading. You were a mated female, for cauldron’s sake. Your little crush on Nesta should have gone away long ago. It was tiny, miniscule, microscopic even. Not even worth mentioning to Azriel.

But as you keep reading about the female in the book going down on her girlfriend, your thoughts stray more and more to Nesta’s hand on your calf.

How her fingers could trail up your leg, moving up your thigh, underneath your skirt-

Your breath hitches, not letting your thoughts stray too far. You try to focus back on your book, your eyes rereading the same paragraph over and over again. You think too hard about your breathing, trying to keep it even and steady as Nesta’s fingers make circles on your skin.

Cassian’s entrance is a welcomed distraction, his loud footsteps echoing through the hall jolting you, causing Nesta’s hand to clamp on your calf to keep it in place. Neither you nor Nesta move from your position, but you feel almost caught as Cassian walks into the room, as if he’ll look at the two of you and think the worst.

Just like you were doing moments ago.

He smiles as he sees you two, a big goofy thing that overtakes his face. “My girls!”

He walks by, quickly kissing Nesta on the cheek and rubbing the top of your head before heading off into the kitchen. He came back a moment later, a bowl of grapes in his hand before stopping in front of the loveseat you and Nesta took up.

“This won’t do,” he grunts, and you start to look up, wondering what he’s talking about, until he picks you up and places you gently in Nesta’s lap.

He sinks into the spot you were occupying, making a big show of settling in before popping a grape into his mouth. “Much better.”

Your heart is racing in your chest, sure that Nesta is moments away from pushing you away from her. You look over, expecting her ire, but she’s just reading her book.

Cassian focuses on his grapes, Nesta focuses on her book, so you try to calm your breathing and lean into Nesta, letting your head rest on her shoulder.

She wraps her arms around you to keep her book in front of her face, and Cassian grabs your ankles, draping your legs over his lap. You tap your foot lightly on Cassian’s thigh before picking your book back up, trying to focus on the people in the book rather than the two beneath you.

-

You head down to the kitchen in search of a quick snack. Your socked feet pad across the floor, searching through cabinets trying to remember where the good snacks were. All of Azriel and Cassian’s disgusting snacks littered the bottom shelves, packages and packages of dried vegetables, meats, and fruits. You wrinkle your nose just at the thought of the texture.

You look up each row of the shelf and your eyes catch on the white packaging of what you were looking for: the white box of heavenly cookies. You place your hands on the counter, about to climb up the shelves to reach it when someone presses up against you from behind, their arm reaching over your head for your cookies.

You spin around, finding Cassian’s chest in your eyeline, having to tilt your head back to look up at him. He smirks down at you, holding the package of cookies in his hand.

“Is this what you wanted?”

You pout up at him, trying for your best pitiful look. You have been craving these cookies all day and Cassian’s on the verge of getting hit if he doesn’t drop them soon enough.

“Give me a kiss.”

“What?” His terms confuse you, how openly he asks for it. Couldn’t Nesta or Azriel walk in and see the two of you?

“You have to pay for the cookies. Nothing comes for free.”

“Cassian, this is a magic house. Everything is free.”

He only taps his cheek, a smug look on his face. He even crouches forward a bit, getting closer to you. You sigh before stretching up, cradling his face to keep you steady. His jaw is scratchy as you hold it in place, standing up on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

His skin is warm and it sends tingles down your spine to be so close to him, his brown eyes fully on you. You clear your throat, trying to break up some of the intimacy of the moment.

“Cookies, please.”

He opens the box, handing you exactly one cookie before starting to walk off with the box. He gives you an exaggerated wink, calling out over his shoulder, “you know where to find me for more.”

A lump of guilt sinks to your stomach, weighing you down to the spot.

-

A few days later, the four of you are heading off to the River House. Feyre and Rhys are hosting family dinner and they tasked you with ensuring Nesta and Cassian not only arrived on time but also fully dressed.

It is half an hour until you all need to leave. You’re moving through the house on their floor, heading to give them a half an hour warning. You think it’s the best way to ensure a prompt arrival - if you bother them every ten minutes, they’ll have to finish at some point.

You shiver at the thought.

You knock on their door, surprised to not hear anything on the other side of it. Odd.

Every day after training, the two usually spend a few hours tangled in their sheets together, loud enough for the whole house to hear. On several occasions you and Azriel have attempted to keep them up by being loud. That plan always backfires somehow - either they don’t care or they somehow become louder themselves.

“Nesta, Cassian. We have to go in thirty minutes.” You warn through the door but you’re still not sure anyone’s in there. You briefly consider walking in and chastising them to ensure their promptness, but decide against it.

You have to swallow down your feelings for them. Seeing them in any compromising positions won’t help any. Family dinners are manageable. Alone, one on one time? That’s where the problem starts.

Your gut churns with guilt, concern over Azriel taking root as you walk down the hall.

You make it to the den before stopping in the entryway. The balcony doors are open, letting a fresh breeze trail through the room. Cassian and Nesta stand in the middle of the room, dressed for the evening, in the middle of a conversation. Cassian is quick to look up at you, a smile stretching across his face.

“Ah, you’re here! You can settle our argument.”

Nesta rolls her eyes before sweeping her gaze up and down your body. How could the flick of one’s eyes have such an effect on you?

“It’s what I’m here for, Cass.”

“Good.” He nods approvingly, only standing about a few away from you. “We’re debating what color this room should be.”

Of all the things Cassian and Nesta fought about, this felt so random you had to let out a soft chuckle. They both look at you expectantly, waiting for a response.

“Um, well how does the house feel about that?” The two of them look at each other, slightly puzzled looks on their faces.

“The house?”

“Yes. It’s sentient, isn’t it?”

“I hadn’t considered asking…” Nesta trails off, looking around the room as if she’s seeing it for the first time.

“Okay.. well, anyway, we have to get going for family dinner.”

“What about Az?”

“Az is meeting us there.”

That was odd. Azriel never let you fly with anyone else. He’s too paranoid.

Or ‘overly cautious’ as he would put it.

“How am I getting there?”

“With me, of course.” Cassian flexes his arms, showboating his muscles. The movement’s playful, his face full of the cocky grin that makes him look irresistible.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I am. I can carry my girls to the continent if need be.”

His girls. Your face heats up, unable to contain how that made you feel. It was said with no hesitation and so casually. The first time he said it a week ago you thought it might have been a fluke.

Now you don’t want to analyze too hard. He cares about you - isn’t that enough for you?

You nod absentmindedly, locking your gaze on the floor to avoid looking at him. It’s then that you remember Azriel.

And you hate how long it took to remember him.

“You said Az will meet us there? Is he okay?” You stammer out, having lost any confidence in this conversation, all of it replaced with guilt.

“His meeting with Rhys is running long, figured he could just wait there for us instead.”

Shame swirls in your gut as you feel that connection between the two of you. Azriel’s side had been cut off all morning - a sure sign he’s working. He needs full concentration honed from years of dedication, but something about the bond distracts him, makes him slightly distracted.

But Azriel always made time for you. You’ve never flown with anyone who wasn’t him. When you first mated, Cassian enjoyed riling him up by acting like he was going to fly you somewhere, never following through.

Azriel should be here. He would be here.

Unless he knows you’re drooling over your roommates, unable to keep your thoughts straight around them. It’s just a crush. You’ll get over it. You have to.

You couldn’t lose Azriel over something like this.

“Ready to go?” You look up to find a much softer look on Cassian’s face, his eyes focusing on you.

“Mhmm.” You nod, shifting awkwardly on your feet. Cassian’s hand starts to reach out, to do what you’re not sure, but he hesitates before dropping it. He nods before turning to the balcony doors, opening his arms for you and Nesta to join him.

“It’ll be okay,” Nesta says, putting an arm around your shoulder. Her fingers rub into your skin, her voice soft as you step onto the balcony. “He’s a good flyer.”

“I’m a great flyer, Nes.”

You lean into Nesta’s touch involuntarily, smiling at Cassian’s rebuttal.

“You sure you can handle us both?”

The sun pours in from the balcony, casting Cassian’s face in shadow until he steps closer to you. His hands come down on your shoulders, one of them meeting Nesta’s hand still draped around you.

“I’ve got you. Always. I won’t let anything happen to either of you.” You nod, some of the fears kept just at bay enough for you to do this.

“Let’s go. We don’t want to be late.” At your words, Cassian quickly snatches the two of you in his arms before running for the balcony. You hide your face in his neck, scrambling to find something to hold onto. Your hand finds Nesta’s, and you grip it tight as Cassian launches into the sky, your shrieks causing him to go faster.

-

“Why hasn’t either of our bonds snapped for her yet?”

Azriel’s face softens at Nesta’s tone, feeling her frustration in his chest as she sits next to him on the couch. One of his wings stretches out behind her, cradling her gently.

“I don’t know,” he tugs at his hair, exhaling loudly. “It took a while for it to snap for her and I. I think she just.. needs time to adjust to changes.”

Cassian throws his hands up before dragging them down his face. “Adjust to changes? We’re in love with her, Azriel!”

“And you.” Nesta chimes in, rubbing his back lightly. “We don’t want to keep hiding it.”

“I know, I know. But she was a little slow warming up to the idea of our bond, can’t imagine how she’ll respond to two more.” Azriel had waited for the bond to snap for you before admitting it, only leading to a massive fight over the Mother making choices for you that you weren't ready for. It had been nearly disastrous and it took him weeks to coax you back into living in the House of Wind, even longer to convince you he didn’t want anything you weren’t giving freely. It was a time period that was better kept in the past.

“She’ll love it, but she needs time. She doesn’t adapt well to change, and you two know it. Ease her into it.”

Cassian sits down on the couch, elbows on knees, looking downtrodden. In a voice softer than Cassian was known for, he whispers, “what if she doesn’t want us, Az?”

Azriel pats the seat next to him, rubbing Cassian’s thigh once he sits down. Cassian leans into his shoulder, letting his weight rest on Azriel. He knows that Azriel’s and Nesta’s love are more than enough, but his heart yearns for you, the bonds in his chest feeling duller without you there on the other end. Each day without your acknowledgment of the bond felt endless.

“She does, though. I know you feel it. She feels something around the two of you.”

The three warriors squished together on a too-small couch, arms around each other, the ebb and flow of their mating bonds singing around them. They all breathe deeply at the proximity, enjoying Azriel’s presence with them.

It had been hard for Cassian and Nesta - the bond with you had snapped for them a few weeks ago, both too afraid to talk to either you or Azriel about it. In an act of annoyance, Azriel found them in the dining room one day, determined to find out why they were avoiding the both of you, when the bond snapped for the three of them.

They had come clean to Azriel that you were also their mate, and they decided after the shitshow that was you finding out about your mating with Azriel, they would approach things differently, try to get the bond to snap for you.

Cassian and Nesta had started doing things for you - cleaning up after you, taking you to dinner, bringing you flowers. None of it worked.

Cassian’s plan of him and Nesta sneaking into your bedchambers in the middle of the night to wake up with you was immediately rejected. He was hard pressed that he could convince you you had memory issues and the four of you have been happily mated for years.

Nesta and Azriel were quick to shoot that idea down.

So the current plan is to flirt. A lot.

The three were less than hopeful that it was working.

-

It had been a few days since that flight with Cassian and you had done the mature thing: hiding from everyone, only seeing Azriel when you slipped into bed at the end of the day, spending all of your time tucked away.

It’s not the best way to go about the situation, but you don’t know a better solution. Guilt eats at you for a few days until one afternoon your feet move through the house, whisking you to your bedchambers.

Azriel’s sitting on the bed, his shirt gone, his boots half toed off when you walk in. Training must have just ended, a slight musk coming off him that has you slightly needy.

You need to focus.

“Azriel, I have to talk to you.”

He straightens up, giving you his full attention.

“I-“ in your desperation to get her, to pour your heart out, you hadn’t figured out what you would say to him.

“I think- I think I might have feelings for Nesta and Cassian.”

You stare at him, waiting for the cold, hard stare you expect to find. The impassive look he gives everyone else, not portraying a single emotion. A deep, big laugh erupts from him instead. You step back, never having heard him be so vocal before.

“I’m being serious, Azriel. I feel awful.”

That sends him howling, his head tipping back so his laughter can reach the ceiling.

“Azriel! It’s not funny! Now, we can move out or try to figure out what to do next.”

He doesn’t hear you, only reaches out to rest his hands on your hips, his fingers digging in slightly when you try to pull back.

“Nesta! Cassian!” You jump into his lap, trying to shush his mouth with your hands. You felt embarrassed enough by the situation, you didn’t need him bringing the objects of your affection into this.

He laughs into your hands, delicately holding your wrists.

The door opens, the couple looking amused as they stand in the doorway.

“Did you invite us up here to watch?” Cassian’s joke causes your face to heat even more, that ache in between your legs becoming worse.

“Tell them what you told me,” Azriel whispers into your ear, his hands still holding your wrists.

“Azriel, it’s not funny. This is mean.”

His hands cradle your face, his eyes full of sincerity as he looks up at you. Something about him gives you the bravery to speak, not looking toward the pair in the doorway.

“I might have a crush on the two of you.”

Silence fills the room, the second lasting a lifetime until you hear a soft “thank the Mother” before a large body obstructs your view. Cassian’s body collides with yours, pushing you and Azriel down into the mattress. His weight is crushing as his arms wrap completely around you, reaching to Azriel’s back.

“What is happening?” You manage to get out between heaving breaths, Cassian’s wings making it hard to breathe. A softer hand caresses one of yours, Nesta’s cool skin sending shivers through your body.

“We’ve waited so long to hear you say that.”

You’re stunned into silence, no idea how to respond. Had they wanted you too? Leaning into her touch, Cassian picks up where she left off.

“Thought you’d never figure it out.”

“Figure what out?” You mumble into his shoulder.

“That the four of us are mates,” Azriel speaks into your ear, his voice low but just loud enough for all of you to hear. His words send some wave of recognition through you, your heart beating wildly at some deep realization.

He’s right. Wrapped around your heart is the mating bond you share with Azriel. Familiar, a deep part of you that became known to you years ago. But when you searched deep enough, you felt two other strings around it, buried amidst the cobwebs of Azriel’s tether to you.

You pluck softly on the strings, a song vibrating deep in your chest as you feel it lighten up your chest. Things made sense now.

It all made so much sense.

Why you couldn’t stop thinking about them. Why you felt slightly off balance. Why things had seemed only partway right.

Nesta and Cassian are also your mates.

“So I have.. three mates?” You ask, still not quite grasping the concept.

“Yes.” It all clicks into place. How you could be so attracted to fae who weren’t Azriel. How nonchalant they all seemed about living together. How happy everyone was no matter how much guilt had settled in your chest.

It feels right laying here with the three of them, even if Cassian is squishing you. The bonds in your chest swirl with delight and eagerness, but most of all content.

“We’re going to need a bigger bed.” The three around you laugh as Nesta falls into bed next to the giant bundle the three of you made. There are discussions to be had and things to figure out, arrangements to be made and questions that will come up.

But right now you bask in the laughter and how full your heart feels.

Divider by @tsunami-of-tears

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[glassbxttless]

Boy Witchcraft

tommy gallagher (warfare) x fem!reader

word count: 2.3k+

summary: Tommy doesn’t wanna feel like some kid you’re taking pity on— and subsequently you get a morning that leaves you weak in the knees.

warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, Tommy’s 20 and reader’s a bit older (age gap but not explicitly stated how much older), pinv, riding tommy lmao

notes: 1000% for one of the girlies. Love you. Thanks to @peachyproserpina for editing this!

You don’t mean to stare at the sight in front of you, not really. But Tommy’s in your kitchen. He’s barefoot and shirtless, wearing nothing but those slouchy gray sweatpants that hang dangerously low on his hips— the ones he always sleeps in when he stays over, the ones you’ve tugged down with your teeth before, the ones you’ve come to adore even if they were littered in paint stains and holes. His hair’s still damp from the shower he must’ve taken this morning, curling at the edges of his neck, and he’s frowning at the duo Keurig on the counter like it’s a calculus exam.

It’s too cute. Unfairly cute.

“You know it’s a Keurig, right?” you call to him, leaning against the doorway with a lazy smile, your arms crossed over your chest.

He glances back at you, his own sheepish smile tugging at his lips as his cheeks glow red. “Yeah, but it’s the fancy kind. It’s got more buttons than I know how to deal with.”

“Terrifying,” you tease him softly, walking over until you’re pressed close to his back, and you reach around him to press the correct one. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch. Just stands there and lets you mold yourself to his back, lets your arms wrap around his waist like you’ve always belonged there. It’s been a few months now— long enough that his razor lives in your bathroom, long enough that your laundry always seems to include at least one of his t-shirts, long enough to know what kind of music he likes to listen to in the shower, and what kind of sigh he makes when you kiss his neck just right. 

But every time things start to heat up, every time your fingers dig into his back or his mouth finds that spot just below your ear, Tommy turns into something else entirely. It’s not cruel and it’s never careless. But it’s raw. Needy. Rough around the edges like he’s trying to crawl inside your skin and live there forever.

And God help you, you fucking love it.

He pours himself a cup once it’s done, turning in your arms. He sips gently, his eyes soft over the rim of the mug, watching you like you hung the damn moon in the sky just for him. “You workin’ today?”

“Nope,” you say softly, already walking your fingers up his chest with a grin. “Got the whole afternoon off.” Something flickers in his gaze at your words. Just a shadow of nerves. He sets the mug down on the counter, and then licks his lips like he’s trying to figure out how to speak. “You okay?” you ask, your eyebrows knotting down as you brush your hand over his side.

“Yeah,” he nods, pausing for a moment before he lets out a sigh, “You ever think about us? Like, what other people think?”

Your brows rise in shock. “People. What people?”

He shrugs and turns his gaze away, suddenly avoiding your eyes. “Just… you know… you’re older. And I dunno… I’m, you know, some dumb twenty-year-old who’s still figuring his shit out.”

You step in closer to him, your hand curling gently under his jaw until he’s looking at you. “You really think I see you like that?”

Tommy finally meets your eyes. “Sometimes I wonder if like… you’re just being nice to me. Like… I’m a phase for you or somethin’.”

“Oh, baby,” you whisper, letting out your own sigh as you shake your head. “You think I let just anyone stay over and make me coffee in the morning? You think I let anyone touch me the way you do?”

His breath hitches when your hand brushes down his chest. His jaw tightens. You lean up and kiss him gently, slow and soft. Your lips barely brushing his until he chases you for more. The second kiss is deeper— needy, lingering. And when his hands slide around your waist, his grip is already firm— keeping you pressed close, you can feel it. That shift in the air, his unraveling.

“I wanna be good for you,” he mumbles quietly, his voice gravelly from want and his nose nudging along your jaw. “Wanna make you feel good.”

“You always do,” you say quietly, your fingers slipping beneath the waistband of his sweats just to run along that trail of hair that dips beneath the fabric. Your eyes flick up to his and you smile as his gaze drops to where your fingers are teasing him, running up and down his stomach. Trailing so high and then back down to dip below the elastic and back up again. 

He swallows hard, his eyes lazily hooded, “Not just good, baby.” Your whole body responds to that— your chest tightens, your thighs start to ache, it burns deep in your veins. “Can I?” he asks, his hands falling to the curve of your ass and squeezing. His voice is rough and desperate, you can hear how badly he wants you dripping from each word. “Can I show you I’m not just some dumb kid you’re takin’ pity on?”

You press your forehead to his, your eyes closing. Your lips brush his again, and again, and again, breathing against his mouth. “You can do anything you want to me, Tommy Gallagher.”

Whatever restraint he had left evaporates at those words. He grabs you under your thighs, lifting you off the ground like you weigh absolutely nothing. And then he’s backing you through your hallway. His lips are on yours the whole way, messy and hot, your teeth clanking together at some points. He bumps your back against the wall, runs his hip into the table, bangs an elbow into the frame of your bedroom door. But by the time your back finally hits your bed— he’s already pushing your shirt up, yanking it off, groaning when he sees you’ve got nothing on underneath. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he mumbles. He’s crawling over you slowly, settling between your thighs. He’s kissing down your chest slowly. Then he’s mouthing at your breasts— leaving open mouth kisses against your skin. “Been thinking about this all fuckin’ morning. Fucked my fist in the shower just thinkin’ bout you.”

You laugh, breathless as you tilt your head back against your pillows. You let your eyes slip closed. 

He hums against your chest playfully, and then he hooks his thumbs into your panties, pulling them down your thighs with one sharp tug. He lets his kisses trail down your tummy to the inside of your leg, then he starts at your breasts and does it all over again to your other leg. Suddenly he moves over you, his eyes dark with need. “I wanna watch you ride me,” he whispers as he dips down and presses a kiss against your neck. “I wanna see you take every fuckin’ inch of me.”

You flip him before he can even get his sweats all the way off. You’re straddling his lap as you tug them down— no boxers— freeing his cock. He’s hard already— thick, flushed, and leaking. You wrap your hand around him, stroking once, twice, watching his head fall back against your pillow with a groan.

“Fuck,” he rasps softly, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as his eyes close. A smattering of freckles dusting across his skin, you want to kiss every single one of them. “Baby, please—”

You lift yourself up over him and guide him to your cunt. And then you sink down onto him, inch by inch, until you’re filled to the hilt and his hands are gripping your thighs like he might lose his composure right there. “Jesus Christ,” he groans out softly, shifting his hips under you. “You feel… baby, you feel so fuckin’ tight, so good—”

You’re already riding him slowly when his brain starts to catch up, rocking your hips with a steady rhythm. Your hands are pressed to his chest, your thighs bracketing his hips. Every inch you give him, every grind of your body against his, has Tommy unraveling— his head still tilted back against the pillows, his lips parted, his breath coming in soft, broken little gasps.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans, his fingers tightening against your skin. He’s gripping your thighs like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the earth. “You’re killin’ me here, baby.”

You lean forward, pressing your palms to the mattress on either side of his head, your tits against his chest and your hair brushing his face. “That’s the idea.” You mumble as you grind your hips down. You know he’s trying— so fucking hard— to hold himself back. His knuckles are white against your thighs, his arms shaking faintly with the effort of trying to stay still. You can see it in him— the restraint, the ache. He’s desperate, sweet, aching so badly to be good for you, and it’s absolutely wrecking him. So you just rock your hips again, deeper this time, circling as you clench around him on purpose. You watch his face as you do it— how his lashes flutter, how his mouth drops open in a breathless moan. His whole body tenses underneath you. You lean forward, close to his ear, “Tommy,” you whisper. Your lips trailing down and brushing against his jaw, “you can move, baby.”

He lets out a choked moan that rumbles up from his chest. “I don’t— I’ll fuckin’ lose it.”

“Then lose it.”

That breaks his resolve. He growls some half-formed and filthy thought under his breath. You can’t make it out. His hands fly to your hips, and he slams up into you so hard you gasp. Your body jolts with the sudden impact, eyes wide as he thrusts up into you again, rougher this time, deeper. It’s stoking that fire deep in your belly— like his body’s been aching to do this since the second you got on top of him. “F-fuck, baby, fuck,” he pants, each thrust a frantic, urgent push into your soaked heat. “Can’t stop— can’t— feels too good, Jesus, you feel like heaven—”

You’re barely holding on yourself now, your hands are still pressed to the mattress. Every sharp snap of his hips sends sparks down your spine to pool right between your thighs. It’s messier now— more frantic. He’s fucking you from underneath like he needs it to breathe, like he’s trying to bury himself inside you so deep he won’t ever come back out. One of your hands scrambles for purchase on his chest, your nails dragging across his sweaty skin. “God… F-Fuck Tommy—”

“Tell me you want it,” he whimpers out, voice raw with need, his eyelashes flutter open until he can meet your eyes. “Tell me I’m not just some fuckin’ kid to you.”

“You’re not,” you gasp at one particularly hard thrust, your voice catching on the almost unbearable rhythm he’s setting. “You’re not, baby— fuck, you’re everything to me—”

That makes him moan, full and guttural, straight from his lungs. His pace stutters— Alternating to grinding his hips up harder and deeper between thrusts. He’s so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat, every inch of him dragging against the parts of you that make your toes curl and your eyes roll back. And then he hits just the right spot. Your body seizes with a sharp, bright jolt of pleasure, your breath catching as heat floods through you. The flames of your orgasm burn fast, low in your belly, curling tight and oh-so-overwhelming. Your thighs tremble around his hips. “Tommy— I’m gonna— fuck— I’m so close—”

“Me too,” he pants out softly, fucking you up onto the edge. “I can feel you, baby— you’re gripping me so tight. I’m not gonna last— fuck, I’m gonna cum.”

You reach for his face, and kiss him hard, sloppy and open-mouthed as your climax rushes over you— burning through your veins in waves. It’s tightening every muscle in your body, making you cry out into his mouth as your walls pulse around him.

He feels it too. The way your body clutches his cock, the way you fall apart on top of him— and he loses it right after. With a broken moan and one last desperate thrust into you, he cums hard. His hips twitch, his cock throbbing deep inside you as he spills everything into you, painting your insides thick and hot and with so much of it. His arms wrap around your waist tight. He’s grinding up into you through the aftershocks, both of you panting and shaking, his face buried into your shoulder. You’re both drenched in sweat and clinging to each other like the world might end if you let go.

You don’t know how long you stay like that— his cock still twitching inside you, your bodies tangled and flushed and trembling. But eventually, he lets out a breathless, and overwhelmed laugh. He lifts his face up just a bit and presses his forehead to yours. “Jesus Christ,” he whispers softly. “I— I don’t even know what that was.” His whispers as his hands trail up your thighs gently. Then he leans forward, stealing a kiss from you.

And you return it with a grin, exhausted and aching and still full of him. You brush a hand through his hair, moving the overgrown strands away from his eyes. You let your fingers trail down to cup his jaw, “That was you proving you’re not just some dumb kid.”

He smiles and then kisses you again, letting himself linger against your lips. Like he can show you just how much he feels for you from a single kiss. Then he whispers, softly, his heart aching, “I love you like this. I love you.”

Your heart swells, as your thumb brushes across his cheekbone.

“I know you do, baby,” you mumble, smiling against his lips. “I felt it.”

tags ;; @getaapologist @thejordiverse @vinecstasy @bradleybeachbabe @robinbuckleywife @dancininseptember

[deepwithintheabyss]

librarian/avid reader au with jaytim pretty please? <33

Nov 18 2023

another one of those "hey everything (besides the ending) is written but it's been rotting in my folder" and just needs an edit

Pairing: JayTimSteph Words: 2010 Ask Game

Tim groans when he catches sight of Stephanie entering the library. He watches as she looks around for a second before spotting him and making her way over, grinning like the maniac that she is, on the way.

He's sure that if they weren’t in a library she would have been whooping as well, drawing the attention of half the college just so she could embarrass him.

“So Boy-wonder” comes her greeting as she leans onto him heavily and starts to ruffle his hair. Years of exposure to her behavior keep him from ducking away, he still only barely refrains from rolling his eyes though.

“How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me that? Just because I skipped one, one grade doesn’t mean I’m some genius.”

Steph pauses her attempt of making an even bigger mess of his hair, to punch him softly into the shoulder, “We both know that’s not true, you’re just too lazy to do all the work and skip some more.”

Tim tries to shrug her off; so he can go back to sorting through the books, but she clings determinedly to him.

“So where is he? Where’s Mr. My Nerd Levels made Tim Drake Geek Extraordinaire fall for me?”

This time Tim does roll his eyes, “Figures that you didn’t come to the library to study or do something more productive.” he mutters. Trying to will down the blush that has risen onto his cheeks at her words.

She squawks in mock-offense, barely keeping the noise below the required level, “Hey! I do study. Just because I don’t spend all my time crunching the stuff in the last few moments because I didn’t pay attention in class,” he ignores her side-eye easily “doesn’t mean I don’t study! You just never notice it because you’re too busy with all your geek stuff.”

He's halfway to thinking that the distraction worked when she narrowed her eyes and jabs him sharply into the chest with a finger, “Hey you don’t wiggle yourself out of this so easily. Now tell me where he is.”

“I haven’t seen him yet” he admits, “He usually arrives before my shift even starts.” 

“Oh what a nerd”

“And I only catch him when the library is about to close in the next half an hour. He likes to read and study till we’re nearly done, but because he always checks out so many books he started to leave a bit earlier as to not hold us up.”

“Was that why you were so late that one time?” she questions. 

Tim shifts, “Well no, we both had lost track of time and thus didn’t notice it was past closing time.” 

Steph looks him with a knowing glint in her eyes, “You were too busy staring weren’t you?”

"You would stare too if you knew how he looked!” Tim tries to defend himself.

“Well then how does he look? You haven’t been telling me anything! Besides sighing dreamily during lunch time and date nights.” 

And- well that's true isn’t it? Tim has been too distracted by his crush to spend time with his girlfriend. He's very lucky that Stephanie is as understanding as she is and didn’t— a soft hit to the head interrupts his thoughts. 

“Stop the worrying and tell me how he looks! We can complain about how horrible you have been neglecting me after I made fun of you.” She demands. 

This is why Tim loves Steph so much, she never pulls her punches and prefers to go into everything head first. Never avoiding the ugly truths of conflict. And while sometimes (like now) it can be very annoying, when she persists on something, clings to it with every fiber of her being, she usually always got what she wants in the end anyways, so it's best to just give up. It was scarily efficient.

Tim also cannot deny that it isn’t hot as fuck. 

“Come on less simping more sharing” Steph reminds him. 

“Uhm well, he’s taller than you not much I think? But at least a little, and he got some faint scars on his face, one on his forehead, made his hair go all white in that place and when he smiles—.”

Steph's face breaks out into a delighted grin. “Oh! I know him he’s in my class his name is uhm-" her brows scrunch up, "Jace Trott or something.”

“Jason Peter Todd” Tim corrects automatically.

“Oh my god” Stephanie looks at him in wide-eyed surprise, “You’re really head over heels if you remember his name.”

This time it's Tim’s turn to squawk “That’s not true!” He tries to deny futilely.

“You didn’t know my name until after I kissed you.”

“I just see his name on the card everytime he goes to check out books.”

“And we had been working on a partner project for around a year now. You called me Spoiler the entire time because I had a patch on my pack.”

“Well how was I supposed to know that wasn’t your name!” He throws his hands up.

“What kind of lunatic names their kid Spoiler??? My name was on the paper, the teacher called us both by name.”

Tim waves around one of the books he's holding, “Well you didn’t know my name either until like 4 months into our partnership.” he complains.

She jabs her elbow into his side, and he's forced to bend over. “Knowing someones name and nickname are two different things!”

“You called me short-stack the entire year.” He gasps out through the pain.

“Well you were short. How should I have known you’d shoot up like a beanpole?”

“Uhm, excuse me” Comes a voice from the side. Both Tim and Stephanie ignore it, too caught up in their squabbling.

“You’re as tall as me” he mutters, using his hand to show their size for emphasis, drawing a straight line across their heads.

Steph smirks, “Just because I’m tall doesn't mean you should be too. How am I supposed to stuff you into a locker now.”

She reaches out in an attempt to ruffle his hair again, or maybe shove Tim down, to show him how short he should be. He doesn't know because he ducks to the side and pulls her hoodie over her face. Trying to gain some distance between them during the time where she's struggling to uncover her eyes so she can't get her revenge (that easily at least).

“Hey!” someone snaps, and Steph and Tim freeze in their wrestling.

“Could I please have that book you’re holding?” the voice is much more polite this time. Tim feels his insides grow cold as he recognizes it.

He looks over slowly and yep—

That’s Jason Peter Todd in all his sweater and glass glory. Somehow giving of the vibe of every young english teacher ever. Tim's mouth opens and closes without any words leaving and his hand only tightens around the book.

Steph like always, comes to his rescue in a way that makes him wish she just left him to die “I don’t know hot stuff,” she purrs in her most fake flirty voice, leering blatantly as she gives him a once over.

Jason visibly flounders at that, clearly caught off guard by Steph's sudden switch from toddler to twenty year old hot lady. She jabs an elbow into his side again like she could hear what he was thinking. Leaving Tim to rub the area as he scowls at the side of her head.

“Maybe if we get your number out of it.” she blinks up innocently at Jason. 

(Tim feels vindicated in guessing Jason would be just a little bit taller than her.) 

Jason frowns “Look, I don’t know what jealousy game you’re trying to play here” Tim’s stomach drops, oh no Steph is going to ruin it. ”But I’m not going to give you my number so you can wave it in your boyfriends face over there. If you got some kind of relationship problem you should talk it out and not involve innocent bystanders.” 

As Jason speaks he crosses his arms, but it just draws attention to the way his sweater is straining over his pecs and no, Tim does not have a tit kink thank you very much Steph. He knows Steph is thinking the same anyways by how she’s suddenly clutching his hand. 

“Now can I get the book?”

Tim makes some kind of startled sound when Jason's eyes land on him, and oh he had already known that the guy had pretty eyes but usually Jason was looking at the books he was checking out and not at Tim. Seeing that intense focus suddenly on him makes Tim’s brain all blank “uhm” he tries, but he doesn’t really know anymore what Jason wants from him. 

Steph snickers at his side and he holds back from hitting her because he’s a good boyfriend who doesn’t hit his girlfriend for laughing at him even when he could.

Jason blinks back “Are you serious?” he ask incredulous, “the book, that are you holding. Can I have that?” he says the last part very slow and forcefully, Tim kind of wants to bristle at him. 

Instead he decides to be reasonable and hand it over, but before Jason can grab it Steph snaps it out of his hands. 

“A book for a number” she repeats, “And we totally don’t have relationship problems.”

“You were squabbling like little kids”

“That’s how I show love!” 

Jason's eyebrows draw up in disbelief and all Tim could do was wonder if he plucked them, no man should have that perfect eyebrows. “Why would you want my number anyways?” Jason asks.

Steph grins at him, flickering her eyes up and down, stopping pointedly to stare at his chest and thighs. It's fascinating to watch someone else be subjected to her predatory stare and be affected by it. Tim kinda (totally) wants to explore how far down that flush spreads. (If it darkened the skin of his pecs too)

“I’d say you’re quite a catch hot stuff.” Her leer this time is something copied straight out of a cheap porno, Tim would be impressed, if he didn't feel like the ground should open and swallow him whole. 

It’s as if their many years together have totally destroyed all of Steph's abilities at flirting. 

Though… considering how their relationship started, maybe she had always been as hopeless as him, and he just had never seen it. Too awstruck by her personality and confidence to realize that she was improvising and fumbling as much as him.

Jason's gaze flicker over to Tim again, eyeing him warily.

"And you?" he asks, "are you also on board with this?" he gestures weakly into Steph's direction.

"Oh he's more than on board." Steph answers for Tim, throwing her elbow over his shoulder and forcing him to bend over slightly. "In fact he's-"

This time it's his turn to elbow her sharply, though she seems to have been expecting it and dances out of the way with a laugh.

He rights himself, straightening his t-shirt unnecessary so he has something to do with his hands that isn't fluttering them around nervously.

"I-" he starts, trying to find the right words. Jason is watching him, waiting for an answer, Tim doesn't feel like he's imagining the hopeful look in Jason's eyes.

"Yes." he says finally.

Jason hums, flickering his gaze between them, and Tim is confident he's checking them both out.

Before he reaches for the pen and papers they keep at the checkout. He quickly scrawls something onto it, before sliding it back over and Tim can make out that it's a number. He quickly snatches it up and stuffs it into his own pocket so Steph doesn't get any ideas.

Steph crows in delight besides him, bouncing over to hand Jason his book.

He smirks at her, "I'll be expecting a message from you both after closing." he says, turning around and leaving in the direction of his table again.

[ehhh2000]

Tekken 8 - Anti Reina Mishima Stamp(Rant) Huge Tekken 8 Spoilers!

This is gonna piss off Reina fans, but just a friendly reminder..... this is my opinion. If you love her, go on a page that praises her. You won't get it here. Alright here goes.

I was playing Tekken 8 at my friend's house. It was a fun time, and the story has improved from Tekken 7 (with the bland, monotone narrator gone, thank god) and..... Tekken 6 (ugh!) but has a few flaws.

The biggest flaw which almost ruined Tekken 8 for me, was this character, called Reina Mishima.

This is without a doubt, one of the most poorly written female characters I have ever seen in my entire life.

You mean to tell me that Lucky Chloe gets shit from Tekken fans, but Reina Mishima gets a free pass? WTF? I mean I am not a fan of Lucky Chloe (ok her character design is cute, but she is abusive AF to Eddie T.T) but at least she wasn't a forced and contrived, plot device character like Reina, and is just a dumb troll character from the creator, as a middle finger to their haters that really hated her guts.

Like you think Rey from Star Wars, Disney Remake Mulan, Bella Swan, or Captain Marvel were bad?

Well, that is nothing comparred to this DeviantArt OC, Mary-Sue reject.

So Reina is the daughter of Heihachi Mishima. (Oh, so we are doing the Lars Alexandersson plot-twist, from Tekken 6 again, in 2024... aka lazy, repetitive writing for Tekken 8 when it comes to introducing new characters... got it 👍) 

My issues with her that makes her a poorly written character is that:

-She is a flawless fighter, like Disney remake's Mulan bad. I know she is suppose to have flawless fighting moves like Heihachi, but good god, this is just embarrasing.

Edit: Ok, I understand that it is a fighting game, and the Mishima's are suppose to be powerful, badass fighters, so Reina should be no exception. Fair enough. I still think she is a self-insert character because she was just thrown into the story, with no buildup or references from previous games (Same issue I had with Lars in Tekken 6 btw, he just exists to replace Jin as a MC, and they made him a Mishima to make him more relavant, instead of him just standing out on his own as a character. I don't hate Lars btw, he has a cool character design, but the hair is riduclous, and I felt indifferent towards him at first, but now I kinda see him as a potential father figure to Jin in Tekken 8.)

-She is trying too hard to be a hardcore, edgy, tomboy, cool-looking version of Asuka, so I will call her the poor man's Asuka Kazama.

-Her character design and oufit is uninspired and too modern for my liking (Black boots, black short-shorts and A black and purple hoddie, huh.... how creative... -_-) oh and short black hair and purple streaks to add to the edgy, tomboy look. (Or the Karen look as I like to call it ^^)

-She is younger than Jin Kazama, YOUNGER! Despite being Jin's aunty. Yes, you heard correctly. I think the creators wanted a self-insert character to have some sort of sex appeal, which is why they made her look younger and prettier, and show off her legs (which gives me the ick.) And her calling Jin "Senpai" didn't help either.

(I also didn't like the fact the creators made Kazumi Mishima and Jun Kazama look younger than their own sons, like what is wrong with looking a bit older, mature and graceful? I actually want to see a badass, old lady in Tekken that can fight! Kazumi felt like a missed opportunity in that sense.)

-She manages to beat the shit out of Kazuya in her ending, despite her looking like a twig. Reminding me too much of something out Inuyasha, when that abusive, unbearable, bratty, girl Kagome would do the same thing to her love interest Inuyasha, for comedy! 🙄

I will admit that Kazuya is a shitty father (Sorry fans 😭 don't kill me) at least Kazuya has flaws, he is a damaged man, blinded by hatred, rage and has an obssession with power, like it's a drug to him. A wrathful devilman, but not completely heartless, otherwise he would just be another mini Heihachi.

Reina has no flaws, no personality, no interesting backstory and is just a pathetic Jerk-Sue Character (a Mary-Sue that is a Jerk, with no consequences for her actions.)

-She is also not a good plot-twist character either, again, she just ripped off Lars' backstory, so there is no originality from her.

-And to add to the cherry on top, when it comes to her being a poorly written, fanfic-styled Mary-Sue character, she is also....... a devil! 😈 Unless if it is revealed that she is Kazumi's daughter or something, then why the hell does she have to devil gene? And she wants to be the new Heihachi, huh? Wait till she finds out that Heihachi is the OG devil hater.

Terrible twist, terrible story, and a terrible first impression of Reina. 🤬 Fuck this character!

[mirouie]

gentle giant

simon ‘ghost’ riley x fem reader. | wc: 0.6k

↳ warnings: none

↳ tags: fluff, domestic!simon (?), soft!simon, sharing a bed, just a short drabble bc i love him sm

↳ a/n: hi hello! this is my first-ish post on tumblr, i’m still trying to figure out how it works so don’t flame me pls :’) enjoy!

—

big palms are kneading into the flesh sitting atop your hips, fingers digging gently as you’re pulled to burrow further into the huge expanse that is simon’s chest. you stir from your sleep, even with the slightest of movement you sink deeper into the arms that cage you in. you’re not leaving this bed under his watch.

a cool breeze flutters through the open window, a stark contrast to the warmth of simon’s breath caressing the nape of your neck, the light pressure of his lips nuzzled in a lasting kiss against your skin. you don’t want to leave the bed, anyway.

a content hum rumbles deep from his throat as you reach behind you and knot your fingers in his hair, nails scratching his scalp and dragging down to the base of his ear. it’s like being held by a cat in the form of a 6’4, broad-shouldered hunk of a man with the way simon is borderline purring at your touch. his arms around your waist wring impossibly tighter, almost knocking the breath out of you at some point you have to pat his arm to loosen a little.

“i know you love me, si, but i can’t breathe,” your breathless chuckle is like the pleasant song of a hummingbird in his ear, and he all but obeys your command. he always does. tight arms relaxing into a lazy hold around you, but still pulled flush against his bare chest.

“don’t want you leavin’ me ‘ere in the cold, love,” he grunts hoarsely in return, deep voice muffled against your skin as he’s practically shoving his entire face into your neck. all that’s left for him was to slip under your skin and become one with you. “not when you’re so warm and cozy, i jus’ wanna live in you.”

you huff, an amused and endearing sound; it’s hard to think that the man most feared on the grounds filled with violence and blood, a looming shadow that seemed to follow his enemies and unsheathes his knife to rid them of their lives—is reduced to a gooey, mumbling mess of cuddles and affection the moment he’s with you. a man that holds command over soldiers gets on his knees with his heart on his sleeve as he clings onto your words like they are prayers.

he’s so in love with you, it hurts.

you shift under the covers and turn to face him, slotting yourself perfectly in the midst of his arms as if you are made to be there. as if he is made to hold you like this. you see flecks of blue peeking through his lids as he cracks them open to gaze at you—even through the sleepy haze, you could see the hearts in his eyes as he stares.

pressing a warm palm on his cheek—uncharacteristically rosy—he brings his lips to graze the tips of your fingers. “y’look lovely in the morning,” he utters lowly, as if it was a secret only made for the two of you. his eyes scan your face—the way you remain half-lidded as sleep still has you in its clutches, the way your eyelashes flutter with every blink, the way your lips part slightly with every breath—burning the image of you in his mind. he can never forget this, forget you.

you feel a warmth bubbling in your chest—with the way he’s staring at you, you feel like flames are licking at your insides. always so intense, always so full of love and admiration. a burning that rivals the sun, a depth that rivals the seas.

a smile pulls at the corners of your lips, only growing wider as you survey his face this time—the same drowsy expression mirroring yours, but ever so content and calm, the scars weaving through his cheek and lips, the way his eyes never leave you; you intend to imprint the sight in your mind as well. “you look lovely, too. my lovely simon.”

—

© mirouie ; do not copy, edit, or repost my works. plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

[j-graysonlibrary]

Fort Heaven Chapter 6

Title: Fort Heaven

Author: Jay Grayson

Word Count: 69K

Genres: Suspense, investigative, drama, LGBT+

Available on: Kobo and my website

Synopsis: Some call it a hoax. Others claim it’s a cult. But, to Evon and his friend Yasmine, two online journalists, Fort Heaven is the subject of their latest story. Along for the assignment is cameraman and not-so-secret crush of Evon’s: Russet. With a drunken, murky night in their recent history, things are especially tense between them but, of course, personal matters take a backseat when the interviews start. The trio speaks to ex-members of Fort Heaven and, while some of the accounts are shocking, the job remains just that: A job. That is until one of the women they interviewed, along with her daughter, goes missing. It soon becomes clear that not only is Fort Heaven a real threat but Evon and his friends are being watched. And what started as a simple cash-grab article is now a matter of life and death.

Full Chapter 6 under the cut

Chapter 6

The keyboard clicked with each tap of Evon’s fingers as he took the notes from the interview and tried to lace them together with continuity and grace. Linda’s story was a short one but it would still be a good insight—especially by the time he was done embellishing it a bit.

In the corner of his computer screen Yasmine sent him a few messages about her notes and a secondary interview.

Evon worked quickly to finish up a paragraph before checking what she had to say. He asked about the next interview and was immediately taken aback.

It would be at least a day’s trip away.

Unwilling to try to articulate his thoughts via text, he picked up his phone to call her. As soon as she picked up, she laughed.

“Why did you call me?”

“It’s easier,” he defended himself but still laughed along with her. “What’s up with the next interview? Did you get a reply back today?”

“Just about an hour ago, actually.” Her voice was distant—she probably had him on speaker. “I already said we’d do it but it might take a couple of days. Didn’t want to spring a huge trip on you out of nowhere.”

“Well I appreciate it,” Evon remarked, “who is it with?”

He could hear some typing over the phone before she answered him. “Bob and Darcy…no last name. I guess last names don’t really matter in this context anyway…” There was a short pause. “Anyway, Bob was in Fort Heaven for—wow—like a decade almost. He left with his wife and they had to move six…wait…SIX times!?”

“Jesus…”

“This is going to be a little intense…” she trailed off, probably reading more of the message. “Sorry, this is a new email from them I just got.”

Evon laughed. “I kind of figured with that reaction.”

“Alright they gave me their number so we can talk,” Yasmine mumbled but he could distinguish her words, “What time frame would work for you best, Evon?”

“Next week? Maybe Tuesday or Wednesday if that’s okay with them.”

The weekend would inevitably be full of polishing the small piece that they had written between the two of them about Linda. As long as it was interesting, well written, and fully engaging their boss then they could get a real time frame for the final project.

It was scary to think that Gavin could take one look at what they had and tell them that they had to either leave or take free-lance positions. Evon wanted to have more material prepared but he hoped that with Linda’s piece and a brief rundown of what they already received from Bob and Marcy that it would be enough.

***

Russet laid halfway down on his bed and watched over the video he had while mentally picturing how he would edit the pieces together. He’d have to get his computer up and running to go through the big camera’s footage but he was feeling just a little too lazy.

The video started from the moment the three had entered the car to the moment they left it with a few breaks throughout. Some of it was just scenery which he would keep but likely put to the side and add in later when needed.

He scratched the side of his chin before speeding forward a few minutes. Only Evon was in the shot and it was in the middle of one of their group sing-a-longs. Toward the end an overly excited Evon tried to hit a high note but his voice completely broke and he started coughing though there was a lot of laughter in there as well.

Yasmine could be heard cackling off camera. “You sounded like a thirteen year old boy going through puberty!”

“My throat is dry,” he retaliated and took his right hand off the wheel to smack at her.

She wasn’t bothered by it at all and continued to laugh.

“You didn’t hit the note either,” Evon said once she’d settled down some.

“I didn’t try.”

“Children,” Russet heard himself on camera, “No fighting.”

“What are you going to do about it?” Yasmine asked and the camera finally moved in her direction. She had her hand stuffed in the side of her jacket only so she could pull it out and reveal her middle finger.

Russet chuckled and threatened, “I’ll turn this car around.”

“I’m driving,” Evon pointed out just before the camera refocused on him.

“I’ll figure something out,” he responded.

“He’s gonna kill us!” Yasmine yelled dramatically, “God no! Is this why you agreed to come?! So you could kill us yourself?!”

“Absolutely,” Russet answered with a straight voice. “I’m filming so I can re-watch it later and re-live the moment forever.”

“Well this got dark really fast,” Evon said and then they all laughed.

Russet paused the video and sighed—mostly in disappointment at himself. He’d been getting steadily worse and the video and his recent actions just reinforced that. He wondered if anyone had actually noticed—Trinity specifically.

“This is stupid,” he mumbled to himself and then laid his head back onto his pillow. His room was small and rather bland in terms of decoration so there wasn’t much to focus on and that let his mind wander.

When he first remembered seeing Evon was when he was still a baby. Trinity, unlike a lot of children, was excited to have a little sibling. Personally, Russet probably would have thrown a fit if he knew he’d have to share attention with some kid he didn’t know. And, in a way, he felt that way toward Evon in terms of sharing Trinity’s affection.

The older Evon got, the more attention he demanded from his sister and there were certain time periods where he simply wouldn’t leave her alone. Russet always felt uncomfortable or irritated by the younger boy and didn’t try much to hide it though Trinity just found it to be funny.

She was beyond entertained when Evon told Russet that he had a crush on him—though at the time, Russet hadn’t exactly realized he was a boy yet and any ideas he had of nonconformity were securely locked away. Trinity thought the pair were cute and was excited at the prospect of having her best friend also be her ‘sister-in-law’.

It was after Russet came out that he realized something was wrong with himself. One of his greatest worries was whether or not Evon would accept it. If he would lash out because of his crush on a perceived girl. Other boys had felt that way at school and most flat out denied that Russet had said anything and continued to use his dead name and call him a girl.

Then there was Evon who was perfectly fine with it—almost too fine. It was if he knew all along but just waited for everyone else to catch up.

It meant far more than Russet was ever willing to admit. And after finding out—through Trinity—that Evon’s crush hadn’t gone away, he made it his mission in life to stay away from the kid if it was possible. The less time they spent together was less time he had to worry about slipping up and destroying a lifelong friendship.

That party was a mistake, choosing to be around Evon while he was drunk was a huge mistake, and agreeing to take on this project with him and Yasmine was easily the dumbest thing he’d ever done. And the video was proof.

Just as he was getting ready to travel down a rabbit hole of self hatred, his phone rang. He dreaded it being Evon and, lucky for him, it wasn’t.

“Yeah, what’s up?” he answered after a few seconds.

“Stuff,” Yasmine answered. They’d exchanged numbers before the trip since it would be best for all of them to be able to contact the other instead of Evon being the go-between. “We’ve got another interview on Tuesday.”

His brow furrowed. “This Tuesday?”

“Yep.” She sounded quite happy about it and, from her perspective he supposed it would be the sooner the better. “Our project has been approved by the boss and we have a month to work on it.”

“A month…isn’t that a bit, I don’t know, short?”

The woman laughed in a way that let him know just how much she and Evon were expected to do in such a short amount of time. Sure, he liked to have things done in a timely fashion but he felt quality was more important.

“It’s generous. Trust me.” She sighed.

“Got it,” Russet responded. “So where is the next destination?”

“…A few states away,” Yasmine spoke in a careful tone as if he’d disband from them.

“Ah, a little country traveling then,” he said with a smirk. His other hand seemed to move by itself and stated to roll the camera back and forth across the bed. “Doesn’t sound too bad to me.”

He could hear the sigh of relief. “Good. We’ll have to book a hotel while we’re there so…shit I guess I should get on that.”

Russet chuckled and shook his head. “Don’t worry about it; I’ll do it.”

That seemed to genuinely surprise her. “Oh…thanks, Russet. You don’t have to, you know.”

“I’m aware but…” he spoke and looked down at the camera in his hand. If he didn’t give himself something to do then he knew he would spend all night looking through his footage and over thinking things. “You two do enough already so I’ll pay for the hotels.”

“Okay,” she said, giving up her resistance to the idea rather easily.

“I’ll text you the place when I find it.”

“Send it in a group chat,” Yasmine declared before hanging up. It was almost startling.

Russet took his phone from beside his ear and watched the screen go dark. “Does nobody say goodbye…?”

[funeralscythe]

I am once again asking about your aus! What’s a cooking in your brain

finally gonna sit down and try to answer this!! fair warning, Long Post Ahead. also this is highly self indulgent and kinda sloppily put together but that's just 'cause i know which characters i want to play around with and have tunnel vision and can't be bothered to polish the irrelevant bits...

also if i seem unclear on certain bits of elden ring lore, it's because i am. that's just how elden ring lore is, miyazaki loves leaving things open to interpretation. shout out to hidetaka miyazaki for giving me a framework and letting me go crazy and go stupid with the rest of it thanks man ily.

edit: ALSO. if you know abt soulsborne stuff ignore my footnotes and explanations i realized i have no idea if you're a soulsborne fan or not.

the most relevant parts of elden ring's backstory to the fanfic are: in the lands between, there's this freaky hyper-controlling religious kingdom/organization/thing called the golden order, some dude called radagon was the consort of a neighboring kingdom called caria but left his wife queen rennala (a powerful lunar sorceress) and their three kids for the self-described "eternal god-queen" of the golden order named marika, becoming her consort instead. he leaves some sort of amber egg-shaped stone with her that possibly bewitches her, leaving her weakened and unable to be a threat to the golden order. caria's neighbors in raya lucaria, a magic academy that was previously taken over by rennala, decide to rebel and try to kill the whole royal family of caria.

however! and here is where the fanfiction-y parts start (i was too lazy to cast radagon, rennala, etc but i cast as many of the demigods as possible). her oldest son technoblade already ran away to study gravity magic, her middle son (i haven't figured out who he is yet don't look at me rykard's a weirdo he's difficult to pin down) was probably away from home as well tbhhh.... and her youngest, ranboo, escaped caria with the help of his half-wolf bodyguard, aimsey, leaving rennala imprisoned in the library of raya lucaria.

the timeline is kinda obscure so i took some liberties - radagon was cheatin' (shame on him) and already had *counts on fingers* three entire demigod kiddos with marika by the time he ditched rennala (family drama oooo). except due to Some Fuckery (don't ask me why but he and marika fused into a rebus at some point) all three of them were born cursed by various outer gods (we don't know much about these but they all seem pretty interested in the lands between and there seems to be this big constant struggle between them as to whose religion gets to be the most powerful one, if that makes sense). wilbur is cursed by the fell god of flame, niki is cursed by the god of scarlet rot, and as for tommy, it isn't clear which outer god got to him because he has so much going on, but mainly he's stuck looking like a 12 year old forever because of some sort of Life themeing and he's pretty unhappy about it.

wilbur and niki are constantly in pain from their fire and rot curses, which they can theoretically harness as weapons, but not without hurting themselves. tommy is a brilliant mage and has unlimited access to the path of dreams, and is friends with the scary eldritch goddess of dreams who seems to live there (it's more complicated than that), but also, he's physically 12 and people have a hard time taking him seriously. he's constantly working to find a way to cure wilbur and niki from their afflictions, thinking that the golden order would be able to save them, but he's slowly coming to the realization that it can't and he'll have to find his own way.

there's another thing, though: ranboo, niki, and tommy are all empyreans. empyreans are a special, powerful kind of demigod capable of becoming gods, like marika, although it seems like there can only be one at a time so marika would have to die for one of them to ascend. the issue with that is that marika removed death from the elden ring, which is kind of a, idk, sigil? guidebook? thing? that seems to dictate how life and death work in the lands between. by removing the rune of death, marika made herself and her demigod children (and step-children, in techno and ranboo's case) immortal. marika also made it seem like she's just been around and ruling forever and that there haven't been other gods before her but That's Another Story.

at some point marika calls her step-children to join her and radagon in leyndell now that they've been run out of caria. techno and [rykard, i still haven't. yeah.] show up to scope things out, techno fucks off almost immediately and heads southeast to start up his own thing in caelid near where he learned gravity magic. as for ranboo, though, this whole time he's been staying with and being taught by an old snow witch hiding up in the mountains who hates the golden order (valid, honestly), and she's been building on what rennala already taught him about his connection to the lands between's second, secret, dark moon (the cosmology here is wild) and teaching him snow sorcery as well. he's even more anxious and paranoid than he was before she started teaching him, while forcing himself to pretend that he isn't and that he has everything under control. like, daily affirmations type thing in the mirror, "you are a cool and capable supervillain sorcerer and nothing is going to get in your way."

anyway to make a long story short, she sent him to strike at the heart of the golden order and become the new god. except that this is still ranboo we're talking about so it takes him ages and many many panic attacks to even have the beginnings of an idea as to how to. do that.

there's still a lot more if you wanna hear it!! and there's also more highly self indulgent aus where this one came from, too!

[colettebronte]

The Deluge

A modern Benedict/Reader drabble

Taglist Form

Bridgerton Masterlist

Authors Note: This lil thing was written last night in a writing sprint on Discord, inspired by the above edit, done by the BRILLIANT @bridgertontess

Clocking in at 646 words, the initial challenge was 500 words, woops there’s some perceived angst and fluff. This is also my first time writing Benedict as a main character so please do enjoy!

This is dedicated to my awesome friends and talented writers who also took up the challenge @fayes-fics @eleanor-bradstreet @thebabblingbrookenook @queen-of-the-misfit-toys

Our drabbles/ficlets are WILDLY different, it's great! You should DEFINITELY check out their offerings!

@fayes-fics : Could Be Worse [Benophie Drabble]

@eleanor-bradstreet : Emerald

@thebabblingbrookenook : Untitled

@queen-of-the-misfit-toys : Turning

@silverhallow : Weather the Storm

You stand under the protection of a large umbrella and observe the tall, lone figure standing a few feet ahead of you, hunched under his own umbrella, both of you trying to keep dry in the deluge.

He hasn’t seen or heard you yet, the torrents of rain masking your arrival. Perhaps it’s for the best, you think. It gives you a last few moments to observe him before he ends things and you never get to see his handsome visage again.

Your heart squeezes as you think of the good times. Your intense, first meeting on the dance floor had turned into a week of passionate nights, that led to lazy mornings in bed which became a sharing of dreams and ideals and before you realized it, it had been eight of the best months of your life with no end in sight.

Until recently.

It had started with quiet, furtive glances any time you entered a room. And then it became him receiving texts and quickly closing his phone to hide it away. Having had your fair share of bad relationships, you knew the signs. He was preparing to move on.

And what was worse, you wouldn’t just be losing him. His sister, your best friend, had started acting strangely around you as well. They were close so naturally, she must know what was up. That you’d be losing her too, would make this loss all the more unbearable. That it was happening on this dreary, rain-soaked evening seemed fitting.

Not wishing to prolong the inevitable a moment longer, you steel yourself and force your feet forward, not stopping until you’re standing beside him. Oddly, he hasn’t noticed you, so lost in his own thoughts.

Pitching your voice up to be heard over the pounding rain you reach a hand out to tug on his jacket sleeve.

“Hey Ben.”

You impress yourself with how calm you sound. He takes your hand in his, warming your fingers in his large palm. He moves closer and turns to you, nervousness coming off him in waves that are nearly as powerful as the downpour around you.

“Y/n,” he starts and stops, a pained look on his handsome face that makes your breath hitch. He takes a deep breath and then starts again, words tumbling out.

“Y/n this has been the best six months of my life. I’ve never felt so connected with someone. It’s not just the sex either. The way you understand my dreams and have shared your own is something I’ve never experienced before. But,” he pauses to clear his throat and you can’t keep your tears in any longer, forcing yourself to look at your clasped hands and not his face. Ben doesn’t seem to notice as he plods on, surely about to break your heart.

“But the thing is, it’s not enough.”

You squeeze your eyes closed at his words, the beautiful life you dared to imagine having with him evaporating in the rain.

You feel his weight shifting and forcing your eyes open, you’re shocked to see him on his knees, trousers slowly soaking up the water from the pavement.

“Ben, what are you . . .” His eyes widen at your words and he shakes his head, seemingly frantic to continue, so you let him.

“I realize eight months is not a lot of time together and this may be me moving too fast but when you know, you know, right?” He pauses mid-babble and offers you a weak smile.

And suddenly your heart lifts. His and Eloise’s actions from the last few weeks rearrange themselves in your mind and you can’t help but laugh.

First hauling him up out of the puddle, you then tug him down into a fervid kiss. “Yes,” you murmur against his lips. “Yes, yes, yes,” you repeat between kisses.

Ben pulls back to look at you, blue-grey eyes shining. “I haven’t even gotten to that part yet.”

“So ask me, Dummy!”

With a shake of his head and a signature crooked smile he simply says, “Marry me.”

And just as suddenly as it began, the rain stops.

[saffyspirals]

𝚜/𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚘’𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚎𝚜!

; with: mitsuya, hakkai, inui and hanma

; warnings: hanma swears (once) in front of a baby.

; author’s note: posted it by accident in the middle of editing, so i deleted it! luckily, i took a screenshot of the request, so you can still see what it said :)

𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚜𝚞𝚢𝚊

this guy loves you so much. he could literally write novels, just listing all the thousands of things that he loves about you.

you being an expert in making babies laugh is just another thing to include this in novel of his.

the first time mitsuya discovers this talent of yours, is when he’s taking you home after school.

you choose to stop by at a supermarket, because you’d like to pick up a few ingredients for dinner.

in the fruit and veg aisle, you find a middle aged woman carrying a wailing baby.

it’s clear she’s distressed; eyes darting round to look at judgemental shoppers who are wondering why she hasn’t managed to calm this baby down.

leaving your shopping trolley with mitsuya, you walk over to the pair.

“can i help?” you offer, to which she nods. you draw the child’s attention by gently cooing at it, before giving him your finger to hold.

he takes it, teary eyes quickly filling with curiously.

with your other hand, you ‘boop’ his nose, smiling as you do. this alone is enough to get the baby smiling too, and eventually to laugh.

his mother thanks you over and over for cheering her child up, to which you kindly wave her off, telling her it was, “no trouble at all!”

when you return to him, mitsuya is grinning from ear to ear.

“you never told me you were so good with kids!”

“ah, well…it’s just never come up in conversation!”

from there, he discovers something that had helped: you’d looked after your baby sibling, whenever your parents had to go out for whatever reason.

not only does mitsuya love the fact that you’re good with babies, he loves that the two of you have yet another thing in common.

he too looked after his two younger sisters (and still does), because of his working mother.

him discovering your talent just brings the two of you closer, really.

𝚑𝚊𝚔𝚔𝚊𝚒

because of the kind way you treat others, hakkai has always figured that you’d be good with kids.

he’s thought about what it’d be like to have kids with you, and came to the conclusion that you’d be an amazing mother.

but, he’d completely underestimated just how good you’d actually be!

hakkai asks you to come over one weekend. he sounds panicked, so you come over as quickly as you can.

wanting to make a little money, yuzuha offered to take care of the neighbour’s baby while his parents went to work.

she’d underestimated how difficult it would be; since the time he’d woken up from sleep, the baby hasn’t stopped bawling.

hakkai had been in his room, and, hearing all the noise, had come out to try and help.

evidently, he’d been unsuccessful, which is why he called you.

upon your arrival, hakkai takes you to his living room, where the baby is.

you don’t even flinch at how loud the baby is.

yuzuha hands you the baby, finally relieved to be able to distance herself from the child’s noise.

you take a seat on their sofa, sitting the baby on your lap.

“hey.” you greet, gently. the baby continues to cry, but he’s looking at you now, paying attention.

“i bet you miss your momma and papa, right?” you bounce him on your knee. “i’m sorry that you do. but they’ll be back soon. promise!”

as if it can understand, the baby babbles back, no longer crying. you tickle him underneath his chin, which gets him to smile.

yuzuha and hakkai watch you in awe.

once the baby is totally calm, you put him inside his high chair, and retrieve some baby food from the bag yuzuha had been given by the neighbours.

“how’d you do it?” hakkai questions, watching curiously as you feed the kid.

“mmmm…” you give him a lazy shrug. “i have a baby sibling at home too, so i guess i have a little experience.”

this is what you call a little experience??

hakkai shakes his head at you, telling you, you shouldn’t be so modest.

you are the best with babies — seriously, like god-tier level.

“you can meet her sometime, if you’d like?”

“i’d love to.”

𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚒

inui and you are on FaceTime one evening.

you haven’t been able to see each other outside of school for a few weeks now, because you were grounded.

inui is halfway through a story about something funny that a teacher had said to another student today, when he’s interrupted by what sounds like somebody shrieking.

“oh, sorry! that’s my baby sister. thought she would stay asleep for the whole night…”

“you have a sister?” he asks, as you pause your camera. he hears the rustling of your sheets as you climb out of bed, and the creaking of your bedroom door when you open it.

“yeah. my parents are out tonight, so i’ve been left alone with her.”

you go into your parents room, and turn on the light. the crying quietens immediately, once your sister catches sight of your smiling face.

inui wishes he could have seen the interaction.

“hey, [sister’s name]! you should be asleep.” you tell her, tossing your phone on your parents’ bed before reaching into the crib.

“awh. you were just lonely. am i right?” sibling in one hand, you go and pick up your phone with the other. “well then, come hang with inui and me in my room!”

once you get back to your bedroom, and both you and your sister are comfortably laying down, you unpause your camera, allowing inui to see your face again.

“meet [sister’s name]! say hi, little sis! this is my boyfriend.”

of course, [sister’s name] doesn’t understand what you’re actually saying, but your tone is cheery enough to make her laugh.

inui is nothing short of mesmerised.

𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚖𝚊

final exams are coming up.

you know that hanma won’t study unless pushed, so you invite him to come over the weekend before the first test.

originally, the two of you were meant to have the house to yourselves; your mother was heading to work, and was supposed to take your baby sister to the sitter’s house.

but, twenty minutes before your mother was meant to drop your sister off and go to work, the sitter cancels, claiming to be ill.

so, your mother leaves her behind, promising to make it up to you once she got home.

hanma sends you a message, telling you he’s outside.

you’re in the middle of putting the baby down for her afternoon nap, so you don’t see it.

your bf gets tired of waiting, and climbs over your fence into your backyard, to get in through the back door.

finally, your sister falls asleep. you gently lower her into her crib, careful not to wake her again.

you let out a quiet sigh of relief, before walking over to where your phone is, to check for any messages.

“oi. why the fuck didn’t you answer my message?” hanma’s booming voice startles not only you, but your sister, who wakes up and starts crying.

“shuji, i just put her to sleep!”

you head back over to the crib, and pick her up. hanma watches, confused.

…you have a baby sister?

you’ve been dating for a month, how did he not know?

before he can even blink, the displeased baby becomes settled.

your sister starts giggling innocently, as if she hadn’t been screaming just a moment ago.

you return her to her crib, and her eyes flutter shut.

you point hanma towards the door; both of you leave the room.

“i — uh. you didn’t tell me you were that good with kids.”

“you never asked, love.”

this newfound knowledge spreads an oddly warm feeling through hanma’s chest.

[here’s my masterlist] !

[rafecameronsbadussy]

Under the stars

Summary: Rafe and reader go out for a night of romance under the stars. On their outing they hit a big milestone in their relationship.

Warnings: slight exhibition (nothing too public no one is around), fingering, oral (male receiving), penetrative sex, unprotected sex

My work is not to be plagiarized.

A/n: Please forgive me for any mistakes I edited this 3 times but I have the attention span of a chipmunk so by the end of the story I am somewhere else. I’m praying somebody actually reads this. Have fun, sweethearts. <3

——————

You finished up styling your hair before grabbing your phone, keys, and throwing on Rafe’s grey sweatshirt that you “borrowed” and a pair of black yoga pants. Suddenly a notification popped up on your phone. Here princess. You smiled and crept out the door, blankets, and pillows in arm. Careful to not wake your sleeping father.

Your smile grew as your eyes set on Rafe making his way out of his truck. He skipped over to help you with the items and kissed you hello.

“Hi,” you giggled.

“Hi,” he smiled down at you. You both set forth to the car and began your drive to the mystery location.

“Have you been here before?” You pestered your boyfriend glancing over at him. The soft street lights you passed illuminating his features.

“Quit trying to figure out where we’re going it’s supposed to be a surprise.” He replied glancing over at you, interlacing his fingers with yours.

“But I like knowing things!” You whined.

“Well this will be good for you then.” He remarked.

“Excuse me, what’s that supposed to mean?” You questioned, still mesmerized by his features.

“You’re what some would call nosy.” His sapphire eyes locked with yours momentarily as he pointed your conjoined hands at you.

Your jaw dropped as you faked a gasp, “I am not,”

“I don’t blame you. You just get bored easy.”

“I can’t believe you would say that.” You replied still faking offense before he gave you a look. You burst into giggles. “Okay, you’re right though.”

“I’m never wrong. In all the years you’ve known me I would’ve thought you’d have figured that out.” He said before kissing your hand, as you giggled more. “And would you look at that we’re here.” He said putting his truck in park. You involuntarily grinned as you tried and failed to figure out the location.

“It’s Falling Waters park.” His eyes locked onto yours as you grabbed both sides of his face leaning in to kiss him. You got carried away from the ethereal feeling of his soft lips fitting with yours. His warm tongue slid past your lips as you wrapped your arms around his neck pulling him close. Both of your cheeks a rosey hue at this point.

You slowly broke the kiss to come up for air “It sounds beautiful.” You gazed into his sparkling eyes both your hearts swelling, due to something in the air.

“Come on, baby.” He smiled getting out of his truck, meeting you on your side of the car. He opened the door and you jumped out, both of you gathering the blankets, pillows, and snacks.

You gasped “You got my favorite!” You said grinning ear to ear at the sight of your favorite candy and chips.

“Of course,” he smirked over at you, finding it adorable how excited you got over a simple gesture. You both spread out the blankets and pillows across his truck bed. He climbed up first, offering you his hand.

Taking it you remarked, “And they say chivalry is dead.” You cuddled into his side pulling a blanket over your laps.

“Well they haven’t met me.” You turned admiring his lazy grin illuminated by the moonlight. He wrapped both arms around you and pulled you into his chest, stroking your hair.

“No they haven’t.” You giggled gazing up at the stars and full moon. The combination of the sight above and being wrapped in Rafe’s arms elicited a deep peace within you. Cracking open the snacks you looked up to the constellations and basked in the simple moment as you innocently chatted.

“This is wonderful thank you hon.” You said eating a piece of the candy.

“Of course baby. You know I’d do anything for you.” He sounded adorable, talking with a slightly full mouth. You tightened your arms around him, snuggling further into him. You had both expressed how deeply you cared for one another but you have yet to say those three great big words. Maybe it was your shared commitment issues or maybe it was the great value society placed on those three words, but neither of you had gotten around to saying them.

Rafe began lightly running his hand up and down your side, making you squirm. He chucked which further egged on your growing arousal. You lifted your leg to rest on top of him and you noticed his partial erection.

“Baby, how long have you been like this?“ you asked smirking at him.

“Hm not too long. Just ever since I saw you in my hoodie.” He muttered close to your ear

“That long?” You chuckled, moving to straddle him. You looked down being met with his cock straining against his grey sweatpants.

“There’s no resisting you, baby.” He smirked up at you his hands flocking to your hips. You rolled your eyes, shaking your head.

Your smile grew as you leaned down locking your lips with his, slowly rolling your hips against his growing erection. You whimpered into the kiss as he slid his hand under his sweatshirt, breaking the kiss to pull it off of you. He admired your lavender lace bra and the way the moonlight struck your features.

You ran your hands under his shirt, exploring his toned abdomen. He then sat up allowing you to pull his t-shirt off. You tossed it to the side as both of your chests rose and fell dramatically out of excitement.

His lips attached to your neck hitting your sweet spot that he had memorized. You let out a moan as your eyes involuntarily shut. “Fuck,” you muttered. Your core ached and you knew a damp spot was beginning to form in your panties.

He started to work at your pants sliding them off of you, as you returned the favor. He pushed your panties aside feeling the wetness pooling at your core. “So worked up for me, princess.” He grumbled moving his lips to yours.

He teased your entrance with two fingers making you break the kiss, whimpering against his lips. He briskly reached behind you unclasping your bra and pulling down your panties. “Please,” you begged, breathing heavily.

“Please what?” He smirked, amused, forehead resting against yours.

“Please use your fingers.”

“Whatever you want, Y/n.” With that he inserted two of his long digits into you. He slowly started stroking your velvety walls.

“Mm go faster.” You whimpered.

“What’s the magic word?” He pestered getting significant enjoyment out of your state.

“Please, please, Rafe.” With this he chuckled speeding up. You moaned out burying your face in the crook of his neck, digging your nails into his shoulders. His other hand snaked down to your clit, rubbing figure eights. You were a whimpering mess, putty at his touch.

That familiar bundle of nerves in your abdomen began to tighten as your walls contracted against Rafe’s fingers. “I’m so close, baby” you muttered.

“Come for me, sweetheart.” With his words you fell off the edge and cried out his name. Your chest rose and fell rapidly as you came down from your high, the chilly night air cooling you off.

Rafe whispered sweet praises into your ear, “You did so good for me.” You sat head resting on him for several moments, catching your breath.

As you gained your energy back and exited your phase of hypersensitivity, you remembered your plans. Smirking against him, you reached down and began lightly tracing his erection. You heard Rafe sharply inhale at this.

“You’re always thinking of your next move aren’t you?” He joked, smiling.

“You can’t get anywhere without a plan.” You giggled pulling your head off of him to lock lips with him once again. You pulled away, hooking your fingers in his boxers. Rafe groaned as his dick sprung free. You reached down to stroke his length he leaned his head back, eyes clamping shut.

“Fuck, baby.”

You leaned down and licked a stripe on the underside of his cock. Gazing up at him admiring his state. His glazed over eyes watched you intently, getting off on the sight in front of him. You slowly started taking him into your mouth, keeping eye contact. He groaned lacing his fingers into your hair. Pulling it into a makeshift ponytail.

You bobbed your head up and down as he moaned your name. Your hands pumped what you couldn’t fit into your mouth.

“Shit you’re so pretty.” He groaned out, making you moan against his length. Your current appearance was just as arousing to him as the pleasure he was receiving. You could tell he was getting close, his dick twitching in your mouth.

“Fuck Y/n, I’m gonna come.” You continued relentlessly bobbing your head up and down. “Shit” he muttered, holding your head in place. He shot his warm load down your throat before pulling you off of him. “Now swallow like a good girl.” He growled keeping fierce eye contact. He watched intently as you obliged. Further aroused, he pulled you in for a sloppy kiss, tasting himself on your tongue.

You subconsciously circled your hips against his, whimpering into his mouth. He then wrapped his arms around you to flip you onto your back. He started placing sloppy kisses along your jaw while cupping your breasts in his hands and pulling at your nipples. He trailed his kisses down to your breasts and began working his magic.

“Rafe,” you moaned out squirming under his touch. He smirked at the evident effect he had over you.

“Tell me what you want.” He spoke into your ear, before sucking on that sweet spot right where your jaw meets your ear.

“Please. Fuck me.” You replied face scrunched. He chuckled amusingly against your neck which further sped up your breathing. “God Rafe, I need you.”

With that, he lined himself up and slowly slid into you making you feel each inch of his cock. He groaned out as he buried his forehead in the crook of your neck. You turned into a moaning mess as he slowly slid in and out of you.

“Fuck you feel so good, princess” he muttered into your ear. He began speeding up his pace, your sweaty bodies pressing together. He held one hand on your waist holding you in place and the other was dancing on your clit. You dug your nails into his back, whimpering, the feeling nearly too euphoric to take.

He sped his pace up even further as both of you released your moans into the night. The stars danced above as you shared one of the most intimate acts with the man you cared for above everyone else.

Moonlight illuminated Rafe’s face as he pulled back from your neck to lock eyes with you. Your walls of silk pulsated against his length while your eyes stayed trained on his. Your heart skipped a beat at the sight, while your chest still moved up and down fervently.

“I want you to look at me when you come. Can you do that, baby?”

“Mhm,” you nodded as he pounded into you relentlessly. You were both dangerously close to falling off the edge, the moans between you confirming that.

“Come on baby, finish on my cock.” He muttered out, furiously rubbing your clit. Your hands reached up to run your fingers through his hair, the new pressure on your clit eliciting a loud moan from you.

Your walls convulsed around his twitching dick as you both neared your ends. You were a whimpering mess while both of your chests rose and fell rapidly. You gazed into his beautiful baby blues and with one final thrust, Rafe spilled his load into you as you simultaneously let yours out.

He pressed a sweet kiss to your temple. “You did so good for me, pretty girl.” He grumbled, his voice slightly raspy. He gently pulled out of you admiring the mess pooling out of your entrance. He leaned down to clean you up, licking his lips after.

You exchanged a sweet smile before he laid his head down on your chest, both of you catching your breath. He reached up to twirl your hair between his fingers. You wrapped your arms around him rubbing his back, pulling the blanket back up. You gazed back up at the stars and muttered “Thank you, this was perfect.” Your heart felt, full.

“I’m glad you’re happy.” He mumbled his head buried in your chest.

“You seem pretty happy too.” You giggled, dragging your fingers through his hair. Rafe groaned in contentment.

“It’s hard to be anything else around you.” How did he know exactly what to say to make your heart flutter?

You took a shaky inhale feeling the the weight of what you were just about to admit. You stared out at the moon briefly before looking back down at him.

“Rafe,”

“Hm,”

“I love you.”

You felt him grin against you., “I love you too.”

It felt so good to admit it. You loved him. He loved you. You pressed your lips to his head and held him the tightest you ever have because he was all that mattered.

[words-after-midnight]

Find the Word

Oh look, it's another edition of my favorite tag game! I was tagged by @elizaellwrites to find worse, wander, mindlessly, join, and hysteria.

Tagging: @pertinax--loculos, @klywrites, @sunset-a-story, @catchingbigfish, @winterandwords, @ls-daydreams, @oh-sisyphus, @westcountrygothic.

Your words are: dream, break, poor, light, yearn(ing).

All snippets are from the previous version of Life in Black and White.

cw: "Hysterical" references/alludes to a domestic dispute and parental abandonment.

Note: "Join" is from one of my all-time favorite scenes. 🥰

Worse

Jeff finds me in the bathroom twenty minutes later. He knocks on the door. “Yo, I have to piss.”

“Go fuck yourself,” I say loudly, but immediately feel bad.

He’s not fazed. “Dude, I would, but I seriously doubt I’m that flexible.”

“There are God knows how many other bathrooms in this house.”

“It’s the crack of dawn and I’m lazy. Get the fuck out.”

His nonchalant humor does nothing but make me feel worse. “Sorry. My meds are doing shit all for me right now, for some fucking reason.”

“Dude, can I please piss? You can tell me your life story after.”

Wander

Too quickly, I arrive at my dad’s – not wanting to speak to anyone, I close the front door quietly behind me and wander into the kitchen, hoping to make a straight run for it all the way to my room. Unfortunately, my dad ends up being in the damn kitchen... and I apparently look exactly as I feel, if that’s possible, because before I’ve even figured out what to do with myself, he’s on my back, following me into the living room.

“How did it go?” the stupid man asks gravely.

“How do you think it went?” I reply tonelessly, not so much as turning back. I just keep walking toward my room, hoping he gets struck by a lightning bolt on the way.

He grabs my arm, trying to hold me back. “It’s bad, isn’t it?” he asks. “You can talk to me.”

Mindlessly

Daphne explained the logic to me once before Christmas - before Silverwood was even in the picture, and before I started to see Jeff’s merits for myself. “The way Jeff sees it, people shouldn’t be forced to do anything they don’t want to do,” she said. The tone she used when speaking of him made me so sick at the time. “He thinks people are afraid of being themselves and of being free because of laws, and regulations, and blah, blah… it makes him sick when people just mindlessly conform to rules.”

Join

Standing beside him, uncomfortably close, I held up the candle to the breakers on the far wall of the basement as he flipped them all sequentially, not bothering to check which ones were which.

Nothing happened.

He turned to me, then, in the orange light. Looked me right in the eyes. There was no way he didn’t see them this time. He said, “Well, that’s a bust. Must be the power lines.”

We went back upstairs, and I joined Daphne again at the bottom of the staircase. His hand brushed mine as he took his candle back and returned to the window seat, watching the storm as though it was of his own creation.

Hysteria (hysterical)

All of a sudden, silence. With bated breath I waited. I heard footsteps coming my way. I stood from my bed. The door opened and I heard my mother’s hysterical screams more clearly, rising up from downstairs. My dad walked in with two big brown suitcases and knelt down in front of me, grasping both my little arms.

I looked into his face and I saw the tears in his eyes, streaming down his cheeks... and he smelled funny. I couldn’t put my finger on it at the time, but now I know it was beer. Terrified, I asked him, “Dad, what’s going on?”

[chuckbass-love]

please do #19 with ransom🤭

A/N: Hey, sweet anon. I let all of my requests build up so hence the long wait, which i am sorry for. However, i really hope you love this. I was supposed to upload an Andy Barber request first but it’s a long one and i’m in the process of editing it for y’all. But for now, here is a steamy, short and sweet Ransom fic because he’s my fave, to keep y’all satisfied for now.

Prompt #19: "Do you need me to finger you first?"

Disclaimer: My work is not to be translated or to be posted anywhere else other than MY Tumblr, Wattpad and Ao3 without my permission. However, reblogs are welcome.

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x Fem!Reader

Warning: Smut, vaginal fingering, brief thigh riding, degradation, swearing and a small mention of murder and prison. 18+ as always guys!

Word Count: 2,210

GIF NOT MINE!!! Credit to @evansensations go check them out💕

Get You Ready

It’s 2:45pm, early afternoon time in Massachusetts and you’re currently held up and pre occupied in the middle of nowhere in a rented cabin with Boston’s most notorious playboy. Hugh Ransom Drysdale.

To say you’ve become well acquainted with the convicted murdered would be an understatement to say the least. He’s dangerous, bad news or a bad egg as your mother likes to say. But you couldn’t bring yourself to abandon him when he got arrested, and so the regular visits began. 

At first, you tried to deny him the simplest pleasures of just kissing you, you refused to give yourself to a man with such a unsettling reputation. However, that refusal didn’t last long. He found a way, by somehow coercing you into succumbing to his touch, the slow drag of his lips across yours before he bit down hard on your bottom lip was enough to have you panting and keening for more.

And so it continued...

The kissing turned to touching and the touching turned to more, with your consent of course.

But the haze of white bed sheets and lazy morning sex had to end at some point, that point being the death of Harlan, Ransom’s grandfather. 

From the moment news broke of his death, Hugh began to act shady, and although you couldn’t quite put your finger on it, you knew you had reason to be suspicious.

The will reading then fast approached and it only got worse, his restlessness, the way he seemed to be so irritable yet so unable to find anything to help. Nothing would suffice, not even the soft touch of your hand on his shoulders to massage the tension away. 

And then Marta was handed everything...literally on a silver platter. Though you couldn’t fault Harlans choice, the same could not have been said for the good for nothing, money grabbing Thrombey's and Drysdale’s. They were angry, seething even. However, Ransom was peculiarly calm, it was worrisome. 

Days passed with Blanc trying to solve the mystery of the best selling authors demise but to no avail. No one could figure it out. Fingers were pointed, digs were thrown. But no one knew, just who did kill Harlan Thrombey? It was a mystery. 

That was until Hugh Ransom Drysdale was found out, Blanc clocked on eventually, he realised how Ransom had pulled the wool right over his eyes, for far too long.

This same realisation led to his arrest. 

But with great lawyers, he weaselled his way out of a long sentence. 

The day of his release, and much to your mothers dismay, you rushed into his arms. You wanted to be the first person he saw, the first person he held. You wanted him to know what he meant to you, how loyal you were to him. And you still are.

Throughout all of the shit that’s been thrown at the two of you, you’re still together, albeit in some old cabin in the middle of nowhere, but together nonetheless.

And now here you are on an extremely cold day, wrapped up in his warm embrace as you lay between his spread legs. Your head is rested on his chest as his fingers brush against your clit for the umpteenth time today, you had a taster of his cock inside of you and after days of him being too busy, it hurt a little, the stretch.

See, how you ended up here is a funny story, you dared to tread the waters around him whilst he was working on something in his study and in doing so, you earned a punishment. 

He had told you he was busy one time too many and you didn’t listen, you actively ignored his refusals. 

The whore that you’ll always be for him just couldn’t resist getting on her knees as he sat there man spreading and looking too good not to touch. And the moment you worked at his belt to pull his slacks and boxers down, his hardened cock sprang free from its confines and he looked too good not to taste. 

But before you could wrap your sweet gloss covered and tempting lips around the throbbing tip that leaked his tasty pre-cum, he gripped your face aggressively with one hand. His phone rang in the other and as he answered, his punishing grip relented and he was tapping his lap for you to sit down on it, not before he signalled for you to strip though.

Whilst you undressed, he shimmied out of is slacks, until they dropped to his feet along with his boxers. He stepped out of them and waited for you to straddle him, for you to sink down on his hardened length. But just as you were about to, a better idea rose to light. Instead he manoeuvred the two of you so that you were straddling his thigh, the words ‘ride it’ that he mouthed let you know that that was all that you’d be getting today.

The phone conversation seemed to drag out agonisingly but he’d assist you by moving his thigh just to give you some reprieve, some friction, even if it only lasted a second.

However, once the phone call came to an abrupt end, it was game on. You began to move more, letting moans slip so casually until he stood up with you in his arms. He carried you to the bedroom, taking his time to admire every inch of your face as he walked, you felt warm under his stare.

Reaching the bedroom, Ransom positioned the two of you so that you were between his spread legs, your own legs wide open for his pleasure. He began to toy with your cunt, muttering degrading words while he pulled orgasm after orgasm from you just by rubbing at your over sensitive clit and now you’re not sure you even have another inside of you. 

“Does my dumb baby need my cock?”

Your eyes droop as you fight off your spent state, but you still manage a slow nod as you turn your head to look back at him, eyes pleading for just an inch of him to be buried inside of you.

“Beg for it, baby”

With a dry mouth and zero energy, you whisper “please, daddy. Please fuck me with your cock” 

Your words, nothing but a whine to his ears but since you’ve been such a good girl thus far, he caves in easily until before you know it, you’re on your back with Ransom hovering above you.

He pumps his shaft a couple times, before tapping it against your sex lightly, making you jolt. 

“Are you ready for me?” he asks, lust blown eyes focused on yours as they turn darker. You give a simple nod along with a meek little “yes” to satisfy him.

And with that he slams inside of you, causing you to cry out in pain.

Ransom may be a lot of things, but he can never bring himself to fuck you if you’re uncomfortable. He prefers you to enjoy the sex.

His hips come to a rushed halt as he lowers his head to where yours is laying on the pillow beneath, his thumb brushing your tears away.

“Shhh, what is it, baby?” 

“It’s been a couple days since we last did anything, i’m a little tight, it just hurt that’s all” you explain, trying to signal for him to continue. But instead he chuckles, pulling out entirely and pulling your bottom lip down as his other hand roams south.

“Does my dumb baby need a little help? Do you need me to finger you first, hm? Get that tight cunt ready for me?”

His crass words resonate deep within, sending more arousal to pool at your sore entrance and regardless of how bad it hurts, you want him.

“No, i want you now-”

“Hush, baby. Let daddy take care of it for you”

His lips begin to trail from your tear stained cheek to your lips and then down to the valley between your breasts. He sucks a now hardened nipple into his mouth, biting down and flicking his tongue across it with precision but you daren’t get too used to it as he soon moves further down toward your needy and aching sex. 

Once he reaches it, your chest begins to rise and fall, your breath growing heavier. 

You watch on as he licks a stripe from your entrance to your clit and he repeats this action a couple more times before sucking on the pulse point, flicking his tongue just like he did across your nipple. Your back arches and endless lewd moans slip as you struggle to contain how good he feels. 

Two thick digits slip inside of you, scissoring you open and easing you through the stretch to prepare you for him once again. The thing with Ransoms size is that regardless of how often you fuck, he’ll always need to prepare you before he fucks you.

“Tastes so good, baby” he coos, his fingers pumping in and out of you, slowly at first and then the pace picks up until your clutching at the sheets beneath you. His mouth giving your body that extra push toward the edge, the pool of pleasure awaiting you below as you writhe around, enjoying every second of his sinful mouth.

“Ransom” you groan, hips bucking up to meet the rhythm of his fingers, chasing that all important release.

It’s like whenever Ransom is involved, your body ignites and you turn into a blazing inferno, every inch of you so needy for him, it never fades. 

He has you right where he wants you and you feel absolutely no shame in that.

Your bodies are drawn together constantly, like a magnetic pull is responsible. And as much as your family don’t approve, you adore it.

The feel of his fingers curling inside of you, the tips poking that spongy spot deep within you that has the power to send your body into a shaking mess. You crave that release now, you’re starving for it. And you’re going to make sure he gives it to you.

The continuation of your hips rolling and bucking alerts Ransom of how close you are and a smirk appears on his sinister face... here comes trouble.

Without missing a beat, he withdraws his fingers from your tight cunt, lifting them up for you to see the way your slick covers them beautifully. His tongue dips out to wet his lips as he ogles the sight of your arousal before he takes them into is mouth, his tongue working expertly, making sure that every drop hits his tastebuds. 

An overly satisfied and deep guttural groan rumbles from him and you feel your eyes widen at the hottest sight you’ve ever seen. Ransom in his element, pleasuring you until you break for him. 

There’s just something about the way he fucks, the way he teases, the way he touches and kisses. It’s him in all of his glory.

He merely has to look in your direction with those darkened lust filled orbs and you’re a goner, weak at the knees. Some people’s talents lie in photography or creative writing, but Ransom’s lies in the art of seduction and pleasure. He knows exactly what he’s doing and no other man has ever come close to him. 

It makes you question how you coped all that time before you met him.

“You think you can handle me now, hm?” his degrading tone doesn’t skim over your head, but somehow you live for the way his entire demeanour switches when it comes to these things. 

He hovers above you once again, his hands braced either side of your head as he urges you to lift your legs up as high as you can before he drapes them over his broad shoulders. 

Your breathing picks up, your chest rising and falling as your eyes remain locked on his, the tip of his impressive size nudging at your entrance. The edging he put you through now a distant memory as he eases in, or at least for the first 2 inches. Then he slams in, forcing you to take the rest of him, all the way.

“God” you scream, hands scrambling around again, searching for something to claw at as his hips snap into you, his pace nothing short of unforgiving. 

“God can’t save you now” he grumbles, mouth falling open as he scrunches his face up in reaction to the feel of your pussy wrapped around him in a fist like grip. Wet and perfect.

The noises filling the room are making you grateful that you’re well away from everyone else, your own little safe haven in the middle of nowhere, no one can interrupt you now.

And It’s bound to be a long night....

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

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LMK if you want to be added to my tag lists by commenting on this post or shooting me a DM x

[storiesforallfandoms]

safe space ~ corpse husband

word count: 1296

request?: yes!

“Ok I just had this random imagine idea for corspe husband pop into my head. Its kinda long but I think it would be cute. The reader gets panic/anxiety attacks too but the reader had never been able to calm down or have a safe space when they have them. One time they were on the verge of having one and corspe just held them and they calmed down and they were surprised. It happens like that a few times and the reader realizes he's their safe space. One time they were about to have one and corspe was in his room editing (not streaming or recording) and the reader goes to him and plops on his lap and he's confused and the reader mumbles something like safe space and he's just shocked and happy. Idk I think its cause I just had one that I thoguht of this. I know its long. I just want some long cute corspe fluff. 🖤”

description: in which she finds out that her safe space is in his arms

pairing: corpse x female!reader

warnings: swearing, anxiety attacks

masterlist

The first time we realized that Corpse was my safe space was during an Among Us stream. I was in Corpse’s room playing so that we didn’t accidentally cheat off of one another. The round had ended with me throwing and voting for Leslie instead of Felix, causing the imposters to win, which resulted in everyone immediately yelling when they could all unmute their mics again.

I knew they weren’t actually mad, but I felt myself becoming overwhelmed with all the yelling. My breathing was becoming quicker and more shallow, and everything I could possibly say caught in my throat. Tears were forming in my eyes and my hands were shaking so bad I could barley even try to type anything in the chat. No one noticed my silence over all the shouting, except for Corpse, who knew me all too well.

The door to his YouTube room opened and the next thing I knew, his arms were around me, holding me tightly.

“They’re not actually mad,” he whispered, soothingly, in my ear. “It’s okay baby, you’re okay.”

Although it was still a long process of coming down from my attack, I felt myself relax in his arms quicker than I normally did. I cuddled my head into his chest and listened to his steady heartbeat until I felt myself feeling better. Corpse ended his stream and both of us left the game to spend the rest of the night just cuddling in bed together.

After that, Corpse became my safe place. Whenever he was around for an anxiety attack, he’d take me in his arms and would hold me as long as I needed him to. When he was busy, I’d put on one of his hoodies that smelled like him, which did the trick well enough but not as much as actually feeling his arms around me.

One day, I was hunched over my laptop, trying to make sense of the assignment I had been given for one of my classes. The wording of the assignment made absolutely no sense, and what was expected was extremely confusing. I didn’t know anyone in my class well enough to reach out and ask for help, so I felt stuck. And, of course, the stupid thing was due in a week’s time and I didn’t even know where to start for it.

My mind began to fill with anxious thoughts. I was convinced that this one assignment was going to lead to my ultimate failure of the entire class, and I was sure that that’s what I deserved.

You should’ve started earlier, a voice in my mind was saying. If you fail you deserve it. You have no one to blame but yourself, you lazy piece of shit.

Corpse was in his YouTube room, luckily just editing a video and not actually recording or streaming. As I felt my anxiety attack coming on, I debated on walking in without warning. I needed him more than anything right now, but I didn’t want to interrupt him when he was technically working. However, my vision was already becoming blurred from a combination of tears and how bad I was shaking, so I knew this would be a bad one that I couldn’t ride out on my own.

Corpse looked up at me as I walked into the room without knocking. He looked confused, but pushed his chair out anyways to give me room to curl up on his lap.

“What are you doing?” he asked, a mixture of confused and amused.

“Safe space,” I mumbled against his chest. My shaking was already becoming less intense.

He kissed the top of my head and wrapped his arms around me, holding me tightly to him. We sat like that for some time. I listened to Corpse’s steady heartbeat, a soothing sound that could’ve lulled me to sleep if I wasn’t still coming down from my near attack.

After a while, I felt Corpse move his chair back to his desk. He leaned forward ever so slightly as to not disrupt me on his lap and continued to edit his video. I watched as he did so, giggling at the parts that made me laugh, which was approval enough for Corpse to keep them in the video.

We were sat like that for nearly an hour. I had long calmed down, but I was so comfortable in Corpse’s arms that I didn’t want to move. When he finished editing, I turned to face him, straddling his lap and wrapping my arms around his neck.

“Are you okay?” he asked, resting his hands on my hips.

“I am now,” I confirmed. “I’m sorry for bothering you while you were editing.”

“You don’t have to apologize, baby. You have nothing to apologize for. You know you can always come to me when you need me.”

I ran my hands through his hair and gave him a light kiss on the nose, causing him to chuckle.

“You’re too good to me,” I said, my voice low in a whisper.

“Saying I’m too good to you implies that you don’t deserve someone who is going to be there for you at all times,” he said. “Which you do. You deserve that and so much more.”

“You’re gonna make me cry!” I said, blinking away the tears of happiness that were forming in my eyes. “Stop being so cute!”

“I can’t, it’s a disease. I can’t get rid of it.”

I giggled and kissed him again.

“Want to talk about what had you so worked up?” he asked.

I sighed and leaned back more to look at him. “It’s that stupid assignment for my class. I’ve left it for too long and now it’s due next week and I have no idea what to do for it. I’m afraid I’m gonna fail, the assignment and the class...and I feel like I deserve to fail for leaving it so late.”

“A week is plenty of time to work on it once you have it figured out,” Corpse said. “Can you email your professor to get it explained?”

“I can try, but she’s awful for responding. Last time I emailed her she didn’t respond until the day it was due, and by then I had already bullshit my way through the assignment and submitted it. I don’t even know I can do that for this one.”

“It’s worth a try. You can email her, then I’ll see if there’s any way I can help you figure it out while you wait. I warn you though, I am not the brightest person out there.”

“Well that’s a lie. You’re much smarter than I am.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong. That’s the simp in you clouding your judgement of me.”

I chuckled at this as Corpse pulled me to him to kiss my neck. I let out a squeal as he rose from his chair, my legs still wrapped around his waist and his arms still holding me tightly.

He carried me back to his room and basically threw me down on his bed. He took my school stuff off the bed and proceeded to flop down on top of me, effectively pinned me down to the bed.

“Get up! I gotta email my prof!” I laughed, trying - and failing - to push him off of me.

“You can email later. I want to cuddle.”

I playfully rolled my eyes, but in truth I was grateful for this moment. No stress, no anxiety, just the love of my life in my arms and his head on my chest. I played with his curly brown hair as he ran his fingers gently over my sides.

This was my safe space, my happy place. And I truly couldn’t ask for a better one.

[watercolorfreckles]

The Villain and His Therapist - Part 4

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

"You know, that shade of pink looks lovely on you," Villain purred, descending the stairs to lean against the kitchen counter.

Juliet paused where she was scrambling eggs in a skillet and glanced down at her attire of soft blue pajama pants and oversized grey sweater. "I'm not wearing any pink," she said slowly, lifting her gaze to look at the Villain.

He'd just come down from a shower, dark locks of hair curling over his forehead. He smelled of her green apple shampoo. It made her insides swoop all funny.

Villain's lips tugged into an easy grin as he took one step closer, two. He paused directly in front of her to lift a hand, brushing his knuckles feather-light against her burning cheek.

"I was referring to your blush. It suits you quite beautifully." His voice was liquid gold. Her skin tingled beneath his touch.

Remembering herself, Juliet swatted his hand away and covered her cheeks with her palms. "I'm not blushing."

He didn't try to hide the amusement on his face.

"Mm, whatever were you thinking about, Doctor Meadows?" Villain took Juliet's hands to gently pry them away from her face, using the hold on her wrists to pull her closer.

Juliet sucked in a soft breath, looking up at him. The sun streaming through the window caught the highlights of his handsome face and illuminated his dark irises, turning them to molten amber.

"I...was...thinking about how gentle you can be. When you calmed me down that night, you were patient and sensitive; you displayed a lot of empathy and care. I'm really proud of you. You've come a long way."

Villain's grin grew a little softer as he tilted his head to the side, studying her face. The way he looked at her used to make her feel like prey being stalked by a lion. Now...it made her feel like she was the only thing in his universe.

Her stomach fluttered.

Juliet swallowed, continuing. "I imagine it isn't easy for you to be so vulnerable. I'm glad that you feel safe enough with me to be soft."

Villain brushed her fringe away from her face, tapping the side of her head. "That psychologist brain of yours never turns off, does it?"

She smiled sheepishly, gaze dipping down to the floor.

Villain's finger hooked under her chin, lifting it gently. "I never said I didn't like it. You are my therapist, after all."

Villain leaned in closer, eliciting the slightest hitch in her breath. He smiled, relishing her response.

His breath ghosted over her lips, leaving them tingling in anticipation.

"Yours?" she asked softly. Her mouth had gone dry.

"Would you like to be?"

Juliet's thoughts were rarely clear on her face. She was difficult to read under the years of training keeping her steady and prepared. Villain wanted to unpick that artificial calm from her; to map her every reaction. He wanted to watch her sigh and blush and smile...

"The eggs are going to burn," Juliet whispered, watching him.

Without taking his eyes off of her, Villain reached over her shoulder, turning off the stove. In one fluid movement, he turned with her, pressing her back against the counter.

If her cheeks were warm before, they were blazing now. Villain smiled again, this time something so fond it dazzled her senses. The world narrowed to just the two of them, flush together.

Juliet's hands fell against Villain's chest, lightly resting against the soft cotton of his shirt.

She breathed in his scent.

"Villain?"

"Mm?" he murmured, the hum of his voice vibrating against her palms.

"When your brother- What he said about how you feel...about me... Is it true?" She held his gaze, holding her breath.

"My sweet Juliet Meadows." His voice alone was enough to melt her. He took one of her hands with deliberate gentleness and placed a kiss against her fingers. "If only I were brave enough to say it out loud."

"You can say it in other ways," Juliet breathed.

His eyes gleamed.

"Oh I intend to," Villain said softly.

Villain's gaze flicked down to Juliet's lips. He kept one hand on her waist, slotting the other into her hair. He leaned in until their lips brushed. Pausing, he seemed to catch himself, probably remembering Juliet's comments in therapy about the importance of healthy communication.

He smiled again, sharp and beautiful. His warm breath grazed her skin while his thumb traced lazy circles against her jaw. "May I?" he whispered, his lips hovering just barely above hers.

Juliet opened her mouth to answer, and-

The door burst open.

Juliet jolted in surprise, panic shooting through her as she gripped Villain's arms before she caught sight of who was really at the door.

The figure was fitted in a deep red super-suit, a black mask concealing his identity.

She relaxed, releasing a breath through gritted teeth. "Hero?"

"Doctor Meadows," Hero said, relief flooding his expression. "I heard what happened to you on the news and with Supervillain's escape, I knew you were in danger so I-"

His eyes narrowed as he seemed to notice Villain for the first time. "You get away from her," he hissed marching closer, crimson beams of tech-powered energy sparking to life in his palms. "Let her go and get out."

Villain hardened at the sight of him in turn, straightening and pulling out an advanced weapon. "Now that's insulting, at least I was invited inside." His voice was smooth and dangerous. Chilling.

A far cry from the man who had held her close and smiled fondly only moments ago.

Juliet stepped between them, holding up a hand in each direction. "Stop."

"You invited him in? Doctor Meadows, he's Supervillain's brother! He's probably here to finish the job for him!"

"Oh that's rich," Villain interjected. "For all your self-righteous monologues begging me to change, to be better, when I actually try, you can't accept it."

"I'm not willing to bet Doctor Meadow's life on your 'moral awakening,'" Hero spat.

"Hero," Juliet said in the no-nonsense voice her job often required her to use. "Take a deep breath. Villain would never hurt me, you don't need to worry about that."

"He-"

"-is in rehabilitation," Juliet finished for him. "He is my patient, just as you are. He has made tremendous progress, you are in no position to discredit his reformation. I promise you that I am safe with him."

Hero stared, studying the pair. Villain's jaw was clenched, glaring hard at the hero. Juliet touched his shoulder and some of the tension immediately dissolved from him.

Hero extinguished the energy beams in his palms, shifting into a less guarded stance. He regarded them for a second longer.

"Alright."

"Alright?"

"You want to prove you have good intentions? Help me find Supervillain and bring him in, for good this time," Hero said. "I can't do it alone."

Villain turned to look at Juliet. She stepped closer, taking his hand as she spoke.

"No. I don't want you to put yourself in a position where your recovery might be compromised again. You're too close to the situation to act rationally, and it would be too much of a trigger for you."

Villain's gaze softened as it landed on her, any hostility in his demeanor vanishing like it had never been there. He brushed her hair back with gentle fingers, leaning in. His thumb dipped down to graze her lips.

Villain kissed her cheek, her chin, the corner of her mouth. He straightened, eyes intent, looking like he wanted to kiss her properly--but not until they were alone.

When time would suspend like frost in the air and the moment would belong solely to the two of them, in the quiet and safety of each other.

Juliet's skin felt cold at the loss of his touch. Dread swirled in the pit of her stomach.

Villain turned to Hero, observing him for a moment before extending a hand to shake. "Deal."

Sorry I haven't posted in so loooong. I kept putting off writing this bc I was worried id mess it up lol. This is officially the longest series I've posted so far (the rest of my snippets have 3 parts or less) so wooo! Let me know if you want to see more :)

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