#// a little drabble

[silverskyeline]

ੈ♡˳ imagine you're wearing logans dog tags as you ride him. 18+

you're rolling your hips on him, riding him just how he wants. his firm, calloused hands grip your hips with purpose, digging into your flesh so hard it will surely leave bruises. he wants to leave bruises, evidence of how much he wants you, needs you. growling like a fucking animal as his cock slides in and out of you with ease, each slap of his hips connecting with yours earning soft moans from your lips and rough grunts from his.

he loves staring into your eyes while he fucks you, watching those pretty eyes of yours roll back into your skull - but not tonight. tonight he can't help but be mesmerised by the way his dog tags around your neck bounce each time he thrusts. the soft jingling of the metal fills his ears, adding to the sounds of skin on skin and ragged gasps.

fuck, they looked so good on you. his rough fingers trail across your lower stomach, snaking their way to the tags. the metal around your neck, a sign that he owned you, watching the metal coined with his name slap against your soft skin rhythmically.

"that's it," he yanks the chain suddenly, causing you to gasp and place your hands on his fuzzy chest to steady yourself, "atta'girl. . ." logan coos, as he pumps up into you, meeting your every movement. by now, he knows your wet hole is just aching to be filled. it started aching the moment you crawled into bed beside him.

every. single. night.

and you're his, you know you're his, you've given yourself completely to him. your hand grips around his on the tags as if solidifying this, silently granting him ownership.

logan grins, feeling his cock twitch inside you.

you looked so pretty with his name around your neck.

[miguel-owhora]

ive been thinking long and hard about that one drabble an anon sent about Micah and a reader with tentacles for dicks. It has me thinking about a parasitic reader, who perhaps is beyond our consciousness, whose body is beyond what I can describe. But he's a parasitic symbiote, essentially; no real form to speak of, except for the fact that he's a parasite, latching onto humans and living in them, relying on them to keep him alive, and in some ways, taking control of what makes them orgasm.

Perhaps it's Micah who finds you first, when alone in his hermit campsite. He's not sure what to make of you, more baffled on what you are, and has half the mind to kill you. When he reaches for his guns, well, he doesn't expect you to be quick, slipping into his veins with the speed of something beyond normal.

He drops his gun, perhaps; startled and caught off guard. His heart drops to his stomach when he sees your dark substance run through his veins, like lightning as it disappeared underneath his pale skin. He claws at his skin, panic settling in, confused all the same. He shouts at you to leave him, to fuck off, and of course, no such thing happens.

What he doesn't expect to happen, however, is the tentacles that extend from somewhere his hands can't reach, perhaps his back. Long and slimy, wiggling with minds of their own, bioluminescent in color. Micah freaks out, frozen in place—at least, long enough for the tentacle to start moving. Wiggling and squirming, sweeping him off his feet, they start to touch him.

Pinning his wrists together, locking his legs in place, they squirm over his plush body in curiosity and with a goal in mind. They rub over his face, curl around his throat like curious cats, touching his chest and over his belly. Red blooms across his cheeks, gritting his teeth, Micah gets both angry and embarrassed when he realizes how you have him.

Easy, accessible.

Like some cheap whore that's made for fucking.

He shouts, snarls some curses when the tentacles prod at his groin, nudging past his waistbands. He gags when some of the smaller tentacles slip into his mouth, eyes widening in shock. It's almost overwhelming, but it does a job at muffling him when the tentacles brush against his cunt—oh, Lord, have mercy on him; why didn't he think to wear briefs?

[astayinwonderland]

No… but imagine Seonghwa, who always shows he is very controlled, lose it because of you.

~Seonghwa’s POV~ internal monologue | smutty thoughts so +18 MDNI

There you are again. This is the third time you get lost in the crowd. Dancing, drinking, you know how to have fun. I wonder how much fun you would like to have with me. You think I’m not noticing the lingering stares and the batting of your eyelashes, or the way you say my name just to entice me. Well, darling, it is working, and you know it is working because I can’t keep my eyes off you.

I need to keep playing this game you have orchestrated for the two of us. Now you are just in front of me, bending a little bit too far over the bar to ask for a drink. You want me to notice you are wearing lace lingerie? Love, you would look even better without it anyway, and with me pleasing your needy hole with my tongue.

Yes… I saw you staring while I licked the overflowing liqueur from my glass earlier tonight. I did that for you. How much longer will you keep me waiting, angel? The fire inside me can’t wait to consume you, fuck you, praise you. Oh! There’s that look again, the one I can’t say no to. You want me to follow you through the dark corridors all the way to my room. Is this why you insisted the party should be at my place? Do you want everyone to hear you screaming my name?

You just close the door and pull my face to meet yours.

“Would you make me yours?” your sultry voice almost making me cum in my pants.

“I thought you would never ask.”

[thedarkivistwrites]

Ferdinand only dared to steal the occasional glance at first, but now he watches Hubert's hands quite openly, a foreign giddiness bubbling up in his chest. In truth, he knows he shouldn't be here, doing this. Any of this. It's messy, and uncouth, and he's enjoying himself too much.

He turns his face to the sun, warm on his skin, as the sea breeze ruffles his hair.

Mornings start earlier around the markets and the Enbarr harbour than they do in the palace, and so they sit on the pier practically unnoticed - the fishermen, the stallholders, the people doing their shopping - they all have better things to do.

A drop of juice drizzles down Hubert's pale wrist when he squeezes the lemon over the bowl perched precariously on his lap. The sea urchins are freshly caught, just split open, the raw core on display a shocking orange against their black, spiky shells.

"I assumed you would say that buying food from street vendors is a security risk," Ferdinand remarks, and finally tears his eyes from the other He laughs when he says it, but even he can tell it doesn't sound quite right. He truly needs to put more effort into sounding casual.

"Perhaps," he shrugs, "if you are a paranoiac with too much time on your hands. Or if you were known to do it regularly, at a particular place, and invariably ordering the same dish. Assassinations generally require a great deal of planning, which often exploits patterns and habits. Naturally, there's always the chance of an unplanned attack, but poison is rarely used in such cases." Then, with a scoff: "This much should be obvious to anyone."

His tone is cool, unhurried, and Ferdinand wonders if he should find it as comforting as he does, given the subject. His gaze drops to the bowl on his lap, and only then it dawns on him he failed to account for the fact he'll have to eat it with his hands. Of course, the unwritten etiquette of this environment permits it, but it still feels improper.

Hubert next to him doesn't seem to share his reservations - Ferdinand watches him out of the corner of his eye, wondering what broke through his customary fussiness. Slowly, Hubert slips his fingers down the edge of the shell and digs his fingers as deep as the sea urchin will allow before he yanks out one of the soft lobes within and brings it to his lips.

A shudder runs through Ferdinand. The breeze from the sea must be colder than he realised at first. Distractedly, Hubert licks his fingers, and Ferdinand looks away, but that's not enough to shield him from the faint, pleased hum coming from his side. He swallows hard, clumsily peels off his gloves and shoves them in the pocket of his coat.

He's familiar with the delicacy, Aegir being a seaside territory, yet the pleasurable shock of the sea urchin flesh melting on his tongue never loses its allure. He'd tried to describe the taste to Lorenz some years ago, but failed miserably - he'd fare no better now. Savoury, and briny, though not overpowering. Paltry, insufficient approximations. It tastes like memory. Like so many holidays before the start of the new year after time erased the day-to-day troubles and scoldings, leaving behind only some irretrievable sunlit ease. Ignorance, someone might say.

The taste lingers, even as his eyes flutter closed, even as he rests his head on his companion's shoulder.

Hubert allows it.

[reallygroovyninja]

Lexa and Clarke ambled down the quiet city street, their fingers lightly brushing against each other's as the world moved around them in a blur of muted sounds and color. As they passed by a myriad of storefronts, one in particular caught Clarke's eye, causing her to halt in her tracks.

It was a quaint art gallery, its window displaying an abundance of beautiful paintings. But one painting stood out to Clarke — a magnificent tapestry of colors, embodying emotions that spoke to her deeply. "Lexa, look at that," Clarke whispered, her voice filled with wonder. Lexa followed Clarke's gaze, and for a moment, both women were lost in the strokes and hues of the artwork.

The world around them was muted, the distant hum of the city blending with the subtle rustling of trees. Gathering her thoughts, Lexa turned to Clarke with a vulnerability in her eyes that wasn't often seen. "Do you ever regret it?" she asked hesitantly. Clarke looked at her, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "Regret what?" she probed. Lexa exhaled, searching for the right words. "Not pursuing your love of art," she finally voiced out. Clarke's gaze drifted away for a moment, lost in a whirlwind of memories and dreams left behind.

As they stood there, the weight of Lexa's question lingered in the air. Clarke took a deep breath, her eyes reflecting the moon's gentle glow as she met Lexa's gaze. "No," she replied with unwavering certainty, "I don't regret it."

Seeing the surprise in Lexa's eyes, she continued, "When I chose to follow you to Polis University and pursue medicine, it wasn't just about us or about abandoning my passion for art. It was a calling. Something deep within me knew that this was where I needed to be, what I needed to do." She reached out, holding Lexa's hand reassuringly. "My love for art will always be a part of me, but walking this path with you, healing and helping others, feels just as right."

The stillness of the street enveloped them, amplifying the sincerity and depth of Clarke's words. As they resonated within Lexa, a rush of emotions welled up inside her, a concoction of admiration, understanding, and overwhelming love.

She looked deep into Clarke's blue eyes, seeing not just the woman she loved, but a soul filled with passion and purpose. Overwhelmed by the profound connection and the gravity of the moment, Lexa bridged the distance between them.

Gently cradling Clarke's face, she pressed her lips onto hers. It was a kiss that spoke volumes, a silent acknowledgment of their shared journey and the sacrifices they made for each other and their dreams. The world around them faded as they lost themselves in the kiss, a testament to their unbreakable bond.

As their lips parted, Clarke and Lexa remained close, foreheads touching, and eyes still closed. The cacophony of life around them — the chirping crickets, distant conversations, and soft rustle of leaves — seemed distant, as if the world had taken a pause to honor their bond. With a shared smile and intertwined fingers, they stood, ready to face the challenges and joys the future would bring. Both women had made choices, faced regrets, and confronted fears, but together, they found strength and purpose. And as they walked away, side by side, it was evident to anyone who saw them that they were not just two souls in love, but also partners on a journey of growth, discovery, and unyielding commitment.

[madhatterbri]

Ohhhh you know after Jey won, he took his title, got out of the ring and went over to Y/N to give her a big hug and she hugged him back

Now imagine Finn seeing that on TV

Oooooh the Irish lad would be bothered asf!!!

Y/N sat in her chair. Jaw dropped to the floor. He did it. Jey Uso finally won his first singles championship. She couldn't help but join the chants of those around the arena.

You deserve it!

Jey stood at a corner and held the championship high in the air. Y/N felt a few tears prick her eyes. She stood up and clapped. He smiled at her.

The camera showed as Jey made his way towards her. His arms wrapped around her. She wrapped hers around him. With her mouth close to his ear, she congratulated him. He thanked her and they went their separate way.

Finn pouted on the couch as he watched the scene unfold. He wasn't bothered. He wasn't. They were just coworkers. A smirk came to his face. Maybe he should show Y/N what exactly she has when she comes home.

[second-wife-playbook]

Last Drink (Coronis Drabble)

(tw; dark themes, mass murder)

The Marquette is cold.

The three siblings did not often gather for tea. It was often just the two eldest, talking of their lives, their plans, their social calendar. But once in a while, they sought entertainment for these tea-times. Someone to compare, to complain to, to chastise. There was only one easy target, one who could be plucked from her perch and summoned at will.

Coronis drank very meagerly from her cup and kept her eyes down. Even sandwiched between Stella and Andrealphus, she was trying to hide.

"At least Stolas can offer a nice place to live! Even if living with his dishwater-dull arse is about as exciting as watching paint dry-"

"Well that's hardly our little Cori's fault, now is it? The market for marriage is so slim these days, and it's hardly easy finding a match for someone on the older side-"

She was not there. That was what she told herself. I am simply not here. They already talk like she isn't sitting right in front of them.

I'm not here. She thought. I'm not...really here.

"Cori? Cori? Coronis!"

She snapped to attention. "Yes?"

"Weren't you listening?" Andrealphus made a disappointed look. "Do focus when someone is talking to you. Stella was just saying she had a nice idea for the ball next week."

Coronis swallowed hard. "Is that so?"

"Oh it's delightful." Stella smirked. "It's the most darling little game, and best of all, you'll be part of it!"

A cold lump formed in her stomach. She already had goosebumps from sitting in this room. She didn't want to know. She didn't want to play. "Is...is that right?" She muttered nervously. "What kind of game?"

"Just a little game of numbers." Her cruelty was keen and sharp-edged. Stella wore her edges beautifully, but that was what made them horrific. There was never a Goetia as dangerous as one who held grace and wickedness with a careless, lovely hand. "We're going to let everyone guess what your dowry is!"

Andrealphus chuckled. "Though if they undersell it, I think I'll take them up on the offer."

Something...

Pricked.

I have to play this game. She realized. And it's going to go too far. The siblings were already chortling at the idea of it. Making plans, thinking of how amusing it would be to see all those numbers put into place for a twisted game of profit and value. And I'm going to be sold like a cow for the lowest bid...going to be just another toy to play with.

The cup in her hand began to sweat.

The Marquette was a little less cold. But Coronis felt that perhaps...her mind was made up.

______

"Andrealphus, there's something I need to talk to you about."

The ball was only three days off. Plans were being made by the caterer. Coronis was certain the guests were clued into the secret game; she had been forced to sit through Stella's little get-togethers with her repulsive friends and heard a lot of sinister giggles gestured her way.

Andrealphus didn't look up from his desk. His youngest sister visiting the Marquette on her own was rare, but not worth diverting his attention. "Mm? Make it quick, I'm very busy."

"Do you mean to marry me off like you said?"

That earned one short glance.

Just one.

"You're overripe as far as brides go. And even if we're immortal, one does not want to risk their future with a spinster." He said with the most casual air. "I have done what I could when you were young enough for it, but even I cannot achieve miracles."

"But you're going to do it over a game?"

His face curled into a sneer. "What of it?" He snapped. "You haven't been an active participant yourself Cori. You can't go leeching off our parents and me for long. I've done what I can for you." And yet Coronis could tell that in his impatience and anger, that could not be farther from the truth. "Consider it a charming anecdote to tell your future children. You'll do well with anyone in attendance. Don't be so selfish."

Had Andrealphus looked up, he might have seen Hell's rarest sight.

Anger.

"....you will go through with it?" Coronis's tone might have hinted at her fury. "Whoever wins?"

"Yes, yes." His tone was impatient. Wishing she would go away. "Is that all?"

"....no. I only wanted to ask if I could purchase something for the engagement toast." She continued. Her voice was calm. "If you're really going through with it, we should celebrate it properly."

A huff, a sigh, and he turned his chair around to pay more attention to the paperwork of his principality. "Oh I suppose. I cannot exactly expect us to be looking cheap if we're celebrating a marriage in the family." Andrealphus puffed. "Go and tell the housekeeper to spare no expense. I'll have some money put aside for you to buy yourself a little treat."

Coronis watched his back with a long, long gaze.

You look so safe. She thought. Do you feel safe? Have you always felt safe?

"Thank you." She curtsied. "I'll find something worthy of the event."

_______

The ball arrived. Coronis was dressed a touch better for the event, and though Stella gave her a nasty look at the shimmery quality of her gown, she did resisted her natural urge to stain it or tear it to shreds. "Only the best for my little sister's engagement ball! Once we find out the winning number that is-" And shot her the nastiest smirk.

Coronis did not speak. She watched.

There was a big glass jar where people wrote their names and guessed the number. Everyone was laughing, laughing. I didn't even put a number in. Said one. I bet a couple of bottles of Chateau du Bachs.

That's too much! Laughed another. I just counted the change in my wallet!

The Marquette was growing warmer. Andrealphus held his ice magic thick and heavy, and stood by his ice sculptures. But something was too warm. He complained, brought a servant to turn the temperature down. It was still too warm.

Coronis watched him sweat.

The winner was about to be revealed.

Andrealphus took center stage, but found himself surprised. Coronis had indeed procured a white wine for the event, high-quality, vintage. One of the last strains of Nemeses Vineyards. Those grapes withered away and the vineyard with it over a hundred years ago, but Coronis had found some surviving bottles after all. Enough for the guests.

She poured it into his glass. There was sweat gathering on the sides, but the wine was so peerless and pure it was like liquid light, and shimmered prettily in his glass. "Why thank you-" He said, smiling and simpering prettily. "-now was all this so hard? I think the winner is going to surprise you."

"...yes I imagine so." She answered. Andrealphus raised an eyebrow. Did she always speak so coldly? "I hope you'll respect my request for a wedding gift when it's all said and done."

"Spoiled." He teased, but didn't elaborate. He could always say no, after all. "Well be a good girl and come with me."

They took to the center of the room, Andrealphus dinging his glass. "Come and gather round everyone! We've got a special treat, and a special announcement!" One hand lifted up his younger sisters. The glasses were being poured by imps, passed around. "Tonight announces the formal engagement of my darling sister Cori to a very special guest among us!" There was a ripple of giggles and laughter. They were going to find out the winner of the bet. "It breaks my heart to see her all grown up! A toast, all of us!"

The glasses were raised. Andrealphus drank his deep. The flavor was exquisite. So pure, so, so fragrant-

"Andrealphus?"

"Hmm?"

Coronis held her glass. It was still full. "I thought of what I want for my wedding gift?"

"Oh?" Why did she look so cold? Why did he feel so hot? "What is it?"

"....choke."

Andrealphus heard the shattering of many glasses before he realized he couldn't breathe. He opened his mouth to ask why, and black blood gushed forth from his throat.

The horror set in suddenly, like wildfire. Stella had been sneering, smirking in the front row, but now looked absolutely terrified as she squawked and clutched her throat, coughing black blood and bile, wheezing as her high voice was reduced to a whimper. Everyone was gasping, coughing, spitting, and the peerless icy floors were being besmirched in blood, spit and bile.

Andrealphus could not breathe. He felt his airways clogging up.

Coronis stood over him and tipped the contents of the wine over his head.

It burned.

It burned!!!!

"My contribution to the wine." She answered. She sounded so cold. So, so cold. "I thought a little holy water would spice things up."

You traitor! You bitch! He tried to scream, his bloody hands grasping at her dress. You've killed us, you've ruined us you psychopath you witch-

"Aaaaagghhh-"

The voice that came out instead was so tiny. So weak.

The edges of his vision went black. Coronis seemed to be relaxing, sighing as if she'd finished a particularly laborious task. "You've been pushing me for so long. You've been hurting me for so long." She said. It was almost mournful, and might have been mistaken for pity if her expression wasn't so pitiless. "Did you think I wouldn't retaliate? Not even once?"

You weren't supposed to fight back. Andrealphus thought, eyes bulging. You can't fight back, you can't.

He fell. The floor was hot and sticky with blood. The horrific sound of a hundred choking royals echoed around him. I feel so cold, I feel so cold- He thought, his body spasming in terror. -I don't want to die I don't want to die-

____

"Coronis!"

The Goetia snapped to attention.

"Yes?"

"Pay attention." Andrealphus said, a touch annoyed. "Stella was saying the next ball is going to be a week from now. Are you going or not?" He frowned. "Do tell me you're not going to hole up at Mommy and Daddy's house again."

What was that stare on her face? Andrealphus couldn't understand the stunned look, the utter surprise. Just where was her head going when these conversations were happening?

"S-sorry. I wasn't listening." She said. "I was...somewhere else."

She didn't finish her drink as it would turn out.

Andrealphus wondered what was wrong with it.



[dangerouslyclassyhottub]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Transformers (IDW Generation One) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Rodimus | Rodimus Prime/Thunderclash Characters: Rodimus | Rodimus Prime, Megatron (Transformers), Thunderclash (Transformers) Additional Tags: Megatron just giving Roddy a hard time about his crush, thunderclash mentioned, Fluff, Post Lost Light 25, New Universe Series: Part 1 of The One Where...

[troolyart]

What if I suddenly turn up the codependency on Stanley and Simon?

Because think about it... They only have each other in there (Simon still doesnt know about Curator and Mariella cannonically) so something is bound to happen. What if Stanley locks himself in a place Simon can't reach? Would he simply reset or would the man spiral like he has in the past?

Or vice versa? Say Simon stopped narrating for a while...Stanley would be frantically trying to find him, signing the words "where" and "need you" over and over again until he finds his narrator.

Yes my au has lovey dovey moments with them, but keep in mind that they are technically trapped there inside the Entity with no escape in sight. Just the two of them and their minds slowly forgetting anything outside of the Parable. Everything but each other.

[silverskyeline]

ੈ♡˳ imagine logan is in a metal band. 18+

"oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!" you cry out as he grips at your hips, thrusting into you deeply as you're planted on all fours on his dressing room sofa. he's got your skirt hiked up over your waist, panties pulled down around your knees. logan is hardly undressed himself, inched his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his aching cock.

he grins, "c'mon, only got a few more minutes babygirl, you gonna make me cum?"

you're gasping, hardly able to form a single thought from how hard he's fucking you and how loud the support act is playing from the stage. you wonder if their music is even loud enough to drown out your moans or the sounds of logan's body connecting with yours in deafening lewd slaps.

his hand snakes up along your spine to find your hair, yanking your head backwards and forcing you to arch your back as he drives into you. "that's it, arch that pretty little back for me."

it hurts so good, all of it. the ferocity of his thrusts, his tight grip on your hair - your thighs tremble and your mind goes blank, loving the way he uses you before shows, in between sets, sneaking you away to the bathroom at the afterparties.

and you don't mind being his stress toy. you love it. the anticipation of a gig approaching, knowing you're going to get your brains fucked out backstage while the audience calls his name. while you call his name with his cock buried deep inside you.

while he's on stage? you stand in the audience, feeling him leak out of you as his eyes connect with yours over the sea of bodies, knowing he's going to fuck you all over again as soon as the concert ends.

logan promptober day 3 - metal

[limpfisted]

omg, babe, gay hell felonies ❤️

He hums, adjusts the weight of his eye patch over the gnarled skin of his horn. It’s soft silk, emblazoned with the flag of Baldur’s Gate. Keep home with him always. Not Grand Duke, and yet at his big age of twenty-six, he still feels every bit the King of the pirates. (His Father told him he looked quite handsome, and Wyll took that as a measure of approval for the design, though he didn’t ask for approval in so many words, even as he hugged him goodbye.)

“I never thought my Father raised a criminal. But The Blade of Avernus bows to devils no longer. We’ll break every law, smash every chain, free every last prisoner and slave—and then grind Zariel to dust as grey and dry as her skin.”

“We will be worse than any demons. Bloodier, braver. We’ll be heroes.”

“You’ll have to teach me how to pickpocket,” he teases. Thankfully, I am already very good at drinking, swearing, and cheating at dice and cards.”

“… Don’t tell my Father,” he mumbles, mostly to himself. Ulder immediately began treating Wyll’s friends as if they were Wyll’s Flaming Fist “uncles” to check in on him and take care of him, keep him out of trouble. This has since led to no end of teasing from the group.

It’s as nice as it is unwanted. The push and pull of rejection and expectations. Trying to fall too hard into familar patterns. It is better than the silences between them Wyll always dreaded to the point of nausea as a child, still worse, now, so, so much worse. He was relieved when he left, the epitome of bittersweet. And he’s more eager than he can say to break somebody else’s laws.

This is going to be an awfully big adventure, and it’s one all his own. He can’t think of any people he’d rather have by his side.

Baldur’s Gate will be okay, he promises himself. Karlach needs him, Astarion….. well, Astarion he’s pretty sure is just having fun, but still. But even if all that wasn’t true… he thinks he might still be here. For himself.

It’s like Wyll, The Blade of Avernus, always says. Who else would have the balls to kill Mizora?

[thebrokendollassassin]

"Where there is no imagination, there is no horror.” Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Did he even-? No.

Yes. No.

It was weak to do so.

But... Killua.

Images of lifeless blue eyes bombarded his mind. Swift and cruel. A flash in the pan and then nothing. As if those thoughts were written in water. The ripples remain and then those too, were gone.

Snapping the book shut, tucking it under his arm, he stepped over the still warm corpse.

Illumi had to report home.

[kkusuka]

pt. 2

your roommate was a strange man.

can you even really call him a roommate if he's only home for one week every few months? but when he is home, simon riley is a pretty good roommate.

he fixes the heater that's been broken for two months, he replaces the faucet after it drenches you for turning it on too quick, he even takes a look at your car when you mention how your breaks have been squeaking. but other than his penchant for whiskey and the color black, you really don't know much about the man you've been living with for more than a year.

he's in the military, you know that for sure. he works with a team because he tells you that you have a striking resemblance to a man names "soap"? you take that as a compliment even if he didn't really mean it to be one. he wears combat boots even when he's off, you buy him a pair for his birthday that he doesn't take off until soles wear out. but all of these are merely observations, you don't actually know anything about him.

and it's not like you don't try to find out more things about him. you search his name on google- nothing. you ask him about his social media- 'don't got any'. you never ask about family because he never brings them up. all you have is a phone number and the license plate on his beat up dodge charger.

so, getting a call in the middle of the night, three months after you'd last seen simon, about a mission taking a bad turn and simon taking a bullet for an american private. all you really manage to catch after that was the hospital's address and a room number to ask for.

you feel like you're in a trance as you pack yourself an overnight bag, then move to simon's room and just start grabbing the softest clothes you can find and a bunch of snacks from his side of the pantry, then you're off.

you didn't want to see desperate or overly worried about a man whose favorite song you don't know but you're pushing into the high 90s on your way down. and your mind isn't clear until you're standing in front of a tired looking nurse in sanrio scrubs.

"um, i need to get into room 1206?" you barely choke the words out before she's getting up to lead you, "oh! mrs. riley, they told me you were on your way."

"oh-i'm, well" and if you hadn't watch so many hospital shows where they don't let anyone but family into the room you would have just told her the truth, but you just shut your mouth, give her a tight smile, and follow her down the hallway.

the room doesn’t take long to get to, but the door is shut and you can hear the people inside talking. but the nurse doesn't even hesitate to swing the door wide open, "mr. riley, your wife is here."

and then there are four sets of eyes trained on you, but all you can look at is the hulking figure of your roommate sat up in his comically small hospital bed. and all you can muster up is a slight smile and a small wave in his direction before the bags you're holding fly straight onto the floor.

"oh, shoot- i'm sorry. i didn't know if you needed anything so i just grabbed some things from your dresser- and some of those granola bars you like, and there should be a gatorade somewhere in there. and, oh my god, i'm sorry, how are you? i came as soon as they called, and they said you got shot, and-"

"calm down, sweetheart, or yer gonna be the one that needs a hospital bed." ok, simon could still speak that was good, and he was conscious and remembered you.

"i'm sorry. i just got worried, and-" simon knew you well enough to know that you'll worry yourself to death if he lets you keep going, "nothin' to worry about, sweetheart, pull up a chair, you've 'ad stressful few hours."

you practically fell back into the chair that the man with the kindest brown eyes you've ever seen pushed towards you. and for the first time since you arrived, you took a deep, long breath. hand clasped in your lap as you take simon in.

"feeling any better, mrs. riley?"

"she's fine, garrick." 

'garrick' seems utterly unphased by your roommate's- husband's? you can address that later- tone and just continues to smile at you.

"c'mon simon, we just wannae ken 'bout the bonnie lass yer hidin' from yer pals. ye 'aven't even introduced us." you're glad the scot waited until you'd calmed down to start speaking because it took you at least 30 seconds to realize he was even talking about you.

"sweetheart these are the boys, boys this is sweetheart, now fuck off before you scare 'er away"

they didn’t seem like they were going to leave until the older man practically dragged them out saying something about the heaping loads of paperwork they had to do. so will a little wave and a cheeky smile, they were gone.

"so, um, ho-how are you feeling? they, uh, said that you got shot?"

" 'm fine, sweetheart, better knowing i've got a bird at home who'll come runnin' cause she thinks 'm hurt, yeah wife?"

yeah, maybe you'll let the mrs. riley thing go on for a little bit longer.

idk i just really like the idea of simon just picking someone random and being like 'yeah this is it, you're mine now' and they have literally no idea

[ayyy-pee]

waking up freezing and shivering, teeth chattering every night because your husband is a blanket hog. you know it's not on purpose. he just can't help it. doesn't even know he does it most times. you'd think after years together you'd be used to it, but waking up curled into the fetal position as you try to retain even a smidge of warmth is something you don't think you'll ever adjust to.

so you reach behind you, feeling your spouses large form wrapped snug as a bug in your shared blanket and you grip onto the fabric. you pull as hard as you can but you don't manage to move him even an inch. you try once more...same result.

"ken..." you whisper, wrapping your arms around yourself. no response. "kento..."

he doesn't budge. you're tempted to just get up and go grab another blanket, but your husband, despite his seriousness, can get quite pouty when you do that. so you tap him hard instead sure to jab him in the spot you know is his most sensitive. this seems to do the trick as he grunts in response.

"I'm cold," you tell nanami and he sits up quickly, realizing what he's done. his pajama top hangs off one shoulder. his blonde hair is pointing every which way and sleep is heavy on his eyelids, threatening to weigh him down again any minute.

"I'm sorry, love," nanami speaks, voice rough and deep with exhaustion, but the sincerity in his apology clear.

then he's throwing the blanket back over you both. only he adds in a little extra warmth as he wraps his arm around your waist and throws a large leg over your body.

nanami buries his face in your neck, adjusting himself so that he can be as close to you as possible. only a few seconds pass before you hear his light snoring behind you. and you know the warmth you feel is from more than just his touch.

[heavenbarnes]

thinking about your older bf!simon that cannot cope with being far from you.

when you’re in the shower, he’s sat on the lid of the toilet on his phone (watching those rug cleaning videos) enjoying your faint singing under the stream of water, the smell of your body wash on the cloud of steam- ready to pass you a towel or get your back.

when you’re at your desk, working from home or studying, he’s just on the other side of it reading the paper with one outstretched leg tangled with both of yours. he’s dead quiet when you’re on a call, just happy to be around.

when you’re doing laundry, collecting the clothes in the hamper and crouching to stuff them into the washer- turning around and accidentally colliding with a thick wall of muscle.

“sorry, love”

he steps aside but you can hear his soft footfalls as he continues to follow you throughout your home.

when you’re both watching something on the couch, what starts as his pinky locked with yours turns into his arm around your waist. that turns into your head on his chest, which culminates with you falling asleep in his lap with his cheek on your head and soft snores emanating from his lips.

when you grocery shop, you push the trolley but his chest is to your back, arms either side of you and hands clasped over yours on the handle. you can thank his military training for his uncanny ability to tell exactly when you’ll stop walking.

when he wakes up in the middle of the night, on a rare occasion when you’ve managed to slip out of bed without him realising, he’s immediately in a panic calling your name.

“in here, my love”

as soon as his heart settles, he realises the bathroom light was probably a dead giveaway. you’re taking a wee, you’ll be back in a minute.

that doesn’t stop a sleepy simon from leaning in the doorframe, shielding his eyes from the big light as he waits for you to finish up.

even on the short walk back to bed, you can feel fingers twisted in the back of your shirt- almost like you’re leading the way.

minute you’re both on the mattress, you’re being wrapped up in his arms, slotting you perfectly into the curve of his front- almost like you’re made for him.

(and you are)