#( lol had to write a drabble )

[nikkento-writes]

Being married for years now, it’s standard practice to subject Nanami to whatever pop hit of the week you’re currently obsessed with. And by obsessed, you mean repeating it over and over and over again until he finds himself humming the chorus on the train ride to work, even though he’s alone and the song isn’t even playing.

The two of you are driving back home after spending the weekend at your parent’s house. You’re singing the lyrics out loud, staring out the window with a cheerful smile on your face. He holds your hand on the center console, fingers interlocked, while he steers the wheel with his other. After memorizing these godforsaken lyrics beyond his own will, he finally asks, “What is this song even about?”

You turn to face him, lowering the volume, giving him a lousy answer. “It’s about bed chem!” He glances over at you, looking for you to elaborate, which you don’t. All you do is repeat, “Bed chem, Kento. Bed chem!”

He chuckles, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at whatever ridiculous slang the new generation is using nowadays. “Bed chem?”

You clear your throat, preparing yourself to give him the definition like some sort of spelling bee judge. “Bed chem. Having really good chemistry in the bedroom. Being sexually compatible. Matching each other’s freak. Bed chem.”

Nanami doesn’t even want to ask you to elaborate on the last example. “Is this what the youths are calling it nowadays?”

You giggle, squeezing his hand gently. “I guess so.”

He pulls into the driveway, foot on the brake as he reaches for the garage door opener, pressing it. “So what about us?”

You eye him suspiciously as he enters slowly. “What do you mean?”

He turns the car off, closing the garage door behind you. “Do we have bed chem?”

“I don’t think we’d be together this long if we didn’t,” you laugh, gazing into his eyes.

“Hm, I don’t know,” he hums, leaning closer, lips grazing your ear. “Do I pick you up? Pull them down?” His hand slides underneath your skirt, fingers teasing your clothed pussy.

“Kento,” you breathe out, spreading yourself wider in the seat, loving the way he rubs you through your panties.

“Do I talk so sweet when I’m doing bad things?” He hooks the waistband of your underwear, tugging them down your thighs, pressing a finger directly to your throbbing clit. “Is that bed chem?”

You’re too entranced by his seduction to tell him how impressed you are that he knows the lyrics. Nodding, you whimper, “Yes,” taking his fingers until you come with his name pouring out of your mouth in breathy moans.

It doesn’t take you long to reiterate to Nanami that the two of you do in fact have “bed chem”; you ride him in the driver’s seat, making him spill his creampie inside you with his tongue stuck down your throat, further proving your point. Though, a simple reminder doesn’t hurt one bit.

[satoruhour]

LESSON NO. 1

a/n: bassist!geto teaching you how to play the guitar. loosely based off this but not really connected. as requested by @alcospray 💟 i dont play bass so i just watched a whole bunch of videos for just one song - any bass players wanna correct me feel free to do so ;"). only if u look like geto tho /j. they havent say the three words to each other yet, read it with that in mind :3

wc: 2.1k

“any update from your fan?” gojo nudges him playfully as they wait for the principle of the university to introduce their band for the freshmen orientation, which, weirdly, something that the four of them never thought would happen. they sang about topics that wouldn’t normally get talked about or were shunned — politics, capitalism, authoritarianism — and yet being introduced by the principle of their place of education was quite ironic.

the bassist doesn’t hear gojo at all, not even when his best friend tries to tease him by calling you his fan. there were too many things in geto’s mind way even before this whole performance: his finals, a rival band that sought out to create false rumours about them, you.

always, you, the unexpected distracting thing that infiltrates his mind without fail. from the first night you trodded over to his dorms, opening up to him and letting him take care of you, to the many dates after. he’s taken you to cafés, watched you study way too many times, or simply let you sit through one of his song formation days.

a conscious effort to keep his distance and everything is just you, you, you, and geto is terrified. he’s never liked the kind of love with strings attached, with those mushy, complicated feelings, but no one-night stand, no quick fuck has ever made him feel the way you do.

but lately, he’s seen less of you, unwillingly accepting the principle’s offer to perform for the freshmen because he knew you were one of the group leaders ushering in the new students. at least he could try to search for you in the crowds, even getting a cheeky little text about where your group was meant to sit a week ago. he could be granted at least that when you both have been working so hard for final exams that you two could hardly see each other.

although, throughout their whole set, he sees everyone but you. he loses the bass line often, looks lost on the stage, needs to be cued in, something that never happens to the geto suguru. he’s always been a natural, and yet when it comes to you, you ruin him in the best way possible.

“hey— hey! man, what was that?” gojo slaps him on the back but it doesn’t even register in geto’s head, not really bothered by how he messed up the performance if it wasn’t for gojo’s vocals and shoko adding in her own improvisations for her parts. nanami can only shrug as he comes around to geto’s front.

“she wasn’t there, i looked, too,” nanami mumbled, tapping his drumsticks on his shoulder, “but you’re the most passionate guy i know who loves his guitars and bass lines.”

gojo has to chime in, “he’s the only bass guitarist you know, nanamiii!” and shoko pulls him back with a smack to the back of his head.

the dark-haired guy only clicks his tongue, “sorry ’bout him.”

nanami waves his drumsticks before pointing them at his face, “i know you’re obsessed with her, but i don’t wanna be a drummer if i can’t work with my bassist. sort this out before our next gig. she’s a sweet girl . . just, not when it’s at the expense of the band.”

geto only sighs in relief, landing a hand on his drummer’s shoulder.

“thank you, nanami.” the two exchange smiles before he gives a salute to his other two friends (“do you think he finally loves someone enough for him to be distracted on stage?” shoko says, and gojo gasps dramatically), heading out from the wings and down the stairs at the front of the stage where people look confused at the recent performer looking high and low for where your group was meant to be seated.

he sees not you, but rather your group leader mates who he’s at least seen pictures of, so he has no qualms about heading over to ask about your whereabouts — “the last thing she told our head group leader was that she was down with a nasty flu . . terrible fever and all. our main group leader went to her dorms to check on her and she’s unfit for doing orientations activities. we just sent her loads of soup packets and pei pa koa’s.”

geto laughs at the last part, knowing your need for sweet things. when it’s combined with a soothing coating for your throat, it’s pretty much the only thing you take when you’re sick. with a quick thanks, geto races for the campus bus straight to your dorm, the bass carried on his back rattling with his capo, chord sheets and mute nosily.

at least your annoying roommate’s gone home before school starts so it’s only you when geto knocks on the door. his knuckles rap against the wood, heart breaking when he hears your hoarse voice answer from the other side. soon, he can hear your feet moving towards the door, but it takes a while from how your body is, knocking over some things in the process.

“c-coming!” you groan out, wrapped in layers of clothing and feeling so hot you feel like you were in hell. but you aren’t expecting the sight when you open the door: your boyfriend panting, the guitar case behind him only telling you he’s come straight from the freshmen gig, the expression on his face.

“s-su!” you exclaim, both excitedly and a little worried because you didn’t want to get him sick, something you regret immediately when you go to clutch your throat.

“oh, baby,” geto brushes the hoodie off your head and brushes away the mess of your hair, “you look so pale, i— i would’ve come sooner if i knew—!”

“that’s why i didn’t tell you,” you pout, pushing away his hand gently and stepping back. it hurts to speak, but you feel like you at least need to explain your absence to him, “i was afraid you’d ditch the performance. also— don’t want you to get sick.”

suguru’s expression softens, “don’t worry about me, doll. come,” he takes one more step towards you and you feel so safe with him you don’t take a step away, “let me take care of you.”

the next hours are full of geto, a revered bassist in an upcoming band who dons long hair, piercings and has a menacing dragon down his arm alongside some boots, taking care of you. he runs back and forth between the pantry to make sure you have enough hot water, boiling hot soup to drink, enough layers to keep you warm and even calling gojo to get some tylenol from the supermarket.

“take a breather, sugu, i’m not gonna die,” you laugh slightly with a rasp to your voice, squeezing his hand as you rest against his shoulder. he’s made sure you at least have something in your stomach and enough hot water to power a hot spring, worry showing through his heartbeat when the hand he holds is still so warm.

“you’re heating up loads, baby,” geto frowns, turning his head to plant a kiss on the top of your head. he rolls his eyes when he hears it’s because you’re here. “do you want me to put cool towels on your head?”

you giggle again and cough, sniffling the mucus back up your nose, “no, it’s okay — you’d have to go to the pantry again to get water and i just want . . you here.”

suguru only hums, something akin to a melody that you don’t quite know but you’re happy to listen to his gruff voice anyway. the way he vibrates as he hums sends a calming feeling right to your body, and how he looks and feels so different from the very first time you were alone together.

he seemed so cool, passing the blunt to you and blowing his smoke into your mouth, kissing you like you’re just another girl in his roster; but right now, you were far from it.

now, not only is he still cool, but he’s also the most caring person you know and is something so far from his appearance and band: this is just one in many instances of how much he takes care of you. from the same fingers that strum upon the stainless steel, they travel miles over your body, your face like the first songs he learned on the guitar, weaving a melody and language so intricate only the two of you speak it.

silently, you feel him push you forward while he slots his legs on the other side of your body, letting you naturally rest with your back to his chest. “wanna learn?”

“i am in the most terrible state, suguru,” you whisper, reaching over to take a tissue. there, you blow your nose and clear out your nostrils until the next round, groaning softly at the grossness of the tissue.

“ohh . . but wasn’t someone saying that she isn’t dying?”

your jaw drops, “i can’t believe you would use that against me.”

the corners of your boyfriend’s lips turn up in a sly smile, “just quoting my girl. but—”

this time, he’s the one reaching over much further than you, hand clutching the neck of the guitar through the bag. gently, he settles it on both your laps, laughing when a small oof leaves your lips at just how heavy his bass was.

“i’ll do all the playing, you just mirror my movements.” with one more kiss to your temple, geto reaches around easily to play the starting notes of psycho killer. while there’s a clear layering of the lead, vocals and drums in his head, you’re just left confused by the repetitive bass.

but soon, you’re able to catch the notes that repeat over eight counts, hypnotised by the other’s longer fingers as they transition into the chorus line. it’s a little more complicated, now, descending into chords that you frankly don’t have any grasp on. one look at your face is enough to send him into soft laughter.

“okay, okay, let’s just focus on the verse.” if you weren’t feeling lightheaded from the fever before, you are now when geto curls his hands around yours, placing your finger easily on the fifth fret of the first string.

“so here . . we have the first bar of A notes, easy? then . .” he demonstrates the first four notes, plucking the strings for you before moving it down to the third fret to play the G note. a small smile spreads across his face when you slowly get the hang of it: six notes of A, two eighth notes, and then a G on the same string. geto slowly releases his left, letting you play on the melody while he helps you to pluck.

“that’s it,” still natural, it doesn’t faze geto at all to nuzzle his head into your neck from behind and to start kissing up your shoulder to your jaw, fingers still expertly plucking the string. the both of you repeat the bass line until he’s grabbing your awkward right hand and quietly, he angles your fingers so you’re following him, “you’re a fast learner.”

“i have a great teacher,” you mumble, and suguru doesn’t tell you that you just willingly kissed his jaw out of habit — because he knows you’d freak out at the possibility of getting him sick. it’s sweet, that in your delirious state you’re still acting out of admiration at the back of your mind. like the bass, loving geto feels as natural as the repetitiveness of psycho killer.

the bass notes reverberates through your bodies, just almost acting like a trance that makes your fingers falter upon the steel strings. he goes on to slowly play the chorus, stretching his fingers into weird shapes. he plays various chords, voice cracking just a bit when he tries to sing the vocals and you laugh softly.

“i just don’t have satoru’s higher register.” geto jokes, knowing you’re close to falling asleep from the way you hum and give one worded answers, so he easily takes over from you, changing it to an easy song. you let the low notes of the bass serenade you to sleep as you curl more into your boyfriend, but not before you hear a glimpse of geto’s harmonised singing to yellow.

it’s not often you hear him sing, being a bassist and all, but there is a nice edge to his voice — not quite made for vocals but you know he can do it if he tries. and even if you don’t voice it out, geto thinks the same thing. it’s similar to this stupid love thing that’s got him all tangled up and distracted, too, and he realises so many new things about himself through you.

you give love a fresh breath of life, nothing like the things suguru sings about in his unfinished demos and notebooks — multitude of things that involved you and his fucked-up perceptions and the foolishness of his parents telling him he’d find the same. you are all he thinks about when he sees the black cough syrup and he can’t stop craving the feel of your body against his.

the moment your breathing turns even and you sag against his embrace is when the strings stops and his breathing escalates. in geto suguru’s arms is the personification of something he never thought he would let into his life, yet you carry the choirs of love and acceptance so effortlessly like heath’s bass guitar solos and atsushi sakurai’s spotless vocals.

suguru’s head simply falls onto your unknowing shoulder, a small fuck that leaves his lips and a smile that he can’t contain is all he needs to know.

@mysugu @suget @slttygeto @na-t0 💟

[imfinereallyy]

Steve passes Eddie sleeping on his couch. The faint morning light making him softer. Sounds of early Chicago creep through the window that never seems to entirely shut.

Steve sips on his coffee and stares. He knows it’s weird, that normal people don’t stare at their friends like this. That they don’t ache before making their commute to work. And if they do—it’s yearning for their beds and not a man crashing at their apartment.

But Steve isn’t good at normal, and well—neither is Eddie. So, it doesn’t seem like much of a problem.

Eddie’s snores try to compete with the honks from four stories below. Steve laughs quietly to himself; it shouldn’t be as endearing as it is.

Steve sets the coffee carefully down and hesitates towards the door. He should let Eddie sleep in. Eddie has had a hard time lately, and only now found his footing staying at Steve’s for the time being. But Steve can’t help but want. He wants to brush the curls that have fallen carefully in front of Eddie’s face, and tuck them gently behind his ear. Steve wants to rub a soothing hand down his back. Steve wants to kiss him softly on the forehead, wants to whisper, “see you later,” before making his way out.

Steve hesitates, but decides against it. Even though he has spent years aching for it, feeling like he can never do a thing about it, Steve knows deep inside him that this time, it will happen eventually. He just needs to give Eddie time, time to heal, time to grow.

Steve thinks he would wait forever if he needed to. So he smiles in the direction of Eddie’s peaceful snores, and heads out the door.

[crybaby-bkg]

Trainer Bakugou who you're a little terrified of the first day you're paired with him. when asking for a trainer at the gym, you had expected the friendly redhead who always looked so sweet and encouraging and cut as hell. you weren't expecting his grumpy looking blond counterpart, who was all glares and shouts for his clients to keep pushing themselves.

you were hesitant at first, before you quickly realized that it was all a ruse, for the most part. he pushed those who needed that extra encouragement, but was more lenient to people like you who simply wanted a professionals guidance. so, after a few weeks, you liked him for the most part, and his looks damn sure made it easier to cozy up to the big guy.

the only issue you've been having with Bakugou though are the...coregasms, as you've seen them been named on social media, that you keep experiencing. the first time, you weren't sure what it was, why your stomach and pelvis kept tightening up. you couldn't have...climaxed, or anything. you hadn't even been touched!

but, as the weeks go by, and the workouts get more strenuous, they've become harder and harder to subside and ignore, and so had Bakugou's commands to keep going when you suddenly stopped. you can only lie and say its cramps so many times before he realizes that something is up.

you're midway through a good morning, when that familiar feeling starts tightening in the pit of your gut. you clench your eyes shut, shaking your head a little, as if you could ward off the impending feeling. bakugou notices though, frowning at your almost pained expression in the mirror, walking up behind you to stop you as you pull yourself back up. his hands are on your waist, and as you come up, you feel his bulge glide over the curve of your ass, and something in you snaps.

you gasp, buckling over, one hand on your knee as the other reaches back for bakugou's hand to keep you up as your thighs shake. you can feel yourself spasming, clenching and unclenching around nothing, secretly wishing you had something that could fill you up, something that you felt throb against you as bakugou leaned over your form.

"Another coregasm, huh?" he asks you lowly, his lips brushing your ear as you bite your bottom lip to hold back your moan. your eyes buck open though, when his words sink in, head tipping back to look at him in the mirror, only to find his gaze already on you.

"You knew every time?" you ask quietly, panting now that its finally starting to pass over you. but bakugou doesn't let you up from this position, especially since the area you're in seems to be desolate for now.

"It's hard to ignore how pretty you look when you cum, sweetheart." Bakugou seals his words with a firm press to your ass, his cock rubbing the seam, and you can practically feel the heat and veins of it through your thin bottoms. you groan under your breath, getting lost in the feeling of him grinding against you, when he suddenly speaks again.

"You still feel it?" he asks, voice low as he looks at you through his lashes. you nod, biting at your bottom lip as you meet the steady rock of his hips, watching how he smiles before slotting his lips against your ear.

"Want me to help make it go away?" and he does, in the employee locker room after hours. he makes it go away, and rebuild, and go away again and again until you're hoarse and your legs are weaker than they typically are on leg day. bakugou helps the ache go away, but not for that sweet redheaded coworker of his, whose fists have fucked his cock the entire time of watching bakugou rail you over the locker room bench again and again.

[roronoagem]

cw // yandere themes & creepy law lol + not proofread

yandere!law stopping by your island for a supply run and when he saw you working at the pub of your small town, he couldn’t help but fall for you.

yandere!law that offered you a visit to his submarine, noticing how you looked at his ship in fascination, stating that “i’ve never seen a pirate ship like that! it looks so cool!”

yandere!law that noticed you were running a fever one day and offered to visit you, wanting to help you feel better. a side of him wants to take advantage of that and lie, lie about your health.

“i’m sorry [y/n]-ya, but it seems that you have a rare disease. i’m one of the few doctors who know how to treat it… it’s really dangerous and i don’t want to leave you in such a state,” he started explaining, you were completely unaware of what he really did while visiting you.

yandere!law that started using medicines to prevent your legs from fully functioning and you started panicking, because the disease he was talking about must be showing its symptoms and he was the only one able to help you!

you must leave with him, he said he could help you feel better. he offered you to go with him since he would go on a trip to look for a final medicine to cure your disease, but he couldn’t leave you there alone. and you accepted because what could possibly go wrong? he had really good intentions!

you were truly sick, it was dangerous not being around him at this point . . . right?

[elis-corner]

Soda Tabs

‘So… What am I meant to do with this?’ Grian cocked his head to the side, bringing the trinket you had just handed him closer to his face. To the best of his knowledge, it was merely a soda tab—nothing extraordinary or worth anything. Although, he had to admit its metallic shimmer was quite admirable.

‘You collect soda tabs with the fulcrum intact and give them to someone, normally a partner,’ you explained. You pointed to the point where the tab would normally be connected to a can by. ‘They give them back to you in exchange for a kiss.’

Grian lowered his hand, flipping the tab in the air with a satisfying click each time it landed atop his nail. His eyes made a beeline for yours, holding your gaze for a long moment before saying, ‘So… if I give this back to you…?’ Your head tilted backwards slightly in order to give him a nod of confirmation, but the moment he caught the direction you were moving your head he tossed it back at you. ‘Well?’

His wings surround you in a familiar embrace, shielding the world’s view of you as your lips meet.

|------{ }------|

‘Grian I… I don’t think I want to know how you got so many in the space of a week…’

‘Building the back of your base requires a lot of fuel, you know!’

‘Three hundred and thirty eight cans though?’ You stare at the pile of soda tabs lying in front of you. ‘It’s the shimmer. Birds can’t resist shiny things,’ you tease.

Grian shrugged. ‘Nor can I resist you.’

‘Charming, bird boy.’ Your eyes wander back up to meet his once again. Sighing, you accept your fate. ‘Pucker up, Buttercup.’

[interstellarlyinlove]

First Kiss (May 6th)

word count: 502

@wolfstarmicrofic

“Who was your first kiss?” Sirius asks, whispering. Remus drops the vial of crushed moonstone he was holding and it shatters everywhere. He apologizes to Slughorn and glares at Sirius. 

“You startled me,” Remus whispers. “And now we don’t have any moonstone.”

“You’re moonstone,” Sirius says, grinning. He waves his right hand in the air obnoxiously and the broken vial of moonstone repairs itself and lands on the table to Remus’ right. “We don’t even need moonstone for this potion.”

“Huh?” Remus asks. He’s not really using any part of his brain because Sirius doing wandless magic is so incredibly hot. 

“Crushed moonstone isn’t a Felix Felicies ingredient.”

Remus blinks. “Yes, it is. Look–” Remus holds up their Potions textbook to show Sirius and only then does he realize he’s looking at the ingredients of another potion entirely. “Oh.”

Sirius laughs. “It’s okay. It’s almost done, anyway. Who was your first kiss?”

“What is up with you today?”

“It’s not a weird thing to ask!” Sirius says rather loudly. Slughorn glares at them and they apologize together. Sirius clears his throat. “I know James’ first kiss.”

“Who was James’ first kiss?”

“Lily.”

“Awe.”

“You know my first kiss.”

Remus raises an eyebrow. “Only because you spoke of nothing else for ten entire days.” And Remus still doesn’t like Fabian Prewett all that much. Which is silly because Sirius is his friend and he can kiss whomever he wants. 

Right.

“If you know mine then I have to know yours.”

“Yeah?”

Sirius smiles. “I only follow the rules, Re.”

“You can’t get mad, okay?”

Sirius furrows his eyebrows. “Why would I get mad?”

“Actually, you know what, I’ve never kissed anyone. You got me. How embarrassing. Let’s just–”

Sirius stares at Remus funny for a few moments then his eyes widen. “No way.”

“I guess he already told you when–”

“Regulus?” Sirius all but screams. 

“Mr. Black!” Slughorn calls out, scandalized. “Is there a problem?”

Sirius says no. He turns back to face Remus. “I thought that was a joke!”

“It wasn’t a joke. It was mostly for practice before his date with–”

“Practice?” Sirius whisper-yells. 

Remus is suddenly having so much fun. He grins.

“No more kissing Regulus.” Sirius fake-gags. “Oh, Godric, I need to go tell Regulus to stop kissing you.”

Remus snorts. “Regulus isn’t kissing me. It was one–”

“I’m totally a better kisser,” Sirius says. His eyes widen. Remus chokes on nothing and starts to cough. Sirius hits him on the back a few times until he stops.

“I mean–”

“What does–”

“Enough, the two of you!” Slughorn suddenly says. Remus and Sirius both jump. Remus knocks down the moonstone vial and it shatters again. 

All of this is suddenly the funniest thing in the world. Remus has to stifle his laughter as Slughorn makes Sirius change partners for the rest of the class. Sirius is looking at Remus as he picks up his stuff and his smile is blinding. Potions is now Remus’ favorite subject ever. 

[sugarlywhispers]

Thinking about best friend, biker!Bakugou, who always goes for you to pick you up in his big ass bike; no matter where, no matter when, he's outside waiting for you sitting in his bike with his arms crossed over his chest, a permanent scowl on his face for whoever looks disapprovingly at him because of his bad boy appearance. Piercing in the right side of his bottom lip, piercings in his ears, black leather jacket, black ripped jeans. You need him to pick you up from work? He's there. You had to stay late doing extra hours? No matter what time it is, he's there waiting for you to take you home. You need to go buy ladies stuff to the farmacy? He's there ready to take you, and then bring you back. You woke up at 3 am and want a snack? He'll call you an annoying pain in his ass when you phone him, but he tells you he'll be there in ten minutes.

One day, he picks you up at work because you have talked about going to see the fireworks show that was going to take place due to some celebration. He takes you to a place closer to where the whole show will be, people already around waiting. You sit on the grass next to each other as you keep talking about the events of your day. He mmhs and ahhs and pffs and tsks to everything you say, smiling and frowning when it needs to.

The show is about to start, and he sees your discomfort. He knows that even though you love the colorful lights, you hate the sounds of explosion; he knows it's a small trigger for your anxiety, so he takes out he's special airpods that he uses when he's riding his bike for longer periods of time and the loud engine actually annoys the hell out of his ears and they cancel every sound from the outworld but the music in them. He doesn't say anything as he gives them to you and you smile thankful at him while putting them on.

The show finally starts, you don't hear anything but the chill song 'Apocalypse' by Cigarettes After Sex as the spectacular shining in the sky illuminates above you.

Bakugou, even half way through the show, can't take his eyes out of you. Your face enjoying it it's even brighter than the lights. Your smile it's the biggest he has ever seen, and he has known you since you dropped a weight next to him by accident at the gym three years ago–you became instant friends since then. He has seen you at your best and at your worst, and vice-versa. But he has never seen such… beauty in your whole demeanor before as he does in that moment. Content. Fascinated. Relaxed. Happy. And your eyes… he can practically see the show reflecting on them, and he thinks it looks much better that way.

That's when he realizes. How relaxed he also is next to you, how he enjoys much more your reactions than the show itself, how the pit of his stomach flutters when you suddenly wooow to a big bright explosion that almost whiteness the whole sky. He realizes how much he wants to hold your hand, to kiss your cheek for how cute you look at that moment. To actually kiss your lips to discover if your taste is as cute and sweet as you look right now. To hold you in his arms to protect you from the world, because it doesn't deserve a person like you walking on it. You're precious.

The show ends, and the shine still glows in your eyes when you look at him, smiling big as you give him back his airpods, talking how amazing the show was and how cool and pretty all the lights were. You're pretty.

And as he can't take his eyes out of you while you speak, he realizes then.

"I'm falling in love with you." He blurts, and he has never said anything as sure as that.

You immediately shut up, completely taken aback. "W-what?"

His vermillion eyes don't leave yours, and he repeats, "I'm falling in love with you. Hard."

You don't know what to say. He can see the surprise and confusion in your face, but if there is something Katsuki isn't, it is a man that backs aways from his own actions or words. But he understands that probably this is too much now, yet he needs you to know.

"I'm not saying this for you to do something about it. I just want you to know it. Because from now on, I'll be whatever you need me to be. A friend, a lover, your driver, your fucking servant if you need me to. But I won't back away from trying to make you like me back. It's on. I'll convince you to let me be yours and you be mine."

Your eyes fill with tears, emotional tears that don't mean something bad but either something good and you don't know what to say, what to answer. But you do realize something…

He's always there. And he will always be. The butterflies in your stomach wake up and start fluttering around.

[warpedpuppeteer]

There's just something about the idea of Buck being heroic (not reckless) and being the last one out of a fire because he was saving someone and the whole time he's inside the structure the 118 are waiting outside with their breaths held. Then Buck comes out covered in ash and debris and soot and has lost his mask and his helmet is slipping and Eddie, who's already realized he likes him, barrels towards Buck and cups Buck's face and kisses him on the mouth desperately, leaning up and up to clutch at him and Buck's helmet falls backwards and Buck's hands pull Eddie close without even realizing and Buck makes a soft surprised sound against Eddie's lips and Eddie's breath shudders out as he breaks away but his fingers curl in Buck's hair and Buck places his forehead against his and they breathe the same air for a moment and the fire is still burning bright and hot behind them and Eddie thinks oh, he doesn't just like Buck, he loves him.

[henwilsonmd]

post 6x18: some out-of-order vignettes | ao3

4251 words

“Buck,” said Eddie, trying to school his face into something less fond and amused. “That’s my couch.”

Buck turned from where he’d been happily showing off the new piece of furniture he’d gotten with Natalia the day prior. “What?”

“The couch,” Eddie repeated, with a quirk of his eyebrow. “You bought my exact couch.”

“No,” Buck replied with a shake of his head. “No, it’s definitely different.”

read on ao3

Eddie looked at it—a three-seater in dark blue, velvet-y fabric with square corners and deep seats to accommodate his long legs. They’d picked out some nice white decorative pillows for it, and it’s certainly brand-new looking, but—

“It’s totally the same.” Eddie gave up on hiding his smile.

Buck looked back to the couch, tilting his head to scrutinize it. After a moment, he sighed, planting his hands on his hips. “Ah, fuck. It’s totally the same.”

Eddie groaned, letting his head thump back onto the edge of the cot behind him. “The pain meds are definitely kicking in.”

“Well, good,” snarked Buck from a chair next to him, attention half-focused on his phone in his hands. “That’s what they’re supposed to do.”

Eddie sighed, long-suffering. “You too?”

“Yes, Eddie, me too.” Buck replied, thumbs flying as he tapped out something on the screen in his hands. Probably to Maddie. Probably about Chim. Who was probably okay. “Your ribs are fucking broken.”

“Yeah,” Eddie said, staring at the ceiling. “And I know what they feel like. I’m fine, there was—other stuff going on.” He thought about that paramedic from the 133 shining a penlight into Hen’s eyes, frowning like he didn’t like the results and going back in to do it again. He thought about the constant jitter of Buck’s leg next to him, the constant worry for Bobby and Chimney who’d taken the other two ambulances before the three of them had managed to squeeze into another cab. “Besides,” Eddie pulled himself back on track. “Did you even get checked out?” He leveled Buck with a look that he hoped had more energy behind it than he had left.

Buck shrugged, powering off his phone with a click. “I’m fine.”

“There’s blood all over your face,” Eddie pointed out.

“Hen cleaned most of it up already.”

“There was more?”

“That’s—Eddie, I’m fine,” Buck said, turning towards him. “I scraped up my cheek and bit my tongue when I fell, and, sure, I’ll be a little bruised, but I’m fine.”

“You lost consciousness,” Eddie pointed out, and he swallowed around a dry throat.

“How… how did you know that?” Buck stuttered in reply.

Eddie gave his own shrug, picking at the edge of the right kneepad on his turnout pants. “I didn’t pass out. I radioed right after I’d gotten my bearings, but no one answered. Then, like, thirty seconds later you must have woken up.”

Buck, for a moment, held Eddie’s gaze with something so unbelievably devastated, and guilty—like the thought of not being able to answer Eddie’s call was the worst possible thing that had happened that day. Then he flicked his eyes down to the floor. “Okay, s-so, like, thirty seconds. I’m fine, Eddie. Really.”

Eddie frowned, thinking about those thirty seconds—an unbearable weight on his back, a growing pain in his chest, and the clawing panic as he listened to the silence stretching out on the other side of the radio and fought the mounting urge to plead, I’m still alive, please, I’m still alive down here.

And then how he’d breathed a hugely painful sigh of relief when Buck finally asked for a headcount, how he’d fumbled into his pocket for his St. Christopher medal and prayed—something he hadn’t done since that awful week of the coma. Prayed that he’d come home safe to his son, but also that Buck would be careful—that he wouldn’t do something stupid and destructive and reckless to save any of them.

That heady rush of gratitude when Buck had sawed the doors open, taking off his safety goggles and assessing Eddie’s situation with a calculating, heavy gaze.

Next to him, Buck cleared his throat, shifting in the chair. “Anyway, you broke three ribs, man. Let the meds do their job.”

Eddie huffed a laugh, leaning back into the pillows behind him. “Trust me, they are.”

Eddie sipped his Diet Coke, beer off-limits because he was still taking the Tylenol threes. “So, you finally got a new couch.”

“I had a couch before,” Buck pointed out, a matching soda in his hand for solidarity. “Kameron just—y’know, gave birth all over it.”

“Yeah,” Eddie said, snorting a soft laugh. “That must have been wild.”

Buck chuckled. “The baby didn’t want to wait, I guess.”

“Impatient little guy,” Eddie said. “Must be those Buckley genes.”

“Hey,” Buck protested, pointing a finger. “I can be plenty patient.”

“Sure,” Eddie agreed placatingly, but be noticed how there seemed to be something more behind the mirth in Buck’s eyes—the plastic pieces at the edges of his smile. He fought the urge to say I told you so—mostly because it would have been childish, but also because Buck hadn’t asked for his opinion at any step of the way, and Eddie hadn’t offered.

Eddie decided to wait him out—usually the best course of action when it came to Buck. Eddie understood intimately how much time it could take to parse through a mess of feelings in your brain and formulate them into words that would make sense to another person. Usually, Eddie would sit quietly and sip his beer while watching Buck’s feelings play out on his unguarded face, and after a minute or two Buck would haltingly begin to explain what had been going on with him.

Eddie had tried to explain that to Maddie when they’d both been nearly sick with worry over Buck’s post-coma mental state. “He’ll come to you when he’s ready,” Eddie had said over the phone. “You can’t force him to talk about it.”

“Eddie, you don’t know him like I do,” Maddie had protested. “He shouldn’t be alone right now.”

And Eddie had opened his mouth to say no, actually, I know him better than you, I know him better than anyone, but—that’s not true, is it? Why would Eddie know Buck better than his own sister, who’s spent the entire thirty years of his life caring for him, when Eddie’s only had him for—what, five years? Then subtract all the things they didn’t talk to each other about and all the issues they’ve had, and—yeah, who is Eddie to say what’s best for Buck?

And then Buck had knocked on his door and passed out on his couch and Eddie had felt righteously vindicated in a way that he almost wanted to rub in Maddie’s face, which was kind of bitchy of him to think.

So, Buck sipped his soda next to Eddie on his new couch, a storm of emotions clear on his face, and Eddie waited him out because that’s what he does.

Buck let out a sigh, and Eddie thought, here it is, he’ll let me in, and then— “Want to watch the Dodgers game?”

Eddie blinked. “Um, sure.”

And Buck turned on the TV.

Doubt roiled in Eddie’s gut.

“What about Hen?” Eddie asked, Buck’s hand tight on his arm as he helped him into the passenger seat of the Jeep.

“Karen already took her home, she’s fine,” Buck replied easily, before he shut the door and rounded the front of the car.

He’d left when Eddie had been taken back for x-rays, taking an Uber back to the station to pick up his car so he could come back to get Eddie and drive them both home. Eddie absently wondered when he would get a chance to get his truck from the station parking lot.

Buck hopped into the driver’s seat, fitting his keys in the ignition but pausing before turning the engine. He fixed Eddie with a gentle, reassuring look. “Seriously, man, everyone’s fine. Athena’s with Bobby, Maddie’s with Chim, let’s go home.”

Eddie swallowed, biting the inside of his cheek as he thought about just how close literally every single one of them except Ravi had come to something far more serious than some hospital bills and time off work.

His gaze slid to Buck, who flashed him that small, soft, close-mouthed smile that Eddie rarely saw—the one that made his chest feel warm and gooey.

“Okay. Let’s go home.”

The Dodgers were losing, and Buck wasn’t talking about it. Eddie tried not to either of those things get to him.

During a commercial break, Buck got up to throw their empty pizza boxes away, waving Eddie off as he moved to help.

When he came back into the living room, he paused under the overhang of the loft, just staring at Eddie.

“What?” he asked, a bit self-conscious.

Buck huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “I can’t believe I bought your couch.”

Eddie snorted. “Don’t worry about it, man. It’s flattering. You think I have good taste.”

Buck raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know if that’s it. Half the furniture in your house is from Target.”

Eddie sputtered. “I—what’s wrong with Target furniture?”

Buck, lowering himself back onto the cushions next to Eddie, raised his hands in a show of innocence. “Nothing, man. I just—I don’t know if I would call it good taste.”

Having no comeback, Eddie just whacked him in the shoulder.

Buck laughed, playfully pushing his hand away. “Hey, c’mon, don’t start shit when I can’t retaliate.”

Eddie smirked. “Why? ‘Cause you know you can’t take me?”

“No,” Buck denied. “’Cause your ribs are still fucking broken.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “I’m fine, Buck.”

“Well.” Buck crossed his arms, turning back to the TV as the next inning started. “Forgive me for wanting to be careful.”

For a moment, Eddie considered saying hey, maybe we should talk about how I could’ve almost died again? But Buck clearly wasn’t in the mood to talk about the big things, and Eddie didn’t really want to think about that yet either, so he settled for bumping their shoulders together.

Buck leaned right back into him, and neither of them moved apart—the comforting warmth of the contact buzzing in Eddie’s brain like the alcohol he wasn’t drinking.

Eddie smiled down at his hands. “You like my couch,” he teased.

“Yeah, yeah,” Buck groused, slouching into the cushions as they watched a batter swing and miss yet again. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Are you sure you’re both alright?” Carla asked, a worried hand hovering over his elbow. “I caught some of the collapse on the news.”

Eddie flashed her a smile before turning to pour two glasses of water—one for him and one for Buck, who was off in Christopher’s room. “We’re okay,” he said. “A little banged up, but the doctors said I should be back to work in six weeks or less.”

Carla narrowed her eyes. “You better take that full six weeks.”

Eddie set the Brita down and met her gaze. “I’m fine, Carla. Really.”

She sighed, crossing her arms. “I just—I worry about you, Eddie. Okay? I know you’d rather I didn’t, but I can’t help it.”

Eddie ducked his head and smiled, a bit, filled with that familiar half-disbelief that people really do care about him. “I know it doesn’t look like it, but—I was lucky today. That nothing worse happened, that—that Buck was there to pull me out.”

Carla scoffed. “Of course he was. I don’t think luck had anything to do with that one.”

Eddie tried to fight the blush off his cheeks—he didn’t know what to do with that. Carla’s surety that Buck would save him come hell or high water. His own surety that Buck would be ripping open the doors of that camper van any second now.

When she realized he wasn’t going to say anything, Carla cleared her throat. “I should go. You up for a hug?”

“From you?” Eddie responded easily. “Always.”

Carla pulled him into a gentle-but-still-desperate embrace. “Okay, I’ll get out of your hair.” With a frown, she brought a hand up to ruffle the wilting mess on Eddie’s head. “Your dusty-ass hair. Take a shower, alright?”

Eddie laughed. “Alright, alright.”

“It’s a little early for a welcome back party, don’t you think?” Eddie said as Athena hugged him in greeting, Christopher heading off in search of the other kids.

“You and Bobby are headed back tomorrow,” Athena pointed out.

“Yeah, and Chimney’s not back for another two weeks.”

“And you best believe I’ll throw another party for him.”

Eddie laughed, before venturing further into the house to greet everyone else. His ribs had healed perfectly, barely a twinge when he’d thrown himself onto the couch in triumph yesterday. Which—speaking of, Eddie’s phone was burning a hole in his pocket and he was doing a very good job of ignoring that.

Or, he was, until a lull in conversation found him standing alone in the kitchen and pulling it out of his jeans. No texts. Which—of course, they’d agreed to go for coffee after his shift on Friday, why would she text him before that—but, still. Eddie was nervous. Sue him.

His thumbs hover over the keyboard for a moment while he debates if it’s too much of a desperate move to text Marisol before they even go on a date. Christopher would know.

“Who are you texting?” asked a voice, and Eddie fumbled to turn off his phone and shove it in his pocket before someone could see… what?

He looked up to see Buck smiling at his antics, a beer in hand.

“Oh, it’s you,” Eddie sighed, leaning against the counter.

Buck sidled over to join him, staring out the windows at the backyard where the party was in full swing. “Just me. Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s fine,” Eddie replied, for some reason hoping desperately that Buck wouldn’t ask him about—

“So,” Buck nudged an elbow into his arm. “Who were you texting?”

—fuck. Eddie wasn’t sure why this felt like something he didn’t want to tell Buck, to whom he tells everything, but… they don’t really talk about their girlfriends? It was always, always awkward, and it always left him with a sour taste in his mouth.

But, Eddie’s excited about this. Marisol probably won’t be the one, or whatever, but—still. Eddie was excited that his brain was finally in a place where he could think about opening up his life to someone and it wouldn’t send him into a panic attack that landed him in the ER.

And Buck asked.

And Eddie’s not in the habit of saying no to him.

“Um,” he started. “Do you remember Marisol? From the—”

“—yeah, yeah!” Buck cut him off. “So, you were texting her?” He raised his eyebrows, a knowing glint in his gaze.

Eddie blushed. “Yeah, uh… we’re going on a date?” he said quietly, a pit of dread or something similar opening in his gut.

Buck was quiet for a moment, and Eddie risked a glance at his face. He just caught the edge of something shocked and maybe fearful in his expression before it cleared and was replaced by one of those huge, sunny smiles.

“Eddie!” Buck exclaimed. “That’s great! Oh my god, man, this is awesome,” he enthused, slinging an arm around Eddie’s shoulders and squeezing him close.

“Yeah,” Eddie chuckled, still unsure why part of him felt sick with guilt.

“Hey, ever notice how we always start dating at the same time?”

“No, do we?” Eddie lied, thinking about how he’d agonized over making the call and kept telling himself Buck’s with Natalia now, you should do this.

Buck laughed again, before he jolted with surprise and turned to Eddie, excitedly slapping him on the arm. “Dude! We can go on double dates now!”

Eddie frowned. “We didn’t last time.”

Buck shrugged. “Well, you didn’t like Taylor, so I figured—”

“I liked Taylor,” Eddie protested.

Buck snorted. “Uh, no, you didn’t.”

Eddie tilted his head in a you-got-me face. “I kind of didn’t. I thought you didn’t notice.”

Buck dropped his arm around Eddie’s shoulders again, making Eddie huff out a breath. “Oh, Edmundo, I always notice.”

No you don’t, Eddie thought, and then he ignored that.

“But,” Buck continued, a hesitation in his voice. “You—you like Natalia, right?”

Eddie didn’t really know her at all, except for how excited she’d been about Buck’s death-that-didn’t-stick and how angry that had made him. “Yeah,” Eddie lied again. “She’s good for you. And she has good taste in couches.”

Buck laughed, relieved. “Good. So—we’ll do a double date, yeah? Me, you, Natalia, Marisol.”

Fuck, no. Eddie thought. That sounds awful.

“Yeah, sure,” Eddie said instead. “That sounds great.”

Eddie was in the kitchen, pre-heating the oven to heat up some frozen chicken tenders because he didn’t have the energy to cook anything else when he felt little arms wrap gently around his midsection. It hurt his ribs, but Eddie didn’t have the heart to dislodge his son—not when these hugs were becoming rarer and rarer each day.

“Hey, kid,” Eddie said, turning in the hold and dropping a hand onto Christopher’s head. “What’s up?”

Eddie had already seen him, when he popped his head into Christopher’s room to find him sitting with Buck, a careful hand brushing the wounds on the man’s cheek. The sight had made something massive and unknowable bloom inside Eddie’s broken chest, threatening to choke him. He’d tamped it down and hugged Chris hello before heading off to shower, but apparently that hadn’t been enough.

Chris looked up, propping his chin on Eddie’s sternum. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he said, a tightness in his voice betraying him.

Eddie smiled. “Me too.” Even though it sparked the ache in his side into a bona-fide pain, Eddie leaned over to drop a kiss onto Christopher’s head—something he barely tolerates anymore. “Hey, the doctors said I’d be good as new in six weeks. Think you can deal with having me around all the time for that long?”

Chris laughed, bright and happy, and Eddie’s heart sang. “I’ll try,” he joked, and then something clouded passed over his face. “Buck’s okay, too, right? His face is bloody.”

“Oh, buddy,” Eddie sighed. Usually, he would kneel down to meet Christopher’s gaze, but he settled for easing himself into a chair and ignoring the concerned look Chris was giving him. “Buck’s totally fine, he just got scraped up a little bit. And today was pretty—pretty scary. For both of us.” He swallowed down the urge to berate himself for telling his kid he was scared, and it seemed to be the right move, because Chris nodded along with wide, careful eyes.

Eddie sighed again, settling his hands on his son’s shoulders. “But—tell you what. Buck’s gonna stay with us tonight, and he’s pretty bad at taking care of himself, right?” Chris giggled at that, and Eddie smiled in response. “So you and I are gonna have to be sneaky about taking care of him tonight, okay?”

Eddie expected Chris to give another sweet smile, and maybe to offer some comfort so earnest and childlike in its innocence that it made everything in the world feel right again, so he wasn’t quite sure to do when Chris burst out into loud, raucous laughter.

“Okay, what’s so funny?” he said, playing at being annoyed.

“It’s just,” Chris managed through his massive smile. “That’s exactly what Buck said. About you!”

Eddie just blinked in response, and Chris fell into peals of laughter again. “Okay,” Eddie said with mock-offense. “Okay, I see how it is. Gang up on the injured guy, why don’t you.”

“Da-ad,” Chris whined, fixing him with a very grown-up look. “We just care about you.”

Eddie pursed his lips, that unknown emotion threatening to drown him again. “Yeah,” he said, more choked-up than he would like. “I know.”

A small hand covered his, and Eddie flipped his own over to give it a squeeze. “Why don’t you go put on the next episode of María, okay? We’ll translate for Buck.”

Chris smirked. “You mean you’ll translate for Buck.”

“Hey, don’t sell yourself short, kid,” Eddie offered as Chris disappeared into the living room.

And later, when they were all piled on the couch, Christopher giggling at Eddie’s half-assed translations and Buck protesting that he understands more Spanish than you think, guys, the newest dose of pain meds forced upon him by Buck making his head more than a bit fuzzy, Eddie thought to himself: I wish it could be like this forever.

Buck shouted in exaggerated outrage to make Chris laugh, gesturing at some ridiculous plot point playing out on the screen, and Eddie let that huge wave of feeling bowl him over—that world-ending, all-consuming love.

Just this. Forever.

“Hold on, let me get this straight,” Hen said, a hand raised to keep Eddie quiet. “He has this whole thing about his girlfriends being couches, and the couch he finally bought is your couch?”

Feeling somehow embarrassed, Eddie just nodded. Hen shared a smirk with Chimney, sitting on the lawn chair that Maddie hadn’t let him move from for the entire party.

“That’s like—almost romantic,” Chimney snorted.

“What?” Eddie said.

“He’s been looking for the perfect couch, but it was yours all along!” Chim crowed, and Hen dissolved into giggles. She was definitely more than a little drunk.

“It’s so sweet, Eddie, come on,” she needled.

“Well, sure, but—” Eddie sputtered. “—romantic? Come on, guys.”

“No, you—you come on.” Hen said around a hiccup. “You guys are—Buck and Eddie! Eddie and Buck!”

“Yeah,” Eddie replied with a frown. “And you guys are Hen and Chim.”

“Nah, no, no, no,” Chim said with a wagging finger. “It’s not the same.”

“How is it not the same?” Eddie threw his hands in the air, one hampered by the half-full bottle in his hand. “You guys are partners, just like us.”

“Yeah, but,” Hen said. “You guys are partners,” she explained, trying for some hand gesture that must have gotten lost in the all the alcohol and rush of the party because she just ended up clasping her hands together awkwardly.

“You guys are crazy,” Eddie said with a long-suffering shake of his head.

“And you’re crazy about Buck,” Hen said in an it’s-so-obvious whisper.

Eddie drew back. “What?”

“Hen—” Chimney started, a hand on her arm.

She shook him off. “No, I gotta—Eddie, you and Buck are like, perfect for each other. You love him, right?” Her eyes were wide and earnest behind her glasses.

“Of course I do,” Eddie said automatically.

Hen gestured emphatically, whacking Chim on the shoulder like this proved her point.

“Hen,” Eddie said gently. “Did you forget that I’m straight?”

Hen scowled, like she did not want to be reminded of this fact. “Okay, but like—if Buck was a girl, you would have asked him out by now. You’d be like—fucking married by now.”

Eddie opened his mouth to respond, but found his mind stuck on Hen’s words. If Buck was a girl. Him and Buck, married. Eddie felt far drunker than he should be off just one and a half beers.

“Eddie, ignore her,” Chim cut in.

Hen frowned. “I’m going to find Karen,” she declared.

Eddie watched her retreating form, unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “He’s my best friend,” he said belatedly.

“Eddie.” Chimney kicked his leg. “Ignore her, okay? She’s drunk.”

“Yeah, but—” Eddie started.

“Look,” Chim sighed. “We joke about you and Buck sometimes, okay?”

“You do?” Eddie asked.

“Little stuff,” Chimney assured. “Just, like, you’re each other’s favorite person and you’re missing what’s right in front of you, or whatever.”

Eddie opened his mouth to respond, to refute—what?—but Chim continued.

“But they’re just jokes, okay? We know you’re both straight. I mean, it’d be great if you weren’t, or whatever, but that’s not the world we live in.”

Eddie’s jaw closed with a click. He sipped his beer.

“He’s your best friend.” Eddie looked back to Chimney. “And that’s—” He seemed to search Eddie’s face for a moment. “That’s enough, right?”

Eddie swallows. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Exactly,” Chim agreed with an easy smile. “So, don’t worry about it, okay? She’s just drunk and forgot that we don’t make those jokes in front of you guys.”

Eddie nodded. “Right. Besides, Buck has a girlfriend, and—I have a date on Friday, so…”

“You have a date on Friday?” Chimney exclaimed. “That’s great!”

“Yeah,” Eddie agreed, voice flat.

Chimney clapped him on the forearm, unable to reach his shoulder from his sitting position. “Look, man, you’ll find that perfect girl-version of Buck out there, okay? I believe.”

Eddie chuckled. “Sure.”

He looked out to the party—his eyes immediately found Buck, head thrown back in laughter at something Athena had said. The string lights of the backyard made his styled curls shine with a honey-colored fire, his fingers curled carelessly around the neck of a beer bottle made Eddie’s mouth feel suddenly dry.

Just this. Just you, Eddie thought.

“You’re right,” he said to Chimney with a hollow smile. “I’ll find someone.”

[revasserium]

the little things (that add up to you) kageyama, hinata, suga, daichi, tsukki

kageyama || he keeps extras of your favorite hairties in his bag, just in case you need them; he always pauses to watch when you put up your hair, thinking to himself how such a mundane thing could mean so much, could take up so much space in his mind, your fingers running through your hair, gathering it up, the soft strands slipping loose to frame your face, your favorite hairtie caught between your lip and your teeth like some inconsequential thing, but he knows -- he knows that it's these moments he'll find tucked away in the pages of his own memories when he gets home, when the lights go out, when it's just him and his own thoughts of you.

hinata || he always buys your favorite flavor of taro milk-bread on the way home; he likes it when you take the first bite, loves the way you smile, unbidden, the happiness bubbling up through you as inevitable as the sunrise, the way you lick your lips and look up at him with those sparkles in your eyes, the way you blush when he laughs, reaching out to wipe at the crumbles that always, always get stuck to your cheek, your lips -- he knows that it's moments like these, the ones he gathers like breadcrumbs on the floor of a heart-break forest, leading him towards a place where he can't turn back without knowing that something inside him will shatter (but only if you leave him, and he doesn't think you will), but he doesn't mind, because he knows that it'll be worth it in the end, just to see you smile.

sugawara || he holds your hand in the hallways, even during the summer months when both your palms are sticky with sweat; he's always loved the feeling of your skin against his, loved the way it makes you blush, even to this day, loves how peoples eyes linger on the pair of you as he walks you to your next class, or to the lunch line, or out to where the gymnasium is, where you'd swing your hands between your bodies and pull him back for a kiss, ask him for one more minute, maybe two, the pair of you lingering like infatuated teens after their first date, unwilling to part at their parents' doors -- he knows that it's moments like these, the ones he cups in the palms of his hands like glass-blown marbles, these are the ones that will matter the most when one day the pair of you look back, holding hands in some distant future, because he knows that he'll never grow tired of the feeling of his hands in yours.

daichi || he lends you his jacket, his mittens, his umbrella, his scarf, even if that means he'll be a little chilly on the way home sometimes; because he's always prepared and you're -- well -- you're working on it, and he can't deny that he likes seeing you in his clothes, the size-difference strangely satisfying, the sight of it scratching some itch inside him he's never realized he had, and then when you return it -- whatever it happens to be -- he knows that it'll smell like you, and he can't lie, he really likes that too -- and he knows it's moments like these, the ones he tucks away in the lining of his jacket, in the stitching of his scarves, that he'll reach for the most, the ones that'll keep him warm on a cold winter's day when he doesn't have you by his side.

tsukki || he has a playlist of songs that you've mentioned you liked, just for himself; because he knows better than anyone else that the music a person likes reveals all their deepest secrets, and finds himself wanting to know all of yours, so he listens to each song, memorizes the lyrics, taps his fingers against the beat and wonders if you did the same the first time you listened, wonders if one day, he were to put a pair of headphones over your ears with a playlist full of all his favorite songs, if your eyes would light up, if your cheeks would flush, if your lips would split into a knowing smile and if you'd already know all the words to sing along -- because he knows that it's moments like these, the private ones he keeps like secret soundtracks, that might one day give him away to you, where you might one day realize that from the moment you met, all his favorite love songs started being about you.

[harbingersglory]

Could I please request Yae Miko kink headcanons?

{☆} characters yae miko {☆} notes drabble, hc's, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings 18+ content

{☆} brat taming

i mean. kind of expected, but it also goes both ways. she thrives off "taming" you when you're being bratty just as much as she thrives off you doing the same thing to her. and she is a brat when she subs, absolutely. she will keep egging you on and being an absolute brat to the point she'll often forget you're still, yknow, mortal and don't exactly have the stamina to keep up with her being so damn insatiable (that's fine for her, though. she doesn't technically need you to lift a finger to keep it going, if your comfortable with it. just don't expect to be getting up for the next few days.)

{☆} marking

also a given and, again, goes both ways. she loves when you're rough with her, not afraid to break her (the bed, on the other hand, is a different matter), marking is just the cherry on top that has her toes curling and her tail wrapping around you like a vice. especially if you leave marks in places her uniform won't hide later– but she's also gonna do the same to you, and her teeth are a hell of a lot bigger, so I hope you've got a good pain tolerance because she's gonna make you into a chew toy half way through the night. scratching, biting..she might even get a little too excited and zap you once or twice. on accident, unless your into it.

{☆} wax play

miko leans more towards giving then receiving with this one, but I can see her enjoying it immensely. both because she's a tease and likes to rile you up and because she loves to doll you up and make you nice and pretty..which just happens to include pouring hot wax on your skin. if you let her, she'll even blindfold you so you can never expect when she'll pour the wax, and oh boy does she thrive off the surprised noises you make. she loves experimenting with all different kinds of colors of wax, too, just to see which looks best on your skin. absolute menace about it, too. her hands are on the colder side, so when she peels off the wax once it's cooled down she'll randomly place her hands over your warm skin just to watch you jump.

[hughiecampbelle]

Cagey (Hughie Campbell Oneshot)

Character/s: Hughie

Word Count: 2,121

Listening To: Julianna by Zoe Stroupe

Trigger Warnings: sa/sa mention

A/N: Me writing about my issues again 😅 I'm so grateful to be home, but it's also really complicated, and my step dad just makes things hard. He's been really stressed out about his job, which makes him angry, and he's been taking it out on everyone like it's our fault. I told my Nana what he's said/done to me, but she said to just get through it to help my mum. I know that's what I'm supposed to do, but there wasn't even a second of understanding, yknow? It was hard opening up in the first place and now it feels like it's all my fault. I didn't deserve it though. I didn't. My family always talks about what he's done to my mum or my brother, and I know it's impossibly selfish, but I wonder what I did to make it seem to them like I deserved what he's done. Writing has been really hard lately and I'm just a big crybaby mess lol. Thank you for being patient my loves and just being there for me in general. 💓💘🩷💝💗💖💕

You weren’t always a bad dog. 

An unlikeable thing. All teeth and spit, gums and gore. They say you like the taste of blood, but they are wrong. They say it to make themselves feel better, to sleep better, to name you a monster. Weaned on fury and shame, you never had a chance. You gnaw at your wounds as a reminder of this, red pooling between your incisors. Constantly forgetting, little pup, believing what’s happened will not repeat itself. Surely, this will be the last time, you think, you convince yourself. They have proven this a lie so many times, but you choose to forget. Forgive. Pretend as if your scars have faded when they are gaping, screaming mouths across your skin. They are hungry and so are you. You bare your teeth in hopes that, one day, someone will see through the facade. See through the violence, the aggression. You fear (quietly – this want, as all wants are, are unspeakable) that no one will. You growl and stare and pant. No one is allowed to get close. The naive, the arrogant, place their fingertips in front of your lips. They believe themselves different. They have put their faith and trust into an animal that does not act rationally. In your eyes, they are all him. They are all hostile, explosive men who punish you for being born a rotten dog. Men who laugh when you cry. Men who make you believe you have done something wrong when all you have done is defend yourself, your blood. You don’t want to do this, you never have, but they must pay as you have. It’s the only justice you know how to serve. So, you open wide, tasting them. They think they have won. They think you have unlearned to be feral. And just as they begin to gloat, and just as they begin to grin, that is when you bite. That is when you sink your teeth into their fleshy, soft forearms and chew them to ribbons. To bits. That is when you give them a taste of their own medicine. And they will beat you, and they will berate you, and that is when you will go back to the familiar, your solitude, and curl into yourself and wait for the men to come again. For now, you are safe. For now, the danger has passed. 

They have not learned their lesson and neither have you. 

You are still a bad dog. Older now, your fur pale, your eyes tired, though (foolishly) just as forgiving. Just as forgetful. Someone, though, has finally seen right through you. Past your mouth, your sharpness, to your humility. Humanity. Your nakedness. He does not unlike you. He does not unlove you. You are not a pet or a plaything, but something beyond words. It’s the cynic in you, to seek like mindedness. To seek ruin. To be seen like that, like this – just as you are – is too much. Sometimes, you wish to bite and gnaw and scare him off. Bark and see if he backs away. Test the limits. You wish to be thrown back in that cage, to be screamed at, just to know he is like them. There is order in men like them, there is a sense of security in their cycles. Brace for impact. They all loved the way you flinched. But he does not. He has yet to do so. He has yet to flee. Instead, he sits. He waits. He cleans the wounds you have torn open in seeking the feeling of home. He offers what he can, unsure of how to put it in a language you can understand. Your mother tongue is violence. He does not reciprocate. He asks you questions, but does not expect answers. He never minds filling in the silences, the gaps, the cavities where your response should be. He is there through the messiness. He listens, patiently, starved for information. He watches you in awe. Here is someone wild, untamed, undomesticated. Here is someone who has no problem turning on others if it means keeping themselves in tact. And yet, you are still capable of love. You are still capable of caring. Slowly, you relearn. You wake each morning different than the day before. It's a long, painful process. Realizing how wrong it all was, how young you really were when it happened. It leaves you wondering what you might have turned out like if things were different, if they hadn't done what they did, taught you what they did. That it was your fault. That you were asking for it. You were a dog, but before that, before everything, you were just a little kid. A child. 

The thought will drive you mad, but you cannot help but wonder. 

 You drink too much, in need of help getting home. The room falls on its axis. The cracking, broken feeling in the middle of your chest has grown numb. Your thoughts, wasp-like, have settled into a deep sleep. Those drives are long and full of tears. They slip down your face easily, effortlessly, as if you were made to do it. You can’t hold them back. There’s no stopping them. Memories, flashbacks, they meld and mix, playing before your eyes. You talk yourself down. It's okay. It's okay. It's okay. You ball your fists and suck in air. And in between breaths, and in-between gasps, small pieces of the story come out. You weren't born bad. Rotten, perhaps, but not bad. And certainly not a dog. There was a kindness to you, a self-sacrificing manner that let you lay in the road and wait to be struck, happy, eager to be killed so that others may survive. Those things happened, and you let him. Those things happened, and you didn’t say a word, afraid. Keep the peace, she told you. You thought that’s what you were doing. You hoped you were saving her from the truth, from reality, that you were his prey. His chew toy. And then, tired of the shame, you said something. But that still didn’t change anything. You became worse. Began growing claws and fur. Began sleeping in a cage. More men came after that, before them boys. They named you cagey, refusing to see the root of the issue. It's all my fault, you think, you feel, you say in desperate moments like this. It's all my fault. The sentence plays on loop. Thoughts. Thoughts of failure, of dread, of terrible things happening because you deserve them, because you exist. The first time it happened, he was startled. Shocked. Scared, even. In front of them you are quiet, and calm. You smiled and laughed when you were supposed to. You never let on. You listened, offering advice, a shoulder to cry on, expecting nothing in return. You have put that other side of you in a muzzle. Locked it away and threw away the key. At least, that’s what you thought. This is the real you, though. Drunk and crying, angry and feeling bad for getting angry. Your sharp edges have come out. Struggling to breathe. Grieving everything. Every loss, every touch, every word. Every last bit of you. 

Now he waits, he offers what comforts he can afford, he grabs your hand without ever taking his eyes off the road. The story is broken, fragile and frail, like the spine of a beloved book. The flimsy foundation paints a story of a man, a woman, and a child. A family of sorts. An unhappy one full of secrets, and blame, and anger. Not just bursts or sparks, but a fury only the sun could mimic. Somewhere between the beginning and now, you were created. Monstrous, you think, but he doesn’t see it that way. You used to be barefoot and wild hair. Unruly, but not feral. Wild. You don't know where that person went, but you miss them. You miss them every day. Unafraid. Now, when someone raises their voice, their hand, panic sets in. It picks up the beat of your heart. Pounding, thrashing, banging its head against the wall. You fear it will stop completely. It sends tingles down your arms and hands. They’re going numb. They’re detaching from you. Your stomach churns and flips, practicing her acrobatics. The middle of your chest has cracked open, a gaping wound where something crucial is missing. You can dig, and claw, but you will never find what it is you’re looking for. You clutch at the emptiness, grasping at nothing, hyperventilating, like the wounded dog you were made to be. Crybaby, you think. You vocalized this once, only once, because the despair and guilt in his expression was too much to face. You keep it to yourself. 

He squeezes your hand. He promises just a few more minutes (you will hit every red light). He will open the door for you, helping you out, up. He will walk you through the apartment and into your room. It is the same song and dance and yet, you expect something to happen. Something awful. He will hurt you or you will hurt him. You will forget yourself: you will growl and he will grow angry. He will kick you out. He won’t show up when the bar calls in the first place. He will mock, and scold, and laugh at your tears. Thousands of variations play out in your head, before your eyes, but not once have they ever come true. He will sit you down on the bed. Delicately, always asking first, he will pull your shirt over your head. He will untie your shoes and fold down your jeans. You will sit, exposed, wincing, waitting. He doesn’t act as they have. He isn’t greedy, he does not expect things from you because he has shown an ounce of kindness. He will appear just when you begin to worry, to become afraid, with something to sleep in, warm and soft and smelling of fabric softener. I put them in the dryer for a few minutes, he beams, and you are relieved. He is gentle, grazing you, your scars, just barely. His skin is warm. He smiles at you as if nothing has happened, as if you have not burdened him another night, as if you are not a mangy animal sitting on the clean bed you share, too drunk to dress yourself. Or, maybe not. You’ve done it in the past. Pick yourself up off the bathroom floor. Flung your clothes where they could no longer touch you. Slept violently in whatever you could find.

Maybe you just like the feeling of being taken care of. 

Come here, he says, and you feel like breaking. He pulls you into an embrace, wrapping himself around you. It’ll get better, he says, and he sounds so sure. You’re not sure why, but a small, sober part of you believed him. It will be. Eventually. When he lets go he moves towards the bed, undoing the blankets and duvet, placing the pillows just how you like. While you sink in, he grabs a glass of water, some painkillers, anything to help the hangover in the morning. He’s always doing that: trying to ease something in you. Worries mostly, but also illness, aches and pains, nightmares and panic attacks. You don’t want to bite him. You don’t want to scare him off. You don’t want to be put down because of your anger, your rage, your wrath. You want to be good. You want to deserve this, but even now, your thoughts muffled by the vodka, say you don’t deserve him or any kind of goodness. Before he leaves, his laptop opens in the living room, the tv quietly showing a different angle of another uninteresting Homelander interview, he kisses your forehead. He’ll stay up, work, and when the time comes to join you he will slip by your side. He won’t make the first move, instead he waits, but does not expect, until you roll over, nuzzling yourself into him. It’s his favorite part of the day.  When you wake in the morning you’ll watch him sleep, his chest rising and falling under your head. Hughie doesn’t look at you and see you as a bad dog. You’re neither bad nor a dog. You’re not feral, or cagey, or untamed. You’re not a mutt with claws and sharp, bloodstained teeth. You’re you. The person he loves. The person he shows every piece of himself to. The person he cares about most. A struggling person, sure, but that isn’t a moral failing.

And he’s right: it will get better. Perhaps slowly, perhaps painfully, but it will. It always will.

[thornsnvultures]

Imagining Eddie bringing dice to the bedroom with different rolls corresponding to different sex acts and body parts.

He's all excited and you're kind of nervous but along for the ride. He keeps rolling stuff like: "lick eyes", "spank hair", "whisper into feet", and gets kinda frustrated and discouraged cause all the rolls are weird and dumb.

"I'm sorry, babe. This was stupid."

Before he can retreat into himself you're pulling him towards you with his face in your hands.

"Close your eyes."

Once he does you move closer, rubbing your thumbs over his cheekbones as you admire his long eyelashes. Ever so gently you press a kiss to his lips, his button nose, his rosy, flushed cheeks, until finally your tongue pokes out and lightly runs across his closed eyelids.

It's definitely strange but this close you can feel his shuddering breath on your chest. His ringed fingers tighten on your hips and tug you closer until your seated in his lap.

"Oh," he sighs as you lick the other eye. Satisfied, you press more wet kisses to his brow before nuzzling into the soft nest of curls atop his head.

He's firm under you, hot and hard, yet Eddie's shaking like a leaf.

"I don't know if I can spank your hair, but of you have anything you'd like to say to my feet you're more than welcome."

Eddie chuckles, jostling you with his laughter. You lean back and hold his face again, smiling as you wipe at the wetness that gathers at the corners of his big, brown eyes.

"How'd they taste?"

"Like the eyeliner you wore at the show last night."

"Oh, yum."

"I'm kidding. You, Eddie. They just taste like you. I'll put my tongue wherever you want."

"I know you will, nasty." He grabs you tight around the waist and nips at your jaw, pressing kisses into the spot by your ear that makes you gasp and your toes curl.

"Now, lemme see them toes, baby. I got some secrets to tell." You shriek as he throws you back on the bed and pounces on you, grabbing at your sock covered feet.

[wickmitz]

tiny paws grip at him, fisting into cloth and spiked fur alike to tug him endlessly forward -- and freckle wonders if she notices that he trips over his own paws to try and match her pace. listens to the hightail click-clack of heels ground into stone and polished wood, sees a sliver of assured smile carving it’s way into one tender cheek. there’s a patience and impatience about his accidentally acquired girlfriend that he isn’t sure what to do with, besides his usual awkward staring ; as if behind the veil of choppy, self-made bangs would give him something more than mindless direction or giggles. and something is building in his stomach and his chest all the same, some sort of blockage he can’t dwindle. he, impossibly, nervously, seriously wants to be good for her -- to her! watches how dark fur simmers into something softer and light when they huddle in the backseat of a car, how rays of sunshine catch on the tips of perked ears, reflecting off the pearl white of whiskers, and freckle thinks pretty, with enough of an admiring lull that he sizzles through orange fur straight down to his singular freckle. he wonders if ivy would like it. if there’s things she enjoys about him at all, or if she’s just having her fun. her paw touches his arm, tiny claws rested right below shoulder, so he does what’s expected and follows : leaning where she puts some weight, following her muffled excitement of a command, until lips grace his own, trailing across fuzzy muzzle and onto equally fuzzy cheek. he still … squirms, flinches, squeezes wide eyes shut and feels fear lance through him, always imagining brimstone close by. but he’s getting better at it, this, well, boyfriend thing -- and ivy is nothing but undeterred in a way most people wouldn’t be. so he thinks about it, about growing into this, finding a home within it, somewhere, and moves his head just slightly, a nudging thing, and for the first time places an answering kiss on her neck.

[imagineitdearies]

~ A Flawed Eternity ~

(AKA drabbles set in the Perfect Slaughter universe. 🩵 Special thanks to @themoonatmingitaw for the ko-fi request! 🩵)

In which Astarion and Tyrus use the hot springs.

~

“I don’t trust the druid,” Astarion declared two weeks after the alliance had been struck.

They were attempting to rest again following one of Tyrus’s tranced memories-turned-panics. He frowned down at Astarion now, hand pausing in the midst of playing with those silvery curls. “What’s happened?”

“Oh nothing—yet. But all his blathering on about that forest spirit child, waylaying our mission with superstition . . . more distressing, I couldn’t see past his gigantic hairy arse during that surprise attack,” Astarion grumbled.

Tyrus relaxed a bit. “You don’t like him,” he translated.

“I like his dedication to your sister—those arms are nice to look at on occasion—but outside that?” Astarion huffed. “His prying ‘helpfulness’ certainly wears on the nerves.”

Tyrus sat up a bit, nodding at the nearby spring. “Would a soak help calm them?”

Astarion narrowed his eyes up at him. “Have you tranced a full four hours yet?”

“. . . maybe this could help me trance easier, too,” Tyrus shrugged in lieu of an answer.

“Give you a handful more memories to choose from, at least,” Astarion sighed.

They both still struggled to rest, Tyrus especially. It felt worse falling into a terrible memory these days—like his freedom was being stolen over and over again.

Quiet moments like these felt much more restful.

Later, while leaning back against Tyrus’s chest in the bubbling little pool, Astarion murmured, “Halsin gave me a pat on the back, after we flank-killed the last cultist. And, well, you know—of course I reacted a bit,” he said with an annoyed sniff. “But he couldn’t just leave it alone after. Had to apologize over and over; even approached me today and offered himself if I needed a ‘neutral outsider to talk to about anything.’”

Tyrus contemplated this for a moment. “Might that not be . . . potentially beneficial?”

Astarion sat up from his recline to turn and face him. “What I need is to be strong right now, love,” he said, reaching to cup Tyrus’s cheek with his brows pulled low over his eyes. “I need to keep you safe. I need to stay on high alert, not wallow in pains best left forgotten.”

Can they be forgotten? Tyrus almost asked.

Pain and fear seemed like the only things his mind cared to hold onto, whether vivid or deeply rooted in his subconscious.

But an hour later, after they’d dried off and redressed, the soak seemed to have done its work—Astarion’s irritation melting away into something a bit more vulnerable.

“I . . . well, I told him I’d think about it, actually,” he spoke in a very small, hesitant voice after he’d pulled Tyrus in.

Tyrus offered a small smile up at Astarion and then tucked his head into his partner’s chest.

“I hope you do,” he whispered back.