#Black Scrubbing Pad

[tilecleaningtoday]

Low Moisture Cleaning Products Used to Restore Victorian Tiles in Cheadle

The owner of this property in Cheadle discovered a small Victorian tiled floor in the vestibule at the front of the house, under what they described as a “grotty grey carpet”. They couldn’t believe they had been covered over by a previous owner and were made up to find such a lovely period feature which although very dirty appeared to be complete.

I was asked if I could replace the loose grouting and renovate the tiles to bring back as much of their original character as possible. Happy to oblige, I visited the property to inspect the tiles and confirm the work needed to restore the floor. From this I provided the owners with a quote which they were happy to accept, and we arranged a time to complete the work.

Cleaning and Repairing a Victorian Tiled Hallway Floor

I started the renovation of the Victorian vestibule tiles with a deep restorative clean to remove heavy soil and old sealers. Properties of this age do not usually have a damp proof membrane and I was wary that using a lot of water on the floor may exacerbate damp issues and take much longer to dry out; with that in mind I decided to use a low moisture Gel cleaning product called Tile Doctor Oxy-Gel.

The product is applied to the tiles, the after about ten minutes it’s worked in with a mechanical buffing machine fitted with a black scrubbing pad. This process brings the dirt to the surface and turns the gel black in the process. The machine just about fitted into the space however the circular pads struggle to get into the corners so for that I then reverted to a handheld scrubbing brush and more Tile Doctor Oxy-Gel. The now soiled gel was then removed using a little water and a wet vacuum system designed to keep the mess to a minimum.

There was evidence of white efflorescence salts on some of the tiles which isn’t surprising considering the age of the property and the location of the tiles. To resolve this, I gave the tiles an acid rinse and sticking with the low moisture then I applied Tile Doctor Acid Gel. This product further cleans up the tiles and being acidic dissolves the salts and neutralises the pH level of the floor after the use of Oxy-Gel earlier. I used the same system as before, working the gel in with a pad and by hand then extracting with a wet vacuum.

Sealing a Victorian Tiled Hallway Floor

After carrying out some minor grout repairs, we left the area to fully dry overnight before returning the following day to seal with Tile Doctor X-Tra Seal. This product is fully breathable and so will allow for moisture to rise through the tile and evaporate at the surface, perfect for a floor without a damp proof membrane. Once done the floor had a nice matt finish, but the delightful colours of the original tiles now really shone through and lifted the whole entrance area.

My client was very pleased with the outcome and left the following glowing comment on the Tile Doctor feedback system.“Absolutely amazing craftsmanship. I asked for the tiles to be preserved with their characteristics rather than ‘repaired’ and he did exactly that. They somehow look brand new while still showing their story from the day they were laid. He has cleaned them up beyond expectation and protected them for hundreds of years to come!”

For aftercare I recommended the use of Tile Doctor Neutral Tile Cleaner, it’s a gentle yet effective floor cleaning product that’s safe to use on sealed tiles and will help to keep the area looking pristine in the future.

Source: Victorian Floor Tile Cleaning and Restoration Service in Cheadle Manchester

[urmum-lovesme]

Dad!Rafe and late night wake ups...

The room was pitch black, except for the faint glow of the street lights outside Tannyhill, which gently seeped into the room through the blinds. Y/n stirred first, groaning softly as the sound of the baby’s cries filtered through the monitor into the silence of their bedroom.

“She’s up” 

Y/n mumbled, burying her face into her pillow. Motherhood had been the most beautiful thing she’d ever experienced, every moment with their baby, every tiny coo, soft sigh, or fleeting smile, felt like magic, a love so profound it stole her breath. It filled her with a joy so overwhelming, that sometimes she found herself crying tears of gratitude just holding her. But as much as her heart was full, her body was weary. The late nights, the constant feeds, the endless cycle of changing, soothing, and rocking had started to wear her down in a way she hadn’t anticipated. She was more tired than she’d ever been in her life. Y/n let out a long sigh, pressing her cheek against the cool silk fabric of the pillow, she wanted to move- knew she had to- but the weight of tiredness anchored her to the mattress. Rafe shifted beside her, the bed creaking under his weight. 

“I’ve got it” 

He said, his voice thick with sleep. He blinked a few times, scrubbing a hand down his face, letting out a low groan, before rolling out of bed. Y/n murmured, already half-asleep again.

“You sure?” 

“Yeah, go back to sleep.”

Rafe padded down the hall, his steps heavy with exhaustion. He stepped into the nursery, the soft glow of the nightlight casting a comforting warmth over the room. The baby’s whimpers echoed through the stillness, her little body squirming restlessly in her crib. Rafe moved quickly, used to the familiar route to the kitchen and back to the nursery. He set the bottle, which he’d just prepared, down on the changing table and gently reached for her, her cries growing louder as he picked her up into his arms. 

“Hey baby girl,” he whispered, his voice soft and soothing. 

“What’s the matter, hmm?”

She quieted a little at the warmth of her father's embrace but still whined slightly, looking up at him with wide eyes. Rafe smiled, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the top of her head, 

“Let’s get you fed.” 

He murmured, cradling her against his bare chest as he walked over to the changing table. He moved to offer her the bottle, but as he tilted it toward her lips, she turned her head away stubbornly, a small whimper escaping her. Rafe blinked in surprise, holding the bottle closer and gently coaxing her to take it. 

“Come on, sweet girl,” he murmured, his fingers brushing lightly over her cheek, “it’ll make you feel better.” She turned her head again, the tiny furrow in her brow deepening as she whimpered louder. Rafe’s shoulders sagged slightly at her refusal. 

“Stubborn, just like your mommy huh?” 

He chuckled softly, shaking his head, though the faintest feeling of worry lingered in his chest as she let out another whine. He tried again, holding the bottle gently in her direction, but she pushed away again, her tiny hands flailing in frustration as her whines grew louder. Rafe shushed the baby, his voice calming, but there was a hint of concern underneath. He shifted her carefully in his arms, making sure she was comfortable before bringing the bottle closer once more. 

“It’s okay, sweetheart.”

This time, she slowly turned her head, her tiny mouth opening slightly, her little lips grazing the bottle’s nipple. And just when it seemed like she might latch on, she pulled back again, her eyes wide and her face scrunching in discomfort. Rafe sighed, a soft laugh escaping him despite the situation. 

“You’re going to make me work for it, huh?” he muttered under his breath. 

Y/n slowly stirred awake at the soft sound of their baby’s whimpers getting louder. Her eyes fluttered open just enough to see Rafe now standing by their bed, his brow furrowed as he held the bottle, trying yet again to get their daughter to take it. She turned her head away from it, and Rafe sighed softly, clearly at a loss, gently rocking her in his arms. With a tired movements, Rafe placed the bottle on the nightstand; his eyes flicking to Y/n, who was laying peacefully under the covers. She'd shifted slightly, sensing the change in the air. He hated to wake her, but he knew she’d be the one who could calm her down.

“Y/n,” he whispered, gently shaking her shoulder. “She won’t take the bottle”

Y/n mumbled something incoherent but shifted, her eyes barely opening as she adjusted herself, pushing herself up the bed, back against the headboard. With a soft groan, she pulled the strap of her vest down, goosebumps rising on her now exposed skin, and moved their baby into position, lining her up to her breast. Instantly, the baby latched onto her, and Y/n hummed softly, her eyes half-closed as she rested her head against the headboard. Rafe stayed close, his hand gently brushing her thigh as he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. His lips lingered for a moment, the tenderness in his touch speaking more than words could.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice low, his gaze soft with concern.

“Mmm,” Y/n hummed, barely lifting her head, “tired.” 

She murmured, her eyelids fluttering closed again, exhaustion seeping into her voice. Rafe smiled faintly, his heart swelling as he watched her. 

“I know, baby,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

She tilted her head slightly, her voice barely audible. “Why are you sorry?”

Rafe chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Didn’t want to disturb you.”

“You’re never disturbing me” 

Y/n smiled faintly, her hand gently resting on their baby’s back, her voice full of warmth. Settling down beside her on the bed, Rafe propped himself on one elbow, his eyes fixed on their daughter. She was feeding peacefully now, her tiny hand resting against Y/n’s chest, her eyelids fluttering closed in contentment. The room was quiet except for the faint sounds of suckling, Y/n's soft breaths and the rhythmic hum of the monitor on the bedside table. Rafe reached out cautiously, brushing the back of his finger against their baby’s cheek. His eyes then flickered up and watched Y/n, eyes glistening in the dim light. He could see how tired she was- the faint lines under her eyes, the way her shoulders slumped ever so slightly- but even now, she glowed with an effortless grace that took his breath away.

“Hey,” he said quietly sitting up, drawing her attention back to him. She turned her head slightly, her eyes heavy with sleep but full of love.

“Hmm?” she hummed. He pressed another kiss to her forehead, his lips lingering as he murmured, 

“I’ll take her after, yeah? You need rest.”

Y/n’s lips quirked up in a soft smile, and she nodded faintly, her head resting against his shoulder. Letting her eyes flutter closed for a moment. Rafe watched her, his gaze flicking down to the baby, who was still latched on, her tiny body snug in Y/n’s arms. 

“What if she spits up?” 

Y/n asked softly, not even opening her eyes, her voice tinged with a playful worry. Rafe grinned, shaking his head. 

“I think I can handle a little spit, baby. She’s got nothing on your pregnancy nausea.” 

He teased, leaning his cheek against her hair. Y/n opened one eye, giving him a sleepy, knowing look. 

“You say that now, but you’ve never taken a proper hit.” She murmured with a small smirk. “C’mon,” Rafe replied, tilting his head back dramatically. 

“She’s like nine pounds. What’s the worst she can do?”

As if on cue, their baby let out the tiniest hiccup, followed by a soft gurgle. Both Y/n and Rafe froze for a moment, staring at her, before a wet, unmistakable sound followed- a small spit-up dribbling down her chin. Y/n bit back a laugh, her shoulders shaking as she glanced up at Rafe, 

“You were saying?” 

She quipped, her voice thick with amusement. Rafe sighed, shaking his head with a wry smile as he grabbed the burp cloth already draped over his shoulder. 

“Alright... guess I earned that one.” 

He dabbed gently at their daughter’s chin, his expression softening as he looked down at her, “still the cutest, though.”

Y/n chuckled softly, leaning her head back against his shoulder again. “Welcome to parenthood,” she murmured, her voice laced with affection. Rafe grinned, placing one more kiss on the top of his daughter's head, her soft hair brushing against his lips as he said quietly.

 “Wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

Dad!Rafe has my heart

[twilghtkoo]

oh how you love longhair!jungkook . . .

pairings. jungkook x reader (f)

genres/aus. fluff, smut, established relationship

warnings. long hair jungkook, oral (f receiving), minor cum play, hair pulling, fingering, squirting, finger sucking

notes. wrote something about long hair haechan awhile ago, it’s only fair i write about long hair kook too 🙇🏻‍♀️ likes and reblogs appreciated !! stay safe and healthy <33

masterlist

—

"ahh, this is annoying." you hear jungkook from the kitchen, not really talking to you but voicing his thoughts aloud. you turn your head away from the laptop in your lap towards the man fighting the hair in his face as he towers over the kitchen sink.

you laugh to yourself, focus back on your laptop screen.

"yah, are you laughing? help meee," he pointedly stares at you while you fake innocence.

you sigh, placing your laptop on the coffee table in front of you before marching to the kitchen. jungkook is attempting to move the hair out of his face with his shoulder as he scrubs a plate clean. his bare wrists missing his usual black hair tie that would suit his wrist, so you just use on yours that was meant for you.

"girlfriend here fulfilling girlfriend duties sir!" you jokingly say in a deep voice and saluting as the cherry on top. the corner of his lips lift slightly as he scoffs.

you stand behind him as he pauses what he's doing to lean his head back so you can reach. you strategically use your fingers to comb through his hair as you carefully gather a fistful and quickly tie it up. made sure to not tie it too tight because he gets headaches if they're too tight. you step back and admire your work.

"better?" you ask.

"much, thank you." he exhales. with that you were going to turn around but he stops you.

"wait, kiss!" he urged.

—

"is that my headband?" you tilt your head at the sight in front of you.

jungkook washing his face with—pretty sure it's yours— a cute tiger headband pushing back his hair. soap suds coating his entire face.

he squints his eyes at you. "perhaps?" he says questioningly.

"what do you mean perhaps, that is mine." you snickered, walking past him to do what you originally came in the bathroom for.

"sorry baby, i don't know where mine went."

you flush the toilet and stand beside him to use the other sink to wash your hands. "it's okay, i'll buy you another one."

next day . . .

"really? a cooky headband?" he doesn't even look surprised, yet slowly a smile is creeping it's way onto his face. you just looked so excited when you came back from the store.

"it's fitting! it's literally you." you shoot your arms out, gesturing to him. "plus, now we can do face masks together."

—

"oh, fuck," you cried out, fingers harshly pulling his head into your center as he greedily licks into your cunt.

your stomach moving up and down from the uncontrollable breaths you're taking in and letting out. the pads of your fingers dig into his scalp and the feeling only urges him on more as he grinds into the bed. he's sure he looks pathetic humping the mattress, but your sounds and touch made him desperate and he did not give a fuck.

"taste so fucking good..."

"smell so fucking good..." he curses out in between munching on your juicy pussy.

you let out a strangled cry as his tongue leaves your hole and moves onto your clit, sucking at it. gripping frantically for anything and finding a pillow, you buck your hips, wanting more. needing more. the noises he makes as he eats you out were ungodly. whining, groaning, short breaths as he presses into your folds.

he did not want to stop, he was pussy drunk. his hands slowly drag its way up from your ankle to your leg then where you were needily craving. two of his fingers brush against your hole.

"hmph, kookie," god that nickname. the way it sounds coming out of your lips. the way it sounds in this extremely lewd situation. the way it's just you.

he huffs out. "shit," his fingers pumping into you fast and relentless.

his free hand moves to hold your hips down, licking and sucking on the sensitive bud harder. he felt you tighten around his fingers, your walls fluttering.

"i can't, i can't- oh fuuuck!"

"mmh," he groans out as you both cum. his warm cum coating the inside of his briefs leaving a sticky, uncomfortable mess. your juices are creating a pool from the dip in the bed created from the weight of your ass.

he pulls out his fingers, leisurely, as he sits up on the back of his shins, his thigh muscles become prominent and you clench around nothing from the sight. but you seriously cannot take a fourth orgasm. his face glistening from the meal he just had and hairs sticking out from his once neat man bun.

your body begins to calm down, with shaky legs you slide your feet up and open your legs to make room for him. holding out your hand for him to take he lets you pull him down, at your mercy, his arms on either side of your head. you reach up to pull his hair free from the ponytail, his thick waves cascading down from his neck.

taking a moment to admire the bare beauty in front of you. his cheeks painted a faint red from the previous rounds in here, his baby hairs stringy and sticking to his forehead and sideburns from sweat. the beauty marks that makeup and cameras cannot capture and only people close up can see. your hand comes up to gently cup his face and you almost cry when you can see him physically melt into your hand, his eyes fluttering shut while your thumb makes soft strokes.

you blindly reach for his hand that was penetrating you minutes before and take them in your mouth. your tongue lapping around his digits, humming at the taste of yourself.

he’s getting lost at the sight of you.

finally opening your eyes, he slowly pulls his fingers out from your mouth. the tips of his fingers dragging down slowly from your bottom lip, watching it bounce back. his eyes zone in on the wet streak he’s leaving down to your collarbone.

“we made a mess.” he mumbles, smirking.

“oops,” you shrug, smiling.

[januaryembrs]

Any fluffy sweet Drabble about the moon boys 🫡

SWEET MORNINGS | Marc Spector x reader

description: the boys wake up to their girlfriend making breakfast, too bad she has no clue which boy is fronting that morning

length: 1.1k

warnings: representation of DID, Marc's slight self loathing (it's Marc idk what to say). Writer has never experienced DID so I am going off the show

He woke up peacefully, which had once been a fleeting dream in itself for a man like him. He’d spent years jumping at the smallest sounds, flinching at voices and footsteps, ready to be up and out of bed within a moment’s notice. Yet, when his eyes slowly blinked out of the reverie of sleep, he heard her humming along to the radio, already half way through the song, heard her socks sliding against the kitchen floor as she whirled around the stove, and the smell of pancakes and coffee hit him with full force. 

His lips drew into a smile before he even knew it, and he was drawing the covers back, her side of the bed not entirely freezing which told him she’d been up about twenty minutes. Marc grabbed his shirt off the floor, the same one Steven used to sprinkle with sand when he had no idea about their coexistence, only two years later, it was scrubbed clean, even with a pretty, knit rug you’d bought from your apartment when you moved in. 

Tugging it over his head, he padded into the living room, where he could already see your form where you danced around the kitchen, entirely unaware of his approach. He’d been trying to teach you self defence, said you needed to learn to have a sixth sense when it came to people on your tail, because he had a tendency to worry about you more than Steven and Jake did. But maybe it was the fact he had naturally light footsteps, or maybe it was the fact you knew in the comfort of your home he would always be there to protect you, either way your guard was entirely down by the time he swooped behind you, grabbing you in a warm, soft hug, pressing kisses down the side of your bare neck and onto your shoulder. 

“Morning,” His voice was muddied with sleep, and he cleared his throat, hoping to take some of the husk out of it despite the fact you whirled around to look at him with something that told him just what you thought of his rumbling voice. 

“Morning, honey,” You said, pressing a small kiss to his lips, your hand still on the frying pan that he now realised had been filled with mini-chocolate pancakes, the batter sizzling and cracking in the oil, “You hungry?” 

Marc wasn’t really listening as he gave a ‘mhm’, too busy burying his nose in the crook of your neck and jaw, kissing lazily there as he tightened his grip on your waist. 

His gaze fell on the counter after a moment, the blueberry porridge Steven went crazy for already dished up in the little purple bowl you’d painted for him for their birthday, whirled of steam coming off the breakfast that was slowly turning a cornflour colour with the chopped fruit swirling in the centre. 

“Sorry, baby, I think Steven’s still sleeping, I can try ask him-” He started as you used a spatula to quickly flip the pancakes, their underside a golden brown that made his mouth water.

“Oh, don’t worry. I wasn’t sure who was joining me for breakfast, or if all of you wanted something, so I made a bit of everything,” You said, smiling at him as you turned the gas down and spun in his arms, batting your eyes at him with an innocent smile, “Chocolate pancakes for you, blueberry oatmeal for Steven and a black coffee for Jake since I know you guys got mad last time we had bacon together,”

“What a woman,” Jake’s voice was a growl of appreciation that Marc couldn’t help but agree with, and he was quick to lean in to steal a handful of long kisses, grabbing the soft plush of your hips with feather light fingers and pulling you towards him, “Ay, Romeo, your pancakes are burning.”

You sprung away from him like you’d heard the alter yourself, your eyes wide in surprise, “Your pancakes are burning!” 

He heard Jake chuckle and a smile made it’s way onto his face as you fretted over whether the brown was where the chocolate had melted or if the mix had singed, but Marc thought he might just eat anything you gave him because you poured so much love and affection into it he couldn't help but think it tasted divine. 

“Marc, I’m sorry, I know we have the no hogging the body rule and I got to have her all last night, but please let me have just a few bites- o-or atleast ask her to save it for me, that stuff smells delicious,” Steven seemed to be wide awake and kicking at the sight of food, and Marc sighed, reaching out with one hand to swoop your hair off your neck as he kissed the very top of your spine. 

“Steven asks if we could save him the blueberry oatmeal since it’s my turn to spend time with you,” He said gently, and he feels you smile before he sees it, the way your cheeks crinkle and pull tightly. 

“Of course I can, baby, I’ll put it in the fridge,” You said, despite the fact the man was inside the body, scooping the little circular goods onto two plates for both of you. Turning to set the plates on the table, Marc grabbed two glasses out of the cabinet, opening the fridge door with a rattle as the magnets clasped pictures of the two of you to the cooler. 

“Orange or apple juice?” He asked, pulling the former out of the side drawer for himself. 

“Orange, please,” You replied politely, grabbing some cutlery out and laying it beside his plate. 

The two of you sat down finally, Marc sliding the filled glass over to your half of the dinner table and allowing himself to just watch as you picked up your knife and fork, digging into the chocolatey breakfast before it went cold. 

He never deserved any of this, the light touches and the breakfasts and the devotion and the way you put him on a pedestal. But sitting in the slow hum of the radio, the most obscure top hundreds playlist he thinks you could have chosen, he bit into his pancake, his tongue exploding with sugary yumminess, as you told him the weird dream you’d had about him becoming some kind of half horse, centaur type man and how you wondered if he would wear jeans on the front legs, the back legs, or if you would have to have custom, four legged bottoms made for him. 

The two of you laughed, because he didn’t quite understand what had gotten him so lucky as to end up with you. He could get used to all this.

[starcrossed-lov3rz]

The Vow Spoken Through Time - Part 1

Daemon x Rhaenyra x Wife!Reader

Series: Series Masterlist

Warnings: MDNI, mild smut (at the end), threesome 

Tags: marriage, poly relationship, Daemon being hopelessly in love with his wives, Queen!Rhaenyra

Words: ~1.9K

Description: Y/N is having a rough morning. She's fired. She's hungover. She's in a stranger's bed. She's waking up in a new world? She's married?!

Rhaenyra and Daemon's day started normal. Waking up next to their darling wife before tending to their duties. The difference? Their wife is speaking in riddles and has no memories of them.

Check out more works in my Masterlist!

“God my head fucking hurts,” you whine, sitting up to rub your eyes. “That wine really hit out of nowhere.” Your head pounds, it has to be part of a hangover. The last thing you remember before drinking yourself to sleep was getting fired. Your boss hadn’t even had the decency to let you know face to face. An HR representative and your manager requested a zoom call at the end of the day and politely told you to ‘clean your desk.’

After nearly three years of work with the same accounting firm, it was weird to not wake up early and head into the office. The worst part really was that your performance was still stellar, the firm was just hemorrhaging money after several questionable expansions. 

Despite the pounding headache and sensitivity to light, you force yourself to open your eyes. “What the fuck?!” Glancing around the room frantically, you panic as you realize you weren’t waking up in the comfort of your room. You had to be the subject of some prank reality tv show because the decor was undoubtedly some renaissance festival shit. The walls were brick with large tapestries decorating the stone. You were laid in the center of a giant four poster bed, black and red canopies flowing.

Slipping from the tangle of sheets and blankets, you pad towards the door. “Okay,” you call out, “you got me. Very funny.” 

Silence. 

“This is so weird” you murmur, pushing the door open as gently as possible to peak out. A woman rushes by you, dressed in some kind of drab linen and an apron. “Excuse me!” you shout, attempting to get her attention. 

The short woman slowed down, stopping to curtsy quickly at the sight of you. “My lady, forgive me. I didn’t you see you there!”

“My lady?” You asked. “What are you talking about? This isn’t funny.”

“I’m not trying to be funny, my lady,” she replied quietly. “Please don’t tell your wife I was making jokes! I swear I meant no harm-”

“My wife?!” Everyone has officially gone off the deep end. First this medieval times shit, now apparently you have a wife.

The woman’s eyes go wide, “Your wife, Queen Rhaenyra. My lady, are you unwell?”

“I’m sorry,” you apologize. “I have no idea what’s going on. I lost my job. I don’t know where I am or apparently who I am. I just want-” You choke off into sobs.

“Let me help you back to your room,” she offered, taking your elbow. “I’ll let the Queen know you’re unwell.”

You nodded, letting her lead you back into the room. The woman helped you into a steaming bath and left you to soak while she fetched your wife. “Can’t believe someone made an honest woman of me,” you laugh.

At some point, the entire situation stopped feeling like a prank. Maybe it was watching the maid fill the tub painstakingly bucket by bucket, or the significant lack of electricity. Either way, your situation was beginning to feel more and more real. You grab the bar of soap and lather up a cloth, scrubbing furiously at your skin. 

“That’s weird,” you murmur as you notice that your skin seems far too perfect. You usually had a couple scars littering your arms and legs, leftovers from frequently crashing your bike as a kid and general clumsiness. They all seemed to have vanished into thin air, leaving nothing but perfectly smooth, supple skin behind. “Okay, I’m officially going crazy.”

You see a small mirror on the ledge next to the tub, and reach out with shaky hands. You sigh in relief as you glance into the mirror and see that you look the same. At least you have something familiar here.

“Admiring the view? I know I am.” A deep voice purred from behind you.

Tossing the mirror back, you swiftly cover your chest and pray that the water obscurs the rest of you. “What the fuck?!” You yell, turning to confront whatever pervert decided to interrupt your bath. A tall man towered over the tub, his white hair practically glowing as the candlelight reflected off of it.

“I’m trying to have an existential crisis in here,” you hiss. “Can you come back later or something?”

He snorted a laugh, stalking forward to grab a brush from the side table and sit behind you. “And miss this opportunity? I should think not, my love.” He gently began detangling your hair and brushing it out. 

“My love? You do know I’m a married woman?” You retort.

“You never let me forget,” he replied, kissing the top of your hair. 

“I mean I have a wife, asshole!” You twist around to snatch the brush from his hands, but he lifts it out of your reach.

“What a coincidence,” he purrs, blatantly staring at your breasts. “I do too. Two, if I’m not mistaken.” His eyes dart down to your left hand, as if he knows something you don’t.

You glance at the ring that’s been there since you woke up. The black metal has a dragon insignia that looks awfully similar to the embroidery on this man’s shirt. “Fuck.” 

The man’s brows furrow, “what’s wrong?” He sets the brush down, grabbing a sheet and pulling you from the bath. He wraps you up and sits you in his lap. The warmth seeping into your skin feels so familiar and you feel yourself begin to break. Tears stream down your cheeks, and you burrow your face into his neck to hide them. 

Warm hands rub up and down your back soothingly. “My love, I cannot fix whatever is wrong if you don’t tell me.” He hums. “You don’t even have to tell me. Just give Rhaenyra a name and I will ensure whoever made you cry will never breathe again.”

You laugh at the irony. “I don’t know who Rhaenyra is. I’m not sure I even know who I am.” 

Before he can respond, a door slams. “Daemon, thank Gods you’re here. The maid said y/n was acting ill and didn’t rememb-” 

Your head peaks up over the man–Daemon’s shoulder to see the woman who ran in. Her hair is just as white as Daemon’s and her clothing adorned with the same dragon insignia. This must be Queen Rhaenyra.

“Y/n?!” Rhaenyra rushes over, kissing your cheek before she hugs you tightly. 

“My queen,” Daemon greets, leaning in for a kiss. You find yourself pressed between the two, and as much as you don’t want to admit it….the warmth and pressure feels comforting…like home. 

“I hate to break this up,” you say, wiping the last of your tears away. “But can someone tell me what is going on. The last thing I remember was being fired, getting wine drunk, and going to bed early.”

“Fired?” Rhaenyra looked confused and immediately started inspecting every exposed inch of your skin. “Did you try to feed Caraxes again? He’s a temperamental old man, just like his rider.”

“Who is Caraxes? Do ya’ll have a dog or something?”

“Dog?!” Daemon sounded almost offended. “A dog?! Rhaenyra we should fetch a maester. Our little dragon is either begging for a punishment or in need of a healer.”

Rhaenyra attempts to cover her laugh. “Caraxes, Daemon’s dragon? You insist on telling him a goodnight story at least once a week.”

“He’s a dragon of war for fucks sake,” Daemon mutters. “You’ve been making him soft.”

“Dragon?!” Your eyes go wide. “You’re joking. You’ve gotta be fucking me right now.”

“We are most definitely no-”

“We certainly could be-”

Daemon and Rhaenyra spoke at the same time. You would have laughed, but the implications of Daemon’s words were starting to settle in.

“Wait,” you being. “So if Queen Rhaenyra is my wife….and Daemon has two wives…and you two seem to be close…that means-”

“That you both are all mine,” Daemon purrs.

“Daemon, we must call for the maester. This seems serious, she doesn’t even remember us.”

“What year is this?” You ask, not sure if you want the answer.

“125 AC.” Rhaenyra responds.

“And where are we?”

“The red keep.”

“What, is that like England or something?”

“We are in Westeros.” Rhaenyra feels your forehead. “Daemon, put y/n to bed while I have the maids summon the maester.”

You yelp in surprise and Daemon stands up, holding you close to his chest. He carries you to a vanity, setting you gently on the bench before rummaging through some drawers. “Arms up, love.” He says, pulling a white shift over your head. You stare of into space as Daemon gently braids your hair. 

“Where’d you learn to do that?” You ask as he ties a ribbon at the ends of the braid.

“You and Rhaenyra are quite the demanding duo when you want to be,” he snorts. “The staff might revolt and establish Rhaenyra’s cunt of a half-brother as king if I bothered them everytime you both needed your hair done.”

“Language,” you chide. Daemon rolls his eyes before he sweeps you back up into his arms. He carries you to the bed, depositing you in the center before he climbs in. Daemon sits up, back against the headboard as he pulls you in to lean against his chest. 

“Do you really not remember us?” He asks. 

“How long have we been married?” 

“Five years. We were married in the old ways. Your High Valyrian wasn’t as good back then though.” Daemon laughs. “But it was perfect, and I wouldn’t trade you both for anything.”

“So if Rhaenyra is queen, what does that make you?” You ask. He had to be King, right?

“A lucky man.”

You laugh, and lightly hit his chest. “No, really. I don’t remember anything. Help a girl out here.”

“Prince consort.” Daemon answers. You nod, so Rhaenyra must be in charge around here.

“So how’d I end up married to Queen Rhaenyra and Prince Consort Daemon?” You ask in the poshest British accent you can muster.

“You threw yourself at my feet saying ‘Please Rhaenyra, I cannot live without you! You are the sun that brightens the sky and the stars that guide ships home!’” Rhaenyra teased. You sit up to see that Rhaenyra isn’t alone, she brought back some balding man with her. 

“I didn’t say that-” You protest.

“Really?” Daemon laughs. “My queen, it’s not proper to toy with someone who is ill.”

“You’re one to talk,” Rhaenyra says, raising a brow. “You seemed rather close when I came in earlier.”

You groan. How did you manage to survive these two for five years. 

!!SMUT BELOW!!

PREVIEW FOR PART TWO

“No,” Daemon scolds, clasping your hands together in his larger one and wrenching your body into his. “You’re not in charge here. You’re going to listen and obey like a good little girl.” You whine in response, nodding furiously in agreement. Suddenly, Rhaenyra’s warm body brushes up against your back. She nibbles lightly at your ear before kissing and licking her way down your neck.

“No need to be cruel,” Rhaenyra purrs. “Our little dragon is just begging for attention the only way she knows how.”

You whimper, canting your hips into Daemon’s. He slides a thigh between yours, pressing it up against your cunt. Your eyes roll back and you moan at the friction. “Please,” you breathe out, your teary eyes meeting his. 

NOTE: Hey all! I'm not dead, sorry for disappearing! Life happened (new job, had to travel home for a funeral). But, I got my shit back together after taking some time for myself and I'm ready to give y'all the stories I've been cooking up. I have some steamy and inspiring requests I'm working on for Feyd Rautha (so if you requested...they're coming). Glad to be back and BE ON THE LOOKOUT FOR PART 2!!!! - Lacie <3

Want to be added to a taglist? Click HERE!

[luvindrr]

Sirius says house chores are a group activity

poly!marauders x fem!reader | fluff | 349 words c/w: allusion to sex

James watches in stupefied wonder as Sirius Black steps behind you with a squeeze to your waist. That’s not the wondrous part; Sirius is always grabbing your waist. The wondrous part is that he’s not camping out in the basement while the rest of you are cleaning, hoping James doesn’t drag him out by the feet to scrub the toilet.

“Can I help you with that, gorgeous?” He’s using his smooth voice- the silky, low one he deploys when he wants to get in your trousers. Thankfully, you don’t entertain him. “That’d be fantastic, Sirius. You can start with these.” You point to something in the sink- presumably a stack of dishes- and James watches, dumbfounded, as Sirius only rinses off the suds and places them on the rack dutifully.

And he’s not even wearing gloves.

“What’cha doin’ there, lovie?” It’s Remus that breaks him out of his trance, snaking an arm around his waist. “Look!” James whisper-shouts in your direction. “Pads is doing house chores!”

“And he’s not even wearing gloves!”

“I can hear you two!” Sirius throws his head with a huff, hair following with the same indignant attitude. “Honestly, you make it sound like I never do anything around here.”

“Because you don’t!”

He's offended at that one. Water sprays as he twirls to point an accusatory finger. “I absolutely do too, you lying twat.”

“Oh forgive my incompetence; how could I forget you’re the king of lifting your legs when I come by with the vacuum cleaner-”

“You never bother to wipe the bathroom mirror-”

“YOU LEAVE YOUR LONG CURLY SPIDERLINGS-” James mimics mingling legs with his fingers “-JUMPING AROUND ON THE SHOWER DOOR-”

“Y-”

He’s cut off by a mocking, high pitched screech. “HOUSE CHORES ARE FOR HOUSE ELVES; IT’S IN THE NAME-”

“Sirius, please; you’re dripping on the floor.”

“Oh, sorry dolly.” He turns back around, completely abandoning James’ yapping. A kiss to your temple before pulling another dish from your hands. “I’ll take that, thank you.”

James gapes, bewildered. “She’s completely bewitched him, that woman.”

Remus laughs. “She’s completely bewitched me too.”

masterlist

[moonstruckme]

Ok, your little jily about hypothermia gave me the urge to see :

The reaction to the marauders to you falling through the ice. Like you were skating on the Black Lake with Sirius and James because they convinced you (against you initial worry) while Remus stands off to the side and watches (the most unsure and worried of them)

And I can see James and Sirius trying to race each other as you try to get a hand of ice skating. Then a crack and you fall through.

It’s like you know that scene with Amy in Little woman

I would totally get if you don’t like it since you’ve just written a similar one.

Your work is amazing ! Hope everything is ok for you ❤️

Thank you lovely <3

cw: ice skating trauma?

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1k words

It’s just like Sirius and James to goad you out onto the lake and then get bored of you when--as you tried to warn them—you can’t skate. James is fizzing with energy, promising to come back as soon as he makes one quick round of the cove, and of course when he challenges Sirius to a race your boyfriend is too competitive to decline. 

They take off at light speed, blades schwicking across the dark ice. Remus, sitting bundled up on land, eyes you worriedly over the top of his book. 

“Be careful,” he warns, not for the first time. 

You are nervous, with no handholds and no boyfriends to help you, but you’re eager to reassure him. “Don’t worry.” You smile. “I’m not going to go racing after them.” 

Remus returns your smile, and, mollified, returns to his book. 

The ice on the Black Lake is far from pristine. There are dips and ridges, and soon you find yourself being channeled down curving paths away from the shore, hardly moving your skates and arms out to your sides for balance. The ice beneath your feet begins to look darker, less of the frosty sheen or slashes from other skates. It feels smoother, too. 

You let yourself glide forward, raising your head to see if any of your boyfriends are looking to witness your success. The first crack is a light sound. Almost negligible, but it gets your attention. You scream as the ice falls out from beneath you. 

The cold shocks you down to your bones, freezing the blood in your veins and pressing in on your lungs. Instinct propels you upwards. 

“H���help!” 

Your voice is a tight cry. The air doesn’t feel much better, colder even, but you try to stay above the surface, the blades on your feet slicing uselessly through the water below. Each time you try to grasp at a piece of ice and pull yourself onto it, it breaks away. Your breaths are gasping, panicked puffs that send white clouds into the air in front of you. 

You can hear your boyfriends shouting. 

“Pads, wait—wait—” 

Sirius is crawling towards you on the ice, another shape moving quickly in your direction. 

“Accio branch!” 

James tosses the long stick to Sirius, who holds it out for you to grab onto. The bark bites into your palms, but you don’t let go as both boys use it to drag you out, ice jutting into your middle. As soon as you’re out to your hip you’re in Sirius’ embrace, his strong arms bringing you closer and helping you pull your legs from the water. 

“You’re okay,” he says, firmly. As though daring anyone to prove him wrong. “You’re okay, baby, we’ve got you. We have you.” 

James and Sirius keep you tucked between them, pushing you on dripping skates and wobbly legs to the edge of the lake. Remus looks like he tried to come out wearing his shoes. His face has drained of its wintery flush, brow set tense with worry. 

Sirius helps him back to the shore, but not before Remus casts a warming charm on you. You give an odd shiver at the change. 

“How’s that, angel?” James scrubs a hand up and down your arm. His voice is light, but its lightness is so forced and so different from his exuberant tone of a few minutes ago. 

Remus pulls you into a hug as you start to cry. Tiny sobs mixed with shivers, your frame shaking in every way possible. Remus holds you securely to him as he lowers you both to the ground. He casts another warming charm for good measure. 

“You’re lucky she didn’t get dragged under by the grindylows,” he says with your head tucked beneath his chin. He sounds angry, but it’s quickly succumbing to weariness. His arms wind around you tighter. 

“We didn’t know she’d try and go into the middle!” Sirius argues as he kneels beside you, James at his side. Your boyfriend’s face is lined with guilt as he reaches for you, unsticking a damp piece of hair from your cheek. 

“How was she supposed to know?”

“Sorry,” you offer wobbily. Each of them makes some sound of sympathy. 

“No, sweetheart, it’s not your fault,” Remus soothes, covering your cheek with his warm hand. James rubs up your calf from your ankle as though he intends to warm you inch by inch. “It was only your first time, you couldn’t have known.” 

“Yeah,” James agrees, “you’re fine, lovie. Nobody said for you to be sorry.” 

You try on a smile. There’s snot frozen above your top lip. “So I can only be sorry when you say?” 

“Yes,” says Sirius, very seriously. 

He grins when you laugh. Remus cracks, too, and James looks relieved at no longer being scolded. Sirius smooths another piece of hair from your face, looking at you carefully. 

“You okay, baby?” 

“I’m okay,” you confirm. “The warming charms are helping a lot. Thanks, Rem.” 

“That’s our Moony.” Sirius smiles at him, clearly eager to be back in your boyfriend’s good graces. “Always knows the perfect spell.” 

“You know that one, too,” Remus grumbles as James starts to unlace your skates for you. “You could’ve done it the moment you got her out.” 

“Ah, but we’re not all as quick on our feet as you, you swot.” 

“Do you think you can walk back inside?” James asks you, slipping your shoes on. “One of us could go get some tea from the great hall while you warm up in the common room.” 

“Fuck that,” says Sirius. “I know where Slughorn keeps his nice cocoa now. I’d say we’re entitled to some of that after our trials.” 

“One of us is,” Remus corrects him drily. 

“Right, then.” James takes your hands, standing you up slowly and fitting an arm around your waist for support. If the wet of your clothes chills him, he doesn’t complain. “We’ll pilfer enough of Slughorn’s cocoa for one person, and you’ll be good as new by dinner.” 

“I already feel okay,” you try to reassure him. 

“Shh, shh.” Remus takes you by the hand, squeezing gently. “Don’t correct them. Take your dues.”

[wildflowerhuggy]

Just a dream // OP81

| pairing: oscar piastri x reader

| summary: reader has a bad dream that oscar gets hurt and goes to him for comfort

| warnings: reader is implied female, use of y/n(i rlly tried not to i swear)

| authors note: wrote this instead of studying for a final :D

You're standing in the garage, your heart pounding in your chest as the roar of the engines reverberates through the air. Oscar's car zooms past in a blur of papaya and black. Everything is perfectly normal until it isn't. Taken over by an uncontrollable lockup, the car suddenly veers, tires squealing against the asphalt as it careens off track. Time suddenly moves in slow motion. You watch in horror, unable to move, as the car flips, the sound of metal crunching and the smell of burnt rubber filling the air. You're screaming his name, but no sound leaves your mouth. The world tilts on its axis as you hear them announce a red flag and medics storm the accident scene. You can't move, your body frozen in place. And worst of all, you know you can't reach him.

You wake up with a gasp, chest heaving as if you've just run a marathon, tears streaming down your face and hands trembling as you clutch the blankets around you. The guest room in Oscars Monaco apartment is dark, the faint glow of the moon streaming in through the curtains your only light source. But the feeling of the nightmare lingers, both vivid and suffocating.

You squeeze your eyes shut, willing the images to fade, but they don't. All you can see is the mangled car and the unbearable thought of losing Oscar. Your heart aches, feeling as though it's just been ripped out and stomped on, panic still fresh and raw. You need to see him, reassure yourself he's okay, even if you know it was just a nightmare.

Before you can second guess your movements, you're throwing the duvet off yourself and padding quietly down the hall to his room. You've been best friends with Oscar since you could walk, since the days of sharing snacks and playing hopscotch, even his move to the UK couldn't sever your bond. Staying at his place in Monaco felt natural, as did staying at his place in London, it felt like slipping back into the comfortable rhythm of sleepovers from when your were just a couple of little kids, but after that dream comfort was the last thing you were feeling.

His bedroom door is slightly ajar (something he insists on doing in case you need him, to which you always laughed at until tonight) and you push it open gently, trying not to make a sound. The room is dim, lit only by the same moonlight that was filtering in through the curtains in the guest room. Oscar's sleeping form was a shadow under a pile of blankets, his steady breathing a stark contrast to your own racing heart. Just seeing him alive and at peace and, most of all, safe eases some of the tension you were feeling in your chest.

But as you take a step closer, the floor betrays you by creaking, the noise disrupting his steady breathing.

"y/n?" his voice is laced with sleep and groggy but it's more than enough to break the dam that was previously holding back your tears.

"I..." your voice cracks, and you quickly scrub at your faces trying to stop the tears but it's to no avail. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you, this was stupid." you rapidly apologize.

He sits up at this, covers falling to lay across his hips, "Hey, hey, hey, no I promise it's not stupid." he coos, his concerned tone tugging at your heartstrings, "what's wrong?"

You hesitate, still feeling ridiculous, even more so with his attention directly on you. But the nightmares grip on you still hasn't loosened. "I had a nightmare," you admitted, voice quiet. "I just... I just needed to make sure you were okay."

Oscars expression softens, scooting over patting the empty space beside him, "Oh love, come here."

Trying to ignore how the name made your heart skip in the best of ways, you slowly make your way toward his bed. slipping under the covers hesitantly, but being encouraged by his soft gaze.

The warmth of his body and duvet surrounds you and the familiar scent of him fills you with a comforting warmth. Oscar shifts closer, his arm draping over your shoulders as you pulls you into his chest.

"It's okay," he murmurs into the crown of your head, "It was just a dream."

You nod against his chest, focusing on the steady rhythm of his heart. It's grounding, acting as a reminder that he's here and safe. "It felt so real," you whisper into his chest, "I saw you crash, and I couldn't do anything, I was stuck. I thought... I thought I lost you."

His hold on you tightens, and you hear him suck in a sharp breath while resting his chin atop your head, "I'm not going anywhere, I promise," he says firmly.

For a while, neither of you speaks. The soft sounds of the city outside and the rustle of sheets the only sounds filling the silence. The two of you just enjoying the warmth of each other. Slowly but surely, the pain in your chest ebbs, replaced with a new anxious feeling—one that you've been feeling for years but never brought up.

"Osc?" you say softly, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes.

"Yeah?" his eyes filled with warmth, focused on you and you only.

You take a shaky breath, heart pounding for a reason entirely different from when you first stepped in here. "I don't know what I would do without you," you admit softly, "You mean so much to me."

His gaze searches yours, and for a moment you begin to panic that you've said too much, but then his hand comes up to gently cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear that was on your cheek. "You mean everything to me," he says, voice barely above a whisper.

Your breath catches as he leans in close, lips capturing yours in a kiss that begins as soft and gentle. as if he's testing the waters but deepens as he feels you respond, fingers threading through his soft hair, years of unspoken feelings between the two of you spilling out.

When you finally pull apart, you're both breathless, eyes sparkling. He presses his forehead against yours, a small, youthful and disbelieving smile on his lips. "You've got no idea how long I've wanted to do that." he admits.

"I think I do," you giggle, pulling him in for another quick kiss that becomes not so quick.

He finally pulls back again, shifting to pull you tight to his chest as you nuzzle into his neck, "We should get some sleep," he says, "I'm okay and I'm right here with you. I promise," he eases your lingering fears without you even having to ask.

And for the first time that night, you feel safe. Laying there with his arms tightly wrapped around you, the steady beat of his heart beneath you, and him pressing a soft kiss against your head, the nightmare feels like a distant memory. You close your eyes with a smile on your lips as you drift off, comforted by the fact that you know he's safe and that he's now yours.

[ckret2]

Chapter 75 of human Bill Cipher gradually becoming less and less the Mystery Shack's prisoner:

Mabel's Guide to Secret Sleepovers!

They definitely won't get their lives endangered during the sleepover at all!! And if you believe that's not a lie, I've got a skyscraper in the second dimension to sell you.

####

A camera set up beneath the attic bedroom window recorded the dark room. In her pajamas, Mabel stood in the middle of the attic, boogying nervously to silent music.

A light shining from beneath the bedroom door turned off. Mabel stopped boogying, crept to the door, and leaned her ear against the crack.

She ran back to the camera and picked it up. "Okay," she whispered, "Dipper and Grunkle Ford are out on their mission, Stan and Abuelita are asleep, Soos finally knocked off building for the night, and Bill's in his new room. Welcome to... Mabel's Guide to Secret Sleepovers!"

She held up a flattened cereal box she'd written the title on. The title was almost invisible in the dark, but it was framed by stars painted on with glow-in-the-dark nail polish.

"Step one: getting your friends in the house." She turned the camera around. She swerved over to Waddles's bed as she crossed the room, whispering, "Hey, wanna come to the sleepover?"

Waddles snorted gently in his sleep.

"Aww, that's okay. Next time." She rubbed his belly, then crept toward the attic door.

She tiptoed in her socks down the newly-built hallway and past the curtain hiding Bill's new room, padded down the stairs, opened the back door, and hissed, "Pssst! Coast is clear!"

Out from the tree line ran Candy, wearing a camo-print blanket like a cloak, and Grenda, dressed in black and with her arms and face painted in brown and green. Grenda waved ecstatically at the camera as she passed.

With Mabel in the back, they quietly crept upstairs, quietly snuck past Bill's room, quietly closed the bedroom door, and quietly squealed with excitement. "First summer sleepover at the shack," Candy said, flopping on her back on Mabel's bed and spreading out her blanket cloak. She sat up, noticed a cardboard cradle next to Mabel's bed, and picked up the porcelain doll inside. "Oooh! Who's this handsome gentleman?"

"That's Bartholomew! I told you about him. Barty, these are my friends Candy and Grenda."

The doll did nothing.

"You can say hi, Barty! I trust them!"

The doll continued to do nothing.

"He's shy," Mabel said. "He's totally haunted by a little Victorian boy, though, really."

Candy nodded. "I believe you."

"This is cool!" Grenda said. She was trying to scrub the camo paint off her arms and face with her hands. "I've never gone to a secret sleepover before. Next time we should sneak into my place!"

"Okay, so," Mabel said. "I promised you I'd introduce you to the secret guy that's been staying here as soon as it was okay to. And it's okay to! As long as nobody else finds out I introduced you."

Grenda nodded. Candy said, "This sounds reasonable."

"Anyway his name's Goldie, he's been staying at the shack this summer, he's really fun, he's kiiind of a bad guy but in a cool way"—(Candy appreciatively said, "Oooh.")—"aaand he's asleep right now." A dramatic pause. "But not for long."

Candy and Grenda grinned evilly.

####

"Secret sleepover step two," Mabel whispered. "Introducing your friends to your other friend!" The camera's dark screen was illuminated by a slit of light as Grenda pulled open the curtain to Bill's room. The dim starlight pouring into the room was barely enough to illuminate the white lightning and yellow circle of symbols on the hanging zodiac blanket as the girls pushed past it to creep into the room.

Bill lay sleeping on the chaise extension of the orange sofa, catty-corner to the doorway, curled up on his side with his back to the door. Beneath his curls, the eye stitched on the back of his hood peered out at the room, shifting up and down with his steady sleeping breaths. The girls crept up behind him, biting their lips to keep from giggling. Candy and Grenda flanked Mabel, arms raised in preparation to attack, as Mabel held up her fingers... 3... 2... 1...

Bill rolled over with a devilish grin and lunged at them. "HEY, KIDS!"

The girls screamed. They bolted for the hall with Bill's laughter following them.

####

"You should've seen the looks on your faces," Bill gloated. He was sitting on the floor, legs crossed lotus style, in a semicircle with the three girls around the camera Mabel had set on the sofa. They'd set one flashlight next to the camera pointing out and another on the floor pointing at the ceiling.

"You got us good," Candy admitted.

Grenda leaned across the semicircle. "Hi! I'm Grenda. This is Candy."

"I've heard a lot about you two." Bill sat back, giving Grenda a somewhat less than warm smile. "Call me Goldie."

Grenda gasped. "Hey! Candy, look at his eyes!"

"What?" Bill's gaze darted between the girls' faces. His eyes caught the faint light and flashed like a cat's.

"They did it again!"

"Whoa!" Candy got up on her knees and leaned toward Bill. He leaned away.

Panic crossed Mabel's face. "Uhh, I can explain—"

"We knew it," Candy said. "We were sure you couldn't let us meet Goldie because he was a werewolf catboy!"

"I dunno," Grenda said. "They look more like frog eyes. They're kinda bulgy, too."

Bill stared at Grenda. A broad smile broke out across his face. "That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said about them!"

Grenda asked, "Do your eyes suck into your face when you swallow like a frog's do?"

"I dunno, swallowing makes me blink. You tell me." Bill deliberately swallowed.

"Ugh, they do! Gross," Grenda said approvingly.

"Why do you have frog eyes? Are you a werefrog?" Candy asked. "Or did a mad scientist mutate you?"

Bill said, "You know the story about the frog prince? My great-grandfather."

"He is not."

"He could be!"

"Anyway," Mabel said, "Goldie's not any kind of not-human person or anything, that'd be crazy. He's just a big secret because he's committed war crimes, that's all!"

Grenda and Candy considered that.

"That's cool." Candy slowly pulled out a makeup bag. "Do you like makeovers?"

Bill eyed her appraisingly. "How good are you?"

####

The camera sat tilted off to the side, catching Grenda, Bill, and a bit of Mabel's hair. Bill and Grenda sat just out of the flashlights' range while Mabel and Candy off-screen debated how best to shape Mabel's lips. Grenda held a purple tube of foundation in one of the flashlights' beams; the tube had a logo that looked like a lilac triangle with a single eye and thick purple lips. She uncapped a black eyeliner pen, drew a big X over the triangle's eye and gave it a curly mustache, and added a cramped word bubble over it that said "UGLY LOSR." Grenda chuckled.

Past her, Bill's eyes flashed in the dark as they narrowed.

"Finished!" Mabel announced. She turned the camera to face the whole quartet again. "Secret sleepover step three: normal sleepover activities! Starting with... makeovers! Remember, you're beautiful just the way you are; but a real artist can look at a human body and see a canvas. And canvases are for paint!"

She pointed the flashlight at her own face. "I call this look... the Showstopper." She had eyeshadow, blush, and lipstick—in three different shades of pink—liberally caked on with a crunchy layer of multicolored glitter and with plastic gems bedazzling her brow and temples. It looked bad.

Mabel pointed the flashlight at Grenda. "This one's... Beach Babe."

Grenda said, "Like a mermaid!" She had blush painted to look like scales, clumpy blue mascara and blue eyeshadow shaped like waves, and lipstick that looked like a fish. It looked bad.

Mabel pointed at Candy. "And this is the Glam Rock Revival!" Candy had a shimmery blue star painted over one eye and half her face, and a smaller matching star on her opposite cheek. It looked unexpectedly good.

"And Goldie..." Mabel pointed the flashlight at his face. "He kinda just... let us experiment with some designs Candy found in a makeup book."

One of his eyes had a neon rainbow eyebrow and eyelashes and tiny glittery butterfly stickers. The other eye had golden eyelashes and bright blue and black flames that would look at home spray painted on an old school hot rod. It looked bad.

"I look awesome," Bill said.

"And check out our mani-pedis!" Grenda grabbed the camera and pointed it down at their hands and feet. Mabel had messy watermelon nails, Grenda had decent French tips, Candy's actually matched her makeup, and Bill—who, unlike the girls, wasn't so much showing off his nails as he was just sitting there while Grenda waved the camera around—had a different set on each hand and foot.

Mabel said, "Goldie let us each experiment on one set of nails."

Grenda pointed at Bill's right hand, "I did that one!" He had five extremely long glue-on nails, which in turn each had two more glue-on nails on top, each trimmed to a sharp point. All fifteen nails had garish pre-printed designs—stripes, polka dots, and three types of animal print. None matched.

Bill cheerily said, "I could stab clean through a grown man's throat with these."

Mabel leaned closer. "Goldie, why's your other hand so boring!" His left hand had all black nails.

Bill said, "Turn off the flashlights."

Mabel turned them off. Five glow-in-the-dark eyes peered up from Bill's nails. The girls ooohed appreciatively.

"Now what?" Candy asked. "We can't do our other usual sleepover activities. Rom-coms, karaoke, and saucy book readings are too loud for a secret sleepover."

"Aww," Bill groaned, "I was looking forward to karaoke."

"Candy's right." Mabel turned a flashlight back on. "We'll have to get creative. What's a good traditional sleepover activity that isn't too loud?"

They sat around for a moment in silent thought.

Bill turned the other flashlight on under his grinning face. "You girls ever summon a demon before?"

The girls smiled excitedly.

####

The camera trained on Grenda and Candy as they leaned over the lizard tank in the Mystery Shack's museum, staring at the "baby dragon" display. "Awww," Grenda cooed. "Look at them! They're so cute." She stood on her toes and crossed her arms on the edge of the tank. "How do their fake wings stay on?"

"Alien superglue. It'll last until their next shed," Bill said from behind the camera.

"They're very brown," Candy said, disappointed. "I guess it's good camouflage." She held up part of her camo blanket cloak to compare.

Grenda said, "I think they're either western fence lizards or sagebrush lizards. Do you know where Mr. Ramirez caught them?"

"In the forests around town," Bill said.

"Western fence lizards," Grenda said. "If they're boys, they'll have blue bellies!"

"Oooh." Candy crouched down eye-level with the lizards trying to see their bellies.

Grenda tentatively reached a hand into the tank to pick up one of the baby dragons; it skittered under a rock for safety.

Bill said, "You know your lizards, Grendo."

"Heh. Grend-O."

Candy said, "Grenda is the reptile and amphibian expert."

"I have a book on them! And a pet iguana!" Grenda announced. "Hey, Gold-O! What's your favorite lizard?"

Bill was silent a few seconds. "Leeet's go with chameleons. They've got cute eyes."

"Chameleons are my favorite too," Candy said. "I like how they change color. Their eyes are freaky, though."

Grenda said, "I like chameleon eyes! They're crazy! I think it'd be cool to look two different directions at the same time."

Bill lowered the camera slightly. "What, you mean like this?"

Grenda and Candy gaped at him in shock. Candy squealed in discomfort and shielded her eyes. "That looks painful."

Grenda laughed. "Cool," she said. "Hey, you like frogs too, right? What's your favorite frog!"

"Golden poison dart frogs." Bill answered without hesitation. "The brighter, the better."

"I love poison dart frogs," Grenda said. "On my death bed, I wanna lick one to find out what it tastes like!"

"Bitter sushi, until your mouth goes numb," Bill said. "But if you're gonna get drugged by a frog, make it a psychedelic toad. They're more fun."

"Ohhh. Thanks. Now I wanna taste sushi!" One of the baby dragons crept up a rock; Grenda tried, unsuccessfully, to catch it again.

Bill walked closer to the tank to film the lizards. After a moment, he asked, "What're your favorite frogs?"

"Oooh, that's hard." Grenda put her hand to her chin, thinking.

Candy said, "I think... the little green ones with the guts you can see through."

"Glass frogs," Bill provided.

"Either red-eyed tree frogs or strawberry poison dart frogs," Grenda said. "Maybe the tree frogs. Dart frogs have boring eyes."

"One of their only flaws." Bill paused. "What do you think about axolotls?"

"Mr. Pines lets me feed his sometimes," Grenda said. "They're kind of overrated, though. Frogs are better!"

"Hm." The hm sounded approving. Bill reached into the tank, effortlessly scooped his fingers beneath the wings and around the belly of a lizard, and lifted him up. Candy and Grenda gasped. "One male in the tank." He turned the lizard's blue belly toward the camera too. It wiggled in distress.

"Got it!"

Bill swung the camera around to look at Mabel, who'd just triumphantly come through the curtain from the gift shop. She was holding a box of rainbow chalk over her head. "The chalk Soos uses for sales and stuff!"

"Perfect," Bill said. "Manage to find a religious text?"

"No, buuut I found a copy of a DMV manual at the cash register." Mabel held up her find. "Will that work?"

"Hm." Bill considered it. "I've never seen someone try it before, but traffic law is just as imaginary as any other divine commands! Just try really hard to have faith in the rules of road safety and maybe it'll work. Never know unless we try it out!"

"Good enough for me!" Mabel said. "What did we need a religious text for, again?"

"Oh, once the demon's here, it's the only thing that'll be capable of banishing it, that's all," Bill said. "So! Where are we drawing this summoning circle?"

They found a clear space in the museum on the floor near the treasure chest display. Bill handed the camera momentarily to Mabel while he drew a four-inch version of the summoning circle for the girls to copy. "It needs to be white and blood red. Do we have any blood red chalk?" He rummaged through the box of chalk. "Hmm. Okay, either one of us can let a lot of blood, or we can try it out with pink chalk. What'll it be?"

Grenda and Candy looked to Mabel, considering the question seriously. Finally, Mabel said, "Pink chalk sounds like it'll be faster."

"I guess," Bill said, disappointed. He finished his example circle and stood. "Okay, there you go! Usually you're not even supposed to draw the circle unless you've fasted for twelve hours, but there's three of you and you haven't eaten in at least four hours, sooo it's probably fine."

Grenda raised a hand. "I had a soda. Is that bad?"

"Naaah, a soda's more bubbles than liquid, I bet it barely even counts."

Bill took over camera duties again as Mabel and Candy each took a stick of white chalk to draw half the circle. They started at different sizes. They had to do a weird wiggly slope in order to make the two halves meet. Candy asked, "Is that good?"

"Hmmm..." Bill considered the lopsided blob. "It's good enough!"

While Mabel and Candy puzzled over Bill's tiny pink protective sigils and tried to figure out how to draw them bigger, Grenda leaned over to Bill and whispered, "Hey! Are you really related to the frog prince?"

"No," Bill said. (Grenda's face fell.) "I was cursed by a witch. I can see through walls and in the dark, but in exchange I have frog eyes."

Grenda's face lit up again. "Stupid! Frog eyes just make you look even cooler!"

"That dumb witch had no idea what a real curse is. I got nothing but benefits," Bill said. "All right, you asked me one, let me ask you one."

Grenda looked at Bill with trepidation. "O-okay?"

"What's with the face you were drawing on that triangle?"

Grenda seemed relieved by the question. "Oh! We're not really supposed to talk about it much? But there was this triangle jerk that tried to take over the world last year. So we're supposed to cover up pictures that look like him. I dunno, it's a whole thing."

"Okay," Bill said irritably, "fine. How come you make him look stupid, though?"

"Because he was a big monster that hurt my friends and wrecked the town," Grenda said hotly. "He almost killed Mabel!"

Bill was silent a moment. "Sure," he said tersely. "If that's what it looked like, I can see how that would leave a bad impression."

"Hey, Goldie," Mabel said loudly. "I think we're done! Does this look right?"

"Let's see..." Bill inspected the circle, circling the perimeter with the camera. It looked bad. "Looks good enough," Bill said.  "All right! Everyone in position around the circle—Grenda, you're on the circle."

"Oops." She slid her foot back, smearing the chalk line and one of the protective sigils. "Uhh... I think I broke the ring?"

"It's fine, it's small! And you can still tell what the symbol is. Mostly," Bill said. "Okay, everyone remember the chant I taught you? Three, two..."

The camera's audio only recorded a long squeal of distortion instead of words as the girls started chanting. Bill backed up to get a better shot of the whole circle. The girls' eyes began glowing white; the flashlights flickered; and a fiery cloud of smoke filled the ring, billowing from floor to ceiling. The girls stumbled back, shielding their faces from the smoke.

"Hey, hey," Bill said. "Get back in there! If you stop the chant before it's complete, you'll—!"

With a boom, the smoke exploded outward, filling the room and completely obscuring the camera's view.

When it cleared up, the ring appeared to be empty.

Bill aimed the camera down and zoomed in. In the center of the ring was a tiny imp. It looked like a skinny coral-red hairless mouse with a spade-tipped tail and little bat wings.

"—you'll only get a small one," Bill finished.

They crouched down and stared at it. "It's cute," Candy said. Mabel said, "I'm naming her Cinnamon."

It blinked big wet black eyes at them. And then it scampered out of the gap in the chalk line.

The girls shrieked. The imp chased Candy around the treasure chest. Grenda tried to climb onto a display pedestal with a taxidermy jackalope, screaming, "Get it! Get it!"

"Candy! Run this way!" Mabel got on her knees, Oregon state driving manual held high over her head. As Candy ran past, Mabel shouted, "I do believe in the speed limit!" and swung the manual down like she was swatting a bug.

The manual smacked the imp. With a puff of smoke, it poofed out of the mortal plane and back to where it came from.

"Nice banishment, star girl," Bill said. "Hey, not bad for your first summoning, kids. You'll be bargaining with demon royalty in no time."

The girls heaved a sigh of relief. "That went pretty smoothly, I think," Candy said.

"Yeah!" Grenda climbed down from the pedestal. "There weren't any weird life-threatening twists or anything!"

"That doesn't happen a lot," Mabel said.

The camera suddenly lowered, pointing at the floor at an angle. "Hey, Mabel. Where'd you get this camera, anyway?" The camera's view turned back and forth. "It doesn't look like the one you usually record your guides with."

"Oh, yeah," Mabel said. "Dipper's using our normal camera, so I'm borrowing one I found in a box in the attic loft."

Bill said, "The cardboard box covered in fifteen strips of duct tape?"

"Uh-huh."

"So, the cursed camera?"

A pause. "The what?"

The camera's view became a blur as it whizzed across the room, only focusing again when the camera was ten feet in the air and staring down at the group of four. The camera's neck strap had wrapped tight around one of Bill's wrists, wrenching his arm into the air. Candy and Grenda automatically clung to his sides, the one adult in the room; he had his free arm raised up to avoid touching Candy.

"Well! This isn't ideal." The camera had a clipped, artificial-sounding voice—but a familiar one. "I'd been hoping you'd split up so I could steal your souls one by one!"

Mabel said, "Why do you sound like Grunkle Ford! Did you steal his soul?!"

"Stanford's voice is just the only one it's ever recorded before tonight," Bill said. "If it had stolen his soul, you'd know."

"How?"

"Because he'd be dead."

"Oh."

"So much for the element of surprise." The camera's sigh was laced with the crackle of VHS static. "But as long as my secret is out... time to hunt!"

"Huh! How about that," Bill said. "Kids? Run."

Grenda and Candy turned and bolted deeper into the museum.

Bill turned to stare at them in bewilderment. "Not that way—!"

Mabel threw herself on Bill's arm, trying to jerk down the camera and pull off the strap. "Let go of my friend, you—!"

The screen blurred as the camera butted the side of Mabel's head, knocking her to the ground. Panic flashed across Bill's face. "Mabel!"

The camera took advantage of his distraction to snap its strap around both his wrists, bind them together, and yank Bill closer. "At least I get to take out the biggest threat first," the camera hissed. "Smile for the camera, sweetheart."

Bill shot the camera a glare—and then seemingly got caught there, unable to tear his eyes away from the lens, as the camera slowly zoomed in...

And nothing happened.

"It's not working," the camera said. "Your soul should be sucked out by now. Why isn't it working?"

Bill shook himself out of the trance and laughed darkly. "Because a force too powerful for your little electronic mind to comprehend glued my soul in this body so tightly, even I can't pull it out!" He leaned closer until one wide bloodshot eye filled the screen. "Go ahead, give it your best shot! Maybe you'll help tug it loose!"

The camera paused. "Are... are you alright?"

Bill jerked back, scowling. "Oh, just shut— Mabel! Flashlight!"

"Flashlight!"

Bill tilted his head aside just in time for a flashlight to sail over his shoulder and crash into the camera. It shrieked inhumanly. It crash-landed at a tilt, a crack in its lens, the shot unfocused. Bill's blurry form looked down at the camera, holding the flashlight—and then he turned and ran for the curtain into the gift shop. The camera slowly rose back up.

Mabel shouted, "Bi—Goldie! Come back!"

"Keep it distracted!"

"You don't even need a flashlight, you coward!"

The camera's blurry view focused. The crack in its lens repaired itself. It stared at the curtain where Bill had disappeared, snarled, "Not worth it," and rounded on the museum.

And then it began stalking its prey.

The camera followed heavy thudding to find Grenda trying to knock down the main entrance's locked door. "Come on!" Grenda grunted. "This! Doesn't! Meet! Fire codes!" As she glimpsed the camera's approach, she gasped, flipped a rug over it, and bolted. 

It zoomed past Sascrotch, peered behind it, and caught Mabel and Candy clinging onto its back fur. They screamed, dropped down, and ran two different directions. The camera glanced between them indecisively and snarled in frustration when they both turned corners before it could choose a target.

It passed a six pack-o'-lope, a mummy, and a triclops skull; heard a papery rustle; and did a double-take at the displays. Grenda, wrapped in a bunch of receipt paper from the gift shop, ran away from the former "mummy" display.

It swooped under a taxidermy turtle with wings to find Candy hiding beneath the turtle's shell; Candy flipped the shell over the camera before she ran the other way.

It chased Mabel around a barrel of monkey heads, ending in a stalemate on opposite sides of the barrel with each of them twitching left and right trying to figure out which way to run; until it remembered it could just float over the top of the barrel. Mabel backed up and blew a handful of chalk dust in the camera's lens. By the time it wiped its lens clean on a dried monkey pelt, Mabel was gone.

It circled around the invisible man to see whether its cloak hid any children behind its back, made a noise of disgust when it didn't find any, and turned to leave. "Wait a minute. That man isn't invisible!"

Candy—her face beneath the "invisible man's" suspended glasses and bowler hat—sighed harshly and threw down her camo blanket, revealing she was sitting on Grenda's shoulders. "This camouflage doesn't do anything!" They tumbled to the ground and ran different directions.

This time, the camera didn't make the mistake of hesitating before choosing a target. It flew after Grenda.

Grenda stopped in a dead end with a gasp. "Uh-oh." She turned to see how close the camera was behind her, flinched, and tried to dodge around it. It jerked to the side, backing Grenda into a corner.

"Back off, you big, ugly—!" She punched the camera square in the lens, her fist filling the shot. The crunched lens had repaired itself before Grenda stopped shaking her smarting hand. She gasped and covered her eyes. "Please don't take my soul! I'm using it!"

"Not for long!" The camera's strap whipped around Grenda's wrists, yanking her hands down. "It's time for your close up!"

Grenda tried to turn her face away—but the camera caught her gaze, and she turned toward it, eyes wide, hypnotized. The shot zoomed in. A swirling green mist began spiraling out of Grenda's eyes.

Until another set of eyes cut in between, yellow and slitted and furious and framed by mismatched eyeshadow. "Miss me?"

"You," the camera snarled.

Grenda cheered, "Gold-O! You came back!"

"Hey, Grend-O." Bill glanced back over his shoulder. "Sorry for the wait—takes a while for glow-in-the-dark nail polish to charge and dry."

"Get out of my way!" The camera tried to butt the side of Bill's head.

He caught it in his left hand without looking, his arm extending off the edge of the screen like he was taking a selfie. "I don't think so." He raised his right hand—several of the ludicrous nail extensions had already broken off—with palm facing out. There was a symbol painted on his palm, glowing whitish green; but whatever symbol he'd painted on his palm couldn't be fully seen because the moment it was in full view of the camera's lens, it became so bright it almost completely washed out the rest of the frame.

The image skipped and the audio recorded a shriek of static before the camera managed to wrench itself free of Bill's grip and rush back.

Bill caught it by its strap, twisting it about his left wrist to keep it secure. "Now let's get this straight," he snarled, teeth bared at the camera. "Everything beneath this shack's roof is my domain and under my protection! If you want to hurt anyone here—" his voice dropped demonically low, "—you'll have to get through me." He dragged the camera closer. 

He clamped his right hand over the camera's lens, trapping it with the glowing symbol on his palm; the static screamed, stuttered; and then the film overheated and melted.

####

The camera switched back on. "Welcome back to Mabel's Guide to Secret Sleepovers!" Mabel's left eyeshadow and blush was smeared across her face. "Weee're back! Goldie taped a symbol to the camera that keeps it stunned, so we're safe! Woo-woo! Now, back to sleepover step, uh... seven or something: greeting the sunrise with your friends who didn't get any sleep!"

She turned the camera toward Candy and Grenda, who were sitting with her on the saggy sofa on the back porch. They were blinking dazedly toward the glowing horizon.

"And now you've completed a successful sleepover! Great job, everybody!"

"You kids can stay up if you want," Bill said. (Mabel aimed the camera down; Bill was lying on his stomach on the porch, cheek resting on his crossed arms, eyes shut.) "I'm already asleep."

"Boo," Candy said. "Sleepover quitters are lame."

"Yeah," Mabel agreed. "But he saved our lives, I think he earned it if he wants."

"Do you wanna sleep on the couch?" Grenda asked. "There's still some room! We could squish together!"

"Nah, s'more comfortable down here," Bill mumbled. "My back's killing me."

Grenda laughed. "Old."

"I got assaulted by a camera!"

"Hold on, I have an idea!" She got off the couch and knelt next to Bill. "I saw this at the mall once." She dug an elbow into his back. "Is this helping?"

Bill grunted. "More to the left," he said. "It might be helping a little bit..."

Grenda pressed her other elbow into his back, putting her upper body weight on it. "How 'bout now?"

"Not quite..."

Candy climbed on the arm of the sofa and crouched there. "Let me try!" Grenda leaned back. Like a wrestler, Candy jumped in the air and dropped, sharp elbow first, onto Bill's back.

Bill's eyes flew open and he let out a strangled shriek of pain. It petered out. "Oh, hey—that actually got it. Thanks, kids." He sighed in relief and immediately fell back asleep.

Grenda pumped a fist. "Yes!"

"He really was tired," Candy said.

"So, what'd I say, girls?" Mabel asked. "I told you Goldie was cool, right?"

"Okay, you were right," Candy said. "He is a very patient makeup mannequin."

"And he taught us how to summon demons and saved our lives," Grenda said. "And the first thing didn't even cause the second thing! Which is weird!"

Eyes still shut, Bill mumbled, "You flatter me."

"Hey!" Grenda picked up a sofa cushion. "You're supposed to be a-SLEEP!" She swung it down on his head. He only laughed.

"Yes!" Mabel cheered. "And the moral of the story is the friend of my friend is my friend's friend! Or—wait—no. The friend of my friend is my friend too?"

From under the cushion, Bill said, "The friend of my friend is my rival for her attention."

"No!" Mabel turned the camera to herself. "Anyway, that's Mabel's Guide to Secret Sleepovers! Tune in next time for... I dunno, maybe alpacas or something. We'll see!"

She set the camera in her lap, episode completed.

####

(Would you look at that, positive character growth. Hope you enjoyed, and looking forward to hearing y'all's thoughts!)

[pastafossa]

"Love Leaves A Mark" (Matt Murdock x F!Reader, Fic, Pure Fluff)

I've been working on this for a bit to celebrate the release of our older Born Again!Era Matt, and happily I can say this one's now done, which means I can finish up another little oneshot I have and then get back around to The Red Thread's next chapter. This is written with TRT!Reader in mind, but I also tried to write it vaguely so it's easy enough to enjoy even if you haven't read that massive saga. Also if you'd like notifications when I post a new story, drabble, or chapter, you can follow my sideblog @pastaxandria and set it for notifications!

Ship: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Wordcount: 3.8k

Warnings for this fic: None that I know of, they're just being cute and in love as they grow old together. There ARE some vague physical changes described that are standard in aging but that feels pretty normal.

Fic Summary: You and Matt are growing older together, and you're both loving every second of it, including the physical changes that come with it.

“Did you get more toothpaste today?” you called sleepily, lifting one leg to idly scratch at your calf with your foot. You worked your toothbrush over to the other side of your mouth, wrinkling your nose at the taste. Nine years you’d been using your husband’s toothpaste and you’d never gotten used to the flavor, or lack thereof. You’d be damned if you didn’t use it regardless, though. “And Mini’s food?”

“Picked up both.” The low rumble of his voice was sleepy and distracted as it drifted out of the bedroom. Outside the little brownstone you both now called home, the snow continued to fall in thick, heavy flakes, muffling the roar of the wind and the few cars still out on the street despite the late hour and travel ban. You were grateful for that storm. In all the time you’d been with him you’d never had a problem with the Devil’s nightly rounds. Loving Matt meant loving Daredevil, too. But you still treasured evenings like these when he was able to stay in with you, your purring, cuddly husband happily playing the role of your favorite blanket. “I may have also stopped at the bookstore and gotten you something on the way home.”

You paused, shifting your gaze meaningfully toward the open bathroom doorway. You probed curiously at the psychic connection between you, a subtle attempt to discern what it was he’d picked up for you. All you got was a playful nudge back. He didn’t even have to try all that hard anymore, smoothly deflecting you with all the ease of swatting away a pillow.

“I don’t think so, sweetheart.” His voice was an amused whisper in your mind. “You’ll have to figure it out the old-fashioned way.” 

You scrubbed faster at your teeth, grinning at his laugh in the other room. 

“I don’t know how you have any gums left considering how often you do that,” he mused as you leaned down to rinse your mouth out. You quickly shoved your toothbrush back into the penguin-shaped toothbrush holder before flipping off the light and padding out of the bathroom. 

“The benefits of genetic tampering,” you said dryly, joining him in the bedroom. He was already settled into bed, sitting up with his back against the headboard, a well-worn book beneath his hand. Down atop his blanket-covered feet, a large, round black void of fur had arranged itself into a perfect circle, no head or tail to be seen. Matt tipped his head as he tracked your eager circling of the room, the barest little smirk quirking his lips. You scanned around for anything new, hunting along the walls and the bookshelves that had managed to migrate their way into the bedroom once your shared office slash library had gotten too full. Books had a tendency to breed like rabbits between you and Matt. “Where?” “Your nightstand. I figured you’d probably want to dive in.”

You darted over towards your nightstand.

“No way,” you breathed, sitting down on your side of the bed and snatching up the first of the three new hardbacks he’d placed on your nightstand. “This one—I thought it was going to take another week at least before they released it. How did you…?” “I kept checking with Hanna every time I passed by her bookstore.” He cleared his throat as you flipped open your new copy of Dante’s Divine Comedy to a random page, the much-loved scent of new paper and ink filling your nose. “Eventually she took pity on me and finally let me buy this one early with cash. Although she wasn’t sure why you wanted this one when you have so many other translations already.” 

“It’s Palma’s new translation,” you murmured distractedly, dragging your finger down the flowing lines of poetry, your eyes skimming rapidly over the page. You could already spot some of the changes. “I have the first translation he did of the Inferno, but this is the first time he’s done the entirety of the Divine Comedy, and he’s tweaked his previous translation. It’s supposed to mimic the rhyming scheme Dante created more closely. Not easy when you’re shifting it from Italian to English. Dad’s going to have kittens when he hears the Devil got me my copy before he got his.”

Even without looking at him, you could feel Matt’s smug satisfaction. “You should call him so I can hear him swear.” “Call him yourself if you want to rub it in.” You snorted in amusement at Matt’s neverending desire to goad your adoptive father Ciro, who admittedly had a habit of goading back. At the very least their jabs had become less hostile over the years, the two of them now closer to sparring partners than actual enemies. You leaned over to look at the other two books Matt had gotten you, your brows shooting up. “And you got me Emily Wilson’s translations of the Illiad and the Odyssey? You’re spoiling me, husband dearest.” “You said last month you were thinking about picking them both up. I figured I’d check if they were there.” There was a rustle of blankets behind you, and a slightly irritated, ‘mrrp?’, presumably as Matt adjusted his feet beneath the fuzzy black hole curled up atop them. “Consider it an early anniversary gift.” “Not that I’m not grateful, but you and I both know it’s January, dear.” You set Dante back down atop the stack of books before swiveling on the bed to face Matt. You started crawling across the mountain of blankets and silk sheets toward his grinning form. “Our anniversary is months away.” “The anniversary of our first kiss, then.” His smile only grew wider when you reached him and threw your leg over him to sit astride his waist. It was something he welcomed as he always did, his hands setting aside his book immediately in favor of you. He slid his palms warmly up and down the fleece covering your thighs, pausing here and there to knead at the muscle just because he could. It never seemed to matter that he’d touched you a thousand times before. He treated every moment like this as if it were the first. “A few hardbacks are the least you deserve.” “Lines like that make me want to marry you.” You sighed, draping your arms comfortably over his broad shoulders, lifting one hand to idly card your fingers through his dark hair. He hummed beneath your touch, tilting his head openly into the fond drag of your fingers like a big cat. “Buying a woman hardbacks? In this economy? Put a ring on me, Mr. Murdock.”

“Now Mrs. Murdock, how would your husband feel about you saying things like that?” His voice was a playful purr, words thick and glutted thanks to the drag of your nails. You were pretty sure his eyes had rolled back behind his closed eyes. “He’d, mmm, hunt me down until his dying breath if I laid so much as a finger on you. As for me, my wife is… not inclined to let me go gently.” 

“You’re goddamn right I’m not.” You sprawled out against his chest, dipping your head. He met you halfway, touching his lips to yours. You gave him a warm, lazy kiss, faint traces of copper and cinnamon passed from his smiling mouth to yours. The familiar taste of him, the softness of his skin, the sweet warmth of his breath in your mouth soothed you in a way little else could, and you drew him deep into you on a slow inhale, humming against his lips. His chest rumbled contentedly beneath you in response, his hands sliding up from your thighs to squeeze and rub affectionately your hips. “And don’t you ever forget it.”

“Never,” he murmured against your mouth, chasing after you to steal another kiss when you tried to lift your head. You ran your fingers through his hair again, sighing at the soft, playful brush of his tongue against your lips, giving it a mischievous nip of your own that made him rumble another pleased noise beneath you. His voice dropped further, all lazy warmth and possessive hunger, shades of the Devil coloring the edges like a painter’s brush. “Mm, my wife, all mine.”                                     “Your wife,” you agreed fondly. “One who’s cut people before and will happily do it again if it keeps you safe.”

“Your services are very much appreciated.”

“They should be since I fully intend to sit in a pair of rocking chairs with you one day in our old age.” You brought your hand around to scratch your fingers lightly through the coarseness of his beard, making him groan breathlessly in delight, his back arching just a little beneath you. He’d been letting his beard grow in for the past week or so. You were unsure if it was by choice or if it was simply that he’d felt too busy to take the time to shave. It had been a while since you’d last seen him with a full beard, though, a few years at least. And to your pleasant surprise, there were a few changes. Your fingers petted curiously over the small patches of silver scattered around. “I’ve even kept you alive long enough that you’ve got grey here in your beard now. That’s new.” His brows rose in surprise, his eyes fluttering open where they’d fallen closed. “Really?”

“Yup. It’s very handsome.” You stroked at the prickly grey strands before your hands slid back and up to his temples, tracing the few strands of grey there just as affectionately. His cheeks had even turned the tiniest bit pink at your praise. “Some here, too. Just a little at your temples. You gonna be my silver fox, Matt?” “I guess so. That’s what I get for letting you pet all the color out over nine years.” He heaved a great sigh beneath you as if his care sheet instructions didn’t specify he get at least ten minutes of petting each day, without which he would wilt away. “You made me look old.” “Oh please. You don’t look old. You look human.” Your fingers left his hair so you could poke him pointedly in the chest. He threw you a wounded look, all furrowed brow and big sad eyes that you weren’t falling for even a little. “Also, you gave yourself those grey hairs, thank you very much. You’re the most stressed man I’ve ever met. Half of what you put yourself through would have turned anyone else’s hair white by now.”

“Fine. I’ll admit that I may have done… a few things that were somewhat stress—” “Got a building dropped on you. Fought Nobu in tissue paper. Got shot in the head. Used a neti pot to snort some fucking rusty tap water full of amoebas and tiny shrimp—”

“That last one still really bothers you, doesn’t it?”

“You have no idea. One day I’m going to kiss you and taste brain shrimp, I just know it.”

He snorted. “You say that like I don’t have my own list of all the things you’ve done that have almost given me a heart attack.”

“Alright, so my list is also… a bit long.” You tilted your head, watching his eyes shift absently around. After so many years with you, he was no longer self-conscious about letting you watch his eyes this closely, much to your delight. In the low light of the bedroom, his eyes were a soft, dark brown rather than the green or grey they could shift to during the day. Beautiful as always, especially with the little crinkles at the corners of his eyes, lines that now seemed permanent even when he wasn’t smiling. You brushed your thumb over a few of those lines, your playful tone falling away into something more serious. “What if I like it, though? These parts of you that are getting older? Like these laugh lines.”

He furrowed his brow pitifully. “Now you’re telling me I’m wrinkly, too?”

“Oh, fuck you!” you huffed, his body shaking beneath you as he laughed. “You know that’s not what I meant. Stop deflecting, I’m serious.”

“I’m know you are, even if you’re telling me I’m a grey, grizzled, wrinkled husk.” He groaned theatrically, rolling his head back. “You should just bury me if I’m that old.”

“Not a chance. Not when I love everything I’m seeing. Like these…” 

You leaned in and planted a kiss on the laugh lines in question, feeling them grow deeper under your lips as he smiled.

“And these…”

Another kiss, this time against one of the grey patches in his beard, making him sigh. 

“...and goddamn do I love all this, too,” you murmured, sitting back so you could drag your hands hungrily down the front of him. There was no part of him you didn’t love, but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t just a little obsessed with the dark hair now edging up past his shirt collar—so much of it now that he’d finally given up on shaving his chest and let it all grow back—and the slightly thicker lines of his abdomen and hips, both of them a touch softer than they had been almost a decade ago when you’d first met him. You’d know; you’d been laying on him almost every night for most of that decade, barring a few rough patches and business trips.

“Mrs. Murdock,” he breathed in feigned shock, as if he wasn’t aware of exactly how much you enjoyed both his chest hair and the whole of his body from top to bottom, “are you insinuating something about me?” “You mean like insinuating I’m the reason you now eat regularly and aren’t so dehydrated that I can practically draw a map of your veins by sight?” You squeezed at the meat of his abdomen and hips greedily, your voice growing smug as you kneaded at him. Your touch made him chuckle and squirm beneath you, only drawing more protests from the cat trying to sleep on top of his feet. “Yes. Yes, I am. You’re welcome for the health, by the way. You’re aging like a fine wine, husband dearest. And it makes me happy.” 

His face softened at that, one hand leaving your hips to lay against your sternum. “If your heart wasn’t beating so steadily, I’d say you were just trying to flatter me,” he mused. “But… me getting older really is making you happy, isn’t it?”

“It is. I…” 

You paused for a moment, struggling to put into words what you were feeling. His hand at your hip edged up under your shirt until he could rub his thumb soothingly at your skin, content to wait while you figured out how to say what you wanted to say.

“I think it’s that… there was a time when I wasn’t sure if you’d live long enough for me to see you grow old with me.” You cupped his face in your hands, treasuring the way his eyes fell slowly closed and he leaned into your touch so openly, so easily. It had taken so much work to get him here, where he felt comfortable accepting your love and your affection, but it had been worth every ounce of effort. You traced over his laugh lines again with your thumbs before skipping down to the faint smile lines at the corners of his mouth, a mouth that pursed to kiss your thumb when you swept one over his lips. “But you did. I’m getting to see it. That’s special to me. I want to see that… that you’re still alive, that you’re living long enough for these things to happen. I want to see all these little grey hairs, and wrinkles, and the way your body has gotten a bit softer, because every little piece of you that gets older represents a moment I didn’t know if I’d get with you.”

He drew in a shaky breath before his eyes fluttered slowly open again. And in the dark of his eyes there was such a reverent joy, such a bone-deep love filling their depths that it almost took your breath away. You’d never tire of seeing it, even if you both lived for another fifty, another hundred, another thousand years, joined in this lifetime and in whatever came next. Religion had nothing on being loved fully, wholly by Matt. 

“I could say the same thing about you,” he breathed, his hand at your sternum sliding up to cradle your neck, thumb sweeping gently over the thin skin above your pulse. He pressed just a little, just enough to tug your skin back and forth. A moment later, he tugged you in until he could feather a kiss against your pulse where his thumb had been, lingering there as you nuzzled into his dark hair. “And spots like right here.”

“What’s changed there?” 

“The texture of your skin. How much it moves when I touch it. I like to think,” he whispered against your throat, “that your skin’s a little looser here now, more worn in, because I’ve stroked at it so much that I’ve changed you permanently. It’s a sign of just how much I’ve touched you, how many times you’ve trusted me and let me put my hands here. It’s never mattered to you how scarred those hands were, how covered in blood. You let my love leave a mark.”

He tightened his other hand against your hip next, taking hold of the curves that had changed as you’d journeyed through the years with him. “And you’re softer now, too, just like me.” From there he smoothed his hand affectionately upwards over your ribs and up past your breasts, mapping over all of the places your body had begun to show your age like his: stretchmarks and small wrinkles where once skin had been smooth and tight, scars from old battles now faded and ragged with time. The journey his hand took was made with reverence, tender and heavy with intent, his smile so very soft and almost… wondrous. “I may not be able to see you, but I can feel you growing old with me, too, sweetheart. More curves, a few wrinkles. It’s like I can feel your body sinking deeper and deeper into a life with me.”

“That’s what happens when love winds up being your gravity.” You leaned in to kiss his forehead lines. “A decade of being drawn in by you.”

“Mhm. And up here.” He shifted his hand at your throat to cup your face like you had his, his thumb tracing the corners of your eyes. “Laugh lines. Because our life’s made you laugh so much that it changed you. They weren’t there the first time I put my hands here. But they are now. Signs of how happy you are with me. And there are more every year, because you… love me enough to stay.”

“Hey, my Devil-Man,” you whispered, tilting his head up until your forehead could meet yours. He didn’t bother to hide the vulnerability in his eyes, this old wound of his. It was mostly mended now, when it came to you, but sometimes that furrowed scar inside his heart still made him ache. “Do you need me to remind you again? I’m not going anywhere, husband of mine. There’s nowhere you’ll go that I won’t follow.”

“I know.” His eyes fluttered as you stroked at his skin. His arms left your face until he could wind them tighter around you, pulling you in tight against him until his every breath became yours. That seemed to settle him some, the weight of you against his chest, especially when you dropped your head to his shoulder, nuzzling in against his neck. “That’s… that’s just it. With me, you see… moments you didn’t think you’d have because you didn’t think I’d make it. And I didn’t think I’d have this with you, either. A home, wrinkles, greying hair. Not because I didn’t think you’d live long enough, but… but because I never thought I’d find someone who could love me enough to stay this long. To love me this long. Long enough that I could feel you grow old with me.”

“Loving you has never been a chore, Matt.” You breathed in the scent of his skin, soap and the faint copper of blood, traces of cinnamon and just him. It was a scent you knew better than your own. You  lifted your hand to run your knuckles down his cheek, tracking your way through his greying beard, hoping that your touch would help your words sink in. He slid his hands up under the back of your shirt to drag his palms smoothly down your back, comforting himself with the feel of your skin as he tilted his head, listening to your heartbeat. It wasn’t because he thought you were lying, that much you knew. But he’d told you once he found the truth soothing when hearing something that might make him feel otherwise vulnerable. Something like this, this old wound of his, absolutely qualified. “And it never will be, no matter what comes at us. If you need me to remind you of that every day, I will. I’ll tell you that over and over again, until the day we die and get buried in matching coffins.”

“The same coffin,” he said quietly, tipping his head to nuzzle at your temple. “There’s a reason we took ‘Till death do we part’ out of our vows. No parting, even in death.” 

“Do they even sell double coffins? If so, I’m down.” “Even if they don’t, I’ll tell Foggy to make sure I end up in yours with you.” “I think I should end up in yours.” “Why?” “Because everyone will just assume your coffin’s extra heavy due to your goddamn audacity.” He burst out laughing beneath you, his body shaking and almost throwing you off him entirely. “I’m just saying,” you continued, trying not to grin as he choked out more laughter, “you live your life in a very particular way, man without fear. ‘Christ, why is his coffin so heavy?’ And our friends can just say, ‘well, you know, it’s Matt Murdock’ and it’ll explain everything. No one will notice me shoved in underneath you so you can lay on top of me forever.” 

“It’s a date,” he said, still huffing in amusement. A pointed paw tapped at your back before starting a walk up your spine. “Speaking of which, looks like someone’s eager to get in on the cuddling.” “Behold, offer to cuddle and both Matts will appear,” you snorted as roughly twenty pounds of scarred black cat trod his way stubbornly up and onto your shoulder, rasping out an indignant meow that sounded like he’d been smoking a pack a day for the past seven years, because how dare the two of you do this without inviting him. “I’m about to be sandwiched, I think. Hello, Mini-Matt.”

Sure enough, Matt’s smaller clone enthusiastically rammed his head against your temple, making you grunt, before doing the same to Matt’s chin. He was already purring like an old motorcycle engine in a request to get in on what seemed like a nice, cozy cuddle pile, as if Matt would ever turn the cat down. Sure enough, Matt leaned in, planting a kiss to Mini’s big fuzzy forehead before turning and laying a much gentler kiss on yours as Mini draped himself over your shoulder, stretching one paw out to pat Matt's face. “Something tells me you don’t mind, though.”

“Not even a little.” 

[dipperscavern]

ngl but i think after you eventually fall pregnant with a stark baby from….obvious reasons….its the wolves that notice first. like Greywind is already a bit protective of you but all the sudden he doesn’t even like when robb is too close to you. Ghost literally will not leave your side and no one can come within 5 ft without a massive wolf growling at them. They literally just won’t leave you alone and take it upon themselves to protect you, theyre with you more than the stark men themselves (who have duties they must attend to) and theyve started liking you more than them anyway (i would feed them table scraps 10000%)

THE WOLVES NOTICING FIRST IS SO GENIUS THIS IS SO ACCURATE. ur so smart (ok spencer reid anon LMFOA)

greywind mirrors robb in his sort of wildly protective nature, but it just (somehow) grows when greywind senses you’re pregnant. now instead of by the door, greywind sleeps cuddled flush against you, covering your stomach with his body. he will flat out refuse to heed robb’s guarding commands, literally refusing to move away from you when you sleep. it seems like greywind has a mind of his own, giving a low growl as a warning when robb has a hand on or slings his arm around your stomach. and robb’s just ?? because usually they’re on the same wavelength, but he has no idea what’s gotten into him. and then the morning sickness starts, along with other symptoms, and you confide in catelyn (with greywind resting his head on your stomach as you sit with her). she sends you straight to the maesters, and they confirm you’re with child. robb finally understands what’s up with his other half now, and greywind resumes letting robb get close to you (& your stomach) again. because he knows robb will be gentle, knowing you’re carrying his babe.

and ghost. don’t even get me started on ghost. he and jon’s relationship (especially in the books) is already so funny. it’s more of a friendship/partnership than a master/pet relationship, and ghost already defies jon if he wants to. obviously, he heeds when it counts, but knowing that, it just confuses/frustrates jon when he starts standing between y’all. ghost loves jon, but it’s not uncommon for him to go off and do his own thing. so imagine everyone’s surprise when ghost refuses to leave your side. he still checks on jon throughout the day, but now, you’re doing your duties around castle black with this giant almost-as-tall-as-your-shoulder white shadow padding after you. he’s laying on the table in the mess hall watching you scrub a different one & immediately standing up on it to growl when someone opens the door to come inside. ghost starts literally hunting for the both of you, bringing you animals. you appreciate it, but it’s quite confusing. jon is so frustrated because as lord commander people have to be able to speak to him, but ghost won’t let anyone near you. eventually he literally has a sit down with ghost (because he definitely speaks english).

& he’s full on speaking to ghost just as he would speak to sam or edd. “She’s my woman too. D’you know that?”

then, as your symptoms start & you visit maester aemon, everything becomes clear. and jon is thankful that he’s not losing his mind anymore.

[writeriguess]

hi sweetie, I hope you are well ( ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈♡). I came to request katsuki Bakugou x female reader. They are married but due to Bakugou hero's busy schedule they have few moments together, I would like the plot to be based on the reader discovering Bakugou's infidelity (I want to suffer) (˃ ⌑ ˂ഃ ) following the appearance of a pregnant woman (or some crazy stuff like that?) If it's too much, don't worry! I just want that kind of anguish. tysm .ᐟ.ᐟ

author's note: Thank you, I am well <3 The upcoming work trip stresses me out a little though! I'm likely on it when this publishes.

A House Built on Ashes

The apartment is silent when you wake up, the other side of the bed cold. Again.

You stare at the ceiling, blinking away the sleep that threatens to pull you back under. Katsuki’s been working late. Too late. Always too late. Your hands glide across the empty sheets, searching for warmth that hasn’t been there in weeks. The clock on your nightstand reads 3:14 AM. A part of you wonders if he’ll even come home tonight.

Dragging yourself out of bed, you wrap his hoodie around your frame and pad barefoot into the kitchen. Your heart sinks when you see the untouched dinner, still wrapped and waiting for him. The weight in your chest grows heavier as you unwrap the food, staring at the cold meal you made hours ago. It’s stupid, really. You should be used to this by now.

The sound of the front door unlocking makes you flinch. You turn, breath caught in your throat, as Katsuki steps inside. His ash-blond hair is disheveled, his hero uniform half undone, revealing the black compression shirt underneath. He looks tired—exhausted even—but not in the way he should be. Not in the way of a man who’s just been fighting villains all day.

His crimson eyes meet yours, widening slightly as if he wasn’t expecting you to be awake.

“Yer still up?” His voice is rough, like he’s been screaming. Or lying.

“Couldn’t sleep.” Your fingers tighten around the edge of the counter. “Where were you?”

He hesitates. It’s barely a second, but it’s enough.

“Work ran late.”

A simple answer. A practiced one. But something is off. His uniform smells like detergent—freshly washed. His scent is there, but it’s muted. As if someone else’s perfume had been scrubbed away. A cold tendril of doubt coils around your heart.

“I called,” you say, watching his expression carefully. “Three times.”

His jaw tightens. “Phone died.”

Lies.

You want to believe him. Gods, you want to. You want to be the supportive wife, the one who understands that being the Number Two Pro Hero means sacrifices. But you know Katsuki. You know how meticulous he is about keeping his gear—and his phone—charged.

You know when he’s lying.

A week passes, and the distance between you both grows like a festering wound. He kisses you still, but there’s something different. Guilt, maybe. Or obligation. And then it happens. The moment everything unravels.

It’s a grocery run. A normal, mindless errand. Until you see her.

She’s beautiful. Dark hair pulled into a loose bun, wearing an oversized sweater that hides the curve of her stomach—almost. But you see it. The subtle swell of a life growing inside her. And more than that, you see the way her hands hover protectively over her belly.

You might have walked past her without a second glance if it weren’t for the conversation you overheard.

“Oh, please,” the woman scoffs, rolling her eyes as she adjusts the shopping basket on her arm. “Like she really thinks he’s still faithful to her? She’s pathetic.”

You freeze.

Her friend giggles, covering her mouth. “I mean, Y/N is stupidly naive if she thinks a man like Katsuki would actually stick around forever.”

Your blood turns to ice in your veins.

The woman—this stranger—laughs, a bitter, knowing sound. “Right? He knocked me up, and she’s still playing house like nothing’s wrong. I mean, come on, he spends more nights with me than her at this point.”

Your stomach churns. It feels like the ground is swallowing you whole.

Her friend nudges her playfully. “So, when’s Bakugou finally ditching her and stepping up?”

The woman sighs, rubbing a hand over her stomach. “Soon, hopefully. I mean, we all know he’s just staying out of guilt. But once this baby’s here?” She grins. “She’ll just be the embarrassing ex-wife.”

You don’t remember walking out of the store. You don’t remember the drive home. You don’t remember anything except the way your heart beats so violently against your ribs that it hurts.

By the time Katsuki comes home that night, you’re sitting on the couch, his hoodie pulled tight around you, your hands clenched into fists in your lap.

He doesn’t get the chance to speak before you ask, voice hollow—“Do you love her?”

The silence that follows is the worst part. Because it’s not immediate denial. It’s not outrage at the accusation. It’s nothing. Just quiet, suffocating nothingness.

Your whole world burns.

The silence stretches between you like a yawning abyss. Your heart pounds so violently that you can hear the blood rushing in your ears. Katsuki stares at you, crimson eyes unreadable, but his lips part like he’s searching for something to say—an excuse, a reason, a lie that will make this all go away.

But nothing comes.

Nothing.

And that is the final straw.

Your hands tremble as you push yourself to your feet, and suddenly, all the pain that’s been simmering inside you—festering, growing, poisoning every quiet moment you spent waiting for him—boils over.

“You bastard,” you whisper, but it’s more than that. It’s not just an insult. It’s a curse, a condemnation, a blade forged from every night you spent staring at the ceiling, wondering why you weren’t enough.

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t try to defend himself.

Coward.

“Say something, Katsuki!” you shout, and your voice cracks on his name. His name—the one you’ve whispered in love, in devotion, in trust. Now it tastes like ash on your tongue.

But he doesn’t say anything.

The quiet shatters something inside you. You shove past the coffee table, hands shaking as you grab the untouched dinner you left wrapped for him hours ago. The plate crashes into the sink with a sharp, ringing clatter, the sound echoing through the suffocating apartment. “You could’ve just told me,” you say, voice shaking. “You could’ve told me that you didn’t love me anymore instead of—”

Instead of this.

Instead of letting you rot away in this lie.

Instead of making you look like a fucking fool.

You press a hand against your forehead, breathing hard, fighting against the sob that threatens to rip itself from your chest. Your vision is blurry with unshed tears, but you refuse to let them fall—not yet. Not in front of him.

Katsuki finally moves, stepping forward, hands raised as if he can fix this—as if he has the right to touch you after everything. “Y/N—”

“Don’t,” you snap, voice like glass shards. He flinches, and good. Let him feel just a fraction of what you feel. Let it fucking hurt.

You let out a bitter laugh, though it tastes more like grief than amusement. “I cooked for you. I waited up for you. I defended you every single time someone said you wouldn’t settle down. And you—” You shake your head, chest heaving. “You weren’t even fucking careful. You didn’t even have the decency to make sure I didn’t find out like this.”

His eyes darken, but there’s shame there, too. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

You let out a hollow laugh. “Oh, sure. You just tripped and fell into another woman? And now she’s having your kid?”

His lips press into a thin line, and for the first time, you see it. The guilt. The regret. But it’s too late for that now. Too fucking late.

Your hands curl into fists, nails digging into your palms until you’re sure they’ll leave crescent-shaped marks. You’re shaking, your whole body vibrating with rage, with devastation, with betrayal so deep it makes you sick to your stomach.

“You don’t get to do this to me,” you whisper, voice raw. “You don’t get to make me love you, to promise me forever, and then throw me away like I meant nothing.”

His hands tighten at his sides. “You didn’t mean nothing.”

But it’s not enough. It will never be enough.

Your breath catches, the dam finally breaking as a sob rips through your throat. “Then why wasn’t I enough?”

And for the first time, Katsuki has no answer.

You nod, wiping at your face furiously before turning on your heel, heading straight for the bedroom. Your mind is racing, already thinking about packing, about leaving, about never looking back. About how much it’s going to hurt.

He calls your name—soft, desperate.

But you don’t stop.

You don’t look back.

Because if you do, you might break completely.

[therapyplacebo]

𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚂𝚘 𝚂𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝, 𝙺𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝙼𝚎

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62475340

CROSSPOSTED ON AO3

Pairing: Zayne x f reader SMUT

Word count: 6,485

Content warning : Smut, shower sex (fingering), unprotected sex, it's your bday but Zayne missed it, apologetic Zayne, slightest bit of angst in the form of self-hatred and doubt

Zayne lets out a defeated sigh as he shoves his hand in the depth of the left pocket of his jacket to retrieve his keys. His shoulders are sunken with exhaustion, and the stabbing pain in his lower back radiates up to the nape of his neck the way it does after an excruciatingly long surgery.

Guilt gnaws at his mind—redundant thoughts swirling in a dangerous pattern he recognizes too well but is too tired to put an end to. The keys in his hand jangle as he pulls them out, staring at the small seal keychain you won for him at the claw machine. It matches the larger plushie he won for you that you keep on a shelf in your office. 

He already knows he missed the party, but somehow, the dimmed lights and empty apartment shatter something inside of him as he shrugs off his coat. There are balloons hanging down from your kitchen cabinets, confetti littering the floor and sticking to his socks. 

As he makes his way to the kitchen, Zayne has to duck under a beautiful handmade banner hanging from the ceiling with your age written on it along with birthday wishes scribbled on it. Wrapping papers stick out of your trash can—hastily shoved inside. There are several glasses of wine lined near your sink where the dirty dishes are neatly piled.

Zayne makes a mental note to put them in the dishwasher tomorrow morning. 

Silence hangs in the air, echoes of another birthday missed haunting him like an earworm he’s forgotten the lyrics of. Just as he’s about to turn on the living room light, he spots you, hunched over the kitchen table, cheek resting on your arms with a ridiculously small cardboard hat on your head. If the sight of it hadn’t instantly made him nauseous with resentment for no one but himself, he would have laughed. 

He drops the gift bag to the ground, walking around the misplaced chairs as he makes his way to you. The floor creaks, and you stir awake, meeting his eyes with a confused expression that melts away into the softer one of relief. With a tired smile, you stretch your arms above your head, letting out a groan. 

“Hey, when did you get here?” You ask him with a yawn, squinting at the lack of light as you take in the sight of him—wearing his best dress shirt and some formal black trousers. “Did you change at work?” Your eyebrow raises itself as you fail to suppress your grin. 

Zayne scoffs at your seemingly unbothered attitude, taking a seat right next to you. “I did. I packed it this morning thinking I would make it in time to…” He trails off, not knowing what to say as he cradles the side of your face and rubs your cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. You nuzzle his wrist, pressing a soft kiss to the exposed skin there. “I’m sorry,” Zayne dejects, his eyes searching yours in hopes they convey the depth of his regret and how much he wishes he could rewind time. 

You click your tongue softly, shaking your head obstinately. “Zayne. It’s fine. I understand work will always be work,” you chuckle in an almost bitter way, grabbing his hand that rests on his leg to squeeze it comfortingly. 

“I really was on my way here when I texted you. There was an emergency, and I had to scrub in,” Zayne insists, looking at the two slices of cake still untouched in their cardboard plates—the candles on one of them have been reduced to a melted mess.  

It reminds him with daunting resemblance of the lonely sight of his own birthdays. 

You lean on the table, resting your chin inside your hand as you glance at the mess around the room. “Tara got really drunk and decided to kiss Greyson, believe it or not,” you laugh, reminiscing about the scene. “I should’ve taken a picture. The face he made was worth a hundred bucks.” 

Zayne forces himself to chuckle with you, but it does not fool you. With a soft sigh, you grab his hand harder this time. “You know what? Technically, you didn’t miss my birthday at all,” you say, glancing at your watch with a knowing smile, trying your best to cheer the dejected man in front of you. “My birthday officially started four hours ago.” 

Zayne scoffs softly—a true chuckle this time. “Nice try.” You roll your eyes playfully, pushing towards him the slice of cake you reserved. You know he’s always famished whenever he comes out of surgery and the adrenaline wears off. 

Relief floods you when he begrudgingly accepts the bribe and picks at the almond-flavoured cake before shoving a forkful in his mouth. “You like it? I had it made with extra frosting for you.” 

The grin on your face warms his heart instantly, but the sugary taste sours in his mouth as your mask slips a little and he notices with surgical accuracy the sadness in your gaze. “It’s good. Is it from that bakery near the hospital?”

You nod enthusiastically, picking at his slice with your fork—your own cake ruined by colourful wax. Your lipstick is smudged on your cheek, but Zayne makes no mention of it. 

“Did you make a wish?” He finally asks, gesturing to the candles. You fold your index in front of your mouth, mumbling something with your mouth full as you swallow your bite. 

His furrowed eyebrows are enough for you to repeat yourself. “I didn’t. I was waiting for you.” Zayne stands up without another word, walking the short distance to your kitchen where he knows you keep the lighter—third drawer to the left. There’s an already lit candle from your previous birthday last year. The number is one year too little, but he grabs it regardless. 

“This is all I could find,” he states, sitting back on the edge of the chair, his knees touching yours. “I should’ve brought some.” 

You make a noise of disagreement, taking a quick bite of the frosting on the side before grabbing the lighter from his hands. “Nonsense. This is perfectly fine. It’s like I’m aging backwards; this is great,” you ramble as you light the candle with shaking fingers after placing it on top of your untouched slice.

An uncomfortable quietness falls, and the two of you sit, watching the mesmerizing way the flame dances in the darkness of the room. You glance at Zayne, admiring the warm highlights that the fire casts on his face and the seemingly serene expression he bears. 

Much to your surprise, Zayne starts to hum Happy Birthday under his breath. You laugh out loud, unbridled glee shining in your gaze, which makes him blush up to the top of his ears. The intimacy of your kitchen hits you all at once. Zayne’s soft, raspy voice echoes off the walls, his coat hung by the door and his shoes lined up with yours by the entryway. 

You already know what wish to make before he even finishes slightly off-key but so endearing singing. 

“Do you also want to make a wish?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper. Zayne frowns, staring at you dubiously. “I don’t mind sharing.” It doesn’t seem to be enough to convince him.

He shakes his head, glancing down at the flickering flame before his green eyes meet yours once more—fleeting heartache tinting them one shade darker. “Hurry before the flame goes out.” 

Glancing at him sideways, you softly blow out the candles—making the same wish as last year and the one before that. The scent of burnt wax tickles your nostrils and almost makes you sneeze. Zayne's soft breathing reaches your ears. Linkon is asleep at this hour; the streetlights illuminate deserted streets, and only the occasional car breaks the silence with the dulled hum of their engine as they drive down your street. “What did you wish for?”

You smirk, turning your head towards him with a tired expression. “I am not falling for it this time. I want it to come true this year.” Zayne smiles softly, recalling last year when you had been tricked by Tara into admitting your birthday wish—your lips loosened by alcohol. 

“Alright then. May I get a clue, then?” Part of him wishes for you to be angrier at him, for you to not fall so easily for meagre apologies and soft looks. It makes overlooking his neglect a bit too easy for his liking. You tuck your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes glinting with mischief and affection—his heart stutters in his chest. 

Your soft sigh graces the heated skin of his cheek as you press a chaste kiss against it. His eyes flutter close, his breathing stilling as if scared that a single movement could render him undeserving of such tenderness. The hand resting on his knee instinctively reaches out to your bare leg, his thumb rubbing circles against the skin of your inner thigh.

“Is that a new dress?” His raspy tone falls flat, though his eyes convey what his voice cannot carry. You nod, your cheeks flushing the shade of a ripe pomegranate as you play with the light green fabric of the garment that you bought specifically for the occasion. “You look beautiful,” Zayne then adds, letting his eyes run over the rosy glow on your lips, the way your hair is pinned back to the sides, and the delicate bracelet he bought you that dangles from your left wrist. The briefest wave of possessiveness carries his next movements as he grabs your chin and slots his lips against yours, swiping his tongue on your bottom lip as he kisses you hungrily. 

It sends your heartbeat in a frenzy—a stark comparison with the slow and torturous crescendo that Zayne is setting up. The gentle tug of his fingers as they pull your hair loose from the pins, the unhurried glide of his hands down your arms, the steady yet shuddering breathing that fills the gap between your lips as he rests his forehead against yours—it’s all so overwhelmingly sickening, the way with which he unravels you thread by thread.

Darkened eyes meet yours, and the first genuine smile appears on his lips as he wipes the smudged lipstick mark from your cheek. “Happy birthday,” Zayne huffs, gliding the pad of his thumb against your swollen lip. Your grin spreads to your eyes—the skin at their corners wrinkling as you chuckle softly. 

A small, light blue gift bag catches your attention by his feet. You raise an eyebrow and watch the way his cheeks change colour. “Zayne,” you drag his name out. “I told you I didn't need anything.” He picks up the bag and sets it on your lap—the tissue paper sticking out has little snowflakes embossed on it, and the sight of it warms your chest.

You pull out a photo album; the cover is decorated with stickers, and a picture you thought lost to time. The corners have been flattened back into place after being folded for years, and the colours have faded considerably. 

A disbelieving chuckle slips out. “What—where did you get this?” Zayne smiles softly. 

“My parents cleaned their attic recently and mailed it back to me.” You glide your index on the protective layer on the album, marvelling at the photobooth strip that dates back from well over a decade ago. Zayne looks out of place; his pose is awkwardly static, and his expression is pinched in contrast to your carefree one. “There’s more inside.”

You cast him a glance, opening the front page with a shaky hand from the anticipation. One by one, you flip through the pages with pure shock written all over your face. 

Pictures of the two of you, coffee date receipts, movie tickets, and other memorabilia that Zayne kept. His terrible handwriting accompanies each memory, a brief description scribbled along each one. There’s a picture of your grandmother standing with Zayne’s parents at his eleventh birthday—Zayne stands by your side, matching to the best of his ability your crooked grin. Tears blur your vision, but you wipe them away unceremoniously with the back of your hand, not wanting to miss a single detail. 

He clears his throat, not too sure what to say. “I left some pages empty, so you can add the new ones we take at the photobooth.” You hurriedly flip to the last pages, fingers hovering over the empty spots in the shape of photo strips. 

“You made this? When did you even get the time?” you say incredulously, a chuckle coming out to join your words. You know Zayne’s schedule; he is either working or spending time with you. How he managed to pour this amount of effort into a gift is beyond comprehension. You tighten your grip on the album, pressing it against your chest. 

Zayne rubs the back of his neck. “I’ve been working on it for a while,” is all he says. “I take it you like it?” he asks you, having the nerve to sound uncertain. You instantly frown at him.

“Do I like it? Zayne, this is….” Words escape you, your brain scrambling to find a word that adequately conveys the meaning this gift holds.

Since the explosion, every single memory of the past was taken away from you—picture books, old sentimental letters, drawings. Nothing remained, and it left a gap that you struggled to reconcile with. You never finish the sentence, but Zayne does not need you to. His hand grips yours with a reassuring strength, and you pull him in for a hug, tucking your face in the collar of his shirt. 

He smells of the soap he uses at the hospital—it’s slightly citrusy with a lingering sterile and chemical scent.

“Did you shower?” You ask him, leaning back in the chair as you straighten the fabric of your dress where his hands had bunched it up. Zayne nods curtly, his eyes still on you when your shoulders sag in disappointment. He shakes his head in amusement, standing up before offering you a hand.

“C’mon, let’s get you in the shower.” Your limbs are heavy with exhaustion, but you follow him to the confines of your bathroom regardless. The space should feel much more crowded with him standing right behind you, but it only soothes the nerves frayed by waiting for him all night.

If you close your eyes long enough, you can picture the sympathetic looks from your friends—the intensity of them growing with each passing hour. You’re used to it—Zayne’s schedule is always hectic, and the long hours mean that the time spent together is as sparse as it is precious. Whenever he is on the night shift, it can be weeks before the two of you can finally spend a night together. The reunions are always bittersweet, honeyed professions and apologies hushed against bare skin whenever Zayne finally gets his hands on you. 

You can tell the distance and time spent apart wounds him, his impatience and neediness always coming through with the way he calls out your name in the early hours of the morning.

Which is why there is lingering culpability whenever a bud of resentment inevitably sprouts inside you—whenever he misses an important event because of an emergency. The rational side of you knows that there is no malicious intent in the way he consistently misses a date, a birthday, or a ceremony. However, insecurity’s roots run deep, and their grip persists stubbornly for weeks following. 

“Are you alright?” Zayne’s voice almost startles you as you turn to him. He’s holding two clean towels against his hip. The worry etched on his face mirrors your own. You nod, swallowing the lump that peskily lingers in the back of your throat. You turn your back to him, pretending to be absorbed with the ties of your dress so he doesn’t notice the tears welling down your lash line.

Zayne comes forward to rest his chin in the crook of your neck, putting down the towels before wrapping his arms around your waist. “I’m really sorry for missing your birthday.” His tone is strained with regret, heavied by the burden you know plagues him daily—it only furthers your anguish.

You feel ridiculous as tears escape and roll down the side of your cheek. You sniff loudly, the sound of it echoing off the tiles, and you feel Zayne tense up against your back. He sighs your name tenderly—another apology. A chuckle breaks its way past your lips, muffled by a strangled sob that overtakes it. “I’m sorry. I swear, I’m fine. It’s so stupid that—” Zayne grabs you by the shoulder, spinning you around so you face him. 

You almost flinch, tempted to hide your face in the crook of your elbow to spare him the sight of your loss of temper. His eyes search for yours, visibly pained by your tears. “I know you can’t help it and that it’s work—you’re saving lives for fuck’s sake, and I’m here crying over a birthday dinner,” you bitterly let out, laughing at yourself for even being this upset about it in the first place. 

Zayne’s chest feels tight; the feeling spreads to his throat as he softens his gaze at you. “Are you done talking?” You nod, tucking your trembling lip between your teeth and biting down until it leaves indents on the plush skin. Zayne opens his mouth, carefully weighing his words. “I know how important this dinner was to you, and I still missed it. What you’re feeling is only the natural reaction to my actions.” You’re about to protest, but his stern expression has you immediately shut your mouth. “Let me apologize properly. Let me make it up to you, please.”

He casts you a heated look, hungry eyes landing on your bitten mouth—a gaze so intense that it sends a shiver down your spine. It takes you a second, but you find the strength to move, to nod at him.

Without wasting a second, Zayne’s fingers reach for the zipper on the side of your dress without taking his eyes off your face. He intently watches the small, anticipating crease in your brows and the way with which your lips part when his cold fingers finally touch the bare skin of your ribs. “Did I tell you you looked beautiful?” He speaks, lowering his lips to your collarbone as he peels down one of the sleeves. 

You let out a nervous chuckle as he traces a path from your neck to your ear. “You might have mentioned it.” Your last words are lost to him as he lets the dress fall to the tiled floor. You take it upon yourself to unbutton his shirt, focusing on the task at hand even though you feel the intensity of his gaze on your face. 

It’s a slow race—both too tired to rush but pushed by a sense of urgency to lay claim on one another. Zayne kisses you deeper as he pushes you towards the shower—he still tastes like the sugary frosting. He sighs in relief against your mouth like one does when slipping into a warm bath in the dead of winter. You let your underwear fall to the ground—Zayne’s following suit right after. 

The water is too warm—it makes his frigid touch sting, but the pain soothes something rotten inside of you, so you make no mention of it to him. Pressed against the wall with nowhere to run, you watch affectionately as he steps forward, trapping you between his arms. You’re the one reaching out this time, pulling him down for another lazy kiss, swiping your tongue on his bottom lip just the way he likes. A soft moan leaves his mouth as his breathing grows more laboured. Rivulets of water trickle a path down your sternum, and Zayne’s hand follows—it lands on your waist, where he uses the leverage to pull you impossibly closer.

His knee slots between your legs, and he swallows your whine with a satisfied grin. The friction is just enough to make your mind cloudy but not overwhelming enough to pull you away from the syrupy words that Zayne lets drip out of his mouth.

“I really tried,” he utters as his hands grip your hips, haunching you further on his thigh as it makes direct contact with your core. You mumble his name as a praise. “I even went out to that bookstore you like during a lunch break. The one where they sell the terrible birthday cards with the puns that you somehow find hilarious.”

You frown. “They are hilarious.” Your falsely offended tone visibly amuses him, but he makes no further comment. He instead chooses to kiss you, effectively shutting you up. Your hand slips between your bodies, finding his hardened length pressed against his stomach. Zayne groans softly, a shuddering moan falling from his mouth as you run your hand along, keeping the pressure light enough—just to tease him. 

“Let me take care of you first,” he insists, wrapping his fingers around your wrist to pull your hand away. You know better than to argue with him, so you simply nod—wrapping your arms around his neck and playing with the longer tufts of hair where his nape is. 

With one hand between your legs and the other resting right above your breast, Zayne wastes no time. He knows you better than anyone—which spot makes you sigh, which one makes you moan. His thumb finds your clit as he slowly dips his index and middle fingers inside of you—a small satisfied noise building at the back of his throat. You tense up at the intrusion, your back arching as a reaction. You did not expect to be so sensitive, but the slow-paced circles he rubs against your bundle of nerves send warmth in waves down to your toes—it’s addicting and mind-numbing as pleasure runs its course.

“You’re so warm,” Zayne mumbles against the skin of your neck—biting lovingly at the wet skin. Your reply starts with a pleasured gasp as he curls his finger inside of you. 

“I think your hands are just abnormally cold,” you reply nonchalantly, meeting his eyes only to laugh at him quietly at the slightly puzzled expression that he gives you. His gestures pause for a second as he processes the information.

“All the time?” The surprise in his tone makes your heart throb with affection. Pursing your lips to the side, you debate whether to lie or not. “Why haven’t you ever mentioned it before?” Looking down at his still hand, you greedily urge him to continue his ministrations with your own hand. And while he resumes, earning a soft moan from you, he keeps his inquisitive gaze on you. 

“It’s not a bad thing. I like it,” you admit, cradling the side of his face, admiring the abyssal shade of black his hair turns into once it’s wet. “It feels like you.” Zayne lets out a small hum, seemingly satisfied, as he then picks up the pace of the fingers slipping in and out of you. The sudden change makes you clench around him, and a hiccup breaches past your lips as your head thuds against the wall behind you. 

“You’re close, aren’t you?” Zayne asks, letting his free hand wander down your breasts, where he watches as his fingers sink into the supple flesh. You nod, eyes screwed shut as the pressure in your lower stomach keeps building up, tightening its hold on your limbs until your toes feel numb. “It’s alright. I got you.”

The soft reassurance he so freely gives you is all it takes. The knot finally snaps, and your back arches off the wall—your chest now pressed firmly against his own. Zayne diligently works you through the waves of pleasure, his fingers knowing exactly what to do as you come down from your high. He pulls them out, letting the warm water wash on the remnants of you on his hand. 

Boneless and tired, you lean against the wall as Zayne gently puts you down—legs wobbling as your feet touch the tiled floor. “Can you stand while I clean you up?” You nod, brainlessly agreeing as Zayne grabs your soap and a washcloth. The soft raspberry and vanilla scent fills the air—it purposefully smells like his favourite dessert. With his surgical precision, he quickly washes you off, limb by limb, as he kneels to the ground to clean your legs. 

“This is the greatest birthday gift ever,” you wearily mumble, a dumb smile on your face. Zayne scoffs softly as he washes your hair, noticing the way you sag against him at the head massage. 

“Want me to help you?” You offer him, opening one eye only as he grabs the bottle of shower gel that he leaves permanently at your place. He seems amused by your offer but shakes his head softly. 

“I’m not too sure that I trust the reliability of your services right now,” he jokes, though his tone remains dry. You chuckle as Zayne rinses out the conditioner, making sure to work through the knots with his fingers. 

“You can always file a complaint,” you deject, stepping foot out of the shower and reaching for the towels he laid out earlier. The steam inside the bathroom fogs up the mirror, and you have to reach over and wipe it to witness the extent of Zayne’s markings on your neck. Unable to suppress the roll of the eye that follows, you part your hair for it to hide most of it before roughly towel drying it.

Zayne shuts the water off, wiping most of the water from the glass door—something you never do yourself, but he diligently does whenever he uses your shower. You hand him the towel, admiring the way the light casts soft shadows on the ridges of his back as he dries himself—the freckles and scars highlighting the planes of his muscles like starlight on the night sky.

The two of you brush your teeth in silence, shoulder to shoulder, and catch glimpses of each other through the mirror—it makes him blush deep red up to the tip of his ears. 

You’ve never felt this at ease, and the domestic feeling grips you by the throat but finds you to be a willing victim. 

You shiver as you open the door, the colder air slipping inside as you walk on your tiptoes to your bedroom. The curtains flail open in the chill of the breeze, and the first rays of timid sunlight tint the sky a deep magenta that fades into a lighter orange over the lilac expanse of the Linkon skyline. The sight takes your breath away.

Zayne enters the bedroom, his towel loosely wrapped around his waist—his gaze instantly finds yours even through the low light of the dusk that seeps into your bedroom. It casts in his eyes both the longing of yesterday and the exciting promise of tomorrow. 

He stops right behind you, wrapping his arms loosely around your waist and pulling your towel to the ground. It falls with a faint thud, and the air makes your warm skin pebble as Zayne runs his palms up and down your arms.

“Do you want to sleep?” He asks you, voice low and raw—there’s an underlying question that makes you smile.

“Did you have any other plans?” The grin in your voice is contagious—Zayne chuckles. 

He presses a tender peck to the side of your neck, softly breathing in the sweetened scent of your skin—he almost salivates. “I had an idea or two in mind. The night is still young.” You turn around to face him with a mirthful expression.

“The sun is rising as we speak.” Zayne’s mouth remains a straight line, but you notice the shift in his gaze.

“Pay no attention to it,” he whispers, grabbing you by the waist to pull you down with him on the bed. The two of you fall in the tangled mess that is your bedsheet—you never find the time in the morning to make it. Zayne always silently judges you for it but goes out of his way to clean up your room whenever he comes over. 

Naked limbs tangled together, Zayne settles between your thighs, taking his time to litter your chest with kisses. Your breath gets stuck in your throat—half plea, half whine. It’s delirious, the ease with which his hands know their way around the curves of your body. As if entirely mapped out inside his head, tucked away under the knowledge he always surprises you with. 

The fear of the missed days always lurks in the back of your mind—plaguing you with stubborn grief over things that haven’t happened. That each time he cancels a date, each time he gets held back at the hospital—it’s time that you’ll never recover. It’s greedy and selfish; you are aware of that at least, but it doesn’t ease the burning betrayal you feel as the days pass by, never to be seen again. 

“What are you thinking about?” Zayne asks, raising himself on his arms to take a good look at you—he’s visibly worried, and you flash him a reassuring smile.

“I just love you, that’s all.” Zayne looks momentarily stunned by your words; his breathing stops, and you wonder if you delivered the final blow. His eyes roam over your face, retracing soft contours of it with uncurbed endearment. He seems to be thinking for a split second before he captures your lips between his.

You kiss him back devotedly, pouring all of what you cannot say into a reciprocal chase of the lips that has Zayne groan against your panting mouth. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he reverently admits, pulling your hips against his in a needy motion to feel your heat pressed against his hardening length.

Your retort dies in your throat, a soft whine that sounds like his name leaving your lips instead.

Hurried words are hushed in your ear, his breath mingling with your own as he kisses you from an awkward angle—too impatient to be parted from your mouth for more than a few seconds. “You think you can take me like this? Or do you want me to go down on you?” 

You shake your head, mind heady with both need and exhaustion that threatens to send it all tumbling down. “I’m good. You’re good.” Zayne gives you one last look, scanning your face.

He lines himself up to your entrance before pressing in, claiming your mouth in a bruising kiss as he moans softly. The needy sound he makes sets your skin on fire as he sinks to the hilt—the fullness steals your breath away. Time stops, and you brush away a few humid strands that are falling in front of Zayne’s eyes. 

“I need a moment,” he mutters, voice strained as he grips the sheets next to your head. You let him take all the time he wants, letting your hand wander down his neck, tracing invisible paths on the skin of his chest. There are small ice crystals forming down his forearms, but you smooth them over with your heated hands, the water pebbling down in his skin onto your bedsheets. When Zayne finally reopens his eyes, the evident need in them should feel overwhelming, but it serves to quench the reciprocal feeling that wrecks through you whenever he is nearby.

“Are you alright?” It’s your turn to express concern, and as per usual, Zayne brushes you off before the last syllable. He cradles your face, his irises almost entirely obscured by his dilated pupils. You swallow audibly, leaning into his palm to press a kiss on it.

Without much warning, Zayne moves his hip, snapping them forward with a soft grunt. The burn from the stretch is pleasurable—a constant reminder. Urging him, you slide back before arching your back so his length slides in. Getting the message, Zayne sets the pace—deep thrusts making your breath stutter. He drags his nose along the length of your neck to mumble your name along with a soft praise.

“You feel so good. I missed you all week, my pretty girl.” Zayne uncharacteristically blabs out of guilt, his words muffled by the delicate skin of your neck that he sucks into his mouth. His rhythm picks up as the muscles of his abdomen flex. One of his hands tightly grips your calf and brings your left leg over his shoulder. You whine—both at his honeyed words and the deeper angle at which he slams his hips into you.

“Fuck, ah—Zayne,” you pant out, clinging to his broad shoulders until your nails leave crimson streaks on his alabaster skin. 

His heavy-lidded gaze is the only thing betraying his exhaustion as he keeps up a brutal pace, taking out his week’s frustrations on you. His hands are everywhere, on your breasts, wrapping loosely around your neck as he captures your lips into a searing kiss—drinking in your sweet, soft pleas that warm him up from the inside like mulled wine. 

Each of his movements is deliberate, imbued with such care and devotion that a sob threatens its way up your throat. It’s a game of give and take in which neither feels deserving to be the winner. The both of you pour as much as you can in the hopes that as much of it can stick to the other—mending broken parts together. 

It heals old scars and soothes any bitterness that remains from the distance that creeps between the two of you whenever apart. It melts away like the frost on a cold autumn morning when the sunlight grazes the shimmering grass blades. 

Zayne’s fingers slip between your bodies and find with ease what he searches—dipping to where his cock is buried inside your heat before dragging them upward to your clit. Pleasure surges forward, and your world suddenly narrows to the rhythm of his touch, the scent of him, and the soft noises he lets out as he nips your earlobe to distract himself. 

Your breath catches—rising and falling in desperate, unsteady gasps as the pressure builds and builds. A wildfire catching ablaze and running its course through your bloodstream with an urgency that makes your head spin. Zayne follows close behind, his movements getting more erratic and less consistent as he rapidly feels the thread fraying.

He forces himself to open his eyes, struck with pure awe at the blissed-out expression on your face, at the otherworldly glow with which your skin catches the early light—a pearlescent sheen that mesmerizes him. Zayne mutters your name brokenly—a prayer, a praise, a plea for forgiveness that he earned lifetimes ago. 

For a moment, you forget everything but the warmth, the pressure, the overwhelming rush of him—of this—and when it finally breaks. Zayne is quick to notice; it’s a quiet surrender, a shiver that hums through every nerve, but he’s fluent in the tells of your body. A tremor runs through your every limb as he slows his pace down, savouring the way you clench impossibly tight around him. 

There’s a raw vulnerability in your gaze—a sudden outpouring of emotions that seeps into his skin like spilled ink on parchment. It chokes him up as the voices in the back of his head echo words he knows by heart by now. A tale as old as time that paints him as undeserving of this. Undeserving of you. You touch his cheek, and he blinks, momentarily stunned and brought back to the moment. The tender and loving grazing of your fingers against his forehead as you push his hair away from where it falls in front of his eyes.

It’s enough for him to ignore the pesky thoughts—at least for tonight. 

With a deeper thrust, burying his head into the crook of your neck where he unapologetically bites your shoulder, Zayne spills into you with a soft grunt. His hips stutter, slowing down until he is completely static and lets out the most delectable grunt that ends in a low whine that makes you acutely aware of how much he needed this. 

He collapses to your side—bone-deep exhaustion finally setting in. You wince as he pulls out of you, but he wastes no time cleaning the mess he left between your legs with your towel laying further on the bed. Sweat clings to your heated skin, but the gentle breeze cools it down almost immediately. 

“We should have showered after,” you flatly comment, and Zayne laughs—a strikingly loud and out-of-character laugh that takes you by surprise. He must be delirious with fatigue, but you tuck the sound of it away in your mind as you join him until your ribs hurt.

He exhales loudly, tracing circles on your arm. “I made a reservation at your favourite cafe tomorrow,” Zayne says, flipping on his side to look at you tenderly. He is absentmindedly playing with some unruly hair strands down your neck, his face still red. “I believe it’s in 5 hours. I can cancel if you want to sleep in.”

You huff softly, grabbing a pillow that fell to the floor and tucking it under your arm. “It’s alright. I’ll set an alarm.”

He looks at you unconvinced. “Is the alarm intended to wake me up? You’re not known to be easily awakened,” Zayne comments, an eyebrow inquisitively raised as he taunts you.

You wait a few seconds before answering, weighing your options. “What if I say it is?” As expected, Zayne rolls his eyes but doesn’t protest further. With one quick gesture, he drags the bed covers over the two of you and pulls you tightly against him. Though his breathing has returned to normal, his heartbeat betrays his seemingly calm state. 

He presses a kiss to the crown of your hair. “Happy birthday.” You hum, smiling as you tilt your head up to press a kiss on the top of his nose. “Get some sleep, doctor’s order,” he immediately adds with his usual sternness. You’re about to snarkily reply but stop yourself, knowing better than to argue with him when he uses such a tone. 

You settle against him, lulled to sleep by the steadying beat of his heart and the soft tickle of his breathing against your temple as the sun starts pouring its warm golden light in the quietude of your bedroom.

[submattenthusiast]

shower matt sturniolo

scorching hot water drenched your naked body as you stood under the shower head, taking a much needed shower. the temperature of the water had no effect on you since you’d been in there for a while now. the soft music that bounced around the foggy room was also a distraction from the heat. you rested your eyes for a minute while you scrubbed your body, taking a deep breath to relax further.

the screech of the metal rings on the curtain interrupted the peace that was forming and in walked your boyfriend, matt. shock emerged from deep inside you at the sudden intrusion, the fully clothed intrusion. the droplets of water bounced off of him as he moved to stand inches away from you, staring straight into your eyes while he reached to grab your face. "what the fuck are you doing, your hair — your clothes matt" you finally get out. his thumb brushed against your cheeks as he focused on your wet features, your stuck together eyelashes, your messy eyebrows, the little droplets running down the bridge of your nose. "don't care, need you need you so bad"

you opening your mouth to speak gave him the perfect entry way into you. pushing you back towards the tile he closed the gap between your faces. his soft lips met your damp ones in a deep kiss, pushing his nose into your cheek as he kissed you hard. seconds after dropping the loofa your hands were on whatever piece of clothing you could grab to pull him closer. his disgustingly wet clothes collided with your body as your back arched from the coldness of the shower walls. a gentle moan was passed into your mouth while the kiss deepened, your tongues beginning to have a role in the saliva swapping.

getting bored of tugging, your hands went out to explore his body, searching for some skin to skin. feeling under the damp hoodie and just above the band of the black sweatpants that hung low on his waist, your hands settled. the placement forced a gasp out of him and distracted him from the tongue battle, letting you dominate the sloppy kiss. though he was putty in your hands his grip on your cheeks never loosened, the pads of his fingers digging in your skin. another muffled sound passed between you both as your touch lowered, fingers dancing around the tent in his pants. “need you” he repeated, but made no effort to strip from the layers of clothing.

the need for air separates you from his lips, giving him the opportunity to move, strip, do anything to make himself comfortable but he wasn't budging, instead opting to kiss down your exposed neck and chest. spots of moisture scattered along your skin from his wet opened mouth kisses. a spew of curse words left your mouth from how his mouth was making you feel. a groan followed the profanity as he bit down into the flesh, in reaction to feeling your palm on his strained cock. feeling the physical enjoyment from him you began to grope him so inappropriately.

the moans that erupted from him bounced off the sticky walls and consumed his throat so he could barely speak. "n-need — kiss" he whined, bringing you nose to nose. your wet faces mashed in a sloppy kiss, both of you craving the taste of eachother's mouths. you felt slick pool up between your thighs from the makeshift handjob you were giving him, and the vocal encouragement had it dripping down your legs.

as you stroked him further the sounds from him got more guttural and less spread apart and his lips began to sway away from the kiss. he tried to latch on to your lips but a particular touch to this tip had him slipping. "can't kiss—need cum— need t'cum" he expressed, looking at you apologetically. you nod, holding the intense eye contact as you pushed him to the edge. his fingers twitched against your face as he soaked his pants further, spilling his hot cum in the already tight boxers. heavy breaths filled the shower as he fucked himself through the high, grinding against your hand pathetically.

authors note — something short and sweet, happy valentines day my lovers <3

[lieslab]

Lost in a rainbow

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎ ꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Pairing: Hyunjin X blind gn reader

Summary: You're unable to see colors, but when a kind stranger describes them to you, it shifts your world from black and gray.

Genre: Fluff

Word Count: 4.8K

Trigger warning: Disability insecurities

A/N: This has been in my head for so long and I needed to get it out. This drabble has been haunting me like a ghost and it's always there. I love Hyunjin and how his brain works. He was the perfect fit for this. This is also a reminder to be kind to people you encounter. We never know what they're going through internally.

_ _ _

The world as you knew it was dark, it was something you dealt with since birth. Voices were crystal clear and you could feel the world around you, but you couldn’t see it. Your pillowcase was a soft velvet and your toothbrush was a hard plastic. It clattered against your teeth when you moved onto the top row of teeth from the bottom row. 

You knew the sweet-glaze of your mother’s voice and you knew the hardened edge of your father’s voice. Some family members had a higher pitched tone and others were low in baritone. Life wasn’t easy in the dark, but you grew to live with it. 

You weren’t like others and you didn’t fully understand it. How could you? You couldn’t see what the world around you looked like. Your parents described what they looked like once upon a time and you held an idea in your head, but you’d never know; they’d always be scribbles without a body. 

The people around you, you had to base their appearances on the sound of their voice. The kinder ones were beautiful in your brain, but when you caught the tension from the snap of a voice, the image you pictured melted away into something horrific. 

Devil horns and sharp teeth. A constant scowl and a permanent sneer. If they were going to act like the devil, they could look like it too. Doctors laughed when you told them. They said it was a product of your own internal anger, but you pushed their opinions aside. 

Everyone around you had the chance to see the world around you, but not you. The optic nerves were different for you. Something was wrong and your brain didn’t connect to your eyes. You were doomed to a world of darkness when you were pushed from your mother’s womb. 

The doctors knew something was wrong the moment you were yanked free. Despite the blood and amniotic fluid, your eyes didn’t leave the same spot. You didn’t focus on the white coats and colorful scrubs. You stared off into space silently. 

When fingers danced in front of you, you didn’t react. Your body was a prison and this was the void. As you grew older, you described what you saw and doctors identified them as shadows, but you couldn’t really see. Just flickers of grey deposited and slipped into your world of black. Nothing more and nothing less. 

Your parents begged for a treatment, but nothing could be done. Once optic nerves were severed, they were ruined. The brain and the eyes couldn’t reconnect. They could live in harmony up until they couldn’t. 

You heard words rather easily, but reading was difficult. Kids learned letters by seeing and focusing on each drawn out letter. You had to learn yours by pressing your fingers onto small raised bumps. Over and over and over, your fingers brushed against the same piece of hard plastic. 

Tears filled your eyes and all your mother could do was wipe them away as she explained how important it was. The braille A was different then E. E was different then M and X was something else entirely. At the age of five, you spent countless hours with your back pressed against the wooden kitchen chair. 

The soft pads of your fingers brushed the plastic. Frustration grew and as you broke into tears, what you didn’t see was your mother silently crying beside you. She couldn’t pull her own eyes from her head, but if she could have, she’d do it in a heartbeat. 

She wanted you to see the birthday cakes she custom made. She wanted you to see your father’s face. She wanted to take you into a classroom and place you in with twenty kids your own age, but she couldn’t. 

The nearest school district wasn’t prepared for someone like you. They didn’t have braille books and you were still so young. When the principal offered a school in a town over, where braille was specialized, your father scoffed. Your parents wanted you to fit in, but this was new for them. 

When you grow up with people around you who are able to do things normally, you tend to take simple things for granted. People forget how easy it is to ignore the little things. So when their child was born without sight, it felt like a curse more than anything. 

That was the beginning and this was now. You grew used to the raised dots beneath your fingers. Your brain recognized letters and put words together. You went from crying over being unable to identify a single braille letter to reading braille children’s books out loud to your mother. 

They reached out to the school where the school happily made room for you. You learned to talk to kids that were similar to you. A place where disabilities didn’t define you as a whole, but rather were simply a single aspect of you. 

As you aged, things became easier. Words became faster and your brain continued to develop. You learned to recognize your parents by their footsteps. When you got a guide dog, things continued going up. Your productivity increased and you grew the strength to go out and try to live, rather than spend all your time with your parents. 

You’d never be able to drive, but you could still walk. Your dog wore a harness and you learned to trust him. His golden tail wagged happily everywhere you went. Every stranger was a friend in his eyes. 

This morning, you got up and waited for your mom to attach his harness to his body. Once it was secured, he happily nudged your hand and your fingers outstretched. The nylon fabric brushed against your hand until the harness handle caught your wrist. 

You bid farewell to your parents and grabbed the cane you used when going outside. It bounced off objects and alerted your brain to things you struggled with. Beside you, Ziggy’s ears flopped with every step. His pink wet tongue lolled from the side of his mouth. With a pep in his step, he knew exactly where you were going. 

That was nearly ten minutes ago. Now you sat along the side of a worn picnic bench. Your cane rested against the side of your leg and Ziggy plopped down at your feet. 

You shut your eyes and let the sound of nature take over. This place had been your favorite park forever. Up ahead, birds chirped and chatter. In the soft breeze and between swaying tree branches, a woodpecker drilled away at a piece of bark. 

The anxiety in your veins washed away with the sound of the ocean waves. Your eyes slipped shut and you sucked in a deep breath. At this moment, things didn’t matter like they usually did. You were one with nature and that’s just how it was. 

Some people spend their morning indulging in a cup of black coffee. Some people spike their sugar by biting into soft french pastries and letting the sweetness soak their tongue. Others slurped down hearty soups or filled their stomachs with some kind of protein. 

You were different. You tended to gather your thoughts for the day by the water. You didn’t go in it, your parents were against it, and you didn’t want to go anyway. From what you heard about the ocean, it terrified you. Stepping into foaming waves too far and landing on nothing, it clenched your heart with fear. 

So you slipped upon the empty picnic table and enjoyed the sounds instead. Seagulls swarmed overhead and shrieked when they caught glimpses of food. Sometimes, you’d bring along a few handfuls of bird seed, but today, it was just you and Ziggy. 

For the next week, your area was going to experience a burst of warmth. Your mother was stressed, but you and your father reassured her that things would be fine. It’s not like the two of you would be sweating, the temperatures weren’t scorching. 

You were reciting plans in your head when footsteps pulled you from your thoughts. Your ear instinctively turned towards the soft scatters and Ziggy’s tail thumped along the tendrils of grass. 

“Hi,” a soft masculine voice called out. 

“Hello,” you responded. Your fingers instinctively tightened around your cane. Not that this guy was evil, but you ran into your fair share of people who weren’t the nicest when it came to those with disabilities. 

“Do you need this table?” You went on. You began to push yourself to your feet. “Because if so, I can go ahead and go. I didn’t mean to cause an issue and I-” 

“Please, no. You’re fine and if I’m making you uncomfortable, I’ll just leave. I saw you across the way and you looked a little glum. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” 

He began to pull from the wooden top when your hand found the table. “Stay,” you managed to get out. “As long as you’re not going to be rude or try to mess with my dog…” 

His head shook and black hair shifted in every direction. “I’m not going to touch your dog. That’s how it works, right? He’s a service dog, so people aren’t supposed to touch them without permission.” 

The words were a soothing balm to your soul. “Yeah, that’s correct. Usually, they’re supposed to be left alone, but if you’d like to touch him, go ahead. He likes head pats and I’m sorry if he ends up licking you.” 

His laughter floated through the air and Ziggy’s tail swept against the grass again. His tail acted like a blade and strands of weakened grass flung in every direction. His tail thrummed until he was given permission to head to the man. 

“This is Ziggy? I’m Hyunjin, by the way. Golden Retriever, huh? I’ve heard that these guys are the sweetest.” 

You introduced yourself as Ziggy dipped beneath the picnic table. His tail brushed along the underside and his wet snout popped out near Hyunjin’s lap. Hyunjin laughed, reached down, and began to pat his head. 

“He’s my service dog, yeah, but I’d go as far as saying that he’s my best friend.” You smiled as you began to talk about the bond you shared. “I’ve had him since I was a teenager and he’s been a good companion over the last few years.” 

“The way you talk about him, I can’t help, but feel jealous. I have my own dog, but he’s not nearly as well behaved. He’s quite loud and he can be a bit of a brat at times.” 

“They do say that dogs are like their owners.” 

“And what are you saying?” He playfully taunted you. 

“I’m saying that maybe it’s a good thing that I can’t see you. There’s probably mischief in your eyes. If your dog is like you, I like to think that you probably get up to trouble yourself sometimes.” 

His lips pressed together and he nodded. You couldn’t see it and when he didn’t respond, your eyes went down. Maybe you shouldn’t have pulled out teasing words so early on because the two of you just met. 

Ziggy’s wiggling body squirmed away from him and he went back towards you. Sensing your discomfort, his head found your thigh. You reached out and gently rubbed the top of his silky head. 

“You can’t see at all?” Hyunjin finally broke the silence. “Nothing?” 

“I wish I could, but I was born without my vision. Other than that, I was a happy and healthy baby. I guess the storks forgot to put sight in my eyes.” You tried to stay upbeat and make the joke, but the crack of your voice stated otherwise. 

“It’s just black?” 

“Sometimes there’s shadows.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.” You swallowed the sudden lump in your throat and reached down with your other hand. You buried both hands in the back of Ziggy’s thick coat. His presence was the only thing stopping you from crying. 

You didn’t hear Hyunjin get up, but you were distracted, so maybe you missed it. The waves lapped at the shore again and the birds continued to chirp. When there wasn’t another sound, you shut your eyes and sighed. 

You weren’t the best at communication. It was hard to read people when you couldn’t see their faces. The way you acted around people, it was the same way you reacted around your parents. You joked about your disability and tried to stay light-hearted, but some people weren’t comfortable with that. They didn’t know how to respond. 

Hyunjin watched you without a sound. When he saw you sit down with your dog, he thought you could see to some extent. You had your cane and your service dog, but your eyes were looking around. He assumed you were taking in the scenery, not realizing the full extent of your situation. 

“Can I draw you?” He finally asked. 

You jumped, slightly startled by his voice. Ziggy whined with the warmth of his head by your chin. “What?” You asked in a sudden confusion. 

“If it’s okay with you, I’d like to draw you. That’s actually why I’m in the area. I draw sometimes and occasionally, I draw people.” 

“Why me? Out of all the people, why would yo-” 

“Because every person has a story and if you’re alright with it, I want to hear yours.” 

“It’s not that interesting and I don’t want to bore you.” 

“Trust me, you won’t.” 

You sucked in a deep breath and considered it. After a few moments, you finally nodded. “I can tell you, but it’s not that special. If I start to bore you, please tell me.” 

He flipped open his leather bound sketchbook and hunched over it. A pen was removed from his pocket and he pushed away a longer piece of hair from his face. “Okay, if you insist.” 

So you began to talk. You were timid at first and you slipped up on a few basic words. You described the long teary-eyed days spent at your kitchen counter learning braille. You discussed your favorite teacher when you were introduced to a school that was committed to helping the blind. 

The more you talked, the more your spine began to straighten. Hyunjin glanced up every now and then to make sure he was getting the delicate details of your face right. You waved your hands around as you spoke and became more and more animated. 

He hummed and made small comments when it was appropriate, but he mainly let you speak without interruption. The waves crashed and the birds chirped, but it took a backseat in your brain as you continued talking to this stranger. 

On and on you went with your head held high. At some point, your arm shot out, and your eyes widened. The back of your hand bumped into your cane. “Oops,” you uttered as you reached around for it. 

Hyunjin finished his drawing a long time ago, but he didn’t take his eyes off you. His pen was curled in his fingers and his cheek rested against his other open palm. He was enamored by you and couldn’t get enough. As you fumbled for your cane, Ziggy reached down, grabbed it with his teeth, and held it out to you with a wagging tail. 

Your hand brushed against fur and a wet snout. “Thanks, Ziggy.” 

“He really is your eyes, isn’t he?” 

You nodded, “all the time.” 

“I don’t know if anyone has ever told you this, but your story is incredibly inspiring.” 

A flustered pink grew across your cheeks. “Oh, geez. I-I wouldn’t say that.” Your hand reached back to grab the back of your neck. “Lots of people struggle with vision issues and I’m not that special. I learned to live with my disability and cope with it.” 

“But not everyone can say that. You’re a walking inspiration. If I couldn’t see, I don’t think I could put my faith in my dog to lead me around town. Knowing him, he’d lead me into the ocean and let me drown.” 

Your sudden burst of laughter was music to his ears. White teeth peeked out and his eyes sparkled. “You can laugh all you want, but what did I tell you earlier? He’s totally a brat.” 

“If you had a service animal, they wouldn’t be like that. Ziggy here-” You reached your hand out and he tucked his head beneath your fingers. “He’s been to a special dog school to learn all this stuff. This is what he was born to do.” 

“He’s a little doggy genius.” 

“Yes, he is.” 

A silence swept between the two of you once more. Hyunjin glanced down at his sketch and compared it to your face. He got the slope of your nose right and even the shape of your eyebrows. Yet as he looked at it, something was still off. He frowned and pulled out his pen. 

“So what about you? What’s your story?’ 

“My story? It’s a relatively simple one, I’m an artist. I draw and I make music. I like to paint and I dance too.” 

“Really? That’s amazing!” 

You grinned and a lightbulb went off in his head. He stared at the pull of your lips and went back to his page. No wonder the drawing didn’t look right. He drew you smiling, but he forgot to sketch one side of your mouth tugging a bit higher than the other side. 

“I wish I could do art like that. I doubt I’d be good at dancing, since I can’t see what the dances look like, but I’d like to paint. I had to take an art class once and I never took another one. Life is pretty dull when you can’t see colors.” 

He finished adding the extra details and shut his sketchbook. Two front teeth lightly grazed his bottom lip as he tugged it further into his mouth and released it. “I guess I didn’t even consider that. That’s just…” 

“Awful?” You finished for him. “Yeah, I know. People get caught up in life and they never know how to describe colors. How do you describe something that someone can’t see? It’s impossible. I’ve learned to live with it, but I’ll never know what colors truly look like.” 

You leaned forward and let your chin slump against your arms. Hunched over the picnic table, a frown replaced your smile and an ache jolted through Hyunjin. Life was saturated in so many tones and hues, he couldn’t imagine not being able to see anything besides a void of darkness. 

Beside you, Ziggy whined. His nose bumped into your hand and he nudged it with another soft whine. Your hand went back and lightly began to stroke the top of his head. “It’s okay, boy. Don’t worry, I’m not injured.” 

Hyunjin’s eyes glanced back and forth between the two of you before he leaned back. A breeze rustled his hair and the salted air brushed against his cheek. He shut his eyes and let his entire body relax. 

“You know when it rains and the ground gets that earthy scent? It’s called petrichor and it’s a mix of plant oils, bacteria in the soil, and ozone.” 

“What’s that have to do with anything?” 

“Just picture that scent for me.” 

You stayed quiet, but your eyes shut. It was hard to remember the scent with the salt water nearby, but you tried to remember it anyway. “So now what?” 

“Sometimes after it rains and the sky begins to darken, a rainbow forms. It’s like an upside-down U shape.” You couldn’t see it, but he waved his arms while he explained it anyway. “It stretches amongst the sky, the colors press against each other, and it unveils over the sky. They’re so large that people that are miles apart can see them.” 

Your eyebrows furrowed. “I can’t see, but I’m not dumb. I know what a rainbow is. I just don’t know what the colors look like.” 

He shushed you softly. You stayed put and continued to pat Ziggy’s head. Beside you, his tail thumped happily again and tapped rhythm into your leg. Your hand stretched to his side and lightly patted his coat. 

“Some people say red is the color of anger. It’s the swell of something strong and overpowering. The thing that boils your blood. It’s the color of stop signs and it demands attention. That’s what red is like.” 

You paused and your head slowly began to pick up. He didn’t wait for you to continue as he dived into the next color. “To remember the colors in the rainbow, people use the name Roy G. Biv.” 

“I’ve heard of that.” 

“The next color is orange. I associate that color with fall. Leaves begin to curl and wither. Their spring greens fade away and the trees bloom with orange leaves that sway above your head.” 

“It’s the crunch of the leaves beneath your feet when the temperature begins to drop. It’s that scent that lingers as the trees fall one-by-one until the trees are all bare. Pumpkins are orange. Some people cut open the tops to carve them and others dice them up and apply them to things like pie or soup.” 

He reopened his eyes and placed his pen along his sketchbook. “I think that orange is the feeling you get when you’re around your family and friends. It’s the warmth that runs through your veins and the shared laughter during the holiday season. It keeps you warm, despite the temperatures freezing outside.” 

“My mom says yellow is lighter than orange.” 

“Yellow is the warmth of sunshine on your skin. It’s bubbly and people associate it with happiness. In the summer, when you walk outside and you’re cloaked in warmth, that’s yellow. It’s baby chicks, optimism, a gentle praise of encouragement from a loved one, and the citrus scent of lemon.” 

As he continued to go through the colors, tears pricked in your eyes. You couldn’t see the colors, but the more he described, you could understand them. It was finally clicking in your brain. The void covering your eyes began to burst with imagination. 

“One of my favorite colors,” he continued, “it’s green. Green reminds me of spring. It’s cold in the winter, but sometimes you go out and you catch a moment of spring. It’s not as cold out and you can get away with wearing a lighter jacket.” 

“The wind brushes against you and it’s the sound of birds chirping in the morning again. Flowers start to poke up from the ground and trees began to bud with new leaves.” 

“After a winter freeze, the earth begins to bloom again. Mother nature comes back and everything goes green. The frogs croak at night and baby bunnies playfully chase each other around the grass.” 

“Breeding season begins and it seems like every animal is on the prowl for a mate. Months roll into summer and then the lightning bugs come out. In the deep belly of the night, they’re the only thing creating light, besides the pearl moon.” 

You couldn’t do anything, besides hang onto every word. You lapped it up like a forsaken human amongst the desert. For so long, you had been searching for an experience of colors. If you couldn’t see them, then you wanted some other way to recognize them. 

“And those are just the basic colors, but they can be different. Some colors are darker and others are lighter. They mix with white or black and that changes how people see them.” 

“Hyunjin?” 

He paused and blinked a few times, suddenly aware that he’d gotten lost talking. His eyes found yours and when he saw your tears, his heart plummeted. “Oh, shit. I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to make you cry.” 

You reached up and used the back of your hand to wipe away your tears. “I’m not crying because I’m sad.” You sniffled and wiped the back of your hand along your shirt. “I’m crying because you really are an artist. I’ve wanted to experience color for so long and you just lit up my life.” 

“You’re not just seeing colors, you’re living in them. The way your brain is connecting these things, not everyone can do that. You’re audibly and verbally identifying colors for someone who can’t.” 

“And I’m sorry for getting so emotional-” More tears pooled in your eyes. “But I’ve so desperately been trying to find a way to bring them to life. When I asked my parents what purple looked like, I was told that it was a mix of red and blue. If I don’t know what red and blue look like, how am I supposed to picture it?” 

“You-” You stopped to suck in a deep breath. “You brought them to life for a stranger. We’ve been talking for so long and I don’t even know what time it is. It feels like we’ve been sitting here for hours, but you’re not trying to hurry and you haven’t gotten up and walked away.” 

“You gave me something that I’ve been dreaming of, so thank you. Thank you for not being cruel or laughing at my expense. One time, a kid took off with my cane and I had to rely on Ziggy and an empty hand to get me back home.” 

His own emotions were clashing together as you spoke. You were just another person, so how could anyone be so cruel? How could people live with themselves, shun you, and turn the other cheek? You may not have had your sight, but you were still alive and breathing. 

You felt the same sting of a papercut and the same sting if a bee brushed against you and jabbed you with its stinger. Your heart pumped blood through your body and, despite your unseeing eyes, your organs worked like normal. The idea of treating you differently because of something you didn’t ask for, it was unfathomable. 

“So thank you for treating me like a person. Thank you for seeing me and talking to a stranger about something so common for you. Thank you for choosing kindness and giving me something to believe in again. That yellow that you described? That optimistic and gentleness? The world should have more of that.” 

When he didn’t respond, you called his name. It took him a moment, but he finally spoke up. “I’m sorry, I’m just trying to hold back my own emotions.” He chuckled and fanned his eyes. “You’re going to make me cry.” 

“I guess we can both cry then.” 

“Can I hold your hands?” 

You blinked, taken back, but you slowly held out your palms facing upright. Smooth fingers intertwined with yours and you let your hands relax. You shut your eyes, trying to soak up this memory forever. 

“I’m glad we got to meet today. I usually don’t believe in fate, but I think this was fate. I’m happy that I could bring them to life for you.” 

“Me too,” you agreed. “I’m not big on talking to people, let alone strangers, but this was nice.” 

He hummed and glanced over his shoulder. Down below, a sandy beach sat with waves lazily drifting over the shore. Since it was so early, there wasn’t anyone nearby. He watched for a few more moments and went back to facing you. 

“Have you ever been in the ocean?” Your head shook. “Would you like to try it? I’ll hold your hand and I promise that I won’t let go.” Hope exploded in his chest as he waited for a response. 

“If I take that risk and agree, can you describe what you look like to me like you described colors? I’d really like to know what you look like.” 

“Is that the price I have to pay?” 

“Please?” 

He let go of your hands and pushed himself away from the picnic table. “I suppose if I’m asking you to put yourself in a bit of a dangerous situation with a stranger, I should identify myself.” 

“And if you try something, I’ll let Ziggy drown you.” 

He glanced down to your side. Ziggy’s tongue dangled with a glob of drool. He barked and happily wagged his tail. Hyunjin grinned, reached out, and gently took your hand. 

“That’s a chance that I’m willing to take.” 

You let him lead you away from the grass and towards the water. You didn’t know it yet, but soon the two of you would be barefoot amongst the white foamy waves. Deep blue would slide against your calves and the entire ocean would greet you with a warm welcome. 

Some say we’re a single drop in the vast ocean, but perhaps we’re an entire ocean in one drop. 

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[thevoidstaredback]

How To Balance Your Daytime and Nighttime Activities So That You Don't Burn Yourself Out More Than You Already Have

Dick had to give it to the kid, he'd somehow thought of everything. It was a little concerning, actually, but the kid had brushed off every attempt had probing for answers. Who trained him? If he was trained at all. ...had the kid gone into vigilantism alone? Oh, dear. THat's not good fro Dick's current worries.

Reading the file Danny had handed him, Dick had to wonder how long it had taken him to put together this cover story. Also, where he'd managed to get the equipment to do it. At a glance, the kid didn't seem to have much on him. Not even a phone!

He closed the folder and set it back down on the table. "Really?" he asked, "'Congratulations, it's a boy'?"

Danny's cheeks turned a bit red as his gaze shifted to the folder. "Well, yeah. You're stuck with me now until I can get you into good habits and a healthier schedule."

"That implies that you're planning on leaving."

Danny shrugged, all his confidence now fading away. Is this what he's really like? "Well, I mean, I'm sure you don't want me sticking around at all, let alone for a while."

Dick frowned and looked back at the black folder and the binder sitting on his coffee table. God, his apartment's a mess! He smiled at Danny. "My name's Richard, but everyone calls me 'Dick'. You can stay in the guest room."

Danny lit up like a fucking Christmas tree. "Really?"

"Yep. You went to all this work, it'd be a shame if it all went to waste."

The grin on Danny's face was more than worth the security risk that he now posed. "You won't regret it, Mr. Dick!"

Dick smiled back at him, "Please, drop the formalities. We're cousins, apparently."

Was he attached? No. He wouldn't allow himself to get attached. Sure, maybe he was letting this kid - he really needs to start calling him Danny - stay with him for a while, but he wasn't going to get attached. Getting attached meant losing him. Dick wasn't sure he'd be able to survive if he lost someone again.

...damn it.

***

First order of business, now that Danny was officially Dick's - why would he willingly go by that nickname? - ward/cousin, Danny was going to make sure he got some sleep. Today was Dick's day off, so Danny had sent him to his room to take a much needed nap. The man was basically dead on his feet and Danny would be damned if he let him wander around this mess of an apartment with blurry vision.

The second thing he did, once he was sure Dick was asleep, was start to clean up. The place was a stereotypical bachelor's pad, complete with questionable stains in the carpet, rips in the cushions, dishes piled up in the sink, and old take-out on every table and counter. Gross.

He made quick work of the old take-out by throwing it all away and hitting it with a very small and controlled ectoblast. He was so glad Dick had disposable gloves on hand.

The dishes were the next thing he handed. The water was cleaner than in Gotham, so he didn't worry about washing the dishes by hand when they all didn't fit in the dishwasher. He dried the ones he'd hand washed before putting them away. Dick had no organisation in his cupboards, so Danny fixed that, too.

The fridge and freezer weren't too bad. Sure, the dairy products had all expired and most of the food was freezer bitten, but none of it was moldy yet and the appliance itself was in perfect working order. He'd have to go shopping later.

Danny had never liked cleaning, but he'd had to when his parents refused to follow any OSHA laws or Lab Safety courses. So, when he found the cleaning supplies, he took a deep breath and began scrubbing the bathroom. It wasn't too bad, thank god, and was already fairly clean. It was quick and he was able to move on very quickly.

The counters, tables, walls, and tile and wooden floors were all easy to clean with a wet rag and a broom. He wasn't going to even try saving the rug because it looked well beyond the point of no return. The couch and chair cushions could be sticked up, but he didn't have a sewing needle and thread with him.

The last thing he did before taking his backpack into the room he'd been given was to write down a shopping list and leave it on the counter. It wasn't a lot, just food and some dishes and toiletries. He'd have to figure out with Dick a way to pay rent, too, but that was a later Danny problem. He'd tired himself out and was still running on pretty much empty. So, he allowed himself to fall asleep. He'd check on Dick when he woke up.

Part 4 Part 6

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