#Does NOT look good in the middle of the night

[fromdove]

MY JASON TODD PHYSICAL APPEARANCE HEADCANONS !

welcome to my ted talk. go ahead and sit your semi-literate goblin ass down and take notes, because i am about to paint you a portrait of this man so vivid you’ll think i dipped my brush in the lazarus pit itself.

HETEROCHROMIA. one blue eye & one green eye. im a very big and firm believer on this. this is my religion. this is my prayer. jason todd's eyes are my gospel, and I am the devoted disciple on my knees at the altar. he's always had them, before the lazarus pit & AFTER the lazarus pit. (although after the lazarus pit id like to point out that his eyes got a bit brighter especially the green!). i saw fanart once of this—just one image—and it was enough to send me into a trance. my jaw unhinged like a snake

LARGE SHARP ALMOND EYES. eyes sharp enough to cut!! real real real. sharp enough to gut someone in an alley. you get looked at by him and feel like you need to apologize for crimes you haven’t committed yet. yup that. they soften when he looks at you tho bc ur his amazing angel faced baby.

HIS GODDAMN JAWLINE. the kind you see on statues. could cut diamonds. so perfect. brutal. Pythagoras would rise from the grave with a boner, calculator in hand, shaking and crying overwhelmed by the sheer geometry of him. drooling. weeping & erect.

6'4!!!!!!!!!! MY MAN IS TALL. A GIANT. GARGANTUAN. and that’s the final word. idgaf. don’t come in here with that “canon says he’s 6’0” nonsense. fuck canon. canon is a lie built by cowards. they've screwed up my babies too many times to count. my Jason ducks under door frames and casts shadows over people trying to insult him. he intimidates every man in a ten-mile radius just by standing up.

BULKY. (not crazy bulky like those steroid obsessed body builder protein-powder-in-the-veins monstrous freaks but still jacked af. (like in this picture: click here and here) . he’s jacked like a Greek statue, like a renaissance painting of a war god.

white streak. white streak 24/7 for the rest of infinity. all night. every universe. every reboot. i don’t care. Non-negotiable. he got it from the one and only pit. he tried to cut it, dye it, tried everything to get rid of it at first but it just kept growing back and the dye would never work on it somehow ??/ so he just gave up lmao

OKOK his nose. my fave nose to picture jason with is an sightly upturned nose with a bump in the middle. do you guys know what kind of nose im yappin about? here is a visual: click here

ive seen fanart with jason with the j scar and i just think it fits his character and backstory. yes it was from that makeup-smeared tragedy of a circus reject. but fuck him!! this is about jason peter todd. my baby is still hot af anyways so.

SHARP CANINES. BITE ME WITH THEM. LORDDD MOTHERR GODDD. Carnivore-coded. was he born with them? is it a lazarus thing? either way theyre sharp little bastards. He tries to be careful, he reallyyy does but sometimes, mid-kiss, they slip. he nips you. he pulls back, eyes wide, guilt-ridden. you’re breathless. he spews like a million apologizes coz the last thing he wants to do it hurt u. but u dont care bc it feels so goddamn good... STOP ME)

Full lips that look like they’re always swollen from a brawl or a kiss.. with a slight cupids bow. god. yes. the corners/edges of his mouth are sharp (does that make sense?? help). he also has scars extending from the corners that look like smiles, they only stretch a few centimeters out. not that long at all. joker’s parting gift, poetic as it is cruel. OH AND he has the Toji scar !!! this one right here: click here

dark brown hair thats wavy & fluffy heeheheh (2c textured.) not straight, not curly, that luscious in-between mess that stays tousled and tragic and stupidly sexy no matter what. fluffy. thick. ruffles in the wind like he's some sad, angry prince. you run your hands through it and he pretends he doesn’t melt. he is NAWT a victim of the male pattern baldness epidemic. bye no no no no he doesnt bald thanks to the lazarus pit.

THICK DARK & FULL STRAIGHT BROWSSS. IDCCC THIS MAN HAS THICK BROWS. These brows have seen things. They furrow when he’s pissed (which is like always lmao), They’re intimidating, god-tier brows kinda brows. oh oh and theyre also kind of upturned !

his fingers. jesusususususus. Veiny. Long-fingered. Calloused. Worn. His knuckles are always scabbed (from fights). His nails are short, His fingers could snap a neck, but you just want them on your throat for different reasons. And the rings? Thick, heavy, sharp. Some brass. Some iron. they double as weapons. like i just know if someone pisses him off the rings are going to hurt like straight up fucking hell.

this man has long lashes. like long enough to collect dew. Thick enough to cast shadows. curled at the tips. his lashes are criminal. like wtf. theyre the kind that make mascara cry. they frame his eyes and face perfectly

scars all over. he has the autopsy scar on his chest, he has scars on his back too. his face, arms, legs, everywhere. bullet grazes, knife cuts etc..his entire body is a war journal basically

he has eye bags and dark circles which is a given considering what he does and his lack of sleep. They're not “oh, I pulled an all-nighter” eye bags, theyre bruised purpulish blue with a bit of red. u can seen some veins. his eye bags r a little puffy. this paired with his sharp eyes make him look very very intimidating to others but not to u, bc wdym intimidating? he's my angel?? he would never hurt a fly?? tf?

a few extra's!!:

A slight scar on his eyebrow from a fall off a fire escape in crime alley when he was 12. Never stitched it (despite the constant nagging from bruce & alfred). he said the blood made him look cool. (my angel baby i love him)

a voice that’s deeper than you expect. gravelly. like he chewed cigarettes for breakfast and chased them with glass. but it dips soft when he says your name. unbearably soft. traitorously tender.

faint cigarette burn on the inside of his left forearm. from back when he thought pain might be the only thing that made him real. said it was an accident. it wasn’t.

A barely-there tremor in his right hand. Old injury. Nerve damage.

[chrattvibe]

you can make it up but can you do smt like chris being really pda with the reader and like matt and nick make fun of him but the reader loves it

៹ Seen. chris sturniolo.

The pins fall with a clean, solid crash.

“STRIKE!” Chris shouts, in his head. On the outside, he stays cool, just turning around. When he notices my phone recording him, he does a silly celebration dance. Then he searches for my eyes once he sees I stopped filming.

"Did you get that? Did I look cool?"

He walks over with that proud grin and his arms already wide open, expecting a hug. I don’t even get a chance to stand — he drops right next to me on the seat, wraps me in his arms, and hides his face in my neck. I run my hand down his back and feel a soft kiss on my skin.

Just a few feet away, Nick rolls his eyes from his seat.

"You guys are actually disgusting." he mutters, right before it’s his turn. Without waiting for a reply, he heads off to grab his ball.

"Don’t say that!" Chris says, now properly settling next to me, slipping an arm around my waist.

"He’s joking, relax," I say when I notice his frown. I rest my hand on his chest, smiling. His face softens and he adjusts his hat, brushing his hair back.

Chris doesn’t even flinch at his brother’s comment. He pulls me in with that cozy warmth he only gives off when he’s comfortable. He fixes a strand of my hair and caresses my cheek. He looks so comfy, like we’re sitting in his living room, not in the middle of a bowling alley under blue lights and surrounded by people.

"Careful, anyone here could take a picture of you," I say, gently holding his wrist. "Chris Sturniolo spotted flirting with a mystery girl at downtown LA bowling alley..." I read aloud in the voice of a random gossip account.

"Couldn’t care less right now," he says with a lazy smile, pressing a soft kiss to my lips.

"I just don’t wanna cause you drama or headlines. I know what the Chris girls might say," I add, teasing.

He looks at me, suddenly serious.

"Then let 'em know. Let 'em all find out. You're good for me and that's all that matters."

His words catch me off guard. I smile — it’s the only thing I can do. I gently cup his face.

"Did you spike your Pepsi and not tell me?"

"I’m just drunk in love with you," he says, immediately back to being goofy. I roll my eyes, and he flashes a long, sweet smile before giving me a slow kiss and lacing his fingers with mine.

Matt walks past us with a slice of pizza in one hand and a lemonade in the other. He hears the tail end of it and raised his eyebrows.

"Wow. Did I miss something? Chris became boyfriend of the year while I was grabbing food?" he says, sitting across from us.

"First of all, I’ve always been boyfriend of the year. And second, you didn’t miss anything important. Just made the best shot of the night." Chris says with a shrug.

"Cocky." Matt mutters with a mouthful of pizza. My name flashes on the screen, signaling it’s my turn.

Chris gives me a wink, a little squeeze on my thigh, and I head off to the lane.

While I’m lining up my shot, the boys keep chatting behind me.

"Are you two celebrating an anniversary or something and we’re just the third wheels now?" Nick says, dropping down next to Chris.

"What are you talkin' about?" Chris chuckles, sipping his soda.

"We’ve seriously lost you, kid." Matt says, cracking his knuckles and stretching his arms.

"I’m just happy, dude. I’ve never felt like this before..." Chris says quietly, like he’s confessing something they all already know.

"We’re happy for you. It’s weird seeing you like this, in public. Makes me wanna throw up, but it’s kinda funny." Nick says, earning a light punch in the arm from Matt.

"We’re just messing around, okay? But keep those corny Instagram stories in close friends for now. The world’s not ready for two cutie like you guys." Matt teases with a grin, getting up to take his turn. "But seriously, we’re happy for you. Both of you." He claps Chris on the shoulder and heads off.

Matt gives me a half-smile as we cross paths, and I head back to Chris. I stay standing next to him, and one of his arms wraps around my thighs from where he’s seated, resting his head on my stomach. I run my fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck.

And this time, I don’t care if anyone sees us or recognizes him. Because I like seeing him like this too — almost wanting to be seen.

Masterlist!

Notes: thanks to the person who made this request! I hope you find this post and like it <3 let me know!

—chrattvibe.

[killishin]

domestic hcs with jason

oookay so domestic jason? cus why not.

heavily inspired by the prompts from this post by @novelbear (i love her prompts so much)

dividers by @cafekitsune

in the beginning of your relationship, both of you were kinda awkward, yet less so because it took both of you quite sometime to get over the cautiousness and trust issues, and during that time the awkwardness had shredded to an extent.

it was almost smooth sailing after becoming official, sure there were still a lot of areas that were left unexplored, going wrong somewhere, having long talks or none, because sometimes neither of you needed words. you just knew what the other wanted.

and so slowly both of you eased into each other's lives, like puzzle pieces truly molded and shaped for each other, not a mere gap left. at this point nothing weirded either of you out. best friends along with lovers.

as lovely and cosy this domesticity was, it had its fair share of little bickerings.

"no. no no no. no—" jason took hold of your shoulder with one of his hand while the other easily pulled the cart away, and guided you in the opposite direction from the aisle of biscuits.

you let out a small 'tut' of disappointment before looking up at him with semi puppy eyes, since there was a hint of warning in them.

he lets out a huff of disbelief before giving you a pointed look, "no."

"oh come on what's the issue here?" you ask as if you don't know and his eyes simply become more pointed, "really? really sweetheart?"

you shrug as you take on a sort of diplomatic demeanor, as if negotiating, "trying new things isn't that bad."

"it is when you choose those horrendous new oreo flavours."

"some turn out good!"

"some, sweetheart. most don't, and then you push it away like some cat and i gotta eat it all."

"i promise I'll eat it full this time." you swear with such sincerity that he almost falls for it, almost. his lips quirk up into a smirk as he pinches your jaw in between his index and middle finger, squishing your cheeks a bit.

"not falling for that again."

"jay–"

"its the normal flavour or nothing."

"babe-"

"normal or nothing."

"fine!" you hiss in irritation and he has the audacity to smile triumphantly, leaning to brush a kiss on your forehead, "atta girl."

well jokes on him, cus the moment you approach the aisle, you put the normal one in and then your eyes inevitably pause at that new flavour, gaze fixated on it.

"sweetheart no—"

you push the packet in the cart, silence engulfing you both as you both stare at the packet in the cart.

"i am not finishing that."

you share a lot in common with him, reading is one of them. when jason is off to do his nightly duties you read to occupy your time, as that is one of the things that give you peace, other than your boyfriend. now it is not always that jason gets a night off. so when he does, you'd rather you spend it cuddled by his side, having the best sleep, since having been tired by your prior activities.

and since he has a night off, he really wants to catch up on his reading. so he does, perched on the bed with a book in hand while you were cuddle beside him with your arm thrown over his lap and head beside his thigh, fast asleep. sleep is just much much better with him, but you cannot, for the love of god, sleep with any sort of noise. light sleeper, unfortunately.

you let out a small sleepy groan, nudging your face in his thigh, tapping on his arm. "can you stop that?"

he raises a brow, brushing your hair away from your forehead, an amused smile on his face. "stop what?"

you huffed before groggily opening your eyes and propping yourself up on your elbows, "you know what? no more reading before bed. you keep waking me up with your dramatic gasps every time you turn the page."

he lets out a surprised chuckle, ruffling your hair, irking you more, "well, i'm sorry that i engage and connect deeply with literature!"

"well gasp quieter!"

"its not a gasp then!"

you give him a deadpan stare while he just gives you a pointed look with a smug smirk. not to worry he acquiesced later on, getting under the covers with you while partially draping himself on you like a weighted blanket.

".... you gasp too while reading— wha– ow! alright!"

mornings are mostly quiet between you two, neither being a morning person so naturally you're both grumpy in the morning, you more than him specifically.

you're brushing your teeth in front of the sink with a dazed look in your eyes when he enters the bathroom behind you, yawning and scratching at his abs. he nudges you gently, breaking you out of your daze as if he knew you had dissociated for a while.

as you spit and wash your mouth, your eyes hone in on his brush, particularly on the amount of toothpaste he took. and maybe normally you wouldn't have cared, it isn't even an issue.

you quickly splash your face with water before leaning your arms against the sink and staring at him through the mirror, not even drying off your face yet. "thats a lot."

he pauses as his brows furrow, ever so cutely as he looks down at his brush and then back at you, "the toothpaste?"

"yeah?"

"thats the normal amount."

"sure. normal amount for a dinosaur."

he scoffs as he leans on one of his legs, resting his arm on his hip while holding the brush in his other hand , "so how much should i take? like you? that's not enough even for a mouse?"

"how do you know how much a mouse needs?!"

"well how do you know how much a dinosaur needs?!" he retorts back and you roll your eyes as you pat your face dry.

"im just saying you don't need that much— hey!" he snatches you away by hooking an arm around your waist and pulling you snug against him. he leans down with a smirk and your brows furrow in an almost glare.

"you wanna know how much i need hm? you wanna check?" he teases as he dips his head, pecking at your lips, coaxing you into a deeper kiss while you swat lightly at his lips.

"jason!" he pecks your lips, "you-" another one, "stink!"

jason is jason for you, for the world he reserves none of his smiles, none of those charms— none. its the red hood, and if in his civilian state, he is simply a big unit with a glare that can freeze sahara. his heart along with his scars are reserved for you, but his anger and disdain is all for the world to take.

the world and anyone who hogs your attention. now, jason is protective, and maybe even jealous— to an extent, but he would never cross a line that would make you feel uncomfortable. doesn't mean he appreciates people thinking they have a chance with you, or in this case, take his place beside you.

his glares aren't as subtle as he thinks, his arms crossed as he looks at the plushies on your bed. his glare drops into an exasperated groan when you bring out a new one.

"oh my god if you buy one more plush to occupy my spot on the bed i'm kicking you out to sleep on the couch." yet he sounds rather petulant than angry, and of course, hell would freeze and he still he wouldn't dare let you take the couch.

"but they're so nice and warm and fuzzy and cuddly, like you—"

"yes and apparently im not enough."

"you should at least try—"

"i have you."

you chuckle under your breath as you slip out the bed and pass him, pressing a chaste kiss on his downturned lips, "nice try but they're staying."

cleaning the dishes is something that if prolonged, it starts getting on your nerves. more so when you're nearing the end of the pile, and a new dish is added. a sharp sigh leaves your lips as your hands go lax and you turn to stare at jason, who's looking back at you like a deer caught in headlights.

"i was about to finish."

"... saw that."

as you sigh again, more so in frustration as you continue scrubbing he laughs nervously, mumbling quiet apologies as he nears you, wrapping his arms around your waist. he rests his chin on your shoulder, pressing a kiss on it.

"tired? i can finish the rest, you should go and rest."

"no i–" you sigh as you hold the washed plate towards him and he takes it, immediately falling into a natural synergy. "you were way too tired from your patrol last night. and besides im done anyways."

"two dishes won't tire me out, you know."

"yeah i know but i think you work better in cuddling me so stay there."

"whatever you say."

again, jason is a protective man. he never tires from caring for you, be it outside or even in the confines of your shared home. he always has an arm around you, shielding you from potential creeps who unnecessarily push their bodies onto you, holding hands is an absolute necessary when walking, his eyes are always on you in any gathering— like a very doting bodyguard.

but thats when you're out, at your home somehow its even more intense and it shows in those small moments. he always keeps his hands on the sharp corners if you're near, maneuvers you around the walls if you're about to smack right into them, blows on the hot pipping food too much to the point it isn't even warm— he just loves you a lot.

"you going somewhere?" he asks as he straightens up on the couch, lowering the book in his hand and you could see just how desperately he wanted to go with you.

"yeah, i promised to meet my friends over dinner." you respond as you recollect your things after pulling on your shoes.

"need me to tag along?" he asked and you could just see the tail wagging, you sigh with a smile as you wave your hand dismissively, "no no. I'll come home early don't worry."

"im still coming to pick you up."

"i know." of course he will.

"that's a really thin jacket." he points out as his eyes narrow and you pause to look down, "is it?" your lips tug in amused grin.

"take an extra jacket. its cold out." he said as he relaxed back on the couch, picking up his book again.

"okay, mom."

"i heard that!"

its not that you don't have any serious arguments, you do and they are often but they don't last long. they can't, not with jason. he can't stay away from you for much longer, he silently agrees for some space after exchanging heated words but it rarely ever prolongs to more than an hour or so. guilt and worry gnaws at his heart while his arms ache for the solace in your skin.

because at the end of the day, you are what he comes home to. that after a grueling night of wear and tear, being and living as red hood takes its toll on him. so he returns, he returns and hopes to everyday, fights to return everyday— all to see that sweet smile that comes onto your face as he comes back home.

you should be long asleep, he doesn't like it when you stay up for him. but he wouldn't deny how his heart always warms up at it, how it beats faster.

as he closes the window you straighten up on the couch, your head tilting a bit as you smile while beckoning him over.

"you okay big guy?"

somedays he banters, somedays he absolutely smothers you— but somedays, when it was particularly rough, he is quiet. so he took off his helmet, picked off his gloves and discarded his jacket just as his knees hit the floor beside you. you didn't question, you just knew he needed you and the silence.

a soft sigh left his lips as he rested his forehead on your lap, arms circling your waist and your hands immediately tangled in his hair, carding through them softly. your nails lightly scratched his scalp, then you knelt down and pressed a kiss on his head, illiciting another sigh.

"missed ya."

"missed you too."

he may one day be beyond saving, maybe his scars would just run too deep, yet even then he wouldn't dare submit to death— not when you still exist in his life.

NOTE: this was supposed to be a small drabble but i got carried away....

[zaynessbeloved]

Suppressing desires

Synopsis: You never expected your quiet friendship with Zayne—the cold, brilliant cardiac surgeon—to spiral into something that burned beneath your skin. Between long shifts, cold coffee, and fleeting moments, you tried to ignore the pull between you two. But life was hard, and desire was harder to suppress. Filming yourself became your secret escape. You never thought he’d find your videos. You never thought he’d watch. And when the truth breaks free, so does everything between you.

Content warnings: Friends to lovers, slow burn, camgirl x viewer dynamic, explicit sexual content, masturbation (camgirl content), mild voyeurism (consensual context), sexual tension, emotional angst, miscommunication, guilt, soft dominance, possessiveness, power dynamic, soft dom Zayne, oral sex, begging, overstimulation, rough sex, aftercare, cute shower scene, mutual pining, unspoken feelings, confessions during intimacy, possessive!Zayne, light choking (consensual), hand on belly kink, manhandling, praise kink, deep emotional release, cuddling, vulnerability, comfort after conflict.

Pairings: Zayne x reader

Word count: 5.1k

part 1 - part 2 - part 3

He hadn’t meant to watch it that night. But that excuse had lost its weight the moment he came to the sound of your moans.

Zayne sat alone in his apartment most nights now, the silence more suffocating than usual. The kind of quiet that wasn’t restful, but sharp-edged and constant—like the hum of a surgical light long after the patient was gone. He buried himself in work, deeper than ever before, clinging to it like a tourniquet. Double rounds. On-call weekends. Extra consults he didn’t need to take but did anyway, anything to keep his hands busy and his mind obedient.

He hadn’t opened the site again. Couldn’t.

That night—that one night—had started as nothing but release. Exhaustion. A disembodied need he tried to chase into numbness. He hadn’t even remembered paying for the video until he saw the receipt in his inbox days later—proof, in black and white, of the line he crossed. He deleted it without opening it. Deleted the browser history. Deleted the app.

But nothing could delete the memory.

You haunted him now. Not in the way of ghosts or grief, but in movement in the dim light. The way your hips moved beneath the lens. The shudder in your thighs. The wet sound of your fingers sliding through your slick folds, and the way your chest rose in uneven, stuttering breaths when you neared the edge.

He remembered too much. He saw your face in the middle of the night when he blinked. Heard your quiet, broken gasp when the silence in his apartment stretched too long. And worse—far worse—was what came next.

The arousal. Undeniable. Thick and low and crawling down his spine until his hand was fisting the sheets or pressing into his lap, his body reacting with shameful need before his thoughts could even catch up. He didn’t even have to touch himself anymore. You lived beneath his skin now. Every memory blurred with the shape of you, the sound of you, the unbearable want of you.

And so he pulled away. He hadn’t decided to. There was no conscious effort. No dramatic vow to create distance. It just happened. He found himself hesitating when he passed the café. Scrolling past your messages instead of answering right away. Saying less. Giving nothing. And when he saw you that one last time—flour-dusted apron, tired smile, slipping him a macaron like always—he wanted to throw up from how normal it all was.

You didn’t know. Of course you didn’t, how could you? You greeted him like nothing had changed, made a small joke, asked about his week. And he couldn’t look you in the eye. Not the way he used to. Not when he had seen your mouth open in a moan, your body shaking as you came, so beautiful and undone that it nearly brought him to his knees.

He had always been good at restraint. That was his entire life—control, discipline, precision. He prided himself on never crossing lines. Never indulging what didn’t belong to him.

But now… now he was tainted by the weight of what he’d taken. He couldn’t unsee you like that. Couldn’t pretend he hadn’t touched himself to the sound of your pleasure. Couldn’t be the same Zayne you smiled at, so easily, so trustingly—not while his body betrayed him every time your name so much as drifted through his thoughts.

So he distanced himself. Because it was the only thing he could do.

He told himself it would pass. That if he stayed away long enough, if he buried himself deep enough in work, the memory would fade. He told himself you deserved better than the man who’d watched you like that. Who couldn’t face you without the blood rushing straight to his cock and the shame blooming hot across his skin.

But it didn’t fade. And every day that passed only made the guilt grow louder—clawing against his ribs, not just because of what he’d seen, but because of what it meant. Because maybe…just maybe…he hadn’t watched you by accident at all.

There were moments—late ones, usually—when Zayne let the truth crawl up the walls of his apartment and press into the hollow of his chest.

He missed you.

Not in the casual way people said it, not like a “we should catch up” text sent out of politeness. It was deeper than that. Messier. Something more like grief. Something that sat under his skin like a bruise that never faded.

The past year had crept up on him in quiet ways. What started as coincidence—the coffee shop, the check-ins, the light teasing you managed to pull from him on tired days—became routine. And Zayne didn’t build routines with people. He didn’t let anyone close enough. But you… you’d bypassed all of that without even trying.

He should’ve known better. He should’ve set boundaries from the start. That would’ve been the smart thing. The safe thing.

But you smiled at him like you saw something behind his stillness, behind the sterilized walls and grey suits and unreadable gaze. You joked when others backed off. You understood the pauses in his messages, the weight in his silences, the sharp way he sometimes said too little instead of too much. You made space for him—for the real him—without ever demanding it.

And somehow, without realizing it, Zayne started looking forward to the little things. The text notifications with your name. The way you added just enough syrup to his coffee to piss him off. The sound of your voice through the noise of a busy café, instantly grounding him in ways he couldn’t explain.

He let himself care. And then he watched you…at the edges of pleasure. And now, everything was fractured. Because the truth—the awful, quiet truth—was that he hadn’t just seen you as a friend. Not for a long time.

Zayne knew what you deserved. He’d known it from the beginning. Someone light. Someone who brought joy like oxygen. Who laughed without restraint and danced in the kitchen and would tell you to fuck off and skip work just to lie in bed all day. Someone better. Someone normal.

Not him.

Not someone who lived under the weight of other people’s hearts, who only came home to silence and cold floors and microwave leftovers. Not someone whose affection came wrapped in sarcasm and eye contact that lingered too long because he couldn’t say what he wanted. Not someone who loved in restraint and apology and ghosted conversations when the shame got too loud.

You gave him so much without even knowing it—your attention, your time, your trust. And he? He tainted it. Took you into the dark and watched you like he had the right. Got off to it. And then ran.

What kind of man did that? Not the kind you deserved. But the most unforgivable thing—the part that made him press his palms into his eyes at night until stars danced behind his lids—was that he didn’t just want your body. He wanted you.

The quiet you. The exhausted, eye-rolling, stubborn you. The version of you who laughed too hard when the whipped cream machine broke and stood with hands on your hips like the world owed you something. The one who leaned on the counter and called him predictable for ordering plain coffee, who slipped him macarons like it was an inside joke, who looked at him like he wasn’t just the surgeon—like he was Zayne.

He wanted a life with you. A real one. One where he came home and found you curled on his couch with a mug too big for your hands. One where he woke up tangled in your limbs and brushed hair out of your eyes before kissing your temple. One where you sat on the kitchen counter complaining about your classes while he made time to cooked for you and made sure you ate something that didn’t come from a vending machine.

He wanted mornings that stretched slow and warm. Shared showers. Matching mugs. Sundays where neither of you said much because you didn’t have to.

And maybe, in a different world, he could’ve let himself believe in that. But this wasn’t that world. This was the world where he’d crossed a line he couldn’t uncross. Where every time he thought about seeing you again, his body remembered too much—the flush in your cheeks, the arch of your back, the tremble in your thighs—and his shame swallowed every kind thing he could’ve said to you.

So he stayed away. Said less. Gave less. Pretended less was fine. And still, when he closed his eyes, it was your voice he heard. Still, when his fingers curled around the edge of the mattress at night, it was you he imagined curling into his chest in the morning.

And the worst part? He knew you saw it. The shift. The silence. The difference. And it was only a matter of time before you asked him why. And Zayne wasn’t sure what would break first—his resolve, or the lie he kept trying to live with.

————

It had been nearly two months.

At first, you didn’t even have the energy to notice it fully. Life was relentless—coursework stacked higher than your sanity could manage, shifts at the café bleeding into study marathons that left your back sore and your eyes burning. You were in survival mode, held together with caffeine, stress, and pure spite. The days blurred. Sleep was a luxury. Eating became mechanical.

And Zayne? Zayne simply… faded.

Or maybe he withdrew. Quietly. Strategically.

At first, you told yourself it was fine. He was busy—always had been. Surgeon hours, demanding cases, sleepless nights. It made sense. And besides, your own world was chaos. You didn’t have time to cling to every unanswered message or missing smile. You were barely holding yourself together.

But after weeks of the same dry, clipped replies—if he replied at all—the truth began to weigh heavier than the excuses.

He hadn’t come by the café. Not once. And that wasn’t nothing. You noticed it in the way your eyes drifted to the door every time the bell chimed. How your heart still leapt—just a little—before your brain caught up with the letdown. You didn’t say anything. Not to your coworkers. Not even to yourself, at first. Because it felt like jinxing something fragile.

You texted him. Light things, soft things. Dumb jokes, photos of your busted espresso machine with “RIP” typed underneath. Even a photo of the last pistachio macaron, captioned you missed your chance, old man.

Most of it got no reply. The few responses you did get were sterile. Efficient.

Busy. Sorry.

In surgery.

Later.

You called twice. Once, it went to voicemail after five rings. The second time, he picked up—breath tight, voice clipped, as if you’d interrupted something you weren’t supposed to.

“Zayne?” you had said, soft, hopeful.

“I can’t talk,” he replied, low and sharp, background noise too chaotic to place. “Emergency bypass. I’ll call you later.”

He didn’t.

And still, you waited. Waited because you’d come to know Zayne—not just the sharp lines of his face, or the way his mouth tugged when he smirked. You knew how long it took for him to open up. How care from him came in gestures, in precision. In remembering how you took your coffee, in placing his palm over yours when words failed him.

This wasn’t him forgetting you. This was avoidance. You could feel it. The way people do when they’ve been dropped without the courtesy of a fall.

You didn’t know what exactly changed. You went over scenarios, again and again, dragging your own memory through every small interaction. Had you said something wrong? Texted too much? Not enough? You even wondered—on nights when the loneliness ached a little too deep—if maybe he’d gotten tired of you. Realized you weren’t worth the softness he offered.

But deep down, past all the spiraling, the dread, the overthinking—you knew this wasn’t boredom. Or indifference. This was deliberate. And it hurt. More than you let yourself admit.

So one night, after a particularly shitty shift where a customer made you cry in the back room and your professor smugly handed back your project with a disappointing grade and too much red ink, you walked home in the rain. Alone. No umbrella. Soaked to the bone. Shivering.

And that night—that exact night—something inside you snapped. Because you were done. Done pretending not to notice. Done excusing the silence. Done wondering what the hell you did wrong when he wouldn’t even give you the decency of honesty.

You stood in your tiny apartment, hair dripping onto the floor, and stared at your phone like it held answers. It didn’t. Just unread messages, unanswered questions, and a contact name that used to make your heart skip.

And now only made it sink.

You wrapped yourself in a blanket. Sat on your bed. Let your frustration burn low beneath your ribs, steady and unresolved. Because if Zayne wasn’t going to speak? Then maybe you would.

You tried for another two weeks. Texts. Calls. Even one stupid meme that made you think of him—something dry and sarcastic and exactly the kind of humor he used to pretend not to laugh at. You sent it without thinking, half hoping it would shake something loose.

It didn’t.

Everything stayed the same: unanswered, unread, unreturned. And slowly, your frustration melted into something worse. Something heavier.

Hurt.

It settled in the pit of your stomach and made itself a home—not sharp like a blade, but dull, persistent. A quiet erosion of all the trust you’d built, day by day, moment by moment, in soft smiles and slower conversations that had once felt like safety.

You didn’t understand. You’d always thought highly of him—more than he probably realized. It wasn’t just about his career, though that alone could’ve been intimidating. Zayne was… steady. Quiet. Thoughtful in a way that never needed to be spoken aloud. He noticed things. He remembered them. He showed up in the background without fanfare, and somehow that meant more than all the dramatic, hollow promises anyone else ever gave you.

And somewhere along the way, it started to matter. A lot.

Too much.

You liked the way his glasses slipped down his nose when he was tired. The way his dry remarks always carried a thread of warmth buried beneath them—like he wasn’t as cold as he wanted the world to believe. The way he looked at you, sometimes, when you caught him off guard. Not wide-eyed or stunned—just present. Like he really saw you. All of you.

And maybe, deep down, you were starting to fall for him. But you never dared to say it. Because your life was chaos. Cracked at the seams. Uni was a warzone, work was survival, and half the time you were scraping by with four hours of sleep and a granola bar as dinner. Zayne was a surgeon. Respected. Calm. A man with a path so clear, it felt blasphemous to imagine him sidestepping it for someone like you—messy, disorganized, exhausted.

You were barely keeping yourself afloat. And now… the one thing that felt like an anchor—your friendship with him—had started to sink too. Slowly. Quietly. Without warning.

That’s what hurt the most. Not knowing why.

You replayed every conversation, every joke, every soft moment. Searched for the crack, for the mistake, for the shift in his gaze that might’ve told you when things changed. But there was nothing. Just absence. Just silence. Like a door closing without a sound.

It was a Thursday night when it all hit you at once. University had drained every last bit of patience from you—another group project where you carried the weight, another professor who condescended with a smile, another assignment deadline that loomed like a guillotine. And then came work, where the line stretched to the door and your manager blamed you for the broken milk frother. A man snapped at you for getting his order wrong when he hadn’t even spoken clearly. A teenage girl rolled her eyes when you handed her the wrong size cup.

By the end of the shift, you could barely keep your hands from shaking. You clocked out late. Walked past your apartment. And just kept going. No headphones. No destination. Just footsteps and cold air and the ache in your chest that refused to quiet down. The streets were quiet—late enough that the bars were winding down, too early for sunrise joggers. You shoved your hands deep into your coat pockets and stared at the sidewalk like it could offer you something you’d lost.

You weren’t sure what you were looking for. You just knew that if you stopped walking, you’d cry. And not the soft kind. Not the cinematic, beautiful kind. No—it would be ugly. Angry. Frustrated and furious that someone like Zayne—someone who used to make you feel like maybe you weren’t entirely alone in the world—could just vanish. Without reason. Without a word. The thought made your throat close. You turned a corner. Slowed. Pressed your fingers against your eyes as the burn started to rise.  

You missed him. You missed Zayne. And the longer the silence stretched, the louder one truth kept echoing in your chest. Something between you had broken. And you still had no idea why.

————

It started as a drizzle—the kind of rain that didn’t feel real until it soaked through the collar of your coat. You barely noticed it at first, too deep in your own spiral to care. But then a cold drop smacked hard against your cheek, and you blinked.

Then another. Then dozens. And before long, the sky opened up above you.

You stopped walking as the downpour hit in full. Cold. Sharp. Merciless. You tilted your head up, let it slap against your skin like it had a point to make. And for some reason, the only reaction you could manage was a laugh. A single, bitter, humorless huff of a sound that cracked at the end.

Of course. Of fucking course it had to rain. So cliché.

You stood there, soaked and shaking and done with everything—this day, this week, this version of your life. You let out a breath so heavy it felt like it carried your entire soul, and then… you walked. Not toward home. Not toward shelter. Just… forward.

Cars passed, tires hissing through puddles. People bustled past with umbrellas, barely sparing you a glance. You might’ve looked deranged—soaking wet, clothes clinging to your body, hair dripping into your eyes, walking like you had nowhere left to be.

And then one car slowed.

You didn’t notice it right away. Not until the brake lights flared beside you and the low purr of the engine crawled into your awareness. The passenger window rolled down, letting in a wave of warm air and the sound of your name spoken low and sharp—like disbelief wrapped in concern.

"—What the hell are you doing out here?"

You stopped. The rain blurred everything, but not his voice.

Zayne.

You turned slowly, eyes wide, breath caught in your throat. For a second, you genuinely believed you were hallucinating. Your mind, fractured and soaked through, playing tricks on you. But then you saw him—hand on the steering wheel, brow furrowed in stunned alarm, hair damp at the edges like he’d just come from work. His tie was loosened, the top two buttons of his shirt undone.

He looked… shaken. But not as much as you.

You said nothing. You just stared. And he had none of it.

“Get in the car,” he said—low, urgent, seeing straight through your silence, your soaking sleeves, your cracking expression.

Still, you didn’t move. His eyes narrowed, voice dipping softer. “You’re freezing.”

That did it. You swallowed hard against everything rising up in your throat and opened the door, sliding into the passenger seat without a word, dripping rain onto his pristine upholstery. You stared ahead. He didn’t comment. Didn’t even flinch. He just started driving. But the silence was suffocating.

Your breath caught in your chest, your fingers curled around the damp hem of your coat. You glanced at him from the corner of your eye—the way he gripped the wheel a little too tightly, the way his eyes refused to meet yours for more than a flicker. He looked calm. Composed. Like this wasn’t the first time in two months you’d seen each other. Like he hadn’t disappeared. Like he hadn’t left you wondering what you’d done wrong.

You hated how casual his voice sounded when he finally broke the silence. “I didn’t expect to see you out here. This late, and in the pouring rain, no less.”

You turned your head slowly, disbelief etched across your face. “That’s what you’re opening with?”

He glanced at you, brief, unreadable. “You’re wet and shaking. What would you prefer?”

You laughed. Sharp. Bitter. Loud enough to make him blink. “You’re unbelievable.”

He didn’t reply.

The tension wound tighter. You could see his jaw clench, the flicker of something behind his eyes that he didn’t want you to see. He kept driving, like it was just another day. Just another shift. Just another one of your normal, quiet encounters—like he hadn’t been ghosting you for weeks. Like he didn’t get to act like nothing happened.

When he pulled up outside your apartment, you unbuckled your seatbelt with trembling fingers.

“Thanks for the ride,” you said flatly. Then you got out and slammed the car door so hard the whole vehicle shook.

You didn’t even feel satisfied doing it. You just had to do something—anything—to keep the tears from breaking loose in front of him. You were halfway up the building steps, feet squelching with every step, when you heard the car door open again. Then slam shut.

“Wait.”

You didn’t stop. You didn’t want to see him being composed again, not when your chest was tight and your teeth were clenched and everything inside you was fucking unraveling.

But he didn’t listen. Zayne sprinted after you—into the pouring rain, shoes slapping the pavement, soaking within seconds—and you heard his footsteps echo behind you before he caught up.

“Wait—damn it—just wait!”

You turned around, rain cascading over your face, heart pounding so hard you thought it might burst right through your ribs.

He stood a few feet away. Dripping. Soaked. Chest heaving slightly from the run. His hair was plastered to his forehead, eyes wild and hurting. And for the first time in weeks, he didn’t look composed at all.

You turned on him. Not loud. Not theatrical. You didn’t scream or shove at his chest, though your body burned with the want of it. The rain poured down harder now, so cold it felt like punishment. The streets were slick with silver, your hair clinging to your cheeks, your fingertips numb. And still, you didn’t yell.

You seethed.

“Two months, Zayne.” your voice shook with fury you could barely hold in. “Two months of silence. Of short replies and canceled calls and empty space where you used to be.”

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. You didn’t let him interrupt. You couldn’t. Because if you stopped now, your voice would crack—and you refused to give him that.

“I was going through hell,” you continued, quieter this time, but no less sharp. “Uni is a nightmare. Work’s draining the life out of me. I’m barely surviving most days. And do you know what the one constant in my life used to be? You.”

His expression changed then, just slightly. Like something inside him finally registered the depth of it. The weight of what he’d done—or hadn’t done.

“And then you just…” you laughed again, bitter and breathless. “You just disappeared. Like I didn’t matter. Like I wasn’t supposed to notice.”

Rain dripped off your jaw. Your coat hung heavy on your shoulders, soaked through to the skin, but you didn’t move.

“I texted. I called. I made excuses for you. Told myself you were busy. That you were tired. That maybe I’d done something wrong. Do you know what it feels like to doubt yourself every fucking day because someone you trusted suddenly decided to vanish without explanation?”

Zayne’s jaw tightened, his glasses streaked with water, his suit soaked beyond saving — and still he didn’t speak. Didn’t deny it. Didn’t offer a single fucking word. And it made something inside you snap.

“Say something,” you whispered, furious. “Anything, Zayne.”

He looked at you—eyes full of guilt and something deeper, something cracked wide open—but still, nothing came.

That silence? It undid you, made you so angry. You turned away, your throat burning. “Fuck this.”

You made for the apartment entrance with shaking legs, your boots squeaking against the wet tile as you yanked open the building door. The instinct was to slam it. To shut it in his face, in his silence, in his guilt. But you didn’t. You left it open.

Because despite everything, he was soaked through. Because you still cared. Because some pathetic, stubborn part of you still held out a hand toward the connection you’d once shared—the one he seemed determined to ruin.

You walked up the stairs without turning around. But you heard his footsteps. Wet and soft behind you. And when you unlocked your apartment and stepped inside, trembling and breathless, you couldn’t stop yourself from spinning on your heel—eyes red with unshed rage.

"You could’ve told me. Anything. Anything, Zayne. You could’ve said you were overwhelmed. Or that you didn’t want to talk. Or that I annoyed you. But no. You said nothing. You just vanished. Like a fucking coward.”

That one cut deeper than you meant. You saw it in the flicker of pain that crossed his face. But you didn’t take it back. Couldn’t. You huffed sharply, tossing your keys onto the table with a loud clatter, too hard, too much, and kicked your wet shoes off like they were enemies.

“Get in or go,” you muttered, voice hoarse. “But close the door either way.”

You turned from him again, hands trembling, heart racing, and this time you didn’t look back. You couldn’t. Because if you did, you’d break. And right now, you were holding the last of yourself together with fraying thread and spite alone.

The door clicked shut behind him. You didn’t turn around, but you heard it—that small, weighted sound. A huff escaped your chest before you could stop it, a mix between disbelief and bitter relief. He stayed. Of course he did. Despite everything, despite the silence and the distance and the way he’d hurt you—some small, aching thread of hope still clung to your ribs, whispering that maybe he wouldn’t walk away this time.

You hated that hope.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered under your breath as you strode into your room, shoulders squared in frustration, limbs stiff from cold and fury. “Absolutely fucking unbelievable.”

The anger gave you something to do. Something to cling to. Your hands moved on instinct, yanking open drawers with too much force, shoving aside old clothes, socks, forgotten sweaters. You found a pair of sweatpants—soft cotton, probably from your uncle’s old stash—and an oversized t-shirt that might've once been your ex’s but had long since lost meaning. They were clean. Dry. Comfortable.

Not nearly enough to fit Zayne’s tall, broad frame properly. Good. Let it be uncomfortable. Let him drown in it.

And still… you dug out a towel. Because you knew him. You knew how he got when he was sick—quiet, fussy, prone to pretending he was fine while sniffling into his sleeve and stubbornly refusing to take anything stronger than lukewarm tea. You hated how that memory softened something in your chest even now.

You marched back into the hallway and tossed the bundle of clothes and towel at him—not hard, but not gently either. You didn’t say a word. Just turned and stomped toward the bathroom, your own change of clothes clutched to your chest.

Zayne caught the clothes with a grunt, silent, soaked and still at the threshold like he wasn’t sure he deserved to go any further.

And then you shut the door. The shower came on in a sharp hiss of water, and you stood under it without even checking the temperature, letting it scald your skin, hoping the burn would melt something—the knot in your throat, the tremble in your hands, the goddamn ache in your chest that still wanted to reach for him despite everything.

You didn’t cry. But your jaw ached from how tightly you clenched it, your nails biting into your palms as the steam curled around you. Because if you didn’t get control of yourself now, you’d explode. And you didn’t want to say the things you were thinking.

Didn’t want to scream about how dare he come back acting like nothing happened. About how sick it made you to still care, to still think about whether he’d be warm enough, dry enough, comfortable enough—when he’d left you alone with silence and doubt and confusion for two goddamn months.

Meanwhile, outside the bathroom door, Zayne stood in the quiet, the clothes limp in his hands, his own wet frame slowly steaming in the warmer air of your apartment. He didn’t move right away because he couldn’t. Your voice still rang in his ears—low, trembling, furious. Not just angry. Wounded. Like he’d taken something sacred and shattered it with his silence.

He hadn’t known. Not truly. Not until tonight. He thought he’d pulled away cleanly. Quietly. That maybe you would notice but wouldn’t feel it like this. He had told himself he was protecting something. Sparing you from the mess of his own failure. That it was better this way, to leave without saying too much, before whatever quiet affection lingered between you could twist into something irreversible.

But he’d been wrong. So deeply, undeniably wrong. And now the proof of it clung to your skin, raw in your voice, etched into the way you threw clothes at him like they were both a comfort and a punishment. He didn’t blame you. Not for a single second. Because this was his fault. All of it.

And the worst part? He still didn’t know how to fix it.

He changed into the clothes—awkward, uncomfortable, the fabric tight across his chest and barely reaching past his wrists. He ran the towel through his hair in silence, chest aching with every minute that passed, replaying your words over and over until they carved themselves into him like a wound. Because he couldn’t shake the image of your face in the rain.

He had done that. And nothing—no silence, no apology, no excuse—would make it disappear.

© zaynessbeloved 2025

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST HERE AND ON MY AO3.

.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!

taglist: @syluslittlecrows, @asiaticapple, @beaconsxd, @floofycookie, @deepspacedarling

[hedwig221b]

hiiii, do you know of any sterek fics where the pack is super close (or become super close) like the found family trope?

thank you so much <333

Hi, check out this post! Also found these

(Sacred) In the Ordinary by idyll

The Pack, after college, graduate school and the starting of careers, comes back to Beacon Hills. Nothing's gotten less complicated after all this time. Based on a kink meme prompt that grew legs and got serious. Note: This is a whole lot of pack!fic with a very slow build Derek/Stiles.

Sunday Breakfast by Jerakeen

Somewhere along the line, Sunday breakfast becomes a thing.

You're an A+ Alpha, Derek Hale by yodasyoyo

"Is that a dick?” Stiles cranes his neck, eyes narrowing as he squints up at the whiteboard that’s center stage in Derek’s loft. “Because it looks like a dick.” “It is not a dick.” Derek glares at him. “Are you sure?”

I am the Lorax, I speak for the Trees by seaweedly

It’s not like Stiles had intended to keep his non-human-ness from the pack. Truely he thought they knew. It’s not like he had been particularly good at hiding the fact that he was the literal guardian of the Beacon Hills forests. — or — The five times Stiles blatantly shows his true power around the pack without them realising it. And the one time they actually talk about the fact Stiles is not exactly human.

A Family of Mine by crappybowlsoframen

And once—just once—Stiles caught him dozing off on his couch after a long patrol, the softest snore escaping him. And that was when Stiles knew. Derek was his. Theirs. He wasn't just the alpha. He was family.

Everything has changed by Kimmy

Over the course of one night, everything has changed. or 5 times Stiles used magic to protect the pack (and not just) and 1 time Derek protected Stiles from… something.

For the Best by insertnextline

After being rejected by the pack that never needed him, Stiles Stilinski is determined to make himself useful. That is before he is subsequently kidnapped and beaten within an inch of his life. How will he get himself out of this one? And what new allies will he make along the way

Family Unit by AsagiStilinski

So werewolf symposiums are a thing That's a thing that exists, it's happening, it's in the world now And Stiles doesn't know what in the name of hell he did to deserve this ("It's a mixed supernatural convention Stiles, not a 'werewolf symposium'!"")

Scent marking for dummies by TuliaNayeli

Stiles doesn't understand why Derek keeps glaring at him whenever he shows up to the loft lately. It could have something to do with the fact that the pack is secretly pissing off Derek by making Stiles smell like them rather than him. But hey, why don't they just get their heads out of their asses?

between the click of the light and the start of the dream by thepsychicclam

A twig snaps, and then Stiles hears breathing and the rustle of leaves. He strains to get a better glimpse into the darkness, but it’s pointless. There’s nothing but a black void. It's Stiles' senior year, and he's trying to concentrate on normal things - like the lacrosse championship, spring break, prom, graduation (and definitely not Derek) - when he starts having nightmares and waking up in the middle of nowhere. Oh yeah, and he's being haunted by a hag. Great.

Protect and Serve by MoonlitMemories

Stiles discovers the Nemeton starting to grow again in the preserve on Hale land. What does that mean for the pack? More importantly: why does the Nemeton seem so attached to Stiles?

Thunderstorms & Polish Lullabies by Whispering_Merely

Boyd is there, hovering over his claws, Isaac looks devastated, Jennifer looks bewildered and concerned and horrified, Kali looks smug, the twins are carefully keeping their faces blank but they're playing along, and- Gods, he's really going to be forced to do this, isn't he? Pack, his Pack, the make-shift family he'd all but accidentally gathered is going to die by his hand, and even if it's forced, it'll still be his fault, for wanting them, for needing them, for biting them. Loving them. He wants to close his eyes but he owes Boyd more than that. And then, abruptly, in this saturated technicolor still-picture moment of chaos and violence- the eye of the storm- the door to the loft crashes open. With the water and the metal and the force of it, the sound is almost guttural, and far too loud- even Kali seems startled. [Or, the one where Stiles time-travels just in time to save Boyd and Derek from the Alphas, and manages to heal everyone, including himself, just a little in the process.]

[masterlist link]

[not4simp]

OOPSIES!

You got caught red handed smoking!

featuring - Sylus x reader, Caleb x reader

a/n - i can't do endings and english is not my first language so forgive me for any grammatical or structural mistake. Maybe I'll continue and make a version for Rafael, Zayne, and Xavier idk thoo.

Sylus

Sylus is an observant man. Every small detail, every precise moment, every specific word, does not go unnoticed. So it was quite a surprise that you have gone so long without him noticing your minor addiction. There were quite a few times where you almost thought you were done for. But hey, luck was truly on your side.

3 months ago You had invited Sylus over to your place to just relax. He had brought some food over and placed it over the kitchen counter where he came across 13 lighters splayed out. At first he thought you had taken an interest in collecting them, but upon taking a closer look it was from the same cheap brand you could find in a nearby mini market but in form of different colors. ‘sweetie what’s with all these lighters?’ he asked amused.

You paused for a moment, every time you used a lighter it somehow always ends up lost, frustrated you bought a whole bulk the other day. ‘oh I just love lighting up scented candles’ you waved it off. Sylus didn’t press further on and left it at that. That day Sylus went home but found not one single candle present in your house.

2 weeks ago Under the hot scorching sun you draped a shawl over your head trying to shield your boiling scalp from the immense heat. For the past days Sylus and you had just finished running some business errands and now had some free time to hop from one stall to another checking out what the locals had to offer. Within a few stalls Sylus had gone to purchase some refreshments leaving you some cash to look around and buy anything you wanted. You were looking through some fine jewelry when something else caught your eye.

A beautiful gold-plated ashtray adorning with intricate carvings. It was cool to the touch contrasting with the current weather and truly one of a kind. ‘An ashtray?’ Sylus appeared holding strawberry lemon soda in hand. ‘exquisite don’t you think?’ i said eyes still on the item. Sylus nodded an agreement, ‘let’s take a look at what other stores have to offer , oh and i already payed for it’ nudging his head towards the ashtray in my hand.

Present It was late at night yet the street lights illuminates the dark. Sylus and you had just drove through Linkon taking in the gorgeous city. It was cold and quiet everyone was fast asleep but you were parked in a 24 hour fast food restaurant enjoying an ice cream cone.

‘sweetie where’s the charger?’ he asked rummaging through the glove compartment. ‘oh yeah it’s in the armrest console’ you quickly replied. As Sylus reaches out to open it you had just recalled that it was where you had kept your Marlboro stash. Panic flowed through your chest ‘wait!’ you exclaimed, but it was too late and all you could do was sink into your seat.

Sylus examined the pack, opening it to find 4 sticks left 'Kitten this can’t be good for you, you just bought this 3 days ago' his voice carried out softly. I whipped my head to look at him 'how did you know when i bought this?' my brows furrowed questioning him. 'oh sweetie you can’t think I’m that oblivious' his lips curl into a smirk. 'if you knew all this time then why didn’t you tell me?' 'i thought I’d wait until you would tell me yourself besides, Mephisto is having a blast scouting for lighters to add to his collection' you gasped as a hand flew to your mouth feeling disbelief 'that was you?!' a finger pointed at him.

Caleb

Your head hung low looking aimlessly as cars passes by. A hand lays on the steel railing supporting your whole body while the other holds a cigarette between your index and middle finger.

You couldn’t comprehend why you continued this habit. Caleb is back, he’s alive, and you both have made up. So why couldn’t you put this habit behind you? Perhaps you were paranoid that he could be taken away from you any moment just like last time. Perhaps you’re worried that Caleb has changed and you couldn’t accept it, or perhaps-

You shut your eyes and took a long drag as the warmth overcomes you. The heavy bitter taste dances on your tongue as the nicotine settles in calming your nerves. You really needed to find another alternative way to soothe these thoughts. You were to caught up with your own mind when your ears perked up. It was as if someone has called your name.

Light footsteps clicked through your apartment’s living, You flipped your head towards the glass door behind you and to your suprise your favorite Fleet-space Colonel was currently peeking through your bedroom to look for you. Shit. At times like this you surely regretted giving him a spare key to your home. Quickly you dropped your cigarette onto the ground stumping on it before kicking it off your balcony.

The glass door slid and in walks Caleb with a big smile 'Hey Pipsqueak I’ve been calling out for you what’s got you so preoccupied out here?'. You shrugged and gave a nervous smile slowly inching back, afraid that the persistent tobacco scent would be noticed. 'Not happy to see me?' he chuckled grabbing your waist and pulling you into his embrace.

You noticed that he pulled away longer than normally but his hands were still placed firmly on your waist. 'name' his voice was sharp. It was the tone he carried when commanding the space-fleet. Oh surely you were fucked. 'hmm?' you cocked you head. 'Have you been-' he paused taking a scan of the small terrace. 'Have you been smoking?' brows furrow. Feeling caught red handed you didn’t bother answering him but rather threw your gaze towards the bustling streets.

A hand reaches your cheek guiding you to look at him But you’ve never, Why would you… Your gaze meets his and as the two of you locked eyes a silent understanding falls. His face softens up ‘You know you don’t need to carry all your burdens and worries alone anymore right?’ 'i knoww' you whined. 'how about you throw this away,' he said whilst reaching for my back pocket and waved the cigarette pack in front of me, 'and we’ll get dinner, my treat' he winked playfully. 'but it was expensive' i groaned frowning a bit. 'all the more reason to stop pipsqueak how about we also stop for dessert’ he squished your cheeks. ‘and snacks’ your voice muffled from the force against your cheeks. Caleb chuckled 'alright we have a deal' placing a chaste kiss on your forehead.

[writingblognumber1]

Movie Night Rated R

- Sukuna x reader

-Contains: smut, fingering

- Movie night with your boyfriend Sukuna!

It was a seemingly innocent date night with your boyfriend Sukuna. Of course you opted for a scary movie, loving the idea of his big, strong arms wrapping around you to make you feel safe. You’re on the chaise lounge chair in his living room. He sits behind you, your back pressed to his chest and a half empty bowl of popcorn mixed with m&ms in your lap. It’s dark other than the light from the tv. An intense scene is happening on the screen and you set the bowl on the table, preparing to hide your face in his neck when you feel his breath against your cheek. His lips lightly brush against you and you can’t help it when you lay your head to the side, giving him more access. He chuckles against your ear and a shiver runs through you. Anticipation slowly builds in your lower belly.

“You scared?” Sukuna whispers. You bite your lip.

“Well yeah it’s a scary movie…” He laughs when you turn to pout up at him.

“It’s okay baby, I’ve got you.” His arms wrap around you, sliding beneath your breast and pulling you closer to him.

It’s minutes later and the film continues on but Sukuna’s hands begin to wander. He unwinds his arms and reaches his hands up to cup your tits. You try your best to stay focused on the movie, but then his thumbs are brushing against your hard nipples through the thin pajama shirt you are wearing. You gasp and arch into his touch.

“Sukuna…. The movie..” you whine but make no move to stop him.

“Keep watching it sweet girl.” You can tell without looking at him that he’s smirking behind you. He loves to tease. His hands grope and twist your breasts. You squirm in his arms, the pleasure making your mind foggy, unable to keep your attention on the film in front of you.

“Sukuna, please-“ he cuts you off,

“Watch the movie.” There’s no playfulness in his words, a direct demand. You’re on the verge of panting, wanting more from him, wanting him to touch you elsewhere. Your eyes stay locked on the screen even as your body moves on its own, desperately searching for more pleasure. Sukuna takes pity on you and ever so slowly slides one of his hand down your stomach to your panty line. You grind your teeth together, resisting the urge to grab his hand and shove it in your underwear.

“You want me to touch you here, huh?” His tone is patronizing. You turn your head to look up at him, hoping your pleading eyes will convince him to give you more. He holds your gaze, fingers slipping under the seam, before he cups you with his palm.

“That what you want? Want me here?” You moan, head falling back on his shoulder.

“Yes! Yes, please.” Sukuna softly parts your pussy lips with his middle finger, tracing over your clit, down towards your hole, and back up to rub circles. It sends electricity through your body and you can’t help the sweet whimpers you let out. After repeating this motion a few times, he decides you’ve had enough and his finger sinks into you. Your hands wrap around his forearm, nails digging into his skin as your hips buck up.

“You’re so fucking wet for me. Such a good little pussy.” Sukuna watches you, licking his lips and fighting the urge to put you on your hands and knees so he can fuck you. He groans when your pussy clenches around his finger. His lips find your neck again and he sucks a mark into it, deciding to add another finger as he does. His palm presses onto your clit.

“You like when I fuck you with my fingers?” His nose traces the line of your jaw. You nod frantically at his question.

“What if I fuck you with my fingers and suck your clit at the same time?” The thought has your cunt pulsing around his fingers.

“Yes, please! Please, I want your mouth.”

“Okay baby, I’ll give it to you.” You move to get up, to change positions, when his arm pulls you back down. You look to him, confused. Sukuna gives you a deceivingly sweet smile.

“You’re forgetting I have mouths in other places sweetheart. We don’t have to move at all for me to taste your sweet juices on my tongue.” Your eyes widen and you can feel the moment the mouth on his palm opens up. The movement makes you jerk in his arms.

“Oh my god.” Your body arches again, feeling his tongue lick over your clit.

“No god here baby, just me… making you feel like this.” He’s soft spoken, focused on pleasuring you. The mouth on his palm sucks your clit in and you reach down to press it harder against you. Sukuna doesn’t stop you. His mouth waters at the way your soaking wet cunt squeezes his fingers.

“Please, please, I’m gonna- oh, Sukuna, I’m gonna cum!” You writhe around on his lap, his hard cock pressing into your spine. His fingers move faster inside of you. Sukuna can feel your body trembling, can hear the slick squelches your pussy makes. He grunts behind you before reaching a hand up to wrap around your throat. Your mouth falls open and you cry out, body tensing as you feel that beautiful pleasure overtake you. You convulse around him, cumming so hard spots dance around in your vision. Sukuna doesn’t slow down, drawing every ounce of white hot pleasure from your body. You collapse against him, completely drained, head hanging to the side. He lays his cheek against the top of your head, chuckling at you, before slowly removing his fingers from you. He sucks the wetness from them, making you shudder and whine.

“I think we should start the movie back from the beginning….”

[magicalrocketships]

Rivers of Light || Max/Daniel || part 11 ||

(reminder that this in its entirety contains mpreg, reference to giving birth, Max Verstappen's bad dad, past abuse, and on-track accidents.) We're gearing up for me to be wrong about how lawyers work, just to prepare you. Unrelatedly I watched a whole six minute video about Sophie la Girafe to write this. I strongly feel I've made good choices.

All previous parts can be found in the masterpost here. This chapter is on AO3.

Bastiaan deserves friends. Maybe Daniel won't forget Bastiaan like he forgot Max. 

part 11

Bastiaan wakes up at half past five in the morning with a messy nappy that Max could have done without having to deal with only a minute after waking up. 

He and Bastiaan wear identical frowns of disapproval as Max changes him, and Bastiaan's doesn't go away until he's in a fresh nappy and a clean little babygro. Max's doesn't go away until the dirty nappy is double bagged and in the bin in the bathroom. He washes his hands and tries not to look at his exhausted reflection looking back at him. 

"Is this why you were so sad earlier, little baby?" Max asks, undoing the belt on the hotel changing table so he can scoop Bastiaan up and tuck him up against his chest. He presses kisses to Bastiaan's hair. "Did your tummy hurt and you couldn't tell me? That must have been very frustrating, I would have been crying too. It's hard being a little baby, isn't it?" He lets Bastiaan wrap his little hand around Max's finger. It's so early. He'd like to go back to sleep, but Bastiaan seems too awake for that. He's never slept past six, not once in his whole little life. Max doubts he's going to start today.

Max yawns. He needs about 50% more sleep than he's getting, but he can cope. He always has before. 

"Let's see if we can play quietly so we don't wake up our friend Daniel, shall we?" he suggests, carrying Bastiaan back into the bedroom. He turns the lamp on before he gets back into bed, then holds Bastiaan up so that he's step-step-stepping on Max's lap. His little marching baby. 

Bastiaan's giraffe is called Sophie and she squeaks. She's still on the bed from when it was their failed playtime in the middle of the night, and Max tucks Bastiaan into the curve of his arm and makes Sophie squeak so that Bastiaan's mouth curves up in a smile. He hasn't been smiling very long. Last week he wasn't doing it at all. This week he is. Max kisses him. He boops him on the nose with the giraffe, then with Daniel's soft pink rabbit. Bastiaan is, for a short while, content. 

It's good because Max is so tired he could cry. He tries not to yawn too loudly. The idea of him having to deal with Bastiaan on a plane by himself is awful; at least in the car with Daniel they might both be able to sleep even if the journey takes longer.

When he looks over at Daniel to see if he's still asleep, Daniel's watching him. 

"We woke you up," Max says. 

"Doesn't matter," Daniel says, sitting up. "I don't mind keeping you company. If I make a coffee first can I have a hold of him?"

Max nods. Bastiaan deserves friends. Maybe Daniel won't forget Bastiaan like he forgot Max. 

"Do you want anything?" Daniel asks. He's putting the kettle on for him, but he's pointing at the fridge. "I think there's a Coca-Cola."

Max could do with some caffeine. Daniel brings him a cold can and disappears into the bathroom while the kettle boils. Max listens to the toilet flush as he makes Sophie dance for Bastiaan. Daniel comes back out brushing his teeth as the kettle finishes boiling, and he does something with a mug and the hospitality tray before going back into the bathroom to spit his toothpaste out. Then he brings his mug over to Max's bed, puts it down on the other bedside table, and moves the carrycot out of the way so he can sit down. Then he holds his hands out for Bastiaan. 

"I'm ready," he says. "It's baby time. Give me my baby."

"My baby," Max says, unable to help himself, but he hands Bastiaan over anyway. 

Daniel makes a series of very silly faces at Bastiaan and gives him a little kiss. "Hello, baby. Are you feeling better this morning? After keeping your daddy awake? What a nice smile you've got. A very handsome baby. Yes, you are."

Max shuffles down on the pillows so he can get comfortable and lie down. Daniel winks at him, and Max ignores the spreading warmth in his chest. Daniel had forgotten him after his accident. Everyone had. The only person who'd stayed around had been Max's dad, and he'd resented Max for it, being stuck looking after him after he'd fucked it all up. Everyone had wanted a winner, he'd said, and Max hadn't won. No wonder everyone had left him behind. 

"Don't you look like your daddy, hey?" Daniel goes on, still making silly faces. "Yes, that's right, what a good smile. No wonder he thinks you're a lovely baby. You are, aren't you?" He turns to Max. "Is he too little for peekaboo?"

"I don't know." Max hasn't played it with him. He's not sure how to.

"You do it," Daniel says, angling Bastiaan towards Max. "Hide your face, Max. Just behind your hands. That's right Bastiaan, where's Daddy gone? Where's he gone? Oh, there he is. Peekaboo."

Bastiaan's smiling. Daniel's smiling. 

Max wants to bury his face in the sheets and sob. 

&&&

They go down for an early breakfast in the end. Better to try it while Bastiaan's not fussing, and even though Max in his old life never really bothered with breakfast, he's got more used to having it recently, and since Bastiaan was born he'll take food whenever he can get it. 

They're given a table by the window, and there's space for Bastiaan's car seat pushchair. He starts fussing as soon as Daniel orders his pot of coffee, so Max ends up bundling him up out of the seat and into his arms. So much for investigating the breakfast buffet. 

"Come on," Daniel says. "We'll tag team it. You can hold the baby and we'll go around and you can tell me what you want, I'll make the plate, and then I'll go back around for me."

Max is too tired to dig into that. He ends up trailing Daniel around the breakfast buffet with Bastiaan as Daniel mangles French just to make him laugh. No, Max doesn't want flocon d'avoine with his plate of cheese and bread and salt-flecked butter, but he will take a couple of mini viennoiseries after Daniel makes a garbled attempt to offer him pastries. Daniel must have lived in Monaco too long to be this bad at French, but Max has been told that not everybody finds languages as straightforward as he does. Maybe he's just doing it to make Max laugh. He shepherds Max back towards their table, only stopping along the way to get Max a glass of apple juice.

"Sit down and eat that," Daniel says, before disappearing back to get himself breakfast. He comes back a few minutes later bearing a protein-heavy plate and a bowl of fruit and grains. "Just be glad I didn't treat myself to the yogurt," he says, sitting down and making another stupid face at Bastiaan, who frowns back at him. "You do not want to be in a car with me for eight hours after I've had that." 

Max agrees. He's travelled with Daniel before, and Daniel can make the worst smells known in existence in a confined space if too enthusiastic with his dairy consumption. "No dairy," he says, and brushes a pastry crumb from the top of Bastiaan's head. Bastiaan's crumb-free existence remains a distant dream. It's okay. Bastiaan's favourite place is with Max and Max's favourite place is with Bastiaan. It's worth a few crumbs. 

Bastiaan sneezes. It surprises him so much he ends up looking at Max in frowning outrage. 

"That was a big noise for a little baby," Max tells him. "A noise as big as you are, wasn't it?" 

Bastiaan looks decidedly put out. Max can understand. Everything's very new if you're this tiny. Even things like sneezes are an experience. He lets Bastiaan wrap his little hand around Max's finger. 

"Émeric just messaged me," Daniel says, interrupting Max and Bastiaan. "My lawyer. Our lawyer, I guess. He says he can fit you for a call at eight, which is okay because we can leave after that. Or whenever. If you and Bastiaan need more time I can get us late check out." 

Max blinks at him. His brain takes a moment to catch up. He's too busy thinking about how strange a sneeze must be if you don't know what one is. 

Daniel checks his phone again. "He's been through your contract, he's got some questions. Eight's fine, right?"

"Yes," Max says, even though he hasn't been through the contract yet. This is the thing he wants most in the world that isn't his baby, and he'd forgotten he'd have to go through the contract Cyril had given him last night. His brain feels like fluff. He needs to get better and more on top of shit, but he doesn't know how to swim faster through the mire. Sometimes he feels like he's drowning. "I should have read it last night."

Daniel shakes his head. "You were fucking exhausted." He glances at Bastiaan. "Sorry, baby, but your daddy was."

Bastiaan isn't paying attention. He's starting to chew on his fist. Max is going to have to eat faster and go back upstairs to feed him. That's even less time to read the contract. He used to go into meetings ready to pick things to pieces. This time he's forgotten he even had it to read. He's always been in control before. He's always known what he wanted and what he was willing to give to get it. He's always put the hours in and come out winning. He hasn't felt like that in a long time. That version of himself feels like a stranger. He doesn't know how to find it again. 

"It doesn't matter," Daniel's saying. "Don't worry. He's not going to let you sign anything that's shit, and he's definitely not going to let you sign anything today even if it's perfect. Anyway, you don't have to have read all of it to have an intro call with him. It's just the first conversation."

Max looks down at his plate. He doesn't know what to say. 

"Eat your breakfast," Daniel says. "I know Bastiaan's hungry. Anything you don't get to finish I'll ask them to box up and I'll bring it up for you. It's okay, Max. It's okay."

Max kisses Bastiaan's head. Things haven't been okay for a long time. He doesn't remember when they last were.

"All right," he says finally, and when he looks up, Daniel's watching him. 

"Good," Daniel says, after a moment, and winks at Max's baby. 

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Disagree (able) - (Cregan Stark x Reader)

Summary: You attempt to kill Cregan. It doesn’t quite go according to plan.

Warnings: Enemies to lovers. Cursing. Attempted murder attempt (by you, obvs) Smut.

A/N: A short little drabble (Fic, really, but a drabble to me) that doesn’t even pretend to be serious. I have had such a hard time writing lately, this took me ages.

IT’S LATE. YOU are not supposed to be outside your chambers, but you slip out regardless. The guards barely spare you a glance. These days are amongst the bloodiest and most chaotic ones you have lived, and for someone who survived the Dance of the Dragons, as the commoners are calling it, it is saying something.

A woman, dressed in her best finery, is nothing to worry about. Not any longer. The sides have blurred, and you have heard Cregan Stark has accused Corlys Velaryon himself of poisoning King Aegon, the cunt. Loyalties are so blurred, you are unsure if the man has turned against the Blacks or the Greens. You do not care.

The only thing you care about is the dagger you grasp, hidden inside your sleeves. You have ensured to look prettier than ever, so the guards will believe your ruse.

“Who comes there?” One of them asks, when you approach the chambers where Cregan Stark is residing. You feel the cold bite of the steel you carry under your palm, and the urge to just lash out against the guard, too. He is a Stark’s man through and through, just as the rest of these uncouth northerns. You can tell by the way they speak, not enunciating their letters proper.

“Hush.” You tell him instead, pulling the hood of your cloak back. “Do you want everyone in the Keep to know of this? I come to meet with your lord.”

His eyes widen. Of course they do. You know exactly what this looks like, this secret rendezvous in the middle of the night, inside his chambers. In fact, you are counting on the gossip mill of the castle doing the work for you and providing you with an alibi. You will leave after the deed is done, and they will find him dead in the morning. No one will make the connection between his lover and his executioner.

“Why don’t you announce me, too, while you are at it?” You try your best to sound disgruntled, like any honorable lady would when her secret paramours are about to be exposed. “Ruin us both.”

“Milady, I…” He starts, expression fearful. Surely worrying about what you would tell Cregan.

“Silence. Speak not a word of this to anyone.” You tell him, and open the door as if you had all the right to do it. The man, too stunned to speak, does not attempt to stop you.

You slip inside, and close the door. Under the cover of darkness, you can barely make out his silhouette, laying on the bed, breathing calm and steady. He seems to be unarmed. Good. It will only make your task easier.

You begin undressing. You take off your shoes first, then your hose. Last, you cloak and dress, leaving you with only a simple shift and the dagger you still grip. It’s a terrible thing, sharp as a needle, and twice as prickly. You shudder.

Ugh, if this damn man had just stayed quiet! But no! He had to start an investigation and a trial about the poisoning, and now you were forced to do this dishonorable thing to protect your family.

Careful not to make too much noise, you walk towards the bed. When you reach it, you spend a moment staring at him. He is a big man. You only have one chance to do this. You cannot fail.

Bracing yourself, you get up on the bed and straddle him. You lift the dagger, ready to slit his neck, and lift your other hand to cover his mouth. He is not supposed to be able to scream, if you do it right, but he will bleed like a pig. Or so your brothers said, when you asked them, way too casually, what happened when you slit a man’s throat.

As you brace yourself for the inevitable mess about to stain you, and get yourself ready to cut him, a hand wraps around your bare thigh, hard.

“What in the Seven Hells?” His voice is rough with sleep, pitched low. His hand loosens, as if surprised, before tightening again. “You are a woman.” Cregan whispers, amazement in his tone. His hand goes between your thighs, as if to check…

“Unhand me.” You squeal, in a very undignified tone. It is the wrong move. It stops him from trying to check between your thighs if you are truly a woman, but his hands go to grasp at your hips instead, in an iron grip.

“Lady Tully?” He asks you, sounding even more surprised. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” You tell him, and suddenly remembering that you are armed and dangerous, you press the dagger to his throat. “Quiet.”

“Are you trying to kill me?” Cregan asks, and you can hear the amusement in his tone. You splutter, indignant, but he only huffs out a laugh. “What for? We are supposed to be on the same side.”

“As if you care! You are trying to murder Lord Corlys. Will Oscar and Kermit be next? Traitor.” You snap, pressing the dagger hard enough to draw blood against his neck. “I should kill you where you stand, before you get your chance to do more damage.”

“I am not.. I… Damn Tullys.” He mutters to himself, before he pushes upwards and sideways, and you are thrown into the mattress. He slams your hand two times against the sheets, and your dagger is taken from you, as if you were nothing but a pesky child. You let out a scream of rage, and struggle against his hold, but he clamps a hand over your mouth, muffling you. “Stop it, damn it, you will only hurt yourself, you daft woman.”

At being called daft, a sudden wave of rage overcomes you. The sting of failure is too much for you to bear, and you bite down as hard as you can. You clamp his fingers between your teeth, and remembering a hound you had as a child, you jerk your head savagely, set on doing as much damage as you can.

Now he is the one who screams, cradling his injured hand. You bare your teeth, tasting iron, uncaring that your mouth is probably blood stained. As you go to reach for the dagger, Cregan stops you, grabbing both of your wrists.

“You little beast!” He tells you, and even in the darkness, you can tell his face is contorted into a mask of fury. You wrap a leg around his hip, pull him in, and surprising even yourself, kiss him.

It is violent. Your teeth clash, the taste of anger sharp and tangy on your tongue. But most surprisingly, Cregan kisses back. He kisses like his house’s sigil, all sharp teeth and starved maw. He bites at you, not giving an inch, not forgiving you anything.

His hands move off from your wrists, and go to the straps on your shoulders. He tears the shift off you as if it were nothing, and you feel yourself grow wet at the thought of having to walk back to your chambers without it underneath your dress.

Cregan is quiet as he feasts on your neck and shoulders, making bruises bloom on your skin. In the darkness, every feeling is heightened, and the kisses alone are enough to make you feel delirious. The pain from the bites throbs on your neck, making you reckless, angrier, hungrier.

Your hands go to clutch his shoulders, before you start to tug off his sleep shirt. The two of you struggle for a while, Cregan unwilling to separate himself from your neck, and you desperately trying to disrobe him, until you sneak his hands below his sleep shirt and scratch his sides.

He lets out a groan when you do, and it makes you smile. You tug the damn garment off him, and dedicate yourself to the task of mapping out his chest in the dark. Fascinated by what you can feel, you run your fingers through his chest hair, and then scratch his abs, feeling them jump under your touch.

Your fun is cut short, though when Cregan pins you down with his weight.

“What are you..?” You complain, annoyed that you cannot even see his face to gauge his intentions.

“Gods, woman.” He tells you, as he cups your breasts in his hands. “Can’t you just shut up for a second and enjoy it?”

“Well if you… Ah!” You lose your train of thought when you feel him enveloping your nipple inside his mouth. The warm, wet suction of it makes your eyes fall closed. When he brushes your nipple with his teeth, sending a bolt of what feels like live lighting through your core, you punishingly tug his hair.

Cregan grunts, and lets your nipple out of his mouth with a wet pop. Instead, he gnaws on your ribs, kissing a path down your belly and towards your center. You bite your lower lip to stifle the sounds he is ripping from you, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.

“You are soaked.” He informs you, with what sounds a far too smug tone for someone who was very close to death tonight. In the dark, you reach for his head and tug, placing him where you need him the most. You can feel the vibrations of his laughter against your folds.

Cregan seems not to be a stranger to this because his tongue moves with deadly precision. He seeks your weak spots, and once he finds them, he attacks them with renewed fervor. You attempt to keep as quiet and still as possible, but soon, your hips begin to buck and your legs to tighten around his ears.

So of course, being the cold bastard he is, that is when he stops. This time, you do let out a sound, a squeak of protest that gets cut short when he kisses you. It is much slower and sweeter than the first time, and it makes your heart flutter uncomfortably.

You sit up and reach for him, trying to line the two of you up. Cregan grabs your wrists, stopping you.

“You drew first blood, my lady.” He tells you, as he lines the two of you. “It is only fair that I draw second.” And without any other prelude, or announcement, he thrusts his hips forward and spears you.

You make a face, thankful for the fact that he cannot see it in the darkness. You do not make any sound, but you take a fierce bite to his neck. Cregan groans, making you laugh.

High on your triumph, you attempt to dislodge him, pushing up and trying to get on top. Cregan doesn’t resist, letting you shift your positions until you are on top of him.

“You are very bold for a maiden.” He tells you, his hand grasping in the dark, and finding your hair. The tug makes your back arch.

“I am no longer one, am I?” You ask, as you begin to grind your hips against his.

“Aye, you gave that gift to me.”

“I gave nothing.” You snarl, still grinding. “I took.”

“Then take it. “ He tells you, hand slipping to clasp over your nape. He begins thrusting his hips upwards, preventing you from grinding into him any further. You jerk, furious that he dares dictate the rhythm when it is your turn to be on top, but it is of no use against his strength. The thought that you are completely helpless, despite being in the dominant position, is what sets you even more alight.

With a choked curse and slamming your palm against his chest, you hit your peak, hips bucking wildly. Almost as if you had pushed him over the edge, Cregan lets out a low, throaty groan, shuddering under you.

You remain there, atop him, and suddenly set free from Cregan’s grip. You cannot see his expression, but you are sure he looks as wrecked as you feel, still breathing hard.

Slowly, you lift one leg and dismount. Your thighs ache from the effort, and you can feel his seed running down your thighs. That is going to be a problem, you think, as you sit on the edge of the bed and reach for your ruined shift.

Yet, as you go to get up, a hand, firm but not unkind, lands on your shoulder.

“Come here,” Cregan orders you, and you flinch slightly. Your peak has brought you an unfortunate feeling of clarity. You failed. Not only did you not kill him, alerting him to the plot on his life, but you also ruined yourself. Quite thoroughly, may I add. “Lay with me.”

You pause.

“I just did.” You tell him, in a tone full of loathing. “Rather underwhelming.”

Instead of taking offense, Cregan just barks out a laugh. He pulls you down, next to him, as you splutter in offense.

“I will not turn against your brothers. Nor will I execute your beloved Corlys.” He tells you, as you lay there. His hand brushes your back, soothingly. “On one condition.”

“What?” You snarl.

“You come North with me. As my wife.”

[apollabarnes]

part twenty

evan doesn't talk about it until they get back to the house. bobby's tests are inconclusive. it hasn't happened again. it could just be a pinched nerve; the recommendation is for bobby to keep a pain journal and they'll keep redoing the tests at regular intervals.

"jesus, tommy," evan falls onto his couch, staring at the ceiling. "jesus, what's he going to do?"

"don't go borrowing trouble before it shows up at the door asking for a cup of sugar — my grandmother used to say that," tommy says, catching the look that evan gives him. tommy sits down on the coffee table across from him. "if you stay laying down like that, you won't be able to turn your head for the next two days."

"how do you—"

"evan, that couch is the least comfortable one i've slept on in twenty years."

"i'd be sorry about that except—" evan trails off.

yeah, makes sense. the end of that sentence is tommy blowing everything up. he wouldn't want to relive it either.

"do you want me to go pick up the jeep for you?" tommy asks instead.

evan hesitates. "my next shift is in two days. when do you…"

"two days, i guess."

"you guess?"

"cap told me to take the week."

"are you in trouble?" evan asks, sitting up abruptly.

"i don't think so. they would have told me already," tommy sighs, "it's just vacation time, not unpaid leave."

"but it's because you helped us. that's not fair," evan protests.

"i took off in the middle of a shift with my partner, our helicopter, and no warning. and then i briefly got us arrested by the fbi. it's basically a miracle that nothing went wrong because we weren't available." tommy shrugs, rubbing his thumb over the inside of his wrist.

"and you did that all because athena called you." evan stares at him, eyes wide and awed.

tommy feels itchy. he swallows. "well, she called. but howie's saved my life. and," it's tempting to trail off, to let evan fill in the blanks on his own. he's good at that, except when he's not. except for when tommy does the same and then they're having two different conversations. "and you were there. if there was something that i could do to help, then i had to do it."

"why?" evan pushes.

"you know…" tommy laughs, the sound scraping across his throat. stop deflecting, stop assuming, say something true. "you told me flying into the hurricane was the most fun you'd had since you got struck by lightning. it might have been the best night i had since i left the 118. there was this other night where i kissed a cute guy in his kitchen. that was pretty good too."

"i like this guy so much," tommy continues, before he can chicken out. "it scares me all the time. i can't know that he needs help and not show up. and because i'm so shit scared of losing what i had, i left him before he could leave me."

"tommy."

"yeah, i know. i know you wouldn't have. isn't that scarier?"

evan stares at him and tommy blinks, the corners of his eyes damp.

"were you ever going to tell me that?"

"while your dad and howie and hen are in the hospital? that wasn't exactly the plan."

"but you did have a plan."

"not really? i assumed one day athena would tell me — assuming she didn't get tired of me first — that you'd gotten engaged to some nice woman," tommy musters up a smile for evan. "first and last man but not… the last."

"wow."

when did evan get so close? tommy blinks, evan's breath gusting across his cheek.

"first of all, athena doesn't spend multiple nights with someone she doesn't like. she doesn't even have a partner," evan teases gently. "second of all. i'm really into this guy i know. i haven't met a woman in ages, and certainly not a nice one."

"evan."

"i asked you to stay last night. i want you around all the time, tommy. because it's you. i like you so much." evan squeezes tommy's hand, leans in to brush a kiss over the corner of his mouth. "thank you for staying. thank you for coming back."

part one // part two // part three // part four // part five // part six // part seven // part eight // part nine // part ten // part eleven // part twelve // part thirteen // part fourteen // part fifteen // part sixteen // part seventeen // part eighteen // part nineteen

[psformybss]

Cafecito for the Gringo

drew starkey x bonita!reader

The first thing you register is the weight of his arm across your waist and the slow fan spinning overhead, stirring the warm morning air. Your eyes stay closed for a few more seconds, your cheek buried in the crook of Drew’s neck, his skin warm and faintly sweet from sleep.

He shifts beneath you, murmurs something you don’t quite catch, and tightens his grip like he’s making sure you haven’t slipped away. His breath is steady against your forehead. Outside the window, the city’s already awake—car horns, someone shouting down the block, and music spilling faintly from downstairs. Sounds that feel like home.

You blink your eyes open, let them adjust to the soft light pouring through the sheer curtains. It’s gotta be close to eight, maybe later, but neither of you seems in a rush. You stretch a little, careful not to jostle him too much.

“You awake?” you murmur, your voice still scratchy.

He hums, then mutters, “Barely.”

You laugh quietly, the sound muffled in his chest. “You slept good.”

“I did,” he says, voice hoarse, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Could be the company.”

“You’re just not used to sleeping over a salon,” you tease, nudging your nose into his collarbone.

“Might be that too,” he says, squinting toward the window. “There was bachata playing at like, six in the morning?”

“Merengue,” you correct him, then add, “That was my tía. Saturdays are for deep conditioning and yelling on the phone.”

He snorts, eyes still mostly closed. “Good to know.”

You sit up a little, hair falling over your shoulder as you glance toward the small kitchenette. The idea of coffee is starting to feel urgent.

“I’m gonna make cafecito,” you say, already reaching for your robe off the chair.

He groans. “Please.”

“Be right back,” you promise, brushing your lips over his shoulder before slipping out from under the sheets.

The tile floor is cool beneath your feet. You move quietly through the small space, tying your robe at your waist and flicking on the stove. The cafetera sits where it always does, just a little stained from use, handle a bit loose, but it works like magic. You fill it, add the sugar, and wait for the hiss.

While it brews, you take a second to glance in the mirror above the sink. Your hair’s a mess, your lip gloss from last night long gone, but your skin’s warm and your eyes look happy. You shrug. Good enough.

When the coffee’s ready, you pour it into two tiny cups, the kind your abuela calls “real grown-up cups.” One for you. One for him. You take them both carefully, heading back to the bed where Drew’s still sitting up, sheets tangled around his hips, hair pushed back in that way you like.

He looks up, blinking like he’s just now fully awake. You hand him the cup and smile.

“Cafecito for the gringo.”

He gives you a suspicious look but takes it anyway. “Am I ready for this?”

“Doubt it,” you say, sitting beside him and cradling your own cup in both hands.

He takes one sip and blinks fast. “Okay. Wow.”

“Strong?” you ask, lips twitching.

“Strong’s one word for it.”

You lean into him, resting your head on his shoulder. “It’ll wake you up.”

“Or knock me out again.”

You laugh into your coffee. “You’ll get used to it.”

He lets out a breath, then kisses your temple without saying much. You sit like that for a while, sipping in silence, music still drifting faintly through the floor. The scent of coffee, jasmine, and whatever candle burned out in the middle of the night fills the space.

“I like it here,” Drew says eventually, soft.

You glance up at him. “Even with my tía screaming about foil highlights at 8 a.m.?”

“Especially that,” he says, grinning.

You roll your eyes, but you feel it in your chest, that little squeeze. That warmth.

“You better. ’Cause now you’re part of the circus.”

He shrugs. “Sounds like my kind of circus.”

You don’t reply. Just press your smile into his skin and let yourself enjoy the quiet before the rest of the world creeps in. The cafecito’s already working its magic. And so is he.

[greenxgloss]

Sickly Sweet - Jeon Jungkook (2)

Summary: While setting up a Valentine’s display in your beloved bookshop, Jungkook stopped by to gift you a pair of handmade earrings as thanks for a recommendation—leaving you flustered, blushing, and undeniably smitten. Even Madilyn, your young regular, noticed the spark and teased you about your “pretty boy” visitor, who just might like you more than you think.

Word Count: 1.4k

unedited

February 9th

About four years ago, you were sat in the middle of what you call your book room—a room—as labeled—stacked to the ceiling with nothing but books—hard covers, paperbacks, vintage, hot off the press, dystopian, horror, and romance.

It was your personal collection that you'd accumulated since you could read, and you had the idea to open a store that customers could also borrow from. How hard could it be?

After about a year of securing stable funding, looking for the perfect location, obtaining a business licence, registering with the government and getting insurance on the whole place, you were able to open Books. Yeah that's what you called it; Books. You thought it was sweet and whimsical.

Years of making connections all over the world with other collectors and sellers to broaden your collection, turned supply, and here you are.

You loved being in the shop; it's truly your life and has been for these four long years. You've come to say that you're married to your books, which earns a collective wince or cringe from your friends, who, though, were also just as reserved as you, still had the occasional night out. They have diverse social lives aside from reading a few good books a month, and you respected that, though you were content with being The Reading Connoisseur™.

Today, you were setting up the Valentine's display, accompanied by a romantic novel spread, your favourite genre.

Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre, Paper Towns, Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist, among others placed on the display shelf surrounded by paper hearts and other sweet handmade decorations. While taking a step back to admire your work, you heard the bell on the front door chime.

"That's really pretty," the little girl from the other day said, her small voice floating up from behind you.

You turned, grinning as you placed your hands on your hips. "You think so? Does it captivate you?" you teased, wearing your pride openly.

"For sure," she nodded eagerly, her eyes wide with admiration. She pointed toward the rest of the store, her finger sweeping across the shelves and warm, earthy tones. "It stands out against all the brown."

Her observation made you chuckle softly, your heart swelling at her genuine excitement. She beamed at you, her approval feeling like the sweetest kind of validation.

"So did that book help at all with your worries?" you asked, turning to her. She nodded. "Some for sure. I'm too scared to assume high school would be so breezy." She chuckled.

"you looking for something new today?" you asked as you walked behind the counter. she hummed and glanced around. "I think maybe I'll browse. i have a greek mythology assignment for english class." she sighed, propping herself up against the counter.

"Oh! we have percy jackson in the fantasy section. id say its pretty helpful. a lot easier than a random article online or those lore videos on youtube. i read them when I was your age and got through the first book in two days." you watched her eyes light up and her posture totally shift.

"no way you have percy jackson? theres a girl in my class who brags about having the full collection in pristine condition but she wont let anyone borrow them." she smiled and rolled her eyes recounting the events of class. You giggled. "well you can totally borrow them from me, madilyn." you'd learned her name yesterday when she dropped by after school just to say hi and give you one of her moms freshly made oatmeal cookies. You secretly admitted to her they were your favourites even though anyone else would call you lame.

"okay! ill borrow the first one today." and with that she scurried off to the fantasy section.

The bell chimed, snapping your attention to the door, and there he was—standing in the warm light like some perfectly-timed scene from a romance novel. All tousled hair and soft confidence, Jungkook stepped inside with that familiar boyish grin, his hands once again tucked casually into the pockets of his leather jacket. You could feel your stomach flutter in that annoyingly pleasant way it always did when he showed up unannounced.

“Hey,” he said, his voice like warm honey.

“Hey,” you echoed, trying to keep your smile steady. “How’d your mom like Riders of the Purple Sage?”

“She loved it, actually,” he said, the corners of his mouth lifting just a little more. “But... I’m here for you.”

You blinked. Froze. Your breath caught halfway in your throat.

“I thought I’d get you something, as a thank-you,” he continued casually, placing a small box on the counter between you. “Since you nailed the recommendation and made me look like the perfect son.”

“Whoa, you totally didn’t have to.” Your voice wavered, flustered despite your best efforts to stay grounded. “It’s my job to recommend books. It was a total shot in the dark.”

He shrugged like it was nothing, but his eyes watched you carefully, like he was looking for a reaction. You hated that he flustered you so easily. Or maybe you loved it, just a little.

You reached for the box with hesitant fingers, a tiny part of you bracing for the butterflies to riot again. Inside were the most adorable earrings—miniature wooden Russian dolls, hand-painted in soft pinks and reds, delicate and quirky.

Your heart melted instantly.

“No way,” you breathed out a small, delighted gasp. “These are so cool!”

He chuckled, and your eyes flicked to him in time to catch the way his smile softened, like your happiness was exactly what he’d hoped for.

“I couldn’t find any like the ones you wore last week,” he said, “those jam jar ones? But I figured these were still your style.”

You wore wacky jewelry all the time. Little statement pieces that sparked conversation—like the clumsy university student had said when he’d pointed out your strawberry jam earrings a few days ago. It was your way of keeping the world whimsical.

You were already pulling your current earrings off and slipping the new ones on. “They’re awesome, thank you so much! How do they look?”

“Pretty,” he said, simple and certain—his voice dipped in syrup.

A blush bloomed hot across your cheeks like wildfire. You bowed your head, smiling at the floor, trying to calm the sudden thudding in your chest.

“Seriously, no more gifts,” you said quietly, heart skipping.

He rolled his eyes playfully and backed away like he always did—reluctantly. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

And then he was gone, the bell chiming behind him, leaving your bookshop quiet but your heart anything but.

he brough you a gift. earrings. and it was thoughtful not just him showing off money. oh you swear your heart swelled two sizes.

“Who was that?” Madilyn’s voice piped up from behind a shelf, her head peeking out as she struggled to carry a wobbling stack of Percy Jackson books in her arms like a tiny librarian-in-training.

“Oh, just the prettiest boy I’ve ever seen,” you sighed dreamily, resting your chin in your hand as your gaze lingered on the door he’d just walked out of. The bell had long stopped chiming, but it was still echoing in your mind.

“I can agree with that, is he your boyfriend?” she nodded solemnly, stepping carefully toward the counter and dumping the books in a dramatic thud that pulled you back into reality.

You straightened, cheeks still tingling with the blush he’d left behind. “No,” you chuckled, shaking your head as you tucked your hair behind your ear, “he’s not my boyfriend.”

“But he got you earrings?” she said, raising one very judgmental tween eyebrow.

You turned your head to show her, lifting your hair to reveal the tiny painted wooden dolls dangling from your earlobes.

“Oh, he definitely likes you,” she declared with the certainty of someone who had seen one too many high school dramas.

You let out a laugh, scoffing at the ridiculous idea. “Please. Did you see him? He’s a total stud. Leather jacket, perfect jawline, unfair hair... He’d never go for someone like me.”

Madilyn tilted her head, giving you the kind of look only a 13-year-old could get away with—equal parts sass and wisdom. “Never say never.”

Your heart fluttered a little, but you refused to give in. “You can’t check out more than three books at once, Madilyn,”

➽ Kpop Masterlist ➽ Yoongi Masterlist ➽ Main Masterlist ➽ G-Dragon Masterlist ➽ Buy Me a Coffee

Tags: @koocreampie

A/n: gonna have the next part out tmr just to treat you guys since I've been gone so long lmao

[ladykailitha]

Shut Up and Drive Part 1

Hello and welcome to the little fic that been stewing in my mind off and on since I joined this fandom and have finally starting writing it.

This story was born out of the rogue thought of 'how did Eddie know Steve could drive the RV fast enough to get them the hell out of Dodge?' and the idea that bored rich kids in a small rural town absolutely would go out street racing on the weekends and you have this.

It's technically canon adjacent as you'll see as we lead up to the RV scene, still drifts (I'm punny ;) ) into AU territory later on.

Summary: Eddie does what he needs to to keep the lights on and that means dealing to stupid rich kids with more money than sense. He prefers parties because it's indoors and he's able to slip out the back. But from March until October is when he makes his best money. Because that's when bored, little rich kids race each other for money. And at the end of the season, pink slips. Eddie hates all the leaders of each of the three fractions, Cruise and her Pink Ladies, Titan and his Drift Dynasty, but the one that really grinds his gears is stupid pretty boy King and his even stupider named Asphalt Assassins.

Or in which Carol, Tommy, and Steve all head a street racer crew without the others knowing and no one knowing Steve=King. They're stupid kids, all right?

~

When you live in the middle Bumfuck Nowhere you have very limited options on what to do for fun on the weekends. There’s a movie at the Hawk, the arcade, or if you’re lucky some rich kid will throw a party and invite you.

Or if you’re among the sacred few, you go out street racing. A couple Saturdays a month during the warm months of the year, a group of kids with more money than sense will pick one of the many backroads and race.

Usually they play for money, make bets, that sort of thing. But the weekend before Halloween, they race for pink slips. For the car themselves.

Eddie is always kept in the know because he provides a service these rich kids need. Drugs. Weed is common as is Speed for obvious reasons. Someone else provides the booze, thank god, but Eddie does really well on these nights. He always comes home with enough to keep the lights on and get real food for a week.

He was at the first drag meet of year and after three years of this, he still didn’t know the real name of the “The King”. The best racer and MC. He was a vision in cropped tops and cut off jeans barely long enough to cover his ass. He wore a baseball cap and dark sunglasses, even at night.

The dude never raced the same car twice; having won so many his first year, they were forced to only have the finale race for pink slips.

He was also the biggest pain in the ass, according to Eddie. He never smoked weed, did any of the harder drugs, nor let anything other than water pass his lips. He had the biggest and deepest pockets but he never bought anything from Eddie. And that stinginess rubbed him the wrong way.

This was going to be the year he made the King fall from his Ivory tower to partake of his goods.

He pulled up to the spot behind the Hess Farm. There was talk that the old man was thinking of selling, so the Dragsters with their three factions, The Asphalt Assassins, The Pink Ladies, and The Drift Dynasty had decided to use it one last time before it was sold to someone with actual fucking hearing.

The King was already there with the rest of the Asphalt Assassins. They had all taken on their King’s disguise of cut off shorts, crop tops, sunglasses and baseball caps. Though their shorts weren’t nearly as short as their leader’s. The King was the only one who wore white, the rest wore black.

Suddenly there was a roar behind him and turned to see the second best team, The Pink Ladies, complete with their pink jackets, high heels, and bandannas over their faces. Their leader Cruise wore a pink tribly with a black band. She looked like Sandy at the end of “Grease” only all in pink.

Then the final faction roared up to the field. The Drift Dynasty. All the members were kids of racers who had raced back in the 50s. Even the two girls. These racers wore red hoodies and black sunglasses. For fuck’s sake they even had their handles printed on the back of the hoodies like sports jerseys. Their leader, Titan was a hard-nosed asshole and Eddie just might hate him more then the King.

Eddie took a brief moment to scan the horizon for cops and then he hopped out of the van. He walked past the other two racing teams as if they didn’t exist. Because as far as he was concerned they would hit him up at any time during the night and he would make bank off of them. No his attention was solely on King.

“Your majesty,” he said with an exaggerated bow. “I’ve come to peddle my wares.”

King snorted. He was currently leaning against metallic purple Dodge Charger, cooler than the frigid night air. Not that he looked like he felt it. He was in his signature Daisy Duke’s and crop top. Sure he had leather jacket on, but it was draped so that it was falling off his shoulders. It looked artful and God did it make Eddie’s blood boil.

“Just announcing my arrival,” he said, wagging his eyebrows. He opened the lunch box and presented it to King. “Anything that tantalizes your majesty?”

King shook his head. “Nothing you have will ever pass these lips, so you best take your ‘wares’ elsewhere, man.”

“I’ll find something that will,” Eddie murmured with a knowing smirk. “Just wait.”

“Keep dreamin’, you dork,” King said, shaking his head fondly. “Go on, your real customers are waiting.”

Eddie straightened up and turned to the crowd. “I’ll be at my van and you know the prices. Anything you want. Until I run out.” He lopped back to his van to watch the races.

The first race was always the most exciting. It was a three-way race between the leaders. The King didn’t always win, but Titan always lost. Rumor had that Titan was the son of the best racer in the game twenty years ago and was always throwing money at the best upgrades money could buy.

Not that it did Titan any good.

He had no instinct on when to use the tools available to him. He boost too early and burn out before the finish line or he would drift when he should slide. Shit like that. Unlike the King. Whose instinct was called a second sense. But Cruise was the one who could keep up with him. She had style and something to prove.

She had gone up to Titan asking for a chance to drive but he laughed in her face. He sure as hell wasn’t laughing every time she passed him.

Cruise leaned against her bright pink Camero, waiting for the men to decide to join her. Titan stepped out of his suped up black and grey Mustang and Eddie shook his head. The oversized hoodie looked ridiculous on the dude’s short frame.

The King strolled over to join them and the hunger in Titan and Cruise’s glances could not be covered by their sunglasses.

“You bet get in your ride, King,” Titan sneered. “Don’t want you freezing off those assets, now do we?”

“Like you could get my engine running, Titan,” King bitched back. “Pick a lane and stick to it, asshole.” He shook Cruise’s hand. “I look forward to racing you this year.”

“It’s always a pleasure, King,” Cruise purred. “Maybe this is the year I get you to step into my ride.”

King looked up and down and Eddie wanted to gag. Hetros are the worst.

“Maybe it will be,” King said with a smirk and then pulled her close to her ear and whispered something, Eddie couldn’t hear.

But when Cruise stepped back, her whole posture was awkward and embarrassed. Which really made him wonder what King told her.

King smirked and stepped back, too. He looked over at Titan. “You actually going to put your money where you mouth is this season or are you going to go crying back to Daddy, like you and the rest of the Dynasty do every year.”

Titan bristled and would have launched himself at King if a couple of his cronies hadn’t held him back.

King crossed his arms in front of his chest, popping one hip. “You want to bring it, Titan? Show me in your car, not your fists.”

Titan brushed his cronies off and straightened his clothes. “One day, King, you’ll lose your crown just like that loser Steve Harrington.”

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say as King grabbed Titan’s shirt and hauled him until their faces were close together. Eddie wasn’t even sure he saw King grab the other guy it was that fast.

“You can’t even insult me without bringing someone else into your shit,” King snarled. “Put up or shut up.” Then he pushed Titan away from him and turned on his heel, striding away from the crowd and to the car he would be racing.

Eddie licked his lips. He wasn’t a car guy, sure he knew his way around an engine but he couldn’t tell you the difference between a Mustang and a Camero. But the car King got into was a sleek black thing that light seemed to bend around. Fuck, Eddie wouldn’t mind taking that baby out for a little spin. It certainly got his engine running.

King rolled up to the starting line, Titan and Cruise pulling along side him. One of the Pink Ladies held a white handkerchief in the air as the rest of the Dragsters made bets on who would win the opening race.

The engines revved as the crowd cheered. The flag went down and they were off the line, muscling for rank.

There was a clear winner, as King edged out ahead and stayed there as Cruise and Titan fought hard for second place.

And in a move that had Eddie cackling so hard he fell out of his van, was Titan coming in second. Cruise got out of her car and cursing threw her hat on the ground, fists clenched in rage.

Whatever King had said to her before the race had gotten into her head and caused her to lose the race. It was glorious to watch. King liked to pull that shit. He’d whisper something in his opponent’s ear and he would get into their head. King always won those races.

The night continued as normal, Eddie doling out the drugs and charging two to three times his normal rates to really rake it in. When someone would complain, Eddie would call it the party tax. It wasn’t his fault they were too stupid to buy during the week, they got what they got and if they kept complaining he would stop selling at these little races and woo-boy wouldn’t that upset the masses.

They would pay the cost and then make sure to pre-buy during the week. Only if they were assholes and skinflints. There weren’t many, but there were a few. Titan was one of these. Eddie had figured out the names of the pre-buyers and their little personas so he could make sure and change them even more when they came crawling to him to get another hit when they blew through the stash they had.

But for Titan, or Tommy Hagan? He would quadruple his prices to at least put a dent in the money Daddy gave him for suping up his car. Because even though Titan never won against King, against almost anyone else, that decked out Mustang of his was not street legal in any sense of the phrase.

Finally he sold his last baggie of weed and forced to close up shop. He checked the crowd and counted numbers, satisfied that everyone was boozing and drugging it up, he stowed the cash in his hiding spot in his steering column and then grabbed a beer.

Eddie raised it to signal that he had closed shop and after this beer he was going home. It was a safety measure to make sure he didn’t get jumped for the cash. If everyone saw him leave then there would be no one to jump him.

He felt a prickling on the back of his neck like someone was watching him. He turned around, but the only person behind him was King sprawled out on the hood of his car and it was hard to tell where his eyes were with those ridiculous shades.

King must have caught him staring because he suddenly smirked and jumped to his feet. Eddie gulped as King made his way over.

“You enjoying the show, Munson?” King asked, licking the top row of his teeth slowly.

“Not much of sports fan of any stripe, Your Majesty,” Eddie said with a dramatic bow, “racing included. I’m here to make money and nothing else. I prefer parties because at least I don’t freeze my ass off, even if the music is better.”

King raised his eyebrow. “It’s too late for your ass, dude. It’s a lost cause.”

“Well not all of us are born your assets,” Eddie said with dimpled smile. “I would rather not lose the rest of mine.”

King burst out laughing. “You’re something else.” He shook his head and walked over to one of the Pink Ladies to flirt with her.

Eddie shook his head and drank his beer, suddenly in a hurry to leave. Because there was no way King was flirting with him, right?

Because there was no world in which any of these rich toffs where interested in him for anything that what he sold them.

Okay, so King never bought from him and as far as he knew, whoever the guy was during the week, didn’t either. So it was possible that whoever he was might be interested in a handjob or a blowjob in the back of his van.

King’s laugh, pulled him out of his thoughts and Eddie looked over. King was leading the girl back to his car. He shook his head. There was no way King was interested in that with him either.

Eddie got into his van and drove off, grateful that the races weren’t every weekend so he wouldn’t have to deal with King more than he had to.

But the fact that King had caught him looking and instead of beating the shit out of him for it, it really felt like he had been flirted with.

Which even if he was interested, there was no way that a have would mix with a have-not. It just didn’t happen outside of movies and books.

But that smirk followed Eddie all the way home.

~

Tag List: TEN SLOTS OPEN

1- @itsall-taken @estrellami-1 @zerokrox-blog @sadisticaltarts @dolphincliffs

2- @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @irregular-child @cryptid-system @kultiras

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji @dreamercec @blondie1006

5- @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @genderless-spoon @fearieshadow @thesecondfate

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

[blueishspace]

Lucky Life session 3

Blueishspace (He/Him) + @a-sociopath-do-your-research aka Oli (Xe/Void/It): 💛💛

@bendy8me aka Bendy (She/Her) + @juno0n aka Juno (She/Her): 💚💚💚

@raeistrying aka Rae (She/Her) + @silverorchideon aka Orchid (He/They): 💚💚💚

@communistcatboi aka Catboi (He/They) + @theblackglitch aka Glitch (She/Her): 💚💚💚

@kazanfamily aka Kazan (He/They) + @max05nb aka Max (They/Them): 💚💚💚

@twisttea aka Twisttea (She/Her) + @cowgirlginger aka Ginger (She/Her): 💛💛

@italianbiscuit aka Manu (She/Her) + @lizzlylou aka Liz (They/Them): 💚💚💚

@thatoneloudintrovert aka Floracica (She/Her) + @not-ready-for-gaster aka Bee (She/They): 💛💛

@whats-she-gonna-post-next aka Starfall (She/They) + @frostywisp aka Fros (They/Them): 💚💚💚

@the-local-pineapple aka Tessa (She/Her) + @spectresharmony aka Ari (She/Her): 💚💚💚

@astoriagalaxy aka Astoria (All) + @3-pots-of-soup aka Soup (Any): 💚💚💚

Session 3 time!

This is the wheel for this session:

Twisttea, Ginger, Glitch and Catboi meet up. Glitch and Ginger keep bonding over hating Kazan for the whole wolf stunt. Twisttea and Catboi just... akwardly third and fourth wheel the two for a while before discussing a possible alliance.

Tessa and Ari visit the Fros/Starfall/Bendy/Juno group...it doesn't go well, they attempt to scam them, they get into a discussion, they are forced to leave.

Kazan pranks their allies Manu and Liz by re-arranging all the items in their shared base. The other two end up not noticing tho as their chests were never organized to begin with.

Orchid and Rae attempt to find some resources by mining but find themselves falling in the deep dark and barely manage to survive.

Oli accidentally looks an enderman in the eyes, void don't get to safety in time and get mauled to death. Blue (Me) dies to the soulbound immediately after. The game from now on changes. ❤️ (Murder and Trap chance increases)

Soup and Astoria scam Floracica with an offer of liberating her from her soulbound, they don't actually have plans to get rid of Bee, they are lying.

Max encounters Bee, they are quick to offer her the powdered snow. Bee refuses.

Glitch is sparated from the others as night comes and is shot by a skeleton too many, dying and bringing Catboi down with her. 💛💛

Manu, knowing Liz is going to be the first target for the red lives considering previous...horse shenanigans... And begins trapping their base.

Kazan visits Blue and Oli's base in an attempt to steal from them, the two catch him in the act and a good aimed shot from Oli takes their first life. Max respawns immediately after. 💛💛

Ari and Tessa meet up with Twisttea and Ginger to discuss an alliance but it doesn't go anywhere as the two are afraid of the others turning red in the near future.

Astoria stumbles onto Bee, they take pity on her and offer them an alliance. Bee is unsure but agrees.

Soup meanwhile is absolutely killing it in the Nether, like genuinely getting all kinds of things...including 2 wither skeleton heads.

Floracica manages to do something no one else could, she gets to the deep dark and steals the enchanting table.

Juno and Starfall separate from their respective soulbounds as a safety precaution, telling them to eat food if their health lowers, as they venture into the Nether once again. They meet Soup which tries and fails to hide the wither heads.

Fros and Bendy, meanwhile, dig tunnels under the map and accidentally find the already looted mineshaft. They set up a secret emergency base inside.

Max attempts to get in the deep dark to find the enchanting table only to discover it has already been taken. He does find a skeleton spawner however.

Orchid and Rae stay behind to fortify their base.

Middle of session event (Ooh lore, big wow #2):

Kazan has been blessed by the all seeing eye with regeneration for the rest of the session.

Fros goes to Liz and Manu's base but accidentally springs the trap they placed earlier this session and gets blown up taking Starfall down with them. 💛💛

Manu panics and when cornered pretends she didn't place the trap and that instead it was Bee who went insane by not having a soulbound.

Tessa, while mining, finds Fros and Bendy's secret emergency base and, without knowing who it belongs to, robs them blind.

Soup encounters Glitch as she's stealing from Kazan's base, they try to stop her but fails and inadvertently ends up killing one of Kazan's wolves. Glitch then kills the other before running off.

When Kazan reads the death messages he's sneakily following Catboi, when they do read them they get angry and attack Catboi before setting fire to Glitch and Catboi's base.

Astoria, while deep in the mines, finds a creeper spawner which immediately turns into a very rough gunpowder farm.

Starfall sees Kazan as they are running from the burning remains of the base they just burnt. They offer him protection with ulterior motives.

Bee ventures into the nether and manages to get a wither skeleton head, Floracica sees them and accuses Bee of being insane and wanting to summon a wither.

Bendy attempts a late monopoly on sugarcane by stealing It from Soup and Astoria, unaware that they have more on them and that Oli and Blue have some too.

Astoria meanwhile is done with mining and is instead fishing.

Juno finds and kills Catboi's zombie villager before he gets a chance to cure him.

Ginger and Twisttea meet up with Catboi who seeks to strenghtem the alliance against Kazan, Twisttea is now the only member without some reason to hate Kazan.

Oli manages to corner Liz, Oli and Liz have a long fight and when Oli is amost dead Blue joins in as well killing Liz and with the soulbound Manu.💛💛

Orchid explores the Nether with very little success.

Rae and Max go in the Nether soon after Orchid and manage to find a curse of binding book which they use to prank Orchid by binding leather leggings to him.

[meelkiewee]

Laimay || Day 12

I'll be honest, this and the one I'll use for 'flowers' were already published sketches in the doodle requests, but it's your opportunity to look at them again. Aren't you so lucky? ahah rip

To make up for it, I'll share with you a little storytime I have about them after canon. The 'nightmare' prompt is actually very fitting with my headcanons.

After Laios becomes king and begs invites her to stay at the castle they, of course, get separate rooms. Both of them start getting nightmares about their dungeon lord days. Laios is very bothered but just tries to go normally about his day without saying anything. [my Golden Nightmares animatic fits here]

Marcille, instead, after yet another nightmare, just bursts into crying and goes to knock on Laios' door in the middle of the night. He opens the door, sees her in tears, and asks what happened. They sit on his bed and they discover that both are having a hard time sleeping, opening up to one another and sharing their fears. After that, they very tiredly fall back to sleep right there.

The morning after, they wake up very late but finally quite rested and happy about the shared experience.

That night and some nights after, they go back to their respective rooms to sleep, but every time they still get nightmares until once again Marcille knocks at Laios' door. He's very sleepy, so he just lets her in and they go to sleep together.

The first thing he does in the morning is asking servants to please put a spare bed in his quarters and tells Marcille that she can sneak in any time she can't sleep. This is the second time Marcille's heart skips a bit (the first one being him using his power to protect her from the Canaries, first act as a king). And so she frequently just sneaks in and sleeps in his room until they just make it a habit to say good night and good morning to each other from one bed to the other. [my Good Morning Marcille comic fits here] There's more that happens after but I'm still thinking about it. When the day comes, I'd love to make a timeline with all my headcanons for them<3 I just love them with a passion, you know? <3<3<3

[wendichester]

hey love your writing sm 🖤🖤

do you think you could maybe do a fic where little brother!reader and Sam and dean are hanging out after a case, maybe Cas too, and they have a little bonfire and drinking beer and dean is playing on his guitar and they're just relaxed and a bit sore and comforting each other and just rly fluffy and bonding time

⋆𐙚 ₊ ° ashes and chords,

summary. post-hunt bonding moments with the brothers are always the best.

pairing. sam + dean winchester x lil bro!reader ft. castiel genre. fluffy fluff

wordcount. 526

notes / warnings. mild alcohol use, light language, post-case fatigue.

The fire crackles like it’s got something to say, and honestly, it probably does—too bad none of you speak fluent bonfire. You’re tucked in your hoodie like a burrito, nursing a half-warm beer, watching flames eat through logs with the same kind of lazy hunger you had for that roadside diner an hour ago.

Dean’s perched on a camping chair like it’s a throne, guitar in his lap, fingers lazily picking at strings. Not a real song—just little half-formed melodies that live in the space between words. It fits the mood perfectly.

Sam's stretched out on the ground, back against a log, legs all long and annoyingly relaxed. He’s got that post-hunt stiffness in his shoulders, same as you, but he’s smiling like his bones didn’t just get rattled by a wendigo in rural Iowa.

Even Cas showed up. Which is rare. He’s standing off to the side like someone invited him to the wrong party but he's too polite to leave. His eyes are fixed on the fire, like he's trying to understand it. You think maybe he is.

“You know,” Dean says, not looking up from his guitar, “we should do this more often.”

Sam hums, tipping his beer toward the stars. “You say that every time.”

“And I mean it every time.” Dean strums something that sounds suspiciously like “Take It Easy” and grins. “Don’t be a smartass.”

You snort, legs curled under you on the blanket. “That’s your thing, isn’t it?”

Dean mock gasps. “You wound me.”

Cas tilts his head. “He appears unharmed.”

Sam bursts out laughing, and even you crack up because God, Cas is funny without trying and Dean looks like someone just stole his car and insulted his music taste.

There’s a beat of silence. Comfortable. The kind of quiet that only comes after blood and bruises and making it out alive. You feel it settle in your chest, that deep, rare kind of peace that sneaks up on hunters when the world isn’t ending for five consecutive minutes.

Dean plays softer now, almost absent-mindedly. A lullaby for hunters. “You did good today,” he says, just like that, quiet but firm.

You blink. “We all did.”

“Still. You held your ground. I'm proud of you.”

And man, that—that hits different. You glance away like you're not trying to blink it back. Sam nudges your knee with his boot, a silent I heard that too, little bro.

Cas sits down finally, awkward and stiff like he’s still learning how to do the whole “hangout” thing. He watches you for a second. “You were brave.”

That’s what gets you. Not the praise. Not the beer. Not the fire or the guitar or even Dean being sentimental. It’s Cas, looking at you like you matter. Like you mean something.

“Thanks,” you murmur, voice scratchy. “Means a lot.”

Dean starts a new tune, familiar and slow. It’s Simple Man. He doesn’t sing the words, just plays them. You know them anyway.

And in the middle of the night, surrounded by your weird little found family, your body sore and your heart full—you let yourself breathe.

For once, you let yourself feel safe.

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