#GOD THIS IS THE SECOND TO LAST PROMPT THIS IS *WILD*

[doctorbrown]

DOCTOBER '23 ⸺ 「 30 / 31 * SUNSET 」

July 31, 1992

❝God, Doc, I'm so nervous. Am I supposed to be this nervous?❞ Marty has been pacing back and forth for the last ten minutes, his anxiety spiking, and none of Emmett's previous attempts thusfar have managed to still his feet or calm the storm brewing over his head.

He understands the nerves, having felt them when he had decided to propose to Clara, fearing he may have been too forward and misreading the entire situation or she would, when presented with the opportunity, turn him down for his age or his appearance or the fact that the life he currently had was nothing glamorous, certainly not for a brilliant woman who had her entire life ahead of her.

Clara had quashed every single one of his own worries the moment they arose.

❝Marty. Marty!❞ Emmett stops him in his tracks with both hands on his shoulders and when Marty finally looks up, clarity returning the sharpness to the blue of his eyes, he looks exactly like his seventeen-year-old self again, far younger than his years. ❝Of course it's natural to be nervous, but try and relax. Take a few deep breaths. I can assure you that everything is on schedule, Jennifer is not going to stand you up, and things will go just fine.❞

Marty throws a look at him that says how can you be so sure? when he's feeling so uncertain about everything, and Emmett is certain he's running through possibilities in his head that are so highly improbable they could never happen in this timeline.

He squeezes his shoulders and when Marty follows his advice and takes a few long, slow breaths, Emmett switches to straightening the tie his worry has knocked askew.

❝You two love each other. There's nothing that's going to change that. Everybody is nervous on their wedding day and before other pivotal moments in their lives. The sun is setting on this chapter of your life as you take the next step forward. But I promise you that once you step out there and you see Jennifer walking down the aisle, you won't feel nervous anymore.❞

❝You're right, Doc, I know you are. It's just; it's really happening. I'm about to marry Jennifer. She's going to be Jennifer McFly. We're gonna spend the rest of our lives together.❞

❝So then what's the problem?❞

Marty shakes his head and fumbles for the words to explain the frenzy stirring in his chest. Emmett is unflappable even in the wake of the torrent of Marty's emotions and Marty doesn't know where he'd be right now without him. ❝I—the rings?❞

❝Safely in the possession of the ring-bearers.❞

❝The music?❞

❝The band is all present and accounted for.❞

❝My family?❞

❝Seated beside Detective Parker.❞

❝The photographers? Jen wanted to make sure we got lots of pictures.❞

❝Marty, you already spoke to them, remember? They had taken photos of us not long ago.❞

He shakes his head. ❝That's right; it feels like it happened yesterday or in a dream or something.❞

Emmett gently guides him over toward the long mirror and places him directly in the centre of it. Marty takes a moment to look them both over, dressed sharply in their well-pressed black suits. His hair is freshly cut and styled and Marty smiles at the way his best friend had gone through the trouble of wrangling his hair into something neat and well-kept rather than the wild mane it often was.

Clara almost certainly had a hand in that, he thinks, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he hopes she can hear his thank you.

❝Doc? Can I, uh, ask you something?❞

Emmett nods, using the mirror to now fuss over his own appearance while he still has the chance. As best man, it was important everything be in place, and the setup and smooth operation of the wedding was far more important than his own personal appearance. Clara reminded him time-and-time again of his tendency to get too-caught up in whatever endeavour has his attention, and she had reminded him before they left to make sure his appearance didn't suffer as he ran about aiding in the day's proceedings.

Now that they have a moment and less than an hour until it all begins, the last thing he wants is to add even the slightest bit more to Marty's plate for him to worry over.

His black suit is still wrinkle-free, his hair has yet to adopt a life of its own and begin to fly every which way, and no matter how hard he looks, he can't find any part of his appearance that needs fixing.

❝I think maybe I'm also afraid that once we get married, everything's gonna change, you know? That things are going to have to be different now that we're husband and wife. I guess what I'm wondering is after you and Clara got married, did things feel all that different between you? Did things change a lot when she became your wife?❞

Emmett hums. ❝There was an adjustment period after the fact when it came to calling her my wife. As you know, I never imagined such a thing for myself. As a scientist, I was already married to science, as it was, and the idea of falling in love, let alone at first sight, was simply nonsense. The stuff of romance novels.❞

Marty actually finds himself able to manage a grin as he thinks back to the memory of seeing the doc wide-eyed and tongue-tied in a way he never imagined possible. ❝No kidding. I've never seen you look the way you looked at Clara before. You had it bad, Doc, right at the start.❞

❝Not unlike the way I've seen you look at Jennifer over the years. In fact, I think I still recall the way you looked when you mentioned her in 1955.❞ Marty's cheeks tinge pink.

❝But even after being officially married, our relationship didn't change. It became a little more proper for us to be together the way we were—as you may or may not know, perceptions were very different back in the nineteenth century, and as Clara was Hill Valley's only schoolteacher, it was necessary for her to maintain a very good image, as she was a role model for the children—but we didn't treat each other any differently.❞

They had already been married in all but name by the time their wedding day came around. All that was left was to make it official, sign the documents, and appease everyone else's old-fashioned sensibilities.

❝By that time, we were already practically living together. I wasn't rich by any means, but we had Clara's home and the stable which I had converted into living quarters, we were both working, and I occasionally assisted with some of the school lessons. She was my confidante, the one person with whom I could share the truth of my existence with, and she had embraced the idea of time-travel and life in the twentieth century so quickly that even I was astounded.❞

Emmett turns away from the mirror to properly look at his friend.

❝So I suppose that was a very long way to say no, nothing changed after the fact. Other than the entire town openly wondering when we would finally start a family of our own.❞

That prompts a groan out of Marty. ❝Guess I'll have to be ready for my parents to start asking when we'll be giving them grandkids. Got another question for you, Doc.❞

Emmett checks one of his wristwatches. ❝Sure; we still have a little time before the ceremony is scheduled to begin and we have to get into position.❞

❝What was your wedding day like? Since I didn't get to see it, I'd really like to know.❞

[blindmagdalena]

Night Terrors

1.6k homelander x reader. established relationship. pure comfort fic. remaster of this old prompt. very mild spoilers for s4 if you squint. mostly just wanted to self-soothe with some comfort/cuddle fic. gif credit.

It's been decades since Homelander last stepped foot in The Bad Room, but when he wakes from a nightmare of it in your shared bed, it's as if he never left.

Most of the nights you spend with Homelander are peaceful. 

Tonight is not most nights.

The scream that wakes you from a dead sleep is guttural, barely human. Homelander is sitting upright, frenzied and wild-eyed, the ocean blue of them obscured by crimson glow. You're not even sure that he sees you through it when he looks at you. He's panting like he just ran a marathon, and the comforter is ripped cleanly in half, the two sides strewn on either side of him. "John," you call softly, reaching out to touch his arm, but he jerks away from your hand like you've burned him. "Don't fucking touch me," he hisses, wrapping his arms around himself. Sometimes he is small during these fits, curled in on himself, begging you to make it stop. Not tonight. Tonight he is another self, spitting rage and violence through remembered agony. A cornered animal. "I'll fucking kill you!" "John," you say again, pleading. You know he isn't talking to you. He's speaking to the ghosts of his past. "You're in our bed. You're with me. I would never hurt you. I love you, John." His name is a double-edged sword. It cuts clean through to something at the core of him in a way that “Homelander” doesn’t. Each use of it acts like a shock to his irregulated system.

You keep your hands outstretched, but you don't touch him. You show him that you aren't holding anything. Not a pen, not a notepad, not a needle. You show that you don't mean him any harm. 

God knows he's suffered enough. With the sound of your voice, the red glow of his eyes gradually dims, flickers, and then finally it goes out entirely. He's still panting, hands moving slowly down his arms, his torso, checking himself for injury. Though his body bears no scars of the pain he’s endured, his mind knows exactly where each one of them would be. Bit by bit, you watch him come back to himself. He looks around the room, taking in the evidence of your truth. Framed photos, décor, the life you’ve built together. It isn't a concrete dungeon. It isn’t a lab. It isn’t an incinerator. It's home. "Fuck," he says quietly, hiccupping the word into his palm. He says it again, louder, screwing his glassy eyes shut. The third time he says it, it's nearly a sob. It’s agony to wait, but you don’t touch him before he’s ready. You fist the bedsheets, you don’t stop talking. I’m here. I’m right here. I love you. You’re safe. You’re not sure if it’s minutes or seconds before he reaches for you. All you know is you act immediately. You move swiftly up on your knees, climbing over the ruined blankets to take him into your arms, pulling his head to rest against your chest, bringing his ear close to the beat of your heart. You hush him while you work to unstick the words from your throat, unable to help the tears that well in your eyes.

The fear and misery in him is so palpable, you nearly feel as if it’s your own. He wraps his arms around you without hesitation, pulling you to sit sideways in his lap as he weeps against you. It's taken a long time to reach this point. He used to swallow it back like bile, adamant for the longest time that you not see this side of him, this aspect of himself that he thinks ugly, imperfect, broken. You fought for this. As you hold him through these bone-deep sobs, it shatters you that it's taken him this long for him to find someone who would. "You're safe," you whisper, battling to keep the tears from your voice. "You're home. You're with me. You're safe. I love you so, so much." He rocks back and forth, choking on his sobs. “I could feel it,” he tells you, the words barely escaping the clench of his teeth. “It hurt. Every second of it, and they just–they all just watched.”

You close your eyes, tears rolling down your cheeks and disappearing into the softness of his hair. You kiss the crown of his head again and again, combing your fingers through his hair where it’s damp with sweat and your own tears. “You’re safe now,” you whisper, swallowing the lump in your throat. It isn’t enough, but these words and touches are all you have to offer him against the torment of his childhood.

His grip on you tightens. It wouldn’t take much for him to snap you in half.

That scare you? He’d asked you once. How easily I could break you?”

No, you admitted. It makes me appreciate how hard you try not to. It takes time for his breathing to even out. His hold softens, but he doesn't relinquish you. For as terrible as the nightmares are, it's the shame he experiences in the aftermath that often requires the most care. 

You rub firm circles on his back with one hand while cradling the back of his head with the other, trailing butterfly kisses along his temple, his forehead, down to his cheek. Any part of him you can reach, you kiss, murmuring quiet assurances in between, as if to imbue him with each word. Eventually, the rocking stops. He's breathing more steadily now, arms encircled firmly around your waist. He gives a shaking sigh. "Sorry," he whispers, voice strained. That's a word in his vocabulary that rarely comes up, but when it does, it is always drenched in shame. He hates himself for this. "Don't," you whisper, carding your fingers through his hair. You sniff back your tears, letting out a breath. "I asked for this. I begged you for this," you emphasize, earnest. You cup his face, angling him to look up at you. "Let me do this for you. Please. You have nothing to be ashamed of." He stares at you with large, watery blue eyes. The whites are red, strained by the force of his grief, his durability tested only by his own power. In his gaze you see damage done to him that may never heal, but your words settle over invisible scars like a soothing balm. It’s that very look of vulnerability that has driven you to this depth of love. You know his violence, his viciousness, but so too do you know the fragile man it protects.

Most of all, the scared boy beneath it all.

His grip on you flexes, his jaw clenched. The nature of your insight into him is both a blessing and a curse to him. He cannot hide from you. You know his shame, and despite how deeply he needs your compassion, your understanding, it’s something he has to bleed for every time. He’s perpetually torn between his desperation to be your perfect hero, and his soul-deep yearning to be safely vulnerable. 

If you have to, you'll spend the rest of your life convincing him that he can have both.

Finally, his shoulders sag. "I love you," he says, quietly defeated by your warmth. "I'll never hurt you. Ever." You recognize the plea in his words. He's terrified that someday it will be too much. You’ll see what everyone else sees, and your love will be tainted–destroyed–by your inevitable fear of him. You hope one day that he’ll understand why that will never happen. Someday the depths of your love will soak in as deep as the misery of his past, and he’ll be able to forgive himself for the human way his god’s heart bleeds. "I know. I know that.” You kiss the top of his head, still rubbing his back, taking your hand away only to swipe the tears from your face. “I love you, too. Every part of you."

Even the parts you hate. Gingerly, he lifts you just enough to lay you back down on the bed. He wastes no time cuddling back in against you, burrowing his face into the crook of your neck. The bedding is ruined, but he runs warm enough that you hardly notice the absence of cover while he’s holding you. Your legs tangle with his, bodies slotting together easily. He nuzzles as if he can worm his way closer than skin to skin. If you could, you’d open your ribcage to welcome him inside. He could eat your heart if it kept his beating another day.

"Will you... talk me to sleep?" He asks, threads of shame lingering in the request. The tension has drained away, leaving him vulnerable and exhausted. His blinks are slow, the curve of his lips mournful. "Of course," you whisper, smoothing your hand up and down his back. This isn’t the first time you’ve talked him back to sleep, and you doubt it’ll be the last. Sometimes you tell him the plot of a book as best you can recall, other times it's random anecdotes from your life. Sometimes it's complete nonsense. To him, it doesn't matter what you say. All that matters is that when he does finally drift back into sleep, it's your voice that safeguards him there. 

Gladly, he rests his head back down on your chest, closing his eyes with a rumbling sigh while your nails drag along his scalp. You cradle him there, savoring the warmth of him as it seeps into the marrow of your bones, the weight of him grounding you.

You tell him stories until sleep finds him. Even then, you continue to speak until your voice frays and you can no longer keep your eyes open. You speak and speak and speak hoping that somehow, in some small way, you can help make up for the years he spent with only his own voice for comfort.

[cevansbrat0007]

Quickie

Summary: You get caught up in the moment while dropping off dinner to your favorite bounty hunter.

Warnings: Mature Themes, Pure Smut, Ari Being A Menace, Unprotected Sex,Mature Themes, Ari Being A Menace, Semi-public Sex, Manhandling, Ass Grabbing, Ass Slapping, Cursing, Minors DNI

A/N: Part of my Sweet Renegades Series. Semi-proofread, not beta'd. All mistakes are my own. Likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated. Thanks for reading!

When you stopped by the precinct this evening, all you’d intended to do was drop off a home cooked meal to a certain bounty hunter. You had no idea what was in store for you the moment you’d walked back to the tiny corner office they'd set aside for him rocking the pink floral babydoll dress and jean jacket you’d dug out from the back of your closet.

If you had, then maybe you would’ve at least had the thought to stretch. Also, you probably would’ve worn different shoes. Perhaps you would’ve gone with a pair of flats instead of wedge heels.

And lastly, in favor of decorum, you would’ve left your man’s food up at the front with Deputy Milton where you, and it, were safe.   

“That’s it. Keep workin’ me, baby.” Ari rasps, his warm breath caressing the shell of your ear as his fingers dig into your hips. “There’s a good girl.” Choking back a sob, you’re forced to bury your face in the crook of his neck to muffle the sound of your cries.   

“Fuck, you feel so good. But if you want this dick, you’ve gotta be quiet.” 

Dear God, he was right. The last thing you needed was an audience. Especially not in the form of the entire police department. You were pretty sure that you’d die from embarrassment.

He whispers hungry kisses along the curve of your jaw while you continue to ride him, your internal muscles milking him for all he’s worth. Pure feminine satisfaction fills you when you hear him bite back his own groan. Emboldened by his response, you bear down, purposely clenching your heat around his throbbing cock.

“God, Beast! Fu–please!”

Pleasure mounts as your teeth graze the sensitive column of his throat, earning you a growl from your bounty hunter. You feel the sound, which rumbles from somewhere deep in his chest. It reverberates through you, all the way down to your toes.

Christ, it all felt so good. Enough to overwhelm your senses as you feel the coil tighten in your belly, threatening to snap with every moan. Every cry. Every measured stroke of your hips. It was almost too goddamn much. 

Wanting to catch your breath, you attempt to pull away. Which is all the invitation your man needs to capture your mouth with his own. A mere second goes by before his tongue teases its way past your lips. It’s a wild, unbridled claiming that leaves you with no doubt to whom you belong. 

He dutifully swallows each desperate cry. Every pathetic little mewl. He savors them with the knowledge that those carnal sounds were meant for him alone. 

“I know, little Bird.” Ari presses a fevered kiss against your damp brow once he finally lets you up for air. “I know.” He then wraps his brawny arms around your middle, pulling you flush against him. “I can feel it buildin’. Shit’s so good I’m about to burn up.”

Nodding, you throw an arm around his neck to pull him even closer. A sharp cry bursts from your throat, prompting him to slap a hand over your mouth. But you can’t bring yourself to care. Not when your eyes are too busy rolling in the back of your head. 

“Don’t you dare fuckin’ stop.”

“Please!” Your vision blurs as you try to focus on your breathing. A tear makes its way down your cheek as your muscles begin to burn, protesting their overuse – although it’s quickly chased away by your partner’s eager tongue.

That simple, yet surprisingly animalistic act is enough to make your pussy cream, drenching his dick with a fresh wave of your slick. But as heavenly as this all feels, you can’t quite help it when your movements begin to falter.  

“Better not be gettin’ tired on me, baby.” The quiet snarl rips through you, ratcheting your feelings of ecstasy up another notch. His big hands move to your ass, tightly gripping the tender flesh as he encourages you to keep going. 

“I can’t…” You whine, stretching out the word. Needing more, you find yourself arching your chest up at him. In your haste to get undressed, you’d only managed to get your bra half off, leaving one breast completely bare. “Please…”    

“Need your man to help you, darlin’?” His tone takes on a slightly mocking lilt. “Is that it?” Your world blurs when he adjusts the angle, repositioning your joined bodies so that your back is now resting on his desk. “Can’t do it by yourself anymore?”

“Beast….” Your head lolls to the side, a thin sheen of perspiration cloaking your skin as the bounty hunter begins thrusting in and out of your spasming cunt. “M’so close.” You keen, seeking relief. “S’right there. Right there. Right there…”   

“Shit!” Ari grits out, biting his lip. “You’re even tighter like this – gotta pussy like a fuckin’ vice, baby.” He nuzzles his bearded face between the valley of your heaving breasts. And then you’re treated to the wet scrape of his tongue along your heated flesh before rearing back to pull your taut nipple into his waiting mouth.  

White hot sparks dance through your veins as Ari commits to wrecking you with his thick cock. Your mouth opens in a silent scream while he fucks you, his hips pistoning in and out of you as if his very life depended upon it. 

Ecstasy threatens to overwhelm you once more as your nails claw at his back, which only spurs him to go deeper, ensuring that you’d feel him for days. Your Beast didn’t give a shit about you leaving marks on his skin. 

He was the type of man who wore them with pride.

Ari hitches your leg around his waist, making you cry out. You’re rewarded with a sharp slap to your ass as a reminder to be quiet. “Gonna have to shut that pretty mouth, darlin’.” He reaches into his pocket to grab your previously discarded panties before shoving them into your mouth. “You brought this on yourself.” He hisses. “Walkin’ in here wearin’ in that dress.” 

In this position, it’s like you can feel every ridge, every vein of his fat dick as he plunders your passion-swollen folds. Your heel digs into his back when you feel that fiery coil in your belly tighten and snap, sending you careening over the edge and into bliss. 

You try to scream, but it’s hard with a mouth full of cotton. A fact for which you are eternally grateful. Wanting Ari to tumble with you, you clench your muscles over and over until you feel him unable to hold back. 

“FUCK!” He roars, his big body jerking as the force of his orgasm washes over him.   

Belatedly, you wish either one of you had thought to bother with a condom. But you push the thought away as quickly as it comes. Right now you felt too good to even consider wallowing in regret. Which meant that today’s neglect would just have to be tomorrow’s problem.     

For a few moments, the two of you are content to simply exist as you are. You stay joined until your respective breathing evens out. Smiling, you press a soft kiss to your man’s shoulder, prompting him to stand up and take you with him.

It’s difficult, but you manage to suppress a whimper when Ari removes himself from your precious heat. “Uh, thanks for bringing me dinner, baby.” He says, attempting to catch his breath as he helps you fix your dress before zipping up his jeans.     

“Never had someone get so excited over chicken enchiladas.” You try, and fail, to stifle your giggle.

“Well, what did you expect when you told me you made the guacamole from scratch?” He waggles his brows before dropping a swift kiss on your upturned lips. 

“I dunno.” You shrug, gripping the front of his shirt to drag him back down for yet another smooch. Of course, Ari is more than happy to oblige. “Do you think anyone heard us?”

“Nah.” Your bounty hunter grins, toying at a stray curl with his finger. “Was Milton still listening to Taylor Swift when you walked in?”

“Yeah. He said something about being on an easter egg hunt. Apparently he has to connect all the dots before her new album, The Tortured Poets Department, drops.”

“Good. Then he didn’t hear shit.” 

Needing to rehydrate, you reach for his water before screwing off the cap and taking a sip. “Am I going to your place or mine tonight?” You manage to ask in between gulps. 

“Mine.” He grunts, nuzzling your nose with his. “I’ll see you in a few hours. We sleepin’ in tomorrow?”

“Maybe.” You playfully hedge. Tomorrow was typically your late day anyway, but he didn’t need to know that.

“Well, consider it my goal to get home early enough to convince you.” Ari helps you stand up before moving to fix the skirt of your dress. “I’m gonna walk you out now. Go straight to my place and lock up.” He tucks another stray curl behind your ear.

“Okay.” You breathe, wishing you could bring him with you.     

“Good. And no matter how much I beg, don’t let me near that sweet pussy before you leave the parking lot.”

END

Sweet Renegade Series Tag List

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[greenishghostey]

Eddie, without prompting, proclaims that anyone who is only willing to eat pussy if it's shaved, is a coward

I wasn’t sure how to do this “without prompting” so it’s more there’s minimal prompting

18+ content MDNI

///

“Okay, okay, wait a sec.” Eddie said hastily, moving your arms from around his neck so he could hold your hands. “What’s up?”

Fuck, he caught on way too fast. “Just don’t think I’m into being eaten out.” You mumbled, averting your gaze to anywhere but his face.

In reality, you’d forgotten to shave your pubes. The other times any one had gone down on you, you were trimmed, if not totally bare. When you sieve through too many cheesy magazine articles about sex, you tend to pick up what the societal perspectives are. Rather than forming your own.

Shaving was a pain. It was itchy. You nicked yourself at least once every time. Reaching every pube covered area was difficult. You hated that it was just sort of expected.

Eddie didn’t look the least bit convinced by your excuse. “You don’t think you’re into it?” He said fixing you with a curious look. “No one eaten you out before?” Now he just looked horrified, but on your behalf.

“No, no, people have. It’s just-“ you sat up and tried to gather together the right words. It was unlikely that Eddie would be put off by hair - but you’d thought that about George Ulrich last year and he’d recoiled at the very sight of it.

“We can give it a try and if it’s not your thing then we can do something else. How’s that sound?” Eddie smiled, perching himself close to you and kissing your forehead.

You wanted to ride his face more than anything by that point. So, you were just going to have to bite the bullet and deal with any consequences. “I didn’t shower or shave.” You mumbled, chewing the inside of your cheek. This felt like having sex for the first time again and it was just painfully awkward.

“Hmm?”

“I said I didn’t have a chance to shower, so there’s hair. Like a lot.”

Eddie was silent for just a touch too long. His big eyes had widened and he just stared at you - his stare always did make you squirm a little.

“Can I see? I really wanna see.” Eddie rasped, still looking at you, but with a much warmer gaze.

For a split second, you sat in surprise. Pleasant surprise at his request. The slight desperation in his voice only served to make your stomach tighten and your cunt throb.

“Uh, sure. Yeah. As long as you’re sure about-“

“I’m so sure.” Eddie wasted no time in hiking your thighs closer to him, laying you down again and clawing your underwear to the side. He deftly ran his fingers across the hair around your cunt, gathering wet as he stroked. It was like Eddie was fascinated or mesmerised by you and your body.

His calloused fingertips flicked your clit and caused you to groan out a moan. “Hair’s not an issue, got it.” You sighed, melting back into lumpy pillows as Eddie continued to explore you.

“Anyone who’s only willing to eat pussy if it’s shaved is a fuckin’ coward.” Eddie stated, looking up at you with a smile. It was a reassuring smile - all comfort and admiration. He really was grateful that you let him get this far. He would have been good with just kissing you at that party and living on cloud nine from there.

Before you could response, Eddie dove into you. He was licking and sucking at your clit and hole, wishing he could focus on it all at once. Thick fingers soon came up to press into your cunt and making you whine for more. Any friction at all. Anything he could give you.

“You like this, huh?” Eddie mumbled, pulling away from your sopping cunt by a hair. “Said you wouldn’t like getting tongue fucked, but look at you.” He sang ‘you’ with a laugh and grabbed at your hips - wiggling you closer to his face.

“Never had you down there so,” you whined, your voice sounding hoarse as knotted your fingers into Eddie’s wild hair. “God - fucking yes, yes, Eddie.”

“The flattery’s doing it for me, keep going. Please.” Eddie groaned into your cunt. From his nose downwards was pressed into you. He was desperate to get as close to you as physically possible. To taste you, smell you, fuck you. Whatever you’d let him do.

“Your fingers are so much bigger than mine.” You sighed with a smirk, pulling at Eddie’s hair to make him look at you. “Bet your cock’s gonna split me in two.”

At your filthy words, Eddie doubled down his efforts. Sucking your clit into his mouth and flicking it with his wet tongue - drool running down the side of his mouth. The fingers inside you crooked just right and rammed into your soaked hole.

“Cum on my fuckin’ face. C’mon, god, please cum on my tongue. Need it. Need it.” Eddie was chanting and rambling.

The sound of it all was obscene. Beautiful and raw. But obscene. Slick squelching and hoarse panting filled Eddie’s bedroom as he devoured you like he was starving.

In those moments of ecstasy, you decided to never shave again.

[buzzcutlip]

Prompt: Blindfolds Carmen x Fem!Reader Explicit! Words: 2091 A/N: warning for slight pain!kink, a pinch of dom!Reader undertones (but not really, depends on how you read it) Written for Olive @carmenberzattosgf and her Bearblr Promptober (I'm late for this prompt but I say f*ck it, also there are no naked enough photos of Carmy so Jeremy's CK photo must do it) 

“I promise I do understand what you mean,” you tell Carmen defensively, nodding vigorously in the hope that he’ll see you’re on his side.

“How fucking hard is it to understand that there’s a difference?!” he fumes. “Cicero must think I’m a joke!”

The drama with the Orwellian butter from the afternoon carries on into the late evening.

It’s just you and Carmy left in the kitchen—him pacing behind the stainless steel counters on the freshly scrubbed white-tiled floor. You’re not even sure how you ended up staying. Normally, you’d leave as soon as the restaurant closed and the front-of-house staff was no longer needed.

“Fucking stupid,” Carmen mutters next to you, staring down at four plates of butter, some more yellowish, some paler. His chef's jacket is unbuttoned, revealing a tight white T-shirt underneath. The casualness makes him seem less like your boss and more like the guy you've fancied since day one.

“Because of Jimmy, I have to start again and find a good enough substitute,” Carmen explains, pointing at the plates in frustration. “But are we here for second-best?” His blue eyes find yours, piercing you with their intensity.

“No,” you answer as quickly and resolutely as you can. By now, you’ve realized that, for some reason, you’ve become Carmen’s accomplice in this butter war.

He nods, agreeing, then returns his attention to the butter slices, hands on his hips. His hair is curling wildly in all directions. “I could tell which one is from Orwell without even looking.”

And you believe him. The way you look at him is filled with assurance and maybe a little bit of admiration.

---

That’s how a late evening turns into an unexpected night adventure. Carmen prompts you to fetch your dark blue silk scarf from your locker, and you use it to blindfold him, tying it securely at the back of his head. The challenge is set, and both of you know that it’s only so Carmen can prove to Carmen that he, in fact, is right.

“Okay,” you say, pushing the first plate in front of him along with a spoon. The bright kitchen light reflects off the metal as Carmen, standing close by, reaches for the plate blindly, pulls it closer, and picks up the spoon.

He’s methodical. He smells the butter first, carefully avoiding getting any on his nose—which you find amusing and barely manage to stifle a laugh. He then scoops up a bit with the spoon. For the first time, you let yourself openly watch his hands, study the tattoos on them. At The Bear, Carmen is practically a god. You always feigned indifference, not wanting to disrupt your colleagues’ admiration for him. But here, experiencing "Carmen in the wild," you like what you see more than you should.

His hands hover expectantly, searching for the next plate. You move closer to switch them out, placing the next sample within his reach. This time, he brings the spoon to his lips almost immediately after smelling it, his brows furrowing in concentration. As the tasting goes on, you find yourself less focused on the results and more on Carmen himself—his movements, the way his jaw flexes as he savors each flavor, the quiet but fierce dedication in his expression. You catch a glimpse of his gold chain, partially hidden by the collar of his T-shirt, and wonder about what’s beneath the fabric. You’ve often seen him in just a T-shirt, revealing his strong arms with tattoos and unexpectedly defined muscles.

“It’s the third one,” Carmy says at last, after he’s tasted all the samples. “We’re going with the second one. That’ll be the substitute. If Cicero wants it, he can fucking have it,” he sighs deeply.

The silence between you stretches, almost becoming a presence in itself, filled with the soft hum of the kitchen's appliances. Carmen’s breath is steady, his focus elsewhere as he reaches up to untie the blindfold.

“No, don’t,” you stop him hastily. “There’s one more thing.” He tilts his head in your direction, and before he can protest, you lean in and press your lips to his in a slow, chaste kiss. His skin feels warm beneath your touch, and the fact that he can’t see you, that he’s relying solely on sensation, gives you a thrill.

When you kiss him again, you dare to touch his chest, gripping his bicep for support. Relief floods you when he returns the kiss, heat radiating from your stomach to your lower belly and chest. Your cheeks are burning with pride and satisfaction.

Carmen tastes rich and velvety, with a hint of sweetness—like the butter.

“Can you taste me?” you whisper, your upper body pressing against his firm torso, your chest against his.

“Yeah,” Carmen nods, his mouth already seeking yours. For the next few moments, you let him kiss you deeply, only to pull away teasingly, making him blindly chase your lips again and again.

You can tell Carmen is getting just as worked up as you are from the way his hands, strong and steady from years in the kitchen, rest on your sides, his fingertips lightly grazing your waist as if testing whether you’re really there. Neither of you speaks; words don’t seem to belong in this space, where everything feels on the verge of spilling over.

“No touching,” you chide playfully. “I mean it.” You take a step back, and after a moment, Carmen lets his arms fall limply by his sides.

“Hmm,” you murmur, taking in his appearance. His lips are swollen and dark from kissing, his chest rising and falling with each breath. You’ve made a mess of him, and you like it. There’s a dampness between your thighs, which doesn’t surprise you.

“When we’re deprived of one sense, the others heighten,” you muse aloud, moving closer to him again. You can see the gentle rise and fall of his chest. You place your palm against Carmen’s heart, feeling the steady, rapid thudding. He stills, and in the next moment, you pinch his nipple between your fingers, hard.

Carmen gasps, his whole body jolting. His lips part in a sharp intake of breath, and his muscles tense beneath your touch. Surprisingly, or maybe not, he doesn’t say a word. Your hand lingers on his chest, fingers grazing the cotton fabric as you release the pinch, then trail downward slowly. You reach the hem of his T-shirt, quickly pulling it up and over his head, careful not to disturb the blindfold.

His upper body is bared to your gaze. The rucked-up T-shirt reveals his chest dusted with fine hair, with a red mark blooming where you pinched him.

“It hurt,” Carmen says shakily, his jaw clenching, but he doesn’t move.

“Maybe,” you reply softly. “But I think you liked it.” You lean close, your lips brushing against the silk covering his eyes and the edge of his ear. He shudders at your nearness. His hands twitch at his sides, resisting the urge to touch you and break the rules.

You pull back slightly to see his expression—lips parted, brow furrowed as if struggling for composure. A faint flush creeps up his neck, which you find especially endearing.

You can’t help but push him further. There's something thrilling about seeing Carmen Berzatto, the chef who’s always in control, like this—unraveled. Your fingertips trace the lines of his muscles, moving down from his pectorals, savoring the warmth of his skin. His breath hitches when your nails lightly scratch his abdomen.

You press closer, heart pounding in your ears, and when you kiss him this time, it’s not gentle or teasing. It’s desperate and deep, a clash of tongues and teeth as your hand slips inside his pants and underwear.

“Fuck,” Carmen groans, breaking the kiss, his head falling back. You know you have him at your mercy, and it turns you on more than you’d like to admit. At the same time, you wish you could see his face without the scarf.

A sudden clatter from the restaurant breaks through the haze, snapping both of you back to reality. You pull away abruptly, breathless. The absence of his warmth leaves you aching.

“I…” you start, but whatever you were going to say hangs unfinished. The intensity between you crackles, and you wonder if you’ve pushed too far, or not far enough. Without a word, you reach up to untie the blindfold, your fingers trembling as you loosen the knot.

Carmen blinks against the light, taking a moment before he looks at you. He glances down at his chest, then pulls the T-shirt over his head, adjusting it over the bulge in his pants.

“You don’t have to—” he begins, voice rough, but he trails off, running a hand through his curls. He looks like he’s struggling to regain control, to find the right words.

“Carmen, I’m—” you start, but he cuts you off.

“Don’t,” he says quickly, shaking his head, a slight frown on his face. "Don't apologize. It’s… fine."

You’re surprised by the sting of tears in your eyes.

“I should probably… get going,” you say, the words sounding like a retreat, which you hate.

Carmy glances at your feet before meeting your gaze. “I don’t know what… this is,” he says, his voice low and rough. “I can’t afford to be distracted.”

His words hit harder than you expect, even though a part of you anticipated them. “Distracted?" you echo, a tinge of bitterness creeping into your tone.

He’s very obviously fighting his own embarrassment, and you watch him intently, hanging on his every word, waiting for him to say you can’t work here anymore after what just happened, never wanting to see you again. 

“Fuck,” Carmen squeezes his eyes closed, palm running over his face. ���You should just go. It’s late anyway.”

The words sting, even though you understand why he’s saying them. There’s a tightness in your chest as you take a step back, creating distance that feels both necessary and painful. "Right," you murmur, forcing a small, tense smile. "Of course."

You turn to leave, but before you reach the door, you hear his voice again, softer this time, almost hesitant. "I’m not… I’m not saying I don’t want this," he says, and you freeze, your hand lingering on the doorframe. "I just… I don’t know if I can handle everything right now. The restaurant, Cicero, and… this." He gestures between the two of you, his expression conflicted.

You bite your lip, feeling a lump form in your throat. "I get it," you reply, trying to keep your voice steady through the burn of disappointment and regret.  

[the-offside-rule]

Jensen Ackles - Something Stupid

Requested: yes

Prompt: a duet with Jensen Ackles

Warnings: none

The night was electric. Thousands of fans filled the arena, their energy palpable as they sang along to Y/n’s latest hit. Her tour had been a whirlwind of packed venues, endless travel, and unforgettable moments, but tonight was special. Y/n could feel it in her bones as she smiled at the crowd, her guitar in hand, the final notes of her last song hanging in the air.

"Thank you all so much!" Y/n beamed, wiping the sweat from her brow. "I love you all more than you know, and as you might know, I always try to make every show unique with a surprise song." She paused allowing the fans to scream as loud as they wanted. "Well-" She teased, "Theres a very special in the crowd tonight. He's someone very close to my heart-" The crowd erupted in anticipation, wondering what she would sing tonight. "Tonight’s surprise is extra special-" Y/n continued, her voice growing softer but no less excited. "Because I won’t be singing alone." The audience let out a collective gasp, murmurs rising across the arena. Y/n glanced backstage, a wide smile lighting up her face. "Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage, my favorite person, the love of my life, Mr Jensen Ackles!" She announced.

The crowd went wild, screams of excitement echoing off the walls of the arena as Jensen stepped out onto the stage, looking effortlessly cool in his leather jacket and a grin that stretched from ear to ear. He waved to the crowd, his eyes immediately finding Y/n’s as he walked toward her. Y/n’s heart swelled with love as Jensen approached. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her tightly into a hug as her guitar swung around the her back. It never got old seeing him by her side, supporting her every step of the way. She handed him a microphone and together, they stood in the very middle of the stage, Y/n’s fingers lightly plucking the familiar melody of Something Stupid.

Jensen leaned into the mic, his deep voice melting into the song, "I know I stand in line until you think you have the time to spend an evening with me..." Y/n’s voice joined his, sweet and melodic, "And if we go some place to dance, I know that there's a chance you won't be leaving with me..." Their harmonies were seamless, their voices blending in a way that only years of love could create. The crowd swayed and sang along, some holding up their phones, capturing the magic of this once-in-a-lifetime moment. But for Y/n and Jensen, it felt like the world had faded away, and it was just the two of them, singing to each other.

Jensen smiled as he sang the next verse, his eyes never leaving hers, "I can see it in your eyes, that you despise the same old lies you heard the night before..." Y/n matched his smile, her voice soft but strong as she sang the final lines, "And then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like I love you..." The song ended, the audience roaring in approval, but Y/n and Jensen remained in their little bubble for just a second longer, sharing a look that said more than words ever could. "Thank you, everyone!" Jensen said into the mic, giving Y/n’s shoulder a playful squeeze. "I’m gonna leave you in the best hands there are."

The crowd screamed even louder as he stood, giving them one last wave before walking backstage. Y/n gave a quick, teasing smile before standing up herself. "I’ll be right back, folks. Don’t go anywhere!" She called out before following Jensen behind the curtain for her quick outfit change. As soon as they were out of sight, Y/n let out a laugh, her heart still racing from the adrenaline of performing with him. "Oh my god, that was even better than what we practiced. " She said, tugging at his sleeve as they made their way to her dressing room. Jensen grinned, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close. "Probably the pressure." He laughed.

Y/n rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t help the smile tugging at her lips. "You make everything better." Jensen leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "You’re incredible, you know that?" Y/n blushed, her heart fluttering at the warmth of his words. She reached up, cupping his cheek, and kissed him gently. "Thank you for doing this with me." She whispered against his lips. "It means the world." He smiled against her, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes. "Anything for you." Before Y/n could get lost in his gaze again, one of her crew members popped their head in. "You’ve got five minutes before the next set, Y/n."

She nodded quickly, already moving toward her wardrobe. "I’ll be right out!" Jensen gave her one last look, admiration and love shining in his eyes. "Break a leg out there." He said with a wink. "I’ll be watching from the side." With one final kiss, Jensen stepped out, leaving Y/n alone to change. As she slipped into her next outfit, her heart felt lighter than ever. She’d performed in front of thousands of people before, but nothing compared to sharing the stage with the man she loved.

In just a few minutes, she’d be back out there, giving the crowd everything she had. But for now, she savored the quiet moment, knowing that somewhere nearby, Jensen would be cheering her on like always, and that was all she needed.

[astarioffsimpmain]

Misty Morning Respite

Pairing: Astarion x Aelene

Word Count: 1k

Author's Note:

Surpriiiiiiiise @charlenestrawart !!! 🥰😁 This is my gift to you for the Astarion Brainrot Discord autumn exchange! I used the "foggy mornings" and "soft blankets" prompts, and I really hope you enjoy it. ❤️ It's been WILD trying to keep this a secret from you, but I'm so glad I got to write for you and your beautiful tav, Aelene. I love you, friend!! 🥹

♡ ♡ ♡

The slow coming of morning filtered through the thin curtains of the Last Light Inn, but for the first time in 210 years, Astarion was not concerned. The gauzy cotton did little to hide his pallor skin from the slowly rising sun, but instead of scurrying to the far side of the bed or ducking beneath the covers, he lazily lifted his hand to the still-bluish glow, and admired the iron ring on his third finger. The crimson stone that sat at its center cast a ghostly shadow on the wall of the room, not yet glittering due to the clouded, dewy sky. A soft smile tugged at his pink lips, still plush from the previous night’s activities. He cast a glance down beside him to the woman resting in his arms. Her snow white hair fell over her face like a blanket, covering her wintery skin and most of her shimmering silver scales.

He took a moment to simply admire her as she slept, curled around him tightly, seeking the familiar comfort of his cold body. She had risked her life to acquire the ring he now wore. She had tangled with death to help him become a victor over the sun. She had done it with little more benefit to herself than having him beside her. She not only sought his freedom, she now also sought his joy; and gods had she found it. He chuckled quietly, imperceptible to the untrained ear, but his lover stirred slightly nonetheless, ever so used to his sounds that even in her sleep, she perceived them. He quieted, not wanting to wake her yet. The lines of stress and pain from the past still haunted her face sometimes - when he did not manage to kiss them away - , but in sleep she held none of that tension; slack-faced and innocent as she dreamed.

Gently, he brushed strands of hair from her face to reveal her angular scales; so light and metallic that they almost reflected his red eyes gazing down at her. It was fitting, he thought, that the stone in the ring that would allow him to walk in the sun again would match both his own eyes and the eyes of his lover. It seemed meant to be… like fate. He smiled, and another chuckle escaped him that the idea of fate - something he had always hated so desperately - would finally grant him kindness after 200 years. A second sound from him would not go unnoticed by his sleeping lover, and a pitiful whimper came from her throat as she slowly gained awareness.

“Good morning, darling,” Astarion murmured, swooping down to kiss her lips before her eyes opened. She hummed against his lips and smiled, her hands wandering up around his neck.

“Mmm, good morning, Astarion,” Aelene muttered against his mouth, tangling her fingers in his locks as she did.

“Now, my love, you can’t be too greedy before you eat something,” he tutted quietly, all the while, his fingers traced patterns on her bare thigh beneath the velvety blankets she had insisted on buying once they returned to Baldur’s Gate with their prize. “You must replenish your energy if you’re to keep up with me.”

She giggled softly, urging closer to him, as if she could meld with him completely. “Can’t you feed me once I’m well and truly spent?”

“I am not hand feeding you again. You bit me last night!” her lover balked in return, only half joking.

“You bite me all the time!” she rebutted, her laugh growing louder.

“I ask, darling.”

“Then may I please bite your pretty fingers while you feed me?” Aelene batted her sleepy eyes at him, and he chortled.

“Hmm,” he pondered, a finger coming to his lips. “Since you asked so nicely… no.”

“Astarion!” she laughed, her head thrown back against the pillows, and Astarion grinned down at her.

“Come on, darling. I want to enjoy my first sunrise in 210 years, with you.” He booped her nose gently with his index finger and she beamed up at him, her carmine eyes twinkling.

“Well, how could I say no to that?”

~ ~ ~

Moments later, they were dressed and leaving their room behind, blankets folded into packs and food for the road stuffed into pockets. The sky had begun to turn a rosy gold by the time Aelene and Astarion had settled beneath a large oak tree just outside the limits of the city, at a vantage point high enough to be unobstructed by the goings-on of the everyday folk nearby. Aelene had snuck under Astarion’s arm once again and was gently playing with his fingers as the rising sun vaporized the fog that still lingered on the damp grass. She cared little for the sunrise; she’d seen hundreds. Her focus was on her lover’s face. She allowed her head to fall against his shoulder as his glittering red-wine eyes stayed trained on the coming day; his eyebrows raised, his pink lips parted ever so slightly. He looked so young.

As the sun broke through the clouds of the morning, the sky erupted into brilliant shades of orange, red, and yellow, painting the clouds with vibrancy, and Astarion - her Astarion - looked on in captivated wonder. His eyes widened as he took it in, the sunrises he had seen in his time with the tadpole not even daring to compare to this. Aelene’s heart clenched as she watched a tear chase the length of Astarion’s beautiful face, another following close behind; and another, and another. His vision misted completely, and he brought his palm to his face, a sob wracking through him. Aelene’s hands came to rest atop his and he allowed her to move them, smiling through tears as she swept away his overflowing awe with her fingertips, kissing each place they had previously been as she went.

They watched the rest of the sunrise in silence, wrapped tightly in one another, and as the sky turned to its mid-morning blue, Astarion curled his fingers under Aelene’s chin and turned her to face him. “Thank you, my love,” he whispered softly, his eyes more tender than she had ever seen them. She rested her forehead against his, bumping his nose gently.

“I love you, Astarion.”

A beat of silence passed before he smiled.

“I love you, more.”

~

fin

[blueironywrites]

Title: More than a Dream

Rating: M

Word count: 295

Summary: Remus and Sirius wake up in bed together.

Only one bed prompt by @wolfstarmicrofic

This was so much fun to write! It's been hanging out in my head for the last few days and I wrote it while waiting for baked eggs to cook. Baked eggs and Wolfstar, what a combination <3

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

Remus woke slowly. Smiling happily, he burrowed closer into the warm body next to him and sighed as he inhaled a familiar scent that never ceased to drive him wild.

He lay still for a moment, enjoying the quietness of the morning, before running a hand up the smooth lines of the man next to him. His fingers trailed up and rested on the soft skin of the man's neck. Lifting himself up slightly, Remus brought his face close to the man's, pausing for a moment before bringing their mouths together.

Remus sank into the kiss, a small sound escaping his mouth, but pulled away after a few seconds in confusion.

In this part of his dream, Sirius would usually be kissing him back, his long body twisting against Remus's. However, this morning, Sirius lay unresponsive under him.

Remus's skin went cold.

Oh, my God.

Remus's flew open and met the shocked eyes of Sirius.

Sirius. His best friend. His best friend who had cheerfully told Remus they had nothing to worry about the night before when they had realised the hotel they had booked for James's buck party had put them in the same room, rather than seperate ones.

The same room. With one bed. The bed they were both currently in where Remus had just humiliated himself.

"Oh, my God," he muttered, flinging himself out of the bed and not pausing to look behind him as he raced out of the room, the door slamming shut behind him.

***

Sirius stared at the door as it shut, his heart thudding in his chest.

Making a split second decision, he also leapt out of bed and ran out the door. He didn't know what had just happened but all he knew was he wanted more.

[shadowqueenjude]

I wrote a little Rhysta.

@ennawrite @kateprincessofbluewhales

Rhysand woke up with a stinging pain around his neck. He lifted his hand towards the source of the pain, then found something that felt distinctly like a knife digging deeper.

His eyes flew open, and for a wild moment, he thought it was Feyre standing before him. But no. The face that surveyed him had stronger features. Eyes just a little more grey, lips a little more full, brows quite a bit more angular, her gold hair a tumble of waves down either shoulder. A cunning face-calculating. And one that held a knife to his throat.

“Wake up,” she hissed. Rhysand blinked blearily, trying to focus on her. Despite being human, he found her to be prettier than the cursebreaker. He could only imagine how devastating she would be as a faerie.

“What?” Rhysand croaked, not daring to speak too loud else that dagger pierce his skin. How in Prythian had this human girl got a hold of an ash knife? What was with this family?

“I want to know what exactly you’re playing at,” Nesta answered, her simmering glare branding him even in the dark. Rhysand’s heart rate kicked up; was it more or less embarrassing that it wasn’t from fear?

“Nothing. I’m just here to protect Prythian and the human lands from Hybern’s corruption,” Rhysand said mechanically.

Nesta snorted delicately. “Spare me the bullshit. Even if Feyre bought into that molded loaf of bread, I am not so gullible.” She bent closer to him, her tantalizingly soft hair brushing against his cheek. “Or did you use your faerie magic to hoodwink her? For the Feyre I know would not change her loyalties so fast, and last I knew, she was in love with Tamlin.”

Rhysand tried to swallow a couple of times before she gave up. “Tamlin treated her poorly. So she left.”

Nesta rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. I was mean to her for years and she never wavered in her loyalties. So tell me what you’ve done to her, High Lord.”

Rhysand stared into her silver eyes, the loathing palpable in them at the nearer distance. How should he answer this? The truth? He imagined that wouldn’t go down very well with her. With lies? She didn’t seem the least bit fooled by them.

“Nothing. It was Tamlin who changed her.”

Rhysand didn’t have time to react before Nesta drove the knife into his shoulder. Too much in pain to even scream, all he could manage was a pitiful whimper. God, he had forgotten how much ash stings. He hadn’t encountered such weapons since the war centuries ago.

“You really think you can fool me, Amarantha’s whore?” Nesta demanded.

Rhysand stilled at the nickname. “How did you-?”

“Feyre told me everything that transpired between her arriving in Prythian and when she came back. You were what prompted Tamlin to send her away. A loyal servant of that bitch who tormented Prythian for decades.”

“You don’t understand. It was all an act-“

Nesta twisted the knife in his shoulder, and Rhysand let out another pained moan. Blood was all over his shirt, his skin sticky. “Killing twelve kids isn’t an act, you coward. I already told you I won’t be easily fooled.” Nesta bared her teeth, looking every inch the faerie Feyre could never be despite her super strength and pointed ears. In spite of the blinding pain, Rhysand breathed out a laugh. “Oh, pity you aren’t the Cursebreaker. You’re a lot more fun than the huntress.”

Nesta wrenched the knife out of his shoulder, causing even more pain as she returned the knife to his throat. “And I’m about to be a lot more fun if you don’t tell me what you did to Feyre in the next thirty seconds.”

Gods, she was magnificent. Well, Rhysand could offer a partial truth that would hopefully appease this powerful woman.

“I forced Feyre into a bargain in exchange for healing her under the mountain.”

Oh, the scent of Nesta’s fury was delicious. Rhysand gloried in the smell as he sensed Nesta trembling with rage. “I fucking knew it. You faeries and your bargains. I’m assuming it’s this mark right here?” She dug a sharp nail into his arm, and Rhysand yelped, jerking away, which only caused more blood to ooze from his shoulder wound. “How did you know?”

Nesta shrugged. “I guessed, since Feyre has an identical one on her own arm.”

Cunning, furious, and observant. A crying shame this queen would only live a mortal life. “Get her out of the bargain,” Nesta whispered.

Rhysand chuckled. “Or I could just break into your mind and be done with it.”

“You can try,” Nesta seethed. “But not even a High Lord’s glamour can work on me. Tamlin tried and failed already.”

Rhysand blinked. Nesta…possessed the true Sight? Some mortals were gifted with the ability to resist nearly all kinds of Faerie magic in a way that even most powerful fae have difficulty with. Jurian, of course, was one of them, which was how he’d led the humans to victory all those years ago. Immune to daemati and glamours, this woman could be exceptionally useful.

Rhysand reached for her mind anyway, finding that she was just as immune as she had claimed. The eldest Archeron didn’t mess around, clearly. She possessed walls more fortified than the Cauldron itself. Mother above.

“I warned you,” Nesta snapped. “Break the bargain.”

“And what will I get in exchange?” Rhysand crooned. “Surely you understand I cannot release her without getting something in return.”

“I could just kill you and be done with it,” Nesta mused. Rhysand smirked at her. “True, but think: I am a High Lord, and a major asset in the war against Hybern. Without me, your odds lower significantly.”

“You can be replaced,” Nesta drawled dismissively. “Not me.” Nesta spat on his face. “You faeries are even more arrogant than we were taught to believe.” She smoothed down her nightgown with her free hand. “Take me instead.”

Rhysand blinked. “Really?” That was exactly what he had been hoping for. Nesta would prove to be far more useful than the illiterate one. “On the condition that you will never physically or sexually harm me, nor will you use your magic against me in any way, nor will you allow any of your cronies to do it in your stead.”

Rhysand could not say yes fast enough. “Yes, I promise. It’s a deal.”

Nesta and Rhysand stared at his arm, watching as the tattoo disappeared. They both waited for a new one to appear, and when it didn’t, Nesta began her venom again. “You fucking liar, I will slit your thro-“

She stopped, and Rhysand knew why. He watched as whorls of paint wrapped around Nesta’s forehead like a crown. An identical one must be present on his own.

They surveyed each other for a moment, this new bond that had just formed between them tugging them closer together. At last, Nesta let the knife drop.

“Welcome,” Rhysand murmured, “to the Night Court, Nesta Archeron.”

[watchyourbuck]

Hi there! :)

For the writing prompts:

“W-who did this to you?”

Buck shouldn’t have shown up at Eddie’s door like this. Not today, not like this. But he has nowhere else to go.

His hand trembles before reaching forward, knocking once, maybe twice. It definitely slides down the wood after, and he has to support himself on the concrete wall to avoid hitting the floor.

Behind it, he can hear Eddie’s steps. He’s talking to someone on the phone, but it seems shallow. He thinks he’s about to hang up.

“Eddie-,” he tries to call, but his voice is faint and undetermined.

Please.

Please open the door.

Then it opens.

The scene in front of him is out of a horror movie. “Buck?” Eddie says, eyes wide, heart in his throat. His phone hits the tiles, a click ringing in his ear.

The man is showered in red. Blood that he can only assume is his going down his body and staining his clothes. He blinks. His lip is busted. Oh, dear god. His knuckles are- his wrist is broken.

“Help,” Buck says, and this is the day Eddie thanks his military training, because he’s able to catch Buck in his arms before he passes out.

It’s possibly hours later that he wakes up. He’s laying down on something, either a couch or a bed, and his head is heavy with pain. He tries lifting his arms but something is pinning him down. “E-Eddie,” he calls, unaware the subject of his need is sitting right in front of him.

“Who was it?”

His eyes adjust at the speed of slugs, and he has to force himself to sit up. He blinks until the world makes sense. “Eddie?”

There’s tears. Salty, whimsy, slow tears going down Eddie’s face, but he’s never looked less sad. Buck gulps. Eddie’s angry.

“Who did this to you?” he asks, breathing heavily. He’s sitting on a chair, legs spread and elbows on his knees. He’s covering his mouth with his fists, observing down Buck’s body.

He hesitates. “Eddie-,”

“Buck, for the love of god, who did this to you?”

This is his fault. After everything Eddie said, after all the things he warned him about. This is his fault.

He tries to move his wrists. One’s broken for sure, the other feels… twisted. He sighs, wondering if maybe he’s in less pain now that his receptors are going wild, focusing on too many alarms at once. “I-,” he starts, cutting himself off.

Eddie wastes no time. He rises from the chair and sinks back down, kneeling in front of Buck and grabbing his face with both hands.

Buck realizes he doesn’t know how to treat him now that he’s so incredibly… unglued.

“Tell me,” he pleads, but it’s an order. He knows him too well. This is the last lock before he unleashes a monster he hasn’t seen in years. “Tell me before I find out myself.”

Buck breathes, glancing down at Eddie’s lips. It’s only a moment he allows himself glory before spilling his guts with truth.

This is his fault.

“I told my dad about you.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Consider this my Wip Wednesday!

I’m very tempted to write a second part to this where Eddie confronts the Buckley parents. What does the crowd think? I’ll read u!!💗

tagged by @jamespearce9-1-1 @daffi-990 @hippolotamus @malewifediaz @wildlife4life @eddiebabygirldiaz @callmenewbie @jeeyuns & @thewolvesof1998 (haven’t been able to get to some of your works yet! but I will tonight, thank you!!💗✨)

also tagging @spagheddiediaz @housewifebuck @lover-of-mine @fortheloveofbuddie @evanbegins @smilingbuckley @giddyupbuck @cowboydiazes @try-set-me-on-fire @your-catfish-friend @honestlydarkprincess @honestlyeddie @disasterbuckdiaz @buckleyobsessed @mattsire @loserdiaz @wikiangela 🤍

[feralkat]

🫄2️⃣🚎🛑👖💦

The first build-a-birth prompt that came in and oh my God was it fun to write holy shit lol.

It got so long that I decided to split it into two parts, though 😅 so here's part one lmao. Also there will be twins - Atlas just doesn't know they've got twins in there so part two is gonna be pretty wild for them lol.

Word Count: 2.8k

Characters Used: Atlas (nonbinary afab OC) & Fen (cis-male OC)

WARNINGS: nonbinary character giving birth, birth denial, clothing birth, public birth, orgasm during labor. Also - I do use AFAB terms to describe the characters' genitalia so please be aware of that.

If it weren't already obvious, this is a birth/labor fetish fic so if you are a minor or not into that then DO NOT INTERACT. You have been warned.

Everyone had joked about how Atlas would end up going into labor during their baby-moon despite being only 36 weeks along. By the end of it they were beginning their 37th week, but even so their due date wasn't for three more weeks so it was easy to laugh those concerns off.

Except Atlas had been feeling increasingly more intense contractions since they left their hotel that morning that they were trying to brush off as Braxton hicks contractions.

At least until a small gush of fluid left a size-able damp spot on Atlas' leggings and made them realize they couldn't stay in denial for much longer about what was happening.

They were in labor.

Though, technically, labor didn't start during the baby-moon itself.

No, it started as they were leaving.

Now they were several hours away from the next stop and even further away from home where Atlas had everything set up to have a nice, relaxing, empowering birth with just themselves and their husband.

"Shit," Atlas grumbled, shifting uncomfortably in the seat and pressing his forehead against the cool glass of the window as he felt a contraction start.

"Babe? You alright?"

Atlas glanced over at their husband, hazel eyes peaking out from behind blue and green dyed bangs. "My water broke," they mumbled in an exhale, taking in another deep breath and squeezing their eyes shut as they felt the pressure deep inside their pelvis drop even lower.

"Oh... Oh!" Fen exclaimed, having taken a moment to fully comprehend what Atlas said. "Guess those weren't just Braxton hicks contractions, huh?" Fen chuckled nervously, reaching over to take Atlas' hand.

"Yeah, guess not," Atlas sighed as the contraction passed.

"Do you think we'll make it home?" Fen asked, "If not I can look at hotels around the next stop. It won't be home but at least it won't be on a bus."

"Um," Atlas paused, thinking back to when the contractions first started around 10AM. It was nearly 6PM now, but for the majority of the time the contractions weren't too bad. The last half hour or so, Atlas had noticed growing pressure against his hips and lower back but assumed it was from the not-very-comfy bus seats. But then their water broke and that pressure had gotten worse without the cushion. "I don't know," they answered after a few seconds.

"Okay, how about... I'll book us a hotel near the next stop just in case and we'll reassess once we get there," Fen offered.

Atlas nodded their approval of the plan, grateful for Fen's ability to think logically even in panic-inducing moments.

Over the next two hours, Fen gently coached Atlas through contraction after contraction. The deep rumble of his voice, strong hand holding Atlas', and his general presence helped immensely to keep Atlas calm and focused despite everything else.

At some point Fen pushed the armrest between them out of the way so Atlas could lean on him, making for a much comfier position than sitting upright like they had been.

"There's... a lot of pressure," Atlas said between softly panted breaths. "I don't think it'll be much longer," they added.

"Okay, we should be at the stop soon," Fen reassured, draping an arm over Atlas' shoulders to gently rub circles against Atlas' swollen stomach. "Then we can go straight to the hotel and have this baby like we planned," Fen said, voice dipping into a low purr against Atlas' ear.

It made a shiver go down Atlas' spine, clit throbbing and making them aware of exactly how aroused they already were just from Fen talking to them and giving them instructions - even if those instructions were mainly how and when to breathe.

God, Atlas wished they were home.

A contraction brought Atlas out of their thoughts, making them tense until Fen reminded them to relax and breathe through it.

That was getting really hard, but Atlas made an effort. They took in a deep breath, trying to relax their body as much as they could as they let that breath out slowly.

"Again, babe, do it again," Fen urged, reaching down to massage the outside of Atlas' thigh where the muscles were still all tense.

"Ngh," Atlas grunted as they sucked in another breath, screwing their eyes shut as the contraction peaked and the pressure between their hips increased tenfold. Hardly even realizing it, they found themselves bearing down against it for the remainder of the contraction.

Once it was done, Atlas shifted to reposition so they were leaning back against Fen, one foot up on the seat and the other on the floor. The position let them spread their thighs a bit more and they moaned softly when they felt that pressure drop deep into their pelvis. "H-Hey, Fen," they mumbled, unable to help but rock their hips a little, "I think I have to push."

Fen didn't reply right away, lifting his head to glance around the bus first. There weren't many people, thankfully, and it seemed like they'd be getting to the bus stop soon but neither of them were sure if it'd be soon enough. "Okay. We're almost to the stop and the hotel is just around the corner from there. Try to breathe through it until we get there," Fen instructed, calm aside from a slight tremble to his otherwise even voice.

"I'll try, but..." Atlas trailed off, feeling their midsection tighten in another strong contraction.

"You got this, love. I know it's hard, I know you want to push but let's breathe through it," Fen cooed, his voice low and lips brushing against Atlas' ear as he spoke. "Feel the pressure, notice it and accept it as you breathe," he instructed, taking slow even breaths for Atlas to follow.

"Yeah, 'm feeling th-the pressure," Atlas groaned in one quick exhale, screwing their eyes shut and trying their best to match Fen's breathing. What really got them through the intense heavy pressure urging them to push, though, was focusing on Fen's fingers rubbing their thigh.

"You're doing so good sweet-tart," Fen rumbled, "Focus on my voice and we'll get through this."

Atlas nodded, unable to answer as they tried not to make a lot of noise. They could feel that heaviness shift and move down, knowing the baby's head was fully engaged and working its way through their cervix by now.

"You've got this, babe, doing so good for me," Fen purred as the contraction peaked.

There was only so much Atlas could do, though, when the contractions were doing enough to work the baby down through their cervix even without them pushing.

Just as the contraction was ending, there was a loud 'boom' and the bus jolted, tires screeching as it came to a very sudden stop.

Within half a second of the sound, Fen had both arms wrapped tight around Atlas and didn't loosen his grip until the bus was completely stopped.

"Fuck, Atlas are you okay?" Fen asked, calm facade breaking for a moment as panic crept into his voice.

"Yeah, I think so," Atlas answered, taking a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm their racing heart. "Are you?"

"Yeah," Fen nodded, pressing a kiss against the top of Atlas' head.

"Sorry, folks!" the bus driver exclaimed, "Sounds like a tire gave up on us. The station has already been notified, though and someone should be here within the hour to fix us up."

Fen and Atlas sat in silence for a few seconds as that information sunk in. There was no way Atlas was going to make it through an extra hour - they were cutting it extremely close anyway.

"Fen," Atlas mumbled, tilting their head to look at their husband, "I don't know if... if we'll make it."

A small frown tugged at Fen's lips before he slowly answered, "Should we call an ambulance?"

"No," Atlas snapped, panic rising at just the mention of going to a hospital - especially one that was away from their home town that Atlas had never been to.

They've had enough medical trauma and shitty doctors to give them a lifetime of distrust for hospitals.

"Okay - That's okay," Fen reassured, finding one of Atlas' hands to hold. "Let's still try to breathe through it and we'll see how far we get."

"'Kay," Atlas grunted, hand tightening around Fen's as pain and pressure overwhelmed them.

The next couple of contractions went similarly, Atlas following Fen's instructions while trying to keep themselves quiet even as the pressure kept moving lower. It was getting difficult, though, especially when the intensity of the pressure didn't lessen at all after the most recent contraction ended.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck. Nghhh," Atlas whined, squirming against Fen as they tried to find some sort of position that wouldn't be as terrible. "So much pressure," they complained, arching their back a little before collapsing against Fen with a defeated whine.

"I could give you a distraction, if you want," Fen offered, one of his hands trailing down over Atlas' swollen stomach to rub against the inside of their thigh before gently trailing over the seam of their leggings.

"Ah!" Atlas gasped at the unexpected sensation, their clit already swollen and sensitive from how Fen had been talking before. "Please," they said in a rush of air, thighs twitching open more.

Taking a glance around, Fen slipped his hand into Atlas' leggings once he was sure no one would see. "There you go, sweets, just focus on my hand and my voice," Fen encouraged, quickly finding Atlas' swollen clit and slowly rubbing circles over it.

Dropping his head back against Fen's shoulder, Atlas bit back a moan. It did help, though, able to focus on a different sensation rather than pain and pressure. "Sh-shit," Atlas groaned as another contraction hit and Fen sped up his fingers as it peaked. The pleasure took the edge off of the pain but stood no chance against easing the pressure and urges to push that Atlas felt. "Ngh! Ah, f-fuck," Atlas grunted as the contraction peaked.

Fen was telling them to pant through it, suck in air and then blow it out, do whatever they could just so they weren't holding their breath. That was hard, though, and Atlas found themselves giving little pushes with every forced exhale.

They didn't have a choice in the matter and fuck did it feel good to give in a little bit.

It was only after the contraction ended that Atlas realized on top of the pressure there was a new sensation just below their cervix - like they were being stretched and filled to their breaking point.

Everything was so intense, though, Atlas couldn't even say anything about it. They were reduced to a squirming, whimpering mess as the pleasure warred with the discomfort and that urge to push completely overtook them when their abdomen tightened again.

And Atlas was right - it felt so good to finally do what their body wanted them to.

Between that and Fen's fingers moving expertly over their clit, Atlas found themselves on the verge of an orgasm as they gasped in a breath and pushed.

That's what did it, Atlas unable to help but cry out and buck their hips as the orgasm washed over them even as their body kept bearing down.

By the time Atlas was coming down from that absolutely incredible orgasm, they could feel that that heaviness had completely filled their cunt and they were sure if they pushed just a little more that their lips would start to bulge and part.

"Oh my God, are you having a baby?!"

The shrill voice of a concerned stranger made Atlas' face go bright red, realizing she probably had heard them cumming just now.

Fen didn't remove his hands from Atlas' leggings which made Atlas' face burn even brighter as Fen tried to reassure the worried passenger.

Atlas was past the point of being able to speak coherently, though, especially as another contraction started not even seconds later.

"Oh - Ah - Nghh - No," Atlas whined as quietly as they could, their body now pushing without their consent. "Oh God, oh God. Fen!" Atlas gasped, feeling their hole start to stretch as the baby's head started to inch out.

But Fen was still trying to convince the lady - and now several other worried passengers - not to call 911 because they had it handled and that Atlas didn't want to go to the hospital.

Groaning through gritted teeth, Atlas felt the baby's head slide back in as the contraction ended. But they didn't get that relief for long, their contractions almost on top of each other by now.

Atlas hardly even noticed the small crowd that had gathered around their seat, all of their focus on trying (and partially failing) not to push again.

It didn't make much of a difference, though.

The baby's head was slowly making its way through. Every contraction brought it out further and further even though it always slipped back in as soon as the contractions were over.

At least until it didn't.

Unable to speak, Atlas grabbed Fen's wrist and moved his hand down just enough that he'd be able to feel the way Atlas' lips were bulging and the baby's head peaking out through them.

Atlas felt Fen's whole body tense for a moment, words faltering as he tried to soothe everyone who was trying to call an ambulance.

Then, he regained composure and with two fingers spread Atlas' lips just a little further so he could press his hand against the baby's head. With that position, Fen incidentally had the ball of his hand pressed firmly against Atlas' sensitive clit which sent entirely conflicting sensations through their body again.

As the next contraction came, Atlas found themselves unintentionally grinding against Fen's hand as they moved their hips in little circles like they had been this whole time.

And it felt so fucking good but also way too intense at the same time and Atlas couldn't hold back their moans, grunts, and whines anymore.

When that contraction peaked, Atlas gave a series of little pushes each accompanied with a small grunt.

It wasn't doing anything, though, and Atlas soon realized that Fen was keeping the baby from progressing more with firm but gentle pressure against its head.

"Hey, they're transferring us to a different bus, sweet-tart, it just got here," Fen's voice right in Atlas' ear was the only thing Atlas could hear outside of their own harsh breathing and pounding heartbeat. "The aisle is too narrow for me to pick you up but as soon as we're off the bus I'll be able to carry you, okay?"

Fuck.

There wasn't any other choice, though, so after Fen removed his hand from Atlas' leggings, Atlas slowly adjusted so they could stand.

Fen supported them the whole time but with every step Atlas could feel their labia bulging and spreading more and more. Not to mention the way their hole was starting to burn with the stretch as the baby began to crown.

The step down from the bus was the worst and the baby was nearly at a full crown by the time Fen was picking them up to carry them over to the other bus.

Thank fuck the other bus was a little bigger so Atlas didn't have to walk to a seat. Especially since a contraction started just as Fen was stepping up into the bus.

All Atlas could do was bury their face against Fen's shoulders and sob as that burning sensation just continued to get worse, their body pushing even though they were actively trying not to.

"Fen!" Atlas squealed as the rest of the baby's head popped out all at once, making their leggings bulge obscenely. "I-It's - Oh God - th-the head is - it's out," they stammered, clinging to Fen even as their husband gently laid them on the row of seats in the back of the bus.

"Okay, okay - Babe, just, I need you to let go of me so I can - uh - look and help," Fen said in a mumbled rush, standing once Atlas let go before kneeling between Atlas' feet. "We need to get these pants off, okay?" he asked, already reaching for the waistband of the leggings.

"Wait - waitwaitwait," Atlas gasped, keening as their abdomen cramped and tightened again. They could feel the baby turning and a shoulder trying to come out but their leggings didn't let that happen.

At least until Fen managed to pull the legging down - ignoring Atlas' pleas because they needed to come off - and several things happened all at once.

The first shoulder slid out, closely followed by the second one and, before Fen even had Atlas' leggings to their knees, the baby was born with a large gush of fluid.

[bluekidchaos]

Kinktober day 3 - Spencer Reid

for once keeping under 1k words woho! also i originally forgot i was doing the praise kink so i had to add that after i was already done lmao

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Prompt: Praise kink

Warnings: 18+, Sub!spence, praise, pet names (baby boy, bunny), cream pie, unprotected sex, season 3 spencer hair, the mommy kink snuck up on me i-

Words: 700

Can also be read on AO3!

Kinktober masterlist. Regular masterlist.

Being a BAU agent came with a heavy burden, you could see it in Spencer on rough days. He would slump together on the couch and just stare into space, you'd try and comfort him the best you could but sometimes he just needed some time. 

You made sure to pamper him when he was home, cooking dinner together, cuddling, and sex. Really just anything you could do together. He craved intimacy and was highly touch-starved, you didn't mind though as touching him was your favorite thing. 

You loved how you could get him so riled up with just a couple of words and small touches. Having him on top of you yet you were in charge, making him whimper from your praise. 

He would be begging you to let him move once he was inside you. Head resting on your shoulder and barely holding himself up by his forearms. "Please, baby, god, please. Need to fuck you so bad."

Cooing at him and his desperation, "Hold on baby boy, let me just feel you for a second. You're so good for me, bunny." You raked your fingernails over his back and down his sides, leaving red marks in their path. Hearing him groan at the pain made your cunt clench in return. "So big and it's all mine."

Spencer tried to steady his breath, thinking of something else that wasn't his dick in your perfect pussy. He was going through any and all statistics he could remember at the moment in his head, anything to keep still and not just have his way with you.

"Okay, Spence. You can move now, but slow, baby." He whined into your neck as he finally could move his hips. Gently pulling out of you and pushing back in, Spencer was moaning right into your ear at the pleasure. 

Your hand pushed away some of his hair that had fallen in his face, putting it behind his ear. "Th- thank you, mommy, God thank you for letting me fuck you." You could feel his hips speed up a little on their own volition and you tugged a few strands signaling to slow down again. 

"Doing so good for me, baby. You're my good boy right?" He nodded quickly, keeping the pace slow. Languidly thrusting against you. You're planting kisses on his throat, sucking hickeys onto his collarbone.

"Do you wanna cum, bunny? Wanna fill mommy up like a good boy?" Fingers digging into his cheeks, forcing him to look into your eyes. His gaze was hazy with pleasure and glassy from unshed tears. "Make mommy come first and you can come inside me."

Spencer's eyes widened and in a matter of seconds, he was thrusting into you at full speed. His hand snaking down to play with your clit. "Yes, thank you, I'll be good. I'll make you come." 

His hand was making quick work at bringing you right to that delicious edge, feeling it become tighter and tighter in your stomach while he pounded into you like a wild beast. Your legs were wrapped around his waist, the angle making him hit that magical spot inside you every time. 

You're moaning unrestrained into his ear, no doubt garnering noise complaints again, but you couldn't care less. "Spence, yes just like that! You fuck me so good, always so good. So big inside me." You're chanting his name like a prayer as he pinched your clit one last time before you fell over the edge, your end bringing his own. 

Feeling you clench down on him hard and pulse around him. A strangled "Oh, shit, I-" before you feel him fill you up completely. He pumped into you a few more times before stilling and laying down on you, careful not to put all of his weight on you. 

You could feel his seed trickle out of you, making a mess on the sheets under you. You stroked Spncer's hair and planted big wet kisses all over his face and neck, anywhere you could reach. "I love you so much, baby."

Spencer is smiling down at you, that big goofy smile that you loved so much. "I love you too, and thank you."

[sidekick-hero]

(steddie | explicit | 563 words | tags: vampire!eddie, blood drinking, smut, established relationship, part 2 of Love from the other side | AO3 | @steddielovemonth prompt Love is being late to work because you can’t ever say goodbye in a reasonable amount of time by @sharpbutsoft and well as @steddieholidaydrabbles pop-up event for Valentine's Day)

"I swear to God, Eddie, if you don't touch me right now -" Steve's threat is cut off by a broken moan as Eddie's teeth sink into the tender inside of his thigh, his hair tickling Steve's balls and leaking cock.

The first suck has him arching off the bed before strong hands pin him back down. Their grip is like steel, rendering him utterly helpless, unable to escape the deadly predator that is currently drinking his blood straight from his veins.

It only makes him moan louder.

Another deep suck from Eddie's teeth and then the feeling of his tongue licking off the remaining blood dripping from the wound is the sweetest torture known to man and Steve is sure he'll lose his mind any second. His body is littered with bite marks, swirling across his body like beauty marks.

Love bites.

That's what they are, Steve thinks, even if they haven't said it yet. Eddie carves it into his skin, pours it into his veins, so that Steve's heart can pump Eddie's love into every single cell of his body.

It's worth coming to work late almost every day for the last month.

Eddie needs to feed. Before Steve, he got his blood from God knows where, sometimes going days without. It's manageable, but it weakens him. Makes him vulnerable to other vampires to attack him.

To kill him.

Steve found Eddie bleeding out on his bathroom floor once, and he doesn't want that to ever happen again.

So he feeds Eddie his own blood before leaving him for twelve hours or more to go to work. Every day, enough to keep Eddie going, but not so much that Steve feels the effects. The fluids he gives himself during his breaks also help.

Only it is never just feeding with Eddie.

It's the teasing, cold fingertips dancing across his heated skin until goose bumps cover him from head to toe.

It's the exploration of soft lips, learning every inch of his body anew every day, as if the shifting of atoms is reason enough to get him reacquainted.

It's the need that pulsates through Steve's veins, calling with every beat of his wayward heart for a creature of the night to sink its sharp teeth into his willing flesh.

It's the worship of Steve's welcoming body and heart and soul as Eddie sinks into him with his teeth and tongue, his fingers and cock.

It's making love.

"What was it you were going to say?" Eddie asks, his blood-stained grin wild and beautiful.

It's hard to catch his breath and still sound reprimanding. "I said touch me already or I'll have to finish this without your help because I can't be late for work again."

Clicking his tongue, Eddie crawls up his body until his face hovers over Steve's. Thinking Eddie is about to kiss him, Steve lifts his head to catch his lips, but Eddie has other plans as he bypasses them to lean in close to where Steve's pulse sings just beneath his skin. Eddie takes a deep breath of Steve's scent, his nose following the vein all the way to Steve's ear.

"But sweetheart," he purrs with his lips pressed against the shell, "where would be the fun in that?"

Eddie's teeth sink into his neck at the same time as his lube coated cock sinks into his body and Steve thinks that it is so fucking worth being late for work again.

[moldycantaloupe]

From @sister-nyx 's, um, Phantom prompt list, I wrote Swiss holding Phantom during a nightmare. This almost turned into a proper fic had I let myself get fully carried away. Angst with fluff ensued!

Cw; Nightmares, panic attack.

Swiss was a heavy sleeper, him and everyone else around him knew that; once Swiss was asleep he was practically dead to the world. The only way they’ve successfully woken him up in the past was pushing him off of the couch. Otherwise, he sleeps through the entire night.

So waking up and cracking his eyes open to see the room dark, save for the light from the moon, it confused him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d woken up before the morning. 

His confusion was quickly followed with alarm bells by the pungent and acidic smell of fear coursing through the room. He sat up in an instant, eyes wild and searching the dark. He sniffed at the air and it led him just to the side of him. He whined quietly and his heart sank.

He forgot for a moment that Phantom had slept over.

They were facing away from him with their blankets thrown off their body. They were squeezed into a fetal position that they always took, an old habit they kept from the Pit to minimize space while resting. Their joints were somehow more compact, muscles tight, tight enough that Swiss knew they’d hurt when they woke up. They were shaking, from the chill in the air or whatever was plaguing their mind, Swiss didn’t know. Their mouth was open to let out labored breaths, each one ending in a quiet whine. 

Swiss had to wake them up, but he couldn’t figure out how to go about it. If he shook them awake, they would wake up thinking their dream became a reality. If he called out to them, same outcome. 

Slowly, very slowly, he lowered himself back into the bed to be laying next to them and discarded his own blanket. He took measured movements and slowly moved one arm underneath their pillow. When they didn’t fuss over it, he moved his other arm to drape it over their waist. Not holding, just on top. He kept his distance and bared his neck to let his calming scent reach their nose. He began to purr, just a low rumble but enough to help ease them awake.

It took only a few minutes until that breathing picked up and their body tensed awake. They stayed in their position, likely still in a mindset of defense. Swiss wanted to pull them into his body and just hold them, let him know he was there, but he knew he had to wait. Their breathing eventually began to even out and soon he heard them.

“Swiss…” Phantom’s voice was small and they took in a shaky breath, “Swiss?”

“I’m here, bat.” He hummed. 

They wiggled their body out of their position and were turned into his body in seconds, their face smashed into his neck and sucking in a deep and hearty breath. He let his purr grow in volume and finally got a proper hold on them; arms wrapped around their body and a leg in between theirs, securely twisting them together. 

“Swiss,” They breathed out, their voice muffled. Their body began to shake again and their hands desperately clung to the back of his shirt, as if he were to disappear if they let go. He could feel the wetness on his skin where their face was. 

“I’ve got you.” He whispered.

“Swiss-” they pushed their face further into his skin and let out a gut wrenching sob, high and quiet. Their blunt nails dug into his back and they tried their hardest to get even closer to him. “F-fuck, it- gods below- th-” they whined and fell back into a sob.

He shushed them quietly, his hands running up and down their back. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

So they didn’t. They let themselves cry while Swiss continued to whisper comforting words into their hair, their grasp on him not dying down. Even when their sobs stopped and they were left hiccuping and catching their breath, they never let go.

Phantom lifted their head out of his neck eventually and rested it on his chest. He looked down briefly and noticed how dark and cloudy their eyes were, as if their soul was sucked out of them. He wanted nothing more than to hold them tighter, if possible.

They let out a humorless laugh, “I can’t even remember what the dream was about.” Their voice shaky as they mumbled. “I just woke up and,” they shook their head, “and I dunno. I thought I was gonna die.”

Swiss nodded and let out a hum. “That used to happen to me all the time.”

He watched as their brows furrowed in confusion and they lifted their head to meet his eyes. “Really?”

Swiss smiled, “Yeah, we all go through it someway or another. Some of us still do.”

Phantom’s frown furthered and they laid their head back down. “I don’t want to do this forever.”

“It’ll get better, buggy.” Swiss promised with a kiss to their hair. “You can stay here for as long as you want. Mountain has herbs and shit to help deal with sleep. You’ve got support.”

They smiled and let out a quiet chuff. “Stay and hear you snore all night?”

Swiss clicked his tongue in feigned annoyance. “I don’t snore.”

They laugh, a little humor back into their small body. “I know, I was just teasing.”

Swiss laughed with them. He lifted an arm off them and blindly reached towards the nightstand. He grabbed his water bottle and lifted the straw up to offer it to them.

“You’re going to have a crazy migraine tomorrow if you don’t at least drink those tears back up.” He said as they begrudgingly gulped down the water.

They frowned up at him around the straw and took one last gulp before pushing the bottle away. “That’s gross.”

He laughed and put the water back before they fell into a comfortable silence, Swiss rubbing Phantom’s back as they did the same to him. Their movements began to slow eventually along with their breathing. When he glanced down he noticed those puffy eyes fought to stay open, likely scared to fall back.

“I’ve got you, Phantom.” Swiss whispered, sealing one last final promise into their head before they let their consciousness take them.

[empthy1]

Would you be willing to write some Sage smut..? I feel like she’d be an interesting character to try and capture in an actual intimate moment where she’s not all lobotomized, maybe one where it’s after the finale where she’s all pleased that she actually did it, like she’s giddy in a way and maybe with a gn!fem!unspecifiedsupe!r who is her like unofficial partner and they celebrate?

- 👁

omg ofc I can. ty ty ty for all the requests you’re sending you’re giving me sm inspiration. I've been waiting and waiting for a fic of her but I guess I have to do it myself ᕙ(`▿´)ᕗ also there are like no pictures of her on pinterest. what gives man

celebration

Sage— Jessica sighs as she cracks open the heavy wooden door. She left Homelander a mess—triumph rushed through her. She did it; she tricked them all. Now all that’s left is a pang of nostalgia; a longing for the smell of books and the close quarters (and you. She’s introspective enough to admit that).

“Brad? That you?” She hears echo through the small apartment. Supe hearing is no joke, she’s learned over the years of living with you—even though she has it herself, you seem to pick up on every little noise. She kicks off her shoes half-halfhazardly next to yours, knowing she’ll trip over them later. She usually cares. She can’t bring herself to, today.

“Yeah. It’s me.” She hums. She can’t help the almost-giddy smile that curls her lips. “Get the good whiskey.”

She’s a lot more giggly when she’s curled up on the couch, half-drunk with you by her side, bottle of whiskey in hand. She missed her ‘shoebox’ (and what came with it). The couch is the only place in the living room without books on it, and you’d both knocked over quite a few piles making your way to it that she’d have to reorganize tomorrow.

“So—so I brought him a balloon.” She prompts. Giggles again. “He—god, he was destroyed. Thought everything went to shit. It was perfect. Everything worked out. I did it.”

There’s a bright, toothy smile on her face, seemingly plastered there by superglue—it hadn’t dropped since her second(?) drink. It’s hard to tell when you’re drinking it straight from the bottle.

“Anyway…” her eyes slide over your form. “I want to ride your face.” Always blunt. Especially when drunk. “I deserve it. Also, you’re fidgeting. I know you’re as pent up as I am.”

And who are you to deny that request?

A drunken laugh escapes the both of you, at your shared, clumsy stand-up. With one last swig, the bottle is discarded on the end table as she pulls you towards your bedroom by the front of your shirt.

As strong as her composure is, you have pleasing her down to a science. She’d be smug about how good you were (if she wasn’t writhing above you).

“Yes, keep going. Right there. You know what I want.” She huffs, one hand down between her thighs, buried in your hair, the other holding the headboard. The wood thumps against the wall with every roll of her hips. Thank god you don’t have neighbors. Her thighs tremble around your head, little gasps escaping her at every nudge of your nose against her clit. “You’re so good. Jesus. Missed this, didn’t you?”

She can’t not taunt you, with how good you look—strong arms wrapped around her dark thighs, face half-obscured and eyes shut with pleasure. Her own eyes flutter as well, soft, deep breaths escaping her mouth. Little noises catch in her throat (whimpers, not that she’d admit it) as you do that thing with your tongue that drives her absolutely wild.

“God, don’t stop—“ she breathes out. If your durability wasn’t so good, she’d probably had broken your nose with the force of her hips. You keep her pinned to your mouth, driving her insane. She doesn’t last long, the combination of whiskey warming her gut and your thumb sliding over to circle her clit and making her see stars.

You don’t let her of your mouth, even as she trembles with the force of her release. She has to beg you to stop, overstimulation shooting through her and up her spine. She thinks you planned this—knocking her down a peg for abandoning you here for Homelander. Or just for your own amusement.

She‘s not interested in deducing it, not with the weight of her eyelids as you lie her down on the bed she missed. She falls asleep to your kisses, sleepily humming as your lips trace her face. That’s a tomorrow discussion. She’s going to get the rest she deserves, after all her hard work.

[ceilidho]

prompt: reader summons a warrior (ghost) from beyond the grave to come to her father’s aid (circa 400-500 ad, northern europe or somewhere abouts).

-

It is an old enchantment that you use to drag him out of the grave. One buried in books and tucked away under floorboards in old larders, last used by old crones hundreds of years before your birth, before your grandmother’s birth. 

You didn’t have much of a choice though. Not when the earth rattled under the footsteps of an army a hundred thousand strong, just a handful of miles outside of the borders of your father’s land. Not when your father sat hunched in the tent, head buried in his hands when you peered in through the crack in the opening. Not when families fled in the middle of the night, more willing to take their chances with the wolves in the forest than face certain death with the coming of Marakov’s warriors.

So you find the book that your grandmother once told you about in a hushed voice by a dwindling fire. Back when you were only knee high and shouldn’t have remembered. You do though. You pried the planks of wood out one by one at dawn until your fingers trembled and your torn nails throbbed. Stole far off into the forest past where the guards could find you, until the mulch squelched beneath your feet and the trees broke to let in just enough light for you to whisper the words out into the cold air. 

He comes the day after you summon him, the day after praying to an old god that someone come to your aid. Hewn from stone or muscle; pelt-draped. Eyes like blue granite, charcoal rimmed, and he speaks to your father in a low rumble like he didn’t come unannounced from the wild. Still, your father listens and they disappear inside his tent. 

When you ask your father’s second, he isn’t much help. 

“Says his name’s Ghost,” Garrick grunts, whittling at his post by the riverside. “Dunno where from. Price trusts him. Says he’ll bring twice the men we have if we help him with Marakov.”

He does too, even though you conjured him out of thin air. In the days that follow, more and more men follow the river, arriving with horses and caravans and leathers, swords sheathed at their sides. 

Ghost approaches you after what feels like weeks, following behind when you bring the laundry to the river to wash. You find the name suits him. He’s silent as a ghost from where he stands yards behind you.

“You know, it’s rude to stare,” you say, staring at your own reflection in the water, cocksure in your voice but still too nervous to turn around and meet his eyes. You rub a coarse brush over the clothes piled on the smooth stone you use for washing. 

Something touches your hair. Your head snaps up to find him just beside you now, ankle-deep in the river with you. 

His voice is lower than the shifting of the earth when it trembles. “You are the little witch that called me up. Speak it.”

You drop the brush. It sinks, glug glug, into the waters below. Your throat swells up but you nod. “They—they think you’re real.”

“I was real,” Ghost murmurs, and the finger that plays with a lock of your hair becomes a hand clenched in the delicate strands, pulling you forward. Water sloshes around your legs when you stumble into him. “I was real once, a long time ago. Then I died. I must have slept a thousand years before a little girl woke me up to come fight her war in another time.”

There’s nothing you can say to that, so you nod again. He looks pleased with your honesty. It does not dissuade him from bending his head and breathing heavily into your ear. This close, it’s impossible to avoid the broadness of him, more mountain than man.

“I’ll fight your war, little witch,” Ghost murmurs into the shell of your ear. “But come the dawn of the last day, you will owe me for disturbing my rest. I exact payment in blood.” 

For the first time ever, it’s you that trembles instead of the earth. 

The women and children are ushered far away into the forest on the day that Marakov is seen on the horizon, the skinned head of a wolf draped over his head. A young boy clings to you as carry him and baskets of food and your belongings deep into the woods. You can already hear the screams in the fields behind you, the roar of men; smell it damp like soil, like the living thing that eats the dead. 

“It’s done,” he says to you on the seventh day when you and the young ones return, the battlefields still steaming. The air smells of rust. 

You don’t need to agree. It’s plain as day. You’ve already helped with the funeral arrangements for the men who didn’t come back; you’ve helped with eulogies and collecting kindling for the pyres. 

“You’ll leave now,” you say, with some certainty, no matter how begrudging. 

You can picture it so easily, Ghost rising from the bog like a Gallic warrior; his eyes are so charged with life that you flinch back. You cannot look. You cannot look away. He is a thousand years older than your oldest dreams. His nights in the earth are infinite now—maybe always were—his dreams being darker than night-falling rain. He cannot begrudge you touching him, but you taking him out of the earth is unforgivable. He had to return. 

You think this and then he smiles. “Not without my prize.”

Your eyes go wide when he takes you by the arm, mouth opening on a scream. It is a scream that never comes, that sinks back into the earth whence it came.