#He wears it around his thumb as a reminder to not fall in love again

[pockspocket]

Guys don't drink late at night with your therapist... you just might fall in love with him...

@jaythenugget 's mk oc, Shim, is on the left!

[formulaonecrumbs]

bite me

Lando Norris x reader

summary: lando’s just too biteable and reader takes advantage of it.

warnings: very extremely fluffy.

A/N: i have love ‘love bites’ they’re so cutesy and UGH i love biting peoples cheeks :p ENJOOYYYY, LOVE U SWEET THINGS!!!!

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

it’s one of those lazy afternoons where time feels slower, like the world outside the windows doesn’t even exist. you and lando are half-sprawled on the couch, limbs tangled in the way they always end up when you’re both too comfortable to care.

he’s flipping through something on his phone, thumb scrolling lazily, while you’re tucked against his side, your hand resting on his chest. you’re not even watching the tv anymore — you’re too busy tracing slow circles over the soft fabric of his t-shirt, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

you don’t even think about it. not really. you just lean in and press a kiss to his cheek — a quick, warm thing, meant to get his attention. but the second your lips land, you can’t help it; your teeth graze his skin, just the tiniest bit.

lando flinches like he wasn’t expecting it, glancing down at you with a mock-offended look. “did you just bite me?”

you grin against his skin, not even pretending to deny it. “maybe.”

he shakes his head, but he’s smiling too, and you can feel the way his arm tightens a little around your waist, tugging you even closer. he always pretends to be annoyed, but he never actually moves away.

you go back to tracing lazy shapes on him, but it doesn’t take long before the impulse comes back. it’s stupid, really — the way you just want to bite him, to leave tiny marks like you’re some kind of overexcited puppy. maybe it’s because he’s so close, so warm, so him.

this time you aim lower, pressing a kiss just under his jawline. he tilts his head without thinking, giving you more space, and you take full advantage — a soft kiss, a firmer one, and then your teeth catching lightly at the sensitive skin there.

“oi,” he says, squirming half-heartedly. “you’re gonna leave a mark.”

“good,” you murmur, pressing your mouth against the spot again like an apology, but not really meaning it. you love the idea of him carrying little pieces of you, hidden under the collar of his shirt, tucked into the crook of his neck.

he laughs, low and fond, and drops his phone onto the coffee table without even looking. like he’s decided he’d rather deal with you and your biting problem than whatever he was doing before.

“you’re a menace,” he tells you, poking your side.

you just nuzzle into him, undeterred. your hand slips under the hem of his t-shirt, finding the warm skin of his stomach. his muscles twitch under your touch, and you can’t help yourself — you press another kiss to his shoulder, your teeth catching lightly on the curve of it.

“can’t help it,” you mumble against him. “you’re just… biteable.”

he huffs out a laugh, but when you look up, he’s already watching you with that look — the one that’s a little too soft, a little too much for your heart to handle.

“you’re lucky you’re cute,” he says, pretending to grumble. but he pulls you closer again, hooking his chin over your head like he wants you there, right there, forever.

you hum in contentment, settling into him like you were made to fit there. your mouth finds the inside of his bicep next — he’s wearing a sleeveless hoodie, and the exposed skin is way too tempting. you kiss the warm stretch of muscle, then graze your teeth along it, leaving the faintest little indent.

he doesn’t even bother protesting this time. just sighs dramatically and lets you do whatever you want.

“remind me why i put up with this?” he mutters.

you grin up at him, mischievous and so full of love it almost aches. “because you’re obsessed with me.”

lando snorts. “yeah. unfortunately.”

but he’s smiling so hard his cheeks hurt, and when you finally lift your head to meet his eyes, he leans down to kiss you — slow and sweet and dizzying. his hand cradles the back of your head, and when he pulls away, he presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in.

“keep biting me,” he whispers, so soft you almost don’t catch it. “i don’t mind.”

you smile against his lips, your heart thudding stupidly loud in your chest, and you think — yeah. you’re definitely never stopping.

THE END :>

[vampiredaisiesss]

touch me — d.w. x reader

synopsis - you run your knuckles through the stubble littering his cheeks. your fingers travel upwards, thumb tracing his crow's feet. the lines on his face have deepened as he's grown older as has his hair gotten lighter. you find him all the more beautiful like this.

trigger warning - older dean winchester (early 40s) with younger reader (early 20s)

He thinks about time, about how it marks you, about how each silver strand falling to the floor is another reminder of all the years between the two of you.

The harsh glare of the bathroom light is unforgiving, casting every line on his face into sharp focus. Dean watches your reflection in the mirror. The gentle snip-snip echoes off the tile walls as you work the scissor over his hair, your lip caught between your teeth.

Steam still clings to the bathroom mirror from your shower, making the edges of your reflection soft, dream-like. Your tank top's damp where his hair falls against it, and there's something so domestic about this moment it makes his chest ache.

You hum "Hey Jude" while you work, because of course you know that's what Mary sang when she cut his hair. Of course you know that's what he sometimes hummed in his sleep whenever he'd have a nightmare.

"You're thinking too loud, again," you murmur, running your fingers through the short hairs at his nape.

"I've got shirts older than you," he says finally, the words tasting bitter on tongue.

You laugh out loud, and it sounds like every good thing he probably doesn't deserve. "And they're all flannel, and they all smell like gunpowder and cheap liquor that you probably spilled on them two decades ago, but never got dry-cleaned, and I love them." Your smile turns soft at the edges. "Just like I love the man wearing them."

"Kid—" he starts, but you cut him off.

"Don't 'kid' me, Dean Winchester. Not when you're balls deep inside me every night." You pause for just enough time to fix him a determined stare, and he offers you a small smile.

"You think I don't know who I'm choosing? You think I haven't counted every scar, every gray hair, every year you spent saving the world before I was old enough to know it needed saving?"

The scissor is forgotten on the countertop as you run your knuckles through the stubble littering his cheeks. Your fingers travel upwards, thumb tracing his crow's feet. The lines on his face have deepened as he's grown older as has his hair gotten lighter.

You find him all the more beautiful like this.

Dean's throat tightens. You're stripping him bare with your touch. "Exactly. You could have anyone. Someone who—"

He swallows hard, but he's smiling now. His chest feels heavier with something else. "When you say it like that, sounds like I should be in a museum, not your bed."

"Someone who what? Someone who hasn't survived forty years in hell? Someone who doesn't wake up reaching for a weapon? Someone who doesn't understand why I keep rock salt by the bed and devil's traps under the rugs?" You shake her head. "I don't want easy, Dean. I want you."

"There," you say finally, brushing loose hair from his neck. Your lips find that sensitive spot behind his ear, and he can feel you smile against his skin.

"Please," You chuckle. Your hands slide back into his hair, resuming cutting. "Museums are for looking, not touching. "And I'm very..." snip "...very..." snip "...fond of touching you."

"Touch me," he says, and it comes out like a prayer he never learned properly – rough and wanting and holy all at once. It curls around your heart in the shape of Dean's hand.

He reaches up, catches your hand before you can move away.

You touch him like you're reading braille, like every freckle on his body has a story to tell. Your lips trace constellations across the map of blue veins over his body. And when you finally put your lips on the scar along the side of his hip — the first ever souvenir he collected on his skin — you feel the smallest tremor in his breath. It’s so faint, but unmistakable, and for a moment, you could almost swear you made Dean Winchester mewl.

And you do.

[heeliopheelia]

𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊 (s. jake x reader)

tw: somnophilia, fem! reader, unprotected sex, established relationship, pet names,

word count: 1.1k

masterlist

Laying on his back, Jake stares at the ceiling as another drop of cold sweat dribbles down the back of his neck. The ticking of the clock and your slow breaths are the only thing he can hear in the quiet bedroom, as he should be at three in the morning after all. 

But he finds it really hard to go back to a peaceful slumber when just two minutes ago you were straddling his dick and he was just so close to cumming. And all of those sweet moans of yours, the slight shaking of your thighs and the mesmerizing bounce of your tits – all of it, just to turn out to be a dream. 

With a heavy sigh, he turns to his side and looks at your sleeping self, so blissfully unaware of the armageddon that you’ve caused in his brain. His eyes skim over your bare back, rising and falling with deep breaths, and suddenly he’s reminded of how just seconds ago he was thrusting, and thrusting, and thrusting up into you so well-

Shutting his eyes tightly, Jake swallows hard and stays like this for a minute or two to calm himself. When another, tired sigh pushes past his lips, he moves closer to you and drapes his arm over your waist, hoping that cuddling up to you will make him fall asleep faster, so that he can wake up in the morning and fuck you properly sooner. 

Another issue he’s being faced with is that the night is so cold, and you’re just so warm and inviting, laying so prettily right next to him. The fairylights that you’ve left turned on for the night cast a warm light on you, giving him a perfect view on the fading hickeys he left on your shoulder blades mere hours ago, and now really, how is he supposed to stop himself. 

The twitch of his hard cock becomes more unbearable with every second and then he realizes – he just loves you too much to let you sleep in peace. He can’t allow for your unforced beauty to go to waste, after all. 

“My pretty girl,” he whispers, barely audible as his voice is still heavily laced with sleep. 

The shorts he’s sleeping in are already drenched and so uncomfortable to wear, so he carefully slips them down to discard them on the floor, right next to where all of your clothes from last night are resting as well.

He lets his impatient hands wander to admire your curves, and a low grunt rips out of his throat as his erection grazes against your thighs by accident. 

He’s an asshole – he knows it. But not that big of an asshole to enjoy all of this without you. So, instead, he settles on rubbing his hard cock against your perked ass, biting his lip with the first touch of your plush skin. 

“Need you s’ bad,” he mutters, leaning forward to pepper your neck with small, sloppy kisses. 

One of his hands drifts to your chest. Whatever shame he might or might not have been fighting against moments ago, it all goes away when the glimpse of your quiet moan sounds through the room the second his hand touches the soft swell of your breast. 

Jake’s lips twitch up with a smile, and now without really holding back, he rolls his hips over your ass, letting his fingers rub and gently pinch around your hardening nipple. His other hand slips down to your pussy and a louder whine comes out of your throat when his thumb finds your clit.

“Knew you’re gonna like it,” he chuckles raspily into your neck. 

His cock finds a perfect place to slot against you, thrusts growing more desperate and less cautious as the release he’s been craving for so long has finally started building up again. 

He hugs you close to his chest, panting against your skin as he humps you like a pillow. Warm hand groping your tits, his tongue lays flat and licks up your neck, finishing at your jaw and nibbling underneath the bone. 

You begin to squirm underneath his touch just as you begin to get wetter, and still in your sleep, you push your ass back into his pelvis. He feels so dirty, but too good to stop too, thriving off the idea that he can make you come even in your sleep. Jake loves that you need him just as much as he needs you.

Rocking his hips into you, your boyfriend is careful not to move you around too much, after all waking you up would make him feel guiltier than he already is. His precum soon smears all over your ass, his big hand pressing harder onto your clit in desperation to make you wetter. 

And when he can finally hear the longed for filthy squelching underneath his fingertips, he breathes out and kisses your shoulder. 

“Just the tip, baby. I promise.” His hand hastily reaches down and lines his cock against your entrance. Slowly, he pushes his mushroom head inside, eyes rolling to the back of his head. “Can’t resist you.”

Your tight hole jerks out a louder whine out of him, not expecting you to suck him in so well, and if not for his self control he would’ve blown his load inside you right then and there. But he decides to enjoy you, to edge himself for a little longer, sinking his red tip in between your walls once by once. 

Just the tip, he has to remind himself after a particularly needy moan of yours.

His fingers skim over your perked nipple again, then cup your breast in his hand and squeeze it gently as he can feel himself getting closer to release. But then you tense in his arms and warm release streams down your thighs suddenly, coating Jake’s fingers. You whimper, on the verge of waking up, and he smiles slyly with satisfaction that he actually made you come in your sleep.

“I know, baby, I know,” he murmurs breathlessly. His eyes are focused on your perfect ass, hands soon following their lead and groping at your soft flesh. 

And then another pleased sigh leaves your lips and he just can’t help himself any longer, so he pulls out of you quickly with a nasty smack and taps his dripping cock over your ass, thick streams of his cum glazing your skin not even a blink later. His mouth falls open as his chest heaves so rapidly in comparison to yours. 

He can’t get himself to do much else than to fall back into the pillows and wrap his arms around you, pulling you as closely to him as it’s humanly possible. 

“Love you, love you so much,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your jawline. “Promise I’ll reward you in the mornin’.”

Nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck, he can feel his eyes starting to droop after the restless night. 

taglist: @bambisgirl @arizejkt19 @luvmura @milisabunny @cathy-1997 @dilucsleftshoelace @ramenoil @jenjnk @jaylaxies @seongiewon @nichoswag @s00buwu @mon2sunjinsuver @goreconsumer @i4kt @heehoonsnemo @seongslutt @criminalyun @enhabooks @antoinettenotfound

a/n: i used to love this the first time i wrote this but now it's just... meh... idek if this is worth putting on my masterlist lmfao

[himbo-kuto]

the tv was playing in the background as you were mindlessly scrolling on your phone. it was a lazy sunday afternoon in skyhaven and you and caleb decided to spend the day doing nothing. he had been twirling the ends of your hair around his finger for who knows how long at this point, half listening to what you had put on earlier. he was just happy to be in your presence. 

you left out a huff as you locked your phone and looked up at him from his lap. 

“done scrolling?” you were silent as you turned toward him, crossing your arms soon after. your eyes scanned his face, down his neck, shoulders, chest and finally your gaze settled on his arms. he was wearing one of those muscle tees with the sleeves cut off and as much as you tried to help yourself, you always caught yourself looking. caleb may be a fool for you, but he was no fool when it came to you. he bought a bunch of shirts just to rip the sleeves off of them in hopes he would catch you looking at his arms again.

“like what you see?” he leaned in closer to you, a shit eating grin dancing on his lips for catching you in the act. you immediately averted your eyes, but your reddened cheeks were a dead give away. 

“shut up..” he took your chin between your fingers, tilting upwards to catch your lips in a chaste kiss. 

“you can look all you want, honey. they’re all yours” you stuck your tongue out at him, glancing over to his arms once again and before you could even think, you leaned over and gave his bicep a big old bite. he yelped in surprise, but laughed as he looked down at you. 

“what are you doing! get off of me!” you quickly sat up and straddled his lap as you began to give his arms little love bites. his arms were soft, squishy and some might describe as… beefy. 

“they’re just so yummy looking, I have to give them a little nibble!” you continued your antics, laughing out loud as you moved up to his neck and shoulders. caleb was over the moon as he laughed along with you. he missed these moments with you– just being stupid with your laughter filling up the room.

he managed to grab your hips, pushing them back so you were sitting on his lap. you took it as your sign to stop. you wiped the stray tears from your eyes from laughing too hard before your vision cleared and when your gaze met his, you swear you felt your heart skip a beat. his cheeks were slightly flushed, hair disheveled, the quickened rise and fall of his chest– when you two were teens and he had the same look whenever you decided to mess with him. 

you took his cheeks within the palms of your hands and shifted his gaze onto yours. moments like these came and went when you were with him. moments when you would think about how you spent those grueling months after his alleged death, how you never thought you were going to see him again, but here he was, in the flesh. your thumbs stroked his cheeks gently, feeling the texture of his skin from the explosion. he was insecure about it, but it was one of things that reminded you that he was real and you loved him even more for it. there was a shift in his expression, one of innocent curiosity. 

“what is it?” you didn’t speak, you just continued to gaze on to his features.  it was only after you scanned his whole face that you gazed into his eyes, running your fingers through his hair to fix the mess you had made of it. his eyes closed instinctively, relishing in your touch. 

“nothing. i’m just really glad that you’re here is all.” you placed a small kiss onto his forehead before leaning your forehead against his. it was your turn to close your eyes. you could feel how his arms held you safely within his embrace and how his hands were steady on your hips. he prided himself on keeping you safe, and you knew it too.

god, how could he have been away from you for so long? he gave your hips a gentle squeeze as his eyes partially opened to see your face. your expression was calm and vulnerable, almost how you looked like when you sleep.. his arms reached up to your back, pulling you in for a longing embrace. 

if caleb could absorb you he would, wanting to absolve any distance between the two of you. he breathed in the scent of your shampoo that smelled faintly of apples he buried his face into your neck. a shudder went down your spine, reciprocating the same amount of intensity. you tried pulling him as close as humanly possible to your chest, you could feel the heat that was radiating off his body. you cradled his head against your cheek, carding your fingers through his dark locks once again before placing a kiss onto his temple.

you finally felt him relax into your embrace, his breathing slowed. it took a lot for caleb to fully relax, especially when he was so used to being on high alert. you’re sure what he has been through in the past couple of months couldn’t have made that easy for him. so you were just going to hold him until he tells you to let go. he listened to the faint sound of your heart beat; you were here and you were real. almost like you were reading his mind, you smile softly as you look down at his calm figure.

“you don’t have to worry anymore caleb, im here and i’m not going anywhere.” 

🎤 hello is this thing on? crazy how it's been 3 years since i've last posted, but IM BACK KINDA? i really want to get into writing again this year and sO this is my introduction back into that!! i hope y'all enjoy this caleb fluff and here's to more!!!

[admiringlove]

part one || part two || part four tw: mentions of burns, grievous injury, death, suicide ideation, etc. post shibuya au. a/n. can be read as a standalone, but i'm doing this as a mini-series.

[09:14] . . .

nanami kento hates this.

he has been home for three weeks now. twenty-one days of stillness so thick it settles into the walls like dust. twenty-one nights where the air feels too heavy, too quiet, where time passes in a hush, like the house itself is holding its breath. three weeks of watching you move around him with tireless grace, every second stitched together by your hands—your footsteps, your touch, your voice, the only things that keep him tethered to the reality he can barely stand to look at.

you do everything. you do too much.

you help him eat when his fingers tremble, help him bathe when the act of standing feels like too much, guide him to the bathroom with a steadiness that makes his stomach twist. you clean him. you lift him. you speak to him softly, with gentle words and careful smiles, never letting your voice crack, never letting him see just how exhausted you are.

and he lets you.

not because he wants to. not because he believes he deserves it. but because he can’t do anything else.

he hates it. he hates that you never flinch, that you never grimace, never complain—not even when you're helping him through the most humiliating moments, the ones where he can’t even raise his arms enough to pull a shirt over his head, the ones where he has to ask you for help to piss.

he watches you hold his shame like it's a secret between you. watches you kneel beside the tub with your sleeves rolled up, washing the burn-scarred skin of his back, as if it’s a holy thing. watches the way you press cool compresses to his shoulder, whispering words that mean nothing and everything. it would be easier if you screamed. if you cried. if you threw something against the wall and shouted that you couldn’t do this anymore.

but you don’t.

instead, you smile. not the smile he used to know—the bright, full one that stretched across your face and made his chest swell with something soft and dangerous—but this new one. thin. quiet. a shadow of what it was. and still, you wear it like armor.

you say his name so gently. you carry him without complaint. you wake before him every morning and fall asleep long after he does, sitting beside his bed in silence, brushing your thumb along his bandaged hand like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.

he knows it now. maybe he’s always known it, deep down.

you’re not doing this out of pity. not out of duty, or guilt, or some noble sense of compassion.

you’re doing this because you love him. and somehow, that makes everything worse.

because kento doesn’t feel worthy of love anymore. not like this. not when he can’t even stand on his own two feet. not when his body feels foreign to him, like a cage he can’t escape. not when every movement reminds him of what he’s lost. not when he sees himself in the mirror and doesn’t recognize what’s left.

he thinks, maybe, it would’ve been easier if he had died. if his last words—you take it from here—had been exactly that: a parting gift. a permission. a surrender.

because he knows you would have survived. he knows it would have broken you, shattered you, dragged you through hell—but you would have kept going. you would have healed in time. become someone new. found joy again, even if it took years. even if it was only in small, quiet ways.

that future feels kinder than this one.

kinder than being rolled through the threshold of your shared home in a wheelchair, burns still healing, body still aching, watching you press a kiss to the top of his head like it’s all okay.

kinder than being the weight you carry now, day after day, without ever setting him down.

"hey, you're growing a beard," you say softly, almost absently, as you collect his empty breakfast plate. the clink of ceramic against ceramic is gentle, as if you're afraid even the dishes might startle him. "you want a shave?"

kento doesn't look at you. not immediately. instead, he lowers his gaze to the blanket draped over his lap, where the faded cotton is bunched up slightly from how his legs shift, restless. he knows what you're remembering when you ask—knows the picture in your mind without needing to see it. because it's in his too.

he remembers it all. the sun bleeding into your shared room like something divine, soft golden light spilling over the bedsheets like melted honey. he remembers the curtains billowing from the morning breeze, linen fluttering like they were dancing just for you. he remembers the way you used to sit on top of him, legs straddling his hips, bare thighs warm against his stomach, your fingers coated in shaving cream as you smoothed it over his jaw with more reverence than necessary.

back then, you did it because you could. because he let you. because you liked the way he looked at you through the cream, all soft-eyed and patient, like he belonged to you in every way that mattered.

but that version of him—the one who could lift you, kiss you, hold you steady while you leaned close with a blade and a smirk and your sleep-creased pajamas—that man is gone. and this new version, the one who can’t even stand without assistance, who still winces when he shifts too fast or breathes too deep, cannot bear the thought of you kneeling in front of him again. not like that. not when everything between you has shifted into a quiet kind of grief neither of you will name.

"uh, it's fine," kento says, voice so low it nearly gets swallowed by the morning silence. his eyes stay fixed on the folds of the blanket, the lines of his fingers, the dullness of his knees beneath cotton.

"you sure?" you ask, glancing over your shoulder from the sink, where you're already running water. your tone is too careful, the kind reserved for glass things with cracks too deep to fix.

he nods slowly. once. doesn't look up.

and that’s the end of it.

you don’t push. you never do. and he wishes, briefly, violently, that you would. just once. that you’d say something sharp, anything to shake him out of this state. but you only turn back around, wash the plate, and carry the silence like it's just another thing you’ve chosen to carry—for him.

when you're done washing the dishes, you dry your hands on the old kitchen towel—the one that’s permanently damp no matter how often you change it—and walk back toward him. your steps are quiet, deliberate. as if loudness might somehow snap the delicate thread holding the morning together. you hover beside him for a second, the air between you heavy with something unsaid, before you ask, in a voice so careful it almost sounds like a memory, “do you wanna go somewhere today? the park, maybe. the mall?”

kento doesn’t look at you. just lowers his gaze to his trembling hands, pale against the dark fabric of the chair’s arms. his fingers curl slowly, like he’s still not used to the effort, like every movement is rehearsed but not yet mastered. “no,” he says, shaking his head. the word is small, too small for a man like him. it floats between you like a leaf in water—weightless, but still heavy with meaning.

you don’t move. not right away. just watch as he pushes himself away from the breakfast table, his fingers fumbling against the metal, weak and worn. and you wait. because maybe this time you’ll say something. maybe this will be the moment you snap—tell him that he should go outside, that fresh air might help, that being stuck in here, in this “stuffy” house that’s turned into a shrine for everything he used to be, isn’t doing either of you any good.

but you say nothing. you only stand there, hands folded against your stomach, knuckles tight, watching him wheel himself slowly—agonizingly—toward the living room. his back is straight, but the shake in his shoulders betrays him. and still, he doesn't ask for help. not even once.

he rounds the corner. you watch his figure pass, just a sliver of him disappearing down the hallway. he’s so slow, so deliberate, like even this—this attempt at independence—is a punishment he’s giving himself.

you stand in the doorway of the kitchen, the dish towel still clutched in your hand like some useless symbol of peace. you watch as he reaches your bedroom door, hands trembling against the wheel, pushing through the frame. he doesn’t tell you where he’s going. doesn’t thank you for breakfast.

and when he closes the door—too hard, maybe on purpose—kento swears he hears it.

that tiny intake of breath from you, soft and sharp all at once.

he swears he hears you flinch.

and as he sits there, in the quiet that feels too loud, in the stillness that scrapes at his ribs like broken glass, kento lets his eyes drift upward. to the wall. to the soft, cream-colored paint above the bed you both used to curl into like vines, tangled and warm and content.

his gaze settles on the photos. the ones you insisted on putting up, one by one, like sacred relics. you'd fought for that wall, not with anger, but with that gentle insistence that always seemed to win him over. back then, you’d smiled—hands on your hips, heart in your throat—and told him that you didn’t want to walk into this room and ever feel sadness. not when the world already offered more than enough of it. not when you could build something that pushed back against it.

you'd said, “this wall is going to be a home for all the things that make us happy. every milestone. every memory.” and he’d nodded, not because he fully understood, but because he trusted the way your voice trembled when you spoke about joy.

so you’d filled it. slowly, over the years. framed your first date, that one with the rainy sky and the overcooked noodles. framed your wedding, where his tie was crooked and your eyeliner had smudged from crying during your vows. you’d even framed that hideous, grainy picture from high school—the one where his hair hadn’t been cut in months and he was scowling at the camera. and he let you. god, he let you. he even smiled when you kissed the glass after hanging it up.

now, kento looks at it, and something in him collapses.

his throat tightens. his chest burns, not from the wounds or the healing skin, but from something worse. from the unbearable weight of love. from the way it grips him by the collar and doesn't let go.

his face crumples. the tears come fast, angry and soft all at once, trailing down his cheeks in silence before the sobs make it impossible to hold them back. he’s crying. not carefully, not quietly, but like it’s the only thing he’s capable of doing now. his body shakes. the sharp sniffs echo in the room. his vision blurs, but the photographs don’t disappear.

he doesn’t think about the pain anymore—not the itching of raw, pink skin or the way the bandages pull at his nerves. not the dull ache of muscles unused and healing too slowly. not the way his hands still tremble from weakness. all of that fades, is nothing compared to this. to what he feels now.

he can only think of you.

of how tired you must be. of how you smiled as you helped him button his shirt this morning, even though your hands were shaking. of how you sat beside him last night, reading a book aloud even though your voice was hoarse. of how you’d kissed his temple and told him it would be okay, when everything inside him screamed otherwise.

he cries harder. because you didn’t sign up for this. and he knows it. you were meant for something softer. something gentler than this. and yet here you are, anchored to him by love or duty or something in between, and he can’t tell which hurts more—that you’re still here, or that he sometimes wishes you weren’t.

he sobs like a man who has nothing left to give, except for the wreckage of what he used to be.

his hands tremble. not the kind of tremble that comes from weakness alone, but the violent, aching kind—shaking born from rage and humiliation and grief too long kept inside. it starts in his fingers, curls through his palms, climbs up his arms until his whole body is unsteady, quivering like a snapped wire. he clenches the wheels of the chair so tightly his knuckles flash white beneath fragile skin.

then he moves. pushes. forces. not gently, not carefully, but with the full, brute force of desperation. of hatred for this chair, this room, this body that refuses to feel like his own anymore. the muscles in his thighs scream, the burns along his back pull taut, but kento grits his teeth. he stands.

it's shaky. it's pathetic. it's barely anything. but he stands.

he's breathing hard, like he's run a mile. sweat beads at his brow, catching against the curve of a healing wound near his temple. his chest heaves. and before he can fall, before he can even think—his eyes lock onto it. that photo. the one from high school. the ugliest one of them all.

you love it, he knows. you love the way his hair fell into his eyes, the way his scowl didn’t hide the curve of his cheekbones. you call it nostalgic. soft. formative.

he calls it disgusting.

his bandaged hand reaches out, trembling, half-dead and aching, and grabs the frame from the wall. his fingers slip, the glass slick against gauze and sweat, but he grips it hard. and then—

he throws it.

the crash is loud. glass shatters like a scream against the bathroom door. the frame splinters, shards raining down across the floor, over the threshold, across the rug you'd chosen together.

he stands there, panting. hands shaking. body sagging under the weight of it all. he doesn’t cry. not now. now he’s just fire. bitter and barely breathing.

and seconds later, you're there.

you burst into the room like a storm breaking through silence, wild-eyed and breathless, hair still damp from the shower, your hands half-raised as if to catch him, steady him, stop time itself.

"are you okay?" your voice is high, almost shrill, choked with panic. "are you hurt? what—what happened?"

your chest rises and falls so fast it aches to look at you. your bare feet crunch softly on broken glass as you step forward, and he flinches, just once, at the sound. because now it’s real. now you’ve seen it—this ugliness inside him, this rot.

and he's hurting you.

but you don’t move closer just yet. you don’t touch him or reach out. instead, your hand floats to your mouth in slow disbelief, your fingers trembling like his were just moments ago, and you gasp.

not a sound of fear this time. not worry. something softer. awed. and your eyes go wide—not with terror, but something else entirely. something almost holy.

your gaze doesn’t drop to the shattered frame on the floor, to the mess, to the ruin. instead, you look up at him. truly look. like you haven’t in weeks. like you’re seeing him for the first time again. and he watches your face shift—so gently it makes his heart twist.

that smile. god, that smile.

the one you wore at the altar, tears glistening under your lashes, hands trembling as you slipped the ring onto his finger. the smile you gave him when he first brought you coffee at work, still in his pressed shirt and tie, nerves hidden behind the straight line of his mouth. the one you gave him in the middle of a fight, when you both knew you’d find your way back. the one he never thought he’d see again—not like this.

“ken,” you breathe. and his name from your lips feels like a benediction. a prayer. a rebirth. “you’re standing.”

he blinks at you, dazed. “what?”

his voice cracks, and he frowns, lips parted in disbelief, his whole body still humming with pain and exertion. he doesn’t look at his legs—because how could he possibly be standing?

but you point. slowly, like you’re scared if you say it too loud, it’ll vanish. like this is a dream.

you point at his knees, at the empty wheelchair beside him, the faint tremble of his calves where they bear the weight of him.

“you’re standing,” you say again, and your voice breaks on the second word. “on your own.”

and kento looks down.

and finally, he sees.

he is.

his legs are shaking, his balance is off, every inch of him feels like it could collapse any second—but he’s not on the chair. he’s not being held up by anything but himself. it’s not much. it’s not heroic. it’s not graceful.

but it’s real. he’s standing.

and when he looks up at you again, your smile’s still there—shining and tear-struck and full of so much love that it splits something open inside him. something he thought had already been reduced to ash.

“there’s glass on the floor,” he murmurs, voice soft, like it’s already breaking. “y-you stepped on glass.”

his eyes dart to the sharp glittering pieces scattered across the hardwood, to the broken frame lying face-down by the door, the photo inside half-visible—his hair in it a disaster, your face blurry from laughing too hard. he remembers hating it. he remembers how you’d refused to take it down.

“i threw the ugly photo,” he says. “at the bathroom door.”

you blink at him, then glance down, and for a second he swears you’ll yell. or worse, cry. but then you look up again, eyes warm, and you say, “in case you didn’t notice,” with a lilt that almost sounds amused, “i’m wearing bunny slippers. the ones i forced you to buy me. the cinnamoroll ones.”

your voice trembles on the last part—not from sadness, but from restraint. you’re trying not to let it crack.

he looks down at your feet. the ridiculous white and blue slippers with floppy ears and little pink cheeks. the ones you made him buy at two in the morning in some grocery store that had no business selling such things. you’d worn them the night you moved in with him. you wore them the first night you made dinner together. you wore them when you danced to no music in the kitchen.

“oh,” he breathes.

and then he doesn’t say anything. he doesn’t know what to say. so he waits.

he waits, like he used to wait at train stations with flowers in hand. he waits like he did that first night he told you he loved you, eyes on your lips, terrified of what might come next. he waits like he did in the hospital bed, praying—that you wouldn't leave. that you'd stay by his side.

he waits, yearningly. aching.

hoping you’ll come closer. hoping you'll ignore the mess on the floor, and just reach for him. hoping you’ll step around the broken pieces and press yourself to him like you used to, head on his chest, arms around his waist. hoping you'll remind him that he still gets to be touched, still gets to be held, still gets to be yours.

you take one step. then another. and for a moment, he forgets about the burns, the pain, the way his legs shake beneath him like twigs in a storm.

because you’re here. and you’re walking toward him.

and when you place your head on his chest, finally, finally resting your cheek against him like you've been dying to do for weeks, your ears catch the thump of his heart—loud, steady, alive. his arms, uncertain at first, slowly wrap around you, one settling against your back, the other trembling but determined at your waist. he sighs, deep and full of relief. something unspoken in him settles.

“will you give me a shave?” he asks, voice low, breath stirring your hair.

you blink up at him, eyebrows raised, lips twitching. “i thought you didn’t want one.”

you say it with that teasing lilt he remembers from quieter mornings—back before the world turned sharp around the edges. and for a moment, it feels like nothing ever broke.

he breathes out a sound that almost resembles a laugh. his eyes soften, tender, threaded with affection. “i always want one,” he says, “if it’s you.”

you narrow your eyes, already stepping into the joke like second nature. “you have other people giving you shaves, nanami kento?”

he shakes his head, dry as ever. “ah, yes. i’m cheating on you with gojo.”

you gasp, hand flying dramatically to your chest. “how could you? with gojo of all people?”

“he insisted. said he had the better razors.”

you snort, half-laughing into his chest. “he uses a hair straightener on his clothes when they get too wrinkly. he doesn’t get to talk about razors.”

kento smiles then—really smiles—and something in the air shifts. the heaviness lingers, yes. the pain, the fear, the grief of what almost was—they don’t disappear. but they take a step back. they let the warmth through.

you squeeze him a little tighter. he leans into you a little more.

“go sit in the bathroom,” you say, grinning now. “i’ll be there in five minutes. and i’m using the aftershave that smells like that cinnamon candle you hate.”

“i deserve it,” he murmurs, voice light.

you kiss the underside of his jaw, just where the stubble begins to grow, and smile. “yeah,” you say, pulling away, “you kinda do.”

© all works belong to admiringlove on tumblr. plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

[cycat-carisi]

Spent

Pairing: Steve Harrington x f!reader

Summary: IDK...shameless smut? Basically, reader wakes up from doing the do and she's ready to pounce on Steve again.

Tags/warnings: Smut! 18+ ONLY. NO MINORS. Established relationship, p in v, slight breeding kink if you squint I guess.

Words: 1127

A/N: *runs and hides*

Fic below the cut or on AO3

Consciousness pushes through heavy sleep as you slowly rouse awake.

"Have a good nap, baby?" a voice jokes softly. "You conked out for a few minutes there." Propped on an elbow at your side, Steve peers down lovingly at you through disheveled chestnut locks.

The room is dark, save for the moonlight streaming through the window of your shared home. You stir again. There is a stickiness between your legs that brings you back to reality, reminding you of what took place not even a half hour before. As your thighs part, you feel more seep out from your core, sending an immediate rush of heat scorching through your veins.

Steve loves when he wears you out. He loves to watch your lashes flutter shut, unable to stay awake after a passionate round of lovemaking. He adores how peaceful you appear when you curl into his side, feeling safe and loved enough to fall asleep in his arms.

But Steve also loves nights like this where you awaken even hungrier for him than before.

Whether it is the memory of him pinning you to the sheets or the fact that the evidence of your lovemaking still fills you, that brings upon your reinvigorated passion, Steve has no idea. But one thing he is certain of is that your desire reignites his within, too.

Eyes darkening with a smile playing upon your lips, you waste no time shaking off the jittery feeling that comes from short naps and quickly capture Steve’s lips with your own. The kiss is hot and needy, all tongues and teeth. You push Steve's shoulders into the mattress and straddle his hips.

The sensation of him springing to life between your thighs makes you moan, and the mixture of his previous release and your rejuvenated arousal makes him slick against your folds.

Except, you aren't done with his mouth just yet. Your lips burn hot against his while your fingers tangle in his already messy tresses. The sensation pulls a low moan from his throat while his hands sear heat against your waist. Steve then glides them higher to cover your breasts, squeezing and kneading, thumbs circling your nipples. The sensation tingles, sending goosebumps scattering over your naked body, heat pooling low in your belly.

You exhale deeply as he continues his ministrations, your combined breaths morphing into pants. Fueled by lust, you begin grinding your hips down against Steve, earning you yet another needy moan.

It's all too much.

Hastily, you reach between you, lifting your hips just enough to take a firm grip on him. His own hips jerk in response, and he kisses you that much deeper.

"Need you, baby," he gasps against your lips.

"Then, I'm yours," you grin, aligning him with your entrance.

You steady yourself with a hand on his pecs as you slowly sink down. You bite your lip at the stretch, eyes screwing shut. A warm hand sweeps to caress your back, a small gesture of comfort amidst the fervent passion of the moment.

Greedily, you take every inch, fully seating yourself against his pelvic bone. You watch as Steve glances down to where you're connected and groans loudly. "You take me so– " but you cut him off by clenching your walls around him.

His darkened eyes fly to yours, amazed by your boldness. "I know," you mouth cheekily. But this time it's Steve's turn to interrupt. His wide palms grip the flesh of your bum, and he lifts your hips. You sense the exquisite slide of his length within your heat, and your eyes widen, fearful that he's going to pull you all the way off him.

However, Steve is just as much a tease. With hazel eyes locked onto yours, his grip on you tightens, halting his movements once he barely remains inside you. His legs then shift, and you release a desperate gasp, completely aware of what's coming.

"Yes," you beg through unsteady breaths, gaze still focused on his.

And that's when Steve's hips surge upwards. The move knocks the breath from your lungs. He enjoys the way your eyes flutter shut in complete bliss.

"Yes! Right there!" you cry out again and again as Steve sets a steady pace, rutting up into you. Each time he hits the one spot that makes you see stars.

The white mess from earlier stains his length as he fucks it back inside you, and you swear the sight of it causes Steve to shove his hips just that much deeper when they slam back up into yours.

"I'm so close," you whine into Steve's ear, that familiar coil winding tighter in your belly.

"Me too, baby," he reciprocates, "just hang on a little longer for me."

For him, you would do anything. Desperately you cling to the edge as he continues to make love to you. Your lips find the underside of Steve’s jaw, mouthing desperate kisses along his freckle-dusted neck, trying to edge him towards a shared release. The move causes his chest to heave beneath you as his hips pick up their pace. Now every movement sends him knocking against your spongy spot at a punishing rate.

Suddenly the coil snaps. You cry out his name, slipping over the edge as you spasm around him.

Steve’s response is immediate, driving his hips impossibly deeper inside you. Your body keeps him locked in place as he spills into your heat for the second time this evening. Swiftly, he wraps his arms around you, pulling your body flush against his as subtle involuntary kicks of his hips allow him to ride out the remainder of his high.

Finally, Steve stills. His hands smooth down your back, and he places soft kisses into your neck. His heart pounds against your chest, uniting the two of you in yet another intimate way. Steve strokes your damp hair behind your ear as you push yourself up on shaky arms. A dopey, blissful smile meets your gaze as you peer down at him. You duck back down to press your lips tenderly to his, soft, contended sighs filling the space between you. “Love you, babe,” you whisper against his lips.

“Love you, too,” Steve murmurs in return, voice laden with fatigue.

You smirk, raising yourself up on outstretched arms once again. “Oh no, did I tire you out this time?”

Through heavy eyelids, Steve can’t help but grin at your quip. “I guess we’re even, sweetheart,” he chuckles warmly before rolling the two of you on your side and tucking himself into your loving arms.

Quietly, you run your fingers through his dark hair, and it’s not long before Steve’s breathing evens out. Completely spent, he drifts off to sleep while you place delicate kisses against his forehead.

Fin.

Feedback is loved ♥

[clemswinecorner]

Datenight [George Clarkey]

Summary: George and Y/N go on a date, without any of their friends knowing they're dating. Or do some of them?

Wordcount: 1k

Warnings: sexual innuendos and alcohol, other than that it's fine

Based on this request, as a response to neat :)

Main Masterlist

It wasn’t the first time they were out in public for a date, and they were close enough friends for it to not be seen as one. It was, however, the first time they were out in Central London, where any of their friends could decide to go to the exact restaurant they were sitting in the corner of. 

“I’m glad we’re doing this. That we’re able to just have some time together, going out, that we can have dinner together,” she says, looking at the man in front of her. “Well, I’d hope so, it’d be unfortunate if we went to dinner and we couldn’t eat,” he jokes, making her roll her eyes with a fond smile. “You know what I mean. I’m really happy to be with you,” she just says, making him smile. He reaches over, their hands on top of each other on the table. His thumb softly grazes her hand. “I’m really happy to be with you, too.”

They spend their first and second courses simply talking, joking around, looking at each other. Of course, it wasn’t a date night without some shameless flirting. George looked extremely handsome in his black button-up, and god, the short sleeves made his arms look extremely good. She had to keep herself from looking at them, the same way George had to remind himself not to stare too long. She was wearing a tight-fitting, white, off-shoulder top, and god, he wants her to never wear anything else ever again. 

As they were waiting for their dessert, their cheeks were a bit flushed from the wine as they giggled together. George lets out a content sigh, leaning back to look at her. “You know, I know I don’t say it a lot, but you’re an incredible person. A good shag too, if I may say so myself,” he jokes, making her giggle again as his expression softens. “Seriously, though. I’m really glad this is working out for us, you’re one of the best things to happen to me,” he quietly admits. She smiles at him, taking his hand that’s resting on the table. “I’m really glad, too, George. I wouldn’t want to be here with anyone else,” she says, making a small smile appear on his face as he shyly looks down. A comfortable silence falls over them, the couple simply enjoying each other’s company and the shared feelings between them. “I’m staying at yours, right?” She breaks the silence right as dessert is served. They both thank the waiter before continuing their conversation, “Yeah, the boys went out and would stay at Arthur’s, they said, telling me I’ll have the house to myself after ten,” George answers, grabbing his phone as she nods. “This looks so good. So you’re telling me we could've had a cosy night in without the boys?” She teases opening the camera app. She looks up to find George’s pointed at her. “What?!” George laughs at her reaction, “Just capturing your love for food. You look good, you look pretty. Happy.” She blushes at his comment, reluctantly taking a picture of her plate. “Which one did you get again?” She asks, looking over. “Uh, the crème brûlée,” he says, as she takes another picture of both plates together, commenting how good it looks. He smiles, looking at her adoringly, before briefly glancing out the window to the busy streets. She furrows her eyebrows as he sits up straighter, “Is that Arthur?!” She turns around, not immediately spotting the singer but recognizing the head of curls next to him. “Oh my god, yeah, they’re here. Should I go to the bathroom and you text me when they’re gone? I have to go anyway,” she says, already standing up. George nods, still with a confused look on his face. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll text.”

It takes less than five minutes before she gets back. “Any of them realise we were here?” She asks, pushing back her chair to sit down again. He shakes his head, taking his glass of water in his hand. “Maybe Arthur, he was looking in, but I don’t think Chris or TV saw me,” he twirls his drink before taking a sip. She looks at him thoughtfully. “Hey, if you want to tell them, that’s fine with me, you know that right?” He immediately nods. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I want to, eventually, but I’m keeping you to myself for just a while longer,” she smiles at him, as he looks around again. “Oh god, I just realised… They already think I’m on a fucking date,” George suddenly says. “Well you are, with me.” He chuckles at her comment, “Yeah, but they don’t know that! I won’t hear the end of it,” he groans, making her laugh along with him. “You’ll be fine. Are we finally going to eat this? I want a bite of yours.”

It’s nearly midnight by the time they walk back to George’s. They’d spend a little while more drinking the last of their wine, conversation flowing effortlessly. With the alcohol, the giggling, flirting and touching all increase, and they’re walking back leaning against each other, fingers laced together. “I’m glad we have the flat to ourselves, it’d be a long night if I had to go spend the night by myself,” George whispers, kissing her cheek. She giggles, turning to look him in the eye. “Hmm. Luckily we don’t have to think about that, because I’ll be yours tonight and every other moment of the day for the foreseeable future,” George giggles along, pulling them to stop. They giggle as he kisses her, their bodies completely together, almost forgetting where they are. She innocently smiles at him, “C’mon, let’s get to yours,” she whispers. When they arrive, they quickly make their way to George’s bedroom, too indulged by each other to think about anything else. Their phones are completely disregarded on his bedside table, neither of them looking at it until later that morning. George checks his texts for the first time as Y/N is doing her morning routine after their shower, to see one from his roommate. 

From: Arthur Hill

saw you and y/n having dinner last night, looking cosy ;) swayed arthur and chris the other way, they don’t have a clue. happy for you two, george. x 

[suguann]

Possessive!Geto who pretends he doesn't care when he overhears that a new high-paying customer comes to the club every Friday to watch you specifically perform on stage, knowing he can’t really do anything about it unless a patron breaks the rules printed on a neon sign above the bar—No touching the dancers unless you're tipping—even if he’s the one in charge.

He’ll smile and nod, shaking hands with big spenders with sleazy smiles in the VIP lounge while his eyes find you from the other side of the room as you climb into another man’s lap.

He can’t stop his jaw from clenching when that same customer tips a month’s worth of rent every week or asks about private shows even though you don't do them. How he notices you smiling prettily for this customer, eyelashes fluttering with stars in your eyes to match the glitter on your cheeks before you walk off stage toward the dressing rooms. 

Sometimes you play the part of making a lonely man feel wanted too well. 

Possessive!Geto whose hand tightens around his glass tumbler, watching the man who’s been coming to see you (now twice a week) slip a thick white card into the top of your stockings. The fact that he touched your thigh with his dirty hands irks Geto the most.

In times like this, he wishes he had never come up with the rule about keeping your relationship a secret—so nobody thinks I’m picking favorites—because regret is a thick pill to swallow.

When you walk up to his office later, Geto wastes no time by dragging you down onto his lap, trailing his nose down the slope of your neck where your soft-smelling perfume is strongest and sucking a bruise into the hollow of your throat for everyone to see. 

You’re still wearing those cross-stitch stockings—the feel of them under his hands making him halfway hard—and he yanks the bodice of your dress down just underneath the swell of your breasts to get rid of the thought of another man touching you.

“B-but, Suguru, we’re at work—”

“Let me enjoy these pretty tits, huh?” he growls before sucking a nipple into his greedy mouth.

You whine his name, and it’s the sweetest sound he’s ever heard.

The blinds to his floor-to-ceiling windows are open, but it's tinted glass so nobody can tell what happens behind locked doors. Except, when he glances toward the busy club below, he wishes everyone in the building could witness what it looks like for you to fall apart under his hands—a personal show you put on just for him.

Only him. His fingers hook inside you to feel you tight and hot around him as a reminder.

Possessive!Geto who has enough one day after that customer asks for another private session—this time, he goes to Geto directly.

It’s a busy night, and every dancer works the floor. Well, almost. 

You’re kneeling between his spread legs, spit dribbling down your chin, whimpering while trying to open your throat for him.

He brushes your hair away from your face, watching your mouth messily slurp around his cock under his desk—his jaw is slack, and his other hand clenches on the armrest of his chair. “So good—fuck, baby—so fucking pretty,” he mutters, his top teeth catching his bottom lip.

His head tilts back when you eagerly fill your mouth with him again and again until he feels you choke, making his thighs flex under your hands. Geto’s thumb smooths an arc across your cheek.

“There you go,” he huffs. “I love that little mouth—”

There’s a knock on his door, and he feels you panic, moving to pull off his cock. But the hand in your hair tightens, keeping you pressed against him. Your nails bite into his skin, tears prickling your lashline as small distressed mewls escape your lips.

“Don’t you dare fucking stop,” he hisses. “Not unless I say so.”

Another knock echoes in his office.

“Come in.”

The customer with the too-shiny tie and a penchant for slipping thousands into your g-string opens the door with a smile on his face and a glint in his eye, sauntering into the room like he owns the place. “How about that deal—”

Whatever he’s about to ask is lost on Geto because his ears are ringing when he feels you swallow around him, and his balls draw up tight against his body, and—

Possessive!Geto who grunts when you moan around his cock as he cums down your throat, his lips twitching at the look of shock on the customer’s face.

“I’ve heard your deal,” he says eventually, glancing down at your glazed eyes and wiping away what little mess escaped your mouth with his thumb. “But she’s not yours to take.”

[colouredbyd]

Finding Rest

poly!marauders x fem!reader

Summary: You wake heavy with ache, but no one asks you to explain. They hold you through the silence, through the storm inside you, until the weight begins to lift.

Warnings: emotional vulnerability, quiet hurt/comfort, exhaustion, soft intimacy, and themes of safety and healing

Word count: 2.1k

Authors note: idk why i wrote this tbh. ignore any grammar errors pls english isnt my native language

masterlist

The rain had started before dawn, slow and quiet. A whisper against the windowpanes, soft as breath. Then it deepened, grew fuller, until the sound wrapped itself around the house like a lullaby meant for tired hearts. It was the kind of rain that silences the world without asking, that makes the hours stretch, slow and forgiving. As if the sky itself had grown weary and let its sorrow fall in steady rhythms.

No one wanted to leave the bed. Not today. Not when the world outside felt so far away.

The room stayed dim, quiet in that way that makes you whisper without meaning to. The curtains were only half-drawn, letting in a thin silver light that bled across the floor in soft streaks. It was a kind light, pale and hushed, the kind that touched your skin like a secret rather than setting it aflame. You lay curled at the center of the bed, your body loosely tucked beneath warm sheets, surrounded on all sides by the ones who loved you.

James had dropped his magazine sometime after midnight, the pages fluttering to the floor where it now lay forgotten, a corner bent like a folded wing. Sirius hadn’t moved much since then. He sat by the window still, barefoot and cross-legged in a sweater that probably used to be Remus’s, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He had not said much all morning. He just watched, the rain blurring against the glass, the quiet way you breathed, the little movements that passed between you all like soft tides. The twitch of fingers. The sigh of cotton. The warmth of skin finding skin again.

Behind you, Remus pressed in close, chest to your back, solid and warm and breathing slow. His hand had been stroking your spine in slow, careful circles that never faltered, each one tender and grounding, as if reminding you he was there without needing to be asked. There was no rush in his touch. No question in it. Just presence.

In front of you, James curled on his side, his fingers tangled loosely with yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles like a lullaby all its own. His eyes, soft and half-lidded, never left your face. He looked at you like there was nowhere else in the world he would rather be. Like stillness was enough.

A quiet passed. Comfortable. Familiar. Then Sirius spoke.

"You haven’t said much," he murmured from the window. His voice was just above the sound of the rain, like he didn’t want to disturb the air too much. "What’s in your head?"

You blinked, slowly, as if waking up inside a dream. You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you turned your face slightly toward James, who squeezed your hand without needing to speak. Remus’s fingers paused at the base of your spine, not gone, just waiting.

"Nothing," you whispered, after a long breath. "And everything."

The words hung in the room like mist, not heavy, just there.

Sirius tilted his head. "That sounds like something I’d say."

"Maybe you’re rubbing off on me," you replied, your voice softer than before, almost shy.

A beat passed. Then Remus let out a quiet chuckle, the sound rumbling against your back like thunder in the distance.

"Poor thing," he said gently, mouth near your ear. "Imagine being haunted by Sirius Black’s inner monologue."

Sirius huffed. "I am poetry and lightning, thank you very much."

"You are chaos and coffee stains," James said, lips curving against your knuckles.

"And you," Sirius said, pointing lazily toward him, "are clingier than my favorite jumper."

"I wear that jumper," Remus murmured, eyes closed.

"I know. And it looks better on you."

You smiled, faint but real, and the rain kept falling.

You shifted beneath the blankets, the weight of the silence stretching softly around you. You weren’t sure how to answer. There wasn’t a name for what you felt, not really. It wasn’t sadness, not entirely. It was something quieter, more elusive. A tiredness that settled into your bones and made a home there. The kind of tired that curled into the spaces between your ribs and pressed against your lungs when you tried to breathe too deep. The kind that made your throat ache, not from crying, but from holding everything in for too long.

You didn’t feel broken. Just full. Overfull. Of thoughts. Of noise. Of quiet things that hurt in ways words could not quite reach.

Your heart felt too heavy for your chest, even with their arms around you, even with the way they held you like you were something weightless. A drifting thing they refused to let go.

James raised your joined hands and brought them to his mouth, brushing a kiss across your knuckles so gently it felt like a promise. His voice was low when he spoke, almost reverent.

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” he said. “We’re good at silence, too.”

That was the thing. They always knew. Always. You never had to explain the ache. You never had to force your hurt into sentences. They didn’t ask for reasons or resolutions. They simply made space. Soft, patient, sacred space.

Behind you, Remus shifted. His arm slipped more securely around your waist, pulling you back into his chest, anchoring you. His breath was warm against your shoulder when he spoke.

“You’ve been running on empty,” he murmured, quiet and steady. “We see it. You don’t have to keep pretending to be alright. Not here. Not with us.”

Something inside your chest cracked, quiet and sharp, like a brittle seam splitting open. Not enough to break. Just enough to let a little of the weight spill out. Just enough to breathe through.

“I don’t know how to rest anymore,” you whispered. The words trembled out, rough-edged and unsteady. “I’ve forgotten how to stop.”

It came out broken, fragile in its honesty. But they didn’t flinch. None of them did.

Sirius was still at the window, but his eyes found yours, soft and serious. He moved, rising slowly, and crossed the room without a sound. The bed dipped as he joined, slipping in beside James, beside you. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your face, fingertips lingering as if trying to smooth the worry from your skin.

“Then we’ll teach you,” he said simply. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

“We’ll show you how to be still,” Remus added, his lips pressing to the back of your neck.

“And how to breathe again,” James whispered, as if each word was a key.

They didn’t try to fix you. They just stayed. Wrapped around you like warmth. Like quiet. Like home.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, the ache inside you began to loosen.

Sirius was by the bed now, kneeling beside you, brushing hair away from your face like you were something precious. His eyes were tired too, but they were soft. Steady. His thumb traced the edge of your jaw and he gave you a look that said you didn’t have to try so hard.

“You don’t have to know,” he said softly, his voice low and steady, like a promise. “We’ll remind you.”

James tugged your joined hands against his chest, the beat of his heart a steady rhythm beneath your palm. It grounded you. The soft pressure of his fingers holding yours, the warmth of his skin, it was a quiet reassurance that you didn’t have to carry anything alone. Not now. Not ever.

Behind you, Remus nestled closer, burying his face in the back of your neck. His breath was warm, slow, like he was drawing calm from the simple act of holding you. His arms tightened, pulling you deeper into the curve of his chest. It felt like he was trying to merge with you, to give you all the peace that he could.

“I just want to feel safe,” you whispered, the vulnerability raw in your voice, the weight of your confession settling heavily in the space between you. “I want to stop bracing for everything to fall apart.”

James didn’t hesitate. There was no pause, no uncertainty in his voice when he spoke, just the unwavering conviction you always found in him. “Then let it fall,” he said softly. “We’ll catch you.”

The words hung there, soft and unspoken, yet louder than anything else in the world. It was a promise, not just from James, but from all of them. A promise that no matter how much the world might crumble around you, they would be there. They would be the soft place to land. The arms that would hold you when you were too tired to hold yourself.

You could have cried. You could have let the weight of everything finally break free. But right then, all you could do was sink. Sink into the softness of the bed, into the embrace of them. Sink into the way their bodies curved around yours like protection, like a shelter from everything that had been too much for so long.

Time seemed to stretch. No one moved. The room was quiet except for the soft, rhythmic patter of rain against the windows, its soothing sound a lullaby to the stillness of the moment. The air smelled like rain, fresh and grounding, and the cotton of the blankets wrapped around you all felt like a gentle cocoon.

Sirius, who had been watching from his quiet corner by the window, finally shifted. He pulled the blankets higher over all of you, making sure you were all tucked in, all safe. Then, he slipped into the space behind Remus, his body folding in beside yours. His hand found yours over Remus’s hip, fingers interlacing with yours in a silent gesture, a reassurance that he was there too.

You were cradled now, surrounded. Protected on all sides, enveloped by the warmth of their bodies, the steady rhythm of their breaths. Worn, yes, but in a way that felt tender. Like all the weight you carried, all the things you couldn’t say, could be let go here. In this moment. With them.

And for once, there was no need to fight it. No need to brace yourself for the inevitable. In the quiet embrace of the rain and the steady presence of them, you were simply allowed to be. Just as you were. And that was enough.

“I love you,” Remus murmured, his voice barely louder than a whisper. It was a promise, but also something deeper—something that had always been true, even in the quietest moments. His breath was warm against your skin, and the words settled into the spaces between you all, as if he were saying something you had known forever, but hearing it again still made your heart flutter.

You felt it again, a soft pressure against your fingers, and James’s voice, gentle and unwavering. “I love you.”

And then, Sirius. His voice was a breath against your hair, the sound of it curling around you like an embrace. “More than I ever thought I could.”

You didn’t need to speak, not in this moment. There were no words left to say, nothing more to explain. You didn’t say it back—because you didn’t have to. Instead, you reached out, your hand moving across the warmth of Remus’s arm to James, and then to Sirius, until your fingers were threaded through all of theirs. One by one, your hands tangled together, and in that quiet, simple act, you found something far more powerful than any words could express.

You were anchored. Not by promises or declarations, but by the warmth of their touch. By the way their presence surrounded you, not asking anything from you but simply being. Just being there.

Outside, the rain continued its steady fall, each drop a soft patter against the roof, a quiet rhythm that blended into the silence of the room. You had been bracing for the storm, for the crash of it all. But now, you didn’t need to. You didn’t have to fear the rain, or the world outside, because in this little space, you were held.

You let the rain wash over the roof and the windows, a lullaby in grey. Its song was soft, gentle, and you let it carry you deeper into the moment, into the peace you had forgotten existed. The outside world could be as loud as it wanted, as harsh as it could be, but you were safe here. In their arms. In the quiet embrace of love that needed no explanation.

And slowly, finally, you allowed yourself to rest. Completely. Without the weight of expectation, without the pressure of what was next. Just in the here, and the now, where you could feel safe. Held. And, for once, simply… enough.

[sleepingelvhen]

Imagine Sunday basking in the attention you give him. He may not be so showy, but if you are, he will accept each touch with a little cat-like smile, his eyes lidded as he watches you. Almost like he's waiting for you to do something you're not supposed to. Like...say...touching his wings, for example.

And, of course, you'd touch those little wings. So small and fluffy like his hair, tucked snug behind his ears, occasionally fluttering from the way the breeze feels against them. And just as you would brush one thumb against them, your wrist would be in his hand, and he'd be looking down at you as if he were about to scold you.

You swore you'd never seen such darkness in his gaze. He'd probably chide you for even trying, kissing your wrist as his face relaxed. But those shadows were still there.

Just rile him up a little and see how that goes. Stroke his wings and watch as he presses you against a wall and growls in your ear. Watch that calm mask he wears fall right off, and how quickly your body becomes his playground.

Imagine how slow he'd be with you. Gentle kisses down the column of your throat, fingers gentle and yet demanding as they hold you still or move you around to his desire. He'd take his time, and no amount of whining or begging will change that. You tried to take control, tried to rile him up, and he was here to show you how wrong you were.

Sunday was always in control.

Now, if you want to really rile him up, really get under his skin, then getting him jealous would be the best way to do that. Even mentioning being alone with another or being flirted with will get him a little irritated. But insinuating more?

You'll be on your hands and knees, bruises decorating every inch of skin. He'd remind you who you belong to, and damn it will everyone else in Penacony know by the end of the night.

You were his and no one else's.

Don't expect him to let you out of his sight for a while. Now you're using his shampoo and conditioner, now you're required to wear his gifts everywhere. And now, any man who approaches you suddenly finds themselves unable to dream for a while. How strange.

This won't last forever. You'll have to face his punishment for manipulating him like that, and he will make you promise to never do it again lest the punishments get worse over time.

Imagine how Sunday is in bed aside from all that. He's normally gentle aside from the possessiveness in his touches and tone of voice. Though normally quiet, his moans are soft sighs, and sometimes, if you get to take control, you can get him to whimper.

Pull his hair, kiss his throat, tease him, and whisper words of pure affection and praise, and he's putty in your hand. Sunday lives for praise, and he gives it back ten-fold.

He loves seeing you on top, his hands on your hips, guiding you and watching you with a lazy smile on his face. The perfect position to touch every part of your body and watch your face as you get closer and closer.

If you want him to be rougher, all you have to do is ask. Or grab his wings as if they're handlebars. That's how you get him to growl, to moan obscenities into your ear, and fuck you desperately. Quick thrusts, rough as he pushes you into the bed, telling you how you belong to him. Reminding you of your position.

Sunday is the master of aftercare. No matter how stressed or tired he is, you will be cared for and cleaned. He will draw a bath, clean you, and brush your hair. Honestly, it becomes a bit of a spa day.

He becomes super affectionate and lovey-dovey afterward. Holding you close, breathing in your scent, whispering his love for you, all while caressing your body with gentle massages.

It's easy to fall asleep in his arms, then, and he will kiss you as you do.

[saltofmercury]

Sentimental

Pairing: Jason Todd x f!reader

Author's note: Writing feels so good!!! I'm so happy to be writing again :)

Summary: Jason holds onto things that make him emotional. That doesn’t make him emotional.

*

Jason Todd would never call himself emotional.

He prefers the term sentimental. Sentimental is what surrounds the items in his trinket box. There’s not many items inside —some personal information mostly. A death certificate, a watch, and more recently items from you. A scrunchie, a broken keychain, and notes.

He had noticed the bracelets, gold and silver trinkets decorating your arm, then something not as shiny, the weird black ribbon scrunchie. The scrunchie you never gave it to him.

He watched as you pushed your hair back, your hands guiding the elastic weaving through your hair, sitting on top of your head.

What was left was the red indent on your wrist. You seemed to pay no attention to it, but he did not like the idea of something leaving a mark on you. Red and indented. The angry mark kept being shown, often closed off by your other bracelets.

“Does this hurt?” He asked you later at night wondering how it hadn’t gone down since the afternoon. 

“No, I get these all the time.” You say, carefully gauging his reaction.

“But I don’t like the impression it leaves you with.” He scowled, rubbing his thumb along the indent. 

Impressed by the mark it did leave—He took the scrunchie the next day, wearing it for a total of five hours. He had come back to the apartment you two shared, showing you the indent of his own. Now he keeps your scrunchie on his arm, willing to hold it for you. You never really take it back though, you just let him hold onto it. Seeing how he fidgets and snaps it on his own. He doesn’t give it back either.

Sentimental over the keychain you bought him for the key to your apartment. A big step in your relationship, where he had been earning your trust, giving you space, waiting for you to take the next step — you just wanted some peace of mind from him entering through the balcony window.

It had been a small joke between you guys about how you wish you had a pocket sized “him” so you could tell him at any moment anything that happened during your work day.

It prompted the idea to make him into a Lego.

You carefully selected the top, bottom, and head, and even added a red cap on top as an inside joke for his mask.

Jason could hardly respond. It leaves him tongue tied at the little figurine placed in his hand. Your smile beaming at him, then, expressionless when he doesn’t say anything. 

“You don’t like it?” You pout, hoping you didn’t cause offense.

He stares back at you intensely, suddenly breathless.

“I love it.”

He does wish he were more careful with it. After falling from a two story building, he had landed on it causing the little figurine to crack into multiple pieces. He would have taken a dislocated shoulder over the broken keychain.

“You fell on it?” you ask, seeing it cracked in multiple pieces in your hands.

“The guy snuck up on me and kicked me off the ledge.”

“And you fell … on it? Didn’t that hurt?” You peer up from your hands concerned he’s not fused with any other Lego pieces on his leg.

He tries to glue it back together, seeing the irony in himself in the Lego pieces. It frustrates him, he places it in a bag and puts it away in the box. He just starts to keep the key around his neck. The next day he gets surprised by the different figurine.

“Don’t land on this one ok?” You smile up at him.

Sentimental over every note you’ve ever written him— which causes his small box to overflow with colors of

“I’ll be back with dinner”

“went to the market” 

“Ice cream in the freezer!”

And all the “I love you’s see you later”

Scribbled in your writing on blue, white, pink, and yellow scraps of paper, post-its, and notepads. 

What seemed like a small note was a reminder to him that someone does come back for him. 

Someone is there for him.

So no, Jason Todd isn’t emotional. He’s just sentimental.

[firewasabeast]

here's some completely self-indulgent smut. it's not good, but who cares, right? tags: implied mcd (based off of spoilers), grief, cockwarming and a blowjob as a form of comfort.

His funeral was tomorrow.

Buck was pretty sure the only time he’d spent not crying over the last four days was when he’d tire himself out and fall asleep.

Tommy was always by his side. Day and night, he was only ever out of arms reach long enough to go to the bathroom or get them some food that he’d force Buck to eat.

Their big, romantic, happy reunion had quickly been clouded over by the news.

Buck felt his whole world crumble around him. A reminder that nothing he loves ever stays. It always gets ripped away somehow.

So he clung to Tommy. He clung more than he’s ever clung to anyone or anything before. And he hoped. He hoped Tommy wouldn’t run for the door. He hoped that, when he closed his eyes, Tommy would be there when he opened them again.

And he always was.

To wipe every tear. To wrap his arms around him. To reassure him. To tell him he’s gonna be okay. To feed him. To help him in the shower. To get him dressed.

Buck was in love.

There was no doubt in his mind.

He couldn’t say it. Not right now. Not when… when everything was wrong and the ground underneath him had never been more unsteady. But he’d say it soon. He wouldn’t let the opportunity pass him by this time.

And one day, he’d return the favor. He’d hold Tommy, and wipe his tears, and reassure him, and make sure he ate and showered.

He’d told him as much too. Two nights earlier, wrapped up in Tommy’s arms, he’d whispered, “I’m sorry I- I’m so needy right now. I- I can’t help it.”

Tommy had responded by pulling him closer, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Don’t ever apologize for needing me, Evan. I love taking care of you.”

“You always take care of me,” Buck replied. “I know you’re sad too.”

“It’s different. I know that. Taking care of you helps me. Whatever you want, whatever you need, I’m here.”

Buck sniffed, and Tommy stroked his thumb over Buck’s cheek to wipe away a tear. “I’ll h- hold you, whenever you need it.”

“Baby,” Tommy murmured, reaching back to where Buck’s hand gripped at his waist. He gave it a squeeze. “You’re holding me right now.”

Now, lying in bed the day before the funeral, listening to Tommy read a book on grief that Margaret had recommended in a text, Buck needed… something. Something more than what had sufficed over the past few days. His body was starting to feel antsy, like bugs were crawling all under his skin. His legs ached in a way they hadn’t in years. His brain was spinning in circles, with Tommy’s words repeating again and again.

“I love taking care of you.”

“Taking care of you helps me.”

Whatever you want, whatever you need, I’m here.”

“Baby.”

“I love taking care of you.”

“I’m here.”

“I’m here.”

Buck had stopped paying attention to the things Tommy was saying a few minutes ago. His head rested on Tommy’s chest, hearing that steady thump, thump, thump, and his wet eyes kept drifting down to Tommy’s waistband. The shirt he was wearing was already pulled up a bit, Buck’s hand settled over his stomach.

Slowly, he began to move his fingers. Not very much at first. Just enough to drift down to the edge of the waistband.

Tommy's breath hitched slightly, pausing briefly before he went back to reading.

Buck waited a few seconds. Then he nudged his pinky under the elastic.

“Evan, I don’t-”

Buck turned his head to look up at Tommy. “Please,” he pleaded. “My head’s going crazy. I- I just need something. I- please. Need it. Need you. I-”

“Okay.” Tommy nodded, quick to fold when Buck asked for anything. “It’s okay, Evan. You want me to keep reading?”

More tears welled up in Buck’s eyes, but for a different reason this time. He didn’t even have to tell Tommy what he was needing. Tommy just knew.

Tommy always knew.

“Yeah,” he answered. “Yes, I- I’ll listen.”

“I’m fine either way,” Tommy reassured him. “It’s a good book.”

Buck moved around to straddle Tommy’s thighs, and Tommy lifted himself up just enough for Buck to pull his sweatpants down under his ass.

Tommy spread his legs then, and Buck laid between them, flat on his stomach.

With one hand holding the book open, Tommy tangled his other in Buck’s hair. Not pulling or tugging, just resting there. “Take what you need, Evan,” he said softly, leaning back against the pillows.

Even when he wasn’t hard, Tommy was big, so Buck took a deep breath and relaxed his jaw before taking half of him into his mouth.

He sighed contentedly, laying his head down against Tommy’s groin, a hand on each hip.

Once he knew Buck was settled, Tommy continued to read.

He read two chapters before resting the book against his chest to steal a glance at Buck.

Buck held Tommy’s cock in his mouth, body still and eyes closed. A small puddle of drool dripping off Buck’s mouth and onto Tommy’s pubes.

It was the most relaxed Tommy had seen him since they’d gotten the news.

He’d never forget that moment. They were at the hospital, expecting to hear good news.

Instead, a doctor came out with a somber look on his face.

And before he could even finish saying he was sorry, Buck was falling into Tommy’s arms as he sobbed.

Tommy moved the book to the nightstand. He scratched at Buck’s scalp, unsure if he was asleep or not.

A slight problem started to occur, however, as Buck began to suck ever so slightly at Tommy’s cock. His tongue making tiny back and forth motions.

Tommy bit at his lip, trying the best he could to not get hard.

It didn’t seem to be working.

Blearily, Buck blinked his eyes open, peering up at Tommy with sleepy eyes.

“Sorry,” Tommy whispered, running his hand through Buck’s curls. “Didn’t mean to.”

Buck pulled off of Tommy’s cock with a pop, his eyes darkening as he stared up at him. “Will you come down my throat?”

Tommy took a deep breath, his cock twitching with the thought. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“I do,” Buck replied. “But do you?”

“It’s not about me, Evan.”

Buck’s lip twitched up ever so slightly. “Kinda is a little bit though.”

Tommy smiled back at him. “If you’re okay, I’m okay.”

Buck nodded, “I’m okay,” he said, a bashfulness to him that Tommy had never seen before. “I need it, Tommy. Please.”

Tommy swallowed hard. “Yeah,” he breathed out. “Yeah, okay.”

Buck took Tommy back in his mouth, this time taking all of him. He gripped his hips as he swallowed him down, nails digging into Tommy’s flesh.

“Fuck,” Tommy muttered, tensing up to keep himself still as Buck bobbed up and down. The vibrations from his moans, along with the fact Buck had been holding him in his mouth for nearly half an hour, had Tommy nearing the edge much faster than normal.

“Evan,” he gasped, giving Buck a few seconds warning in case he changed his mind, “close.”

Buck only went down further, humming as Tommy’s cock hit the back of his throat.

With a low groan, Tommy came, pulsing into Buck’s mouth. Buck swallowed every drop, continuing to suck until Tommy hissed, his legs folding around Buck’s back.

Buck pulled up and off of him, wiping the spit from the sides of his mouth before tucking Tommy back into his sweatpants.

“What do you need?” Tommy asked, panting still, as Buck crawled back up the bed. He practically burrowed himself into Tommy’s side.

“Nothing,” Buck replied with a raspy voice. Tommy made a mental note to get him some water soon. “Just h- hold me, please.”

Tommy wrapped his arms around Buck, pulling him closer so his head was back on his chest. Buck hitched his leg in between Tommy’s, nearly laying directly on top of him. “Tommy?”

Tommy ran a hand up and down Buck’s back soothingly, “Yeah, Baby?”

“I really miss him.”

“I know, Evan.”

There was a beat of silence, then, “Tommy?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for being here.”

Tommy held onto Buck even tighter, leaning forward to press a kiss to the top of his head. “Of course, Evan.”

[mssishipi]

SHORT SCENARIO: bf! jay and your tits

wc: 592, just short fluff, warning: skinship

Jay is the kind of boyfriend who just loves to touch your boobs—completely non-sexually. 

After a long, exhausting day, he comes home looking utterly drained. Without a word, he flops onto the bed beside you, his arm lazily slipping under your shirt. His fingers tug at the edge of your bra before settling his hand over your left breast, with a deep sigh, he nuzzles into your chest, his breath evening out in no time. Within minutes, he's snoring—soft, heavy, completely at peace.

Then there are the moments in the kitchen. You’ll be washing dishes, minding your own business, when you suddenly feel a warm presence behind you. Without fail, Jay’s arms wrap around your waist, his hands finding their way to your breast. A light squeeze—one, two—before he presses a lazy kiss to your shoulder.

And then, just as quickly, he’s gone.

Only to come back a minute later.

Squeeze.

Another kiss.

Then he walks away again, leaving you rolling your eyes.

Over time, you’ve stopped wearing a bra around him altogether. What’s the point? He’s just going to tug at it anyway, and you’d rather not deal with the hassle. Besides, you’ve grown used to the feeling of his warm hands absentmindedly resting on you—it’s comforting in a way that you never really thought about before.

It happens constantly.

You’ll be sitting on the couch, nestled between his legs, scrolling through your phone, when—like clockwork—Jay’s hand casually slips under your shirt. His fingers find their usual resting place, palm pressing against your bare skin

A slow, familiar squeeze. Then another.

You lean back against his chest with a sigh, letting the warmth of his body seep into yours. He doesn’t say anything—just keeps watching TikToks with his free hand, completely unbothered. Occasionally, he chuckles at something on his screen, and every time he does, his fingers instinctively flex, giving another light squeeze.

Like a stress ball.

Except you are the stress ball.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, raising an eyebrow. “Do you even realize what you’re doing?”

“Mm-hmm,” he hums absentmindedly, still focused on his phone. His fingers absentmindedly flex again.

Waking up with Jay is always a challenge—not because he’s loud or restless, but because he simply refuses to let you go.

The sun peeks through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the room, and you stir, stretching slightly as you try to roll out of bed. The moment you move an inch, Jay’s arms tighten around you, his grip instinctively locking you in place.

“Jay,” you sigh, trying again to wiggle free. “I have to get up.”

“No.” His voice is groggy, muffled against your shirt, but firm in his sleepy protest.

You stifle a laugh, though your patience is running thin. “Babe, I need to pee.”

“No.” He squeezes your breast.

You let out an exaggerated huff, glaring down at him, but Jay doesn’t even budge. If anything, he snuggles closer, his entire body molding against yours.

His hair tickles your collarbone, and you can feel the soft rise and fall of his breathing as he slowly drifts back into sleep.

“Jay,” you try again, your voice a little more desperate this time, shifting just enough to remind him that you really need to get up.

He only hums in response, a drowsy, content noise that barely registers as acknowledgement. His grip doesn’t loosen—not even a little. If anything, his hand, still resting lazily on your chest, gives a slow, unconscious squeeze, before his thumb flicker on your nipple making you slightly gasp at the sudden touch. 

“Babe—seriously?”

Jay’s only response is another sleepy hum, followed by an even tighter hug. 

Yeah. This is just so Jay.

[thatsdemko]

drought - c.leclerc

masterlist

requested: n

pairings: husband!charles leclerc x wife!fem!reader

warnings: not intended for minors + fingering (f receiving) + minor grammatical errors!

a/n: everyone say thank you to Charles leclerc’s recent photo dump

《 the following content is not intended for minors. 》

the simulator, the meetings, the practices, the races. it’s never ending exhaustion for Charles as he struggles grappling the seasons horrid start.

he’s thankful to have someone to turn to when times get rough. his lovely wife, you. through thick and thin is what you promised each other, and right now? this was the thin. this was what was starting to tear you both further apart.

Charles spent all his time home at the simulator, or any chance he could, at the factory. you’ve spent dozens of lonely, boring, nights in your shade king size bed.

the picture frame above the headboard is no longer crooked. you’d have time to fix it into place because the reason it fell was the endless nights of sex. the headboard would bang into the wall and eventually the picture, from your wedding night, would either come falling down, or end up sideways on the hook.

it was a reminder of your once thrilling sex life has come to an end. sex was no longer something you both were actively participating in. it was rather you and a vibrator on those lonely occasions.

“headed out?” you ask, picking your head up from your book in your lap. you’d heard his heavy footsteps. his tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth searching the right sneakers to wear.

“just to maman’s salon. been awhile.” he says coming into the living room to sit beside you on the couch.

you nod in agreement having not remembered the last time his beautiful brown hair was trimmed. although, you don’t mind the length, and neither did his fans. you’d encouraged him to listen to them, and at the time he laughed. then you showed him why you liked it so much. the ends being tugged between your fingers, ruffled and yanked during sex, he enjoyed the arousal. now, there was no need for it.

“tell her I say hi.” you say, soft smile forming to your lips.

he catches your eyes for a brief second when he looks up from tying his shoes. he takes the quick second to press a kiss to your cheek, “you should come by. maman would love to see you.”

you’d missed pascale. in fact, you missed his whole family. it’d been months since you’d shared a laugh with Arthur, or even held conversation with Lorenzo and his new girlfriend. while you knew the chances were slim to seeing his siblings, you still joined him in the car. it’d been the first time in weeks being in his pista.

his hand dangerously slips across the center console. his thumb strokes the skin your inner thigh that’s exposed from your biker shorts. he’s happy you’ve tagged along, he can’t remember the last time you’ve spent more than two hours together that wasn’t spent sleeping.

“I noticed you fixed the picture above our bed.” he says turning to look at you for a brief second at the stop light. you figured he hadn’t noticed, it was slight change and he rarely slept at home when he had days off. you’re sure he’s seen the toy under your side of the bed if he truly went looking.

“gives you a new challenge again.” you reply back watching the wheel spin under his hands as he pulls into the parking lot. you were finally free from his grip.

he scoffs, putting the car in park, “it was always too easy. it was never a challenge.”

a smirk forms to your lips. your words catching him before he slips out the car, “well you have a new challenge and it’s much better than you’ve been in the past month.”

—

you’re sitting in the chair beside him watching pascale trim the wet ends of his hair. a few fall in his face or around the top of the cape.

she’s happy to see you. in fact, she’s only talking to you the whole time.

she doesn’t notice how you’ve been squeezing your legs together every so often. your one leg is crossed over the other, he sees you shifting in the chair as you answer his mothers questions. he sees how turned on you’ve become watching him.

it’s funny to him. how it’s the most mundane thing ever and it’s got your pussy throbbing for him. all he’s doing is sitting in the chair allowing his mother to cut the dead ends of his hair.

he can tell whatever you were using to get off was not enough. and it was his own damn fault for choosing the simulator or the factory over pleasuring his wife’s needs.

pascale walks away to answer the phone leaving you two alone, and he swivels the chair in your direction, “I did not know this would get you so horny.”

you feel heat spread across your cheeks. you try to pull the neck of the sweatshirt over your face to hide the embarrassment of being caught.

“when we get home—“

“you think I’ll last getting home?” you cut him off before he can propose his plan. his eyes widen, a smirk toys his lips as he shakes his head seeing his mother come back into the room.

“take the keys to the pista, you’re making this hard for me.” he tosses the keys into your lap, “it’s a private parking lot. you can finish what I started.”

“I’m almost done with him. you‘ll be able to go home in no time.” pascale promises and continues to trim his hair. you watch for another couple of minutes and now she’s finally getting ready to blow dry his wet hair.

you can’t watch any longer. you’ve made up an excuse to head to his car and wait out the final minutes. you’ve turned on the air in the car and sat in the passenger seat awaiting his arrival to take you home.

your leg anxiously bounces as you hear him whistling. he opens the passenger door, takes the knob that adjusts the seat, and pushes it as far back as it goes allowing him to kneel in front of your seat.

“Charles what are you doing?” you ask watching him close the passenger door once he’s in. it’s cramped. his head is just inches close to the top of the car, your legs are nearly into your lap and suddenly it’s warm in the car. the air must’ve kicked off after a period of time running.

“taking care of something.” he leans over your lap, letting the back of the seat go as far down as it can. he moves you closer to the edge of the seat, “lift your hips.” he demands and you do as he asks, allowing him to remove your shorts.

“Charles, we can’t do this in your car—“

“nobody is here.” he points out the very obvious. not another car is in this parking lot, and there’s not a single car that has drove down this street since arriving. you were as safe as you could be under the street lights.

“come on, let me treat you right.” he coos, fingers running up and down your thighs, “I did this to you.” he reaches into your lap, fingers toying with the wet material clung to your pussy, a whine threatening at your tongue.

“can I do that? can I touch my wife?”

you nod, unable to speak any words. you push you hips up again allowing him to remove your panties. you spread your legs as far wide as you can. his index finger stretches out across your folds. it’s like a ghost against your skin, you can feel him but barely. a soft whine escapes your lips, you lean back against the seat.

“good girl,” he whispers, “just relax for me.” he says. his index finger wiggles in your entrance. his name rolls off your tongue ever so quickly, and you feel him add a second finger not even giving you a chance to respond.

your fingers go flying into his freshly cut hair, and yank on the short ends. you curse him for what he’s done, and try to grab anything you can while his fingers pump inside of you. he takes his time, discovers every single bit of you like lost treasure. a place he hasn’t tended to in awhile.

sweet whines and moans escape your lips. it’s adorable how quick you were able to fold under his touch. all it ever really took was a swipe of his finger, tongue, or anything else to get your body to fold. you were his in the matter of seconds.

you feel one of his fingers just brush your clit. your back arches, pussy clenching around his fingers. you’re begging him to do it again, and again, until you come.

he doesn’t stop until he notices your legs are visibly shaking, the car is shaking from your bodies response, and until his fingers are met with cum.

“I can’t.” you breathe out, your body itches to exhale the sweet cum he ever so loves. he’s nodding along, encouraging you to come. you throw your body back against the seat, you feel the body of the car move as you do so. sweet delicious cum finally exits your body and so do his fingers.

“that was fun wasn’t it?” he licks his index and middle finger of your cum before pulling your set up close to where it was, and he’s getting out of the car. you quickly pull your shorts back up and double check your hair.

you look him in the eyes when he slides into the drivers seat. you can see the arousal in his pants, a content smile across his face, “don’t worry, you can take care of me when we get home. I’ve got an idea in my mind.”

[fallenbratfiction]

the parts you’ve been taught to hate - pedro pascal x f!reader

After a day out with your mother turns cruel, you come home unraveling—every word, every criticism carved into your skin like a scar. Standing in front of the mirror, you see only what’s “wrong.” But Pedro sees you differently. With quiet love and unwavering tenderness, he reminds you that the parts you’ve been taught to hate are the very ones he cherishes most.

A/N: I wasn’t going to write anything until the weekend but this household just keeps on giving me content to work with. I was very emo writing this while listening to what was I made fooooor

warnings: reader has body image issues, criticism from mother and self hate, comfort/angst, fluff, Pedro being a sweetheart reassuring, happy ending. If you think I’m missing any warnings, let me know!

masterlist

🔞minors dni. I am not responsible for what you choose to interact with.

🚨do not copy, translate or claim any of my works as your own.

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You come home in silence.

The kind of silence that feels like a weight, thick in your lungs, heavy in your limbs. Your keys clink against the hallway table like they’re mocking you—too loud in a house that’s supposed to feel like a safe place.

But you don’t feel safe.

You stand in front of the mirror, still in the clothes you wore out with her. You shouldn’t have gone. You knew better.

“Are you really wearing that?”

“That color draws attention to your hips.”

“You’d look prettier if your face wasn’t so tired.”

“You know, some people try a little harder—get their arms toned, maybe fix their teeth…”

You stood in front of the mirror, observing your body. Your face. The things that were wrong about you.

At least, the things you’d been told were wrong.

Pointed out. Repeated. Embedded.

The thickness of your thighs, the way your stomach looked when you weren’t standing up straight or sucking in. The curve—or lack—of your waist. Your arms, the softness of them. The way your boobs sat in certain shirts, always either too much or not enough.

You just couldn’t pick what you hated the most.

Because it all felt like too much. Or never enough.

Never the right kind of anything.

And it was so loud in your head.

Each word echoes like glass breaking, and you can’t stop replaying them. It’s always the same script. Same tone. Like she’s pointing out smudges on a mirror—but it’s your body. Your body, that you’ve spent years trying to make peace with, only to be reminded it’s still not enough. That you’re still not enough.

You press your fingers to your stomach, to your arms, to the curve of your chin. The parts she noticed. The parts she made you hate. Maybe they were fine before—maybe you didn’t love them, but you didn’t flinch. Now they feel foreign. Exposed.

Then—soft footsteps. A shift in the air.

Pedro.

The front door clicks open. You don’t move.

“Mi amor?” Pedro’s voice is soft, already closer than you expected. “I saw your shoes—why are you standing in the dark?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You hear him pause. Then, slow steps.

He sees you.

His arms slide around your waist from behind, warm and careful. He rests his chin on your shoulder. You tense, even though you don’t want to. He notices that too.

“What happened?” he murmurs.

Your throat closes up. Your voice, when it finally comes, sounds thin. “She said… things.”

He doesn’t ask who. He doesn’t need to.

You lift your gaze to the mirror again. “I can’t change these things.”

Pedro’s grip tightens gently, his thumb rubbing circles into your hip. The same hip she criticized earlier over lunch. He kisses the curve of your shoulder.

“I love these things,” he says simply.

“I see the body that holds you together when the world falls apart.”

Another kiss, just behind your ear.

“I see the thighs I dream about when you’re not in bed with me.”

“This,” he presses another kiss to your upper arm, “is soft and warm, and it holds me when I can’t sleep.”

You shut your eyes, the tears creeping in, but he kept going.

“I see softness I crave, skin I miss when I’m away from you for more than a few hours.”

“I see you, mi amor. And I love every inch. Not because it’s perfect. But because it’s yours. And you’re mine.”

You turned in his arms, burying your face in his chest. He held you like he was made for it.

Like you were made to be held.

“These things are yours. And I love them because they’re part of you—not in spite of it.”

His voice is quiet, but firm. “And anyone who makes you feel less than holy for that doesn’t deserve the sound of your voice, mi vida. Let alone your attention.”

You feel his arms around you, strong and sure.

Pedro doesn’t say anything else for a moment. He just holds you. And in that silence, you feel it—the weight start to lift, just a little, like he’s carrying some of it for you without needing to be asked.

You lean back into him, and your shoulders drop for the first time all day. Your chest presses to his as you turn slightly, just enough to bury your face in his shirt. He smells like laundry soap and warmth. You inhale. Let yourself melt.

“I don’t want to feel like this,” you whisper.

“I know, baby.” He presses his lips to your hair. “You don’t have to do anything right now. Just let me hold you.”

And so you do.

For a while, that’s all there is: the rise and fall of his chest, his hand rubbing slow circles on your back, his other arm looped securely around your waist. No fixes. No advice. Just presence. Just love.

Eventually, he leans back a little to look at you. His thumb brushes the corner of your eye, catching a tear you hadn’t noticed had slipped free.

“Come on,” he says gently. “Let’s get cozy. No more mirrors. No more noise.”

You nod.

He guides you to the bedroom, pulls out your softest pajamas—the ones you always forget you own until he finds them for you. He doesn’t rush you. Just sits on the edge of the bed while you change, his gaze never anything less than tender.

Once you’re in fresh clothes, he helps you wrap up in one of the throw blankets you own and walks you to the couch like you’re made of something delicate. Maybe you are, tonight.

“What do you feel like watching?” he asks, brushing your hair back behind your ear.

You shrug.

He smiles softly. “Something with a happy ending. Something where nobody talks about anyone’s body unless it’s to say they’re beautiful.”

You manage a small laugh. He takes it like a trophy.

He puts on a familiar movie, one you both love but don’t need to pay attention to. Then he settles beside you, arms open, and you curl into him without hesitation this time.

His hand strokes your arm, slow and grounding. “You know,” he says after a while, “I think your body’s perfect. But not just in the way people say that word without meaning it. I mean it. Every part you’ve ever apologized for—those are my favorite parts. The parts I kiss first.”

You don’t answer. You just pull the blanket tighter and rest your cheek against his chest, the steady beat of his heart reminding you you’re safe.

And for the first time in a long time, you start to believe that you deserve this. That there’s nothing wrong with your softness, your shape, your tiredness. That you’re not broken, not in need of fixing—just love.

And love is exactly what you’re wrapped in now.

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From the girl that made you all weep with that Bucky fanfic, here comes Pedro and body positivity. Who needs tissues?

Hope you’ve enjoyed reading! Let me know what you think about it and I hope it has served of some comfort.

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