#I think I got hungry half way through this or something

[beloveds-embrace]

Hiiii hshsh

So I got this idea on a car ride late at night after going to an extremely loud pub!! Which gave me this idea:33

Poly!141 plus reader

None of them know how to cook because they're used to having premade meals at the messhall or rations on missions! so when reader comes along (they can be part of the task force or they can be civilian), and they cook for them the lads decide that they're theirs now!! :3

I love this idea anon 😩😩

You didn’t think much of it at first, truly.

Cooking had always been second nature to you- something soothing, something tangible in a life filled with chaos. And in the military, chaos was the only constant.

It didn’t take long to realize something alarming, though: none of your teammates knew how to cook.

Not even the basics.

Soap, bless his heart, thought instant noodles counted as a proper meal. Gaz once tried to scramble eggs and somehow set off the smoke alarm. Ghost? The man could survive in the wild for weeks but willingly lived off protein bars and black coffee when left to his own devices. And Price could grill, sure, but anything beyond that? No chance. And it wasn’t as if a grill was always available.

So, you cooked.

Not because they asked. Not because you had to, or were made to feel like you had to. But because the first time you made something decent- just a simple stew, hearty and warm, after a grueling training session- they all looked at you like you had hung the damn moon itself.

Soap groaned after his first bite, tipping his head back in dramatic bliss. “Marry me.”

Gaz, already going for seconds, nodded solemnly. “Seconded. You can’t just cook like this and expect us to let you go.”

Ghost didn’t say anything outright, but the way he cleaned his bowl and then, after a pause, slid it forward for more? Yeah. That spoke volumes.

Price took his time eating, but you caught the way his gaze softened as he watched you. Like he was making a decision.

You didn’t realize what that decision was until the next morning.

You woke up to find all four of them stationed in the kitchen, waiting. Gaz leaned against the fridge, Soap sat on the counter, Ghost loomed in the doorway, and Price stood at the stove like he had any idea what to do with it.

���What,” you mumbled, still groggy. “Are you all doing?”

Price met your eyes, calm and sure. “Waiting on breakfast. If you do wanna make it, that is.”

And that was that.

You should’ve known. Feeding a group of hungry, half-feral soldiers meant claiming them.

And, apparently, it meant they claimed you too.

The first time you all came back from a mission completely wrecked, it happened without thought.

Everyone was exhausted- cut up, bruised, dragging themselves through debrief with only the promise of a hard-earned shower keeping them upright.

You were just as battered. Just as drained. But the moment you stepped into the barracks and saw the half-hearted collection of protein bars and tasteless ration packs sitting on the counter, something inside you rebelled and cracked.

No. Not tonight.

Your body screamed for rest, but you ignored it, rolling up your sleeves and getting to work. It’ll be worth it, you kept telling yourself, and the promise of an actual meal kept you going.

You weren’t alone for long, thougg.

Kyle trudged into the kitchen first, watching with quiet amazement as you moved. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

“I know.” you murmured, but kept going. A warm, fresh meal…

Soap dragged himself in next, blinking at you blearily before rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re an angel, bonnie. A bloody angel.”

Ghost leaned against the doorframe when he came a little later, watching. He didn’t say a word, but when you swayed slightly from exhaustion, he moved- one steady hand pressing against the small of your back, grounding you. He didn’t tell you to stop, or get in your way- just stayed by you, a steady, comforting presence.

Also helped chop the vegetables when you asked.

John didn’t say anything either. But he sat at the table, waiting patiently, eyes tracking every movement like he was memorizing you.

By the time you put the food down- something warm, filling, real- they were too tired to talk, but their gratitude was written in every movement and shone through every appreciative sigh they let out

Soap sighed into his bowl like it was the only thing keeping him alive. “If I die tonight, at least I die happy.”

Gaz nudged your foot under the table, a quiet thank you.

Ghost, ever quiet, simply refilled your plate before his own.

And Price met your eyes across the table, something unreadable yet warm in his expression, before nodding once. “Good work, soldier.”

The second time, it was worse.

The mission had gone sideways, backwards, and right into hell.

It had been long, brutal, pushing all of you to the breaking point. When you finally stepped back onto base, none of you were unscathed- Soap’s knuckles were split, Gaz’s jaw was bruised, Ghost had a gash along his ribs, and Price carried exhaustion like it was part of him.

And you? You were running purely on fumes.

But the moment you made it back to your quarters and saw the way they all moved- silent, weighed down by the kind of tired that settled in your bones- you knew.

Without thinking, you made your way to the kitchen.

Soap’s voice, hoarse with fatigue, followed you. “You don’t have to, lass. You gotta rest-“

“I know.” You croaked out. And you still did it anyways.

The stew took time. Slow, steady, the scent filling the air like something solid. Something safe. It gave you enough time to lay your head down just a little, eyes slipping shut just long enough for you not to pass out.

They didn’t argue.

They didn’t tell you to sit down, to rest, to stop.

Instead, they hovered- Soap setting the table, Gaz nudging a chair toward you every time you leaned too hard against the counter, Ghost watching you in that way he did when words weren’t enough.

Price stood beside you near the stove, his hand brushing your shoulder in quiet appreciation.

And when you finally sat down, they made sure you ate first; Soap nudged the biggest portion toward you. Gaz made sure your glass was full. Price made sure you didn’t lift a finger once the meal was done.

Ghost was the last to move, reaching over to take your wrist, squeezing once. A quiet thank you in the way only he could say it.

That night, none of them let you leave, either.Soap pulled you down onto the couch between him and Ghost, resting his head against yours with a tired sigh, and Simon pulled your legs to rest on top of his thighs.

Gaz, already half-asleep with his back rest against the couch, muttered.” You’re stuck with us now, you know.”

And Price draped a blanket over your shoulders, the weight of it solid and grounding. He patted your head, then his hand slid down to squeeze your shoulder while your eyes slipped shut, drifting off into a much-needed sleep. “That’s how it works.”

[doeinlace]

sweetly yours, always

pairing: dilf!beau arlen x housebunny!reader warnings: suggestive content, playful banter, dilf beau being dilf beau

the scent of fresh coffee and sizzling bacon fills the air as you pad into the kitchen, the soft click of your heels echoing through the empty house. beau arlen stands at the stove, his back to you, casually dressed in a pair of loose sweatpants and a t-shirt that clings to his broad shoulders. but that’s not what catches your attention. it’s the way he holds himself, how his every move screams dominance without needing to utter a word. his presence is enough to make your pulse quicken, the warmth of his body seeming to draw you in.

"morning, darling," he hums over his shoulder, his voice low and gravelly, a perfect mix of charm and authority.

you smile, slipping into the seat by the counter, your legs crossed just so, the hem of your silk robe brushing against your skin. you can already tell the day will unfold just how you like it.

"morning, beau," you reply, voice soft but laced with a teasing undertone. "breakfast smells delicious."

he chuckles, turning to face you, those piercing blue eyes narrowing with a quiet amusement. "well, i only have the best to offer my pretty little housebunny."

your heart flutters at the name, the pet name slipping off his tongue so naturally. you tilt your head to the side, letting your hair cascade over your shoulder. you might as well be a queen, basking in his attention.

he finishes the breakfast with practiced ease, placing a plate in front of you. the meal is perfect, just like everything he does for you. but you don’t care about the food; it's the way his eyes linger on you, like he’s already imagining everything that comes after this moment.

as you take a bite, you watch him, his gaze never leaving yours. he leans against the counter, arms crossed, a knowing smile on his lips. “you look beautiful this morning,” he murmurs, the compliment making your cheeks flush.

"you're not so bad yourself," you respond, eyes tracing his jawline, that dangerous mix of softness and strength that makes you want to press closer, feel him everywhere.

with a grin, he steps closer, his hand sliding to your chin to tilt your face upward. "i could get used to this," he says, and there's something more there, something that makes you shiver.

you lean into his touch, looking up at him with half-lidded eyes, letting your voice drop into a whisper. "used to what, beau?"

he chuckles darkly, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip. "to you, doll. to you in my kitchen, in my bed, in my life." his voice is quiet but filled with purpose. "i’ve got a taste for you now, and i’m not letting go."

your breath catches in your throat, heart racing. you reach up, hand gently resting on his wrist, your fingers tracing the veins that run beneath his skin. “is that so?” you murmur, practically purring.

beau's smirk widens as he leans down, his lips brushing against your ear. "oh, sweetheart, you have no idea what you're in for."

you giggle softly, but it’s a sound laced with mischief. "maybe i do."

his lips crash onto yours, a hungry, demanding kiss that makes you forget where you are. everything around you blurs as his hand moves to the back of your neck, holding you there as he deepens the kiss. you moan softly against him, feeling that familiar rush of heat flood through your body.

as he pulls back, breathless, beau's voice is low, almost a growl. "don’t go anywhere, darling. i’ll be right back. i think it’s time to remind you exactly who you belong to."

you smile, your eyes sparkling with that familiar coquette energy. "i'll be waiting," you tease, not at all concerned about the way your body hums with anticipation.

beau gives you one last lingering look, his eyes filled with something raw before he leaves you alone with the still-warm coffee and the fluttering feeling in your chest. you know exactly what he’s going to do when he comes back, and you’re ready to let him.

as you sit back in the chair, you let out a soft, satisfied sigh. you don’t just belong to him. you’re his, always and forever.

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[synthetic-rust]

Doodles

[wileys-russo]

fic idea - in which alexia is a loyal Nike athlete and spots you wearing adidas clothes (sees you in adidas through a picture/social media/in person). Firstly, she has no idea where the hell you got it from and more importantly, she’d rather you wear nothing than wear that rubbish 😉

battle of the brands II a.putellas

"-and then thursday you have no training, but you have to go to madrid?" you questioned, reading through your girlfriends schedule you had up on your phone and the blonde hummed her confirmation.

"for a shoot, just a few hours, we fly." alexia craned her neck forward to check there was no oncoming traffic before continuing through the stop sign.

"they can't do it in barcelona?" you asked with a confused frown making the blonde chuckle as she slowed down, clearly scanning the street for a parking spot to pull into.

"no amor i am not the only athlete, some of them will fly in from england just for the day." alexia clicked her tongue in annoyance, a spot up ahead but someone already indicating they were going to pull into it.

"sometimes i think it would be easier if you knew how to teleport." you shook your head, the blonde incredibly busy even in her downtime though you knew that was her favorite speed, often having to force her to slow down and pause so she didn't burn herself out.

"teleport? qué es teleport?" alexias head turned toward you with confusion making you smile at the way her eyebrows creased, the english word unfamiliar to her.

"like a super power, to go somewhere like that, but just with your mind." you clicked your fingers and alexia nodded slowly, perking up as she saw a free spot not too far ahead.

"i am already a super hero cariño. capitán barcelona!" the blonde flashed you a grin as she flawlessly parallel parked into the spot you'd been a little unsure of her car even fitting in, though of course your concerns were for nothing.

"siempre con chistes!" you pinched her cheek and undid your seat belt as the engine cut off. "español muy bueno mi amor." the footballer smirked as you shot her a dirty look.

"i have lived here for five years alexia!" you huffed, the blondes lips curling upward at how easy it was to get under your skin, the three years you'd been together giving her lots of time to practice.

"espere!" you made a noise of surprise as you pushed open your door and attempted to slide out of the car, pulled back down in your seat as alexia leaned over you to pull the door shut again.

"what, is this?" your girlfriend pawed at the sweatshirt you had on beneath alexias leather jacket, todays weather containing a particularly icy chill and the bistro you were going to for an early dinner was outdoors so you'd bundled up with layers.

"camiseta?" you guessed, unsure if this was her testing your spanish or not as you gave her a strange look. "que? no! this is not mine." alexia huffed, ignoring your attempts to push her hands away as she pinched and pulled at the fabric covering your top half.

"no? it is mine." you made an indignant noise as alexia tried to peel her leather jacket back off of you, gasping dramatically at something as it rolled off your shoulders.

"traidora!" alexia accused, poking sharply at the adidas emblem covering your heart which had previously been covered by her jacket draped comfortably over the top of it.

"what? ale i am hungry." you rolled your eyes, trying to open the door again as once more alexia leaned across you to pull it shut, going as far as to press the child lock button on her side of the car.

"off!" alexia ordered pointing to the sweatshirt, settling back into her own seat now you couldn't go anywhere, with her arms crossed and a grumpy look ingrained into her features.

"alexia-" "off!"

"its cold outside! you told me to dress warm." you reminded her with a raise of your eyebrows. "no adidas. nike! i am a nike athlete mi amor." alexia stared you down stubbornly as you looked right back at her, but this was clearly not something she was joking about.

"you could not even tell when we left home ale, i will zip your jacket up!" you tried to compromise but she shook her head. "off. where did you even get that?" she made a face of disgust that had you rolling your eyes.

"a store! i liked the colour." you shrugged, alexia scoffing in disbelief. "it is blue! i have blue nike." she pouted like a child as again your eyes rolled.

"are you really going to make me take it off? let me be cold? tu propia novia?" you gave her a look as she paused for a moment, clearly thinking things over before perking up, clicking her fingers and holding up a hand silently telling you to wait as she got out of the car.

much to your annoyance she left the child lock on, zooming around to the boot and rummaging around for a second before returning, door opening and closing again.

a snicker left your mouth as a car honked and alexia jolted, hitting her head on the roof and swearing, the stranger clearly having thought alexia was leaving and wanting the car space.

"sigue conduciendo idiota!" the footballer swore, flipping off the driver as they pulled away making you laugh and quickly pull her hand down.

with one last annoyed look out at the other car she turned back and held out to you what was in her other hand, a bundled up mess of grey material.

"for you cari." she wiggled it impatiently as you sighed but took it off of her none the less. "ale this is your old training jacket!" your face scrunched up in realization as you held it up in front of you.

"sí! barça and nike." alexia grinned clearly very proud of herself as you made the mistake of sniffing it and recoiled quickly. "how long has this been in your car? did you wash it?" you accused as she scoffed, tugging on your ear.

"tonta. change!" she waved her hand impatiently as you gave her a look. "really?" "sí. vamos! i am hungry." she waved her hands again as you sighed deeply, recognizing you were also too hungry to spur this argument on much further without anything to sustain you.

grumbling under your breath you shrugged the oversized leather jacket off, twisting awkwardly in the small front seat to tug your sweatshirt off next, dropping it in your lap and pushing your head through alexias alternative.

once you were dressed in all your layers again you heard the child lock click, your girlfriend darting out and around the car to open your door for you before you could, forever chivalrous despite how frustratingly stubborn she could be at times.

"mucho mejor." alexia grinned happily, pulling open your door as you glared up at her from your seat. "this is thin! i am going to be cold." you huffed, trying to stand but once more your girlfriends large hand pushed you back into your seat as she opened the back door.

"perfecta!" suddenly she was back and shoving something down onto your head with a beaming smile, holding a hand out to help you up as you leaned back a little, eyes rolling at the bright pink nike beanie on your head.

"eres ridículo." you muttered, adjusting it to sit better with defeated sigh. "eres preciosa." alexia leaned down with a softer smile, pressing her lips against yours a few times, hands cupping your cheeks making you wince and pull away.

"like icicles!" you pushed them off of you and finally stepped out of the car, closing the door after you. "nope. too cold!" you shook your head as your girlfriend offered her hand for you to take, an offended look on her face at your rejection.

"alexia!" you squealed as she stepped forward and wrapped you in a hug instead, freezing cold hands slipping up your shirt and teasingly rubbing up and down your bare sides.

"dime que me quieres." the midfielder ordered, pulling your body flush against hers as you wriggled and flailed trying to get away from her.

"no!" you laughed, amusement swallowed by her mouth capturing yours, the same order now mumbled against your lips as her cold fingers danced against your once warm skin.

"fine! i love you." you shoved her away at that, struggling to catch your breath as the taller girl smiled cheekily and repeated the same words back.

"vamos, comamos tonta." she leaned down as if to kiss you again though instead tugged the beanie down to cover your face, arm sliding over your shoulders and guiding you away from the car.

"puta!" you pulled it back up and pinched her side, the blonde blowing a raspberry on your cheek before kissing it apologetically as you leaned into her a little.

your fingers entangled with hers, strong arm still protectively draped across your shoulder, the two of you making your way across the square toward the bistro.

"when we get home mi amor i will make a fire." "we do not have a fireplace?" "no te preocupes, i will just burn that adidas camiseta." "alexia!"

[tender-rosiey]

The sukuna with a shy daughter was sooo good. I loved it! Can we have more of them where its just sukuna and his baby girl in different situations and theres a lot of people and he has to deal with his brat?

peasant food — ryomen sukuna x f!reader

a/n: i am a big fan of sukuna with a shy daughter so i am super glad you like it too

right now, you’re standing beside your dear husband sukuna who stands with his arms crossed, watching with a frown as your daughter hands out food to the poor.

you almost let out a giggle, but then you feel his hand squeeze your hip in warning.

you huff in protest; however, he doesn’t let you dwell on it for long, as he hands you a necklace he just…acquired from somebody.

your little girl, on the other hand, with her wide eyes and gentle smile, kneels by a villager, offering him a bowl of rice.

“here you go,” she says sweetly, her tiny voice almost drowned out by the village noise. “you must be hungry.”

sukuna’s brow twitches as he clenches his jaw. “what in the hell are you doing?” his deep voice rumbles, earning a few fearful glances from nearby villagers. they recognize him, of course. the king of curses himself.

nobody dares to approach.

d/n looks up, flustered by her father’s glare. “I’m giving them food, papa. they’re hungry,” she answers, trying to keep eye contact, but she gives up half-way through and looks away.

sukuna’s eye twitches. “you’re supposed to cause pain,” he growls, leaning down with his arms crossed, looming over her tiny form. “not make people happy.”

you stifle a chuckle, placing a gentle hand on sukuna’s arm. “she’s just being kind,” you murmur, amused by his growing frustration.

sukuna throws you an incredulous look before turning back to his daughter. “kind? they don’t need kindness. they need fear, suffering. let them be hungry.”

“but… papa, that’s mean,” she protests, her little face scrunching up, and her lips wobble a bit. “they’re sad because they’re hungry. don’t you want them to be happy?”

sukuna steps back, his face twisting in disgust. “no. I don’t want them to be happy,” he replies right away. the coldness in his tone is enough for the nearby villagers to flinch.

you shake your head, eyes flitting and watching some of the villagers finally scramble away.

he looks at you with a small click of his tongue. your daughter, however, just looks up at him with innocent eyes, blinking slowly like she doesn’t understand why he’s so upset.

“b-but I like it when people smile,” she insists softly, handing another bowl of rice to a small child who hesitantly approaches. “it feels… nice.”

sukuna groans, running a hand down his face in sheer exasperation. “you’re supposed to be a curse, not some…do-gooder.”

he looks at you as with a quick side-eye.

“I think it’s sweet,” you say, shrugging lightly. “she’s got your stubbornness, you know.”

sukuna glares at you, then back at his daughter, who continues to hand out food, humming happily.

“I can’t believe this,” he mutters, watching her with narrowed eyes. “you’re lucky you’re my daughter,” he grumbles under his breath, crossing his arms again.

your daughter stands up after giving away the last of the food, her face glowing prideful but still timid, as she tries to convince her father with her point of view. “see, papa? they’re happy now.”

“you’re impossible,” he grunts, reaching down to ruffle her hair, though he tries to hide the fondness in his movements. the sharpness of his look returns a little as he says, “this doesn’t mean I approve.”

your daughter nods cautiously, before fidgeting with her fingers. ultimately, she decides on something. “do you want some rice, papa?” she asks softly, holding up an empty bowl.

sukuna scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I don’t eat peasant food.” he straightens up, glaring at the remaining villagers who are brave enough to linger nearby.

with just one look, they scatter, leaving the streets eerily quiet.

“but it’s nice!” your daughter insists, her voice earnest as she pouts slightly, her cheeks puffing out in frustration. “please, papa?”

you can’t help but chuckle at the sight of her trying to negotiate with him, and you lean in closer, nudging sukuna with your shoulder. “maybe just a taste? for her sake? please, honey.”

sukuna’s brows furrow in thought, and he glances between you and your daughter, who is practically bouncing on her toes with hope.

he crosses his arms again, acting indifferent. “fine. just a small bite. but I’m not doing this because I want to. understand?”

“okay!” your daughter replies, earnestly, her face lighting up as she dashes to a nearby vendor who is still watching with cautious interest.

sukuna watches her go, shaking his head. “unbelievable,” he mutters, but there’s no real anger in his voice now. it’s more of a begrudging acceptance.

“who would’ve thought you’d have such a kind-hearted little girl?” you tease, wrapping an arm around his waist.

“she’s a curse’s daughter, not a saint,” he replies, but there’s a softness in his tone that you recognize.

his gaze follows your daughter, who is now engaged in a small conversation with the vendor about the best rice. “she should be causing chaos, not handing out food like some charity.”

you laugh lightly, leaning your head against his shoulder. “maybe this is her form of chaos. besides, look how happy she is.”

sukuna’s expression shifts, and you can see the conflicting emotions playing out on his face. he wants to be frustrated, to be the fearsome king of curses that everyone knows him as, yet here he is, watching his daughter bring joy to others.

your daughter returns, bowl in hand, and holds it up proudly. “here, papa! just a taste!”

he takes the bowl and raises it to his lips, taking a small, measured taste of the rice.

“well?” your daughter prompts, her eyes wide with anticipation.

he chews slowly, contemplating the flavor as if he’s analyzing a potent curse. you can see the wheels turning in his mind, weighing the taste against his own expectations.

“it’s... not terrible,” he finally admits, and your daughter squeals with delight, jumping up and down.

“see? I told you!” she exclaims, surprising sukuna as it is the first time he has seen her so excited. “it’s good, isn’t it?”

sukuna shoots you a look that says he’s still not convinced, but the corner of his mouth lifts slightly, revealing a hint of amusement. “you’ve successfully managed to corrupt my child,” he mutters to you.

“awesome,” you grin, “do I get a reward for being able to corrupt like you do, my husband?”

he rolls his eyes then presses a firm—borderline aggressive—kiss to the top of your head. you pull away and frown, “you tryna squish my head or something?”

“you ask for affection, but can’t handle it?” he tilts his head, a slight smirk on his unfairly handsome face.

“🤏🤏🤏🤏🤏”

“huh?”

“mama, how did you speak in drawings?”

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[januaryembrs]

Any fluffy sweet Drabble about the moon boys 🫡

SWEET MORNINGS | Marc Spector x reader

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

length: 1.1k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[urdreamydoodles]

X-MEN x FEM!READER

The X-Men Receiving a Dirty Picture from You in Public

Characters: Logan Howlett, Remy LeBeau, Kurt Wagner, Scott Summers, Jean Grey, Ororo Munroe, Rogue, Erik Lehnsherr, Charles Xavier, Emma Frost, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Hank McCoy, Laura Kinney & Wade Wilson

Logan Howlett aka. Wolverine

You aren’t sure what possesses you to send it—not exactly. Maybe it’s boredom, maybe it’s the way Logan’s been gone longer than expected, leaving you restless. Either way, you know it’s reckless. The second the picture sends, you can already hear his voice in your head: Darlin’, you got a death wish? But you know Logan, know that he’s a beast caged in skin, and there’s nothing he loves more than being provoked by you.

He’s at a dive bar when his phone vibrates. The place is crowded, a few bikers at his table arguing over a pool game. Logan isn’t paying attention—until he glances at his screen. The moment he sees you, bare and sinful, every muscle in his body locks up. His breath hitches, his grip on his beer tightening until the glass threatens to crack. The scent of his own arousal floods his senses, so sharp he’s sure the few mutants around can catch it. One of the bikers nudges him, saying something about his "weird face," but Logan’s already pocketing the phone, jaw clenched.

He needs to get out of here. He doesn’t get embarrassed—not exactly—but the heat that licks up his spine is too much, too distracting. Logan swipes his tongue across his teeth, exhaling hard through his nose as he stands. His voice is a growl, all gravel and heat. “Got somewhere to be.” His movements are stiff, his body thrumming with need as he shoves out of the bar, barely resisting the urge to snarl at the people in his way.

The second he’s outside, he presses a number on his phone. When you pick up, he doesn’t say hello. His voice is low, dangerous. “You got no idea what you just started, sweetheart.” His free hand flexes at his side, his control razor-thin. “You better be home when I get there. And you better be ready.” Then he hangs up, already making his way to his bike, his thoughts full of nothing but you.

Remy LeBeau aka. Gambit

Remy is used to being desired. He knows the weight of hungry stares, the way people fall over themselves trying to get his attention. But you—you’re different. You make him ache. And you know it. Which is why you send the picture when you do, when he’s at a poker table, mid-game, surrounded by half a dozen people.

He sees the message light up his phone and, without thinking, checks it. The second the image fills his screen, his pupils dilate, his breath hitching just enough that the man across from him—some big-shot casino owner—narrows his eyes. “Something wrong, LeBeau?” Remy schools his features quickly, smirking as he locks his phone. “Non, mon ami,” he drawls, voice smooth despite the heat licking at his spine. “Just feelin’ a little… distracted.”

But he is struggling. His heartbeat is unsteady, his palms itching to touch, to grab. You’ve effectively thrown him off his game, and you know it. He shifts in his seat, stretching his legs out, forcing himself to focus. But his mind keeps circling back to the curve of your body, the way your skin looked in the dim lighting. His fingers twitch, itching to shuffle his deck, to channel all this pent-up energy somewhere before it burns him alive.

He doesn’t text back. No, that would be too easy. Instead, he waits until he’s out of the game, until he’s walking down the neon-lit streets of New Orleans. Then he calls you, his voice a lazy purr. “Ma belle, you really gon’ tease me like that?” He pauses, his smile slow, wicked. “Think you should be waitin’ by the door for me, chérie. Don’t want me comin’ in all impatient now, do you?”

Kurt Wagner aka. Nightcrawler

Kurt is used to wanting. He has spent a lifetime longing for things he believes he doesn’t deserve—love, touch, a home. But then there’s you, and you make him greedy. So when his phone vibrates in the middle of a crowded hallway at the Xavier Institute, he doesn’t think much of it. Not until he sees what you’ve sent.

His tail flicks so fast it nearly knocks over a nearby vase. A choked sound catches in his throat, his golden eyes widening, pupils dilating. He should look away, should pocket his phone before someone notices. But instead, he stares, heat rushing to his face so quickly it nearly makes him dizzy. The image of you burns itself into his mind, searing and divine.

Someone calls his name, and he nearly jumps out of his skin, fumbling to lock his phone. His three-fingered hand twitches, his tail coiling around his waist as he forces a shaky breath. Gott im Himmel, you’re going to be the death of him. He can feel the heat rising to the tips of his ears, can sense the way some of the younger students glance at him in curiosity. He clears his throat, tugging at the high collar of his uniform, muttering something about needing air.

The moment he’s alone, he teleports straight to your room, appearing in a burst of sulfur and smoke. His voice is hoarse, thick with something between reverence and hunger. “Liebes… do you have any idea what you have done to me?” He steps closer, eyes gleaming in the dim light. “I hope you are prepared to confess your sins… because I am more than willing to be your punishment.”

Scott Summers aka. Cyclops

Scott prides himself on control. It is all he’s ever known—containing his power, his emotions, his every sharp-edged want. But you? You make control feel like a curse. So when his phone vibrates in the middle of a team debriefing, he barely glances at it. Until he does. And then his world tilts.

His breath halts, heat rushing up his throat so fast it makes him dizzy. The conversation around him blurs, the sound of Logan and Ororo discussing strategy fading into static. He swallows hard, locking his phone, fingers tightening into a fist on his thigh. You are going to ruin him.

“Scott?” Jean’s voice pulls him back. He clears his throat, straightening his shoulders. “Yeah,” he says, voice just a little too tight. “I’m fine.” But he’s not fine. His skin is too hot, his thoughts spiraling. He adjusts his visor, as if that’ll help him regain some semblance of control. It doesn’t. He can still see the image burned into his mind, can still feel the ache you’ve ignited in him.

The moment the meeting ends, he heads straight to his quarters, his movements stiff, controlled. He doesn’t call, doesn’t text. Instead, he waits until he’s inside, the door locked. Then he pulls out his phone, staring at the image for a long, slow moment before finally responding: You just made a very big mistake, sweetheart. And you’re going to spend all night making up for it.

Jean Grey aka. Marvel Girl / Phoenix

Jean is used to knowing. She reads people as easily as turning a page in a book. But you—you manage to surprise her. When her phone vibrates, she’s mid-conversation with Ororo, standing in the bustling halls of the X-Mansion. She checks the message out of habit, and then—Oh.

The world around her vanishes. Her breath catches, her fingers gripping her phone tighter. Heat blooms beneath her skin, a slow, simmering thing. She locks her phone quickly, but not before Ororo arches an eyebrow, a knowing smirk curling her lips. “Something interesting?” Jean lifts her chin, feigning nonchalance. “Just a… distraction.”

But she is not unaffected. No, she can still feel the pull of you, the way you linger in her mind like a whispered temptation. She exhales slowly, steadying herself. You’ve always had a way of making her unravel, of setting her pulse racing with just a look, a touch. And now, with that picture—she knows exactly what you’re doing.

So she doesn’t text back. Instead, she closes her eyes, reaching out mentally, brushing against your thoughts with a teasing whisper: You’re playing a very dangerous game, darling. And you know I always win.

Ororo Munroe aka. Storm

Ororo has always carried herself with grace. There is a quiet strength in her, an effortless command of any room she enters. But when her phone vibrates, when she glances at the screen and sees you, bare and unapologetic in your teasing, even a goddess can stumble.

She is in the middle of the X-Mansion’s garden, surrounded by students tending to the plants under her guidance. The air is warm, the scent of rain lingering from a previous storm. But the second she opens your message, heat spreads through her veins like wildfire. Her fingers tighten around the phone, the wind around her shifting just slightly, enough for the nearby students to glance up in confusion.

With practiced ease, she takes a steady breath, forcing composure to settle over her. She locks her phone, tucking it away in the folds of her robe, but the image of you remains burned in her mind. She has faced gods and walked through storms, but nothing has ever made her this desperate. She exhales slowly, smiling at the students before dismissing them early.

Later, when she is alone in her room, she finally allows herself to look again, to savor. Then, with a smirk, she types out a message: You test the patience of a goddess, beloved. But I promise you—when I return, I will show you the consequences of such boldness.

Anna Marie aka. Rogue

Rogue ain’t shy. Not really. But there are certain things she doesn’t expect—like her phone buzzing in her back pocket while she’s in the middle of a conversation with Logan. She pulls it out absently, expecting a mission update. But when she sees your name, when she opens the image—her whole body locks up.

"You good, kid?" Logan asks, eyebrow raised as she nearly drops the phone. Rogue snaps the screen down against her thigh so fast she nearly fumbles it. "I—uh—yeah! Peachy!" But she can feel the heat rushing to her face, burning down her neck. Logan narrows his eyes, but she’s already stepping back, waving him off. "I—uh—gotta go!" She turns so fast her boots squeak against the floor.

She beelines for the nearest empty room, slamming the door shut before pressing her back against it, exhaling hard. "Mon Dieu…" she mutters, staring at the phone again. The sight of you makes her stomach flip, makes her hands itch with the desire to touch—even though she knows she can’t. And maybe that’s what makes it even worse, the sheer torture of it.

Her fingers hover over the keyboard before she smirks, biting her lip. She types back, her accent thick even in text: Ya better be waitin' for me, sugar. ‘Cause I got some real pent-up frustration I need to work out.

Erik Lehnsherr aka. Magneto

Erik is a man of control. He has spent his entire life bending the world to his will, shaping metal and fate alike with the force of his power. But when he sees your message, all that careful composure fractures like shattered steel.

He is in the middle of a political gathering, surrounded by dignitaries and mutants alike, discussing the future of mutantkind. He is calm, poised, his presence commanding the room. But then—his phone buzzes. And when he checks it—his grip on his glass tightens. The metal bends beneath his fingers, distorting under the force of his sudden, sharp desire.

He exhales slowly, willing himself to focus, but it’s impossible. His thoughts are consumed by the image of you, the sheer audacity of what you’ve done. He lifts his eyes, scanning the room, but the conversation has blurred into meaningless noise. He is no longer interested in politics. No, there is only you now, and the punishment you so clearly deserve.

Later, in the privacy of his chambers, he finally allows himself to react. He sets his drink down, removing his gloves with slow, deliberate movements. Then, he types a message: You are a very foolish woman, my dear. And I am a very dangerous man. I suggest you prepare yourself accordingly.

Charles Xavier aka. Professor X

Charles is used to knowing things before they happen. His telepathy grants him insight into the minds of others, makes surprises a rare thing. But you—you always manage to catch him off guard. So when his phone vibrates mid-lecture, when he absentmindedly glances at the screen—he nearly chokes.

His fingers tighten around the armrest of his wheelchair, his usually composed demeanor faltering for the briefest moment. He quickly locks the screen, but it’s too late—the image of you is seared into his thoughts. And worse, the faintest flicker of his reaction has echoed across his psychic link with you, letting you feel the way his breath hitched, the way his pulse stuttered.

He clears his throat, composing himself with practiced ease. "Shall we continue?" he asks smoothly, though his mind is miles away. The students remain oblivious, but you? Oh, you know. And Charles can feel your amusement through the bond you share, a teasing whisper against his mind.

Later, in the quiet of his study, he sends a message—not with his phone, but directly into your thoughts, his voice smooth, measured. My dear, if you wished to test my restraint, you have succeeded. But I fear you’ve also ensured that when I return, you will be left utterly undone.

Emma Frost aka. The White Queen

Emma Frost is not easily shaken. She has built an empire on her confidence, her ability to keep control in even the most delicate of situations. But when she receives your message, she very nearly gasps.

She is at a Hellfire Gala, surrounded by high society, diamonds glittering at her throat. The room is alive with conversation, champagne glasses clinking. She is draped across a velvet chaise, effortlessly poised—until she sees you on her screen. The way her lips part, just slightly, is the only betrayal of her reaction.

With a slow inhale, she tilts her phone away from prying eyes, locking the screen. But inside, her mind is already buzzing. You have nerve, sending this while she’s in public. It’s a power play, a challenge. And Emma does not lose. She takes another sip of champagne, a knowing smirk curling her lips.

Later, when she is alone, she finally lets herself look again, savoring the way you look—so tempting, so utterly hers. Then, with a slow, deliberate tap, she types: My darling, I do hope you enjoyed your little game. But let me make one thing clear—you are mine to tease. And when I return, I will remind you exactly why.

Wanda Maximoff aka. Scarlet Witch

Wanda has spent most of her life feeling like the world was just a little too unsteady. Magic crackles beneath her skin, her emotions tied too tightly to the fabric of reality itself. But when her phone vibrates in the middle of a very serious conversation with Doctor Strange, she has no idea the real chaos is about to begin.

She checks the message absentmindedly, but the second she sees you, bare and utterly wicked, the world around her tilts. The air shimmers—just slightly—like heat rising from pavement. Wanda sucks in a sharp breath, locking her phone quickly, but it’s too late. Strange is watching her with an arched brow, the flicker of mystical energy curling at her fingertips a dead giveaway.

“Are you alright, Wanda?” Strange’s voice is calm, but there’s a glint of amusement in his gaze. Wanda clears her throat, forcing her magic back under control, smoothing her expression into something composed. “Fine,” she says, a little too quickly. But inside, her mind is burning, and it’s all your fault.

When she finally gets a moment alone, she sends a message—not with her phone, but with her magic, a whisper of her voice threading into your mind: You have no idea the kind of spell you’ve just cast, my love. But don’t worry—I’ll break it soon enough. And when I do, you won’t be able to breathe without thinking of me.

Pietro Maximoff aka. Quicksilver

Pietro is always moving. His mind, his body, his thoughts—everything is fast, too fast for the rest of the world to keep up with. But when his phone buzzes, and he actually takes the time to check it, the impossible happens—he stops.

He’s in the middle of a conversation with Clint Barton, something about training drills, when he pulls out his phone. And then—bam. His mouth shuts, his brain short-circuits, and for the first time in years, he is frozen.

“...Pietro?” Clint frowns, waving a hand in front of his face. “You good, man?” Pietro’s fingers twitch, and suddenly, he is gone, zipping out of the room at impossible speed. The moment he stops—several cities away, in the middle of nowhere—he grips his phone, running a hand through his silver hair.

Then he smirks, his heartbeat pounding. He types back, quick as lightning: You are so cruel, bellezza. But don’t worry—I’ll be home in five seconds. Hope you’re ready for me.

Hank McCoy aka. Beast

Hank prides himself on his intelligence, his ability to remain rational in even the most unexpected situations. But when his phone vibrates in the middle of a scientific symposium, and he—without thinking—checks it, all rational thought leaves his brain.

His glasses slide down his nose. His usually eloquent mind is reduced to pure static. He should lock his phone, put it away, but instead, his blue-furred fingers tighten around the device as his brain short-circuits. A faint growl rumbles in his throat before he catches himself, quickly clearing it.

“Dr. McCoy?” One of his colleagues is staring at him, waiting for a response to a question he definitely didn’t hear. Hank straightens, adjusting his glasses, willing his heartbeat to slow. “Ah—yes. My apologies. I seem to have been... momentarily distracted.”

The second he’s alone, he finally allows himself to breathe. Then, adjusting his tie, he sends a message: My dear, I do hope you’re prepared to be thoroughly lectured on the consequences of distracting a scientist. In great detail. Preferably with a demonstration.

Laura Kinney aka. X-23 / Wolverine

Laura doesn’t get flustered. She doesn’t blush, doesn’t stammer. But when her phone vibrates, and she checks it in the middle of a mission briefing with Logan, something deep in her animal brain nearly malfunctions.

She sees the image, and every muscle in her body locks up. Her sharp, enhanced senses go into overdrive. Her claws almost unsheathe from sheer tension. Logan is talking, saying something about enemy patterns, but she hears none of it. The only thing in her head is you.

“Laura?” Logan’s voice pulls her back, and she snaps her phone shut, jaw tight. “Tch,” she mutters, shifting in her seat, pretending like she isn’t burning alive under her own skin. “Nothing. Keep talking.” But she’s not okay. She’s seething with the need to do something about this, now.

The moment the briefing is over, she finds the nearest exit, presses her back against the cold wall, and breathes. Then, she types—short, sharp, dangerous: You think that was funny? Good. Let’s see if you’re still laughing when I get my hands on you.

Wade Wilson aka. Deadpool

Wade is always unhinged. Nothing shocks him. Nothing catches him off guard. But when his phone pings in the middle of a mercenary bar, and he casually opens your message—his brain leaks out of his ears.

“Oh holy chimichangas.” His voice is too loud, and every thug in the bar turns to look at him. Wade barely notices, his masked face tilting down at his phone, staring. Staring so hard his mask is probably fogging up.

One of the mercs nudges him. “You good, Wilson?” Wade slowly lifts his head, his voice an octave higher than usual. “I have never been better. In fact, I am having a religious experience. Thank you for asking.” Then he stands—abruptly—phone clutched to his chest like a lifeline.

The second he’s outside, he’s already typing, fingers flying: BABE. BABY. LOVE OF MY LIFE. I AM ON MY WAY. DON’T MOVE. ACTUALLY, MOVE A LITTLE, STRETCH OR SOMETHING. MAYBE DO A LITTLE TWIRL. OH GOD. I’M RUNNING HOME IN SLOW MOTION FOR DRAMATIC EFFECT.

[ckret2]

Chapter 49 of human Bill Cipher being such a miserable prisoner even the Pines are starting to feel bad for him: The Eclipse: Epilogue.

####

"The heck did you do to that poor woman?" Tate asked, staring out the window. Bill was sitting on the pier, legs dangling in the water, staring blankly into the depths. He was still muddy and trembling. "She looks more traumatized than when y'all left."

Ford couldn't meet Tate's gaze under the brim of his hat, but he could feel Tate raising a brow when he spotted Dipper pacing back and forth on the pier behind Bill, muttering furiously.

"We've had a very bad day," Ford said. 

"Uh-huh."

"Could I borrow your phone to call my brother?"

Outside, Dipper was oblivious to everything except the one line he'd managed to remember from the Axolotl, the words he'd picked out as they crossed the lake. "'Sixty degrees that come in threes,'" Dipper murmured. He knew that much. It was a poem. It was a rhyme. He couldn't remember the rest. What did it mean? He murmured it over and over to himself as he walked, trying to remember the next line, "'Sixty degrees that come in threes,' 'sixty degrees that come in threes'... breeze, freeze, ease, lease, knees—" He couldn't remember the rhyme.

Bill was considering grabbing Dipper by the ankle and dragging him off the pier just to shut him up when whatsisname, the younger McGucket came out of the shop. "Hello there? Miss Goldie?"

Human. Strange human. Human that Bill could get on his side. Be charming. He tried to remember how to be charming. He offered a feeble smile. "Yello?"

"I wanted to make sure you're all right," Tate said. "You look like you, uh... you've had a hard time."

Bill laughed ruefully. "Well, I've been dragged all over the mountain, I'm hungry, exhausted, and half-drowned, and I can barely walk—but I'm not currently dead. Allegedly. I'll take what I can get."

The corners of Tate's mouth twitched down in a concerned frown. "Is there anything you need? A..." He floundered for a moment, "A water, or...?"

"I've had enough water to last me a lifetime." He wondered idly whether he could claim he was too exhausted to make it all the way home—there was a sofa in the staff room, Tate would probably let the poor bedraggled "woman" take a nap, if Bill got that bit of distance between himself and the Pines maybe he could... maybe he could... do something with it? But he couldn't think of anything more definite than that and now Ford was coming back and the window of opportunity closed. He shrugged wearily. "Just need to get back to the shack. Thanks." He half heartedly used the lake water to wash the drying mud off his lower legs and knees.

"Stan will be here in about twenty minutes," Ford said, and tried to ignore the dirty look Tate gave him. 

"I'll be just inside if you need anything else," Tate said. "Watching." He headed inside—and then, indeed, stood at the shop window and watched.

Ford was never going to get on Tate's good side. He suspected Tate would be a little less sympathetic to the poor woman on the pier if he knew who he really was; but it certainly wouldn't make Tate like Ford any better for keeping him around.

"Nothing to do now but wait." Ford unloaded the rest of their supplies from the borrowed motor boat. He dropped Soos's Monster-Mon backpack beside Bill—it was heavy, Bill must have just shoved his clothes and bedsheet straight in without bothering to wring out the water—and the plastic bag of snacks Dipper had bought. "You ought to eat more while we wait." Ford nudged the snack bag.

Bill sneered at it. "I don't want that trash."

"What?" Ford examined the bag's contents. Jerky, chips, candy, cups of marshmallow cereal... "This is ninety percent of what you eat."

"Ninety percent of what I eat is what I can scavenge from the counters."

Ford looked through the bag again. Ah. Right. So it was. "If you want something else, you know you can ask us to..."

"Mac and cheese."

Maybe Ford had better stop talking. He sighed and glanced at Dipper to see how he was doing.

It didn't look like Dipper had even registered Ford's return, too busy pacing and muttering to himself. Ford frowned. "Dipper?"

"Axolotl," Bill explained. "He's obsessing over him. Didn't I tell you that meeting that thing would drive him insane?" He tilted his head toward Dipper. "Look at that, he's already mumbling to himself. Don't suppose you have his therapist's number, do you? I doubt that would save him, but it might slow the process—"

Ford shushed him.

Dipper had briefly tuned back into the conversation when he heard Bill say Axolotl; and now he grit his teeth and stubbornly tuned it back out. No. He was not going insane. Dipper would figure this out. If he just remembered the rest he'd be fine. He tried to go through all the potential rhymes alphabetically, "—bees, cease, d—deez?" That wasn't a word. "Fees, geese, he's..." and on and on, "seas, tees, uh... vees? Wheeze..."

"I've had enough of you trying to convince that boy he's about to go mad," Ford muttered to Bill. "What do you get out of saying that? Even if you do convince him he's insane, it won't make him start trusting anything else you say."

"I'm not lying," Bill said heatedly. "You ought to know that, you've been in the multiverse, you've seen plenty of maddening sights. You saw them before you even left the Nightmare Realm."

Ford hesitated before responding; was Bill trying to persuade Ford he was insane? But he could still remember those first few moments of terror in the Nightmare Realm: the creatures that had seemed to move and shift in impossible ways as they swam in and out of dimensions Ford couldn't see, the lights and colors that throbbed like an inverted migraine, Bill himself seemingly suspended a million light years away and a foot in front of Ford's face at the same time. Until Ford had latched onto his quest to destroy Bill and let that focus him, his mind had felt like an unraveling sock. "You were chief among those maddening sights."

"I was," Bill acknowledged neutrally.

"But I didn't go insane."

"Because you knew when to look away." He cast a sideways glance at Dipper, an implicit unlike him. "I know you used to read cosmic horror. Do you know why the narrator always goes mad just from looking at some giant beast? It's not because it's too ugly to take. It's because once you meet something, you try to understand it; but if you want to understand the reality something like that comes from," he rolled an eye up toward where the invisible Axolotl had hung in the sky, "you have to lose your understanding of your own reality. They're incompatible. Like the lunatics who escaped Plato's cave and came back ranting about nonsense like sunlight and colors."

It was a twisted interpretation of the cave allegory. Plato had meant it as a metaphor for education: that learning about the true nature of reality was enlightening, but alienated you from your peers.

Perhaps to Bill, enlightenment and insanity were the same thing.

Ford murmured, "Once your eyes have been too dazzled by the sunlight to see the dim shadows, you'll never be awed by a candle again."

"You have been there before."

Ford didn't answer.

"Once you've seen something like that, if you let yourself dwell on the significance of it all, you're doomed. Better to tell yourself it's unimportant and try to forget it ever happened."

Ford thought of Fiddleford.

Bill twisted around to snap tiredly at Dipper, "So stop staring at the sun before you go blind, moron."

"Shut up." Dipper had been trying to mentally drown out Bill's dire predictions by grasping for more rhymes—"disease, unease, Socrates"—but enough filtered through to make his stomach churn with nervousness. What if Bill was right? What if he never remembered what the Axolotl told him—what if he drove himself mad trying? What if this turned into a lifelong obsession—but he'd be fine and could let it go once he remembered—was that the trap? Was whatever it had told him impossible for a human to remember? Was it something so incomprehensible a human couldn't remember it without going crazy?

But he'd seen plenty of stuff last summer that was supposed to make humans go "insane." Bill had to be messing with him. He remembered the first line—surely that meant he could remember the rest—but was that part of the trap? "'Sixty degrees that come in threes'... come on, there's something else, I know it, what is it? 'Sixty degrees that come in threes'—"

Bill sighed irritably. "'Watches through the eyes in trees.'"

Dipper stopped pacing. He hadn't realized he'd raised his voice enough to be audible. "What?"

"What?" Bill said.

"What's the rest of it?"

"What rest of it? It's a couplet. That's all," Bill said. "Is that what he told you? He gets rhymey when he feels self-important, it's no big deal. Maybe you're lucky. Put it out of your head and you'll be fine."

Dipper turned the words over in his head. Sixty degrees that come in threes, watches through the eyes in trees... "That's not exactly right," he said slowly. "It was 'watches from within birch trees.'"

"Is that how he translated it? I've never heard it in English before. I got close, though, I knew it'd rhyme."

Ford echoed, "'Sixty degrees that come in threes.' Like a triangle?"

Dipper gave him a perplexed look. "What?"

"You're taking geometry next year, aren't you? The inner angles of polygons always have the same number of degrees; and a triangle has a hundred and eighty degrees. Three angles of sixty degrees forms... an equilateral triangle."

Dipper and Ford stared at Bill.

Bill gave them a tired, unreadable look. "What?" he said. "Don't look at me. I'm not the only equilateral triangle in the universe."

Well, now Dipper was sure there was more to the poem than just a couplet. "How many other equilateral triangles spy on people through birch trees?"

"Lay off," Bill said crabbily. "I didn't have to tell you that line. Don't make me regret it." He planted his elbows on his knees, laced his hands together, pressed his forehead to them, and massaged his eyelids with his thumbs.

He tilted slightly to the right, keeping the weight of his head off his left arm.

####

"Nice shirt," Stan said, eyeing Ford's anger management t-shirt.

"If you like it, you can have it."

"What happened to your coat?"

"Somewhere at the bottom of the lake," Ford sighed.

"How...?"

"I'll fill you in later."

Bill's trembling was almost unnoticeable by the time Stan arrived. Or, at least, it was slight enough that he could stand and make the short walk from the pier to the car without an obvious struggle. 

He climbed into the back seat, slid across the bench, leaned against the door, wrapped his arms around his Monster-Mon backpack, fell asleep, and didn't wake up for the entire drive home.

Dipper and Ford fell silent when they noticed; and, sensing the heavy atmosphere, Stan followed suit.

####

The event organizers for Higher Dimensional Gate had arranged for the Magister Mentium's audience to surround him in a circle with as large a circumference as possible, so that as many shapes as possible could pack into the first few rows where they could see him. Even so, the crowd was much too large for everyone to be in the first few rows. Speakers had to be planted throughout the crowd so that they'd all be able to hear the Magister speak. Most of his audience couldn't see him.

But he, with his all-seeing eye, could see all of them.

The crowd extended back, row after row after row, in every direction like flecks of multicolor confetti filling the air all the way to the horizon. He'd never spoken to such a large crowd before. He didn't think he'd ever seen such a large crowd before.

Not all of them were his worshipers. He didn't have that many worshipers. The rest were drawn in by his boast—to be the first shape outside of legends to predict an eclipse, over six months ahead of schedule. They were here for a spectacle. He meant to give them one.

If he succeeded, all these spectators would become his worshipers, he was sure of it. If he didn't succeed, he lost everything. The whole nation knew about his bet. He'd be financially ruined. His worshipers would abandon him. There would be no fleeing to a new town and starting over; everyone everywhere knew who he was. His life would be over.

This would be only the third eclipse he could recall. There's no way to neatly map shape ages onto human ages. Different year lengths, different aging speeds, different mental and physical milestones. But approximately, compared to a human, he was scarcely over fifteen years old. 

But he wouldn't fail. He pushed all his fears aside. He didn't even want to think about them. He wouldn't, because he couldn't, because he could see what nobody else saw. He could see the eclipse's approach.

It was traveling across the vast empty gulf outside the world.

The only other third dimensional objects he'd ever seen were the sun—which looked to him like a circle—and the stars—which seemed to be mere points. He assumed all third dimensional objects were fundamentally just second dimensional objects, moving on a strange plane. He had no capacity to model a 3D object in his mind.

But the eclipse was a beast that twirled and gyrated around impossible axes, moving and rotating in ways his eye couldn't even comprehend. To him, it looked as though the living creature—he assumed it was a living creature, sometimes it manifested a couple of limbs or an eye—was constantly shapeshifting, its perimeter moving and altering. Its uncanny undulations had haunted his nightmares for months after he first watched it, so young he'd barely started school. It wasn't any less nightmarish now.

But as incomprehensible and terrifying as it was, he could see it, and nobody else here could, and that was all that mattered. He could watch it on the horizon and publicly announce that it would cross the sun in two weeks—and then in about three days—and then, to his humiliation, not tomorrow but today, guaranteed, as the creature sped up and threw off his estimate. His worshipers and bemused spectators had taken over the square to while away the time. They'd quickly gathered around him to wait after he'd declared it would arrive within the hour

That had been almost an hour and a half ago. The stupid thing had slowed down.

The triangle was terrified.

In every direction, shapes were staring at him. Waiting. His father was watching him—his stare seemed to grow heavier by the minute. He could see reporters in the crowd taking notes.

He had to fight not to pace, not to cringe, not to show any nerves in front of the hundreds of eyes.

Now. It had to be now. It was so close. Please don't let him be wrong. Every cord in his body quivered in terror as he grabbed his microphone and announced: "Lines, bis, tris—quads, quints, and more! My dear students and beloved believers, and my—" he cut off the urge to say something nastier, "—curious visitors, who I hope will join our quest for enlightenment. This is the moment you've been waiting for! The eclipse is upon us! In less than a minute, it will begin!" He had to keep his gaze forward as he spoke, looking at his audience. (His mother had always said the way his eye went white when he was looking at the third dimension unnerved people.) "Soon—you won't have to take all my claims about the third dimension on faith. You'll be able to see for yourself the effect of the third dimension on the plane."

The crowd murmured excitedly. He could see his father relax. He stared up-but-not-north, gnawing nervously on his eyelid until he caught himself. The beast above glowed a warm pink in the light of the nearby sun.

And the stupid thing. Slowed. Again.

He stared in disbelief.

"Sixty seconds," his father whispered, out of range of the microphone.

His stomach flopped. He was dead.

"One minute, fifteen seconds. What's going—?"

He held his microphone away and hissed, "The eclipse decided to zigzag."

"Eclipses can zigzag?"

"Shhh!" He'd already failed. He'd already shown everyone he was wrong. He could hear the murmurs. His eye hurt from staring at the sun and from straining for so long to turn so far upward-not-northward, go faster faster faster—

There! The snout of the eclipse was this close to kissing the perimeter of the sun. He cried triumphantly, "Now!"

The wretched beast did a loop-the-loop around the sun and missed it entirely.

The triangle felt the last strands of his fraying self-composure snap.

He howled in rage.

He could hear laughs from the crowd. They felt like daggers in his sides.

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!" He was bellowing into outer space as if he thought it might hear him, "Do your think this is a game?! Is this funny?! Are you trying to humiliate me in front of the whole world!" His father put a hand on his arm; the triangle shoved him away. "Get back here right now! You thick, brainless, blobby, pink, feeler-faced two-eyed freak of nature! GET BACK HERE and LOOK ME IN THE EYE!" He was a lunatic, everyone would know it, their leader raving in a direction no one could actually see about some big pink delusion, what did he care, no one would ever take him seriously again anyway—

And the thing in the sky.

Stopped.

And looped back.

And came closer, and closer, and bigger, and bigger—it just kept getting bigger, how far away had it been before, how large was it, how large was the sun?

He hardly noticed the crowd's gasp as the creature twirled between them and the sun—the light shone through its body, pink with blood—and then out of the way, and then in again, and out—until finally it was so close that its perimeter completely engulfed the sun. He'd taken a field trip to the planet's surface once—an enormous solid mass of stone and crystal. Until now, he'd never seen another solid objects so large. To his limited understanding of 3D objects, it looked as though there were no organs inside its perimeter—just a layer of solid, uninterrupted flesh. He didn't know how it could even move.

It stopped straight over him.

He was sure the two black circles embedded inside its body must be its eyes. His whole life he'd heard psychic powers—psychic powers like his own—described as having an "inner eye." But he'd thought the phrase was just a metaphor. An eye on the inside of a body instead of on its perimeter would be useless to most people. He'd never seen a creature with an eye literally on the inside of its body. But the eclipse had two.

And they were looking at him.

A giant ever-shapeshifting cosmic horror from outside of reality, staring through the veil separating the sane world from outerplanar space, and it was looking—at—him.

He was terrified.

He heard an alien voice in his head, vast and deep and slow as distant whale song:

"Hello there!" It was overjoyed. It was tickled pink. "I've never been spoken to by a shape on the wall before. I didn't know you could see off of it!"

Weakly, the triangle repeated, "'A shape on the'...?"

"Yes, this wall of yours." The eclipse gestured with its tail at—everything. A single sweep that took in an entire dimension. "I've probably commuted past this wall billions of times, and nothing's ever called to me before. I didn't know shadows could do that!"

"'Shadows'?" the triangle echoed again. That was all they were? An eclipse's shadows?

"I'm absolutely delighted," the eclipse said. "First contact from a lower-dimensional species! I've watched you for eons and never imagined. Isn't this exciting! How charming of you! Tell me who you are."

Him? "Me?"

"Of course. Who else?" It stared at him. Only him. A shapeshifting force of nature the size of a planet with two inner eyes, an eclipse that saw him as a shadow—and it was looking only at him.

Weakly, he said, "I'm... the Magister Mentium."

The eclipse thought that over. Its tone was a tad dubious and not terribly impressed (why should it be impressed? he was embarrassed at himself for giving his silly puffed-up title)—but it said, "Yes, I suppose that's true. I am the Axolotl. It's been a pleasure meeting you." It began to shapeshift again—its eyes slid sideways through its body, until one reached its perimeter and disappeared.

It dawned on the triangle, in its first immature understanding of third dimensional objects, that its eye had disappeared because the Axolotl was turning away. "Wait!" he cried. "Why..." Why answer him? Why focused on him so completely, if he was just a shadow? Why ask who he was like he mattered? He didn't even know how to put those questions to words in his own mind, much less out loud. "Why are you here so early?"

The Axolotl turned back to the triangle. "Oh! I had to go back for some documents I forgot at the office. Big case in the morning," it said. "You shadows know my schedule?"

"You... pass in front of the sun."

The Axolotl turned away, eyes disappearing and frills fluttering, to look at the sun. "So I do! How funny." It turned toward the triangle and gave him a strange, grotesque look that—by the tone of its psychic voice—he suspected was a smile. "I must get going. I'll be heading into the office a few hours late tomorrow, but perhaps I'll see you again then." And it turned away. It felt like it took forever for the enormous body to sail over-not-north-of the triangle—and pass, at last, out of the sun's path.

The triangle didn't look down-but-not-south until someone shook his side—his father. He lowered his dazed gaze to the crowd—the cheering, applauding crowd. Ma-gi-ster, Ma-gi-ster. A sea of multicolor confetti shapes that filled the air to the horizon.

Shadows.

His father shook him again—"Go on, say something. They're waiting"—and the triangle held up his mic as though he were in a dream. He tried to remember what he was supposed to say. "I was right," he said flatly. "Just like I always told you. I can see the third dimension. The realm of dreams—of colors, of light, and..." The lies left a sick taste in the back of his eye. He couldn't say them. Points of light in darkness and pink nightmares.

"I'm s— You'll all have to excuse me," he said, his voice childish and small. "I can't—I've had a... a... profound... spiritual experience. I must meditate on the revelations I've received." The words felt like woo-woo mumbo-jumbo. "The next eclipse will be a few months after the new year." It seemed important, for some reason, to pass that information on. Wasn't that what he always said he did? Share the wisdom of third dimensional spirits with his followers? "I... have to go now."

His father took his elbow. "This is your moment," he whispered. "Come on, son—you don't want to lose your chance to speak directly to them, do you?"

He shoved the microphone in his father's side. "You speak to them."

"But—"

"I can't," he said. "I can't."

He cut through the crowd as fast as it would part for him—if they were any slower, he'd have started stabbing his way through—haunted the whole way by their applause.

####

And that was it.

From the Axolotl's perspective, he had just had a brief pleasant exchange with a precocious tadpole in a sidewalk puddle.

From the triangle's perspective, he might as well have been standing on the boat deck watching as Cthulhu rose from his millennia of dead slumber at the bottom of the ocean, turned to the fragile vessel bobbing on the waves, and said, "Good morning! Glorious weather we're having, isn't it?"

And from the perspective of the Higher Dimensional Gate, their Magister Mentium had predicted an eclipse, been rightfully insulted when it didn't come the exact second he ordered it, and furiously summoned down an eclipse darker and swifter and longer than any in recorded history.

Up until then, he had been seen as, at best, an oracle. A prophet. A messenger to share the secrets of the third dimension, but that was all he could do. But now, he had commanded forces in an unseen dimension, creating an eclipse months before it was natural. He had made it flicker on and off like he had his finger on the sun's light switch. News reports and the most unimpeachable scientific authorities reported that the eclipse had centered on the location of the Higher Dimensional Gate rally, narrowed down to an inexplicably small radius around that point, and then remained unchanged for several long minutes, long enough for anyone in its shadow to grow fatigued from the missing sunshine. Nothing like that had ever happened before. It defied every known fact about the science of eclipses.

People around the gathering—even people who had known nothing about the Higher Dimensional Gate rally—reported that during the eclipse, they'd become inexplicably disoriented, unable to tell compass directions, and had felt themselves fall toward the darkness—as if gravity's pull had suddenly moved from the south to the epicenter of the eclipse. Public building inspections confirmed that somehow the entire town had shifted, ever so slightly, closer to the epicenter. Closer to the Magister.

Never mind prophecy; as far as the Magister's rapidly-increasing followers were concerned, he might have been a god.

It was the greatest triumph a baby cult leader could ask for.

He barely noticed.

####

For days, he could hardly sleep, speak, or think. He kept losing track of conversations to stare into space. Now, it awed his followers when his eye turned an empty white—he must have been communing with something in a higher dimension.

He didn't argue. It was better than letting them know he was losing his mind.

He spent his time alone locked in his room, pacing back and forth, trying not to look up-but-not-north and failing. Dwelling on the significance of it all. Feeling like he'd never figure it out.

He used to love cosmic horror stories, back when he had time to read. They followed a reliable pattern: the hero travels farther than any rational shape ever should, meets something big, and goes mad from the realization.

And what was it that the hero always realized? That he was a dust fleck in the firmament. That he was insignificant. That he didn't matter. That there were things out there he'd never seen before and would never truly understand, and that they cared not for mere shadows on the wall like him, and that in the grand scheme of the cosmos he was nothing. That he was utterly unimportant.

In moments of what felt like lucidity in between the shivering horror, the triangle  wryly acknowledged that it was no surprise he'd ended up in a cosmic horror story. He could see into another dimension. In the stories he'd read, that made it all but inevitable.

But all the authors had gotten the maddening revelation wrong. He could have handled knowing he was nothing. It almost would have been a relief. 

True horror was knowing he mattered.

He'd spent the majority of his young life selling the idea that he was oh-so-important, as part of a big con to trick gullible idiots into liking him and flinging cash at his rotten undeserving family—and he'd only been able to do it because when the guilt got to him, when his conscience asked what would become of the shapes forking over their life savings on false promises of divine secrets, he could look out into bleak black space and tell himself that nothing really mattered, nothing was important, nothing he'd ever do would really make a difference, and the people he manipulated didn't matter any more than he did. He meant everything to his worshipers, and nothing to the universe. He could do anything and it didn't matter.

For a moment, a vast mind-melting shape-shifting incomprehensible eldritch god had focused its full attention on him—of all the universe, of all the dimensions beyond the known universe, it had looked at him and only him—a mere shadow on the wall, and yet in that moment, it found him interesting. It found him worthy of notice. He had screamed into the cold uncaring void, and the void had cared. For a moment, he'd held cosmic importance. He mattered. His actions mattered.

He'd felt it see him as important, but why? What was so important about him? There had to have been something significant he'd done, something he showed it, something in what he said. He replayed their conversation in his mind over and over and over and over, trying to remember what he'd done that proved he mattered.

He didn't know what it was. He couldn't find it. All he could remember was just... being.

The writers were wrong. Cosmic horror wasn't when an elder god's eyes slid past you without noticing you existed. It was when the elder god gazed down at you at your lowest and bleakest, during your most petty and selfish act of mass swindling, from a dimension where not even slamming the door and shutting your eye could shield you from its gaze—and it decided you were worth caring about. Cosmic horror was when you encountered a colossal alien that planted the incomprehensibly alien idea in your head that you had an inherent worth just because you existed. Cosmic horror was when a force of nature asked the name of a shadow on the wall.

If it was true... if it all mattered... then what was he doing? How could he? What had he done?

####

He was lucky—he was lucky that his parents had raised him to think so clearly about issues like morality and money and easy marks. His only saving grace was that he was too rational to seriously entertain the Axolotl's mad ideas.

And yet, his mind boiled with mad regret. It blazed with insane guilt. The heat of it could burn him out. It was months before he could continue his public sermons without feeling sick—and even once he did, he could still feel the delusion that what he did mattered, festering in his mind.

It would fester for the next trillion years.

####

(And that concludes this plot arc! I hope y'all enjoyed it!! I'd love to hear what y'all thought of the whole thing—especially now that we've looped back to the original eclipse. 😁)

[bunny-jpeg]

a side of fries

toto wolff

tags: smut/fluff, food (mcdonalds), age gap (26/52), pregnancy, pregnant!reader, gentle sex, sweet & spicy fic, cowgirl position, domestic

it was ten at night on a friday. and most women your age were probably at a bar or some club, they were dancing the night away in uncomfortable heels and short dresses. the loud thump of the bass and the endless drinks.

you could even hear them walking and chatting past your apartment in monaco. but you weren't a club go-er, not since your met toto. and not since you got pregnant.

you were half of toto's age almost to a t, twenty six while he was fifty-two. you both made quite the pair, but you loved him so deeply. you loved in a way that you never felt for anyone else. he was unlike any other man you had ever met.

you actually were the girlfriend of a young engineer and at a race in your home country, you ran into and met toto. while it was an honour to meet someone like him. it wouldn't come till after you and your boyfriend broke up that toto would come back into your life.

"you don't have to." you played with the bracelet around your wrist as you stood outside the expensive restaurant in monaco. he flew you out for the weekend, he told you that he wanted you to go on a real date.

he simply held your lower back and smiled down at you, "i want to, you are not making me do anything i don't want to do, meine prinzessin." then leaned in a little, "may i kiss you?" and that was when you knew that you were in love with toto.

and in turn he loved you more than the stars that dotted the sky.

it was ten at night, toto had been busy in the home office with work for the next leg of the season. he only had a month with you before he was back in different parts of the world. thankfully, you were able to join him for the dutch and italian grand prix.

he was comfortable being on the couch next to you, you tucked into his side. you wore one of his quarter zip sweaters that was loose enough on you to be comfortable. toto had an arm around you while you watched a movie on the television. it wasn't anything too difficult, toto had mentioned earlier that day that he had never seen those "animated spiderman movies" when he caught you looking at baby onesies online. you had your eye on a little spiderman one.

now you were snuggled up as you watched spider-man: into the spider-verse. and while you loved the movie, there was something else on your mind. you leaned up and kissed your lover on the jaw.

"toto." you said softly.

"yes, liebste." he asked as he pulled you a little closer to kiss the top of your head. he then looked at your face and asked, "what are you thinking about?"

"i'm hungry." you rested your chin up against him. you looked at him, "i want mcdonalds."

toto made a slight face before he ran his fingers through your hair, "darling." he said, "you know that isn't healthy for you or the baby." you only pouted further.

"but me and the peanut want it."

toto chuckled, affected by your puppy-dog eyes. he was glad that he married his weak spot. he moved his hand to your middle and rubbed it, the rounded belly you had. he said, "my sweetheart, please. we have food at home."

you pouted, "please... please!"

before toto knew it, he had a pair of proper pants on and a cleaner t-shirt. you were in maternity shorts and one of his t-shirts. he had sneakers on while you were wearing flip flops. toto thought you were beautiful. you were his weakness, he hoped that you didn't make a habit of weaponizing your puppy-dog eyes to get junk food.

you both went down to the car and soon were headed towards the fast-food place. it was odd, in a city with so much food and culture. you wanted greasy fast food. his hand was on your thigh as he rubbed the partially exposed skin.

toto entered the restaurant with you, his hand on your lower back. you went to the self ordering station and he stayed close to you. you looked at him and asked, "do you want anything?"

he raised his eyebrows at you and you tilted your head towards the screen.

he chuckled, "i don't think it'll agree with my stomach at this age... and if you're getting a soft drink, please get something with no sugar. i don't need the doctor giving you or me a hard time because of your sweet tooth."

you ordered a cheeseburger, a large (diet) coke, and a side of fries. you could already taste the grease on your tongue. toto thought it was adorable, how excited you were. how excited you were.

he remained close to you, a protective hand at your waist as you both waited for your food. he looked down at you and asked, "are you alright, liebste?"

you nodded and replied in what little german you knew, "mir geht es großartig." you stumbled over the last part a little and toto beamed at you. obviously the child you were having together was going to be multi-lingual but you didn't want to miss out on their conversations in german. so you've been trying to learn.

he rubbed your back a little bit and you had a hand at your swollen middle. your number was soon called and you got closer to the counter with toto close behind like a shadow.

the employee looked at you and then toto. she looked a bit confused and you just sheepishly smiled as you took the meal. you thanked her before you shuffled out of the restaurant.

when you got in the car and put the straw in your diet coke, before you took a sip you said, "she thought we were father and daughter."

toto made a face as he got into the driver's suit. he reached over and rubbed your middle, "and here i thought that getting you pregnant would solve that problem." he leaned over and kissed you, the sharp taste of coke on his lips before he buckled himself and drove off.

back at the apartment, you happily ate your greasy food while toto played with your hair. he was impressed with you in everything you did, you were the perfect wife for him.

"happy?"

you nodded, with half of a fry sticking out of your mouth. toto leaned in and ate the other half before he kissed you. by the time you finished your meal and got rid of the garbage. he was hungry for something else. as you were partially bent over to throw out the wrappers. he draped an arm over your belly and pressed his chest up against your back.

eventually he rubbed your middle and sighed happily, "you look divine." he pressed you closer to him and kissed the side of your neck, "you carry my child so well. you're going to be an amazing mother."

just as toto couldn't deny you, you couldn't deny him. you giggled a little and turned in his grasp. you kissed him on the lips, the taste of grease still stained them. you shuddered with warmth.

when he pulled away he simply suggested, "why don't we go to bed, you must be tired." he cupped your face with his large hand and smiled.

you ended up on the bed with toto slowly pulling the shirt over your body, exposing your pregnant body to him. he placed a hand on your rounded middle and leaned down to kiss you on the forehead, you could hear him say he loved you against your skin. sex was slowly becoming a little more difficult thanks to the bump. but you'd always find ways to make do. your husband stripped you free of your clothes like a present. his hungry gaze on your swollen breasts. even giving the tender flash a kiss when he got you out of the sports bra.

your body had changed so much these last few months. all because of him, it was quite the boost to his ego. that as his age he could still father a child with such a beautiful, lovely woman. he pulled back while you sat on the bed and admired you. he licked his lips at the sight of you and felt warmth pool through his body.

you sat there naked, it was only fair that he did the same. you admired him, licked your lips hungrily as he joined in you in bed. naked as well. he was still fit for a man his age, he took care of himself. he still had enough stamina left in him to make sure his wife was taken care of. he wrapped his arms around you as he laid in bed. with you still seated upwards, it was the perfect angle for him to kiss you bare bump.

"you're such a good wife, good mother." he said lowly as his hand dipped further down until he was between your legs. his long fingers toyed with your pussy as he kissed at your swell, "from the moment i laid eyes on you, i knew you had to be mine. no one that beautiful should go without. and in return you gave me the most precious gift ever."

he pressed you closer for a moment, his nose squished against your belly. he exhaled deeply. that was why he spoiled you, as a thank you. you were giving him a child. when he pulled away, he had a hand on your hip and watched you move on top of him.

due to the pregnancy, you had to switch up the positions. and while toto loved classic missionary, having you in his lap wasn't too bad either. his hands on your belly as he eyed at you, his dark eyes pulled you in. he licked his lips as you shifted yourself on his lap. then sank down on his cock.

you whimpered a little and it was music to his ears. he loved how you sounded and it only spurred him on further to touch you. to love you. to give his wife all the affection she yearned for. you were all his, and he'd give you the world.

"how are you feeling? sick at all from the food?" he asked. during your pregnancy he wanted to make sure that you were eating well and taking care of yourself. he worried about you, work made it hard for him to be around often. but regardless, he was still weak to your puppy dog eyes.

he held your hips as you moved against him. he wanted to steady you as you pleasured the both of you. so pregnant yet working so hard. toto was a lucky man. he admired you as the pleasure coursed through his body. he asked you once more, "is the movements hurting you?" concern in his voice where the edges were tinged with lust.

"no, no, it's perfect. it's fine. nothing hurts, not even my hips." you said with pleasure seeped deep into your voice as you moved against him even more. you felt the crawl of want through your core and your cunt clenched around his achy cock. you exhaled deeply, "toto, this feels amazing." you chuckled lightly, "even better than the mcdonalds."

toto took a firmer grasp of your ass and said, "that's good to know. that my cock is better than fast food. i'd say that it doesn't add pounds on you, but.." he eyed your swollen belly, "i fear that's not the case." he relaxed a little bit as you continued to move up and down his cock.

you moaned as you held onto his short dark hair and gazed into his dark eyes. he can see the lust heavy in your gaze as you moved up and down his cock. you arched your back a little more and he placed both hands on your swollen middle.

"my wife." he groaned, "i got you all nice and pregnant. spoiled you, made you all mine. a yet you've only become more beautiful. stunning in a ways that keep me hooked to you. i need you, my darling. every inch i can have you." he panted against your warm chest, "i got you pregnant, i made you mine."

his words made your stomach flip as you continued to pleasure him. the feeling was immense, his words were like hot coals against your already heated skin. and it made your head swim with euphoric want. only toto wolff could make you feel revered and adored, but also like a slut. a whore for him to play with. even though he spoiled you in every aspect he could.

it was a duality that made you shudder as you felt the pleasure continue to mount in your core. he kissed at your chest and it made you clutch onto his hair tightly. the thumping in your chest felt faster with each buck of your hips. you were beyond excited, pleasure dripped from your core as you took his entire length.

you felt a haze in your system as you rode him. he happily let his sweet wife keep the pace. let you get to climax first. he cupped your swollen belly, the feeling of the skin under his hands made his cock twitch. even at his age he could knock up someone as beautiful as you. it didn't take much either, just a weekend in the swiss alps... or maybe it was the hotel in monza.... or the back of a cab at an after party a week later. regardless, he got your pregnant.

you tensed up around him, your cunt tightened around his cock as you held on tighter. you came around his length and continued your hot, quick movements.

you near sang his praises as you came, tensed up around him and he pulled you down for a searing kiss. he picked up the pace of his movements and fucked you feverishly till he reached his own climax. the feeling flooded his head and left little room for coherent thought. almost like a primal need to fuck you until a base part of his was satified. so he continued to move his hips once he finished inside of you.

when the clarity hit, he stopped and held your face to pepper your heated skin with kisses. he rested against you and panted heavily, "alright, alright, my treasure. my love." he held your back more tenderly before he guided you fully onto the bed and laid a protective hand at your waist.

"i love you."

"i love you too. now don't think you can always get your way by giving me sex." he playfully scolded you. he shifted himself close to your pregnant form. how warm you felt even from a small gap between you two.

you just smiled at your beloved toto and said, "oh don't worry. i'll use my powers for good." as if you hadn't been using your child to be a very spoiled mrs. wolff. <3

[pickingupmymercedes]

34+35 - Lewis Hamilton (NSFW)

Part of 1K Jukebox Event

song: 34 + 35 - Ariana Grande

pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Reader!

genre: smut (these photos of him in a garage did something to me)

wordcount: +3k

As always, I'm open for feedback, come say hi!

EXPLICIT CONTENT UNDER THE CUT, -18 DO NOT INTERACT

______________________________________________________________

The heavy click of your heels echoes through the foyer, mingling with the faint hum of music drifting from the living room.

You drop your keys on the console, the sound loud enough to announce your arrival but soft enough not to interrupt him—because of course, he’s home.

And of course, he’s doing something maddeningly nonchalant while you’re practically vibrating with tension from your day.

You walk in, ready to unload the day’s chaos onto the nearest chair—or him, whichever happens first.

But the sight that greets you brings you to a sudden halt. There he is, sitting on the couch in a pair of grey sweatpants and a fitted white tank top, his body draped over the cushions like he owns the world.

His curls are loose, a few even falling into his face as he scrolls through photos on his tablet, the soft light of the screen casting a golden glow over his sharp jawline.

Your eyes flick to the photos for a split second, and there it is: him, in his new +44 merch, leaning against a vintage car in the shot, all casual dominance and smoldering eyes.

You swear under your breath. You’re already unraveling.

Lewis looks up and smirks, that slow, knowing grin that’s half amusement, half challenge. “Tough day? Or just can’t get enough of me?”

You roll your eyes, stepping out of your shoes and setting them by the sofa to buy yourself a moment. “Both” you mutter, brushing off the comment.

He sets the tablet down, leaning back into the couch with his arms stretched out over the backrest, watching you with the kind of lazy attention that makes your pulse skitter. “Hungry?”

“Starving.” The word slips out before you can think better of it, and his eyebrows rise just slightly.

“For what, exactly?”

“Lewis,” you warn, though it’s a weak attempt. You’re already losing the battle against the smile threatening to tug at your lips.

“What?” His tone is innocent, but the glint in his eyes betrays him. “Your body is telling me something, you know.

You cross your arms over your chest, leaning against the arm of the couch to look down at him waiting for him to go on.

“Come here, love. Tell me what is it.” He gestures lazily toward the space next to him.

You hesitate. Part of you wants to sink into the cushions beside him, let his calm energy wrap around you. But the other part—the part still running on adrenaline from back-to-back meetings and decisions—won’t let you.

You shake your head, staying where you are.

“I’m fine,” you say quickly, your voice just a little too tight. “The usual chaos. Nothing worth rehashing.”

Lewis tilts his head, studying you like he’s deciding whether to push. He knows you too well, and it’s infuriating how easily he can see through the armor you’ve spent years perfecting.

“Huh” he says finally, his voice slow. “So, you’re pacing the room like you’re about to go to war for fun?”

“I’m not pacing” you shoot back, realizing too late that you’ve taken at least three steps toward the kitchen without thinking.

He laughs, the sound low and warm, cutting through the static in your mind. “Sure, love.”

You glance back at him, narrowing your eyes. He meets your gaze, holding it with a calm steadiness that makes your stomach flip.

“You’ve got that look, you know” he says, his voice softening slightly.

“What look?”

“The one that says you’re trying not to lose it, but you’re already halfway there.”

You exhale sharply, your shoulders sagging just a fraction. He’s not wrong, and the admission stings more than it should. You hate how easily he can disarm you, but there’s a comfort in it too, in the way he sees you even when you’d rather stay hidden.

“Maybe I am” you admit quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Lewis’s expression shifts, the teasing fading into something softer, more intentional. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he watches you before getting up and reaching you on the kitchen.

“Come here,” he says again, his tone firmer this time, leaving no room for argument.

And for once, you don’t argue. You take the steps that separate you and settle in his arms, hoping the day would begin to loosen its grip on you.

But regardless of how comforting is the weight of Lewis around you, it’s not enough to quiet the restless buzz in your chest. You stand there rigidly, your back straight and your arms folded like they’re holding the last shards of your resolve together.

Lewis’s thumb rubs slow circles against your back, and while the motion is meant to soothe, it only makes the energy under your skin prickle more.

“You’re still wound up” he says softly, the observation maddeningly accurate. “What’s got you so tense?”

“Nothing” you reply curtly, eyes fixed on the far wall. The response is clipped enough to make him chuckle.

“Liar.”

Your head snaps toward him, a glare aimed to warn him off. But Lewis only smiles, his arm slipping so he can lean forward and face you fully.

“I’m serious,” he says, his tone shifting to that deliberate calm that somehow grates against the storm inside you. “You walked in here looking like you wanted to fight me and the furniture, and now you’re here like the world owes you a fight.”

“I’m not in the mood for a fight.”

“No?” He tilts his head, clearly unconvinced. His gaze sweeps over you, and you can feel the weight of it like a spotlight, exposing every crack in your composure.

“You look like you could use some unwinding” he says, his voice low and careful not to push too far.

“I’m fine,” you snap, the edge in your voice sharper than you intended. “Can we not do this right now?”

Lewis lets out a soft hum of acknowledgment, leaning back against a stool at the kitchen island as his eyes linger on you. “Sure. We don’t have to do this. But you know you’re not just gonna sit there and stew all night.”

You roll your eyes and stand abruptly, pacing around under the guise of needing water. It’s an excuse to put space between you and him, though you can feel his eyes on you the entire time.

“You always do this” you mutter under your breath, reaching for a glass.

“Do what?” he asks, following you like a shadow you can’t shake.

“This.” You gesture vaguely toward him, spinning around to find him leaning casually closer, now against the counter, arms crossed and a smirk playing at his lips. “This thing where you sit here all calm and collected, acting like you’ve got it all figured out.”

“I do?”

The nonchalance in his voice makes your teeth grind, and he knows it. He shifts closer, his hand brushing against your arm as he takes the glass from you and sets it back further on the counter.

“Talk to me,” he murmurs, his voice a quiet command.

“I don’t need to talk. I need—” The words catch in your throat, your pulse quickening as his gaze locks onto yours.

“What?” His tone is steady, unrelenting.

You hesitate, your lips pressing into a tight line. You hate that he can read you so well, that he knows exactly how to dismantle the walls you’ve spent all day reinforcing.

“I don’t know,” you finally say, the admission bitter on your tongue.

Lewis steps closer, his presence cornering you until there’s nowhere to hide. He reaches out, brushing his thumb on your cheek. “Sure, you don’t” he says softly, his thumb grazing dangerously close to the corner of your mouth.

And that touch is enough to send a crack through your resolve, and the frustration bubbling inside spills over.

“I need you to fuck me senseless so I can get out of my head” you snap, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.

The moment hangs in the air, thick and electric. His hand drops from your cheek, and for a heartbeat, he’s still. But then his expression shifts, his smirk sharpening.

“Finally,” he murmurs, the word more to himself than to you.

Your heart races as he closes any of the distance left between you two. His hands find your hips, pulling you flush against him, and his eyes meet yours with an intensity that steals your breath.

“Senseless you say?” he half asks, his voice low and edged with challenge.

You glare at him, refusing to back down. “Right here and now.”

His grin widens, wicked and unapologetic. “Don’t have to tell me twice.”

And he’s spinning you around, your back now pressed against the cool marble of the kitchen island. His hands are on you, firm and deliberate, and all the tension you’ve been carrying—the frustration, the restlessness, the overwhelming need— finally begins to slip.

Lewis’s lips claim yours with an urgency that leaves no room for overthinking, his hands gripping your hips like he’s anchoring you to him. Your breath hitches as his mouth moves to your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your skin while his hands roam, tugging at your blouse to free you from it.

He isn’t soft, and you don’t want him to be. You want the fire, the friction, the rawness that only he can give you.

"You're still in your head," he murmurs against your collarbone, his voice a low rumble that makes your stomach tighten.

"Am not" you lie, though even you can hear the tension in your voice.

Lewis pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands sliding up your sides, his thumbs brushing the bare skin at your waist. His gaze is piercing, like he can see every thought you’re desperately trying to bury.

"Yes, you are" he counters, his tone steady, assured. "But I’ve got you"

The words hit something deep, something tender, and you swallow hard, gripping the edge of the counter to steady yourself. But Lewis isn’t having it. His hands leave your waist only to slide under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly onto the island.

"You’re going to let go, babe" he says firmly, stepping between your legs. His hands slide up your thighs, spreading them wider as he leans in. "I’ll make sure of it."

A sharp retort rises to your lips, but it dies the moment his mouth captures yours again. Your hands find their way to his shoulders, then his chest, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as if holding onto him might keep you from drowning in your own thoughts.

"I hate how you do this" you mumble against his lips, your voice a mix of frustration and surrender.

"Yeah?" His lips curve into a teasing smile, but his hands are anything but playful. They slide up your thighs, gripping firmly before tugging at the waistband of your pants.

"How you make me need you" you admit, the words cutting through the fog in your mind like a blade.

Lewis leans back just enough to meet your gaze, his expression softening even as his hands remain possessive on your hips. "That’s not something you need to hate" he says, his voice a low murmur.

Before you can respond, his hands move again, sliding your pants down and over your hips, leaving you only in your lingerie.

"Look at me," he says softly, tipping your chin up with his fingers when your wonders.

The intensity in his eyes pins you in place, grounding you in a way that makes your head spin. You feel the fight in you start to waver, your grip on control slipping with every deliberate touch, every whispered word.

"You’re here with me" he continues, his other hand trailing up your thigh. "Stay with me, Y/n."

"I’m trying" you whisper, the words thick with frustration.

"I know" he replies, his tone gentle but unyielding. His fingers graze the inside of your thigh, teasing but firm, and you can’t help the moan you let out.

The way he says it, like he knows you better than you know yourself. You exhale shakily, leaning forward to bury your face in his neck, your hands clutching at his shirt like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality.

"I hate how much I need this" you confess, your voice muffled against his skin.

"No, you don’t" he murmurs, his hands tightening on your thighs as he pulls you closer.

The next moments blur together in a haze of heat and motion. His lips are everywhere—your neck, your collarbone, the sensitive skin just below your ear.

The cold of the marble beneath you is a fleeting sensation, eclipsed entirely by the warmth of his body pressed against yours. He’s meticulous, demanding and reverent, as if he’s determined to strip away not just your clothes but every ounce of tension you’ve carried with you.

And he does. Piece by piece, layer by layer, until there’s nothing left but you and him and the steady, grounding rhythm of his movements.

His hands leave your body for only a moment as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants and underwear, shedding them in a single motion.

You can’t help but reach out, your hands instinctively finding him, wrapping around the hard length of his dick with a confidence that earns you a raised brow and a teasing smirk.

"Handsy, aren’t we?" he quips, his voice warm with amusement, though there’s also a hunger there.

You don’t bother with a response, too focused on the weight of him in your palm, the way his skin feels hot and smooth against your fingers. But your grip tightens slightly, and he inhales sharply, the teasing glint in his eyes replaced by primal need.

Lewis leans down, one hand bracing the counter beside you while the other trails up your thigh. When he glances at you, his intentions are clear.

He’s going down on you.

The thought of his mouth on you, of him taking his time, should be enough to unravel the tight coil of frustration lodged in your chest. But it doesn’t.

Instead, the restless energy intensifies, and the idea of waiting—of anything standing between you and the rawness you crave—makes your pulse hammer in protest.

Your hand shoots out, fingers grasping at his biceps and tugging just enough to make him stop.

“Don’t,” you say, your voice sharper than you intended.

Lewis freezes, his eyes snapping up to yours. For a moment, there’s confusion there, a flicker of surprise that quickly softens into something more intentional.

“You sure?” he asks, his voice low, careful, as his hands pause on your thighs. He searches your face like he’s trying to read between the lines of what you’re not saying.

Instead of answering, you pull his body against yours, locking your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck, leaving no space for doubt.

That’s all he needs.

Lewis captures your lips in a kiss that’s all consuming, swallowing the moan that escapes you as he presses closer. His hands grip your thighs, positioning you at just the right angle, and then he’s there, pressing into you in a way that forces every other thought from your mind.

Even after all this time, the first stretch always takes your breath away. The sheer girth of him, the way he fills every inch of you, is something that never fails to surprise you.

A gasp escapes your lips, muffled against his mouth, and he groans in response, his forehead dropping to yours as he steadies himself.

Lewis adjusts his grip on your thighs, his fingers pressing into your skin with enough force to leave marks that will bloom tomorrow—an unspoken promise of this moment lingering long after.

He draws back, his cock sliding almost all the way out before slamming into you again, forcing a broken cry from your lips.

"That's it," he growls, his voice low and commanding. "I know you want to run that mouth of yours, but I don’t think you can right now, can you?"

The words should irritate you—no, they do irritate you—but any retort you might have had dissolves into a moan when he grinds his hips just right, hitting that devastating angle that makes your vision blur.

Your mind tries to fight back, to form some kind of response, something sharp and biting to remind him you’re not completely undone.

"Thought so," he says smugly, his teeth catching your bottom lip in a brief, punishing tug. His thrusts grow harder, more deliberate, and your head falls back against the cool surface of the island.

"You’ve been in your head all day, haven’t you? Spinning, overthinking. Let’s see if I can’t fuck all those thoughts right out of you."

You want to argue. But every time you’re on the verge of saying something, he pulls out nearly to the tip and drives back in, stealing the air from your lungs.

Fuck him.

Fuck this.

Why does he have to feel this fucking good?

"You’re too quiet, baby," he taunts, his hands shifting to grab at your waist, dragging you closer to the edge of the counter so he can pound into you even deeper.

The sharp slap of his skin against yours echoes in the room, drowning out your ragged breaths. "Where’s that smart mouth now? The one giving orders all day?"

Your fingers dig into his arms, desperate for something to ground you. "Lew" you manage to choke out, though your voice is barely audible over the obscene sounds of your bodies colliding.

"Don’t worry, I’m just getting started." he replies, a wicked grin spreading across his face. He adjusts his angle slightly, and the next thrust makes your toes curl and your back arch off the counter.

Your mind tries to claw back some semblance of control, some internal quip to distract from the overwhelming sensations, but it’s useless.

Every sharp comment that tries to form is obliterated the moment he moves, his hips driving into you with unrelenting precision.

"You feel that?" he growls, his voice rough with exertion. His hand slides up your stomach, between your breasts, until his fingers wrap lightly around your throat—just enough pressure to make your breath hitch.

"That’s me pulling you out of that head of yours. Don’t think, babe. Just feel."

You’re too far gone to respond, but he doesn’t need you to. His pace picks up, relentless and punishing, the rough drag of his cock against your walls pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his tone darkly satisfied. "You’re mine right now, aren’t you? Just me and my cock on that pretty little head of your."

You can’t argue. You can’t even think of a reason to try. Your mind is blank, your body a live wire under his control, every nerve ending tuned to the rhythm he’s setting.

He leans down, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, "Let go for me. I’ve got you."

And with one more thrust—perfect, devastating, him—you do.

The world felt like it had shattered into fragments, each piece scattered too far for you to grasp.

You lay there on the cool counter, body limp, chest heaving, utterly boneless. Reality was an abstract concept—one you weren’t even sure you wanted to return to.

When Lewis pulled out, you barely noticed. It was only the warm sensation spreading across your stomach of his seed on your skin that registered somewhere deep in the recesses of your fogged mind.

But even that didn’t fully bring you back. Not yet.

It wasn’t until his hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing lightly over your warmed up skin, that your senses began to reassemble themselves.

Your eyes fluttered open to find him watching you with satisfaction, his dark eyes searching your face. His curls damp with sweat, and his lips were swollen from all the kisses you’d stolen—or he’d stolen from you.

Either way, he looked unfairly good for someone who had just ruined you.

"Okay?" he murmured softly, his thumb pausing in its gentle stroke as he waited for your response.

You blinked up at him, still too blissed out to form words. Instead, you gave a slow, deliberate nod.

"Yeah?" he pressed, his voice dipping into that soothing tone he always used when you were at your most vulnerable. His other hand joined the first, cradling your face now, as if you might slip away if he wasn’t careful.

Another nod. Your lips parted to speak, but all that came out was a hoarse, barely-there whisper. "On my stomach?"

His lips quirked into a cocky grin, the sharp contrast to his earlier gentleness making you want to smack him—if you had the strength.

"A little souvenir" he echoed, his tone playful but still laced with warmth. He leaned closer, his nose brushing against yours. "Would you rather a creampie"

"Shut up," you muttered, your voice gaining a little strength now.

"You didn’t want me to shut up earlier," he teased, his thumbs sweeping over your cheekbones. "In fact, I think the words you used were—what was it?—‘fuck me senseless.’"

You groaned, letting your head fall back against the counter.

Lewis chuckled, the sound low and warm. "As long as you’re feeling better"

He kissed your forehead, soft and lingering, and you sighed, feeling a strange sense of peace settle over you. Your body was still thrumming from everything he’d done to you, but your mind—your perpetually spinning, overanalyzing mind—was finally still.

And damn it, as much as you hated to admit it, he’d been right.

"Yeah, yeah," you grumbled, closing your eyes again as his hand smoothed over your skin "Congrats. You shut me up."

"Didn’t shut you up" he corrected, his voice brimming with that maddening mix of confidence and affection. "Got you out of your head. Big difference."

Your eyes fluttered open, still hazy with the remnants of satisfaction, and found him staring down at you with a stupidly smug grin.

"Right," you muttered, voice scratchy, "I’m going to clean myself up." Your hand motioned lazily to the sticky trail now spreading down on your thighs, the remnants of him painting your skin.

Lewis stepped back, making no effort to stop you as you slid off the counter, your legs wobbling a little before you caught your balance. He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, that same infuriatingly cocky smile plastered on his face.

As you padded down the hallway, you couldn’t shake the feeling of his eyes trailing after you. Halfway to your bedroom, you stopped abruptly, glancing over your shoulder to catch him watching you, leaning there like he didn’t have a care in the world.

"You coming, or are you just going to stand there?" you called back, one brow arching as you let your eyes rake over him for emphasis.

His grin widened, his gaze dipping shamelessly down your body. "I am coming," he replied, pushing off the counter with a slow, deliberate motion. "Just didn’t want to rush and miss the view."

You rolled your eyes and turned back around, but the small, satisfied smirk tugging at your lips betrayed you.

Typical him. Always cocky. Always exactly what you needed.

_____________________________________________________________

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[tongue-like-a-razor]

Brother's Best Friend - Part 12

Jake Seresin x F!Reader

A/N: Trying to get back into these two. Did we miss them?

Summary: The trials and tribulations of falling for your brother's best friend.

CW: mild angst, swearing, fluff

WC: 2600+

Part 1 | Masterlist

“So…” Jake pauses and purses his lips to suppress a mischievous smile. “When did you start liking me?”

You look down at your lap where his head has been resting for the last five minutes. “Did I tell you I like you?”

Jake meets your gaze and snorts. He reaches up to take your hand off the keyboard of your laptop and brings it down over his chest. “Indirectly,” he admits.

You roll your eyes, recalling when you had expressed to Bradley – in Jake’s presence – how ‘your guy’ makes you feel. You pull your hand out of his grasp and look back up at the screen in front of you. “I have to work, Jake.”

“You’re too hardworking,” Jake responds with a whine.

You shake your head with a grin. “Such a dreadful habit, I know. I’m working on it – wait. Damn, I see what you mean –”

Jake starts chuckling and his head tickles your bare thighs. “You’re so fucking cute.”

You press your lips together as your smile broadens. “When did you start liking me?” you ask.

Jake releases a heavy sigh and sits up. “Alright, enough chitchat. Get to work.”

You watch him rise to his feet and make his way into the kitchen, curious why he so abruptly decided to change the subject. “Got any plans this weekend?” you ask casually, wondering if he’ll finally ask you out on a date. The two of you have been sneaking around for a while, but your only outings together have been with Bradley, so you couldn’t even hold hands. Thus far, you’ve assumed that Jake is just waiting for the right moment to speak with Bradley before the two of you make your relationship official but, as time goes on, you become increasingly skeptical that Jake actually intends to come clean.

Jake shrugs. “Not really. Just hangin’ with your bro.”

You try your best not to frown. “Sounds fun.”

Jake walks back over to you and sets a bowl of strawberries on the table by your laptop. You glance up at him inquisitively and he responds with, “You haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

You give him a smile. “Neither have you.”

He nods. “Which is how I know you’re hungry.”

“Thanks,” you say. “As soon as I’m through with this part, I’ll move all this shit and we can have some lunch.” You gesture at the pile of literature currently cluttering your workspace.

Jake takes a seat adjacent to you at the table and lets out another sigh. “I don’t know,” he says.

You shift your gaze from your computer to look in his direction. “Don’t know what? If you want lunch?” You pick up a strawberry and pop it into your mouth.

Jake is observing you carefully and you stop chewing because the attention makes you uncomfortable. “I don’t know when…” he says, pausing as though he isn’t sure how to continue. “When, uh… I don’t know at what point” – he exhales sharply – “I have no clue when I f – when I started to see you as more than just Bradley’s sister. As more than a friend.”

You raise your eyebrows at him, your mouth still full of half-chewed strawberry.

“I think I just realized, at one point, that I’d rather spend time with you than with anyone else,” he admits.

You finish chewing awkwardly before responding with, “Huh.”

Jake stares at you expectantly, as though you should have something to add.

But you’re not really sure what to say. You’ve been crushing on Jake for an embarrassingly long time and he does not have clearance for that kind of classified intel, especially since his interest in you is far more recent. What does he want, anyway? A pat on the back for finally figuring it out?

“Your turn,” he says, clearing his throat and leaning back in his chair with an air of confidence.

You purse your lips as though you’re in thought. “Not sure,” you say vaguely.

Jake narrows his eyes. “Not sure? Or don’t want to say?”

You meet his gaze tentatively. “I probably liked you before you liked me.”

Jake watches you with a slight grin. “In that case, you were very good at hiding it.”

…

You arrive at the pub already slightly tipsy after pre-drinking at your friend’s house. In fact, you’re drunk enough to not give two shits that Jake has, once again, decided to spend his Saturday night with Bradley. This time, he didn’t even invite you along.

Once inside, you head straight for the bar; no sense in wasting time waiting for a table. You grab a drink and take a look around the crowded establishment. That’s when you see him.

Jake fucking Seresin is sitting at a table near the back – not with your brother. You stare at him – and his female companion – in horror for a few moments, letting the scene sink in. Wondering if you’re in the wrong for being shocked. Are the two of you even exclusive? This has never actually been discussed. But one thing is certain: Jake lied, which makes you sick to your stomach.

You slide off your barstool and, cocktail in hand, you make your way to the little table in the back where your supposed boyfriend – or whatever he is – sits entertaining another woman. It’s not long before Jake notices your presence because you’re making quite a spectacle on your way over as you furiously skirt every person in your path.

Jake looks uncomfortable and that satisfies you greatly. “Hey,” he says when you arrive.

You gape at him. “Hey?” you exclaim in outrage.

“Uh,” Jake stalls for a moment. He turns to his date and says, “This is Bradley’s sister.”

The woman opposite Jake smiles at you but you’re too busy glaring at Jake to acknowledge her. “That’s all you want to say about me?”

Jake watches you pointedly. “What else do you want me to say about you?” He looks back at his date and lets out a nervous chuckle.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Seresin?” you shriek, slamming your stemmed glass onto their table so aggressively that your sour apple martini splashes over the rim.

Jake jerks back to avoid getting wet and then looks up at you in alarm. “What’s the matter with you?”

You shake your head at him in disappointment and then turn abruptly to leave. You expect Jake to grab your hand, or follow you out, but he does neither. In fact, you make it all the way back to the bar before you realize that Jake is not even looking in your direction. You see him laughing together with his female friend, as though they both just witnessed something absurd and worthy of repeating in the future for a good chuckle.

“Hey, isn’t that your brother’s aviator buddy?” your friend says, nodding toward the back of the pub.

You roll your eyes and then turn toward the bar, realizing you left your drink at Jake’s table.

“He’s kind of hot,” you friend continues. “But he’s got fuckboy written all over him.”

You close your eyes and sigh. You have nobody to blame but yourself. You know Jake. What in the world made you think he would become a different person if he were with you?

…

The following day, you wake up past noon with a debilitating migraine. You hear Bradley and Jake’s voices drift up from the kitchen and groan. You’re not in the mood to face Jake after the events of the previous evening. You ended up going home shortly after confronting him and you have no idea where he ended up. Probably in bed, and probably not alone.

You get dressed unhurriedly, dizzy from the pain and, on your way downstairs, you grip the banister tightly just in case. The kitchen is excruciatingly bright, and you cringe upon entering, shielding your face from the open window like a vampire.

“Oh, hey sleepyhead!” your brother greets you.

You grunt in response and head straight for the coffee pot. “Is this fresh?” you ask.

“Nope!” Bradley replies cheerily.

You pour yourself a mug anyway and put it in the microwave, turning to face the two of them while your coffee warms.

Jake meets your gaze with a stoic expression.

“How was your night?” Bradley asks with a grin, clearly seeing that you’re hungover.

“Fine,” you say monotonously.

Bradley raises his eyebrows. “It’s the enthusiasm for me,” he says with a smirk, looking over at Jake.

Jake, however, ignores him and grabs his jacket from the back of one of the kitchen chairs. “You ’bout ready, Bradshaw? I ain’t got all day.”

“Alright, alright,” Bradley says. “Let me get my stuff.”

Bradley jogs over to the staircase and runs up to grab his duffel bag. Meanwhile, you are deliberately avoiding Jake’s gaze as you lean your back into the kitchen counter. Jake stuffs his hands into his pockets and is also not looking at you. When Bradley returns a few minutes later, disrupting the silence with a melodic whistling, the two of you have not moved an inch from where you’d been standing when he left. Even though the microwave has beeped at you twice.

“What’s with you two?” he asks, pausing in the doorway.

“Nothing,” Jake responds curtly. “Let’s go.”

Bradley glances between the two of you. “Okay,” he says slowly, his gaze lingering on you in particular. “See you later, sis,” he says.

You wave a distracted hand in his direction and head for the couch with your coffee, nearly bumping into Jake as you cross paths because neither of you is looking at the other.

“Sorry,” Jake mutters, stepping aside to let you pass. His hand goes up instinctively to guide you but he catches himself before letting it rest on your arm.

“It’s fine,” you say, wavering slightly on the spot. You squeeze your eyes shut for a moment and press a couple of fingers into your temple.

“You okay?” he asks, his eyebrows converging as he tries to catch your gaze.

“I said I’m fine.” You sigh, trying to walk around him.

“Seresin, you coming, or what?” Bradley calls from the foyer.

Jake hesitates as you finally pass him, and then yells back. “I’ll meet you there!”

Bradley waits a moment as though he’s still trying to figure out what’s going on. Then you hear the front door open and Bradley shout, “Don’t be late!” as he exits the house.

Jake trails after you into the living room and, when you lower yourself onto the couch, he crouches down in front of you, placing a hand on your knee. “Migraine?” he asks.

You nod slowly so as not to exacerbate the pain.

Jake’s hand gives your leg a soft squeeze. “Have you eaten?”

You cringe. “Please don’t talk to me about food right now,” you beg.

“Did you take anything?”

You shake your head. “I’m out.”

Jake gets to his feet. “I’ll go pick up some meds for you,” he says.

You glance up at him miserably. “You’re going to be late.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he responds, already on his way out.

…

Jake returns not ten minutes later with your medication and a bag full of snacks. “I heard dark chocolate is good for migraines,” he says, holding out a block for you as you swallow your pills.

“I’m not hungry, Jake,” you say weakly, closing your eyes and lying back down on the couch.

Jake sighs, sitting down on the floor beside you and starting to unwrap the chocolate. “You need to eat something,” he says, breaking off a piece. “I also have gummy worms and popcorn.”

You open your eyes. “I love gummy worms,” you whisper.

Jake grins. “I know,” he whispers back.

You take the chocolate square from his hand and he busies himself with opening the bag of gummy worms while you let the chocolate melt in your mouth. A moment later, he hands you a gummy worm and you stick it between your teeth and bite. “Oh my god, it’s so good,” you moan. The motion of chewing helps alleviate some of the pain in your temple and you sigh blissfully, closing your eyes.

Jake leans his back into the wall adjacent the couch and pops a gummy worm into his mouth. For a while, the two of you sit in silence. Then, he says, “You wanna talk about it?”

“Not really,” you say.

Jake shakes his head and you can sense his irritation without even looking at him. “This isn’t going to work if you don’t trust me.”

You turn to give him a flat look. “Would you trust you, Seresin?”

Jake squares his jaw. “I have never given you a reason not to trust me.”

“You lied to me! You said you were meeting Bradley!”

“I was! He was running late.”

You watch him sourly. “And you just happened to pick up a girl while you were waiting?”

Jake returns your bitter glare. “Is that actually what you think?”

“I don’t know what to think,” you say, sitting upright to look him in the eye. “You weren't exactly forthcoming with an explanation.”

Jake sets the gummy worms on the couch and gets to his feet. “The girl was there for Bradley. He was running late. End of story.”

“You couldn’t tell me that yesterday?”

“She’s seeing Bradley! And he doesn’t know about us. It’s not like I can say, ‘Oh, by the way, I’m actually dating your boyfriend’s little sister and that’s why she’s acting like a nutcase. Brb.’”

You fold your arms, sulking. Did you consider the possibility that the woman Jake was sitting with wasn’t his date? Briefly. But you were already annoyed with Jake and that, combined with your less than sober state, was apparently a recipe for disaster. “I guess I don’t trust you,” you say with a shrug, even though this statement isn’t altogether true.

Jake places his hands on his hips, exhaling slowly. “Why?” he asks, sounding exasperated.

You stay silent and continue to brood.

Jake pinches the bridge of his nose and grimaces as though this conversation is wearing him out. Then, he lets out another sigh and crouches before you again, trying to catch your gaze as he places his hands in your lap, palms up. “Why?” he asks calmly, waiting for you to join hands with him.

You do. “Well, why would I?” you say quietly, hesitating before you continue. “What is this, even? What are we? Do you know? Because I don’t.”

Jake’s eyebrows knit together. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, why haven’t you told Bradley yet? Is it because you’re not sure you want to make this official? Is it because it’s just a fling so why bother?” You cringe inwardly, hating how insecure you sound.

Jake stares at you in wonder, as though this line of thinking has never even crossed his mind.

“Like, are we even exclusive?”

Jake’s eyes widen and he blinks at you in awe. “We fucking better be,” he retorts, his hold on your hands tightening slightly.

“Well, how would I know that?” you exclaim.

Jake brings his hands up to his face and rubs his eyes. “Jesus fuck, how would you not know that?”

You scoff at him. “Because you’ve never once been in an exclusive relationship! Not while I’ve known you, anyway. Do you even know how?”

Jake’s hands slide down his face and stay over his mouth as he gapes at you. When his hands finally drop back into your lap, you can see that he’s got a small smile on his face. “You’ve got nothing to worry about,” he says finally.

You lower your gaze, not exactly comforted considering he still has not addressed your main concern: Bradley.

Jake stands up and pulls you up off the couch. He puts his arms around you and you rest your head against one of his giant shoulders, allowing him to cradle you lovingly.

“Why haven’t you told Bradley?” you mutter into his shirt.

Jake pulls away from you and runs a hand through his hair uneasily. “I’m scared, Baby B,” he admits. “I’m scared he’s gonna make me choose.”

Read Part 13

Hangman Tag List:

A/N: The rest of the list will be in the comments. As always, let me know if you don't want to be tagged anymore.

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[archangeldyke-all]

Omgggg I love Sevikas and readers little found family with Jinx and Isha. Do you ever think that, over time, Jinx and Isha would pick up on some of their mannerisms, especially Isha 'cause she's so young?

I can just imagine reader having this face she shows when she's disgusted and then one day they're all hanging out and Isha sees something she thinks is disgusting and can copy the face almost exactly.

this is so cute

men and minors dni

even before isha joins your little family, there are certain quirks in jinx that you can easily identify as sevika's. as much as they claim they hated each other before silco's death, sevika was still a pretty big influence on jinx during her formative years.

jinx has learned how to scowl the same way sevika does, and she's nailed sevika's annoyed eye rolls.

the two both refuse to open packaging with scissors or knives-- both tearing into food packages with their teeth.

and, over time, jinx has taken on sevika's eating habits-- swirling all the food on her plate into one mass of mush before eating, claiming 'it helps mix the flavors.' just like sevika does.

but then isha joins your little family, and both her and jinx start picking up on more and more of you and sevika's quirks.

sevika sneezes loud as hell. like, scare the shit out of you loud. it's one of the most annoying things about her, and she can't control it no matter how hard she tries.

so when isha starts sneezing like she's being punted in the stomach, a loud, guttural "AAACH!" coming from the little girl-- you can't help but cackle each and every time. (especially when she manages to scare sevika, because it's so satisfying to watch your wife be on the receiving end of being startled by a loud sneeze.)

every morning, the first thing you do once you wake up (and give sevika her good morning kisses and cuddles) is some quick yoga in the living room. it's nothing fancy-- it's just ten minutes of stretches and yawns-- but it always manages to help you feel awake and ready for the day.

lately, jinx has been joining you.

you'll wander into the living room rubbing sleep out of your eyes, only to find jinx there, sipping a cup of coffee and soaking up the rising sun. you're both wordless as you sit on the floor, stretching and waking up together. jinx copies your movements sometimes, but sometimes she just stretches the way she feels like she needs. the best part is at the very end when you do partnered stretches, the pair of you taking turns to pull one another's arms and stretch each other's legs. it's nice.

isha being nonverbal means she communicates mostly through facial expressions. sevika being a woman of few words also means she communicates mostly through facial expressions. sometimes, it's a little uncanny how similar isha's 'you've got to be shitting me' face is to your wife's. or her 'i'm so excited but i'm trying to play it cool' face. or her 'i'm hungry and tired and unamused.' face.

and one night, as you're drifting off to sleep, sevika leans forward and kisses your forehead. "love you." she whispers. you sleepily scrunch your face, and sevika chuckles. "isha makes the same face when she's sleepin' and i tell 'er that. first time she did it i almost cried-- it's so you."

you force your sleepy eyes open to stare up at your smiling wife. "i really like our family, sev." you mumble.

sevika grins and swoops down to kiss you. "me too, baby." she giggles.

taglist!

@fyeahnix @lavendersgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner

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@strawberrykidneystone @sevikasfan @fict1onallyobsessed @greenhazes @dvrkhcld

[yournightmary]

Vi HCs

content warning:: i guess there’s some angst? but it’s arcane so it’s nothing new

AN:: just a mix of different headcannons to get me through season 2.

pitfighter!Vi

⇢ ˗ˏˋ I’m sorry but she smells so bad. I’m not talking about a little stink- she smells fucking rancid. It’s a mix of sweat, alcohol, blood, hair dye and sometimes even puke. I don’t think she even showers properly, she just runs a wet towel over her body and calls it a day.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ She dyes her hair with the cheapest hair dye in front of her cracked mirror- that’s why it’s so shitty. Doesn’t buy enough and ends up not covering her ends every single time.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ Barely has any clothes. Owns 3 pairs of jeans and 4 shirts, all of them ragged and stained. Doesn’t even wear the shirts most of the time, she just wraps her chest with bandages.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ At first she didn’t want to do the eyeliner thing but a few fellow fighters told her it’s something to be recognized and remember for. For the first few times she actually payed attention to how she’s applying it, but after that she said fuck it and just slapped it on. Also she doesn’t use proper eyeliner, maybe something like water-activated face paint.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ Really craves touch. She’ll glue herself to random girls (bonus points if they have dark blue hair) at bars and blame it on being drunk. Nothing sexual, just plain affections.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ Her every day looks the same. Wake up in the middle of the day, sulk on the shitty mattress that she calls her bed, work out, put on her make up, head to the pit, drink till the morning. There’s literally no difference in them.

young!Vi

⇢ ˗ˏˋ I don’t know where i’ve read it I think it was like an interview or something but she’s literally just a girl. She didn’t want to be the strong fighter that everyone knows not to mess with, but that’s who she has to be to survive in the Undercity.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ Definitely gave music a try. Like be so fr, she has a saxophone on her bed. Maybe she found it on a job and thought it was too cool to sell. Always wanted to play guitar but it was out of her price range.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ She knew she liked girls from very early on and so did everyone around her. She didn’t hide it from anyone, there was literally no reason to. In season 1 you can even see she has a poster of a half-naked woman next to her bed, like come on now.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ I’ve seen people saying that she doesn’t know how to make food but hear me out. I think she’s actually a pretty good cook due to her being the ‘caretaker’ when Vander couldn’t do it. Definitely cooked for Powder when she woke her up in the middle of the night because she was so hungry it was bordering on being painful.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ She cuts her own hair. One time she fucked up so bad she had to shave her whole side and it just kind of stayed with her.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ Never does anything for herself. Whenever she finds something- like clothes or food- she gives it to someone else. Always makes sure the others have enough before she takes something for herself.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ She feels so guilty after stealing stuff from other people. She’s not stupid and she knows how hard life in the underground is, and that it justifies her actions but still- she’ll roll from side to side instead of sleeping, thinking about how much of a shitty person she is.

dating!Vi

⇢ ˗ˏˋ Literally the best girlfriend out there and I will die on this hill.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ She’s so touch-starved it’s unbelievable. When she was a teen she didn’t really experience anything relationship-like and then she got locked up for a few years. She’ll always have her arm around you, her hand on your hip or waist.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ Oh my god her hugs are so good ahhhh. It’s just like being wrapped up in a warm blanket. Really likes to give hugs from behind too.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ Loves cuddling, especially if it involves her lying on top of you. She doesn’t need any pillows if she has you and your lap, stomach or chest.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ She is such an acts of service girl. And it goes both ways! If you make her dinner or plan a whole date by yourself she’ll feel so loved.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ She stares so much it’s borderline creepy. She’ll just look at you in silence for a few minutes before turning her head away with a smile, thinking about how lucky she is to have you.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ You’ll be cuddling with her before sleep, scratching her back or scalp for the whole time. Once you think she’s asleep you stop and she immediately looks up at you with furrowed brows, asking why you stopped.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ While she is proud of her physique and stuff she does feel self conscious about her hands. Mostly because of all the scars and bruises, maybe a little because of how manly they look.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ She was a victim of being treated like a guy because she’s more masculine presenting than feminine. Pay for her food at a restaurant, do her makeup, tell her she looks pretty not handsome.

[jasntodds]

can i request a jason fic 🥺 i was reading through the prompt list and saw two ("here's a spare key, so you don't have to keep coming through the window" and "i didn't know you could cook this good") and i thought they'd make a cute setup for a friends to lovers moment 🥺 sorry for not being around! i've been struggling with reading on my phone for long periods of time the last few months 😭 -guiltywaves

@guiltywaves omg hey!! I love friends to lovers so much dkjf but no no it's totally okay!! No worries!! I totally understand!! It happens to me all the time lmao I'm so sorry this took so long!! I wanted it to be perfect and make sure it wasn't super long!! I hope you like it!!

Maybe I'll do a part 2

Pairing: Jason Todd x Fem!Reader

Words: 3,045

Warnings: Fluff, mentions of injuries

masterlist | tag list | requests: open

Jason climbs through your window. A routine of sorts, really. After patrol, he comes by and always through your window. Sometimes he’s injured and lets you help him before you offer your couch to him. Sometimes he just stops by with a snack. But, he always comes in through the window.

Tonight is no different.

It’s after three when your window creaks open, Jason noting to himself to fix it for you. He crawls through your window, your apartment dark as it usually is when he comes by this late. He flips on the floor lamp to your living room before taking his helmet off and making his way to your kitchen to rest it on the table. He finds a note, your handwriting scribbled across the page containing Nightwing symbols at the corner.

Jason rolls his eyes but reads the note.

Leftovers in the fridge please eat

A smile tugs itself onto his lips before he pockets the note, folding it neatly beforehand. He’s quiet, reaching for the fridge where he finds the leftovers already in a bowl for him with a note that has his name on it, something that almost always makes him laugh. He's the only one you ever save food for.

This note has the Robin symbol.

He doesn’t think you even own anything with a Red Hood symbol and a very large part of him knows it’s because you do it to fuck with him.

It works every time.

He grabs the bowl, pulling the plastic wrap from it before he pops it in the microwave. He grabs a fork from the drawer and leans himself against the counter with hooded eyes, sleep tugging at his chest and bones. Patrol wasn't too bad tonight, that's not really it. He's standing in your kitchen and it's comfortable here. He's allowed to breathe with ease in your apartment and sometimes, that alone can make him crave sleep. The white noise of the microwave is only contributing to the heaviness of his eyes until it’s suddenly interrupted.

“Knew you’d be hungry.” Your voice tugs Jason from his almost sleep.

You look tired.

You sound tired.

“Thank you.” Jason’s cheeks turn a pretty shade of red as he rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. “Just gonna eat and head out.”

“You can stay.” You roll your shoulders.

“Nah.” He shakes his head. “‘M fine.” He gives you this toothy grin as some sort of proof he isn’t injured tonight though you’ve already pieced that together with him heating up his food.

“It’s late. You’re just gonna be more tired after you eat, Jay. It’s not like you don’t stay half the time anyway.” You roll your eyes at him before you disappear down the hall.

The microwave dings and it sends Jason quickly reaching for the handle to get it to stop. The noise is so jarring in your quiet apartment it sounds like his ears might bleed. The bowl is hot on his fingertips as he grabs it, quickly stirring before he puts it back in for a bit more time.

“I got you something.” You state as you reemerge from the hallway.

Jason’s brow quirks up. “What?” He let out a half-scoff half-chuckle.

The microwave barely gets a ding off before Jason grabs it and removes his bowl. He places it on the counter before you approach him. Jason faces you, eyeing you carefully before he sticks his fork into the pile of pasta.

“Here’s a spare key.” You stick out your hand and open your palm, revealing a painted red key. It matches his helmet. “So you don’t have to keep coming through the window.”

Jason thinks he might have a panic attack.

He’s comfortable around you. You’re his best friend. You’ve been friends for years, long before Red Hood. You know everything there is to know about him. It’s why he’s so comfortable walking into your apartment and grabbing his food. It’s why he can get some sleep when he’s here. But, having a key feels serious. It feels like a large responsibility. It feels like a commitment to something he’s not sure he knows what to do with.

He's staring at your palm like the key might try to bite and you have to hold your breath. There's always a chance he says no and it really shouldn't be a big deal because he's your best friend but you hold your breath anyway. You tell yourself it's just a key because Jason Todd deserves to feel welcomed somewhere at all times and that somewhere is here.

“Jay, you’re here all the time.” You tell him before you grab his hand and put the key in it. “Just use the damn key. And whenever you want.” You shrug. “I know sometimes you just don’t want to be alone so you can just come over whenever. I don’t know. You’re just always welcome.” You glance to the key in his hand and then up to him, hoping he takes it.

“I can’t do that.” Jason shakes his head, still holding out the palm of his hand.

“And why not?” You challenge.

Jaosn’s different than he was when you were kids. He’s guarded, cautious, you think he’s scared. When he was a kid, he was a little fearless and a little reckless. It wasn’t anything too crazy but a little reckless. He was open and welcoming. He was still cautious but it was more that caution just came from needing to survive from one day to the next. Jason’s caution today makes him look over his shoulder, look at every single person near him to see if they have a weapon. It makes him hide a gun under your couch and in one of your cabinets. He has a stash of food in his apartment he thinks you don’t know about. He’s different now than he was. So, you offer patience while still testing him. He doesn’t need to be different with you.

“Not trying to impose.” Jason tries to play off his own fears. “The window’s fine.” He tries to deflect. “It’s not even a bother anyway and—“

You let out a sigh cutting him off. “You’re not imposing if I’m inviting you which I am. The window’s fine until someone spots you and wants to know what the fuck is going on. The door is right here.” You point over your shoulder to the door. “Just take the key and use it.” You offer him a soft smile. "I want you here." You clarify.

Maybe it’s not the key itself that makes Jason want to run through a window. It’s the implication of what a key could lead to. And what if you ask for it back?

What if you change your mind?

“I painted it to match your helmet.” Your eyes soften, a hint of innocence behind them.

Jason's eyes go to the table, spotting his helmet and his chest feels like it’s on fire. Most of the stationary you own has to do with the bats. You have random collectibles of theirs, too which may have actually been gifted to you but you have them regardless. But the key to your apartment is Red Hood red.

You think you see a smile forming.

“Fine.” He caves, curling his fingers around the key before stuffing it deep into his pocket. “‘M gonna thank you for it then.”

“Okay, Jay.” You shine, relieved he took it.

“Can I eat now?” He points to his bowl of food that's no longer steaming.

“Yes, yes you can.” You chime.

Jason picks up his bowl, leaning his lower back against your counter before he twirls the pasta around the fork. You sit in front of him on your table just watching him. He’s your best friend but it’s hard not to notice how the armor compliments his muscle. It’s hard not to notice how pretty he is even in the low light of your apartment. You think he’s always been pretty but since reconnecting, you can’t help but think he’s stunning and tall and big. Your mind wanders to his hands, the way he holds the fork with large but delicate fingers as if he could break the metal with ease. You think how it would feel to hold his hand in yours, knowing Jason’s always radiated heat. You think how his palms are probably calloused and how they’d feel against your skin and—

Nope.

You shake your head of your own thoughts. He’s your friend and you’re just extra tired and touch-starved lately.

“How was patrol?” You ask with ease, kicking your feet in front of you, just missing his legs.

He shrugs. “Not too bad.” He answers. “Stopped a few robberies.” He states as he twirls his fork around his pasta.

“You look tired.”

He hums softly before taking his first bite, not even realizing how hungry he was until now.

“You look tired.” Jason quips back with the nod of his head towards you.

“That’s because it’s four in the morning.” You laugh softly. “Most people are tired at this time.” You widen your eyes at him to tease him.

"You can go back to bed, don't have to watch me eat." Jason widens his eyes back at you in response.

"No, that's okay." You smile back at him, not wanting to go back to bed when you could be out here with him.

“You know,” Jason starts as he points his fork at you. “Gotta get you different stationary. Tired of your Nightwing, Red Robin, and Robin bullshit.” He changes subject, a little relieved you want to stay up a little bit with him. He feels guilty you're up with him but he does really enjoy your company.

“Aww,” You give him a pout. “But don’t you just love Dick and Damian and Tim?”

Jason blinks at you a few times as he keeps a straight face before taking another bite.

You let out a laugh and Jason thinks your laugh could cure him of all of his sadness.

“They’re your brothers.” You giggle.

“Exactly.” Jason answers.

“I could have painted your key Nightwing blue or the Robin colors.” You tease him with a cheeky grin.

“Can’t pick Spoiler or Orphan?” Jason says it more sarcastically than anything else.

“No, you like Steph and Cass.” You laugh.

“Swear, if I show up to Batman shit, I’m out.” Jason laughs back.

You make a mental note to pick up a Batman mug tomorrow just to fuck with him.

“Of course not.” You scoff but Jason knows he's given you the bad idea.

Jason laughs softly before taking another bite. “Go to bed.”

You let out a sigh before you hop down, noticing Jason is almost done eating anyway. "Pillow and blanket are already on the couch for you."

Jason glances to the couch, seeing a pale blue blanket peaking out from the arm of the couch.

"Thank you." Jason offers you a sincere but small smile. "Goodnight."

“Goodnight, Jay.” You smile softly before heading back to your room.

The next morning, you’re awakened by the smell of something cooking in your kitchen. For a few seconds, you think you’re either dreaming or hallucinating. But the longer you lay in bed, the more you become positive there’s definitely food being made.

It smells a little sweet and warm. It actually smells warm. And yet, it’s almost completely silent in your apartment. You figure it’s Jason because Jason can cook but you have no clue how he manages to be so quiet about everything he does. Sure, it’s his training and his life depends on it, but every time you try to cook anything, you drop at least one pan onto the floor and utensils usually go flying somewhere. You feel bad for you downstairs neighbors.

You grab your phone from the charger, pocketing it before you head out to the kitchen, still wiping sleep from your eyes. The smell grows stronger and you finally figure out it’s your favorite breakfast food. A smile pokes at your lips because, in all your years of friendship, you and Jason have only done breakfast a handful of times but he remembers anyway.

He’s attentive. That’s also something that comes with his training because his life depends on it. But, you knew him before Rd Hood. Before Robin and Batman. Jason Todd has always been attentive and you don’t think it’s something about living on the streets. It’s something that’s embedded into his DNA, pay attention to small things. Maybe that’s because of his mom, his overall childhood of having to take care of her but maybe it’s also just him.

“Morning.” You greet as you stretch your arms over your head, bending your back back a bit.

“G’morning.” Jason greets as he turns around from the stove.

He sounds well-rested.

He looks well-rested for once.

“You’re making breakfast?” You question as you walk over to your coffee maker, an empty cup already ready sitting there for you.

“Told ya I’d pay you back.” Jason states as he continues cooking.

“You really know the way to my heart.” You joke as you get your coffee going. “Always food.”

You watch Jason continue to cook and you think you could probably be mesmerized by everything he does. He's not really doing anything special but it seems that way because it's him. He could trip over a rock and fall into a lake and you'd still be mesmerized.

"Hello?" Jason calls, waving a hand in front of your face. Your eyes snap up to his as you feel your cheeks starting to burn. "I asked how you slept." Jason chuckles as he starts to plate the food for the both of you. "You alright?"

You shake your head, almost fumbling for words. "Yeah, sorry. Zoned out." You clear your throat before you start to pour your cup of coffee. "Good, to answer your question." You let out a breath with the roll of your shoulders. "You?" You ask with a soft smile before you make your way to your spot at the table.

Jason always tends to sleep better here. Your couch isn’t exactly the most comfortable or the biggest but he still feels like he gets real sleep whenever he’s here. He could sleep a few hours and still be more rested than had he just slept at his place.

Jason doesn’t mind being alone, it’s always a bit safer if not for him then for the people around him but being alone gets pretty lonely. He doesn’t have to feel alone here. You’re here and he thinks he’d never be lonely again if you were always around.

“Good.” Jason answers, not willing to elaborate on his thoughts. “Your breakfast is served, princess.” Jason smirks at you with his quip as he sets the plate down in front of you.

“Ass.” You retort with the roll of your eyes just as Jason goes to take the plate back. Your hand grips his wrist. Your hand is no match for him, it’s tiny compared to him and his strength alone is enough but he stops anyway. “No, no, I’ll take this thank you.” You push his hand away and guard your food.

He laughs with the shake of his head and you hope the walls are absorbing the sound. Jason stays at your apartment a few days a week but he’s never here when you wake up. The blanket is always folded on the arm of the couch with the pillow placed perfectly on top. There’s always some sort of note thanking you for letting him crash. Sometimes, if you sleep in because work sucked or you're sick, he picks up some of your favorite snacks and takeout, leaving it in the fridge for you for when you wake up. But, he’s never here.

You find yourself thinking you could get used to this though. His laugh in the early morning and him looking so comfortable.

His hair is all tousled from sleeping. He looks a little disheveled. You see him disheveled all the time because he always has helmet hair and he’s always getting himself into trouble. It kind of comes tih with territory, you think. But, today, it’s just because he slept here. He looks disheveled because his hair is messy and he’s comfortable. He looks comfortable and warm and you’d go as far as to say he looks beautiful.

You hope he chooses to stay more.

“Okay, I didn't know you could cook this good.” You states after taking a few bites, genuinely surprised. Is there anything Jason Todd is bad at?

A rosey shade of pink dusts over his cheeks as he shrugs. “What? Thought I only eat pasta and whatever else you managed to save me?” He quips, trying to ignore the warmth spreading through his ribcage.

“Well…yes.” You let out a laugh while Jason offers you his fake glare.

“Like to cook sometimes, got good at it.” Jason shrugs a shoulder with his minimal explanation.

“Well, now you have to cook more.” You shrug easily as you offer him a grin.

“I have to?” Jason raises a brow at you, taunting you to rethink your words.

You don’t.

“Yes. I said so.” You laugh back at him.

“Not sure I want to now.” Jason shrugs his shoulders dramatically.

“Awww, pretty please, Jay.” You give him a pout and not even a single ounce of him actually believes he’d ever be able to say no to you about anything.

“What’d ya want for dinner?” Jason asks before he goes back to his food.

“Wait, really?” You beam and Jason glances back to you.

There’s always this sort of pull in his chest when things feel good, like he’s undeserving and he needs to wait for the other foot to drop. It feels like this now. He feels comfortable here. He’s happy here with you. You’re his favorite person and you're always the person he wants to talk to you about a new book he read or something insane one of the bats did. You’re the first person, the only person, he goes to when he’s been hurt on patrol. Jason swears you’re his best friend despite the beating and rumbling through his ribcage.

“Unless you’re bored of--”

“I’m never bored of you.” You cut him off immediately. “Okay, I’ll think of something and I can help.” You beam back at him with excitement before going back to your food.

A smile tugs at the corner of Jason’s lips and despite the worrying and fear of this whole thing blowing up in his face, he finds himself thinking he could get used to mornings with you, just like this.

[gracie-eilish]

lucky girl🍀☁️🌙💤

an: i’ve got major baby fever rn😭 so expect a few more like this mixed in over the next few weeks😭😂

The house was quiet, save for the soft hum of the baby monitor on my nightstand. Billie lay peacefully beside me, her arm draped loosely over my waist, her breathing slow and even. She looked like an angel when she slept, her features completely relaxed, her lips slightly parted. I envied how easily sleep came to her.

For me, it was another story. I shifted carefully under her arm, trying not to wake her, but no matter how I turned, I couldn’t get comfortable. My body still ached from pregnancy, the soreness from giving birth lingering despite my efforts to rest. Every position felt wrong—my hips felt stiff, my back was sore, and exhaustion weighed heavily on me without granting the relief of actual sleep.

The baby’s soft cries crackled through the monitor, and instead of dreading it, I felt a sense of relief. Finally, an excuse to get out of bed. Carefully, I lifted Billie’s arm, sliding out from under her without waking her. She stirred slightly, mumbling something unintelligible, but stayed fast asleep.

The hallway was dimly lit by the faint glow of the nightlight Billie had insisted we plug in for late-night feeds. As I entered the nursery, the sight of my baby girl immediately brought a soft smile to my face. She was squirming in her crib.

“Hi, sweetheart,” I whispered, my voice soft as I leaned down to pick her up. Her cries quieted the moment she was in my arms, her little body relaxing against me. “You hungry, baby girl?” I murmured, gently cradling her as I settled into the rocking chair.

She latched on quickly, her tiny hands grasping at me as she fed. I watched her in awe, still amazed by her every little movement, every expression. She was so small, so perfect. The way her lashes rested against her cheeks, her tiny nose, the soft rise and fall of her chest—it was overwhelming to think that Billie and I had created something so beautiful.

When she finished, her eyes fluttered shut almost instantly, her tiny body going limp in my arms. “Lucky girl,” I murmured, brushing a thumb gently over her cheek. I didn’t feel ready to put her back in her crib just yet. Instead, I leaned back in the rocking chair, adjusting her so she was snuggled against my chest.

The chair creaked softly as I rocked us back and forth, the rhythmic motion soothing. My eyes traced the details of her tiny features, and before I knew it, I was whispering to her again. “You know,” I started, my voice quiet, “your mama and I used to sit in this chair while you were still in my belly. We’d talk about what you’d be like. What color your eyes would be, who you’d take after. We couldn’t wait to meet you.”

I paused, smiling down at her sleeping face. “And now you’re here. And you’re everything we ever dreamed of, baby girl. You’re so loved. I hope you know that.”

The sound of the door creaking open interrupted my thoughts, and I looked up to see Billie standing in the doorway. Her hair was slightly messy, and she was wearing one of her oversized shirts paired with the sweats she’d thrown on before bed. Even half-asleep, she was beautiful.

“Why are you still up, baby?” she asked, her voice raspy from sleep. She stepped into the room, her blue eyes soft as they landed on me and our daughter.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I admitted with a small shrug. “She woke up a little bit ago, so I fed her, and then I just… stayed. I thought maybe rocking her would make me sleepy, but…” I trailed off with a soft laugh. “No luck so far.”

Billie crossed the room, crouching slightly to press a kiss to my forehead. “You’ve been up for too long,” she murmured, softly bumping my side with her hip. “Scooch.”

I shifted in the chair to make room, and Billie slid in beside me, wrapping an arm around my waist and resting her other hand lightly on the baby’s back. She leaned her head against mine, pressing another kiss to my temple. “You’re hogging all the snuggles,” she teased softly, her voice warm and affectionate.

“She’s perfect,” I whispered, my eyes fixed on our baby.

“She is,” Billie agreed, her thumb tracing gentle circles on my arm. After a moment, she tilted her head slightly to press a kiss to my cheek, then another to my neck. “And so are you.”

I let out a quiet laugh, shaking my head. “I don’t feel very perfect right now.”

Billie frowned, pulling back just enough to look at me. “Hey,” she said softly, her voice firm but full of love. “None of that. You just grew a whole human, baby. You’re amazing. You’re the strongest, most beautiful woman I’ve ever met, and I hope you know that.”

Her words brought a lump to my throat, and I turned my head to press a kiss to her lips. “I love you,” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion.

“I love you more,” she murmured, her hand moving to gently rub my back.

“Billie?”

“Yes my love?”

“Can we have another one?” You asked sheepishly, looking at Billie with your best puppy eyes, making her giggle softly, kissing your cheek.

“Let’s let this one get a little older and then sure baby. Whatever you want mama.”

For a while, we rocked together in silence, Billie occasionally pressing soft kisses to my hair or my shoulder. Her fingers trailed soothing patterns on my arm, and I leaned into her touch, feeling the tension in my body start to ease. The warmth of her presence, the sound of her steady breathing, and the soft creak of the rocking chair created a little bubble of peace.

Eventually, I let out a yawn, my eyelids growing heavy. Billie noticed immediately, her hand brushing over my arm. “Come on, let me take her,” she whispered, carefully taking the baby from my arms. She placed a gentle kiss on her tiny forehead before laying her back down in her crib.

When Billie turned, she took my hand, guiding me back to our bedroom. She pulled back the blankets and tucked me in, smoothing her hand over my hair. “Do you need anything?” she asked, her voice soft.

I shook my head, smiling up at her. “Just you.”

Her lips curved into a warm smile as she climbed into bed beside me. She pulled me into her arms, one hand slipping under my shirt to lightly scratch my back, while the other rubbed soothing circles on my arm.

“I’ve got her next time she wakes up,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to my forehead.

But I was already drifting off, a soft smile on my lips as I snuggled closer to her warmth. Billie chuckled quietly, her arms tightening around me. “I love you, my perfect girl,” she murmured, kissing the top of my head.

This time, sleep came easily, wrapped up in her arms, her love cocooning me as I finally let go of the restlessness and let myself relax.

🍀☁️🌙💤

[charliemwrites]

Mean Simon, Part 5

Another thing in the queue done 😎 also plan on reformatting this so it has a proper title and pretty dividers tonight.

Content: Established kidnapping situation, dub-con touching, Fear Play/Kink

Simon and Johnny come home from deployment to you snoozing in the den. The house is clean as always, smells like lemons and linen, but there are signs of you everywhere. A half-finished puzzle on the coffee table, a book on the arm of the couch, a cup left on the kitchen counter. Not the spick and span catalgouesque space they left.

Simon’s a little surprised to find he doesn’t mind. Something in his shoulders eases at the sight of you. A soft thing to come home to, nesting up in his and Johnny’s territory. A novelty that hasn't worn off.

“Oh, pretty girl,” Johnny coos, dropping his bags in the entry and beelining for you.

The sound of him startles you, fingers curling tight into the blankets. You make a nervous sound of protest, disoriented as you blink against the afternoon light. Not that he cares, smothering you beneath his weight and kissing your face.

“Johnny…?” you yawn, slow to release the fabric. Take a moment to calibrate and then nudge gently at his chest. “S’mon doesn’ like shoes on the carpet.”

“That’s right,” Simon rumbles, “so I’m having a hard time understanding why the fuck they’re there.”

Johnny jolts, shoots him a sheepish look over his shoulder. All it takes is a narrow glare for him to skitter away, mumbling apologies and excuses about missing you. Simon ignores him for the moment.

“Here, pet.”

It takes you an extra beat to realize he's talking to you, but then you’re up and padding over to him, rubbing at your eyes. You stop within arms reach (progress, he notes) and peer at him through your lashes.

“Hi, sir,” you chime.

Not quite what he had in mind, but it’s a start.

“Good while I was gone?”

You tilt your head. “Yes? Unless… there was something I was supposed to do…?”

He huffs in amusement. Such a nervous, sweet thing. He pats your head, smirks a bit at how you fluster, hands fidgeting.

“House looks fine,” he says by way of answer.

“Oh, I-I left some things out…” you mumble, glancing at the few unobtrusive items. “Sorry.”

“Just keep it under control, yeah?”

“Yes, sir.”

Johnny, just finished removing his boots and gear, wraps himself around you from behind. You place a hand slowly on his arm in return, hiding that you don’t melt into him the way he does to you.

“Are you hungry?” you ask.

Not especially, but Simon’s never hungry fresh off a mission, belly warm with more than his share of slaughter. But the thought of your cooking is appetizing.

“Make something.”

“Okay.” You wiggle a bit and tap at Johnny’s tight arm. “Johnny?”

Simon bites back a chuckle at the helpless look you shoot him.

“Shower, Sergeant. Now.”

“Yessir,” Johnny grumbles, slow to unwind from you. Petulant little shit.

As soon as you’re clear, Simon snatches him by the scruff. You jump, eyes rounding.

“Off to the kitchen, little one. The mutt needs one more run ‘round the yard I think.”

Johnny whines, but Simon’s watching your face, noting the fear that flickers across it while you inch away. Just as he suspected, even seeing Johnny disciplined is enough to shake you.

“Yes, sir,” you reply more fervently, turning on your heel and nearly bolting.

He lets out a breath. One thing at a time. For now, he’s got a spoiled pup to bring to heel.

Simon’s been busy these last two weeks.

Johnny on his own is nearly a full time job. Even after he got you, the pup is high energy and too clever for his own good. A working dog, that one. And finding “work” for him to do (especially since he’s been banned from entertaining himself with your pretty holes) has kept Simon rather occupied during this leave.

Add you to the mix and Simon’s bloodlust has been slower to boil over than usual - too busy to miss his guns.

He’s been acclimating you. The No Touching directive seems seared into your muscles, a good lesson to have, an important rule for your own safety as much as Simon’s preference. But it doesn’t serve him any longer. He’s trying to retrain you to Johnny’s rule, No Touching Without Permission - but of all your apprehensions, this one seems the worst.

You’ve gotten braver about speaking to him. Only stutter over every other sentence rather than every other word. You still pick and choose carefully, tune your voice to the notes of conciliation, but not silent unless spoken to anymore. Simon’s almost proud.

But the touching issue. That’s what he really wants to break.

You can at least share space with him now without startling at every little thing. Curled up on the couch, you’re folding laundry. Johnny’s gone off to shower, busy in the garden all afternoon. The telly is on, a sci-fi movie that Simon isn’t interested in but you seem to enjoy.

You're cross-legged in a loose pair of shorts and the jumper Johnny stuffed you into (with his own name across the back, the little shit). Quiet, calm. He likes the way you fold clothes - imprecise, a little messy. Not the perfect squares he and Johnny make.

“Pet.”

You turn to him, expression curious. Much better.

“C’mere.”

You pause. “Can I finish this shirt?”

He nods. There’s only a tiny shake in your hands as you do. Then you stand and shuffle to close the small distance.

Still not touching.

Lazily, he spreads his knees apart, feet planted wide and beckons you closer with a finger. This time you do hesitate, knee bent to step forward for one beat… two… then you finally force yourself to squeeze between his legs. You don’t even brush against him. It’s almost impressive.

“Told you to c’mere, didn’t I?” he drawls.

You brow furrows, confusion turning your plush lips into a cute little pout.

“I - am I not… here?” you ask.

He practically purrs. “No.” He gestures again. “Here.”

You suck in a tiny breath as it seems to click. “Y-your lap?”

He hums. You open your mouth, close it. Fidget and then open your mouth again. Nothing comes out.

“Not gonna say again, pet,” he rumbles.

You inhale deeply. And then, as if he’s a bear trap about to snap closed, you start to climb over him. Slowly, so slowly, you ease each of your legs over his, hands hovering until you nearly lose your balance and have to use his shoulders for support. You’re straddling him, but none of your weight is on his thighs; you’re up on your knees and trembling.

He meets your eyes. Waits.

“Sir… I…”

“All the way.”

Embarrassed heat radiates off you as you lower slowly, until your soft ass is pillowed on his broad thighs.

“Good girl,” he soothes. “See, that’s not so bad, is it?”

You shake your head, but you’re not able to meet his eyes. He’s starting to see why Johnny fawns over you so much. You make such precious expressions.

“Eyes up.”

You drag your gaze to his - and this time he does coo. You’re all teary and overwhelmed, nearly holding your breath, fingers twitching on his shoulders.

“You’re doing so well, lamb.”

You’re struggling to maintain eye contact, so he takes pity, appreciating the entirety of you on him instead. Admires the round pudge of your thighs and bent hips, the curve of your spine staying upright. He thumbs your ribs, feels your heart rabbiting against them.

“Breathe,” he coaxes.

You inhale sharply, blinking hard. His cock jumps against the waistband of his joggers.

“I-is there…?” You stop. He nods for you to try again. “W-why, um… this?”

“Think you ‘n I could use some exposure to each other, eh?”

You blink. “E-exposure?”

“Mm.” He raises a hand, gradually so you can see it coming. Twists a strand of your hair around his trigger finger - lets it bounce back. Does it again. “Can’t have you skitterin’ about like a kicked dog.”

“Oh.” You blink. “I-I thought…”

He waits for you to finish the sentence, but you just press your lips together nervously. Still a work in progress, then.

“‘F I wanted that, you wouldn’t be up here.”

Never mind the months he spent ignoring your presence and scowling when you got too close. Or the week he made a game of spooking you just before this all began. He doesn’t want that anymore.

You may be Johnny’s toy, but Johnny belongs to Simon. Besides, he got you for Johnny. Only right that he plays with you too.

“Alright, little one. Off you go before the pup comes back and makes a fuss.”

You scramble as quickly and carefully as you can back to your end of the couch. Simon turns back to the telly and lets you be.

Johnny, bless him, doesn’t notice that you’re any quieter than usual.

The next time he has you climb into his lap, he’s drinking bourbon. You’ve cast him one too many glances from your side of the couch, keep losing your place in your book.

When Johnny eventually shuffles off to shower and prep his pretty ass, Simon calls you over again. You crawl across the couch and sit back on your heels at his side, more curious than frightened for once.

“You want a sip?” he asks, tilting the glass towards you.

“…please?” you ask.

He hums. “Tilt your head.”

You only jolt a little when he cups the nape of your neck, urging your head back. Understanding, you part your lips - though you must be expecting the glass. You squeak a little as he seals his mouth over yours, golden drops of bourbon sliding off his tongue onto yours.

He lingers, the taste of you mixing with the alcohol into something heady. Your mouth is so sweet and yielding, tongue shy as it grazes his. He licks across your dull canines, relishes in the noise trapped in the back of your throat, before pulling away.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“It burns,” you mumble, a bit high-pitched.

“You’ll get used to it.”

With liquid courage in your tummy, you make the journey into his lap a little quicker this time.

“What’re you lookin’ at, huh?” he asks, leaning back to watch you through lidded eyes.

“You, um… your jaw. You usually wear the mask,” you explain, flushing.

“Pull it up to eat,” he points out.

“‘M usually eating too, though.”

He snorts in amusement. “Nosy little thing.”

You must hear that he doesn’t mean it because your voice isn’t especially sincere when you mumble, “sorry.”

Your eyes keep roaming what little of his face is available, though. And your twitchy little fingers keep flexing in his shirt.

“Ask.”

“Can I touch?”

He hums. “Ask nicer.”

You blink, consider. “May I please touch your face, sir?”

He grunts the affirmative, mouth dried by the honeyed lilt to your voice. Sugar would taste bitter in comparison.

Your fingers brush featherlight across the point of his jaw. Follow the line of it until you reach a nasty scar from a hunting knife. Trace it twice before creeping along to his chin. You repeat it for the mark there, all the way up to the corner of his lips. He snaps his teeth, making you yelp and jerk back.

“That was mean,” you complain quietly.

“Poor dear,” he croons, flashing his canines again.

“D-don’t bite… please.”

He makes a noncommittal noise, but you still take the chance of skimming those gentle fingers across his mangled cheek. It’s a strange sensation, charged. Sends odd prickles across his entire face, down his spine. Not even Johnny touches him this softly.

Simon’s teeth and jaw ache with the urge to sink in and shake. You’d give like a ripe peach, he just knows it. Would taste just as good. His mouth waters.

“Enough.”

You instantly pull away. Not even a squeak of protest. He flutters his eyes open; you’ve got both hands clearly visible and to yourself. Smart thing.

“You scared ‘o me?” he wonders.

You don’t answer, but the indent your teeth press into your bottom lip is answer enough.

“Good. Should be.”

You swallow, start to lower your hands, intending to get off his lap. He snatches up one of your wrists before you get far, the bones so delicate in his grasp. You gasp quietly, but know better than to try to escape.

“Didn’t tell you to go yet.”

“O-okay,” you breathe.

Eyes on yours, he drags your hand closer, brushes his lips across the tender meat of your thumb. Your fingers stay lax, but your pupils are blown out. Slowly, deliberately, he presses his teeth into the flesh and closes his jaw until you twitch, expression tightening with discomfort. There.

He stays like that for the count of three, then lets go.

There’s a perfect imprint of his teeth in your skin. Might even bruise. Pretty.

He twists his wrist, flattens your palm against his. So much smaller than his, more elegant. More delicate. A much different animal from him, but still you belong in his den.

“Breathe,” he reminds without looking away.

You inhale shakily. Practically squirming now. He drops his hand and presses the bourbon glass into yours.

“One more for the road.”

You take the tiniest of sips. He chuckles at the face you make as you hand it back.

You don’t like the taste as much as from his lips.

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