#STOP FREEZIN

[dreaming-abyss]

IT'S COLD AS BALLS IN HERE.

[bagea]

what a creepy creaky little cunt..

[machveil]

ChildhoodBestFriend!Simon Riley who’s always played Simon Says. he wasn’t the most popular kid at school as a child, a little more quiet and reserved than his peers, but when the teacher introduced him to Simon Says? he felt so cool, all his classmates picking him because “Ma’am! Ma’am! Simon has to be it!”. that’s how he became friends with you - the last kid standing at the end of the game. you were so focused, delighted when you won, so happy you ran up to hug Simon

CBF!Simon Riley who never stopped playing Simon Says with you. he’d always use it to get what he wanted, it didn’t work half the time but it always made you smile. “Oi, Simon says give ‘im the remote.”, he’d chuckle when you groaned, whining about how, “You’re lucky I like you.”. it was cute, you had to give him that. even when he left for military service he gave you a hug, eyes closed as he pressed his face to the side of your head, “Simon says wait f’me, okay?”

CBF!Simon Riley that visits you on leave, luggage trailing behind him as he walks with you through Manchester. the weather is awful out - the air a little too cold, ugly grey clouds covering the sky. he hums, short and gruff, before wrapping his arm around your shoulders. straight faced and voice flat, you almost miss the way his lip quirks up briefly, “Simon says walk closer. S’cold out, don’t want you freezin’ t’death.”

CBF!Simon Riley that stays in your flat while he’s on leave. yeah, his apartment is a couple blocks away but your place feels more like home. you had bought a pull-out couch specifically for Simon a couple years back, something that wouldn’t hurt his back too much, something comfortable enough to rest on for the night. unfortunately, it doesn’t get much use other than acting as a normal couch. you’d make Simon use it if he wasn’t already comfortable in your bed, face mask discarded, a t-shirt and sweatpants keeping him comfortable. there’s not much you can do but smile and let your shoulders drop when he pats the sheets next to him, “C’mon, Simon says get in, love.”

[eowynstwin]

peristalsis - ii.

selkie!soap x reader. depression. suicidal ideation. strangers to "lovers." . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.

previous

You sleep long enough that, when you wake up, you have enough energy to cry.

It’s a big one. The kind of cry that threatens to turn your throat out, with how hard you sob. Alone in the cottage, far away from anything resembling civilization, you wail like wounded animal, choking on your own tears and mucus, losing track of your body buried underneath the covers—

But it happens at a remove. You watch yourself implode from someplace deep inside, not entirely sure why it’s happening at all—but long past trying to figure it out.

This is how it’s been for a while. There’s nothing special about it anymore. Nothing urgent. Most of the time, you are a blank space of a person, a vacuum where joy or rage or fear should be, but occasionally some maelstrom or another kicks up to fill it in, and your only course of action is to ride it out until it ends.

You’ve stopped trying to fix it. And you’ve stopped hoping anyone else can, either.

So you cry, until at last, you’re empty again. Or you’re too tired to continue. The difference is negligible, but functionally irrelevant. Once it’s done, you get out of bed.

The pressure in the shower is as weak as Johnny reported, but the water is indeed warm when you turn it on; you stand naked under the flow, arms hanging at your sides.

The day stretches itself out before you with nothing to occupying it, just as you’d planned. Nothing to work towards; no effort to put forward. Nothing, thanks to your choice of locale, to feel guilty about not seeking out.

A day of peace and utter quiet.

Suddenly—violent banging, somewhere in the cottage. It startles you; you jump so sharply at the noise that you smack your wrist on the soap caddy attached to the shower wall. The banging comes again—annoyed, you realize with no little bemusement that someone is at the front door.

You wrap yourself in a towel and hobble out of the bathroom to answer it, a piece of your mind on your tongue, dart-shaped and ready to fly—

Of course it’s Johnny.

Johnny, big and burly in a sweater, kilt, and pelt once again, two paper cups balanced in one large hand and a grocery bag hanging from the other. Whose dark brows shoot up his forehead as his eyes travel with surprise, and blatant appreciation, down the dripping length your body.

“Well, good mornin’, bonnie,” he purrs.

“What,” you grunt. A cold breath of wind chooses that moment to force its way through the door, gasping across the shower water still running in rivulets from your hair to the rolled edge of your towel. Goosebumps erupt from your bare skin in millions of simultaneous pinpricks—you flinch bodily at the chill.

“Ah, hell’s bells, don’t just stand there,” Johnny says, following the wind. “It’s freezin,’ go on, let me get in, hurry.”

You let him step inside, for some reason, and he shuts the door behind him with the heel of his boot. He wastes no time after that, heading to the kitchen to set down his things.

“Brought breakfast!” he says cheerfully. “There’s this bakery on Barra I thought you’d like, fresh doughnuts and coffee. Dunno how you take yours, but there’s sugar in the pantry and cream in the fridge.”

“I don’t want breakfast,” you say.

“What? ‘Course you do. I’m no’ takin’ you seal-watchin’ on an empty stomach.”

He starts unpacking the grocery bag and setting things on the counter while your jaw hangs open. Several things occur to you to say—I never agreed to that and what the hell is wrong with you, for starters—but your stomach growls at him before you can. The aroma of fresh-baked pastry wafts through the kitchen when he opens one box, and he turns to grin at you, cheeks dimpling.

“Do you get dressed, bonnie,” he says. “It’ll still be here when y’get back.”

It is less polite than he perhaps intends it to be, given that his gaze travels appreciatively across your bare shoulders. You cross your arms fruitlessly over your chest and, nothing else for it, retreat to the bedroom, feeling his eyes on you the whole way.

You return to the kitchen after having pulled on wool leggings and the same fleecy sweater from the day before. Johnny, one hip set against the counter, has a cup of steaming coffee in one hand and a half-eaten cruller in the other, crumbs at the corner of his mouth.

“Got anythin’ heavier?” he asks around a chewed-up mouthful. “Gets cold out there.”

You look down at his bare calves, broad and taut and covered in a down of dark hair. “You seem alright.”

“I’m used to it,” he says, shrugging—the muscles flexing under your gaze.

You purse your lips. “I don’t have anything.” You hadn’t intended to leave the cottage overmuch.

You approach the counter. Johnny does not move a centimeter, forcing you to stand close as you pick through the two boxes of doughnuts and feel the body heat radiating off of him, displacing the scent of fried dough with his musk.

“That’s all right,” he says. You’re close enough to hear the way his voice hums deep in his chest. “I can keep you warm.”

You snatch a plain glazed from the box and take two very large steps away from him. The hair on the back of your neck lifts as you press against the sink behind you. If he notices your reaction, it doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest—he lifts the cup to his lips and drinks, eyes sliding closed with simple, obvious pleasure, dark lashes curling against his cheek.

You take the brief respite from his gaze to stare at him. In the morning light, on a full night of sleep, you can almost believe that whatever you’d seen in him yesterday had been nothing more than a misfire of exhausted synapses. An overlay of a dream; a circadian prompt to rectify nearly seventeen hours of sleeplessness. You’d been cold, and tired, and hungry. That was all.

You bite down on your doughnut, not really tasting it. The nerves along your spine twitch and contract around the memory of his flashing gaze.

His eyes open again, and he smiles at you. “Good?” He flicks a look at the single bite you’ve taken, looks at your mouth, and then waits for your reply.

“It’s fine,” you grumble. Then, “How did you get here? I didn’t hear the truck drive up. Do you live close by?”

“Sometimes,” he says. He looks pleased that you’ve asked, that you’re interested at all, and you immediately regret inquiring. “Live on a boat, me. Moored in the cove right now.”

“A…boat,” you say.

“Aye.” A wisp of dark hair, something he must have missed when he gelled his mohawk this morning, flutters as he nods. “Nice and cozy. Not as grand as all this, mind.” He gestures around with coffee and doughnut at the less than five hundred square feet of the cottage. “But it’s still a sight nicer than some other places I’ve slept.”

He’s likely hinting at his military service. “Okay,” is all you say, unwilling to entertain it.

He smirk—undeterred. “We’ll take her out once you’re ready.”

“I never said I was going.”

Dark brows lift. “Got somethin’ else planned for today?” he asks, incredulous, as if he never imagined you wouldn’t want to hang out with him.

“No, I—”

You wrack your brain. You have no intention of explaining to this complete stranger that the last thing you’d wanted to do, when you booked this trip, was really anything at all—and in fact, you hadn’t even considered that that might be something anyone else would care much about.

Much less proactively address.

“No,” you repeat, sulking.

Johnny considers you, chewing. His eyes do not stray, this time, to places they don’t belong; but there’s an insight to them. A sharp awareness. A perception in his gaze that is just as undressing, as if whatever is going on with you is visible to the naked eye.

“I figure,” he says, slowly, as if to coax, “you put your wee shoes on, an’ I’ll pack this back up, and we take it along.”

“You don’t have to do this,” you grouse. “I don’t need you to, like—be my tour guide.”

“Aye, but that doesnae mean I don’t wanna,” he retorts, smiling.

He shoves the last bite of cruller in his mouth and gazes patiently at you as he works it with his jaw, the muscles flexing along his temples as he chews.

Exhaustion, your constant companion, stares you down alongside him. It would take so much more energy to fight him than to go along with whatever he has planned. Energy you just don’t have anymore. And going along doesn’t mean you have to pretend to enjoy yourself—it’s not like you care enough about Johnny’s self-esteem to conjure up a happy face to show him.

You can go, and be a bitch about it, and once you do maybe he’ll realize you’re not at all worth the effort he’s making, and then finally leave you alone.

“Fine,” you say, which is how you end up on a fishing trawler headed south toward, ostensibly, a colony of breeding seals.

It’s an old vessel—that much is obvious. Its edges and corners are dull with the passage of time and constant maintenance, scuffed by innumerable passes-over with cleaner and cloth. Mildew competes with the aroma of fresh varnish as Johnny leads you onto the bridge, which is mercifully closed in from the ocean wind.

The interior is mostly wood of a warm, orangish variety—you can’t tell if that’s a decision made with aesthetics or function in mind. The space comprises a kitchen, surprisingly well-appointed with a stove, sink, countertop, and fridge, and a small sitting area with both couch and booth seating. Surrounding windows allow in the grey light of the morning.

“Bought it off an old bloke on Lewis,” Johnny says, taking his place at the wheel, which is in a little alcove off the kitchen.

If you’d thought steering a boat would have curtailed his chatting, you’d have been wrong—he seems to have no trouble with that and talking, incessantly, at the same time, as he pulls the vessel away from the cove and into the open water.

“All his family moved to the mainland, he told me, an’ this is after generations fishin’ these islands, even makin’ it through the Clearances! No money in it anymore, he said, not like you could make in some office somewhere countin’ someone else’s money.” He checks something on the dashboard in front of him, but it doesn’t distract him for long. “Held on for a while, but people just kept leavin,’ an’ he was gettin’ too old to go out on his own. Got such a good price on it, I think he was just happy someone else was gonna take up the tradition.”

“Did he sell you the cottage too?” you ask, and then dig your nails into your wrist for encouraging him.

“Yup,” he says. “No one else wanted it, but me? I saw somethin’ special about it.”

He turns to smile at you—no doubt pleased you made the connection. You avert your gaze.

“Imagine someday I’ll have my own family here,” he continues. “Good place for it. Nice and slow, not like city living. Can hear yourself think out here. Perfect place to have a few wee ones.”

“If people stop leaving,” you mutter.

He turns to you again. “I’m no’ worried about that,” he replies. He’s still smiling. “You came here, after all.”

You have nothing to say to that.

The trip is a short one—Johnny brings the trawler alongside an island he informs you is called Mingulay, a square mile smaller than Vatersay’s tiny dot in the North Atlantic. Unlike the latter, he says, this island has not been inhabited since 1912, and has been completely reclaimed by the ocean and its wildlife.

After he drops anchor offshore, Johnny disappears down a steep flight of stairs below deck, which he had not offered a tour of, and emerges a short time later with a large, bulky coat.

“Didn’t I tell you?” he says proudly, holding it out by the shoulders. “Here, turn ‘round.”

You pause in the middle of reaching for it. You don’t know exactly why you comply—it occurs to you that if you grabbed for the jacket, he could simply not let go of it, and you would end up exactly where he wants you anyway. So you lower your arm and, resigned, give him your back.

He steps up behind you. Warmth pours off of him, more than you think any human body should be able to generate.

You hear him inhale, deeply, as he brings the jacket to your back. As you slide your arms into the sleeves, you feel his exhale on the nape of your neck, teasing through individual follicles of hair.

“There w’go,” he murmurs, much closer than you expected.

You can hear the low hum of his voice in his chest; his hands linger on your shoulders far longer than they need to, heavy, big enough that his index fingers brush along your collarbones.

When his hands make to slide down your back you step away from him and fumble to zip the jacket up; he chuckles lightly behind you. When you turn to face him, his lips are curled—smug.

“Alright then,” he says. “Let’s get out there.”

He rows the two of you to shore in a small kayak, two pairs of binoculars in your lap as you huddle away from the wind. You’ll be walking to the haul-out, he says—getting too close to the breeding grounds, which he calls a rookery, would spook them, possibly causing a stampede.

“It’s grey seals we’re gonna see,” he explains as the two of you pick your way across the rocky landscape. “Not the biggest haul-out you could see, some colonies get into the thousands, but we’ll have it all to ourselves.”

He insists on taking your elbow every time the two of you cross particularly uneven terrain, even though you don’t need it. You think he takes your attempts to shake him off as proof of your lack of balance, because he grasps you all the tighter every time.

“I’m not a child, Johnny, I can walk on my own,” you finally snap at him.

“Just bein’ a gentleman, bonnie,” he replies nonchalantly. He does not let you go.

As you get closer, you hear the seals before you see them, and when their voices reach you across the open island, you stop dead.

Groaning, grunting, hissing in a cacophonous chorus. Some part of your hindbrain double-takes, reshuffles itself—some ancestral instinct always on the lookout for predation. If you’d been given a chance to guess what a colony of mating seals might have sounded like, you’re not sure you could have guessed what they sounded like.

Certainly not like what you hear now—

Like people.

Johnny grins at you when he notices. “Aye, it’s a right ruckus, innit?”

He leads you up a small rise, where he has the two of you settle belly-down over the machair to overlook the wedge of rocky coast that the colony has claimed for its own.

And when you finally see it—it’s underwhelming.

Perhaps two hundred long, fat bodies, in varying shades of brown and grey, lay indolently along the rocks, in groups of three or four, some heavily galumphing from one place to another while others roll occasionally from side to side. The shifting winds catch their scent and blow it uncaringly into your face; you nearly gag at the admixture of dead fish and ammonia.

It doesn’t escape you that this is a rare thing to witness; you are not wholly immune to the fact that you are only a hundred meters away from something most people only encounter on a screen. It’s just that without a swell of awed music in the backdrop, or a narrator’s breathless wonder at the miracle of pinniped life, what’s left for you to observe is a population of wet, stinking animals, shitting where they lay, vocalizing without cease while they laze about doing basically nothing.

Johnny does not seem to notice your disillusionment; he hands you one pair of binoculars, and directs your attention to activity along the shoreline. You follow to where he’s pointing; one larger seal is hassling a smaller one, which snarls at the aggressor as it thrashes around with its substantial bulk.

“Little one there—” Johnny says, “that’s a female, probably obvious. Big one knows she’s ready to mate, can smell it on her.”

The female bares her teeth and lunges at the bigger male, which flinches back but holds his ground.

“Doesn’t look like she agrees,” you mutter.

“She’s just givin’ him a hard time. She’s all in heat, see? Just makes her cranky,” Johnny says. You feel his eyes on you, and lower your binoculars to look at him. “She’s got to fight to feel all in control.”

You flush. “Right.”

“You don’t think so?”

“No,” you say. “He’s—he’s just bothering her.”

He gazes at you for a moment, contemplative. Corners of his mouth quirking upward. He does not reply for a long moment, long enough that you have to avert your gaze from his.

“Nah,” he finally says, and you don’t think you’re imagining the low, sultry note in his voice. “She wants it bad as he does.”

You scowl, uncomfortably perceived, and return your binoculars—the pair is still facing off, gurgling and growling at each other. The female is slim, almost sleek, unlike most of the other seals populating the rookery.

“Is she sick?” you ask.

“Hm? Oh, no, she’s alright. The mums lose a lot of weight when they nurse. Takes three weeks, and they don’t eat in the meantime.”

“Jesus.”

“Be nice if the dads ever brought ‘em a bite, aye?” Johnny agrees. “Deadbeats, the lot of them.”

The two of you survey the colony in silence for a moment. As the morning wears on, the cloud covering thins overhead, allowing cool sunlight to filter through. The temperature doesn’t rise in response; begrudgingly, you tug Johnny’s jacket a little tighter around you.

Then, suddenly, his hand lands on your back, between your shoulder blades.

“Got some pups over there,” he says. “Look, by the kelp.”

You find them; smaller bodies, white dinged with wet sand and dirt, lounge near their mothers or wriggle with aimless difficulty. They’re fluffy and round as plush toys, with shining black eyes and noses, and once Johnny’s pointed them out you can differentiate the higher, sweeter pitch of their cries from the overall cacophony.

“Sometimes,” Johnny murmurs, “search and rescue’ll get called out because someone thought they heard a baby crying. Some kid stranded or lost, right? Turns out to be a baby seal.”

“That’s kind of scary,” you say.

“Aye,” says Johnny. “Always makes me think that’s where the old legends come from, about seal people or mermaids.”

A small ways away, some of the mothers lay with their pups far into the surf, letting the waves break over them. You watch as one mother thunks her large head overtop of her pup’s as the water rushes toward them; the pup wriggles, and then, as the wave engulfs them, it begins to thrash, whipping up a panicked froth.

“Time for swimming lessons already?” Johnny muses. “Seems early.”

You’re horrified. “She’s going to drown it!”

The hand still on your back pats you consolingly. “Just watch,” says Johnny.

The wave reaches as far up the shore as gravity allows, and then begins to recede. The pup’s thrashing calms as the air meets its face once again; the cow allows the pup to lift its head, and after a few sputters, the pup seems no worse for wear.

“They’re hardier than they look, bonnie,” Johnny says.

His hand, heavy and warm even over his borrowed jacket, slides down from your shoulders to your lower back, and then he rubs, slowly, side to side, as if to comfort you—but the knobs of your spine contract at his touch.

“Last of the births this season, looks like,” he says. “Mum’s getting ready to leave—probably not the only one.”

Something hard drops into your stomach.

“They leave their babies?” you ask.

“Aye. Once they’re done nursing, they mate, and then they go.”

You look back at the other cows with their pups. One baby has its muzzle to its mother’s belly, quivering and suckling, while she lays with her head on a patch of grass. She looks uninterested—more, she looks disinterested. As if how voraciously her pup is nursing has nothing much to do with her, and she’s bored of even having to think about it.

Bored—and already looking forward to the next part of her life without a baby in it.

“That’s horrible,” you say.

“They’re solitary animals, bonnie,” Johnny says, not ungently. “The only time they’re really all together is for this.”

A line tightens between your stomach and throat, and you feel it start to build between your ribs. A tremor—foreshocks. The wind picks up, bringing a sharp chill off the ocean and up the rise that cuts into your stinging eyes, abrades the naked skin of your hands and the exposed part of your neck.

When you look through your binoculars again, you wonder how many of the pups you see have already been abandoned.

“Aw, bonnie,” Johnny says. There’s a kind of pity in his voice that has your hackles raising.

“I want to leave,” you say, yanking away from his touch and shuffling down the incline. “Take me back to the cottage.”

“Bonnie, it’s okay!” Johnny protests, rolling to his back to look at you as you stand. “The pups make it, they figure out how to fend for themselves.”

You glare at him, vision blurring. “All of them?”

Some part of you knows you’re being irrational—knows that nature is a cruel home, and that many children face worse fates than the seal pups. Abandoning the young, the needy, is no aberration; it is, in fact, far more the standard than the human practice, which lingers for decades—

Most of the time.

Johnny has no response. He holds your angry gaze, brows drawn low, mouth pressed into a thin line. It’s the first time that cocky aura, which seems to rest in every fine line on his face and every angle at which he holds his body, is completely absent.

He isn’t reflecting your anger back at you, though—he’s internalizing it. Letting it hit him, you think, and trying to use it to figure you out.

You do not want to be figured out.

You scoff again. “Take me back,” you repeat, and then you start walking in the direction you came, without waiting for him to follow.

Johnny drops you off in the cove, and thankfully does not linger this time before he departs—he bids you farewell after rowing you to shore, contemplation on his face, and then leaves you to yourself.

You retreat, seeking the cottage’s empty quiet.

As you perch on the couch you listen to the radiator hum—the wind blow over the reeds in the thatch roof—your own heart beating a drum in the arteries of your neck.

Percussive. Quick and hard. Like heavy knockers on a door. Pounding as if to burst through.

You realize you’re still wearing Johnny’s jacket, and you throw it off, disgusted with yourself. You get up and pace, and try to ignore it lying in a heap on the floor.

You do something you swore you wouldn’t do the moment you set foot on the island—you turn your phone back on.

True to Johnny’s word, there’s no signal. You picked this island, this part of the world, for a reason; for the past several years, a slow exodus from the British isles has vacated the need for dedicated cell towers or satellite or internet access, especially given that the only ones who remain are too old now to want it or need it or know how to use it.

It’s isolated. Cut off. Left behind by anyone with better options, and only clung to by those trying to preserve the only way of life they know.

Some kinder part of you belongs with that demographic; the part that was telling your mother the truth, before getting on the plane.

The rest of you holds your phone up and starts walking around.

In the furthest corner in the bedroom, you find a single bar of signal. A tiny chip of connectivity—a thin, frayed thread. Something you lied to yourself about cutting.

It’s a weak connection. Unstable. It could take a while—you stand there, waiting.

The screen dims. You tap it again.

Blank.

You unlock it, look through your apps. Wonder if maybe your notifications are bugged by your new SIM card.

Nothing—

No one.

You whip around and, with a cry, pitch the thing at the far wall—it hits the stone with a crunch, falling to the floor in pieces.

You’re out of the cottage then in a mad dash, door slamming behind you, driving yourself back into the wind. Far away—you want to be far away, far from everything, so far that nothing could possibly reach you. You trudge down the path toward the beach, banding your arms across your chest, shivering in the cold, and yet you hardly feel it.

Not worth it. No point. Waste of your time. Energy. All of it. Stop trying. Stop wanting. Nothing. Nothing. You want nothing.

You’re halfway down to the shore, not really knowing what you’re going to do when you get there, when you catch sight of a body on the sand.

You gasp, a sharp breath down your larynx, and freeze in a dead halt.

The body is completely still.

A swimmer? A diver? It’s dark, like it just pulled itself out of the ocean—or washed up—

Then, it moves. A twitch, a ripple across its bulk, and your chest rapidly decompresses.

A seal. It’s a large seal, lounging alone on the beach.

You stand motionless. You’re very close—much closer than you and Johnny had been at the rookery. You hadn’t contended with the sheer size of the animals, tucked safely up and away from them, but there is no illusion of distance now.

It’s the biggest one you’ve seen today, you’re sure of it. Bigger, you think, than most adult men. Its pelt is a riot of every shade of grey, splashy, like liquid paint thrown across a canvas. Black speckles scatter overtop of marbled white and cool slate, and down the center of its back is a broad, dark line, soft at the edges, which reaches all the way up to the top of the seal’s head.

The bull—it must be male—turns over. It lifts its head, and opens its eyes—

Fear suddenly zips up your spine as it looks right at you.

You stumble backward and trip on your own feet, landing hard on your ass. Johnny’s care with keeping enough distance from the colony rushes back to you, along with the warring couple’s bared teeth.

They can’t move that fast on land, right? They aren’t interested in people, right?

You scramble backward. It’s so much bigger than you ever would have imagined. If it got to you—threw itself over you—it could crush you with its weight alone—

The bull watches you placidly. Unperturbed.

You pause.

Its small eyes are dark and glossy—watchful and focused. The whiskers on its muzzle twitch a little as it takes you in. It breathes, deeply and evenly, huge body expanding and contracting at a slow, calm tempo. Its—his—nostrils flex, widening and narrowing, as he blinks docilely.

Unafraid.

If anything—curious.

Then he snorts, and wriggles in place. It startles a laugh out of you, more reaction than humor. Still watching you, the bull lowers his head back down, resting it again on the sand.

Your heartbeat abates. He doesn’t move again—nor does his attention leave you. Slowly, you sit up.

Wary. No sudden movements.

He doesn’t react; only continues to watch you.

You draw your knees up. Wrap your arms around your shins, and dust a bit of sand from your leggings. Rest your chin in the crevice between your knees.

There’s an intelligence in the bull’s eyes that is fathoms deep. There is a massive gulf between his experience of the world and yours, millennia of evolution separating your species from his—and yet…as you hold his gaze, you recognize the look in it.

Him, seeing you. And seeing you see him. The pendulum swinging between awareness of each other, and recognition of that shared awareness.

An empty space in the cloud cover passes overhead; sunlight touches the earth, warms it briefly before disappearing again. You wonder a little why this bull isn’t with the other seals.

Johnny would probably know.

“I didn’t come for you, you know,” you grumble at him.

The seal blinks. Awareness notwithstanding, you don’t share any language.

You sigh. “I guess you didn’t come to see me either,” you say.

But you don’t move away.

And you stay like that for a long while, you and he—regarding each other as the wind breathes out across the shore.

next

a/n: follow for more seal facts™

Also huge thanks to Lev for trawler listings/info. Didn't explore it much this chapter but Soap's boat will show up more soon :)

[sheepispink]

Idea by @isabellaswiftie13198987

COD MASTERLIST

“This isnt a normal massage Si,” You hum, moving to practically straddle his legs as he lays face flat against the bed. What day of work wasnt long for him? He practically ended up like this more days than one and you were determined to see him a little more relaxed, even moreso that it’s the weekend tomorrow. “Oh? This a premium massage, hm?” He grunts, his head only shifting slightly to peer back at you before he lets his nose brush the duvets again. They smell of you— everything does, the towels, the couch, the bed, his clothes too. The only thing left untainted was his uniform; though now you had mercilessly pulled it off of him, perhaps that’d be infected too.

“Hm, sort of.” Slowly you graze your hands along the expanse of his back, something you’ve grown to forget the feel of. It’s warmer than you remember, rougher too with some new scratches near his waist. Even with the painfully differing colours of all of the bruises, it’s like a brand new map to explore, and to comfort him for. It cant be easy to change this often, whilst the rest of him is supposed to stay the same. So tonight, it’s your turn to re-mould him into the man you know and love—he just has to relax, and enjoy your show.

“You see, first you gotta knead the dough.” His fists clench when you start at his shoulders, pushing your fingers into the thick muscle and forcing the knots out. One hand on each shoulder, you continue, slowly moving closer and closer to his neck until finally his shoulders relax properly, the bed squeaking slightly as he lets the air take his tension. Now you move to your knuckles, dragging them down his back to the base before slowly working up. Your knuckles push and drag against his skin, occasionally stopping to really put pressure on a spot. When you reach his lower back, where his muscle is a tiny bit pudgier, your knuckles press in and tension flickers through him. “Love—“ But you’re too fast, pushing the heel of your palm into the muscle until he lets out a shaky sigh.

”Lord..”

“There was a lot of dough there, gotta knead it out.” You muse, carrying on your little journey to work out every ‘large piece of dough’ or rather the knots in each muscle until he quite literally has melted against the bed.

His arms aren't flat at his sides anymore, no he had to stretch them forward before he completely lost feel in them too. After all, your hands were way too good at getting him to this state. “You done?” He grumbles, voice noticeably softer but still a little too gruff for your liking and so you quickly shake your head, leaning down to press a kiss to the curve of his ear. “Who just has plain dough? That’s disgusting Simon.” Your cheeky remark makes him grunt again, and you snicker, grabbing some creams from the dresser. His back was dry, likely from lack of water, but definitely from lack of care. It’s not like you ever let that last too long anyway; as long as you were around he’d be a pillow princess every night.

You squeeze a dollop of moisturiser, the cold substance making him shiver but you don't take too much notice, spreading it from the top of his shoulders down to the waistband of his boxers. Your thumbs press in again, dragging across his waist to his sides and then up along his spine too. “This is freezin’, you’re trying to kill me now.”

“Hmph, fine i’ll warm you up. It’s time for the cheese anyway.”

You huff, patting his skin to maximise the absorption of the cream. But what confused him was the “cheese”. What were you going to do? It made no sense to him in the slightest, were you gonna just punch him or something?

He feels the first touch, dangerously light against his neck, and then it grows warmer and warmer as it grows lower. Your warm breath fans against his back, soft touches of love left against every inch of his spine. Your hands hold his waist, affectionately grabbing his muscle as you continue your path. His bruises get all the more pecks, making him twitch again, almost squirmish, but he can't swat you away when you just feel so, so good. Carefully your nails drag against his skin, definitely not enough to hurt but enough to make him shift beneath you, eyes flittering against the bed. “Don’t think there’s enough cheese, Sweet’art. You know I like extra.”

You giggle, happy he’s finally going along with your plan and you nod along, returning to his shoulders to leave your mark there too, kissing and scratching the skin in a way that makes way too many sighs leave his mouth.

“Mm… we're all done?” He can only mumble now, eyes drooped and likely about to fall asleep if not for the fact that he does not want to let this end, ever. “Pepperoni first— they’re frozen, sorry.” This time the touch is icy cold, but it quickly fades out to a numbing feeling. You have icy hot gel in your hands, which you rub into the bruise, making a circle on each one that litters his back. His fists unravel now, slowly gripping the pillows above instead. It’s almost adorable how easily he gets all mushy from your touch, just a simple massage. “Uh huh.. and what now?”

“Baking time.” You lean down more on his back, the warmth of your body invading his. Slowly you blow across his back, and he can't help but squirm a little, the feeling ticklish but comforting nonetheless when he feels your legs against his. When he feels your arms wrap around his middle, and your legs properly encase him, he doesn't even bother to raise a brow, instead using the last of his strength to turn himself over and pull you in properly. “We need all the warmth we can get for the best pizza.”

He murmurs into your ear, giant arms clutching around your body and swallowing you whole with his presence. He pulls the covers firmly over the both of you, entangles your legs and buries his face deep in your neck. “A shame really, you smell like a real meal, love.” You can only giggle and kiss his neck again, making sure your arms are wrapped as tights as his are. “Baking time lasts the whole night, didnt you know?”

“Well if you’re the oven, then i gotta make sure you’re the right temperature too.” His lips shut you up before you can respond, eyes all drooped and exhausted. Seems the pizza was perfectly made today.

[cranberrv]

thunder

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ in which dallas winston loses his temper

( a/n : HIII im sorry if this wasnt ur vision but i dont think dallas is one for big apologies so i kinda focused on the arguement more than the apology hope that’s ok… also toxic dallas alert sorry if that isnt ur scene!! also not proofread but hope u cuties enjoy )

it was a late night in mid-summer, and you and dallas were on the porch on the curtis brothers house. he wanted to go out for a smoke, and dragged you along. you were wearing his leather jacket, it was a windy night and you were getting chilly. dallas had goosebumps along his arms.

“are you sure you don’t want it back, dal?” you ask him, insisting on giving him his jacket back.

“nah, sugar, don’t want ya freezin’ to death out here,” he answers, taking a drag of his cigarette as he looks out at the empty street.

“i’ll just go inside, though, so you don’t get hypothermia or something..” you insist, but he grabs your hand and stops you.

“you’re fine, baby, stay with me.” you look up at him and nod, squeezing his hand a bit tighter.

you stand outside for a little while longer. it feels so peaceful standing there with him. his hand that’s rough and dangerous from the punches it throws is enveloping yours in a sweet gentleness shown only with you. his cigarette smoke becoming a mock mist that calms you both down. his deep breathes that are only heard because of how quiet it is.

nothing could ruin this moment.

you felt it was a good time to say the three words. not like you hadn’t said them before — it’s been a year since you’ve started dating, and you’ve both adored each other from the very start. but dallas got funny when you told him what he already knew. tonight would be different, you thought.

“.. i love ya, dal,” you say softly after a few moments of quiet. it felt casual — exactly what he would have wanted. but maybe not casual enough, because there was a short silence following your words.

eventually, he speaks. “i know ya do, sugar.”

you sigh. why is it that he could never stand to say it back?

he catches your sigh. of course he knows what you’re sighing about — he knows you all too well. he chooses not to act on it, not to apologize, not to say anything. he doesn’t want to fight with you. he just takes a drag of his cigarette and plays innocent.

“it would be nice to know that you loved me too, dallas,” you eventually say.

“oh c’mon,” another drag of his cigarette. “you ain’t an idiot, you know i do.”

“do i? i can’t remember one time you’ve said ‘i love you’ to me,” you cross your arms and look up at him.

“this isn’t somethin’ to get pressed on, y/n, the boys are inside and the windows are open,” he puts a hand on your shoulder, trying to get you to stop talking, to pretend like you’re okay. all because he doesn’t want his friends to hear. “and i have said it, baby, you’re just forgetting or somethin’.”

“you have not, i would remember if you have,” you counter, shoving his hand off of you. “i don’t want to argue, dallas, i really don’t—“

“too damn bad, y/n, because you’re sayin’ that i don’t love you, and we both know that ain’t true,”

“then say it.”

“..what?”

“you heard me,” you say. “it has been a whole year of us dating, and you’re never ready to say that you love me,” you raise your voice to get your point across.

“christ, y/n, you’re difficult, huh?” he groans. “it ain’t a big deal, don’t go throwing a tantrum.”

“i’m difficult? dallas, i don’t know if you get how a relationship works, but at this point, you either love me, or you’re done with me. there is no middle ground after this long together.”

“you’re fuckin’ crazy, i know how a relationship works, and i ain’t done with you. don’t go stickin’ words in my mouth,” his voice is raising, too.

“if you’re not done with me, then you love me.” you say, in a desperate attempt to get him to say the three words. you almost want to beg. “it hurts, dallas, that i don’t get that reassurance, that i leave our dates with my words hanging in the air, waiting for a reply,”

he groans. “you know that i do, so what’s the fuckin’ point?”

“you’re unbelievable.”

he scoffs, his voice raising. not quite yelling, but definitely not talking. “holy fuck, you know that i love you, man, so quit bein’ such a bitch!”

the crease in your eyebrow drops as he says that. “don’t call me that,”

“c’mon, man, you’re acting like a fuckin’ lunatic trying to get me to admit somethin’ that i’ve already admitted,” he says, voice still raised. “take a deep breath, maybe get a glass of water, and come back to me once you’re normal again.”

you scoff. “because i’m expressing my feelings, suddenly i’m a lunatic? because i’m not like your old girls, and i actually strive for a healthy relationship, i’m not normal?”

“you’re freakin’ out because i didn’t say it back once, of course i think you’re going crazy.”

“i’m ‘freaking out’ because it’s been a year of ‘thank you’ and ‘i know’ whenever i tell you i love you,”

“you’re being a dumbass, y/n, you know i—“ he cuts himself off, sighing and taking a step back. “fine, man, whatever, you win. go inside and call bucks when you’ve cooled off, i’m goin’ home,”

when he walks past you, the air is thick and unwelcoming. you don’t even bother getting the last word, dreading the fact that he might turn back and lose his shit if you do. he mutters something incoherent under his breath, and walks down the creeky front porch steps, into the dead of night.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

of course, you don’t call bucks. why would you? just so buck can tell you that dallas isn’t there, when in reality he just doesn’t want to talk to you? just so suddenly you’re bending to his will, and he’s getting his way once again? you don’t think so.

dallas does this a lot — whenver you two fight, even if it’s a small one, he needs time to cool off. sometimes it’s a couple hours, sometimes it’s a day. it’s never stretched longer, until now. it’s been three torturous days of waiting for a grand gesture, an apology, anything.

the next day at school, you’re walking through the parking lot during your lunch break, talking to cherry valance and marcia about what happened between you and dallas. they say a lot of “told you so” and “that’s dallas for you”, and you can’t say they’re wrong. they warned you about him, and his reputation for being so short-tempered and stubborn.

the sound of an engine roars behind you, and you and your friends turn your heads to see who is making the noise. it’s a 1957 red thunderbird, you recognize it as buck merrill’s.

“that must be dal’s friend, buck,” you whisper to your friends. “but why would buck be here?”

“he’s a greaser, he’s probably like, 5 grades behind and coming here begging for another shot at graduation,” randy, marcia’s boyfriend, teases. you shoot him a glare, and he shuts up.

“i’ll go see whats up,” you say softly, walking over to the now-parked car.

as you walk over and the window rolls down. it is not buck merrill, like you expected, but it’s dallas winston.

“hi,” you say softly, your walls starting to go up but hesitating, wondering if you’re even still fighting.

“hey, sweetie,” he says, not explaining what he’s doing here.

“what’re doing?” you ask him.

he shrugs. “wanted to see you, i dunno.”

“oh,” you say softly. you hoped for an apology, you hoped for flowers, you hoped for chocolate, you hoped for a hug, you hoped for—

“i shouldn’t of gotten all heated when we talked, it wasn’t cool,” he says, interrupting your thoughts. “and you ain’t a bitch.”

“..thanks.” you say after a few seconds of silence. what a shit apology, you think.

he’s staring out into the parking lot instead of you. “and i’m crazy about you, man,” he looks up at you. “you gotta know that, sugar.”

“thank you,” you repeat again, unsure of what to say.

another beat of silence as he swallows in his throat, before speaking and finally looking over at you. “i love ya, doll,”

you should’ve stayed mad, you should’ve not accepted his awful apology, but you cannot hide the smile tugging at your lips. this is all you’ve asked for from him, and he finally has the courage to admit it.

“i love you too, dallas.” you say softly, leaning into the window and giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “thank you,”

“you gotta stop sayin’ that, y/n,” he teases, playfully pushing you away. “go hang out with your stupid friends, man. i’ll come over tonight and hang.”

you nod, and walk away, looking back at him and seeing a small smile on his face. nothing could ruin this moment.

[coastershells]

S W E E T S . .

IN WHICH — dallas has a girlfriend , but you can tell that his attention goes somewhere else completely.

not proofread (when do I ever?) / requested? | no : yes

⚠️ : none , slightly suggestive at the end i suppose , though?

ᥫ᭡. / wc : 1.1k

“ dallas , no. ” you shake your head at the boy waiting at your window.

“ come on , you gotta be so difficult all the time? ” he says , resting his arms on the inside of your window. you slowly try to shrug them off. he readjusted before you could. “ it’s not like she’ll know. ” he mumbles bitterly and you sigh.

“ that’s the thing , dallas. she does know. you have a girlfriend you could be spending time with. this won’t work out. ” you say as you attempt to close the window. he uses his right arm to stop you. “ i’ll tell her i told you to back off. come on. ” he says , urging you to let him in.

you know he won’t go without getting in , and he might refuse to go and spend the night again.

you really don’t want either of those to happen.

the poor girl he has to decided to cheat on was sylvia , she was your best friend , and heavy on was. dallas and her were dating off and on , but nobody intervened with it because dallas wouldn’t answer any questions and sylvia was rude to anyone who asked.

you don’t even know why she was mad , dallas told you she was the one who cheated. twice , actually , but you weren’t that close to dallas at the time. you moreover cared about sylvia.

until.. he started falling for you. you think?

you don’t know whether he’s trying to play you like he has done other girls or if he’s actually trying to start something. you don’t know if he’s begged to get into other girls houses and spend the night cuddling them , letting them talk until they fall asleep.. you don’t know.

“ dallas , i can’t. you gotta go home. ”

“ sweets , ” he breathes out. “ i ain’t never done nothin’ to you. what have i ever done to you? ‘s complicated. ” he huffs in annoyance.

“ uh.. force yourself into my bedroom? ”

“ i don’t force myself in there. but if you don’t let me yourself then i will. ” he shrugs and he looks around outside. “ speakin’ of which , it’s fuckin’ freezin , doll. wanna let me in now? “ he fake shivers and you roll your eyes. you notice he still has his hand holding the window open.

“ dallas.. ”

“ don’t call me that. call me dal , or make up a different name. that’s what the fuzz calls me. ” he sighs. “ dallas winston. ” he mocks.

“ well , that’s your name isn’t it? ”

“ call me dal from now on. i’ll call you all the cute names , sweet thing. ”

you realize he’s making small talk , so with him holding the window open , and your hand slowly sliding from it , you let out a heavy over dramatic sigh and he makes a sound of happiness. “ fine. come in. ”

he’s just about in your room and closing the window before you finish that sentence , and he’s already looking around and invading every corner of your room yet again.

“ looks different as hell in here. why’d you move your vanity? i know it took awhile. you could’ve just called me over. ”

you crossed your arms and gave him a scowl. “ my dad moved it for me , actually. ” you shrug past him and go to your bed , fixing up the pillows. “ i don’t need you here for everything , dalla — ”

“ how about you try that sentence , one more time? ” he puts a finger up , and you turn to face him.

“ right , how rude of me. dal , i don’t need you here for everything. ”

“ mhm. “ he says , looking back at you. he definitely knows you did it yourself. it’s slightly crooked. “ got a lighter? “ he asks and you blow your breath.

“ i don’t do that stuff. if you’re planning on it , you can see yourself out again. “

“ nah , nah i’ll just wait till morning then. “ he mutters the last part , and slips off his shoes along with his jacket , discarding it onto the floor. “ so , you gonna let me stay the night or are you gonna kick this poor puppy to the curb? ”

you groan , and relax. “ did i really have a choice? ”

“ nope. you’re learning , baby. ”

you wave him off and watch him walk over and make himself comfortable on your bed. you grimace. “ dal , that’s fuckin’ nasty. ”

“ all i did was lay down. ”

“ that shirt is filthy. take it off — ” you don’t realize what you’re saying before he smiles. “ alright , your wish is my command. ”

as he takes his shirt off , you make sure not to look his way. “ you’re disgusting , dal. “ he sighs and gets under your blanket like it’s his. he rests his head on his hands , and does nothing but stare at you. you awkwardly gulp , and it leaves you to think.

why did dallas decide on you? what’s so special about you exactly?

so with nothing to lose , already having lost your best friend , you ask.

“ dal. ”

“ mhhm , doll? “ he says , it looks like he’s caught in a trance.

“ why do you like me? ”

dallas seems to actually think , snapping out of his trance and that makes you worry.

“ you’re pretty. ‘s pretty. love your voice. wish you talked to me more. id pay to hear that. damn , you don’t know how fumed i was when you got when that soc last year. ”

you clear your throat. “ i’ve never dated before. he wasn’t my boyfriend , just a friend. “

dallas raises an eyebrow with a smile on his face. “ a friend , huh? and you’ve never dated? shiit , i was worrying for nothing. “

you blink , and you wonder what he could possibly mean by that.

“ c’mere. i’ll show you what a good time is. “ dallas says as he pulls you in by the waist , closer to him and now above him.

“ ever wanted to be a cowgirl? ” dallas teases and you frown.

you’re already at rock bottom , so does it really matter?

you don’t think it does. sylvia already hates you and two-bit already ranted on how much dallas talks about you.

you probably would’ve ended up in his hands anyway.

DUDE this layout is so old it was at the bottom of my drafts. if you can’t tell how long is long then this was supposed to be posted with uhhh… “ crime love “ i think? anyway.. uh. sorry for the people who get pinged everytime for short stuff like this 😓 ( i’m not sorry ur stuck forever mwahahahaahaajjgjrisnfne)

taglist : @mrsdillonx , @every1hatesmayaa , @r0seb100d , @staygoldmarty

[rustedhearts]

keepsakes (boxer!steve harrington x fem librarian!reader)

summary: the heat goes out during an autumnal cold front in your new hawkins home, so you make the most of a cozy day at home.

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

✶ the king of the ring (1995) ✶ the library ✶ ‘tis autumn

✶ roller girl’s pie stand!

tags: pure marshmallow fluff, allusion to smut at the end. akin to old boxer steve from ‘22

hawkins, indiana. october, 1995.

“They said they can’t get out until Tuesday,” Steve huffs, slamming the phone back into the receiver on the kitchen wall.

You groan into the steam furling from the ceramic pot on the stove. “Ugh, come onnnn.”

Steve shuffles into the room with a sigh, thermal-sleeved arms winding their way around your shoulders. They fold together over your chest, guiding you back against him. You let him tuck his mouth into your neck, lips warm, nose cold. You jolt a little when it brushes your skin, giggling when he huffs a harsh breath.

“Mm, I know, angel. But ‘m here to warm ya up,” he mumbles against your throat.

Each of you had enough layers on to keep decently toasty. What you could rummage out of boxes still taped up now sat in a messy pile on your bed upstairs. You hadn’t expected such a cold autumn and thought you had at least a few weeks before you had to break out the winter gear. But now a long sleeve turtleneck sits under a clove-scented 49ers sweatshirt, big and bulky and soft inside like you liked it. Your sweatpants are matching in black color, and you have your hair tied up just like Steve liked it.

He has a white t-shirt under a navy blue thermal that makes his hair seem more chestnut than usual. His sweatpants are grey, the Jimmy’s Gym logo on the top right thigh cracked and faded from wear. You have a pair of his white socks on, and you think it’s adorable that the pair of you have matching feet right now.

Steve presses a noisy kiss to the column of your throat. His hair tickles your chin and makes you laugh again.

“Whatcha got planned today, hmm?”

You stir the wooden spoon through your soup again. “Guess.”

Steve hums thoughtfully, lifting from your neck to squint at the tile. “Hmm, if I had t’ guess, I’d say…reading in that ‘lil window upstairs, pretending you aren’t freezin’ your ass off.”

You scoff, cheeks warming. “N-no…”

“No?” Steve tips his head and kisses your cheek this time. “Saw the book already out. Waitin’ for you. Can’t you hear it calling, baby? All those words you have to read.”

You giggle, squirming in his arms. “Stop, don’t make fun of me.”

You click the gas off and Steve coos, clutching you a little tighter. His cheek is lukewarm when it presses to your temple.

“Aww, my ‘lil nerd. ‘s okay, angel, you know your librarian glasses are so fuckin’ sexy.”

You clutch the handle of the ceramic pot and veer toward the counter, where two mismatched bowls are waiting. Steve gets the hint, matching your steps until you’re moving together. You tip the pot and pour equal amounts of the chicken soup into each bowl, splattering noodle and broth drippings as you go. The window above the sink beside you is beginning to fog with the warmth of the stove. Beyond it, your neighbor’s tree is a vibrant yellow. Shedding pointed leaves across the yard, stuck in the jagged edges of the wooden fence. They gather on Steve’s BMW window, suctioned to the glass with this morning’s rain. The sky’s still a muddled grey, and you have all the lamps and candles lit in the house.

Steve somehow always gets horny in candlelight.

“My librarian glasses? Grab some spoons, please, baby?”

Steve takes one arm from your chest to lean to the left and open the utensil drawer. He gathers two spoons in his hand and nudges it shut, immediately returning to ensure both arms are back in place.

“Yeah. ‘s a good thing, baby, I promise.”

You take the spoons dangling near your collarbone and plop one into each bowl.

“Stevie, can you take ‘em? They’re hot.”

Steve takes a bowl in each hand around your sides and reluctantly pulls away from you. The pair of you whirl around and head for the dining room, a bowl clunking onto a plaid placemat at each assigned seating. Yet as you pull your chair out and go to sit, a pout appears on Steve’s face. He hasn’t even touched his chair.

“What?” you giggle.

“I just…you’re so far away.”

“I’m literally right here.”

“Too far,” he huffs. He swings around and directs his gaze toward the living room. “Let’s go sit on the floor.”

A soft smile touches your face, that glowing warmth gathering in your cheeks again. Oh, something about the cold made Steve so sweet.

“You wanna have a carpet picnic?” You beam.

Steve tips his head back and rolls his eyes. “You and that damn movie—yes, angel, we can have a carpet picnic.”

“Yay, okay! Take the bowls, please.”

He hides his grin against the back of your head when you flounce your way into the living room, forgetting all about the goosebumps and shivers you endured when you woke up to a frozen house this morning. You peel the throw blankets off the back of the couch and lay them on the carpet, smoothing out any wrinkles you know Steve will replace in just a few moments.

The bowls are placed on the coffee table, a folded napkin under each. Steve waits patiently at the corner of the blanket, knowing you’ll let him know when he can join.

The lamplight above you catches and glows on your left hand. On the diamond glimmering on your second smallest finger, haloed with beams of orange. When you lift your hands and pass the flames of the fireplace, amber rays pierce through the crystalline gem.

Steve watches all the while. Watches you move your hands, knowing soon your diamond will rest above a wedding band. In a mere month, just a few short weeks—you’ll be his wife.

The thought alone has Steve sinking to his knees. You whip around to scold him for interrupting your process, but squeak in surprise when he catches your face and kisses you. He smells like cold air and leaves and vaguely of the Marlboro smoked a few hours ago. He smells like Steve.

When he pulls away, you sit back on the blanket and grin. “What on earth was that for?”

Steve assumes the spot across from you, kicking his legs out beside you. He reaches for the soup bowls and carefully places yours near your tucked-in knees.

“What was what for?”

You scrape your teeth over your bottom lip and laugh. “Never mind.”

You turn your attention to the chicken noodle soup and Steve turns back to you. Watches through his lashes as you lift your hands and wipe away wisps of hair on your forehead. Black sleeves curled over your knuckles to keep warm, your fingers appear beneath them in delicate form. He wishes to do nothing but kiss them and stare more at that ring.

“Is it not good?”

Steve blinks, lifting his spoon. Your lips are shiny with broth and oil, eyes rounded in his direction. They catch the fire like your ring and they make Steve swallow hard.

“N-no, baby, ‘s good.” He quickly shovels a spoonful of the soup in his mouth to prove it.

You do a little squirm and smile that makes Steve chuckle. He hunches over his lap to slurp the broth and you wrinkle up your nose.

“Ew, Steven.”

His spoon clinks against the bowl when he drops it.

“Heyyy,” he warns playfully. “Don’t start. There was no attitude at their carpet picnic.”

You giggle. “No, but there was a blowjob if I remember correctly.”

Steve lowers his bowl completely, eyes suddenly alert. “Well, that’s welcome any time.”

Broth bubbles with laughter in your bowl. Steve watches you take small, quiet spoonfuls. When he decides you were only joking and there won’t be an immediate gratification for his Pretty Woman joke, Steve goes back to his soup, too.

Soon the soup is gone and the bowls sit empty on the table. You stretch onto your stomach and place your head on Steve’s lap, allowing his fingers to work over your hair. He pulls it free from its confines and smooths it down. Massages your scalp until your eyes flutter. The flames of the fire rest in dancing orange shimmers on your face.

The rain begins again. It comes with a great howling wind, rushing through the trees and shaking colors loose. The house darkens to near nighttime degree. A grey darkness that turns all the candle flames and lamplight in the room warm.

“Will you read to me, Stevie?” you inquire softly.

Steve’s fingers lag in your hair. He shifts, resting back on his palm.

“Uh…I mean—you sure? Y’ know ‘m not very good at it.”

You let your eyes close and smile to yourself. “I’m sure. I love the sound of your voice.”

Steve smooths his palm over the crown of your head, cupping it. With your eyes closed, he’s free to grin down at you and know it’s just for him. Do you have any idea what you do to him?

“Gonna let me up then?”

You hum. “In a minute.”

“Okay,” he murmurs in agreement.

He holds you there a moment longer, watching the fire warm your face; your socked feet cricketing together at the edge of the blanket contentedly.

“Okay,” you say, pushing yourself up. “Now you can go.”

Steve rolls his eyes as he stands. “Spoiled. What am I getting?”

“You pick. I’m gonna bake some cookies.”

Steve watches you bounce back toward the kitchen with both soup bowls. “Well Jesus, have a little faith in me. I know my way around your shelves.”

“Mmhmm,” you hum, setting the bowls in the sink. “You want chocolate or snickerdoo—“

Your words die on your tongue, slipping between Steve’s lips. He pinches your jaw in one hand and holds you still, mouth forced to pucker for his gift. He hums when he nips at your bottom lip, licking at his own when he releases you.

“Somethin’ t’ think about while ‘m gone,” he says, a heavy hand popping across the fat of your asscheek before he turns around.

Steve heads toward the stairs, ascending them while doing his best to crane over the railing and watch your flushed reaction until he no longer can. He immediately walks to your library–much smaller than the one back in California, but somehow it captured the girl he met in this very town better than anything in the sunshine state ever could—and directs his attention to your stuffed shelves.

He has absolutely no idea what he’s looking for, and stands for a while just staring aimlessly at the spines with his hands on his hips. He hears you clink and clang around in the kitchen. The beep of the oven. The slam of the oven door. It’s much colder in the library, and Steve swears there’s a draft in your window seat.

He turns to inspect it, pressing one hand firmly on the cold, foggy glass. As he leans over the plaid fabric of your window seat, his thigh nudges the corner of a leather-bound journal. He recognizes it immediately as the same journal always kept on the bedside table and in the bottom of your purse. It's always next to you so long as you can help it.

When he spins it with his finger, the Polaroid used to keep your last page inches its way to the edge. Steve slowly and carefully pulls it from the pages.

He sinks into the window seat when he's met with his own face.

Six years old now, the photograph is still as perfectly intact as the day it was taken. The flash collects in a younger Steve's eyes, making them appear darker than they really are. The film softens the emerald and violet bruise kissing his left cheek that Steve vividly remembers taking weeks to disappear completely.

He knows immediately where he's standing, where the photograph was taken by the color of the wall alone. The soft ballerina pink, the edges of rosebuds from now-outdated wallpaper. The arched mirror of your vanity rests just behind his shoulders, stretched and puffed broadly with the flex of his arms. Though the muscles are concealed beneath a heavy black sweatshirt, embroidered with his recent champion title.

And in the glossy white border just below his stomach where the photograph completes, remains your handwriting.

My boyfriend husband ♡

"Steeeve? Did you find one?"

Steve quickly clambers to his feet, shoving the Polaroid back into its place in the journal. He grabs the book you had sitting on your rumpled blanket on the cushion.

"Yeah, coming!"

His footsteps clunk down the stairs, and he's met with the scent of warm cinnamon when he finds you in the kitchen, wiping down the counter.

You spin with the rag in hand and a small grin. “Hey, did you find one?”

Steve sets the book on the counter gently. Your eyes turn to inspect the cover, surprised to see one of your “stuffiest” options waiting. Steve hates Dracula, and he hates attempting to read anything written before 1950.

Before you can question his choice, Steve takes a slow step toward you.

“How long do the cookies have?” he asks.

You glance at the timer. “Um…ten minutes, why?”

His hands smooth over your waist, thumbs pressing into your stomach. He grips you firmly, stepping until he can fit his head in your neck again. His response comes in the form of his mouth on your throat—latching on with his hot, wet suction. You gasp, hands flying to touch him: one gripping the front of his shirt and the other tangling in his hair.

He hums, releasing your skin to kiss it gently. He moves down, dragging his nose over your skin. His suction returns to the junction between your neck and shoulder, where the tendons are soft and waiting to be bitten. You jolt with a quiet squeak, grip tightening on his collar.

“St-Steve—“

“Shhh.” He moves one hand from your waist to your chin and tips it away to make room for his head on the other side of your throat. “‘s nine minutes now, angel. Come lay down f’ me so we can make the most of it.”

He takes your hand and leads you to the living room again, and you follow silently. Nearly hypnotized by his softness, tongue swollen dumbly in your mouth.

He takes both your hands to lower you down to the station of your carpet picnic. You thump to your knees, and he follows suit only to lay you on your back with his hand supporting the back of your head. When you’re flat, you blink up at him with bated breaths.

Steve smiles, fingers curling into the elastic band of your sweatpants. The house seems hotter than ever, a flaming warmth coating your body as his touch drags down your thighs with your clothing.

“Don’t worry. Your husband’s gonna take care o’ you, angel.”

[slimmestofshady]

Bad Habits Kill You- pt2

Warnings: Domestic violence (not between you and marsh), mentions of cheating, drug dealing, drug use, mentions of cocaine, guns.

The winter light of the morning peered in through the raggedy shades as you poured the last of the pancake mix into the bowl. Ellie was coloring still in her pajamas with messy hair, the last page of her book, soon you’d have to find something else to occupy her.

Sara bounced joyfully in her play pen, having an adoring smile spread across her innocent face, she was going to be heartbreaker when she grew up that was for sure.

Somehow, same way you were safe for another month from being thrown out on the streets. Marshall brought in two months worth of rent in a week. You hadn’t asked where he’s gotten it from nor did you want to know the answer so long as trouble wasn’t coming around the house and your girls were safe.

The phone ringing reeled you from your thoughts as you set down Ellie’s plate, kissing her on her forehead, mentioning to eat up before picking up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Hey it’s me..” Fuck, Marshall would kill you right now if he was here, Andre seemed to only fuel his anger. He typically wasn’t a jealous man, but perhaps he was because Andre had his shit together, his business was flourishing and maybe it was a bit odd that he kept you around with how much you had to call off or leave work early.

“I told you, you can’t call here anymore.” You released a breath if relief that he at least called the house phone before the cell you shared with Marshall, surely he would have called by now had Andre called the phone.

“I just wanted to check in, see if you or the girls needed anything, is that so bad? Besides how am i supposed to get ahold of you for extra hours?” Well no it wasn’t so bad, but in Marshall’s eyes it was. Andre was just a man trying to help and that hurt Marshall’s pride, he had never made a move on you personally, regardless of the nice comment he made to Ellie about you. Marshall didn’t need help from another dude, he didn’t want it, he didn’t want help from no one because he knew how it was. People will always want something in return cause of favor, that’s just how this town worked and he wanted no part of it if it meant a threat to his kids. He may be broke but there was another part to Andre he could see that you didn’t.

“Mommy who is that?” Ellie was always so curious as to what was going on around her, not that you blamed her there wasn’t much for her to do around the house anymore.

“Just talking to an old friend baby.” 

Meanwhile Marshall was on the outskirts of town, cig hanging from his lips while his arms crossed waiting on the dude to fuckin show up.

Glancing down at the barely charged phone, the guy still had 5 minutes.

When a conspicuous black car rolled up, Marshall was immediately on edge. That bitch was expensive and aint nobody in this town could afford some shit like that.

When the man rolled down the window he sighed before huffing and puffing.

“What the fuck took you so long bro? I’m out here freezin my fuckin balls off man!” The guy chuckled before getting out of his car. He was an old classmate of Marshall’s but heard about the trouble going around the block near his house. 

“You got what I asked for?” 

“Man, stop playin you know I always gotchu.” They both scanned out the area to ensure no one was around before Charles nodded off toward the car.

Typically he didn’t do this, but with the events at the house, Andre tryna steal his girl and the break in, he had to do something, even if it wasn’t necessarily right.

“Yo you still usin?” This question alone, especially coming out of left field made Marshall suspicious, he didn’t like sharing his shit around town, the less people knew about him the better.

“Depends, who wanna know?”

“Chill man, shit.” He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a little baggy filled with white power.

“I know it ain’t your usual but here take this, it’ll take the edge off and keep you awake to watch yo baby girl, I know you care for her man.” He was hesitant at first, not having tried coke yet but he succumbed to his bad thoughts swiping the bag from the guy and pushing it deep into pant pocket.

He nodded off as a thanks, watching the man get back in his expensive ass car, shit he could only dream about.

Marshall walked through the door, smiling softly at the scene of you and Ellie fast asleep peacefully on the sofa covered in a blanket. Sara was up bouncing around, he was shocked she wasn’t crying or anything hut boy did her smile light up when she saw her daddy. 

He stepped around the creaks on the floor board carefully, setting down an envelope of cash down on the table before swooping up his baby girl delicately.

“Daddy’s here…” He patted Sara on the back softly, pecking her forehead repeatedly.

Her bright blue eyes sparkled in the dim light, reminding Marshall of why he did what he did. She made all the bad days worth it, she was just a piece of the boulder that was his family to keep him sane.

He walked around the room with her, eventually settling in her nursery, pulling out old photos of when your relationship was flourishing. Pointing Sara to herself in each photo. A couple shots of when she was first born in the hospital, Marshall remembering how happy you both were welcoming baby number two into the world.

Another portrait of this past christmas and her big blue eyes wide while she examined one of the stuffed rabbits you got her, her tiny hands grasping at the animal before whimpering.

He sniffed her bum seeing if she needed change but no, perhaps hungry.

Walking into the kitchen he took out the last baby bottle of milk, eventually sitting down on the recliner and reaching for a bib to place below the small of her chin. The room was quiet leaving Marshall alone with his thoughts once again. His eyes settling on your unconscious figure, holding Ellie closely to your chest, the scene washing guilt over him like a hurricane, knowing that he had lied and wasn’t planning on going back to rehab anytime soon. The questions were soon to come about where the cash was coming from and why he wasn’t attending meetings. His focus was on his kids, minimum wage jobs wouldn’t pay shit and he wasn’t about to work in a factory and risk having Andre babysit again, the man’s name fuels every fiber of hatred in his body. His goal was to protect his girls, his woman, that was it but shit there had to be some give in this vicious cycle he was putting himself through.

A knock at the door startled him from his thoughts, jolting you awake while Ellie stirred in her sleep. 

“Who’s at the door?” Your voice was as quiet as a mouse, Marshall passing you Sara in the process as he got up, looking through the shattered window from a fight he had with a guy on the block that went too far.

Looking through the peephole he was blindsided by the sight of his mom and her boyfriend, telling you to stay inside before closing the door softly.

“What I can’t come inside?” He tucked his hands in his pockets, not in the mood for any shit as he shook his head staring blankly at the woman who made him.

“Not with him you ain’t. When’s break up number seven, next week?” She rolled her eyes in response but still smiling softly, her boyfriend on the other hand already on edge. They’d never gotten along and they never will, Marshall still blamed him for being the reason his ma got into drugs. 

“My little rabbit, so full of testosterone. I just came to bring Ellie and Sara their presents, is that so bad?” If she stole them yeah it was, he had enough shit going on here he didn’t want to add more to the list. Instead of arguing with her, he grabbed the bag from her hand, checking the gifts for any pricetags or names on them but not finding anything.

“I told you I’m better now.” She looked back at her boyfriend who was staring off into the distance, kicking rocks and broken pieces of glass around.

Peaking through the window, you saw her taking a seat on the step. Glancing down at Sara who was falling asleep against your chest, you quickly but quietly put her down in her crib before swinging the door open, scaring her up from the wooden step, causing her to drop her cigarette in the process.

“I have two sleeping girls in here so if you are here to start shit, respectfully, please leave. I-“

“I’m handling it aight? Go back inside.” You shot daggers at Marshall before ignoring his request and coming out the door with your hands at your hips unimpressed at her bold attempt to think she could reconcile.

“Y/N, I was just bringing them their gifts, that’s it.”

“What nearly two months past?” She knew there was no getting on your good side after everything that happened when you were pregnant with Sara.

Marshall wanted to hear his mother out but at the same time was stuck between a rock and a hard place. He hadn’t forgotten about her actions and would never forgive her for that but he just wanted to keep the peace for right now. He held his ground asking her to leave once more when no further words were exchanged between you, that was when her boyfriend Carl stepped in, as if he were in a position too.

“Look, don’t act like you two are perfect people or perfect parents. People fuck up, who would no more about fuck ups than you Marshall right? That’s why your kid’s such a fuckin spoiled brat, why you living in a broke down trailer and workin the block right?” Marshall didn’t notice your questioning expression, instead pushing past his mom and grasping at his hoodie, tackling him to the ground before throwing a ruthless punch. Carl missing the second hit and slapping him across the face. You and his mom rushed over to break up the fight but they were stronger than both of you put together.

The low life, waste of space grasped at Marshall’s collar both of them grunting and yelling before he pushed him through the door, Marshall’s back hitting the old, raggedy carpet jolting your kids awake.

“Get off of him!” You yanked at Carl’s collar and his natural response regardless of you gender was to swing back at you, only for that to be the tipping point of Marshall playing nice.

He forced his head up nudging into Carl’s forehead roughly before taking back control, straddling his mother’s boyfriend and punching into his face relentlessly.

“Don’t you ever lay a hand on my fucking girl!” Finally pulling Marshall off of him, Carl stood up hastily, grasping his jaw and wiping at the blood on his face.

“C’mon, let’s go..” Carl didn’t move still shooting daggers at Marshall as his heavy ragged breaths  and bloody nosy made it obvious who won this fight.  With eyebrows raised and crossing your arms, irritation set in as you were exactly right somehow, someway this would turn into trouble, it always has when it came to those two.

“Whatever, enjoy your fuckin miserable life with your two bastards and whore of a girlfriend. I’m sure she’d let me tap that anytime, isn’t that right sweetheart?” He winked at you, Marshall jolting forward to hit him again but your hands rested on his shoulder pulling him back to reality.

“This isn’t worth it, he isn’t worth it baby..” The elephant in the room became obvious to his mother, knowing that now it was best to leave. Nothing was improving and Carl was trying to be a better man but all her little rabbit did was antagonize him in her eyes.

When they finally left and the door closed, the screen fell off the hinge, yet another thing to repair, just what you needed.

Marshall was hit with a wave of emotions when he saw his little girl cowering under the table, tears rushing down her heated cheeks while she covered her ears from the fighting.

He got down to her level on his hands and knees, softening his facial features to ensure her he meant no harm and the fighting was done.

“Baby c’mere. They’re gone, it’s alright, it’s okay.” Her little bottom lip quivered, her body shaking from the frightening scene. Her daddy was scary when he was mad but he’d never, ever lay a hand on her. After a moment she slowly crawled over to him, grasping at his shirt while she continued to weep into the crook of his neck.

You rushed to a screaming and crying Sara, cradling her close to your chest while your hand rubbed soothing, delicate circles into her little back, cooing endless reassurances that her mommy was here and everything was okay now.

You and Marshall exchanged a look of grief and sorrow mixed with a hint of aggravation that it was the same old shit on a different day. Were your girls ever going to grow up without the chaos and the hurdles life seemed to hit you with repeatedly.

This wasn’t the right time to discuss your relationship problems at the moment, instead setting the bullshit aside and focusing on your girls.

After getting them settled, Marshall walked to the corner store, picking up some dino nuggets and orange juice for their dinner, finally getting them to relax.

Once Ellie was occupied nearly crashing on the couch, you noticed Marshall still sitting at the kitchen table with his headphones on and a paper and pen in hand, you couldn’t help but let your mind wander about the money situation, how was he bringing it in without a job? Carl’s comment lingered in your mind but you took what the guy said with a grain of salt. No. It had to be something else.

Where was it coming from? Granted earlier in the day you were determined to leave the conversation alone, but it needed to be had soon.

Picking Ellie up carefully, you placed her in the bed in your room, still nervous about allowing her to sleep in her own room since her belongings were stolen.

As you passed by him with her tired head resting on your shoulder, you tapped him on the shoulder jolting him from his thoughts. You simply nodded toward the bedroom, indicating you were gonna try to get some shut eye since you had a double tomorrow due to work being slow and not needing you today.

A few hours later he waited until you were asleep, getting off the mattress lightly to not wake you or Ellie, kissing her on the head caringly before heading outside to the car. Checking his surroundings, he huffed grabbing the shiny black object Charles lent him from the glovebox.

Looking around once more, he tucked it into the pocket of his hoodie. He stayed in the drivers seat lighting a cigarette as his hands were shaking from how long he’d gone without any drugs.

Grasping the baggie, he stared at the white powder in the streetlight shining through the windshield, the glow of it’s threatening presence merely urging him to do it right here right now.

Opening it up, he spread the thin powder into a line on the center console, reverting to a old receipt on the floorboard as a way to snort it, he didn’t wanna risk getting it on the cash he was going to give the landlord.

The instant rush of euphoria and energy taking him by surprise, leaving him nearly breathless.

He found himself just starinf blanklessly out the windshield, watching a stray cat run across the street before shaking his head and going back inside before you woke up and wondered where he was.

Before he layed back down, he hid the gun underneath the mattress before resorting back to the table after finding it difficult to even think about sleeping with the new found surge of energy.

[urrockstar-xe]

i'll be right there, sweetheart - tasm!p.parker x fem!reader

posted nov 4th, 2023 12:50 am

i wrote this with one of my closest friends :D i needed andrew!peter and i needed comfort! i hope u like it as much as we do :)

summary: when reader gets into another argument with her brother, she needs her amazing spiderman to come and save her

masterlist

wordcount: 1.2k

“Can I come over?” your hushed and choked tone of voice had Peter standing up from the building ledge he had been sitting on, in seconds.

“Stay put, baby I’ll come to you, where are you? At home?” His voice was rushed but you could hear it fine considering the whooshing of the wind was heard in the background,

he was already swinging to your place.

“No, no, Pete, I need to come to yours I don’t want to be home right now, I got into another argument with my brother I just wanna see you, is that okay?”

Peter’s heart nearly stopped at the sound of your choked sob as you spoke, crumbling at just the sound of you crying, he was already worrying about the sight.

“Of course it's okay, sweetheart, I’m gonna come get you though alright? Meet on the roof?”

Through sniffles, you mumbled back a barely coherent “okay” to Peter as you had already started making your way to the roof of your apartment building, sighing at the sight of your spandex-clad boyfriend swinging through the city, still too far from you to hang up. 

“I’ll be right there, sweetheart, just wait for me okay? Hey! Look at that I see you! I mean i think, you’re still a little far” You couldn’t help but giggle at Peter’s words, you could practically hear his smile when you laughed.

“It’s me, Pete” you responded, walking closer to the edge in hopes it would make the wait seem shorter. 

“Yeah, it is, I know m’girl when I see her, I’m right here baby, I’m comin'” his constant reassurance of coming to be there for you had your heart swelling and almost willed more tears to form in your eyes as you hung up the phone when you saw that Peter was only a building away.

And there he was, his mask was tugged off the second his feet landed on the rooftop floor, hair messy and face red from the cold as he pulled you into a tight embrace, “I’m here baby, told you I’d be here” he mumbled into your hair, setting his hand on the back of your head as you sobbed into his shoulder. 

“I’m just so tired of the same fight, Pete” you cried, the words Peter had only ever read through text messages after you had similar situations like this but none to the point where you needed to get out of there. 

“I know, honey, I got you” Peter rubbed your back soothingly, pressing a few sweet kisses to your hairline before squeezing your frame once more. “Freezin' out here, let’s you get back to my place, yeah? May made meatloaf for dinner” you giggled into his shoulder, sniffling as you pulled back to put your arms around his neck and brace yourself to swing through the city. 

“I hate meatloaf” you quietly said into his neck as he gripped your waist properly, 

As he put his mask back on, Peter chuckled, “I know you do, honey” 

Without warning Peter started swinging, it was worse when you had a warning, gave you more time to overthink it and Pete definitely wasn’t risking that tonight of all nights. 

He could hardly feel your grip tighten but you felt his tighten every time he shot a new web until finally, he reached his window

This was the tricky part, getting inside his room with you in his arms, it typically ended in you hitting your head or Peter tripping the second he got inside, but this time he was as careful as he had ever been as if you were fragile, delicate, and at this point in time? you were, not that you’d admit it but you didn’t have to admit it with Peter.

he just knew.

Peter carefully slid the window up, helping you get your feet in and stand up straight before climbing inside himself, once more taking his mask off but it was soon followed by his entire suit as he rushed around his room to put on sweatpants and a hoodie. You just stood there for the most part, other than closing his window so he wouldn’t freeze while he was half-naked and running around for clothes. 

Any other time you’d make yourself at home, settle into his bed, even stroll downstairs, and say hi to May, but again, this time was different, you felt like you couldn’t move, not without Peter’s help anyway.

Peter of course caught onto this quite fast which was why he was so dead set on rushing back to you as fast as possible even if you were both still in the same room, the old Midtown High hoodie was barely over his head before he had swooped you up back into his arms and laid you down on his bed, nearly crushing you with his body weight.

Your hands found his hair in seconds, to anyone else this looks like you’re comforting him, but to you, this is exactly why weighted blankets exist.

“You wanna talk about it?” He asked quietly, gently running his fingers up and down your arm. 

“No, thank you” 

Peter took note of the way your voice was still so quiet as if you would burst into tears again if you spoke any louder, “Okay, baby” 

He sat up just enough to see your face in full, ever so careful, he wiped the few remaining tears from your cheeks, along with the dried streaks that had been caused by the cold wind. 

“Did you eat? I can make you somethin?” you just shook your head in response before pulling him back down closer to you, “no? Okay, okay this works too” he mumbled into your shoulder, then he suddenly gasped as if he just remembered something. 

“What happened?” You asked, concern in your voice as he sat up, ignoring your question you watched as Peter quickly untied your Converse and pulled them off of your feet, carelessly tossing them somewhere in his room before he laid beside you, this time pulling you into him, running his fingers across your shoulders and entangling your legs.

Peter was once again thankful for the prototype web shooter he had been too lazy to move from his nightstand as he used it to shut off the light without getting up from the comfort of his bed or your arms. 

You two laid like this in a comforting silence for a few moments, Peter rubbing your back, your hands repetitively moving from his side and to his chest, he kept thinking you’d pull back to say something but you never did.

Not until after a few more minutes and you sighed, getting your boyfriend’s attention once more. 

“What is it, baby?” he whispered, as if speaking any louder would ruin the moment you were sharing. 

“I don’t know,” you whispered back, sounding unsure, Peter frowned, but he let you continue before commenting. “Thank you for coming to get me” was what you settled on for now.

A billion things ran through your mind, all different ways to show your gratitude for Peter but all that came out was a simple thanks, not that Peter minded. 

“‘M just glad you’re okay” he whispered back, pressing a soft kiss to your head. 

“I just don’t know what I’d do without you” You sighed once more after you spoke, gripping the material of his hoodie. 

Peter smiled, “It’s a damn good thing you don’t have to worry about that then huh?” 

Moving his hand down to your thigh, he moved it completely over his own, bringing you impossibly closer. 

“I’ll always be right there, sweetheart” 

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Beneath the Apron

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader

AU: Baker!Simon

Warnings: Fluff, light teasing, mutual pining

Author’s Note: Simon Has me in a chokehold, tbh I need more baker Simon-

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The first time you walked into Simon Riley’s bakery, it was pouring rain. Not a gentle drizzle, but a torrential downpour that left you drenched from head to toe. You ducked inside, shivering and muttering curses under your breath, only to freeze when you realized you weren’t alone.

Behind the counter stood a man who looked like he belonged in a different time and place—broad-shouldered, with sharp features and piercing dark eyes. He stared at you for a moment, silent, as water dripped from your hair onto the floor.

“Uh… sorry,” you stammered, clutching your soaked bag to your chest. “I’ll just…” You gestured vaguely toward the door.

“Don’t be daft,” he said, his voice a low rumble with a thick accent. “Yer already in ‘ere. Might as well dry off.”

Before you could argue, he disappeared into the back and returned with a towel. He tossed it to you without ceremony, then leaned against the counter, watching as you awkwardly patted yourself dry.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, feeling strangely self-conscious under his gaze.

“Coffee?” he asked, already reaching for a mug.

“Oh, no, I—”

“Yer freezin’. Coffee,” he said firmly, leaving no room for debate.

A few minutes later, you were sitting at a small table near the window, a steaming cup of coffee in front of you. The rain hammered against the glass, but the warmth of the bakery and the rich aroma of freshly baked bread made it feel like a haven.

“Don’t get many people comin’ in this time o’ day,” he said, breaking the silence.

“Well, I wasn’t exactly planning to stop,” you replied, smiling faintly. “The weather had other ideas.”

He grunted—his version of a laugh—and you found yourself oddly charmed by the sound.

After that, you started coming in more often. At first, it was just for the coffee—well, that’s what you told yourself. But it wasn’t long before you found yourself lingering, chatting with Simon between customers and slowly peeling back the layers of his quiet, guarded personality.

---

One morning, you walked in to find him hunched over a tray of cookies, his brow furrowed in concentration. He glanced up as the bell jingled, his expression softening slightly when he saw you.

“Late today,” he commented, his accent turning the words into a soft rumble.

“Had a meeting,” you replied, dropping into your usual seat. “But I couldn’t skip my daily dose of grumpy baker charm.”

Simon snorted, shaking his head. “Dunno why you keep comin’ back.”

“Maybe I like watching you scowl at dough,” you teased, resting your chin in your hand.

He gave you a mock glare, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Yer lucky I make good coffee.”

---

One quiet afternoon, you caught him humming to himself. The bakery was empty except for the two of you, the soft rhythm of his movements lulling you into a comfortable silence. Then you heard it—a low, quiet hum, almost imperceptible over the sound of the mixer.

“Is that… singing?” you asked, looking up with a grin.

Simon froze, his hands stilling mid-knead. “It’s not.”

“It so is!” you said, laughing. “What was it? Some folk song?”

“Shut it,” he muttered, though the tips of his ears turned red.

You leaned forward, propping your elbows on the counter. “Come on, Simon. Give me a performance. I’ll even clap.”

“Yer impossible,” he grumbled, but there was a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

---

Another time, you showed up with a batch of cookies you’d tried to bake yourself. They were… well, let’s just say they weren’t exactly bakery quality.

Simon picked one up, inspecting it with a raised brow. “What’s this supposed to be?”

“A cookie,” you said defensively.

“Looks like a rock,” he deadpanned.

You huffed, crossing your arms. “Well, excuse me for not being a professional.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “S’alright. Can’t all be as talented as me.”

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered, but you couldn’t stop the smile creeping across your face.

Simon took a bite of the misshapen cookie, chewing thoughtfully. “Not bad,” he said finally.

“Really?” you asked, brightening.

“No,” he replied, smirking.

---

One morning, the bakery was unusually quiet. You sat at your usual spot, sipping your coffee and watching Simon move around the kitchen. His hands were deft and sure, rolling out dough and piping frosting with an ease that came from years of practice.

“You ever sit down?” you asked suddenly.

“Don’t have time,” he replied without looking up.

“You’ve got time now,” you pointed out.

Simon paused, a tray in his hands. He stared at you for a moment, then sighed. To your surprise, he placed the tray on the counter, untied his apron, and sat down across from you.

“Didn’t think you’d actually listen to me,” you said, raising an eyebrow.

“Figured it’d shut you up,” he said, though his tone was more amused than annoyed.

“You’re full of charm, aren’t you?” you shot back, smirking.

Simon shook his head, leaning back in the chair. Up close, he was even more intimidating—broad shoulders, strong jaw, and those dark eyes that seemed to see straight through you. But there was a softness to him, too, in the way he rested his arms on the table, his posture relaxed for once.

“You come here every day,” he said after a moment. “Why?”

The question caught you off guard. You hesitated, unsure how honest you wanted to be.

“Well,” you started, stalling for time, “the coffee’s good. The croissants are amazing. And the company’s not bad, either.”

Simon raised an eyebrow. “Not bad?”

“Okay, fine,” you admitted, leaning forward. “The company’s great. Even if you’re a little grumpy.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and rumbling, and your heart skipped a beat.

“Grumpy, huh?” he asked, tilting his head slightly.

“Very,” you said, grinning.

Simon didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he studied you for a moment, his dark eyes scanning your face like he was trying to figure something out.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” he said finally, his voice so quiet you almost didn’t catch it.

Your breath hitched, and before you could think of a reply, the bell above the door jingled, signaling another customer. Simon stood, tying his apron back on with practiced ease.

“Stay as long as you like,” he said over his shoulder, the hint of a smile on his lips as he walked away.

And just like that, he was back to being the mysterious baker, leaving you sitting there with a fluttering in your chest and a stupid grin on your face.

I hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[anna-hawk]

Sweater Weather

Shane Walsh x F!Reader

Summary: What happens when you wear Shane's warmest sweater.

R18+ 🔞🔞 || WC: 2.1k

CW: smut, crack, dirty talk, reader is a little shit

A/N: written for @bernthirst-events and inspired by this reel. Banner made by @darlingshane 🧡

Read it on AO3

“It’s fuckin’ freezin’ in this place. Darlin’, you seen my swea…ter,” Shane slowly trailed off, as he walked into the living room and his eyes fell on you and what you were wearing.

“Hm?” You turned your face towards him from your place on the couch, smiling at him inquiringly. 

“You’re wearing my sweater,” he deadpanned, staring at you with his lips pursing. 

“Yeah, 'cause I'm cold.”

“Yeah, but why are you wearing my sweater?” His eyebrows rose in question. 

“Because I’m cold,” you repeated, like he was being stupid. 

“But that’s my warmest sweater. Why are you wearing my warmest sweater?” Shane grunted in annoyance at your tone. 

“Because it’s-” you cut off with a huff. “You’re literally answering the question while posing the question,” you said in exasperation, putting your book down and shaking your head at him. 

“But you have your own sweaters,” Shane gritted out, sucking on his top teeth.

“I do.” Again, you looked at him like he wasn't making any sense. 

“Yeah, so then why don’t you wear your own sweater?”

“Because this is the warmest-” you stopped in the middle of the sentence again and threw your hands up, now looking as annoyed as Shane was feeling. “Really, come on, you just answered your own question again.” 

Shane closed his eyes and rubbed over his face as he fought for calm at your crazy reasoning. 

“Okay, okay… hold on now.” Shane massaged two fingers into his eyes. “You gonna have to break this down for me 'cause I don’t understand why you have your sweaters, your own sweaters, but you still choose to wear mine.”

You silently blinked at Shane before rolling your eyes. “Okay, fine… Lemme break this down for you.” You crossed your legs under you as you faced him fully. “So my sweaters are my sweaters.”

“Yeah.” Shane exhaled slowly.

“And your sweaters are your sweaters.” 

“Yes! So-” 

“Except,” you cut in. “The ones that I wanna wear. Those are our sweaters… And by our sweaters, I mean my sweaters,” you grinned sweetly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

“Our…” Shane rubbed his forehead this time and growled at you. “Then what am I supposed to wear?”

“Just wear your sweater, jeez.” 

“You’re wearing my fuckin’ sweater.”

“No, I’m wearing our sweater — Oh my God, I just explained this to you.” You rolled your eyes again and leaned back against the couch with a huff.

“Okay, you know what? Nope… Gimme my fuckin’ sweater.” Shane took two steps towards you with an outstretched hand. 

“What? No. It’s freezing.” You recoiled, grabbing at the sweater like he was going to rip it off you. 

“Then go grab one of your own goddamn sweaters. Or two for all I care. I just want my fuckin’ sweater.”

“Ugh, have you even listened to anything I just-”

“Yes, and I’m not fuckin’ havin’ it. So. Give. Me. My. Sweater.”

“You know what? Fine. Be that way. Get it then.” You turned away from him to return to reading your book after delivering the snide remark, obviously not at all about to cooperate. 

“Get it? Oh, yeah? So you gonna have me fight you over that sweater, yeah?” Shane rumbled in warning. 

“You bet your ass I am. It’s all warm and soft and I’m not-” you screamed the last part as Shane threw himself onto you. “No, you get off me, asshole!”

“I'm the asshole when you’re stealin’ my clothes?” Shane managed to slip one leg between your thighs and made for the sweater.

“I’ll have you know that some guys would be happy to see their girlfriends in their clothes,” you threw in, as you tussled on the couch with Shane trying to lift the sweater up your body, while you tugged it down with one hand and tried to push Shane away with the other. 

“But not when it’s fuckin’ cold and I’m about to freeze my balls off.”

“God, you’re such a drama —  fuck, your hands are fuckin’ cold!” you cried out as his fingertips slipped over your skin.

“Wonder why.” In retribution, Shane stuck both his hands under the sweater and placed his palms onto your bare sides and stomach. 

You shrieked at the cold, trying to get away from him, but Shane now had both legs between your thighs and was pressing you hard against the angle of the sectional couch, effectively stopping you from going anywhere. 

“Feelin’ sorry now? You gonna give it back?” He barked with a wolfish grin. 

“Fuck you!” you spat, pushing at his shoulders with all your might, but Shane was having none of it. 

Huffing, he managed to pull the sweater up your chest, earning himself an outraged yelp from you, as he revealed your bare breasts to him. You apparently had decided to go without a bra today since you were staying at home all day. Shane hadn't expected that, and stopped at the sight of your stiff nipples and the goosebumps resulting from his cold fingers and air. His distraction only lasted a second, as you took that as an opportunity to whack him over the head with the book that had fallen next to you. 

“Oh, you little…” Shane growled and pushed the sweater even more up, covering your face with it fully while avoiding your arms in the process as he leaned down to take one of your nipples between his lips and suck on it viciously. 

Your cry of surprise as your back arched up had Shane grinning when he tugged at your nipple with his teeth. You blindly tried to push him off, mumbling into the sweater still over your face, as your hands tugged at his hair and shirt. As you clawed at his hair a bit more harshly, Shane growled and switched to the other nipple, using his teeth again to pull at it with the same intensity as you. Just like earlier, you cried out, your hand tightening in Shane’s hair, but you didn’t pull him away, though. Shane groaned this time, and sucked around your nipple with relish, enjoying how stiff and sensitive they were. With one of his hands still keeping the sweater up, Shane noticed you finally getting your head out and staring down at him. Your eyes were blazing with a mix of anger and arousal. A combination that Shane always loved to see on your face. 

“You better give me a good reason to take it off, Walsh,” you muttered shortly, taking the whole sweater off once Shane let go of it and pulled him up for a hungry kiss. 

Shane moved instantly, kissing you back with the same need to taste and claim. While your hands slid to the waistband of his sweatpants, his rapidly growing erection ground against your crotch repeatedly, making the both of you moan. You huffed in annoyance as his grinding stopped you from reaching the drawstrings, but Shane batted your hands away as he rose to his knees while still kissing you. You made a sound of surprise as Shane’s hands grabbed at the sides of your pants and pulled, forcing your hips up as Shane leaned slightly back to get the leggings around your thighs. Since he was still between your legs, he would have to move away to get them off completely, but he wasn’t interested in that. He only needed to have access to your entrance, after all. Shane smirked at the picture you made; with your body stuck between the couch and his own body, your thighs pulled up and almost bound together by the leggings. He pressed your knees to your chest with one hand while he finally opened his sweatpants. His hard cock met the cold air, but his arousal made him immune to it in that moment. 

“What are you waiting for?” you hissed, only able to pull at his long sleeved t-shirt from the position he had you in. 

“So much attitude from someone who’s literally cornered,” Shane grinned, using the tip of his cock to run small circles around your damp folds and barely pressing the whole head inside a couple of times. 

“You’re the one making a fuss over — ah, fuck!” you cried out, as Shane pushed in several inches, only to pull out all the way again. 

“Now, now, play nice, darlin', or I’ll just leave you like that, with your lil pussy aching for more,” he tutted.

“Oh, please,” you scoffed with a derisive eye roll. “Like you could stop now. You love how much my pussy squeezes just right around your dick too much to be able to just walk away.” 

Shane’s nostrils flared, both from the accuracy of your words and from hearing you talk like that. As if to confirm your words, his dick twitched in his hand from how nicely you had clenched around him just a moment ago. A second later, Shane realized that he’d been quiet a little too long, since you smirked at him in victory as his silence proved your point. 

“See, you’re completely unable to — Shane!” you shouted on a gasp as Shane decided to slide into you to the hilt at that precise moment. 

Shane cursed in pleasure from your walls clamping down around him tightly, sucking him in, and watched with satisfaction as your face scrunched up at the sudden move. 

“You’re such a little shit. Runnin' your mouth like that, eggin' me on until I fuckin' snap,” Shane rasped, as he put one foot on the ground to get better leverage to slam into you, while he held himself up with his hands under your knees.

He hissed a second later as you tightened around him again, and growled at the smirk showing through your expression of pleasure. 

“You love it”, you managed to get out, grabbing at his shoulders as he pumped in and out of you. “Only… makes you … wanna … fuck me harder.” 

Shane snarled at you, showing you that you were right again, when he viciously snapped his hips harder and faster against yours. But yes, he did love it. Did love you teasing him, goading him on, using your clever tongue to drive him crazy. Only you knew how to play him to perfection. You certainly were getting what you wanted now, since you suddenly exploded around him, your walls going wild around his cock as your orgasm hit you. Shane didn’t slow down, however, watching you with hungry eyes as you keened under his snapping hips, and groaned as you continuously squeezed around him. 

“Making me feel so good, Shane,” you moaned wantonly, grabbing tightly at his shoulders as your gaze never left his. “Gonna come inside me? Fill me all up with your come?”

Shane groaned at your words. He loved it when you were so wildly turned on that only the hottest filth came through your lips, knowing exactly what to say to make him lose his mind. 

“That’s what you want, darlin’? Want me to fill that pretty pussy?” he panted through gritted teeth as he barely managed to hold on to the last shreds of his sanity. He wanted to hear more of what you had to say while he positively rammed into you before he could tumble over the other side.

“Uh huh, uh huh… Gimme everything… Need you to make me feel so full that I can barely hold it all inside me.”

“Jesus fuckin'-” Shane cut off, as he finally allowed himself to let go. 

The pleasure ripped through him as he slammed inside you a few more times before he stilled with his hips against yours, coming in hot shots deep inside you, exactly like you’d wanted. Before he closed his eyes from the overwhelming pleasure, he saw you watching him as you moaned, savoring the feeling of him inside you. The sight had him jerking his hips some more as he groaned before he finally stilled. As you both slumped onto the couch, your hard breaths were the only thing audible for a long minute. 

Shane watched you through heavy lidded eyes, smiling crookedly at your relaxed expression. Slowly, he pulled away after kissing one of your knees, bringing with it a slide of come that ran down towards your ass. His eyes fixed on the sight, which was then obstructed as you lowered your legs with a small groan. Shane smirked proudly at your messy state, leggings down to your thighs, topless, hair all over the place. You watched him get to his feet and pull the sweatpants back into place before you rose to do the same. You stepped into his space a moment later and kissed him with a long press of your lips against his, then pulled away a couple of millimeters as you spoke against his mouth:

“I’m still keeping the sweater,” you whispered. 

Shane didn’t get the chance to react quickly enough as you turned, grabbed the sweater, and ran towards the bathroom with a victorious laugh. 

“Gimme back my sweater,” Shane yelled in outrage and ran after you. 

[biblical-chronicles]

Puddles

________________________________________

where a small Anaïs brings the reader and Noel together.

________________________________________

The winter air bit at your cheeks as you pulled into Noel’s driveway, a little bag in hand containing the pedal he’d left behind at the studio. You could’ve just brought it to the next session, but you figured it’d be easier for him to have it sooner rather than later. Plus, you were in the area, and you also may have had a little bit of a crush on the man.

You knocked on the door, only having to wait a moment before it swung open. Noel stood there, looking about one step away from a mental breakdown, only muttering a quiet “God help me.” under his breath.

You blinked, caught a bit off guard. “Alright, what’s got you so dramatic this time?”

Before he could answer, the shrill voice of a small child echoed from somewhere inside. “NO, DAD, NO!”

You peeked around him and spotted the source of his woes—Anaïs, sitting cross-legged on the floor, clutching a wool hat in her tiny fists like it had personally insulted her.

“She’s supposed to wear the bloody thing ‘cause it’s freezin’ out, but no,” Noel said, throwing his hands up. “Apparently, hats are public enemy number one today. Yesterday they were fine, but not today.”

You couldn’t help but just laugh at his misery at which he just shot you a look of pure betrayal.

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” you teased. “This is brilliant. Rock legend Noel Gallagher brought to his knees by a three-year-old and a hat.”

Anaïs, upon hearing your voice, stopped her tantrum and turned. Her eyes lit up when she saw you standing there. “Y/N!” she squealed, abandoning the hat entirely and making a beeline for you, throwing her arms around your leg in a tight embrace.

“Well, hello to you too,” you said, squatting down to her level. “What’s all this fuss about, then? Your dad says you don’t like your hat very much.”

Anaïs pouted, crossing her arms. “It’s itchy, and it’s ugly, and I hate it.”

“Ah, I see.” You tapped your chin, pretending to consider her argument. “But you know, hats are pretty cool. Look, I’m wearing one too.” You tugged at the brim of your own beanie, grinning at her.

Anaïs tilted her head, clearly weighing her options. After a moment, she picked up the discarded hat and held it out to you. “You wear it.” she commanded.

“Alright, deal.” You took the hat, slipping it on and giving her a little twirl for effect. “How do I look?”

Anaïs giggled, clapping her hands. “Good! Really good!”

“Well, there you go,” you said, taking the hat off and handing it back to her. “If it looks good on me, it’ll look even better on you, yeah?”

Anaïs nodded solemnly, as if you’d just delivered the most profound wisdom of her short life. She plopped the hat onto her head, adjusting it until it sat snugly. “I’m ready!”

Noel, who had been watching the whole interaction, just let out a long, dramatic sigh. “Of course. Two minutes with you, and she’s a bloody angel. I try all mornin’, and I’m gettin’ screamed at like I’ve just committed a war crime.”

You just started laughing at him again as Anaïs looked up at you proudly. “See, Dad?” she said, tugging at his sleeve. “We’re wearing the same hat now. How cool is that?”

“Yeah,” Noel deadpanned, “so cool.”

Finally, you remembered the bag in your hand. “Oh, right, I came to drop this off,” you said, holding it out to Noel. “Your pedal. You left it at the studio.”

“You’re a saint,” he said, taking the bag and setting it on a nearby shelf. “Dunno what I’d do without ya.”

Before you could reply, Anaïs grabbed your hand, pulling you toward the door. “Let’s go, let’s go!”

Noel followed, grabbing his coat. “Oi, slow down, we’re not in a race.”

But Anaïs suddenly stopped in her tracks, turning to look up at you with big, pleading eyes. “Are you coming with us?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Noel said quickly. “She’s got work and—”

Anaïs cut him off with a firm, “No. I’m not going if she’s not going.”

You glanced between the two of them, biting back a laugh. “Well,” you said, squatting down again to Anaïs’s level, “I suppose I can join you. It’d be my pleasure.”

Anaïs beamed, reaching for your hand again, and Noel just stood there, watching the two of you with a look you couldn’t quite place. Maybe a bit of frustration. Maybe a bit of awe. Maybe a bit of love.

“Alright,” Noel said finally, voice softer than usual. “Let’s go, then.”

The three of you walked down the quiet street, the crisp air turning your breath into little clouds. Anaïs skipped along beside you, her tiny hand clutching yours tightly, while Noel trailed slightly behind, hands shoved in his coat pockets.

“You should come over more,” Anaïs chirped, looking up at you with a toothy grin. “It’s way more fun when you’re here.”

“Yeah?” you asked, glancing down at her. “What makes it so fun, then?”

She tilted her head, thinking for a moment before answering, “You sing better than Dad. And you know all the good songs.”

Noel snorted from behind you. “Oi, I heard that!”

Anaïs giggled, covering her mouth with her free hand. “It’s true!” she whispered loudly, as if he wouldn’t hear.

You couldn’t help but laugh, squeezing her hand. “Well, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

The walk continued in comfortable chatter, Anaïs alternating between skipping and walking, her energy seemingly endless. Suddenly, she stopped dead in her tracks, her gaze fixed on something up ahead.

“What is it?” you asked, following her line of sight.

“It’s a puddle,” she said, pointing to a shallow pool of water on the pavement. She leaned forward, examining it as if it were some rare artifact.

“You like jumping in puddles?” you asked.

Anaïs shook her head. “I never really did that yet.”

You blinked, genuinely surprised. “Never? Oh, we’ve got to change that. Look at your wellies—they’re perfect for it!”

Her eyes lit up with curiosity and excitement. “Really?”

“Really,” you said, taking her hand again and guiding her toward the puddle. “Come on, let’s try it out.”

With a bit of encouragement, Anaïs took her first tentative hop into the puddle, sending a small splash of water out around her boots. She froze for a moment, then burst into giggles.

“Look at you, already an expert” you said, joining her in the puddle. “Now, like this—big jump.” You leapt, sending water spraying around your shoes. Anaïs followed suit, her laughter echoing down the street.

Noel stood off to the side, watching you with admiration, a smile automatically forming on his face.

“Come on, Noel,” you called over to him, grinning. “Have some fun for once!”

“Yeah, Dad!” Anaïs chimed in, hopping up and down. “It’s fun! You have to try!”

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking torn. “I dunno… I’m not exactly dressed for this sort of thing.”

“Oh, stop making excuses,” you teased. “You can handle a bit of water, can’t you?”

Anaïs quickly walked over to him, tugging at his hand. “Please, Dad? Just one jump?”

He sighed, throwing his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright. One jump. Don’t expect me to make a habit of this.”

You and Anaïs cheered as Noel stepped cautiously into the puddle, his boots making a soft splash. He glanced at you both, shaking his head, before taking a half-hearted hop.

“Oh, come on,” you said, laughing. “That was pathetic. Give us a proper jump, Gallagher.”

Anaïs giggled, bouncing on her toes. “Yeah, Dad! Like this!” She leapt into the air, landing with a loud splash that sent water flying.

Not to disappoint her, Noel gave a real jump this time, his landing sending another wave of water outward. You all laughed, the moment surprisingly carefree.

Then Anaïs, perhaps getting a little too enthusiastic, landed with a forceful splash that sent some muddy water flying right onto your face.

You froze, blinking as the cold mud dripped down your cheek. Noel burst out laughing, doubling over as Anaïs clapped her hands over her mouth. “Oops!” she squeaked, eyes wide.

You wiped at your face, trying to suppress your own laughter. “Well,” you said, grinning, “I guess that’s what I get for encouraging you.”

“Sorry,” Anaïs said, but she was giggling too hard to sound sincere.

Noel shook his head, still laughing softly, and reached into his pocket. “Lucky for you, I grabbed some tissues before we left,” he said, pulling a slightly crumpled packet out. He stepped closer, unfolding one and holding it up to your cheek. “Stay still, yeah?”

You blinked as he dabbed at the mud on your face, his touch surprisingly gentle. The closeness caught you off guard and your cheeks warmed as his brow furrowed in concentration.

“There we go,” he muttered, stepping back slightly but still far closer than you’d expected.

Before you could find something to say, Anaïs chimed in excitedly.“kiss! kiss! kiss!”

Both of you froze, eyes wide. “What?” you and Noel said in unison, glancing at each other before turning back to her.

“Please!” Anaïs pleaded, her little hands clasped together. “Just like in the movies!”

Noel’s eyebrows shot up, and he looked at you, his lips twitching as if he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or protest. “She’s got a wild imagination, hasn’t she?” he said, his voice a little tight.

You bit your lip, your own face heating up. “Well,” you said, trying to play it cool, “if the princess requests…”

Noel’s eyes locked with yours, then, as if on some unspoken agreement, he leaned in. The kiss was soft and brief, a tentative brush of lips, but it was enough to make your heart skip a beat.

Anaïs erupted into cheers, clapping her hands as she spun in the puddle. “Yay!”

You and Noel broke apart, both of you laughing nervously as your cheeks burned. “Happy now, then?” he asked her, ruffling her hair.

“Very happy!” she declared, beaming up at you both.

Noel turned back to you, his expression shifting to something softer. “As much as I’m not gonna make a habit out of puddle jumpin’,” he said, his voice quieter now, “I’d gladly make a habit out of this.”

Your breath caught, his words hanging in the air between you. You smiled, feeling a bit dazed but undeniably happy. “I’d gladly let you make a habit out of it,” you replied, leaning in to peck him on the lips again.

Anaïs clapped her hands once more, clearly delighted. “Does that mean she’s gonna come over more often?”

Noel chuckled, glancing at her and then back at you. “Yeah,” he said, his voice warm. “Definitely.”

Anaïs cheered, running ahead as you and Noel fell into step beside each other, both of you smiling like fools.

________________________________________

Right, as promised, here’s the Noel version. Didn’t wanna just nick the Liam fic, so I came up with this for today. Proper cute to write, hope you lot are into it.

And no worries, I didn't forget about all the other requests—day off tomorrow, so I’ll scribble me arse off for ya, swear down xx

[thecapricunt1616]

Promptober Day 7 👻

𝐁𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐛 (𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐮𝐭): 6 weeks. It had been 6 weeks since Carmy had left you without a word. You had felt it coming, though. He had become more flighty, stopped answering your texts- stopped coming over at random hours of the night after he’d gotten off work. You had been completely and utterly ghosted.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: WEEEEEEEE!!!! Welcome to day SEVEN of promptober! A whole week done already! Again, thank you so much for the love that everyone has been showing on the prompts for kink&promptober up to now! As always,  you can view my schedule & masterlist for this celebration right 🦇here🦇! You can also view the same for my 2024 Kinktober celebration right 🎃here🎃! & If you'd like to be added to the taglist for either celebration, comment on the according masterlist & I will add you! PS - Can you guess what song this blurb is based off of? Hehe 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 750+ 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Sad Carmy, Swearing, No use of y/n 𝐃𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐬: @/𝐒𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐤𝐚-𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐬

6 weeks. It had been 6 weeks since Carmy had left you without a word. You had felt it coming, though. He had become more flighty, stopped answering your texts- stopped coming over at random hours of the night after he’d gotten off work. You had been completely and utterly ghosted. 

All that though, for his location to still be on for you. When you were feeling extra depressed, or angry- you would go look at it. 9 times out of 10, it was at The Bear, or his Apartment. Tonight though was different, some bar a few blocks from your apartment ; The Black Dog. 

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. Another lie. You thought to yourself. Due to Donna’s problems- Carmy had sworn to you he never drinks anything other then beer now and again, and only 2 and max 3 if it’s his birthday. He also claimed to hate bars, so why was he there- when there are fucking flood warnings it was pouring out so hard no less. 

You put your phone down, crossing your arms and getting back into your current show you’d been hyperfixating on. A couple of hours later, just as your eyelids had started to feel heavy you heard a rattling at your window, causing you to jump and squeak in fear sitting up quickly. 

Your dog sits up quickly, pinning his ears back and growling as you got up and heard a slurred “‘s me- f-fuckin freezin’ out ‘ere” before more tapping and you rushed over to the window to see Carmy there soaked like a wet cat with a tipped pink nose and bright wind nipped cheeks. You open up the window at record speed, helping him in 

“What in the fuck are you doing here?!” You scolded, grabbing his shaking ice like fingers and bringing them to your lips, blowing your warm breath over them. You could literally hear his teeth chatter. 

“Uh- sh-shit um. I c-couldn’t drive m’sloshed n’the L is closed cause the rain n’m too far from home to walk and I was thinkin’bout you” he manages to get out between quick panting, shivering breaths. You shook your head, dragging him to the bathroom and plugging the tub to start him a hot bath. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Carmen? I don’t even know where to start” you said and he sighed, closing his eyes and he swayed a bit where he stood, grabbing onto the towel rack to steady himself. 

“Uhhhh-“ he hiccups “actually ‘er like why did I do what I did?” He asked stupidly, drunkenly as you pour in epsom salt for his likely to be sore muscles tomorrow after running (and likely tripping and falling due to the tear in his knee of his jeans) in the pouring rain. 

“Why the fuck we’re you drinking?” You asked, “arms up” you ordered and he held his arms over his head as you tug off his white shirt that was stuck to his body 

“Cause Mikey killed ‘emself 2 years ago” he hiccuped again “and I was thinkin’bout him and then I thought about if he knew you and uh….” He trailed off watching as you delicately removed his Saint Anthony chain from around his neck, placing it on the counter. 

“And what?” You asked, undoing the button on his jeans and he started to chuckle, shaking his head 

“What was I saying?” He asked “your hands went around my neck  and then near my dick and I just… poof all my thoughts are gone” he said, giggling drunkenly which caused you to laugh at just how adorable he sounded, smiling and speaking about his thoughts so openly was a side you’d never seen of him before. 

“I think it’s time for you to take a bath, because you’re gonna get hypothermia. I’m not touching you tonight, Carmy. Not like that” you told him and he pouted a bit as you tugged his wet jeans down his hips and helped him step out of them so he wouldn’t fall on his face and he huffed. 

“I deserve it. I’m kinda surprised that you opened the window- you’re too good to me” he slurred as you helped him get lowered into the bath and he sighed in relief as the warm water covered his skin, sinking down up to his shoulders and closing his eyes. You gently brushed the wet hair from his eyes, strings of it sticking to his forehead that you carefully slicked back with your nails

“I know, but I missed you too much to ignore you”

Fin

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[charles-smith-pillow-princess]

:D what about when charles has to deal with himself during the two years arthur's recovering and they can't touch each other... >:) does he try to hide it and deal with it alone in the barn or is arthur forced to watch since he cant participate >:)

Arthur stirred, sitting up at the sound of Charles pulling his boots on by the door.

The other man was hardly dressed—just his union suit, with his heavy wool coat pulled hastily over his shoulders. His hair was still in the tight braid that he wore for sleep, fly-aways gleaming in the flickering light cast by the low fire in the hearth. In the gentle shadows cast by the bright moon through the cabin’s windows, Arthur could see the unmistakable outline of Charles’ cock straining against the worn red wool of his drawers.

“Don’t,” Arthur rasped, impulsive.

Charles startled, looking up with wide eyes. There was a hint of desperation to him that made Arthur want nothing more than to sink his teeth into the soft triangle of skin bared at his collar.

“Arthur,” Charles breathed, hands stilling on his bootlaces. “I’ll just—” he started, eyes guilty over the cotton of his mask. “It’ll be fast, okay?”

“Don’t know that I’d admit to that,” Arthur joked, then swallowed. He sat up straight in the bed, locking eyes with his lover. His man, off to handle himself in the barn like his need was some sort of dirty secret.

They’d been dancin’ around this for months now. Arthur didn’t consider himself particularly hot-blooded, but he had needs. And so did Charles. Needs that, under the circumstances of Athur’s infectious illness, they’d both been struggling to meet.

Arthur let out a slow breath. “Stay, will ya?”

Charles glanced aside, conflicted. Arthur imagined he was biting his lip, the fullness of it dimpled under the white of his teeth. “Know I can’t do that.”

Arthur hunched forward, hands clenching in the bed spread. He knew, objectively, he wasn’t alone in his wants. That the enforced isolation of his illness was drivin’ Charles just as crazy as it was drivin’ Arthur.

Still, it was a novel thing. To feel wanted. Arthur hoped he never got used to it.

“We don’t gotta touch,” Arthur bargained. “Don’t even have to be on the same bed. Just…” Arthur took a shallow breath. Knew that if he coughed, even once, Charles would be out the door like a shot. Ever since his flare up a few weeks back Charles had been skittish as a cat with a burning branch tied to its tail, twitching and nervous at Arthur’s every little cough and wheeze.

It was sweet, but it wasn’t a way to live.

“Lemme watch?” Arthur asked.

Charles blinked, straightening. Precious confusion furrowed his brow. “Watch?”

“Sure,” Arthur said. Maybe it’d bite him in the ass, watchin’ Charles handle himself. Maybe watching would be even worse than imagining it, the way Arthur had every other time Charles had snuck out near midnight to jerk himself off in the barn. “And I can—can talk you through it.”

“You sure?” Charles’ brow climbed to his hairline, dubious. “Might just make it worse.”

“I’ll sit on the chair,” Arthur offered. It was a coin flip, whether he'd be able to even get hard. “Long as you stay on the bed, should be good.” He paused, swallowing. He could see the line of tension in Charles’ own shoulders now, the continued straining of his cock against his union suit. Knew he had the other man half won-over.

“Don’t know if I can stop myself if you’re next to me,” Arthur said, over-honest.

Charles looked like nothing more than a rabbit that didn’t mind bein’ caught. His pupils were blown wide, eyes dark in the shadows cast by the flickering hearth. “Hell, Arthur—”

“Please, darlin’,” Arthur said, breaking. He didn’t beg for much, as a rule. But he couldn’t stand the thought of Charles—his wonderful, beautiful Charles—roughly handling himself in the lonely cold of the barn. Not for Arthur’s sake. “It's freezin’ out there.”

Charles ducked his head, shoulders rising with a deep breath. His long fingers clenched over his knees, drawing the thin wool of his drawers tight over the thick muscles of his thighs.

“Okay, Arthur,” he said, finally, glancing up with a longing, nervous look in his eyes. “Lets try it.”

(continued here on AO3)

[under-the-dirt]

Hi Liv, my dear mutual, who is hopefully warm right now, it's 29°F where I'm at, could I possibly have platonic 141 cuddles with reader to warm me up?

Take your time and stay warm :3

me too!!! i’m so cold here it’s actually 19 degrees right now. it’s so cold in my house at night and i wish i had a big man to cuddle so i wouldn’t suffer!!! i’d put my ice cold hands between his thighs and cuddle into his chest like ahhhh i wish my bf was built like one of the cod men.. <3

ALSO!! i’m making this one dif bc the last one was rly hard 2 write <3

pairing: taskforce 141 x gn!reader

tags: fluff, cold reader, cuddle puddle, sorry if i suck at writing gaz he’s the only one i don’t simp for </3 UNDER 13 DNI

Today was cold. Normally, you’d be okay, but the base’s heater was broken and you had no extra blankets to cuddle up with. You shivered beneath your thin blanket, curled up and cold.

John Price

You’re shivering in your room when he knocks on your door, opening it and seeing you all cold.

“Are ya cold?” You nod. “C’mere love.” He coos, crawling into your bed beside you, lifting the covers and climbing under. He wraps his large arms around your waist, calming your shivering almost instantly as his warmth seeps into you. You sigh as he pulls you to his chest, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead and wrapping the blankets tighter around you.

“Thank you,” You whisper, and he chuckles, the vibrations running through your body and causing you to smile as well.

“Oh it’s no problem, I’m a little chilly too,” He chuckles, resting his chin in your hair and closing his eyes.

Simon “Ghost” Riley

He knocks on your door, expecting to find you doing some work or dancing like you do, surprised when he sees your shivering beneath the covers. He’d known it was cold in the base, but he’d just gotten used to it. The cold never really bothered him. He’d always run rather hot, as he was a large man, so he didn’t need heaters and excess blankets. Who knew such a thing could become such a gift, able to warm you up!

He crawled into your bed, wrapping his arms around your waist, turning you to face him and pulling you to his chest as he rubbed your lower back gently. He pretended not to notice as you nuzzled into him, curling up in his arms like a cat, your shivering ceased and you now happy and warm. He responded to your whispered thanks with a grunt, although he was quite happy on the inside.

John “Soap” Mactavish

He’d been annoyed by the cold, always preferring to be warm and cozy. He’d assumed the same about you when he saw you shivering in a hoodie around base before retreating to your room, not leaving for anything. So, why wouldn’t he go help out his little bird?

He opened your door, and as expected, you were shaking like a leaf beneath your thin blankets.

“Ye mus’ be freezin’ wi’ those thin blankets, aren’ ye?” He chuckles, tossing off his shoes and climbing into your bed, pulling you close to his chest. “Feelin better, aye?” He asks, and you respond with a nod.

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Anytime, lovie.” He coos, closing his eyes as you nuzzle into his arms and fall asleep.

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

He knew, after seeing you grab a blanket and run off to your room, that you were freezing. They all knew it was cold, you were just more susceptible, he supposed. So, naturally, he went to your room to find you hiding beneath your blankets, teeth chattering.

“Oh love, all cold aren’t we?” He coos, climbing into your bed and rubbing your arm. “Don’t worry.”

He climbs beneath the covers, turning you to face him and pulling you into his chest and stroking your hair gently as you fall asleep.

“There we go, much better,” He chuckles, and you nod.

“Thank you.”

“No problem, love.”

AHHH I WAS SO SCARED TO WRITE GAZ!!! IDKHOW BC I DON’T LOOK INTO HIS CHARACTER ALL THAT MUCH WASAHHH SOMEONE HELP ME IMPROVE MY GAZ WRITINGF anyways that’s a fun one!! asks cleared finally and i can stop feeling bad abt it!!