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cuubism · 5 months ago

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home for the season (2.5k) (E)

some more Hope/Morpheus reverse AU, aka my most self-indulgent special little blorbos

Hope's favorite season is spring. Morpheus thinks this is horribly cliche, and has told him so. What's your favorite season, then, you Prince of Night? Hope had of course quipped back. Winter, I assume?

Morpheus had found himself blushing. ...Summer, he had admitted at length. Morpheus struggled to stay hopeful at the best of times, and in winter, in the dark, the cold, the late mornings and early evenings, it was even harder to find his way. Seasonal depression, he supposed. But summer...

It reminds me of you, he had said. How I feel... when I am with you.

Sweaty and overheated? Hope had said, but his expression was... Morpheus almost couldn't look at it directly.

Yes, Morpheus had said, and blinded by light.

Now it is winter, and Hope has been gone for three weeks. He is often gone. The other Endless, Hope has told him, have realms to tend to, actual places in the universe. Hope has no realm in that sense, his realm is the world, and the space among its creatures. Which gives him leave to live with Morpheus, but he cannot just stay in London all the time. He must go elsewhere, to places where he is very much needed.

Sometimes Morpheus goes with him, but he tires of so much travel. He has worked hard to build a tiny space in the world where he feels comfortable and it is difficult to be away from it for long. But more than that... he does not want to burden Hope when he is performing his function. He knows well that when he is there, Hope feels that he needs to... tend to him. To make sure he is okay. And Hope has other things he needs to be doing. Others he must tend to. Morpheus does not want to stifle him. Hope should be free. He was trapped once. Morpheus won't be the one to do it again.

He has not voiced any of that to Hope. Hope would only argue with him, or feel bad for needing to leave to perform his function. It is what it is. Morpheus has chosen to love someone so much grander than human, and that means he cannot always have him.

He misses him, though. He misses him so much, and especially in winter. He does not know how he survived decades between their meetings in the past.

But he persists. Because he loves Hope. And loving Hope is hard. It's so hard. But it's worth it.

It's been another two weeks--five total, now, since Hope left on his most recent voyage--two weeks of cold January wind and Morpheus spending his evenings huddled before the fireplace because he still can't quite get used to central heating, it is not as comforting--when Hope returns.

Morpheus is asleep, and is woken by a crashing sound in his living room, and Hope's quietly uttered fuck as he presumably stumbles back to his feet. Morpheus jumps out of bed and runs into the living room. He does not jump or run, usually, but for Hope, he does.

Hope looks up at him guiltily from where he's straightening an end table he'd knocked over in his rapid arrival. Hope does not need to travel by mortal means, he just appears. But he does not always have the best spatial awareness. "Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you."

"Please, feel free to teleport straight into my bed and wake me as much as you wish," says Morpheus.

Hope grimaces, plucking at his shirt. "I'm all gross, though.”

"I don't care."

Hope is not wrong about being 'gross': his white t-shirt is soaked in sweat, his hair and face covered in dust. Morpheus does not know where he's been. Selfishly, he doesn't want to. If he asks, Hope will doubtless tell him some horrible tale of suffering that may even end with Hope himself murdered in an atrocious manner. Something which cannot kill him, but which Morpheus finds distressing to hear about nevertheless. It's selfish to not want to hear it. But he has never been a very selfless person.

What he does do is hug him. This, too, feels selfish, though he doesn't know why.

"I should really shower," Hope says, but lets Morpheus hold him, and sighs when Morpheus cradles the back of his head. His anxious thoughts never seem to care that Hope cannot be killed. Morpheus worries for him anyway. Hope cannot be killed, but he can suffer. Has suffered.

"I am glad you are safe," Morpheus says.

"I'm always safe," Hope says. This is patently untrue. But Hope does not always like to talk about his past imprisonment.

Morpheus presses his nose into his shoulder. Hope smells like sweat and grime and dry heat. Morpheus just holds him tighter.

"Alright?" Hope asks, and Morpheus nods.

"I have missed you."

"Ah." Hope kisses his temple. "I missed you too, darling."

Morpheus indulges himself in holding him for another few moments. Then says, “You will want that shower, I imagine.”

“Yeah. Come with me? I did wake you up, though, so if you wanted to go back to sleep—”

“I will come with you,” Morpheus says. He won’t sacrifice his limited time with Hope for mere sleep. He can sleep the rest of his life, when Hope isn’t there.

“Good,” Hope says, with a smile, then takes his hand and draws him to the bathroom.

Morpheus is quiet while they bathe. This isn’t necessarily unusual for him, he’s reticent by nature, but still it pings something in Hope’s awareness. Then again, Hope did wake him up in the middle of the night, so maybe Hope is just overthinking. He’s quite good at that.

“Alright?” Hope asks, and Morpheus sighs.

“I miss you when you aren’t here,” he says.

It’s almost funny, the contrast between his always-solemn voice and the shampoo suds stuck in his hair, but Hope doesn’t laugh this time. “I know, darling. I’m sorry.”

“Especially in winter,” Morpheus continues, and then Hope feels stricken.

Oh. How did he not think of it? Winter is always difficult for Morpheus, the cold and early nights make it harder than ever for him to manage his depression. Hope can’t believe he thought it was a good idea to leave him alone.

“Oh,” he says, voice small, guilt rising. “Oh, I should have stayed with you, love, I’m—”

Morpheus stops him with a finger to his lips.

"You do not belong to me, Hope," he says quietly.

"Kind of do," Hope says.

"You belong with me," Morpheus says. A subtle but important correction. "At least, I should like to think so. I miss you. But I should hate myself were I ever to stifle you. It would be far worse.”

“Being with you isn’t stifling to me,” Hope protests, but Morpheus just keeps giving him that serious look. He sighs. “Fine. I understand what you mean. I can’t stay here all the time. But. I don’t like to think of you just here, hurting.”

It breaks his heart, it does, to think of Morpheus alone. He knows Morpheus survived centuries meeting him only once every hundred years, but still. It doesn’t mean he should have to.

“I am only being dramatic, do not change your behavior on account of my stupidity," Morpheus says, but his eyes look wet. "You have done nothing wrong."

"Can I at least give you a hug?"

Morpheus nods, and Hope pulls him into his arms. Soap smears between them, water slips, but Hope holds him tighter.

“Are you well?” Morpheus asks. “I do not even want to think about what horrible place you may have been.”

“No place is horrible, only its circumstances,” says Hope. “I won’t tell you about it, don’t worry.” The last thing Morpheus needs is more heavy things weighing on his mind. Besides, Hope is used to this. Being with Morpheus is enough of a salve for his wounds.

“Later, perhaps, you can tell me about the not-so-horrible parts of your journey.”

Hope kisses the side of his head, and gets a mouthful of shampoo. “Oof. Let me rinse your hair, you’re more soap than man.”

Morpheus submits to this, bending down so Hope can scrub his hair, and when he’s properly rinsed they both tumble out of the shower, tired, and dry off, and then Morpheus, taking charge of the situation once more, takes Hope to bed. Hope cuddles up to him, relishing in the touch of skin to skin.

“I’m glad I have you to come home to,” Hope tells him, lips pressed to his throat. Once upon a time he would just wander place to place, making friends wherever he went but never staying. He couldn’t have known how good staying might feel.

“Even when you are gone,” says Morpheus, haltingly, “you always give me a reason to stay.”

Hope kisses him, lightly at first and then deeper, sinking into Morpheus’s mouth. Morpheus is a lovely kisser, firm and sure and passionate. Hope curls a hand around his rib cage as they move together, and Morpheus tugs him closer by his hip, presses them up against each other, Hope’s leg slung over his, bodies entangled.

Morpheus’s tongue sweeps into his mouth. Fates, how Hope wants him right now, his surety. He wants Morpheus to command him to stay with his body, tempt him into putting down his sword, at least for the night.

Morpheus parts from his mouth to murmur in his ear. “You are beautiful,” he says, that low rumbling voice that Hope hears soothing him in dark moments. “When I am without you, you live in my every dreaming moment; these are more valuable than waking moments, you understand.”

He reaches a hand between them, wraps his long fingers around Hope’s hardening cock. Hope sucks in a sharp breath.

“Dreaming moments are more valuable?” he echoes.

“They are where... where I feel I am alive. Where I can create, and where I see shadows, but also light. And in every dash of sunlight I see you.”

“My tragic poet,” Hope murmurs, the words shuddering over the steady motion of Morpheus’s hand on him. It’s a soothing, sleepy way of working him, drawing Hope inexorably towards him like the pull of the deep sea. “I believe you are still wooing me.”

“I must.” Morpheus’s hips tilt in, his cock sliding against Hope’s, bellies rubbing. They move languidly together under the covers, warmth building between them. Morpheus takes them both in his hand and works them together; Hope just holds onto him. “I must. I must have you know. And see. You must see it.”

“I do,” Hope says, but he’s not sure he does. It’s hard to truly get inside Morpheus’s head. He does his best, but his understanding of Morpheus’s feelings is always imperfect.

“You must.” He twists his grip, drawing a gasp from Hope, who thrusts into his hand, seeking pleasure. Fates but it feels good to have something good and sweet and nice after the turmoil he’s wandered through these past weeks. He sinks into Morpheus’s touch, closing his eyes as they rock slowly together.

“Are you falling asleep on me?” Morpheus teases, as Hope just sighs, leaning into him.

“Your touch could lull me to sleep,” Hope says. But the edge of pleasure is just bright enough that he wants to chase it rather than truly fall into it. He twines his fingers through Morpheus’s hair, brings their lips back together. Kisses him as Morpheus builds the pleasure between them, strokes his thumb over him. Hope tugs on his hair, pulling a moan from Morpheus’s throat, bites it from his mouth, brings him ever closer with his heel hooked around the back of his leg. Being with him is sweet, and warm, and makes Hope shiver, the release of the tension he’s carried in him since he left. He gives himself over to Morpheus’s hands and it’s such a gift. If Morpheus thinks he is the only one gaining hope from being together he is wrong.

“Morpheus,” he breathes, as Morpheus’s lovely hands bring him quietly over the edge. He shudders, hands tightening in Morpheus’s hair. Morpheus strokes him through it, touch light. Moves close to press their bodies together and grinds into the crook of Hope’s hip. Hope tucks his face into his shoulder, breathing hard as Morpheus brings himself off against his skin. He moves so beautifully, he is so beautiful, Hope doesn’t know how he ever manages to leave him.

Morpheus comes with a gasp, and not long after Hope feels tears on his cheek, pulls back to look but Morpheus only shakes his head, eyes wet.

“Ignore me,” he says, when Hope meets his gaze.

“I could never. Your pain is too loud to me for that.”

Morpheus huffs. “I am not in pain.” Hope just holds his gaze, and Morpheus concedes, “I simply do not want you to go.”

“Not going anywhere for a while,” Hope tells him, though the thought pains him as well. He wishes so much, in this moment, that he could just stay with Morpheus. But when he stays too long, when he’s idle, he feels his function itching at him. He’s not meant to be only in one place, no matter how much he loves that place.

“I’ll always come back to you,” he says, not for the first time.

Morpheus presses his forehead to his. “I know. And I will persist, and think of you when you’re gone.”

“Oh, darling.” Hope takes him into his arms, heedless of the mess that’s still between them. Morpheus clings to him, wraps all his limbs around him. The press of his body is soothing. Hope does get lonely while he’s away. He makes friends during his travels, but no one is a substitute for his Morpheus.

“How about this,” he proposes. “I’ll try to come back to you more often in winter, when it’s hard, hm? Fates know I miss you anyway.”

Morpheus nods. “I would be. Amenable to that.” He runs his fingers through Hope’s hair, kisses his lips. “For now, you must sleep. And so long as you are still here in the morning, I will be at peace.”

“I’ll make you breakfast,” Hope promises, for Morpheus, the nocturnal creature, is never awake in the morning. Hope usually rises with the sun.

“See that you do,” Morpheus says, and settles down heavy against him. Hope does a little subtle magic to clean up so he won’t have to move him again, then draws the blanket over them, banishing the remaining winter chill. In the morning, he’ll light the fire, because he knows they both like it, Morpheus especially. And they’ll cuddle up and pretend for a moment that every day is like this, that their time together doesn’t wax and wane with the turn of the seasons, that Hope doesn’t have to go and Morpheus doesn’t have to struggle. In those fleeting moments, reality, fears, duty and heartache are put aside and all that’s left is their love underpinning it all, all that’s left is them.

#dreamling #reverse au #hope & morpheus #my writing #cw depression #this is barely dreamling to me anymore tbh. it's too separate now

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lefaystrent · 2 months ago

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Suspire

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Pairings: platonic LAMP

Summary: Roman's favorite weighted blanket is ruined.

Roman wouldn't say that he adjusts well. He merely finds ways to cope.

AO3 Link: click here

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It's just a blanket.

Roman is an adult. He has a job. He buys his own groceries, and he pays his portion of the rent on time. He keeps up with his student debt even when some months he hangs on by his fingernails.

It's just a single blanket.

Roman has other things in his life to be happy about. He has his paintings and keyboard. He has his dearest friends whom he lives with. He's active in his local theater community and often lands roles. He has a roof over his head, parents who care for him, a brother who he can stand sometimes. A car that works.

It's just a fucking blanket.

That's what he tells himself over and over as he stares vacantly at the ripped threads. The tear that had been snagged wide open, and the weighted material inside quickly coming outside. He holds it, remembering the marvelous weight on his shoulders, the pressure on his back, the comfort it gave him. The security and warmth. The way he will never feel it again. How he can't go back and fix it.

He can't afford another one right now. It's one of those tight month's budget-wise. And even if he could, it would not be this one.

Roman holds his blanket and unravels alongside it.

***

Roman wouldn't say that he adjusts well. He merely finds ways to cope.

He takes longer showers. The sizzling pinpricks of water cascade over him, beating down on his shoulder blades. It's too hot, close to boiling, but the burn is nice even if his skin begs him to stop. If he stands directly under, it's almost encompassing. It's almost enough.

He wears more layers. Roman tends to add a jacket over any attire anyway. What's another sweatshirt under? Or a scarf tied protectively around his neck? It doesn't matter that this too is overheating. His bones are brittle, and he needs to wrap them somehow. The skin is not enough. It bruises far too easily.

The most embarrassing thing he tries is wedging his whole body into or under anything that may work as a substitute. He tears apart his room testing this and that and wants to cry in frustration as he lays on the carpet with his entire mattress smothering him. He steals all the pillows in the house when he's sure the others are out, and he piles them up. But burrowing into them is too soft and leaves him more frustrated. He crawls under the couch one day and nearly has a panic attack when the front door unlocks and Logan walks in. He plays it off as having lost the remote. He can't bear to admit the truth.

That is, until he's left with no other choice.

***

Roman sits at the dining table working on an art project involving thousands of multi-colored beads. His desk in his bedroom simply isn't large enough, so here he is.

Patton enters the kitchen behind him, and Roman knows its him by the smell of his eucalyptus scented shampoo. Then he sees freckled arms emerging over his shoulders, wrists adorned in friendship bracelets, and they snake around Roman's collarbone. Roman's hands fix in mid-air, eyes going blank as Patton presses up against his back and rests his chin on the top of Roman's head.

"You're so creative," Patton praises, and that alone could usually keep him comfortably warm long into the cold night. But everywhere that Patton touches him, every press of muscle and firm flesh, it scorches in the most pleasant burn.

"I can't wait to see it when it's done," Patton says, and Roman can feel the hum of his voice, how it vibrates his scalp and dances down the back of his neck. A shiver shoots up his back, and Roman cannot dedicate his attention to anything else if he tried.

Roman takes too long to respond, too frozen in his posture.

Patton notices. "Kiddo? You okay there? Was I not supposed to see?"

As if the art piece means a damn to him in this moment. What matters to him with eye-opening crystal clarity is that Patton's arms are loosening and his weight shifts so that he's not leaning against him as much. The loss of that is an incomparable grief.

Roman drops what he's holding, uncaring that some of the beads clatter off the side of the table to skitter across the floor. His hands clutch at Patton's wrists and fold them back around his neck. He draws the blessed weight against him once more, and he keeps it there, scared to let it go. Scared to be exposed once more.

"Roman?" Patton's tone is careful now, wary that something is wrong. His head settles back on top of Roman's, but his face nestles into the side of his hair, the edge of his glasses barely grazing. His voice whispers at his ear, "Did something happen?"

Yes, something happened. Roman's favorite weighted blanket is ruined and he's acting like a child about it. The shame excavates a pit in his stomach. There are depths to it that he doesn't wish to look at, let alone express.

"Can you–" Roman begins, but there's a lump caught in his throat. His voice sounds foreign to his own ears, too small and full of trepidation. He swallows and blinks rapidly. "Can you stay? Like this?"

"Hugging?" Patton asks to clarify. Roman doesn't think he's mocking him. Patton would never mock. He wouldn't judge. Not this. Never this. Please don't judge him for this.

"Mmhm," Roman hums, because if he doesn't use words he won't sound so pathetic, yet he immediately fails. The vocalization comes out high-pitched and needy, and tears spring to his eyes unbidden. He doesn't dare blink his eyes now.

Patton doesn't answer at first, and Roman is enormously relieved that they can't see each other's expressions. Roman fears what he would see on Patton's face, and if Patton could see him right now? He doesn't think he could hold on to his composure.

"Okay," Patton says, voice flower-petal soft. "We can stay like this. However long you want. I don't mind."

Patton skims his nose back and forth over Roman's hairline. His hands spread out, palms covering the top if Roman's chest. His hold is a cradle, gentle and safe, and it holds him together and doesn't let him fall apart. The arms tighten around him, compressing, and Roman holds them right back.

***

Patton becomes his saving grace.

He is wonderful in that he needs no explanation. His affections are given freely, without cost, whenever Roman needs them or even when he doesn't realize he needs them. Patton starts to hug him more often and cuddle him during movie nights. He ruffles Roman's hair as he passes by, or he grabs him by the hand when he's excited. Sometimes he'll trail his fingertips over Roman's face in lazy lines that set his mind at ease.

It's exhilarating.

Roman can't get enough. The need never ceases, and Patton is just one person. He cannot always be at Roman's beck and call. Patton has work and outings he leaves for, same as everyone else. And when he's home, it doesn't mean he's available at all hours. Like the middle of the night for instance.

Roman stands at Patton's firmly shut bedroom door like a sad dog. His fists tighten into the thighs of his sweatpants. What did he expect really? That Patton's door would be wide open at two in the morning? That he'd spy light on under the door and get the courage to knock? Patton said he was there for Roman any time, but that doesn't mean Roman gets to take advantage and disrupt his sleep schedule just because Roman is too pathetic to fall asleep without his blanket.

Patton has done so much for him lately. He's good like that, a saint. Roman can't monopolize him. It wouldn't be fair.

Then why does he continue to stand there in the dark hallway? A damsel in distress waiting for his prince to save him? Or hoping the door will magically open and he receive some form of pity.

He's worse than pathetic. He's absolutely rotten.

A sliver of light illuminates the hall, a door squeaking open. Roman nearly jumps out of his skin and looks behind him where Logan stands in the doorway to his own bedroom.

"Roman?" Logan says, looking just as surprised. "I didn't think you'd be up this late. Don't you have work in the morning?"

"Heyyy, Specs," Roman gets out tremulously. He scratches at the back of his head, searching for some excuse. Think of something, damn it. "I uh, yeah. I've got work in the morning. Just...out for a stroll."

"A stroll?" Logan repeats. His brow raises and he's giving Roman that look that he gives him all the time, like he's stupid and not worth his time.

Roman crosses his arms and stares down at his bare feet. "Yeah, I can stroll where I want. What are you, the hall monitor?"

"I never claimed to be, nor would I want to. You live here; walk where you wish."

"Good, I'm glad we've covered this," Roman replies. He whips his head up when Logan breezes by him down the hall. "Wait, where are you going?"

Logan sends him a bemused glance. "I was going to make a light snack before bed. Why are you following me?"

"Don't try to distract me and just answer the question!"

"I did, Roman."

"Oh... well, answer it again!"

That gets an actual snort out of Logan. Roman shuffles behind him into the kitchen as if locked in a gravitational pull. He watches him pull out a loaf from the bread box along with a tub of butter from the fridge. Roman dithers there observing, reluctant to leave. Logan must accept that Roman has no intention of leaving him alone because he gestures to the bread. "Want some?"

Roman looks between the spreadable butter and bread. "Are you just eating buttered bread?"

Logan rolls his eyes. "No, I was planning to eat buttered toast with jam. But if you're not interested..."

"No, you can make me some," Roman swiftly interrupts while trying to make it sound like it's something Logan should be honored to do.

Logan extracts another slice of bread. He plugs up the toaster oven. "So, couldn't sleep?"

"And what if I couldn't?"

Logan sighs, "Not everything is a challenge, Roman."

Roman shifts self-consciously and mutters, "Not with that attitude, Gay Jude."

Logan smiles a little bit after he inserts the bread to be toasted. "Ah, The Beatles. Would you like to hear some interesting facts about them?"

Roman has nothing else to do so he shrugs. Logan enlightens him while they wait for the little ding. Roman snags the jar of crofters out of the fridge before Logan gets a chance, and Roman smirks victoriously at him but spreads the jam on Logan's toast in apology. They eat and drink water, and Logan asks if he's going to go to bed now.

Roman's brows crease. "Actually, why are you up?"

Logan adjusts his glasses, a tell that he's been caught doing something of mild embarrassment. "I was reading a novel."

"That good, huh?" Roman quips with a grin. He and Logan share a surprising amount of similar taste for literature, so Roman doesn't doubt that the writing is less than phenomenal if it's enough to keep his favorite nerd up into the wee hours of the night.

"I would tell you about it, but then you would chide me for giving you spoilers whether or not you intend to read it."

"Mm, I probably will," Roman agrees.

"Then if you don't require anything else, I really must insist we both go to bed. It will be difficult enough to rise later this morning."

"What if I did require something else?" Roman suggests before he can bite his tongue.

And Logan, dependable Logan who at least always hears him out, turns to him fully. "I am all ears, as they say. Which is a ridiculous saying; we only have but two."

Roman doesn't laugh or tease as he usually would. And maybe that tips Logan off more than it should.

"Roman?" he prompts. Because he's so smart, he deduces, "Does this pertain to why you're up so late?"

Roman's gaze strays. It's dark in the kitchen. They didn't bother turning on a light, letting the streetlight guide them from outside the kitchen window. It's too obscured for Logan to see the heat in his cheeks or how he picks nervously at his nails.

Roman gnaws at the inside of his cheek. "It doesn't...not have to do with it."

"You're being vague. That's not like you."

"You don't know what I'm like."

"And you've been defensive. More so than usual. You are upset about something."

Roman just about chokes on air. "What?! No. Nooo, I'm not."

"Was it something I did?"

That punches Roman in the gut. The concern Logan is giving him, it knocks his feet right out from under him and has the truth spilling from his lips. "No, Logan, I just want a hug!"

Roman is infinitely more glad than ever that it's too dark to see. His face is on fire, and he can't look in Logan's direction.

"Happy now?" Roman asks bitterly.

"Roman, if you wanted physical affection, all you had to do was ask."

"What."

He's enveloped in a strong embrace.

Oh. Ohhhh.

Hugs are different. Different people give different hugs. Roman knows this, he does. He's had hugs throughout his life. He's not like, touch-starved or anything. It's just– it's like a reminder. A reminder with all the force of a slap to the face.

He had been so focused on Patton's hugs that he never thought to ask the others. Why would he? He never really did before. Things have just been hard since he lost his blanket, his comfort item. It's not usually like this. Roman's not usually like this, so dependent or desperate for attention.

In Logan's arms, he feels all of that melt away. In fact, his whole body melts into the embrace. A rush of air coaxes out from deep within his lungs as Logan's arms secure around his back. One hand hooks behind Roman's head and pulls him into the crook of his neck. The scent of Logan's faded cologne and laundry detergent fill his nostrils. There's lavender mixed with something else he can't distinguish but is wholly welcome and soothing.

Logan rubs circles into his back, and Roman leans heavily into him. Roman's arms raise like anvils hang off them, and it's all he can manage to circle them around Logan's waist and hang on for dear life.

"Is this satisfactory?" Logan asks. Roman might would answer him if not for the fingers scratching patterns into his scalp. His toes curl in bliss, and his mind sinks into fog. He buries his face further into Logan's neck and shoulder as if he can crawl into Logan's chest and hide there.

"I'll take that as a yes," Logan muses and squeezes him gently.

Roman doesn't make it back to bed for a while.

***

Logan joins Patton in the free affection initiative. Roman wonders if he and Patton discussed this or if Logan is doing it of his own volition. Either way, there is a definite increase in Logan's deviated mannerisms around Roman.

He pats him more on the back. He holds his hand when they sit next to each other. And there's a couple times Logan goes so far as to kiss his forehead. That left Roman blustering and bumbling like an idiot for hours after, because who is this person dressed like Logan? Surely not his nerd. Still, he can't deny the giddiness it evokes.

Things get a bit easier from there. The more it happens, the more he can normalize it. The more he normalizes it, the more he doesn't have to feel ashamed, right? If someone like Logan would go to the trouble...he doesn't have to feel silly about it, right? He can still be taken seriously?

Roman aches less for his blanket. The pain remains, but it's bearable. He feels less likely to break down in a sobbing mess, and that's progress. Right?

Virgil suspects something is going on.

It was bound to happen. He never stops watching out for them or simply watching them. If Patton hadn't accidentally found out about Roman's predicament, Roman thinks that Virgil would have been the first to suspect. As it is, Virgil observes the way that Patton and Logan act around Roman, and it's just enough different than normal. Just out there enough for him to see.

"Are you guys dating?" Virgil blurts out of the blue one day.

It's just the two of them at home, chilling on the couch together watching TV. Roman figured Virgil was having a bad anxiety day from the noncommittal responses he's been giving and how he keeps biting at his nails. Obviously, there have been other topics plaguing his thoughts.

"Who?" Roman asks, because really, who? Roman is single and proudly on a quest to love himself. Virgil knows this. Or at least, he thought he did.

Virgil squirms in his seat like he can't find a comfortable position. "Nevermind, just forget it."

"Well now I really can't forget it."

Virgil groans and buries his face into his hands. "You. And Logan, and Patton. Are you guys dating? If you are, it's whatever. I just would think you guys would tell me."

Roman gives him a semi-horrified look. Not all the way horrified, because Roman is a catch, and his friends are equally catch-worthy, but that's just... that's not how they are together.

"No? Why would you think that?"

Virgil gives him a look. "What else am I supposed to think? You guys have been acting all weird. You can't deny it. I'm not crazy. Or blind."

"Weird how? No seriously, I'm being for real."

"You know. Like all soft? And touchy feely?"

Roman can't help but quirk a smile at how awkward Virgil is acting, as if it pains him to say something so sappy. It's easy to fall into his confident persona. He leans in closer. "Aww, are you feeling left out, Emo?"

Virgil shoves him away. Not with his hand but with his leg because he has to be extra. "Okay, if you're just gonna be a dick about it, I can just go to my room."

And the bravado rushes out as quickly as it arrived. He doesn't want Virgil to leave, and he certainly doesn't want Virgil to entertain the notion that Roman is making fun of him maliciously.

Virgil stays long enough for Roman to fall into contemplation. Virgil peaks up at him and sees Roman looking back at him, completely serious.

"What?" Virgil asks, and there's a bit of a snarl there. Okay, Roman probably deserves that.

"We're not dating," Roman says quietly.

Virgil doesn't believe him. Or at least, he's suspicious of what's not being said. "Then what's up with you guys? Something's going on, and I..."

And Virgil isn't a part of it. He's on the outside looking in. More than that, he thinks they're excluding him on purpose.

Impulsively, Roman says, "Can I ask you something? In all seriousness?"

Virgil's eyes peer at him in narrowed slits, cautious and curious. Roman can see his inner debate, weighing his options of pushing Roman or letting it go or maybe even getting up to leave altogether. It'd be fair; Roman is answering him with a question of his own. Roman isn't sure he would be so patient, in Virgil's place.

But Virgil is more patient than people give him credit for. He nods. "Shoot."

Roman averts his gaze now, suddenly jittery with nervous energy. "Actually, it's more a question of asking you to do something. Can I ask you to do something? And you not laugh at me? Or think I'm weird? You can say no, of course, I just–"

"Roman. Ask away. The worst I can say is no, and I promise not to give you shit for it if I do."

Despite himself, Roman needs a little more assurance. He holds up his hand. "Pinkie promise?"

"Really dude?"

"Virgil, it is a sacred oath."

"Okay, fine, whatever." Virgil threads their pinkies together. "I promise not to be a jerk if you don't."

"Deal," Roman agrees.

"Now, what is it you want to ask me to do?"

"Will you lay on top of me?"

There's no going back. There's no pretending that he misspoke, even as Virgil tilts his head as if he must have heard him wrong. When Roman doesn't budge, Virgil goes stock-still, eyes slowly blowing up wide.

"Uh....what?"

Roman huffs, more frustrated at himself than anything else. "Would you lay on top of me?"

"No, I heard that. I'm just trying to process."

"Then yes or no. You don't need to say anything else. Just yes or no."

And because it's Virgil, he very much has to say anything else. "What do you even mean though? Why?"

Roman groans and waves towards the couch. "Just– you know, I lay on the couch and then you lay on top of me. It's not that complicated, so don't overcomplicate it."

"I overcomplicate going to get a glass or water, Roman. You can't tell me not to overcomplicate you randomly asking me to lay on you."

"I thought you promised you weren't going to be a jerk?"

"I'm not trying to be!" Virgil swipes at his face, his own aggravation mounting. Roman notices that his cheeks are dusted a light pink. "I just don't understand how this relates to anything or why you want me to..."

Roman shrugs sort of helplessly, smile sardonic. "I just do. There's...no trick that I'm playing at, if that's what you're wondering. I want you to lay on me, that's all. Nothing more, nothing less. So would you? No wrong answer."

Virgil looks away a couple of times. He thrums his fingers over his knees, tap, tap, tapping. "I mean, I guess?"

"You guess?"

"Sure then. I'll do it, even if I think I'm the last person you would want to cuddle or whatever, but you'll explain after that?"

"Cross my heart." Roman mimes the motion over his chest.

Virgil stands up. He doesn't move far, just stands there gripping the hem of his hoodie while looking lost. "So..."

Roman scoots down on the couch to where he lays back with his head supported by the couch arm, his legs stretching out along the cushions. He shoves away the embarrassment, the shame, the voice in his head asking what the hell he is doing. Virgil watches him closely, eyes squinted and trying to figure out how to approach.

"Get in here, Emo," Roman calls, holding out his arms.

Virgil grunts and clambers over him. He takes too long to figure out where to put one knee, and Roman adjusts. He spreads out a leg to make room and guides Virgil down. The sides of Virgil's jacket hang over him like a curtain as Virgil hovers in the air, afraid to rest fully against him.

"I'll be heavy," Virgil warns. "You're not going to be able to breathe."

"That's fine, I don't need to," Roman says, half-joking. He's more fixated on tugging at Virgil's shirt to get him to close that last foot of space.

"I better not hear you complain then," Virgil says and finally, finally, drops down on Roman, letting his full weight settle on him.

It's everything that Roman has missed.

Roman can sense Virgil's body from head to toe. Their legs, hips, stomachs, chest, shoulders, all of it pinging across Roman's nervous system at every point of contact. Virgil's arms are folded on either side of Roman's torso, and he can feel the lean limbs against his sides like a harness. Virgil nudges his head stiffly under Roman's chin, and Roman wraps his arms around Virgil's back and holds him tightly to complete the full body hug.

He's sinking into the cushions. His muscles release weeks' worth of tension, letting go and relaxing. He's delightfully sandwiched under Virgil's weight, warmed in his closeness. The warmth is dizzying, like little bumblebees buzzing serenely and drowning him in honey, so sweet and cloying. Virgil's hoodie is a pillow under his palms, and Roman can see why he wears the garment all the time. Roman would wear Virgil all the time if he could.

"Is this it?" Virgil asks, seemingly unimpressed by the magic surrounding them. "Is this what you wanted?"

Roman squeezes more. Virgil wasn't wrong, he's heavy but in the most incredible, indescribable way. Despite the pressure, it's like Roman can breathe again. It's perfect, exactly what he's been craving.

"Hug me any tighter and I'm gonna bruise," Virgil remarks lightly, and something about the words or the tone is more than Roman can take. He breaks.

A shudder shakes him as tears spill over in wet streaks dripping down, salty droplets catching in his mouth. It's abrupt and overwhelming, and it's all coming back to him. The grief, the embarrassment, the shame, the desperate need. He can't stop it, can't hide it. Virgil is right here, and if he doesn't hear the whimper that escapes him, he surely can't ignore when Roman full-on starts sobbing.

"Princey?" Virgil says and sits up quickly. He pushes himself up off of him, and the soothing, wonderful pressure is wrenched away. The cold air bites at his skin in its place. Roman's cries devolve into hysterics, and he can't catch his breath to save his life. Virgil is gaping at him. He sees him in all his wretched ugliness. "Oh shit, what's wrong? Roman? Hey, hey, shhh, don't do that. Please, look at me, why are you crying? Talk to me Roman, I won't laugh, I promise."

Words are beyond him. Roman clings weakly to Virgil's shirt, tugging at him, begging him not to leave with actions and desperation alone. How can he convey his heart shattering to pieces? Or his skin eating itself alive? Or his bones splitting down to the marrow? A keening cry pierces his eardrums. It's a sorrowful weep from his own lips, a sound he didn't think he could make. A sound he's heard in the background for a long time and thought would go away if he ignored it.

"Hey, I'm not going anywhere," Virgil lets out shakily, miraculously interpreting Roman's crazed antics correctly. He stays over Roman, caging him in sweetly with his body. His fingers come up to brush the tears away using the cuffs of his sleeve. "It's alright, sweetheart. Just breathe with me. You're okay, you're okay. I've got you."

Roman is not okay, and Virgil's wild darting eyes share the same sentiment, but if you say a thing enough times, it'll come true by sheer force of will. And if Roman can keep pulling at Virgil, maybe he will go back to crushing him softly.

"What do you want? Do you want this? We can keep laying here. That's okay, Princey. You're okay. You're doing so good, telling me what you need."

Virgil lowers back on him, chest to chest. Roman would hug him in relief if he wasn't too busy turning his face to the side and trying to cover up. He stifles his gasps against the back of his hand. Virgil, thankfully, doesn't pull away his defense. He presses at his chest clumsy and earnest, rubbing his hands over his collar, massaging comfort into him and encouraging him to focus on the motion, to breathe together.

Roman listens to him and hangs on to every word as he talks him through it. Virgil never stops. He speaks far more tenderly than Roman is used to, and it's more astonishing than Logan's recent developments. If Virgil acted like his prickly self, Roman could manage to pull himself together. But Virgil is being lovely in his sweetness, watching him with dark eyes that are ferocious with compassion. It's a gaze that says he'll tear the world apart to keep him safe. Roman doesn't deserve him.

"I'm sorry," Roman whines. It's not enough to sum up his sorrow, yet it's all he has to give.

Virgil looks impossibly more bewildered. He shakes his head and goes back to wiping the tears from Roman's face, so careful in his handling. "Roman, you have nothing to apologize for."

"I'm sorry."

"No, listen to me," Virgil demands and cups his face, making him look right at him. "Obviously, something is going on in that big head of yours. If something is going on, if this has to do with what's up with you and the others, then that's okay, we can talk about it. I'm here for you, man. But if you're apologizing for crying all over me, then I'm gonna affectionately kick your ass. I'd rather you cry here with me than you do it alone or keep it bottled in. That's not healthy. If your brain is telling you that you're a burden to me or something stupid like that, I'll kick your brain's ass too. It can't be mean to you, that's my job."

Roman startles into laughter. It's a sad wheeze more than anything, but Virgil picks up on that. He gives a hesitant, hopeful smile as he brushes his thumbs over Roman's cheekbones.

"There's my Princey. Just keep laughing. I'm a real funny dude."

More wheezy chuckles. More reasons to adore his friend.

"I'm gonna give Patton a run for his money. I've got jokes for days. Wanna hear about belts made out of watches? It'll be a real waist of time."

Roman giggles and leans into Virgil's hands. He closes his eyes.

"And I'll keep going if you want me to. I can do this all day, Princey."

"I'm telling Patton you gave me emotional pun support," Roman murmurs.

Roman can tell by Virgil's voice that he's grinning. "Do it. I'm not afraid."

He opens his eyes again. Virgil moves one of his hands to tuck under his own chin so he can look at Roman more comfortably. The other hand combs through Roman's bangs, straightening them.

"You called me sweetheart," Roman points out in an awed tone.

Virgil doesn't bristle like he expects. If anything, he hunkers down further in his stubbornness. "Yeah? So what?"

"You don't...usually do pet names."

"What can I say? I'm full of surprises."

"Is it weird if I said I liked it?"

Virgil lightly flicks his forehead. "It's only weird if you make it weird, sweetheart."

Roman sniffles and wipes at his face to rid himself of any lingering wetness. Virgil allows him time to breathe and get his bearings.

"It's the weight," Roman finally admits. "The warmth and the pressure. I mean, why I asked you to lay on me. I had a weighted blanket, but it got ruined. So Patton and Logan have been helping out where they can. It's easier when they're touching."

Virgil doesn't stop petting at his hair, but he does frown while he parses through his words. "What do you feel like without it?"

"Without the touching and my blanket? Umm, exposed I guess? Anxious. Cold."

"When you don't have your blanket or someone touching you, do you think about it a lot?"

"What do you mean?"

Virgil shrugs, and Roman feels the movement and together with the hair petting, it's enough to have his eyelids flutter and threaten to close. "I mean, when you haven't had that in a while, does it consume your thoughts? Like you're longing for it?"

Roman remembers the night he stood outside Patton's door in the hallway.

All the time. He longs for it all the time these days.

"Yeah," Roman whispers.

"Dude, I think you're touch-starved."

That throws Roman for a loop. "But... I touch people enough? It's not like I'm going years without a hug over here."

Virgil boops him on the nose. "It's doesn't take years. Could just take weeks. Depends on the person I guess. Everyone needs things differently. I think you liked your blanket so much because you were using it to substitute touch. And now that you're starting to get touch more often, your body is trying to adjust. It's like going from eating bread crusts to a full course meal."

"But I..." Roman's mind drifts. Virgil's words resonate as he compares them to his memories.

Yearning, heartache, misery, clinginess, pressure, satisfaction, grief. Is this what's been wrong with him?

"I'm touch-starved?" Roman asks.

Virgil gives him a sympathetic smile. He pats at his head. "I think so. It's not so bad. We can help you."

"You will?"

Virgil snorts and adjusts his position so he's laying more comfortably on Roman, like he's bedding down for the long-haul. "I'm not moving from this spot until dinner at the earliest."

Virgil makes good on his promise. Their roommates come home to find them there, napping the afternoon away. When they wake to the smell of cooking meat, they drag themselves up from the couch and shake the blood back into their limbs. The four of them sit at the table that night to eat and talk.

Roman opens up.

And when he eventually has the money to spare, he doesn't buy a new blanket.

He doesn't need one anymore. He has them.

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sunshine-and-moonshine · 1 year ago

Text

Cod Sex Bot Au - Random Blurbs

Requested: Yes [Hi! Just found out about your blog and I think I just bingeread almost all of your fics, your writing is actually really captivant ! Especially your "CoD sex bots au". Can we please PLEASE have a part 3 ? Maybe more of Price, Gaz, Roach and Rudy? DONT FORGET TO TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF AND DRINK WATER!!!]

Warnings: Abundant Fluff

A/N: I didn’t really know what to do so I just did some random little blurbs

Price

Price huffs as his glowing eyes meticulously scan over your messy room, mechanical pupils narrowing at your back as you remain happily oblivious, too focused on your game to even notice his presence. Not until his hands were on the back of your gaming chair, dragging it back a bit before promptly yanking away your controller and headset then scooping you out of the chair, heading towards the living room.

“Hey! Wait! I wasn’t finished!” You yelp, trying to wiggle away to no avail, his metal arms tight around you, keeping you nice and secure. “Damn it! You’re a bot, I’m pretty sure you can’t just manhandle me like this!”

“You are now.” He says, kicking the door to your room shut behind him, using his connection to your advanced home system to lock it behind him, on the off chance you actually managed to sneak away from him. “You’re eating something, something that doesn’t come out of a snack bag, then you’re showering and going to bed. It’s almost midnight.” He tells you sternly.

“You’re not my dad.”

“No, but I wouldn’t mind if you wanted to call me Daddy.”

Gaz

Gaz’s eyes watch you carefully as you mix whatever it was that was in the pot, his curiosity peaked but you wouldn’t let him even glimpse into it. Said it was a surprise. And he didn’t want to ruin all your hard work so he obliged, not that it wasn’t frustrating though. He wasn’t ever very patient.

But he’s pretty sure that it’s worth it when you sit him down, your smile all big and happy as you set a plate full of steaming hot food in front of him, eagerly awaiting for him to dig in and give his opinion.

“It’s delicious!” He tells you happily, his own smile just as bright and full of life.

You looked so happy at his statement that he just couldn’t bring himself to tell you that he didn’t actually have any taste sensors, and he swears to take the secret to his robot grave.

Roach

Roach stares down at you as you lay on the floor, your eyes unfocused and seemingly looking at nothing in particular. He poked your cheek to try and get a reaction out of you and it seemed to work as you scrunch your nose up cutely.

“What are you doing?” He asks you, his hands slow and unsure. He wasn’t supposed to ask questions but….he just couldn’t help himself when it came to you. He wanted to know more about you, about what went on in your mind.

“Staring into the void, wondering when it will swallow me whole and relinquish me from all of life’s burdens.” You say, rather nonchalantly. It made him chuckle and he shook his head at you.

“But I’d be lonely if you went to the void.” He signs, his eyes soft despite being made of metal and glass. “Don’t leave me behind.”

“Don’t worry, Roach. You can come with me. It’s you and me against the world.” You say, and his fans kick into high gear as his face reddens, system overheating.

He was….happy.

Rudy

Rudy grumbles when you turn away from him in your sleep, rolling onto your belly, spread out like a starfish. He peeked his eyes open, night vision mode taking over his eyeballs. He frowned, wondering what awoke him from his powered down mode.

He turned to you, a bit pouty when he saw how far away you were. Sure, he wasn’t the most comfortable thing to lay on, being made of metal and all, but he liked it when you cuddled up to him.

His hand reaches out, touching your cheek gently, amazed by how you lean into his touch, into his warmth. He’d never been more glad to be built with lifelike heating systems.

He brings you closer to him again, his arms wrapping around you to keep you from getting away again, his cheek brushing against your neck before kissing it lovingly. He was glad that he was yours.

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seramilla · 5 months ago

Note

So in divorced au Sera gave Carmilla her number and I wonder how long it takes Carmilla to call and how Sera reacts.

It's hot, it's muggy, and Carmilla and the girls have been active all day. Odette and Clara want to go snorkeling that afternoon, despite already spending the entire morning on the beach. Carmilla thinks it might be good to go to the spa alone without them...or maybe head back to the room and get all the sand out of her swimsuit first. Yeah, that would probably be wise.

As soon as she enters their suite, the feeling of the air conditioner on full blast almost makes her moan as it hits her overheated skin. She'd reapplied sunblock at least twice during their escapades, so she shouldn't be getting a sunburn. But she's still hot all over, and jumps into a cold shower with her swimsuit on, working out all the itchy sand from places she'd rather not think about.

When she gets out, she redresses in an adorable little sundress, and looks at the resort schedule. Women's time at the hotel spa is reserved for later that evening. That should allow her to chill in the room for a couple of hours, let the girls work off some more energy, and then they can all go together for manicures and facials. She lies on the hotel bed, sighing heavily into the plush sheets. This week has been crazy...a good kind of crazy, but she's still a little too wound up to relax.

Her phone buzzes on the bed next to her. It's Odette. Apparently, she and Clara had met some other young adults staying at the hotel and decided not to go snorkeling. Now they want to "hang out" for the rest of the afternoon with their new friends. Carmilla groans. She didn't bring them to this place so they could spend time away from her...this was supposed to be their vacation, damn it!

But...she thinks back to when she was that age. Kids will be kids. They are just newly adults, almost drinking age, and experiencing new things...she doesn't know whether a few hours of independence will make that much of a difference to their plans.

"You are not to leave the resort grounds," Carmilla texts back sternly. "You don't know these people."

"Fine, Mom," Odette says. She can practically hear her daughter grumbling to herself over text. "We're just getting lunch at the hotel restaurant, okay? Then we might go to the arcade. It's right next door."

"Two hours. That's it." Carmilla texts. "Your phone is charged? You know how to reach me in case of an emergency?"

"Yes, Mama," Odette confirms. "We know. Your number and 911 are both on speed dial, I promise."

"Two hours," Carmilla reiterates again. "Then back up here. Not five minutes longer."

Odette texts her a thumbs-up emoji, followed by a, "Got it. Love you, Mama!" Carmilla leaves it at that.

Carmilla wonders how she's going to spend the next few hours now. She thinks about taking a nap, but no, she's definitely too wound up to do that. That's entirely out of the question while her brain is working a mile a minute worrying about the girls. She looks over at the bedside table, where she'd left her room key, searching for the TV remote.

Instead, she finds that slip of paper the hotel manager had given her. The one with her name and phone number written on it...her handwriting is so delicate. The lines are so distinct and curved, and they have a playful little swirl to them, like she's trying not to write in cursive and not quite succeeding. There's even a little...is that a heart? It's very subtle, but it looks like a heart joining the "A" or her first name and "E" of her last name.

Sera Espinosa. It has a nice, melodic ring to it. Carmilla thinks...why the fuck not? If the girls can have their fun, why can't she? It's not exactly a date, is it? Had that been Sera's intention? Sera had given her the number because she wants to be called. Or was that just for hotel emergencies, or something she needed during her stay?

Only one way to find out.

Carmilla dials the number on the paper, and after only the second ring, a soft, pleasant voice answers the phone, sounding a little concerned, and also a little tired, despite the friendly greeting.

"Good afternoon, Sera speaking!"

Carmilla swallows. "He-hello. This is Carmilla Carmine. Up in Room 4-D."

"Oh! Yes! Carmilla, hello!" There is some fumbling on Sera's end of the line, as if she's looking for something, or moving very fast. "Sorry, let me sit down... There we go. How are you? Do you need anything? Are you enjoying your stay?"

"Yes," Carmilla confirms, beaming at the happy inflection to the other woman's voice. Suddenly, she'd gone from sounding tired to genuinely happy to hear from here. "We are having a wonderful time. Your facility is exquisite. But I was just wondering...my girls are going to be busy this afternoon, and I have no plans until the spa opens. Would you care to...have a late lunch with me? I'd like to thank you for making me and my girls feel at home here. If you can't, that's fine...but I would be delighted to treat you."

Sera goes quiet for a few moments, and then answers in the affirmative, if not a little shaky and awkward.

"Oh-oh my....umm, yes! Yes, yes, of course I would! That would be so lovely! I know of a little café around the corner, if you'd like someplace less busy than the hotel restaurant. It's so crowded there at this time of day. Can I walk you over there once you come down?"

Carmilla's heart beats a mile per minute behind her breastbone. She hadn't been expecting Sera to be so welcoming and casual about all of this...nor had she expected to go on a...date today, if that's actually what this is. But she's not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"Sure...absolutely!" Carmilla responds, trying to hide the awkwardness in her own voice. "I would love that. Give me 5 minutes and I'll be ready to go. I'm looking forward to it."

#hazbin hotel #carmilla carmine #sera hazbin hotel #seramilla #odette hazbin hotel #clara hazbin hotel #ask #anon #fan theories #divorced au

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jimsbeetroot · 2 months ago

Note

hi, could you do the second part of 𝐈 𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧? please 🥺

𝐈𝐈 𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧 ♱ 𝐣𝐢𝐦 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐭

thank you for this request! spoiler alert; no pool in this one but one heck of a steaming, cold shower…..

PART TWO OF I IN SPAIN

smut! warnings! praise kink! size kink! shower sex! masturbation! temperature play!

words; 3403

summary; after last nights heated battle between you and jim, you need a cooling off, and you get exactly that + more

As the oppressive heat lingers in the early morning air, your body feels heavy under the weight of it. The sheets cling to your skin, damp with sweat, making sleep impossible. Jim, ever so unaffected by the heat, lies beside you, his large frame sprawled across the bed in peaceful slumber. Even in the stifling 95 degrees, he looks comfortable, his breathing deep and steady. You envy him, feeling more like you’re melting into the mattress with every second.

“What’re you doing?” He mumbles tiredly, nearly whining, and tightens his hold around your body.

You groan and look up at the ceiling, frustrated with the new bodylock Jim had you in, making it fully impossible to go anywhere at all.

“It’s too hot. I can't breathe,” you grumble and squirm in his arms, showing enough protest for him to unlock his arms and carry on snoring.

You let out a quiet sigh, carefully peeling yourself away from the sheets. Your movements are slow and deliberate, not wanting to disturb him. You love Jim—of course, you do—but sometimes, you wish he wasn’t so unconcerned about things like this. He could sleep through a furnace, and here you are, ready to combust from the inside out.

Sliding out of bed, you pad across the cool tile of the hotel room floor, grateful for the small relief it offers against your overheated skin. You peek back at Jim’s giant frame stretched out across the mattress, his dark hair splayed against the pillow, his lips slightly parted. As you watch him for a moment, you wonder if you should wake him and drag him to the pool like you’d wanted to the night before. But you know how that would end—another power struggle where he gets his way and you end up frustrated.

Instead, your eyes wander to the bathroom. A cold shower seems like a perfect solution. You bite your lip, glancing back at Jim again, still fast asleep. This would be your little escape, your moment of reprieve from the unbearable heat.

The bathroom door clicks softly behind you as you step inside. The tiles are cool beneath your bare feet, and you shiver slightly as you approach the glass-enclosed shower. You turn the handle, and the water springs to life with a soft hiss, cold droplets splattering against the tiles.

Stepping into the shower, the water hits your boiling body and an orgasmic feeling rushes through you, instantly cooling you. You let out a soft, satisfied sigh as the cold water cascades over your body, washing away the sticky humidity that had clung to you all night. Your eyes flutter shut, and your mind drifts for a moment.

The feeling of being cooled down is euphoric. The water pulses against your body and being in a playful mood— as one is at 1 am, you grab the detachable showerhead and set it to the massage setting, the water changing from mist to a strong, hard stream. You lead the showerhead down between your legs, angling it just right as you let the cool water pulse against your cunt, the stream hitting your clit just right, sending a wave of pleasure crashing through you. You adjust the pressure, your body tingling in response, your breath hitching as you rock your hips against the spray.

It almost feels forbidden to be doing this while Jim sleeps just a room away, but the thrill of it makes the feeling even better and more intense. Your breaths come faster as the water vibrates against your clit, your hips rocking slightly in time with the beat of the spray. Your spread-out legs begin to shake as your moans grow a little louder, your body aching for more.

Your fingers grip the cool tile wall as you curve the shower head lower, the pressure building, pleasure sparking through your body. Just as you’re about to come the bathroom door swings open with a sharp creak, and your eyes snap open in shock.

Jim’s massive frame fills the doorway, his dark eyes locking onto yours. His lips are curled into a knowing smirk, his arms crossed over his chest as he leans against the doorframe, taking in the sight of you— fully exposed and caught in the act.

“Caught you,” he rumbles, his voice low and teasing, sending a shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with the cold water.

You freeze, the shower head still in your hand, water spraying uselessly as you stare back at him, your cheeks flushing with a mix of embarrassment and arousal. “Jim, I—” you start, your voice faltering as your eyes flick to the shower head and back to him.

He raises an eyebrow, stepping further into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him. “What do you think you’re doing?” His voice is laced with amusement, but there’s a darker edge to it.

Your heart pounds in your chest as Jim closes the distance between you in just a few long strides.

His massive frame fills the small shower space, making you feel even smaller and more vulnerable beneath his gaze. He reaches down, his large hand wrapping around the shower head, plucking it effortlessly from your grasp.

“I— I was hot,” you stammer, your body still throbbing from the pleasure you were so close to reaching. “I-I needed to cool down.”

“Is that right?”

His tone is playful, but the look in his eyes is anything but. He steps even closer, the cool water splashing over both of you now, soaking his clothes, but he doesn’t seem to care. “And you thought you’d take care of it yourself, huh? Didn’t think to wake me?”

Your breath hitches as he leans down, his mouth brushing your ear, his voice a low growl that makes your knees weak. “You know that’s my job, baby.”

You shudder at his words, heat pooling low in your belly despite the cool water. Jim’s presence is overwhelming, his size, his voice, the way he looks down at you like he owns every part of you—and in moments like this, it feels like he does.

He grabs your thigh, wrapping his massive hand underneath it and lifts it, holding it in place against his side. With the other hand, he tilts the shower head toward you, the cool water hitting your stomach first, then trailing lower, and lower, until the spray is pulsing between your legs again. You gasp, your head falling back against the cool tile as the sensation shoots through you, even more intense now that he’s the one holding it.

“Jim, please—” you start, your voice breaking as the water pulses harder against your swollen clit, the sensation almost too much.

“Please, what?” His voice is teasing, but there’s a command beneath it. “You wanted to get off so bad, didn’t you? Now you’re going to ask me nicely.”

The pressure between your legs builds, and you squirm under the teasing spray, but Jim’s large hand is suddenly on your hip, holding you still, his grip firm. His other hand keeps the shower head angled just right, the cool water sending jolts of pleasure through your body with each pulse.

“Please, Jim,” you whimper, your voice barely more than a breath, your body trembling under the onslaught of sensation. “Please, I need—”

He lets go of your thigh but you stay just the same. With that hand, he reaches over and regulates the pressure of the stream, turning it all the way up. A squeal leaves your lips and instinctively, you stand on your tippytoes, doing everything to get away from the high-pressure stream. But Jim, he doesn't care. He puts a firm hand on your shoulder and presses you down while simultaneously pressing the shower head harder against you, the cool water a sharp contrast to the heat building inside you. “Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice thick with approval, his eyes locked on your face as you gasp and writhe under his touch. “So needy for me. You like when I take care of you, don’t you?”

You can only nod, your body arching into the spray, every nerve alight with pleasure. The praise, the way he towers over you, completely in control—it all pushes you closer and closer to the edge.

Jim’s free hand moves from your hip to your breast, his fingers rolling your nipple between them, adding another layer of sensation to the pleasure already building. “You look so pretty like this,” he murmurs, his voice dark and possessive. “All wet and trembling for me.”

His words send a fresh wave of arousal through you, and you moan, your body shaking as the pleasure builds to a fever pitch. The water pulses faster against you, and you can’t hold back any longer.

“Jim—oh god, Jim, I’m gonna—” your voice breaks as the orgasm crashes through you, your legs shaking so hard you can barely stand. The cool water, his hands, his voice—it all mixes together in a heady rush of sensation that leaves you gasping and clinging to him for support.

He doesn’t stop, though. Even as you come undone beneath him, he keeps the shower head aimed at your clit, drawing out every last bit of pleasure until you’re a trembling, whimpering mess in his arms.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he pulls the shower head away, letting the water wash over your spent body as you try to catch your breath. He turns the water off, and the room is suddenly quiet except for the sound of your ragged breathing.

Jim’s smirk widens and the glint in his dark eyes tells you he’s far from finished. Your heart skips a beat, your body still tingling from the intense release he just gave you. The air between you crackles with the same heat that’s been suffocating the room, but now it’s not just the temperature—it’s the fire between the two of you.

You’re still reeling, the cool water cascading down your body, yet Jim’s hands feel like they’re branding you with their touch.

“Not done with you yet,” he murmurs, voice thick and husky, the tension crackling like static. He steps closer, his broad chest brushing against your naked frame, dwarfing you entirely. You’re all too aware of the disparity in size between the two of you, the way he looms over you with ease, and how his strength radiates from every movement.

His lips find your neck, and the contrast between his scorching mouth and the lingering cool water on your skin sends a shiver through your entire body. You gasp as his teeth scrape over your pulse, his tongue soothing the spot immediately after. His hands trail lower, gripping your hips firmly as he presses you back against the shower wall, the cool tile a shock against your already heightened senses.

The sudden contrast of the cold tile against your overheated skin makes you moan, but Jim’s body is quick to follow, trapping you between the wall and his overwhelming presence. You squirm against him, the friction of your bare skin against his clothed body driving you wild.

“Jim,” you gasp, your hands sliding up his chest, grasping the wet fabric of his t-shirt, tugging at it in frustration. “Off.”

He grins against your neck, and with a single, fluid motion, he peels the shirt off, tossing it somewhere behind him. Your hands immediately fly to his now-bare chest, tracing the hard lines of his muscles, marvelling at how solid he feels under your palms. You’re breathless, heat coiling low in your belly again, even though you were sure you’d just been spent moments before.

He presses you harder against the cool tile, his hips grinding against yours, and you can feel him— his cock is hard, thick, and ready. Your breath hitches as the realization hits you: he’s still in control, still guiding this moment exactly where he wants it to go. You love it, crave it.

“Tell me what you want,” he growls, his voice rough and demanding, his eyes boring into yours with an intensity that leaves you breathless.

You whimper, your nails digging into his broad shoulders. “I want you,” you whisper, the words barely leaving your lips before he presses harder against you.

“Not good enough,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that makes your core clench.

You can barely think, your body already trembling with need. The friction, the heat, the cool wall at your back—it’s all too much. You whimper again, trying to shift against him, but his grip is iron, holding you still. You’re completely at his mercy.

“I want you to fuck me,” you finally manage, your voice a breathy plea, your hands gripping his shoulders tighter. “Please, Jim.”

His eyes darken at your words, and without hesitation, he frees himself from his pants, the sound of the zipper followed by the cool rush of air against his bare skin. You bite your lip as he lines himself up, his thick cock pressing against your soaked entrance. He’s teasing you, just barely rubbing against you, waiting, making you beg.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice full of rough praise. “So spread out for me. You need me to fill you up, don’t you?”

Jim’s eyes lock onto yours, his eyes dark and intense as his body presses you firmly against the cold tile wall of the shower. The icy water continues to rain down on both of you, heightening the sensation of his warm skin against yours. You shiver, not just from the cold, but from the anticipation that thrums through your entire body.

His large hands grip your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as if you weigh nothing in his grasp. Your legs wrap around his waist, and the heat between your bodies contrasts sharply with the icy water cascading over you. The feeling of being completely overpowered, utterly at his mercy, sends a thrill through you that only deepens your need for Jim.

You feel the weight of him pressing against your entrance, and your breath catches in your throat. Jim’s size has always been a source of both pleasure and pain.

He leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “Are you ready for me?”

You bite your lip, nodding, even as a flicker of nervous excitement runs through you. You can feel him, hard and ready, pressing insistently against you, and the ache inside you grows unbearable. “Yes,” you breathe, your voice barely a whisper. “Please.”

With a deep growl, Jim adjusts his grip on your hips, positioning himself at your entrance. He doesn’t rush; he’s always careful at first, knowing how much he can stretch you, how every inch of him fills you in a way that pushes the limits of your body. Slowly, he begins to press into you, the thick head of his cock slipping inside.

You gasp, your fingers digging into his broad shoulders as your body instinctively tightens around him. The initial stretch is intense, a combination of pleasure and pain that steals your breath. He’s so big — it always feels like too much at first, like you can’t possibly take all of him. The pressure builds, your walls gripping him tightly as he inches deeper, filling you more and more with every agonizingly slow thrust.

“Relax,” he murmurs against your neck, his voice low and soothing. “I’ve got you.”

You try to steady your breathing, your legs trembling slightly as you feel him push further inside. The cold water continues to stream down your back, a stark contrast to the heat of him buried deep within you. The sensation is overwhelming — your body struggling to adjust to the size of him. You can’t help but moan, a mix of pain and desperate pleasure spilling from your lips as he stretches you open.

“Jim…” you gasp, your head falling back against the tile as your body protests the intrusion, but at the same time, craves more. The fullness is almost unbearable, but you don’t want him to stop. You never want him to stop.

“You’re so tight,” he growls, his grip on your hips tightening as he pushes deeper still. His eyes burn with desire, watching every expression that flickers across your face. “You can take it, baby. I know you can.”

He’s not wrong. Despite the intensity, despite the way he stretches you almost to the point of pain, you want it — you need it. The sharp edge of discomfort only heightens the pleasure, each inch of him filling you in a way that no one else ever has, or ever could. He bottoms out inside you, the full length of him finally seated deep within you, and you let out a ragged moan, your body trembling as it adjusts to the sheer size of him.

The pain fades, replaced by a burning pleasure that builds with every heartbeat. You cling to him, your fingers digging into his skin as your body begins to melt around him, the ache of the stretch turning into something far more intense.

“God, you feel so good,” he groans, his voice thick with desire as he starts to move, pulling back slightly before thrusting into you again, deeper this time.

The force of his thrust makes you cry out, your nails raking down his back as your body struggles to accommodate the sheer force of him. But the pleasure is undeniable — every stroke sends sparks of heat through you.

He’s relentless, each thrust harder and deeper than the last, his hands gripping your hips tightly, holding you in place as he drives into you. The sound of his skin slapping against yours fills the small bathroom, mixing with the steady stream of water and the desperate moans that spill from your lips.

The size difference between you becomes even more pronounced as he moves, the sheer power and strength of his body overwhelming you in the best possible way. Each time he fills you, it feels like he’s claiming every inch of you, pushing you to your limits and beyond. You can feel every vein, every ridge of him as he thrusts deeper, your walls gripping him tightly, trying to adjust to the intensity of his size. “Fuck, Jim,” you moan, your voice shaking as he thrusts into you again, the force of it making your head spin.

He groans in response, his breath hot against your neck as he picks up the pace, each movement more powerful than the last. “You feel incredible,” he growls, his voice raw with need. “So tight… so perfect.”

The cold water continues to pour over both of you, but it does nothing to cool the heat between you. The pleasure builds an unstoppable force that drives you both closer and closer to the edge. You can feel the pressure mounting inside you, your body trembling with every thrust as Jim’s cock fills you completely, stretching you in ways that only he can.

He angles his hips, hitting a spot deep inside you that makes you cry out, your entire body arching against him. The sensation is too much, too overwhelming, and you can feel the orgasm building, your muscles tightening around him as you teeter on the edge.

“Jim… I’m gonna…” you gasp, your breath coming in ragged pants.

“Come for me,” he growls, his thrusts becoming even more urgent, more frantic as he chases his own release.

With one final thrust, he sends you spiralling over the edge, your body convulsing around him as the orgasm crashes over you. You scream his name, your nails digging into his back as waves of pleasure ripple through you, leaving you shaking and breathless.

Jim follows moments later, groaning deeply as he buries himself inside you one last time, his body tensing as he finds his own release. The warmth of his release fills you, and you cling to him, your bodies pressed together as the aftershocks of your orgasms pulse through you both.

For a moment, neither of you move, the only sound in the room is the steady drip of water from the showerhead and the sound of your ragged breathing. Jim’s chest heaves against yours as he holds you close, his hands still gripping your hips as he slowly pulls out of you.

You wince slightly at the loss, your body still trembling from the intensity of what just happened. He lowers you gently to the ground, your legs feeling like jelly as you lean against the cold tile for support.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice softening as he cups your cheek, brushing a strand of wet hair from your face.

You nod, a tired but satisfied smile spreading across your lips. “More than okay.”

He grins, leaning down to kiss you gently, his lips warm and soft against yours. “Good,” he murmurs. “Because that was incredible.”

You laugh softly, still catching your breath as you rest your forehead against his chest. “I’m glad we didn’t go to the pool.”

Jim chuckles, pulling you closer as the water continues to pour over both of you. “I think we found a better way to cool off.”

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grav3yardbb92 · 7 days ago

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NEIGHBORLY- NEIGHBOR!JOEL X F!READER

Warnings: mentions of abuse (not explicit), cheating (not by reader), I think that's all, please bring any others to my attention.

so this idea just came to me, then kinda got away from me, please let me know if it doesn't make sense.

**********************

You hear about it all the time, how love comes in strange packages. Sometimes, it's the guy that your sister hooked you up with, who inevitably turns out to be an abusive drunk. Sometimes, it's the cute guy pouring drinks at the local bar, who eventually became a cheat. Then, just when you are about to give up on finding THE one, you find it.

Sometimes, it's your next-door neighbor, sure he may be older than you, he may be a little grumpy around all but a few people, but you just so happen to be one of those few.

It started as innocent as ever, your sink had been broken for several weeks, so after your boyfriend gave several broken promises of fixing it, you settled on asking your neighbor. You had met Joel a few times, at the neighborhood barbeque, in the local bar, at the market. You two had even spoken, he welcomed you to the neighborhood, after you moved as far away from your abusive ex as you could. Other neighbors had mentioned that he was sort of the local handyman, pipes, electrical, car trouble, he could fix it quick and easy. So, you figured it won't hurt to ask.

You had a whole speech written up it your head, but once you laid your eyes on him, freshly showered, in only a pair of sweatpants, which looked awfully good on him, you lost all train of thought.

"Something I can help you with, sweetheart?"

Once you could breathe again and you realized that you were staring, you cleared your throat, before stammering out the basic details of your situation.

"of course, sugar, just let me get tools and I'll meet you over there,"

Weeks past, you see him almost every day, taking out his garbage as you head to work, washing his truck as you work in your garden, slight waves and a simple "good morning" shared between the two of you. His southern draw, echoing through your head. Every "sweetheart", "sugar", "darlin'" and "peach" leaving you blushing and sometimes a little dizzy.

Then, your car overheated on your way home from work, your boyfriend, who always seemed to be too busy for you these days, wasn't answering his phone. You called two other friends, who were busy with their own lives and couldn't pick you up. Just as you decided that four miles really isn't that far, the universe throws a curveball, and the clouds let out a downpour. Umbrella, purse and keys in hand, you set for home, getting drenched from the wind and rain.

Two miles down and you are shuddering from the cold, when you hear a horn. You continue walking, griping your keys between your fingers and holding your useless umbrella for dear life. The honking continues, getting louder as the vehicle pulls up beside you, you let out a sigh of relief as you recognize Joel's blue pickup. You stop as he rolls down the window.

"Get in, sweetheart"

You hesitate for only a minute worried about the truck's interior, but decide that he is well aware of your soaked clothing, and offered anyways, so you hop in. As he drives you home, you explain the problem with your car, and he promises to give it a look over in the morning.

Then came the day you never saw coming. You decided that today would be the day you make the next move in your relationship with your boyfriend. You swap shifts with a coworker, make a nice dinner and pack it up to surprise your boyfriend at his house. The surprise was for you though, as you open the door with the spare key, juggling the delicious, hot meal you made, you find him on his living room couch, a half-naked girl in his lap.

Every emotion crashes down on you all at once, sadness, anger, frustration. For a second, you consider throwing the glass dishes a his head, instead, you let out a scream, hot tears pouring down your face. How could he?

Another thing you hear all the time, "it's not what it looks like", that's right, it's much worse, turns out tonight wasn't the first time, not even the second, he threw away your love months ago and never bothered to tell you. So now, with a cold dish of food in your car and tears soaking your cheeks, you sit on Joel's porch steps, head in your hands, wondering what it is you did wrong.

"whatcha, doin' out here darlin'?"

His question startles you; you hadn't heard his truck pull up. You look away and wipe the fresh tears from your face, before putting on your best fake smile.

"Just wanted to see my favorite neighbor." you answer as nonchalantly as you can manage, but your eyes betray your smile, releasing a new wave of salty tears.

"Uh huh. if that's the case why're you crying, honey" He answers, walking up the porch and offering his hand to pull you up on your feet.

"I just... I can't be alone right now" apparently that answer is satisfactory enough, as he unlocks the door and gestures for you to enter.

"wanna talk about it sweetheart? I am all ears."

#x reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller fluff #the last of us #pedro pascal #joel miller

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gavisuntiedboot · 2 years ago

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Pedri NSFW Alphabet

A/N: Hello everyone! So I have been very consistent in writing for only Gavi, but there has been an overwhelming request to do a Pedri NSFW alphabet, so here we are!! I hope you all enjoy.

SMUT BEYOND THE FOLD!!! Please don't read if you're not comfortable. MDNI!!!

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Pedri would be the type to have to keep touching you in some way after the two of you were finished. He would roll over and lay next to you, making sure your arms were touching. Always the thinker, he had a wet rag already placed on the nightstand. He would grab it, gently wiping down your stomach and thighs. Gentle kisses would be peppered on the skin, as he cleaned you up and cooled you down. He overheated easily, so he wouldn't cuddle you, but there was always a lingering hand or entangled legs to keep you close to him. He was not a man of many words, but he would look you in the eyes and place a kiss on your cheek, reminding you how much he loved you.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of themselves and their partner)

Pedri wasn't very proud of any body part of his, but you talked a lot about his lips, so he started to take more notice of his lips. He loved the way that you stared at his lips whenever he spoke. Your pupils would dilate whenever his tongue ran over them, wetting them, making them glisten. He loved the way you shivered when his lips touched your neck and kissed their way down. You were addicted to biting on his bottom lip, sucking it into your mouth whenever possible. He loved the way you whined and moaned out his name whenever he sucked your nipple or clit between them. You would brush your fingers over them as you rode him, loving the feeling of the plush flesh under your fingers.

On you, he could not keep himself away from your boobs. Sure, he was obsessed with other parts of you - your eyes, your smile - but your boobs? He actively craved them. He would dream about the feel of them when he was away for a match. When he slept next to you, he would always sleep in a position that would allow him to keep one hand on your boob. Whenever you were having sex, he needed to be in a position to touch them, watch them bounce, or suck them into his mouth. He loved when you would ride him, your tits bouncing in his face, wrapping his hands around your waist and pulling you in closer, burying his face in them. On days when he was super stressed, he just wanted to be babied. He would kiss you gently, begging to tug your shirt down and suck on them, releasing all of his frustration. Boy just loves them boobs.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Surprisingly, Pedri was really into messy cum situations. It started the first time he came on your stomach, when you had both been too desperate to look for a condom. He was not about to be a young father, and so he pulled out and finished on your stomach, but he had been so pent up that he came much more and much harder than expected. You looked up at him, hair in a halo around you, sweaty skin glistening. Eyes were hooded and fucked out, your chest heaving, drops of cum rolling down the swell on your breasts. The sight was almost enough to get him hard again.

Since then, he had been trying to cum on different parts of you, seeing which one he preferred the most. He had invited you to the camp once, painting your face white in the shower after his practice. On your vacation, he fucked you on the balcony of your hotel, cumming onto your ass and lower back. He still couldn't pick a favorite location, and so he cycled through them regularly. Eventually, he gained the courage to cum inside you. His fear of being a father seemed to disappear once he watched him cum drip out of your hole, clenching around nothing.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Our little Pedri is a brat tamer through and through - king of the soft doms. He was never one to yell or be forceful with you. Rather, he would beckon his fingers, telling you to be quiet or sit, and you would respond immediately. However, you loved to watch Pedri get angry, the blood rushing his cheeks and flushing his face. So you started to act up more often. Wearing shorter and shorter skirts when Pedri was around. Talking back whenever he asked for something. Pedri loved the challenge. One day, you had been teasing him over text, sending pictures of you in your underwear as he was preparing for the match. He had told you to stop, to behave, to wait until he got home. You responded with: "Make me."

He came home from the match without changing or showering. He walked in with his golden kit on, the one that made you weak in the knees. He stood in front of you, lifting the hem and wiping his face, exposing his toned stomach and happy trail. He walked towards the shower and beckoned you to follow. He walked into the bathroom waiting for you to follow, closing the door and locking it behind you. His thumb ran across your bottom lip, pushing you down to sit on you knees on the cold tile. He turned on the shower, and began stripping slowly.

"You've been a brat all week, mi amor. What were you expecting from me? To yell? To throw you over my knee and spank you so that you can learn to behave? No no no. You're going to sit and look on what you could have been a part of. Let's see who's patience runs out first: Mine or yours."

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

This man is getting bitches. Not in a derogatory way, but come on now guys. He's a 20 year old Spanish man. Like I said previously, sex is part of the culture. On top of that, he wasn't part of a strict football academy. He was out seeing girls. And now people want him even more (you guys all saw the news articles and video clips). However, Pedri doesn't seem like the type to always be sleeping with other girls. He seems like the type to be very picky. They needed to be gorgeous and interesting before he would even consider it. That mentality almost drove you away from him completely, but he couldn't stay away from you.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Pedri's absolute favorite position is the "lazy man" (Google it). Everything about it was a positive for him. He was able to hold you in his lap, keeping you close to him. He had you on top of him, hands firmly gripping your ass as your breasts bounced in his face. He can bring his face to rest into the dip of your neck, muttering against your sink how good you were doing, how amazing you felt around him. When you both finished, he could wrap his arms tightly around you, laying back and just feeling your weight against him.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Most of Pedri's life is serious - he needs to be level headed and serious on the field to make sure that he can play at a high level. So when work is over and he comes home to you, that's when his playful side really shows. He's all suggestive jokes and wiggling eyebrows, tickling you and kissing all over your face. Sex wasn't serious to him - it was something for him to enjoy, and that's how he treated it.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

As he's gotten older, Pedri feels like the shaved completely smooth look isn't for him anymore. He is more comfortable growing out the hair on his face and his chest, and so down there you're going to find some hair. He wasn't the type to every shave - he hated the process and the itch that came with it. So whenever he felt it was getting out of control, he have it a trim, but there was always a little bit of stubble.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Pedri had gone through his era of casual sex. The older and more famous he got, the more he craved intimacy and romance. So maybe at age 20 he was still just having sex with people to fulfill a carnal desire, but when he found a girl he really liked, he would go out of his way to make the moment more romantic. I'm not saying rose petals and candles every time you two want to get busy, but a lot of the time he would put on music and make sure the lights where off. He would whisper to you how beautiful you are and how much he liked the way you made him feel. He wanted to feel special, and so he always leaned more towards romance than casual sex.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

20 is not technically a teenager anymore, but the hormones are still there. My man is jacking off nightly or every other night if he's too tired. At one point, it was like a chore. Get up, brush teeth, get in the shower, jack off, go to training. He did it to make sure he could focus during the day. Once he got a girlfriend, jacking off was an absolutely last resort if he couldn't get access to you. Even then, he would prefer for you to be involved in some way. When he had a hotel room to himself, he would call or FaceTime you, wanting to see you and hear your voice to help him finish. Other times, he would look at pictures or naughty texts you two had exchanged, imagining what you would feel like around him. He was usually done within 3 minutes.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Despite his quieter nature, Pedri was somewhat of an exhibitionist. He loved having you in potentially compromising situations, the thrill of potentially being caught always turning him on. He discovered this for the first time when you went down on him while his mic was on and he played FIFA with the boys. He bit back a moan, deciding to keep his mic on as you throated his cock. When he finished, he finally put the mic on mute, cumming loudly and violently. Since then, the has played with your skirt hem at dinners with the team, sat you on his lap while riding to events, and done many other risky things. He doesn't ever want to actually get caught, but the idea that he could is really appealing.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Lol imagine Pedri trying to fuck in the back of the mini cooper. Sorry the image popped into my head and I giggled. Honestly, he loved to have you in the bath. Not the shower - that was an injury waiting to happen. But the bath? The feeling of the hot water relax his muscles and you on top of him? Could not be beat by anything. He loved how the water slowed your movements, making the way you rode him slower and more sensual. He loved putting his hands on you, getting to enjoy your soapy tits as you two lazily made love. He was game for pretty much anywhere else in the house (except the kitchen - it reminded him of his mom too much). Outside the house, his favorite place was the locker room in Camp Nou. When everyone cleared, he could take you on one of the benches, you moans echoing through the large space.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Touching Pedri the wrong way could turn him on, so this is a pretty broad category. But one thing you knew would work every single time was challenging him. Telling him no, saying he couldn't do something - it lie a fire in him to prove you wrong. On one occasion, you had told him that it was impossible for him to make you cum in under two minutes (because you were both running late and needed to leave the house). He threw you over his shoulder and walked you into the bedroom, proving you wrong in 98 seconds exactly (he timed it). He also loved it when you played hard to get, telling him that you could get off without him.

"Show me"

He would sit back, arms crossed and dick straining against pants as he made you fulfill your promise. He would watch you struggle, frustrated and begging him to help you. He would make you go until there were tears in your eyes. There was literally nothing that got him harder.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Anything with impact or pain. A playful smack to the ass was difficult for him, and anything further was an absolute no. He didn't want to hurt you, or associate your pain with sex. No choking no matter how much you begged. He just could not get behind the idea, and so you had to find other ways for him to be dominant with you that didn't involve pain in any way.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Pedri to me is someone who doesn't want to put a ton of effort in, so when it comes to oral, he always prefers to sit back and receive. He loved being able to lace his fingers through your hair, watching you suck him off like it was your greatest pleasure. He loved the way you reacted when he told you how pretty you looked or how good you were doing. You were always fighting with him about swallowing when he was receiving. He would much rather finish on your face, painting it with his cum, but you wanted to swallow and avoid the mess altogether. That's why he made sure to ask for head before you got ready for bed, so he could finish on your face before you washed it and did your skincare.

When Pedri gave head, it was only at times when he knew he wouldn't be rushed. He was not one to eat you rough or fast. He liked to take his time - savor his meal. When he ate you out, he would spend a long time just lapping at you like a cat with cream, getting you so worked up that you were begging him to give you more. He would always tell you to be patient, continuing with kisses and soft licks. Eventually the intensity would increase, and he would suck your clit into his mouth, making you cry out. He would then let you lace your fingers through his hair, pulling yourself against his face, desperate for all of him to touch you and bring you over the edge.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

As I said, Pedri seems like a slow and lazy lover. Don't give off the vie that he would ever be fast and rough, unless you managed to majorly piss him off. Usually he was slow, taking his time to drag his cock long your walls and pull out slowly, letting you feel every inch and every vein. He loved being able to kiss you and take his time. When he was frustrated or upset, his pace was insane. He was still delicate with you, but he would be moving quickly, trying to get you to finish as fast as humanly possible, ego needing a boost.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Pedri wasn't a huge fan of quickies. He took a lot of pride in making you cum, and so when time was short, he couldn't do that in the way he wanted. If you two were short on time, he would much rather get some head and finger you quickly, leaving everyone satisfied and happy. When he was feeling adventurous, he would propose quickies in random places, and even then he enjoyed the thrill more than the quick sex. He would never, however, turn down the chance to fuck you, and so he took the opportunity whenever it presented itself.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Pedri was game for pretty much anything. You wanted to fuck under a blanket while Gavi was in the room? Go get the blanket and turn up the TV. You wanted to have sex in the storage closet? Let's go, lock the door. You wanted to try tying him to the bedframe? As you wish. But once again, he was not into giving or receiving pain of any kind. He wasn't open to anything with the possibility of pain. This included toys he thought were too large, or places where he felt like one of you could get hurt.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Pedri seems like the type to go for one loooooong rounc rather than multiple in a row. When he fucks, he takes his time, drawing out the foreplay, making sure you're absolutely drenched before he even thinks about entering you. He would thrust in so slowly that you were almost in pain from how frustrating the whole ordeal was. His football endurance came in handy for your hour-long sessions. He always held out for as long as he could, because once he came, that was it for the evening. So if he felt like he was going to bust too fast, he would pull out, finishing you off with his tongue or hands before resuming his animalistic thrusts into you.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

My man owns two or three vibrators for both you and himself. He was man enough to admit that holding a bullet vibe to the underside of his cock got him to finish in literally seconds. He discovered this after you used yours on him one time and he had been dreaming about the sensation since then. As for you, he loved to use a vibe on you, teasing you with it, placing on the highest setting and telling you that you weren't allowed to cum until he said so. He was not a huge fan of you using them alone, but he loved them as an occasional accompaniment when you were together.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Pedri believes he is a fair man and only teases you when you deserve it. The problem with this line of thinking is that he believes you almost always deserve it. He would always do things to get you hot and bothered, leaving you high and dry for several hours. He would caress your thighs, kissing up them, breath ghosting over your pussy, and then leave for practice. He would send you suggestive photos and then invite the boys over for dinner, leaving you wanton and desperate. Whenever he was free you were begging for him, and he absolutely loved it.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Not loud at all. In fact, the first time you slept together, he was so quiet that it made you insecure. You were certain he would never see you again because all you heard was breathing. Pedri is just not a loud moaner unless you make him. Sometimes his voice escaped him during particularly intense activities, profanities leaving his mouth at an alarming rate. But otherwise, he breathed heavier and let out soft gasps, but he is not very loud at all.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

"It's really hard to make me cum."

You hadn't said it as a challenge. You had been with several guys in the past, but they all made you feel weird or complained about how long you took, meaning that another person had never made you cum before in your life. Pedri was eager to change that. He told you he would go for as long as you needed, but you would cum on his mouth and fingers. You had been extremely hesitant at first. You were skeptical about what he said, having heard it all before, and you didn't want to scare him away. He started to go down on you, and your whole body tensed. You began to think how long you should wait before you faked an orgasm to spare his feelings. He looked up at you and told you to relax. You took a deep breath and closed your eyes, enjoying the feeling of his tongue on you. You got into the rhythm, moving your hips alongside his ministrations. You were so engrossed in how good it felt, the feeling of Pedri moaning against you, that you lost all track of time. You felt the knot in your stomach tighten, your orgasm hitting you in an earth shattering wave. When you finally recoverd, you looked at the clock. 35 minutes. Pedri had gone down on you for 35 minutes without complaint or air. He had you wrapped around his finger after that.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Like the rest of him, Pedri's dick is long and slender. A solid 6". Like others have put so eloquently, if there was a beast in there, we would see it in those shorts. I think it's also quite veiny, providing an interesting sensation when he's inside you. He's not reaching any kidneys, but he's got some good equipment.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Pretty high. He is pretty good at controlling himself, but when it's jus the two of you, he can turn it on at the drop of a hat. Morning noon and night my man would want to relieve some tension with you. Whenever he won a match, his face would light up at the prospect of victory sex with you. He wants you bad. And frequently. High sex drive.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Pedri hates being rushed in the morning, so he will take a little extra time before going up to clean himself and get situated so he's not stressed later on. He would get up and wipe himself down, making sure all his alarms are set, and then get under the sheets with you, falling asleep rather quickly after he made sure everything was in order. He would place a kiss on your forehead and drift off.

*Bonus*

We all know that Pedri's blush is rather unique. His whole face gets red, including under his eyes, so it's very obvious when he has physically exerted himself. So sometimes he would come to practice already red in the face, eliciting whoops and taunts from his teammates. Other times, he would walk out of the bathroom with a red face, and everyone would know what just happened in the ten minutes he was gone with you. He now made sure to carry cooling gel whenever you two went out together, to avoid his red face giving away your dirty secrets.

Yeah everyone knows what he's been doing.

A/N: Hey y'all !!! Hope y'all enjoyed. My first Pedri piece!!! Please leave any comments or feel free to talk to me in my asks - I love hearing from y'all! Working on the next part of the series as usual (so if there is something you want to see happen in JP, please let me know and I'll work it in if it fits).

#pedri blurb #pedri x reader #pedri one shot #pedri imagine #fc barca #fcb #pedri smut #pedri gonzalez #pedri gonzalez smut #pg8 #pedri x you #pedri x y/n #pedri gonzalez imagine #pedri gonzalez one shot #pedri gonzalez x reader #gavisuntiedboot

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thewhumpcaretaker · 7 months ago

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⚜ 𝓑𝓮𝔂𝓸𝓷𝓭 𝓙𝓾𝓭𝓰𝓮𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽 - 𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝐼𝒳: 𝒮𝓁𝑒𝑒𝓅𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒜𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓁, 𝒲𝒶𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒟𝑒𝓂𝑜𝓃 ⚜

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ ✧.*★ Thank you again to @evren-sadwrn for the beta read!

TW: aftermath of an overdose, addiction, relapse, crying, panic attack, brief mention of needles, canon typical violence, Dead Dove Do Not Eat

Author's Note: The descriptions of overdose treatment in this chapter come from my best understanding of this article from the NIH. They may be inaccurate.

Summary: John and Vincent are forced to trust a civilian doctor to save Vincent's life.

Since they had united three days ago, John had been the only one to touch Vincent. He had not considered what it would feel like for someone else to do so in his place.

The doctor, a man right around John’s age who had arrived still dressed in pajamas, had insisted they open the windows and blast the AC, and frozen items from the fridge were piled around Vincent’s head. The ceiling fan hummed above them at its highest setting while the doctor leaned over Vincent to put a needle in his arm. He emitted some half-conscious whine of miserable protest and then fell silent again. An impulse rose up in John, to take a step forward, to be there for him, but he managed to restrain himself – there was nothing he could do, and the stitches had to be redone next.

Logically, he knew how outrageous it was to resent a doctor who was actively saving Vincent’s life. But he still wished it were him, wished that this, too, had been a part of his training. To stand by idly, of no use to Vincent, filled him with an ache. An ache that had already frozen his body into a tensed, motionless statue at the side of the bed with feet planted wide apart in wait for orders. An ache that felt far too familiar.

Whatever he did, he must not think about the last time this happened. The last time he waited at a bedside, unable to do anything…

“You were right to put him under cold water.” The doctor pulled him out of his reverie. “The only mistake was taking him back out. He probably overheated again immediately, and lost consciousness due to that. But it’s not a stroke.”

John finally managed to exhale. “So why is he not awake?”

“I’ve just given him a minor sedative, to prevent heart attack. Counteracts some of the effects of stimulants. But it won’t last very long. He’ll be awake again soon.” The man looked him up and down. “You, on the other hand, look more like a hypothermia than hyperthermia risk. You should warm up.”

John had stopped noticing his own shivering at some point in the shower, and since then, he had been soaked to the skin in wet clothes. “Right.”

“I can have the front office throw your shirt in the dryer. And your friend’s clothes.”

He nodded. Awkwardly, he pulled off his shirt, and the man’s eyes appraised his tattoos with thinly veiled alarm before settling on the holster at his hip. “…You know, he should really be in the hospital. It’s not worth staying on the run just to die of infection. Did you ever tell me how he got shot?”

“No.” He held out the balled-up shirt and let the sounds of rain stretch uninterrupted between them.

The man took it gingerly, staring at John’s face, still littered with cuts from the car crash. “I can also look at – “

“No. Thank you.”

He finally had the good sense to leave the room.

So John wrapped the comforter around himself and sank into the armchair, gazing intently at Vincent. He managed to look even more bedraggled than he had when John carried him over the threshold that first night. He was extremely pale, with dark shadows under his eyes from so many days of insomnia, and his wet hair clinging to his forehead. There was that horrible ache again. The way it tugged at John’s heart was almost literal, a pang through the chest. Vincent may be a terror, but John had decided that, given the choice between the sleeping angel on his deathbed and the waking demon full of life, he’d take the demon every time.

Before long, Vincent was stirring feverishly. John went to his side before he knew what he was doing, leaning over him, the comforter falling to the floor in a heap. “Hey. How do you feel?”

His eyes opened halfway, and he pawed at John’s hand. “Like everything is dragging behind itself,” he slurred. “Water, please.”

John hurried to obey, and by the time he turned back, Vincent wore an entirely different expression. His eyes wandered languidly over John’s chest and shoulders, starstruck. In a small, hoarse voice, “The Ruska Roma has a good tattoo artist.” He sipped the water in the manner of a fine wine and licked his lips.

“Really, Vincent? This is not the time.” But he was grinning in relief. Clearly the Marquis was getting back to his old self. “…I’m glad you’re okay. Doc said there’s no permanent damage. But you could have died.”

“You saved me,” he said, with a smug little grin. God, he was adorable.

“Don’t do it ever again.”

“I’m sorry.” Something about the speed with which he said it and the way his grin suddenly faltered betrayed hidden depths of shame. “That’s easier said than done, Mr. Wick,” he said defensively.

“I’m not angry with you. I was worried. I want - ” This could really piss him off if he wasn’t ready to hear it. But it was worth the risk. John gathered himself and finished the sentence. “I want to get you help, if you’re willing.”

Vincent looked away and released a labored sigh, somewhere between pain and ecstasy. “I have never had someone worry over me for that. But now that I do…I would like to get better, I think.”

John glowed with pride. “When this is all over, we’ll – “

The door opened. Vincent turned towards the doctor, his affectionate side vanishing in an instant, replaced by something curious and cunning. Even looking up from the bed, he managed to look down his nose at this stranger who had intruded on their private moment. “Voici donc le médecin que vous m'avez trouvé. [So this is the doctor you found for me],” he said, speaking to John without breaking eye contact with the doctor. “Peut-on lui faire confiance? [Can he be trusted?]”

“Il faut l'espérer. [We have to hope so.]”

“Does he speak English?” the man asked John. He looked extremely hesitant to talk to Vincent.

Vincent’s glare could have killed. “Yes. Explain to me why my…assistant has no shirt in this very cold room.”

My assistant. What were they to each other? It was just occurring to John that he could not possibly explain that to anyone.

“Your clothes are being dried.” The man frowned. “I need to ask you both some questions.”

John didn’t like where this was going. He liked the look of mirth in Vincent’s eyes even less. He was getting ready to toy with this man, and that could only end badly. “Marjorie said you didn’t ask questions.”

“Ordinarily, I don’t. But in this case…” His eyes were lingering on John’s holster again. “If it’s alright, I just want to ask your friend about his medical history. Uh, or your…boss?”

“Something like that.” John made a point of handing the gun to Vincent and locked himself in the bathroom.

A minute or two later, laughter filtered through the wall, ending in a fit of strained wheezing as it disturbed Vincent’s stitches. “You can come out,” he called. “This idiot thought you kidnapped me. Ah, that’s too much.”

John gave an apologetic half smile to the doctor. “I appreciate the concern, but I think we’re done here, unless he needs anything else medical.”

“No, we’re not done here.” Vincent leveled the gun at the man, snapping from mirthful to joyfully vindictive in an instant. The man held both hands above his head, shaking. Dog growled, turning from one to the other, unsure what was going on.

“Hey. What are you doing? He just saved your life.”

“He also called the police on us.” Vincent was laughing again, now a low chuckle that said it-just-about-figures.

“What!?” Damn it.

“I – I didn’t mean – “ He was stuttering in confusion. “Look, Marjorie is too lenient when it comes to these things. You need to get to a hospital. It’s better to face your trial and get medical attention than to keep running, especially if you’re in some kind of hostage situation. Please don’t make your sentence any worse. If you kill me it’s just…it won’t help anything.”

Vincent smiled bitterly, and dragged himself up from the bed with as much dignity as he could manage while dressed in nothing but underwear and gauze. He swayed on his feet for a moment, still struggling with blood flow after that ordeal, but maintained his hold on the gun. “Jo- er, assistant, please get out your phone and search for news on wanted persons in the New York tristate area. And Pennsylvania.”

He did, and saw Vincent’s photo staring back at him. “Jean Felix, wanted for first degree murder. Potentially held hostage by another suspect, likely accompanied by a grey bulldog…no photo of me, I guess Winston must have talked them out of that one too.”

“Did they specify a method?” Vincent asked casually, now strolling right up to the doctor to press the gun flush against his forehead. “I hope they said axe. That would be…colorful. I’ve always wanted to try my hand with an axe.”

“What the hell is going on?” The doctor asked desperately, unable to avoid Vincent’s livid eye contact. “Are you saying you were framed?”

“Oh, now you ask? I thought you knew all about it yourself. Going to be the hero of the day, weren’t you? The nervous, twitchy little hero of the day, sticking your nose into other people’s business.”

“Let’s just – “ But John was too late. Vincent turned the gun sideways, and bashed it across the man’s face, breaking his nose in a shower of blood. The man doubled over screaming wildly, as Dog set off in a fury of barking.

Vincent, meanwhile, was collapsing against the wall, having overexerted himself. John ran to him, pulling him upright.

“Shit!” Still supporting Vincent, he turned to the doctor. “You should leave.”

He didn’t need telling twice.

Vincent lolled against him, spent rage giving way to fear and frustration. He chuckled weakly. “This is what happens when you trust people, John.”

“You survive. You would have died otherwise.”

“As if I won’t now, thanks to that rat!”

“No you won’t. I will keep you alive.”

As if to contradict him, both their phones lit up at the same time, first with one notification and then with a second. Vincent lurched towards the nightstand, trying to grab his. John’s arms around his waist kept him from falling. “Let go of me!”

Unwilling to touch him without his say-so, even for his own good, John lowered him to the floor. “I’ll bring it to you. But we already know what it is.”

He took a deep breath and handed Vincent his business phone – the source of endless trouble. He looked down needlessly at his own. Contract Update for Marquis Vincent Bisset de Gramont: Target cited at Blue Moon Motel, 206 Golden Key Rd, Kutztown, PA 19530. And then: Contract for John Wick: $20 Million. Open. International. Target cited at Blue Moon Motel, 206 Golden Key Rd, Kutztown, PA 19530.

Vincent was in the fetal position.

John went to his knees beside him. “Regardez-moi. Nous allons régler le problème. [Look at me. We’ll sort it out.]” He did his best to hide his own dwindling confidence. Vincent’s heart couldn’t take any more right now.

“Tu as tellement de chance que je ne l'ai pas tué. [You’re so lucky I didn’t kill him.]”

“Je sais. Mais nous n’avons pas le temps. Il faut qu'on bouge, d'accord? Puis-je vous aider? [I know. But there’s no time. We need to move, okay? Can I help you up?]”

Vincent turned his face away for a moment, screamed wordlessly into the carpet, and then turned back to John. “Oui. Bien. Tout va bien. [Yes. Fine. Everything’s fine.]”

John pulled him against his chest crushingly for a moment, before standing. “Oui. Tout va bien. [Yes. Everything’s fine],” he echoed.

Forcing down waves of emotion, he glanced around at the disarray surrounding them. “Let’s go. Grab anything important and put your shoes on. I’ll get the duffle bag.”

Another flight through the rain and they stumbled into the front lobby, John supporting Vincent on one arm, wrapped in a towel, and carrying the bag on the other.

“Oh my lord, what happened to you boys? And I just saw Mr. Elliot drive off too.”

“We’d like to check out. We’ll just take our clothes, if that’s okay Marjorie. I’m so sorry, genuinely. You’ve been very good to us.”

“Don’t tell me he called the cops, he promised me…”

“Yeah.” John sighed. “Listen, I know this is sudden, but…I’d like to buy your car.”

She sighed right back, eyeing his gun. “Don’t suppose I have a choice in the matter. Well, it’s an old junker anyway. The check engine light never turns off, and the brakes are starting to go. Okay if I clear out the glove compartment? I’ve got photos of the grandkids.”

John nodded.

When she got back, he ran his card for $20,000.

◃ Back ⚜ Next ▹

#john wick #john x marquis de gramont #marquis de gramont #john wick fanfic #wickblr #marquis de gramont whumpee #gunshot #angst #emotional whump #hurt/comfort #whump fic #assassin whump #ao3 crosspost #enemies to lovers #dddne #// drugs #// relapse #// addiction #// overdose

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jungle-angel · 1 year ago

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“Too Hot For This Shit” (Rhett Abbott x Reader)

Summary: It’s a hot night, everybody’s crabby and you and Rhett can’t think of anything better to do

Tagging: @crescentangelzwp

You though that summers in Wabang were hot as hell, but nothing could compare to when you and Rhett had moved to Bozeman with Amy. Already it was pushing a hundred, the central air in the house going every hour of every day to keep the house cool while Rhett was throwing meat and fish on the grill for dinner almost every night.

Poor Baby Amy was overheating, her face red and her golden curls clinging against her sweaty forehead, crying from how hot she was. Rhett entered through the front door, a sweaty, gross mess from having worked in the pasture all day with Rip, Kayce and the rest of the miscreants. He peeled off his boots and nasty socks, tossing them down the laundry chute that led to the mudroom downstairs, hoping they’d hit the already growing laundry pile.

“She’s overheatin’ again?” he asked, taking a hiccupping Amy from your arms and into his.

“I think so,” you sighed. “We’re out of ice and I don’t wanna heat up the house. I can run her a cool bath in a minute and see if she cools down.”

Rhett glanced back at Amy, tickling her belly but the two year old hardly even laughed. “Ya know,” he mused. “It’s too hot for this shit, you wanna go for a ride and go to Wal Mart?”

“Why would we go to Wal Mart when there’s shit to do downtown?”

“Because I need shit and the ice cream stand is across the street,” Rhett chuckled. “Besides, I think tonight this one deserves to be kinda spoiled a little.”

You laughed a little and rolled your eyes. Usually in a small town there was nothing better to do and you couldn’t argue with that.”

Rhett ran the cool water in the shower, washing off quickly before you handed Amy off to him. As soon as she was cooled down and washed off, you put her in a fresh change of clothes, a little navy blue shirt and her favorite pair of denim shorts with the lacy trim around the legs. Her sandals were the last thing to go on before you filled her little travel cup with the last of the ice in the freezer and the apple juice you kept in the back of the fridge at all times. Rhett loaded her up in the truck, buckling her into her carseat before he gave Amy her little Tiger Lily ragdoll that Wes and Nora had made for her.

Off on the road you went, the air conditioning in the truck going at full blast while the radio had been cranked up, playing Dierks Bentley’s “What Was I Thinkin” as you sped down the road towards the downtown area. Montana was in its peak wildfire season which left a haze hanging over the land and the mountains in the distance. Even the teachers at Amy’s forest nursery school hadn’t been able to take the children outside since the school year had ended at the beginning of June, but you and Rhett had nonetheless marveled at the sight of the sunset against the haze, a great red eye that seemed to watch over Bozeman until the dark of night had fallen.

You pulled into the Wal Mart parking lot, unloading Amy and placing her into the cart with her ragdoll. You couldn’t get into the air conditioned building fast enough, the pavement nearly burning through your sandals as you stepped inside and immediately headed to get Rhett as many pairs of socks as you could afford. He himself had headed to the tool and garden section to see if he could find any new plants for your beds or for the pollinator while you went to get Amy some new clothes.

Oh did you spoil her with what you had gotten. So far your hoard had included little t-shirts with butterflies, bumblebees, horses and a little cheerleader dress that had the Montana State Bobcat stitched onto the front. Of course you loved making Amy new clothes, but every now and again, you needed to do the clothing runs. You even picked her up plenty of shorts, sandals and little sundresses which would hold over perfectly until you could get more material to make new ones.

“Darlin I think I hit the jackpot,” Rhett chuckled as he came back with a tray full of herbs and vegetables.

“Rhett, c’mon I’ve got enough in the patch already.”

“No you don’t,” he retorted.

You groaned as you headed for the registers. If anything, Rhett would’ve bought out the whole garden section without a second thought.

As soon as everything was loaded into the truck, you and Rhett hurried across the street to the ice cream stand to get something to eat. You gladly would’ve lit the grill and had the Duttons come down for dinner, but tonight, you just didn’t have it in either of you to do that.

Dinner was absolutely perfect, burgers, a pickle wedge and a big, heaping side of fries to go with it. Amy had been especially hungry, eating the entire half of her burger and the whole thing of fries before begging for an ice cream cone. You and Rhett had a few good laughs as her face grew sticky, finishing off what she couldn’t before the sun had set and it was time to head home for bed. You and Rhett lived for days like this, perfectly relaxed and able to go anywhere without a care in the world.

#rhett abbott #rhett abbott x reader #amy abbott #outer range

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albinoshepard · 1 year ago

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N7 Month 2023 - Day #02: Tension.

In every ordinary vessel of the Alliance, the commander rarely goes into the cargo hold except to prepare for a mission, but the Normandy is not an ordinary fleet ship, from its design to its colorful crew. It's precisely one of its members which pushes Abigail Shepard to often abandon the bridge for the lower decks of the ship.

As always the turian Garrus Vakarian, former SSC Agent, was busy working on the targeting systems of the M35 Mako, the landing vehicle, and was so focused on his work that he didn't even notice the Commander staring at him silently. That's why he suddenly became nervous when he turned around and found her in front of him. She in return seemed almost pleased with that reaction, and smiled slyly before clasping hands behind the back and clearing her throat:

"Vakarian, still calibrating the Mako's weapons?"

"I... Um... Yes, the last fight with that Thresher really overheated them and I wanted to - um - make sure they were ready for the next ground mission, I..."

"Is it common practice for all Turians to work so much? Why don't you take a break? I have some... Questions, about the culture of your people - you know, to... Analyze Saren's behavior, so we can anticipate his moves." - She seemed unusually nervous too, but he certainly didn't notice.

"I - um - of course. I'll finish these calibrations and I'll join you in the common room."

"Very good. Don't delay. Unlike what people say about female humans: we don't like to wait." - She smiled, again with that sly look, and she walked away with quick, almost hopping, steps.

The Turian waited until she had completely disappeared on the elevator and finally heaved a deep sigh, as if he had been holding his breath until that moment, but as he began to relax again, a deep and thunderous laugh came from the bottom of the hold. He turned in that direction, to give the Krogan mercenary hidden in the shadows an interrogative look: "Wrex?!"

"What?" the other replied, unable to stifle the hilarity that the scene had unleashed in him. "Oh, hell! Get a room the two of you and get it over with!"

"What?! No, no - I - we - I don't... She's the commander! I can't, I... It's not what you think!!"

"Of course. And you're lucky she doesn't know how to interpret the subtle vibrations in the tone of the turian's second voice, or she probably would have already jumped on your neck."

"What the...?! No, she can't... I..." If he were human he would probably be a fiery phosphorescent red color right now. He huffed in annoyance, not knowing how to respond and headed towards the crew bathrooms before reaching the Commander. For some strange reason he felt the need for a cold shower.

📌

When I think of "tension" I'm reminded of the relationship between Shepard and Garrus at the beginning and I always curse BioWare for not having explored it further in the first chapter of the trilogy. 😁

That's why I wrote this short story about Abigail and her favorite Turian.

It's written straight away and quickly translated from Italian so sorry if it's not perfect. It was just to give an idea.

📸

N7 Month Challenge 2023

Day #02: Tension

Prompt List - @n7month

🎮 Mᴀss Eғғᴇᴄᴛ 1 Lᴇɢᴇɴᴅᴀʀʏ Eᴅɪᴛɪᴏɴ ℹ️ Pʟᴀʏsᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ 4 | Lɪɢʜᴛʀᴏᴏᴍ

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omegapheromone · 7 months ago

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I think the worst part of the heat is over finally considering I was able to actually go to the store to get some food... still felt super anxious around other people and felt like I was sweating and overheating the whole time still, but at least my condition wasn't that bad. It's still definitely there, the heat itself isn't over- but it's calmed down a lot from the initial onslaught so I can actually function fairly normally now.

I also took a shower right before I went to wash off any potential scent still clinging to me after hiding in my nest for so long so I imagine I probably wasn't too much of a nuisance in terms of an overwhelming scent either. I felt very irrationally worried about it though- logically I know that people can't actually perceive any pheromones from me (because, 'real world' vs misce identity brain) but I was constantly thinking "what if" regardless.

(More rambles/complaining under the cut, all sfw, just putting the read more here for the sake of post length)

...I felt like people were staring at me, so that made it worse- even though that is almost certainly just because I have a fairly distinctive "look". Still, I imagine that if those people actually COULD sense my pheromones/omega scent for real, I'd have caused some kind of a scene bc I felt like my anxiety must've been like. So obvious. I couldn't even look up from the floor at all aside from when looking at which products to buy. Note to self to NEVER grocery shop while still in heat ever again, because it will be a nightmare. Too bad I actually genuinely needed to get some food because, you know, I'm trying to keep my flesh vessel fueled with enough nutrition.

Idk. It's such a weird thing to get so anxious about. I felt a bit crazy, like... logically, nobody is going to be able to tell that I'm in heat because, you know, non-misce people don't generally even consider that a possibility for humans. And even if people could sense my anxiety- which is entirely possible if not likely from just my body language alone- it's not like they'd know why being at the store would be so stressful for me. I wasn't ACTUALLY in danger. Even so, I constantly felt like "everyone can tell, I must be such a nuisance to everyone, I wish I had a scent blocker or heat suppressant at hand, I feel so bad and guilty for being in public like this because it must be really annoying for everyone else". That type of thing. I guess it didn't really help that I definitely noticed some people glancing at me a bunch, even though it's almost certainly just because I have a pretty distinctive and noticeable look (unnatural hair colour, etc). A kid was pointing me out to their parent in a foreign language I happen to understand a bit, and another very young kid was very openly staring at me for a good while. Kids tend to do that to me all the time, because I look interesting to kids especially, but today it just felt. Bad. And of course, when kids point me out, the parents look too. There was also this (potentially fellow queer) person who definitely did glance at me a good few times, most likely because they just wanted to do that "shared glance of acknowledgement" people tend to do when they notice another obviously Not Very CisHet Person in the wild, but god did it make me feel more anxious to know that they were continuously glancing at me in hopes of our eyes meeting in order to do that "nodding in acknowledgement except with your eyes only" thing gays do. I kept noticing it from my peripheral vision and the sentiment was very nice and everything but I was genuinely on the verge of a panic attack in the store so like, it just. Made me feel worse. Which in turn makes me feel guilty bc I must've seemed like I was avoiding them or something.

I guess I'm just like... frustrated? Because there's no "actual logic" behind any of it, aside from trauma and heat causing my emotions, esp anxiety, go kind of haywire. Also it feels silly to be genuinely paranoid of "oh god everyone can smell my heat can't they, I feel so awful for causing an inconvenience, I'm scared someone will try to hurt me" when. Absolutely nobody can tell.

Hnnng anyway... I still have to decide if I go out tomorrow since I have a therapy appointment. I really should, I haven't seen her in person in a while, but gosh, if my heat is still ongoing I'm going to feel so terrified all day again. But I do need to run other errands too... idk I'm just very. Don't know what to do.

#gamietxt #heat 🌡

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jooheonspinky · 1 year ago

Text

From the Ashes 2

Characters: Jungkook x Female reader

Genre: Fantasy!au, angst

Synopsis: I am ready to confess my feelings to Jungkook, but his older brother, a wizard, has other plans. Plans with devastating consequences that I could never have prepared for.

Warnings: various mentions of fire

A/N: This story came about from a dream I had. Actually, two dreams I had last month. You can read them before the story if you'd like. I did have to change a lot in order for it to make a little more sense.

Dream Log 56

Dream Log 57

•• ━━━━━ ••🔥•• ━━━━━ ••

Part 2

Word Count: 2.5K

My nose crinkles, a quiet huff slipping past my lips in agitation. Curling up tighter into myself, I snuggle deeper into the pillow. Waking up was the last thing I wanted to do, but a peculiar scent was drawing me out of the depths of my grief-stricken slumber. Reluctantly, I open my eyes.

The room has considerably warmed since Merrick left. I pull the covers off of me and sit up, glancing around the room. All appears as it should be. Nothing is out of place, as far as I can tell. Though the fire has died down some, it glows red-orange in the hearth while the shoe box is still sitting in the center of my table.

I stand, gasping as I clutch at my chest. A thin wisp of grey smoke is drifting up from the newspaper. Did a coal from the fire somehow project out into the shoe box? Was the box perhaps too close to the fireplace and overheated while I slept? Whatever the reason, I need to douse the fire that is trying to catch before there is nothing left of Jung-

The newspaper ignites!

Brilliant golden-yellow sparkles illuminate the room as if pyrotechnics have been set off. Wincing, I shield my eyes until the bright light extinguishes on its own. Panic fills me even as I try to tell myself that there was nothing I could have done. It happened so suddenly. But what was I going to say to the Dean? How could I face his parents now?

I blink several times, allowing my eyes to adjust to the dimness that now permeates the room. A frown creases my brow as I shift my attention to the table. There was something there: something that should not be, something that defied all logic.

“Jungkook?”

I can’t keep the quiver from my voice as the realization hits. Jungkook’s naked form is curled up in the fetal position on the very spot where the box of ashes had been. His skin is pale and glistening, his hair soaked and plastered to his scalp and forehead.

“Jungkook?” I call again as I approach on hesitant steps.

I wonder if I imagine his toes twitch when he suddenly lets out a soft groan. He’s alive! How can this even be? I rush around to face him and watch as his eyes flutter open. Though his head shifts to look at me, his eyes roam around as if struggling to focus.

“Hurts,” he murmurs before his eyes close again.

“What does?”

“Everything.”

“I can’t imagine,” I say softly. I reach out to brush the hair from his forehead and find he’s feverishly warm. There is a clear, viscous substance that I can’t even pretend to know what it is that covers his entire body. “You can’t stay on this table, Jungkook. You can fall and hurt yourself. We really should get you in the shower. I have no clue what this stuff on you is.”

“Mmm,” comes his reply.

“Ok, up you go.”

Jungkook lets me pull him up, my grip tight on his biceps for fear that he would slip right out of my hands. His feet dangle over the edge, and I move the chair to make it less hazardous for him.

“Too hot,” he tells me, his voice husky.

“Yes, you are,” I agree. “Hopefully, the shower will help. We’re almost there.”

“Everything’s blurry,” he swallows thickly. “What’s wrong with me?”

My heart rate quickens and my hands grow slick with perspiration. Does he really not remember?

“Let’s take things one at a time, yeah?” I opt for a vague reply.

“Yeah,” he sighs, his brows drawing down.

I make a conscious effort to avert my gaze from his exposed form as he leans into me because the moment my mind truly realizes that Jungkook is in my room naked would be the moment my cheeks warm with the unmistakable flush of a schoolgirl's embarrassment. Instead, I channel my focus into helping him through this traumatic situation—a scenario no one could possibly have foreseen or prepared for.

Once we’re in the bathroom, I get the water running to tepid before allowing him to step in. As his feet touch the lukewarm water, he sighs in relief. I help him sit in the tub, his long, muscled legs bending to accommodate their length. As the tub begins to fill, a hint of steam rises from his body, and I’m bewildered, not just at the phenomenon but all that has happened. Had I not seen it with my own eyes, I would never believe it.

“Is it too cold?” I ask.

“No. No, it feels really good.”

“I’ll be right back.”

In the dimly lit hallway, I patter over to the laundry room's lost and found bin, sifting through its contents until I lay my hands on a pair of sweatpants and basketball shorts, accompanied by a tank top and a hoody that I hope will fit. Even though Jungkook radiates heat now, I’m uncertain how the bath will affect his temperature. These findings promptly go into a speedy wash cycle, and I set a reminder alarm on my phone so as not to forget them.

Back in my room and now armed with a cup from my cabinet, I return to the bathroom. Gently, I pour water over Jungkook's head, massaging in the body wash and patiently working out the slimy residue. The rest of his body receives a thorough yet gentle scrub with a washcloth, which I then hand over to him to handle his private areas. Once I'm satisfied he's clean enough, I begin to drain the water while simultaneously turning on the showerhead to ensure all remnants of the slick fluid and body wash are thoroughly rinsed away.

Goosebumps spread across his flesh as I towel him dry. I’m as delicate as I can be as I pat the cloth over his skin, unsure if it’s sensitive after his… resurrection? I’m not even sure what to call it, but I treat him like a newborn baby experiencing sensations for the first time, just in case. My alarm rings in the room, and I hand him the towel.

“Here, you finish up, but be careful. I’ll be right back.”

I stop the alarm and rush out to the laundry room to move the wet clothes to the dryer. Once back in the room, I set another alarm. I find Jungkook swaying slightly on the bathroom mat as he shivers, the towel tied precariously at his hips. The bath water must have cooled him off too much.

“Cold,” he chatters, confirming my suspicions, and I offer him an apologetic smile.

“Let’s get you tucked in under the covers. I found you some clothes, but it will be a little bit before they are dry. Come on.”

I guide him to my bed and allow him a little privacy as he discards the towel and slides beneath the thick comforter. I busy myself bringing the dying fire back to life, hoping the warmth would quickly fill the room to regulate Jungkook’s temperature. I then move on to spraying down the table and chair, cleaning off any remnants left behind from the substance that had coated him, as well as the bits of ash from the incinerated shoe box and newspaper.

I frown at the black and umber scorch marks streaked across the wooden table. That’s going to require a bit more attention. Attention I’m not willing to give it right now. Sighing, I leave the items in the sink to be washed or put away later. I look over to find Jungkook’s eyes have been following me as I move about the room.

“Can you see now?” I ask as I approach the bed with a smile.

“It’s getting clearer, but still a little fuzzy.”

I hum, adding, “That’s good. I think that means your eyesight will be back to normal soon.”

He nods. “I think so, too.”

“Is there anything I can get you?”

“Water?”

“Yeah, sure. I can imagine coming back from the dead can be a bit dehydrating.”

Jungkook smirks sleepily at me as he sits up. I bring him back a bottle of water, and he chugs the entire thing down without taking a breath.

“Well damn.” I hand him another, but this one he drinks more slowly. The alarm startles me, and I laugh. “Your clothes. I’ll be right back.”

One last time, I head out into the empty hall to the laundry room. As I hug the warm clothes to me, I’m shocked to see the clock reading 3:05 in the morning. A ton had happened in such a short amount of time. Soon, the sun would rise, and we’d have to explain to the Dean and his parents that Jungkook hadn’t died after all.

I better leave the Dean a message.

Locking the door behind me, I set the clothes on the bed.

“Pick what you want to wear. I need to call the Dean,” I inform Jungkook. Giving him my back, I call the Dean’s office, reaching his voicemail as expected. “Hello, Dean. This is Y/N Y/LN. Before you speak with Jungkook’s parents, I need you to call me. This is very, very important.”

I also make sure to leave a message on his secretary's line as a precaution. Taking my phone off of 'Do Not Disturb' mode, I place it on the bedside table. When I turn around, I see Jungkook donned in cargo-style sweatpants and a grey hoody. The clothing, despite his well-defined physique, is extremely baggy on him, giving an air of vulnerability and childlike innocence to his appearance.

“My parents are going to freak out,” Jungkook nibbles his bottom lip anxiously.

“They are, but in a good way,” I assure him as I urge him back into bed. “You’re alive. That’s all that’s going to matter to them.”

“You’re right.”

“Get some rest,” I smile down at him. “You’re going to need your strength to get you through everything.”

I turn to walk away, but Jungkook’s hand shoots out to grab my wrist, halting me in place.

“Where are you going?” he queries, and his tone holds a hint of panic.

I pat his hand. “There’s a futon on the other side of the room,” I point out. “I’ll sleep there.”

“No,” he pleads, gently tugging me closer. “Please stay here. I…” he pauses as if searching for the right words to say. “Everything that happened is still hazy, and there’s this anxious feeling in my stomach. I can’t be by myself right now.”

I stare down into his doe-like eyes and how he nibbles his bottom lip, lending truth to his words. He needs comfort and reassurance that all is going to be okay, despite the severity of what has occurred. How could I deny him that?

“Ok,” I relent.

If anyone would have told me I would see my crush naked and that I would be lying in bed with him as well, I would have cackled at the absurdity of it. Jungkook and I had been good friends for some time now. Both of us being in our first year, we had many of the same courses and spent a substantial amount of time studying together, whether in the library tower on campus or at the nearby twenty-four hour diner, where we ate fries with strawberry banana milkshakes as we went over our notes. But it was never anything more than that. Last night was supposed to be the day I finally changed all that.

He pulls back the comforter to allow me to slide in. My full-size bed was definitely not made for two people, so we lay on our sides facing each other. I take note that he’s starting to get his color back.

“Thank you,” he whispers, and I smile. A few moments pass before he breaks the silence. “I don’t remember much, but I do remember you wanting to meet up before the dance. Was there something you needed?”

Of course he’d remember that. My lips tighten into a thin line as I fight the urge to smile.

“Right,” I squeeze my eyes shut briefly. “It’s not important right now. Once everything settles down, then we’ll talk.”

“But everything is calm now,” he remarks.

I shake my head, “Sorry, it’s really not the right time anymore.” He frowns but doesn’t push further. Wanting to change the subject, I wonder aloud, “So, is this what it’s like to come into your power? I’m just a human, so I have no idea what it’s like.”

He toys with his lips as he ponders the question, “Honestly, up until now, I thought I was just human, too. It wasn’t like this for my brother; I was there when he discovered he had powers. I guess it’s different for everyone. I’m really not even sure what I am and what powers I’ve actually been given, if any.”

“The Dean will help you with that,” I point out, a yawn tugging from me on the last word.

Jungkook chuckles, “Let’s go to sleep.”

“Mhm,” I murmur affirmatively, the warmth from his body, the covers, and the fire drawing me down into sleepy land.

I faintly hear him whisper ‘sweet dreams’ before darkness claims me.

•• ━━━━━ ••🔥•• ━━━━━ ••

Music wiggles its way into my dreams, trying to coax me fully awake. My disgruntled hmphs and whines are mixed in with a more masculine one, and my eyes open immediately.

What is happening?!

My head is lying on Jungkook’s chest, my hand casually on his abdomen. His arm cradles my shoulders while the other hand rests loosely on the arm that’s on his torso. My bare thigh is sandwiched between his legs, my nightgown having risen up high up around my hips, and this all seems way too intimate that my cheeks begin to burn.

I sense the exact moment he realizes I'm awake, his heart rate quickening beneath my ear. With an awkward throat clearing, I gently disengage myself from him. As I rise to my feet, I swiftly snatch up my phone and activate the speaker.

“Good morning, Dean,” I greet with as calm a voice as I can muster.

“Y/N,” the Dean’s voice is sympathetic as he says my name. “I received your message. What is so urgent?”

“Hello, Dean,” Jungkook calls from beside me.

There is just a moment’s pause before the Dean’s stunned voice hesitantly asks, “Jungkook?”

“That’s right,” he replies.

“Jeon Jungkook?” the Dean questions again.

“I know,” Jungkook chuckles. “I can hardly believe it myself.”

“I need you to come to my office immediately,” he orders, flustered at the miracle. “And you need to be as discreet as possible.”

“Yes, Dean.”

“And come alone!” the Dean insists.

Jungkook’s eyes meet mine as he replies, “Ok. I will be.”

With that, he hangs up.

“It’s ok,” I assure him. “I need more sleep anyway.”

He stands, taking my hand in his. He brushes a kiss onto the knuckles. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

“Of course,” I scoff, my cheeks burning scarlet. “You don’t even need to say thank you.”

“But I do,” he insists.

“You’re welcome, then,” I offer a small smile. “By the door, there are a pair of slides. Go ahead and take those.”

“You’re the best. I won’t ever forget what you’ve done for me.”

With that, he steps into the black slides. Jungkook gives me a small wave before exiting the room.

•• ━━━━━ ••🔥•• ━━━━━ ••

I hope you enjoyed Part 2. Please look forward to Part 2. Coming soon. Feel free to leave a comment and let me know what you think.

Part 1| Part 2| Part 3

•• ━━━━━ ••🔥•• ━━━━━ ••

Moodboard by me

Image credits

Smoke

Fire

Jungkook 1 and 2

Flame in hand

Fire and Sparks

#bts #jeon jungkook #jungkook #bts jungkook #jungkook fantasy #jungkook phoenix #jung kook #jungkookie #fantasy au #jung kook phoenix #phoenix au #angst #tw fire #magic #BTS ARMY #ARMY

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