#and a pinch of salt. don’t forget that.

[leggeteconme]

Spend the morning with me! Woke up an hour later than planned but made the best of it edition :)

I got out of bed at 8:05, did my skincare, watered Bingley and set him in the windowsill for some sunlight, admired the dusting of snow we got last night, made the bed, did a few sun salutations in lieu of a proper yoga session because stretching is important but I had zero time, got dressed to work from home, made my current favorite oatmeal (maple pumpkin spice with collagen and generous toppings), and was at work by 9.

🎶 Vera Sola - Shades

Mildly impressed with myself lol.

Take care lovelies <3

[grandisknight]

at your service | rafayel

summary: Gaining the upper hand in Kitty Cards has its benefits, which solely consist of making the loser (Rafayel) comply to the winner’s choice.

tags: nsfw (mdni), established relationship, kitty cards (derogatory), teasing, gn!reader (no specific descriptors), 'miss bodyguard' name mention, thomas mention, maid!rafayel, sub!rafayel, costumes, roleplay, maids, photography, kissing, praise kink, ‘master’ kink, brief mouth fucking, finger sucking, handjobs, m!orgasm, ejaculate, implied/suggestive ending

wc: 3.0k | ao3 | kinktober in deepspace masterlist

a/n: don't ask me what happened but just know i will die on the hill that is maid!rafayel

You couldn’t believe your luck. 

And Rafayel couldn’t understand his lack of it. 

The Evol kittens were no better in-between the two of you—some were happily purring or fast asleep, comfortable in their colored teacups. More importantly, unbothered and unaware of the two players on opposite spectrums in their aftermath.

Out of the nine creatures, an overwhelming majority belonged to you. After a long, arduous dual and third round sweep, you had overshadowed Rafayel with a score of thirty-two points to his measly eight sum. He held a quarter to your victory.

“This game sucks,” Rafayel sulks. His frown mirrors one of the red Evol kittens closest to him, rounded tears blobbing down its cheeks. Both defeated, worse for wear at the outcome.

You let out a small laugh. “You say that, and yet you still play with me every week.” 

You poke the cheek of a cheery green Evol kitten, who nudges against your touch in turn and meows. “Isn’t that right, little fella?” It delightfully purrs back at you, the accordance only rubbing more salt into Rafayel’s poor wound.

“Hmph.” He doesn’t fight you there, chin resting in the palm of his hand and averting your teasing gaze.

You collect your hand and his, returning all cards to the discard pile with a satisfied hum. No sooner did a café worker come by to clear your table, leaving the two of you to your devices.

“And you know what that means, don’t you?” You lean forward, reaching to his sulking demeanor. Catching the sleeve of his blouse, you lightly pinch the silk between your fingers, putting on your own petulant expression. “Unless you forgot so soon.”

As long as he breathed and lived, it was actually Rafayel who would constantly have to remind you of things said and done in the past. Less of the forgetful one between you, he takes pride in his memory retention.

Even so, he couldn’t stay upset with you for so long. His shoulders relax at the sound, back straightening and taking your hand into his. A scoff of, “Puh-lease, of course I remember,” answers your questions.

“Loser does what the winner wants,” he tacks on in confidence. 

It was the terms agreed upon when stepping into Meow Meow Café earlier that day—he didn’t think much of it at the time, confident he would win today’s rounds. 

But, that wasn’t the case. Right. You won the first, he the second, and as for the third…

Rafayel pauses then, dual-chromed eyes now narrowing in suspicion. “Wait a minute. I’m the loser.”

You nod, a grin plastered to your face. “Today you are, yeah.”

“And you’re the winner,” he follows up. 

(If you look close enough, you could make out swirls of equations and calculations floating around his head.)

“Two for two, you’re absolutely correct.” With a gentle tug and rise from your seat, you string along a bewildered artist in tow. 

It came altogether then. A sense of dread at your unrevealed schemes quickly fills his tone, face already draining of its color. “Oh no,” Rafayel groans.

“Oh yes,” you chirp. “I have a wish that needs to be granted, and you’re going to help me out!”

—

“Are you sure you don’t need my help?” 

You stood outside the bathroom door, which was currently (and firmly) locked from within. Not that you were going to barge in unannounced, but surely it warranted some concern when Rafayel hadn’t stepped a single foot out since entering. Only the rustles of clothing and hushed utterances echoed the acoustics of tiled walls; you couldn’t really make out any of the finer details otherwise.

And it’s been ten minutes.

You clear your throat, wondering if he missed the first time you called out. “Ra—fa—yel��“

The door swings open then, the man of the hour greeting you with, “Yeah, yeah. I hear you.”

It took a second to register his reappearance, and your mouth fell slack taking him in. “Woah,” you breathe out in awe.

No longer in his casual blouse and accompanying slacks, the artist stood before you in a newly picked attire. 

White knee-high socks stuck to his calves, with the edge of their supporting garters partially hidden and neatly wrapped all the same. A frilled apron of ivory linen rested neatly above his kneecaps, blanketing the black satin of a dress in an equally-met length underneath. Sleeves puffed around his shoulders, and a pointed collar was tastefully unbuttoned in fashion—undoubtedly of his own doing, revealing the flush of his chest and collarbone that homed one of his many beauty marks.

To which, he instinctively covers up with a defensive cross of arms and ears tipped in a bright red. Embarrassment follows his rather meek stance. “So like, that’s all, right? Can I take this off now?”

You take a step closer, hands clasped behind your back in observation and hum. It was well-fitted to his body, hugged neatly in all the places where it mattered. Thomas came in clutch when you asked him the other day, catching him at Flux Arts during one of the slower viewing hours. 

“His measurements?” The agent pondered your request. A couple swipes to his tab later, he adds on with a smile, “Sure thing. If it’s for Rafayel’s sake, then I’ll send them over.”

A little secret kept between the two of you, unbeknownst to the wearer. It was probably for the best, you wouldn’t hear the end of his moping otherwise.

Rafayel whines under your scrutinizing gaze that was lost in thought. “Hey—“

“Not yet,” you say with a shake of your head. “Indulge me for a while more. You took forever in there all by yourself, anyhow.”

You reveal a matching headdress between your once hidden fingers, a row of pleated ribbon swiftly placed amongst his wavy locks. The final piece of the puzzle, a maid in all his glory and in the comforts of your humble abode. A sense of glittering pride holds your gaze to his.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” he points out.

Your shoulders raise in a slight shrug. “Of course I am, it’s the winner’s right.” A hand trails down to the curve of his jaw, holding the face that continues to pout. With a light snicker and compliment in attendance, you tell him, “You look very cute, by the way.”

Rafayel’s pout twitches for a second, slyly revealing his enjoyment to the compliment. He clears his throat, saying, “Yeaaah right. Take a picture, I’m sure it’ll last longer.”

Oh, but he spoke too soon. His eyes widen when you actually take out your phone, much to his better judgment. “Hold on, you’re not planning on really keeping a memo, are you?”

“It would be a shame if I didn’t,” you counter. He said so himself—might as well take his word for it.

Swiping to the camera app,  you position the lens inches away and see his furrowed brows through the viewfinder. You gently tug him forward, fingers fully curled underneath his chin. On the other hand, he purposefully sways back and forth in an effort to blur your captures.

You tsk. “The more you squirm, the longer I’ll have to keep trying to take a shot.”

“What, you don’t like my blurry faces too? They’re all handsome,” he huffs. Though a squish to his cheeks cuts him short, stilling him long enough for a ring of shutters to seal the deal.

“Alright, alright,” you coo to console his woes. “I think I managed to get a good one.” 

You lower the phone in observation, scrolling through the new gallery additions. The flurry of dark lavender and hazy skin aside, a few select shots captured the paused moment of time where he did behave. 

Device neatly tucked away into your back pocket, your attention turns back to the subject of your newest wallpaper. Even if this was a reward for you, he deserved just as much in compensation. 

A soft kiss to Rafayel’s jutted lip melts some of his tension, brows no longer scrunched together. You smile at his relaxing shoulders and opening arms when you give another. 

You shower him in adoration, butterflied smooches and his closing eyes soon pressing against the closest wall. Your hands run over the frills of his skirt, smooth to the touch and gently laid out atop his thighs. The barrier of fabric did nothing to hide the amount of warmth emanating through, the effect of your touches having a clear reaction on him. 

You wondered if there was more to be seen—only one way to find out.

Shifting, you drag your lips away from his and to the sweet spot where his jaw and earlobe meet. You ask in a low voice, “So, what do you think?” His blush steadily follows into the very space, worsening when you blow gently over the affected skin. “Dressing up like this for me.”

“My thoughts?” 

Whether it was in disbelief or furthered embarrassment—perhaps a fine condition of both—Rafayel could only exhale. You could feel his legs pressing together in unspoken confirmation, and a bashful turn of his head carries his murmur of, “What do you think I’m thinking about when you touch me like that?”

“Well,” you trail off. “I’d rather show and not tell.”

In a blink, your fingers bunch up the skirt fabric into messied pleats that reveal the answers you sought after. And it truly was a lovely sight to see—you let out a low whistle, impressed at the state he’s in. Through the sheer lace of white trim, a curved tip as red as his ears was weeping quietly, soiling the undergarment dutifully.

“Don’t look,” he whines, attempting to cover up his hardened arousal with the satin.

“Would you prefer if I touched instead?” You tease, catching his wrist in apt timing. You guide his hand over where his body couldn’t lie, and he noticeably twitches. “Oh? Maybe you prefer touching yourself.”

“I can’t do that,” Rafayel weakly counters. It breaks into a low moan when you slowly inch him closer to the beads of precum pulsing past his slit. He hisses when your thumb slips against it, purposefully smearing his come against the lace. “You’re so, so mean, Miss Bodygu—“

“Ah, not so fast.” You tut, drawing back and a string of his arousal follows. He gasps at the unexpected loss, protests shaping his lips before you continue your turn. “That’s not my proper title.”

Confusion tints the hues of red and blue that, already, were far dipped into the seas of lust. “I call you that all the time though.” 

In hindsight, you are his Miss Bodyguard. Have been, for months on end, and with generous bank statements stamped with his name as a source of proof. One who graciously accompanies him when your schedules allow it, to even sightseeing trips for both business and pleasure.

He pauses, then notably gawks with the cogs of realization spinning. “You… Don’t tell me, you want me to call you that?”

It wouldn’t be the first time this particular name has come up in conversation, but the circumstances were vastly different. You bring your soiled thumb to his lips, swiping it across and allowing it to settle into a thin layer of gloss. 

“You can’t be serious,” he says.

“Sorry, are you talking to me right now? I only listen to those with manners.” His eyes only grow in size, yet you feign indifference to it. Of course you would hear him out—though only with the proper name.

Ignorance was never bliss, but rather a crude form of torture for Rafayel. “M… m…” The word laid on the tip of his tongue in a hesitant sound, before a quick mumble follows.

“I can’t hear you.” Your fingers curl themselves once more in a grip over his chin, directing his gaze to go nowhere else but to you. And your eyes were steadfast, committing his flustered face to memory.

“Speak up,” you encourage.

The air above sea had never felt so suffocating yet enticing all at once. Rafayel couldn’t help but enjoy the heat, and the root cause of it, to which he says in a low groan, “Master.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard, now was it?” Your faceted praise comes with a tilt of his head and a kiss to reward his newfound diligence. He sighs into your warmth that welcomes him, though it shifts to a whine when you pull away too soon.

Rafayel nudges your nose with his, a pity show pooling in his eyes. “More, Master.”

“More of what, exactly?” You contemplate, before a decisive, downwards push of his lacey underwear has him sighing. 

His length stood proud against his abdomen, way past a softened state, firm and twitching to the exposed air. You draw a fine line from base to sensitive head, gauging his reaction. The other hand toys with the closest garter on his thigh, fingers dipping past the fine leather. “My sweet Rafayel,” you purr. “What should I do with you?”

“Want you to touch me,” he strains, an edge of impatience to confession. His lips move to mouth at your collarbone, no longer hiding his neediness and taking it in stride. It was rare for you to see this side of him, so vulnerable yet entirely reserved for you—a face he wouldn’t dare show anyone else.

Rafayel spoke with heat in his voice and hazy stars in his eyes. “Master, please. I swear I’ll do anything you want.”

“Anything,” you muse, squeezing his thigh thoughtfully. “And all you want me to do is touch you.”  You can’t help but chuckle when his enthusiastic nod only adds to your point. 

You could see his illusory fox ears flatten in disappointment when you pull away, against his wishes. He lets out a small yelp when your fingers release the garter and smack against his skin.

“Master, I—“

“Open,” you instruct, fingers searching his lips once more. 

And Rafayel does, choking a moan when you place them against his tongue. Carefully, you stroke his warm cavern, to which his mouth closes around and sucks with zeal. He swirls his tongue against the pads of your fingers, determined to please you.

His canines briefly graze your skin when you depart with a faint string. Now finely coated in a layer of his saliva, you dip your hand downwards—curling the sticky fingers around his nearly-neglected cock. Rafayel cants his hips immediately, supporting the salaciously wet noises that echo in tune. 

You squeeze his length in warning, pressing the other hand to his abdomen. “Stay still,” you scold, feeling him contract beneath your pressure. “If you can’t follow a simple order, I’ll leave you high and dry.”

“No, no, no,” he whimpers, shaking his head adamantly. His hands grip the skirt, desperate and knuckles almost turning white from their strength. Something to keep him grounded, to make sure he listens well to his beloved—“Master, I won’t move, promise.”

You purse your lips. “We’ll see about that.” 

Up and down, you tenderly attend to his arousal in generous strokes. Steady rubs and an occasional swipe to his sensitive head last for what feels like an eternity to Rafayel. He was so well-behaved when his orgasm was threatened, all in the palm of your hand.

“You’re close,” you observe with a particularly firm flick, “Aren’t you?”

“Mhm, ‘m very close,” Rafayel quickly admits, his breaths ardent and changing in pitch. He looked so beautiful like this, prettily wrapped around your fingers and a sweet song of your name resonates from his throat. 

Abandoning the languid strokes, you angle your elbow to reach him sooner—faster. “A good, honest boy,” you coo. His blush only deepens at the sound, and his keens grow in volume. You’d apologize to the neighbors later. 

“Should I let you come?” You ask knowingly.

“Master, Ma—ah—ster,” he cries out. “Can feel it, I’m about to—“ A tear rolls down his cheek, matching the one threatening to bead past his slit. “Please, please.” Overwhelmed and in a desperate need for relief, Rafayel’s expression stirred a flame within you.

“Let it out,” you coax, pace unrelenting and threatening to cramp your fingers. The finish line was only a step away, and you say with a smile, “Do it for me. Come undone, my little maid.”

Blissful orgasm wrecks his body, accompanying his labored whines and pearls of white leaving his spent cock. Both the fabric of his outfit and your hand became victims to the viscous liquid, with the air equally met with nothing but the scent of it. 

Rafayel was boneless by the time he was nothing but dribbles of cum and a wrinkled skirt, slouching against the wall.

Your dry hand finds its way to his face, kindly stroking his cheek and adding a kiss to his relaxed brow. “You did so well, Raf.”

“Course I did,” he manages to jest in a hoarse voice. He eyes the state of his clothes and your dirtied hand, to which he nods towards. “Give me your hand.”

“What?” You look down, before raising it between your faces. It glistens, brought to the light and sinking into the creases of your skin. “Why—Ah.” 

Obediently, Rafayel takes your fingers dripping in release to his mouth. He licks in strides at the leftovers as if it were a swirl of ice cream on a hot, summer day.

“Cleaning up the mess you made,” you muse, though make no movement to stop him. “What a dutiful maid I have.” 

He nips your now unsullied fingertips at the comment. His hold on your wrist brings you closer—you stumble unexpectedly, letting go of his face to steady a hand to his chest.

“Raf—“ Your voice stutters when you feel his knee rub between your legs. Purposeful and angled, the pressure stokes the forsaken flames in your abdomen. “Rafayel,” you breathe, attempting to collect your bearings. 

“I hope you know I won’t easily forget all the things you’ve done,” Rafayel murmurs, eyes glimmering in mischief. “I won’t let you off easy, Master.”

[mistydeyes]

Hey! Don’t know if you’re still taking requests, but if you are, would you mind writing something about reader accidentally burning herself whilst cooking? Nothing major but something still to be concerned about and how TF141 would react? Either platonic or in a relationship is fine :)

Thanks so much ❤️😊

as someone who is absolute shit in the kitchen I can say this has happened to me so many times! thank you for the request <3

summary: When you are challenged to make something in the kitchen, it turns out worse than you expect.

pairing: Task Force 141 x gn!platonic!reader

warnings: swearing, depiction of wounds/burns

┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊

Cooking was never a great quality of yours. It was a skill you were still learning the hard way. Oftentimes, you would settle for something warm from the mess or be the first one to rip open an MRE on the field. However, after a very lively conversation with Soap, your ego was put to the test as he challenged you to cook something one night. "Just some pasta, no big deal," he chided as you rolled your eyes in annoyance, "unless you don't think you could?" With that, you immediately stormed into the shared kitchen to scrounge something up with Soap following close behind. Your eyes landed on some pasta that was probably there for ages and marinara sauce in a can. "Could I do you for some pasta and sauce?" you asked and before he could make a snarky comment, you turned to find a pot.

"God fuck this," you mumbled as the water took seemingly forever to boil. "Might help if you add some salt!" Gaz interjected as he took a seat next to Soap on a neighboring counter. "Mhmmm," you replied as you continued to watch the stagnant water as if you could make it heat with your mind. Soap and Gaz continued talking about some mindless training while you tuned in to the hums and clicks of the burner. Eventually, you triumphantly shouted as the water began to build to a roaring boil. You let the long strands of pasta sit in the pot as they began to soften. "You forget about the sauce?" Soap reminded and you swore as you scrambled to find another pot. In your haste, you had turned on the burner in preparation. So, when you returned seconds later with the pot, a lit flame met your gaze. "FUCK," you screamed as you whacked at it haphazardly with whatever was closest. "GOD STOP TRYING TO HIT IT WITH THE CARDBOARD BOX," was the last thing you heard from Gaz before your vision was clouded by the rapid dispersal of a fire extinguisher.

When the smoke had cleared, you were left with a throbbing hand and a powdery kitchen. "What is going on in here?" Price asked as he came barreling down the hall with Ghost in tow. "Someone decided to cook us a meal and well," Soap trailed off as you stood there covered in white. Price had no words as he looked at the group standing sheepishly in front of him. "You hurt, Sergeant?" he said sternly and you put up your hands to show the reddish skin. Price pinched his nose bridge as he turned to find a medical kit. "Put that under some water, Sergeant, and the rest of you," he paused turning back around, "clean this shit up."

As Soap and Gaz complained through the various cleaning supplies being put to work, you nursed your hand with some burn cream and gauze. Price had given you an earful about your little mishap and furthermore, had instructed you to visit the infirmary in the morning to make sure you didn't get an infection. You winced as you bound the gauze around the pink tinted areas. Ghost laughed quietly as he watched you patch up your non-dominant hand and you shot a look at him. "Cooking isn't easy, Lt." you barked and he continued to laugh even harder. "Think we should call you Pyro from now on."

┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊

[sendpseuds]

[ladies and gentlemen: the fuck, marry, kill finale]

“And now, if you don’t give me what I want, I— I think I might kill you.”

Stubborn silver eyes remain frustratingly unreadable as Obi-Wan’s focus dances over Anakin’s face like he’s trying to untangle the younger man’s treacherous threat — to separate the truth from terrible lies but Anakin knows in his horrible heart that he meant every last letter.

When the grip in his hair loosens, Anakin thinks he might scream, terrified this man will pull away in more ways than one and send him into a spiraling storm, but that frigid fear quickly melts under the heat of Obi-Wan’s palm as the man’s hand slides along his jaw until he’s pressing a saber-rough thumb into the soft swell of Anakin’s lower lip, a wicked smirk curling the corners of the man’s menacing mouth as Obi-Wan Kenobi slowly lowers himself into Anakin Skywalker lap.

“Well, we can’t have that now, can we?”

It feels like being yanked out of hyperspace when Obi-Wan’s lips meet his — hot and hungry and Anakin can only gasp into the kiss he never thought he’d receive. His body responds first, his mind miles behind in the maelstrom of his masters ministrations — digging his fingers into Obi-Wan’s thighs, pressing hard against his welcoming body, licking greedily into his open mouth.

Apparently, Anakin is not the only one who’s been drinking, if the bitter taste of Obi-Wan’s tongue is anything to go by but he can’t find it in him to care how exactly they got here when the man kisses like he’s been craving Anakin’s saliva for centuries.

It’s delicious and dizzying and downright insane that a stupid game could have sparked something so sinfully satisfying.

“It’s your turn,” Anakin breathes nonsensically when inevitably they’re forced to come up for air, gasping and groaning into the heating space between them.

Obi-Wan hums questioningly into another kiss, softer, sweeter than the ones that preceded it, but Anakin finds he can’t be distracted from the wicked words in his throat.

“Fuck, marry, kill,” Anakin grins, his smile only growing wider when Obi-Wan exhales an exasperated huff against his lips. “Your best friend—“ he pinches meanly at Obi-Wan’s side as if to say ‘don’t even pretend I’m not your best friend,’ “—your worst enemy—“

Anakin places small kisses to each corner of Obi-Wan’s mouth as he lists off the options, pulling the man back in and licking between his lips before adding the last teasing possibility.

“Your padawan.”

Immediately, Obi-Wan’s hands are back in his hair, harsh and heated, wrenching his head back to expose the long vulnerable line of Anakin’s throat before nipping at golden skin like he wants to hold the younger man’s pulse between his teeth.

“I have a better option,” Obi-Wan growls against his jaw and Anakin wants to roll his eyes because Obi-Wan always thinks he has a better option but any protest dies in his throat when the man in his lap grinds his ass down against Anakin’s growing desire, causing him to moan out, long and loud, his hips hitching up of their own accord.

“Fuck The Chosen One.”

Obi-Wan’s voice is rough and ragged in a way Anakin has only ever heard in the heat of battle, the man’s mouth unrelenting as he sucks a harsh bruise into his collar bone, licking salt from Anakin’s skin like he’s a delicacy meant to be savoured.

“Marry The Hero With No Fear.”

When Obi-Wan sinks his teeth into the juncture of his shoulder, growling like some feral beast, Anakin grips both hands in fiery hair, crying out in a whirling mixture of pulsing pleasure and perfect pain, tugging tugging tugging until the man’s lips are back on his, groaning into the open cavern of his mouth, desperate to taste every last one of Obi-Wan’s perfect teeth.

It feels like a fevered dream, Anakin’s mind reeling with the reality that this is Obi-Wan writhing in his lap, nipping at his lips, groaning and grinding his hips down and Anakin almost forgets—

“And who— who would you kill, Master?”

Obi-Wan pulls back just enough for that stunning silver stare to meet his own and Anakin has never seen the man like this — face flushed, hair tousled, eyes as dark and deep as empty space — he looks like a man at the very end of his carefully curated control, patience frayed to fragile fibers, and Anakin doesn’t think he’s ever laid eyes on anything more beautiful.

“Who would I kill?” Obi-Wan echos, his voice gruff and graveled and there is no denying the greedy look in those gorgeous eyes, “Anyone who dares try and take you from me.”

[1][2][3][4]

[inmyheaddd]

fade into you - grayson hawthorne x reader

a/n: more girl dad grayson 🙈 also i’m getting around to doing my requests so send some!! wc: 1k masterlist

grayson walked into the house, his mood instantly lifting once he smelled the familiar scent of your candles, and something being cooked. 

his eyes softened as he entered the kitchen and saw you making pasta with freya on your hip. she was telling you a story, and you were intently listening, nodding along. 

“what are my favorite girls up to?” he asked as he walked up to you.

“m’helping mommy cook dinner!” freya exclaimed.

you smiled once you noticed grayson’s presence, “she’s doing such a good job, you know? she helped me add the salt all by herself. isn’t that right fifi?” you added, her nickname rolling off your tongue lovingly. 

“yep!” she nodded enthusiastically.

“aw, my love. i’m so proud of you!” grayson cooed at her, kissing her forehead. 

he couldn’t help but pinch her tiny cheeks, to which she started giggling at. 

“dada stop! i’m a big girl now, i’m not a baby.” 

“you’re right, honey, i’m sorry.” he smiled at her. 

“s’fine… don’t do it again, okay?” she her hand out for a pinky promise, something she did often with her father. 

“i promise.” he said, interlinking his pinky with hers, before coming over to the other side of you, placing a gentle hand on the small of your back. 

“hi, my love, i missed you today.” he mumbled into your hair, kissing the top of your head. 

“i missed you too. you have no idea.” you tore your gaze away from the stove and looked to him, before pressing your lips to kiss in a quick kiss. 

“freya’s been screaming all morning. she only just calmed down, she’s a little devil sometimes.” you chuckled lightly as you stirred the pasta sauce in the pan.

“i’m sorry i wasn’t here,” he was now moving his hand up and down your back, “i’ll take her while you cook, yeah?” 

“you don’t have to, i’m all good.” you protested, but to no avail. 

“i want to, i can finish cooking and you can go relax, sweetheart.” he placed a kiss on your neck before moving over to get freya.

freya was preoccupied, braiding and curling pieces of your hair around her fingers.

“freya, do you want to come hang out with dad? we can cook while mommy rests.” 

“nuh-uh, i like mommy’s cooking more.” 

grayson chocked back a laugh, but you weren’t so successful in hiding your own.

“baby, don’t say that, it hurts daddy’s feelings.” you said as you attempted a serious face.

“but it’s true!” 

grayson joined in on the laughter, “for the record, i love your cooking gray.” 

“i don’t…” freya muttered quietly.

“thankyou, it means a lot, truly.” grayson was still chuckling, and so were you.

after some coaxing, grayson convinced freya to let you have a break. she asked him to his makeup, and it was impossible to say no.

he was sat on the floor of freya’s room, as she was standing in between his legs, poking her tongue out in concentration. 

“guess what?” she whispered loudly as she packed more eyeshadow onto grayson’s eyelids.

“what?”

“i have a secret,”

he hummed, raising an eyebrow with his eyes closed, “what is it, honey?” 

“i stole mommy’s makeup.” she giggled, and kept giggling. 

“oh really?” grayson chuckled and peeked an eye open, to see that she was applying your well-loved dior blush onto his eyelids. there were countless other products on the floor too, next to your makeup bag.

“hey, close your eyes!” she ordered, and her slight lisp made grayson laugh. 

“i’m sorry. just don’t forget to put mommy’s things back, alright?” 

“okay. you won’t tell, right?”

“my lips are sealed.” he held his pinky out, and was left hanging.

she stopped her eyeshadow application and gasped excitedly, “lipstick! you reminded me.”

you finished your well deserved everything shower and walked into the kitchen, and it was almost impossible to hold back your laugh when you saw grayson with pink sparkly eyelids and messy lipstick, with his sleeves rolled up finishing off your cooking.

“oh honey!” you snickered, “you look so wonderful, did you do that makeup yourself?” you teased as you walked up to him, placing your hands on the sides of his face. 

the way he was looking at you made your knees buckle, if it weren’t for his hand that instantly found your waist when you approached.

“no mommy, i did it!” freya ran up to where you two were standing, grayson moving you both forwards slightly so she wouldn’t be close to the stove. 

“aw freya, you did such a good job! i love it.”

“can i do yours too? please please please?”

grayson spoke up, “i can help too, freya’s taught me a lot of practical skills.” he grinned at you, the very same grin you fell for what seems like a lifetime ago. 

“yes! daddy can help, please?” she jumped up and down excitedly, giving you her best puppy eyes.

now you were equally as sparkly as grayson, and freya wanted to take a photo, “like how dad always does”, she said.

“okay, smile!”, she was holding her own little camera grayson had gotten her a while ago.

you posed with hand was on your hip, and grayson’s arm around your waist. 

after a moment, freya spoke up again “dad! look at the camera, not at mommy.” 

you both laughed, and freya snapped a photo. “perfect! now, daddy, kiss mommy!” 

grayson’s eyebrows rose and he smiled at you. you jokingly rolled your eyes before leaning in to peck him, your hands on his chest and your leg slightly kicking up behind you. 

“like a princess…” freya muttered in awe, before placing her little camera down and running up to you two. 

grayson lifted her up with one arm, the other  still around you. 

you moved forward to kiss freya’s cheek, and grayson watched with the gentlest smile painted on his face. with his two favorite people both in his arms, he felt like the luckiest man alive.

“what are you smiling at?” you mused at him, unable to hide your own smile. 

“nothing,” he slightly shook his head, his gaze unwavering.

he set freya down and she giggled as she ran out of the room, before grayson captured your lips in the softest of kisses.

with your hands around his neck, this time, your foot kicked up involuntarily. grayson did really make you feel like a princess, like you were his whole world. 

[deathbyhertouch]

Over and Over Again

Phoebe Bridgers x f!reader

warnings: Smut 18+(mdni), angst, fighting, swearing, fingering, brat!reader, pussy slapping, bondage, hair pulling, choking

word count: 1.7k

Enjoy 😘

“Oh fuck off, don’t fucking do that shit.” She growled through gritted teeth. You rolled your eyes at her and crossed your arms.

“Sorry, I have to fight for your attention, all of the time, Phoebe.” You spat back at her.

“Are we seriously going to go through this fight, again?” She asked, voice slightly raising. You looked up at her, blinking back tears, but determined to hold your ground on this. She was home late for the third time this week, after promising to be home for date night with you. It wasn’t like she was an hour late, she was nearly 5 hours late. No text, no call, just late-again. You knew she was working hard preparing for the tour and getting things set, but on the other hand you were a bit fed up with being pushed to the sidelines. You had tried to be patient, knowing how hard she works for her career, but countless nights being fed glass promises such as ‘it’s only for tonight, i promise you, just need to get this chorus down’ or ‘the boys need help with coordinating tour venues, i will be home on time’. You can’t even remember the last time you slept together. She either rode the couch most nights or was staying the night at Lucy’s apartment.

“Apparently we are, since you seem to forget about me every other day. Honestly, do you even still love me anymore? Or am I just some accessory to only be yours when you decide you have time for me?” You huffed under your breath. One look at her face however, you knew you had pinched a nerve. Her face was beet red and her hands were curled into tight fists, knuckles white. In the blink of an eye, she was standing in front of you, looming over you.

“Wanna say that again, sweetheart?” She whispered. You knew now was not the time to test her, but fuck it, you hadn’t gotten properly fucked in months, and seeing her like this flipped some sort of switch in you. 

“I said- I must be just some plaything to you, you barely touch me anymore.” It was a bold move on your end, knowing that playing the brat card was high risk, high reward. You were horny, and this might be an ends justify the means situation. 

“Fucking brat, you know that? Fine. You think you’re just a toy, then I will treat you as such.” She growled in your ear, her delicate hand wrapping itself around your throat, applying a light pressure. You swore she could smell the arousal in your panties. You knew better than to play on something she had no control over, but you wanted attention, and by god you were about to receive it.

“Bedroom, now. You better be fucking naked by the time I get in there.” She pulled back, releasing her hand from your throat. You swallowed, eyes growing wide. Not really wanting to jinx the situation, you muttered a ‘yes, ma’am’ and made your way to the bedroom. You turned on the salt lamp, the soft orange glow illuminating the room. You made quick work of ridding your clothes and sitting on the bed, awaiting further instruction. 

It wasn’t long after, Phoebe came in, her hair now tied up in a small bun. She approached you, sweetly running a hand across your cheek, before gripping your hair into a fist and yanking harshly. It hurt but you were way too turned on to care. You gasped and she stuck two fingers in your mouth. She angled your head to look up at her and gave you a sly grin. She leaned over your agape mouth and spit into it.

“Swallow, like the greedy little whore you are.” She spouted at you, releasing her hands from your head altogether. You graciously accepted, not able to help the moan that escaped your lips, clenching your thighs together. 

“Thank you, ma’am.” You muttered, eyes raising to meet hers. She smiled down at you and ran her thumb over your bottom lip. 

“Good girl. Now close your eyes and lay on your stomach.” She gave your cheek a small smack, before she pulled back completely. You followed orders, turning and closing your eyes. You could hear some light rustling, assuming she was removing her clothes, or something of the like. 

It felt like an eternity, before you felt her nimble fingers, beginning to tie restraints around your wrist. She moved her fingers, almost feather-light, down your body. You felt a loud crack, and the rush of blood to your ass cheek. You whimpered, before feeling her hand rub over the sore spot. 

“ Count to five, whore. If you’re good, I might consider giving you a reward.” She quipped, hand coming off your ass. You nodded lazily, humming with content.

Smack. “One.” She rubbed your ass, cooing at you.

Smack. “T-two.” Your voice now breathy and uneven. You were absolutely dripping onto the duvet at this point. Phoebe must’ve also noticed because you heard a scoff from behind you.

“Not even phased by your punishment, are you? Making a fucking mess.” She spoke softly, but you could hear the smile in her words.

Smack. “Fuck, three.” Your ass was sore, and you were positive that come tomorrow morning, her handprint would be emblazoned on your cheek, broken blood vessels in its wake.

Smack! “Four.” Her slaps got sharper, as they moved to your other cheek. You were grateful she let up on your left cheek, however making up for that by using harder force on the other. 

“One more, pet.” She whispered. You nodded, silent tears now rolling down your cheeks. 

Smack. “Five.” You croaked, happy that the harsh treatment was over, but fuck if you weren’t utterly turned on right now.

You felt her lean her head over you and placed a kiss on each of your now bruising cheeks. She hummed lightly, satisfied with her work. She ran a single digit through your folds, collecting your arousal. She brought her finger to her lips, savoring the taste of you.

“So wet for me, pet.” She smirked at you. “I suppose, you’ve been good, maybe you deserve a bit of recognition.” You whined and nodded in agreement. Her hands moved up to untie yours, giving each of your wrists a small peck.

She helped you turn onto your back, moving to sit against the headboard, your body leaned up against hers in between her thighs. She placed wet, hungry kisses up your neck before grabbing your jaw and pulling it to face her as she ensnared your mouth in a heavy kiss. Her mouth was warm and wet and inviting, this was the intimacy you needed. It was a rather rough way to get it, but you were happy nonetheless. 

“I l-love you, Pheebs. I’m sorry for what I said earlier.” Your voice was no higher than a whisper. She hummed against your neck, placing a soft kiss against the sweaty skin. She moved a hand down your body, fingers grazing your breast, making you shiver against the gentle touch. 

Her hand found its place on the top of your pubic bone, eliciting a light mewl from you, bucking your hips up into nothing. She huffed a light chuckle, and placed a teasing slap to your pussy. You yelped at the sensation, utterly turned on. You must have been oozing at this point, her fingers finally granting you her sweet touch to your aching core. When she swiped her fingers through your folds, ending with rubbing deep circles on your clit. 

“You close pretty girl? You’re making such a mess on the sheets.” She cooed at you, knowing how much you loved when she talked to you this way, just did something ineffable to you.

“Please, ma’am, can I cum for you? I want to cum all over your fingers.” You were begging, which in turn made her slip two slender fingers into your dripping pussy. You moaned loudly at how easily her fingers slid in. She began pumping into you at a rapid pace. You were a panting mess, feeling that pit in your stomach. You were racing towards your release when you moved your head so you could look her in her eyes.

“Yeah? You gonna cum f’me?” She growled in your ear, tugging your soft lobe between her teeth. 

“Please, please let me cum, ma’am. I’ll be such a good girl for you.” You gave her your best doe eyes, watching the wheels turn in her head. Her fingers sped up, your pussy now making a squelching noise. She hummed into your hair, the hand not currently servicing you moving to pinch your nipple. You moaned and leaned up to kiss her, and she captured your lips, kissing you deep and slow.

“C’mon princess, let me have it.” She whispered into your mouth. You sighed happily and nodded, absolutely drunk on the feeling she was giving you. You felt your orgasm ripple through you, becoming a sopping mess, gripping her arm tight. Her fingers slowed a bit, helping to soothe you as you came down from your orgasm. She pulled her fingers out of you and brought them to your mouth. You opened up and took them on your tongue, swirling the tip around the digits. You hummed at the taste, she pulled them out with a pop of your mouth, before leaning down to kiss you sweetly. 

“ I love you, Phoebe, sorry I dealt a low blow.” You said, breaking away from the kiss. She pecked your cheek, running her fingers through your hair.

“I love you too, I’m sorry i’ve been so busy lately. I promise to make it up to you.” She spoke to you with such care and tenderness. You were happy, wrapped in her arms.

Love, A

[eupheme]

— THEIRS, AND YOURS

joel miller x f!reader x tess servopoulos

rated E - 2.4k

tags: soft smut, pwp, established poly relationship, threesome, oral sex (f receiving, come-eating, fingering, rough sex, light angst, piv, unprotected sex, little spoon!joel

a/n: been chipping away at this all week - I saw them both and was like, yes. Takes place during episode one.

He caves to her. And she caves to you.

Still soft, deep down. They both are, beneath the walls of thick steel and barbed wire. Keeping things out as much as they keep in.

Somehow you still managed to creep between the cracks - creating something delicate that pushed it’s way to the surface to bloom.

Her skin is soft beneath your lips. The careful press as you follow the shadowing swoop beneath an eye. The scabbed-over scrape across her nose.

A low hiss when they ghost across her cheekbones, a spot that’s still too tender. Your fingers find hers and squeeze.

A huff of breath, then, a sigh - you’re too sweet to her. Tess doesn’t know how to take it.

On another night, she’d be pulling your mouth to hers. Capturing it greedily. On another night she wouldn’t be propped up against the few pillows in the bed - letting you nudge her knees apart.

But you had asked so prettily.

He caves to her. And she caves to you.

Still soft, deep down. They both are, beneath the walls of thick steel and barbed wire. Keeping things out as much as they keep in.

Somehow you still managed to creep between the cracks - creating something delicate that pushed it’s way to the surface to bloom.

Your mouth skips her lips, the worry marks between her eyebrows deepening. Hiding your smile as they press against her throat instead, feeling where her pulse still flutters, still coming down from her high.

It’s hard to resist the urge to add your own mark, but she’s bruised enough - you don’t want to add to her pain, even when it’s done with tenderness. You want to ease it, to make her forget.

To distract him from getting up, and going after Robert himself, tonight. You don’t need them any more banged up than they are.

Her worn, berry-red shirt is still open from before, hanging soft and loose on either side. From where Joel had almost torn the buttons off, worry and fear and rage bleeding into their rough joining.

An equal push-and-pull, both taking what they needed. You had watched as her hands had fisted in the sheets, as he had wrenched the orgasm from her.

Joel following soon after, a broken gasp as he had pressed himself deep, emptying into her. A confirmation that they were alive - they were fine and he could feel it in the way she groaned his name, clenched around him.

His fingers sweep your skin now, his own movements slow. Tracing the curve of your bare hip as you settle. Your own touch bold as you cup her soft breast over the thin undershirt.

Following the desperate before with a soft now - the press of your thumb, circling the bud that grows tighter as your mouth drops lower.

Kissing her sternum, tasting the salt of her skin. Ghosting your lips over the plush curve that peeks out from the hem.

“Stop teasing.” It’s not a request, but it makes you smile.

This is how you like to take care of her, to soothe.

Joel carries a fire in his eyes, igniting the embers that always burn deep in his chest. Kindled by their plans for later - fixing the job gone wrong. Working out their frustrations together with harsh moments and panting breaths.

And you - you’re the balm. Soft touches that follow, mapping over the spots that he missed in the rush.

I’ll take care of you, you say, with each press of your mouth.

She’s never begged, and she won’t start now. On another night you might push your luck, see if you can get close. A whine, the word please - but not tonight.

“You gonna listen, sweetheart?” Joel drawls, the slightest pinch to your thigh. You think he’d use his teeth if he was closer - still sprawled out across the end of the bed.

You always listen. He just likes to be bossy.

The tip of your nose skims down, to where the shirt bunches up around her waist. Muscles clenching with the warm exhale of your breath, her leg shifting wider when you press a kiss to her hip.

Finally, finally moving to where she wants you, though it isn’t as if she’s the only one suffering. You’ve been aching for this too, but you can’t rush appreciation, not when you want it to stick.

Though - you would have been happy to have her on the couch, to have her anywhere. Knees spread just like this, as you gazed up at her. Nudging them wider with your shoulders, tasting her until her fingers were clawing into the fabric.

But expecting Joel to be patient was not an option - and you’d be damned if you were the one to cause more pain to his busted knees. Digging into the hardwood, leaving them bruised and aching even more the next day.

He’d never say a word, never think twice.

The tips of your fingers part her - soft, damp curls and puffy lips. Admiring for a second before your tongue dips down to press against her swollen clit.

Her groan is loud, and you preen - fingers coming together to press inside, where he’s fucked her open. Spilled himself inside. Where’s she’s soaking your fingers, so wet even now - because yes, some of it’s from him but you think some must be from you.

With your kisses and touches, the swirl of your tongue as you let loose your own moan. You can feel your own arousal, warm and curling in your stomach - your own thighs damp, a need thudding between them.

Unable to resist the urge to slide your fingers free. Spreading her slick across her thigh as your hands push them wider apart, your mouth dipping further. Licking a fat, wet stripe before thrusting inside.

It’s filthy. The way you can taste him when your tongue presses deep, as you groan into her. Again, collecting more - before your fingers work back in.

You’ve had them both, before - why wouldn’t you want them together, like this? The sweet tang of her cunt and the taste of his spend, smeared across her clit with your tongue.

It gets him, then. Knowing your mouth’s tasting where he’s been - it has Joel shifting behind you, jostling the bed. Nudging your knees wider, settling his on either side.

“You look so pretty, darlin’,” He croons, and you can feel where he’s hard - his cock bumping against your inner thigh, “Can I get you ready for me?”

Ready to go, again. Slower this time - the urgency gone, replacing the fire in his veins with a slow, syrupy molasses. Smoky and warm and sweet, just like his words.

“She’s ready,” Tess breathes, her eyes fixed on yours. They had never left, save for the way they fluttered shut when your fingers curled - pumping into the wet suck of her pussy as your tongue lapped at her clit.

You hum your agreement - a sway to your hips, as a hand runs down your spine, coaxing them higher.

His cock drags against you again, slides against your own lips. It makes you clench, makes you want to tell him to just take you, right now.

And if it was earlier tonight he might have. But for now, he’s content to rock his hips against you, grinding his length against your damp inner thighs. Thick fingers pet at your folds, teasing at your hole, circling your clit.

“So fuckin’ messy for us.” His voice is low, rough - as his palm cups you, feels your heat.

They’re more alike than different, down to the way they stand. It’s dog-eat-dog - whatever it takes to survive, whatever the costs. There’s comfort in that connection, that understanding.

But you’re cut from a different cloth, and sometimes it still surprises him that you stay.

Two notch at your entrance, the tips thrusting inside. Sinking in, stretching you out. Getting you ready for more, knowing that’s what you need most.

Your relieved sigh is soft and long, buzzing against her skin. Keyed up from before, from the taste of her cunt and the way she moans for you.

His fingers start to move at the same pace as yours. You’re certain he’s watching - the flex of your arm as your fingers curl. The tilt of your head so you press closer, her head dropping back against the pillows.

The movement flowing from beginning to end, an ebbing loop that would only feel better if it was his cock, instead.

Your hips wiggle, pushing yourself back onto him - pushing his fingers deeper. The palm of his other hand flattens against the plush curve of your ass. You’re sure if there wasn’t the worry of teeth scraping delicate parts, it would have been a sharp slap.

“Yeah? You want more, honey?” He rasps, and you’re sighing, swallowing a messy groan as you nod. Trying to keep up the sweet pressure that has her fingers twisting in your hair.

“Good.”

His fingers leave you. Fisting his cock, smearing your arousal over the thick shaft, the swollen head. Lining himself up.

“Look at me,” you hear, not realizing your gaze has wandered, your concentration split and fuzzy.

Her eyes are bright - she wants to see your face when he fills you. The pretty pinch to your brow, the way that your muscles pull tight, as you forget for a second that you’re fucking her.

Joel’s hips press forward, into your tight heat as it makes room for him. Your fingers on her thigh curl, nails biting into her skin as you pull away to moan.

There’s always a tight stretch, no matter how patient he is - always surprised that he fits. The fullness when his hips sit flush with your ass, his broad hands gripping tightly at your waist.

Giving you a second to breath, her fingers tracing your chin, your wet lips as you pant - as she grins. Before he’s sliding out, thrusting in deep again. Setting a slow pace, the sounds of his thrusts layering with the pump of your fingers.

She had been close, your distraction has you scrambling to bring her to that edge again. You have to close your eyes now, or you’d get lost in the way his hips are rolling against yours, the way the pressure is starting to build already.

Your tongue lapping at her clit as you all but drool, fingers curling until you can hear the gasp in her panting breath, feel the clench around you.

She’s always been quiet - the words stolen from her. So different than when she’s out, a sharp barb always ready. But here’s, it’s all soft sighs and wordless sounds - each one coveted like a treasure, in a world where indulgent praise has been forgotten.

And this might be your favorite of all - your name, mumbled and strung out. Her heels digging into the bed as Joel’s thrusts rock you into her, adding more pressure to your movements.

Both praise and warning. “Don’t you dare fucking stop”, you can hear her words in your head, as her fingers nudge you to just the right spot.

If you could, you’d stay here forever. In this tiny moment, any thoughts of the world fucked right out of your head. The only thing you need to do is make her come, and as your lips suction around her clit, she’s there.

Pulsing around you as she bucks against your mouth. Curses hissed through clenched teeth as she comes, soaking your fingers as you draw out her orgasm the best you can - kissing at her thigh and mound when she pulls your head back, overstimulated.

Tess’s smile lazy and pleased as Joel’s thrusts pick up, now that he so longer has to move so slowly. There’s a careful shift - a twining of limbs as he moves you higher on the bed, as she scoots down just a little lower.

Giving her hands room to roam. For her mouth to finally meet yours, tasting herself on your tongue. You lean into her touch, relaxing against her - moaning into the kiss when one of his hands slide between your thighs, fingers circling at your clit.

Mindlessly kissing her as a hand cups your jaw, holding you in place. Another teasing at your swaying tits, ghosting across the soft curve, pinching at the tight bud of your nipple.

And Joel, with the way he fills you with the long, smooth thrusts, the press of his fingers - he’s come to know your body almost as well as he knows hers. It still catches you off guard sometimes, how tenderly he touches you with hands stained with so much red.

Enough that between the two of them, each of your breaths is a panting moan, the attention too much. Sighing against the brush of her tongue as he tells you how well you take his cock, how you take care of both of them.

“Come on, baby.” He growls, “Come for us, let me feel you.”

And you can feel it, winding up, about to snap. The kiss breaking so you can bury your head against the crook of her neck, her arms wrapping around you. Both comforting and holding you in place as he pounds into you, as you squirm and writhe between them.

It hits you hard. Leaving you breathless - your voice a broken gasp against sweat-dewed skin. A red-hot pleasure that begins where he fills you, arcing up your spine and filling the space where your words used to live.

“Jesus, sweetheart.” He grits out, feeling the tight pulse, the way you gush around his cock. His movements turning selfish, turning rough as your muscles turn lax, thankful for the way her body props you up.

Watching the way the two of you look beneath him, the way you can just barely take him. How his cock shines, in the dim light, fingers sinking into flesh as he pulls you back to meet him.

His own groan low and rough, as he finds his own end. The bite of his nails as he presses deep, spilling himself into your warmth. Still thrusting until he’s empty, until it’s close to painful - his cock filling you in a way that has his release beading up, before stating to drip down your thighs.

It’s bliss.

A rare moment that makes you forget all the rest.

Slowly, the limbs untangle. Taking turns cleaning each other up - finding discarded clothes and pillows. Putting each other back together, once again.

They fit together, before. But slowly, you’ve clicked into place. In the nook, wedged between them, and even though Joel runs hot and Tess’s arms wrap a little too tightly around you - there’s no place you’d rather be.

Your nose tucked between his shoulder blades, chest pressed to his back. Her legs entwined with yours, and it’s her back that faces the door. The first line of defense at night. Letting him sleep - and you dream.

The pit of the world has become split and rotten, but you’ve dug a place within these walls of stripped and fading florals.

Surrounding you in something that might just feel like home.

ahh thank you for reading, I hope you liked it! 💕

[lovedrruunk]

What TikToks I think overwatch characters would post pt 2! (>ᴗ•) !

Part 1 !

Rein, don’t know if u guys know that liver king guy but he’s literally just rein if he took steroids. Posts tons of like gym core/culture videos yk BUT HES ONE OF THE GOOD ONES!!! Ppl in the community love him bc of how positive he is even though he’d give rlly bad advice “EATING THIS RAW TESTICLE INCREASED MY TESTOSTERONE LEVELS BY 9%!!!!”

D.va, this can go 2 ways. #1 in all her Korean celebrity realness posts vids doing trendy dances while using crazy whitening filters and doing aegyo. #2 goes by a fake name and trolls the fuck out of people. D.va being a hater is such a strong head canon of mine like I love her being a toxic bitch like yes slay or whatever so relatable! Replies to streamers she secretly hates like “Wow your mom’s basement looks so clean!” “My left toe can get better plays.” “Bet even your keyboard hates being touched by you.” basically meowbah or wtv her name was but less weird more cunty

Ana, she replies to reins TikTok’s telling his followers NOT to do anything he says, but other than that I can see her posting cooking vids (as every Arab mom does) but she’ll be talking sweetly in English and then suddenly start cussing something out in Arabic and it’ll be so off topic and it’s rlly funny “and then you add 1 cup of flour! ‘I told my lazyass lgbtqia daughter to pick up some earlier but of fucking course she chose to disappoint me again. Ever since the day I birthed her she has been disappointing me over and over again.’ A pinch of salt!”

Hanzo, DEPRESSION CORE SLIDESHOWS LMAOOO some “when the nice guy loses his patience… the devil shivers.” ass shit, bio is probs something stupid like “family betray, women cheat, Hennessy cures.”

Ashe, CONTROVERSIAL QUEEN !!! People forget she’s southern like please you cannot tell me she doesn’t have some crazyass takes. Will post borderline ragebait in like her car or something. “My gun identifies as a PLUNGER. Beat that Biden.” “BIDEN CANT TAKE MY GUNS, I KEEP THEM UPSTAIRS!!!” “Bidens oldass will probably find a way to outlive my OMNIC butler.” She’ll say all this stupid shit with a straight face and I just think that’s so funny. On rare occasions she’ll actually have a rlly good progressive take and ppl will be like okay hold up let her cook…

Tracer, kinda like junkrat where she's only famous cuz ppl lowk make fun of her and she hasn't caught on yet... I LOVEEEE Tracer she's my fav character but CMONNNN "Cheers love!" SHES NOT SURVIVING TIKTOK!!! ppl in the comments will be mocking her accent and she'll just think they're british too... ppl make fun of her NOT cuz they hate her but because she's just ummm eccentric that's the world plus she's british so that's rlly the only reason why ppl make fun of her like not in a mean way but just for funsies yk...

Pharah, being arab and being a lesbian I am 100% qualified to say this but she's such a fucking lesbo ykwim like 'hey mamas' type, she's also really whitewashed like thinks shes a white stud or something. Ellie Williams wannabe makes thirst traps in stained white wife beaters and expects every lesbian in a 100 mile radius to want her (they dont). Thinks playing basketball makes her the shit and she's just rlly desperate and lame. horny on main. Ana found one of her thirst traps once and it led to a really awkward convo

Kiriko, she's only there to post cute videos of her adventures with her gang and fox like shes just there to have a good time ykwim. And she's like popular bc all her fans r girls and her vlogs and stuff r just so nice to watch plus she's funny and rlly cool!

Baptiste, the anti-andrew tate. Hes so attractive and like confident that people can't help but like him ykwim like he makes little straight boys piss their pants with his bazillion level aura. He'll just post a random vid in his car maybe eating chipotle or something and he'll have men and women alike confessing their love for him in the comments. Lesbians love him.

Any character I haven't mentioned i just can't see posting or having tiktok!

[balladofthewhitehorse]

#2 for engport please!

Thank you for the prompt <3 I wasn’t sure which prompt list you were referring to, so you get both!

[Set During The Peninsular War] + [Battle of Rolica] 

Portugal stood still, trembling in a brand of sunlight. ‘’Get out-’’ He started, abject fury curling in the back of his throat as he stepped towards France - jabbing his finger at them. ‘’Get out of my house.’’ Heart thudding in his chest, Portugal watched as the taller man regarded him with a cool look (like a fox in a henhouse; And the dog was away). ‘’Did you hear me, Fran-’’ 

‘’I heard.’’ A shrug, as if they had only been discussing the weather - Sunny with a chance of martyrdom, France mused quietly. ‘’Shame. I liked you.’’ Their eyes flashed as they slowly stood up and approached Portugal, arms folded behind their back as they cleared their throat, shrugging lazily. ‘’Spain’s troops are arriving anyday, Portugal. You’re welcome to join him.’’ A lofty smile, France raising their chin proudly. ‘’Brothers are a rare thing to come by.’’ 

‘’Why do you say that-?’’ Portugal retorted testily, hackles bristling. ‘’Is that a threat?’’ 

France almost looked disappointed, brows furrowing as they shook their head. ‘’Only cautioning you.’’ They paced the room - strides long and methodical, France’s expression pinched thoughtfully as a long silence stretched (Portugal dared not interrupt - somehow even the very quietness was envenomed). ‘’Your regent has gone already, hasn’t he?’’ It was a cowardly flight - France hovering on the port, nerves thrumming long after the ship had vanished; Coiled tight, expecting a fight that had ended up never happening.

‘’What a fool.’’ Anger dripped from their tongue, France glaring at Portugal suddenly - eyes boring into them. ‘’This is not what the Nation of Portugal is. This is not what you deserve, I can give-’’ 

‘’I will not accept it.’’ Portugal bit back, a lump rising in his throat (the people were angry, their restlessness only fanning his own - until Portugal could no longer tell what parts of him were them and what parts were him alone). ‘’Fuck you, I am more than just-’’ His face contorted, wild and defiant as he lunged for France - grasping the front of their embroidered shirt with balled fists, jerking France close with a venegful hiss. ‘’-My Crown!’’ Portugal bit his tongue, trembling in place (A heady rush of earth and sea - salt-kissed soil - who was he?) 

France regarded this with a lofty smile, peering over the bridge of their graceful nose. ‘’I assume you’re already aware of the consequences.’’ Something venomous crept into their voice, an adder in a lonesome field somewhere by the Seine - France releasing a frustrated huff as they shook their head. Typical, there was that familiar stubbornness (France had tasted its steel, as Spain tore a bloody hole in their flank) and they almost felt a laugh creep up their throat. ‘’For starters, I have your brother’s head pickling in a fucking wine barrel.’’ 

 “No, you fucking don’t.” He wrestled the urge to tackle France right then and there, as the taller country began to slowly walk away. Forget humans and their elaborate warfare, forget their swords and cannons and ships. Portugal wanted to tear into France, talons and teeth alike, a ferocious animal. 

“Why don’t you find out?” France sneered, casting him a malicious glance over their shoulder. “Or are you waiting for your…what’s his name again?” They scoffed, rolling their eyes loftily. “For Perfidious Albion to come running to your heel again?” 

“He’s-“ 

“He’s a dog, Portugal.” 

As France’s footsteps faded down the hallway, Portugal bit back a rising cry of outrage. He’s my Dog, Portugal wanted to hiss - to grab his sword and run France through right here and now, Napoleon be damned. Where anger rose, there was a pang of grief - Portugal suddenly subsumed in a wave of emotion as the weight began to sink in (an anchor around his throat, hands clawing at the briny rope). He had to fight France. For Spain, for England. 

Furious tears welled up in his eyes, Portugal nodding solemnly to himself. 

For Spain, For England. 

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

Up, up and over the horizon - Portugal saw it, a ragged banner, blood-red and white. The face of St George was upon him, and Portugal waited patiently as a figure hovered at the prow of the ship, and did not wait before scrambling over its hull, tumbling into the stormy waters (some soldiers nearby had spotted a few of the British lose their lives as their landing craft tumbled in the water - but he knew England had eyes only for him). “About time.” He ground out as England emerged from the salt and foam, slick with brine and arms outstretched. 

“I can’t leave you alone for one second-“ England breathed out, grasping Portugal’s hands - his knuckles were red and raw, shaking as they cradled his lover’s palms (the imprint of a sword’s handle, a personal desire to kill France up close and personal, rather than the distant fury of a musket gun). “-without you hurting yourself, can I?” He growled, heart thudding in his chest - eyes troved Portugal’s body, searching for wounds or bruises, the tumbling of lost land or burned cities. 

“I’m fine.” Portugal replied stiffly, squeezing England’s hand. He knew they couldn’t waste time, jawline tense as he glanced towards his generals. “I mean, it’s okay-“ What burned in England, Portugal understood now to be something more intense than loyalty - something that could not be bought with gold or spice or the newest thing from afar, and as he watched England (his gaze ragged and worn, a man in a trance - the tireless duty of the Grim to its Church).

‘’Come on-’’ He cleared his throat, frowning solemnly. ‘’-We can’t waste any time.’’ ‘’No-!’’ England barked with frustration, staring at Portugal in a mix of disbelief and distress as the man turned on his heel - England trotting after him in a hurry, jaw set as he tried to resist grabbing Portugal by the shoulder. ‘’-No, it’s not okay!’’ A snarl rushed out of England’s throat, lips curling (red gums and white teeth bared, his shoulders bunched defensively). ‘’Not when I feel like I’m going to go batshit fucking crazy, thinking you’ve gotten yourself hurt or killed.’’ He squeezed his hand tightly around the muzzle of his musket gun and cleared his throat sagely. 

Now ruined from the saltwater, Portugal knew that it was ineffective - but not totally useless, given England’s tendency for melee warfare.

‘’Stop that!’’ Portugal snapped suddenly. He stomped his boot against the sandy earth. ‘’We’ve got France’s army breathing down our necks, and I haven’t got time to deal with you-’’ He faltered, England’s gaze heavy as he shook his head. ‘’-Come on, we’ve…we’ve got a long march ahead of us.’’ His brows twisted together in frustration, Portugal scarcely feeling England’s hand on his shoulder. ‘’Get off me.’’ England opened his mouth to say something - and thought better of it, eyes dark as he nodded stubbornly. Without another word, England skulked onward and Portugal fell in step beside him - the sun sweltering overhead as the two men marched in time with one another. 

Guilt clawed at Portugal’s belly, as he kept his gaze level with the horizon (the visible horizon has long been vital to survival and successful navigation, especially at sea - and although Portugal was not at sea, he hoped that it might give him luck; Both in the war and in personal affairs). ‘’...Thanks, for coming.’’ Portugal cleared his throat as he watched his countryside past him, a quiet dread cold and heavy in his chest. ‘’I wouldn’t have wanted to do this alone.’’ But, I would’ve. If you hadn’t turned up - went unsaid, a defensive flash in Portugal’s eyes. 

‘’Of course.’’ England replied numbly, nodding curtly. ‘’That is the rules of our alliance.’’ A flare of irritation blazed through Portugal, although his eyes betrayed nothing; England was right. Ties of blood and ink traced his veins as much as salt and earth did, and Portugal was at war with someone he had once called a brother. Spain was fighting back where he could, and Portugal felt himself weak for the loyalty and affection he still felt for him.

‘’Good-’’ A man called out towards him, Portugal’s gaze flickering off to the right as he squeezed the hilt of his sabre. ‘’-You know your role. I’ll see you after the battle.’’ The look England casted him was a wounding one, Portugal’s lips thinning with distaste as he tried to say something.

England was gone by then - disappearing with the rest of his men, a tightly-wound figure grasping at the hilt of his sword, at the muzzle of his rifle as England longed to strike something (to tear, to bite - to be a dog). ‘’...What are you looking at?’’ He grumbled softly, glancing at his neighbour with a weary, hallowed look in his eyes. ‘’Keep your eyes forward. The French aren’t gonna give you a warning before they blast your brain out.’’ England cleared his throat - before slowly reaching out a hand, gingerly patting the soldier’s back. It would be okay, the gesture said with each gentle thump. England wouldn’t fail.

He wouldn’t. 

Portugal had gone with Trant and his men towards the West - and each passing second was another noose for England’s throat, pulling tighter as he frowned. If France noticed him approaching - it would spell disaster, and quietly the man (pining - a dog left in the backyard, tied to a post and frustrated) moved slowly towards the front, shouldering his way through the crowded army. ‘’Sir-’’ He licked his lips nervously, staring up at Wellesley. ‘’Sir, can we-’’ Sensing the nation’s impatience, Wellesley nodded curtly - and gave the command. It was just a little after 9am, and England watched the horizon for Portugal. If France was…he shouldered through the foray, a snarl rising in his throat as he lifted the muzzle of his gun, a blast of gunpowder and smoke wreathing the air. With impatience, England rammed a fist into the gut of a soldier - curses thick on his tongue as he peered through the foray of dazzling uniform, eyes wild and furtive (the dog began to howl - baying for its master). 

‘’It’s me, you want-!’’ England shouted desperately, furiously as he slammed the butt of his rifle against the ground, knuckles white with terror. ‘’France-! Come to me! It’s me you want-!’’ It was the same as it had always been, the channel between the warring cliffs - an eye for an eye. 

There was a rush - clumsy and unplanned, England’s teeth grit with frustration as he cursed the foolhardy colonel (and yet, all the same, the man could not bring himself to entirely resent Lake; Did he not yearn for spilled blood? To spill himself into Portugal’s arms?) Shots rang out and men tumbled like stones, rattling down the steep hill-side as England found his feet leaden, dragged through the earth and the men and the blood that seeped through the grass. A familiar voice shot across the battlefield and he jerked forward ( and the Earth shifted with him). 

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

Portugal wound himself against France’s body, blade to the nation’s throat as they writhed on the ground (He found himself wrestling with fate; Death gripping the front of his shirt as they slammed the butt of their musket against his nose, a sickly snap of cartilage). Dazed, he gave France a swift kick, thrusting his shin against their groin - a muffled curse of outrage as the other country released their hold, allowing Portugal to scramble to his feet. ‘’Fuck you-!’’ 

France didn’t say anything. A chilling silence amongst the scuffles and swears of soldiers, a figment of legend (Had Jeanne D’arc been this tight-lipped among the flames so long ago? It was hard to say - but France would carry her legacy on), as France lifted themselves from the ground and wiped their shirt, a streak of blood - Portugal’s blood - across their jacket. 

The look on their face was a patient one - a hungry one, la Bête du Gévaudan, as France held their sword before them. There was a flash of steel as they moved (Two roosters in the pit - a pair of spurs between them; France made the first move, sinking their sword into Portugal). Round and round they went, with quick swipes and strikes; A sword lost, a sword shattered as they grappled with one another. 

The men around them knew not to interrupt - knew not to intervene. Portugal bit back a curse as France slammed him against the ground, teeth cracking as they shoved their hands around his throat. There was a faint ringing in Portugal’s ears, a snarl bitten back as he felt France’s palm against the bob of his Adam’s Apple. ‘’Bastard.’’ He ground out wretchedly, jamming the remains of a broken sword against France’s breast - bruise purpling his throat. ‘’Portugal-!’’ England came charging through the crowd with teeth bared, dragging France off - enveloping them in his jaws, England burning with fury (Biting-! Biting down into the neck; A dog making off with the farmer’s prized rooster). He scarcely heard Portugal - calling after him - as they both tumbled, slick with earth and blood down the hill; France had dug a hand in his hair, and tugged while England’s teeth clenched against his throat with a growl.

 ‘’Get off-!’’ France shouted, England’s eyes watering as France jerked a boot into his belly, scrambling to their feet. They didn’t seem to take note of the teeth left in their throat, eyes narrowing as they bent to the wet grass; A discarded sword, one of somebody’s soldiers - whose side they had been fighting for was of no concern to France - and stared down their old enemy (old friend, old family, old neighbour). Without a word, they charged England and collided blade-first, crashing against one another like the choppy tides of the Strait.

Portugal cursed as he ran after England and France. They tumbled through the fray, wild and feral things (Squabbles of Man left behind; History bubbling through Portugal’s veins - forgotten grudges brought to the fore); Portugal, France and England wrestled with the weight of each other’s existence - and they crashed in weary, bloodied heaps. As France rolled away, slowly rising to their feet, Portugal rose too - and glared heavily at them, fists balled. 

France’s gaze flickered towards where his men were slowly drawing into a retreat. A bloody trail flowed down their throat, down their chest - down from their open palms, their face grim as they quietly stepped past Portugal, head held high (hair sticky with blood and earth, all too human for their liking). They fell in line with the rest of their men, and soon they were gone.

‘’...England-’’ Portugal cast his friend a furtive look, once France had slipped over the crest of the hill. Anger and relief thrummed through their veins, hot and heavy and all at once as he bit his tongue, fists trembling (adrenaline tumbled through them - the rush of the currents, pulling him hither and thither, sending him falling over and over). ‘’-What the fuck?’’ Shame plucked at his heart-strings, Portugal frowning solemnly. His friend was ragged and worn, bruises like sunsets, and still England stood before him patiently - expectantly. ‘’You bit France!?’’  ‘’Yes.’’ Came a robotic reply, England’s eyes wide and heavy as he began to croon. ‘’Portu-’’ Portugal held a hand up, shaking his head. ‘’England.’’ He couldn’t do it now, not in the middle of the battlefield; Not with the pair of them still in their soiled uniforms - wretched souls. ‘’You need a wash.’’ Fingers looped around England’s, laced together (Promise that you’ll use the finest soap - Promise that you’ll use the warmest towel - Promise that you’ll look after yourself) as they slowly began to lead the other out of the field, weary and dog-tired.

[ 2 ] - “will you marry me?”

‘’Will you marry me?’’ England’s eyebrows shot up as Portugal spoke, voice faint as it drifted from the sofa; An old thing, he had been meaning to get rid of the raggedy thing for a long time - and had simply never gotten around to it yet. ‘’W-wh…do we need to?’’ He replied, pursing his lips together as Portugal slowly got up (the shuffle of a cushion as it was kicked off onto the floor, and then carefully picked up and swung back down on the sofa). The spatula dandled in his hand for a heart-beat, England mulling over his question - just as Portugal appeared in the doorway.

‘’Do we need to?’’ Portugal replied sarcastically, smiling impishly.

‘’Are you serious?’’ 

England bristled defensively, sticking his tongue out as Portugal approached him; Arms looped around his middle, a red flush racing up the back of England’s neck as Portugal gently tugged him up - as if trying to lift him. ‘’I assumed we were already.’’ He grumbled softly, bumping Portugal with his hips as he gently lifted the spatula to his boyfriend’s lips - Does this taste good? - and smiled lightly; In the bright glare of the kitchen lights, England could follow the lines of his wrinkles and scars, rifts wrought by disaster and battle alike.

‘’You know, treaty of perpetual friendship.’’ He shrugged, looking back towards the pan. ‘’Seems fi-’’ Portugal scoffed, pinching England’s ear gently - leaning up on his tiptoes to press a gentle kiss to his neck. ‘’Friendship.’’ He pointed out, manner-of-factly. ‘’I want something official.’’ A gleam of pride shone in Portugal’s eyes (A sunken treasure - golden and desirable, England’s heart racing as he caught sight of it). ‘’And I have just done something amazing.’’ It had been a long time coming - but Portugal was caught up in the joy of his people. ‘’Before you too.’’ 

‘’I was wondering what got you in the mood all of a sudden-’’ ‘’Edmund-’’ Portugal breathed. ‘’-I just want to pretend we’re just humans for a bit.’’ England blinked at the use of his human name, guilt coiling inside him as he sighed. It was a cute idea - and how many times had they proven their devotion to one another, but by cutting one another into pieces? Portugal was right - and England slowly turned around, shifting so that he could tuck his boyfriend close to his chest, cradling his head in his hand with a oft sigh. ‘’Then yes, I would love to marry you.’’

It was hardly the most romantic way to go about a proposal - England mused wryly that they were both standing around in sweatpants and underwear in the bright glare of the kitchen’s halogen lights. ‘’Not going to start crying with joy?’’ Portugal teased lightly, snorting as he hugged England tightly. In the grand scheme of things, humans were fleeting - finite things in comparison, and Portugal knew that he could not always escape his duty; It thrummed beneath his skin, hungry and protective, the beating heart of his nation and Portugal knew that he would always yearn for his homeland in the end, for the rush of the tumbling sea beneath his feet. Yet, to be able to slake off that heavy burden - even for a brief moment, even for a short wedding, it was truly a precious thing. ‘’You wept the first time that I kissed you. I thought you were a wuss.’’

‘’That’s it, I’m breaking up-’’ 

Portugal let out a bark of laughter, tugging England’s shirt as he pulled the man close into a warm kiss (The forest rising to embrace the dawn; The Sun come again). ‘’Eu te amo.’’

[hotchscoffeecup]

lavender bath salts

Pairing: Jennifer Jareau/Emily Prentiss

Rating: M

Words: 2.5k

Category: Fluff

Summary: When JJ has to work late at the office, it throws off her and Emily's plans to go out for a romantic anniversary dinner. Emily comes up with a plan to make sure that the occasion is still special, romantic, and one that neither will ever forget. Rated M to be safe.

Emily catches the door with one hand and with the other, reaches out to tuck a loose rain-dampened wave behind JJ’s ear. “Hello, beautiful,” she greets and pulls her in for a quick kiss.

JJ smiles against her mouth as she pulls away. “If that’s going to happen every time I stay late at the office, remind me to do it more often.”

One of Emily’s perfectly manicured brows arches as her lips quirk into a sly smile. “Mmhmm, you’d like that wouldn’t you?”

JJ winks and Emily steps to the side, giving her room to step inside. She shudders in response to the warmth of the apartment. “God, it’s brutal out there,” she says. “Is this weather ever going to let up?”

“Here,” Emily offers, extending her hands to take JJ’s partially shut umbrella and purse. JJ relinquishes the items and Emily sets them on the table near the door, not minding the water droplets pooling onto the stained wood beneath.

She moves behind JJ and helps her out of her rain-slicked duster and hangs it on the hook behind the door. She notes the goosebumps pimpling the exposed skin of her arms and slinks in behind her, threading her arms through JJ’s from behind and gently pulling her taut against her body.

A quiet moan slips from JJ as she relaxes into Emily’s hold. JJ closes her eyes and leans into her, turning her face towards Emily’s and kissing her softly on the jaw. “I’m sorry we had to cancel our dinner reservation.”

Emily buries her face into the crook of JJ’s neck and laughs as she presses a series of quick kisses on her neck.”Don’t even think about that.” Keeping one arm wrapped around her waist, her hand slides onto her hip as she slides around to face her. Her brown eyes shine, “I think I may have something better.”

JJ’s brow pinches, though her eyes are alight with amusement and curiosity.

Emily reaches out a hand and JJ takes it without hesitation. Smiling, Emily guides her through the condo into the large master bathroom.

JJ gasps as they enter the space. “Emily!”

Candle pillars of all sizes cover the countertops and window sill; their orange glow flickering in and out causing shadows to dance and play across the walls. Steam wafts up from the large clawfoot tub where the water is rife with bubbles and sprinkled with lavender buds. The smell permeates the air, the soft floral scent filling every inch of the space. In the center of their dual sinks is a crystal vase filled with purple, pink, and yellow tulips.

JJ covers her mouth with one hand as she crosses the short space to admire them. “Emily, these aren’t even in season yet! Where did you find them?”

Emily smiles, “I know a guy.”

JJ smirks in turn, “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” she stretches out her hands toward Emily, who wastes no time in crossing the room to take them into her own.

JJ’s brow turns. Her pale eyes glimmer in the candlelight as she meets Emily’s. “This is what you were doing when I called?”

Emily tilts her head back and forth, “It may or may not have been why I was trying to rush you off the phone when you called to say you were on your way up.”

A laugh escapes JJ’s petal pink lips. She takes Emily’s face in both hands and draws her in, kissing her firmly. When she pulls away, she lets her forehead rest against hers. “This is amazing, Emily, really.”

Emily smiles and presses another quick kiss to her mouth. “It’s about to get better.”

JJ’s brow arches playfully at that. “Oh?”

“Patience,” Emily chides as she slips behind her once more. Looping her arms around hers, her eyes find JJ’s in the mirror as she begins unbuttoning the beige and brown marbled buttons of her work shirt. When her fingers flick open the last one, she gently skirts her fingers up the sides of her body before hooking them under the fabric at the top and pulling the blouse free. A small shiver runs down JJ’s spine. Goosebumps rise across her stomach and breasts. Emily wraps her arms around her for a short embrace before flicking her fingers once at her back, opening the hooks of her deep purple bra. JJ smiles and says nothing, responding by dropping her arms, so the bra falls free from her body.

Emily drops the shirt in her hands at their feet and silently drops to her knees in front of JJ. She curves one hand around JJ’s calf. JJ places a hand on her shoulder to steady herself as Emily uses her other hand to pull the black platform high heeled shoe off her foot. After repeating the action with the other heel, her eyes flick up to JJ’s as her hand slides up and over her hip to gently pull down the zipper there. Once open, the skirt immediately slips free in a ripple of black fabric, pooling at her feet.

Emily presses a soft kiss to her hip as she slips her fingers beneath the lace of her matching thong and pulls it down. As JJ moves to step out of it, Emily takes her by the hand and leads her to the tub. “You, make yourself comfortable and I’ll be back to join you in a few minutes.”

“Let me just grab a—”

“Here,” Emily says, passing her a claw clip from one of the bathroom drawers.

JJ’s eyes crinkle as she smiles and graciously accepts the clip.

“Be right back,” Emily promises. Her eyes scan over JJ, “God, you’re so beautiful.” Suddenly, the sound of the oven dinging snaps Emily’s attention away. “Oh my god! I’ll be back!” she sweeps out of the room to the sound of JJ’s laughter.

JJ steps into the tub and moans languidly as she submerges herself. Immediately, she feels that tension that had been building all day begin to seep away into the water’s warmth. She closes her eyes and immediately opens them when Emily comes clattering into the bathroom.

Her brow furrows and laughter tumbles from her lips as Emily clambers into the room, one hand dragging in a TV tray while the other carefully holds two wine glasses. A bottle of wine is wedged between her arm and body and a bottle opener is stuck between her lips. “What is this?” JJ asks.

Emily exhales a deep breath as she clacks the stand on the tiled floor, which causes it to unfold. With her free hand she withdraws the wine from between her other arm and places it and the wine glasses down. “Don’t worry about that,” she says as she removes the bottle opener from her mouth. Picking up the wine bottle, she makes quick work of the cork and smiles as a satisfying pop echoes when she pulls it free. She pours a measure of the merlot and hands it to JJ. “You just enjoy that. Give me a few minutes.”

JJ arches a brow, but says nothing more as Emily exits again. The wine is dry and warms her from the inside as it slides down her throat. Before long, Emily is back with a plate piled high with cubes of cheeses, olives, fruit, nuts, and crackers. In her other hand is a small plate of chocolate chip cookies.

“Homemade cookies?” JJ asks.

Emily smirks at the callback to a case they’d worked on together. It really was the little things amidst the horrors they worked day in and day out, so yes, when they’d been given homemade cookies while working one of their more heinous cases, it really had made Emily’s entire day at the time. Since then, she’d always treasured the simplicity of a homemade chocolate chip cookie.

She places the cookies and charcuterie on the TV tray and slides it closer to the tub. “Is there room in there for one more?” Emily asks.

“Even if there wasn’t, I’d make room,” JJ quips cheekily.

Emily smirks in response and quickly undresses. Not having bothered with a bra today, she shimmies out of her lacy red underwear and steps into the tub. She sits facing JJ and their legs are brushing one another’s arms but the tub holds both of their bodies comfortably. Emily reaches for her glass of wine and raises it toward JJ. “Happy Anniversary.”

JJ leans forward and clinks her glass against hers. She slips a hand around the base of Emily’s neck and pulls her in for a quick kiss. Emily tastes the wine on her lips and deepens the kiss ever so slightly before pulling away. JJ rests her forehead against hers, still smiling. “I think I like this more than dinner.”

Emily pulls back to admire her and the way her cheekbones lift as she smiles. She sips her wine and places it back on the TV tray. “You work so hard at the Pentagon, JJ, I want our home to always be a place you can come home to and leave work at the office.”

“Neither one of us really have the jobs that afford us that luxury, I’m afraid,” JJ relents.

Emily exhales and a wishful smile plays upon her lips. “Doesn’t mean we can’t try our best when we can spare it though, right?”

“You’re right,” JJ agrees and sips her wine again, smiling, grateful for the woman across from her.

And so the night goes on; snacking and feeding one another grapes and cubes of pepperjack and cheddar cheese, doing their best not to get cookie crumbs in the tub but not minding when they do because the wine is dwindling and their laughs are louder and their fingers are buzzing and wandering and all they can feel in that moment is just how much and how deeply they feel for one another.

At one point, Emily slips behind JJ and holds her between her legs. Her breasts push against her back and the tips of her hair are damp from dipping into the water because she didn’t bother putting it up. Emily whispers sweet nothings into JJ’s ear in all the languages she knows. She’d learn every language if she could because even being fluent in four languages didn’t wholly encapsulate the ways in which Emily wanted to profess her love for the woman in her arms.

They sit there like that until the water runs cold and their fingers are pruning. Emily helps JJ out of the tub and they stumble together into the shower, where Emily cranks on the hot water with a swipe of her hands.

Their mouths find one another as the water rains down on both of them. They lavish one another, their lips roaming over each other, kissing and nipping one another being mindful to avoid marking any areas where their colleagues can see.

After a while, they slick their hands with cherry vanilla scented shower gel and slowly wash the day anyway, hands smoothing and circling over every part of them. Emily pulls JJ into her lap on the marble tiled bench inside the shower. She smoothes her wet hair away from her face and gingerly massages her favorite floral shampoo into her hair, her nails gently scratching her scalp as she does so.

JJ moans and leans back into her body, the curves of Emily’s molding with hers. “You should consider changing careers and doing this full time,” she muses, her voice taking on a more sleepy quality.

Emily laughs and kisses her temple, suds from the shampoo in her hair popping against her lips as she did so. “Jage, I would quit my job in a heartbeat if it meant I could spend every minute of my time doing something like this for you.” She drops her hands onto her shoulders and gently nudges her to stand. JJ whimpers in response and Emily laughs as she relents and rises from her place in her lap.

“Close your eyes,” Emily instructs softly as she turns the showerhead to fall directly over JJ. “Tilt your head back.” JJ does as she’s asked and Emily’s fingers knead into her scalp once more, massaging and rinsing the soap free from her hair. Emily repeats the process with the conditioner and then quickly washes her own hair.

JJ swipes the faucet off as she finishes and shudders. “Towels!” she pleads with a laugh as she gently pushes Emily through the glass shower door.

Emily quickly acquiesces the request, dripping water on the floor as she swipes four towels from beneath the sink. JJ makes quick work of bundling her hair into one so she can dry off and wrap the fluffy gray towel around her body. Emily’s lips quirk into a half smile as she dries her own body. She towel dries her hair and leaves it to air dry.

“Bed?” she asks.

“Bed,” JJ agrees and reaches a hand toward Emily, who takes it and presses a gentle kiss upon her fingers.

They change into their pajamas, Emily in a blood red satin pant and camisole combination and JJ in a pair of plaid sleep shorts and one of Emily’s old academy tee shirts. JJ crawls under the sheets and smiles as she snuggles down into the blankets, rubbing her legs together like a cricket and humming contentedly.

Emily crawls into bed beside her and stares into her eyes, half hooded with drowsiness, as she lies her head down on the pillow.

“Happy anniversary,” JJ whispers. “I love you, Emily. Thank you for always making me feel so special.”

Emily reaches forward and strokes her face with the back of her hand. “So long as I breathe, that’s all I’ll spend my life trying to do.” She leans in and kisses her once on the forehead as her eyes fall shut. “I love you, JJ. Happy anniversary.”

Emily turns away, only for a moment to turn off the bedside lamp, before turning back toward JJ who is already rotating onto her side so that Emily can pull her into the warmth of her body, cuddling together as their bodies curve into a crescent moon shape.

“Goodnight, Jage,” Emily whispers as she brushes one more cheek against her hairline.

“Goodnight, Emily.”

[comingfromastatechampionasshole]

Doc's Best In Goddamn Show Montana State Fair Coconut Cream Pie

As promised, the baked good that did the best, I'll release the recipe. This is one of my favorite pies of all time, hewed into a perfect custard-based pie that won me my first Best in Show rosette in nine years. And pies is even a tough category!

The other shocking thing: This is one of the easiest pies I make. It's very much "don't worry about it." It even tastes better if you make everything but the topping the day before serving.

“Doc, why don’t you use cream of coconut for the custard?” Friend, I tried for years to get that to work, only to find out that cream of coconut just does not bake up as nice as milk and cream, so I use a nice extract and toast the coconut to get the flavors. 

YOU WILL NEED:

A crust (I presume you can either make or buy a crust. I might even have a recipe here on the blog, I can’t remember) 

Pie: 

5 eggs

¾ cup caster/baker’s sugar 

2 cups of whole milk

½ cup half and half (I believe this is called half cream in the UK)

1 tsp vanilla bean paste

1 tsp coconut extract (I like Olivenation or watkins. Also, bear in mind you may need to use more. I do this to taste and the tsp is a guess on my part. Don’t worry, I’ll tell you where to taste in the recipe) 

Pinch salt

1 cup sweetened flaked coconut

Topping:

2 cups heavy cream VERY COLD (can use whipping or double also, but I prefer heavy) 

2 tablespoons jello or jello style pudding mix, coconut 

Powdered/icing sugar (this will be to taste) 

Decoration: Most definitely toasted coconut. I really like Nuts.com’s organic dried coconut chips, but it depends on how flush I’m feeling--I did not use it in this competition. Macadamia nuts are great, dried pineapple, for this competition I used coconut rolls from costco. This is mostly for visual appeal, so be creative. 

Toast your coconut: Put the oven at 350F. Put some parchment down on a baking sheet, and then put your sweetened flaked coconut on the sheet. Don’t forget to put in a bit extra for your topping decoration. Toast for about five minutes, it will probably need a stir and watch it closesy--coconut burns easy. When it’s a nice pale golden, pull it and up the temperature of the oven to 375F. 

Blind bake your crust. If you haven’t done this before, I think it’s easy but admit maybe not everyone will. Roll your crust out into a pie plate, just like you always would, and then cover the bottom with tin foil, and fill with pie weights or beans, or rice--I’m a big fan of using sugar. Whatever you use. Bake it about 15-17 minutes, it should be lightly brown at the edges. Take out the pie weight you used. Bake it about 5 minutes more, just so the bottom gets very lightly toasted. 

Make the filling! Beat your eggs in in a large bowl until they are very well combined but not whipped. Beat in everything but the coconut itself. NOW TASTE IT. Does it taste coconutty enough, or do you want to add a little more extract? Have an easy hand with the stuff, it’s powerful. Mix in the toasted coconut. 

Yeah, I’m serious, that was the whole of the filling instructions. I told you this was ridiculously easy. 

Bake: Pour your filling (carefully) into the pie crust, and cover the edges of your pie crust so it doesn’t burn (I use tin foil, but they do make fancy pie shields). I like to put it on a jelly roll pan so it’s easier for me to take in and out of the oven. You’re going to bake it at 375F for about 30-40 minutes, but the real test is: if you shake it a little, is it set at the sides but with a little wiggle in the center? That’s when it’s done. 

Let it cool totally. 

Topping! Beat your cold cream and pudding mix together, adding the powdered sugar slowly. I start with a quarter cup and work my way up until it’s as sweet as I like. I prefer a harder peak for this, but soft peaks are acceptable if you enjoy that more. Decorat with your topping choices! 

GO WIN A FUCKIN ROSETTE

Please tell me if you made this! If you found this really helpful and would like to leave me a tip, my ko-fi is here!

[iheartgracie]

jude duarte sad quotes

“She wasn’t even scared. She wasn’t sure she felt anything at all.”

“She couldn’t imagine how it had felt, and as the years went by, she couldn’t make herself feel it again. The horror of the murders dulled with time. Her memories of the day blurred.”

“I know it’s an honor to be raised alongside the Gentry’s own children. A terrifying honor, of which I will never be worthy.

It would be hard to forget it, with all the reminders I am given.”

“We are getting older and things are changing. We are changing. And as eager as I am for it, I am also afraid.”

“You may think salt is sufficient protection, but you children are forgetful. Better to go without. As for dancing, once begun, you mortals will dance yourselves to death if we don’t prevent it.”

I look at my feet and say nothing.

We children are not forgetful.”

“To go inside, we must ride between two trees, an oak and a thorn, and then straight into what appears to be the stone wall of an abandoned folly. I’ve done it hundreds of times, but I flinch anyway. My whole body braces, I grip the reins hard, and my eyes mash shut.”

“Oriana steps forward, probably to remind Taryn and me of all the things she doesn’t want us to do. I don’t give her the chance.”

“I turn my gaze to the floor. Though I hate it, I sink to the ground on one knee, bend my head, and grit my teeth”

“Valerian gives my braid a hard tug. I wince, useless fury coiling in my belly. He laughs and moves on.

My fury curdles into shame. I wish I had smacked his hand away, even though it would have made everything worse.”

“I want to feel something, something besides a vague queasiness. I want to feel more, but every time I look at it, I feel less.”

“I’m so tired,” I say out loud. “So tired.”

I sit there for a long time, watching the rising sun gild the sky, listening to the waves crash as the tide goes out, when a creature flies up to alight on the edge of my window. At first it seems like an owl, but it’s got hob eyes. “Tired of what, sweetmeat?” it asks me.

I sigh and answer honestly for once. “Of being powerless.”

“He doesn’t understand how much that makes them loathe us.

Not that I am not grateful. I like the lessons. Answering the lecturers cleverly is something no one can take from me, even if the lecturers themselves occasionally pretend otherwise. I will take a frustrated nod in place of effusive praise. I will take it and be glad because it means I can belong whether they like it or not.”

“There is nothing I can say to make them stop, and I know it. I have no power here. But today I can’t seem to choke down my anger at my own impotence.”

“What they don’t realize is this: Yes, they frighten me, but I have always been scared, since the day I got here. I was raised by the man who murdered my parents, reared in a land of monsters. I live with that fear, let it settle into my bones, and ignore it. If I didn’t pretend not to be scared, I would hide under my owl-down coverlets in Madoc’s estate forever. I would lie there and scream until there was nothing left of me. I refuse to do that. I will not do that.”

“When I was little, I used to sit at the bank all day, staring at faerie countenances instead of my own, hoping that I might someday catch a glimpse of my mother looking back at me.

Eventually, it hurt too much to try.”

“I want to scream at him: Do you know how hard it is to always keep your head down? To swallow insults and endure outright threats? And yet I have done so. I thought it proved my toughness. I thought if you saw I could take whatever came at me and still smile, you would see that I was worthy.

You’re no killer.

He has no idea what I am.

Maybe I don’t know, either. Maybe I never let myself find out.”

“I pinch my leg until pain washes everything away.”

“Do you know why Madoc won’t let me try for knighthood? Because he thinks I’m weak.”

“Jude,” she cautions.

“I thought I was supposed to be good and follow the rules,” I say. “But I am done with being weak. I am done with being good. I think I am going to be something else.”

“when the fun wore off and I still couldn’t stop, it was just terrifying. It turned out that my fear was equally amusing to him, though. Princess Elowyn found me at the end of the revel, puking and crying.”

“Here’s why I don’t like these stories: They highlight that I am vulnerable. No matter how careful I am, eventually I’ll make another misstep. I am weak. I am fragile. I am mortal.

I hate that most of all.

Even if, by some miracle, I could be better than them, I will never be one of them.”

“Is this fun?” I call to the shore. I am so furious that there’s no room for being scared. “Are you enjoying yourselves?”

“My foot slips on slick rocks, and I am under, swept downstream helplessly, gulping muddy water. I panic, snorting into my lungs. I thrust out a hand, and it closes on the root of a tree. I get my balance again, gasping and coughing.”

“We can curse you to wither away for want of a song you’ll never hear again or a kind word from my lips. We’re not mortal. We will break you. You’re a fragile little thing; we’d hardly need to try. Give up.”

“Never,” I say.”

“I think about how much I hate them and how much I hate myself.”

“a different person is looking back at me.

Maybe the person I might have been if I’d been raised human.

Whoever that is.”

“But when I see human families all together, especially families with sticky-mouthed, giggling little sisters, I don’t like the way I feel.

Angry.

I don’t imagine myself back in a life like theirs; what I imagine is going over there and scaring them until they cry.

I would never, of course.

I mean, I don’t think I would.”

“Knighthood would have been boring anyway,” Vivi says, effectively dismissing the thing I’ve been working toward for years. I sigh. It’s annoying, but also reassuring that she doesn’t think it’s that big a deal, when the loss has felt overwhelming to me.”

“not giving her the satisfaction of being shocked by what she said about our parents. She acts like we don’t remember, like there’s some way I am ever going to forget. She acts like it’s her personal tragedy and hers alone.”

“A wave of panicky frustration comes over me at the sight of her intent expression. I so badly wanted her to choose me to be one of her knights. And though she can’t now, a sudden awful fear that I couldn’t have impressed her comes over me. Maybe Madoc was right. Maybe I lack the instinct for dealing death.

If I don’t try too hard today, at least I never need know if I would have been good enough.”

“My stomach is sour with the lack of food, but I no longer feel hungry. I feel sick, eaten up with nerves. I try to ignore everything but the exercises I move through to limber up my muscles.”

“There’s no shame in surrender. As Taryn said, they’re just words. I don’t have to mean them. I can lie.

I start to lower myself to the ground. This will be over quickly, every word will taste like bile, and then it will be over.

When I open my mouth, though, nothing comes out.

I can’t do it.”

“I stagger past the tournament tents to a stone fountain, where I splash my face with water. I bend down, starting to clean the gravel from my knees. My legs feel stiff, and I am shaking all over.

“Are you all right?” Locke asks, gazing down with his tawny fox eyes. I didn’t even hear him behind me.

I am not.

I am not all right, but he can’t know that, and he shouldn’t be asking.”

“What happens when they turn out my pockets? What happens when they rip my stockings? What happens when they scatter my salt in the dirt?”

[roping-riding-wrangling]

Little Black Train

Previous Chapter

After several minutes of silence, interspersed with your father’s sniffling, he finally speaks up, “you were a fat baby. 11 pounds. Grandma Mary loved pinching those chubby little cheeks till they were bright red.”

Your response is to squeeze him tighter, encouraging him to keep going. 

“I keep thinking about what I’d do if it was us,” he says, “If you were the one I was burying tomorrow.”

Summary: Y/n and Bob look through some scrapbooks, she goes monster hunting, and trauma dumps just a bit

Words: 4k

Warnings: Fem!Newby!reader, guns, funeral, mentions of death (including matriarchal and death of a child), swearing, mentions of Jonathan's creepy stalker photos

The living room is quiet. The whole house is quiet. There is a sense of mourning that exudes the walls, as if they know there is no place for joy here. They hold a deep reverence for the boy they never met, and as far as they know, never will. 

But you know better. You know better than to hold a wake for a boy still alive, who’s false body will be lowered into the ground tomorrow. 

Its late. Too late for your dad to be awake, yet there he is. You walk into your room and he sits on the bed, holding a scrapbook of baby pictures. A scrapbook that doesn’t contain anything past age 13. You can tell he’s been crying, his cheeks are still wet and his green eyes are contrasted against the red in his sclera. 

You shift from foot to foot in the doorway. You pull at the sleeves of your jacket that you’ve yet to take off. He looks up at you and for the first time in a long time, you feel his age. His salt and pepper hair, the slight wrinkles on his face, the way he slouches from years of being hunched over a workbench. Bob Newby is by no means an old man, but he’s certainly not the young man who used to run circles around you. 

You know, though, that as he stares at you, he only sees the little girl he cradled in his arms until you fell asleep. The kid who, unlike most 5 year old girls, came home covered in mud every day inexplicably. The child who ran into his room anytime you had a nightmare or the darkness was just a little too dark. His little buddy. 

Perhaps Benny’s death and Will’s impending funeral have made you both a little more aware of each other's mortality. You sit next to him on the bed and put your arm around him and place your head on his shoulder. It reminds you of how you comforted Jonathan mere moments ago in the car. 

You look down at the page your dad has opened. It's your first birthday party. Your dad holds your tiny body aloft, rubbing his nose with yours. You each have giant grins on your faces. In the background, your mother sits. She wears a bored expression, party hat tilted atop her head. She’s admittedly very beautiful, and you’ve inherited all her ugliest flaws. You hate how much you see of her in the mirror. 

Your dad is clearly not focused on the woman who abandoned you both. He looks instead at the focus–you, always you. Your dad has done everything for you, a sacrifice that you will never dismiss. 

After several minutes of silence, interspersed with your father’s sniffling, he finally speaks up, “you were a fat baby. 11 pounds. Grandma Mary loved pinching those chubby little cheeks till they were bright red.”

Your response is to squeeze him tighter, encouraging him to keep going. 

“I keep thinking about what I’d do if it was us,” he says, “If you were the one I was burying tomorrow.”

“What would you do?” you ask

“That's the thing,” he answers, “I don’t know. I try to picture losing you and I just get so sad I can’t think. Like, my brain stops working. I think that's just how it is, though. When a parent loses their kid, they lose their function. I remember seeing you for the first time and thinking: wow, this is my purpose. So, I lose you and I lose the purpose.”

He kisses the side of your forehead. “You’re my purpose, buddy. Don’t ever forget that.”

You kiss his cheek in return. “You’re my best friend. I don’t care how lame I sound. I’m lucky you’re my dad.”

You sit and pour over the scrapbook together, sharing wet laughs until the wee hours of the morning. You’ve nodded off against your dad’s shoulder too many times and he slaps his thighs before standing up, jerking you awake. 

“Alright buddy,” he yawns, “I’m off to bed. Goodnight, love you.”

“G’night,” you say, already under the covers, “Love you too.”

–––––––––

The funeral is the next day and though you know the truth about Will’s apparent demise, it doesn’t change the fact that you are attending a funeral for a little boy. A little boy whose brother you’ve come to care for like your own sibling. You dress in a simple black dress, your dad wears a wool sweater over his dress shirt. You arrive early to the funeral, at your father’s insistence on punctuality. 

You see Jonathan and his mother, but there’s a man with them you’ve never seen before. 

Jonathan makes eye contact with you and slips away from them. You walk away from your dad, who is trapped in conversation with Mrs. Withersbee. Jonathan’s state keeps deteriorating, you notice. He looks even paler than yesterday and his eyebags are even more pronounced. You wonder if he got even an hour of sleep last night. 

“Hey,” you pull him into a hug. You’ve noticed over the past few days that he always sinks into your touch. You can feel him relax, even if just slightly. You pull away and nod at the man sitting next to his mother. “Who’s that?” you ask.

“Lonnie–my dad,” Jonathan says with a barely contained sneer. 

Your dad joins the pair of you, finally free of Mrs. Withersbee. “Jonathan?” your dad holds out his hand, which Jonathan takes in a firm handshake. “Mr. Newby.”

“I’m sorry about Will. We’re here if you guys need anything,” your dad says.

“Thanks,” Jonathan nods at him. 

You depart from Jonathan with a comforting squeeze of his shoulders. As you walk to find a spot, your eyes scan the crowd for Nancy. You spot her and recognize her brother from Dustin’s group of friends. You try to recall his name, Matt or Mason or something–you know it starts with an M. 

She doesn’t look your way, instead her eyes are practically locked onto Jonathan. Anytime you look her way during the ceremony, you can clearly follow her line of sight to the boy. An unreadable emotion is displayed on her face, or perhaps its several different emotions bubbling up to the surface. 

Your dad’s arm is heavy across your shoulders. You appreciate the extra warmth he gives you against the cold November air. 

The casket is lowered into the ground. It's a very sobering moment as you realize that even if they aren’t dead, very soon you could be at Will’s real funeral. Or Barbara’s, or Eleven’s. You glance at the other teens. It could be they’re funeral too. They’re a year younger than you and though it's not a huge gap, but you still feel protective of them. 

After the ceremony, you slip away from your dad and grab Nancy’s hand. She lets you guide her silently to Jonathan’s car. He’s waiting for you with a piece of paper. 

You and Nancy come up on either side of him as he shows it to you. The three of you sit down on the ground. “It's a map,” he begins his explanation, “This is for sure where we know it’s been.”

Nancy looks impressed at his collection of the information. Both of you’d assumed that this would be something to be done as a group. Your eyes dart between the map, Jonathan and Nancy. You wonder if this is part of the reason he got so little sleep or if he had done this because he couldn’t sleep.

You look back at the map. There are three Xes on it. 

“So that's…” Nancy trails off

“Steve’s house, where Will’s bike was found, my house,” Jonathan says, pointing at each X

“Huh,” you say, “they're all really close. And look how close Will’s bike was to Benny’s?”

“Exactly,” Jonathan says, “It's all within a mile or something. Whatever this thing is, it’s not traveling far.”

“You wanna go out there?” Nancy asks.

“We might not find anything,” Jonathan says.

“I found something,” she responds.

“We have to try.” you say

“And if we find this thing, then what?” Nancy says

Jonathan responds resolutely, “We kill it.”

You and Nancy look at each other, a question in both of your heads: kill it with what?

Jonathan is already standing and offers a hand to Nancy who takes it, who then in turn helps you up from the ground. The two of you follow behind Jonathan as he leads you to a car you don’t recognize. 

“Cover me,” he says before squatting down and unlocking the door with a knife. You and Nancy huddle around the boy, looking around to make sure no one sees you. 

“Are you crazy?” you ask 

He doesn’t answer you, just opens the door and begins on the glove compartment.

“Who’s car is this anyway?” you ask again.

“Lonnie’s” he answers. 

“Oh.”

He opens the glovebox and pulls out a gun. Nancy looks at and scoffs, “Are you serious?”

“What?” Jonathan says, “You wanna find this thing and take another photo of it? Yell at it?”

“This is a terrible idea,” she says.

“Jonathan’s right. We need to get rid of this thing. This,” you gesture to the gun, “is our best chance.”

“We could tell someone.” she glances warily at the gun. 

“Who would believe us?”

Nancy looks up at Jonathan, trying to convince him, “Your mom would.”

“She’s been through enough,” he argues. 

“But–”

“Nancy,” you grab her arm, “do you really want to bring more people in on this? This thing’s dangerous. The less people involved, the better.”

She bites her lip, thinking it over. You and Jonathan look at each other, then back at her. 

“Okay.” she says.

–––––

In the car, your dad talks again about the AV club. “Scott–Mr. Clarke–was telling me that the ham shack caught on fire. Totally random, just burst into flames.”

“It wasn’t a prank or anything?” you ask.

“Nope. Just poof! Melted.”

“Weird.”

–––––

At home, you search through the shed for something to fight against a life-threatening monster with. Your dad doesn't have any traditional weapons around, but you do find a big pipe that could come in handy. You don’t want Jonathan to be the only one armed. You throw the pipe into your trunk, then go back inside. Your dad is on the phone in his office–where all the tools are. 

You slink inside and he raises an eyebrow at you. You mouth “Screwdriver” to him. He opens a drawer and you come around to pick one out. You find the biggest one you can and give him a kiss on the cheek. Outside his office, you stick the screwdriver in your jacket pocket. You grab your bag and keys and jump into your truck.

After popping a Beatles cassette into the tape deck, you drive to the address Nancy gave you. It's not too far from where you live, but most definitely in the nicer part of town. 

You pull up and Steve is outside talking to his girlfriend. You can’t see him, but her face is strained, awkward. 

“Nancy!” you call out to her, “C’mon!”

“Sorry Steve, I gotta go.”

She runs to your car and throws the bat she’s holding in the bed of the truck. 

“What’d he want?” you ask, driving away.

Nancy drags a hand down her face. “I don’t know…he wanted to see a movie, but obviously…”

“You can’t,” you finish for her.

“Even if I could…I don’t know if I want to,” she says.

“Oh?” you say. 

“Its just…He was such a dick the other day. He got mad at me when I went to the police about Barb. He freaked out because he was gonna get in trouble with his parents for having a party–drinking and stuff. Barb is missing and all he cared about was that he was gonna be in trouble with mommy and daddy. And I know he’s a good guy, he apologized–just now– but I don’t know. It still stings.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. whatever, we have bigger things to worry about.”

“Yeah…have you ever shot a gun before?” you ask, genuinely curious about the girl.

“I’ve never even held one.” she laughs, “You?”

“No. Benny was gonna teach me after I graduated, take me hunting and everything.” you say.

“You were really close with him, huh?”

“Yeah. He was a family friend for ages. He actually helped me get this,” you gesture to the truck, “piece of shit up and running.” 

Almost as if to spite you, the truck makes a groaning noise.

“Is that normal?” Nancy asks nervously.

“Oh that,” the grumbling stops, “It happens sometimes. Don’t worry about it.”

“Right…” she says.

You pull off the road and drive into the grass at the edge of the woods. Hoisting yourself up on the bed of the truck, you grab the pipe and the baseball bat, tossing the latter to Nancy. 

“Nice catch,” you say.

The two of you walk to the clearing that Jonathan described. He’s already there, shooting at glass bottles–and missing terribly.

“Do you think he knows he’s supposed to aim for the cans?” Nancy says to you, loud enough for him to hear it. 

“You see the spaces in between the cans,” he retorts, “I’m aiming for those, actually.”

“Then you’re a perfect shot.” you say, setting down your stuff. 

Jonathan looks to Nancy, who is already standing right next to him. “You ever shot a gun before?” he asks. You and Nancy look at each other and laugh at having just had the exact same conversation. Jonathan looks between the two of you, perplexed. 

“Sorry,” Nancy says between giggling, “No, have you met my parents?”

Jonathan looks to you and you shake your head no. 

“Yeah, I haven’t shot one since I was ten,” Jonathan says, “My dad took me hunting on my birthday. Made me kill a rabbit.”

“A rabbit?” Nancy says. 

“Yeah. I guess he thought it would make me more of a man or something. I cried for a week.”

You picture a ten year old Jonathan crying while holding a gun, standing over a dead rabbit. It makes sense that he would cry over killing something so small and defenseless. He’s intensely protective, so of course he wouldn’t want to hurt something that isn’t doing any harm.

“Your dad sounds like a peach.” you say sarcastically. 

“Yeah,” he scoffs, “I think he and my mother loved each other at some point, but I wasn’t around for that part.”

Nancy holds out her hand and Jonathan hands the gun to her. She aims and lets out a breath. “I don’t think my parents ever loved each other.” she says.

“There must’ve been some reason they married each other.” Jonathan says and she rolls her eyes. “My mom was young. My dad was older, but he had a cushy job, money, came from a good family. So they bought a nice house at the end of a cul-de-sac and started their nuclear family.”

“Screw that.” Jonathan huffs.

“Yeah,” she closes one eye, “Screw that.”

She squeezes the trigger and hits the can dead on. 

“Woah!” you gasp.

She blushes and offers you the gun, which you take. It's oddly heavy in your hands. You line up in front of a can and square yourself up. 

“I uh, I never really knew my mom,” you say, raising the gun, “She died a few years ago. What's crazy is I didn’t even know her family existed, but they all acted like I was the prodigal son. The truck is her old shitbox. They insisted I take it. Her husband has two lincolns.”

“Oh.” Nancy says.

You can remember every little detail of her funeral. Her husband–tall, graying hair, and dark brown eyes. He had wrinkles around his eyes and wore half moon eyeglasses. Her son looked like the perfect combination of the two of them. Though he’s younger, he stood at eye level with you. You would have balked at the similarities between the two of you, if you’d cared. He smirked as her husband pressed the keys into your hand and insisted that she would have wanted it, that you deserve it. 

The months that followed that interaction were filled with painstaking labor and frequent stops at the auto shop. Benny taught you everything you could ever know about taking care of a car’s engine, but the radio was all your dad. The damn thing had a tape jammed in it and your dad spent an entire day sitting in the hot Indiana sun, carefully fiddling with the radio, not just getting it to work, but also getting the tape out in one piece.

It was almost sunset when he got it to work, you were replacing the serpentine belt and heard his triumphant laugh, then the voice of Woody Guthrie sing, “You silken bar-room ladies, dressed in your worldly pride. You’ve got to ride that little black train thats coming in tonight.” You both cheered as the song played. 

The irony of that moment just now hits you, and you have to hold back a laugh as you realize that possibly the last song your mother heard was a song about the inescapability of death.

You suck in a breath and squeeze the trigger. The kickback surprises you with its power, for how small the weapon is. You don’t hit the can, instead the bullet lodges itself in the stump it rests upon. 

“You better hang on to this,” you hand Nancy the gun, “You’re clearly the best shot.”

Again she blushes under the praise. You grab the pipe and Jonathan grabs the bat. The three of you stand at the edge of the woods. They seem so daunting, especially knowing what's in there. 

“Onwards?” you say to the others.

“Onwards,” they respond in unison.

––––

You’ve been walking in circles for over an hour and haven’t found anything. You walk a few paces ahead of the others, occasionally hitting at the ground with your pipe. You turn around and walk backwards while facing the two younger teens. “Have you guys seen anything yet?”

“No,” Jonathan says. 

You turn back around and walk further ahead. 

“You never said what I was saying,” Nancy tells Jonathan. 

“What?” he says what you’re thinking. 

“Yesterday, you said I was saying something and that’s why you took my picture,” says Nancy. 

You cringe, remembering the invasive photos of the girl. 

“Oh, uh. I don’t know” Jonathan explais “I guess I saw this girl, trying to be someone else. But for that moment…it was like you were alone, or you thought you were. And, you know, you could just be yourself.”

Apparently Nancy disagrees because she says, “That is such bullshit.” “What?” Jonathan stammers.

You don’t hear their footsteps anymore, so you turn around to see them stopped and facing each other. 

“I am not trying to be someone else. Just because I’m dating Steve and you don’t like him–”

“You know what? Forget it, I just thought it was a good picture.”

Jonathan walks past you, Nancy hot on his heels. 

“He’s actually a good guy,” She yells at him, “the other day, with the camera he’s not like that at all…he was just being protective.”

You can't help but wonder when Nancy had changed her mind and forgiven Steve–or if it was a ruse for the sake of fighting with Jonathan.

“Yeah, thats one word for it,” Jonathan scoffs. 

“Oh and I guess what you did was okay?” she retorts

“I never said that,” he yells over his shoulder.

Nancy pushes on the topic, “He had every right to be pissed–” 

“Does that mean I have to like him?”

“No.”

They huff at each other for a moment. You can clearly pick up on some tension between them–romantic or otherwise. Jonathan takes a breath and picks his next words carefully, “Listen. Don’t take it personally. I don’t like most people. He’s in the vast majority.”

Nancy doesn’t let the conversation end there. It's like she wants to fight. “You know, I was actually starting to think that you were okay. I was thinking ‘Jonathan Byers: maybe he’s not the pretentious creep everyone says he is.”

That gets Jonathan riled up again, “I was just starting to think you were okay. I was thinking ‘Nancy Wheeler: Maybe she’s not just the same suburban girl who thinks she’s rebelling by doing exactly what every other suburban girl does, until that phase passes and they marry some boring one-time jock who now works sales and they’ll live out a perfectly boring little life at the end of some cul-de-sac. Exactly like their parents, who they thought were so depressing. But now hey, they get it’”

“Jonathan!” you yell at him and chase after him as he storms away. Nancy follows behind you and the three of you walk in silence. You stand in the middle of the two, a buffer. For hours, you explore the area from Jonathan’s map. You walk well past sunset and each pull flashlights from your bags. The forest is ten times creepier at night. It's a new moon, so the only light comes from the flashlights you carry. Every crunch of a leaf or snap of a twig nearly gives you whiplash from how hard you swing your head. 

A low whimper sounds to your right and you turn your head immediately. Nancy stops, having also heard the noise. 

“Are you tired?” Jonathan mocks but you hold up your hand. “Shut up,” you say. 

“What?” he asks, offended.

“Shut up!” you whisper-yell at him.

Nancy looks over to you, then off in the distance “I think its over–” 

The noise comes again, louder this time. “There!” She shouts and begins walking towards the sound. You and Jonathan trail after her to find an injured deer. 

“Oh god,” you say.

“Its been hit by a car,” Nancy says, kneeling down, “we can’t just leave it.”

The doe whimpers again and Nancy holds the gun out as if to shoot it, her hand shaking and lip quivering. Jonathan gently says to her, “I’ll do it.”

“I thought you said…” she trails off.

“I’m not nine anymore.” he states and takes the gun from her. 

The three of you stand and Nancy turns to you, facing away from the doe. You pull an arm around her and she grips your jacket, seeking comfort in you. Shielding herself from the reality the deer has to face. 

You close your eyes in anticipation, but are no gunshots to be heard, only a dragging sound. You open your eyes to see the doe being pulled into the darkness. You lean closer to see a trail of blood left behind. “What was that?” you ask no one in particular. 

You follow the trail through the trees. No one dares to say a word until the trail ends. But there is no deer and no monster at the end. It just…stops. 

“Where’d it go?” Nancy says.

“I don’t know,” Jonathan answers, his gun up, “do you see any more blood?”

You shine your flashlight all over the ground but find nothing, “Not here.”

The three of you split up to cover more ground. You point your flashlight all over, but find nothing. No blood, no bones. It's like the deer disappeared completely. 

“Y/n!” you hear Nancy yell from afar, “Jonathan!” You turn around and head towards where you heard her. You shine your light towards where she is, but there’s nothing there. Suddenly a scream resounds. You run hard, your legs burning. You push past it, never dropping your pace. You hear Jonathan yell her name from farther away. You call out to her too, practically willing her to appear. 

The scream doesn’t leave your mind. It’s blood-curdling, heart-stopping. You keep running, but trip over something and crash face first into something hard. Pushing yourself up, you try to blink off the dizziness. Looking down, you see a rock right where your forehead landed. You turn to see your foot is caught in and your heart drops when you see Nancy’s bag on the ground. You hurriedly untangle yourself and push yourself up. Jonathan nearly knocks you into the ground again as he barrels forward. 

“Where is she?” he looks at you, eyes pleading.

“I don’t know.” you say “Nancy!”

“Nancy!”

All you hear is a scream in response. 

Taglist: @ucannotcompare

[muzzlemouths]

let your heart be light

December is a hard month and you're being worked to the bone. Good thing you have two sentient animatronics waiting at home to do the unthinkable - give you a very merry Christmas.

Sun/Moon centric // Wordcount: 4582 // AO3 Link

“Three cups of flour?”

“Check!”

“A teaspoon of baking powder?”

“Got it!”

“Salt?”

“Only a pinch!”

“A cup of sugar? One egg?” You fold the old recipe between your fingers, “What about–”

“The butter? A full cup, unsalted. The other things too!” Sun sets a flour-coated palm on your head, dusting it with white, “It’s all there, sweetheart. I haven’t missed a thing.” His fingers smooth over your scalp and bring some ease to your temples, this month already wearing you thin, he offers you a calming smile in your great time of distress, “I’ve got everything taken care of, already, so you needn’t fuss for a moment longer. Moon and I can handle things on our own.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of,” your breath passes between clenched teeth, a grimace falling into place, but Sun’s shoulders fall - you don’t outright say you don’t trust them, but you might as well have - and you’re quickly backpaddling to make up for it, “you know I’m just nervous,” you admit with another sigh, forcing a smile that does, eventually, turn genuine, “But I’m probably worrying over nothing. We’ve gone over this a hundred times, right?” You carefully take his hand away and instead tuck it between your own, holding it tight, “You’ve got this.”

His posture relaxes, eyes softening, “We’ve got this,” he repeats with a nod, “I promise you can count on us. Now, how about that recipe?”

“Oh, right,” you hand over the folded square with a certain wariness, “don’t forget to preheat the oven first, okay? And the air will be hot when you first open it, so make sure you aren’t standing too close–”

“Sunshine,”

“–right, okay. Sorry. You’ve got this!” You spot the time from across the room and mutter a bit, “Fuck, I should have been out of here ten minutes ago.” Spinning around like a dog after its own tail, you frantically dig into both coat pockets and come up empty.

Sun raises your keys by the ring with a silent grin, “Language,” he reminds you all too smugly, “try not to lose your head on the way, love.”

You sheepishly swipe the keys from him and jam them into your pocket - where they promptly fall straight through to the floor from a hole in the fabric with an eruption of metal tings. “Ugh, I keep forgetting about that.”

You bend at the waist and reach for them. Sun gets there first, and your hands collide, faces dangerously close.

But Sun knows you’re in a hurry. He begrudgingly keeps his hands to himself, instead retrieving the keys and handing them back over to you with a little peck on your temple and a flourish, “I’m surprised you don’t lose things more often with a coat so full of holes,” he muses, “you’re sure we can’t patch it up for you?”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” the keys fall into your other pocket with a whisper, “This is the only one I’ve got, can’t afford to let you have it for that long. Maybe sometime in the spring you can take a wack at what’s left.” Eyes finding the clock again, your teeth sink into your bottom lip, and you steel yourself for the day, “Okay, I really have to go now.”

Sun ushers you out the door with a wave of his hands, “Off you go, then!” He blows you a big, wet kiss. You catch it at the door.

“Okay, um,” Nodding to yourself, you take in the kitchen one last time, committing it to memory in case you return to it looking like something else, “I’ll be back around eight.” Your voice lightens, “Tell Moon I said goodbye!”

He nods, big and eager, and shuts the door behind you.

Then you’re off the porch, heading for what is thankfully your last shift of the week, leaving the two behind with a working oven and absolutely no supervision.

And that’s fine. There’s nothing to stress over. You act completely normal about it the entire day, not worrying at all.

Not even when you receive a suspicious text from Sun immediately after getting to work.

“Do we have lights?”

Your face scrunches as you read the message over again, attempting to determine what he means, when a second text comes in.

“The little kind with all the colors.” Oh.

You settle into a chair behind the desk and write back, “Christmas lights? I might have some shoved in a bin somewhere in the garage.” Then, thinking better of it, you send a second message with it, “I don’t mind if we put them up but I don’t think I have time to do it tonight. Can it wait for tomorrow?”

More than anything, his lack of a response is what scares you most. Silence for ten minutes, then an hour, then four hours. It weighs on you for the entire shift and more than once you have to stop yourself from running to the bathroom so you can sneak in a phone call. That would prove you didn’t trust them - and you don’t want to imply that any more than you already had this morning.

It didn’t mean you weren’t completely riddled with anxiety by the time your shift ended and you found your way home again, half expecting to follow a plume of smoke to your address.

To your utmost relief, there’s no smoke and not even the smell of overbaked cookies to welcome you home. Surprisingly, there’s no lights, either. You had been sure that Sun would have taken matters into his own hands by now, but it appears that, for once, he decided to listen.

Your keys slide into the lock and the handle turns. You brace yourself for the worst, just in case.

“Guys, I’m home!” Pushing your way inside, you instinctively reach for the lightswitch - but stop dead. There’s no need for it.

The inside of your house looks like a Macy’s parade. Lights of every color hang over picture frames and wind around furniture, bringing a dazzling shimmer to the walls, and a shine to the floors, the rooms transformed into something magical.

“You’re home!” Sun peels around the hallway corner with a short string of lights entangled in his own rays, “Is it eight already? I only just finished setting everything up.”

You cross the room, taking in the sights with a wide open gape, “Did you do all of this?” You gasp, “I didn’t even know I owned this many.”

“Do you like it?” He sounds positively giddy and more than a little proud of himself. “I spent all day on it. Wanted to make sure you came home to something nice.”

A smile crosses your lips, “It’s beautiful,” you tell him, “though I’m a little confused - why did you string them up inside?” Your finger points to the door, “Christmas lights normally go on the outside of the house.”

“On the…outside?” Sun’s thumbs twiddle together, smile faltering, “O-Oh, well, seems my quick internet search could have been more thorough. We can take them down–”

“No!” Your hands fly to reassure him, “I like it this way. It feels…closer. More homey.” You empty your keys onto the kitchen counter while shaking the shoes from your feet into their usual corner, and then take a whiff of the air, suddenly growing suspicious, “Huh. I thought the house would smell like cookies when I got back.”

“Ah…” Sun trails off before he even begins, pointer fingers now pressing together in his thumb’s stead, “About that… I never actually got around to making them.”

“What? Why not?”

“I told you, I’ve been doing this–” he gestures all around, “–all day! B-Besides, this way we can decorate them together!””

Your coat is tossed onto the nearest chair. “What about Moon?” You ask, “Couldn’t he have baked them?”

“Moon’s been busy, too.”

“With?”

Sun’s head lolls to the right with a little sideways smile, excitement building in the jittery line down his arms until he can barely contain it, “Well, it’s a little too bright out here for his liking, you know.” He straightens, then, and gestures for you to follow him down the hall, “Come on, I’ll just show you.”

Following him further into your house, the sight that greets you is something a little less traditional than Sun’s attempt at holiday cheer, but still cozy, nonetheless. The very description of the word, in fact.

There is a pillow fort in your livingroom.

A colossal structure, it spans the entire size of the room, reaching half of Sun’s height - and most of yours - and presumably uses every feasibly available blanket and pillow in your entire house.

Curiously, there’s an extension cord leading from the bathroom and tucked between two of your kitchen chairs with a blanket overlapping them. You can’t imagine that Moon would have the same extensive number of lights inside this humble abode, but the idea of him using electricity in there for anything else is beyond you.

Sun bends to reach the ‘door’ and gives it a few hearty taps, the usual sound of a knock lost against the swaths of blanket, “Moon, dear, they’re home!” He calls out, “May we come in?”

“Not yet.” Comes the immediate answer, muffled from inside. He doesn’t bother to grace you with his presence.

Of course, Sun’s face twists at this with a roll of his eyes and a scold just on the brink of escaping, “Come, now, it’s rude to keep us waiting.” His eyes meet you, that gentle smile seeping in beneath his eyes, “He hasn’t even let me inside yet, you know, so this’ll be a surprise for both of us.” Returning his attention to the door again, he gives the blanket a more sturdy knock, and says, “I’m coming in whether you like it or not!”

A minute later, Moon appears at the mouth of the fort. His red optic peers, narrow eyed, through the crack he’s formed by pulling the door aside, “Impatient.” He scolds with a tsk, “Fine, I’m done.” The blanket returns to its place a minute later as Moon recoils into his fort and out of sight. “Don’t get your rays caught on the top.”

The two of you share a look. A laugh bubbles from your throat and catches him off guard, but then Sun is laughing, too, and retracting a couple of his rays in an honest bid to do as Moon asked. He bunches the door away and politely gestures for you to enter first, and you do, tucking yourself at the shoulders before making your way inside with Sun on your tail. The door falls back into place behind him.

Your feet meet carpet - or, rather, a solid pair of blankets acting as such - which soften the floor and keep things cozy. Pillows border the sides with a few being scattered on top of more loose blankets, and a number of your stuffed animals have even made their way inside.

Over your head, lights cling to the ceiling blanket in clean lines of sparkling blue. Paper stars and snowflakes hang in between with the evidence of their creation - a pile of scraps and a pair of scissors - still bunched in his corner of the fort. "Try not to be too impressed," Moon smirks over his shoulder. But his attention is elsewhere, hunched over something that you can't see until you're climbed over to his side. "Wait, is that my laptop?" "No," says Moon, readjusting your laptop, "just let me finish this." "Ohh, did you get it working?" Sun, bowed at the head to properly fit, claps his hands together with excitement, “I sent you the link to my favorite one.” A minute later your screen comes to life with a weak crackle - not your failing battery, for once, but the specific crack of old, burning wood - the image of a cozy fireplace coming into view a moment later.

Your shoulders bounce with a snicker, “That’s clever,” you tell him, “but–” your smile dims as you look at the two, “are you sure? It’s pretty and all, but I don’t want something like this to make you uncomfortable - what with the, um,” you gesture towards the screen, “with the fire, and all that.”

Sun gets himself settled into a cozier position and Moon follows soon after, Sun with his legs crisscrossed, hands in his lap, and Moon slumped lazily against a mound of pillows with one of your blankets tossed haphazardly around his shoulders.

They share a look, but it’s Sun who speaks up first.

“We’re sure, sunbite,” he reassures, “Moon and I talked it out beforehand. It’s not so scary like this - being just a screen - and if it becomes too much we can always turn it off.”

“Besides,” Moon cuts in with a lazy hand wave, “We’re not doing it just for you. Sun wanted to try out the traditions and this just happened to be one of them.”

“Hey! Don’t give all of my secrets away.”

You blink, all the puzzle pieces clicking into place, “Wait, is that why you were asking about the lights?”

Sun gives you a hearty nod, “Righto!”

“And the snowflakes, too? Does that mean you have–”

“Presents?” Moon finishes for you.

“That’s right!” Sun answers.

They exchange a grin with each other. “It was Sun’s idea,” Moon admits.

“But I only thought of it this morning, after you left for work–”

“We were a little pressed for time.”

“So don’t expect anything big!” Sun winks at you and shifts onto his knees, then half-walks, half-crawls past where you’re sitting, “I’ll go and get them,” he squeals, giddy like – well, like a kid on Christmas — “Moon, can you get the music?”

“I thought we agreed you would do that?” he grumbles.

“Well, now I’m getting the presents, so you’ll have to put Mr. Pout away and find Mr. Happy Holiday Cheer, instead.”

Your hands fly up, “Wait, wait,” Sun disappears out of the fort a minute later, so your attention turns to Moon, who’s already (begrudgingly) fiddling with something in his system, “It’s sweet that you two got me presents - I mean, it really wasn’t necessary, you know that, right?”

“Sun insisted.” Moon shrugs.

“I’ll thank him for it later, however” you pause, attempting to go about this question delicately, “how, exactly, did you get me a gift? I’ve been stuck at work all day.”

Moon doesn’t answer immediately. He avoids your eye and tucks the blanket closer to his shoulders as a way to fill the silence, knowing you’ll figure it out on your own if he only gives you a minute. And you do. It takes thirty-two seconds for it to dawn on you.

“You–” Gasping, your eyebrows scrunch together, “you snuck out, didn’t you? What did I tell you two about leaving the house on your own?” Your exasperation is justified, you think - it would take all of a minute for a company like Fazbears to retrieve their state of the art equipment if they were spotted out in the wild.

“Don’t lecture us,” Moon rolls his eyes, “He wore a disguise the whole time and was only gone for half an hour. Popped into a convenience store and was back here before anyone noticed a thing out of place.”

“He– ” The strain in your voice goes from annoyance to straight panic and you clutch at your head, eyes wide with disbelief, “He went alone?”

Sun’s head pokes through the entrance a second later. “I took the time to get those cookies in the oven, so they’ll be done in just a few minutes now!”

There’s presumably only one gift in his hand; a medium sized box, wrapped in blue christmas paper and folded neatly at the corners, the bow on top small but beautifully pearlescent. His smile disappears (along with his rays - sucked in the second he lays eyes on you) when he enters the fort to the sight of your eyebrow twitching. Immediately, he turns on the other, “Ah, shnookerdookies, Moon! You weren’t supposed to tell them I snuck out!”

“I didn’t,” Moon answers somewhat honestly, hands up in a show of peace, “and they would have found out eventually.”

You exhale with a pinch to the bridge of your nose, wishing and hoping - praying, at this point - that the two of them would stop giving you heart attacks on the daily. “Sun, what would make you think it was a good idea to sneak out? And beyond that - to do it alone!”

“Well… I really wanted to get you something.” Sun again sits down across from you and begins to tap - the pointer finger on both hands - against the wrapped box in his lap, a pingpong of sound from one finger to the other. You learned not too long ago that it’s calculated, this nervous habit of his, not just brainless noise. Less of a need to fill the silence and more of a way to get his feelings out without the exposure - like swearing in a language the listener couldn’t understand.

You could understand it, was the thing - had been extensively training yourself to, actually, not that you’d had a chance to tell them yet - and you count out the zeros and ones he imitates with each tap like you’re lipreading.

“And,” he continues, “I didn’t know how to ask you for a drive to the store without telling you why.” 1100111 1110101 1101001 1101100 1110100 1111001 “I didn’t go far though, pinky swear!”

Your shoulders deflate some as the letters count themselves out. Sighing, you try not to sound too angry with him. Because you’re not - angry, that is - you’re just scared.

These boys meant the world to you. It would be crushing if you lost them over something as trivial as a present. It’s obvious, however, that Sun doesn’t view it that way. The present is important to him. And he is incredibly important to you. So that meant, of course, that you would be lenient.

“Why didn’t Moon go with you?” You gesture for him. Moon is back to cutting stars out of paper, and he barely spares a glance towards the conversation.

Sun’s rays droop with a more dramatic flavor this time, and when he speaks it’s with a whine, “He already had a gift ready for you,” - this, of course, has Moon freezing in place - “but I wanted to get you something, too!” 1101110 1100101 1110010 1110110 1101111 1110101 1110011 ”I think you’ll really like it. I - I hope you do, at least. But it’s okay if you don’t!“

His behavior - that is, the heat on his cheeks and subtle spin of his rays - leads you to believe it’s not something easy or practical.

You could take a deep dive on what all that suggested, but right now your focus is glued to Moon, who is practically hidden behind his knees with how far he’s slumped into the pillows. A wolfish smile crosses your face. “Moon, you had a present for me this whole time?” You coo, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He shoots Sun a glower - it’s received with a knowing smirk, taps falling silent - and he tosses a paper star into your lap, “Don’t get a big head about it,” Moon huffs, “I made it in my spare time. It just so happens that I finished it this month.”

“Wait,” your expression turns from smug to soft in an instant, “you made it?”

His eyes grow like saucers and he freezes, attempting to backpaddle, “It’s not important,” he’s quick to say, looking back to Sun, “Why don’t we talk about Sun’s present instead?”

Snorting, his counterpart shakes his head with an all too warm smile, “Ohhh, no, buddy, we’ll have plenty of time to talk about my present afterwards. Why don’t we have them open yours first?”

A noise crackles from Moon’s chestplate - static, then a melody, the lyrics to ‘You're a Mean One, Mr Grinch’ tuning in soon after - all three heads turn to look in its direction. Evidently, his music has decided to interject at the funniest possible time.

You roar with laughter - Sun loses himself in a fit of giggles, too, and it isn’t long before Moon is joining in with an undeniable snicker. It feels a little ridiculous. Here you are on Christmas eve, in a pillow fort of all things, laughing under blinking lights as these two rile each other up. “Okay, enough teasing,” you say through the laughter, “hand over the present already. I’ll open that one first.”

Sun gently slides it across to you, still lost in his laughter but clearly excited for this moment to happen. Moon, on the other hand, has already returned to silence and looks ready to bury himself beneath a pile of blankets.

Plucking away the bow, you gingerly pull apart the wrapping paper and then spring the box’s lid open with a vocal pop. Your hand digs through a mountain of tissue paper before finding the treasure hidden inside and drawing it into the light.

It unfolds piece by piece to reveal a granny square sweater - knitted by hand - each square a different color on an expanse of dark blue. The yarn is soft between your fingers, its weight comforting. Your arms fall only enough to look at him behind the gift. “You…you really made this?”

Moon won’t look at you, but you can see the color spreading across his cheeks from here. He rests his chin into the palm of his hand and decisively looks anywhere but in your direction. “Maybe.” he grunts, “You can toss it out if you don’t–”

“No!” You clutch the item close to your chest, flattening it against your heart, “It’s beautiful, Moon.” Already, you’re swinging it over your shoulders and slipping your arms into the sleeves, “I love it, I really do. I can’t believe you would go out of your way to–”

“Just in my spare time,” Moon remains you - at least now, he’s looking your way again.

“Right,” you smile, “Well, either way, I’m really grateful.”

He shifts, looking briefly unsure, then a small grin sneaks into his expression, “Your old one’s gone to shit,” he says, “It hardly keeps you warm anymore. So - maybe you’ll finally be able to toss it out.”

Nodding, your smile only widens, “I’ll be sad to see it go, but you’re right. Besides,” you give yourself a squeeze, feeling the warmth of the yarn hug back, “I think this one will be a wonderful replacement.”

His eyes soften, smile warming, and he makes a noise like there’s more to be said but then falls silent eyes suddenly shifting to the other side of the room. The fond look on his face turns into a sneer. “Your turn.” he coos at Sun, who - for all intents and purposes - looks twice as nervous now.

“A-Already?” He asks, fumbling over himself, “Maybe we could wait until after the cookies–”

Your hand reaches for him, fingers winding between his own, “Sunny, I’m going to love it no matter what,” you assure him, “I promise. Now, let’s see that gift!”

Sun lets out a whiiiiiiine, long and procrastinating, then finally he relents. His spare hand dips into the pocket of his apron (still caked with flour, mind you) and draws from it a small plastic bag with santa and his reindeer printed across the front. “They said paper wrapping might damage it,” he sighs, “but they gave me the bag for free! It’s–” His fingers pinch together beneath the bag handles, eyes flickering between his knees and you, “–well, I just hope you like it.”

“I told you already, didn’t I?” You take the bag and settle it into your lap, one hand to steady it while the other dips inside. It’s featherlight - and you think, for a moment, that maybe it’s a practical joke and he’s wrapped up air - but then you feel it. “I’m going to love anything you give m–” Leaves. A ribbon.

You pull mistletoe from the bag.

Looking up with a start, you find both of them looking in opposite directions, “I–”

“We don’t have to do anything with it,” Swiftly, Sun assures you, “We can just throw it in the trash! I – we will understand.”

Your heart thunders like a persistent drum against your chest, all at once, your cheeks and all the way up to your ears feel flush with heat, and your hand curls sweetly around the small plant in response, “I was just going to say,” their eyes snap to meet you, looking hopeful and worried at the same time, “that if you wanted a kiss that bad you could have just asked for one.”

There’s a pause, a moment of quiet where you’re sure their systems are buffering. Then, suddenly, Sun leaps from his seat and practically scrambles over your crossed legs, swiping the mistletoe in a heartbeat, it’s barely above your heads before he melts against your lips.

You fold under his warmth and give into it, tasting sugar. Sun pulls away only to crane his neck in another direction and plant a kiss there, too - the space beside your mouth, then another to your cheek, and another, still, at your jawline, touches that pepper down your throat with unyielding fondness until you are quite literally swept away –

into the arms of Moon, who sits where you were a minute ago and tucks you into his lap, arms wrapping around yours, he makes an impatient noise against your ear before dipping his head low and going about your skin himself - a kiss to the cheek and the cusp of your ear, one to your temple - then he wraps a firm hand beneath your chin and tilts it to meet him, discovering the warmth of your lips.

Sun’s hands replace his a minute later, the warmth in them drawing you out of the haze they’ve caused, he’s already closed the distance and shows no intention of stopping.

“Guys–” you gasp, breathless, finding yourself pulled back into soft laughter, you feel paper-light and happier than any holiday card could ever make you feel, “Hey, st– come on,” another laugh escapes you, “you can’t tag-team me like this, that’s not fair–”

But Sun finds the space beneath your chin and Moon dips himself against the back of your neck, embracing you in perfect tandem, and the sensation lights you up like a christmas tree. Engulfed in endearment, every kiss, every eager caress sends a warm shiver down your spine.

Then an alarm blares from outside the fort - the screech of an oven - and Sun shoots up so fast his ray nearly rips a hole in the ceiling. “The cookies!” He scurries from the fort with a shrill of panic.

Moon’s own enthusiasm doesn’t come to a stop all together, but he slows, allowing you a breather to the distant sounds of Sun fussing over and arguing with the oven. He gingerly tucks away the sleeve of your sweater and slips a kiss to your bare shoulder, then sets his chin against it, looking up at you with a smile. Shimmering blue lights reflect in his eyes like stars in the sky. “Having fun?” he asks.

“Very much so,” sighing somewhat wistfully, you allow your full weight to relax against him, “you’re both big saps, you know.”

“Mh,” his arms hug tighter around you, hands pressing wordlessly into yours, “Merry Christmas,“ he murmurs, ”our dearest star.“

[simplychestnut]

Here’s a homage mug cookie recipe for anyone who needs it! It’s great for a rainy day or if you’re feeling down, and it’s really easy to make!

Add 1 tablespoon of butter into your favorite mug

Melt in microwave for 30 seconds

Add 1 tablespoon of sugar

Add 1 tablespoon of brown sugar

And don’t forget to add a pinch of salt!

Mix

Add one egg yolk (not the whites!)

Add 1/2 tablespoons of vanilla

Mix

Add 2 heaped tablespoons of flour (though if you want it gooey like I like it, add a little less)

Add chocolate chips of your choice

Microwave for 45 seconds

And enjoy!! <3333

You can also put marshmallows on top to make a s’more cookie, or you could substitute 1/2 tablespoons of flour for a tablespoon of cocoa powder to make double chocolate chip!

Hope this makes someone’s day a bit sweeter <33

[assortedvillainvault]

Chance anon here! Sorry if the is a duplicate ask, my internet is acting up. I hope you had a wonderful trip! I’d like some comfort headcanons with either a darksiders character or Starscream, please. You did really well with the Blitzwing comfort headcanons!

Chance anon your patience is legendary, I hope you like this little headcannon/drabble bit!

Mild warning for allusions of self harm, not described and can also be read as the general tolls and incidents of a human living through the apocalypse.

Vulgrim Comfort Headcannons/Drabble

- “What Would You Ask of this Humble Mercha- oh.”

- He blinks down at the awkward, shuffling form of his...favoured little human. Oddly, no other little morsels have accompanied you to his plinth outside the maker tree. From inside, he can barely make out the snores of the other survivors, and the slower but ever present clang of the Black Hammer at work.

- A closer look at you reveals red, swollen eyes, and a lick of salt on the air. Under your dirty sleeves, fresh bandages peek out.

- It doesn’t take much to deduce that the trials and grievances of the apocalypse are taking a harder toll than usual tonight.

- He floats a little lower and brings his voice down. “...do you need to forget, little one?” he croons.

- It takes a couple of...admittedly awkward seconds – but you nod shyly, hesitantly, and a small triumph blooms in his chest. See, he knew he’d figure out humans and their odd little ways eventually! All species could use a distraction from the monotony of war, humans just leaked a bit more often about it, thats all-

- - he stiffens as tiny arms grip at his waist.

- He is certainly on the scrawnier side for a demon, but even so, your bruised little hands can’t meet around his gaunt middle. Mainly because you’ve got your face awkwardly smooshed up against the wares on his belt, but even so...you’re on your tiptoes. Humans are so so tiny it’s ridiculous. Appalling species design. He’d file a complaint if he didn’t have to fight the foreign urge to urge to pick you up and squeeze like some kind of...squishy trauma-toy.

- “...Um.”

- He awkwardly uses the fingertips not encased in gold to carefully pinch your shirt, peeling you awkwardly off him and holding you up like a sad little rodent. He makes a concerted effort not to look at your wobbling lip as he does so.

- “Ah ah ah ah! No, no leaky eyes at me, little one. You know they don’t work...”

- His other hand frantically scrabbles about in the pocket dimension he uses to store his backup wares and dumps a blanket, packet of hot chocolate, mismatched slippers and a switch into your arms before plonking you down and nudging you back towards the maker tree.

- “there there hush hush etc -” he’s not flustered, nope -, “- No need to thank me, run along, I’m adding this to your tab-”

- He’s gone in a burst of purple smoke that is very much not rushed, thank you.

- Later, secure in the secure depth of his serpent holes, he idly listens to the background noise of earth as he waits for the next customer to swing by. Underneath the quiet wind, creaking brickwork, the distant roars of demons and the occasional lingering earthen bird, his ears catch the faint tinny of music, clicking buttons, and the happy little gasps of humans waking up to a game of whatever this...this ‘Animal Crossing’, contraption, is.

- (‘Your Tab’ is never something fully discussed. Vulgrim is fighting every instinct he has to get money out of you for his services, but it’s ok. He starting to consider your company, your time and your touch payment enough. Don’t ever bring it up though.)

Thanks for the ask Chance!