#and a stepstool for the short boy

[bunnysbrainrot]

Size Matters

Kinktober Prompt: Size kink

Relationship: Sam Winchester x Reader

Content: Explicit sexual scenes, oral (f receiving), creampie (wrap it up, kids), dirty talk, rough sex, dom Sam, fluffy/funny aftercare (it’s crucial)

Summary: Your plan for making the boys dinner goes awry, leaving you alone with Sam in his bedroom, and coming to terms with a kink that only Sam Winchester can fulfill.

A/N: 🤭

"C'mon,' you strain, reaching for a high shelf in the cabinet. Apparently Sam and Dean didn't find a need for a stepladder in the bunker. Your calves screech in protest as you reach for a jar of pasta sauce, your fingers brush the bottle, but not enough purchase to grab it.

A long arm reaches above your head, grabbing the sauce in a large, familiar hand. Sam hands you the jar with a smile.

You took it from his hands and chide, "Not everyone's as vertically gifted as you and your brother, you know. Y'could be more inclusive and invest in a stepstool."

He leans against the counter you'd been setting ingredients on. Sam's eyes scan over your form as you open the pasta sauce.

"You know you can ask us for help, right?"

"I was gonna make dinner for us, I didn't want to make you guys help me," you reply Sam stands fully now and looks over your shoulder. You crane your neck to look up at him, "How's the weather up there?"

Sam chuckles lightly, "You know, I could tease you about your height. It'd be pretty easy."

You turn back to the counter and place freshly-washed vegetables on a cutting board. Unsheathing a knife from the knife block, you keep conversation with Sam.

"I don't have a problem with being short," you bump your hip sideways into Sam's leg. He does the same to you, except the direct strike in the ribs knocks you off balance, stumbling over.

He's able to snatch you up to safety before you bust your ass on the floor. Now cradled in Sam's arms, a rush of comfort comes over you in his stable grip. His hands catch your waist, with his long fingers spreading broad across your torso. Fuck, together they could probably go around most of your waist, and those fingers...

You snap out of your stupor to find Sam smiling down at you. His eyes linger on yours long enough for your mind to wander, wondering who would lean in first. Stolen glances at each other's lips, hitched breath, low-lidded eyes, it was a perfect concoction for Sam to kiss you.

Beneath him, you're so delicate in his arms, as if you'll break if he isn't careful. It was in his own reflexes to catch you, but the feelings that rushed through him afterwards were something deeper. Almost instinctive that in any moment with you like this, hushed and ogling, would lead to something more. Forget dinner, he thought, he could just order something for delivery.

At least, after he's done with you.

"Sam," you whisper. Maybe you hadn't been paying attention, but his face is now just inches from your own.

He finds himself leaned over further, close enough to share the same air, breaths mixing.

You smile nervously, and to your relief Sam gives one of his own. But he doesn't break away - doesn't help you to your feet to cut vegetables for the dinner you were kindly making for him. It couldn't matter much now that he's holding you like this.

"Sorry," he replies, barely audible. You wave your hands in dismissal and place them around his neck. The air shifts as the movement brings you ever closer, your lips no more than three inches away from Sam's.

"It's okay," you whisper. Soft, hazel eyes wander over your face and flicker to your lips, seemingly stuck there until Sam takes a risk he'd been waiting for.

Relief washes over you when his lips meet yours. After all this time, it turns out that he had the guts to break this tension, and everything that had been bottled up could now overflow. You let a deep hunger overtake your body, purely going on instinct as Sam embraces you. Sam sighs into your kiss and swallows a moan it drew from your throat, whiny and eager.

Sam nips at your bottom lip, tugging at it tentatively with his teeth. You do the same in response, only harder. Testing the waters. Usually a dangerous game, especially with a Winchester.

Your hands had made their way to his broad shoulders - his lean muscles flexing and stretching as he moves his hands over you, meandering from your waist, spanning from your shoulder blades to the top of your ass. His fingers toy with the fabric of your clothes, like he was trying to unwrap a present too early and didn't want to rip the packaging.

“Not here,” Sam says, his words slurring like a love-drunk fool, “Can’t do this here.”

He breaks the kiss and leaves you panting for more; there's a new darkness in his stare, one that makes you shudder. You give him a smile, wiggling in his grip to the pasta sauce jar, and shut it closed.

“What about dinner?”

You raise an eyebrow at him, “You seem like you have other plans.”

He was caught red handed, but you weren’t declining the advances. If anything you spurred them on as much as he did.

Sam slowly releases you from his grip, setting you stably on your feet. Not once have his eyes left you, even if you weren’t paying attention - Sam was set on this goal, you’d given him the ‘yes’ he needed, and he intended to make good on his commitment.

Patience was wearing thin for Sam. He ogles at the sight of you bent at the waist, putting the pasta sauce and veggies back in the fridge. The curve of your ass sucks him in whole, as if there were nothing else in the room.

A hand settles on your ass from behind, cupping and kneading gently. You let out a shuddering exhale before standing and turning to Sam.

The softness of your voice surprises you, “Where do you want me?”

The ball was in his court. Sam looks you over coolly, his hands kept to themselves in his pants pockets. Your eyes drift lower and pause on the large bulge in Sam’s pants, straining slightly against his thick jeans.

“My bedroom,” he said plainly.

—

There was little time to brace yourself for Sam’s next move. You're pressed against the wall before you can protest, although you wouldn’t dare object to this.

Sam grips the backs of your thighs and lifts you up, wedging your hips with his own, keeping you steady. A new hardness presses against your core as Sam juts his hips into you, pure instinct taking over his movements. His cock twitches in his jeans - he needs to watch his cock sink into you, to watch your face contort in bliss when he bottoms out in your pussy.

There was nothing small about Sam Winchester - he's a Goliath of a man, towering over you at any given time, with thick broad muscles that send a rushing heat to your sex. If your intrusive thoughts ever won, you were sure he could toss you around like it was nothing.

But now, you didn’t have much choice but to stay pinned to the wall, where you and Sam both grind your hips desperately, letting out lilted moans and grunts against each other’s skin.

The friction on your swelling clit was rough and warm, with Sam's cock perfectly nestled atop your drenched slit. Each rough push shot pleasure through your core, but it wasn’t enough for your aching cunt.

“If you need me to stop, you tell me, okay?” he emphasized. You shook your head at him. You wouldn’t break so easily, but if anyone were to shatter you apart, it could happily be Sam.

Your lips found his ear, after staining yourself up his long torso, “I’m not gonna break that easily, don’t worry.”

“Oh, yeah?” his voice deepened as his lips found your neck, eagerly nipping at your skin and making you whine. "Let's test that theory."

You gripped the hem of your shirt and shimmied it over your head, casting it to the floor carelessly.

Sam’s eyes trail over your chest, still beautifully bound by your bra. Their softness served as an undeniable invitation for his mouth to lower. He dips his head to greedily nip and suckle at the supple skin, leaving red and purple splotches in his wake.

You grip at his hair, urgently tugging him closer, as if the direct contact could never be enough to satisfy. Each of your soft moans is echoed with a low groan from Sam’s chest. He had doubled over, completely encapsulating you in his clean scent, now thick with a lustful musk.

Two fingers found the band of your bra, unclipping it with the utmost ease, and cast it to the floor with your shirt. Through panting breaths, Sam works off his shirt, though his lips have no hesitation to return to your exposed chest, and found a pebbled nipple between his teeth, rolling and biting to bring out a symphony of moans from the both of you.

Your hands lunged for the waistband of your pants. Sam took notice and sighs happily against your skin, his warm breath like a gentle wave across everything you'd exposed to him. Above you, Sam grew more unhinged with each passing second, grabbing and biting and kneading your flesh like a man starved.

Sam's lips capture yours once more in a tangle of tongues and teeth, exploring one another as if it was your only chance to do so. His tongue grazed the roof of your mouth, swallowing a deep moan that erupts from deep within your chest. He assesses your position and grows frustrated. It would be difficult to remove your, or his, pants without risking dropping you to the floor.

As quickly as you'd been slammed into the wall, Sam tosses you onto his bed, but stays standing at its foot, his hands reaching for his belt buckle. All else in the room vanished as you watch him remove the thick denim, shoving it down his legs to the floor. His cock strained against his boxers, throbbing and twitching to be free.

"Those," Sam nodded his head to your pants, "off."

The sudden dominance springs you into action. Your hands fly to your waistband and wiggle them off of your hips, down your thighs, and kick them away. Your soaked panties act as your final barrier, barring you from what you so badly needed.

Sam returns to his hunched position over you, letting his hands rove over your exposed thighs and ass, pawing at you greedily. You reach down to the band of his boxers, and slip your fingers under the elastic, inching them down until you felt a resistance against it - Sam's cock fights against the removal, straining your short arms until Sam reaches down to aid you.

The head of his cock springs up to smack against your covered core. You gasp softly at its warmth, your neglected cunt tightens around nothing of substance, an empty hole aching to be filled with something substantial.

"Feel." This was Sam's only order as he tugs your hand down to his length, coaxing you to wrap your small fingers around the middle of his shaft.

He's thick and warm against your palm, with a thick vein creeping up its underside to the tip. Your mouth waters at the way his cock twitches eagerly in your hand, and you slowly begin to pump along his length, making Sam hiss through his teeth.

Sam's voice is lower than you'd ever heard; it sends a heat directly to your teased pussy, now bracing against the base of Sam's cock. Its length covers most of your abdomen, casting your body in its silhouette in the dim lamplight of the room.

"Jesus..." he remarks wistfully, trailing a free hand up to his tip, pressing into the soft flesh of your belly.

Beneath him like this, Sam can finally see the scale of his cock to your insides, mapping out precisely where he'll settle inside of you. You whine softly as his cock drags another stroke over your soaked folds - the abrasion from your underwear was no longer tantalizing, but rather a nuisance.

His breathing becomes ragged, "I need to taste you."

The words shudder through you as Sam's lips work through the valley of your breasts, showering kisses along your middle, and finally he settles between your thighs. Sam places a kiss atop your clit, still kept out of sight by your soaked panties. Two fingers hook into the waistband and tug downward, sliding the soiled garment off of your shaky legs and to the floor behind him.

Cold air strikes your slit as Sam pries it open with two thick fingers, teasing at your aching hole, spreading the wetness around your cunt.

"Are you always this wet when you think about me?" his voice tremors through you. You nod quietly and hold your breath as Sam's head dips lower. All you can see is his rich brown hair cascading over your belly before warmth spread through your core, leaving you moaning at his first touch.

With the way his tongue teased at your clit, Sam may as well have set you ablaze. Your skin radiated a warmth unlike no other, rolling in waves as the cold of the air shocked your most sensitive areas.

"Sam," you whine, carding your fingers through his soft locks. You tug on him gently to push him further.

He pays no mind to your plea, and instead wraps his toned arms under your thighs, pulling your pussy flush against his thick tongue. It flicks your clit perfectly, and pairs with his lips as he suckles on the sweet bundle of nerves.

The taste of you makes Sam groan, his cock straining against the mattress beneath him. Above him, your moans and cries are a siren song, calling him to the bottomless sea of his desire. He pictures what lies ahead - you, sprawled on the bed, blissed out from his tongue and cock, sated and sleepy from a relentless pounding.

That image is pasted in his mind as he laps at your cunt, occasionally dipping his tongue into your tight entrance, and tasting your innermost parts. You arch your back at his touch, sighing his name like a prayer. His restless tongue toys with your hardening clit as pressure builds in your belly.

Sam creates a rhythm on your clit that sends you unfurling under his touch, mewling and whining and moaning slurred versions of Sam and please and need you. But he refuses to give more. Not until he can taste your release directly on his tongue.

The tightness in your belly snaps, breaking you apart until you're crying Sam's name against your hand, clasped firmly against your mouth. His tongue lolls over your clit even still, skyrocketing the shockwaves of the orgasm and making you whimper. Your slick coats his tongue and fills Sam's senses. All there is is you, your sounds, and your delicious cunt.

"Fuck," mumbles Sam, his voice reverberating through your convulsing sex, clamping down onto nothing.

You whine in response. All thought and sense had escaped your mind, now shattered and cast off to a void in the back of your mind. Sam laps up your juices and swallows, savoring every last drop your body had to offer.

The cold air of the room kisses your exposed cunt as Sam rises to his knees, his heavy cock bobbing above your abdomen.

"So small," he remarks, lining his cock over your stomach and admiring just how much of your body he'd overtake.

You'd surely be sore for days afterward, which sent a flush of pride through his chest. His cock ached to carve you hollow - to leave you gaping after a thorough fucking, to shape your pussy perfectly for him.

His hips rear back as he positions himself with your wet hole, shining with your slick, beckoning him inside. Sam's eyes meet yours when he notches the head of his cock past your entrance, surveying your expressions as he slowly filled you out. The girth of his cock could practically split you down your middle, stretching your little pussy to wrap perfectly around his shaft.

"God, you're so fuckin' tight," Sam groans, ogling at his own cock as it spread your pussy open. His hands press against the backs of your thighs and push them toward your chest, angling himself so the both of you could share the view.

He sighs, "Look at that - such a big cock, stretching out your tiny pussy, just for me."

Astonishment, teasing, and lust filled his tone, and something else. Something more primal that has your walls fluttering around Sam's cock.

You gape at the sight of his cock entering you, and you finally come to terms with exactly just how big he is. Your pussy is stretched blissfully wide, swallowing his length with earnest. Sam slams his hips and strikes deep, the head of his cock brushing against your cervix.

Each thrust is harsher than the last and all you can do is stare at the brutality your pussy is being subjected to. You cry out as Sam's cock crashes into you, every time, without fail.

At this point, there's no hiding the reality of what's behind Sam's bedroom door. If Dean, or anyone else, heard you, let them. Bliss overcomes your senses and dulls all rationality in your muddled mind.

There is nothing else that matters - just the overwhelming size of Sam Winchester and his remarkable cock.

He whispers your name like a summons, meeting his eyes with yours as he presses your body into the mattress. A hand presses into your tummy. Sam gasps softly and takes your hand to replace his own.

"Feel that?" his purrs, pressing onto your hand to deliver some pressure. As he thrusts in you can feel a shift in your insides, until you feel a firm strike of the head of his cock against you palm.

You look to him with wide eyes and find a wicked smile plastered on his face.

Sam crouches over you, enveloping you with his large size, encasing your body with his. He leans toward your ear, "Can you feel it up here, baby? Because I can. I can feel how tiny your cunt is before I go in and stretch it out."

He pushes deeper, to let you really feel it, "I can feel how you try to fit me, and how just tight you're getting, 'cause you're gonna cum, aren't you?"

A dumb nod follows his question, making his grin widen across his lips. No words form on your lips, only shaky wanton moans reply to his commentary.

"I know, sweetheart, feels good," Sam coos, slowing down his movements to draw out a raw cry from your throat. His cock drags through your walls until its head is all that remains, and slams in harshly.

Your cry is on the verge of a scream, but Sam does not relent. There is no plea to stop or slow down, because this is all you'd been dreaming of - to feel a comforting helplessness under someone far larger, to be at their disposal and usage.

A growl leaves his throat, "So fucking small... I bet you feel like you could break, huh? With my cock this deep inside you, your little pussy can barely take any more, can it?"

Your walls clench around him in reply, pulling Sam in deeper until his balls slap against your ass, now pairing with the obscene squelching of your abused pussy.

Between the lilting moans and quieted pleas from your perfect mouth, Sam issn't sure how much longer he can last. He vows to himself that he will not give in to it yet, not until he feels it. He needs to feel the way you wrap around his cock when you cum.

He needs to be the reason you finish, this time and each orgasm after.

"You've been waiting for this. You've wanted this the whole time - someone big and strong to pound your little pussy 'til you can't stand. Because you want a thick cock splitting you open." Sam stammers through the last few words - his own comments are bringing him closer to the brink, but you've already reached yours.

You shudder around him harshly as your orgasm hits you full-force, leaving you no room to ride it out as Sam's pace quickens. His breath hitches at the sensations flowing through his throbbing length - he hisses when you clench around his sensitive tip, leaving his gasping as he fucks you faster. Harder. Deeper.

His cock plunges into your cunt, hitting that same spot in your tummy as he mentioned before. Sam's hand presses against your abdomen, adding a glorious pressure that has you climaxing again in a matter or seconds.

"Thaaaat's it, attagirl," he encourages. "Such a tight little cunt, but she takes me so well."

The words flow through you like fire, sending you over the brink once again and leaving you whimpering beneath him. Sam smirks, knowing he's doing his job right, he has you exactly where he wants you, pinned, helpless, and impossibly full.

"Please... S-Sam," you whisper.

He laughs, pounding you so roughly you can barely brace for the slam against your cervix, "Can't handle it, can you, baby? I thought you said you don't break easily."

Your soft cries reach his ears as you slip into that thoughtless void of your mind, moaning with each strike.

Sam's lips brush over the shell of your ear, "You think you're so strong, but I'll break you. I'll have your cunt so bruised you can't think about anything else - only me, because this pussy is mine, do you understand?"

A reply doesn't come, only the sounds of your moans fill his ears. Sam delivers a harsh slap to your ass, thrusting his cock as deep as he could manage. You let out a long moan but still don't reply.

"Who's pussy is this?"

The words form on your lips and fall out feebly, "Y-yours."

He kisses your forehead, but does not let his hips falter, "That's right, angel. All mine."

Pressure builds in his abdomen, his balls growing tight as his own release crept up from behind. Sam nips at your earlobe, his words clang through you with a primal desire.

"And since this pussy's mine, I'm going to fill it."

The swift relentless pace resumes, crashing into your hips to verge on soreness, your tight cunt still wrapping perfectly around him, and Sam's name falling past your slacked mouth. Sam's eyes screw shut as his own orgasm finally approaches, and his cock begins to twitch.

He unsheathes his cock from your warm walls, aiming directly at your now gaping pussy. Sam pumps himself fervently as his cum spurts from his cock, right into your stretched hole. You stare in awe as his cum seeps into your cunt, the angle of your hips inviting it all in.

Sam hisses, "Keep it all in there."

You pant as you try to recover yourself, but Sam plunges his cock into you again, making you let out a low, drawn-out moan. He strikes as deeply as before, his movements are urgent, borderline predatory, insistent to have you bred nicely.

"Keep it in there, and don't you dare fucking waste it."

His movements start to slow - the thrusts are languid and gentle until Sam finally pulls himself out of your abused pussy. He grips your thighs and lowers them until you can finally breathe freely again, gasping in the cool, refreshing air.

"There you go. Deep breaths, honey," Sam coaxes, running his hands along your sore hips, massaging gently into the aching flesh. You do as you're advised and calm your breathing, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly. Sam did the same until he slumped into the mattress next to you, groaning into the sheets.

You smile lazily at him, "You okay over there?"

Sam nods into the bed, still letting out a low groan, "Y'fuckin' drained me."

Pride wells in your chest. You giggle at him, earning you a playful slap on your thigh. Your giggle turns into a hearty laugh before you nestle next to Sam, eyes fluttering shut with fatigue. He takes notice and nudges you.

"Bathroom, no UTI's for us today."

You retort, "Sam, I don't think I can even walk properly right now."

He shifts and rises from the bed, scooping you into his arms and lifting you to his chest. Your laughs echo around the room as Sam Winchester takes you to the bathroom, ever the gentleman.

Hi! Thank you all for your patience as i get out of my lil' brain funk. I hope you enjoyed!

If you liked this fic, reblog to show others! Who cares if we're depraved little animals?? don't you just wanna go apeshit???

anyways ily, and i hope this fic gets the love it needs cause i had a wonderful time writing it >:3

[sereia4skz]

Hey Sereia,

Just wanted to do a check in with you since it's been a little hectic here after Felix picked me up from the airport. The guys are all pretty cool, there's a total of eight of them, eight! It's crazy chaotic when they're all together. But there's one who's been super sweet and super affectionate since I've gotten here. His name is Changbin and he's a bunny!hybrid, we don't have many bunny!hybrids back in Australia so I know you'd love to meet him because he's such a sweetheart. He's big too which is surprising to me because you'd think being a bunny!hybrid he'd be small and cute. Nope this man is buff and built, his muscles are insane and I see the appeal of having a more muscular, stocky, strong man.

But I have noticed that anytime that I'm either standing close to him or sitting close to him he likes to brush up against me. Sometimes it's quick and barely noticeable but lately he's getting more bold and it's becoming hard for me to not be affected by it. Plus I can feel how hard he gets when he takes his time, it's exhilarating but leaves me shambles afterwards. I don't know if I'm going to make it out of this trip sane Sereia, I really don't. I just want Changbin so badly but don't know how to let him know without making him uncomfortable.

Hopefully Sane When I See You Again,

Kait

1k Followers Event | thump against the counter

pairing: bunny!Changbin x reader

genre: smut

warnings: sweaty boy, dry humping, cumming in pants, nipple play (changbin), semi-public sex (kitchen), quick lino appearance at the end

event masterlist: #1kShootingStars

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Hey Kait,

I’m glad things are going well. I did warn you that living with 8 boys, no matter how short the trip is, would be a little boisterous. 

This bunny boy sounds yummy, respectfully, I think you should go for it as long as it would make you happy. No reason not to have fun while you’re on vacation. It sounds like he’s interested, plus I heard bunny hybrids are a lot of fun (if you know what I mean).

Love, Yaya

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When you woke up it was barely light out. You roll over in the large bed, finding the otherside empty, Felix must not have visited last night. You groaned as you got up, going through the motions to get ready for the day, before making your way out the room. You made your way to the kitchen in search of sustenance. 

The first rays of light beamed through the curtains blowing in the light breeze of the open window. You went to reach for a cup in the cabinets, pouting when you saw them being slightly out of reach in the back. Looking around for a stepstool rendered no findings, so you pushed yourself on the counter, your fingers barely brushing the glass when warm palms rested on your waist. 

“Careful,” a voice came startling you, lips almost brushing your ear. 

You grip the cub bringing it to your chest, before pivoting on the counter to look at the person behind you. Finding yourself face to face Changbin. Your voice left you as you looked at the bunny boy in what you could only assume to be a workout shirt. 

“You shouldn’t climb the counters like that… You could hurt yourself,” he said, soft smile adoring his face. 

You stared for a beat too long, eyes tracing the sweat-darkened hem clinging to the sharp lines of his torso.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” Changbin murmured, hands still resting against your waist. He didn’t step back. If anything, he moved closer, the heat of his body settling between your knees as they dangled off the counter. The fresh citrus of his post-gym deodorant mixed with the warm scent of musk and salt clung to him, fogging up your brain.

“Back from the gym?” you managed, eyes flicking up from his chest to meet his gaze.

“Mhm.” His ears twitched slightly. You weren’t sure if it was from exertion or something else. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you said. “Bed was colder than usual.”

Changbin tilted his head, something unreadable flitting through his expression. “Oh?”

Then, reminiscent of other times you’d be alone with him.

He shifted. Subtle at first, but purposeful. The front of his thighs brushed up against yours, then his hips followed. His arms boxed you in on either side, palms firm on the countertop. It wasn’t quite a rut, but the outline of him pressing between your legs was unmistakable. Your breath caught.

“Bin…” you whispered, your voice shaking slightly. “You’ve been doing this on purpose.”

His eyes dropped, watching your lips. “Doing what?”

“Getting close. Brushing up against me like it’s nothing. But it’s not–” Your fingers clutched the cup still resting against your chest. “I can feel you, you know.”

That last bit made his ears twitch again, more aggressively this time. His nose scrunched, but he didn’t deny it. “You don’t pull away.”

“Because–” You shut your mouth before you could spill something too honest. His gaze was burning now, all shyness buried beneath something primal.

“Feels good,” he finished for you, his voice dropping. “To me too.”

Your thighs parted just a little, involuntarily. He stepped forward, and suddenly he was nestled there, between your legs, nose nearly brushing yours. His hands slid along your thighs, thumbs rubbing soft circles over the thin fabric of your sleep shorts.

“Tell me to stop,” he said quietly. You didn’t.

Instead, you leaned in, catching the corner of his mouth with your lips. His gasp was soft but needy, and when you pulled back, your fingers found the hem of his shirt, pushing it up, palms dragging over his sweat-slick chest. He shuddered.

He took it as the green light, moving the cup between you, putting it on the counter, and kissed you.

It was deep, confident, all tongue and teeth and heat. You moaned into it before you could stop yourself, and he swallowed the sound like it fed him.

“You’re not fair,” you murmured, thumbing over one of his nipples. “You walk around with this chest and act like you don’t know what it does to people.”

He whined, an actual whine, and then buried his face in your neck, grinding slowly, almost desperately. The friction made your thighs tremble. 

“You’re cruel,” he whispered. “You’re so mean to me.”

You tilted your head, teasing. “You’re the one grinding against me in the kitchen.”

“Can’t help it.” His voice cracked, and his hips rocked forward once, slow and filthy. The ridge of him slid against your core through both layers of fabric, enough to make your breath hitch. “You’re warm. You smell. Fuck, you smell so good.”

Your hands slid under his shirt, pushing it up and bunching the fabric around his ribs. His stomach taut beneath your fingers, but it was his chest that had you mesmerized, thick, defined, plush in a way that begged to be touched. You rubbed your palms up and over, letting your thumbs catch both nipples, pressing firmly.

His hand slid up your thigh, rougher now, kneading the soft flesh before dragging your hips closer to the edge of the counter. He rocked into you, slow, heavy, unmistakably deliberate.

“Feel that?” he muttered against your lips, his cock thick and hard behind his sweats. “I’ve been walking around like this since you got here.”

Your breath hitched, eyes fluttering. “You’ve been doing this on purpose.”

He chuckled, low and dangerous. “Of course I have. You make the softest fucking sounds when I press against you.”

He rutted into you again, harder this time, and your hands clutched at his back for balance. “Thought I was imagining it at first,” he continued, lips dragging along your throat, “but then you started leaning into it. Let me touch you a little longer, get a little closer.”

“I liked it,” you admitted, voice tight with heat. “I like it.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “Then take it.”

He caught your hips in both hands and pulled you flush to him, grinding against your soaked core with firm, rolling thrusts that had your eyes rolling back. The counter creaked with every motion. His name tumbled from your lips again and again, matching the rhythm he set.

You arched into him, one hand slipping under his shirt to finally palm at his chest, dragging your nails over the slope of his pecs until your thumb found a nipple again. You circled it, thumbing at it hard.

His breath hitched, just a little, his control slipping. He gritted his teeth and kept going. “You’re fucking filthy, you know that?”

“You like it,” you shot back, squeezing his nipple between your fingers.

“Damn right I do.”

The sounds between you were obscene now, the slide of soaked cloth on cloth, breathy gasps, the dull thud of the counter hitting the wall with each thrust.

“Binnie– gonna– fuck”

He grabbed your face and kissed you again, messy and hot, his thrusts losing rhythm.

“Cum for me,” he growled. “Right here. Let me feel you.”

And you did, legs clenching around him, hips bucking as you came with a cry, clinging to him like he was the only thing tethering you to earth.

He followed with a grunt and a shudder, hips jerking hard one last time as he spilled into his sweats. He stayed there for a beat, panting against your neck. Then…

“Shit,” he muttered, pulling back to see the dark stain on the front of his pants. “Shit.”

And then, like a startled rabbit, he jumped back, ears upright and eyes wide. “I– I have to shower. Sorry!!”

You blinked as he bolted, his ears smacking the doorframe on the way out with a thwack and a yelp. 

You sat there, stunned, a mess between your legs. The kitchen smelled like sex, downright sinful. 

Then came padded steps. You turned your head just in time to see Minho saunter in, already looking mildly annoyed.

“Oh good,” he said flatly, “you’re up.”

You flushed as the catboy sniffed the air.

“Bunny boy left his scent all over,” Minho muttered, tail flicking as he grabbed a pan. “Next time, tell him to clean my kitchen at least.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━⋆｡°✩

taglist: @diekleinesuesse @tillaboo @felixsonlyrealwife @geni-627 @skz8riley @lezleeferguson-120 @pixie-felix @headfirstfortoro @alnex05 @baby-stay92 @encoredesires @androgynouscrownorbit @channiesluvrclub @my-neurodivergent-world @chims-dimple @bookswillfindyouaway @stellasays45 @angel-writes-skz-here

[satorusluver]

Gojo x short!reader headcanons

Word count: 1,180 ish

Warnings: smut (minors DNI), SIZE KINK, slight praise kink, creampie, oral (f receiving), fluff, afab reader, she/her pronouns. Also the reader is described as curvy like one time.

-Gojo Satoru doesn't actually see you in a romantic or sexual way at first. Not that he finds you unattractive, he's just never dated anyone that much shorter than him before or really even thought about it. He's never really considered himself someone who's into big size differences (which is kind of ironic because he's so much bigger than almost everyone lol). He thinks you're cute though. He also definitely likes the way you literally look up to him. Itty bitty thing, you don't even come up to his shoulder.

-He teases you relentlessly about your height, calls you shorty, shortstack, vertically challenged, you name it. He ruffles your hair and does that thing where he uses your head as an arm rest just to see the annoyed look on your face. The more he does stuff like this over time the more flirtatious it becomes even if that wasn't his original intention. Eventually it ends up being his way of blatantly trying to flirt with you although you might not realize this at first 'cause he just has a flirty personality in general.

-He thinks it must be annoying to be so short. How do you see over things?? (spoiler alert: you don't) How do you reach things??? Speaking of, he will purposefully move things out of your reach to watch you jump up to get them. He thinks it's hilarious (and also maybe he likes the way it makes your boobs bounce). After awhile he will offer to be your tall knight in shining armour and get it for you. But you always say no, you've been short your whole life and you can do it yourself.

-He appreciates that independent element of you, but at the same time, sometimes he gets annoyed when you break out the stepstool and actually do get it yourself so he will hide it from you just so you have to relent and accept his help. Petty? Yes. Effective? Also yes.

-He'll also sometimes refuse to bend down to let you kiss him just to see you do a cute lil jump to try to reach him. He never refuses for very long though because he just can't resist his cute lil girlfriend and her adorable pouty face. Then he bends down and squishes your cheeks until your lips pucker and tells you that you're too cute for your own good before finally giving you that kiss you wanted, and then a couple more to make up for him messing with you.

-He will offer to let you sit on his shoulders so you can see in crowds. No, you're not too heavy. He's the strongest, remember? No, this isn't about jujutsu, but the fact still stands. And it's definitely not an excuse to feel your thighs around his head, or anything like that...

But when you guys do get intimate, oh boy.

-He never really thought about it before, but now he's kind of starting to like the way you guys are physically opposites - he's tall, lanky, and hard; you're short, curvy and soft. Even your hands, your legs, you're just so tiny compared to him and he doesn't know why that excites him so much now, but it does. He could really just pick you up and toss you onto the bed like a ragdoll. He won't though...unless you want him to?

Oh, you do want him to? Say no more, princess.

-In which case, he will toss you onto the bed and push those pretty thighs of yours apart so he can feel them around his head properly this time. And no, he won't stop eating you out until you beg him to, his tongue lapping hungrily at your clit and occasionally murmuring whatever thoughts fill his pussydrunk head about how good you taste and how much he wants you to cum on his tongue.

-He loves missionary but knows your head would literally be against his chest if he leaned over you too much during it so he usually sits up so he can get a good look at your face while he's pounding you. He loves loves loves holding your hand in his while he's doing it too, loves how his huge hand engulfs yours and how your tiny fingers grip his for dear life when he makes your eyes roll back in your head. He quickly becomes obsessed with how you look under him, your legs folded against your chest and your eyes glazed over with pleasure.

-He also loves to have you sit on his lap on a chair or couch, straddling him so he can run his hands along your waist as you slowly sink down onto his cock. He loves the way you curl up against him, your head resting against his shoulder. Your hand holds the back of his neck, your fingers gently combing through the short hair of his undercut as you whimper softly from the feeling of him stretching out your walls inch by inch. It's one of the few times he doesn't pound you, just wanting to take it slow and savor making love with you. So he wraps his arms around your middle and pulls you close, pressing your chest flush against his as he thrusts up into you gently but deeply, allowing you to feel every single inch of him slowly moving in and out of you.

-Other times he'll have you ride him like that, only to end up gripping the fat of your ass with those big hands of his to move your hips up and down on him, keeping you moving after your legs have already begun to give out. You can't bring yourself to complain even when you start to feel that burning in your thighs when his fat cock is hitting all of your sweet spots and you've lost count of how many times you've cum. And all the while he's moving you up and down, he'll whisper filthy things in your ear with that classic Satoru smirk tugging at his pretty pink lips from the sight of you so fucked out on his cock:

"Such a good little fuckdoll f'me. Gonna let me use this pretty body however I want, yeah? That's my baby, good fucking girl." ❤️

-Satoru says he was never into really short girls before you, but now the sight of you in his shirts and how they hang down to your plush thighs has his dick getting so hard so fast. Wear them without underwear and if he notices you will not be leaving the house that day (or be able to walk straight for days). He'll have you leave the shirt on while he's fucking you too, he'll just lift it up to get a look at the way your tits bounce when his hips snap against yours.

-He really does think you're the most beautiful woman in the world, and you're all Satoru's, and that thought alone has him painting your walls white and groaning a "love you s'much" against your lips as he fucks yet another load of thick cum into your already overfilled cunt.

[tora-the-cat]

In the spirit of @aceyanaheim's Tiny Kashi posting, I'd like to offer some more of my own Baby Itty Bitty Kashi headcannons;

-I think minato, in the dark quiet semi-subconcious part of his brain, realizes that Kakashi being so small is Probably Bad. but this is not something he can ever allow himself to actually process, because kakashi is strong and they are at war and the hokage needs him to be a voice of reason (he's 15). So his brain copes with the dissonance by taking ferocious care of the boy to try and make up to kakashi in a way neither of them will ever fully be able to process. they're so loving and adorable and twisted and YOUNG. and people wonder why minato's favoritism is so blatent.

-kakashi reluctantly dragging minato places with a glare because SO MANY people try to refuse service to this pointy kid.

-local six year old assassin had one too many back to back missions without any nap time and has a meltdown. 12 dead 6 injured 3 missing (dead, but not included in the mission perameters so Minato covered it up before Kakahsi could get in trouble or even really realize what he did <3)

-Kakashi looses his first tooth on a mission and Minato flies into a rage as he finishes the fight fast and brutal beause someone hit that toddler in the face and kakashi, who has never lost one of his bones before, is trying not to have a panic attack because he didn't know it could happen. and then the fight finishes and Minato takes a few breaths and blinks and is like 'OH. RIGHT. BABY TEETH. I FORGOT ABOUT THOSE.' and calms down. and kakashi gets pouty cause he thinks minato just called him a baby.

-kakashi having a life long If I Fits I Sits impulse cause like. his little legs get tired. and are too little to have him at eye level most of the time anyway. he would just sit on counters to fill out paper work (because he's a grown shinobi! he doesn't need his sensei holding his hand for everything!) when he was too short to do it standing up.

-@aceyanaheim mentioned it in their post too, but. Minato getting really good at just kind of. Being a human stepstool for kakashi. Like up to and including Kushina coming home to kakashi perched like a bird on Minato's outstretched arm to grab a cup while Minato is just. making dinner with the other hand. BUT ALSO.

-kakahsi talking several years to recognize as an adult that not everyone can be expected to comfortably handle him cause he spent YEARS getting manhandled like a wet cat and/or bag of grapes by all his superiors. The first time he jumps on Minato's shoulders to reach something on a high shelf and minato (just back from a long mission, missed a growth spurt, that kid is a head taller now) STUMBLES, they both like. stare at each other in confused horror

-Minato personally hand tailored Kakashi's chunin vest because they don't standard issue ones in 7 year old size. God only KNOWS what seals are hidden between the seams of that thing lmao

-there's an old konoha rumor about a jonnin that worked with Kakashi a few times when he was a kid and thought it would be funny to pretend to forget/get confused the names of his ninken, because he was 9 and very cute and pouty when he got mad. If anyone knows this man's name they dare not speak it, as he allegedly went missing shortly after insisting that Guruko's name was Gukuro and Kakashi gets frustrated enough to start crying over the overt disrespect to his companions

-(He was not killed, of course. Kakashi would never kill a comrade. the pups just held a bit of a grudge and withheld a bit of their attention in a following fight, and when his injuries landed him in the hospital Namikaze had a few encouraging words about pursuing alternate career options ^-^)

[kyehwas]

can you do hcs for p1h how they would act with shorter s/o?

I'm 5'3 all of the boys are so much taller than me.. I thought I lost this request nonnie, but i found it! hope you enjoy!

y. keeho

5'10

jokes(?) about forcing you to be his stepstool

through all the jokes, keeho thinks your height is adorable

may or may not put things up on places you can't reach so you can ask him to help you

c. taeyang

5'11

hes so sweet he'll reach the top shelves for you

just ask this man and he'll do anything for you that involves his height

feels so proud of himself for helping you, what a gentleman >.<

c. jiung

5'10

tries to short shame you. that bitch.

you just ask him to give him your money and that gets him to shut up.

like kyo, he thinks your height is adorable through the bullying

h. intak

5'11

bitch has you saved as "my ant <3"

but hey! you're his favorite ant!! and the cutest ant in his opinion

forehead kisses/kisses on the top of your head are taks fav, he gives you them whenever he has the chance

h. shota

5'9½

shortest of the group but still pretty tall

type of guy to rest his head on yours

bonus if he starts playing with your hair

k. jongseob

5'9½

tied w soul for shortest of the group

uses you as an arm rest

whenever he doesn't know where to put his hands, they're folded on the top of your head

[perseidlion]

A Gift From Death - A Dead Boy Detectives Payneland Christmas Short

Every ghost in the world received a gift from Death of the Endless once a year. Most didn’t know who was responsible, and few would ever guess it came from her. The timing varied, but it was almost always associated with the most special time of the year for any particular ghost. 

For Charles and Edwin, it was the early hours of Christmas morning. Not for any religious reasons, but for the magic that surrounded the holiday and the way the whole of London was decked out in its festive best. 

They had found out about the gift by accident in the third year of the Agency. Since then, they’d developed a Christmas Eve routine as the minutes ticked closer to midnight. 

“Come on, mate! Get the tree plugged in. It’s almost time!” said Charles as he finished pouring rich, decadent hot chocolate into a pair of Christmas mugs. His had a jolly elf while Edwin’s had a 3D relief of a Christmas tree with stacked presents for a handle. They’d received them in payment for The Case of the Haunted Ceramic Frog during December of ‘91 and had been using them for their Christmas ritual ever since. 

Edwin dug around underneath the tree for the plug for the lights. He pushed it into the socket, but nothing happened. “Bollocks. What is it now?”

“Must be a dead light somewhere in the strand,” said Charles. 

They’d found a box of Christmas decorations when they set up the office. The strand of lights were easily from the 70s, if not older - which meant they were the sort where if a single bulb was burnt out, none of them would work. 

“I hate to say it, Charles. But I don’t think we’re going to have lights this year,” said Edwin with a sigh as he examined the tree with his hands perched on his hips.

“Hold on…” said Charles as he squinted at the fresh-cut tree decorated with ornaments they’d received as payment for cases over the years. It was an eclectic collection of handmade and artisanal ornaments mixed in with a box of glass orbs in blue and red that had been in the box with the lights. “I think I see a missing one up near the top.”

“How the devil did you spot that?” asked Edwin as he squinted at the tree. 

“I’ve got sharp eyes, don’t I?” said Charles with that charming, thousand-watt smile of his. Then he clapped and darted over to the cardboard box with ‘XMAS STUFF’ written on the side in Charles’ terrible handwriting.

While Charles searched for a box of spare bulbs, Edwin pulled over a footstool. 

“Hurry along! It’s nearly midnight,” said Edwin as he stepped up onto the stool. He took hold of the strand with one hand while he held the other out and down expectantly.

Charles found a small, nearly disintegrated plastic bag and then dug out a spare red bulb. He pressed the bulb into Edwin’s waiting hand. 

With a neat little flourish, Edwin lifted his hand and  twisted the bulb into the empty socket. The moment he did, all the lights flickered on and the tree lit up with the warm glow of multicoloured Christmas lights. The brilliant greens, golds, reds and blues bounced off their collection of ornaments and made each one sparkle. 

At that moment, the antique clock in the corner chimed to mark midnight. With each strike, Edwin and Charles gained new sensation.

With the first strike, they could suddenly smell the sharp scent of the pine Christmas tree.

With the second, they could feel heat radiating from the woodstove in the corner that was stoked for the occasion. 

The third brought breath to their lungs. The fourth, beating hearts in their chests. With each chime of the clock, they got closer to life until they were fully human once again.

Edwin was so distracted by life returning to his spectral form that he missed the sound of groaning wood. The stepstool which had no issue supporting a ghostly form couldn’t handle the weight of a living being. The leg gave way and he found himself toppling toward the floor with a very undignified squeak. 

Somehow, Charles managed to catch him before he hit the floor and gently guided him back to his feet. “Easy, easy! You all right?” On impulse, he reached up to touch Edwin’s cheek.

“I’m…I’m fine,” Edwin stammered.

They touched a dozen times a day in all sorts of casual ways. Or rather, Charles touched Edwin and Edwin allowed it. But something about this touch was different, and not just because he could feel the heat of his hand on his face.

Charles too, felt something shift in that moment. He held Edwin’s weight for a moment longer, then helped him regain his footing. He lingered close, gripping forearm to forearm with one hand, the other still touching his cheek. He stared into Edwin’s eyes and squeezed gently, caressing the muscle of his arm beneath the cotton shirt. His stomach tightened with nerves and anticipation and he felt his cheeks flush. 

Something that had begun with Edwin’s confessions on the steps of Hell had been lingering in the background of their relationship - unspoken and unremarked upon, but building like an ember on a bed of dry kindle. Nothing had changed on the surface, but with each passing day, and with each glance and casual touch, something shifted in Charles. 

Edwin returned the forearm grip and stared at Charles with his eyes wide and hopeful. With each moment they stood in silence, their brief time as corporeal beings drifted away. Their hot chocolate and fresh-baked cookies sat nearby, steam rising from the mugs, adding a sweet tinge to the spruce and crackling fire in the air. 

Edwin closed his eyes and allowed himself the indulgence of nuzzling Charles’ hand. He knew at any moment, he would withdraw the touch. 

Or so he thought.

Instead, Charles felt a revelation wash over him. He kept hold of Edwin’s arm and shifted closer until there was barely any air between them. He swallowed down the nerves in his stomach, then slid the hand from his forearm to loop around his waist. He splayed his hand across the small of his back beneath his blazer, tracing fingers over the knit of his sweater vest. He breathed in deep with his mouth slightly open. 

Edwin’s eyelids fluttered and his knees went weak, but the hand on his back kept him steady. He turned his face further against his hand and bumped his nose against his palm. Then he risked pressing the tiniest of kisses to the pulse point of his wrist.

That was all it took for Charles to find a well of courage he didn’t know he had. He leaned in and intercepted Edwin before he could kiss his wrist again. The first proper kiss was a gentle thing - a testing peck. But once he had a taste of Edwin’s lips in full sensory glory, he immediately craved more. He pecked him twice more, then leaned in for a proper, deep, romantic kiss.

Edwin clung to Charles for dear life as what he’d wished for for decades finally came to pass. In between the gentle pecks, he let out a shuddering sigh - a whimper and a sound of surprise in one. When the full kiss came, he leaned into it fully. A pair of tears slipped down his cheeks, tracing cool rivulets down his neck until they soaked into the collar of his shirt. He gripped the sides of Charles’ jacket with white-knuckled intensity and leaned his weight against him.

Charles and Edwin kissed each other sweetly and with unlocked longing as the minutes ticked on. Their bodies grew warmer and the lights of the Christmas tree danced off their skin and reflected in their eyes. 

But Death’s gift was fleeting. At five minutes past midnight, the sensations started to slide away like the dimming of a candle. At first, they lost the scent of the tree, then the warmth of the fire. The last to go was the warmth of each others’ bodies and the gentle moisture of their lips. 

Even as the numbness of a ghost’s existence settled back in, they continued to hold one another just as tightly. Slowly, they lifted off the floor until they floated midair in front of the Christmas tree. They rotated around in a stepless dance, drifting in a slow circle as they remained intertwined. 

“I…think I was waiting for tonight to do that,” said Charles after a long, long moment with no sound but the crackle of the fire and the distant hum of London traffic. “Not consciously, but…maybe I just wanted to feel the first time. Properly.” 

Edwin clung to Charles and rested his head against his shoulder. He didn’t care that he could no longer feel the warmth of his body or the thrum of his heartbeat. He knew he was holding him, and that’s what truly mattered. The memory of that kiss would replay in his mind with all the ghost kisses to come.

And there would be many to come.

“Happy Christmas, Charles,” Edwin whispered as if he was afraid speaking too loudly would break the spell of that moment.

“Happy Christmas, Edwin,” Charles replied. Then he kissed him again.

---

If you enjoyed this fic, I would appreciate it if you dropped a kudos and/or a comment on Ao3! I have lots more DBD fic, too.

Merry Christmas!

[thebluestbluewords]

hey what if this wasn’t the first time Jay’s run into potential academic trouble at Auradon Prep??

“Jay, can you stay back for a moment? I just want to ask you a question about your test.” 

Miss Lacey Harvey’s most troublesome student pulls up short, so quickly that he overcorrects and has to stick one booted foot out in an exaggerated motion to counterbalance himself. She hears him murmur something to one of his buddies, another boy from one of the sports teams, wearing a matching jacket. Lacey doesn’t often pay attention to what her students are wearing, but she’s only teaches one of the students from the Isle of the Lost this semester, and it was quite a change the first day that he showed up in a blue and gold school varsity jacket instead of his typical black and red leather. 

Lacey waits. It’s no trouble to let her students say goodbye to their friends before she pulls them aside for a little history come-to-god moment. 

Sure enough, Jay turns around a moment later.

“You wanted to see me, miss?” 

Ah. 

“Yes.” Lacey says firmly. “You’ll get the test back, don’t worry about that. I just need you to walk me through what I’m seeing here first.” 

Jay leans down to look at the test Lacey has laid out on the desk in front of her. He’s a good looking boy, and he knows it, so she wishes she could be surprised when he looks up at her through those dark lashes with a proud little smile. “I crushed it, yeah?”

She takes in a deep breath. Time to crush the academic dreams of a boy who’s never been to a prep school before, who by all accounts is probably doing his best given the circumstances, and who still, despite all the extenuating circumstances working against him, goes out of his way to be a pain in her ass every class period.  “Well, you could say that. Your answers on the multiple choice section were good, you did well there, but… I have to ask. It looks like you missed this section here, where you were supposed to answer some questions about the passage.” 

“What, no way. Miss, that’s bull–” he catches himself, audibly swallowing the second half of his words. “--crap. It’s bullcrap, miss. I answered the hell out of this test.” 

Lacey looks up into the honest, open face of her student. All of the boys in her late morning section are so tall this year, she’s constantly looking up at them when they stand by her desk. The thought strikes her that she really ought to get a stepstool, and save her neck the trouble. 

She files the idea away for later. Later, when she doesn’t have a student in front of her. And not just any student, but one that’s been giving her trouble since the start of the year. The trouble, you see, with teaching teenagers is that they’re quick to spin you a tale the moment they think they might be in trouble. Lacey’s heard a lot of teenagers put on the song and dance for her, and if this one is lying, then he’s doing a very good job of it. 

A little intimidation will usually break the weak ones. 

“You have to understand that we take academic integrity very seriously here at Auradon Prep,” Lacey explains, putting on her best stern, spectacle-wearing teacher expression. “I expect each and every one of my students to bring their best into my classroom. If you have anything to tell me about your test, I would prefer to settle this outside of the honor board. I’m sure you would prefer the same.” 

Lacey watches 

Jay furrows his face, squinting down at the test. “Miss, I just missed the page. It must have been stuck together or something. I’ll redo it for you.” 

Right. 

No. 

“Jay, this is the problem with your tests. You are constantly skipping sections and missing questions. If I didn’t know better, I would think that you’re just skipping over all the questions that you don’t want to answer.” 

He snaps his mouth down into a hard line. “Miss, it was a mistake, I promise.” 

“I want to believe you,” Lacey says slowly, allowing her student a chance to stop digging the hole he’s created even deeper. “But—“

Jay’s face goes hard, and then evens out into a tremulous version of his usual cocky smile. “But you don’t trust villains. I get it.” 

“No, it’s not like that,” Lacey hurries to reassure him. “It’s just that I’ve seen a pattern on your tests, and I wanted to address it before the problem gets out of hand, that’s all.” 

“But I’m the only one here.” 

“I prefer not to humiliate students in front of their peers,” she snaps, before she can think better of herself. “If you would prefer that I do otherwise, please, tell me, and I would be happy to waste valuable class time that your peers could spend learning on disciplining you instead.” 

The boy in front of her drops his head. “Go for it. Discipline me.” 

No. 

She—

No. 

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. 

Villains, even the young ones, have a way of getting under your skin. 

“I will not.” Lacey says calmly, taking a moment to catch her breath. “Punish you for missing a question. I am here to teach you, not to dole out punishment for what you claim was an honest mistake. I’m giving you an extra study hall. Come to the study room after dinner tonight, and I’ll have one of my tutors there to help you go over the questions you’ve missed.” 

Jay straightens up, and it’s like the past few moments never happened, and he never dropped the cocky, confident face of the boy who roughhouses with his teammates in the back of her classroom. “I have a game.” 

“After that.” Lacey assures him. “The extra study hall isn’t a punishment. I am here to give you a learning opportunity. Sports games end at what, seven pm?” 

He grins. “Would you believe me if I said eight?” 

Lacey may be a history teacher, but she isn’t stupid. “I would not. Stay here while I write out your tutoring slip, and I’ll have a TA meet you in the western study room at seven thirty.” 

He shrugs, bright and easy. “Worth a shot. I’ll learn more with a cute girl as a tutor.” 

Lacey crosses Jane Fey off her list of potential TA students. “You will not.” 

“Will so.” 

“Absolutely not, and if you continue along this line, I’ll tutor you myself.” 

He flashes her a look that’s not exactly an assessment, but it does linger on her entirely too long for comfort. “You won’t find me complaining about that, Miss.” 

Lacey shrugs back a shiver. The little villains go out of their way to behave unnervingly, she knows this, and she won’t allow it to get under her skin this time. “Take this,” she commends, holding out the study slip. “And get out of my classroom before you’re late for next period.” 

He does.

Lacey lets out a breath she hasn’t consciously been holding once the door clicks shut. Villains, even little ones, aren’t a handful that she’s overjoyed to need to continue dealing with. 

With that thought in mind, she opens her school email account. 

“Dear Fairy Godmother,” Lacey whispers to herself as she types. “I am writing to inform you of an incident occurring today, which pertains to the trial run of the four children from the isle of the lost….” 

Yes. 

She’ll keep the higher-ups well informed of this incident.  It’s her duty as a teacher, nothing more, to keep her administration informed of how the new students are settling in. 

And if she recommends that some students in particular may not be suited for a preparatory environment, well, that’s just her opinion as an educated member of the educational staff. No more, no less. She’d like to see every student succeed in the classroom, but she’s made the same recommendation for a few royal children who couldn’t keep up with their academics, and those few were seen very tidily off to lower-ranked classrooms, and eventually their home kingdom’s local colleges, framed as a very humble move, of course, to support local educational institutions within their home kingdoms. An emphasis on their humility and loyalty to their kingdoms of birth.

She’d like to see each and every one of her students succeed. Naturally. 

She’s just setting up a few backup plans. 

[onthepyre]

Hi June! No.1 for the prompt meme if you feel inspired? 💖

hi calli!! thanks for dropping in <3 this is kind of loosely the "dirtiest white boy in america" period but honestly. fuck if i know. it's sad though

send me a number and ill write something angsty

1 - keeping things from the other to spare their feelings

Sometimes Dad had to bail, Mickey knew. When they were little kids, not smart enough to keep their traps shut, he and Mandy got dragged along, lying in the backseat, her head in his lap. Perks of being the youngest two, Mickey guesses. Seeing Indiana before they turned six. By the time Mom was gone, they were told to keep their heads down and wait it out while Dad fucked off to who-knows-where. It sucked, but it sucked less than having him home. It was tolerable.

When the pigs started sniffing around the Alibi, Dad got itchy. They were just around to "ask questions," but the proximity was enough. He had a bag packed in ten minutes, four loaded handguns tucked under dirty underwear and ratty cutoffs. It was damn near a rampage, but Mickey didn't have the sixth sense his siblings did that told them to get the fuck out of dodge. He didn't even realize the depth of shit he was in until Dad pitched a backpack at him and asked what the fuck he was standing around with his thumb up his ass for.

Arguing was useless. If he ran now, Mickey would be dead when Dad inevitably made it back to Chicago. So he took the backpack and stuffed it with a change of clothes and a handful of knives and cash, tucking his busted flip phone into a wad of underwear. In case he needed it, Mickey told himself. So he could contact Mandy if they were gonna be gone long. Not Ian.

That's what he told himself, at least, but when they were halfway to Dad's buddy's cabin in Minnesota and it slipped out that he was wanted for eight counts of trafficking, when Mickey's throat started to burn, he knew.

A nine hour drive meant sitting next to Dad all night. When they finally, finally made it, got out to stretch their legs deep in the woods, it set in. Mickey was very firmly stuck here, at least for the coming days, nobody to keep him company but Dad and the fucking raccoons.

Just about as soon as they set foot in the cabin, Dad was snoring. Mickey wasn't about to take his chances in the same room, only four feet of space between the twin beds. He crept to the bathroom, locked the door, propped a stepstool against it for good measure. He texted Mandy first, short and to the point: sos in mn.

Then there was the problem of Ian. He had, at best, one message to make sure he'd leave him alone. There was no telling how long it would take Mandy to figure out how the fuck to get him out of this three-room shithole, assuming he wasn't cursed to die in it. Mickey couldn't say nothing. Ian would get antsy, go looking for him. Say something he shouldn't. But he couldn't tell him what was actually happening, either, because he couldn't give Ian that false hope. Couldn't let him stay attached, pine, worry, wait for something that wasn't going to come.

He had to let him get over it like a normal heartbreak. Ian could cry for a week and then find some other South Side street rat to fuck instead, a thought that had Mickey gnawing on his bottom lip to distract from the pit in his stomach. Yeah. That was what he had to do.

cant c u anymore, he wrote. dont txt.

Mickey deleted both messages as soon as they went through. He allowed himself ten seconds to let it sink in. Knuckles pressed into his eyes, sitting on the toilet lit bent double, he sniffled once. Then, after a few shuddering breaths, he opened the door, and thank fuck, Dad was still snoring.

[cookies-over-yonder]

i just want you for my own

Taylor and Link share a moment under the mistletoe while preparing for a Close-Foster-Swift family Christmas party, and things get a little fiery.

christmas gift for @happi-tree <3

[title from All I Want for Christmas Is You by Mariah Carey]

ao3

Every year Taylor and his mom have spent Christmas together, just the two of them curled up on the couch watching Frosty the Snowman: The Anime and eating the gingerbread houses they built hours before.

This year is different.

Taylor has always had an affinity for Christmas, but this year he has a whole new side of the family that shares that sentiment. And they are throwing a gigantic party. Link and his dads came early to help set up, Taylor’s dad will be here soon, the others will arrive after, and Glenn will surely be “fashionably” late. It’s going to be great.

Right now, Taylor is barely balancing on a stepstool trying to string lights at the top of his door frame. If only his tiny wings emerging from his back could actually help him fly.

“Need help?”

Taylor nearly stumbles off the stool when strong arms wrap around his waist to steady him.

Link.

“Careful.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Here,” Link says, holding Taylor’s hand and helping him down. Then, Link spins him around by his shoulders and lifts him up with both hands on his tummy.

Taylor can feel Link’s hands under his loose tee shirt and his hands are quite cold in contrast to his naturally high body temperature. He fights back a shiver at the sudden contrast, and sticks the lights to the door frame with tape. Link sets him back down, and he hopes he can’t see how red his face is, or hear the breathlessness in his voice when he says, “Thanks.”

“No problem. It looks cute.”

You look cute , Taylor wants to say.

Taylor isn’t the type to get crushes. Well, not ones like this . Sure, he’s found people cute—he can recognize attractiveness when he sees it—but man …

Link’s always been cute, and dreamy, and charming, and…

Taylor doesn’t know when it got so intense, but at this point it seems that everyone knows but the boy himself. Scary won’t let up on the teasing, but Taylor just retaliates by teasing her about a certain mascot.

It’s true though, Lincoln Li-Wilson has got Taylor down bad.

The doorbell rings.

“Dad!” Taylor shouts, nearly tripping down the front step in his excitement.

“Hey, kiddo!” Nicky’s already ruffling his hair as soon as he reaches the bottom of the steps.

“Hi!” Taylor says, burying his face in Nicky’s torso and wrapping his arms around him. “We’re still decorating.”

“Ooh, well I brought something for you.”

Taylor pulls away. “What is it?”

Nicky pulls a flaming plant out of his pocket and holds it out in the palm of his hand.

“A mistletoe?” Taylor asks.

“I thought it might come in handy,” Nicky whispers, glancing off to the side.

Taylor follows his gaze to see Link, wrapping a shimmering garland around the railing.

“Dad!” Taylor whisper-shouts back, feeling his face flush.

“Come on, I see the way you look at him,” Nicky says, pinching Taylor’s cheek and ruffling his hair again. “It’s a special mistletoe from Hell. I kissed your mom under it way back then.”

“Oh my god, Dad!” Taylor shouts, taking it from him. It’s hot, but a little fire never hurt a tiefling like Taylor.

“Go hang it up,” Nicky pats Taylor on the shoulder.

Taylor can barely contain his own sheepish grin as he runs back up the steps to the entrance of his room.

The mistletoe is connected to a small hook, one he could hang on the lights fairly easily if he weren’t too short.

But then there’s an arm around his shoulders and a hand over his, picking up the mistletoe and hanging it over the lights like he had planned.

“What is that?” Link asks, moving his hand to the small of Taylor’s back in a way that almost makes him feel faint.

“It’s a—a mistletoe,” Taylor says, shifting to lean his back against the doorframe to take some of the weight off his feet. “From Hell. My—uh, my dad gave it to me.”

Taylor could not be more thankful that Link’s more focused on this flaming, flickering mistletoe than how red his cheeks must be with the way he can feel them burning up.

Link’s wearing a red sweater with white snowflakes patterned across it and Garfield on his stomach wearing a little santa hat. He’s got a white collared shirt underneath the sweater, though the top few buttons are undone…

He’s smiling, and the glow of the fire is lighting his gorgeous brown eyes. “It’s pretty.”

“You’re pretty,” Taylor breathes out despite himself.

“What?” Link asks.

“What? Sorry, wha—uh, what did you say?” Taylor stutters, biting his lip.

“The mistletoe, it’s pretty.”

“Yeah… I… uh… my family likes these traditions a lot. On my dad’s side, mostly.”

“It looks like we’re standing under it,” Link says, looking back down at Taylor with a mesmerizing gaze.

God.

“Yeah, I mean, it’s—it’s a uh, it’s a silly tradition, we don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Taylor barely squeaks out, surprised he hasn’t caught fire himself yet.

“Well, It is your family’s party, so I might as well honour your traditions,” Link says, leaning forward a little and brushing a strand of hair out of Taylor’s face and tucking it behind his ear.

Taylor’s hands take purchase on Link’s shoulders and snake their way up his neck. He sucks in a shuddering breath and shuts his eyes as Link cups his cheeks and leans the rest of the way in.

As timid as Link can be, he kisses like he’s in charge. He slides his hands to hold Taylor by the waist and dip him ever so slightly, and Taylor can feel the heat from the mistletoe as if it’s consuming him whole.

“Mm,” Taylor hums into the kiss, and he feels heat rushing past his lips.

“Taylor,” Link whispers, pulling away a little.

“Mhm..?”

“Taylor, you’re burning up.”

“What?” Taylor opens his eyes to see flickers of light at the ends of his hair. “Oh my god, I’m on fire,” he breathes out, and ah, smoke. Smoke leaves his lips. “Oh god, oh my god, oh my god—” Taylor stumbles away from Link and hits his back against the doorframe, wincing.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Nicky comes running up the stairs. “It’s okay, it’s normal, I promise. Just breathe, kiddo,” he says, putting a hand on his too-hot shoulder.

He hadn’t even realized how unsteady his breathing had gotten. Closing his eyes, he slows it to the best of his abilities, though when he opens them, the ends of his hair are still very clearly flaming.

“Look, now you’ve got aesthetic demon flames to add to your look,” Nicky winks.

“Dad!” Taylor shouts, pressing his hands against his cheeks. “I—I’m gonna go to the bathroom. Bye!” Taylor squeaks, before running through the doorway in his room to the bathroom connected to it.

And looking in the mirror he sees it: flaming hair and flaming horns, and a glow in his eyes he’s seen before but only in the dark.

“My first kiss, and I immediately catch fire,” Taylor grumbles to himself, “Just another day in the life of Taylor Swift.”

“I’d say it’s not the worst of days.”

Taylor whips around to find Link with his a firm grip on the doorframe, gazing at him like he’s something special and not just a ball of uncontrollable fire.

“Link!” Taylor presses his palms against his cheeks once more. Burning and bright red. “Uh—hi. Hi. Sorry.”

“It’s okay, Taylor. I—I like the hair… flames.”

Link steps a little closer and reaches for Taylor’s hands, but he pulls them away. “I—I don’t want to burn you. Sorry, sorry—”

Taylor feels the tears start to form, but then they evaporate with the heat of his cheeks.

“It’s okay, I can handle a little heat, I promise. And your dad told me it’s not enough to leave any real damage. Not when it happens from, uh… excitement, I guess.”

“Oh my god, this is so embarrassing, I’m sorry, we should continue preparing for the party,” Taylor brushes past Link, unable to look him in the eyes.

“Wait,” Link says, taking hold of Taylor’s hand. It’s coolness is refreshing in comparison to his boiling temperature. Taylor turns back around to gaze at those beautiful brown eyes once more.

“Wha—”

“Can I kiss you again?” he asks, shy and timid.

“Ye—yeah, you can,” Taylor nods, perhaps too eager, but as Link pulls him in again, he doesn’t seem to mind.

This time, Link dips him all the way, and the flames get stronger, but Link doesn’t seem to mind.

“Mm,” Taylor hums into the kiss, and breaks away for air before going back in for more, His arms draped over Link’s shoulders.

Taylor starts to trail kisses across Link’s collarbone, briefly forgetting that his lip gloss will make his skin all shiny, but with the little giggles he makes at it, it’s all worth it.

When Taylor reaches Link’s neck, he briefly wonders if he could leave something resembling a vampire mark with his newly sharp fangs, and as he’s about to figure that out, there’s a knock.

“Door’s still open, kiddo!”

Taylor clamps a hand over his mouth and turns to see the wide open bedroom door.

“Either close it or help decorate!” Nicky shouts, already down the hall.

Taylor turns back to Link, whose eyes are just as wide as his own.

“You wanna decorate?” he asks, letting go of Taylor, much to Taylor’s dismay, but alas, there are duties that need tending to.

“Yeah. We should—yeah.”

And as they walk out the door, Link says, “Hey, now you match the mistletoe!”

Taylor giggles at that, and leads him by the hand down the hall.

꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖⋆❅♡❆(◕દ◕)

[number-one-hiphop-tribe]

*Gives each of the GokuLuck boys a head pat (specifically has to grab a stepstool to reach Ryoga's head)*

For being the best group, keep being awesome

Inukai: "Eh? Thank you for supporting us! Please continue to cheer for us, we're very grateful..."

Ryoga: "...are you that short?"

Shion: "your headpats feel so nice~ keep watching us onstage, okay?"

Kenta: "damn right we're the best group. now get off my fucking head, i'm not a dog."

[checkoutmybookshelf]

Lady Whistledown Returns: Chapter 5

Kidnappings are generally frowned upon, but being a hostage is the strangest mix of tension, boredom, and mischief. Points will be won and lost…but who will win the game?

Need to catch up? Find previous chapters and works on AO3.

This chapter has no content warnings.

When the lid of the packing crate was next wrenched free, it was full dark, with only a few candles illuminating a grossly familiar room. A pair of footmen stood on either side of the single door and another pair guarded the window. These footmen were not the nervous, young men of eleven or twelve who were just beginning their training and careers in palace service, either. All of them were in their early thirties, if Colin was any judge, and one of them looked as though he would not be out of place in the boxing ring, squaring off against Mondrich. At a guess, his escape attempts on the road had been reported and any attempts he might make here were being preempted. 

And he desperately wanted to make an escape from this room. 

Even by candlelight, he knew it. Could still see red curls matted down with sweat spread across a white pillow and the silver flash of knife as it cut into pale flesh. Could still hear his name screamed in pain and terror. Could still feel his chest constrict as he silently begged Pen to breathe. Holding him in the room in which he had nearly lost Pen was a particular cruelty, and one he did not appreciate. 

As his heart beat a tattoo into his rib cage and his breath came hard and short, Colin wiped his suddenly sweaty palms on his trousers. They came away gritty and grimy, and he grimaced. “What I wouldn’t give for a bath and a change of clothes,” he ground out. 

A fifth footman—this one a more traditional age, the boy was fourteen if he was a day—emerged from the shadows to yank the bellpull. When a maid appeared at the door a few minutes later, there was a hushed exchange, followed about three quarters of an hour later by a big copper tub, kettles of hot water, and nondescript but clean clothing. There was even a tray with a sort of one-course dinner on it. 

That was when Colin realized that he had spent the intervening time sitting ingloriously in the packing crate, desperately trying to control his breathing and racing heart, and wishing with every fiber of his being not to come in contact with this room. He hadn’t even noticed the time elapse, but now he had either to get out of the packing crate or commit to curling into a ball inside it until someone retrieved him.

Ultimately, it was no manly fortitude or particular strength of heart that made Colin climb out of the box. He desperately wished it had been, and he would almost certainly tell Anthony, Benedict, Eloise and Gregory that he had climbed out as a show of strength. But Penelope would know and understand that the real goad that got him out of that crate was a base but insurmountably strong desire to feel clean again. He had been wearing the same suit of clothes for days, and the escape attempts had not been kind to them. The miasma of his own perspiration and London’s humidity in the crate had only added to the intolerability of the layers of dirt he felt buried beneath.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t trembling as he rose, swung himself out of the crate, and began to disrobe.

Distracted by his own distress, Colin barely noted the unusually high sides of the copper tub and completely failed to see the small stepstool that would have prevented the need to bear down on the side with all his weight to swing a leg over the edge. Not minding his strength and the physics involved in copper tub construction meant that Colin tipped the tub top over teakettle, sending steaming water over his lower half and flooding the room. The footmen all yelped and somewhat inelegantly hopped from foot to foot in vain attempts to stop their shoes and stockings from being utterly ruined. The young footman by the bell pull yanked it repeatedly, so hard that it snapped in his hands.

Colin’s instinct to immediately apologize and help clean up the mess was suddenly quashed by utter fury. He would not apologize for the queen’s mind games being effective, and he would not sit meekly by as little more than a pawn. Summoning his best impressions of Cressida Cowper and Honoria Holroyd, nee Smythe-Smith, he said, “My heavens, how clumsy of me. I cannot imagine how I should have been so careless. We shall have to have another bath drawn up, of course, I cannot possibly be expected to endure this sort of deprivation!”

Swinging his arm for dramatic emphasis, Colin made sure to catch the edge of the tray of food, sending it spinning across the room in a crash of shattering crockery. That felt good. The thought was nearly a snarl in Colin’s head, but he made sure that his voice maintained the slightly higher-pitched, drawling, whiney affect that grated his teeth when debutantes deployed it.

“Oh lord and now we shall need a new—and much larger—tray of food before I waste utterly away from hunger. Surely such privation falls into the realm of cruel and unusual treatment, and I may in fact faint!” The hand dramatically thrown to his forehead covered the sharp assessment Colin made of the footmen’s reactions. The boy worried him not at all, but the bruisers’ reactions would make or break a suspicion he held. To a man, they were red-faced and clench-fisted, but none of them had moved to check him. Interesting, he thought. One more test.

Lifting the sodden heap that used to be the clean trousers between two fingers, Colin flung them towards the man who would have looked more at home in a boxing ring and allowed a shrill note to slide into his voice. “Would you look at these? I cannot possibly put them on before my new bath is drawn. Whatever shall I wear? Or am I to simply catch my death of consumption from exposure and cold?” Intending to rip down the curtains over the window the bruiser was guarding, Colin strode toward them. The fist that connected with his jaw made him see stars for a moment.

“No going near the window,” grunted the fist’s owner, looking smugly satisfied at the opportunity to use his brawn.

“Then I shall have your coat and breeches, man! And quickly too, imagine the damage to my modesty and reputation this situation is causing!” Beyond wishing to be maximally irritating, Colin could not bring himself to pull the sheets off the bed in the room to wrap up in. He might break if he had to do that.

The footman grunted derisively, but caught the eye of his companion at the window and jerked his head in fashion that clearly said, “Well, go on, then.” The other man’s face went redder than any beet Colin had ever seen in his life, but began to grudgingly shrug out of his coat.

“Absolutely not!” shrieked Colin, in an impersonation of Daphne that was so on point that had the duchess been in the room, Colin would have expected a sisterly slap. “You cannot imagine that I would fit into his coat! I shall have yours or I shall have nothing at all!” To drive home his point, Colin squared up to the man, feed just slightly wider than shoulder-width apart, fist planted firmly on hips, and chest puffed out in an exaggerated impression of a furious Anthony.

As the lead footman glared at Colin, the sound of a door opening followed by the screeches of what sounded like an army of maids at the sight of Colin’s backside added to a cacophony that Colin was genuinely surprised hadn’t already summoned an army of other servants and marines. The farcical nature of the situation made Colin grin despite himself. At the grin, the bruiser blinked, surrendering the battle nearly by accident. The fury in his eyes when he realized promised that he would make Colin pay when the time came.

“What in the name of God is going on here?” Glancing over his shoulder, Colin was shocked that the thundering evocation had come from Brimsley, a man renowned amongst the ton for his ability to leverage near-silent disdain to command a room. He prodded the sodden carpet with the toe of his shoe, producing a distinctive squish sound. A look of sheer distaste crossed his face as he took in the sopping wet floor, food, and crockery shards. Standing beside Brimsley behind a gaggle of red-faced, silently giggling maids was Worth, with one hand over his face to hide what Colin would have bet Aubrey Hall was a grin.

Brimsley’s look of disgust deepened when he glanced at Worth, but rather than excoriate Colin for his behavior, Brimsley simply ordered the maids to redraw the bath, find another set of clothing, and replace the food tray. He also sent the young footman running for additional maids to get the room put to rights before taking up a position by the door to supervise. Worth actually winked at Colin before quietly disappearing from the room.

The look that Brimsley subsequently gave Colin ought to have been a head-to-toe assessment, but it managed to remain above Colin’s neck. “May I recommend the sheets on the bed, while we wait, Mr. Bridgerton?” he asked, settling back into the quietly disdainful tone with which the entire ton was familiar.

The immediate descent of his stomach into his toes at that thought distracted Colin from the goosebumps covering his body as the water cooled on his skin.

“You may not,” drawled Colin, affecting Benedict’s casually unbothered artist mood. “However, you may light the fire.”

“I think not, Mr. Bridgerton,” said Brimsley. “I should hate to think what your sudden attack of clumsiness might develop into if we include fire in the picture.”

Colin offered Brimsley his most formal leg in response before reclining across a settee, with a strategically placed pillow to prevent the maids from collapsing from the vapors. Then, he belted his favorite bawdy German drinking songs. Certainly the maids did not speak the language, but a couple of the footmen’s mouths twitched, and Brimsley’s look of disdain deepened.

When the tub was newly filled and the maids dismissed, Colin switched to French drinking songs, and his voice resonated and bounced off the tub, echoing through the hallways at a truly insupportable hour. Within about fifteen minutes, pages from across the wing of the palace began filing through the room—ineffectually hiding their giggles at the English bawdy songs that Colin had been roundly scolded by his mother for daring to quietly whisper-sing where there was possibility that his nephews would hear them—to convey complaints of other denizens, including the princes and princesses.

Colin was particularly pleased with himself as he climbed from the tub, dressed, and proceeded to inhale the loaded tray that had been left for him. Brimsley, apparently tired of babysitting, departed, taking the army of maids, pages, and extra footmen from the room. Satiated, warm, and bored, Colin proceeded to tip the empty tub over, and banged the bottom like a drum to herald the rising sun. All four of his minders clapped hands over their ears, but otherwise moved not at all to check him.

Before Colin was bored enough to try different drum patterns, the door burst open.

Framed in the doorway was Queen Charlotte, hair still wrapped, lacking any jewels or makeup, and simply dressed in a loose, clearly well-loved banyan. “What on earth do you imagine you are about?” she snapped.

Colin stopped banging on the tub. “The rope on the bellpull snapped. However else was I to inform you that I require another meal? Although I must say, I’m shocked that you would greet a distinguished guest in such a state of undress. How very uncouth and continental of you.”

“You dare speak that way to me?” snarled Charlotte. 

Colin grinned. Grinning was a fairly common phenomenon for him, and his family could and often did identify the various grins with startling accuracy. However, the expression on his face now was a combination of sheer smugness and predatory glee that would have had Violet up nights worrying for a week, Eloise begging to be allowed in on the mischief, and Anthony reaching for the whiskey. Some of his childhood tutors would have recognized the expression. To a man, they had all seen it right after Colin found a mischief-friendly loophole in something they had said. 

“I not only dare, I revel in speaking to you and everyone else who walks through the door in such a manner. And I must graciously thank Your Majesty for the privilege, because you have made me—” Colin draped himself across a settee with languorous insouciance before casually throwing his feet up on a pouf— “untouchable.” Interlacing his fingers behind his head, Colin gestured dismissively with the toe of his boot. “Now be a dear and see about finding me a meal worth eating.”

Charlotte’s eyes narrowed, but she held herself as still as a marble statue for a long moment, considering. “You are correct, Mr. Bridgerton. For the moment you are untouchable. But if I may offer you a word of advice? I should consider what happens to you–and your increasingly sprawling family–if your faith in your wife is misplaced. After all, she has proven famously unable to restrain herself where her Lady Whistledown impulses are concerned.” 

Still lazily draped over the furniture, Colin snorted. “You never gave Penelope the credit she deserved.”

“And you seem to forget that she exposed young Miss Thompson’s pregnancy to stop you from marrying her, and dragged Miss Eloise’s name through the mud, to the possible ruination of your sister and your family. I see all of your wife, Mr. Bridgerton, not just the parts you fell in love with.”

“Am I getting fed or not?” snapped Colin, sitting upright and glaring at the woman who had orchestrated his kidnapping and imprisonment. 

Charlotte actually laughed. “I would not dream of starving the Bridgerton known for his prodigious appetite. Especially not after I have scored a point.” She turned on her heel and strode from the room without giving him time to answer. 

Rising, Colin paced the room for a few moments before leaning into a wall far enough away from the door or window to prevent his minders from objecting, forehead resting against his forearm. He had nothing but faith in Pen, despite the queen’s attempts to raise doubts in him. Anthony would be able to plan a way to see him released, and he and Pen could plan their next steps together. She and Anthony would find a way to get him released. He had no doubts about his wife’s and older brother’s abilities. And the sooner Pen was back in his arms, the better.

[zimithrus]

💜🧡💛

[badacts]

étoile

When life becomes less busy for the Kings of the Alliance, Damen thought they might finally have some time to enjoy each other’s company. This is not what he envisioned. 

Laurent first sees her running across the cobbled yard in front of the stables, chased by several harried men. It’s love at first sight.

Of course, it requires catching her first. Damen watches as he anchors himself deep in his saddle, snagging a trailing rein in one tight fist and heaving to pull her head around. The move sends a snorting confusion of horseflesh scattering across the courtyard but ends with him still astride, his own horse exchanging breath with a sweating chestnut whose saddle is sitting crooked on her back.

She’s a beauty with a finely fluted face, short strong cannons and pasterns, and a flaxen mane that stands against the dark liver of her coat. While Laurent’s horse, the one Damen gifted him, is always polite, she strikes and squeals, her shoe throwing sparks.

“Your majesty!” The horsemaster leading the charge pulls up, panting. “Apologies! She jumped the rail of the menage.” The limping stableboy behind him paints a picture of them parting company during or shortly prior. 

“No matter,” Laurent says, passing the reins of the mare over. “One of Berenger’s, is she?”

“Yes, sire. A proper wild one, she is. Soon I’ll have run out of boys to put on her if she has her way about it.” The mare, as if to prove her point, pins her ears at the boy as he tentatively takes her bridle. 

“What is she called?” Laurent asks.

Unexpectedly, the horsemaster - a bearded man of fifty with crow’s feet deeper than canyons - blushes. “Star, if it pleases you, sire.”

Laurent doesn’t comment on whether it pleases him or not, dismounting his horse and leading her back into her stable before handing her over to the groom. Damen does the same with his own, patting the stallion’s broad neck and allowing him the apple core he’s been carrying in the fold of his sash. His inquisitive whiskery lips gobble the treat eagerly and search Damen’s clothes for others while he’s there.

The escapee is led back to her own stable, pulling faces at the curious horses peering over their doors at her. 

“Curious to name a horse with a blaze Star,” Laurent comments from where he’s leaning against the barn wall, ankles crossed. He’s watching her go.

“Curious,” Damen agrees without looking at the star pin at the breast of Laurent’s fine jacket, his one nod to the adornments expected of a king. Bright blonde hair and a winning temperament - it’s a wonder they don’t call her Princess.

*

“When I said that now things were quieter, perhaps we could do something together,” Damen says, “This wasn’t what I had in mind.”

Laurent’s expression says that no king could want for anything more than to be clinging to the side of a green mare like a burr. His eyes say to Damen in particular that he daren’t suggest otherwise. He wordlessly proffers his ankle, knee bent.

“Would you like me to kneel so you can use me as a stepstool instead?” Damen inquires.

“No,” Laurent says. “I need you to keep a hold of her bridle with your other hand.”

Damen has never broken in a horse. He spent his youth riding horses of varying temperament but only the best quality, and has seen a much greater variation in quality since meeting Laurent, all of which has only given him a conviction that it’s better to pay someone knowledgeable to do the job of training horses well than attempt to do it yourself poorly. Of course, Laurent has more experience in the field than Damen. Somehow that’s not a comfort.

“Am I about to see you thrown across the ring like the stableboys who’ve gone before you?” Damen asks, grasping the ankle anyway.

“Possibly,” Laurent allows. “On three?”

“If you die in a riding accident while I hold the reins, I’m going to be accused of treason.”

“...on three?”

“On three.” At least he made the attempt. “One, two -”

Laurent is easily boosted into the saddle, landing lightly astride. The mare, somewhat to Damen’s surprise, stands like a rock.

“Good girl,” Laurent says, stroking her neck. Her ear flickers back to listen to him. “Let her stand.” 

“I’m impressed she is standing. I was of the impression that she flees at the mere threat of being ridden.”

“I suspect she’s cold-backed. Some are reactive to the weight of the saddle or a rider, particularly when they move. Keep a hold of her.” And with that, he puts his heels lightly to her sides to ask her forward.

It’s lucky he warns Damen, because the second the mare steps forward, it becomes clear that her stillness was not that of calm, but that of a large muscular animal prepared to launch. Her head drops between her knees and she explodes, all four feet off the ground. She attempts to plunge across the yard, only Damen’s grip keeping her turning in a tight circle.

She is athletic. Laurent, whose seat is famed across both Vere and Akielos and also several other countries who value blondes who ride well as much as Damen does, sits the first several bucks easily, and then the ones following after that less easily. The saddle, though girthed tight, is not suited for that degree of acrobatic feat, and begins to slip to the right.

Damen, who is strong, is less strong than a horse. The rein is wrenched from his hand and he hears himself make an alarmed sound at the idea of his lover, who happens to be a king, flung across the menage without his say so.

Laurent, in a whip-quick instance, throws a leg over and pushes himself free of the saddle. It’s clearly a planned maneuvre. Damen, whose mind has already seen Laurent hit the ground and roll to disperse the impact, finds himself instead with an arm around Laurent’s waist in a doomed attempt to catch him. 

Some of the motion is arrested, but Laurent, though slighter than Damen, is moving at a tremendous pace and purposefully relaxed rather than stiff-kneed, and Damen is hardly braced appropriately. What would have likely been a skilled show of athletic ability and horsemanship is instead an uncontrolled fall onto the sand of the menage. Damen lands first, on his back: Laurent lands on top of him.

“I employed the right man for the job,” Laurent says in the stillness after the earth has stopped spinning. Damen, who has had the breath driven out of him, says nothing. The mare is still audibly cavorting close by, her desire to jump the fence and return to the stables halted by the cunning edition of an extra pair of railings to add height.

“You don’t pay me,” Damen wheezes, eventually. There’s a hand cautiously testing the integrity of his rib cage and he can’t enjoy it because there’s sand in his chiton. He sits up, swiping his hair from his face. Laurent looks very slightly repentant, though it could be Damen’s imagination. Mostly he looks pink-cheeked and dusty as he crouches on his heels at Damen’s side.

There’s a heave of breath like a sigh from nearby. The mare, given up on the idea of freedom, has wandered back over to investigate them. She looks sweet as honey with her ears pricked and her saddle now markedly crooked.

Laurent looks back at her, head tilted. “I see we have our work cut out for us.”

[dragonmuse]

hiii I'm on my *mumble*-th reread and I was wondering, does Izzy ever realise that the eye mural Lucius drew is Pete's eye (is it Pete's eye or did I misinterpret?), and does he have any kind of thoughts/ feelings about it? I just love any and all interactions between the three of them it makes my heart soft 🥺

(It IS Pete's eye! He wound up not making a direct appearance in this ficlet, sorry, but I hope it satisfies anyway)

The ladder was a short one, but watching Lucius on it was nerve-wracking anyway. He was balancing paints, brushes, water and a rag at the top, had not worn particularly useful shoes (they were sneakers, but the fashionable kind without much grip) and despite his usual fear of heights, apparently easily absorbed into the work to get careless. 

“How long is this going to take?” Izzy asked, holding the ladder firmly. 

“Mm, dunno. An hour maybe?” Lucius swept white into the eye, carefully outlining. The fresh paint was several shades brighter than the older grimier one.  “Why? Got a hot date?” 

“Yeah, with my cardiologist,” Izzy winced as Lucius leaned even farther forward, his free hand just barely grazing the top handle for support. 

“You don’t have to be out here. Told you, I usually do this by myself.” 

“That’s worse,” he grumbled. 

Apparently every summer, Lucius did a brief touch up on the mural to keep the colors vivid. Occasionally he changed some details, adding some shadowing to the eyelashes one year and switching out orange eyeshadow for green when the orange paint faded too quickly.  This year it was just a re-touch, the colors more prone to showing dirt getting gently washed and then revived. 

This had all been a pleasant conversation over dinner the night before until Lucius dropped the bomb that he apparently did all this on his own. 

“You’re too freaked out to get on the stepstool to get down the platters in the kitchen and you just hop up a ladder?” Izzy asked, his fork suspended between his mouth and the plate. 

“I can’t explain how my head works,” Lucius shrugged. “When I started the mural, I’d planned it lower, you know? But then you couldn’t see it right and if I wanted it to look the way it was in my head, it had to be higher. So it’s higher and once a year, I put on my big boy pants and manage.” 

“Someone hands you shit?” He guessed. 

“No, I do it myself.” 

Izzy had set down his fork and they’d had quite an argument after that. 

The end result was Izzy was the one holding the ladder and handing Lucius things as required because “if you have such a big itch about it you, you do it”.  He did have the itch and here he was.  

After the initial fear though, it gained its own hypnosis. Izzy was beginning to think (yes and mostly thanks to Donna) that he was perhaps most attracted to people just being very good at what they did. Watching Lucius flick his brush over the brick in little precise strokes was beautiful. The way the lashes regained depth as he coaxed highlights back into place seemed nearly miraculous. 

Izzy had never really given the eye much thought. It was a part of the Revenge in the same way as the gaudy chandeliers, the crystal stemware and the heavy brocade stage curtains. He’d known it was Lucius’ work, of course, but Izzy had seen Lucius sketch far more detailed and technically more difficult things on a bar napkin. The eye was cartoonish in a way little else that Lucius made was. It had vibrant color instead of his preferred grays and sepia. It didn’t arrive quietly, drawing attention with a tug at the sleeve, it screamed for people to look.  

Privately, Izzy had decided he didn’t even like it very much and avoided looking at it for the first few months of his occasional visits. But it had been over a year now and he was watching the rebuilding process and now he wasn’t so sure about his original assessment. 

Maybe it was the cuff wrapped around his wrist and anchoring him firmly to the earth or maybe it was generally being less depressed (yes, also thank you, Donna), but the colors no longer struck him as garish and perhaps the attention-grabbing was a feature, not a bug. 

It was only as Lucius was adding in light blue highlights into the iris that realization struck.  

“Can you give me a clean brush?” Lucius asked, hand extending down. Izzy put one into his palm. Seemed like enough of a pause that he could ask: 

“Is this Pete’s eye?”

“Yep,” Lucius dipped the brush into a darker blue. He moved slowly. One might think languidly, but Izzy knew the care in it now. “He let me take an ungodly amount of pictures and then stare at him for hours. I think he liked the attention, honestly.” 

“Does everyone know that?” 

“I mean, you’d think,” Lucius snorted. “What other drag queen am I looking at that much? But people think it’s Leda all the time. She doesn’t even have blue eyes.” 

“Seems like she should. Goes with the whole persona.” 

“Maybe. Stede sucks at putting in contacts though and it’s not the kind of thing you can tell unless you’re really close anyway.” 

“Bonnet knows?” 

“Huh. I assumed so, but he never asked. Might think it’s just something I pulled out of my hat.” 

Now that Izzy had seen it, he couldn’t unsee it. Pete’s eyes were just that shape, the lid folded up in just that way. The cartoonishness that he’d seen there disappeared all at once. It was the makeup that had fooled him, but here in the details of skin and cornea were very realistic roots. 

“Good likeness,” he offered. 

“Thanks. Should be. Eyes are so hard,” Lucius’ nose was inches away from the brick, practically kissing the wet paint. “Took me forever to get right.” 

“You signed it somewhere?” 

“Uh huh,” Lucius paused to grinned down at him. “Find where and I’ll come down for a break.” 

Now that was tempting on several levels. Izzy turned his attention to the edges. Usually the LB would linger in corners where most artists would leave their mark, but clearly Lucius had hidden it somewhere or he wouldn’t have issued the challenge. He scanned the long lashes, the ombre of eyeshadow, the folds of the skin and the now freshly white eyes.  

Then he caught it. 

“You’re a sap,” Izzy accused. 

“I’m allowed to be sappy about my husband,” Lucius cackled. 

“You showed him?” 

“Of course. It wouldn’t be much of a gesture if I hadn’t.” 

In one of the darker shades of blue, Lucius had drawn his initials in just one shade darker nested in another, much smaller eye in the same shade. It was Lucius looking back at Pete, reflected and seen. The kind of thing you could only spot if you were nearly on top of the piece in broad daylight. 

“You said you’d take a break.” 

“Coming down,” Lucius agreed and he clutched white knuckled at the ladder as he did as if the fear had rushed right back in as soon as he had to move from his perch.  Izzy didn’t move, so Lucius landed in a cage of his arms. “Hello.” 

“Hi.” 

Hands, paint dappled, cupped his face and he was kissed slowly and tenderly. Izzy didn’t resist. He kissed back, all too aware that neon flecks would dot his cheeks and beard. Maybe his clothes too as they pressed together. 

There were worse things.

Especially if they were traces from one of Izzy's newly favorite pieces.

[inklingofadream]

the concept of mike "canonical short king" crew and jon "fanonical short king" sims holding hands and glaring at Tall People, tearing out their fears, and throwing them off cliffs... 🥰😍

Rarepair jon/mike crew. Idk why I adore the idea of miel not really being dead and Jon saving him either from being buried or digging him up and mike ending up a reluctant ally and then later in season 4 uh much more than that

there were a few fics i read that weren't jon/mike but DID have their meeting go slightly differently and mike ended up as an ally instead of, yknow, dead in a ditch. i feel like that could be so much fun to play around with, pairing-wise, and i DO love the vast. i just think its neat <3

but yes to mike being a reluctant ally and jon actually having someone in his corner in season four, i could see that being VERY satisfying to play out. hmm....inchresting....

[slasherheadcanons]

•How would they react to a short S/O•

Michael Myers:

•This man is a big sadistic bastard. If you're his S/O he is still going to be an asshole.

•He may not kill you but he isn't going to be nice to you. Sorry guys but this dude is a big jerk.

•Those chips you like to snack on? Yeah, he moved them to the top shelf. Your step stool? Yeah, he also hid that somewhere in the house.

•You will just have to climb onto the counter to try and get it. Now, he stares at your ass like the big horny bastard he is.

•This leads to you be yoiked off the counter and carried off to the bedroom for some sexy time.

•Honestly Michael loves overpowering people and with your short little body that is so much easier. He can just pick you up and move you wherever he wants. He knows that and he loves it.

Bubba Sawyer:

•Sweet adorable Bubba. He adores a short S/O. He will treat you like a princess/prince no matter what. But he finds you so adorable when you're shorter than him.

•Oh you need something off the top shelf and can't reach. No worries S/O Bubba is on the way to save the day. Seriously all you have to do is point to something he will get it for you.

•Kiss his cheek when he helps and watch him do his adorable happy wiggle dance. Yay, he helped his S/O!

•He also does mind carrying you. He is used to carrying around people. You know for meat. So if you want to be carried around like a princess/prince all day. No worries Bubba will happily do so.

Jason Voorhees:

•Much like Bubba he will treat you like a princess/prince no matter what you look like. But he does appreciate just how small you are compared to him.

•He will of course help you get things off the top shelf and keeps a step stool around for you to use. Just be careful. This boy is nervous when he watches you climb to get anything off the top shelf. He worries you will fall and hit your head. So he stands right behind you to catch you if you slip.

•Going outside he also worries for you. What if you fell and twisted your ankle? What if you fell into a hole? Or what if someone tried kidnapping you? He worries a lot if you go for a walk.

•This boy finally decides if he gives you a piggyback ride. He can keep you safe and you don't tire your short little legs out. Plus you two get to spend time together.

•Congratulations you now receive piggyback rides from this gentle behemoth.

Asa Emory (The collector):

•Ok so Asa is a bit of an asshole as well. Not as bad as Michael but still. Bug boy fucking loves having a short S/O. It makes his inner predator purr with glee as he sees just how short you are compared to him. How easy it would be to just pin you down.

•So don't be surprised if he makes fun of your short frame. This jerk doesn't have to say anything he just needs to place his elbow on your head and use you to lean against. He always smirks at just how flustered you get.

•He is also a horny boy. But don't expect him to go easy on you. He is a kinky dude and won't change that no matter what height you are. Just make sure you have a safe word.

•If he is in his collector persona expect for him to pick you up and overpower you. It makes him feel powerful so he is gonna do it pretty often.

Jesse Cromeans:

•So this behemoth of a man is only a slight asshole. So expect him to tease the living hell out of you. He just likes seeing you flustered. It amuses him.

•Will he hide your stepstool so you have to climb to get your stuff? Of course. How else is he supposed to get a perfect view of that ass? Did he have his camera on? Yes, yes he did. He now has a video of your ass as you try to get some chocolate. Pervert.

•He does make up for teasing you so much by spoiling the fuck out of you. So be prepared to have a buttload of stuff at your feet. Oh, and if you get angry or start crying because of his teasing. This man will buy the whole fucking planet if it gets you to feel better. But if you tell him that you just want an apology and cuddles, he will push his ego down for a moment before he apologizes. If you accept it, he will take you to the couch for some cuddling.

•People will always wonder when you go on dates how he fits inside of you. To be honest I don't think anyone knows how. He is a massive dude in all parts.

~~~

A/N: So this my first slasher headcanon post. Hope you guys enjoy it and that it wasn't too cringy.