#and every time i see the thumbnail it just tickles me

[radlegowaffle]

i think a lot about when someone told me the kanji for rain looks like youre looking out a window at rain (雨）

[missamyrisa2]

Could you tickle my little feet with those nails of yours till I giggle cum, my royal rod might also need some tickles

Feetsie snickery silly gigglecums are one of my specialities sweetheart ~ I know I don't need to restrain or pin you because you're gonna love what I do to your body so much ohhh yes you are~~ my thumbnails gliding up your soles slowly, thoughtfully. You can hear that scratchy blunt sound~ you want to pull away but you won't uh uh~~ because you want this sensation ~ you feel those tickles crawling up your legs and gathering on your thighs, split and coming together in your royal zone, maybe even sparkling up to your chest buttons for tingles ~~ and it doesn't stop oooh nooo~~ my fingers spider up and explore every wrinkle of your soles ahhh ahhh don't hide those hot spots~ and you know, you can pull away any time you can stop my fingers ~ and you can stop this feather going between your toesss~~ but you won't because you're a cutie pie and you love your tickle ticklesss~ mmmhmmm I see you getting all hot and bothered ~ what a cute princely part getting all stiff for me ~ did the tickles do that? Yeah? How about when I rub my thumbs under your toes and take my one index nail up the vein of your rod? Tickle tickles on your prince part? Royal ticklessss~~ come on baby boy~ let's get that gigglecum out~ all of it now~ all your giggledrops or I'm just gonna tickle you moreee~~~

[intheticklecloset]

Nurse's Office (My Hero Academia)

Primary Universe

Summary: When Eri asks Deku to play doctor with her, things get a little out of hand when he pretends he hurt his ribs.

A/N: I've had this idea for a loooong time. I thought it was so cute, and I think it turned out well. Enjoy!

Word Count: 1,458

~~~

Deku was in the nurse’s office again.

Well, kind of. He was sitting on the couch in Eri’s room, dutifully allowing her to pretend to check up on him per her request. He’d finally found time to break away from his studies and training to visit, and she’d been so delighted by his presence that she immediately asked if he wanted to play doctor with her, and how could he refuse? Plus, he made a good patient. He had been to the doctor quite a lot since inheriting One For All.

Mirio sat on the arm of the couch, momentarily forgotten by the little girl but smiling at the cute scene before him all the same. Eri used her play stethoscope to check Deku’s heartbeat, took his temperature, checked his blood pressure, and even told him to “open wide” so she could blind him with a flashlight as she tried to look into his mouth and throat.

Finally, Eri got to the “doctor” part of the exam. She grabbed a clipboard and hummed at it thoughtfully. It took everything in Deku’s power to stay in character as the hurt patient.

“Why are you in here today?” Eri asked seriously, looking at him.

He grabbed his right arm and winced. “I think I hurt my arm, doctor. Could you take a look?”

Eri nodded, climbing onto the couch cushion next to him and taking his arm gingerly, inspecting it closely. “Hmm…does it hurt when I do this?” She squeezed his upper arm, which didn’t really hurt, but he pretended that it did by yelping and doubling over.

“Oww,” he whined. “Yes, that hurts.”

“You may have broken a bone. Let me bandage it for you,” Eri said, sliding off the couch to get her first aid kit. Beside him, Mirio stifled a laugh. Deku bit his lip to keep from grinning. This little girl had no idea how accurate she was. After haphazardly wrapping his arm in a string of gauze, Eri looked at him closely. “Does your other arm hurt?”

“No,” Deku said, thinking quickly to keep the game going, “but…but my ribs hurt, too. I may have bruised them.”

“Let me see,” the little girl commanded. Deku lifted his arm to let her gently pat his upper ribs, occasionally poking but not hard enough to really tickle until she once again asked if it hurt when she squeezed, then proceeded to do just that.

Deku squeaked, jerking away from her and covering his mouth with his hand, blushing. “N-No, it doesn’t hurt.”

Eri looked confused. “If it doesn’t hurt, why did you jump like that?”

“Remember when we told you about tickling, Eri?” Mirio asked, chiming in for the first time.

Her eyes lit up with understanding. “Oh, yeah! Did I tickle you, Deku?”

“Y-Yeah, but that’s all right,” he replied, smiling a little awkwardly.

Mirio hummed in a thoughtful kind of way that immediately put Deku on alert. “You know, if he’s hurt, it would be a good idea to make sure he still has all his ribs, Eri.”

Deku shot him a pleading look. “Mirio…”

“All of his ribs?” Eri asked, confused again. “Is it possible to lose your ribs?”

“Not really,” the blonde hero stage-whispered, “but we’re playing pretend.”

She nodded in understanding. “How many ribs should he have?”

Mirio smirked at Deku’s blushing face. “Twenty-four, but if you count twelve sets that should be good enough.”

“How can I count them if I can’t see them?”

“Well…” Lemillion got to his feet, joining Eri at her seat on the couch. “If you poke hard enough, you’ll be able to feel them. Here.” He took her hand and guided it to Deku’s side. He whined, but lifted his arm anyway, allowing her to feel out where his lowest ribs were through his uniform. He did his best to keep his giggles at bay.

“I can feel it!” she exclaimed suddenly, using her own strength to dig into his lowest rib on the right side, making him jerk away from her again and sputter out a chuckle. “Sorry, Deku.”

“Uh-oh. Looks like your patient might be a little too ticklish for this examination. Let me help.” Mirio stood once more, moving to the back of the couch, then reaching over it to grab both of Deku’s arms and pull them up so his ribcage was entirely open. “I’ll make sure he stays still while you count, okay? Just start from the bottom and keep going until you get to twelve!”

“W-Wait,” Deku stammered, but it was far too late to start protesting now. He clenched his fists desperately when Eri found his bottom rib again, then reached across him to feel out its counterpart on his left side. Once she was latched on, she started counting, pressing hard into his ribs to make sure she knew where they were.

Deku burst into giggles. Being restrained as he was, there was no way he could stop himself from reacting. Still, despite how badly it tickled, he forced himself to stay still for her, to make her job easier and help this go faster.

“One…” Eri counted, gradually making her way up to the second set. “Two…” And the third. “Three…”

“Mihihihirio,” Deku whined, snickering, “I c-cahahahahan’t hold still!”

“You can do this, Midoriya,” his friend replied, grinning brightly. “Do it for Eri.”

“Four…five…six…seven…”

The closer she got to his upper ribs, the more Deku felt like he was going to explode. He needed to do something, needed to move. He started kicking his feet against the couch, hysterics rising with every set of ribs she found.

Eri looked at his face, saw his bright smile, heard his giggling, and giggled right along with him. If he didn’t know better, he’d say she started pressing in even harder.

“Eight…nine…”

Please hurry! He begged her in his mind. He started shaking his head just to have something else to do so he wouldn’t accidentally ask her to stop out loud. She was almost done, and clearly having fun. How could he put an end to that now?

“Ten…” This time Eri wiggled her fingers when she found the ribs instead of just pushing on them. She was tickling him on purpose now! “Eleven…” Almost there, almost there! “Twelve!”

“He’s got all his ribs?” Mirio asked, still holding him firmly.

“Yep!”

“That’s great! Buuuut…you’d better tickle him a little more, just to make sure he’s really okay.”

“No!” Deku pleaded instinctively, already giggling again even before Eri made her hands into claws and started tickling up and down his exposed torso. He kicked even harder, squirming against her touch. “Plehehehehease, it reheheheheally tickles! Erihihiehehehehehe!”

“You’re really ticklish, Deku,” the little girl giggled at him, tickling his belly and sides as well.

“I knohohohohohohow! Plehehehehehease! Eheheheheheheheheeek!”

Mirio chuckled behind him. “Get his underarms, Eri!”

“No! Nonono please not thehehehehehehehere!” Deku couldn’t help it. When she got to his armpits and scribbled crazily over them, he tossed his head back and let out a long round of loud, shrieking laughter. “AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! PLEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEASE!! PLEASE, NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHO!!”

Eri laughed with him, as did Mirio, who held on to him tightly as he started bucking and twisting on the couch, legs flailing everywhere.

“Get him, Eri! Tickle him! Tickle him good!” The blonde encouraged, and the little girl happily obliged.

Deku couldn’t lie – he was having a blast, despite how embarrassing this whole playing doctor thing had become. But he was also especially ticklish where she was getting him now, and he could only take so much.

“PLEASE!!” He cried, laughing openly despite himself. “PLEASE, ERI, STAHAHAHAHAHAP TIHIHIHIHICKLING ME!! PLEHEHEHEHEASE!!”

Without any prompting from Mirio, Eri did exactly that, pulling her hands away from him and sitting back on the couch. Mirio let his arms go, and he immediately shot them down to his sides protectively, still giggling.

“T-Thank you,” he breathed, turning to look at her.

She bit her thumbnail, looking happy but a bit nervous at the same time. “One of the rules is to stop when you say to, right? Did I do good?”

Deku’s heart swelled. He reached out to pat her head affectionately. “Of course! You did great. You stopped as soon as I asked you to. You did awesome, Eri. I’m proud of you.”

Eri beamed, eyes shining as she wrapped her arms around his neck to hug him.

He mock-choked, pretending to gasp. “Can’t…breathe…!”

She let him go, smiling as she reached to unwrap the gauze around his arm. “Your arm isn’t broken anymore, Deku! I tickled you and it made you happy, so you’re all better now!”

The green-haired hero exchanged beaming smiles with Mirio and nodded. “You’re right, Eri. Laughter is the best medicine, after all!”

[dirtychocolatechai]

meet-cute | b.b.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Warning(s): fluff, awkward Bucky, vet appointment stuff, Alpine Request: Babes if you're lowkey taking requests can I lowkey make one? 👉🏼👈🏼🥺💕 something flirty and cute and maybe a lil spicy with Bucky and vet!reader where something's going on with Alpine? Not self indulgent at all 😻💖 Notes: This was the first thing I’ve written in months and it felt damn good. Funny story, I actually almost went to school to be a vet tech + shadowed a vet for two weeks and got to see some wickedly cool things.

This was a bit self-indulgent on my part because I had a cat who passed away some years ago because of struvite stones and I wished he had a happier ending like Alpine so I thought why not 🤷‍♀️💖

Taglist is open

(gif from google)

There’s nothing Bucky hates more than the stringent smell of industrial cleaners and clinical white walls - too many associations and shades of memory long laid to rest - except for when something’s going on with Alpine. The Turkish Angora was fine up until a few days ago when he started to hide away and sleep all day.

That wasn’t too concerning at first...

But then came the pained little noises, the frantic running back and forth from the litter box, the excessive grooming. The pit that started forming low in his belly grew, his instincts screaming at him that something was wrong, very wrong, with his little buddy. 

Bucky wasn’t about to fuck around and set up an appointment with the first vet office he could find that had a same-day opening. And now he’s trying not to fall apart at the seams while he waits for the docs to do their magic and tell him what the hell’s going on with his cat and what he has to do to fix it.

The vet tech collected Alpine a bit ago and every minute stretches into years, the cat’s pitiful meow echoing in his ears and those betrayed eyes burned onto the backs of his eyelids.

I know, Bub, I’m sorry but they gotta figure out what’s going on. It’ll be okay, they’ll take care of you. 

His ass went numb from the plastic chair ages ago, his leg jiggling up and down at a rapid pace as he chews on his thumbnail and waits.

And waits.

And waits.

God, he knows these things take time but he’d rather be back at home, curled up on the couch with Alpine pigging out on breakfast food and watching space documentaries. 

How much longer-

“Alright, Mr. Barnes?”

The heavy door swings open with a click, a kind, professional voice preceding a pair of sensible shoes as the vet steps into the room with a clipboard cradled against her chest. His eyes snap up, skipping over her completely to look at the tech holding his cat who looks absolutely miserable. 

She introduces herself but he’s not paying attention. He’s not meaning to be rude but all his focus narrows in on that white little face, the knot in his chest unfurling at the little mew.

He smiles, his eyes crinkling around the edges as he breathes, “Hey there, Little Buddy.” 

The vet doesn’t push, in fact, she seems a little enamored with how much he melts at the sight of his pet. Her own lips quirk up into a soft smile while she stands off to the side patiently as Alpine’s set down on the metal table.

Bucky gets in a few good scritches under his chin, the beginnings of a purr just starting to vibrate his hand when the vet clears her throat delicately. 

He clears his throat, heat burrowing into the apples of his cheeks. “Shi - uh, ‘m sorry.” A hand scrubs over the back of his neck. “I’m just - uh - y’know...” 

Her laugh trickles down his spine like warm rain, the sound effectively drawing his attention away from the cat rubbing up against his side. He gets his first look at her and oh.

A bare face and a no-nonsense hairstyle greet him, her scrubs and white coat adding to the overall doctor vibe but she’s still breathtaking. The natural beauty in the curves of her face, the slant of her brows, the sparkle of her eyes.

He feels like he got sucker-punched in the chest, his heart giving a sudden throb that has him coughing like an idiot as he scrambles to not look like such a jackass.

“So,” he clears his throat, scratching at the stubble along his jaw, “What’s - what’s wrong with him?” 

Glancing down at Alpine’s chart, she hums and writes a note before glancing back up with a reassuring smile. “Nothing that can’t be managed with a special diet and watching his water intake.”

It’s like the weight of the world disappears from his shoulders, his broad frame practically heaving with his sigh of relief. “Oh thank fucking- ahem, ‘scuse me - thank god.” 

Her chuckle and sly smile have him blushing from the roots of his hair to the collar of his shirt, his stomach squirming in discomfort. Old habits are hard to break, especially ones his momma taught him with a box to the ear.

“You’re allowed to swear, Mr. Barnes,” she says, reaching down to run her fingers through snow-white fur. “We’re all adults here.” 

“No, no, I know...” 

“Hm, anyway, his blood work came back and everything looks fine which is a good thing.” 

And it’s back to business like that, any hint of personality hidden behind cool professionalism that Bucky thinks even Tasha would admire. Except for the playful gleam in her eyes as she sneaks peeks at him while going over everything they did and what they found. 

“Struvite crystals are quite common in cats at low levels, especially males because their tract is longer and narrower.” She pauses, flipping to a new page. “Depending on the severity, they can clump together in the urinary tract and actually form stones. That’s where the true problem lies because get one large enough, and it can cause a blockage.”

He’s listening with rapt attention, soaking in the knowledge she’s imparting to him all the while, petting Alpine who keeps nuzzling him and making little sounds. Honestly, he could listen to her talk for hours even if he didn’t understand a goddamn thing. 

She’s so animated when she speaks, holds eye contact and makes sure he understands everything without making him feel like an idiot. He’s had so many doctors who talked at him rather than with him, staring through him without seeing, more interested in the paycheck rather than their patients.

But not her, she cares.

Deeply.

He can see it all over her face and it’s utterly enchanting. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little enamored, charmed.

Turning the tablet towards him, she shifts closer and a waft of whatever perfume she’s wearing tickles his nose as she explains what the x-ray of Alpine’s abdomen found.

“These are the stones but thankfully they’re relatively small,” she points to several hazy white ovals starkly visible on the radiograph, “We caught them in time before they became a really big problem.” 

Shit, she smells so good...

 “Now, we’ll send you home with a special diet and see how he does. Also, make sure to up his fluid intake as much as you can. The food can take several months to start dissolving the crystals so we’ll have to do everything we can to help. Sound good?”

Bucky hasn’t pulled his eyes away from her face once this entire time, and how fucking creepy is that?

Quickly looking down at Alpine, embarrassment gnawing at his belly, he nods and wishes for the first time since he cut his hair that he hadn’t so he’d at least have a passing chance at hiding the blush burning its way across his face. 

“Yeah,” he says, picking up the ball of white fluff to hold against his chest, a makeshift shield. “Is there anything else I should do?” 

“No.” She smiles, writing another note and tapping away at the tablet next to her. “I do want to see him again in about a month for a check-up.”

Fuck, he doesn’t want to leave so soon.

The irony isn’t lost on him either.

How does he make this last longer? What can he do? If Sam was here right now, he’d be kicking him in the ass and bitching at him to ask for her number already, Ice Pick.

The clack of the chart being set down rings through the room, bouncing off the walls and sounding so fucking final that he starts to panic. 

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. 

She’s already halfway to the door when she asks, “Do you have any questions?”

The word vomit spring from him, unbidden and sudden without any thought, more forward than he’s been with a woman in years.

“Can I have your number?”

As soon as the question leaves his lips, he curses, cringes and wishes he could snatch the very words from the air itself.

Great, I just hit on my vet.

No amount of backpedaling can salvage this but goddamn it if Bucky doesn’t try, stuttering out some half-assed excuse about wanting it just in case he thinks of something later.

When he glances up, he wishes he hadn’t. The vet tech is in near tears in the corner, biting her lips so hard he wouldn’t be surprised if they started to bleed.

But it’s the absolute surprised bafflement on the woman he just inappropriately hit on that does him in, makes him about ready to burn all forms of identification and run for the hills. 

Her brows nearly reach her hairline, her mouth slack, eyes startled. She gets ahold of herself before he does, and he barely stops himself from slapping a hand over his face.

Right when he’s thinking there’s no way he’s going to be able to show his face in the office again, her expression softens with gentle amusement and her lips twitch. 

Struck dumb, he can only watch as she writes something down on a slip of paper before handing it over to him. He barely believes the string of numbers and the cheeky little call me anytime :).

The wink she sends his way is there and gone, so fast he almost believes he imagined it. 

“For emergencies only,” she says, slyly. “Of course.”

“Of course,” he agrees, almost tripping over the cat carrier as he hurries to stuff Alpine back in. “Of course, thank you. I...appreciate it.” 

“Anytime, Mr. Barnes.” 

Bucky leaves the room in a stupor, the world sharply shifted to the left as he heads to the front desk to make the follow-up appointment, but not before hearing the whispered, “Girl, you’re lucky. He’s fine!” and the “He is, isn’t he?”. 

[indulge-that-sin]

Every Day, Most Nights

Characters: GN!MC, Mammon

Wordcount: ~1500

Tags: Fluff, Pre-relationship, Sleeping Together

*

The first time Mammon slept in your room, it happened quite by accident.

  It was in your first year in the Devildom, when Mammon still grumbled unhappily about being your babysitter sometimes, but half-heartedly and more for show. One evening, he holed up in your room to avoid Levi, who'd taken to the warpath once again, demanding that Mammon repay some debt or other.

Levi was still shy about barging into your room--he was shy even about being invited inside--so Mammon was winning himself some time by hiding with you. Unfortunately, even cowering from his erstwhile loan shark, Mammon grew bored easily, so he pestered you into entertaining him.

"How about a movie?" you offered, because you didn't have energy for much else.

"Fine, but it better not be anything lame," Mammon replied.

Of course, the moment he said that, you decided you were going to sucker him into watching the lamest movie you possibly could. He probably wanted something with car chases and explosions, so you were going to aim for something very much not like that instead.

You climbed into bed with your laptop, arranging the pillows so you could sit more comfortably with your back against the headboard, and you patted the space next to you for Mammon to sit as well. His cheeks flushed, but he remained as stoic as he was capable of, and hopped up onto the bed next to you.

With the laptop placed onto a cushion in front of you, you pulled up Hellflix.

"How about..." You blinked innocently as you looked over the list of movies on offer, "a comedy?"

Your tone was casual, like you weren't really invested in the option. Mammon didn't look like he suspected anything, though he tilted his head thoughtfully as he looked over the colorful thumbnails on the screen.

"Can't really go wrong with a comedy, right?" you prompted further, like you were stating some general fact.

"Yeah, s'fine, just pick a good one," Mammon said, leaning back and crossing his arms behind his head. He would obviously let you do the heavy lifting, and that was precisely what you wanted.

"Oh, this looks cool. A succubus leaves her office job in the beauty industry to become a racecar driver." You omitted the next part of the movie synopsis, which mentioned she and the co-pilot would butt heads at first before the relationship turned to mutual interest. Mammon yawned, not paying attention. Perfect.

You set the movie playing. You briefly regretted you didn't get some popcorn, but at this point going to the kitchen might have blown Mammon's cover, and anyway, you could probably do without crumbs in bed. You snuggled down into your pillows instead.

The movie started out promising enough. It was bright and colorful, and the lead character was endearingly quirky. Mammon grumbled something about 'this better not be a chick-flick' sometime during the opening scenes, but by the time the character was longingly flipping through car magazines while sitting in a bubble bath, Mammon seemed hooked. You could always tell how invested he was in a movie by how much he talked during it, and now he was muttering under his breath, urging her to follow her dreams already.

He grew obviously suspicious when the meet-cute with the love interest happened, though it was late enough into the movie that he was now invested. You could tell by the way he fell suddenly silent that he realized now it was a romcom, and you could almost see the way he was internally debating whether he should complain about it out loud. But he was stuck because he obviously wanted to watch the rest of the movie, even though he didn't want to reveal he was the kind of guy who liked romcoms.

It was cute how every thought going through his head was projected to clearly onto his expressions unless he was actively sitting at a poker table, but you kept it to yourself. You hugged a pillow to your chest and hid your smile into it when you couldn't keep it off your face.

The rest of the movie passed quickly. Some scenes stuck out in your memory, but you were pretty sure you fell asleep during the third act, and woke up only at the final scene, with the protagonist and the love interest hoisting up a trophy as confetti streamed all around them, and then kissing right before the credits rolled. Or maybe you dreamed it up, your brain able to reproduce the extremely predictable ending all on its own.

What you recall more vividly is that you woke up to the laptop's screensaver casting weak blue light. You were laying on your side, one pillow cradled to your chest and the rest cushioning your head. But in front of you, Mammon's position mirrored yours. He had fallen asleep on his side as well, facing you, and he was so close that your foreheads were nearly brushing together. You felt the tickle of his hair, and you could see the movement of his eyes underneath his closed eyelids as he dreamed. 

His mouth was also slack, and he was drooling slightly. Gross.

But still, it was so strange to see Mammon at rest, peaceful and undisturbed, that you were compelled to look at him. This was a face carved for an angel, and at no time had you noticed it as much as you did now. If he opened his eyes, they would be gold and blue like a summer sky, and it was a pity he hid them behind sunglasses so much of the time.

Alas, you couldn't sit and admire Mammon for too long. The angle was giving you a crick in the neck, and you felt so very cold, that you knew you wouldn't be able to sleep again unless you were under the covers. You moved slowly and carefully as you closed your laptop and slipped it down between the bed and the wall, putting it flat on the floor under your bed.

You were just peeling back the bed covers to slip underneath, when Mammon raised his head, and groggily muttered, "Whass goin' on...?"

"Cold," you muttered back, tugging the bedcovers more firmly now that he was already awake. He scrambled upright to let you pull the bedcovers down, and you slipped under them as soon as you could. You shivered at the touch of the cold sheets; it would take some time for your body heat to warm them up. 

Or, maybe not. You looked over at Mammon. In the darkness, you couldn't see much--certainly less than a demon could--but there was uncertainty in the lines of Mammon's body. Having woken, he wasn't sure if he was welcome anymore. But you hadn't planned on chasing him out anyway.

You held up a corner of your bed covers.

"Come on, I'm freezing," you said. You didn't make it an order, but you did make it sound like it was the only obvious course of action, so Mammon turned on a bit of bluster again.

"Yeah, yeah, don't rush me," he retorted, muttering about humans not knowing their place as he slid under the covers next to you.

He laid down as stiff as a board, some awkwardness obviously lingering, but your master plan had come to fruition. You glued yourself to his side, and he was exactly as warm as you expected. Maybe demons ran hotter, or maybe it was just Mammon's nature to glow from the inside like he had his own sun in his chest, but either way you were going to leech off that heat for the rest of the night.

"Hey," Mammon protested mildly as on of your legs hooked around his, and you threw an arm over his chest so you could snuggle against his side.

"Mm," you hummed contentedly as you snuggled under the covers up to your ears.

You felt a shake of laughter from Mammon.

"What'm I, yer hot water bottle?" he muttered in the darkness. "Ah, I'll let it slide, just this once."

You felt his arm move behind you, and then two pats on top of your head. You considered saying something snarky to him about not making this awkward, but the cold was finally chased out of your bones, and all you wanted was to sink into sleep. *

The next day, by the time you woke up, Mammon was already gone.

You did notice over the next few weeks, however, that Mammon would make excuses to visit your room in the evenings. More than usual, at least. He'd demand to watch movies with you, or play games. Once, in what you assume was a fit of desperation, he even requested help with his homework.

And then he'd linger until it was late, and fall asleep 'accidentally', or, once he got bolder, outright demand to sleep in your room because it was too late for him to leave.

As for you, well... you were very good at playing dumb. He may very well have believed you didn't notice what he was doing.

[unbridgeabledistances]

hi!!!!💘 here have another “ian processing things” ficlet inspired by this post i saw today by zo @grabmyboner <3

(contrary to zo’s amazing post, ian does not have a new instagram in this to fuel the slight angst🤕)

--

He was having a weirdly good morning when it happened— it was Sunday, and he and Mickey had woken up late tucked together in a warm cocoon under the sheets, legs tangled and bodies pressed close, with Mickey breathing out huffy, just-waking-up breaths into Ian’s neck that tickled his skin until Ian had rolled onto his side and playfully shoved him away.

They’d laid under the sheets for what felt like hours, lazily scrolling on their phones, with Mickey letting out puffs of air through his nostrils in a silent chuckle every time a particularly outdated and stupid meme came across his Instagram Explore page— and of course Ian had to combat Mickey’s intense glee at holding up dumb Instagram memes too close to Ian’s sleep-bleary eyes by clicking open his own phone and thumbing over to the pink and orange app on his home page, to try and find some other stupid shit that would make his groggy half-asleep husband laugh.

It was then, when he opened the app and passively flicked over to his notifications, when he saw the memory:

See your post from 6 years ago today.

Before Ian even clicked on the thumbnail of the picture, before he touched the pad of his finger to the blurred, too-small image beside the words bolded in black, he felt the telltale tightening creeping into his chest— the one he couldn’t really explain most of the time, the one that snuck in and left his heart rattling and pounding against the walls of his ribcage despite the shaky, measured breaths that he tried to sip in and out to fight the rush of feeling.

But out of curiosity, or maybe a little bit of self-sabotage, he clicked on the image—with Mickey still obliviously smirking at his phone screen beside him in the bed, his free arm draped casually across Ian’s chest. So Mickey didn’t notice, really, when Ian pulled up the full post on his own screen— a pixely photo, taken on a now-outdated iPhone in the hazy darkness of the Fairytale.

Ian’s pale skin, the strobe lights bouncing off of it, was the only really visible item in the foreground— and in the shadows behind him, a group of unfamiliar faces. It didn’t even really look like him— his heavy-lidded gaze was murky, definitely hopped up on some bizarre cocktail of drugs quickly taken in a dirty bathroom stall with shaky hands. Ian— Ian in the photo, Ian at the club— was leaning sloppily against the chest of a grey-haired stranger in a dark button-up; glitter on his hollow cheeks, a barely-there mesh top, smudged eyeliner almost masking the purple shadows under his eyes. A black feather boa wrapped tight, too tight, around his neck— an older man with his hand snaked around Ian’s waist, another with his fingertips tangled in the end of the boa.

The tightness was still there, a rubber band wrapped snug around his chest. Aside from the shame and disgust swirling somewhere in his gut at seeing this stupid fucking picture, the thing that Ian felt most was the annoyance welling in him, thick and heavy— what fucking person couldn’t look at a picture of themselves being a stupid teenager? What type of person still felt the aftershocks, like fire and ice and fucking bee stings swelling under his skin, just by looking at a fucking old Instagram post?

“Hey man, are you good?”

Mickey’s phone was now face-down on the blanket, his body twisting under the sheets towards Ian. His eyes flickered to the phone clenched tight in Ian’s hand, undoubtedly searching for the reason that Ian’s heart was thrumming just a little bit too quickly under where Mickey’s hand was still limply resting on his chest.

Ian tried to swallow down whatever was in his throat, whatever was on his tongue. “It’s fine. Just thought I deleted all these old pictures and shit.” And despite that, he couldn’t really look away. “I guess I only got rid of the ones with the sleazy comments. And the videos or whatever.”

Mickey’s brows furrowed. They both weren’t really social media aficionados— if anything, they’d only really gotten into it recently, after the wedding and the move and needing some way to keep the rest of the Gallagher clan plus Kev and V in the loop about their various gardening endeavors and pictures of Baz sleeping, and to see Lip and Tami post baby pics of Freddie and his new little sister. Ian had rebooted his old Instagram account, the one he’d made in his final moments of high school and posted heavily-filtered pictures with Mandy on before joining the army. When he’d started working at the club back then, the Instagram quickly became a place to drum up business, to post specific photos and to flirt with clients in the comments— and he thought he’d deleted all of them when he redownloaded the app, keeping the pictures of a freckled 15-year-old Ian and removing the rest up through youth center brunches with Geneva. Apparently he’d missed this one, and all the memories that could come flooding back with it— and neither he nor Mickey had really noticed.

Mickey’s eyes stayed frozen to the screen— cautious, thinking. “Just fucking delete it, man.”

Ian thumbed over the red delete button, sending the picture into some sort of pixelated oblivion. But even that couldn’t really scrub the image out of his mind— the fingers pressed into his hip, the scratchy feathers tangled around his neck, the now-heavy boulder lodged in his chest. He ran his free hand through his hair, trying to ground himself in the face of whatever weird floatiness he was feeling—tugging at it, just a little.

“Hey.”

Mickey reached over— gently plucking the cell phone out of Ian’s white-knuckled grasp, placing it beside his with a soft thud on the bedsheets. Running his own hand through Ian’s hair— a hand that was gentle and slow, a hand that slightly dulled the buzzing in Ian’s brain, soothing the pain at the roots of his hair.

“Sorry.”

Mickey opened his mouth to protest Ian’s apology, but the words kept spilling out. “I don’t know why seeing stuff like that still makes me feel like shit. It’s like I forget it actually happened.”

He was healthy now— he was stable. He had an apartment with his husband, and a dog, and a savings account. How could he feel so fucking good one second, be laying in his bed from Ikea under a fucking duvet next to the love of his life, and feel so shitty in the next when he looked that version of himself in the eye?

It was stupid— it was so fucking stupid, but the feeling didn’t stop. He closed his eyes— he tried to focus on Mickey’s fingers, still scratching a slow pattern onto his scalp.

“You’re okay, Ian.” He let himself release a slow breath as he absorbed Mickey’s words. “You’re not there anymore. You worked fuckin’ hard to get here.”

Ian forced his eyes open. Mickey squeezed his wrist, tangled their fingers.

“I wish I could erase all that shit.” He hated how thick his voice sounded.

“You already did, Gallagher. Look where the fuck we are right now.” Mickey gestured to their white-walled apartment, their minimalist furniture.

Ian breathed out a throaty laugh. “Yeah. I guess.”

Mickey pressed a quick peck of relief to his temple, and Ian felt the warmth of it trickle down his spine. “You don’t gotta think about that shit anymore. It’s still gonna be there— but you’re filling everyone’s fucking Instagram feed with fucking tomatoes these days. You definitely ain’t the same person you were back then.”

Ian felt the corners of his mouth creep upwards. “You love my tomato pictures and you know it. And you love my captions even more.”

Mickey rolled his eyes— and leaned in close, settling again against Ian’s chest.

“Yeah, I guess I fuckin’ do.”

[turtlepated]

When it Rains in the Valley

Stardew Valley fic - ShanexFemaleFarmerOC

NSFW - One shot

-----

You could have happily stayed curled up in bed for another hour or more, but even though your eyes were still closed and your body still relaxed and warm below the quilt your mind was dragging itself awake.

Sighing softly through your nose, you burrowed deeper into the mattress and allowed yourself just a little bit longer before getting up and beginning your day. Eyes still shut, you began to mull over the plans that had begun forming the previous night as you dropped off to sleep. The wheat field would be ready to harvest soon, and there was the irrigation system to fine-tune before replanting with a new crop. Rows of corn stalks packed with ears that would need to be picked before the crows got at them. And of course there were the chickens that would need feeding and cows that would need milking. 

The list was never ending, crops to tend to, repairs to be made, wood to gather, fruit to be made into jams and jellies, vegetables canned and preserved. You were proud of your modest little farmstead, even if it did require all the work and attentiveness you could muster. 

With another gentle sigh you began building up the will to hoist yourself out of bed, going still when a soft, rhythmic sound met your ears. You stilled, frowning into the pillow, recognition coming slowly into your still-sleep-muddled brain. Just as you worked out what it was, you felt the mattress shift beside you as a heavy form settled at the edge of the bed, an arm reaching across you to brace against the comforter. 

A familiar scent and a waft of warm breath across your cheek as a kiss was pressed there, the ticklish scratch of stubble against your skin that made goosebumps sweep up your arms. You didn’t open your eyes, but you couldn’t contain the smile that stretched your lips as another kiss landed on your temple. 

“It’s raining.” Humming, you rolled onto your back, caged between the arm braced against the mattress at your side and the warm, solid body that perched on the edge of the bed. Even in the semi-darkness of the stormy, pre-dawn morning you could see him; his dark hair damp and sticking up oddly in a few places, his ratty blue Jojamart jacket nowhere to be seen. He smelled faintly of rain, crisp and tangy mixed in with the rich, earthy aroma of clean hay and the heady, somewhat spicy scent you’d come to associate with just him. As you were taking him in he did the same to you, his forest green eyes roving your form with avid interest and a profound fondness that made your breath catch in your throat. When your eyes met he grinned lopsidedly, lowering his face back to yours and favoring you with soft, languid kisses to your cheeks, your chin and nose and forehead, not stopping even when you giggled and squirmed at the tickle of his scruff. 

“I thought that’s what it sounded like,” you murmured in response, curling a hand around the top of his shoulder as he drew back enough so you could look at one another. Shane shifted then, reaching up with a hand to brush a stray fall of hair off your forehead. 

“I had an idea,” he said, his voice soft and low, making you shiver. You raised your brows at him, an invitation to continue. 

“You won’t need to water the fields today,” he went on. “And I just came in from taking care of the animals. I know you wanted to fix up the irrigation in the wheat field, but you can’t do it in the rain…. So the morning is pretty wide open...” You were grinning now, the hand on his shoulder gradually working its way up the curve of his neck while his own hand likewise began to wander, feeling for the top of the blanket and peeling it back enough to find the hem of your sleep shirt which had ridden up in the night. 

As his fingers splayed across your stomach, sliding in no particular hurry up towards your ribcage, your hand caught him by the back of his neck, urging his head down to you. You could see and hear him swallow as he complied, not quite able to shake his nerves even though this had been his idea. Craning your neck, you kissed the tiny furrow between his eyebrows, soothing away the worried lines on his features. “What did you have in mind?” you teased, able to discern the flush creeping up his neck and blooming on his cheeks even in the low light. 

Abruptly the large, warm hand on your torso slid up to cup your breast, kneading gently, the short, blunt thumbnail toying with your nipple until it hardened. When you let out an appreciative purr and reciprocated by raking your nails through the fine, buzzed hair at the base of his skull, Shane shuddered and dove down to capture your mouth in a heated kiss. You broke apart long enough to kick yourself free of the covers as he clambered fully onto the bed, toeing off his wet shoes before settling at your side, supporting himself on one elbow so he could lean over you. 

Things stilled for a moment between you. Excitement was sparking through your body, waking you fully, every inch of skin prickling attentively in anticipation but you were transfixed by the awestruck look on his face, as if he still couldn’t believe something like this was happening to him. His eyes were riveted to you, flitting all over, seemingly unable to settle anywhere for long. You watched his tongue dart out to wet his parted lips, his chest rising and falling quicker despite the fact that all that had transpired so far was a hot kiss and copping a feel. 

Shane tended to get lost in his own head, and for most of the time you had known each other that could be a treacherous place. But you knew just how to bring him back to the here and now. Smiling, you reached up to touch his face, loving the rasp of his whiskers against your palm. He turned to press his lips into your hand, a rush of warmth spreading from the center of your chest outward. 

“C’mere,” you breathed into the space between you, meeting his mouth halfway as he leaned down to kiss you. You sighed into the kiss, drinking in the smell and taste and feel of him in the soft give and take that followed, quickly growing more demanding and desperate as you all but tugged him bodily on top of you. Fingers delved into his hair, scratching his scalp as your legs tangled together: yours bare but for cotton sleep shorts, his in old jeans from where he’d gone out to the coop and the barn. The rough texture against your calves and thighs was rapidly causing arousal to pool, bubbling like molten metal, in your pelvis. Shane had rucked your shirt up practically to your neck, squeezing and massaging your chest while breaking off from your lips to kiss a chain across your cheek to the sensitive spot behind your ear. 

“Fuck,” he gasped, hot breath blasting against the side of your neck. “You’re so beautiful. How are you so beautiful?” You felt yourself flushing under his murmured words of praise, struggling to get your shirt off and out of the way. Noticing your wriggling, Shane backed off and took the bunched material in his hands as you sat up enough to slip your arms and head out. His lust-blown eyes grew impossibly larger as he distractedly dropped your shirt and lowered himself, chest to chest, pressing you down into the mattress as he ravished your exposed neck and collarbones and shoulders with single-minded attention; lips and teeth and tongue, a mix of heat and chill as his breath ghosted over the dampened skin before pressing hot, open mouth kisses anywhere he could reach.  

You mewled softly at his ministrations, your blood scorching as it roared in your veins, your pulse thumping in your chest and in your ears and between your legs. Sighing his name you tipped your head to one side, offering him more room which he gladly accepted as he sucked marks along the column of your throat. You crossed your ankles around one of his, gripping his leg between yours, an exhilarating swooping sensation in the pit of your stomach at the prominent bulge that pressed into your hip through layers of fabric. 

“Mmm, too many clothes,” you managed to say, your hands fumbling for the bottom of the ill-fitting polo shirt he still insisted on wearing, saying it was a waste to wear anything else because it would only get dirty. Shane sucked in a breath as your hands tugged the hem from his waistband and you felt him tense all over. 

“Wait, wait,” he stammered. “Just… gimme a second, okay?” 

You let out a sad little huff as he lifted himself off you to sit uncertainly back on the side of the bed, sitting up to fix him with a knowing look as he dithered about looking anywhere but at your face. As many times as you had seen one another naked, Shane still got self-conscious sometimes about his physique. As a former athlete, he was even more uncomfortable with the soft chest and rounded stomach that had resulted from the hours he’d logged in the corner by the fireplace at the Stardrop Saloon. You didn’t mind it in the slightest, point of fact you had found him incredibly attractive ever since your first meeting when he waspishly snapped at you to leave him alone. Telling him that you liked the way he looked was all well and good, but he never quite seemed to believe you. 

Anyway, showing him was much more fun…

The line of his shoulders was tense as you rose onto your knees, scooting your way across the bed to him. You felt him jump slightly as you leaned against his back, your face angling into the curve of his neck as your arms wound around him. After a beat he relaxed into your embrace with a long sigh, distracted from whatever train of thought was trying to steer him away from you. 

“Let me help?” you mumbled against his neck, asking permission but also assuring him that it was what you wanted. You smiled when you felt and heard his breath hitch slightly, your lips ghosting across his skin as he swallowed and nodded his consent. Fingers spread to caress his chest, you slid your palms down the curve of his abdomen towards the bottom of his polo, which was still partially guarded by the arms folded over his middle. 

You paused when your fingertips met his forearms, chuckling under your breath and shifting closer, pressing more firmly against him and resting your chin on his shoulder. 

“Shane? Honey?” you whispered, tucking your face into the side of his neck and kissing softly at the space behind his ear. A tiny moan issued from between his parted lips, but you had his attention again. “It’s okay.” Slowly, he allowed your fingers to delve past his arms to the hem of his shirt and beneath. 

Working slowly, keeping up a steady stream of praises and confirmations muttered into his ear and neck and the side of his head, you shucked off his shirt and cast it aside. Without the fabric separating you, your breasts flush against his bare back, your hands skating up and down his stomach and chest while your mouth worked along the curve of his shoulder, Shane couldn’t keep himself quiet; moans and gasps and whispered curses. 

Grinning wickedly against his heated skin, you took a bit of his neck carefully between your teeth while raking your nails through the dark hair that dusted his pecs, circling his nipples and experiencing a sense of satisfaction when the dual sensations drew a choked off cry from him, his back arching and his head falling back over your shoulder.

Your ploy worked, but your triumph was short lived. With his inhibitions now thoroughly forgotten, Shane spun in your arms and caught your lips in a searing kiss as he surged forward back onto the bed, driving you ahead of and then under him as one arm encircled your hips while the free hand kneaded at your chest. Another thrill went through you at his sudden ardor, your hands resuming their stroking and petting as he again broke off the kiss to nip a matching mark on your own neck that made you hiss. You shuddered afterward as you felt his tongue, hot and wet, gently lapping at what would surely be a bruise. 

“Hah, still too many clothes,” you breathed against the shell of his ear with a grin. You felt him hum into your skin as an answer, shifting to get his hands and knees under him to raise off of you. His eyes were practically glued to you as you shimmied out of your sleep shorts and underwear, smiling coyly at him as you dropped them carelessly over the side of the bed and lay fully naked before him. For a beat all he seemed able to do was simply gape at you and a nervous flutter started up in your stomach. 

In the next instant he settled himself beside you and you threw a leg up and over his hip, pulling flush against him and a little thrilled by the fact that you were now bare while he was still half dressed. Shane began moving, himself and you, scooting his way to the center of the bed and then rolling onto his back and pulling you with him so that you now straddled his waist. His hands both came up to grasp at your ass, fingers digging deliciously into the flesh before sliding up the curve to grip your hips, holding you tight against him as your mouths moved against one another. 

You hummed into him as one of his hands roved back over the curve of your ass, the other pressing into your back, holding you to him. The wandering hand didn’t stop at the crest of the rise, continuing on downhill and between your legs where you were already growing pleasantly wet. Two fingers brushed at your lips and you felt Shane smile into your kiss as he noticed it as well, pressing them in just a little further. You gasped into his mouth at the minor intrusion, feeling the rumbling from deep in his chest as he chuckled. 

In revenge for his teasing you rolled your hips, grinding against his pelvis and grinning at the groan that escaped him. His hands immediately left your body and fumbled with his button and fly, squirming to work them down his hips without unseating you. Your grin widened at his desperation, but you obligingly raised yourself up onto your knees so he could lift himself off the bed and work his pants down. 

His stiff cock bobbed as it slipped free of the constraints of his clothes, coming to rest flush against his soft stomach. You eyed it hungrily, glancing at his face through your lashes. His cheeks were reddened, the fringe of hair over his forehead already sticking to his skin with sweat. When he saw the look you were giving him his blush darkened and he swallowed hard. 

Without further stalling you took him in your hand, hearing him suck in a breath through his teeth as you gave him a squeeze before settling yourself down beside him and wrapping your lips around him. Shane’s eyes shut and his head dropped back against the pillow with a muttered curse as you languidly sucked him, lavving the flat of your tongue against the underside of his cock, humming as you went. 

“Ah shit, baby, just like that!” he gasped, one hand burying itself in your hair. He shuddered when you took him in deeper, hollowing your cheeks and earning a drawn out groan as his fingers tightened against your scalp. You pulled your head back, letting him slip from between your lips and replacing your mouth with a fist, stroking his spit-slick member until his hips began to judder. Abruptly his hand flew to yours, stopping your ministrations. 

“‘M not gonna last long if you keep that up,” he rasped, his chest and shoulders pleasantly flushed. “It’s your turn. C’mere.” 

As you repositioned yourself, Shane kicked himself free of his pants, reaching up to discard the pillow under his head and guiding you to straddle his face. “If you need to stop, let me know,” you urged him, but Shane needed no concerns. Raising his head he stroked your slit with his tongue, from cunt to clit, making you gasp at the contact. 

From then on he dove in headlong, mouthing your mound with his lips while his tongue sank through your damp folds. He sighed through his nose and groaned into you, the vibrations making your insides clench deliciously as you breathed his name. Shane teased your clit with the tip of his tongue, tracing around and around it until you keened and gripped his hair. You were sopping by now, between his mouth and your own arousal, and ready for more. 

You batted his hands away from where they held you in place by your hips, moaning for him to stop, that it was becoming too much. He let his head fall to the mattress, his chin coated in your slick and his own saliva, his chest heaving almost in time with your own. 

“Wanna come with you,” you managed to say, reaching down to tenderly glide your fingers through his hair. He leaned into your touch, nodding once. Raising yourself on trembling knees you scooted back down his body until you straddled his waist. Shane tensed when you took his cock in your hand, stroking him lightly as you lined it up with your entrance and sank slowly down onto him. Your moans tangled together until you were seated against his pelvis, taking a beat to catch your breath before you started to move against him. 

The burn, the stretch of his cock filling you were delicious, scratching an itch that had been building since he first woke you up. “So good,” he hissed. “You feel so good, baby.” 

“Mmm, so you do,” you purred, rocking in his lap. His hands gripped your thighs, fingers clenching against the plump flesh. Your own hands smoothed up his stomach to his chest and back, stroking and petting as you rode him a little faster, chasing the finish you were both desperate for. 

Shane didn’t seem able to keep his hips from rising to meet you, with each upward thrust his cock struck at the perfect angle that made you moan. Your head lolled back on your shoulders as you picked up the pace, feeling his body tensing under you. “Are you close?” you asked, looking down at his flushed and sweating face. He nodded, releasing your leg with one hand and bringing it up to his mouth. Licking the pad of his thumb he reached between your legs and circled your clit. The added stimulation made you moan obscenely and increase your pace even more. As you rutted against him Shane grunted with each stroke, his thumb unrelenting in its teasing of your already sensitive clit. 

Pleasure had built to a fever pitch in your body as you lost your rhythm completely, thighs screaming from the exertion as you bounced up and down on his cock. “Fuck, Shane! Fuck, baby, I’m coming!” At last the tightly wound spring in your pelvis broke loose and you cried out as waves of euphoria swept through you, your pulse thumping and your muscles aching in the best way. 

As your pussy clenched and unclenched rapidly around him, Shane came right behind you with a hoarse cry of his own, his whole body going rigid for a moment or two as he rode out his release before he finally relaxed, sagging into the bed and gasping for air. When you trusted your rubbery legs to support you, you swept yourself up and off his hips, his softening and leaking cock slipping from you as you settled down at his side. 

He wound an arm around your neck, tugging you closer for a lazy, sloppy kiss that you happily returned. 

This was why you loved the rain. 

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

Just something that always crosses my mind when it rains in Stardew Valley. Thought I’d share! 

[theseshipsshallsail]

There’s a new club in the Village - Infinity emblazoned in bright, neon letters - and naturally, the building is jam-packed with society’s outcasts on its opening weekend. Oliver grimaces, pressing his third beer to the side of his face, yet the condensation does nothing to soothe his overheated skin. It’s like a furnace of writhing bodies, and with every bead of sweat that bisects his neck to soak into his collar, he can’t help but wonder why he ever agreed to come in the first place.  

“Drink up,” Vanessa says, brandishing a bright amber concoction as she slides into the booth opposite him. “You look like you need something a little stronger.”  

Oliver raises an eyebrow as he returns the bottle to the table, then plucks the wedge of orange peel from the rim of the proffered glass. It’s been three years since he tasted a negroni, and the potent combination of gin, Campari, and vermouth sends his mind reeling in directions he usually fights tooth and nail to avoid. 

“Remind me again why you brought me here?” he asks, trying not to wince at the bitter aftertaste. “This isn’t exactly my scene.”

Vanessa scoffs. “Well, if you ever left your study...”

“I’m up for promotion!”

“You’ll be up for an ulcer if you don’t slow down. Besides, you deserve to let loose after... you know.”

You know, meaning his divorce, and the eighteen month shit-storm that preceded it.

Vanessa has the office next to his, and in between general grousing about University politics they’ve become close friends. It helps, of course, that she understands his situation all too well, and even though her parents never tried to strong-arm her to the altar, she and her girlfriend still have to hide their relationship from the rest of their colleagues.

Oliver sighs as he takes a second sip of his drink. “It’ll take more than a one night stand to loosen me up,” he tells her, and the filthy smirk that curls Vanessa’s lips has him tempted to bang his forehead against the table.

“Whatever tickles your pickle, Professor.”

“Why do I put up with you?”

“Hell if I know.” Slurring somewhat, she taps their cocktails together, and Oliver laughs as she leans forward, poking him in the chest. “Listen, Ollie, you and Micol did a spectacular job of making yourselves miserable, but at least you stayed faithful ‘til the end. Why not enjoy yourself, yeah?” 

“Why not indeed?” 

He’s aiming for sarcastic, yet his tone falls somewhere short of exhausted. She’s right, he realises, but Oliver hasn’t had much interest in men or women for a while. He’s not so deep in denial to admit his heart still belongs to another, and being hopelessly in love with someone he can’t have has done a real number on his libido.

“Damn! This place is heaving!” Simone says, slumping in her seat when she returns from the bathroom. Slinging an arm around Vanessa’s shoulder she drops a quick kiss to her cheek, and Oliver averts his eyes, the casual intimacy leaving him yearning for the impossible. “A few too many student-types for my liking, though. Makes me feel like I’m back in the theatre department.”

“Makes me feel like I’m pushing thirty,” Oliver mutters, painfully aware of the significantly younger crowd as he tugs at the cheap material of his shirt. Too many curries and not enough exercise has made him self-conscious of the few extra pounds at his waistline, and depressingly, twenty-eight feels ancient in comparison. 

“You wanna call it a night?” Vanessa asks, and Oliver nods absently as his gaze catches on a couple in the middle of the dancefloor. 

Caught in a world of their own, they make a striking picture. The taller of the pair is bleached-blond and athletic, his arms wrapped tightly around the slim waist of the man in front of him in a surprisingly protective gesture. Oliver can’t see his partner clearly from this angle, but his skin is pale and shimmering as they move to the beat, dark curls falling in a tousled mess. Whether it’s by artful design or sweat-damp from dancing, he can’t quite tell, yet Oliver is hypnotized by the way they bounce as he loses himself to the music, obscuring his vision until the other man reaches forward, gently brushing them away.  

The bass pounds in his rib cage, and Oliver’s throat feels constricted as he watches the brunette link his hands behind his lover's neck. Profile half in shadows, he raises up on tiptoes to whisper in the shell of his ear, and Oliver experiences a crisis of tenderness when he butts their temples together. Something squirms in his stomach. Something raw and envious. Memories flare, unfair and brutal, and he immediately blames the burning of his retinas on the relentless assault of the strobe lights surrounding them. 

“Oliver? You okay?”

No. 

Definitely not.

The jostling crowd causes the blond to alter their position, and Oliver’s head spins from more than just the alcohol as his blood runs cold in his veins. 

“Elio…” he murmurs, vaguely aware of Vanessa’s stifled gasp when she tries to get a better look.

“Your Elio?”

He wants it not to be - wants his eyes to be deceiving him - yet there’s no denying the truth. All that he’s forgotten - all that he’s clung to - coalesces in a rush of unslaked longing, and between one blink and the next, Oliver remembers everything. 

“Not anymore,” he whispers, but then, why would he be? 

Elio was seventeen when they first met, and Oliver isn’t naive enough to think he hasn’t fallen in and out of love many times since then. He’s beautiful, intelligent, talented beyond measure. Was he really so arrogant to imagine he would still be single? Pining for him, maybe? Saving himself? And for what? A six week romance one too-hot Italian summer? Something his cowardice cut short with a long-distance phone call?

He was, wasn’t he?

Arrogant. 

And so very stupid.

“Of all the gay bars in all the world…” Vanessa takes a swig of her piña colada as he continues to spiral. “I thought you said he lived in Italy?” 

“He did,” Oliver replies, picking at his thumbnail. “He moved here for school.”

“And you didn't contact him?”

“To say what?” His ears ring from the shrillness of her tone. “Hey, Elio. Remember that time I broke both our hearts ‘cause I’m a gutless schmuck? How about I buy you a coffee to make up for it?”

“It would’ve been a start.”

“It would’ve been selfish,” he says, tearing his eyes away. “He has enough on his plate with Juilliard. I’d only get in the  -”

“Juilliard?” Simone’s low whistle interrupts his self-reproach. “Impressive.”

“Son of a professor,” Oliver explains. “I always knew he was a genius.” He gathers himself with a quiet huff. “Though he’ll probably say he knows nothing.” The spark of nostalgia is crippling, and it takes everything he has not to break down on the spot. “I should go,” he says, draining the remains of his drink as he rises to his feet. 

“Oliver -”

“Why don’t you come back to ours?” Vanessa offers, making to follow, but whatever expression is on his face causes Simone to catch her by the wrist.

“We’re here if you need us, alright?”

“I know,” he says, eternally grateful for their support as he pushes some cab money into her hand. “Get home safe. I’ll call you in the morning, okay?”

“You’d better,” Vanessa tells him, obstinate in her concern, yet all he can focus on right now is leaving.

The swirling thoughts inside his head are all-consuming, but Oliver is determined to reign in his emotions for a little while longer. Ignoring the way his shoes stick to the tacky vinyl flooring, he grits his teeth as he snakes his way through the crush of humanity. He needs space. Fresh air. Hell, a damn time machine wouldn’t go amiss. He has nobody to blame but himself, and he’s halfway to the exit sign when his pace grinds to a halt, his masochistic streak unable to resist one last glimpse. 

A flash of irrational panic makes him breathe in deep - hold it for a count of three - and when he turns to scan the roiling bodies that fill up the dance floor, he finds them immediately. The shock doesn’t lessen, and if Oliver thought his heart had broken when they’d clung to one another on a train station platform, it’s naught compared to when Elio tips the other man’s chin up with the same fingers that used to play his body like a finely tuned instrument. White noise fills his ears as he ghosts a kiss to his lips - two chaste pecks at first - and then harder. Hungry. Mouths open. Tongues swirling. Deep and dirty. 

Just the way he likes it.

Fool that he is, Oliver doesn’t turn away. But he’s not the only one. Their bawdy display has garnered a small audience of the jealous and horny, and when the cat-calls eventually die down he notices a clearly disappointed red-head stalk past them on route to her table of friends. 

Time has not domesticated him, it seems, and Oliver feels like crying as the world returns frame by frame - the oscillating pulse of the dance track. The lightning burst of colour from the laser system above. An innate sense of powerlessness floods through him - the depths of which he hasn’t experienced since Elio sobbed against his chest in an attic bedroom - and a heavy weight settles in his belly as he recognises the cues and rituals that were once directed at him alone. 

Elio has obviously flourished in his absence. His body language is looser, more relaxed, assured in a way his younger self could only dream of, and Oliver allows an almost-smile as the couple laugh for a moment before turning to walk away. 

His fingers itch for a cigarette - a habit he’s struggling to waive - and the next thing he knows he’s taking a seat at the bar, a double shot of bourbon in his hand he doesn’t remember ordering, and a screaming admonishment from his better judgement to not do anything stupid. 

All I had to do was find the courage to reach out and touch, Elio said once, rife with self-mockery, and Oliver’s advice was to try again later. Was this it? Their later? And if not now, when? Because whatever his feelings of bitterness - whatever his misguided envy - if he lets this opportunity pass him by, he will always wonder. Always look. 

In truth, he already does. 

Ever since Samuel mentioned Elio was moving to the States, he’s carried the idle fantasy of crossing paths in some random book store, eyes locking across a busy street, a name - his, theirs, both - shouted across a bustling coffee shop. Of all eventualities, though, he hasn’t prepared for an Elio who might not be happy to see him. Who might dismiss him. Cast him aside like some ill-fitting chapter in the editing process. The context is all wrong, and for it to happen like this is akin to being plunged into the icy waters of the berm.

“Accidenti!” an achingly familiar voice says from somewhere behind him. “Are all Americans incapable of taking a hint? Or is it just an East Coast thing?”

“It’s the accent, mio amico. Fries their brains.”

“Never mind their brains,” Elio replies in the same lazy drawl. “I think you’ve sprained my tonsils.”

There’s a snicker to his left, and like a moth to a flame, Oliver peers up into the mirror behind the bar, only to find his living nightmare mere meters away, sharing a cigarette. Elio’s still wearing the same bracelets he did that summer, and three years of sleepwalking collapses around him as Oliver hunches over, palms sweating. 

“Seriously though,” the blond continues. “Look at this place! Wall-to-wall entreés, and you won’t so much as skim the menu. You’re spoiled for choice, compagno.”

Elio scoffs as he brings the filter to his lips. “Didn’t I tell you choice is an illusion?”

“As is time, according to Adams.” The man slings an arm over his shoulders. “And here you are, free as a bird, wasting the perfect opportunity.” 

Elio flips him the middle finger. “Stronzo,” he says, leaving Oliver more confused than ever as he studies him over the rim of his glass. “It’s a curse.”

“Self-inflicted, maybe.”

“So what’s the answer? And don’t say forty-two.”

The guy chuckles. “Variety,” he says, signalling the harried bartender. “Things didn’t work out with the violinist - I get it. È la vita! You’re not in the mood for pushy red-heads? Fine. But don’t sell yourself short. Trust Fund Tina’s not the only one checking you out.”

“Perhaps.”

“What perhaps?” A knowing smirk shoots in Oliver’s direction. “See for yourself.”

It’s like experiencing the first tremor of an earthquake. Elio was always a force of nature, and bracing for disaster, Oliver feels the fault lines buckle beneath him. He thought he was done letting fear and shame dictate his life, yet even now, at peace with his true self, he can’t bear to witness the seismic shift between past and present. Instead, he falls back on avoidance, tearing strips off a frayed beer mat until the hair prickles at his nape.

He can feel it - the instant his fate is sealed - and taking a deep breath Oliver returns his eyes to the mirror, meeting Elio’s stunned features. Dark brows climb towards his hairline as the happiness on his face shifts into something else. Something measured. Unrecognisable. A blank slate, almost. For a moment, Oliver fears he’s going to ignore him completely, but then Elio straightens his spine, offers the half-smoked cigarette to his friend, and with a few whispered words strides forward with purpose.

His daring is a law unto himself, but the look he’s giving him now exudes superiority - omniscience, almost - as if he can read every thought that’s going on inside Oliver’s mind, and has already deemed them wanting. It shouldn’t be such a turn on, yet his heart skips a beat regardless. Then another. Every instinct in his body tells him to reach out, to hold Elio’s hand, tuck those wild curls behind his ear, but it’s no longer his place - if it ever really was to begin with - so Oliver takes a deliberate sip of his whiskey, scared and aroused simultaneously, before swivelling towards him.

“Oliver.” His name on Elio’s lips - three smooth syllables - and he feels reborn. “Long time no see.” Hesitating, he offers up a pack of Luckies. “Fumo?”

“I shouldn’t,” he says, dragging trembling fingers through his hair. “I told myself I’d quit. God knows it won't take much to -” 

“Tempt you?” 

Heat rises to Oliver’s cheeks. “Yes,” he admits, and Elio’s smile is a shallow, brittle thing. 

“Well, you know yourself,” he says, returning the cigarette carton to his pocket. “Don’t let me ruin your good intentions.”

His flippancy is like a red rag to a bull, and Oliver’s hackles rise as he sets his drink on the counter, irritated enough by Elio’s calm exterior to try and provoke a reaction. “Is your boyfriend not the jealous type?” 

All he receives is an eye roll. “Bruno’s not my boyfriend.”

“Could’ve fooled me. From what I saw earlier.”

“You saw nothing,” Elio replies, defensive. “We’re friends. Roommates.”

“Roommates?” Rising from his stool, Oliver takes a step towards him. “That kiss -” 

“Is none of your business. Not anymore.” 

It hits him like a punch to the gut. Oliver’s lips part, but no sound passes between them. He’s being irrational, he’ll accept, but old habits die hard, and through sheer force of will he quashes down his guilt, knowing better than to use it as a weapon. 

“Of course,” he says, chastened. “You’re right.” 

“I usually am.” 

“Elio…” This isn’t how he wants the conversation to go. “I know it’s too much to expect your forgiveness, but please don’t be angry with me. We were friends, once. Before anything else.”

“I’m not angry.” A beat. “Not anymore.” Tipping his chin, Elio folds his arms in front of him. One more barrier despite the brush-off. “I’m processing.“

“Processing?”

“Yes, processing. Originates from the Old French proces. Related to the Latin processus, and from the verb procedere in Middle English.”

“Wise ass.”

“Sempre.” Elio shrugs, watching him openly. “What are you doing here, Oliver?”

“My friends saw the flyers,” he says, bypassing the here, specifically, when Elio’s attention drops a few inches lower, and he realises he’s staring at his ring finger.

At the white line that’s all but vanished since he signed his way to freedom.

“You’re…”

Oliver clears his throat. “Divorced,” he manages, shuffling his feet. “Almost three months now.”

“Divorced?” Elio’s mask slams back into place, the distress in his voice palpable. “Why?”

And there are so many things he could say to that - the stress of his job, money, differing expectations - but this is Elio. His first love. His forever love. He, above anyone, deserves the truth. 

“I think you know why.”

“Do I?” That same phony indifference. “What the eyes see, and the ears hear, the mind believes.” 

“The truth is never that simple.”

“Not for us, it seems. Not in this world.” Elio gives his head a small but firm shake, blowing out a frustrated breath. “You know, tonight was supposed to lower my stress levels, not raise them,” he says, granting them a temporary reprieve. “But then, you always were hazardous to my blood pressure.”

“Trust me. The feeling’s mutual,” Oliver tells him wryly. “Might I recommend some deep breaths?”

“Deep breaths?” Elio rocks back on his heels. “If I had any peaches I’d be using my right hand.”

It catches him unawares, and Oliver can't help it. He snorts. Overcome by relief. Then he laughs - a weak sound, and damn near helpless - but a laugh, nonetheless. Cupping a palm to his mouth. Moving it to his eyes. Feeling the tears he’s been fighting since this whole debacle began.

“My God you’re incorrigible,” he mutters, the sharp stab of regret cutting him to the core as he glances over his shoulder, and the blond - Bruno - shoots him a wink. “When you said I saw nothing...”

The hesitant curve of Elio’s smile lights a fire in his chest. “There was a girl on the dance floor who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Lucky for me, Bruno’s never been shy about putting on a convincing performance.” 

Oliver winces. “Well, I bought it.”

“Mission accomplished, then.” Elio edges closer. “I could’ve said the same for you, once upon a time.” The air between them grows charged. “Do you ever miss it?” he asks. “Italy, I mean?”

“Every single day.” Oliver finds himself captivated by the smattering of stubble along Elio’s jawline. The touch of smudged kohl beneath his lashes that turns his gaze smouldering. “Do you?”

“In a way.”

“Just a way?” He’s not entirely certain they’re talking about the same thing, and Vanessa’s advice seems all the more pertinent. “Let me buy you a coffee?” Oliver asks, and Elio frowns.

“What? Now?”

“If you like.” 

“It’s gone midnight!” 

“Tomorrow, then. Whenever you’re available.” Suddenly desperate, he closes the gap between them. “I can’t excuse my actions, Elio - I know I can’t - but at the very least I owe you an explanation.”

“Oliver...” This time it’s Elio who reaches out, his usually steady hands uncertain as they entwine with his. “I was young, not stupid. What’s there to forgive? You left because you had to. You married because -”

“I was weak.”

“Cazatte!” The tension in Elio’s body snaps back like a coil. “My father would have carted me off to a correctional facility,” he murmurs, squeezing his fingers tightly. “I’ll never forget those words.” 

“I’m sorry...”

“Don’t be!” Elio sounds furious on his behalf. “Weak, you say? No. Control over others is the true weakness. Coercion. Conformity. All it does is breed hatred. And that’s not you. Not my Oliver.” 

“Am I still?” he asks, laying his cards out on the table. “Your Oliver?”

“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?” 

Oliver swallows thickly. “I guess we will,” he says, dropping his forehead to Elio’s crown.

He’s braver at twenty-one than Oliver could have dared imagine, and for the first time in years the dull ache beneath his ribs is replaced by a different sort of craving. The way they fit together so easily, like no time has passed, fans the banked passions within him - the desire to press his lips against Elio’s neck, to nip his way along countless freckles until he can fist those unruly curls and guide his mouth back to where it belongs. 

Flush against his. 

Devouring.

But not yet.

This isn’t leading to sex. Not tonight. This is about reconciliation. Reassurance. Redemption.

“There’s a late-night diner on the corner…”

It’s a whisper against his cheek - so quiet he barely hears it - and Oliver leans down, pressing his face to Elio’s collarbone, breathing him in. He knows this won’t be easy - knows there will be dark clouds before the dawn - yet here they are, older and wiser, and three years might as well be yesterday as the parting crowds provide a temporary island in which to weather the storm.

[cajunquandary]

Hands that Heal

Link: (coming soon to Ao3)

Summary: Sometimes all you need is a little push the right direction...

Created for: @negans-lucille-tblr SPN Secret Santa Fic Exchange

Rating: 18+ only

Pairing: Dean x OFC (Jay)

Warnings: Jealous Dean, fluff, smut, smidge of angst, medical IV (briefly), unprotected sex (don’t be silly, wrap the willy)

Wordcount: 3.8k

A/N: Happy Holidays, @jay-and-dean! I was so ecstatic to have received your name and hope that my ramblings make you smile a little.

.

It’s a funny thing, the way everyone goes on about the eyes being windows to the soul. Of course, they can be very telling, and if you ever catch yourself getting lost in those of the Winchesters, how could you believe anything else? Or perhaps you are more like Jay. 

Jay has been with the Winchesters for quite some time. She’s been lost in those eyes. And she’s been found. The pure green folds of Dean’s have scooped her up, swaddled her, saved her. So have Sam’s hazel, but not in quite the same way. Not that either brother knows. Only Cas. 

Cas has seen the way her deep brown eyes linger just a little longer than they ought to, can feel the ache in her chest. There are times when Jay meets the angel’s gaze just afterwards but looks away just as quickly. They both know, but they won’t talk about it. And that’s okay. 

But for Jay, she can see beyond the green. Beyond the freckles and blushing pensive lips, the curve of his jaw, the gently rolling hills of his chest and arms. She traces the majestic waves and ripples beneath his warm skin with only her eyes and her heart. They come to rest just past strong wrists and fall like weighted feathers upon Dean’s weathered hands. 

You see, that’s where the soul really reveals itself closest to visible flesh. Each scar and busted knuckle tell a story. The pattern of freckles and tan lines speak of years in the sun. The calluses of his palm and fingertips disclose a rough life, a tough job. They are toned with skill, accurate in all things. They can field strip a gun and put it back together in the blink of an eye, tie complicated knots with dexterity, bait a hook and cast a line without hesitation, and even mold and create custom parts for Baby as they fix her up.

And yet, the skin between those marks is soft, no longer as elastic as it once was, but still full of life and love. The very muscles that hold together the bone and sinew have the capacity to both take life, and give it. Jay has watched them rip apart monsters and gently caress and hold victims within the same minute. 

Such an extreme duality shouldn’t be so neatly wrapped up in one man, but it was. It was both Dean’s light and his curse. Jay shivered as she hesitated just a moment too long on the fantasy of those thick muscled, deadly, yet oh-so-gentle hands, imagining how they might tickle as they might glide over her smooth skin. Of course, Dean notices. 

“There’s no way you’re cold, Jay. It’s a hundred friggin degrees outside!”

Right. Jay had to remind herself that they were on a case. No distractions. “Yeah, I-I’m good. Just got a chill because, ya know, we’re next to human refrigerators.” She swallowed hard and clenched her teeth to help ground herself back to reality. 

It really was hotter than a witch’s tit out there and not much cooler inside the mortuary. Dean continued to read silently from some forms on the coroner’s clipboard before licking his thumb and index finger to turn the page. Heat washed over Jay, spreading like drunken honey from her scalp all the way to her toes. She tried to steady her breathing, remain in persona as a stoney FBI agent, but the hot red of her cheeks was giving her away. 

She tore her gaze away to inspect the body. Not that anything she made mental note of would stick at this point. Dean cleared his throat and pulled the clipboard closer to his face before setting his thumbnail between his teeth the way he always did when he was laser-focused on something. She only caught a glimpse out of the corner of her eye, but it was the final bit to break her. 

With a huff, Jay exclaimed a little too loudly, “There’s nothing here for us, Dean. I’ll be in the car.” Her legs carried her much too quickly out the swinging doors and up the stairs. 

“Um, okay?” Dean grumbled to himself before setting the paperwork back in its place and following Jay. “What the hell got into her?” 

Jay was glad to leave Texas. Mid-July heat drained her, along with every plant and tree scorched under the unrelenting and searing white sun. The world around them was bleached and bathed in the almost-eerie too-bright light. Well, everything except what existed in the shadows of the Impala. The sparse countryside rolled away mile by mile as time ticked by with every song on Dean’s favorite cassette. 

The air conditioning just couldn’t keep up, so Dean rolled down the windows. Jay tied up her locks in frustration, leaving a messy excuse for a bun resting on top of her head. The leather seats did nothing to help as she sweat through her shorts until she was nearly sliding off the seat. 

“How much longer until Oklahoma?” She sighed. For the third time that hour.

Dean shot a glare in her direction before settling his attention back on the highway. The heat was getting to him too, and even with sunglasses on, spots were gathering in his vision and impairing him with every piercing flash of the sun off of the windshields of passing cars. “Jay, I swear if you ask me ‘are we there yet’ one more time, I’m going to friggin pull over.”

“Ugh, FINE.” Jay wished to be nearly anywhere but here. Resignation set in and she slumped in the seat and let her bare feet hang out the window, crossing her arms. 

Dean turned the music louder, trying to drown out his own misery rather than her. He began to belt out slightly off-key to “Dazed and Confused.”

Jay cracked a half smile but hid it from Dean. 

He rapped out the solos on the steering wheel, his hands keeping perfect time as they danced upon the taught leather. 

Maybe pulling over wouldn’t be a half-bad idea, Jay thought. 

She closed her eyes, allowing the steady rumble of the engine to echo through her as hot wind whipped through the cab. She cracked them open again just long enough to witness the stretch of tight skin over Dean’s knuckles, the way the washed out wilderness blurred past behind them and accentuated the tan he’d gained from driving. 

The image was burned into her mind. To help pass the time, Jay granted herself permission to linger on it, explore it. Despite the heat outside, a new, different heat grew steadily in her core, stirring somewhere deep between her heart and soul. 

Not too long after, the Impala slowed and turned into a run down gas station--the first one in an hour. As Dean filled up, Jay took the opportunity to find shelter in some air conditioning and hopefully an ice-cold drink. Inside the store was no better. In fact, it was worse. The air was still and thick with humidity from the cooler, which buzzed and whirred as if it were possessed. 

“Sorry, Miss. Cooler is out. Hot drinks only,” a disheveled and sweat-drenched employee slouched over the register. 

“Thanks… got any pie?” Jay decided that if they had to drink hot water, they may as well have some comfort food. 

“Whatever we got is over there.” The clerk motioned with his eyes, no strength to even lift a finger. 

Jay stalked back to the car empty handed and more pissed than ever. If the summer heat was something tangible, she could just strangle it. Kick it, punch it. Anything to fight it. 

Dean finished up just in time, careful not to touch the scorching black paint and chrome on the car. “What, you go pee and come out with nothing? I’m dyin’ here!”

Jay snapped. “NO DRINKS. NO PIE. NOTHING. K?!” 

Dean was taken aback by the outburst. It was then he noticed the sunken look and dark circles under her eyes and the red sheen over her face and neck. She was getting pale and wasn’t sweating anymore.

“Okay, you’re right. I’m sorry.” His brows knit as he drove slowly through the town, hoping for a decent motel to rest at for a while. Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait but a few blocks before The Moonlight Motel came into view. 

Pay by the hour may not be the greatest, but at least it was cheap and would likely be empty this time of day. 

Jay was losing touch and the following events were a blur. The next thing she truly could grasp and remember was lying mostly clothed in a cold shower. Dean sat facing her atop the closed toilet seat, a worried face perched upon clasped hands. Still a bit out of it, Jay relaxed into the cool water as it slowly washed the fever down the drain. The world slipped away, replaced by a gentle, dark nothing.

When Jay stirred, the room was too dim to still be day and shadows were held at bay by only a small lamp on the far side of the dingy room. She couldn’t remember how she got there at first, but as she woke, things gradually came back to her. 

Dean had practically carried her to the room. He’d carefully set her in the bathtub and removed her belt, overshirt and boots. He’d turned on the cold water and at first, she’d protested, but slipped in and out of consciousness. He’d retrieved ice from the machine down the hall and poured it over her as he constantly monitored her vitals and temperature. 

He’d withdrawn her, a soaking wet dead weight, stripped away the sopping clothes while careful not to look where it would make her uncomfortable, and buttoned her up in the softest flannel he had. 

Jay glanced down at her right hand, as it felt stiff and sore. A needle was taped there, no longer hooked to the empty bag of saline, taped down and left in place just in case. Jay wiggled slightly when she realized that her other arm had gone quite numb beneath her and--Dean?

His soft snores disrupted as she shifted, equally mortified and elated to be nestled into the crook of his arm. Dean woke and rubbed his eyes, as if pretending he’d been awake the whole time. His voice was low and gravely from sleep. 

“Hey, how are you feeling?” He looked down at her, so small in his arms, furious with himself for not taking better care of her. 

“M-good,” Jay choked out, completely entranced by being so close to the hunter. Close enough for their breath to mix and his cologne to shroud her senses. Close enough to see the flecks of golds and blues and dark greens in the folds of his irises. Her breath caught and she shivered. Again. Jay mentally kicked herself for that tell. “Thank you… Sorry I was being a brat.”

“No. No, this is on me. You were sun-sick. I’m sorry. I should’ve--”

Jay put a finger to his parted lips with only the intention to stop Dean from blaming himself (like always,) but the touch sent electric pulses through her fingertips and set fire to every nerve in her body. They were impossibly soft and warm. 

Dean caught her hand tenderly in his before she could pull away and planted a slow kiss on her knuckles. He watched anxiously as her pupils dilated and her breathing became more shallow. Pulling their hands out of the way, Dean leaned forward just slightly and planted a firm, reassuring kiss to her forehead. 

Jay’s mind was a mess. This was more than familial. Were they crossing a line? Or maybe it just meant that Dean was comfortable with her, and concerned. But even as the thoughts swirled, her lips had a mind of their own. As Dean traced his nose down hers until their heads were pressed together, Jay angled upward to meet him. 

When their lips locked, there was no more question. Jay loved Dean, and he knew and he loved her back. It was soft and sweet, with their eyes shut tight, just exploring and tasting and sucking gently. 

The remainder of the trip back to the bunker was spent with Dean humming, a stupid smile plastered on his face, and Jay resting across the front seat, her head in his lap. Dean stroked her soft, brown hair adoringly. The night was much cooler and comfortably dark with only dim, scattered stars to blanket the hunters. 

~

Everything was different after the motel. The kiss. 

Almost six months had gone by and for the most part, they’d been wonderful. Jay spent more time in Dean’s room than her own, and the hunts had been good so far, like old times. 

Until this one. 

Jay, Sam, and Dean were doing a bit of recon at a local bar to dig up some answers, or at the very least, a lead. Jay had dressed to stun, as usual. (After all, men’s lips tended to be a bit more loose around a pretty girl.)

Dean was hovering. Everytime Jay got close to some useful information, Dean would scare off the burly locals with a death glare. 

Until this one. 

This man was built like a tank. He towered even over Sam by a few inches and dwarfed Jay in comparison. Sam eyed her uncomfortably from a few tables over, but he always got like that when someone was bigger than him. Dean didn’t adjust his tactics at all, and when the big guy had enough of Dean dancing around him and bumping his chair with an insincere, “sorry, man,” the guy stood up and puffed out his chest. Dean moved to both protect Jay and get in a prime fighting position, but Jay yanked him away by the collar of his jacket faster than he could complain. 

She didn’t stop until they were completely outside the bar, then shoved him into the soot-covered brick wall. Dean opened his mouth to spout something pigheaded, but stopped himself as he felt the chill of her glare more than the chill of the snow flurries swirling around them. 

“Would you just trust me to do my job? What is your problem?” 

“I do! I just--” Dean waved in a flustered motion, unable to find the words. All he knew was that when she got a little too... comfortable... with anyone, he saw red. 

Still, Jay seemed to understand. She reached up and held his face firmly between her palms, forcing him to maintain eye contact. 

“I’m yours. I know that you worry, what you fear. I’m not going to leave you. Ever. No one can ever take me from you, either, because I’ll haunt your ass and you know it.”

Dean’s bottom lips quivered just barely, and he quickly bit it back. “Don’t you even joke about that,” his voice broke. 

“De- I’m right here, okay?”

 He nodded and leaned into her until his face was buried in her neck. He squeezed his arms around her, never wanting to know what it would feel like to have to let go. 

A muffled “let’s go back to the motel” emanated from somewhere within Jay’s scarf and she nodded in response. 

Dean grasped her hand as they walked the short distance back to the rented room. Jay stopped dead in her tracks, eyes wide and pointing over to the edge of the woods. A startled “Dean!” escaped her, and Dean dropped her hand and withdrew his gun, ready for a fight. His plumes of hot breath on the air slowed to nearly nothing as he steadied himself and visually searched the area. 

What had she seen?

Before he could ask, something hard, round and icey struck the back of his shoulder with decent force. He spun on his heels and lowered his weapon to find Jay wide-mouthed and laughing, another snowball forming in her hands. 

“Son of a bitch! You want to play dirty, huh?” Dean howled. He holstered the pistol and raced to close the distance between them. With a squeal and a grunt, the two ended up in a heap in the wet, mushy snow. 

Jay managed to end up on top of him and leaned in for a deep kiss. She could feel the smile on his lips as his tongue graced across hers. When at last they came up for air, Dean was moving his arms and legs haphazardly. 

“A slush-angel?” Jay giggled at the sorry creation. 

“What, my art not good enough for you?” Dean retorted while wearing a shit-eating grin. “And no, actually, it’s a Yeti.” 

The wet chill began to sink into their bones, so they hurried onward. Dean fiddled with the key card but the lock gave him fits. 

“C’mon, Dean! I’m freezing to death!” 

“Yeah, yeah, me too. Hold your horses.”

At last, the door swung open and Jay rushed inside, leaving Dean to close and lock the door behind them. She’d already started stripping off the wet outer layers when Dean approached. With every step bringing him closer, his heartbeat rose and he wrestled out of his own layers. 

Jay moved to lift off her shirt, but Dean covered her hands with his, intertwining their fingers. He stood against her, and in one swift move, wrapped both of her wrists in a single firm grip behind her, and with the other, pressed an open palm against her belly. 

Jay gasped, her knees going weak with what she knew was coming next. Despite the weather, his touch was toasty. Coarse skin slid over her soft flesh, causing a friction that left Jay needing more. Heat flushed her cheeks and pooled deep in her stomach. Dean melted with every shuttered breath of hers as he stroked up and down beneath the fabric of her shirt, making sure to linger over the more sensitive areas as she twitched and bit down on her lip. 

Dean massaged her breasts with skilled fingers for a few moments, but a sensual twist of her nipple sent Jay reeling backwards, supported only by Dean’s other arm. With her head tilted back, Dean took the opportunity to kiss and suck and nip zig-zagged lines over the most delicate parts of her neck and along her collarbone. 

Jay squirmed and panted with lust-blown pupils and a cry just on the tip of her tongue. Dean’s grasp only steadied her against him more until he found himself grinding into her, faint moans already filling the air. The growing bulge in his pants drove Jay mad. She wanted to be covered by him, skin on skin, needed him inside her. 

“D-Dean please, please…” Jay whimpered and attempted to wiggle out of his hold once more to no avail. 

“Please, what, pretty girl? Tell me what you want.” Dean breathed against her ear, just above a whisper. He sucked and nibbled in the hollow behind it.

A shudder wracked Jay, but this time, she didn’t mind the tell. She had him. He was hers. But right then, she needed more and she knew he was holding back. “Unnghh, please… need you, now,” she managed.

“Okay, Baby,” Dean crashed his lips to hers and shifted until Jay was suspended in the air and straddling him as he walked them towards the bed. He dropped her playfully and they scrambled to see who could lose their remaining clothes the fastest.

In a fray of scattered clothing, Dean climbed on top of her, comfortably crushing Jay into the lumpy mattress. He let his full weight rest upon her. 

“Stop it,” she giggled as his scruff tickled her cheek. 

“Why don’t you make me?” Dean grinned between planting kisses everywhere he could reach. 

Before he could react, Jay had him rolled onto the floor. She straddled him and tried to concentrate despite his hard cock resting perfectly between her hot, dripping folds. Her hair created a curtain around their faces, blocking out everything but that moment and the sensations it was riddled with. Dean’s eyes closed and mouth opened like a fish out of water. His breaths were shallow and shaky. Jay fought the urge to lift her hips just so, knowing that if she did, and she came back down upon him, his throbbing dick would line up just perfectly… and they’d end up on the floor for the remainder of their romp. 

She rose to her feet, grasping his hand and pulling him up with her. Dean’s eyes were full of question, longing. His cheeks were flushed and hot to the touch. He was melting at every touch and could do nothing about it but wait for her. 

Jay led him over to the chair and pushed him into it. He nearly tripped on his way down. That stupid smile she loved so much spread across his face again as he dug his fingers into her hips and pulled her onto him. She let out a yelp as the broad head of his large cock spread her entrance, dripping with precum, and buried itself deep inside until her walls stretched almost uncomfortably. The shock of his size was something she’d never get used to. Each time was like the first, the same butterflies swarming in her stomach, the same jolts of pure lust burning through her veins.

Dean gasped and held her close to him, trembling hands roaming her back and squeezing her ass. Jay carded her hands through his hair and pulled just slightly at the nape of his neck as he whined in approval. Those laments made her head swim and her limbs weak. Drunk on Dean, she adjusted her position until he was sunk deep into the spot that was just right, then began to move back and forth, slow and steady. Dean’s breaths stuttered and his head fell back, leaving his neck open for Jay to take into her mouth. 

“Fuck--Baby you feel s-so good,” he stammered between increasing moans and grunts. She could see in his eyes that he was losing control.

Jay cried out as he began to fight her movements with his own, pounding up in all the right spots. She arched her back as the coil wound tighter… higher… tighter… higher... until she shattered in his arms, his name and curses spilling from her gaping mouth. 

He held her through it and chased his own orgasm, sucking a mark onto her chest before he spilled into her. Everyone would know she was his, and only his. Her walls clenched in waves and he pulsed within them, his delicious sounds filling her ears as she came down. 

Jay crashed her lips into his, and he returned with fervor until they were both completely breathless. Wrapped there in Dean’s arms, Jay was home. 

No, nothing was ever the same after that first kiss. And that was okay. It was amazing.

.

.

WAYWARD PEEPS:

@carryonmywaywardcaptain @manawhaat @supernatural-jackles @jensen-jarpad @wheresthekillswitch @bummblebeeblue @nothin-after-79-blog @docharleythegeekqueen @fangirl-writing-fiction @taste-of-dean @impala-dreamer @arryn-nyxx @idk-life01 @attorneyl @deathtonormalcy56 @xwing-baby @wonder-cole @itsangelpie @thinkinghardhardlythinking

ANGST BABES:

@trexrambling​ @abbessolute @emptywithout

ALL ABOUT THAT DEAN:

@akshi8278 @will-winchester

@waywardbaby* the smut was heavily inspired by The Scene. Tagged as promised lol

Tag List now open!

[ohgodmyeyes]

Just One More!

A story about popping Anakin’s back zits.

Gender-neutral Reader. 1k words.

...

“Do you have to do this?” Anakin asked you as you sat behind him on your bed. You were in the Temple on Coruscant, and he’d snuck into your room after dark, as he had come into the habit of doing.

“Yes.” You didn’t have to do this, really, but it didn’t cause him any real harm... and anyway, you absolutely could not get enough of it.

“But it hurts!” He was so cute when he whined.

“You’ve been through worse,” you reminded him, as you retrieved his braid from over his shoulder and began to twirl it around your fingers.

“I know, but—”

“Do you want me to tell Master Obi-Wan about that sketchy pod race you took me to?” You would never have done such a thing (you loved watching the races), but Anakin didn’t know that.

“No! But—” He certainly was persistent.

“Then let me get just this one.”

“It’s never ‘just this one’.” He was right, but...

“Come on, Ani...”

Your sweet, reluctant fellow Padawan grumbled, but he did acquiesce. “Fine,” he said, “but you’ll owe me when you’re done.”

You couldn’t help but make a gleeful noise as you released his braid and situated yourself to do what you’d been begging him to do... which was, of course, squeeze every last bit of pus from the sizeable blackhead which had formed just above Anakin’s left shoulder blade. There were a couple of others on his back that were similar to it (albeit smaller), along with a tiny-yet-delightful cluster of whiteheads along the bottom part of his spine. The incredibly conspicuous little cyst you’d currently set your sights on, however, was the best of all of them.

If he really was only going to let you get one, you knew that this was the one it had to be.

“Stay still, okay?” You placed one of your index fingers on each side of the delightful little eruption, and you began to squeeze.

“Ow!” He shouted, and the most fascinating string of semi-solid white discharge spewed from the centre of it. Some of the matter flew through the air with such velocity that you simply lost track of it; a bit of it ended up on your nail, which you held up beside Anakin’s face.

“Do you wanna see it?”

“No! I don’t! What’s wrong with you?” He tensed his shoulders, then relaxed them. He was no worse-off than before; he wasn’t even bleeding.

“Whatever it is, it keeps you coming back, doesn’t it?” You knew he could hear your smile in your voice.

“...Are you done, then?”

“One more,” you said.

“It’s always ‘one more’!” He was right, really, but it wasn’t as though he were getting up to leave.

“Pleeeeease?”

He hesitated quietly a moment, and then growled his concession, ”Get it over with!”

You made another happy noise; told him, “Thank you, Ani!” and went to work on that neat little grouping of whiteheads toward which you couldn’t help being drawn.

You had a special technique for these particular kinds of pimples; they were among your favourites. You placed your thumbnail at the edge of the tiny conglomeration, pressed down gently, and slid the sharpest part of it across the field of bumps. They exploded festively as you went along; you could actually hear them snap as they released their fluids. Again, some of it ended up in the air; some ended up on your nail... and once more, too, you held it up to the side of his face and asked him if he wanted to see.

”No! Is that it, now?” He sounded as if he were very close to being finished with this. You wiped your nail on the sheets beside you— you’d have to wash them in the morning, anyway.

“Can I get the little blackheads, too?”

“Ugh. How many of them are there?”

“Not many.”

He was quiet again; thinking— maybe about whether this was worth it to him or not. It must have been, because he answered finally with, “Hurry it up— and remember what I said about you owing me.”

“I’ll be fast!” you promised, and you were: You went to each of the tiny blackheads you’d seen when you’d scanned his back for blemishes initially (a combination of being sweaty, wearing a wool tunic, and being a teenager produced new ones every time you got to see him); and began to pop them carefully. Although the last of your work went by quickly, you enjoyed every second of it. Some of the pus was close to bone-hard from how long it had been sitting underneath the top layer of his skin before making itself obvious to you; some of it was as soft and viscous as what you’d extracted from that delightful bushel of whiteheads on the lower part of his back.

All of them were lots of fun, though, and when you’d finally rid him of the last of the little blights upon his muscular, alabaster beauty, you told him, “There— you’re still alive. Was that really so bad, Ani?”

He turned so that he was facing you on the bed. You could see a glint of something in his eye you couldn’t quite identify, and a trace of savagery in the grin he flashed before he said in response, “Whether it was or not... if you’re finished, it’s my turn, right?”

You gave him a look. “Your ‘turn’?” Did he mean he wanted to scan your back for zits?

That time he did not answer you with words or anything like them; instead, he pounced like a panther so that he was pinning you to the bed. His braid hung down beautifully; it was nearly long enough, in fact, to tickle your neck as he suspended himself over you. You’d have loved to tug on it, or run your fingers through the short and lovely crop of messy blonde atop his head; however, you couldn’t even begin to move. He tightened his hold on you anyhow, and smiled at your helplessness beneath him.

”My turn,” he reiterated. “You got something you wanted, and so I’m going to take something I want, now. Does that sound fair?”

A twinge of nervousness mingled with a flood of excitement; you said as you squirmed, “It depends on what you want.”

He laughed at that, and you felt his braid come to rest on your bare skin as he leaned down to inform you closely, ”No it doesn’t.”

You supposed he was right.

As if to confirm, then, Anakin went to work at taking exactly what he wanted from you in return for the brief command he’d allowed you to have over his body. You might have resisted, but you knew it was useless.

Anyway, you were the one who had started this to begin with.

[soyforramen]

“I’m not Jealous”

She wasn’t jealous.  She couldn’t be jealous.  Betty Cooper did not do jealous, especially not when it came to vampires she’d only known for a month.

And yet, it bothered her how close Toni and Jughead were.  The casual glances, the inside jokes, the hugging.  Ugh, if Betty weren’t careful, she’d turn out like her sister, chasing some incubus into the night only to return brokenhearted and bitter.  

It didn’t help how easily he’d turned on his charm - natural or supernatural though it may be - it was unnerving to see its effects on a grown woman.  It was even more disturbing to watch how quickly the nurse responded to him.  She was easily in her early sixties and yet she tittered on, fluttering her eyelashes like a schoolgirl and touching his arm ever so gently.  

His joke wasn’t even funny.

“Now remember, dear, no one but the doctors are allowed to see these.  I could get in real trouble if anyone found out, the nurse - Rosemary, according to her nameplate - faux whispered as she leaned closer to Jughead to hand him the thick file.  They were so close a puff of air would have brought them together in a kiss.

Jughead winked at her - winked? What was he, eighty? - and tapped the side of his nose.  “Our little secret, Rosie.”

He handed the file off to Betty and shifted to lean against the counter, effectively blocking her out of his little tete-a-tete.

Well, Betty huffed.  If he wanted to be like that.

She sulked past the hard plastic chairs of the records room and wandered further down the hallway into the bowels of the hospital.  When she found a quiet spot, Betty opened up the folder.  Glancing up every now and then to make sure she was still alone, she riffled through the papers of all the underground who’d been admitted to the hospital in the last three months.  Even though it was after two in the morning, something in her gut warned her of imminent doom.  Paranoid though she may be, shades and shadows had been growing at the corners of her sight, a portent that never turned out well for anyone.  

The papers were heavy with jargon, seemingly routine, but there was nothing about missing time, missing organs, or missing people.  It wasn’t unusual for the underground to turn to human medicine.  After all, most of all the major medical discoveries were made by witches or the odd beneficent fae.  Betty glanced around once more and pulled out a thin disc in the shape of a four leaf clover and muttered the words she’d cobbled together long ago - Gaelic, Germanic, and Hindi - and cracked the charm over her head.  It dissolved into dust and she let it fall across her head and shoulders.

One more turn and there at the far end of the hallway was a nurses station.  Empty save for one sour looking man at the desk who most definitely did not want to be there.

“Excuse me,” Betty said with a smile.  She forced every bit of her exasperation with Jughead into it and tried her most innocent face.  “But the copier in Records isn’t working and Rosemary sent me -“

The nurse rolled his eyes and let out a deep sigh.  “Just one copy?”

Betty nodded.  “Yes, please.  I’m sorry to trouble you, it’s just -“

He held up a hand, more interested in his phone than in her explanation.  She gave him the file and watched as he disappeared into another door.  Betty waited, worrying at her already ragged thumbnail.

Jughead had never acted like that with her.  And they’d been intimate!  Well, as intimate as one could be under the influence of a lust heightening potion (Cheryl had a strange sense of humor, according to Jughead).  Even though the potions only enhanced the feelings on already had, Jughead hadn’t brought that night up since it had happened, almost as if he were trying to forget the whole thing.  

Perhaps he was trying to forget it.  Despite the lore, male vampires normally lacked the necessary blood flow for certain acts.  Feeding and abnormally warm temperatures could increase blood flow, as could certain spells, but -

The sound of shoes squeaking their way down the hallway sent a surge of panic through Betty.  Swallowing it down, she smiled at the doctor and noted how his eyes lingered on her face.  

Then again, perhaps she just wasn’t Jughead’s type.  Blonde, smart, and sport wasn’t really what those of the darker parts of the underground usually went for.  (Sporty.  Such a strange way to describe someone.  Blonde and smart were descriptors, but sporty?)  

And it wasn’t as if Betty was short on suitors.  So why in Gaia’s green earth was she stuck on a stupid vampire who didn’t have a sense of humor and wasn’t all that nice to begin with?  He was attractive, but every vampire was.  It was just a part of their nature.  And he certainly didn’t -

Betty almost jumped out of her skin as a stack of still warm papers slammed on the counter in front of her.  The man smirked.

“Your files, ma’m.”

“Thanks,” she said, despite wanting to slip a pepper in the man’s coffee.  “Have a good night.”

Walking back through the maze of hallways, Betty slipped into a bathroom.  Making sure she was alone, Betty shoved the copy into her purse.  With some effort, she slipped the strap over her shoulder.  As she walked out she was reminded of her spell crafting classes that required her to carry giant tomes to every class.  Somehow she managed to make it back to Jughead and Rosemary without toppling over.

“Sorry it took so long!” Betty chirped.  She set the folder onto the desk in front of Rosemary and let out a laugh.  “I got lost on the way to the bathroom.”

Rosemary smiled patronizingly and took the folder from her.  “It happens to the best of us, dear.  I do hope you found out what you needed for your mother’s case.  Your good friend Cody has been telling me about it.  How tragic that they left a sponge and a watch inside of her,” she said as she patted Jughead’s arm.  

He grinned and Betty wondered what part of the joke she was missing.

“Yes I did.  You’ve been ever so helpful.”  

“Don’t mention it.  You two stay out of trouble, and remember…”. Rosemary tapped the side of her nose and winked.

Disgustingly, Jughead mimicked her actions.  It was enough to make Betty gag.  Rosemary, however, giggled at the attention.  

Ready to be done with this, with him, Betty headed towards the elevator.  She punched at the button and tapped her foot.  Betty knew she was being needlessly irritated with this whole thing - still no polly still no answers stupid vampires and stupider succubi -

With his annoyingly long legs it didn’t take but a few seconds for Jughead to catch up with her.  Betty shifted her weight away from him, wincing at the strain on her back.  Without a word, he reached out and took the purse from her.  

“You’ll throw your back out like that.”

“Oh.”  A beat, then she remembered her manners.  “Thanks.”

He nodded and shoved his hands into his pockets.  The arrival bell dinged and they stepped onto the elevator.  As they neared the bottom, he said, “Wontons?”

A hint of a smile tickled Betty’s lips and she tried to remind herself of all the reasons why she shouldn’t be charmed by him.  Just because he’d remembered that her favorite restaurant was near here even if he himself couldn’t eat human food -

“Sure.”

[hopelessromanticspoonie]

Breathe

summary: When Loki notices you spiraling into an anxiety attack, he uses a popular countdown method to help pull you out of it. warnings: mention of anxiety, descriptions of anxiety, mentions of covid-19 if you squint masterlist here

“Talk to me.”

“Hmm?”

Calloused but always so soft - except when you didn’t want them to be - fingertips brushed up your wrists to envelop your hands. A gentle but firm tug pulled your thumbnail from between your worrying teeth. It hurt, throbbed with your racing pulse, and Loki clicked his silver tongue before muttering an unintelligible spell to ease the pain. “You’re anxious.”

And why wouldn’t you be? Everything seemed to be falling apart around you. Routines that brought you security slowly but surely scattered and crushed between a constant barrage of dizzying numbers and contradictory facts delivered with stern voices and drawn-in eyebrows. Friendships strained as tensions rose and it was harder each day to find the drive to pick up your phone and connect. Numbers and tips and facts and what-if’s and definitely-will-be’s squeezed the air from your lungs just thinking about it. Wrapped around your heart in a vice that had you gasping for air in the too-small room and throat tighten around voiceless sobs.

“Come here, little one. Come here.”

His expertly sculpted features swam and blurred before your eyes, and your grabbing hands curled into the soft fabric of his forest green tunic when he pulled you sideways into the cradle of his lap. It was second nature to fold yourself into his embrace and tuck your head underneath his strong chin. The same hand that healed your raw thumb cradled the back of your head against his chest. A familiar and strangely comforting chill seeped through the damnable layer of clothing to soothe the flush of your skin.

Words were too hard to filter through your muddled mind, but anxiety attuned your ears to every sound around you. And none was sweeter than his velvet-lined voice curling around you to match the gentle caress of his hand down your spine.

“Do as I say, and I promise you’ll feel better. Can you do that for me, sweetling?”

A blink. Bottom lip released from between chattering teeth. A nod.

“Look around our sanctuary. Tell me five things that you see.”

Darting eyes glanced around your shared room. Settling on the oddest things. A blurry snapshot of you together on your first date: Loki scowling at the phone while you grinned ear to ear. A stuffed toy, cheaply made and smelling of chemicals, won at a fair with the help of some clever magic that Loki referred to as “Parlor tricks and nothing more”. An empty soda can you’d abandoned after Loki had entreated you to get some sort of liquid in you - water tasted stale and the fizzy, too-sweet caffeine had made you feel alive for that fleeting moment it coursed through your veins. A loose thread that stretched over the curve of his generous bicep that flexed to hold you closer. The small points of your feet beneath the blanket that Loki wrapped around you both in a cocoon of safety and warmth.

“Good. Now, what are four things that you can touch?”

Circling thumbs pressed into the tightly woven threads of his tunic. Smooth, pliable, but strong. Ebony waves caught between your temple and his collar-bone, silky and slippery when you attempted to trap one in your reaching fingers. Lifting your head, you pressed the pad of your pointer finger in between his furrowed brows to erase the crease of concern marring his creamy skin. Only to have it return when you dropped your traveling touch to trace his bottom lip, ever expressive and always softer than the harsh, indifferent mask he sometimes wore would have others believe.

“That’s my Love. Good girl. Tell me three things you can hear.”

The steady drum of his heart pounding his love and support to you out through his chest right underneath your ear. The whisper of his hands rasping over the blanket over your leg, stroking long motions of serenity in time with your slowed breathing. Just the faintest hitch in his breath when you shifted in his lap to press your nose into the crook of his neck and hold tight with your hands anchored to his broad shoulders.

A sigh. Faint pressure from his lips against your temple and the tickle they left behind when he asked for, “Two things you can smell, now.”

The clean musk of his skin, bergamot and cinnamon and leather and the hint of something earthy. Cedarwood? The complex scent you’d recognize anywhere after clouds billowed out from the bathroom to greet you each morning as you reclined in your luxurious sheets. And maple syrup, decadent enough to make your mouth water at the thought of the pancakes he had convinced you to help him eat in the splintery morning sunlight streaming through the window. He’d looked so earnest, so kind, kneeling next to you among the mussed blankets with a tray of coffee and breakfast treats that there hadn’t been a single protest uttered from your smiling mouth.

“That’s it. Just one more, and you’ll be with me again. One thing you can taste.”

The salt of his jawline, so sharp you’d cut yourself if you lingered too long, so you nipped the taut flesh before it could. The corner of his mouth, turned upwards with a rumbling purr that shook your chest flush against his, held a tantalizing mixture of bitter coffee and sticky sweet treats that made you want more.

Tension seeped out of his body and his deft fingers molded to your sides so he could properly gaze down at you with relief flooding his elegant face. His forehead dropped to rest against yours, and you breathed each other in like you’d been drowning for weeks. It truly felt like it. Time that stretched for an eternity in five minutes and yet had hours disappearing in the blink of a glazed eye.

And then it stood still, prisoner to his rapt attentions and fervent whispers.

“There you are. You’re safe, and I have you. And I love you. Do you have me?”

It was your turn to furrow your brows and frown up at him, your head tilted to the side as if you could shake the confusion from your thoughts. “I do, and I love you.”

The steel bands of his arms held you inescapably close, and he buried his face into your hair, guiding you to the do the same, rocking you slowly on your bed. “Good. Then just breathe with me, little dove, and I promise that everything will work out in the end. Just keep breathing.”

~~~

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[hoodoo12]

What if sad-jerking Beej couldn't keep it up during one of his fap-training sessions? 😭🤔

BOGO! My apologies for taking so long to write and post this.  Enjoy! `

Compromise

“I can’t! I can’t tonight!” “Hey--hey, it’s okay! Listen--” But he was borderline inconsolable, and you were fairly sure that if you didn’t have a hold on his elbow he’d have spirited off somewhere. There was still that possibility; the arm in your hand was full of tension, like wires about to snap. “Beej, baby, sweetheart, it’s okay--” “No it’s not! It’s not okay!” he agonized.

It’d been some time since you’d seen him so frustrated like this. He’d gotten, if not eager, at least comfortable with touching himself in front of you. Tonight however, like he’d exclaimed in a wail of anguish, he simply couldn’t keep an erection. The more he tried, the more he couldn’t weighed on his head, smothering him. A vicious cycle of failure. 

The specter yanked himself away from your grasp but to your surprise, he didn’t disappear. Beetlejuice sat up, his legs over the edge of the bed, hunched on himself, his hair now the color of a bruise, the picture of misery. You sat up too, and tried again. “Beej, it’s okay--” “It’s the furthest thing from okay,” he spat, but it was directed at his hands in his lap and not at you. You sighed. He flinched at that noise, like now he was expecting you to agree with or finally berate him. When you did nothing but lean into his side, he curled a little further over. You didn’t chide him for sitting bent in half, you just stayed still. Eventually he spoke up, answering as if you’d pressed him. “It’s not okay because you wanted sex tonight.”

You sighed again. This was a long-standing argument, one that seemed even more deeply rooted, something winding tightly around his core: desperation to be seen, and a misplaced drive to do anything for anyone who showed him the slightest bit of positive attention. Chewing on a thumbnail, thinking things through, you might have come up with a solution. “Okay, Beej. You’re right. I did want sex tonight and--and--” you raised your voice to drown out his whimper of dismay, “--right now you can’t. It’s okay. I promise. Would you like to watch?”

Watching usually was enough to arouse him, especially if he didn’t touch himself. Mutely, he nodded, although it was still a bit more morose than you’d prefer. “Would you do me a favor?” He managed to turn his head a little, to look at you. “You want me to sit back and not touch you?” You nodded. “Yes . . . and something else. Would you call up a clone for me?” It was a risk, asking for one of his clones to come out and play when he couldn’t personally perform. You weren’t sure if his clone would have the same issue, or if he was going to be insulted and--justifiably--storm off, or--

Beetlejuice’s brows furrowed and he cocked his head. “A clone? You want a clone?” You tried to shrug it off like it wasn’t important, which was the truth. “Just a thought.”

He turned his attention back to his hands again, and you thought that was it. That was your answer: no clone, no sex, nothing tonight. You continued to lean into his side and opened your mouth to repeat it was okay even if you were disappointed.

He replied before you could get the words out. Out of thin air, he pulled a clone into your room. 

None of them were exact replicas, although this one was close. A tad bit shorter, a tad bit stouter, but the suit and hair and scruff were exactly the same. He also smiled in delight when he took in the state of nudity you were in. “Hey babes--it’s showtime?” You truly had no idea how much control Beetlejuice had over his clones. There’d never been a time you’d asked if he could feel what they felt, or if he directed their actions, or anything. The way the clone had lilted his sentence like a query made you think, however, they weren’t all privy to everything. Maybe they lost some of the connection when they were summoned. “Hey,” you replied, pushing yourself off the mattress to go to him. His height was closer to your own, and that was interesting as he opened his arms to welcome you. You stepped into his embrace and he didn’t waste time planting a kiss on your bare shoulder. Glancing back at Beetlejuice, you saw he hadn’t lifted his head at his clone’s appearance or after you got up. “Beej, I know you like to watch me. Will you watch me now, with your clone? This is for you too.” “Is it?” he mumbled half under his breath. Immediately you pulled out of the clone’s embrace to turn back to him. You leaned into his personal space and lifted his chin. “Yes. Yes it is,” you replied. “I want you to keep your eyes on me. I want you to know that every single thing I do with this clone is for you. Every moan, every gasp, every movement I’m thinking about you. About your mouth. About your cock. About how good it feels when you’re inside me--” You hadn’t whispered, and the clone took the opportunity to step up behind you and take your hips, subtly rocking his pelvis into your ass as you told Beetlejuice in no uncertain terms the reason behind you wanting a clone. “--okay?” you finished, still focused on him. “If it’s not okay, send your clone away.” The clone stopped rocking, and you waited with bated breath for a response. 

“Okay. I’ll watch you.” You grinned and gave Beetlejuice a fierce kiss, boldly shoving your tongue through his lips to lap at his. He groaned and reached for you, but you batted his hands away as you straightened back up. Leaning back against his clone, you told him to get off the bed and take a seat somewhere else. He cocked his head again as the threw his gaze around the room. “On that chair over there, or on the floor?” With a one shoulder shrug, you conveyed you didn’t care. As a matter of fact, you ignored him completely for the moment as you took his clone by the elbows and turned him so he was on the bed now, sitting in almost the same spot Beetlejuice vacated. He seemed startled but pliant, letting you maneuver him just as you wanted. You heard the specter settle into the chair behind you.

What you wanted was to put on a one-woman show, something to turn your lover on so much he’d get out of his own head.

So you leaned over the clone, just as you had with Beej a few moments ago. With your fingers working his fly, you whispered to him he was going to stay dressed. You were going to be in charge. You needed him to hold you, support you--he’d know when. The clone’s amber eyes were bright with agreement. 

You managed to open his zipper enough to slip a hand into his trousers and find his cock. 

Giving him a quick kiss and then with a grin only the clone could see, purposefully staying bent at the waist so Beetlejuice had a fine view of your ass and a peek of your pussy between your legs, you leaned even further over to take the cock in front of you into your mouth. You’d discovered one thing: the original’s performance issues didn’t manifest in a clone.

Keeping your knees locked but your hips loose, you bobbed up and down on the clone’s cock, letting the movement of your upper body undulate to the lower. A hand threaded through your hair and the moans above you sounded just like Beej. With just a little imagination, you could pretend that there was no one else in the room, but that wasn’t your goal. Yes, you wanted to get off and yes, you wanted your lover to do the same; just like so many things with Beetlejuice you had to redefine your expectations. Not even bothering to attempt to swallow any excess spit, you gave the clone a sloppy, loud blowjob. He, like Beej, didn’t care you were soaking his trousers, or that the position wasn’t the greatest. His hand tightened and relaxed in time with your mouth. His fingers became painful when you took him to his balls and held yourself there, until your lungs demanded air and you had to pull off him with a gasp. The faintest groan came from behind you while you caught your breath.

Grinning to yourself, you risked being unbalanced by slipping a hand between your thighs to play with your pussy as you went down on the clone again. It wasn’t that arousing for you because standing and bending at the waist while blowing someone made your back ache, but you still made a show of it: making sure it was obvious you were pushing a finger through your folds, and tickling your own clit. You even threw in a moan or two of your own, but it was mostly for show. The main event was going to be better. When two audible things happened--the clone’s moans hitched, like any second was going to be his last, and Beej behind you gave a long, low moan--you stood up without warning so abruptly you made yourself dizzy. The clone stood and caught you as your knees buckled a little, and it sounded like Beej had started up out of the chair. Quickly, you regained your balance and told him to stay where he was. He was sinking back down onto the seat when you turned around, keeping the clone’s arms around you. You kept direct eye contact with him as you snaked an arm around the clone’s head; he immediately complied with the pressure and nipped at the delicate skin of your neck. For a moment, you ground against the solid body behind you, using the clone like a stripper’s pole, bending your knees but keeping your back straight. The fabric of the suit he hadn’t taken off at your request was a bit rough, and his cock dragged a wet line on your back. Beetlejuice shifted in his seat, letting his knees fall open a little. You were pleased to see his cock wasn’t completely soft now, but didn’t say anything about it. Because his attention was still riveted to you, you didn’t turn away from him again. Instead you simply told the clone, over your shoulder, to sit down again and walked backwards with him as he complied. When he was on the mattress, you had to drop your eyes a moment to maneuver enough to straddle his thighs, then asked him to scoot forward. Again, he complied. It was a slightly awkward position with him sitting up, but you didn’t care. You wanted Beej to have a front row view to this show.

Obligingly the clone helped you position yourself over him. If Beej expected you to move into your more typical position--on top, hands on his chest, face to face—he was going to be  surprised. You opted for a reverse cowgirl, spreading your thighs widely in front of him. After a few seconds of testing your balance--the clone assisted with that too, supporting you by holding your waist--you reached forward, took his cock in hand, and guided it into yourself. You hissed as you lowered your hips and, lubed with spit, he sank deep into your pussy.

You’d shaved, and the sensation of the clone’s cock slipping into your smooth pussy was almost beyond good. You rocked back and forth a bit, just enough to make faint wet noises between the two of you. The clone started his low level keening again, and your moans joined his. Still in control of all the movement, you tested how much you could bounce. As you’d predicted, the clone under you understood you needed support, so his hands cupped your tits and he did his best to be a solid base for you, even as he moaned each time he bottomed out inside you. It was your goal to hold Beej’s eyes, but that became difficult. Pleasure built in you more quickly than you anticipated and you dropped your head. The juxtaposition of being completely nude and exposed while the clone was fully dressed gave you a thrill of excitement; seeing the familiar black and white striped trouser between your legs, knowing you were soaking them with your wetness felt debauched. Fucking yourself on the clone, moaning wantonly as he pinched your nipples, the same noises filled the air behind you as well. While pleasure grew exponentially in you, you couldn’t help but lean forward a little, but did manage to lift your head again. Raptly, Beetlejuice’s eyes were locked on you. The cooler, darker colors in his hair had fled, replaced by the more typical green with locks of aroused pink interspersed. A hand had dropped to his groin and he was, despite his hang ups about it, stroking himself off, his pace the same as yours. 

Bolstered by the fact he was so into it, you sat back up again, arching your back so your torso was stretched, exposing yourself to him even as you continued to fuck the clone beneath you. Your legs began to tremble with the effort you were putting into this. The clone’s hands went to your hips and he managed a combination of lifting you and keeping you tight to his pelvis whenever you were back in his lap. His groans, your cries, and Beetlejuice’s moans vied for dominance. You were almost there, almost there, just a little more and then you could rest your legs--the next downward stroke you gave, the clone pinned you in place, not allowing you to rise up again. He howled as he came, and the pressure of his throbbing cock sent a final burst of pleasure through you as well. Your muscles tightened, then gave out as you came, collapsing heavily down onto him. For a moment, you couldn’t open your eyes. You were panting too heavily to concentrate on anything else, but a hand cupped your chin and lifted your head. You found Beetlejuice standing in front of you, cock still in hand. Wordlessly, he nudged it against your lips and you opened your mouth. He slipped it between your lips and over your tongue and you closed down on it, creating a vacuum for him. He held himself steady, never moving his hand off the base of his cock. While you were held in place with the clone’s cock still in you and supported by him, you obligingly sucked the specter off till, a small amount of time later, he also came, filling your mouth. You gave him all the time he needed. When he finally backed away, groaning as his cock left the wet heat of your mouth, you swallowed. He helped you to your feet and when your knees buckled again, he kept you against him. Wet ran down your inner thighs. “That was okay?” you had to ask . “Yeah. Yeah it was.” You wanted to ask again, to make absolute sure, but accepted his answer. Beetlejuice wasn’t known for having a stiff upper lip or being demure when it came to jealousy.

“Thanks, baby.” You kissed his chest. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“Did you enjoy it?” You answered with a bite on his chest, this time. “Yes, duh. Your clone was fun--” You turned to address him, but he was gone. “--but more than that, I’m glad you got off too.” “Yeah well . . . I’m still a work in progress.” “So long as you don’t just give up and send in a clone all the time.” “So long as you keep wanting to have sex with me and not ask for a clone all the time.” You chuckled, and he chuckled, and you both promised.

fin

[tybaku]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/30691259

Midoriya Izuku finds the incarnation of beauty and divinity sitting at a window of a hole-in-the-wall café just a few blocks away from home.

Or: An artist in search of inspiration unexpectedly finds a new muse.

When Izuku lays eyes on him, it’s like salvation.

It’s a feeling of warmth, like fire licking at the grooves of his teeth and spreading throughout the apples of his cheeks. It’s a pleasant thing, the following lurch in the very pit of his chest, like all the air in his lungs had turned into honey the color of molten gold. It’s electric in the way he can feel it’s lingering buzz in his fingertips just as he’s left in a reverie.

Izuku hasn’t felt this way in weeks.

A thin, reserved smile finds its way onto his bitten lips as he twirls his mechanical pencil between his fingers. If he were an artist of a different medium—say, a photographer—he would capture this very moment for safe keeping, have it frozen in all its sharp and bright clarity and contrast. (But he is not, so he will have to make due with his pencil and paper.)

It’s a gray kind of day today. Storm clouds were rumbling gently in the sky, crooning and purring in the promise of rainfall. It set a somber mood, and a gloomy undertone to the colors of the café Izuku frequented, despite its yellow lights and setup of deep, rich browns, reds, and oranges.

Though it did pair perfectly with the man who sat by the window.

Izuku’s eyes fell, and his pencil danced on the paper of his sketchbook. Curves and corners formed a light, faint base, precise enough to embody a sitting figure. Izuku looks up again, eyes gently observing the piece in front of him.

And damn if that man at the window didn’t resemble something straight out of a Rembrandt. He was soft, pale colors, from fair skin to blond hair, and awfully kind on the eyes, muted and light. He held a dark sort of overtone over his features and the way he breathed, grays and blues amongst warmth.

He’s wearing a scarf in a bright shade of cream low on his neck, and the material gives off the impression of cotton, which is soft and comforting in the current cold of late autumn. His clothes are dark, old, and large, falling off his slim figure. His eyes are downcast, and though Izuku can’t quite tell from this distance, they are deep and dim in hue, and enraptured by the laptop in front of him, a halo of cool light illuminating his high cheeks and sharp jaw.

Simply put, the man at the window was agonizingly gorgeous, and Izuku was determined to capture his beauty on sketch paper.

He’s quietly scribbling his third concept drawing (he quietly berated himself for not bringing any paints today, but then considered the fact he wasn’t even planning to draw at the café anyway, and he could always just start a piece when he got home as long as he had a decent thumbnail) when the man stops, rolls his shoulders back, and rises from his seat.

Surprised, Izuku nearly drops his pencil, not having expected any movement and having forgotten the man at the window wasn’t actually modeling for him, nor made of marble. (He could be though, Izuku thinks. If he let me, I could immortalize him with just my hands.)

The man steps up to the counter and orders a coffee.

Izuku watches him wait as subtly as he can, glasses slipping to the tip of his nose with how often his head moves up and down, and up and down again in order to somewhat perfect the piece in his book.

Faintly, he realizes that he should maybe be a little more inconspicuous about his sightseeing, but he’s too thrilled about finally finding a view that was actually worth looking at. Plus, the man hasn’t yet noticed Izuku’s stare on his stern profile, even if the artist was just as tactful about it as a toddler.

Izuku rolls his own shoulders, a mimic of what the man had done earlier, and continues. When the man returns to his seat, Izuku is on his third sheet of paper.

They’re faint, quick doodles now, thumbnails overlapping thumbnails, because Izuku is rapidly losing his patience, and doesn’t want to spend more than a minute on a sketch. He’s too excited now, and the ideas keep coming in, insistent on making their presence known even as the page becomes more and more crowded, filled to the brim with messy artwork.

The man finally meets his eye, and scowls.

Embarrassed, Izuku ducks his head quickly, pretending to be occupied with his sketchbook. It’s a half-truth really, because he has been busy with it for the past twenty something minutes. Only now there’s a more than healthy flush to his cheeks that can’t be blamed on the chilly weather. He looks up tentatively.

The man has gone back to glaring at his laptop screen and sipping on what Izuku assumes to be his dark brew (with exactly two and a half packets of sugar substitute—Izuku knows this because he had seen him pour and stir them into his mug at the sidebar before he took his seat again).

Izuku lets out a quiet sigh of relief as the heat in his face fades out like a dying candle, and then resumes his sketching calmly. He never really could draw when he knew someone was watching, it made him feel too nervous, and much too exposed. One is meant to create art privately, and wholeheartedly, not under a persistent microscope.

Then again, Izuku probably shouldn’t be out in public if he wanted privacy and be away from prying eyes. Even if they are a deep, rich shade of brown that sat on his skin like hot, burning coal. (Even if they are red and piercing like they must be in another life, in another painting of beauty.)

And it wasn’t as if Izuku came to the little coffeehouse with the intention to create, he had simply wanted to mill about, and see if maybe he could find some inspiration outside his lonely studio apartment, and even his actual art studio. He never thought he would actually strike gold, and have to sit down to milk it for all it was worth.

Unfortunately, there comes a point where all the gold runs out, and Izuku is left with dirty hands and an ache in his chest.

The man packs up his belongings and leaves. The bell above the door sings cheerily. Izuku watches as the man breathes a puff of air like smoke before he shields his mouth from the cold with his scarf. Izuku's eyes fall when the man rounds a corner and disappears from view.

The coffee in the mug Izuku bought out of courtesy has gone cold, since he had been far too busy trying to map out the shapes and shadows of the man at the window. He looks down into it, detested, not being able to help feeling a little upset about the man’s departure.

If I had asked, Izuku thinks rather absently, would he have stayed?

He shakes his head at himself, hair tickling his cheeks, feeling a little ridiculous. That wasn’t something you could just ask of someone you didn’t even know the name of. It wasn’t appropriate by any means, to ask a stranger something so intimate. To stay. And just so you could admire them and the lines of their human body, and preserve them on sketch paper for you to have and hold selfishly.

So really, there wasn’t anything Izuku could’ve done to prevent the inevitable. The loss of a light and warmth so bright it felt holy—the inside of a dying sun, the core of a supernova.

What he does do, however, is take advantage of all that he had basked in and hurry on home with intent of creating a new art piece of paints, making sure to leave a fat tip on the underside of his untouched coffee before leaving the shop with a little spring to his step and a pink blush on his face.

He makes it home in a flurry, hair wildly windswept and cold air in his panting mouth, having broken into a sprint, and then a run, by the time he was only a block away from his apartment, nerves buzzing under his skin. He had taken two steps at a time up the stairs and into his studio, as if he were being chased by a madman. (He was the only madman around really, one who was much too eager to capture what he felt back at the café on a canvas with his oils at home, rather than make the trip to his professional workspace.)

Izuku makes a quick beeline to his art desk (it’s standing where maybe a television stand would be if he had one, right in front of his comfy loveseat, and it’s covered in all sorts of paints because Izuku tends to use it as a glorified paint palette) and sets his sketchbook down on the cleanest spot he could find, immediately crouching down in order to rummage through his art supply bins for his spare oil paints.

He mutters as he does this, about colors and brushes and the man at the window of the café, but it’s nothing short of white noise to his ears, a harmless habit. It helped him focus in fact, his own whispered musings to an empty room, and it helped him relax enough to calm the heart trying to break his rib cage and beat a gaping wound through his chest.

He finally finds the oils, and then the brushes, that he needs to replicate the image in his head that burns in the backs of his eyes. He sets them all down on his art desk, only where it’s dry, and moves about the apartment in search of the final, most important ingredient: a canvas.

He looks down, around, and behind every piece of furniture, grumbling under his breath. After about five minutes, it finally sinks in, and he makes a terrible discovery: there were no clean canvases he could use.

Usually, he would have one or two lying around, for easy commission pieces, and even when the occasional creative mood would randomly strike, but as of late, he hasn’t actually been painting much of anything, whether it be for personal purposes or professional pursuits. And his past self had figured the canvases in his art studio would suffice because of this, so he hadn’t bought any to keep at home.

His past self was a bumbling idiot.

Determined, and not yet ready to detach himself from this bout of sudden inspiration, Izuku rolls up his sleeves, gathers his supplies, and gets to work, canvas or no canvas. He paints and paints until his knuckles ache and his jaw goes sore from clenching in concentration.

He finishes his piece with tired arms and oils not only on his face, but on his plastic frames. He finishes liberated, with relief strung throughout him.

Admittedly, it’s not his best piece, for his living room wall isn’t suited for his oils, but Izuku can’t help but think it’s his most beautiful. It’s the first thumbnail he made of the man at the window of the café, one where he’s looking out the window, blown out right on the wall, his sharp yet soft profile glowing gently with warm, nude colors.

The man at the window takes Izuku’s breath away all over again.

Warm in the face, Izuku lets his eyes wander away, and fall to the wooden floor. The sun is bright and high in the sky now, a telltale sign of noon, beaming hot yellows into the apartment, and beating down onto the back of his clothes. The lighting is wonderful, and perfect for a picture, but a seed of greed is already sprouting in the mouth of Izuku’s stomach.

This sight, this piece, wasn’t one he was willingly to share with anyone just yet, if ever. It feels too deeply personal somehow, and much too intimate to showcase on any of his social medias, much less his professional art blog. Plus, it’s not even a complete piece, or one he can profit off of, since it lies dormant on his wall. There wasn’t a reason to post this anywhere, and there wasn’t a reason why Izuku should even want to. This piece was for his eyes only.

Embarrassed at the mere thought, Izuku brings his stained hands to his face, no doubt smearing more oil paint onto his blushy cheeks. Now what kind of reasoning was that? He didn’t want to share? The man at the window was only his to admire? How selfish! And how embarrassing! Izuku thinks in a flushing stupor, berating himself in belated humiliation. He hadn’t meant to think any of that, honest!

The artist smacks his face once, and then twice, to pull himself back together. Nevermind all that, there was nothing wrong with wanting to keep some of his work to himself in the first place. Just like his personal, and very much private sketchbook where he allowed himself to experiment and make mistakes, this living room piece served as an act of unexpected creativity and originality, a subjective study of an intriguing character.

At the very least, Izuku had fully convinced himself of this in less than a minute, not allowing himself to think about the matter any further lest he wanted to mutter a whole dissertation about it straight through the wall and into his neighbor’s apartment. (The walls here weren’t as thick as they were supposed to be, unfortunately.) (Vaguely, Izuku recalls his apartment lease and its rules, specifically the too-lengthy paragraph under “alterations” and how he was not allowed to “paint, wallpaper, alter, or redecorate without written consent of the landlord.”)

Izuku brings his thumb to his mouth and bites down on the painted nail to keep himself quiet, letting his eyes settle back up to his artwork. It truly was an astonishing piece, if he did say so himself. It was very new, and very different from any of his other work, and it reflected an entirely distinct side of Izuku’s artistic capabilities. It felt real, and warm, and overwhelmingly human; very dissimilar from his usual painting style.

It was nude, and dark, and utterly stunning in all the unexpectedly right ways. A handsome painting crafted by hands that never knew they could portray such divinity.

A fresh flame ignites in Izuku all over again, and his hands go back to feel the blood rising in his face once more. It was becoming increasingly more and more difficult for him to mellow out of this stage of embarrassing elation, since each time he tries to take a look to admire his piece he gets worked all up, and ends up awkward and out of place in his own home. He just—He just needs something more.

Huffing, Izuku removes his glasses and wipes them down with the hem of his shirt. His hands go a little blurry under his gaze, which was a little watery and soft at the edges, far-sightedness at its best. As he removes any paint off his lenses, he allows his mind to wander just a bit, back to his painting, and back to the prospect of sharing.

He nearly drops his glasses moments after, right on the line of a most groundbreaking revelation—a victory caused by something straight out of a storybook or myth, one where stars, planets, suns, minds, and hearts aligned.

Izuku fits his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose and quickly fishes his phone out of his pocket, inputting his passcode with no hesitation.

He had some calls to make.

[blueeyedgeorgie]

Makeup with Alex-A.E

“Alex got that Shane Dawson makeup kit, right? Maybe he could rope Y/N into filming a video with him (a “doing my girlfriends makeup” type thing) and it could be cute fluff Maybe the video also doubles as his introduction of Y/N to the fans ??”

Pairing: ImAllexx x Reader

Word Count: 1.7k+

___________________________

"I'm sure you guys only clicked on the video because Y/n is in the thumbnail," Alex spoke up as he took a seat on the cypress-colored couch. Next to him sat his friend, Y/n L/n. Y/n didn't have her own YouTube channel, but she was often spotted in his friends' videos. Just the other day Y/n was featured on Fraser's channel to talk about Trisha Paytas. "Yes, because I'm absolutely amazing," Y/n grinned. Her hand snuck her way into Alex's grasp, giving his hand a squeeze. "I can't disagree with that," a smile appeared on Alex's face as e looked to the floor in a bashful manner. Y/n merely let out a small giggle at his actions. "Are you gonna tell them or do I have to?" Y/n kept her eyes on Alex. "We also have news," Alex looked up to the camera, his smile stayed on his face. "Y/n and I have started dating." Excitedly, Y/n shot her hand that was holding Alex's into the camera frame, pulling his hand with her. Y/n's grin grew wider. "And even though most of you already know Y/n from other videos, what'd be better than talking about our relationship for 20 minutes while I try and do her makeup?"  Alex let out a chuckle as he wrapped an arm around Y/n's shoulders, she leaned into him with a smile. "This should be fun," Y/n muttered gently. "Makeup with Alex." "So Y/n pulled out some of her makeup and placed it on the table, but I also pulled out my own makeup as well," Alex gave a look at the camera. He leaned down to the coffee table that stood in front of them, quickly he picked up a black eyeshadow palette with the word 'Conspiracy' sprawled out on the front. "If you remember, I got one of Shane Dawson's palettes when it first came out." "How'd you even get it?" Y/n shook her head. "I just walked in and picked it up," Alex gave a small shrug as he placed the palette back down. "Oh, well I'm just happy you let me use it sometimes," Y/n gave a shrug as well. "Of course," Alex let out another chuckle. "Anyways, I think I should start doing your makeup now." "I actually forgot I wasn't wearing any," Y/n spoke, watching Alex pick up a random foundation. "That's because you're beautiful with or without it," Alex smiled as he picked up a fan brush and foundation blender. "I think I'm gonna go with these first." "Awh, I love you, bubba," Y/n cooed. In a quick pace, she leaned close to her boyfriend, placing a kiss on his jawline, missing his cheek. "Love you too, cutie," Alex smiled. "I think you're supposed to close your eyes... maybe?" Y/n gave a look at the camera before she closed her eyes. "Am I doing something wrong?" "No, no, just do the makeup, bubba." It was now Alex's turn to look at the camera before turning back to his girlfriend. The brunette had placed the foundation onto Y/n's face by using the blender, but once the foundation was on Y/n's face, he swapped the blender out for the fan brush. Y/n let out a giggle at the feeling of Alex putting the foundation on her face. Carefully, she opened her eyes to see what he was using. "You're not using the right brush," Y/n bit her lip, watching her boyfriend's attention pull away from focusing on painting her face. "How should I know?" "You literally watch me do my makeup every day while you wait for me." "I don't pay that much attention, apparently," Alex sighed. "Was I doing it right with the weird pink thing?" "Uh, yeah," Y/n gave a nod. Alex swapped out the fan brush for the blender again. "What's this thing called again?" "A blender, Al." "Blender," Alex repeated as he began to pat in Y/n's foundation. After a moment, Alex pulled away and placed the pink little thing back onto the coffee table. "What's this thing?" Alex picked up a small tube of color corrector. Quietly he mumbled the label of the tube to himself. "That's color correcter, bubba," Y/n smiled. "Oh." Alex opened the tube, pulling out the applicator. He began to brush it against Y/n's cheekbones. Y/n let out a laugh from Alex and his decisions with the makeup. "What's wrong now?" "Nothing," Y/n shook her head. "I feel like something's wrong because you're laughing," Alex bit his lip. "No, I'm just laughing because it tickles when someone else does it," Y/n slightly lied. "Whatever," Alex chuckled. He placed the color corrector back on the table in front of them and picked the blender back up and began to work on blending in the corrector. "Concealer? No clue what that is but we're not even gonna touch it," Alex looked through the tubes, bottles, and packages on the table. Y/n gave a look at the camera once again. "Contour... I guess I'll try this," Alex picked up a random brush to go with it. The brunette began to spread contour across Y/n's face. After a few moments of contouring, Alex was finally happy with the amount he placed on his girlfriend's face. "I find it amusing how we're not even talking, we're just focusing on the makeup," Y/n laughed, watching Alex go through her makeup once again. "I kinda wish I told everyone before so we'd be able to answer some of their questions," Alex replied, glancing back at his girlfriend. "I have a question," Y/n smiled. "When did you realize you had feelings for me?" "I think it had to be that one night we went out to that one fancy restaurant that had just opened. We went out with a couple of friends, but seeing you all dressed up... I think that's when I realized it," Alex responded. "What about you, cutie?" "It had to be when I spent the night, cooking with you was so fun and you let me steal one of your hoodies," Y/n grinned. "Bronzer," Alex mumbled, reading a small container. "I think I have a clue what this is used for." "Oh?" "Isn't it to highlight your face or something?" Alex asked, grabbing a small brush to use for the bronzer. "Sorta," Y/n smiled, watching her boyfriend. Gently, Alex pressed one of his hands against Y/n's neck, making her hold place as he began to place the bronzer on her face. Y/n held her breath as he did, something about Alex having a hand on her neck felt right. It felt good. Slowly, she bit her lip as she paid attention to how her boyfriend focused on her makeup. Soon enough, the feeling of Alex's hand left Y/n's neck as he pulled away. Yet, he still flashed a quick smirk at Y/n before fully turning back to the table to pick something new out. A smile reappeared on Alex's face as he went back to looking at the makeup, "Is it time for the eyeshadow?" "Is it?" "I think it is." For a moment, Alex's hands lingered around the brushes as he tried to decide with one he'd use for her eyeshadow. Y/n watched his hand, he wore a few rings on his hand. She had no clue why, but she adored the fact Alex wore rings, something was just so attractive about him wearing rings. One of the rings he was wearing at the moment was black with gold bits. Was it a Gucci ring? Probably. Finally, Alex picked out a decent brush before opening the palette. "I think I'm gonna give you a pink and gold look," Alex looked at all the different colors before finally deciding to bury his brush into the pink named 'Trisha'. Alex placed the palette down and buried his free hand into Y/n's hair, yanking her hair back to make her head lean back. Y/n bit her lip, fighting off the urge to let out a noise from Alex's sudden action. She peeked one of her eyes open to see a small smirk on Alex's face. He knew what he was doing. "What's going on here?" "We're filming a video, George. So you might want to go put on your disguise," Alex responded. Y/n kept her eyes shut, listening to their voices. "Nah, I know you'll just blur my face out if I come into frame," George replied. "Ooh, Makeup? Are we doing Y/n's makeup? Lemme join." "Absolutely not," Alex replied, his rip on Y/n's hair loosening as he spoke to his flatmate. "Awh, c'mon! Y/n! Tell Alex I can join, I bet I can do better than him," George began to whine. "George, you literally tried to use eyeshadow to turn Alex into Mike Wazoski," Y/n replied, not bothering to open her eyes. "Boo!" George responded, finally heading back into his room. "Alright, back to what we were doing," Alex spoke once his flatmate was out of sight, once again his grip tightened on Y/n's hair. Y/n fought back the need to let out a moan. "You alright, Y/n?" "Just peachy," Y/n practically whined. "You don't sound like it." "Shut up, Alex," Y/n let out a giggle. After a few moments, Alex finally pulled his hand out of Y/n's hair. He turned back to the table, closing the palette and going back through the makeup. "Uh, mascara? No, Eyeliner I think," Alex finally picked up a black eyeliner that held gold cursive on the side of it. "Close your eyes, cutie." Y/n bit her lip as she followed instructions. She felt the tip of her eyeliner against her skin. After a moment, Alex told her she could open her eyes again. "I'm not even gonna try with the mascara, I might poke your eyes out," Alex shook his head at the sight of the black tube sitting on the coffee table ominously. "Finally, lipstick," Alex muttered, looking through the different shades Y/n owned. He decided on a soft pink shade before turning to Y/n. Gently, he applied the lipstick, Y/n watching as he did so. "Wait, I think something's missing from your lips, lemme just-" Alex leaned in, pressing his lips against Y/n's. Y/n smiled into the kiss, leaning closer as she placed a hand on her boyfriend's thigh. They broke apart from the kiss before they would begin to make out. After all, they were still filming. "Now I need to reapply your lipstick," Alex clicked his tongue. Y/n only shook her head with a small giggle. Once Alex was happy with his work, he placed the lipstick down. "I think I'm done." "You sure?" "Yes." "You forgot the blush." "...Fuck."

Taglist:

@daddydobrock​

@anyasthoughts​

@multifandom-but​

[problematicfavesareproblematic]

On Days Like This (Part 3)

Carwood Lipton x Reader

Summary: ooh girl we got a spicy filler chapter IN THIS BITCH.

Carwood had woken up before you the morning after you’d made love with him with a stupid grin on his face and an excited flutter in his heart.

If the blissful soreness in his sated body didn’t serve as confirmation enough that last night had indeed happened, the soft weight of your bare thigh over his provided more than enough evidence of the contrary.

Your nude body was a sight to behold, the beginnings of bruises from his biting kisses across her chest had just begun to blossom in the dim light coming in from the streetlight outside of the hotel room window. He hadn’t realized he’d made them at the time, too lost in the taste of your skin and  the rolls of your hips.

The sweet way you sighed his name, lips trembling so beautifully he felt he had no choice but to give you anything and everything that you were begging for….

Carefully, not wanting to wake you just yet, Lip rolled onto his side so he could prop himself up on his elbow and admire your peaceful expression.

You obviously had not grown up being told how beautiful you were- it was obvious in the way your face would turn bright pink and you’d turn away whenever he informed you of how lovely he found you, how brave and smart you were. How lucky he was to know you.

How lucky he felt to have been deemed worthy of your affection.

You’d only recently stopped smacking him in the arm whenever he tried to compliment you, and he considered it a victory the first time you simply pulled a face and thanked him without argument.

You’re entirely biased but thank you Lip, that’s very sweet of you to say. Now stop looking at me like that, we’re at work….

He liked the way you said his name- any of his names, really. Lip, Car, Carwood, Sgnt Lipton, Sir—

Thinking of your lips wrapping around the word Sir had his cock twitching instantly, and he had to consciously make an effort to put that thought aside in order to continue enjoying his rare opportunity to observe you at complete peace.

It wasn’t just sex, it hadn’t been sex at all until last night.

It had just….been, he supposed. 

From the moment the two of you had met, he’d just felt like something about you fit. One day you hadn’t been there and then one day you were and suddenly he couldn’t imagine a day going by without seeing you at least once. You were easy to like, friendly and bright and could tinker just about anything back to life with little more than some elbow grease and a few strategically placed wires.

Even if he wasn’t in love with you, he knew he’d be in awe of you.

But he was in love with you- and even though he knew that the two of you needed to talk about how you were going to make this work, he couldn’t bring himself to worry about that right now.

Not with you nestled beside him, sex mussed and at complete ease.

Yeah, that conversation could wait. 

As lightly as he could, Carwood brings his free hand up and brushes his fingertips across the pink splotches he’d left up your sternum, a sigh of wonder escaping his lips as he watches the wave of goosebumps following his touch like a wave washing up some pristine shoreline.

Following the path of your collarbone he traced the lines of your shoulders, your neck.

Each freckle, acne scar, and knick of old injury he encountered was given attention and committed to memory- learning the bare skin of your upper body like some precious map. 

He wasn’t sure if you would be as stupidly pleased as he seemed to be upon waking up, so he decided to be selfish and enjoy each moment with you that he could.

Just in case.

As his thumbnail trails the underside of your breast you suddenly take a deep breath, brow wrinkling as you begin to stir.

Guilt instantly fills him. He hadn’t meant to wake you up— the sun still hadn’t even yet begun to light up the balmy sky outside.

But when you did open your eyes you only furrowed your brow for a few moments until he watched the tell-tale ache of your lower half register on your face and you smirk.

Sliding your sleepy gaze to him, you bring a hand up to rest on the side of his neck.

“Hey,” you grumble, your voice thick and warm. Lip brings his hand up to rest over yours, taking your hand in his and bringing it to his lips to press kisses on your knuckles.

“Hi.”

Closing your eyes again, you arch your back up off of the bed and Lip can hear the satisfying pop of some of your tense joints. His eyes find themselves locked onto the rise of your breasts at the action, and when you catch him staring you lightly flick his nose.

“Pervert.” You chide, smiling as he scowls and turning to nuzzle your face into the warm spot between his neck and shoulder. “Not even trying to be subtle—”

“Sorry, ma’am.” he says, unable to keep the smile out of his voice when you throw your leg over his hip and push him so he’s now laying on his back. He pulls you with him so you’re lying half atop him, and like with most things between the two of you he found himself at ease once more.

“Can’t help it if you make me forget my manners—”

“Oooh, smooth.” you praise with a quiet chuckle, breath tickling his earlobe. “Well done, Sir”

There was that title again- Sir.

You must've felt the shift in him, because suddenly you’re straddling his lap and looking down on him with a wicked grin.

“Clifford Carwood Lipton,” you admonish with an expression of faux-severity, sliding your hands up his chest appreciatively. “I’m surprised at you—”

“I’m amazed by you.” he says sincerely, catching the way your brows shoot up in surprise for just a moment before you regain control.

He watches as you narrow your eyes at him playfully, letting that wicked smirk paint your face once more.

“You’ve already slept with me, Car. There’s no need to lay it on so thick.”

He shakes his head, and when he sits up his hands hold your waist to keep you in his lap. 

Your smirk is gone, a hesitant look of wanting in your eyes as you take his face gently in your hands.

“If you think I’m going to stop telling you how much I care about you because I've made love to you, you;ve got another thing coming.”

You blush at that, going even redder at the phrase ‘making love’.

“I know that you’re just being sincere, but i think it’s important you know I’m not….used to that.”

You’re looking at him with vulnerability in your eyes, and if he wasn’t so touched that you were trusting him enough to do so he would’ve kissed you until you forgot every disappointment that had brought you to question his honesty and intentions in the first place.

He nods, and when you don’t say anything else he begins to knead at the muscles at the base of your spine, the comforting motion seeming to refocus you and set you at ease once more.

“I was worried I’d dreamed it.” you admitted, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your chest to his as he pulled you close. “Last night, i mean—”

He can’t stop the pride from swelling in his chest when you say that, and he must’ve shown it on his face because you laugh and duck a kiss to his lips.

Your lips feel colder now.

“How are you real?” you ask when you pull back a bit. Carwood opens his mouth to ask you the same thing when his words die in his throat.

He could’ve sworn you hadn’t fallen asleep in a nightgown, that you hadn’t been wearing a nightgown at all when you’d just kissed him.

Your brow furrows, and when you whisper his name again you sound worried.

“What’s wrong?” you asked softly. Lip said nothing, shaking his head as he saw that the hem of your nightgown was torn and dirty. 

In horror, Lip watched as the white shift you wore aged to a dingy grey before his eyes, your face becoming sunken and bruised as you looked at him with concern in your bloodshot eyes.

“Lip, why are you looking at me like that?”

Your hands are ice cold when they come up to hold his face, and when he flinches you frown and blink at him slowly.

“Y/N,” he began, his voice dying in his throat as the walls of the hotel room fell away and he saw that they weren’t in Georgia at all. “You’re too cold, you’re going to get sick…”

You laughed at that, a cough corrupting the happy sound and robbing you of your breath.

“Oh, darling,” you say once you’ve recovered from your coughing fit. “You’re the one who is sick.”

You’re right, he thinks as the ache in his chest slowly returns. You’re always right.

“I don;t want to lose you.” he whispers, your figure becoming less and less solid with each teary blink of his eyes. He clutches at your dirty shift and squeezes you as tightly to him as he can, vainly hoping that if he held you tightly enough, he’d wake up with you in his arms.

Your limbs wrap around him, and when you kiss his cheek he cries harder.

“That’s good to hear, Lip. Cause I don’t want to be lost.”

He knows he has to wake up now, already becoming aware of the rawness of his throat from all of the coughing he’d done. 

Just a few minutes more, just a little bit longer….

When Lip opens his eyes, he’s still in the truck driving towards town, having fallen asleep in the back next to Bull and Johnny Martin under a communal pile of blankets.

“Got a ways to go yet, Sarge.” he hears George Luz say from somewhere to his left. “Might as well try to catch some more shut eye….”

Lipton doesn’t need to be told twice, instantly burrowing deeper into his coat and squeezing his eyes shut.

If he was lucky, he could still catch you before you left his mind completely. 

And this time he wasn’t going to let you go.

(Hello Hi, I meant to just write this for me/to draw inspo from for future things but I kinda loved it more than I intended to so here you go.)x