#and five fleece blankets

[newdayslinguine]

So excited for the american food but absolutely dreading being separated from my blankets

[nadvs]

cam girl (part five)

pairing rafe cameron x female reader

rating explicit 18+

summary you work two jobs. by day, you’re a maid for the cameron household, where rafe degrades you any chance he can get. by night, you’re a cam girl, hiding your face so nobody can recognize you. when you discover your new subscriber, the filthy-mouthed man obsessively paying you to do everything he can think of, is rafe, you’re not sure what to do next.

» masterlist

+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*

You were too tired to wake up to your alarm. You snoozed for an extra hour under a mountain of blankets, drifting in and out of consciousness.

When you finally feel ready to start your Sunday, it’s almost 10, and your mind slowly pieces together everything that happened last night.

Rafe has become your sugar daddy. There’s no doubt about it, no other word for it. At this point, you’re sure he’s given you almost ten grand.

You remain lying in bed and pick up your phone to see he texted you five minutes ago. After the $3000 transfer last night, you had quickly saved his number.

Rafe: sore?

You reply: as fuck.

Rafe: you loved it

You roll your eyes. Of course you loved it.

You think of the way he spoke to you, mumbling that you’re beautiful and praising the sounds you made. The way he thrusted into you and called your pussy so fucking perfect. The way his skin slapped against yours with his rough jolts. Remembering it makes your stomach twist with arousal.

You reply: so did you

Your phone buzzes again.

Rafe: send an ass pic

You: are you always horny?

Rafe: pretty much. woke up hard

You: and i’m the needy one… lmao

Rafe: are u sending it or not

You smile to yourself at how bad he wants you. You push the blankets off your body. You had fallen asleep in a cold room, your radiator refusing to come back to life no matter how hard you tried, so you’re covered head to toe under fleece pajamas.

The way Rafe reacted to your heat being broken replays in your mind. He seemed so dumbfounded by the idea that you couldn’t just fix something without worrying about the cost.

Then he sent you the exact amount you need to fix it. The fact that you can ask for however much you want and he’ll probably send it without hesitation still throws you for a loop. It’s an odd feeling not having to worry about money.

Thankfully, the morning sun has warmed up your bedroom. You pull your pants and underwear down in one smooth movement, turn onto your front and angle your phone camera.

You can smell Rafe on your pillow. The aroma of his cologne is so unbelievably nice, memories already connected to it.

You lie on your back again, pulling the blanket over you, and send him the photo, a low angle image of your naked asscheeks. You gaze at your screen, anticipating what he’ll say.

But he doesn’t send any words. Just a picture. Your eyes travel over the bulge making a tent in his black boxer briefs. You can see the trail of soft, light hair that leads down to his cock.

Your body tightens at the image. He felt so damn good last night. You can’t wait until the next time he’s inside you.

You text: wish u were here?

Rafe: i’d fuck u even harder than i did last night

You: you wouldn’t make me wait hours for it? wow…

Rafe: you’re so wet right now aren’t you

You can imagine the way he’d say that. He’s so smug. And so right. You dip a hand below the blanket between your legs, your soft folds drenched.

maybe, you reply.

Rafe: you took my cock so good

You bite your lip reading his words. The photo of his covered erection isn’t enough. You need more.

You: show me it

Rafe: you’d like that huh

You: i can just find some porn if you won’t do it

Rafe: don’t even fucking joke about getting off to some other guy’s dick

You smirk. You got to him like you hoped you would.

You: what? i can’t tease you too?

Rafe: no

You: send me a pic then. u know i deserve it

Rafe: only good girls deserve it

You: idk if good girls play with their pussies on camera… maybe i should stop doing that

Rafe: shut up. ur doing it for me every night

He’s so damn worked up that it’s funny. You shrug to yourself, opening another app, letting him sweat.

Your phone buzzes moments later, a notification from him dropping from the top of your screen.

Rafe: ???

You reply: you told me to shut up. i’m listening

He only texts your name.

You: rafe :)

A picture finally comes in. You take in the image of his dick, glad you finally have a chance to appreciate him in brighter lighting. The other photos that he sent over the cam chat were so dark, but now you can see the veins that run down his shaft, the swell of the tip, his large hand gripping the base.

You don’t think you could ever get tired of it.

You: am i allowed to touch myself?

Even through the power struggle between you two, you love giving him the control of when you can orgasm.

Rafe: if you promise me something

You: what?

Rafe: i can watch you play with your asshole tonight

Jesus. He’s unhinged. When he sent that message telling you that you’ll be doing a lot of new things with him, he wasn’t kidding.

The thought of doing this for him is stirring. None of the other guys on cam ever asked for anything like that.

You: i can do that

Rafe: get the toy i bought you. text when ur ready

You drop your phone and rush to find the vibrator, feeling like you’re throbbing now. When you’re all adjusted, you text him: ready.

Your breath hitches as the toy starts to buzz at a brutalizing intensity. You cross your legs, squeeze your chest, and groan as you think about him.

You orgasm within a minute. It feels good, but not as good as when Rafe is actually with you. With him, it’s a new level of ecstasy. Fuck. He may have ruined masturbation for you.

You pick up your phone.

You: might have to go back to sleep after that…

Your phone flashes a notification of $100 being transferred into your digital wallet.

Rafe: order breakfast for yourself

The amount he sent is ridiculous. What kind of place does he get breakfast from?

You doze off again, waking up half an hour later. After ordering food, you send Rafe a screenshot of the confirmation receipt and text: thanks baby <3

Rafe: did u call about the heat yet

You reply: i will

Rafe: do it now

You: bossy

Rafe: now

God, does he love to be in control. You follow his instructions and find the repair place you called last time and make an appointment to get your radiator replaced tomorrow afternoon.

It’s an unreal feeling - your problem being solved in the snap of a finger. This is a little taste of wealth.

You know not to read into it. Rafe’s not doing any of this of the kindness of his heart. Spoiling you is obviously one of the many things he gets off on. But you’re happy to go along with it. Especially considering $3000 is pocket change to this man.

When breakfast is dropped off, you notice a box addressed to you sitting in front of your door. You open it to find a new webcam. Rafe mentioned he’d buy it yesterday. He moves fast.

The day feels long and at 10 pm, you finally log on with the hope that Rafe will do what he did last night and come over instead of making you crave him throughout your session, leaving you to fuck yourself while fantasizing about him.

You’re wearing the ‘princess’ top you bought with his money, matching with pink underwear.

He joins the session and lust fires through you already.

“Hey,” you purr. “How’s the new camera look?”

figure8: much better

figure8 tipped you $100.

“What’s that for?” you giggle.

figure8: for looking so pretty

“Thanks, baby,” you say. “Is this pretty, too?”

You immediately turn onto your knees, looking back at the camera at the sight of your lace panties stretched over your ass.

figure8: goddamn

You smile.

figure8: you get me hard in a fucking second

“Yeah?” you coo. “Did you like my ass pic today?”

figure8: fuck yes. you ever done anal?

You laugh at how direct he is. You never have to wonder what Rafe’s thinking.

You hadn’t gone into that territory, but something about Rafe made you feel adventurous. “No, but maybe I’d try it with you.”

figure8: maybe?

“Depends on your mood,” you say.

figure8: the fuck does that mean

“I had to cum three times for you the other day. But yesterday, you wouldn’t let me do it for fucking hours.” You shrug. “If you make me wait that long again, you’re not getting anything.”

figure8: its honestly really fucking cute how you think you make the rules lol

“Shut up.”

figure8: im not getting anything… sure. i didnt let u cum all day but you were still begging me to fuck you last night

“I hate you,” you laugh.

figure8: you love me and this dick

figure 8: let me see you squeeze your ass

You’re so turned on already, resting your hands on your ass and kneading the flesh. You roam over your skin, fondling and grabbing, then move your fingers to the back of your thighs and bounce your asscheeks for him with your hands.

figure8: fuckkk just like that

“You like these panties?” you ask. The lace leaves nothing to the imagination.

figure8: i wanna see them ripped off

“These were expensive,” you pout.

figure8 tipped you $500.

figure8: there, you can buy more

“God, how much do you think they cost?” you laugh.

figure8: rip them off right now

You dip your fingers beneath the frilly border of the underwear and try to pull them apart. The lace digs into your skin and you finally hear a tear, the fabric giving way.

You watch your image in the screen, the pink lace pulling apart over your asscheeks.

figure8: shake ur ass

You oblige, arching your back, imagining him sitting behind you, big hands on your waist while you writhe and bounce for him.

figure8: let me see ur asshole

The request is probably the most obscene thing he’s ever asked of you. But you like that he does this, that he pushes you into new experiences.

You’re shaking with arousal as you watch yourself obey his orders, spreading open for him.

figure8: holy fucking shit

figure8: i know you’d loooove it up the ass

figure8: get close so i can see you suck on your finger

You’re puzzled at the request, but you obey anyways, turning to face the screen. You shift closer to your laptop and seductively stick your forefinger into your hot mouth, sucking it with quiet moans.

You’re reminded of how he shoved his finger in your mouth last night. Shit, last night was perfect.

figure8: is it nice and wet?

“Mhm.”

figure8: wanna put that finger in your ass for me?

You bite your lip, apprehension inching up your skin. He seems to notice your nervousness.

figure8: nice and slow, baby. you can do it

You nod, turning to spread your ass for him again, then slowly push your digit into your tight hole. You breathe through the pressure, dipping each inch of your finger in with caution, finding pleasure in the new sensation.

figure8: hows it feel?

“Good,” you breathe. You sit up to grab the lube in your nightstand that you bought when you started camming and sit in front of the camera, opening the bottle.

“You want me to try two fingers?” you ask.

figure8: fuck yes

You squeeze the slippery liquid onto your forefinger and middle finger and get onto all fours, angling your ass towards the camera.

When you slip both fingers inside, you arch your back and breathe shakily. Your eyes squeeze shut as you enter your body in a new way for him.

As hot as it is to be doing this for him, now that you’ve had a taste of what it’s like having his body melt into yours, you need him. This just isn’t satisfying enough anymore.

figure8: u like that?

“Mhm,” you moan. “Maybe it’d be better if I try with the dildo?”

You get the reaction you were hoping for.

figure8: the first dick in that ass isn’t gonna be some toy. it’ll be mine, you understand?

“Okay,” you say, brows furrowed, a tone of disappointment in your voice.

figure8: you want it tonight, don’t you?

“Yeah, baby,” you whimper, writhing in anticipation. “I want it tonight.”

figure8 tipped you $1000.

figure8 has left the session.

You smirk to yourself. It seems like this’ll be your and Rafe’s special version of foreplay. Maybe you’ll always begin with a cam show he pays you for, the same way you two started this wild affair, and then he’ll race over and have his way with you.

You decide to pull off your shirt so you can greet him fully naked.

When you hear his knock at the door, your skin prickles with anticipation. Rafe comes in frenzied, slamming the door behind him, grabbing your face in his hands and pushing you back into your bedroom.

“Already naked for me,” he rasps, standing in the middle of your bedroom, holding you, towering over you. “My needy girl.”

“Don’t make me wait any longer, then,” you whisper.

Rafe guides you onto your bed, hovering over top of you, his lips hungrily kissing and sucking on your mouth over and over.

With your back against your sheets, you roll your body beneath his, the sensation of his jeans and t-shirt rubbing on your bare skin wildly sexy.

You swear you can feel his cock jerk under his jeans and you breathe out a contented sigh.

“What?” he asks, pulling back with his forehead still pressed against yours.

“Your cock is twitching,” you tease, slipping your hand under his shirt to feel his hot skin. You pull his shirt off and toss it onto the floor.

Rafe lifts his body slightly and dips his hand between your legs, making you sharply inhale as he spreads your lips apart.

“And you’re so fucking wet,” he replies, like he’s trying to one-up you. You shudder as his fingers run up and down your slit.

He brings his hand up to suck on the tips of his fingers, hard eyes on you, and you feel like you might lose your mind over how hot the shared moment is.

“You taste so good,” he says, voice rough. He comes back down to kiss you hard, then shifts to put his mouth on your tits.

You jerk when he grazes a nipple with his teeth, a moan spilling out of your lips. Your eyes flutter shut, feeling him pinch and grip you.

“I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t walk,” Rafe says against your cleavage. “You want that?”

“Yes, yes, please.”

“My good girl,” he praises. You hear him fumbling with his jeans, the zipper slipping down quickly, and he plunges into you with no warning, with such a rough blow that you whimper.

You feel your body swallow his thickness, stretching to adjust to his size. He curves into you so perfectly.

Rafe pulls back and rocks into you again, your body jolting with his pressure. His chest is pressed against yours and he shifts to the side to put his hand at your throat, long fingers around your neck.

He squeezes gently, still pounding into you.

“Tighter,” you whisper.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he says with a breathy laugh, like he can’t believe that you exist, that you’re taking him like this.

His fingers tighten on the sides of your neck as the sound of smacking flesh fills your bedroom. You grunt with every heavenly pump he gives you, his balls swinging against your ass.

“You take it so good,” he breathes. You tilt your head back, letting his big hand grip your neck better. You’re so grateful he didn’t torment you by making you wait this time.

“Get on top,” Rafe groans into your ear, drawing out of you. “I wanna watch you ride me.”

His hands find your hips as he helps pull you over him. With your palms against his firm pecs, you sink onto him, his cock hitting a new angle.

“Fuck,” you choke out. “Oh, my God, Rafe.”

“You like that, huh, baby?” he says, dimples framing his cocky smile.

You start to bounce with your legs bent and framing his torso, leaning forward so your clit rubs around the base of his cock. The feeling of him filling you and the friction against your sensitive spot makes your eyes roll back in your head.

Your heart starts to pound harder as you massage yourself with his dick, grinding at the perfect pace. You look down at him, meeting his blue eyes, as you roll your hips so you can feel him in every possible way.

You dip your head, panting and moaning as he grips your hips. You’ve never wanted to scream from pleasure so badly.

“I know, princess,” he drawls. “I know it feels good.”

The waves of pleasure are so damn nice that you moan and cover your mouth with your hand so your neighbors don’t hear how loud you’re being.

Rafe roughly grabs your wrist and pulls your hand down.

“Don’t do that,” he instructs.

“My neighbors-“

“Let ‘em hear how much you love this dick,” he says. You feel like you could cum from his words alone.

“F-fuck,” you stammer, grinding faster and harder. “Oh, fuck.”

“You gonna cum?” he teases. A part of you is afraid he’ll push himself out of you, delay your orgasm.

“Please let me,” you whine, “please, baby.”

“I’ll let you,” Rafe says with an amused chuckle. “God, you’re my fucking dream girl.”

The pleasure spikes in you so damn high that you feel your limbs go numb. You cry out as you dissolve into pleasure in its purest form, continuing to ride him as the orgasm hits you, tightening around him in pulses.

“There you go,” he says soothingly, encouragingly.

You bend over on top of him, resting your cheek on his chest, hearing his heart. Rafe’s warm hand strokes up and down your back as you spasm on top of him.

As your gasps slow down, his hands find your ass. He jiggles your cheeks in his hands and you giggle breathily.

“You gonna let me cum in that ass?” he asks you.

“You can cum anywhere you want,” you breathe, feeling cockdrunk. Rafe’s chest rumbles with his laugh.

You sit up and slowly pull yourself off of him, his hard cock bobbing once it’s out of you.

Even though you’re sure you already made his cock wet enough, you hand him the bottle of lube before getting on all fours on your bed. You look back at him to see him slathering his cock with lube.

“I’ll go slow, princess,” he promises. “I’ll stretch you out first.”

You squeeze your pillow and place it so that you can sink your face into it as he fucks you. With your head dug into the soft cotton, you feel Rafe’s big hands grope your ass.

He spreads your cheeks apart and groans.

“Every part of you is so pretty,” he huffs. “You gonna take my cock in any hole I want, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you moan, muscles still weak from your orgasm.

You feel a finger slowly enter you and you arch your back, eyes squeezing shut. It’s so new but so fucking nice. The pressure is higher than when you did it on camera for him, his finger bigger than yours.

“There you go,” he coaches as he pushes deeper inside of you. “Shit, it’s so fucking tight. I’m gonna cum in a second, baby, I know it.”

“Fuck, Rafe,” you mumble. “It feels amazing.”

He adds a second finger, working in and out to stretch you out some more. You push back against his fingers to encourage him to go deeper.

“I want to fuck your ass so hard right now,” he groans on the verge of a whine.

“Do it,” you say. “I’m ready. Do it.”

His fingers pull out of you and you feel him spit on you, warm saliva dribbling over your opening. Finally, you feel the tip of his cock start to push into your ass.

The pressure stings as he buries into you and you try not to slump, you try to stay firm for him.

“Oh, my God,” he moans as he fills you. “Fucking… Oh, my fuck…”

His raw, untamed rambling gives you a sense of willpower to stay still and ignore your body’s impulse to pull away from the unfamiliar pain.

Rafe finally presses his base against your ass, filling your hole up completely.

He retreats, giving you some relief, then pounds into you again. The feeling is a good pain as he starts to thrash in and out, his fingers so tight on your hips that you know he’ll bruise you.

He pulls away a hand and you suddenly feel a hard smack on your ass that makes you gasp. He keeps fucking you hard, plunging in and out with a frenzied pace.

“You like it, princess?” he says between breaths. “You like it up the ass? I was right, wasn’t I?”

“Yes,” you groan, the feeling pleasurable now that you’re getting used to it. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

“It’s not just your pussy that’s mine, is it?” he taunts. “It’s your ass. Your mouth. Your tits. All of you. Fucking all of you.”

His claim of ownership on you is so fucking intoxicating that you almost forget all this is supposed to be is hot, casual sex.

You push away the thought, refusing to let it ruin things. This is just fun. This is all this is.

“Goddamn, and you were just…” he groans as he keeps fucking you. “You were just… fuck, just always around and looking so fucking hot. I never thought I’d get to fuck you.”

You bite your lip at his words, lost in the feeling of a man wanting you this bad. Of Rafe wanting you this bad. You knew he loved to tease you, but shit, he was yearning for you this much whenever you came to clean his house?

“Oh, fuck…” Rafe’s deep voice gives out as you feel him pulse his hot cum into you, his body jerking against you.

He eventually slowly pulls out and you feel his hand slowly rub over the curve of your ass.

“Stay like this,” he says. “I wanna watch my cum drip out of you.” Just when you think he can’t get any filthier, Rafe surprises you. Every damn time.

Once he’s satisfied, you feel him plant a kiss on your ass before he shifts away to put on his underwear.

Your smile is slack as you drop onto your side, hand resting on your forehead. You feel utterly fucked out. He didn’t lie. You won’t be able to walk tomorrow. You watch his chest rise and fall when he lies down next to you.

Again, Rafe surprises you that he’s staying, even if it’s just a little while. He seems like such a fuck and chuck kind of guy. It’s what you expected. Kind of what you welcomed.

He looks at you, amused by how hard you’re gasping for breath.

“Damn, you won’t even need your heat on tonight, huh?” Rafe says. “Gave you a whole fucking workout.”

“If it’ll be like this every night, I’ll cancel,” you joke lazily.

“Cancel?”

“Mhm,” you say tiredly, eyes closing.

“What do you mean?”

“What do you mean?” you whisper.

He says your name stern enough that you pop open your eyes.

“I’ll cancel the appointment,” you clarify.

“They didn’t already fix it?”

“Tomorrow was the soonest they could do.” His brows furrow in what looks like anger. You can’t help but chuckle a little. “What’s the big deal?”

“So, you spend another night cold?”

“It’s not that bad,” you say. “I have lots of blankets… and…” You yawn. “A space heater… and… my pajamas…”

You realize you’re lying on top of a thin sheet completely naked but you’re too exhausted to care that you’ll wake up cold. It’s like Rafe fucked the energy out of you.

“I have to lock the door behind you,” you remember. You sit up, rubbing your eyes so you stay alert. “I don’t know if you realized but this isn’t a gated community.”

“Should I… uh, do you want a hotel room or something?” Rafe asks.

You look at him, his head on your pillow, his hair a mess, and offer him a confused smile.

“Hotel?” you repeat.

“If it’s gonna be cold in here.”

“Oh, that radiator has broken a million times,” you say. “I’ve survived a lot of cold nights. I don’t need a penthouse suite.”

Rafe gazes at you with an indistinguishable look.

You feel a bit awkward now. You know he’ll leave eventually, but if he doesn’t do it now, you’ll pass out and he’ll leave the door unlocked.

You stand to keep yourself awake, finding a clean pair of underwear and an oversized t-shirt.

“Same time tomorrow?” you try to joke.

“I can stay and…” he says. He sits up, his hair falling over his forehead, his stomach flexing. “Uh, I can… hold you. If you want. So you’re not cold.”

You stand in the middle of your small room, looking down at Rafe, and can’t help but notice how out of place he looks. His large, half-naked frame on your small double bed, his expensive clothes drawn out on your squeaky, scratched up floor, offering to cuddle you to sleep.

This is supposed to be purely sexual. You’ve been having fun and adding to your bank account, while letting him live out his fantasies to sexually and financially dominate the help. That’s all you are to him: a depraved cam girl who cleans his house. Right?

But now, he’s acting… well, nice. Like he’s not just a fuck buddy who gets turned on by giving you money and buying you things. And it’s unexpected.

You’re not sure what to do.

{ read part six here }

[eilidh-eternal]

You don't like silence

Part of the Metanoia series | Part 1 | Masterlist |

| SingleDad!Johnny x f!reader | 18+ MDNI | Johnny’s accent is thicker when he’s tired/talks to his family | CW grief, depression spiral, feelings of inadequacy, loss of appetite | Everyone has big feelings |

The house is silent, but inside your head a brumous storm swirls, wispy tendrils of fog curling around delicate gray matter.

Your routine—watching Johnny walk Isobel to school, going to work and coming home, just in time to glimpse Johnny leaving to retrieve her—has changed.

You still watch from the window, mug bleeding warmth into cold, stiff joints from between your palms. Peer around the curtains every morning as the pair amble down the pavement together. 

A new month brings a steady influx of meetings and end of quarter reporting, projected sales and last minute production tweaks, but your days are no busier than normal. Rarely miss a lunch break. Leave no later than three each afternoon. 

Dinner, if you have any, is ready by five.

Even so, restlessness lingers in the midnight moons hanging beneath your eyes, darkens the air around you with somnolent clouds, and you list in the torpid deluge that rains down. 

Sleep evades you altogether most nights, and you’ve made a game of picking out patterns in the knockdown. Faces, animals; nebulous, nameless things. 

Some nights, when the faces of strangers, burned into your retinas, find their way into the patterns of textured drywall, you listen.

Isobels room must be on the other side of yours, beds sharing a wall. On the nights you manage to make it upstairs, you can hear them both. Isobel’s slow and measured pronunciations. The lilt of Johnny’s voice, filling in the blanks where she pauses on a word she doesn’t yet know. 

They’ve finished all of her animal books, which means the imitated roars of big cats and bleats of farmyard animals have morphed into exaggerated accents. Sing-song rhymes about the importance of kindness, accepting differences, and other life lessons told through colorful illustrations and whimsical narratives.

Every now and then, if you’re lucky, she falls asleep within a few pages, and you can pretend that the low, pillowy rumble of Johnny reading is just for you. A gentle coaxing made of velvety words, swaddling your mind, heavy with exhaustion, and cradling it to his chest against the maelstrom you’re spiraling in.

Sometimes she stirs, woken hours later in the placid, milky hours before dawn, just as your eyes begin to droop. Tiny feet patter across the hardwood like rain, muffled in uneven intervals by what must be a rug or runner in the hall, on her way to Johnny’s room or the washroom maybe.

You wonder if it’s full of frilly, feminine things, her room. Pinks and purples, dolls and plushies. Does she have princesses or ballerinas on her bedding? Do posters and drawings line her walls or does floral, pasted wallpaper? 

She likes Mulan, you remember. A warrior. Fighter. Soldier. Like Johnny. 

Probably not so frilly, then.

Perhaps they could make a fighter out of you. Press you into the mold of their little family–strengthened by loss and galvanized with love–and breathe life into clay limbs. Carve a soldier from the malleable earth. Shape you into something useful.

Now, most of your nights are spent huddled in the living room, listening to the droning of the television. Throw blankets suck you down into the sofa like quicksand and each breath draws them tighter and tighter around you, filling pockets of air with crushed velvet and fleece. Tonight, you let them swallow you whole. Sink willingly into a latibule of plaid and warm cashmere.

The cold and quiet of your empty home isn’t so bad when you can hear Johnny moving about on the other side of the wall. Isn’t so unbearable when the warm timbre of his voice chases away the numbing fog that muddles your head.

There are nights that he calls you, like he knows. Knows that you're drowning in the silence.

He does that now, after he puts Isobel to bed for the night. Calls to ask about your week. Casts a lifeline into the churning ocean between you, procellous waves lofting you on spuming peaks, and calls your name from the battered, broken shore.

A lighthouse calling to a ship, lost in the mist on a perilous sea.

Last Thursday he asked about the cookies you made with Isobel. Asked if you would be willing to share the recipe with him–teach him–so that he could make them with her for a school event coming up in the spring. 

The tenderness with which he speaks of her is a balmy breeze for your gelid heart. Soothes the burn of ice floes in your veins. Melts weeks of tension from aching muscles.

Now, his voice is somber, pensive, as it filters through the lack of insulation between you. “Friday. No, ah havnae told ‘er yet. Jus’ got the call.” He pauses, and you think you hear a muffled sigh. He sounds tired, too, accent thicker than honeyed whiskey rolling off his tongue, dropping consonants in favor of deep, throaty vowels. “Aye, ah ken. She’ll be happy tae see ye though.”

He’s on the phone, talking about Isobel. They must have family visiting soon, or a family friend if Isobel knows them well enough to be excited.

You wonder what the MacTavish family is like, if they’re a rowdy bunch. If they’re a large, extended family. Johnny seems like the kind of man who comes from a close knit community, one where you grow up down the street from your cousins and spend summers terrorizing small towns together.

“I’ll talk tae ‘er in the mornin’. Ah- No.” There’s a pause again, and even with layers of sheetrock separating you, you can feel the weight of his silence. “No, Mam. She’s… ah worry. Leavin’ ‘er like this. Piss poor timin’.” 

He’s leaving? Without Isobel?

It’s muffled through the wall, and you feel like you can’t have heard that correctly. He mentioned the army, but you had thought, with a child at home, that his work wouldn't be the sort that requires travel. 

Ice floes turn to glaciers in your chest, frozen spikes threatening to pierce brittle, fragile muscle, and the clouds swirling overhead descend upon you.

Lost in the mist, and he’s leaving. 

He’s leaving, and he’s taking the sun with him. 

“Ye cannae keep it from the lassie forever, John. Ye havnae even told 'er what ye do?” 

Christ, this woman…

“She knows ‘bout the army,” he defends. “Cannae say much more.”

Fenella MacTavish clucks her disapproval. “Ye’re heids full of mince.” Dishes clatter and a cupboard closes a bit too forcefully on the other end of the line. 

Johnny runs a hand through the disheveled strands of his hair, overdue for a trim, well outside of regulation length. “Mam—”

“Dinnae ‘Mam’ me,” she cuts in. “John Alexander MacTavish, ye tell that lass what she’s gettin’ herself intae—or I will.”

“Mam,” he tries again, voice pitched low, “Not yet. Cannae send ‘er off, naw like I do wi’ Bell. It’s safe enough here.” You’re safe with him here. “Dinnae like knowin’ she’s alone—Christ, I can hardly stand tae have the wall between us when I ken she’s hurtin’—but there isnae anythin’ I can do that’s naw already been done. Kate’s made sure of that.”

Fenella huffs and he can’t quite make out the garbled muttering on his end, but he has a fair idea of what his mother is blathering about beneath her breath. “Kirsten—have ye gone tae see 'er?” she finally asks, mercifully shifting the conversation out of your direction. “Has Isobel?”

“No,” he admits, and guilt twists in barbed coils through his chest.

He’s been meaning to, to drive up for the weekend and take her to visit her mothers grave, now that she’s older. Stay with her gran and look through the old albums. She's only ever seen the few photos they have at home, hanging in the hall near the kitchen.

Sometimes she asks about her. If she liked the things she likes. The way rain freezes on the tall grasses and tree branches in the winter, making glass gardens of trellises and window boxes. Extra whipped cream and blueberries for her pancakes. 

If she would have walked with them to school in the mornings. Take her to the park down the block in the summer. Hiking in the fall, looking for wisps darting about beneath the fallen abscission.

Isobel is so much like her mother there are days Johnny swears it’s her refusing to eat the dinner he’s made. That it’s her complaining about cold weather and overcast skies in the heart of winter, bemoaning how long they have until spring revives the land. Swears it’s her voice that wakes him in the middle of the night. Her ghost, standing in the dimly lit doorway of his bedroom, a blanket pulled ‘round her shoulders and a teddy dangling from her hand.

“I’ll take ‘er, then.” Johnny can hear the grief that tempers his mothers voice, turning anguish to steely resolve. “I’ll come by tomorrow evening, let ‘er have a few hours with ye at home before ye say yer goodbyes.”

“Thank ye, Mam,” he says on a strained exhale, lungs rattling with fragments of his own grief. It slices into old wounds until pockets of air become sanguineous aquifers, bubbling up in his throat and leaving a sour, metallic taste on his tongue.

“I meant what I said earlier,” she reminds him. “Ye tell yer lass. Dinnae leave ‘er in the dark like ye did Kirsten.”

The line goes silent and Johnny sinks back into the old corduroy sofa, pushed up against the wall beside a shelf overflowing with picture books in the living room, and a ragged sigh unfurls from his chest. 

The television across from him is dark, turned off when he took Isobel upstairs for bed, but he can hear an old rerun of Taskmaster playing softly behind him.

He listens, every night, for you. For the sound of your fridge, opening and closing. The soft ‘clink’ of porcelain against granite. The oven timer or the microwave. 

He prefers the former. Knows, after these last few weeks, that you cook when you’re in a good mood. Usually go to bed soon after. The sound of the microwave precedes long, muted evenings and little sound from your side of the wall. He won’t hear the stairs creak beneath your sluggish feet until the wee hours of the morning. If at all.

He listens in the mornings, too, while he makes Isobel’s breakfast. Makes sure he can hear you doing the same. Smiles to himself when he glimpses movement in the window beside your door, a miniscule swaying of the curtain, and he holds Isobel’s hand a little tighter as they navigate lingering ice patches on the pavement. 

The phone call with his mother, making arrangements for Isobel, masked the sound of your movements earlier, and his fingers twitch against his leather phone case.

When your side of the wall is quiet, he knows a storm is brewing; that you’re sitting in the eye of it, waiting for the walls to close in around you.

He doesn’t know if you’ve eaten tonight. Can’t hear anything beyond the muffled television and occasional creak of the sofa beneath your shifting weight. 

So he calls.

One… two… three… four… “Hi, Johnny.” Soft and breathy. Like the air the words are spoken on has borrowed from the softness of your lips as it spills into the receiver.

This is the way you sound when you’re tired, he’s learned, all soft and rounded syllables. Too exhausted, even for your own nervous habits. You don’t have the bandwidth to explain every little thing like you normally would; don’t bother with rationalizing your actions aloud.

“Hi, bonnie. What’s cookin’?” It’s cheesy as hell, but it earns a huff of a laugh from you and it tempers the jagged edge of his worry—a knife, lodged between his ribs.

“I, uh… I had leftovers. Takeaway, from a work thing.” He’s never seen you with takeaway. Always canvas bags full of groceries and the occasional frozen box dinner. 

How empty is your fridge? When was the last time you went to the grocer?

“Didnae take ye for the ‘easy’ type. Ye always make me work for it.”

“Work for it?” He can picture the pinch of your brows. The way your lips quirk to the side when you’re confused.

“Aye, got me makin’ puppy eyes an’ beggin’ for yer scraps.” You laugh again, more of a scoff, but it eases some of his worry all the same.

“When have I ever made you beg, Johnny?” He’s been begging any higher power that will listen to see you smile again, and he’d give anything to see the smirk he knows is dancing at the corner of your mouth right now.

“Could do it tomorrow,” he blurts before he can think better of it. “Come over. Show me that recipe again.” 

Don’t make him tell you he’s leaving over the phone. 

“I thought… you said the charity event is at the end of March, right?”

“Aye, but I think I’ll need a few lessons ‘fore my bakin’s fit for auction.” 

He needs to know—needs to see—that you’re well before he goes.

“And you want to start tomorrow?” 

“Why not?” He’d have you baking in his kitchen now if it weren’t for the late hour.

There’s a stretch of silence, interrupted only by the faint crackling of static and the sound of your breathing. “Do you have flour? Sugar? Anything to bake with?” you ask, and he answers with a proud ‘yes’. “Okay… okay. I can come over after work tomorrow.”

“I’ll ‘ave Bell home early then. She’ll want tae help.” Your amused sigh echoes across the line, followed by the faint rustling of fabric and then the soft pattering of stocking-clad feet over hardwood, fourth and fifth step creaking softly as you climb the stairs. “Off tae bed?”

Another sigh–on the tail-end of a yawn, he realizes. “Yeah. Well, trying. Don’t get a lot of sleep these days,” you admit, and though he’s successfully abated the storm of your thoughts, he wishes he could disperse it entirely. 

Be the shelter you seek, at the very least.

He’d nestle you in the warmth of his bed, tucked close and sleeping soundly in the cage of his arms. Anchor you to him with a leg hooked between yours, whispering adulation against the howling, taunting winds. 

He would make himself a rock to let your tempestuous thoughts batter and besiege. Weathered and whittled down to pebbles on a beach, he’d roll in the undertow alongside you. And when he is but sand on the ocean floor, still, he would drift and settle wherever the storm of you takes him.

“I used tae read for my sister when we were weans. She’d wake, spooked from a dream, and come tae my room in the middle of the night.”

“You have a sister?” A door clicks closed and blankets whisper over sheets as you settle in for the night. “What’s she like?”

“A lot like our Mam. Headstrong. Stubborn.”

“Are you the oldest?” You sound further away. Muffled. Like you’ve got the blankets pulled up to your nose and the phone beside you on the pillow.

“I am,” he lilts.

“She gets it from you, then,” you murmur, and his chest tightens.

“She got a fair number of things from me, I’d wager.”

He continues on, speaking just above a low, gravelly whisper. Reminiscing his early years and the trouble the two of them got up to. Thick as thieves and wild as the kellas cats roaming the highlands.

Your interjections dwindle, turn to soft hums and slow, even breaths. Sleeping.

He listens for a few more minutes to the soft, sweet sounds you make, little chuffs and sleepy hums, the susurrations of shifting sheets and nightclothes, and he whispers into the darkness, “Goodnight, sweet girl.”

Work passes you by in a blur, meeting after meeting chipping away at the hours and minutes ticking by on the analog clock perched on your desk. 

The drive home is uneventful and it feels as though you’ve passed through a wormhole somewhere along the way. Can’t quite remember making the turn into your neighborhood from the main road.

Normally, Johnny would be leaving to retrieve Isobel from school right now, but as you gather your things and step out of the car you hear your name being called from several houses down. 

Braids bounce and red wellies squeak as Isobel darts ahead of Johnny, weaving around patches of ice to get to you, and you step up onto the pavement just in time to keep her from running into the road. 

She barrels into you, wrapping her arms around your leg and smooshing her face against your slacks. “Ye’re back!” she squeals, fingers curling into the fabric. 

She’s leaving.

Your hand settles atop her head, soft wisps of curls tickling the pads of your fingers where they’ve escaped their plaits. “Where did I go?” you ask, and she tips her head back to look up at you.

“Bubby said ye were busy with work. Sometimes he gets busy too, and I have to stay with my gran.”

They’re both leaving.

Johnny’s caught up with her, lingering a few steps away near the walkway leading to your door. When you look to where he stands, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, windbreaker bunched up around his forearms where a tattoo peeks out, the corners of his eyes glimmer.

A smile curves the corners of his mouth, and it’s an odd mixture of grief and happiness that flickers there in the crook of his lips and set of his brow, sloped upwards and creased in the middle. His hair is longer than you remember, scruffy sides and tufts of mohawk curling at the ends, loose strands tousled around his face.

Wind blows at your back and a single tear tracks down the sharp plane of his cheek, disappearing in the dark shadow of stubble that lines his jaw.

“I have been busy with work,” you confirm, peering down at Isobel once more. “But I didn’t leave.” 

You’re staying, and they’re leaving.

The wind picks up and she presses closer, shielding herself from the cold behind your frame. “Let’s get ye inside and put yer book bag away. Then we can catch up over cookies an’ milk,” Johnny says as he closes the distance between you.

“Cookies?!” Her excitement carries on the wind, and his smile sharpens, bright and hopeful, but the whetted edge of sorrow undercuts the warmth.

“Aye, but we’ll have to make ‘em ourselves.” He brushes a stray lock from her eyes, fingers brushing against yours where his hand settles beside it on her crown, and dread blooms low in your stomach where warmth should.

She ducks away from you both, bolting towards their front stoop, and you’re left with both of your hands hovering in the air, his half curled over yours, staring after her.

You pull away first, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “I just need to sort this–” You gesture to the tote full of binders and your laptop. “–and I'll be right over.” 

He fishes his keys from his pocket and takes a step back, towards Isobel. “We’ll be waitin’,” he says with a wink, and turns to take her inside.

There's flour in your hair and matching handprints on your slacks, and neither Johnny nor Isobel have fared much better. You’re all a mess, and the cookies you’ve made are tantamount to your disheveled state–lumpy, dry masses of something more closely resembling a biscuit.

“Dunno what ah did wrong,” Johnny muses, breaking one in half and inspecting the crumbly texture.

You sit beside him at the kitchen table, watching Isobel dunk half a cookie into a glass of milk. “It’s the butter and flour. The ratio is imbalanced–not enough fat.” She doesn’t seem to mind, stuffing the entire piece in her mouth and readying the next, fingers covered in crumbs that fall in her milk.

Johnny shifts beside you, sliding out of his chair and taking a bite out of his cookie as he moves towards the fridge. “Still tastes good,” he says around a mouthful and pours two more glasses, placing one down in front of you when he returns. “But I’ll need another demonstration when I’m back, I think.”

You take a cookie from the plate in the middle of the table, breaking off a chunk to dunk in your milk, and ignore the mirrored sensation in your chest. You knew this was coming. You know he’s leaving.

“When you’re back? From where?” you probe. No need to dance around the subject.

He shifts again, uncharacteristically nervous, and speaks softly. “Have to leave for a little while, for work,” he explains. Your cookie turns pliant between your fingers and you bite off the softened corner, chewing slowly while you listen. “Willnae know where they’re sendin’ me to until the briefin’.”

“When are you leaving?” You stare down at the crumbs swirling in your glass.

“Tomorrow morning.” 

The foreknowledge of his impending departure doesn’t make the break any cleaner. The fracturing feeling in your chest widens into fissures and chasms, jagged edges crumbling, tumbling down into the festering darkness.

When you lift your gaze you find that he’s been watching you–studying you–and his hand has crept across the table, close enough you can feel the warmth of him. “How long?” It comes out wobbly. Unsteady. 

You’re drifting out to sea again.

“Few weeks. Maybe a month.” Your chest feels like it’s caving in.

There’s a knock at the door. A canary in a coal mine, warning come too late.

“Gran!” Isobel’s chair nearly topples as she pushes back from the table, racing from the kitchen to the front door.

Johnny’s hand covers yours, long, callused fingers curling around your clenched fist and squeezing. “I’ll be back before ye know it,” he murmurs, smoothing a strand of hair away from your face and tracing the curve of your jaw as he stands.

He only goes as far as the kitchen doorway. Your heart’s already somewhere in the North Sea. 

“Hi, Mam.” He’s greeted by an older female voice and pulled into a hug by a woman a whole head shorter than him. Isobel hovers nearby, bouncing excitedly from foot to foot, and tugs at the older woman’s–her grandmother’s–cable knit sweater.

“Gran, come meet our friend!” she says, and tugs again until she lets go of Johnny.

You stand from the table on wobbly legs, fighting to balance your listing emotions and put on a warm smile as Johnny’s mother slides past him into the kitchen.

The resemblance between the three of them is uncanny. Johnny shares his mothers dark coloring, rich hair and warm skinned, and they all have the same eyes–steely hues of grey-blue, spiraling outwards from inky pupils like storm cells.

“So, this is the lassie next door ye willnae stop glaverin’ on about?” she asks no one in particular as she openly appraises you.

“Mam–” Johnny begins, a simmering warning, but she holds up a hand to silence him.

They carry themselves in a similar manner, in the set of their shoulders and broad stance. She may not stand as tall as he does but she’s no less imposing, and it’s an effort not to squirm under her scrutiny.

Seconds feel like hours as she looks you up and down, cataloging the flour on your pants and in your hair, glancing to her left where Johnny stands in a state of equal disarray, and a knowing look flickers like lightning in her storm cloud eyes. 

“It’s good tae finally put a face wi’ a name,” she says, smiling, and pulls you into a hug, too. “Call me Fenella, or Fen, whichever ye like.”

You return the gesture hesitantly, looking over her shoulder to Johnny for guidance and finding none. He simply smiles back at you from where he leans against the doorway, something unreadable in his expression lingering beneath it.

“It’s nice to meet you too… I- I’d love to stay, but should probably be heading home. I have an early morning and wouldn’t want to intrude on your visit,” you say by way of excuse.

“Ah’m naw stayin’ long, dear,” she explains, finally pulling away. Isobel returns to her side, pressing her shoulder to her thigh, and Fenella’s hand settles on the crown of her head. “Here tae take the wean for a stay wi’ her gran.”

“Is yer bag ready, leannan? D’ya have all yer books for school?” Johnny asks from where he stands, hands having found their way into his pockets again. His shoulders droop, broad frame deflating before your eyes. Leaving her behind, even with his mother, takes a toll on him.

Isobel leans around her gran to say, “I’ave all my books. And Mr. Ghost.”

“Goan an’ get yer things then, Bell,” Fenella ushers her out of the kitchen, climbing the stairs behind her to her room.

You watch until they disappear above the half open staircase, but Johnny has been watching you. Watching you navigate the shoal of your emotions, razor sharp rock scraping against a flimsy hull.

“C’mere, lass,” he entreats, one arm outstretched towards you, and your feet move of their own accord, carrying you forward until his hand settles on your shoulder, momentarily moored in the eddy of a tide pool. “Didnae mean to tell ye in the middle of… this.” He gestures above him to the sound of footsteps overhead. “Only got the call yesterday.”

With your hands folded at your front, you stare down at them, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. “It’s okay. I understand—”

“No, lass, it isnae okay,” he interrupts, hand gliding up your shoulder, your neck, and coming to rest on your cheek. He lifts your gaze back up to his and he’s wearing that nameless emotion, staring down at you with a pained expression. 

This hurts him as much as it hurts you.

“The job I do, it isnae always… predictable. Dinnae get much warning when I’m called in for assignments. I should have warned ye…” his thumb traces soothing arcs over your cheek, but it does nothing for the gaping hole in your chest. “I’m sorry… I should have—”

“It’s okay, Johnny. Really.” The lie feels like rubbing salt into a wound, burns the back of your throat like you’re speaking around a lump made of sandpaper, and your voice comes out scratchy and raw.

His hand lingers on your cheek, eyes darting from yours to your nose, lips, cheeks, brow. Memorizing.

“Let me walk ye home?” You nod, unsure if you can speak around the cordolium lodged in your throat, and his hand moves from your cheek to your waist, guiding you through the razor rock and churning tide to the front door.

His arm remains firmly around you, fingers digging into your softness as he escorts you across the meager expanse of your lawn. 

There’s an SUV, still running, parked in front of both houses and left to keep warm while Isobel gathers her things. She and Fenella step out into the brisk evening air just as you and Johnny reach the top of your stairs, and Isobel waves to you as they descend. Your arm feels leaden as you lift your hand into the air, waving back to her.

“She‘ll miss ye. Talks about ye all the time,” Johnny says beside you, unwilling to let you go just yet. “I’ll be missin’ ye too,” he admits, and you thought you’d found the bottom of the pit in your stomach. Thought you were already lying at the bottom of it.

You were wrong.

The well of your affection for them feels bottomless. The floor crumbles, residual tremors of the quaking in your chest, and you’re falling, falling, falling…Even with his arm around your waist.

You fell in love with the man in front of you. Fell in love with the darling little girl climbing into her grandmother's car. You’re already in love with Fenella and her dedication to her family.

You’ve been falling this whole time, no safety net in sight.

“I- …” Your voice cracks, and you try again. “I’ll miss you, too. Both of you.”

You’re falling, and they’re leaving.

There’s little warning, just a tug of your blouse, before you’re being folded into his arms. A wide palm cradles your head to his chest, fingers threading through your hair, and he presses his cheek to your crown. 

“Won’t be able to use my phone a lot, but I’ll call when I can.” He murmurs his promise into your hair. “If… if I’m not here an’ somethin’ happens… I gave my Mum yer number. Saved hers in yer phone when I gave ye mine.” He pauses. Sucks in a shuddering breath before he continues. “Whatever it is, she’ll help.” 

You nod your understanding and he pulls back just enough to see your face, guides your head to look up at him and says, “Promise me. Promise that ye’ll go to her if ye need anythin’,” with a desperation you’ve never heard from him.

So you make another promise. Let your eyes flutter closed as he presses his forehead to yours and ghosts his lips across the chilled skin of your brow.

And then he leaves.

Isobel is sorted, buckled into her car seat and saying her goodbye’s to Johnny, and Fenella MacTavish stands beside the driver’s side door, watching.

She’s said this goodbye a hundred times. Sent him off to god knows where to fight a war she’s never heard of. It never gets easier.

Isobel’s door closes, and her son turns to her with pain in his eyes. “I hate leaving ‘er.”

“Which one?” she intones, and Johnny leans his hip against the B pillar.

“Both of them. The three of ye.”

“Then make sure ye come back tae ‘er–tae all of us,” she advises, and pulls him into one last hug. “I cannae bury another child.”

Next>>>

©️Eilidh-Eternal.2024 ~ The intellectual property of Eilidh-Eternal is not permitted for reposting, transcription, translation or use with AI technologies.

[luveline]

hey! sorry if you’ve done this already, please ignore. pls could i request hotch with reader who’s recovering from a (major) surgery? thank you 🫶

“Is it hideous?” 

“Yes,” Hotch says, though he doesn’t look at the bandage nor the wound. “You’ll be marred forever, likely.” His hand cups your cheek, and his thumb draws teeny lines across the apple of it. “Unsightly.” 

You laugh into yourself and let your eyes close under the pleasure of his small touch. The hospital room is quiet, private even, though that’s soon to change. You’ve been informed of another visitor who will need to share your room in an hour. Visiting hours will be over shortly afterwards. 

“Are they sure I can’t come home?” you ask. 

“They need to do so much,” he says unhappily. 

“I don’t want to be alone when it gets worse again.” 

Hotch speaks softly. “It might not get worse again. But if the pain is too much, I’ll stay. They won’t be able to force me out.” 

“You’ll abuse your power.”

“Only for you,” he says sincerely. His kiss says as much, so gentle and slow to your chapped lips. It’s as chaste as they come but you’d needed it. Your shoulders relax as he sits up again. “I know you feel off kilter, you’re going to, because this isn’t a small thing to recover from, but I’m not going anywhere you can’t reach me if you need me.” He tucks your blanket back over your chest, but he’s sitting on it, and it doesn’t have much give. “Will this be enough? I’ll bring the nurses a fleece tonight after I’ve gone to give to you. This isn’t going to be warm enough.” 

“I feel too hot.” 

He feels along your forehead softly. “You feel perfectly normal. Don’t worry.” 

Your chance of infection is high. Surgical infection especially. You won’t know you’re sick until your vitals tank, and then it gets dangerous. 

Hotch frowns at you. He, as always, how tiresome, looks handsome. His hair has grown unkempt to his standards but perfect to yours, dark strands falling down over his forehead. His eyes are darker, shadowed by the lack of light, shades down and the privacy curtain still drawn. You can’t tell his pupil from the iris, not where his gaze is pointed. 

“Don’t forget,” he says. “Drinks in the drawer so you can reach them. Your chapstick is in with your glasses. There are face wipes if you start to feel the need for them–”

“I won’t forget.”

His hand smooths down to your neck. “The chocolate is in the top drawer too.” His fingertips draw lazy circles into your neck, brushing against the rumpled neck of your pyjama top with every revolution. “Your phone is charged, and there’s a charging bank–”

“In the top drawer,” you finish for him. “Thank you, Aaron, I promise I know.” 

He folds when you call him by his first name. His frown falls away, his eyes softer and lighter as he lifts his head to the frail shaft of light coming in through the curtain. He’d take your breath away if you weren’t feeling as shockingly frail as you are. 

“You’re doing so well.” He clasps your shoulder. “A few more days and you’ll be home. We’ll both be feeling better, and Jack will fall to pieces in sympathy and keep you company in bed all day.” 

“What about you?” 

“Me too, obviously,” he says quietly. “Move over, honey. I’ll start now.” 

You shuffle over one centimetre at a time and he doesn’t rush you. Eventually, there’s room for the two of you to squeeze in shoulder to shoulder, where he takes your arm into a careful hold and hugs it to his chest, his lips to your cheek. 

“You okay?” he asks. “Out of ten.” 

“Five. And a half.” He kisses your eyebrow. “Seven,” you correct. 

He kisses you again, but you’re feeling shitty from the surgery and seven is as high as you can go.

[obeythebutler]

Hi! I just saw your fluff prompts request was open! Could you do Barbatos with "you wake up from a nap and not only is there a blanket around you, but your partner snuggled up beside you"?

Tea has to brewed at four pm sharp is what comes to Barbatos’s mind.

All chores for the afternoon have been completed: the Young Master has consumed lunch and is now reviewing the audits that are due tomorrow, the kitchen and the palace dusted and cleaned, rat traps set up in every nook and corner. Now what remains is this one guest room that needs to be cleaned; its sheets changed and floors washed thoroughly. 

There's dust collecting on the vases, clearly the little D's have been negligent in their duties, and oh this simply won't do. The demon pulls his gloves taunt and attempts to begin.

And only when the moonlight filters through the window and falls on the lump underneath the covers does Barbatos raise an eyebrow.

He doesn't need to look underneath to know who it is.

The demon puts aside the duster in his hand on the shelf, steps forward with slow footfalls to not wake you up. 

Such a troublemaker, as always. Barbatos smiles as he gazes at you, deep in slumber, oblivious as to where you are. There’s only the quiet stillness of the afternoon in the room, given that at this hour most denizens choose to nap or involve themselves in activities suited to their nature.

Your left arm hangs out of the bed, pillows ruffled and thrown about. You must have attempted to make yourself comfortable. 

There’s a certain fondness in his eyes when he places the blanket over you: ensuring that the soft fleece covers your neck and legs, gently places your outstretched hand back into the warmth of the blanket. 

You murmur in your sleep, a frown settling on your lips before you bury your face into the pillow. A chuckle spills past his lips, and Barbatos can't help but run his fingers through your hair.

He’s got to be more quiet now.

Sheets can be changed later, dusting can be done later. 

But then what needs to be done now?

When your eyes open, it is to a pleasant warmth.

You blink away the sleep from your eyes, body still sluggish and mind too slow to catch up on what is happening around you.

The first thing you register is the blanket on your body which you certainly don’t remember placing. It’s so soft. Fit for luxury. The second is a hand splayed across your waist, and soft breaths in the crook of your neck.

You don’t need to turn your head to know who the person is.

It’s five past ten in the evening, but neither of you care to wake up.

Instead, you wrap the blanket tighter around both of your bodies, and turn towards Barbatos, placing a hand over his frame, careful to not be too harsh in your movements and hold him tighter. 

Duties and demons can wait.

This moment can’t. 

[roosterforme]

Does Jake ever have nightmares about a mission or his air-to-air kills in the Mr. Right Now Universe? If so, how do you think it goes the first time he has them when Darlin' is around?

Jake keeps his job pretty well separated from his personal life, but there definitely comes a time when the two can't help but overlap. Naval fighter pilots have it rough when it comes to having a career that is relatable to their partner, but Darlin' always pays attention to what he says. She also knows his moods. I can imagine him returning from a mission where he has a hard time disengaging... (long and angsty ahead)

He was going through the motions. Ever since you picked him up four days ago, Jake was with you, but he still seemed so far away. You thought having him back home again would make everything better, but you found yourself constantly swallowing down a lump of apprehension when you were with him.

"Do you want more pizza?" you asked, watching the way his green eyes shifted from a faraway gaze to focus on your face.

"Yeah," he grunted, accepting the slice without another word.

He wasn't making fun of your pizza. He barely commented on the movie that he insisted he wanted to watch. Even the way he treated you in bed felt off. It was confusing, and you hated the way you were doubting yourself. Originally you thought he just needed some sleep and good food, but he was barely saying a word to you right now.

Tears burned your eyelids as you got to your feet. "Are you not happy to see me?" you asked, voice harsh and raspy.

"What?" he asked, looking up at you, finally focusing on what you were saying.

You held your arms out at your sides. "I missed you, Jake. I missed you for weeks and weeks. I poured my heart out in love letters that I sent to you, but now that you're back, it's like you're still on the aircraft carrier."

He rubbed his hands over his face, a weariness falling into place that made him seem older somehow. "Darlin'," he started, but then he went silent again.

As much as you didn't want to say it, you had to. "Did you meet someone else?"

Images of an older, more sophisticated woman filled your brain even as Jake jumped to his feet. "No! Of course not!"

His arms were around you as you started to cry in confusion. "Then why are you so quiet? Why won't you talk to me?"

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath. "Darlin', there's nobody else. I swear. I'm just having a hard time processing things."

"What things?" you asked softly, looking up at him. When he hesitated again, you led him to the living room couch and got him snuggled beneath the fleece blanket with you. Then you turned off the lamp and ran your fingers through his hair until he was ready to talk.

"You know, I guess I'm supposed to be thrilled that I have five air-to-air kills now," he whispered, voice low and filled with sadness. "It's supposed to mean something when you're an ace. But I haven't really slept in two weeks, because I can't stop thinking about it."

"Jake," you murmured, kissing his forehead even as his arm tightened around you. "That's a lot to process. We can talk about it if you want to."

You could already feel some of the tension easing away as he whispered, "I already feel a lot better just saying it outloud to you." He let you kiss him slowly all over his face as he said, "There's nobody else. There's not going to be anybody else. I promise I'm here, Darlin'. I'm just so tired, and I can't seem to shut down and just sleep."

Without another word, you rubbed circles along his shoulder with your thumb. Soon his breathing evened out, and he was asleep. You would let him sleep as long as he could.

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Taking me higher

Written for @steddiesmuttyseptember, week 1

Prompts: mile high club & service dom

Rated: E

Words: 1,232

Tags: Dom!Steve; Sub!Eddie; Fear of flying; Airplane sex; Semi-public sex

Before today, if anyone had asked Eddie what hell looked like, the answer would've come easy. Hell was a blood red sky, parched earth covered in vines, and monstrous creatures with flower-shaped maws prowling the decaying landscape. Obvious, right?

Wrong. 

Hell is a two-hundred-ton sardine can, shooting through the sky at five-hundred miles an hour, the ocean stretching forty-thousand feet below. No, scratch that, thirty-nine-thousand-nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine feet, because the goddamn thing just hit another air hole. 

“Eddie?” 

Next to him, Steve stirs. He looks infuriatingly at ease with his sleep mask pushed up into his hair and his neck pillow and the little fleece blanket with the airline’s logo on it. When he takes in the way Eddie’s fingers are white-knuckling their shared armrest, his brow furrows in concern. 

“Hey, everything okay?” 

“Fine,” Eddie grits out. “Peachy, don't you worry about- shit, what was that?” 

“Turbulences,” Steve shrugs. Like it's fine. Like it's not a big deal. Like they aren't locked in a steel and glass deathtrap moving faster and higher than anything has a right to. “It’s okay, they haven't even switched on the seatbelt signs.” 

“Okay, great,” Eddie babbles. “Perfect, I just- … shit, I didn't think it'd rattle so fucking much.”

“It gets a bit bumpy sometimes,” Steve's hand finds his, prying Eddie’s fingers from the armrest, ghosting soothing touches over his knuckles. “Just relax. Think of them as potholes.” 

“Potholes, right,” Eddie mumbles. “Brilliant comparison, Stevie, so helpful. You know what, if the potholes weren't ten fucking miles deep, that might actually-” 

“Baby.” 

Eddie barrels to a stop. For a second, he's convinced he must've heard wrong, because why would Steve call him that now? Steve only ever calls him that when they're playing, and there's no way-

“You with me, baby?” 

Steve’s voice has dropped to a low rumble, and fuck, all the training they've done must've finally stuck, because the answer is out before he even knows it. 

“Yes, sir.” 

Steve smiles, slow and pleased. His hand shifts to Eddie’s upper thigh. “There's my good boy.” 

And yeah, the training clearly stuck way better than Eddie is comfortable admitting, because the words go straight to his dick. Steve’s hand moves, brushing the shape of him through the fabric of his pants. Eddie gasps and squirms, and that smile goes smug. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Eddie hisses. He cranes his neck, casting frantic glances at the other passengers, but most of them are asleep in their seats. At the far end of the aisle, two stewardesses are talking and giggling at each other in hushed voices. 

“Shhhh,” Steve says. He cups Eddie’s cock in his palm, a firm and solid pressure. “They haven't noticed. You don't want that to change, do you?” 

“I- … no,” Eddie stammers. Steve’s grip tightens. “I mean … no, sir.” 

“That's what I thought,” Steve smiles, giving the bulge in his pants a good-natured pat. Eddie whines and rolls his hips in his seat, greedy for more friction, more pressure. Steve removes his hand. 

“Oh, come on,” Eddie groans. The lady in front of him grunts and stirs in her sleep. Eddie bites down on his own tongue.

“Now, here's what we're gonna do,” Steve says, lips tickling the shell of his ear, voice trickling down his spine like honey. “You're gonna go into the bathroom and get yourself ready for me. We'll need to be quick about it, so I'll give you … let's say three minutes before I join you.” 

“Wha-” Eddie wheezes. “You wanna-… Is there even room?” 

Steve chuckles. “Oh, we'll manage. I’ll just need to fuck you against the wall, nice and tight, huh?” 

Eddie gawks at him. Steve raises an eyebrow and checks his watch. “I’d hurry, if I were you. Your three minutes start now.” 

*

The bathroom is ridiculously tiny. For some reason, the movements of the plane are even more noticeable here, but Eddie doesn’t have time to dwell on that. Stumbling in on jelly-like legs, he pats his pockets until he finds what he’s been hoping for - a lonely, small package of lube. Ripping it open with his teeth, he yanks his pants down all the way to his ankles. When a few, awkward twists and turns reveal that this won’t do, he chucks off his right shoe and steps out of the pant leg entirely, propping one sock-clad foot up on the toilet bowl. 

He has hardly started preparing himself when the door opens behind him. For a panicked second, he’s afraid it’s a random passenger out for a midnight piss, now faced with the sight of him, two fingers knuckle-deep up his own ass. But it’s Steve. 

“Oh baby, look at you,” he whispers. Eddie hears the door lock, and then one large, strong hand caresses his hip. “So desperate for me? Tell me how bad you need it.”

Steve’s hand is casual and possessive as he cups his ass, the touch of a man taking what’s his. It makes Eddie feel owned in the best possible way. A prized possession, looked after and taken care of. 

“Need it so bad,” he whines, bucking back into the touch, knowing exactly what it is that Steve wants to hear. “So desperate for your cock sir, please-” 

He can’t turn, not crammed together in the tiny space as they are, but he hears how Steve’s belt and zipper come undone. That large, hard cock slaps free, hitting his ass with an obscene sound. 

“My poor, greedy boy,” Steve coos. “Asking for it so nicely. Of course you can have my cock, baby.” 

And then, without further preamble, he pushes in, all the way to the base. He sets a quick, relentless rhythm, not bothering to ease them into it slowly, and Eddie has to grip the toilet bowl with both hands or topple. It feels like his head being filled with fuzzy cotton. It feels the ground dropping out from under him, leaving him floating on clouds, but this time, it has nothing to do with the stupid plane.

It doesn’t take long. After a few hard thrusts, Steve moans and comes, hands digging into Eddie’s hips hard enough to bruise as he spills deep inside of him. Eddie is only seconds behind him, spilling his own release all over the toilet, and Steve shoves his fingers inside his mouth to muffle his scream.

*

“You good, baby?”

Eddie blinks back into reality. The ground and the walls are still rattling, but it doesn’t bother him as much, now that all of his bones have been replaced with warm jelly. Steve has pulled him out of his bent-over position and up against his chest, tucked his neck into the crook of his shoulder, and is peppering kisses over the side of his face and into his hairline. 

“Perfect,” Eddie slurs. “Thank you, sir. Could stay like this forever.” 

Steve laughs softly. “As much as I’d like to, I think we need to get back to our seats.” 

“Aw no,” Eddie pouts. “I thought everyone was asleep. Can’t we just-”

“You’re insatiable, huh?” Steve smacks a firm kiss to his cheek as he disentangles their shaky limbs, pressing a stack of paper towels into his hand as he goes. “C’mon now, be a good boy and clean yourself up. If you make it back in three minutes, I’ll consider doing this again. There’s always a return flight, y’know?” ✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️

More smutty September

[kingkatsuki]

— crush’d

You’re Bakugou’s one true love, but you’re curious to know if he’s had any crushes before you.

Warnings: fluff, established relationship.

Word Count: 0.9k.

You’d known when you first started dating Bakugou that you were his first proper relationship. It was something that never really bothered you, in fact it was quite the opposite. It felt nice knowing that you were experiencing things together for the first time, and with no real expectations you both formed the perfect bond. But there was always an inquisitiveness in your mind about Bakugou’s previous love life, and whilst there weren’t any previous girlfriends you were curious to know about the crushes he’d had before you.

“You must have had a crush on someone” You sat beside him on the couch, snuggled beneath a large Dynamight fleece blanket as you debated which movie to watch for date night.

“It’s only ever been you” Bakugou replies simply, his left arm slung over your thighs as his right hand holds the television remote. Sinking himself deeper into the couch as he relaxes after a long day at work, the slightest smudge of black from his hero mask still streaked beneath his eyes as his hair sits damp after his quick shower.

“Yeah, but you can still have crushes on people!” You pressed.

“I don’t have crushes,” Bakugou scoffed.

“I told you, silly.” You roll your eyes, “You must have had a crush on me before we started dating, right?”

You thought back to the times where Bakugou would appear at your workplace between shifts, spending a little longer than necessary on his patrol route in the same area in the hopes of catching a glimpse of you.

“Nah, you just annoyed me until we started dating.” He snickered.

“I think it’s the other way round, mister.” You gave him an incredulous look, “Do I have to remind you when you sent Kiri in to ask if I hated you because I didn’t see you when you waved that one morning.”

“Wait— I annoyed you?” Bakugou gave you a defensive look, his eyes widening in worry as he looked like a kicked puppy, “You said you liked when I came in to see you.”

“I’m only joking,” You snorted, “You’re too cute.”

“Shut up.” He grumbled, hiding his face back inside his hoodie as he gave your thigh a soft squeeze. Continuing to scroll aimlessly for something to watch on television.

“No, but seriously. There must have been a girl you fancied before me.”

It wasn’t that you were insecure in your relationship with the number two hero, it was quite the opposite really. Bakugou made you feel more wanted and loved than anyone before, even with his demanding career he made it abundantly clear how much you mattered to him. A fact that had your heart racing whenever you thought about it.

“Not really,” He shrugged, clicking onto one of the action movies on the screen to read the synopsis, “Didn’t have time for that shit.”

“Come on, Katsu. There must have been someone,” You squeezed his arm, “Not even asking a girl to marry you when you were five?”

“Nah,” He smirks, “Most girls were scared’a me.”

“So who was the first proper crush you ever had?” You continued, “Even just the first person you thought was cute.”

Bakugou stopped scrolling through the list of movies, nose scrunched slightly as he was deep in thought. You knew his friends would tease and taunt him for you being his first girlfriend in his thirties, the life of a Pro making it difficult for him to form any lasting connections— not that he seemingly wanted to anyway, too focused on his career goals than trying to settle down. But there had to be people in his past life that he found attractive, or at least crushed on growing up. Thinking back to the crushes you had when you were younger, drawing silly hearts around their names in workbooks at school or dreaming up fantasy scenarios of you getting married and having kids.

“Didn’t really get a crush on anyone until I was fifteen, sixteen.” He thinks.

“Yeah? So spill-“ You poked his side playfully.

“Off, woman.” He made a feeble attempt of batting you away as you yelped playfully, “Mirko.”

“Mirko?” You grinned, “The rabbit hero?”

“Yeah,” He chewed the inside of his cheek.

“That’s so cute,” You continued, “No wonder you have those action figures of her in your room.”

“They’re collectibles.” Bakugou corrected you with a scoff.

“Oh I’m so sorry,” You replied, sarcasm oozing from your voice as you gave him puppy dog eyes.

“Yeah, yeah. So what about you?” Crimson eyes look to the side to shoot the same question across to you, “Who’d you like?”

You thought back to all the crushes you’d had over the years, the older Pro-Heroes that used to cover your walls as a teenager, and the musicians that held your heart in their hands whenever you heard their songs. But you couldn’t think of another guy that had the same effect on you that Bakugou had, no one else felt the same.

“I don’t think I had a proper crush until I was a little older either,” You think back, “I did ask a boy to marry me when I was five though.”

“I woulda married you first.” He replies simply.

“Katsu, I was five.” You laugh, and Bakugou is certain you’ve never sounded prettier.

“So?” He scoffs, “Reckon I woulda known back then you were the one too.”

“That’s sweet.” You lean onto his arm to press a glossy kiss to the stubble against his jaw, the slightest tinge of pink glowing against his cheeks as he stays facing forward.

“Wait, who asked you to marry them?” Bakugou whips his head to the side to lock eyes with you, brows furrowed in irritation.

“Katsuki I know you’re not getting jealous of five year old me being proposed to.” You grin.

“I’m not,” He grumbles, pausing for a moment as you take the control out of his hands to start scrolling through movies, “But you said no right?”

[lanadelreyscokewhor3]

THE MASK- J.B BARNES

Pairing: Boyfriend! Bucky x Fem! Reader

Word Count: 1.5k

Request: you convince bucky that every few months, your skin starts to peel off during your period :)

Warnings: nothing much, just swearing, readers period mentioned, the rest is all super fluffy and sweet<33

You drummed your fingers against the polished granite vanity, mindlessly gazing at yourself in the bathroom mirror. The drain from the soaker tub gurgled, the last remains of the warm water and lavender bubble bath trickling down the drain.

Bucky’s sweater hung heavy on you, the warm, fleece fabric draping down past your knees as you slid it on. Your skin felt like a baby’s bottom due to the lotion you had rubbed all over yourself, smelling of fresh linens.

It was the last day of your period, thank god- and all you could think to do to celebrate not dying was to reward yourself with a self-care day. It had been a stressful week, the hormones not helping any matters to your already stressful work life.

It had been a whirlwind of emotions, heavy flow, cramps so painful you thought they could be contractions, headaches… anything under the sun- you name it, you had it.

Bucky had been with you the whole way through, and you were beyond thankful for him and his thoughtfulness towards the matter. He had never complained, or found it gross. He just comforted you the best he could, and that was all you could ever ask for.

You thought of him now as the candle flickered in the corner, flames licking the air as you were deep in thought. You had done every self-care thing you could possibly think of, a warm bath, a candle, a good book, and some good skin care. You had even painted your nails earlier- which was saying a lot. You had never been able to make time for that.

The only thing you could think of was a face mask. You smiled, happy you had thought of such a brilliant idea. When was the last time you managed to do one? You couldn't even remember. Your skin would be very, very thankful- especially during this time of the month.

You crouched down, opening cupboards and drawers to try and find a mask. No luck. With a sigh, you grabbed your phone- background of Bucky and your kitty Alpine sleeping together on the couch peering up at you.

Dialing his number, you let it ring, though it was no longer than five seconds before you heard an answer.

“Hiya sugarplum. What can I do you for?” he asked cheerfully, and you couldn't stop the smile that blossomed across your face, and the way your toes curled in their fuzzy socks at the sound of his husky voice.

“Ohhh nothin much. Just wondering if you’re still downtown.”

“I’m meeting up with the guys in twenty minutes to grab the takeout and then we’re heading back. Did you need something honey?”

You heard a little thump from the bedroom, Alpine jumping down from his nest to trot over to you as you made your way to stretch out on the soft bed.

“Could you grab me a facemask from the drugstore? I’ll send you a picture of what it looks like.”

“Of course babe. And yes, please do because you know I’m no good with those things. Anything else?” There was a honk that sounded from his end, the sound of streetcars and bustles of people passing him by. You could bet a million dollars he was on Fifth, which was perfect since you knew there was a drugstore in that same area.

That made you feel less guilty about asking, even though he insisted that he enjoyed picking up little things for you. The dozens of flowers, stuffies and little things he had picked up on, like your favourite nail polish (when you did have the time to do them), your favourite sweets and goodies were stocked in your shared loft at all times to prove it.

“No that’s all baby. I’ll send you some money.”

“Oh hush your pretty lips. Mwah!” he kissed the phone, and before you could insist on anything, he hung up. You sighed, tossing your phone somewhere on the large bed, snuggling into a fuzzy warm blanket as Alpine joined for cuddles.

“We never can win with him can we angel? He’s so good to us.” you smiled, scratching under his chin as he purred loudly, claiming a spot beside your stomach to curl up in a ball.

“I guess we’ll just have to repay him with kisses when he gets home, won't we?”

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

The night was in full swing- although that didn't mean much for tonight. It was relaxing and laid back, takeout boxes scattered on the kitchen counter, hockey game playing on the flatscreen.

Bucky had returned right as expected, not only with a face mask but with your favourite chocolate as well. You nibbled on it now as everyone sprawled out on the couch, Natasha and Wanda joining the pair of you with Sam and Steve.

You sat tangled with Bucky, slumped back against his chest, the slight tickle of the facial hair bringing you comfort as you snuggled closer to him. It was then you remembered the face mask, now sitting on your bathroom vanity. You wiggled out of his gentle embrace, through the tangles of blankets and long limbs of your friends to grab a piece of popcorn, popping it in your mouth.

“You guys wanna do a mask?” you asked the girls after the buttery goodness has been swallowed, the guys too focused on the game to notice you had even stood up.

They nodded, and the three of you made your way through the hallway with Alpine on your heels back out to the bathroom. “Ooo a peel one? I haven’t done one of these in forever.” Wanda smiled, holding the bottle in the faint golden light as she read the directions.

“Me either. That's why I asked Bucko to grab me one.” You hopped up on the counter beside the sink, letting your feet dangle and kick against the wooden drawers as Nat held your hands out, examining your nails in the light.

“He’s such a sweetheart to you. I want him next.” Natasha sighed, and you kicked her thighs gently as she laughed.

“There will be no next dummy duck. Plus, Steve has been eying you up all night. For weeks now, actually. It’s making me want to vomit.”

“Like you and Bucky don’t do that all the time. It’s like you have a bullseye on your ass. And tits. And face. That man’s seriously in love, ya know.”

You watched as Wanada smeared the clear, jelly like on her face, and you did the same. It was cool to the touch, smelling faintly of citrus, and you relaxed as the mask started to harden on your face.

“Should I peel mine off in front of the guys to freak em out?” You giggled, knowing the look on Bucky's face would be priceless. You couldn’t want to go out and show him. The girls fought to keep a straight face as the timer went off, and the three of you walked out to the main room.

It was dim enough they wouldn't be able to see the edges of the mask, and the fact it was clear helped your case even more. You sat next to Bucky, acting as nothing had changed.

“So what's the plan for tomorrow?” you asked nonchalantly, starting to slowly peel the mask from your skin. It felt like snakes skin between your fingers as you felt it slightly tugging on your pores.

“Oh, I was just thinking we could sleep in or- WHAT THE FUCK?!” Bucky gasped, frozen and place as he watched you remove the mask. Steve and Sam sat up, startled at his sudden outburst, watching you with alarm

“What? Didn’t you know that women shed their skin during the last day of their period?” you asked casually, holding back a giggle as you saw Natasha and Wanda with their hands clamped over their mouths, fighting the fit of laughter at the guys reaction.

“No?! This actually happens?” he asked, mouth agape as the “skin” sat in your palm, flaking and dried at the edges.

“Well duh.” you shrugged and you watched as his eyes flickered over to Sam’s as to say what the fuck. “Oh so you’d love me if I were a worm, but you don’t love me now that I shed skin? Thanks baby.” you remarked, tone slightly agitated despite wanting to shake him silly.

“No, no it’s not that-”

“Oh you dumbass it’s a mask! Did you really think I was a snake?” you exclaimed, swatting his arm playfully. Natasha and Wanda couldn't hold back any longer, their laughter following yours as the guys calmed down.

“Well how was I supposed to know it's a mask? It looks clear!” he guessed, making you laugh even harder. “You guys are lucky you’re cute. Cause there's nothing up there.” Wanada joked, tapping her temple.

“You guys are mean. Really fuckin mean.” Sam sighed, head slouching back against the cushions while the three of you disposed of the masks.

“You love us.” you smiled, kissing the top of his head before you swung your body over the back of the couch- back into the safety of Bucky's arms.

“I love you the most though. My beautiful little snake.” he cooed, to which you rolled your eyes.

“Only yours babe.”

[carlos-in-glasses]

Thank you for the tag @heartstringsduet @paperstorm @corsage

@bonheur-cafe @nisbanisba @reyesstrand 🧡🧡🧡🧡

This is from Chapter 5 of Rhythms, coming on Sunday! I can't believe we're already five weeks deep into posting...

On the squishy gray chair next to the bed, TK is deeply asleep with a thin, gray fleece blanket burritoing him. His head is tipped against the backrest, his mouth open, eyeballs moving behind sockets. He’s dreaming.

Curling up beside Carlos in his bed lasted all of five seconds before a nurse rushed in and told them off.

“You shouldn’t even be here – let alone be in bed with him,” the nurse said, “You want to stay? You get in the chair and I pretend I haven’t seen you.”

He was tired and frustrated as hell, but TK knew better than to push his luck. He took the chair like a young prince assigned to one of the lesser thrones in the castle.

“I thought you’d still be awake,” Iris says as Carlos shifts his right leg so she can sit beside him on the bed. “I can’t sleep for more than twenty minutes at a time. PopTart? They’re cinnamon.”

“Sure.”

Carlos watches her break open the foil packet. She’s delicate about it, as if it’s of major importance not to snap the PopTart within. She hands one to him, perfect, whole.

“I see Darryl Keyes. I keep on seeing him,” she says, “Do you?”

Carlos takes a bite from the corner of his PopTart, thinking. The PopTart is sickly sweet. “Not really him. His mom.”

“I didn’t have the pleasure.”

“She was just as delightful as could be.” Carlos smirks joylessly.

“Well, she sure raised a champ.”

“She was about to let me go. But then he came back and–” Carlos’ eyes fall on TK, so beautiful, asleep in the chair. He’s murmuring, his eyes squeeze. He curls up more. “Honestly, what I keep thinking about is the darkness.”

“The darkness?”

“When I close my eyes it’s so dark. As if I’m still dead.”

Open tag and tags below!:

@anactualcaseofthetruth @sapphic--kiwi @emsprovisions @ironheartwriter

@fifthrideroftheapocalypse @nancys-braids @captain-gillian

@butchreyes @literateowl @kiwichaeng

@eclectic-sassycoweyes @pimento-playing-hopscotch @carlos-tk

@whatsintheboxmh @three-drink-amy @tellmegoodbye @orchidscript

@mikibwrites @herefortarlos @sugdenlovesdingle @honeybee-taskforce

@theghostofashton @freneticfloetry @lemonlyman-dotcom

@chicgeekgirl89 @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut @alrightbuckaroo

@liminalmemories21 @ladytessa74 @welcometololaland @rmd-writes

@irispurpurea @heartstringsduet @never-blooms

@lightningboltreader @goodways @strandnreyes @thisbuildinghasfeelings

-If you want to share/haven't already! No pressure ever! ❤️🩷🧡💛💚💙🩵💜

[shibaraki]

QUEST FOR YOUR HEART ┊ SHIGARAKI TOMURA

tags: GN reader, established relationship, fluffy fluff, gaming together, animal crossing!!!, cute aggression

wc: 1K+

A gentle whirring fills the room. The fan turns on its neck, blowing a soft breeze across the room, lit up mostly by the LED lights hung across the walls. You shy away from the chill by burrowing into Tomura’s hoodie, intentionally oversized and lined with fleece.

Your boyfriend is a warm, grounding weight at your back. You’re laid together on his bed, atop blankets and covers left unmade, consoles in hand. A quiet melodic tune carries through the speakers. Tomura turns to shape himself around your frame. You smile as he nuzzles the nape of your neck, lips brushing the skin there.

His words are muffled. Repeated, still unheard when he refuses to move even an inch. “Come to my island,” he mutters.

You make a soft, curious sound, too fixated on the mindless action of your little character digging hole after hole, planting new seedlings for your villagers. Frustrated, Tomura exhales out of his nose, and the short breath makes you shiver.

He tilts his head, “I said come to my island”.

“Oh,” you mumble, blinking into focus, “Okay baby”. The buttons click as your thumbs move, guiding your character towards the airport. “Are your gates already open?”

Tomura grunts an affirmative. You let your eyes flutter closed to the idle brush of his nose along the curve of your throat while the loading screen runs. When he moves away, presumably returning to his own device, you open them again. Your character ambles out into the airport, greeted by the dodo working the gates.

Tomura’s character waits outside. Their look is somewhat inspired by himself. Messy silvery blue hair, dark tattered clothes. A black mask covers the lower part of their face. You smile at the white bunny ears that sit on his head at your request. Cute.

You flick the right stick and begin to run circles around him excitedly, to which he hits you with his butterfly net. “Stop bein’ dumb and follow me,” Tomura mutters without malice, working his ankle between your legs beneath the covers. You hum and trail after him.

The island is… pristine. Not at all the way you remember it. Skilfully terraformed to resemble a Super Mario level, custom patterns and themed items laid across the land. Everything had been intentionally placed. His villagers were navigating the space happily—though he still stops to smack them all, and they spin in place, stunned.

You’re amazed. He’d only started playing alongside you a week ago after finally giving in to your pleas. Watching him play was nice and all, but you wanted something to share together. He protested that animal crossing was pointless, boring and a waste of precious time that could be otherwise spent farming. But while he might not admit it, Tomura is weak for you. A little besotted by you. A few days of whining could go a long way.

Though you can’t help feeling a twinge of petty regret. A pout pulls at your lips when you see the lily of the valley flower standing proud by the fenced entrance to the beach. You’d known he was good at video games but you hadn’t expected him to reach five stars this fast.

Just ahead, Tomura’s character skids to a stop and turns back. A musical note rings through the speakers as a blue question mark appears above their head. Tomura shifts behind you and curls in between your shoulder blades, insistently nudging his cheek to your spine.

“Hey,” his voice comes after a pregnant pause, gravely and hesitant. “You fall asleep or something?”

“No,” you mumble, tucking your face into his pillow. The mattress dips as he braces on his elbow to lean over you, crowding into your space, wrapping an arm around your waist to keep you from squirming away. “Tomu—!” crimson eyes squint against his crooked grin, colour rising to his skin. He dips, snaggy teeth sinking around the swell of your cheek.

The light indentations left behind are soothed by the shameless swipe of his tongue. “Gross,” you grimace, only to be licked again. He sneers.

“I’ll lick you when I want,” he says. And then continues with some pride, “You’re sulking about my island”.

“Am not”.

“Are too,” Tomura’s forefinger pokes at your soft waist. In the dim light you can still see his pinky half raised. “Idiot. Why’d you ask me to play if you were gonna get mad at me for being better?”

“You’re not better you just time jumped,” you argue reflexively, overcome by the urge to hide in his hoodie. The upbeat tune pouring from the island softens as day turns to night and you sigh. “I’m not actually mad, baby. I don’t know. It’s just…”

Tomura hums. You suppose he would understand your incomprehensible pettiness more than anyone. Warmth encompasses your body once again as he slips his arm beneath your head, tucking his knees behind your legs, bringing his console around to hold it out above yours.

Tomura’s character slaps the floor with their net. “Come on,” he coaxes. You swallow, moving the sticks clumsily to amble after him. You’re taken along a stretch of beach. The horizon curves to reveal lines upon lines of items. Money bags and white gift boxes tied neatly with red ribbon.

“Who do you think I got so good for?” your fingers flex, startled by lips brushing the shell of your ear. He kisses you there, featherlight, enough that he could deny it. “Take all of it. Do multiple trips if you need to, I don’t care”.

“All this is for me?”

Louder, and directly into your ear, he groused, “Not gonna say it again”.

You dissolve into a fit of laughter, recoiling from his voice, game briefly forgotten. Tomura bites back a smile. He wraps his limbs around your body as though he were trying to consume you. Brings you into his chest and holds you there, locked in place, heartbeat reaching for you through his ribs.

After catching your breath, with a mouthful of his shirt you murmur, “Thanks baby”.

Above, Tomura kisses your crown and replies, “Whatever”.

[loveshotzz]

A/N:I was really struggling to write anything I liked tonight, so I sat in my backyard and opened up a blank word doc. Here’s the 535 words that came out, and of course it’s AIRWIY!steve. It’s pure fluff, and can be read as a stand alone. Just fire pit cuddling with your hot old man.

older!steve x fem!reader

The autumn air is crip on your skin, even breaching the thick fabric of your socks, chilling you down to your toes. An amber hue mixing ginger licks in the flames that threaten to go over the steel top of the fire pit. Warmth radiating from the crackling wood that battles against the cold you can start to see in your breath.

Steve throws in the last of the bag of wood you bought from the store on your way home from dinner. Rolling his eyes with a grin in the car at your complaints of the lack of fall activities you’ve participated in and how it was almost the middle of October. Still, he pulls into the parking lot of the local market just the same when he sees the giant sign that says five dollars a bundle.

The fire pit was new, never been used, a spontaneous purchase you made together on your first trip to Home Depot as new homeowners. Love sick and giggling, and he just couldn’t stop kissing you, keeping you tucked against him in the space between his chest and the shopping cart the whole time.

The flames dance across his face, highlighting the salt and pepper scruff that lines his sharp jaw, hazel eyes glowing in the warm light. He smiles at you when he catches you staring, closing the trap door before wiping his hands on his Levi’s making his way back over.

“We got maybe another hour out here honey, soak it up.” Twigs crack under his tan smoking slippers with a matching pair of socks like yours on his feet. The last of the leaves on your big tree begging to come spinning down in the low breeze.

“Thank you handsome,” you lift the throw blanket you dragged out with you despite his protests with a thankful grin that makes his cheeks redden from something other than the cold.

He feels like the sun when he takes up the space next to you, one long arm wrapping around your shoulders to pull you to his side. His warmth makes your skin tingle, snaking yourself around his middle you press your cold cheek to the wool of his jacket to soak up more. He smells like the bonfire, and when you inhale deeply you can still catch the notes of pine and cedar that seem to never go away. The red wine from dinner still lingers sweet on his breath, fanning across the top of your head followed by the softest press of his lips.

His fingers find yours under the fleece, and they’re warm just like the rest of him. He doesn’t hesitate to intertwine, a small smile just for him when he feels the cool metal of your engagement ring against his skin.

“You’re so cold, pretty girl. I told you to bring a warmer sweater.” His voice drips with smoked honey, the tip of his nose nudging against your temple.

You crane your neck to meet his eyes, the crows feet that line the edges look deeper in the flickering light. The pad of his thumb adds pressure to your palm, relaxing your muscles before bringing your fingers to his lips. He kisses the tips of them with the utmost care, doing it a second time for good measure making you giggle something sweet.

“Guess I’ll have to warm you up myself.”

Who needs a sweater when you have Steve?

[payasita]

Speaking of fic stuff: The Lamb and Nari wake up one morning covered in bandages, surrounded by empty bottles. They have ZERO recollection of the night before. Now what?

He awakes to a taste like bile and rust, and with one hand wrapped in at least twenty layers of gauze.

Narinder takes a second to stare at it, wiggling immobile fingers and contemplating the mechanics of sitting up with a head somehow filled with both cotton and lead. He drops the hand and decides against it, rolling over and pulling a blanket over his head. The movement does absolutely heinous things to his stomach.

A slow minute passes before he realizes he is not under a blanket at all. It's comfortable regardless, so he cannot summon the effort to care. Far softer than anything yet available in the commune. The familiar scent doesn't hurt, warm and securely claimed with his own, and indeed does a good job in blocking out the currently unmanageable stench of the outside world.

Until it's nearly pulled away from him. He clutches onto it with a hiss, and instantly regrets moving so quickly.

"Oh good, you're alive." The Lamb gives it another tug. "Give me back my fleece."

Narinder vaguely remembers having lost a battle against them while at his full divine potential. He'd even had both hands available to him and everything. He cannot truly imagine the odds are with him now.

"Thank you," they huff when he unlatches his claws. He searches for something else to cover his face while they clothe themself. His skull appears to be imploding.

"I am dying," he declares. There's a few seconds of silence. Contemplation on the Lamb's end. Abject suffering on Narinder's.

"Nope. Not sensing it."

"Your competence with the Crown is dubious at best."

"You're not dying," they assure him, lightheartedly, "It just feels like it."

He groans, rolling over and hitting himself in the face with the large gauze lump in his attempt to throw his arm over his eyes. He snarls, and begins blindly picking at it with his free claw to find the edge.

The Lamb snorts, leaning over him. They have an armful of empty bottles under an arm, and are looking infuriatingly chipper.

"How'd you go and do that to yourself?"

He glares at them, pointedly.

"I clearly cannot have done this on my own."

"What, you don't remember?"

"...No," he admits. "What happened, then?"

"Oh, hell if I know," the Lamb laughs, and is saved from having that smile shorn off their face by his vertigo alone.

They move around him and pick up another bottle, inspecting it. "I was at the same feast you were, y'know. And if you'd had all this yourself, you probably would be dead," they gesture to the bundle under their arm, already five or six strong and slipping a bit.

"... Actually, we should probably both still be dead," they tut. "I don't even know what the flock puts in this stuff, 'sides from berries. But wow, they're good at it. Hey, actually, do you think maybe we have the makings of something worth exporting to the outside world? Plimbo's always making trips back and forth to who-knows-where, I bet we could--"

"Lamb."

"Mm?"

"Your chattering is causing me physical pain."

"Oop. ...Guess I should be grateful for the divine healing factor, huh?"

Narinder ponders the irony of wishing Death incarnate to choke, and finally finishes unraveling his hand. He squints at it. He sees no damage whatsoever that might have compelled anyone to waste medical resources on him. Not a strand out of place. He inspects his claws, and finds a bit of blood under them. Odd.

"There must be, like, a dozen bottles of wine in here. Do you think I drank most of it? I remember everyone in the temple cheering when I started chugging one. ...Or, uh. Three," the Lamb recounts, setting the pile down on a nearby table. Narinder watches them, scanning down their body for any abnormalities. No claw marks or stab wounds remain, but they would be gone by now. Still. The fact that he feels metal when he pushes his hand under his pillow is probably worth noting.

"You have a basket around here?" the Lamb asks after a point, "I need somewhere to put these."

Narinder says, "I do not live here."

"...Whuh?"

"This is not my hut."

The Lamb pauses. They glance around, newly curious. Narinder grasps at the bit of metal under his pillow, and retrieves a dagger. It is smeared with blood. He eyes it, vaguely toying with the way light plays off of the dull blade.

"Did I attempt to kill you last night?" he asks idly. The Lamb looks over. They see the knife.

"...Nnnno?" They try, not even attempting to sound certain.

"I believe," Narinder mutters, hardly feeling bothered to spare the focus, "I might have killed someone."

The Lamb looks at him, having the grace to at least look troubled. Narinder, on the other hand, remains far more concerned with the roiling in his stomach.

"... Okay, wait. Wait, I think I remember-- yeah," the Lamb snaps, and points at him. "Yeah! You lost your hand privileges."

"What," Narinder says.

"Yeah! You were doing-- something," the Lamb waves off vaguely, "Yeah, I think I remember-- I had to take the claws away? I mean. That would explain the bandages?"

Narinder glances over. It certainly sounds like the sort of logic they would act upon, in the event of his own uninhibited violence.

"...So I did try and kill you, again."

"Iiii, dunno? I mean. Maybe?" Again, they don't sound remotely sure. The "divine healing factor" does not, it appears, account for episodes of alcoholic blackout. Good to know.

So, trying to kill his spouse was one possible explanation. Admittedly, it wasn't even a far-fetched one. But the ambient stench of this hut offers another.

"Lamb," Narinder sits up, winning a valiant battle with his own vertigo, "Whose shelter is this?"

The Lamb pauses. They look around again at all the bottles strewn about. They look up. At the same time they do, a droplet of blood plops onto their cheek.

"...I think his name was Bremar," the Lamb hums.

"You think?"

"I mean, the Crown can only tell me so much. 'Specially when the corpse in question has somehow been reduced to... uh... streamers."

"Ah."

"So, uh, we should--- we should go."

Narinder growls. His stomach does not agree with the prospect of standing up anytime soon.

"Ten more minutes."

"Nari," the Lamb deadpans, "You eviscerated a guy."

"...Five, then."

[sofasoap]

Little Bear

Pairing: Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x F!Reader

Summary: How you got your pet name from Soap

Warning : Nothing but fluff , T-M theme. Not beta’ed.

Part of Little Bear series

Masterlist

“…. You alright there bonnie???”

Soap couldn’t help but chuckle when he saw you, wearing a warm pastel colour fleece jacket, with a hoodie, complete with two little round ears on the top. You look absolutely adorable. Just like a human sized teddy bear.

“I'm cold….” You pouted, looking at your boyfriend with glossy eyes, shivering away. Feeling totally opposite to adorable. Despite being wrapped up like a furball underneath five layers of blankets, hugging tight onto a steamy hot cup of chocolate, heater pointing at your feet, on full blast, you still feel like you are living on a wild arctic plain, can’t get yourself warm enough, despite whatever you do.

Moving himself to sit beside you, giving you a loving kiss on the lip before he puts the mug onto the coffee table and peels open the layers of blanket, and pulls you into his chest with his strong arm. Gosh, he is like a human furnace. You sigh in content as you instantly melt into his embrace.

“Is that better, little bear?”

Lifting your head in confusion, “Little bear?”

“Yes, my adorable little bear.” He smiled as he tugged the little round ears on your hoodies. Burying your face further into his chest, embarrassed. “I am not cute nor adorable.”

“Hey, never say that.” He cups your face with both of his hands, tilting it up and leaning into your forehead. “Never put yourself down like that.” His baby blue eyes softened. “You are intelligent,” soft kiss on your left cheek, “great personality,” another kiss on your right cheek, “an absolute beauty,” Finishing with a long loving kiss on your lip,

“I love you for who you are, not what you are.”

“Not even when I am a cute little teddy bear?”

He laughed.

“Come on. What would you like for dinner?”

“How’s my little bear doing today?”

“Does my little bear need any assistance in… tension relief??”

“You know you are my beloved little teddy bear right?”

“I miss you, little bear.”

“ I love you, My dearest Bear.”

This is the first in the new series I am starting, dedicated to @a-small-writer-in-a-big-world , “The little bear” , featuring 300-500 words slice-of-life drabbles. I aim to try and bring some fluff and comfort into dear Bear’s life ( because you deserve it ). I hope I will do Soap some justice ( bringing some love to him and try to portray his character right.)

Tag list :

@kaplerrr

@homicidal-slvt

@floral-force

[certifiedlovergirlsstuff]

LOML!!! rommate ethan 🤏🏻🤏🏻 with the prompts 3 and 7 pls pls

‘the heat is turned off because our landlord sucks so i slept in your bed last night and i’m realizing how much i enjoy waking up next to you’ and ‘our friends keep joking we’re a married couple and now you’ve started doing it too and would everyone please stop that because now i can’t stop thinking about what it’d be like to call you mine’

since this is the last 500 celebration blurb went a little over. also you know that picture of the couple cuddling in front of the tv? that’s ethan and reader here.

pairing: ethan landry x fem!reader wc: 1.3K

masterlist

december twentieth. the coldest day new york has gotten in its winter season as it’s blanketed in piles of white slush. a tiny two bed one bath in brooklyn, with its three occupants were currently fighting for their lives. not in a horror movie sense, more like, we’re gonna die of hypothermia, sense.

you, ethan, and chad were bundled in layers of long shirts, approximately three pairs of sweatpants each, thick fuzzy socks, a pair of mittens and blankets. the three of you were shivering to the bone, the broken heater doing nothing to fight the chilly air that was able to seep through the cracks. the only way to possibly get a few minutes of heat back into your skin would be standing under running hot water, but it wasn’t worth running up the water bill.

“man this is so fucked up. should not be paying twelve hundred for this shithole.” chad’s teeth clinked together on every other word. shuffling in his spot like a child as he pull this fleece blanket tighter.

you and ethan were cuddled, sorry, huddled close on the couch while sharing blanket number five together. “very convenient how mr. kurch is out of town. and seemingly doesn’t have his phone.” a grumbled complaint with actual puffs of air leaving your chapped lips. ethan pulled you closer with his left arm around your waist and kept it there as you sat thigh to thigh.

“you know what,” chad pushed himself from the pink beanbag on the floor and threw his blankets down, “i’m heading over to sam and tara’s. for sure they got heat, my dick is shriveling into my body.”

“ew.” “gross, chad.” you and ethan groaned at his crude language.

“oh grow up mr and mrs landry. pretty sure ethan is feeling the same, but keeping it to himself since you're here.” and then chad left the two of you as he went down the hall to his room.

eyes turning to ethan as he kept his eyes forward and mouth tight. his cheeks rosy and you knew it was mostly due to the weather, but you had to ask out of curiosity. “you feel the same? …dick shriveling-“ “please don’t say that…. but yes.” ethan shuddered.

“…my nipples are rock hard.” “oh my god.” both your chest bursting with intoxicating giggles at the odd choice of topic. eyes closed with cheeks pushing up, neither of you spotted chad until he spoke up.

“i’ll leave you two lovebirds to the nest. little house play while i’m gone.” and before you could object to chad’s claims he turned on his heel and pointed a strong finger at ethan, “no sex in my bed. i swear if i find out, hell will rain upon this home.” and he ended his one sided conversation with the door shutting close behind him, duffle bag in tow.

the apartment instantly felt one hundred degrees with chad’s words settling in the air. but ethan didn’t seem bothered, in fact he grabbed you tight around the waist and pulled you into his lap. you sat sideways with your right side leaning into his chest and your head sat on his shoulder while he leaned his into your temple.

“been waiting to hold you closer, but knew chad was gonna be annoying. now we’re sharing body heat.” “i don’t think we have much body heat left.” but you snuggled in closer.

ethan’s covered hands rubbed up and down on your arm and thigh, it caused you to shiver even more. “wanna watch a movie in my bed?” ethan’s words kissed over your skin with his low voice.

“what movie?” not caring about the movie, but wanting a bit more convincing. you really wanted to lay in ethan’s bed though.

he sighed, “whatever you want. just want to hang with you.” and how that statement turned your insides to jelly. “wanna watch the spongebob movie?” leaning your body away to peer at ethan’s face. his muddy brown irises were bouncing around, staying a few seconds longer on your lips, before he stared directly into your soul and grinned.

“are you gonna quote the movie?” an involuntary eye roll, “duh.” his smile widened and his palm gave your thigh to quick smacks, “spongebob it is.” then he leaned in to peck your jawline.

‘what the fuck’ your mind screamed in delight.

so you and ethan grabbed your blankets and shuffled to his shared room with chad. they were nice to let you have a separate room since you have to share the bathroom. ethan’s side was decorated with movie and musician posters, some collectibles and books. chad’s with football stuff and some musician posters, a computer set up for streams he does.

ethan crawled in first so he could lay against the wall then you crawled in with a small gap between your bodies, but ethan once again wrapped your waist and pulled your back to his chest. even with the layers of clothing it felt like you were skin to skin, your heart was gonna beat out your chest if he kept doing this.

“your really comfortable,” ethan laid his chin over your shoulder so he could watch the movie. his arm staying curled tight around you. “it’s the multiple shirts and jackets.” skirting around the compliment, getting overwhelmed by how overly affectionate ethan is being.

the night dwindled on, the movie reached the half hour mark, your eyes were drooping with fatigue and ethan was snoring loudly in your ear. with one blink came a second that was heavier, then a third, which ended with a fourth blink that shut your eyes tight for the night as the loud soundtrack and voice of the child’s movie became your background noise.

the next morning was still freezing. eyelashes stuck together with a nose feeling running and lips horribly cracked, the shining sun snuck between cracks in ethan’s curtains. face scrunching from the brightness you groaned in your throat before twisting in the piles of sheets and blankets so you were facing ethan’s sleepy pout.

his usual rosy plush lips turned to a light blue over night as their parted and puffs of icy air enter the space. the tip of his button nose was rudolph red and the apples of his cheeks splashed with pink over his freckles. his curls were messy and tossed every which way and you couldn’t help as your mitten covered hand played and pushed them around.

ethan took a deep inhale through his nose before pulling you close with his arms that held you like you would disappear in the night. you wouldn’t though, not if you had a say. the whole night just felt… normal. yeah, the two of you would have movie nights and be a bit touchy with each other, but the moment chad left and ethan pulled you into his lap it just felt like he was being more than friendly.

“ethan.” whispering his name. he didn’t move or make a sound, so you dropped your palm to his cheek and ran your thumb under his eye as you called his name a few more times and a little louder.

a big inhale and scrunch of his face he mumbled with a thickness to his words, “why are you waking me up early, when we get to play house? we can sleep in.”

and you were more than happy to play house. sleep in the same bed, wake up together, cook together. just being together. “do you want to continue playing house even when chad comes back?” a hushed question with a loaded meaning and answer.

ethan groaned again as he pushed his icicle face to your neck and pressed a feather light kiss to when your jawline meets the bottom of your ear. you thought you imagined the action before he spoke to your spiked pulse point, “i’ve wanted to play house two weeks after i met you.”

there was a lovesick smile taking over your face. how you can’t wait to play house in the future, but right now, “ethan, i think we should go to sam’s. my body actually hurts.”

“wanna just take a shower. together. won’t mind running up the water bill if we’re sharing.” and you could feel the smirk from his lips.

you took a few seconds before- “get up, husband. gotta make the wife happy.”

-

[happy-beeeps]

Dincember Day 1 & 2: Snow and Fire

Summary: Grogu has never seen snow before, so Din tries his best to help the little guy get over his fear.

Warnings: none! Fluff!

Pairing: din x reader

WC: 1.3k

You’re bundled up in the warmest clothes you have in your trunk, a heavy fleece lined pair of leggings and a thick sweater of Din’s he picked up years ago on Alderaan and a heavy jacket, trying to find something warm to wrap Grogu in. Currently, you’ve got his little brown sack pulled tightly over his tiny frame, and you've attempted to insulate him by stuffing clean socks inside the coat, hoping to conserve any extra body heat. “Just bare with me bug,” you murmur, wrapping a woolen scarf around his ears. Finally, you take a step back to admire your handiwork.

Grogu is standing completely still, arms out to the side like one of the figures you’d seen standing in farmland. He doesn’t move towards you, bundled up so tight you aren’t sure it’s even possible. Still, he’s unbearably cute.

You move to scoop up the bundle of Grogu in front of you, and he coos at your touch, moving to squish his hands up in the direction of your face. “Your dad said he had a surprise for us, you wanna go check it out?”

Grogu attempts to move his head in a motion you can only interpret as “of course! There’s nothing I’d rather do!” so you move forward towards the ramp of the crest, lowering it slowly open before stepping outside.

You’re met with, as expected, a gust of cold wind and a flurry of snow, kissing your cheeks and making your stomach flip excitedly. You haven’t been on a system with snow in ages, and you suddenly feel like a schoolgirl again, racing forward to jump into the soft powder. The light outside looks equally soft, the setting suns casting a soft, pastel glow over the landscape. You can’t remember the name of the system you’re on, someplace inconsequential with a small town and even smaller fishing industry, but the scenery is beautiful. Large, blue glaciers jut out from the landing, looking as if they’ve been pushed out of the ground by some giant. Snow coats the ground with a thick blanket, and as you step into it you guess it’s at least five inches deep, enough to threaten to reach Grogu’s midriff if you set him down.

The thought brings you back to reality, and you look down to see your small bundle wrapping himself into you, timidly looking at the landscape around and the snow on the ground. “Do you want to play?”

At your words, he moves even closer inwards, pressing against you further. Suddenly, it dawns on you. Is he scared? Has Grogu even seen snow before? Before you can attempt to find an answer, there’s a glint in the distance that catches your eye. Din walks towards you, sparkling like an icicle against the setting sun, and your heart flutters the tiniest bit as you watch his pace quicken slightly when he spots the two of you.

“Aliit,” he murmurs as he gets closer, wrapping an arm around you as he brings his forehead to yours, and placing a hand on Grogu. “You bundled this one up good.” He says, inspecting Grogu, who is softly cooing into his father’s touch.

“I think I immobilized him,” you chuckle, and from the subtle shift in his body language you can tell he’s rolling his eyes at you beneath the helmet. “Din, has he ever seen snow before?”

He thinks this over for a moment as he picks the baby up from your arms, settling him against his chest. Again, Grogu clings to him, eyes wide at the snow beneath his father’s feet. “Don’t know, don’t think it snows much in Coruscant. Hard to say where he’s been before I found him, but it’s not like it snows on Arvala-7.”

This much you know for sure. The three of you walk a bit further to a small clearing a few minutes from the crest. Not far enough to be dangerous, but just far enough that you can forget you’re here on business. Din has, as expected, surprised you, setting up a small but roaring bonfire and a blanket on a patch of snow he’s excavated. There’s a pot of something brewing over the fire, and three sticks of meat roasting on the side.

“S’not much, but I know it’s been awhile since you’d seen snow.”

It has been awhile. Honestly, it’s been longer than you can remember. You’d had to leave your home system, a smaller system good for nothing but ski hills and lumber, when you were young, and it seemed every place you bounced to was hotter (and dustier) than the next.

“Here, I’ll set him down.” He places Grogu on the blanket, towards the edge, and the baby tentatively looks between you two. He moves his arm first in the direction of his dad, then you, and finally, the snow. “Kriff, he’s really packed in there.”

As if in response, Grogu makes a half-hearted attempt to move towards the offending white powder, and nearly falls flat on his face, barely being caught by you in time. “He’s tiny! He could freeze!”

Din’s low chuckle comes through his modulator in a way that makes your head spin. “Your mom is trying to suffocate you.”

“Am not,” you scoff, moving to kneel in the snow and placing him down softly. “Go on bug, it’s soft, see?”

Grogu moves, tentatively, and touches the snow. Feeling it’s chill he quickly pulls back a hand and then, slowly, reaches back to pat it. Once he’s successfully deemed it not a threat, he makes a flop to the ground and sits square in it, the flurries coming close to his face as he gleefully coos and pats his arms all around him.

Din kneels beside him, grabbing a handful of the soft snow and rolling it between his palms, shaping it carefully. He’s so gentle with it, so slow with his movements as he carefully shapes the ball to sit in front of his son.

“Did you ever make a snowman?” You ask, watching as he shows Grogu how to push the ball along the snow.

He shakes his head subtly, “No. We never got snow on Concordia. It’s not like there’s really time for a bounty hunter to make one when I’ve been anywhere else.”

“Let me show you,” you sit down beside them, ignoring the way the cold sends a chill down your spine as the snow seeps through your layers. You don’t even feel it from how warm your heart is at the sight. “Let's make a smaller one,” you say, partially to Din and partially to Grogu, as you roll a second, slightly smaller ball and place it atop Din’s.

Grogu coos, and flaps his arms, and you help him as best you can to roll a third, even tinier ball to set a top the two. “Look bug, we made a little guy!”

He beams, his tooth glinting in the nearly gone sun, and flaps his arms excitedly. You and Din move to go sit closer to the fire while he continues to squish around towards the end of the blanket.

He gets up and removes the kettle from the fire, removes two small cups from his pack and pours the contents in each. “Stopped in a small shop while I was looking for the quarry, the shopkeeper said this was a local specialty.”

It smells heavenly, spiced and chocolate and sweet. It’s thick, coating your tongue with the delightful taste and clinging to the roof of your mouth. “Oh yeah, I could get used to this.”

You can tell he’s smiling beneath his helmet as he wraps an arm around you, pulling him flush to his side. Snow is softly beginning to fall, and Grogu is still playing, the moment so perfect in its silence. So perfect in fact, you barely catch the whisper that nearly escapes Din’s modulator.

“Yeah, me too.”