#and now i have to think about if that matters to me and if that's even a thing that's worth anything

[arminsumi]

... hubby!Gojo with a huge breeding kink who just obsesses over you when you're ovulating and can't think about anything else but fucking a baby into your hips.

+ warnings; mdni, breeding kink, some dumbification

+ an; I literally had this idea in my drafts for a year... 😳

Maybe he's got a freaky sixth sense, maybe it's just because he's got heightened senses, or maybe there's some scientific studies to back it up; but Gojo can smell when you're ovulating. And it turns him on — of course it does. He has a bigger breeding kink than you do.

"Oh, you're ovulating." he notes after sniffing your skin... and you do a double take like he's insane. Because he is insane — you married a madman.

He pays closer attention to your cycle than you do, reminding you to mark down when you get your period, and coddling you in the days leading up to ovulation.

"Satoru, it's just an estimation." you tell him, but he's got a glow in his eyes when he sees your period tracker app telling him that today's your most fertile day — if he cums in you today, it's basically guaranteed.

He researches positions that help conception, bends and pushes you into them, and fucks you deep with his thick cock, going harder on your poor hole than he normally does — grunting more than he normally does, throbbing more than he normally does... like it just awakens something primal in him, and now he's obsessively fucking you like he has no other purpose but to breed his sweet little wife.

"Nn! Satoruuu!" you whine and paw at his torso, your walls overwhelmed by the pressure of his cock splitting you open.

"Yes babyyy?" he coos, giving you a crooked, blissed-out smile as he tilts his head.

There's sweat dripping off his abs, his pink nipples are hard, his biceps are twitching, and he's running one hand through his dampened white hair as he stills inside you for a moment.

"'s too deep! T-too big!" you moan lewdly, a bit of drool escaping the corner of your mouth.

"...aw, I know I'm just too big for ya, huh?" he coos cockily; hearing you tell him that he's 'too big' never gets old.

He's so determined to give you his baby that he tries everything to increase the chances; staying inside you for 5 minutes after shooting his load in, having you rest with a pillow under your back so your hips are raised — "Gotta help my lil' guys swim." he acts like an idiot about it, but sweetly so. Nothing excites him more than the idea of being a dad, except the idea of fathering your children.

After sex, when the two of you are cleaning up, Satoru feels over and massages your tummy with a small smile on his face. He's lost in thought, hair all messy and face tired like he's run a marathon, hopeful that this time he got you pregnant.

He'll pamper you like his queen, humming and going to the ends of the earth to get you anything you ask for. He really fawns over you when you're ovulating, and lays on the compliments thick while snuggling your neck and creeping his fingers up your thighs — pretty soon he'll sink them inside and stretch you out on them, preparing you for what he cutely calls "baby making" but is actually sweaty, nasty, kinky sex — there's a definite difference in the cute, snuggly sex and the literal breeding sessions no matter how much he plays it off.

"Satoru... my legs are still weak after this morning, give me a break, will you?"

"Aw come on, this is an innocent request... and if babymaking happens, it happens..." he mutters the last part under his breath.

"You're crazy."

But you know you're gonna fall for it after you take one look at his rock-hard, juicy pink, dummy big cock and those breeder balls.

He just beams victoriously when you hop over to him like a little bunny.

Satoru's pushes into you as deep as your pussy allows him, and then some more just to pressure your deepest spot, pinning your wrists down and whispering sultrily into your ear about how well you take him, how beautiful you look, how good it feels to fuck your fertile pussy knowing that he'll most definitely get you pregnant because his cum is perfect; thick and sticky and gooey and pungent, perfect just like he is — the cocky bastard.

When his creampies makes you cum, A-spot pressured with his pulsing tip, he grins so wide that you scold him about it.

"Stop grinning like a psychopath." you pant.

He just looks up at you, face hardly an inch away, and asks a dumb, smiley "D'you feel pregnant?" ... as if it happens so fast.

"Gee, I don't know, we should go again just to make sure — that was a joke, that was a joke! Nn! Satoru!" too late, he's flipping you over and slowly filling you up again.

And oh god Satoru loves sliding back in for round twos. The smell of sex and cum wafting up and hitting his nose just makes him plunge back into your cum-filled little hole with only one thing in mind and that is breeding you 'till you're stuffed to the max.

"Come on, y' gonna be a good wifey for me and get knocked up?" he rasps against your ear, thrusting his cock up into your sensitive spots until his creampies turn into whipped cream, frothed up and milky-white and smeared on your pussy lips.

Like the nasty boy he is (and always has been, even before marriage), Satoru forces your head down and makes you watch him fuck his dummy big cock into you.

"Yeah, watch that cock fill you up... look at all my cum leaking out..." he tuts, "... don't be so wasteful, baby... oh well, 'm gonna fuck it back into you anyways. Come on, let me in deeper — aw, what's wrong?" he coos when you claw at his meaty bicep.

"'toruuu, so deep! Y-you're so fucking deep, I can't think..."

His heart pangs when he hears you complain about being too stuffed, "Oh baby you don't need to think, just lay there and let me put a baby in your sweet pussy — gonna fuck you so dumb, the only name you'll remember is mine."

Of course, he has to get a creampie in every day. Sometimes even a few times a day. Sometimes even at 4 AM, and you swat him for being a horny idiot — but it takes five minutes to give in because you can hear the need in his voice when he whines "Please?" and starts humping against you, "I've got so much cum for you." he tells you and though it sounds so sweet in his soft, bedroom voice it's hard to take him as an innocent man, because his thick boner is grinding hard and hot between your plush lips.

You can bet you'll probably only get to sleep when the birds are chirping, 'cause your hubby's balls are too heavy and full of cum and he needs to drain himself inside you — oh, and you can also bet that afterwards he will be sleeping like a princess, clinging to you with his face snuggled into your tummy.

[sugarlywhispers]

b.katsuki x reader (fem) | quirkless!reader, prohero!dynamight

a.n; I'M IN LOVE WITH THIS IDEA OKAY? I HAVE HAD IT IN MY DRAFTS FOR LIKE A YEAR ALREADY AND I NEED YA'LL TO RANT WITH ME ABOUT THISSSS<3 it's mostly enemies to lovers💕

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG

"For the love of–... I'M COMING!"

It's Sunday morning. You have been expecting this day to wake up maybe mid-morning, with the gentle warm breeze coming from your open window; have an exquisite brunch that you have been planning and craving since Friday; maybe watch an episode or two of your favorite show before preparing a full spa day, with a long and refreshing bath included. That's how you have planned your Sunday to go.

But no… Apparently, someone's intention was to ruin the whole day for you while their knocks on your door were persistent and annoying at 6 freaking a.m.

You don't think about what you're wearing before stumbling towards the door, with the loud BANGS still sounding. You think of your poor neighbors next door and their newborn baby.

"This little shit," you protest, completely annoyed with this person knocking on your door like someone has died. "Someone better be dead or else…" You open the door in one strong pull and huff utterly annoyed when you encounter the person behind.

Vermillion eyes collide with yours, the intense hate and annoyance so palpable in the air it almost cuts you both.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

He tchs, rolling his eyes at you. The bile travels up through your esophagus, and you want to spit at him.

"Save the greetings, if you know what a decent greeting means… Well, considering how well you just did it, I doubt you fuckin’ know…"

The muscle at your temple twitches so hard, you believe he is actually able to see it. That would explain his upcoming smirk.

"The fuck do you want?" You repeat, not even caring or taking the time to follow this banter with him. You would normally do it, come back at him with a snarky response that would probably hurt his ego and he would answer back making you even angrier, and yada yada, nothing new to this ‘hate x hate’ relationship you had with this man in front of you. But today is not a day you planned on dealing with Bakugou-annoying ass-Katsuki.

He looks down at his hands, his fingers fidgeting a bit with the buttons on his all-black suit jacket you just now noticed he is wearing. Interesting; he never uses formal suits like this one if it isn't for a Hero Gala, and that was only once a year. Or that one time you remember he had to apologize to citizens through a TV interview with Deku because of a villain attack in Hokkaido they couldn't quite contain on time and caused a lot of material damage. You shake your head coming back to the present. Pro Hero Dynamight, a.k.a. Bakugou-annoying ass-Katsuki is standing right at your door, looking a bit nervous while playing with the buttons of his jacket, furrowing his eyebrows like he is angry even at the air he breathes.

You could have expected anything from this unpredictable man who infuriated you almost twenty-four hours a day, the seven days of the whole week. However, you were not expecting at all the words that come from his mouth after he looks up again and his eyes lock with yours.

"Fucking marry me."

Your eyes open wide. And the only thing you think of doing is punching him. And you do.

Your hands close in tight fists, and before saying anything, you punch his shoulder as strongly as you can with one. You know for sure your small and useless fist won't do any damage to this hulk of a man, but the meaning behind it it's what matters.

He simply looks at you in disbelief. "Ouch?" He smirks. He fucking smirks at you, and this time you punch his stomach, which does make him grunt and hover a bit in pain.

You attempt to close the door right at his face, but he suddenly pushes it with his hand and makes you waver a bit back, holding yourself on the door handle. He stands straight again, retrieving his hand from the door when he realizes he used more force than intended to prevent you from closing the door.

"I- umm- Shit, sorry, I didn't-..." 

You raise a hand to stop him from talking.

"Just fucking tell me what you want, so I can go back to bed and not see your ugly face for the rest of my day."

You watch in satisfaction how his face contours into full rage. And this time you smirk. 

"I fucking hate you…" He spits, and you bat your lashes at him while smiling.

"Ah, the feeling is mutual, baby."

Bakugou takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and holding himself on the door frame with strength. You're sure his hand shape will print on it, and you get more annoyed –if that's possible, but you have already learned that when Bakugou was involved, the anger was immeasurable– thinking that you will have to hire someone to fix that.

"I fucking hate you," he repeats through his teeth with his eyes still closed, but then he opens them, and his entire face changes into something you never expected to see. He looks at you, begging, "But I need you to marry me."

You look… perplexed. Again, never in your life have you ever come across the thought that those words would ever come from the man in front of you, much less towards you.

You open your mouth to say something, but the neighbor from the apartment in front of yours opens his door, standing there with his arms crossed and looking menacingly.

"Everything okay, Y/N?" His deep baritone voice asks. Bakugou turns his head and when he sees him, stands straight, head held high and you can imagine the type of defying expression on his face.

You roll your eyes. Men.

"Yes, Arisu, everything is fine. He's… a… friend," the word stung your tongue because you couldn't consider Bakugou that, even though you shared the same group of friends. But it wouldn't have been good having these two fight over something you still didn't understand what was happening; the thought of who of these two hulk men would win still was entertaining to think about. Your money was on Arisu, of course.

"Alrigh’," Arisu says, looking at Bakugou up and down before retrieving himself back into his apartment.

"The fuck this fucking extra-..." You stop Bakugou from turning and going towards Arisu by holding his arm and pulling him towards you.

"Stop it. Come inside," you demand, pulling him as he watches your hand around his bicep, "before any of my neighbors file a complaint against me thanks to your fucking loud mouth."

Bakugou grunts at your words as he lets you pull him inside. When you close the door and turn to him, you realize how big he looks in your small apartment, where there is barely space between the living room and the kitchen and two doors, one leads to your bedroom and the other to the bathroom. You want to laugh at how uncomfortable he looks.

You take a deep breath, scratching your forehead to regain a bit of patience –which was non-existent whenever Bakugou was around.

"Okay, now, explain to me what the hell is wrong with you."

"Nothing is wrong with me. More like what's wrong with you and this small thing you call apartment… When did you-..."

"Bakugou! I didn't invite you in for you to start insulting my living space!" You say more exasperated by every second he is in there. "Tell me what the hell happened to you! Why did you come here, almost tearing down the door of my place at 6 in the fucking morning, annoying even my neighbors, and then you fucking propose out of nowhere!"

His lips are held in a tight line as he watches you almost yell at him, hands opening and closing anxiously. There is silence for a couple of minutes before he says, "My father died."

You gasp, taking a step back. Wow. That's something you were not expecting at all. You get now why the black suit. And now that you look at him better, his eyes look glassy and reddish –probably thanks to how much he's holding himself back from showing any other emotion that isn't anger. And that's… sad.

Your arms immediately hug yourself, one hand settling over your chest. "I- I'm sorry…"

"Don't be," he turns a bit to the left, facing the kitchen to avoid looking at you. "Fucker was a right pain in the ass."

You choke on the laugh that almost escapes you at his words, and after you clear your throat you murmur, "Sorry." He looks at you a bit amused, the right corner of his mouth lifted a bit at your reaction.

You sigh again after a few seconds of silence, "Bakugou, what does that have to do with you asking me to-...”

"My great-grandparents are-were the funders and CEOs of TCA Technologies Corp.," your eyes open wide at the name of the prestigious company that had been ground-breaking in the creation and use of robots, before being the number one seller of technology materials to support heroes. They were high class in society, civilians and heroes. "Yeah, that's the face every extra makes," he smirks when you stick your tongue out at him.

He then looks at you up and down and immediately looks away, clearing his throat in a clear gesture of shyness. You frown confused.

"Fucking go put some clothes on."

That's when you remember you had no pants, no bra, and an old shirt that barely covered your panties. Fuck. You almost run towards your room to get changed. All of this had to be a dream… or a nightmare.

Your Sunday was entirely ruined. You know that for sure.

After you change to decent, more covered clothing, leggings and a big shirt that almost reached your knees –it is Sunday, dammit, and the hell you are gonna dress up for Bakugou Katsuki– you walk again towards the living room where you left said asshole waiting for you there. He is now sitting on your couch, his suit jacket lying over the back of it. His elbows are resting over his knees, his hands holding his head. You have never encountered a tired Bakugou, yet here he is. Looking beaten and down.

He looks up at you when he hears you approach him; his eyes are more reddish than before, kind of like when you want to cry but don't let yourself do it. That made you feel bad for thinking about him as an asshole.

"What took you so long, short-legs? Whatever you wear, you'll still stink and look ugly on it."

Nope. He is and will always be a stupid asshole.

You roll your eyes grunting as you let yourself fall on the couch, as far away from him as you can on that three-people couch, crossing your legs under you.

"Spit it out, asshole. What's all this about?"

He sighs, "My father inherited it all after my grandfather died. His whole life had been that stupid company, his and my mother's. I don't give a fuck about it, but the old hack insists that I- ow!"

You pinch him on the shoulder this time, knowing very well that if you had punched him he wouldn't have felt anything. But pinching… he did feel that.

"What the fuck was that for?!"

"Don't call your mom like that, idiot!"

"Fucking piss off, you know shit! The old hack is an old hack, she deserves the title."

You shake your head in disagreement but decide to leave that topic there considering how affected he looks by it.

"The old hack said," he simply repeats that to spite you, and you really want to punch him, "that I need to step up and be fucking CEO of that bullshit, or…"

He looks at you, and you gulp, kind of understanding where this is going.

"Or get married." You finish the sentence, crossing your arms over your chest, "But why? Those two options are completely different from one another."

"The sky will fucking fall the day I understand any-fucking-thing that comes out of her mouth. She's nuts!" He protests, arms exaggerating his words as he opens them wide, evidently showing how much stress he has, before laying back on the couch, head resting over the back of it where his jacket is. He sighs long and deeply before talking again, "My great-grandmother had a strong Quirk, but she decided to stay at home instead of being a Hero. Those were other times, ya'know?"

"I know History of Heroes, Bakugou. I'm not stupid."

He looks at you again, this time genuinely surprised, "I, umm, thought you-..."

"Have you ever thought that despite not having a Quirk, I know about heroes?"

He tchs, "No wonder why you and shitty Deku are such shitty nerds."

You roll your eyes for the eleventh time that morning, "Get to the point, shitty asshole."

Bakugou scoffs, clearly holding back a retort to answer back, then he continues, "I'm the first in generations with a strong, hero-level Quirk. Most of my family had decided to live as civilians, building this stupid company from generation to generation."

"Oh, and you are the first actual Hero in the family. You are the first one to choose differently…"

He nods in response, "It almost gave my grandfather a heart attack. Ever since my Quirk woke up, I knew what I wanted," he looks back at you, and for the first time, you admit to yourself that you're curious of knowing what he wants, what goes through his head, so you nod allowing him to continue, "I want to be a Number One Hero. I want to kick villains' asses as much and as hard as I can for as long as my stupid aging bones allow me to."

The intensity in his eyes and conviction in every word he spoke made you feel his passion. And that was… new.

"But to be that, I can't afford to waste time in falling in love and all that bullshit…"

"Then say no to your mom and the company," you offer as a solution. He snorts letting his head fall back against the couch.

"You know shit…" He shakes his head, "There's a requirement in every hero company, it says that a familiar, or a spouse if the hero is married, has to validate your mental sanity alongside a doctor to keep working as a Hero."

"I… didn't know that."

"Of course not, short-legs. You're not a hero, why would you know?"

"So, if I… If we get married-..." he nods in confirmation even before you say the words. But he says them.

"The old hag won't have to validate my status as Hero anymore, and she won't have anything to hold me back from sending her and the company to hell."

You looked serious at him, "Bakugou, you and I don't like each other. You hate me and I hate you. And you want to put your Hero status in my hands by marrying me?" You say in disbelief, almost anxious about the whole meaning of this. You stand up and walk from one side to the other as you keep talking, "Why? Because your inner kid is in rebellious tantrum mode and does not want to take the responsibility to-..."

"Shut the fuck up! You. Know. Shit!" He also stood up, shortening the distance between you two in the small living room.

"Then tell me! Explain it to me! Cause to me you only sound like a spoiled brat who doesn't want his veggies for lunch."

He looks you right in the eye, hands almost trembling in fists beside his body, and then he drops the bomb.

"My mother killed my grandfather."

You recoil a step back, "What?"

He sighs, hands and fingers running through his hair, clearly uncomfortable, "I-... There is no proof, no solid proof about it. I just- I know it was her." Again, the conviction in his eyes made you believe him. "My mother wanted the money, the luxury life being with my dad could bring her. But my dad had a brother, an older brother."

"Had?"

Bakugou simply shakes his head, "The idiot got himself in between a shooting from two villain groups. He was shot only once, and it killed him. A fucking looser…" 

You try, you really tried not to smile but failed miserably. "You are the idiot," you say fighting back the chuckle.

He smiles back, "No, I got shot several times, I even got thrown at and through walls, and I'm very much fucking alive. I'm no weak ass looser as him."

You can't stop laughing, Bakugou definitely is an idiot.

He waits until you're done laughing before continuing, "Even then, my grandfather didn't think my dad was capable of handling the company and all it meant, so he was thinking about giving it to one of his nephews. That's when, I fuckin’ know, my mother took matters into her own hands. I'm an only child. If I say no…"

"The company has to go to another familiar..." Everything washes clear now in your head, “And your mom won't allow that to happen. So she’ll lie and say you aren’t sane enough to keep working as a hero,” Bakugou keeps nodding, confirming everything you’re saying.

“That way, I’m obligated to work at the company.”

Your hand travels from your forehead and brushes your hair back. “She wouldn’t that… She’s your mom, Bakugou...”

“Haven’t you heard a fucking thing I said? She fucking killed my grandfather so the company was legally inherited by my father! Therefore, she could hold all the rights, all the stupid money! My father was a fucking dimwit who believed every-fucking-thing my mother said. She controlled him as she pleased.”

You gasp as another realization hits you, “That’s why you are an asshole to her…”

“She can fool anyone, but not me.” He declares, standing tall and proud. “I have never played her game, and I fuckin’ never will.”

You hug yourself once more, taking some minutes to assimilate all the confessions he just dropped on you. Everything feels like a script of a freaking movie or something. And there are too many questions you want to ask. But there’s only one thing you mostly don’t understand and you need the answer to.

So you look back at him, head tilting up a bit due to the height difference between you, and ask, “Why me?”

Bakugou does not hesitate in his answer. 

“You’re strong, despite not having a Quirk. And smart. You don’t let anyone dictate what you can or cannot do,” he takes a step closer, his eyes never leaving yours, “You have never backed down from a discussion, with me or anyone else. You don’t let anybody step on you, holding tight to your convictions and beliefs.”

You visibly gulp, feeling a little warmth in your cheeks that makes you want to look elsewhere, but you don't. You hold the connection between your eyes like dear life. And he smiles, the left corner of his mouth raising a bit.

“You have a fuckin’ strong character, you won't even shy down from me,” you suddenly feel the back of his index finger caress the right side of your jaw, where lays an old scar he perfectly recognized.

It was the scar he accidentally left when you were younger, stupider. He had picked a fight with another newbie hero –another asshole in your opinion– who kept talking shit about his other newbie hero friends. Bakugou had snapped when the guy mocked the word “whore” towards you. You have tried to separate them, earning yourself a punch on the right side of your face by this same man that has touched the reminder of that old memory.

“But above all that…” It’s his turn to gulp, eyes going up and down through your face. Is he… Is he looking at your lips? “You are kind. You care about everyone. You always try to solve everything for everyone –that’s fuckin’ annoying actually.”

You open your mouth to swear at him, stupid asshole; but he doesn’t give you time to say anything. “What I’m trying to fuckin’ say is–” he takes a deep breath, “You are… good. A good person. And you… You understand m- us.”

Was he going to say ‘me’? By ‘us’, you know he means heroes.

Your parents had been heroes before they died. Unfortunately, you were born Quirkless, so the dream of following your parents' path was decided the same day you were welcomed into this world. You have already made peace with this idea, it didn’t hurt like it used to when you were young. Despite not having a Quirk, you specialized in Quirk and training analysis, which granted you a job that most Hero Agencies wanted you for. Hence also how now your group of friends involved all heroes.

However, one thing is working with them, working with Bakugou Katsuki, a.k.a. Pro Hero Dynamight, who was the biggest pain in your ass you have ever had since the day you met him. Another completely different is actually marrying the pain in your ass.

You sigh, “I don’t–...”

“What? You want me to fuckin’ beg? ‘Cause I fuckin’ will…” Bakugou takes a step back and literally kneels before you. You protest, grabbing his forearm and pulling him back up, but he doesn’t let you move him even a millimeter. “What do you want? Whatever you want is yours. We can even sign a dam contract if you so want, I don’t fuckin’ care what it is. Whatever you want, it’s yours.”

“This is not a fucking joke, Bakugou. You are asking me to marry you. What if I have a boyfriend? You didn’t even fucking ask!”

His eyes open wide, surprised. “Do you?”

You roll your eyes, releasing an exasperated sigh. “No! I don’t!”

“Then, what are you bitching about?”

You groan. “I’m bitching about the fact that I don’t know why would you put a whole big deal on me when we hate each other!”

“I trust you.”

It’s a short answer, his expression is even so neutral and sure that leaves you perplexed. Surprised at how easily he said those words.

“We don’t like each other…”

“I don’t need to like you to trust you, idiot.” It feels like he’s mocking you, but one look into his eyes and what he is saying actually feels right. He is completely sure of what he is saying. “I would even fuckin’ trust you with my life.”

He already does. Every day, at work.

Still, you can’t pass the opportunity to piss him off. “Wow. That’s deep, buddy.”

“Fuck you.”

Mission accomplished.

You laugh gently, looking at him still kneeling on the floor of your living room. The sight in itself is a miracle. A sight you won't get to see ever again from this man. But it’s not the image of his kneeling position that makes you take the decision.

It’s his eyes.

They are screaming, desperately begging for you to help him. And, damn it, he is right; you always are at the disposal of everyone when they need your help. Fuck! It is actually very annoying –but you will never admit that out loud, especially not to him.

You close your eyes, head tilting back, and take a long, deep breath.

You are so going to regret this.

“Fine, I’ll do it.”

Bakugou Katsuki immediately stands up and practically throws himself at you, his whole hulk of a body surrounding you in what you have never thought would ever happen between you two: a hug.

Are you though?

[mattscoquette]

matt’s eye hurriedly scanned across the tank full of water and bright colored gold fish, studying each and every last creature’s movement, trying to find the perfect one.

“i think that one looks-” you began, pointing to one fish, being cut off by the sound of matt shushing you.

“sorry, i-” he rambled, pressing a quick and apologetic kiss to your head, “this is serious business.”

you giggled, rolling your eyes as you returned your head to its spot on matt’s shoulder, watching as he went back to intently looking at the fish. you and matt had been together for two years now, and when he sat you down last month saying he wanted to take things to the next step, you’d thought he meant something serious. like moving in together, (not that it mattered- matt spent about five days a week at your apartment anyway and was practically living there), or something of that level. but instead, he said he wanted to raise a pet with you. and not just any pet, a goldfish. you’d thought he was joking, but when you saw the look in his eye, you knew he was serious.

“i like this little guy.” matt mumbled, pointing to a small, orange fish that had seemed to just be swimming around aimlessly. you smiled up at him, eyes trailing to where his finger was pointing. the fish was cute, sure, but it looked like every other fish in the tank. still, you weren’t one to crush your boyfriend’s dreams of becoming a fish dad.

“he’s cute,” you whispered with a soft grin, “should we get him?”

he nodded, picking his head up off yours to look around for an employee to scoop the fish out of the tank for you. the both of you had already ordered a twenty gallon tank online for your apartment, and today was the day you decided to pick out a fish and bring him to his new home.

the employee made his way over, a poor teenaged boy who probably wasn’t getting paid enough to take requests of which fish matt wanted, but he did it anyway. matt couldn’t contain his excitement when the boy handed you guys the small plastic container that held your new pet fish. he brought the container up to his face, peering in through the plastic.

“hey buddy,” matt said gently with a smile, “you’re our fish now. we’re gonna be so good to you.”

“i don’t think he know’s english yet.” you giggled, softly nudging matt’s side.

“well, we’ll have to teach him then.”

you sighed, playfully rolling your eyes as you both headed to the checkout line, matt talking to the fish as if it were his own kid.

“you’re gonna love the apartment,” matt smiled as he blabbered to the fish, “we got you a big tank all for yourself. it’s gonna be sick.”

you turned to matt, faux concern plastered all over your face. “you’re not gonna like the fish more than me, right?”

he shook his head and laughed, kissing your nose swiftly. “no promises.”

© mattscoquette

thank u to my girl @lanaswifeyy for the idea ! ily angel

based off my my bf!matt texts series

[keferon]

Something I came up with for mecha pilot Jazz Au:

____________________

The battlefield was in chaos, mechs and the invaders could be seen everywhere, yet Prowl's focus was else were.

Jazz, the strangest mech he ever seen, was fighting with all his might against one of the invaders while he had way too many lost parts to even be doing half of whatever that stupidity was.

Yet, there he was, fighting like that didn't matter, like it didn't hurt.

Like he could survive whatever came his way.

"Is that all you've got you fucker!"

Prowl did not know what that least part meant, like he didn't know many other things that the mech would say, by he knew it should be an insult.

But now there was no time to keep staring, he had his own fight to think of.

-------

"Fuck!"

Prowl had just finished his own enemy when he heard that.

It was Jazz's voice, and using a not so comforting tone

He immediately turned, knowing full well that when Jazz screamed like that, it meant trouble.

But nothing prepared Prowl for what he saw.

One of the invaders had stabbed him in the chest, a deep wound that was obviously fatal.

He watched in horror as the lights on Jazz's bisor started to go out as the invader pulled back its weapon and left.

Prowl ran, arriving in time to catch him before Jazz hit the ground.

"Jazz!" He called out as the lights became weaker and weaker.

He got no response other then the low buzz he sometimes heard the mech do when going to recharge before the lights died.

But Prowl knew, Jazz wasn't recharging.

Jazz was not there with them anymore.

He felt his spark skip a beat as he stared at his fallen friend, the one with no concept of personal space or when to or not to flirt with someone, and the one to seemed to always have something to say.

That same Jazz was now silent in front of him, still and cold.

Prowl was sad by the loss.

But he was also enraged.

Enraged by Jazz's recklessness, by the invaders presence, by his inability to do something to save his friend.

That brought a surge of rage to him.

He wanted to fight and bring down the ones that liked Jazz, and he was about to.

But something made him stop.

A quiet and nearly impossible to hear voice.

A voice that came from Jazz's body.

He looked at his friend as his chest suddenly started to open and a something that he never seen appeared sitting where his spark should be.

A small creature, with an armor way too similar with Jazz's design to be a coincidence, its side had a nasty cut that was leaking a strange red liquid.

Its face painted with obvious pain, yet it was still showing a smile that Prowl might not know, but that seemed right as it spoke with the same, yet too small for confort, voice he thought he would never hear again.

"Hey Prowler, could you give me a hand here?"

OH I LOVE IT SO MUCH HELPP YOU MAKE ME WANNA WRITE

[alhaithams-malewife]

I remember getting into a heated argument with him over this issue, actually. (Adding a cut because this went on longer than I intended)

I was struggling with a very condescending and belittling client for about five or so months and eventually what he (client) said got to me more than usual. I don't remember the exact comment, but it was something along the lines of "you force yourself to be perfect and yet you're never good enough." Needless to say, I was pretty devastated.

So anyway, I went to Lambad's, probably gave myself liver problems during the... four hours I was there, I think? Per usual, Lambad had to call Alhaitham to come pick me up because according to him I had drank so much I was talking to the chair across from me thinking it was Cyno. Why him, I don't know. Maybe because it was around that time that he was, contrary to popular belief, the first person in our friend group to figure out that I had a massive crush on him (I hate using such childish terms, though.)

I woke up the next afternoon with a searing hangover, and if anyone knows me, they know I get really, really cranky when I'm like that. I walked over to my desk and... this is embarrassing, but I threw everything off the desk in a fit of rage directed at the client, my inability to please clients, and myself. Haitham walked in thinking I had fallen out of bed and instead saw me breaking down. The conversation went something like this:

Him, standing in the doorway: "So, are you still drunk, or are you just unable to control your emotions even when sober?"

Me, sitting at the now-empty desk with head in hands: "Shut up. What does it matter to you, anyway?"

🌱: "Because one, you interrupted my downtime. Two, I heard your tantrum through my soundproof earpieces. And three, I had to see if I needed to have you pay for damages to the house."

🏛️: "Oh, boohoo. All you ever have to worry about is money this, annoyance that." (Why did I ever say that?)

🌱: "As if your career isn't drawing boxes and lines. You're the most famous architect in Sumeru yet you don't own your own home. How sad."

Then, for some stupid reason, I threw a pen at him and yelled, "You have no idea how hard I work every single day and every single night just trying to make the clients happy. But no, they go and tell me no matter how hard I work, I'll never be good enough! Then there's you, who makes a huge salary without ever hardly moving from your desk! So of course I'm angry. Of course I'm going to let it slip!"

🌱: "Well, do you believe them?"

🏛️: "What do you think?!"

I don't remember what he said after that, I just slammed the door and left. Then it started raining hard and he pretty much dragged me home. I asked why he even cared, and he said to use my brain. ("...or are you that dense?") Those were pretty much the conclusions I came to, except for the one about my father. @ags-haitham You did what?! /lh

He probably meant what he said in the best way, though. Either way, I'd rather have petty arguments like this than be without him at all.

"but what does he REALLY want with me?" my brooo, kaveh, Alhaitham does care about you just trust me, i'm the bedside lamp 😭

inspired by daikyto9

[millersfinest]

can u make some like generic dating ellie headcannons? (tlou universe preferably)

i love ur writing sm!!

dating ellie williams ◡̈

cw: usual fluff, mentioned love languages, mention of joel’s death (i wanted to be as canon as possible), a little nsfw but nothing too crazy.

note: here are some semi-ooc ellie hc’s!! i feel like im so bad at headcanons, but here you go. thank you for enjoying my work, i hope you like this too pookie!

ellie! is a total introvert to her core, so no matter how she found out about you taking interest in her… she’d probably need some time to think about it.

ellie! would have you freaking tf out over it too. but she means well, she’s just a really bad over-thinker—never wanting to say the wrong thing. but she’d come around and never stop apologizing to you.

ellie! would take a little while to open up to you, if you weren’t friends first. she’s been through a lot in her life, and she fears that her trauma could scare people away.

now, if you were already friends (specifically close friends), you probably would’ve already known her deepest darkest secrets and feelings by the time you started dating. every traumatic event and every fixation she’s had since she was a child.

ellie! thoroughly believes in physical touch and quality time as a love language.

for physical touch: it doesn’t always have to be sexual (she doesn’t complain either way), she just likes to touch you—knowing you’re right there next to her. you could be doing the dishes and she’d come up behind you, leaning her head on your shoulder, with her hands delicately placed on your hips. or standing by the bar at the tipsy bison, with her fingers dipped into any of the pockets of your jeans. keeping you close.

for quality time: she does love her moments alone, but they’re always better with you somewhere near by. sometimes, when she would spend hours painting or drawing in her art room, she’d ask if you could come sit in. so you’d bring your book, or whatever you were doing, and read silently in the same room as her. while a smooth record played in the background. but sometimes, she doesn’t even ask. you could be doing the most boring thing ever, and she’d float around you like a curious bumblebee.

ellie! love, love, loves being babied—even though she’d never admit it. she has a reputation to uphold, of course. during the spring, due to the patrols and supply runs, her allergies would wreck havoc on her. that’s where you come in to nurture her back to health. she’d have tissue stuck up her nose, with her head lying in your lap on the couch. you rubbing your hand over her hair, soothingly.

“if you kiss me right now, i think my sinuses will re-open.”

“ellie, you just sneezed two minutes ago.”

“baby, pleaseeeee! i need it!” and she’d give the craziest puppy dog eyes known to man. and, of course, you’d give in. giving her the sweetest smooch ever. it didn’t open her sinuses, but she knew that. just know… she’s gonna convince you to give her another to be sure.

another scenario would be coming home after a long day at work (idk i feel like doing patrols would be like her main thing). she probably had a rough day with the lingering infected, and came back with a few injuries. the moment she stepped through the door, she’d be calling for you. wrapped in your arms, smelling like the outdoors, you’d slowly undress her and then run a bath. she loved when you’d cater to her in that way—cleaning her cuts, washing her skin from dried blood and dirt. after all that, you’d cuddle in bed, pillow-talking until her eyes shut before yours.

“goodnight, els.” smooch.

ellie! was a little iffy when it came to holidays, but when it came to your birthday it was a special affair. jackson was a healthy and happy little bubble, but because the idea of loss wasn’t foreign to her—celebrating her loved ones was very important to her.

if you didn’t like grand gestures, she’d keep it lowkey. maybe throwing a little surprise for the two of you at home; cooking you dinner, having a movie night, and giving you little trinkets she found on the road. or painting something for you in secret, then giving it to you as a gift.

speaking of cooking…

ellie! has thing for making good food. a part of me feels like joel put her on when she was young, and after he died (yeah, i’m sorry) she made an effort to keep it up. playing guitar was much harder for her since she only had two fingers and a thumb on her left hand—so she decided to pick up something else to stay close to him.

so every chance she can get, she cooks for you or both of you. when you would go on patrols, you’d make sure to pick up cook books from before the outbreak since she found them so fascinating. and you loved being her little food guinea pig. spoiler: she was a fast learner so her cooking skills were pretty good.

ellie! 100% taught you to play the song (that we all know and love) that joel taught her on the guitar. and whenever you knew she needed to hear it, you’d play it for her. and, i swear on everything, there’d be tears in her eyes every time.

and for some freaky stuff… (i won’t get into crazy detail but i just wanna be thorough ;D)

ellie! just loves loving you… making love to you—doing everything that she can to almost prove that you’re everything to her (not that she needs to but she does it anyway).

meaning: at the very best, she’s a service!top. however, i can get behind her being a switch/verse (or maybe i’m bias lmao).

ellie! probably wouldn’t strap as often as the fanfics show. especially being in this apocalyptic world—where would you get them?? if they weren’t hella old… and, i feel like she’d think they were a little silly (but if you wanted to try it, she’d oblige because what you say goes).

ellie! loves to watch the expressions of your features contort into visuals of pleasure. it’s how she knew she was being good for you—doing everything that you asked but better!

your first time: of course she was super awkward. not really knowing where to put her hands at first. but once the heat began to rise, and your bodies began to press together, her entire energy changed! she’s her most confident when she’s in service to someone (in some way)—so she makes it her prerogative to make you feel good and comfortable. you weren’t really expecting that from her, though. it only took one airy moan coming from your lips for her to completely flip the script.

her hands were firmly delicate, and she made sure to be very vocal in your ears and over your body.

overall, ellie williams is a very attentive lover. in many ways than just one.

[thesweetestofdreams]

black cat confessions

poly!marauders x reader

warnings: patching up bruised knuckles very pg allusions to violence

a/n Times are tough so please enjoy a sleepy drabble with a slightly whimsical reader who will always defend her boyfriends

“Hello gorgeous, where’ve you been?” James asked as you came into the boys’ dorm. It wasn’t like you to be so late, unless of course a portrait got to talking. You could never turn down a good story, no matter how many times you heard it. 

“Detention,” you said. This garnered the attention of all three of your boyfriends. Remus set down his book, he had been trying to read instead of worrying about you, and Sirius ceased spinning his wand in his hand. James sat up from where he was laying on his bed. Oblivious to their shock you dropped your bag onto the floor.

“Detention?” James asked at the same time Sirius said “You’re joking.”

“Yeah,” you said, sounding almost as confused as they were. 

“May we ask why?” said Remus abandoning his book. 

“Well Barty said that black cats were bad luck, which is rather rude.” You fell onto Remus’s unmade bed, arms flopping on either side of you. 

“And how did that turn into detention for you?” Sirius asked as patient as could be, a trait reserved almost especially for you.

You rolled onto your stomach yawning as you rested your chin on your hand. “I told him that was hardly true but he wouldn’t give it up.” You were interrupted with another yawn. “Then he said the worst bad luck was black dogs. You could never be bad luck, Siri.”

Sirius could pretty much feel himself melting. James, as endearing as you were, was practically on the edge of his seat ready to find out what on earth their sweet girl could do to warrant detention. Remus was getting tired just looking at you and he had to fight the urge to join you where you lay.

“Well then he started talking about werewolves and of course he had nothing nice to say and he was looking right at me, so I punched him.” Just like before you were completely oblivious to the shock your statement caused. 

“You punched him?” Remus asked, and despite your tired eyes being closed you could hear the smile in his voice. The boys shared a conspiratorially prideful look. 

“He wasn’t mad. I think he thought it was funny.” 

“Sounds like he had it coming,” Sirius said, fully in agreement. 

“Professor Slughorn was mad though,” you mused.

“Merlin, what I would have given to see his face.” James laughed at just the thought. 

“I bet he went red head to toe,” Sirius added. You smiled in tired amusement. The sound of their laughs made your chest buzz, warm and full. 

“Punching people hurts,” you said looking down at your hand.

The energy of the room shifted as the amusement died down. Remus was already making his way to you, pulling your hand into his lap as he sat on the bed next to you. You didn’t fight him. He tsked at the sight of your knuckles and your fingers were dry and cracked. He turned them over in his hands ever so gently. 

“Slughorn made me wash all of the potion bottles,” you offered in explanation.

James wordlessly pulled a small first aid kit from Remus’s nightstand, while Sirius grabbed a set of pajamas they kept for you. Caring for eachother was a well practiced routine. It was an achingly good feeling to be taken care of. 

Remus spread dittany over your knuckles and any deep cracks, careful never to press too hard. James pulled off your shoes, and Sirius turned down the lights grumbling softly to himself when James reminded him of an early morning quidditch match. 

“You can sleep with me then,” Remus whispered loudly, teasing as he softly wrapped a bandage over your knuckles.

“Now this is just torturous,” Sirius groaned from his bed. James threw a pillow at him across the room. “I’m keeping this.” 

After some coaxing from Remus, you summoned enough willpower to stand and change into your pajamas. From across the room, you saw James dive into bed with Sirius who held the pillow above his head. James pinched at Sirius's waist earning a withering look from him that quickly dissolved into lazy smiling kisses. 

Finally you were lying in bed with your head on Remus’s chest. You could hear his heartbeat thump beneath you, the steady rhythm and warmth lulling you to sleep better than any lullaby. You weren’t helped by the slow circles he drew into your back. 

“Thanks for defending me, brave girl,” Remus said into your hair. 

Fighting a yawn you said, “you would have done the same for me.”

He would have done worse for you, and he would spend the rest of everyday grateful for the love he’s found.

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

can you see the stars in your dreams (and do they have a lot to say about me) - Part 9

Or: a secret Admirer AU

PART 1 || PART 2 || PART 3 || PART 4 || PART 5 || PART 6 || PART 7 || PART 8

Jeff calls her. It’s the first time they’ve spoken on the phone, and something flutters in her chest.

“How did you get this number?” she asks, finger twirling the coiled wire of the phone as she smiles down at her socked feet.

“There’s only one Cunningham in the phone book, Chrissy,” he replies, all dry wit—she can almost see the smirk on his face. “It’s not exactly rocket science.”

She laughs, shuffling around her kitchen, suddenly desperate to move, but she’s leashed to the wall by her phone’s cord, so it’s only about four steps each way until she’s bungee-corded back to the starting point.

“Smartass.”

Jeff laughs this time, quiet the way he always is, but her chest feels like a supernova’s exploding in it. “But that’s not why I called.”

Chrissy’s smile fixes to her face before drooping down into her shoes with her gut. “What’s wrong?” she asks, now standing statuesque in her kitchen, cold tiles leaching all the warmth from her feet even through her thick socks.

“Nothing,” Jeff sighs, and there’s a crackling sound, like he’s rubbing his face in exhaustion. “Just—Steve drove me home.”

“Is he okay?” she asks, clenching the phone hard enough in her hand that the cheap plastic creaks.

“I think so?” Jeff replies, sounding unsure. “He just seems sad, man.”

Steve and Jeff don’t spend a lot of time together, but he’s been around enough that she trusts his judgment.

Steve is sad.

Chrissy wants to sink down to the cold tile beneath her and never get up. Instead, she shuffles back over to the phone and swings herself up onto the countertop—what her mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Her heels clack against the cupboards noisily, broadcasting her restlessness even as the worry sinks straight through her.

“What about?” she asks, already knowing the answer.

“He thinks Eddie hates him.”

Chrissy sucks in a breath and lets it shudder out before biting her lip against the next logical question. “Does he?”

“He thinks he does,” Jeff replies promptly. “But he definitely doesn’t.”

Chrissy hums, too lost in her own head to think of a reply. It doesn’t matter what Eddie feels if the effect is the same: a sad Steve Harrington.

“I don’t think you guys should do this anymore,” Jeff says, snapping her out of her spiral.

“I know,” she groans, shoulders slumping. “But Steve’s hellbent on keeping it up.”

He sighs again, muttering, “boys,” with such a defeated air that she can’t help but laugh again.

“You just keep an eye on yours, and I’ll do the same for mine,” she says, smile audible in her voice. “Deal?”

“I feel like yours is a bit easier to wrangle than mine,” Jeff scoffs, a twinge of bitterness leaking into his tone.

And he’s right; Eddie still hasn’t even told Jeff about the letters he’s been getting, much less asked his opinion on them. Steve, at least, keeps her appraised of his next moves, shares his feelings, and asks for her help even if he won’t always take her advice.

So, when Steve’s acting weird when she sees him the next morning—all shifty-eyed and nervous—she doesn’t ask. He’ll tell her when he’s ready. Besides, the hallway’s too crowded, and she’s got a sneaking suspicion that it has something to do with her and Jeff’s conversation last night.

She’s proved right when they hit the library at lunch instead of the cafeteria, and Steve barely waits until they’re settled in their usual table, feet interlaced.

“He hates me,” Steve whispers.

“He doesn’t hate you.”

Steve pouts across at her, bottom lip stuck out like a puppy dog as he accuses, “you’ve been talking to Jeff.”

Chrissy bites her lip. “I always talk to Jeff.”

He rolls his eyes, but it seems to lift his spirits. “Did you ask him out yet?”

“Shut up.” She kicks him beneath the table until he laughs.

Without further preamble, he pulls a piece of paper from his bag and pushes it across to her. She expects the latest note from Eddie, having yet to read the last one, but it’s not—it’s a letter from Steve, clearly responding to something she’s yet to see.

“Did you pick up the letter yourself?” she asks, panic sinking through her. He could get caught, and then all their subterfuge will be for nothing. She might lose her best friend. 

“Yeah,” Steve mutters, so shyly that she can’t bear to chastise him further. “What do you think?”

She reads it again, trying to look past the panic to the words in front of her. “It’s good,” she says, and it is. “Do you want to send it like this?”

His handwriting is barely legible, even to her with her weeks of practice, and there’s a few misspellings, but she’ll do whatever he wants, forever and always. But he shakes his head, and asks, “Will you edit it?”

“Can I see the one you’re responding to?” she asks.

He pulls it out of his bag and pushes it across the table without a complaint. She picks it up and begins to read.

         Secret Admirer,

         There was a little hiccup with my guitar and plugging her in, but otherwise it went great! All four of the drunks at the Hideout clapped politely when we were done, and not even one of them booed us off stage!

         The riff is still getting on my last nerve, darling, you have no idea. I wish I could hear you play, I bet you’d inspire me so much, a stroke of genius would strike me and I’d know exactly what I’m missing.

         (I don’t know how to ride a bike. My dad was never around to teach me, and by the time I moved in with Uncle Wayne, I was too old to learn.)

         Darling, did you dream of me? Was it a naughty dream?

         Yours,

         Eddie

P.S. The Lord of the Rings is the name of the whole trilogy, so I hope you find it in The Fellowship. Can’t believe you don’t even know Tolkein. It’s okay, baby, I like you anyway. 

She smiles when she’s done, kicking him beneath the table as she asks, “Does this sound like someone who hates you?”

If anything, Steve just gets droopier. “It’s for you,” he mumbles, and she doesn’t have anything to say.

Chrissy squeezes his foot tighter between her own in a pantomime of a hug.

Even with his newfound pessimism, he carefully rereads her edited words once she’s done. He smiles down at it, clearly cheered by the act of writing to Eddie.

“It looks great, Chris,” he says genuinely, as if she’d done more than correct his spelling and rewrite his letter word for word.

“Thanks,” she replies, smiling across at him, relieved his spirits have risen. “Now, let’s drop this in his locker so he doesn’t have to wait too long to read your lovely letter.”

Steve’s ears turn red with embarrassment, but he dutifully wraps his arm around her waist and leads her out of the library.

Jason’s loitering outside of it, leaning against the wall like it’s a coincidence he’s here at all, but the way his eyes glare at the point where they’re in contact makes a liar out of him.

Steve seems to agree because he pulls her closer and asks, “problem, Carver?” in his snootiest King Steve voice.

Jason holds his hands up, smiling like this is all a coincidence, but he seems to have forgotten that Chrissy knows him, maybe better than anyone. She sees the way his arms are flexing, the way he’s baring his canines more than smiling, and it makes her feel on edge.

“No problem, man,” he replies, untold violence behind every word.

“Let’s just go,” she whispers to Steve.

She’s relieved when he nods, not sparing Jason another look as they take the most direct route to Eddie’s locker. He doesn’t respond until they’re well out of Jason’s hearing range. “That guy’s starting to really freak me out,” he says, talking quietly still, even after putting all this distance between them.

Chrissy sighs. The thing is, she still misses Jason, but the Jason she misses is at least a year dead and gone. Now, all that’s left of him is someone who wants to own her.

“Me, too.”

*** 

There’s something different about the letter he finds in his locker this time.

  Eddie —

  You were the best damn thing those drunks have ever seen, hands down. No, before you ask, I wasn’t there. But when I had that letter under my pillow, I dreamed a little dream (not naughty, I know you’re disappointed, sorry). I don’t remember the songs, but I remember the way you looked for me in the crowd and smiled. All the dream people gave you a standing ovation, me loudest of all.

  You’re never too old to learn to ride a bike. My dad didn’t teach me either, but a friend did. Maybe someday, I could be that friend for you, and when I tell you I won’t let go, you can rest easy knowing I’m not lying.

  Sincerely,

  Your Secret Admirer

  P.S. I know it’s still winter, but I’ll meet you in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

The handwriting is just the same, and it’s as sweet as always, but still. There’s—something Eddie can’t quite put his finger on no matter how many times he rereads the letter. Maybe he should have paid more attention in English class instead of always working on his next campaign.

He watches Chrissy when she’s not paying attention, trying to figure out what’s changed, but Harrington always catches him and stares him down like a dog marking his territory.

It leaves him flushed, desperately trying to focus on whatever he’s supposed to be doing. By the time he looks up, Harrington’s always moved onto something else.

Maybe it’s just because they know each other now, spend time with each other, are even becoming friends? Eddie doesn’t mind, as long as the letters keep coming. He might even like this letter best of all. It feels more honest, real somehow, like he’s peeling back the layers of bullshit obfuscation to get to the truth of who she is.

He hopes it lasts.

It’s hard to write his own letter back, to meet that same level of transparency to someone who, despite now having a name and face, still feels like a nebulous being. A nebulous being whose favorite color he knows, who’s insecurities feel like they’re his own, whose words he’s stroked on the page late at night while unable to sleep.

He tries to pour that same energy back into his letter.

  Secret Admirer,

  I wish I could dream about you, too. I want to know your face well enough to hold it in my mind, even unconscious. I want to lay my head on my pillow tonight and know that you’ll be waiting for me in dreamland, ready to be the best groupie a guy could ask for.

  The truth is, no one’s loved me before. No one’s liked me, or kissed me, or held my hand during a scary movie. And, that’s scarier than any movie could ever be. Because, you’re it, baby. The one and only, and all that shit.

  I’ve got friends, and that’s enough for me! It really is! But a part of me just wants to hold someone’s hand—your hand. Maybe we can someday. Maybe we can do all the things we’ve talked about: go to a drive-in, play music together, learn to ride a bike. But even if we never do, I’m grateful for every one of these letters. Being wanted is new to me, and I’m not ready to give it up.

  Yours, always,

  Eddie

He steps into the Shakespeare section once more and slips the note into A Midsummer Night’s Dream and promptly tries his best to forget about it. It doesn’t work.

He wants a response immediately, dreads waiting the typical days it takes for a letter to appear in his locker, so no one can blame him for panicking.

“Do you want to come to a Corroded Coffin practice?” Eddie blurts after the latest Hellfire session.

Chrissy’s brow’s all furrowed up as she asks, “Corroded Coffin?”

Eddie’s surprised she doesn’t already know. He’s mentioned it at least once in one of his letters; does she not spend her nights pouring over the words like he does? Does she not have every dotted i and crossed t seared into her retinas?

His intestines wriggle around in his body, fingers itching to tear his letter into tiny little pieces before she reads his desperate, yearning words.

“My band,” Eddie replies, his response overlapping eerily with Harrington’s, “his band.”

Chrissy smirks between them but Eddie barely notices, too caught up in staring at Harrington. “How do you know that?” he demands.

Harrington’s shoulders curl, like Eddie’s the threat here as he mutters his response barely loud enough to hear over the sounds of the other Hellfire members packing up, “uh, the middle school talent show?”

Eddie’s lip quirks up as Harrington looks up from his own shoes and meets Eddie’s eyes. “You remember that?”

Harrington snorts. “Hard to forget, dude.”

Harrington’s smiling—he’s never noticed before but it’s a little off center, just enough to be endearing. Eddie smiles back helplessly, taking a step forward as he asks, “the king remembers little old me?”

He gets a laugh this time, Harrington’s eyes almost crinkling shut with his amusement. He’s got a nice laugh. Eddie’s never noticed before, hasn’t heard anything from him that wasn’t at least a little snide.

Eddie opens his mouth, desperate to elicit that noise again, when Chrissy pointedly clears her throat and reality comes rushing back in—what was that? He snaps his gaze back to her, shuffling his feet, feeling absurdly guilty. For what? Being nice to her boyfriend?

“When is it?” she asks.

It takes him a minute to remember what they were talking about. “Oh!” he exclaims, taking a step back when he realizes how close he’s gotten. “Uh, tomorrow night in Gareth’s garage.”

Chrissy’s smiling, but there’s something sly about it, Eddie knows, watching the flashing of her eyes, that Chrissy Cunningham knows what evil is and has the capacity to perform it. So much for his pet theory that she’s actually a golden retriever stuffed into a human girl’s body.

“Can Steve come?” When Eddie frowns, shifting his eyes to a red-eared Harrington standing stock-still beside her, she continues, “it’s just, Jason’s been a little intense lately?”

Carver’s name seems to bring Harrington back to life. He damn-near growls as he wraps his arm around Chrissy’s waist. “The word you’re looking for is stalkery.”

She snorts, “not a word, but yeah.”

Now that they mention it, Carver has seemed to be within arm’s reach of Chrissy for a while now, loitering on her fringes with his arms crossed like he’s staking his claim, even all these months after they broke up.

“Sure,” Eddie replies, and he means it. Harrington can come if it keeps Eddie from ending up on the wrong side of Carver’s fists. “Harrington can come.”

Harrington’s ears flush again, and he mutters an awkward, “thank you,” before leading Chrissy out of the drama room.

Once they’ve cleared out, Gareth sighs, long and loud as he says, “band practice is going to be so awkward.”

Eddie glares at him, having forgotten entirely about his audience while talking to Harrington and Chrissy. “Oh, it won’t be so bad.”

“Yeah, right,” Doug snorts, shouldering his bag and heading toward the door.

“Oh, ye of little faith!” he replies as all three of them head out the door, Jeff having inexplicably already left despite Eddie being his usual ride home on Hellfire days. “It’ll be fine!”

Before he drives the guys home, he doubles back to the library to try and steal back his note, but it’s too late: the doors are locked and by the morning, the note’s sure to be gone.

They’re right; band practice is awkward, and it’s not even Eddie’s fault. It’s not even Harrington’s fault. It’s Jeff’s.

“You look nice today,” Jeff says, looking directly at Chrissy, who blushes.

He’s right, she does look nice in a cute pink cardigan and some light-wash jeans that fit her well. It’s not Eddie’s style, but it suits her. But Jeff doesn’t have to say it while her boyfriend is standing right there.

“Thanks,” she says, smiling at Jeff.

Harrington just keeps standing there while Jeff does what can only be described as flirting, with his girlfriend. Everyone else carries on like this is normal, but Gareth’s sending him crazy-eyed looks proving that Eddie’s not the only sane one.

Doug’s too busy practicing his riffs, sure, and Jeff’s clearly gone off the deep end, but Harrington? What’s his excuse?

When he’d been dating Wheeler, he’d been all over her at all times, monopolizing her time whenever possible. And sure, Chrissy and Harrington are always together, but there’s never more than an arm around her waist or sitting close together. He’s never even seen them kiss.

And now here he is, letting Jeff flirt with his girlfriend right in front of him.

Eddie just doesn’t get it.

Corroded Coffin’s a fucking mess, Gareth keeping a beat only he can hear, Eddie missing every other note, and Jeff too busy looking at Chrissy to keep tempo. Only Doug is on his game, clearly getting more and more fed up with each new fuck-up.

Chrissy stays by Jeff’s side, whispering with him between songs while Harrington flops down on the couch and watches them play like it’s his own, personal concert.

Eddie can’t take his eyes off Steve. He wants to peel the guy like an onion, figure out what makes him tick, what makes him smile, why the hell he’s here in Gareth’s smelly garage watching his girlfriend make eyes at Jeff while she writes love letters to Eddie in her free time.

He wants to know.

He just—

Wants.

*** 

Steve’s words have been echoing around her brain for days—have you asked him out yet? It’s ridiculous, but before he’d said those words, she’d never even considered it as an option. Boys ask girls out, that’s how it works. But if Steve can like a boy, she can ask out Jeff.

That doesn’t make it any less scary though. She sits on the revelation for a few days more, watching Jeff out of the corner of her eye, flirting back after he instigates. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? It’s still him instigating.

“I’m going to ask him out,” she tells Steve, not looking at him as they walk into the school together, too afraid of what she’ll see.

“Yeah?” he asks, bumping their shoulders together. “When?”

When she glances his way, he’s grinning ear to ear. She huffs, “I don’t know, soon?” Looking away so she doesn’t have to see that sly look on his face. “It’s just so scary.”

“I know, Chris,” he says, bumping into her again and again just to annoy her. “But you’re the strongest person I know.”

She doesn’t feel strong—she feels like a breeze might swipe her feet out from under her, but Steve believes in her. Steve thinks she’s strong, and she told him she’d ask Jeff out, so she will.

So, when Jeff next slides into her passenger seat, she starts the car and drives away without saying a word.

This has become something of a habit lately—if there’s no Hellfire, she drives Jeff home. Usually they talk, or turn on music they both like and sing along. The quiet has his feet tapping and fingers picking at the seam of his jeans. He grows more restless with each minute that passes.

“Chrissy?” he asks finally, a shyness to his voice that she’s not used to hearing. From the first time they’d spoken, he’s been confident—quiet, yeah, but assured. “Are you okay?”

Unable to take the waver of his voice sitting down, Chrissy veers off the side of the road, holding her arm out to keep Jeff from smacking into the dash at the abrupt change in momentum. She puts the thing in park, takes off her seatbelt, and turns in her seat to face Jeff head-on.

His eyes are wide, clearly freaked out by her erratic behavior, but he still unlatches his own seatbelt and mimics her position, awkwardly pulling his feet beneath him when it becomes clear his legs are too long to fit.

She’s helplessly charmed; it may just be Steve and Eddie’s letters rubbing off on her, but she wants to reach out and take his hand. So she does.

His fingers jerk in hers, pulling back a little like it’s instinct before he drops his hand on the console separating them and lets her link their fingers together. Even with the heater on, the interior of her car’s cold enough that his skin scalds against hers, sending a shudder through her.

“Is this the part where you murder me?” he asks, squeezing her hand. “Because if so, let me know.”

“So you can run away?” she asks, grateful for the moment of levity.

“No, because I’m a gentleman,” he replies, winking at her, “and I can help dig the grave, save you some work.”

Chrissy laughs, once again captivated by him. He’s a nerd, how is he so gosh darn charming? Her cheeks hurt, her heart hurts, her whole body is tingling with the anticipation of what she’s about to do.

“Chrissy—“

“Will you go out with me?” she asks, slapping her hand over her mouth when she realizes she interrupted him. She closes her eyes, entirely mortified. “Shoot, sorry!”

His hand spasms in hers before he tightens his hold. “You’re…” he starts, hand shaking in hers. She opens her eyes, horrible visions of him crying dancing behind her lids, but he’s laughing, whole body moving with the effort of suppressing it. “You’re apologizing for the best moment of my life?”

She laughs, too, helpless not to. “Is that a yes, or are you just laughing at me?”

He hums, tilting his head closer to hers, chuckles finally fading away as he replies, “can it be both?”

“Always.”

Chrissy bounces a little in her seat, vibrating with pent-up excitement. Maybe sometimes the girl can get the guy instead of the other way around.

He hums again, low down in his throat, and their gazes lock. The energy in her car is so electric her skin is buzzing with it. She wants to reach across the distance between them and steal a kiss. But girls don’t do that sort of thing. Girls aren’t supposed to—

She leans across the console separating them and kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him. Jeff gasps into it, like he’s the one being electrocuted now, and suddenly his hand is out of hers, but that’s okay because it’s on her face now, drawing her closer, closer, closer, as he sucks on her bottom lip until she gasps.

She might have stayed in that position forever, craning her body uncomfortably forward like a sunflower toward the light, if she hadn’t shifted a little too far to the left into her car’s horn with a bony hip.

As it blares, they both jump apart, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, looking around for a threat that will never come.

“Oops,” she whispers, settling back into her seat, back protesting at the change of angle.

Jeff laughs, head thrown back, long throat on full display. She wants to bite it, but the moment’s long since broken, so she puts her seatbelt on and shifts back onto the road, cheeks flaming, heart warm.

“Does this mean you’re going to give me your letterman jacket?” he asks once he’s finally stopped laughing. “I’m not familiar with jocks courting rituals.”

Chrissy’s responding laugh isn’t her usual cultivated giggle—it’s a bark that makes Jeff grin at her. “Oh my goodness, can you even imagine the looks we’d get?”

“Or that Steve would.” Jeff replies. “But you’ve gotta admit, I’d look good in his jacket.”

She almost wants to do it for the drama, Eddie’s presence rubbing off on her surely, but it’s not quite worth doubling the lynch mobs that will already be after all of them.

“You realize this is only making this whole situation even messier, don’t you?” she asks, eyes on the road.

“Yeah,” Jeff sighs, but his fingers reach across the car and settle atop her hand where it’s clasping the stick shift. “But worth it, right?”

She’s been smiling so much that her cheeks hurt, but at that, she damn-near beams ear to ear. “Yeah, baby,” she says, heat pooling low in her stomach when Jeff lets out a soft little gasp. “You’re worth it.”

PART 10

[korrasera]

Unfortunately, this post and posts like it misunderstand what it means to say that the Democrats abandoned the working class.

Because they did.

And no, the working class didn't abandon the Democrats.

I'll explain.

First, the list of the accomplishments of the Biden administration is a long one and it's absolutely true they weren't getting the coverage they deserved. That's a true point, and a good one, but it's not not how the Democrats abandoned the working class.

Next, the working class didn't abandon the Democrats. The working class voters that always vote Republican voted Republican because voters don't switch sides and they weren't up for grabs, no matter what a Democrat strategist thought.

Of the working class voters that vote Democrat, they didn't abandon the Democrats, the Democrats took them for granted and didn't give them a reason to vote to support Harris. And it is very important to give people a reason to vote.

Some didn't vote because they wouldn't vote for a woman, because bigotry is everywhere.

Some people didn't vote because support for an incumbent party drops when the economy is doing poorly. Despite the Biden administration giving us a soft landing that avoided a recession, income inequality is up globally and for the average person, that means the economy sucks right now.

But that's not how the Democrats abandoned the working class either.

The Democrats abandoned the working class because they squandered the initial surge of enthusiasm for Harris's announcement by following it up with:

A campaign that focused on Trump's threat.

An emphasis on trying to court Republican voters.

Basically no real messaging about what the Democrats would do to try to help the working class voters survive right now.

They didn't talk about the minimum wage or support for unions. Even with the Biden administrations support of unions, which was surprisingly good for a US presidential administration.

It was great to finally hear someone say that Trump and JD Vance were weird, but that's just an appetizer. It's not the entire meal.

Do you see what's missing? Democrats can't win on the idea that the other guy is a threat. They need to run on the things they can do to make everything better. And they need to do so with specifics, not aspirational messaging.

Harris's speeches talked about the need to cut taxes for the middle class, but didn't get into specifics. She didn't talk about solid policy positions. The Democrats weren't giving any answers on what to do about the next Trump or the next Bezos or the oligarch that decides they want half of everyone's paycheck.

They didn't talk about how they were going to take the boot off our necks.

In hindsight, some of this should have been easy:

"Vote for me and I will eliminate student debt!" "Vote for me and I will make the minimum wage a livable wage!" "Vote for me and I will stop evictions and fix housing!"

Even if they weren't going to keep those promises, talking about them with specific plans is what people needed to hear and it's exactly what people didn't.

And while they weren't talking to the working class Democrats and their needs, they were going after wealthy donors and Republican voters, which made those working class voters feel like the Democrats were taking them for granted.

After all, why do you need to speak to someone's needs if you know that they're going to vote for you? You're their only option, right? Makes sense when you think like a Republican, but people who vote Democrat do so because they don't think like Republicans. The Republicans follow the leader while the Democrats build coalitions.

Finally, if anti-trans ads were a pivotal factor in Harris's loss, then you would have seen Trump's support increase. It didn't. He stayed flat, the Republican base supported him just like they were always going to. He was always going to be able to use fear and bigotry to motivate them.

Don't get me wrong, Trump is absolutely trying to stoke a full blown moral panic against trans people. And his hateful message galvanized his base. But if it hadn't been us it would have been immigrants. Or another kind of queer folk. Or socialists. They will never want for an enemy because they're afraid of literally everyone not like themselves.

The Harris campaign failed because the Democrats played bad politics when they needed to bring their A game.

They needed to give Democrat voters real answers about real help. They needed to give people a reason to vote. And they didn't.

dropping this here

[syluslnd]

Hi! I love your writing

Could i request Sylus finding out the reader is pregnant?

sylus finding out that you’re pregnant

You’d been keeping it to yourself for days, maybe longer than you should have. You wanted the timing to be perfect but every time you tried to bring it up, the words got caught in your throat. How would he react? He was always so guarded, so in control—it was hard to predict.

But today, as you sat at the kitchen table, trying to decide on the perfect way to tell him, Sylus’s voice cut through the silence.

“Care to explain this, sweetie?”

Your stomach twisted as you looked up and found him standing by the trash can, holding up the unmistakable pregnancy test with a raised eyebrow. His gaze was sharp but his expression…was softer than you expected. Almost vulnerable.

You shifted, biting your lip and managing a nervous smile. “Well…that’s exactly what it looks like.”

He took a slow breath, his fingers tightening around the test just slightly. “So, it’s true?” His voice was soft but with an undercurrent of tension. “You’re…you’re pregnant?”

You nodded, watching his face carefully, searching for his reaction. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I wanted it to be the right moment and I didn’t want to overwhelm you.”

He let out a quiet, breathless chuckle, shaking his head as he stepped closer. “Kitten, you seriously thought I wouldn’t want to know something like this?” His voice was low and he looked at you with an intensity that made your cheeks flush.

You shrugged, a little shy but holding his gaze. “You can be hard to read sometimes, Sylus. I didn’t know how you’d feel about…us having a kid. The world you’re in…everything…”

He nodded slowly, still processing, his gaze shifting to your stomach as if imagining what it would be like in the months to come. “Yeah, it scares me, not gonna lie.” His voice was rough, almost shaky, and it made your heart ache a little to see him so uncharacteristically unsure. “I’ve spent so much time focused on keeping myself safe, keeping you safe and now a kid? That’s…it’s a lot. But—”

He stopped, taking your hands in his, his grip a little tighter than usual. He let out a slow breath, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But the thought of you being the mother of my child? That’s something I never thought I’d get, something I didn’t think I deserved.” His voice softened, his hand lifting to gently brush your cheek. “You’re gonna be the best damn mom.”

A laugh bubbled up from you, nervous and warm and you squeezed his hand, trying to ground both of you. “I’m glad you think so,cause I’m kind of nervous myself. But…if it’s with you, I know we’ll figure it out.”

His smirk widened, a touch of that familiar intensity back in his gaze. “Well, you better be ready, kitten. This kid’s gonna have a bit of a wild life with us as parents.” He paused, brushing his thumb over your knuckles as he looked at you with a rare, unguarded sincerity. “But we’ll make it work and I’ll be here every step of the way, protecting both of you, no matter what.”

You grinned, feeling your heart swell as you pulled him into a tight hug, feeling his arms wrap around you protectively. It was the start of something new, something neither of you were fully prepared for—but with Sylus by your side, you felt ready for anything.

[persicipen]

₊ ˙ ⊹ . 𝓑𝒆𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒅𝒐𝒐𝒓𝒔. NEUVILLETTE. WRIOTHESLEY ₊ ˙ ⊹ .

ৎ୭ — · · 1.8k ノ afab gn reader — inappriopriate use of work desk and work chair. semi public space — their office. no one is getting caught. petnames — love, beloved, darling. rewritten old post!

₊ ˙ ⊹ . NEUVILLETTE ノ

“Monsieur Neuvillette, if someone walks in…” You try to negotiate weakly, but his eyes are closed and lips parted, his hands resting on your hips, guiding your movements. He’s sitting on his chair in his office; you’re in his lap, riding him.

How did this happen? You cannot think of it anymore, mind hazy and compliant ideas flowing out of your mind in the rhythm of his pelvis colliding with yours. In the middle of the day, to perform such activities is beyond improper — who would even think of assuming that the Iudex is busy urging you to continue impaling yourself on his leaky cock?

Not even an hour has passed since you entered your workplace, and he already has you on top of him, bouncing on his thighs, moaning into his shoulder, trying not to get too loud.

He’s not helping, not one bit, whispering obscene words into your ear, his grip tight, his girth stretching you so wonderfully, his breath shaky and hot, his chest pressed against your back.

You’re slipping away from the realm of consciousness at the sensation of him so deep inside of you, rubbing confessions of love against your inner walls with each languid roll to match your weakening moves. You don’t care about the consequences, the potential gossip, or the risk of getting caught.

It doesn’t matter anymore. He is now busy with you, and you let him do it all simply because his touch is addicting and his shaft is hitting places that make your brain fuzzy.

Surely, there must be a way to ensure your privacy in his office, at least to a sufficient extent. His grunts are so manly, just a tone lower than his usual whispers, and his lips leave a burning trace on your neck. He must feel rather confident in this situation.

“They will not see. I don’t want to risk showing you to anyone else,” he explains softly, his warm breath fanning your skin and his fingers gripping your waist. “I have the most beautiful darling in the world in my office, and I am lucky enough to enjoy you. I want to do it at my own pace, without distractions.”

Your heart skips a beat at his praise, and you feel your cheeks getting warm, cunt clenching around his delicious girth at the thought of being complimented like that. Seeing how Neuvillette takes you so lewdly, the sounds of your bodies filling the beautiful room lit with the early noon sunbeams.

“Ngh—! I beg you, Neuvi—” you sigh, burying your face in the crook of his neck, feeling his heartbeat pulsing on your skin, your arms wrapped around his torso.

His fingers trace circles on your lower back, his hips lifting up just an inch above the seat to meet yours, the poor chair under you both creaking with every thrust as his cock reaches your dewy depths. He’s not going rough, but rather slow and passionate, making you melt under his touches, your drenched pussy twitching around him, welcoming him each time anew.

Perhaps unnecessary to add — quite obvious, if you reevaluate his personality — but he’s not the kind of man who takes you quickly. He prefers to take his time and savour every moment, making sure that you know what you mean to him. Not a hopeless romantic, not in this meaning, but his love language is on a whole different level than of any mortal, making you cry tears of ecstasy and pleasure every time he claims you in a similar manner.

“Good… You’re so delectable and outstanding,” he murmurs, sounding so tender, a distinct contrast to his previous rhythm, the change of pace unexpected but welcomed. “I will let you come soon, alright? Will you cum for me, beloved?”

He asks so kindly, like a gentleman brushing his lips along the shell of your ear. The combination of his sweet pleas — nothing that could even be called a dirty talk — and the endearments he uses to address you send shivers down your spine, making your toes curl in a rush of affection.

“Yes, I will. Of course, I will,” you answer, grinding against him harder, trying to find the perfect angle to reach the vertiginous peak of delirium.

“My pretty, pretty darling,” he continues, and his words alone send you over the edge.

You arch your back, moaning his name, riding out your orgasm on his shaft, trembling in his arms. His hands move down your waist and grab your ass, digging into the supple flesh. He keeps you pressed tightly to his hips, the tip of his cock nuzzling against your womb. Just once, a shy kiss to bring you to the finale as your fluttering walls squeeze his whole girth in spasms.

The warmth spreading from his groin and the pressure building announce the impending release, following not long after you. Neuvillette bites his lip, stifling a loud groan, whilst burying his face into your chest, like he’s seeking a safe embrace during the moments of the highest sensitivity. His hips stutter with spurts of hot, creamy cum spilling inside your pussy, filling you to the brim, dripping down his length as he tries to push into you for the last few times.

“Ohh, monsieur—” you weep, such a saccharine sound reaching his ears, when you try to lift yourself off his lap, too weak to actually do this and giving up to sink into his arm once again.

“Yes, my love? Are my words that much of a blessing?” his voice is ragged, a wee decoloured from the perfect tone, but smiling nevertheless.

₊ ˙ ⊹ . WRIOTHESLEY ノ

You accidentally yelp, the sound immediately causing the crumpled tie to be put into your mouth with force. But are you really sorry for breaking the promise of being silent? If disobeying only results in you being pounded faster and deeper by Wriothesley, the Duke of the Fortress of Meropide, where are the bad consequences?

Isn’t that exactly what you wanted to achieve, anyway?

“Shh, little thing,” he mutters, his voice a low whisper, a dangerous growl that sends shivers down your spine. “I told you not to be too loud. I would hate if anyone interrupted our little meeting.”

He doesn’t have to look at you to know that his words have their effect on you. He can feel you twitch around his length, squeezing him so tightly he needs to exhale deeply to control himself from cumming immediately after. The friction is so delicious whilst his cock pounds against your fluttering walls, sinking into the warm tightness.

The sounds of your sweet, debauched sobs are muffled by the fabric he shoved between your salivating lips, so there’s not much you can do about the overwhelming pressure building up from your underbelly. The very confirmation of your state are your juices creaming his balls and creating a wet patch on his thighs.

The Duke is a man of honour, more or less, and his promises are true. He told you not to moan, not to scream, not to beg for more, and here he is — pushing his whole girth into your needy hole in a punishing rhythm, pounding into you with all the force he has.

But, again, are you sorry? Not even one bit, especially when his pelvis hits the curve of your ass, the impact sending sparks of pleasure through your whole body.

However, knowing that he may leave you unsatisfied is enough not to tease him any more and to obey the only rule he has set for you from now on.

It’s difficult to imagine what it must have felt like to see you bent over his desk, picking up stamped documents, the perfect angle and curvature of your silhouette accentuated with the dimmed light. And now you are paying the price — the sweet, sweet consequence of your sultry subconcious teasing.

He’s been stressed, dissatisfied. On edge for a while, ever since that previous issue in the Fortress, and seeing the work piling up in the corner of his office wasn’t helping. Thankfully, at the very moment he has you flat on his working space, his cock buried deep in your hole, his heavy balls slapping against your ass, and everything is so much better. Well, nearing painful, the pleasure so intense, and yet, his strong, rough hands gripping your hips and forcing your body to meet his are the best feeling you could ever hope for.

Driven by lust, fucking you like his life depends on it, his veiny shaft hits spots that make your eyes roll back in ecstasy. He’s not a gentle lover. No, not even a bit. His breathing is ragged, his usually spiky hair now sticking to his sweaty forehead, his collar shirt soaked around his neck.

Alas, who can blame him? He’s been deprived of his daily dose of intimacy and finally getting what he desires. The sound of his hefty erection ramming into you fills the room, his shuddering thighs slamming against your own in a feral dance. One slip up, one tiny mistake, and he will leave you without a satisfying ending; thus, you try your best to stay silent, his orders still echoing in your head.

“Yes, lovely, just like that,” his praises are whispered right into your ear, his lips brushing against your feverish skin, the heat radiating from your bodies.

Wriothesley adores this sight.

The taste of your lips, the scent of your arousal, the vice grip of your pussy swallowing his cock, the damp sounds of your juices mixing with his precum…

It seems so trivial, as if your fucked-out brain is mocking you for even thinking about this. But all you can hear is his soft moans and curses under his breath, and all you can feel is him sinking into your warmth over and over again, splitting you open.

A broken man with his own morals, and he has his own way of expressing affection. Sometimes, it’s sweet and tender lovemaking, and sometimes, it’s rough fucking on his desk, and sometimes he will simply eat you out in the dark corner of the Fortress. Regardless, it always ends with your breathless voice telling him how amazing he was, and then the soft giggles once the adrenaline and the heat die down.

“Endure it just a little bit longer,” he purrs, and his voice sounds so raspy, his accent stronger, his words laced with addictive affection.

That little game of being quiet or getting caught by the people passing by — well, he didn’t lie about it, did he?

[sleepyangelkami]

INDISPOSED d.winchester

𝜗𝜚 WORD COUNT - 2.1K

DEAN WINCHESTER X FEM!READER

𝜗𝜚 SUMMARY - you always seem to feel more than upset when you're sick. luckily for you, dean's always by your side when you fall ill, no matter the time.

𝜗𝜚 WARNINGS - sick!reader, illness symptoms, flu, dizziness, aches, reader's a little emotional, eating?, crying, mention of reader's lonely past, non-sexual nudity, kinda crybaby!reader, (1) use of y/n, slightly ooc dean, petnames, intended lower case, nothing i write is ever proofread 🩷

there's seemingly a tell tale sign of when you're feeling extra poorly, and that's the feeling of water beginning to pool in your waterline.

you couldn't help the dramatics that would take over your body, much less when you find dean sitting in your bedroom, assuring you that it was alright that he'd come home early from his hunt. "you shouldn't have to leave sam alone 'cause of me." you were a sniffling mess at your desk, for two reasons, one being that you were upset and the second being that your nose was so stuffed you could hardly breathe.

"sammy's fine to figure out the rest of this one, baby." dean was sitting on your bed, girly covers and throw pillows surrounding him. "and i don't have to do anything, i'm choosing to be here." dean's voice was all low and soft, the voice he used when you were upset which was seemingly more often than you'd thought.

you heard him shuffle across the room to where you sat on a brown, tattered chair.

he crouched down so he was eye level with you. "come on, sweetheart, you know you're just upset 'cause you feel all sick." his hand was gently tracing your thigh, soothing you from your sniffles. "think you just need to lay down, yeah?"

you mumbled something that he didn't quite catch with a nod.

he waited momentarily but you hadn't made any decision to move. "y/n." your eyes snapped up to meet his. "come lay down."

"okay." was your sheepish response.

dean didn't often call you by your name, he cast it away with all the lovely nicknames he'd picked out for you personally. nobody was baby but his car, until he'd met you. it came so easily, that soft way of loving.

when dean had you finally beneath the blankets, he pressed a kiss to your forehead, half-comforting and half-trying to gauge your temperature.

"where are you going?" your hand reached out for his lower arm.

dean turned down to look at you, a smile softly reaching his lips. "just getting your medication, baby, i'll be back, don't worry." and this time, the kiss pressed against your forehead was purely because he felt like it.

dean was well aware of your inability to take care of yourself. now, he was in no way calling you a nuisance, he just wished you cared for yourself as much as he did. with that being said, he did always love being able to care for you, it was a way that was so different than having to take care of sam his whole life. perhaps it was because this, he wasn't obliged to do, it wasn't expected of him.

he loved taking care of you but if anything were to happen to him... he'd like to know you could take care of yourself, too.

when dean returned to the bedroom, you were passed out asleep against the sheets. the man couldn't help but stop in his tracks.

you were a chatty person, awfully bubbly at times. and dean loved that about you, listening to you babble on about something and when he didn't catch a word he'd ask you to repeat what you said, it was always funny watching as the gears turned in your head, trying to remember.

sometimes you swore you talked so much that you tuned yourself out.

dean didn't though, he listened to every word that spilled from your lips.

but you were chatty with everyone you were close to. god forbid you ever went on a road trip with he and sam.

but with him you could be quiet at times, you still got shy and nervous around him which always made him coo, there was something sweet at the fact you could be so different behind closed doors, so yourself.

and seeing you like this, your lips drew into a pout and pink staining your ill cheeks, well it was rather nice, he thought.

he hated to be so evil as he was to wake you.

"sweetheart." the mere whisper of the name as his hands came down to soothe your arms was enough to have your eyelids peeling open. "sweetheart, c'mon, you gotta take your medicine."

a half-whine fell from your lips as he sat you up against the bed, sitting too so that you could lean yourself against him. dean was suddenly aware of how much hotter your body had gotten. he hadn't been gone long, just a trip to the kitchen to get you a glass of water and the medication he needed, though it'd taken him a while to find it. he had a bad habit of leaving things in strange places and forgetting about it.

he handed you off the capsules and then the glass of water.

"how're you feeling, honey?" the back of his palm pressed against your right cheek then slightly down your top, to your chest. he was like a concerned mother. "you're really hot."

"thanks." you quipped, leaning your hot forehead against his arm and sipping the water he'd given you.

he rolled his eyes at your remark, obviously taking your sickness more seriously than you were. "'m serious, you can't have blankets."

"dean!"

"no."

"dean, 'm cold." you nuzzled yourself further into dean's warm body, a dark grey hoodie coated his form along with black sweatpants, not his usual attire.

"you're not cold." he took your face between his two hands. "you're sick." pressing a kiss against the tip of your nose. you fought the words 'sap' to come from the back of your scratchy throat. "you can have the blankets but i have to take this off, then." you felt him gently pull at the shirt you'd stolen from him, clad on your body.

"deal." you mumbled, feeling a wave of dizziness hit you.

to make matters worse, you shook your head, thinking it would rid of the dizziness.

"hey, don't do that." he steadied your head before taking the glass out from your hands and placing it on the bedside dresser.

you felt his hands on your shirt, slowly pulling it from your frame. you helped by putting your arms in he air, allowing him to pull it off your body and toss it somewhere on the ground.

"want the tv on?" you nodded your head silently as the man rose from his place on the bed, reaching the tv stand where he picked up the remote and switched it on.

aimlessly, you uttered, "my legs hurt." while sliding back under the pretty covers.

he was busy fidgeting with the buttons on the remote. he never did know how to work your tv properly. "'s just cause your sick, it'll go away, baby."

you huffed at his response, laying your head on the pillows while you pulled the blanket close to you. you were cold but it was that sickly cold where you couldn't tell if it was really a chill or perhaps you were so warm that you felt cold, which didn't make a whole pile of sense.

when dean finally climbed back into the bed, your body practically collapsed on top of him.

he laid with an arm behind his neck and the other trailing shapes across your bare back, you lay with your head on his chest, listening to the low tv along with the thumping of his heart.

"are you okay?" you mumbled, voice slick with tiredness. the sickness was weird like that, hitting you suddenly, leaving just as immediately.

dean could have cooed at you. even while you were wrapped up in blankets, sick as a small hospital, you managed to ask him if he was okay.

It was another reason why he liked taking care of you. you took care of each other. "i'm okay."

another hushed mumble. "promise?"

"i promise." he answered honestly, fingers against your skin, moving up and down your back. "get some sleep, 'kay?"

a yawn passed your lips. "okay."

they said sleep was the best medicine, that it cured everything that was curable. well, you weren't sure anyone had said it to you but you just knew that it was said.

you had to beg to differ.

by dinnertime, your temperature was running hot.

earlier was the kind of sick that you could stomach, this was the kind of sick that had you flushed against the headboard of your bed, hands running down your face as you felt your head pound against the back of your eyes.

you could hear dean walk back into the room and you felt guilt soar through your veins.

you knew you were being... difficult to say the least. but you couldn't help it, hot tears gathering at your waterline all over again.

the mattress dipped as dean nudged your arm and you looked up at him with glossy eyes before looking down at the sandwich sitting on a plate in his hands.

"know you said you're not hungry but can you try eat some f'me? 's jam." his tone was all soft and his voice was all quiet. by now, he'd turned off the tv and closed the curtains, noticing how the light had been affecting your eyes. the only light on now was the little lamp sitting on your bedside table so you could actually see your surroundings.

you nodded hesitantly and took the sandwich from him.

dean noticed things about you like nobody else. he very early on found out that you loved jam sandwiches, you loved raspberry jam but you had an awful distaste for strawberry jam so from there on, he never bought strawberry jam on the offhand occurence that you may accidentally use it without looking at the label and get your jam sandwich ruined.

you were halfway through said sandwich when you placed it back on the plate, begging to tear up.

dean immediately took notice of it, taking the plate from you. "wh's wrong, baby? too much?"

you shook your head, sniffling. even the act of shaking your head had you clutching it soon after.

dean tutted, moving your hand away so he could soothe your forehead with a kiss and a gentle movement of his thumb. "poor girl." you heard him mutter under his breath, his brows strewn together in sympathy.

looking up at him, you had those glassy eyes that made his stomach feel almost as nauseous as yours. he didn't have to ask what was troubling you for you answered, anyway, to the silent question behind his eyes. "you're so nice to me."

his heart shattered a little.

it was no supirse that you didn't grow up with much comfort surrounding you and that only got worse as you began to get older. some days, you didn't think you'd ever get the comfort that your body ached for. and then dean winchester walked in, and his one and only goal was to take care of you, was to care for you, was to love you.

so you couldn't help tearing up a little from time to time when you think about the strawberry jam he gave up just for you.

"oh, baby. you're my sweet girl." he pulled you closer to him, putting your forehead against his chest so you could lean your weight on him. "'course 'm nice to you."

he helped you sit on his lap, fully discarding the place wherever his hands could push it to.

then his hands found your body, roaming it with this gentleness yet assertion. you'd put his shirt back on a while ago and discarded the blankets, which he was thankful for. he needed to break your temperature.

you weren't due medication for another two hours and you'd taken all the painkillers you could.

right now, all he could offer was himself.

and that was enough for you.

your arms tightened around his shoulders as you sniffled, tears breaking down your cheeks with a defeated sigh. "hate bein' sick." you uttered, sadness evident in your voice.

"i know, angel, i know." he gently rocked you in his lap, not enough to make your head dizzy but enough to bring you back to the moment, to remind you he was there.

and you stayed like that for seemingly a long time, melting into one another's embrace as if it were the most entertaining thing in the world.

you pressed your flush cheek against the hoodie covering his bare shoulder. the tears eventually dried up and all that was left was your frustrated sighs and mumbles.

"'s okay, sweetheart." he pressed a final kiss to your flushed face. "it'll pass."

and he was by your side as soon as it did.

main masterlist/dean's masterlist

[impactrueno]

let's talk about shoes (stick with me here for a sec)

beetleboots beetleboots beetleboots.

what's up with the three of them wearing combat boots? they go well with each of their character designs so it's not like they look out of place with the rest of their outfits, but knowing this is tim burton and colleen atwood, these things are not mere coincidence.

(spoilers for Beetlejuice Beetlejuice below)

a common complaint i've seen people mention about Beetlejuice Beetlejuice is that "there's too many villains," but today i'm here to talk about why each of them matter in the narrative tim wanted to present here. yes the boots are related we'll get to that in a minute

delores, rory and jeremy all have one thing in common: the use of romantic betrayal in order to achieve their own selfish goals, destroying their victims in the process.

this, in turn, makes beetlejuice, lydia and astrid have another thing in common: they were the victims of these romantic betrayals.

you may think "okay but why is that necessary?"

this sequel made the interesting choice of nudging beetlejuice out of the villain role. he's now just a weird ally/deuteragonist...or perhaps even...a protagonist? but that's not enough! why should we as an audience care about him or sympathize with him?

that's where delores comes in. delores is less of a character and more of a plot device. her purpose (besides serving cunt) is to give beetlejuice backstory and be to beetlejuice what beetlejuice was to lydia, only worse. i talked a bit more about it in this post. thanks to her, we now learn that beetlejuice was a victim. not just that, she's also the looming threat beetlejuice needs to justify his marriage to lydia (he seems to be under the impression that this would help him escape delores more easily, but personally i'm not so sure, i think she's more powerful than that.) her return in combination with lydia's return to winter river is what sets his plan in motion.

rory is a pretty self-explanatory villain so i don't think we have to go into that. he wasn't out to kill lydia...but he's a golddigger, so i don't doubt he would've set something up to lead her into having a fatal accident and claim insurance benefits.

jeremy's role in the plot was to make astrid realize that she was wrong about the supernatural, as well as put her in danger in the afterlife, which is the drive lydia needs to turn to beetlejuice for help.

the role of an antagonist is to oppose or be an obstacle to the protagonist's goal. these three are the three obstacles beetlejuice needs to overcome in order to marry lydia.

first, he needs to save astrid as part of the deal with lydia. so he gets rid of jeremy to give astrid her life back. he knows exactly what it's like to be romanced into a death trap. you can tell this was satisfying for him. later, fucker.

then, he needs her fiancé rory out of the picture if he intends to marry lydia. since he knows this guy is a total piece of shit and is lying to her to lead her into the same trap he himself fell into with delores, he simply gives lydia the tools she needs to kick his ass herself. teamwork!

third comes delores. he just needs to survive delores, basically. he tries to pair her off with rory to try and kill two birds with one stone, but the stone that ends up killing them both is the sandworm that astrid summoned, which beetlejuice then guided straight to them. teamwork once again! (beetlejuice and astrid got rid of each other's problems, that's kind of cool)

these three things being taken care of means that beetlejuice can finally marry lydia.............

............except he doesn't. why? because he helped lydia. by bringing her into the afterlife to look for her daughter, he violated code 699. and he did it immediately after signing that contract. hoist by his own petard, this dumbass.

sorry i got sidetracked again. we were talking about boots, right? right right.

beetlejuice, lydia and astrid all walked in each other's shoes.

everything in this movie comes in threes. names, villains, victims, obstacles and pairs of combat boots.

[thelov3lybookworm]

Reputation to uphold

Day 5: No need for poetry.

Summary: Hiding the letters is his first priorities.

•○●⛦●○•

Word Count: 1368

Warnings: fluff, azzie being a shy baby 🥹

A/n: i loved writing this hehehe (i wrote most of this in 40 mins 💀)

@azrielappreciationweek

ANYWAY ENJOYYYY 🥳

°•°•°•○🌑○•°•°•°

"I missed this, mama." Hazel sighed, pulling away her cup of hot chocolate. Azriel smiled, looking over at his daughter, sitting next to his now son in law, Kaden.

What did I say? He was going to take away my daughter.

Y/n raised her brows. "It’s barely been a week since you’ve last had it."

Hazel grimaced. "Yeah, and his hot chocolate does not compare."

"Hey that’s mean!" Kaden sputtered, choking on his own drink.

"Yeah, stop being mean to my son."

Hazel rolled her eyes, turning to her father.

"Dad, come on, tell me a story." She had always been fond of listening to stories, and Az, wanting to make his daughter happy, had begun the new habit of telling stories every night.

Azriel glanced at his wife as she settled in next to him, warmth spreading in his chest. No matter how long they’d been married for, even just the sight of Y/n filled Azriel with happiness. Just as it had back when he had first seen her in the market, giggling with her friends over something.

"What do you want to hear about?"

Hazel leaned back, contemplating before perking up. "How you met mom and got married."

Azriel’s cheeks warmed, and he prayed his wife did not notice.

"Look dad, you’ve always said I was too young to know, but now I am even married. I want to know."

Azriel sighed, looking to his wife for help.

"Yeah Az, I wanna know the story too." Y/n grinned, not meeting his eyes.

Knowing he would not be allowed to leave without reliving his most embarrassing moments, he got comfortable in his chair.

"I saw her in the market one day. She was with her friends, and I instantly knew I was going to marry her one day."

She had been so ethereal, and she was in just a simple flowy dress. Her hair had been pinned out of her face, the breeze softly playing with the strands the way Azriel wished he could. Her smile, it could have brought him to his knees. And her sparkling eyes spoke of kindness far more louder than actions, the love and compassion for her fellow fae shining through every blink.

"Did you ever write her love letters and poetry?"

Azriel scoffed, focusing on the dark dregs at the bottom of his cup. "Me? I don’t have to resort to poetry."

Azriel felt his wife’s gaze on him, and he could picture her perfectly, sitting there, eyebrows raised in a are you sure about that? gesture.

"Yeah, he just ended up drowning in the river trying to impress me."

Azriel turned to glare at Y/n accusingly, who simply shrugged. "Now Az, lying is bad. Someone has to tell the truth."

Azriel grumbled, then again began. This time, truthfully. "Feyre needed some paint supplies from the market, and because I was free, I offered to get them for her."

°•°•°•○🌑○•°•°•°

Azriel never thought he would ever ask someone for a romantic day out. After all, he never had to do that. He would just give females a glance and they would ask him to spend time with them themselves.

But this time, it was not happening. The female in the market square barely spared him a glance when he sidled up to her, pretending to look at all the brightly coloured pots on display at the stand she was giggling with her friends over.

"Y/n, that pot would look so good with your couch!"

Y/n. That name would certainly look good with Azriel’s name next to it.

"Yes Cindy, I’m going to cook on my couch."

Azriel smiled down at the pot in his hands, biting his cheek.

"It certainly is beautiful though." He mumbled, voice low so only Y/n could hear as her two other friends started bickering. He felt her stiffen before she glanced at him.

"That it is. But I don’t think I’m in need of more things."

Azriel swallowed, nodding. "You live near?"

Finally, he gathered the courage to meet her narrowed eyes. "Why do you ask?"

He smiled with a confidence he did not feel. "Where will I pick you up from for our dinner tomorrow then if you don’t tell me?"

She reared back as if his words had a physical impact on him.

"I- I’m sorry, I’m not interested."

Azriel blinked. But before he could say anything, she had grabbed her friends’ hands and dragged them away.

But from the slight blush on her face, he knew that he only needed to try and she would agree.

He bought the pot she had been eyeing so longingly just moments before, then hurried to go get the paints Feyre had asked for.

He was so sure he wouldn’t have to resort to poetry.

°•°•°•○🌑○•°•°•°

The next day, Azriel was back at the market square, trying to figure out which direction she had gone. He had probably been wandering around aimlessly when he spotted the beautiful head of the lady he was so enthralled by.

"Hey. Pleasant day." He said as he fell in step beside the unsuspecting female.

She jumped, wide, frantic eyes meeting his own. Exasperation spread through her features as she realised it was him.

"You- what are you doing here?"

He shrugged, grinning as he held his gloved hand out. "I’m Azriel."

Her brows furrowed. She probably thought Azriel was loose in the head. "Y/n."

"Beautiful name for a beautiful lady."

She sighed. "Look, I’ve already told you I’m not interested."

"Why not?"

She paused. "I don’t like males who think they’re entitled to my time."

He nodded sagely. "Me neither. I hate people like that. But look at this like this, I want to get to know you. Maybe this could be something-"

She sighed. "No. Sorry."

Azriel’s palms turned sweaty. He had found her again, he did not want to let her go without getting something out of this. Even one evening of talking was enough. "I- I am the high lord’s shadowsinger."

Her gaze hardened. "Are you threatening me?"

His eyes widened. "No! I could never! I’m just trying…"

"Trying what?"

"To make you interested in me. It has worked before."

She rolled her eyes. "I don’t like males who try to entice me by stating their high powers."

Panic seized Azriel. This was going very wrong very quickly, and he did not like it one bit.

"I did not mean it that way-"

"Really, sir, I do not care what you meant and what you didn’t. Just leave me alone."

Azriel was left gaping after her, breathing heavy.

Fuck.

°•°•°•○🌑○•°•°•°

Azriel balled up another paper, throwing it behind him before clutching his head.

He had decided that being arrogant and trying to keep up his records of never having to resort to poetry would not help him.

Your eyes like the sun,Shining so beautiful,Your hair like waterfall,You-

Was Azriel truly so bad at poetry?

He was doomed.

She wouldn’t give him the time of day, evident by her refusal to even acknowledge him the three times he had tried to interact with her after that day at the market, and he was losing hope. He had sent countless letters and poems already to her house through his shadows, and he still had received no response.

Maybe he was well and truly doomed.

°•°•°•○🌑○•°•°•°

"You know, I still have all those letters and poems."

Azriel’s head whipped to look at his wife, eyes wide. "Why?"

She shrugged, getting up from the couch and taking the cup from Hazel and kaden, both who grinned unabashedly.

"You think I would burn or throw away letters of desperation sent by the spymaster?" Y/n snorted. "Let me get them for you, children."

"No!" Azriel semi-yelled, shooting to his feet before dashing into their bedroom, hoping to stop her before she even tried to reveal all his secrets.

Loud laughter followed the frantic spymaster, but he did not care. All he cared about was finding those letters and burning them, or maybe atleast hiding them away so his wife couldn’t tease him about it.

He had a reputation to uphold, after all.

°•°•°•○🌑○•°•°•°

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[nanamiscocksleeve]

LADS Men With a Plus Size Reader

Warnings: None! This is actually very fluffy! Maybe PG13 at most! (OMG NCS, no smut?!😲😲😲) A/N: Finally, got around to writing one of the promised headcanons! Now, allow me to be clear here. The amount of customization the game allows is incredible but MC is a little bit on the smaller side, and I would have loved to see an option for a more robust body build. The same way there are naturally thin and petite women, there are also bigger and more rounded women as well and I think there was an opportunity lost there. Anyone that tries to hate on this will be blocked immediately.

Zayne:

Zayne’s large hand envelopes yours as you walk to the cafe he’d recommended. You knew it was popular amongst the hospital staff and weren’t surprised to see familiar faces; one of the tables was completely occupied by some of Zayne’s surgical nurses. 

“Why don’t you get a table?” Zayne brushes a kiss on top of your hair. “And I’ll get the food. Do you still want a hazelnut latte with your cake?”

“Yes please!” Zayne’s eyes fill with warmth as he squeezes your hand before walking towards the cashier. You wander over and pick a table near the nurses. You take out your phone and start to browse Instagram when a snide voice is heard from the table behind you. 

“Gross.”

You freeze but don’t dare turn around. Maybe it wasn’t directed at you. 

“That’s Dr. Zayne’s girlfriend?”

Shit it was.

“Why is he with that porker?”

“You’d think a man like that would have better taste.”

“I heard that they were childhood friends. He’s probably dating her out of pity.”

Even as your blood rages, you feel tears pricking the backs of your eyes. Were they aware you could hear them? And they had just said your worst fears out loud; that Zayne was dating you as a favor, not because he was actually into you. It was an old insecurity you hadn’t really grown out of. You startle slightly as Zayne suddenly sits down opposite you, food and beverages in hand. He sets down your coffee and cake while taking his own plate and tea off the tray.

“Why are you so upset?” He immediately observes the distress on your face and the way your eyes are glistening. You shake your head and dab at your eyes with a napkin, Zayne watching you intently. The cute slice of cake he’s gotten for you sits temptingly in line with your vision but right now it might as well be a lump of clay, all appetite for it gone. 

Zayne’s eyes flick to the cake and back to you. “Did I get the wrong one?”

You’re about to shake your head no when the conversation at the table behind you picks up again. Clearly, they hadn’t noticed Zayne sitting down. 

“He deserves so much more than that blob. There are so many attractive women at the hospital.”

“I agree. He could get anyone he wanted. Someone who actually takes care of their health and watches their figure.”

Shame fills you and you’re unable to look at Zayne in the eyes, knowing he had heard them, even though you know it was far from the truth. You ate all your vegetables and exercised frequently. But your body just refused to slim down no matter what you did. No matter how much you tried to lose weight, the weight just didn’t want to lose you. You’re about to get up and leave when Zayne speaks up, loud and clear, in a scathing tone. 

“Right, because weight is the only indicator of a person’s health, isn’t it?” Zayne’s words drip with sarcasm. 

The entire nurses’ table jumps at his voice, turning around to look at him.

“Oh, Dr. Zayne! We weren’t-”

“I don’t care what you weren’t doing. Do not talk about anyone that way, patient or not. Were you not taught compassion as part of your medical training? Or is it reserved for people who look a certain way?” His eyes are narrowed and the table looks tense. One by one the nurses start to get up, quietly murmuring apologies to him as they exit the cafe. 

Zayne watches them go, anger still visible in his eyes before turning his attention back to you. His hand covers yours on top of the table. “Are you all right?”

You sniff. “I try. You know I try. I cook all my meals. I exercise. We work out together. But I can’t get the weight to go away.” 

“No sweetheart. I know how much you take care of yourself.” Zayne reaches across the table to wipe your tears. “You do not have to lose any weight. You’re perfectly healthy, and as long as that’s clear, nothing else matters.”

“You’re not dating me out of pity?” You look at him uncertainly. 

“Pity?” Zayne chuckles in disbelief. “Darling when you first started coming to my office I was sure you were out of my league.” His thumb strokes your hand reassuringly.

“You’re so amazing. Talented, compassionate, considerate. And all those things will always matter more to me than anything else.”

He looks at your neglected slice of cake. “Now don’t take out your sadness on the dessert. If you don’t finish it in 5 minutes, it’s mine.”

Rafayel:

You grip your wrap firmly around your shoulders, stepping with grace into the dazzling venue. You never missed Rafayel’s shows if you could help it but this time around, you had a skin in the game. Literally.

One night after a round of passionate lovemaking, you had woken to find Rafayel painting, and when you saw what he was working on, you’d blushed and smacked him on the shoulder.

There, in the brush strokes, he had painted you sleeping on his bed, your hair in disarray as it cascaded down your back, your face buried into the pillow and not quite visible. The sheets covered you modestly but the wide curve of your hips, the pudges of fat at your side, and the bra rolls under your arms were all painted with clarity and you found you couldn’t look at it. A feeling of unease had settled in your stomach. Was this the way your boyfriend viewed you?

You had brought it up to Rafayel in a small voice. “Do you think I’m fat?”

Your heart sank as Rafayel’s face, which had been so soft, a curve in his lips as he had painted, changed into a mask of dismay. “Fat?” he had asked, looking quite upset. “Where in this painting have I made you look fat?”

“Here. And here.” You point out the areas and Rafayel pulls you against him, holding you fiercely. 

“Cutie, I swear to God I’m just painting you as you are. I don’t think you look fat at all. I’m just painting my beautiful girlfriend in all her glory.” Crushed against his chest, you try to talk. 

“But, most women in paintings don’t look like that, they have smaller hips and thighs and mine look so…ugly.”

You thought Rafayel’s heart might have broken as he heard your word of choice. “There’s nothing about you that’s ugly. None of this is ugly. It’s a body. Your body. And baby I love every inch of it exactly as it is. I didn’t mean to make you sad while I painted all the pretty little pieces of you that make you whole.” His hands trace your sides, squeezing you reassuringly. 

“There’s so much beauty in you baby. That’s all I see in this painting. You’ll always be the biggest masterpiece in my life.”

Knowing he held you in such high esteem had done wonders for your confidence, which was what you were trying to emulate as you walked into the gallery. Rafayel had hesitantly asked for your permission to showcase that painting for this show, promising he’d never use it without your consent. Nervous as you were, part of you was actually thrilled that it was going to be used. It was difficult to make out who the subject in the portrait was since your face wasn’t entirely visible. 

Still, it felt like an out-of-body experience as you approached the hung canvas, observing the crowd that flocked to it. Some people nodded at it quietly before moving on, others commented under their breath that Rafayel should have chosen a more appropriate model. 

“Can you imagine this woman being naked in his bed?” One of them asked and her friends snickered sycophantically. “He must have been drunk or something.”

“And why is that?” You turn in time to see Rafayel, dressed sharply in a couture outfit approach you and pull you to his side, his hand resting possessively on the jut of your hip. The woman backpedals.

“Mr. Rafayel! I mean, obviously, your work is unique but I can’t help but wonder what you might have been trying to convey when you painted someone with such a…heavy structure.”

Rafayel pretends to consider her words. “I suppose…people have different views on what beauty is. All I was trying to convey was how much I loved the person in the painting. Anyone that doesn’t see the beauty in this particular painting, well I’m afraid they have poor taste.”

Grinning at the affronted look on her face, Rafayel whisks you away, but not before you throw her a smug smirk over your shoulder. 

Sylus:

Who knew underground mafia bosses loved their parties as much as their money? As strange as it was, the cliques had started becoming familiar with you hanging around. Anytime Sylus was invited to a gathering, it was expected that you were his plus one. While most of the men entertained polite conversation with you, it was no secret how coveted Sylus was by the women in the N109 zone. 

They wrinkled their noses as you walked by, your head held high, knowing you shouldn’t let their words get to you but it was hard. You tell the bartender your order and put a $100 bill into the tip jar. After all, you couldn’t embarrass Sylus by handing out a miserly tip when he was supposed to be the richest man here.

You knew you looked good enough to kill; Sylus had chosen the gown you were wearing himself, even hiring a personal tailor to fit the dress to flaunt your best assets and a thick choker of diamonds glittered on your neck. The plunging V-line of the dress showed off a tempting display of creamy cleavage, the bodice of the dress pushing up your impressive bosom. The material crept over your belly and hips, your fupa visible a little more than you would have liked but Sylus had refused to hear otherwise. You remember the way his hands had caressed the bulge of fat after helping you zip up the gown, his low, contented, purr ringing in your ears.

“Kitten, you’re going to be every man’s envy tonight. How delightful that I get to flaunt you as mine.”  

A group of women, all model-thin and gorgeous, approach the bar, their cold eyes fixed on you, wearing smiles that could cut glass. Your fingers drum nervously on the counter as you try to ignore them. One of the women spies the tip you had put in and jerks her chin at you, her lips twisting into what looks like a sneer. 

“So Sylus has the money to let you throw around $100 bills into tip jars. I wonder…” She pauses and the group draws collectively closer like a cackle of hyenas. “Wouldn’t his finances be more wisely spent on other avenues?”

“Such as?” You ask carefully.

“A good plastic surgeon perhaps? Lord knows you could use some liposuction in more places than one.” Her entourage leers at you while covering their mouths to stifle their laughter.

Your back stiffens and your eyes widen in shock. You resist the urge to cover your middle. You knew you should have pushed harder to have the gown loosened. Your fupa, the soft squidge that bulged under the material of the dress…it was a mistake thinking you could attend a party with it showing up so obviously. 

A million retorts form in your head but they all die weakly on your tongue. You had no defense, and you felt pathetic that you were sitting here and taking their abuse but your mind felt frozen, like you couldn’t plan your next move. 

“How did you ever think that someone like you could pull off a dress like that?” The woman presses, her eyes boring into yours. Your pulse quickens as you try to find a way to escape.

“You’re right, she can’t pull off a dress like that.” A rich, deep voice answers the woman who pales as she sees Sylus drape his arm possessively around your shoulders. “It’ll wrinkle. That’s why I’ll be pulling it off for her as soon as we get home.”

His eyes flash scarlet as he signals to the bartender, who immediately starts pouring him a drink and expediting your cocktail, setting both glasses on coasters in front of you. You flush but try not to look too pleased as you take a sip, feeling the alcohol loosen you. 

“Mr. Sylus.” The woman’s voice changes immediately and she steps back. “We were just talking about fashion.” she fibs hastily, trying to cover up her reason for using the word ‘dress’.

“Fashion?” Sylus looks at her patronizingly. “Do tell.”

Caught, she wets her lips before saying, “Oh we were talking about jeans and how they never fit or have pockets-”

“Hmm. I can understand these problems. After all, jeans without pockets are like women without curves…there’s nowhere to put your hands.” His broad hand shifts to your hip, his fingers subtly signaling it is time for you to go. You pick up your glass and Sylus holds onto you firmly as you walk back to the crowd. 

Xavier:

You’re sweaty as you and Xavier walk back from the office gym to the locker rooms. Xavier drinks from his water bottle, swallowing zealously. “I think we’ve exercised enough for a whole week,” he says as you walk. You laugh and shake your head.

“We only did a half hour of cardio!”

“Yeah, but we lifted all those weights too! In fact, my muscles already feel stronger.” Xavier flexes his arm and a visible bicep forms, making you grin. 

“Oh so strong,” you say as you reach out to squeeze. Xavier winces slightly and you quickly withdraw. “Sorry.”

“It’s ok. I’m a little sore.” You reach the locker rooms.“I’ll wait for you outside.”

You nod and he disappears into the men's locker room. You wander into the women’s, undo the lock, and retrieve your bag, finding a stall to change your clothes. You peel off your damp leggings which stick to your plushy thighs and you drag them down, sighing in relief as the skin jiggles freely in the cool air after being stuffed in the heat of polyester for so long. 

The skin on your butt and stomach are dimpled, something you’d come to terms with. You recall how nervous you’d been to let Xavier see you in a bathing suit at the pool but now you barely glance at them. 

“It’s like your skin is smiling at me when I kiss it.” 

That’s what Xavier had said as he kissed the soft flesh lovingly. Who could possibly feel self-conscious after that analogy? As you fold away the sweaty clothes into a garment bag, you hear several of the other changing room doors open and a group of voices fills the locker room as you change. You normally wouldn’t have paid attention but you freeze when you hear Xavier’s name.

“Why do you think Xavier works out with her of all people?”

“I know! They workout together like almost everyday and she hasn’t lost any weight!”

“She probably lacks the discipline to go on a real diet. It doesn’t matter how much she exercises, that fat isn’t going to go away if she doesn’t eat healthier.”

“Xavier really needs to find a better workout buddy. She only slows him down.”

Your heart clenches in your chest as you hear the cruel commentary. How dare these women talk about your body like it was a source of entertainment for them? Both rage and sorrow fills you as you catch sight of yourself in the mirror. Suddenly all you can see are the flaws.

How cute, to call cellulite ‘dimpled skin’ like it was something to be adored. You stare at the lumpy skin, at the way your stomach and arms have stretch marks everywhere, the way your skin bulges over the band of your bra. You wait in silence as the women finish their chat and you hear them exit the locker room.

After what seemed like ages, you finally finish dressing and leave the changing room feeling humiliated. The post-workout glow had all but vanished from your system and you couldn’t shake off the feeling of being perceived like a huge, hulking, ogre; built big and lumberingly, not at all cute like the princess Xavier claimed you were. You leave the dressing room, then stare in disbelief as the same group of women crowd around Xavier as he waits for you. You lurk, not wanting to be seen, then one of the women speaks up.

“Xavier, if you’re looking for another workout buddy I’d be happy to tag along.” One of them chirps perkily.

Xavier chuckles politely and shakes his head. “Thank you, but no. I have a workout buddy.”

“Oh cmon Xavier, don’t you think you need someone who can challenge you a little more?”

“I do actually. That’s why I work out with her.”

“Does she really challenge you?”

“I think she challenges me more than you. Didn't you finish last in the company relay race?” The woman’s face falls and your heart skips a beat. 

“And you,” Xavier says as he turns to face another woman. “Forgive me if I’m wrong but you struggle to push anything more than 75 pounds. My workout buddy does 150 easily. She’s very strong. Perhaps you might benefit from training with her.” The second woman looks offended even as she’s being chastised. 

Feeling your confidence soar, you skip over to Xavier feeling as light as a feather. Xavier’s eyes light up as you approach. “Ladies,” you say smugly to their scandalized faces before pulling Xavier away from them, holding his arm as you walk away. 

© nanamiscocksleeve original work | no copying, plagiarizing or translating

[phoenixcatch7]

DO NOT REWRITE A FIC.

In the same impulse as 'I wanna text my ex', rewriting a fic is retreading ground you've already been over and gotten sick of. It will NOT keep your motivation and attention the way you want it to. Rewrites are prime territory for burnout.

I've been in fandom - fanfic specifically - for very nearly a decade now. I have seen DOZENS of rewrites of all sorts of fics, across all sorts of platforms of all different lengths and quality. I can think of maybe two that made it past the point of the original fic. I can't think of any that made it to completion.

I've done the exact same thing. I put a lot of love and energy into both the original and the rewrite. I ran out of motivation fast, because it just didn't feel like I was making progress, despite the huge changes.

It might feel extremely tempting, especially if your skill has improved drastically since the start of the fic, but writing is so much about making something special, something new and interesting, and a rewrite will not scratch that itch. Everyone has had that impulse. The longer or older the fic the more tempting it will be. Trust that it got you to where you are now and keep writing.

HOWEVER.

There are two methods to dealing with it, depending on how many changes you want to make.

Overwrite, not rewrite. If it's just a matter of quality, edit the fic directly. Make a separate copy of the original, but you are now the beta reader of your own fic and you have full reign. Put the new ideas that will occur in a separate doc for method 2. Edit heavily, edit freely. The goal will feel much more manageable because the bits you can't be bothered to do again are already there. Add scenes, delete scenes, patch plot holes. Go paragraph by paragraph - delete each one as you go if you're desperate, but it is sooooo much better than redeveloping a blank document from scratch. It lets you bounce around the fic as well!

AU TIME. Are these two fics you're writing incredibly similar? Sure! That's because your fic now comes with AUs! Change the characters, change the plot, change the very premise! All is fair in aus and war. Diverge that fic canon! It's time for splitting the timeline! It'll make it feel fresh again, and even encourage you to engage with the original in a positive way, rather than nitpicking every issue it has and making you feel like the new version has to be perfect, be the one in your mind. It'll never be that. Every artist, professional or otherwise, agrees. The lure and stress of perfectionism is how a rewrite exhausts you. So just... Don't consider it one! Call it an au, and the world is your oyster once more. Let the new fic take on a life of its own.

And if you've posted it, don't take it down? People LOVE having two cakes, and you can never predict what parts people liked about the first. Go into any comment section under a deletion notice for rewrite purposes and you'll find people asking the author to let the fic stay up. You don't have to so much as look at it again! But there are people who read it who will remember it fondly, no matter how bad quality you think it is XD. I've binged authors who happily write a dozen aus of their own fics. It might feel weird at first but trust me it's great.

Do not text your ex! And do not rewrite a fic! It can work, but don't act surprised when nothing is new. A new haircut will not fix the underlying issue.