#and they gradually start to warm up to him after that

[wendichester]

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ harder than heaven,

summary. you fell first. he fell harder.

pairing. sam winchester x reader genre. fluffy fluff

wordcount. 514

ᯓ★ read dean's version

It starts with you watching him.

Not in a creepy way. Not even in a “stare until he notices” way. More like: you’re sitting across from him during a stakeout, and there’s a lull in conversation, and you happen to look up—and there he is.

Long fingers tapping the steering wheel. Hair a little too long, curling around his ears. Bottom lip caught between his teeth as he reads over the case notes.

And your chest goes warm. Familiar. Safe.

You don’t mean to fall for him.

But you do.

Quietly. All at once. Like a click.

You keep it to yourself.

Because you’re a hunter. And so is he. And feelings? They’re dangerous. Messy. Distracting. But still—when he walks into the room, your heart stutters. When he smiles at you, the whole day feels a little less cruel. When he says your name, you feel like it means something.

You fell first. No doubt about it.

But Sam?

Sam falls harder.

It happens gradually.

He doesn’t even realize he’s spiraling until it’s too late.

It starts when you get hurt on a hunt—just a little. Scraped shoulder, bandaged ribs. You brush it off with a joke and a crooked smile.

Sam can’t laugh. Can’t even fake it.

He paces the room like a caged animal until Dean throws a pillow at him and tells him to chill the hell out.

Sam sits by your bed that night after you’re asleep. Watches your chest rise and fall. Doesn’t even realize he’s reaching for your hand until his fingers brush yours.

Then come the little things.

He remembers how you take your coffee. Always keeps an extra hair tie on his wrist in case yours snaps mid-hunt. Buys that obscure snack you mentioned once, months ago, and pretends it was just on sale.

Dean starts to notice.

“You like her,” he teases one night, pointing at the way Sam lights up when you laugh from the next room.

Sam doesn’t answer.

Because he knows. And it’s terrifying.

Because you’re strong. Brilliant. Quick with a comeback. Quicker with a blade. You’re everything he’s not sure he deserves to want.

But he wants.

God, he wants.

He falls the hardest when you brush his hair back once, without thinking.

It’s a stupid moment. You’re both exhausted. Sweaty. Bloodstained.

You’re sitting on the edge of a motel bed, and he’s crouched in front of you, checking a gash on your leg.

And you just—reach forward. Sweep a strand of hair off his forehead, fingers barely grazing his skin.

You don’t even notice what you’ve done.

But he freezes.

And then he looks at you like the earth just cracked open.

“Sam?” you ask, blinking.

And he says—softly, shakily— “Have you always looked at me like that?”

You pause. Smile, just a little. “Maybe.”

His voice drops. “I think I’m in love with you.”

You breathe out a laugh, tears stinging your eyes. “You think?”

Then he’s kissing you.

Gentle. Slow. Sure.

And when he pulls back, he’s already smiling like he’s just found the rest of his life.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[sereia4skz]

a house we build | chapter 3: controlled environment

pairing: established!Minsung x fem!reader

< previous chapter | next chapter >

⋆｡°✩

word count: 1.5k

warnings: morning sickness, vomitting

You stay in the guest room. Technically. The bed is yours, the closet filled with soft clothes you don’t remember packing, and Minho keeps calling it your room, not the guest room. But it never really feels like you’re alone.

The house is big, but you’re never out of sight for long.

Jisung knocks three times every time before entering, even though you’ve told him he doesn’t have to. He always comes bearing something, a smoothie, a warm compress, a question about the baby that leads into a story about something entirely unrelated.

“Do you think the baby can hear music yet?” he asks one morning, handing you a bowl of cut-up strawberries.

“I don’t know,” you say.

“I should play them Stray Kids,” he says, very seriously. “Early exposure to greatness.”

He sits cross-legged at the end of your bed and starts making a playlist. Half an hour later, he’s playing it on low volume through a Bluetooth speaker, narrating each track like a sleep-deprived museum guide.

“This one’s technically about a girl,” he whispers, “but the vibe is gender-neutral, so…”

You laugh until your belly starts to cramp. He looks horrified and apologizes six times in under a minute. Then he starts again, quieter this time, his fingers stroking absentminded shapes into your ankle over the blanket.

Minho is quieter about it all.

You find notes on your nightstand every morning. Tidy handwriting. Black ink.

Don’t forget your vitamins.Tea in the kitchen (not the one with caffeine).I put a stool in the shower. Don’t roll your eyes.

He rarely says more than necessary, but he always notices things. Your shoes are replaced with a softer pair. There’s always a hot bath drawn for you after your appointments. You wake up one night to find him adjusting the thermostat because the room dropped two degrees. 

It’s not loud affection. It’s quiet architecture. Foundations.

You stop noticing how strange it is, how close you’ve become. It happens gradually. One week, you’re politely keeping to your room. The next, you’re wandering down in pajamas to find Jisung asleep with his head on the kitchen counter and Minho making tea in silence beside him.

He hands you a cup and says, “Decaf,” before you can ask.

You sit with them, comfortable, warm. Jisung starts snoring.

The next day, he installs blackout curtains in your room.

The day after that, you start doing yoga in the living room, not for fitness, not even for the baby, but because it makes your back hurt less. Minho joins you halfway through the second session, deadpan serious, correcting your posture like a personal trainer. Jisung joins on the third day and knocks over a lamp doing Warrior II.

“We’re enhancing your environment,” he declares, lying flat on the mat.

“optimal conditions,” Minho says.

“For best baby growth.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t stop smiling.

⋆｡°✩

You throw up in the kitchen sink when it's barely morning.

You were fine ten minutes ago, comfy in your warm sheets with a soft fan humming, and then the wave hit. Sharp, sudden, full-body nausea.

Your hands grip the edge of the sink as you retch, and then again, and again, until there's nothing left but bile and bitter taste.

The room swims a little when you try to straighten up. You hear footsteps.

“Hey- oh, shit,” Jisung says, halfway through the door, still in his pajamas. “Shit, are you, hold on…”

He nearly slips trying to grab a towel and a glass of water at the same time. He thrusts them both at you with wide, panicked eyes.

“Don’t die,” he says. “Or if you do, leave a note that says it wasn’t my fault.”

You laugh hoarsely, rinse your mouth. “Just morning sickness.”

“That was more like apocalyptic sickness.”

You’re still a little clammy. He reaches out tentatively to tuck your hair behind your ear, then presses his hand to your back.

“Sit down,” he says. “Minho will freak out if he finds you keeled over.”

You slide onto the toilet cover. He fusses. Water, a cool cloth for your neck. He makes you eat three crackers under strict supervision.

When Minho walks in five minutes later, eyes still puffy from sleep, he takes one look at you and then at Jisung.

“She threw up,” Jisung says, full of urgency. “But I handled it. Like a real adult.”

Minho raises an eyebrow.

“You gave her saltines.”

“Saltines and emotional support.”

You shake your head, smiling despite the queasiness. “I’m okay.”

Minho’s hand finds your shoulder on the way to the kettle. He squeezes once, quietly. “Tell me next time,” he says. “Even if it’s just nausea.”

No panic. No lecture. Just tea made exactly the way you like it, and two men who hover a little too much all morning, but you don’t mind.

It’s kind of nice.

⋆｡°✩

They start taking you out on weekends.

At first, it’s for baby shopping. A very necessary outing. Minho drives. Jisung insists on pushing the cart. You pick out clothes too small to comprehend, and he gets weepy holding a yellow onesie shaped like a bear.

“We’re gonna have a real baby,” he whispers, like this just occurred to him. “We made a real one.”

“You made a mess,” Minho mutters, but he keeps glancing at you every few seconds. Like he’s checking if you’re still here. Like he’s worried you’ll vanish.

The baby shopping trip turns into three stores. You come home with more than baby supplies. New sweatpants. A book you mentioned once in passing. Lavender bath oil.

Jisung shrugs when you look at him. “You’re incubating a human. Let us spoil you a little.”

Minho doesn’t even pretend to argue. “You’re important cargo.” He says it with a hand on your hip, steadying you when you lean down to pick up a dropped receipt. You try not to blush.

You start falling asleep on the couch after movie nights. Not on purpose, not really, you just get tired. But you never wake up alone. Minho always carries you back or lets you sleep on him, chin tucked against the crown of your head. Jisung usually stays curled up against your side, drooling, mumbling something nonsensical in his sleep.

One night, you wake at 2 a.m. in the middle of the tangle. Minho’s hand is cradling your belly like a reflex. Jisung has one foot on your calf and half a sleeve shoved into his mouth. You stare at the ceiling, a little dazed.

You’re not supposed to feel like this. This safe. This…wanted. You shut your eyes and pretend to sleep.

⋆｡°✩

Jisung is soft-hearted, a chronic oversharer. He tells you everything, unfiltered. He talks about his fears, his favorite noodle shops, the way Minho looked when they first moved in together.

He brings you snacks and cries over baby socks. He says things like, “Sometimes I think you’re the only person who’s ever really seen us, y’know?”

You pretend it doesn’t make your throat tight.

Minho never says anything like that. But when you forget to eat, he brings food before you admit you’re hungry. When you cry during a prenatal video, he doesn’t comment, just offers his lap and lets you bury your face in his shirt. When you complain about morning sickness, he raises an eyebrow and smirks like it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

“Careful,” he murmurs, steadying you with one hand. “You’re important cargo.”

You roll your eyes again. He’s still smirking when he walks away.

⋆｡°✩

One night, they surprise you with a gift.

Not for the baby. For you.

It’s left outside your door in a neat paper bag, no note, no explanation.

Inside: a soft pair of pajamas, lavender and cotton. A throw blanket, your favorite color. A small, framed ultrasound picture already labeled neatly in tidy handwriting:

Baby Lee-Han, 15 weeks.

You stand there with it in your hands for a long time.

When you finally step into the living room, they’re both on the couch, half-watching a cooking show, half-dozing, wrapped in their own silence. You linger in the doorway.

Jisung notices you first. “Hey,” he says, sitting up straighter. “Did it fit okay?”

You nod. “You didn’t have to…”

“We wanted to,” he says, before you can finish. His voice is gentler than usual.

Minho doesn’t speak, but his eyes meet yours. He doesn’t look away.

You sit between them, quietly. Jisung leans into your side. Minho doesn’t move, but you feel his shoulder brush yours, close enough to feel the heat of him. The frame rests in your lap like a weight, solid and strange.

It shouldn’t mean so much. You’re not a family. Not really. But the picture is already labeled. The pajamas are already soft. And they both look at you like it’s the most natural thing in the world that you’re here.

You keep your eyes on the screen, not trusting your voice.

After a while, Jisung mumbles something about brushing his teeth. Minho stays.

The quiet stretches, comfortable.

He speaks without looking over. 

“Let us know if you need anything else,” he says. “Doesn’t have to be baby stuff.”

You glance at him. “Okay,” you whisper.

That night, you sleep better than you have in weeks, the frame still resting on your nightstand, the blanket tucked around your legs.

You dream of a house full of small footsteps and soft laughter.

series taglist: @rougegenshin @imagine-all-the-imagines @imma-much-happier-person @jisungs-iced-americano @seungminthesnail @straykids4lifeee @peskybirdysya @straykid2004 @geni-627 @numberonedefendorpenguin @codex-12 @skzbiasot8 @skzlover143 @jeonginsbaee @rekussk @bahngarang @mareuxkala @wwwtxao @katchowbbie @alondra601 @ateez-atiny380 @nanaluizam @littledeadleaves @iluvluvfictionalmen @whitejuliana1204 @tsukiloveskitties @chasinghxran @mocharacha @channiesbighugs @kpop-trash-03 @stvrryl0ve @lillymochilover @aemondsb1tch @kwanniehae @kjinwoon @hvnlymoon @kokinu09 @httpsxnox @brekkers-whore @wolfhallows4 @skyearby @sammhisphere @bitterbluemorningstar @sungie-stay @to-be-written @jaadesthings @lomllino

taglist: @diekleinesuesse @tillaboo @felixsonlyrealwife @geni-627 @skz8riley @lezleeferguson-120 @pixie-felix @headfirstfortoro @alnex05 @baby-stay92 @encoredesires @androgynouscrownorbit @channiesluvrclub @my-neurodivergent-world @chims-dimple @bookswillfindyouaway @stellasays45 @angel-writes-skz-here @m-325 @0sunshinecryptid0 @beal-o @hug4helios @oksullen @rileylovescats @dreamyfelixx @yxna-bliss @turtledove824 @enhacolor @skzz0213 @hannahlue @purplelady85 @velvetmoonlght @inishij @bangchanspineapple @straykids4lifeee @peskybirdysya @gnabsss @zayn-210 @wolfhallows4 @katsukis1wife @sammhisphere @bangchanspineapple @sunfk88

[formulafanfics13]

Is it possible to write a fic about Roscoe playing matchmaking for Lewis & when eventually reader and Lewis get together, Roscoe safely feels at peace and pass away knowing that he had helped his dad has found the one . I know you don’t write angus but if it’s possible to make it a happy romantic heated ending even though a tragedy had happen.

matchmaker’s peace - LH44

Masterlist

summary: lewis always said roscoe had good instincts. so when the old bulldog keeps leading him into the reader’s path again and again, he listens. slowly, love blooms — sweet, warm, inevitable. and when roscoe finally passes, it’s not alone, not tragic. it’s peaceful. because he did it. he brought them together. and now his dad is finally loved, exactly as he deserves.

warnings: major character death (roscoe the dog), grief, deep emotional themes, fluff, soft romantic build-up, comforting smut, aftercare, praise, lewis being the best dog dad, reader is gentle, mourning with hope

Lewis' dog starts doing it after Monaco. At first, Lewis thinks it’s a coincidence. The tug of a leash. A turn down a different street. A pause outside a café where you just happen to be sitting, sipping your coffee, sunglasses perched in your hair.

You smile at the dog. Roscoe huffs. Lewis smiles too, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s tired. Distant. But he watches how the dog leans into your touch when you crouch to greet him. How the usually aloof bulldog gives you a nudge like he’s known you forever.

“You’ve made a friend,” Lewis murmurs, surprised. “Guess he’s got good taste.”

You smile up at him. And something shifts.

It keeps happening.

You see each other again at a grocery store. Then again near the marina. Then again while jogging, or in your case, walking, headphones in, playlist too soft for the chaos of the world.

Each time, the dog pulls. Each time, Lewis lets him.

You start walking together. Just short ones. Around the block. Past the harbour. Some evenings stretch into an hour, then two.

Lewis tells you about his childhood. About racing. About how the dog doesn’t like fireworks and only drinks bottled water.

You tell him about your sister. About your favourite books. About the way the dog's eyes look like they’ve seen everything and loved anyway.

One night, Lewis invites you up for tea. You say yes.

The dog follows you to the couch and flops onto your lap. “You’ve been replaced,” Lewis jokes, sliding into the armchair with two mugs.

You stroke the dog’s ears. “He was just waiting to pick the right girl.”

The dog gets slower in the months that follow. Not all at once. But gradually.

Lewis notices it first in the mornings, the way it takes him longer to stand. The way he sighs before curling up. How he doesn’t want to chase birds anymore, even the ones he used to loathe.

You notice too. So you love him harder. More walks. More snuggles. Steak on Sundays. A plush new bed that he immediately ignores in favour of your lap.

The night he passes, it’s quiet. He’s curled on his blanket between the two of you, his head resting on Lewis’s foot. You’re stroking his fur. Lewis is whispering something under his breath, thank you, I love you, thank you, thank you.

And when the dog lets go, it’s gentle. No fear. Just peace. Like he knows. He did it. He got his dad home.

You bury him in the garden behind Lewis’s LA home. You plant lavender. Hydrangeas. A tree that Lewis says will grow slowly, like everything that matters. And you grieve together. Cry together.

Hold each other in the kitchen when it’s too quiet.

One night, a few weeks later, Lewis finds you staring out the windo. 

He walks up behind you. Wraps his arms around your waist. “He loved you so much,” he says quietly.

You turn in his arms. “So did I,” you whisper. “So do I.”

You kiss him. Slow. Soft. Desperate. And then you take his hand and lead him to bed.

You undress each other like it’s sacred. Not rushed. Not feral.Just real. Just right.

You straddle his lap and he cups your face with both hands like he never wants to stop looking at you. “I miss him,” you breathe.

“I know,” he whispers. “Me too.”

You press your forehead to his. “But he gave me you.”

Lewis closes his eyes. Nods.

When he enters you, it’s with a reverence that makes your heart ache. He whispers how much he loves you. How grateful he is. How good you feel. How lucky he is that the one soul who always saw him finally found someone worth sharing him with.

Afterwards, tangled in sheets, sweat cooling, Lewis presses a kiss to your bare shoulder and whispers, “He waited until he knew I’d never be alone again.”

You nod against his chest, hand resting over his heart. “He didn’t just find me a partner,” he adds softly.

“He found you a home,” you whisper.

And Lewis knows it’s true.

[this-is-tiny-mia]

Do you believe in fate? | Chapter 2

General Masterlist PART 1!! famous!Harry x fem!reader / flowershopowner!reader

Summary: After losing his wife, Harry struggles to navigate his grief, An encounter with Y/N, a kind florist, who shares the same experience.

Word count: 3.1k

Warnings: Angst, A slightly rude Harry again, mentions of loss and grief.

As the session wound down, Elaine clapped her hands gently to gather everyone’s attention. “Alright, everyone, let’s start wrapping up. Take a moment to admire your work—and remember, it doesn’t have to be perfect”

You set your vase down on the table, smoothing the final edges with careful precision. It was slightly asymmetrical, just as you liked, with a unique curve that gave it character. You leaned back, letting out a satisfied sigh.

Harry glanced at his own creation. It was… well, wonky was a generous description. The sides weren’t even, and it leaned slightly to one side, but there was something endearing about its imperfection.

“You finished?” you asked, leaning slightly toward him.

“Yeah,” he replied, chuckling as he tilted his head, inspecting his work. “If you can call it that.”

You smiled, looking at his creation. “It’s not bad…It has… charm.”

“Charm?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” you said with a small laugh. “It’s quirky. Quirky’s good.”

Harry shook his head, but he was smiling. “Yours is amazing, though,” he said, nodding toward your vase. “Looks like it could go right to the shop.”

“Thanks,” you said, your cheeks warming slightly. “But yours has character. It tells a story.”

Harry snorted, clearly amused. “The story of someone who has no idea what they’re doing.”

You laughed softly. “Hey, everyone starts somewhere. And honestly, it’s not about the end result—it’s about what you felt while making it.”

He glanced at the wonky shape in front of him and nodded. “You’re right. It felt… good. Different, but good.”

Elaine approached, beaming as she looked at both of your pieces. “Beautiful work, both of you. Harry, I love how your piece has this organic, unpolished vibe. And Y/N, your vase is stunning as always.”

“Thanks, Elaine,” you said, and Harry nodded in agreement.

As people began cleaning up, you turned to Harry again. “So, do you think you’ll come back?”

He hesitated for a moment, then smiled. “Yeah, I think I might.”

“Well, if you do, maybe next time, you’ll outdo me,” you teased.

For Harry, it wasn’t just about the clay now—it was about showing up, creating something, and finding a little bit of peace along the way.

Over the next few weeks, Harry became a quiet but steady presence at the pottery class. At first, he would arrive just before the session started, slipping into his usual seat without much interaction. But gradually, he began to linger, staying a little longer after class to clean up or ask Elaine about different techniques. You couldn’t help but notice how his once-clumsy hands were now shaping clay with more ease, and every so often, he’d glance at your work, offering a quiet compliment.

In return, you found yourself looking forward to his company. The two of you fell into an easy rhythm—exchanging small jokes, comparing your projects, and occasionally teasing him about his wonky creations. It wasn’t much, but it felt like the start of something familiar, something grounding. Though Harry rarely talked about himself, you could see the weight on his shoulders lifting bit by bit, and in his own guarded way, he seemed to trust you.

Today’s pottery class had just ended, and you lingered behind, cleaning up your station. Harry stood nearby, absently wiping his hands on a rag, his expression distant—almost sad.

“You okay?” you asked gently, breaking the silence.

He glanced at you, his face serious. “I’m fine,” he said shortly, turning his back as he placed his scraps into the bin.

You hesitated but decided to press just a little. “You just look… different. If something’s bothering you, it might help to talk about it.”

He froze for a moment, then spun around, his tone sharper than you’d ever heard. “Why do you always have to ask? I said I’m fine! Just… leave it alone, alright?”

The sudden sharpness in his voice made you flinch, and your shoulders tensed as you took a step back. “I was just trying to help… I’m not asking you to vent about every detail. I’m just offering to listen—to anything you want to say. You’re not the only one hurting, Harry. We all are, in different ways. The least we can do is try to understand each other, and—”

“Stop,” Elaine’s voice cut through, calm but firm. “We’re not here to hurt—we’re here to heal. Do you think you both can manage the one rule we have?” she asked, her tone serious.

You both looked at her, feeling the weight of her words. Harry rubbed the back of his neck in frustration—not at you, but at himself, at everything.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured to Elaine, then turned to finish cleaning your station. Harry did the same, and for the rest of the time, neither of you exchanged another glance. The silence was awkward and filled with unspoken words. As Harry finished and removed his apron, he turned to look at you for a moment, then let out a long breath.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice quieter now.

You glanced at him but didn’t respond immediately, unsure if you wanted to let the moment go so easily.

He took a step closer, his tone softer but still uncertain. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. Not today, not the last time either. It’s not… you. I just don’t know how to handle this sometimes—how to handle me or whatever’s going on inside.”

You studied him for a moment, noticing the tension in his posture and the vulnerability he was trying to hide. “It’s okay,” you said. “All I want to say is… not everyone’s out to hurt you. As Elaine said, we’re here to heal.”

🌷🌻🌷🌻🌷🌻🌷🌻🌷🌻

The shop smelled of fresh blooms and damp earth as you arranged a new display of daisies and sunflowers by the window. Claire was at the counter, her hands busy tying ribbons around small bouquets for pre-orders.

“So,” Claire started, glancing at you over her shoulder, “are you going to tell me what’s on your mind, or do I have to guess?”

You sighed, pausing mid-arrangement. “It’s Harry.”

Claire raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Pop-star sensation soon to be pottery sensation? What about him?” she said with a teasing tone

You leaned against the counter, fiddling with a stray petal. “He’s… complicated. One moment, he’s quiet and kind, even funny sometimes. But then he has these outbursts. He snaps at me for trying to help, and I don’t know… It’s like he’s carrying so much, and I just want to ease that for him.”

Claire tied another ribbon and set the bouquet aside. “And that’s a bad thing… why?”

“Because I don’t know if I should keep trying,” you admitted. “I mean, I’m not a therapist. I don’t even know if he wants my help. Every time I try to get close, he pushes me away. But then he apologizes, and it’s like he’s trying, you know? Like he’s not really a bad guy—just someone who’s lost.”

Claire nodded thoughtfully. “You’ve got to ask yourself, is it worth the emotional toll it’s taking on you?”

You frowned, crossing your arms. “I just… I like helping people. I like when people smile and have a good time, that’s also why i love flowers! Who doesn’t like flowers?. It’s who I am. And I feel like he could use someone in his corner, even if it’s just for something small. But I don’t know if I’m helping or just annoying him.”

Claire leaned her elbows on the counter, her gaze soft but serious. “Y/N, you have the biggest heart of anyone I know. You always want to fix things, make things better. But you can’t forget something important—you’re healing too.”

Her words struck a chord, and you looked down, fiddling with a ribbon. “I know,” you said quietly. “It’s just… helping others makes me feel like I’m doing something good. Like I’m moving forward.”

Claire smiled gently. “And that’s great. But you can’t pour from an empty vase. You’ve been through a lot, and you’ve come so far. Don’t lose sight of your own progress while trying to help someone else with theirs.”

You nodded slowly, her words settling in your chest. “So, what do I do? Do I stop talking to him?”

“I think,” Claire said, tilting her head, “you need to set boundaries—not just for him, but for yourself. If you think he’s worth the effort, then keep trying, but only as much as you can handle. And remember, it’s okay to take a step back if it gets too much. You’re not a bad person for protecting your own peace.”

You smiled faintly “Thanks”

“Now, are we finishing this display, or are you going to keep worrying over Mr. Styles?”

You laughed softly, feeling a little lighter. As you picked up another bunch of daisies, you decided you’d take things one step at a time—for Harry, but more importantly, for yourself.

🌷🌻🌷🌻🌷🌻🌷🌻🌷🌻

The living room was cozy and filled with soft, warm light from a table lamp in the corner. Harry sat on the couch, his long legs stretched out in front of him. His mother sat across from him in her favorite armchair, knitting needles clicking softly as she worked on a scarf.

“You’ve been quieter than usual,” she said, not looking up from her work.

Harry glanced at her, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I thought you liked it when I was quiet.”

She laughed softly. “I do. But this feels different. It’s not the same as when you’re brooding. You seem… calmer.”

He shrugged, unsure how to respond. “I’ve been going to that pottery thing”

His mum’s hands stilled, and she looked up, surprise and delight in her eyes. “Have you? How’s it been?”

“It’s… alright,” he said, picking at a loose thread on the couch. “It’s kind of nice. Quiet. Messy, though.”

She smiled knowingly. “And the people?”

Harry hesitated, his fingers pausing. “We are a small group. All different—different ages, backgrounds. One of them…” He trailed off, his gaze fixed on the thread he was pulling at.

“One of them?”

He let out a small sigh. “There’s this woman. The florist. She’s… persistent.”

His mother raised an eyebrow. “Persistent how?”

“She keeps trying to… I don’t know. Help me, I guess,” he said, his tone quieter now. “Even when I snap at her or try to shut her out, she doesn’t give up. It’s annoying, but… not in a bad way.”

His mum smiled softly, setting her knitting aside. “She sounds like she cares. Maybe she sees something in you worth sticking around for.”

Harry let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “She doesn’t even know me.”

“Maybe she doesn’t need to,” his mother said gently. “Sometimes, it’s not about knowing every detail. It’s about seeing someone and deciding they’re worth a little kindness.”

“I don’t know if I deserve that,” he admitted.

“Of course you do,” she said firmly. “You’ve been through so much, Harry, but that doesn’t mean you have to go through it alone. Let people in, even if it’s just a little. I’m not saying it in a romantic way, she could be a friend”

Harry nodded slowly, though uncertainty still lingered in his expression. “I’ll think about it,” he said quietly.

“You do that,” his mother replied with a smile, picking up her knitting again. “And remember my teapot” she smiled

As the quiet settled back over the room, Harry found himself thinking of your way of trying, even when he made it difficult.

🌷🌻🌷🌻🌷🌻🌷🌻🌷🌻

The pottery studio was quieter than usual, the soft hum of music barely masking the occasional clinking of tools and quiet chatter. You were at your usual spot, hunched over a lump of clay, but your hands weren’t moving the way they normally did. Instead, they trembled slightly, your focus wavering as you tried to steady your breathing.

Harry noticed as soon as he walked in. You always greeted him with a small smile, but today, your eyes were downcast, and your posture lacked its usual energy. Something was off.

“You okay?” he asked softly, echoing the same words you’d once said to him.

You glanced up, startled, and then quickly looked away, trying to brush it off. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a long day.”

Harry frowned, not convinced. “You don’t look fine.” 

Deja vu.

The words hung in the air for a moment, and you let out a shaky breath, your hands pressing into the clay as if grounding yourself. “It’s nothing, really. Just… today’s a hard day.”

He didn’t push, sensing the weight of your words. Instead, he waited, his gaze steady but gentle.

“It’s my fiancé’s birthday,” you finally admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “Or… it would have been.” you sighed “You think you’re okay, and then a date on the calendar reminds you that you’re not.”

He nodded, understanding more than he could express. “I get that.”

You looked at him, your eyes searching his face. “Yeah. I know you do.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence stretching but not uncomfortable. Then, Harry leaned forward slightly. “What was his name?”

Your lips trembled, but you managed a faint smile. “Alex.”

“Tell me about him,” he said, surprising even himself.

You frowned and hesitated, Harry, the same man who snaps at you for even asking if he was okay, was now kind of prying, and some teeny tiny piece of you wanted to give him back the same but again, you weren’t like that, so you took a big breath and began.

“He loved flowers, but he could never remember their names,” you said with a soft chuckle, the first genuine one all day. “He’d walk into the shop, pick up a rose, and call it a daisy just to make me laugh.”

Harry smiled faintly, watching the light return to your face for a second.

“He was clumsy, too. Always bumping into things, dropping pots in the shop. It drove me crazy sometimes, but now I’d give anything to hear that crash and him muttering, ‘I’ll pay for it, I swear.’” You laughed again, but it quickly dissolved into a quiet sigh. “He had this way of making the ordinary feel… extraordinary. You know?”

Harry nodded, his throat tight. “I do.”

You paused, staring at the lump of clay on the table. “Anyway, time is a human-made construct,” you said, shrugging as if brushing off the weight of the conversation. “I try not to think about how long it’s been since he’s gone. What does time even mean, right?”

Harry froze, his breath catching in his chest. The phrase echoed in his mind, so familiar it felt like a whisper from the past.

“What did you just say?” he asked, his voice low, almost disbelieving.

You looked up, confused. “Time is a human-made construct?”

He stared at you, his expression a mix of shock and something else you couldn’t quite place. “Where did you hear that?”

Your brow furrowed. “I don’t know. School? I’ve always said it. It’s just… something I believe, I guess.”

Harry’s heart raced, his mind replaying the countless times Sophia had said those exact words.

Time is a human-made construct.

She used to say it when he stressed over tour schedules or when life felt too fast. “Time is a human-made construct, Harry,” she’d say with a teasing smile, grounding him in a way no one else could.

But he’d never heard anyone else say it. Not like that. Not until now.

He swallowed hard, his eyes dropping to the table. “That’s… something my wife used to say,” he admitted quietly.

Your eyes widened slightly, and you leaned forward. “i…truly don’t know where it came from…what a coincidence….”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice distant. “I’ve never heard anyone else say it. Not like that.”

The silence between you was thick, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt like something significant had passed between you—something unexplainable.

“I’m sorry,” you said softly, breaking the silence. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” he interrupted, shaking his head. “It’s not a bad thing. It’s just… unexpected.”

You nodded, unsure what else to say, and the two of you sat in quiet reflection. The moment felt strangely intimate, as if Alex and Sophia had somehow been there with you, bridging a gap.

The following weeks brought a slow but noticeable shift between you and Harry. In class, the tension that once lingered between you had eased… He still wasn’t the most talkative, but he began to share little bits of himself—quiet jokes about his lack of artistic talent, light teasing about your near-perfect vases, and the occasional compliment that seemed to surprise even him.

One evening, as you both worked on your pieces, you nudged a wonky bowl he’d made with your elbow. “You know, if this whole music thing doesn’t work out, you could always sell abstract pottery.”

He laughed—a rare, genuine sound that made you smile. “Abstract, huh? That’s a nice way of saying ‘terrible.’”

“Terrible? No. Unique? Definitely.” You grinned. “Everyone loves a good conversation piece.”

🌷🌻🌷🌻🌷🌻🌷🌻🌷🌻

Harry found himself at a charming little restaurant with his mum, a place she’d insisted they try because of its cozy vibe and homemade desserts.

“You seem… lighter,” his mum said, her eyes studying him carefully.

He paused mid-bite, raising an eyebrow. “Lighter?”

“Yes,” she said with a smile. “Less burdened. It’s good to see.”

He shrugged, not sure how to respond. “Pottery’s been good, I guess. And the people there… they’re nice.”

She tilted her head, intrigued but didn’t ask any other questions.

When their meal ended, Harry asked for the check, and the server brought it over along with something else—a small postcard with the restaurant’s logo on one side and a handwritten phrase on the other.

He glanced at it absently at first, but his breath caught when he read the words:

“The future is waiting—don’t keep it waiting too long.”

Harry stared at the card, his fingers tightening around the edges. It was such a simple phrase, yet it felt like it had been written just for him.

“Harry?” his mum asked, noticing the way he’d gone still.

He looked up at her, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Sorry, dozed off,” he said quickly, slipping the card into his pocket.

As they left the restaurant, his thoughts swirled. The words on the card echoed in his mind, mingling with Sophia’s voice in his memory. For the first time, he felt as though she was urging him forward—not to forget, but to let go of the fear that held him back. ------- Taglist: @hermionelove @mads3502 @gem1712 @haliastyless @lizsogolden

[onlyangel4]

training partner. seth rollins.

seth rollins x wrestler!reader

synopsis: you and seth have been dancing on a tightrope of lust and secrecy for months. both of you are top-tier talent, and neither of you can afford the drama of going public. what started as casual hookups after shows and stolen hotel room nights has slowly morphed into something neither of you are brave enough to define. after a long, late-night training session at the performance centre, you’re both the last ones left. the sweat is thick, the tension is thicker, and you're both too wired to stop. what begins as harmless grappling shifts into teasing touches and flirtatious banter, until seth pins you, and neither of you are pretending anymore. what follows is a night of tangled limbs on wrestling mats, a stolen moment in the showers, and whispered confessions that leave you wondering if you’re both ready to step out of the shadows.

warning: 18+. smut. unprotected p in v. oral (female receiving). groping. jealousy, possessiveness

author's note: this is a very special piece for @eringobragh420 . hope you have a great birthday !

the echo of slamming mats and the rhythmic squeak of ring ropes slowly faded into the humid stillness of the performance centre. training had run late, again and now only a handful of superstars lingered in the haze of sweat, banter, and fluorescent light.

you peeled off your gloves, tossing them into your gym bag with a sigh, the ache in your shoulders a satisfying kind of sore. your tank top clung to your back, damp from the workout, but you didn’t mind. this was the part you lived for, the silence after the storm. the calm after the cardio.

"nice footwork tonight", liv called from across the mat, unwrapping tape from her wrists.

"thanks", you replied with a grin, catching the water bottle she lobbed your way. "i try not to trip over my own feet. big goals."

she laughed, shaking her head as she walked off toward the showers. others followed sami, rhea, a few of the newer faces. the room thinned out gradually, leaving only the last few stragglers cooling down and collecting their gear.

you bent forward to stretch your hamstrings, arms extended toward the mat, when you felt a familiar presence behind you. close. warm.

"you’re not stretching properly", came that voice low, smooth, and unmistakably amused.

you didn’t even have to look to know it was seth.

"i’m pretty sure i’ve been stretching since before you grew that ridiculous man bun" you shot back over your shoulder.

he chuckled, but he still stepped closer, one hand sliding lightly along your lower back. just enough pressure to guide, not enough to linger. not in front of others.

"your form’s off. you’ll thank me when your legs don’t cramp in the middle of a match."

you arched a brow but allowed the correction, adjusting under his touch. you could feel the heat of him even through the thin fabric of your shirt. too casual to look suspicious. too intimate not to feel it.

"you always this helpful, or is this special treatment?" you teased, standing upright and facing him fully now.

his eyes flicked down to your lips for half a second, blink and you’d miss it. but you didn’t miss it. you never did.

"i’m always helpful", he said with a smirk. "but you? you’re definitely special."

a tingle crawled up your spine that had nothing to do with the post-workout high.

before you could reply, a voice broke through the tension like a sudden slap of cold water.

"damn", grayson waller called as he strutted toward the mat, towel slung over his neck. "you still here? thought someone like you would’ve been long gone by now, probably breaking hearts somewhere."

you turned to him with an easy smile. "i pace myself. something you might want to try sometime."

seth took a slow sip from his water bottle. said nothing. but you could feel the air shift beside you, subtle and sharp.

grayson just grinned and dropped down beside you on the mat, too close. "guess i'm lucky to catch you alone."

you laughed politely, but your gaze flicked back toward seth. he wasn’t smiling anymore.

and you knew.

he was watching.

you sat back on your palms, subtly shifting away from grayson as he stretched out beside you, all swagger and sweat and that shit-eating grin that never seemed to quit.

"you know", he said, tone lazy and full of mock innocence, "i’ve been watching your drills all week. you’ve got good instincts."

you raised an eyebrow, amused. "drills? or my ass in those shorts?"

grayson chuckled, not denying it for a second. "can’t blame a guy for appreciating elite talent."

across the room, you heard the sharp thwack of a punching pad hitting the wall. you didn’t need to look to know who threw it.

seth was at the heavy bag now, wrapping his hands with that same calm intensity he wore before a match. his jaw was tight, his shoulders bunched. he hadn’t said a word since grayson walked over. but you could feel him, like a storm behind glass.

grayson leaned in just a touch closer. "you know, if seth keeps dropping you on your back in the ring, i’m more than happy to catch you instead."

you smiled, but your eyes didn’t match it. "didn’t realize you were offering private lessons."

"oh, sweetheart", he grinned, "i'm offering a lot more than that."

that did it.

you didn’t hear seth approach, you felt it. the shift in the air. the tension tightening like a noose.

grayson looked up just in time to see him.

seth stood behind you, arms crossed over his broad chest, sweat-slicked and silent. his stare burned straight through grayson like a goddamn laser beam.

grayson blinked, then gave a tight, almost nervous laugh. "hey, man. just keeping her company."

seth’s voice was low. quiet. dangerous.

"she doesn’t need company."

you glanced up at him, heart skipping. he wasn’t looking at you. not yet. his eyes were locked on grayson. calm, but cold.

grayson raised both hands in mock surrender and stood, backing off with a smirk. "alright, alright. don’t get your tights in a twist, rollins."

he tossed you a wink as he walked off. "rain check, gorgeous."

you didn’t answer. you couldn’t.

not with the way seth was looking at you now.

his eyes dropped to your mouth. your throat. your legs still sprawled on the mat.

then, finally he met your gaze.

"you think that’s funny?" he asked, voice low and sharp.

you swallowed. "it was nothing."

seth’s jaw clenched. "it didn’t look like nothing."

your chest tightened, adrenaline kicking back in for reasons that had nothing to do with training.

"seth", you said, soft but firm, "you can’t act like this in front of everyone"

"there’s no one left", he cut in. "it’s just us."

his gaze didn’t waver.

just you. just him. and everything neither of you had said for months simmering just under the surface.

the mat was still warm beneath your palms. but it wasn’t from the workout.

and you knew, you were no longer in control of this moment.

the silence stretched, heavy with everything you weren’t supposed to say.

seth stood over you, breathing hard, not from the workout. from the way grayson’s words had sunk their teeth in, stirred something dark and hungry beneath his skin.

you rose to your feet slowly, keeping your gaze steady even as your heart pounded.

"you’re really that pissed over a dumb joke?", you asked, tone light, teasing. a deflection. you were good at those.

seth stepped closer. "i’m pissed because he touched you."

"he touched my shoulder, seth."

his eyes flashed. "yeah, and he looked at you like he wanted you"

your breath caught in your throat.

a beat passed. neither of you moved.

then you shifted your stance, planting your feet shoulder width apart. and smirked, just a little.

"sounds like someone needs to let off some steam."

he tilted his head, arms still folded, heat rolling off him like a stormfront.

you nodded toward the ring. "one more round?"

he stared at you, unreadable. "you sure?"

"i’m not the one who needs it", you said, already sliding under the ropes.

seth followed.

the mat slapped beneath your boots as you circled each other, silent but electric. no audience. no coaches. no need to pretend.

he lunged first, testing you. you dodged, countered, locked arms.

grappling gave way to a scramble. the kind where skin brushes too long, too close. every slip of contact sent sparks straight to your gut.

he pinned your wrist to the mat. you twisted beneath him, your legs tangled with his. you got the reversal, but he let you. you knew it. he wanted you on top.

you straddled his waist, panting, holding yourself steady on his chest. Your eyes locked.

no more pretending.

"you done?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

seth’s hands slid up your thighs, slow and sure. his grip was firm, possessive.

"not even close."

he surged up, catching your mouth in a kiss that was full of everything unsaid. rough. hot. hungry. your hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer as your body melted against his.

when he broke the kiss, his breath ghosted against your lips.

"you think i like watching other guys flirt with you? watching you laugh like you’re not mine?"

you didn’t answer.

his hands found your hips. he held on tight.

"you are mine."

and god, the way he said it, like a vow, not a threat, that made you ache in places that had nothing to do with bruised knees or sore muscles.

you bit your lip, whispering, "then prove it."

his eyes darkened.

and that was the last warning you got before you were pulled to your feet and pulled into the locker room.

the door to the locker room slammed shut behind you, echoing through the empty performance centre like a gunshot.

seth’s hand was on your wrist, his grip firm but careful as he spun you around and pressed you back against the cool metal of the lockers. his mouth was on yours before you could say a word, teeth, tongue, heat. hungry. possessive.

this wasn’t the first time he’d kissed you. but it was the first time it felt like something was about to break.

you moaned into him as he deepened the kiss, one hand bracing against the locker beside your head, the other sliding up your ribcage like he had every right to touch you there. maybe he did.

"seth", you breathed against his lips, nails curling into his shirt.

he pulled back just far enough to look at you. his chest heaved. his eyes were dark, darker than you’d ever seen them.

"you’re mine", he said, low and rough. "say it."

you swallowed. "i’m yours."

he kissed you again, rougher this time, like he was claiming it. his hands slid beneath your tank top, callused palms dragging across your bare skin until he was yanking it over your head and tossing it somewhere behind him.

your bra followed fast.

he cupped your breasts, thumbs teasing your nipples until they peaked beneath his touch. then his mouth replaced his hands, licking and sucking until you arched into him, one hand gripping his shoulder, the other tugging at his hair.

"you’ve been driving me fucking crazy", he murmured against your skin. "walking around like you don’t know what you’re doing to me."

"i know", you whispered, breathless. "i do know."

he growled, actually growled and dropped to his knees right there on the cold tile floor. you barely had time to react before he was yanking down your shorts and underwear in one go, spreading your legs with strong, determined hands.

and then his mouth was on you.

you gasped, slamming back against the lockers as his tongue found your clit with practiced ease, licking, sucking, circling until your knees threatened to buckle. you reached down and tangled your fingers in his hair, holding on for dear life.

he groaned into you, like he loved the way you sounded. like he needed it.

when he slipped two fingers inside you, curling them just right, your moan echoed off the walls. your hips rolled against his mouth shamelessly now, riding the edge of your orgasm like a wave.

"seth, fuck, i’m gonna"

"good", he growled, pulling back just enough to look up at you. His lips were wet. his eyes were fire. "i want you to come with my name in your mouth."

and you did.

it hit hard, full-body, toe-curling. you cried out his name like it was the only thing holding you together.

he stood, licking his fingers clean as he watched you recover, flushed and trembling and breathless against the lockers.

then he kissed you again, and this time it was softer. slower. like thanks.

but only for a moment.

"shower", he muttered against your mouth.

you barely nodded before he grabbed your hand and dragged you toward the tiled stalls, stripping off his own clothes as he went, shirt, pants, briefs, all dropped in a trail behind him like breadcrumbs.

the water was already steaming by the time he pushed you in under the spray, his hands back on you like they couldn’t stay away. and they couldn’t. not now.

you reached for him, wrapped your hand around him, hard and hot and ready.

he hissed through his teeth, grabbing your wrist to still you.

"turn around", he said.

you obeyed.

the tile was warm under your palms. his hands ran down your back, gripping your hips as he lined himself up behind you.

then, slowly, achingly, he pushed inside.

you gasped. one hand splayed on the wall. the other curled behind you, trying to pull him closer.

seth groaned as he bottomed out. "so fucking tight", he muttered. "so perfect."

he started moving, slow thrusts that built into something sharper, rougher. every time his hips slapped against your ass, you moaned louder, barely able to stand.

one hand slid around your waist, fingers circling your clit again while the other braced you tight against him.

"you feel that?" he growled. "no one else gets this. no one else touches you like this. no one."

"all yours", you panted. "always."

your second orgasm hit harder than the first, your whole body clenching around him as you cried out, muscles shaking under the water’s cascade.

seth groaned your name, hips stuttering as he pulled you tight against him and spilled inside with a shudder that rocked him to the core.

he stayed there, forehead pressed to the back of your neck, both of you drenched in heat and steam and everything you’d been holding back for way too long.

the water had long gone tepid by the time seth reached up and turned it off. you stood in silence, chests still pressed together, his forehead resting gently against yours, breath slowing in unison.

neither of you said anything at first.

not because there wasn’t anything to say, but because the truth had already been spoken, in bodies, in glances, in every growled "mine" that slipped from his lips.

seth was the first to move. he grabbed a towel and wrapped it around your shoulders, careful, gentle. not the cocky showman he was in the ring. not the jealous man who nearly lost it an hour ago.

just him.

he towelled off your hair, smoothing the wet strands back from your face. "you good?" he asked softly, eyes searching.

you nodded. "yeah."

but it wasn’t just about aftercare. he knew that. so did you.

"i meant what i said in there", he added, thumb brushing your cheekbone. "this thing between us, i don’t want to keep it behind closed doors anymore."

you exhaled slowly. "even with everything going on? work, the fans?"

"i don’t give a shit about any of that", he said immediately, voice firm. "i care about you."

you blinked, caught off guard by the weight in his tone.

he continued, quieter now. "you’ve been under my skin for months."

you smiled, a little shy. "we were supposed to be casual."

"i’ve never done casual with someone who makes me feel like this."

you stepped closer, towel slipping off your shoulders. his hands instinctively settled at your waist.

"i didn’t think you wanted anything real", you admitted. "didn’t think you’d want me like that."

his brow furrowed. "you’re one of the strongest people i know. you push me. you get me. of course i want you like that."

silence settled between you again, but this time it was warm. weightless.

you tilted your head. "so... what are we saying here?"

he smiled, just a little. "i’m saying i want more. i want all of it. no more hiding. no more pretending."

you looked at him, this man who had just wrecked you against a locker and then kissed you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

"i want that too."

his expression softened. "yeah?"

you nodded. "yeah."

he kissed you again, slow, tender, and full of the promise that this wasn't just a fling. not anymore.

and when he pulled back, he smirked. "guess we’ll have to break the news to waller."

you snorted. "oh, i can’t wait to see that."

seth laughed, grabbing your hand and lacing your fingers with his.

no more secrets. no more lines to blur.

just the start of something real.

[imrowanartist]

Ship Sleeping Dynamics!

I was tagged by both @glitteringdust and @thatgaymerguyb, thank youuu! I’ve put the answers to the questions under the cut, but obviously I couldn’t resist drawing this out, since I have very specific headcanons for how Davrin and Tamryn sleep XD

How often do they sleep together?

Shortly after they first kiss each other, drunk Davrin ends up offering drunk Tamryn his bed. Nothing happens that night, but it’s the first time they share his bed together. After that, Tamryn ends up in his bed more often, either because he falls asleep there, or because Davrin drags him to bed after a long day. After they actually sleep sleep together for the first time (and admit to each other that they’re in love), they start sleeping together every night.

Where do they sleep?

Davrin’s bed of course, because it’s an actual bed lol. Though they will also share a tent or a bedroll when they travel. Tamryn also falls asleep in random places sometimes, especially during the events of Veilguard. If Davrin comes across him and it looks too uncomfortable, he’ll actually take Tamryn to his bed, but sometimes he just covers him with a blanket too.

How do they prepare to sleep?

Davrin probably prepares more than Tamryn does. He’ll read something, or whittle, makes sure Assan is taken care of, then winds down in bed. Tamryn tends to keep going until he’s so tired he’ll almost fall asleep standing, then tends to stumble to bed and just pass out. After the events of VG, he develops healthier habits. Picking up some sketching again, or listening to Davrin read a book until they fall asleep.

What do they wear to sleep?

Davrin just wears his undergarments, or sleeps naked when it’s warm. Tamryn sleeps in his undergarments too, but often wears a loose shirt on top of it and socks, so his feet don’t get cold.

Do they cuddle?

Before sleep? Absolutely. And while they usually fall asleep loosely holding on to each other, during sleep Tamryn often rolls away. Though he has also been known to wake up laying half on top of Davrin.

How easily do they fall asleep?

Falling asleep is usually not an issue for them. As Wardens they’re used to sleeping in all kinds of circumstances and they have kind of taught themselves to sleep when they can. The problem is usually staying asleep.

Do they toss and turn a lot?

Davrin doesn’t, he usually falls asleep on his back or side, and wakes up in the same position. Tamryn definitely tosses and turns, often ending up taking half the bed XD

Do they snore?

Davrin snores a little bit sometimes, though usually Tamryn just has to give him a nudge and he’ll stop. Tamryn only snores (and drools) when he ends up on his stomach with his face squished into his pillow.

What do they dream about?

Before and during the events of VG, they both have Warden dreams about Darkspawn and the Calling. After the gods have escaped, their dreams grow gradually worse, waking each other up multiple times during the night. Though they find that sleeping together seems to make it less bad than sleeping alone. After the gods are defeated, their Warden dreams are much less bad, gradually disappearing as they clear out more and more blight. They both still have the occasional nightmares about everything that happened afterwards though, Tamryn more so than Davrin.

How easily do they wake up?

While their Warden instincts usually have them wake up quickly, Tamryn has an harder time waking up as the events of VG progress, due to plain exhaustion. Davrin has an easier time, also because of Assan waking him up to demand food or cuddles. After defeating the gods, when they simply travel and stay in various places, Davrin is often the one who will still wake up early, while Tamryn usually has to be prodded a bit to get out of bed.

How awake are they afterward?

This entirely depends on the situation. When woken up because of problems, they can both shake of sleep pretty easily. When they wake up naturally, Tamryn especially can be quite groggy. One more than one occasion, Davrin has made fun of his bed head and confusion. Though Davrin has also been known to bring Assan his breakfast while still half asleep. Neither of them drink much coffee, but during the events of VG they definitely need it some mornings.

I don’t know who has been tagged yet and who hasn’t, but I’m tagging @jukkaricity @emmster @bonesandivy @larkinna @tkwritesdumbassassins and whoever else wants to do it!

[fireside-fanfics]

Thank you for the stories you’ve been putting out, especially that last one with Joaquin and Cami! 🫶🏾

For a request, Manny (The Last of Us) tries to do something special for his girlfriend’s birthday even though they don’t have much as they’re constantly moving and trying to just make it through the day 😊

Thanks for sending another request. I enjoy writing requests.

Still Choosing You

Sidney and Manny had been together forever. Not just in the way people meant after the world fell apart and you clung to whoever made you feel less alone. No, not even close. They were bound long before the outbreak ever happened. Their mothers waddled through Lamaze class together. Their dads built a joint treehouse between their yards when they were five. From the start, it was always Manny y Sidney—Spanish and English blurring together, meals shared between both families, matching outfits and scraped knees, summers spent chasing fireflies, their names always called out in tandem: ¡Manny y Sidney, vengan a comer!

By the time they were fifteen, all of that was gone. Her parents were killed during a riot in a collapsing QZ. His parents were taken by infection. And suddenly, it really was just the two of them. They never talked about the worst parts. About how she once gave up her portion of rations to keep him alive through a bad winter. About the time he killed a man with a shovel because he had gotten too rough with her when she ignored his advances. In the silence between those moments, something grew—something quiet and steady and true. They didn’t fall in love with a bang. It was gradual, natural. It was like breathing. 

By eighteen, they were a couple in everything but name. And then she kissed him one night in an abandoned library during a thunderstorm, and he kissed her back like he’d been waiting his whole life. Now they were twenty-four, still alive, still choosing each other, every day.

The night before her birthday, they camped in a small clearing just off an old service road. Their shelter was a battered tent flap strung between two downed trees and the fire was tiny, just enough for warmth, but it was theirs. Sidney was curled under the blankets beside him, fast asleep, dark curls a mess across her cheek and nose. Manny watched her breathe, chest rising and falling, arms tucked close like he was dreaming something safe.

He hadn’t forgotten the date; he never did. Manny reached for the notebook he kept folded under his pack—full of old notes and scraps of memories—and flipped to the page he’d marked weeks ago. Plan: Sid’s Birthday. Something good. Anything. Manny tapped the pen against his knee and smiled to himself. He placed the notebook back in his bag and crawled under the blankets next to her. Sidney scooted closer to him, which made him smile because, even in her sleep, Sidney sought his presence. He hooked an arm around her waist and nestled in beside her, dozing off quickly as his heart rate matched hers.

The next morning she woke to the scent of something vaguely sweet and a soft humming. Blinking groggily, she sat up and rubbed at her eyes. Her curls were wild from sleep, flattened on one side and puffed out on the other.

Her voice was scratchy when she asked, “¿Qué hora es?”

“Temprano,” Manny said with a grin, crouched over the little fire. “But it’s your birthday, so get up.”

“Liar,” Sidney groaned and flopped back down. “We don’t have birthdays anymore. It’s not allowed.”

“Too bad, mi amor,” he laughed, “I’m breaking the rules.”

She finally sat up, frowning sleepily at him. “There better be food.”

“Oh, there is,” he said, turning with a dramatic flourish.

He held out a battered metal plate, on which rested two lumpy, slightly burnt pancakes made from flour, a few crushed nut bar crumbs, and melted bits of chocolate. The best he could do with what they had.

She blinked again and laughed. “You baked for me?”

“It’s survival cooking,” he said proudly. “Fancy, right?”

Sidney took one, still warm from the pan, and bit into it. Her eyes widened and she gasped, “Manny! This is actually kind of good?”

“I told you—I’m a culinary genius.”

She ate both in silence, a small smile playing on her lips the whole time. When she finished, she looked at him more seriously. “You really remembered.”

Manny nodded with a wide smile. He took the plate and placed it on the kitchen counter. Cleaning could wait until later. He walked back over to Sidney who smiled sweetly up at him. 

Manny offered her a hand and said, “Come with me. I’ve got one more thing.”

“If you’re taking me into the woods to murder me…” Sidney narrowed her eyes.

“You’re too pretty to murder,” he laughed. “I’d never forgive myself.”

She snorted and took his hand anyway.

The walk took almost an hour. He’d found the place days ago, while scouting ahead for a safe spot to rest. And he’d quietly marked the path—bent branches, scraped bark, rocks turned just slightly the wrong way. Sidney didn’t notice; she trusted him wholeheartedly, without question. When they finally pushed through the underbrush, the broken cabin came into view. It sagged to one side, half the roof caved in, moss creeping down one wall. But the front door still stood, and sunlight filtered through the broken beams, catching on the dust like glitter in the air.

Sidney paused at the threshold and asked, “What is this?”

Manny nudged the door open and gestured for her to step inside. On the floor, carefully laid out on a tattered old blanket, was the surprise:

✸ A jar of wildflowers, loosely tied with twine. ✸ A sealed chocolate protein bar—one he’d been hiding for weeks. ✸ Two dented tin cups, still warm from where he’d filled them with melted ration cocoa. ✸ A hoodie—a little oversized, clean, only slightly patched, the soft kind of fabric no one saw anymore. ✸ And a folded piece of paper with her name scrawled on the front.

Sidney didn’t say anything, too stunned to speak. She stepped forward slowly, as if the floor might collapse, and knelt beside the spread. Her fingers brushed the flowers. Then the hoodie. Then the note, which she opened slowly

ꜰᴇʟɪᴢ ᴄᴜᴍᴘʟᴇᴀɴᴏs, ᴍɪ ᴀᴍᴏʀ. ʏᴏᴜ’ᴠᴇ ɢɪᴠᴇɴ ᴍᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴡᴏʀᴛʜ ʟɪᴠɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ. ɢʀᴀᴄɪᴀs ᴘᴏʀ sᴇʀ ᴍɪ ʜᴏɢᴀʀ. –ᴍᴀɴɴʏ

“Manny…” she gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth and she knelt down slowly to take a closer look at the items in front of her.

He stood awkwardly in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets. “It’s not much. But I wanted it to feel like a real day. A good one.”

Sidney turned to look at him, eyes shining. She reached for him and beckoned him to come join her 

“This is the best thing anyone’s done for me since the world ended.”

Many moved to sit beside her, their knees touching on the blanket. 

“You remember what I told you that night in the library?” he asked her softly. “When you thought I was losing it?”

She nodded slowly and giggled, “You said, ‘If I die tomorrow, I want you to know—I’ve only ever been sure of two things in this life. That I love you … and that I always will.’”

“I meant it then,” he said. “I still do.”

Sidney reached out and grabbed the front of his jacket, pulling him into a kiss. It was soft, slow, full of warmth—like the kind of thing people used to do when they had a home to return to. Her curls brushed his cheek. His hand cupped her jaw like she was the most fragile thing in the world. When they pulled apart, she rested her forehead against his.

“You know this means you’re setting the bar,” she whispered.

“I plan to beat it every year,” he whispered back.

They stayed in the cabin all afternoon. The hoodie fit perfectly. She wore it with the sleeves pulled over her hands, the way she used to back when they were teenagers. They split the protein bar down the middle and toasted with lukewarm cocoa like it was champagne. Sidney lay on her side later, curled into him, cheek on his chest. She traced slow circles on the back of his hand.

“You think we’ll ever stop running?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Manny said. “Someday. We’ll find a place. Somewhere green. Somewhere quiet.”

“You still want that radio repair shop?”

“With the chickens,” he said with a grin.

“You don’t know shit about chickens.”

“I’ll learn. For you.”

Sidney looked up at him, those dark brown eyes so full of love it made his chest ache. She was quiet for several moments, her eyes tracing his face, neck, shoulders—like he might disappear.  

“You’ve always been home, Manny,” she whispered, finally breaking the silence, “even when everything else disappeared.”

He kissed her forehead. “And you’ve always been worth fighting for.”

They left just before sunset. Sidney carried the wildflowers in one hand and wore the hoodie like armor. Manny walked beside her, fingers brushing hers. The world was still ending. Still cruel. But for one golden day, in a ruined cabin in the woods, Manny gave Sidney a birthday the world never would have allowed otherwise. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t safe. But for one day, in a place full of ghosts, Manny and Sidney remembered what it felt like to be alive—and to be loved.

[t4tozier]

consider: porter meets jace's family. would it be a mess or would porter flex the "paladin IS a charisma caster" so much that jace is like WHO are you

ohhh my god. those three levels of paladin are really pulling the weight here. okay okay this is my first time posting about jace's family in like. a relatively canon au so now i have to decide things.

ik i'm in the minority here but i feel like he actually has a pretty normal family? (normal being subjective of course) but i think he has a high elven mother, human or maybe half-elf father. i was pretty dead set on divine soul jace for a minute at the beginning but now i'm partial to wild magic sorcerer so i think he maybe got that from one of his parents and the other is a ranger. maybe elven ranger mom and wild magic sorcerer dad.

he's definitely an only child to me, so his parents were pretty doting, and it's a huge deal whenever he starts seeing anyone because they want to make sure the person is treating their baby right. when jace is in his 20s, he has a pattern of bringing people home to meet his parents and then, anywhere from a week to a year later, coming to them crying about how it didn't work out or he got tired of them or they got tired of him. and then there's a long stretch of time where they don't hear anything about jace's prospective partners.

so then, when he finally brings porter up to them, they're like. oh?? our boy has finally (maybe) settled down?? and he's like. you Cannot embarrass me okay. i Mean It. and they're like. well. we're going to embarrass you we're your parents.

and porter doesn't really know how to feel. he's met some partners' parents in the past, but not many, and most of them turned their noses up when they found out he was a goliath or a barbarian. so he's kind of on edge actually. and jace simultaneously is trying to comfort him being like no it's fine they're nice i swear and freaking out because he's like i haven't brought anyone home in over a decade they know this is a Big Thing i really need this to go well for everyone involved.

but it actually ends up being...okay?? they set up in the backyard so porter doesn't have to awkwardly make himself fit into their (modest, but not exceedingly large) house, and he brings them a nice bottle of wine that zara recommended and flowers and he is charming, so much so that it does throw jace a little, but it's not even that he's turning it up for jace's parents--he just genuinely is that charismatic when he's not being a dick. and he knows jace wants this to go well--and so does he, okay, he has feelings, too, sue him--so he does his best to be nice. but it's not even that hard, in the end; he bonds with jace's mom over her explorations into the mountains of chaos and only slightly humiliates jace with stories of his surges that his parents then proceed to top with talking about his surges during puberty.

as jace is saying goodbye to his parents that night, they both give him little thumbs up and are like you picked a good one. and jace flushes and goes off to the car as porter comes out of the bathroom, and jace's dad is like so. cliffbreaker. i expect to see a ring on that finger next time you two visit. and porter chuckles a little and nods and says, i'll do my best, sir, and heads out to the car where jace is wine-loose and smiley, and he reaches over to pull porter in for a kiss as he gets in the car and murmurs i love you against his lips and porter grins and kisses him harder before pulling out of the driveway so that he can show jace just how much he means it when he says i love you, too.

[s0fter-sin]

trans!soap taking his baby and running away from his rich abusive husband

(cw angst, financial abuse, single threat of child abuse, single mention of transphobia)

he's owned soap for years, since he was a teenager; paid for his medication and all his surgeries and tied them so deeply, soap’s lost hope of ever getting away. he gets even worse when soap falls pregnant. he was always controlling; blowing up at him if he spent too long out of the house or did something without telling him. but he becomes utterly possessive during the pregnancy

soap knows it has nothing to do with his safety or the baby's

he knows he sees his baby as an investment; another being he can control and hold over him

he gets worse and worse but there’s nothing soap can do. there's been nothing he can do for a long time. then a few months after the baby is born, soap doesn’t watch his tone closely enough and his husband threatens to drop his baby in punishment for it

soap doesn't think. he doesn't plan

he takes his baby and runs

he sneaks out of the servant's quarters of the sterile mansion he's been forced to live in for almost a decade and walks down the street without a backwards glance; his baby the only thing in his arms. he knows all of his husband's cars have trackers, all of them in his name since he never lets soap drive or go anywhere by himself, so he walks far enough to be out of view of the mansion's cameras and steals one. it doesn't have a car seat and all he can do is clutch his baby to his chest as he drives

he doesn't know where he's going beyond away

he doesn't know what he's going to do; he doesn't have any money, no supplies for his baby, he doesn't even have water for himself so he can reliably breastfeed him. he's terrified his husband will find them; he’s always felt omniscient, always everywhere and seeing everything he did. if he didn’t have eyes somewhere, he paid someone who did and they always dutifully reported back to him

soap just keeps his eyes forward. just keeps driving and driving, lost to the road and numb until the low gas light pops up on the dash and it all hits him at once

he turns into a gas station he can't pay for, in a car he stole, and parks behind it and his baby immediately starts getting fussy

he can't even call him by his name sometimes; too afraid to get attached, too afraid to lose him. as if he doesn’t love him more than life itself

even throughout his pregnancy, as happy as he was to finally have a baby, he didn't know if he could carry to term and that fear just let his husband dig his claws in even deeper; paying for extra scans he could never hope to pay for, favours on top of favours so he would aways owe him and isn’t he such a loving husband? taking soap in when his parents kicked him out for being trans, looking after him for all these years? you can’t even take care of yourself john, you’d still be a woman without me, john, what is this tantrum about john-

soap tugs his shirt up to let his baby feed, drops his head back and cries

he can't stop it; wails loud and uncontrolled, chest heaving with his sobs enough that it sways his baby, occasionally breaking his latch and he can't even do this right-

he can't save him

a light knock sounds on the window and soap flinches, curling over his baby to protect him from his huband's cruel hands

but it's not his husband outside the window

soap blinks tears from his eyes and looks at the large stranger standing beside the car. a neck gaiter covers his mouth and it should be off-putting… but something about him stops the feeling in its tracks. the stranger takes a half-step back and lifts a chilled and sealed water bottle, pressing it towards the window

soap quickly swipes his face clean and rolls down the window. "sorry 'bout that," he apologises with a choked laugh, the careful front he’s built over the years cracked and bleeding

the stranger gives a dismissive but somehow not diminishing shrug. "long day?" he asks

"could say that," he gives a shrug of his own and pats his baby's back as he makes a disgruntled noise, unconsciously swaying him

he politely keeps his gaze up on his face. "looks like you could use a break."

soap's breath hitches, anxiously darting his tongue out over his bottom lip. "could say that," he repeats uselessly and takes the water with a quiet “thanks,”; his throat dry and screaming for it after crying so hard

the stranger hums, watching him down the bottle and soap doesn’t notice his eyes drifting to the backseat and footwell of the passenger side. doesn’t notice the slight tension in his fists at what he sees. "how long you been runnin', lad?"

soap freezes, the water settling in his stomach like a stone. he swallows thickly and the bottle falls from his lips

"not long enough."

the stranger just nods, looking idly back down the highway

"you know, this place is connected to a garage,” he starts, nodding back to a building attached to the station without taking his eyes off the road. “lotta people drift through 'ere on road trips; too many to keep track.”

soap frowns slightly, shifting his hold on his baby

“funny thing is, plenty of 'em just abandon their car when they break down. like yours,” he adds and finally turns back to him with a pointed look. “got a whole junkyard of 'em. just rustin' away. be pretty easy to convince me to trade ya one."

soap’s mouth parts in a gasp as he realises just what the stranger’s saying. "how easy?" he whispers

he shrugs and even with his face hidden beneath the gaiter, he doesn’t feel afraid. "i'd say this car'd be a good deal. would blend right in with the rest of ‘em; no one’d ever notice it. what say i take it off your hands?"

soap's breath shudders out of him, his whole body going limp with relief. his baby's eyes fall shut with a satisfied hum and for the first time he can remember, he feels the gentle touch of hope

"i think we can work something out."

🧼💀

ghost owns the service station soap pulled into. he wanted something quiet and isolated after he retired and you can’t get much quieter than a backwoods servo surrounded by forest. he hasn’t had anyone pull in in days so he’s quick to notice soap’s car. he’s also quick to notice soap's subsequent breakdown in one of the cameras. the sight of him crying, desperately clutching a baby like they’re all he has left in the world, is so familiar he felt sick with it

he knows someone running when he sees it

if he didn't check on him, if this lad disappeared one day and the baby along with him, he'd never forgive himself. the lad doesn't even have a baby bag or car seat with him, and the personalised sticker on the back window of a lady and a dog is a dead giveaway that the car is stolen

but the lad is terrified. and when he startled him, he didn't turn. didn’t lift his arms to protect himself. no

he covered his baby

like he was afraid he'd be hurt

that's enough for ghost

🧼💀

i'd wanna set this in the 80's or 90's, just to make it even harder for soap to get away from his husband. he's a trans man with a newborn; he has no one to run to and no resources to help him. his husband's bought and paid for everything for him since he was 17; a few whirlwind weeks of unbelievable dates and extravagant gifts and he was living in his mansion, getting married the day after his 18th birthday. he thought it was love. thought he was being looked after and cared for the way he’s always wanted

he was in pain and alone and naive enough to believe the first person who came along and promised to make it better. nothing's in his name, not his insurance or his meds, he doesn’t have a bank account or savings; other than a birth certificate, nothing even ties him to his baby. his husband could take his world away from him with a snap of his fingers and he made sure soap always knew it

he never had a chance of getting away

but ghost is ex-military

he doesn’t know the lad’s story, doesn’t know the details of what he’s running from. he doesn’t need to know

he decided he was helping him the second he pulled into his service station

[artheresy]

Currently… oc ifying both General Huaiyan and Argens Regia (High Elder of the Xianzhou Zhuming) because I have a multi chap fic planned all about my personal headcanons (I have a lot) for Yingxing’s childhood which will later bleed into some other fics I have planned to write and ah it feels so

So nice

I have a bunch of stuff planned yet again, adding another fic to my list but I really do want to write all of what I have planned, I’m just putting the original planet with the transflormation(?) disease on the back burner while I focus on this

Many plans, it’s going to be fun, sorry that I’m so obsessed with Baby Yingxing and Huaiyan and the Zhuming, I just need to know more and I won’t be able to probably for multiple years from now ToT I need to scratch my itch and fill in the gaps

This will in fact also be where I fill in the gaps in my head for how I see Yingxing’s family having been because I can and I have opinions

[holeforzenin]

Imagine Toji with a very talkative younger girlfriend who doesn’t know when to ever shut the fuck up, your words tumbling out your mouth faster than he can even process. Toji is an older man who’s in his damn 40s, tired and worn out after a long day of chasing and murdering a bunch of fools, not as young and energetic as you so sometimes he just lets out a deep, exhausted sigh and…

“Why don’t you shut the fuck up and let this loud pussy do all the talking?” He meanly grumbled in a hoax tone as his toned pelvis rudely smacks against the soft, rippling flesh of your meaty ass. His vicelike grip tightened on your hips, calloused fingers digging into the flesh just enough to make you arch deeper into his body.

The nasty sounds of your wet, squelching little cunt filled his ears and the entire room, it’s as if it was thanking him for his rough pounding every time he dives his cock deeper in with relentless force.

“Fuck you hear that? He rasped, his voice thick with sheer amusement. “So fucking greedy and loud for my fat cock” The deep, sexy timbre of his voice only had your horny hole drooling even more over his shaft, warm pearlescent slick coating him in a way that made him even harder when he feels it gradually spreading around him. Your whimpers were caught in your throat, babbling something incoherent that he doesn’t give a single fuck about.

“Nah, don’t start runnin’ your fucking mouth now”, he chuckled darkly. A heavy hand coming down to land a firm slap on the swell of your ass, making you jolt and bury your face further into the pillows, trying to muffle the gasps that are escaping your lips.

Your body trembled, overstimulated and desperate. Your poor thighs twitching as he kept up his brutal pace that only he could possibly possess. His cock was splitting you open in two halves as he craves his dick shape into you at the same time. Each deep thrust knocked the air from your lungs, leaving you gasping for air. It’s as if he’s handling your cunt like some grippy fuckhole for him to take his exhaustion and frustration out on.

"You were talkin' so damn much earlier," he mocked, one big hand sliding up your spine to grab a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back so you could hear him clearer. His lips brushed against your ear, his voice nothing but a low, taunting growl. "Where's all that mouth now, huh?".

You tried to form words, tried to respond, but all that left your lips was a high-pitched moan, a sound that only seemed to stroke the older man’s fucking ego even more.

"That's what I thought," he sneered, slamming his hips flush against yours in a mean, abusive way— grinding deep before pulling back just to repeat the same punishing rhythm. "Guess this greedy fuckin' pussy is the only thing that knows how to answer me right now”.

[screampied]

✩ㅤ cw. fem! reader, unprotected, established relationship, vırgin nanami, cowgirl, praise, size kink, premature ejac, mdni.

virgin nanami loses it once you tell him to ditch the condom.

“sweetheart, i—” he’d swallow, choking up on his words once cool air settles against his skin. he swallows, chewing on his bottom lip once he feels a brand new feeling. the rubbery latex wasn’t blocking him anymore, and he groans once his swollen tip smears up against your entrance. soaked, he grows quiet once he looks down to see your dripping pussy hovering over his reddened frenulum that’s tearing up with glossed pre-cum. “god, ‘s warm,” the blond sucks in a single quickened breath as a curling pout twists against his lips. “a- are you sure?”

“ ‘m sure, baby,” you whisper up against the hot shell of his ear. he’s so warm, his entire body arouse with temperature all because of the sweet sound of your voice. the center of your palm rubs against his cheek and he leans into your touch. metaphoric heart eyes form in his eyes as they dilate, his own thumping heart beating out of his chest. “ ‘s okay, inside.”

“f- fuck,” nanami’s head gradually tosses itself back, and with quick alignment, he’s back inside. he kisses his teeth once he feels the real thing, your silvery walls massaging around him. the glossy sweat that pours onto his skin shines against his body glimmers brightly. he groans, letting off a soft whine once he feels the brief tightness grow snug. “you’re gonna make me—”

and within seconds, he’s cumming, hard. nanami barely even last a second after you take off the rubber, and he’s an entire mess. with a firm grasp, he’s reanimating your hips with his hands as you slowly jerk and move. “please,” he gently pierces his teeth into your neck, shivering breath ghosting against your skin. “don’t stop, s- show me how to feel good, please.”

his words were like a broken rough whisper — you pause, staring into his eyes and he’s sincere.

nanami’s heavily panting, beads of sweat racing down each sides of his forehead. fawn kind eyes bore into yours before he glances down at your sprawled out legs. “so pretty,” he hiccups, and even his touch was delicate. he was always gentle, he didn’t want to hurt you. a few thick padded fingers drag and scurry down your hips before his lip quivers. “i- i want you, i want more.”

“so have me then,” you coo against his ear, the tone of your voice more teasing than anything. as your hips start to salaciously rock into him again, you grab onto both of his wrists, trying to guide him. “there we go, ‘ken,” you whisper, and you can hear a bundle of wanton whimpers leave from his lips—never has he had a feeling like this, ever. he was so weak from your touch, your body heat, your taste. as your fingers tenderly brush against his, you make him cling onto your rickety waist. “hold me, like this.”

nanami groans, and he’s still sensitive, very. he just came, ribbons of balmy hot seed shoots deep into you and it’s warm. it makes both of his ears ring and he only wants more, more, more.

“okay,” he replies in a husky voice, and you can see blond shaggy strands of hair glue across his forehead. “o- okay,” he repeats, his tone dropping a bit lower. the bed mercilessly creaks as your rocking accelerates, his bulbous tip jabbing around every part of your cunt. once you show him how to touch you, he just can’t keep his hands off of you. “i dreamt about this for so long, sweetheart,” and he watches your pretty lips contort into an amused simper. “s- sorry, is that too dirty?”

“it’s fine baby,” you plant a kiss near the inside of his neck. a long breath gets caught in his throat. he’s about to say something else but he pauses, pouting deeply. cute, he’s embarrassed. nanami’s cock continues to rummage through your doughy insides, so much pressure that you feel it everywhere. your sappy folds squelch within each solid thrust before your arms wrap around his broad shoulders. “you dream about me?”

“sometimes, yeah,” he huffs, and the irregular unkempt thrusts slowly transform into pure blissful sync. nanami looks so pretty, he’s losing the more you bounce on his cock. so good, his jaw tightens and he’s feeling every vein in his body prod. you were starting to grow dumb as each second past and your moans only grew louder right with him. nanami’s head buries itself into your neck before he lefts off a frustrated whine. “it’s hard not to when you’re so pretty,” and his voice cracks at the end. you feel the tip of his tongue swirl around near your collarbone and you gasp. “god, you’re even prettier inside t- too.”

“yeah?” you whisper, creating a trail of sloppy kisses down the slip of his exposed neck. he’s moaning more at your touch. you feel his beefy thigh start to bounce before his palm squeezes against your bare ass. “you gonna cum for me again, kento? ‘s okay, be a good boy ‘n make a mess for me.”

a sheepish smile stretches against his lips, though instead of sheepish smile—it’s more of a pussy drunk one.

as you stare at him, his dimples poke against both sides of his cheeks and he’s getting lost into the way your hips twirl around him. “your good boy, mhm. all yours, ‘m gonna cum a- again,” and his voice lowers significantly. your clit’s profusely getting thwacked and mashed up against his fattened tip and it’s so appetizing. with nanami’s soft mousy eyes flicking backward until it’s nothing but pure white in his sockets, he gives your ass a soft spank. “k- keep riding me like that ‘n i’m gonna fall in love.”

and it’s right as he said that — he came again.

this time it’s a lot more. it’s thicker and languidly, you feel it spew out in velvety strips. his entire base was flaccid and he’s just idle inside of you. nanami’s whimpering underneath you as his legs finally collapse. you watch him fall back against the cushioned pillows and he’s so flustered. “mhh,” he grouses as multiple jittery pants leave from his lips. nanami wraps strong burly arms around you, holding you close. “stay,” he rasps, still hearing the sloshes of his dribbling cum trickle in and out of you. he’s shivering, his teeth shattering and he’s never felt more sensitive. he’s definitely in love.

“okay,” you nod, feeling him hide his head into the crook of your neck again. he’s so clingy—but you didn’t mind, and his warm breath tickles against your skin. you get a brief scent of his rich cologne scent that drives forevermore drove you weak. sitting up to press a chaste kiss against his twitching ruby lips, you whisper shakily. “good boy.”

and nanami’s eyes were so half lidded, your praises—he couldn’t get enough of them. seconds later and he’s still pouring into you deep, painting your gummy walls with his pristine-white color. with droopy eyes and flapping long lashes taking in your beauty, nanami whines. “more, don’t stop fucking me,” and you let off a gasp once he suddenly lifts you off his lap, lying you flat on your back. you land with a soft ‘oof’ before he spreads your legs, gazing at the satiny masses of cum that race down the crevices of your thighs.

“please,” and you moan once he drags his tongue up your legs, stopping towards your puffy clit. “teach me h- how to eat this,” and his eyes rove towards your slobbering cunt. you feel butterflies build up in your tummy before nanami’s quite literally drooling right before you. not only was he probably in love, he was also hungry.

“please mistress.”

[dmitriene]

skincare with blue collar simon riley, you know that if you hadn't noticed, he wouldn't have said a word, just as he wouldn't have seen it himself, but you're lucky enough to notice the clogged, almost darkened pores on his face and gradually forming pimples, as well as blemishes from the old ones because of all the dirt that gets on his face.

all his skincare is water, not even a bar of soap, and not only was his skin quite sensitive before, his work did not leave him a chance for self care at all, unlike you, with a good set of jars to moisturize and keep the skin in order, in case something goes wrong, and you needed them, your hands fully armed, as soon as simon got home.

you dragged him into the bathroom almost from the doorstep, forcing him to throw off his work uniform and climb into the already prepared, warm bath with fragrant foam, which you prepared a couple of minutes before his arrival, since simon has a habit of texting you once he gets on his way back home, and he will not refuse a few minutes of rest in the bath, especially when his darling drags him there.

of course, it takes more time, wiping off the excess dirt from his rough skin, which has crept under both his clothes and nails, relaxing simon by rubbing the washcloth against him in a circular motion, over his tense, broad shoulders, down his wide, meaty biceps, to the scarred chest, padded with a good layer of fat, his pale eyelashes quivering, tired eyes closed, letting you do your thing, especially when you get to work on his hair.

unkempt, locks outgrown and sticking from side to side haphazardly, a little coarse under your fingers as you rake your nails up and down his nape, wetting the top of his head before squeezing a couple of drops of shampoo into the palm of your hand, starting to wash his hair, pressing your fingers into his scalp, causing simon to make sounds almost similar to the loud purrs of a loving cat, tilting his neck back.

taking care of his face passes without any complaints, he obediently puts his face on your palms, practically burying his nose in them, enjoying a couple of warm kisses with an almost sleepy smile, all while you apply facial foam to his skin, stroking and then washing away with wet palms, cleansing his face before gently sticking black pore strips on his nose, warning that the removal process can be unpleasant.

simon doesn't care as long as you do it, pampering him after a hard day of work, continuing to massage his neck and then shoulders while waiting couple of minutes before you'll need to remove the strips away, maybe then you will join him, and he will definitely take care of you too, for example, cook dinner while you rest, tucked in the warm bed.

after being spread on his fat, girthy cock, clutched tight inside your pulsing walls, your moans breathy and silenced by the needy, insatiable kisses, each one biting and messy against your lips, as you hiccup, the thick tip of his head rutting in the same spot over and over, making you gush and claw at simon's wrists weakly, his hands busy palming at your breasts with pleased hums.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[ceilidho]

Buttermilk

It doesn't take long to settle into the rhythm of your new summer job. Or: the babysitter x single dad au

Part 3 | masterlist

-

It’s not unusual for someone to mistake you for the baby’s mama.

How could someone not, at least for a moment? When you take the baby to the grocery store, older people gush over him babbling in his stroller, eager to shower him with compliments in baby-talk or tell you how much you resemble the little tyke. After hearing the same comment for the umpteenth time, you tire of correcting people by saying you’re the babysitter only to watch their face fall, somewhat mortified and feeling as though their comment should’ve been directed to the baby’s actual mother. Which isn’t you. 

It’s less typical for someone to mistake you for John’s wife, though that does happen from time to time.

You’ve become a fixture around the neighbourhood since John hired you at the beginning of the summer, and over the weeks, the other nannies and the stay-at-home moms have started to gradually warm up to you. Before long, you’re being invited on coffee runs and playdates with some of the other women, always careful to ask for John’s permission before bringing his baby into a stranger’s house.

“Just text me the address and their names,” he requests while you stand awkwardly in front of him, John sitting on the bed to finish buttoning up his shirt and fixing his watch around his wrist. You would’ve been fine standing on the other side of the door while he finished changing, but he insisted on inviting you in.

“I will,” you promise, nodding along with his words.

“And call me if you don’t feel comfortable. I’ll come get the two of you right away if you need me.”

You swallow. Nod again.

The first time you take the baby for a playdate with a couple of the moms from the park, one catches you in the act of texting John the address of the house as he requested. “Hubby wants to know where you are, huh?”

“Oh,” you choke out, face heating up. “He’s not—”

“Not a control freak, I know. They’re all like that.” Her smile is ebullient, rolling her eyes like you’re in on a joke together when you most assuredly are not. “Why don’t you share your location with him? Mine’s the same way. Here—I’ll show you how.”

She takes your phone and tap-taps something and suddenly you see it in the notifications of your conversation with John. If you bite your lip instead of correcting her assumption about the nature of your and John’s relationship, that’s for you and you alone to know. Your rationale is that any explanation will just make things tense; it’s not like you haven’t seen it happen before. 

It’s far more concerning when John doesn’t correct those assumptions. Particularly when you’re standing right next to him. 

Like at the local water park on a particularly hot weekend, wading in the kiddy pool with the baby nestled tight against your chest in his little swim trunks and floppy hat only for an employee to ask John if his wife would like something to drink. 

“Iced coffee, love?” John asks, taking your stupefied silence as a yes. “Nothing for me, mate. Cheers.” 

Your head spins like a top on that thought until a good while later. The server hands you a glass of iced coffee with condensation already dripping down the sides and John thanks him for you, taking the baby from you and pulling you to his side. You drink your coffee quietly with your thigh flush with his under the water, gripping the glass harder when his free hand squeezes around your waist, laughing at something another parent said to him.

It’s so over for you. There’s no coming back from this. 

The sight of someone of John’s size, a bulky, military man with arms of pure steel dusted with dark hairs, cradling a tiny, chubby baby with a thatch of similar dark hair on his head and big cheeks and roly poly arms unlocks something primal in you. An old, buried need. 

In the family changing room, you stand under an ice cold shower until it breaks the fever slowly consuming you. All you can do is hope it takes. 

In the evening, you sit out on the porch with John at the back of the house until the crickets swell with song, the moon a half-crescent in the sky. A cool breeze makes your shoulders lift a little, huddling into your body to keep warm. 

It’s hard to keep your eyes on the view in front of you and off the man sitting beside you when they want so badly to be running over him. He’s changed out of his work clothes into a soft pair of sweatpants and an old threadbare shirt, the sage green fabric faded after years of being run through the washing machine. It clings to his biceps and the soft pudge of his stomach, a layer of fat over the hard muscle beneath. 

A cigarette dangles from his fingers, thick wrist perched on the arm of the adirondack chair. Every so often he lifts it to his lips for a puff, always breathing out in the opposite direction from you. Considerate of your health, at least, if not his own. 

“Cold, sweetheart?” he asks before ashing his cigarette, and your bottom lip purses when you turn your head to look at him because you thought you were doing a good job suppressing your shivers. 

You stare at him, confused. He cocks an eyebrow at your questioning stare and deliberately glances down, waiting until you notice the way your nipples are protruding through your white tank top. You forgot that you’d taken your bra off earlier for a bit of relief and hadn’t yet had a chance to put it back on. 

“Oh my god,” you squeak, crossing your arms to hide as much as possible, humiliation flooding through you. “I’m so sorry—that’s so—I-I’m so sorry.”

John makes a rough sound when he rises to his feet, knees cracking as he does. “S’alright, hun. Lemme get you something to put on.”

The screen door creaks when he goes back inside briefly to fetch something only to come back a few seconds later with a big, cotton sweater that reeks of him. It looks well loved, some remnant of his younger years, and even from a distance, you can smell the distinct smoky aroma clinging to the fabric. 

When he kneels in front of you, you nearly go cross-eyed at the realisation that even on his knees, he’s as tall as you. The bulk of his waist forces your legs to spread around him. 

“C’mon, arms up,” John commands, barely waiting until you’ve raised your arms above your head before helping guide your head and arms into the right holes. 

Dragging the sweater down the way he does forces it to rub over your nipples, sending a shock through you. If you had any less self-control, your teeth might actually chatter together. 

“There we go,” he says, fluffing out the sweater around your waist before resting his hands on the tops of your thighs, the gesture coming so naturally to him that you doubt he’s even noticed the placement of his hands. “Much better. That’ll warm you up.”

He isn't wrong. You’ve already worked up a sweat. 

Late night rain.

It comes down in buckets, a dark slate rapping hard against the window pane. A bolt of lightning flickers across the horizon off in the distance. White striations across an otherwise dark sky. About thirty seconds later, thunder rumbles. 

You peek from between the blinds, chewing your lip nervously. You’ve never driven in rain this bad, but with supper done and the dishes washed, there’s no excuse for you to stay any longer. Still, the rain comes down so heavily that despite your timidity, you briefly contemplate asking John if you can stay a little longer. At least until it lets up a bit; until your headlights won’t blind you reflecting off the puddles on the drive home. 

Someone else pulls the blinds further apart.

“There’s no way in hell you’re going out in that,” John says from behind you, practically growling his words. Daring you to contradict him. 

You glance over your shoulder to find him right there at your back, staring out the window. He’s so close that you can smell the red sauce on his flannel from dinner and make out the flecks of grey in his beard that are almost masked by the darker hairs. 

“It’s not…that bad…”

“Sweetheart, don’t piss me off,” he warns.

The blinds shuttle back together with a clatter when you finally let go of them. 

“I could—I could take the couch,” you offer. 

“Sweetheart,” John sighs, looking down at you meaningfully.

“What?” you ask, confused.

“I’m not gonna take the big, comfy bed and leave you with the couch.” When you open your mouth to protest, he cuts you off. “And don’t even try arguing. I won’t hear it.”

There’s not much you can say to dissuade him after that. The furrow of his brow lets you know he’s made up his mind; no ifs, ands, or buts. Besides, there’s a not-so-secret part of you that’s relieved that you don’t have to drive home in this weather. You’re an average driver on a good day. You don’t need your last moments before shuffling off this mortal coil to involve hydroplaning on the highway before ramming into the guardrail. 

John gives you a shirt of his to change into for after your shower, which you spend far too long in, scrubbing your body with his shower gel and quivering under the warm water. When you pull it on, you bring the collar up to your nose to smell. The same patent smoky scent, musky like ambergris and leather. Intoxicating. It makes the blood rush through your ear like a conch shell, the ocean swirling behind your eardrum. 

You hadn’t asked for underwear, content at first to keep on the same pair, but after your shower, you cringe at the thought of putting your day-old panties back on. Besides, his shirt is long enough to cover anything indecent. 

He sits on the edge of the bed when you come out, the concern on his brow melting away at the sight of you. 

“Practically a dress on you, isn’t it?” John says, voice a little wondrous. His eyes drag over you, tip to toe. 

You fiddle with the ends of it. “…Are you sure you want me to take the bed?” 

“Wouldn’t be fair. It’s yours for the night.” His lips quirk up at the corners when you frown. “Don’t worry about me—I’ve slept in worse places before.”

“Like where?” you ask dubiously.

“Tents. Abandoned buildings. Shacks. In the back of a moving van a few times. You wouldn’t believe half the places we used to make camp. Definitely no place for pretty girls like you.”

His condescending tone vaguely annoys you, but it’s hard to dig into your irritation when he thumbs the edge of the shirt you’re wearing and you realise that he’s just a few raised inches away from noticing that you don’t have any panties on. You should’ve just put your old ones back on, but it’s far too late now. 

You clear your throat instead. “We could…um…we could share.” 

You don’t know what possesses you to offer to share the bed, but the words are already gone, out of your mouth and in the air. John cocks an eyebrow.

“Unless you don’t want to,” you amend. 

“Don’t know about that, sweetheart,” he rasps. “…I snore like a bear.”

“That’s okay. I’m a pretty deep sleeper.”

John scrutinises you a bit longer, looking for any sign of hesitancy. You know he’d squash your offer in a second if he found any wariness in your gaze. 

“Alright,” he finally concedes, letting go of your shirt and slapping his thighs. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you when you wake up and can’t fall back asleep because of my snoring.”

After his shower, during which you lie on your side facing away from the bathroom door, stomach fraught with nerves as you consider the fact that he’s naked in the ensuite, you hear him come out and rummage around in the dresser for a change of clothes. You lie beside him with your stomach twisted in knots, your hands shoved under the pillow and staring resolutely at the wall. 

The appropriateness of sleeping in the same bed beside your boss isn't lost on you, but you're too far into this now.

The bed dips when he settles onto the other side, and the sudden absence of light when he switches the bedside lamp off nearly makes you cheep. 

He breathes heavily, you notice, particularly when he finally falls asleep. It’s a deep, rumbling sound—not entirely unlike a bear, though you can’t really confirm that for certain seeing as how you’ve never slept beside a bear before. 

Those are the thoughts that would signal the approach of sleep if you weren’t soon to be engulfed by it. 

Sometime in the middle of the night, you wake up to a rough hand stroking your back leisurely. There’s a hard chest under you, your cheek propped up on a pillowy pec that rises and falls with his breaths. Sleep bobs around in you like a toulouse decanter. You struggle to keep an eye open, certain that there’s something you need to tend to, but then his hand slides down your back again to curve over your rump and sleep drags you back down. 

You wake up again to your breath wafting back into your mouth, your face shoved into the crook of a man’s neck. Humid, hot. You’re lipping at the skin of his neck, little tongue darting out to lap up a bead of sweat, salty on your tongue. 

Your cunt pulses against his leg, toes curling when John drags his hand up your thigh and hitches it higher up around his waist. 

“Baby?” he groans, his voice still rusty from sleep. The sound is a rough burr up your spine. 

“Sorry,” you whisper. “Couldn’ get comfy.”

“You hot?” he asks.

The denial on the tip of your tongue slips back down your throat when he plants his foot on the bed and draws his leg up, pressing the meat of his thigh into your throbbing sex. 

“Here, lemme help you—” he groans, reaching down to ruck up your shirt, dragging it up over your breasts and helping manoeuvre your arms out of the holes. It gets tossed off the bed onto the floor. 

Now your breasts are flat on his chest, smushed against his ribcage. It registers somewhere in the back of your head as inappropriate, but sleep pushes that thought away, focusing instead on the discomfort of moving around when you just want to settle back down and go back to bed. 

It must be the heat making you act this way. 

“Shit—sorry, sweetheart,” he apologizes, shifting under you. “M’hot too.”

He plants a hand on your ass and heaves you up his chest, giving him enough room to wiggle out of his boxers. It pushes your breasts right into his face, your nipples mere inches from his mouth. When his tongue pokes out to wet his upper lip, it nicks your pebbled nipple. 

A hard length presses against your butt when you’re slid back down, the tip wet when it catches against your skin. 

“Jus’ ignore it, sweetie,” John mumbles, petting a hand down your back. 

You lie like that for a while, splayed over his body. Want simmering just under your skin. Flustered and exhausted all at once, sleep-drained; not a drop of strength in your muscles. 

The heat is just—

Scorching. Dizzying. You feel featherbrained, slipping in and out of sleep, biting off the whimpers that threaten to crawl up your throat when John tucks his hands into the crevice of your thighs to wrench them apart, spreading them around his hips again. 

Distantly, you remember that the man under you is at least twenty years your senior. Your employer at that. A man now palming your butt, sinking his fingers into the flesh and rumbling low in his throat. 

It’s wrong—flagrantly wrong. You know that you should say something, that you should get up and tell him that you’re going to sleep on the couch instead. But your tongue is too thick for your mouth. And your thoughts are a sticky paste. The pulse between your thighs empties out all the common sense from your head. 

His palms are slick on your skin. 

Your breathing grows shallow when a hard length suddenly pushes between your thighs as well. 

When the mushroomed head nudges at your opening, you flinch, heart thumping ferociously against your chest. 

“John—John—” you breathe, panicked. As if to warn him. As if he weren’t planting both feet on the bed and lifting his hips. 

As if it wasn’t his hands, warm on your waist, dragging you down onto the shaft spearing into you. 

Your blood is molten hot in your veins. Sticky hands and sticky fingers curl into his chest hair. Your head thumps against his pecs, too weak to hold it up, lipping at the damp skin of his chest. 

“It hurts—” you bleat, tears pricking at the backs of your eyes. 

“I know, baby, I know,” John pants. He draws his hips back just to press forward again, deeper this time. Filling you up more than before. “I’m sorry, baby—I can’t, it’s just…too good. Shit.”

Resolve in tatters. Shattered like his willpower, like his determination not to fuck the girl twenty years his junior sleeping beside him in his bed. 

His hips pump up into yours, bouncing you in his lap. Each thrust plunging his cock deeper into your pussy. It’d be painful if you weren’t so wet, but you’re dripping, arousal making you leak around his shaft and slickening his way. 

Sleep still rattles around in your brain, but not even the fog of sleep can shake the ever intensifying realisation that you’re fucking your boss. No two ways around it—breasts naked against his hirsute chest; pussy wet and stuffed to the hilt with a big dick. Knocked senseless by it. 

The veins of his cock drag over the viscid walls of your cunt with every thrust. He must like the involuntary noises you make because he loses his rhythm when you cry out, growling out a string of unintelligible curses. His body feels bigger like this somehow, biceps and forearms bulging where they’re wrapped around your waist, hips forcing your legs to spread wide around him, the ache sinking deep into your muscle, into your bones.  

When you look up at him, his eyes are more hooded than usual, the blue of his irises so dark that they’re almost black. 

“Such a good girl,” he grunts, big arms like steel bands around your waist, holding you tight to his chest so you have nowhere to run. “Jus’ let…jus’ let daddy come and—oh Christ, fuck, fuck…—jus’ lemme come and we’ll go back to bed, okay, sweetie?”

“I’m gonna…” you pant, trailing off when he gets a little rough, pumping harder up into you. The sound of your pussy squelching around his length makes your eyes roll back, mouth hanging open. 

“Yeah, yeah, you—you come too, baby. Jus’ need to take the edge off, both of us.”

You squeal when he reaches a hand down to dig his fingers into your butt cheek and it makes you tense up, walls tightening around his dick. One well-placed swat hard enough to make the flesh of your ass jiggle and you come, clenching up so tight that his next few thrusts are slowed by your spasming walls, forcing him to really cram his cock into your hole. 

“Christ, that’s cute,” John growls, his pupils blown out. 

It hurts to come that hard; makes your belly cramp up and everything. Whatever gibberish spills from your mouth gets lost in the aftermath. 

That’s when the temperature goes from hot to blistering. The muscles of his thighs tense, straining with his impending release. Even his grip around your waist gets tighter, his self-control steamrolled under his approaching climax, oblivious to the way you squeal and squirm when it threads the delicate needle of being too much. 

“Sorry, baby,” he apologises, voice treading gravel. “M’gonna mess your pussy up a bit—”

“Wait—wait—” you gasp, trying fruitlessly to lift yourself up, his arms keeping you pinned tight to his chest. “You’re gonna—John, you’re gonna come inside me—”

His hips thrust up hard at your words, one last rough pump that has him digging his heels into the mattress and clenching his jaw, the veins in his neck protruding. You feel it flood inside you, hot spurts of cum right up against your womb. He curses when he comes, eyelids sliding shut, lost in the sensation of emptying himself into you. 

A few last, punishing thrusts that make your teeth clack together. More heat spurting into you. A murmured oh fuck before his legs slide back down the bed, spreading out over the mattress. 

The blanket is somewhere at the foot of the bed, all scrunched up and nearly dangling off the edge. You only start to shiver when the sweat on your back finally begins to cool. 

When he pulls you off his cock, you whimper, a hot flash snaking through you. Oh Christ did he plug you up good. Stringy, viscous cum leaks from your hole, leaving a little puddle on his thigh when you slide off his chest and to the side a bit. 

“Oh baby,” he tuts softly, reaching between your legs to feel where you’re wet and a little swollen. “Sorry, sweetheart…wanna get cleaned up?”

“No…” you rasp, so dazed that you can’t even lift your cheek off his chest. 

Exhaustion has never ridden you this hard before, but considering the circumstances…—perhaps you’re lucky to be conscious at all, is all you mean. There’s not a chance of you having enough energy to do anything as rigorous as showering though. 

“Okay, baby. Little kiss?” John asks in a murmur, lifting your head up by your chin and swooping down for a kiss. Not even giving you enough time to process his words before his mouth is on yours. 

His lips glide slick against yours, tongue slipping into your mouth like he needs a good, deep kiss to ground him. A wet twisting of tongues; a thick finger stroking up your neck. He can’t stop touching you. Running a hand up your spine and curving it back down over your ass. Featherlight touches meant to calm you down. His kisses grow sticky, lingering; each one almost the last until he pulls you in for another. 

“Go back to sleep, okay?” John says, still speaking low enough to push you back under. He smooths his hand down your back again. 

You fall back asleep with a load in your belly and your head in a tizzy. The you of tomorrow is going to have a lot to contend with from the you of tonight.

[mychaosflowers]

Batboys and Cockwarming

Dick's cockwarming technique is all about sensuality and intimacy. As he pulls you onto his lap, strong arms wrap around you, pulling you close. You feel enveloped in his embrace, cocooned in the warmth of his body. A soft, sensual kiss begins trailing along your neck, his lips brushing teasingly over your sensitive skin. His hands roam your curves, slipping under your shirt to caress the bare skin beneath.

"You feel incredible." Dick murmurs against your throat, his voice low and husky with desire."So beautiful and perfect nestled against me like this." He punctuates his words with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips, letting you feel the hard length of his erection pressing insistently against you.

Dick holds you there, savoring the contact and closeness. But when you start squirming unintentionally, seeking friction from somewhere else, Dick just chuckles softly. "Struggling already?" His hand slips lower, cupping your inner thigh possessively."I think we both know what really needs attention right now..." His other hand continues to massage your shoulder, fingertips tracing circles that gradually become more aggressive.

Jason feigns impatience but secretly thrives on the power he feels during cockwarming. He pulls you onto his lap roughly, his grip on your hips almost bruising as he sheathes himself inside you in one swift motion. The air is charged with tension as he remains still, letting you adjust to his size and heat.

"Stay put." he commands, voice low and gravelly with restrained desire. His breath is hot against your ear, sending shivers down your spine as he whispers, "I want to feel every inch of you, all wrapped around my cock."

When you try to move, Jason's response is immediate. He growls, fingers digging into your flesh as he holds you firmly in place."Don't even think about it." he warns, his hard length throbbing inside you. "You're mine now, and I'm not done with you yet."

Tim approaches cockwarming with a serene intensity, his actions deliberate and intimate. As he sits you in his lap, his hands guide yours to rest on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. Then, with a tenderness that borders on reverence, he begins to ease himself inside you.

"You feel so perfect like this." Tim breathes, his words a soft murmur against your temple. "So warm and welcoming, like you were made for me." His arms encircle you, pulling you flush against him until there's no space left between your bodies.

Tim takes his time settling deep inside you, savoring each increment of closeness. When finally seated fully, he exhales a long, contented sigh, as if he's found his way home after a long journey. One hand slides up your back to cup the nape of your neck, while the other rests on your hip, applying the slightest pressure to keep you still.

"How are you feeling?" Tim asks quietly, always attentive to your needs above his own. But there's an undercurrent of tension in his body, a coiled energy waiting to be unleashed. The way he grips you says he's barely holding back from taking what he wants, what you both crave. And when you shift minutely, the low groan that rumbles in his chest suggests how close he is to losing control completely.

Sorry for the mistakes, English is not my native language.

[katsukimybf]

bc all i think abt is college!katsuki

Katsuki Bakugou is the epitome of the type of friend where you don’t actually know if you are friends.

It started off slow and gradual; a head nod when you sat next to him in class for the first time. You didn’t think much of it at first—just Bakugou being Bakugou, cold and distant as can be. But then came the day the professor prompted the class to discuss the reading with the person next to you. Oh boy.

Distant caves would be jealous of him as he offered impressive silence. He sat there with his arms crossed, glaring at the textbook like it had personally offended him. You tried your best to speak about the text, feeling the weight of his weightless replies, and occasionally he’d grunt or nod, but the conversation resembled your middle school talent show performance. Awkward, yes, but not surprising for a college class.

Still, you found yourself sitting next to him every couple of days, the unspoken rules of college and assigned seating habits pulling you back into his orbit. You tried to be kind, offering small talk here and there, but Bakugou always brushed you off with a grunt or a glare. He was prickly, always on edge, and you figured that was just how he was.

You were like this too on most days. After having your fair share of college-creep experiences you laid off the whole talking to people bit. But there was this exception you made for Bakugou. Not an exception but a curiosity of some sorts. Hell, you also were never good at math but you were on edge to solve the missing variable that is Katsuki Bakugou. Seriously, what's his deal?

Maybe it was the way he didn’t care of how he seemed, it could be the mystery or maybe it was just the fact he looked like he was carved by Lysippos sitting by you at 9 a.m. lecture. Those thoughts were in the back of your mind… you even wonder if Bakugo is good at math? maybe then he could help.

But then there were these odd moments, moments where his usual gruffness gave way to something else. Like the day you mentioned how thirsty you were, sitting there in that old, sweltering classroom with no air conditioning. Bakugou rolled his eyes, muttered something about “are you always unprepared?” (he lent you a pen once before) but then wordlessly reached into his bag and handed you a water bottle.

“Thanks,” you say, trying to match his nonchalant demeanor. Trying to let it go.

But the gesture stuck with you. He didn’t acknowledge it, didn’t say anything more. He just went back to his notebook like nothing happened. Typical. But you couldn’t shake the feeling of slight butterflies in your stomach, even if you tried to brush them off as nothing.

Things continued in much the same way. Bakugou, still gruff and abrasive, but every now and then, something would slip through the cracks. A quiet moment of consideration, a begrudging act of kindness. He never let you get too close, but there was always that flicker of kindness. Of Bakugou. The real him, you think.

It was a rainy afternoon when you found yourself stranded at a bus stop with him. The two of you had just finished class, and the rain came out of nowhere, pouring down in quick splatters. You both stood under the narrow shelter that barely helped. Bakugou was glaring up like he was challenging the sky to a duel while his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

He didn’t acknowledge you at first. And you didn’t think he would.

“You’re gonna catch a cold standing out here,” he grumbled suddenly, his voice low and annoyed.

Before you could reply, he was already shrugging off his jacket and, without looking at you, shoved it in front of you. He urged you to take it but you blinked in surprise, not knowing how to react.

But then, you felt the weight of the jacket warm and heavy on your skin. The scent of him—something sharp and clean—lingered in the fabric.

“Bakugou, you don’t have to—”

“Shut up. I don’t need your thanks,” he muttered, not meeting your gaze. He chose to stare at the rain instead.

“Thank you.”

He rolled his eyes but from that moment, something shifted. The dynamic between you two wasn’t any less tense, and he still barked at you when you got on his nerves, but the hostility had softened, just a little. There was still sharpness in his words, but now mixed in with these brief, unexpected moments of kindness? (for Bakugou, normal for everyone else)

The day before your big exam, you sat next to him in class, anxiety buzzing in your stomach. “Are you ready for tomorrow?” you asked, peeking over at him.

“Yeah,” he grunted, eyes not leaving his textbook.

You turned back to your seat, mentally patting yourself on the back for initiating (yet another) pointless conversation. But then, after a pause, Bakugou spoke again.

“Wanna review the material after class?”

You blinked, a little caught off guard, but quickly nodded. “Sure.”

And so after class, he led the way to the library, not even waiting for you to catch up. He moved with purpose, his sharp eyes scanning the room for a quiet, secluded spot. When he finally sat down and pulled out his notes, you were surprised to see how meticulously organized everything was—color-coded, labeled, every detail in its place. So he probably is good at math? You were definitely getting somewhere.

He started drilling you with questions, breaking down complicated concepts with a precision you hadn’t expected. His intensity was relentless, but it pushed you to focus, to work harder, and slowly, your understanding of the material started to click into place.

Hours passed in a blur, and the sun began to set outside the windows. The two of you were still going over definitions when Bakugou glanced over at you. “You get it now?”

“Yeah,” you said, a small smile on your lips. “Thanks, Bakugou.”

“Good,” he muttered, turning back to his notes, but something about the way he said it felt less harsh than usual.

But all this time of him testing you made you want to test him. Probably because you suspected how sexy he’d look getting every question right…

You smirked, feeling a little bold. “Aw, not you caring if I understand the material.”

He shot you a glare and his face twitched like he was holding back a grin. “I don’t,” he snapped, though his tone lacked the usual bite.

“You just looked so damn scared earlier, it was pathetic.”

You faked a small gasp at that. He wanted to laugh.

“Aww, are you worried about me being sad?” you teased, leaning in a little closer. “It’s almost like we’re friends or something.”

“Shut up,” he growled, his face turning slightly red.

That’s not a no, you think. You laughed, the sound light in the quiet library, and for the first time, you saw a hint of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth, barely there, but real.

Quaint and underneath all his surroundings lied Bakugou Katsuki. Almost as if he were labeled X in some math problem.

So yeah… he’s cold and mean and gruff, but… you know he has your back with exams… and when you’re cold, and when you say you're thirsty, and when you need something nice to look at. Definitely, Katsuki Bakugou is your friend…

That happens to have a massive crush on you.

(… and unashamedly, so do you.)