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Diamonds in Seashell
pairing: satosugu
synopsis: âever thought how i felt... being watched by you?â âfcking show me how you felt then!â they do the deed at the okinawa beach
rating: e
status: complete
#gojo satoru x geto suguru#beach#ao3 moodboard#ao3 author#ao3 writer#ao3 fanfic#ao3#gojo satoru#jjk fanfic#jjk smut#jjk#geto suguru
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đ·MOODBOARD MASTERLISTđ·
all the silly little moodboards i've made for my silly little fics :-)
Remus x Hermione
The Dixie Pixie Creamery
where do we go from here?
just the two of us. well, three of us. (ch 4)
Violet x Olaf
the violence of devotion
big bad wolf
the ice tyrant and the summer violet
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Yes To Heaven
sterek | E | 85k | ao3
tags: A/B/O, Werewolves Are Known, Werewolf Alpha Derek Hale, Omega Stiles, Possessive Derek, Protective Derek, Everybody Wants Stiles Stilinski, omegas are VERY rare, Stiles Stilinski is Hot, Alcoholic Sheriff Stilinski, Bad Parent Sheriff Stilinski, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Knotting, minor cordia, POV Derek Hale, UST, Pining
Summary: Stiles ruined him. The damage was irreparable. He didnât want the food that wasnât made by Stiles or shared with him; the water tasted stale; the clothes were asphyxiating and scratchy; the air was wrong, wrong without Stilesâ scent in it.
Fuck, what was wrong with him? How could that pretty little thing change him so much? He had an iron grip on his control before, being in tandem with his instincts, but within weeks, all of it was gone. As soon as he thought of Stiles, though, of his scent, his moans, and the little wrinkle on his forehead as he orgasmed, his mind settled.
What was life before Stiles? Everything was somewhere far, far away, forgotten, bleak, and meaningless. Derek thought he knew what light was as he looked at the microscopic dots of the stars above. Then Stiles came into his life and showed him the sun.
đ for my muse @hotgirlstiles
#sterek#sterek fic#stiles x derek#eternal sterek#sterek fanfic#stiles stilinski#derek hale#sterek fanfiction#sterek ao3#sterek fic rec#teen wolf fic#teen wolf fanfiction#teen wolf fanfic#sterek moodboard#my fics#derek x stiles
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Edwin Payne and Charles Rowland (Daemon AU)
Then Edwinâs gaze drops down to Christine, to her scaled body barely poking out from under the blanket. âI have told you my daemonâs name,â Edwin says, âMay I have the privilege of knowing yours?â
It isnât a privilege, mate, Charles nearly says, because knowing a daemonâs name is about as normal as knowing a personâs, but more especially because Christine was named by his father. A violation, of sorts, that Charles just had to get used to over the years. That Charles just had to accept, because thatâs what he did with his fatherâs orders.
But then Charles looks down at Christine and he realizes that sheâs been one shape for longer than sheâs ever been before.
For a moment, in his shivering state, in his fevered mind, he thinks that sheâs just grown as cold and sluggish as him, but he knows as he manages to pry a couple of stiff fingers out from under his blanket to touch her that thatâs not it. Of course thatâs not it.
Charles, colder than the coldest blizzard heâs ever felt, slowly beginning to thaw thanks to the lantern of this ghost in front of him, this first night of kindness heâs ever been given, has finally had his daemon settle between one cold breath and the next.
People so rarely rename their daemons. His father would consider it a smack in the face. Heâd easily belt Charles for the insult.
But Charles is sixteen and dying and he sees the divine for the first time as his daemon, his girl, huddles up on his lap, as cold and wet and alone as he is. He has a chance to make something new of her. Something new of himself.
And Charles doesnât want to carry around his fatherâs family names anymore.
-aletterinthenameofsanity, in those heavy days when love became an act of defiance
Little darlin', it's been a long, cold, lonely winter Little darlin', it feels like years since it's been here
Here comes the sun, doo-doo-doo-doo Here comes the sun, and I say It's alright
-The Beatles, Here Comes The Sun
(all thanks to @jube-art)
#fanfic#aletterinthenameofsanity#jube art#my fics#ao3#dead boy detectives#edwin payne#charles rowland#daemon au#moodboard#my edits#payneland#edwin x charles
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I'LL CARRY IT
written for my angst challenge
Rating:Â Explicit (18+)
Pairing:Â Javier x f!Reader
Word Count: 5.9k
you can read on ao3 too, if you like!
SUMMARY: Your childhood best friend returns to Laredo a celebrated hero. When he shows up at your bar shackled by grief, you drag him home for the night. CW: Heavy alcohol consumption and brief reference to the death of a parent. A fair bit of yearning.
Takes place somewhere in S3E1 after the wedding but before Javier returns to Colombia.
part II | series masterlist | masterlist
12:00 A.M.
At first you mistake it for a good thing. Last shift before your weekend, two hours to go, and the long-gone local hero back in his hometown smoking a cigarette at your bar. Your break over, you slink from the backroom into the riotous din of The Last Man Standingâone of Laredoâs many divesâto reclaim your post behind the bar. Place is a hellhole as often as it is crowded and tonightâs no different, and yet youâre halfway to a smirk. Pleased to see an old friend.
He hasnât looked up, hasnât seen you yet, so you busy yourself with the guy who flags you down to order the second he spots you. Fine by you, the guy tips well the later it gets and itâs already after midnight, and regardless, you donât mind having an excuse to observe The Javier Peña, DEA agent extraordinaire, at a distance. Top button undone, cigarette vanishing in his hand, eyes glued to the ring-stained bartop as smoke shivers out between his lips. Quite the celebrity now. Been home three weeks if the rumors are true but youâve yet to see him. You figured heâd call, but he didnâtânot that youâre surprised.Â
Eight years feels like nothing now. Maybe heâs a hero to everyone else, but to you Javier looks exactly the same as he has his whole lifeâall thatâs changed is the depth of his misery. How he doesnât look up for anything or anyone, except to shrug off the occasional shoulder clap from some drunk stranger.Â
When youâve served the guy his drink and collected your tipâ30%, thank you sirâyou shake the nerves loose from your shoulders and slide up, glass in hand.Â
âWell shit,â you say when youâre in front of him, and Javier slowly lifts his eyes. You smile, all rogue. No shake to your voice at all as you pour a whiskey blind. âThis the part when I ask for an autograph?â
Javierâs dark brow dips in the middle and you might as well be twenty-eight again. Twenty-one. Eighteen. Eleven. All the ages youâve been with him in all the years youâve known him. Because this, right hereâthat little furrow that looks like a frown if youâre not looking close enoughâis exactly how heâs always been. How heâs always looked at you after time spent away.Â
Sure, thereâs never been this much away . This much radio silence. The kind of parting that comes with getting older, getting furtherâsomething you once wouldâve sworn only happens to everyone else. Youâve made your peace with it. Wished him well from the wrong side of the hemisphere. Youâve had lives of your own.Â
Seems he can still cut a tiny hole in your chest when he withholds a smile.Â
Javier spears smoke from the corner of his mouth as you slip his empty glass behind the bar and replace it with the fresh pour, watching as he nods in a tired, humorless way. âNot signing shit for you,â he gruffs, and snubs his filter into the crystal ashtray beside his glass.Â
One-two-three-four-five others sit beside it, ashed in their grave.Â
So he feels about as bad as he looks.
âAwful snappy for a man hogginâ a barstool,â you reply.
The corner of his mouth flinches but doesnât pull. He picks up his glass, eyes sagging away from you. âNice to see you too,â Javier concedes.
1:00 A.M.
Friday means itâs crazy, means the rest of your shift slingshots by, and most of the night someone else is working Javierâs side of the bar so you lose track of his drinks. The windows of the bar have fogged, giving the world beyond a kind of eerie glow.Â
You do your best to watch him, holding in your stomach a knot of newborn worry, but thereâs always someone shouting for another drink. Now and then you catch some guy in a cap lumbering up to him to boast loudly of his pride, and though itâs microscopicâinvisible maybe to everyone elseâyou see the way Javier shrinks in on himself. Folds.
The smoking, too, goes on. You sweep past him on your way to a booth in the corner, tray of shots balanced in hand, and accidentally inhale a sour cloud as he blows it out. You try to stifle your cough as you reach the table, doling out the silver glasses slick with tequila. On your way back to the bar, Javier catches your eye and snuffs the spent cigarette with an apologetic look. Pendant lights sway in his eyes like fireflies. You shake your head like heâs being silly, squeeze his shoulder briefly as you pass, and the roar of his body beneath your palm blazes like a campfire. The kind of heat that blackens everything to char.Â
You think heâs had four drinks, maybe five, but not for sure.
2:00 A.M.
Only the drunks remain to kick out into the bog of late-summer, all that humidity that ruins your hair. You like most of âem. Most swagger out with a slurred night, sweetheart as you usher them safely into their cabs. Then all thatâs left is your childhood sweetheart slumped over at the bar. Dated for two weeks in sixth gradeâbroke up over god knows what, probably him stealing your favorite gel pensâand were inseparable ever after. The second that kid sloped into your classroom, all gangly limbs attached loose as rubber bands and dark curls drifting vagrantly into his eyes, you just knew. Didnât know how, didnât know whyâbut you knew that boy would be home, and he was for years.Â
Look at him now. Passed out drunk, lips parted, cheek squished flat beside his empty glass. His cigarette flares from his limp hand beside his face. You shoo off your coworker with a friendly gnight before slipping the cigarette from Javierâs fingers to crush in the crystal tray with its brothers.Â
You go about cleaning up around him. He doesnât wake for anythingânot even when you have to count all the coins in the till for the nightâwhich also, is new. Javierâs always slept like shit, even when you were kids and there wasnât much to sweat over. Woke up if someone in the other room dared to breathe too deeply.Â
Guess a bathtubâs worth of whiskey will take anybody out.Â
When itâs time to go, you slip your hand up his spine to rest between his shoulder blades. âAlright, cariño,â you say softly. âTime to go home.â
Javier stirs, but only barely. A grunt, a shallow breath, a flutter in his lashes. You pat his back firmly, not harshly, but enough that he sniffs and grunts again, awake.Â
âBlueâs still up there,â he mumbles with his eyes closed.Â
Grinning, you lift your face to the ceiling fan overheadâone of two dozen in this place, none of which run and all of which droop with a rainbow of bras tossed into the rafters. Above you now sways the strap of a pale blue bra mildewed with dust. Wouldâve been your twenty-first when you shot that up there, and itâs never fallen.Â
âIâm a decent shot,â you say.Â
Now he grins, just half his lips, but a real one all the same. âI remember.â
âCourse you do, I was better than you.â
At your teasing, the grin snaps clean off his face and his real frown replaces it. âNoâanymorre,â he slurs.
Your heart plummets. You can see, now, the bruised darkness beneath his closed eyes as you rub a small circle in the middle of his back. If you were already home youâd pull him into your arms, but he canât rot on this stool all night. In your silence, Javier cracks one eye at you. âCanât drive,â he groans.
âNo shit,â you say, forcing a soft grin, and he mumbles some gibberish that sounds like itâs supposed to be Spanish. âCome on, work with me here.â
His eye shuts again as he grimaces, face still smushed against the bartop. His hairâs a mess so you comb it back, but the fucker still wonât budge. Rolling your eyes, you lift his arm and drape it over your shoulders to help him off the stool, his body warm and pliant. More solid than you remember him being before. Layers of slender muscle built up like the rings of a tree.
When he rises, gravity lurches and you stagger under his weight, catching yourself against the bar.Â
âCareful now,â you warn him playfully.Â
Javier turns his face towards yours, close enough in this awkward position that his nose presses against your cheek. He reeks of smoke and shitty whiskey. A little of sweat. Youâd mock him for it if he were anywhere within a hundred miles of sober, but heâs a lost cause for now. Your arm fits snug around his waist. To his credit, he makes an effort to stay on his feet. Turns his head down to watch his boots as you walk him outside like heâs focusing intently on putting one foot in front of the other. You pinch his side and he hmphs at you.Â
âCouldâa just called, you know,â you say as you walk him to your car. The street is all empty parking spots and shuddered windows and packs of thirsty mosquitos, cicada song chirping densely in the air. Your car sleeps down the block alone, black as the sky and in need of a wash, green-strung beads hanging in a loop from the rearview mirror inside.
âWanted tâ seeyou,â Javier says.Â
You nudge your head against his cheek gently. âI missed you too,â you say.
As you drive, streetlamps stripe past the windows. Brick buildings sit squat and lightless, bodegas shackled for the night, and a wilful trash bag balloons with a passing breeze, blowing across the road with a quiet, swimming grace. In the passenger seat, Javier slumps against the door, temple pressed to the half-open window. You think heâs asleep until he licks his bottom lip.Â
âSaw Lorraine,â he mumbles, those dark eyes closed away, like he can hardly keep himself awake.
You turn back to watch the empty road. Stop at the stop signs just for show. No oneâs out here but you at this hourâLaredo is a ghost town.
âHeard Danny was gettinâ married,â you reply.
Javier exhales profoundly: slow, labored, loud. Heâs always been a pouty drunk, but this is something else. âYou werenât there,â he says.
âHad to work.â
âLiar.â
You roll your eyes even though he isnât looking at you to see. Heâll feel it. Always does. Drumming your fingertips against the steering wheel, you fight back a smirk. âFucked one of the groomsmen last year,â you admit. âDidnât feel like havinâ a reunion.â
When you glance at him again, Javier has opened his eyes a sliver to smirk at you, the corner of his mouth pulled into his dimpled cheek. âJulien?â
You frown at the road. âMateo.â
âShit,â mumbles Javier, still smirking.
âSomethinâ like that,â you agree.
At the next red light his eyes are closed again and despite the fact that heâs, what, thirty six now? Javier looks like a child to you. Spine hunched, torso sunken. Shoulders broader than ever but curled in on themselves, like if he only had the room heâd be small as a seed. Fetal and miserable. A thousand years older on the inside than anyone should ever have to be.Â
âStarinâ aâme,â he scolds, his words slumping into each other.
You huff quietly, caught. âShut up,â you say. âJust remindinâ myself what you look like. Think you got uglier.â
He growls darkly, unamused.
As you turn at the next light, the green-beaded rosary sways from the rearview mirror. If he had his eyes open Javier would recognize it. His motherâsâpassed to you before she died. You arenât one for praying but youâll die with it in your hands, you think. Thatâs the kind of person she was to you. Eternal.
Beside you, Javier mutters something unintelligible, his breath fogging the window.Â
âHm?â
âSeeinâ anyone yet?â he repeats, and shifts to loll his head back against the seatrest.Â
You gasp softly, feigning offense. âYet? Ouch, baby,â you tease.
âDidnât mean it like that,â he grumbles.
âI know,â you say, as you turn into the suburbs. Quiet starter homes lurk in the dark, kidsâ bicycles lying like skeletons in their yellowing lawns. âIâm being mean.âÂ
âI like yâmean,â Javier replies, and finally opens his eyes as if he can sense youâre getting close to home, even though heâs never seen this place. He stares through the windshield glazed and distant, and you try not to stare like youâre concerned. He looks destroyed, you think. Obliterated. Sure, youâve kept up with the news. Devoured everything you could about the quest to tackle Escobar, terrified Javierâs name would appear in the black ink that stained your fingers, reporting he was dead. That heâd be another casualty, and youâd not have said goodbye.
You know youâve got no clue what really happened down there. That you never will. But you can see it choking him, hanging from his neck like a noose thatâs just biding its time before it pulls.
âNah, itâs just me,â you say, dragging your eyes off him again. âThink the two weeks we dated was about the closest I ever came to love.â
Youâre joking, all foxish grin, but Javier doesnât laugh. He just stares into the middle distance looking like a ghost. âSixteen,â he mumbles.
âWhat?â you say.
He sighs. âWas sixteen days,â he annunciates, and your heart sputters.
Then his face folds in on itself suddenly; he pales, then greens. âGonna bâsick,â he says.
3:00 A.M.
âChrist, you got heavy,â you groan, hobbling slanted up your porch steps. Though more alert, Javier is no less useless in walking, and though he mumbles shame-riddled sorrys he canât much help you here. You hold him tightly to you, fingers pinching into his hip as he leans, hot as a furnace against your side in the worst of summer. You donât care.
It doesnât matter that itâs been eight years. It could be forty, and if Javier showed up on your doorstep ready to fall, your response would only ever be give it to me. Iâll carry it.
He grunts as you prop him against the side of your house to fish out your keys. âAll muscle,â he teases, voice deep and coarse.
âGlad you havenât shed your ego,â you snark.
You give the door a shove as the lock turns. Javier tips his face up to look at the sliver of moon left out to wink from the sky as if heâs saying a prayer. He reeks of sickâhis shirt stained in one spot on his chest where he failed to aim away from himselfâand while he stares up at the dark rash of night you work open the buttons of his shirt to take it off. Despite puking in your car, heâs still too lost to the world to notice your hands until youâre halfway down. Maybe in another life youâd be staring at his chest as you uncover it. The broad slopes of muscle, his stomach, the dark path of hair trailing towards his jeans. But in this life, you arenât that to each other. You donât get to be.Â
âCariño,â Javier says, and one of his hands covers yours as you pinch the last button. Looking down at you now, concerned through hazy eyes. Summer hangs wetly in the air; his curls lay damp against his skin, licking his temples, the nape of his neck.
You shrug his hand off yours, offering a small grin. âGotta get this in the wash, Javi,â you tell him. âNot allowed to get in my bed smelling like puke.â
Cicadas sing from their trees. Your house, small as it may be, is a welcoming place. All red bricks and white shutters. The swing on the porch sways behind Javier, giving the occasional squeak. You shuck his button-up off his shoulders and ball it in your hands before catching his eye. âCan I trust you to stay upright while I put this in the wash?â you ask, one eyebrow arched.
He scowls, all pouty bottom lipâtrying to make you laugh, even now. You huff as if exhausted, sarcastic and a little pleased. Heâs in there, the person youâve loved. Somewhere buried.
When the laundry is running you find him on your porch swing, horizontal. One bare arm dangling off the seat, his eyes closed again. Skin thatâs usually golden washed silver by moonlight. In this heat thereâs no reason for you to cover him but still you feel the nagging urge. Even with you here with him, you hate the thought of anyone coming out onto their porches or lawns to see him like thisâout of control. You rouse him just enough to lift his head so you can sit at the end of the swing, then lay his head in your lap. He hums. A low, gravelly sound of pleasure. Glad to feel you beneath him in this small way.Â
âMâsorry, baby,â Javier murmurs groggily, nuzzling his cheek against your leg as you stroke the hair away from his face again. Heâs flushed, damp and sweaty, and even with the shirt gone could use a shower but youâd never say so. At this point, youâve seen him in every stateâsunny and terrible and everything in betweenâand donât fear any of them. Donât hate any of them. Never could, because all of them are him, so how could you.
âCleaned up your puke before,â you reply. âNothinâ I havenât seen.â
He sighs, and with no small effort rolls himself onto his back with a gruntâthe swing sways with the movement, rocking you both. Then once more, this time to his other side to face you. You chuckle softly as he settles, one of his arms reaching behind you to wrap around your hips, and for a while you drift back and forth with the porch light off and the moonâs claw cutting through the dark.
Itâd be something close to heaven if it werenât for his pain.
âWanted to call you,â Javier sighs, after a long while of cricketing quiet. âAfterââ
Nothing.
You wait.
The rest of whatever he was going to say dissolves, never follows. Never becomes something for you to hold, to know, to carry. He keeps all the weight.
âCouldâve,â you say, hand in his hair again, how he always used to like. Even when you were kids he always wanted to be touched. His head in your lap, your hand in his hair to scare off his bad dreams. You could never tell a soul without destroying himâand you never wanted to. The way you were for each other was just that: for each other. Everyone knew you were close, inseparable at school. But the depth of that bond was a secret no one had to know. How his body needed to be close to yours to settle, to breathe, sometimes to sleep.
Javierâs nose scrunches as he fights off some stabbing thought. You stroke your thumb across his temple, trying to get him to look at you, but he wonât.Â
âTell me,â you whisper.Â
Two words you never say. A question you never ask. Heâs so far past drunk heâs practically a childâmaybe itâs wrong to ask him like thisâbut youâd do anything to relieve even one ounce of this suffering.
Eventually, he exhales deeply, breath warm against your hip. Behind you, you feel his hand stroke your back, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. âThought youâd hate me,â he mumbles.
Your heart splinters. Every cell in your body wants to pull him against you, pull him into you, swallow the ache. âShould know better than that by now,â you say.Â
The shoulder he isnât laying on bobs with what must be a shrug. âBeen a while.â
âBeen a long time,â you agree. Not angry, not bitter, not blamingâitâs been a long time. Itâs nothing to you now but a fact. Seeing him again has erased the nag of your neglected longing.
With a gruff, Javierâs arm tightens around your back and he pulls himself closer, his forehead nuzzling your hip bone. âFeels like aâundred years,â he says, his voice hoarse and broken.
There isnât anything you can do but card your fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp with featherlight nails. You let your head fall back against the brick of your house. Exhausted, but you wonât sleep. Youâll stay awake with him all night if he needs it, if he asks you. Even if he doesnât.Â
4:00 A.M.
âNo more water,â he begs. âPlease.â
In your kitchen, just the stove light on, heâs sobering. Not sober âbut he can stand up on his own. Leaning back against your counter, both hands outstretched to rest upon the laminate. Cool light splits his face in halfâone bright and weary, one lost to shadow. You roll your eyes and hold one hand out to accept his water glass which he passes you with a grateful sigh.
You listen to the harsh rush of water draining into the kitchen sinkâa stark disruption to the eerie quiet of the middle of the night in which it feels like you and Javier are the only people left on earth.Â
Behind you, Javier groans, watching the glass fill again.
âItâs for the nightstand, baby,â you assure him as you pass it back.Â
He pouts at it, arms drooping at his sides. Trying again. Digging for your laugh. With expectant eyes you pick up his hand and cup it around the glass, and when you let go and he doesnât drop it you let a smile creep slowly across your face. Satisfied, he straightens a little, swaying slightly, and nods. He looks down at the floor, his bare feet, and his face blues. Darkens like heâs remembering.
You lay the palm of your hand over the center of his chest and beneath it Javierâs heart throbs steadily. His lungs expand. His blood moves. Aliveâwhether he feels it or notâand a comfort to you.Â
Though youâve lived in this house only three years and Javierâs never once seen or stepped foot in it, he trails through the narrow halls to your bedroom like he knows it well. Sloppy footsteps, yes, and always with you behind him braced to catch any sudden fall, but he makes it in the end. Water sloshes over the lip of his glass as he sets it down. Thenâstill in his jeans, which hug his thighs so tightly youâre surprised he doesnât try to peel them offâhe crawls into your bed, on top of the duvet. In the doorway you pause to watch him and get a vision of another life in which he does this every night, at ease in your home because itâs his home too.
It is a terrible thought, weak and troubling. Itâll burrow if you let it, so you kick it away. While you strip free of your work clothes, you watch him in the small mirror above your dresser; his head flops into your pillows, cheek smushed, eyes sliding closed. Those dark lashes, those parted lips. Always exactly the same. He doesnât even glance in your directionâhe doesnât need to peek at your body. Heâs seen you before. You him.
âWas Mateo worse than me,â he asks from the bed, like heâs read your mind. No surprise. For years, you wouldâve sworn he could.
You blush, though heâs not looking. âJavi,â you say softly.
âSorry,â he sighs.
In a t-shirt, you pad around the other side of the bed to crawl over the covers and curl onto your side to face him, one hand beneath your cheek. âSex in college is supposed to be bad,â you tell him, grinning.
His brows pinch together, bracketing his forehead. âShouldnât've been with you,â he mumbles.
Yes, heâs how you remember. Ever chasing some rabbit hole to plummet down to avoid the cavern to which heâll give no name. Heâs got one hand buried under his pillowâhow easy it is to think of your things as hisâand the other lies between you, limp. You take it in your own, pull it to your lips, and press them to his knuckles. âWe were kids,â you say, sure to smile against the back of his hand so heâll feel it.
He huffs. âDrunk.â
âThat too.â
âBetter now, I swear.â
You laugh. Canât help it. Silver light from the moon puddles over you, illuminating half his face, the curve of his shoulder, the slope of his arm. Even miserable, probably in a blackout, one foot hanging sadly off the edge of the mattress, Javier is someone who draws laughter out of you with ease, same as when you were kids. You kiss the back of his hand again, still grinning, and watch the frown dissolve from his face. Heâs always been beautiful in a way that never seemed fair, but you think it might be getting worse with age. No one should look so good in this state, but there he is.
âSure hope so, baby,â you tease.
Now he cracks one dark eye to squint at you, the corner of his mouth loosening, curling into his cheek. Then thereâs that dimple. Your heart patters. Youâve missed him. âCould show you,â Javier smirks.
You roll your eyes. âYou arenât showinâ me shit right now.â
His bottom pink pops again, pouting as he broods, yanking another chuckle from you while he murmurs something you miss. Something that ends with good though.
âHm?â you say.
âYou smell good though,â Javier murmurs, and though soft you hear it this time. That almost whine.
âWell, when you put it that way,â you tease, and like magic, he laughs. Smile lines crinkle beside his eyes, nose scrunching. Beautiful. It is, you think, the best of himâhow he looks when he actually laughs. It takes over his face.Â
As you both settle, he scooches closer on the bed, squeaking the mattress. You feel the warm plume of his breath whisper over your face as he sighs. He has, it seems, only a match of levity at a time. It sparkles, flares, and smokes out too quickly.Â
It isnât a frown that replaces it, but despair. âGonna feel like shit tomorrow,â he mutters, no louder than a whisper. No need to speak any louder when youâre lying this close. Your lips press to his knuckles again and this time he squeezes your hand, the muscles in his forearm briefly tensing. Freckles dot his bicep like stars.
âYou feel like shit right now,â you whisper in reply.
Javier nods, face folding like he wants to cry. But he almost never does, not even in front of you.
5:00 A.M.Â
You drift into brief tides of sleep with the warmth of him around you, his face in the crook of your neck. For most of your life, youâve chalked up the ease with which you touch each other to an echo of your childhoodsâa time in which touch is given often and without judgment. There has never been hesitation between you, not in this way. Even now, eight years since the last time you saw him, Javier slots against you in a way that just feels rightânew, broader shoulders and all.Â
His slow, deep breaths warm your neck, your collarbone. You couldnât wiggle out of his arms if you tried, and though itâs warm even with the window open, even with both of you on top of the covers, you donât want to. Eight years is a long time to go without this.
When he stirs with a tortured groan, you nudge your lips against his forehead. âSâokay,â you mumble, and the whine that snakes out of him rattles your chest and slices clean through your heart. Wrapping a hand around the back of his head, fingers threading through curls, you pull him closer, and his arms tighten around your waist.
Maybe it should feel wrong when Javier nuzzles into your neck to kiss you softly beneath the jaw, but it doesnât.Â
âBabyââ he croaks, and you hush him, petting his hair.
You donât want him to say it. You never say it. If he says it now, itâll ruin you.
âI know, Javi,â you whisper, squeezing your eyes closed so tight you see a rain of stars. âI know.â
âYâ never let me say it,â he mumbles against your throat, his breath fogging your skin.
âYou donât need to,â you say.
âWanted to, you know,â he replies, his voice so gentle you feel it pass from his chest to yours in a shallow tremor.
You chuckle softly from the darkness behind your eyes, like opening them will break the spell. âOh yeah? When?â
He shrugs, his body loose and boneless. The heat of him is making you sweat.Â
âThe whole time,â Javier mumbles, and you wish suddenly that he werenât so close because he must hear the sudden racing of your heart. âPensĂ© que me casarĂa contigo.â
If he didnât hear its racing, you think, thereâs no way he misses when it stops. Your Spanish is mediocre at best but you catch fragments, piece it together. I thought Iâd marry you.
Your forehead wrinkles as a sudden urge to cry slams into you, shattering your bones. At least you manage to pat his back teasingly, feigning coolness, steadiness. Pretending he hasnât toppled you.Â
âThink youâre confusing me and Lorraine, cariño,â you tease quietly, hopeful that the wetness in your eyes doesnât taint your voice.
Silence stretches like an elastic threatening a snap, a sting, a burn. But Javier exhales in a way that feels like heâs asleep again, like all of this is just nonsense cooked up in some drunken dream. Soon sleep is dragging at you sweetly, loosening your limbs again. You grow heavy, face slack, your limbs indistinguishable from his. When he whispers again you hardly hear it and the words donât stick. Youâll forget them when you next wake for real. But he says them all the same.
âNot confusinâ you with anybody.â
Then youâre gone, sucked away. Asleep.
6:00 A.M.
The yellow morning leaks through your bedroom. You wake to a glint in your eyes: sunlight reflecting off a picture frame on your dresser. You and Javier twenty years ago dressed for junior prom, hidden now by the blinding. Squinting, you groan a soft mph sound as you wake, desperate to bury yourself in sleep again.Â
In your brief slumber the two of you have remained braidedâtwo strands of clinging ivy. Against you, Javier groans, humming tiredly against your throat, and you feel his hand slip up the hem of your shirt again, his palm flat over your spine.Â
Half asleep, you let him.Â
Half asleep, you let yourself remember.
Youâre twenty five again. Just a few years out of college, both of you home for the summer. Out in the long grass in Chuchoâs yard, you stretch yourselves out to sunbathe in the Texas summer, watching bumblebees laze drowsily between blooming thistles. Beside you, Javier lies on his back with both hands cradled beneath his head while you read, those yellow aviators over his eyes.
âCould get a place together,â he says. So casual, so simply.
Looking up from your book, you see the pink collar of sunburn around his neck and grin to yourself. âWeâd get sick of each other,â you lie.
Javier only shrugs, unaware, you think, that you spent all of college in love with him. In freshman year, youâd stumbled home together after a party and heâd kissed you against your front door, waking you from what you realized then had been a lifetime of slumber. Youâd never considered kissing him before, but all of a sudden it was obvious. You thought this is what your lips should have been doing all this time.
But it never happened again. The sex was awkward, clumsyâyouâd only done it once beforeâand you told yourself thatâs why he never tried again. You never tried either. Now itâs a joke you tell each other, trying to make the other person blush.Â
The thought of sharing an apartment with him sends a river of panic through your veins. It would kill you to watch him bring girls home. To watch him date someone else. It was bad enough watching Lorraine, and he left her.
âIf you say so,â he says, looking not one bit disappointed.
Half asleep, you let yourself dream you said yes.
7:00 A.M.
You donât know who leans inâif you tilt your head down or if Javier tilts his up, if it starts in your sleepâonly that when you next stir the morning is darkening to gold and orange. Panels of windowed sunlight crawl slowly across your legs, and you are kissing.
Javierâs lips melt against yours. Itâs nothing like when you were kids. Eighteen and nervous wrecks, your teeth always getting in the way.
Itâs different now. You know how to kiss each other like youâve had the practice, like it hasnât been almost two decades since last you tried. Pliant and sleepy, his tongue licking gently into your mouth. His mustache scratches sweetly against your skin. When a breathy sound whimpers from you, he cups your jaw, his other arm locking snug around your waist. Thereâs no rush to it, no progression. You donât strip down and fuckâboth of you content with only this: the soft murmurs you breathe into each other. The lifetime of wanting in every kiss.Â
Because you have wanted him, you realize. Not just in college, but before then and every day since. Maybe from the first day he walked into your sixth grade class and felt like home. Even these last eight years when youâd accepted that he was gone from your life for good, your friendship having reached the end of its life, you wanted him.
He grunts when you nibble gently at his bottom lip, and you smile. Then he moans. And itâs perfect, somehow, like heâs dug around in the cabinets of your mind to know exactly how you want to be kissed. Deeply, patiently. All tongue and breath and yielding lips, your hands in his hair, the fire of him enveloping you.
You say nothing; you talk with your touch.
He stripes his tongue along your bottom lip: Iâm sorry.
You tug at his curls: Iâm sorry.
He kisses the corners of your mouth: Iâm sorry.
You lick the hinge of his jaw: Iâm sorry.
His thumb strokes the apple of your cheek: Iâm sorry. Iâm falling asleep.
You tilt your head to better taste him: I donât want to fall asleep.
But you do. The tide drags you out, your body molten, exhausted, hypnotized. Your lips still touching as you fall into a dream.
8:00 A.M.
When next you open your eyes, youâve rolled towards the window and the weight and warmth of his arms is gone. You donât bother turning over. Donât bother reaching for him.Â
You know the bed will be empty on his side, cold.Â
#pedro pascal#javier pena fanfiction#javier pena x reader#myfics#almostfoxgloveangstchallenge#oneshot#tenderness and angst and longing#soft javi is everything to me ok#this hurt so bad.#javier pena x you#javier pena narcos#better than this by lizzie mcalpine is what i listened to !!#almostfoxglove#ao3#ao3 fanfic#angst fanfiction#narcos fanfiction#narcos fic#fic: illcarryit#series: illcarryyou#javier peña fic#javier peña#narcos#pedro pascal fanfiction#angst challenge shelf#angst fic#mine: moodboard
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There are many things Harry would rather be doing than this. Heâd rather be in a room of all his exes and be told how shit he was to each and every one of them in excruciating detail. He'd rather be forced to listen to Kidz Bop on repeat until he curses the day he ever met Mitch Rowland as he descends into hell while kids sing Late Night Talking in the background. Hell, Harry would even rather get every single of his teeth pulled, without any numbing or anesthesia, to get horrible veneers in their place, the kind that you can tell with one glance that theyâre fake. Getting makeup done for a tell-all interview with his ex-bandmate and ex⊠whatever isnât something he was gunning to do when he woke up that Wednesday morning.
things could be worse. harry doesnât know what could be worse than being forced to do a tell-all interview with his ex friends with benefits that he still harbors feelings for, the only person he could ever see a future with, the person who truly hates him so much, he canât help but hate him right back. but surely, worse things have happened at sea, right?
make sure you kiss your knuckles before you punch me in the face (24.6k)
written as a part of the the @bottomlouisficfest
#o posts#gonna go ahead and apologize for this fic lol#itâs a true ollie fic đ«¶đ»#nobody come for my moodboard i did it all by myself#my sister has the graphic design background okay#1dficvillage#1dficfests#1dsource#allwaswell16#alwaysxlarrie#ao3 larry feed#blouisparadise#ficsfor4am#hlcreators#hlficlibrary#hljournal#hlsource#hltracks#thelarriefics#trackinghome#tracksintheam#yourlarrysource#ollie fic
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đŠ« sit down beside me and stay awhile by soliloquent
7,3k words // pairing: tony stark & steve rogers
âââ
âYouâre the only person who knows I donât wanna play football anymore.â
Tony is silent for a few seconds before replying.
âYouâre the only person who knows I donât wanna be a Stark anymore.â
or: MIT Engineers football captain Steve Rogers and Stark Industries heir Tony Stark share a late-night heart-to-heart under the guise of studying, their conversation leading to many earnest admissions.
written for @laidraws as part of the @capim-tinybang event // manip by @avengerwindgirl
#fics by soliloquent#sit down beside me and stay awhile#capimtrb2024#stony college au#stony#stevetony#stony fanfic#steve rogers#tony stark#moodboard#stony moodboard#super husbands#college au#fanfic#marvel#ao3 fanfic#feels#character insight#mcu marvel#aesthetic
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#PENTHONY
#bridgerton#bridgerton: season 3#nicola coughlan#penthony#anthony bridgerton#penelope featherington#anthony x penelope#my gif edit#my moodboards#my graphics#my gifs#ao3#ao3 fanfic#johnathan bailey#penelope bridgerton#rarepair#anthony bridgerton x Penelope Featherington
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mountain mood board
#mountains#mountaingirl#moodboard aesthetic#nature#moodboard account#naturecore#moodboard#trees#trees and forests#forest#forestcore#cottage aesthetic#cottagecore#cottagecharm#cottage garden#blogging#girl core#girlblogging#dark academia#light academia#tumblr girls#shitpost#wattpad#photographers on tumblr#ao3#aesthetic#garden#lovers
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Winter Pitstop moodboard by the wonderful @racingghost
#look how wonderful this moodboard is..... look at it..... IT'S SO COZY AND PERFECT AND <333333#very not modest very self-indulgent but today marks a year since my first foray into simi fic oh how time flies :')#i still remember it like it was yesterday... Ghost said 'write me rally kimi. snow ball fight and kimi kisses seb's cold fingers'#and i was like 'bet. smutty?'#and she was like 'oh idk whatever you want u//////u'#and i was like 'don't be a fucking coward dude ask me for smut'#and she was like 'ok smut' and i was like 'hell yeah'#simi#edit: the fic is linked in the caption if you click on 'winter pitstop'! but it's archive-locked so you need an ao3 account
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A Droplet of Midnight Ecstasy
a satosugu fanfic
dragon suguru
dragon rider satoru
#archive of our own#ao3#ao3 author#ao3 fanfic#ao3 writer#satosugu#ao3 link#gojo satoru x geto suguru#jjk fanfic#dragon suguru#human satoru#dragon rider#dragon rider satoru#gojo satoru#geto suguru#tw blood#ao3 moodboard#m x m
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âšSpecialâš Brownies
Pairing: Eddie Munson/Reader
Word Count: 1031
Summary: You and Eddie make brownies in his trailer. His are âšspecialâš, though.
Warnings: drug use (weed), mild language, suggestive humor
The scent of chocolate wafts through Eddieâs trailer, mingling with the sharp tang of whatever âspecial ingredientâ heâs carefully adding to his batch. Black Sabbath plays low in the background, the dark riffs blending with the clink of mixing bowls and spoons. Eddie hums along as you crack another egg into your own bowl, careful to keep your brownies distinctly separate from his. You know some of the Hellfire guys donât appreciate his idea of "extra flavor."
âYou sure you donât wanna make yours a little more exciting?â Eddie teases, glancing over with a grin thatâs more mischievous than anything. Heâs leaning against the counter, his wild curls brushing his shoulders, dark eyes catching the dim light of the trailer's kitchen. Thereâs flour on his shirtâon purpose, probablyâand his rings clink as he stirs his batter one more time.
âPretty sure,â you say, smirking as you swirl the melted chocolate into your mix. âNot everyoneâs a fan of those brownies.â
Eddie raises an eyebrow, mock offended. âTheir loss. I make a killer brownie.â
âYeah, if you want to spend the rest of the night on a different plane of existence,â you quip, shaking your head. The batter in front of you is thick, smooth, and sweetâa stark contrast to the chaos brewing on his side of the counter.
He steps closer, his shoulder bumping yours playfully. âWell, maybe some people need to lighten up a little, huh?â His voice is low, teasing, the music pulsing underneath his words as the bass kicks in.
You laugh, nudging him back. âMaybe. But I think Iâll stick to plain old brownies. Besides, someoneâs gotta make sure Mike and Dustin donât accidentally eat yours and spend the rest of the session in another dimension.â
Eddie chuckles, the sound deep and warm, vibrating through the tiny kitchen. âGood point. But seriously, these guys need to learn to live a little.â He winks, then grabs a spoon and dips it into your batter. âLet me taste.â
âHey!â You slap his hand away, but heâs already licked the spoon, grinning like a kid caught stealing from the cookie jar. His lips curl in satisfaction.
âMmm. Perfect. Too bad itâs not as fun as mine.â
You roll your eyes, turning to pour the batter into the pan. The rich, sweet smell of chocolate mixes with the unmistakable earthy scent of Eddieâs âspecialâ ingredient, now fully blended into his brownie batter. You canât help but laugh as he slides his pan into the oven next to yours, a smug look on his face. He wipes his hands on a towel, tossing it over his shoulder with a flourish before cranking the volume on his stereo. The unmistakable opening riffs of Black Sabbathâs âParanoidâ fill the trailer, vibrating the walls.
âCome on,â Eddie says, pulling you by the wrist before you can protest. âWeâve got time to kill.â
You laugh, letting him spin you into the middle of the living room, where the cramped space suddenly feels alive with energy. His wild curls bounce as he throws his head back, mouthing the lyrics, eyes alight with that infectious, carefree joy. The beat pulses through you, and you canât help but sway, grinning as Eddie belts out the chorus in his raspy, off-key voice.
âIron Man's up next,â he says, wiggling his eyebrows, taking a step closer as he plays an imaginary guitar. His fingers move expertly through the air, his body swaying in exaggerated motions like he's onstage at some packed arena instead of his tiny trailer. You canât stop laughing, the tension of the day melting away as the music takes over.
When the next song kicks in, Eddie grabs your hands and twirls you around. You stumble over your feet, but he doesnât let go, guiding you into a makeshift dance thatâs half headbanging, half an uncoordinated waltz. Youâre both breathless, laughing too hard to keep up with the tempo. The ovenâs warmth fills the room, mingling with the growing haze of smoke from Eddieâs earlier indulgence, but the brownies are still safeâfor now.
âCome on, sing with me!â Eddie shouts over the music, his voice cracking with enthusiasm. He pulls you closer, his grip firm but playful, and suddenly, youâre both shouting the lyrics, offbeat and too loud for the tiny space but perfect for the moment.
The chorus of âIron Manâ echoes through the trailer, and Eddieâs laughter is contagious as he spins you again, this time pulling you into a dramatic dip. The world tilts, and you grip his shoulder, your eyes meeting his for a brief, breathless second. Thereâs something so simple, so easy about thisâabout him. He grins, and for a moment, you forget everything outside of this trailer.
As the last chords ring out, Eddie lets you stand up straight, his hands still resting lightly on your waist. Both of you are out of breath, flushed from dancing, and the oven timer dings behind you.
âLooks like the brownies are ready,â you say, stepping back to catch your breath.
Eddieâs smile widens as he wipes the sweat from his brow, looking at you with a glint in his eye. âPerfect timing. Though I have to sayâŠâ He pulls the oven mitts off the counter and holds them up. âThe dancing wasnât bad either.â
âNot bad?â you mock, raising an eyebrow. âI carried that whole performance.â
He smirks, handing you the mitts. âGuess weâll have to see if your brownies can hold up to mine, then.â
âThink theyâll appreciate your culinary skills?â you ask, glancing over your shoulder.Â
With the music still playing softly in the background, you open the oven door and pull out both pans, the warm, rich smell of chocolate filling the trailer.
âOh, theyâll love âem,â Eddie says, flashing that wicked smile again. âBut not as much as I will.â His eyes meet yours, playful and intent, and for a second, the air between you feels thick, charged like the electric hum of the amplifier he constantly fiddles with.
You smirk, tossing a towel at him. âBetter hope they donât figure out which batch is which.â
He catches the towel and drapes it over his shoulder. âThatâs half the fun.â
#writers on tumblr#fanfiction#creative writing#eddie munson#ao3 fanfic#fanfic#eddie munson x reader#stranger things fanfic#eddie munson fanfiction#female writers#eddie x fem!reader#eddie x you#eddie munson fluff#eddie munson x fem!reader fluff#fanfiction fluff#fluff fic#one shot#fluff#iron man#black sabbath#rock n roll#hair bands#metal edge#stranger things fic#stranger things s4#stranger things au#stranger things#eddie munson moodboard#eddie munson stranger things#stranger things fluff
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CRIMSON
sterek | E | 6k | ao3
tags: Established Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Alpha Derek, Possessive Derek, Dark Derek, Everybody Wants Stiles, Top Derek Hale/Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Background Character Death, Eventual Smut, Derek is unhinged and obsessed, but what else is new, Blood
Summary:
Stiles stared at Derek without breathing.
At the tiny droplets of crimson hidden in his beard, at his gentle but intense eyes, at his mouth smeared with blood. He felt the taste of it on his tongue.
Derek held his promise.
He would always hold it. There was nothing Stiles could do or say to stop him. This was it. Stiles married him, mated with him for the rest of his life. Derek killed and he would undoubtedly kill again.
for @homemadesterekpie and @goddessofsteel based on this post
#sterek#sterek fic#stiles x derek#sterek fanfic#eternal sterek#derek hale#stiles stilinski#sterek ao3#sterek fic rec#sterek fanfiction#teen wolf fanfiction#teen wolf fic#sterek moodboard#my fics
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âż»Íđă !â, beijÉ-flor [ . . . ]
@dolce ïž¶Öąïž¶ â
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%â · đđźfeÌ Î±mαrgo Ś âȘ . . . â« đđ» . éŁé
绿ćł. ââ đđđđ đźÍđșÍđźÍđżÍđČÍđčÍđźÍđ±ÍđŒÍïżœïżœ â âżđ
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[ âż ] limÉÌozinho fÉŸesco % ăđâ
ć„„ă â nosso ৠ! đčđŒđđČ đœđŸ đŒđđđŸđđș
ââ àł đ . @doulce ăÖȘ đč ÖȘ
đčđ„ïž ( . . . ) đ đđą ..âż đ« đ đ±ă
đșđđșđ-đđŸ âă @doulce ÖȘ đč ÖȘ
#DIARY àł ! ăđ . đŒÍđșÍđÍđșÍđÍđŸÍđ
Íđ
Íđș
 âč  àšâĄà§  âč 
Não permito repostagem desta bio! Caso for usar , use deixando os devidos créditos a @ceonliqs. ( on ig )
#plaquinha rpg#abbott elementary#messy moodboard#artists on tumblr#ao3#avatar the last airbender#boku no hero academia#critical role#dolly parton#genshin impact
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Edwin Payne and Charles Rowland (1910s Artist AU)
And Edwin's heart stops when he sees the uncovered canvases, these glimpses into Charles' soul, because finally, Edwin understands.Â
Because Edwin looks at the paintings and he sees the city, captured in expressionistic brushstrokes. He sees the same damn city he fell in love with, even with its smog and its underbelly and its crampedness and its bustle, because it was the city that brought Charles back to life. He sees the golds and the blacks and what might have been called chiaroscuro in another lifetime, another art movement. He sees Charlesâ masterful ability to capture life and translate it into brushstrokes and shapes and colors.
And most importantly, Edwin sees himself. Sees a figure in some paintings and a face in others, all familiar sharp planes and dark hair and a bowtie and an overcoat that Edwin could not abandon back at St. Hilarionâs. He sees gray-green eyes the shade of lake water, except these are not waters a boy could drown in- these are the eyes of a boy who once pulled another boy from a lake.
And Edwin knows, in this moment, that Charles loves him. God, does Charles love him.Â
Because Edwin sees the way that Charles paints him, all haloed by the bronze and gold streetlights, capturing the planes of Edwinâs face in the way that no photographs ever could, painting him sharp and witty and tired and beloved and alive, alive, alive. Â
-aletterinthenameofsanity, you always look so lovely (paint how you see me)
@tragedy-machine @every-moment-a-different-sound @pappelsiin @mellxncollie @nix-nihili
@anything-thats-rock-and-roll @tumblerislovetumblerislife @catboy-cabin @bitterdesert @idliketobeatree
#art fic#artist au#1910s au#payneland#charles rowland#edwin payne#moodboard#fanfic#my fics#ao3#aletterinthenameofsanity#dead boy detectives#my edits#aesthetic#expressionism#impressionism
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can u pls make me a deadpool moodboard PLEASEEEEEEEE
okay!
be gay do crime my fellow fangeek [rlly bringing the vintage 2014 tumblrina wine out to sip delicately aren't i]
#deadpool#me and my posts#theo posting#bean answers an ask#deadpool and wolverine#deadpool 3#deadpool fanart#deadpool movie#deadpool x reader#deadclaws#poolverine#wade wilson#moodboard#moodboard aesthetic#aesthetic moodboard#aesthetics#aesthetic board#soft aesthetic#fandom#fandom things#how to ao3#archive of our own#reading fanfiction#fanfics
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