#beige plush coffee table

[rachelpandich]

Living Room in Miami Living room - mid-sized coastal formal and loft-style porcelain tile and beige floor living room idea with beige walls, no fireplace and a wall-mounted tv

[i-cried-and-i-was-in-the-impala]

Transitional Basement - Walk Out

Inspiration for a mid-sized transitional walk-out carpeted basement remodel with beige walls and no fireplace

[mrdifferent]

Transitional Basement - Walk Out

Inspiration for a mid-sized transitional walk-out carpeted basement remodel with beige walls and no fireplace

[westillwriteincursive]

Transitional Basement - Walk Out

Inspiration for a mid-sized transitional walk-out carpeted basement remodel with beige walls and no fireplace

[zaynmajor]

Living Room Loft-Style

Example of a mid-sized transitional formal and loft-style medium tone wood floor and brown floor living room design with beige walls, a ribbon fireplace, a tile fireplace and no tv

[robertomusci]

Transitional Basement - Walk Out

Inspiration for a mid-sized transitional walk-out carpeted basement remodel with beige walls and no fireplace

[valeriacarr]

Transitional Basement - Walk Out

Inspiration for a mid-sized transitional walk-out carpeted basement remodel with beige walls and no fireplace

[petmilkpop]

Transitional Basement - Walk Out

Inspiration for a mid-sized transitional walk-out carpeted basement remodel with beige walls and no fireplace

[robinsnest2111]

@anaalnathrakhs IT DOES!!!

I was lucky for once and the internet knew what I meant when I looked up meringue golden drops lol

this is exactly how my grandma's cakes looked like!

apparently this type of meringue topped cake is called either "Goldtröpfchentorte" (golden drop cake) or "Tränenkuchen" (tears cake). not sure if it's a German thing or if there's similar recipes in other countries 🤔

also the cake underneath is a very lemony very soft creamy cheesecake with a shortcrust type base. so just the way my grandma used to make for special occasions

...the urge to go out and buy all the ingredients and try my hand at this...

in my mind my mutuals and I are standing in a beautiful cozy kitchen, all of us baking delicious treats, cakes and pies and cookies and breads and biscuits and whatever else

we're having so much fun and each of us gets their favourite flavours and it's so nice... <3

[missydior]

prince of monaco ౨ৎ

notes: charles leclerc x reader, est. relationship, suggestive content, alcohol, insinuation of nudity (bathing) but no explicit details or sexual activity.

a/n: i wrote this at 11pm & it's a little ridiculous but this is also me projecting my manifestations for him to win his home grand prix this weekend.

The sweet aroma of your Miss Dior: Eau de Parfum in damask rose and incense against pink peonies, clean linen sheets mussed about the inviting embrace of the bed, café au lait from a drained mug on the nightstand beside sweet-smelling lilies, and white, lace stockings abandoned and draped over the velvet loveseat.

Charles' claim of 1st at the Monaco Grand Prix was most blessing, and the perfect excuse for a long night of a plentiful of Moët & Chandon champagne, honorary chants, and celebratory reverie: announcing him the 'prince' of his beloved home, a victory he has been yearning for, since forever.

You had remained with him through the week, watching and admiring through every practice session from your usual seat, enjoying luncheon together and laughing over the usual lovey-dovey or noncommittal subjects as a means to distract him from his nerves before qualifying – the kind of thing he doesn't admit to but you know is only human – and your never-leaving gaze throughout the Grand Prix itself.

Until you got to watch from below with love hearts in your eyes when he stood on that podium, in his true and most divine stature whilst the crowds called for him and the Monégasque anthem resonated like the music of the heavens.

Now, it is quiet in the apartment you both call home, all minimalist but comfortable interior in a palette of white, créme, beige and hints of colour against the décor that define it as yours: the polished trophies before the white-varnished piano, heavy and velvet curtains stirring lazily about closed balconies of their rocaille-esque motifs, the abandoned sweater forgotten on the sofa, your rose crocheting yarn on the coffee table beside a copy of last month's Vogue.

Peaceful and content, stood before the ornate mirror in the en-suite of polished marble and quiet luxury, humming some gentle and absent tune to yourself as you comb your hair – dressed down to the comfortable, white gossamer silk of your négligée – whilst the only tune that resounds being the hushed television down the hall.

It is only a minute later that you are interrupted from your daydreaming by the sound of the mahogany front door as it draws open and closed. The familiar clink of keys set down on the oak furniture in the foyer, shuffled footfalls a little less balanced than usual, quickly silenced against the sound of a familiar voice like melting caramel on the subtle, slurring song of inebriation.

"Chérie?"

Hair comb set down on the neat counter beside the porcelain embellished basin, you absently gnaw at your lower-lip whilst silent feet wander the parquestry of the flooring through the flat in your approach to the source of your boyfriend's return, tucking a hair behind your ear, "Charles, I'm–"

The words are lost on the edge of your tongue the second you emerge from the bedroom's suite, down past the plush sitting area to be met by the sight of him where the corridor joins the rest of the homely setting.

"Bonsoir, bébé."

Even when he is slightly hair-tousled with damp, brunet strays falling about his forehead and the linen of his shirt slightly wrinkled, Charles is a handsome man, devastatingly so; the kind of beautiful that renders the air from your lungs a little even when you hold back light laughter at him now.

From his posture, an effort of an elegant curve to his physique like he is trying to be some suave, pretty flirt from those old, romance comedies you watch, where one elbow is propped against the wood arch of the threshold – the only thing evidently holding him upright – whilst his flushed cheeks strain a little on a dimpled, lazy and contagious smile.

"Hello, Charles."

"Ma belle, I missed you, I'm home," With something close to a brief pout and an attempt at a wink, the man lets his lovely eyes dance down and along your own figure in a lingering admiration and a slow, drawn-out smirk that looks both laughable and far-too-endearing, lithe fingers absently adjusting his loosened shirt collar as you come closer.

"I can see that," In response, you try not to appear amused though it is perceptible on the curve by the corner of your sweet mouth when his eyes follow the subtle shift of your hips as you draw forward until your arms fold around his midriff, breathing him in: champagne and cologne, hints of warm amber and rosewood. "You're drunk."

His arm falls around your shoulder comfortably as he sways against you, kissing the crown of your head like a useless reassurance when he murmurs a lieu of words in the thickened curl of his accent, "Non, ça va, je–"

"Charles." Your face shifts with a look, the both of you stumbling a little backwards where his weight almost has you falling on the edge of a floral rug, a hushed, noncommittal sound close to a chuckle falling from the man as he buries his face into the side of your neck with the punctuation of an open-mouth kiss.

"D'accord, d'accord."

"Stupid," You mutter affectionately, rolling your eyes fondly despite knowing all too well what has him so distracted, the warmth of his mouth and the gentle rasp of his five o'clock shadow tickling the underside of your jaw and the sensitivity there, a purr reverberating from the back of his throat as a response.

"Are you hungry– would you like anything?"

"Just you, chérie, I want to..." The Monégasque trails off momentarily like he is disputing internally with his own dialogue, lightly calloused palms feeling the curve of your waist through pale silk before pausing at your derrière absently – tracing his tongue against the edge of pearlescent teeth – as the two of you move further through the sitting room, his voice a whisper, "Je veux te baiser, mon ange."

With a blush dusting the edges of your cheekbones at the obscène words, you offer a half-apologetic smile whilst stroking back his tousled hair, "How about we get dressed down and settled first, at least?"

Initially, he seems reluctant to offer any hint of acquiescence but he eventually nods a little with a vague sound of acknowledgement, fingertips still feeling over your figure as you walk the path together before reaching the bathroom, the door falling shut gently.

Even when the reality of the presence has you accepting tonight shall be long, the man is undoubtedly his most entertaining and equally sweet as romanticised prophecies when he is intoxicated.

"Mm," It is the only indication you are given when Charles' touch falls upon the lace edges of your négligée, drawing it down the curve of your shoulder slowly as he traces the shell of your ear with his mouth, "You're wearing my favourite."

A soft laugh leaves the depth of your chest – a hushed affirmative sound in reply – before his hands come to cradle either side of your jaw tenderly whilst his thumb caresses the apple of your cheek, the kiss that follows his gentle persuasion more loving, his lips parted softly.

Just as quickly as the almost peaceful, drawn-out intimacy begins, it ends when he gives some hushed, breathless sound of sheer enjoyment whilst his hips absently meets yours until you feel the edge of the basin behind, a palm splaying over his chest just enough to encourage him from pausing.

"We can have a nice bath first and then I might consider your suggestion, monsieur," You offer gently in hushed humour, undoing the remaining buttons of his shirt whilst sealing your sentence with a chaste kiss near his chin.

"I'd much rather have you."

"So romantic," Muttering the words quietly, your nose brushes the bridge of his own fractionally where you see the slight glaze of liquor in his eyes, like gentle moss and warm oak, his mouth shifting almost proudly with momentarily met gazes.

"Only for you, mon cœur, I could write you sonnets of love, la mélodie de tes yeux–"

"Okay, Romeo Montague, how about you wash first?"

The initial hope had only been to coax him into the warmth of the bath waters amongst a touch lavender oil that threatens to lull him further into quiet and peace, wash his hair from your seat and prevent the possibility of any difficulty, though clothes are mutually forgotten on the marble floors and small, white-cotton rug when he guilts you into joining him.

"Charles," A whisper of his name though the cadence of your voice lacks the intent of reproach, bodies close together as he guides you into a comfortable situation about his lap whilst you work nimble fingers through his dampened hair slowly, hoping to distract him from anything but washing and settling down from the dizziness of too much alcohol.

"You smell nice," He mumbles indulgently against your shoulder, tracing a kiss on the jut of your collarbone in the dreamy lull of his voice as though lost in the figments of his own thoughts, "Like les fleurs..."

"And you smell like a bottle of Moët."

The man offers a lowered tune of disagreement, a palm idly stroking the curve of your thigh and down the inside of your knee beneath the warm water as you lather the product through his tresses, holding back a smile when he responds drunkenly like some smitten, hopeless lover of the poets:

"Non, c'est seulement le parfum des nuages."

It is the kind of sweet words that would usually have your cheeks warming or laughing like some conjured image of him in your mind, rifling through books of poetry because you cannot fathom him thinking of such phrases alone, though the moment his lips find the curve of your throat and the sensitive area beneath your jaw, it is harder not to succumb to the gentle temptation and let him have his way, a sigh falling from you.

"What are you doing?"

"Loving you." He says the words so easily, like it is the simplest, most natural truth he could ever admit, the warmth and wetness of his mouth trailing the lines of your throat and across the arch of your shoulders.

"You're ridiculous."

"Ridiculously in love with you," He sounds proud of himself. Then, he is guiding the two of you, bodies pressed flush against one another as you are moved back, the weight of him familiar and the pressure of his mouth meeting yours slowly, "Let me love you, s'il vous plaît, ma chérie."

There are the smallest fragments of his soul and the secrets of his heart within the way his body moves, the gentle touch and the softness, the vulnerability and the passion even in the humour of his intoxicated mannerisms; how he makes love and the manner he holds you after, and there is an undeniable and irrefutable trust you hold for him alone.

[bearforcecaptions]

The furniture store was bustling with activity on a bright Saturday afternoon, a perfect day for a fresh college graduate like Jack to outfit his very first apartment. Having recently landed his dream engineering job, he was finally earning enough to trade in his beat-up secondhand furniture for something a bit more grown-up. Wandering through the aisles filled with plush couches, sleek coffee tables, and stately armchairs, Jack’s eye caught sight of a recliner tucked into a cozy display setup.

It was a creamy beige leather chair with soft, inviting cushions. It exuded a kind of classic charm, the sort of piece that seemed made for lazy evenings in front of the television. Jack grinned. He hadn’t really pictured himself as a recliner guy, but there was something about the chair that called to him. He ran his hand over the smooth leather and decided to give it a try.

He plopped down into the chair, immediately sinking into its plush embrace. The comfort was instant, the cushions molding to his frame as though the chair had been waiting for him all along. He leaned back, kicking the recliner footrest into place, and sighed. It was perfection. Closing his eyes, he let himself sink deeper into relaxation.

The hum of the store faded into the background. At first, he thought it was simply his mind wandering as he imagined how the chair might look in his living room. But when he opened his eyes, something was… off. The lights in the store seemed dimmer, and the buzz of customers had been replaced by the faint sound of a clock ticking in the distance. He glanced down and frowned. His t-shirt and jeans were beginning to change before his eyes.

The fabric of his t-shirt shifted and rippled, becoming thicker and darker. It morphed into a slightly faded black polo shirt, with a tiny logo embroidered on the chest. His jeans tightened briefly before loosening again, the denim softening and fading until they became a pair of well-worn gray sweatpants. The sensation of the changes tickled his skin, and he gasped as his feet, still propped up on the recliner, were now clad in a pair of white athletic socks that had seen plenty of use.

Jack tried to push himself up out of the chair, but his body felt heavier than it should have. His arms, once lean from years of youthful activity, now bore a thicker, sturdier look, the muscle buried beneath a soft layer of flesh. His chest filled out, and a slight roundness formed around his stomach. He flexed his fingers in confusion, noticing that they now appeared slightly thicker and rougher, with calluses that hadn’t been there before. His once clean-shaven face itched as dark stubble rapidly sprouted along his jawline, creating a rugged, lived-in look.

His head began to tingle, and Jack instinctively reached up to run his fingers through his hair—only to find much of it missing. His once full head of hair receded rapidly, leaving behind a shiny bald crown. The sensation was strange, like a cool breeze rushing over freshly exposed skin. He groaned softly, his voice deeper than he remembered, the sound vibrating in his chest with a richness that startled him.

Around him, the store continued to shift and blur. The walls of the showroom seemed to melt away, transforming into the warm, beige walls of a cozy living room. A large, flat-screen TV flickered to life across from him, and family photos began to materialize on the walls and shelves. He could make out the smiling faces of two young children and a woman with kind eyes and a radiant smile—his wife, he realized. A wedding ring now adorned his left hand, the metal cool against his skin.

He sat frozen in the chair, trying to make sense of what was happening. The final piece of the transformation came bounding into the room—a massive, affectionate dog. It leapt onto his lap with a happy thump, nearly knocking the wind out of him. The dog’s weight pressed him deeper into the recliner, and Jack instinctively began scratching its ears, his body responding as though it had done so a thousand times before.

For a moment, panic gripped him. He was no longer the fresh-faced, twenty-two-year-old college grad exploring a furniture store. He was a middle-aged man, sitting in his recliner after what he somehow knew had been a long day at work. But as he looked around, the panic began to fade. The warmth of the room, the love in the photos, and the comfort of the dog sprawled across his lap all felt… right.

Memories flooded his mind, filling in the gaps. He remembered meeting his wife at a work event, the birth of his two kids, countless family vacations, and lazy weekends spent in this very chair. His engineering career had flourished, but he had also learned to prioritize the simple joys of life—family dinners, movie nights, and quiet moments with his dog.

He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling from his chest. "What a crazy dream," he muttered to himself. For a brief moment, he had been convinced he was still that young guy just starting out. But this life—his real life—was so much better. He adjusted the recliner, leaning back further as the dog nuzzled into him. The day’s stress melted away, and Jack closed his eyes, letting himself fully embrace the peaceful evening.

[lgwifey]

PROMISE

chapter one

Demetri Volturi x Fem!(cullen)Reader

Chapter Warnings : mentions of death, grieving

2004

Denim covered hips swayed sensually to the record player's tune. The intro of 'It's Been A Long, Long Time' echoed through the glamorous and modern build of the Cullen's house.

Y/N had been left by herself whilst her adoptive father was at the hospital, adoptive mother at the local shops and siblings all out in the forest for their daily meal. She'd ate early in the day, a rich young stag. Her taste buds lit up at the memory, delicious.

She mouthed along to the words as they blasted around her bedroom, dry sobs pausing between every other word, falling dramatically onto one of the plush cream couches layed around the room.

Beside that particular couch rested a dark oak coffee table, an equally as dark photo frame holding an aged black and white photo of said girl. In the photo, a young man stood beside her, a cheesy grin across his lips and a beige fedora tilted on his short hair. He held an arm around the excited expressioned girl, his hand holding her trench coat covered hip whilst one of her feet popped in the air slightly.

Golden eyes turned to the table, the song drifting out as the next ballad of soft jazz started playing from the corner. Y/N locked her saddened eyes on the frame, hand reaching out to grab it as her eyes remained running over the figure beside her past self. She let out a soft sigh, venom filling her eyes but never falling.

A manicured finger etched over the man's face, finger scratching across the glass lightly as the teenage girl sat upright. A pout grew on her perfectly plumped lips as she let out another sigh.

A knock came from the outside of her room, Y/N’s eyes immediately shooting to the figure stood in the crack of her opened bedroom door.

She placed the frame back carefully, her hands positioning it perfectly before she gave a small apology and raced to the dark leather case to turn her music down.

"Sorry, I didn't hear you come back."

Esme just gave her adoptive daughter a sad smile, entering the room fully and sitting herself on the couch closest to the door, a dark brown corduroy two-seater.

"You missing him ?"

She just gave a sigh, a heavy blink pooling venom as she lowered the volume on the musical case and made her way back over to her previous seat, eyes forcing themselves to meet Esme's sorrowful ones.

"My friend from New Jersey, she urm, she sent me last week's papers."

Esme just looked slightly confused as she watched Y/N fiddle with her fingers. A large diamond stood out amongst her plain hands, the golden band tight around her usually empty ring finger. That piqued her attention, Y/N hadn't worn that ring in over forty years.

The conversation broke for a second, the younger girl reaching across for a thin paper cut out sat on-top of a stack of books on a difference table, this one standing slightly taller and further away from the door. She handed the delicate inked page to her mother figure, Esme's brows raising as she accepted the page and began to read over it.

"The obituaries ?"

"Yep."

A gagged pause came after an answer to her question, Y/N’s hand came to cover her mouth as a dry, choked sob echoed over her quiet music.

"It arrived this morning."

Esme came to a realisation as she read the bold writing a few columns down.

THOMAS PISTANO

beloved husband, son, grandfather and brave businessman

age 85

"Y/N, I'm so sorry sweetheart."

Another sob echoed through the room as Esme paced to place the paper on the closest surface and rushed to pull her youngest child into a tight hug.

"Sweetie, this is completely natural."

"He wasn't even mine anymore, he had a wife. Grandchildren ! Grandchildren that I could never have gave him."

"He grew old, it's what humans do."

Esme just pulled her daughter closer, Y/N relaxing in her arms as the older woman ran her cold fingers through the slightly disheveled hairs.

"It's what I was supposed to do, with him. I didn't even know he was out of jail !"

The older woman held back a grimace, thankful that her adoptive daughter couldn't see her expression at the moment as she continued to comfort her empty sobs. Y/N never had the best taste in men, but it was to only be expected with her background.

"It was how you coped sweetheart, no one would blame you for not knowing."

"I should've been there, at his bedside !"

"Y/N, you would've gave him a heart attack if you suddenly appeared after sixty years. It's better that you didn't know."

"I guess."

Her head suddenly shifted, moving from surrounded by Esme's arms as she just gave a sad attempt of a smile.

"He'd probably have had a heart attack at how Benny I sound now."

"I'll pretend I know what that means."

Y/N just struggled down a snorted laugh, Esme giving a slightly less sorrowful smile as she stood up from the couch, the loud footsteps and shouts of her other children appearing downstairs.

"I'm going to go a check on you brothers and sisters, take your time sweetheart. Go for another hunt, you look like you need some more energy."

"Okay, thanks Esme."

"Always here," She spoke clearly, turning away from the door for a second with a thick, faux New Jersey accent. "Don't you forget it."

Y/N just gave a snort of laughter, shaking her head dramatically at the mock of her natural accent.

"That was terrible."

"Well it made you smile, now go eat."

Esme left with a smile, closing the door and assuming her daughter would use the windows to enter the forest. Her children barely ever used their front door, no matter how many times she told them to. Y/N was the worst for jumping out of her windows to leave the house, Edward a close second.

Speeding down the stairs, the matriarch of the Cullens gave her children a clap of greeting, her smile more faux then usual causing a gathering of questions, Edward standing quite at the back of the group as he already understood the thoughts on the situation that was about to be explained to them, he held back from rushing up the stairs.

"Everyone's fine, don't worry. Just give your sister some time over the next few days, Tommy passed last week."

"What ? Wait, I thought she'd stopped keeping a check on him after '57."

Alice gave a confused look as she questioned more, Esme just giving a sad sigh.

"One of her friends send her a news clipping, thought she should be made aware. She's wearing her engagement ring again... and listening to jazz."

"Oh God."

The curse came from an exasperated Rosalie, the blonde rolling her eyes as she hung her coat up on one of the pegs by the front door.

"Rose, be nice."

Edward sent a warning glare to his sister, just getting a huff in reply.

"If I have to hear Frank Sinatra on repeat for five days again, I might go on a killing spree."

"I might join." Alice caught Esme's disapproving look as soon as the words left her mouth, quickly adding onto them. "I love Y/N, don't get me wrong, but there's only so much 'That's Life' I can take before I go insane."

"Just be nice around her please, she needs your support."

"It'll be fine Esme, she always is."

Edward gave the reply, all of the teenagers giving their adoptive mother a bright smile each as she gave a soft smile back.

"I know, I know. I just worry about you lot - you know that."

She turned to leave, wondering off to her office to sketch up some plans of their next home. She was thinking an extension on their Denali home would be lovely. She quickly ran away from her sketching thoughts, turning back to the mix of teenagers - who were busying themselves muttering about the latest drama at their school - with a confused look.

"Do any of you know what a ‘Benny’ is ?"

A confused expression hit most of her children, the look seemingly being contagious as the deepest voice spoke up in a questioning manner

"Like the ice cream brand ?"

He was just scoffed at by the bronze haired boy next to him, the only one not looking utterly befuddled at Esme's question and Y/N’s terminology.

"Shut up Emmet, it's slang for a Yankee."

"Oh, right. Good to know."

Edward just gave a laugh, Esme finally walking off to her study.

Chapter Two

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

[moonstruckme]

if it’d be ok to ask, would you ever want to write some sweet fluff of remus & a chubby/plus-sized reader?? i’ve been kind of struggling lately, the holidays are a difficult time for me & my body and i just personally love to think about how he’d love a soft figure 🩷

Of course it's okay to ask sweetheart! I'm not sure how this ended up going in a pre-relationship direction but it did, so the adulation isn't quite as overt but I hope it comes across anyway? Hope you're having an easier time my love <33

Remus Lupin x plus size!reader ♡ 872 words

Remus stubs his cigarette out before he reaches the front door, tossing the butt into the grass and telling himself he’ll come back to throw it out later. You don’t like when he brings the smell inside, and he’s not keen on another lecture from James on how he’s shoddily built enough without sabotaging his lungs too. When he opens the door, the apartment smells of cinnamon and sweetness. 

“Fuck, he’s home. We’re doomed now.” Sirius tilts his head back, dark hair streaming over the back of the couch, to send Remus a droll look. 

“No, no, he’ll be a sport.” James turns around beside him. “Rem, we’re trying to decide between playing blackjack”—he infuses the words with a good amount of enthusiasm, eyebrows raising meaningfully—”or doing a puzzle.” His face falls. “Which would you prefer?” 

“I’m sick of blackjack,” you say, coming into the room carrying a plate of cookies. And you’re…wow. You’re wearing a dress Remus hasn’t seen before. It hugs and flutters about your curves prettily, swishing around your hips as you breeze into the living room to set the plate in front of James like a bribe. “And I made snacks, so you’d think I get a bigger say.” 

“Doll, we appreciate you, but you’re just bitter because you lost everything last night,” Sirius says while James munches happily on a cookie. “You don’t want a chance to win some back?” 

You shoot him the sort of deadpan look you’ve only recently worked up the courage to start using on them. “We were playing with gummy bears, Sirius. I’m not too torn up about it.” 

“I’d be alright with a puzzle,” Remus says, settling into his favored armchair.

Sirius sends him a look like Of course you would, you lovesick traitor, but it’s easy to ignore when you’re smiling at him so beautifully. 

“Yes! Knew I could count on you.” The easy words warm his chest more than they have any right to, helped along by your hand on his knee for balance as you lower yourself to the ground by his feet. 

“Fine,” Sirius grouses, standing, “but I’m picking the puzzle.” 

“More than a hundred pieces,” you say as he goes to the shelf. “If we’re done in a half hour, I’m going to petition for starting another.” 

“Wretch.”

You tilt your head back to see Remus, lowering your voice. “You’ve been smoking,” you whisper. 

He grins, caught. “Don’t tell.” 

“I won’t,” you roll your eyes, patting his calf reassuringly, “but don’t get near James, he’ll sniff you out too.” 

“Thanks, love. Is that dress new?” 

You dip your head, one of your shy smiles gracing your lips. “Yeah, I got it a few days ago.” 

“It looks really nice,” he tells you, struggling to keep the reverence from his tone. “You look really nice.” 

“You think so?” You make no effort to hide how pleased you are at the compliment, your eyes wide and sweet as they look up at him. It’s one of the things he really likes about you. “Thanks, Rem. Did you get a cookie?” 

“Not sure there are going to be any left,” he notes, eyes going to where James is wharfing down another, watching the two of you sneakily out of the corner of his eye. 

You laugh, reaching forward to steal a few from the plate. Remus tries not to let his eyes catch too obviously on the backs of your plush thighs as you sit up on your knees to lean over the coffee table. It’s a substantial effort.

He thanks you when you pass him a couple, inspecting the beige and brown swirls on the treat. “What are they?”

“Cinnamon roll cookies,” you say through a bite. “Figured I’d try something new.” 

Remus takes a bite, letting the warm softness meld to the roof of his mouth. “It’s really good.” 

One of your shoulders comes up, a bashful half-shrug. (Remus wants to put his hand over it. Wrap the strap of your pretty dress around his pinkie.) “Thanks,” you breathe, like the word is starting to feel awkward and too-familiar in your mouth. 

James shoots Remus a look. He ignores it pointedly. 

“We have too many difficult ones,” Sirius announces as he flops back onto the couch, unceremoniously depositing a puzzle box on the table. “I found the simplest option I could.” 

You roll your eyes at Sirius’ bellyaching, sliding the plate of cookies closer to him and giving his hand a conciliatory pat. 

The look he fixes on you in return is disgruntlement entirely for show. (He loves you, truly.) “Can we at least have some wine while we work?” 

“I have no intention of ruining your night, Sirius,” you say diplomatically. “Bring it on out.” 

He hops back up, eager to avoid the tiresome work of building the puzzle’s foundation, and aims for the kitchen. 

“Alright, losers,” James says, dumping the pieces on the table, “get us started.” 

You tug on Remus’ wrist, pulling him down from his chair so he’s sitting beside you. One of his knees presses into your thigh. You bump his bony shoulder lightly with your soft one. 

“Help me with the border?” 

He’ll do anything you ask him to.

[imaginesforeons]

Can we get some more stuff with your yandere! nanami? it could be anything like even your headcanons about how he treats his darling ! I really like the way you write him!

Yes!! Any excuse to write my man. I hope this is ok, and if you want more, feel free to ask.

Not Your Room (Yandere!Nanami x Reader)

~You wake up somewhere completely foreign to you~

CW: Past kidnapping. Yandere Nanami. Vomiting but that's because reader is dizzy.

Word Count: 1,178

Reqs are OPEN! At the top of my page you can see what fandoms I write for, so DM me with your ideas!

Buy me a coffee?

.-.-.

You woke up in a bed that was not your own.

The first thing you’re aware of is a weight across your legs, then a warmth around your body, and, finally, the plush sensation of sheets and pillows cradling you. It was almost enough to drag you back down to the impossibly deep sleep you fought your way out of. Almost, but not quite, because this was not your bed.

You took a moment to breathe, bracing yourself before opening your eyes, only to wish you’d kept them shut.

You weren’t in your bed, and you were definitely not in your room. All of it was completely foreign, so unlike your own home that you might as well have stepped into a separate country for how unfamiliar everything was. The room was dimmed with only one lamp on, but you could see off-white walls and beige curtains, no colorful accents but for the single blue throw draped over a chair in a corner. It was like the owner had never dared impress any of their own personality into the room, and you had woken up in an interior design catologue. 

Could you be hospitalized? If you were, wherever they had put you was surely thousands of dollars out of your budget. It was bland, yes, but just from a single glance you could tell that everything was top quality.

You forced your body to sit up with a grunt, limbs oddly heavy, casting your eyes around the room, searching for your things, only to pause. Beside a door was a pair of shoes; a pair of men’s shoes. If you were in a hospital, it would make no sense for a man to leave his shoes in your room, not if they were a doctor or visitor. You swallowed, and this time looked around the room with new eyes. Other than the shoes, you saw a bedside table with a book resting on the top, a suitcase set on the chair that held the blue afgan, and opposite from you bed was a door cracked open just enough for you to see a bathroom rug.

You weren’t in a hospital, you were in someone’s house. You stiffened, and you found yourself fisting your hands into the white sheets beneath you.

Your panic was cut off when you heard the creak of a doorknob turning. Jerking, you slid from the bed to stand and hide from whoever was coming, but instead you nearly crumpled to the ground. A sudden dizziness overtook you, black speckled at the corners of your vision, and a rushing pounded through your ears, deafening and clouding everything around you.

“-sy. Take deep breaths.” A voice, also male, broke through to you, and you felt calloused hands guide you back to the bed.

“Where-” You paused, rubbing your temples, a headache building up in your skull. “Where am I?”

You glanced up and gasped. Brown eyes behind wire glasses, blond hair professionally slicked back, a sharp face; you knew this man. Every Thursday, you’d go to a bakery a block from your house, treating yourself to something sweet. Exactly at eight in the morning, the man in front of you would walk in, buy the same thing every time, then leave. Never had the two of you shared words, or smiles, or anything more than a quick glance. What was he doing here?

“Stay calm,” your bakery aquiantance said as he guided your head back to the pillows. “You’ve been through a trauma.”

“A trauma?” you muttered. “What do you mean?”

“I can’t give you all the details yet. For now, just focus on relaxing.”

You found yourself lying back in bed, staring at the ceiling, mind trying to process what was being said yet falling oddly flat.

Suddenly, your vision was obscured as he reached for your face, and you didn't have any time to flinch back before his hands grabbed your head. Big was the only word that came to mind, before fingers were gently massaging at your scalp.

That felt nice. Your eyes started to droop, and you felt yourself sinking into that strange fog you had just struggled from. You were nearly asleep, gentle, strong fingers massaging your neck, when a thread of anxiety worked its way through you.

“My parents!” you exclaimed, sitting back up again. “I have to call them! Where’s my phone?”

The blond man sat back, dropping his hands from your face. “I’m afraid you can’t do that.”

“What do you mean?” you asked, then winced. Your head was hurting again.

“I mean you can’t have your cellphone or any other electronics without my supervision.” He put his hand on your sternum, urging you back, but you pushed him away.

You thrashed, throwing off your blankets. “What the fack does that mean?” you snapped, swinging your feet over the bed. “Where’s my phone? Where’s the rest of my shit?”

“Easy,” he soothed. “Too much movement might make you dizzy. I’m not sure how you’ll react with the drugs.” 

You felt an icy cold work its way down your back.

“You drugged me?” you hissed. Now that he’d admitted to it, you did feel heavy, dizzy in a way that not even alcohol could accomplish. Even the anger you felt towards the man for what he didn’t was only there for a moment before guttering out, like a weak flame fed with damp wood.

“With propofol, yes. It’s a common anesthetic used in hospitals and other healthcare settings.”

You had to get out of here. You had to run. Stomach churning, you rolled to the opposite end of the bed, away from him, falling to the ground with a thump. You whimpered, clutching at your head. It felt like you were drowning in cotton.

Arms wrapped around you, lifting you into their hold effortlessly. A horrible vertigo washed over you, and you gripped the man’s shirt collar in front of you to at least try to stay in control.

“‘m gonna puke,” you mumbled. And then you did. All over the plush carpet.

You could feel a sigh travel through the man’s body as he stepped carefully over your mess, carrying you towards the bathroom.

“If you felt sick you should have told me earlier,” he said. It made you feel like you were being scolded.

“If you hadn’t drugged me I wouldn’t be sick,” you snapped, before being set on a toilet seat. “I have bad reactions to propofol. It makes me nauseated.”

It was hard to be angry at him. It was hard to be anything; it felt like you had an empty hole in your chest, swallowing up every emotion you tried to muster. It was the propofol, surely. A garbage can was settled between your feet before a cool hand, strong and steady, massaged the delicate nape of your neck.

You stared into the empty can, and tried to cherish the feeling. As soon as the drugs wore off and you got your lucidity back, things would be infinitely worse. Soon, everything would be real.

[notapradagurl7]

First Bite.

Tyler, The Creator x Black Fem! Reader.

Summary: In which, While spending a Halloween night alone in his house, Tyler, thinking he is being robbed, unintentionally comes face to face with a vampire who turns out to be his former lover.

(a/n: I love Tyler. 😩❤️)

                ————

His deep brown eyes fixed on the television with his back leaned against the plush, beige armchair, The rhythmic tapping of rain on the window filled the room, a peaceful silence disrupted by the raging storm outside. A exhale of relief left his lips. The glow from the television cast a light on his chocolate-toned skin. The eerie creaking sounds around the house made his eyebrows furrow, the black remote rested on the gleaming brown coffee table, the scent of his potent cologne wafted in the air, The young man was enclosed within four walls bathed in a deep navy blue, decorated with framed family photos and petite mirrors in the spacious bedroom.

At the sound of the breaking glass ringing out through the house and the dull thumps echoing around, his ears became alert. Footsteps filled the hallway, accompanied by the low whine of the door's hinges.

On the evening of Halloween, as young children prepared for spooky tricks and sugary candy, plans were abruptly foiled by an unexpected thunderstorm. He made the decision to remain indoors on the frosty night, Unbeknownst to him, an unknown presence lurked within the walls of his home.

He swiftly grabbed the remote from the coffee table and promptly shut off the TV, before carefully placing the remote back on the table. Anxiety flooded him as the room became shrouded in darkness, and he cautiously made his way through the cramped hallways, the unsettling creaking sound persisting with each step he took.

In the midst of shattered glass ehoed from the kitchen, Tyler swiftly snatched the bat from its resting place in the living room corner. With a sudden surge of adrenaline, he swung the bat towards the back of the intruder's head.

However, in a surprising display of strength, the intruder effortlessly seized the bat, swiftly bending it in half, and shattering it into numerous broken pieces.

As his gaze locked onto two piercing crimson eyes amidst the shadows, the stranger boldly advanced towards him.

A shiver ran down his spine as the intruder's voice, now tainted with an eerie demonic resonance, echoed through the air, "Are you aware of my identity?"

In a swift motion, Tyler flicked the light switch, instantly illuminating the expansive kitchen. Standing before him was none other than his ex-partner, Y/N. Your cocoa skin shimmered under the bright fluorescent lights, while a mischievous smirk spread across your face.

Tyler sensed a malevolence emanating from you, an inescapable aura of darkness.

"Y/N? What happened to you?" Tyler asked you, his deep voice resonating through the room.

Your eyes bore into Tyler's soul, the crimson shifted to your natural chestnut brown eye color.

Your voice, laced with a hint of sadness, whispered, "Tyler, baby, I'm a vampire and I've been crushed to live as this creature of the night.."

Confusion and concern washed over Tyler's face as he struggled to comprehend the revelation before him. Memories of their passionate love flooded his mind, intertwining with the present reality.

He could still recall the taste of your lips, the warmth of your embrace, and the way your laughter filled his heart with joy.

But now, everything had changed.

You took a step closer, your movements fluid and graceful, like a predator stalking its prey. Tyler's heart raced in his chest, torn between fear and an inexplicable desire to understand what had led you down this dark path.

Their lips crashed into each other passionately, their lips smacking noise that echoed throughout the kitchen, "I missed you.." he whispered, his thumbs rubbing across your cheeks.

"I missed you too, but how about you show me..."

               —————

Your hands clutched the wooden desk of your vanity mirror with your ass deeply arched in the air, his strong hands clutched your hips in place as he thrusts into you at a slow yet rhythm from behind, his brown eyes watched your face contort in pleasure in the reflection of the mirror.

With your nails slightly chipped from gripping tightly, you struggled to find your voice, "Tyler..." you murmured, your eyelashes fluttering back as your wet walls tightened around him, responding to his every thrust, his pace shifting effortlessly, "you look so beautiful." he groaned lowly. Their skin colliding filled the room after every merciless thrust.

Resting your head gently on his shoulder, the vanity mirror trembled and shattered. "T-Tyler! I love you so much," you whispered softly. Your juices spilled over his dick,  "You're so fucking wet for me too." Tyler playfully taunted, littering youd neck with kisses as his hand gave your ass a firm spank, leaving a handprint, The slight sting brought your pleasure-filled moans to life, revealing your fondness for a hint of pain.

Your stomach tightened, your body trembling beneath him, your legs growing numb. Your fingertips dug into the wooden surface, leaving behind trails of blood from the scratches. "I... I'm cumming!" you gasped, Tyler's voice came in a hushed whisper, "Let go, beautiful," as he gently kissed your lips. Your hand cradled the back of his neck, pulling him into a passionate kiss, their tongues twirling.

Tyler swiftly pulled out of her wet core and his warm liquid landed on her back, he grabbed a warm washcloth and wiped the mess off of her back. He then tenderly wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close to him.

Their breaths slowly returning to normal. You turned your head to look into Tyler's eyes, your gaze filled with a mix of love and vulnerability.

"I never wanted it to be like this," you whispered, your voice filled with regret. "I never wanted to hurt you."

Tyler caressed your cheek, his touch gentle and reassuring. "I know, baby," he replied softly.

A tear rolled down your cheek as you nodded, your emotions overwhelming you. "I love you," you replied, kissing his lips again. "I love you more than anything." he replied, he pecked the back of your hand.

Tyler kissed your forehead, his lips lingering against your skin. "I love you too, Y/N," he whispered.

As the sun began to rise with the rays peeking through the curtains, their night of passion was one that they will never forget, their soft snoring filling the bedroom, the couple tangled in light bedsheets, the blankets wrapped around their waists. The soft rustling of their bodies went on.

—————

[babyjakes]

baby barnes | 1. homecoming.

〈 disclaimer: this blog posts content not suitable for individuals under the age of 18. minors are strictly prohibited from viewing, sharing, or interacting with this blog. for more information on this blog's commitment to protecting minors, read our full statement here. 〉

summary | upon returning from a small solo mission, natasha has something to give to steve.

characters | steve rogers, natasha romanoff, bucky barnes, other assorted avengers, 'baby barnes' (original character)

warnings | all warnings from the original headcanon probably apply (slightly above canon level violence, child abuse, major character death.) very angsty, steve cries a lot.

word count | 1,440

an | based on my baby barnes headcanon, with some slight changes to the universe and storyline. in this version of events, after bucky is killed, nat goes on a solo rage mission to kill everyone at the hydra facility and bring baby barnes home to steve 🩷

"Sorry. This place is a mess."

As hard as he tried, Steve just couldn't pick his gaze up off of the floor as Natasha stood there in the doorway to his living quarters. "It's okay. Things have been hard, I know." The redhead's voice seemed as though it was trying to float through a thick screen of smoke, or maybe Steve was just underwater. Maybe he had been drowning for weeks.

It was quiet as the woman entered, slipping her shoes off on the mat near the door. Steve could feel her careful eyes taking him in, assessing the damage. Every word he pulled from his throat felt like a fishing line digging right back into his burning flesh as he questioned quietly, "Would you like some tea?"

He didn't have to lift his gaze to tell that she had shaken her head. The pair moved further into the room in silent tandem, Steve leading the way over to the long beige couch. The blonde's focus was fleeting as his eyes fell on his friend's lap, before shifting over to the old photo albums on the coffee table, then to the front door, then back to his own folded hands. Natasha cleared her throat, and Steve almost found it amusing, the way she was preparing to speak like she could possibly find anything to say in that moment that would somehow make things better.

"The mission was successful," was what she finally stated, the underwhelming words drawing a knowing look onto the supersoldier's face.

He nodded, doing his best to keep things polite. It wasn't Natasha's fault that he had fallen so out of love with the world; he knew that. "I'm glad," Steve hummed, thinking back to the telephone brief he had received about the agent's assignment before it had been launched. "She's just going in to clear out a suspected outpost. Nothing major," Stark had told him. The captain didn't like sending anyone off on solo missions, but he wasn't in any state to tag along, and thankfully it didn't seem like he was needed.

Through the heavy air, Natasha took another breath before finally speaking again. "I have something to show you." Her hand slipped quietly into her pocket before appearing again, holding a small photograph by its corner. When she handed it to Steve, the man couldn't help but begin to weep.

For a moment, all he could see was the girl's tender face. The face that had haunted his dreams for the past several months, ever since that first 'baby barnes' tape had arrived in the mail. In the photo, which he held tight with both of his shaking hands, the infant's big brown eyes were looking up at something. Her cheeks were round and soft, rosy as ever. Steve couldn't help but wonder when the picture had been taken, how close it was to capturing the baby's last moments on earth before she was put to rest like her father.

Finally shifting his attention away from her angelic face, the blonde trembled as he started scanning the rest of the photo for any clues. Brow furrowing in confusion, he was immediately puzzled by the plush blanket that sat in a messy pile surrounding the baby's little bottom and legs. "What's this?" he paused quietly as he thought back through all the tapes that were permanently engraved in his memory, like an endless reel of vivid film looping across the walls of his troubled mind. Not a single one had shown the infant with any sort of blanket or covering; that would go directly against the purpose of the project. She was deprived of any warmth, human or inanimate, as a simple yet effective form of torture. The blanket in the photo simply didn't belong. Steve was absolutely sure of it.

The next indicator that something was off was the state of the baby herself. She was unusually clean, her ivory skin appearing fresh and well-kept. Her medium brown whisps of hair laid neatly over her small head, lacking the usual knots and mats that he had grown used to seeing. Swallowing hard, Steve was struggling to understand why she looked so different, almost as if someone had been caring for her for the first time in her short life.

Desperate for any sort of explanation, the captain kept studying the photo, trying to make sense of each little detail he could make out. The background itself was insignificant, just a simple wall of dark metal paneling that didn't give any insight as to where or when the picture was taken. But then, in the very corner of the photo, Steve was finally given his answer. The edge of a jacket sleeve was just barely visible against the floor, the navy fabric recognizable to him anywhere; it was Nat's, an old garment from the team's days with SHIELD. The man's breath hitched in his throat as he began to stammer.

"N-Natasha," his voice wavered. "Nat. Where... how... wh-when was this-?" Steve continued staring at the small photo, more tears building in his eyes as he choked back something between a whimper and a sob. "Wh-when did you... w-was this, were you-?"

"This morning," the agent told the supersoldier softly, reaching out to place a steadied hand over one of his shaking ones. "Bruce and I got her all cleaned up and sorted out in the med bay. She wasn't a big fan of the bath, but we got a little smile out of her when we blew bubbles with the soap." Natasha's gaze was tentative, not knowing how Steve would take the news. But as she sat there, watching the revelations sink in for her friend, she couldn't help but let slip what she had been wanting to tell him since the moment she laid eyes on the infant while breaching the lonely Siberian outpost. "After what they did to Bucky, I knew what I had to do," she said quietly. "I had to save her for you, Steve. You would've done the same for me."

All at once, Steve could feel nearly a month of tension and agony lifting from his bones as he took what seemed like his first breath since witnessing Bucky's last through a screen. If he hadn't been seated, he would've fallen to his knees right there, maybe before God or maybe before his dear friend, the one who he now understood had brought the baby back safely after an undoubtedly perilous mission. The baby, the baby, the baby... that was all the captain's mind could hold onto as he sat there, clutching her photo as if both of their lives depended on it. She was alive, she was safe. And she had been brought home to him.

"Natasha," Steve choked out the young woman's name through tears, his voice like warm hands cradling their years of partner and friendship. There was something so unspeakably profound about the endless ways they were willing to live and die for each other; neither of the two could put it into words, but the feeling was certainly present all around as they sat there in the man's small living room, holding onto each other in a moment of shared silence. The gravity of Nat's actions was quick to settle in, and the significance of what she had done- all on her own, without being asked- was nearly unbearable to Steve. "Y-you went... all on your own? You could've-"

"I had to, Steve," Nat cut him off gently, her certainty on the matter unmistakable as it flashed across her face. "You were in no condition to fight, and the others would've only been in the way." As much as he didn't like what he was being told, Steve knew it was the truth. Things had gotten bad for Nat after Bucky's final tape; her decline was much more subtle than that of the captive's best friend, though he was still quick to notice it. It was only his nature. Now Steve understood that when she went dark like that, little could come between the agent and what she set out to do. As much as it worried him sick, that worry couldn't quite outdo the larger sense of relief that was flowing through him like water.

Steve's gaze drifted back to the tiny girl sat posing in the photo, another wave of grief washing over him as he saw a shadow of his late friend gazing back at him through those familiar brown eyes. Giving his hand a gentle squeeze, Natasha finally made the proposition, "Whenever you're ready, I'll take you to see her."