#better than chocolate save me…

[derrypubliclibrary]

yk what . in these trying times is in infact time for the comfort 90s lesbian movue

[kattahj]

I generally find Rotten Tomatoes pretty helpful, except when it comes to lesbian comedies, because boy don't they like those! Let's look at some of the ones I've enjoyed over the years.

Okay, at least that last one managed to (barely) get a certified fresh, but isn't there anything you like?

Sure, but that's practically a drama. What about the sheer silly stuff with no deep angst?

Ah, there you go! (Ignore the audience score.)

[deus-ex-mona]

how long was this ft4 car ride even??

[britneyshakespeare]

heav'nly donuts doesn't get the same new england icon status as dunkin' donuts and i know why but i don't know why. first of all, it's not like their products are at all inferior. they have a wide variety of coffee and other hot/frozen drink options that regular customers do as a matter of fact go crazy about. their staple breakfast options come to play just as hard as dunks. in fact everything about heav'nly kind of is like dunkin but just trying way harder. and mostly succeeding. their donuts are all much larger than dunkin's. and they're also a new england-based franchise founded in massachusetts, only 25 years younger (dunkin opened in 1950 and heav'nly in 1975—but both of these are significantly younger than my grandparents). but heav'nly, despite its cult status among consumers, despite people KNOWIN what's up and that their products are on par if not superior, remains far less ubiquitous although still definitely not struggling. what is it about the dunkin franchise that allowed it to succeed and grow at an unbelievable rate? to the point of them being national competition to starbucks? how DID it come to be that there's a such a ridiculous density of dunkin donuts shops in the greater boston area? to the point where, if you live in this part of the country, you'll probably have to go out of your way if you prefer to get coffee at a starbucks, or some other franchise, instead? how did america come to run no dundun? and considering that, isn't it amazing that heav'nly has managed to be so strong a franchise in the deep dunkin donuts woods?

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Neighborly

mdni

Masterlist

Soap x reader x Ghost

Summary: You didn't know hate until Johnny MacTavish. (Or a really big build-up to cuddles and smut).

Warnings: Implied anxiety disorder/depressive disorder, self-isolation, language, incredibly shitty communication and social competence.

It was supposed to be a one-shot.

You didn’t know hate until Johnny MacTavish.

He bought the only house within half a mile, the one you expected to stay silent and empty ‘til death did you part. So, you had reason to dislike him from the start. But you were raised right, and you pushed down the snarling hermit in your soul to be a good, friendly neighbor.

The first meeting was fine, even if he was a boombox of a human being.

“Neighbor? Oh, aye! The hermit? Sorry. Heard about you when I toured the place last month.” His eye lands on the plate of cookies you’ve brought to welcome him. “Those all for me?”

You made small talk at the door, swapped names, and set the groundwork for a reliable, limited relationship as polite people who just happened to live in close proximity.

Then the first snow fell.

You spied him outside, shoveling the shared drive that led up the hill. He cleared it all, which was kind, if a little stupid. The weather system promised another two inches by midafternoon, so everything would be solid white again before sunset. Still, not your problem.

But. He was shirtless. Ripped as fuck and shirtless.

As the wind flung each shovelful of snow back in his face, the powdery flakes stuck and melted on steaming skin. Muscles flexed as he made a spectacle of himself, and your thoughts turned to strategy and available resources.

You wrapped your palms around your ugly, handmade mug and sighed, sipping hot chocolate and wishing you’d gotten a neighbor with at least two scoops of common sense.

When he didn’t appear with his shovel the next morning, you knew your foreboding prophecy had come to pass.

You brought out the stock pot, fished out packs of frozen produce harvested from your garden, and sacrificed your last bag of chicken breasts. The skeleton saved from an old rotisserie bird joined the ingredient army. Might as well go all-in. A man with that many muscles needed bone broth to recover.

Since you didn’t know if he was a picky eater, you minced the garlic and onions small, even when your eyes burned to the point you had to stop for a break. You let the aromatics brown, added celery, carrots, potatoes, and fistfuls of fresh herbs. The precious seasonings survived the winter under grow lights and protective sheeting on your dining room table.

You doubted your neighbor would appreciate this gift for everything it was, but whatever he did as an idiot neighbor would be leagues better than the presence of a rowdy ghost.

When the chicken was tender and the broth tasted like home, you poured it into individual portions and packed them in a canvas bag with a loaf of bread, a box of tea, a jar of local honey, and a thermometer. It wasn’t terribly heavy, but the cold froze your fingers through your gloves. Your hand was cramping by the time MacTavish answered the door, red-nosed, pale, and bleary-eyed.

He let you in, mumbling a scratchy-voiced welcome, and if you’d known what that conversation would incite, you would’ve let him waste away like the families you failed playing Oregon Trail.

“Eat one now and keep the rest in the fridge.” You stack the single-serve containers in the fridge as you speak, sure he won’t remember the minutiae of your instructions. The last you pop in his microwave. He’s staring at you with feverish eyes, confused and helpless like a sick dog left on the side of the road.

Everything comes out of the bag, lining his counter so he can see them – and hopefully remember he has them. The thermometer comes out last.

“If your fever is over 104 in the morning, call the doctor. I’ll drive you if you need me to.”

That glassy stare isn’t shifting. The man doesn’t even blink.

“Did you get all that?”

He clears his throat. The action and sound are both strangely slow in his exhausted state, and you’re determined not to feel bad for him.

“Aye.” Finally, he blinks. “Eat the soup. Watch for 104.”

Good enough.

“Okay.”

The microwave beeps, you pull out the soup, leaving him to fetch a spoon from wherever the hell he keeps them. You don’t wait for him to show you out. “Take care of yourself.”

He didn’t call for help, and you took your turn shoveling the drive with proper protection after the last wave of flurries passed.

The next time he saw you in passing – you were returning home and he was just leaving – he let you know your soup was delicious, that the bread was amazing, and the honey did wonders for his throat. He never returned your containers.

Ah, well. They were replaceable.

Then the next snow came, and the dumb bitch went shoveling shirtless again.

It wasn’t as much snow, and it didn’t take him half as long, but you steamed, glaring from the safety of your kitchen window. You refused to replace your meal prep supplies again. And local honey was expensive. The brat could freeze and die. Something about taking a horse to water and all that shit.

You drank your coffee black that morning, just to make a point to no one in particular.

The man didn’t know how to take care of himself, and he had no idea how to winter-proof his home.

His pipes froze. You brought buckets, old towels, bottled water, and the number of an excellent plumber. Then you explained why he should pay attention to the forecast and let faucets drip to keep the water moving. You told him to open the cabinets under sinks so heat could combat the chill along exterior walls.

His truck’s battery succumbed to the cold. You gave him a jump and escorted him to town to make sure he didn’t get himself stranded.

When he didn’t keep things stocked and tried to panic-shop before a big storm, discovering that small town shelves couldn’t meet demand, you shared staples from your pantry.

He didn’t have more than two cheap blankets in his living space, so when the holidays rolled around you gave him your latest assemblage of granny-squares. And a scarf.

He gave you burnt cookies – “Biscuits” – in return.

(And a half-empty bottle of whiskey.)

He never remembered to drag his trash down to the main road.

And gods help you if the power went out, because the man had no generator, very little in his pantry, and rarely more than a quarter tank of gas in his ride.

He was careless. Clueless. Nearly helpless.

What were you supposed to do? You couldn’t leave him to his fate. It was unneighborly and inhumane.

He made you angry. But you didn’t hate him until his friend moved in.

A few months into his residence, you went to Johnny’s door to ask if he needed anything from town before the next storm shadowed the forecast, and a stranger came to the door.

A hulking monster with a skull painted over his balaclava.

The doorway shrank around his broad shoulders, and he ducked when he stepped out. You weren’t sure if he entirely needed to, but you understood the urge – like an adult stepping out of a child’s playhouse. Scarred knuckles wrapped around the doorknob, and you knew his grip would swallow you whole by the way it engulfed the brass handle.

Animal instinct jarred you. Every hair from the base of your skull to the end of your spine stood on end as you tried to smell the air, listen to the wind, spot the predator’s intent before it was too late.

You didn’t have a problem with people balaclavas. You’d worn one the other day when you were shoveling the drive, but this looked less like protection and more like a threat.

Was he robbing your neighbor? Had a serial killer come to town? Oh, fuck.

You took a step back, reaching for your phone because you didn’t carry a weapon, especially not on a grocery run, and it was the closest thing you had to help.

“You the neighbor?”

He asked so casually, vaguely irritated, but relaxed. It wasn’t the voice of a man who’d just been caught committing a felony, and you took a second to look beyond the stranger’s mask (and size). There was a mug in his hand, and he wore a t-shirt with sweats. His socked feet lingered on the front step, just shy of the blue road salt and crisped ice. Not robbery gear. More like a… houseguest?

Your neighbor never had guests before.

It caught you so off guard your brain short circuited. He had always been a lone, helpless figure. Made sense he’d have friends, though. You couldn’t imagine he’d survive anywhere long without someone looking out for him.

You were still a little irritated that your neighbor had invited his own friend to his own house on his own property without informing you, but that was just the recluse inside snarling at a new face. Or half of one.

And – well – manners.

Holding out a mittened hand, you introduced yourself, adding, “I stopped to see if Johnny needed anyth-”

“No.” He shut you down so fast you reeled another step back. “Don’t need anything.”

He closed the door and that was that.

Sun glittered on the season’s collection of snow, a frozen fairyland that wouldn’t entirely melt until spring. Then there would be roads washed out, and mud, and you’d need to teach Johnny flash flood safety and…

It didn’t compute. Johnny was still home, so surely he’d pop out with an explanation.

You waited.

But he didn’t.

The absolute fuck?

Your spinning thoughts kept you trapped in your head for a solid minute, processing what had happened, what was implied, and what that meant for your neighborly relationship. Even when you managed to move, drive to town, and run your errands, the interaction prickled in your mind like a splinter.

You must’ve done something wrong.

Aged fluorescent lights strobed out of time with your cart’s shrieking wheels. You discovered your list wasn’t in your pocket. It waited at home, next to a pen to add Johnny’s requests. You’d already added things you doubted he’d think to ask for, and it would take time to pick apart your needs. The list wouldn’t have saved you, even if you’d remembered it.

Three bags of flour went into your cart. That was fine. They’d keep, and baking was a good way to combat cabin fever (it warmed the house as a bonus).

Two gallons of milk.

Wait.

No.

You put one back, self-conscious. A young mother with her baby stood just behind you, and an old woman was reviewing her coupons across the aisle. You refused to make eye contact, convinced you’d catch them watching. Did they see? Were they worried about your germs on the product you put back? Did they think you were too broke to buy what you needed? Maybe they thought you’d just broken up with your boyfriend or something.

You counted the squares in the linoleum as you marched away from the refrigerators’ humming. One less source of white noise. It didn’t help as much as you’d hoped. The real buzzing roared inside your skull.

Johnny was a pain in the ass, but at least he was friendly. He wasn’t considerate, but he always thanked you. His friend was a whole different beast. Unfriendly. With a spare set of teeth snarling at the world.

The stranger hadn’t even introduced himself. Was he staying long? Moving in? What was he to Johnny? That question alone would answer so many others.

Because you’d never seen him interact beyond basic business with the mechanic, you realized you had no idea of his sexual orientation. Was he gay? Bi? Pan?

His shirtless shoveling shenanigans annoyed you, yes, but you’d unconsciously granted him a little leeway, assuming it had to do with misguided masculine showmanship. The rooster strutting where the hen could see. The dumbass alpha male proving he was a good, strong provider who was also quite nice to look at.

Clearly you were wrong, and in retrospect, you couldn’t see him as anything but a narcistic dipshit in need of training wheels.

You’d thought, maybe, he even liked you. As a friend? A comrade against the cold? As something.

But you were just a stop-gap. Useful.

Convenient.

Until his real friend joined him.

You found your attention unraveling like a cheap sweater. No matter how hard to you dried to darn the holes, you couldn’t keep up with the loose thread undoing all your conscious measures. It was quickly becoming one of those days when you convinced yourself your therapist had lied about everything.

When you messed up, even in your head, everyone knew.

If they didn’t say otherwise, you were annoying everyone in the room. If they did say otherwise, they were just being polite.

You weren’t likeable, not loveable, and the minute you weren’t useful you should make yourself scarce. Otherwise, things would get awkward, and no one wanted that. You could be the adult. You could hack off a limb and smile about it.

It didn’t hurt, and even if it did, it shouldn’t, because you didn’t have a right to that feeling.

Alright. Fine.

You realized, just as you joined the line for the cashier, that you’d forgotten matches and sugar. They’d been on your list. But someone joined the line behind you, and unspoken social rules that probably didn’t exist shackled you in place. Too late. You’d look stupid. You’d bother someone. Oh well. You’d just have to make another trip. Soon. But not too soon. Now there were two sets of eyes watching you from the connecting drive, and you didn’t want to give them reason to gossip and laugh and assume…

Your pile of groceries looked too small on the conveyor belt. Roughly half what they’d been lately. Would the cashier notice? You were sure she did. The way she recited your total sounded disappointed. Was she counting on you buying more? Were you hurting the employees’ holiday bonus? Shit. Fuck.

The bags felt too heavy. Too light. You forgot your reusable sacks at home, and the plastic dug guilt and accusations into the crease of your palms. On top of everything else, you were killing the planet.

You drove home.

Along the river. Through the trees. Up the hills to your corrupted sanctuary.

At least you didn’t need to make a second trip to bring in all the shopping. Your haul landed on the counter, you threw the damned milk in the fridge, and you realized, as you opened the pantry, that you already had four bags of flour. Two all-purpose, two for bread. Because you’d planned to bake for two.

The flour hadn’t been on your list.

And there was no room for it.

Your lip wobbled, and you bit it ferociously, chewing it until the texture changed and bits of skin started peeling.

It wasn’t a problem. You liked being prepared. You’d dump it in one of the emergency storage totes you kept in the hall closet and be ready when something went wrong.

You did just that, popping open the plastic lid and layering the flour over dry lentils, black beans, and shelf-stable cartons of broth. You decided to add more baking supplies to the list. Even if the power went out you could use the wood-burning stove in the living room to make griddle cakes. Maybe even soda bread.

There. Yeah. That wasn’t so bad. A silver lining.

As you returned to the kitchen, brainstorming ways to atone for the plastic bags you’d used, the scent of coffee wafted down the hall. Which was strange. Because you hadn’t put the moka pot on. You rushed in, frowning.

The old drip machine you only used for company burbled in the corner, and the groceries sat precariously on the corner, shoved aside by the beast who’d wandered through your unlocked door.

A tall, mohawked figure groped, shoulder-deep, in your cabinets.

MacTavish.

The Scottish mumbling would’ve tipped you off even if you weren’t so familiar with his figure (and hair, and limited wardrobe).

Your angst tasted bitter as you swallowed it down. You needed space for the feelings popping like firecrackers in your chest.

Relief. Hope. Dread.

He was in your space without invitation, and with the morning you’d just had, you felt anything but comfortable. Either you’d jumped the gun, or he was bringing a delayed apology for his friend.

“Johnny? What are you doing here?”

He smiled over his shoulder as he pulled two cups down from the shelf. One with your college logo and your prized ugly mug.

“Hello, neighbor!” He cackled, laughing at his own joke. “Wanted to give you a heads up and have a chat. My friend’s come to stay with me.”

Friend? What flavor of friend?

“I know. We met this morning.”

“Aye. Real barrel o’ sunshine, isn’ he?”

“If you say so.”

You wanted to be nice. You wanted to be his friend, too. But you weren’t, and you’d worked so hard to be a good, reliable person he could depend on in a new town – you were drained.

“His name’s Ghost.”

Most people grew out of their edgelord status by their early twenties. Ghost –with his skull balaclava and gruff voice – seemed better fit for the emo table of a suburban high school cafeteria than the adult world.

Johnny kept prattling, making an introduction for someone who wasn’t even there. “Told him all about you! He was impressed. Smacked me over the head about the pipes and said we’d go into town for a generator before the next big snow.”

“Hard to predict the next big snow.”

“Aye. He said that, too.”

If Ghost could keep your insights out of his mouth, you would appreciate it. It felt like he was stealing something from you, and you found yourself shifting from foot to foot, arms crossed, waiting for something terrible to happen.

And it did.

Gesturing as he described his old buddy and new housemate, his elbows danced around your kitchen like battering rams. First, he struck a cabinet, which hurt him more than the wood. He laughed it off. Kept talking. You didn’t need to say a word. By that point, you probably couldn’t even if he left space to speak.

For the life of you, you couldn’t riddle out what his visit was for. It was exhausting. He never chattered so much when you brought food or showed him how to keep his home in one piece. Ghost must make him very happy. His joy made you anxious.

His arm wide, indicating the views he’d fallen for and not the practical considerations of living in the goddamn woods on a goddamn mountain, and you watched in slow motion as his forearm caught your ugly mug’s handle.

It spun, wobbling to the edge of the counter, and before you could move, it plummeted.

A bad day instantly became your worst in years.

It must’ve made a sound when it hit, but you didn’t hear it. Or didn’t remember it. You didn’t remember going to the floor after it, either.

Your mug was in pieces, and when you pulled them to safety, wrapped tight in your fist, the glazed edges cut deep. It was such an ugly little thing. Your ugly little thing. You’d made it in one of those sip-and-spin pottery classes with your pals before you stopped going to see people face-to-face.

The mug wasn’t a friend. It was all of your friends. It was the fun you, the one who went out and did things, and moved through life like a real, entire person.

It practically exploded when it hit the tile. Some pieces were bigger than others, but there were dozens of them. Glittering chips and flecks that you knew you’d be finding with your feet through the rest of the winter.

There was no fixing it. It hurt. You were bleeding. Red oozed up between your knuckles and snaked down your wrist.

“Oh, shite! Shite, shite, shite. Are you alright? Here, let me –”

You didn’t want him to touch it again. Didn’t want him to touch you and act like he gave a fuck. This was a big, ugly feeling bubbling up inside, and if he didn’t dislike you yet, he would when he saw all the tears and snot.

A pretty crier you were not.

And no one wanted to see that, or deal with it, or cope with someone else’s messy emotions.

“It’s fine. I’m okay.” You grit your teeth and smiled through them. “But I need to clean this up, and I still have groceries to put away. How about you get your friend settled and we can talk another time, okay?”

“Are you sure?” His attention was fixed on the blood. Bright red was such an alarming color. You could understand.

“Yeah. Just a little scratch. Promise. But I can’t play host and clean myself up.”

His neck went stiff, and his eyes flicked from your face to the floor. Several times. Like he was having an argument with himself. But in the end, he listened, nodded, and got back on his feet from where he’d knelt in front of you.

“If you insist. But we’re right over there if you need anything, aye?”

“I know.”

Finally, he left.

You got up and locked the door behind him. If you’d taken time to do that before you put away the groceries none of this would’ve happened. You would still have your mug and you wouldn’t be on the floor, crying and cradling the remains of something that mattered to you.

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

He kept coming over when he needed things. Usually after Ghost’s truck rumbled down the drive. Sometimes he wanted advice. Sometimes he needed help. Usually he took tools and supplies he should’ve bought for himself.

You put your curtains to good work. You couldn’t remember a time you drew them so often. If he knocked, you’d answer, but the curtains were a good deterrent. Not foolproof, but something that gave you a little more power over your privacy.

Long jaunts into town have become escapes from your own home. Better the eyes of strangers – fleetingly painful – than the paranoia of sitting under glass where your neighbors might read your habits and foibles by the way the lights turn on and off through the night, might judge your messy hair through the kitchen window as you wash the dishes. Might, might, might. There were terrible possibilities in all that potential.

They were always there. One ready to freeze you out, the other hanging on your apron strings like a teenager who just got his first place. The conflict rubbed over your nerves like a match on a boot heel. Too much, too fast, and you’d combust.

So you found a lot of reasons to go into town. You remembered how much you liked the library, the joy of a cinnamon roll someone else baked, and hot coffee that didn’t come with a side of flashbacks.

The forecast predicted heavy snow overnight, and you made a day of grocery shopping, collecting novels from the library, and avoiding your neighbor’s last-minute requests.

You barely noticed the teens rushing out of the parking lot as you left your final stop, canvas bag loaded with enough media to keep you entertained through the storm of the century. No windows were broken. No key marks scuffed the paint. If they committed any mischief, it was minor.

Gas theft didn’t cross your mind until your engine quietly gave out and your car rolled to a stop between Nowhere and Nothing.

Understanding dawned with grudging revulsion. Like looking at the toilet and realizing it wouldn’t flush.  

The little shits had siphoned your tank.

You smacked the steering wheel, cursing.

So much for the benefit of the doubt. You couldn’t escape. Everyone everywhere just wanted to use you.

But it was fine. Everything would be fine. You were always prepared in case someone fucked you over. Your wellbeing was your responsibility, after all.

Climbing out of the warm cabin, you headed to the back and pulled out the emergency gas can.

The red plastic was shockingly light. You didn’t realize until you’d already thrown your weight into the yank. Unbalanced, you tottered, and your heel skidded over ice.

The snow cushioned your fall, and you stared blankly into the white limned branches overhead as you tried to process the last five seconds. Things like this happened to idiots. They did not happen to you. Careful, cautious you with your backup plans and reserves.

You had simply made a mistake. Somewhere. Somehow. You’d find an explanation.

When you sat up, still in a state of shock, you examined the can, expecting signs of a mouse, or a crack, or…

An I.O.U. was taped to the back.

You knew the handwriting all too well.

That shitting little…

The snow arrived. Silence swallowed the mountain, and the gloaming snuffed the last of the sun’s warmth.

You sat alone on the side of the road, well aware that no one would come up this way for hours. Days maybe.

You had made a mistake.

You made your neighbor chicken soup.

Your nose burned, and you sniffed. Hot tears rolled down your face, burning as they went, and you wiped at them furiously. The wool of your mittens chafed your cheek. Your lip wobbled, and you hurled the empty can into the woods.

Fuck Johnny MacTavish.

Fuck Ghost.

Fuck your life.

[lovebugism]

Smut fic where reader and Eddie have been arguing since yesterday and he comes home from band practice and fucks her.

♡ “i was expecting a written apology but this is much better.”

ty for requesting :D — the best part of fighting with eddie, is making up with eddie (established relationship, hurt/comfort, smut 18+ | 1k)

bug's two year celebration ♡

Eddie returns home from band practice to find the trailer brimming with the scent of something sweet. An entire symphony of chocolate and vanilla and caramel — a stark contrast to the stale stench of Gareth’s garage.

He spots you standing in front of the stove, humming mindlessly to yourself as you whisk at a large bowl of miscellaneous ingredients. You’re wearing a too-big sweatshirt that hangs off one shoulder, and a pair of fluffy socks sitting unevenly at your ankles. The sight of you is undeniably sweeter than whatever it is you’re baking for him.

Eddie leaves his guitar case by the front door and floats towards the kitchen with a lopsided smile. “Ooh. Smells good in here,” he lilts in place of a real greeting as he drapes himself along your back. 

He caresses your arm with one ringed hand while the other reaches around you. He dips his pointer finger into the bowl and brings it up to his mouth, humming at the sugary taste on his tongue. “You know— I was expecting a handwritten apology,” he slurs before swallowing it down. “But this is so muchbetter.”

You dig your elbow into his ribs. Eddie winces and stumbles back.

“It’s not for you,” you correct, gaze averted as you dump a bowl of dry ingredients into the chocolate gold. “It’s for Hopper. For saving your ass.”

The reminder makes Eddie groan. After all, it wasn’t his fault that asshole got too handsy with you at the bar. He didn’t even realize he’d punched the guy until his knuckles collided with his chiseled nose. (He thought for sure his hand was broken then, but the bruises look totally metal now.) 

The cookie-cutter douchebag was hellbent on pressing charges. Chief Hopper assured the asshole that the freak would be spending the night in jail, but instead drove Eddie home in the back of his cop car. He got the talking-to of a century then, from Jim and from you — ‘cause apparently some guy flirting with you isn’t grounds for ‘assault.’ Eddie still thinks that may be too harsh a word.

He tosses his head back, wild curls slipping from his shoulders, as the counter digs into his hip. “You’re still upset about that?” he whines boyishly, then cowers at the glare you give him. “I mean… I didn’t know you were still upset about that,” he amends, more sympathetically this time.

You scoff and roll your eyes. “Yeah, you should be the one apologizing to me, Munson,” you tell him, whisking the filling with a bit more aggression than you mean to. “Or better yet, the guy you punched last night—”

“No way.”

“—You almost broke his nose.”

“Oh, please,” Eddie laughs. “He was just being a baby about it.”

“He wasn’t even doing anything to deserve it!”

“He was bothering you!”

“He was talking to me!” you shout, much harsher than he’s used to. Your eyes glitter despite the way they’ve hardened as they dart back and forth between his darker ones. “And if I can’t have a conversation with some stupid guy without you flying off the handle, then I can’t imagine what you’ll do when some idiot buys me a drink.”

Eddie softens immediately. He didn’t know you felt that way.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, gravitating towards you with unsure steps and reaching for you with a hesitant hand. When you don’t pull away from his touch, he embraces you from behind — arms wrapped around your waist, hands resting on your belly, chin bobbing on your shoulder. “Though, I’m pretty sure that’s not what you wanna hear from me right now. ‘Cause I told you I was sorry ’til I was blue in the face last night, and you still made me sleep on the couch, so…”

You can hear the crooked smile in his softly spoken words.

You fight hard to bite back your own.

“Well, maybe I’m tired of hearing how sorry you are. Maybe I just want you to prove it.” You set the bowl on the counter and skim your pointer finger over the freshly mixed concoction. “Here, open—”

His pink mouth parts. You slide your finger over the soft pad of his tongue, giving him a proper taste of the filling now that it’s finished. Eddie hums at the bittersweet taste — the sickly sugar sufficiently balanced with sea salt. He nods in wordless approval while you lick the remnants from your own finger.

“You know what would taste better, though?” he wonders aloud once he’s swallowed it down, tone dripping in mischief as his tongue darts across his lip.

Your eyes narrow. “Eddie…” you deadpan in a preemptive scold.

The boy only smirks as he coaxes you against the counter with a gentle hand on your shoulder. You grip the granite edge as he descends to his knees before you, his chocolate-eyed gaze never once wavering from yours. 

“You want me to prove it to you, right?” he asks, bruised knuckles lifting the hem of your shirt. “How sorry I am?”

You nod silently, ‘cause you couldn’t muster a cheeky quip right now if you wanted to.

“Well, I’m sorry,” Eddie tells you, leaning forward to press a chaste kiss to your thigh. You bite back a shiver when his wild curls brush the insides of them. Chills pebble faintly over the skin there, and he smiles. “I’m sorry,” he says once more, punctuated this time by a kiss to the bow of your underwear.

Your breath catches when his pointer finger dips beneath the panty line. His rings brush your burning skin as he slides the fabric to the side. Eddie smirks when he catches your unwavering gaze, as glassy as the sparkling skin of your wet pussy. You can act all mean when you want to, but your body can never pretend with him.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, just before licking a fat stripe up the length of your cunt.

Your lips fall softly agape at the warm, satin feeling of his mouth pressed against the most sensitive parts of you. Your head tilts back as your airy moan fills the silent kitchen. The pie you were making is now long forgotten. You’re much sweeter in comparison, anyway.

[joy-laufeyson]

MSBY SAKUSA KIYOOMI FIC RECOMMENDATIONS

(reader inserts) recommendations of my favorite headcanons/imagines/fics/scenarios (i don’t own any)

• nsfw! suggestive • nsfw!! mature

sfw / more than willing

sfw / shower thoughts

sfw / the space next to you

nsfw!! / steamy

sfw / “where were you this morning?”

sfw / smau! secrets (masterlist)

fluff / will not confess

angst fluff / mask

fluff / good luck charm

fluff / mornings next to him

angst fluff / smau! caramel frappuccino (masterlist)

nsfw! / passionate kisses

angst / save your tears

fluff / home

fluff / breakdown

fluff / "would you just shut up and kiss me already"

sfw / doesn´t wake up in his bed

fluff / pretty

fluff / you seem to know me

angst fluff / au! lucky

fluff / clingy

fluff / over priced flowers

fluff / hypocrite

fluff / deserves better

fluff / ogle

fluff / an irrelevant world

fluff / moles

fluff / sleepover

fluff / cheat day

fluff / sticky notes

fluff / crush

fluff / hush

fluff / unexpected pda

nsfw!! / needy

fluff / waste of lipstick

fluff / heels

angst fluff / just a touch

fluff / overnight

fluff / jumping into his arms

fluff / surprise date

fluff / unspoken

angst fluff / chocolate & cookies

fluff / many first

other msby masterlists other haikyuu!! masterlists

updated:20-january-2025

[recycledraccoon]

*chefs kiss* perfection

weathervane (adaine/oisin)

by heartfed (arundels) G rating, 1.5k words, canon compliant spoilers up to ep17

---

“Bad weather, huh?” he says, shooting her a lopsided grin.

It's raining, Adaine is working at Basrar's, and Oisin comes by for reasons unknown.

---

my hand slipped and i wrote adaine/oisin fic cos ep17 had me losing my shit

[cryinggirlnamedhelen]

so i’m probably going to write a series of longfics for the bllk boys…vote on which one you guys want at the end of the post (+ the trope and who first first and who fell harder)

there will be a small excerpt of each longfic below, so after you guys finish reading each, vote on which one you guys want to read the most, and i will continue the story (while giving background context!!!)

———

itoshi sae -

“you’re that girl who went to elementary and middle school with me.”

you stopped in your tracks, stiffly turning around. shit, even that one time you messed up during your middle school graduation speech and forgot the rest of the essay was better than this. “well, uh, yeah. um, i was in the same class as you until our first year of middle school, when you left.”

sae ignored your reply. “you sent me chocolates and boxes of salted kombucha tea every valentine’s day ever since i was first left for spain. my manager found it creepy because i never once told the media that i liked salted kombucha tea, and yet you still sent it.”

the tip of your ears burned along with your face. did his manager find you weird or annoying? did sae find you weird or annoying? did he grow out of liking salted kombucha tea?

“and now you’re here in spain, watching my match and running away the moment i see you.”

TBC.

———

shidou ryusei -

“so, class prez, you upset about somethin’?”

you don’t reply to him. instead, you’re scribbling away at your paper, another length report coming your way. you don’t spare him a glance, which shidou takes as the opportunity to make all sorts of peculiar faces at you.

“you don’t like class prez or something? what about student council prez? in my opinion, class prez sounds way bett—“

“your excuse form.” you shove the lengthy form of how “it was a fight in self-defense” and how “the other student started it, and shidou was just ending the fight that the other student had started.” you knew that all you were doing was feeding the school lies to save shidou, and you could very well have your status taken away, but still. “i owe you one. for that one time.”

a grin crawled onto shidou’s face. “so this is your way of repaying me, class prez? well, you sure know how to make me happy, don’t you?”

TBC.

———

karasu tabito -

“ha! a 95? well guess what, i got a 100!” karasu held up the exam paper as if it were the world cup, although to him, it probably was. a large 100 written in bright red pen with a blue “GOOD JOB!” sticker next to it took up the right corner of the front page. fuming red, you gripped the paper with a disappointingly large 95 to the point where creases began to form.

“at least my hair doesn’t feel like cardboard.” you hissed. karasu stiffened for a moment before a smirk formed on his face. “fine, you win this time.” you took out your wallet before pushing a coupon into his hands; a coupon that granted him 10 free kelp teas from the aesthetic cafe near the school.

“changin’ the subject, are we? at least i don’t have split ends.”

“you little-! well, at least i wasn’t too scared to confess to my crush because i thought i was too ‘mediocre—!’”

“marisa was from when i was 8, okay?! and at least—!”

“alright, alright, split it up, you two. we get that you’re in love and all—“

“we’re not in love!”

TBC.

———

oliver aiku -

“oh, psh. oliver aiku doesn’t date. please, it’s just a fling. we’ll both move on from each other in like what, 3 days?” you’re swallowing down the lump in your throat from that sentence, the painted smile on your face not quite reaching your eyes. your friend looks at you in concern.

“i don’t get why you’re even in a casual situationship with him anyways. i mean, sure, he’s been invited to be on the U20 team, but you’re always first in exam rankings and you’ve got a bright future ahead of you.” she frowned. “should you really be wasting your time on him?”

“he’s just kind of for relaxation.” that’s a lie. you’ve liked aiku ever since you were both 4, and you still like him even now, at 18. you wish that there could be a cringy movie scene between you two where you both mutually in love with each other and you both end up together.

but you and your friend both don’t notice aiku standing right behind the two of you, clicking away on the vending machine rapidly. but only one thought is running through his head.

he’s miscalculated. you’d be the biggest hassle of all time to break up with.

because he doesn’t want to break up with you.

TBC.

———

POLL VOTING TIME!!!!!!

[januaryembrs]

hot chocolate!

(last one i promise)

reader & spencer who aren’t exactly enemies but they’re def not friends but reader always double checks if spencer’s fbi vest is secured correctly which in return makes spencer check her over as well and they’re always like ‘stop checking up on me and worry about your own safety’ and it just happens every single time and they swear up and down that they dislike eachother deeply (they need to make out)

BANE OF MY EXISTENCE | Spencer Reid x reader

description: Spencer hates you, and you hate him, until it comes to protecting each other in the field

length: 0.7k

His fingers wound through the back of your vest as you made a move to dart past him, trailing after Hotch as you loaded your glock. 

You felt a yank at your neck, his obnoxiously long arms giving you a firm tug back with little to no effort, all but making you stumble backwards as he forced you to stop, and his fingers were at your hip, adjusting the strap before you could ask him just exactly what he was doing. 

“Wha- Reid, let go, my vest is fine,” You snapped, huffing when he ignored you, in the interest of fixing your belt, his brow turned down into a frown. 

“Don’t come crying to me when you get shot in abdomen and suddenly you’re bleeding out, and you lay there and thinking, dang if only the smart FBI would have told me to adjust my kevlar, and I’ll be right there to point and laugh and say I told you so,” He huffed, his fingers making light work of the fiddly strap, tightening it until he couldn’t see a single inch of your shirt to the point he heard your breathing constrict, but he thought he’d rather you be a little uncomfortable than shot. 

“I mean, if I’m laying bleeding out I won’t really have much to say other than, Reid, get medical, I think they hit something serious, please don’t come to my funeral, you were insufferable enough when I was living,” You said, allowing your body to be tugged back as he started on the other side, because there was no use fighting it when he got in those moods when he always needed to be right. 

He paused, his brain catching up to your words and he drew in a silent breath, wondering if the other side of your jacket needed tightening even more, or better yet, if there was any way Hotch would make you stay in the car as back up. 

Spencer yanked the strap with a vendetta, ignoring the way you whined it was too tight, and his lips pursed together. 

“Would you relax, I was clearly kidding,” You said, thinking his mood had come from your teasing, because you seemed to know exactly what to say to push every one of his buttons, “What I would probably be thinking however is if you’ll be able to flag down a medic with your shoelaces untied,”

His gaze snapped to his converse, and sure enough the double knot he relied on seemed to have failed him, and his strings were hazard material as they dragged along the pavement, already mucky where they’d probably been undone for hours. 

“Make sure you do them before we move in, I’m not carrying your bone head out of there if we start taking hits and you trip over your own feet,” You snipped, and he finally released you, immediately leaning down to fix his own issues, completely missing the way your eyes trailed down to make sure he did the loops tight enough because you were being serious when you said it would loathe you to be the one to carry him away from the danger, though probably not in the way he thought. 

He huffed, standing back to his full height and giving his feet a wiggle in their shoes to make sure they were comfortable, and he looked back at you where you were watching him carefully, catching the split second where something close to worry pooled in your eyes. 

It snapped back into your usual cold demeanour when you realised he was looking straight at you, and you whirled you keep your back to him, inspecting your loaded gun some more as a way to busy yourself. 

“Try not to miss, it doesn’t look good on the reports when I have to save your ass twice,” Spencer snarked, and he practically heard the scoff before you even gave it. 

“That was one time, Reid, and it was only cause I couldn’t see past your stupid fluffy hair. You’re a cop, Reid, not a poodle, you don't need that much volume,” You snapped back, the two of you squabbling the entire walk to the building, until Hotch separated you for the sake of his growing headache. 

He just wished you two would talk things out before he seriously considered Emily’s proposition of locking you in the broom closet together.

[cheriladycl01]

Could you do fic for Fernando Alonso with wife reader?(no age gap). He saw that someone was flirting with her and she was oblivious to it. Then, he swoops in to ‘save’ her from a bad flirt when in reality they were just jealous. He also feels insecure about his age and to make him feel better, she reveals that she had a surprise for him. You decide what it was. Just something fluff and romantic. Tag me later!! Thanks :)))

You make me feel so …. I don’t know the word in English! -McLaren Fernando Alonso x ObliviousWife! Reader

Plot: Marrying Fernando Alonso was the best decision you ever made, you loved how manly and protective he was with you. However, recently he’s been getting jealous of the other men of the grid and how they treat you.

Fernando Alonso had been your husband for many years. You were sort of childhood sweethearts who married young on a whim and stuck together through it all.

You were able to travel the world with the person, later to be people you loved most. However recently you had a glow about it, maybe it was the fact that you were 1 month pregnant not to the knowledge of Fernando and not yet showing but just had that dewy, glowing skin that made you look radiant.

Everyone in the paddock took notice of this change, not that they couldn’t appreciate your attractiveness before, but now it just made them swoon anytime you breezed into the garage in one of your pretty sun dresses.

Today was no different, it was a beautiful sunny day in Mexico, and you were handing out water and fruit for the mechanics and engineers hard at work on your husbands car. You knew them all by name, you made sure you did, so greeting them was never an issue.

However, nobody told you of the rookie employee that had joined them for Mexico in McLaren garage. You immediately started to introduce yourself to the man, talking to him about what he was doing to the car and asking when he had joined them.

Unknown to you, the mechanic was smitten with you and everything you were telling him about your life. He was listening to every word you were telling him, and that was the effect you had on a lot of people.

“So are you, I dunno coming to the team dinner tonight?” He asks scratching the back of his neck and your about to answer with an animated yes until you feel a hand snake round your waist and pull you closer to them.

You look up and see your husband making you smile and pull him into a gentle kiss.

“Mmm my wife will be attending the dinner” Fernando says, you can’t tell but it’s said with a grit in his teeth and a sharp foxy look in his eyes that tells him to back off.

Fernando was used to you getting male attention, but lately it was constant and you didn’t even know it was happening, you were just so oblivious and he hated that you didn’t realise all these people were flirting with you.

And that mechanic wasn’t even the last of it.

Maybe it was something in the Mexican air, but even Fernando couldn’t seem to keep his hands off you over the weekend, especially after your run in with Lewis, and your old friend Jenson.

When Lewis come up to you, you had a big grin on your face.

“Hey darling. How are you?” He asked kissing either side of your cheeks looking over you with those eyes that would draw any woman in, but you. You had no idea those flirty eyes were intended that way. You just saw the kind chocolate brown and assumed the sparkle and glint in there was happiness to see you.

“I’m really good Lew! Just getting to that point of the day where I’m so exhausted, not all of us are young athletes that look 10 year more youthful than they are” you joked to him making him laugh.

“Mmm you definitely don’t struggle in that department” he says looking over you and you beam at him.

“It’s just so warm, do you recon you can help me take my jacket off? I’m not sure where Fernando is, and the buttons always get caught in my hair” you ask, looking round quickly to see if you can in fact bother your husband with the minor inconvenience at hand.

“Of course, turn around for me” he instructs before pulling your hair back and carefully peeling the tight jacket from your body, now showing off the full look of the sundress you were wearing and how it clung to your most valuable assets in the best ways.

“New dress” Lewis asks observing it making you nod.

“Mmmm, I love getting to wear these kinds of dresses in this heat, they make me feel very pretty” you smile as you shove your hands into the pockets of your dress that when you first got it you couldn’t stop telling Fernando about them, before doing a little spin for Lewis, showing of the small slit in the dress.

Fernando came over the minute he saw the look on Lewis face, who was holding your jacket as he spoke to you.

“Lewis” Fernando faked a smile at the fellow driver, once again wrapping his arms around you so you were in front of him with a tight grip and nowhere to go.

“Hello Fernando” Lewis smiles coyly with a slight smirk. The two make idle conversation before Fernandos dragging you away trying to lightly ask you to stay out in the garage and don’t stray away.

But once he was in the car, you found yourself needing the toilet (Curse the start of your baby sitting on your bladder) and another drink due to the high temperatures Mexico was experiencing that day.

There you found Jenson who was just finishing up with an interview before his eyes landed on you.

“Well if it isn’t Y/N Alonso, looking as beautiful as ever” he grins and you pull him into a hug.

You’d known Jenson for pretty much your whole life being childhood friends from Primary school in the UK. You met Fernando when you went to university in Spain, you always joked that you would have still met someone even if it was later in life because Jenson would have likely introduced you.

So when Fernando saw you and him jokingly messing around with one another his face was like thunder.

Jenson could immediately tell and said a quick goodbye to you not wanting to be at the brunt of the Spaniards anger.

“Fernando baby, what’s the matter?” You ask, coming close to him and trying to thread your fingers through his but he shoves your hand away lightly.

“When will you see it?” He demands and you cock your head to the side, not understanding what he meant, making him groan at how cute you looked.

“See what mi amor?” You ask, using Spanish to see if he’d be calmer.

“You don’t see all these BOYS flirting with you and trying to win you over and you don’t see how it affects me and upsets me! And you make me so mad when you entertain it’s and and I don’t know the world in English because I don’t even think there is a word to describe it!” He exclaims all at once making you step back.

He was really really hurt by all this… and you hadn’t been able to see it.

“Have you ever thought that I don’t notice it because I only have eyes for you?” You ask softly, taking his hand happy and satisfied he lets you this time.

“I know I know, I just think… all of these men coming up to you … they are younger than us and it just makes me think they could give you more than I can” he sighs and looks at you with those little puppy dog eyes.

“Don’t you dare say that!” You exclaim almost offended. He had in fact brought your age into it aswell!

“How dare you say that they could give me more than you can, when you damn well know you’ve given me everything!” You say raising your voice.

“Fernando, I love you, and only you! How can you not see that!” You ask.

“I do see it, I just someone feel insecure and I worry that we are too late to experience certain things and its all my fault coz I put it off because of my career!” He explains and your head cocks to the side once again, wondering what he feels like he’s too late to experience.

“What, what do you think we’ve left too late?” You question.

“Kids, travelling the world without my career being there … I dunno I just had a different timeline for us when we first met” he sighs rubbing his temple before pulling you closer to him and resting his head in the crook of you neck as he takes in your sent.

“Baby, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. I was going to wait for after the race so we could tell your parents too but I think this will cheer you up a little … and stop you from worrying about me running over with your colleagues” you joke and he sighs with a light smile pulling back to look over you.

“What is it mi amor?” He asks looking over you. You take his hand and place it on your still pretty flat stomach.

“You can cross a kid of your timeline” you say nervously with a small gulp worried for his reaction.

“Are you being serious?” He asks with a huge grin and he feels around you more to see if there is a more obvious sign.

“Yeah, i only found out before the flight out here” you nod smiling at him and he lifts you up, being as careful as possible with you as he pulls you into a hug.

“I love you so so much! I’m sorry I get so jealous of you, but you can’t blame me when I’m married to such a beautiful woman. Thank you for everything” he smiles pulling you into a light kiss.

Fernando couldn’t be more content with his life right now.

Taglist:

@littlesatanicassholebitch @hockey-racing-fubol @laura-naruto-fan1998 @22yuki @simxican @sinofwriting @lewisroscoelove @cmleitora @daemyratwst @lauralarsen @the-untamed-soul l @thewulf @itsjustkhaos @purplephantomwolf @chasing-liberosis @summissss @gulphulp @starfusionsworld @jspitwall l @sierruhhhh @georgeparisole @youcannotcancelquidditch @tallbrownhairsarcastic @ourteenagetragedy @peachiicherries @formulas-bitch @cherry-piee @spilled-coffee-cup @mehrmonga @bigsimperika @blueberry64857959 @eiraethh @curseofhecate @alliwantisadonut @dark-night-sky-99 @i-wish-this-was-me @tallrock35 @butterfly-lover @barnestatic @landossainz @darleneslane @barcelonaloverf1life @r0nnsblog @ilove-tswizzle @laneyspaulding19 @malynn @viennakarma @landosgirlxoxo @marie0v @yourbane @teamnovalak @nikfigueiredo @fionaschicken @0picels0 @tinydeskwriter @ironmaiden1313 @splaterparty0-0 @formula1mount

[lumosou]

୨୧ — The Harry Potter boys and their Love Languages ( ˆ͈̑꒳ˆ͈̑ )੭ ; 𖦹 + ♡

ꕤ — Characters ; Harry J Potter. Ron Weasley. Fred Weasley. George Weasley. Neville Longbottom. Draco Malfoy. Cedric Diggory.

ꕤ — Discretion ; none!! just fluff and love.

ꕤ — A/n ; eee i’m so sorry for disappearing for a bit ☹️. but i appreciate alll the support u guys have been showing me on all my works!! ily guys!! so here’s a fun lil treat :3 thank u endlessly 🫶🏻

; masterlist.

୨୧ — Harry J. Potter & Acts Of Service.

Harry isn’t good with words—not the ones that matter, anyway. He stumbles, stammers, gets stuck trying to say how he feels. But when it comes to showing you, there’s no hesitation. His love is found in the way he waits outside the library to walk you back to the common room, how he memorizes your favorite tea and makes sure there’s always enough sugar. It’s the way he notices when you’re too tired to finish an essay and stays up scribbling notes for you even though he’s just as exhausted.

He’s the boy who gives pieces of himself quietly, always watching, always finding the small gaps in your day where he can slip in and help without you asking. Because that’s what he needs—to feel like he’s protecting you, even from the smallest inconveniences.

Harry doesn’t say I love you in grand speeches. He says it in the way he fixes your broken quill without telling you, how he gives you the better seat at dinner, how he’d gladly carry your burdens if you let him. To him, love is action—every unspoken I’ll take care of this wrapped in the quiet hope that you’ll understand.

୨୧ — Ron Weasley & Quality Time.

Ron doesn’t need extravagant displays of affection; he just wants you. To be near you, to sit next to you, to share the little pieces of his world that make him who he is. He thrives in your presence, whether it’s laughing over a ridiculous chess match, walking the long way to class just to keep the conversation going, or sitting quietly by the fire while the hours slip by unnoticed.

Time with you is how Ron shows he cares. It’s in the way he always makes room for you—on the couch, in his day, in his life. He’ll wait for you after lessons, save you a seat at every meal, and offer you the last Chocolate Frog without hesitation. He’s happiest when you’re there, no matter what you’re doing, because your company makes everything better.

For Ron, love is in the small, stolen moments. It’s in the way he notices the things you like, the way he teases you just enough to see you smile. He doesn’t need to say it out loud—not when every minute he spends with you is his way of saying, You matter to me.

୨୧ — Fred Weasley & Physical Touch.

Fred speaks in touches—quick, fleeting, and full of mischief. A hand on your shoulder as he sneaks up behind you, a playful nudge of his elbow to make you laugh, the way his arm always ends up slung around your shoulders like it belongs there. He’s tactile in a way that feels effortless, like he can’t help himself when it comes to you.

But then there are the other touches, the ones that mean more than he ever says out loud. His hand brushing yours under the table, his fingers ghosting over your back when you’re standing close, the way he pulls you into a hug that lasts just a second longer than it should. He’s all warmth, all ease, all Fred.

With him, touch is a language of its own. It’s how he shows he’s paying attention, how he steadies you when the world feels too loud, how he reminds you that he’s there—always, without fail. He’ll twirl a strand of your hair around his finger while you’re trying to focus, just to see you roll your eyes, but his thumb will stroke gently over your knuckles when you’re quiet, reminding you that he sees more than you think.

Fred’s love is in the way he’s never far, his presence a constant, reassuring hum. Every touch, whether playful or tender, says what he won’t always put into words: I’m here. I’ve got you. You’re mine.

୨୧ — George Weasley & Acts Of Service.

George loves quietly, but he loves deeply. His affection isn’t loud or flashy—it’s in the little things, the unnoticed gestures that leave no room for doubt. He’ll stay up late helping you finish that essay, even though he’s got his own work waiting for him. He’ll charm the Gryffindor common room fire to burn just a little brighter when you’re cold, or tuck a sweet you love into your bag without a word.

With George, it’s all about thoughtfulness. He pays attention—really pays attention—to the things that make you happy. He knows your favorite snack, your favorite quill, the way you like your tea. He notices when you’ve had a rough day before you even say a word, and his first instinct is to fix it. A joke, a small gift, a ridiculous gesture—it’s all his way of saying, I’m here for you.

But his acts of service aren’t just practical—they’re personal. He’s always finding ways to make your life brighter, softer, more manageable. If you’re overwhelmed, he’ll take something off your plate without you asking. If you’re sad, he’ll make you laugh, even if it means making a fool of himself. And when you ask why he does it, he’ll shrug, his ears pink, and say, “Because I can.”

George’s love is subtle but unwavering. It’s in every thoughtful detail, every small action, every quiet I’ll take care of it that he hopes you’ll notice but never expects you to. It’s the kind of love that doesn’t demand attention—it just is.

୨୧ — Neville Longbottom & Words Of Affirmation.

Neville’s love is soft, steady, and full of reassurance. He’s the boy who sees the best in you, even when you can’t see it yourself. His words are careful, heartfelt, and impossibly earnest—he’ll tell you how brilliant you are after every small success, remind you how brave you are when you’re doubting yourself, and whisper how beautiful you look when you catch him staring.

But Neville’s words aren’t just sweet; they’re intentional. He notices the things you’re insecure about—the things you try to hide—and makes it his mission to remind you of your worth. When you’re frustrated or overwhelmed, he’s the one who tells you, It’s okay. You’ve got this. You’re stronger than you think. He believes in you wholeheartedly, and he’ll never let you forget it.

His love is in the way he writes you little notes when he’s too shy to say things out loud, the way he always manages to find the perfect compliment at the perfect moment. Neville’s words aren’t about flattery—they’re about truth. He means every single one.

With Neville, you never have to wonder how he feels. His words wrap around you like a warm hug, a constant reminder that you’re loved, cherished, and seen. To him, every You’re amazing is another way of saying, I’m so lucky to have you.

୨୧ — Draco Malfoy & Gift Giving.

Draco shows his love in the way he gives—not just things, but pieces of himself. His gifts are thoughtful, deliberate, and so carefully chosen that you can’t help but feel how much he pays attention. A rare book he tracked down because you mentioned it once, your favorite sweets neatly wrapped and waiting for you after a hard day, or an heirloom quill with a note that simply says, It reminded me of you.

It’s never about the price, though he pretends it is. He’ll roll his eyes and call it no big deal, but the way he watches your reaction gives him away every time. Because it isn’t just a gift—it’s his way of saying, I see you. I notice what makes you happy. I care.

But it’s not all material. Draco gives his time, his attention, his loyalty. He’s there when you need him, even if he doesn’t know what to say. He shows up with a coffee you didn’t ask for or slips a note into your bag that reads, Don’t forget how brilliant you are. It’s in the way he lends you his scarf when you’re cold or makes sure your favorite seat by the fire is saved.

Draco’s love is in the details, the way he always finds the perfect thing to remind you how much you mean to him. He doesn’t say I love you easily, but his gifts? They say it for him. Quietly, fiercely, and completely.

୨୧ — Cedric Diggory & Physical Touch.

Cedric’s love is quiet, steady, and impossibly warm, and it shows in the way he touches you. It’s never demanding, always gentle—a hand at the small of your back as you walk through the halls, his fingers brushing yours under the table, or the way his arm wraps around your shoulders without hesitation when you’re cold. With Cedric, touch isn’t just comfort; it’s a promise: I’m here, I’ve got you.

He’s affectionate in ways that feel effortless. He’ll press a kiss to your temple when no one’s looking, or pull you into a hug so tight it feels like he’s shielding you from the world. When you’re upset, his thumb traces slow circles over the back of your hand, grounding you. And when words fail, it’s his touch that reassures you—light, familiar, unshakable.

But it’s the little moments that matter most. The way he reaches for you instinctively, his fingers intertwining with yours like they belong there. The way his forehead leans against yours in quiet moments, his breath mingling with yours in a silent exchange of you’re everything to me. Cedric doesn’t just touch you; he anchors you.

To him, love is closeness. It’s the warmth of his body against yours, the feel of his hand in yours, and the way he’s always, always pulling you closer—because with you, he’s home.

﹙@ 𝗹𝘂𝗺𝗼𝘀𝗼𝘂 ﹚

[tteokdoroki]

⋆ 𝜗𝜚 ˚⟡. — KATSUKU BAKUGOU. setting powder.

about. whilst getting ready to meet your new boyfriend’s extended family — you learn that he knows a thing or two about doing makeup.

warnings. minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact! sfw, fluff, characters aged up to 20s, enemies to lovers, meeting the family, new relationships, brief mention of injury and hospitals, reader wears makeup and dresses, pro hero!bakugou, nurse/doctor!reader.

“we’re gonna be late, sweetheart.”

leaning against the door frame, bakugou crosses his arms over his chest — his perfect lips pulled into a suave smirk as he watches you finish your makeup for tonight.

“wha…huh? you said i had twenty minutes?” you’re still half dressed, your boyfriend’s baggy hoodie from an old merch collection draped over your sweet little dress to protect it from your foundation, your hair is tied back and away from your face so it doesn’t get in the way and though you’re still trying to blend your cream blush in with one of those sponge things — katsuki thinks you’re the most adorable thing in the entire world.

pushing himself off the door frame, he sits behind you on the bed — still watching you work at the vanity whilst he fixes the cuffs of his dress shirt. “that was twenty minutes ago,” the blonde rasps affectionately and grasps your at your jewellery laid out on the bed. the rough pad of his thumb traces over the ‘K’ on the silver heart locket he’d gotten you for your birthday before he undoes the clasp and places the chain around your neck — being mindful of your hair in the process. “y’said you’d be done by then.”

you catch your boyfriend’s vermillion stare in the reflection of your mirror — his subtle smile when he sees his initials dangling from your neck. it feels you with warmth to know that no matter what, katsuki will always find you beautiful and will always love you. even with how chaotic your makeup looks when half done. “i think i spent too long in the shower ‘n underestimated how long this look would take,” you sigh, reaching for your lip gloss next. you’ll have to put it in your purse, do your lips in the car. “do you think they’ll mind if we’re any later than this?”

“my parents won’t. neither will inko. deku — i mean — izuku will, but he’ll pretend he ain’t bothered,” bakugou prattles down the list, making a note of tonight’s attendees. it was tradition that the bakugous and the midoriyas had a monthly dinner together, it had been going on since the two pro heroes were children. only now, their partners were invited since they were family too. family included you.

you hadn’t gone to U.A and you certainly didn’t know katsuki until he became an up and coming pro hero. the first time he’d saved you, by the sidewalk of the hospital you worked at, you thought he was brutish and stuck up. you’d hated him and he’d hated you. but over time, and more frequent trips to A&E after saving civilians or sometimes after being wounded in villain attacks — you’d come to appreciate bakugou’s brooding personality and observant nature.

he’d come to like you too. how much you cared for others and wanted to make the world a better place. you reminded him a little bit of izuku, in a strange way.

so one night when you were on call, katsuki brought you flowers instead of a stomach wound that needed stitches and you’d given him a kiss instead of berating him about being careful, over vanilla and chocolate pudding cups from the hospital cafeteria.

signing impatiently, you bring katsuki back to present day. “i wanted to make a good impression on your aunty and on your best friend,” rubbing your arm nervously, you cast your gaze over the mess on your vanity — expensive products splayed across them in organised chaos.

“you will. they’re gonna love you. they already do,” bakugou stands behind you now, rough palms smoothing over your shoulders. “izuku says you’ve made me less bitchy at work. whatever the fuck that means.”

you giggle, eyes sparkling in delight as you look at the blonde in the mirror. “really?”

“really,” he nods sheepishly. the way you look at him makes him feel so loved. it’s new to him. nice to him. “now, whaddya need help with s’we can hurry up ‘n hit the road.”

you begin to ramble on, perking up at the idea of katsuki helping with the rest of your routine.“well… i’ve done my lashes, my eyes, my base and blush… i can do lips in the car. aside from putting on earrings and fixing my hair all i need is to set my face with—“

“settin’ powder,” bakugou grabs the little pot from your vanity as if he knew where it was all along, picking up a little face cushion as well as he prepares to get to work. “got it.” he dips the cushion into the translucent powder, rubbing the excess off on the back of his hand before leaning in real close to dab at the areas he thinks you need it. like your t-zone.

your boyfriend’s touch is like magic on your face, perfectly setting your makeup while making you feel like a pampered princess. “who taught you how to do this?” comes your shy mumble, his proximity to your face causing you to grow flustered and squirm in your seat. “h-how are you so good at it?”

“keep still, i’ll be finished faster if y’stop squirmin’ sweetheart. don’t wanna mess up what you’ve done already,” pausing his actions, katsuki gives you a toothy smirk — revelling in how bashful you’ve become under his touch while he helps you with your makeup. “…grew up behind the scenes of fashion shows ‘n shoots. so i picked up a thing or two i wanted to make sure i could still do it so i watched a couple of videos on it too. ‘n i noticed…you always put so much time ‘n effort into your makeup. wanted to help make the process easier for you.”

you feel as though you could melt at katsuki’s kind words and gesture as he dabs at your face a little more — tongue caught between the tips of his pearly white teeth as he sticks it out in concentration. he’s so cute it makes you want to scream. “you’re sweet,” you coo appreciatively, stilling yourself to let him finish before he pulls back — satisfied with his work. “i love you.”

it’s not the first time you’ve said it to one another, but the three words are still new to the both of you. “i uh…i love you more,” a pink, rosey hue rises on the surface of bakugou’s tanned skin and his red, loving eyes dart away from your face bashfully. “‘m gonna get your shoes ‘n jacket ready by the door while that sits. don’t forget your settin’ spray after you brush that shit off — oh ‘n don’t take my hoodie off until you’ve done that. don’t wanna ruin your dress, kay?”

“okay,” you respond fondly, hiding your smile at his very specific instructions. “i’ll be down in a minute.”

katsuki nods hesitantly, standing up as he gathers your belongings and outerwear — ready to load them up in the car, when he suddenly pauses in place. “you look beautiful tonight, sweetness. you always do.” he adds as one last parting message, before disappearing down the hall.

leaving you wondering how you ever lucked out with such a man. one who’s not only kind and gentle and loving, but a pro hero and a makeup artist at that.

꒰ end. — all rights reserved © tteokdoroki 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[persephonesdreams21]

Sweet Tooth

A/N: Well let me say first and foremost. My bad guys. Lol I didn't mean to keep this rotting in my drafts for almost a year, but life got crazy. I hope you guys enjoy this

Warnings: Explicit. Oral(fem receiving) Body worship. Finger sucking. Squirting. Multiple orgasms. Willy being down bad.

Summary: You’re sweeter than any chocolate he could cook up, and Willy is all too eager to show you just how much he craves you. Your smiles, your attention…your taste.

The last few weeks of your life have been vibrant.

Filled with technicolor so unlike the dreary years you’ve spent in this town. Between the weather and the chipped cobblestone, England was so gray this time of year. Frigid and frozen over with winter winds and a constant flurry of snow.

It was on a particularly cold night that you’d found him.

Saved him, he’d argue whenever he told the story. Saved him from Bleacher and his mangy mutt.

“Don't you ever get tired of harassing people?” you'd sighed as you'd stumbled upon the scene. A familiar one- another poor soul about to get roped into Bleacher and Scrubbit’s barely concealed hoodwink. Everyone who’d grown up in this city knew better.

“Why don't you mind your business, Y/N. And leave us be. Both me and mister-” Bleacher looks to the man. The one with the sharp cheekbones and the ostentatious velvet trench coat.

“Wonka. Willy Wonka” And he’d said it with such innocence gleaming in those bright eyes that in that moment, you knew you couldn't let him fall victim to the cruel scam.

That’s how you’d ended up with an unexpected housemate.

The home you’d grown up in is nothing special and far from fancy, but you do happen to have a spare room. One with an old fold-out bed that’s more comfortable than it looks. It may have been stupid, but you couldn't help but trust him. Want to help him, feel this pull to him…

That was weeks ago. Almost a month now.

Willy living with you, under your roof, feels oddly natural. Like it had been years that the two of you had been co-existing, he fits into your space like he was destined to come to you. Like he belongs there; the two of you working together like a well oiled machine.

You cook dinner, he washes the dishes and wipes down the counters. The house has never been neater. Even though you try to deny them, every day when he returns from the Gallery Gourmet, he leaves silver shillings in the key bowl on the kitchen table.

“It’s not much…but I want to make sure I’m paying my way. I’m real appreciative of all you’ve done for me” he tells you so earnestly it makes you blush. You sneakily slip his sovereigns in the pockets of his trousers when you do his laundry.

He doesn't know it but he’s helped you too. And not just by scrubbing dishes.

You truly hadnt realized how lonely you were until he came along, and you were terrified of losing your found companion. You’d hold on to him for as long as he’d allow.

Your new favorite time of the day is the evenings; quiet ones. With a fire burning in the hearth and the radio playing softly. You and Willy curl up on the couch, warm in your respective quilts. And read. Well, you read to him. At his persistent insistence.

“Aren't you tired of me blabbing yet?” you tease as you pick up the dog eared copy of The Hobbit that the two of you had been working your way through.

Willy gives you a grin, all boyish and crooked “Never that. I adore the way you tell stories”

That makes your stomach swoop dangerously and you shake your head “You’re a flatter, Mr. Wonka”

“No, no. Your voice is more melodic than the bells of Notre Dame” and when he says things like that to you, how are you not supposed to swoon? From any other man it would make you scoff, but from Willy his compliments always feel different.

Like maybe he’s telling the truth…

You ignore it and change the subject to something that feels safer “One day i'm gonna put you in front of a map and make you show me all the places you’ve been”

“Honestly, It would probably be easier to mark off the few places I haven't been-”

“Oh ho ho ho. How modest of you, great explorer” You tease around a laugh and his ears redden a bit at your ribbing.

“It's not like that and you know it” Willy defends “It was a lot less glamorous than it sounds. I spent seven years under the deck scrubbing pots and then collecting ingredients for my chocolate whenever we made port”

“And wooing girls on every continent?” I ask and that blush on his ears spreads to the high apples of his cheeks.

He’s a pretty one and you know even though he pretends to be demure, might come off as innocent, he’s anything but.

You’d gotten a small taste of it, and hadn't thought of anything else since. But neither of you had quite mustered the bravery to talk about that yet.

The two of you settle in on the old worn couch with mugs of steaming hot chocolate, courtesy of Willy. He’d spoiled you rotten, made you develop a terrible sweet tooth. Any cavities you develop, you’re completely blaming on him.

“Willy” you whine.

“Just try it, please. I made this recipe especially for you”

You take a sip.

The first rush of flavor over your taste buds has your eyes fluttering.

“Mmm, oh my god” you can't help but moan. It’s the most complex thing you’ve ever tasted. Truly. He’s outdone himself- cinnamon and warmth.The kind that feels like a a lovers embrace. Sweet milk chocolate. Is that a hit of rose? “This is insane, what’s in this?”

At your praise Willy smiles like the cat that caught the canary “Cinnamon bark from Sri Lanka, Wild roses from China. Coconut milk”

You look over at him, appraising. Trying to figure out why his voice has taken on that husk. Why his eyes are boring into so intensely.

“What a peculiar combination of flavors” you whisper and Willy bites his lip.

“Its become my favorite combination lately” he admits “but I can't seem to get it quite right. You see, I was allowed to taste it only once, and its tormented me since”

Your breath hitches. Flashes of tangling tongues tongues and his lips pressed against yours. It had only been one kiss but it had wreaked havoc on you since.

You eyeball the mug in your hands. Maybe you weren't the only one suffering with the after effects after all.

“Is this chocolate supposed to taste like?...”

“You. Yes. Your kiss. Your tongue and your lips” Willy nods. “I don't know if anything can come close to the real thing, but I tried”

Your heart thunders behind your ribcage. The longing in his voice matches the one within your gut, the need that had been brewing.

“I’ve spent hours. Thinking of you, trying to imitate your taste so that I could have it one more time. Spicy, but not quite. More warm. Sweet…the floral note from your lipstick. I’ve been nearly everywhere and i’ve never sampled anything quite like it”

With his confession, the thin thread of control snaps.

You’d been trying, so hard. Trying not to scare him away. Trying to keep the intensity of your feelings at bay so that he’d stay, even after he secured his shop. That he wouldnt leave you when he found success-

You place the mug down on the old wood of the side table-

“Please” Willy’s pathetic as he grabs at your arm “Don't go, I understand if this was too much but I- I didn't know how else to show you”

You lean into his touch, not away and that seems to calm him if only just.

Of course this sweet silly man couldn't just tell you that he cared for you. That was not his style. He was bad with words, so much better with his hands. To him, he’d shown you the most sincere form of devotion, crafted your portrait with his most loved medium.

“I feel the same” you say, voice quivering just the tiniest bit. His eyes melt and he comes in close, forehead knocking against yours.

When you kiss him its hot from the start. It’s wet and electric, charged with emotion. With desperation. Willy’s sinewy hands are all over you, cupping your chin, squeezing your waist, so much more bold this time. The waiting had lowered any inhibitions he might have had.

It’s frantic, him unbuttoning your blouse and you tugging at his trousers.

You need more. Need to feel his dark silky hair between your fingers, his pale skin under your palms.

Nothing feels like enough. Not when he mouths at your garment covered breasts or when you wiggle out of your skirt.

You reach into his boxers, wanting to palm at the blood hot hardness you’ll find there-

He groans and pulls his mouth away from your neck, where he’d been suckling marks into the delicate skin. “Wait, don’t”

“Why?” you’re confused, you can feel him. Firm and needy under the cloth.

“Because I want to take care of you first. With my mouth. If you’ll let me”

And oh. Oh.

All you can do is nod. Lay back and let him take what he needs, you feel more vulnerable than ever before. When he blankets you with his body, you realize that you also feel safer. Adored by this man, by this odd beautiful man.

Willy is a tactile person. He wants to touch and taste. And so that is what he does.

There’s so much to feel. Your heavy breasts, peaked with hard little nipples that he swirls his tongue round. Your belly and wide hips, so soft, so much give, he watches his fingers dig in and indent. Your thighs, so plush.

He buries his head between them. And inhales, deeply.

“Willy!” you exclaim, scandalized, trying to close your legs, but he shoulders his way deeper.

“You smell so good” Willy reassures you, his nose pressed against the wet patch on your knickers. Groaning like it’s the best scent in the world.

He takes his time, savors the moment as he peels the damp fabric away. His eyes locked on how the strings of slick stretch and shine in the low fire light. You’re so wet, the puffy lips of your cunt sopping already. And when he takes his first tentative lap, he knows that he could do this for hours and there's no way he’d ever be able to replicate it.

Nectar from the gods. Earthy and sour sweet.

You whimper as he feasts, as he gorges greedily. The sight of his dark head bobbing between your thighs makes you shudder. It’s almost unreal. That he’s doing this, that he wants you. His arms are wrapped around the back of your thighs, holding them up, holding you open.

You come for the first time with your fingers buried in his hair, pressing his face deep into you. Riding his nose and tongue.

For the second time you’re arching away from the sharp pleasure.

“Willy” you choke on your whines as his fingers reach deep into you, hitting that sensitive place inside over and over. You’re shaking with overstimulation, but hes groaning like he’s the one being brought to orgasm over and over.

He pulls his wet mouth away every so often. To tell you how beautiful you are. How good you taste.

“I can’t” you whisper, warningly.

“Please” Willy insists, his breath against your clit “One more, one more for me”

You can't deny him anything, can you?

You arch right up from the couch cushions, squealing as you hit that peak again. But this time is different, this time something inside you bursts, pushing wetness out in a flood.

Willy lets out a gutted sound from where he’s smothered by your thighs, that have tightened vice like around his head during your orgasm.

Coming down from it is almost painful and you’ve never sobbed from pleasure but well. There’s a first time for everything. While you shake and shiver Willy’s gentle, petting your thighs and tummy in soothing circles. Pulling away from your over sensitive flesh.

He stares up at you, his gaze heavy and his tongue poking out every few seconds. Swiping at his wet lips. Like he can't stop tasting you. It’s debauched. Beautiful.

“You are the best thing i’ve ever tasted” Willy pants out the vow, raw with honesty. Drunk on the flavor of you.

Wryly, you wonder if he’ll try to manufacture it into a truffle. A fancy bon bon.

You smile as he climbs back fully on top of you, your arms wrapping around him and holding him close. You kiss the shell of his ear before whispering-

“My turn to taste you”

🍬🍬🍬🍬🍬🍬🍬🍬🍬🍬🍬

I never thought I’d be writing Willy Wonka smut but well. Here I am lol

[kombuuuu]

Miles 42 headcanons?

no one asked but i’ll deliver !!

Miles!42 x Fem!Reader random headcanons

also a lot of snippets :)

You/Reader: Blue

Miles Morales: Purple

Mama Rio/Rio Morales: Pink

Uncle Aaron/Aaron Morales: Orange

Random/stranger: Black

—

gift giving love language duhhh

Will have you walk with him through malls and whatever you look at for a second too long he buys

You don’t catch on until you’re both eating at a nice restaurant, absentmindedly staring at some plant when a lull in conversation happens.

He purchases the plant.

“Fuck you mean I can’t buy it?”

“Sir, the plants aren’t for sale, this is a dining establishment.”

“Establish the fact I’m gettin’ that plant.”

“Sir—“

50 bucks down and a plant 🆙

He will damn right die if you refuse him. He’ll get all grumpy and pouty when you say he should save for a house, not for you.

convinced you just get shy when bought things (you do).

is even more motivated to buy things

“Miles, baby, you need to save up. Not spend on me!”

“This would look so good on you, Ma.”

“Are you listening??”

“Fuck, and this.”

“Oh my god.”

gets so jealous it’s unbelievable

but only when someone goes too far with you

it’s like 1–100 real quick

he’s not usually the prowling type (ha)

but when someone pushes the line he loses his shit

other than that he’s a supportive bbg all the way

“Wanna go home with me, butterface?”

“Fuck you just say?”

“Nothing homie just get outta here.”

“Say that shit again ‘homie’.”

“Chill the fuck out. Let the lady speak for herself.”

“I’ll fucking speak for my girl all I want, homeboy.”

maybe got a liiiiittle bit of an anger issue

guy went home with a broken nose and a missing tooth

better hope he can afford fill ins

he would never get mad at you though

he gets frustrated you don’t listen sometimes, but it’s never to the point of anger

feel like he has the patience of a fucking SAINT

calm and collected baby u know the deal

“Mami, we gonna have a problem?”

“”

“Didn’t think so.”

a SWEETHEART at times

stand by him being raised right

mama rio taught him to be a romantic

wanted him to take after his dad

so flowers and gifts and chocolates

followed by lovin of any kind

probably a baby for affection but doesn’t show it

so when you get all emotional about being gifted roses for the first time

and hug him and smother him

give him stupid little kisses all over

he’s fainting

poor boy doesn’t know love like u show him

“Baby, are these for me?”

“Yeah, Chiquita. They okay?”

“Wh… They’re perfect.”

“Are you cryin’? I can return ‘em.��

“No! No, no, don’t do that.

I love them, C’mere.”

when you guys get rlly comfortable, like a year and some dating, he ends up getting more chatty

willingly talking w you for hours

feels like you’re the only person he can rlly do that with

rambles so rarely that you kind of just sit in awe when it happens

doesn’t catch himself until he’s trying to name your future kids

“I’ll marry you one day, we’ll have like two, three kids. Get all nice an cozy.

You want a boy or girl? I kinda want both. Definitely not girl first, never having a girl without a brother to protect ‘er.

You’d be such a good Mami.

What’d you wan’ name ‘em? I have a few ideas—“

“..”

“But you could choose the girl cause I don’t know any pretty names. And i’ll choose—“

“..”

“..”

“You gon’ let me keep goin?”

“I love your voice.”

“Tranquila, mami.”

Takes you to every family event he ever has

sits you regularly with Rio and Aaron

they insist you call them uncle and ma

you do, obviously

miles doesn’t need to meet your family if you don’t want him to, but if he ever does he’s totally suave with them

like weirdly smooth

able to get on ur carers good side quick

when you meet his extended family they’re just as loving

his whole family is this bright dash of colour

and you fit right the fuck in

“¡Oh, hija estás preciosa!”

“Dice la estrella de la fiesta!”

“You flatter me, Hija.”

“Miles, come get your girl.”

“You look nice too, Uncle Aaron.”

“..Thanks, kid.”

“Hey Mami, havin’ fun?”

“Aight, I’m out.”

when you find out he’s the prowler you’re not really shocked

he’s hella nervous to tell you and kinda puts it off for a while

as long as you’re not in harms way, nothin matters, yeah?

no

the guilt eats him alive

he’s already lost so much, if he doesn’t do things right with you, then loses you too

he’d probably lose himself

so he tells you

“The Prowler?”

“Yeah.”

“The.. Panther guy I keep seeing on the news-?”

“Mm.”

“Miles are you—

..—Are you killing people?”

“Mami, it’s not like that—“

“oh my god.”

“These men— I kill,”

“Oh my god, oh my god.”

“,They’re bad, you understand.”

“Miles..”

“[Name]. Do you understand?”

“Yeah.. Yeah I understand.”

“You can’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t.”

“…”

“Are you mad.”

“I’m not happy.”

“Okay.”

you’re kind of devastated he’s killing people

but you eventually get it

like it takes a while

say a month or so

but you forgive quick

i mean, who knows what those men are doing, right?

(ur delulu but it’s ok)

he lets you have your space but talking with mama rio when she realises your absence knocks some sense into him

mans is going to GROVEL

he will fucking beg on his damn knees

knocks on your door and is already kneeling

will plead with you to come back to him

like i said a whole ass romantic

you know what’s romantic? a man who can get on his knees

he will suffocate you in gifts and affection

oh you like (insert sanrio esc character) ? look over there at that lifesize plushie woahhhh wonder who that’s forrrrrr

“Hello?”

“Mami, don’t close the door.”

“Miles, go home.”

“And please stop kneeling, the floor is dirty.”

“I’m not leaving ‘til you hear me out.”

looooong sigh

“Okay, fine— whatever, come inside. You have two minutes.”

“God, I missed you. You’re so beautiful Chiquita.”

“Three minutes.”

You talk it out easy, he’s a real smooth talker when he wants to be

“Okay Miles, I’ll see you tomorrow yeah?”

“Yeah, Ma. See you soon.”

“Wh—.. What is that?”

“Ohhh…”

“Why the fuck is it so big?”

“It said “Life Size” on the site? I was thinking like two feet tall.”

“You bought that?”

“Yeah.. I was thinkin’ you wouldn’t let me in. Would have to bribe you.”

“…That’s really cute.”

Annnnnd that’s all i can come up with i’ll probably do more later :P

[moonstruckme]

hey mae! it’s been awhile since i’ve sent an ask but im always reading your work girl! i love how you write tbh. if you’re up to it do you think you could write something with poly marauders, where the reader has trouble eating and making themself eat due to poor appetite. my appetite really does come and go and ever since covid (maybe before) it’s like eating makes me feel revolted. sometimes i just don’t feel like eating bc of other things like depression, adhd, anxiety. i was just wondering if you could write something with the boys helping out the reader with finding out what sounds good, cooking, and eating if possible. sometimes having someone around to talk to and hang out with makes it so much easier to deal -🌶️

Hey Pepper, thank you sm! And thanks for being patient with me <3

cw: lack of appetite, mention of skipping meals

poly!marauders x gn!reader ♡ 1.1k words

The sun’s going down, the last dregs of its light spilling brilliant and golden over the book in your lap, and you can feel your boyfriends starting to get restless. Well, two of them. 

“If we’re missing half the ingredients,” Sirius says, trailing James into the kitchen, “it’s not going to be any good.” 

James only tsks. “Ye of little faith. That’s what improvisation is for.” He starts pulling things down from the cabinet. 

“You’re not even going to glance at the recipe?” 

“I don’t need to. I know the general vibe.” 

“Help!” Sirius calls towards the living room. “He’s gone off the rails. Remus, come fix it.” 

Remus turns around to look over the back of the sofa, his shoulder brushing yours as he does. He’s sitting right up against you despite the couch being empty, not that you mind. Remus is sort of like a cat that wants to be near you but not always to be pet. His touches are often like this, passive gestures like a hand on your head or his thigh pressed against yours. It works for you just fine; you can feel the affection bleeding into you from any point of contact. 

“Don’t you think we should just eat out?” Sirius asks, tilting his head and doing that thing with his eyes that you all pretend doesn’t work on you. 

Impressively, Remus keeps his face impassive. “I’m having leftover brussels sprouts,” he replies, “so it’s not really my concern. Anyway, James has a good history with not following recipes.” 

“Exactly,” James says, grinning at Sirius, who scowls. But then he fixes his gaze on Remus. “So why are you having that, Rem? Have what I’m making.” 

“Because they’re going to go bad, and I’m not hungry enough for a big meal.” The last part is said somewhat quieter, directed towards the living room as he turns back around and picks up his own book. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see James frown, but he glances at Sirius and they seem to collectively decide not to push it. Remus’ appetite isn’t much better than yours. He has his better days, but it’s not uncommon for him not to feel up to what your other boyfriends would consider a whole meal or to eat only chocolate until Sirius hounds him into something more substantial. 

James looks to you hopefully. “You’ll have some, won’t you sweetheart?” 

You wince, hating to let him down, and from the look on James’ face he clocks the guilt in your expression before even you get a chance to say, “I don’t think I’m really up to it tonight, either.” 

James deflates, but he’s clearly trying to put on a brave face. “That’s alright. I think I’ll just save it for another night, then.” 

“I’m sorry,” you say, setting your book facedown on the armrest and turning around to face him more fully. “You could still make it and just put leftovers in the freezer. Maybe I’ll have some tomorrow.” You wince again as soon as you say it. No promises, though.

The smile James gives you is comforting if not totally satisfied. “It’s okay. I’ll just make it another time, it’s not a problem.” 

You return his smile, close-lipped. Sirius is looking at you with narrowed eyes, arms crossed like he’s sizing you up. 

“What are you going to eat?” he asks. 

“Hm?” 

“What are you going to have instead?” You hesitate, and he tilts his head knowingly, a piece of hair slipping from behind his ear to drape over his shoulder. “You need to have something, especially since you didn’t have lunch.” 

From the kitchen, James looks at you. “You didn’t?” 

“I just…don’t feel like it.” It’s a feeble argument even to your own ears, and the look Sirius gives you says that he thinks so, too. 

“You can’t miss two meals,” he says obstinately. “Even Remus is having some brussels sprouts.”

You look to Remus to be offended at the even Remus comment, but he only shrugs. You’re on your own. 

“What sounds good?” he asks you. 

You try not to pout. “Nothing. Everything sounds gross.” 

“C’mon, baby.” Sirius leans against the countertop. “It doesn’t have to be strictly dinner food, yeah? Just anything that sounds like you’d be willing to eat it.” 

You think for a minute. Remus touches the back of his hand to your leg, knuckles soothing over the skin beside your knee. 

“I guess…ice cream sounds okay,” you say hesitantly. “But I know that’s not exactly nutritious…” 

“Would a milkshake be close enough?” James pipes up. 

You shrug. “I guess.” 

He grins. “I can do that for you, lovie. Just gimme a sec.” 

James is a loud cook. You go back to your book while cabinet doors slam and the blender whirs and there's a muffled “oh, shit” as something is undoubtedly dropped on the floor, but a minute later he’s bringing you a glass of something thick and chocolate-y looking. You smile at the added garnish of mint and a straw, reaching for it. 

“Thanks, Jamie.” 

He winks. “Anytime.” 

Remus is the only one courteous enough not to obviously watch while you take a sip, and you feel your eyebrows raise as you look up at James. 

“This is really good,” you say. He practically glows at the praise. “I didn’t even know we had chocolate ice cream.” 

Sirius barks a laugh, and James’ smile widens. 

“What?” you ask. 

“We don’t,” he admits. “Will it ruin your appetite if I tell you it’s not actually ice cream?” 

You shake your head, sucking at the straw. “I’m already drinking it, so.” 

James beams. He really is looking very proud of himself. “It’s a protein shake. A pretty balanced meal, actually.” 

“Oh, nice.” You grin at him, taking another hearty slurp mostly because you know it’ll please him. “It’s perfect, thank you.” 

“Gotta keep our sweetheart fed,” he says, bending down for a kiss. Sirius and Remus’ hums of approval nearly harmonize, and you and James share an elated look while they both do their best to pretend like it didn’t happen. 

“Can I try?” Remus asks, and you tilt the cup towards him in invitation. 

He wraps his lips around your straw, sipping hesitantly. He looks mildly impressed. 

“Could you make me one of those too?” 

From the look on James’ face, he’d be delighted to. “Course, love.” He plants a smacker on Remus’ cheek and nearly knocks Sirius over as he beelines for the kitchen. 

“This is just excellent,” Sirius gripes, but you see the satisfaction in his expression. “Now that you two have blown up his ego, I’ll have to eat something he makes too.” 

“Correct,” James says brightly. “And you should be so lucky.”