#don’t stare at it for too long I know it looks wonky

[helenrira]

Hasn’t felt his kin’s warmth in a long time…

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Down Home 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as non/dubcon, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: The world's most famous heroes walk into a small town diner and change your life.

Characters: Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers

Note: Because of this.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all to Jupiter and back. Take care. 💖

It’s a slow day. Every day is slow out in Tumble Down. The township’s name tells the whole story. Everything there is in decline. It’s hard to imagine there was ever a time when the people weren’t tiny and forgotten in the hubbub of the bigger world. Since the mines closed and the canning factory was outsourced, it feels even smaller. 

Smaller isn’t so bad. It’s simpler. You all know each other’s names and faces. You say hi and how are you and do what needs to be done. Simple is, simple as. 

You here there isn’t much to do in most small towns. Not for fun or for work. You’re one of the lucky ones. You got a job down at the diner in your sophomore year. It helped pay for your daddy’s new engine and since then, it keeps you all afloat in the rising waters of disparity as they close in on Tumble Down. 

You hum to the old radio that sits on the shelf you make sure to dust. The speakers crackle from time to time and the signal gets wonky in storm season, but the music’s never bad. It’s the classic stuff that always played in your mother’s kitchen. 

You wipe down another table. Not because it needs it, just because it’s something to do. The day has been long and listless. Even the breakfast rush was lower than usual. 

Darnell, the cook, whistles along from the back. Everyone knows he isn’t as mean as he looks. He just likes his space. 

As you go back to the counter and lean on it, staring at the ticking clock, a roar cuts through the distance. You blink and look up, narrowing your eyes at the dusty country road outside. Wind rustles through the tall wheat in the field opposite and the noise rumbles closer and closer. 

A man pulls in a motorbike. He’s going so fast that he has to circle the gravel lot before he can slow down. It’s not Lenny and his prized Harley but another man on a more modern-looking mount. Not far behind, another motorcycle zips through and the riders straddle their bikes as the survey the restaurant. 

You narrow your eyes. You probably need glasses but you make do. The last time you got your eyes checked, you didn’t have enough for the frames. 

The one man wears blue and red, an odd helmet on his head. Not a helmet at all but a sort of mask. The other man has dark hair to his chin and a beard to match. He’s all in black but his left arm shines with gold ripples. Not a sleeve, an arm, made of metal. 

“Oh my lord,” you murmur in shock, “Darnell!” You holler over your shoulder, “you’re not gonna believe this.” You turn to the window as he pokes his head around, “not sure I do myself. Tell me my eyes aren’t lyin’.” 

He looks above your head, an easy task for the mammoth cook. He hums and swirls around his spatula. “Thems those boys on the news. The one that was in the old war. Grandad’s battle.” 

“I’m not going crazy with boredom?” You bubble. 

He snorts. It’s as close to a laugh as you get from him. You spin back and hurry around the counter to grab a pair of menus. Still, you don’t want to seem too eager. You put down the menus and fiddle with a napkin holder instead. 

The bell over the door jingles and swipe up the menus and turn. You really can’t believe it’s them. Yet, as Captain America removes his cowl, you’re certain. They look just like they do on the TV. Even with your sight, you can tell. 

“Hello, fellas, how are you doin’ today?” 

The dark-haired one, the Winter Soldier, glances at the other, his cheek dimpling, “well... we’re... uh...” 

“We’re doing great,” Steve Rogers answers brightly. “Starving. You guys serve bacon? My buddy’s dying for some.” 

“Um, yes, sirs, yes. Can I sit ya down?” You ask, hugging the menus closer. 

“Please,” the Captain accepts as the other man stays silent and pensive, his eyes wandering down to the coffee stain on your apron. 

“Just here,” you sweep away and wave them on with you. You stop beside the nicest booth and lay down a menu on each side, “have a seat.” 

They do just as you bid. The blond puts his cowl on the table and unhooks the shield from his back to lay on the far end of the seat. He smooths back the sweaty strands of hair as his companion stretches his metal fingers. You sway nervously by the table, twitching as you remind yourself how to do your job. 

“Well, can I get ya started with coffee? You look beat from the road.” You beam with the smile Mr. Welk says could outshine the sun. 

“Not just the road,” the dark-haired one mutters as he rolls his shoulder. The one that connects to his real arm. “I’ll take one, please.” 

“Can I get an orange juice, please,” the Captain asks. 

“Course ya can. I’ll be right back. You have a look at the specials and give it a think,” you bounce and spin around. 

You go to pour the orange juice and a cup of black coffee. Darnell lingers by the window. He only ever really appears to put a plate up but he watches the new arrivals. 

You bring their drinks and step back, clasping your hands behind you. 

“Did ya need cream or sugar for your coffee, sir?” You ask. 

“Black’s fine,” he assures. 

“No need for the sirs. Steve, Bucky,” Captain America insists, “we’re off duty.” 

“Right, sorry about that, ssss...Steve,” you correct yourself. “You need some more time?” 

“Think I’m decided,” Bucky intones, “what about you?” 

“Set,” Steve confirms, “I’ll have the sunny side up with toast and sausage. Can I get some fruit on the side as well, please?” 

He hands over the menu and you take it as you hold your smile. Your cheeks ache. Not because you have to force it but because you can’t stop. This is the most exciting thing to happen in Tumble Down ever. If Darnell wasn’t there, no one would believe you. 

“Overeasy, bacon, extra bacon too, and some french toast, and uh... home fries.” Bucky offers up the second menu, “please and thank you.” 

“Alrighty,” you preen, “I’ll put your order in.” 

“Got it,” Darnell growls over the empty diner. 

“He’s got good hearing,” you giggle nervously as you look between the men. “Ummmm, sorry, I’ll leave ya be.” 

“You’re not bothering,” Steve assures. “I can see you’re dying to ask.” 

He gives a gentle smile. 

“Nah, oh, gosh. I’m sure ya get it all the time. I don’t wanna be one of those,” you put your hands up. “Really, you all look like you could use the peace and quiet.” 

“Well, actually, I’ve been stuck with this meathead for days,” Bucky scoffs, “so please, I’d love to hear someone else’s voice.” 

You laugh again. They’re funnier than you expect. They always look so serious on the TV. 

“What... what are y’all doing here in Tumble Down? It’s a bit far from... anywhere.” You ask sheepishly. 

“Tumble Down? Is that what it’s called?” Steve scratches his neck above his stained collar. “Well, we couldn’t get a signal so we’ve just been riding through. Saw the sign down the way and figured we’d get a bite.” 

“He’s lying. He was falling asleep on his bike,” Bucky teases. 

“Sure,” Steve shakes his head. “Only ‘cause I’m tired of you.” 

You giggle again, “I thought y’all were friends.” 

“Friends, partners, cursed with each other, have your pick,” Bucky snorts. 

“He’s playing,” Steve says. “Look, we’re boring. Despite what you think. We’re a couple of old men bickering with each other. What about you? What about Tumble Down?” 

“Ah, nothing really, sir. Steve,” you squeeze the menus tight at the edges. “Nothing going on since the coal law and that. Everyone’s all but run out. All but us.” 

“Just you? Your family?” Steve wonders. 

“Jesus, Steve, nosy much?” Bucky says over the brim of his mug. 

“Sorry. He’s right. Like I said. Crotchety old man. I talk to the pigeons.” 

You laugh again, “oh my, you are a hoot!” You slap your thigh emphatically, “I’m still my ma and pa. It’s just the three of us. They need help with the animals and that.” 

“Animals?” Steve wonders, his posture shifting towards you. 

“Chickens, cows. They got a farm. Was my grandpa’s. And his ma kept it going after he didn’t come home from... well, you’d know more about that time than me, I think.” You give a forlorn look to the floor. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry about your grandfather. Great grandfather,” he corrects himself. 

“Lotta good men gone,” Bucky mulls grimly. 

“Yeah, my great granny said as much. I wouldn’t know though, but I heard the stories,” you dare to look at them again. “Sorry to bring up the bad memories.” 

“Nah,” Bucky waves you off casually. “I got this nifty arm outta it.” 

“And I got a shield so, you know, not all losses,” Steve chuckles. 

“I s’pose,” you agree. “I’m gonna check on that food for ya. You good with your coffee?” 

Bucky raises the mug, “delicious.” 

You nod and turn with a swish of your skirt. You go up to the window and look over the ledge. “How’s it going, Darnell?” 

“Going. I’m happy it ain’t Raylene here. She’s got a mouth on her, don’t she? Them sort don’t deserve that trouble,” he tisks. 

“They’re nice. And Raylene is too. She’s just... Raylene,” you say, “can I help with anything?” 

“I don’t wanna be rude but I’m tired of tellin’ ya to stay outta my kitchen. You know the grill likes to spit,” he shakes his head. “You go, I’ll let ya know when it’s ready.” 

“Alright,” you back away and turn back. 

Steve and Bucky lean over the table, their voices low as they chat. As you move around behind the counter, they both sit up and the former clears his throat. You smile as you take the cloth from your apron pocket and wipe the already clean counter. 

As the radio buzzes, you hum without thinking. Stevie Ray Vaughan’s smoky voice mingles with the emotion plucked through electric strings. Your dad’s a big fan. He has old tapes with concerts on them and even went to one himself. 

The bell rings and you nearly jump out of your shoes. You turn and scoop up the plates as you thank Darnell. He grumbles that he’s going out to have a smoke; his code for having a Tootsie Pop by the backdoor. 

You bring the meals over to the table and set them down before the men. Their gazes make you sweat. It’s all a little more intense with no one else there. 

“Thank you,” Steve says and Bucky echoes him. 

“Not at all. Anything else? Water? Ketchup?” 

“It all looks great as is,” Steve says, “you got a nice voice.” 

“Oh, really? Ha, I was just humming out of tune. Sorry if I was too loud.” 

“Not at all,” Bucky picks up his fork as he leans forward. He tilts his head. “You know this one?” 

“Sure do. It’s Fleetwood Mac,” you answer. “One my all times.” 

He grins and nods as he looks at Steve. Steve watches you with a smile of his own. 

“Do you sing?” He asks. 

“Me? Only in my shower or to the chickens. They usually hide in the henhouse then.” You tinkle with laughter. 

“Ah,” Steve nods. 

“But if... if ya really wanna suffer, I could try it,” you smile, “but uh, you know, Stevie Nicks, she’s one of a kind.” 

“I’ve had worse,” Steve says. 

You look between him and Bucky. You chew your lip and think. You follow the song as you try to recognise which verse it is. You squint and perk up as you catch your place. 

“You just let me know when you’ve had enough,” you say before you start. Not only can you tell your pa that you met the super soldiers, you can tell him you sang for them. It’ll be a nice bit of excitement for the dinner table. 

[beenbaanbuun]

blood w/ poly!ateez

so i feel so sane about this… definitely no evil thoughts filling up my brain right now. none whatsoever :)

i want to write so much more about this universe and i’m literally sending the biggest kiss ever to @ateez-main-yapper to requesting this because i will be thinking about this for the rest of my life!

words - idk

genre - smut, horror (there’s a bit of gore i guess)

warnings - vampire!ateez, mafia!ateez, human!reader, smuggler!reader, blood, scarification, collars, ownership, blood, surgery mentions, nicknames (little mouse, princess, sweetheart), dancer!yeosang, security guard!mingi, ripper!doctor!yunho, mommy!seonghwa (don’t look at me like that, i had to), hand kink (mentioned), no actual sex but it’s talked about a lot, hair pulling, i think that’s all??

——————————————————————————

the scent of stale blood haunts the hallway you find yourself walking down, clinging to the back of your throat until yourself gagging on it. no matter how many times you find yourself down here, it never gets any easier to cope with; even a slaughterhouse would be more pleasant than this.

it begs the question why you’re back. by now, you’ve bled them of enough money to never have to work again, so it’s certainly not the pay. the job itself is harder than most, and not at all rewarding when you have to lie and cheat your way into success. there’s no doubt that the stress of hiding a smuggling operation behind the guise of a blood donation clinic has taken a good 20 years of your life from you. you can guarantee that job satisfaction isn’t what’s keeping you here either.

it’s only when you turn a corner and your eyes land upon them that you remember exactly why you’re still so willing to walk these halls. it isn’t something keeping you here but rather someone; multiple someones, in fact.

“mingi!” your footsteps quicken as you get closer the security guard that stands waiting outside of a heavy metal door. despite the fact that you’ve been on the other side of it multiple times, it still sends a shiver of curiosity down your spine. it’s not an anxious curiosity as it was when you first landed yourself in this position, but more of a morbid one. you know the horrors that lie behind it, you’ve experienced a few of them too, yet you still yearn to see more. “long time no see,” you offer a polite smile once you’re close enough to lower your volume from a shout, “san told me hongjoong had assigned you to pest control. is it not going well?”

mingi gives you a slow blink, his jaw set in stone and his eyes steely as he stares you down. he’s always looked far more intimidating than he actually is, although you suppose it serves to his benefit when his main job it scaring away anyone who might wish to disturb the peace. you’re only grateful to have had the chance to see behind the mask he wears; to watch his eyes melt and his lips part in the wonky grin he gets so little time to wear.

“you’ve not seen me in months and the first thing you ask me is about my demotion back to security?” he quirks a brow at you and you have to bite back your grin. in truth, you’d heard all about it from seonghwa over the past few weeks, your main contact within the clan more than happy to share life details with you as though you’re a lifelong friend rather than a mere employee. their favourite employee, sure, but still at the bottom of the pecking order.

“i just wanted to know more,” you lift your arms in defence, not missing the way his eyes flicker to the bandage on your left forearm, “like you said, it’s been a while.”

mingi hums in agreement as he examines the clean cloth. a long finger reaches out to trace the spot where the fabric meets your skin, the touch lingering and soft. it’s more the real mingi than it is the security guard mingi; it warms your heart to see.

“when did this happen?” he whispers, voice barely above a whisper.

“about two weeks ago,” you i pull your wrist back, letting mingi’s hand drop back down to his side, “hongjoong wanted to approach me about it, but i didn’t take much convincing,” actually, it was you who approached him but for some reason that’s much harder to admit, “you guys are much… kinder to me than the other clans i supply, well, supplied to. it was a no brainer to ditch them when given the chance.”

“so you’re ours?” he asks, voice dipping a little too low for the question to be purely innocent.

“i’m mine,” you confirm, “what i supply, however, is all yours.”

there’s a smirk on his lips, not as easily defeated by your sense of self worth as you’d like him to be. he knows as well as the rest of them what the mark on your arm means, after all. he knows as well as you do that there’s no getting away from them now. the moment yunho took his sweet, sadistic time carving their mark into your body it wasn’t just your business that belonged to them.

“sure you are, little mouse,” he whispers as he leans in close, his icy breath fluttering against your face. your stomach drops but you choose to ignore it. this was your decision, after all, “now, scurry along; you wouldn’t want to keep anyone waiting, would you?”

with the flip of a switch, the metal door clicks open and your immediately met with a blast of cool air and a wall of sound. you’ll never understand the clan’s need for these constant frivolities, especially when you’re on the other side of this getting your hands dirty, but you suppose it is a good way to hide their more secretive operations. no one is going to notice the door in the corner when there’s so much going on out here, right? it’s an extra layer of security, and a darn good one at that.

when you step inside, the door clicks shut behind you and you immediately get to scanning the crowd of partygoers for a familiar face. amongst the hoard of vampires, they’re harder to spot, their ashy skin and red eyes sticking out a lot less than they would next to a human. instead you look for a familiar hair colour, recalling the angry text you got from seonghwa about the den’s main bathroom turning pink with hongjoong’s hairdye. nothing sticks out at you, though, and so you’re back at square one.

your arms stretch out before you as you go to push through the crowd. it’s moments like this that you’re glad for the metal, almost collar-like band around your neck. yeosang had created it as a way to keep your pulse hidden from any less-well-meaning vampires. he’d insisted that the tag dangling from it with the clan’s emblem engraved was all hongjoong’s idea, but you recognise the same possessive glint in all of their eyes. it’s the same one yunho had given you when engraving that very emblem into your body, and the same one san had given to you when wrapping your bleeding arm up in a fluffy white bandage. yeosang is just like the rest of them, even behind his sweet exterior.

but right now he isn’t crafting some marvel of engineering out of metal scraps and a dream, but instead on the stage at the front of the room. it’s not often he’s up there instead of one of the others, but as you watch him elegantly dangle from a hoop that hangs from the ceiling, you find it hard to see why. he’s utterly ethereal, like a butterfly about to emerge from a chrysalis; one of those blue ones with the wings that seemed designed to capture your attention with their beauty. you’re entranced, much more so than the rest of the party-goers who seem to have grown blind to the creature moving elegantly before them.

his body moves not at all like a butterfly though, instead flowing smoothly like a viper along the branch of a tree. he extends his arms in such a way you’ve never seen before, silken and smooth as he reaches out to his audience. it pulls you in further, your feet shuffling as you push through the final layer of people to get to the stage. you stumble forwards, catching yourself on the edge of the raised platform. if he notices you there, he doesn’t show it; the stoic expression he wears remains steady as he gracefully shifts his body into yet another position.

you watch him like that until the end of his performance, unblinking with your lips parted in awe. even the way he tumbles to the floor and bows to an uninterested audience holds so much more grace than you think you will ever possess. to think that this is the man that spends half of his time smeared in motor oil with a puppy-like grin on his lips is strange, yet it feels so right.

“hello, little mouse,” he echoes the familiar nickname as he makes his way to the front of the stage, crouching down in front of you and running an all-too-confident finger along your jawline to your chin. he snaps your mouth shut in a way that is so far from the yeosang you know that part of you believes this must be his much cockier twin. “hongjoong is out tonight; some trouble on south side caught his attention so he wanted to clean up the mess before the police got there.”

“i’m meeting with seonghwa then?” you murmur, too starstruck for your mouth the form words properly.

yeosang shakes his head.

“seonghwa and san went with him,” the finger from your chin shifts down to the piece of jewellery that fits snug around your neck. his touch catches against the tag, the jingling sound reminding you of a bell on a cats collar. you try to ignore the smirk that rises to his face as sees you make the connection, instead shifting your gaze to the pendant around his neck that shares the same symbol. “yunho is busy with whatever sick shit gets him off, me and mingi are working which means…”

fuck.

“jongho and wooyoung.”

“clever mouse,” yeosang’s tone is venomous, despite his words being soft. clearly performing does something to his ego; inflates it until every sign of the sweet mechanic is hidden behind a thick shroud of confidence. it’s deliciously cruel, mirroring the sick sadism of yunho or the vast overconfidence of mingi, and holy fuck do you want a taste. perhaps later, once business is over.

if business is over.

“i wouldn’t worry too much about those two, though,” he continues, tugging on the tag of your collar—because despite your pride, even you have to admit that there’s no other way to describe it—until you’re face is merely inches from his own, “hongjoong promised yunho their balls if they can’t learn to control them. maybe you’ll finally be able to have a meeting with them before getting your pussy stuffed, hm?”

you feel yourself getting warmer, your face flushing as yeosang so blatantly talks about your track record with the pair of resident trouble makers. it’s not like you’ve let slip about all the times jongho’s had you sitting on his cock with your mouth wrapped around wooyoung’s the second you step into their office which means that they must have instead. it makes you wonder what they talk about whenever you’re not here, and how much each of them know about your less than professional escapades with each of them. it’s a troubling thought, and yet it’s still manages to light a fire deep in your belly.

“see you later, yeosang,” is the only thing you can mumble in response as you pull away from his touch, the tag of the collar bumping gently against your neck as it slips free of his fingers.

——————-

“you told the others about fucking me?” you scoff as you barge your way into the office where the two youngest vampires await your arrival. it’s nice to see them here already, since they usually arrive far later than the agreed upon time. although, you suppose with the delays of mingi and yeosang, you’re also late on this occasion. you let the passive-aggressive comment about time keeping slide, knowing it won’t help you right now.

“hello to you too, mousy,” wooyoung hums from where he lays on the green sofa in the corner of the room, “it’s nice to see you again! we’re doing wonderfully, by the way; thanks for a—”

you let the door slam behind you as you storm your way towards him, completely ignoring the curious gaze of jongho.

“cut the shit, wooyoung,” you grab hold of his shirt collar and lean in close. it’s supposed to be intimidating but the wide grin on his lips lets you know otherwise. “you’ve all been talking about me when i’m not here? what the fuck, man!”

wooyoung chuckles in your face, his dangerous fangs glinting beneath the overhead lights. you know he’d never bite without your permission—people have been killed by hongjoong for much less—but it still sends a shiver through you whenever you see them.

“you’re not exactly discrete yourself, princess,” the office chair creaks as jongho stands, making his way around his desk and towards you. although you keep your gaze firmly on the little rat who still sits giggling to himself, you can’t help but be hyper aware of the presence behind you. a large hand traces its way up your spine, not stopping until you feel his fingers lace themselves with your locks and tug. your grip fall limply from wooyoung’s shirt as you’re hauled back into the soft muscle of jongho’s chest, your neck craned awkwardly over his shoulder to keep you in place. “what do you want us to say when san is asking about who’s cum he’s eaten from your pussy? do you want us to lie to them?”

you squirm, wincing when his grip on your hair doesn’t loosen despite your attempts to break free. they call you little mouse and right now, you really do feel the part—you walked right into a trap of which there’s no way out.

“maybe i should let you fuck me again just so i can watch when yunho rips your fucking balls off your body!” you grunt through gritted teeth.

jongho hums in amusement, “it was hyperbole, sweetheart,” a pair of cold lips meet the hot skin of your cheek for just a second before pulling away, the softness a stark contrast to the harsh grip he still has you in, “he doesn’t care how much we fuck you as long as we get the job done. after all, he’d be a hypocrite to complain about us fucking you when his dick is inside of you twice as often, hm?”

you watch with cautious eyes as wooyoung stands from his place on the sofa, grinning as wide as the cheshire cat. it reeks of danger, yet you’ve never been the type to give into that sort of thing. you’re a human working for a bunch of vampires; danger is just a regular part of your life at this point.

“besides, mousy,” the cheshire cat purrs, “you think we’re the only ones who talk? you don’t think we know just how much you love calling seonghwa mommy when you ride him? or how much you love it when yeosang spits in your mouth whenever he’s fucking you dumb?” wooyoung brings a hand to your cheek, dusting over your bottom lip with his thumb, “you’re ours, little mouse; we can talk if we want.”

[synthetickitsune]

can i ask for dokyeom + Being held after a long day + rainy days? please make it super fluff for the sunshine boy who radiates warmth and comfort🥺

thanks!

DK (SVT) | Rainy day & being held after a long day

fluff | 0.7k | gn!reader

A/N: if the formatting is wonky it’s bcs im posting from my phone lol

“Your feet are cold,” you whine, curling into a fetal position. He laughs, whispering soft apologies and molding his body against yours. It’s not that bad if you’re honest. You just like his voice when he speaks softly to you. You open your body to him, like a flower blooming you let him closer.

The summer storm has caught you unprepared. One minute you were rocking your body to the beat of the music, Seokmin’s heated body moving in sync with yours under the blue summer sky, and then the next minute darkness took over. The temperature took a nosedive too - again, you were not prepared for that. You got home barely an hour ago, resembling a couple of shivering soaked rats.

A gentleman, Seokmin let you take a shower first while he prepared snacks and hot drinks. Although now you think it might’ve been an excuse to have you warm up the bed, so he could comfortably snuggle into it.

“It was fun. Shame we had to leave,” he sighs, face snuggled into your chest.

“I put so much effort into my fit too,” you complain aloud. His arms tighten around you and he kisses every patch of skin he can reach.

“I know, and you looked so gorgeous,” he mumbles in a note that doesn’t sound very happy, “Do you know how many guys were staring at you? I was right there.”

You giggle, intertwining your fingers with his over your stomach before changing your mind and turning around to hold him in your arms as well. He smiles again when you kiss him. And again. And again. You pull away enough to look into his eyes.

“I don’t actually know because I was too busy looking at you,” you reassure him, “It’s hard to look anywhere else when my boyfriend is so hot.”

He makes a soft oh and bites his lip. “You’re hot too.”

“Thank you,” you accept his compliment with a smirk that soon turns into a yawn, “I’m glad we’re home though.”

The soft drumming of rain outside spreads through the room, filling the comfortable silence. The cold air blows in through the window, but you’re perfectly protected by the blanket and your shared body heat. Maybe this is better than the booming noise of the festival.

“It’s nice,” Seokmin agrees, “I was getting tired anyway, I just didn’t want to ruin your fun.”

“You can’t be for real,” you groan, closing your eyes before rubbing them, “Do you know how much I wished you’d say you want to go home?”

“So much that you made it rain,” he jokes, making you laugh too, “And you could’ve said something too.”

“But you looked like you’re having a great time.”

“You too,” he makes sure to make the situation a stalemate. You feel a little silly starring at him with a pout on your lips when he’s pouting too, the same stubborn look mirrored in his eyes. It only takes a few seconds for both of you to break.

You pull him closer and he readjusts your position so you could nestle in the crook of his neck, his arm tightly coiled around your waist. His other hand massages your neck gently, making you close your eye in bliss.

The rain sounds so far away, wind keeping it from hitting your window and disturbing your peace. If you listen closely, it feels like you can still hear the music from the festival. You let Seokmin easy the tension from your neck and shoulders. You don’t feel too tired or you know you’d be falling asleep already.

“I feel sore all over, you?” you mumble, too tired to open your mouth properly.

“We’re getting old - some jumping around and look at us,” he sighs dramatically. You join him. “It’s too bad.”

“It’s bad getting old with me?” you tease, more a playful hum. You can hear the smile in his voice. You feel his arms settle around your body and squeeze you tighter. You hold him closer too.

“Never,” he whispers, “I’ll love you even when you’re a wrinkly raisin.”

“I’ll love you too, my wrinkly wet thumb,” you laugh at his immediate protest of raisins are cute! and shut him up with a kiss.

That always works.

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 36

Part 1 Part 35

Will’s skin feels tight, stretched over his bones as he tosses and turns into the morning. It’s a relief when the sounds of Mom burning breakfast filter into his room.

“Shit, shit,” she says, pans clattering as she moves them from one burner to another. 

WIll crawls out of his bed, limbs lethargic. His socks have gone wonky in the night – all his tossing and turning making the heels twist to the front of his ankles. He slides them around on the carpet, shifting them around without having to bend over.

He shuffles into the kitchen, settling quietly at the table, feet up on the chair, chin on his knees as he watches his Mom cook. 

She’s scrapping crisp scrambled eggs onto a plate, muttering to herself as toast pops from the toaster. 

Jonathan stumbles out of his bedroom, drawn by the sounds. His pajama pants are too long, trailing across the floor, making him trip on the hems. He grabs the toast without a word, plucking the butter from the counter and coating them liberally before bringing it over to the table.

“Sleep okay?” he asks, sitting down beside Will.

Mom turns, holding the burnt eggs and mushy hash browns on separate plates. “Oh, sweetie,” she says, hurrying over and putting her own bounty in the middle of the table. “How long have you been here?”

“Just got here,” he says, looking down at his knees.

It’s not that his Mom hasn’t always paid attention to him, but it’s grown sharper in the days since he got back from the Upside-Down. Like she needs to catch his every word. Like if he leaves her sight, he’ll disappear. That’s how she’s looking at him now.

Jonathan goes to grab forks and plates, heaping food onto Will’s plate before getting his own. 

The eggs are rubbery, over-cooked and under-salted, and the potatoes are more water than starch. Will eats it all.

There's been a pit in his stomach since he got back, like no matter how much he eats, there’s more space to fill. The doctor’s had said that was normal – just his body's shock response to food scarcity. It’d go away.

“Can I go see Steve?” Will asks.

Steve’s been so still, every time he’s visited. They’d shaved his head, and it made him look young and small and washed out; nothing like the boy with the gun or the boy with the broad back, always standing between them and danger.

But, maybe that’s never who Steve’s been. Maybe he’s always been small, and tired, and scared, just like Will. He just wishes Steve would wake up.

He hasn’t, not since Eddie’d brought him back. No one would tell him what happened, but the way Eddie refused to leave the room entirely said enough. Will isn’t sure he wants to know anything more.

He just wants Steve to open his eyes.

“I have to work,” Mom says, lips pursed. 

She hasn’t been to work since Will got back. Neither has Jonathan, and money’s got to be running thin. 

“I can take him,” Jonathan says, meeting his Mom’s eyes. Something Will can’t parse passes between them, before his Mom slowly nods, reluctance in every move.

Jonathan drops Mom off at work, and then they go, Will crawling between the seats to settle in the passenger seat. 

“Do you think he’ll be awake?” Will asks, staring out the windshield as Jonathan parks the car.

“I don’t know,” Jonathan says, unbuckling his seatbelt, not looking WIll’s way. “I hope so.”

They’ve been here enough that they don’t need directions to Steve’s second floor hospital room.

Eddie’s sitting beside Steve’s bed, like he has been every time Will’s come by. He’s wearing blue scrubs like the nurses do, and there’s no blood on his face. He looks tidier than Will’s ever seen him. 

Steve’s laying down, oxygen tubes taped below his nose.

“Will.” It’s Steve’s voice, scratchy and tired, but Steve’s. 

Will rushes to his bed. Eddie’s blocking access, so Will clambers over his legs, accidentally crushing his toes in the process. Steve looks washed out and tired. But his eyes are open and he’s smiling up at WIll.

Will bursts into tears. Steve holds up his arms in offering, and Will burrows carefully into Steve’s chest, keeping most of his weight on the side of the bed, unsure of where the injuries lie.

“Steve,” he hiccups. “They wouldn’t tell me anything.”

He’s not sure if he’s talking about the doctors, or his Mom, or Eddie himself.

“It’s okay,” Steve says, clutching the back of his head. “I’m fine.”

Will laughs, “liar.” Someone’s hand runs up his back. Jonathan’s or Eddie’s, it doesn’t matter. Everyone he cares about is safe. Everyone in this room is safe. 

They’re home.

When Will calms down, shuffling back awkwardly from the boy he barely knows, Steve smiles up at him, and it’s like something clicks into place. Steve is Steve. That’s enough.

Jonathan is sitting next to Eddie, shuffling uncomfortably before clearing his throat. “Thanks, man,” he says. When Will looks back, Jonathan’s looking down at his lap, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “For saving my little brother. I don’t know what I would’ve done if–” 

His voice breaks, throat clicking as he looks down at his fumbling hands. Steve clears his throat. “Hey, man. Your brother’s a badass. He would’ve been fine.”

Will thinks about the endless hours alone in that dark, quiet place before he’d run into Steve and Eddie, and doubts it. It was like each second there sucked a little bit more out of him, leaving silence in its wake. He’s not sure what would’ve crawled out of the Upside-Down in his place. 

Will smiles down at his shoes as Eddie chimes in, “yeah, baby Byers definitely saved my life.” 

He can feel his cheeks flushing.

“Well, still,” Jonathan says. “Thanks.”

Steve clears his throat. “Anytime.”

Will sits on the side of Steve’s bed, unwilling to leave now that he’s here. It’s like, when he’s with Steve and Eddie, something comes back that the Upside-Down scooped out of him. And everything else is purgatory.

He’ll be trying to sleep, or talking to the party, or listening to music with Jonathan, and it’s all hollow. He’s just waiting.

But right now? Will’s here, and he’s staying as long as he can. 

Part 37

[shineon3]

Winter Warmers, Day 7

Prompt: Omegaverse & Blanket Fort / Word Count: 744 (somehow this ended up absolutely sfw?)

Daniel stops in his tracks, hand on the door handle. The hall, and probably the rest of the house too, looks and smells like Christmas threw up inside, despite it only being the beginning of December. He takes a deep breath, and, somehow, the smells don’t assault his usually sensitive nose. He smiles softly, making his way around the different boxes of ornaments and other miscellaneous holiday related things until he’s standing in the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe.

Inside, Max is busying himself with drying some dishes, foot impatiently tapping against the tiled floor as he does so. The warm, rich smell of lasagna fills the kitchen, almost overpowering Max’s soft scent of cinnamon and freshly baked pastries. Daniel can't believe he's lucky enough to have this, to have his mate, his Maxy, comfortable enough in his farm, their farm now, to be unapologetically himself. He watches as the blonde bops around to a rhythm, pulling out the lasagna from the oven and setting it on the counter to cool down. Daniel gets lost admiring his mate as he moves around the kitchen, effortlessly graceful and adorably domestic, and he ends up zoning out, relaxing against the doorframe, his instincts soothed by having Max around. 

“How long are you gonna stare at me for?”

He tunes back in to find the blonde staring at him, a soft smile on his lips. Instead of replying, Daniel just takes a step forwards, wrapping his arms around his lovely mate. Max immediately relaxes in his embrace, nosing at the crook of his neck, carefully scenting him and purring softly.

“You decorated the house.”

In his arms, Max hums, nuzzling further in the crook of Daniel’s neck.

“You like it?”

“I do,” The aussie pulls back slightly, pressing a kiss to the blonde's forehead. “D'you need some help with the boxes in the hall?” 

“No, don't worry.” 

Max chuckles softly, shaking his head. He pulls away from the older’s embrace, grinning, and guides Daniel to the living room. The brunette had only seen it in passing when he had come back home, but he wasn't surprised to find it full of Christmas decorations. It wasn't suffocating, though, the decorations creating a cozy, homey atmosphere. Daniel’s attention, however, was immediately drawn to the pile of blankets haphazardly thrown onto the couch. He’s pulled out of his thoughts by his mate's hesitant voice.

“I thought we could build a pillow fort maybe…? I have never done it before, but I read about it and it sounded fun, so-”

“I would love to, baby.” 

Max beams up at him, and Daniel can't help but kiss him.

They decide to eat lunch first, and Daniel makes sure to shower his darling with praise. Max often felt insecure about his abilities, especially “traditional” omega skills, and the brunette always makes sure to reassure him, tell him how good he’s doing. Afterwards, they get started on the pillow fort. They first watch an instructional video, when Daniel admits he doesn’t actually know how to build one and pouts when Max giggles.

They work slowly, both because they’re not sure of what they’re doing and they want to take their time, and because they keep interrupting each other with kisses and random pillow fights. In the end, the fort looks slightly wonky, in a cute, homemade way. He and Max had gone all out, stuffing the fort/nest with blankets, pillows and some clothes that held both of their scents, as well as hanging fairy lights around. It’s silly, it’s cozy, and it is most certainly a perfect mix of them, a perfect blend of Max and Daniel.

They end up spending their evening huddled inside the pillow fort, cuddling together while they watch Christmas movies and drink homemade hot chocolate. Daniel hums softly, arms wrapping tighter around Max’s waist, and noses at the blonde’s scent gland. He rumbles, pleased, at the sight of his bite, his claim on his mate, especially when Max tilts his head to the side, offering himself to the brunette, and Daniel can’t resist the temptation, sinking his teeth into his mate’s neck to renew their bond.

In his arms, Max purrs loudly, relaxing completely, the rush of dopamine buzzing in the bond. Daniel peppers the crook of his neck with kisses, smiling softly.

“Love you, angel.” 

Max shifts in his embrace, mumbling sleepily against him. 

“Love you too…”

Daniel is the luckiest man alive, he’s sure of it.

[buzzcutlip]

What You Can't Bury Give Away - NY!Carmen Carmen x Fem!Reader Explicit! 2257 words

A/N This was supposed to be a drabble - haha! I don't know what is it now. Have some sad NY!Carmy after he finds out Michael's died and how he deals with leaving NY (not in a great way but excuse his broken little soul). I know I said I wanted to write Copenhagen!Carmy, so that one's coming too eventually.

When you open the door for Carmen and see him after, like, three weeks, you almost flinch. He’s always looked tired and worn out—while also attractive and weirdly hot—but today he looks particularly bad. Dreadful. His eyes are red, the bags underneath them grayish. It’s obvious that he hasn’t washed his hair in days. He looks as tragic as you feel.

“Hi,” you say tentatively, unsure if he wants to address the reason why he’s here.

Carmy only nods, eyes trained on you, even as he takes his denim trucker jacket off. You hang it on the only free, wonky peg on the wall, feeling him follow your movements all the while. Undoubtedly, it makes you antsy and uncomfortable. You’re not used to guys’ attention. You’re not used to attention from guys you like at all.

When you turn around and find him staring, you sigh. The jumper he’s wearing hangs loosely on his body, the sleeves too long. The navy blue color highlights the paleness of his face, the hollow cheeks.

“When was the last time you ate?”

Carmy opens his mouth to say something smart, probably, but you’re faster: “Ate a proper meal,” you clarify, propping your hands on your hips. You’re trying to act stern, babying him a little without making him seem like a baby. It’s the last time you’re seeing him, probably.

“I dunno,” he admits quietly, impatiently. He thumbs his bottom lip, scratches his head. He’s all sorts of jittery energy turned into a human being. You don’t know him like this.

“I can cook some pasta,” you offer. The idea is absolutely disproportionate to the situation, you think hysterically, as you turn to walk to the kitchen cabinets. “I’m actually a pretty good cook, you know,” you say just to fill in the space, afraid of the silence that might provoke unwise happenings.

As you reach the pack of fusilli, you feel him stand directly behind you. You exhale sharply. Something unwise is already happening. Settling the pasta on the counter, you turn around.

“I—” but before you manage to get out a single word, Carmy’s mouth is on yours, and he’s kissing you. Of course, it doesn’t take much for you to reciprocate. You kiss him back, hands squeezing his biceps, enjoying the thickness and how strong his arms feel.

“Don’t you think this is a bad idea?” you say as Carmen crowds you against the kitchen counter.

“I don’t—think. I don’t want to think,” he stutters out, grabbing at your waist and squeezing.

“But we’re adults, Berzatto,” you stand your ground even though your hands find their way into Carmy’s hair without much thought, “and thinking about our actions is the annoying part of adulthood,” you explain, and when Carmen kisses your jaw, you feel your determination slipping.

You met Carmen a couple of months ago and saw each other like four times. Apparently, he works in a restaurant, and you know that people in hospitality have crazy work schedules and practically no free time. Or social life. Carmen is proof of all that—he doesn’t talk much, doesn’t ask many questions. There are silly tattoos on his hands and scars—some looking fresh and painful. You never confront him about them, never look too long.

He didn’t have to tell you that he’s leaving, you know. If he didn’t, he would just be another boy who disappeared from your life quietly. And you wouldn’t blame him. You’re not a particularly interesting person. Rather dull, some member of your immediate family would say.

“Have you been drinking?” you check as you dodge another kiss. Carmen doesn’t ask questions, but suddenly you do—way too many, you can see the annoyance on his face, as you shrug him off of you, reluctant.

Carmen looks at you, all serious. “I don’t drink.”

“I know. I’m just asking,” you shrug. “Trying to find out what’s gotten into you.”

Because the second time you were with him, on some well-hidden, tourist-less rooftop bar, you drinking bottled beer and him Coke, laying next to each other on loungers—you touched him casually a couple of times while talking shit about your office work and annoying colleagues and canteen coffee that tastes like burnt water. Those fleeting touches that can be easily excused. You were testing the waters. And Carmy didn’t budge. He even laughed when you told him “your hands are pretty large,” let you press your palms together to see the size difference that lit up a flame in your lower belly. Fuck, the lamest trick, and he ate it all up, clueless. He even walked you home after that. For twenty minutes, your stomach was in twists with anticipation. You even considered fucking without a condom because you knew you had none at home, and Carmy didn’t look like the type who would carry one in his wallet. However, when you arrived at your apartment building, Carmen said “goodnight,” waved at you awkwardly, and left, cigarette in hand. That’s how you know the attraction was one-sided.

It makes the current event even more weird.

“You know, I was trying to let you know I liked you,” you say nonchalantly, biting your lip. “I even did that thing with hands.”

“What thing with hands?”

“Where we measure our hands,” duh.

“Oh. I didn’t know it was a thing.”

You stare at him for a moment.

“It was basically an invitation to fuck me, Carmen.”

He stares, then squeezes your waist. “Oh yeah?”

‘Oh,’ you think. This sounds very much like another invitation, doesn’t it? And Carmy takes it, and this time, you let him.

“Oh my god, Carmy,” you gasp when he gets down on his knees for you, and you don’t have any idea that they only call him Carmy at home, that no one in New York ever calls him that. He freezes for a moment, but you don’t catch that, too lost in the idea of having him for yourself, finally.

He pulls down your baby blue sleeping shorts along with your panties, revealing tan lines—the stark contrast of the untouched, milky skin of your crotch and the darker shade of your legs. You worked hard for that stupid tan, taking a week off in March to go to Hawaii, splashing a disgusting amount of money on the vacation, desperate to get away from New York, from your office, to get some warmth. He should congratulate you on your efforts, really, being the first man to see you like this. You hate baking in the direct sun.

But Carm doesn’t say anything, just lowers down, getting hold of your hips, licking along the crease between your thigh and crotch. You’re not smooth down there. You haven’t shaved in a while, and the growing hairs must prickle his tongue. He doesn’t protest though, only grunts and licks more, then kisses your pussy, sucking the lips into his mouth, making loud, obscene noises. He’s desperate but very strategic.

His hands feel huge, cupping your pelvis, fingers digging into the flesh. You grip the countertop behind you to keep your balance as Carmen sticks two fingers into you unceremoniously. You yelp, shucking off your shorts and underwear jerkily all the way down. He helps you one-handed, looks up to check on you. You bite your lower lip to keep yourself from making more embarrassing noises, while Carmen throws the clothes somewhere behind himself and goes back to eating you out while fingerfucking you.

He is frantic but good, concentrating only on you. He stares up right into your eyes, not even blinking, as he sucks your clit. It should not be allowed, you think briefly, for sad, strange boys to make you feel this good, practically against your own volition. It’s always cold in your apartment, more so in the winter, but you’re on fire now.

Carmen’s still dressed in his clothes, and you’re wearing your t-shirt and an old, faded hoodie, white thick socks on your feet. Neither of you cares too much about it as you focus on each other. You dare to touch one of your hands to Carm’s wild curls, and he hums against you, getting ahold of your ankle without stopping what he’s doing with his clever mouth, propping it against his shoulder. He helps you adjust your stance, and you moan loudly as he reaches deeper into you with the changed position.

“Please,” you whisper, head tipped back in pleasure, holding onto the counter one-handed for dear life.

That’s when Carmen chooses to stop, and you look down at him sharply, half-mad with want, watching his wet mouth kiss your ankle just above where your sock ends, then higher up along the inside of your leg, the side of your knee. His eyes are closed and he seems lost in his head, holding your ankle steady on his shoulder and continuing up, up, up. It makes your chest ache for a fleeting moment. Then, out of nowhere, Carmen bares his teeth and sets them into the meat of your inner thigh. You yelp at the sharp pain, jumping up so your head connects with the cabinet behind you with a loud noise.

“Fuck!” you swear, thinking of literally kicking Carmen as your leg is conveniently positioned near his head.

“Careful,” he says instead of ‘sorry’, and bites you again. You inhale to shout something nastier, but then he presses his thumb to your clit and the pain, added to the pleasure, creates a mixture so delicious that your vision blacks out for a moment. Once it clears, you spot Carmy between your legs, his eyes glazed and fixed on what his thumb is doing to you, all frowny in concentration.

“You alright?” he asks as he feels your gaze on him. As you nod and add a breathless ‘yeah’, he bites you again, this time on your other thigh. You jerk every single time he does that, but not from the pain. No, you seek more friction with your pelvis, hoping to make him press his thumb down harder against you. Of course, Carmen, as smart as he is, catches on soon. The next time you lift your hips up, he simply pushes his fingers back into your dripping cunt again, and from then it’s a quick undoing for you. 

You ride Carmy’s fingers, chasing the pressure both inside and on your clit, enjoying the pleasure-pain his mouth is eliciting. Just before you come, you dare to look down, and the sight of bright bruises blooming red like peonies on your skin is what tips you over the edge.  

You barely manage to kiss him back as he stands up between your legs, disoriented and shaky from just orgasming. You’re clumsy with it—teeth clicking and lips landing off-center. Before you can properly catch your breath, Carmen’s turning you around so you face the tiled wall, pushing you against the counter, and this time you mind the cabinets above your head.  

“You did so good f’me,” Carmy says against your ear, sending violent shivers down your spine. His large hand cradles your jaw, and Carmy kisses behind your ear and down the side of your neck, holding your head tilted to have better access to your burning skin. He’s frantic, breathing raggedly, pulling the neck of your jumper to lick at the vertebrae protruding at your sensitive nape. 

Trying to take your arms out of the sleeves to get rid of the jumper is harder than you thought as you get distracted by Carm absolutely ignoring your efforts when he slips one of his rough palms under the clothes, up your tummy to your chest. 

“Can I—can I touch your tits?” he asks hoarsely while still holding your head in position. You consent and stop trying to help him out, dropping your head back to rest on his shoulder. 

Carmen fucks you like that, from behind, all desperate and urgent. The noises he makes are almost like quiet sobs, which alarm you slightly, but then you forget everything when you start feeling you might come again. You don’t, but as soon as Carmen feels he might, he slips out and you spin around to face him. 

Without any room for making this cute, you spit in your palm and grip his cock, all dark red and throbbing, while Carmen fists your jumper, holding you close and watching open-mouthed as you jerk him off. When he comes you’re almost sure he’s gonna bite through his bottom lip from how hard he’s biting on it. He lets you stroke him for long moments after that, even though he’s shaking all over, overstimulated. You love watching his tummy muscles jump every time you squeeze at the head, dragging more delicious, wrecked sounds out of him. 

Afterward, Carmen’s awfully flushed in the face, eyes glistening. He asks where the bathroom is and stays there for ten long minutes. Or so. You’re not timing it. You cook the stupid pasta, even though you’re lazy, and feed him. The atmosphere’s charged with something unspoken, and as much as you want to ask what his plans are after he leaves New York, you don’t. 

After the meal, Carm doesn’t linger. He puts his jacket on, pecks your cheek, and leaves without looking back.

Oh, so that was a pity fuck, you realize with much disdain when you’re lying in your bed. Only—you’re not sure who pitied whom there.

He will never know how much you cried that night.

[bettysupremacy]

Hi! How are you? I hope everything is well :) I saw that your requests open and I wanted to request a James Potter fic where the reader is a bit insecure when it comes to romantic stuff because she has never dated anyone so when James and the reader start dating she gets really shy about everything and James helps her feel comfortable with all of it maybe? I hope you like the idea! Thanks in advance :)

hey babe! thank you for the request I hope you like how it turned out

James stands in the bathroom, sink running, caps clicking. The sight and sound is a kind of domestic you’ve never felt before. This freaks you out.

“You wanna pick a movie, dovey?” It’s warped and bubbly from a mouthful of toothpaste, but you understand.

When he’d asked you to spent the night you hadn’t realized the intense bellyache of anxiety you’d get sitting in his bed, in his shirt, in his socks, waiting for him to be finished in the bathroom. If you had, you would’ve backed out.

You’re fingers fumble through his dark blue comforter. His room is so him, it’s a little suffocating. The remotes not here. Blue comforter, tee shirt thrown over his bed, circle framed glasses on a nightstand. His bedside table catches your eye. It’s in there.

You simply cannot open that drawer. You’re already suffocating in the intimacy of his room, you can’t also fall into the depths of his most personal drawer. He notices, wiping his mouth and jogging to the bed.

“Sorry.” He swiftly opens the drawer and tosses you the remote. It lands in your lap with the cushion of his blanket. “You ok?”

“I’ve never done this before.” You frown embarrassed.

“Slept over at my flat?” He breathes out, suppressing a smile. ”God, I hope you haven’t done that. D’be a bit weird, bug.”

You breathe a laugh but it comes out wonky. He frowns. “What’re you worried about?”

“I don’t know.” You whisper. His hands grab yours, thumbs working into your skin.

“Y’don’t gotta be nervous.” He smiles. “We’re just watching a movie is all.”

“And sleeping.” You add. “In the same bed.”

“Sleeping is what you’re worried about?” He teases. “You’ll be unconscious, I think that’s the least of your worries.”

You smile, genuine smile, this makes james proud. “What if I hog the blanket?”

“As long as you’re warm.”

“Stop.”

“What!” He laughs. “As long as my baby’s warm I’m content.”

You shake your head. “What If get too close? I’ve never shared a bed.”

“Baby, if you think that’s a problem..”

“I’m serious.” You give weakly.

“I’m serious! If you mind your personal space I won’t mind mine.”

The stare is silent but the smile on his face has you fighting off your own. He takes his hands back, bringing them up to your face. Rubbing the rough surface of his rugby palms over your cheeks, you lean into the touch.

“Seriously, baby,” he murmurs, “don’t fret it.”

You nod. Letting him take in your face.

Slowly, very slowly, he pushes you back. You almost don’t notice but the way his hands come down to your shoulders brings nerves back into your belly.

“I like when you’re in my personal space.”

He lays on you like a weighted blanket. Though, you can’t feel a weighted blanket breathe. Head in the spongy pillows, your fingers come up and tangle in his curls.

“This is nice.” You mutter.

“See?” You can feel him sigh. “Don’t let anxiety eat you.”

“Okay.”

“There’s nothing to be anxious over, you’re safe.”

“I know.” You mumble again.

He looks up at you. “You getting tired? Should we skip the movie?”

“No, put it on.” Your head shakes as much as it Can laying down. “I won’t fall asleep.”

“You liar!” He affably laughs. He can feel your giggles against his chest. “Can I at least get a kiss before we start the movie and you don’t fall asleep?”

“Mhm.”

The kiss he plants to your lips is warm and sturdy. He sits there for a second, too long to be chaste, to quick to be deep. When he pulls back you’re smiling.

“Y’ready?” He pushes some hair from your face. “You pick a movie?”

“No.”

He groans loudly, dropping back down on you. “What would you do without me?”

[6okuto]

UNIVERSITY WITH BOKUTO

gn!reader | late bokuto birthday post. kyaaa.. sorry for using sociology btw. i’m coping

university student!bokuto who you meet the first day of classes. it was hard not to notice him on the train, nor how you seemed to be taking the same path. you’re speed-walking down a pedway—just a few minutes from being late—when his eyes flicker over to you. “we were on the train together, right? i thought it was funny we started walking the same way. what class are you going to?” he asks with a smile.

and it’s a cute smile, but you wish it wasn’t because you’re starting to run out of breath and you don’t think the one you flash back is anywhere near as easy. “sociology with, uh, philip.”

your new-found acquaintance lights up. “really? me too!”

“yeah, i had him last year and he was really good,” you reply. and maybe it’s the adrenaline, or the way he seems so friendly despite how little you’ve spoken, but you decide to introduce yourself first.

the stranger grins again. “it’s nice to meet you,” he says your name hesitantly, as if testing it out for the first time. “i’m kotaro!”

university student!bokuto who has an impressive skill for keeping small talk going in a way that isn’t awkward or miserable. he sits across from you on the train every morning you have class—taking the side that keeps you from squinting at the sun, which, of course, garners a thank you—and talks about anything and everything. he tells you about his other courses, asks for yours, what you had for breakfast, whether you prefer pancakes or waffles, and even describes how he likes to drizzle on designs with his syrup. (one of his favourites was a wonky little owl, and kotaro swears he managed to draw mario once—or at least his long-lost twin.)

it’s easy talking with him, and even when you want to skip and sleep in, you find yourself getting ready, just in hopes of seeing him again.

university student!bokuto who has a pad of sticky notes in his backpack, filled with reminders and drawings and scribbles from testing if a pen has ink left. the professor is going over the syllabus when you turn to see his brows furrowed, pen doing something on the paper. you have to stop yourself from smiling too big when kotaro passes you a note—a little doodle of the you holding hands and cheering, “SOCIOLOGISTS! >:)” written in block letters above. you have a collection growing by the end of the first two weeks.

bokuto who offers to hang out with you while you wait for your next class, and even walks you there when you’re ready. forty minutes—it’s an awkward amount of time where you can’t really do anything, or sit outside the room to wait, so having someone with you is always nice. you’ve just sat down when you remind him again, “you could just go home, kotaro. you don’t have to wait for me.” and kotaro shakes his head, taking a sip of his drink before replying. “you can’t get rid of me that easy. i like spending time with you, anyway, so don’t worry about me.”

bokuto who stops mid-bite of his lunch when you use his nickname for the first time. “kou, did you get napkins?” you try to ask casually, ignoring how foreign the name feels on your tongue. kotaro stares, cheeks filled on one side with rice. “…kou?” “huh? oh, yeah! uhm.” he fumbles, but manages to hand them over. you thank him quietly and he smiles. he considers himself lucky that you’re looking down at your food, and can’t see how he’s holding back what could possibly be the biggest grin of his life.

bokuto who casually mentions his birthday is coming up, much sooner than you’d expect, and much sooner than you’d hope considering you wanted to get a gift. you lightly hit him on the shoulder. “why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“aw, you don’t need to get me a gift. but if you’re free, i was gonna have dinner with some friends,” he offers. “which probably sounds awkward because you don’t really know them, but i told them about you and they’re really nice, and i’d be there so i don’t think it’d be too bad? and it’s after your assignment is due for your other class, i think. or we could do something another day? if you wanted to.”

your ears heat up when he says he’s talked about you, the rest of your face following suit when you realize he's been paying attention to your schedule, but you bite the inside of your cheek and say nothing. “no, it’s okay, i’ll come to dinner, if that’d be okay with them.”

any nervousness that was building inside him evaporates, and kotaro is suddenly back to his usual grinning self. “awesome! it’s my birthday so they’ll be fine, promise!”

bokuto who, himself, is not fine when the day comes—who starts shaking akaashi’s shoulder when you text to say you’ll be there soon. he’s barely paying attention to how his other friends are snickering, or even to akaashi’s reassurance that yes, bokuto, your outfit looks nice, and yes, he’s sure you’d have mentioned any allergies to his cake and no, he doesn’t think he’ll need an epipen by the end of the night.

bokuto who had no idea you managed to text akaashi and the others privately to figure out what the best short-notice gift would be. they told you that kotaro would appreciate anything you bought or made, even if it was just a simple card. they’re all a little surprised when you show up with not just a card, but also a sweater, owl plushie, and collection of sticky notes.

“i mean, i just thought the sweater was pretty soft and the owl was cute. but the sticky notes are ‘cause you always draw on them during class. so i sort of…made you little drawings? of you, stuff you like…they aren’t the best since i had to make them fast, but...” you trail off as he flips through each one.

one of his friends—kuroo, you think—looks over kotaro’s shoulder and snickers. “huh? i don’t know what you’re talking about, i’m pretty sure i’ve seen him make that exact face before. are you considering going into the art industry?”

you smile as everyone else looks over your gift, but your eyes are fixed on the birthday boy himself. he’s smiling widely as he takes in each sticky note, making comments and laughing when he reads an inside joke you have from class.

bokuto who takes you to the side while everyone else is talking amongst themselves, surprising you with a hug. “oh!” you take a second to process the fact that there’s arms wrapped around you, but eventually wrap yourself around him in return.

he says your name, dragging out the last syllable as he squeezes you tighter, moving you side to side. “thank you for the present!”

you snort and pat his back. “i’m glad you liked it, some of those sticky notes took a few tries to not look like shit.” you joke.

when he finally lets go, kotaro has a look of determination on his face. “i’ll be sure to make a birthday present just as good as yours, or even better! i didn’t miss it, did i? is it close? i should have asked earlier,” he panics. “well, even if it’s tomorrow, i’ll make sure it’s super good. it isn’t tomorrow, is it? or are new year’s presents a thing?”

bokuto who’s already planning what to do for a gift after you’ve all left, wearing the sweater and holding the plush, with the drawings on his desk, waiting to be put up in the morning.

[ronearoundblindly]

Hit By Fate

a Steve Rogers x Reader life lesson

[This is my own entry for my 1-1-1 Challenge, but also is a very belated gift fic for @itickledthesleepingdragon. May we all remember that we are worth care and consideration!💜] WC 2365

Recommended links: Habibi Through The Years--The Old Guard fandom, Joe/Nicky (Ao3) Invaluable--Star Wars fandom, dad!Obi-Wan

Summary: It's just an accident, and you're totally fine. One handsome man, however, does not agree.

It’s not their fault; it’s just bad luck.

You should have texted to confirm this morning, but since Syd told you she’d text you if anything changed, you didn’t want to pry. Your friends make enough fun of you already for never coming out. You didn’t want to give them one more story in their long list of times you bailed. They already think you’re allergic to fun, so tonight you were going to show them.

You’d rushed to the restaurant after work. You even woke up early to do your hair before work so that you’d still look nice. You brought a purse to transfer your wallet and keys and makeup into so as not to carry your much larger work bag around. You even drank less water the entire afternoon so you wouldn’t be rushing to the restroom and slowing down your cross-city commute.

But then you arrived and there was no reservation.

Not under anyone’s name.

The hostess seemed outstandingly indifferent to your situation. You stepped aside for other patrons, sneaking peeks through the wonky glass dividers to catch a glimpse of your friends at a table maybe, and you texted one.

>>Hey.

<<Whaddup? Tiff replies.

>>You guys here yet?

<<Where?

You give the name of the restaurant and feel your guts crash to the polished wood floor.

<<We were there earlier. Yeah. Why?

Your hands start to shake with anxiety and a touch of rage.

>>I thought we were meeting at 7

The dots show up and disappear. The hostess huffs, staring at you while striking through a line on her paper. You’re blocking one of four total doors to enter the building, but apparently, that’s still taking up too much space.

<<Syd and Karol got off at 4 so we just had drinks early

<<TGIF

<<On a pub crawl now

They know you still work tomorrow. They know you likely would barely drink at dinner. You know exactly why no one would bother asking you if you could get out of work early, and you know they would not try any spontaneous fun for your first time out in months. They didn’t ask because they knew you’d say ‘no,’ or even worse, they knew you’d say ‘yes’ but be uncomfortable the entire time.

You try to call Syd, a last-ditch effort to get a lock on just how drunk or how far away they are. You tell yourself that if they are close and seem relatively coherent (and if the bar serves some small plates of something because you are hungry) then you’ll go. You will absolutely go.

Syd doesn’t pick up. You try Karol. No dice.

Fine. You turn to ask the hostess if there is space at the bar to eat, but she looks at you with such annoyance and a raised finger while she handles a couple who clearly out-rank you in some way.

Defeated, you leave instead.

This whole thing has taken so little time that you’d have to wait another ten minutes for the next bus back. You just walk, staring down at your phone, willing one of them to talk to the other, willing one of them to realize they’ve left you behind.

Do they even care that they’ve done it? Are they even your friends anymore?

The sad part is that you don’t go out much, but these are the friends you go out with the most. It just so happens that’s a few times a year, and that is you trying. This is you pushing yourself.

It’s not good enough.

Just as the WALK sign lights up at the street corner, the dots show back up under Syd’s message, and you shove it closer to your face.

You don’t see it coming.

A cab’s bumper smacks your left leg and bats you sideways. The solid hit feels like a tumble on the ice rink. It spins you, your phone flying out of your hands, and you’re scrambling not to fall. Your muscles tense every which way that’s not natural, probably looking klutzy.

You shoot back up too fast and look around, wondering if people are staring at you now, but the few other people crossing simply walk on by.

The cabbie only rolls down his window.

“You okay?”

Not actively concerned. Not getting out of the car. Not even apologizing.

But if you’d kept walking, you’d be across already. If you weren’t just standing there, the cab would be able to turn and so would the several others behind him.

One honks.

“Fine,” you say quietly, waving him on for emphasis and stepping back to find your phone.

All the effort of the day, all the preparation mentally and physically, and you are stranded on the wrong side of the road, exactly where you started, metaphorically and near-actually run over.

You have to crouch down by the curb and pray your phone didn’t slide into the gutter, wincing at a particular angle that shoots pain up your left thigh. Maybe you aren’t fine.

“Miss?” a tentative, low voice calls above a classic pair of Converses on the sidewalk. “Think this is yours.”

A man in glasses and a ball cap hands your phone back, the screen mercifully intact.

It’s such a tiny blessing in this string of unfortunate events.

The breath you take turns into a whimper and ends in a sniffle. Tears sting your eyes as you start to think about what happened—what really happened—in the past minute.

“Thank you,” you choke out, snatching the device. The gesture seems aggressive after the fact. “Sorry. Thank you,” you try again.

“You okay?” How the same two words can sound so different from two people, you’ll never know, but the difference floors you harder than the car’s impact.

With the utmost care, the stranger’s hands lightly touch your shoulders and guide you out of the road.

“I’m fine.” You’re an automated recording, retreating to a quiet and lonelier space in your mind. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

“You got hit by a car,” he says bluntly.

“No, just a—“ you look up into the man’s face, his blond hair, his blue eyes, his strong jaw, his height “—graze.”

“Yeah, you got grazed by four thousand pounds.”

“You’re…” All you can do is point at Captain America’s chest and blink.

He frowns and whispers. “You recognize me?”

Somehow that’s the strange part?

“Shoot. The glasses usually work. Don’t…please don’t make a big deal, but I…I’m sorry I couldn’t pull you out of the way.”

Steve Rogers buries his hands in his jean pockets, folding himself more into the cover of his hoodie and leather jacket.

“You wanted to help me?” you croak.

He ticks his head in confusion, respectfully indicating that you’ve asked the one and only dumb question known to mankind.

“Why?”

You don’t even know what you’re asking about now. Why me? Why today? Why now? Why not? You don’t notice your hands are shaking until he grips them gently.

“I can take you to the hospital,” he offers.

“I’m fine.” The repeat earns you another frown. “I’m not…hurting,” you clarify.

“That’s called shock, sweetheart.”

Steve seems to catch himself and sighs.

“Sorry. What I mean to say is let’s find you some water and somewhere to sit, okay? I’ll check you out then.”

You nod immediately. He’s only half-turned when Steve spins back around.

“Not check you out check you out,” he mumbles, “just like a once over. No, not…” he sighs harder. “I am going to make sure you are alright.” Every word is strategically emphasized.

He leads you to the nearest bench. His head stays down the entire way to a newspaper stand to buy you a bottle of water.

You can tell by the way Steve monitors every move of the bottle to your lips that he fights doing it for you. From his overly attentive posture, you’re surprised he waits a whole minute to ask how you feel yet again.

Still stunned, honestly, but it’s not just your left leg that aches, it’s your whole body. That seems too pathetic to admit aloud, but if you say the ‘fine’-word one more time, he’ll surely carry you to the dang ER. He has that look.

Instead, you admit, “I’m hungry.”

A smile blossoms over his features. “I can help with that.”

The boyish glee with which Steve Rogers walks you (gingerly) to a nearby, hole-in-the-wall pizza parlor is endearing. You’re not a patient for those minutes, and when he orders for you both (there are three lines on the board and that’s the menu) while you claim a teeny tiny booth, you’re not a victim of your day.

When he tells you how he found this place originally, how it’s almost like the pizza he remembers from long ago but better, you’re not alone anymore.

“Were you going to get food when…” Steve trails off.

Maybe it’s the shock wearing too thin to mask the rest. Maybe it’s the hot cheese warming your insides and melting your anger. You spend the next ten minutes blabbing about what happened with your friends and explaining what you were doing when the cab hit you.

“So you weren’t even okay before the car?”

His words throw you for a loop.

“No, I mean, it was just a misunder—“

“You’re doing it again,” he cuts in. “You’re diminishing you in the picture.”

You take a long swig of your soda while staring blankly at him. You watch Steve realize you aren’t even going to impose on him for an explanation. He drops his slice on the plate and holds out his huge hands as props.

“The whole picture of your day, right?” His arms are wide, then he points at things on the table. “You told me about Syd and why it’s ‘fine’ that she changed plans for her own convenience. About Tiffany and Carly—“

“Karol,” you sputter mid-sip.

“Carol, right, sorry. Everyone has a -y in their names now. I just assumed.”

“Karol with a -k,” you add.

Steve…ponders whether that’s some sort of joke before waving his hands to regroup. “You told me how your other friends—using that term loosely—rationalize leaving you to eat or even navigate the city alone—“

“I don’t need a chaperone.”

“Debatable,” he chuckles. “And then you tell me about how the cab driver probably didn’t need the hassle of dealing with some minor injury he inflicted on—and I quote—‘someone.’”

His eyebrow pops up over the rim of his glasses as if that will drive his point home, but you’ve got nothing.

“Where are you in the picture?” he finally blurts. “It’s your time and your effort and your body and your safety, and you just told me everyone else is more important. They all deserve consideration before you in your own life. Including some driver who could have killed you!”

He’s getting visibly agitated the more he talks, and you shrink in the seat, not out of fear but out of guilt for taking an evening of Captain America’s time to yourself. If your friends couldn’t even stand to spend a meal with you, it makes sense that Steve would be annoyed with your company.

“Wait, there,” he points directly at your face, “what was that thought? What did you just think?”

“I—I’m sorry I—“

“What do you have to be sorry for?” Steve asks bluntly.

He must see your eyes glisten with more unshed tears because his whole body visibly softens.

“You showed up at the place you all agreed on—“ he counts on his fingers “—at the time you were told, and walked across a street with right of way.” He does what you are beginning to think of as his signature sigh. “Am I missing something?”

All you can do is chew on your bottom lip.

It takes you what feels like an eternity to notice. “I could have really been hurt,” you mumble finally. “That’s not okay.”

Steve stretches his long arm across the tiny table, opening his palm to await yours.

“I hate to tell you this. You don’t have to be torn open to be ‘really hurt,’ sweetheart.” This time he says the nickname with firm intention. He squeezes your hand. “Now, I’d appreciate it if you’d come to the infirmary with me and get some industrial-grade salve on what’s sure to be a nasty bruise.”

You smile sadly, still pushing away errant thoughts that you’re imposing on the Captain.

“And by the time that’s over…it’ll be time for a late-night dessert before I take you home.”

In the fluorescent light, you can see him blush fiercely.

“As an escort—escort you,” he corrects, “to your door, I mean. For safety.”

He shrugs uncomfortably to adjust his layers of disguise, hanging his head, this time to hide his face from you.

“If you ever wondered why I’d go out to pizza alone,” Steve whispers, “wonder no longer.”

He scoots across his side of the booth to stand.

You think for a long moment.

This is important. This is one of the most important men in the country—nay, the world—begging you to be the protagonist in your own life. He wants you to want that.

You deposit the last grease-crumpled napkin onto the stacked plates and clear your throat. “I like this picture,” you say first, but it’s not enough. It’s not loud enough. It doesn’t hold weight or take up its due space.

You try again.

“I like being in this picture.”

He’s tall and his gleaming white teeth are perfect and his bright blue eyes are framed by long lashes and he’s staring right at you. How could you not shoot your shot?

“I’d—“ you fight the urge to look away “—consider seeing a sequel, too.”

Steve pushes up his fake glasses and nods, still pink in the cheeks. His hesitation reads as shy, not polite, not dutiful.

He juts out an average, hoodie-covered elbow for you to balance on.

“S’pose that means I should know your name, miss, and what your favorite flavor of ice cream is.”

Ro's 1-1-1 Challenge Details

A/N: In case you were wondering, the life lesson I wrote Steve Rogers teaching us is one that I constantly struggle with, too. This is an everyday, uphill battle to recognize our own worth and know that taking care of ourselves is not selfish. I hope this serves as a wee reminder!

Taglist: @supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @deandreamernp

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

[morganitering]

Pink Purple and Blue

Pairing: bestfriend!Geto Suguru x fem!reader

Contains: AU!University and no sorcery, smoking, fluff, tiny bit of angst, smut, soft dom, thigh riding, choking, fingering, hand job, first time(?), satoru and shoko mentions, no beta

Word count: ~4,3k

Summary: Love. Everyone wanted that, but the pursuit of it is not without its obstacles. Relationships run their course, text messages get left on read and ignored, when the only thing you want is to be seen. Suguru Geto was your best friend and as you both supported each other in your respective heartbreaks it led the two of you experimenting on his bed.

A/N: I really needed to write something less dark than the stuff I usually do so here it is. An ode to liking your friend like that! Happy New Year everyone!

Read on ao3

“She’s such a fucking ass sometimes,” you complained and took a hit from the joint in your hands. Suguru had rolled it up earlier, but neither of you had lit it up yet. You didn’t want to get high per se, mainly just take the edge off.

It was a beautiful summer evening, the sky in various shades of orange and blue. You sat on Suguru’s bed that he hadn’t bothered to make this morning. It wasn’t like you'd care anyway.

“Hey at least open the window properly, if you’re going to smoke inside,” Suguru said and hurried towards the small opening, dragging it open more.

“You smoke inside anyway,” you rolled your eyes.

“It still smells like shit,” he sighed and patted the small stool next to him that he had quickly placed in front of the window. Unfortunately for Suguru, he did not live in an apartment with a balcony on it.

He let out a small puff of smoke between his lips leaning towards the window, so that most of it would go outside and not linger in his room. He had his hair mainly down, but he had tied a small bun on the back of his scalp from the upper layers. He looked exhausted, but you weren’t sure if it was the break up or just general school stress and depression. He looked like a university student 101 with the joint in his hand as his eyes watered like he was about to start crying at any moment.

“So what did Shoko do?” He asked and flicked the joint against the small ashtray made out of clay on his window sill. It looked all sorts of wonky, it was one of your first attempts at pottery, but Suguru had nonetheless accepted your handcrafted gift. You stared at his slender fingers and the way the veins snaked around the back of his hand. Suguru offered the joint back to you, staring outside and watching the quiet street where few children kept on playing with a football.

“I don’t know. Nothing and everything,” your shoulders slumped down. “I confessed to her at a party and now she’s been avoiding me like a plague. It’s like, if you’re not interested in me then just say it, but like don’t run away y’know?” You blabbered on fidgeting with your fingers.

“That sucks. I’m sorry,” Suguru looked at you apologetically.

“Yeah. So nothing is exactly wrong. We’ve just been skirting around this whole attraction thing,” you added. “I still want to be involved in her life even if she doesn’t like me like that,” you gulped down. The words felt heavy in your mouth. It wasn’t the first time you had acted on your feelings with women, but you had a shit luck with them and guys? Guys weren’t really all that interesting to you – at least not usually.

“Maybe she’ll come around. I’ve known Shoko for a long time ever since high school. It’s not really like her to just leave things like that, even if she is reserved. I think she’s going through something. Don’t know what though,” Suguru mused. Your fingers brushed against each other as you exchanged the joint back to him for the last time.

“I hope so.”

The silence enveloped the two of you as you kept on people watching. One of the kids had kicked the ball too far and it had landed on someone’s fence making the dog bark loudly as it pawed against the railings. You could hear a neighbor grandpa yelling his lungs out to the pet as the kids hurriedly picked up the ball, slightly shaken by the commotion.

“How are you holding up with the whole Satoru thing?” You dared to ask. You knew that this topic was quite touchy for him, but you did not want to be the only one pouring your heart out and you knew that if you did not ask, Suguru would not tell. He’s the type of person to keep everything in his heart unless someone actually shows interest in his emotional side.

Suguru groaned exasperatedly, stubbing out the remnants of the roll-up and pushing himself away from the window, the wheels of his office chair squeaking at the action.

“I want to call him constantly,” he shook his head a little bit in defeat.

You got up from the small stool with wobbly legs when the weed was finally taking effect. You threw yourself back on his bed and rolled around on the duvet. It smelled like Suguru. The sheets were clean, but you could still pick up hints of his sweat. Usually that would gross you out, but now it made your stomach turn in a way you usually did not associate with your best friend.

“This is probably too much information, but I miss the sex.” He smirked as he reminisced.

“Ugh, don’t even talk to me about sex,” you groaned as you thought about your own frustrations.

“I mean, you were the one who broke up with him. I bet if you just sent him a simple ‘you up?’ he’d come runni-” Suguru threw a throw pillow at you and it landed on your face.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t do that. It’s not fair to him.” Suguru took your joke too seriously. You muffled your giggles as you realized that you need to be there for him.

“Sorry. I was just trying to lighten up the mood.”

“It’s fine.”

You rolled to your side and hugged his pillow as you looked at the sulking man in the office chair. He was lightly swaying himself side to side.

“I downloaded a dating app and tried to hook up through there, but it felt off,” Suguru looked at the floor rather than you. “I’m okay with hooking up with people, but now that I’m used to having a connection with someone, it just doesn’t feel the same.” You recognized yourself from his words as well.

“A lot of people think that guys can do it with anyone and I suppose that it’s true to some. But it’s not for me.”

You and Suguru met at the university when you were both first year students studying education to become teachers. You had been both at the same course. He sat next to you, not really paying attention as he unpacked his stuff, taking out the laptop from his bag. You had been slightly intimidated by him.

When the professor announced the group assignment you had shyly asked him if he would like to do it with you. Suguru had smiled at you in a way that made your heart stop briefly. He didn’t look intimidating at all anymore. For the first few months you had a massive crush on him, but you stifled it when you realized that he only had eyes for Satoru, although he had said that he feels some sort of attraction to women as well.

You became one of his closest friends. It was easy to talk to him in an open manner, no matter what the subject was. You stayed over his place and vice versa, often stirring up rumors of your possible coupling, as if it was their business what you did or did not do.

Suguru grabbed a stress toy from the table and started throwing it in the air just to catch it over and over. “I love him. But I can’t stand him. I want to kiss him. And I want to smack him.” Every sentence was emphasized with the rhythm of his fidgeting. He’s so dramatic, you thought to yourself as you watched how the trinket spun around in the air before it landed on his palm.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say or how to help,” you confessed. Suguru answered with a hum. You knew that he knew that only time helps with heartbreak, but you did not want to spew out the same cliches that everyone said. Besides you had said them all before during their multiple breakups.

As much as you cared for him, you had frankly been at the end of your rope with this Satoru stuff. Neither of the guys knew how to have a stable relationship and you had to be witnessing that with Shoko and some other students that made up the friend group. You wanted to tell both of them to get their shit in order. This would be the last summer break before graduation and both of them needed to focus. You. Needed to focus.

“If you can be my wingman to find some level headed company, that would help a lot,” Suguru snickered, laughing slightly at his own joke.

You chewed your lip thoughtfully as you racked your brain. You had an idea, but it was a risky one. Maybe it was the weed or maybe you wanted to use it as an excuse. You chose your words carefully drawing them out slowly with several awkward stops in them.

“You know. We are in pretty much the same situation.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I relate to the stuff you’ve said about wanting connection.”

“Yes?”

“So.. why don’t we do it?” You asked, not daring to look at him. Your voice sounded small reflecting the way you felt inside.

Suguru stopped fidgeting on the spot and stared at you, his mouth slightly open in surprise.

“Are you serious?” He asked you with his eyebrows raised. You had a hard time interpreting what he was actually feeling, but nodded nonetheless.

“Yes. Most people already think that we fuck and we’re both pretty pent up. And you’re my best friend and I trust you. That’s a connection too albeit a different one,” you tried to defend yourself a little bit feeling your cheeks warm up with the topic.

“Oh yeah, cause best friends just casually get each other off because they trust each other,” he said sarcastically, but you saw that he was nervous as he grazed a spare strand behind his ear.

“Are you saying you want to get me off?” You tried to keep your voice husky, but you felt the giggle boiling underneath. It made you feel ridiculous speaking like that to him seriously.

Suguru went quiet and walked over to his own bed, where you had been lounging. He was subtly grinding his jaw as a nervous tick of his. He had a very simple outfit consisting of an oversized t-shirt and joggers, but somehow even that looked like high fashion on him. You admired the skin that was exposed through the droopy neckline.

You shifted on the bed making him some space when you felt the mattress dip as the tall man lay down next to you. You could already feel the warmth emanating from his body.

“I don’t want this to affect our friendship negatively,” Suguru stated as he turned to his side to see you directly.

“We don’t have to go far, we can just.. kiss?” Your voice was just a whisper as you stared into his brown eyes. Your heart was beating fast as the anticipation filled your body. You touched his cheek tenderly with your fingertips and saw his lashes flutter when he closed his eyes and leaned into your touch.

He took a deep breath in as if to ready himself. Then he moved your hand away that you had used to pet him to close enough distance for a kiss, yet he left enough space to keep it chaste.

His lips were soft as they worked against yours languidly. The kiss was awkward and felt like learning to walk again. Your noses bumped into each other as you both looked for a good place to put your limbs, almost as if asking wordlessly is this okay. You felt Suguru tremble next to you as he nipped at your lower lip and parted off of you to chuckle at the absurdity of the situation.

“I can’t believe what we’re doing.” He mumbled, but he did not attempt to get away from you.

“Do you still want to continue?” You asked cautiously.

You shared a fit of laughter with him, you swatted his arm half heartedly telling him to pull himself together, but you could have just as well given that instruction to yourself. After the childish giggling dissipated you pulled him towards you with a new passion, tangling your hands in his luscious hair. You raised your leg over his hip and pulled him towards your core. Suguru swiftly rolled on top of you, slotting himself between your legs, pressing up one thigh close to your middle.

It felt more heated as he deepened the kiss, caressing you, but not too brazenly. You parted your lips slightly to let his tongue explore yours as you trailed your hands around his back, dragging your nails against the cotton. You felt safe under his bigger frame, his weight calming you as much as setting you ablaze.

Suguru parted from you and kissed your neck eliciting a moan from you. You felt impatient, wanting to get more friction, more passion, more of everything he could offer to you.

“Please,” you panted as you pressed your clothed sex against his thigh.

“So sexually frustrated that a few kisses is all it takes?” Suguru grinned as he teased you.

“Stop it, you’re so mean,” you complained embarrassed about his remark. He didn’t have to say that type of stuff out loud, even if he was right.

“Do you actually want me to stop?”

“No,” you whispered.

“Good.” The way he looked at you was so gentle and affectionate that you wanted to scream. Your skin burnt under his hazy gaze. You had not really realized how much you had wanted this. “Since you seem to like my thigh so much, why don’t you ride it?” He asked you, cocking his head to the side as a challenge. He seemed to have regained his confidence.

Suguru spun around to lie on his back and lifted up slightly one of his legs and looked at you waiting as you shuffled around to saddle him.

“Can I take my panties off?”

“Yeah. I kinda wanna see how quickly you’ll manage to make a mess,” he added a sly smile on his face.

You lifted up your skirt dragging down the simple black underwear to expose the normally hidden part of you, swiftly throwing the panties on the floor before you saddled Suguru’s thigh. You pressed yourself slightly against the fabric of his joggers, feeling the rough texture of it against your sensitive skin and you could almost feel the way the moisture seeped into them, yet you did not move as the insecurity took over you.

“I feel embarrassed,” you admitted as you balanced yourself by pressing your palms against his stomach.

“You don’t have to. It’s just me.” He raised his hands to your hips, caressing you with his thumbs. As much as you could see the effects of lust on him, he was being careful the whole time with you.

“What if I help you?” It wasn’t really a question as he guided you to move. You whimpered as the delicious friction and small creases on the cloth pressed onto your bud. Slowly, you started moving yourself on your own and closed your eyes to focus on the pleasure since having direct eye contact with him felt still a bit weird.

Lewd moans filled the room when you started to increase your pace. Suguru watched the way you grinded onto his leg, desperation and pleasure playing on your features. His mouth was slightly ajar, almost panting with you even if he wasn’t the one who was getting off. He wanted to touch you, play with your breasts and mark your skin with so many bruises that you’d have to wear only long-sleeve polo shirts for the summer, but he did not want to interrupt you too much. Instead he tried to vaguely bring to his mind the drunken conversations about shared kinks so that he could possibly excite you more. Suguru found it amusing that he could use those conversations that had been shared as friends in his advantage

“You’re doing so well. Keep going,” he tried to say the words confidently with a lower voice, but he turned out to sound more breathy and boyish rather than what he was intended to go for. But honestly for you, this Suguru turned you on more than any type of dominant roleplay he could pull off right now. It was your Suguru, your best friend, your – ah fuck – something.

You moaned out his name as you moved your pelvis frantically.

“Suguru… Suguru.. I can’t finish like this,” you whined, opening your eyes for the first time after you had started.

“Tell me what you need,” he said.

“I want to be on your lap,” you panted out, “I want you to finger me.”

Suguru nodded and propped up a pillow against the wall pushing himself to a sitting position. He admired the wet mark on his gray pants. He spread out his legs to leave you a perfect place to sit in between.

He pressed his face into your forehead and gave you a little peck as he let his left hand wander on your chest, massaging your breasts. He quickly moved to the one place you really needed him.

He spread your folds open to swipe some of your wetness up to your clit, tapping the part protruding out of its hood gently. You jolted slightly due to the overwhelming sensation and you ended up rubbing against Suguru’s erection on accident. It felt like heaven to him so he decided to repeat the little tap again which earned him a high pitched squeak.

“Sensitive aren’t you?” You felt his hot breath next to your ear. Some of his hair pooled over your shoulders as well mixing to yours. You weren’t exactly sure if you like the direct touch or not but right now at this moment it was all you were looking for.

“Stop teasing,” you moaned.

“And where’s the fun in that?” Suguru hummed as he started rubbing circles on you, getting guided by your increasing or decreasing whimpers.

He placed a middle finger curiously against your entrance and pushed inside with almost no resistance, your wet warmth enveloping him. You sighed in relief as he quickly added his ring finger to the mix searching for your g-spot as he tried to grind your clit against his palm.

You wiggled, this time on purpose as you tried to guide him deeper. The waves of pleasure rendered you incapable of staying put. Suguru’s pants and your guttural moans mixed together as you started to near your end.

“One fun thing about being friends who discuss almost anything is that I know you on paper as well as your past lovers,” he said as he pressed his fingers against the spongy spot in you. His voice was almost inaudible as the warm breeze from his breath played against your ear. It was just the two of you even if you vaguely heard his neighbors banging the walls.

“You once told me that you like to be choked,” he mused, preparing the question with a slightly too long explanation than what you’d like, “Would you like me to do that to you?”

“Yes please.”

He wrapped his right hand around your neck and caressed your pulse point. The way you moaned rumbled against his palm. It felt intoxicating to him, to have himself buried in you as he watched the way you writhed against him. Suguru held onto your windpipe relishing in the power you freely gave away to him.

“Take your time,” he whispered. “Show me how you come.” Suguru tightened his grip on your throat. It felt like floating in the clouds as you mentally became smaller on his arm, caged underneath the pleasure he was giving you. Your ability to breathe came and went and it did not matter to you.

Suguru nuzzled against your neck as he felt you clenching around his fingers, your voice getting louder as you came. You gripped on his forearm digging your nails into his skin feeling the muscles moving as he kept on going, fucking you through your orgasm the pleasure soon turning to pain when everything became too much. He removed his grip on your throat and let you finally breathe properly.

“Stopstopstop!” You pushed his hand away. Suguru laughed and wiped your juices on your inner thigh.

“Fuck.” You breathed out and slumped against his body. You felt satiated and happy.

“Thank you.”

Suguru found the afterglow to suit you.

“Can I..?” You asked, turning around sitting on your knees with your legs folded under your butt. You rest your hand on his thigh expecting him to understand your hint. He nodded and you smiled shyly as you curled your fingers around his waistband. “Help me a bit.”

Suguru shuffled himself out of his joggers. The bed squeaked underneath his movement. You admired the wet spot on the cloth before it got discarded on the floor with his boxers. Your breath hitched softly as you stared at the way his cock curved up with the small trimmed hairs working as a decoration. You admired his thick thighs the way the muscle moved when he settled back to the bed to the same position he was in before.

The way he looked at you was a mixture of smugness and reservation, almost like he did not dare to start bragging about how he knew that he was more than the average man. You quickly took off your own shirt leaving you in your bra and skirt.

Suguru pulled you into a kiss holding onto your neck and you placed your hands on his torso caressing his chest. Your touch was heavy on him, passionate and needy as you made your way to his cock. You had no energy to tease him and frankly you did not want to. You wanted to see him come undone just as he had seen you.

Your hand moved across his length looking for the way he liked it. “Teach me,” you whispered in his mouth.

It didn’t take long for Suguru’s warm hand to wrap around yours.

“Like this,” he panted out as he gripped onto your hand showing the right pressure and movement. You studied the way his body spoke to you, as you separated yourself slightly from him to see his half lidded eyes, and the lips partially hanging open when he panted. His long lashes hid his brown eyes that varied in hues of gold and dark brown. Suguru finally let go of your hand, trusting you to be able to mimic him.

You kissed his neck as your hand moved faster and you relished in the sloppy sounds the hand job produced.

“You’re doing so good pleasing me” He groaned when you swiped his tip in a way that drove him crazy. You moaned at his simple confession as you clenched your thighs together once more, wetness dripping on your thighs.

Suguru threw his head back and moaned. You watched the adam's apple bob as he rode his orgasm stilling against your palm. You felt the come trickling on the back of your hand. You looked at the mess he had made, his shirt unfortunately on the line of fire.

Suguru looked at you as he calmed down, cheeks slightly red. You bit your lip nervously as you let your instincts take over. You raised your hand holding onto the eye contact with the man. He seemed curious at first of what you were going to do, but once he saw the pink tip of your tongue lick across the back of your palm he almost moaned again. He watched the erotic show you put on for him with great interest as you essentially cleaned yourself of his come.

“Wow, that’s so fucking sexy,” his voice was breathy as his gaze followed you sucking on your fingers.

You bursted out laughing and hugged him. He embraced you happily. “Can we cuddle?” You asked.

You lay down next to him and placed your head on his chest. His hair smelt like his favorite conditioner that probably cost more than any piece of clothing you owned. He had gone on long tangents of how he takes care of it more than once. Neither of you wanted to really address what this was, so instead of that the two of you stayed in the moment quietly.

It’s funny how easily you can muddle the line between friendship and something else. Break it too many times and you’ll lose sight of where it was to begin with. A delicate touch here and there, a joke a little too flirty to stay in the bounds of the silently agreed on boundaries. The question is: How far can you bend the rules till avoidance is no longer an option?

Suguru was the first one to break the silence.

“I’m probably going to get back together with Satoru at some point,” His voice wavered when he said out loud what you already knew to be true.

“I know.”

“Does it bother you?” He simply wanted to know.

“No, because I know you love him.” More. You wanted to add the word more.

“Thanks, I’m glad you’re my friend. I hope you know that.”

You smiled and buried your face against his shirt. The summer breeze grabbed onto the thin curtains and swung them around wildly. Suguru caressed your arm with his fingertips barely touching your skin when the both of you were deep in your own thoughts.

[zeestarfishalien]

Part 7: Leaves a Debt

TW for use of cigarettes I think.

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Taking a long drag on his cigarette and slowly exhaling as he stares fixedly at the open coffin and the being within, Constantine finally says, “ghost. That’s a ghost baby.”

“Well, not so fast." Captain Marvel holds up a hand to slow Constantine's roll.

“Huh?” He physically jerks back in affronted confusion, flicking ashes from his cigarette in the process.

Zatanna cuts in, “don’t jump to conclusions.”

“I’m jumpin’, I’ve jumped. I’ve landed. It’s a ghost,” Constantine insists, almost like it's some sort of competition.

Jason wasn’t sure how exactly they ended up here. Zatanna took one look at the being within the coffin and promptly dialed up both Constantine and Captain Marvel, saying nothing but, “You guys need to see this.”

Now the three are standing around the open coffin arguing and pointing about the thing inside. They look like a young teen with some major radioactive glowing going on, like those cats that scientists gave jellyfish glow genetics to. Beyond the seeming age, the kid doesn’t appear much in the way of human, human adjacent, but not human. They’re a little on the thin side but not too bad considering. They’re a spirit…of some kind. Which kind seems to be the topic up for debate.

What Jason would like to know is, what is up with these emotions radiating from the being? They're overjoyed and it kinda seems like it's because they can see/sense him. It feels directed at him somehow.

Jason blinks and realizes he’s a lot closer to the open coffin than before. The magic users are still busy arguing with each other and so Jason takes the chance to approach.

He’s careful not to touch the edges of the coffin, he still remembers the nasty little shock it gave him. Feeling for a pulse is the instinctual thing to do despite it being rather illogical. He’s seen weirder.

“You won’t find anything.”

The voice makes him jump. Captain Marvel is looking at him now, having edged out of the battle of wits.

“Whether or not they’re a regular ghost, a concept spirit, or some hybrid of those or something else, they won’t have a pulse. They aren’t ‘living’ entities per se. You can feel the energy pulsing from him though. Spirits don’t have a heart, but instead a core. Even non-magical people can feel it in a way.” He shrugs as he watches the resting spirit.

Jason watches him carefully. “Why aren’t they moving or waking up?”

Captain Marvel shrugs again. Something about the move is wrong, other. But then again, the hero has never quite looked ‘human’ to Jason.

“Could be a curse or something preventing them from waking. Or it might revolve around power levels. It sounds like they’ve been trying to call you for a while.” At Jason’s guilty look, Captain Marvel backtracks, “oh but don’t worry about that too much. Time for spirits is wonky and this one hasn’t been in any danger beyond being stuck here as far as we can tell.”

"They look like a kid,” he points out.

"Oh yeah, that happens sometimes. Could be a mental age thing or just a preference. It can be hard, but you can't trust looks with the supernatural."

"Yeah..." Jason acknowledges distractedly.

"Guys, guys," Dick cuts in between Constantine and Zatanna's arguing. "As riveting as this debate is, it is nearing dawn. We need to get outta here before someone decides to call in the cops."

“I’m tellin’ ya. It’s a ghost,” Constantine insists, not quite able to let someone else have the last word. Zatanna looks ready to fire back with some profound argument, Jason is sure, but Captain Marvel catches her eye and shakes his head.

She sighs but gets to work refilling the hole in the ground. Captain Marvel turns once more to Jason.

“Do you have somewhere you want to hold them? It’s probably best not to go too far from the cemetery.”

“They’ll heal best near death energy,” John cuts in unprompted. There’s a cigarette in his mouth and a lighter in his hands as he moves to stand with them all around the wacky glowing coffin on the ground.

Jason is sure they all make quite the scene but that’s neither here nor there.

“I have a small emergency base near here,” Damian offers. “It’s across the street, underground. You may use that if you are lacking accommodations.”

“Right. Take this then, put it on the ground and stand back.” Constantine chucks a small drawstring bag at Damian after finishing his impromptu instructions.

“Tt…I don’t take orders from some half-baked n…” Dick cuts him off.

“Thank you, we appreciate not having to lug this coffin around.” He strategically places his hands on Damian’s shoulders in order to gently guide him away and keep him from insulting the sad trench-coat man.

“Thanks Lil’ D,” Jason placates. “I appreciate the offer. I don’t have anything nearby.” His attempt at defusing works seeing as Damian collects whatever wounded sensibilities he had and leaves with Dick.

The sound of light footsteps and something in the corner of his eye is all the warning Jason gets before Cass brushes his arm. He leans into the touch, an encouragement. She leans into him as well. Jason knows it’s her way of showing her support and it’s a comforting gesture.

~*~

Having what amounts to a corpse on the dining room table is a very weird thing to get used to.

Technically Damian must have planned to use this dining table for spreading out clues and information. This isn't exactly a full on apartment or house, just a nest in the basement of one of the buildings. It connects directly to the sewer maintenance tunnels, because of course it does.

Back to the corpse...

Comatose spirit?

Not something in their contingencies (it will be from now on). Is it weird that Jason is kinda becoming accustomed to a lifeless body just chilling on the table?

Okay, clearly the answer to that is yes, but when you've spent four...almost five days living in the same small living space as the un-moving glowstick, you see if you don't get used to it.

The table thing is necessary and Jason isn't about to leave them fully unattended. (he maybe kinda sorta feels more comfortable sleeping near them. Not that he'll ever admit it) He still goes out on his nightly work, but he spends his off time here to keep half an eye on Glowstick McGee and the various runes and artifacts the three magic users finally agreed upon.

They said, "something something, energy...something, feeding...channeling it to them." Jason tried to pay attention, but they were kind of all talking over each other and all he knows is that this will keep the spirit alive...or well, existing.

And...it should help them get better, hopefully wake up, but possibly just maintain them while Constantine, Zatanna, or Captain Marvel figure out a way to suss out the problem.

Something catches his eye. A flicker in the shadows... No, must be the lighting. Glowpaint Ghost sometimes throws the shadows off. Jason turns to leave the room only to nearly run over Spooky.

In the flesh. Or shadows?

Jason may or may not have let out an undignified scream.

Spooky is just sitting there, watching Jason have his little freak out moment like he's been here the whole time. Jason didn't think they could leave the cemetery. They certainly couldn't seem to last time.

"What are you doing here?"

Spooky, as expected of a dog, doesn't answer. Their gaze flicks past Jason, to the comatose spirit. Jason supposes their presence is answer enough. Somehow Spooky can follow this spirit or Jason, or both?

It doesn't matter, because Spooky is okay. Jason had kinda been worried about them.

He pulls out his phone to dial up Zatanna.

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I have no excuses, neither will I apologize. Red Dead Redemption 2 has ate my right up and refuses spit me back out. My brother bought it for me on like...Sunday? Monday? Idk but it has taken over practically my whole life. I legit just didn't have enough time in the day to write more than a few sentences or paragraphs a day. Luckily rainycat from Batpham server gave me some of their writing juice. From there it's just been a few days wait bc brain funk. Gotta love brain funk. References to Shane and Ryan from Buzzfeed Unsolved (this episode) and the book Maniac McGee (mainly the title as inspiration for Jason in dubbing Danny Glowstick McGee)

Hopefully the tag list is still tagging everyone, I had to remove the links bc my laptop wigs out and won't let me even save the draft or post or anything

[Tag List] @emergentpanda-blog @my-perfect-storybook-love @gunebugfic @thegatorsgoose @thewondersoflebanon @bobred18 @d4ydr34min9 @ver-444 @redafi @echoednonny @greenmuffinofdoom @mentalcarebear @fisticuffsatapplebees @vythika96 @writer-extraodinaire @meira-3919 @yjfk @oddlydrawnpuppets @crystalqueertea @lazy-bouqet @darkthunder1589 @mnemovoid @keimiwolf @aarinisreading @love-has-no-labels @terzatheunderscorerima @idkmrpianoman @mur-ururu @chip-thief @kawaiikenna

@rangerhorsetug @treepainting @thatonegirl10 @demiourgias @spooky-fm @antagonisticly @fluffy23sblog @manglethemingle @kyrianclawraith @layyeschips @shepardking @asphyxia778 @ballzfrog @fluffen-spooky @drowningroane @deathsdaisy @malaayna @mistyaltair @potatoeofwisdom @heartsong18 @nixthenerd @icedbluesoul @the-church-grimm @overtherose @sara0055 @banishedthumbs @tired-yet-awaken

@dannyphantomphan @nonbinary-disaster @depressed-bitchy-demon @8-29pm @addie-lover-of-stories @lifefilledwithstories @apointlessbox @skulld3mort-1fan @katgirl05 @spookytragedyshark @mandyne-1001 @ascetic-orange @booklover9114 @qualifiedpasta @mouzerequis @fleeting-mists @gin2212 @rollthatcritical @kaitouhime @itsloveleo @litlecameron @phantom-dc @hippityhoppity-iownyourbones @pastalavistamf @kokoroluna @legowerewolf @riasthelustful @agreatcheesecakestudentstuff @mysterimax

[beenbaanbuun]

top hat and cane w/ arriba!mingi

words - i don’t know…

genre - smut

warnings - arriba!mingi, mean dom!mingi, degradation (slut, dumb), semi public masturbation, cane fucking (i’m so sorry), clothed sex, p in v, no protection, cum eating, choking kind of??, restraining kind of?????, cumming inside, please send help :D

——————————————————————————

watching mingi fumble round the stage dressed as willy wonka wasn’t exactly something you found yourself attracted to

the man underneath was a different story

you quite often fumbled under mingi’s sharp gaze that stares you down like he’s a lion and you’re his prey

but the top hat and the cane? you’d have to pass up on that opportunity

at the end of the song he comes rushing off the stage in his usual mingi way; all gangly and sweet and with zero evidence of the persona he’d just been flaunting

but then his eyes land on you and he straightens up before strutting towards you

you feel the cold metal of his cane pressing against your chin and tilting your head up to look at him, and before you know it your mind is blank

he whips his sunglasses off and folds them up, trailing them down your neck to hook them over the neckline on your tshirt

you gulp as you feel his finger linger on the fabric for a few seconds, just tugging it down ever-so-slightly before releasing it

“what do we have here?” his voice has dropped an octave and it goes straight to your core

you squeeze your thighs together and hope he doesn’t notice

by the way he quirks his brow, you can tell he does

if you didn’t have a cane holding you in place, you’d have dropped your gaze by now but instead you have no choice but to let him stare you down

“pretty little thing, aren’t you?” he mutters as he lets his face dip in closer until his lips graze against your earlobe, “a dirty little slut by the looks of it too. you’re fooling no one, sweetie.”

his words completely numb your brain until all you can think is mingi, mingi, mingi again and again

but just as he forces your mind to take a nosedive into nothingness, he pulls away

his lips are gone, and the cane is gone, and all of a sudden your boyfriend is standing in front of you with his usual wonky grin

“i have to go back on stage soon, sunshine,” he pouts as he takes his hat off and places it gently on your head, “look after that for me until i’m finished, okay?”

and you nod, because there’s no way you can even begin to form a coherent sentence when your brain is still uselessly chanting his name

“good girl,” he giggles as he spins and passes you his cane before running off towards the stylists

you don’t watch the rest of the performance

you’re not sure you’ll be able to hold it together if you do

so instead you find an abandoned room somewhere backstage with nothing in it other than an old leather couch

you sit there, letting your short skirt lift up as you do so

your wet panties press directly against the leather, but you can’t find it in you to care about the mark it will inevitably leave

no, the only thing on your mind is the ache that sits low in your stomach

you could ignore it, but the longer you do the greater it gets

your clit is begging to be touched at this point, but you don’t know if you should

you don’t know how long you have left until the show is finished, and you have to be out front again to great your boyfriend and pretend that his stupid willy wonka cosplay hasn’t sent you spiralling into the depths of depravity

but judging by the noise outside, you assume that you maybe have 15 minutes until the show is over?

and you can be quick if you really want to

skip the self-foreplay and just go straight for the orgasm that you so desperately desire

with a sigh, you let your hand push your panties to the side and you relish the feeling of the cold air against your wet folds

you whine into the empty room as your fingers begin to rub against your slit, spreading the moisture up and down until you decide your clit is suitably lubed up

your fingers focus there next, rubbing gentle circles against the throbbing bundle of nerves that had been desperately begging for some relief ever since mingi called you a slut

he was kind of right, though

only a slut would be so desperately desperately playing with themselves in a public room, with a door that doesn’t even lock, on a sofa that isn’t theirs

the thought makes you moan, a mixture of anxiety and arousal bubbling up inside of you and causing your fingers to increase their pace

you’re quickly approaching your high, but it’s not enough

it’s on the tip of your tongue, but you can’t quite push yourself far enough to reach it

you need something inside of you

your eyes flicker to the side, landing on the cane

the head of it is a bulbous orb, and upon studying it for a few seconds, you reach the decision that it’s probably about the same width as your boyfriend’s cock

you whine at the thoughts rushing through your head, but before you can push them away, your idle hand is rushing forwards the grab the stem of the cane and pull it closer

the cold sphere is pressed to your core before you know it, and all it takes is a little pressure before it slips inside with a squelch

it’s cold and big, and it almost makes you squeal as you push it further inside, but god does it feel good

it stretches you open perfectly and you were right about it being the same size as mingi

it pushes at your gooey walls just like he does, and when it brushes against the squishy membrane that feels so fucking good, you finally let go

your orgasm is long and hard and leaves you deaf for just a few seconds

it would be fine, except for the fact that it means you don’t even notice the click of the door opening

“my, my,” a familiar voice grabs your attention and you turn your head quickly to where your boyfriend is shutting the door behind himself, “what do we have here?”

he walks to the corner of the room where an empty desk chair sits and grabs it

you watch as he takes it back the the door, using it to barricade the only way into the room

“dumb slut didn’t even make sure no one else would walk in,” he grunts as he turns to you, stalking closer and closer until he’s able to wrap a hand around your slack jaw, “although i bet you would’ve loved it wouldn’t you?”

you whimper as he crouches down just low enough to wrap a hand around the stem on the cane that still sits inside of you

he twists it once, letting it brush against your g-spot ever so gently

the way your eyes roll into the back of your head just makes him bark out a laugh

“you really were desperate, hm?” he tugs at the cane once more, pulling at it until he manages to completely pull it free

the ball glistens as your wetness coats it, dripping down it slowly

mingi studies it for a second before lifting it up to your face

“lick it clean,” he orders, “you messed it up so it’s your duty to clean it up, right?”

and you can’t argue with that logic, so you don’t

you let your tongue dart out and lick a stripe up the orb before fully wrapping your lips around it

you cheeks hollow out and you try your hardest to maintain eye contact with your boyfriend

but as you dip your head forward, the hat slips and covers your vision

you whine and lift your hand to take it off, but a sharp stinging sensation rings through it and you pull it back

“i thought i told you to look after that until i’m finished, slut,” he pushes it firmly back to where it sat before, “be a good girl and listen.”

mingi pulls the cane free with a pop

part of you expects him to just put it to the side and forget about it for a while as he fucks you into the couch

but instead you feel the thin base of it press against your chest as he pushes you back against the leather

it travels up to your chin so he can lift it once more

and when your eyes settle on his, all you can see is lust

pure, unadulterated lust

the cane retracts briefly, just long enough for mingi to undo his trousers and drop them along with his boxers

and then it’s back at your neck, only this time he’s holding it lengthways between his two hands and using it to pin you down

it’s gentle enough not to hurt you, but there’s still enough pressure for your breath to catch every time you inhale

“now, my little slut,” he grows as he straddles you, hard dick slipping against your folds, “use your pretty little hands and slip me inside, hm?”

you nod, well, as well as you can with a cane pressed against your throat

“y-yes, mingi,” you whimper as your hands go to grasp at the heavy appendage that’s leaking precum against your already stretched out hole

“good slut,” he spits out as you line him up so he can push inside, “let me fuck you just as good as my cane did. let me stretch you out and and fill you up, sweetie. it’s what little sluts like you deserve, isn’t it.”

he begins to thrust rhythmically into you, hips smacking against yours with such vigour and desperation that it reminds you of how you were playing with yourself not too long ago

it’s clear by his pants that he needs it just as bad as you do, and when his pace quickens, you realise that you are the cane in this situation

he’s just using you to get himself off, and fuck that’s hot

the thought makes you clench around him and he grunts loud and deep in response

“f-fucking play with yourself,” he says through clenched teeth, “wanna feel you c-cum around me, sweetie. always feels so good.”

and you do as he says as though it’s law

desperate fingers find your clit, just as they had earlier, and begin to rub sloppy circles against the wet bud

it’s still sensitive from your little self-pleasuring session and you can’t help the way your hips jerk up to meet his own

if his hands were free, you had no doubt he’d pin you down, but for now all he can do is glare

“did i say you could fucking move?” he says through gritted teeth, although the whine that follows it undercuts the domineering tone slightly, “f-fucking stay still or you won’t get anything.”

and you know that isn’t true - mingi’s never left you high and dry before, and you doubt the big softie is about to start now - but it still sends a wave of fear down your spine

sure, you’d already cum tonight, but there’s nothing wrong with being a little greedy

so you focus your mind on keeping your hips glued to the couch as you continue to chase the high that’s getting closer and closer

it happens a lot quicker this time, with an already sensitive clit and your boyfriend’s heavy cock pressing against your cervix again and again

before you know it, your body is quivering slightly and your walls are tightening against your boyfriend

the sensation makes his hips still against yours, and with a breathy moan, he releases his own load deep into you

the pressure of the cane is gone before you know it, quickly replaced by the pressure of mingi’s overgrown body as he lays down on top of you

his hand is quick to knock the top hat off of your head, and you watch as it bounces off of the couch, landing on the floor

fingers lace themselves within your hair and begin to rub against your scalp in a weird, half-hearted massage

“you did so well,” he finally mumbles against your ear, “such a good girl for me, sunshine.”

you nod, tiredly against his neck

“you were hot,” you mutter, “m’sorry i couldn’t wait for you to get here.”

he just chuckles

“you’re kidding, right?” he pushes himself up so he can see you properly, but you can’t help but whine at the loss of contact, “walking in on you fucking yourself with my cane was probably the hottest thing i’ve ever seen. i’ll be cumming to that memory forever.”

you giggle

“now come on, sunshine,” he slips out of you and stands up onto shaky legs, “let’s get you up and back to the hotel, okay? i need to take care of you and i’m sure as hell not doing it here.”

he pulls his pants back on and watches as you slip your panties back into place and smooth out your skirt

“good girl,” he whispers, “my good girl.”

[blackcatruse]

𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔞𝔰𝔥𝔢𝔰

«prev. ❃ next» ❃ first chapter ❃ m.list ❃ ao3 pairing: r. haitani/fem!reader ↳ she/her, fem descriptors, nickname ❃ chapter synopsis: maybe you shouldn't have told your boss you were on Rokuhara Tandai territory. something about the failed deal is bothering you... word count: 1.3k chapter cw(s): swearing, (implied) death jokes, description of injuries a/n: i will try to update links as best i can. a masterlist will be posted later on! please let me know if any formatting gets wonky, the tumblr post maker doesn't like me :(

The ice pack on your face had melted about an hour ago. Most of the swelling had gone down. You were pretty sure your nose was broken and your face was decorated with colorful bruises. After you had cleaned up and tended to the worst of your injuries, you’d flopped down on your couch and hadn’t moved since. You lifted your arm and stared at your hand. Sunlight dashed across the ceiling and you chuckled bitterly to yourself, thinking about how it looked like you were reaching for hope.

You dropped your arm and looked around at the empty takeout boxes and cans scattered across your living room. How long has it been since you cleaned again? You weren’t really sure. On the coffee table, your phone rang. Glancing at the caller ID, you saw that it was from an unknown number. You had to take this call.

“Hello?”

“Where are you? You were supposed to report to the warehouse thirty minutes ago.”

“Good afternoon to you, too, Suzaku,” you replied.

The silence on the other end of the line had you imagining the irritated twitch of your boss’s eyebrow and the clenching of his jaw. You had that effect on people. Being annoying was your specialty.

Your boss said your name, your real name, tightly. “What the hell happened? Yon is demanding another representative. You’re our best shot at this deal. How did you fuck it up?”

“I didn’t,” you said plainly. “You did when you set the rates at what they were. He said his boss would only do business if we lowered our fees and brought our cut down. I wasn’t going to stand for that, but Yon didn’t think I was very persuasive.”

Suzaku sighed. “What do you expect me to tell Kirin?”

Ah yes, your boss’s boss and the head of Wuxing. He only went by his alias and you were sure nobody knew his real name. He had a few gambling dens open in China before he fled the country and tried to take root in Japan. Kirin wasn’t a good man, and you didn’t have to meet him to know that. All you knew is that your brother got into some shit with him, and now you’re here.

“I really don’t expect you to tell him anything,” you said with a shrug. “But where else are they going to go? Our whole specialty is smuggling and keeping things off record. They’d get their asses handed to them if they went to anyone else.”

You’d seen it time and time again. Lower gangs like your own needed to pave their way into the big boy arena, and they could only do that with money. It was how Kirin managed to get in allegiance with Brahman and pay off an executive to not rat out the illegal activities going on under their noses. If the other gangs tried to use someone else or tried running things through anything that wasn’t their territory, you would see neither hide nor hair of the men within a month.

“You worry too much, Suzaku,” you continued. “You’re going to get wrinkle lines and I don’t think your wife or mistresses would like that. Yon said that they were still interested in doing business, just not with me. You could get someone else to do it. Maybe someone from another division?”

“You know you’re the best runner we have.” Suzaku sounded like he was getting teeth pulled. “You’re the only one who can make this work. You know what’ll happen if you don’t hold up your end of the deal.”

It was your turn to frown. “I’ve had several tastes of death in the last twenty-four hours, so please, if you’re going to kill me, don’t tease me.”

“You wish it would be that easy,” Suzaku scoffed. “I can put you back where I pulled you from. Your debts would be paid that way instead.”

Your grip on your phone tightened. You refused to give any hint of fear away. You sat up and bit back a groan of pain. “Give me the ledgers and any information you have from Yon’s boss. I can see what I come up with.”

“Come get them yourself.”

“I would love to, but I had a run-in with the Haitani brothers last night and they really did a number on me.”

There was a deafening silence. Maybe you shouldn’t have mentioned that you were in Roppongi last night. Well, Suzaku and the others would find out eventually, so there was no use in trying to hide it. You usually don’t tell them where your deals are happening, and they somehow trusted you enough to let you keep your secrets. They only knew the time the deal was happening. If you found yourself in trouble, well, you were on your own no matter which way you looked at it.

“What the hell were you doing on Rokuhara Tandai turf?”

The calm in Suzaku’s voice was not to be misconstrued. You could hear him straining to keep his voice level.

“It’s where Yon wanted to meet,” you told him, matter-of-factly. “He said the deal was off if we didn’t meet in Roppongi.”

“You went to the heart of the Haitani brothers’ territory?”

“You said you wanted this deal to go through by, and I quote, ’Any means necessary’. I wasn’t planning on getting caught by them. I didn’t say anything either, so you can chill the fuck out.”

“You’re more trouble than you’re worth, Lotus.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, everyone’s been saying that. Nobody has the balls to kill me though, so I guess you’re stuck with me.”

“I’m surprised they let you go,” Suzaku noted.

“Trust me, I am too.” You slumped down a bit. “Anyway, I’m busy nursing my wounds. Send someone with the information and documents I requested. There’s something I wanna look into.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow. Someone will bring you the documents you need and we’ll plan from there,” Suzaku sounded absolutely defeated. “You better work your magic, Lotus, or I will hand you back over to Byakko.”

You shuddered at the thought. “Don’t worry. If I find what I’m looking for we’ll have a brilliant deal on our hands.”

Please do not reupload, translate, or steal my work! If it isn't here or on my ao3, it's not me! Likes & reblogs appreciated! <3 Dividers courtesy of @/cafekitsune

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 99

Part 1 Part 98

Steve spends a short three days in the hospital before they start the discharge. It’s surprising, somehow, that spending time slowly dying in the Upside-Down is more traumatic on the body than literal possession. Eddie can’t wrap his head around it. 

He’s sitting on Steve’s bed, hopefully for the last time, hip to hip as he kicks his feet out over and over again at the same tempo of his beating heart. Steve’s got their fingers interlaced on Eddie’s thigh, flexing his own fingers to that same rhythm Eddie’d started up. 

“You think it’ll be much longer?” Steve asks, slumping his head to the side and atop Eddie’s shoulder.

His hair tickles Eddie’s cheek. Eddie wants to reach up and smooth it back, but Steve’s still holding his hand, and the other one doesn’t quite reach. 

“Nah, the old man’s good at getting what he wants.”

“That’s because he’s got the same big, sad eyes as you.”

Eddie squawks in fake affront even as warmth pools in his cheeks. Few people have mentioned a resemblance, and it makes him go soft and gooey every time.  “I don’t have big, sad eyes!” He shakes Steve’s hand around gently in his - he’s always, always gentle. “I’m too tough.”

Steve snorts, small and tired. Even with relatively minor injuries, neither of them have been sleeping well in the small hospital cot. It’s starting to show in the circles beneath Steve’s eyes. Eddie wants to bundle him up in the backseat of Wayne’s truck and tuck him into their bed at home.

They won’t even have to come back. All they’ve got is some sort of cream for Steve’s burns, and Eddie’s bruised ribs and broken nose  are supposed to heal all on their own. His concussion’s already behind him, even if things still go a little wonky if he moves his neck too quickly. 

They can just convalesce. Maybe Wayne will bring them soup. Or burgers from the diner and a strawberry milkshake to split. Anything will be better than the mind-numbing sterility of the hospital, as long as they’re together. 

If only Wayne would hurry the hell up. 

It’s not Wayne who walks in. It’s not any of their friends, or family, or an unnamed doctor in blue scrubs. It’s not anyone he recognizes at all.

It’s a perfectly matched pair - like salt and pepper shakers at a fancy diner. Eddie feels his shoulders curl, a silent question mark to their upright forms. 

The woman looks like a mannequin, in her gray pencil knit skirt and matching cardigan, belted tight enough to make her look like a wine glass. Her hair is a windswept brown and her chin’s raised just so. 

The man’s suit is a pewter gray, matching her skirt perfectly. He has his hands stuffed into the pockets of his slacks, like he’s posing for a catalog as he looms imposingly on the threshold. 

She knocks on the frame of the door, calling a quiet, “knock knock,” as the man strides in. 

Eddie feels Steve’s hair brush against his cheek as he sits up and twists, to look at the new arrivals. Eddie doesn’t look toward him, can’t tear his eyes away from the pair, as the woman comes to stand beside the man, photogenic smile plastered to her face, even as the man glares down at them.

“Steven,” he says, eyebrows furrowed in an expression Eddie knows intimately. He’s seen it on Steve’s own face enough times. It’s less charming on the older, meaner model. 

Steve drops his hand covertly and shuffles slightly to the left and away, leaving Eddie’s hand to flop to the mattress, bereft. 

“Dad,” Steve replies.

Eddie turns, can’t not when Steve’s voice comes out so even, so lifeless, so dead. It’s just like when the mind flayer was running the show. Like Steve’s not there at all.

He is though. And that feels worse, because as Eddie stares at Steve’s perfect profile, he can almost see the years of distance and berating stacking themselves into the clench of his jaw and that familiar furrow of eyebrows. 

“What do you have to say for yourself?” His Dad doesn’t shout, but the hiss somehow still feels like it’s echoing off the bare walls of the hospital room.

Steve flinches back. Eddie sits on his hand as it twitches without his permission to grab onto Steve’s own. 

“For what, sir?” Mrs. Harrington’s perfect face scrunches up into a wince as she looks sidelong at her husband’s stony face. He opens his mouth, eyebrows angrier than ever, and Steve blurts, “I’m sorry.”

It doesn’t help. 

“Sorry,” he says evenly, like his fist wasn’t clenched in preparation for a strike. “Do you even know what you’re apologizing for?”

Steve sits, wordless, as he stares up at him, unblinking. 

Mrs. Harrington sighs. “Oh, Steve.” It sounds sympathetic, but Steve’s back curls in, arms wrapping around his ribs as he looks down at his own hanging feet. 

Eddie sits on his other hand.

Steve remains silent while storm clouds bloom above Mr. Harrington’s head.

Mrs. Harrington sighs, crossing arms and tapping perfectly manicured fingers against her own forearms, that same familiar beat that Steve gravitates toward without any of the soul.

“Sweetie,” she starts, no warmth in her voice or eyes. “I understand that you might have been feeling a little sick, but that’s no excuse for the state you left the house in.”

Eddie looks at Steve out of the corner of his eyes, and sees Steve looking right back, eyebrow quirked up in a silent question Eddie doesn’t know how to answer with witnesses.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says again, looking back down to the linoleum between his feet. 

“You’re sorry?” Mr. Harrington demands, voice raising with each syllable he utters. “You flooded the house, Steven!”

Steve flinches at the sound of his name. Eddie reaches out for the connection between them and plucks it, thrumming it like a guitar. Steve smiles, just a little, down at his socked feet. 

It’s a mistake. Mr. Harrington’s nostrils flare. Eddie sees the resemblance in the way his nose leans just slightly to the left, almost charmingly crooked. But there’s none of that familiar light behind Mr. Harrington’s eyes. He’s an empty pit, a bottomless well.

“We’ve had to replace all of the carpeting on the second floor,” Mrs. Harrington cuts in, looking down at her nails, uncaring as Mr. Harrington’s incensed further by her words.

“We wouldn’t have even known if the Allen’s hadn’t called us!” He’s shouting now, gesturing wildly toward the open door like whoever the Allen’s are, they’re waiting right outside, watching the show.

Mrs. Harrington sighs. “Oh, Richard. Don’t make a scene.”

As if spurred on by his wife’s chastising words, Mr. Harrington’s voice only gets louder. “You soiled the carpet beyond repair.” He punctuates his words with a raised finger, like he’s counting down all the sins he’s ready to lay at his son’s feet. “You made a spectacle of yourself in front of all the neighbors.” Another raised finger. 

He points both fingers  at Steve’s face, finger close enough to his nose that Eddie wants to snap out and bite it. “You left the garage open to be ransacked!” And here comes raised finger number three. 

Steve’s curling further and further into himself, creating distance between his Father’s wagging finger and his vulnerable face. 

“Leaving the door open, Steven?” Mrs. Harrington asks, just as aloof and uncaring of the scene in front of her, even as she says, “we could have been killed.”

Eddie can’t help the snort that comes out. It’s all just such a cartoonish display, almost unbelievable even as he watches it play out in front of him. He slaps his hand over his mouth, but both their gazes have already snapped over to him. 

Well, better him than Stevie. Stevie, who Eddie’s seen with that same curled posture hiding in his closet, and looking up at his own goddamn house from the passenger seat of Eddie’s van.

He’d been straight backed facing down a demogorgon but just the sight of his parents has him fading into himself. No fucking way. Not on Eddie’s watch.

Eddie slaps his own thighs once, sharp enough that it stings. Mrs. Harrington jumps, just a little, at the sound. Eddie stands, shifting on the balls of his feet until he’s just slightly in front of Steve, ready to defend. 

“Wouldn’t you have to actually be home for that?” Eddie asks.

Mrs. Harrington gasps, hand over her cheek like Eddie had slapped her. “Excuse me?” she asks, at the same time that Mr. Harrington demands, “who are you?”

Eddie puts his pointer finger to his chin, pouting like he’s really thinking this through. “You know, I think you’d know that if you were ever actually around.” 

Steve stands, shoulder to shoulder with Eddie as his Dad takes a threatening step toward Eddie. 

“This is Eddie,” Steve says, voice flat and cold. King Steve’s come out to play. Eddie grins, manic and wide in that way that’s always worked to rile up cops and teachers alike. It works just as well on the Harrington’s. He sticks out his tongue and almost laughs again when Mrs. Harrington takes a startled step back. “You’d know that if you gave half a shit about me.”

Mr. Harrington scoffs as he looks Eddie up and down, eyeing the rips in his jeans, the frayed hem of his t-shirt, the unkempt length of his hair. He turns away, dismissing him without even a word as he looks back at Steve. 

“It’s time to go,” he says, glaring down at his son. “We’ll talk about this at home.”

Steve takes a step away from Mr. Harrington’s grasping hands. Eddie reaches out, interlocking their fingers again and squeezing tight. The splint on Steve’s finger sticks out awkwardly, digging into Eddie’s own hand as Steve squeezes right back.

“Eddie is my home,” Steve says, like that isn’t the most romantic thing he’s ever heard.

He almost swoons, even as Mr. Harrington rages, looking between the pair of them, making connections Eddie desperately hopes are true and even more desperately hopes the man won’t go spreading around. 

“Last chance,” Mr. Harrington says. “Or we’re-”

He doesn’t get to finish. Wayne chooses that moment to walk in. His stance goes loose immediately, gaze sharp. 

“Richard,” he says. Calm, cool, and gruff as he meets both their enraged eyes, one after another. “Nora.”

Mrs. Harrington sucks on her teeth, mouth pursed as she holds her silence. Mr. Harrington has no such compunction. 

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

Wayne raises his eyebrow before turning his back on them to run his eyes over Steve and Eddie in turn. “You boys alright?” Steve nods, but Eddie raises his hand to flap it back and forth in a wishy-washy gesture that Wayne grimaces at. “Ready to go home?”

Richard scoffs, taking a threatening step forward. “What do you mean home?” Steve flinches as the last word lands with derision. Steve doesn’t respond, just looks down at his own shoes with a clenched jaw. 

Mrs. Harrington sighs, and it lands in the room like a blow. 

Wayne’s eyes have gone hold and hard as he turns around and steps fully in front of Steve. “Steve’s been staying with me for over a year,” Wayne says, tone modulated and controlled even as his hands clench. “And you didn’t even notice.”

“Steven,” Richard says, a warning hidden in his tone. “Last chance.”

Eddie leans around Wayne to look between the pair. He resists the urge to pull Steve behind him. Eddie squeezes his hand and is floored when Steve’s shoulders immediately straighten, chin raised just so, like he’s keeping his crown straight atop his head. 

He stands, shoulders back, head held high. Eddie stands right along with him. 

“I’m not going with you,” Steve says, boring holes into his Father’s head with the force of his conviction from behind Wayne’s shoulder. 

Mr. Harrington’s  jaw clenches with whatever he sees on Steve’s face. He reaches his hand out, palm open and beckoning. “Give me your keys,” he demands, curling his fingers like he’s in a cheesy karate movie and begging his opponent to make the first move. 

Steve laughs. “You want my car?” His laugh is hollow. “You’ll have to go get it from the trailer park.”

Mrs. Harrington eyes Eddie and Wayne like she’s putting pieces together he’d rather she not have. Even still, she turns away with an airy, “Come on, Richard.” When he doesn’t immediately follow her directions, she continues, “this isn’t the place.”

Mr. Harrington’s snarling like a dog, finger still raised in threat as he hisses, “this isn’t over,” before turning and striding through the door with enough careless force that his shoulder hits the frame with a meaty thwack. 

“See you next year, then!” Eddie calls, waving bitchily at their backs. 

They all stare at the open door, waiting for an attack that never comes until Mrs. Harrington’s heels stop echoing down the corridor. 

“What the hell was that?” Wayne asks gruffly. 

Steve’s jaw is clenched, as he glares out the open doorway, but at Wayne’s question, he slumps, stepping closer to Eddie until he can lay some of his weight onto Eddie’s shoulders. It hurts his ribs, but Eddie takes it gladly, wrapping his hand around Steve’s waist. 

“Just the usual,” Steve says, sounding exhausted. 

Wayne eyes him critically as Steve avoids his gaze. Eddie squeezes Steve’s side, flickering his fingers against his waist just to feel him wriggle against the feeling. 

“Alright, kid,” Wayne says, reaching out to squeeze both their shoulders comfortingly. Steve slumps further into Eddie who gladly takes his weight. “I think it’s about time we all get home.”

Eddie smiles, bumping his hip into Steve. 

He was already home. After all, Steve’s right here. 

Part 100

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[elizabethrobertajones]

FFXIV Write 2024

4. Reticent

There was nothing that helped reflect on different ways recent history could have gone as watching Lamaty’i sizing up to throw Thancred into the rafters of Frog’s inn room, to fetch her axe which was, for reasons entirely Thancred’s fault and Lamaty’i’s doing, now wedged up there.

Raha and Alisaie were yelling over each other to offer advice or alternative means of fetching it.

“Well, I think it’s safe to say you’ve hosted a memorable party,” Y’shtola purred, suddenly leaning over Frog’s shoulder.

She tried and failed not to preen and lean into that sudden closeness, her previous attempt to pretend to be the sensible adult in the room completely obliterated.

“If the Vow of Resolve breaks anything, I won’t be responsible for the bill, I hope.”

“Oh, I’m sure we can wrangle a little political corruption to smooth this all over,” Y’shtola giggled. She sounded like the glasses of wine she’d been carefully sipping had started to go to her head, as the long evening wore on. Frog had scooped up her friends from the street party and moved them to a more select location, but the Orchestrion was playing loudly and mixing with music floating across the water from Tullioyal’s thoroughfares, and copious drinks had followed them into the room as well.

Lamaty’i hefted Thancred incredibly poorly and he flew in a short arc and crashed into the table with gales of laughter from them both and an alarmed shout from Alphinaud, who had truly been paying no attention, wrapped up in some sort of discussion with Koana that no one else had been interested enough in to interrupt.

“We have a dragoon in the room who’d make that jump in his sleep,” Frog laughed quietly, basking in her private judgemental gossip Y’shtola had trusted her with.

“Thinking of unlikely pairings, I think he’s made a friend… Don’t look too obviously.”

Frog glanced around to watch the twins trying to tidy up the spilled fruit and plates, and then back around with a casual scan of the room, and saw Estinien lurking against the wall, watching with a quiet smirk. About two yalms away, sitting on a low chest and holding a drink, was Erenville, who had a furrowed brow and seemed quiet. She quickly looked away before it became staring and turned to pull Y’shtola to sit on the arm of the sofa. “Are they… hanging out?”

“I’m not sure. They’ve been there for at least half a bell without moving though. Or speaking.”

“I’d noticed the capybaras here sit quietly alongside much larger creatures like hammerhead alligators without any care. Perhaps Erenville is like one of those.”

Y’shtola coughed to cover a loud laugh. “Oh dear. A comparison I’m sure neither would appreciate you repeating.”

“I do hope they’re alright, though. Erenville went through a lot, and I know Estinien hates parties and being the centre of attention, but I didn’t want to not invite them, especially after Koana got invited along too. I’m worried I’m only making it worse for Erenville, though.”

Y’shtola tapped her chin thoughtfully, then twisted, and beckoned. Krile came stumbling over at once, beaming and pink-faced from the fancy cocktails she’d been sampling that evening.

“Do you think Bounding Frog can reach it?” she asked at once.

“Hmm? Oh, the axe. Don’t worry about that nonsense, I trust the great minds at work on the task. Shh, shh. I need your Echo,” Y’shtola said, pulling Krile into the conspiracy.

Her eyes widened. “What? What’s wrong?” she stage-whispered.

“Nothing!” Frog said hurriedly, also making soothing motions. She nodded her head to the corner. “Are they, um. Having fun?”

Krile wobbled around and looked a little less subtly, and gave a strange wonky grin as Estinien met her eye and narrowed his in turn. She waved awkwardly and returned to the huddle. “They are both perfectly content and in fact radiating with a sense of kinship. Fancy that!”

“Everyone parties differently,” Y’shtola said wisely. “For some, perhaps that involves no partying at all…”

“Mine apologies for interrupting…” Urianger manifested beside them, and bowed. “I must needs beg thy sorcery, Y’shtola. And, perchance, Bounding’s long arm?”

They laughed, and Y’shtola jumped up, thrilled at the challenge. Frog made another glance to the corner, where Erenville imperceptibly shook his head at her with deep disapproval. She grinned, and turned to see what Urianger and Raha had drunkenly cooked up.