#even with just socks and bare feet there’s dust

[themareverine]

A KING & HIS CASTLE ▹ IN YOU, MY FORTRESS

— oldman!Logan x fem!OC drabble

SERIES SUMMARY: Breadwinner. Bring-Home-the-Bacon. King of the Castle. He's heard it all before, but it's never been true of the Wolverine. Until her. Coming home to her is the only thing to live for, the only thing keeping the heart behind his ribs spinning.

SYNOPSIS: Insane, sick. Straight to hell if that’s the case—he couldn’t think of worse torture, and he’d outlived excrutiating. He knows it more intimately than he should, living it every day. Leaving his small Eden behind, in the biting Mexican dust that wilds it away in the glass of his rearview, it’s hell beyond the little limits of everything he, now, holds close.

warnings: drabble series, day-in-the-life, dad!Logan, age gap, angst, domesticity, pregnancy, babies, children, Logan is a boy dad because I said so.

a/n: based on this. and I have to dedicate this to @1800-fight-me for that post, which changed my brain chemistry and prompted my first oldman!Logan.

SERIES MASTERLIST | MASTERLIST

On days like this, Logan could kill. 

Redlight. Redlight. Red, again. Red fuckin’ light. 

He could see them in his fuckin’ sleep. At a little after four, a text from a bunch of digits suggests a phone number—Chicago, if his guess was right. You booking rides? like it’s normal business hours instead of ass o’clock in the morning, like he hasn’t just passed out in bed after getting home and standing beneath a lava-hot shower for all of a handful of minutes—managed three and a half hours of fucking, much-needed racktime. 

Need a limo for five, 7:15. $1k green. 

Squinting into the screen without readers had been like staring into the sun, but Logan had managed. Dimness dropped to low as hell—fine, i'll be there with slow thumbs that burned, felt as if the weight of US-57 had been chained to every fiber of his skin structure. He’d managed to arrange a call time without so much as hammering his phone through the floor, a small mercy—place was barely standing as-is. Hauling old bones from bed was just short of crawling from hell, the warmth of under-covers and threadbare sheets more alluring than Egyptian gods. 

Hair not dry from his first shower, smothered against a thick, hard pillow for the three hours of sleep he’d managed, he stalked his ass back into the shower. Tried to work the cold irritation at humanity swimming in his veins beneath more hot water, failed—wrangled into only-slightly wrinkled slacks and jacket, may as well have been like roping steers. Skipped shaving, fuck that, started the hunt for another of his damn socks. Fumbling about the room like a green linebacker, he didn’t even feel the bed stir. Tangle of sheets around feet, the low moan of a curious, half-asleep lover. 

“Logan?” Drowsy, she props her pretty self up on an elbow. He can see her squinting into the lowlight of the room, thick streams of light from the moon creep over the bed in an otherworldly, nightingale kind of way—half bathed in lunar milk, he couldn’t miss the slight pull of her satin nightdress for anything as she sits up, scrubbing a hand down her face. She asks him what’s up, “Haven’t decided to finally leave me, have you?” 

Insane, sick. Straight to hell if that’s the case—he couldn’t think of worse torture, and he’d outlived excrutiating. He knows it more intimately than he should, living it every day. Leaving his small Eden behind, in the biting Mexican dust that wilds it away in the glass of his rearview, it’s hell beyond the little limits of everything he, now, holds close. Never in a thousand lifetimes would Logan ever imagine being that guy—the guy who fortresses a home. The man who makes vows. Oaths before heaven, whispers sweet nothings and pretty everythings to a heart that beats like his. Never was one for wishing on stars or counting them, slow in a different kind of way—slow in sense of the half-dead, way that smells roses hardly fathomable. If anyone would’ve told him his heart would beat for someone else, for living—-in this shell of a body, this phantom of a man, he’d have laughed. Never believed, no sir. Not him, not the Wolverine. 

Her slow, half-drunk chuckle off the statement claws at his aching ribcage. Fingers brushing what feel like a wad of socks, Logan moves to stuff them into his pocket. Swipes shoes from where he’d dropped them not long ago, slips through the darkness carefully. Where she’s risen from bed comes up quickly, and he blocks the milk of light swathing over their bed from view—fingers her hair away from her face, wild from where it’s fallen from her usual satin cap. 

“You’re dreamin’,” he hums, can’t deny the hint of a mile as she manages a rough, morning-dry chuckle. It sits low. Rattles around the adamantium in his chest. “G’back to sleep, baby—it’s early.” And if that isn’t the God-awful truth, he isn’t sure what is. 5:34 glares back at him when he checks the screen of his phone, not missing the pretty smile laughing back at him from the lockscreen. His lips brush her forehead lightly, hand firm at the back of her neck as his thumb skips over the steady thrum of her pulse. 

Lithe, curious fingers reach for him in the night. As always, they find him—her nails scratch lightly through his unshaven face, skin that’s dewy. An idea of Irish Spring still floats in the air around his nose, but it’s overpowered by the scent of her—the flow of her blood, the oil of her skin. Frankincense she uses in her hair before bed claws at his chest, unmistakable hints of petroleum jelly on the plush of her lips lights cravings in the back of his throat. Even today, after years, her touch still trailblazes through him like wildfire—cuts trails through the jungle of his unknowns, his hesitations. Three days away had felt like fallout, she’d been asleep like any sane person at 3 in the witching hour when he’d dropped into bed.

Blood pistoning to his cock reminds him how long. He’s been a starving man, deprived of her honey—her fruits. 

“You’ll be back?” Her palm against his cheek is God’s gift to humanity, may as well have carved the peak of mountains. “You just got in, Lo,” even in the light of stars he can see the worry mottle pretty features, the depth of her eyes couldn’t be masked by any amount of midnight the universe knew. “You sure you’re okay to drive?” I can drive, if you need me to. She hadn’t driven in years, not since—

“M’fine,” he nods, “don’t you worry ‘bout nothin’ honey.” Slipping her hand into his, he lifts it to press an airy kiss the heel of her hand. It’s soft, for the most part—only partly chapped, mostly from the dry. Dry, and the in-and-out of the desert sun. Keen senses can still taste the brush of earth on her skin, dirt from good hours spent outside. Laughing, running. Playing pretend, exploring the mesa. Like a child, like innocence. 

“Be back tonight,” it comes off a thick cough, “don’t have to wait up.” 

Her snort is sharp. “ I’ll wait. Hate this BS,” the nod is resigned though, knowing. A deep sigh puffs out her cheeks, blows hot against his lips as she looks up at him. “Need you here, Logan,” I know, don’t I know—guiding her arms around his middle, her cheek falls against his chest. Her weight against him reminds him he’s alive, still breathing—reminds him that this, right here, is his. He can feel her hum low at the bottom of her ribs, and rests his chin in her hair, rocking her back and forth lightly. Relishing her heat, the slip of satin. The spring of curl cream in her hair, the zip of adrenaline and sex in his blood. “Want you here.” 

As 5,000 volts as the day he met her, all those years ago. Logan can still taste the rain in the air, the sting of sour sweat and testosterone in the bar. The bite of the steel cage. It’s still clear in the back of his head, glancing at her on a barstool in the corner—more of a drowned lizard than a girl, as the bartender had so aptly noticed. Tired, pretty in the eyes. Broke as hell and as lost as they came—he’d never forget the smile she gave him as he’d tucked her back into that ancient Jeep as long as he lived. 

And she’s still pretty in the eyes, even if they are a little deeper. Haven’t aged a day in all the years she’s been chasing shadows, stalking the sun by his side—racing to die, chancing to live. As Wolverine as they came, in a different kind of way. Unkillable, like him. God’s gift to him, certainly—an Eve for his unkillable Adam, to taste the sun. Lifetimes and mementos of the forgotten behind them, this is his castle. His home— life that, had finally, birthed. 

Wrapped up in pretty satin and swaddling clothes. “I should check on little man,” and there it is. The nail in his coffin. Mention of their son—his son, it’s like a slow poison. Logan never, in any of his days, would imagine that the idea of a child, his offspring would do such devastatingly good things to him—he can’t remember when it changed, how it happened. But it stabs at the mesh of his ribs unlike anything he’s ever felt all the same, toys with his pleasures like a cat with a mouse. Her head tipping back greenlights the pad of his thumb gently pulling at the plush of her bottom lip. Looking up at him with a teasing smile, through low lashes undoes him in a way that should be sin. 

And he kisses her the way she likes, slow. Hard. When her arms snake around his neck, pulling him close, he loses his composure. Deepens the kiss, moans against the heat of her tongue playing with his. “Careful,” he smiles through every languid stroke of her tongue, every little breathless gasp, “don’t start somethin’ we can’t finish, pretty.” 

“Who says we can’t?” 

“When I get back, baby.”

Her pleasured hmmm, heady whispers in dark shadows light him up like a firecracker, but he can’t. Can’t stay, can’t go—trapped in situation’s limbo. Hell of a thing, really. His finger traces the curve of her hip, up—falls in line against her bottom rib, tugging at the skin beneath satin. Erupting in a fit of ticklish giggles, her fingers tug at his hair, play with damp at the nape of his neck. “Logan—not fair!” her breathlessly sharp whine—it fucks his brains. 

“Plen’y fair,” another kiss, one more taste of her, and he steps back. Creates a chasm and his pulse jumps, almost flatlines. Fingertips linger against his as he moves for the door—her tongue chases over kiss-fat lips, and Logan swears to God he can see the fire dancing in the cradle of her womb as she follows after him. Once they hit the door, he kisses her again—it’s the only thing that will keep him alive. 

“I love you, kid,” kid. Hasn’t called her that in awhile. She still smiles at the name, like she always has. It’s true but isn’t—he’s 200 years older than her, another sin on his growing list of indiscretions with God. But she’s lived enough life at his side for it to count, seen enough blood. Heart racing behind his ribs, waiting—breathlessly. All too damn breathlessly for a man who couldn’t give up his breath if God asked. 

“Love you more,” a Betty Crocker kiss to his cheek and she slips away, into the darkness, opposite direction. Nursery, the quiet pull of the innocent. His feet point to the kitchen, to the reckless hour of the world’s morning. 

Twenty-seven steps. Out the door, sink into the limo. A text lights up the phone he’s tossed to the passenger seat as headlights cast lowbeams into witchy darkness. Foot on the brake, he fumbles the breastpocket for hardly-new readers, ignoring the tag still hanging out on the templepiece. Grabbing it, opens the photo attachment. Her, and his child—his son, his side of the bed. His never-in-a-million-years, impossible-to-the-stars family—

— his fortress, the castle to which he returns. Lucky son of a bitch. 

tags: @fandomxo00 @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88

[colorisbyshe]

i’m gonna be real whenever tumblr/twitter gets obsessed with ~being clean

i do think it’s important to recognize that like… the air you breathe is full of skin and shit particles, like… all the time. life is genuinely very disgusting.

and its worth asking: does this actually look dirty? does it smell dirty? does it physically feel dirty (is it gritty? slimy? does it feel different than it normally does)?

what is the consequence of said dirtiness?

sometimes, the consequences are big and dire and the solution is pretty easy (things like sneezing into your elbow and not your hands, washing your hands) and sometimes the consequence is… very minimal or only affects the “dirty” person.

some behaviors are just straight up gross and i guess should be discouraged but a lot of the shit people get worried or competitive about, it’s like… what’s at stake besides ego?

what context is missing? maybe the person who wears shoes in their living room and kitchen cleans their floor constantly and the person who only wears inside slippers hasn’t even used their vacuum in two months.

sometimes, this matters a lot! but sometimes it literally doesn’t matter at all. the second you leave your house you’re entering outside where animals shit whenever they want, the wind blows debris onto you even when you don’t notice it, and where smoke and other weird things get in your hair and skin and clothes.

and you don’t die!! you probably don’t even get sick. it’ll be okay.

cleanliness is important and should be encouraged but sometimes y’all get caught up in shit that barely matters.

while i do take my shoes off when i go inside my house and don’t allow shoes in my bedroom at all, i can’t pretend to care about it that much when i have cats wandering around my house with kitty litter paws. like yeah, sure, i guess my shoes which might have mud on it are gross but also my cat uses her paws to bury literal shit and then walks on every surface she can.

it’s already over my floor is gross. my couch, my fucking bed is gross. no escape.

[hannieehaee]

Thinking about doting woozi awakened something in me hnnng something about a tsundere man being soft is so fucking cute like you just KNOW he'd be so awkward abt it at first but as soon as he knows that you like it and even WANT IT from him he'd be the softest man on earth

content: bf!woozi, established relationship, pure fluff, woozi is starving for affection and doesnt know how to react to it!!

wc: 610

a/n: i know this wasnt a request but i had to turn it into a little drabble bc im so obsessed with him and wanna take care of him so badly i just need to manifest that need into writing</3

masterlist

the first time you took care of jihoon was subtle. it barely went noticed by him at first, but when he realized, he couldn't help but recoil to himself. it was odd, really, to have someone care for you in subtle ways. it wasn't expected.

in reality, it had been quite simple. walking into his home studio, he almost missed it due to his organizational habits, but upon closer inspection it was obvious. you had cleaned up.

not only had you done the usual superficial upkeep that he was accustomed to doing, but you'd dusted! you'd moved every figurine, every bit of equipment, every movable object, basically, and dusted it before placing it right back where it belonged. the air smelled clean too, courtesy of your good taste in cleaning products.

the cleanliness gave him a newfound energy, especially due to knowing it had been your act.

next time he saw you, he was a bit embarrassed to thank you, but still managed a hug and a suspicious 'love you' murmured against your lips without any further explanation.

~

cleaning his home studio became a more common occurrence after a while. jihoon had at some point formally expressed his gratitude for it, but also added the lack of need for it. he felt badly having you clean for him, so he shyly stumbled his way into telling you that it was okay! he wouldn't want you to tire yourself with such a task!

this was met with a squeeze at his hip and a giggle as you let him know that you didn't mind. he was rarely at home while you worked from home, so cleaning just became a natural part of your day.

he accepted this with warmth in his stomach. it was nice that it didn't feel like a responsibility to you. you just did it because you wanted to help him. he liked being helped.

this came along with various other acts of service you'd do without question. acts which continued to make jihoon's heart flurry with a mixture of gratitude and bashfulness.

the list was quite long, once he took a minute to really think about it.

you'd drop in with lunch for him and his bandmates every so often (which was quite a feat considering the number of friends he had), you'd brush his hair any time he let it grow a little more (claiming you just had that magic touch — which, granted, you did), suddenly he'd have socks on his feet when he woke up on a cold night, would find a brand newly knitted scarf on his way out the door in the morning, his kitchen would be stocked with his favorite coffee mix. there were too many tiny details to count.

jihoon always tried to return the favor, but would always feel like he lacked. no one in this world could compare to how doting you were, he'd decided.

worst of all was the viscerally embarrassing way in which he'd react at your acts of service.

he'd always known himself to be bad at receiving love, but he had thought that being with you would teach him a thing to do. the reality was, though, that the stuttering and the blush on his cheeks would just become a staple every time you so much as removed an eyelash from his cheek.

he sometimes wondered to himself, did you realize? how affection-starved he was? how much he truly appreciated your affections despite being the worst at verbalizing this gratefulness?

but the answer was found in the kiss pressed to his cheek any time he'd stutter his way through a 'thank you, i love you.'

[hopelesslygaysstuff]

pairing: wanda maximoff x fem!reader

summary: Wanda can’t keep her eyes - or hands - off of you. She has her way with you, and you’re just happy to let your long-time crush ravish you.

content warnings: smut, cunnilingus, fingering, slight possessiveness, slight overstimulation

word count: 4k+

masterlist

Original Request

comments and reblogs are always appreciated! happy reading ♡

Not My Fault

A warm glow of light spills out from the kitchen, and you rub your bleary eyes as you make your way towards it. Your book is clutched in your hand, one finger holding your spot as you follow the source of light, and the delicious smell of freshly brewed tea. The pads of your feet tread softly, protected by thick wool socks that ensure your steps are virtually silent as you wonder who else would possibly be awake at the late hour. 

“Oh,” You stop, taking in the sight before you. The first thing you notice is red hair, cascading down like a waterfall, curled slightly over a slender shoulder. Wanda has her back turned towards you, one hand with multiple silver rings twisting in the air as her magic pours a cup of tea, a single scarlet wisp bringing sugar over and spooning some in. 

Leaning against the doorframe, you smile as you admire your best friend. You had grown close with the witch ever since she arrived at the Avengers compound, and were happy to see her improvement with control over her magic. It had taken a while, but you were glad that Wanda felt comfortable enough to show such common displays of power. In the kitchen, too, her happy place. 

Green eyes meet yours, and Wanda freezes in surprise. Her scarlet magic hovers with uncertainty in the air, sugar sprinkling a light dusting onto the countertop before she recovers. You tell yourself that you imagine the way her eyes rake down your form, and fight the urge to cover yourself up as you step into the kitchen.

“Don’t mind me,” You say, a smirk on your face at the way Wanda blushes slightly. “I was just up reading.” 

Holding up the book briefly as if to further prove your words, you let it drop onto the counter. Curious eyes peer at it, before quickly returning to you as you step closer. Leaning on the space next to Wanda, you ask, “What are you doing up so late?”

Ducking her head, Wanda gingerly takes her cup of tea. “I… couldn’t sleep.”

“Oh?” You ask, gently prodding for more information, but receiving no answer. This time, you don’t have to imagine the way her eyes travel up your bare legs, lingering on your sleep shorts as they slide up further when you cross your legs. 

Deciding to test a theory, and hoping your unrequited crush might be slightly reciprocated, you lean over. From this angle, Wanda has a direct view down the front of your tank top. Her eyes widen slightly, taking in the bare sides and tops of your breasts before coughing awkwardly and sipping her tea. Her eyes remain steadfastly on the steaming liquid before her, and you wonder if she’s burning her tongue. 

“Could you pour me some?” You ask, innuendo slipping between your words, “I’m quite thirsty.”

Green eyes snap to yours, and she sets her mug down on the counter. Instead of making a move towards the teapot, Wanda carefully moves to stand in front of you, as if to give you a chance to escape. You don’t take it.

You turn as she moves, your back pressed against the counter and you raise an eyebrow. Wanad stares right back, fingers trembling slightly as she places them on either side of you, trapping you effectively against the counter. Her face is close to yours, and you can smell her vanilla perfume washing over you and the slight scent of tea as she exhales softly. 

“You look…” Trailing off, Wanda seems to steel herself. You mentally applaud her, urging her to continue, even if it's only with your eyes.

Wanda presses her lips together, biting her bottom lip briefly before saying, “I want to fuck you so badly, it’s keeping me up at night.” She gestures towards her cup of tea on the counter. “As you can see.”

Her candor takes you off guard, and you can only blink at her in surprise. She takes your silence as a sign to continue. 

“I mean…” Her eyes rake down your thin tank top, pausing at your slightly pebbled nipples before continuing their hot trail down your toned legs. You feel goosebumps rise, feeling frozen in place as your best friend appraises you. 

“Just look at you,” One of her hands moves to rest on your hip, pressing you further against the counter as she leans her body against yours. The heat of her skin against yours sends a wave of arousal through you. “Dressed in skimpy clothes for anyone to see, it's almost like you want me to have my way with you.”

“I only dress this way around you.” You blurt out, not wanting her to presume that you always dress this scantily. 

Wanda raises her eyebrows, a pleased smile rolling across her face as she strokes your hip. “Good,” She says, her tone mild even as relief flows through her. You watch her eyes soften, her walls lowering slightly as she appraises you. 

“Now,” Her face grew slightly serious, and you strained your ears as her soft words began flowing. “I’m going to fuck you, either here in the bedroom, I don’t care which one. You have five seconds to decide.”

You barely process the words before she holds up her hand and starts silently counting down from five. Panicking, your mouth gapes for a second before you whisper, “Bedroom.”

A wide smirk makes its way onto her face, and your knees suddenly feel weak. It’s not like she’s never smiled at you before, she’s your best friend, of course she smiles around you. But this time, it's different. This smile is paired with hungry eyes and twitching fingers, her lips far too kissable for you to concentrate. 

“Good choice,” Wanda whispers, moving her lips close to your ear. You don’t even try to hide the shiver that runs down your spine at the action. “Start walking.”

The commanding tone sends another shiver down your spine, leaving a pleasant tingle at your core. You know that your eyes are wide, lips parted slightly as you look at Wanda with a mixture of slight shock and awe. Her ever-watchful green eyes notice, and her smirk widens as she slowly moves to the side, gesturing for you to pass. 

You hope that your steps are confident, measured even, but you know that’s only false hope as you stumble slightly on your way out of the kitchen. Mind racing, you make your way towards your bedroom. 

Wanda liked you back? I mean, you knew she liked women… but she specifically liked you? Your best friend, who you’d been hopelessly in love with for what seemed like forever… wanted you.

You considered slapping yourself, convinced that you were dreaming. Yes! That was it, you had stayed up too late reading your book, and now you were in some sort of horny dream. You’d wake up tomorrow and blush at Wanda across the table, and she’d be none the wiser. 

The door to your bedroom opened, light from the hallway spilling across your plush carpet as Wanda stepped inside. She shut the door softly behind her, green eyes peering at you through the dim lighting, and your heart jolted. 

It wasn’t a dream. You weren’t sure what to do, your hands seeming too clumsy at the moment. Your tongue felt weighted down with lead, lips parted as you just stared at Wanda. Standing awkwardly near the center of your bedroom, you felt your heart race as Wanda held out her hand, silently ushering you toward her. 

With shaky footsteps, you managed to cross the room, your eyes questioning as you stepped up to Wanda. She was lingering by the door, and as soon as you were within arms reach, she grabbed you by the waist and spun you around. 

A surprised gasp left your lips as your back hit the wall. Wanda’s body pressed flush against you, warmth spreading from your thighs up to your chest as she trapped you against the wall. Not that you were complaining, this was the best moment of your life. 

“Can I kiss you?” Wanda’s voice was soft, only a hint of uncertainty woven into her words, and you raised your hands to cradle her cheeks. Fingers gently stroking over her soft skin, you smiled when she nuzzled against your palm slightly, her breaths biting your cheeks as you flushed. 

“Of course you can,” The words were murmured, your eyes focused on her lips as her hands tightened over your waist. 

“Good, because I’m going to kiss you a lot from now on,” Wanda says, and you don’t have any time to process her words before her lips are pressed against yours. 

There are no words to describe what kissing Wanda Maximoff felt like. Time suspended its relentless march, and it felt as though the world had dissolved under the soft touch of her lips moving against yours. You could practically hear your heart singing out, symphonies rising like a never-ending crash of waves as the heat of her lips spread through you. 

A soft, probing tongue ran along your bottom lip, and you let out a moan. Wanda eagerly swallowed it, delighting in the way your lips parted for her. Her thigh slipped between your legs, pressing deliciously against your core as you gasped. 

Your tongues danced together, and it felt so good that you didn’t have time to overthink your actions. You were simply doing what felt good, and everything with Wanda felt good. The kiss grew slightly sloppy, your lips parting further as you panted, arousal shooting through you as you ground down against Wanda’s thigh. 

Insistent fingers pulled at the hem of your tank top, briefly sliding under the thin material to splay over your stomach. You mentally thanked Natasha for the daily reminders to hit the gym when Wanda moaned at the feeling of your abs. 

“Can I take this off?” Wanda asked, and you almost laughed. If it weren’t for her body pressing you against your wall, you would have already stripped yourself of all clothing at this point. 

“Yes, Wanda. You can do anything you like,” Your words spurred her on, a wide smile flashing at you before your tank top was pulled smoothly over your head and tossed somewhere on the floor. 

Something shifted as soon as Wanda had pulled that first item of clothing off. Her pupils dilated, her hands scraping down your sides and grabbing your breasts roughly as she reattached her lips to yours. This time, she had no qualms about sinking her teeth into your bottom lip, and you couldn’t help but moan. 

It was like something had taken over your best friend, her movements frenzied as she slipped her fingers under the waistband of your sleep shorts. You weren’t too concerned, happy to keep kissing her as your fingers wove themselves into her beautiful red hair. 

Beautiful. Of course, that would be the only word you could describe Wanda as. She truly was, with her soft smiles and gentle touches. Evidently, her touch could also send fire coursing through your veins, her fingers rough as they pressed you tightly against the wall. You absolutely loved it. 

Your shorts quickly joined your discarded tank top on the floor, Wanda’s fingers skating around your underwear. You took the chance to pull at her shirt instead, your lips detaching briefly as you gazed at her. 

“Take it off,” Wanda mumbled, her lips glistening. “Take it all off.”

Not willing to disobey a direct order, you gladly peel her shirt off. Wanda blushes under the force of your stare, your eyes widening as you take in her smooth skin and perfect chest. Her bra cups her breasts gently, and you’re suddenly jealous of the firm fabric, wishing it was your hands holding her instead. 

Quick fingers unclasp her bra, the item falling to the floor as you fulfill your wish, hands cupping her breasts as a smile spreads across your face. Wanda moans as your thumbs brush over her nipples, the pebbled nubs already achingly hard as she arches her back, pressing her chest further against your touch. 

“You’re beautiful,” Your words flow like a prayer, filling the space between you two as Wanda stares at you. 

“I…” She can’t find the right words to respond, tears springing into her eyes as she lets her mouth crash against yours. Her own fingers pull her sweatpants down, kicking them off as she continues to ravish your mouth with her impossibly soft lips. 

The hands around your waist no longer tremble, instead confident with their movements as Wanda slowly spins you away from the wall. She presses against you still, each of you taking small steps until the backs of your legs hit the bed. 

A firm hand against your sternum pushes you backward, and you sit down heavily as your lips part from hers. Her eyes are dark and piercing, the air feeling heavy around you as you tremble slightly underneath her gaze. 

Your hands make their way to her thighs, pulling her onto your lap as you marvel at her soft skin. You’ve been dreaming of running your hands along her body for months now, and you can’t quite believe that Wanda is letting you. 

A small gasp leaves Wanda’s mouth, the warm air hitting your parted lips as she slots herself perfectly onto your lap. Your hands aren’t rough, but they’re not gentle either as you pull her with you toward the center of the bed. Soft yet insistent lips return to yours as you let yourself be slowly pushed down into the mattress. 

“Is this okay?” Wanda asks, her voice low. Her hands are stroking your breasts, thumbs flicking gently across your hard nipples. You can feel her damp underwear against your pelvis as she straddles you, and can’t help the way your hips roll against her. 

“Yes, it's more than okay. Please don’t stop.” At your words, Wanda’s hips grind down slightly, smearing her arousal onto your skin, and you let out a low moan as your breaths become slightly shaky. 

It’s everything you’ve been dreaming of, better even. You don’t ever want this moment to stop, especially when Wanda leans down and starts kissing you again. Yeah, you hope this moment never ends. 

It ends, and you try not to cry. 

Wanda sits up, her lips swollen and eyes bright. Your fingers tighten on her thighs, urging her hips to move, wanting to see those perfect lips fall open as she loses herself in pleasure. She just smirks at you, a single eyebrow raising and letting you know that she is aware of what game you’re playing. 

“Patience, darling.” The words are teasing, and you sigh. Your eyes don’t leave her form, skating over her nude chest as your mouth fills with saliva. The urge to taste her skin wells up, and you lick your lips as your eyes zero in on her nipples. 

Movement distracts you, Wanda’s fingers coming into focus as you shift your attention. She’s taking off her rings, slowly, and you nearly cum from the sight. Her green eyes are boring into yours, a predatory look in them as she plucks her delicate rings off one by one. 

Her fingers are bare, the rings resting innocently in the palm of her hand, and you feel a wave of anticipation rise within you. Wanda leans forward, her breasts tantalizingly close to your mouth as she sets the rings down on the bedside table. They clink lightly together as they hit the hardwood, the sound jarring you as you crane your neck toward her. 

Just before your lips can rest against her smooth skin, Wanda leans back again, a chuckle erupting from her at the stricken look on your face. Her fingers reach up and pull her hair back into a ponytail, her sharp features looking soft in the dim lighting of your room. 

“Just relax,” She advises, and you want to protest when she moves her weight off of you. Any words threatening to escape are quickly silenced when she kneels between your legs, her hands pushing them open. 

“Fuck,” You manage, the word spilling out as soon as Wanda’s tongue makes contact with your dripping core. It’s curious, yet deliberate as she explores your drenched folds and expertly avoids your protruding clit. 

Strong hands hold your squirming hips down, and you try not to moan too loudly as you feel yourself grow more desperate. She’s purposefully avoiding your clit, denying you any true pleasure as she collects your juices on her tongue eagerly. 

Placing a tentative hand on her head, fingers playing with her ponytail, you wait until her green eyes meet yours. She looks up, and you nearly cum from the sight alone. Her eyes meet yours, tongue buried in your pussy as she smirks slightly. You tug slightly on her hair, asking a silent question. 

Nodding, Wanda smiles wider as your hand wraps fully around her ponytail, pulling her face flush against you. Your hips rut up, seeking that delicious pressure against your clit, and you finally feel her lips wrap around it. 

Wanda’s cheeks hollow, and you feel her suck your aching clit into her mouth. Her tongue swirls around it, and your back arches off the mattress as you feel the first tendrils of your orgasm race toward the surface. 

There’s a high-pitched whining sound, and it takes you a moment to realize that it’s you. Wanda looks immensely pleased, happily sucking and licking your throbbing clit as you hold her against you. Your face is flushed, legs trembling around her as you grind yourself against her talented mouth. 

With a few more strokes of her talented tongue, your clit throbs violently as a deep, aching pressure makes its way through you. Wanda can feel your cum spilling out, and she eagerly laps it up as you pant and moan above her. Your fingers have a vice-like grip on her hair, and she can’t help but feel her own arousal climb at the sensation. 

Your hands start pushing her away, the pleasure quickly becoming overstimulating. Wanda practically growls, her hands capturing your wrists and she leans over your still trembling body. Pressing them above your head, she kisses you deeply, and you moan at the taste of your own arousal coating her lips. 

“We’re not done until I say we’re done,” There’s an air of finality in her tone, and you bite your lip to stop any arguments from escaping. She continues, mumbling against your inner thigh while she waits for you to calm down slightly, “I’ve waited far too long for this to be over so soon.”

You let out a moan at her words, silently agreeing with her. Probing fingers make their way towards your swollen pussy, gathering your slick juices before Wanda brings them to your mouth. Your arousal is still warm, coating your lips before you slowly part them. 

Wanda’s fingers are heavy against your tongue, and you start sucking automatically. Her other hand disappears between your thighs, fingers sliding along your slit and gently rubbing your clit. Green eyes are locked on her fingers as she begins pumping them in and out of your mouth. 

“God,” Her voice is low, a raspy tone intermingling with her slight accent. “You look so pretty with my fingers in your mouth, sweetheart.”

You moan again, not caring how pathetic the sound is, not when your best friend lights up as you suck her fingers harder. 

“Oh, a praise kink.”

“Shut the fuck up,” You say, but there’s no venom behind your words, and they come out as a muffled, “Shmgh thm fmmph uhh.”

Wanda smirks, “Don’t be a brat.” 

You try to protest, but suddenly her fingers shove even further into your mouth, and you focus on not gagging as you feel a single finger slip inside your wet pussy. It's the best thing you’ve ever felt and you immediately want to beg for more. But, it’s a bit hard to do that with fingers buried deep in your mouth. 

Almost as if she’s reading your mind, Wanda slips another finger inside you, both of them knuckle deep in your pussy as she feels you clench desperately around her. It’s laughably easy to start thrusting, her fingers sliding in and out of you easily as wetness coats them. 

Curling her fingers, Wanda feels your muscles tighten further when she presses against that spongy spot of pure pleasure deep inside you. Smiling, she fucks you faster, watching you droll around her fingers as your eyes roll back when she repeatedly hits your g-spot. 

“Good girl, you’re taking me so well,” She delights in the choked moan that escapes you at her words, every fantasy of hers playing out as she fucks you dumb. Wanda had always wondered what you would sound like in the throes of ecstasy, and it was even more angelic than she imagined. 

Her fingers curl again, and your entire body seems to seize up. Your fingers scrabble weakly against her forearm, one hand gripping the sheets with white knuckles as your second orgasm washes over you. 

Wanda fucks you through it, slowing only briefly when the pleasure threatens to turn painful. Before long, you’re rolling your hips again as you attempt to grind down on her fingers, and Wanda can find it in herself to deny you. 

She fucks you through another orgasm, before roughly pulling her fingers from your mouth and attaching her lips to your clit again. The dual pleasure of her fingers deep inside you while her tongue quickly flicks against your clit sends you straight into another orgasm before the first one is fully finished. 

You lose count of how many orgasms Wanda gives you, pleasure ebbing and flowing through your body as her presence invades every corner of your consciousness. Her vanilla perfume clings to your damp skin, her green eyes piercing even when you close your own. Her lips, soft and incessant as her tongue never tires. Her teeth, marking your skin and claiming you as hers. 

At one point, Wanda allows you to eat her out, your legs still trembling while she gently strokes your clit as your tongue eagerly laps up her leaking arousal. You wrap your arms around her thighs, holding her against you and drawing three orgasms from her while she shakes and gasps above you. 

You’re rewarded with a passionate makeout session, her fingers bringing you to your final orgasm while her tongue thoroughly explores your mouth. Your lips tingle when you pull away, parted as the last tendrils of your pleasure are pulled through you. 

Finally, you gently push Wanda’s hand away from the slick mess between your thighs, something in your eyes telling her that you’re truly finished. 

“Wanda, I…” You trail off, not really knowing what to say, still catching your breath. 

A chuckle sounds out, and Wanda nuzzles her face into your neck, inhaling deeply. She curls around you, breathing deeply as you hold her. “You don’t have to say anything, I know.”

“No,” You tilt her chin up, wanting to look her in her eyes. “I need you to understand something.”

A worried look appears in your best friend's eyes, and you curse yourself for your terrible wording. As she begins to pull away, you place your lips against hers, feeling Wanda sigh into your mouth as your hand pulls her back against you. 

“I really like you,” The words are whispered against Wanda’s lips, her green eyes boring into yours. “I need you to know that I’m not just here for sex, as amazing as it is. I want something more with you. I want us to create something… meaningful.”

“I want that too, idiot,” Wanda shoves you playfully, “Don’t scare me like that again.”

You chuckle, too tired to formulate many more words. Wanda snuggles closer, her breaths evening out as she wraps an arm around your waist. 

“Oh, fuck.” You say, and Wanda feels a vague sense of alarm shoot through her tired brain. She looks at you inquiringly, and you grin sheepishly down at her. 

“The tea has gone cold.”

---

Dm or comment to be added!

Taglist: @alexawynters @msvenablesbitch @marilynthornhilllover @lifespectator @milkeeteaa @imnotawitch @marvels--slut @justabrokensunshine @dorabledewdroop @wandsmxmff

[luveline]

maybe could I ask for miguel seeing spider girl with a bruise on her face and getting protective (when in reality it was just over something dumb) thank youuuu <3

ty for requesting! Finding his Spider-Girl is never easy. He’ll assume you’re wearing your watch and find it forgotten in his room, or under a chair in the cafeteria, or twitching and loosing smoke at the bottom of a garbage can, nowhere near your actual location. 

Today, he checks all your usual haunts and decides he might break up with you if you don’t start leaving him clues as to where to find you. Not that’s he’s your boyfriend (of course he’s your boyfriend), but he’d put an end to your… relationship, should he have to. 

He’s getting annoyed at his own thoughts and, by extension, you, when he finally finds you lying casually across a couch in a common area otherwise abandoned. You’ve projected your phone game onto the ceiling, music leaking from the cans of your headphones, with your socked feet dangling over an armrest, a drinks bottle by your head.

“Where are your shoes?” he asks loudly. 

You glance his way. “Hi, Miguel.” 

“Are you walking around without shoes?” He bends one way and another looking for them. They’re on their sides under the coffee table among a legion of dust bunnies. 

“What?” 

“I said–” He hates playing this game. “Take the headphones off, and then we’ll talk to each other.” 

“I’m gonna take my headphones off,” you say. 

He rolls his eyes. You stop projecting your phone, snapping it closed on your chest and struggling up into a sitting position, legs retrieved from over the armrest and crossed beneath you as your headphones slip around your neck. You’re in sportswear with a jacket too big for you over your shoulders, cute cargo pants he adores and potentially would love to take off of you, and he’s so busy noticing your uncharacteristic outfit that he misses the huge bruise on your face, the yellow, red and purple like a stain under your eye 

He has amazing vision. “What happened?” he asks, practically diving for you, bending down to take your unbruised cheek into his hand. “Who did that to you?” 

You haven’t been on a strike mission in weeks, and your combat training is all but done. 

Someone laid their hands on you. 

Miguel goes into a fugue. “Sweetheart,” he says, his voice flat, almost cold, “who hit you?” 

“Miguel, I’m a superhero–”

“I don’t remember the last time you went home,” he says, immediately brushing this possibility away. You don’t fight crime in your dimension, Spider-Girl a poorly received vigilante. “You haven’t been in training, I didn’t send you on the strike this morning because you didn’t want to go.” He touched you with extreme care, thumb barely pressed to your skin, but he talks with precision. “So I’ll ask again. Who hit you, cariño?” 

“Miguel,” you laugh, pushing his hand off of your face to wrap your arms around his neck. He covers your back instinctively. “I’m fine, what’s wrong with you? You’re acting all macho.” 

“You aren’t answering my question.” 

“Oh my gosh.” You cling to him. He could stand up at full height and be sure you’d come up with him. He’d quite enjoy that, to his secret pleasure, you with your legs wrapped around his hips. You don’t like being carried is the kicker. “Miguel, I hit myself. My hand got caught when I was taking the suit off and I hit myself in the eye, it’s fine.” 

Your back is soft. His hand less so as he rubs your back in surprised, short lines, up and down and up again. “Idiot,” he says, his voice turning to rasp at such a low volume. 

It must hurt, even if you did it to yourself. Miguel peels you away from his neck and stations you gently on the couch. “I’ll take you to the medbay,” he promises, giving your shoulder a little push. “What’s wrong with you? You hit yourself? You’re like a kid.” 

“I am not! It happens to everybody.” 

“Never happens to me.” 

“You cheat. Your suit flashes on and off.”

“It does not.” Miguel decides he is going to carry you whether you like it or not. You aren’t wearing shoes —he doesn’t need you getting any more injured. “Alright, hold on to your phone, my brat.” 

“Your what?” you laugh, though any humour you hold is lost when Miguel grabs you up with ease and cradles your full grown body to his chest in a princess carry, “Miguel! Stop, put me down! You know I hate this.” 

“You might hurt yourself again. I’m taking necessary precautions.” 

You sigh and drop your face into his shoulder. “Well, I guess I’ll allow it. You got so, so mad thinking somebody hit me, I think you deserve to carry me around like a large cantaloupe.” You draw a heart into the base of his neck. “Will you grab my shoes?” 

“I’ll circle back.” 

“Thank you. How’d you even find me? I was hoping I’d be healed the next time we saw one another.”

“At bedtime, you mean?” 

He resists the urge to kiss your cheek, or tell you how he’d found you (mindless combing of the building, seduction of your most likely location, and dumb luck). You don’t need the ammunition. 

[tteokdoroki]

imagine silently vibing in the kitchen with katsuki bakugou.

you help yourself up into the counter, dressed in nothing but his shirt (haphazardly thrown on after spending all day kissing and getting nasty in bed) and a pair of fuzzy socks because he’d told you the apartment was cold since he runs warm and you need to keep your feet warm.

the kettle rumbles loud and proud beside you while katsuki gets the mugs from the top shelf. you’d made them together on your sixth or seventh date — a pottery painting class. bakugou’s is a creamy shade of Orange, like the sun setting outside the kitchen window, warm on your back. and yours is a soft pink, like the blush that dusts his cheeks from being caught staring. staring at you.

you let him make you some kind of herbal tea. watching bakugou grab the tea bags from another cupboard. this time, you’re the one staring, eyes caught on the motion of his back muscles rippling before cascading down to his unfairly slender waist, his grey sweat pants that hang a little too low on his itty bitty hips, and the rough textured skin on his side. the battle scar you love so much.

“what flavour?”

you hear him mumble, your gaze that was once tethered to the eighth wonder of the world (his phenomenally beautiful body) shoots up to bakugou’s face. a lazy smirk lies on the plump edge of his lips and compliments the his chiselled features illuminated by golden hour outside. you see the sun reflect off the brownish flecks to his gorgeous ruby eyes and the soft tint of blonde to his hair (you make a mental note to thank mitsuki for this later), before mirroring his smile.

“peach.”

to people on the outside of your lovey little bubble — there’s nothing significant about your choice of tea. but to you and katsuki, you know that it’s the same flavour as the lip glaze you wore on the night he first kissed you. it’s the scent of your body wash, the one that you leave at his place because you know that bakugou adores peaches on you. peaches, like the fruits you cut up for him whenever you’re able to join him for lunch at the agency, swiping your thumb over his chin as the juices run down it — sucking it off with an affectionate laugh.

“sweet,” bakugou hums into the quiet ambience of the kitchen. “just like you.”

his hands, though capable of intangible levels of destruction, work delicately and quickly to brew you the perfect cup of peach herbal tea. before you can even ask, he sweetens your cup with a tea spoon of brown sugar and a dash of golden honey — pushing it towards you gently. with a loving whispered reminder. ‘careful, it’s hot.’

katsuki waits for you to take a sip before he does the same with his own. he won’t admit to how cute you look on his counter, in his apartment, in his clothes with his marks on your neck, glittering under the setting sun. his bare feet pad on the vinyl flooring as he crosses the kitchen to meet you and his chest bristles with happiness when your legs part to make room for him.

“good?”

“always,” you chirp, looking up at kastuki through your lashes with your big bambi eyes. “i love you.”

katsuki looks taken aback but quickly recovers, rubbing his cheek on his bare shoulder as if to rid himself of the heat rising underneath its skin.

“love you even more. now drink up b’fore it gets cold.” he says gruffly but he’s lovesick all the same. you think that bakugou is so cute, you might implode.

and there you are, vibing out in the quietness of his kitchen — clinking your misshapen mugs together and drinking tea, letting the world go by as if you’re the only two people in it.

[upsidedownwithsteve]

hi! im so glad ur doing well, my dash did feel a lil empty without your blurbs and random posts c:

if you're still in the writing mood, steve and unconsciously searching out each other’s hand while sleeping or not realizing they’re holding hands till someone points it out got me all soft and i think you'd write something cute w it :(((

🧡

Maybe it was paranoia. Maybe it was that animal part of your brains, the one Murray always spoke about, the part that quietly told you all there was safety in numbers.

Maybe it was because you’d all gone through enough to realise there were indeed very real reasons to be scared of the dark.

Movie nights turned into sleepovers, never really planned, but always wholly accepted. Bodies on couches, on the floor, sleeping bags pulled from attic spaces and kids crushed together top to toe on the pullout in the Wheeler’s basement. Someone on an old recliner, a blanket pulled from a picnic basket to use to keep warm, heaps of pillows making a patchwork on the floor, socked feet pressed to thighs because even in sleep it was nice to know your friends were close.

Maybe that’s why it happened.

A night of watching Jaws, everyone chewing on popcorn and pretending that there wasn’t something evil outside, something lingering in the dark that was so much worse than a big fish called Bruce. Before the credits could roll, before the spilled candy could be cleaned up, people would nod off one by one, soft snores becoming a well heard lullaby.

It was only you and Steve left, squished in the corner of the floor, sandwiched against the couch that Max and Eleven had claimed, your backs only just saved by a mismatch of sleeping bags and cushions reserved for the patio furniture in the summer. The TV buzzed with static, an indigo glow barely lighting the room and Steve had long lay down, cheek pressed to his pillow as he whispered back to you.

The conversation was never light hearted, not anymore, not even in the midst of a sleepover. Worried words always exchanged, knots between brows and an unsettled feeling in stomachs because everyone was past believing it might actually be okay this time.

Something had to give. Right? Right?

So sleep didn’t come easy, not when your last words, last thoughts were about survival and risk taking, about your friends getting hurt or worse. The chocolate coating your tongue turned to dust and everything tasted sour, so you stared into the dark until you felt it staring back, and only then did you close your eyes.

Sleep still didn’t come. It taunted you, teased at you from behind your eyelids, pulling you downdowndown until the sharp prod of the beginnings of a nightmare jerked you back awake.

At some point, when you lingered between sleeping and not, something touched your wrist. Something warm and heavy and comforting. You barely registered the feeling of it sweeping over your pulse, fingers bigger than yours curling over your palm, catching at the spaces between your own until you were holding on for dear life.

Something in the back of your mind told you it was safe, it was better now. You could sleep, it was okay, someone was looking after you.

A body, nudging a little closer, careful not to touch, but a solid wall of warmth beside you, a familiar scent, a thumb running circles over the back of your hand.

You didn’t wake until morning, after Nancy had stepped over your sleeping frame to start making coffee. You would’ve followed too, offered to help by pulling out mugs and cups, but something kept you tethered to the floor.

A hand in yours, fingers intertwined a little looser than before, but there all the same.

Steve.

The boy was still beside you, closer than when he’d fallen asleep, his nose dangerously near your own, his soft breaths huffing out warm air over your joined hands, clasped between your faces. He looked the most peaceful you’d seen him in months.

The lilac bruises under his eyes were still there, but his pink lips were parted lazily, lashes kissing his cheeks, his hair softer than you’d seen and falling into his eyes. He had a crease along his jaw from the sleeping bag zip, an indent of each stitch, pushed into his skin beside each freckle.

Someone stretched and groaned and the boy shifted, only just, nose wrinkling, lips pouting, his hand grasping yours a little tighter - as if even in sleep, he didn’t dare lose you.

You heard Nancy crack some eggs into a bowl, the coffee machine gurgling.

You stayed, holding onto Steve as tightly as he held onto you - if only until it was time to wake up.

[woso-dreamzzz]

Shot Through The Heart III

Alexia Putellas x Archer!Reader

Summary: You're pregnant

"Don't."

Alexia backed away quickly, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet.

"I was just-"

"No."

"Amor-"

"No, Alexia. I'm pregnant, not an invalid."

You got to your feet and stretched, ignoring the way that Alexia hovered uncertainly as you balanced the laundry basket on your hip on your way up the stairs.

"I can carry it." She trailed you everywhere you went. "You shouldn't be carrying such heavy things. The babies-"

"The babies will be fine and, unless you're going through twenty kits daily, this basket barely weighs anything."

Your pregnancy hadn't come as a surprise. You and Alexia had been trying for a while before it worked. It had been decided that you would carry, your sport was a lot less physically taxing than Alexia's. It was all going smoothly until you had gone to a scan one day to find out that you weren't having one baby girl like you thought.

You were having two.

Alexia, of course, had taken mother henning to the extreme when she had found out, hovering incessantly and staying with you as long as possible before heading to practice.

That hovering nature had extended to every aspect of your life the moment that you started showing.

She trailed you up the stairs, opening the wardrobe doors for you when you started to fold the clothes.

"Alexia," You said in warning when she started dividing everything up.

"Amor," She said back," I'm just helping."

You swatted at her with a t-shirt. "You're being a nuisance and you're hovering. Again. Cut it out."

"I'm not hovering!" She insisted, still very clearly hovering.

"You are." You rolled your eyes, bending down to grab the socks that had fallen on the floor.

"I'm not!"

"Alexia," You said, putting the last of the laundry away," You are most certainly hovering." You turned to face her. "I'm fine. The girls are fine. Everything's fine."

She sighed, holding her breath in for a few seconds before releasing. "Okay. I'm sorry, amor. I just want to make sure all three of you are safe."

You press a kiss onto her cheek. "I know. If it didn't annoy me so much, I'd say it's cute how protective you are over us."

Alexia took a step forward and placed her hand daringly on your bump. "I just want you to be careful."

You rolled your eyes fondly. "What do you think I do all day while you're at work? I sit on the sofa all day and type on my laptop. You're lucky I love you or I wouldn't have taken a break from training so early."

Your bow was resting comfortably in the corner of the living room, just collecting dust after you put it aside as soon as you started to show.

You'd probably have gone on for a bit longer with your bow but it made Alexia antsy so you stopped and just continued with your interviews and writing so she would stop breaking out in hives every time you left her to go train.

Alexia spent most of her time with you on a good day but now that you were making a family together, she was adamant about staying with you until she absolutely has to. She stayed in bed for as long as possible in the morning and she didn't hang behind at training to speak with her teammates.

If the team wanted to go out together, she either bowed out or changed the get-together to your shared house so she could hold your hand and rest her head on your shoulder.

"Names?" You asked one evening as you rested on the sofa with Alexia massaging your swollen feet.

"Whatever you want," She replied," I don't mind."

"You must have some opinion, Ale," You said," Don't tell me you have no ideas."

"You're carrying them," Alexia said," You have all the power here, amor. I'm just happy that I'm the one you chose to take along for this ride."

"You're so sappy," You said with a fond eye roll," You have no opinions? What about middle names?"

Alexia's face got a little red and she couldn't meet your eyes for a moment. "I'd like for one to be Elisabet, after Mama."

"Good idea," You said," And for the other one?"

"I was thinking either Alba or María but I don't know if I want either of them to get a bigger head than they already have."

"I think if Alba's head gets any bigger then it might roll off her neck," You joked and finally got a little smile out of your wife.

"What about you?" She asked," You asked about names. You must have some in mind."

You stared at the picture of your most recent ultrasound, tracing over each of your babies.

"Baby A could be Elena," You said," Baby B...Maybe Maya."

"I like them," Alexia replied," Elena and Maya Putellas-l/n."

"Maya Elisabet," You smiled," And Elena...Well, you'll just have to decide which one you'd prefer to inflate the ego of."

"Elena María but Alba can be godmother."

Maya and Elena came into the world two days after an El Clásico win for Barcelona. Two little crying babies that fit easily in your arms rounded out a perfect week for you and Alexia.

"Perfect girls," Alexia said as she admired them before looking over at you in pure contentment," My three perfect girls."

[loveshotzz]

All I Really Want Is You

older!neighbor!widower! steve x fem!reader epilogue - a slow burn series of blurbs

Heaven Knows You Better ~ epilogue

summary: A glimpse into the future.

wc: 1.7k

warnings: none, just pure fluff 🧡 a slight mention of drinking a margarita.

authors note: I know you’re tired of hearing me say it, but thank you 🧡 writing this story and sharing it with you will always hold a special place in my heart.

🌆 <- chapter ten

The Masterlist / The Playlist / The Tune:

Three summers later - Beginning of May

The sun hangs bright in the deep blue sky, the air a little crisp from the last bit of the chill still leftover from spring. The heat of summer is just barely on the cusp of breaking through, you can feel it in the way the city starts to come alive again. The red ‘TEAM ALS’ banner blows in the wind as your shoes and Bandit’s paws cross the white finish line. The clapping of strangers on the side lines fills your ears, tugging a smile onto your slightly chapped lips, before you turn around to look at your fiancé. 

Steve can’t help his grin back, the whites of his teeth showing when your smile stretches wider at the sight of him. The bottoms of his black running shorts flap in the breeze, revealing more skin at the tops of his thighs that still lights a match deep inside your gut. You don’t think you’ll ever be immune to him. The white socks on his feet are pulled up to his shins, the color of his On Clouds matching the banner above you. The polyester of his dark gray Nike running sweater fits tight across his chest, the zipper on its high neck being tugged by a set of golden blond puppy paws.

“I told you Molly wasn’t gonna make it all the way,” he huffs, a laugh threatening to bubble past his lips when the rambunctious labrador starts licking his stubble covered cheek, pushing up the bill of his black Nike baseball cap. 

God, you’ll never not want to kiss him.

“She made it more than half way, give her some credit Steve.” You roll your eyes and he’s proud to say that’s the third one he’s earned today. The first being in your barely unpacked kitchen when he snuck up from behind to blow a raspberry on your neck while making coffee in the morning.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You weren’t the one who had to carry the extra ten pounds the last two miles, were you?” He reminds you with a smirk, setting the wiggling puppy down now that she’s regained most of her strength back.

Bandit whines for Steve’s affections, pawing at him when he’s eye level, getting the scratch behind both ears he wanted. The German shepherd wasn’t the only one wanting his attention, and it takes everything inside you not to pout yourself when he stands back up and doesn’t immediately kiss you. Despite the chill, there’s still a sheen of sweat that coats his permanently sun kissed skin, the spice of his cologne becoming more pronounced because of it.

“Thank you for doing this with me baby,” the teasing edge to Steve’s voice is gone, replaced with something softer - made even sweeter as he pulls you closer by waist, his nose bumping with yours when you stand on your tippy toes hooking your free arm around his neck. Your fingers twitch to be in his hair, you hate his hats.

“I’ll do them all with you,” you whisper because it’s just for him, it’s always just for him. His cheeks dust pink like he knows it and his hold on you tightens.

“I can’t wait to marry you,” the words come out soft against your lips, his eyes meeting yours from down the bridge of his nose.

“Three months.” 

The reminder makes him close the space that’s left, smiling into the kiss. It still feels like a hundred butterfly’s wings flutter against your rib cage when your lips slot together like they were never meant to be apart. It’s hard to get lost in him the way you want to with hundreds of people around and two dogs that can’t seem to stop their play fighting, tugging harshly on their leashes at your feet. That doesn’t keep Steve from tracing your bottom lip with his tongue when the tips of your fingers find the flyaway hairs sticking out of the bottom of his cap. You giggle against his lips and he can’t find it in himself to be disappointed when you pull away, like he knows you both should because of it.

“Careful, might have to take you downtown right now if you don’t stop,” he teases, biting his bottom lip to stop from kissing you again.

“I don’t think Eddie would ever forgive you for taking away his opportunity to finally be your best man.” Running your hands down his chest, you can feel his groan vibrate under your palms.

“Don’t remind me.” Steve lets you go, finally taking his hat off to reveal a dirty golden mess on top of his head, long fingers running through it.

Bandit whines, nudging Steve’s knee with his snout before rubbing the side of his face against his leg, ignoring the way the puppy jumps and paws at his side.

“I think someone wants to switch.” You grin at the way Steve’s face softens for his favorite boy, offering you Molly’s leash in exchange without a word.

“Someone missed daddy, huh?” Steve asks in the kind of baby voice you know he picked up from you, but the reference to himself still has you clenching like your second date. 

Bandit barks in response, tail wagging a mile a minute as you untangle the unruly puppy from around him. You give up quickly on letting her walk, picking her up just like Steve had, the wiggling weight of her in your arms has you biting your tongue about how heavy she really is.

“I think we’ve earned a margarita when we get home, right molly?” Hinting at Steve with a smirk tugging at your lips when you kiss the puppies restless snout - it's his turn to roll his eyes.

“Honey, we still need to pack. We leave for New York tomorrow at like nine A.M.” He runs another hand through his hair before putting his hat back on his head and you have to resist pulling it off as you both make your way through the crowd.

“Okay, we can pack and then a margarita… although packing might be a lot more fun after one. Just a thought.” You shrug with fake nonchalance, finally getting a grip on Molly in your arms.

“After we pack and drop off the dogs at Nancy’s.” Steve chuckles, moving to the other side of you so his free hand can find the small of your back, the blunt ends of his nails scratching against the soft fabric of your oversized sweater. He could never go too long, he always had to be touching you.

“Deal.” Grinning, pleased with your promised drink, you push up on your toes to plant a sloppy kiss on his cheek, heart swelling at the pink that dusts tips of his ears because of it. 

9:15pm 🌃

The first sounds of cicadas buzz low in your ears, another reminder that summer was just around the corner while the two of you sit on the porch swing. Steve had set up on the small deck in your backyard. It wasn’t big like the ones in the suburbs but it was just enough for Bandit and Molly to stretch their legs without a leash. The citronella candle that you swore to Steve would work, burns lemon and lavender into the matching dusk sky, still too early in the season to prove yourself right. The stars are still half hidden by the big tree in the corner of your yard that has started to sag from the humidity. Though a lingering chill still nips in the breeze and it has Steve pulling you deeper into his side. The pine of his body wash from the shower you took together just before this mixes in the perfect blend to make your eyes heavy and your heart full. 

“You think Nancy’s going to be okay with both of them for five days?” Your question comes out quiet in the calm, your cheek pressed to the cotton of his white shirt. The hard muscles underneath twitching from the warmth of your breath. The ice in your half drank margarita clinks against the glass when your wrist starts to get lazy.

“I think we’re going to have a very well behaved puppy when we get back,” Steve chuckles before relieving you of your hold, setting your cup down next to his on the deck.

You giggle to yourself at the thought, humming in agreement, when he takes the opportunity to really cuddle you now. A big arm wrapping around you while his hand finds yours so he can do his favorite thing. His chin hits the top of your head, and the tips of his fingers tickle while he twirls the diamond ring around your knuckle. You can feel the way his cheeks pull up against your hair, his lips a ghost against the crown of your head, always losing himself in the fact that you said ‘yes.’

“Did you pack the Cubs shirts I got for Gwenny?” Steve asks like he’s trying to think back to the mess of a packing session the two of you had in between stolen kisses and heated touches that always led to more. 

“That was the first thing you packed, handsome.” You squeeze his hand, the smirk on your face widening at how obsessed of an uncle he was for the newest addition to the Munson family. 

“Oh yeah, I remember now. They are under my dress slacks,” he mumbles, while the pad of his thumb rubs small circles under your ribs where his fingers curl around your side.

Cuddling deeper into his chest a comfortable silence falls between you, the cicadas buzz louder, mixing with the sounds of the city and you wish you could always stay like this, wrapped up in him and the glow of the moon that leaks through the shaking leaves on the tree above you. The silver band he twirls around on your finger makes you realize this is what he’s asking for. A forever of moments just like this one tonight, of first, of lasts, of fingers intertwined, soft touches, stolen kisses and whispered sweet words in the moonlight that feel even sweeter when he says them again in the sunshine. 

This is what forever looked like with Steve Harrington, and you always want to be his tough girl.

beta’d by @superblysubpar

dividers by @chechelia

[frenchkisstheabyss]

♡ the patient in 206 ♡

♡ Pairing: patient!mingi x curvy!fem!reader

♡ Summary: You always keep it professional at work but, when an attractive new patient begins to push the boundaries, you find it difficult to resist his charm.

♡ Genre: fluff/suggestive

♡ Word Count: 1.8k

♡ Warnings: reader’s short so there’s references to how tiny she is, mingi puts his face in your boobs nonsexually. they're just comfy for him, mention of blood/anesthesia

♡ A/N: This is based on an idea @urlacuna threw into my asks. I hope I did a good job interpreting what you wanted into a fic!

Red licorice, if you eat enough of it, does a hell of a job mimicking internal bleeding. That’s why the patient in 202 is here today for a colonoscopy. Just to make sure. You know this because the husband of a patient is draped over the nurse’s station while you’re doing charts, huffing and puffing because he has to be here instead of presumably lounging on a couch wiping flaky orange Cheeto dust on the arm of his recliner. This is about as sexy as a job in nursing gets but it’s what pays the bills so you listen, partially anyway, fighting off the urge to throw what’s left of your watered down iced coffee onto his face. 

“Sir,” your coworker interrupts, her lack of patience for his bullshit obvious from the start, “Your wife’s asking for you. If you’ll go in and see her…” Before she can finish her sentence he’s stomping off, mumbling something to himself. She’s your favorite coworker for a reason. She takes a seat on your desk like you’re not in the middle of something. “I’d rather get two colonoscopies with no anesthesia than be married to that asshole,” she says louder than she should. You bury your face in your hands, muffled laughter escaping the spaces between your fingers, “You can’t say that!” 

She crosses her legs, thumbing through a patient’s file, “Like you weren’t thinking it. Anyway, I need you to take a patient for me.” “I’m already assigned room 205,” “Now you’re not” she declares, opening the folder to face you, the face sheet glowing like an ancient text in an adventure film. You see the name Song Min Gi. The picture, oh, the picture. “Remember him?” she asks. Remember? How couldn’t you? You’d been thinking of him ever since he came in last week. Not that you’d tell her that. Not that you need to. It’s painted all over your face the same way it was when you first saw him. 

Mingi came in with his best friend, Yunho you’re pretty sure his name was, to drop off some paperwork for his endoscopy. The other nurses swarmed the desk like moths to a flame, a sea of fluttering eyelashes and girlish laughter. It wasn’t often…or ever…that two tall handsome men sauntered into your job. And they weren’t just gorgeous. They were complete gentlemen, taking time to ask each of you about your day and making cute little jokes that eased some of the tension of such a high stress job.

As attractive as they both were, it was Mingi who had you wrapped around his finger from the moment he walked in. “We could climb him…” your mind whispered. The smile on his face whispered back that he might let you if you asked. “The little one” Mingi had called you, a suitable nickname with you being the shortest nurse on staff. 

“I like you, little one.” 

“Thank you, little one.” 

“See you soon, little one.”

The timbre of his voice echoed through your chest, the aftershock still felt when you returned home that night. You’d thought of him often since then, hoping that you’d see him again. You’d even peeked at when his endoscopy was scheduled for, excited to find out that you’d be on that day. Today. But you’d forgotten. Yesterday had been so chaotic that you rushed in this morning barely knowing which planet you were on, let alone the day.

Hair a mess. Makeup nowhere to be found. Mismatched socks on. At least your sneakers were on the right feet. You slam the folder closed, “I can’t. Look at me!” “Oh, stop it” your coworker shushes, brushing your hair back, “You look beautiful. Now go! 205 needs me and Mr. Song Min Gi needs you. Go, go, go!” She has you up from your chair, rushing you off with his file in your arms, quicker than you can register what’s happening. “Have fun!” she teases, shoving you into room 206 where Mingi lounges in the bed, his long legs stretched out.

He’s already loopy, you can tell by his low eyes and the blissful smile on his face. Yunho stands beside him, deep in conversation about something that becomes irrelevant when they see you. Mingi sits up, recklessly shifting his arms as if he doesn’t have an IV jabbed into one of them, “Little one!” “Oh my god, be careful” you gasp, scurrying to his side before he accidentally rips the IV from his arm. “So, are you my nurse now or did you just come to see me?” Both. The answer is ‘both’.

You dodge the question, “It looks like she got you all set up for me so let me just go check with the doctor and see if they’re ready to take you back. In the meantime, don’t injure yourself please.” Mingi winks at you, “Anything for you.” “You’re disgusting you know that?” Yunho groans, rolling his eyes, “Sorry about him. It’s the anesthesia kicking in.” You assure Yunho that it’s fine, slipping back out of the room under the watchful eye of Mingi who waves at you like you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. When you return a few minutes later he’s already out cold.

“Be careful with him” Yunho warns, “He might try to, uh, force himself to wake up.” You aren’t worried. You’ve dealt with it before. Patients try to fight it off all the time. Eventually, they all succumb to it though. Even on the off chance that they do wake up the anesthesiologist has them drifting back off to dreamland in a millisecond. It’s almost annoying how cute Mingi manages to be, worthy of a full page spread in a magazine even in those dreadful blue tissue paper clothes they make patients wear.

Rolling him to a room not too far down the hall, you hand him over to the doctor and get back to your other duties. Checking on other patients, making sure they have their discharge papers, and shoveling some lunch into your mouth in between. You’re hiding in the office kitchen, cheeks packed with food and another fork full coming your way, when another nurse rushes in to grab you. “Y/N, room 206! He’s out of his mind!” You check your watch. Mingi? He should be out but he shouldn’t be awake yet.

No questions asked you race behind her to find his room full of nurses. Mingi’s up bouncing on the balls of his bare feet and…rapping? Your closest friend there, the matchmaker herself, scurries over to you, ushering you closer to Mingi. “We’ve been trying to get him to lay down but he won’t do it because he wants, uh, well…” “My wife!” Mingi shouts gleefully, long arms embracing you. His chin rests on the top of your head as the two of you sway back and forth. “Isn’t she cute?” he coos, petting your hair, “Mmm and she smells nice.” You pat him on the back, a mother soothing her agitated baby,

“You guys can head out. I’ve got him.” The room empties out except for Yunho who helps you seat Mingi safely on the edge of the bed, his arms still around you. Mingi sighs, resting his head on your chest, “Soft. Mmm. So soft.” He nuzzles his cheeks against your breasts and Yunho nearly chokes on air. “I’m so sorry. Mingi, stop it!” Mingi groans, shooing his best friend away, “We’re married. I can do what I want. Right, baby?” He looks up at you, his brown eyes are angelic under the fluorescent light, and you can’t bring yourself to disrupt his delusion.

“Right, you can do what you want but can you do something for me?” “Anything” he sighs, his nose buried in your cleavage as his hands traverse your curves. “Let’s lay down, okay? I’m a little tired.” You fake a yawn and he nods, easing you onto the bed with him. His face still in your chest, Mingi goes on telling you how much he loves you. He smiles at memories of how nice your honeymoon was. “It was nice, wasn’t it?” “The best.” This was far from what you expected coming in to work today but, in the back of your mind, you’re enjoying the affection, even if it is medically induced.

After a few minutes, Mingi drifts back off to sleep, giving you the chance to sneak away. The rest of the day goes on as normally as it can after something like that has happened. It’s not like you can tell anyone. You should just forget it. Maybe Mingi will. Yunho better let him. When you get the news that Mingi’s awake for a second time you beg another nurse to take him. You don’t even want to think about what might happen if he does remember and you’d rather not find out. 

Thankfully she takes over, allowing you to finish out your shift uneventfully. “See you tomorrow!” you shout over your shoulder, waving to your coworkers as they filter out behind you. You turn to check that the coast is clear before crossing the parking lot only to slam face first into a brick wall. You stumble backward, and strong hands grip your arms keeping you on your feet. A brick wall? Not a brick wall. Mingi’s chest. It’s your turn to look up at him now, his cheeks are tinted a strawberry red. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Uh, yeah, I’m fine. Sorry…” 

“No, I’m sorry…for a lot of things apparently.” 

You glance behind him and see Yunho leaning against a car nearby. You wave to each other, the context of Mingi’s apology clear. “Look, I…” “Don’t worry about it. It happens.” Mingi narrows his eyes at you, skeptical of how often this actually happens. “Okay, it doesn’t happen” you relent, “But it’s really okay. I swear.” “I’m still sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m such an idiot. Clearly, that date I was gonna ask you on is out of the window.” “Date?” you shriek, clearing your throat to regain your composure, “I mean, date? You were gonna ask me on a date?” Mingi hangs his head, hands in his pockets, unable to meet your gaze. “I was but it’d be kinda weird now, wouldn’t it?” You stand up straight, arms folded across your chest, “Well you’ve gotta ask to know, don’t you?” “Oh, uh, does that mean that you’d…would you…date…with me?” “When?” “Now?” “Now?” “No?” “Fine. Let’s go. My car” you demand, strutting to your car with some newfound boldness overtaking you.

You aren’t sure if he’s even following you until you spot him out of the corner of your eye. Clutching your purse close to your chest you try to suppress how giddy you are then the panic sets in. A date? Looking like this? Unlocking the door, you throw your purse into the backseat, “I should probably go home and change into something cuter.” “Cuter?” Mingi asks, holding the door open for you, “You’re cute enough. Plus, you don’t have to impress me anymore. We’re married, remember?”

[followmybadreligion]

"Je te laisserai des mot"

a valentine’s day date with your sweet, sweet boyfriend.

“Hyunjin, come here.” You called as you dusted your hands free of the white, cakey flour that’d made a thin coat over them. Your voice bounced off the tall walls of your apartment and played back in your head like a loud, jarring record that disturbed the once quiet, peaceful atmosphere, and you immediately regret not just going to get him. 

In front of you sat a large bowl of chocolate chip cookie dough, which you’d spent the better half of the morning preparing– from scratch. On the side of that lay two pink, heart-shaped baking trays, one for you and one for him. You’d already coated them in butter (The only non-stick agent you had) and sprinkled a thin layer of brown sugar across them, and now all that was left for you to do was preheat the oven.

“Three seventy-five,” you whispered to yourself, spinning away from your work to assess the settings on your oven. It was brand new, much like the rest of the place, but the controls were easy enough to work with the typical dials traded for a sleek screen. You tapped it once and waited for it to illuminate before pressing the “Bake” option promoted on its right side and setting it properly. 

A small smile spread across your lips as you looked at the cute, white fixture nestled among brown cabinets with tops of beige wood. Its once-dark interior lit up with an orange hue, courtesy of the heating panel built into the bottom, and you could just barely feel the heat begin to radiate from it. Just a few minutes before you’d be able to get your treats in there and baking— that was if Hyun were to hurry. 

You moved over a few feet to an empty counter space, lifting yourself onto it and crossing your legs over one another as you waited. The wood was warm underneath your exposed thighs, pressing into you firmly enough to leave marks for sure. You giggled as you thought of his reaction to seeing you like this. More than likely, he’d be a little surprised at the sight— you, in his Dear Daniel tee, your panties and socks, and virtually nothing else, lightly dusted with flour and sugar— it’d be a trip for sure. But knowing him, he’d love it. He always loved seeing you in his clothes, and he loved seeing you work on your hobbies even more. 

From your spot on the counter, you had the perfect view from one of the living room windows to the incoming sunrise. The sky swirled with beautiful shades of orange and pink, contrasted with the masses of gray and yellow underneath it. Skyscrapers, hoards of cars, lively apartment units— all of it did little to dull the beauty of the new day, and you took a few minutes to bask in it. 

You could faintly make out the sound of beeping, rushing cars, even from how high up your flat was, but somehow that only added to the ambiance— warmth enveloping you at all sides, a show of such pretty colors, and the sound of what felt the most like home— Seoul. 

But oh, this moment would be so much better with your boy. 

You sighed deeply, realizing it’d been a good few minutes since you’d called his name and he still hadn’t answered. You turned towards the oven again, catching sight of the pink, square-shaped clock resting above it on the spice rack. It read 6:34, which was no surprise to you with the sunrise and all. What was a surprise, however, was that Hyunjin still wasn’t up. Normally, he’d already be at the window with his sketch pad, drawing whatever subject had come to mind (It was almost always you) while he sipped away on his coffee or tea of the morning. 

You pushed yourself to the edge of the counter, allowing yourself to slide over the edge and onto your feet before you took off towards the stairs of your loft. The railing– a black, thin fixture– was crisp and loud under your touch, prompting you to let go of it as you climbed the remainder of the stairs. You wanted to wake him as softly and sweetly as possible, especially today. 

A soft smile adorned your lips as you approached your bedroom, eyes locking on the adorable sight that was your boyfriend. He was sprawled out over the bed, arms clutching your pillow to his chest in his sleep. His face rested on your other one, buried under a mess of long, dark hair, but from what you could make out— his pink, swollen lips and red, flushed cheeks— he was sleeping peacefully. Several large windows fixed across the space poured in more of that golden hue, making him seem even more angelic than he was, and for a moment, you just wished you could draw as well as him. 

“Honey,” you called, this time a lot softer as you approached his resting figure. He hummed softly in response, but his eyes still didn’t open. 

Crawling into bed next to him, you grabbed the pillow he clung to and pulled it away to catch his attention. He whined at your antics, stirring more as he reached for something else to hold. 

“You gotta wake up now.” You said through a smile of pure admiration. He looked so cute to you like this, and there was little you could do to stop your hands from coming up and fanning through his pretty locks. You started at the front, lightly combing away the strands that obscured his pretty face— a face sculpted by some Greek god whom you’d thank every day for the rest of your life. Then, you brought your hands back to gently fluff up the rest of his mane, giggling at how he whined more under your touch. 

“I have a surprise for you.”

He blew out a deep breath, eyes clamping shut for a few seconds as he struggled to wake up fully. After a few more moments of silence, his eyes opened in a squint, dark brown irises magnified by light tears. He didn’t speak and opened his mouth in a wide “O” shape, letting out a soft yawn that only made your heart grow softer.

“What surprise?” he whispered, hands coming up to wipe the sleep out of his face. 

“You’ll have to come with me to see.” You whispered back, beginning to raise yourself from the bed. 

His touch against your thigh immediately halted your actions, the warm sensation sending a small jolt of electricity up your body. It was jarring— the feeling of his hand squeezing into you— but it was also incredibly welcomed, and you immediately allowed yourself to sink back into the plush surface beneath you. 

“Wait,” his voice was soft but raspy, still stale from the lack of use overnight, “Will you lay here with me for a few more seconds, please?” 

“Baby, I-” but before you could finish your sentence, he was pulling you into his bare, broad chest and laying back down with you. 

“Just a few more minutes.” 

-

You weren’t sure how long you spent nestled in Hyunjin’s arms before you realized you’d still had that oven on. While the boy rested peacefully above you, you slid out of his grasp as swiftly as possible, as you knew he’d only pull you back if he were to wake. 

Then, you were back downstairs, without your boy, right at square one. 

You sighed as you glanced around at the setting you’d created for the two of you: mugs of hot chocolate (That’d long gone cold) with heart-shaped marshmallows floating in it, festive cookware, pink and white candles, your Polaroid loaded with red and white film; a cute baking date for the two of you to bring in Valentine’s day, and yet you couldn’t get him down here. 

Sunrise had long since passed, and now, a pale, white light poured into your kitchen, adding a lighter feel to the scene you’d set. It still looked just as pretty to you, even though you hadn’t envisioned it like this, and you were itching for Hyunjin to see it as well. 

You racked your brain for what to do, contemplating going up and trying to get him a second time before your eyes ghosted over the light pink vinyl player you’d set up when you were decorating. You immediately walked over to it, looking through the few records you sat out. Most were by Lana Del Rey, a guilty pleasure of Hyunjin’s, though he never seemed too guilty. The only one that was different was one with a brown and beige cover, depicting a man and woman who you could only assume were from the Victorian age. The man was on his knees, facing away from an unknown woman who used his capped head as an armrest or a leaning post. The image of the two was encased by dark, interlinking tiles, snaking from one end of the vinyl to the other, leaving a space at the bottom where you’d penned in a simple titled: “Je te laisserai des mot.” 

After lifting the needle, you slid the vinyl from its casing and delicately placed it on the player, taking a second to wipe away any dust that’d settled on it. Then, you dropped the needle to its proper position, lifted the volume slider to its maximum setting, and pressed play. 

The melodic humming of a man filled your mind immediately, accompanied by the few keys of a piano. The feeling fluttering through your heart was hard to explain; it was lovely, like a mix of bliss and happiness that possessed you as you melted into the chords, but there was also a sense of pain and longing etched into it.  

Your eyes clamped shut as the song forged on, his humming growing quiet as a symphony of strings and piano overtook him. When you first saw the record, you thought that perhaps you’d left it out by mistake. You’d always found it to be a particularly romantic song, and it did remind you of Hyun, but part of you felt as if it were too sad to play at a moment like this. However, now you could see why you’d chosen to leave it out. 

When you listened to it, moments that you and he had shared flashed through your mind like pretty scenes from a movie: driving in the rain with your hands intertwined, slow dancing in the living room as the city lights shined on you, staring at each other until you both got shy and laughed the feeling away: all those beautiful things that the two of you had done moving by like a montage. But you didn’t want the moment you two were about to share to be a part of that; you wanted it to be the scene itself. 

Just as the symphony faded and the man’s voice bled back in, you began to hear shuffling from upstairs, which snapped you from your sudden idleness. 

You turned to the two mugs of cocoa and put them into the microwave to heat for a few minutes, excitement coursing through you. 

The song continued to lull in the background, the man’s words echoing through your head. 

Je te laisserai des mot 

“I will leave you with notes,” you translated out in your head. You didn’t speak French, no, but you’d listened to the song so often that you made it a point to look up translations of the lyrics, and you now knew just about everything he sang by heart. 

En-dessous de ta porte 

“Underneath your door.”

En-dessous de les murs qui chantent 

“Underneath the singing walls.” 

You began to sing along with the lyrics lowly, admiring the way your voice seemed to blend in with the silkiness of the singers. At the same time, you could hear how Hyunjin shuffled out of bed, taking a few seconds before he walked towards the stairs. He paused at the top of the case for a few beats, almost as if to get a better listen, before hurriedly skipping down them two steps at a time. 

You looked his way, smile gleaming as you took note of his disheveled state. Despite your smoothing earlier, his hair was back to being a mess, some of it making a curtain over his eyes while the rest swooped and curled about. He still wasn’t wearing a shirt, and the several love bites you’d given him the night before were very visible, making your cheeks heat a bit. The most amusing part of it all, though, was the boy’s face. Even with his tired appearance, his eyes were wide with shock and excitement, and his lips formed a small circle as he analyzed the kitchen for himself. 

“You did all of this, baby?” He finally quipped after a few seconds of staring. You couldn’t suppress your giggle as you moved to stop the microwave, gently grabbing the handles of the mugs and placing them on the counter. 

“Of course I did.” You replied, walking towards him. “Happy Valentine’s Day, my boy.” 

A soft smile spread across his face at your words, and he began to walk towards you, meeting you in the middle and wrapping you up in his arms without a second thought. You could feel how fast his heart was beating against you, the beat so clear with your head against his chest. Even after dating for so long, being that close to you never failed to make him nervous. 

“I love you.” He whispered, breaking the brief silence that’d settled between you. His hands squeezed your waist tighter at his statement, and you could feel how bated his breath was as the words left his mouth– almost like he was scared. 

You paused for a second, giving yourself the time to pour over his words. He’d told you that so many times. So, so many times, yet it caught you by surprise each one. 

You pulled back for a second and ran your hands down from his neck to his bare chest, allowing them to rest there as you looked up at him.

The song still hummed in the background, a soft, melodic humming drifting through the air as the two of you gazed upon each other. You fought against yourself, wanting nothing more but to press your lips against his and pour as much of your love into as him could, but you knew that you couldn’t. He knew what it felt like. He needed to hear it now. 

“Hyunjin,” you started, watching as his eyes widened a bit as he became more eager to hear what you’d say, “there aren’t words strong enough to describe the way I feel about you.” 

“I mean…I need you.” You continued, tilting your head slightly as you moved your hands up to play in his hair. His eyes blinked closed a few times at the sensation of your fingers against his scalp, causing you to giggle a bit, before he diverted his attention back towards you. 

“I adore you.” A blissful smile crossed his face at that, eyes crinkling at the sides. 

You inched your face closer to his, standing up on your tippy toes in an effort to level with him more. 

“I love you, baby.” You finally whispered, voice as smooth as honey. “I love you so much.” 

And with that, your lips were against his. 

-

“What’d you write on yours?” You questioned, looking over only for him to shield his pan with his arm. 

“Not yet!” He exclaimed, lowering his face closer to his work as he moved the piping bag along as slowly and carefully as he could. 

“Hyunjin…” you whined, tapping his arm slightly to his panic. You’d long been done with decorating and were now standing off to the side, sipping on your second mug of hot cocoa of the morning. 

You knew how particular Hyun was when it came to his art, and it was always something that you admired, but it was killing you that he was being so secretive, especially because you hadn’t expected him to take it that seriously. It was food coloring and frosting after all. Not oil canvases and watercolors. What was taking him so long? 

You shifted away for a second towards the record player again, noticing how Lana’s dreamy voice had faded out and the record was starting from the beginning once again. You flicked the pause button and lifted the needle, bringing your finger down onto the vinyl and letting it scape against its surface as it came to a stop. 

“Do me a favor, please.” Hyunjin pipped up. 

You paused, looking back at him as you waited for him to continue.

“Play our song.” This time he looked back, piping bag in hand as he met your gaze. 

You threw him a soft smile before you turned back, putting the first vinyl away and grabbing the all-too-familiar beige cover. 

For the fourth time that morning, you loaded it onto the player and began to play it, humming softly as you did so. Hyunjin joined in, voice softer than yours, but still there. He always did that when you sang– joined in with you, softly enough to hear you, but loud enough to let you know he was there. 

Just as the man’s voice began to fade in, Hyunjin broke away from the song, and whispered a simple, “Come here, baby.” 

You did as he asked, sitting your mug down on the counter in front of you and turning to approach him. You rested your head against his shoulder, one arm draping across his shoulder as you peered down at the pink, heart-shaped pan that rested right next to yours. 

In his, lay a heart-shaped cookie cake, covered from top to bottom in light brown frosting. It was perfectly smooth, not a single dip or line in its foundation, and you just knew that Hyunjin had gone over it time and time again to make sure of that. Around the edges of the cookie were white, interwebbing vines that crawled up the sides and stopped just shy of the upper edge. The most captivating part, however, was the top that was particularly bare, away from thirteen, white cursive words. 

“I will always leave you notes if you will always pick them up.”

Je te laisserai des mot.

A/N: Hey y'all! This was meant to come out on Valentine's Day (I'm a day late and a dollar short, I know🥲) but I've been swamped and had to push it back. Still, I hope you guys enjoy having a late V-day with this sweet boy. Thanks for reading! -M'k <3

[ofallthingsnasty]

after hours

Pairing: Dog!Hybrid x F!Reader Tags:  teratophilia, smut, slice of life, established relationship, knotting, creampie, slight domination loss, (unexpected) piss marking, smidge of possessive behavior, reader wears glasses, minors dni Word count: 2.7k Summary: Your hybrid knows how to make your evenings better, although he can get a little overeager sometimes.

Note: This was an attempt at writing a simple pwp in a short-ish amount of time. I managed to do just that and am really happy with that! It might not be the most polished, but it was still fun. I hope you enjoy and requests are open!

Coming home after a long day of work tastes sweet. There is nothing like slipping off your fancy shoes to feel the floor through the fabric of your socks with aching feet, nothing like turning on all the cozy lights in your apartment and taking a hot shower to wash away the sweat and dust of the day. It’s the thought that makes the way home bearable, that makes you hurry to catch the earliest train home, even. You rarely - if ever, really - come home without being utterly exhausted from fluorescent lights and endless phone calls, craving the comfort of your own home. But by far the sweetest of it all is the welcome your hybrid gives you every single day. Mind stretched thin like gossamer and eyes prickling with exhaustion, you heave yourself up the very last flight of stairs to your apartment, eager to spend the rest of the night on your couch, enjoying a home-cooked meal and the company of your handsome puppy. It’s all you crave at the moment.

Finally reaching your apartment, your key barely turns in the lock before the door flies open already and you almost fall into a pair of strong arms. “You’re home!”, Hunter bellows and swarms around you, busy hands plucking at your lunch bag and your coat, happy to help to get you into your shared home. He stands tall above you, shaggy hair (god, does he need a new haircut already?) disheveled and tail wagging itself into a frenzy. You watch it go left to right and left again, disappearing for a fraction of a section behind his back until it pops up on the other side, white-tipped and bushy. He isn’t the most delicate - your keys land on the floor with a distinct ‘clink’ as he almost rips the sleeve of your coat over your dominant hand, his thick fingers come on a little too strong while he peels you out of your scarf, leaving your blouse ruffled and almost knocking your glasses off your nose. He’s overexcited, as always - but behind his clumsy, rushed movements lies love and the desire to spend as much time as possible with you. He is your first and only hybrid - adopted after being given up due to the cost of his care by his previous owners. He can be needy at times, but he’s always sweet - you couldn’t have asked for anyone better. Cooking, cleaning, companionship - he offers all you’ve ever needed in exchange for a loving home and your heart. Hunter is the biggest, most adorable goof and you love him with every fiber of your being. “Did you have a good day at work? Got much done?”, he blabbers while hanging up your coat and plucking the keys off the floor, tail still showing his excitement. “Did you check out that bakery you wanted to go to for lunch?” You smile at his antics, at the way the words gush out of him while he busies himself with puttering about. “Today was good, I think”, you grin, fumbling to keep the lunch bag he is trying to take from you. “I even got you something!” His movements immediately stop and his ears perk up in wonder, dark eyes sparkling. 

“Really? What is it?” Pulling a wrinkled little paper bag from the cotton, you swing it around, soaking in the joy that emanates from him. “Something for dessert.” The hug you’re promptly tackled into squeezes the air from your lungs. Swaying under his massive weight, you laugh, the exhaustion of the day swept away with the gesture. “Thank you, thank you, thank you-”, he starts but the rest of his gratitude gets swallowed up by kisses pressed to your cheek. You let him hold you for a bit, savoring the feeling of his warm body against yours, his comforting scent. There is nothing purer than watching him get so pumped over something so small, how the littlest things amaze and charm him. You’re truly lucky to have him in your life, to be able to come home to him every single night. At this point you can’t quite remember what it was like without him - and you don’t wish to.

He only pulls away after you nudge him a little, promptly going back to busying himself with getting you settled, even whines when you don’t let him untie your shoes but goes back to his busy contentment when you scratch him behind his floppy ears, a smile on your face. “I can do that myself, puppy”, you say. And you do just that. With your feet in cozy slippers and your tired arms two bags lighter, you stretch and put your nose up into the air as a rich scent wafts into the hallway, hearty and warm. You inhale deeply, stomach growling in anticipation. “What are you cooking, puppy?” His whole face lights up at the acknowledgement and he beams at you. “Lasagna. After your recipe.” “Oh, wow. You spoil me. When’s dinner?” You swear he couldn’t look happier than he does right now, though his brows furrow just a second later. He clears his throat and his ears flatten with nervousness, the change almost jarring. You only shoot him a questioning look - clumsy as he is, he often breaks things around the apartment. And as docile as he is, he usually thinks you’ll be awfully mad at him, resulting in him beating around the bush until you grow impatient. “Can we- first, can we-”, he starts, voice almost whiny. Whatever he has planned on saying - he doesn’t finish it, instead interrupts himself with a desperate whimper and presses your hand to his crotch with big, pleading eyes. “Oh–”, you gasp softly at the rough feeling of taut jeans under your fingertips. He’s unmistakably hard through the fabric.

You can’t say you’re surprised at this outcome, either. It’s an almost daily occurrence with him, at this point - whether it’s because his libido is just that high or it’s his way of showing you how much he loves you and you him, most days end with you sore from his knot.

“Hunter!”, you laugh out in fake offense, his name on your tongue making him shudder. “Please, please, can we?”, he stutters out, cheeks slowly turning red under your cryptic smile.

You had been aware of hybrids and their particular needs when you first brought Hunter home - for some people, it was the main reason to get them, even - but you didn’t expect him to be that needy. Not that you mind - but never in a million years had you thought you’d be the type to go to work with bite marks and still leaking his cum from last night, barely able to sit. There is no shame in it, of course. You pride yourself in being a good caretaker. He takes your silence as an agreement and pulls you close, eyes already glassy with need. “I’m still sweaty from work- oh-”, you protest - or at least try to, as he’s already fiddling with the buttons on your outfit. “Don’t mind”, he mumbles and then bends down to bury his face in your neck to demonstrate just how much he doesn’t. “You smell better like this anyway” As if to prove himself to you, he sniffs your skin just below your jaw and the sudden flow of air tickles so much it makes the hair on your arms stand up. Humming against your neck, he begins to bite and tease your pulse point until you shiver under his ministrations, your very last bit of resolve melting away. Still, the faint smell of your dinner tickles at the back of your mind. “What about dinner? Isn’t it still in the oven?”, you breathe out. Your hybrid’s needs or not, you aren’t keen on burning your apartment down in a fit of carelessness. “No”, he hums into your skin, then licks it, his tongue rough and hard, pushing itself right into you. “Haven’t put it in yet.” You can’t help but chuckle at that - beneath the facade of a loyal, clumsy hybrid hides a little schemer. “Alright, alright.”

Now with your agreement he’s desperate to strip you down, almost rips the buttons off your shirt until gently push his hands away and open it yourself. The moment your bra is revealed to him he groans and grabs your breasts, kneading them through the fabric. You have no doubts that he’d fuck you right here on the floor until your knees ached if you were to let him, especially as his nipping at your neck turns into biting, teeth sharp enough to sting. When he starts to pull at your pants, you intervene. “C’mon, let’s get on the sofa at least, puppy”, you say, a sentence you’ve used more than two dozen times by now - it’s not your preferred spot by any means, but too many days has he gotten too excited and fucked you on the rug in the hallway, much to the chagrin of your knees.

He whines with impatience but is easily placated with a peck to his cheek and you pull him to the living room. You can barely let go of his hand and reach for a blanket - he all but pummels you onto the couch, back hitting the cushions with a dull thud.

“Puppy-!”, you gasp, a clear warning. “Careful.” Hunter nods eagerly but his gaze is still stupefied, his mind clearly somewhere else.

Grabbing you by your hips, he flips you over as if you weigh nothing, fingers threading themselves into the soft fat of your belly. You land, face down, in soft cotton.

Another shocked puppy, no! spills from your lips as your head gets pressed into the decorative pillows, your plastic flames creaking in protest under the pressure. “My glasses!” And this time, he listens. He’s off you in a second and you turn to your left, world now slightly smudged.

“Sorry, sorry”, he whines behind you, genuinely apologetic. “Forgot about them- ” Reaching for the frames, you pluck them off your nose and blindly throw them on the coffee table, a task severely hindered by the dozens of little kisses and licks he’s peppering all over your back as an apology, his touch almost tickling you.

To his credit, he waits for your nod to continue, his eyes sparkling when you smile at him over your shoulder. He eagerly goes back to making quick work of your pants, tearing them off your legs in a matter of seconds. One final snap and the elastic of your panties is pulled down to your knees, your cunt finally exposed to him. Hunter does little to prepare you - too desperate to fuck you, he just spreads you with both hands and licks one rough stripe over your pussy, whining when the sensation makes you tremble. The rustle of fabric is your only indicator for what is about to come: he hastily shoves his own pants down and rubs his cock against you in all of its entirety, slipping between your lips and making you tense with anticipation. Your cunt aches for him, just as much as it did the first time - and his desire and love for you makes quick of your arousal, as always. You both moan as when he finally enters you, the feeling unlike anything else. He reaches deep in this position and although not over average length, he’s so thick you almost feel impaled. Wasting no time, he immediately sets a pace so fast that it leaves you drooling. It’s uncoordinated and a little clumsy - his grip on your hips loosens and slips and he switches over to supporting himself on the couch instead, with his stomach touching your back. The feeling of his warm, sweaty skin on yours, his teeth in your shoulder and groans in your ear is enough to make you forget about the world around you. He almost moves you off the couch with the power of his thrusts, sheer instinct taking over. You’re only able to brace yourself against the impact by burrowing your face into the soft material, wailing just as loud as he does every time he slams into you. He’s eager like this, eager as always. Relentlessly chasing his own relief, he works you well  - his cock moving in and out of you feels like some kind of sweet, almost stinging pain. The sensation builds with every push, with every nibble of his teeth on the delicate skin of your shoulder. You let yourself fall into it for a good while, nothing on your mind aside from the way your bodies connect with each other, how he fucks you silly. It doesn’t take him long to swell inside of you - as impatient as he is outside of the bedroom, he is in bed, after all - and his anatomy betrays him. “Careful with the knot”, you groan, trying to lower yourself onto the couch again. You’re all too familiar with it and know how to make it tolerable at this point.

He listens, even if only half-heartedly, and obediently follows your hips with his, trying to maintain his speed all the while. Not a heartbeat later Hunter moans and pushes himself as far as possible into you, reaching his peak with bared teeth and a growl. Shooting his load deep into you, the feeling of him filling you is enough to push you over the edge as well. You pant and gasp while he lets out an almost high-pitched moan in response, happy to have you fucked stupid on his cock. “I need to- I need to-”, he whines while his knot inflates - it stretches you beyond your capacity and you hiss in discomfort. The burn is almost unbearable but you breathe through it, wait until the pain turns into pleasure. “What do you need? Use your words-”, you can barely press the command out, too focused on the feeling of being unnaturally full of him. It comes out harsher than expected, but he doesn’t seem to mind, gasping at your guttural voice. “Please, I- I need to mark you-”, he grunts, running a sweaty hand over your back. “Need to show everyone that you’re mine.” Before you can ask him to elaborate, he chokes behind you as if overcome with something, then his muscles go slack. It’s hot and wet as it fills you - you can’t help the way your cunt flutters around his knot at the feeling. Still high on your own orgasm, the sensation is unlike anything you’ve ever felt - but even through your hazy mind you realize that he isn’t cumming a second time - he’s pissing inside of you. “Puppy, no!”, you cry out, genuinely shocked but too tired to scramble away from him - not that it would help you, knotted as you are. He ignores your words, simply continuing to relieve himself, his full weight on top of you.

You can only take it - and the initial surprise melts into a little sting of humiliation, a sudden realization that even though you are the one in charge he can easily hold you down and have his way with you. It’s weirdly intoxicating, to feel so powerless, so small when you should be anything but. He might not have done it to dominate you, but that’s what he’s doing with this gesture and your legs are trembling with another wave of sheer arousal - even as he stops pissing inside of you, you can’t help yourself from moaning at the feeling of liquid in you, the knowledge that he just did as he pleased. You stay intertwined like this for several more minutes, you basking in the afterglow of your orgasm and the embarrassing revelation and Hunter in utter bliss, instincts finally satisfied. His knot goes down with time and, just many times before, you wiggle beneath him, signaling for him to get off you. He complies. The sound is downright unholy as he pulls out, the splat of fluids on your sofa enough to make you cringe, the fabric now undeniably ruined. Hunter only shoots you an embarrassed smile over your shoulder and you frown, already calculating the ensuing costs of getting the stain out in your head. “Bad boy!”

[vivalas-vega]

mistletoe / jake 'hangman' seresin x reader

hey hi hello !!! if you couldn't tell by my previous post, it's my favorite time of the year... which means fics to go along with it! this is just the beginning, from now until new years my fics are going to be very centered on the holiday season so if you have any requests pls send them my way! this one is very short, but sweet and fluffy to kick things off :)

mistletoe / jake 'hangman' seresin x reader

add yourself to my taglist

word count: 1.3k

warnings: none really, slight suggestiveness at the end

Frank Sinatra was crooning from the record player on the console to your left… perched next to it was a still-steaming mug of hot chocolate done up a mile high with whipped cream and a cinnamon stick barely poking out of the top. There was glitter from the ornaments dusting the floor and unbeknownst to you, a rogue piece of tinsel woven into your hair as you perfectly placed each bauble on the tree before you. You were so lost in your own Christmassy world humming along to Let It Snow and narrowing your eyes at your work to make sure it was just right that you didn’t even hear the front door open and close, or hear Jake chuckling at you as he snuck up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist.

“I think it’s a little too early for this, darlin’, the Halloween decorations have barely been put away,” he said into your ear as you squeaked in surprise, squirming in his grasp to turn around and hit his chest.

“I know your mama taught you it’s rude to sneak up on people,” you chastised and he just smirked down at you. “Besides, it’s never too early for a bit of Christmas joy.”

“Far be it from me to rob you of your joy,” he said, backing away and holding his hands up in surrender as he looked over the place. You’d had the day off while he was gone at work and you really didn’t waste a second of it. The tree was nearly done, all of the pillows and blankets on the couch had been swapped out for more festive options, and garland was strewn across the mantle. He was always in awe of you and your ability to bring magic to any space… when he’d arrived home from work at the end of August he’d actually been startled by a rather gruesome statue greeting him on the front porch and the fake spiderwebs he’d managed to walk through… you hadn’t accounted for his height when putting it up, only yours. Even throughout the normal periods of the year your home exuded warmth and a little something special that was just you.

“It’s perfect timing, really… I need your help with something,” you said and he looked at you expectantly, eager to oblige whatever request you had for him. He watched as you ruffled through the various shopping bags, and he decided it was probably for the best that he just not look at the bank statements this month, before you produced several bundles of glittery snowflakes and thrust them in his direction. “I wanted to hang these from the ceiling, I thought it might be pretty.”

“I think it will be wonderful, sweetheart,” he said, setting them aside for a moment as he looked you over properly. You were wearing a red slip dress adorned with lace complete with fuzzy reindeer socks on your feet that were in stark contrast to the silk clinging to your body but somehow they made you look all the more sexy to him as he settled his hands on his waist and pulled you in, leaning down to press a kiss to your lips but you leaned back and put a finger on his lips to stop him, giggling at the look of confusion that passed over his features.

“Excuse me, sir… I don’t see any mistletoe, do you?” you asked, looking above you and he let out a sigh at your antics. “I’m a lady and I can’t go around kissing just anybody. There are rules, you know.” 

“I didn’t realize I was just anybody, darlin,” he replied, digging his fingers into your hips and pulling you flush against him but you weren’t having it, you wiggled free from his grasp and turned your back on him, returning to draping tinsel along the branches of the tree and trying to suppress your giggles.

“Find the mistletoe and you’ll get your kiss,” was all you said and he muttered something under his breath that you didn’t quite catch as he began stringing the snowflakes up, taking great care to space them evenly and hang them at varying heights… something he knew to be sure to do after the great debacle of Halloween when he didn’t hang the bats to your standards. He watched you out of the corner of his eye… still humming along to the Christmas record you’d inherited from your mom as you stepped back to admire your work. It really was beautiful, and he wasn’t just biased because you had done it. You had managed to keep it nostalgic without looking tacky, modern without lacking warmth and he couldn’t help but smile at the satisfied look on your face.

You stood on your tiptoes, struggling to reach the top and place the star atop the tree and Jake chuckled as he quickly reached your side and took over for you, fiddling with it until it was straight and you leaned into him as you admired your handiwork, “I’ve always loved Christmas but ever since you came along I can’t seem to get enough of it.” you said, recalling the first Christmas you’d spent together on his family’s farm. You’d been welcomed with such open arms, and experienced a true small-town holiday season for the first time in your life and it solidified that this was without a doubt your favorite time of year.

“I was just thinking the same thing, sweetheart,” he replied, pressing a kiss to your temple before you moved to clear away all the bags and boxes, leaving behind a pristine and festive living room. You leaned against the archway leading to the kitchen, watching as he secured the last snowflake to the ceiling as you made sure to position yourself just right… legs on full display and that mischievous smirk on your face that Jake couldn’t get enough of. It was something you had picked up from him, and he always loved seeing the little ways in which you two would mirror each other. “What are you up to over there?” he asked, eyeing you suspiciously and you shrugged.

“Oh, me?” you replied, “nothing.” You truly looked irresistible to him right now… lace delicately framing the curve of your chest and the tops of your thighs, all done up in red with that sparkle in your eye as you settled all of your focus on him, walking across the room as if being pulled to you by a magnet. 

“Is there a reason you’re glued to this doorway?” he asked, resting his hands on your waist as you allowed your eyes to dart upwards, just for a moment, and that’s when he saw it… the mistletoe. “You little minx,” he teased, leaning closer and your head tilted back instinctively. You had specifically chosen the area the two of you passed through the most often to place the mistletoe and that cheekiness was one of the reasons he’d fallen so head over heels in love with you. He closed the gap and captured your lips in a dizzying kiss, tightening his grip around you when you leaned into him. You moaned softly into his mouth when he deepened the kiss but were left wanting when he pulled away suddenly.

“You know, I am a gentleman… just because there’s mistletoe that doesn’t mean I can-” he’d started, wanting to get back at you for your earlier stunt but you just rolled your eyes as you jumped up, wrapping your legs around him. You never had a second thought jumping into his arms so suddenly, you knew deep in your bones he’d never let you fall.

“Oh shut up and take me to bed,” you said and just like the snowflakes he was more than eager to oblige your request, reconnecting your lips as he maneuvered down the hallway, hands gripping your thighs as you melted into him. 

“Oh my god, Christmas threw up in here too.”

taglist: @callsignspirit @thegodessc @failuretothrivestuff @olliepig @cruelmissdior @underaveragefangirl @grxcieluvr @amatswimming @camilaricci @nolita-fairytale @dempy @pinkpantheris @aviatorobsessed @tiredqueen73 @pono-pura-vida @binnieslove @nik2blog @waklman @abaker74 @halstead-severide-fan @percysaidnever @memeorydotcom @eli2447 @dumb-fawkin-bitch @toobouquet @a-v-a123 (if your name is struck through it means I couldn't tag you - so sorry!)

[moralesmilesanhour]

Miles G Warm-Up Drabble

Summary: Just a little writing exercise that I did three days ago with Miles G based on the prompt: 'Describe your character's nighttime routine.' (or something like that) wc: 476 Enjoy!

Miles kicked off his sneakers and leaned on his bedroom door to shut it. Hands no longer clawed, he stretched his fingers out. His knuckles ached.

The boy peeled off his leather jacket and made a face at the smell of sweat that wafted beneath his nose as he did so. He made a beeline for the shower before it stuck to him for too long.

Miles looked into the mirror for the first time in several weeks.

He averted his gaze from his own eyes, for fear of seeing that people’s observations were correct (he didn’t get enough sleep, he didn’t get enough sun, he looked just like his father). Instead, he moved up to his hairline and clucked his tongue at the dandruff that dusted it. 

Right. “Wash day”, as he’d heard his classmates call it.

Calloused fingers began to impatiently unravel the ends of the two long cornrows. The clean sections that were supposed to have distinguished them were now overtaken by frizz. Miles huffed and ripped at every knot. The sooner he took the braids out, the sooner he could get away from the mirror. In a few minutes the plaits were gone, leaving in their wake a mass of greasy coils both loose and tight. The little thunder cloud he’d created floated just above his shoulders. Already exhausted, he didn’t care to section it before turning on the shower head.

Being the only other person in the house with a significant head of hair, Miles shrugged and reached for his mother’s shampoo and conditioner. He enjoyed the smell: fruity, and something a bit like dish soap. After taking great pains to scrub (more like scratch) his scalp, he grabbed the hard bar of white soap and a coarse wash rag to slough the day off of his skin; the sweat, but the gunpowder as well.

Miles carefully stepped out onto the mat and immediately put on the pair of socks that he had taken with him out of habit. He was bothered by the rough texture of the carpet beneath his bare feet. As if some invisible shot clock was counting down over his head, he pulled an old sweatshirt on, and threw on basketball shorts that he no longer had any use for. 

The cold air of the empty hallway hit him once he exited the bathroom, as well as a realization: he had absolutely no idea what to do with his hair. Miles’ inventory was little more than a durag and a hair band from his mother. To hell with it. He’d ask Rio in the morning.

Upon re-entering his bedroom, Miles haphazardly tied his hair back into a puff and somehow managed to get the durag to lay flat over it. With a sigh of relief, sleep took him before his head even hit the pillow.

[autisticlancemcclain]

Lance takes the long way there, now.

He doesn’t have to. Technically, the way their rooms are set up, he’s barely any farther from the hanger he needs to be in come battle time. From the very beginning, it was he and Keith in the left wing by Blue and Red’s hangars, Hunk and Pidge in the right by Yellow and Green, and Shiro by the royal ring with Black. Shortest distance to their lions, most prepared for battle. It would probably make sense, logistically, for some room switching to happen, or at least for Keith to take Shiro’s room, but that’s…it’s not happening.

Lance has had the castle fully mapped out since his first month in space. Pidge may have reigned queen in the vents, but it was Lance who carefully marked down every tile that when stepped on opened a stairwell, every divot in the walls that cracked open a pathway. It was Lance to walk the six hours from the highest point of the castle’s peak to the lowest pitch of its bowels and boiler rooms. It was Lance who walked the echoing servant’s passages, brushing dust from his jacket when he made it back to a regular hallway only to realise that there wasn’t any, in a castle sealed for ten thousand years, not even a cobweb. (It was Lance, too, to discover the bunker rooms and hidden staircases of the Garrison. He most certainly didn’t sneak out every other night by merit alone. And further still it was Lance to knock on the wall behind his childhood bed and realise it was hollow, and find the tiniest of little holes, right where the wallpaper met the floorboards, just barely wide enough for narrow fingers to poke through and tug. Lance has always been good at finding small, hidden places, at poking and prodding until secrets are revealed to him. Lance has always been ineffably nosy, he’s just quieter about it.)

To get to Red’s hangar, you have to pass Blue’s. That’s how the rooms are set up. Blue’s zipline reaches out first, and twenty-two steps later is Red’s. On the first day after Lance had crawled on his hands and knees to beg by the barrier between him and his Lion, on yet another mission called to them in the night, Lance had swung down into Blue’s hangar by habit, and when his feet hit the floor he choked, realising, and had barely managed to sprint back up the way before Allura questioned why the zipline wasn’t at the beginning. He’d ducked into Red’s reluctant embrace with lungs that wouldn’t fully inhale and a throat that was closing.

He knew better than to try the passages, easier as they would be.

He avoided passing Blue’s hangar entirely, now. He already felt her absence, the gaping hole of her abandonment, all the way in his room, in the bridge, in the dining hall, in space. He felt the sharpness of it awake and in sleep. He felt it when he lay under his bed, knees pressed to his chest, eyes blank and head empty. He felt it when he felt nothing else. He couldn’t escape the hollow pain of her rejection, but he most certainly couldn’t stand to walk down the same paths he used to run, beam pulling at the muscles in his cheeks, heart galloping in his chest, sparks lighting up his head. The emptiness of her and of himself lingered there, in her spaces, and Lance couldn’t face them.

He goes around.

———

Lance knows it’s stupid and torturous. But he makes his way to the training room anyway, in the dead of night, once he hears Keith’s breathing finally slow through the thin wall separating their beds. It must take him an hour just to creep out of his bed and down the hall, socked feet soundless on the cool polymer floors, breath caught in his lungs, paranoid that someone is going to pop out behind him and ask him what the hell he’s doing (as if anyone has paid him that much scrutiny and attention in his life, except maybe Iverson).

Half of his hesitance is trepidation, but he refuses to acknowledge it.

The knowledge that this is a bad idea rings in his head for the entirety of the walk, but he banishes it the second he walks through the training room doors, locking them behind him, walking brashly in and throwing open the cabinet in the farthest corner. He snatches a headset before he can talk himself out of it, forcing his hands steady as he sticks the electrodes on his temple and under his hair at the back of his neck, like Coran did all those months ago. It feels far more daunting without the brush of the advisor’s gloves on his skin to accompany them.

He’s grateful at least that the headset doesn’t make him click through his own memories, search for particular snapshots the way he might search for sad songs when he’s already upset. It’s the same premise regardless, and he knows the only thing he’s going to do is devastate himself, but at least he’ll be devastated. At least that will be something.

The first memory to play must be early space, the first few days of the Voltron mission. There’s no death in his eyes yet. They look bright and brown and sparkling, the way they do in family photos, matching his mother and brothers and sisters. He watches as he crows, whooping to no one as he pushes Blue’s throttles as fast as they will go, whipping himself around in barrel rolls. There is no audio, but he can feel the team’s yelling in his head, the shouts to stay on task, but he remembers the way he felt like he was floating, like Blue’s energy was billowing around him, carrying him throw the air. He remembers feeling like his belly had bottomed out, like he was doing exactly what he was made to do.

The memory loops, same thirty seconds on repeat again and again and again and again and again and again and again and he lets it and he doesn’t cry and he doesn’t feel pain or sadness or loneliness or anything but the same bottomed out feeling, only now he knows he’s not floating, he’s falling, and every time he hits the ground it gives out from under him and he gets lower and lower and lower.

———

He ends up in Blue’s hangar by necessity. He knows Allura’s head injury is worse than she is letting on, and he’s simply closer to her.

He doesn’t let himself think as he sprints to her. He doesn’t let himself take in his surroundings (the deep blue accents the faint smell of the ocean the pinned up drawings from kids he’s gotten over the weeks and months the blankets and pillows he kept in the corner for rough nights the gigantic bottle of nail polish he had Coran synthesize for him to paint Blue’s claws the the the the the), keeping his eyes firmly on Blue’s, telling himself he’s not looking at her but through her, to his friend, who is hurt, who needs his help. By the time he makes it to Allura, by the time he helps her out of her seat and down the ramp, Coran has already come rushing in with his armful of medical supplies, whisking her away to a pod. He hears the rest of the team talking at the other end of the zipline, waiting for them, and he wills himself to follow them, for his feet to move, for his legs to function, and they don’t, and his knees stay locked, and suddenly he is a butterfly pinned through the chest, stuck in a glass box.

One by one, starting from the outer lights and making their way to the centre of the hangar where he stands, the overhead lights flick off, plunging him into flickering darkness except for the faint blue emergency lights, and the glow of Blue’s particle barrier up between them, and the deep yellow of Blue’s headlights. His eyes begin to lose focus, with the lighting change, until he is not staring through the particular barrier but at it, at his own reflection, at the way it lines up perfectly with the Blue Lion.

His legs give out from under him.

He’s not sure he feels it when he hits the ground. He’s lucky he doesn’t hit his head, although that’s in part because he cannot tear his eyes away, as if they are tied on a string to the Blue Lion. He feels stuck, and his mouth feels glued.

“You left me,” he manages, voice smaller than it’s ever been. He doesn’t feel her prodding at his mind in response, not like he should, but unless it is wishful thinking there’s a sharpness in the air now, the stunning smell of regret and of pain.

He wants to sink into it. He wants to let it envelop him, wants to let himself feel it in full, but he can’t, he doesn’t know how to let it seep into his pores. He tried to strain his ears, his mind, anything, to hear her, hear her apologise or excuse herself or anything, even tell him straight that she is done with him.

He thinks of how his best friend has been pulling away from him for weeks, how he chased after the taxi that drove his sister to the airport when she left for school, how he used to leave a space for his father’s boots every single day by the door long after everyone else had given up, how he would duck away from the first of his mother’s kisses when she picked him up from preschool, sniffling. There is a toddler in his head, feet planted on the floor, hands clenched at his side, tears and snot screaming down his face, cheeks bright red in rage, screaming at the top of his lungs YOU LEFT ME! YOU LEFT ME BEHIND! YOU DON’T WANT ME ANYMORE! YOU LEFT ME AND I WILL NEVER EVER FORGIVE YOU! and the voice is loud and echoing and the only thing he can hear and he has heard it all his life and he has never learned how to block it out, how to make it go away, and it will never go away and never grow up.

“I hate you,” he chokes out, and the lie is bitter on its way out of his throat, and he doesn’t regret it at all.

He drags his legs upright and steady with his hands and flees.

———

pt 2

[carlyraejepsans]

The outer walls of the castle are cold and hard under your hands as you flatten yourself against them in your descent. The castle is close enough to the mouth of the cave that a chilly updraft laps at your clothes even here, underground, threatening your balance. You don't try to look down. You already know it's a nasty fall from here.

Yet as you reach the window ledge and finally haul yourself into the room to plant your feet on firm carpeted ground, two things make themselves apparent to you.

The first is that you are now in significantly more danger than you were hanging over a precipice only a moment ago.

The second is that there's a tornado in the room.

Some small part of your brain finds it funny how the two things are completely unrelated.

You were never sure what to expect, but this certainly wasn't it. Calling the room “messy” isn't just an understatement, it's an insult to its art.

Its former life as a simple, perhaps even elegant castle bedroom peaks through the layers of grime and scattered junk like the skeletals remains of a slowly digested creature. The Mediaeval styled wooden structure of the bed is undermined in effect by the cheap, bare mattress laid on top of it, and the ball of crumpled bed sheets standing proud in its centre like a king. All around the room papers, clothes (socks mostly, you spot a literal pile of them in the corner), assorted bags of snacks and colorful confetti litter the floor. Even the carpet itself is disgusting, something that becomes obvious when you take a step away from the window and the fibres stick to the soles of your shoes. Greasy like sugar coated fingers, or sweat or…

You decide to stop thinking about it.

The room is furnished, if furnished is indeed the right word, with a decrepit library covered in a good two inches of dust, a dresser, a writing desk with what looks like a week worth of clothes and a pair of sunglasses haphazardly thrown over the back of its chair, and a lit fireplace whose light doesn't quite match the flames you could glimpse from the outside, underneath the door. Pink glitter faintly dusts the floor, but that doesn't tell you anything. Glitter is everywhere in the palace. If anything, this room is abnormally clear of it. Perhaps the only thing about it that could ever be described as “clear”.

And, right in the middle of it all, a treadmill.

You're not sure if it's more or less surprising than the tornado.

You take a deep breath and focus. You came here for a reason, after all.

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