#fire line burner

[cclust]

Transitional Pool An illustration of a large transitional backyard fountain with a unique shape

[haciapla]

Dallas Fountain An illustration of a sizable transitional backyard fountain with a specially shaped infinity pool

[amanibailey]

Infinity - Transitional Pool Inspiration for a sizable transitional backyard renovation involving a specially shaped infinity pool fountain

[crybleat]

Infinity Pool (Dallas)

[heich0e]

iwaizumi got a lower back tattoo on his 21st birthday.

if you showed one hundred people in the street a photo of 30-year-old hajime, and then surveyed them as to whether or not they think he has a lower back tattoo, it's unlikely more than one of them would say yes—and even the one who did probably just misheard the question. it's as unbelievable a thought as any, and still somehow it's true.

he was 21, legally drunk for the first time in america, and hanamaki and matsukawa had finally come to california to visit him to mark the occasion. it was kind of a stupid trip, they realized afterwards, because issei and hiro were still only 20 and couldn't even go out to the bars near UC irvine that all of iwa's college friends were inviting him out to for the first time.

but he didn't mind.

he bought them beer and sugary canned cocktails from the convenience store near campus using the birthday money his nanay sent him, silently repenting in his mind as the store clerk in the polyester vest rang the expensive purchase through. then they all got drunk in iwa's tiny student apartment while they played video games, called oikawa, and eventually wandered out into the warm california night in search of food.

the details beyond that are fuzzy, but the lines inked into the little space at the bottom of hajime's spine are not—even after nine whole years.

most people have no idea about the tattoo—and hajime has gone to great lengths to keep it that way. he wears a compression t-shirt at the gym so there's no risk of it riding up and accidentally revealing it. he orders patches to conceal it on the rare occasion he goes to onsens. he never showers with the athletes at work, always either opting to shower at home, shower after the team, or use the staff facilities when available.

but in spite of all of that, he's not embarrassed of it.

he doesn't even really regret it.

it's just not anybody else's business.

the ink on his skin is a secret kept between him, matsukawa, hanamaki, the guy who tattooed him, and oikawa who was screaming on facetime in the background while it happened.

and now you, too.

your hand snakes up the back of hajime's sweatshirt as he stands at the stove preparing breakfast, cool fingertips tracing the curls of ink even without seeing them—having long mapped them to memory. hajime suppresses a shiver, not expecting the contact, as you crowd yourself closer to his back and lean your weight against him.

"i was trying not to wake you," he says quietly, the hand not holding the chopsticks he's flipping his omelette with reaching behind him in search of you.

"you didn't," you murmur into his back, catching his seeking hand in yours and twining your fingers together. "smelled food."

hajime laughs to himself, his eyes crinkling. he squeezes your fingers tightly as his heart thuds in his chest.

underneath his sweatshirt, your nails rake lightly against his skin.

"shouldn't i be making your breakfast?"

hajime transfers his omelette to the plate waiting beside the stove, flicking off the burner and then turning to face you. he wraps his arms around you and holds you properly now, your face burrowing into the collar of his hoodie the way you always do, his nose brushing your temple.

"wanted to let you sleep a bit longer," hajime grunts out, his cheeks burning a bit hot—still shy, sometimes, even after so much time has passed. "thought you might be tired after..."

you snort, your head popping up to look at him. "after you fucked me within an inch of my life into the wee hours of the morning?"

the fire burning under hajime's skin grows even hotter. he splutters a little, and struggles to meet your gaze.

"i'm not tired," you whisper, a mischievous smile tugging at your lips. the incorrigible one he fell in love with. "we were celebrating, after all."

hajime's eyes are burning a little bit, to complement the stinging in his cheeks. you lift your hand up to his face so you can feel the heat of his skin, and he rests his own hand—larger, more calloused than your own—to rest overtop of it. he looks at you, and sees happiness reflected back at him in your gaze. so fathomless he thinks he could drown in it.

hajime turns his face into your touch, and his eyes flutter closed as he noses against your palm.

he presses a kiss there. soft. adoring.

then another, just slightly higher, to the ring he put on your finger the night before.

he peeks at you again, that same heat in his cheeks, though not nearly as unbearable.

he's got another secret he doesn't regret now, one just as permanent as the ink in his skin, but this one won't stay hidden long. eventually he'll call his parents, and his nanay will probably get teary. then he'll tell his friends, who will put his mother's tears to shame. he'll leave the tattoo artist out of it this time, though—wherever that guy is now.

"happy birthday, hajime," you whisper to him with a smile he can't help but return.

he might keep this secret between the two of you today, though. just for a little while longer.

it'll be his gift to himself.

[rebelfell]

linecook!eddie x reader

cw: cigarette smoking/shotgun. IRL 🤢 In fic? 🫠

I saw one photo and now this exists…enjoy 😏 I told y’all to stop me and everything, but no one did. Tsk, tsk.

As if it wasn't hard enough working the late shift alone with your crush, he seemed to be going out of his way to push the limits of your self-control.

With his long curls twisted up in a bun, scraped off the back of his neck that was slick with sweat after the dinner rush, he pulled a cigarette from the pack in his apron pocket with his teeth.

His lips pursed to hold his smoke in place, brow knit in concentration, he hunched low over the gas range and craned his neck sideways. The bright orange flame of the burner flickered, mimicking the flicker of excitement in you.

He puffed a few times as the flames licked the end until it glowed and clouds of smoke obscured his features. Soft during this rare stretch of quiet where they were normally steely and rigid during service, his fists clenched as tight as his jaw and threatening to snap whatever cooking utensil he held in his hand right in half.

And while that certainly did something for you, it was much nicer seeing him like this. Looser, more at ease. More interested in shooting you flirty glances than in shouting out orders.

You sat at the end of the prep line watching his every move, side work long since abandoned. It was honestly absurd of them to expect you to roll silverware when Eddie was torturing you like this.

When he looked more delectable than anything on the menu. And likely twice as bad for you.

His head popped up suddenly, dark eyes landing on yours as he took a long drag, plucking the cig from between his lips to exhale.

"You're not gonna tell on me are you, sweet girl?" he asked, brow lifting as a sly smile curled his lips.

The pet name made your chest as hot as if you'd been stuck under the broiler, but you didn't dare let it show on your face. Much too early for that.

Besides, similar to Eddie's homemade ice cream, it would be so much sweeter if you made yourself wait just a little bit to indulge…

You shrugged your shoulders and pretended to weigh your options as you went back to rolling, making that thinking face Eddie thought might be the cutest thing he'd ever seen in his life.

“I can let it slide, I guess,” you teased him lightly.“Besides…if you get fired, who would make me my midnight pancakes?”

Eddie smirked. “Excellent point,” he hummed as he took a few slow strides towards you, bringing the cig to his lips for another drag.

With every step closer he got, you felt your heart pound twice as hard. By the time he was standing in front of you, it was liable to burst straight out of your chest cavity Alien-style.

His long fingers in a V, missing the chunky silver rings he wore any time besides during service, he pulled the cigarette from his lips and tipped his head juuuuust slightly to the side.

It’s a move you’ve come to know well, responding with a tilt of your own head the other way.

He leans in slow, letting his chest hover in front of yours so you can feel the heat still coming off his skin from where he leaned over the flames.

It’s tough (read: impossible) to keep your breath steady when he gets close to you like this—so close you can nearly taste the spices he’s been using tonight, the ones that his skin must be imbued with by now after years at this job.

And yet, when he parts his lips slightly for you to inhale his breath as he releases it, you manage to do so. The taste is actually revolting, even when taken in secondhand, but something about having Eddie’s air in your chest…

It makes it worth it.

[pellucid-constellations]

Lessons in Care

Pairing: Line Cook!Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel loves you so much. Even though you can't cook. You're trying though.

Word count: 1.3k

Warnings: A small injury

a/n: Consider this a small gift to make up for me disappearing for a month <3 This is part of the line cook au, but as I've mentioned, nothing is really in order so read however you want :) The rest of this AU can be found in my masterlist right there ⬇ love you <3

Main Masterlist ♡

~~

“Like this?” You shook the pan a little harder, the handle's weight tweaking your wrist at an odd angle. 

“Almost. Try not to hold your elbow so close to your body. It won’t flip right.” 

You pressed your lips together and narrowed your eyes. “This is so hard.” 

“I believe in you,” Azriel teased, an amused upturn of his eyes as he watched you struggle. 

“Why is this pan so heavy? It’s literally like 40 pounds.” 

“It’s cast iron, baby.” 

“That’s stupid.” 

Azriel barked out a laugh, red tinting his cheeks as if he hadn’t expected the sound to leave his lips. Your mouth quirked up in a small smile despite your struggle. You shot your gaze to the side to try and catch the sweet expression that still lingered on Azriel’s face.

“Would you like me to do it?” Azriel posed after clearing his throat. 

“Of course not. I came early so you could teach me.” 

“I could teach you another time. You have class soon.” 

“Why do you want me to fail?” 

“I don’t—” 

“You totally do. You want me unable to cook for myself so I’ll always have to rely on you, and then I’ll never be able to leave you.” 

Azriel laughed again, a quiet, rumbling sound. “You caught me. Now hand that over before you hurt yourself.” 

You groaned and turned slightly to evade your boyfriend’s reach. “Az, I’m serious. Teach me how to flip these stupid eggs right now.” 

“Okay, okay. Just let me help.” 

The feel of Azriel’s hand lightly sliding over yours startled you. You jumped and your fingers twitched, the sudden motion sending the tips of your fingers too far forward until a simmering pain shot through your skin. You flung the pan back on the burner instantly, its contents splattering along the stove and into the open flame. It burned a bright orange and then settled as you held your hand close to your chest. 

You hissed a breath through your teeth and Azriel’s hands were on you. 

“Shit, baby, let me see, yeah?” he stressed, mindlessly turning the burner off without taking his eyes off you. He tugged your hand at your chest with gentle fingers. “Let me see.” 

You released the tight grip on your fingers and rested them in Azriel’s open palm. “I was just surprised. I don’t think it’s that bad.” 

Azriel’s brow furrowed as he examined your burn. He tsked, pulling you gently by your wrist over to the sink. “It’s going to blister.” 

Cool water rushed from the pipes and soothed your skin. Azriel held your wrist in a soft grip and turned your hand slowly, back and forth in a repetitive motion. 

“I don’t think so, Az. It’s not that bad.” 

Azriel shook his head. “That pan was pretty hot—I’d be surprised if it didn’t.” He looked up at you. “I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

You offered a gentle smile and pressed a kiss to his jaw. “You didn’t scare me.” You raised your brow playfully. “You just made me nervous. A cute guy like you holding my hand—reaching over to help me to cook. Made me all jumpy.” 

Azriel breathed out a disbelieving scoff. “I’ve done far worse than just hold your hand.” 

“Scandalous!” you proclaimed, affronted. “How can you say such things at work, Azriel? You’ll be fired.” 

“I can only hope,” Azriel grumbled. 

Azriel directed you to keep your hand under the water as he dug through a cabinet for the first-aid kit despite your protests. You truly felt that you were fine and didn’t even need a bandaid, but it was easy to forget the multitude of scars that littered Azriel’s hands and how they contrasted with your completely unmarred skin. 

That was purposeful, meaningful—Azriel worked hard so you wouldn't have to. Azriel found peace in keeping you safe and happy. 

So you let him fuss. 

“Okay, let me see again, baby,” Azriel requested, flipping the water off and reaching for your hand. Your skin stung as it met the air beyond the sink, but Azriel’s caring touch was like a balm. 

He dried your fingers with a towel and uncapped a spray bottle, coating your burn with too much of the medication before grabbing a set of gauze and tape. You stared at the materials in exasperation. Azriel didn’t notice the expression and continued to admisinister care as if you’d been in a fire.

“Az, I love you so much, but I don’t need all of that. It’s a small burn. I’ve probably done worse with my curling iron.” 

Your boyfriend only hummed and continued his work. “I don’t want it to scar. It blistered already.” 

“Yes, but—” 

“Almost done.”

You let him work. A few moments of silence passed. Azriel kept his gaze hard and his brow set in a harsh line. 

That wouldn’t do. 

Once your finger was fully wrapped and protected from everything Azriel could fear, you puckered your lips in contemplation and shook your head. 

“Still hurts really bad,” you admitted, leaning back against the counter. Azriel followed your movements, leaving little space between you. 

“What?” he questioned, a tinge of panic in his tone. “That should’ve numbed it. How bad does it hurt?” 

“Really, really bad. Like my whole hand is on fire, actually.”

Azriel—who had yet to release your fingers—stared down at them in startled befuddlement. He turned them one way and then another as if that would answer his questioning gaze, and then looked back up to meet your eyes in a way that was almost pleading. 

“I’m sorry, maybe I should—”

“You have to kiss it,” you revealed, not wanting the sad expression to linger on his face any longer. “Duh.” 

Azriel let out a breath that bordered on relief, but most of it seemed founded in exasperation. He shook his head and brought your fingers up to his lips all the same, smiling to himself as he began to kiss each of your fingertips. Even the ones that clearly weren’t burnt. He flipped your hand over and kissed the knuckles, too, capturing your eyes as he glanced at you from beneath his lashes. 

“‘M sorry you got hurt,” he mumbled with his lips against the back of your hand. “Told you you shouldn’t try cooking, baby.” 

The warm feeling that had begun to seep into your chest paled in comparison to the offended scoff that echoed in the empty kitchen. Azriel’s poorly concealed, devious smile was hidden in the kisses he started pressing into your palm, and although it would have fit the sound you let out, you didn’t pull away. 

“Azriel, you are just asking for me to—” 

“The hell is going on in here?” The kitchen door smacked against the frame as Cassian made his entrance. “Someone get hurt?” 

Azriel dropped your hand just as soon as Cassian had spotted him pressed against you, clearing his throat and turning to the disheveled first-aid kit on the counter. You brought your knuckles up to your mouth to hide your laugh at Azriel’s expense, his face flushing in vulnerability. 

“Oh, I see what was going on. You were romancing your girl, weren’t you, Az? Well, don’t let me interrupt. You came in early and everything,” Cassian teased, his hands raised in surrender. 

“We were just finishing up,” you countered, a laugh trickling through. “I have to get to class, Cass. You can start your shift.” 

“Uh huh,” Cassian smiled, raising his brows and then lowering them when he caught your hand reaching for your backpack. “You okay?” 

“She’s fine,” Azriel interrupted. He took your bag from you and slung it over his shoulder, pressing a nonchalant kiss to your head that you knew was actually not nonchalant. “I’m going to take her to school. Cover for me for 20?” 

“Sure, man.” 

“Az, I was going to take the bus you don’t have to—” 

“C’mon, baby.” 

“But I don’t even have my helmet for your bike.”

“I always bring your helmet.”

[jaicey]

How about an evie x reader where evie is trying to get with reader just how she was with chad. Except reader isn’t a jerk, just clueless

Her Oblivious Charming

Evie x Charming!Fem!Reader

Summary: Where Evie tries to charm Cinderella's daughter, not knowing you're an oblivious idiot.

Words: 2.3k

WARNINGS:Oblivious!reader, Chad is your brother, Mention of bugs, not proofread and rushed ending.

A/N:Y'ALL THE EVIE REQUESTS MIGHT BE DELAYED 'CAUSE SCHOOL IS COMING UP AND I HAVE TO GET READYY, I'M SO SORRY OMG. ANYWAY, I loved writing this tysm for the request, also ty for prompt writers, they're my saving grace fr.

"Any chance she's in line for a throne?" Evie inquired, her head tilted sideways as she leaned on her knuckles, her gaze fixed dreamily on you. "Anywhere in line?" she continued, her eyes wide with fascination. You, oblivious to the conversation, were grappling with a complex science equation, your pen poised above the paper as you furrowed your brow in concentration.

Doug followed Evie's line of sight with a raised eyebrow. "Y/N, Princess Charming, Cinderella's daughter?" Evie's head snapped up, a brilliant smile lighting her face

"Y/N inherited the charm, but not a lot of there, there, know what I mean...?" Doug trailed off, gesturing vaguely. Their attention returned to you as you winced and rubbed your nose after accidentally tossing your pen in the air and catching it with your face.

"Looks like there-there to me," Evie sighed dreamily, returning her head to her knuckles. "Any chance she's single?" she asked, her voice soft and hopeful as she turned to Doug.

Doug exhaled slowly. "Despite living up to her last name, she's never had a romantic partner," he admitted, continuing to scribble on his paper. "At least, not that I know of," he added as an afterthought.

Perfect. Evie loved a challenge.

She was wrong.

You weren't single because you were guarded,commitment-phobic,

or anything like that.

The truth was far simpler: you were clueless.

No offense, but you were an absolute oblivious idiot.

She let out a frustrated sigh, collapsing onto the side of her bed. The memory of her failed flirtation attempts replayed in her mind like a painful montage.

There was that time in science class, for instance. Partners for a project, where she saw her chance.

[ The science lab was a cacophony of bubbling liquids and crackling test tubes. As you bent over a Bunsen burner, carefully heating a test tube, Evie’s voice cut through the lab’s hum.

"There's something on your face," Evie's gaze was fixed on your face, her lips curved into a subtle smirk as she hovered a hand near your cheek.

Your head snapped up, your face flushing with a mix of embarrassment and panic. "What?" you managed to squeak out.

Her lips curved into a sly smile as she started, "Beautifu-" but before she could finish, your brain had already processed the word "something" as a code red for "bug." Terror seized you, you were terrified of bugs.

"Is it a bug?! GET IT OFF, WAIT!" you shrieked, your hands flailing wildly as you tried to dislodge the imaginary insect.

Your desperate attempts to rid your face of the nonexistent bug sent your elbow crashing into a shelf of glassware. Test tubes, flasks, and beakers rained down, shattering on the unforgiving tile floor. A cloud of white smoke rose from a broken container, setting off the fire alarm.

Evie's smirk vanished, replaced by a mixture of amusement and disbelief. She glanced at Doug, who was silently contemplating the ceiling, his palm pressed dramatically against his face.

That’s how their science project ended in disaster, earning them both a failing grade and a week of detention. It was also Evie’s unfortunate discovery of your knee deep(IN THE PASSENGER SEATT) fear of bugs.]

Undeterred, she tried again.

[After enduring a week of detention and her relentless, albeit unsuccessful, flirtations, Evie finally asked you out—a walk outside that is. You interpreted it as a purely platonic gesture, of course.

Under the night sky, during a post-detention walk, she took a chance, Evie turned to you with a hopeful glint in her eye. "My hands are a bit cold, " she said, her voice soft. "Would you mind holding them?" Her hands rubbed together dramatically.The classic move, she thought, a smirk tugging at her lips.

To her surprise, you took her hand. Her heart pounded in her chest. This was it, the moment she'd been waiting for.

But instead of the anticipated warmth of your hand, she felt the rough texture of fabric. There you pulled out a pair of mittens out of God knows where and slipped it on her hand

Where the hell did that come from?

"Here, you can take my gloves," you said with a completely innocent smile. You carefully fitted the mittens onto her hand, your touch gentle. It took a full five minutes of awkward fumbling before both mittens were securely in place.

She managed a small “thanks” as she tried to hide her flushed face. No! You were supposed to be the flustered one, not her!

And so, they continued walking. Plan failed, spectacularly? Well, at least she’d had her first physical contact with you. She’d take it.]

"At this point you'd have to be pretending not to know," Evie sighs a hint of exasperation coloring her voice as she pushed herself up from the bed, her body still bearing the imprint of the soft mattress. Her hand instinctively reached for the hand mirror lying beside her, and she began to fuss with her hair to fix it, the disarray a reflection of her internal frustration.

"Right?" Evie started, her words hanging in the air as her reflection revealed Mal, sprawled out on the bed in a deep slumber. An exasperated roll of her eyes followed, and she brought a finger to her lips in an attempt to fix the smudged lipstick. Her voice was muffled by the gesture as she muttered, "Very helpful." The sudden, forceful intrusion of their dorm room door startled her.

Didn't they lock the door?

The door swung open, revealing you in an oversized jacket, your face etched with panic. Your left hand gripped a key tightly.

Evie, still preoccupied with her hand mirror, glanced up, her eyes widening in surprise.

"Is that a key to...our dorm?" she questioned, her voice laced with confusion.

You nodded frantically, your urgency palpable. "My brother— it doesn't matter. You have to help me!" Your words tumbled out in a rush as you darted towards Evie, your foot catching something on the floor, causing you to stumble.

"You know how to sew, right?" You breathed out sharply, landing on Evie's bed with a bounce.

Evie's eyebrows shot up in question. "Yeah, why— hey!" Her hands instinctively flew to your chest as you began to unzip your hoodie with surprising urgency. She'd love to get there, but not so soon!

"No, my— blouse, I broke it!" Your explanation was breathless and rushed. The hoodie finally fell open, revealing a cream-colored blouse with three missing buttons.

Evie swallowed hard, hergaze flickering away from the slight exposure of your cleavage. "R-right, of course," she coughed, trying to regain her composure.

"My brother, I—this is his blouse," you stammered, your voice barely audible. "I need to get it fixed now before he sees it and tells Mom! He's looking for me right now! And if I—"

Evie's hand gently covered yours, silencing your frantic words. Her touch was surprisingly calming, grounding you amidst the chaos of your thoughts. With a steady exhale, she removed your hands from your face and placed them gently on your lap.

"Alright, calm down," she said, her voice firm yet soothing. "I'm going to get my sewing kit."

Rising from the bed, Evie walked towards a cluttered table overflowing with sketches and fabric scraps. After a brief search, she returned with a small box and sat down on the bed.

"Can you..." Evie began, her voice barely a whisper. Her gaze flickered between the damaged blouse and your expectant face. You tilted your head, curiosity evident in your eyes. She knew what she wanted to say, a simple request to make her task easier. But the image of you without the blouse flashed through her mind, and a blush crept up her cheeks. The distraction would be too much. With a frustrated sigh, she abandoned the thought. "Nevermind," she concluded.

Your impatience was growing by the second. "Please hurry," you pleaded, your voice rising slightly. Your hands fidgeted nervously in your lap.

She nodded in agreement and gently lifted the lid of the sewing kit box. With practiced hands, she rummaged through the assortment of supplies until she found a button that perfectly matched the color of the blouse. Carefully selecting a needle of suitable size and a length of matching thread, she gathered her tools. Leaning in closer, she gently grasped the loose placket of your brothers blouse with her thumb, steadying the fabric as she prepared to sew the button securely in place.

Your breath caught in your throat as you became acutely aware of Evie's proximity. Her warm breath fanned across your collarbone, sending shivers down your spine. Her concentration was intense, her eyebrows drawn together in a furrow, but her eyes held a captivating allure that you hadn't noticed before. Their rich, brown color was like melted chocolate, flecked with golden specks.

Your gaze darted away, desperate for a distraction. The room, once neutral, had transformed into a suffocating chamber.

Your hands, seeking an anchor, found their way to the bed sheet, gripping it tightly as if it were a lifeline. A wave of relief washed over you as Evie momentarily broke the intense proximity, her head turning to retrieve another button.

Tick

Tock

The ticking of the clock, normally a soothing rhythm, now seemed to mock your escalating discomfort. It was as if the universe was conspiring against you.

Evie's voice, soft and laced with genuine concern, pierced through your turmoil. Her honey-brown eyes, filled with empathy, met yours, and in that moment, you felt exposed and vulnerable. A strangled sob threatened to escape your lips, but you managed to suppress it, replacing it with a shaky exhale. Your grip on the bed sheet tightened, a desperate attempt to ground yourself. A feeble excuse formed on your lips, a claim of oppressive heat, which Evie accepted with a sympathetic murmur.

As she moved to the third button, a knot of anticipation formed in your stomach. Her fingers brushed against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. The delicate tendrils of her dark blue hair grazed your chin, carrying the intoxicating scent of mint that seemed to seep into your senses. Unconsciously, you leaned in, drawn to her comforting aroma as if it were a lifeline in a stormy sea.

"There, all do-" Evie announced triumphantly, her face breaking into a smile as she looked up at you. Unprepared for the sight of you leaning in so closely, her eyes widened in surprise. Every thought in her mind evaporated, replaced by a single, overwhelming impulse, as your eyes locked onto hers - a desire, a pull, a magnetic force drawing her closer. Her heart pounded in her ears as she tilted her head, her gaze dropping to your lips. Their lips were mere inches apart and then—

BAM!

The abrupt crash of the dorm door against the wall jolted them apart, their hearts pounding in their ears.

"You two idiots! They were about to kiss!" Mal's voice, laced with irritation, cut through the silence. Your heads snapped in her direction to find her sitting nonchalantly on her bed, a pillow clutched in her hands.

A wave of embarrassment washed over you both as you realized she'd witnessed the entire ordeal. Your mind raced, trying to decipher how long she'd been awake and if she'd seen the desperate grip you'd had on the bedsheet earlier.

"Mal – oh, why's she here?" Carlos's voice echoed through the room as he stumbled in, Jay trailing behind him. Jay caught the pillow Mal had tossed in his direction and hurled it back at her in playful retaliation.

Mal caught the pillow with a practiced ease, her eyes rolling as she regarded the newcomers.

"They were about to kiss," she repeated, a smirk playing on her lips.

"We weren't!" you stammered, your voice barely a whisper, but your words were cut short by the sharp, insistent sound of your brother's voice calling your name. Your heart pounded in your chest as his voice grew closer, the panic rising within you. "You guys have to hide me!" you pleaded, your voice rising in desperation.

"Come on." Evie's hand found yours, her grip firm and reassuring as she pulled you towards the closet. Together, you squeezed into the cramped space, your bodies pressed close together, as Mal quickly shut the closet door, muffling the sounds of the approaching chaos.

A low, indistinct voice, muffled by an intervening barrier, reached your ears. It was your brother's voice, inquiring about your presence.

"I heard her voice!" Chad exclaimed, his tone filled with alarm. "Did you kidnap my sister?!"

Mal's response was swift and defensive. "Why would we kidnap your sister?"

Their voices began to fade as Evie's fingers gently turned your head, forcing you to face her.

"Be honest, do you know?" Evie inquired softly, her face partially illuminated by the dim glow seeping from outside the closet. Her voice was as gentle as a whisper.

"Know what?"

A playful chuckle escaped her lips as she placed her hands on your shoulders. "That I like you, Dummy."

Your mind raced as you tried to process her confession. "You do? But I like you too! I thought you liked my brother, because I overheard you and Doug talking about a charming sibling, and I- I thought you were straight becau-" Your stammering attempt at explanation was abruptly halted as Evie's lips met yours.

Surprise washed over you, but you instinctively responded to the warmth of her kiss. Her hands found your waist, pulling you closer as your knees threatened to buckle. The taste of cherry lip balm lingered on your tongue, Your heart pounded in your chest, sending a rush of excitement through your body that felt like a cascade of fireworks exploding within your stomach.

"You're an oblivious idiot." She chuckled, pulling away from the kiss with a playful smile. Her eyes sparkled as she took a moment to admire yours, her hands gently cupping your cheeks. She leaned in slowly, savoring the moment before kissing you again.

"I'm your oblivious idiot."

Can you tell the ending is rushed? ;)

[prettymonegasque]

you asked for smut requests and i shall deliver. cockwarming max as he plays video games while streaming and riding his thigh??

Max Verstappen x Reader

A/N: Is this too much to ask for? huH GOD?

Warnings: SMUT 18+ Thigh Riding, Cowgirl, Light Mastrubation, Sexting, Slight Cockwarming at the end, not proof read.

It was a quiet night. Max was streaming with Team Redline and you were watching it on your laptop from the couch with your best mates Ben and Jerry. The stream was pretty calm with Max winning the first few rounds. His ego began to grow so much he started slacking a little on the next round, he missed a few apexes and almost crashed. Yet somehow he won that round as well and started playing with Jimmy, putting the sim on autopilot. You were in the mood for a little chaos. So you decided to comment on the stream from your burner account. You found the perfect quip to comment.

sassierthansassy: looks like the world champion loves to just sit back and watch like a pillow princess 

“Hey, Max. Someone commented, “looks like the world champion loves to just sit back and watch like a pillow princess. What’s your comeback man?” Chris started laughing. Max started searching for the comment on the chat and when he saw it was from your account, he knew exactly what you were doing. But he just laughed it off on the stream. He took out his phone and texted you. 

Max ♥️ : You got a lot of nerve calling me pillow princess when you were the one lying on the bed helpless this morning

You: I wouldn’t call eating me out as a lot of work. 

Max ♥️ : Is that why you were praising me?

You: Well I didn’t want you to know how disappointing that was, first thing in the morning.

Max ♥️ : Schatje careful. You might not like what you get later.

You: What’s a little more disappointment?

Max ♥️ : Such a brat. Come here and I’ll show you how much I love sitting back and watching. 

Hook, line and sinker.

You finished up the last spoon of ice cream and walked to the sim room. You quietly opened the door, letting the cats out and stood near his setup, away from the camera. He turned off his video. “Uh guys. I think there’s some problem with the camera. The game lags when I turn it on so I’m going to turn it off for some time.” You sat on his lap and started kissing his neck but he still refused to take his eyes off the game. He simply smirked and continued navigating on screen. You traced your hands down the waistband of his joggers and started palming him. 

He was quick to swat your hand away. “Not so fast princess” He whispered in your ear and patted his thigh. You knew what he meant and got to work straddling his thigh. You rocked back and forth slowly getting yourself more wet by the second. You shut your eyes and got into a steady rhythm, continuing to ride his thigh. Just when you were about to cum, Max lifted you and sat you on his cock. You hadn’t even seen him free it, so blissed out chasing your orgasm. 

You sank into him and started bouncing on his cock. He was still focused on the game, you could hear chatter from his headphones. You needed to feel Max’s touch. Your entire body was on fire knowing he was so close yet so far away. You started getting whiny. You kissed him and tugged on his hair but he didn’t even blink. You rolled your hips lightly and that caught his attention. He drew in a deep breath and continued gaming.

You knew you were breaking him, so you took off your t-shirt, exposing your breasts. You pinched and pulled your nipples. You couldn’t let out any noises but that didn’t stop you from making pornographic facial expressions. You rolled your eyes and threw your head back as you rode him. Your hand snaked down and started playing with your clit. 

“Fuck schatje. You’re killing me here.” You heard Max growl. Your eyes widened thinking he said that on stream. You craned your neck to find out he had turned off the stream. You finally broke him. Your smirk was quickly wiped off your face when Max started thrusting into you and sucking your nipples. “Such a little slut. So needy, had to sext in front of the whole world huh? Isn’t so fun when I just sit back and watch? Is it princess?” He questioned you with every thrust. 

You were so close and let out all the noises you’d been holding back. Max moaned at your noises and started thrusting faster. “Max! I’m gonna- Fuck!” You screamed as you came all over his cock. He didn’t stop and kept thrusting into you. “Don’t be so selfish baby. Couldn’t even wait for me to cum.” He groaned as he came inside you. The aftershock was insane as you came again. The room fell quiet with only the sound of you breaths bouncing off the walls. 

Max kissed your head and began to pull out of you. But when you made a protesting noise, he just laughed and pulled you in closer. You might be a handful, but you were his handful.

[asliceofzosan]

Sanji is a lightweight.

He can't hold his liquor for shit despite his failed attempts to hide it from everyone else. The signs are obvious — the flushed cheeks, the hooded eyes, and the constant smile on his face that remains even if he's not talking to a lady. He prances around the room, socializing and laughing at every little thing, from the cool summer breeze tickling his cheeks to Usopp's tamest of wild stories.

He's also very physically affectionate. When he'd usually reject a hug from Luffy's impossibly long outstretched arms, intoxicated Sanji would welcome the embrace with glee. Chopper is rained with little kisses on his head every time he does anything remarkably cute (which is all the time). And he's seen playing with Robin's fingers absentmindedly as he listens to her talk about the ancient history of a forgotten world.

But there's also one thing Sanji becomes when he's had one too many drinks in his system...

He gets... honest.

Sanji on a normal day is blunt and calculated. He calls things out as he sees it yet still knows how to use his words to twist something to his advantage. Like how he knows how to appease Luffy when he gets adamant over food. Or how he somehow convinces Usopp to do something he'd normally be too afraid to do.

Drunk Sanji is a different kind of honest. Drunk Sanji is honest about things he never even utters if he was even a lick sober.

And Zoro? Oh, he's always been the one to bare witness to Sanji's honesty.

Zoro likes to think of himself as an honest man. He can omit the truth every now and then for someone's safety or to preserve their blissful ignorance, but most of the time he doesn't see any reason to lie. If he finds you annoying, he'll say it. To hell with your damn feelings about it.

But though he values honesty and trust, he sure can hide the truth. Because his own feelings take the back burner. He can't be emotionally charged when lives are on the line. He can't let his heart win out when his brain tells him it's a bad idea. He can trust a gut feeling but never the tug of his own heartstrings.

So witnessing Sanji's honesty — so rooted in the tresses of his stupidly big emotional heart — always has Zoro freezing in place. He can't handle it. But he can't push him away either.

He can hide his true feelings but by all four seas, he can't ever push them far enough away for him to ignore them.

For the embarrassing truth of it all is that every time Sanji looks at him, smiles at him, laughs with him, or even fights with him — Zoro is irrevocably, unequivocally, and detrimentally smitten with the curly browed cook.

He doesn't remember when (somewhere between Little Garden and Thriller Bark... who knows, really...) but he definitely remembers waking up one day and wanting to see Sanji first thing in the morning. He remembers the rapid beating of his heart when the man prepared his comfort dishes when Zoro was having a rough day. He remembers the sparks of electric fire seeping to his bones from a single touch, a brush of fingertips against his scalp with a whispered 'you need a haircut marimo', the ice cold chill that runs down his spine of watching this stupid blonde man attempt to sacrifice his life over and over again to save his friends. All these feelings he remembers and dreads and looks forward to all at the same time.

All come crashing down upon him until he's stuck beneath a mountain of untapped, unrealized, unacknowledged feelings — all because Sanji decided that for today's party he will hold Zoro's hand, and guide him to the galley so they could be alone.

Alone.

"Marimoooo," Sanji sings, a light giggle cutting off the prolonged syllable, and Zoro has to actively remember not to crumble. He grips the edge of the kitchen counter, his knuckle turning white, with the other hand desperately clinging to a cheap bottle of sake.

"Auditioning for a musical, cook?" Zoro teases and Sanji sticks his tongue out at him. Zoro, despite all he's holding back, allows himself to chuckle.

"Shut the fudge up, dumb green haired muscle head doofus." (New note: when drunk enough, Sanji physically cannot swear.) He jabs a finger at Zoro's chest, unaware of the invisible mark he's left on his heart. "I wanted to tell you something, stupid."

"Can't it wait until you're sober and can kick my ass properly?" Zoro's deflecting and he damn well knows it. But Drunk Sanji is so unfairly adorable that if he lets him talk more, he might do something Sober Sanji would hate him for forever.

"I donwanna kick your ass!" Sanji throws his hands up exasperatedly. "No no no no thas' not important..."

"What could possibly–" When Zoro chanced a glance at Sanji, he stopped mid sentence. Hooded blue eyes were gazing at him intensely, an ocean of possibilities, a high tide of emotions washing onto the shore. Zoro can't look away. He wants to. He needs to. But he can't. Like a capsized ship at the edge of a whirlpool, Sanji's gaze sucks Zoro in with no pause for mercy.

Mercy that Zoro refuses to call out for.

"Zoro," He says it with a low tone, a soft voice, and with a breathiness he's never heard his name be uttered through before.

He feels Sanji's hand on top of his own before he could let go of the counter. He looks down and the man is tracing his scars. The ones faded overtime and the ones that are freshly closed over. There's a band-aid on his thumb that he's forgotten to remove from a week ago. Sanji's own delicate but kitchen worn fingers run over his knuckles. Each feather light touch sends electric shocks through his veins, a rushing heat that no shot of alcohol could recreate.

Zoro, despite everything his mind is telling him to do, turns his hand over and lets Sanji slip his fingers through and press their palms together.

They're closer now. He doesn't remember when that happened. But Sanji's face is so close, he could count the eyelashes fluttering gently between wakefulness and dreaming if he wanted to. He desperately did. Instead, his other hand raised up to cup Sanji's ever alcohol flushed cheeks, and feels his heart burst with the gentle smile Sanji gives him in return.

"Did you know?" Sanji whispers, thumb rubbing over a particularly nasty scar on the back of Zoro's hand.

"What?" Zoro indulges him. Just this once. "What don't I know?"

Sanji's smile brightens. He rests a hand on Zoro's chest. He feels Zoro's beating heart beneath his palm. Then he looks up, eyes twinkling with a simple but powerful emotion. Zoro's only seen him look like that once before. Back when it was just the five of them from the East Blue, their borrowed ship from Syrup Village, and their feet on a barrel promising to achieve their dreams.

Pure and utter joy.

"Did you know... that I'm so happy that you're my friend?"

Zoro's breath hitches and Sanji hiccups, sudden tears flowing down his cheeks. He doesn't attempt to hide them or wipe them away. Zoro feels them fall onto his chest as he watches Sanji cry with the biggest smile on his face.

"You're the first friend I had that was my age," He continued, bringing Zoro's hand up and nuzzling against his palm. "I never had friends growing up. Was surrounded by old geezers telling me what to do half the time. Joining the crew... This is the best decision I ever made."

Then a faint kiss was placed on every scar Sanji could see on Zoro's hand. Piece by piece, Zoro's resolve crumbled, and he felt tears prickle at the corner of his eye.

"You're my best friend, Zoro. Did I tell you that?"

"No," Zoro whispered. He takes Sanji's other hand and kisses the rough pads of his fingertips too. Sanji watches him, mouth slightly open in a dazed smile. Zoro wonders if he'll remember this in the morning.

"Why haven't I?" Sanji asks him, or perhaps wonders aloud. Zoro just shrugs and keeps kissing up Sanji's hand. With each kiss, Sanji lets out a sigh, gentle and inviting. Zoro chooses not to answer.

"I love having friends," Sanji says stumbling forward slightly at Zoro's ministrations. Zoro catches him before he falls and Sanji throws his arms around him, clutching tightly and giggling so much that he's almost losing breath. "I love having you in my life."

A tear falls down Zoro's cheek. He tightens his hold around the cook and thinks the exact same thing.

Sanji burrows his face into Zoro's shoulder, hiccuping again. "Can we stay like this for a little while?"

"We can stay like this forever, if you want." Like this as in always by your side. Like this as in holding you every time you ask for it. Like this as in who we can be if alcohol didn't make you forget everything you say to me.

"I have to cook tomorrow though." was Sanji's brilliant response and Zoro couldn't help but laugh. He's waited this long for something like this. He can wait until morning for a conversation a little more serious.

"Yeah, cook." Zoro obliges, leading Sanji to the cushioned bench by the dinner table. "We can stay like this for a little while."

"Yay," Sanji cheers softly, his voice already starting to slur. Zoro lets him rest his head on his chest as he curls up and around Zoro like a koala. "Warm."

Time moves by slowly. Zoro's fingers run through silky blond hair as they talk about silly insignificant things. Sanji's giggles get softer and softer. His breathing evens out. Soon enough, Sanji's eyelids have closed and he's sleeping soundly, clinging as tightly as his unconscious body permits onto the swordsman.

Zoro knows that when morning comes, they'll have to talk. But for now, Zoro allows himself to bask in the warmth of Sanji's honesty. Allows himself to let Sanji's genuine gratitude of meeting and joining the straw hat crew wash over him like the gentlest of cool sea breezes after a long and hot day.

And he can be assured, as he drifts off into his own slumber, that Sanji loves him.

And that Zoro loves him too.

inspired by this tweet

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Farmer's Daughter 14

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Walter Marshall

Summary: You notice a peculiar change in a family friend. (short!reader, sorry size kink is out)

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You wake up with your head on Walt’s arm. You lay on your side, facing him as his chest rises and falls, a rumble thundering through him with each breath. His warmth has you in a sheen of sweat. You hesitate to move, not wanting to disturb him.

As you lay and listen to his snores, your stomach topturns. The realisation flows through you and turns to ice. As unusual as this awakening is now, this will be your forever. That’s what you agreed to. Your days, your nights, your everything will belong to Walt.

You squirm as suddenly you’re on fire, your scalp speckling with impending doom. You shift onto your back and slowly sit up. You bend your head forward and cover your face as you try to ease the spinning in your head.

You drag your feet from beneath the blankets and turn to sit with your back to him. To your future husband. You just can’t make it sound normal in your head.

You stand cautiously, mindful not to jostle the bed. His low snores carry through the air as you walk across the creaky floorboard, peeking over with each step. Your legs prickle with goosebumps as you get to the door. A shiver rolls over you and you hug yourself as the morning air flows up the bottom of the flannel shirt.

You leave him and find your way downstairs. You turn on the space heater and linger before it, building the courage to detach yourself from the glow of heat. You continue into the kitchen and carefully make your way around it.

The least you can do is make breakfast. You suppose that will be expected from now on. It’s not so out of the ordinary, it’s only Walt will be more than just a guest, more than a friend.

You take out eggs and a tray of breakfast sausage. You pause as you wonder if it’s too much. You hope he doesn’t mind.

You do your best to be quiet as you put a skillet on the oven to heat. You line a pan with the sausages and preheat the gas stove. You flutter your fingers anxiously as you wait, staying close to absorb some of the heat.

“Morning,” Walt’s gritty timbre sends a tremor through you.

You glance over as he enters, a brown robe around him as he rubs his eyes and sweeps his curls away from his face. You return his greeting as you crack the eggs into a bowl to whisk. He hums and nears the counter, grabbing a tin near the back.

“Coffee?” He wonders.

“Oh, no I–” you set the bowl down, “I didn’t– I can do that now.”

“Mm, thanks, sweetheart,” he puts the tin down and sidles closer to you, “sleep okay?”

His hand touches the small of your back as stands close. You nod, “mhmm,” you step up to the counter and grab the beat-up percolator. “Thanks, I… I did.”

“Rain’s let up,” he reluctantly parts and peers through the window as you fill the percolator from the tap, “should go out and check on the truck after breakfast… then we can head up to the bank.”

“The bank?” You shut off the faucet and loud the grinds, then pop the metal lid into place. You put the metal jug onto the burner and twist the knob.

“Get some thing’s sorted. I told your mother I’d bring some paperwork,” he explains as he sits in one of the wooden chairs. He watches you intently as you face him. He’s quiet as his eyes rove you from head to toe. A breath fills his chest, “and we can tell her the news.”

You try to smile and quickly turn your attention back to the eggs. You put oil on the skillet as you clear your throat, “yeah, she’ll… I think she’ll be happy.”

“Could do a lot worse around here,” he grits.

“I didn’t mean…” you shake your head as the oil sizzles, “I only… I’m getting used to the idea still.”

“Seem to be getting used to it,” he remarks, “lucky me got a woman like you to wake up to, make me breakfast…”

“Uh, yeah,” you pour the eggs into the pan.

He lets a long exhale and the chair groans beneath his weight, “it’s like a dream come true. Finally,” he drawls as the savoury smell of sausages blooms from the over, “about time I settled down. Least that’s what the old crones whisper down at the grocery store.”

“Oh, ha, well, everyone talks,” you shrug, “I’m sure they whisper about me too.”

“Uh huh, I heard them,” he scoffs as his tone harshens, “about you talking to Odinson… making eyes at him.”

“What–” you nearly choke, “I…I didn’t— I wouldn’t.”

You scrape the pan to scramble the eggs as your voice knots in your throat. It feels like an accusation but you know it was harmless. Thor was just being helpful and that was weeks ago.

“Well, you won’t,” he says tersely, “from now on, I don’t want you being friendly with the likes of him. He’s no good.”

“Walt, I wasn’t–”

“That’s before,” he interjects, “this is now. We’re gonna be married. Things are different.”

“I know,” you eke out, “but I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t do that.”

“Uh huh, but you flirted with me,” he insists.

“I…” you stop yourself before you begin. You didn’t flirt with him, you were nice to him. Like you always were. Like you had been for years.

“Sweet thing like you, it’s easy to get the wrong idea and men like Odinson, they always get the wrong idea,” he growls.

The percolator trembles and you turn off the burner. You quickly twist the other down to low and put a lid over the eggs to keep them warm. You turn to the cupboard and pick out a mug with an ombre of brown. You pour the steaming coffee and bring it to him.

“You don’t have to mope, I’m just making you aware,” he says, “you’re too sweet to see it. I’m protecting you. That’s what a husband does, right?”

You make yourself smile and swallow, “of course, thank you.”

“No, thank you,” he takes the mug from you with a wink, “look at you, my sweet little wife.”

[notquitecanon]

Call Me... // Matt Murdock x Reader

Summary: You're the Devil of Hell's Kitchen's favorite late night nurse, but he's been avoiding your fire escape since an unfortunate accident. You both miss each other just enough for some emotions to slip through the cracks. You don't even know his name, but you'll settle just to know he's alright.

TW: blood, canon typical injuries, kind of hurt comfort, Matt's a self sabotaging martyr as usual, kinda sunshine!reader??? maybe if you squint

Bolded line is from a prompts list from several months ago so I lost the link. If it's yours let me know and I'll link it!

"I haven’t seen you in weeks… I’m worried you’re in another dumpster somewhere. Just call me back…please?" You whispered harshly into the phone’s receiver, burner cell jammed between your ear and shoulder as you fumbled with your keys. 

It was true. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen hadn’t graced your apartment in weeks after three months of near nightly visits. At first it was serious stuff, stab wounds and splinted bones. It took two weeks for him to crack a joke. But once that stone cold exterior cracked, it was shattered. He was kind, sweet even. Every few visits, he’d bring by supplies to replenish your kit and, usually, with a bottle of wine in the bag.  Emergencies turned to what he called ‘urgencies’- wounds just barely deep enough to justify stitches and dislocated joints. Which then turned into stopping by at the end of his nights for a ‘check up’, where he took advantage of your central heating, warm beverages, and warmer presence. Then, some Yakuza jackass appeared on your doorstep three weeks ago, fortunately your devil hadn’t been far behind. He took care of him, and you figured the thug, now minus fifteen teeth, would have a hard time telling anyone where to find you. Nevertheless, you found the ‘available apartments’ section of the newspaper taped to your seventh floor window. That had been the last night ’the devil’ had paid you a visit. 

"Anyways… I guess I'm asking for a sign of life? Something? Please? Bye." You pleaded, voice kinder this time as you managed to finally unlock the door and slip inside. Locking the knob, deadbolt, chain, and newly installed jam that had been mysteriously delivered not too long ago. With a huff, you discarded your keys, and bag in the entry way before delving deeper into your dark apartment, flicking lights on as you went. 

"You really need to start locking your windows." A deep voice sounded as you rounded the corned into your living room. Heart jumping to your throat and stomach dropping, you let out a yelp as instinct took over. The familiarity of the voice didn’t register as adrenaline flooded your system. 

"SHIT!" You shrieked, flinching backwards so fast that the hallway runner rug caught under your feet, sending you careening into the wall. Without thinking, you put the Yankee’s starting pitcher to shame as you pitched your phone at light speed towards the voice. Of course, the shadow effortlessly caught it.

"Shit!" The intruder mirrored at your fall, and it was then that you realized who it was. As you collected yourself a slew of curses slipped out, looking into the dim living room to find the Devil of Hell’s kitchen slowly rising off the couch, he was already sans black shirt and mask, "I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you." 

"Yeah, well, mission failed." You muttered, pressing a hand to your chest as if that would still your pounding heart. Slowly, you finished your shuffled into the living room, flicking on the overheads as you went. "Shit, you could have called. Sit back down."  

You could have used the heads up, the gash across his chest looked serious, and not in the cute excuse to see each other way ’serious’ had meant last month. He breathed a sarcastic laugh, tossing your phone back to you before producing a shattered burner cell with a… bullet hole?

"You have a funny way of saving my skin when I least expect it." He tried a cheeky smile. You rolled your eyes, picking up your pace as you retrieved your first aid kit from under your kitchen sink, "Consider this a sign of life?" 

"A sign of barely alive, more like." You answered, rounding back around the couch to sit across from him. Harshly pulling on a pair of rubber gloves and splaying out an array of supplies both his lap and yours. "You’re unbelievable. Almost a month of no contact and then you just appear and leak blood on my couch." 

"I’m sorry." He breathed, face angled to where your knees now touched. You rolled your eyes, ripping into a packet of gauze and setting to work dabbing the blood. And he sounded sorry, pitiful even, looked it to. His unseeing eyes stared straight past you and yet somehow straight through you at the same time, mouth settled in a puppy like frown. He told you once that he was catholic, and you now wandered if that’s why he was so good at looking guilty.  

"If it wasn’t for the newspapers, I would have thought you were dead." You drove your point home, with a small voice, too angry to be a whisper and yet too concerned to be a hiss. The evidence of his activities was written across his bare torso in older cuts, new and fading bruises, and a couple of bandages that he’d obviously applied himself, "And you’ve obviously been busy." 

"Figured out how the Yakuza found you. Handled it. Didn’t want to lead anyone else back here." His explanation was strained, pushed through gritted teeth as you applied antiseptic to the largest, freshest gash. You cooed small apologies, irritated as you were with the vigilante, you hated being the source of his pain. You picked up a suture kit, quickly threading the needle. 

"Well, as far as excuses go, that’s not the worst." You muttered, half joking and half touched he’d go through this for you. You’d known he was a walking martyr from the moment you’d met him, but still. He’d taken the beatings so you’d sleep safe. 

That was something else, "Lean back, gotta stitch you up." 

He complied as you stood, using your shoulder to nudge the floor lamp so the light was better for you. Even then, you position on the coffee table wasn't cutting it as leaning forward cast a shadow over his chest. Neither was kneeling in front of him, as the gash was too far up his chest for your position to be adequate. You muttered a quick apology as you flitted around him, trying to find the best place to plant yourself. Beside him on the couch might work, but you’d be straining to hold yourself up at that angle and keep your hands steady. 

Bloody-knuckled hands found your waist with amazing precision for a blind man, easily lifting you and placing you over one thigh after he spread his legs a bit wider. He held you steady, angling his eyes to the ceiling to give you the broadest view of his chest. One of your knees pressed into the couch cushion between his legs and the other pressed into the outside of his thigh, caging the his black-clad thigh between your own like a seat. If your weight bothered him, he gave no indication. He did however turn his ear ever so slightly towards you and smirk ever so devilishly, "How’s that?" 

"Very convenient, thanks." You forced your voice to be flat instead of the breathlessness you felt. Stupid charming vigilante. To his credit, it gave you the perfect access without blocking the light. And if you got to feel ever twitch of his insanely muscular thigh between yours? Added benefit. The devil, even bruised and bleeding, was insanely warm and smelled like something out of a terribly sinful romance novel. The manly small of musk and sweat should have been revolting, but the way it mixed with a fading aftershave would have been distracting if you weren’t so focused on the drip of crimson down his toned abdomen. Before your train of thought could derail again, you gave a quiet warning watching your patient steel himself before you began running the needle and thread through the torn skin.  Other than an initial hiss and the clenching of his fists against your waist, he went silent as you worked. 

The two of you sat in an almost tense silence. He could feel how close your face was to his chest, the waves of breaths washing over his skin, the smell of shampoo in your hair faint enough to know you’d put off washing it, the sound of your heartbeat slowing back down after he’d gotten you excited, the slight sound of your teeth worrying the inside of your lip. He knew he shouldn't be here, Claire could have patched him up, probably would have if he asked really nicely. He probably could have if he really tried, but he’d just missed you. Between Fisk and the Hand and the law firm… everything was messy. You were still simple and sweet and far more caring than he thought he deserved, a balm just to be near you. 

"Could you talk to me?" He asked, so quietly you almost missed it in your focus. You tied off another knot, seeing him wince. 

"Hmm?" You hummed, pausing to look up from the half stitched wound. His eyes lowered to your face, his clenched hands at your waist loosening to rub the fabric of your shirt between his fingers. You always wore such soft things, he wondered if you’d be so soft underneath. You took opportunity in the pause to wipe some of the blood from his skin. 

"I’ve missed your voice, even if you want to yell at me or be upset with me, just let me hear it." His voice was like a prayer, so sincere it made you shift on his leg. What was in the holy water at his church? 

"I’m not going to yell at you, honey. I’m not going to kick a man when he’s stabbed." You shook your head, rearranging yourself to get that optimal view again, grazing a gloved finger over a purple bruise on his ribs, "Besides, someone beat me to it." 

He chuckled at the lame joke, leaning his head back against the back of the couch again as you began stitching once more. Instead of scolding him, you caught him up on all the details and minor drama that he’d missed over the last few weeks. The funny things and annoyances from work, things your family had sent you, what your friends had been up to, your opinion on current happenings in the city. He listened to you like it was the most interesting thing he’d heard all year, chiming in with questions and quips of his own. You’d missed his voice too, not that you’d boost his ego by telling him that. 

"There." You finally finished, tying the last stitch and taping a bandage over it. The vigilante under you didn’t make a move to leave, instead his hands kept you still on his lap. You breathed a laugh, moving on to everything else. You removed the old bandages, giving half healed wounds a thorough cleaning. You applied comical Disney bandaids to the more minor cuts on his hands and were even brazen enough to kiss his split knuckles. The vigilante seemed to preen under you attention as you cleaned and applied Vaseline to his busted lip. As if it was too good to be true, his lip twitched downwards as his eye brows furrowed. His face angled away from yours, his unseeing eyes falling on the window he’d come through. 

"You know, the burner phone's been broken for two weeks now. Took the bullet not too long after the yakuza paid you a visit. Couldn't bring myself to throw it away, a little piece of you." He admitted, a pitiful smile twitched up before pulling downward again. He groaned, starting to shift you off his lap, “I shouldn’t be here, it’s not right.”

You allowed yourself to fall to the cushion beside him, but snatched the black shirt away from him before he could make a move for it. He’d been too busy letting his hands linger on your waist. 

“Why not?” You asked sternly, tucking the shirt behind your back as if the vigilante in front of you couldn't probably drop you six ways to Tuesday if he wanted to. Not that he could ever consider raising a hand to you, “You got hurt, I patch you up. Seems right to me.” 

The devil tensed, first leaning away and then leaning really close. His freshly bandaged fingers tapped your knee as if to emphasize his point, “I don’t deserve this kindness. And even if I did, if I could, if I was good, I would stop coming here so you could live in peace.” 

You were a silent for a moment, wanting to make sure your response was exactly how you wanted it to come across.  

“The third time you fell through my window, you told me that if I ever wanted to be left alone, all I’d need to do was change the candle I keep by the window.” You recounted his words. You hadn’t known about his senses at the time, he was still cryptic and mysterious. But you’d never changed the candle, buying new ones of the same scent when it would burn out, “You warned me what might happen. You gave me an out, one that I continuously chose to ignore. You did everything in your power to protect me when that choice had consequences. That was good, because you are good. And good people deserve kindness. You put too much on yourself, honey.”  

As you spoke, you laid your hand over his on your knee, giving it a slight squeeze to convey your own point. The crimefighter listened to your voice, your heartbeat, the quickness of your breath, finding no deceit and even if he didn’t believe you words, it was nice to hear them. Your kindness washed over him, letting him relax for just a second before he shook his head, laughing sarcastically to deflect the dangerously sappy emotions you stirred. You called him honey like it was his name, and part of him wondered that if you knew his name if you would still call him honey. 

“You barely know me, sweetheart.” 

His own nickname slipped out by accident, usually just something he called you in his head when he allowed fantasies about telling you everything, coming home to you as the vigilante and the lawyer, seeing just how far your good grace could take him. His lips quirked up in time with the uptick of your pulse and the way your breath caught for a moment. 

“I know enough to know you deserve some good.” You whispered earnestly, reaching up to graze the Star Wars bandaid you’d stuck across his the cut on his cheekbone. Almost instinctively, he leaned into the touch. You smiled softly, maybe you’d both missed each other a bit. The combined concern for the other and the time between his last visit making you both a little sappy, or at least more honest about it, So, you breathed a laugh, making another lame joke just to earn one of those chuckles you loved so much, “Besides, I know you well enough to have your blood on my hands.” 

But he didn’t laugh, instead, he pulled his face from your palm, his own bandaged hands taking your bloodied gloved hands in his own. Gently, he pressed your hands together, your loose fists creating almost heart like shape as he pressed reverent kisses to each bloody hand. The vigilante was kind always, flirty and joking, occasionally flirtations bordering on something else. But this? This was different, it was new. Intimate. You’d almost feel like a voyeur for watching the scene if it you weren’t playing a starring role. Your mind flashed to those romance novels you’d thought of earlier, this put all of them to shame. So much so that your hands started trembling against his lips. 

He held them tighter, but not in a constrictive, cage like way. More in a ‘let me hold you together’ kind of way before gently peeling the dirty gloves off and, again, kissing your clean hands underneath. His face angled to yours, nothing but sincerity lacing his features. 

"You know my blood better than my own heart does.” 

“God…” You whispered, letting your head fall against his shoulder, your nose nudging his collarbone and your eye lashes fluttering against his neck. His stubbled cheek fell to the crown of your head.  You cleared your throat again, "I know your blood, but not your name. For someone I care so much about, that’s kind of sad.” 

It was the first time you’d ever admitted it out loud in such certain words. The vigilante ran gentle hands up and down your arms, silent as a million thoughts went through his head. You heart was racing, not from lying, but in anticipation. Despite your racing pulse, you seemed almost totally at ease with you skin against his, one of your hands pressed to a bandage on his ribs and the other holding purchase at the waistline of his black pants. Nothing sexual, just the perfect place for your soft hand to land.   

Despite the million thoughts, he really had two options. Keep his secret, and keep you at an arms length, to keep things sweet and simple and not too deep. Or. Let you in a little deeper, he'd swim oceans to keep you afloat. Enjoy your sweetness, even if things were complicated. He kept still, holding you as gently as you had touched him, a promise to himself that he could be gentle and soft, just as he could be lethal and ruthless.  Two sides of a balanced scale.  

Your heart had slowed down again, the soothing motion of his hands on your arm lulling you. You had been worried about his response. You’re confession had gotten too real, you were worried he’d jump out the window and disappear again. And you’d be left with nothing but bloody gloves and the thought that maybe you’d just imagined the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. 

"Matt.” His voice was quiet, just barely above a whisper, “You can call me Matt. Just don’t stop calling me."

[shesmore-shoebill]

2 minutes of George and Amanda playing off of each other with perfect comedy/rp instincts to characterize Mary and her relationship with her mom. And fire. And dad. (Press F to pay respects to Mary's Dad's iguana's tail.) (He gets out sometimes.)

some lines with perfect (imo) delivery:

"I was gonna say don't make them eat all the ingredients in the fridge but then I decided I wanted to do that, so."

"What's this ingredient thing you were talking about???"

"Mom, someone could get a stomachache."

"And I'm sorry about dad's apartment." "Yeah. We're all sorry about that."

"Yeah, your dad is fine. His iguana is not fine."

"He's a reptile guy." "Yeah that was a choice-" "Probably the only thing I liked about him."

"Well, listen, just go have fun. No burners. No fires. I cannot stress that enough. No fire no burners."

"Okay. The more you say fire the more I keep just thinking fire." "Great, I'm going to stop saying it!" "Okay!"

The lil sneaky kiss. :')

[moonstruckme]

Busybody

summary: when Steve notices your anxiety spiraling out of control, he finds his own way to help

cw: anxiety

Steve Harrington x fem!reader ♡ 1.3k words

You’d woken up with some busybody in your chest that you can’t get rid of. 

It feels like you’ve had three cups of coffee despite your four hours of sleep. You’d all but jolted awake, pre-panicked about something that you haven’t identified yet. Something you have to be forgetting, or not assigning enough importance to, surely. And the way you figure it, if your body’s going to freak out at you about being idle, you may as well appease it and hop to. 

By the time Steve cracks an eyelid, you’re thinking about what to make for lunch. Heart never having left your throat, you’ve cleaned the kitchen, baked a blackberry cobbler, tried to read a few pages of your book before giving up for fidgetiness, reorganized your portion of the bathroom cabinet, and begun a grocery list for the week. 

“Morning,” he yawns, leaning against the counter. He’s looking endearingly rumpled, a faint red line on his face from a crease in his pillowcase and his hair pressed flat on the one side. You smile at him as he rubs the sleep from his eyes. “Smells like fire in here.” 

“Morning! I made a cobbler,” you explain, not mentioning the burnt first attempt that’s smelled up his kitchen despite you opening all the windows. “Do you want some bacon, eggs, and toast for breakfast?”

Steve blinks, eyebrows rising slightly. “Uh, sure. You gonna make me some?” 

“Mhm.” You’re already taking the eggs out of the fridge. “Scrambled?” 

“Yeah. Thanks, babe.” 

“No problem.” You grin, happy to be of use as you whisk his eggs with a fork, turning on two burners of the stove to preheat as you do. “How’d you sleep?”

“Good,” he yawns. “Well, pretty good. Woke up a couple times this morning, but you were already gone. Been up for a while?” 

“Yeah, couldn’t sleep.” 

Steve nods, frowning. “Sorry, honey. You didn’t get much chance to sleep the night before, either, right?” 

You hum, bacon sizzling when it hits the pan. You put the toast down in the toaster, hoping you’ve timed it right so it’ll still be warm when everything else is done. “Oh, do you want orange juice?” 

“Sure, but I can grab it.” He moves for the cabinet, but you nudge in front of him, too restless to stop moving while everything heats on the stove. 

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” You shoot him a smile as you grab a cup. Steve returns it, but muddled.

“So between last night and the one before, how many hours have you gotten?” 

You shrug. “Not sure.” Nine, give or take. “But I don’t feel tired.” 

“Well, that’s good,” he says slowly, watching as you fill the cup with orange juice before hustling back to the stove, flitting between tasks at something approaching light speed. 

“Hey, so I was thinking,” you go on, flipping the bacon, “do you want to do some Christmas shopping today? I mean, I know you said you’re not thinking about it yet, but it can’t hurt to get a jump on things.” 

Steve yawns again, stretching his back. “Yeah, that sounds okay. Not sure I’d know what to get anyone.” 

You nod a few times. “Maybe you’ll know it when you see it.” Flip the bacon onto a plate, add more pepper to the eggs, put the bacon’s pan in the sink, turn off that burner on the stove—the toaster goes off, and you nearly hit your head on the ceiling. You jump straight up. 

“Oh.” You press a hand to your chest, laughter tripping off your tongue. Your blood thrums excitedly, like it’s finally found the outlet it's been looking for all morning. “God, that scared me.” 

“I could tell,” Steve says, eyebrows at his hairline and smiling faintly. “You doing alright?”

“Yeah, good.” Your heartbeat has become more noticeable all of a sudden, a hollow ache behind your breastbone. “I’m almost done, just a sec.” 

“No rush, honey. Thanks for making me breakfast. It looks great.” 

“Of course, no problem.” You plate up the rest and spin to find Steve already there, his hand the only thing stopping you from nearly flinging the dish into the wall surprisedly. 

“Thank you,” he says earnestly, taking the plate from you and setting it on the counter. He brings his arms around your shoulders, and you wrap yours around him too, an automatic response. Steve sighs, his ribs expanding and contracting with the force of it, and you copy him mockingly. 

“Still tired, baby?” 

“A little,” he admits. “Though I can’t really complain, considering how little sleep you’ve gotten.” 

You make to pull out of the hug, but Steve tightens his grip on you, palm pressing into the midpoint of your upper back. You give in, a willing captive. 

“It’s fine,” you tell him. “I’m sorry you’re tired.” 

Steve hums, taking another big breath. “I’m good.” A pause. “Okay, you can tell me if I’m crazy, but it does smell like something’s burning in here, right?” 

“Burnt,” you admit. “I left a blackberry cobbler in the oven a bit too long. The one in the fridge is a re-do.” 

“Oh, okay.” 

“Sorry.” 

“No, don’t be. I think the smell’s clearing out anyway. Right?”

You sniff experimentally at the air. “Yeah, I think so.” 

“Yeah?” he sniffs too. 

You inhale more fully, only detecting the faint remains of smokiness under the newer scent of bacon grease. 

“I’ve never had blackberry cobbler,” he says, palm beginning to coast slowly between your shoulder blades while his other arm stays firmly around your waist. “What’s it taste like?”

You perk up. “Wanna try some now?”

“No—I wouldn’t want to ruin this breakfast you’ve made me. Describe it to me.” 

It’s an odd request, but nothing you can’t manage for him. You think back, letting your tongue conjure up the memory of the last time you had it. “Well, the blackberries aren’t tangy by the time they’ve been cooked,” you tell him. Steve hums, hand solid and steady on your upper back. “And this recipe is really sweet. The dough is kind of like sugar cookie dough.” 

“Sounds good,” he says appreciatively. “Hey, do you think you can smell it?” 

“From inside the fridge?” You take your head from his shoulder to give Steve an odd look. 

“Sure, just give it a try.” He closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. You wrinkle your brow, sniffing tentatively. Steve opens his eyes as if to check you’re doing it, and it’s the worry in his look that gives him away. Your bemusement gives way to fondness as you take a long breath in, filling your lungs and holding the air inside you for a few moments before emptying them. You know what he’s doing, but you’re letting him anyway. 

“Mmm, don’t think I can,” you tell him wryly.  

“No?” Steve’s smile is sheepish, well aware you’re onto him. “Do you think we should find three things you can touch, just for fun?” 

You roll your eyes at him, but inhale again as you hug him tightly. Some of the pain in your chest eases. “Thanks, Stevie.” 

“What for?” he asks, hand resuming its route between your shoulder blades. “Hey listen, I’m all about your Christmas shopping idea, but do you wanna try taking a hot shower first? It might help you relax.” 

“That’s a good idea,” you admit, peeling away from him. He lets you this time, albeit reluctantly. “Your breakfast is going to get cold.”

Steve looks at it as though just remembering it’s there. “Right, thanks. Sit with me while I eat? You could have some of that tea you like.” 

You smile at him, taking a mug and your herbal tea down from the cabinet. “Yeah, that sounds good. Thanks.” 

“You’ve got to stop thanking me, I haven’t done a thing all morning.”

[qlossytbh]

Hello my love can you do a spencer reid x reader who experiences olfactory hallucinations (smelling things that arent there) please i just scared the shit out of myself cus i smelled a burning power outlet for like an hour 😭 the whole time i was unplugging everything and i thought my house was going to catch on fire 😰 i want him

𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬- 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 you experience olfactory hallucinations and spencer’s there to experience the rollercoaster that come with it lol

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 fem!reader, established relationship, just a lot of fluff, allergies (ugh), reader is freaking out (anxiety), me pretending to be science-y and act like i know what im writing about!

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 1.2k

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 i actually loved this request because I myself experience olfactory hallucinations due to my allergies and it’s really cool seeing someone else who has it! i unfortunately smell a wide varieties of things such as spoiled food, clogged toilets (yay!), and tobacco (love that for me)

𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

You rubbed your right eye vigorously, sniffling loudly with a following groan. Your hand then fell to its familiar rhythm, writing down your notes as you tried copiously to ignore the stuffiness that enclosed throughout your throat and nose. Your face itched gratingly, the corners of your eyes running with tears that wouldn’t seem to leave no matter how many times you tried blinking them away.

You had taken your allergy medication about thirty minutes ago and it wasn’t easing up— you felt puffy and somewhat aggravated.

Your T-shirt hung around your hips loosely, bunched up onto the chair you sat on at the desk of Spencer’s apartment, completing an assignment you needed to get done for your current job. Your hair was damp, ends still wet from the shower you had taken to decompress your sinuses.

You suddenly stopped all together, mind running blank. Twisting around in your chair, you turned to the kitchen and lifted your chin, staring down the ambience as if it was looking right back at you. What was that smell?

It was smokey and acrid and rotten and— definitely not supposed to be floating around the apartment. Unless something was wrong, you thought. You stood quickly, bare legs meeting the cold air as you patted over to the kitchen.

Your eyes scanned it frantically, checking for any signs of smoke or if any of the gas burners were on. Your heart was beating gratingly against your ears. The silence was so heavy you were beginning to feel dizzy. It was the type of quiet that made your skin crawl all the way up to the nape of your neck.

You sniffed again, trying to make sure you hadn’t hallucinated smelling what you had but much to your dismay— it still smelled like something was burning.

You hastily made your way to the desk, grabbing your phone and opening your contact list. It was only a few passing beeps from the other line before a voice rang out. “Hello?”

“Spence,” Your boyfriend picked up on your tone quicker than you would’ve preferred.

“Hey,” He said, sounding like he was reassuring you that he was there, voice soft although he didn’t necessarily know what had made you so distressed in the first place. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m okay.” You tucked a strand of hair behind your ears shamefully, glancing over at the kitchen.

“I’m pulling into the driveway right now, what’s going on?”

You bit the flesh of your bottom lip, making your way back into the kitchen. “Did you leave any of the burners on? Or plugged in anything you maybe— shouldn’t have..?”

Spencer paused on the other line, almost in profound contemplation. “No. I didn’t, why?”

“Because it smells like something is burning Spence,” You reached at the small handles of the ovens burners, rotating them all to signal they were off. “Are you sure you didn’t leave anything in?”

“I’m positive,” Somehow he could practically feel your hesitation, so he continued. “Baby, I have an eidetic memory. I would’ve remembered leaving something on,”

You huffed, still not entirely convinced because the smell was right there. It wasn’t strong, which caused even more anxiety to swirl inside of you, but it was there. The sound of a car door slamming shut was heard on the other end of the phone. “I’m freaking out,”

“I’m getting into the elevator, I’ll be up in a few seconds,” You paused.

A few rather long seconds later, the door pushed open. Spencer glanced at the handle, brows furrowed in annoyance. “It’s not locked— Why isn’t this locked?”

Your habit with leaving doors open was a problem, but it currently wasn’t your biggest. The strong smell still floated around, dancing through your nose and torturing you slowly. “Screw the door, do you not smell that?!”

Spencer closed the door behind him and set his bag down, along with his shoes. You watched him from the kitchen, crossing your arms across yourself and hugging your body closely.

“Where is the smell?” He stalked over towards the kitchen. His eyes lingered on the sight of you wearing nothing more than a t-shirt. It was something he didn’t think he’d ever get used to.

“I don’t know where it’s coming from,” You griped. Spencer really tried to find where the smell was coming, only so that he could ease you from your anxiety, but he really didn’t smell anything.

“I don’t smell anything love,” He reassured, looking over towards the stove just to be absolutely, positively sure.

“How do you not–?” You stopped, face falling from its tightened up expression. A relief unlike any other fell over you the second you understood what was going on.

“I’m–” You rubbed your temples, letting out a breathy laugh. “I’m an idiot,”

Spencer furrowed his brows, quickly walking beside you and setting a very much needed and comforting hand on your shoulder. “What?”

You remain quiet, reaching out and wrapping your arms around his torso and burying your face into his chest. Spencer stood there, muddled by your behavior but nevertheless happy to oblige with whatever you deemed necessary to feel better. He wrapped his arms around you, rubbing a few soothing circles onto your back.

“Yeah, I get olfactory hallucinations,” You trailed off, resting your cheek on his chest and not yet looking up at him.

“Phantosmia?” He quipped. You pulled away, looking up at him inquiringly.

“Huh?”

“Phantosmia,” He shifted his arms down to your waist. “It’s a sensory perception disorder where people experience smelling odors that aren't present in their environment. Unlike actual smells, which are triggered by external stimuli interacting with the olfactory receptors in the nose, phantosmia originates internally within the brain.”

You pulled a face. “Well, I call them olfactory hallucinations.”

“Well, medically they’re called phantosmia.” He countered. You narrowed your eyes as he tucked a strand of damp hair behind your ear.

“Show off.”

He huffed out a laugh. “I thought you liked it when I talked a lot.”

You hummed. “Yeah, that's true”

Unfortunately, you got olfactory hallucinations– or phantosmia– often. And it should’ve been the first thing you recalled once Spencer was denying any smells of burning outlets and gas. It always simultaneously flared up when your allergies did, meaning you probably should’ve known better— definitely would’ve saved you the near heart attack.

Spencer dragged his hand up and down your waist instinctively while you poked a finger into the rough surface of his chest “Got some more info for me smart-ass?”

Spencer gave you a look, rolling his eyes at your ridiculous giddy grin. “It isn’t very common. When it comes to disorders that affect the sense of smell, phantosmia makes up 10% to 20% of cases.”

“Well that makes me feel unique.”

Spencer bit back the need to tell you that you were already unique, but he referred against it. Not because he didn't want to— he always wanted to. But he knew he spent every single chance he could get to telling you how special you genuinely were to him.

“For some people, the odors that they hallucinate are pleasant, like freshly baked sweets—“

“You're joking,” He shook his head. You huffed, drawing your lips into a pout. “Do you know what I'd give to smell that instead of a goddamn burning outlet— it gives me anxiety.”

“Yeah, but look on the bright side,” Spencer leaned forward kissing your forehead. You basked in the simplicity and loveliness of his touch. “At least there wasn’t actually a burning outlet.”

“Yeah,” You smiled up at him. “That's true.”

[devildom-moss]

Biting their necks (Barbatos, Simeon, Solomon, Thirteen, Mephistopheles)

What would happen if you bit their necks with no warning?

(Barbatos x gn!MC) (Simeon x gn!MC) (Solomon x gn!MC) (Thirteen x gn!MC) (Mephistopheles x gn!MC)

(suggestive)

Word Count: +2,800 (Simeon got +800. Oops)

Barbatos

Baking sessions – or lessons, depending on your skill level – were a good excuse to monopolize a bit of Barbatos’s time. It was just the two of you in the kitchen. He was at the stove, keeping a close eye on the caramel, occasionally brushing the side of the pot with water to prevent scorching. You neglected your station to get behind him and wrap your arms around his waist.

Barbatos chuckled. “Did you finish cutting out the dough?”

“I got distracted by how cute you look when you’re in the kitchen. I know I can’t steal you away from Diavolo forever, so just let me have this,” you spoke softly against his shoulder.

“I’m cute? You are the only one I’d let say that.”

“You’re so cute – adorable, even.”

You inched closer to him, and without warning, you bit his neck – just above his collar. Knowing that Barbatos may get upset if you marked him, your teeth barely grazed his skin, but the sensation of your hot breath was enough to make him shiver slightly in your arms. It was a shame how much skin he had covered; there were only so many places you could tease him directly.

“Do you find me so irresistible that you intend to gobble me up?” he asked playfully. His face took on a light shade of pink, yet he still had the sense to stir the cream and butter into the caramel, creating a beautiful silky consistency. You watched him work for a minute.

“If I said yes?”

“I would welcome it – that is, I want it just as much as you do.” You felt his tail wrap around your ankle teasingly. “But I beg that you wait until after we’ve finished baking.”

“Oh, you’re no fun,” you cooed into his ear, “but how could I possibly deny your begging?”

“I’ll make it worth the wait. You have my word.” He lifted the pot off the burner, and you took that as your cue to let him go. He turned around, expecting to need to coax you into finishing cutting out the cookies. Slightly surprised, he questioned you: “oh, you did finish cutting out the dough, then? I thought you said you got distracted.”

“I wouldn’t disappoint my favorite man.” However, telling him that you had finished your task and just wanted to hold him didn’t sound as sweet as telling him he was distractingly cute. “You know, that look of surprise on your face is cute, too.”

Before he could respond, the oven dinged, signaling that it had finished preheating. Barbatos poured the caramel into a bowl to cool while you placed the sheet of cookies in the oven. He cleared his throat. “I suppose if you would like, I could indulge you for a few minutes now – just while the cookies bake.”

“So generous.” You pulled him into you, hands quick to unbutton his shirt.

Simeon

If one more demon brother bothered you today, you were going to set something – or someone – on fire. Luckily, Simeon was happy to host you for the afternoon; he didn’t even scold you about making threats of arson.

In the quiet peace that Simeon’s room held, your reading was interrupted by Simeon stretching at his desk – by no fault of his own, really. The lines of his body were so pretty. Maybe you still had some aggression in you that fed your urge to sneak up on him as he continued to write.

Simeon had barely acknowledged your proximity when you leaned down and bit him just above his collar. You heard a sharp inhale leave him, but the way he craned his neck away from you, giving you better access, indicated that he didn’t have any protests. He stopped writing, and you heard his pen drop on the desk. You took the opportunity to kiss down his shoulder and leave a mark there, too. Finally, you were able to pull a soft moan from his lips – stifled as it was.

“H-hey.” His voice was more complaisant than objecting. “Is this supposed to be my reward for letting you hide out in my room?”

“No. You were just too pretty to resist.” You kissed the bite mark on his shoulder, then the one on his neck, before you whispered in his ear, “would you like a proper reward?”

Simeon mulled the words over. “Perhaps.”

You left Purgatory Hall a few hours later, sneaking out without anyone noticing. Simeon returned to writing shortly after. He stayed preoccupied until Luke called him in for dinner.

When Simeon joined Luke and Solomon at the table, he had forgotten all about his bite marks. Luke stared at him, horrified. “Simeon! What happened to you?”

The realization hit Simeon like a cement block. Internally, he freaked out, grasping for anything while Solomon sat there, amused, and refusing any assistance. What Simeon landed on was a disgrace to him as an author: he accidentally turned you into a vampire with a spell while studying. You were so thirsty, and he didn’t know how to reverse the spell right away, so he let you drink some of his blood.

With his clumsy lie settled, Simeon quickly sent you a text to warn you about his story, begging you to go along with it.

MC: Wow. Why’d you have to do me dirty like that? Simeon: Do you want to explain to Luke why you really gave me a hickey? MC: Two. But no. Good luck!

Immediately after, you got a text from Luke, asking how you could bite poor Simeon. You apologized. Luckily, Luke forgave you; it was an accident, after all, but he asked you to be more careful next time. You were definitely going to be more careful.

“Mind telling me what spell you used there, Simeon?” Solomon asked, holding back a snicker. “Maybe I should try it out.”

“Solomon, no!” Luke protested. “You can’t just turn MC into a vampire.”

“Calm down, Luke. I always get consent first.”

“That doesn’t matter!”

“It matters quite a lot,” Solomon smirked. Simeon had enough and kicked Solomon under the table with a look on his face that a parent might give an older sibling who can’t hold their tongue.

When Raphael walked into the dining room, Simeon hoped he would be spared from his torment. He wasn’t.

“Where’d you get a hickey from, Simeon?” Raphael asked nonchalantly.

“MC bit him,” Luke explained on Simeon’s behalf as Simeon seemed reluctant to speak.

“Oh, they got to you too?”

“What?” The word fell from the other three in varying degrees of shock.

Raphael shrugged. “What?”

The texts came rolling in again.

Luke: Why did you drink from both Simeon and Raphael?

Shit. You had to think fast.

MC: I didn’t want to take too much blood from either one, so I tried to take a small amount from both of them. I’m so, so sorry. Luke: Oh. I guess that was nice of you. But please don’t do any more vampire spells, okay?

Solomon also sent you a text: Want to suck my blood too, MC? 🖤

Before you could think of an appropriate response to Solomon’s flirting, a new message from Simeon popped up. This was more urgent than Solomon’s shamelessness.

Simeon: “I’m sorry. Next time, I’ll remember to cover up – unless you wish to bite me somewhere less conspicuous, that is. Still, somehow, I’m glad you were the one who bit me this time. I can’t imagine how furious Luke would be at me if I was the one to bite you. He’s quite overprotective, isn’t he? However, I think I owe you. A mark for a mark. Perhaps I should throw in an extra one on Raphael’s behalf. Doesn’t that sound fair?”

You were in for it now.

Solomon

Mammon had told you that Asmo gave Solomon a hickey earlier that day. You didn’t know where Mammon was getting his information, but that did sound like something Asmo would do. Still, it made you a little jealous – not because Asmo had done that, but because you wanted to give Solomon a hickey too.

It was fortunate, then, that you had a study session with Solomon planned today. It was less fortunate for your grades and magical abilities that the only thing you had been studying since you showed up in Solomon’s room was his neck. That damn turtleneck wasn’t revealing anything.

Solomon noticed you had been watching him more intensely than usual. It was flattering, but you weren’t making any moves on him, and he was feeling impatient. “Is there something wrong? You keep staring at me.”

“Could you sit down for a minute?” you asked him.

Finally, he thought optimistically. Solomon took a seat on his couch. You walked over to him and hooked a finger under his collar, slowly pulling it down. Nothing. You checked the other side. Still nothing. Heat rose in Solomon’s cheeks.

“MC, what are you doing?”

“Quiet,” you hushed him and checked the other side of his neck again, pulling his collar down a bit lower than before. Where was it? It was a weird thing for Mammon to lie about, but perhaps he was just mistaken. Still, even if Asmo hadn’t gotten to Solomon’s neck recently, you figured it would be a waste to just leave him unscathed. You might as well use your blank canvas.  

You leaned down and bit his neck, sucking his skin – trying to mark him as yours. He whimpered at the sudden pain.

When you finally pulled away and inspected the pretty red mark on him, you noticed how flustered his face was.

“How did you expect me to stay quiet while you did something like that?” Solomon ran his fingers over the mark and accompanying teeth indents. “I don’t mind, but what’s gotten into you?”

“Mammon told me that Asmo gave you a hickey. I had to check, but I guess he was wrong. When I thought about Asmo getting to mark you,” you paused, “well, I wanted to mark you too.”

“Oh, he’s not wrong. Asmo did leave me with a hickey. I got rid of it with magic earlier today.” He laughed. “Honestly, MC. If I knew you were the jealous, possessive type, I would have let Asmo play around with me a bit more.”

“I’m not jealous per se. I just wanted to leave my mark on you.”

“You have.” He took your hand sweetly and added, “but I’ll make sure not to heal yours with magic. It’s a shame that you left it below my collar, though. I’d like to show off. Maybe you could leave a few more.”

Thirteen

When Thirteen invited you to her cave, you didn’t expect to find her distracted by her newest trap. The last time she invited you over, she greeted you at the entrance and guided you around. Maybe you had gotten your hopes up too much. It wasn’t as if she promised to give you her undivided attention.

“Work, you little fucker,” she cursed under her breath at the trap on her lap as she unscrewed the back panel yet again.

Your shoulders slumped, and you pouted slightly. This might take a while, you realized. Thirteen wasn’t particularly aggressive around you, but you could feel her tension in the room. Between that and your mounting boredom, you stood up.

“I’m going to take a walk,” you informed her. “You seem a bit busy.”

Shit. That sounded passive aggressive. Maybe you meant to be. She was the one who invited you over. It was reasonable to be a bit irritated. Regardless, it was effective. Your words hit her, and Thirteen almost dropped the tools in her hands – tightening her grip just before the pliers and screwdriver slipped from her grasp. She set her tools and her latest trap on the table quickly before standing up.

“Baby, no, wait. Come here.” Thirteen opened her arms wide for a hug, wanting you to come back into her embrace. You conceded, and once you were close enough, she pulled you against her body. “Sorry. I should have finished this before you showed up. I just had some last-minute issues, and I was in the zone. But he can wait. I promise.”

You buried your face in Thirteen’s neck. How was it possible for a reaper living in a cave to smell so sweet? You bit her softly as revenge for her neglect. She let out a startled yelp, but she didn’t stop holding you until you released her skin. Her breath was shaky, and her face was pink when she asked, “what was that for?”

“Punishment,” you admitted. “Is that okay?”

Thirteen laughed and pulled you backwards in the direction of her bed. Despite the fact that she was the one walking backwards, you nearly tumbled over her when she plopped down. You barely stopped yourself by putting your knee at the edge of her bed – right between her legs. She met your gaze when you stared down at her.

“Well? What are you waiting for?” Her pupils dilated, and the faint blush still sat on her cheeks. “Punish me more.”

Mephistopheles

“Why are you in the RAD Newspaper Club room again? I don’t remember inviting a foolish human to distract me today.” Mephisto sighed and scanned over a draft of an article on the new exhibit at the botanical garden. Technically, he had invited you to visit him earlier in the week “if you wanted to see how much effort goes into [his] work,” but he had clearly forgotten in his resolution to being a grump today. “You know little about the Devildom, and I don’t require your assistance. So, I invite you to get out.”

Sometimes his commitment to being a dick was tiring – especially when you were fully aware that he held some strong, affectionate feelings for you underneath it. Hell, he had glanced in your direction three times already, and they were not glances that suggested he wanted you to leave. If he wanted to play his little games, you could at least chastise him a bit – well, a bite.

“Alright, I’ll go, but first,” you left him in anticipation as you walked around his desk and leaned down behind him. You sank your teeth into the side of his neck, earning an adorably pained groan. Served him right.

As soon as you let go, Mephisto shot up from his chair. That was your cue to run. You rushed out of the room and hurried down the hall before he could finish telling you to “get back here this instant.”

You ran, stupidly glancing back just in time to bump into something solid. When you turned back to where you should have been looking, you were met with Lucifer’s confused face.

“Why are you running in the hall? What’s gotten into you? Are you alright?” Lucifer held you firmly in place by the shoulders. He was searching your eyes with concern. It was sweet of him to be worried, but you didn’t have time to stand around being worried over when the click of Mephisto’s heels was quickly approaching. He wasn’t running – but those long legs hastened his pace. He was like Michael Myers with a bit more urgency. “MC. What is it? Answer me.”

Lucifer’s concern had stalled you enough for Mephisto to catch up. He grabbed you by the back of the collar and pulled you out of Lucifer’s grasp.

“Wait,” Lucifer demanded. “What are you doing?"

“I’m taking this,” Mephisto informed him without turning around as he dragged you in the opposite direction. “It’s mine.”

Lucifer felt a portion of his brain die off. He swiftly turned on his feet and walked away. He was not dealing with this today.

“Can you let me go?” you asked Mephisto while squirming in his grip.

“If you don’t come willingly, I’ll throw you over my shoulder.”

“Are you even that strong?”

Mephisto’s eyes widened as if you had insulted him. You might as well have called him a weakling. He took your words as a challenge and pulled you into the nearest empty classroom. Once inside, he locked the door and held you close with one hand on the back of your head and the other on your back. Before you could register what happened, Mephisto had dropped you to the ground, landing over you, straddling your hips. His hands had protected your head and back from harsh contact with the floor.

“Ow. That still hurt my butt, you know?” You stared up at him. It actually didn’t hurt that much, but you wanted to complain.

“I’ll kiss it better later if you need me to, you big baby.” Mephisto sighed and pinned your hands to the side. “Strong enough for you?”

You made a half-hearted attempt to struggle. “Point taken; now you can get off.”

“Oh, no, I can’t.” Mephisto let you go with a smirk. He loosened his tie and started to unbutton his shirt. “We need to finish what you started, foolish human.”

(Mammon, Satan, Beelzebub, Diavolo, Raphael version)

(Lucifer, Leviathan, Asmodeus, Belphegor version)