#from some broken glass I was depositing

[oediex]

There are some specific circumstances in which people cannot believe I go barefoot. One of them is dropping off empty glass jars and bottles at the bottle bank. A circle of tiny pieces of scattered glass surrounds the deposit system. Dangerous, right?

It's not a big deal, actually.

All you have to do is carefully find your way through the pieces that gleam in the sun- or street light. Place your feet in the empty spots, carefully testing. If a piece of glass is there, you will feel before it breaks the skin. Just reposition yourself.

Once you're stood comfortably and safely, unload your jars and bottles. Then, just tiptoe your way out again.

Easy as that.

[unholyhelbig]

More Wandanat pls 😊

Title: Are you Avoiding me?

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff x Wanda Maximoff

Word Count: 2935

Warnings: pet names, sexual situations implied, broken glass, and horrible spelling (I don't proofread).

Summary: It's becoming harder and harder for reader to avoid both Natasha Romanoff and Wanda Maximoff. Things only get worse when they're cornered in their lab.

[A/n: This is just a little drabble, that's been sitting in my drafts for months, nothing with too much sustinance! I've been distracting myself lately with Wenclair content instead of writing]

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There were thousands of mugs with Shield’s logo on the side that floated around the compound, changing hands between agents and the high-ranking Avengers. It’s why you felt less bad about dropping the one in your grasp to the floor. It shattered into dozens of pieces, and the rest of the pale coffee you were drinking seeped out of the wreckage.

“Ow! Why? Why?” Clint’s voice had turned to a growl by the end of his sentence. He had righted himself and gripped his own mug to his chest, leveling you with a glare that was much too vicious this early in the morning.

The words were trapped in your throat and you dropped down behind the kitchen island, pressing yourself close enough to the wood to become apart of the grain. If you could just hide long enough for them to wander away, then all would be well.

The archer glanced down at you, and then back to the hallway that passed the communal kitchen. Natasha Romanoff had her brow furrowed, lifting a sculped eyebrow at him. She had just come back from her morning run, a fine sheen of sweat coating her muscles. He gave her a shrug and that was enough encouragement to send her on her way.

You let out a long sigh at the sound of her footsteps retreating. “Don’t look at me like that, Barton.”

“I can look at you anyway I want to, you’re the one that would rather be on the ground than talk to Natasha.”

It wasn’t just talking to Natasha. It was looking at her too; breathing the same air as her, meeting her fern-colored eyes across the room and ceasing to have a tangible thought pattern. You were an Avenger, for fucks sake, an ex-KGB spy shouldn’t make you fumble the way that you did.

“It’s not that hard, y/n. She’s harmless, really.”

That was easy for him to say. You huffed quietly and picked up the broken pieces of mug before depositing them into the trashcan. Coffee would make you too jittery anyway. So, if you really thought about it, your nerves had done you a favor.

“She’s terrifying.” You said, reaching for an empty glass. You filled it up with tap water and tentatively took a sip. It went down clunky and cold. “And gorgeous.”

“A combination that renders you absolutely useless.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

Clint lifted both of his eyebrows at you, not saying a word. He didn’t have to. And you didn’t need all of this judgement from him in the first place. He had been so scared of Natasha that he couldn’t bring her in, in the first place. He would tell it differently, but you didn’t stick around to find out.

There were other things that you had to do; like a mountain of paperwork and a few modifications to the Vibranium arm that had found its way onto your desk. A cold shower wouldn’t do you any harm either. And if your fingers were to wander? No one would know.

You flashed him the middle finger, abandoning all thoughts of nourishment for the day. Tony kept his labs stocked with bottled water and granola bars after some nagging from Pepper. That would hold you over until lunch and if you started to drift, there were plenty of electrical sources that would give you a low-grade jolt.

Most of the time, you kept your head down, earbuds in even if they weren’t playing music. It was easier not to get caught up in the fanfare of the Avengers. Most of them were human, and they made human mistakes even if they weren’t.

You answered your superiors and fixed any problems that arose with tech and machinery, sometimes even costuming. Those things were simple, cut and dry. Your feelings for Natasha Romanoff and Wanda Maximoff weren’t even slightly that.

There was admiration from afar, and Clint would even say a numbness that clouded your brain completely. That celebrity that all other agents produced around any of the spandex wearing heroes often evaded you.

But each time Wanda stepped through the doors of your lab to get a personal watch fixed, or once, a VHS player that had the scent of smoke and burning plastic. She’d jutted out her lower lip when a copy of ‘I Love Lucy’ was burnt to a crisp.

Despite your meager salary, you had found one at the thrift and set it outside her door without a word. Not a romantic gesture, Clint. You should have seen her face. It was something you’d do as a friend, a co-worker.

Your shoulder collided with something strong, yet soft. There was a small grunt released from the back of your throat. You got a mouthful of the scent of rain and vanilla tobacco. But strong hands were suddenly gripping your forearms, keeping you steady.

Your eyes widened and met with curious hazel ones. You thought you gave Natasha enough time to get back to her room. But here she was, in that tight tank top, sweat drenching the collar. She looked beautiful, the lights overhead hitting her.

Agent Romanoff reached up and pulled one of your earbuds out, letting it hang loose against your chest. “Doctor y/l/n, are you avoiding me?”

“Avoiding?” You laughed with a little too much force, compensating for the lost air by snorting and instantly regretting it. A light blush fell over your cheeks. She didn’t look mad, in fact, she looked quite amused. “No, no. I’m not avoiding.”

“So, what would you call ducking down behind the counter in the kitchen?”

“How did you…”

��I’m a superspy and you’re not exactly subtle.”

Yeah. You’d forgotten about that. She didn’t’ allude to the fact, simply continuing on her way and leaving you to your horrible conversation with Clint. But then she had waited in front of your lab, her own clearance not allowing her past the sliding doors without you in it.

She lilted her head to the side “Don’t worry about it, it’s actually rather adorable.”

The heat against your cheeks started to spread down your neck and to your collarbone. If she noticed, and of course she noticed, she didn’t’ say anything. But she released her hold, and you fought back a whimper of disappointment.

“What can I do for you, Agent Romanoff?”

“Us, actually.” She responded, eyes darting towards the locked doors. “I’d rather talk somewhere a bit more private, if that’s alright.”

“Yeah, yeah, absolutely that’s alight. If this is about the Widow Bites that I redesigned then I can most definitely tweak them. We don’t want you to get a jolt every time you use them. Not that I’m saying you’re not skilled enough to avoid that,”

You kept talking as you swiped your card and it with a beep, walking into the instant familiarity of your lab. There was a coolness there for tactical purposes, but it washed over your heated skin and hopefully took some of the soft color away.

You started to flit around the lab, flicking on all the lights and the different purifiers. There was an experiment that Fitz was working on that needed a rotating heat source and that was turned on as well.

“If we remove the outer panel and with a little tweaking, we can make them non-lethal, heavy with stopping power. They can break up under the sub-cutaneous tissue-“

Again, you ran into Natasha. Her body was so warm and solid, stable compared to the way you buzzed about. The door had slid shut behind you, its frosted glass exterior shielding you from the rest of the world.

This time you didn’t’ rush to apologize, instead you pushed your glasses up to the center of your nose and stared at her in a comfortable silence. “This wasn’t about your widow bites. You said us.”

She nodded at you, suddenly seeming quite shy herself. You’d never seen her avert her gaze before and something about the reaction worried you. Your stomach was doing somersaults, flipping back and forth between pure panic and excitement. This was the longest you two had spent in one another’s space without you bolting from the room.

“For the past six months I’ve been involved in a sexual relationship with Wanda Maximoff.”

“Uh,”

It was the only word that you could muster. Thoughts that flushed your cheeks all over again ran through your mind; bare breasts pressed against each other, lips hungrily clashing, hands raking up perfectly toned muscles. Your eyes were hazy with lust, but you blinked it away just as fast as it had settled. Natasha ghosted a smirk regardless.

“It was purely sexual, we both needed to blow off some steam. I’m sure you know how that is.”

On nights when you needed to ‘blow off steam’, you went into the empty training room and ran for six miles before taking a stark cold shower to loosen your muscles. When you ran, you forgot about the dip of Natasha’s collarbone and the dexterity of Wanda’s fingers.

Now that you thought about it, there were signs that the two of them had something and why shouldn’t they? Subtle touches that led to more. The tenderness in Natasha’s eyes betrayed more. If she hadn’t noticed yet, you weren’t going to be the one to tell her.

“It was fun for a while, a supply closet here, the gym floor there. But going on month seven it’s almost losing its… spark.”

“I’m sorry?” You were cautious with your words, and she giggled, the Black Widow herself was giggling at you.

“I’m not so good at this.”

“You’re good at everything.”

She smiled “Wanda insisted that I come and talk to you first because you’re skittish. Moreso around her than me. She was upset when I told her you let me stay the afternoon in here last week, just watching you work.” 

Each move you made that day was languid. There was a nervousness to you that seemed to vanish when you could open up the back of a monitor and stare at the innerworkings. You were recruited right out of MIT, and though you had been offered more than one job, you jumped at the idea of working in the Stark tower, living here.

She worked her hand through her hair and sighed “see, not so good at this.”

“What exactly is this?”

Natasha furrowed her brow and a small crease formed between her eyebrows in response. You wanted to reach up and smooth it away with the subtle touch of your thumb. That part wasn’t complicated, not like people usually were.

So, you did just that, you touched the pad of your finger to her soft, warm skin and pressed until the tension started to leave her body. Natasha’s fingers wrapped around your wrist and moved your hand until you cupped her cheek. She sighed into the embrace; eyes closed for more than a single moment.

“I want you, y/n.” She mumbled against the palm of your hand, turning it to the side and delivering a single kiss to the pulse point on your wrist. You were sure that she could feel the quickness in which it thrummed. “So does Wanda.”

You were dizzy, suddenly glad for her hold on you. Months, close to a year, you had spent ducking behind counters and taking the long way back to your dorm. They were both stunning to an intimidating degree, to the point where it devastated you.

“Say something, please” Natasha whispered, voice breaking “I know this is a lot and you can absolutely decline. We can forget this conversation ever happened and you can go back to breaking coffee mugs.”

“No! I mean, no. I don’t want to go back to breaking coffee mugs. I think Clint is running a tab, and Mr. Stark isn’t exactly generous with our salaries.”

A grin spread across Natasha’s face. It was like being wrapped in a warm towel after a long day in the rain. You’d do anything to make her smile. You were in down bad, not that you’d admit it to Bird Boy.

She tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Can I kiss you?”

You nodded, not trusting your ability to vocalize anything right now. Her lips were on yours, soft and tender. She kissed you slowly, with purpose. The two of you savored the moment, a sigh of extasy escaping you, your arms winding around her shoulders, hers pressing against your spine.

Natasha broke the embrace, staring hazily at you. That cocky smile had turned into a wonderstruck and borderline goofy one. Have you broken the superspy? She’d certainly made you waver. You were effectively rendered silent.

“Oh, sweet girl, how easy it is to fluster you.” Natasha pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. “But I fear that a certain witch is lurking just close enough for you to open the door.”

It slid open on its own with a dejected beep. You glanced down at the pocket of your lab coat, badge still attached. A small pout made its way to your lips but softened when Wanda stalked into the mostly empty lab, you felt your defenses lower.

The remnants of red twirled around her fingers- and god, you didn’t mean to stare, but they held a power to them. With Natasha slotted against your body, the primal scent of her, you couldn’t stop your mind from wandering. Oh, how good they’d feel on your tongue.

A pink blush crept up her collarbone and at the tips of her ears. Wanda raised a perfectly sculpted brow at you. There was no doubt in your mind that your thoughts were loud enough for her to hear them. And somehow, you didn’t mind one bit. You’d never imagine being this bold with either of them, but the kiss with Natasha had left you heady, greedy for more.

“Have you been able to do that the whole time?” You panted out, watching the door slide shut once more.

“Well, yes. But I respect your privacy… to an extent. You have quite the dirty mind, don’t you?”

“I… you… no!”

You pulled away from Natasha, crossing your arms over your chest. If you weren’t careful, your glasses would fog up just by being in the same vicinity as them both. Sure, there had been a few times where you’d let your mind wander; images of Wanda shoving you against the wall, pinning your arms above your head.

Natasha taking you over the lab table that you made sure was meticulous in every single way each night before you left. The thought of them taking control was alluring, tantalizing. You thought all the time, too much about every move you made. You didn’t want to admit that you’d welcome not thinking at all, even if it was only for a few moments.

“You’re a terrible liar.” Wanda soothed.

“That’s why Stark keeps me in the basement.”

She’d gotten impossibly close. You could smell the lavender shampoo that often accompanied her. They were both taller than you, though, not by much. Your breath still hitched in your throat at her proximity. Wanda tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, lilting her head to the side in a way that made your knees feel unstable.

“Is this okay?”

You nodded, and a smile moved across her lips. “You need to use your words, sweetheart.”

“Oh, don’t be mean, Wanda.” Natasha wrapped her arms around your midsection, resting her chin against your shoulder. You felt the incredible warmth she provided, nearly sighing into it. “This is a lot to take in. Baby steps.”

You couldn’t tell which of the two held more control over the situation, but didn’t much care when you felt Wanda’s breath hot against your lips. She closed the distance and you kissed until it stung, until your lungs were begging for air. A desperate noise that you had never made before escaped you when she broke the embrace.

All the while, the calloused pads of Natasha’s fingers were running softly over the expanse of skin between your waistband and shirt. Her touch was so delicate and impossibly warm compared to the coolness of the lab.

Natasha hugged you closer, and you allowed her to. Everything about both women surrounding you screamed control. The darkness that settled over Wanda’s stare made a wetness pool between your thighs. You squeezed them together in an attempt of subtly.

It was like fooling a seer. They could read your body like an open book and you clenched your eyes shut but could still feel the grin that stretched across Natasha’s face in the crook of your neck. It would be so easy to give up control to them.

“Does anyone else have the key to your lab?” Wanda purred, her hand splayed on your chest in a startling grounding motion. Your eyes snapped open, hazy with lust.

You were breathless, stunned. “Just you.”

Wanda’s head tilted, her tongue darting out against her bottom lip. Chills pushed down your spine, Natasha’s hold tightening around your center. You were sure that you’d catch flame right there and wake up from this dream. But neither of them vanished when you blinked.

“Good. What’s your safe word, darling?”

Natasha’s grin was nothing short of wolfish. She squeezed both of your hips possessively, hauling you with a spy’s quickness onto the nearest counter. You nudged a white mug with a SHIELD logo on the front. It fell to the floor, shattered into a million different pieces.

 None of that seemed to matter.

[inkskinned]

you're grabbing lunch with a nice man and he gives you that strange grimace-smile that's popular right now; an almost sardonic "twist" of his mouth while he looks literally down on you. it looks like he practiced the move as he leans back, arms folded. he just finished reciting the details of NFTs to you and explaining Oppenheimer even though he only watched a youtube about it and hasn't actually seen it. you are at the bottom of your wine glass.

you ask the man across from you if he has siblings, desperately looking for a topic. literally anything else.

he says i don't like small talk. and then he smiles again, watching you.

a few years ago, you probably would have said you're above celebrity gossip, but honestly, you've been kind of enjoying the dumb shit of it these days. with the rest of the earth burning, there's something familiar and banal about dragging ariana grande through the mud. you think about jeanette mccurdy, who has often times gently warned the world she's not as nice as she appears. you liked i'm glad my mom died but it made you cry a lot.

he doesn't like small talk, figure out something to say.

you want to talk about responsibility, and how ariana grande is only like 6 days older than you are - which means she just turned 30 and still dresses and acts like a 13 year old, but like sexy. there's something in there about the whole thing - about insecurity, and never growing up, and being sexualized from a young age.

people have been saying that gay people are groomers. like, that's something that's come back into the public. you have even said yourself that it's just ... easier to date men sometimes. you would identify as whatever the opposite of "heteroflexible" is, but here you are again, across from a man. you like every woman, and 3 people on tv. and not this guy. but you're trying. your mother is worried about you. she thinks it's not okay you're single. and honestly this guy was better before you met, back when you were just texting.

wait, shit. are you doing the same thing as ariana grande? are you looking for male validation in order to appease some internalized promise of heteronormativity? do you conform to the idea that your happiness must result in heterosexuality? do you believe that you can resolve your internal loneliness by being accepted into the patriarchy? is there a reason dating men is easier? why are you so scared of fucking it up with women? why don't you reach out to more of them? you have a good sense of humor and a big ol' brain, you could have done a better job at online dating.

also. jesus christ. why can't you just get a drink with somebody without your internal feminism meter pinging. although - in your favor (and judgement aside) in the case of your ariana grande deposition: you have been in enough therapy you probably wouldn't date anyone who had just broken up with their wife of many years (and who has a young child). you'd be like - maybe take some personal time before you begin this journey. like, grande has been on broadway, you'd think she would have heard of the plot of hamlet.

he leans forward and taps two fingers to the table. "i'm not, like an andrew tate guy," he's saying, "but i do think partnership is about two people knowing their place. i like order."

you knew it was going to be hard. being non-straight in any particular way is like, always hard. these days you kind of like answering the question what's your sexuality? with a shrug and a smile - it's fine - is your most common response. like they asked you how your life is going and not to reveal your identity. you like not being straight. you like kissing girls. some days you know you're into men, and sometimes you're sitting across from a man, and you're thinking about the power of compulsory heterosexuality. are you into men, or are you just into the safety that comes from being seen with them? after all, everyone knows you're failing in life unless you have a husband. it almost feels like a gradebook - people see "straight married" as being "all A's", and anything else even vaguely noncompliant as being ... like you dropped out of the school system. you cannot just ignore years of that kind of conditioning, of course you like attention from men.

"so let's talk boundaries." he orders more wine for you, gesturing with one hand like he's rousing an orchestra. sir, this is a fucking chain restaurant. "I am not gonna date someone who still has male friends. also, i don't care about your little friends, i care about me. whatever stupid girls night things - those are lower priority. if i want you there, you're there."

he wasn't like this over text, right? you wouldn't have been even in the building if he was like this. you squint at him. in another version of yourself, you'd be running. you'd just get up and go. that's what happens on the internet - people get annoyed, and they just leave. you are locked in place, almost frozen. you need to go to the bathroom and text someone to call you so you have an excuse, like it's rude to just-leave. like he already kind of owns you. rudeness implies a power paradigm, though. see, even your social anxiety allows the patriarchy to get to you.

you take a sip of the new glass of wine. maybe this will be a funny story. maybe you can write about it on your blog. maybe you can meet ariana grande and ask her if she just maybe needs to take some time to sit and think about her happiness and how she measures her own success.

is this settling down? is this all that's left in your dating pool? just accepting that someone will eventually love you, and you have to stop being picky about who "makes" you a wife?

you look down to your hand, clutching the knife.

[moonstruckme]

i was wondering if we could have some roomate!james where him and reader have a disagreement over something and reader feels like james don’t want her there anymore but he comforts her??

Thanks for requesting!

cw: reader feels financially insecure

roommate!James x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words

“James.” You run your fingers worriedly over the small tears in the doorframe. Look to your roommate in the kitchen. “This is getting out of hand.” 

“What is?” 

“Juniper’s been scratching on the doorframe again.” 

James tsks. “Junie-girl,” he coos, little reprimand to be found in his tone as he looks down at the orange cat currently winding through his ankles, “what are you trying to do to us, huh?” 

You’re not quite so amused. Since James had agreed to look after his friend Lily’s cat while she’s traveling, Juniper has knocked down and broken two of your glasses, scratched up a corner of the couch, and pissed on the carpet in James’ room. You’re lucky you don’t have to deal with the smell of that last one yourself, but you doubt your landlord will be pleased if James can’t get it out by the end of your lease. 

“She’s got to stop,” you say, oddly unsure if you’re trying to reason with James or the cat. “It’s getting really noticeable.” 

“I’m not sure what else to do.” James shrugs. His pan sizzles as he turns over the chicken he’s cooking. “I’ve already moved her favorite scratching post over by the door and sprayed it with the catnip Lily gave me.” 

You cross your arms and sit down on the couch, chewing the inside of your lip. “I’m worried about the security deposit,” you admit. 

“Oh, don’t be.” James waves a hand vaguely in your direction. “My last apartment was way worse than this when I moved out, and they didn’t charge me for anything.” 

His unconcern nettles you. Of course, why would James be upset about a security deposit? He likes to pretend at independence, but you know his parents will always give him funds if he’s in a bind. He doesn’t worry about money the way you do. 

 “Yes, but that was a different landlord, wasn’t it.” There’s a bit of bite to your tone, and you try to soften it. “Maybe someone else could take her for the rest of Lily's trip?” 

James turns, eyebrows lifting as though he’s surprised you’d even ask. “She couldn’t get anyone else to take her in the first place. Mary’s visiting her family, Marl’s allergic, and Sirius would have a cow.” You’re not very inclined to find the last one a spectacular excuse, but you keep your mouth shut. “I agreed to take her,” he says, somewhat firmly, “and I don’t want to go back on that.” 

Heat prickles over your skin. “I just—listen, I can paint over the small things,” you say. “I’m going to try to cover up as many damages as I can, but when your friends come over and break the handle off the microwave” —true story— “or you let their cats tear up the apartment, I don’t know what to do.” 

“I told you I’m going to fix the microwave,” he says without turning around. 

“When, James? That was months ago, and—” 

“And if my friends coming over is a problem for you, it’s not like you didn’t have plenty of opportunities to mention it when we first moved in.” Now James is growing agitated too, his posture stiffening over the stove. “I don’t get where this is coming from. I told you before we moved in that I’d want to have friends here often. When I asked if Junie could stay here, you said it was fine!” 

“I didn’t know it’d be like this!” You feel ridiculous, nearly shouting at him in your mostly lovely apartment. James really isn’t a bad roommate overall; you know you could do far worse. But the small things have begun to add up, and you really cannot afford not to lose your deposit. “I like your friends, and I like Junie, but this is—it’s too much.” 

“You shouldn’t have lived with me if you couldn’t deal with it.” 

James flicks off the stove, turning around to speak to you directly, and you see the moment he sees the glossy sheen in your eyes. His expression pinches. 

“Sweetheart—” 

“No. Do not feel bad for me right now,” you hiss, blinking furiously. “Just because I’m not good at arguing doesn’t mean I’m not still mad.” 

Your anger is rapidly fading, though, as his words reverberate around in your head. You shouldn’t have lived with me. Does he really think that? There are certainly things upon which you don’t see eye-to-eye, but you love living with James. You love spending time with him, sharing things with him, just being around him. The idea that he doesn’t feel the same about you starts spiderweb cracks going through your heart. 

“I’m not good at arguing either,” he says with a hefty sigh. The tension seems to go out of his shoulders with it, and he starts toward you with heavy steps, plopping down on the couch. “Can we just talk, please?” 

You sniffle, working hard to suppress your tears. “Do you think it’d be better if we didn’t live together?” you ask. 

James' eyes widen behind his glasses. His brows hook up in the middle. “No. Why would you say that?” 

You shake your head, not quite looking at him. “I honestly do like your friends. I don’t mind them coming over or helping you do favors for them, and I get that—that sometimes things happen.” You take a shallow breath. Ignore the way James’ hand twitches in his lap. “But you’re right that I didn’t consider all of this when we moved in together. I’m okay with trying to get past it, but if you want me to move out—” 

“Oh my god, no.” James leans forward, trying to catch your gaze. You don’t let him, because just then a small droplet of water squishes out of the corner of your eye and begins a slow trudge down your cheek. “Sweetheart, I don’t want that. I like living with you.” 

Juniper hops up onto the couch, plodding onto your lap and rubbing her side against your stomach affectionately. A wet laugh bubbles out of you, more tears cresting your cheeks as you scratch awkwardly between her ears. 

James makes a sound so soft you think you’ll dream about it. “Can I hug you?” 

You lean toward him in answer. He meets you halfway, needling his arms under yours and folding you into him. You press your face, hot with embarrassment and upset, into the crook of his neck and shoulder, and James’ hand rubs your back in big, sweeping circles, before it stops moving at all, pressing flush to your spine, easing you closer. Junie hops off your lap. Evidently, she considers your comfort taken care of.

“I don’t want you to pity me,” you mumble. When you blink, your lashes leave wetness like the strokes of a paintbrush on his skin. “If you want me to move out, it’s okay.” 

“I don't,” he promises, squeezing you until it almost hurts. “I was being rash. I was only being defensive because you were angry. About very reasonable stuff, if I’m honest. I can pay for your half of the security deposit if we lose it.” 

You shake your head, shifting your body to hug him harder. James meets you a hundred percent. “You don’t need to do that.” 

“I do, it’s fine. It’s my mess. Just don’t talk any more about moving out, okay?” 

You mumble your agreement into his neck. It tickles, and James squeaks, but he doesn’t let you go.

[fcthots]

here with some Christmas gus ask 💪💪

when jason sets up the Christmas tree he has to place the decorations of the tree high enough, out of gus's reach, because gus always plays with them and knocks the Christmas decorations if they're within close reach

- 🦇

Merry Christmas nonnie!! Gus is the best present

Tim had a minor injury. Very minor. That was why he collapsed on the fire escape of your apartment. Okay, maybe the blood loss wasn't ideal, but hey. He's not dead yet.

Though he thinks he might die out of spite when he sees the large orange ball of fluff staring at him from the window. Gus's screech of a meow does not help the migraine brewing behind his eyes. Though he supposes he should be thankful when said demon screech alerts you to the bleeding bird on your balcony. He watches the shock and worry on your face as you use one hand to tear open the window and the other to hold the still yelling cat away from his desired escape route.

"Tim, what the fuck??? JASON"

He tries to say "it's fine," but to be completely honest, he's not sure he gets the words out. He sees Jason come barrelling down the hallway, eyes checking over your body for injury until he spots Tim still laying in a pile on his fire escape.

"Hey." He is fairly confident that he managed to get his mouth to move this time. Jason does not respond to his greeting in the same kind manor Tim had opened with. Rude.

Jason manages to pick Tim up and deposit him into a chair. He spends time stitching up the knife wound Tim got from what he swears was "just a lucky hit." Tim takes Jason's mother henning in stride while you make him something to eat, insisting that a granola bar doesn't count as dinner. Gus is not happy about Tim's intrusion into his home, watching his every move. Tim assumes the cat thinks it's being subtle, but all 20 pounds of cat do not hide behind the leg of the kitchen table as well as it may think. Especially when it flops over as Jason passes, heading to grab some spare clothes for Tim who "shouldn't grapple home with a stab wound."

Tim huffs and crosses his arms, only slightly wincing as it tugs at his stitches. It's only then that he notices the tree, the tree that only has the top half decorated. Almost three feet above the ground of this tree has no ornaments. He can find no discernible reason. He knows Jason would have decorated the apartment November first and it is well into December. He's seen the ridiculous number of ornaments that the two of you own. To be honest, he's not sure where you keep all the decorations out of season. The working theory is an extra safe house somewhere, but after working this pet project in his spare time for two years now, he hasn't figured out which one. Regardless, he can think of no reason, nay, negative reasons as to why not all of your tree is decorated. He stares at it so long that he spaces out and loses track of time.

Come to think of it, has your tree always been like this? He's noticed that the bottom of your tree usually has less ornaments, but the no ornaments thing has to be new, right?

"Uh Tim?" He whirls around to face you where you hand him a plate of something that looks like pasta. He briefly looks at you and then back over to the tree. "You good there, bud?"

"I am losing my mind. Why is only half of your tree decorated?"

"Is that why you've been staring at the tree for over a half hour now?"

"It's bothering me. Please. I have to know."

Tim isn't sure why he was expecting it to be some earth shattering secret. He probably should not be disappointed that it wasn't because you were sending an assassin a top secret code using trees. He is only mildly ashamed to report that his mouth hung open with slight judgement and shock as you said, "Gus likes to knock the ornaments off the tree for sport, and while we're usually just glad he's getting exercise, last year he tried to eat the glass of a broken ornament so we're just playing it safe this year."

The cat seems to laugh at Tim's descent into insanity from behind the table's leg. The cat could be an assassin now that he thinks about it.

And now that he thinks about it harder, maybe he lost more blood than he was previously aware of.

[matchavellichor]

Just This Once Pt. 2

dark!Ominis x f!MC - NSFW/Angst - 3.4k words

Tags: !!Non-con!!, Pining, Obsession, Drugged Sex, Somnophilia, Cunnilingus

Part 1, Part 3 ☆ﾐ(o*･ω･)ﾉ

“You alright, Ominis?” 

“Fine,” Ominis forces a tight-lipped smile. He’s been nursing the same glass of firewhiskey for most of the evening, barely able to get it down. “Just tired.”

Sebastian gives a sigh as he stands, only wobbling slightly. He knows that look on his friend’s face, the familiar I don’t want to be here, but I’m too polite to leave. 

“Why don’t you help her back to Slytherin then? I’m gonna stay a while and she’s clearly had enough.” He nods to where their friend is warring against a black-out, slumped against the garrish scarlet cushions of one of the common room couches.

Sebastian chuckles as he helps her from her seat, stilling her wrists when she playfully swats at him and insists she’s fine. She’s deposited in Ominis’ arms before he can get a word in.

She stops her grumbling when she realizes who’s holding her up, blinking up at him for a moment before her lips curl into a pleased smile. “You’re still here, Omi?”

“Still here,” he murmurs, trying to keep his breathing even when she loops her arm with his to steady herself.

He meanders the both of them through the noisy Gryffindor common room, out into the cool, dimly-lit hallway. She hums one of the old tavern tunes the Gryffindors have been belting the entire night, slurring all the words the entire journey towards the dungeons. He bites the inside of his cheek, pretending he isn’t amused.

She leans on him, her fingers curling around his bicep for support, as she stumbles through the coiling serpent door, and that familiar ache manifests itself in his gut. 

He ignores it. He’s done a good job of ignoring it so far, hasn’t laid a finger on her—just like he promised. He isn’t a bad person, after all. He won’t do what he did to her again. It was a one-time thing, just to scratch an itch, and he’s more than capable of suffering in silence from now on, the same way he always has. 

By the time they finally cut through the Slytherin common room, he’s practically carrying her. She’s dozing off with her head on his shoulder, soft and pliant in his arms, and he feels this strange sort of tightening feeling in his chest.

He’s felt that dull, longing pain for a while. This is exponentially worse, as if his pining has finally culminated into something unbearable. He grinds his teeth and holds his breath and pretends he doesn’t feel tempted to bury his nose in her hair, to inhale until his inhibitions melt away and he does something stupid.

He sets her down on her feet when he reaches the stairs to the girls’ dormitories, but has to hold her up to keep her from falling over. Her words are stumbled over, soft and broken by yawns. “D’you think…you could bring me up?”

“You know I can’t,” he sighs. “Wards.”

She frowns, looking up at him. “Then…bring me to yours?” 

He immediately shakes his head. “That’s not a good idea—”

“Oh, come on,” her fingers curl into the front of his shirt and he’s suddenly acutely aware of just how close she is. It’s suffocating, in a dreadfully pleasant way. He never thought he could find asphyxiation appealing, but he’s learned by now to not put anything past her. “Please?” 

She pleads so pretty. He thinks of how she sounded back in the Undercroft, when he had her body pinned underneath his. Heat pools in that spot just below his navel and he suppresses a shudder. He runs a hand down his face to disperse the memory, nodding jerkily. “Yeah, al-alright. Fine.”

He shouldn’t give in so easily. He finds himself in possession of very little faculties to refuse her absolutely anything.

//

Ominis mutters a few locking charms as soon as he carries her into the quiet of his empty dorm. For her privacy, he tells himself, and ignores that contrite little voice in his head that knows it’s for something more. He pretends he doesn’t feel some sick satisfaction in knowing he has her all to himself.

It’d be easy to do it all again, he thinks. Perhaps even easier than the first time, with her state.

The thought leaves his head as quickly as it comes. He won’t. He has control over this. He has control over himself, most importantly. However, the longer he’s around her, the more she presses her body into his, the less convinced he is of the fact.

He takes a sharp breath and sits her down on the edge of his bed to unlace her boots for her. Her calves are small in his hands, delicate. There’s something appealing about that realization that he doesn’t stop to dwell on. 

When he’s done, he helps her brush her teeth and comb her hair. It’s strangely domestic. Once again, he tries not to think about the warm, fuzzy feeling it gives him. He knows by now he has no right to crave such things. Wholesomeness isn’t for people who imperius and molest their friends.

He can’t help the smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth when she flops down onto his bed, tangling herself in silky emerald sheets. “Smells nice,” she murmurs, voice muffled with her face buried in his pillow.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever wash those sheets again.

He hovers near the foot of the bed, hands tucked chastely in his pockets, posture awkwardly stiff. He clears his throat. “You—uh, you should probably take a sober-up.”

She props herself up on her elbows to look at him, tilting her head with a pout. “That’s no fun.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “I think you’ve had enough fun for one night.”

She falls back onto the pillows with a groan. “Fine.”

He kneels in front of the bedside table he shares with Sebastian, rummaging through the drawers in search of a sober-up he’s sure the brunette certainly keeps in store.

His hand brushes a familiar vial, and for a brief moment he forgets about the potion he’s supposed to be looking for, in favor of thumbing over the worn label he knows too well.

He used to take it whenever his anxiety got too bad, when sleep was scarce because of nightmares. He’s more than familiar with the side-effects—only a bit more potent than a calming draught, really. Makes him drowsy, helps him sleep.

A thought passes through his head, but this time it lingers.

He closes the drawer with his knee and hovers over where she’s still curled on his bed, the dull edges of the vial biting into his skin where he’s tightened his fist around it.

It isn’t like he’s drugging her. He takes the potion himself. He’s just helping her relax a bit, that’s all.

“Here,” he brushes a hand over her shoulder to get her attention, her warmth seeping through the linen of her blouse to his palm. He resists the urge to dip his hand under the hem of her collar, skin-to-skin. “Can you open your mouth for me?”

He pretends he doesn’t feel the little flicker of heat that manifests in his stomach when she obeys, parted lips brushing his fingertips, looking up at him through her lashes. 

He uncorks the dropper from the vial and drips a few more drops than the recommended dose on her tongue, and then a couple more. Her nose wrinkles from the bitter taste, but she swallows nonetheless. “Gross.”

He huffs a laugh, helping her lay back down. “A bit.”

“Thank you,” she sighs, eyes half-lidded. He finds he likes the dazed quality of her voice a bit too much. “You’re a savior, Omi.”

He forces a smile and swallows down the guilt he feels burrowed in his chest. His mouth tastes bitter. “It’s no problem, really.” 

He goes to tug the comforter over her body but she protests, limbs feeling too heavy to use properly. He gets a strange sort of thrill when he feels how weakly she pushes at his wrists. 

“Need—need to take this off first,” she murmurs, voice already softened.

She tugs at the laces of her bodice, but her fingers are languid and clumsy, lacking too much dexterity to untie them. The potion is fast-acting, he notes with a disgusting amount of satisfaction. She looks up at him for help, guiding his hands to the front of her blouse. He swallows the lump in his throat. “Right—uh, sure.”

He tries to still the trembling in his fingers as he unworks the latticework of ribbons, but he supposes she’s too bleary now to even notice. He helps her shrug off the garment, her arms limp when he holds them up to pull the fabric over her head. That little flickering heat in his gut is stoked higher when he notes how perfectly her two wrists fit in just one of his hands. 

He likes her like this, maybe to an alarming degree. Weak and pliant. It reminds him of her state under the Imperius, trance-like, bending to his will because she lacks the capacity to do much else.

He helps her shimmy out of her skirt as well, even though she never asks him to. She doesn’t protest. Just lets his hands adjust her as he sees fit. He doesn’t linger on the fact that she’s only letting him because she doesn’t have the power to voice any objections, much less stop him.

That tiny, wanton flame inside him has been fed into an all-consuming fire, far too zealous to allow even a shadow of guilt to hinder his actions. 

The chemise she wears underneath her clothes is sheer, barely reaching the tops of her knees. Easy to tear, he thinks as he smooths his hand down her hip, only briefly. She lets out a soft sigh and he pulls back. Still too lucid.

Temptation is a pretty thing tangled in his sheets, donned in thin, satiny fabrics.

It’d be so easy to take. The thought comes and sticks, even as he tries to rid himself of it. It’s tacky, enticing, gluing itself to the walls of his brain.

He wouldn’t even need to use an Unforgivable again, not like last time. No breaking any promises—though he notes that the thought of doing so is less nausea-inducing now than the first time. The idea more digestible. He doesn’t dwell on the implications behind that.

He unclasps the first few buttons of his shirt as he waits for her breathing to finally steady out. It isn’t long before she’s out like a light.

He sits on the adjacent bed, but only for a moment before his anxiety makes him pace the room. His thoughts are a mess, alternating between staying as far away from her as possible and sinking into her very skin. He chews on his nails while the latter begins to take dominance, until he ultimately finds himself hovering over the side of his bed.

It’s not like he hasn’t touched her before while she’s sleeping. He’s traced her features a couple times, gently, just to get an idea of what she looks like. This isn’t any different. He won’t do anything terrible.

He knows with certainty that Sebastian and their other dorm mate won’t be in until dawn breaks, he’s more than accustomed with their party habits by now. The situation is almost too perfect. When will he ever have her like this again? Drowsy and willing, all to himself, in his bed.

The mattress creaks as he sits himself on the edge. She doesn’t move an inch. His heart hammers in his chest, but he reaches a hand out anyway, tentatively running his hand down the soft outline of her figure, bathed in silk. He wants to feel her, though, so he brushes his fingertips, feather-light, where her shoulder is peeking out from under the covers.

It’s easy to not feel guilty when this is something familiar. 

Tentatively, he pulls the covers down to her waist. When she doesn’t stir, he pulls them back the rest of the way, exposing her to him. Gooseflesh prickles over her skin as it comes in contact with the cool air of the room and he runs his hands down her arms to soothe it. She’s somehow softer than he remembers, sensitive and sleep-warm.

She shifts in her sleep, but he isn’t deterred like he usually is. He knows that with the effects of the potion she won’t wake, at least not fully. That familiar course of adrenaline courses through his veins at the thought of not having to be as cautious as he usually is. Being able to touch at will. It’s exhilarating, in the most terrible way possible. 

He bunches her chemise over her waist in one pull. The material glides over her skin with ease, and she gives little protest, nothing more in the way of a soft exhale, a gentle murmur. The sound courses through his very core, all the way south. He’s sick with curiosity about what other sounds he can coax from her, fingers hovering over the bare expanse of her midriff.

He’s filled with the urge to know her in all the ways he hasn’t yet, having kept all his prior explorations strictly above-belt. The unknown beckons to him, every inch of her he hasn’t touched or tasted, teeming under his skin until it aches. 

He runs a thumb across the hem of her knickers, gentle, patient—even if at the moment it’s like he hasn’t the faintest idea of the definition of the world. It doesn’t take very long for him to exhaust the small amount of hesitation he does possess.

He shifts over her on the bed, climbing down her body, hands trailing adoration on her skin with exploratory curiosity. He digs his fingers a little too hard into her hips and she lets out a whimper, soft and barely audible. He finds he quite likes the sound.

She squirms in place, hips shying away from him in her sleep and he hushes her, soothing the skin with soft, little circles stroked by his thumb.

He presses his lips right above her navel, trailing kisses down her stomach, and she keens under the sensation, stretching like a purring kitten. He smirks against her skin. So receptive, even unconscious. 

As he trails down to his destination, he noses softly at every curve and bow he can reach, slow and appreciative. She’s gorgeous, all soft features and gentle silhouettes. He finds himself wanting to run his tongue over every contour until he memorizes her with his mouth.

He treats her as if he’s at an altar, kneeled in not only solemn adoration, but grave penitence for what he knows he plans to do with her. He supposes it’s always best to pray for forgiveness, then ask for permission. 

When he gets to the hem of her knickers, he plies her legs wider to accommodate him, pinning one of her thighs to the mattress. She obliges so easily, limbs loose and limp, so he tugs the other over his shoulder. 

His breath hovers over her clothed core and that familiar contrite little voice murmurs a flurry in his head. He finds it’s so much easier to tune it out now, especially as he presses his mouth to the gusset of her knickers for the first time and his brain whites out in bliss.

He wouldn’t be able to suppress the groan he lets out if he had all the willpower in the world.

It isn’t long before he’s hastily pulling the thin cotton down her thighs, any sort of barrier between them a personal affront to his sanity. Something tears but he finds himself in no capacity to care. She does little to stop him, only shifting futilely in her sleep, but he has his arm anchored across her thigh to still her squirming.

He licks a stripe with the flat of his tongue, just to finally taste her, to acquiesce the pounding in his ears and that familiar rush of blood south. She tastes like heaven, and he knows that after all he’s done it’s the closest he’ll ever get.

His fingers dig into tender flesh so hard he’s sure he’ll leave marks as he starts to lap at her in earnest, unable to stop himself. Breathy little sighs hitch in her throat, turning into soft moans as he takes his time, exploring every millimeter his tongue can reach.

“S’gorgeous,” he slurs, lips sticky against her cunt. “Gods, you taste so good.”

He wraps his lips around her clit and sucks, and the noise she lets out is almost enough to make him finish in his pants. He can tell her brain’s struggling to breach consciousness, hips rocking languidly against his mouth, the softest murmurs escaping her lips. He pays little mind to them, continuing to devote himself to tasting her fully.

He takes one of her hands that are pawing weakly at the sheet beneath her, placing it on top of his head. Her fingers immediately find purchase in his hair, eliciting a groan from him as he circles her clit with his tongue in tight little circles.

Her breathing is stuttered, uneven. “Om–Omin–”

“That’s it, angel, say my name,” he hums, her voice making him throb in his pants where he’s been rutting mindlessly against the mattress. “You sound so pretty. Fuck, my sweet, sweet girl.”

Her fingers tighten in his hair, a bit too softly for his tastes due to her semi-lucid state, but enough to earn a moan from him nonetheless. He feels the muscles in her abdomen tighten when he braces a forearm across her middle to pin her to the bed, stilling her helpless writhing, and he knows she’s close. He doesn’t plan on stopping until she’s coming on his tongue, no matter how much she begs.

Feeling her try to resist him makes him ache in his trousers, her hands pushing weakly at his head. He latches his mouth to her clit and sucks until he feels her heels dig into his back and a sob is torn from her throat as she’s pushed over the edge. 

He grinds his hips into the mattress as he rides her through her climax, grunting expletives against her skin. Her chest heaves, arms loose at her sides as she hiccups through tears, coming down from her high.

Her legs tremble around his head and he kisses the insides of her thighs, listening to her breathless, incoherent little murmurs that he can’t quite make out. He can’t help the blissed satisfaction he feels, thumbs rubbing soft circles on her hip bones. 

He climbs over her, chin sticky as he leaves kisses in his ascent. “I know, baby, I know,” he hushes when she squirms, voice hoarse. “Just a dream. Go back to sleep.”

He wipes the wetness from her cheeks, damp lashes fluttering in her attempts to gain some viable form of consciousness. He smiles to himself knowing the effects of the potion will keep her perfectly limp and drowsy for him.

He noses at her temple, stroking her hair while he waits for her breathing to steady out again. “Was that good, angel? Did I make you feel good?”

She doesn’t respond, and he knows her brain is too addled with sleep and endorphins to even hear him. He rambles praises anyway, lips pressed to her forehead, his heart so full in his chest it might burst.

“I love you,” he whispers, collecting her in his arms and tucking her into his side, even if the rational part of his brain advises against it. He can’t help but want her close. “I love you so much, it hurts.”

The inside of his trousers is sticky with the evidence of his own climax, but he can’t be bothered to feel the shame he normally feels, too caught up in the feeling of her body against his. He plants kisses to the crown of her head and pretends he’s holding her because she wants to be held.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs sometime after into the stillness of her soft breathing, exhaustion tugging at his eyelids. He isn’t, not really. Being sorry implies he won’t do it again. Something he’s able to admit by now he knows isn’t true. “I’m so sorry.” 

He closes his eyes and pretends he is. 

[the-golden-comet]

✨⛵️Story/WIP Tour Tag ⛵️✨

Oh, what a fun concept! Thank you for tagging me, @theink-stainedfolk !!

I’m not sure I can convince you about the lovely landmarks in Peter Hart , but— there’s a rope around me. Oh. We don’t have a choice in this adventure, do we?

Peter: Clever. You catch on quick~!

Ahoy, mates. Captain Hart at the helm now. I’ll be your tour guide for the voyage. Please keep your arms on the deck at all times. Do not lean on the railing; if you go overboard we’re not coming to fish you out….unless you’re Benjamin.

Benjamin: HEY!! 😡

Right, let’s get started:

✨🇬🇧Port Mayor🇬🇧✨

On your left, you will notice we are passing by Port Mayor, Great Britain. A lovely fishing port run by an absolute bastard of a person. Make sure on your stop you steal a hearty handful from the Royal’s pockets, and try their regional specialty: Port Plum Pudding. Great for the season.

🌋Isle of Talon Rock🌋

Oh, this one’s a lovely sightseeing adventure! Talon Rock is an inactive volcano in the center of thick jungle. Do watch your feet for snakes; they are quite venomous here. The igneous walls of the lava tubes are home to a variety of rich gems, but make sure you vacate before high tide if you don’t want to get your clothes wet.

✨🇬🇧Portsmouth🇬🇧✨

We arrive at another port. Excellent tailor at this location; this is where I picked out most of Benjamin’s fashion.

Benjamin: I didn’t ASK for—

—You’re welcome. If you get a chance, make sure to piss in the rose garden of the sovereign that governs this port.

✨🪨Echoing Cove🪨✨

This one looks deceptive at first glance, but a trove of valuables rests deep enough inside the many underwater cave systems. You’ll have to do a little spelunking, but if you reach deep enough the treasures are ripe for the taking~

Benjamin: Peter…why do I hear voices?

—AAAAAAAND we are getting the fuck out of here~🏴‍☠️✨

✨🇬🇧Port Florence🇬🇧✨

Aye, Florence. Another posh port with a castle loaded in riches. A very prosperous port town with a king that is all too eager to throw lavish parties and get drunk off of centuries aged wine.

Benjamin: You’re one to talk, captain…

They hold a Regal Ball every year, with a dance competition. The winners take home 50 grand. Ah, a great memory indeed~

Benji: (blushing furiously)

😏

☠️🩸Bloodwater Bay🩸☠️

….Oh shite. This place. Right, well…..some more dense jungle, a thin strip of beach, the waters are red, but don’t be too alarmed…Davey tells us that’s the iron deposits that give more of that rusty hue. There’s a tall waterfall in the center……

Benjamin: …..Peter? Peeeeeeeter?

O-Oh! Well, moving right along…don’t want to linger in this wretched bay….

✨🇮🇪Gregory’s Point🇮🇪✨

Another lovely island between the mainland and Ireland. This is a developed hotspot, turned into a small port town where all are welcome. Pirates, naval officers, merchants, the like. Between the two main countries, this place has its own governance. So, you better have a good reputation if you don’t want to be murdered in your sleep ✨

Benjamin: you say that so nonchalantly, Captain

Mmmmhm. Also home to one of the best doctors this side of the equator. So, if you get wounded, make sure it happens close to Gregory’s Point.

✨🐋Giverny Gulch🐋✨

Another island made of basalt, home to a naval shipwreck. Do watch your step for broken glass, sharp rocks, reanimated corpses—

Benjamin: —I beg your pardon?

—fish and shark carcasses….oh right. Lots of sharks. Be careful of those.

Benjamin: ….Do I hear a whale?

✨🇫🇷Lorraine🇫🇷✨

We’re arriving near France! Jacques: lead us in the singing of the French National Anthem

Jacques: Oui, oui, Capitaine~! ✨

✨🎵 Allons enfant de la patrie,

Le jour de gloire est arrivé! 🎵✨

Benjamin: 😑

✨🎵….Contre nous de la tyrannie,

L'étendard sanglant est levé

L'étendard sanglant est levé

Entendez-vous dans les campagnes

Mugir ces féroces soldats?

Ils viennent jusque dans vos bras

Égorger vos fils et vos compagnes!

Aux armes, citoyens! (Formez)

Vos bataillons!

Marchons! Oui, marchons!

Qu'un sang impur

Abreuve nos sillons! 🎵✨

🏔️Arctic Archipelago🏔️

……

Benjamin: …..Peter?

…..Let’s be off…..I wish not to be here too long.

✨🏝️The Caribbean🏝️✨

Ah, much better~! A nice, warm climate. Benji, love, remind me to acquire a bottle of Ron de Barbados 🇧🇧✨

Benjamin: Trust me, Captain; you won’t forget.

We’ve reached our final stop, but we have a whole tied-up tour group of witnesses. Mmmm…Right, I got it! Men, start hauling them over the rail—

Benjamin: —PETER!!

I’m joooooking~. Start untying them and drop ‘em off at the next port. Thank you for….“choosing”….The Golden Phoenix as your cruise. I’ve been your captain, and have a magnificent stay in Barbados. Jones knows I will~

Benjamin: P-PETER!! 😣

Leaving this open because man I had a lot of fun here ✨

✨👇Tag list for writing snippets below DM me if you want to be added 👇✨

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[biowhore]

Have this originally small moment between Lucanis and Kalliope that snowballed into a hurt/comfort-ish one-shot. All pre-release, of course.

[~2500 word count, if you need]

Kalliope was AFAB and uses they/them pronouns. They are a mage in the Mourn Watch.

~~~

The door to the Lighthouse crashed open from Lucanis's boot, nearly splintering the frame as the thick panel met stone.

Their Rook - because he was trying not to think of Kalliope as his - held most of their weight on his shoulders as he veered sharply for the sitting area. He deposited them swiftly but carefully onto an ancient settee, kneeling in front of them. Kalliope sat heavily, immediately doubling over as the toxin took hold. Based on the blade graze on their arm, Lucanis thought, it was a coating. He was betting on deathroot based on the symptoms, thank the Maker. He had the antidote already made; they would recover quickly.

A cacophony of footfalls sounded at the entrance as the whole group came stumbling in after the pair of them. Harding and Emmerich made a beeline for Rook, already squawking about treatments.

"I have them," Lucanis stated quietly but firmly.

Harding, Maker bless her, heard his tone and stopped dead, reaching for Emmerich, but the death mage kept walking and talking.

"Might be best to-"

"I. Have. Them."

That caused Emmerich to falter, allowing Harding to grab him, "Oh good, Lucanis got them inside. If anyone can treat it, it'll be the Crow. Come on, let's give them some space - toxin recovery can be disorienting."

"Ah. Yes, quite," Emmerich cleared his throat. "Rook is in good hands."

With that, their discordant little group tickled out of the foyer one by one, casting quick glances at Lucanis and Rook as they went. He knew what it looked like, but he really couldn't be bothered to care just now.

Kalliope sat up straight suddenly, their head lolling back with a groan. "Yeah, feels like getting kicked in the teeth," Lucanis murmured. And the gut. And the groin. Both hands placed gently on their cheeks, he pulled down their eyelids to check the whites and the flesh, confirming the agent. Next, he dug into one of his pouches, retrieving a roll of leather that contained a handful of tiny glass vials. With a precise hand, he plucked out the vial he needed, along with a delicate silver spatula. With it, he scooped a viscous substance from the vial and turned back to Kalliope.

Their eyes were open, watching him but not truly seeing through the haze of the agent coursing through their veins. Their heart would be fluttering at a rapid but weak pace, unable to move blood through their body as it should. That would cause fainting eventually, which Kalliope appeared moments away from. The core of their body would heat up as blood did not disperse, their extremities becoming icy simultaneously. To wrap it all up in a bow, they would hallucinate severely, dipping in and out of consciousness; doubly dangerous for a mage.

He held the thin metal up to their lips, "Apri, Rook."

Lucanis took advantage of the brief parting of Kalliope's pale lips to sneak the spatula between their teeth, scraping the congealed antidote onto their tongue.

He whispered an apology and covered their mouth with his hand, making sure they didn't spit it out immediately. Kalliope shook their head, squeezing their eyes shut tight against the bitter, metallic tang. They settled after a moment, and Lucanis pulled his hand away.

He waited, watching the minute reactions of their face. Their eyes flickered open in fits and starts, finally remaining half open and locked onto his. He watched their awareness trickle back in, the warmth sparking weakly in the amber.

He was not expecting Kalliope to roll those usually haunting eyes and flop their forehead onto his shoulder, a surprisingly annoyed groan accompanying the action. A few muffled words escaped from the fabric of his mantle, but he couldn't make sense of them.

"Better?"

Their head turned fractionally, enough to hear a couple of words, "Dragon shit".

Kalliope never cursed in front of them. In fact, he had been certain they didn't know any curses, and had never been more amused to be wrong.

"Come?"

They did not reply. Instead, they clutched both of their elbows as tremors began from their legs, cascading up the rest of their body. It was an expected response as their heart recovered and adrenaline surged, then quickly abated. In roughly 10-15 minutes, he guessed, they would crash and sleep it off for hours.

Without thinking at first, his hands moved to the outside of their arms. He hesitated, then gingerly placed them, waiting a moment for any negative reaction from them before moving them up and down, trying to both sooth and warm them. He picked up their teeth quietly clacking by his right ear, the sound cutting off abruptly as they clenched their jaw.

"You'll be alright. It will pass."

"Well it can bloody well get on with it; this is worse than when I got locked in a sarcophagus with a half-preserved corpse."

He sincerely tried not to laugh. Kalliope was soft-spoken and polite. They continued to surprise him at every turn. Despite his efforts, he was afraid he was growing fond of surprises.

"Half-preserved?"

"I had only just removed her organs."

Disgusting. He was certain he would prefer purging any poison over that, but he was biased. And mostly immune. What did they get up to in the Necropolis?

He felt the tip of their nose just barely brush against the skin of his neck as they turned their head again, causing his hands on their arms to hesitate. Kalliope lifted away from his shoulder, eyes downcast and glazed with the adrenaline crash.

"Andraste save me, he smells delicious," they murmured.

He had no doubt that they did not intend to actually voice that thought. His mouth quirked to the side with the effort it took not to smile, simultaneously shoving any mutual sentiments into a steel box, locking it, and hurling it into the furthest forgotten corners of his mind. He was certainly not feeling that barest brush of skin like a brand.

Kalliope paused, their eyes slowly tracking upward until they met his. They quickly flicked down to the floor as their hand clapped over their mouth. Again, their eyes tracked upward, and as they took in his face, both of Kalliope's hands slapped over their face, digging into their hairline.

With a groan Kalliope asked, "By the grace of the Maker, would you happen to actually be Bellara or literally anyone else?"

"Afraid not."

"So I've said that out loud, directly into your ear."

"Sí."

"Brilliant," they flopped onto the settee, covering their face with their arm, "I don't suppose it's too late to reverse the antidote?"

Lucanis barked a bemused laugh, "I regret to inform you that despite your wishes, you shall live. But at least only I heard that."

They peeked at him from beneath their arm, "That does not make me feel better."

Lucanis only shrugged, staring at them with a crooked grin. That smile faded slowly as he tracked the full awareness coming back into their eyes. The kind of awareness that bore right into his soul, read every secret carved there, and begged him to spill his heart to them. A heart he had locked in a cage long ago. The air changed between them, settling back into the heavy weight of all the things they could not say to each other. All the things he would not let them. And because they both knew he would not, that damned pain, that hauntedness, came flooding back into their eyes. It was almost more than he could take.

Their tremors were slowing, but the shaking of their arm was very apparent. Kalliope sat up slowly, looking away in true shame now.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't myself," they spoke softly, awkwardly, "I hope... I didn't make you uncomfortable."

Lucanis clenched his jaw, but managed to say, "Don't do that. It's fine."

They shook their head, palm to their clammy forehead, "You don't need to... it- I-," they sighed heavily, abruptly pushing on from the moment, "I am exhausted. You're the only one around, and I feel as though I shall fall flat on my face if I try to stand, so could you help me to my rooms?"

Kalliope avoided his eyes, resolutely staring at the floor as she asked this of him, as if it were an imposition. He hated that he was the one responsible for them feeling this way.

"Of course. Here," he took their shaky hand away from their face, guiding it around his middle as he put another hand on their back. Slowly they both stood, Lucanis pausing to let Kalliope get their feet under them. His hand at their back slid fully around their waist, supporting their weight as he led them toward the stairs.

"You were grazed with a dagger that had a poison coating. You've had the antidote, but the wound should be tended." Lucanis stated, trying half-heartedly to alleviate the tension between them. It was even more difficult with their body so close to his - he found himself wishing he could tend to it himself, if only to apologize in his own way.

Kalliope glanced at the torn fabric on her right arm, "It's barely a scratch. Must have been really potent."

Lucanis nodded, "Concentrated deathroot extract."

"Maker's breath. How many life debts do I owe you now?"

They both turned their heads to each other, Lucanis looking into Kalliope's amber eyes with all the certainty in his bones when he said, "None."

He felt their quick intake of breath, startled by his conviction. His arm around their waist contracted to hold them upright as he successfully predicted that they would miss the next stair step. Kalliope's right hand shot out for the railing needlessly, the breath they just took rushing out in surprise.

"R-right. Well... lucky me."

~~~

The remaining trek to Kalliope's rooms was quiet and without further stumbles. Lucanis shouldered open the door without pause, his charge squeaking in protest.

"I'm fine you don't need to- aaand we're going all the way to the bed. Ok."

He chuckled, "You have no legs to stand on at the moment; I thought I would make things easier for you." While the tremors were subsiding, Kalliope was weakening with the crash. He wanted to get the graze sorted before they slept for an age.

"You are mothering me. I am fully capable of getting myself to bed, even in this state," they protested. Lucanis approached Kalliope's bed, a modest thing with warm wool blankets and a singular pillow. He carefully deposited them on the edge and stepped back.

"Light the lamp, then," Lucanis gestured to the bedside candle lamp with a flick of his chin, folding his arms as he waited. When they rolled their eyes and held out their hand for a spell, he clarified, "Without magic."

Kalliope grumbled but reached for the tinder box. They couldn't even get it open with their shaking, weakened hands. They slowly placed it back on the table, muttering under their breath, "point made."

Lucanis smirked, taking the box and lighting the candle with deft fingers. He then nodded to Kalliope's right arm, kneeling in front of them again while rummaging through another of his pouches. They obliged him by slipping their arm out of the thick robe they wore. They were able to maneuver their long sleeve up past their elbow, where the graze was, revealing a pale and freckled forearm. Lucanis removed his gloves, preparing a small amount of poultice and a linen wrapping. The cut was very clean, thanks to a well-honed blade. It was the only thing he would be thankful for regarding the attack.

He kept his touch clinical, but it was hard not to dwell on the warmth of their skin. They were quiet, watchful, but their eyes followed the movement of his fingers mechanically, thinking rather than seeing. In just a few moments he was pinning the wrapping, absurdly wishing he had an excuse to be more thorough. He needed to leave, but his legs felt leaden.

"Hmm." Kalliope patted the dressing, "Passable."

Lucanis chuckled, "I think you're opinions should be limited to wrappings on the dead. Let me know when you've tended a couple hundred bleeding limbs."

They gasped in mock affront, "The principle is the same!"

Both grinned stupidly at each other and their meaningless banter. Lucanis's caged heart strained against its bars. Their pink, soft lips broke the grin, falling to a mild frown as their eyes seemed to lose focus. They tipped forward slightly, and his hand shot out of its own volition, cupping their cheek. Kalliope let out a rush of air, their eyes fluttering closed.

"Hah... the world is spinning."

Lucanis nodded, "Rest. By morning the effects will have waned."

"This isn't really what I had in mind when I said I wanted to see more of the world outside the Necropolis," Kalliope whispered.

"Oh? Taking on some gods was on the list, though?"

They shook their head and laughed, still keeping their eyes closed from the vertigo, "Oh don't do that, it makes it worse!"

He grinned, "Apologies." He wasn't really that sorry; he craved their laugh, even if it brought him as much pain as joy.

He realized their faces were very close, the tips of their noses just a breath away from touching. Kalliope mastered their laugh and peeked their eyes open, the flame of the candle dancing in their irises. Those eyes swallowed him whole, while his logic screamed at him to leave, to pull away, to end this any way he could. But he was paralyzed, and he could not decide if he was a willing captive or not.

"You're gentle for a Crow," Kalliope whispered.

"Gentle is not a word that accurately describes me."

"Yet I did."

"Rook..." He knew what they were doing. And he couldn't let them. Yet his thumb traced the bone of their cheek, his palm soaking in their warmth like it had never known such a thing.

"Kalliope," they tried to insist.

He shook his head slowly.

Again, that haunting resignation crept into their eyes, "I'm not afraid of you, Lucanis."

Oh, his name from their mouth. Like a knife in the belly, like the caress of the sea, like the itch of the Fade, like coming home, and leaving again all at once.

Their forehead met his, in pleading or exasperation or both. His hand on their cheek was seized by their own, grasping almost desperately, and he distantly registered the lack of tremors.

"But you are afraid of me," they whispered, then with a resigned confidence, "So, you should leave."

Their eyes shuttered, a wall of everite, leaving Lucanis briefly surprised. His hand fell away, and his legs finally did as they were bid, rising and stepping back. Kalliope's warmth left his body all at once, leaving him terribly and familiarly cold. Their gaze dropped to the floor, remaining where he had been and refusing to watch him leave. They simply waited silently.

His throat had closed. His hands, now back inside their gloves, clenched at his sides. His feet took him to the door, silent and detached, like he had wanted. But he managed to pause in the frame, something inside him finally deciding that he was incapable of leaving things between them like this.

Softly, simply, he bid them farewell, "Buonanotte, sognatore."*

His ears picked up the soft intake of breath and swallow they took as his feet left the threshold. It was the only apology he could offer them, the only acknowledgement he knew how to give after they had so completely sliced into the heart of the matter - in a way he didn't even fully understand yet.

He let his feet continue carrying him away from them, and his heart raged against the bars of its cage.

*Goodnight, dreamer

[hufflepuffwritingstuff2]

Meeting Jasper

Jasper Masterlist

Y/N drove down the highway, forest on either side of her for miles. It was pitch black out, with out even a sliver of moonlight to illuminate anything. She had her high beams on, but it didn’t help much. Suddenly, a deer jumped out into the road. Y/N swerved, slamming on the breaks. The deer leapt away to safety. Y/N breathed a sigh of relief, about to put her foot back on the gas when another, much larger car slammed into her from the other lane. The sound of metal-on-metal assaulted Y/N’s ears. Her car skidded, right into a tree. Y/N’s head hit the steering wheel, and she was out. The offending driver raced off, engine revving as it surpassed the speed limit.

…

Jasper made his way through the woods, looking for his dinner when he heard it. A terrible, loud scraping metallic sound. His red eyes widened, his head turning to the source of the noise. He scuttled over, seeing a car wrapped around a tree on the other side of the road. Looking both ways, Jasper quickly crept across the road. He examined the interior, seeing a girl in the driver’s seat, nearly unconscious. Jasper bit his lip, he knew his kind and humans didn’t mix well, mostly because of the latter’s fear of the former, but he couldn’t just leave her. She had a nasty cut on her head, possibly from the broken glass everywhere.

…

Y/N stirred to the feeling of being rocked gently, and the sound of footsteps moving quickly. She blinked her eyes open and looked up, trying to make something out aside from the splitting pain in her head. Upon perceiving this pain, she groaned quietly.

“Shh,” a voice soothed, “you’re alright. I know it hurts, but I’m going to help you.”

The paramedics must have found her, that would explain why there were so many footsteps- it must be a whole team. Her eyes drifted shut of their own accord.

…

When Y/N woke properly, she felt a gentle pressure on her head, and surprisingly, very little pain. She had been laid down on a soft surface, and she heard someone rummaging through something. She opened her eyes and sat up, though the action sent a wave of dizziness through her.

“Huh?” she mumbled.

Instead of an ambulance or a hospital room, she seemed to be in some kind of cave. On every wall of the cave, there were giant spider webs. Lanterns hung from some of the webs, illuminating the space with a dim glow. She looked down and noticed that she was laying in some kind of web hammock.

“HUH!?” she repeated, much more panicked this time.

“Oh, thank goodness,” a voice echoed.

Y/N whipped her head around (ouch) and saw something from her nightmares. The upper half of a human… with the lower half of a giant spider. Y/N couldn’t help what happened next… she screamed. A loud, ear-splitting shriek while she attempted to clamber out of the hammock. Unfortunately, she only managed to tangle herself up in it.

The creature held its clawed hands up in a placating gesture. It stepped over the first aid kit it had been rummaging through, and approached Y/N slowly.

“My name is Jasper,” the creature said, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Y/N’s breaths came in short gasps. There were many things in this world she was prepared to deal with, but spiders- especially human-spider hybrids- were not one of them. She tried to wrangle herself out of the hammock, but her leg was quite caught up.

“Please stop, you’ll rumple your bandages and pull your stitches,” Jasper said gently.

Bandages? Y/N put a hand to her head. Those weren’t bandages- those felt like thick, stringy webs! There was more webbing on her arms and legs. She was going to be spider-dinner! Y/N continued to struggle, as Jasper inched closer and closer. Eventually, he closed the distance between them and gripped her by the shoulders. Y/N froze in fear.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t have you hurting yourself,” Jasper sighed, “hold still.”

Jasper tilted Y/N’s neck and bit right into it, depositing his venom into her system. Y/N’s breath hitched; she immediately lost feeling in her entire body. Her breaths still came in short and fast, but she couldn’t scream anymore- she couldn’t move anymore!

“There, now let me have a look at you.”

Jasper examined Y/N’s web wrappings and tutted. Red seeped through the one wrapped around her head.

“I’ll have to redo the stitches,” he sighed.

Jasper untangled the hammock and laid Y/N back inside it. He went to the first aid kit and grabbed a needle and thread, returning to her. He pulled off the webbing on Y/N’s forehead and hissed in sympathy.

“Looks pretty bad,” he said, “I do wish you hadn’t panicked.”

Jasper made short work of the cut, stitching it back up neatly, trying to be as gentle as possible. Y/N whimpered as the needle slid in and out of her skin.

“Shh, all done,” Jasper said, casting his tools aside.

Jasper considered Y/N for a moment.

“I can’t have you running off as soon as the venom wears off,” he thought aloud, “I don’t want to scare you… but…”

Jasper spewed webbing from his mouth and began to wrap Y/N snugly in webbing. By the time he was finished, only her head and neck were exposed. Tears welled in Y/N’s eyes, and she whimpered quietly. Jasper gently laid her back down in the hammock.

“Try to rest,” he said, “I’ve given you painkillers already, but I’ll have more for you in a few hours.”

…

Jasper scurried off to the front of his cave. He paced back and forth, trying to figure out what to do. He couldn’t just let the poor thing go, she was injured, probably concussed, and he didn’t need her running off to the other humans to tell them all where he lived. He glanced back inside his cave. Well, she was pretty cute… maybe he could keep her?

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[indigosunsetao3]

NSFW | 18+ | Religious theming/tones/symbolism, brief mention of blood, church sex

Female reader perspective.

The symbolism in this story is going off the assumption Johnny was/is Catholic.

I haven't been in any sort of religious space since I was about five despite being raised in two households with three different religions. It’s safe to assume things aren’t exactly right/accurate in this story. I researched what I thought I needed and expanded on things I already happened to know.

I should be working on the million other WIPs I have but this feral thing literally woke me up last night.

Soap hadn't been to church properly in years. His mam would be ashamed to know he didn't bother to pass the threshold when he walked past one, even on their holiest of days. That he didn't cross himself with prayer, that he only made the gesture sarcastically to get a laugh out of his friends. And the rosary he received as a lad was long lost in his many moves, he never fussed about getting another.

The issue was, with everything Soap had seen in his years in the military he had a hard time believing in a God. Had a hard time thinking that there was some benevolent being out there pulling all the strings and letting these things happen. He also figured that when his time came, if there was a heaven, his hands were so stained with blood he wasn't getting into their pearly gates. So why bother confessing his sins, why bother with the self punishment and judgements when in the end none of it mattered anyway.

So when you drag him into a derelict shell of a church with only one thing in mind he doesn't balk at the sight of dusty pews. Doesn't flinch at the idea of desecrating holy ground. And doesn't pause in the removal of his vest as he follows you up the aisle with a grin on his face as his heavy footfalls echo around the cavernous ceiling. Discarded and forgotten bibles remain in their seatbacks, and old hymn sheets flutter about in the wind from your passing bodies.

The stained glass windows at the back of the sanctuary were smashed in places long ago. Pieces of glittering colored glass litter the floor and crunch under your shoes as you both reach the lectern. Vines are growing through the holes in the windows and the tapestries are so badly water damaged it's hard to even tell what they were anymore.

The large cross that hung from the ceiling before is half broken and leaning against the wall. You peer at where the occupant of that symbol used to be but is no longer as if someone had tried to save something of this place. Or violate it more by removing its idol.

Soap's hands find your hips from behind as your fingers grip at the lectern. He doesn't care to look around, he's washed his hands of all of this so long ago it's just another building; another victim of war. So as you take in your surroundings with curiosity Soap untucks your shirt to slide his hands slowly up your ribs as his lips find your neck. The soft sigh you give him at his ministrations is all he needs to push him along.

His hands make quick work of your shirt and bra, raising your arms above your head before he guides your hands back to hold onto the lectern again. How many times in his youth did he watch and listen to sermons from a place just like this? Listening to tales of damnation or salvation, depending on the story and the time. He's fairly certain that this would be a tale of eternal hell if the priests could see him now, if they could hear the thoughts he's having as he smooths his palms down your back. You arch to the touch and let out a small sigh of his cold hands on your hot skin.

He steps away from you for a second, shucking off his own shirt and depositing it with yours on the faded red carpet. He doesn't return to you right away though, just looks at the dark silhouette of your body as you stare up at the high ceilings, waiting on him. It would have been a pious pose in any other situation but God had left this place long ago.

Soap captures you in his grip again, his bare chest pressed against your back. You can feel the chain and dog tags digging between your shoulder blades as he presses his hands against your breasts, cupping them for a second before squeezing. He can feel you push back against him, using the leverage of the lectern to keep your balance.

Your fingers snare in the tattered silk that still adorns the worn wood of the furniture before you. Soap has you effectively pinned between him and it and you ball the delicate material in your fingers as he bites your pulse. You lean back into him, resting your head on his shoulder as you stare down at his hands groping you. He teases and taunts the soft flesh, toying with your hardened nipples for only a moment before he slips his hands down toward your pants fingers first.

He's taking his time with your button and zipper. Savoring the way you push up against him and whine in your throat as his fingers just barely break the waistband. When you move your hands to help him he grabs the back of them gently and puts them once again on the lectern, curling your fingers for you to hold it tightly.

Satisfied that you know what to do he glides his hands back up your arms, over your shoulders then back down your back. His ministrations are slow, watching how the goosebumps follow his touches before he finds your pants again. Running his hands over your behind and down your thighs as far as he can go before he kisses the back of your neck.

You hear him adjust then, feel him shift, and dare a glance over your shoulder. You see him behind you knelt on the ground, knees slightly splayed and hands rested on his powerful thighs as he watches you. The perfect position of the submissive solider, the disciplined disciple, looking up at his deity before him.

Soap leans forward and ever so gently grabs one of your legs to slip your boot off, pulling each lace loose unhurriedly before tossing it away into the dark. He takes care of the other one in the same manner before finally pushing up on his knees fully to hook his fingers into the waist of your pants and pulls them down along with your underwear. He can see you shiver as he tugs and pulls, taking his time as he works the material down.

The church is silent around you save for the whisper of cloth as he undresses you, the creaking of the wood as you shift your weight left then right to get the pants off, and then the soft sigh you let out as he kisses your lower back. It's not lost on you that he has you at the front of the church, that you're positioned where any and all eyes could see you if they happened to walk in. That you were the center of this place of devotion.

He grabs your hips then, gently tugging them back so you are forced to shift your feet back some and bend forward. He doesn't stop until you are pushed up on your tiptoes and are bent so far forward that your head hangs between your arms still holding the pulpit as he had quietly instructed you to do. He wants you to watch as he worships you and as his hands grab your ass to spread you, you bite your lip in anticipation.

You are on full display for Soap in this position and he uses his thumbs to open you even more, to see how badly you need him. He doesn't dare let his thumbs brush you where you want it most, wanting his tongue to be the first thing that touches you tonight. He flexes his hands, squeezing the heated flesh, before leaning forward and licking a long stripe up your center. He fights back his own groan at the filthy moan you let out. The sound echoes around the room, breaking the hushed silence that suffocates the place.

He doesn't stop. He holds you tight in place as he feasts upon you, not letting you squirm away as he works you over. He's urging you on, humming against your folds as you whine and clench your jaw in pleasure. He knows you're holding back, doing your best to fight the sounds coming from you because you don't want to draw attention. You don't want your moans and pleads to bounce around the room that was built with those acoustics on purpose. But Soap wants it. He wants you to cry out for God. For him.

Your body is trembling from the exertion of this position, from the onslaught of Soap's tongue and his fingers as they literally slip into you. You aren't even sure if it's two or three at this point as he coaxes you on, his teeth biting down on the sensitive flesh of your thigh as he pumps into you. You can feel the arousal sliding down your legs mixed with his spit and when he begins a harsh pace with his fingers that you are sure is going to knock you off your feet you finally cry out unrestrainedly.

The pleasure races from your stomach and down your legs as you finally let go and climax. The tattered silk on the podium can't fight your grip and it tears into two jagged pieces, the sound drowned out by your pants and moans. He doesn't stop though, he forces you to ride it out and fight the twitching of the overstimulation. Doesn't let you breathe as he reaches up to rest his forearm on your lower back making you arch that much more to him. It's almost painful how he has you held but that feeling goes away as you feel him lap away the mess you had just made with his tongue.

Soap leans back after a few soft kisses against your sensitive center, doing his best to not smirk at how swollen and ready it was for him. His fingers massage the back of your legs as you groan and push up, letting the purple obliterated silk fall to the floor. Turning around to face him you push your hair back off your forehead where pieces had stuck to the sweat there and smile at him as he gazes up at you reverently.

His chest is heaving as he watches you, breath catching as you kneel down to him and reach for his pants and yank them. You aren't as soft and patient with him as he was undressing you. Your hands shake as you get the belt and button loose. Not from fear but from anticipation. You can feel how painfully hard he is as he shifts to get the clothes off and he nearly growls as your hand wraps around him to give him a few precursory pumps. He doesn't need it, he's already leaking for you but you taunt him anyway, running your thumb over the tip.

He bucks up into your hand as you kiss him, your teeth and lips clashing harshly. You can taste yourself on him as he sweeps his tongue in and you sigh in satisfaction as his hands come up to cup your face. Greedily you climb into his lap as if he hadn't just worshiped you to oblivion a few moments before. You need more, you need him in you, to consume him.

Soap obliges you, wrapping his arms around you and shifting to sit on the few steps that lead up to the podium. Where parishioners would kneel to pray up to the cross, to their leader. He plants his feet on the ground and leans back on his elbows to watch you as you push back from the kiss. He stares as you rise up over him with one hand braced on his chest as the other holds him to guide him to you.

Once he's aligned at your entrance you snap your eyes up to his and watch his face in the faint street light coming in from the windows behind you as you sit down on him. It's an easy motion, your body already so slick and ready for him and you can feel him twitch at the sudden warmth around him. He groans, his hands slipping a bit on the carpeted steps before hissing and drawing them back.

Turning his right hand up Soap sees that his hand has run right over a hidden piece of stained glass in the carpet. The thin line of blood that wells up on his palm is instantaneous. He supposes this is penance, for his lack of faith, and lack of respect, for this place. Or perhaps his payment for you, payment in blood to show his devotion to the only thing he would ever get on his knees for again.

You hesitate at the painful hiss but Soap grabs your hip with his other hand and moves you over him. The temporary pain forgotten as you begin to ride on him, the movements slow as you slide all the way up him before back down. Your hand on his chest balls into a fist to hold his dog tags there, curling your fingers tight around the chain and tugging a bit to keep him locked on you.

He doesn't need the bite of the chain in the back of his neck to keep his eyes on you though. The streetlights behind you sets your face in shadow, the light glowing around your body as you ride him; use him. He groans as you move faster, your other hand grabbing his bloody one and lacing your fingers together. You hold his hand tight as you bend down over him and kiss him, rolling your hips in a harsh snap down on him.

Soap begins to meet your moves thrust for thrust, the sound of your slick body's slapping against one another filling up the chamber. It's rhythmic, a music in its own making that's more powerful than any other hymn that had been sung there before. As the song reaches its peak Soap finds his climax, yelling out as you push him hard into the floor and fuck him as if it were the end of days.

You're chasing your own release as you grind down on him, not giving him a chance to recover just like he had done to you. He's huffing and you can see the pleasurable anguish on his face as you finally reach that apex. Your cries lilt and your movements become more frantic as you feel yourself come apart and you sit up on him, grabbing his waist for support as you bounce on him.

In that moment, as Soap watches your face and feels you clamp around him, he becomes a believer again. Not in God, he had abandoned him long ago. In you. You were his center, his home, his goddamn reason for being, for breathing. You knew how to tear him apart and put him back together again and he was going to worship you until you brought him into heaven or dragged him down to hell.

[r-f-m-writes]

Pretty, Dead Animals Chapter Two

The backs of Linette’s thighs stuck flush to the linoleum floor of her apartment as she twisted left and right, razor in hand, carefully shaving away a week worth of hair on her legs and arms.

Her aircon was still broken, its absence magnifying the stifling heat that rose slow and smothering through the space. No amount of persistent hinting would compel Mrs. Weller to have it mended.

Linette knew it was negligence on her landlord’s part, that she would be within her rights to lodge a formal complaint, make threats of breaking lease - but she wouldn’t.

Linette didn’t like making a nuisance of herself. She knew full well that she couldn’t afford rent anywhere else in town, and she didn’t have anyone to stay with if Mrs. Weller gave her the boot for being a pest over broken appliances.

Working up a lather on her skin with cheap moisturizing body wash, the girl sighed through her nose.

The weekend was running long, the sun seeming to drag its feet as it crawled slow and cumbersome through the bright blue, cloudless sky.

Rinsing her razor off in the bowl of soapy water, Linette started on the backs of her knees while she glanced around the apartment, thinking of what else there was to do.

The floors were spotless from her sweeping and mopping them yesterday. The kitchenette was tidy as could be. All her clothes were washed, folded and put away - not as much of a feat as it seemed when Lin liked to keep her wardrobe small. The only thing she hadn’t done was make her bed.

Passing a wet washcloth over her legs, Linette wrung it out over the second, smaller bowl of dirty water before hanging it on the handle of the stove, knowing it would dry out in minutes flat thanks to the heat.

Pumping the last of her unscented moisturizer into her palm, Linette layered the soothing balm over her legs quickly before she stood.

A slow, hot wind pushed through her apartment window, making cream checkered curtains billow inward and fluster around Linette as she stepped forward, feeling the soft touch of the heady breeze dust over her skin, cooling and warming all at the same time.

Outside stretched miles and miles and miles of red sand. Shrubs scattered over the scorched earth like round green dice thrown by the hand of a giant. Far away, almost further than Lin could see, there were trees. Tall, swaying, hardy. No lakes stretched far enough inland to supply the flora with water, so their salvation came as rain.

She could feel the promise of a downpour in the air. It sat heavy on the roof of her mouth, soothing and clean on the wind. There would be a cool change before the world was bathed. Linette would leave her windows open, let the glory of the storm roll through her apartment until the air held a pleasant snap of its chill and all her pillows smelled of rain.

Pushing away from where she had been leaned against the painted sill, she folded back the dressing screen that stood like a makeshift wall between her bed and the rest of the apartment, careful not to scratch the floor as she moved the wooden legs. Linette was getting her security deposit back if it was the last thing she did.

A disarray of pillows and sheets kicked around on top of her mattress greeted her with the screen pushed back.

Bun Bun lay on the ground looking up at her soulfully with his scratched glass eyes.

Linette’s stomach dropped. She swept him into her arms in a second, hugging him against her in apology as her throat went tight.

“I’m sorry - I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you fell.”

It was stupid. Embarrassin. Her attachment to the stuffed toy as an adult, as someone who should have grown up and then grown out of ‘childish’ things, but she couldn’t help it.

Bun Bun was all she had that was really hers as a child. Hers to keep. Hers to love. Hers to depend on as she was pedaled from one group home to the next, passed on like a burden no one wanted.

He wasn’t even given to her by her real parents. Some of the other kids had things like that. Baby blankets. Quilts made for them by mothers who were too young or too deststue to shoulder the responsibility. Little, hopeless gifts given in lue of real love, real apologies, real accountability.

Linette was abandoned with nothing.

Bun Bun was given to her by Mrs. Lee, the nicest foster mother she ever loved and lost. Her house had been big and clean and safe. There was always food in the fridge, and Lin was always allowed to eat when she was hungry. Mrs. Lee gave her hugs and didn’t punish her for anything, ever.

Linette didn’t realize she was crying until her tears began to wet the top of Bun Bun’s head, his floppy brown ears draped over her wrists as she held him up to her face, chest constricted and empty and horrible.

Wind picked up at her back. Curtains whipped, clicking on their rod.

The smell of rain rolled over her with a familiarity that was as soothing and unconditional as one of Mrs. Lee’s hugs.

[ohgodimafraud]

wake me up next time (j/jk itaf/ushi)

heyy here's a small j/jk fic in the fun like haha everyones thriving in the future,they all made it to 2023 2024 and are grown and most of the characters are in love au. theyre about 23 here if the math is mathing (it might not be but theyre early-mid 20s) and probs were the last couple to get together imo bc theyre kinda dumb.

minors do not interact tyty~

Yuji gasped and jolted out of his sleep. Something had shattered loudly. 

Megumi’s side of the bed was abandoned and cold, but the sounds of the footsteps from down the hall were so distinctly his. He groaned at himself—that’s what he got for lying under the covers and believing he’d stay awake. Yuji squinted at the clock on his phone and found it wasn’t even six in the morning yet. What could he be doing up at this hour?

Yuji found his boyfriend picking up shards of glass with a dish towel before depositing them into a plastic bag.

“Morning. Wow, can’t believe you’re already up,” Yuji greeted with a smile that quickly dissolved into a yawn. Megumi flinched for a fraction of a second before he hummed and rose to dispose of the broken ceramic. “Oh sorry, didn’t mean to startle you! What time did you end up coming back?”

Megumi shrugged. “Dunno. Didn’t sleep much, honestly. Be careful. I broke a cup.” He gestured at the floor vaguely and sighed like talking had sapped him of all energy, 

“You look exhausted.” Yuji noted, frowning. He left out the addition that he sounded exhausted too. “Was it really rough?

Megumi shook his head and cleared his throat.”Nah. The only thing that was really a pain was the flight getting delayed.”

“Ah,” Yuji said, giving him a once over; his hair was unkempt as it always was in the mornings, but the dark shadows under his eyes only made their appearances when he’d been sleep deprived for at least a few days. “That sucks. Are you all jet lagged? I know you don’t sleep on planes.” He put his hand on Megumi’s shoulder. He got a confirmatory nod before Megumi shrugged his touch off and faced him. 

“I made tea if you want some.” He nudged his head in the direction of the tea kettle. Usually he has a few cups of black coffee in the morning, but if Megumi was planning on going back to sleep anytime soon, tea would be more forgiving. Yuji nodded and Megumi pulled two cups from the cabinet without issue and poured a helping of tea in each and set them down on the table. 

“Thank you.” Yuji smiled and scooted closer to his boyfriend and wrapped an arm around him. He’d forgotten to claim his welcome back hug, but he didn’t want to make his tired boyfriend stand up again, so this would have to suffice for now. 

Megumi shook his head but didn’t turn to face him. “Wait…d-dohh h-hihh- eh’cshht!”  He ducked into his inner elbow and shook against Yuji’s grasp. 

“Bless you.”

“tzssht! h’Kxxt! ndh-- KXxsh’uh!” 

“Bless you!” 

“heh’eISHschh’tuh!” He kept his arm up and sniffled and rubbed his nose with his hoodie sleeve as a buffer between his nose and wrist. “Excuse mbe.”  It was normal for him to sneeze in multiples on occasion, but that last one had been particularly harsh and left his throat feeling raw. He coughed briefly against the cuff of his sleeve and took a small sip of tea. A small tear escaped when he closed his eyes and trickled down his cheek. 

“You alright?” Yuji rubbed his back. Megumi pulled his sleeve down after a moment and nodded. The spray was extremely visible, but Yuji pretended like he didn't notice. 

Instead, he kissed his temple and frowned at the unnatural heat coming from his boyfriend. “Oh.” He put his lips there again, the back of his hand moving to both feel his boyfriend’s cheek and to prompt him to make eye contact.  “You’re really warm.” He brushed away the stray tear that’d continued marking a trail down to his chin. 

“Figured.” Megumi sniffled and took a slow sip of his tea. “You shouldn’t be this close.” 

“Why don’t you go back to bed while I make you some breakfast?”

“It’s not that serious.”

Yuji cupped Megumi’s cheek to turn him so he could see the pout directed at him. “That’s not fair. You had me stay in bed when I was sick last month and I didn’t even have a fever.”

“That’s different.” Megumi said, cheeks flushing as he turned away, distracting himself with the warm beverage in front of him.  

“I mean, not that I’m complaining. I think about all that time in bed a lot.” Yuji waggled his eyebrows. 

Megumi choked on his sip of tea. Coughing was better than attempting to respond to that in his current state.

“Please?”

“I’m not really hungry.” He sniffled again. And again. And then he pawed at his nose slightly with the back of his sleeve in an attempt to discreetly sop up any lingering moisture. 

Yuji nodded and passed him a napkin that’d been out of reach. “Hm. We could break out those massage oils Nobara gave us. I bet your neck is all stiff. Especially if you were sleeping on the couch.” The hurt seeped in just a bit in the last remark. 

“It was the middle of the …night,” Megumi said, scrubbing at his nose with the napkin before crumpling into it entirely, “hihhtx!”

Yuji may not have shared Megumi’s affinity for sneezing, but there was something adorable about Megumi’s little fits: from the way the bridge of his nose creased with a few small wrinkles to the frustrated sounds he’d make trying to stifle them, to the way he always looked frustrated with himself if he knew people were watching. 

“C‘mon, you can let them out. It’s just me,” he said when Megumi didn’t put the napkin down and continued his silent but uneven breathing pattern. 

“I-it’s not that.” He turned and blew his nose slightly. 

“Oh it got stuck?”

He confirmed with a nod. 

“Well, when it comes back don’t hold back.” Yuji patted his shoulder and gave him a thumbs up. “Do your best.”

The color rushed back to Megumi’s face and the distraction gave the tickle a chance to respawn stronger than before. “Ihh’tshh! TZtshh!  TsChh’eh! ihdtShhu! H-hih…hDjtSHhh’uh!”

“Bless you,” Yuji murmured as Megumi tended to his nose again. He handed him another napkin, noting that the original one looked spent. “Good job.”

A few years ago this would’ve earned him a smack, but instead Megumi sighed and leaned into Yuji’s hold, temple meeting shoulder in a way he only did when they were alone. Yuji combed through his hair, content to stay like this for as long as Megumi needed. 

“You shouldn’t let me be all over you, you know.”

Yuji easily  pulled him into his lap and then into the proper hug he'd wanted before. “I’m not gonna catch anything from you.”

“Uh…”

“I’m gonna take your cold from you!” Yuji announced before quickly closing the gap between them and kissed softly on his lips that’d gotten cracked during his time away. When he pulled away, he noted that Megumi’s feverish flush had deepened and he knew exactly why but would definitely bring it up later. He put his forehead to Megumi’s. “Wake me up next time.”

[tortoisebore]

please please can we get a post of remus calling sirius baby for the first time bc im obsessed and want to know every detail about sirius’ outfit and how it went down

YES YES YES 👹👹👹👹👹👹👹👹👹

Remus was too drunk for this. Well—maybe drunk was the wrong word. His blood alcohol level was probably still somewhere in the realm of tipsy, but his brain was sluggish. Slow-moving. A disastrous combination of desire and want and pure, unadulterated filth. His limbs felt heavy and too-long as he stood slouched against the wall, gripping an empty glass hard enough to be absently worried it would shatter in his hand. Watching.  Lily had described the place as a bar but it felt more like a club, all low, colorful lights and blaring music, an open space in the middle of the room and tall tables lining the walls. It was loud, Remus was just on the drunk side of tipsy, and Sirius was a fucking dream. 

All things considered, Remus had done a really great job of being normal up until an hour or so ago. He hadn’t lost his shit when Sirius appeared at his door in a giant gray coat with his hair up, tied messily off his neck, fully flaunting the faint bruise Remus had left below his ear two days before. That damn glitter was on his eyes again, catching the light and working in tandem with the faint smudgy black lining his lashes to make his eyes look less gray and more glowing, molten silver. Remus had nearly fallen to his knees, had nearly said 'fuck it' and yanked Sirius inside instead of following through with the going out plan, but he’d been very regular about it—just choked out a simple little ‘you look nice,’ swallowing hard when Sirius smiled sweetly and took his hand as they traipsed down the stairs and out of the building. 

Then they’d arrived at the bar, and Sirius had slipped his coat off, and Remus’ poor, piece of shit brain had immediately broken. 

So now here he was, fighting for his life standing around a table in the corner, unable to wrench his eyes away from the three-inch strip of bare skin on Sirius’ stomach while he waited for drinks at the bar. He was wearing a short, black tee shirt with an open back over some see-through, lacy thing that hugged his waist, showing off the tail end of the dagger tattoo on his stomach and the beginnings of the vines on his hips before they disappeared beneath straight-legged black pants that fit so perfectly Remus could have cried. He was leaned up against the bar artfully, tapping the toe of his platform boot against the floor, chatting idly with Marlene while they waited for the bartender. 

Remus thought he might be drooling.

Sirius had been flitting between the bar and the dance floor and their table in the corner all night, leaving Remus with a never-ending supply of drinks and all these evil, lingering touches, whispers near his ear disguised as kisses on his cheek that twisted his gut and made his fingers itch to touch and grab and hold. This thing between them was still new, only a couple weeks old, and Remus was really really trying to reign himself in, but god, he wanted to touch. Wanted to bite and lick and taste, felt drunk on desire more than liquor by the time Sirius came back with two more neon-colored drinks in sweaty glasses. 

“Yours,” he chirped over the music, finally, finally sliding in close and depositing Remus’ drink on the sticky tabletop. Remus eyed him as he sipped at his straw, looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes. It was blatantly obvious that Sirius knew exactly what he was doing, and that it was working. Remus glanced around, watched Marlene saunter off to join Dorcas across the room, and slipped a hand around Sirius’ waist, backing himself into the wall and pulling Sirius with him.

“You look…” he started, shamelessly trailing his eyes down and then back up Sirius’ frame, shaking his head with a sigh when every word he could think of fell short of the actual ethereal being currently pressed up against him. 

“I look what?” Sirius prodded, sliding his drink onto the table without looking, snaking his arms up Remus’ chest and around his shoulders, a smug, sly sort of smile tugging at his stained, cherry-red lips. 

Remus was too fucking drunk for this.

He managed to get a hand to Sirius’ jaw, tipping his head back just enough to brush their lips together, reveling in the hitched breath it pulled from his throat. 

“You look fucking perfect,” he muttered, letting Sirius lean in only to pull back. Remus’ vision was swirling, heart thundering in his chest when Sirius gave a quiet little whine of complaint, dragging blunt nails across the back of his neck. Remus gave in, let him press a too-short, too-soft kiss to his lips before tilting Sirius’ head to the side, mouthing down his jaw to get at that faint little bruise beneath his ear and nipping at it softly, eyes fluttering closed at the taste of his skin, speaking before he could think. “You’re killing me over here, baby.”

Fuck—his stomach dropped instantly. He’d never said that before, never used any kind of pet name for Sirius at all, and it felt foreign in his mouth, foreign to his ears, settled badly in his stomach when Sirius let out a sharp exhale and reeled back. Remus was prepared to pretend it had never happened, maybe blame it on those neon colored drinks that kept appearing in his hands—but the words died on his tongue. 

Sirius’ eyes were wide, flicking back and forth fast between his own, cheeks flushed a pretty pink. Remus waited, watched Sirius look down at his lips and then back up, and barely heard him breathe, “Say it again,” over the music.

He hesitated, studied Sirius’ face carefully to make sure he wasn’t reading it all wrong, and teased, “You’re killing me over here?”

Sirius shook his head, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “The other thing.”

“What?” Remus asked, dragging a thumb down his jaw, the desire to sink through the floor disappearing into thin air as he watched Sirius’ pupils dilate, felt his fingers trip up to tug at his hair. “Baby?”

Sirius nodded, pulling him in close and speaking low. “Yeah,” he smiled, “that one.”

Remus kissed him, had to, pulled him in with two hands on the side of his neck and bit at his lower lip, tasted artificial cherry and vodka and felt his stomach drop when Sirius gave a sweet little whine, pulling back just enough to speak.

“Again,” he whispered, melting further into Remus’ chest, looking up at him with that smug little grin that made his heart stutter. 

“Baby,” Remus repeated, kissing him again, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck, brain working overdrive, whirring loud in his ears. “My perfect, pretty baby.”

Sirius let loose a string of colorful curses that made Remus laugh before he was pulled in again. Sirius was seemingly entirely finished with teasing—kissed him hard and bit at his lip and slid his hands heavily back down his chest. He pulled away after several long moments, a deep flush staining his cheeks, and gave Remus a look.

“Don’t drink anymore,” he ordered, a secret sort of smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Remus’ skin tingled, heat racing down his spine.

“No?” he smirked, instantly grabbing for Sirius’ hand to keep him close when he stepped back. 

“No.” He reached across the table and grabbed an abandoned water on the other side—James’, most likely—sipping at it instead of the bright red drink he’d just brought over. "We should go to yours after this."

Remus was very, very on board with that.

The Outfit™️

[rosewaterandivy]

2. make plans to break plans

Summary: Rumor has it, that hometown hero-turned-teacher Steve Harrington is hot for teacher. The English teacher next door to him at Hawkins High, who also happens to be his childhood friend, that is.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x chaotic!dumass reader

Warnings: no use of y/n - reader goes by Trouble instead, depictions of high school, cursing, dumb group chats & contact names, references to Vine memes, mention of a broken engagement, sad girl hours

A/N: Modern!Teacher AU, English teacher reader, History teacher Steve, slow burn, friends to lovers, romance. Here’s 3.1K of Steve and Reader’s ~feelings~; feedback and reblogs are appreciated, enjoy!

series masterlist

previous || next

Then - Fall term, November

The end of the day finds you hunched over your keyboard, furiously typing back a reply to some helicopter parent. You blow out a puff of breath and hit ‘send’ as your door creaks open.

“Hey,” Steve greets pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. He sets his hydroflask down on your desk with a clang and leans against a nearby desk. “You ready?”

“Yeah, gimme just a sec,” you say, logging off for the day. Turning back to your desk, you give him a small smile and shove a few things into your backpack. On Tuesdays and Thursdays the two of you worked at Tiger Library, aka extended tutorial sessions in the library. The extra pay was decent and it allowed you both time to keep up with any grading or lesson planning that had gone neglected during the week.

You rearrange a few items on your desk before swiping a stack of essays to hopefully grade. Steve hits the lights after you, while you nudge the door open with your hip, elbow pressing down on the door handle and balance a backpack dangerously close to slipping from your shoulder. 

“Gimme,” he tuts, index finger looping around the strap sliding from your arm, “S’okay, I got it.”

You hum in assent, turning to take the stairs down to the first floor, Steve hot on your heels. “Thanks,” you try to keep your voice level and impassive passing through the corridor. Steve keeps a respectful distance as you stride through the doors of the library. 

Something is wrong, but he can’t guess as to what. You’d been off all week; since your weekend bender, really. Nance had dropped you back at The Hideout to get your car and once she’d returned she beelined directly to her room and didn’t say a word.

Nancy rarely has such a visceral reaction to anything, so whatever you had divulged to her was enough to crack the surface of her rage. Having been on the receiving end of it before, Steve knows it’s endless. 

But the question remains, why haven’t you said anything to him? You’re friends, thick as thieves and have been for god knows how long. Yes, you’re an unfiltered, oblivious dumbass with poor emotional regulation skills, and he hates that at times. But you are his friend; and Steve currently wants to throttle himself for allowing you to go radio-silent for the better part of a week.

He sighs, for what feels like the millionth time today, he’ll let you be. 

For now.

Students have claimed tables and chairs for the evening, notebooks and laptops scattered here and there. Chairs pulled up as teens arranged themselves amongst their cliques, catching up on the latest gossip since the final bell rang. 

Making quick work of Vickie’s computer you set up shop, decidedly ignoring her post-it reading ‘Dumb & Dumber - don’t mess with my shit!’ Steve slides in the circulation desk behind you, depositing your backpack at your feet. Silently, you prize the post-it from the monitor with two fingers and pass it to Steve who reads it with a snort.

He snaps a quick photo to send to the ‘elite meeting’ group chat and tosses it into the trash. Queueing up the collaborative playlist for the night, you call out, “Okay team, this is our final Humanities night at Tiger Library before the fall break, so you know the drill.”

The students turn to the circulation desk, conversations falling to a murmur. Steve crosses his arms and leans back against the built-in bookshelf, he gestures between the two of you with his index finger, “Ask either of us a math or science question and you will be vacated from the premises.”

A few laughs and snickers ring out here and there.

“Yeah,” you concur, “Harrington will suplex you into next week and I’ll post it to the school’s socials.” 

That shuts them right up. 

“Furthermore,” you continue, “The collab playlist is live for tonight and if any of you turkeys forces me to listen to anything that would make your friends and parents ashamed to know you,” you pause, eyeing a few kids menacingly, “I will force everyone present to listen to ska for the rest of the session. Got it?”

Steve shudders and shakes his head, “That is not an idle threat, by the way. She’s done it before and it was god awful.”

Announcements made, you and Steve sign off on a few seat-time papers for the credit recovery kids and settle in for the night. You open your texts to find a notification from Eddie in the group chat. Reading through Harrington and Buckley’s responses, you tap out a reply to Eddie’s question. 

💫elite meeting💫

bandcamp 👿: why is my paladin not at Hellfire you schmucks?

god’s fav 😎: spill the tea, sis.

dingus 👽: ooh, if he’s breakin out the yiddish he must be pissed!

trouble 👁️👄👁️: it’s like you don’t even read your emails eds.

god’s fav 😎:  whaddup, i’m eddie, i’m 28, and i never learned how to fuckin read ✌️

 bandcamp 👿: shut up.

During tutorial nights, someone from the group would be assigned to take care of dinner for whomever else was stuck on campus. Nancy had made a laminated chart and stuck it to the loft’s fridge, y’know, like any completely sane person would do. 

You huff a laugh and open your insta feed, clicking on the invite in your messages. ‘Steve has invited you to eat at Chipotle today!’ You select your regular order, tacking on some chips and queso for good measure. 

After a while, a student shyly approaches the circulation desk with a worn copy of The Catcher in the Rye and a worksheet in hand. You give her a reassuring smile and invite her to take a seat. As you’re reviewing the questions she’s struggling with, Eddie storms into the room searching for Mike.

“Wheeler,” he bellows, startling the students from their conversations, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

The student at your side jumps in her chair at the sheer volume of his voice. “Oy, Munson,” you hiss, “Can it!” He fixes you with a perturbed glance and strides over to Mike’s table to tear him a whole new asshole.

Managing to get the students back on track, you talk through the more complex passages of the text with the girl, directing her back to the questions when appropriate, and send her off with a friendly wave.

Returning from his circuit around the library, Steve dramatically slumps into the chair at your side, letting out a long-suffering sigh. He shoves his glasses up to his hair in an effort to scrub at his eyes. “What’s got ya down, clown?”

He blows a raspberry and rolls his eyes at your quip. “See that table by the windows?”

“Yeah,” you nod, noting the giggling group of girls, freshmen, if you had to guess. Sneaking side-long glances at Steve before blushing profusely and turning back to their friends. “Ooh, they seem struck by you!” you tease, letting your voice twang in a southern affectation.

“Don’t encourage them!” he admonishes, “They wanted help with geography, I don’t even teach that,” he sulks. 

“Steven,” you gasp, “Don’t tell me you never learned to read a map, you are an educator!”

Steve fixes you with a glance, “I’ll have you know, it all gets very confusing in Europe after the dissolution of the Soviet Bloc.”

“Don’t you teach AP World: Modern?”

“Yeah, you know that.”

“A-are you indoctrinating the students, Steve?” you needle him, earning an exasperated huff in response. “Snowflake,” you tsk reproachingly, “Trigger warnings! War on Christmas!” 

The taunting continues until Eddie approaches the desk. With a too-wide smile directed at Steve, you cut your eyes across the library to where Wheeler sits trembling like a leaf.

Mike looks well and thoroughly abashed after whatever Munson just lectured him about. Sinking as low in his seat as he did during the parent conference facilitated by Assistant Principal Bauman. Munson had clearly laid it on thick. 

Chains jangling against his hip, he sits on the desk. “Hey there, big boy,” he purrs winking at Steve, causing him to blush and sputter. “Light of my life,” he croons addressing you, “A thousand apologies for young Wheeler there,” he nods at the dejected teen in question, “It will not be happening again.” Raising his voice to a louder pitch, hollers out, “Not on my watch!”

“Yeah,” you goad him, waggling your brows, “On god, no cap?”

He stares at you as if you’d grown another head, and leans down to your level. “What fuckin’ Tik-Tok nonsense is that now?”

A notification pings from someone, Steve probably; grandpa that he is, he refuses to silence his phone like a normal person, no matter how many times you show him the focus or do not disturb function. 

He throws his keys at Eddie, who catches them before the ring of metal can brain him in the face. Steve pouts as Eddie jangles them triumphantly walking out the door, “Be back in five, hot stuff!”

Steve sends you an annoyed look, “Please tell me that wasn’t directed at me.”

You take a loud sip from his hydroflask and grin, “No, you’re big boy and I’m hot stuff,” you chide. “C’mon now.” Like it’s the most logical thing in the world.

“So,” he mutters escorting you to your car later that evening. “Are you ever gonna spill what went down the other night?”

“Huh,” you kiss your teeth with a wet click, bag slung haphazardly across your arm. “Thought Nance would’ve cracked by now.”

“What d’ya mean?”

You kick at the rocks scattered along the blacktop, refusing to meet his eyes. “Well,” you sigh. A grunt, a huff of breath before you tug at the strap of your backpack and admit flatly, “He, uh, ended it.” You hold up your left hand and wiggle your fingers in proof, and sure enough, no engagement ring in sight.

Steve never truly understood what people meant when they said the phrase ‘seeing red’ until now. Granted, he’d been knocked on the head more than most in his time, but even with the concussions he still had enough sense to know that you were the real fucking deal. And any asswipe that thinks he can do better than you is sorely mistaken.

He should know.

Willing himself not to vibrate with rage, he slings an arm across your shoulders and pulls you to his chest. You sniffle and press your forehead to his neck, he smells clean and comforting like cypress and vetiver with the faintest whiff of laundry detergent. 

“M’sorry honey,” he soothes, voice soft and low, subtly rocking from side to side as you fail to stop the tears from falling. “I gotcha, it’s okay.”

Naturally, you completely lose your shit in the school parking lot while Steve holds you. And truthfully, you’re more frustrated than anything because you’d been trying so damn hard to keep it together this week. You thought you’d been doing pretty well, too, until Harrington used his dumb best-friends-forever powers of perception.

Unbeknownst to you, everyone’s been desperately trying to keep their cool. 

Nancy was tight-lipped about the cause for your bender last weekend, but occupants of the loft were distinctly aware of how rigidly she held herself after dropping you off. Completely glued to her phone in case you needed anything at all and going so far as to out-law rom-coms for seemingly no reason.

His anger is simmering now, bubbling just under the surface because hell if he’s going to let you see how affected he is. True, he was never the biggest fan of your fiancé, well, ex-fiancé now, but he seemed like an okay guy. 

Clearly not.

A wet sob claws its way from your throat as Steve draws you closer, his hand cradling the back of your head. He’s doing his best to comfort you, but there’s only so much he can do in the parking lot of Hawkins high school. 

He pulls back briefly to look down at you, searching your face for any signs of discomfort. “Wanna crash at the loft?” He asks, voice hushed, as if he’s afraid to spook you. You glance over your shoulder to your car parked a few spaces away, eyes wide and wet. 

Steve feels like he’s lost all language. Doesn’t know any words because you’re stuttering, cursing, and sobbing against his chest like he’s never heard before. He’s at a complete loss as he shepherds you toward his car, opening the passenger door and sliding you into the seat. He has to pry your fingers off from the way you’d latched on to his shirt. 

As the door closes, he grabs his phone and types out a quick missive to let the roommates know what’s coming.

🫰freeloaders🫰

steeb🖕: nance, a heads up would’ve been nice

bucko 🤠: 👀

nwa 🔪: oh shit.

dumbass🤘 : stop talking in code nerds

steeb🖕 has changed the name of this group from 🫰freeloaders🫰 to 👊 fight club👊

steeb🖕: trouble is crashing with us, it’s bad guys. like, defcon 1

bucko 🤠: isn’t that the lowest level of defcon?

steeb🖕: not the time robs

nwa 🔪: her fiancé broke it off, that’s why she got shitfaced. didn’t want me to say anything until she was ready

bucko 🤠: what a piece of shit

dumbass🤘: i’m gonna need his name and address, ss# is a plus but not a necessity 

bucko 🤠: eddie NO

steeb🖕: eddie YES

nwa🔪 has ‘liked’ this message

“Sorry–” you whisper hoarsely, “I’m–sorry–”

Steve’s mouth falls open, so fucking helpless and confused. “There’s no need for that,” he assures you, “You didn’t do anything hon.”

You’ve barely gotten out of the shower, hair damp and dripping on the tiles of the bathroom. You stand in the doorway, dressed in an oversized Warped Tour shirt from ages ago, one bare foot scratching the adjacent ankle. 

Steve had to coax you to shower after arriving at the loft, your face puffy, smeared with tears and snot. Once you had been safely stowed in the shower, Nancy went into crisis-management mode. Delegating tasks to everyone in proximity to her and speaking in hushed tones with your parents on the phone.

Robin was in charge of securing a sub for you tomorrow (and, let’s be honest, one for Eddie, Steve, and herself as well), Eddie was researching moving companies and doing some mild internet sleuthing about your ex, just for his own research purposes, which left Steve on babysitting duty.

You start crying again, hiding the tears in your palms and dropping to the floor, curling up. Shit. Shit. Shit. Steve’s losing it. Can’t even keep you happy for two seconds–which he knows is the easiest job in the world because you have attention span of a goldfish and will laugh at anything.

He’s still perplexed when he drops to the floor with you, splaying his legs around your body, wrapping his arms around your back. His shirt is basically soaked through, sopping with your tears but that doesn’t deter you. You burrow into his chest, hands crawling up his shoulder blades, fingertips digging in enough to bruise, and you cling to him like a lifeline. Steve’s chest swells in pain for you, a hurt he feels down to his bones. You’re shaking with sobs and shivery hot in his arms.

Unable to soothe your tears, Steve gets to work and slides an arm down underneath your legs to secure you against his chest. “Okay honey, hold tight,” he breathes, scooping you up as he rises from the cold tile floor. You press your face further into his chest, sinking so deep into his hold he thinks you might fall right into him. Another choked sob as you nod.

He carries you down the hall and into his bedroom, all dark and quiet. Steve lays you down atop his sheets where you continue to sob fitfully, eyes blooming with fresh tears. He reaches over your body, takes the far edge of the sheet and pulls it around, tucking it beneath your back. He does the same to the other side and soon enough, you’re wrapped snugly in its cocoon. Only your head is visible.

And he knows you’re sad, and it’s very fucking real. The kind of sadness he felt when Nancy crushed his heart to smithereens back in high school. That, but times a thousand.

“How’s that?” he says, breaking the silence now that your cries have died down. “Better?”

You blink at him after a while. Your head jerks a few times, eyes pointedly cutting to the open space on the bed next to you.

Steve shucks his shirt, volleying it to the hamper, and slips in chuckling at the way you inch your body closer to his. His arm falls to rest against your hip, “Okay honey,” he whispers over the top of your head, “Better now?”

“Mmhm,” you sigh, pressing your forehead to his chest once more. “Stevie,” you rasp, voice muffled, “Can you stay?”

“Yeah,” he says right away, fingers sketching along your side, a crease of worry forming between his brows. “‘Course I’ll stay honey, long as you want.”

Steve spends another couple of hours with you, settling down in hopes that you’ll eventually drift off to sleep. He pulls a movie up on his phone, something with little emotional labor because you’re more than likely spent for the week. He lays next to you on the bed, propped up by a pillow or two, his free hand tracing calming circles against your hip. After the credits roll, your swollen eyelids begin to slip shut.

He stays for a little longer, just until your breathing evens out and he knows you’re asleep. As gently and slowly as he can, Steve gets out of bed careful not to jostle you awake and makes his way to the living room. Everyone’s awake and lost in their own little world, it’s quiet save for the sound of clacking keys and mouse clicks. 

Settling against an armchair, he clears his throat and says, “She’s asleep, for now.”

“How’s she doing?”

He shrugs, because isn’t that the million dollar question. Steve couldn’t begin to guess at that thoughts rattling through your brain. But he tries anyway, “Uh, not great.”

Silence settles around them once more. Steve stares wordlessly at the ceiling and grits his teeth loud enough for everyone to hear. He inhales a deep, steady breath and it feels like the only one he’s taken in hours.

And for the first time in a long time, he allows himself to fall back on a familiar feeling. To push past all the anger and hurt; the tinge of his own failure he tries not to associate with you, struggles to do that most days, too. 

Behind the darkness of his eyelids, there is strangely so much light.

A semblance of hope.

[moonstruckme]

Can you do poly!marauders where reader has kinda a shitty family? Like, where their family belittles them and insults them and gets mad over them existing so whe reader is back at hogwarts the next year she's as fragile as a china shop uncomfortablely close to a bull farm??

Only do it if your comfortable with it <3

Make sure to take care of yourself and remeber you are loved <3 <3

Thanks for requesting, love you and hope you're taking care of yourself as well <3

cw: hints at emotional abuse

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.3k words

You’re quiet, all of a sudden. The distance over the last few months had been rough for all of you, gone to your separate homes for the summer, but Remus is beginning to suspect it was most difficult for you; you can’t seem to find your way back to them. It’s like you’ve constructed a shell around yourself over the short three months you’ve been apart, and none of James’ loving, Sirius’ teasing, or Remus’ offerings of a study companion have proved successful in drawing you back out. 

He’s sure you think you’re being subtle. You certainly haven’t addressed your boyfriends’ worries, either missing or ignoring the looks they send each other when you don’t jump in on a joke they’re doing or answer in a quiet, meek voice when they ask you a question. It’s as if you’re afraid of being heard, of being noticed at all. 

Remus doesn’t like it one bit. 

Neither do the others, of course, and he and James have had to talk Sirius down from confronting you about it multiple times already in the week since you’ve been back. You seem…fragile, somehow, and Remus doesn’t think pushing you will get the results they all want. James seems to think you’ll come back to them on your own if they give you time, and Remus isn’t so sure, but it’s the plan he’s rolling with for now. 

Still, he doesn’t think it’s out of line to intervene when he catches you carrying a stack of books that has to be half your weight. Last year, he’s positive you would have asked for help, but now you only grunt quietly as the stack wobbles above your head. 

“Let me take some of those for you,” Remus offers, already standing, and you flinch as if your distracting him from his homework is a punishable offense. The stack teeters dangerously with your sudden movement. 

“That’s okay,” you squeak, leaning back a bit in an attempt to get your tower of books under control. You look timid, wide-eyed like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar, afraid of getting in trouble. “You can sit back down, I’ve—” You don’t even get the chance to finish your excuse before the books topple, scattering about. Remus flinches internally when some fall down on your head, and another sends an empty glass on the edge of the coffee table crashing to the ground. 

You cover your mouth with your hand, staring in silent horror at the mess around you. 

James and Sirius, playing cards on the other side of the coffee table, look up at the commotion. 

“Shit,” Sirius says (a rather eloquent sum-up in Remus’ opinion). “Are you okay?”

“I’m so sorry,” you breathe, crouching and beginning to gather the broken glass in your hands.  “I’m so sorry, I can’t believe I did that.” 

“Don’t—be careful,” Remus starts to say, but then you lose your balance, stepping backwards just slightly and letting out a tiny hiss. 

Remus stands, but James gets to you first, careful to keep away from the broken glass himself as he lifts you clear of the debris and deposits you onto the couch. 

“I’m sorry,” you say again, impossibly quiet. You’re looking between your boyfriends as if unsure what they want you to do. 

“Angel, it’s okay,” James insists, coming to sit down in front of you. “We’ll clean it up in a bit, don’t worry. Did you hurt yourself?”

You look down at your foot, sucking your bottom lip into your mouth.

“A little,” you admit. “Sorry.” 

“Stop that,” Remus says sternly. “It was a mistake. We only care that you’re hurt.” 

You look conflicted, and Remus can practically see your next apology forming on your tongue, but before you can utter it, James asks gently, “Can I have a look, sweetheart?”

You blink at him, nodding hesitantly. James is careful as he takes your ankle in his hand, lifting your foot in front of his face. His expression clears a little.

“Okay, it’s just a little piece,” he says, adjusting his hold before picking out a tiny bit of glass and flicking it into the pile with the rest. “There you go.” 

You nod your thanks, curling your foot underneath you. You’re being quiet as a rabbit, Remus thinks, all tense and wary but afraid to make a single sound. Whether you notice or not, the unease in the room grows with every second of your silence. 

Finally, it appears Sirius can’t be held at bay any longer. 

“Alright,” he says, more frustration in his tone than Remus thinks is really a good idea, “what’s going on with you?”

You look surprised. “Me?”

“Yes, you. You’ve been acting like someone’s going to shout at you ever since we got back this year.” Sirius lowers his voice, eyebrows scrunching together just slightly. “It was being at home, wasn’t it? Something happened.” 

You flush, and Remus feels suddenly like this is a conversation he has no right to be in. Of course Sirius would be the one to pick up on it if  your family was what was making you act this way. No wonder he’d been so insistent they needed to get to the bottom of it. That’s something he can understand, whereas Remus and James never could. 

“Nothing happened,” you say, and Sirius narrows his eyes like he doesn’t believe you. “I just…okay, don’t be mad.” 

“No one is going to be mad at you, sweetheart,” Remus says, feeling like his heart is working its way up his throat with the words. “We’re just…you’ve seemed so different, and it’s scaring us a little bit. We only want to know what we can do to help.” 

You look hesitant. James reaches forward, taking your hand in both of his and rubbing at it with his thumbs. You nod, seeming a bit more confident now, and say, “There’s nothing you can really do. I just need some time.” 

James nods back, looking at you with brown eyes big and open and understanding. Remus often wishes he could convey even half James’ earnestness, but he doesn’t know anyone with the same capacity for warmth. “Time for what, darling?”

You nibble on your lower lip, and Remus has to repress the urge to rescue it from between your teeth. “Well, we didn’t really get close until a couple months into fall term last year, right?”

“Right,” James agrees. 

“So…I wouldn’t expect you to know, but it always sort of takes me a bit to…adjust back to school life.” 

Sirius still looks like he wants to fight something, but he’s more careful to keep his anger out of his voice now. “Why’s that?”

You shrug. “You’re not wrong. My family isn’t always as…patient with me as you guys are. They’re not awful, it’s just, I get into a habit of being quieter around them.” Remus’ heart feels like lead in his chest. “It takes me a while to get out of the habit once I get back.” 

“Honey,” James murmurs, not looking much better than Remus feels. “I’m sorry.” 

You give him a little smile, shifting uncomfortably. “You don’t need to act like it’s such a tragedy,” you joke. “I’ll get over it soon.” 

James looks distressed, but Remus cuts in. “I’m sorry you don’t feel like you can be yourself at home, lovely girl,” he says in what he hopes is a light but soothing tone, unsure what you need right now but gathering from your demeanor that it’s not their pity. He slides his arm around your back to tug you closer to him. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

You hum contentedly, leaning against his side. “Not really,” you reply. “You guys are too good to me, it’s hard to be quiet around you for long.” 

“Good,” Sirius says firmly, “because we don’t want you to. Want to go scream off the astronomy tower, sweet thing? Maybe that’ll help loosen you up.” 

“Actually, I’d really like to clean up my mess before someone comes down here and steps on it,” you admit. “But maybe we can try your yelling thing tomorrow.”

[gabessquishytum]

Mob boss dream and doctor hob! This is a concept.

After Dream escapes his kidnapping he and Hob get closer and closer. Dream gets protective and starts posting a guard outside his place. Hob doesn’t like that. He tells Dream he isn’t helpless and so there’s no need to worry.

But he has become precious to Dream. Dream knows he is in love with Hob. He thinks about kissing him whenever he smiles, thinks about fucking him when he sweeps Dream into a big hug. Dream decides not to tell him yet. Not until he is sure Hob feels the same way. He hopes…but can’t be sure.

Hob doesn’t even seem to notice how dream feels. But everyone does.

One day, thugs from one of the families smash Hob’s door open and drag him out, shove him bound and blindfolded into a van and take off.

Dream rushes over the moment he hears and sees the broken glass and blood in the floor and instantly freaks out. He starts going scorched earth trying to figure out who has him.

But something happens that he didn’t expect. Word gets out that the mob doctor has been taken. And the other families all issue a cease fire on the Endless. Suddenly the family who took him is being hunted down by the other families who are Not Happy that their doctor was kidnapped. And it isn’t even Dream who gets him. It’s the Constantines who pull Hob out of the basement and patch him up. When they see that Hob was threatened and tortured? Not one kidnapper is left alive.

Hob gets patched up. And then the Constantines drop him off at Dream’s door.

Dream takes one look at a shaky, bruised and bandaged Hob, who still smiles at Dream and reassured him that he will be okay…and knows he can’t wait any longer.

Dream folds him into his arms, kisses Hob and they finally turn friendship into (very gentle) sex.

Ooo yes I like the idea of all the mob families being VERY annoyed that their doctor has been taken, so they go on this temporary truce to get Hob back. It's kind of a mutual decision when Hob is found that the rogue family who kidnapped him needs to be eliminated. The assets are quietly divided between the remaining families, and Hob is delivered to Dream (because the whole city knows by now that Mr Endless has a giant soft spot for the doctor).

The relief of being home is enormous for Hob. Admittedly he's a little bit loopy on his own painkillers but he practically crawls into Dream’s arms when the Constantines deposit him with a wink and a grin. It's the start of a proper alliance for the Endless and Constantine families, and when he's feeling a lot better Hob is the one who negotiates an uneasy peace between them. It's easier to make money when they're not shooting at each other, to be fair.

In the meantime Dream dotes on Hob, and won't let him out of his sight. They start exchanging shy kisses on the night of Hob’s return, and they just never stop. Hob pretty much moves into Dream’s suite, but if he has a long night at the clinic, Dream will show up with his entourage of bodyguards and camp out in the flat upstairs. When Hob eventually stumbles up to bed at 4am, Dream will be waiting for him.

Every once in a while Dream will fly Hob out to some secret private island so they can have a few days of raunchy beach sex. Hob is a big fan of getting to see Dream naked (as sexy as the gun holster is, its nice to just pretend to be normal), sprawled out in the sunshine, with his dick right there for Hob to suck... its a good life. The occasional kidnapping is definitely worth it.