#getting all maudlin again

[7-143]

My car was stolen on Monday and I've been in an awful mood since. The election just made it worse.

Got it back tonight, after they charged me $300 for the convenience.

But I'm more gutted they stole me BT21 stuffed animals I had hanging from the rear view mirror.

It's so stupid but I hate thinking of Mang, RJ and Koya in the hands of a thief.

[caligvlasaqvarivm]

Do you think if the trolls all came back, like everything in the main comic did happen and they were alive again. Do you think Feferi would actually forgive Eridan? Or want to even be his friend after everything? I don't personally like the erisol and fefertasprite interaction…felt rushed…..so I just wanted to know your opinion if things were different! :)

Yeah, I think they would be! Feferi is one of the trolls who takes dying the least badly (relentless optimism) and Eridan does genuinely feel bad, which means a lot when it's Eridan. I think she really is genuine when she says she wants them to be friends and also that she's really not the type of person to hold a grudge, and like... death is SUPER cheap in Homestuck, it's really not the horrific, irredeemable, irreperable damage that it is IRL - and if you're talking about (Feferi) and (Eridan), then they're both dead (and irrelevent) now, so the score is kind of even.

In general, the fandom - I mean, people in general, really - tend to have difficulty divorcing themselves from other people. We tend to assume that the people and characters they like will hold similar opinions to themselves. This is how people who like Karkat and don't like Eridan can mentally gloss over or even block out their clear, close friendship, or how people who dislike Cronus can end up overlooking that Meenah actually takes his opinion seriously and unironically defends his wizard thing. Feferi really isn't mad at Eridan or upset about dying the way we probably would be, because she's friends with the horrorterrors, relentlessly cheerful, comfortable with death in general, and death is also just not really that big of a deal in this setting. "I'm really sorry about that, that was shitty of me" is honestly probably all the apology she needs, especially if they came back to life anyway.

[ehlnofay]

you should all come to australia. not because it's a particularly good place to visit it's just my place and I like it

[clairefable]

It's no secret that I love a bangin choon. When I first started using the interwebs (back when dinosaurs roamed the Earth) one of the first "fandoms" I was into was the Eurodance scene, especially Sash!. This unexpectedly came on when I just sat and let the YouTube algorithm take me where ever. Suddenly it's late 2002 and I'm sitting up far too late at night using the world's worst dialup and a shitty laptop my dad "borrowed" from his work. I remember the Yahoo groups and the forums, and the people who posted there. I wonder if the long distance Swedish/English couple are still together. I wonder if the guy from England who sent me a copy he'd made of a stupidly expensive album is doing well. I hope the Dutch guy who became infatuated with me wasn't too hurt when I took the coward's way out and blocked him everywhere (sorry). I even had fun arguing with the smart-ass Belgian guy on Yahoo groups, has he mellowed with age or could he still start a fight in an empty house? I hope the mad guy from Glasgow is still getting mwi on the regular. Even if I don't remember their names, I remember *them*. On the off-chance anyone from those old days sees this and recognises themselves, I still smile when I hear an old cheesy bop and remember sitting listening to it with my headphones in so no one would know I was still awake. I hope life was kind to you all.

[techno-rat]

fuckk yeah

[winter-parrot]

making my official entrance into the 911 fandom / bucktommy with a fic for #bucktommyhiatusevent week one: home.

buck looks for home in the aftermath of season 8. | 2.5k

now on ao3 as well!

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

Turns out living in your car is not like riding a bicycle. His body does not magically remember how to fold up into the back seat of his Jeep and fall asleep. If anything, it feels like the space has somehow shrunk since the last time he’s done this. Although, that might have something to do with how much he’s bulked up in the last seven years since he settled in LA and became a firefighter.

It’s alright. It’s not like he’d really expected better. He’d hoped, sure. He’d hoped for a lot of things, things that did not include sleeping in his car. But hope is in short supply these days, and it’s not about to make a surprise appearance for anything so trivial as Buck’s apartment hunting woes.

It was only supposed to be for a day or two, is the thing. Just until he could find a new place to move into. But one day stretched into two into three, and somehow he’s already in his second week of car-living. His bad leg started protesting on day five, and now his back is joining in. He suspects every muscle in his body will rebel against him, one by one by one, within the next week.

The problem is, he has nowhere else to go. Nowhere has felt right. It’s not like he hasn’t tried, either. He’s been doing nothing but apartment hunting in his free time—not like there’s a whole lot else to do, living in his car—and the real estate agent helping him seems increasingly ready to stab him just to get this endless search over with. He doesn’t blame her, at this point. It feels like he’s seen every available apartment within a two-hour radius of the station house.

And yet, not a single one has felt right. Has felt like a place he could call his own, a place that might become home.

Maybe the problem is actually bigger than an apartment. Maybe the problem is just him, all of him and the hopeless needy wanting thing in his chest. Maybe he’s just Bucking it up, like always. Maybe there’s actually no right place for him in LA, and he’s just an idiot chasing a pipe dream.

It’s not so far fetched a thought, really. He keeps finding himself wanting things he’s never going to find. Things that would be hard enough to get one of, never mind all together—and that’s even before he considers LA real estate and his own less-than-impressive budget.

Knowing it’s unrealistic doesn’t stop him from wanting, as always. He longs for exposed beams and brick walls and a long dark dining table, like the firehouse. Wonders briefly if that’s why he liked his old place; the layout vaguely resembled the firehouse, with the open plan and the loft. Has to stop himself before he gets maudlin about missing the loft, on top of everything else. He pictures a big back yard with a grill, like Bo— like Athena’s old place. Makes himself stop imagining before his thoughts can stray to Bobby, to all the times he stood in that familiar space, cooking or hosting a party or manning the grill like he never will again. Thinks instead of a bright sunny living room and a big garage for his bike and his jeep and his side projects, like he’d seen at… well. Like he’d seen in someone else’s house a few times, months ago.

Those months ago feels like a different lifetime, now. Back then, he had a loft he liked well enough. He had a job he loved. He had Bobby and backyard barbecues and shared dinners. He had a family in the 118. He had a best friend whom he could always turn to, whose child he loved like his own. He had a boyfriend he could envision an actual future with.

Now, he’s got no solid roof over his head; a job he’s still debating transferring out of, never mind his cancelled transfer request; no Bobby, no backyard barbecues, no family dinners; no family that needs him or even wants him around; a best friend who maybe hates him for making things about himself, again; and no boyfriend. It’d almost be funny, how fast and hard everything fell apart, if it wasn’t his own life he had to live through every day.

He considers, vaguely, the possibility that Maddie may have accidentally cursed him, back when she told him he had to learn to be alone. Here he is, all alone now, and learning that same lesson again for the thousandth time. You’d think it would get easier over time, but somehow each review seems to make it worse and worse. It’s also possible he accidentally cursed himself, when he complained to Eddie about everything falling apart. If only he’d known back then just how far away rock bottom still was. Or it could be that he was simply cursed from birth. Couldn’t save Daniel, couldn’t do the one thing he was literally born to do; couldn’t ever make his parents happy, no matter how much he tried; couldn’t get Maddie to come with him, when he was running towards freedom and wanted her at his side; couldn’t ever stop a partner from leaving him behind, no matter how much he loved them and loved them and loved them.

Doesn’t really matter why or how, really. Point is, he’s pretty sure there has to be some kind of curse upon him. Everyone else seems to have somebody, but he’s always the one left behind. Left alone. Sleeping in his car, because he doesn’t even have a couch he can reliably crash on.

He can’t go to Maddie and Chimney; they have a newborn infant at home, on top of Chimney’s soon-to-be captaincy, and recovering from Maddie’s kidnapping barely rhree months ago. Can’t go to Athena, can’t intrude on her and May and Harry’s grief, not when they lost the most out of them all. Can’t go to Hen, barging in on her and her family when Mara’s still settling in and everyone is fragile. Can’t go to Eddie, can’t… well. Can’t do much with Eddie at all, right now. Can’t go to Ravi, because they might be friends but they’re not that kind of friends, not yet, and maybe not for years yet while the grief sits between them looming larger than their friendship. Can’t go to Tommy, because Buck’s not his problem anymore—anyway he’s done more than enough for Buck already, what with stealing a helicopter to piss off the Army and bearing Bobby’s casket with them.

Can’t go to the firehouse, because for all that it felt like home, he can’t actually live there. Besides, it doesn’t really feel like home anymore. Not with Gerrard in the captain’s office, and no family dinners, and a cavernous yawning chasm cutting through everything that no one will talk about. Not without Bobby.

So he’s stuck in the car. He could shell out for a hotel room for a few nights, probably, but that’s expensive. And it just feels stupid, too. Like admitting defeat. He used to do this all the time, in that stretch of time between driving away from Maddie and ending up at the fire academy. Being a failed Navy SEAL or ranch hand-ing or bartending in Peru was all fun and good, he doesn’t regret it, but it hadn’t exactly left him flush with cash. Hadn’t been very stable or reliable, for that matter. He’d thought he’d left that part of his life behind him, when he finally settled at the fire academy and settled into his own skin, but well. Life’s full circle, or something like that.

Buck drives aimlessly, letting the hour turn late in the hopes that sheer exhaustion will overcome the mounting discomfort of not sleeping in a bed. Or maybe not so aimlessly; the clock is just ticking over midnight when he looks around to realize habit or fate or his goddamn curse has brought him to a familiar neighbourhood.

Stupid. This was such a bad idea. This wasn’t the kind of neighbourhood where you could get away with just parking on the side of the street in a strange car and sleeping the night. Someone was going to call the cops on him, if he tried that. He should drive away, leave it behind, and find a parking lot or something.

But now that he’s here, now that he’s so close, the hopeless needy wanting thing in his chest is clawing at the insides of his ribs like a caged beast. He can’t stop himself from driving on instead of turning around like he most definitely should. He doesn’t have it in him to resist, is worn too paper-thin in and threadbare to put up any more of a fight than a wet paper bag. Isn’t even sure he wants to, really, even if he is sure that he should.

The lights are dark in the house, because it’s getting on 12:30 now and sane people have gone to bed. He really should leave, now. Shouldn’t interrupt the peace of this night, crashing into it like a wrecking ball. Shouldn’t disturb Tommy and bleed his petty troubles all over him, any more than he should bother Chim or Maddie or Hen or Athena with it. All the reasons why he can’t go to Tommy haven’t magically disappeared just because he’s somehow ended up in front of Tommy’s house.

But the hopeless needy wanting thing in Buck’s chest is holding the reins, now. It kinda feels like he’s watching someone else move, like that hopeless needy wanting thing has taken over his body. Hopeless-needy-wanting-Buck pulls the Jeep right up into the driveway. Kills the engine and locks the door behind him once he gets out. Walks up to the door on legs that are only slightly unsteady. Knocks.

There’s no answer, because duh. It’s 12:30 at night. Tommy might not even be home, might be on shift at Harbour. Or on a romantic date with someone that ends up at their house, not his. Or watching Buck through a gap in the curtains somewhere, wondering why the hell his ex won’t leave him the fuck alone and hoping Buck just goes away.

The thought hurts, but he wouldn’t blame Tommy for it. Not after what he said in that kitchen, setting his second—third?—chance ablaze faster than an uncontrolled wildfire in the peak of August heat. Even if the idea of Eddie being competition is more ridiculous than ever, and hurts in a whole new way now.

Buck stands there, blank in the throbbing ache of his heart and his body. Could’ve been for thirty seconds or thirty minutes, he’s not sure. Time’s been getting a little hazy at the edges, these past weeks, and the simple act of digging out his phone to check feels like an insurmountable effort. It’s like all the exhaustion has caught up to him, all at once. He debates the merits of just going to sleep right there, curled up on Tommy’s front steps like a stray cat.

The door opens. Buck doesn’t register it for a second, not until a sleep-rough voice is saying his name. “Evan?”

Adrenaline spikes through his veins, wakes him right back up and deposits him rudely back into his body. Oh God, he’s really doing this. He’s really done this, shown up at Tommy’s door in the dead of night like the world’s worst uninvited houseguest. “T-tommy, I’m sorry. I just, I-I- I should go, I’m sorry. I didn’t—“

There’s a hand on his arm, a touch so gentle he can barely feel it. It shuts him right up anyway. There’s no room in Buck’s brain for anything other than the warmth and strength of Tommy’s big hand, palpable even through his shirt.

“Do you want to come inside?” Tommy asks, searching Buck’s face. “You look like you could use some sleep. And maybe a friendly face.” Tommy’s lips press shut after that, pinched at the corners like he didn’t mean to say that. He swallows tightly and looks away, avoiding Buck’s eyes.

Buck is fascinated by the click of his throat, but not more than he’s enraged by the uncertainty behind the motion. Tommy, who showed up for him and for Chim in defiance of the Army and the FBI and Incident Command. Tommy, who flew the most insane evasive maneuvers like it was nothing, and then almost got himself arrested for it. Tommy, who made him a feast for breakfast and bought a bottle of hopeful champagne that went to his waste after that single, beautiful night at the house that was never Buck’s. Tommy should never sound so uncertain. And Buck is the one who put that hesitation there, with his stupid words that mornin after. Maybe not all of it, maybe some of it predates his own mistakes, but enough.

The anger unsticks his mouth long enough to say, “You’re the friendliest face I’ve seen in weeks.” Means it, too. Except maybe Christopher, but thinking about him leads to Eddie, and he can’t. He just can’t, not right now.

Tommy looks back up at him, a glimmer in his eyes that fades into concern. He looks at Buck, really looks at Buck; Buck feels seen for maybe the first time since… since the lab. He’s terrified that Tommy will see all the ugly parts, the rotting grief and the worn-down useless bits of him that can’t even do the one thing Bobby asked him to. Can’t keep them together, can’t help anyone, can’t be needed. Can’t be enough for anybody.

Tommy finishes his assessment. Steps back. Speaks, before Buck can fully begin to panic about having the door slammed shut in his face. “Tell me about it?” He takes another step back, pulling the door open wider. Inviting Buck into his life, his heart, his home.

Buck takes the invitation, and walks in.

[x-i-l-verify]

It's quite simple, really. The Chain are nine souls bound by the same spirit and some still by the same blood who also made the conscious effort and choice to become friends. And that's what makes their bond so special. By putting these characters together in one place, it allows each of them to show different facets of the personalities they displayed in their various games and become the best version of themselves they can be. A link by itself can only do so much, and a chain is nothing without all its links, but together, they are greater than the sum of their parts.

“In each of my friends there is something that only some other friend can fully bring out. By myself I am not large enough to call the whole man into activity; I want other lights than my own to show all his facets... Hence true Friendship is the least jealous of loves. Two friends delight to be joined by a third, and three by a fourth, if only the newcomer is qualified to become a real friend. They can then say, as the blessed souls say in Dante, 'Here comes one who will augment our loves.' For in this love 'to divide is not to take away.'” ― C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves

rrrrgh there's no actual 100% correct way to describe the Chain's dynamic cuz they're not a properly ordered nuclear family they just sorta are. like Time just sorta keeps them all safe and he's a dad but he's not really cuz there's something else there and you could say ah yes they're brothers but there's something else so that's not right either idkkkkkkk it's just killing me rn cuz it makes perfect sense but there's no actual proper words in the english language to describe it brother isn't right and friends isn't enough, it's like they need each other like breathing and one of them is the ground and one is the sky above and one is nature and one is history and one is logic and one is the air and one is time and one is protection and one is the day/night cycle and they need to be all together because they create their own little bubble of existence that just works somehow. how do you describe that? what word is there to describe this type of found family?

[balrogballs]

I'm still sad about this heartwarming and mildly amusing little section where feral adolescent Aragorn brings some joy to Maedhros in his unhinged little way, which I had to cut out of Cast in Stone for structural reasons, especially as I had gone to the trouble of illustrating it!

But I realised it reads perfectly fine standalone, so you guys can have my crumb of Maedhros-joy instead. No context required: Maedhros and Maglor are temporarily staying in the Shire during the late Third Age, Maedhros had a horrible night of traumatic dreams and was being maudlin — until young Aragorn, aka Elros II and the bane of his life, turns up like a bad penny, as he often does. Enjoy!

---

"You look unhappy," said Estel, sitting down before Maedhros, legs crossed. "Does your hand hurt? Surely it can't be as bad as when it got chopped off, can it?"

"No, but leave me be, Estel, I have —"

"All right, but let me ask just one question. I promise, then I'll go away. I just remembered something from my lessons, and every time I ask Ada he looks up at the sky and asks the Valar where he went wrong in raising me," Estel moved closer, looking around for eavesdroppers. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. But I would like to know."

Maedhros frowned, swallowed the lump in his throat and dragged in a breath. "What?"

"Fingon rescued you on one of those enormous eagles, didn't he? On that mountain with Morgoth and all of that. It was one of those, right? Manwë's Eagles."

"Yes. He did. I do not wish to answer any further questions on the matter, clear off."

"And it was quite a long journey, wasn't it?"

Maedhros grunted.

"I've always had a question about it… and again, you don't have to tell me if it's too traumatising," Estel's eyes shone, as though he were about to hear a state secret. "And I promise I won't tell anyone."

"Spit it out, boy, or leave me now. I am in the mood for neither company nor memory."

"Did it… you know…?"

"If you're trying to ask me if losing the hand hurt, yes it did," Maedhros snapped. "Now leave me alone, I've had enough reminiscing for a damned century. Get off home, now!"

"Oh, shut up, I wasn't asking about your stupid hand, I don't understand why you think everyone sits around thinking about your hand," Estel scowled, pursuing his lips, before deciding his quest for scientific knowledge was more important than whatever had crawled up Maedhros' arsehole and died. He widened his eyes conspiratorily, looked around again. "My question has nothing to do with that! I just wanted to know, did the eagle… you know?"

"Estel, I am not going to repeat this, get out of my sight right this —"

"Did it take a shit?"

"Did… what?"

"Did it take a shit?" Estel flushed as he said the word, Elrond's parental touch finally taking hold, though in a predictably useless manner. "And if it did, how big was it? As in, was it normal bird crap, or was it, you know — like a bucketload of it?"

Maedhros blinked. Estel held his hands out to demonstrate.

"I've always wanted to know that about them, you know," the boy continued, stroking his chin like a philosopher. "Manwe's eagles, that is. Surely if they're big enough to carry two people, one being a towering beast like you, their droppings must be massive."

"What…?" Maedhros couldn't formulate words, a state of being Estel clearly had no familiarity with. "Their… what?"

"And yes, I know they're divine, all of that, but surely they can't be toilet trained, can they? I just don't see Manwë having enough time to toilet train an eagle, you know. Could you imagine just… going about your day, and having this massive tub of birdshite fall on your head? Oh, it could drown a person, I'm sure of it!" Estel grinned, as if said occurrence would be the best day of his life, had it happened to him. "So, did it? And if it did, did you see if it went on someone?"

Maedhros sat there blinking at the boy in complete silence before rising quietly, taking the now-extremely-familiar ear, and slowly — like he were a corpse — leading Estel to the village gate. He didn't say a word, only gestured weakly and put up three fingers, a signal the now sulky boy was very used to.

And as Estel, muttering darkly all the while, neared the completion of his first punishment-lap of three around the village green, he heard something that sounded like a donkey in immense pain. It was a sound so tremendous and unexpected that it brought Maglor running from the house, gaping at the source, having not heard such a thing in centuries. It was no donkey, but Maedhros in complete hysterics, sitting on the ground exactly where he was when he beckoned Estel to run, sobbing with laughter, actual tears pouring down his face, which itself was screwed up and flushed so pink he looked like he'd been badly sunburned. He was trying to explain the situation to Maglor (who had been glaring at Estel as if he had personally killed his brother, and now looked upon him like he was Iluvatar himself) but Maedhros was howling too hard to even stand, let alone form coherent words.

Estel pretended not to notice, and started on his second lap. Though objectively speaking, the laugh itself sounded like something between a foghorn, a pig and whatever noise he imagined Ungoliant would make — there was something rather lovely about it that brought an inexplicable little smile to his face.

[lipglossanon]

Until the End

Real son!Leon S. Kennedy x real mom!reader (one shot)

Warnings: incest, dead dove, mom/son, simp Leon, cnc (reader’s “not” into it at first 😉), kissing, dirty talk, teasing, oral (f receiving), just the tip 😩, unprotected sex, creampie, mommy kink to the extreme

not proofread ✍️ it’s been a while since I’ve worked on anything so hopefully this doesn’t suck lmao the ending is just kinda meh

shoutout to the discord; I posted some of this WIP and they gave me the inspo to finish 🤭

title from the Breaking Benjamin song

It’s a quiet affair when you sign the divorce papers. Your husband—of twenty four years—deciding that he’d rather live overseas with his secretary instead of sticking it out; it’s not something you would have foreseen, but as they say hindsight’s always 20/20. It upset you at first but once the indignation died down, you realize you feel more relief than anything. Things have been strained for years and then in the last five, he’s barely been home long enough to chat about your days. 

The one who took it the hardest out of anyone is Leon. Your husband offered him a place to stay, but he chose to live with you (being a mama’s boy through and through). After his father left, Leon angrily refused to speak with him anymore and instead focused on his work and trying to pick up any slack around the house. Not that you hadn’t already been doing that for years, but it’s sweet of him to want to take care of you. 

He dotes on you now, making sure you’re eating and drinking and taking care of yourself. His friends tease him about it or rib him about having a milf (which you had the unfortunate chance to overhear as you walked into the living room). Meeting Leon’s mortified gaze, you smile tightly and walk through to the kitchen. He kicks them out and apologizes profusely to you, face buried in the crook of your neck, lips brushing your skin as he murmurs how sorry he is and promises it won’t happen again. 

Things go back to normal for a while. The absence of your husband is something you don’t even notice anymore. Leon is more than capable of moving out and living on his own, but he says it’s closer to work and easier to keep an eye on you if he lives at home. Besides, he told you with a serious face, he doesn’t have a girlfriend to make things awkward so for now you just need to chill out and let him take care of things. 

He gets a promotion at work, no longer relegated to being just a traffic cop, and you couldn’t be more proud! Your offer to take him out to a nice dinner gets turned down; in its place is an evening of take out and drinking. Since it’s the weekend, neither of you are worried about being hungover the next day, so you both end up drinking more than you usually would. 

Later, Leon walks with you from the dining room to the living room, each of you laughing at some silly joke that you can’t even remember. 

Settling together on the couch, he tucks into your side, face nuzzling against your neck like he used to do as a little boy. You giggle and run your hand through his hair. 

“You’re so sweet, Leon,” you murmur, “but aren’t you a little too old to be cuddling your mom?”

“Uh uh,” he whines, making you laugh harder, “always need you, mama.”

“Okay, okay,” you pat his head, slumping further into the couch, the alcohol buzzing through your veins, “my little boy’s all grown up.”

Feeling maudlin now at remembering that the passage of time waits for no one, you sniffle and it draws Leon’s attention.  

“What’s a’matter?” He mumbles, hazy blue eyes sharpening to see your tears, “mom?”

You smile and cup his cheek. Neither of you have shied away from physical affection; however, you remember on more than one occasion you thought Leon went overboard with cuddling and snuggling with you. Now that seems like a silly thought, he just missed you during his long hours on duty. 

“Nothing, just so proud of you,” you smile, dropping your hand to rub his shoulder. 

He kisses your cheek and you coo softly. Moving closer, he lands another soft kiss to the corner of your lips. Blaming it on the alcohol, a warm thrum of heat sings through your stomach. 

“Mama,” he whimpers, lips clumsily landing on yours. 

You freeze, body heavy and thoughts slow. Leon presses his mouth more firmly against yours and you gasp, lips parting under his and he eagerly kisses you harder. Whining, you try to tug your head away but he follows you, kisses becoming rougher while pressing you deeper against the couch. 

Your hands come up and tangle in his hair, but instead of pulling him back they scrape against his scalp, making him groan deliciously. He shifts, pulling away to tilt his head at a better angle before pressing another hot kiss against your lips. You sink into it, clit pulsing in arousal, mouth tingling from each sloppy kiss from your son.

Finally, you twist away, panting heavily while Leon rests his forehead against your jaw. 

“Mama, why’d you stop?” He presses a soft kiss under your ear, making you shiver.

“Leon, this—this isn’t right,” you plead, eyelashes fluttering as he nips and sucks your neck.

“Just this once,” he murmurs, lips dragging against your skin and sending chills down your body. “Let me show you how much I appreciate you, mommy.”

His words and actions are muddling your mind… and you’ve been lonely for so long. Swallowing, you breath out a shaky breath, mind made up.

“O-okay,” your body feels hot, muttering that out loud.

Moaning, he bites your jaw then kisses your cheek. “Thank you.”

He shows his appreciation by kissing the breath from your lungs; your son’s excitement ramps up your own, cunt pulsing with need as slick fills your panties. Wet, drugging kisses pass between you until you completely lose yourself to the feeling, making out with Leon until your lips are swollen. 

You jump, feeling his fingers trail along your thigh, slipping under your skirt and brushing against your panties.

“God, you’re so wet. Wanna bury my face in your pussy.”

You moan, and he teases your cunt through the soppy fabric.

“You can’t,” your hips grind down into his hand.

“Okay, promise I’ll behave,” he chuckles.

Without another word, he flips your skirt up and slips your panties down your legs to bunch at your ankles.

“Oh mommy,” he moans, fingers tracing your slit up and down before circling your clit, “your pussy’s so soft. Fuck me.”

Your hips buck and he bites his bottom lip, fingers rubbing up and down your pussy lips. 

“So, so soft,” he whispers, eyes glued to where his fingers are touching, “my stubble’s gonna feel so rough when I kiss her, mama.”

You whine high and reedy but shake your head, “No, no, this is all I’m allowing, Leon. You promised.”

“Just a kiss or two,” he murmurs, voice low and smoky, “she needs it, look how soft and sweet she is, just begging for my mouth. C’mon, mama, just let me have a couple of kisses.”

Your resolve cracks at his pleading. 

“Just a couple, then we stop,” you try to sound firm but your voice comes out breathier than you’d like. 

“Mmhmm, thank you, mama,” he kisses the side of your cheek then the corner of your lips.

You feel a little disappointed that he stops to kneel between your legs. He brings his hands up to spread apart your cunt, slick dripping from your hole as his mouth hovers over your mound. 

“Oh fuck, mom,” Leon whines, tongue lapping at your clit, “so fucking wet. Am I making you this wet? God, your pussy’s so fucking sexy.”

Another groan and he’s fluttering his tongue across your pudgy bud before sucking it gently into his mouth. He pulls back and kisses the hood of your clit. You moan softly and cant your hips up. 

“W-we shouldn’t, baby,” you plead, fingers tangling in his hair again, but not pushing him away. 

“Been wanting to do this forever, dreaming about how I wanna lick your pretty pussy til you cream all over my face,” he pants, dilated eyes watching your face, “gonna make you cum over and over tonight.”

“Fuck,” you gasp as he thrusts his tongue into your pussy, walls clamping around the slippery muscle, “Leon! 

He hums and grinds his nose against your clit as his tongue fucks in and out of your hole, spit dripping down your ass onto the couch cushions. Your eyes flutter as your orgasm winds tight in your abdomen. 

“Need to eat you out everyday, mama,” he pulls back, slick shining across his lips and chin, “treat this pussy like she deserves. Don’t you wanna feel good?”

He sucks your clit back into his mouth, hot tongue flicking against the sensitive bud. It only takes a few more teasing licks before your climax breaks over your body like a tidal wave. Toes curling, your hands tug on his hair making him moan, tonguing at your fluttering cunt until he finally pulls away with one last sucking kiss. 

He crowds you on the couch, thick forearms hooking under your knees to keep you spread open. He nods down to his jeans; your eyes flit from his face to the bulge pressing obscenely against his zipper. 

“Pull it out,” he murmurs, blue eyes nearly black. “Take my cock out so I can stuff your cunt, mommy.”

Shaking your head, your voice cracks, “No, baby. That’s going too far.”

He whines, “But it hurts, mama. You’re being so mean. At least jerk me off.”

Biting your lip, his pouty mouth has you reaching forward, undoing his pants and tugging them down his thighs. You gently ease his dick from his briefs, uncut head sticky with precum. You both moan when you grip his stiff cock, the blood hot skin against your palm turning you on more than you ever thought. Thumb pressing against the slit, you smear the pearlescent sheen across his tip until he’s whimpering. 

“Mommy,” his hips thrust forward, “it’s sensitive.” 

He sags forward, and your legs slide up his arms until your calves press against his biceps. This new position has his dick grinding against your swollen cunt, the head grazing across your pudgy clit. Your fingers loosely circle the base of his cock, the backs of your knuckles brushing against his balls. 

“So good, fuck,” he chokes out, humping your pussy. “Just let me cum like this, let me mark you up, mama. Yeah, just coat this sexy fucking pussy with my cum.”

Keening, you let go of his cock to feather your fingers against his heavy balls. “You can, you can cum all over me.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” he chants, pink lips parted and eyebrows furrowed as he watches his cock slip between your pussy lips to rub against your hole. “Mommy, just let me put the tip in, please? Promise it’ll just be the tip. Please.”

You know you should say no, but then again you should’ve put a stop to this before it even started. Just the tip wouldn’t be so bad, you think, eyes greedily taking in his fat, drippy tip. It wouldn’t hurt to let him try it out.

“Just the tip, Leon,” you murmur, flicking up to meet his blown out gaze. “But only this once.”

“Thank you,” he groans, “love you so much, mama.”

Moving one hand from his hold on your leg, he grips his cock and guides the head to your clenching hole. His thumb presses down on the head as he rocks forward, slipping the tip into your wet cunt. You suck in a deep breath at the same time he grunts. The other hand gripping your thigh tightens, fingertips tightly digging into the soft skin. 

Leon blows out a breath, tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. “You feel so good.”

He ruts the head of his cock in and out of your pussy, the wet schlick loud in the otherwise quiet living room. Your hands move over your head to drape over the back of the couch, fingers grasping at the cushions. 

“Can I—,” he cuts himself off, eyes squeezing shut. “Can I go a little deeper, mommy?”

Your slick hole clenches down on him and he whimpers. 

“H-how much deeper?” You hear yourself say, mouth running away from you. 

“Just an inch or two,” he gasps, feeling overwhelmed by the heat of your cunt. “Pretty please, mommy.”

You nod, eyes unable to look away from where he’s splitting you open, dick driving deeper and deeper—going so much farther than a few inches—into your pussy until he’s completely buried in your pulsing walls. 

“Leon!” You cry out, head falling back as your cunt stretches around the fat girth of his cock.

“Sorry, mama,” he practically slurs, pussy drunk already. “Didn’t mean to, it just slipped.”

You whimper at the pleasure pain of his tip kissing your cervix as he grinds himself against your cunt. Clit rubbing against his pelvis makes you squeeze and clench around his dick, in turn making him groan from deep in his chest. He barely pulls out before fucking back into your sopping wet hole. 

“So perfect,” his face pinches in pleasure. “God, mom, your pussy—gonna make me cum so fast.”

You dig your hands into the couch and roll your hips down into his thrusts, “You need to pull out, baby. It’s bad to cum inside. You’ve gotta pull out of mommy’s cunt.”

He makes a broken sound from the back of his throat and drives his cock into you with harsh, pounding thrusts. 

“No, I’m gonna cum in you, make you nice and full,” he bites out, sweat dripping from the straight line of his nose onto you. “Stuff you so full, mama.”

You can’t hide how his words make your pussy clamp down on his cock, his own hips stuttering as your cunt tries to milk his cock. 

“Yeah, mommy, squeezing me so good, so fucking good,” he pants. “Fuck, ‘m gonna cum.”

He reaches down, hot palm a brand across your mound as his thumb teases your clit. You thrash against him, but it’s no use as he strums your swollen bud in rough little circles that makes your thighs tremble. 

“Leon,” you moan, a second orgasm quickly building in your core. “Oh god, I’m so close.”

He doesn’t stop the frantic pumping of his hips, fucking his cock into your squelching heat while he rubs your clit—his blue eyes jumping between your face and your pussy. Mouth dropping open, he groans, mumbling praises and promises under his breath. Pinching your clit between the knuckles of his first and middle finger, he gives pulsing squeezes to the sensitive bundle of nerves until you’re cumming loudly. 

Your back bows, fireworks going off in your brain, dimly realizing that Leon’s gripping your hips as he wildly fucks your cunt. 

“Fuck, fuck, mom,” he chokes on the word, burying himself balls deep in your soft, wet walls and spilling his thick cum as deep as possible. 

You whimper, squeezing down on him as the hot splash of his spend fills your cunt. He eventually stills, hips still snugly pressed against you as close as possible. Slick and jizz begin to slowly leak out from around his softening cock. He hisses when he pulls out, then immediately whimpers, fingers playing with his cum dripping from your hole.

“Leon, stop, it’s sensitive,” you gasp, eyes slipping closed when his fingers slide up to rub across your fat clit. 

“Sorry, mama,” he pulls back only to drop to his knees, eyes dark, mouth hovering tantalizingly close to your sloppy cunt. “Let me kiss it better.”

[differenteagletragedy]

i nEEEEEEED your take on emotionally sensitive reader watching a heart-wrenching show w simon riley. how do u think he'd react? remain stoic? cry a little? comfort reader? bawl? idkidkidk but I just finished watching when life gives you tangerines and the way i was BAWLING MULTIPLE TIMES PER EPISODE!!

i love your way of writing and how you humanise/domesticate simon riley, so i thought u might be able to do it justice. :333

thank u in advance!!!!

Anon thank you thank you, very relatable (love weeping constantly at literally anything), and soft Simon is my favorite thing in the world <3 <3 <3

Simon likes watching tv with you. He likes being with you in general, likes being at home even better, and there's just something so cozy about cuddling on the couch at the end of the day. It's so normal in a way he never imagined he'd get to experience.

Sometimes he falls asleep, and sometimes he's more focused on you than on whatever you're watching, but tonight, you're on the season finale of the first season of one of your favorite shows, one he'd never seen, so he's paying attention. It's good enough, though a little maudlin for his taste, and he's just about to crack a joke about the dramatics of it all when he hears a sniffle.

He looks over, and you're full-on crying, eyes glued to the screen while tears stream down your face. He glances around the room in confusion, because ... what is this? But he knows you well at this point, has studied you like you're both a person he loves and a lesson to learn, and he can see how invested you are in the show -- that's what you're crying about.

A laugh rumbles out of his chest, the tv forgotten, by him, anyway.

"You fucking serious?" he asks, not unkindly but amused. "You're crying over this?"

"It's sad!" you answer quickly. "Have you not been watching?"

"I've been watching, haven't seen anything to weep over though."

You scoff, pausing the show, and turn to him. He knows he's about to get a talking-to, and he settles in, smirking and excited to hear it.

"One, I'm not weeping, I'm showing natural human emotion to something very sad," you tell him. "Two, she is so strong and so brave? Three she's 16 and she thinks she's going to die, that's --"

"She's not gonna die, love, come off it," he interrupts you, still smirking. "There's six seasons left."

For some reason, that causes you to cry harder. You actually let out a soft little sob, your face crumpling. Simon feels a little bit like a dick for it, but he still laughs. Not because he's laughing at you, but because it's all just so damn adorable.

He tuts, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you to his chest, "Come on now, sweetheart, that's enough of that. Don't like to see you crying, you know that."

He holds you for a moment before he reaches over and presses play, and the two of you stay silent for the rest of the episode -- until you cry again, then a third time. His arms stay around you, firm and solid, and he can't help but smile.

It's something about the knowledge that you're crying over something that doesn't matter, not really, and how that means that there's nothing more serious to cause you grief. It makes him feel like he's doing something right to make you feel comfortable enough to let him see you like this.

When the end credits of the episode start playing, he leans down to kiss the top of your head, and he says, "Think you got some snot on my shirt, take a break for a wardrobe change?"

"You're such a jerk," you tell him, but he can hear the smile in your voice.

"Ah, but I'm your jerk," he concedes, pulling you just a little closer. "I'll take that."

[volantium]

slow dive

Oscar’s woken by the mattress dipping beside him. The sudden shift of weight jolts him out of the dream he’s already forgetting. It’s late afternoon, he knows that much. He’d laid down to get away from everything and hadn’t wanted to get back up. Hadn’t realised he drifted off until it was already over. 

A familiar hand sweeps through Oscar’s hair. 

He’s sleep deprived and through bleary eyes he makes out the shape of Lando. 

It isn’t fair, thinks Oscar, looking at him. 

Lando’s curls are damp, the smell of his body wash like smoke through the room. Lemongrass and something deeper that Oscar’s never been able to describe. Something entirely Lando. Even through the low afternoon light, Oscar sees spots of water still sitting on his skin.

They’re two days out from the race, still in Australia. Both of them should have been on a plane yesterday, but Oscar hadn’t cared and Lando had taken one look at him and told the team they’d get to China when they get to China. 

He’s always grateful for Lando. Thinks it’s by design, how the universe has slotted them together the way it has, two mismatched puzzle pieces that still somehow click together, when the effort’s made. But he’s more grateful when Lando creates space from him and the rest of the world, with only himself in between, like he's done now.

Lando’s always only just what Oscar needs. 

“Hi, sleepyhead,” Lando says, softly, after a moment, hand back in his own lap. “Nap okay?” 

Oscar grunts a response. 

“Sounds like it, then.” 

“Didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he explains, rolling onto his side to face Lando. 

“Reckon you needed it,” Lando observes. “You didn’t sleep much yesterday.” 

Oscar knows this acutely. He’s had a grand total of seven hours sleep in the last forty-eight, it feels like. His eyes haven’t stopped burning and his brain feels like it’ll fall out of his skull at any given moment. 

“Sorry, if I kept you up last night,” Oscar says, the guilt in his chest suddenly thick. “Didn’t mean to do that either.” 

Lando twists towards him, catches his eye. “You didn’t.” 

Oscar knows this is false. He spent the better part of the night curled around Oscar’s knees while Oscar stared desolate into space, vaguely aware of the slow blink of Lando’s eyes. All he could think about was how gut wrenching it felt stranded on the grass. The desperate slip of his fingers against the wheel, trying to find reverse. Watching the cars pass him until he finally finally fucking found the tarmac and got going again. Only himself to blame. 

Lando, in that way that he does when Oscar’s all maudlin, must know this is what he’s thinking about, because the next thing he says is, “Stop blaming yourself, Osc.” 

Oscar drops his eyes from Lando’s. “It was my fault.” 

“Maybe,” Lando says. “Maybe not. I was lucky I didn’t go off.” 

“Yeah, well, you didn’t, did you.” 

Oscar gets like this, sometimes. Nit-picks at every little thing, always has an argument ready to go. Lando’s gotten used to it, in the last few months they’ve been doing this thing that they’re doing, this fooling around. Oscar doesn’t know how to stop himself. 

“No, I didn’t,” Lando replies, and then they’re both thinking about how Oscar should’ve been on the podium with him. “You know that’s how racing is, sometimes. But you drove as best you could to get back up into the points.” 

Lando smooths a hand down Oscar’s arm. His touch soothes something in Oscar’s chest and the fight drains out of him. A gentle letting go. 

“You can’t control the weather, babe,” Lando says, more insistent, still soft, and nudges Oscar over until there’s enough space to lie down himself. 

Oscar watches him get comfy. Lando lays belly-down like an insane person, neck at a ninety degree angle to look at Oscar through half shut eyes. 

Oscar lets out a long sigh. “I know.” 

“Yeah, you do,” Lando says. “Next race. You’ll show ‘em. McLaren one-two.” 

“Next race,” Oscar echoes, half believing it. 

“C’mon,” Lando moves until he’s pressing a kiss to the corner of Oscar’s downturned mouth, then sinking back into the pillows. “Let’s get some rest.” 

Lando closes his eyes, and the guilt stirs still in Oscar’s gut at how quick he is to fall asleep, his breathing slow and deep and even in an instant. 

If only every day was as simple as this–just him, just Lando, and all the time in the world. 

It’s never enough for Oscar. The light falls in jagged pieces over Lando’s back. Oscar has a sudden, yearning desire to disappear into Lando’s bones. Wants to make a home there, safe behind his ribcage. Never leave. Slow dive into his bloodstream and then Lando would never be rid of him. 

It’ll never be enough.

Instead he curls his arm over Lando’s waist, anchoring himself, and goes back to sleep.

[miss-tarja]

Iridiscent (Pt. 8)

Pirate! Miguel O'Hara x Mermaid Reader

WARNINGS: Graphic depictions of metamorphosis, brief descriptions of aztec mythology, usage of mayan language, trauma responses, angst, body horror, hostile behaviors, emotional distress.

Summary: The unwillingness to an end only brings a new begining.

A/N: Thanks for your patience with this story <3. Hope you like! Reblogs and feedback much appreciated.

Previous Series Masterlist

“Get your wretched hands off me!” 

A cold, almost glacial and numbing sensation spread through his chest upon having a taste of your resentful voice. His brain however struggled with all its might to understand, or at least try to assimilate what was happening. Had he gone mad? Had his time in the sea been too much it had been scrambling his perception of reality with cruel games? 

Had Constantino's post-mortem memory and influence on the ship been too powerful for him to now hear things he shouldn't? No, certainly not, or else he wouldn’t be here, before the creature that once fed his foolish hopes of salvation for his daughter.

Before you , -the creature-  with a shocked expression it only rivaled the one he gave the woman he got pregnant, when she announced the fatherly news to him back then.

"You... You can speak." the pirate accused in a confused murmur. Like a gentle reassuring to himself, that his brain and senses worked perfectly, although squeamish to elaborate further when you growled again to suffocate a painful whimper, rumbling in your rising and anxious chest. 

Yet the tears had dared to fall, unabashed and thick, from your eyes. If it wasn't for the fact they weren't a sign of joy, he'd marvel at the haunting beauty of your liquid pain. After all, the tragic embodiment of iridescence laid desecrated at his feet, marred by greed and an unquenchable lust only men possessed. 

The soft clink on the floor interrupted his sight from your frame for a moment, to admire yet another puzzling wonder of your mystical nature. Every tear that fell and dissolved onto the coppery smelling surface, left nothing but these tiny, pearly, ravishing and sharp shards to sprawl under the unmarred slope of your breasts. 

Much to his consternation, the scales in your shoulders had dimmed their shine, adopting this curled and feeble paper-like texture, that if the wind decided so, they could fly away within a blow. One of the pearls etched in your skin around your hip fell down and rolled away, followed by a meek trickle of blood. Your hand chased it, but to no avail, as it gladly joined the rest of the debris around you.

The sound alone of the pirate’s hefty steps were enough to snap your head in his direction. Vitriol dripped from your eyes, giving resentment and hatred a gelid, yet breathtaking look.

Entire constellations and outworldly landscapes swam in them, just like the redhead courtesan claimed. But such a sight was overshadowed by the venom in your broken and choking words.

"Damn you!” a half hiss and half sob escaped you. Men’s tenacity to seize the moment to get what they wanted both terrified and amazed you, as it often waltzed hand in hand with a great amount of ignorance disguised as superstition. You being subdued was more than a living proof of how far they’d go, “Look what you've done!" 

Your cries slowly melted in another frustrated and maudlin sob. Moving was equally excruciating as speaking, but now that you had the power of voicing your own thoughts and spite, silence could never be an option again, much less when it came to men. Even if it yielded all of your energies. 

Another tack of a falling pearl made him step closer, raising his shaky hands where you saw them, like a fragile yet honest promise of truce.

"Let me help you." He offered the lithe olive branch, in hopes you’d take it.

"No." Your head denied softly as you tried to curl your mangled tail underneath yourself, but it only squeezed fresh pain from your eyes. The denial spilled clumsily out of your mouth, your tongue after all, was getting used to rolling and moving in the correct way to articulate properly after centuries devoted to silence.

The information absorbed from Elliot's kiss was enough to understand one of the many languages you had heard men speak. 

"Your kin has done enough for me." you spat with such revulsion it nearly slapped his face with an open palm. Sure. He had slain the monster, yet he found himself treated as one.

"You’re bleeding…" Miguel noted, torn between the realization he was talking to a mermaid, and his inner strings tugging a bit too hard on his heart, full with doubts that drowned him in uncertainty. For once, a situation surpassed him beyond understanding. Yet, the stubborn nature in him urged him to try and adapt, like always. “I’ll take you to someone that will help-” 

"Come any closer and I’ll devour your flesh until nothing but bones remain from you!" You fumed, "Don’t you dare to touch me- NO!" You shrieked, your clawed hands thrashed in any direction they could, despite the unbearable pain as soon as he invaded your personal space, by placing his hands on the midsection of your tail, to lift you up and properly assess the damage done, yet another pearl fell down, dragging clumps of scales with it. 

His hands slid through the scaly surface too soon and familiar for your likings. And not the kind of pleasant familiar. His touch, beyond unneeded, prone to provoke queasiness, and the bile to rise in utter disgust, reminded you of those that soiled your autonomy and freedom. Like the monsters that butchered your hopes of peace in chunks so tiny they were unrecognizable.

"Your kind won't touch me again!" His arms were the main target of your claws, as they gashed and scratched him through searing anguish and tears. 

Your words were enough for him to grab both of your hands with ease in a single of his, and pulled you closer to him. Your heart could barely stand both the frighten and rage fighting within. Survival was a must.

The curious touches, the unwilling warmth irradiating from your captor's body, El Brujo's beady eyes on you, was too much. They were all too fresh in your mind to give into the whims of the herculean man you once hungered after, yet in your despair, you chomped on Miguel's arms, earning a wincing and vexed growl.

Your brain too hazed with that primal fear to think coherently, your fight and flight responses were on to their peak, feeding the urge of escaping, surpassing your hunger.

"¡Calmate! ¡No te haré nada!" (Calm down, I won’t hurt you!)

He grunted, battling with the sting of his wounds and the draining energy fraying his patience.

"No!" but you protested as your fin, or rather what was left of it, flapped on the floor with loud, splattering thuds, sprinkling dots of red in whichever surface they landed. The foreign language spilling from Miguel’s lips, sounded eerily alike to your captor’s. Allies definitely, your reasoning condemned.

The hatred flame burned ablaze, as it earned him another bite in his arm. How dared him to ally with such a wicked and vicious man?  His blood proved ambrosial to your senses, ironically, it was overly tart in your tongue. Like if you were drinking a tall and full glass of thick, cursed and ashy water.

"¡Deja de morderme, chingada madre!" (Stop biting me for fuck's sakes!)

He growled at your evident disregard to his attempts of parley . Another cut from your claws had his eyelid twitching in anger, and with all the strength he could, he grabbed you by the arms, applying enough pressure for your scales to tickle his hands for a split of second, his hands managed to hold down the flailing and attacking limbs at once as he boomed in your face.

"¡Qué te quedes quieta, verga!" (Still the fuck down!)

You froze. His voice, no, the power in it had your rampaging despair still for a couple of seconds. But as soon as your eyes noticed his hands approaching your shattered fin, a feeling surpassing the state of panic, ran through your body with such intensity the scales in the back of your nape bristled, like if they warned you from a new danger. Your hands trembled, but somehow gathered enough courage to grab his weathered face.

His eyes settled on yours, wide, alarmed, beyond confused as your breath fanned over his mouth. The coolness -and a tinge of saltiness- caressed his skin, almost loverlike with each exhale you heaved. All of his muscles had yelled stop and obeyed the command of your fingers by stilling. His heart hammered in his ribcage with such force you could see the small jumps of his powerful pumps echoing in his chest. A trickle of cold sweat rolled down the side of his forehead.

Yet, none had prepared The Red Eyed Demon to feel the soft yet cold muscles of your lips colliding against his.

Men were easily distracted by kisses, right? Maybe if you tasted him long enough he would forget what he was doing, like you had witnessed so many times with the men on land. However, an electrifying spasm ran through your body, while icy lips melded almost too perfectly against his meaty, warm and lush ones. Unable to break the contact.

Your brain got trapped in the crossfire as the unforeseen memories of the pirate began flooding it.

The images flashed in such a speedy and intense tempo behind your eyes it tore a wince from you. Your pain was deemed a token in exchange for the knowledge that filtered through. Soon all those sounds and syllables he spat, became clear as the day the deeper you kissed him. The images kept flashing, showing in a hasty turn a myriad of blurred people at once.

A little boy burying a woman morphed into a taller boy whipping a man.The image twisted into an old pirate invading a destroyed manor, but the memories remained for a second longer on a little girl that resembled him, beaming and laughing at him with such innocence your cold skin thawed for a second at the warmth irradiating from her, until the flash of an old man he called father, came in bustling in a violent swirl.

There was a white haired old woman talking, and so many unknown people pouring in all directions like their voices, overwhelming your conscience with so much information. The pang of ache hit your head first. As if someone had grabbed your head and squeezed it with the only intention of turning it into a pulp. His own name rang through the voices. You recognized Elliot, but it blurred into a white blue eyed man behind bars, asking for his help, many guards and men fighting-

But one memento stood out the most, engraved forever in your ancient brain. The face of Constantino as he was pushed into the angry mob's bloodthirsty hands. For a split second you savored the moment, as if you had been the one pushing the bastard into the sea of justice-starved men.

The absence of regret in his face, had your scales crawling in dread. Even in his death, the wickedness shone triumphant through his eyes. 

Before your lips could absorb his soul, Miguel pushed you away with an erratic breath, blinking, nonplussed for a second with flushed and swollen lips, staggering on his own steps at the sudden weakness taking over his body. His head pounded the more he looked at the golden and blue flames, his sight too sensitive to the light for a moment. What on earth he had just experienced?

"¿Qué... qué diablos me hiciste? " (What... What the hell did you do to me?)

He panicked, refusing his role as human chum and ending up like Elliot, while taking a few wobbly steps back. There was always a time and a place to die, but this wasn’t it for him.

"No funcionó..." (It didn't work)

You mumbled in the same Spanish as him, but this only added more questions than answers. Why wasn’t he leaving you alone? Or why wasn’t he speaking that nonsensical yet loving gibberish about you being his one and only, like you had seen it before? Because after a kiss a show of affection came, right?  What had gone wrong in the kiss?

What have you done wrong? 

His throat swallowed with great effort an overgrown lump. “Mierda… ¿Puedes entenderme?” His brows crinkled together, as his wide eyes pinned you on the spot. Disturbed. What kind of sick joke was the universe playing on him? (Shit… Can you understand me?)

However an inhuman and harrowing cry snapped all stupor on both sides, you could think of the kiss’ failure later, as your brain diverted all of your attention into the distressing signs nipping your body.

The kiss had depleted all of your energies, the last bit of them faded into nothing but agonizing and bleak tremors. You had kissed him to understand him, and to see if he was fool enough to let you go. But only one objective managed to make it though.

So cold…

But it mattered little. Although your heatless skin was perfect for the ever cool ocean’s depths and his touch only confirmed this, why did it suddenly feel over and above gelid for you? Why was your temperature changing so drastically? And worse, why in Poseidon's realm were your teeth clattering? 

That alone was enough to wake a new instinct so primal like the urge of terrifying men, within you. To seek warmth and alleviate the numbing cold freezing your bones. The need for it rivaled the insufferable itchiness of your falling scales.

There was no more iridescence in them, but dull, flimsy and cracking pieces that floated effortlessly to the floor, and around him. Like macabre cherry blossoms drifting in the wind. But unlike the beauty of the pink petals, he found himself surrounded with pieces of you that once dressed your tail. Landing on whatever place of his body they could reach, marking him unintentionally. 

As they flaked and fell out, their thickness increased. Your whole body turned heavy and leaden-limbed in his arms, despite the captain lifting you with no apparent issue.

There was a wet and slimy sensation slipping through your fingers. You couldn’t see it, and something within you nearly chastised you to not look. To not surpass your curiosity with a glance, or else, it’d be overmuch, for you and your mind to digest.

Crying was as equally exhausting as speaking. But the panic grope your senses once more when the short pained grunts and gasps turned even more suffocating. As if an invisible hand squeezed your windpipe. Your hands immediately went for your neck, meeting the rugged texture of the enclosing gills. Within a matter of seconds they had snapped shut. 

No! No! No!

A choked whimper flew and your wide, panicky eyes blurred again. Your hands grabbed whatever part of him they reached at the moment, while your mouth opened and begged for air. And unlike the first time they clawed at his limbs, despair for not getting the proper amount of air in your lungs, blinded you completely in terror. 

“Hey, hey!” Miguel tensed, while the color in your face turned a soft shade of blue, “Use your mouth!” He opened his and inhaled, teaching you to breath and you followed without much choice. Confusion turned into anger, which turned into this jumble of anxiety, fear and shame.

The first gulp of air felt like an insult to your sullied existence, as you were now forced to breathe through your mouth and nose. Like him. Like them.

 If it wasn’t for the terror holding your senses hostage, the situation could be labeled as comically dark. You were literally a fish out of water.

“W-What’s… what did you do?” no matter how many times you begged for answers in between chokes and clumsy gulps, he didn’t give you any, as he didn’t have them. Not out of malice but out of true ignorance of what was happening to you. 

You were lighter, he noted -a bit too late maybe-. Could it be thanks to the adrenaline coursing his body as he rushed to take you to Tlali? No. Oh, definitely not. He regretted for a second dragging his sight in the union of your waist and your tail. He had lost the count of how many times his eyes had menaced to pop out of their socket every time he examined you. 

But how could he not? How could he remain indifferent when the pearls once etched onto your body, fell off their slits and rolled away from you, as if they had deemed you unworthy to be dressed in them (like your scales), all while he lifted your piteous body in his strong, yet trembling arms.

The cascade of clicks and clacks by the fugitive pearls deafened him for a second. Taking you to the shaman was crucial if he wanted answers.

"Shit" Miguel's eyes narrowed at the sudden discomfort tearing your body apart both figuratively and literally. A skin-crawling splatter at his feet stopped him in his tracks as he made it to the exit, and when his gaze turned down, the bile and nausea rose once more in the back of his throat upon the grim scene.

One of your fins had fallen over his boot. And like your tears, it had dissolved into sharp chunks of pearls. Even if the urge for his hands to pick them up and examine them coursed him through, his mind commanded him to move.

To make haste and never stop until he arrived at the hut. His steps obeyed and rushed, leaving a clinking and breaking trail behind him. The cold breeze had you shivering and whining in his arms.

"No, no, you gotta hold on!" Miguel grumbled, half tumbling over his feet, rushing towards the deck. “I just fucking found you and you ain’t dying on me, understand?”

The chunks of pearls kept echoing through the deck, but muffled as soon as they fell onto the beach. Your lips, once lush and juicy, were now pale and almost blue, like the sky you sometimes had the pleasure to admire, from the cold.

"N-No... Let me... let me d-" You choked as his breathless pants echoed through, he was running.

A rivulet of blood escaped from the corner of your lips. The pressure in your gums, unbearable. Were your teeth aligning? Because the ache resembled a lot when you first teethed: Itchy, with intermittent waves of discomfort that moved back and forth through your tender, yet bleeding gums.

“We’re almost there!” He roared. Inwardly praying none came across his way. Or else he’d have to commit another murder he didn’t have the time for. He could have covered you first, his mind reprimanded him at the evident neglect, but time had grown tired of being his ally and you were injured.

Besides the rags in the bilge were too dirty and smelly to drape them over your wounded self. He didn’t want to dirty you even further.

What else do you want from me?

You didn't know how long he ran, but it finally came to a stop. Your weakened hand felt the hammering in his chest, same for the air filling him. 

“TLALIXA!” He roared, yet your ears perceived it far, far away. 

The wrinkly woman clicked her tongue, as that name was only used whenever the council fought over the most ridiculous of things. She was a well respected matriarch after all.

“There is no need for yelling, Miguel. I’m right here.” She spoke while lighting up a new cone of incense. But the captain couldn’t care less. 

With an intrusive swipe to the trinkets on top of the surface, Miguel placed you on top of the flimsy looking table, that moaned as soon as your weight dropped on it. The crashing had the shaman standing, anger clinging to her features as she swung her walking stick towards Miguel.

“¡Me importa poco si todo el mundo aquí te tiene miedo, Miguel. Pero con mis cosas no!” (I don’t care if everyone fears you around here, but don’t mess with my stuff!)

Miguel grabbed the stick, but instantly let it go. Grabbing an elder’s walking aid was not only a sign of disrespect, and Adia taught him everything but that. His hands clasped together and his knees nearly bent before her, like a devotee meeting his source of adoration for the first time. 

“ Perdóname, Tlali. Pero debes ayudarme, te recompensaré. Lo prometo, pero por favor, ¡ayúdame!.” (Forgive me, Tlali, but you gotta help me. I’ll reward you, but please, help me.)

The Demon removed himself from her way, to give space for her to witness the lurid metamorphosis as well. Confusion, and disbelief were the main things Miguel could identify in Tlalixa’s wrinkled sight. 

“La encontré.” (Found her) He swallowed, “Olivares had trapped her and things happened, and… Dios mio …” He heaved in short shallow breaths, “When I brought her here she was like this… and… and I don’t know what is happening, but she must live.”

“Que Ometéotl nos ampare…” (May Ometeotl protect us)  

Her hand drew a sigil in the wind as she approached you. Childlike wonder instantly filled her features the more she scrutinized you. And unlike the men that managed to hunt you down, there was no malice in her wrinkly eyes, rather veneration. 

 A mermaid. The creature she always fantasized to reincarnate in. The creature that against all odds had survived in this treacherous world for the gods know how long. Until now. Her eyes frowned empathetically when she recognized your suffering. 

Tlali’s eyes raked over your neck, staring with a disapproving purse of her lips the bruise around it, shaped in the collar that Carrillo had put you in. She didn’t have to imagine the weight of them to remain engraved in your skin, as she had experienced it herself a long time ago. Spaniards loved to chain anyone deemed below their breed.

Reluctantly, her dark eyes moved then to your arms, finding scratches, a couple of bites still healing, a diagonal cut in your left shoulder, but she gulped, uncomfortable, upon stopping at the midsection of your chest. A bleeding gash tainted your torso, blood pooled, reaching past the soft curve of your stomach. 

Miguel’s jaw clenched. He had been in such a haste he didn’t have the time to properly assess the damages Olivares had inflicted on you. Tlalixa had discovered her fair share of things, but the gash, a bit too deep and familiar, struck a chord as he blinked with a grisly realization.  

The pearl.  

You had stolen his pearl and wore it proudly, like a token for saving his life back then at that island. Until Constantino had cruelly carved it out of your chest and placed it in that jar with the single purpose of collecting pieces of you for his own museum of horrors. A new wave of indignation doused him.

“ Ba'ale' ba'ax tu beeto'ob ti' teech, chan x-ch'úupal? ” (What have they done to you, dear?)

A whimper -a pathetic one- escaped your throat. What use would be to hide your suffering to whatever soul spoke to you in such gentleness? Whatever language the woman spoke, soothed your railed nerves, but only crisped Miguel’s.

"Do something!" Miguel pleaded, but the shaman just stared with wrinkly, critical and concerned eyes, as all traces of mermaid prepared to abandon your body. Your head lolled to a side, hanging briefly before Miguel cupped it, carefully picking it up. 

He’s warm…

“Leave me be!” You barely shrieked away from them. Completely quanked of all energies to fight. They had broken you and your spirit. Humans had finally subdued you, earning another flawless victory to their wretched tabs.  

Miguel’s hands pressed on your face, and if his anxiety was already over the roof, what his thumbs discovered made it shoot beyond earth. His finger had pressed over your lips, accidentally slipping in your mouth. He was expecting the sharp prong of your maws to nick his skin, but in lieu, nothing but pearly white and almost too perfect human teeth remained. 

"Her anger and resentment surpasses death's reach." Tlalixa’s enigmatic voice sentenced, heavy with sorrow.

"¡Por una vez en tu pinche vida, deja de hablar en acertijos pendejos que no entiendo y háblame claro de una puta vez!" Half groaned, half boomed Miguel, completely peeved for the shaman's inopportune and yet again cryptic wit. He truly didn't mean to yell or be disrespectful, but you were dying and she could do nothing but speak yodaism. (For once in your fucking life stop speaking to me in stupid ass riddles that I don't understand, and fucking speak clearly!)

"La sirena…” She exhaled, defeated as her knowledge couldn’t help the creature, the damage had been greater than expected. “She's too angry to die."

A wrinkly hand hovered over your head, heart and stomach, to return over your heart and her white head shook with disappointment, but not because you weren’t fighting, au contraire, she was disappointed for the lack of heart and compassion men still carried, even after hundreds of years going by.

"Centuries of escaping men had wounded her deeply. It has shaped her hatred into something so... intense I can't... No puedo ver más allá. Su ira es demasiada." (I can't see further. Her ire is too much.)

Another groan had his skin shivering. Despite air feeding his lungs, it wasn’t welcomed as the news were heavy and hard to digest. A single question popped in his mind followed by a horrendous tightening in his throat.

"Is... Is she gonna die?" The pirate feared the questions itself, but all the hells he went through to be here, in this very moment, couldn’t be for naught.

"As a siren, yes. She will.” Tlali pointed at the shedding scales. “She is." She gestured your way.

The place where chains once held your fins had turned raw and pink, an angry reminder of the nonexistent mercy your captors had shown. For a split of second Miguel recognized the shot he had given your fin back at his ship. 

And it didn’t help that the gruesome display of your tail hardening, snatched the pirate’s attention in a go. And far from being morbid, Miguel couldn't help but marvel at the death occurring before him. 

Hot, searing pain engulfed you completely, and the last bit of conscience vanished when your main fin, dangling from a thread of flesh, fell on the floor. Shattering into small gusts of powder that the wind blew in a whisper, leaving the air in a beautiful cloud of iridescence. The salty musk of it tickled his nose as your body accepted its end.

However, a lurid crack made both to step back. Your tail had hardened within seconds and unavoidable as it was, it began crumbling, like a cocoon.

Scales flaked away completely off your body, leaving shiny and smooth skin peeking under the shedding tissue around your waist. What he initially thought as rags covering your breast, quickly dissolved in this frothy and sea-weed pungent smelling foam.

His nose scrunched at the stench, but his eyes widened, yet again, as perky mounds emerged underneath, rising ever softly with weakened breaths. His red eyes dragged laboriously to each piece of newfound skin they could witness. A great percentage of your body was covered in either scratches or bruises.  

"Some creatures are too resentful to die, so as revenge, they turn into what they hate the most." The shaman explained.

The calcified tail cracked and fell on each side of the table, polluting the air in more opalescent glitter the more chunks fell, until a supple pair of thighs came forth in his incredulous stare.

Naturally, a darkened patch of hair covered the junction of your thighs. But he spared you some shame and steered his eyes elsewhere. Focusing on the bleeding gash in your ankle, that without mistake, was inflicted in the same way your fin had been sliced through.

"Men?" his brow quirked, and his mind raced with dread from all the things he'd have to endure once you were awake.

"A human, Miguel. She hates us." Tlali draped her shawl over an unconscious you once the transformation ended, your bare body had been exposed enough. "You yearned for her presence so bad the universe granted you the wish." 

The shaman took a clean rag and doused it with water, removing the glittery dust off your face. It was the least she could do to repay her uselessness in keeping your outworld nature alive.

And not that Miguel blamed you. He’s had his own taste of that misanthropic side of his kin, leaving nothing but scars too fresh and deep he often wondered if they’d ever close or if they'd ever allow him to sleep properly.

"At what cost though? Look at what happened...” His hands rubbed over his face, drained. 

"Universe will tell. Eventually. For now let us rest. What comes next is no easy feat for both."

"For both?" His brows furrowed, “¿Qué no me acabas de decir que nos odia?” (Didn’t you just say that she hates us?)

Tlali ignored him, too distracted in the foreign chant leaving her thin and wise lips for a moment. Then turned a syrupy sweet smelling stick on, that reminded him of those still burning in Salazar’s hidden room.

“Tlali, por Dios… contéstame .” He pressed, earning nothing but an irked huff from the elder. (For heaven’s sake, answer me)

“Ya te escuché. Todo lo que resta ahora es esperar. No es tu virtud, ni fuerte. Pero debes de.” (I’ve heard you. All you must do now is wait. I know it’s not your virtue nor forte, but you must.)

“¿¡Yo!? ¡¿Por qué diablos yo?! ” (Me?! Why the hell me?)  Miguel shrieked

“Porque sobreviviste a su beso. ¿Sabes acaso lo letal que son?” The shaman sighed and held onto his forearm for balance. “Si una sirena te besa, absorbe muchísimas cosas. Sus memorias son tan profundas y antiguas como el mar. Y si ha sobrevivido todo este tiempo, pues, ya sabes lo que ha de haber pasado.” (You’ve survived her kiss. Do you have any clue of how lethal those are?) (If a siren kisses you, they absorb so many things. Their memories are as deep and ancient as the sea. And if she has survived this long, well, you can only imagine what has happened.)

“What does it have to do with me though?”

“You saved her. Even if she doesn’t see it that way, she’s your responsibility now, Miguel.”

Miguel shook his head so vigorously, dizziness crossed his features for a moment. “No. No, she's not. I’ve got a ship to retrieve, Tlali! I can’t-”

“So, you’ll give her the right by proving yourself the same as the rest?” 

“It’s not that!” He groaned, his patience tugging harder at the seams, “I… I just wanted to see if they were real for my daughter to see! But Gabriella is gone!” He swallowed down another overgrown lump in his throat. “Who am I supposed to show her to? And I didn’t expect for them to be…real!” His hands gestured with despair.

“They are. They’ve always been, but you refused to believe me and now you’ve got one, or at least one that used to be it on my table. What other proof do you need for you to start listening?” For once she spoke without the mysticism that always followed her like a leech, “She’s here now.”

“She hates me.” The pirate grumbled, convinced of such affirmation.

“Hate is a strong word, I’d rather use the term fear. Now, It’s up to both if that fear evolves. But for now, rest. You’ve got a long day ahead.” Tlali warned before disappearing around the corner. 

But how could he sleep after what he just experienced? His head still pounded from the kiss, and after what the shaman told him, it all the pieces of this puzzle fit perfectly. You were dangerous, even in your apparent weakened state.

Another draining fact came to his mind. Facing you wouldn’t be peachy. In fact, he was already dreading such an event. And not that he hated you, he simply didn’t feel safe around you. Perhaps it was the first thing in common you both shared.

But even so, he sat a few steps away from your resting body. Maybe in another lifetime he would’ve done things right and moved away from Campeche as soon as Gabriella was born and she would’ve been alive.

She would’ve lived her life away from the coast and everything that rendered the sea. So he wouldn’t have listened to these mythical stories about sirens, feeding Gabriella’s obsession with them.

Promise you’ll find one for me, Papa.

But the would'ves and could'ves no longer existed. Only the very moment he breathed and lived. His hands twirled the ever dear shell-shaped lockett in his thick fingers, contemplating on his own lack of disdain in his promises. He always fulfilled them, albeit late. And he had promised his little girl to find one, one day. The golden shell touched his lips, like they would on Gabi’s forehead to soothe her from a nightmare. 

Found her, Gabi.

----------

Taglist:

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[leebrontide]

I have this theory rolling around in my brain that vampires and other humans-turned-immortal have distinct extra developmental and emotional stages. Like, while it may vary from individual to individual, you expect a maudlin existential phase around 200 (the terrible 200s, the older vamps scoff), then from 200-300s vampires get the absolute fuckits and get reckless and everybody has to keep them from causing trouble. Around 400 they settle down again, but often become obsessive and withdrawn and get way too in to some hobby or subject. And by 600 they either reintegrate into human society, able again to appreciate the daily eddies of life like a mortal does, or they stop doing much of anything at all.

That's all provided they live that long. Most vampires don't make it 20 years past their turning, or they try a leap too far sometime in those 300s and don't make it.

I like to think a lot of those 600 year old ones make an effort to guide the younger. But they learned a long long long time ago that they can't control the outcomes, and that people, including vampires, will make their own mistakes. They care, but they have a level of peace. They have done so much grieving and changing and surviving that not much really rattles them anymore. they are often kind, but eerie that way.

[urhoneycombwitch]

wanna make you feel better

roommate!Eddie Munson x roommate!Reader your roommate is always there for you.

froeword: based on this anon 💞

cw: allusions to/discussions about bad sex, Eddie fools around with someone who’s got a sort-of partner, R experiences light post-sex dissociation, mutual pining

wc: 1.3k

 __

It takes a few minutes for your limbs to unwind, to come back into your body after sex- and in those few minutes, Adam has already hastily dressed, kissed you quick and chaste on the forehead, and left your bedroom with a casual “see ya” tossed over his retreating shoulder.

Fuzzily, from your staring-at-the-ceiling vantage point, you hear the front door of your apartment close. Then some quiet voices in the hall- first the familiar low tones of Eddie, followed by a higher-pitched lilt of… Mary? Margot?- and the front door shuts again.

You sigh, long and deep, wiggling your fingers and toes back to life. As if moving through molasses you push yourself to sit up, then to gather your clothes strewn around the floor- underwear first, one leg at a time. Secondhand t-shirt that hits your knees, the band logo nearing a total fade from all the wash cycles Eddie had put it through before it ended up in your laundry.

A knock at your door, and Eddie peeks around the frame, dark curls frizzing and cartoonishly tall in the back- “Hey. You want Oreos or Bugles this time?”

“Uhm.” You pause halfway to putting on your second sock, trying to blink through the brain fog and connect with your stomach, which quickly sours in response- “Neither, I think. Maybe some water.”

Eddie’s rings click against the wood of the doorframe as he taps in acknowledgement. When he turns to leave for the kitchen, you catch a glimpse of bare torso, grey sweatpants slung around bony, boxer-less hips.

Slut, you think, fondly, pulling on your soft sock the rest of the way and padding out into the living room.

The record player in the corner is calling your name, so you kneel to flip through the milk carton stuffed full of yours and Eddie’s combined collection.

“Nothing maudlin,” Eddie calls from the attached kitchen, cabinets banging shut in punctuation. “We have a strict No Wallowing After Bad Sex rule in this house and we’re goddamn sticking to it.”

“Apartment,” you amend, ignoring his instruction and pulling Blue from its sheath. “And wallowing can be therapeutic, y’know.”

With the drop of a needle, Joni Mitchell starts crooning about traveling a lonely road, and Eddie sighs, long and deep, a mirror of yours from earlier.

There’s a clinking of porcelain on glass, and you turn to watch as Eddie sets out bowls of snacks and tall glasses of water- one of them iced the way you like- onto the coffee table.

“Eat up. The midday meal of champs- or losers, depending on your preference.” He collapses with a dramatic huff against the couch, then leans over to dig around in the bowl of Bugles.

I wanna be strong, I wanna laugh along, I wanna belong to the living…

You crawl the short distance it takes to settle your back against the couch, side pressed into Eddie’s leg. There’s an acidic taste at the back of your throat, a mixture of Adam’s release and your own sickened stomach in a nauseating combination; you sip at the cold water, attempting to wash the taste away.

“Here. Doctor’s orders.” Eddie’s hand comes into view- each finger topped with a curved chip.

A giggle works its way out as you tilt your head to pull a Bugle off his finger with your teeth, crunching into the familiar corn flavor- it certainly works to get the lingering taste of shame out of your mouth.

“Don’t get used to seeing Margaret around, by the way- sounds like she’s gonna patch things up with her boyfriend.” Eddie’s hand draws back, a subsequent crunching noise before he speaks around a mouthful of chips- “I know you’ll miss all those scintillating hallway conversations.”

You snort, unsure if he’s referring to the fact that you’ve snooped via ear-pressed-to-door whenever they used to argue, or the handful of times that you and Margaret have politely and coolly interacted due to the one-bathroom setup.

“Well, good for her.” Unable to keep the irritation out of your voice (on Eddie’s behalf, since you’re such good friends and it’s hard to see him treated this way, not because you’re jealous), you dig into the snack bowl, fishing for an Oreo. “Hope Margaret and her weirdo on-and-off again boyfriend with that pedo mustache are very happy together.”

Eddie laughs, a melodic, genuine one that has him doubling over to bump playfully into your side. “Goddammit. That Ed Rooney-looking motherfucker…”

The bite of Oreo goes down smooth and sweet; you lick at the crumbs left behind on your thumb before saying, “And, lucky for our bathroom usage, Adam won’t be around anymore either.”

Eddie groans. “I think that guy uses more hair product than me and Harrington combined, and that’s saying something.”

He seems pleased when you chuckle, taking the warmth of his body previously pressed into your side away as he settles back into the couch. “What was wrong with this one, couldn’t get your rocks off with Ol’ Mister Hairspray?”

“Got my rocks off just fine, thank you very much,” you say, faux-primly, focusing your attention on the glass of water in front of you.

Condensation slips down the side. Your voice gains a gravelly tone that feels dangerously close to preceding tears when you say,  “I just… every time we hook up, I end up feeling lonelier than ever afterwards. And I’m kinda sick of it.”

Do you see, do you see, do you see how you hurt me, baby? So I hurt you too, then we both get so blue…

Eddie’s warm palm (not the one covered in Bugle crumbs) comes to rest on your shoulder, thumb digging gently but firm into the tense muscle at the nape of your neck. A hum purrs from your throat, eyes shutting involuntarily as he manages to zero in on the spot that needs the most care.

 “C’mere,” Eddie says, softly, hand sliding off and away as you unfold your limbs to stand. Once you’re sharing the couch cushion, he goes to pull you in closer but stops when he sees you bite back a smile- “What?”

“Your hair is… insane. In the back. If you haven’t noticed- wait!”

Eddie’s hand freezes halfway to his head with your alert, and you knock it out of the air, chastising- “Gonna have a head full of Bugle crumbs. Let me.”

“Bugle Head. New band name, I call it.” Eddie’s eyes are half-lidded, reminiscent of a cat getting groomed as you smooth down the out-of-place strands, hands cradling the back of his skull briefly before you pull away.

“Didn’t even bother looking in the mirror after going at it like rabbits with your not-girlfriend?” You accentuate your tease with a solid finger-poke to his bare ribs.

Eddie’s hands drop to your waist, pinch just-shy of mean against your hips. “Watch it, pot. And this kettle’s not fucking like a rabbit… more like a semi-interested turtle. With a semi-”

He gets shoved, for that comment, but drops down flat on the couch a bit too easily, pulling you with him.

With your ear pressed to Eddie’s chest, you can hear the whooshing of his blood, the steady thump of it against your cheek. He slips an arm around your lower back while yours encircle his torso, his sweatpantsed-legs twining with your bare ones.

“Why do we keep sleeping with such losers?” you muse aloud, breath unconsciously stalling to match Eddie’s much slower rhythm.

“Dunno.” His hand strokes down the length of your back, likely covering you in snack crumbs, but you find you don’t really mind right now. “Glad I have you to commiserate with, though. They say not all who wander are lost…”

You frown against the smooth skin below your cheek, sensing a trap. “…is that a Tolkein reference?”

“Nope. Shakespeare. Hamlet, if I recall correctly.”

He lets you laugh into his chest, squeezing gently at the soft flesh of your upper arm, like he’s trying to hold on to you and the moment at the same time.

You settle, again, breaths joining again. Joni croons on.

Wanna write you a love letter, I wanna make you feel better, I wanna make you feel free…

___

for more roommate!Eddie content: masterlist

[moonstruckme]

Love, OMG?? the doctor!rem fix killed me 😭 do you think you might do part 2 where shes bedridden and he's taking care of her?? currently sick too 😭

Thanks for requesting!

part 1 | part 2

Doctor!Remus x fem!reader ♡ 962 words

Remus has got you all doped up. You didn’t even bother asking him what the pills he handed you a few hours ago were, but now you’re feeling tired and teary. 

“Rem.” Your voice is hoarse, barely there. You try again. “Remus.” 

A head of fluffy brown hair pops out of the kitchen. “You calling me, sweetheart?” 

You swallow. “Yeah.” 

“Oh, honey,” Remus eyebrows pinch together as he comes down the hallway to you. “You sound awful, I could barely hear you.” 

“Sorry,” you croak, the sympathy in his voice only serving to tighten your throat. “Did you roofie me?” 

His eyebrows raise as he sits on the edge of the bed, rubbing your leg through the sheets. “Think they’d have my license for that one, dove. Why do you ask?” 

“I’m really sleepy.” 

Remus nods. “That’s alright. You took the nighttime ones, remember? It’s a good idea to rest right now.”

“Oh.” You hadn’t remembered. Remus frowns like he can tell. 

“Wait one second, dove.” He disappears back down the hall, returning a few moments later with a steaming cup of tea. “I put honey in it, so it should help with your throat for a little while.” He passes it to you carefully, keeping a hand on it as you raise it to your lips just in case you drop it. “Careful, there you go. Alright if I take your temp again?”

You nod, blowing gently on your tea while Remus puts the thermometer in your ear. You relish the feel of the steam on your face, and your first sip is so saccharine you wonder how much of the tea is actually tea and how much is just honey. It’s good like this, though. You lean forward until your forehead rests on Remus’ shoulder. You would’ve assumed that doctors would be so desensitized to illness that they’d have no bedside manner left for when they’re off the clock, but Remus is being so extra sweet to you. He’s made you drink probably four gallons of water, sure, but it’s all “sweetheart” this and “dovey” that, and you don’t think you’ve ever received a more soothing back rub than the one he gave you this morning. You don’t actually mind being sick all that much while he’s here to take care of you.

You’re so caught up in your maudlin reverie that you’ve forgotten the device in your ear by the time it beeps, and you jump. 

“Sorry,” Remus laughs, surprised by your reaction. He puts a hand behind your neck, helping you ease yourself back down onto the pillow. “You start to drift off there, lovely?”

“A little,” you admit, pulling the covers up over your shoulders as a shiver takes you.

He hums, the sound half amusement and half concern. “Well, your fever’s gone down a bit at least, so the medicine seems to be doing its work. How’re you feeling?” 

“I feel like I’m dying,” you reply, picking your phone up off your pillow to wave it about, “and I checked, the internet agrees with me.”

“Oh, really?” Remus smiles as he brushes a few wayward strands of hair from your forehead. “I suppose it’s a good thing you have the internet to tell you that, since there’s not, say, a fully qualified medical professional at your disposal.” 

“What is it you’re always saying?” you ask him, and the tea really is making your throat feel better; the warm honey coats your mistreated esophagus like a balm. “It never hurts to get a second opinion? Anyway, you never said the flu would make my legs hurt like this.” 

Remus blinks. “Your legs?”

“Mhm.” You flex your feet, bringing to life the ache that’s plagued you for the last several hours as if to prove it to him. “They hurt.” 

Remus frowns as he feels for your leg through the covers. “What part hurts, honey?”

“All up and down them.”

Remus cuts an odd look your way before his hand finds your calf. He squeezes, and you hiss.

“Ouch!” you say. “Fuck, yeah, it’s there.” 

Remus laughs. Actually laughs, and ever harder when you look at him with betrayal in your eyes. “Sweetheart,” he says. “Honey, my darling, do you remember how we went ice skating yesterday?” 

You feel your eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Yeah?”

“And do you see how that would work out muscles you don’t usually use all that much?”

Your frown worsens. “Sure. Why?”

The smile Remus gives you is kind, but you can still see the amusement twinkling in his eyes. “You’re sore, dovey. It’s got nothing to do with the flu, you just worked the muscles in your legs a bit harder than they’re used to. I’m feeling it in my calves, too.” 

“Oh.” You nestle into the covers until they reach halfway up your face, retreating in embarrassment. Remus laughs again, pushing the sheets down under your chin and kissing your face. His nose is cold where it mushes into your feverish skin. 

“Sorry, I’m not making fun of you,” he promises, though he’s snickering. “I mean, I will, but not when you’re so unwell. You’re still my poor girl for now.” 

“I like poor girl privilege,” you decide, turning your cheek so he’ll kiss it again. He does, smiling against your skin. 

“You know what other privileges you get?” Remus asks you. “Other than tea and a hiatus from teasing?” You hum contentedly. “I’ll tell you something I never tell my other patients.” 

“What’s that?” you ask him, unsure if your sudden dizziness is from the fever or just the effect his affection has on you. 

Remus climbs over you, slipping beneath the covers and pulling you up against him. “Cuddles are the best cure for the flu.”

[wannab-urs]

Title: Crawling Back to You

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader

Summary: After some particularly awful shit goes down, Javi distances himself from you. But he always comes crawling back. 

Tags: Angst, smut, more angst, reference to s2e3 events w Carillo, Javi sleeps with Gabriela (that’s the one from S2E3 y’all), sad!Javi, self hating!Javi, references to blood, wounds, rot, etc, all metaphorical, drinking/alcohol, as always: excessive cursing, me trying to speak spanish (translations provided), arguing, manhandling, dry humping, fingering, oral f receiving, face riding but while lying down, hair pulling, actual riding, Javi very briefly picks you up, that one position from s1e2, unprotected PiV, creampie, Javi crying, Javi yelling, reader yelling, did I mention angst? WC: 2130

A/N: I'm sorry? And thanks to the HBH for beta reading &lt;3

Series Masterlist | Javier Peña Masterlist | Main Masterlist | AO3 | Kofi

Crawling back to you Ever thought of calling when you've had a few? 'Cause I always do

Javi has avoided you for two weeks now. He got himself involved in some truly fucked up shit with Carillo and couldn’t bear to face you after that. He couldn’t let you see him like that – completely ashamed of himself, broken. He went to Gabriela instead. He knew she wouldn’t ask too many questions, that she would let him take out his anger and helplessness and shame on her. 

When he got home that night he still almost called you, just to hear your voice. You calm something inside him, something dark and violent. But it feels like a sin to expose you to it in the first place. He’s terrified of letting you in. Sure, he’s afraid of getting hurt. Afraid of giving his heart to you and possibly watching you crush it in your hands. But what he’s really scared of is letting you get close enough to see the blood in his teeth, to smell the rot in his chest. Afraid his darkness will infect you, ruin the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on. He is a bad man and you are so so good. You deserve better than him.

And yet he can’t truly let you go. Just another reason he doesn’t deserve you. He’s selfish enough to keep going back to you, to keep knocking on your apartment door and burying his pain in your body, only to tuck tail and run the second you push him for more. Most selfish of all is how much he wants more with you. Wants to come home to you every day. To cook dinner with you, to share a bed with you, to share his life with you. He wants everything you want and more and he’s terrified and horrified at the prospect. 

You haven’t called him. Maybe you finally listened to him. Finally accepted he’s not what you want or need. Do you think about calling him? Maybe after a bottle of wine, listening to your maudlin records and relaxing on your couch. Do you drink yourself into a stupor before you can make that mistake like he does? 

He dreams about you, about your body wrapped tightly around his, your nails dragging down his back so sharply it snaps him awake. He finds his whiskey glass turned over and spilled on his couch. His back aches from falling asleep sitting up. He eyes the phone. 

Fuck calling. 

Javi stares at the brass numbers on your apartment door. What the fuck is he doing here? He just can’t leave well enough alone. He pounds on the door until you answer. 

“No.” You slam the door closed. 

He bangs on the door again, fist pausing mid-air as the door swings open. 

“You can’t just come crawling back to me when you get tired of your whores, Javi.” You look beautiful. Standing in your doorway in one of his t-shirts and a pair of panties. Righteous anger puts a fire in your eyes, gives a hard set to your jaw.  

“No es así y tú lo sabes.” (It’s not like that and you know it).” Javi steps closer to you, you don’t step back. “Me haces falta. (I miss you). Let me in.” 

“Oh you fucking miss me? It’s been two weeks. Y no llamaste. (and you didn’t call).” You didn’t call him either, but that’s not the point. You didn’t show up at his apartment.

“Sé, lo siento. (I know, I’m sorry).”

“No. No lo eres. Déjame en paz.” (No. You’re not. Leave me alone.).  

“No puedo. You know I can’t.” Javi looks defeated, run down. You know he needs you. Despite the advice of everyone you know and your own better judgment, you step aside and let him in. “Gracias, cariño.” And he sounds so relieved, you almost feel bad for keeping him out, for not calling him. Almost. 

He closes the door behind him and you stalk off to the kitchen, still not quite ready to face him. You pour yourself a glass of whiskey and shoot it, wincing a little at the burn, before grabbing another glass and pouring one for each of you. You set both on the coffee table and sit on the couch, folding your legs beneath you. 

“Why are you here, Javi?” He’d asked himself as much.

He picks his glass up off the table and sits on the couch next to you. You watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “I need you. I don’t know what else you want me to say.” 

“Start with why you disappeared.”

“Classified.”

“Bullshit.”

Javi sets his glass down and manhandles you into his lap. He crashes his mouth into yours and at first you don’t even respond to his touch, but it doesn’t take long to fall into him. You can’t deny that you’ve been miserable without him. Craving his touch, missing him so much it hurts. He’s like an itch you can never scratch enough to satisfy. A festering wound that won’t ever heal. So you may as well pick at the scab. 

Javi pulls your crotch flush with his. He’s already hard against you. You bury your hands in his too-long hair where it curls at the nape and lose yourself in him. You grind down on him and he thrusts up against you, the denim of his jeans and hard line of his cock creating delicious friction even through your panties. 

He breaks the kiss, dragging his lips up your jaw, and whispers in your ear, “Can you come for me like this?” You don’t answer him, simply grind down on him harder, faster, nearly rubbing your thighs raw on his jeans. He peels his t-shirt off your body, throws it behind the couch, and immediately sucks a nipple between his plush lips. He bites down and it sends a jolt straight through your core. 

“Fuck, Javi. More, baby. More,” you whine. He grabs your hips and drags you along his clothed length hard and fast. You feel your core tighten around nothing, and a keening moan falls from your lips as you come. 

You don’t even have time to catch your breath before he’s thrown you onto the couch. He drags your ruined underwear down your legs, tossing them over his shoulder, and buries his face between your thighs. He sucks your clit into his mouth and pushes two fingers inside you, pumping slowly and rolling your clit gently between his teeth. 

You arch up into him, and instead of pinning you down like he often does, he lets you grind your pussy on his face. The hard ridge of his nose, the rough drag of his mustache, the plush softness of his lips, so many different sensations hitting you as his fingers plunge into your cunt, curling into your g-spot over and over. It’s completely and utterly overwhelming. You fist his hair and hold him tight to you as you ride his face, and he moans into your cunt. He fucking loves it when you let go like this, unabashed moans filling the room, probably filling the whole apartment complex. 

You fall apart again, like this, hips stuttering to a stop as you squeeze his fingers so hard it almost hurts. Javi peers up at your blissed out face, the rapid rise and fall of your chest, takes in just how beautiful you are. He drags his tongue through your slick one more time before hovering over you and licking into your mouth. 

You suck your own slick off his tongue, licking into his mouth as you feel him shove his jeans down enough to free his cock. He pulls back, sits on the couch and drags you into his lap. You straddle him and he helps you line up before grabbing your hips and pulling you down on him. 

You collapse forward, the feeling of him inside you is like being split apart and it would probably hurt if you weren’t so wet. He grabs your hair and pulls backward until your back is arched. “Montarme, cariño.” (Ride me, baby). You start moving your hips, slowly picking up in speed until you’re bouncing on his cock so hard and fast you can barely catch your breath.

He hitches your thighs around his waist and wraps his arm around your back, dropping you on the couch. He shoves his jeans down, stepping out of them, and drops one knee to the couch. He pulls you into his lap, wrapping your legs around his hips. You cling to his shoulders with your left arm and drop your other one behind you for leverage, rolling your hips into his. He meets you with his own thrusts, holding your body to his and burying his face in the crook of your neck. 

He’s so close, you’re so tangled up in each other, he’s so fucking deep inside you, barely even pulling out before rolling back up into you. You fall back onto the couch and he follows, still holding you in his arms as he fucks you. Your orgasm hits you like a wave, rolling over your body and giving you chills as your cunt flutters around his cock. 

He comes with you, fully collapsing down onto you. You should feel crushed under his weight, but it’s comforting. He holds you so tightly it’s like he’s afraid to let go of you. Afraid that when this moment is over you’ll kick him out and he’ll be alone again. Afraid this is the last time he’ll ever get to touch you. 

You pet his hair gently, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. It’s late. You’re so fucked out you feel high and maybe the whiskey is loosening your tongue a little.  

“I don’t understand, Javi. If it feels like this, why won’t you love me? What more could you want from me? What am I missing that you need?” This is going to ruin everything.

Javi pushes up on his elbows to look you in the eye. “Cariño. It’s not you–” 

“I swear to God, Javi, if you use that line on me I will burn your apartment down with you in it.” 

“You don’t understand. You won’t understand. I’m not good. I’m only going to get you hurt or killed.” 

“You already are hurting me, Javi,” you wrap your arms around his shoulders and pull him back down to you. 

He’s silent for a long time before he half whispers into your shoulder, “I’m just so afraid.” His voice breaks and you feel a tear land on your skin. You stroke his hair, drag your fingers along his heated skin. 

“I know you, Javi. I know who you are and I don’t care. I think about you all the time. All the fucking time. I can’t stop thinking about you no matter how hard I fucking try. It’s torture.” 

Javi shoves himself away from you, standing and grabbing his jeans off the floor.“That’s my fucking point!” You flinch at his volume. He pulls his jeans on, grabs his boots and crams his feet into them, already heading to the door. He turns around. “I am only ever going to hurt you. I am a bad fucking person. I hurt people on purpose and you are not immune from that just because I care about you or because I love you.”  

You stand and try to take his face in your hands but he grabs your arms and holds you away from him. “I’d let you crack open my chest, rib by rib, while I watched if it meant I could have you. If it meant you’d be mine. Stop running away from me! I’m begging you!” You’re sobbing, yelling, pleading with him to just listen. 

Javi looks at you, brow furrowed, big brown eyes shiny and bloodshot with tears. He lets go of you and steps away slowly, putting distance between the two of you. His mouth opens as if he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t. He drops his head and closes his eyes, takes a shaky breath, and walks out the door.

He knows he will come crawling back to you, tomorrow or a week from now, he can’t ever stay away. But maybe this time the wound will be too raw. He will have hurt you too much, and you will shut him out. He fucking hates it, hates the thought of being without you, hates the way it feels like he’s clawing out his own organs hurting you like this. But this hurt is so much less than what he would do to you given enough time. This wound will scab over, form an angry scar, he will have left his mark on you. But you will heal. 

dividers by @saradika