#i just burst out laughing drawing that face so many times

[music4soul]

Say if Price got injured and was sent to the ER to get fixed up and the moment he comes out of surgery he’s loopy and muttering nonsense.

His boys come to visit him first, and damn if they don’t take the many advantages that their loopy captain gives them. Johnny draws on his cast, Kyle bribes him for the rest of his sweets in his office, and Simon gets him to sign off on letting him skip recruit-training.

Next is Laswell and her wife Sarah. The two make sure he’s comfortable before teasing him, and John just lets it happen, brain too muddled to come up with his usual sassy retort.

Last is Nikolai.

The man walks in quietly and takes a look at his husband before looking around the room and noticing the little trinkets and things that his boys and their friends had left around the room(as well as the many penises that were on his cast). He then takes a seat beside John and grabs his hand, bringing it to his lips for a kiss..

That was until he felt the hand get snatched away and slapped softly across his face.

“Johnathan?” Nik asks with mild surprise, eyes rising to meet a glaring, upset John Price.

“Don’t do that.” The man says with a frown, glaring daggers at Nik. “I have a man, and he’s my husband, and we’re married. ‘M a taken man.”

Oh. The doctors gave him some more pain medicine before he got here. Explains a lot.

“My apologies.” Nik said as he backed off a bit with his hands raised a bit, deciding to feed into his husband’s loopy thought process. “Didn’t know you had a significant other.”

“Yeah I do.” John says with a roll of his eyes. “Bes’ damn husband a man could ask for.”

“Mhm, and how so?”

“He helps me cook, clean, loves me lots n’ lots, always helps with missions, loves my boys like their his own. What more could a person wish for when they have the perfect man by their side?”

“True. But doesn’t he irritate you sometimes?”

“Impossible. He only irritates me when he’s not taking some time for himself like he should be. Military work is hard, y’know?”

“Understandable. And what is your favorite thing about your husband?”

“My favorite thing..” John paused for a bit, sighing softly as he seemed to sink lower into the hospital bed. “His hugs. He’s big and broad, so when he hugs you it’s like a blanket draping itself over you. He makes me feel warm when he does hug me, like everything will be okay.”

The room goes quiet for a bit as Nik contemplates John’s words, melting at the way that his husband seemed to have melted when describing him. Suddenly, John added another comment.

“It makes me want to open his skin and crawl inside of it. Like Venom.”

Nik bursts out laughing at that, happy that he managed to get all of that on video to show the boys and Laswell later.

[luveline]

𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 | 𝐣𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

six | chapter list

Finding out you’re a princess isn’t half as intimidating as suddenly acquiring a full-time bodyguard. Especially when that bodyguard is disarmingly handsome, charming, and can’t seem to stop flirting with you. 

bodyguard!james, fem!reader, implied chubby!reader, shy!reader, princess diaries au, all characters in their 20s or older, star-crossed lovers/ forbidden romance, slowburn, background wolfstar

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

“Why aren’t you hitting me?” James asks. 

The safety mat under your feet does little to assuage your fears. James Potter is perhaps the last person on earth you’d expect to hurt you, and yet you can’t shake the image of him deflecting your punch and sending you reeling. 

With his lovely curls slicked away from his face, his nice mouth, the curve of it where he’s smiling encouragingly, you don’t really want to hit him. 

“I can’t,” you say. 

“Yes, you can. One day you might have to, and I need to know you can do it without breaking your own hand.” The no nonsense tone he’d tended to sport when you first met barely three weeks ago is seemingly gone, replaced by a friendly, almost cavalier tone. Like this is fun. “It won’t hurt you much, I swear. And you should get your revenge. I hit you pretty hard.” 

“You didn’t hit me,” you say. “The door did.” 

“It was my fault.” He smiles, readjusting his stance with feet planted firmly against the mat. 

“James…” 

“Just hit me,” he says. 

You tense your fist around your thumb and hit him square in the chest. It’s not a punch by any means, a weak landing of your knuckles that doesn’t move him. Still, you’re surprised with yourself, checking his face for a sign that you’d done any damage. 

“There are so many people who’d love to punch me,” he laughs, nodding to your hand, “you can do better than that, if only to do what they couldn’t.” 

“I don’t want to hit you, James.” 

“I know, you have to. Come on, it’s easier than you think. You bring your first back to your shoulder and you move into it, okay? Use your weight to do the work. You’ll never hurt anyone if you don’t.” 

“I’d rather not, though.” 

“I know that, too, but you might need to. God forbid you be in a situation where I’m not there to protect you,” —here he does something strange with his eyebrows you’ve yet to encounter, sending a straight shot of butterflies through you, their wings fluttering in the soft part of your throat— “but you don’t have to be defenceless if I’m not. Give me a good swing and I’ll make sure Marlene has that pear ice cream at dinner tonight.” 

“Marlene would make it if I asked,” you say unsurely.

“But if you hit me, I’ll ask for you.” 

“You can be very manipulative.”

“Sometimes. Alright, hit me. Or I’ll tackle you again. You didn’t like that last time.” 

Obviously you hadn’t enjoyed being tackled, because James hadn’t hurt you, he’d simply overpowered you. In one sense, it had been panicky to realise you were at someone’s mercy. James had grabbed you simply behind the back with your chests pressed together and hooked his calf behind your legs, taking them from under you, and following you to the ground. You didn’t like it because he didn’t hurt you, he’d pressed his weight into yours with an arm tight across your chest, just under your throat, and you could smell his hair. Smell almond or jojoba or– or something warm. 

It isn’t that you have feelings for James. You don’t know him well enough. But having someone like James pressing down on you was impossible to ignore, consciously and subliminally.

You really don’t want to do this, drawing your arm back, tightening your first two fingers. James’ eyes widen, his lips falling open as you hit him hard enough to bruise a half inch from his heart. He stumbles and you follow, before flinching back hard, tucking shameful arms to your chest. 

“Sorry!” you burst. “Fuck, sorry! I thought you were ready!” 

“I was ready.” James grins widely. “Awesome. Do that again, yeah? Let’s have one on the cheek this time.” 

“I am not punching you in the face.” 

“You could always aim somewhere softer. The point is to incapacitate me. Hitting me in the chest won’t do that.” He rubs a hand into his shirt, the dark compression material barely moving. “You might have bruised me, though. I’m a good teacher.” 

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” you say. 

James deliberates. He tips his head back, showing you the rather nice point of his chin and his neck. A beauty mark sits nestled atop his Adam's apple. 

“Alright. Sorry. No more hitting. Maybe we’ll give the offensive a break for a while and go back to defence again in a few days?” he suggests. 

You relax. 

You’re wearing clothes you’re not used to, a compression shirt like James’, a pair of dark trousers of a similar material with loose ends. Sirius had done some online shopping with you, not worrying as your elbows brushed. He pointed at things and you’d given weak yesses or resolute nos. The total had climbed and climbed, and Sirius had taken your choking for self-preservation. “Not to worry,” he’d said, grinning, “the royal coffers will pay for this lot.” 

It doesn’t feel real. Endless money with no limit nor reason. He’d opened Curry’s swiftly after and asked you what laptop you wanted for uni. He’d attempted to goad you into two. 

It’s alien. All of it, even James across from you where he’s sitting now to put his trainers back on. He doesn’t feel anymore real than the day you met, this handsome, tall boy tasked with keeping you safe. You’ve never been someone’s number one priority. 

“Come and put your shoes on, lovely.” 

You’re not sure how to cope with that, either. He and Sirius both seem quick to coddle when you’re distracted, and you’re distracted often. You shrug away your thoughts, relaxing your tight shoulders as you cross the empty gym to sit next to him. Your trainers are new, too, a sporty pair that cost more money than your last three pairs combined. 

“It’s nice to have new things,” you confess, “but odd.” 

“Yeah?” 

“I… I’ve been wearing the same pair of converse for two years. I had one pair of proper shoes, and one bag. One purse. And I didn’t mind it, just… just, it makes you feel sick sometimes when you want stuff. It’s embarrassing.”

If James is surprised at your sudden admission, he doesn’t show it. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of in wanting things,” he says, hands braced on his knees, “but I can guess why you might’ve felt like that. We try not to think about the things we want because that can make not having it worse.” 

What couldn’t you have? you think, searching his expression for a hint. 

“I’m glad it’s nice,” he furthers, tapping his heel against yours. “They look good. Are they comfortable?” 

“They feel like I’m wearing socks half the time.” 

James nods appreciatively. “Well, get them on. We’ll nip into the pharmacist before we go home, do you have your sunglasses?” 

“It’s too grey outside for sunglasses, we look ridiculous.” 

“You look like the front page of every newspaper. Ever. In the entire western world. Here, put your hoodie on.” 

You and James leave the gym with a wave to the women at the front desk and begin down the street. James hates the city obviously, wrinkling his nose at the grey cobbled streets and all of its sooty puddles. He walks from place to place rigid as a tentpole, swerving in front of you the second that someone looks at you too long. You wonder if this is what having a boyfriend is like. James is constantly making sure you’re safe, that you’re on the right side of the pavement, that you’re warm and fed and smiling. But you don’t suppose a boyfriend gets paid to spend time with you, nor do they spend nights on the lumpy sofa in the living room when they’re too tired to drive home at the end of a long shift. 

You think without wanting to of James climbing into bed with you, a split second of his warm arm over your back, and shake it away as he pulls you into the pharmacy. 

“Can you look at something else?” you ask, turning to him as you pull off your silly sunglasses. 

James raises his eyebrows. “Whatever for?” 

“I need stuff.” 

“I know you need stuff. You asked me if we could come here. Which, by the way, you don’t need to do. You’re supposed to boss me around.” 

You look over a shelf of shampoos and deodorants and begin reading their labels. James took you shopping the day after you got back, but you’d been stuck in your old ways and what you didn’t skimp on, you forgot. You eye a large bottle of shampoo that brags deep moisture for your hair type and take it from the shelf, then the matching conditioner, and then its hair mask. Your shoulders curl forward, worried James will think you greedy or sad or something in between, but he just says, “Pass them here, Princess.” 

“It’s fine, I can–”

“I’ll have them. I’ll go get a basket.”

He scoops everything into big hands and walks back to the pharmacy’s entrance. 

It’s a big pharmacy, modern, with white walls and bright fluorescent lights behind shelves. You catch yourself in a mirror next to a stand of cosmetics and wince. You look odd in these sporty clothes. Your nose is shiny. 

You wipe your face with your sleeve and stare at the cosmetics with no clue what to get. Should’ve asked Sirius to come. Or better yet, someone who regularly wears makeup. Only thing is, you don’t really know anybody who does. 

“You don’t have to rush,” James says, joining you at the makeup section, such a long walk from the shampoos. “Did you sprint down here?” 

You’d speed-walked past the sexual health aisle actually, but James doesn’t need to be privy to that information. “You don’t want to be here all day.” 

“I want to be exactly where you are. If that’s looking at lip gloss, then so be it.” 

You smile, a little shy, a little rueful, and turn your attention back to the lip glosses in question. There’s browns and pinks, blush-rose red and moodier cherries. “I don’t…” 

“That one,” James says, poking a barrel with confidence, “would suit you. And this one, too. You’ll look lovely.”

You don’t know what to say. The colours he’s chosen get added to your basket without comment, after you’ve wrestled it out of his unwilling hands. You spend a few minutes spready tester shades of concealer against the back of your hand, where James again recommends the one that matches your skin tone best. He leans behind you, and he does his job, sweeping the aisles and giving the shop a long up and down every once in a while, but for the most part he acts like he’s there to be there. 

You get to the bit of the pharmacy you’d come for initially, the shorter but well-stocked supplement and vitamin aisle. Realistically, you aren’t going to take ten different vitamins a day, and with Marlene’s cooking it isn’t as though you need them, but there are things you’ve always craved. Biotin and collagen, for healthier hair and nails. Multi-nutrient sachets for every day, the good stuff, and so expensive your eyes initially skip over them. 

Your hand hesitates in front of a box and James makes a warm humming noise. 

“They look promising.”

“I’ve never had them before.”

“I have a killer magnesium deficiency,” James says. “I usually take the magnesium and zinc, but that throws my copper out of whack.” 

You can’t tell if he’s messing with you. You smile at him, not quite stickily but getting there, your cheeks appled with it. “Not your copper.” 

“It’s not funny, Princess. It makes me want to sleep all day.” 

“Not funny,” you agree, grabbing the box of sachets and placing them atop the new electric toothbrush you’d fancied. You feel gluttonous and weird with it, because you don’t suppose you really need one, but James had only said That’s a nice colour. 

“James,” you say, meandering with him toward the tills, “you didn’t need anything, did you?” 

He grins at you like you’ve said something different. “I have everything I need, don’t worry.” 

“You sure?” 

His eyes seem lighter, then. Amber flecks in the browned honey of his irises. “Promise.” 

He tries to get you to visit the perfume counter, but the basket is getting heavy and you’ve spent enough as it is. Not even a tenth, a hundredth, a thousandth of what you have now at your disposal, but so much more than you ever would’ve before. 

The lady at the till eyes James behind you. She beams when James opens his wallet and passes you the card you were given by Sirius for expenses, and laughs when you refuse to take it. “I have mine,” you say, “this is all for me, I can pay.” 

“Technically it’s your upkeep,” James argues. 

“James.” You pass the cashier your card as James frowns. 

“I wish my boyfriend offered so quickly,” the cashier says. 

You go hot all over, but before you can tell her James isn’t your boyfriend, he’s laughing and taking the handles of your heavy pink carrier, pulling it toward him as the cashier sorts your receipt. “I shouldn’t have tried, really.” 

“It’s the thought that counts.” She hands you your receipt. “You should to let him pay, chick, especially if he’s offering.” 

“Maybe next time,” you appease. 

You’re still flushed when you and James break outside again, the cold a blessed relief. James lets your pink bag rest in the crook of his arm, while the other hovers behind you, looking around the street unhurried. “Anywhere else you want to go, chick?” he asks. 

You laugh. “She was nice.” 

“Very motherly.” 

“I want to go home, I think. Did you need anything else?” 

“I do all my shopping when I’m not working.” 

“When aren’t you working?” you ask genuinely. “You spend more than half the day at my flat, and when you leave– if you leave, it’s night time.” You give him a sideways glance. “I have nothing else to do today.” 

James contemplates this. “I– I’ve been meaning to get Sirius a gift. It’s his birthday next week, did you know?” 

“No! When?” 

“The third.” 

“What does he like?” 

James beckons toward a neon signed music shop. “He loves music. Music and the macabre, you know, like, horror movies. And he reads, despite what he might have you believe.” 

You fall into step. “Alright. You’ll have to tell me what to buy.” 

Again, he gives you a look like you’ve said something different, like you’ve said something lovely. 

“I can do that,” James says. “I won’t steer you wrong.”

—

Later that evening, after another tentative hour in the car with James’ patient coaching, you return home to shower. It’s luxurious and strenuous simultaneously. The new hair mask is fragrant and silky between your fingers, leaving the bathroom thick with its smell, the warm air clouding the windows. You hurry between the bathroom and your bedroom in a bath sheet and pretend you don’t notice James’ head tipping in your direction. 

“Everything alright?” he calls to your bedroom door. 

You spy on him through the gap. “I’m fine. Sorry I took so long.” 

“Remus has asked if he can come early and have dinner with us.” 

“He doesn’t need to ask!” you call, closing the door soundly. 

It will be nice to have Remus for dinner. He doesn’t have to tell you what fork to use here, you only have one kind, but he explains the heritage or main flavours of each dish and doesn’t make you feel embarrassed when you don’t know the Genovian Marlene uses. Honestly, you hadn’t even realised Genovia had a language, a hodge podge, Remus says, of Italian and French. And Remus has a steady voice that feels evidence of his more humble background —he’s like you, you’ve found out, working class and humbly brought up. He attended their boarding school on a scholarship of academic prowess, and served as a prefect for all seven years. 

“How exhausting,” you’d said. 

“With those two? You wouldn’t believe it.” 

His disdain was feigned, mostly. It’s why you’re excited to have him for dinner. When the boys are together, they end up telling you stories about their hijinks at school, and you get to peek into the window of their lives, see their fondness for one another in praises and shoulder squeezes and their ridiculous nicknames. 

You haven’t managed to ask about them yet. They slip out every once in a while, and in multiple variations. Moony, Moons, Moon and Pads, Pad, Padfoot. Remus’ you’ve deduced from a story they told, how Remus could be oh so moody when he wasn’t very well, like a wolf, a werewolf. Isn’t that clever for a gang of twelve year olds? Lupin, the wolf boy. You have a feeling it didn’t start out as a particularly kind nickname, but it morphed into a loving moniker later on. Sirius’ nickname, however, you’ve no chance at working out. Padfoot? 

And Prongs? You assume James had a nasty run in with a fork. 

You dress in soft, new clothes. Prongs, you think, doesn’t suit him at all. The James you know is only ever prickly when you’re at risk. He doesn’t flinch when you panic, never hardens. He has a soft hand for your back whenever you need a pat. 

Your socks slide on the living room tiles as you make your way in. James is clicking away on his phone, a dark business phone with many, many buttons. It’s dwarfed by his hand. He swears under his breath. 

“Everything okay?” you ask softly. 

James looks up and his gaze snags on you, his head tilted to his phone and his eyes steadfast where they look you over. “Fine. Nice shower?” 

You’re rich now. Every shower is nice, the boiler turned to a high six, hot water neverending. 

“It was good. Where’s Sirius?” 

“I’m actually not sure.” 

“Isn’t that your job?” 

“No. And if it were I wouldn’t know anyways.” He turns back to his phone. “He’s a slippery one, Pads,” he murmurs, “I couldn’t really keep track of him if I tried.” 

You feel as though you’ve caught him at a bad time. Restless, you turn away from him and head for your small kitchen, unsurprised to find Marlene still cooking and the continued remodelling of your kitchen. Old countertops find themselves housing new oiled cutting boards. Your grody cooker seems small beneath a HexClad Dutch oven, where oil bubbles and spits lightly, dough cuts set on a baking sheet beside it. 

“Hi, Marlene. What are you making?” you ask curiously. 

She grins at you from over her shoulder. “Apple cider doughnuts. I’ve made cinnamon sugar, do you mind it?” 

“What’s the thermometer?” you ask. 

She laughs at you lightly. She’s used to you dodging questions. “Just making sure I don’t set your house alight. At home I can do this by eye, but it’s finicky with your oven. She’s temperamental.” 

“Sorry.” 

Marlene waves a hand. “You want to try?” 

“I’ll just be in your way.” 

“No, you won’t. Frying doughnuts is fun, here. I’ve put each of them on a bit of greaseproof paper. They slide right off.” 

Marlene doesn’t usually take no for an answer. She’s not bossy, but decisive. You’re hesitant at first of the boiling oil and the greaseproof paper doesn’t cooperate when you try it, but eventually you’ve freed a crispy bit of paper from the dough, watching patiently as Marlene turns the doughnuts. She tells you about the dark colour you’re searching for, “I’ve put apples in the dough, see, so they’ll come to a brilliant dark colour without burning. We’ll have them with ice cream or whatever you like.” 

”James told you I wanted it?” you ask shyly. 

“James didn’t mention you at all, he just begged a bit for it. He can be quite pathetic when he needs to be.”  

“I resent that!” James calls. 

Sirius and Remus arrive in their usual pair, Remus tall and light to Sirius’ tighter darkness. Remus wears glasses today, black thin frames perched atop a scar on his nose. Sirius is being himself, poking at them and reminding Remus that just because he is an insufferable swat doesn’t mean he has to look like one. 

“You’re worse than insufferable,” Remus says. When he sees you, he brightens. “Ah, Princess. James hasn’t injured you, that’s brilliant.” 

“And you clearly haven’t killed him in a motor vehicular disaster,” Sirius says cheerfully. “Praise be.” 

“We’re both fine,” you say. 

“Were you worried about us?” James asks. 

“I wasn’t worried about you, James,” Remus says with a smirk. 

You eat as you have every day for the week since you’ve been home: around the coffee table, five plates and drinks rearing to get knocked over and ruin it all. Your knees press into Remus’ on the left and Marlene’s on the right. James sits across from you now that Frank’s shown up for his night shift, digging in with vigour, beaming around his fork as Sirius gives him a good nudge. So many people in your crammed flat. It doesn’t seem real. Half the time, they’re just here to keep you company. 

Paid to keep me company, you think, biting your tongue as you do. This isn’t… real. 

Something taps you under the table. James’ hand, you find, long fingers pressing soft into your kneecap. You quickly lift your head again to find him frowning at you mildly. Okay? he mouths. 

“Bit my tongue,” you say. 

“Ouch,” Remus says. 

James pokes his lip with his tongue. “Be careful,” he says eventually. 

You ignore whatever it is he’s not saying and pick at your food instead. For dinner, Marlene has made a traditional Genovian pasta dish heavy with red pesto and steak. It isn’t what you’re expecting, used to the paler whites and greens of the last week's worth of dinner. James couldn’t be enjoying it more, and Sirius has pledged his undying love to Marlene three or four times since you sat down. 

“Jesus, I barely miss Genovia when you cook like this,” he says. “I will happily serve my country.” 

“Unlike before, when you were here unhappily,” Remus teased. 

Sirius looks you dead in the eye. “Princess, I would follow you anywhere. Marlene is an added bonus.” 

“I– I really wish you guys wouldn’t call me that.” 

Sirius looks gently chastened. “Sorry, sorry. It’s muscle memory at this point. If I called Princess Julianna by anything but her title, she would’ve had me drawn and quartered in the royal courtyards, is all.” 

“And the rest,” James snorts. 

“I try not to address her at all,” Remus says to himself. 

Everyone laughs. You join in a second later, wondering about your unknown cousin. “She was rather spoiled, wasn’t she?” you ask. 

“You’d think she’d tone it down some. Her royal status is rather tenuous, you know.” 

James gives Sirius a look. Careful, it says. 

“What do you mean?” you ask. 

“Well, she’s a royal by marriage, not blood. We explained that, didn’t we?” 

James had said it was complicated. You’d been too startled about your own royal status to inspect it any further. “She’s not a Renaldi?” you ask. 

As it’s explained, your uncle (uncle! who is indeed royal by blood, and the eldest son) forwent the throne when it became clear he wouldn’t be allowed to marry a divorced lover otherwise (reminiscent of certain British scandals). Said divorced lover already had a daughter, a young Julianna. And so your uncle remained a prince but not a king, and Julianna became a princess, to the ire of half the country. 

Traditions have changed in time, but Julianna still lacks Renaldi blood. 

“It drives her mad,” James says. He’s leaning back against the armchair now, dinner finished, a big glass of apple cider in his hands. 

“That doesn’t surprise me,” you say. “Sorry, I sound horrible, just. She wasn’t super friendly.” 

“It would’ve been better for everyone if she was,” Sirius says. 

You wait for him to continue. Marlene prompts him, “You think so?” 

“Well, yes, I suppose. Anything is better than a country ruled by Baron Riddle. Evil, loathsome man. He thinks that nobody knows he’s had a nose job, you know.” 

“Who’s Baron Riddle?” you ask. 

A hush falls around the table. You look down at your plate, eyes on the red shine of pesto and olive oil where it’s grown cold on your plate. A hunk of soft bread is discarded beside it. You poke at it with your nail until crumbs flake away, lips parted, not sure what to say. “Is he–?”

“He’s a bad man, Y/N,” Sirius says. His voice has turned soft but not thin. “He’s prejudiced and cruel. If nobody of Renaldi blood takes the throne when your grandmother steps down, he’ll rule Genovia. And he’ll run it into the ground.” 

James isn’t looking at you when you drag your head up. He downs the last of his cider and stands up, murmuring about clearing the table as he carries his and Sirius’ plate to the kitchen. 

“I didn’t know,” you say. Well, you’d known someone would ascend to the throne if you didn’t. But you didn’t know about Riddle. A guilty heat builds in your throat. “I had no idea.” 

“James asked us not to tell you,” Remus says pointedly. 

“She has a right to know,” Sirius says. They glare at each other, but the heat in Sirius’ voice doesn’t rescind. “What? She does. She’s a grown up.” 

You shake your head. “Thank you, um, for telling me. I’ll just take these out, should I?” You gesture to the plates and stand up quickly. You can’t escape the feeling that Sirius is very angry with you, and you don’t want to face it, so you escape the room instead. 

James’ shoulders are tense in the kitchen. He scrapes his plate clean into the food recycling bin, offering his hand without looking for your own. 

“Thank you,” you say quietly. 

“Of course.” 

Silence blossoms like an achy bruise. 

“James–”

“Thank you for having me for dinner, but I really should be going now. I promised my mum an overdue call.” 

He’s angry. 

You cringe away from him. “Okay. Yeah, no problem.” 

“Okay. Stay safe while I’m gone, yes? Remember your panic button.” 

Your hand inches up to the opposite wrist, where your tennis bracelet of sapphires sits tightly. You’d forgotten all about the panic button embedded in disguise under one of the gemstones. 

He smiles at you briefly, and in a minute or two he’s gone. Sirius goes out after him, leaving you and Remus and Marlene to the heap of dishes, a bad taste lingering on your tongue that has nothing to do with dinner. 

[benispunk]

Ticklish

logan howlett x reader

Maybe you discovered Logan was ticklish. Maybe you used it to your advantage.

TW: it's pure fluff, it's a little bit funny and the end is a tiny bit suggestive. let's just say Christmas came early this year...this was written this morning when I woke up and it's fully inspired by my own post

Masterlist

Every morning before getting out of bed, you and Logan had a quiet ritual. These stolen moments of peace were rare in the chaos of the mansion, where every day brought new missions, training, or too many kids running around. It was the one time you could just be. No responsibilities, no noise— just the two of you.

This morning was no different. Your head rested on Logan's chest, his fingers combing gently through your hair, while your hand traced slow, lazy patterns on his chest. It was a small act of intimacy, but one you both cherished.

Lost in the rhythm, your hand absently wandered lower, brushing against his side. Suddenly, Logan jerked like he'd been electrocuted. His entire body tensed, and he shifted away so abruptly that you sat up, startled.

“Logan, what’s wrong? Did I hurt you?” Concern laced your voice as you reached for him.

He cleared his throat, his usual gruff tone tinged with embarrassment. “Nah, you didn’t hurt me. Just… don’t do that.”

You blinked, confusion evident on your face. “Don’t touch your sides?” You tilted your head, studying him as if trying to solve a puzzle. He refused to meet your gaze, instead settling back into bed and opening his arms to you, clearly ready to move on.

“Come here. We don’t have much time left before breakfast,” he said, his voice low and coaxing.

But you didn’t move. The way he avoided eye contact and the faint flush on his cheeks told you there was more to this. You narrowed your eyes playfully. “Logan…”

“Don’t,” he warned, catching the glint of mischief sparking in your eyes.

You smirked. “Are you… ticklish?”

The look of horror that crossed his face confirmed everything. He groaned, running a hand over his face. “Don’t you dare,” he growled, but the threatening tone only made you laugh.

“Oh my god, you are!” you exclaimed, grinning like a kid who just uncovered a juicy secret.

“I mean it, sweetheart. You’ll regret it.” His expression was deadly serious, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

Still laughing, you raised your hands in mock surrender. “Relax, Logan. I’m not going to tickle you. It was an accident— I didn’t know!”

He gave you a skeptical glance, clearly trying to decide whether you were trustworthy. After a tense moment, he let out a heavy sigh and opened his arms again. You nestled back against his chest, your fingers returning to their absent-minded pattern-drawing. His hand resumed its place in your hair, but his body remained slightly tense, like a predator waiting for an ambush.

The silence stretched comfortably for a few minutes before your curiosity got the better of you. “How did I never realize you were ticklish?”

He let out a quiet chuckle. “Because it’s a secret, and I’m careful. You’re lucky you caught me off guard.”

You laughed softly, your breath warm against his chest. “You know, I can keep a secret… but I can also use it against you if I want.”

His hand froze in your hair, and you felt his heartbeat quicken just slightly beneath your ear. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I?” You tilted your head up, giving him your best innocent smile.

His eyes narrowed suspiciously, but when your hand wandered dangerously close to his side again, he didn’t notice until it was too late. Your fingers pinched his ribs lightly, and the sound that escaped his mouth—a startled yelp—was priceless.

“Y/N!” he growled, but he was already moving. In the blink of an eye, you were flat on your back, your wrists pinned above your head as he loomed over you.

“What was that little scream you just did?” you teased, bursting into laughter as he glared down at you.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he rumbled, his tone low and menacing, but the faint smirk tugging at his lips told you he was more amused than angry.

“Well, in that case…” You grinned up at him, eyes gleaming with defiance. “Maybe I should do that more often.”

Logan shook his head, clearly trying to hold onto his serious facade, but it crumbled under the weight of your laughter. The corners of his mouth twitched before he finally broke, leaning down to capture your lips in a heated kiss that left you breathless.

When he pulled back, his lips hovered over yours, his voice gravelly and teasing. “You sure you want to keep playing? Because I’ve got other ways to make you behave.”

You arched a brow, your smirk never wavering. “Oh? Like what?”

A low growl rumbled from his chest, and before you could blink, he nipped at your bottom lip, making you gasp. His hands trailed down your sides, slow and deliberate, his touch feather-light but enough to send a shiver through you.

“Keep testing me, darlin’,” he murmured, his tone dripping with suggestion. “You might not make it to breakfast at all.”

You bit your lip, trying to fight back a grin. “Maybe that’s exactly what I want.”

His smirk widened as he leaned closer, his voice a whisper against your ear. “Good. Because breakfast can wait.”

XXX

[yumeka-sxf]

In addition to Yor's epiphany scene, this scene was the other one I was most looking forward to in season 2 - a scene that, in my opinion, is one of the most Twiyor-ish scenes in the series so far 💖

Why is it so significant? Because there was no reason for Twilight to put on any Loid Forger acting in that moment. He wasn't conversing with nor being scrutinized by anyone. So why would he give that soft smile followed by such affectionate, comforting words as "お疲れ様/otsukaresama"? (this can be translated in many ways, but generally it's something you say to thank someone for their hard work).

The answer is because it's something he truly felt...he understood the sacrifice Yor made for Anya's happiness and genuinely appreciated it (if only he knew the sacrifice she made on the larger scale, lol). While he's a bit perturbed at first since some onlookers were snickering at him, it didn't take long for him to soften and then graciously carry his queen and princess the girls back to the ship 😭

But Twilight overall was really soft in this episode and I loved it~ From his blush upon seeing Yor to the several times he gave that same soft smile when talking with/looking at her...I think Anya was right when she called him out on the ship about missing his wife 😅

I liked how the anime conveyed his shock when noticing her bruised face...what must have been his thought at that moment? 👀

The scenes of the family activities translated better in animated form in my opinion. While they were each only a single panel in the manga, they lasted a few seconds each in the anime, plus the addition of the insert song helped the with the comfy, wholesome vibe~ Also the part where Yor inadvertently chucks Anya across the ocean is still hilarious.

Loid's dorky skip at the beginning of the episode translated very well in animated form too 😅

The ending of this chapter in the manga always felt a bit rushed to me...it quickly jumps from the aforementioned scene of them returning to the ship, to suddenly being home, reuniting with Bond and Franky, having a meal together, then Twilight meeting Sylvia, all within a few panels. Even though I wish the anime added more than just some additional scenes of the ship leaving the island, I felt it flowed much better in the anime since, just like the family activities, each scene in the ending lasted a second or two instead of being a single illustration.

But I love how this chapter/episode ends, with Yor, Anya, and Bond napping while Anya draws about her family vacation. This seems to take place the next day or maybe later the same day they got home, so makes sense they'd still be tired from the trip!

By the way, the manga has this additional scene showing that Olka and company are safe. Weird that the anime didn't stick it in at some point.

Also, the anime team didn't have to go so hard with this episode's key visual but they did...and I love it 😍 Might actually be my favorite of the key visuals so far!

I was very happy to see the "surrounded by liars" panel finally animated! This is such a funny scene and a great way to fully wrap up the cruise arc.

I also burst out laughing at Yuri's locker 🤣

Damian is surprisingly laid back in this episode. I think the reason is because Anya's antics aren't directly involving him. He tends to go total tsundere only when she's actually talking to him, lol.

The new scene of Yor getting the keychains for her coworkers was a nice addition! Guess it's canon that Yor and Anya didn't sleep for the entire trip back, lol. Glad they got to spend family time on the ship too! (though I wish we could have seen Yor's reaction waking up in Loid's bottom bunk bed, haha. He must have brought her to his room since he wouldn't know where her room is. Unless she woke up before he even put her in a bed, in which case she would have been super embarrassed knowing he was carrying her around in public 😆)

Looks like next week the anime will be changing the order of things a bit and giving us the Becky home-wrecking and Fiona chapters (the latter of which seems to have some anime original content?) The Becky chapter is one of my favorite stand-alone chapters...I'm already dying of laugher thinking about it 😂

[d-targaryenshoe]

Drunk On Love - Benedict Bridgerton

Summary: Love is beautiful yet when one is drunk it can rather be a little confusing and breathtaking.

Word count: 1210

Benedict Bridgerton prided himself on many things, his artistic talent, wit, and ability to hold his drink.

Yet tonight, the second Bridgerton son was wobbling on his feet, his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, a cravat dangling loosely from his neck like a sad ribbon on an overindulged present.

The Bridgerton house was alive with music and laughter.

Eloise had declared it a night for frivolity, dragging everyone into the drawing room after dinner to play a raucous game of charades.

Wine flowed like the Thames, and for once, Anthony and Kate didn’t step in to regulate the chaos.

“Benedict,” Colin chortled, pointing as his elder brother attempted to lean casually on a settee and nearly toppled over, “I think you’ve lost the ability to differentiate between horizontal and vertical.”

“I’m perfectly... perpendic... perpendicular!” Benedict slurred, wagging a finger in Colin’s direction.

“Indeed,” Eloise said dryly. She raised her voice, addressing the room. “I give it five minutes before he collapses entirely. Any takers?”

“Oh, stop betting on him,” sighed Daphne. “Where’s y/n? Benedict always behaves better when she's around.”

Benedict blinked hazily around the room.

His siblings’ teasing words blended into the merry chaos, but one name struck a chord, y/n.

Who was y/n?

And why did that name feel like a golden thread pulling at his soul?

He turned his head too quickly, the room spinning in response.

His gaze landed on a figure near the pianoforte—one so radiant it was as though the heavens had gifted them the very stars.

“Who... who is that?” Benedict whispered, stumbling toward Colin and yanking on his sleeve.

“Who?” Colin asked, bewildered.

“That divine creature,” Benedict gestured dramatically, “by the pianoforte. Look at her, Colin. Just look! She's perfect.”

Colin stared at him for a moment, then burst into uncontrollable laughter.

“Oh, this is too good. Benedict, that’s your wife”

“My what?” Benedict spluttered, recoiling as though he’d been doused in cold water.

“Your wife, you fool. Y/n. The person you married three years ago.” Colin’s grin was practically audible. “You have children with her, by the way.”

“Children?!” Benedict gasped, clutching his chest.

His mind raced. Surely, he would remember such monumental details.

A wife? Children? His heart thundered as he stared at you, as you were now laughing with Hyacinth and Gregory.

Every movement you made felt hypnotic, like watching sunlight dance on water.

“I don’t believe you,” Benedict declared, his voice rising above the chatter.

“Shall we fetch the marriage certificate?” Anthony drawled from his seat by the fire.

He smirked, swirling a glass of brandy. “Or the children?”

Before anyone could stop him, Benedict crossed the room with all the determination of a soldier marching to battle.

He nearly tripped over Daphne’s gown in his haste, earning a glare, but he pressed on.

As he approached, you turned to him, your face lighting up with warmth.

“Benedict,” you said, a fond smile gracing your lips. “You look like you’ve had quite a bit of—”

“Are you my spouse?” Benedict interrupted his voice a mix of awe and disbelief.

You blinked, glancing around the room as though to confirm this wasn’t a joke orchestrated by his siblings. “I am. Last time I checked, anyway.”

“And we have... children?” Benedict pressed, his hands flailing for emphasis.

“Two of them,” you replied slowly, your brow furrowing. “Are you feeling all right?”

Benedict staggered back a step, clutching at his heart as though Cupid himself had struck him anew.

“I don’t believe it. How could I have forgotten marrying someone so... so—” He gestured helplessly at you, his words failing him. “You’re perfect. Stunning. A masterpiece! Surely, I would remember creating something so beautiful with you.”

From the corner, Colin let out a loud snort of laughter, while Hyacinth whispered something to Gregory, both of them dissolving into giggles.

You, however, softened, recognizing the sincerity behind Benedict’s intoxicated declarations.

“Benedict,” you said gently, placing a hand on his arm. “You didn’t forget. You’ve just had a bit too much wine tonight.”

“I could never drink enough to forget you,” Benedict declared, his eyes wide with conviction.

“But I must have been a fool not to spend every waking moment worshiping you. Tell me, y/n—how did someone like me manage to convince someone like you to marry me?”

Your laughter was soft, your affection for him evident in every glance. "You painted me a portrait. You said it was the only way to capture what words could not. And then you kissed me.”

“I kissed you?” Benedict repeated, his voice trembling. “I kissed you and lived to tell the tale? Remarkable.”

The room erupted into chaos as the siblings could no longer contain their laughter.

Daphne leaned against a chair for support, Anthony pinched the bridge of his nose in mock exasperation, and Eloise whispered something scandalous to Francesca, who chuckled into her wine glass.

“You’re all horrible!” Benedict shouted, turning to glare at his family. “How dare you mock a man rediscovering the love of his life?”

“You’re rediscovering her because you’re drunk,” Eloise pointed out, her tone laced with amusement.

“Drunk or not, my love is real,” Benedict retorted dramatically, turning back to you. “Y/n, my muse, my heart—can you forgive me for not loving you loudly enough?”

“You love me plenty loudly, Benedict,” you replied with a smile, your eyes twinkling with mirth. “Especially when you’re drunk.”

At that moment, the door to the drawing room opened, and a pair of small children toddled in, guided by their nurse.

The eldest, a dark-haired boy of about three, immediately ran to you, clutching your leg.

The younger, a baby with Benedict’s dimpled cheeks, squealed happily from the nurse’s arms.

Benedict froze, staring at the children as though they were mythical creatures.

“Are these... mine?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

“Yes,” you said, picking up the boy and balancing him on your hip. “This is Thomas and that little one is Edith.”

Benedict dropped to his knees, staring at his children in awe. “Thomas. Edith. My heirs. My legacy.”

“They’re not royalty, Benedict,” Anthony deadpanned.

Benedict ignored him, his eyes welling with tears. “They’re perfect. Just like their parents.”

You rolled your eyes fondly. “All right, darling. Let’s get you some water.”

The next morning, Benedict woke with a pounding headache and a vague sense of humiliation.

As he shuffled into the breakfast room, his siblings greeted him with a chorus of applause and cheers.

“Well done, Benedict,” Colin teased. “You fell in love with your wife all over again.”

“Most romantic thing I’ve ever seen,” Daphne added, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

Benedict groaned, sinking into his chair. “Please, tell me I didn’t embarrass myself too badly.”

You entered the room, setting a cup of tea before him. “You were charming, as always.”

“Was I?” Benedict asked, peering up at you.

“You were,” you said, leaning down to kiss his cheek. “Though I think you owe me another portrait. You did promise one last night.”

Benedict smiled sheepishly, his love for you as steady and enduring as the sunlight streaming through the window.

“Anything for you,” he murmured, vowing to remind you every day just how deeply he adored you—drunk or not.

[superficialdomina]

Down Under - Part 4

Word count: 2.9k

Part 2 Warnings: 18+; minors DNI. SMUT! Smutty smut! Masturbating (F). Orgasms (F). Thigh riding. Effects of sex-infection (and the inherent dub-con). If you want to avoid any of this, stop reading when we go to bed 😅

Part 3

Series masterlist

Image credit

Part 4

There wasn’t much to do, since you didn’t have much in the way of gear. You gathered a pile of firewood, then pulled large armfuls of bracken out of the bush to fashion a makeshift bed. It would hardly be comfortable, but it might be an improvement on the hard ground. While Loki arranged wood and stones into a campfire shape, you began collecting handfuls of dry leaf and twig.

“What are you doing, Agent?”

“Um… Just getting some kindling? I think I have a flint in my pack���”

Loki gave a low chuckle. He mimed the two-handed motion of pulling back a slingshot, and aimed it at the teepee-shaped pile. As he released the invisible draw, a small fireball materialised; it flew through the air and crashed into the logs, which generously burst into flames.

“Satisfactory, yes?”

More than that, you thought lustily. Your mouth twitched as you stared after him, skin warmed by more than just the fire. That shouldn’t have been so arousing. Right?

Twilight was fully settled by now, the sun well-and-truly below the tree line. Urgent tasks complete, the two of you seated yourselves on one side of the campfire, watching the dancing yellow-and-orange that licked up into the darkening sky.

“Are you hungry?” Loki asked.

Starving, you realised. “I already ate everything I was carrying.”

“Mmm,” he said, feigning consternation. With another graceful flourish of sparks, he produced a small loaf of dark, dense bread, and some hard cheese. You immediately began to salivate.

“Loki, you’re brilliant!”

His mouth curled, then he cleared his throat. “It is nothing. If we were better equipped,” he continued, as he hacked off chunks of bread and cheese with his dagger, “I would make us some lefse. But it is only truly delicious when fresh off the griddle.”

“Lefse. That’s – that’s bread, right?” you asked through a mouthful of the delicious, chewy rye.

“Tch. Is it bread.” He closed his eyes in fond memory. “If it is mere bread, it is the most soulful, delicate bread you have ever tasted; indeed, its grace and tenderness is tempered only by its humility.”

You stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. “That was very poetic, Loki.”

Loki opened his eyes to scowl at you, but his irises twinkled provocatively. “What can I say? I miss my homeland, and I am a romantic at heart.” He paused, light echoing off the semicircle of exposed skin at his neckline. “That is your second compliment to me in as many minutes.”

“I guess so.”

“Be careful, Agent – I might start to believe I am winning you over.” He chewed and swallowed another bite of cheese, and you were distracted, imagining his pretty mouth latched filthily to your nipple. “I have a small confession,” he said, settling down to gaze again at the fire. “I have visited your continent once before.”

You sat up. “What? When?”

He chuckled again. “A few hundred years ago, before the Europeans came. My mother insisted that I needed a vacation. I was interested in your wildlife… So I spent a few moons exploring it.”

“Where? Here?”

“The plains, mostly.” He smiled into the distance as he remembered. “The Wiradjuri people welcomed me to their Country; shared with me their dance and music. It was the season of ‘fat fish’; I recall we ate very well.”

You briefly hid your face in your hands. “So when I was spouting all that shit about the southern stars…”

“As I said – I am familiar.”

 “And you’ve never said anything to me?”

“I don’t believe we have ever conversed at length.”

You paused. It was true; in the time you’d known him, you’d never gone out of your way to speak to him. He was someone important, you’d always told yourself, and you were no-one. But it’s more than that, you thought, a little ashamed. You’d found him arrogant, and cold, and standoffish. Now, you thought of the way he had led you safely through each squeeze in that tunnel; he’d seen the fear on your face, and hadn’t hesitated to find a way to make it as tolerable for you as possible. And just now - I would make us some lefse…

“I… No, I suppose not.” You felt you owed him something honest in return. Or maybe it just seemed like a moment for truth-telling. “I – I didn’t want to come back. Home, I mean.”

“Oh?”

“I just… I guess I didn’t want to face some things I thought I’d left behind for good.”

His eyes narrowed knowingly. “I see. An old lover, perhaps?”

“Worse,” you made a face, “family. Family… differences.”

“Ah. I can relate.” He swallowed his last piece of cheese, then brushed his hands together to clear way the crumbs. “What was the nature of disagreement?”

 “My Dad and I… We never got along.” You paused. That was the euphemism you always used – ‘we didn’t get along’. You let go of a deep breath. “He – he hated me, I think. Hated all women, maybe. But he especially hated that I wanted more from life than his shitty fishing village. That I went to university, wanted a career. That it wasn’t my life’s ambition to just… sit around fetching his beer and cleaning up after him.”

His face was almost impassive; only a hint of sadness in his eyes betrayed his pity.

Your eyes were stinging. “The last Christmas I went home, he was on at me, worse than usual. Ungrateful, failure, ruining my life, blah blah. My mum made, like, a token effort to pacify him, but I think she resented me, too. And I just realised – I’d had enough of him. Fuck him. And I - I left. And I didn’t really think I’d ever come back.”

“And now?” he asked quietly. “How does it feel to be home?”

“Complicated,” you said, reluctant. When he waited for more, you added, “I’d forgotten how much it’s a… a part of me.”

You caught his eye, then quickly looked away. It was all too alluring; the firelight, the secrets shared. The carved lines of his Adonis belt above those Goddamned moleskins, which were revealed each time he raised his arms…

You had wanted to ask him if he would repeat his trick from a few nights ago; to cast his illusion and open the sky for you again. But it felt too vulnerable. Too intimate, now that he knew what it meant to you. Too tempting.

So instead, you stood, brushing the grass from your pants. “Thank you for the meal, Loki. And for… listening. I’m going to get some sleep.”

“Good night, Agent.”

“Night.”

The scene was vague, as though watched through a dense fog. Your skin was hot with desire. There were hands… mouth… And him. Nothing more or less than shadows and touch, but you knew he was there. Loki, his name appeared on your lips. Loki. And then, crystal clear, a vision of his perfect, pale ass sinking beneath the surface of the water…

“Ngguuuh,” you groaned, waking just as you were about to cross the precipice into an inevitable wet dream. You quickly slipped a hand into your underwear, chasing release. A few circles of your swollen clit were enough to push you over the edge; with a muffled cry, you came hard into your hand.

You lay back, breathing as heavily as if you’d just run to the summit. A twinge of shame rattled you. Loki. You should’ve nipped those lusty thoughts of him in the bud. The imaginary Cosmo headline flashed through your mind: ‘So you had a sex dream about a teammate?’

The thought made you chuckle out loud, then quickly clamp your free hand over your mouth. Oh God, I hope he didn’t hear… Anything. You listened carefully for a few moments, but Loki didn’t stir; relieved, you rolled over to let sleep reclaim you.

But it didn’t. Squirming a little, you noticed the ache still tugging at your sex. Am I still up for it? That was surprising. Usually in the case of such a dream, one quick orgasm was enough to put you straight back to sleep. Sometimes you didn’t even wake up for them.

You slid your hand back down into your underwear, legs falling open as though in invitation to yourself. You moved more slowly this time. Your fingers traced the sensitive skin at the crease of your thigh, drawing random patterns that tickled and warmed and excited. They crept inward, fingertips running over the moistened lips, collecting slippery arousal and carrying it up to ghost over your clit once more. Again, repeating the circling pattern: thigh, dip, slick, clit. Each time a little deeper, a little firmer, a little more.

The warm night carried the scent of your arousal to your nostrils, and you brought your free hand up under your shirt to palm your breast. Your nipple hardened at the faintest graze; you spread your fingers, catching the stiff, peaked skin between them. You gasped softly at the instant pleasure, electricity zipping from this newly activated erogenous zone straight to your parted thighs. Your two hands worked in symphony, strumming your nipple and clit in perfect time, and your hips circled and bucked of their own accord.

The dull ache became an urgent summons, and you moved your hand from your breast to sink your fingers into your own needy cunt. So wet, you thought hotly, the realisation spurring you on. You spread and curled your fingers; felt them fill you, seeking that soft, precious place of pleasure within. You began to pump them, slowly at first, then faster, in perfect, filthy rhythm. Your dominant hand still rubbed at your clit; still dipped inside you again and again to bring up hot, liquid pleasure, allowing your fingers to glide and slip, faster and harder, over that swollen little bud. You were slick and sticky with your own generous arousal.

“Ngguuuuuuuaah,” you moaned aloud. So close. Your eyes were closed, mouth open and panting as your hips jerked up into your hand. You were beyond caring if Loki heard you, if anyone heard you. “Just a little… more…”

And as though the thought of his name had summoned him, Loki’s long, lean body appeared in your imagination once again. Loki wading out into the pool, his dark hair fanned out across the water. Loki’s pretty, pale face in your hands, your legs around him under the surface, the invitation clear in his mischievous, twinkling eyes. Loki, beneath you, sinking into you as you sat astride him, riding his infamous cock, which twitched as he unloaded into you –

“Fff-uh… oh, ffuhhck-k,” you gasped at last, your body seizing up and trembling as you pushed yourself into a strong, extended climax. Ten, twenty, thirty seconds, wave after powerful wave pulsed through you, abs and teeth and toes clenched in pleasure. Until finally, spent, your hands fell heavily away, flopping boneless to the ground, and you could shakily draw breath again.

And in that moment of post-orgasm clarity, you remembered. The crash of breaking glass. Spattered aerosols of ugly, pink fluid. A rush of stale air as the mask slipped from your mouth. Is that what’s happening to me?

The sheen of sweat was still fresh on your skin when you felt the soft pulse of desire again - and you knew for certain what was going on.

Fuck, you thought. Fuck. I have to tell Banner his antifungals don’t work.

You were floating on your back in the plunge pool, your naked skin lit by a sliver of late-risen moon and soothed by the cool water. You concentrated hard on each breath: inhale, 2, 3, 4… exhale, 2, 3, 4...

Your body felt as though it were humming; an ebb and flow of desire that sang in your blood. You’d lost count of the number of times you’d rubbed and fingered yourself to orgasm; each climax brought temporary relief, but every time the thrumming need returned, stronger than before. Maybe if you could put it off as long as possible… But you knew there was no resisting it forever.

You heard the splash Loki made as he waded in to you, but you didn’t raise your head. It was only once he reached you that you opened your eyes to see his beautiful face, etched with concern. The water reached his waist; the milky skin of his bare, muscular torso glowed faintly in the moonlight.

You concentrated harder on breathing.

“Agent? What’s wrong?”

Inhale. “I think I’ve… been infected.”

Loki was calm. “Have you alerted the others?”

“Yes.” Exhale. “I called and called until I woke them. I had to tell them that the antifungals don’t work. They – they found a sample. They’ve got an idea for a treatment.” You steeled yourself for what you had to say next; it was made all the harder by the proximity of his long, lean body.  “Loki, you should go. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me, but I don’t think you’re safe here… with me.”

He chuckled shortly. “I believe I can fend you off, mortal.”

“I’m serious, Loki. It’s taking all my concentration now to not grab you and… and…” Even in your current state of arousal, you had to pull that thought back. You tried again. “We don’t know how it spreads. What if I infect you?”

“Our good Doctor believes I am immune.”

“Yeah, but he thought those pills would work.”

“Agent, I am not leaving you,” he said with finality. “You heard the outcome for the people of the village; lives lost through malnourishment. Not to mention your obvious inability in this state to defend yourself from enemy attack.” He softened. “If I must force you to drink in order to remain hydrated, I will; but I will not leave you alone here.”

You took another deep, shaky breath. “I… OK. Thank you, Loki. I’ll – I’ll try to keep it together.” I hope, you added silently.

 “Are you in pain?”

“No… it doesn’t hurt.” The thrumming in your sex rose another notch, screaming for attention; each sentence was more difficult than the last. “Just this… urge. Like this deep hunger, or - something. And then I – come – and there’s relief for a bit, but… Then it starts building again… And it’s so… strong… Nngaah.” You gave in to it, hands moving of their own accord, the need to touch yourself overpowering. But the movement disrupted your star-float, and you found yourself thrashing wildly in the water instead.

“Shhh, it’s OK. I’ve got you.” Loki’s hands were on your bare skin, pulling you towards him in the dark water, stilling you against his broad chest. He was wet and slippery, but firm; your fingers pressed into his shoulders hard in desperation. You were almost sobbing with need.

You felt his knee pry your legs apart below the water. With his hands on your waist, he skilfully manoeuvred you, setting you down on his thigh. You felt the wet satin of his boxers against your naked skin, the thin fabric doing nothing to disguise the solid ridge of femur that now slotted between your legs.

“Is that better?”

You couldn’t make words. Stop it! you screamed silently at yourself. He’s the fucking Prince of Asgard! But the temptation was too great; you could only gasp with relief as the hard muscle met your bare pussy, involuntarily squeezing his thigh between yours. His strong hands held your hips steady, keeping you frozen in place, until you whimpered pathetically.

“Loki… I’m sorry…”

He softened his grip, his shoulders flexing gently, guiding you as you rolled your hips to move against him. The friction, the pressure; it was better in that moment than any touch you could have given yourself. You ground down against him, greedily rubbing your clit across the length of his endless thigh. More, please more. Even in the water of the pool, you could feel the slick arousal that you were trailing over him.

The world around you faded. Your eyes were closed now, the better to concentrate on the bliss of his hard quadriceps muscle against your desperate cunt. Faster. Harder. You moaned aloud when his hand, no longer needed at your hip, moved to roughly palm your breast. You arched your back, pressing into his hand as he caught your air-hardened nipple between the soft pads of his fingers. He pinched and tweaked, sending little bolts of pleasure to your sex, where he continued to meet each of your rolling thrusts against his rock-hard thigh.

You could feel your next climax building like a rising tide; slow, steady, relentless. You whimpered again.

“Please… More…”

And with a surge of arousal, you felt his lips close around your nipple. You opened your eyes to watch as his tongue generously swirled and strummed. His own eyes were closed, his dark eyelashes fanned against his pale skin, his cheeks hollowed as he sucked hard, drawing you further into his mouth, as though he would never have enough. It was utterly beautiful.

The thrum in your sex rose to a deafening crescendo. Wild, messy, you ground down hard against the mass of his thigh; he pressed back against you, thick and taut and powerful, his pretty mouth still coaxing sparks of pleasure from your nipple. You threw back your head as you came, crying out into the night.

Then you collapsed into his arms.

Part 5

Tags in comments xx

[occamstfs]

Should've Worn Green

Happy St. Patrick's Day! Figured I couldn't miss the best Irish Tf day of the year eh? Best! -Occam

Charles didn’t account for the drunks storming the streets today when he was getting ready this morning. Why should he have to step out of his way to avoid getting beer spilled on him. Nevertheless perhaps the accountant should have checked the calendar before wandering into the streets without wearing a hint of green.

Such a blunder would not long go unpunished however. Compact as he is, he nimbly ducks out of the way of glasses clinking in brutish hands raised high. He scoffs at their total disregard for sanitation as they spill beer all over each other in the cheers. Barely avoiding getting drenched himself Charles bumps into a figure who drunkenly laughs before reaching out towards him.

“Aye! Shoulda worn green lad! ‘S St. Paddys!” He shouts as he pinches the already frustrated clerk who yelps and slaps at the hand. Not even pausing to dignify the man with a verbal response, he pushes forward to not be late for work.

He stumbles onward, reaching the edge of the crowd and finally takes a break. In the scarcely fresher air, his stomach lurches and he leans onto a building to avoid falling over. His shoulder itches as he almost feels what can only be described as vertigo? He looks over the crowd angrily, sure that they are to blame for whatever this episode is, contemplating going back toward whoever assaulted him but every face in the crowd is impossibly similar. Jesus, he’s never seen so many redheads in one place?

Wondering if he’s somehow woken up in Ireland proper he feels a breeze on his midriff. Not only has his shirt been untucked but the skin exposed suggests it never could have been tucked in the first place. It’s as if he’s grown half a foot. Charles starts hyperventilating, trying to convince himself his shirt must have shrunk in the wash, though surely he would have seen his exposed belly button when he put it on no? 

He again looks towards the crowd seeking anything to blame for his state. This makes it evident that he has grown indeed, now  able to directly make eye contact with men in the crowd. There is a draft on his ankles as his increasing height only becomes more difficult to deny. Charles clenches his jaw as his eyes find the man who simply must be the culprit.

In the middle of the mass of Paddy’s day parishioners, he sees a man staring directly at him, a smirk edging out from under his thick beard. He raises a large glass of Guinness in cheers and Charles can’t help but stare at the man in turn, his anger quickly being replaced by confusion. He winks, the glass still raised, as Charles stumbles backwards trying to avert his eyes. They forcibly return to this man each time taking in a new facet of his impossibly masculine body. The jungle of hair in his pits draws him in as if there’s a fire in his still-raised arm. His powerful chest is covered in a similar forest of beyond dense red hair.

Charles, unbeknownst to himself, continues to hungrily stare at the statuesque man as the pitch-black coif on his own head begins to bleach as a red tint starts to force its way up from his roots. He scratches at his face wondering how he forgot to shave before work. Oh, work? He needs to get to work right? His eyes retreat from the specimen to check his watch. He raises his arm to check his watch creating a tear in his suit as his bicep involuntarily flexes. His face reddens just as his hair continues to do, his anger towards the crowd returns as they have clearly forced him to not only be late to work, but to arrive wearing less than his prestigious work demands of him.

Before enacting whatever meager retribution his increasingly muddy mind decides he looks up to see the mysterious man approaching him through the crowd. His body involuntary clenches in fear, each instinctual flex creating new tears in his workday attire. His chest bursts into existence shooting his shirt’s buttons far into the dancing crowd. Tears appear down the length of his dress pants revealing tight briefs barely hanging together underneath. He rips off the rest of his suit jacket lest it impede him as he prepares to bolt from the rapidly approaching giant, though with each surge of growth coursing through Charles the man seems less menacing and massive, and more familiar.

He again scratches at his shoulder as he begins to notice that someone in the crowd desperately needs a shower. At least he thinks it's the crowd, he looks towards his own pits questioning his cleanliness and sees pits with thin dark hairs. But that can’t be right? Surely they should be red like all his other hair. He flexes his pecs and watches the ginger hair on his torso dance in the morning sun. Laughing before he returns his attention to his pits that are rapidly agreeing with his assessment and growing thick and red, they also make it clear that the sudden stink in the air could be no one but him.

It’s chill though Charles thinks, he’s been partying all morning with the guys, he’s sure they’ll get it. Smirking to himself not even noticing how swiftly he has assimilated to being one of the parishioners that have taken over the block. As he stands there, his red pubes increasingly showing above his crotch as his briefs are weighed down with each growing pulse in his crotch. 

Finally the smirking Irishman who started it all makes his way over shouting,  “Ay Charlie! Yer gunna have to cover up ya! Shame we’re not Scots or I’d toss ye a kilt, Ha! And ‘Ere lad don’t be standing around without a drink in hand.” He tosses a large cup at Charlie who catches it, though losing the head as it splashes all over him, matting his ginger curls to his chest and revealing the most intricate details of his still-growing bulge.

Charlie cheers at the man who must be a friend, or at least a countryman, before quickly starting to down the tankard. As he swallows the swill he swiftly loses whatever smidge of himself that remained in this northern paragon of a body. His chest fills out with a bit of weight as beer trickles down the beard expanding further down his face. As he swallows his voice develops into an impossible to mistake accent. It’s just, didn’t he have something to do today? His brown eyes sparkle as they brighten to a green bright enough to be in the tricolor as he laughs. What could he have to do today more important than celebrating his home country! America is fine and all that but fwoh, could certainly stand to be more like his homeland. Charlie, tired of thinking so much on a day like this, gives into a primal urge of celebration and joins the bacchanal. Charles Morris would not arrive to push whatever buttons and keys he was supposed to at work that day. But Charlie Mulligan was having the greatest time of his life, as he would continue to do evermore.

[moon-lit-petal]

From Chaos to Comfort Pt1

George Weasley x Fem!Hufflepuff!Reader

Summery: George becomes acutely awear that sometimes, people aren't the biggest fans of his and Freds pranks.

Warning: enemies to lovers(?) George fell hard and fast. I tried to do a slow burn but you can tell I gave up lol. Also, Y/N is a little mean to George Ngl

Word count: 2.5k

Notes: I have almost 12k words written already xD But after my 5k Neville fic, I figured I'd take this one a little slower and give myself time to proofread and make adjustments, for now? Chapter One!!also georges face in this Gif omfg

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

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The quiet halls of Hogwarts were where Y/N felt most at ease—especially in the dimly lit corners of the library or the serene grounds at night, where the only sounds were the wind rustling through the trees or the occasional hoot of an owl. As a reserved Hufflepuff, she preferred these moments of tranquility, keeping out of the spotlight and far from the bustling excitement that so often dominated the school.

Unfortunately for her, Fred and George Weasley didn’t share her preference for peace and quiet. In fact, their favorite hobby seemed to be drawing attention to those who tried to hide from it—particularly Y/N.

On this particular evening, Y/N had settled down in the library with a stack of books, hoping to get some quiet reading done before the day ended. The library had a hushed atmosphere, with only the occasional whisper or the soft turning of pages to disturb the stillness.

But that all changed in an instant.

One by one, the books she had carefully chosen began to glow faintly before bursting into song—loud, off-key, and echoing through the entire library. It started with the first book in her stack, a thick volume of Transfiguration spells, which suddenly belted out a shrill tune:

"�� I’m a magical tome, filled with spells and rhymes, cast a charm on me, and I'll sing for all times! ♬"

The next book joined in, followed by another, until her entire pile of books formed a chorus. Y/N could feel the eyes of everyone in the library turning toward her as the cacophony grew louder and louder. Laughter rippled through the students around her, and even Madam Pince, the strict librarian, seemed too flustered to immediately react.

Y/N's face flushed a deep red as she frantically tried to shut the books, but they wouldn't stop singing no matter how many times she slammed them shut. The laughter and whispers grew louder with each failed attempt. Her humiliation only deepened when she spotted the identical grins of Fred and George Weasley from across the library, clearly enjoying their handiwork.

That was the last straw. Furiously shoving the singing books into her bag, Y/N stormed out of the library, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. She could still hear the faint echoes of the enchanted books singing behind her as she hurried through the corridors, ignoring the amused glances and hushed snickers from passing students.

"I swear, I’m never speaking to either of them again," she muttered to herself, her fists clenched in anger. She couldn't even tell Fred and George apart half the time, which only made it worse. It was easier to avoid them both altogether, and that's exactly what she intended to do.

But deep down, a part of her wondered if it would be that simple. After all, it was Fred and George Weasley—masters of mischief. Avoiding them might prove to be an impossible task.

----------

In the days following the library prank, George couldn’t shake the memory of Y/N’s reaction. While Fred had laughed it off, pleased with how the prank had turned out, George had noticed something different—something that stuck with him more than he expected. He had seen the hurt flash across Y/N’s face, the way her cheeks flushed, not just with anger, but with humiliation.

At first, he tried to brush it off. Pranks were what he and Fred did. They brought laughter, lightened the mood, and sometimes, yes, embarrassed a few people in the process. It was all in good fun, wasn’t it? But George couldn't quite convince himself this time. For some reason, the image of Y/N storming out of the library, her fists clenched in frustration, kept playing in his mind.

Fred, on the other hand, barely gave it another thought, moving on to plotting their next grand joke. George, though, found himself paying more attention to Y/N in the days that followed. It wasn’t something he did consciously at first. He’d catch a glimpse of her in the corridors, her head down, her pace quick, always avoiding eye contact with others. In the Great Hall, she often sat at the very edge of the Hufflepuff table, picking at her food while quietly observing the lively chatter around her, as if she were a part of the scene but always apart from it.

The more George noticed her, the more his curiosity grew. Why did she keep to herself so much? Why did she seem to go out of her way to avoid people—even more so after their prank in the library? And why, of all things, did her quietness intrigue him?

During one particular afternoon in the library, George found himself sitting a few tables away from Y/N. She was engrossed in a thick book, her brows furrowed in concentration. He watched as she absentmindedly twirled a strand of hair around her finger, completely absorbed in whatever she was reading. There was something peaceful about her in those moments—a calmness that contrasted sharply with the chaos of his own life.

Fred, of course, remained blissfully unaware of George's growing fascination. He saw Y/N as just another target for their pranks, and to him, the twins’ antics were a way of livening up the mundane routines of school life. But George found himself torn. The more he observed Y/N, the more he realized that there was something about her that went beyond the surface—something he admired. She didn’t seek attention, didn’t thrive in the spotlight like so many others did. She seemed content in her own little world, even if that world often seemed lonely.

But Y/N, still furious about the library prank, had no interest in any of the Weasleys—least of all George, who she still couldn’t distinguish from Fred. As far as she was concerned, the twins were a package deal of trouble and mischief, and the less time she spent around them, the better. Whenever she caught sight of George, she would quickly turn the other way or disappear down a different corridor, determined to avoid them both at all costs.

George, however, wasn’t ready to give up just yet. The more Y/N distanced herself from him, the more he found himself wanting to understand her, to know what lay beneath that quiet exterior. Maybe it was guilt, maybe it was curiosity, or maybe—just maybe—it was something more.

----------

The days at Hogwarts had grown increasingly tense for Y/N. No matter how hard she tried, it seemed impossible to escape the pranks that followed her like a shadow—pranks she was certain came from both Weasley twins. Whether it was her quill turning into a puff of glitter mid-essay or her robes suddenly sprouting a cascade of flowers, Y/N felt like a constant target. Every laugh that echoed in the hallways after a prank only deepened her frustration.

And George, always nearby—watching her, noticing her—was no exception in her mind. She never saw him without assuming he was plotting alongside Fred. Every time he appeared, she would tense up, bracing for whatever prank they’d cooked up next. To Y/N, they were the same—partners in crime who found amusement in humiliating others, especially her.

Unbeknownst to Y/N, George had slowly started pulling away from the pranks, his growing guilt making it harder to join in on Fred’s antics. He had tried to distance himself, letting Fred take the lead while he hung back, watching Y/N more than participating in the mischief. But to Y/N, it didn’t matter. She saw him as guilty by association, and every time she spotted him, her resentment flared.

The tension between them simmered under the surface, waiting to boil over. That moment came one afternoon when Y/N, in a hurry to get to her next class, rounded a corner and collided with someone—George.

The impact was sudden, and Y/N’s heart leapt into her throat. Her body tensed, and she flinched instinctively, taking a step back as if expecting an explosion of fireworks or an instant prank to follow. Her breath caught in her chest as she braced for whatever humiliation would come next.

But nothing happened.

George, equally surprised by the sudden collision, raised his hands in apology. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see—”

Before he could finish, he saw it—the way Y/N had recoiled at his touch, the way her eyes flickered with distrust, her whole body stiffening as if she were preparing for yet another prank. His stomach dropped at the realization.

“Y/N, I—” George began, but the words faltered. He could see the wariness in her expression, the way she avoided his gaze, the way her shoulders remained rigid, ready for disappointment. His chest tightened with a pang of guilt. She saw him as no different from Fred, no different from the pranks that had made her the center of unwanted attention.

Y/N didn’t give him a chance to explain. Without a word, she brushed past him, her shoulder grazing his as she hurried away, her head down.

George stood there for a moment, frozen in place, watching her retreating figure disappear down the corridor. Her reaction stung more than he’d expected. He hadn’t meant to scare her, hadn’t meant to make her feel like this. But how could he undo all the pranks that had come before, all the times she had flinched at the mere sight of him?

Fred’s voice echoed in his mind—“Come on, George, it’s all in good fun!”—but it no longer felt like fun to George. Not when he saw how deeply it had affected her. He clenched his fists, determined to show Y/N that he was different, that he wasn’t what she thought he was.

But for now, the tension between them lingered, thick and unspoken, a rift caused by misunderstandings and misidentification—one that George desperately wanted to bridge, even if Y/N wasn’t ready to see the difference yet.

----------

It was another dreary Monday morning in Potions, and the last thing Y/N wanted was to be paired with any of the Weasley twins. But, as fate would have it, Professor Snape announced the pairings, and her heart sank when she heard George’s name called alongside hers.

Y/N shot a glance at George, her lips pressed into a thin line. He walked over to her, offering a tentative smile. "Guess we're partners, huh?"

Y/N barely looked at him, focusing on gathering the ingredients from the shelf. "Looks that way."

George rubbed the back of his neck, sensing her reluctance. "Listen, I know you probably think I’m going to mess this up somehow, but I promise I’ll be serious about this. No pranks."

She finally turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be reassuring?”

George chuckled, trying to ease the tension. “Well, considering my track record, yes. I really do want to help.”

Y/N sighed and handed him a few ingredients. “Just don’t blow anything up, and we’ll be fine.”

As they started brewing, the conversation remained minimal, but George kept trying to break the silence.

“You know,” he said, stirring the cauldron, “I’m actually pretty good at Potions. Don’t tell Fred, though. He’ll never let me live it down.”

Y/N gave him a sidelong glance, clearly skeptical. “Right.”

“Seriously,” George said, trying to sound casual. “You’d be surprised.”

Y/N couldn’t help the small smirk that tugged at her lips, though she quickly hid it. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

As the potion bubbled away, George continued to sneak glances at her, noticing the small expressions she tried to hide. There was more to her than her quiet demeanor, and it only fueled his curiosity.

“I’m not as bad as you think,” he said after a while, his tone more sincere this time.

Y/N didn’t respond immediately, focusing on measuring the next ingredient. “You still think this is all a game, don’t you? Even now.”

George’s smile faded, and for a moment, he looked unsure. “No,” he said quietly. “I really don’t.”

Y/N paused at his words, glancing at him again, this time with a hint of surprise. But before she could say anything more, the potion bubbled over, and they both scrambled to fix it, their brief moment of connection slipping away in the chaos.

----------

Later that week, Y/N was sitting in the library, trying to concentrate on her studies. The library was her refuge, a place where she could escape the noise and chaos of the school—and, more importantly, avoid the Weasley twins.

But just as she was getting lost in the words on the page, a familiar voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Mind if I sit here?”

She looked up, annoyed to see George standing there with an uncertain smile. “The library’s big enough,” she replied coolly. “I’m sure you can find another seat.”

George hesitated, but instead of leaving, he sat down across from her. “I wasn’t sure if you’d talk to me after Potions.”

Y/N scowled, clearly frustrated. “Did it ever occur to you that I don’t want to talk to you?”

“I figured as much,” George admitted, leaning back in his chair. “But I also figured it wouldn’t hurt to try.”

She huffed, focusing on her book again, though she wasn’t really reading. George’s presence was too distracting. He wasn’t like Fred. There was something quieter about him, something that made her defenses waver ever so slightly, though she hated admitting it.

After a few moments of silence, George spoke again. “I’m sorry for everything. I know Fred and I have caused a lot of trouble for you, and...well, you’re probably sick of hearing it, but I really didn’t mean to make things so awful.”

Y/N’s eyes flickered up to him, and she could tell from his expression that he was being sincere. But she wasn’t ready to forgive so easily.

“You think an apology will fix everything?” she asked, her voice sharp. “You and Fred don’t get it. You don’t care how it affects people, do you?”

George frowned, sitting up straighter. “That’s not true. I do care. Fred… well, he doesn’t think before he acts, but I see what it does to you. And I don’t like it.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes, skeptical but slightly softened by his words. “Then why haven’t you done anything to stop him?”

George hesitated, looking away for a moment. “I guess I didn’t realize how bad it was for you until recently. But I’m trying now. I’m not like that, I dont mean to be. I want to be better.”

Y/N’s expression softened, if only slightly, as she studied him. She could see the sincerity in his eyes, but she wasn’t ready to let her guard down yet.

“Then prove it,” she said, her voice quieter now. “Stop making excuses and prove you’re different.”

George met her gaze, determination flickering in his eyes. “I will.”

They sat there in silence for a few more moments, the tension between them palpable. Y/N finally returned to her book, and George didn’t push the conversation any further. But something had shifted between them—a tiny crack in the wall Y/N had built around herself, and George had noticed it too.

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

[valiantphantomangel]

Hi since you’re not doing headcanons could you please do a fic of Elijah finding out human!reader is ticklish?

A wonderful Discovery

A/n: i hope y'all love it just as much as I did!

"Darling you have to get up, you know how upset Niklaus gets when we are late for family gatherings" Elijah said softly as he stroked your hair.

"I don't wanna" you grumble which came out muffled due to your face being pressed in the pillow.

Elijah chuckled as he softly traced your spine to hopefully make you get up, what he didn't expect was the soft giggle that came from you and even though it was very silent he heard it perfectly clear with his enhanced hearing.

"What was that hmm" he said with a small smirk as he traced your spine again.

"N-nothing" you stuttered out.

"Nothing? That sounded suspiciously like one of your adorable little giggles" his smirk had now grown to fully as he quickly flipped you over so you were laying on your back and rested his hands threateningly on your sides.

"Are you going to get up?"

You and Elijah's relationship consisted of many playful moments like this but this was the very first time that he had figured out that you were ticklish and...frankly you didn't mind it.

"Make me" you said with a defiant glint in your eyes.

"Oh I'll enjoy this" he said darkly before one hand started tasering your side while the other scribbled over your tummy.

"GHAHAHHAHA" You burst out laughing immediately, Elijah wasn't one that took playful challenges slow and this was no exception.

"Your laughing already, what could possibly be so funny?" He asked with a grin as he pulled you on his lap so your back was flush against his chest and continued his torment on your ribs and sides before suddenly switching to your hip bones.

You squirmed around on his lap as you threw your head back "YOUAHHAHA JERKHIHIHIHI"!!

"Now that's not very nice" Elijah said with a fake gasp as his stubbled chin went into your neck and blew a raspberry in the crook of your neck.

"ALRIGHTAHHAHA YOUHIHIHI WINHAHAHAH" you screamed out in laughter.

Elijah laughed deeply as he stopped his assault and just wrapped his arms around your waist, letting you sink into him.

You slowly gained your breath but still had red cheeks and a giant ticklish smile on your face.

"Your evil" you said trying to be serious but your smile betraying you.

"And you are gorgeous" he smiled and kissed you on the cheek before releasing you "Go get ready and maybe we'll make it there on time".

"Loveable asshole" you mutter with a grin as you stood up and walked over to your closet.

"I heard that" he mused as he simply wiggled his fingers at you but the threat was clear.

You squeak which draws a deep chuckle from him before quickly disappearing into your walk in closet.

God you really loved your boyfriend.

[eddiesghxst]

a very big thank you to my bby @mmunson86 bc she listens and entertains all of my random ass bursts of inspo and helped me decipher the plot to these two babies (and many many others hehe), ilysm stinky 🤍

————

18+ — MINORS DNI

pairing: older!NASCAR driver!eddie munson x pop singer!reader

summary: Eddie's a famous former NASCAR driver who now does paint jobs for celebrities, and you just so happen to need a paint job

contains: oral (f receiving), banter, flirting, and eddie being head over heels for reader <3

word count: 2k

| nascar!eddie x pop singer!reader masterlist | -main masterlist- |

Thursday is Eddie’s favorite day.

One more day til the weekend, things are slow at the shop, and Bug, the detailer, usually pays for lunch. So, Eddie’s usually pretty fucking happy on Thursday— usually. However, it’s hard to be happy when you wake up to a music video of a famous pop singer crashing the car you’d just spent weeks working on.

Now, Eddie’s all for creativity and expressing art in different forms of destruction, but it’s hard to see the art in smashing a brand new McLaren, freshly painted and detailed by none other than Eddie Munson himself. Sure, you paid for it, so it’s basically a waste of your money, but it’s also a waste of Eddie’s time and work.

“Turn this song off, Bug,” Eddie grumbles from under his mask, focused on spraying fine lines of paint onto the car in front of him. It’s your song.  The song that you’d smashed Eddie’s car into smithereens for. That being said, even if Eddie is utterly and incredibly displeased with how you’d decided to treat Eddie’s hard work, his heart skips a beat when he hears the familiar tone of your voice, “You don’t like my music, Munson?”

Eddie pauses his task, blinking a few times to clear the possibility of the paint fumes finally getting to his head and making him hallucinate. And if Eddie’s hallucinating, then his brain is quite vivid because the click of your heels is drawing closer and closer with the smell of your sweet perfume.

Eddie puts the spray gun back on the cart next to him and stands up, facing you as you approach him. Eddie sighs, tipping his head to the side as he removes his gloves. This isn’t the first time he’s met you; no, he met you when he dropped the car off at your film set. You were kind and soft-spoken, with a pretty smile and voice that made Eddie’s chest erupt in butterflies he hadn’t felt in years. You were gorgeous then, and you’re gorgeous now, standing in front of him with that sinister little glint in your eyes.

You’re a pretty young thing, that much is obvious, but it doesn’t negate the fact that you crashed Eddie’s car.

“How can I help you, doll?”

You smile, tipping your head as you watch Eddie remove the mask from his face, tossing it onto the tool cart along with the disposable gloves. “Need a paint job for my new car. Wanted the best in town.” You sweetly say.

Eddie huffs out a laugh, “A paint job?”

You blink up at Eddie, pretty eyes and cute lashes batting up at him. God, you’re perfect. It's no wonder why the entire world is head over heels in love with you.

“You crashed my car, honey.” Eddie points out.

Your hopeful gaze falters then, lips dipping into a ghost of a frown, “It wasn’t my idea.” You respond. “You crashed my car. For a music video,” he drawls, “Do you know how much time I spent on that car?”

Bug seems to take that as his cue to leave because suddenly he’s tossing his tool in his toolbox and calling over his shoulder, “Goin’ to lunch, boss.” And there goes Eddie’s free lunch.

A flash of guilt passes through your eyes before you huff with a roll of your eyes, shifting to lean on one foot as you cross your arms over your chest, “It wasn’t your car.” 

“It’s got my work written all over it.”

“Again, it wasn’t my idea.”

Eddie tilts his head, lips pouting as he shrugs mockingly, in a way. “But you went with it.”

Eddie had been slowly walking you backward across the empty garage, pressing and pressing until you reached his parked car, your body coming to a sudden stop with a hitch in your breath. You huff out a laugh, rolling your eyes for the second time, “Well, I was filming a music video. I just do what they tell me to and look pretty— it’s kind of my job, Eddie.”

“Yeah?” Eddie’s eyes fall to your lips for a split second.

You lick your lips, cocking your head to the side as you gaze up at him, “Obviously.”

Eddie’s lips twitch like he wants to smile, a smirk lingering in his tone as he mocks you, “Obviously.”

“You really don’t like my music?”

You feel like you’re losing your mind. Not only are you standing in the famous Munson’s Paint & Body garage, but you’re standing face to face with the Eddie Munson— famous former NASCAR driver and hot as fuck body man.

It’s like all those Sundays you spent back in high school watching him race as your dad bet money with his friends on who would win are flashing before your eyes. Okay, so you’re fangirling a little bit; who wouldn’t? It’s Eddie fucking Munson.

“Never said I didn’t like your music; I just don’t like the fact that you crashed my car.”

And well, you feel bad. You didn’t know the car would get hurled off a cliff in the middle of the California desert, but it was a little late to protest against that when it was flying through the wind at 90 miles per hour with literal flames decorating the wheels.

“I’m sorry,” you finally apologize. “I shouldn’t have let them destroy your car… which was technically my car for my music video.” You and Eddie share a playful gaze, but it’s soon overthrown with something lustful when Eddie reaches out, fingers toying with the waistband of your denim skirt. “You’re playing with fire, princess.” He lowly says.

You hum, tipping your head as he towers over you, bodies pressing against one another as you dance along the edge of the thick line of tension, “Wanna do something about it?” A sly smirk and glinting brown eyes have you weak in the knees, your body heating up like a fucking furnace as the man silently gazes at you. 

It’s like the spread of wildfire when he presses his lips against yours, a warm hand coming up to cup your cheek as he presses you against the hood of his car. Your skirt is short, and it rides up when he maneuvers you further up the hood. You let out a shaky breath against his lips when the cool metal of the car meets the hot skin of your thighs.

You’d be lying if you hadn’t somewhat come here with the intention of getting your hands on the handsome older man— there’s no denying there was some kind of energy bouncing between the two of you when you briefly met him on the set of your music video. Eddie’s got a way of looking at you with daring yet respectful eyes that make you want to pounce— he had it then when you first met, and he has it now.

He’s pawing at you like he’s addicted, big hands grasping at your sides as he practically devours you. It’s sloppy and wet and so fucking addicting you wish you didn’t have to breathe so you could just keep kissing him.

He’s slinking his hands down to your thighs, hooking them into the crooks of your knees and pressing them up, spreading you wide for him as he kisses down your neck. He reaches one hand up, tugging down at your shirt to give him room to mark the swell of your breasts. Your breath hitches when your bare nipple meets the cool air, and he laves his tongue over it, “W-what about— fuck.” You whimper as Eddie hums, kissing further down your body and fully pushing up your denim skirt to mouth at your thighs. You press your thighs closer together, pressing up onto your elbows to gaze down at Eddie as he kneels between your legs.

“What about your employees?” You ask.

Eddie mouths at your thigh, kneading at the fat of your skin as he speaks, “Just me and Bug today. Open up, baby.” His brown eyes are like swirling hypnotic pools, and your body moves in accord with his directions, thighs parting to show him the damp material of your flimsy panties.

Eddie groans, leaning forward to drag his tongue up the damp spot before gently nipping at the material. He’s impatient, so he only hooks his thumb in the hem of the cotton and hooks it off to the side, keeping it pinned beneath his thumb so he has full access to your dripping cunt. He doesn’t waste time, laving his tongue from your opening up to your clit, teasingly running the tip of his tongue in circles over your sensitive bud just to hum at the pitiful whimpers and whines that escape your mouth. 

Your eyes roll when he closes his mouth around your clit, sucking and licking and teasing until you’re fully moaning, reaching down to thread your fingers into his curly locks, knuckles curling at the root to gently tug him deeper into your cunt.

“Yeah, yeah,” He breathes, “Fuck my face, princess, there we go.” It’s so wet, his voice, so wet and eager and mind-numbingly gorgeous.

He teases two thick fingers at your entrance before sinking them into you and curling them in a come hither motion. Your legs twitch to close around his head, “Oh, fuck. Fuck, Eddie, I’m so close.”

You’re teetering on the edge, heat brewing in your lower tummy as Eddie devours you like it’ll be his last fucking meal. The lights overhead are bright, and there’s heavy metal playing from the shop speakers. Still, all you can bring yourself to focus on is the sinful drag of Eddie’s tongue up and down the entirety of your cunt, sticky strings of arousal and spit smearing all over your thighs and his face, and your moans increase in volume when he slinks a hand up to squeeze at your chest.

His fingers are gentle yet overwhelming as they pet at your sensitive spot, and before you know it, you’re body is tensing, and you’re coming around his thick digits, soaking his chin as you fail to keep your thighs open and sounds to a minimum.

Eddie doesn’t mind, though, it seems, because he only moans and nuzzles his face deeper into your pussy, greedily licking into you like it’s his last chance— and hopefully it’s not.

You must have spaced out because, between the immense pleasure and the sinfully beautiful sight of Eddie between your thighs, you seem to only come back to earth once Eddie places your panties back over your pussy, pressing a gentle kiss to your covered and aching clit.

He snickers when you twitch in overstimulation, “You’re real cute when you cum, you know?” He says before pressing a kiss into your thigh. You huff out a laugh, leaning on your elbows to watch as he stands up to hover over you, pressing his palms into the hood of the car on either side of your blissed-out body. “Thank you?” You say. Eddie laughs, eyes twinkling with admiration as he gazes down at you.

“I’ll cut you a deal, alright?” He starts. Though your mind is still foggy with the lingering effects of your orgasm, your eyes narrow in suspicion as you tell Eddie to continue. Eddie sighs, leaning in further, “You let me take you on a date, and I’ll paint your car— I’ll also forget all about you crashing my car.”

Even if you want to point out that the car wasn’t Eddie’s, yet again, you can’t help the giggle that slips from your lips as you give in and nod, “Okay. One date.”

Eddie beams, raising an eyebrow as he responds, “Yeah?” You want to lean in and kiss him, but you think the heat of the moment from before had been fuel to the boldness that you’re now lacking.

You nod before holding up your index finger, “One,” you stress, “No promises for a second. I don’t have another car for you to paint.” You joke, but Eddie only shrugs with a smug look.

“Sweetheart, I’ve got enough cars for you to last a lifetime of dates.”

[aronkiepronkie]

you mumble incoherent curses and erase aggressively on your paper, blowing the eraser shavings, catching tsukishimas attention. "what're you doing?" he asks with a small amount of judgement in his tone as he looks down at the slightly crumbled paper in your notebook. "i'm trying to..ugh." you sigh, lowering your face to the notebook in front of you, light gray strokes connecting with one another. "trying to what?" the blonde boy looks down at you. "talk normally dumbass, i can't hear you." he spits out, you pay no mind to him and move your hair to the side, grumbling angrily about it being in the way. tsukishima hears your frustrated mumbles and takes the matter into his hands before you explode and become pissy for the rest of the day. he grabs the hair tie you gave him off his wrist, gently gathering all of your hair and slowly putting it into a ponytail. "you're welcome." he speaks up after a few seconds of silence. "thanks, kei." you respond quietly, entranced in your drawing, his cheeks dust with pink when his name leaves your mouth, still not used to you calling him by his first name. tsukishima looks down at your paper, analyzing the drawing you're stressing about. he slowly starts familiarizing the doodles and sketches of a person, piecing together the glasses and hair. "is that me?" he asks, his brows furrowed at the scarily accurate drawings of him. "wha- no! that would be so weird and creepy of me to draw you..." you yell out in surprise, trying to defend yourself, jumping from your previous position, snuggled against his pillows, under the blanket that he bought specifically for you. tsukishima chuckles through his nose and smirks. "you're more than weird and creepy yn." he sighs and closes his eyes. "maybe that's why i like you." he mutters, mainly to himself but loud enough for you to hear. your face bursts into a bright red and you grab one of his pillows, throwing it harshly at his face. he catches the fuzzy decorative pillow with ease, laughing at you and patting the spot on his bed next to him, inviting you to sit with him. "don't start getting all cute at me after calling me weird and creepy, you're gonna give me whiplash." you tell him while hopping next to him and he hums in faux confusion. "i'm not getting cute, just saying i kind of like you." he says confidently with a faint smile still on his thin lips while he unlocks his phone, scrolling aimlessly through the many playlists he's made, not sparing you a glance. "oh wow, should i be flattered that the all-knowing, stoic, cold and stingy tsukishima kei kind of likes me?" you joke reaching for your pencil to resume sketching. he pauses his scrolling after clicking on the playlist you two listen to the most together, reaching for his earphones that he, again, specifically got for you so you guys can listen to music together. he glances at your page and he stays quiet, taking your joke into consideration. "mmm, flattered isn't the word. don't take advantage of the situation." he states quietly, leaning into you and sticking left earphone in your ear. your hands halt and you gasp dramatically. "i love this song!" you yell joyfully. "i know you do." tsukishima says to himself, and this time, you can't hear what he says. he wraps his arm around your shoulder, his hand resting on the pillows next to you as he watches the pencil in your hand work its magic, finishing the 'doodle' of him smiling, you would call it, tsukishima would simply call it a masterpiece just because he knows no matter how hard he would try, he'd never get on your level when it comes to drawing. his broad chest rises and falls with each slow breath he takes as he admires your skill. "stop drawing me, weirdo." he says, sarcasm dripping in his tone. you look up at him with sparkling eyes and a candy sweet smile that never fails to make his steady heartbeat falter. "you love it." "i guess i do." is the last thing he says before cupping your warm cheek with his cold, big hands and pressing his lips onto yours, kissing you slowly.

[bradshawsbaby]

Senses

Pairing: Bob Floyd x Wife!Reader

Summary: Being loved by Robert Floyd is a feast for the senses.

Word Count: 2.7k

Author's Note: This is my attempt to capture in words the vibes that I have not been able to get out of my head for days. The writing style is a little different than my usual work, but I thought it was fun trying something new!

Warnings: 18+ ONLY. Strong sexual content, allusions to oral sex (female and male), unprotected sex between a married couple, romance, fluff.

One thing you’ve come to learn in your years of knowing and being known by Robert Floyd—more intimately than you have been known by anyone else in all your life, you might add—is that to be loved by him is a feast for the senses.

Touch.

Calloused fingertips dancing across the bare expanse of your back, so slowly that they seem to make time stand still, if only for a moment. The roughened pads of his thick fingers twirling over each and every freckle, birthmark, scar. Goosebumps rise in the wake of his warm skin ghosting over yours, trailing down your spine and tracing the curves of your shoulder blades.

The knuckles gliding down your arm wordlessly seek to know, Are you awake?

Yes, you silently reply, your own fingers reaching back to tangle with his, the coolness of his wedding band a shock to your flushed skin. His hand, so much larger than your own, closes around yours for a moment and squeezes softly, tenderly, lovingly.

Then his fingers are gone, replaced by the featherlight touch of his lips against the curve of your neck, his button nose nudging your hair out of the way as he peppers your skin with barely-there kisses that leave your body aching for more. His lips are soft, breathtakingly so, in a way that makes you want to both laugh and weep as his mouth trails from the crook of your shoulder up to that delicate spot just beneath your ear and then down again across the nape of your neck. You’re reminded of the peppermint chapstick that he insists on applying all year long, and your heart suddenly feels near to bursting with love for the man whose arm is now snaking tightly around your middle, drawing you back more securely against his strong chest.

Your hand slides down and traces the curve of his, each of his veins like a sentinel standing at attention as he fists your midnight blue nightgown in his grasp, his kisses growing more insistent as he nips at your ear, his tongue soothing the sting left in the wake of his affectionate attack.

His fingers, his lips, his hands, his tongue—they all meld together, the sensation of his touch overwhelming in the very best way as he rolls you onto your back, his weight shifting as he presses himself down upon you, bare skin brushing against the silky softness of your nightgown, teasing the hardened nipples underneath.

Then his mouth is on you again, hot breath fanning across your chest as his head dips lower, lips and tongue working in tandem to caress your pebbled skin through the fabric of the nightgown you’d purchased just for him on his last birthday—the one he always handled with such care as he tore it off you.

You adore the feel of the hard muscles and planes of his back as your hands explore his body, your delicate fingertips tracing his freckles and birthmarks and scars. You can feel the strength of him in every tiny movement, the quiet power and agility that so many underestimate, the vigor that turns you to a puddle every time.

His touch is gentle as he continues to move downward, his massive paws gliding dark blue silk upward to lay you bare before him—for a brief moment, you remember the scrap of matching blue lace still lying in the drawer where you’d abandoned it last night, much to your husband’s evident delight.

And then his face is buried between your thighs, teeth tugging at the fragile skin he finds there as those calloused fingertips dig into the meaty flesh of your upper legs, spreading you wide for him to devour. He’s all soft lips and warm tongue and hot breath as he explores every inch of you, that button nose that you so often press kisses to nudging and teasing you in just the right places.

His touch in this moment has you seeing stars, your hips bucking upwards as you feel yourself cresting the waves of pleasure he’s unleashing within you. You bury your fingers in his honeyed locks to steady yourself, your heart beating double time inside your chest as you sense yourself drifting further and further away from the shore, lost in this whirlpool of his creation. But then his fingers are lacing through yours, holding you secure. Anchoring you to him. He’d never let you slip so far away that he could not find you.

His touches don’t cease as you ride the wave of your high, his hands firmly wrapped around your hips and his mouth still on you as your back arches off the bed with a soundless cry, salty tears streaming out your eyes and into your hair, pulse racing, skin hot to the touch.

He’s holding you again, his lips featherlight once more as they travel across your collarbone, his work-roughened hands grasping your legs until the trembling finally subsides.

His touches whisper, I love you, I love you, I love you. I’m here. I’ll never leave you.

Taste.

You can taste yourself on him when he kisses you, a sharp, tangy flavor that you’ve never quite gotten used to. But on his lips, anything can taste like heaven. 

As you tangle your fingers in his mussed locks and kiss him back, you try to pick out all the other flavors on his tongue—the faint hint of spearmint from the toothpaste he’d used to brush his teeth before bed, the barely-there taste of his peppermint chapstick, the slight saltiness from the sweat he worked up between your legs. They all blend together to form a flavor that is so distinctly him. You wish you could bottle it up and keep it with you forever.

His kisses taste sweeter than honey and get you drunker than any cocktail at The Hard Deck ever could. You could happily spend all your days like this—forgoing food and water for the rest of time so long as you could feast upon these lips that you love so much.

The rest of him tastes just as sweet as you mimic his kisses from earlier, your lips trailing across his jaw, working the spot just beneath his ear, then traveling down towards the dip of his shoulder.

Pressing him down into his pillows, you explore every inch of his body with eager lips, never tiring of the taste of his skin, still warm from sleep and flushed from exertion. And when you take him into your mouth, his hips jumping slightly as his hands find purchase in your hair, you swear you grow lightheaded for a moment at the musky, salty taste of him.

An act that you had once dreaded before knowing him now becomes the highlight of your morning as you use your mouth to bring him pleasure, the way he has done for you more times than you could even think to number. And where once upon a time you would have pulled away, now you welcome the explosion of him on your tongue, a mixture of salty and sweet that you couldn’t explain even if you wanted to.

But you don’t want to. Because this? This is just for the two of you, and no one else. You’re the only one who gets to know what he tastes like.

It fills you with a sort of giddy sensation, the flavor of both of you joined together on your lips and tongue. You kiss him again so that he can experience it, too, this blending together of the pleasure you find in one another.

His tongue is gentle in your mouth, moving with yours in a dance that your body knows all too well.

The taste of him tells you, I am yours, and you are mine. Always.

Sight.

He’s beautiful. He’s always been so beautiful.

As he grabs you around the waist and pins you down to the bed once more, hovering above you, you have a chance to admire the way the morning light comes streaming through the gossamer curtains, bathing him in a warm, golden glow.

Cerulean eyes gaze down at you, rivaling even the bluest of seas, and the love glowing in them is enough to send your world tilting on its axis and then turn it right side up again.

It’s taken you so long to truly embrace the way he looks at you, as if you yourself had climbed up into the sky and hung the moon and stars. 

He’s been looking at you that way since the very start, but your instinct has always been to hide, to duck your head or avert your gaze—anything to escape the intensity of such undeserved adoration. But ever so slowly, as he’s worked to put the broken pieces of your heart back together bit by bit, you’ve found that you’re no longer so afraid to look into those stunning baby blues and accept the love that you find there.

And now, as you lay caged between his strong arms, you gaze unabashedly back at him, the unadulterated devotion brimming in his eyes mirrored in your own.

Looking up at him, it dawns on you—not for the first time—that everything about him, from the top of his head all the way down to his toes, is beloved to you. That golden brown curl that falls across his forehead when his hair, usually so immaculately kempt, is tousled from sleep and the sweep of your fingers. The crinkle around his eyes and the roundness of his cheeks as he smiles at you, those soft lips of his curving upward into a grin that could only be described as angelic despite the devilish things he does to you. The way his skin turns a faint shade of pink, as if even after all this time, he’s bashful about the way your body fits against his just so. That button nose that you can’t help but boop whenever you get the chance.

You reach up to trace his face with a gentle hand, slowly brushing one finger down the slope of his nose and outlining the bow of his lips.

If there ever came a day when you were robbed of the ability to stare at his precious face, you wanted to have every inch of it committed to memory.

He feels the same. You can tell from the way he caresses you, fingertips dancing across your skin as he touches your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, your chin. His glasses are still resting on the bedside table where he left them last night, but you know he can still see every bit of you, his gaze as intensely focused as the lasers he locks on mission targets.

His gaze screams into the early morning stillness, You’re my entire world. I don’t know what I’d do without you.

Smell.

His scent fills your lungs, fills every available crevice within you until all you can breathe is him. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

Even after two showers, the smell of jet fuel still clings to his skin, a fixture as permanent as the freckles sprinkled across the back of his neck. It’s a part of who he is, embedded in the blood that flows through his veins. You think of all the times he’s apologized for it, but you like it—even when he’s gone, it lingers on his pillow, a reminder that a part of him will always be with you and that he’ll be back in your arms soon enough.

Jet fuel blends with the woody scent of his body wash, an aroma that you inhale deeply as you bury your face in his neck, your bodies writhing together in a slow, lazy dance as his need for you grows more apparent with each second that passes.

You can actually smell it, the thick scent of desire that hangs over the room like a cloud. Even with the window partially ajar, the early morning breeze lilting through the curtains, it’s a powerful aphrodisiac, making your own need all the more acute.

As his hand trails downward and dips between your legs, you gasp quietly into his mouth, hooking your leg around his as his expert fingers bring you to the brink once again. And yet much too soon, he’s pulling his hand away and smiling at the little noise of protest that you make. He reaches up to grasp your face in his hand and press a kiss to your nose, and you can smell yourself on him. It gives you a little thrill, this thought that you’ve marked him for yourself. He is yours and no one else’s. No one else will ever know this part of him, the part of him that he saves just for you.

And no one else will know you the way that he does. He’s marked you, too, the scent of him heavy on your skin. You hope that it never fades away.

When he stretches his body over yours, fitting himself inside you the way that only he can, your breath and your bodies mingle together as one, and the fragrance of your lovemaking permeates the air.

It says, The rest of the world is gone. It could all fall away right now, forever, and it wouldn’t matter because I have you in my arms.

Sound.

His breathing is heavy in your ear, his panting punctuated by soft grunts and groans of pleasure as his hips roll in tandem with yours, filling you up as he whispers against your skin how beautiful you are, how precious you are to him, how much he loves you.

It’s like a symphony, every noise he makes, every word he whispers music to your ears as your own sighs and whimpers harmonize with his.

No one else could ever make your body sing the way he does.

No one else could ever draw those sounds from him the way you do.

He’s holding you tightly, so tightly, as he loses himself in the sensation of your body, your body that’s gripping him so intensely that he has no choice but to cry out in ecstasy, his moans echoing off the walls of your bedroom and rivaling the yearning coos of the mourning doves outside your window.

You’re crying out, too, his name falling from your lips over and over again in a breathless rush as you cling to him, your arms wrapped securely around his broad shoulders. You know that you’re not going to be able to last much longer.

From the labored sound of his breathing, he isn’t either.

You whisper in his ear that you’re close, that you’re about to fall apart for him.

He captures your lips with his own and whispers back that he’s close, too, that if you can just hold out a few seconds longer, he’ll be right there with you to accompany you into oblivion.

And so you do. You hold out just long enough until he’s practically sobbing your name, and then you tumble over the edge as well, the sound of his name reverberating off the walls until the two of you are lying still in the afterglow, panting and gasping for air.

You can hear his heart beating inside his chest as he collapses on top of you, still inside you as he nuzzles against your cheek, pressing lazy kisses to your jaw.

Running your fingertips up and down his back, you relish the magnificence of this still, slow morning and the beauty of the man you get to share it with.

All of it—touch, taste, sight, smell, sound—is such a glorious reminder of what it is to be seen and known and loved in a way you never would have thought possible before him.

“I love you, Bobby,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his sweaty forehead.

Bob smiles at you, his hands coming to rest on either side of your face as he kisses you tenderly, admiring the way the light skates across your skin. “I love you, too, sunshine.”

[itsrainingpandas]

Ever since @vonspe released the NPC version of her OC Scipio, I have had a brain worm with him and my dummy gremlin Crow!Rook. So I wrote a thing!

Scipio belongs to Vonspe , I just admire her art and her drawings have given me joy in these here trying times. Hopefully I can return the favor in a small way. ❤️

Pick Your Poison

She was silent, creeping up on him, crouched with a dagger in her hand. He had his back to her and was none the wiser to the danger. Closer, closer, and then…with a fierce grin, Rook lunged for him.

She landed with the hilt of her blade at the small of his back, snickering. “Oh, Scipio,” she tsked, “You’ve gotten soft! You really should pay attention. You're dead now!”

A chuckle rumbled through him as he turned to peer over his shoulder, looking thoroughly unsurprised. “Am I?” 

Rook looked down. Scipio had shifted his arm behind his back in the split second before she had lunged, gripping a needle in his gloved hand. It was pressed against her leathers, and were this a serious scenario, it could slide past her armor and fill her with poison before she got a good stab in. 

Upon seeing this, Rook burst out laughing. “Oh, no! I’m dead!” She stepped back and resheathed her mageknife, delighted to be bested at her own game. “Oh, you got me. This is so tragic. You'll have to break the news to my many admirers.”

Scipio smirked, pleased with himself even before he said, “I'll be sure to let them both know.”

Rook made a face and moved as though she were going to punch his kidneys. He simply swayed out of her way, unperturbed, before regarding her with amusement. Her childish petulance melted as she grinned, looking back and forth between his eyes. They were striking in their color difference- one so dark it was almost black, one staggeringly blue. He seemed to give in to the fondness, poking at her playfully. “And what brings our Rook to this level of the Diamond today?” 

Rook leaned back against the counter that served as a place to get both drinks and poisons, and hopefully never the wrong one of the two. “I'm looking for a specific poison. Or– a friend of mine is looking for it. A poison.”

Scipio’s eyebrow arched in interest. “Anything fun?”

“No. It's the opposite of fun. Academic things.” Rook’s nose crinkled in distaste. She was never a good student, so she couldn't imagine how or why someone could keep researching past the required schooling. Scipio chuckled as if he could see her thoughts; he had known her as a fledgling, so he wouldn't be surprised by her disdain.

“And this poison,” he continued, rolling up his sleeves and tightening the ribbon keeping his long, dark hair back, “Viago didn't want to do it?”

“Between you and me, he's better at antidotes. Mixing poisons is more your specialty.” Her eyes narrowed in an attempt to look dangerous that was not enough to offset her small stature and full head of bright red curls. “But if you tell him I said that, I’ll deny it and put one of your snakes in your boot.” 

“I’m beginning to think you just came here to threaten me.” 

“Me? Never,” Rook hoisted herself up to sit on the counter, pretending not to notice Scipio’s vaguely disapproving look. She spread her arms wide. “Come on, I wanted to see you! I missed you! Didn't you miss me, Tío?” 

He watched her a moment, and she noticed how tired he looked. Though, to be fair, Scipio always looked tired. After careful consideration, he shook his head and chuckled. “Oh, I suppose it is fun to hear Viago yelling again.” Rook laughed, the opposite of his laugh, loud and attention-drawing. 

"Now," Scipio began placing dubiously unmarked vials on the counter, “what poison is your friend looking for?”

Rook blinked as though she had never thought to ask. “I dunno.” She leaned back on the counter to the point where she could have easily rolled backwards off of it and landed on her head. She scanned the room, but it wasn't hard to spot the odd one out in the sea of Crows.  Rook gave a grand, sweeping wave over her head. “Emmrich! Over here!”

The professor appeared moments later, appearing harried by his standards and remarkably put together by anyone else’s. “Apologies, Rook,” he said sweetly, politely, “Manfred is quite fascinated by this place, so I was keeping an eye on him. I had to stop him from chasing one of the crows around…” he gestured to the birds roosted in the ceiling, who indeed seemed to be watching with some perturbation. Rook snickered at the mental picture before composing herself enough for introductions.

She held a hand out towards Emmrich in presentation. “Scipio, this is Professor Emmrich Volkarin. Emmrich,” Rook turned enough to loop an arm around Scipio’s neck, “this is my Tío Scipio.”

Emmrich smiled, brushing a hand back to smooth his hair which was hardly out of place. “Apologies, again. It's a pleasure to meet you, ah…” his eyes darted towards Rook, unsure, “I'm sorry, could you repeat…?”

“Scipio,” the man finished, bowing slightly at the waist. “A pleasure, professore.” 

Rook hopped down from the counter. “What, he can't call you ‘Tío’?”

Scipio kept his eyes on Emmrich as he dropped his hand on top of Rook’s head. “You are on babysitting duty today, I see?”

She grumbled and pushed his arm away. Emmrich pressed a crooked finger to his mouth in an attempt to disguise an amused smile that did not help her mood. “I don't need babysitting!” Rook snapped. “You know, I make a lot of the decisions for our group.”

“That is true,” Emmrich offered amicably, his gaze shifting the significant height difference between the two Crows. 

“Hmmm,” Scipio considered the information before asking Rook, “So why do you come back here and act like a fledgling?”

Emmrich let out a sound of surprise before leaning on the counter, eyes bright with excitement. “I have noticed that she tends to regress when we come to Treviso! It's very interesting,” he pressed his thumb to his bottom lip, “I wonder if it's a response to childhood stressors. Perhaps–” 

“Emmrich!” Rook whined, betrayed. She would have stomped her foot if the idea of “regression” hadn't taken hold on her mind. But the professor received the complaint and stopped his analysis, mumbling apologies while at least having the decency to look sheepish. 

Scipio, however, had no such scruples. He tilted his chin down, conspiring.“If you do take notes, I’d be happy to review them. I always appreciate new material.”

Emmrich chuckled warmly, much too charmed for Rook’s taste. She groaned as she pinched the bridge of her nose. “I regret introducing you two,” she pouted. "Immediately regret it.”

They were now ignoring her completely, it seemed, exclusively focused on each other. “So, professore,” Scipio smiled faintly, “what poison are you looking for?”

“Ah, yes,” he startled as though he had forgotten why he had come, “I was hoping for concentrated magebane. You see, I want to test its effect on bone–”

“It won't corrode it, if that's what you're hoping for.”

“No!” Emmrich looked appalled by the very idea. “No, it was a thought I had. You see, if it could mark the deceased, then it might deter any necromancers who wander too far afield. Necromancy is a distinguished art, of course, but some do not wish to worry about their deceased. If those bodies could marked as unusable–” 

Rook sighed noisily. “All right, well, if you don't need me…” 

Emmrich didn't even pause, continuing to excitedly explain his theories to a thoughtfully listening Scipio. That was her answer, she supposed. 

Rook wandered around until she found Manfred, who was still peering up at the roosting crows in fascination. She wrapped an arm around the boney cut of his shoulders with a sigh. “I think I accidentally set your dad up on a date,” she murmured to the skeleton. Manfred let out a cheerful, gurgling hiss, though she suspected he had no idea what she was going on about. Well, nothing to do about it. Might as well take advantage of having lost her “babysitter.”

“All right, Manfred,” Rook clapped her hands together, “I'll teach you about the birds up there. But first: we’re going to work on you saying the word ‘shit.’”

Manfred squealed cheerfully once more. Just a fun little surprise for Emmrich later as revenge for the regression idea that would do nothing but prove his point.  

[wagconts]

Chef Gavi | Pablo Gavi

summary :: Where you and Pablo record a video for YouTube making a chocolate cake.

warnings :: none...!

word count :: 0.790k

Your YouTube channel was growing rapidly, and interacting with your fans was one of your favorite things. Recently, a specific request had been popping up in the comments: “Do a cooking video with Gavi!” or “Gavi in the kitchen, please, we want to see you two together!” You loved the idea, but your excitement really kicked in when your boyfriend himself asked to join one of your videos.

— So, love, when are we making that chocolate cake? — he asked, a mischievous smile on his face as you both sat on the couch.

— Do you really want to join? Because I don’t want anyone complaining if you mess everything up. — you teased.

— Me? Mess up? You’ll see, I’m going to be the star chef of this video! — he replied confidently.

It was a sunny afternoon, and you’d carefully set up the kitchen for the shoot. Gavi walked into the room wearing an apron that read "Chef Gavi" and one of those iconic chef hats. Just looking at him, you couldn’t help but burst out laughing.

— What’s so funny? I’m in character! — he said, striking a dramatic pose.

— Alright, Chef Gavi. Let’s see if your talents go beyond the football field.

You adjusted the camera and began the video introduction:

— Hi, everyone! Today, we have a very special guest, someone many of you might know — You glanced at Gavi, who pretended to be distracted. — He’s amazing on the football field, but can he handle the kitchen? Let’s find out!

You both decided to make a simple chocolate cake, but things didn’t go quite as planned. While you explained the ingredients, Gavi decided to take matters into his own hands.

— Love, why are you cracking the egg like that? It’s going to spill everywhere! — you warned, already predicting the disaster.

— I saw a chef do it like this; it looks more professional. — And, of course, he ended up cracking an egg on the counter.

You tried to stifle your laughter as you cleaned up the mess. — Congratulations, Chef Gavi. First attempt, and we’re already in cleanup mode.

Next came the sugar. Distracted, Gavi poured almost twice the amount needed.

— Pablo! What are you doing? This is going to turn into a sugar brick!

— What? You said a full cup. Isn’t this full? — he asked, holding up a giant mug.

— Sweetheart, there’s a difference between a cup and a mug, just so you know.

— Well, you didn’t tell me that. — he shot back, heading to the cabinet to look for a proper measuring cup. — Is this it?

He held up a small white cup, and you nodded. With a proud grin, he returned to the counter.

When it was time to mix the batter, Gavi insisted on using the electric mixer, even though you explained the batter was light enough to do by hand. The real issue came when he forgot to turn off the mixer before lifting it out of the bowl. Chocolate splattered everywhere: on the counter, the camera, his apron… and even on your face.

— Look at what you’ve done! — you exclaimed, laughing as you tried to wipe your face. —Don’t forget to turn it off next time!

He looked at you with a sheepish smile. —Everything’s under control, Chef! Just trust me.

Despite all the mishaps, the batter finally made it into the oven. You and Gavi even had fun drawing little chocolate swirls on the top before baking it. While waiting, Gavi turned to you with a smug grin.

— See? I told you it would work out. It was just a little mess along the way.

— A little mess? This counter looks like a battlefield! — you replied, pointing to the chaos around you.

When the timer went off, you both pulled out a perfectly baked cake. Decorating the cake was a team effort, with Gavi spreading the frosting while you added sprinkles and other toppings.

— And here it is, everyone: the chocolate cake by Chef Gavi and Chef [Your Name]! — you said to the camera.

After wrapping up the recording, you both sat at the table to taste the cake. Gavi cut a slice and offered it to you, pretending to be overly fancy.

— I’ll admit, it’s good. But I think most of the effort was mine. — he joked.

— Sure, sure. Next time, we’ll see if you can do it on your own, Chef Gavi.

You both laughed, and the video ended up becoming one of the most-watched on your channel, with fans loving every moment of the chaos and your undeniable chemistry.

[rainbow-sunshine-unicorn]

A long time ago, after I posted my Neddy learns about Anthony’s Dad Lore drabble, I got an anon ask for more “grown ass Kanthony”. I can’t find the ask now and this soooo late, but I hope you still enjoy some geriatric Kanthony!!!

Anthony couldn’t quite remember how it started. He didn’t know when he began collecting them like tokens. The creases next to Kate’s eyes deepening when she smiled, the hints of grey peaking out as he ran his fingers through her soft luscious hair. Signs of a life well lived, a happy one, a long one. And he collected each bit, every time he managed to catch a glimpse, he stored them in his heart, to thank the lord, the universe, or whatever divine entity had granted him the privilege of not just growing old, but growing old with Kate.

Once upon a time, before Kate, when his life was just somehow… less, less vibrant, less joyful, less worth living, he remembered panicking upon finding a singular strand of grey hair sprouting right at the crown of his head. It had seemed like an ugly reminder that the finish line was approaching and he was not fast enough to outrun it. He did not have his affairs in order, the arrangements for the estates were still incomplete and his plans for his tenants were still unfinished.

But now, much like everything in his life after Kate, including his own self, it was different. Nowadays, the white hair was an excuse for him to tease his youngest son that his mischief was turning his father grey. Every ache was an excuse for his daughter to offer to kiss it better. Every ache was an excuse for his oldest to playfully rib him. Signs of a life well lived.

However, he still knew that his wife carried them off much more gracefully.

Which is why when he came upon Kate laid down in the middle of the day, with a physician at her bedside, he felt the once familiar fear creep through him, numbing him from fingers to his toes, chilling his heart. He couldn’t help but wonder if his gratitude had come across as gloating and now Kate was being punished for it. He felt frozen, unable to move, step over the threshold of his bed chamber and face whatever grotesque reality he met there.

His eyes were trailing frantically around the room when his gaze collided with Kate’s. The hum of panic in his brain cut off abruptly.

Because his wife was blushing. A fascinating shade of purple under the warm brown of her skin. He had seen it before but each time, he still felt as fascinated as he had the first time he’d seen it.

A few weeks after their wedding, after many letters to Mary and an unreasonable amount of visits to an ambassador from India, he had finally learnt to say I love you in Kate’s native tongue of tamil. One day, as they lazed around their favourite drawing room at Aubrey Hall, after supper, he’d said it, rather abruptly, clumsily forming the words just as he’d practiced. And then Kate had giggled, the sweetest little laugh he’d ever heard, flushed that beautiful hue of purple he would swear was his favourite colour till the day he died, and, buried her face in his shoulder. He felt thrilled, fascinated, enchanted. He finally understood the concept of eureka his philosophy professor at Oxford had tried so hard to teach him.

Later, when his chest was no longer so puffed with pride that his waistcoat was in imminent danger of bursting open, Kate would tell him that it felt more intense when he said it in tamil, excessive in its devotion. And he’d rush to assure her that he meant it in an excessively devoted and besotted manner, and then Kate would smile in a way that made her eyes shine and made her lips look kissable.

Shaking off that pleasant memory of one of the best days of his life, he blinked at Kate.

The physician, a crotchety old man who’d tended to all the Bridgertons at Aubrey Hall, for many years now, simply cleared his throat, bowed to him and walked out with remarkable speed. Momentarily distracted from Kate, Anthony frowned at his retreating figure.

But then as always, he turned back to Kate. Who was now smiling a secret smile at him, eyes sparkling with unshed tears.

“You’re going to have to buy 50 more dolls to keep things fair ”

And just like that Anthony’s list of signs of a life well-lived, his forever with Kate, grew exponentially longer.

[wonderingpanda]

Hey 👋 so excited that you are writing for the boys of Tales of the tmnt. I was wondering if you can write something about the female reader going to the costume party dressed up as Leo’s favorite female character (whatever you like) and he ends up all cute and flustered that he can’t stop looking at the reader through out the party. Something fluffy and cute.

Please and Thank you 🙏

Love Interest

Tottmnt!Leo x Fem!Reader

Finally, I finished it!🎉🥳 Tbh, I wasn’t too sure who to put as Leo’s favourite female character and at first I was thinking more Star Trek (because I think it’s pretty well known that the Leo’s are sci-fi lovers) but I didn’t know how many people would be familiar with it so I chose to go off the Batman reference from the movie. Anyway, that was really unnecessary but I felt like sharing the process. Please enjoy, I hope you like it!

Down in the sewers, Leo was busy sprawled out on his bed, working on his comic book as usual.

“They’re heroes, yeah, woo, yeah!” He whispered as he continued drawing.

“You’re my hero Leo!” He whispered the words as he drew a picture of Y/n L/n, a friend from school he had started crushing on. He kicked his legs giddily as he began daydreaming of scenarios where he got to save her, show off his skills, hold her in his arms as they travelled along rooftops… if only that could be reality.

“Come on Leo, you’re gonna make us late!” Donnie called from the other side of the room.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!”

Instead of working on his comic tonight though, Leo was going to be attending a costume party with the rest of his brothers. They only had a little while to get ready, so the boys began getting dressed up and gathering their things.

“C’mon, ergh-almost! *huff* You couldn’t of gone with a more shell friendly outfit!?” Raph lifted his head up, he was helping Leo get on the rest of his costume.

“Come on, just pull!” Leo complained. They continued a back-and-forth struggle till the final piece eventually fell into place.

“There!” Raph huffed “You happy?”

“Yes actually.” Leo smiled proudly before his face shifted to a nervous frown. He began twisting around to check how he looked and anxiously glanced at Raph. “Do you think Y/n will like it?”

He burst out laughing. “Please, Y/n’ll like whatever costume you decide to put on. I mean, you look like a dork but I don’t think she’ll care.”

“Ok.. wait, what’s that supposed to mean?” But Leo wasn’t given an answer as Donnie came rushing between them.

“Do you think we should leave now or in a couple minutes? Cos the party starts in like 13 but I looked up party etiquette on Wikipedia and it says you’re supposed to be there 30 minutes after start time.”

“Wikipedia, seriously?” Leo judged.

“Well it’s not like you have any experience with this stuff!” Donnie pointed out.

“You’re right, I don’t.” Leo admitted. “And because of that, I say it’s best to just play it safe and leave now so we can arrive on time.”

“You just want to see Y/n, don’t you?” Mikey teased, poking out from behind the three.

“I do not!” He defended.

“Yeah right, I bet you can’t wait to see her all dressed up.” Donnie smirked.

“Oh please stop.”

“Yeah, and he’ll probably ask her to dance.” Raph joined in.

“Ask her to- what? No!”

“Aww you’re probably gonna try and get all cozy with her so you can start making out together. Mm mm mwa!” Mikey made the noise right next to Leo’s ear, causing him to jump.

“No, no and no.” Leo pointed at each of his brothers. “We’re just going to go and everything’s going to be chill, no one’s going try or ask or do anything. Ok?”

His brothers all exchanged squinted side-eyes before Donnie casually shrugged. “Whatever you say Nardo.”

“But seriously, let’s go. It’s party time!” Raph cheered as they all began to leave.

————————————

The lower half of building where the party was happening was entirely quiet in contrast to the loud bass and blaring lights that could be seen and heard towards the top level.

Leo and his brothers were caught up in some conversation when they opened the door but stopped as they were immediately swarmed by almost everyone in the room.

“Hey, oh my gosh it’s you!”

“Yo guys, the turtles are here!”

“Love the costumes.”

Amongst the chaos Leo managed to spot April doing her best to wave from the back of the crowd.

“Hey guys I see April, imma go over and say hi.”

“Yeah I gotta go to, see you all.” Donnie quickly waved as he headed over to talk to his friends.

As they all disbanded so did the crowd and Leo was able to easily walk across the room.

“Hey April!” He smiled and waved.

“Leo, hey! You all good after whatever that was.” April raised her eyebrows and glanced over to the entrance before looking back at Leo.

“Yeah, it’s still hard to get used to so many people liking us now.” He nervously laughed.

“Speaking of people who like you.” April mumbled. “Hey Y/n, Leo’s here!”

Y/n glanced to where the two were and turned to start walking over. “Oh, hey Leo!”

Leo looked over in her direction, feeling a pile of nerves simply at the prospect of greeting her. But when he saw what she was wearing everything increased by a million.

It was like one of those slow motion sparkly walks that you see in movies. Where everything fades out and all you can see is the pretty love interest waking forward with romantic music playing in the background. At least, that’s how Leo saw it.

“Hey, Y/n. Uh I like your costume. Catwoman! You look amazing.” His cheeks heated up the longer he spent looking at her.

“Thanks! I was originally thinking of going as Carol Marcus (Star Trek character, for those who don’t know) but I figured people would get this reference more.” She smiled and held her hands together.

Oh wow, so no matter what she wore she was going to end up dressing as the love interest for one of the heroes he pictured himself as. Leo figured he may as well die on the spot because his brain was no longer working.

“Oh, so you’re into older stuff. That’s pretty cool.” Seriously Leo, that just sounded obnoxious!

“Yeah. Well anyway, I’m going to go get something to drink. Do either of you want anything?” Y/n asked. April waved off the offer.

“Nah I’m good, thanks though!”

“You don’t need to get me anything.” Leo shyly smiled. Thank goodness blush was less visible on his skin or else he’d be dead.

“Okay! I’ll see you guys around then. See you later!” Y/n waved as she walked off into the crowd.

“Bye!” April called.

“See ya!” Leo anxiously chuckled. He stood in a slouched position for a moment.

“At least try to stand upright when you’re talking to her. You look like you just got punched in the gut.” April advised, causing Leo to stand upright quickly.

“Oh r-right, of course.” He coughed into his hand and gave April a blatant, overly toothy smile.

“So.” She spoke up. “What did you think of Y/n’s costume?”

“C-costume. Right, yes, her costume. I love it I think it’s really pretty and well-made.” Leo closed his eyes in an attempt to stay composed. An attempt that failed miserably, I might add.

“Maybe you should have gone as Batman, then you two could’ve paired up.” Leo frowned and gave April an aggressive side-eye.

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.” April smiled and patted Leo on the head, causing him to sigh and look down.

“No I don’t.”

Y/n’s costume was the only thing on Leo’s mind for the rest of the night. Anytime he noticed her he couldn’t help but sneak glances every few minutes.

He was talking to a group of friends and had to be snapped back to reality as he couldn’t stop looking over in her direction.

There was even a point where she noticed him and he immediately looked away with a bright red face. But, then again, his face was already a blushing mess for most of the night.

He could barely get near Y/n because every time he did, his heart would race and he’d begin to feel an overwhelming amount of nerves? Love? Maybe a mix of both…

Either way, point is he was helpless. Helpless to his own feelings. So when everyone started gathering to dance to a popular song and Y/n grabbed his hand to pull him in, oh how the world felt irrelevant.

Little did he know, Y/n did this intentionally so she’d be able to dance with him. The two looked at each other and began laughing while uncontrollably smiling as the music played.

Feeling bold, Y/n decided to go in for a dip which caught Leo off-guard but he succeeded in catching her. Now they were even closer, very much unbelievably closer. What would happen if the two just inched their faces forward and…

“Who wants to play truth or dare!” Some random person yelled, leading the entire room to erupt into cheers.

Y/n quickly followed the large crowd of people as a circle started to form and waved over Leo as he was still repeating that entire sequence of events in his head. Was that a ‘we should kiss’ moment or a ‘we’re having fun’ moment because he really couldn’t tell!

Well now it was over and he instead found himself in a circle with Donnie on his right, Raph on his left, and Y/n sat opposite him from across the circle.

The game began and went on for a few rounds till some guy decided to point at Y/n.

“Y/n! Truth or dare?” Feeling hyped up, Y/n chose to go for the more interesting choice.

“Dare.”

The guy let out a menacing chuckle and began rubbing his hands together. “Alright, I dare you… to text your crush.”

“Pfft what are you, five?” Y/n burst out laughing.

“Five year olds can text now?” He asked.

Y/n rolled her eyes playfully before pulling her phone out. Leo’s mind started racing. Who was she going to text? Would it be him? What if it wasn’t him? What if she lied? What if it was one of his brothers? What if-

“I can’t, phones dead.” She shrugged before placing her phone back down beside her. The guy groaned.

“Ok. Then I dare you… to pledge your elegance to the holy sanctimony of caterpillar.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Y/n raised her eyebrows.

“It’s a thing.” He nonchalantly replied.

“It’s not a thing.” The girl next to him shook her head. He waved his hand dismissively at her.

“It’s totally a thing.”

“Alright then. I pledge my elegance to the holy sanctimony of caterpillar.” Y/n gave a confused look as the guy raised his fists.

“Huzzah! Welcome, to the caterpillar cult.” She stifled a laugh at his absurd announcement.

“What the? Uh, ok I guess that’s my turn. Um… Leo! Truth or dare?” She made eye contact with him, only briefly but still.

“Uh, um. Ehh truth.” Stupid Leo. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Y/n began to look around for ideas. “Ok, since we were on the topic of crushes I think it’s only right to ask; who do you have a crush on?” She smiled and leaned forward, followed by everyone else in the circle.

Honestly, she may have played it as a teasing joke but Y/n genuinely wanted to know. Yes she knew he’d probably lie but his response would at least give away something.

“Who do I have a crush on?” Leo began sweating bullets and avoided eye contact at all costs. “Uh well I have a crush on a girl, human, a human girl. Yep, that’s-that’s who it is.”

“Uh huh. Yeah I asked who they are not what they are so, I’m gonna need a little more information than that.” Y/n smiled deviously, she just wanted to know a little

more.

“She’s charming, s-smart, uh pretty very pretty ca-c-p-person that, of whom I know to a certain degree.” He began internally cringing at how he had stuttered. Dammit Leo! Why do you have to be you?

Y/n sat there for a good moment, analysing all the info she’d just got out of him. “Mmm… good enough! You go.”

He let out a quiet sigh of relief before turning to his right. “Whew. Donnie, truth or dare?

“Truth.” Not a moment of hesitation.

Leo smiled jokingly, hoping to act all teasing to take the pressure off of himself. “Who do you have a cru-“

“Don’t.” Donnie replied sternly.

“Ok.” He got the message and quickly reeled back.

The game finished up soon after and everyone split off to go do different things.

The rest of the night went as it did before. Leo would be talking to someone, look over in Y/n’s direction, feel like his stomach had turned into a butterfly enclosure and turn back to the people he was talking too, ignoring the increasing blush covering his face.

Every minute, every second, every waking moment of his existence had just been infiltrated by the thought of Y/n and her stunning outfit.

And Y/n noticed. Oh she noticed. It’s what led her to walk up to him the second she saw he was alone.

“Hey Leo.” She sat down next to him. Oh boy, here he goes again.

“Hey Y/n, again. How many times have we greeted each other tonight now?” Leo wondered leading Y/n to giggle slightly.

“I don’t know. The party’ll be over soon so I figured I’d try to sneak in one more moment with you before we all have to leave.” She leaned to the side and bumped her shoulder playfully with his. Leo’s eyes widened after hearing what she said.

“It’s already near the end? That was quick.” Y/n burst out laughing.

“Leo, it’s like 11pm. We’ve been here for hours!”

“Wait seriously!?” He sat up straighter with his hands as support before sinking back into a comfortable position. “Huh, time really does fly by.”

A moment of silence passed till Leo decided to ignore his nerves and speak up.

“By the way, I never actually told you how much I like your outfit.”

“Oh you don’t have to.” Y/n tried to wave him off.

“But seriously, it’s super pretty and looks amazing on you. I love it.” Leo grinned genuinely while gesturing to her outfit.

“Thanks Leo, I love your costume too. How did you even manage to get it on?” Y/n wondered.

“Help from Raph.” Leo stated.

“Ahh I see...” They both fell into silence again for a little while. Feeling nervous, Y/n glanced to the side and decided to just drop the bomb by asking “Are we- do we have a thing going on between us or is that just me being stupid?”

“Huh, uh w-what?” Leo’s eyes widened in shock as he turned to look at her. She in turn looked in his direction, although her gaze rested just a little off to the side from his face as she felt too anxious to make eye contact with him.

“Like I know, or at least I think I know, that you’ve been looking over at me a few times tonight and it felt like there was something going on back when we were dancing with everyone else. So I’m just wondering if it’s like a thing or not, you know?” Y/n chose to finally make eye contact with Leo and was met with his adorably awkward, blushing face.

“I’m going to be totally honest with you I assumed you just thought I was being weird.” He sunk his head down a little, tensing at the topic of conversation. Y/n smiled and shook her head in disbelief.

“Leo you’re like the most amazing person I know. Also, I’m not gonna lie, I thought it was pretty cute how you were acting the whole night.” She blushed and look down to the side again. Leo was once again overcome with surprise but tried his best to keep it together.

“You thought, oh. I think your pretty cute too uh not just in that costume but in general like I think your super pretty every day, all the time.” He laughed nervously and gave Y/n an adoring look.

“Ok I’m just going to say it because I think it’s super obvious at this point.” Y/n took a deep breath to try and calm down. “I’ve already practically said it but I like you. And I mean that in a more than friends way.” She confessed.

“Thank god, because I like you as so much more than a friend.” Leo sighed. Y/n smiled and decided to lean in, whispering something in his ear. Leo quickly perked up and his entire face turned pink.

“Heh.”

————————————

Leo smiled nervously as he walked back towards a corner of the room, Y/n following.

“You know I’m not really used to this kind of thing so I don’t know-“

He didn’t even get a complete sentence out before Y/n began to kiss him. They kissed again as she wrapped her arms around his neck and slightly pushed him further back. They went for another kiss and another before they both pulled away and Leo sighed.

“I love being a turtle.”

They both smiled and quickly went back to their make-out session. Best party ever.

What no one noticed though was the mysterious figure hidden on the side of a building facing the party. They were dressed in purple and black with a mask covering their entire face, yellow buggish eyes that looked almost like goggles, a long bandana wrapped around their head and the symbol of a red foot displayed clearly on the front of their outfit.

“I’ve located the turtles, and it looks like they’ve already made some friends.”

I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I know it’s just meant to be fluff but I couldn’t help myself, I need the foot clan to appear already 😭. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed. Please keep requesting, peace, love, and have an awesome day/night wherever you are!✨