#it’s not until one late night when they’re very tired they mess up

[multiversal-pudding]

A fun Danny Phantom idea:

One of those “mediums tormented by the fact they can’t turn Off the ability to see ghosts” types moves to Amity, and for the most part, it’s great! Like yeah maybe there’s still ghosts everywhere, but now they can react normally, because finally for once in their life everyone else sees the ghosts too. Granted, judging from what everyone else says it sounds like they’re seeing significantly tamer humanoid proper-manifestations than the near-incomprehensible masses of emotion, spectral energy, and whatever that particular spirit’s associated with they’re used to seeing, but eh- between how jaded they are to seeing stuff like that after all these years and the fact that in practice the response of “GTFO” tends to be applicable regardless of whether you’re dealing with a poltergheist in overalls who likes hucking boxes at people, a giant robot guy who’s yelling about world domination, or reality breaking fever dream vomit, it’s not too big a deal

…There’s just ooooone little problem

Which is that when people look at the Fenton’s youngest kid and when people see local town hero/cryptid The Phantom, clearly everyone ELSE is seeing two different people/entities, but in their case, all they see is the same wild plasma-lightning living tear in reality either way, and they’re afraid if they mix the two “identities” up they’re either A) gonna fuck up some poor kid’s life/put him and those around him in danger, B) piss off a very powerful spirit whose repeatedly proven why that’s a very bad idea, or C) both-

(Bonus points if it’s some completely mundane guy like Ted the Bus Driver/ the county deputy in training/ some poor janitor who’d be reasonably expected to come in contact with either one fairly frequently-)

[starshideurfics]

Thirsty Thursday - Nest Pic

Inspired by this little bit of omegaverse meta from forever ago.

steddie, omegaverse, modern au, courtship in the digital age

An omega’s nest is a sacred space; private, meant only to share with close pack members, with pups, with a mate. It’s a place to relax and feel safe. A refuge.

Steve’s nest is no different, plush and filled with scent tokens, some so old they smell only of him, of sweet orange and spice. Not many people have seen it: Tommy, after he first presented, back when it was mostly made of nesting supplies his mother picked up at Pottery Barn; Nancy, when they were dating, but she mostly made excuses to avoid being in his nest; Dustin a couple times, when the pup was too overwhelmed, and going home came with too much baggage around his parents’ messy divorce; and Robin. Of course, Robin! For Steve, some days it was almost like having an alpha his nest smelled so much like her. She’ll stroke his hair and hold him close, let him snuggle into her shoulder to block out the light when his migraines flare, and he feels whole.

Eddie’s never seen Steve’s nest, even with Steve offering up his massive kitchen table to Hellfire for close to a year. Even with how close they’ve grown looking out for the same group of pups. Even with Steve routinely spending a Saturday night on the squashy couch at Eddie’s, sharing a joint, his legs sprawled across the alpha’s lap. Even with how cuddly Steve gets when he’s high or tired, how much he clings to Eddie at every chance.

Even now that Eddie has officially given Steve a scent token for his nest.

But they’re still just friends. Close friends. Pack. But *just* friends.

At least, that’s what Eddie thinks until he gets a picture message from Steve close to midnight. No text, just a mess of blankets and pillows, the scrap of the torn up Dio shirt he used to make the patch on the back of his battle vest given pride of place. Warmth fills his belly, and Eddie stares at the photo until his phone goes to sleep, screen turning black.

He hurries to wake it, staring again for a few seconds, then typing a quick, “Can’t sleep?”

“Nope, went for coffee witg Robs way 2 late today. Feel wired” Steve sends back, followed quickly by a second text: “And my heat is due soon”

Eddie reads the words over and over, not sure how to respond, only for another picture to come through, one of Steve, too close up and cutting off most of his face, in his nest, one of Eddie’s hoodies around his shoulders—which Eddie doesn’t remember giving to him, Steve must have swiped it from his den when he was over. He looks cozy, and the pic shows off his neck, the long line of it, the soft swell of his mating gland disappearing into his shirt collar. Somehow, Steve is completely covered up, but it feels like the most salacious image Eddie has saved on his phone (of course he already saved it!). A nest pic is serious. An opening salvo to more.

But Eddie doesn’t trust himself, and he sends a simple, “Steve?” back, even as he feels himself chub up in his sweatpants.

Another pic, showing more of Steve, more of his nest, along with, “You should be here, Eddie”

Maybe he’s lost his mind, but Eddie types back, “15 mins, sweetheart,” as he struggles to find his shoes and his jacket and his keys. By the time he pulls into the Harringtons’ driveway, Eddie has 8 new texts all from Steve. He doesn’t bother looking at them, though.

Steve is waiting for him at the door, Eddie’s sweatshirt still wrapped around his shoulders. “Hey,” Eddie says as he approaches.

“Hey, yourself.”

“I figured we should actually talk in person, because this feels… fast.” Eddie bites his lip, stopping just short of invading Steve’s space.

“Is it, though?” Steve asks with a soft smile. “Robin always says I’m too obvious about my feelings.”

Eddie chuckles; Steve is very physical in his affections. “I need some words, Stevie.”

“I already invited you up to my nest, but I’ll say anything for you, Eddie.” Steve closes the distance between them, and leans in for a tentative first kiss.

Eddie kisses back, pleasant sparks filling his belly as he puts his hands on Steve’s hips. “Say you mean it,” he whispers when their lips finally part.

“I do. God, Eddie, you’ve gotta know that I’m yours. Your omega.” He put his hands over Eddie’s, holding himself in place and leaning their foreheads together. “Now I want my alpha with me in my nest.”

“Lead the way, Puppy.”

[steddieasitgoes]

for a fortnight there, we were forever

Happy Birthday, @nostalgicbones !!!!

I hope you have the best day ever and enjoy this little fic about Steddie getting into Supernatural. Apologies in advance if I got the details wrong, everything I know about this show I learned from tumblr lmao.

wc: 2.1K+ | rated: T

Read on ao3

Steve’s tired. The kind of tired that sits deep in his bones. A once-in-a-lifetime trip to visit Robin in her year abroad interpreter fellowship has kept him busy the last two weeks. Adventuring all over Europe as Robin rambled in languages, Steve couldn’t even imagine learning himself. They saw art, explored kitschy tourist traps, ate so much delicious food, Steve’s pants sitting a little lighter around his middle, and managed to avoid an international incident except that one night in Italy when Robin had to translate their way out of an arrest.

It’s been some of the best two weeks of his life, but he’s ready to be home. All he wants now is to kiss Eddie hello, scrub the last six hours of travel from his body, and then curl up on the couch with lukewarm takeout and his boyfriend’s arm around him. In that exact order no matter how much protesting Eddie does. If Steve doesn’t get in the shower he’s going to start peeling his skin from his body.

He doesn’t expect Eddie to be waiting by the door for him like some devoted pet, but when he unlocks the front door and doesn’t hear footsteps, he’s slightly concerned.

This is the longest they have been apart in years and some part of him figured Eddie would be on him the minute the Uber dropped him off in the parking lot, especially after he denied Eddie’s offer to pick him up at the airport. It was a nice offer, but the last thing Steve needed after a day and a half of travel was to get into the car with a frustrated Eddie because airport traffic is the root of all evil — he learned his lesson after last fall’s teacher’s conference.

Instead, Steve toes off his shoes and pads down the hallway toward the glowing light coming from their living room. He passes the kitchen on the way in and has to stop himself from making a pitstop. Messy isn’t strong enough to describe the scene. It looks like Eddie threw a rager in the small confines of their kitchen — solo cups everywhere, dishes overflowing from the sink, a half-eaten pizza box open on the counter that surprisingly hasn’t been touched by their cat Shiloh.

Steve can feel his anxiety spiking as he takes it all in. Eddie may not be obsessively organized like he is, but he’s never been one to be this messy. What if something bad happened to him in the last day and a half he’s been traveling? It’s been hard to keep up with texts with the all-time differences and layovers. Surely someone would have called him if something bad happened — at the very least, their house would be surrounded in yellow tape by now since Dorien is a busybody who regularly sounds the alarm if they’re more than five minutes late putting out their trash cans on pick up day.

It’s comforting enough to propel Steve forward, further down the hallway, until it spills out into the living room. His eyes catch on the mess for a moment — more empty take-out boxes and half-drunken water bottles along with over two dozen balled-up pieces of paper — but then he relaxes when he spots Eddie amongst the mess.

His curls are pulled back in a messy bun, and his body is kinked in a weird position as he drapes himself over his acoustic to scribble something down in his notebook. The television is on, casting him in a cool blue-gray tone, but the volume is too low for Steve to hear what’s on.

“Eds,” Steve calls, keeping his voice soft and even so as not to startle Eddie. This isn’t the first time he’s found Eddie in a focused state like this. It’s better not to startle him out of him, a lesson Steve learned the hard way in the early days of their relationship after failing to heed Wayne’s advice. “I’m home.”

“Stevie!” Eddie leaps up from the couch, acoustic be damned as it clatters to the patterned rug. His arms are around Steve in an instant, pulling him flush with his chest and burying his face in his unusually greasy hair.

“Missed you,” Steve says, wrapping his own arms around Eddie’s warm middle. He pulls back just enough to connect their lips. It’s not exactly the welcome kiss Steve was expecting with Eddie’s unexpected stumble scratching his chin but it’s perfect all the same.

“Missed you too.” Eddie ducks his head, nuzzling into the crook of Steve’s neck for a second before pulling away. His nose scrunched up when he looks at him. “I love you, Stevie, but you smell.”

Steve chuckles, shaking his head as he slowly untangles his limps from Eddie. “Are you sure it’s me and not this place?” He gestures at the state of their living room and then looks up at Eddie. It’s the first time he’s gotten a chance to really take him in; too preoccupied with getting his much-deserved welcome kiss in. He looks tired, almost as bone tired as Steve does, which doesn’t make any sense since he’s been at home the last two weeks. Sure, managing the record store is a lot of work, but not enough for his eyes to look this red-rimmed and bloodshot as if he’s been smoking for days, which Steve knows isn’t the case because the house doesn’t smell. “What have you been up to?”

A grin tugs at the corner of Eddie’s lips, a smile taking over his entire face until his red-rimmed eyes are squinting and crinkling at the edges. “You know that show Erica is always talking about? Supernatural. I started watching it the day you left, and well… I finished it three hours ago.”

That explains the mess and Eddie’s exhausted state. If there’s one thing his boyfriend is known for, it’s losing all sense of time and human responsibilities for the sake of art — his own or someone else’s.

“How many seasons?”

Eddie yanks a strand of hair from his bun free to tug across his lips before dropping his head. He mumbles something, too low for Steve to register.

“Eds.”

This time Eddie sighs and picks his head up but continues to hide his sheepish smile behind the lock of hair. “15.”

“Jesus, Eddie!” It’s nearly double the last show Eddie became obsessed with, not wanting to do anything but watch episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer until the final credits rolled for the last time. He went 36 hours without sleep before Steve practically held his eyelids shut. “Have you even slept?”

“It’s really hard to sleep without you.” Steve knows Eddie didn’t mean it like that, but he can’t help the pit of guilt that sinks to the base of his stomach. “And once I started, I couldn’t stop. Supernatural demanded to be watched.”

Okay, so maybe it’s not all Steve’s fault. It’s just Eddie’s compulsive need to finish things he starts — at least the things he cares about, their half-built patio furniture, on the other hand…

“I’m never leaving you unsupervised again.”

Eddie smiles at that and reaches for Steve’s hand again. “Good, because I have to catch you up on the show!”

“It’s that good you already want to watch it again?”

“It’s that good, Stevie. And I need to revisit some scenes so I can get this love song, right.”

“Wait,” Steve says, dropping Eddie’s hand. His arms cross on instinct, head tilting to the side as he studies his boyfriend. “Love song? I thought you only wrote love songs about me.”

“The Destiel men deserve an original love ballad for all they’ve been through.”

“Destiel? Men? The show is gay?"

Eddie chuckles, shaking his head with enough force that more unruly strands break free from the worn elastic. There’s mischief in his eyes and a crooked smile pulling on his face and no matter how much trouble that look has gotten them into before, Steve can’t help but love it.

“You have so much to learn, my pet. Go shower, wash that gross plane smell off of you, and I’ll order us food. If we start right when you’re done we can probably get through half of season one tonight.”

Steve crinkles his nose at the request. It’s not that he doesn’t want to watch TV with Eddie, that was part of his plan when he got home. But he did just spend two weeks away from him, and well, he did have a few other plans in store for them after he settled in for a bit.

“Seriously? I’ve been gone for two weeks, and you want to spend our first hours reunited rewatching a show you just finished?”

“Trust me, baby, you’ll understand once we start watching,” he says, kissing Steve’s temple before patting his ass to get him moving. “I’ll even let you take one of those long, steamy showers while I get everything ready. That should be enough time for the Amazon shipment of tissues to arrive.”

“Tissues? I’m going to cry watching a show about supernatural things?”

“Excuse me,” Eddie scoffs. “You sobbed through that one episode of Buffy so do not judge me right now.”

“Will you at least warn me when something bad is going to happen so I’m prepared?”

Eddie shakes his head and mimes, locking his lips before throwing the imaginary key behind his shoulder. “At least you’ll have a shoulder to cry on. Now go, shower or else we won’t get through enough episodes tonight.”

Steve rolls his eyes but compiles, not without stealing another kiss first.

____

Steve hates to admit it, but he’s hooked from episode one. If it was up to him, he’d probably pull the same move Eddie did and binge the entire show in two weeks since he has no other summer vacation plans, but Eddie made him promise not to watch any new episodes while he’s at work. Turns out being an owner doesn’t mean he can call out for an entire month just to watch a television show, a rant Steve listens to for fifteen minutes before Eddie finally shuts up when he presses play on the remote.

It becomes a daily part of their routine right up until episode 18 of the final season. Steve knows something terrible is about to happen the minute the episode begins because Eddie won’t let go of his hand, but he’s still not prepared for the catastrophic events.

“He can’t die like that!” Steve shouts, jumping up from the couch. Eddie’s quick with the remote, passing the credits before the autoplay feature kicks in and starts the next episode. “What the fuck!”

“I know,” Eddie says, patting Steve’s shoulder in the hopes of placating the anger he knows is boiling in his blood. “I scared Shiloh with my shouting when I first watched it.”

“I don’t even want to finish it now.” He’s pouting; he knows he’s pouting, but he can’t help it.

“Aw, come on, Stevie. You have to see it through.” Steve huffs beside him, clinging to one of their stupid throw pillows as Eddie reaches for his laptop on the table. How can he go on the internet at a time like this? Steve feels like he just watched a friend die in front of him! “Besides it’s just the end for them in the show. There are tons of alternate endings online.”

“They shot more than one ending and released it? That doesn’t seem right.”

“Not the creators, they’re idiots,” Eddie says, shaking his head. His fingers fly across the laptop keys, typing something into the search bar before turning the screen so Steve can see. “But the fans take care of each other. This is an entire page of fix-it fics.”

“Fix it what nows?”

Eddie blinks at Steve as if he’s just sprouted two heads. “How have we been dating for five years, and I’ve never shown you the wonders of fix-it fics? Get ready to have your mind blown, sweetheart. Some of them even have art attached!”

“Where do you even find stuff like this?” Steve studies the page Eddie has open. An art piece of Dean driving his beloved Impala, with an arm thrown over the back seat. It’s beautiful.

“Okay, that’s it. After we finish, I’m giving you an education in the world of ao3 and Tumblr. You will be a changed man when I’m done with you, Steve Harrington.”

“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?’

“Never,” Eddie lies, not even trying to hide the mischievous smile on his face. “If you want to see Cas live, this is the way, baby.”

“Fine. But let’s finish the last two episodes first. It can’t get any worse.” Eddie bites his lip, ducking his head but he’s too slow for Steve’s quick eye. “It gets worse doesn’t it.”

“Fix it fics, Stevie. It’s all okay in the fix it fics.”

[thepenultimateword]

Soulmates Prompt List

I hope it’s ok if I use the red string in some of these prompts. Since it’s cultural, I don’t want to appropriate it or anything; I’ve just read so many fun soulmates stories based around that concept lately that I thought it would be fun to write some prompts.

1. The red string will guide you to your soulmate when you are in close proximity (within a few miles) to them. Unfortunately, [A]’s leads them to a funeral. Fortunately, they’re a necromancer.

2. Pirate’s red string has always led them into the sea. They always figured that meant that they were “married” to their sea life. That is until one day the string goes tight and they are pulled overboard and find a merperson on the other end, desperately trying to bite the string free.

3. People don’t have just one soulmate. There are many potential soulmates depending on the path one follows. Villain has take advantage of this fact after realizing that their powers are strengthened with each soulmate’s soul they devour. They don’t care much for losses, much preferring their position as a ruler and almost god. That is until they until they meet Hero, the first soulmate they’ve ever cared to spare.

4. Soulmates know each other at first sight. It’s sort of ZING! Or a ZANG! Or something like that. [A] was always told they couldn’t miss it, but now [B] is looking at them like they were just electrocuted and [A]…felt nothing.

5. Thief sees the words mid-heist. The words they never told anyone but wrote on their arm at 13 during soulstice to be able to recognize their soulmate one day. However, even with proof, Detective seems to think Thief is making up another one of their deceptions to escape. Or maybe they’re just in deep deep denial.

6. [A] is cursed to remember and [B] is cursed to forget. They are Soulmates in every life but not always successful ones. Turns out [B] only regains their memories of past lives when [A] succeeds in making them fall in love with them once again. It’s a tiring thing, wooing their love in every life, but it’s more painful to be forgotten.

7. Fate has already chosen matches for each person, but that does not stop some people from trying to “steal” soulmates, ignoring the rules that forbid flirting with anyone not prearranged for them. In fact, quite a few people have started claiming that soulmates should be a choice, but can anyone really defy fate?

8. Soulmates appear in each other's dreams the night before they meet in person. After such a dream, [A] recognizes [B] immediately, and from the look on [B]'s face when they lock eyes, they recognize them right back. So why are they lying and claiming they've never seen [A] before?

9. People used to be born with predestined matches, a matching mark appearing somewhere on their skin upon first meeting. But one day it simply stopped, so humankind had to manufacture it themselves. Now, upon birth, every baby is implanted with a device--they are legally required to upload all personal data to the device's cloud throughout their life--to simulate such a mark, only to activate upon contact with a compatible match. The ways of spontaneous soulmates are now only a story of the past. [A] is fully invested in the technology, however, [B] doesn't believe humankind should have ever messed with the decisions of fate.

10. In a post-apocalyptic world, [A] expected their soulmate to be dead. Not that it mattered anymore. Almost everyone was dead. And love was not going to keep them alive. But when a thief sneaks into their safe house and tries to steal supplies, [A] tackles them to the ground, catching a glimpse of the soul mark on the thief's neck just as it fades. Their soulmate still exists. And the feelings that come with that knowledge are very confusing.

[ghost-proofbaby]

modern!steve harrington + mine cause i just KNOW he’d love that song and daydream about a future with his girl listening to it 😭💜

mine (steve's version)

warnings: hurt/comfort, my fingers slipped and put angst

wc: 2.1k+

an: okay i completely goofed here and made this far angstier than you wanted, and did not realize until AFTER it was done. 😭 i'm gonna apply the same logic as miss swift does with surprise songs - since i technically messed up, if you'd like a redo with more sweetness, let me know and i've got you haha 😭 i also just processed you wanted him to listen to the song and that image broke my brain so basically what i'm saying is this one will definitely get a redo haha sorry nonnie <3

It had all started over a stupid fight. A fight that he didn’t even recall how it had started. That’s how stupid it had been. 

Steve had been tired, coming home from a long shift at the diner. It had been a shit show for the entirety of the twelve hours that Steve had been there, instantly making him regret pulling a double to cover one of his coworkers who called claiming they had a fever, but that he’d definitely seen posting on their stories about being out for drinks very late the night before. But he wasn’t going to tell his boss that — he’d been there. One too many beers on one of his rare free nights with friends, and he too would call out, claiming something along the lines of food poisoning. 

He wasn’t fully lying. That much alcohol probably had poisoned him considering the way he felt like death the next morning.

The coworker wasn’t what had him in a sour mood, though. Nor was it the one elderly couple that had kept trying to have terribly long conversations with him when he knew he had food to run. Nor was it that obnoxiously large group of preteens that seemed to have no self awareness as they’d reeked absolute havoc on the diner for the final hour before closing. No, none of that really phased Steve anymore — he was just tired. He was tired, a bit too easily irritated, and just wanted to sleep. 

His plans for the night had been crawling into bed with you, watching some TV show or movie he wouldn’t pay attention to with his head in your lap as your fingers would scratch soothingly at his scalp. His plans for the night didn’t include this fight. If he could have stopped, God only knows he would have.

“They’re going to shut off the water, Steve,” you stress, on the verge of tears at this point. Steve didn’t know if they were from stress, exasperation with him, or if you were hurting from how flippant he’d been since he walked through the door. Regardless, it didn’t matter; seeing you misty-eyed twisted the knife in his chest all the same, “What the fuck are we going to do if they do that? This isn’t something to talk about tomorrow.”

“They’re not going to turn it off tonight!” he shouts right back at you, throwing his hands into the air in defeat, “Fuck, I- what do you want me to do about it? What can I do about it tonight?” 

You snap your mouth shut at that, lips pressed tightly to avoid any quivering. 

“I just worked twelve fucking hours, I just wanted to come home and relax, I’m not in the mood-“

“You’re never in the mood,” you flatly interrupt him, tone a stark contrast to all the overwhelming emotions prominent on your face. Your voice doesn’t even waver — he knows that whatever you’re about to say, it’s been on your mind a while, “It’s always we’ll talk about this tomorrow, or we’ll figure it out. But we never talk about it. We never figure it out, Steve. We can’t just- You don’t think I’m tired, too?” 

His heart breaks a little. You’re right. You’re standing there, still in your scrubs from your own twelve hour shift, and fuck, you’re right. 

Things hadn’t ever been easy. Back in high school, there had been the issue of Steve’s parents. After graduation, it had been the terrible decisions of what now. When you two had decided to pack up and get the Hell out of town, it had been the stress of finally dealing with all the uncertainty, all while desperately trying to keep afloat amongst stacks of bills and adult responsibilities neither of you had expected to drown in. Things had never been easy, but Steve didn’t care about easy — he just cared that you’d always been there, by his side, on his team. 

Right now, it didn’t feel like you and him versus the world. For the first time, it feels like there’s only you two in the boxing ring. 

“This isn’t a competition, we’re… we’re supposed to be on the same side.” 

There it was — your voice cracks, and the moment the first tear falls from your eyes, you’re quick to reach up and swipe it away, pretending it never happened. Pretending that one tear wasn’t ripping Steve apart from the inside out.

“It’s not a competition! But Jesus Christ, I feel like I’m suffocating-“

“I’m suffocating you?” the tears are falling more freely, and you make no move to erase them. 

That’s not what he meant. At all. He’s only making it all worse. So, so much worse.

“I-“ he starts, but he doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to make this better. 

He doesn’t know how to fix this.

In an instant, his hands go from threading and angrily tugging at his hair to flaring at his side as he suddenly walks sharply down the hallway. He’s making a beeline for your shared bedroom, doing the only thing he can think of to fix this for you. For tonight, at least.

You’re quick to follow, only two steps behind him, “Where are you going?”

“I’m-“ he pauses, yanking a random drawer open to the dresser, finding himself staring at a pile of your clothes rather than his own. He huffs through frustration and his own building tears, “I’m gonna stay at Eds’ tonight. Give you some space.” 

“Give me space?” you laugh back in disbelief, not daring to take any more steps closer to him, “You’re the one who’s being suffocated-“

“You’re not suffocating me,” he stops all movement, hand still on the knob of his drawer. He turns to you suddenly, a new found confidence, “That’s- That’s not what I meant, okay?” 

He can’t make this right, but he can’t leave you thinking that’s what he meant. You could never suffocate him — and even if you tried, he’d find it to be the most heavenly way to die. But you didn’t know that, not in this moment, and that was what was currently killing him.

You take a deep breath, one step forward, before asking quietly, “What did you mean, then?” 

One last chance. An opportunity to make this right.

“You could never suffocate me,” all the shouting and the frustration has vanished, only softness and hurt left in their places, “Ever. Don’t you ever think for one moment that it’s you. It’s not, okay? I love you. You’re the best thing to ever happen to me, you are-“ he chokes up, looking into your glossy eyes. He can still recall the way he felt all those years ago when they’d first laid eyes on him. He’s memorized the way it felt, because every time you look at him, it still manages to feel like the very first time, “You are everything to me. You’re- Fuck, honey, you’re my entire future. When I think about the future, all I think about is you.” 

You take another step forward. Steve’s own tears now track his own face, his heart racing painfully.

“I love you so fucking much, it’s crazy. And I just- I feel like I’m fucking all of this up. You deserve more than this, and I try to give it to you, but I can’t-“

“That doesn’t all fall on you, Steve,” your hands shake as you lift them, finally close enough to touch him. Each palm rests delicately on his chest and you can’t look him in the eyes, “I don’t want you for your money. Never have, never will.” 

He laughs wetly. You’ve more than proven that. When his parents cut him off completely, you hadn’t blinked an eye. 

“I want you because I love you. I’m in love with you, Steve Harrington. Okay? I’m so in love with you, I followed you across the goddamn country.” 

“Eddie and Robin did too, to be fair,” he reminds you, almost jokingly. All the tension from the fight is quickly fading. His hand drops from the drawer. 

“They did, but I guarantee I love you more than them,” you scrunch your nose, almost grimacing before adding, “No offense to them, of course.” 

“Of course,” he echoes, slowly reaching up and holding your hands that had been pressed to his chest. You don’t pull back.

“I’m just- it’s stressful. We’re both stressed. Neither of us were prepared for this,” you look him desperately in his eyes, “I meant what I said, though. This isn’t me versus you — I never want it to be us fighting each other. It’s always us versus the problem, okay?” 

He nods when you wait patiently for his response, “Okay.” 

“And I want you here,” you continue, “I want you here, in our home and in our bed. I want you here, even screaming back and forth with me, as long as you’re here. With me. Go to bed mad at me, I don’t care. Just… don’t walk away.” 

You smile through the residual tears, squeezing his hands that hold yours. 

Steve thinks about all the examples of love he’d ever been shown. His parents, in a castle of ice. The way the fights always ended in separate rooms, sometimes separate houses. His father storming out to spend the night in a hotel rather than having to be around his mother a second longer. He remembers the way that even with an abundance of money, they were never happy. They never loved each other. A marriage of convenience rather than love. Lasting only out of obligation, not dedication. 

He didn’t want that with you. He couldn’t ever imagine what the two of you have being reduced to that.

When he looks at you, all he can see is happiness. All he can feel is that love bursting from his chest. Images of the two of you by Lover’s Lake, the way the waves of the lake had sent shattered and sparkling flares of light across your cheeks as you’d laughed at him as if he was the funniest person in the entire world. All the nights spent over the phone, talking about nothing and everything, desperate to just fall asleep to the sound of each other’s voices. The ridiculous nerves he’d felt on the first date, King Steve shaking at the thought of putting his arm around you because for the first time, he was truly scared of fucking this up. 

You made him a better man. You saw everything inside of him that was broken, that he had spent so long trying to hide, and you’d simply sat down beside him with glue in hand, prepared to spend as much time as he needed to piece it all back together. 

Go to bed mad at me, I don’t care. Just… don’t walk away.

“I can’t do that, sweetheart,” he finally sighs. Your face starts to fall, but he’s quick to clarify, “I can’t go to bed mad at you. Ever. And we can fight, us versus the problem like you said, all we want but… I don’t want to go to bed mad. I don’t want… I don’t want that. Whenever my head hits that shitty pillow every night,” you both break to laugh, because God, you both really did need new pillows (and a mattress, if you were being honest), “All I want to know is that you’re mine and I’m yours. Sound fair?” 

You smile, and it’s the best thing he’s ever seen. It makes all the long shifts worth it as you nod slowly, “Sounds fair to me.” 

“Good,” he guides the two of you to the center of the room before he drops your hands from his, sighing and letting his shoulders finally drop, “Then in that case, I’m staying.” 

Even with crying tears on your cheeks, you’re still the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. You’re still the best thing Steve Harrington has ever had the privilege of calling his, “Yeah?” 

“Yeah. So if we’re gonna fight — let’s fight, baby.” 

He puts his fists up comically, and you only giggle and grab at them, shaking your head.

“I think we've fought enough for one night,” you mumble, bringing one fist to your mouth, kissing each of his knuckles gently. 

Once you’ve placed your final kiss, he quickly placed the hand beneath your chin, lifting your lips to his. He kisses you in quick succession, and between each one, he repeats the sincerest I’m sorry he can muster. 

He only stops once you’re smiling too wide for him to continue. 

After his lips leave yours one last time, pulling back slowly as he savors it and you, he finally sighs, “I am curious, though — what the Hell are we going to do if they do shut off the water?” 

You shrug, “Like you said, we can talk about it tomorrow.” 

“Or we can use Eddie and Robin’s shower.” 

“Or we can use Eddie and Robin’s shower.” 

As it turns out, Steve Harrington was wrong — when it comes to you, he can always fix things. 

"brace myself for the goodbye, 'cause it's all i've ever known. then you took me by surprise, you said 'i'll never leave you alone'."

[spicyclover]

I don’t want to! | part one

Summary: After spending holidays together, which was a disaster. Mick comes running back to you. 

Part one | Part two

Hope you’ll enjoy this part. Let me know in the comments section! And to support me!

Enjoy

Lots of love, xxx Spicy Clover

Warning: Dialogue inspires by the French film The Crisis, La Crise. 

You’re not cut out for big parties, and that’s a fact. You don’t drink much, if ever. You don’t smoke and don’t go out to bars and nightclubs every weekend. You have always found that you have more fun in small groups at restaurants, house parties or simply alone at home.

You’ve never been very fond of Mick’s friends and them of you. You tolerate them from time to time, and it’s the best, but lately, Mick has changed and not for the better.

You tried to talk to him, but he kept shutting you down every time. So you decided to stay out of it. Anyway, he never formalized your relationship. You never know which feet danced, and indeed you’re fed up.

You had a big fight on New Year’s. He begged you to come with him and his friends to Australia for the holidays, and you finally agreed, but as soon as you arrived. He left you alone in your hotel room. He leaves early, and he comes home late. And when he decides to go home, he’s too tired to do anything.

You asked him to spend the New Year just the two of us one night, and he agreed. At 8:45 pm, the 31st, alone in the hotel room waiting for him to come home from his day, again spent with his friends instead of you. You got tired of it. He’s really fucking with you. You’ve been ready for an hour, and he still hasn’t arrived. You’re trying to call him, but he’s obviously not answering.

It’s only around 10:30 that you see the publication of one of your friends, that they’re all on a yacht smoking shisha and celebrating New Year’s without you.

You know very well whose idea this is, and it’s Jack’s.

It was too much. You pack your belongings in your suitcase and sleep at your sister’s, who lives a few minutes from the hotel where you are staying. After all, she’s not surprised to see you show up with your suitcase after the four days you spent alone talking.

You have a good time with them until the new year.

After that, you took the first plane back to London. You didn’t tell Mick, even though he kept texting you after discovering the empty room. Several of his friends also tried to contact you, but what hypocrites those.

It’s three o'clock in the morning, January 3rd when you hear the drumming at your door.

"What are you doing here?"

"I brought all my stuff. I’m tired of not sleeping with you all day, of not being the first person you see when you wake up, and if you think I’m messing with you. Then I’ll settle down.”

"Where do you stay?" You definitely need clarification. 

“Yours.”

"Well, Mick, it’s three in the morning.”

"That’s all right, go back to bed quickly. I’ll go in and join you."

"What are you doing?"

"I’ve been an egoist. I loved my freedom too much, so I wanted to get away from you by spending more time with my friends. But I only wanted to have you close to me when I was on that boat. To be able to kiss you and hug you. I’m sorry I missed our appointment. I screwed up. I didn’t see the time, and then we got on the boat, and it was already too late.” He opens by taking your hands. 

“Heu...”

"I never offered to be my girlfriend or live with you. But now I’ve been thinking. I realized that I love you and want to build something together. You and me.”

“You and me?” You repeat in kind of shock.

“Yes!” 

"But I don’t want you to come and stay with me." 

“What do you mean you don’t want to?” Asks Mick confused.

“Well, no, I don’t want to. Not after what you did to me, and I don’t have much space first. I don’t want to, you know? Not at all." You finish looking at him in the eyes. 

"What don’t you want?"

“I don’t know about anything. You’re always hungry when I go on a diet. You shave for hours and never clean the sink. I don’t have room for a giant washing machine. I think your friend Jack is shit, and I don’t want him coming to my house and watching football and eating all my peanuts. I don’t know, lots of stuff.”

“You don’t like my friends?"

"Well, Jack, I don’t like him, no.” You admit. 

"Well, if you loved me, you’d love my friends too."

"Well, I love you, but Jack is still sticking in my throat. Plus, I just built a library, and I finally managed to put all my stuff away, so if it’s more than...”

"What you can be of egotism!"

"No, but say which! Where do you think you are?" You take offence when you hear him.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you come to my house at three in the morning to annoy me."

"Oh, well? I’m coming to ask you to be my girlfriend, and you call that annoying?"

"Look, Mick, I don’t want to live with anyone, you understand? Neither you nor anyone. I don’t want to. I want to live alone, alone, alone! You understand?" I want to be able to fart in my bed, go home at any time, eat in a corner if I want to, and invite friends, clean only once a year if I want to. I want to spend my rubbish my way.

"But all this you can do very well. I don’t see what the problem is."

"The problem is, I don’t want a guy lying on my couch yawning and saying “what’s to eat tonight?" I don’t want to be told, "Hey, you’re doing so good ironing." I don’t want to buy the new Mercedes, which is fabulous, and we’ll pay for the drafts together. I don’t want your mom calling me to see if I gave you your flu pills. I don’t want your dirty socks in my laundry basket. I don’t want to clean the kitchen for three hours the day you decide to make paella for your colleagues. I don’t want to ask if you agree to watch a movie instead of a sport. I don’t want to! I don’t want to! Your life is your life. My life is my life.” You exclaim, tired of his nonsense.

"Well, if I understand correctly, you want to be able to have sex with whoever you want, right?"

"You tire me!"

"Do you have someone else?" 

“Look, Mick, I love you, I love you very much, but being like that, suits me very well. We see each other sometimes, and everyone stays home, which is much better.”

"I’m sure you have someone else." He keeps assuming. 

"I have no one else." You sight before closing the door on him. 

To be continued.

[thelampisaflashlight]

Sleep

[Drabble number three of three. Featuring a sleepwalking Dew, a lonely Swiss, and a tired Mountain.]

Below the cut.

Sharing a room with someone takes a fair bit of getting used to, especially when that person is Dewdrop.

Not for nothing, but Dewdrop has always been a very, very complex and complicated individual, at least Mountain thought so.

Or he had, at first.

Because, you see, after years of bunking with the temperamental ghoul, Mountain’s understanding of Dew’s personality has become much more clear.

He’s sensitive.

Maybe sensitive isn’t exactly the right word, but calling him emotional feels a bit too dismissive in Mountain’s opinion. After all, there’s nothing wrong with having or expressing one’s emotions, though some could definitely learn to manage them better...

Dewdrop included, though not for the reasons that might spring to mind.

He’s simply too good at hiding things.

So good, in fact, that his body has started to betray him out of pure necessity in order to survive.

That’s why Mountain doesn’t immediately freak out when he sees the ghoul shuffling across the room like a zombie in the middle of the night.

Okay, maybe he panics a little, not fully awake enough to recognize the familiar shadow moving around in the dark, but when he does, all he can do is sigh.

Dew sleepwalks.

Not all the time, but when his body is under a lot of stress, emotionally or even physically, it tends to move on autopilot. Something only a handful of people were intimately aware of, because Dew himself finds his condition... embarrassing.

“Fair enough,” Mountain thinks, having witnessed first hand how out of it and vulnerable he can be during one of his episodes, still though... “but this is ridiculous.”

It was late, or early depending on the sort of person you are, and Dew had managed to slip out the door at some point, somehow managing to avoid waking up Mountain as he did so. It was only because of the draft creeping in from the corridor that Mountain even knew something was amiss.

He hadn’t noticed Dew’s nest was even empty until he threw one of his spare pillows at the mess, telling apparently no one to close the door.

“Shit.”

Thankfully, between scrambling out of bed and tugging on pants, Dew hadn’t managed to wander too far from his room... the only problem was who he had wandered into.

Mountain laughs tiredly, as he watches Swiss try and guide their sleeping packmate back to his room, not having much luck since he clearly hasn’t had to deal with this sort of thing before.

His hands hover close to Dew’s shoulders, but he seems hesitant to touch him for fear of waking him up, so after watching his friend panic a bit longer, Mountain steps in to help.

“Here.” he says softly, approaching cautiously, moving Swiss’ hands so they’re holding Dew in a non-restrictive fashion, “You have to be gentle, or he’ll feel trapped... see? And talk to him.”

“Dew...” Mountain coaxes gently, “Dew, we’re going back to bed now, okay...?”

He doesn’t get much more than some sleepy mumbling in return, but that Dew seems open to the idea, walking along with Swiss as he moves slowly forward.

Speaking of Swiss...

“Why are you awake?” Mountain asks, looking down at the tired multi ghoul, “I thought you went to bed two hours ago...”

“My stomach has been keeping me up...” Swiss hums, furrowing his brow, “I think I’m still a little...”

He waves his hand vaguely, “...Anyway, so does... does Dew do this a lot?”

Mountain rests his hand on Swiss’s back, rubbing soothing circles, “...Sometimes. He usually doesn’t go that far, but that’s part of the reason why we chose rooms downstairs...”

Swiss winces, “Ouggh... yeah that would be bad.” he side-eyes Dew as he begins trying to nestle into his side, “...Is he okay?”

“It’s not my place to talk about it, but he’ll tell you about it if you ask... just be kind.” Mountain says, “Please?”

Swiss nods, heart aching slightly at the sincerity of Mountain’s plea, “I get it. It’s not something we should joke about, yeah?”

Mountain nods, squeezing Swiss’ shoulder reassuringly, “He’ll be alright in the morning.”

“You, though...” he trails off as they reach his and Dew’s door, “...Do you need anything right now?”

“...Can I... Can I stay with you guys tonight?” Mountain can’t help but melt at the tremble in his friend’s voice, “I don’t like... I don’t like being alone when I feel like this... a-and I want to make sure Dew is okay, and-”

“Obviously I’m not gonna let you go back to your room now.” Mountain states matter-of-factly, pulling Swiss along into the bedroom, “...If you ever need me, or us, or anyone... it’s okay to ask.”

“Thanks, Mounty...”

“Can we go to bed now?” Mountain and Swiss still almost immediately as Dew rubs his eyes, “What time is it...? No, actually, I don’t wanna know...”

The ghoul yawns, freeing himself from Swiss’ grip, almost tripping into his nest in the process, “It’s fuckin’... bedtime.”

It’s almost alarming how fast he falls asleep afterwards.

[gingerteaonthetardis]

hello i have a (very basic) fic prompt: established relationship hurt/comfort malcolm/rose. :))

genuinely diabolical of me to answer a prompt you sent almost a year ago—at one in the morning, on a random wednesday. but... better late than never? if you see this, which i hope you do... i'm so sorry it took so long. hopefully the 5k wordcount makes up for the wait.

content warnings for: medical emergencies, hospitals, canon-typical swearing (honestly, i think i kept things rather mild), and daddy issues

[read on AO3] [send me a prompt]

He comes home white as a sheet.

There has always been something faintly spectral about him. Two days without enough sleep and his bones tend to press up at the underside of his skin, turning his face into a craggy mess of shadow and light. He credits his milky, changeable complexion to a combination of his heritage and London's dismal weather.

Though—she's done what she can for him, in the months since they started seeing each other. They take walks along the Thames, sometimes. She stays over as many nights as she can and tries to make sure he gets a bit of actual rest.

They went to the seaside exactly once, for a conference, and while he worked almost the entire time, she did get him outside where the chill wind could buffet some colour into his cheeks. Eventually.

(She persuaded him to kiss her on the boardwalk, to ignore the possibility of the press spying on them, because “who would even recognise Malcolm Tucker when he's smiling?”)

But no matter how she tries, he is always pale and drawn and tense in a way that is not remotely healthy.

She knows she nags him about it, probably too much. Pushes. “This job is gonna kill you one day,” she told him matter-of-factly, one very late night in bed. Her hand was splayed on his bare chest, over his heart, as she spoke.

His fingers crept up to tangle with hers, and he let out a long breath, like a laugh too tired to embody itself. He hadn’t been home in over seventy-two hours.

“Already has,” he said. “You're looking at a ghost, darling.”

So she dragged the bedsheet up over his head and refused to let him out until he said “boo,” and he laughed a little and called her a child, and her fear dissipated so she could very nearly forget the darkness under his eyes, the tremor in his hands.

But when he comes home in the middle of the workday, looking like that—well, for the first time, she actually believes him.

She's looking at a ghost. A wraith. A shadow.

-

At first, she thinks things might not be as bad as they look.

“Steve fucking Fleming,” she sneers at the television, determined to be angry since Malcolm cannot be. He is beyond anger, having travelled to some more remote psychological peak. But she is merely mortal, flat-footed, here on the ground. Radiantly, righteously pissed. “Who does he think he is?”

He doesn't respond. His eyes are glued to the screen, where the ticker scrolls past spewing bullshit about his resignation. As if anyone on earth would believe that.

His body is a harp string, pulled so tight that it might snap at the smallest pluck. She reads him loud and clear, like he's wearing a big sign that says Do Not Touch. He'd been hounded by the press on the way in, probably bumped and jostled and while it boils her blood, she knows him. Knows he needs a minute alone.

At a loss for anything useful to do, she falls back on what she knows. The solution to any crisis, at least in the Tyler household.

Tea.

Water splashes into the kettle with probably an unnecessary degree of violence and noise-making. Malcolm likes his weak, bag out with lots of milk, so it'll hardly take a minute, she tells herself. Then she can go to him. Hug him, hard. Tell him the truth, which is that she loves him and fucking hates his job.

She taps the fingers of one hand on the countertop, her thumb ring clicking impatiently against the side of his mug with the other.

“I give it a week,” she calls out, eyes tense on the hissing kettle. “Maybe less, before they’re begging you to come back. You’ll see.”

Then: “Who's the bald one you hate so much? Julius? Well, there'll be a shitstorm anyway, with his report, and—and you know he'll come crawling on his hands and knees, asking you to clean it up. Do you…?”

Her voice gets lost in her throat for a moment, making her wonder if she should even ask this. If he'll even bother answering.

“Will you, when he asks?” Her hesitation is painfully obvious. “Will you go back?”

Nothing.

The only sound is the kettle, her thumb ring, the tinny voice of a reporter coming through the television speakers. And out the window, she thinks she can hear paparazzi—camera shutters clicking, animated voices in the street.

“Vultures,” she spits, like the word is poison.

She's interacted with the press since she was barely more than a baby, off and on, the relationship as rocky as the one between her parents. Pete Tyler, the mogul. The wunderkind. The absent. But the papers were always there, reporting on every jet ride to far off places. Every time he left them behind. Until the one time he didn’t come back.

The water boils, and she fixes Malcolm's tea, then hers. She wants so badly to run back into the living room and gather him all up in her arms, even though it makes no sense. He's not a wounded bird. He would hate the very thought of her pity. So she picks both mugs up carefully, tells herself this will help.

Until there is a large thump.

“Malcolm?” she says, feet frozen to the floor for a whole three seconds. “Malcolm.” Did he throw something? Certainly not. Drop something?

Instinct draws her from the kitchen, where the first thing she sees is the TV screen: on it, the Prime Minister, standing outside 10 Downing Street surrounded by dozens of microphones. His voice carries through the living room.

“...terribly sorry to see him go, but Malcolm Tucker has our full support in whatever he chooses to do next. We respect his decision to step away from politics, and are eager to begin this new—”

“Bollocks,” Rose spits, a fraction of a second before she notices the space where Malcolm should be standing is empty.

And he’s just lying there, face down.

On the floor.

Two mugs hit, a second after.

-

They won't let her ride in the fucking ambulance.

So she has to take his car. Which means she first has to find the spare keys—his must be in his coat pocket still, which he was wearing when they carted him off on a fucking stretcher—and by the time she does find them, the paps, who had only just begun clearing off when the ambulance showed up, are back in force. She can barely edge the sleek, black BMW out of the driveway without taking out some camera guy’s kneecaps. Honestly, she almost slams the gas anyway.

By then, the flashing lights of the EMS are long gone, so she has nothing to clear her way. It takes ages—a lifetime, a trillion lifetimes—to make it to the hospital, and the whole time she keeps thinking, What if he's dead? You're looking at a ghost, darling. What if he's dead? On and on and on.

Her head is a traffic jam all on its own, leaving her unconscionably distracted while she finds a parking space. But she musters up a little dignity for the walk into A&E.

And yes, of course, she can already see the zombie horde waiting outside the doors, eager to get their teeth into the fearsome, famous Malcolm Tucker, so recently fallen from grace. It’s one hell of a story—a surprise resignation gone so awry that it put a former political colossus in hospital. And while it isn't likely they'll know what she is to him, she doesn't want to risk making a bad situation worse.

She pulls up the hood of her sweatshirt and plunges through the gathered mass, making straight for the door.

But she must have used up all her luck finding a place to park.

“Is that—?”

“That's her!”

“Rose?” one of the more aggressive paps shouts. “Rose Tyler?” Her hands ball into fists, and she shoves them in her pockets.

“Are you visiting a patient? Rose!”

Instead of shouting back—I don't know, you fucking pigs!—she just forces her way forward. The sight of an irritated-looking nurse jamming his head out the door is a lifeline above all the bobbing heads and enormous camera rigs.

“Rose,” cries another zombie-vulture-waste-of-space, “is it true that Malcolm Tucker left the government to work for your father's company?”

“Unless all of you are going to admit yourselves into this hospital, clear off!” The nurse is the one shouting now. “You are interfering with the care and safety of our patients!”

That, of course, sets off another round of shouted questions about Malcolm's condition, about Pete Tyler’s condition—what a laugh—and Rose despairs of ever getting through until the nurse notices her—perhaps her pink hood, or her horror-struck eyes—in the midst of them.

His own gaze sharpens, and he pushes the door open wider.

“Clear a path, or I'm calling security,” he says, voice heavy with threat. “Back off.”

It's not terribly intimidating, but it's enough for the frontmost row of hacks to back down, leaving just enough room for her to be spat out in the entryway. She stumbles a little, and the nurse catches her.

“You're not one of them, are you?” he asks, hesitating for just barely a second—but then she swipes off her hood, and his uncertainty vanishes.

He nods, eyebrows lifting, then slams the glass doors shut behind them. It quiets the paparazzi to merely a dull roar.

“So, the rumours are true.”

She knows what he’s seeing right now; it's the same thing everyone sees: Pete Tyler's apparently estranged daughter, the long lost Vitex heiress who came back out of nowhere—read: the Powell Estate—a year ago, after nearly a decade out of the limelight.

And, allegedly, Malcolm Tucker's scandalously young paramour.

That's always been the worst of it: the way people look at her as if she's a toddler, not twenty-seven years old. Pampered little rich girl. As if she hadn't been just as surprised as anybody when her parents reconnected, remarried. Reintroducing her to a small but overwhelming world, one where he happened to exist.

Everything had changed, and then it changed again the moment she descended that giant staircase outside the reception hall, still dressed in her ugly, frilly, Jackie-selected bridesmaid's gown—and there he was. Smirking at her behind his hand, the bastard.

He changed everything.

She sets her shoulders, trying to look like more than she is, and stares down the nurse—his badge says Rory, with a little smiley sticker next to it.

He isn't smiling at all, sensing her intentions. “I’m sorry, but only family are allowed to—”

“I'm his wife,” she interrupts with a lie, bald-faced and glaringly desperate. She doubles down. “Rose Tyler. We're married. It was a… secret thing. Family only. ‘Cause of the press, yeah?” The way she says press is positively vicious. “And my parents, you know, they had this huge wedding and it just seemed impractical to have two in a year. Such a waste of money…”

She's overcomplicating—babbling, in fact, making her story less believable with every word. Surely the paramedics will have left a record of her prior statements, panicked pleading between sobs. But in spite of Rory's dubious look, he seems inclined to take pity on her. Her heart hammers as he considers for an eternal moment, blinking several times in what looks like an effort to clear his head.

“Please,” she says. Her voice breaks. “I've got to see him.”

In a tone of utter resignation, he tells her the room number.

-

She doesn’t need the room number, in the end. She just follows the shouting.

“—unless you want me to fucking shove that syringe up your cockhole and wiggle it around like an X-rated re-enactment of the Very Hungry Caterpillar, you'd best remove this fucking IV—”

So, he's awake.

A gaggle of nurses are lingering either in or around the doorway, watching the shitshow like it’s a particularly engrossing episode of Hospital, and Rose has to clear her throat to get through them. Her pink hoodie stands out like a beacon among all the scrubs.

“How is he?” she pauses just long enough to ask, voice low under the roiling stream of vitriol pouring from the room. “What's happened?”

One of them, a woman with a badge that says Hame—adorned with yet another smiley face sticker—looks at her sheepishly.

“Are you—?”

“His wife.” The lie comes more fluidly this time. So fluidly the nurse doesn't even blink in surprise.

“He woke up in the ambulance,” Hame offers, “and he's been… like this… ever since he arrived.”

Rose's lids momentarily flutter with the effort not to roll her eyes. But the relief comes fast on the heels of irritation. All the blood which had been pounding through her legs, prompting her to run, dissipates; she can only give a dizzy nod in return and stumble through the doorway.

“—you fucking deaf? I’m fine, I feel fine, as I've been telling all of you for the last half an hour! Look, I was test-driving my new Victorian fainting couch and fell a little to the left, that’s all, no big fucking deal. I'm absolutely fine!”

“Malcolm,” she says.

And he looks at her.

His face—God, his face. It’s waxy, pale as the moon, and his hair is sticking up like he's been running his hands through it, or like he's been in a pub fight. This impression is further supported by the blooming discolouration on his right cheekbone. It must have been from the fall. The fall she missed, because she was making fucking tea.

He doesn't look small on the gurney, doesn't look weak or unnaturally still or withered or any of those things she's heard people say about visiting their loved ones in hospital. But he looks like he's gone ten rounds with something much, much stronger than he is. The whole world, maybe, has beaten him.

Her chin wobbles.

“Oh, not you fucking too!” His eyes, marginally sunken, get wide all of the sudden. “I'm just fine, Rose—lot of fuss over nothing, all right? Just—no, darling, don't you do that, don't—”

But it's too late.

Tears break free of her waterline as she lurches toward the hospital bed. She barely has the wherewithal to mind the IV—still attached, which he’s thrilled about, no doubt—as she wraps herself around the nearest piece of him she can reach. Which happens to be his arm, warding her off.

She pulls the pale limb to her chest, feeling its warmth. Letting it saturate her. She hides her face in his bent knuckles and lets out a watery, choked noise that's struggling not to be a sob.

“Can you just—Rose—fucking give us a minute, all right? You can get on with the anal probe or whatever the hell you plan to do to me later, just all of you get out of—yes, thank you, thanks a fucking bundle. All of you, scram.” Malcolm's voice sounds like it's coming down a very long corridor, echoing wrongly in her skull. She can't feel her knees, which is a strange thing to notice, because she's not normally aware of them at all. “Rose? Rose, come on, darling, you're making a scene.”

He reels her in by bending his arm, which moves stiffly. She holds it tighter, breathing deep. Trying to swim back to some kind of surface. “Sorry,” she mumbles.

“S’all right. Hell of a day, isn't it?” he says, sounding more normal. Or maybe her ears are working right again. “Couldn't have come at a better moment. Seems I'm about to have quite a lot of time off.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m not the one blubbering, now am I?�� counters Malcolm. “That's enough, all right, save it for the funeral.” He seems to recognise that's the wrong thing to say just a beat too late, when her shocked gaze finds his.

“That's not funny,” she says. “That's not even remotely funny.”

Some of the force leaves him, rounding his shoulders. “I know.”

She goes on, refusing to let go of his hand. She's speaking directly into his fist, and she doesn't care. “Damn you, Malcolm, I told you! I said, ‘This job is gonna kill you,’ and look where we are!”

“I'm not dead yet,” he insists. “And, if I might point out—it was losing the job that nearly killed me.”

That's it—her knees can't take it any more. They just sort of go out from under her, and she's lucky she's close enough to collapse into a seat beside the hospital bed.

“You scared me,” she manages to say. “I don't—I'm not even sure what happened, I just heard this thud, and then you were there on the floor!” He makes a soft shushing noise, which she ignores. “You have to let them look after you, Malcolm, you can't just—”

“All right,” he interrupts, vocally reluctant. But the hand against her chin finally opens, fingers searching out her face. “Fine. Fine, Rose, but I'm sure it's nothing.”

She gives a watery laugh. “Yeah, just your life. You've only got the one, you know.”

“I know,” he nods. But she can't be sure if he really believes her—if it even matters to him.

(You're looking at a ghost, darling.)

-

It's not nothing. Of course it's not.

It's a myocardial infarction—a bloody heart attack. Mild, according to the doctor, but nothing to joke about. Rose doesn't want to budge from Malcolm's side, and she’s heard people are supposed to take notes with this sort of stuff, so she gets her phone out and starts typing out anything she can make sense of, anything that sounds even tenuously important, anything she can spell. She tries to ask questions.

Malcolm keeps shooting glances at her while the doctor coolly, calmly explains that this should be a wakeup call.

“Cardiac events of this nature are often a warning sign that other, more concerning events are incoming, such as another heart attack or a stroke,” he says, “unless serious changes are made in regards to health and stress levels. Your heart is functioning normally—for now.”

His emphasis makes Rose's own heart thump painfully.

“But we'd like to keep you overnight for observation, and in the morning, we will discuss a health management plan.”

Malcolm seems inclined to buck against authority, as he nearly always does, and Rose doesn’t mean to, but she squeezes his fingers so tight she can feel the bones shift. And he nods instead.

“All right,” he says, eyes sliding towards her. They look pale, bleached by the fluorescence. “One night.”

She doesn’t want to make a scene again, so she runs to the ladies room. But when she gets there, she can’t cry anymore. She can only face her reflection in the mirror.

She's the one who looks like a ghost.

-

When Malcolm finally falls asleep that night—a feat which seems nearly impossible with nurses coming and going—Rose slips out into the hallway and dials a number she's been avoiding for hours. Maybe longer, if she's honest.

“Hullo?”

It's—it's too much.

She sniffs, and realises her airways are so tight, swollen by all the tears still left to shed.

“Pete?” she creaks out.

The shift is instant. “Rose? What’s wrong, love?” She can imagine him sitting up straight in bed, probably patting around trying to get her mother up.

“Don't wake Mum.”

“All right, what's happened?”

“It's Malcolm. He…”

“Oh, God. Rose, I'm—I got the call, but I didn't—I’m sorry, love, it just seemed…”

“Like bullshit,” she flatly fills in the blanks for him. Impossible. Like something that would never, ever happen, not to him. “I know. But it's not. He had a heart attack.” Voice low, her eyes scan the hallway, dimmed for the night shift; even now, she fears the click of the camera shutter, of being seen. Of compounding the problem. “I’m here with him, and he's… He's not taken it well.”

Pete snorts, and she would laugh, too, except that she can't.

“I can imagine. Is there anything you need? We can come down, but—”

“The press, yeah,” she sighs. “No, there's no need. Visiting hours are over anyway. I just wanted to ask…” The excess energy, the nerves build up like static until she's tapping her foot to try and let some of it out. “Look, I know I said I didn't want any money or favours or…”

“Anything, Rose. You know we’ll do anything.”

There's not a trace of blame in his voice, that's the worst part. Not even an ounce of bitterness.

He's always understood, ever since he came back into her life, that it might be too little, too late. That this—their non-relationship relationship—is not something to be solved by his money or his access. In fact, she’s sort of suspected he admires her decision to have nothing to do with Vitex, nothing to do with his public profile, regardless of how much it could benefit her. But…

Tears trail down her cheeks. It’s not for her, so it’s different.

“Two weeks at the lake cottage. Would that be—?”

He doesn’t even let her finish. “Of course.” She hears shuffling, rustling like he's gotten out of bed and started rooting around his nightstand. “I'll call Graham tomorrow, get it set up for you.”

“He can't do anything strenuous,” she adds, “and I don't want to leave him alone, so we'd have to order in for most things.”

“I'll take care of it,” Pete replies smoothly. “There’ll be fresh wood for the stove, too, if the temperature drops.”

Her voice comes out barely a whisper. “Thank you.”

“When do you want to go?”

“As soon as he's released.” There's a clutch in her chest, twin sensations of guilt and horror digging their hands in. She’s never planned more than a birthday present behind his back. “I’ll clear it with his doctor first, but I don't want to give him time to argue with me, and if we stay home—I mean, the paps'll be all over us. He won’t get a minute’s rest.”

If her father notices her misuse of the word “home,” he doesn't mention it.

“I'll handle travel arrangements,” is all he says. “D'you need someone to go and pack for you?”

“No, I can do it.” She sniffs, trying to gather herself. “Seriously, this is—I just want you to know…” But her voice dissolves.

“I know, love. I do.”

“I've got to go,” Rose manages, seconds or minutes later. The tears have slowed, and she can breathe again, and all she can think of is crawling back into that awful hospital bed beside Malcolm and falling asleep with his heart beating safely under her ear. Now that she’s got some sort of plan, she thinks she might have a shot at rest.

There’s just an instant of hesitation, then her dad says, “Rose? You know, Malcolm… he's been on his own a long time, love.”

That almost makes her scoff. As if she doesn’t know.

“Been making a ruin of his life, if you ask me, but he's always been self-sufficient. And if I’m honest, I don't think…” He trails off. She can sense that he’s searching for words, and presses her impatient lips together. She owes Pete that much, at least. “I don't think he knows how to let someone love him. Understand?”

Weakly, she answers. “Yeah.”

“So he might try to act like he doesn't need it, but he does. ‘Cause the way you love him—love, he'd be a fool to leave all that on the table.” There's urgency in his voice, an undercurrent of something she can’t identify. And then he says, “He's lucky to have you, Rose,” and she feels the words pressing into her heart, touching some aching place she's been pretending doesn't hurt. But it does hurt. “So lucky.”

It’s never stopped hurting.

“Never forget that.” The words come to her thick with tears, and she wonders if he’s been hurting, too. All this time. “All right?”

She squeezes her hand into a fist and wishes like she used to when she was just a kid. Wishes her father was here, with his arms around her.

This isn't that, but it's as close as they've been, maybe ever. As honest.

So she says, quietly, “All right, Dad.”

-

“Everythin’ okay?” Malcolm mumbles blearily. He’s blinking at her before she can even climb back into the hospital bed. And here she’d been all worried about waking him. But in second, his washed-out gaze is wide and alert—a shadow of his normal self—his hand lifting to make room for her beside him. “Thought you might've gone home.”

Home.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she shakes her head. “Don't be stupid.”

She wishes she could stop the renewed flow of tears, but she's too tired to turn them off—to do anything but curl up against him and let them soak his hospital gown.

“Not going anywhere,” she sniffs out.

Malcolm hums, but says nothing. Just strokes his hand up and down her arm. He's cooler than he should be, veins filled with foreign hospital fluids, so she nestles in, sharing her body heat. Their combined weight sinks them into the mattress, closer to each other. It's like a small pocket of shared gravity, belonging only to them.

“I called my dad,” she says, she doesn’t know how long after.

His hand pauses. “Oh, yeah?”

“You know I love you, right?” Talk about a non-sequitur.

There’s shifting against her, and she looks up, easing her weight off him in case he's uncomfortable. God knows he's got no chance of escaping, so at least she can not crowd him.

But he’s not trying to move. Just settling. “Rose,” he says, holding her gaze, “where's this coming from?”

She blinks.

“My heart, you berk.”

“I know that,” and he rolls his eyes, lids fluttering. “I mean, where is this leading to?”

“Well, I'm gonna ask you to do something I know you won't want to do, and before I ask, I just—I dunno, thought it would be important for you to know.” She almost pouts at his unchanging stare. “That I love you.” Nothing. “And that I'm asking because I love you.”

He answers too quickly. “No, I don’t think we should open things up to a third.” Quippy, light. The effort of it hurts her head.

“Jesus, Malcolm.”

“I know it works for a lot of people,” he blithely continues, ignoring her narrowing gaze, “but I’ve already sowed pretty much all the wild oats I want to sow.”

“Malcolm.”

“And we’re not getting a dog either.”

“I want you to take a break.” She meant to finesse it a bit, but no, she’s just blurting it out now and he’s just staring at her. Chin tucked, like they’re just curled up on the couch and she’s telling him she wants chips for dinner, again. “A holiday,” she presses on. “Two weeks. My dad’s got this place near Windermere, it’s called Rose Cottage—I know,” she adds, before he can even open his mouth to comment, “Rose Cottage, horrendous. He’s still getting the hang of apologies. But he said it’s ours if we need it, everything’s set up. It’s quiet, peaceful, but not so boring you’ll go mad locked up there, I think. Plenty to see in close walking distance. There’s a lovely garden and a library, and we can just take the train, and—”

She is rambling.

And he just watches her do it. Watches her dig this hole right in front of him. Possibly he’s trying to think his way out of the situation.

“I mean, if you don’t want me there,” to see you like this, god, please don’t say that, “if it would be better, we could hire a nurse and you can go by yourself. The important thing is you need to rest, but I didn’t think—I mean, it’s not just about you recuperating either. I guess I thought… we could…”

She shakes her head, wishing it would clear. Wishing she could say things in a more helpful way. But all she’s got is this endless stream of, Don’t go back, don’t go back there. Don’t go back to them.

“Can you take pity on me for, like, five seconds and say something, maybe?”

“All right,” he says. “C’mere, shift.”

He waits for her to resettle, her head in the curve of his shoulder, her arm poised carefully around his waist. She’s never been surprised by his capacity for gentleness, or his overt affection, though she’s sure it would shock the shit out of practically anyone else. Maybe not Pete. But to her, it always made sense. There’s the side of the moon you see, and then there’s what’s hidden beyond. Smudgy and impossible unless you look from a different angle.

Malcolm loves like that.

He lets her breathing regulate before he speaks again. “I don’t want to do that.”

Even laying down, her shoulders sag a little.

“I don’t want to turn off my phone, stay in some quaint little middle-of-nowhere called Rose fucking Cottage, doing nothing for two weeks while the world moves on. While my party makes a fucking laughingstock of itself—which,” he adds, “—I know they all will, more than likely already have. Fucking disaster waiting to happen.”

For a moment, there’s a flicker of heat in his voice. The energy that is essentially Malcolm, his constant belief that the world should be better than this, that it’s always letting him down with its many varied incompetencies. But it fades back into something slower.

Sadder, she thinks.

“I don’t want to end my career notorious, with a heart attack that nobody’s happy I survived. Almost nobody,” he corrects when she moves to argue. “I don’t want a holiday, Rose. How you can even call it that when we both know you’ll be playing nursemaid—shuffling my sorry arse around, ordering takeaway and doling out probably a whole rainbow of little colour-coded pills… Jesus. It’s miserable, and humiliating, and frankly, it’s hardly a holiday at all. But it’s one I particularly don’t want to take without the woman I love.”

She blinks again, her eyelids feeling so heavy, mind so slow. But her heart lurches in her chest like it’s lighter than air. “Really?”

“Yes, darling. So I guess you’d better come along, if you think you can stand it.” He must feel how relieved she is. How every bit of her begins to unspool.

“I can.”

His lips land soft against her head, breath gusting out over her rumpled hair, and his hand resumes its steady path up and down her arm. She thinks that’s the end of it. Until: “You know, the doctor said something funny earlier, when you were out of the room. Called you my wife. ‘I’m glad your wife is so serious about your care,’ he told me.”

Oh, god. Honestly, she’d forgotten, in the midst of everything else. The lie she’d come up with in the heat of the moment, in her desperation to see him. She should’ve known it would get back to him somehow. It’s either very good or very bad that she’s too tired to react with appropriate embarrassment.

“He seemed to think quite highly of you. All your notes and questions. And I thought, ‘Now that’s interesting.’ ‘Cause I didn’t want to correct him.”

She can’t help it. Her arm tightens, her whole body burrowing closer. Ribbons of warmth trail through her, centralising around her heart. “They weren’t going to let me see you,” she says. It’s all the explanation she feels she needs.

“I didn’t want you to see me either.”

“That’s just stupid. I always want to see you.”

His chest judders with a silent laugh, and then he sucks in a short, pained breath. But he doesn’t let her squirm away, just holds her tighter. “I know,” he says quietly. “I have come to discover that I’m a very stupid man.”

“Well, I’m bloody brilliant, and I have a plan to get you better and keep you around for a long time, so don’t—you shouldn’t even bother arguing with me,” she says, going for some measure of authority. She can’t take her eyes off the machines at his bedside. Numbers blurring in and out, back and forth. Thinking, You’re not a ghost. There, look—your heart’s beating. “And even if you do, I won’t listen.”

It’s mine to keep.

“I’ll try not to.” She hears the smile in his voice. Smiles herself. It feels like a good stretch, muscles that need to be tended to after an endless tense day.

“You fight everyone,” she says. “You don’t have to fight me.”

He answers in a whisper, close. “I know.” Nobody else would believe it.

But it’s close enough to a promise. The words wash over her head, more air than sound, and she holds them tight while the world goes fuzzy and soft at the edges. And eventually, Rose sleeps, exactly as she wanted to. With his heart beating steadily, safely beneath her head.

[halfamask]

Also now I have a lot of feels about the boys sleeping so

They would insist on having their own beds. It’s a matter of them liking their own space and having it when they want but also they grew up having to share more often than not at Martha’s and wherever else they slept and so having their own beds is something part of them still considers a luxury they could lose at any minute.

Later they have their own bedrooms but these headcannons are set post dark signers pre world Grand Prix when they’re broke in a one bedroom apartment with mattresses on the ground

Crow for sure takes up his entire mattress when he sleeps. He was the smallest growing up so he was always the one relegated to the smallest share of the beds he shared so now he relishes taking up space. He absolutely starfishes on the bed and tosses and turns all night but in a very content manner. He’s also usually always tired after getting back from work so he passes out quickly after he gets in bed.

Crow’s not a huge cuddle initiator but his mattress is basically perpetually pushed to join Yusei’s because at one point he just stopped moving it back to its original position. Because of this, though, Yusei will sometimes come to bed to find Crow halfway on his mattress. He never minds it though.

Yusei just can never get to sleep on time so he’s always in the garage messing with his bike or with random scraps so he doesn’t wake Crow up. It’s also partially because of his bad energy drink habit but he either sleeps at 10pm or 3am. Man only gets in bed when he literally cannot keep his eyes open and nearly falls twice getting to the bedroom.

Sharing a bed growing up had the opposite effect on him compared to Crow because once he gets under the blankets he picks a spot and basically stays there for the whole night. He likes coming to bed to see Crow taking over his mattress because the closeness helps him sleep. He doesn’t make Crow cuddle a lot because he knows he likes his space but a lot of the time part of them will be touching, Crow’s leg tossed over Yusei’s or his hair tickling Yusei’s neck. Even when Crow’s on his own mattress he’s usually close enough that Yusei can reach out a hand and find some part of him.

Jack takes up the most space obviously just because he’s the largest of them. But like Yusei, it takes him forever to get to sleep. Nights with these two are hard for him a lot because looking at them wracks him with guilt for betraying them and coming to New Domino in the first place. So while Yusei is in the garage, Jack’s working out in the small home gym they have (read: mismatched barbells and dumbbells tossed in a corner with a secondhand bench and a yoga mat). He works out until it feels like absolution and he can’t do even one more rep and his body is screaming at him and grabs a quick shower before coming to bed, knowing he’ll wake up pleasantly sore and tangled with his boys.

Like Crow, he moved his mattress to Yusei’s and after a while just never moved it back. If Crow is on Yusei’s mattress already he’ll sleep on his own and lately, he’s begun just starting out on his side so he can put an arm over both of them. But if there’s space on Yusei’s mattress he’ll just sleep right next to him and let Yusei’s head fall into his chest as he wraps an arm around him. He swears he can feel Yusei relax in his sleep when he’s physically touching the both of them and really, Jack likes it too so who is he to deny them?

[ann1-wr1tes]

Vincent Smith NSFW Alphabet

Dynamics: Vincent Smith x Fem!Reader

Tags: @cyberp-1-nk

Synopsis: Spicy Alphabet

Warnings: Oc stuff, Adult themes, obviously smut, tread with caution.

A/N: Since i'm doing spicy alphabets I decided to do some for my bbgs (aka my ocs). Honestly don't really expect anyone to be interested in my oc stuff lol, so this is pretty self indulegent-

---------

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

-Very caring, very attentive. Vince won't even let you worry about him until he's done worrying over you. This man always likes to take a moment to hold you, kiss all over your body and whisper hushed praises and compliments. Then he'll pick you up and run you a nice warm bath with salts and those really good smelling candles. If you're extra lucky he may take the time to get in with you or he might do that one thing where he reads to you while you just chill in the bath.....inspo from this

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

-His favorite part on his partner's body would be the eyes. He just adores watching his partner's eyes light up with excitement or cloud with lust, there's just something so deep and intimate about it. Oh and he also loves boobs.

-On himself he likes his chest the best, his pecs in particular. He knows he's got some muscle there. Not to mention he's got nipple piercings. Just saying. He also likes his voice. Is husky and deep and has that thick southern drawl to it...

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

-When Vince cums its thick, warm, and a lot. To say the least. He really prefers cumming inside his partner. It just feels a lot better than pulling out and he secretly wishes he had a family....ofc if you don't want kids he understands

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

-Vince really wants someone to just cover up all his scars with hickies and marks. His scars that cover his entire torso have always been a huge insecurity of his but if someone were to leave scratches down his back, kiss marks and hickies on his chest and stomach, enough to cover up all the marks from his past, he might feel better about them.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

-Pretty experienced. He had his fair share of hook-ups in college and definitely knows what he's doing.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

-One of his favorite positions is face-off. He loves how close it, having his partner in his lap while he gets to slowly fuck them. Or of course he always enjoys cuddle fucking. Early in the morning or super late at night when he's too tired to do much but he's still pent up enough to have sex.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

-He can be a little humorous. He might poke a little fun at you here and there but when it comes down to it he's pretty serious. He's so set on making his partner and himself feel as good as possible.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

-Incredibly clean. He takes pride in being well groomed and he just prefers to stay clean shaven down there.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

-He can be very intimate. He doesn't just sleep with anyone and due to his insecurities with his scars, he is not one to go around and just fuck anybody. So when he does sleep with someone it's very intimate. We're talking intertwined hands, deep and passionate kisses and love filled gazes.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

-I honestly don't think Vince has that much time to really rub one out due to his work and how busy he is, but he does so every once in a while. When he does it's less out of pleasure and more so out of the need to just get that stress relief.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

-Definitely has a slight breeding kink and is really into praise (giving and receiving). Also you could always just play with his chest. (mess with his piercings and see what happens)

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

-Won't ever do anything in public. He is not one for taking any risks and certainly does not want anyone seeing him or his partner in the act. So he'll always be happy in his bed or in his cabin where it's just him and his partner.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

-Kiss his neck, maybe suck on his piercings a little bit, run your fingers through his hair. But also call him a "pretty boy" that will really get him.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

-He refuses to do anything that could harm his partner. No choking, no usage of guns or knives, he's even a little apprehensive when it comes to spanking/hitting. He just doesn't want to cause his partner any physical harm.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

-Absolutely prefers to give. He could spend hours between his partner's thighs, licking and sucking. It's one of his favorite things to do and he is one of those guys that would beg you to sit on his face.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

-Usually his pace is slow and sensual. He wants you to feel every part of him, feel every touch and every graze of his lips. He really likes to take his time.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

-Not huge into quickies. He'd rather have all the time in the world with you than rush it.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

-Nope. Not a huge risk taker either. He prefers to be safe and comfortable.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

-Vince is more on the tired side usually but I think he could last a few rounds. Then maybe some after he rests for a little while.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He himself doesn't own toys but if he partner owned any or wanted to use any on him he'd be open. He'd probably be most willing to try a vibrating cock ring or something along those lines...

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

-Not really a big tease. Unless of course you are a brat, then he'll be more than happy to put you in your place.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

-He's honestly too tired to care about how loud he is so he's pretty vocal. It usually starts out with slurred words and mumbled praises then turns into raspy moans and pants. He gets louder the closer he is to cumming.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

-If you take the time to trace and kiss his scars, he'd do the same. He wouldn't ask about what happened unless you want to tell but he'll lay there, tracing and kissing over all your marks and scars lovingly.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

-More longer than it is thick and has a few prominent veins running on the underside of his shaft. When he's aroused his tip turns a pretty pink.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

-Honestly, pretty high. He tries to ignore it but there's a reason he wakes up in the middle of the night hard as a rock.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

-He will always make sure to stay awake long enough to make sure his partner is asleep. Might be him being paranoid but he just wants to make sure everything stays safe and that his partner is comfortable before he succumbs to sleep.

[farfromstrange]

Customer Service | Matt Murdock

Pairing: Matt Murdock x afab!reader

Summary: After a particularly rough week, all you want to do is cry. It has you on edge and makes you say things you don’t mean. After letting out your anger on your boyfriend, he makes it his mission to take care of you for a change.

Warnings: SMUT, 18+ MINORS DNI, oral (f receiving), Matt Murdock eats pussy like a champ, fingering, squirting (I feel filthy), emotional hurt/comfort, no use of y/n, no pronouns, reader has female body parts, 1st person pov (?)

a/n: As someone who quit their job in customer service for the exact same reasons I have stated in this fic, this is very personal to me and self-indulgent, again. I wrote this after a particularly bad day. Sometimes I wish Matt were real so he could actually do this to me.

There is nothing in all of existence that I loathe more than people. Why I chose to work in customer service in the first place has become more and more of a mystery to me. I could have quit after the first week, I should have, but whenever the thought crosses my mind, I tell myself: ‘It’s going to get better. You will get used to it.’ I did not, in fact, get used to it. Or, I did, I just started to hate myself even more. Every day I get home from an eight-hour shift, I’m tired, I’m exhausted and I feel the desperate need to throw myself off a cliff. 

There are days when it’s easier. The elderly couple who comes in every Sunday, for example, to drink their coffee and have a lengthy conversation over a piece of cake, never fails to make me smile. They’re always kind, and forthcoming and they tip, even though I know they don’t have the money to.

Or the woman who likes to pick up lunch for her husband, she always calls me sweetheart, and she’s never bothered if her order takes just a little too long. The regulars chat me up and I like it because it makes me feel less alone behind the counter, as life passes me by and I can’t help to stare at the clock every five minutes to calculate how many hours of the day are left. They make it easier to forget about the overtime I inevitably have to put in every night. They know I don’t eat enough or smile enough or drink enough, and so they make me smile because they’re good people. 

But some continuously want to tell me how to do my job, the one I’ve given blood and sweat for to master down to the smallest detail, and those who treat me like I’m responsible for their bad days and those who don’t care that I’m human, I just have to serve.

It’s so exhausting that some people don’t care about the workers behind the counter. I hate that my boss doesn’t seem to care either, that we don’t get paid enough, and that I’m expected to jump whenever they want me to. I got a life too, but that doesn’t matter because I’m cheap and they love to use those who never learned how to say no.

I physically can’t tell them I can’t work whenever I’m asked to pick up an extra shift, or when I’m sick or have to do anything else. It’s not even my main occupation and yet, here I am! Every day, I tell myself, I should just quit. It’s not my responsibility if they can’t treat their employees right. It’s not my responsibility they’re understaffed. I’m a student, I go to college, and I’m working hard on my degree - why should I prioritize my job over the thing that will determine the rest of my life? 

And yet, every day, I go back. I go back and I work until my feet hurt and I’m sick and I’m tired and all I want to do is just cry. I go back because I, for the life of me, can’t say no. I can’t quit. I want to, but I can’t, and it’s killing me inside that I can’t talk about it the way I want to. In the end, I will always feel like everything is my fault and that I messed up, even though all I did was show up to work and turn into everyone’s punching bag. 

My stupidity is what got me here. Usually, I would be home now, studying, but they asked me to pick up a late shift at the cafè again, and I worked for seven hours with only a fifteen-minute break in between - I look horrible, I smell of coffee and cake, and my body is hurting in all the wrong places. The weight is heavy in my stomach. I’m nauseous. I ate, but not enough. I’m hungry. I feel sick. Even the smallest sounds make me want to jump up the wall, kill someone, or perhaps even both. I’m angry, and I don’t even fucking know why because nothing happened. Other than a rather messy day with too much to do and too few people to do the work, the people weren’t even rude and I’ve had worse days - still, I feel everything at once and it’s ridiculous, really, because I’m an adult and I should know better than to let a rough day affect me. I don’t. 

When he called and asked if I wanted to come over, I said yes. I didn’t want to, but saying no? Not something I would do, especially not to him. I walked into his apartment with a lump already in my stomach. The door creaked - God, I told him to oil it - and that was the first strike. I tossed my key into the bowl and it promptly fell back out. Second strike. My coat slipped from the hanger the second I hung it up. Third strike. I breathed, I had to, then went to the kitchen to make some dinner. Cooking usually works, usually, but the day must have gotten to me because the fourth strike - the fucking milk being expired - happened way too soon and it hit me, hard. After that, I was pretty much done for, and I knew, I just chose to ignore it. 

Of course, I should have known I would screw up everything else, too.

“Hey, sweetheart,” his voice is kind and soft in my ear as he presses a kiss to my cheek. His stubble has never been something to bother me before until that very moment. I flinch away, not sure why. If he realized it - which I’m sure he did - he doesn’t show. 

“Smells good,” he says. 

I put the garlic into the pan. It smells too much like garlic and I hate it. 

“What you making?”

“Pasta,” I tell him. 

He kisses me again. “Mh-hm. How was your day?” the question is stupid, but it’s normal and he always asks. He gets himself a beer - only himself - removes the cap with his mouth and then leans against the counter. 

He shouldn’t infuriate me. He shouldn’t make me angry just by standing there and asking me questions couples ask themselves, but inevitably, he does. And I hate myself all the more for the way my voice sounds when I answer him. 

“Fine,” I say. 

“Fine?” he asks. “How was work?” I feel like he’s getting suspicious. “You only had two lectures today, right? English lit and what was the other one?”

“Linguistics.”

“Ah, yes. Your least favorite.”

Perhaps that’s why I’m angry. 

“You know,” he says and the tangent he goes on after revolves around him and only him, and while I don’t like talking about myself, that doesn’t mean he has to unload all of his stress on me - I don’t know why I think that way and it’s scaring me because I don’t actually feel that way, but at that moment I do and it’s all very confusing.

I just want to lock myself in his bedroom and cry. He looks so good with the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up. He’s wearing his glasses, still, but his tie is loosened and he smiles because he knows I love that smile. I should love it. I should love the way his muscles tense underneath his shirt or the way his dress pants hang impossibly low on his hips, but for the first time, I don’t. I don’t love anything, I just feel anger, which makes me hate everything, but mostly myself. 

I must have zoned out. Suddenly, he’s calling my name and he’s calling me sweetheart and he’s poking me with his hands - no, he’s stroking my hips, hugging me from behind, and it’s all too much. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I lie. He knows I’m lying. He can hear it in my heartbeat. He can feel it in the way I move away from him to rinse the now-empty pan in the sink. 

How is the food already finished?

“You didn’t listen to a word I just said,” he dares to sound offended. 

“No, I did.”

“Really, what did I say?”

“You and Foggy had a case, didn’t go well, bla bla bla. Same as every day.”

He sets the bottle down. “Alright, sweetheart, what’s wrong? I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me.”

“Oh, so just because I don’t care about hearing the same story repeat itself every day and you whining about it means there’s something wrong with me?”

He’s taken aback. Quite frankly, I’ve never snapped at him before, not like this, not out of nowhere, and we’ve been dating for over a year. With his super senses, there is little that eludes the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, especially when it comes to his girlfriend. I hate that it’s like this. I hate not having any privacy, even when I try to. But I don’t want to be alone, I don’t want privacy. Or, I think. I don’t even know what I want. I know I want to be around him, but at the same time, it hurts because the anger is too damn hot to swallow, and his concern doesn’t make it any better. It should be, but it’s not. I’m a lost cause. 

“I was just telling you about my day,” he says. I would yell back at myself if I were him, but he knows me. He knows yelling doesn’t help. He knows I’d cry, but maybe that’s what I want. Maybe I want him to yell just so I have a valid reason to cry, to be angry. 

I want him to hate me the way I hate myself. 

That’s why I can’t help it anymore. “Maybe I don’t want to hear about your day.”

“What?”

“The world doesn’t revolve around you, Matthew!”

He’s confused. I don’t blame him. The second the words left my mouth, I regret them. They make me sound like the most selfish person on the whole planet. I can’t take them back though. If I did, he’d know something is wrong and then he’d worry, he’d pity me and no, I don’t want that. I want to rile him up. I’m not sure why, but it makes me so angry that he’s so calm and I’m… well, I’m me, but I’m also not me. I’m a stranger in my own body. 

I put the pasta in a bowl. It stinks of alcohol and tomatoes and garlic, too much of it. I wonder how anyone could eat that. 

“Here,” I shove it into his hand, “You’ve been served. I’m gonna take a shower.”

I’m a bad person. I’m pretty sure I am. Who yells at their boyfriend because they can’t deal with their own problems? Who makes the person they love more than life itself feel like shit on purpose for no reason whatsoever? A sane person wouldn’t. We have never been a normal couple, Matthew and I, but we’re trying. Turns out, I suck much more than I thought I would.

It’s not the age gap, I’m sure of it. I’m in my last year as an English Major and he’s a defense attorney. Somehow, we make it work. He loves me, I know he does. He’s afraid of rejection - he thinks everyone he loves will leave him, which is why it took us a while to find together. I should have known my words were going to hurt him unimaginably. He thinks he did something wrong, but it’s not him. It’s never him. He’s damaged, but he’s nothing if not perfect to me, most of the time. 

I’m heavily crying at this point, trying to conceal my sobs, but it’s not working. The water is loud, not loud enough to fool Matt’s hearing, but even if he were to hear it, he knows better than to provoke me any further. He doesn’t know what’s going on and neither do I, so it’s just the two of us silently waiting for the other to come around. He shouldn’t have to feel that way. And so I cry more because God, I do not deserve that man. I don’t deserve his kindness or his love. I don’t. I really, really don’t. 

And once I’m out of the bathroom, I remember why I don’t deserve him. 

The table is set for two. Candles substitute for the harsh ceiling light. He knows it gives me headaches sometimes. He put a bowl out for me and a glass of wine. White wine. The sweet kind. The kind he hates but keeps around in case I ever need a glass. He’s drinking red wine. It’s cheap, but it looks expensive and he likes to feel special from time to time. 

I hug my arms around my body. He has his back turned to me, fixing a salad in the kitchen - I must have forgotten it. The way he moves is almost angelic. He moves as if nothing happened, as if I didn’t just treat him like a bitch. He’s singing my favorite song or humming it, anyway. The room smells of him and me and the food I loathed before, but watching him do all of this for me, even now, is sucking the air out of my lungs and suddenly, I don’t mind the thought of eating with him.

I only want one thing. I don’t want to ask for it and he’s not going to do anything unless I talk. We agreed on that from the beginning, no matter what kind of intimacy it involves. Without consent or a proper conversation, nothing will happen. And I curse myself for not being able to speak without the tears blocking my view again. 

“There’s a sweater on the couch,” he states. He knows I’m cold. “And some fuzzy socks, if you want.”

The clothes smell like him. 

“I put some more salt in the pasta. I think you forgot to salt the water, so I took it upon myself. I hope you don’t mind. Also, I tried to make your favorite salad dressing, but I’m not sure if I managed to get it right this time.”

He smiles and then his glasses are gone and he has an apron on and he looks like he loves me, really loves me, and that’s it. I pull my legs up to my chest, falling deep into the couch and I cry. All the pain just comes exploding out of me like an active volcano. 

The leather dents next to me. “Comfort or solution?” he asks. It’s so casual, I get the feeling he’s not mad at me. 

“I don’t know,” it sounds so broken.

His arm finds around my shoulder. “Is this okay?” I can only nod. Yes.

He moves me gently so I’m in his lap and he can rock me like a baby. It feels good to be loved like this, but it’s also suffocating. Still, I can’t help but fall deeper into his hold because this is, in fact, all I needed. Too stubborn to ask for it, I almost ruined something good. I know I did. He knows, too, but unlike me, he knows the difference between me being mad at him and being mad at the world. He knows I don’t mean what I say unless we’re fighting, and this isn’t it. We’re not fighting. I’m just angry and I want to cry, even while crying, and that makes me cry even more. 

“You want to talk about it?” he asks once I can finally breathe again. 

I blow my nose like a disgusting person and say, “Yes. No. I don’t know. Maybe.” And that about sums up all of my life. 

“Is it school?”

I shake my head. If it’s not school, it can only be one other thing. 

“Work?”

I nod. 

“Anything happen or just a bad day?”

“Bad day.”

“That’s why you yelled at me? I didn’t do anything wrong?”

“No,” I say truthfully for the first time. “I’m just angry. I don’t know, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Maybe next time try telling me though. I was actually scared I did something until I heard you cry in the shower.”

I don’t know what’s wrong with me and I tell him that, to which he only chuckles. 

“You know how many times I acted hostile towards you after a long day?” he says. “It happens. It’s okay.”

“I just… I’m so stressed all the time. I hate work and I hate people and I hate not getting paid enough or on time, but I can’t quit because you know, I’m me and they know that, so they take advantage of my inability to say no, and it sucks because I’m so tired of working more than I go to school, but I need the money, and so I can’t leave until I’ve found another job, but no one else wants me, so now I’m here, trying to see the good in this stupid job, but I don’t. I can’t. I hate it. I hate everything and everyone and I hate myself and I think I’ll get my period soon because this should not be upsetting me this much.”

His hand on my back manages to soothe me. 

“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it.

He smiles down at me, all loopy, and his sightless eyes are focused somewhere on my forehead, which makes everything so much better. 

“I love you.”

And yes, I love him too. I love him so fucking much, it hurts. 

“I love you too, Matty.”

As soon as I say his name, he knows what I want. He knows I need to destress. He knows I can’t eat until I can forget. 

“Is there something I can do?” he asks, but damn him, he already knows.��

“Can you…” no, I can’t ask him for that.

“Yes?”

“Matt, can…” No. “You know what, never mind.”

“No, sweetheart. Tell me. What do you need?”

“I just…” my chest heaves a frustrated groan. “IneedyoutoeatmeoutuntilIcantremembermyname.”

He enjoys it. He gets off on it, my desperation. “Sorry, what?”

“You heard me.”

“I don’t think I did. Can you repeat that?”

“God.” My face is burning. 

“I’m sorry, it’s just, this is the first time you actually asked me and I love hearing you ask for the things you want. It’s sexy.” 

Somehow, that’s even worse. My thighs clench like I’m some pathetic little schoolgirl with a crush on her teacher. 

“You know, maybe you can ask for a raise tomorrow, or quit altogether,” he says. “But for that to work, you have to tell me what you want right now.”

“I asked you to eat me out until I can’t remember my fucking name!”

“Thank you. Wasn’t so hard, was it?”

If there is one thing Matt Murdock is incredibly skilled with, it’s his mouth. And I don’t just mean the words that come out. Essentially, it’s all in his tongue. He’s managed to render me speechless on more than one occasion, and he knows. He knows I love when he touches me, but there are times when it has to be about me, and only me, and he’d gladly suffocate between my thighs. He’s told me that time and time again.

He keeps telling me to ask him if I want something. I never do. I hate asking for it because it’s embarrassing. It’s good that he knows what he’s doing, that bastard because if he didn’t, I wouldn’t be cumming and I wouldn’t tell him. Somehow he always gets the job done, no matter how stressed I am. 

That’s why I need it so badly. I need him to take care of me, no matter how long it takes. I know it might take a while because I’m tense and he knows too. He reads my body like an open book. That’s how he knows I’m horny before I even do. 

He doesn’t move for another minute. He just stares at me. “You want me to take care of you?” he asks.

“Please,” I beg. 

“Guess I’ll have dessert before dinner today then.”

He lifts my head and then he’s suddenly on top of me. He’s sliding me up the couch so he can fit in between my legs. I’m dressed in shorts, a t-shirt, and his sweater and for a second I wonder if it’s even worth it. I’m ovulating, I’m bloated. I feel like shit. My hormones are all messed up. I can feel the weight of my boobs tear on my back and I’m pretty sure the hairs on my legs prickle his cheek as he kisses them. It’s making me want to take back everything I asked of him. 

My confidence has taken a low blow this past week. 

Though Matt doesn’t care, he never does. He digs his nose between my thighs and takes the longest whiff I’ve seen him take in a while. To be fair, the last time we saw each other, he was busy with work. We didn’t have time for intimacy, which hardly ever happens. He moans. 

Smug bastard.

“You’re so beautiful,” he tells me. It melts my heart. The compliment means so much more knowing he can’t physically see me. To him, I’m beautiful. He couldn’t care less about what I looked like. Although sometimes I wonder what picture he has made up of me in his mind. 

His lips are on mine fast. I can’t help but sigh. They’re so soft. He doesn’t rush, he just kisses me and then kisses me some more. I tangle my hands in his hair. I’m sure, this is what heaven must be like.

“Let’s take this off.” His sweater joins my shorts on the floor. “May I?” He hooks his fingers underneath the waistband of my panties. “Or do you want me to keep them on?”

I have no doubt he could do it with five layers in between and still make me cum.

“Off,” I say. I want this. I have to remind myself that my insecurities mean nothing – he loves me. He wants to do this for me. He wants to do this because he likes it, or else he would say it. 

Matt is vocal, but I’m not. If he doesn’t want to do something, he’ll say. Can’t say the same about me, which is why he asks repeatedly, even after I already told him it’s okay. He wants to make sure I’m on board, that I don’t feel pressured and can pull out any time I want, but I don’t, because the second the cold air hits my bare cunt, all I want is him. 

I can feel his eyes searching for me. “Hey,” he says my name. “We’re not playing this time, okay? You can cum when you need to and how many times you want to. You just have to lay back and relax. I’ll take care of you.” 

He intertwines our fingers on either side of my spread thighs before he dives into me. It’s slow and steady. He doesn’t care about fucking me with his tongue like he usually does. He licks and bites, but mostly, his tongue and lips stay around my clit and they suck. They suck so good, I see stars behind my eyes. His touch sends shocks down my spine. My sensitive walls clench around thin air, but his head is so far between my thighs, I still manage to feel full. 

But no matter how hard I try, I can’t focus. It feels so good, way too good, and on any other day, I would’ve come by now. His beard burns into the inside of my thigh as I rock against him. I try to, but it’s exhausting. I can feel the coil in my lower belly clear as day, and yet it’s too far out of reach. I need it, I crave it. 

I can hear myself saying, “This could take a while.” And he laughs because he finds it funny. It’s not funny though, it’s serious. I hate the fact that he makes me feel so good and I can’t find it in myself to enjoy. 

“Close your eyes,” his breath fans hot against my folds. “And just stop thinking.” 

He makes it his mission to ruin me. I close my eyes and as soon as I do, he’s on me. It’s not just his mouth. One of our joined hands reaches up to touch my breast – he twists my nipple through the shirt until it’s hard and has his attention. The other reaches behind me and lifts my hips. The next thing I know, he has me propped up on a pillow. The muscles in my lower back relax. I sigh. It’s so good. 

He’s given up on slow and steady. His head moves in circles as he abuses – I don’t have another word for it – my clit and eats the rest of me like a man starved. I realize I need it fast and I need it hard. He knows it before I do. His tongue expertly parts my wet folds, a mix of arousal and spit trickling down my thighs, but I could care less. He’s inside of me and then his thumb is there and it’s rubbing and rubbing and rubbing and I’m so fucking close, the knot in my stomach feels like it weighs a hundred pounds, and it’s applying sweet, sweet pressure on cunt. 

“Fuck!” I throw my head back into the leather. My back arches impossibly high, and his head squished tightly between my thighs. I need him closer. His hair is so soft, it makes me want to cry, and I do. I cry, but not in a sad way. I cry out because yes, God yes! and then I’m cumming, suddenly and without warning, hard, all over his face, and it doesn’t stop. He doesn’t stop.

The growl is animalistic. It vibrates perfectly through my pussy and I can’t help it – it barely takes two minutes until his lips start hurting so good as they keep sucking my clit, a series of ‘one more’ leaves his lips in a plea, and I’m rocking against him hard. I’m begging him, “Matt,” but I’m not sure what for. 

“C’mon,” he says, “you can give me one more.”

He’s right. God, I hate when he’s right. My toes curl and I push his face so deep into me, I’m convinced he’s running out of air, but that’s what makes him moan and it sends me over the edge.

I’m pretty sure I passed out. The pleasure is so intense, my stomach feels like it’s being torn apart and then put back together. The world is dark and for the first time today, quiet. 

Something nudges my cheek softly. It’s his hand. Matt kisses me and I can taste myself on his lips. “Hey,” he coaxes me back into lucidity. “There you are. Are you okay?”

I nod.

“You need anything?”

It’s a reflex, reaching for him. He gasps slightly when my hand touches between his thighs, expecting to find a visible bulge, but there is none. I’m not sure if it’s my mind playing tricks on me, but there is a visible wet spot where his dick is supposed to be. 

“Did you-“ I finally open my eyes. He looks so drunk in the candlelight. I realize then that he is drunk on me. 

He buries his head in my neck. “You’re not the only one who’s been worked up all week,” he says. 

“You just- oh, my God.” I never thought it possible that it could be enough for him. “Thank you.” 

“No, thank you. You’re always so good to me. Good girl. But I think-“ his finger steals my breath as it circles my entrance and promptly slips it inside of me. “You can cum for me again.” 

I arch into him. My chest brushes against his. Our shirts suddenly feel like too much clothing and I’m desperate, so I tear at the buttons until they come apart. He has his arm back underneath me, holding me flush against him as if he’s afraid I might slip away. 

A wanton moan escapes me. “That’s it,” and his praise is even better. “Think you can take another one?”

He adds a second finger. It burns but only because even after a year, I’m still struggling to take any part of him. His fingers are thick and they’re rough and they’re scratching my inside walls just right. They massage the flesh. He’s pumping his fingers in and out and in and out, and he adds his thumb back on my clit because he knows I won’t be able to cum without it.

All of the stress falls off my shoulders. I feel him everywhere, his kisses, his touch, his hard nipples against mine. He’s hard again, poking against my thigh. I reach for him and he whines, he whines into my mouth. I’m not sure which one of us will come first. I suppose it’s me, it’s always me. He makes sure it will be me.

He hits as deep as he possibly could. His fingers curl inside of me and then, “There it is!” Is so victorious, it makes my eyes roll back. He keeps hitting that particular spot over and over again. My hand clutches his shoulder. I want to scream, but all that comes out is a series of whined and pathetic moans. I can’t help it, my muscles contract around him. 

“Damn, you’re gonna break my fingers,” he says. His chuckle is breathless. “You close?”

I hum.

“Do me a favor,” and I expect him to tell me anything but what he requests, “Don’t cum.” 

It’s rude. It’s cruel and it’s vile and I want to murder him because just as he says it, the coil tightens impossibly tight and I need to let go. It’s painful to hold it in, especially now. But I do as he tells me nonetheless. I want to please him. 

“Matt,” I moan. He’s so unfair and he knows it.

He smirks. “Just hold on a little longer.”

“I can’t!”

“Yes, you can. I know you can.”

“St- oh, fuck!” He hits my sweet spot with twice the intensity. I almost cum, but only almost. I keep it together, no matter how much it hurts, and it’s making tears prick at my eyes. “Please, just let me cum,” I hate begging him. “Please, Matty.”

“Shhh. We’re almost there.”

His thumb speeds up. I can see heaven. God is reaching his hand out for me. My stomach is in a tight knot, so tight, the silk might rip any second. The pressure is unreal. My muscles have been trained by him, I admit, but nothing can prepare you for this. Nothing can prepare you for the times when Matt has his mind set on something and he’s going to take it. He’s going to take you. 

I can’t think. It’s too much. I know I’m going to disappoint him. The animal inside of me is beyond satisfied and she wants out. She wants to let go. She loves the feeling of his fingers buried to the hilt inside of her. She loves him, and loving him tends to turn into sweet, sweet torture.

I moan his name again. His cock twitches underneath his dress pants, hot against my fingertips. 

“Almost,” he promises. “I just want to try something.”

What could he possibly want to-

“Cum.”

I’m flying. My back lifts off the couch and if it wasn’t for him, I would be dead by now. My body is shaking. It’s earth-shattering and it’s wet and it’s everywhere. I can feel the orgasm tearing me apart from the inside, blood rushing in my ears. My senses go black. I can’t see, feel or breathe. Everything is too much. It’s burning, it’s heavy, but it’s amazing.

His fingers don’t stop until he has milked the last drop of me until even the last ounce of stress has left my body and I’m limp. I’m a corpse. I’m barely breathing, a wet sack of potatoes in his arms. 

God, the look on his face. He’s cumming too. The wet patch on his pants has doubled. It’s not from me, although I’m suddenly very aware of the fact of what he just made me do.

“Oh.”

“Fuck,” he growls. “That was amazing.”

I never expected to have it in myself. “Oh, Jesus.” My words are highly blasphemous but I don’t care. I’m not even sure how to feel. The blush creeps up my cheeks and I close my legs a little. Everything is so wet. It’s all me and some of him, but mostly me. Just spurts of cum all over his hand and his couch.

He clicks his tongue, shoving my thighs apart. “Don’t go shy on me now,” he says.

“No, it’s embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing? Sweetheart, I’ve never felt more proud of myself.”

“I just- your couch. Oh, God.”

“I’m pretty sure the couch will survive it. Leather is easier to clean. How do you feel?”

I sigh, snuggling against his chest. “Better,” I have to admit. “Much, much better.”

“Good.” He kisses my neck. “Can I have my fingers back now?”

“No.” I like the feeling of him inside of me, even if it’s just his fingers. It makes me feel complete, almost. 

“Okay.” 

“Just gonna rest my eyes now.”

“You do that, sweetie. I’ll be here.” 

And he is. He always is. I wake up, and he’s there, and he always will be because he promised me this is forever. Us. Me and him. And I realize then that I’ve never been more in love with another person than I am in love with Matt Murdock.

[havockingboo]

Oh man this au already got me in a death grip noooooo I know y’all are looking at me like “king……bro 💀 what are you doing with these poor skeletons” I’m literally so sorry I made another au to cope with DJDFKDVM IT WASNT MY INTENTION

so yeah if you haven’t guessed, this au will heavily focus on papyrus being the older brother in the family, high expectations that were pushed onto him since he was a kid. Was proud of himself at first for being the oldest and being the most mature one and being the responsible then!! Doesn’t realize that will have long lasting effects on him as he grows up being a perfectionist, horribly controlled emotions and some pent up anger and temper. Oh yeah, it’s one hell of an au.

Has a dad that practically feels like he’s absent, emotional neglect, family issues that are buried or completely ignored and thrown out but then bite you in the ass at the worst times!! Oh what an au this will be..

Sans doesn’t smile very much in this au, he’s uh. hella tired himself with all the bullshit his family has to deal with in itself. As the youngest, you’d figure you’d be given more attention and care but no, with a dad like his and a brother that can barely take care of himself mentally and emotionally, he wasn’t getting any of that. He even has a bit of a temper himself but he actually controls it better than his older brother does. That doesn’t stop him from being sarcastic(which a lot of people still mistake him being serious, it’s the never changing expression on his face and tone) He goes through a lot in this au too, on the surface he appears done with everything, anti social, forever resting bitch face but bro!! He still is a very fun guy to chat with, he still got a lot of jokes to tell he just uh…wishes people would notice when he talked or well..even paid attention to him anyway. again being the youngest ain’t easy.

And Gaster…………………………………we don’t talk about him SDJSDKDFLMF ah yes the typical “father who thinks his love for his children will be enough, giving the basic necessities and every now and then ‘praise’ before he disappears for 3 days or a whole week to do work.” He figured, I raised these boys myself!! they know how to take care of themselves without me! which is true but little did he know he should’ve given them more hugs when they were younger lmao. Now they’re messed up!! He loves Sans and Papyrus. He really does he just, failed to show the proper love and attention he was meant to give but woo. Gaster himself also has a temper EVERYONE IN THIS FAMILY HAS A TEMPER but his?? Oh it’s bad. Those long shifts then coming home late at night can be like walking on eggshells. That’s why Papyrus is always on his best behavior when he’s around!! Before he runs to his room and never comes out until he’s asked for something. Sans is always cooped up in his room, wanting to avoid any interaction with his dad. Gaster wishes his sons talked to him more, but he messed that up a long time ago…

Whew okay uhhhh…… that was a lot!! But yeah this family has a loooot of issues that will never get fixed cause they can’t handle emotional problems for shit. Besides Papyrus but well I that’s another thing ha

[isawthisangel]

domestic/relationship situations with steven/marc headcanons part two

find part one here

masterlist

word count: 900w

a/n: i will happily write a full length fic for any of these if you guys send me one of the prompts, or any different ones<3

Steven loves to cook and is usually home by the late afternoon, but sometimes when he has more work to do when he gets home and you have to work late, you end up ordering takeout. You guys have a hat with all the different takeouts written on pieces of paper inside for when you can’t decide, which is often.

On weekends you love nothing more than holing up in the flat to binge whole seasons of tv shows. Steven is all over this, making the sofa as cosy as possibly, collecting blankets and snacks and content to sit for hours with your feet in his lap or your head on his shoulder, his arm around you. Marc usually lasts about two episodes before complaining that he’s bored.

You suggest reorganising the bookshelves. This takes weeks. Steven is so meticulous about where his books go, even though it looks like a mess to anyone else, he can find the book he’s looking for in seconds when he needs to. You have your bookshelf, but your books have started spilling over, which is fine as long as they’re in the right section.

Honestly I could write an essay about this. Steven sat cross legged on the floor surrounded by books, stacking them into piles and trying to work out how best to organise them, brow furrowed. You giving up trying to help after a while, realising he has his own, very complicated system. Rearranging the plants and fairy lights around everything when it’s finally done. Smiling whenever he looks at it for the next few days.

Both of the boys like to rant when they’re worked up about something, but the topics on which they tend to get so upset about vary drastically. If Steven is upset about a new display at the museum, or Donna getting his name wrong yet again, Marc will be angry about something going wrong on a mission, stomping and swearing around the flat injured and covered in blood.

Similarly, you have to learn that they can’t be calmed down in the same way. Steven can usually be placated pretty easily by a cup of tea or a shoulder massage, whereas with Marc you have to let him burn out by himself. When he finally collapses into a chair and goes silent, then you can move in and start patching him up best you can, dropping kisses onto his skin at regular intervals until he’s fully relaxed.

Baths. Steven doesn’t usually have a bath, and if he does you’re in there with him. Marc, on the other hand, would live in the bath if you let him. He’ll soak until the water’s cold and all the bubbles are gone, half asleep with a contented half smile on his face. He’d never admit it, but he loves coming home to a bubble bath.

Sometimes when you wake up you find Marc asleep on the sofa, not wanting to have woken you up when he got in from a mission the night before. Despite your protests he continues to do this if he knows you have to be up early the next morning, even though you’d rather be tired and know that he’s come home safe that night.

Similarly to the laundry, you can tell who’s been shopping while you’ve been at work by the contents of the cupboards and fridge and how they’ve been organised. Steven will have a meal plan on the wall and all of the (mostly fresh) ingredients neatly stowed away. Marc will have filled the freezer up, and maybe bought some fruit and veg, if you’re lucky.

Steven one hundred percent gets distracted and dances with you in the kitchen when you cook together. Enough said.

Sometimes you’ll catch Steven before he rushes out the door, ever late, for work to fix his tie or his hair. This isn’t necessarily because it looks bad, you’re just after one more kiss before he leaves. If he’s caught on, he doesn’t say. If you’re fixing Marc’s hair or clothes before he rushes out the door it’s most likely because he’d lost track of time with you in bed that morning. You’ve been late countless times for similar reasons.

‘Laughter is infectious,’ sure, but Steven’s laugh is actually infectious. If he’s laughing, you’re laughing, it doesn’t matter what he’s laughing at or where you are. Similarly, Marc laughs so little that when he does you find yourself smiling regardless, relishing in the sound, trying to memorise it.

Steven is annoyingly good at presents, and you struggle to match the thoughtfulness of his gifts. Marc has a strict no present policy, which you happily disregard during every holiday, knowing that he’ll complain and then smile secretly afterwards, when he thinks you can’t see.

You try to eat breakfast and brush your teeth with whoever it is you wake up to every morning, schedules allowing. It puts you in a good mood in the mornings, and prepares you for the rest of the day. If you get frustrated at work you think about breakfast, or how you get to go home to such a loving environment that night. It usually makes you feel better.

tag list💌 @propertyofkingvalkyriealkyrie @later-gators12

comment to be added ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

[zivazivc]

Pinocchio AU

Okay people want the explanation for this comic so here it goes. It’s long and complicated and MESSED UP because of course it is, this is me. I’m going to write in points because my small tired brain can’t handle good english atm but basically to sum up the Adrien was a sentimonster theory or Pinocchio AU as I like to call it:

Young married Emilie and Gabriel can’t have kids. Gabriel reluctantly accepts this fate and even brings up adoption as a possibility once, but Emilie doesn’t want to hear any of that. She’s a bit of a Marinette in the sense that she pictures this romanticized ideal life for herself and a child—her flesh and blood—HAS to be in it.

They keep trying to get a baby while other young families Emilie knows keep growing. She feels left out and hurt and depressed, then her newlywed twin sister announces she’s expecting a baby too and something within Emilie just unhinges.

She eventually lies to some of her friends, who she was out for coffee with, that she’s pregnant too. She mostly does it just to see their reaction and feel what it would be like but it quickly spirals out of control where she just starts pretending she’s pregnant until you can’t even tell if she believes it herself.

Gabriel is confused at first because he hears the news second hand (a friend/family member congratulating him) so he’s apprehensive when he approaches his wife but she convinces him that they really are getting a baby and Gabriel is ecstatic.

It’s only later at a doctor’s check up that Gabriel learns that she indeed is not pregnant. The doctor even speaks to him alone explaining that his wife is in denial and that he should make sure she goes to see a psychiatrist, something she definitely wouldn’t do alone.

Gabriel is unsuccessful with that because he’s not entirely persistent, doesn’t want to be the guy with the crazy wife having to tell everyone she lied about being pregnant, and hopelessly believes she’ll just get over it eventually.

That is until her “pregnancy is near due”—her sister already had Félix in England a few months ago—and he stumbles on her transformed with her peacock miraculous (they already have both of them) creating a sentimonster newborn.

They have a huge fight about it but because Emilie refuses to destroy it, won’t tell Gabriel where the amok is, and Gabriel can’t just hurt the baby with his hands, Emilie just… wins. Fucked up, yeah?

Now she tried creating kids before this one, using her imagination to try and blend her and Gabriel’s looks but it just wasn’t working. So she decided to copy of photos of baby Félix because he already looked almost like a copy of his mother, and Amélie and Emilie already looked alike so it’s not so weird?—is what her mind was telling her.

She didn’t dare alter his looks but she decided to give the baby Gabriel’s eye color to include the “father” in some way. (Yes in that comic I made I gave Adrien a mix of green and gray but that was mainly to get the point across to the perceptive readers)

Now we got Adrien, a normal baby boy to the whole world except for Gabriel who’s forced into his wife’s fantasy through social expectations.

Why are we only at this point and this post is already so long AAAAAAAA!!!

Adrien physically basically grows in a way where Emilie just keeps changing his appearance to match what Félix looked like a few months prior.

Mentally he’s like a robot just taking in information without really needing to learn it. So Emilie decides when he says his first word, she decides when he learns to walk,… He knows how to walk, he just wasn’t given the command to do so yet.

But even so he does develop a personality over time, just slower, because unlike a normal child who’s always testing his boundaries, how far they’re allowed to go until they’re in real trouble, Adrien just can’t misbehave. At all.

But he does have his favorite foods and favorite toys, and jokes that make him laugh the most. The problem is just that Emilie could just decide that his favorite food is strawberries and he’d just start acting accordingly, rewiring his belief. 

He also isn’t allowed to argue or be mean to others which is why Félix thinks he’s a goody two-shoes weirdo while Chloé the brat adores him.

This behavior isn’t so hard to hide with a toddler who’s fickle but it’s harder and harder as the kid grows. Which is why the family becomes very secluded over time.

Gabriel always keeps distance with his “son”. He’s not Dad, he’s Father, he doesn’t do hugs and cuddles, he doesn’t say I love you. But Adrien knows he loves him because his mom told him so and he loves him back unconditionally because Mom said that’s what families do.

Now even though Gabriel is traumatized by this whole ordeal and knowing Adrien “isn’t real” freaks him out he does soften a bit over time. I’m going to give an awful example but like someone who hates cats softening for a cat that their partner/roommate decided to get/had from before. Continuing with this example: But still becoming appalled when the cat starts acting odd/unusually.

Okay I think you get the gist. Let’s move on…

Emilie loves her son more and more as he grows and his sentimonster behaviours start bothering her more and more too. She hates being reminded that he’s not a real boy by people mentioning he looks young for his age because Emilie forgot to make him grow for a while. She hates when he does everything like he’s told. She hates that he has no real friends because they’re afraid to expose him to the outside too much and without supervision. She hates to think about his future.

Her desire for him to be real keeps growing and is what drives her to search for a solution in the miraculous spellbook.

She cracks the script after years, when Adrien is nearly a teen, and finds a way to transfer the creators soul into a sentimonster.

It’s a long process that takes time and while she falls ill to everyone around her, Adrien becomes more real.

Gabriel starts realizing what’s happening when he notices Adrien hesitate for a second when he’s playing a video game and Gabriel wants him to do something, groan when he gets bothered watching TV, huff, complain, have slightly opposing opinions to his and Emilie’s, when he argues with his mother when she tells him she’s feeling fine; when he notices his son’s eyes are greener. Or is it all in his head?

He confronts his wife too late, when she’s extremely ill already, her normally vibrant eyes dulled match Adrien’s bluish gray, and he pieces together in his head what she’s doing.

Before Gabriel could properly think what to do to stop the love of his life from turning into a lifeless doll, in a fit of panic he tries to take her wedding band (where he knows Adrien’s amok is) to get rid of Adrien instead, but is unsuccessful in getting it off her so he snatches her peacock brooch instead (which she needs to complete the spell obvs) and breaks it. (Heyoo! broken peacock miraculous. things are coming together)

Because the spell was almost complete anyway it’s Emilie who falls unconscious. But she doesn’t disappear because she’s not a real sentimonster, she just becomes dormant like one.

This is the point in the story where Gabriel makes it seem like Emilie ran away or something like that—basically disappear. Now he’s living knowing he has an almost sentimonster wife in the basement, knowing he almost killed his son (or her), and having to care for a son that suddenly became much more alive, questioning, arguing, angry, screaming, not accepting, crying, grieving, staring at him with Emilie’s eyes.

Instead of becoming a real parent, Gabriel shuts him out.

Soon Adrien evolves desires for socializing, company, getting away from the suffocating home which eventually leads to him going to a public school.

He slowly starts to live life freely without the restrictions that were put around his thoughts.

Gabriel has an even stranger relationship with Adrien now because he still loves him in a way but also holds resentment toward him. But mostly he sees him as something valuable.

The show happens here…  And now finally we get to the comic…

Gabriel gets a hold of the ladybug and black cat miraculouses. (There’s no epic fight in his lair as you see there’s no Ladybug in the comic but that’s not really important)

What’s important is that Gabriel had deciphered the miraculous spellbook with the help of Emilie’s notes and had decided to use the unification’s “wish” power to awaken Emilie.

He’s aware he’ll need to sacrifice something for the wish to come true and he’s certain Adrien should be enough because the soul inside him is literally the one thing Emilie is missing.

✨Adrien (poor boy just lost his miraculous) is taken to Gabriel’s lair, where he finds out his father is Hawk Moth, sees his mother, learns he’s a sentimonster, and that he’s going to become a sacrifice ✨

Of course the last part is not what happens. It’s Gabriel who ends up being sacrificed.

I can’t decide if Gabriel ends up sacrificing himself because he changed his mind in the last moment while Adrien was screaming for him to stop, OR  because he didn’t love Adrien enough for him to be considered an equal exchange for his wife… O.O

But anyhow…

Emilie wakes up with Gabriel’s soul within her (hence the bluish gray eyes in the comic).

Adrien is traumatized for life.

This took me hours to write… I knew there was a reason why I didn’t want to do it. I hope I didn’t forget anything and my brain made sense of it all

Well there you have it, peeps. The Pinocchio AU. It’s as messed up as my sleep schedule. Good night. 

[clydesdonovan]

heADCANONS CRYDE HEADCANONS PLEAs

goD okay I have been slowly adding to this for like 2 days whenever I had the chance and it made me so happy djsjdf I love talking cryde headcanons so much.

These are probably things I’ve said before but they’re some of my personal favorites sooo 🥺

Craig’s phone is full of candid pictures of Clyde that he’s taken over the years. Photographer Craig my beloved, he always snaps pictures of Clyde when he’s laughing, or using his hands to tell a dramatic story, or getting annoyed at a video game, or playing with Rex and Stripe. They’re all just random photos of Clyde being Clyde, but that’s exactly why Craig took them.

Clyde saves every single thing Craig has ever written for him — whether it’s a note passed in class, a birthday card, sheets for their numerous roleplays, homework he graciously let Clyde borrow. Craig has chicken-scratch handwriting and sometimes it’s hard to read, but Clyde cherishes every single thing anyway.

Craig is obsessed with Clyde’s cooking. Clyde is an amazing cook, he inherited a lot of really great recipes, and really great skills, from Betsy, and he loves to mess around with new ideas. He always ends up making tasty dishes or baking sweet desserts, and he always saves a plate for Craig (or else Craig will be very upset that he missed out on Clyde’s cooking).

Clyde is super clingy — literally. He just loves to cuddle, or hold hands, or lean against people, or put his head in someone’s lap. He’s a cuddly boy !!! Craig, obviously, is most often at the receiving end of Clyde’s need for closeness. (And he loves it very much, even if he sometimes pretends he doesn’t. Craig is Soft™️ for Clyde always.)

Clyde the clothes-thief my beloved. He is always stealing Craig’s stuff. You’ll find him wearing Craig’s old hoodie, or one of Craig’s favorite t-shirts, or Craig’s new jacket that he only wore like two times. He wears Craig’s stuff more than his own at this point, but like… they’re comfy and they’re Craig’s. Clyde is never giving them back.

Likewise, Craig isn’t really a thief like Clyde is, but he never turns down a chance to flaunt Clyde’s iconic letterman jacket. Not that being a jock means anything special (Clyde is still a big dork anyway), but it does make Clyde really happy, and the jacket is surprisingly comfortable so… win/win.

They argue about aliens. Like, a lot. They both believe they exist, but what kind of aliens they are is where the bickering starts. Are they gray or green? Little and cute or big and monstrous? Will they enslave the world or come in peace? Do they eat humans and abduct cows? Craig and Clyde will argue about aliens for hours if someone lets them. (Their friends are very tired.)

They kick ass at Mario Kart Double Dash. It’s a classic during their sleepover nights and they’ve pretty much scared away all of their friends from playing too by now — they win nearly every time. Clyde-Bowser and Craig-Luigi are just the best team literally ever.

They wore matching Halloween costumes until they were at least in college. It was always something silly: Shaggy and Scooby, Ash and Gary, Wario and Waluigi, etc. Every year, Craig swore they wouldn’t do it, but every year, Clyde’s puppy-dog eyes proved him wrong. (And besides, Craig is just as lame and cheesy too, even if he won’t admit it.)

They constantly make late-night runs across town to grab fast food. 90% of the time, it’s not even because they wanted food, but because they just wanted to be together, listening to Craig’s nighttime playlist or Clyde’s mess of Spotify favorites, and just exist for a few minutes.

Roger Donovan is the biggest cryde supporter of all time okay he loves them so much. He spent a lot of looonnng nights talking with Clyde about his developing feelings and how to deal with them, and all of the confusion that sometimes comes with it. So, in the end, he feels so happy he almost cries when Clyde mentions, casually over dinner, that Craig is his boyfriend now :’)

[arhvste]

❝ the morning after ❞

ft : suna rintarō, sakusa kiyoomi, miya atsumu, kozume kenma, asahi azumane

warnings : sfw but suggestive - implied sex [night before]

SUNA RINTARŌ

-> sleeps in with you

-> neither of you are in a rush to get up and you’re both tired

-> he’s lazy but he has stamina and that’s evident from last night

-> around 11:30AM he’ll grunt at you signalling he’s awake

-> “oi, you awake?”

-> his voice is heavy with sleep and his hands are already looking for your body

-> eventually you’ll stir awake and find your bodies been shifted so you’re back in his arms

-> suna is naturally warm so his body heat is transferring onto you keeping you satisfied in his arms

-> “morning rin” you’ll mumble tiredly back at him

-> the second he hears your voice he’s got a lazy grin painted across his face

-> “wanna get up in a minute?” he’ll ask

-> what he means is he wants breakfast

-> but he’ll be the one cooking so don’t worry

-> he’ll slip his large t-shirt over you to keep you covered and carry you on his back downstairs before sitting you on the kitchen counter

-> lucky you, you get a nice view of his bare back whist he cooks

-> he’ll still be yawning and stretching whist he’s by the cooker but then he hisses slightly

-> why?

-> because you left some angry marks on his back last night >:(

-> “i’ll take care of those after breakfast”

-> your reassurance is cute because he doesn’t actually need treatment but the fact you’re willing to take care of him is precious to him

-> “you gonna take care of me yeah?”

-> pretty side glancing at you in his shirt

-> he wants to tease you, he really does

-> but he just can’t stop himself from losing himself in the sight of you sat on the kitchen counter with one of his shirts covering you while you tiredly rub your eyes

-> he’s so whipped

-> too whipped in fact because he loses concentration of everything else

-> “rin, you’ve seen me with and without this shirt many times now focus”

-> “nah, i like the view”

-> “and i like my eggs preferably not burnt.”

-> he looks down at the pan, and you’re right

-> “worth it”

SAKUSA KIYOOMI

-> he’s up early no matter what his late night activities were

-> and he would be up on his morning run right now but there’s something stopping him

-> you cutely curled up beside him in bed

-> you’re not even awake and yet you still have control over him

-> he just sighs and hopes you wake up soon so you can both shower together

-> although he loves making a mess with you, he loves cleaning it up better

-> he’s literally itching for a shower by the time you stir awake

-> see, he actually waits for you to wake up because he respects he wore you out last night

-> “good morning princex, shower?”

-> he’s already scooping you up from the bed before you even have a chance to respond

-> yourself and sakusa have a very spacious shower room

-> sakusa isn’t a fan of those tight little single showers so he made sure to purchase an apartment with nothing but the most luxurious bathroom layout and facilities

-> please, you even have one of those tile benches installed in the shower

-> and this is perfect because sakusa loves washing your hair for you

-> his fingers are perfect in your hair as he works in the products you use and throughly washes it after

-> he’s very gentle and after washing you down you do the same for him

-> pressing wet kisses along your shoulder blade and collarbone, he loves the feeling of your hands lathering soap across his body

-> he would argue that the activities the morning after were more enjoyable than the activities in the bedroom

-> but they’re both important to him in different ways

-> the soft mutters of “i love you” and “thank you” are exchanged between the two of you as he handled you gently

-> will carefully lead you out the bathroom and sit you down by the big vanity in your room before pulling out a hair dryer

-> the two of you take self care importantly and make sure to take care elf one another accordingly

-> mornings after with sakusa are slow but very intimate

MIYA ATSUMU

-> an early riser but will sleep in the next morning

-> he honestly just wants you close to him for as long as possible

-> he’ll joke about going for a morning round but really he just wants you cuddled up close to him

-> slow kisses always occur when it comes to mornings with him

-> he doesn’t care that it’s mid winter and the two of you are still naked

-> he’ll get his morning kisses one way or another so as soon as he stirs awake he’s trapped you in his arms so you can’t leave him

-> presses kisses along your shoulders and back as he waits for you to wake up

-> honestly, he’s just in love with you all over again

-> who allowed his s/o to be so perfect even first thing in the morning :(

-> “morning tsumu” makes him perk up everytime

-> “mornin’ doll”

-> doesn’t care how awake you are, the fact you’re speaking tells him you’re awake enough for a slow make out sesh before getting up

-> these types of kisses arent like the ones from the night before

-> they’re equally as special but they’re different

-> these kisses are slow and meaningful, he’s making sure you’re aware of how gentle he really can treat you

-> they’re a reminder that he does think you’re special and he does care and want to keep you safe

-> his love language is physical affection and he tells you he loves you through the long and slow kisses he forces you to crave more of

-> after a while you will tell him it’s time to get up though

-> he’ll whine but oblige and get up and out of the covers revealing a very naked atsumu

-> “like what ya see? we can always go for another round if ya-”

-> “get in the shower and i’ll see you downstairs for breakfast in 10.”

-> “yes angel :,)”

KOZUME KENMA

-> waking up at the same time as kenma is a blessing and a curse

-> he loves that he gets to wake up and see you at the same time you see him

-> but he’s also not prepared to be met with his naked s/o first thing in the morning

-> he won’t even look you in the eye

-> “kenma, are you okay?”

-> “you’re um naked”

-> “yes?”

-> “aren’t you cold or something maybe you should put something on”

-> “but just a few hours ago you were eating m-”

-> “JUST PUT SOMETHING ON!”

-> he’s so embarrassed but it’s only because you both know the effect you have over him

-> you just laugh and call him a baby

-> but maybe you should’ve just stayed naked because he’s even more flustered at the sight of you in his sweater

-> your naked body is under that :0

-> he wears that sweater when he streams too :0

-> scandalous >:)

-> “take it off.”

-> “but you just said t-”

-> “kitten please, you’re doing it on purpose”

-> he’s so flustered and it’s all your fault

-> he’s so worried he looks weird in front of you but honestly it’s cute seeing him so vulnerable

-> you just pull him back down under the covers to sleep for a little longer

-> and who is he is deny when you’re clinging to him in his sweater like that

-> looking down at your precious face too

-> how is he ever meant to say no to you

-> and honestly sleep sounds so desirable right now

-> maybe when he wakes up he’d be more prepared for the sight of you in his clothes

-> he’s just so in love with you and he loves and hates that you have this effect over him

-> but he’s glad that it’s you that has this effect on you and only you

ASAHI AZUMANE

-> you are not getting up early in the morning

-> actually, you’re not getting up at all because you ache

-> and it’s a pain because you wake up before him

-> so you’re just kinda sat there waiting for him to wake up

-> when he does wake up he’s met with a small smirk painted across your face

-> “morning?”

-> “i cant move”

-> “please don’t say it like that!”

-> he is so apologetic

-> he didn’t mean to hurt you and besides you were technically asking for it :(

-> but he will pamper you because he feels horrible

-> even if you tell him it’s okay he won’t listen and he will treat you the way he feels you should be

-> he’ll keep you in bed and go make you breakfast

-> any mail is brought up for you to read in bed

-> any water or coffee you require he will bring

-> “baby i’m not sick”

-> “but you can’t move and it’s my fault”

-> please dhsbdjebd

-> he will be like this for most of the day until you insist you feel better

-> constant apologises are given to you throughout the day despite the fact you promise you’re okay

-> he feels so bad oh :(

-> reassure him enough and he’ll start to believe you though

-> also reassure him it’s not his fault because he will be mentally taking note for the next time you guys ya know >:)

-> “why do you ask for it if you know it hurts the next morning”

-> and he has a point

-> “because it’s worth it”

-> that’s always your argument

-> and besides if that’s why you want from him at the time he won’t deprive you

-> you just have to promise to let him take care of you the next morning that’s all

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