#it's just sometimes my right knee gives out and i nearly fall

[moonstruckme]

A Winter Wonderland

summary: you marvel at the beauty of your Christmas tree, and your boyfriends marvel at you

poly!marauders x whimsical!reader ♡ 911 words

You could fall asleep here, you think. It’s very lulling, the sound of the fireplace crackling a few feet away, the scent of pine needles, and the view of a forest unlike any other stretching out in front of you. Lights of blue and green and red filter through the thicket, and poking through you can see the edge of a handmade paper star, the fuzzy end of a dog’s tail. Your Christmas tree from below. 

“What are you doing?” Sirius has the half amused tone of when he feels like he’s caught you at something odd and he hasn’t decided whether to rag you or to join you yet. 

“Admiring our decorating,” you reply. “We did a good job.” 

“You’re supposed to look at it from in front of the tree, sweetness.” 

“It looks nice from there, too,” you allow, “but nobody ever appreciates it from down here.” 

There’s a new set of footsteps, a big hand on your knee. “Are the branches not scraping you?” James asks curiously. 

“Only sometimes.” 

You hear a smile in his voice. “It’s worth it, though, eh?”

You hum in affirmation. 

“Well, this I’ve gotta see.” 

James is bigger than you are. You lift the branches for him as he shoots his top half in beside you, but when you let go they come to rest on his chest. He grins at you before looking at anything else. A classic James Potter smile, heartfelt and breathtakingly handsome.

“Hi, angel.” 

“Hi.” You reach for his glasses, carefully readjusting them on his nose. 

“It smells nice in here.” 

“It does,” you agree, pleased to be sharing it. You turn your face upward again. James follows suit. “It looks like another world.” 

“It is very pretty,” he says. Multicolored lights spiraling upward, the odd ornament sticking in through the branches, the tree itself lush and fantastical in dark green. “You’re right, we did a good job decorating.” 

“Don’t you sort of want to live here?” you ask on a sigh.

“You mean here in our sitting room?”

“No, here in the forest.” 

“Ah.” James gives this some thought. “It is nice, but I quite like my life the way it is.” 

You turn to look at him, and he’s already looking at you, glasses reflecting a rainbow of lights and brown eyes warmer than warm behind them. Your insides go soupy. 

“I like it, too,” you say softly. “I wouldn’t want to go if you all couldn’t come with me. Maybe we could move our place there. Or just visit sometimes, like camping.” 

James smiles at you. A dimple appears in his left cheek. “You mean on weekends?”

“Sure.” 

“I’m sure we could make that happen, lovely.” 

“Oi.” Sirius gives your knee a little shake. By the way James looks down, you guess your boyfriend’s doing the same to him. “What are you two whispering about down there?”

“He’s jealous.” James drops his voice into a deeper whisper, louder yet somehow less intelligible, solely to provoke Sirius. “He knows this view is better than in front of the tree.” 

“I don’t know,” you say, smiling at his antics. “I think he’s just worried we’re discussing his Christmas gifts.” 

Another shake to your knee, more insistent this time. “What is going on down there?” 

“Nothing,” James sing-songs. 

“Who’s left a pot of soup on the stove?” asks Remus, voice becoming clearer as he comes into the room.

“Oh, that was me,” you say. “It’s just simmering, don’t worry.” 

“It’s…what the fuck…” 

“I know,” Sirius says emphatically. 

“Dovey, why are you and James’ legs sticking out from under the tree like the Wicked Witch of the East?”

“Why do you assume it was her idea?” asks Sirius, at the same time as James asks, “Who’s the Wicked Witch of the East?” 

“I’m admiring our tree,” you tell Remus placidly.

“It does look really cool from down here,” James advocates for you. “Gives a new perspective on the decorating.” 

Remus makes an amused humming sound. “That’s really nice, but your soup’s nearly boiling over, sweetheart.” 

“Oh, no.” You start to wiggle out from underneath the tree. Sirius’ hands wrap around your ankles, giving you a helpful tug the rest of the way. You grin up at him. “Sorry,” you say to Remus, “I must have set the stove too high.” 

He smiles, reaching for you. “That’s okay.” He takes the ends of your hair between his fingers. “How’d you manage to get your hair wet?” 

“Hm?” You look. “Oh, it must have been in the tree’s water. I didn’t notice.” 

“There’ll be pine needles in it, too, then,” Sirius laughs. 

Remus shakes his head, but he’s looking at you like you’re one of his favorite things in the world. One of his favorite three things, for sure. 

“How about,” he suggests, “I go turn down the heat on your soup, and Sirius helps you get all the tree bits out of your hair?”

“That’s nice of you.” You push up on your toes, kissing Remus’ cheek. “Thanks.” 

Remus presses one to your lips in return, and Sirius takes your hand, leading you to the bathroom. 

“Did you dunk your hair in the water, too, Prongsie?” he asks when James follows. 

“I don’t think so,” says James. “I just want to see if her hair smells like Christmas tree.” 

Sirius hums. You giggle when he makes a show of bringing your hair to his nose, sniffing curiously. “It does, actually.”

[disgustingtwitches]

@rememberwren's Sperm donor!Johnny and Husband!Ghost has been stuck in my head for far too long. So here's a quick unedited little thing I wrote for it!

You forgot exactly what you were nervous about. Then again, you usually forget everything when your husband is between your legs.

“Gotta warm you up properly.”

He said earlier to Johnny and you, his large hand rubbing your thigh just a touch too high and making your face hot. 

You're not sure how much “warming up” you needed; he's been at it for God knows how long, and you're dizzy and pretty sure you can't feel your toes anymore. He can be so mean sometimes when he's like this, biting your thighs when you try to push his head away, smiling at how you whimper.

“You know, I'm starting to think you like it when I do that.”

As overstimulated as you are, you whine when he pulls away. You swear you can see the hearts in his eyes when he looks down at you. Gets you right in the heart. 

When he rolls out of bed and walks to the door you suddenly remember why your stomach was in knots earlier; you're about to sleep with his subordinate. No, that's not the right word. Brother in arms? Best friend? Their relationship always seemed more complex than words could describe. There's a soft knock on the door and you look up to see your husband walk in with Johnny in tow. 

Johnny's knees nearly give in at the sight of your body tangled up in the sheets, breathing hard, and skin glistening.

“Prettiest thing I've ever seen.” 

He smiles while unbuckling his pants. Simon hums in agreement and sits next to you, running his fingers up your arm and neck to caress your face. The look in his eyes could melt you right then and there, grounding and reassuring. Everything is going to be alright; it always has been and always will be.

Your eyes shoot back to Johnny, who's crawling over you slowly. You bite back a groan when Simon coos a good girl as you open your legs more, inviting Johnny to settle between them. The difference between your husband's face and the man hovering over you is night and day; Simon all soft and enamored, Johnny all fervid and lustful. 

“Ye ready?” 

Johnny's voice is almost as shaky as his hands, not nervous but almost deliriously aroused. You never had wandering eyes; it seems like it's wrong to even look at him now, but you don't want this to feel unnatural; you want to enjoy this. So you scan his body, toned chest falling and rising fast, strong arms caging you in, blue eyes so intense you have to look away.

“Uh-huh.”

You reply quietly, bucking your hips against his, your most sensitive parts rubbing against his. The gasp you share makes you both chuckle, easing the tension. You run your hands up his arms and wrap them around his neck. When you pull him closer, he follows eagerly, burying his face against the crook of your neck, stubble tickling you. 

“Dinnae have to do this if you don't want to, hen.” 

“No, I want to.” 

Your voice, smaller than you want it to be, makes Johnny's eyes soften. You look over to Simon, he cocks his head to the side, raising an eyebrow slightly, checking in. You just nod and he nods back. You keep your eyes on Simon while addressing Johnny,

“Ready.”

There's a pause, a shift, and then. You groan and roll your eyes back when he slides in, still facing Simon who blinks fast. Johnny breathes like the air was knocked out of him,

“Jesus…fuck…”

He curses to himself, face still buried at your neck, slowly moving his hips forward until his pelvis meets yours. You whine as he nips your neck and yelp when he punches his hips forward from the sounds you make. Your husband leans over and palms the back of his neck, talking in a low, serious tone that makes you tighten up, 

“Johnny.”

“Yeah, LT?”

“Ease up.” 

“Yes, Sir.” 

Johnny places a soft kiss where he bit you. It's all so…overwhelmingly intimate. Another man on top of you, grinding at just the right angle, hitting the right spots, all while your husband watches, instructing him. Simon pulls his hand away from Johnny's neck and shifts on the bed, sitting right next to you. Your eyes go wide when you turn to see him palming his erection. Oh. This is okay. This situation is more than okay. Simon fucking loves this. Johnny too. Guess you should throw away any reservations or doubts you had and just embrace this moment. Enjoy it to the fullest. 

Johnny pulls back, face slightly flushed, panting softly,

“She's so wet, Simon. Just so soft and perfect. Prettiest thing I ever saw...” 

You soak in the compliments but tune him out eventually, your attention drifting down to where Johnny slides in and out of you. It's a dreamy sight, really; you look so good together, it kind of reminds you how wonderful you and Simon look together. 

“Looks real nice, doesn't it? Taking me so well, hen.”

Johnny presses his forehead against yours, looking down while you hum in agreement. It's quiet for a moment, save for the occasional pant and moan or slick sounds from between your legs. A rough hand holds your left and another, larger hand grabs your right. It's all so sweaty, so sticky and sweet. So dazed, you barely register the first kiss Johnny plants on your lips. The second one makes your eyes shoot open, staring right at his annoyingly long, brown lashes until he pulls back and opens his eyes, blindingly blue. Your face gets hot, and you pull your hand to your face, your husband's fingers still intertwined with them. He extends his pointer finger to caress your cheek and you turn your face to look up at him. He's so gentle right now like he knows that's what you need from him. 

A smile plays on his face when you open your mouth and slide his finger into your mouth, sucking softly, rolling your eyes back, and moaning softly. You love giving him a show. Love making him melt in your mouth. He nods over to Johnny, whose jaw is slack, breathing hard. When you look at him, it's quite the sight: blue eyes wide and wild, mouth hanging open, and you can see his pulse right underneath his jawline beating wildly. Just fucking delectable. You pull your face away from Simon's hand and smile up at Johnny who groans and chuckles,

“Christ, LT.”

“Focus, Johnny. Ain't done yet.”

There's something feral that flashes in Johnny's eyes, hungry. Eager to please. You or Simon, you're not too sure. But he hooks an arm under your knees and hikes your leg up as far as it'll go, digging into you until you're a whimpering mess under him. His whole body pressed up against you, pinning you down. His mouth pressed right up against your ear, replacing every thought you had with his voice. 

“Right there? Huh? God, tight cunt right here…C'mon... Tell me how good it is…Tell me.”

He repeats the last phrase until you're mindlessly praising him, telling him what he wants to hear. What he needs to hear. You can feel him smile against the skin right under your ear before pressing tender kisses there. 

You're pressed chest to sweaty, hairy chest when you wrap your arms around him tighter, embracing him. All traces of guilt scraped away with Simon's breathy praise. You move one hand around until it rests on your husband's big thigh, and he tenses up under your touch. 

“C'mon love, give Johnny something real nice. He's been such a trooper, yeah?” 

You nod into Johnny's shoulder, breathless. 

“Uh-huh,”

It hits you hard and fast. Almost unexpectedly. Hearing a small moan escape Simon always sent you over the edge, though, always a rare moment when he lets himself relax and be vulnerable. 

Spasming and moaning under Johnny had his hips moving frantically, desperate for his own release. Biting his shoulder had him crashing right into it, digging deep into you until his hips still. He crushed you under his weight, licking the sweat off your neck. Simon pushed his head away though. 

“Don't forget, she's my wife Johnny.

His voice isn't harsh, it's almost soft. His large frame leans down and presses a tender kiss against your lips. Then another. And another. All while singing velvety praises between each one. For a moment, you forget about the other man in the room lying right on top of you. Until he pulls away, sliding out of you. Almost makes you whine til he starts pressing his lips against your sternum and stomach. Head in the clouds, you feel like you're floating. Suspended in this moment of pure bliss. 

“You got one more in you?”

Simon asks. Before you can answer, Johnny responds eagerly. 

“Always.”

[logansdoe]

Will trying to focus working but reader is under the desk edging him 😭

im ovulating

y'all are planning to kill me with these.

"stop that", his voice echoes the empty classroom. Someone passing by the open door would think he has gone completely mad after the cases he worked on.

His handwriting keeps messing up. Spelling mistakes or letters that don't even exist. He should have never agreed to this. Never let you sit under the table and torture him.

But how could he refuse? You begged so pretty. "I'll be good, I promise", devils words, he believes. Your eyes looking at him. Brows furrowed with such desperation. He was a weak man for you.

Pushing his chair back a bit as he looked down. On your knees as she continued to press kisses on his cock. Your dark lipstick now faded across your lips. Imprints of it, darker to lighter, littered his cock.

That's what you have been doing. For the last 30 minutes. Kissing it, sometimes occasionally licking the tip to taste his precum. Bitter, but you never complained.

He wants to take your name, tell you to quit it. But he can't. It's too risky. Agreeing with you was always risky.

Still, your name falls from his lips as he leans back in his chair. The pencil dropping on the page he was writing. He can't even catch a break with you. Letting out a deep hum as his hand tucks your hair behind your ear.

Your eyes looking up at him as you pulled off, still having your hand around his width. He knew what you were doing. Teasing him, tormenting him until he gave what you wanted.

He felt ashamed of himself. Having a pretty thing like you on your knees, nearly half his age. And still getting hard like a teenager who is about to cum in just a few minutes.

His hand goes to the back of your head as guides his tip to your lips. "Open", he jests. You did. The tip brushing against your tongue making him part his lips. Fuck, he's sensitive.

It hitting the back of your throat. Making you breath in through your nose. You looked so pretty, Will groaned. His lips parted, like it was getting harder for him to breathe.

The hand at the back of your head now guided your head. Will could cum just at the sight of you. Making him buck his hips. Was it because you teased him for so long, because he is too close to cumming.

"oh— baby, agh—", he looked down at you. Brow creased. Lips parting before he licked them. Taking his bottom lip in-between his teeth to muffle his groans.

Your head moving faster. Saliva escaping from the corner of your lips and to your chin. Trying to breathe through your nose but choking, making your splutter around him. Gagging.

But he didn't care, not right now. You're fine. His hips bucking up as he breathed heavier and heavier. Pushing your head all the way, your hands grabbing his thigh and hip.

Not even a minute later he whimpered. The hot cum sliding down your throat. Not even tasting it before it went down. His eyes closed, hand shaking around your hair. Feet kicking at the ground before it passed in waves.

Finally, letting you go as he pulled you off. His softening cock slipping out of your mouth. His shaky hands brushing your hair away as he took a tissue from his table. Wiping away the spit and some of his cum from your lips and chin.

You smiled as you looked up at him, "are you less stressed?", you asked. Teasing. He looked at you before humming.

You'll give him a heart attack one day. But he'll make sure its when he is between your legs, while being suffocated from your pretty cunt.

a/n: Will shakes like crazy when he cums and you can't change my mind.

[wheels-of-despair]

Tangled Pairing: Eddie Munson x You Summary: Eddie gets a comb stuck in his hair. Evil Woman untangles it, and a little bit of his tragic backstory comes out with it. Contains: A minor tantrum, a sad Eddie, a little hair lore, and our boy being loved and taken care of. Words: 1.2k Note: This takes place during their first winter together.

"FUCK!"

A loud clatter follows the yell from behind the closed bathroom door, making you jump from your position on the Munson's couch.

You're sitting there in borrowed sweats, watching a Mork & Mindy rerun while you wait for Eddie. You'd spent most of the day playing in the snow with the neighborhood kids, and had both required about a gallon of hot chocolate and a warm shower to recover. The girls had won the final snowball fight, which meant you earned the first shower. (He probably would've let you go first even the boys had won, but you're counting it as a victory shower anyway.)

When you don't hear anything else, you rise and slowly approach the bathroom door. Silence. You knock lightly. "Eddie? You okay?"

The door slowly creaks open, revealing a pair of worn burgundy sweats, a faded Hellfire Club shirt, half of a black comb stuck in a tangle of matted hair, and the most pathetic puppy eyes you've ever seen.

"You okay?" you ask again.

"Comb got stuck," he says miserably.

"Want me to get it out?"

Eddie squirms, looking like he wants to wash himself down the drain. He turns toward the mirror and gives another feeble attempt at getting the comb out. You lean against the doorframe, waiting for him to ask for help, and your eyes drift to the bathtub. All of the bottles that usually sit on the ledge are scattered across the bottom of the tub. He must've thrown something and knocked them all down. Maybe you should take him bowling sometime.

Eddie sighs, releases the comb, and hangs his head in defeat. Looking at the floor, he turns to you and nods his head slowly.

"I promise I'll be gentle," you assure him, as quietly as you can. "C'mon." You tilt your head toward the living room and start walking, hoping he'll follow.

You slide the coffee table to the side, drop a pillow on the floor for him to sit on, and take your seat on the couch. You gesture for him to sit between your legs. He does, reluctantly. You want so badly to know what's actually wrong, you feel like you may burst… but you know better than to ask.

You reach for the comb embedded in his wet hair without a word, and he flinches. You rest your hands on your knees instead.

You play with his hair all the time. When you watch movies, his head often ends up on your lap, and your hands gravitate to it. He gets the cutest little smile on his face when you tuck his hair behind his ear. You know for a fact that rubbing light circles on That One Spot on his scalp will put him right to sleep. Why is this different?

"You okay?" you ask.

"Yeah."

"You know I'm gonna try my very best not to hurt you, right?"

"Yeah." His voice is hollow. Emotionless.

You carefully reach for the mass of tangles and the buried comb again. He tenses, but doesn't flinch. You begin working it out, piece by piece, taking your time and focusing all your energy on keeping it painless while the laugh track on TV keeps the room from falling into awkward silence.

When you finally get the comb out, you set it aside and reach for your own brush. Starting at the ends, you gently work out all the rest of Eddie's tangles. The whole process takes nearly an hour, and he doesn't move a muscle the whole time.

"Alright, you're done," you finally declare, setting your brush aside. He heaves a sigh of relief, and you lean down to kiss the top of his head.

He turns sideways and rests his chin on your knee. You cup the side of his face, rubbing your thumb across his flushed cheek, and he closes his eyes. Just when you think he's fallen asleep, he heaves another sigh and starts talking.

"My mom used to brush my hair when I was little. Her brush had those hard, scratchy bristles that felt like wire." He swallows, but still doesn't open his eyes. "My hair wasn't this long, but I used to play outside all day. To get away from them, mostly. But when I came home at dark, she'd make me stand in front of her in the kitchen so she could brush it. She'd yank and pull at it and brush my neck and my ears and my forehead. I think it actually drew blood once or twice. If I moved or complained, she'd put me over her knee and use the other side."

You didn't realize your hand had stopped stroking his cheek until he stopped talking. You move it to his shoulder, still a little damp from his hair, and give him a light squeeze.

"One day, after she died, I went in the bathroom with scissors I stole from school and cut it all off. Well, I tried. They were dull and kid-sized. Dad laughed at me when he saw it. Made me go to school like that. The nurse finally took pity on me and evened it out after a few days."

He crawls onto the couch and lays his head on your lap, facing the TV. Normally in this position, your hands would be in his hair immediately, but today… you hesitate. Although he can't see you do it, he must sense it. He puts his hand on your knee, palm up. You take it, and place your other hand on his arm in a gesture you hope is comforting.

"When I came to live with Wayne, he'd give us both a buzz cut on the first of every month. The noise from the clippers scared the shit out of me at first, but after watching him do his own a few times, I finally let him do mine. I didn't start growing it out again 'til the summer I graduated from middle school. That's when I decided nobody was gonna fuck with it. And nobody was gonna fuck with me."

He lets go of your hand and flips onto his back, staring up at you.

"Kay, that's the whole traumatic hair story you didn't ask for."

You smile and reach for his hand again.

"It doesn't bother you when I play with it?"

"Not gonna lie… scared the hell out of me the first time," he chuckles. "Usually, when a girl goes for the hair, it's to pull it or stick something in it. One time, a girl dragged me across the playground with it. But you? Just started twirling it and playing with it and putting me to sleep. Didn't ever want you to stop. Couldn't fucking believe it."

You feel your heart warm at his confession, and finally let your hand return to that beautiful head of hair. Your fingers lightly work at his scalp, and he smiles sleepily up at you.

"You know I'd never hurt you, right?" You know he knows, but you need him to hear it. "Unless it's like… in a kinky way that you specifically request."

"I'll keep that in mind," he smirks.

[matchpointfaist]

cardan greenbriar ; high king of elfhame

cardan was everything you despised. he was rude, arrogant, mean, cocky, self centered, and lazy. he was, at times, a drunk, and he was always condescending. the worst thing about him, though, was his striking beauty; high cheekbones, full lips, inky black hair. pointed ears adorned in ornate piercings, gold liner rimming his dark eyes, a smirk nearly always present on his face. it all came together to haunt you, in only the way the unnatural, privileged beauty of the high fae could.

in public, you loathed each other. he was a menace, as always, and you lashed out often. but in private, in his chambers, you knew each other better than anyone ever could. you knew how to render him speechless, for once in his life, and he knew just how to make you finally submit to his whims.

after a particularly bad night, he stormed into his room to find you already there, waiting, seething from his bedsheets, glaring up at him while you'd already been plotting the ways you'd make him come apart for you that night.

"you are infuriating," he hissed, unbuttoning his shirt as he crossed the room, his pale cheeks tinged pink with anger, or lust, or something in between. "you can never just keep your mouth shut, you always have something to scold me for. do you know how many women in this kingdom would kill to be where you are right now? you'd think you would show me a little gratitude,"

"oh, forgive me, high king," you sighed dramatically, watching as he shed the rest of his clothes, "i forgot, i live to serve you, and i should only speak when spoken to-"

he cut you off, climbing over you, pushing your legs apart to settle between them as he kissed you, shutting you up. sometimes, cardan could be something akin to sweet, though it was rare. tonight, however, was anything but. he was selfish, needy, harsh; his kiss was all teeth and tongue, his hands peeling away your night dress without even looking.

he pulled away to trail his kisses down your neck, sucking bruises into the skin, nipping you lightly. "see? isn't it so easy to just shut up?" he teased, biting at your shoulder, "so defiant, until i get you all needy,"

"fuck off," you mumbled, pulling at the ends of his hair, back up to your lips. you rolled on top of him, your hand resting on his throat, staking claim over him in the way only you could. "high king of elfhame, writhing underneath me. what would your subjects say?"

he'd let you take control, sometimes. you thought, some nights, that maybe he craved it; being told what to do, having some direction in life. not tonight, though. he was too angry, you could tell, wound too tight, too tense.

he flipped you over again, pulling your thighs apart, burying his face in your cunt. you gasped, tangling your fingers in his hair as he lapped at you like a man possessed, curling two fingers inside you with the expertise of your body that only he had. you were falling apart in minutes, panting and moaning, one hand in his hair and the other twisted in silk sheets.

"see? not so tough now, darling," he grinned up at you, pressing a wet kiss to your thigh and sitting up on his knees to look you over. you thought, for a moment, that he really did look more god than man; the dim light casting a halo around his head, his eyes heady and smeared in gold.

he moved up the bed, squeezing at your hips, scratching just enough to have you whining and arching off his bed. "i think i'll make you beg for it," he murmured, kissing up your chest, "how's that sound, hm?"

"in your dreams," you hissed, and he grinned, nodding, "yeah, yeah it is in my dreams. why don't you grant my wish, hm? go on," he tapped his length against your core, watching for your reaction, "i said beg," you summoned up any semblance of defiance you had left, swatting at his hand, "i'm not begging when you give it up so easy, cardan,"

he shifted, pressing a kiss to your lips, smiling against you. you were so distracted you didn't even notice his movements until his silver dagger was pressed against you lightly, the metal cool against your pulse. "cardan," you gasped, pulling back, "what're you doing?"

"i told you to beg," he pressed a kiss to your jaw, "go on, then," "you can't kill me, cardan. who else would you bury all your problems in?" you hissed, and his eyes glinted, "who said i'd kill you, darling? why would i ever go and do something like that?"

he trailed the tip of the knife down, cutting your chest just enough to draw blood, enough to have your heart hammering and breath faltering. "so pretty," he whispered, just before leaning down to kiss the cut, licking up the blood.

you moaned at the feeling, grabbing at his shoulders. "cardan, please," you weren't even sure what you were begging for anymore. for him to fuck you, to relieve the throbbing between your thighs, maybe? or for him to stop causing you pain, or maybe cause you more. you never could tell.

"there you go, atta girl," he hummed, and you gasped as he slid inside you, kissing you greedily. all the tension finally broke, and he fucked into you desperately, his hands grabbing for any contact, digging into your hips and thighs and finally settling around your throat.

"feel so fucking good," he panted, his tail curling tight around your thigh, "bet you're gonna come for me again, hm? always do," you clenched around him, a mess beneath him. he moved his hand between your thighs, his long fingers circling your clit, and soon you were coming undone a second time, your nails dragging down his back enough to draw blood. he came soon after, kissing you, biting at your bottom lip and moaning into your open mouth.

he pulled out after a moment, catching his breath, unable to meet your eyes. this was how it always went; he'd fuck you senseless, or let you boss him around, and then he was gone, back inside his head. you'd dress yourself and go, back to your own chambers just down the hall from his, the plaque on the door reading 'consort to the king.'

if only.

[queer-n-here]

I JUST SAW YOUR POST ABOUT WANTING TO BRANCH OUT TO DIFFERENT FANDOMS

AND THAT YOURE OK WITH MHA

BAKUGOU X READER PLS PLS PLS

Like brat Bakugou x brat tamer reader, breaking down his rudeness until he’s begging for it. PLS I wanna fuck him till he cries pls

(Sorry for the hornyposting oops k bye)

Yes yes yes yes yes yes yesssssss!!!

Fuck yeahhh brat taming Bakugo let's go!

(This was my initial reaction to recieving this req, no shit)

Contents: Lil headcannons bout taming Baku! Hope you like em!

Warnings: Smut, top male reader, edging, mentions of overstim near the end.

Bakugo, his ENTIRE character, screams 'I'm a little brat' like nothing else.

So I can see him being rude to you, too, mocking and joking around about some of your habits to piss you off. What that dumbass doesn't think of, however, is the consequences of his actions.

You grab Bakugo by the wrists and pin him to the bed you two were sitting at, press your knee between his legs and push them apart, holding him down despite his struggles.

"Look at you, all riled up just from some jeering." He says, smirking and completely oblivious of his fate. "What is it, haven't taken you- mmf!"

You cut him off with a kiss first, letting go of his wrists momentarily to rip his clothes off of his body.

Bakugo wouldn't admit it if you put a gun to his temple, but he loves being manhandled like this. You're stronger than him, which is something he tried to be in denial about earlier, but not anymore.

So when you enter his asshole without preparing him, he gives up the struggle and scrambles to find purchase to ground himself.

You fuck into him, making his hips buck up into yours. You hold him down, and began thrusting into him at a pace so slow it has him losing his mind.

You're hitting all the right spots, and the stimulation is making his back arch and eyes water, but its not nearly enough. Bakugo tries clenching around you, trying to rile you up to get you to fuck him senseless the way you sometimes do, but you just hiss and tighten your hold on him, pace slower than ever.

And it doesn't take long for him to lose his composure and fall apart in your hands. He's reduced into a needy mess soon, chest jolting as his breath hitches, hands grabbing at your shoulders so tight you feel his blunt nails dig into your skin.

"More, ah! [Name] faster!" Is the only string of comprehensible words that he can utter soon.

"Oh?" You grit your teeth against the sparks of pleasure each thrust is sending up your cock. "You wanna get fucked, hmm? Then why weren't you acting like it just now, Baku?"

And he just whines, feeling your tip barely brush against sweet spot this time, the denial of that pleasure he knew you could give him so intense it made him see black spots in his vision that he had to blink to clear.

So he begs, he begs like the whore he is in bed, like the cock-addicted little slut you've made him, who wants nothing more than to have you rearrange his insides to the shape of your cock.

You take pity on him, like c'mon, you can't keep edging him forever when your own cock is pulsing with want, right?

So you bend him in half and plunge into him, your pace like that of a wild fucking animal as you thrust into him, finally giving Bakugo what he wants.

Bakugo lays there, his brain slowly turning into mush as you finally, finally fuck him, his moans loud even over the sound of skin slapping against skin with each of your thrusts, sweat soaked hair sticking to his forehead.

I mean, the night is still young tho. Maybe you can overstimulate him next, rip orgasm after orgasm from him till his entire frame his shaking, till his dick is shooting blanks, till he passes out on the bed under you from exhaustion, leaving you to clean up the mess on the bed. Who knows? 😉

[absurdthirst]

Kinktober 2024: October 3rd

Day 3: Sixty-nine // Public Sex // Pet Play

Frankie Morales x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: Mentions of pregnancy/post partum baby body, new mom!reader, slight voyeurism, horny Frankie, face sitting, oral (male and female receiving), mentions of anilingus, cum swallowing

|| Kinktober List || MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

“Fuck baby, c’mere.” You can hear the lust dripping from his voice, making you smirk slightly, the ego boost is something that you need right now when you haven’t been feeling the sexiest. Motherhood sometimes takes it out of you. Instead of lingerie, you live in leggings and faded Army t-shirts that are riddled with spit up stains. You turn around to see Frankie on the bed, naked and completely hard for you, his dark eyes greedily drinking in your own nude body. 

You hadn’t expected him to be in the bedroom when you got out of the shower, but it’s obvious he’s been waiting on you. Waiting and anticipating. You bite your lip, eyes sliding down the slightly less in shape physique of your husband. Despite his own hang ups, he’s only grown sexier in your eyes, through the best shape of his life in the military to the now softer build. He’s still strong, still capable and that makes him even more appealing. 

“I take it you want something?” You tease, eyeing his cock as it twitches. He’s always been able to make you laugh or moan by flexing his cock when he’s hard. 

“I want you to come sit on my face.” He snorts, patting his cheek and smirking at you. “Then if you want, you can sit on my cock.” 

It’s a tempting offer, but you shake your head. “If you’re licking my pussy, then I want to be sucking your cock.” You counter, making the momentary frown when you shake your head immediately turn into a quick nod and a beaming grin. “Deal.” He grunts, pushing down the bed so that you can get into position. 

His hands are greedy, pulling you back and making you gasp and giggle when you nearly fall flat on your face when he throws you off balance. Making you slap his thigh and huff as you look over your shoulder, halfway across his body. “You ass.” You huff, making him chuckle. 

“No, your ass.” He groans, reaching for your hips again and grabbing a handful of your ass and squeezing it. “I love it.” He has always been an ass man and he never misses an opportunity to touch it. 

Getting into position is never sexy. There’s almost small grunts and adjustments to where your legs are comfortable and not pressing against the headboard. You apologize a couple of times when Frankie grunts, his shoulder taking your knee a little harder than anticipated. Finally hovering over his face, even though it always makes you self conscious in the beginning. 

It doesn’t bother Francisco. His eyes are focused on you and his cock is twitching and already starting to dribble just a little bit of precum, pooling around the foreskin and beaded up gorgeously. 

“Fuck, look at that pussy.” He never fails to make you feel like he could live off your cunt. Always wanting to eat you out, never making you feel like it’s a chore to him. For him it’s a reward, a gift you give him when you let him devour you and makes you soak the bottom of his chin and mouth. 

In the same way, you love sucking Frankie’s cock. Hearing the moans and the slightly desperate whine that you can pull from him as you swallow his length down and drip when he forgets to stay still and chokes you slightly. 

Your fingers wrap around his length, smiling when you feel his pulse in your hand and wiggle your hips back as you lean down. Rolling the protective skin that covers the head and revealing the sensitive skin, already flush with need and begging for your attention. 

The first lick is always a tease, both of you groaning and your own hips push back insistently when his warm breath washes over your wet folds, his own chuckle a little smug because he knows that if he holds out, you will be begging for his tongue. Not that he would ever deny you, he’s too greedy for your taste, for the warm musk of your cunt to fill his senses and thoughts. 

Your tongue is fluttering around the head of his cock, lapping at the beads of precum when he takes his first sample of your cunt, making your eyes roll back at the wet heat and moan against him. His own grunt of approval is one you always listen for, even when you’ve just stepped out of the shower. That’s just your own personal issues, something that he scoffs at every time he wants to go down on you when you are hot and sweaty. He doesn’t give a shit. 

Once it’s begun, both of you quickly descend into madness. Every flick of his tongue pushes your own need to make him moan, your throat opening and taking him deeper. Loving how he chokes into your folds when you swallow around him. 

The sounds are low, vibrating around you both as they are muffled by the tasks you are eagerly partaking in. Frankie is thick and it always makes your jaw ache to blow him, but there is no way you will give up. You love how he fills your throat and blocks the air as he twitches. The subtle gasps that he tries to hide by pushing his tongue inside you when he feels your moans vibrate around him. 

You both love to give pleasure to the other, making this the ultimate indulgence. It becomes a race, to see who can make the other break again. Once your jaw stops popping every time you take him deep into your mouth, you increase the pace. Greedy as you bob your head and reach down to roll his balls gently in your fingers and make him keen in pleasure. 

Frankie is filthy when he eats your pussy. Sloppy and thorough. There is no part of your sex that he won’t shower in attention. Licking you from the top of your clit right up to your puckered hole, he licks and flicks his tongue against the spots that have your grinding back onto him. Wanting you to smother him with your cunt and if he dies, well, he would just die happy. 

Rocking on his face, both at the encouragement of his hands as he guides you and from your eagerness to suck his cock down, you both rocket the other towards orgasm, increasing the pressure around his length and bucking back when he sucks your clit into his mouth. 

Muffled curses can barely be heard, but each one of you feels them, adding to the knotting coil in your belly when Frankie pulls his mouth away from your clit long enough to moan your name before he is diving back into you. 

Years together has given you the keys to making sure the other cums. Knowing how he reacts and what he loves, where he knows your body just as intimately. Your jaw goes slack when he pushes his fingers deep inside you and presses them just right, your toes curling and your hips rolling back. Only to pull off his cock with a pop and spit on it to wrap your hand around the base and start to pump him while you gobble him down again. 

You feel like you are losing your mind. So close to cumming while trying to make sure that he is worked up to that peak. Feeling him get even harder every time you swallow him down, the strength of his hands nearly bruising as he holds you in the best position to attack your cunt. 

It’s coiling in your belly, tight and explosive, only taking one more flick of his tongue before you are keening around his cock. Body shaking and you absorb every pleased moan as you soak his face. 

Frankie is the type that only lets go after you’ve been satisfied so the pulling down of his hips is the only warning you get before he starts to flood your mouth. Ropes of his salty seed fill your mouth, making you gulp down as much as you can as it spills out the sides of your mouth. Throbbing wonderfully on your tongue and muffling your whines as his continues to take you apart with every pass through your sensitive folds. 

Neither one of you stops until the other is squirming away, both panting when you pull away and there is that brief second before the post orgasm giggles begin. Shifting off of him and turning around to see his wet, smiling face and despite the taste of him still lingering on your tongue, leaning into kiss him. Curling into his body and snuggling against him right as the baby starts to cry. “Fuck.” Frankie chuckles. “At least we got it in.” He snorts, amused by that fact and relaxed. He’s always happy when you both get to pleasure each other with a sixty-nine.

[amethystarachnid]

I know your requests are closed, but daaaamn, I need another part of "Forced Marriage" 😭😭😭😭😭 a late honeymoon, oh, to Italy, I love Italy 😭 and more of Tony being the cutest, sweetest and the most loving and devoted husband EVER!!!! 🤧 also, KIDS 🥹 what about twins? One of each? Let the girl dream 😭 but Tony taking care of a pregnant wife and dad!Tony is the best thing ever, especially yours 🩷🩷

Again, I know your requests are closed, I 100% respect that, don't mind me 🫠

FORCED MARRIAGE - part 2

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre romance, fluff and spicy

ᯓ★ Word count: 8.3k

ᯓ★ Summary:what the asks said lol

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing I think, just a little spicy scene

ᯓ★ Part 1

ᯓ★ Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

Italy is your idea, but Tony’s the one who makes it perfect.

He books everything before you can blink—private jet, villa in Tuscany, romantic dinners lined up for a week straight. “If we’re finally doing this,” he says, tossing you a smirk as he flips his phone shut, “we’re doing it the right way. No boardrooms, no cameras, no press. Just you and me.”

You glance at him over the top of your coffee mug. “So, no suitcases filled with arc reactors and gadgets?”

He lifts a brow. “I only packed one suit of armor, thank you very much.”

He’s joking—mostly—but the truth is, Tony’s been different. Since the gala, since that bathroom, since everything... he’s been present. He makes time. He listens. He loves you, openly and without shame, and you can feel it in everything he does. He doesn’t need to say it every day, though he does, in little ways:

In the way he brushes hair behind your ear without thinking.

In the way he sets an extra pillow where your knee gets sore sometimes.

In the way he kisses your shoulder in the morning and whispers, “Still here.”

The flight to Italy is quiet and calm. For once, neither of you needs to pretend. You fall asleep with your head on his shoulder, and when you wake up, he’s still holding your hand.

The villa he’s chosen is perched on a hillside, surrounded by vineyards and olive groves. The air smells like rosemary and warm stone and blooming flowers. The sky is impossibly blue.

You walk through the stone archway into the sun-drenched villa, and Tony whistles, impressed—even though he’s the one who bought the place for the week.

“Okay,” he says, dropping your bags inside the doorway. “I have a checklist.”

You give him a look. “A checklist? You?”

“Oh, don’t act surprised. I can be organized. Sometimes.” He clears his throat. “Item one: kiss wife in Tuscany.”

You arch a brow. “That’s oddly specific.”

“I’m a man of taste.” He walks over, grabs your waist, and kisses you slow and deep until your knees nearly give out. When he finally pulls back, he’s smiling like an idiot. “Check.”

You laugh against his mouth. “What’s item two?”

“Make pasta. Badly. Burn things. Throw flour at each other. Rom-com level disaster.”

And he’s not wrong.

Later that afternoon, after a lazy nap wrapped in crisp linen sheets and a warm breeze drifting through the open balcony, Tony insists on making fresh pasta from scratch, despite the fact that neither of you really knows what you’re doing.

It starts with enthusiasm and ends in chaos. Flour coats the kitchen, your hair, Tony’s face. A cracked egg drips off the counter. You accidentally launch a handful of dough across the room, and Tony dramatically declares war by smearing tomato sauce on your cheek.

You shriek, lunging at him, but he catches you around the waist and lifts you up onto the counter, kissing you like it’s the only thing that matters in the world.

And maybe it is.

Dinner is a slightly undercooked mess. You both eat every bite anyway.

Afterward, barefoot and tipsy on a bottle of red wine Tony opened with too much force, you sit outside under a canopy of fairy lights, the stars just beginning to show.

Tony has his arm around your shoulders. You’re wearing one of his loose t-shirts, and he’s in soft linen pants and nothing else. The warm wind rustles through the cypress trees, and there’s music playing from a small speaker nearby—some classic Italian tune Tony insisted was necessary for the vibe.

You lean your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart.

“I like this version of us,” you murmur.

Tony presses a kiss to your hair. “Me too.”

“Why’d it take us so long to get here?”

He exhales slowly, like he’s been thinking about that a lot too. “Because I was a coward,” he admits. “And I didn’t deserve you. But I’m not letting you go now.”

You lift your eyes to his, studying the way the firelight flickers in them. “I’m not planning to leave.”

His smile is soft, nothing like the smirks he used to give you. “Good.”

The first day of your honeymoon ends with you curled up in his lap, the air filled with the scent of wine and rosemary, your laughter echoing in the hills.

And for once, there’s no bitterness. No tension. No fear.

Just love. And peace. And Tony Stark, holding you like he never wants to let you go.

---

The next morning starts off peaceful—until it doesn’t.

You wake before Tony, sunlight streaming in through the sheer curtains, birds chirping somewhere outside. You stretch, a sleepy smile playing on your lips as you take in the soft warmth of the sheets, the way Tony’s hand is still resting on your hip even in his sleep.

But then your stomach lurches.

Suddenly. Violently.

You barely make it to the bathroom before you're on your knees, heaving into the toilet.

Tony stumbles in moments later, his hair a disaster, shirtless and wide-eyed. “Sweetheart?”

You wave him off weakly, spitting out the last of the bile. “M’fine.”

“You’re not fine,” he says, kneeling beside you like he’s ready to call in a full emergency medical team. “Are you sick? Food poisoning? Was it the undercooked pasta? I knew we shouldn’t have eaten that. I swear if this is salmonella, I’m buying the entire food safety board of Italy.”

You groan and slump against the cool tile, resting your head against the wall. “Tony, calm down. It’s probably nothing.”

“Nothing?” His voice goes up an octave. “You were throwing up! That’s literally something. That's a huge, very alarming something!”

“I’m okay,” you mumble. “Just… nauseous.”

Tony’s already pulling his phone out, muttering to himself. “We need a doctor. Maybe two doctors. No, we’ll fly one in from Switzerland. Private jet. I’ll—”

“Tony!” you cut him off, grabbing his wrist. “Let’s just go to a pharmacy first, okay? It might just be… something simple.”

He pauses, looking at you with deep concern. “Fine. But if they don’t have what you need, I will buy the village. Just saying.”

—

The pharmacy is small and rustic, nestled between two cafes in the heart of the nearby town. It smells like lavender and lemons, with shelves stacked high with herbal remedies and charmingly mismatched bottles.

Tony sticks out like a sore thumb in his expensive sunglasses and hoodie, hovering behind you like a nervous bodyguard.

An elderly Italian woman emerges from the back, dressed in a floral blouse and bold red lipstick. Her silver hair is piled high, and she eyes you both with a mischievous glint.

“Americani?” she guesses immediately, grinning. “Luna di miele?”

“Honeymoon,” Tony murmurs, leaning toward you. “She knows we’re newlyweds.”

The woman winks. “Amore è nel’aria.” Love is in the air. She shuffles closer. “Come posso aiutarti, cara?”

You point to your stomach, trying to mime nausea. “I woke up feeling sick—stomach… blegh.”

The woman squints, then gives you a long, appraising look. She glances at Tony. Then back at you.

And with a delighted little “Ah-ha!”, she reaches behind the counter… and slaps a box onto the counter with a proud flourish.

Tony leans in to read the label.

Then blinks.

Then blinks again.

“A pregnancy test?” he says, voice cracking slightly.

The woman beams. “Sì! Congratulazioni!”

You stare at the box. Then at her. Then at Tony.

“Wait,” you whisper. “She thinks I’m pregnant?”

Tony looks at you, visibly pale. “Are you…?”

“I don’t know!” you hiss.

The woman pushes the box closer to you, her voice cheery and loud. “Due linee rosa! Pink lines, baby!”

You awkwardly thank her, pay for the test, and practically drag Tony out of the pharmacy, the woman shouting behind you, “Felicità! Fate una femmina, è meglio!” Make a girl—it’s better!

Tony’s quiet the entire way back to the villa.

You are too.

The test sits on the bathroom counter like a bomb.

You stare at it. He stares at you.

And finally, with shaking hands, you take the test and close the door.

Minutes pass.

Tony paces outside, muttering under his breath. “Okay. Okay, if it’s positive, we’ll handle it. We’ve got this. I mean—what even is a crib, really? Just a fancy baby cage, right?”

You open the door.

You’re holding the test.

Two pink lines.

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

Tony sees it.

His face goes blank. Then slowly, slowly, the emotion starts to flood in—shock, disbelief, and something so soft it nearly makes your knees give out.

He swallows hard. “We’re… gonna have a baby?”

You nod, lip trembling. “Yeah.”

Tony doesn’t move at first.

Then, suddenly, he’s got you in his arms, lifting you off the floor and spinning you around in the hallway.

“Holy hell,” he breathes, kissing your forehead, your cheeks, your mouth. “We’re having a baby.”

You laugh, half-crying, clutching the front of his shirt. “I guess we really are on our honeymoon now.”

“Guess we are.”

He sets you down gently, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I love you,” he whispers. “And I already love this little person we made. And I swear, I’m gonna do this right. No matter what.”

You nod, wiping tears off your cheeks. “I know.”

And when he kisses you again, slow and full of awe, the world seems to stand still—just the two of you, your hearts beating in sync, in a tiny villa in Italy, already beginning the next chapter of your life.

---

The rest of the honeymoon is nothing like you expected—because now, everything is different.

Tony doesn’t let you lift a finger. Not even a coffee cup.

You try to protest—at first. “Tony, I’m pregnant, not fragile.”

But he just lifts a brow, gently takes the mug from your hand, and says, “You’re carrying my child. Which means you’re now a VIP-class spaceship. No turbulence. No sudden movements. Maximum comfort only.”

He’s serious, too.

He adds extra pillows to the bed, orders decaf espresso—grudgingly—for you every morning, and Googles every possible fruit, cheese, and spice to make sure you’re not eating anything “even remotely suspicious.” He downloads four pregnancy tracking apps and cross-references them.

Tony Stark is in full dad mode.

One evening, when you go to watch the sunset with him and try to sit on the stone ledge around the patio, he nearly has a heart attack.

“Nope,” he says, scooping you up like you're made of glass. “You’re not breaking any part of your body before this kid is born.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s like a two-foot drop, Tony.”

“I’ve seen ankles snap for less. Google ‘cobblestone hazards in Tuscany.’ I dare you.”

He makes everything dramatic, but it’s not just nerves—it’s adoration.

He touches your belly like it’s already precious. Talks to it when he thinks you’re asleep. Whispers things like, “You’re gonna love your mom,” or “We’ll start with science toys and then move to building suits,” or, “If you’re a girl, don’t even look at boys until you’re thirty.”

You hear it all.

And your heart falls for him a little more every day.

—

Three days after the pregnancy test, you decide to return to the pharmacy. You owe her—Nonna Rosa, as you find out—for the moment that changed everything.

Tony insists on carrying a bouquet of bright flowers and a bottle of fancy wine.

“I don’t care if she’s probably against drinking because she’s old-school and religious,” he says, adjusting his sunglasses. “She deserves something expensive.”

When you walk into the little shop again, she spots you instantly.

“Ahhhh! La bambina!” she cries, throwing up her hands.

Tony laughs. “Told you. Psychic.”

She rushes over, pulls you into a firm hug, then plants both hands on your cheeks and stares. “Si vede negli occhi! I can see it in your eyes.”

“You really knew,” you say in disbelief. “I hadn’t even missed a period yet.”

She shrugs like it’s nothing. “È l’istinto. It’s instinct. And the glow. And the way he looked at you.”

Tony smirks. “What glow? I was a nervous wreck.”

“You were in love,” she corrects him.

He goes quiet, squeezing your hand.

Nonna Rosa spends the next half hour giving you tea samples for nausea, a handmade charm bracelet for “protection of la madre e il bambino,” and instructions on what herbs to steep at different stages of pregnancy. You leave the shop with two bags of supplies, your stomach sore from laughing, your heart warm.

Before you go, she hugs you both again, then whispers in your ear, “He will be a good papa. You are already a good mama.”

You blink back tears. “Thank you.”

—

Back at the villa, Tony’s affection only deepens.

When you get emotional watching a commercial about olive oil, he doesn’t laugh—he just pulls you into his arms, rubbing your back until the tears pass.

When you mention feeling bloated, he books a private massage therapist who specializes in prenatal care and says, “I’ll tip her enough to pay her rent for a year.”

When you start craving fresh mozzarella and figs at midnight, he drives an hour to the next town to find it.

You fall asleep with his hand resting on your belly every night.

You wake up to forehead kisses and whispered I-love-yous every morning.

And somewhere in between all of that, it finally clicks: This isn’t just a changed man.

This is a man who wants to build something with you.

A life. A family. A future.

—

On the last night of the honeymoon, you stand on the balcony with him, watching the Tuscan sky fade into stars. He wraps his arms around you from behind, hands resting just under your growing waistline.

“You know,” he murmurs against your ear, “I used to think love was a weakness.”

You tilt your head slightly. “And now?”

He presses a kiss to your temple. “Now I know it’s the only thing worth fighting for.”

You cover his hands with yours. “You’re going to be a great dad, Tony.”

He swallows hard, voice a little rough when he answers. “Only because you’re going to be the heart of this family.”

---

Coming back home feels different this time—like you’re stepping into a new chapter. One that hums quietly with anticipation and change.

Tony doesn’t let you carry a single bag off the plane, despite the fact that you’re still barely showing. “You’re carrying everything that matters,” he says, snapping his fingers at Happy, who takes your suitcase with a nod. “She gets airport princess treatment now.”

The Stark penthouse has been dusted, prepped, and stocked—Tony made sure of it before you even landed. There’s already a room cleared out across from your bedroom, not quite a nursery yet, but he looks at it with this strange sort of awe every time he walks by.

The next morning, he’s up at 6 a.m., pacing, already dressed and muttering to himself as he taps anxiously at his StarkPad.

You’re still brushing your teeth when he pokes his head into the bathroom. “Are you ready? We should leave in ten. Maybe fifteen, if we account for traffic. I already paid off three guys to clear the garage so Happy can pull the car around faster. Also—I downloaded the entire obstetrics textbook from Harvard Medical School and cross-checked it with six blogs. I’m ready for this.”

You spit into the sink and blink at him. “Tony. We’re just getting an ultrasound.”

“Exactly!” he says, eyes wide like you’ve just missed the apocalypse. “An ultrasound. Our baby. Who, by the way, has not responded to any of my nightly pep talks. I think they’re already ignoring me.”

You stifle a laugh and wipe your mouth. “It’s the size of a lime, Tony. It doesn’t know you’re talking to it.”

He scoffs. “Rude. I’m extremely charming.”

You roll your eyes and walk out to grab your coat, and he immediately follows, already fretting. “Do you want snacks? Water? What if you get cold in the waiting room? Should I bring a backup sweater for you? And backup for the backup?”

“Tony.”

“Yeah?”

“I love you. But if you don’t stop panicking, I’m going to need medical attention.”

He stops in his tracks. Blinks. Then smiles sheepishly. “Right. Sorry. I’m chill. Totally chill.” He takes a deep breath. “Super chill.”

—

He’s not chill.

Not at the clinic. Not even a little bit.

The poor nurse tries to ask you your name, and Tony blurts it out before you can. “Y/N Stark. She’s my wife. We're having a baby. We're very in love. Also, she's been nauseous, but not today, which I think is progress.”

The nurse gives you a knowing look. You just squeeze Tony’s hand and smile. “We’re here for the first ultrasound.”

They lead you into a cozy, softly lit room with pale blue walls and framed photos of smiling families. Tony paces while you settle onto the exam table, fidgeting as the tech preps the machine.

When the image appears on the screen, the room goes quiet.

There, nestled in the grainy black-and-white blur, is a tiny flicker.

A heartbeat.

Tony’s breath catches audibly. He reaches for your hand, slowly, as if afraid the image might vanish if he moves too fast.

“That’s… them?” he asks softly.

The tech nods, smiling. “That’s your baby.”

Tony doesn’t speak for a full minute. He just stares.

Then, very quietly, he whispers, “Hi, little one.”

You watch him fall in love in real time.

And you know—it’s not just the baby. It’s everything.

You. This life. What you’ve built together.

—

The decision to go public happens faster than you expect.

Tony insists on it.

“No secrets,” he says, pacing in front of the kitchen counter one evening. “I want the world to know. I want them to know. This kid is already the best thing I’ve ever done, and I haven’t even taught them quantum physics yet.”

You raise a brow from the couch. “Tony. I’m barely out of the first trimester.”

He walks over and kneels in front of you, hands on your knees, eyes uncharacteristically serious. “Let me tell them. Let me tell the world how proud I am of you. Of us.”

How can you say no to that?

The announcement goes live two days later: a candid photo of you and Tony on the villa balcony in Italy, your hand resting on your still-flat belly, his arms wrapped around you, both of you laughing like the world doesn’t matter.

The caption reads:

“Coming soon: Baby Stark. And yes, I’ll be building them their first lab by age two. Sorry not sorry.”

The internet breaks.

The press explodes.

Everyone—Avengers, friends, even business rivals—starts reaching out with congratulations.

Even Fury sends a one-word text: Finally.

But none of it compares to the way Tony wraps his arms around you that night, resting his chin on your shoulder as you both scroll through the comments and messages.

“Do you think the baby knows?” you ask softly.

Tony kisses your cheek. “They will. They’ll know they’re loved. Every second. Every minute. Every breath.”

---

Designing the nursery becomes Tony’s newest obsession—something he throws himself into with the same intensity he once reserved for building Iron Man suits and revolutionizing energy.

“We’re not doing boring pastel zoo animals,” he declares one morning, pushing open a tablet full of sleek digital mockups. “This kid’s getting a lab-themed nursery. Chrome mobiles, circuit-board wallpaper, floating shelves for STEM-themed books… I already made a list.”

You arch an eyebrow from where you’re sitting on the couch with swollen ankles and a glass of juice. “They’re going to be born, not code an AI straight out of the womb.”

Tony smirks, sitting beside you and gently lifting your feet into his lap to massage them. “Hey, never underestimate Stark genetics.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help smiling. “Fine. But I want warm tones. Something cozy, not just… titanium chic.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Cozy, but genius. I can work with that.”

And he does. Every evening, you both find yourselves in what was once the empty guest room, standing in the center and imagining your future together.

Color palettes are tested. Tony builds a crib from scratch—out of wood, not metal, because you insisted. He even softens enough to let you choose plush animals for the shelves, despite his comments like, “That bunny’s IQ looks suspiciously low.”

You spend hours hand-painting little constellations across one wall, while he hooks up a night light system that projects stars onto the ceiling.

He reads to your belly at night.

And with every laugh, every tiny kick, every moment you catch him staring at you like you hung the moon—you feel safer. Stronger.

But as weeks stretch into months, something begins to feel… different.

It starts small. You notice that your belly seems to be expanding faster than you expected. You chalk it up to genetics, maybe even water retention, but at your next prenatal yoga class, a woman due at the same time gives you a sideways glance.

“How far along are you again?” she asks, trying to sound casual.

“Twenty-four weeks,” you answer, wiping your forehead.

Her brows lift. “Wow. You’re carrying… a lot.”

You try to brush it off. But later, while Tony’s measuring a bookshelf he’s installing in the nursery, you find yourself tugging down your maternity shirt, eyes lingering on the mirror.

Your belly looks… big.

Bigger than the books say it should be.

That night, lying beside Tony with your hand resting over your belly, you whisper, “Do you think it looks… too big?”

He immediately looks over, concerned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean compared to other women this far along. I saw someone today—same week. She looked half my size.”

Tony sits up a little, his expression sobering. “Are you uncomfortable? Is something hurting?”

“No,” you admit. “Just… wondering.”

He rubs your arm gently. “Well, there’s a million variables. Body type, position of the baby, fluid levels. Maybe our kid just takes after me—big head, big brain, huge personality.”

You smile, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes.

“Let’s call the doctor tomorrow,” he says softly. “Just to check.”

You nod, heart beating a little faster.

And that night, even as he wraps his arms around you and rubs soothing circles against your side, you can’t help feeling something stirring inside you—more than just kicks and flutters.

A question.

A feeling.

Like your body’s holding more than it’s letting on.

---

The next morning, Tony insists on clearing his entire schedule—even cancelling a meeting with the UN tech board—so he can come with you to the OB-GYN.

He doesn’t pace this time. He just holds your hand the entire ride over, thumb tracing slow circles over your knuckles, lips pressed tight in a line he only wears when something's tugging at his heart.

You’re nervous, but not scared. Not really. You just… need to know.

The waiting room is quiet. The exam room colder than usual. And when the gel hits your belly and the ultrasound machine hums to life, your breath catches in your throat.

The doctor’s eyes narrow slightly at the screen, her lips parting. But she doesn’t look alarmed. Just surprised.

Tony notices immediately.

“Okay,” he says, his voice already loaded with anxiety, “that’s not your standard everything’s fine face. What’s going on?”

The doctor smiles, calm and steady.

“Well,” she says, turning the screen toward you both, “you were right about the belly size. Because you're not carrying one baby, Mrs. Stark. You're carrying two.”

You blink. Your brain stutters.

Tony's mouth falls open. “Twins?”

The doctor nods. “Fraternal. Two separate amniotic sacs. One girl…” She moves the probe slightly, points to one side of the screen. “And one boy.” She points to the other.

You stare, heart suddenly thudding so loudly you swear it echoes in the room.

Tony’s breath leaves him in one long exhale. “You’re kidding.”

“Not even a little,” the doctor chuckles. “Congratulations.”

He doesn’t speak right away. He just looks at the screen, wide-eyed, hands slowly releasing yours only so he can press his fingers to the monitor, as if touching it would make it more real.

Then he whispers, so soft it almost breaks you: “A daughter and a son.”

You’re too stunned to say anything for a few seconds.

Then your eyes fill with tears. Not panic. Not fear.

Overwhelmed joy.

Tony turns to you like he’s seeing you all over again.

“You’re incredible,” he says, voice shaking. “You’re actually growing two little humans in there. We made two.” He laughs—a little wild, a little breathless—and swipes his hands down his face. “I need to sit down.”

The doctor smiles. “I’ll give you a few minutes. We’ll go over all the details shortly. Everything looks perfect so far.”

The door clicks closed behind her.

Tony still hasn’t moved. He sits down beside you slowly, as if his knees have given out, and then pulls your hand into his lap. His eyes are shining now, and when he looks at you, it’s like you’re the only thing holding him to the earth.

“Twins,” you say, still not believing it. “I knew I was getting bigger faster but I thought maybe it was just… I don’t know. Pizza.”

He laughs, head falling forward to rest against your shoulder. “We’re gonna need a bigger house.”

You run your fingers through his hair, still blinking away tears. “We already have a whole building.”

“Okay, then we need a wing.”

He lifts his head again, and you both look at the screen once more. Two tiny flickers. Two little lives.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You nod. “Yeah. Are you?”

Tony doesn’t answer with words. He leans forward and kisses you—slowly, reverently, like you’re made of starlight and safety and everything good he’s ever wanted but never believed he deserved.

“I didn’t think I could love you more,” he says against your lips. “But I do.”

And just like that, the weight of the world becomes something warm. Something shared. Something beautiful.

Later, in the car, he announces: “We’re going public. Today. No waiting.”

“Tony…”

“Nope,” he cuts in. “The people deserve to know. And by people, I mean everyone I’ve ever met, looked at, or cyberstalked.”

The new post goes up before the elevator even opens at the penthouse:

“Plot twist: there are TWO Starklings incoming. Yes, I’m panicking. No, I won’t be sleeping for the next 18 years.”

It takes 10 minutes for #StarkTwins to trend worldwide.

And somehow, despite the chaos, despite the double-shock, despite the massive life shift ahead…

You feel calm.

Because he’s right here.

And for the first time, so are they.

---

Shopping for one baby had already been a bit overwhelming. Shopping for two?

That’s a whole new kind of madness—and Tony, of course, leans into it with full-throttle Stark intensity.

“Two of everything,” he declares the morning after the appointment, standing at the foot of your bed with a stylus in one hand and a digital checklist hovering in midair. “Cribs, monitors, sound machines, swaddles—God help me, even diapers. Y/N, do you know how many diapers twins go through?”

You blink blearily up at him, still nestled under the covers. “Please don’t start our day with horror stories.”

“I’ve done the math,” he says gravely, eyes scanning the list like it’s a mission report. “We’ll need at least 9,000 in the first year. That’s not a joke.”

You groan into your pillow. “Don’t say things like that before coffee.”

“Already brewing,” he says, flashing a charming grin. “Also, I hired a twin consultant.”

You sit up, eyes wide. “That’s a thing?”

“It is now,” Tony says, smug as ever. “She’s flying in from Copenhagen. Best in the field. She’s helping with layout optimization and efficiency training. No chaos. Only balance.”

You can't help but laugh. “You act like we’re launching a small army.”

“Babies are a small army,” he replies. “Except they cry, poop, and will destroy your sleep schedule for the foreseeable future.”

—

You visit every boutique in the city—and a few in Paris and Milan via video call. Tony buys out entire sections of one shop in SoHo and has a luxury baby furniture company build two matching custom cribs, one with silver inlay and the other with a star-and-moon motif to match the constellation wall you painted.

The nursery becomes a shared haven—one room for both babies. You and Tony stand in the center of it often now, surrounded by soft creams, deep navy, gold accents, and the twinkling of projected stars overhead.

“Think they’ll like sharing?” you ask one night, brushing your fingers along the edge of one of the cribs.

Tony comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, now fully rounded and glowing with life.

“They’ll be born into the same chaos,” he murmurs, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Might as well share a room and plot world domination together.”

You laugh, leaning into him. “They’ll be a team.”

He presses a kiss to your temple. “Like us.”

—

The names come slowly—weeks of gentle debates, late-night whispers, and quiet moments with your hands joined over your belly.

You go through everything from classic to avant-garde. Tony suggests “Nova” at one point; you counter with “Juliet.” He proposes “JARVIS Jr.” and you tell him he’s banned from naming privileges for 48 hours.

But one evening, long after the sun’s gone down and you’re curled together in bed, you whisper something that changes everything.

“Lyra,” you say softly, fingers resting just left of your navel. “Like the constellation.”

Tony’s silent for a moment. Then he nods slowly, thoughtfully. “Lyra Stark.”

You glance at him. “Too much?”

He shakes his head. “No. It’s beautiful. Poetic. Strong.”

You both look at your belly. She kicks gently, as if in approval.

“And for him?” you ask.

Tony turns his head to look at you. “Kyle.”

“Kyle?”

“Yeah.” He brushes a lock of hair away from your forehead. “Simple. Strong. Doesn’t sound like he’ll invent a killer AI. I like it.”

You smile. “Lyra and Kyle.”

He leans in to kiss you, slow and soft. “Perfect.”

From that moment on, they’re no longer just “the twins.” They’re Lyra and Kyle.

—

As the months pass, their room transforms into a blend of art and innovation—one side with celestial details, soft blues and silvers for Lyra, and the other in calm earth tones, burnt oranges and forest greens for Kyle.

The cribs stand side-by-side beneath a floating mobile of glowing planets and stars Tony designed himself.

Two nameplates hang above the cribs now—crafted from brushed gold and reclaimed oak.

You catch Tony staring at them often. Not with fear. Not with panic.

But with awe.

“They’re really coming,” he says one night, hands cradling your belly, now round and firm beneath your shirt. “I still can’t believe it.”

“They’re lucky,” you whisper, brushing his hair back. “They’ll have you.”

He looks at you, eyes tender. “No. They’ll have us. And they’ll know they were wanted. Every heartbeat. Every breath.”

And that night, curled against him, you feel them kick together for the first time—one, then the other. Strong. Sure.

A team already.

----

The gala is one of those high-profile events that Tony would normally glide through with ease—press, flashing cameras, board members with tight handshakes and tighter smiles. And normally, you’d stand by his side with calm grace, fingers looped through his arm, chin held high.

But tonight feels different.

You’re in your final weeks now. Your belly is undeniably big—so big you had to be sewn into your custom gown while standing because sitting was temporarily off the table. The dark green silk flows beautifully around your curves, but it doesn’t hide anything. Lyra and Kyle are front and center, snug inside you, and moving constantly like they know they’re being paraded through the public eye.

You adjust the shawl around your shoulders for what feels like the fifth time as Tony finishes shaking hands with a Stark Industries partner near the entrance. You shift your weight carefully, not wanting to put too much pressure on your back or feet, which have been swelling lately.

You feel eyes on you—discreet glances from women in body-hugging gowns and men in tailored suits, some with raised brows, others with polite smiles that barely mask surprise.

You try to ignore it.

But you still feel awkward. Huge. And far too visible.

Tony notices the moment your smile dims.

He excuses himself mid-conversation and makes a beeline straight to you, hands immediately landing on your waist and back, steadying you, grounding you.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, scanning your face. “Too much?”

You give him a half-smile, trying to sound lighter than you feel. “Just a little… self-conscious.”

His expression softens instantly, like someone flipped a switch inside his chest.

“Hey,” he murmurs, tipping your chin up with two fingers. “You are glowing. I mean it. You look like a goddamn goddess.”

You snort softly. “A swollen goddess.”

“An unstoppable goddess,” he corrects, kissing your forehead. “Who’s literally growing two new Starks inside her body and still managing to look like the cover of Vogue.”

You roll your eyes, but it helps. His hands don't leave your body for the rest of the night. Every step, every moment, he’s there—offering your hand to lean on, reminding you to sit every twenty minutes, checking that the event staff remembered your water and low-sodium snacks. He even shoos off the press photographers after ten minutes so you don’t have to stand for long.

“You're carrying my entire legacy,” he murmurs once when he helps you into a velvet-lined seat. “The least I can do is keep you off your feet.”

He doesn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the night.

—

Three days later, everything changes.

It starts at dawn. The sky is still painted soft blue and orange when you wake to a strange, warm pressure low in your belly. Not a kick. Not a cramp.

Something else.

You try to stand, and that's when it hits you—sharp and low, then easing into a dull, pulsing wave. You gasp, holding your stomach. Your water breaks seconds later.

Tony is at your side before you can even call for him. He stumbles out of bed in a flurry of blankets and panic.

“What? What? Was that a real gasp? Did something—?”

“My water broke,” you say breathlessly. “It’s happening.”

He stares at you, frozen.

Then: “Holy sh—okay. Okay, yeah. You’re fine. We’re fine. We practiced for this.” He’s already grabbing the go-bag, the phone, barking orders to FRIDAY to call the doctor and alert the hospital.

By the time you’re in the car, gripping his hand and trying to breathe through another contraction, Tony’s all business—but his other hand never stops stroking your back.

“You’re doing amazing,” he says, over and over. “You’ve got this. We’ve got this.”

Labor is long. Hours stretch by, filled with pain and sweat and exhaustion. But he never leaves your side.

Not when you scream through the harder contractions.

Not when you cry from the pressure and the fear.

Not when you beg for it to be over.

And when your body finally gives in and the room is filled with the high, wailing cries of not one—but two—new lives, Tony’s the first to cry.

A nurse lays your daughter on your chest—tiny, pink, with a shock of dark hair and fists curled tight. You barely have time to kiss her head before they bring your son, his cry a little softer but just as strong, his fingers already clutching at your gown.

Tony’s beside you, eyes full of awe and wet with tears. His hands shake as he touches them for the first time.

“They’re here,” he whispers. “Lyra and Kyle. They’re real.”

You manage a tired laugh, voice cracked. “They’re perfect.”

He kisses you hard and long and trembling.

----

Bringing Lyra and Kyle home is like stepping into a dream you didn’t know your heart had written.

But it’s not quiet.

And it’s definitely not restful.

The moment the elevator opens into the penthouse, the real chaos begins.

Lyra starts crying first—sharp and commanding, as if announcing her reign as the older sibling (by two minutes). Kyle follows almost immediately, softer but no less insistent. The sound echoes off the marble floors and sleek walls as if bouncing from every corner of the building.

Tony, still in a soft gray hoodie and cradling the car seat with Kyle, looks at you with eyes wide and shell-shocked. “Did anyone install a mute button? No? Cool. I’ll look into that.”

You’re too exhausted to laugh, but your hand reaches for his anyway, grounding yourself.

The nursery—your carefully designed sanctuary—suddenly feels smaller and louder and much less serene. You gently lay Lyra into her crib, her tiny arms flailing in protest, and immediately Kyle decides he does not want to be separated. His cries ramp up to what Tony calls “critical red alert levels.”

“Okay, okay, he needs backup,” Tony murmurs, scooping him up again with a gentleness that nearly breaks your heart. “Come on, little guy. It’s not that bad. You’re not even paying rent.”

The next 72 hours pass in a blur of feedings, burp cloths, diaper changes, and the faint sound of your sanity unraveling thread by thread.

You barely sleep—maybe an hour at a time. Your body aches. Your hormones are crashing like tidal waves. You cry for no reason sometimes, holding Lyra against your chest in the dark while Tony rubs your back and doesn’t ask questions.

But through it all, he’s there.

Tony Stark, billionaire genius playboy-turned-husband and father, rises to every occasion like he’s been preparing his whole life for this. He’s in the nursery before you even wake to the monitor’s buzz. He handles diaper duty without complaint—even when Kyle somehow manages to get him twice in one change.

He rocks Lyra for hours when she won’t settle, singing her old ‘80s rock ballads off-key, whispering jokes she’ll never remember.

He lets you nap uninterrupted by lying to the entire world that you’re “in a meeting” when reporters start requesting statements and the board tries to reschedule him for “important discussions.”

“The most important discussion I’m having today,” he says firmly into the phone, “is with two humans who weigh less than a cantaloupe and poop like it’s a competitive sport. So unless the building is on fire—no, you know what? Even if it’s on fire, deal with it without me.”

And then he silences his phone and lays beside you while the twins nap, his arm draped protectively across your waist, both of you catching a precious thirty minutes of sleep.

When you wake from one of those naps to the scent of warm food, you shuffle groggily into the kitchen to find him with Lyra strapped to his chest in a baby wrap and a pan of eggs cooking in front of him.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says with a grin. “Lyra says she likes her eggs over easy. She also says I’m her favorite. Sorry, I don’t make the rules.”

You smile so hard you almost cry again.

Later that night, when both babies are miraculously sleeping in their cribs at the same time—tiny arms thrown up in near-identical poses—you lean against the nursery doorway, arms crossed gently over your chest, and watch Tony fuss quietly over the room.

He’s rearranging things that don’t need rearranging. Checking the monitor angle. Adjusting the blanket placement in the cribs.

You walk over and wrap your arms around his waist from behind.

He leans back into your touch immediately. “Can’t believe they’re real.”

“I can’t believe we made them.”

He turns in your arms, eyes soft. “You did most of the work, let’s be honest. I just—”

“You’ve been amazing,” you interrupt gently. “Really.”

He smiles—crooked, a little tired, a little emotional. “I don’t want you to do any of this alone. Ever.”

You pull him down into a kiss. It’s quiet. It tastes like sleep deprivation and love.

---

Life with twins becomes a mosaic of moments—some loud and chaotic, others quiet and golden.

Lyra and Kyle grow faster than you ever thought possible. One moment they’re impossibly small, sleeping curled against your chest, and the next they’re crawling in opposite directions at alarming speeds while Tony frantically tries to babyproof a Stark-level security system from the babies themselves.

“They’re teaming up,” he says one evening, watching as Kyle opens the bottom drawer in the kitchen and hands a spoon to Lyra. “They’re forming a hive mind. You see this, right?”

You’re laughing, even as you pluck the spoon from Lyra’s grip and gently redirect her back toward her soft play area. “They're not a hive. They're siblings.”

“They’re mutinous,” he mutters, but his grin betrays his pride. “Tiny, adorable rebels.”

—

Their first steps come unexpectedly, of course.

You and Tony are both in the nursery one late afternoon, folding laundry together on the floor while the twins babble nonsense to their stuffed animals. Kyle is focused on his favorite one—a green plush dinosaur with a snagged eye—while Lyra, ever observant, is watching you.

You catch her gaze just as she starts to push herself upright.

Tony notices first. “Oh,” he whispers. “Oh-oh-oh.”

She wobbles—one foot, then the other, barely stable—and then she walks.

Three full steps.

Straight into your arms.

You burst into tears, laughing and holding her tight. “You did it, baby!”

Kyle, not to be outdone, immediately lets go of his toy and tries the same thing. He takes two steps, then falls dramatically onto his padded backside, completely unbothered.

Tony claps like he’s just witnessed a world record. “You guys! You guys! You’re walking now? We need helmets. We need security.”

From that day forward, it’s chaos all over again. Mobility changes everything. They explore every room. Open every drawer. Kyle develops a fascination with Tony’s gadgets, and Lyra becomes obsessed with books—she likes to flip through them, point at the pages, and babble nonsense words that sound oddly like commands.

“Mini CEO,” Tony says proudly, watching her point at the same picture of a rocket over and over again.

—

Their words start coming around the same time.

But they’re not exactly dictionary-ready.

Lyra says “muh-muh” when she wants milk and “dah-dee” when she sees Tony walk into the room. Kyle invents his own phrases—“boo-moo” for blanket, “wah-wah” for water, and something that sounds like “da-blurf” that could mean literally anything depending on the tone.

To outsiders, it’s pure chaos.

To you and Tony, it’s a fluent second language.

You translate with ease at the park, at brunches, at family gatherings.

“She wants her bunny,” you say when Lyra looks up at you with big eyes and says “bun-yah-nah.”

“He dropped his truck in the fountain,” Tony explains, deadpan, when Kyle starts shouting “wuh-bloop!” repeatedly and pointing furiously at the edge of the garden.

It becomes a running joke among your friends and staff that only the two of you can understand them.

“You’re like their personal interpreters,” Rhodey says one afternoon, watching the twins toddle around the tower’s rec room.

“More like their unpaid assistants,” Tony mutters, grinning as he catches Kyle mid-wobble and swings him onto his hip. “Bilingual in toddler and fluent in chaos.”

—

By the time Lyra and Kyle are two, your lives are unrecognizable from the ones you had before them. Your house is a blend of elegance and mess—designer furniture paired with foam corner guards, baby gates guarding arc reactors, and a fridge covered in crayon masterpieces you can’t bring yourself to take down.

You and Tony barely sleep some nights, but when you do, it’s together—your bodies curled protectively around each other in a house that now echoes with tiny feet and sweeter-than-anything laughter.

The twins babble to each other constantly—words and sounds you don’t always catch, but that clearly mean something to them. A private language. A world of their own.

Sometimes you watch them from the doorway as they sit together with books or blocks or their favorite stuffed toys, heads close, trading secrets.

“Do you think they know?” you ask Tony one night, as Lyra pats Kyle’s head before handing him her bunny.

“Know what?”

“That they changed everything.”

Tony wraps an arm around your shoulder, pulling you close as the sunlight glows through the window and warms the nursery floor.

“They are everything,” he says softly.

---

Mornings in the Stark household now begin with chaos.

Not a metaphorical kind. No—this is toddler-level bedlam.

The twins wake up at exactly 6:14 AM every single day like little precision alarm clocks forged in the fires of mischief. Today is no different.

You're jolted awake by the sudden crackle of the baby monitor, followed by a loud—and completely unintelligible—battle cry.

"MAH-DEE BEEPBOOP!" Kyle shouts, his voice shrill and dramatic.

"NOOO KAH-LOOO! DABBA ME!" Lyra wails immediately after, and the sound of what might be a plush bunny hitting the crib bars echoes through the monitor.

You groan softly into your pillow. “They’re fighting over Beepboop again.”

Tony, face smushed into the pillow, mumbles, “I’ll give you two million dollars if you go get them.”

“Make it three and coffee.”

He sighs, rolls out of bed, and limps toward the nursery in pajama pants and a shirt that says “World’s Okayest Dad.”

You follow moments later to find him kneeling between two cribs, holding up the infamous Beepboop—a lumpy stuffed robot with one missing arm.

Kyle points with all the moral authority of a tiny Supreme Court judge. “BEEPBOOP me, Dadda. Me say dib-dib-dib! Lyyyyra cheat!”

Lyra scowls, pigtails wild. “NO! Bepbop NO dib-dib! Me hug Beepboop ALL night! Me! Me! Me! MAAAAAA!”

Tony’s trying not to laugh. “Okay, okay. Court is in session. Both plaintiffs, present your evidence.”

You squat down beside him and gently take Beepboop. “What if Beepboop gets two turns today? Lyra can have him during story time, and Kyle during nap time?”

They both squint at you like suspicious diplomats.

Kyle crosses his arms. “Hmph. Nap boring. Bepbop NO nap.”

Lyra’s lip quivers. “But me hug him! Hug like—like foreber!”

You hold Beepboop up and look between them. “Teamwork or timeout?”

A long beat.

Then—both toddlers sigh in unison, as if burdened by the unbearable injustice of compromise.

“Fiiiine,” Kyle mutters.

“Me HUG first,” Lyra insists one last time.

—

Breakfast is…something.

Tony makes pancakes, but Kyle insists on helping, which really means slapping the counter with flour-covered hands and taste-testing raw batter with his fingers.

“NOOOO EGGY!” he yells dramatically as Tony cracks one into the bowl.

Tony raises a brow. “What do you mean ‘no eggy’? It’s a pancake. Pancakes need eggs.”

“No eggy, no eggy, NOOOO!” Kyle insists, absolutely scandalized.

Meanwhile, Lyra has decided her only utensil today is a measuring cup, which she is currently using to ladle syrup from the bottle directly onto her pancake. The pancake is now more syrup than food.

You sit with your mug of tea and watch, amazed that these tiny humans are somehow so much like you and Tony and yet such chaotic goblins.

“Banana?” Lyra asks, holding up a pancake completely drowning in syrup.

“You want banana on that?” you ask.

She nods like it’s obvious. “Banana IN pancake. Like brrrrr-BAM. ‘Splode banana.”

Tony stares. “Okay… That’s actually a genius idea. Banana explosion pancakes. Trademark pending.”

—

Midday is supposed to be calm.

Supposed to be.

But then there’s the puzzle incident.

Lyra wants to complete a big animal puzzle. Kyle wants to climb on it like Godzilla.

Lyra screeches, “NO SMOOSH ELEFAMP!” as Kyle lays across the puzzle dramatically.

You’re folding laundry when she marches into the living room with two chunky toddler fists clenched and fire in her eyes. “MOM-MEEE. Bubba make puzzle DEAD. Him SMASH elefamp.”

Kyle shouts from the floor behind her, “HIM NAP with effa-famp! Nap! It cuddly!”

Tony watches the scene like a referee between tiny wrestlers.

“I have no idea what’s happening,” he mutters. “They both sound right.”

You lean over and whisper, “He’s cuddling the elephant piece. She thinks he’s committing puzzle war crimes.”

Tony nods solemnly. “That tracks.”

—

Nap time is sacred.

Except no one wants to sleep today.

Tony’s strategy involves lying between their little toddler beds and making spaceship noises. “The sleep ship is docking. Commander Kyle, permission to close eyes.”

Kyle blinks at him and deadpans, “Me NO commander. Me banana.”

Lyra giggles. “Commander Nana!”

Tony puts a hand over his heart. “You’re right. Commander Banana, lead the sleepy fleet.”

You stifle laughter from the doorway as he drones on: “Fueling dreams… activating nap boosters…”

By some miracle, both fall asleep fifteen minutes later. You and Tony high-five silently and collapse onto the couch.

“Remember when we thought we were tired before we had kids?” you whisper.

Tony nods, eyes already closing. “Fools. Arrogant, well-rested fools.”

—

Bath time is wet, splashy, and full of giggles.

Kyle babbles a long, incomprehensible monologue involving “tub-fish” and “soap army,” while Lyra insists the shampoo bottle is “Prince Bubble” and must not be harmed.

By the time they're in pajamas and tucked in, you and Tony are damp, exhausted, and laughing under your breath.

“Me lub you, Dadda,” Kyle whispers as his eyes flutter closed.

“Me lub you, Momma,” Lyra echoes.

You and Tony freeze.

Those are the clearest words they’ve spoken all day.

Your throat catches. Tony blinks rapidly, lips curving.

“I love you both more than the whole world,” you whisper, smoothing back Lyra’s hair.

Tony leans in and kisses their foreheads gently. “Even more than my vintage car collection. And that’s saying something.”

[ray-jaykub]

Climbing Floors to Purple Light

This is a little brain worm I've had, for who knows how long, and I finally got it out. I know there isn't much interaction between reader and Donnie but I'm gonna be honest the point of this fic was to give you guys a reader who has the chance to fight for herself. Domestic violence is a rampant and killing oppression that many people face. Some do not have the strength to leave their situations, some may not even know they're in situations to begin with, and some do die. I come from a childhood filled with domestic violence and child abuse, and many years I had laid awake watching out that trailer window not knowing that what I was going through was wrong but knowing I never wanted it for myself. Sadly, that doesn't make me immune to falling into the cycle my mother and grandmother had, we are all at the potential of falling into harmful relationships. Stay aware, stay safe, and stay open to help. You are not alone

Tw: domestic violence, crude language, ugly men, ominous ending for ex

It's a little bit of a rainy night here in New York, drizzling against your umbrella as you walk back to your apartment with a pep in your step. The guy's and April had made the plan to have a fun game night to start off the weekend, and afterward, the guys would head out to do their usual rounds. Hanging with them was always the best, Mikey had a habit of making whatever drink you have coming out your nose with his jokes, but you were more excited about one brother specifically.

You and Donatello had been going steady for… 6 months? You struggled to remember, but he could tell you the exact days, minutes, and hours. He was a total upgrade from your last relationship, kind and attentive, patient, and forgiving. April claimed this should be considered the norm, but your bar had been set kinda, maybe super, low. But that just made everything better in your eyes! And yeah, sometimes when he was nose deep in some business, you can get kind of lonely. But you can't even dwell on it long before he door dashes a treat to your apartment or sends you plans for a date that he'd rolled in his brain for the past couple hours.

Just thinking about him makes you smile, and quickly, you pull your phone out, shooting a quick text to him that you're about to be inside the building. Maybe you were moving too fast with him, falling in so deep, sharing parts of yourself with him that you probably wouldn't have done with any other guy. Yet, it all felt so right.

There was one part you had not shared with him, though.It hadn't helped that your last relationship was so…mean. Being hit hurt more than it looked on TV, and a long time ago, you had convinced yourself that a part of you deserved it. The hair pulling and kicking your knees, gripping you till there were big purple splotches. You lost friends, somehow didn't lose your job, and at this point could feel the look of pity from miles away. Being handed brochures on how to leave dangerous situations by supporting groups or defacs workers and being asked if there was trouble at home by worrying grannies. You would persist that it was fine, would throw away the pamphlets or guiltily shove them in an old coat pocket in the back of your closet.It had taken being beaten down on the bathroom floor just because of how you were "looking at him" to finally realize it'd be best getting out of there. That resulted in a restraining order and moving in with April, which led to meeting the turtles and led to meeting someone who made you so happy. It was the best choice you had made in a long time. It's been nearly 2 years since then, he felt like a distant memory behind you.

You're quick to put your card key to the door panel and swing it open, shoes clicking onto the linoleum when you get in. The elevator was straight across from the main door. All you had to do was get in, and you'd be a hallway away from your apartment. Pressing the button, you wait, watching the numbers above the door dwindle down as they come to the lobby and ding open. Stepping in, the overhead light is dim, having not been changed in who knows how long, and the buttons are worn, but you know which is yours.

You expect the doors to shut, but a hand shoots out and stops them, and in a dark hood and a ball cap, your ex's face pops up.

"Y/n?" He's not even waiting before he wedges himself in through the barely opened doors. Your stomach drops, and a heavy weight makes you nauseous as your tongue feels cemented to the top of your mouth. He's standing on the opposite side of the elevator, at least, but you're thumbing your phone in your pocket. "Hope you don't mind, I followed behind you when you opened the door."

What?

Had you been so careless not to notice him right there??

"You were behind me?" It comes out as even as you can make it, a little breathless from anxiety. He nods like it's the most casual thing in the world, and the elevator doors are sliding shut. Like the heavy gates to some cage, they squeak, and your center of gravity feels off as it lifts."Yeah," He shuffles a bit, hands in his pockets. "I had to wait for you at work and everything to figure out where you were staying. You're pretty hard to find." He double takes when you do, noticing your panicked state and defensively raises his hands. "But it was just so I could talk to you! I really wanna work things out babe…"

"I don't!" Your voice cracks, and he looks stunned, so you gulp a breath down and speak again. "We are done. We have been done, I don't know why, why you at all thought it was okay to come find me li-" He's coming towards you and it makes you flinch, shoulders pressed into the corner of this suddenly very too tiny elevator. He doesn't touch you, just crowds, body blocking your line of sight from the elevator panel and doors.

"Y/n, liten to me…" You're already shaking your head and trembling hands reach up, leaving your phone in your pocket, just in the hopes to maybe keep space between you both. That makes him sneer. A rough hand tries to knock them away, but you yank away, trying to slide past him. "Y/n!"

"No! I don't want to!" You hate that you're getting panicked so easy. But he had been so cruel the last time you had seen him, had left you there to pick yourself up while he went out without you. You couldn't do it anymore. And now that he's in front of you again, it's like you're a rabbit in the jaw of some hunting dog. Raised and bred by their hunting, neglectful fathers, and sad, pushover mothers to be hateful and harmful to women. A cycle that you had repeated onto you, a flower squashed in some book about war, you can't let it happen again.

You try to turn away from him and pull your phone out but freeze as the elevator stops, the emergency alarm beeping from overhead. "I said listen to me, Y/n."You barely get to turn and see that he had pushed it before knuckles meet your face, and you crumple away from him, phone skidding across the small floor. You feel like you're blabbering as you beg for a second to catch yourself. "Wait, wait, please -"

"I don't know why you're acting like such a major bitch." He's crouching down, grabbing your ankles, trying to drag you to him. "I did a lot for you, I was the reason you even had friends, even got your job." You sober up quickly when you feel yourself coming closer to him, fingers digging into the floor to drag and lift yourself. Those few self-defense lessons Leo had given you wouldn't be for naught.You've gotta get to your phone and get out of here.

—

"Hey, where's Y/n? She was supposed to be here a couple of minutes ago, right?" April wonders, leaning against the counter as she watches the queso dip heat in the microwave. The brothers sit in the living room, watching as Raph indecisively scrolls through what movie they'd play in the background. Mikey is stacking the game boxes ridiculously high in one corner while Leo lazily scrolls on his phone. Donnie is the only one to lean back and answer her, though.

"Yeah, she texted me earlier and said she was close, so I'm assuming it'll be another minute or two." A toilet flushes, and Casey walks out from the hall, adjusting his pants.

"What are we talking about?" He comes into the open kitchen with April snuggling up to her side. "Y/n isn't here yet. Did you wash your hands?" He freezes awkwardly and backs up, sheepishly moving to the kitchen sink.

"Eeew, Case C'mon.""I bet if you ask those four, they're not washing their hands." April's face pinches up, but Donnie snorts. "I don't know, Leo is pretty anal about that kind of stuff."

April can hear Mikey and Raph giggling before they even open their mouths, and she can't help but smile herself. "Okay, you guys are officially nasty!"

Everyone laughs, carefree, and floating out the window.

—

You're panting. This elevator feels like a grave to you, buried under cement and hidden from everyone. Your phone sits, cracked in between you both. Your eye feels like it's throbbing, blood drips down your nose, and you taste it in your mouth. He has scratches on his cheek, and a part of his hair is ugily skewed from being pulled. When he had gotten ahold of your ankles, you had kicked out of them, but he was quick to lunge and slam his fists down on you.

You had done everything you could, kicked your knees up into his stomach, and slid yourself away. You had tried picking your phone up again, hands fumbling, but he knocked it from you. Crowding you again, hands going into your hair and yanking to the point it brings tears to your eyes, you take a hand and slash at him, coming up again to pull his own hair. He had a grip on you, though, shaking you violently by your hair and standing you both up. His other hand punched at your face again with no direction. One hit collided with your eye, directly into the lens. You hear your glasses crack, and the plastic pinches your nose and the soft skin of your eyebrow.

"All you had to do was hear me out!" Spittle hits your face, head whooshing, and you can barely hear him with all this sound. The emergency alarm sounds louder than it had before, thrumming in your ears and flooding your senses. And in slow motion, you're colliding with the wall of the elevator, body slammed against metal. "Why are you so fucking dense! You never learn!"

It's like a sleeper agent coming to life when you hear that phrase. The last thing he had said to you the last time he had seen you, what you had hoped was the last time.

"GET OFF ME!"

With a sudden rush, you're awkwardly hiking up your leg and shooting it straight at his gut. Your work shoes must've hurt because he's stumbling back, hand releasing your hair.

This is what leads to you both standing across from each other. Your phone, in the middle, the button to get the elevator moving beside him, nothing beside you. The choice you had to make, the levels of importance. To get this elevator moving brought you closer to home, to get your phone would let your friends know you needed help.You don't even give him a chance to open his mouth before you're jumping for the elevator panel.

You throw yourself against it, crying out as his arms wrap around you, throwing you down onto the floor. You wilt for a second, thinking you had wasted it as he grabs at your clothes, a seam ripping as he drags you again, but victoriously, the alarm stops and the elevator is in motion once more.

"You bitch!" He's staggering to get up and press it again, the elevator moving throws him off balance. And you, with vindication,kick the back of his knee and watch him stumble nose-first into the railing.

"Siri!" You shout, and the chime rings, cutting the moment of silence, and he's whipping around. The first name that comes out of your mouth, the one you had waited for all day, your purple light in that dark tunnel. "Call Donatello!"

…

"Calling Michelangelo!" Good enough!Your phone is ringing when a punch lands on your ribs. The pain makes your whole torso ache. You still have to fight, to shout, you wouldn't lie down again, and this time you wouldn't be alone picking up pieces of yourself, you were not gonna be left broken. You hear the phone pick up, Mikey's happy 'Sup Gurl!' Murmurs from the phone, and you gasp, gathering the air in this little space…And scream.

—

Things had started getting set up, Leo insisting they pull out a game so when Y/n got here, the ball would be rolling. They're all sitting around the coffee table, clue is set up, and everyone is picking pieces.

"I just don't understand why you won't let me have Mrs. Peacock." Leo fusses, looking sourly at the Reverand Greene pawn he's holding.

"The only reason is because Y/n likes her," Donnie insists and cutely makes Professor Plum and Mrs. Peacock touch faces, his oldest brother stares the action down, unamused. "It'd be unfair to leave her with leftover characters just because she's running a little late."

"Uh huh, sure," Mikey teases, fiddling with his own pawn. "Definitely not because you're thinking that's you two in another life."

"That's not plausible," Donnie snarks, "We're far more compatible than Professor Plum and Mrs. Peacock. We just like these two.

"My Bubblegum by Rasheeda starts up, coming from Mikey's pocket.

"There is no way that's your ringtone!" April giggles, watching as Casey dances in his seat to the music. Mikey is cheesing, glad it's getting recognized.

"Well, duh! It's trending right now," Taking a quick peek at his phone has him sitting up, though. "Uh oh Don, it's your snookums, think she changed her mind on which brother is the best?" He's waggling his brows for show as Donnie rolls his eyes, big hands still pressing Mrs. Peacock and Professor Plum together. Mikey answers the phone on speaker phone and with a quick "Sup Gurl!" And before he can follow up asking where she's at, her scream cuts through the speaker, shrill and frantic.

Everyone is suddenly standing, the air tenses as some man is shouting profanities at her, and dull thuds can be heard.

"Where the hell is she?" Raphael asks, but Donnie is already looking concerned at a screen with a dot flashing on it."She's here." He tries, eyes roving over nothing, trying to think of any spaces there are, but a ding reaches over her struggling, and the dots connect.

"The elevator!" April confirms, having heard the ding every day coming home. It was hard to miss. Leo starts to grab his sheathed katanas, already thinking of how to get access."Alright, we need to find a way to get into the elevator shaft, if we can get the dro- "

He doesn't even get to finish before Donnie is racing right out the front door and into the hallway. His brother's call behind him, warning him of the risk he's taking, but they don't deny following after him, Casey tailing to watch any doors that may open.

He can see before he touches the door that the elevator has reached its floor, but before the doors slide open, there's a thud, and the emergency alarm blares from it again. Donnie gives it no time before he's taking both his hands and wedging his fingers through the elevator door. What would've taken two or three men to open only took him, with barely any strain, and the sight before him makes his vision spotty.

—

That call had been your saving grace. The silence on his end showed you they had understood. The pain is nothing to the relief in that moment, his hand around your neck as the other reaches behind him and slams into the emergency button again. This time, the lights go off, and the strain on the elevator makes the overhead bulbs pop.

You fear the fight you'd have to put up in the dark, weakly kicking your feet, his hand trying to tighten around your neck, but then you hear this loud groan. A sliver of light peaks through where the doors are, and in a sense of urgency, your ex pushes off of you and separates himself. He's already stammering out some excuse as you lie there trying to catch your breath, but whatever he sees has him gasping.

"Wh, what the fuck!" His voice goes up an octave, face drained of color, the scratch marks on his face now starkly red. Your head feels heavy, flat on your back knees still hiked up in defense, you try with the last bit of your strength and turn to see.

Donnie, with the hall lights shining on his back, looks objectively terrifying and threatening. To anyone, he would be considered a monster, but to you, it was, again, that purple light in the dark tunnel.

He doesn't even pay mind to the other person in there with you, crouching down to gently lift you to your knees and beckon over some of his brothers.

"You did so good," He gently murmurs, brushing back your hair and fretting over your broken glasses, taking them off your face and pocketing them. Michelangelo comes behind him, hands reaching to guide you out, but you feel hesitant leaving Donnie, your body still shaking. "I'll handle the rest, Dove. They've got you."

That gentle nudge convinces you to move into Michelangelo's arms, being lifted and carried past a rather calm Leonardo, Raphael, and Casey, who almost look like they're holding post in the hallway. April meets you at her door, rushing Mikey in and racing for her first aid kit. You feel numb, like the energy was sucked from you, but Mikey still fidgets with your clothes, trying to imitate the way Donnie had pet your hair back.

"Don't worry, angel, it's gonna get handled, your ol' Donnie's on it." And all you can do is nod and breathe, the pain slowly growing as that adrenaline and fear fade away. April is coming back with a mess of a box when you see it, beyond the open doorway. An old man is shutting his door.

—

He watches as Michelangelo takes her back down the hall and doesn't turn back until they're both out of sight. He looks at his two older brothers, at Casey, who all nod."Do what you've gotta do." Raphael, ever the one to encourage a fight. But Leonardo looks like he's ready to agree.

He's about to speak, but a door creaks open, the one across from April's, where an old man peeks out to see what the noise is about. He freezes for a second, seeing this scuffed up guy in the elevator, but then he sees Y/n crying, sitting in sight of the doorway of April's apartment, looking worse.It doesn't take a man long to understand what's happening here. He knows Casey and April, knows their good character, and whatever they let happen with these men must be for good reason

."Have a good evening, boys, yeah?" And he shuts the door, doesn't even bother to lock the door, and it's just them again.

That was his cue.

Donnie stands to his full height, looking down at this shaking leaf, and takes a looming step onto the elevator. It creaks a little under his weight, dipping just an inch past being level with the floor, and reverently, Donnie leans over to the panel and turns the emergency alarm off. The Guy must realize what he's trying to do, and scrambles, trying to bolt out, but he's snatched up by Donatello, harshly gagging as the collar of his shirt chokes him. The elevator dings, yet the light doesn't come on, and as the doors are shutting, Donnie brings this guy right to the front of him, peering down. "Let's see if you can last as many floors as she did."

Darkness envelopes both of them.

[mythicmanuscripts]

DAEMYRA X READER THOUGHTS

So, one of the reasons why I made this blog is because of a little plot bunny that I have not been able to get to leave my head so I figured I'll share it with you all! Here are my thoughts about being in a poly relationship with both Daemon and Rhaenyra. These thoughts will include NSFW thoughts. It is dom!reader with switch!rheanyra and switch!daemon.

If you like what you see, feel free to take a look around my blog!

Both Daemon and Rhaenyra wanted you long before they ever made a move. Once their marriage was official, it didnt take them long to begin fantasising about you. Daemon saw the way Rhaenyra looked at you and so naturally the next time they were fucking, he started talking about you and from there, mentioning you while they were together was commonplace.

You'd first kiss Rhaenyra. It happens one night, the two of you sitting by the fire and talking, Rhaenyra complaining about her small council and about feeling disrespected by many of them. At some point the topic of Daemon came up, and how Rhaenyra honestly didnt even know when he was going to show up again. You promised her that she'd never have to deal with that with you, and that she deserved better.

And then suddenly you two are kissing and the next thing you know, you're in her private chambers, your head between her thighs. She tells you how her and Daemin have fantasised about you, how Daemon will be so jealous to hear that she got to have you first.

When Daemon does return, he very nearly combusts when he finds you and Rhaenyra curled up together on their bed. Needless to say, he jumps right in.

The funny thing is that your dynamic with Daemon couldnt be more different than your dynamic with Rhaenyra. With Rhaenyra, you're gentle and soft. Yes you are very much the dom, but she is your queen, you look after her, ensure she doesn't have to make a single decision from the moment she retires to her bed for the evening.

Meanwhile with Daemon you are so harsh. Daemon needs a heavy hand, and he will brat and fight and disobey until he gets the level of punishment and attention that he desires. You drag him by his hair to bed, spank and scratch him, edge him until he's sobbing.

And to everyone's delight, Daemon is actually significantly less of a cunt when he's regularly getting absolutely wrecked by you.

One of your favourite things to do is to tie Daemon to a chair facing the bed and then just absolutely worship Rhaenyra. Daemon can't do a thing but watch. He always starts out stubborn, but before long he's shaking and whining begging for anything, even just for you to free one of hands so he can touch himself.

Another favourite is to get Daemon on his knees with his hands tied behind his back and then make him give you or Rhaenyra head like that. He's not allowed to use his hands at all, and he's not allowed to stop until you tell him to. Sometimes if you're feeling particularly cruel, you'll make him eat Rhaenyra out like that while you edge him. He's not allowed to cum until he's made Rhaenyra cum twice.

Daemon will dom Rhaenyra on his own when it’s just the two of them, but funnily enough the moment you’re in the mix he stops wanting to be the dom? It’s like you walk into the room and instantly Daemon turns into a pouty little brat that you have to teach a lesson. Rhaenyra finds this change equal parts hot and hilarious.

Speaking of Daemon being well… Daemon, Rhaenyra will often send you to go fetch Daemon from whichever castle he’s wondering around in and bring him back.

However these trips aren’t just you finding daemon and dragging him back to dragon stone by his ear (though that is definitely part of it), it’s also you punishing the ever loving fuck out of that idiot. He gets spanked and edged and degraded, all the rough treatment he loves.

And so by the time you reach dragon stone, Daemon is no longer all smug and confident but instead will just fall to his knees in front of Rhaenyra and beg her to forgive him. He always says he’ll never do it again and he always does it again within a fortnight.

Oh and lastly, when Jace found out of this he kinda just sighed and said “Oh great, I have another parent.”

[ravennaortiz]

11,22,43,52 with Chibs please. I’m rewatching SOA right now and I would love to read a story where the reader is the club princess who fell in love with Chibs.. thank u so much!🫶🏼

I too am rewatching SOA! I absolutely love the idea of the club princess falling in love with Chibs! Your very welcome, stop by anytime for another! As always my stories are 18+!

Princess

I'm not enough for you lassie. Too old and with you being who you are. I just can't lass.

You frowned looking up from where you stood in front of Chibs as his words echoed through your head. You weren't used to not getting what you wanted as the club princess. You had had a crush on the Scottish biker since he joined your brother and stepdads MC years ago. That's crush had slowly grown over the years into much more. You had fallen hopelessly head over heels for him.

Chibs sighed as he watched your eyes sparkle with tears. This was entirely his fault. He should have nipped this in the bud years ago. He had simply thought it was a young school girl crush and it would go away with time. It hadn't and now here he was trying to let you down as gently as possible.

His loyalty to your stepdad and brother prevented him from giving himself to you even though he wanted too. He couldn't deny you were a stunning young woman and anyone would be lucky to have you in their life and bed at night. But you were strictly off limits and every man in this club knew that. As much as he would love to feel your lips against his he just could not risk it.

You nodded as you sniffled and wiped at your eyes as the tears slipped down your cheeks. A mix of emotions battled within you. Maybe you could talk to Jax. He would okay it you thought and you could care less what your stepdad thought. Sometimes you truly hated being the club princess and how people treated you differently. A surge of anger had a challenge falling from your lips as you glared back at Chibs.

"Make me believe you don't want me" you firmly stated as you moved closer running your hands down the older mans chest to his belt which you started to undo. Chibs was slow to respond and you had his belt and zipper undone before he grabbed your wrist. "Stop" murmured Chibs trying to be gentle as he felt his own body start to betray him.

As sweet as you were he knew you had the Teller signature stubbornness and hardheadedness just like your brother. Rarely could wither of you be talked off or down from something once you were latched on. The smug look on your face before you spoke next had him worried.

"No one is here but us. Hell no one else knows I'm here. So whats he harm? Just a small taste?" you whispered as you walked forward making Chibs move back so you were all the way in his dorm room. Chibs swallowed hard and his brain was short circuiting as the implication of your words hit him. The sound of his door slamming closed as you kicked it shut had him snapping out of the trance and releasing your hands. Putting more distance between the two of you he rubbed his face.

Taking the opportunity you slipped your dress down and let it float to the floor around your feet. When Chibs turned back to you he swallowed hard as he took in your nearly nude body. "Jeezus Christ" he murmured as he snapped his eyes closed. "Put your clothes back on now" he ordered even though he was straining at the front of his jeans.

You huffed before rolling your eyes and moving towards him. Once you were in front of him you dropped to your knees as you tugged on his jeans. "Please Chibs?" you whimpered as you batted your eyes up at him. Chibs shivered at your words but quickly moved around you and left his room as he uttered a firm no.

***

"What's going on with you and my sister?" inquired Jax as he slipped into the stool next to Chibs a couple of days later. Chibs sighed heavily as he took a sip of his whiskey. It was no secret you had been cold with him and made your irritation known to the whole club since he had denied your advances.

"I thought I did the right thing but apparently not" replied Chibs not bothering to elaborate. Jax simply nodded as he looked at his friend. "Well I want you to fix it. However you need to" replied Jax after a couple minutes as his eyes trailed over to where you stood talking to a member from another charter.

Chibs had slipped outside for fresh air when he heard your voice raising into almost a yell as you struggled in the arms of a man Chibs had seen a couple times but not bothered to learn the name of. A surge of jealously had Chibs stalking over silent and grabbing the man before beating his face to a bloody pulp.

"Chibs!" you screamed as you pulled him back. Your eyes wide with fear and shock at his reaction. "Why di-" you started before Chibs lips on yours had your words cut off. Moaning you ran your hands through his hair pulling him closer before he pulled back a moment later.

"I would kill for you lass. I've missed you so damn much the last couple of days. I was a damn bloody idiot. Can you forgive me and give an old man another chance love?" begged Chibs as he looked into your eyes.

You gulped and simply nodded. "I love you Chibs" you whispered looking up at him with a soft smile.

"Love ya too lass" replied Chibs before he picked you up and carried you back to the clubhouse.

Want more Chibs? Click here

Want to make your own request? Click here

[ukiiseikou]

the start of something new.

thoma x gn! reader. figure skating au

synposis: thoma's really nervous ever since he spotted you: skating prodigy, at the local rink he's volunteering at as the zamboni driver. a/n: this is part of a series called complementary figures, which is a figure skating au with the hyv characters!

"hi! sorry, this might be really weird, but can i get your autograph?" 

you look up at the voice from your phone, and you see a cute blonde guy giving you an awkward smile. there would be nothing weird about it, except for the fact he was just climbing down from the zamboni that was making it's rounds around your local rink a few minutes ago.

"oh, hey," you give him your best dazzling smile, "no problem! you got anything i can write with?"

"seriously? um, here!" he manages to scramble and produce a sharpie and a printed out picture of you at one of your competitions, a gold medal slung around your neck.

"aw, this was from two seasons ago! when i won the world champion gold for the first time."

you make small talk as you uncap the sharpie, finishing your signature with a flourish.

"what's your name?" you smile at him again.

"uh, thoma - t. h. o. m. a.," you laugh at how bright red he is as you scribble down a quick TO: THOMA above your signature.

"oh my god, thank you so much," he says, almost breathlessly as you hand the sharpie and photo back to him, "my parents used to watch your parents on TV. we used to be from mondstadt as well."

"mom and dad? haha, that's so sweet. when did you move here?”

“a few years ago,” he scratches the back of his neck, “maybe when i was, like, twelve? anyways, i never managed to get the same ice time as you, but i’ve been watching you a lot. archons, that sounds weird, right? sorry.”

“oh, it’s okay. actually, thanks for the support,” you let out another laugh as he frantically apologises, “i’ve been skating here since forever, i think everyone in this town has seen me fall once or twice.”

"thoma! the ice!" the both of you wince as the rink manager yells at him, gesturing to the buckets of ice used to patch up the surface of the rink.

"right, that," he mumbles. you watch as he troops over to the buckets of ice, picking up one with a spatula. turning to survey the ice, you see the various divots and holes that dot the ice, thanks to you and the other skaters, no doubt.

“here, let me help,” you watch as he pulls on his rental skates and go to grab your own bucket, taking off your guards as you step onto ice. he awkwardly follows behind, legs scrambling to keep up.

“haven’t - haven’t skated in a long time,” he says, after straightening up.

“you don’t skate often?” you’re scared he’s going to splat straight onto his face with the way he’s moving, so you move in closer, just in case he falls.

he shakes his head, “winter sports and me? not a great match. more of a track runner, actually. just here to earn some extra cash during the holidays. my friend skates here, uh, ayaka?”

“ayaka kamisato? i know her, the one who skates with her brother, right? i see her sometimes.”

you blink and suddenly thoma’s feet nearly slide out from under him as he bends to patch up a spot. he wobbles before regaining his balance.

you breathe out a sigh of relief as you round up on him, “here, bend at the waist, not the knees.”

“like this?” you cringe as he does exactly the opposite as what you just said.

“not quite… actually, just grab onto me,” you take his hands in yours, at which he sputters at. you laugh as you take him into the middle of rink, letting go of his hands to scoop some ice to patch up the surface of the ice beneath you.

“like this,” you demonstrate, and when he finally nails the pose you turn around with a self-satisfied grin to focus on the far end of the rink.

thoma short-circuits, but as he watches you busy yourself with inspecting the ice, he turns and does the same thing, wishing that a hole could open up in the ground and swallow him whole. the extra cash thing was true, but he’s had a major crush on you for years - but he swears its not for that reason alone. ayaka and ayato are here, so he gets to hang out with them in his free time and not worry about being bored out of his mind all day; and he likes helping out the neighbourhood whenever he can, and when he heard the rink manager fretting about not getting enough volunteers this summer, he naturally signed up.

“hey.”

he nearly slips and falls when he hears your voice next to his ear, and you laugh - which sounds like wedding bells.

“i finished my end of the rink, you done with your’s?”

“uh, yeah,” he stares down at the nearly empty bucket in his hands, guess he works fast when spaced out and imagining things.

“great!” you take his hands again, and he has no choice but to allow himself to be pulled back and forth by you.

“thoma, do you wanna get dinner together? maybe my parents can meet your’s someday, and give them an autograph, too.”

he doesn’t reply, but you’re plenty amused by his ums and ahs and shaky okays.

[steddieas-shegoes]

i wanna make you love me

for @subeddieweek day three with the prompts brat eddie and wet and choking

rated e | 2,978 words | please check ao3 for tags

Day one:  ao3 | tumblr Day two: ao3 | tumblr

⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕⭕

He’s left on his knees, blindfolded.

There’s no sound in the room, nothing to give away what’s coming next.

Fingers in his hair. Hand around his throat. Lips against his ear.

“You’re helpless like this, aren’t you?”

Eddie whined.

Whining never got him anywhere except in more trouble, and sometimes Eddie really liked being in trouble.

And because Steve was always honest after a scene, he admitted that he loved when Eddie was a brat, loved to see him subtly ignore Steve’s directions and make little noises even when he was supposed to be quiet. Eddie played into it sometimes, but it came naturally for him to ignore orders, even when he was floating away in his head.

The hand around his throat tightened for a moment, barely enough to actually cut off his air, and then disappeared completely.

“I know what you want, but if you can’t be my good boy, you don’t get to have it. You know better,” Steve said from behind him.

Eddie’s hands weren’t tied, they hardly ever were if he was blindfolded. The only time he’d had to safeword was when he’d been tied up in bed and blindfolded with a gag in. He felt too helpless, past the point of enjoying whatever control Steve had and into dangerous territory. But he knew not to move them.

Moving them would mean punishment, and never the kind he actually wanted.

Steve’s fingers tightened in his hair, tugging at his scalp until he had no choice but to let his head fall backwards. He rested it against Steve’s thigh, a smug smile making its way across his face.

“You want me to be your good boy?” Eddie rasped out. “Maybe I don’t feel like being good.”

Steve was quiet for a moment, not even letting out a breath.

“I’m not spanking you.”

Eddie immediately pouted. It’s not that he thought he’d get what he wanted immediately, but that tone was definite, final.

“Not even one time?” Eddie hated not being able to see the look on Steve’s face. “Even if I promise to cry?”

Steve snorted. “I’m sure you’ll be crying soon enough, but it won’t be from my hand on your ass.”

Steve’s leg disappeared from behind him so quickly he nearly fell backwards. He managed to right himself just as Steve’s laugh hit his ears.

“Take away your sight and it’s like you can’t do anything, huh?” Steve teased. “I’ll just wait right here and you let me know when you wanna be good.”

“Hope you’re comfy. Could be a while,” Eddie responded, ignoring the heat on his cheeks at his mild embarrassment. Steve knew exactly what buttons to push and when, but Eddie knew exactly how hard to fight back to get what he wanted.

Steve was quiet. Eddie was quiet.

Everything was still.

Eventually, Eddie sighed. “Are you really gonna try to be more stubborn than me, a brat?”

“You’re barely a brat, Eddie. Just need to learn lessons the hard way, don’t you?” Steve sounded like he was sitting on his bed, but it was hard to know for sure. “I have all night. I’ve got a drink and a comfy bed. I’ll be fine.”

“You know I like being on my knees. I’ll be fine, too.”

Except he wasn’t. Already, all he could think about was how much he wanted to touch Steve, to be touched by Steve. His knees were sore, his arms were sore, his ass was sore from sitting on his feet this long. He was already close to giving in when the sound of Steve’s belt coming off distracted him.

He’d had plenty of thoughts about how that belt could be used before, and wouldn’t really be opposed to any of those options now.

But the belt hit the floor and the bed creaked.

Steve wasn’t using the belt on him. Steve was relaxing in his bed. Probably not even paying any attention to Eddie or his hard and leaking cock.

Fucking rude.

Eddie’s fingers tapped against each other behind his back, maybe a song or maybe just impatience. Probably impatience. His head wasn’t full of anything except irritation at being ignored.

He knew that’s what Steve wanted, for the irritation to win and he would give in to whatever Steve desired. He’d crawl on his hands and knees over to the bed, apologizing for being a brat and begging to be touched, to get his mouth on Steve’s cock, anything.

Eddie would be lying if he didn’t want that, too.

But more than that, he wanted to see what would happen if he didn’t give in for once, if Steve finally got tired of the attitude and did something about it.

Maybe he’d actually, finally fuck him.

Everything they’d done until now had been hands and mouths only, which was amazing and better than anything Eddie could have expected from anyone, let alone Steve.

After a hard day at school, coming back home and knowing that Steve would be over after his shift at Family Video to take care of him or to bring him back to his house to let him get loud would turn his entire day around. It happened often enough that he knew he was becoming somewhat dependent on it. But with nearly two months of this under their belt, Eddie was starting to wonder if maybe he wasn’t the only one with feelings far beyond the trust between friends.

Steve let out a groan.

And then Eddie heard it: the slick noise of him stripping his own cock, probably using the lube from his bedside table. Or his own spit.

God, that made Eddie see red.

It was his job to spit on Steve’s cock, his job to let his hand or mouth be used by Steve so he could get off.

Eddie’s eyes widened as he realized this was Steve’s punishment for him, making him listen to him get off without him.

“Wish that was my hand,” Eddie said with a smirk.

If he played this right, maybe Steve would get desperate enough to give in.

“I bet you do, baby,” Steve replied, breathless, like he was already close to the edge. How long had he been worked up? How had he been so quiet before?

“Or my mouth,” Eddie supplied, feeling a little less confident that Steve would give in.

“Mhm,” Steve said before moaning, his hand speeding up on his cock.

Eddie wanted to watch. He wanted his mouth around him. He wanted Steve’s hands in his hair, pushing him down until he was choking, spit making a mess under them. He wanted to rip this blindfold off and let the image of Steve getting himself off be burned permanently into his brain, used for the nights when Steve was busy shuffling kids around or hanging out with Robin or working a closing shift.

“Can I please watch?” Eddie was desperate, okay? Being a brat came second to seeing Steve’s thick cock leaking precum while he fucked his own hand.

“Oh, I dunno,” Steve’s hand stopped. “I think you should have to listen to me get off since you decided to touch yourself without permission.”

That was how all of this started.

—

Steve had told him not to touch himself last night when he left the trailer, wanted to see if he could go a few days without it and said he had a plan to make it worth his while.

Of course, Eddie, still wrung out from two back-to-back orgasms from Steve’s mouth, had agreed with no argument.

It didn’t occur to him how difficult that would be until he woke up humping his mattress and whimpering Steve’s name.

He’d done okay the first part of the day, despite the rough start, because he’d overslept and had to rush to school. He made it all the way through his band practice with the guys, skipping the song he wrote about Steve so he wouldn’t face any unexplainable challenges. Made it through dinner with Wayne, though he started to feel a bit jittery when he realized it was nearly seven and Steve hadn’t called to let him know he was leaving work yet.

Those jitters got worse when Wayne left for his night shift, now officially a permanent change to his schedule. It was great for having Steve over, but kinda sucked for the nights when he’d be alone.

He paced the floor, tried playing his guitar, tried smoking.

When the phone rang, Eddie rushed to grab it, only to be told by Steve that he was running a bit late and wouldn’t be able to stay long.

Something in Eddie snapped when he hung up.

His hand immediately went to the button on his jeans, popping it open and shoving his hand down the front of his pants.

Nothing except getting off was on his mind.

That’s how Steve found him: pants at his knees while he fisted his own cock while sitting on the couch waiting for him.

At first, he hadn’t said anything, just stared at him until Eddie stopped moving, chest heaving as he tried to find his breath.

“Get in my car.”

Not even a hello, not even a wave.

He didn’t even stay inside to see if Eddie was listening. He left the trailer and got in his car.

Eddie followed. Of course, he did.

The ride to Steve’s house was silent, radio turned off to add to Eddie’s stress.

He was still rock hard in his pants, and the longer he went without any relief, the more painful it got.

When they got to Steve’s house, he got out, not waiting for Eddie as he walked up to the front door and unlocked it. Eddie stumbled out of the car and into the house, feeling just a bit on edge in more ways than one.

“So I ask you not to touch yourself less than 24 hours ago. I even tell you there’s a reward in it for you if you can do it. And what do you do?” Steve’s arms are folded across his chest as he stands at the foot of the stairs.

“Um. Touch myself?”

“You wanna explain?”

Eddie hated that tone. It sounded like every time a teacher found one of his papers lacking despite all his efforts, or when a cop caught him dealing in the woods last year. It was different when it was Steve, but it still annoyed him, put him on edge.

So he responded as he always did.

“I don’t owe you an explanation.”

And now he was suffering.

–

Not actually. Like, he wasn’t in pain. He was probably going to come untouched soon just from the combination of everything happening, and the embarrassment of that would probably be emotionally painful, but he’d been through worse.

It was just hard to know he was missing a good show and probably wouldn’t even get to have Steve’s hands on him because he was impatient.

So maybe the punishment was working.

Eddie felt himself whimper.

“Color?” Steve asked, because he was always paying attention, even when Eddie deserved this treatment. He was always more concerned about Eddie being okay.

Eddie evaluated himself. Mentally, he was okay, other than being frustrated. But physically, his legs were starting to actually hurt to a point beyond the kind he enjoyed. He was losing feeling in his feet and hated the pins and needles that came with feeling coming back.

“Yellow.”

Steve was in front of him within seconds, hand on his head, loosening the blindfold.

The blindfold wasn’t a problem. Maybe he could convince him to put it back once he was sitting somewhere more comfortable.

“What do you need, Eds?” Steve’s voice was soft, tender compared to where it had been all night.

“Maybe a chair? Or the bed. My legs hurt.” Eddie blinked up at him, feeling overwhelmed by seeing Steve’s completely naked body in front of him so suddenly.

“Alright. Come up to the bed,” Steve lifted him under his arms, taking most of his weight when Eddie nearly crumbled back to the floor.

His legs were maybe a bit more numb than he realized.

“Shit, baby, why didn’t you say something sooner?” Steve asked as he half-carried him to his bed. “I’m trying to punish you in a sexy way, not an actual painful way.”

Eddie snorted. “I didn’t realize it was this bad. I was kinda lost in my thoughts.”

“You weren’t in space yet, though.”

“No, just thinking about how I’m an idiot and how good you are at knowing exactly what type of punishment gets to me,” Eddie grimaced as he sat back, flexing his knees and ankles to get feeling back in them.

“Well, you like attention and you like being able to touch me, so taking those two things away will definitely get to you.”

“You’re right, but it hurt my feelings, Stevie,” Eddie smiled at him to let him know it didn’t actually hurt him.

“You need anything else?” Steve asked, massaging his legs to get blood flowing again. “Water? Do you need to stop?”

“No, no. I’m good. Maybe just another minute.”

Steve nodded, lifting his leg and kissing his knee.

Eddie watched, swallowed back the words he wanted to say but knew he couldn’t.

This was all he’d have. Just this friendship, this trust, and the care required for a BDSM relationship.

He could keep being okay with that.

“No blindfold though,” Steve said. “You’re gonna watch me take care of myself.”

“But-”

“Nope.” Steve’s hand circled his own cock, not moving, just making it obvious that he was planning on it. “You know what you can do for me, though?”

“What?” Eddie didn’t like the tone of his voice or the growing smile on his face.

“You could spit on my cock, make sure it’s nice and wet for me to get myself off.”

Eddie groaned. He absolutely hated Steve. Hated that Steve was still pushing him in just the right ways. Hated that he actually loved it, never wanted him to stop.

“And if I don’t?” Eddie dared to ask.

“Then I stop now and drive you home.”

Shit. Eddie knew he wasn’t bluffing.

Eddie leaned over, making sure to keep his hands in his own lap, gathered spit in his mouth, and let it drip down onto Steve’s cock.

Steve moaned as it happened, keeping his eyes locked on Eddie’s as he let it pool against his fingers before sliding his hand up and down his length.

Eddie spit again, letting his gaze drop to the way it glistened on Steve’s cock. Mesmerized, Eddie kept his mouth open, letting whatever spit that gathered fall from his mouth.

“Such a good boy for me. Love it when you’re good.” Steve’s other hand nudged Eddie’s face up, eyes piercing him with a hungry look. “Kinda love it when you’re bad, too.”

If Eddie hadn’t already been rock hard for hours, practically edging himself with his own hand and thoughts, then maybe those words wouldn’t have been enough to make him come.

Steve froze, looking down at Eddie’s still twitching cock, the mess he made across his own stomach and thighs. “Holy shit. C’mere,” Steve’s hands grabbed him, tugging him roughly into his lap and spreading the mess of Eddie across both of them and the sheets.

Steve’s lips were hot against his, bruising, rough, unyielding.

Eddie’d never been kissed like that, not even by Steve.

If he could get hard this second from it, he would.

“That was so fucking hot,” Steve gasped against his lips, barely breaking the kiss to speak.

Eddie whimpered, rutting his ass against Steve’s still slick cock, hoping to add to the mess between them.

Steve’s hand ran up his chest, squeezing a nipple between his fingers as he bucked up, seeking more friction. He didn’t need to say anything for Eddie to know he was close.

His hand inched closer to Eddie’s throat, and for a moment, just one, Eddie panicked.

They’d talked about this. Eddie said he wouldn’t trust anyone but Steve, Steve admitted he wouldn’t feel comfortable doing it for anyone but Eddie, they agreed on what to do if Eddie couldn’t talk and needed to safeword out.

But the moment Steve’s fingers wrapped around his throat, Eddie melted.

Steve barely applied any pressure, just let the weight of his hand rest on his skin, holding him with a silent threat and a strength he never used except when he wanted to throw Eddie around and make him feel good.

“Can’t believe how lucky I am,” Steve said against his jaw, frantically chasing his own orgasm while Eddie was barely holding himself up in his lap. “Get to have you like this. All to myself.”

Steve’s breathy whine gave way to his hand falling from Eddie’s neck.

Warmth hit Eddie’s ass and thighs and he realized the angle of Steve’s cock was almost perfect to slide inside him, if he were loose, if he were wet in the right spot. He closed his eyes at the thought of Steve just slipping into him now, no prep. It was nearly enough to have his cock filling again.

“Fuck,” Steve laughed against Eddie’s shoulder. “I love you.”

Eddie tensed.

Steve tensed.

Steve pulled away, panic all over his face.

Eddie didn’t-

He couldn’t-

He got off of Steve’s lap, crashing down to earth.

“Eddie-”

Eddie stood and ran.

He could handle not being loved.

He was used to not being loved the way he needed and wanted to be.

But he couldn’t handle the small flicker of hope being dashed in his chest. He couldn’t handle the pity Steve would show, apologizing for saying something he didn’t mean in the heat of the moment.

He couldn’t handle how much he wanted it to be true.

Day four: ao3 | tumblr

[the-s1lly-corner]

can i get creeps (of ur choice) w a s/o who is TERRIBLE at baking yet always trying 2 get them to eat what they make?? (inspired by me bc *story time* i made sugar cookies a few days ago and my gf said they tasted like isopropyl alcohol :|!.)

Various crps x reader who sucks at baking

I dropped a heavy ass pan on my foot OOOOOOOEIR HISSHISS genuinely mad too because I dropped it the day before I was planning to start getting back into my workout routine

Characters: laughing jack, ticci toby, jeff the killer

Notes: reader is GN, reader is trying their best :(, jeff doesn't have a filter nor is he gentle, they all suck at baking too dwdw, written on mobile

CWs: none

LAUGHING JACK

He himself is a horrible baker for two reasons.... he adds way too much sugar for one, and he doesn't fully pay attention to the recipe... there's a reason he sticks to his candies

He does tease you for your mess ups but he still ears everything you give to him- being a clown that doesn't get sick like humans do comes in handy when trying to make your partner feel better

Your lack of skill does not stop him from making requests for goodies for you to make- surely you're a better baker than him! Msybe.... hopefully... even if you aren't he's still going to try

Your number 1 fan, you can give him something burnt to a crisp and he's going to demolish it in seconds .... he says it gives your food character!

TICCI TOBY

Can't bake OR cook so he kind of feels like he doesn't have much room to talk BUUUUUUUUT he sometimes let's what he wants to say spill out without much thought... BUT he does try to redirect to keep you happy

Doesn't much care for sweet stuff in general, he prefers sour stuff and candies but he's still going to brute force himself into taking a bite of whatever you've made

Subtly lingers around you while you're in the kitchen and reads over the recipe you're looking at- this kind of leads to him picking up some skille for himself

^tries to correct you if you've gotten something mixed up or wrong.... nearly launches himself over the counter when you almost fall to the "mixing salt and sugar" mistake

JEFF THE KILLER

Like toby he has no filter, but he does have the mind to try to find something positive to say to sweeten the knee-jerk reaction

Doesn't understand why you might become upset or get hung up on his words- he can't bake either and he doesn't let it bother him... he's just not cut out for baking

Takes him a good hot minute before he starts to understand that you're genuinely trying and feel horrible over not getting things right... will apologize and offers to get (steal) you a cook book or something if you're struggling with recipes

I promise he's not trying to be backhanded with the cook book offer

[miheartsedthings]

Long Drive

SFW

You can’t sleep. Your body too full of a thrumming sadness you can’t be rid of. The source of which you can’t pin down. Your heart feels stuck to your sternum and you turn over in bed again searching for some kind of relief. 

“Can’t sleep?”

Billy’s husky voice finds you in the dark. 

“Not even a little.” 

The two of you climb into the car, you bring your thin blanket and he doesn’t bother putting on a shirt. He’s warm enough to brave the spring chill without one. You let the passenger seat back and watch dark trees slide by the window. A navy sky empty of stars. His hand comes groping under the blanket, searching for your hand and you offer it, lacing your fingers with his. 

“What’s got you sad?” 

“How’d you know?”

He gives you a skeptical look. 

“All this time, you still think you can keep a secret from me?”

It makes you smile, however sadly. 

“Just feeling…far away…don’t know why.”

He nods slowly, his eyes watching the horizon while he mulls over what you’ve said. 

“From me?”

You shrug. 

“From everything. Just…feel like I’m missing something.” 

He brings your hand to his lips. 

“I’m here.” 

You smile. 

“I know.” You say “I know you’re here. I know I’m not really on my own I just…” You don’t have the words to finish this feeling. It has no particular name. “Why couldn’t you sleep?”

He heaves a deep sigh. 

“Steve texted me.” 

This rings alarm bells, you raise the seat to sit up and look at him. 

“Yeah? Is he okay?”

He shakes his head.

“The nightmares came back. Bouncing’ off the fuckin walls over there.” 

You groan, your heart filling with worry. 

“How can he still live in that town?”

He shrugs. 

“The kids are there. He won’t leave till they graduate.” 

“Fuck.” Your head falls against the rest. “I worry about him,” you say. “A guy like that shouldn’t live alone. He needs people around.”

“I told him,” Billy grumbles, clearly worried about his friend. The sensitive boy he sometimes thinks of as a brown-eyed puppy. He rifles through the glovebox, retrieving his cigarettes with a huff. 

“You told him he can live with us, right? If he wants to?”

“I fuckin’ told him, baby,” he says around the cigarrette. He rolls down the window a second too late, filling the car with the heady musk of smoke. “He’s a stubborn asshole.” 

You cough and he apologizes, giving your knee an affectionate squeeze. You tell him it’s fine and crack your window as well. The two of you sit in silence for a while. Winding through streets in no particular order. 

“You think people can feel it when you're thinking about them?” Billy glances over at you. Unsure how to answer. “I mean, psychically. Like…I think about it with celebrities sometimes. When there's thousands of people thinking about you all at once, it has to have some effect. Maybe it just makes them sneeze.” He grins a little, taking another long hit from his Marlboro. “So maybe Steve’s sneezing his brains out right about now.” 

“I hope so. I hope he knows we give a shit.” 

“I think he knows you care. You tried hard after everything. He trusts you now.”

“Hmm.” 

He takes another long pull from his cigarette and angles the smoke toward the window. He avoids downtown and all that traffic, choosing instead to wind through the empty streets curving toward the San Bernadino mountains. 

“Are you gonna call him?” 

He sighs. Already his cigarette is nearly gone. 

“And say what?” 

“I don’t know. Sometimes people just need to hear they’re gonna be okay. And it means something coming from you.” 

He scoffs. The cigarette is done, and he scrubs it against the heel of his shoe before flicking it out the window. 

“You don’t think he listens to you?”

“If he listened to me he’d leave that asscrack of a town.”

You shrug, slumping down in your seat. 

“Leaving your home can be scary.”

“So fuckin’ what? Shit gets scary, do it anyway.”

You can’t help laughing. 

“I knew it, I knew you read that book!”

You can see him start to blush in the cool blue light from the dashboard. You’re talking about the book his therapist recommended the year after moving out of Hawkins. Do It Scared. He’d insisted he wasn’t interested in reading it, yet here he was quoting it like scripture. Your teasing gets to him, and he retaliates by jamming his fingers into the ticklish spot on your side. You’re forced against the door where you can’t wiggle out of his reach. Instantly you’re apologizing, begging for him to stop through painfully uncontrollable laughter. 

He’s smiling when he relents, satisfied to have taken his revenge. You settle back in your seat with a sigh. Followed by a yawn. 

“There it is,” he says, affection softening his tone. 

He brings your hand to his mouth again. Each of your fingers gets a turn against his lips. You watch him, taking in the details of his profile. You've looked at him so many times you've completely lost count, but every time you do it feels new. You discover something in the beauty of him that makes you realize again how much you want him nearby. This time, you watch his careful gaze as he looks out onto the road ahead. His lashes, tail lights shining into ocean blue. He’s worrying. 

“Anyway. Not everyone can just barrel through stuff. He’s scared and he could use a call from you.” 

“Alright, alright. I’ll check on the little dweeb. Happy?”

“Very,” you answer with a sleepy smile. 

You find yourselves far from home, wondering on and on as the hours roll by. You both have class in the morning, but there’s something so comforting about the car and the darkened streets. You waste time, long stretches of it going by without a word spoken between you. Not much needs to be said in company as familiar as this. You’re able to be together, letting go your tensions with every new scratch of mile. Drowsy and quiet until sunrise. 

[impala-dreamer]

Save Me - Part One

A Short Story

~ Sometimes, when life seems the brightest, shadows creep in. After announcing their engagement to the world, Jensen's fiancé is kidnapped. With the help of a friend, she tries to fight her way back home to him.~

Jensen Ackles x F!Reader, Dean Winchester

7,160 Words Total. Part one: 3,209

Warnings: My kind of Super Angst. Blood. Injury. Kidnapping. It's really sad...

A/N: Written for @jacklesversebingo "No one's coming to save you. Get up!"

PART ONE ~ PART TWO

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist  ~  Patreon  ~ Published Works

Her thoughts were hazy; her head throbbing from the repeated blows. The blood that had trickled down her neck had dried and she could feel how matted her hair was around the wounds.

Her muscles ached, her skin was bruised and broken in more than one spot. The cramped trunk she’d been forced into and the bumpy ride had nearly crippled her. She’d tried to count the turns they took, the miles they raced across, but disorientation and fear had been too much to overcome.

Wrists and knees bound in scratchy, rough rope and eyes blinded by a scarf, Y/N was led from the car and dragged up a few stairs. She could hear a lock turn and the hinges of a door creak. Boots on a wooden floor; the heavy breathing of her captor.

The house was warm. Heat was pulsing up from hissing radiators and the smell hung heavy in the air, mixing with the stench of stale cigarettes and rotting trash. Still, she was grateful for the warmth. January in Indianapolis was freezing and the trunk hadn’t exactly been insulated.

“Where are you taking me?” she whimpered, cringing as the fingers around her upper arms dug into her flesh.

There was no answer.

“Please! Don’t do this. We can work something out.”

When she refused to take another step, she was yanked forward and thrown into another room. Her sneakers squeaked and she recognized the sound of cheap linoleum flooring under her rubber soles.

A kitchen. Knives. A backdoor, maybe.

She twisted against the tight hold. “Please, just let me go. I swear to god I won’t go to the cops. No charges pressed. Please. We can get out of this mess.”

The giant hand gripped her harder and Y/N groaned at the pain.

“Why are you doing this to me?”

A gruff voice shouted by her ear. “Shut up!”

She bit her tongue but refused to give up. “Let me go!”

With all of her strength, she pivoted to the right, shoving her elbow hard into the solid body behind her. She heard a pained grunt and the hand holding her released. She spun around the other way and tried to run, but it was no use. Still tied, her knees buckled and she began to fall.

The hands were back, yanking her harshly back onto her feet. She screamed and fist collided with her jaw. Sparks erupted in the blackness of her vision, pain spread across her face.

“Told you to shut up!”

Y/N held her breath and squeezed her lips shut.

Tugged forward again, she stumbled deeper into the kitchen and heard a door open. Cold air hit her face and she shuddered.

“Where are we going?” Tears soaked into the blindfold. “Please…”

Hands released her and Y/N teetered on the edge of what felt like the top of a staircase.

A basement.

She panicked.

“No, no, no!”

“I told you to shut the fuck up!”

His fist connected with her temple and Y/N fell. She counted four stairs before every sensation and thought vanished.

“You sure we should be doing this here?”

Y/N looked over from the edge of the bed at Jensen who was fixing his hair in the mirror. He was primped and picture perfect for a busy day at the convention. Tight black tee under a denim jacket, immaculately ripped jeans, and brown boots. Add to it all the longer hair and a beard- he looked a little too good.

He caught her eye in the mirror and smiled. “I do. I think this is the best place to do it.”

Y/N squirmed nervously and lifted her left leg onto her knee so she could retie her sneaker for the tenth time. Her engagement ring glimmered and she sighed happily at the diamond.

It was perfect.

He was perfect.

And yet-

“What if they don’t like me? Or they get mad, or-”

Jensen spun around and dipped his chin, looking at her with a stern gaze. “Then I’ll kill them. All of them.”

His voice had dropped to a deep, rough growl and Y/N laughed.

“OK, Dean.”

Jensen exhaled loudly and straightened up, returning to himself. He closed the space between them with two long strides and fell to one knee. He took her hand, the same hand that he’d held two weeks ago when he’d asked her to marry him.

“I promise,” he said softly. “They’re gonna love you.”

Her cheeks warmed and her tension eased.

“How can you be sure?”

Green eyes beamed as he smiled.

“Because I love you.”

Pain woke her.

Stabbing, white-hot pain that spread through the entirety of her left side. Though she couldn’t tell where it manifested from, several points along her body had made contact with the concrete floor and spikes of pain radiated from each one.

Her cheek was smashed against the frozen floor and her nose ached. Gingerly, she rolled onto her back. The scarf over her eyes had shifted a bit and she could see a faint stream of light surrounded by creeping shadows.

The air was frigid and damp, and smelled like mold. She shivered as the cold seeped through her thin clothing and into her soul.

Fear wrapped itself around her lungs and squeezed. Her breathing quickened, her sore jaw trembled. She tasted blood, felt every bruise, every splinter of bone. Her mind raced, trying to make sense of the last twelve hours.

Late evening. The convention center. Walking from the loading dock to the back parking lot. Low hanging ceiling; giant yellow lights. Cars jammed in every spot. A dirty white van. A shiny black Explorer. An old gold Camry.

The Camry.

Something heavy hitting her head. Her ears rang. The warmth of blood oozed across her scalp.

She could feel the trunk closing around her, the thin upholstery. The stink of gasoline wrinkled her nose.

Her chest burned. Her throat closed.

She screamed.

“Somebody help me! Help!”

She thrashed against the ground; ropes still would tight around her wrists and legs.

“Help!”

Turning her face back to the concrete, she wiggled her forehead against the stone, pushing the blindfold up and away from her eyes. She blinked into the darkness and let out a hopeless cry.

The basement wasn’t big, but it was old and dark. Light streamed down from the door at the top of the staircase but she’d rather not have any.

Cobwebs hung from the ceiling, spiders lurked in corners, ghosts swept like cold breath over her skin.

“Please…” Tears flowed freely, dripping down her cheeks and onto the floor. She let go, sobbing into the darkness, lost and terrified. “Help me…”

The stage was bigger than she thought it would be; the curtains heavier. She stood off to the side, hiding in the wings while Jensen awed the crowd.

He really was something magnificent. With a tiny smile, he could captivate a crowd. One well-timed wink could send them to their knees, have them swooning and begging for more.

Y/N watched happily as he answered questions and animatedly told a few stories about his work on The Boys. He had a million stories and she would never get tired of hearing them.

She could feel the hour waning and nerves crept up her spine. She steadied her breathing and twirled the platinum ring on her finger. It was too big, she thought, but it didn’t matter. It could be a lump of camel dung and she’d love it. He’d given it to her.

Finally, Jensen cleared his throat and threw a glance over his shoulder at her. It was time.

“I’m sure most of you have heard the rumors,” he said, microphone clutched in his left hand. “So, I thought we’d put them to rest right now.”

The audience’s anticipation was nearly tangible. Hopeful silence rang through the room.

“If you’ll indulge me, I’d like to introduce you to my fiance…”

Right arm extended, Jensen gestured to Y/N and she took a deep breath before stepping out into the bright lights.

Her hands were numb. The skin around her wrists was bloody and stinging. In a panic, she twisted her hands, chewed on the knots, screamed through her teeth.

The desperate cries rang off the leaky stone walls and bounced back at her. She was sure that no one outside would be able to hear her, even if they weren’t in the middle of nowhere.

She had no idea, really, where she was. She did know that they had driven for a long while, and most of the journey had been on uneven, unpaved roads. Surely, they were well outside of the city and anywhere there might be neighbors nearby to hear her pleas for help.

Giving up and afraid of breaking her teeth on the knot, she rolled onto her knees and carefully shuffled over to the stairs. The wooden banister was old and unfinished, just bare wood hammered into place. She rubbed the rope against the edge, hoping to fray the strands and break free.

“What are you gonna do once you get those ropes off?”

Y/N froze and looked around, searching the shadows for the source of the familiar voice.

“Hello?”

“You got a plan?”

“What?” She squinted into the shadows but there was nothing there. She was alone.

“I said, do you have a plan to get out of here?”

“Who’s there!”

A deep, kind laugh. “You know who it is, Y/N/N. What you don’t know is how to get out of here.”

Her heart raced. She did know who it was, but she wouldn’t admit it. If she was hearing his voice, she was going insane. Or she was concussed, which seemed more likely.

Can you go crazy from that?

“Depends on how hard they hit you, I guess,” he said.

Y/N grit her teeth and tried to ignore him. She went back to work furiously rubbing against the post.

“Keep going, you almost got it.”

She sighed. “Go away.”

Another laugh, softer, under his breath. “You don’t mean that. You need me.”

Y/N groaned and kept at her task. Tiny specks of dust and fibers danced in the faint light and she picked up speed, forcing it harder into the wood.

The rope snapped before she could steady herself and she fell forward, smashing her forehead into the corner of the post.

“Fuck!”

Dizzy, she tore the broken twine away and sat back on her ass. She kicked her legs out and untied the rope around her legs. Finally able to move, she jumped to her feet.

The sudden movement was too much for her head and she fell onto the steps, palms crushing into the damp wood.

“Be careful…”

Y/N rolled her eyes at the phantom voice and crawled on aching hands and knees up the steep stairs.

Once at the top, she held her breath and pressed her ear to the door, listening.

If anyone was near, they made no sound.

Carefully, she stood up and grabbed the knob. Praying for release, she turned the brass but it caught halfway around. She turned it again and again hoping something would change, but it was locked.

“Hello!” She beat against the door, kicked it hard. “Help me! Hello!” Fists pounded, her throat tore. “Let me out!”

Someone on the other side kicked at the door and it rattled in the frame.

“Shut the fuck up!” he bellowed, scaring her even more.

Y/N jerked back from the door and felt all hope drain away as boots thudded across the linoleum and the lights went out.

To her surprise, the audience cheered. Smiles beamed up at her from the front row, applause washed over her.

Timidly, and with Jensen’s encouragement, she stepped up to the microphone stand and smiled.

“Hey, guys.”

Her cheeks were burning, her eyes squinting in the stage lights. She raised a hand to shield her face from the glare and looked out into the room. Every seat was filled and fans stood along the back wall. It seemed everyone at the con was in that room, watching Jensen give his big announcement.

She tried to take the mic but her hand was shaking terribly. Jensen came to her aid and pulled it from the stand. He kissed her cheek.

“You’re gonna be great,” he whispered. “They already love you, just go with it.”

Already, people were queueing up on either side of the stage, ready to ask a question should the lines be opened again.

“How’s it going?” she asked, receiving a loud cheer in reply. “Yeah, me too.” She laughed and took a shy step back. Her heart was racing, her lips hurt from smiling.

Jensen watched her with bright, loving eyes. He placed his big hand on her lower back and gave a gentle push.

His touch calmed her instantly. She turned to look up at him and everything else faded away. She’d be fine, he was with her. Always.

“Well, show them,” he said into the mic.

Y/N laughed and rolled her eyes.

“Go on…”

With dramatic, mock reluctance, she extended her left hand and showed off her new ring. It sparkled in the lights and the fans went wild.

She checked the door three more times. She twisted the knob until her palms were raw. She kicked at the wood until her legs ached.

In the darkness, she felt her way down the stairs and collapsed onto the floor. Her head was pounding and a sharp, unending ring blasted loud in her ears.

She lay on her right side, shivering and sweating at the same time. Her face was clammy and her eyes felt as if they were on fire.

“You have a fever,” he said. “That’s not good.”

Y/N turned towards the voice and gasped.

Leaning against the staircase railing was a ghost of her imagination, a handsome vision in a denim jacket and ripped jeans. Red flannel peeked out beneath the jacket and his pockets were full. His jaw was shaded with light stubble; his hair was short and fluffed upwards. His forehead was creased and he crossed his ankles and arms, staring down at her.

She shook her head but her vision wouldn’t clear. He was blurry but obviously there.

“Dean?”

He chuckled. “Who else?”

She sighed painfully and closed her eyes. “You’re not real.”

The apparition pushed off from the post and shrugged. “I’m more real than anything else you got right now. Who are you gonna talk to? That rat over there?”

She cringed. “What!”

He laughed outright and rubbed at the back of his neck. “You’re gonna have to toughen up real quick, Sweetheart, if you’re gonna get out of this.”

“There’s no way out of this.”

Dean crouched down, set his forearms on his knees, getting close to her. “There’s always a way out. You may not like it, but there’s always a way.”

Something caught in the back of her throat and she coughed hard. Violent pain erupted across her middle and she screamed, folding in on herself.

Dean’s worried hands floated over her body; his face contorted with helplessness.

“Hey. Hey! You’re OK. Just breathe.”

She coughed again and her limbs spasmed, twisting inwards.

“Hey! Y/N/N, come on.”

She imagined she could feel the heaviness of his hand on her shoulder.

“Shh… It’s a broken rib… or six. You’re gonna be OK.”

Her eyes were wide, her skin paled. “Can’t… breathe.”

“Hey, hang on… Stay with me!”

Another cough let loose a spray of crimson from her lips and Y/N’s eyes rolled back.

Dean’s voice echoed in her head and everything else faded away.

He kissed her on stage. In front of everyone. In front of a thousand cameras flashing and videos rolling. He kissed her hard, dipped her over his arm.

Y/N was embarrassed and thrilled and in love. It was hard to contain or sort through the emotions running through her, and when they walked off stage together, she started to cry.

Jensen spun around and bent down to reach her eye level.

“Baby, no… what’s wrong?”

She shook her head and tried to look away, but two giant hands framed her face and held her there.

“What’s going on?” he asked, green eyes flooded with worry. “Did I do something?”

She smiled and sniffled. “No. No, Jen, you didn’t. I’m just…” She took a shaky breath. “I’m so fucking happy.”

She took a shaky breath and lifted her head from the frozen concrete. The chill had entered her bones, chilling the marrow and numbing her digits. Her joints ached; the breaks in her body stung. She wiped at the dried blood on her mouth and tried to sit up.

It hurt too much to move.

“I’m thirsty,” she croaked. Her throat was raw and her voice crackled.

“You gotta get outta here.”

She growled. “Ya think? How?” She pushed up on one arm and glared his way.

Dean was standing in the dark next to the stairs. Hands shoved in his pockets; bottom lip tugged harshly between his teeth.

“I don’t even know where ‘here’ is!”

He sighed. “I know.”

“Or who they are!”

He pursed his lips, took a breath. “I know-”

“Or why the fuck I’m locked in a basement!”

Dean rolled his head on his shoulders, looking for answers on the ceiling. “That’s it.” He snapped his fingers and looked down at her.

“What’s it?”

“Why are you here?”

She rolled onto her ass and slowly tucked her knees to her chest. Every movement hurt, but it was better than freezing to death laid out like a ragdoll.

“I already said, I don’t know.”

He dropped his chin, narrowed his gaze. “Think.”

She shook her head. “I have no fucking idea.”

“They haven’t touched you,” he noted.

She scoffed. “Um… I don’t know if you recall that I’ve been bludgeoned and shoved into a trunk and beaten and-”

Dean held up his hand, surrendering and asking for patience. “I mean, they haven’t… touched touched you.”

“You mean like-”

“Yeah.” He scrubbed a hand down his face.

“So they’re not gonna like… rape me or anything. That’s good.”

“Doesn’t seem like it.” He scratched his head. “So why are you here? What do they want from you?”

Y/N shrugged and winced at a new found pain. Her neck was stiff, her spine tingled.

“Think!”

She startled. “I don’t know!”

“Think. What’s missing?”

“I don’t-” Her head hurt. Her vision unfocused.

“Come on, kid. Think.”

“My… my ring.” She reached for the diamond, but her finger was bare. “My ring is gone.”

Dean hummed. “Yeah. But what’s still here?”

She took stock of herself, struggling to remember what she’d worn that morning and what was left.

“My necklace,” she answered, touching her clavicle. “My jewelry. They didn’t take anything else.”

Dean came closer as he led her thought process along. “So, they…”

She swallowed hard. “This isn’t a robbery or anything. They don’t want to rape me. They… It’s got something to do with you.” She looked up into green eyes and a hard expression. “I mean, with- with Jensen.”

TO BE CONTINUED... Part Two

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