#just so i could put it all on one post. however this is a lie and i know ill wanna doodle more beach stuff

[blackreapersreign]

Chapter 215, thoughts

Hello, it's been a while! I hope everyone is doing fine!

Honestly, this is the main reason I wanted to write this post. I found this particular panel quite interesting.

While we do know that he cannot lie to o!Ciel because of the contract, we also know that the biggest lies are most often told simply by omission.

"Every one of your former contractors has been devoured already.... Correct?"

And he answers: "I do not lie. I truly do not remember him."

So that he does not remember him is absolutely true. Note that, however, he does not directly answer o!Ciel's question! He does not specify that all his previous contractors have been devoured. Now is this a clue for this Modri Vladis guy necessarily? Maybe not. Maybe this is a subtle hint for a possible ending... of the manga?

Nonetheless, I found it suspicious interesting.

For this Modri Vladis guy, I still don't quite know where to put him. Clearly he is a bizarre doll. From the wording in this chapter, it does appear that this place could be a place where experiments are done with cinematic records in particular, or at least they are collected or something.

I tend to believe he would not be a former contractor because hopefully Sebastian at least remembers his former contractors?? At least his name maybe? Sir??

He could be someone that tried to summon Sebastian, too, but perhaps Sebastian didn't find him worthy enough and he just died of blood loss, and that would be why he didn't bother to remember him.

And btw, doing this when you constantly need blood transfusions? I would not.

There are just so many ways things could go with this guy, too many to note them all down. I am inclined towards this possibility that he's either a former contractor or someone who summoned him but didn't form a contract maybe because of the way he tried to use his blood "to make his body remember", as in, his demon lust? Also, the tattoos on his neck, and the very cover of this chapter, "Dedicating his all to his one and only." But there are just too many ways things could go with this guy, honestly.

What I would hope we get because of this guy is some more info on the link between blood and souls, perhaps, or at least on the way Sebastian can be summoned. Anything, really.

This is getting quite unnecessarily long. Thank you, if you have read everything!

[xxplastic-cubexx]

obligatory beach divorce doodling

bonus rough cover redraw of x-men #41 (1995) But Beach Divorce below cut

[kaisentine]

5 things itoshi sae will do.

he will make you cry.

intentional or not, this man has the magical ability to turn the faucets behind your eyes. the once warm salty tears running down your cheeks become cold the moment they make contact with that one spot below your eyes.

he will force you to attend his games.

you’re immediately obligated to attend his matches as soon as you two make it official. he’s not embarrassed about you watching his matches like at all because he’s quite confident in his abilities. you technically get dragged into the stadium by the team’s guards who escort you to your seat.

he will let you see him walk around with his fuckass bangs down without any hairspray.

he’s quite shameless when he’s alone—except he isn’t, he’s in the room with you . . . but you don’t count as someone to be wary about. so when he first came to you with his bangs down, you almost squealed. it’s somewhat of a reward when you see it. he still looks like he came straight out of the photos his mom sent you from when he was younger.

he will tolerate your touches.

nope, he is not known for his affection. even with you, he doesn’t initiate it. not like it would kill him to do so, he’s just . . . clueless—you could say. but when you wrap your arms around him, hover your hands over his body, entangle your fingers with his hair, touch his face, kiss him—he’ll accept them.

he will leave you on seen.

yup. either one : he doesn’t know how to respond so he just looks stares at your text like a clueless child—debating whether he should send a stupid millennial gifs or not respond at all. or two : he’ll respond you when he meets you. “i’ll buy you dinner.” “what?” “that text. you asked what you should get for dinner.” “sae, that was 4 days ago.”

5 more things itoshi sae won’t do.

he won’t let you cry in front of him.

he’ll turn you away or he’ll walk away. look, he’s trying to give you some space but honestly, it isn’t helping. it’s not that he doesn’t want to comfort you—he just doesn’t know how to handle his own feelings, let alone yours. so he’ll leave you alone. however, when your tears dry up, he’ll come back to you and pray to God that you don’t hate him.

he won’t lie to you.

even white lies. it just isn’t part of his vocabulary. but it does come in handy—for example, when you see an article about some stupid ship between him and another celebrity, he shuts it down and you know he’s telling you the truth. then there’s the down side . . . “do you think this shade suits me?” “no. you should find another one.” he finds there is just no use in coating lies.

he won’t put you above soccer.

it sounds harsh but he doesn’t expect you to expect him to give up his livelihood for a relationship and neither should you give up yours for him. he’ll love you to the end and back—soccer isn’t on his love spectrum, more like his obsessive spectrum. so yeah, he’ll love you more than soccer but he doesn’t put you above the sport.

he won’t hide you.

it’s actually futile to get him to listen to his PR team. no, he is not ashamed going to an event with you in hand. no, he is not ashamed with keeping one highlight of you on his inactive instagram account. no, he is not going to entertain other set-ups. no, he won’t give a fuck.

but he won’t ever hate you.

don’t even try because it won’t happen.

sticky note. ARLENE IS BACK??? this week has been crazy as fuck like hello? i need a whole separate post to talk about it but you guys BETTER promise me you WILL read it.

[theorist-fox]

Never had a thing

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

I never posted on Tumblr. Is this okay? Anyways, Simon Riley brain rot. That's it. That's the post. Also, you can find this on AO3.

Part 1 >> Part 2

Summary: Simon has to lie low and go dark for an undefined period of time. While trudging along the unbearably long, dark alley that's his life, he finds the light at the end of tunnel, and it's shaped like you. 18+

Word count: 10k

CW: Roommate Simon Riley. Smut (fingering, p in v unprotected sex), jealous simon riley, pining, strangers to friends to lovers.

Masterlist 🦊 | Series Masterlist 🦊

Simon had groaned like a battered dog when Price gave him the news that he needed to lie low. “Someone in Konni’s got your name” he’d said. “We don’t wanna take any risks. Just for a few weeks.”

He was sure those few weeks would turn into a few bloody months if he didn’t get a move on. For that, he’d hastily packed his things from the poor excuse of a flat the army had granted him, and started looking for a place to stay that wasn’t in Manchester.

Initially, Simon almost fantasized about buying his own flat. Maybe a piece of land and fulfill the wishes of the outcast that he was – living away from people, giving them the same treatment they’ve always given him.

Too bad he was legally dead. He had nothing to his name if not a grave that didn’t even exist, all his possessions were cursed memories and metaphorical things – a rank he didn’t hold, a flat that wasn’t his. Even his name barely pertained to him anymore.

The SAS wasn’t offering any accommodation, the tightwads. He couldn't buy a house, or rent one. He couldn't lean on any of his teammates, or he'd put them in danger – he wouldn't do it, not to them. Taint their lives with his name and the death it inevitably brings.

Price had helped him settle in a glorified motorway hotel. But he wasn’t picky – after all, he only had to stay for a few weeks.

A few days into his exile, he’d entered a Tesco with his head bowed and his hood on, a surgical mask on his face. A pack of Marlboro was all he wanted since the dodgy motel he was staying at (hiding) didn’t care if he smoked within the room. Plus, he reckoned that the smell of nicotine and combustion was a much better alternative to the rancid stench of mold.

However, as he plucked ten quid from his wallet, his eyes absently fell on a bulletin board behind the store clerk. There were tons of leaflets there: missing cats or dogs, people looking for a job or offering one. And then, a bright yellow paper caught his eye. Whoever printed it lacked taste but sure as hell knew how to catch one’s attention. He’d stopped in his tracks, a tenner between two fingers.

DESPERATE!!! PhD STUDENT LOOKING FOR A FLATMATE. NO SPECIFIC GENDER OR AGE AS LONG AS YOU CAN PAY RENT ON TIME. Two-bedroom flat, third floor, no elevator. If interested, please contact this number.

At the end of the flyer, the paper was cut into tear-off strips, so that interested individuals could rip the section with the phone number.

He liked that first word: desperate. He wondered if this person was as desperate as he was. Would they accept a man who wore a balaclava and looked proper sketchy? How desperate were they, really, if he asked to rent on verbal agreement – no contracts, no signatures whatsoever?

He decided he wanted to test that before he died of mold poisoning.

Nevertheless, when he dialed the number on his burner phone a few hours later, he wasn’t expecting the voice coming through the line. A shriek. A goddamn banshee. Chirpy and cheery, sounding like those damn advertisements on the telly for children’s toys. Whoever was on the other side of the phone was trying to sell.

The obnoxiously happy voice he’d heard through the receiver surely did match the person he found at the door of the flat a few days later - and the apartment itself.

It was a splash of colors Simon wasn’t even sure matched, from oranges and greens in the living room to yellows and blues in the kitchen. Walls of the same room were painted differently, and a brown leather couch lay on a round and fluffy turquoise carpet. A glass coffee table stood in the middle of it, hosting a clay vase with orange tulips.

You were a splash of colors yourself. Bright clothes, vibrant smile, and matching eyes.

Notwithstanding the loud energy that came with your presence, he could see you were tense as you guided him through the apartment. Simon didn’t blame you – he wasn’t the most trustworthy-looking lad. While he’d ditched the balaclava and had decided to go for a surgical mask, even hewould walk on eggshells around himself.

“Only a few weeks.” He’d said, deciding that he could withstand the eyesore that was the decor of that flat. “I’ll cover the rent while you find someone more permanent.”

And to his utter surprise, you’d accepted. He thought it was much too naïve of you, to let him rent without a lease. Without a document, without anything to prove that he'd pay as he'd promised in that listless fashion of his. Maybe you were as desperate as your tasteless leaflet said, in that dive of a Tesco.

He moved in in the span of a few days. You helped him with the boxes, although it was clear he didn't need a hand – especially not from a tiny thing like you. Not that you were small, he was just built like a brick house and you – well, you were made of wood, like in those cautionary tales mums tell their children. Pigs and wolves and shite.

You didn’t question why he wore the balaclava, nor why he never left his room, but sometimes you’d knock on his door to ask if he wanted pizza too, since you were ordering. He’d eat it (and any of his other meals really) in the cramped space he'd managed to rent, hosting only a bed, a poor excuse of a closet, and a desk.

Until one day he heard booming noises coming from the telly in the living room, so he peeked from the door he’d left ajar only to be greeted by Tom Cruise’s mug – Top Gun. 

Silently, he joined you on the sofa and he started correcting the way Maverick held the gun or grunting about how an aircraft couldn't make that maneuver. You never asked how he knew, but it had been a few weeks since he’d moved in and he’d already gathered how brilliant you were. You didn’t need to ask questions to connect the dots.

Simon wasn't keen on giving you his phone number, even the one on his burner phone. The paranoid that he was, and with a bit of experience to back it up, he didn't want to leave you with anything that could connect you to him.

So, you started leaving post-it notes on the fridge.

Dinner leftovers on the second rack. He’d tick off the sentence to let you know he’d read it, whether he ate them or not. Simon had this inborn ability to ghost people even without the use of phones.

Tried a new recipe. Tupperware with the blue lid. He’d write a score out of ten on the corner of the note.

I used your milk for breakfast!!! Sorry!!! He had huffed and grumbled when he’d headed out for groceries afterwards, but ever since that day, he started buying two cartons instead of one.

And he'd leave post-it notes for you, too.

Out for a few days. That’s how he would vaguely tell you he was being deployed. You would always draw a sad emoji next to it.

Watered your plants. Bloody things were more dead than alive. You’d mark down a very happy emoji, going as far as to add two poorly drawn thumbs up.

He barely noticed when his meals started happening on the kitchen table instead of his desk. Similarly, he couldn’t recall when he’d stopped taking pains to ensure your mealtimes wouldn’t coincide.

Friday night pizzas were always shared; it was a silent house rule you’d both agreed on. The both of you on the settee with the carton boxes on your thighs, two cold beers on the glass coffee table, and the telly playing a movie.

Your cheeky arse often chose a war film, and Simon had to refrain from rolling his eyes at how obvious you were being – trying to get to know him.

Zero Dark Thirty.

“Is it true you use callsigns?”

“Yes.”

“You have one?”

“Yes.”

“What is it, then?”

“Classified.”

“Oh, c’mon.”

“Negative.”

The hurt locker.

“You ever defused a bomb?”

“Yes.”

“No shit – oh my God. How was it?”

“Dangerous.”

“Why thank you for the chat.”

“No problem.”

“When did it happen? Like, what was the situa-”

“Classified.”

You made a face and mocked his accent. “Classified.”

Apocalypse now.

“You are a bit like Kurtz.”

He gave you a look. “Mental?”

You huffed. “No. I meant the things he says, not the whole insanity bit.”

Simon scoffed but otherwise stayed silent. The film rolled in the background.

He murmured, then. “The horror, the horror.”

And you laughed.

He found it inexplicably easy to strip down for you, until he stood metaphorically naked in front of your eyes. Until he told you his full name and gave you his personal phone number. Until he showed his face.

Until he noticed you'd stopped looking for a flatmate, and his weeks of rent turned into months like he’d initially foreseen, but for another reason entirely. Months turned into years, but he could’ve never predicted anything in his life to last this long.

Until two summers later, while sporting a mundane black surgical mask and casual clothing, he took a photo with you in your doctoral gown, in front of your Uni. The same picture that now hung next to the entryway of your flat.

Until two years became three, and then four.

Until he just kind of… stayed.

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

Simon’s day has worn him to the bone. The only thing he wants now is to go home, down a beer in two gulps, and knock himself out on any flat surface available.

He’s risked his fair share of speeding fines on the motorway, parked the car in the building's garage, and trudged up the three flights of stairs that led to his apartment. When he unlocks the door, he finds a sight that melts his frustration into a puddle at his feet.

You’re lying on the sofa, absolutely unbothered, looking lovely and homely. A lousy romcom plays on the telly. One hand is hiding in the crinkling shell of a packet of Walkers, and your other one is curled around the neck of a Stella Artois. Simon gathers that your workday must've finished a little earlier than normal because you’re already in your loungewear: a pair of loose sleeping shorts and a t-shirt he knows all too well.

All too well, because it’s his. 

And he could give you the benefit of the doubt; after all, you often wear oversized clothes. It could’ve been a laundry mishap; you could’ve absently taken it out of the dryer without a second glance, thinking it was yours. But the blatant British Army patch on the sleeve and his surname written in white block letters on the back give him very little to work with to excuse you. He doesn’t even remember he still owned that tee, probably because, factually, he doesn’t anymore.

It's clearly yours, now.

He drops the house keys in the tray lying on the floating shelf next to the doorway, before closing the door behind him. The sound must’ve alerted you, because your head drops backwards, rolling against the armrest of the sofa.

"Evenin'." You beam, looking at his downward image. Your head lolls and your mouth looks busy chewing on a handful of crisps.

Ever the vigilant bastard, he wants to flick your forehead and remind you that chewing upside down could lead to choking, but you aren’t a child. Although, with the crumbs of what smells like salt and vinegar crisps littering the corners of your lips and the baffling, chaotic way your hair is tied in a bun, you sort of look like one.

You curl your legs to leave a free spot for him, patting your foot on the sofa’s cushions. "Wanna join me?"

Simon hums quietly; his eyes flicker over to the TV for just a glance. He isn’t in the mood for a romcom, not at all. But he does want company. He sighs and shrugs off his jacket before toeing off his boots. His balaclava is snatched off by a tired hand, and dropped somewhere he doesn’t care to check. Only two wide steps with his annoyingly long legs and he’s already by the sofa, flopping onto it like a wet rag slapped on the leather cushions.

He eyes the bag of crisps in your hand and raises a questioning eyebrow.

You’ve learned how silent communication works with him because most of the time (especially after particularly hellish days or long deployments) he wanders around the flat like a haunting specter more than a living being.

You mockingly raise your own questioning brow, but alas, you hand him the pack of crisps he’d wordlessly asked for. And just because you can, and because he’s never said anything when you did it, you stretch your legs to rest over his thighs.

That earns you a grumpy side-eye that softens just as quickly when he spots the checkered pink and green socks he gifted you for your graduation.

Simon doesn’t know much about things like that. He isn’t daft, he knows how big it is to earn a PhD. But presents aren’t his thing, nor are the pleasantries built around big achievements.

At the time, he was just tired of seeing you walk barefoot around the flat and thought you needed those more than anything since, apparently, slippers weren’t all the rage in your book. Surely, before his life-changing present, Simon was used to you asking if he’d seen your other slipper while you stumbled about the flat only wearing one on your feet. He’d find them everywhere: under the sofa when vacuuming the carpet, hidden in a groove between the floor and the kitchen counter, forgotten on the washing machine or in the washing machine.

He’d figured that the only way to ensure you’d avoid knocking your pinky toe on the corner of some furniture was to make sure you couldn’t simply drop the footwear. Socks were it, apparently.

He remembers how your eyes had shone like the bleeding sun when he’d given them to you, how you’d clutched them to your chest as if he’d just gifted you a pot of gold. It had been a lovely sight, one he carefully keeps tucked in the almost empty corner of his mind, the one reserved for happy memories.

Nevertheless, Simon has rarely minded your habit of lounging with your calves across his thighs. The opposite, actually. Your friendly sentiments make him feel like, for once, he isn’t about to get stabbed in the back. Moreover, the fact that he is letting you invade his personal space like that, when he never allows anyone else to so much as touch him, truly is a testament to the monumental trust he’s placed in you.

You take a sip from your beer. "Alright?"

“Peachy.” He grumbles dryly.

Your lips purse to conceal a smirk, but hell is it hard. His dry humor never fails to rob a halfhearted smile from you. He has subconsciously started using it more often than socially acceptable just because of that.

You wiggle your toes against his abdomen, trying to steal a smile of his own from him – even if those tend to appear once in a blue moon.

What you are given, however, is only a slap on the ankle.

Catching on his mood, you down one last sip from your Stella and then you wiggle the bottle at him.

"There," you offer. "Seems like you need it more than I do."

He tosses the bag of crisps on the coffee table and accepts the beer from you, taking a rather large gulp from it. He isn’t a light drinker by any means. In his defense, it takes a whole lot of alcohol to knock him out. He has the metabolism of a properly trained soldier and his liver has processed much worse things than a bloody Stella Artois.

“Why are you being particularly friendly today?” He asks with thinly veiled sarcasm.

He isn’t complaining, per se. But he is a pessimist, one who can’t seem to grasp the notion that people can act accommodating without asking anything in return. Even if that has been your only behavior for the past four years.

Therefore, Simon understands why you narrow your eyes at his question, all offended and a tiny bit sour, as if he’s just asked something outrageous. However, he also knows you’ll brush off his comment because it is true, what he said.

You are particularly cheery.

"I'm back in the game." You state, sounding as if you've achieved some great thing. "I have a date next Friday."

That.

That is what Simon needs to hear in order to give you a genuine reaction.

He raises a single blond eyebrow and glances away from the TV to look at you with that signature hooded gaze of his – the kind that could cut through steel.

“A date?” He grumbles. “Who’s the bloke?”

In response, you squirm a little on the couch to lazily reach for your phone on the coffee table. One of your legs swings to keep your balance, and if Simon didn’t have the reflexes of a sniper, you’d have heeled his face. He automatically grabs your ankle to both prevent your fall and save the integrity of his nose, releasing a sigh – bloody used to it.

You're absolutely unaffected by whatever's happening at the other end of you, awfully concentrated on your task at hand. Fingertips graze the phone enough to slide it closer until you finally manage to have it in your grasp. It’s painfully clear how you can’t be bothered to stand.

You lie back down on the sofa with a sigh, as if that has been an exhausting endeavor.

Simon scoffs.

Your legs return to his lap with apt nonchalance. Then, you swipe through your screen. Simon can only see the phone covering your face from that angle, how the screen light illuminates your features – brows furrowed and the tip of your tongue peeking between your teeth, all focused on finding something on it.

After painstakingly long seconds, you turn your phone to him. Simon squints at the screen and then focuses on the picture you’re showing.

The man is… somewhat handsome, he has to admit. Brown hair, blue eyes, charming smile with possibly fake teeth. Definitely older. Probably a boring, pretentious tosser. Probably wouldn’t appreciate your carefree nature. He wouldn’t return your lost slippers at your door. He wouldn’t buy you socks so you’d stop whining about being on the verge of breaking your toes. He definitely wouldn’t let you paint only one wall of the living room orange, because, in your opinion, having all four would be “too flashy” - as if one on its own isn’t obnoxious enough.

He has to admit, however, that you look beyond excited, and maybe a little enamored. It’s an adorable view, really, and he hates himself for being unable to rejoice about it with you.

"Adam." You tell him his name, even if he never asked. "Thirty-nine. Associate professor of Linguistics at the Uni where I graduated. Found him on Bumble.”

Simon has to physically stop himself from giving a scoff in response to that.

“Looks like a knob.” He takes yet another large gulp of beer, finishing the last drop. You frown, and before you can interject, he adds. “Looks old. Tory, probably.”

You roll your eyes and nudge his thigh with the tips of your toes.

"He ain't a Tory." You scoff. That little frown still lingers on your features, carving a small line between your brows, as if he'd personally offended you.

His comment prompts you to turn your phone to yourself and look at the picture of this Adam lad you found on Bumble of all places.

You look back at Simon and his deadpan stare. Then back at Adam and his million-dollar smile.

Your eyes swivel back to Simon again, and you tentatively ask, "You think he's a Tory?"

Simon places the empty beer bottle on the glass coffee table. The sound somehow makes you take a metaphorical step back. "Nah. He can't be."

You purse your lips, concentrated and slightly, just slightly amused.

Eyes back to Adam. Then to Simon. "Right?"

Simon looks that ounce of smug enough to be considered annoying once he notices how you’re about to go cross-eyed in changing your focus, all hesitant and that bit concerned. He already knows how you have zero faith in your own judgment of character even if you refuse to make peace with it.

A little too naïve for this world. A tad too innocent. When the topic would come up, you’d get all riled up and primitive in your frustration, muttering indiscernible words and expletives that sound like grunts. Brows all furrowed and pretty lips scowling. He'd remind you how you let him in your flat without a single proof that he wasn't a serial killing sociopath, and your mouth would lock in place.

His hand lands on the curve of your foot, smoothing down towards your ankle; the warmth of his palm bleeds through the fuzzy fabric of your socks. He sighs, a little overdramatic as if he were about to tell you some sad, sad news. "Definitely a Tory.”

You want to reprimand his lack of faith in your choice of men. But his hand on your ankle feels so nice and you’re a sucker for physical contact. Begrudgingly, you settle that your bruised ego and your wounded pride are worth the gentle giant’s warmth.

However, the lingering touch does nothing to discourage your fire, so you glower. The least believable thing he's ever seen.

It takes much more to upset a special forces operator with a series of achievements as long as Simon Riley’s. A doctor with a mop of hair lazily tied in a bun, checkered socks in his lap, and residues of crisps around her lips surely isn’t it.

"Well." You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. "I'll ask him on Friday when we’ll have dinner."

He scoffs.

“You’re gonna bring up politics at dinner on a first date, yeah?” A condescending pat on your ankle. “Sounds really romantic.”

His dry humor again. It wins in its intent to steal a chuckle from you.

The fight leaves as quickly as it entered your bloodstream, and you flop on the couch with a sigh, your phone falling somewhere on the turquoise carpet.

"Gotta make sure I ain't dating a conservative." You quip.

Simon watches you clasp your hands over your belly as it ripples with the first waves of a breathy laugh. You crane your neck forwards, eyes squinting in mirth clocking his own.

"He looks like he’d vote Tory." You concede with a laugh and pinch the air in front of your face. "A tiny bit - just a tiny bit."

“A tiny bit?” He snorts. “Lad probably has a framed photo of Margaret Thatcher in his bedroom.”

You laugh again, rubbing an idle hand over your eyes as you shake your head, utterly defeated. He can see in the way your shoulders sag that he’s shattered the careful castle of hopes and dreams you'd built brick by brick around the man.

"God no." Equally as exasperated as entertained, you sigh. "Can't imagine shagging him with the ol' Iron Lady staring at my tits."

He scoffs again at the mental image you have just provided him with. He doubts he’ll ever forget the picture, to his dismay. “Christ. Didn’t need that in my mind.”

In the afterglow of that belly laugh, you don’t notice how he’s somewhat tightened his grip around your ankle. Simon knows you aren’t one to pay attention to those subtleties. Too focused on other people's well-being to realize when yours is being put first. He can already imagine how your heart is unraveling with the knowledge that you’ve managed to make him quirk a smile, however small, even if his day had been a proper shitshow.

The selfless angel that you are.

You turn your eyes to the ceiling, looking for something that clearly isn’t written on the colorful paint of the walls.

"All jokes aside," you murmur. "I hope it goes well."

Your eyes touch his. There’s a melancholy in yours you only allowed him to see. Thinly veiled vulnerability, heart bare just for his eyes.

"Really need a confidence boost," you say with a wistful smile. "And some love on the side."

He mutters under his breath. “Right.”

Simon tries not to wince at your words and what they imply. He thinks you’re too good to rely on other people (men, above anything) to boost your confidence. As if what he thinks are mouthwatering looks, a striking sense of humor and a brilliant mind aren’t enough to make you feel a peg above everyone else.

He hates that you don’t seem to understand it. Hates that you require other people’s approval even when you have a brain that could put most to shame and a series of achievements to boot.

He hates that despite how sharp you are, you’re slow when it comes to emotional intelligence. And it’s Simon fucking Riley who’s saying it, the most emotionally unavailable man he himself knows. It isn’t that you can’t discern signs and tells, you aren’t stupid by any means, but it’s painfully obvious how you just can’t fathom why people would be attracted to you that way. Thus, you’d always dismiss compliments and advances with annoying levity.

In four years, Simon has witnessed all your relationships wither because your lack of self-confidence made you question everything.

Seemingly aware of the tense air your comment has caused, your cheeky grin makes a comeback just to lift his spirits. You wriggle your foot under his grip to get his attention. "You think he'll like my socks?"

Simon has to admit (finally, at least true to himself) that your tireless search for reassurance about your date isn’t exactly doing wonders for his heart or his sanity.

“He’ll love them, you muppet.” He deadpans.

You chuckle at the comment, and then you relax, thinking the conversation over. Comfortable with your eyes on the telly and your hands clasped over your stomach, that gentle feeling of home and familiarity lulls you into a soft rest.

Simon on the other hand, is anything but relaxed. His jaw clenches involuntarily as if he despises even the mere idea of another man getting to see you like this: lying down, all soft and sweet and sleepy in the fuzzy socks he’s bought you. With his surname plastered on your back, of all things.

His eyes flick to the hand on your ankle. He wants to keep holding on tighter and stop you from leaving altogether. Keep you tethered to that couch without ever needing to stand up.

He could tell you to drop it. He could.

But you’re a grown woman, in her prime, with her doctorate and her big girl job that gives her enough money to start a war of her own but for some reason has never decided to pick up her things and leave that shabby flat she shares with him.

And he is poor with words. Communication is a skill he’s never learned, unless it involves extracting precious intel from skin-trading bastards or bloodthirsty pricks. He surely isn’t going to communicate with you that way, even if it's the only one he knows. The realization makes his lips dip into a scowl of self-hatred for being seemingly unable to keep you.

Simon’s eyes rake over your body – your silhouette concealed by his shirt, softly draped over you like finely carved marble. With natural flow, his hand follows the path traced by his pupils, and very deliberately slides up your leg, towards your knee.

Initially, the movement only prompts you to steal a glance from him. But when your eyes land on that frown, as if he were deep in thought, it feels natural, instinctive, to give him your undivided attention again.

Softly, you ask for the second time that day, "Alright?"

He nearly lets out a huff of laughter. Such a simple question yet so goddamn loaded he’s on the verge of blowing a gasket – his patience wearing thin. 

He locks his eyes with yours, only to snark once more. “Peachy.”

His humor this time isn’t successful in the effort of stealing a smile. In Simon’s defense, he hasn’t used it to make you crack one at all.

You frown, a tiny fracture between your brows. A little confused, mostly concerned. He can see it in your doe eyes, how you’re already miles away – overthinking every minute detail you might have missed during the conversation. You always thought so much Simon had joked, once or twice, that your skull was too small to host all that.

Your eyes shift from his face to his hand. Simon dares to be bolder and slides his palm a little higher. His fingers curl around the plush of your thigh.

"Peachy, eh?" You inquire, clearly suspicious of his antics. "You look far from peachy.”

A low scoff slips past his lips.

He is anything but peachy, he’d give you that. He is anything but sweet, far from it. Bitter, would fit better. Jealous, would fit best. He is downright pissed, but not at you. Never at you. He wishes he were a gifted conversationalist, so he could put into words what the idea of you shoving your tits in the face of some twat is making his hackles rise. He barely entertains the thought of you talking and laughing with him, never mind brushing with the concept of you riding the life out of that bastard. God forbid you brought him over and did all that in your flat – his flat.

He swallows in a piss poor attempt at juggling his feelings. His eyes shift to the TV to further conceal them.

“Just thinkin’ about work is all.” He mutters. Simon can almost hear Soap’s Scottish lilt calling him a “pining sod.”

Oh, but you’re an insistent little thing, aren’t you? Simon can hear the sheer doubt in your tone when you hum in response. The slight changes in the vibration against your frowning lips, the curves in the intonation of that simple, but so very telling sound. He catches each and every one of those details like the guard dog that he is.

In his peripherals, he sees the shifting of your eyes, from his hand to his profile. He sees you take in the crook of his nose, broken a few times (a tough job and a harsh childhood did that to him).  His furrowing brows, light honey, like his hair – all ruffled and staticky from removing his balaclava when he got home.

"Work." You deadpan, but it comes out softer than intended.

His fingers aren’t as sneaky as before when they slide further up your thigh. Simon knows you feel that same electric spark because your quadriceps stiffen under his palm.

“Work,” he affirms, his jaw tight as his hand journeys farther to reach the hem of your shorts. His thumb rubs from side to side over the skin at the edge of the fabric, and Christ, he’s fighting the growing itch to just pull them down.

While the two of you have watched plenty of films on this same sofa, in this same position, Simon has never touched you.

As in, touched you, touched you.

He’s averse to that, to anything that isn’t a noncommittal gesture. This one, however, obviously isn’t.

His hand is so big against your thigh, that plush skin underneath his callouses almost makes him feel guilty. The hardened palm used to disperse death shouldn’t touch such soft things. He feels the peachy fuzz brush against the pads of his fingers, he sees how they leave divots in the meat.

It makes his heart beat a little faster, blood pumping in all the wrong places but his head.

His expression is blank, dull eyes staring straight at the television. However, his mind is not as quelled as he portrays. It’s leading him to a very unholy place, where he wonders if your skin is as soft on your belly as it is on your thigh. Whether you’d whimper or groan if he were to flick his tongue over your breasts. If your eyes would roll back, were he to plunge his fingers deep into your core.

So many ifs he wants to put to the test.

He gently skims where your thigh meets your hip, and Simon swears he hears you gulp. He can tell you’re absolutely blindsided. You've been living with him as your flatmate for four years. Four fucking years, and if he ever tried to give you anything more than his usual snark, he might have been a little too subtle about it.

Simon glances at you, before returning his focus to the telly. One look is all he needs to hear your thoughts as if they were his own – the self-deprecation, the anxiety, that tormenting feeling of not being enough.

How torn you look. Stiff fingers curl around air only to release it right afterwards, fighting an invisible enemy. Let him do what he wants, let his hand slide up your shorts, and find the cotton lace of your panties. Or, pull away and retreat into your safe bubble, where no one can hurt you.

As if he’d ever lay an ill hand on you. All you have to say is “Stop” and he’ll take back his arm – cut it off for good measure.

Your eyes are hooded as they turn to look back at the malleable flesh of your thigh in his hold. His fingers disappear under your shorts until the first knuckle. He brushes along the hem of nice lace undies, feeling the rough fabric under the pads of his fingers.

Your voice is deliciously breathy. "Wha' about work, then?"

Avoidance. Normally, he'd let you. If it were any other situation, he'd brush it off with you. He'd keep up with the chat, coddling you in that safe place you seem too keen on spending time in.

Not now.

His head turns back to you; hungry eyes fixed on the way your mouth parts to yield that soft whisper. It makes his eye twitch, a splinter in his veneer.

“Reckon work can wait,” he rasps.

Simon is hyper-aware of how close he is to your core – a knuckle away from the throbbing heat between your legs. He sees your bowed head, eyes lidded with that primal desire he is instilling in you.

You look as if your brain has turned into soup; the ingredients a mix of shared memories and touches – even the most indifferent, neutral ones. To his utter joy, for the first time in your life, it almost looks like you’ve finally turned off your thoughts.

Your jaw clenches in a desperate attempt to get a grip on yourself. He knows you’re confused; he is too. Because it’s wrong to indulge in intimacy when more than just a friendship is at stake. Money's involved, a roof over your heads, a bed to kip, and food in your bellies – four years of shared everything is involved.

But you agree. You nod your head a little dumbly, and suddenly work can wait. To Simon, the fucking world can.

Your voice is a mumble. "Yeah, guess it can."

“Mhm.”

His gaze flicks up to your eyes, depriving your lips of the attention they were given, and he is delighted to see that you’re just as affected as he is.

Simon's fingers get squished between your thighs when you clench them together. He squeezes, feeling how the flesh rolls between his fingers, how it folds where the stretch marks crinkle.

“Lift your leg up for me,” he rasps.

Breath is stuck in your throat in utter anticipation. Simon knows it's been a long time since you've been touched in any way, shape, or form. You could've gone out and found a man willing to have a shag, it wouldn't have been hard to find someone who needed it too – someone as desperate as you look right now.

After all, that single word is the one that led him to you in the first place.

Yet you never did it. Simon has never seen you bring a man, or a woman, back to the flat. Sometimes you’d disappear with a text, saying you’d be sleeping out, but you never brought anyone home. And he never asked why – mostly, because he thought it wasn’t his business. Another part of him, however, was afraid that if he did, you’d take it as an invitation to do so. Obviously, he wasn’t too keen on the idea.

After giving it little thought, you part your thighs for him. One still rests in his lap while the other dangles off the sofa.

There's very little resolve left in you, Simon can tell by the way your eyes are so focused on his disappearing hand, and by the way you shatter when he experimentally glides one finger over the damp line on your panties.

“Fuck.” You hiss, tilting your head back.

You must want him dead, he thinks, as he gawks at the way your throat curves.

“Christ.” He mutters under his breath. He pushes the pad of his thumb down the cotton, feeling how it sticks to your slit. “Barely touched you.”

He wants to take his sweet time. He does. Wants to take it slow, reduce you to a mess of please and more before he finally gives you what you want. But he’s just as desperate as you are, isn’t he? He’s craving, clawing at the walls, to feel you clamp around him. Feel you drip down his hand until his callouses are coated, slick flowing down the crevices of his palm.

He’s no better than you are, currently.

So, his fingers slip under your panties just enough to touch your folds.

You can't help but tilt your head forwards again, only to look down at the bulge under your shorts created by his hand.

But when your eyes flit back to his, he stops.

Maybe he’s gone too far, he thinks. Maybe you’re realizing this is one hell of a mistake that can only end with you going your separate ways, something he will never forgive himself for.

However, it’s then, that you nod. That worry line between your brows, ever-present, seems gone. Smooth skin between your beautiful, beautiful eyes. And Simon feels whole again, feels wanted. The battered hound dog that he is, only useful for one thing and one thing only – sowing the seeds of death, and reaping them afterwards – is wanted.

Not tolerated. Not required, or needed. Wanted.

He knows your brain is turning its cogs, fighting against the fog of a kind of hunger that can’t be extinguished, one that only wants to be sated – by him, and him only.

Why is he doing this. 

What does it mean.

Is it because of the date you should have the next Friday. 

Is it because he's frustrated at work and you’re simply there, lying on a silver platter.

So many fucking questions it irritates him that, somehow, while his middle finger is tracing lazy patterns to part your folds, you’re still thinking. 

He doesn’t allow a single one to leave your lips, because he plunges one finger inside your cunt.

His first if is answered, then. Your eyes don’t roll back like he’d expected.

Your brows flutter to your forehead, and your mouth parts to form a pretty oval. Your chest swells as if you've just taken the first breath in your entire life. Your eyes, hazy and blurred, hold his own. And somehow, that is the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

Your leg on his lap is taut and stiff, toes curling under those loud socks you’re wearing.

Simon takes in the sight of you – all flushed and panting. The only sound in the air is the quiet drone of the telly in the background and your sharp inhales.

He can only describe himself in that moment as wrecked. Maybe even more so than you are right now, all rigid in anticipation of his first movements.

“Keep your eyes on me," he growls out, and when you nod, he curls his pad inside of you.

Your fingers seem to mimic his own, but they grip the edge of the sofa’s cushions instead. Your nails scratch at the leather with such voracity they leave beige lines against the dark brown.

He struggles against the double layer of fabric entrapping his hand to your cunt – the lace scratches the knuckle on his thumb, the cotton of your shorts is a manacle on his wrist. But fuck if he cares about all that when your hips twitch to encourage his movements.

You look ruined. And he loves that – the effect he has on you, the fact that he’s the one to have you like this.

He moves his finger in slow, long strokes. He doesn’t do it to torture you, no. He observes, because for once his constant vigilance is not only useful to quell his paranoia, but also to feed your desires. He tests movements, tries different spots, looking for that one within your walls that will make you scream. 

And he finds it, then – to his utmost delight. Here you are: your breathy moans, soft and honeyed, turn into a stuttering and almost pained "Oh." And he knows he has you under his thumb, all perfect and yearning, unraveling with just one of his fingers. He’s looking straight at your face, not wanting to miss a single twitch of an eyebrow. Your pretty lips are all slick with your spit and they part to release the sweetest sounds he’s ever heard.

His strokes intensify, drawing back as much as he can with the limited movements he has, only to push in and hit ever so slightly that rougher patch of nerves he’s located. He doesn’t want to make you squirm, but he has something tickling his brain – questions. Or better, one question.

He places his thumb over your pearl, unsheathing it from the fleshy hood with a glide. He drinks the way it makes your breath hitch and stutter in sudden hypersensitivity. He rolls his pad tentatively, only to see you grit your teeth and groan – muscles and sinews all tensed up in your neck. It's like molten lava in your belly. It's syrupy hot and gushes out of you in long, sticky droplets that pool on his finger, down to the knuckle.

“D’you think you’ll need to go on that date on Friday?” he rasps and rolls his thumb again.

His question doesn't seem to make you falter; your hips are unrelenting in their chase for release, as you push against his hand, grinding like your life depends on it. However, he can tell that it irked you. That blissed-out look pinches in frustration.

You're breathless, on a feverish hunt for that taste of heaven his finger’s promising, and Simon has the gall to bring up another man? One he's been mocking for the past half hour? He's surprised by himself as well.

You whine. "Does this look like the bloody time?"

“No,” he concedes, sounding a little patronizing.

He has the upper hand, quite literally, and to give you a friendly reminder of the power he holds, he slides another finger in.

You're absolute putty in his hands now. Your fingers grip at the sofa, your cheeks all flushed and warm. Your back arches, and he knows he just gave you that fullness you've been chasing. The sensation that causes the right amount of pleasure and pain of the stretch. He’s knuckle deep inside of you, his fingers trapped by your velvety walls as he strokes harder, lingering a little longer where you like it, but not faster. He keeps that steady pace that takes your breath away, not forgetting to lavish your clit with attention, and leaves you with just enough air for you to free those clipped and breathless moans.

He’s shameless as his other hand clamps your shin on his lap and pushes it down onto the painful tent on his jeans. He shifts his hip upwards to grind against your calf and hisses when it causes the zipper to graze his cock.

“Gonna cancel it, then?”

It’s bliss. You look like an angel.

"Yeah," you breathe out, a little incoherent. "Cancel it, 'course."

Your voice is more of an unintelligible mumble than anything else – two fingers in and his thumb on your nub drawing idle circles. Perfect pressure. Perfect fit.

He’s never seen you look this beautiful, all abandoned and relaxed, with your big brain he loves so much shut off completely. Synapses only working to generate a wish for release, so sweet and simple, and nothing else. And who is he to deny such a plain request, you sweet thing.

Simon would give you the moon if you asked.

He’s powerless in your presence, undecided if to focus on your face, or to stare at your hardened nipples. They brush against the black training t-shirt he once owned – right below the two crossing swords painted under the royal crown. It should be blasphemous. Should be bloody illegal to sully the name of the monarchy that way.

That is, if he gave a fuck about it. And even if he did, he’d see no wrong in it – because what can you taint when you’re the purest thing he’s ever touched.

Your hips move in tandem with his fingers, your face scrunched in that desperate look of someone who has a piece of heaven just out of reach. He watches you as you fall apart under his fingers and keeps your leg down so he can grind against it. If the situation were different, he’d feel like a wild animal in that regard, but there isn’t a spot on you he doesn’t wish to worship.

Especially now, when you look like this. With your hair sticking to your forehead and loose locks escaping your low bun.

He can’t take his eyes away from you – you have him absolutely entranced.

“s too much.” He hears you whine amongst the mist in his brain

“It ain’t.” He manages to grunt as if it's an order.

And you’re a little insubordinate, because you try and squirm away. But your shorts are his shackles as much as they’re yours – they fasten his hand to your cunt, while locking you against his unwavering fingers.

“Simon,” your voice is so wrecked when you beg. “Please - fuck.”

And how he finds the strength to snark is beyond him. His voice is thick and heavy. “’m tryin’.”

He drags his fingers deep down where yours can’t reach, where he’s found that patch of nerves that reduces you into a puddle of yourself. His thumb on your clit is steadfast, rubbing just above the hood where you’re not as sensitive, only to drag down again and make you see stars.

And the way that string of “Yes” leaves your lips, in that euphoric wheeze that tugs at the corners of your lips, makes his cock ache to be anywhere but in the confines of his jeans.

Your eyes are all glossy when you prop yourself on your elbows to fuel his resolve. Petal lips red and shiny, catching your teeth in an attempt to muffle your moans – bone-deep ingrained insecurity you can’t seem to get rid of. He doesn’t force you, though – he wants to hear you, sure, but most of all he wants to see you crumble to shreds. And if hiding your voice is what you need, then feel free to be his bloody guest.

Your hips stutter and your belly ripples under his large tee draped over it, and he’d recognize those signs anywhere. 

“Cum f’ me,” he orders. “C’mon, love. Give it to me.”

It takes a few more pumps of his fingers, and Simon feels it before he sees it. You clench around his fingers in rippling waves, thrumming rhythmically. Your cunt deliciously threatens to cut them off just above the knuckle.

And fuck, aren’t you a goddamn sight. 

Simon thinks it's almost cathartic to simply watch you. How your head tilts back to hit the armrest of the sofa, the way your toes curl in his lap and your foot on the floor rigidly lifts. The sway of your hips as they undulate to meet his thrusts and the liberating groan that leaves your lips, touching the sky with your fingers.

He unconsciously guides you through it, but truthfully, he has absolutely no idea what to do with himself – not with you looking straight out of one of his most unhinged dreams. His fingers slow down but keep moving relentlessly.

However, it would be a lie for him to say he knows what he’s doing.

You come down from it and your eyes are blinky and unfocused, staring at the ceiling. Your body deflates on the couch, limp and sated. Syrupy and warm. With your chest free to move now that the heavy weight on it has finally been lifted. He allows you this moment of privacy as you recollect yourself, although he truly wants you to look back at him again. He doesn’t want to miss a beat of this, yet he sort of understands.

Your breath comes out in puffs. He’s not faring any better on that note.

"Simon," you breathe, his name exquisite from your lips. "Christ."

He’s gawking. Watching your face for a moment more, he meets your eyes as they flick back to him down the slope of your nose.

Thumb still on your clit, the movements are gentler and featherlight. His voice is hoarse and rough as he speaks. “Alrigh’?”

You chuckle, breathless and a little nervous now that the appetite has been sated – much more self-aware than before.

His fingers are still inside of you and you’re already overthinking this. He knows it. He just hopes, deep down, that you’re not regretting it – because he sure as hell isn’t.

"Peachy.” Is your reply.

Oh, how the tables have turned. Joke’s on him, he’s fed you enough sarcasm for you to start throwing it back at him. Simon feels too weak to even smirk. However, his eyes do narrow, in a similar manner to how yours would at his snarky comebacks.

He gently slides his fingers out of you, mindful of your current sensitivity. He brings the hand up, seeing the gleam of your slick shamelessly coating their lengths down to the knuckles.

“Fuckin’ look at that.” He murmurs, unable to discern whether he’s talking to you or to himself, “Messy girl.”

He thumbs his middle finger and rolls the juice between the pads, thinking; tongue out to lick his lips like the voracious beast he is.

Simon reaches over and brings his hand towards your mouth. A jerky nod of his jaw, “Open.”

He knows he’s already crossed a line the two of you never even dared to toe before. And if he’s going to lose you after this, if you’re going to turn your back on him and leave the flat (leave his life) then he’s going to make the most of it.

Your brows are pinched in sudden uncertainty. A contradicting spectacle, if mixed with the way your chest is still heaving and how your cunt is still wet.

But tonight, you seem eager to catch him off guard, because you oblige. Your lips part and you offer your tongue, never breaking eye contact.

Each time he thinks you can’t look more beautiful you prove him fucking wrong.

He hums lowly in approval, and there’s something dark in that sound. He gently runs his fingers across your tongue, coating it with your taste. Fingertips slide and follow its curve. He stares at you with such an intensity, like he could consume you if he had a mind to. You devour him first, wrapping your lips around his knuckles.

When your tongue delves around his fore and middle fingers, he has to close his eyes. He has to roll his head, releasing the tension in his jaw. He has to, or he’ll cum in his goddamn jeans. The sharp inhale he takes almost burns his nostrils; his sigh heavy and anguished when his lips surrender to it.

“How d’you taste, dove?” he asks, blinking his eyes open.

The way his voice rasps out that pet name, rough like sandpaper, makes a shiver run down your neck. He sees it, the tremor of your shoulders, the goosebumps on your arms.

Simon reluctantly pulls his fingers away only so you can answer. His wasn’t a rhetorical question, and by that blush on your cheeks and the embarrassed hint of a smile on your face, you’ve guessed it already.

"Not as sweet as I thought."

His lips twitch.

“No?” he asks, his voice much too broken for his liking. He brings those same fingers to his mouth and sucks, tasting your spit and your cum. A low rumble of a chuckle escapes him – must be a blue moon tonight. “I think you taste pretty sweet.”

This can go two ways: a fairy tale ending, like those romcoms you like to watch, or an absolutely dreadful one – in which you leave. And truly, Simon doesn’t believe in a higher power; God has abandoned him more times than he cares to count. However, he hopes that whoever’s up there realizes that he's owed big time for all the crap he’s been put through.

And he asks for nothing, but you.

His face is hot, and he gathers his cheeks might be a little pink. The rare sight must give you some comfort, the fact that he’s just as overwhelmed as you are, because he feels your leg relax in his lap.

You purse your lips to hide a bashful smile - as if you have any right to be coy right now. "Flatterer."

He hums, seemingly wanting to bite back at you but unable to find the spirit for it. His eyes rake over your body, from your flushed face to your chest covered by his tee, until they land on your quivering thighs, still splayed open for him.

For him.

His hand travels up your leg, following the same route that has led to this. When his palm finally cups your hip, his fingers curl at the waistband of your shorts and tug.

“C’mere.”

You do.

He sees you bend your knees and shift on the sofa so you can crawl to him on shaky legs. As the gentleman he never thought he’d be, he helps you swing your thigh over his own and deposits you in his lap with your knees on either side of his hips.

Afraid you might say something hinting at regret, he selfishly grabs your jaw and pulls you down, finally tasting you the way he’s always wanted. His lips mold with yours, and they’re so soft he has no business claiming them as his own. His fingers tilt your head so he can deepen the kiss, and only when he sees your eyes flutter closed through the slit of his eyelids, he allows himself to surrender to you.

Your lips peck the thin scar on his cupid’s bow, but before you can run away from him (as you should), he captures you once more. He never wants to let you go, so his tongue slides across the seam of your mouth, and you, so pliantly, oblige him.

Your hands are resting on his shoulders when the kiss starts tentatively, while his slender fingers follow the curve of your waist.

But then your nails dig at the fabric of his t-shirt, as if eager to rip it, and his palms journey to your rear. He grips at the flesh through your shorts, before shoving out of the way their distressed hem and directly groping the plump meat of your ass.

The two of you never part. If anything, everything gets more heated.

He doesn’t recall when it is exactly that you start grinding your hips, nor does he remember when his shirt was removed – whether you did it, or if he’s taken the matter into his own hands.

However, he does snap out of it when he feels your palms leave his shoulders to grasp at the hem of your tee. While he wants to feel his skin on yours as much as you do, what’s separating your chest from his is not a mere layer of cotton.

He pulls away and – to his pleasure – he sees you lean in to have more. His hand lands on yours, stopping you.

“No.”

He sees you blink, dazed. A myriad of emotions travel through that pinched expression you wear, thinking like usual that you’ve done something wrong.

He quells your fears in seconds, when his other palm skims over your arm. It journeys unhurriedly, leaving gooseflesh in its wake, until it lands at the base of your throat. His thumb brushes over its column, forcing your neck to tilt backwards and your back to arch, presenting your chest.

Simon models you like clay under his warm fingers, and he takes his time to drink you in and sculpt you as he wishes. Because you seem so docile now that his intents are less covert, clearer.

He brings his mouth to your throat, and his nose scrunches when he presses it against your neck, keeping you still with one thick arm around your waist. With sluggish movements, he tastes the salt of your skin and the tang left by your perfume.

Simon pulls back only to run his tongue from the hollow between your collarbones up to your jaw, feeling right under the muscle how your throat bobs when your breath lodges in between. He curves his head and digs his teeth into the plumper flesh on the side of your neck, enough to get a taste but not enough (never enough) to cause pain.

“Keep the shirt on.” He breathes against your skin, “I wanna fuck my name into you.”

And he does just that.

It’s effortless how he lifts you in his arms, guiding your ankles to lock at his tailbone. Clothes, both yours and his, freckle the floors in a trail that leads to his bedroom. He’s famished; there isn’t a single surface along the path he follows where he hasn’t placed you – if only to savor every piece of you for a little longer.

Until he has you on that bed, the one he should’ve gotten only for a few weeks and instead became his own alcove.

You look wonderful on it.

But you’re even more gorgeous when he sits at the edge of the mattress, facing the full-length mirror in his room, and places you on his thighs to straddle his lap – your back facing the reflection.

He runs his hands over your chest, riding up the t-shirt to your neck only so he can feast on your tits. Grabbing greedy handfuls of fat and muttering unintelligible praises when his mouth all but devours every inch – sucking on your puffy nipples and grazing his teeth around each peak.

Another if is answered by the whimper that escapes your kiss-bitten lips.

You look like an angel, when your soft hand goes to grab the base of his cock and, without much ceremony, you guide it inside of you – sinking on it easy and slow.

You feel like heaven, too, impaled on him. Perfect fit, always made for him, and him only.

Simon’s not sure what he did to deserve you, now riding his cock like you’d been deprived of it your whole life. Unbridled, free. You moan and groan without a care in the world, the hesitation he saw before vanished into thin air – and oh, he couldn’t be more grateful for it.

His hands curl at the hem of your (his, his, his) shirt, lifting it up slightly at your waist, only so he can see in the reflection how your ass slaps against his thighs each time you drop. Or, how your glutes clench when instead of trying to pleasure him, you please yourself – rolling your hips to grind your clit against his happy trail.

Simon’s hands leave the shirt only to grab more of you, kneading at your hips to guide your cunt down his cock until he has you filled to the brim. Your eyes roll back, breath stuck in that pretty throat of yours. He bites at it - laps at the skin like a starved dog.

Simon shattered his chains the moment you came undone on his fingers, and now he knows no restraint – not when he has you like this.

“Look at you,” he growls, slapping your ass only to watch how the fat ripples in recoil in your mirror image.

He grabs the back of your neck and tilts your head downwards. Your foreheads touch as he guides your eyes to look at where your bodies join. The foamy ring at the base of his cock, how the folds of your vulva hug around his shaft and tip at your unhooded clit, all puffy and red.

He tugs at your mound with his thumb, stretching the flesh to expose more. With a deliberate roll of his hips, he makes a show of how effortlessly his cock slides into you, how your cunt greedily stretches to welcome him whole. 

“Look at that.” His voice is equally as raspy as it’s enraptured. “Perfect.”

Using his hand on your nape, he angles your face to kiss you again. He thrusts into you only to have you part your lips in a stuttering moan, and he drinks it dry.

When you resume grinding your hips, he whispers in your open mouth, “Fuckin’ perfect.”

Simon sees how your thighs quiver under the strain of the effort, hamstrings taut and probably burning in the attempt to wrap around his hips. He won’t keep you like that for long, don’t worry. He’ll take good care of you, like he always has.

But now, he indulges in a selfish moment.

Spare seconds in which he watches your reflection bounce on him, and you’re too lost in the feeling to notice how his hooded eyes take in the view.

The profile of your face in the mirror (his little cherub), with your mouth parted and brushing against his temple as he nuzzles your shoulder through the fabric of the shirt. One hand ecloses his nape and your other palm is on his cheek, keeping his head close to your breathless lips. Your eyes are closed in bliss – lashes shy against your flushed cheekbones.

In the scantly lit room, the reflection in the mirror of you two is as dark as everything else, but the stark white writing on the back of your tee has never looked brighter. Your hair sways with your movements, and that RILEY that peeks through your locks has him impossibly enamored of you.

And you’re so smart, he thinks. So clever, because you know, even when your senses are clouded by euphoria and your eyes are closed. You know he’s never had a thing. You know that whatever he’s held, no matter for how long, has always slipped through his fingers before he could even get a taste of it.

“I’m yours,” you whisper in his ear.

And so, Simon surrenders. He’s at your mercy, you have his trust and whatever’s left of his heart – and he knows you won’t break either.

He helps you out of his t-shirt only to hold you bare against his chest. He brings you down with him, lavishes your skin with his palms and his lips. Nose buried in your hair, Simon breathes you in. The smell of sex and the smell of you and how it has him drunk when it whirlpools with his own – a new fragrance, one that burns itself into his brain with the threat (sweet promise) of never letting go.

Because he’s never had a thing, his name barely pertains to him anymore. But the moment he saw it on you, he finally realized where Simon Riley belongs.

[c0ffeejelly1]

I love the way your name sounds

Multiple character headcannon

Authors note: okay I won’t even lie I think I kinda liked this fic…ANWAYS here’s y’all’s warnings NSFW content! I put some of that Femdom shi, f!reader, m!receiving gawk gawk, dacryphilia…I guess, uhh just really cringe worth sentences... yall probably into that. (POST-TIMESKIP!!)

Summary: he likes to whine your name especially when he’s close

MEN who love to be buried between your thighs, though anytime you offer to reciprocate his good deed he insistently denies you, shying away from any form of contact. He initially claims it’s because he prioritises your pleasure over his and there is no need for you to sourer your lips. But would it be so bad if you just wanted to hear him whine in satisfaction?

That’s not to say there hasn’t been times where you have succeeded in changing his mind. However during those moments, the only sound you might catch is a faint hum, accompanied by him biting the inside of his cheek and knitting his brows in frustration, as if he’s forcing himself to keep quiet...

MEN who even when he has his cock between the folds of your heat, he keeps one hand pressed to his mouth or his face deep in the crook of your neck. He never lets you hear him, hear how good you also make him feel - and you had reached your limit. You just wanted to have a man moan, rather than it being a one-sided affair.

Did he not enjoy sex with you?

MEN who let out a small gasp of surprise when you suddenly approach him after a days of lounging. Your in that cute little apron he adores with your hands trailing up and down his chest through his worn clothes. He laughs nervously, gently taking a hold of your wrist, his eyes wide and confused, like a lost puppy trying to understand your sudden playful behavior.

But you don’t hold back, instead, you draw even closer, your hand pressing deeper into his chest causing him to back against the wall. Your breath fans over his neck and you catch the sound of him swallowing hard a slight gulp down his throat. His grip on your wrist wavers softly as a meek sound escapes his lips, “I…Is everything okay, baby?”

MEN who turn crimson at the feeling of your lips pressing into his, before trailing along from his jaw and down to his neck. Your sudden assertiveness was causing his mind to reel from the intensity of the situation. Before long, his shirt is tossed aside, forgotten on the floor, and he’s sprawled flat on the bed, his elbows propping him up, as he stares at you completely dazed and breathless, “hah…you’re really in the mood today, huh…”

You can only laugh at his admission. He had no idea what you had in store for him today. You were going to make him scream, so loud that he wouldn’t be able to speak the following day, so loud that the neighbors might just have to lodge a complaint against you, so loud that—

“A-ah…you…you can’t just…do things like that…”

MEN who feel a jolt of pleasure shoot through his body upon feeling your hand move inside the waistband of his underwear. A warning would’ve been nice, because now all he can do is have his breath hitch and back arch instinctively against your touch.

“Hand or mouth?”

Your question only turns his mind to mush, as he tries to make a coherent decision. Both options sound incredible, but he found himself succumbing to your hand. You knew he’d pick that. He doesn’t get as sensitive with your hand…which is why you decided to use your mouth, much to his dismay.

“W-why even bother ask— mhf…”

MEN who lose their words at the feeling of you tongue around his shaft. His hand immediately reaches up to his mouth, trying to stifle his shameful sounds, in which you quickly stop just before he could.

He lets out a small whine in protest, looking down at you between his legs with puppy eyes. Your intense gaze on him was only turning him on more and it was only a matter of time before he felt a familiar coil in his stomach begin to build up.

You had finally done it.

MEN who can’t help the babbles of “Ggh…you…you’re…so mean”, the whines of “d-dont tease the tip…” and the whimpers of “p-please faster…let me make a mess in your…in…in your mouth”, that escape him.

You couldn’t believe your ears of all the filth falling out of his lips. The way his eyebrows pinch up in that familiar look, his jaw slacked open, his eyes glued shut. You wanted him to look at you, see just who was making him fall apart like this, and so you tap on his thigh, prompting him to glance down at you, his eyes glistening as if he was on the verge of crying.

“F-fuck…m’so…so close…I’m so close, please…don’t l-look at me like that…”

You don’t stop. You don’t even allow him to bring his hands anywhere near his face.

“A-ah…baby— Y/N, please…I can’t. It’s too embarrassing Y/N…”

He was begging to cover his mouth, before the shameful chants of his high come to light. Begging you to at least slow down so he can catch his breath, begging you for some trace of pity on him in which you don’t grant, a coy smile forming on your lips.

There was nothing else he could do but to give in, to let go, to surrender completely to you, to be your “good boy”.

“M’gonna…o-oh Y/N, t-thank you…a-ahh…thank y-you so much, momm— Y/N, I—I’m c-cumming!…”

MEN who from that day on, never once hold back a single noise from you.

“You need to eat more fruit babe.”

“M’sorry…”

Characters: Reigen, SERIZAWA, GIYUU, Jean, ARMIN, REINER, KAGEYAMA, Hinata, Bokuto (I’m trying to convince myself but deep down I know this man is loud.), Osamu, CHOSO, MAMMON, Childe, THOMA, Rafayel, ACE, SANJI, Iruka

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

When I saw ur post that you'll do Cookie run kingdom, I IMMEDIATELY jumped to this!

Beast Cookies (The 3 Playable ones rn) vs The Ancients fighting for their attention to dear Cookie!Reader in their cookie kingdom. But Cookie!Reader is very oblivious to their affection, and they just think they're getting along swell, buts its VERY obvious to the other cookies about the attention.

Yes yes YES! I've only finished SMC's arc but I read the others on the wiki page. So hopefully I did them all justice

.............

Shadow Milk/Pure Vanilla

In the Cookie Kingdom, Shadow Milk hasn't entirely changed his ways, although he promised to stop turning cookies into puppets/tarots/chess pieces (which surprisingly wasn't a lie).

He simply settled for creating mischief and making himself quite the nuisance to Pure Vanilla Cookie (since he's still a bit petty about the whole soul jam situation and all).

However, he's been going the extra mile lately because of you, a Cookie who was one of Pure Vanilla's closest friends.

Unlike others who had the usual reactions to his pranks (horror, anger, embarrassment, or sometimes all three at once), he notices that you don't give him the reactions he hopes for.

Instead you just laugh and say "you almost got me there, maybe next time!"

He thought you were mocking him, but when you insist you're being honest, he backs off.

Since you're so interesting to him, he keeps watch over you...and pouts every time he sees you with Pure Vanilla, becoming determined to have your attention all to himself.

Once, he snuck one of his cream sheep (in literal wolf's clothing) into the cotton candy ranch pen while you were assisting the healer in harvesting wool.

His plan was to distract him so he'd be able to "kidnap" you and leave his counterpart to deal with the chaos of a dangerous creature threatening the flock (even changing the "no wolves" sign to "wolves allowed").

Instead, you immediately saw through the facade and thought the wolf was lost, gently sweet-talking it and guiding it out of the pen without causing any commotion.

Shadow Milk appears and whines about you "spoiling" his fun, although he's confused when you ask him if you could keep the wolf.

"Really? Even though I......wait. No, of course not, dummy! Get your own pet." He's quick to snap his fingers, creating a portal that sucks the canine back into the other-realm.

But since that interaction...you believe he's starting to warm up to you, always wanting to hang out and show off.

He'd would make up little lies and truths about his encounters with Pure Vanilla, including what happened at his spire, putting on dramatic displays/shows to make himself out to be the "hero".

Of course, you know better than to believe most of what he says, but you still give him your time of day.

Pure Vanilla did once mention the small droplet of loneliness he sensed within Shadow Milk, so you figured he just needed a friend--something he vehemently denied when that offer was first extended, but eventually learned to accept once he got settled into Cookie Kingdom.

You think you've been making great progress in your friendship with the Beast, although lately a rumor's been circulating (one that he didn't create, and thus was unaware of), that he had a crush on you.

Why else would he want you all to himself? And try to drag you away from Pure Vanilla anytime he saw you both together? And make you more of the witness--instead of the victim--to his latest pranking scheme?

90% of the time he acts like he caught you "cheating" on him...and you're just like "but I'm not even dating anyone???"

Since Awakening, Pure Vanilla has grown to have a lot more patience with him, but he still thinks his antics are childish and would say "just tell them how you feel".

However, he knows Shadow Milk is not one to wear his heart on his sleeve, and would rather put on grand puppet shows and shapeshift as other cookies you've befriended than ever admit he likes you.

But he believes that one day, you'd be the one to crack through that exterior. Just as he did.

Mystic Flour/Dark Cacao

In her weary world of white, you were a cookie that brought just a smidgen of color back into her daily life.

Within the kingdom, she found cookies who remind her of those who used to flock to her Ivory Pagoda with selfish desires and obsessive wishes, taking and taking.

Seeing them dart around and act the fool makes her ponder over whether they should be enlightened or not...

Loving, befriending, working, creating...what was the point if none of that will matter in a hundred years? Do they ever stop to ask themselves if any of those deeds will be remembered? Why bother?

While her powers are severely diminished, leaving her unable to summon a flour storm, she still tries spreading her message to those willing to listen.

Most try to stay away, as her words are rather depressing, but you're actually curious about why she thinks that way.

You feel terrible after learning her story before and after she had her soul jam stripped away, although she assures you not to mourn--for she found comfort in apathy, and asks if you'll do the same.

But you respond that while it is inevitable that everyone crumbles and returns to flour no matter what, life is still worth experiencing, and wanting to help the kingdom grow is something you enjoy and want to keep doing.

"But kingdoms rise and fall. This one, too, shall follow. All these monuments will become mere piles of sugar dust. These waterways will soon dry up and-"

"That may be true, but who's to say we can't rebuild? This isn't your traditional kingdom with a single ruler." You point out. "We've got plenty of hands to help put up new statues and fill the rivers."

"...hm."

Dark Cacao was..less-than-pleased to see you chatting with her, considering she brought the Pale Ailment to his kingdom and nearly killed him trying to obtain his soul jam.

It's a grudge he hasn't fully let go of, and he made it known to you that he'll fight any of her attempts to "corrupt" your mind with her twisted ideals.

He'd try to keep you away from her--which is unusual for the typically reserved Ancient Hero (unless you were from the same kingdom, and in that case you'd understand Your Majesty's protectiveness).

Unfortunately for him, Mystic Flour finds your presence..intriguing. Even when your time is up, she'd certainly want to remember everything about you, so she wants to know more about you here in the present.

While she observes you handling tasks with grace, she'll notice Dark Cacao glaring at her from across the way, pondering why he kept looking at her like that.

Could he have been...jealous?

Yet another frugal emotion he would've been liberated from had he listened to her...

You think the two have been getting along a bit better, considering they could be in the same space without him brandishing his sword....but in reality, even other cookies can sense their tension, the air too thick to be cut with a butterknife.

Burning Spice/Golden Cheese

When you heard news of Burning Spice Cookie joining the kingdom, you were informed to stay FAR away from him, as he was one of the most violent Beasts the Witches have ever known.

Golden Cheese told you about her battle with him, bitterly recalling how he tore her own wings off and caused destruction simply out of boredom--so she's rightfully concerned for your safety.

Unfortunately for the queen of abundance, her counterpart's eyes have been on you the moment he noticed you both talking to one another.

But instead of allowing him to goad her into a rematch, you offer to show Burning Spice around the kingdom.

He welcomes the change, considering there's no singular ruler, although he expected this one to crumble like many before.

"Let's see how long it takes before I grow bored of this....place." He sneers, keeping his weapon at the ready-

Although he noticed a statue built in his likeness (alongside SMC and MFC) and paused.

This kingdom honored the Beasts despite all of their horrific crimes?

"I dunno when those showed up, but-"

"I like 'em. It's a nice surprise. Whoever sculpted this paid extra attention to my physique and might. I give them my thanks. Nice to see that someone here knows I'm the greatest." He snickers.

Yep A simple statue satisfied his ego enough to spare the kingdom from having to spend fortunes on property damages.

As you began spending more time with Burning Spice, you show him different (and better) outlets for his anger, providing him a home with training grounds in case he needed to let off steam.

Forget about trying to put this Beast of Destruction to work---he'd grind the sugar cube quarry to dust and burn down the lumbar production facility.

Golden Cheese--being greedy over not just ownership over her soul jam, but also for her friends--isn't too thrilled with Burning Spice "pretending" to be your best friend, knowing he could crumble you with one claw should you let your guard down.

She has Smoked Cheese Cookie spy on you from a distance to ensure you're safe....but you're oblivious to her concerns.

You had no idea the two were even have daily quarrels over which of them "deserved" your attention more.

If anything, you assumed they were still fighting over their soul jam.

[chelseeebe]

hot n’ heavy

18+. mdni. smut. breeding kink if you squint! exhusband!eddie

part two to yours, forever! i truly believe they would have three sons and one little girl that comes after r’s second divorce🤭 the p3 to this is my favourite however, i have some pornstar!eddie is reallyyyy want to get out before it’s posted hehe. pls ignore any mistakes i am so tired

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

eddie hadn’t ever lied about you still being the only woman in his life, he’d dated around after the divorce but had never, ever found anyone that came close to you. 

he does suppose that you were together for fourteen years. he feels like at that point, you were stuck together for life. 

and yet, he can’t fucking wait. 

sat on one of wayne’s loungers just waiting for you to walk through that gate and spot her. 

he’d sorta been seeing ashley for the past couple months or so, mostly just hooking up during those dry spells where you were content with your marriage. 

wayne’s annual barbecue was coming up and so he’d had the bright idea to ask her along, truthfully just to get you talking to him again. 

nice girl, pretty too but he knew you’d be furious. 

the kids bounce through the yard first, barely saying hi to eddie first before clambering on top of wayne as they usually did. 

you shuffle through next, the far-too-short dress sitting just around your thighs, a blatant attempt at garnering his attention. though you were no match for him, eddie had the petty game nailed down since 1998. from the moment you’d handed him those divorce papers, he’d taken it upon himself to piss you off as much as humanly possible. 

you haven’t realised yet, made obvious by the wide smile on your face. giving half-assed hugs to the various members of his family that sprawled around the garden, waiting for him last. 

but you don’t hug him, standing in front of the lounge chair with a frown, looking his outfit up and down. “i didn’t realise you were coming,” you quip. 

fucking lie. 

your dress wouldn’t have been half as revealing if you’d actually thought he wasn’t going to be here. 

eddie scoffs, sitting up in his chair, “why wouldn’t i be?” cocking his head to the side, waiting for the perfect moment to introduce ashley.  

“oh i don’t know, thought you’d be too busy pretending you can play guitar,” shrugging sweetly, but not backing off. 

his eyes narrow, biting his tongue to unleash the true beast, “have you met ashley?” gesturing towards the young blonde with a side smirk from hell, “she’s been so excited to meet the kids!”

your brows furrow, lip curling in disgust. he loves even more that you don’t try to hide it, practically retching in front of her face.  

sharp eyes flicker over to her, “nice to meet you.. ashley,” but your hand doesn’t extend for her to shake, instead you flounce off without waiting for her reply. 

“dave not here?” eddie jeers, holding the cool bottle of beer just before his snarling lips. 

“he’s at work,” you snap back, “you know what that is?” snarky in all your glory, sitting on the furthest, most opposite chair you could find. 

that’s alright, he can almost see right up your dress from here, purposely no doubt. 

wayne must have found that hilarious, bursting into a maniacal laughter, never on the side of his own flesh and blood. 

pfft. 

whatever. 

it wouldn’t be long before your dress was bunched up against your hips and-

“-eddie?” ashley barks from beside, snapping him out of maladaptive wet daydream, “can you show me the bathroom?” batting her eyelashes. 

holy fuck. the regret of ever inviting her had began to seep in, because in actuality, it had done absolutely nothing worthwhile in making you jealous. 

he nods, concealing the annoyance on his face by clearing his throat, guiding the poor girl past his relatives judging eyes and into the house. 

she grabs ahold of his hand, trying to pull him into the bathroom alongside of her. blinking rapidly when he stays put. 

“my kids are here,” he whispers, yanking his hand back, “i really can’t,” he could, he had a hundred times. just not with her. 

she pouts, dropping her shoulders in a huff, quickly pulling the door closed as eddie rushes off outside again. he couldn’t have you thinking he was screwing around with her now.

your eyes follow him from the door to his seat, wayne leaning over to whisper not-so-quietly about him.

he can read something along the lines of midlife crisis, wayne’s bellowing laugh after pretty much solidifies that theory. eddie’d be much more angry if he didn’t find it so endearing, wayne loved you more than eddie did, he was certain of that. 

wayne pats your shoulder before sending a sharp glance at eddie, a warning sign he’d seen, and ignored, many a times. 

-

an hour of meaningless banter and fake affection later, eddie finds his opportunity. 

you had disappeared off under the guise of helping in the kitchen, but he knows it’s an invite of sorts. you weren’t as nonchalant as you thought you were, sliding your gaze over his and then immediately at the open door.

a blind man could’ve picked up on that for christ sake.

he saunters off through the door, no doubt you were in there messing about with the salads or doing the dishes like you normally did. the garden is too loud for anyone to realise anyway, he figures he’s got a good fifteen minutes before anyone questions where you’ve both gone. 

you glance up at him walking through the door but choose not to speak, plating up the anaemic looking potato salad his aunt had made. 

“you not speaking to me today?” standing on the opposite side of the island, picking at the bowl of chips. 

“i have nothing to say to you,” turning up your nose to continue dumping the grey slop into a bowl. 

“that’s a lie,” eddie chuckles, leaning over the marbled counter, “i know you have loads of things you want to say to me today.”

you look up briefly, staring daggers into his soul, “why don’t you go back outside with your little girlfriend and leave me alone?”

eddie sighs rather sarcastically, “one, not my girlfriend and two, i’d rather be in here with you,” walking his fingers over the counter towards you. 

you scoff, but he knows you’re not serious because if you were, you’d have thrown the spoon at his head and laughed as it got tangled in his curls. 

“c’mon,” he beckons, nodding towards the stairs. 

when wayne had announced that he’d be selling the trailer in favour of a house, eddie think he physically jumped for joy. 

living with wayne and a pregnant you in that tiny metal box had began to drive him utterly insane, especially once wayne had retired and he had an approximate five minute window to have sex every day. 

you glance out of the window, making sure that no one would follow you up the stairs, before sighing and begrudgingly trailing behind him. 

“don’t worry, they won’t even notice,” slipping into the box room and shutting the door as discreetly as possible. 

to be honest, you’d lived in this room just as long as he had, it was yours as much as it was his. some of your posters still stay stuck to the walls, pictures of the two of you that you’d framed still linger. 

eddie waits with baited breath for you to start, prepared for the inevitable rant that was just bubbling to fall out of your lips. 

you stand poised at the other side for he room, hands on hips, ready to scold, “you’re seriously pathetic if you think bringing some kid would make me jealous,” clicking your tongue against your teeth, eyes flicking up and down his casual stature. 

there it is. 

the tirade of insults he’s been waiting for all night. 

“i fucking knew that’d work,” guffawing loudly, “you’re so angry and i love it,” swigging his beer with far too much confidence. 

“i’m not angry, i’m disgusted. there’s a difference,” crossing your arms firmly over your chest. 

“oh please,” rolling his eyes, “you’re married for fuck sake,” placing the bottle on his old dresser, the fun was just about to begin. 

“yeah. i am,” you nod, the deep furrow of your brow only exciting him further, “to someone my own age, not some fucking teenager.”

“she’s twenty three, actually,” in such a matter-of-fact tone that it makes you seethe, launching forward to twist his collar between your fingers. 

“you disgust me,” eyes like slits and a snarl that some rottweilers would be jealous of. 

“isn’t it a bit late for you to start lying like this?” a heavy hand meets your back, pressing your body into his as your heartbeats collide. 

“fuck you,” moving forward to connect your lips the same time he does, an angry battle that consists of guttural growls and an animalistic need to dominate the kiss. 

“just ask me next time sweets,” grabby with his hands as they get comfy on your hips, performing a waltz around the tiny bedroom floor to lie your body sideward on the edge of the bed, legs wrapping tight around his back. 

“everyone’s here,” you breathe, glancing warily towards the window, “what if they hear?”

“pssht, not like we’ve never done this before,” 

this bedroom had once witnessed the most explicit things all the while wayne was downstairs and hopefully oblivious. 

eddie’s hand glides over your thigh and under your dress, lifting higher until it’s bunched up at your hips, just as he’d pictured. 

“wear these for me?” he remarks, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your deliberately worn lacy panties.

“mhm,” lifting your hips as they come down, hanging off of your ankle. 

he breaks apart for what feels like too long, rushing to get his belt unbuckled and his jeans down, before hoisting your calves onto his shoulder, your knees damn near touching your ears as he comes down on top. 

“jesus christ eds, i’m not twenty five anymore,” gripping onto his forearm for leverage. 

eddie scoffs, running the leaking head of his cock from your clit to your hole, delighted with the way you shiver and whine. 

he sighs as his cock slides in, taking one last glance at the window, he wouldn’t last long anyway, not in this position. 

“fuucking hell,” you breathe, tightening your grip on his quivering arms, letting your eyes fall shut. 

he’s messy, sloppy in the way his hips move, pressed flat against your glistening cunt. if this didn’t get you pregnant, he gives up. 

“i like it when you’re jealous,” he pants, brushing the stray strands of hair from your sticky forehead to get a good glimpse of your fluttering eyes. 

your nails dig further into his skin, it’d probably hurt if he weren’t balls deep inside of you, “fuck off,” your insults punctuated by the slick sounds of your body’s meeting. 

he moves slow, grunting each time his tip nudges against your sweet spot. fuck. the downright pornographic noises of your pussy wrapped him makes him animalistic with need. 

schlickschlickschlick in time with the old mattress and his balls slapping against your ass. 

your hands move up above your head, helplessly grabbing at the blanket, fingers untwining in the fabric. 

“ohmygod yes,” head thrown back against the mattress, seemingly no longer bothered about the family gathering just outside. 

despite being an incoherent babbling mess, your eyes meet his, “don’t.. ever bring her here again,” your whines becoming too loud to hear your words clearly. 

eddie slaps his palm over your drooling mouth, but he nods, more than happy to comply if it meant he could fuck you like this every time. 

“only did it.. to make you jealous,” losing his momentum, the churning in his stomach becoming too much to carry on. 

you’re too fucked out to reply, whimpering into his palm, the bedsheets twisted between your fingertips. if no one had heard you, it would be nothing short of a miracle, your gasps only partly muffled by his hand. 

you clench around his cock, calves trembling upon his skin while your hips move on their own, cumming around his cock, his sweaty palm working overtime to silence your loud mouth. 

eddie doesn’t last much longer, biting down onto his lower lip so he doesn’t alert the whole house to your precarious position. 

he’s shaking, collapsing on top of you as his seed paints your walls, saying a silent prayer that this time is the time. 

“oh.. fuck,” he heaves, sloppily pumping his hips into your leaking cunt before pulling out completely, well aware that you had ran over the fifteen minute allotted time slot he had given you. 

wayne would have noticed a whole ten minutes ago, surely waiting to make his snarky comments. 

he lets go of your mouth, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before getting up and as a gentleman does, slides your panties back up and your skirt down. 

it filled eddie with far too much satisfaction to know you’d have to walk downstairs with a skewed walk and a pussy full of his cum, everybody else none the wiser. 

“don’t walk down together,” you bite, running frantic fingers through your unkempt hair, attempting to clean the smudged outline of your lipstick. 

“nobody’s gonna care,” re-buttoning his jeans as he takes a smug sip of warm beer. 

you spin on your heel, shooting daggers at his grinning eyes, “your girlfriend might,” and with that you’re gone, slipping out of the door in a cloud of tangled hair and creased fabric. 

god, he loves you. 

far more than should be allowed for two people who are divorced. 

it was wise for you to go down first, you were a much better liar than eddie ever was. 

he makes a slow walk downstairs, his belt clinking rather conspicuously as he pulls it tight. 

wayne stands in the shadows at the bottom, waiting until he’s close to make him piss his pants before speaking, “i don’t even wanna know,” shaking his head at his petulant nephew, “don’t ever leave me with that girl again,” a warning, but his eyes are soft, almost cracking as the pieces click into place in his brain. 

“i wasn’t.. i didn’t do anything,” but his twitching lips give him away, “and i’m gonna take her home, don’t worry,” trying to shuffle past wayne unscathed. 

his uncle reaches out, smearing his thumb across eddie’s chin, “you left your fuckin’ lipstick on, dumbass,” only half-disappointed in his nephew, because eddie, and everybody out in that garden knows wayne’d be the first person to celebrate the two of you getting back together. 

he, rather unsuccessfully, suppresses his grin, walking into the kitchen like he was the luckiest man alive. 

you stand at the counter, back to him, poking holes into juice boxes, your hair a sudden nest and your dress sitting higher than it had before. anyone would think you’d been doing something you shouldn’t.

he slides up right behind you, “i’m gonna go take her home.. are you staying?” hand threatening to creep under your dress again. 

“yeah, we’ll be here,” you confirm without ever looking up. 

“i’ll come back then,” he didn’t want to be here without you, you’d done these things as a pair for long that it felt disrespectful to ever entertain the idea of doing it alone. 

as he turns, he meets wayne’s eye who had either been stood watching the entire time or had only seen his hand grab your ass, either way it wasn’t great. 

his uncle’s eyes say enough, silent in both their judgement and approval. 

eddie shrugs, walking back into the garden with a terribly hidden smirk and a sickening excitement to get back and see you again.  

[star-5truck]

A letter to you

Sypnosis:The final letter Dabi Touya sent you before the final battle.

Pairing :T. Todoroki x Reader

Two posts in a day? Its a miracle lowk

Dear [Name],

    By the time this letter reaches you, I’ll probably be dead. I plan on making sure this arrives unscathed at your side, since I’m aware you’d still be in a coma when it arrives. I’m a little disappointed I won’t get to see your pretty face on the battlefield, but it’s better than you getting hurt. To start off, I ask you to forgive me for everything. I know I wasn’t the one who put you in your state, but I still apologize for that nonetheless.

Now, this letter isn’t for me to apologize like some beggar. I just want you to know my thoughts. I’d rather I not die without giving you a clear conscience. I know when I left that night without a word it hurt you. You really shouldn’t forgive an asshole like me, I hurt you in ways words can’t describe when you’ve been nothing but understanding towards me. So, I hope that through this letter, you get to understand me more. Because in the one hundred thirty-six days, three minutes, and five seconds we’ve known each other, I never really opened up to you.

The first time I met you, I thought you were a lunatic. I was injured, on the brink of death, and about to pass in peace but then I saw you. I thought that ‘this is it; I die to the hands of some hero without putting up a fight.’ Yet my demise never came. You took care of my injuries, brought me to your home and treated me like a human being.

What hero tries to talk it out with a villain? Newsflash, you, apparently. I’d like to inform you that you have not changed my views on heroes at all. I still believe they are all self-serving assholes that don’t care about anything other than themselves. I loathe them all… except you. If anyone is going to make the hero society a better place, it’s going to be you.

I don’t think the hero commission took it well when they found out we were having rendezvous’, eh? I always told ya we’d get caught one day. I knew that if I stayed, you’d be in bigger trouble than you already were. I truly believe it was for the better good when I left you that night. Yet with that being said, I’ll never regret meeting up with you every now and then.

You were definitely one of the good things in this hell. I haven’t found myself enjoying someone’s company in a long time. You’re some sort of blessing- to me and the world. I’m not super religious myself, but if there is some God out there, I’m real grateful they made you a part of my life. I haven’t been good enough for the God’s to respond to me, but for some reason they sent me you and I don’t plan on letting you go.

But that’s a lie and we both know it. Technically- I am letting you go. I’ve done it multiple times, actually. Kept pushing you away again and again but you kept coming back. Why is that?

I don’t deserve a soul as kind as yours. You were my light in the darkness, or however the saying goes. I think somewhere along the way I dimmed that light. There are times where not even the brightest of lights work. It’s not your fault, anyway. Because you did get rid of the emptiness I’ve always felt. I ruined myself on my own terms. I’ve always been fucked from the start.

You almost succeeded with your goal on changing me. When you told me to hide away with you? I almost caved in. To tell you the truth, I could never say no to you. You’re everything to me, minus the L.O.V, but they aren’t important right now. You are the one place I’d call home.

It is incredibly selfish for me to say that I’d like to keep you at my side forever. I bring pain wherever I go, and you- dear hero, are too kind to be treating a villain like this. I’d rather you hate me than going off and trying to save me. We both know I’m too far gone. Nonetheless, I appreciate the fact you thought I was capable of change. At some point, you made me believe it, too.

You’ll be the only thing I’m going to miss after I’m gone- that and crashing at your place. The time I’ve spent with you is something I’ll cherish, which we know is rare coming from me. You’d be the seven minutes before my death. I would’ve loved to run away and hide with you, [Name]. You saved me in every way possible. But I am driven by hate that even I can’t escape. I will do anything it takes to take down Endeavor, even if it means bringing down myself with him.

So, for the first and the last time, I love you, [Name].

Love, Touya Todoroki.

[globalrebrand]

An Unexpected Evening

Warnings: Capitano x Reader, not sfw, mutual masturbation, slight coercion

A/N: A piece posted from my Ao3, a gift for @gojoidyll for their stubborn hearts series. Posted here after a request.

It had nearly been a month since your impromptu arranged marriage to Capitano. The first of the Lord Harbingers. He was a notoriously aloof and enigmatic figure, and thus far, married life had been far from standard. Not that it bothered you per se. You both agreed to have minimal expectations of one another. However, you weren’t entirely used to your independence being hampered by the proximity that marriage brought. You two now shared a home, a bed, and the occasional bath, and while you didn’t mind, sharing these important spaces made it difficult for you to have much-needed “me time,” especially in light of the fact you and your husband had yet to be intimate. 

It is late, and Capitano is in his office. You’d spent much of the afternoon helping to archive some older documents at his request, and while you were happy to help, you hadn’t been able to be very far from him since his return home last week. He’d often request your company for all manner of tasks and activities. It was evidence that your marriage was going far better than expected, considering it seemed that Capitano really enjoyed your presence or was putting in effort to acclimate to you, but all of this attention is also what has you feeling rather frustrated as of late. 

“Um, my lord. Is it alright if we sleep in separate quarters tonight?” It had taken you all night to gather the courage to make such a request, but you were pent up and desperate for release. 

“Why? Are you unwell?” Capitano's brows furrowed with concern as his hand came to his favorite perch on your chin, tilting your face this way and that as an impromptu medical examination. Gently, you gripped his wrist and pressed forward with your gambit. 

“No, I would. I just like a bit of alone time, just for this evening.”

Your husband's lips pursed. It was clear this was not an acceptable solution to him, so you offered a compromise.  

“I could even come back later in the night if that would be preferable.” 

Capitano's eyes narrowed, before a slight look of epiphany flashed across his features. “Wife, do you intend to touch yourself? 

“What! No, I-” You stuttered, embarrassed he would state things so plainly. Not that it was all too surprising based on what you knew of his character. 

“Do not lie to me. I am your husband, and you needn’t be coy with such matters.” He said sternly. Your eyes snapped to meet his gaze, knowing well that if you didn’t meet his eye, he would simply make you. 

“Yes.” You admitted, shoulders slumping with embarrassment but doing your best not to break eye contact. “I felt it would be rather inconsiderate to do so next to you while you slept.” That and you usually kept the light on to read whatever smut novel you liked from your collection. It was quite a challenge balancing a book, flipping pages while stimulating yourself, but you’d gotten the science down to an art. Capitano’s expression relaxes, and you feel a bit of hope that he’ll grant you what you desire. 

“Thank you for your consideration, wife.”

“Of course, I’ll be right back after-” You eagerly assure him, a light smile settling on your lips, but your excitement is interrupted, by your husband's thunderous voice. 

“You get ahead of yourself, wife.” He raises an eyebrow. “I will not permit you to sleep in the other chambers tonight.”

“Oh…alright.” You sigh. Perhaps he would at least allow you to bathe alone…balancing a book in the tub was tricky, but you’d managed before.

“But do not fret. You are permitted to masturbate in our shared quarters.” You cringe at his phrasing but continue on in desperate need of a bit of clarification on the logistics of exactly how you’ll get off…privately, of course. 

“…and where will you be, my lord?” You question.

“I shall be watching.” Capitano attempts to hide his grin as you gasp at his declaration, and the color drains from your face. 

“Oh no, that’s quite alright.” Touching your tender parts in front of your husband was out of the question. Besides a few kisses and bathing with each on the rare occasion he was home, you and Capitano were nowhere close to consummating your marriage as far as you were concerned, but even so, this ask to touch yourself, to bring yourself to completion in front of his steely eyes, felt like an even more intimate prospect than sex.

Capitano catches your flustered expression, eyes darting back and forth as his piercing stare silently demands your attention.

“While I am home, you will take your pleasure with me or not at all.” His countenance is stern. You instantly understand this is an important rule to follow if you want to stay in your husband's good graces. And to a certain point, you understand his perspective. He is seldom home, and to pleasure yourself without him would be cruel, but you had not yet broached actual intimacy…how would you manage such a task!?

“I promise it’s not an event that would be worth watching.” You try to insist. Eyes quietly pleading with him to just allow you to have your privacy. 

“I shall see for myself.” Capitano peered over your shoulder. “Are those your materials?’” He gestured to the book you had held behind you back. 

Your face threatened to burst into flames, but any further protest would likely only upset your husband, with your glance askance you quietly muttered “yes.”

“I can read it for you, so you may use both hands.”

“No, it’s ok!” You urge politely.

“Then you will read it aloud so I may hear what arouses you.” He suggests instead. 

Fuck. This was certainly not the anticipated or desired turn of events. 

The short novella you’d selected was an absolutely debauched tale about a menage-á-trois, where a married couple corrupts a young, innocent maiden who stays weekend at their country estate in Fontaine. Capitano would certainly think that you were a horribly lewd young woman if he heard this. 

“I’ll pick another selection-“ Capitano interrupts you by abruptly rising from his seat. 

“No, we’ve already wasted enough time on this matter tonight.” With that, Capitano grabbed your arm, his burly hand gently tugging you out of his office and up to your bedroom. If you didn’t know any better you would think he was rather eager to watch your toy with yourself—something you’d never done for an audience. 

Should you try to make it good for him? Being deliberately sexy was not something you were familiar with, any perceived sexiness in your past intimate encounters was just consequence of your desperate arousal. 

Ugh…you were regretting not just trying to figure out a workaround in the bath. Maybe if you’d perched your book on the end of the tub between the faucet and spout, you flip the pages with your toes? And just drape one foot over the side so your toes wouldn’t wet the pages? 

But then again, you’d ruled out that idea because Capitano’s tub was made for a man of his size and stature, the end of the tub was nearly a mile from the back rest-

“Wife. Make yourself comfortable.” Your husband drops your hand as he finished guiding you to your shared chambers. The opulent room is on the top floor of his manor, and while the wooden finishes are beautifully dark and glossed and the windows suitably grand and imposing, the furnishing in the room remained rather spare. 

Thanks to you there was now a plush rug, set of twin wardrobes and a perfectly situated  chaise, oriented to look across the dark forest to the nearby bay. Before the bedroom consisted of  just a bed, a rather cruel looking bearskin rug and one side table with every drawer neatly packed with a variety of state documents. But even with your additions in the dim candle light the room felt cavernous. It would take quite a bit more furniture to make things feel homey in your opinion. 

You glanced at Capitano as he pulled his night clothes from his armoire, without missing a beat you moved to do the same, but you struggled with the the back of your corset. Normally a lady would help you undress for bed but Capitano had seemingly been so impatient for this evenings decided course of events that you were now stuck fumbling with the laces on your back. 

You let out of slight groan as your nail bent crudely as you picked at ribbons, but before you could even register his advance Capitano was at your back. His hands surprisingly deft and focused as he worked you out of the piece of supportive clothing.  

“Thank you. “ You spoke softly but gasped in shock when your husband immediately went to pull you out of your dress and underdress, pulling both layers in one go, leaving you only in your stockings and garters. 

You were too shocked to utter any rebuttal, and it seemed that Capitano interpreted this as consent to strip you entirely.

You felt his course hands glide down your thigh to begin undoing your garter and pulling the stockings down your legs, but his thumb grazed too close to your bare cunt, and you leapt away from the contact. Entirely unprepared for the feeling of his coarse hand against your silky flesh. 

“It’s ok husband I’ll do this part, thank you for your assistance.” With no more than a grunt of  approval Capitano retreated to the bed as you undid your stockings and put them away. You cast a glance over your shoulder only to see your husband reclined on his side of the bed and quickly scanning a fresh stack of documents as he waited for you. Turning back to your wardrobe, you reach for a nightgown, but you are interrupted by your husband’s booming voice.

“You won’t need that until later now come.” He patted your side of the bed.

You hesitated at his command, a bit petrified at the prospect of laying next to Capitano naked, especially when he had the privilege of being clad in silk pants and a matching buttoned top which laid open against the firm planes of his chest and torso, dimly illuminated by lamp light. 

“Okay.” You muttered softly, resigning your yourself to the surprising turn of tonight's events. 

As you climbed into bed, Capitano handed you your book. He must have grabbed it while you were busy undressing. It was already open to the flap with the plot summary. Ugh, archons save you.  You gingerly took the book from him and placed it on you pillow. The poor novella was so accustomed to being used for this nightly ritual that its spine gave absolutely no resistance and fell prone, pages splayed against downy sheets. 

Your nerves were through the roof, so to calm yourself, you decided it would be best just to pretend your husband wasn’t there and that you were alone in your old dark bedroom in the attic, reading by candlelight. 

Your favorite position was a bit unconventional. Turning over in the bed, you got on all fours before sinking to your forearms and leaning back on your heels. Capitano let out a light groan as he watched you prostrate yourself, his hand slowly stroking against his thigh.

“Begin.” He encourages gruffly. 

Like you’ve done hundreds of times in your dark bedroom, you slide your hand under your body and touch your pussy lightly, letting your fingers slide through your folds to gather slickness. To your absolute surprise. You're completely soaked. Usually, you need to read a bit of the story and thumb yourself over your panties before your fingers are damp enough to glide through your plump lips, but tonight, even the creases of your thighs are slick with the evidence of your arousal. 

With a shaky breath, you begin. You skip to the best bits of the story, hoping you can get yourself to come quickly. 

You finger yourself through the plot, reading aloud all the while. Describing in vivid detail, Monsieur Guillaume Berteau secretly fingers the protagonist, Vivienne, in the bathroom. At the same time, his wife entertains the rest of their party guests, then steals her sopping panties, forcing her to parade around sans culotte for the remainder of the evening. 

But you get really close when, later, the couple seduces Vivienne into the swimming pool, and she shares a kiss with both husband and wife as she relishes being the center of their attention. Then Carmen guides Vivienne to spread her legs and welcome her husband's cock with all the enthusiasm of a baker gleefully spooning a first bite of something sweet into a child’s mouth.

You spare a glance at your husband. Capitano has pushed down his pants, leaving his groin exposed as he strokes himself to your words. Something about his arousal spurs you on, making you feel even hotter, even closer to reaching your peak. The headiness of your husband stimulating himself only inches away while you did the same felt empowering. 

Your cunt aches deliciously as your stroke between your folds even faster. Your awareness of Capitano’s arousal is riling you even more than the contents of the story at this point. You turn to look at your husband, and with just a  few more tight circles on your clit, you feel your whole pussy begin to spasm. You accidentally push the novella onto the floor. It's work done as your hole clenches around nothing as you start to cum, your fingers pressing firmly against your nub, working you through what is likely your strongest orgasm in recent memory. 

Capitano catches your eyes as his hand slides fluidly over his shaft while his thumb occasionally teases the head. His cheeks are flushed with pleasure, but his eyes are so frighteningly intense that your natural instinct is to turn away from his predatory gaze. Faintly, you hear him scoff, but your mind and body are too far gone to register what that could even mean. 

You shudder as you come, hips dropping, twitching, and grinding against the quilt of your bed to elongate your pleasure. With a few heaving breaths, you struggle to collect yourself. Eventually, you turn back to face Capitano, only to find him scowling. 

And still hard. 

“Turn over.” He instructs, not quite waiting for you to move of your own accord and flipping your hips. 

You spook slightly as he positions you on your back and spreads your legs. 

Is he going to fuck you!? The thought doesn’t scare you as much as it should, but this definitely wouldn’t be an ideal scenario for you to finally make love to your husband. 

By way of protest, you offer, “Should I get the bo-”

“No.” He cuts you off immediately. 

Capitano hooks your legs over him as he kneels in front of you, his thick thighs keeping your legs parted. 

You tense as he takes his member in hand and begins to stroke himself again. His eyes first trained on your cunt. He groans at the sight, and his other hand steadies itself on your thigh. 

“May I touch you?” He asks, only slightly breathless. 

Silently, you nod, and Capitano takes the invitation to slide his hand higher. He pushes aside the curtains of your hair that have fallen over your breast and takes a soft mound in hand, grasping it with surprising tenderness and swiping his thumb firmly over your stiff nipple. You whimper at his ministrations, and his eyes snap your face. His hand quickly follows his stare as he brings his rough palm to your cheek, not waiting for permission, and presses his thumb between your plush lips. Capitano licks part his lips to offer a command, but you’re already sucking on his thick digit before he can instruct you. 

Your husband hisses and tosses his head back. You take the cue glance down to his member just in time to see the firm planes of his abdomen contract, and with a few more tugs of shaft thick white seed starts to spurt out. Then it is your turn to cry out at the contact of the hot liquid splashing onto your clit and dribbling down between your swollen folds. 

Capitano’s eyes return to your body, his steely orbs now pinned to where his spend clings to your cunt lips. Your frame is tense, but with a few strokes of his strong palm against your side, you begin to relax. 

“Good girl.” he praises as he begins to lower himself over your body. You reach a hand between the two of you and gather some of the semen coating your pussy on your fingers. 

Without thinking, you bring a hand to your mouth and tentatively suck his seed from your digits, tasting the viscous fluid like an adolescent sipping wine for the first time, which was essentially what you were. You didn't hate it as you thought you would, your eyebrows raise as if to say 'not bad.'

“Who taught you such a whorish trick?” He growls, grabbing your wrist. A slight look of awe mixed with a flare of righteous anger.

“I um, just wanted to taste you. I was curious.” You mumble shyly. Honestly. This was the most intimate contact you've had with a man and every physical sensation became new grounds for exploration.  

Capitano glares at you skeptically for a moment before pulling you up into a kiss, far deeper than any you’d shared up to that point. His tongue seeks yours eagerly, his lips surprisingly plush against yours. When you part, he gingerly lays you down and settles atop you, pressing you into the mattress. He lets out an aching sigh into the crux of your shoulder. 

“Beautiful.” He decides.

And your heart races.

[onceabluemoonthoughts]

Everyone in the bat family is fluent in multiple languages.

And I’m bilingual, so here’s some language blunder moments I’ve had but put through the batfam.

Steph(talking to herself while on sims4): And i can add a scooter there… wait scooter? No it’s a uh… tricycle? No, definitely not… oh my god, the one that hurts on the shins! What’s it called?!

(Looks up ‘the shins hurt thing’. Then edited to ‘the kids toy that hurts shins’ then edited to ‘the kids toy ride thing that hurts shins’ then edited to ‘the kids toy ride wheels that hurts shins’ before finally getting search results not about how to fix shin pain)

(I did do this, today, which is why I am making this post in the first place actually)

Steph: what?! It is called a scooter! I was right the first time!

Dick(getting caught in a lie): I really digged myself a hole didn’t I?

Bruce: Digged? You mean dug. You dug yourself a hole

Dick: Huh? No. I don’t accept that. I’m using digged. Fuck English.

Tim: By the way where’s the uh… (snapping fingers) the uh… oh god what’s it called? The thingy…

Barbara: Just say it in the language you’re thinking. I speak most of the same languages as you by now

Tim: uh… it’s the uh… I don’t know

Barbara: what?

Tim: I forgot the word… in all languages.

Barbara: then I can’t help you.

Jason: oh yea he talks out of his elbows doesn’t he?

Roy(confused): he what?

Jason: talks out of his elbows?

Roy: …

Jason: it’s a saying. Means he talks a lot.

Roy: yea, not an English saying bud.

Jason: … well it should be.

Jon: you’re late

Damian: I am aware. However there was no… I could not see the time because the… uh..

Jon(expecting an excuse): ..?

Damian(frustrated): I know what I am about to say is wrong. I forgot the actual word. There was no watch on the wall. I did not know the time.

Jon(trying not to laugh): you uh… mean a clock?

Damian: shut up.

[n0rmal-cat]

Streamer x shrunken rival streamer

[friends with benefits, but the benefits is a nap]

Reader and streamer Yan had always hated each other, you both had similar content and brands, so it was no wonder you two were seen as competitors.

Every time Chat mentioned their name reader would go on a twenty-minute rant on them, they were a cocky bastard that only cared about themself, what made it worse was that whenever the two would talk to each other whether it be online or on the stream they would always try to flirt with them. Because of that chat had a different interpretation of this relationship, it wasn't hard to find ship art of you two together online.

When it was announced that both of you would be going to the same streaming con fans were ecstatic, there were already several fanfics online about their "meet cute".

When the reader arrived at the con however it was anything but, they had been burnt out for a while and seeing hundreds of people an hour was not helping.

They just wanted to go home, but then that would lead to a whole other thing with their fans, god they needed a break.

So they just decided to go outside for a bit to get some fresh air instead, "I should have just taken a vacation or something, but then blah blah blah I would have had to make it into content and fuck" they put their head in their hands, they went back into the con shortly after if only they knew someone had been keeping a very close eye on them the entire time, taking note of everything reader said.

After the first day of the con, their fans had started to post, some were excited to meet them, and some were talking about the event, but the ones that spoke the loudest to them were the ones that talked about how tired they looked, it didn't matter if it was only one comment, it dug deep.

They didn't go to the second day of the con, they posted about feeling sick but it was all just a lie. They lay in their bed for what seemed like hours eventually they just fell asleep.

And when they woke they felt better then, they felt clean and like they had been given a full body massage. They turned in the hotel bed, only to realize it wasn't the hotel bed.

Instead, they found themselves in a giant, vaguely familiar room, the surface beneath them not quite a bed. “Did you have a nice sleep, doll?” A voice sliced through the haze, catching them off-guard.

At that moment, reality began to click into place: they were in Yan’s room, and they were ten inches tall.

A confused and scared reader could do nothing up stare up at them in fear.

“Hey, don’t look so scared, doll. You’re safe here. You can go back to sleep if you'd like,” they said, their tone surprisingly soft.

“W-what did you do to me? How am I—” Panic surged as overwhelming emotion threatened to choke them, and they felt tears spill over, rendering them momentarily voiceless.

“Shh, it’s okay,” they reassured, lifting them effortlessly and placing them on their chest, positioning them to see their computer screen. “You need to take a break. You looked dead when I saw you.”

“But I—” they started, but yan interrupted.“No buts. You’ll be taking a week off from everything. I already posted your best on social media.”

Reader was still stunned and couldn't speak. “Look, you can watch me play,” they continued, pulling up a cozy-looking game on the screen.

As they played, they kept them close, a steady cadence of their heartbeat filling the air. They engaged them with questions, Were they feeling okay? Were they hungry? Did they want him to turn the sound down?

But all Reader could focus on was the rhythmic drumming of their heart, a strange comfort. It was gonna be a long week.

[albondiguilla007]

Pregnant Draco Fics

My guilty pleasure, ngl. Tell me what other ships/tropes you’d like to see.

✨ The Guest / 59k / In consequence of an accidental spell, Harry and Draco's five-year-old daughter is sent ten years into the past, where she meets her teenaged parents. Awkwardness ensues.

Draco’s inner monologue is hilarious, I had so much fun reading his pov. Plus, Molly is adorable.

✨ Essence / 87k / In his sixth year, Draco reaches for the only shard of sanity he can find, and puts his desperate faith into magic, the thing that has always set him apart as a pureblood wizard. The magic he unleashes though, is old, powerful, and maybe even more desperate than Draco himself, to leave an essence of life behind.

The little bump isn't what he needs to carry out his mission, but it might be the thing that saves him.

The pregnancy part is a bit confusing ngl, but later it really pays off. I enjoyed the domesticity of this fic immensely, even if Harry is a bit of an asshole at times. (He gets over it.)

✨ Can’t Fight the Moonlight / 16k / "How is it possible that neither of you thought to pay attention to the moon cycle?"

"It was cloudy," Harry said. "And we were drunk. We were very, very drunk."

"This just gets better," Hermione said.

"How could you have been so stupid?"

"In my defence," Harry said, "I had no idea that I should have been paying attention to the moon cycle. I'm not going to lie, I didn't even know men could get pregnant. It's been like, one long life lesson all round."

Or: the one where Harry accidentally gets Draco pregnant, both of them fail to talk about their feelings, and in the end, there's a baby.

✨ Expectant / 62k / After he accidentally gets Malfoy pregnant on a drunken fuck at a club, Harry doesn't anticipate that it'd be just as easy to fall in love with him.

✨ In Our Blood / 37k / Draco is an accomplished pure-blood curse breaker, and Harry is tasked with accompanying him on his latest job-cleaning up the Van Boer mansion, which has been under a devastating fertility curse for seven generations.

✨ What If When He Sees Me (I Like Him And He Knows It?) / 23k / In the post-war haze, Draco and Harry spent a drunken night together. Two months later, Draco learned that he was pregnant. Harry, though, doesn't remember their night together. And so, Draco decided to keep quiet.

He didn't expect to room with Harry at Hogwarts or to grow close to him, but fate had always had a cruel sense of humour when it came to them, hadn't it?

✨ The Slings and Arrows of Outrageous Fortune / 19k / If Astoria refuses to carry their child, Draco will-which is how he finds himself alone, pregnant, and a patient of Healer Potter's.

✨ The Man Who Forgot / 250k / After ten years of marriage, Harry forgets. The more things change, the more Draco Malfoy is still up to something.

You’re gonna SOB with this fic, but it will be worth it, I promise.

✨ A Star Danced / 65k / Draco Malfoy has the world as his feet.

He's twenty-three, first pick Seeker for Puddlemere United, has brilliant friends and a life he adores.

The very last thing Draco wants is an unplanned pregnancy, especially one where the other father just so happens to be Harry Potter.

Life, however, has other plans for him.

✨ If Wishes Were Children / 14k / Harry Potter has tried to move on with his life after Draco Malfoy walked away from him months before with little or no explanation, but it's been hard. Then, on a joyous day at the Burrow, Narcissa

Malfoy makes an unexpected appearance...

✨ Remember When I Loved You / 112k / When Draco Malfoy returns to Hogwarts for eighth year pregnant, vile rumours start spreading like wildfire. The Daily Prophet is full of wild speculations and outrageous assertions. Professor McGonagall seems to know something, and Malfoy's firm refusal to reveal the other father simply adds more fuel to the flames.

Harry Potter is desperately curious about the identity of the father of Malfoy's child. He feels utterly dumbfounded when an ancient paternal bond activates in the Great Hall, proclaiming him as the father. And what's worse, Draco Malfoy looks just as shocked as he feels.

✨ No One Ever Told Me / 25k / Harry marries Draco to get him out of Azkaban.

Things get weird. And confusing. And then weird some more.

✨ Learn to Fly / 25k / January 2004: Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter are two of the finest Seekers in England, deadly rivals and secret lovers.

As far as Draco is concerned, that's how it'll stay forever. He is betrothed to beautiful heiress Astoria Greengrass, and they are due to have a big summer wedding.

Everything changes during a hotly fought Arrows versus Wimbourne game when Draco falls from his broom. To his huge shock, when Draco awakes in St Mungo's, he discovers he is pregnant.

What will Draco do, now everything in his tidily compartmentalised life has to change?

✨ Hexed! / 34k / Harry uses the wrong hex, and Draco suffers the consequences.

✨ Luckiest Baby In The World / / "You're staring," Malfoy says.

"I'm not." Harry is. He just - he can't see it.

"You can't see it yet, Potter." Malfoy sounds miffed.

"I'm not trying to," Harry lies, finally tearing his eyes away; he looks out the window in a desperate attempt to get a single thought into his head that isn't what the fuck.

"Look," Malfoy says. "It's not like I'm telling you that you have to be a part of its life. I only-"

"How do you know it's mine?" The question is out of his mouth before

Harry can think better of it, and he immediately regrets it because of the way Malfoy's face shutters, turns cold.

✨ Once and Never Again / 40k / One morning after with his sworn enemy should be enough to warn Draco that he's going down a dangerous path.

But does he learn? Of course not. Month after month, he finds himself returning to Potter's embrace. What is wrong with him?

[shiftingdiaries]

A post on why you probably can induce void state for others.

A post by a known blogger came up on my feed as I was scrolling, I am very adamant on the fact that everything is possible so if I see public posts pushing limiting beliefs I want to speak up on that. Before I get into the post, I heavily agree with OP’s message with the posts which is, you should not give your power away and hope someone saves you. Instead, find your own power, you aren’t less capable than others so don’t see yourself that way. I just had one issue with the post, OP fills it with limiting beliefs to get their point across.

“Manifesting healing for a family member or finding a missing person is done through the manifester's own intention and focus. It's about shifting their reality to align with a desired outcome, not about 'entering the void' on someone else's behalf. The outcome influences their perception of reality, but it doesn't involve physically transporting others to or from the void.”

If infinite realities exist, and we are limitless, why would there be a fundamental difference between 1. manifesting someone else heals and 2. entering the void on someone else’s behalf. The only person who would say these are fundamentally different, is someone who puts the void on a pedestal. If someone manifests they can enter for others, if they assume it and believe it, then it works. There are infinite realities and outcomes.

Let’s say someone did manifest being able to enter the void for others, and they go by OP’s rules on how your manifestations can influence others, they could still manifest for the other person. They won’t override free will because the person consented to getting help, and they will influence so that the person they manifest for suddenly believes. We all know assumptions can be changed in a second, manifesting happens in seconds sometimes. Even with OP’s views and rules on manifesting, it can still work. The issue isn’t that we can’t manifest for others, it’s that whoever has claimed it so far is a scammer. Which is why so I agree heavily with what OP says about not believing these people because sadly they like to lie and scam.

“Manifestation works within the framework of your own reality. While your manifestations can influence events involving others, they don't 'override' others' free will or autonomy. The void is a personal experience-you can only use it to manifest changes within your perception of reality, not to directly act on someone else's behalf.”

I understand where OP is coming from here, within the model of individual consciousness then the individual is at the centre. But this model of consciousness isn’t the only one and the objectively factual and valid one, which is why it’s misleading. Within some of these models, individual free will or individual autonomy doesn’t exist. There are other models of reality, within some of these models, it’s a collective operating rather than the individual. Who is to say you cannot tap into the collective consciousness as well and operate from there.

Carl Jung’s works present this very well, there are multiple aspects of consciousness. Not just individual consciousness but also a collective consciousness and collective unconsciousness, and even within individual, there are a multitude of aspects. Same within the collective perspectives.

This community is very self centred, I don’t mean that in an insulting way but as in most people look through the lens of individual consciousness. That is not an issue, because it’s valid. However what isn’t valid is when it leads to limiting beliefs being pushed.

The collective consciousness and its many aspects, are also a reason to why people find it easy to manifest for family members. Ancestral consciousness is one aspect which is closer to the individual aspect compared to the entirety of the collective. That’s why you could manifest for your brother perhaps, but not a stranger on tumblr. Of course you can change this, by assuming you are tapped in with the broader collective.

The people who script being deities in their DR are also operating from a collective, hence they can influence their DR people in their realities.

“Foundational principles”, these are different in other realities by the way so how foundational are they exactly, because you can manifest no matter what reality you’re in, even the ones where Neville’s teachings don’t exist. They are only slightly foundational from the perspective of individual consciousness, which again, is not the only model nor the fixed and objective one. Even within this reality, the grand model of consciousness is vast, and individual consciousness is just one aspect of the entire model. The so called fundamentals change drastically if you look at it from a collective lens as well.

Though, at the end of the day, I agree with OP. The people who claim they will enter for others often scam, they prey on others from what we have seen and they are not worth it. I was only poking at the limiting beliefs, because I don’t think they were needed to prove the scammers wrong. Using concepts from the three dimensional reality, to constitute what’s possible and what’s not was also not needed. Man made rules and concepts don’t apply to the aeonic being i.e. awareness.

[pupyuj]

imagine g!p rei & gaeul with reader.. make it happen plsss😭😭

my gamseongz… they’re such an interesting and underrated pair i swear 😭💔 will never forget that one moment in that one cooking show where the host was in awe of how easily they can say “i love you” to each other ☹️☹️ THE CUTIES EVER.

also pls ignore how i completely forgot to post this WAYYY earlier 💀💀💀

[cw: g!p gaeul, g!p rei, virgin!rei, threesome, exhibitionism, voyeurism, praise kink.]

let me paint ya’ll a picture! reibear wanting to take the Big Step with you like you already did with gaeul but feeling so shy and frankly, a little insecure bcs this was really the first time she was feeling like this and was afraid you’d be disappointed in her bcs she didn’t know what to do… and that was where the reliable gaeul-unnie comes to the rescue! 🤭 why, she wanted her adorable girlfriends to ‘take the Big Step’ too! but she knows rei was too nervous and you, being the gentlewoman that you are, didn’t want to pressure her into doing anything so gaeul wanted to take it up to herself to make all three of you have the best time together 😋😋

gaeul saying that she will ‘guide’ rei through it… and she really thought it was an innocent and helpful thing to do okay! she did not at all think of how much of a pervert she would look and feel like once she was with the two of you, in your bedroom, rock-hard as she stared at you and rei making out on the bed 😵‍💫 but she refused to do anything about it! this night was about you and rei! 😤

she still finds everything the two of you were doing adorable, however… the way rei’s hands shook as she undressed you while you just smiled at how cute she was being, the way rei was barely able to keep a hold of herself once you pulled her underwear down and finally got to see her cock—gaeul couldn’t help but fall in love even more! 🥺 but she was also hard as a rock… but she couldn’t just interrupt the two of you to satisfy her needs.. and so to keep herself at bay and to give herself something to do, gaeul decides to actually do what she has been trying to do this entire time, which was to guide reibear! 😋💕

the sight of gaeul behind rei, basically backhugging her with her chin on top of her shoulder, whispering all the praises and comfort in her ear while they both watch you take rei’s cock down your throat was the main reason you were a soaking mess 😵‍💫😵‍💫 gaeul instructing rei to put her hand on your head, push you down deeper, use your mouth, and completely control you… her praises for the two of you sounded so sweet, neither of you can’t get enough of them! 🥺

“my good, pretty girls… you’re both doing so well.”

“keep going, rei-yah… you’re almost there, aren’t you? (y/n)’s being so good to you right now… don’t waste it.”

“she’s gonna cum in your mouth soon, baby girl… you can take it all, right, (y/n)-ah?”

and ofc bcs you wanted to make gaeul proud and simply bcs you did want it, you allow rei to blow her load in your mouth, swallowing what you could until you had enough 🤤 but rei was still so hard, the baby needed to be inside you to be satisfied! 🥺🥺 and so you lie down and this time, gaeul was behind you, kissing you and massaging your breasts while rei spread your legs open, hungry for more.. 🫠 gaeul abruptly cutting off your make-out sesh just to have you look as rei slowly inserts her cock inside you in one go… all three of you just moaning in pleasure once you were able to fit all of reibear’s length inside you 😵‍💫💞

and thanks to gaeul’s guidance and encouragement, rei just plows into you and you loved it bcs not only were you being fucked so good that your eyes were rolling to the back of your head but you were also being babied and fawned over in your ear! it was basically fucking christmas for you! 🤤🤤 gaeul had the grand idea to have rei pull out at the exact moment she came so she could see how beautiful you looked with cum all over your stomach and thighs.. and rei became completely obsessed with the sight of it all 😍

but aw reibear feeling sooo tired afterwards that she just melts on top of you :(( you and gaeul showering her with kisses and praises while she giggles and hides her red face… sososo cute 🥰💕💕 but god! you were still so horny.. and you could feel gaeul’s cock pocking your behind but when you suggest that it was her turn to be pleased, she wants to be polite sooo bad 😤

“i think i’ll manage… it was a treat to watch you both, plus this night was about you two!” you and rei knew gaeul was just too shy to actually ask if she can fuck either of you 😒 but well, thank goodness you and rei just finished, right?? yeah, exactly! it was bcs of that that the two of you were able to give gaeul the best blowjob of her life and have the honour to paint her favorite pretty faces with her cum 🥰

[shroomyv]

ᢉ𐭩-Garage Jam

Pairing: Mohawk mark x afab!reader (gender isn’t rlly listed in this story 4 the reader anyway)

Synopsis: your boyfriend is at work and gives you one simple rule while he’s gone—don’t touch his shit. You obviously don’t listen and this leads to you two losing sleep all night.

Warning: (not smut story), maybe suggestive?, corny Drabble (kinda fluffy? Idfk)

WC: around 1.7k-1.8k

A/N: hello. Sorry I haven’t written in a week, I’ve been busy and absolutely exhausted. And just my fucking luck I got fucking sick to yesterday. It’s been a week since my last fic so I wanted to post smtn even if it was small or shitty. I don’t write for Mohawk mark enough and he’s my fav variant so I had to write this cus I kept dreaming bout it. Anyway enjoy this and I’ll try to push out more fics but I’m absolutely suffering with this sickness.

Bang, boom, bang.

The sounds of you hitting the drums were leaving from the garage as you kept going. M!Mark had left for work a little while ago and gave you one single rule while he was gone—don’t touch any of the equipment in the garage.

Did you listen? Absolutely not—you were enjoying yourself and you were doing pretty amazing. You played instruments a bit in your early high school years but stopped to focus on grades and your future career life.

However, that didn’t mean you forgot anything you learned or taught yourself.

Time was flying by fast—you switched from drums to guitar to keyboard and back to drums. You were enjoying yourself and teaching yourself more things fast but eventually, the fun had to come to an end as you heard his voice.

You could hear Debbie greeting him and pecking his face as he bickered for her to stop. Eventually, the question came up.

“Hey, did y/n leave?” M!Mark asked Debbie in a slightly disappointed tone. He was looking forward to seeing you when he got back.

“No, she’s in the-“Before Debbie could even finish you tried to hide yourself in the garage and ended up tripping over some of the instrument cords having yourself crash down.

“That fucking punk.” M!Mark didn’t even try to hear out Debbie before she could stop him from rushing to the garage to get you. He flicked on the garage lights and locked the door behind him as he prepared to find you.

You hid behind boxes and he could see you so clearly. However, if you wanted to act like that he would too. He opened the garage door before closing it back again to make you think he left.

“Thank g-“As soon as you lifted from behind the boxes he snatched you up quickly holding you tightly as he floated up as high as he could in the room.

“Thought I told you to NOT touch my stuff.” M!Mark said in a stern tone as his brows furrowed waiting for your response.

“I didn’t…” you said lying straight through your teeth as you felt yourself get a bit nervous. You were looking around at everything but him before he held your face to look at him.

M!Mark looked a bit annoyed but found it a bit amusing that you couldn’t lie to him for shit. “You’re such a bad liar it’s genuinely concerning.”

“Ok well—I didn’t use all of them…” you said with an awkward smile as he just sighed before descending back onto the ground and letting you go.

“I got bored of watching TV, besides you’d do it too if you were me.” You tried to plead your case as he knew you were right he just didn’t wanna hear it.

“You were probably just playing around on everything…” he said in a bugged tone as he started putting everything back in the exact spots he had them in.

As soon as he was done—he just dragged you out by the collar as he was taking you back to his room.

On the way back—you waved to Debbie as she smiled back at you before realizing her son was dragging you.

“Mark! That is not how you treat a person you love in the slightest.” She scolded him as he just grunted before picking you up and dusting you off.

“Thank you, Ms. G-“Before you could finish thanking her he snagged your hand up and finished taking you to his room.

You and Mark just stayed there in his room until you both eventually fell asleep. You couldn’t stay asleep for very long though—as you struggled to fight every urge in your body to not go back and use those instruments.

The tv was on 20, the fan was blowing on the fastest setting, and m! Mark was knocked out—snoring like a child.

You climbed out of bed as best as you could—closing the door behind you as you booked it to the garage.

“Just…just a quick 15 minutes.” You told yourself as you got back on the drums going as fast as you possibly could—you were having the time of your life.

That quick 15 turned into an hour—and sadly for you, this was usually the same hour your boyfriend got up to go get water.

He was disoriented and groggy—ready to go back to sleep until he heard those drums. Just because the garage had good sound padding so Debbie couldn’t hear the chaos didn’t mean M!Mark didn’t have super hearing.

He drank a glass before rushing to the garage and seeing you playing the drums. You didn’t even hear him come in you were having the time of your life playing.

“Y/N” he screamed your name as he came closer—you still couldn’t hear a damn word and kept playing.

“Y/N!” This time he snatched the drumsticks from your hands as he looked at you furiously.

“Hey, I was-“Before you could argue what you were doing—you realized you weren’t even supposed to be doing it.

“You really don’t listen…do you.” He was angry—not even wanting to hear what you had to say as he prepared to pick you up and scold you until next year.

“But wait! Before you yell or get all mad or something—you gotta admit I was playing good?” You asked in a nervous tone not wanting to set him off.

He was absolutely silent—he put his hand on his mouth before he responded to you.

“No, you played shitty.” M! Mark lied as he tried to stay mad at you but you honestly played pretty good.

“Ok well, if I played so shitty maybe teach me how to use your stuff so I won’t come back in here.” You replied as if you were trying to get yourself out of trouble and find a way to keep using all the equipment.

“How about no.” He said as he prepared to pick you up once again and bring you back to bed. He’d deal with you in the morning.

You got off the seat running around the garage from him as you shouted

“Ok! Just play one song with me! One and then I will never ever EVER touch your equipment again.” You kept running as best as you could

“Liar, you’re gonna touch it anyway.” M! Mark said in an annoyed tone as he was getting fed up.

“ONE SONG! AND IF I DO GOOD YOU LET ME USE YOUR EQUIPMENT SOMETIMES.” You shouted out as you were trying your best to get one more song in and not be caught up by him.

“One song.” He said in an exhausted tone as he was annoyed of chasing you and knew you weren’t gonna let up anytime soon.

You paused for a second to catch your breath—hands on your knees as you were panting for dear life.

“One-“ you said breathlessly as you raised one finger.

He just rolled his eyes before plugging his guitar in the amp and pushing the drums closer to it. One microphone was right in the middle of both instruments for you to share.

“C'mon, let’s get this over with.” He said as he snatched you up—basically tossing you back.

You readjusted yourself in the chair as he waited for you to pick a song to play. You picked the one you had been playing on the drums all day as he looked a bit displeased.

“Seriously…that one?”

“Yes, that one!” You said in a sure tone as you two got ready.

You were having fun playing with him. Occasional glances at each other shot from both your eyes as they always ended in smiles. Whenever it was time for just his solo part you’d always stop and stare at him.

You liked how he was always so focused and confident even if he barely knew the song. You were so busy gawking at him that you almost missed your part or came a second too late.

“Ya gotta stop staring and gawking or you’re gonna keep fucking up.” M!mark shouted over the music so you could hear him.

“I know—I’m trying.” You replied back before playing your part once again—you were just happy to even be playing with him.

“Yea I get it—it’s hard to not gawk and stare at me. I’m fucking amazing.” He said in an arrogant tone as you gave him a stern stare to cut it out before he stopped and went back to playing with you.

Eventually, the song finished as he smiled at you and you gave one right back. Before you could get up from the seat of the drums he spoke.

“Ehhh…let’s do one more.” M!Mark looked at you waiting for your answer.

“But you said that was the last one-“ you said in a confused tone but you weren’t too opposed to the idea.

“And now I’m saying we’re gonna do another one more.” M!Mark replied in a smug tone.

Before you could get back on drums this time he shoved the guitar in your hand and sat down with the drums.

“This time, you’re playing guitar—and I’m picking the song, menace.” M!Mark replied in a smug tone nudging you to hurry up and hold the guitar right to start the song. You got ready to play as he finally picked his song to start.

“Seriously? This one.”

“Yes this one!”

1 more song turned into 2

2 more songs turned into 4

4 more into 8

It was once 4 am and now it was 9 am. You two finally emerged from the garage looking a bit exhausted and sweaty but you had the time of your life’s playing. Debbie saw you two walk out of the garage looking the way you two did as she just smirked.

Mark saw her face and looked a bit embarrassed and annoyed.

“Not what you think mom…” M!Mark said in a bothered tone before he started rummaging through the fridge for milk to make cereal.

“Sure,” Debbie said with a chuckle as she just smiled at you before she left out the door. She had work for the day and now you two were alone once again.

You two sat quietly eating your cereal until Mark finally broke the silence.

“so…my day off is tomorrow and my band has a gig.”

You remember him telling you about it before so you nodded before speaking with a mouth full of cereal

“Sure I’ll go.” You said with a smile before he kept speaking

“Not what I was asking…anyway, I have a drummer who won’t be able to show up because he decided he wanted to get all sick. I was thinking…if you can ya know, stop gawking at me when I’m playing—maybe you could take his place and play in the-

You didn’t even waste a second—you replied so fast you almost choked on the milk in your cereal.

“Yes. Absolutely.”

He just looked at you with an amused face as he couldn’t wait—you clearly couldn’t either.

“Well…finish eating so we can go back to playing.” He said with a smirk before he tossed his dish in the sink—he was finished and was now (once again) just waiting for you.

[pineconepie]

Here's a 500 word commission finished! Still working on some other commissions, including two more Octavian commissions, so those will be posted in a few days, too! To everyone who's commissioned me, thank you for your patience!

Octavian hadn't intended to enjoy himself.

The trip was supposed to be simple: visit the tailor, order a few custom pieces, and return home without much fuss.

After all, he wants to get back to you as soon as possible. Never did he think, as a man who's been alive for hundreds of years, that one hour would feel like an eternity. But it does.

"Mr. Bauer! How're you doing? Been a few months since I last saw you," the tailor greets with a polite smile. She extends her hand and clasps it tightly around Octavian's wrist as a handshake. "You still look exactly the same. What are you, fifty-something? Gotta share your secret sometime!"

Octavian returns her smile with one of his own. "You flatter me," he hums, removing his glove. "I just came to get my clothing tailored, though I'm in bit of a rush. I hope you'll forgive me." He hands the woman the articles in question and she lays them across the counter, looking them over curiously. "I'll just be looking at the other clothing in the meantime."

He wanders towards the display cases, admiring all of the dresses and accessories displayed inside.

After a few minutes browsing, however, none seem suitable for you. None are cute enough.

The tailor calls over, catching Octavian's attention.

"These aren't your usual measurements. Finally not living alone anymore?" she asks.

He chuckles. "Those are for my child. I adopted them a few months ago," he replies cheerfully.

"Oh! Congratulations!"

"Yes, thank you. They're absolutely precious."

"That's so sweet of you! What's their name? How old are they?"

"(Y/n)," he answers fondly. "And they're practically still a baby." Maybe a lie, but in vampire years, it's technically the truth.

He doesn't find any fitting clothing for you, but he does find some of your happy and favorite colors, at least, for himself. He usually prefers darker shades of red, purple, or just black, but they remind him of you.

Even though he's come to trust you enough not to escape, he still wants to come across as friendly and non-threatening as possible.

His heart breaks whenever you flinch from him. Maybe if he wears the colors you like, you'll find him less intimidating. Perhaps that's a bit of a reach, but if there's a chance it'll make you feel safer, Octavian would do anything.

Besides, it isn't so bad wearing them. In fact, maybe he finds himself liking them more and more the longer he's around you. It's been decades since he allowed himself to indulge in things like that.

He checks his pocket watch and clicks his tongue. He should finish wrapping everything up.

"Deciding its time for a change from being dark and brooding?" she teases when he puts the new clothing on the counter. "Your new child must have given you a pep in your step. Normally I never see you smile this much. You must really love them." The tailor folds each piece meticulously, placing them in a box.

Yes. He loves you more than anything.

"How could I not?" he grins, paying with gold coins from his satchel. "They're my entire world." He gathers his newly bought things, and tips his hat. "Thank you very much, Ms. Crosby. When will my clothes be ready, you think?"

"Should be Sunday afternoon," she replies.

He nods. "Excellent. Have a wonderful day." With that, Octavian strides out of the shop with a slight bounce in his step.