#minification

[forlix]

𝐝𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞・b.c.

— incurable playboy turned doting boyfriend was a character development arc nobody saw coming for christopher bang, including (especially) his frat brothers.

words・2.8k pairing・frat president!chris x gn!reader genres・fluff, humor, hurt/comfort, college!au, fuckboy!chris, boys being boys, kissing, implied sex so mdni warnings・substance use, talk of past heartbreak

a/n・here is "nobody believes you're dating" w/chan, requested by none other than my @rachalixie for my 2k event !! anny, i hope u love this fic as much as i love u; thank you for allowing me to write something so self-indulgent <3

In the deafening throes of one of Phi Mu Alpha’s spring kickbacks, Minho finds Jeongin and Seungmin standing in motionless silence by the kitchen counter. Both boys are gaping at something with an intensity that dips egregiously into the realm of creepy. He moves to pour himself a shot.

“What the fuck are you people looking at?”

Seungmin prods a pointer finger in the relevant direction. It takes a few seconds of scanning the scene for Minho to find what he’s referring to. He digs a knuckle into his eye, instantly confused by what he’s seeing. Maybe the gaping is justified.

The windows and doors have all been thrown open to invite the balmy April weather into the foyer of the frathouse. There’s a large crowd of people huddled around a long, foldable table stationed before the stairs; Jaehyun clutches a ping-pong ball between his fingers, singular eye squinted shut as he takes aim. The number of remaining solo cups dwindles rapidly, as does the players’ sobriety.

Something—someone—is missing.

Not to say “beer pong virtuoso” was one of the reasons Chris was elected frat president, but you’d think the guy had a career path in basketball with how he’s given the entire Greek life community alcohol poisoning by courtesy of two or three plastic balls alone. Minho has never known him to miss a shot, let alone miss out on a game.

Today, however, the reigning champion is only spectating, seated above the ongoing match on one of the steps of the main staircase.

A beautiful stranger is sitting beside him, cheek pressed to his shoulder as you peer at the match through the bannister.

You say something inaudible. The laugh it earns from Chris is bright enough to pick up from a few streets down. He leans in to murmur something in return, and you slide your hand over his nape to pull his mouth onto yours, light blush crawling up and over your ears. The way Chris melts into you can only be described as familiar, his eyes slowly fluttering shut, finger hooking delicately beneath your chin, grin going lopsided as your lips part—

“That’s enough,” Minho hisses, tearing his eyes away with considerable effort. “Aren’t you ashamed? Just fucking ogling.”

Jeongin shakes his head, grinning. “It’s dinner and a show. We’d be idiots not to.”

By dinner, he must mean the gallon of chocolate milk he’s been drinking from for the last hour. He now holds out said gallon with the intent to cheers. Seungmin picks up the entire handle and does the same.

Minho sighs, clinks his glass against theirs, and they throw back their respective refreshments in unison.

“Anywho.” Jeongin swipes the back of his hand over his mouth before going on. “You guys know who that is?”

Minho resurfaces with a wince, relishing in the bitter aftermath, then motions for Seungmin to give the bottle back straightaway. He arrived to the function late and he’s not nearly as drunk as he’d like to be.

Seungmin obliges Minho only after another heady swig. “No clue. Probably just another fling, no?”

“Mmm,” Jeongin hums in assent. “It’s Chris we’re talking about, after all.”

"Agreed. Case closed.”

There’s an air of finality in Seungmin’s voice—but Minho isn’t so sure.

Perhaps because he has never noticed that Chris had dimples until now; or because you fold so naturally into Chris' side after your kiss ends, head nuzzling against the crook of his neck and hand seeking out his to hold in your lap; or, most likely, because Chris' eyes seem to return to you when he looks at you, as if his gaze drifting anywhere else is but a momentary departure from where it really belongs. As if he comes home every time you come into his line of vision.

Whatever the reason, the idea coalesces in Minho’s mind, even as inebriation begins to fall over his cognitive faculties like a curtain, that the boys have got it wrong.

Jeongin utters his name, jolting him out of his trance. There’s another shot lifted halfway to Minho’s lips that hasn’t budged in minutes. “Whatcha thinking about?”

Minho looks at Jeongin first, Seungmin next, then back at Chris and his stunning companion. He’s not inclined to answer the question in full, but he can in truth. A coy smile crosses his face.

“Threesome?”

Jeongin laughs hard enough to collapse onto the kitchen island. Seungmin drags a hand down his face. “Come on, man.”

In the corner of his eye, you’ve gone back to kissing again, slow and sweet and secretive. Chris' gentle hold on your jaw shields you from view but fails to hide his lovesick smile. Dimly, Minho thinks that maybe his friend has met his match.

Then, he takes four shots in rapid succession—and stops thinking altogether.

Christopher Bang’s love life is like a horror movie and romcom spliced together: a fiasco of a film to which his housemates have front row seats.

The frat’s upperclassmen live in sets of four-bed, two-bath suites comprising a small common space with a kitchen and a sitting area, sandwiched by bedrooms on either side. It is in that common space that Changbin, Hyunjin, and Jisung often see or hear Chris stumbling home after a night out, entangled with a different attractive stranger every time—so often, in fact, that they’ve come to believe that he’s deathly allergic to anything bigger than a one-and-done hookup.

They can’t judge. In part because they’d be throwing stones from glass houses, but also because the man’s penchant for empty physicality is far from unfounded. His past self gave pieces of his heart to the wrong people, contracted first-degree burns from the guileless warmth he sought out. Now, his version of “intimacy” is less a connotation of closeness than it is a self-contradiction, for it should be impossible for so much distance to remain between two people in a single bed.

Chris hasn’t vocalized any of this. Nor have his housemates discussed it with each other. The knowledge simply exists in the air between the four of them like something akin to taboo, dipping in and out of acknowledgement depending on the circumstance.

This might be the circumstance of all time.

At around 11:40 A.M. on a Saturday, three doors in the suite open at once. Hyunjin and Changbin aren’t coincidence—the latter is coercing the former to go to the gym again—but they lift their eyes to the opposite side of the living room, and the slice of milk bread dangling from Hyunjin’s lips very nearly takes a fatal fall. Changbin manages to snatch it up with an extended hand.

Chris has just emerged from his room as well. Your silhouette follows close behind, your mouth stretching into a yawn as you massage the sleep from your eyes. You’re sporting a mesh green sweater identical to one Chris owns. They find Chris' accessories more interesting than his clothes, though: two hickeys peeking out from beneath his jaw and the base of his neck.

Chris sees Hyunjin and Changbin right away, and his expression goes utterly blank, not unlike their faces as they watch you close his door meticulously. You turn around and gasp.

The four of you stare at each other for what feels like multiple business days. At least, Hyunjin, Changbin, and Chris stare at each other; your eyes dart between the men on the other side of the room and the man next to you, silently pleading for him to say something. He does not for a long while.

Then, he lunges for one of the throw pillows on the couch and flings it at Hyunjin like a shot put. It ricochets off his chest and lands on the floor rather anticlimactically.

“Distraction!” Chris yells anyways, grabbing your hand and tearing towards the exit, wild grin on his face. “Go, go, go!”

Your raucous laughter lingers even after you’ve been hauled away, accompanied by an unintelligible, breathless shout of something along the lines of my toothbrush—and then the front door clicks shut, and there are two.

Changbin and Hyunjin lock eyes, struggling to process what just happened. Hyunjin is the first to move, wandering hesitantly into the bathroom that Chris and Jisung share. Nothing about the place looks out of the ordinary.

“Well, shit,” Hyunjin says out loud.

That is, aside from the two toothbrushes slotted in the holder on Chris' side of the counter.

Something moves in the bathroom window, catching his attention. Hyunjin looks over just in time to spot you and Chris dart out onto the lawn two floors below. Chris has his arm draped over your shoulders, yours wrapped around his waist. Your smile is discernible all the way from here, and Hyunjin sees a perfect mirror of it on his friend’s face when Chris glances at the frathouse over his shoulder. 

Has he always had dimples?

Moments later, Changbin joins him in peering out the window. A high-pitched cackle erupts from the older boy’s lips. “Look at that idiot.”

Standing off to the left is a tiny, astonished Han Jisung, his arms full of groceries, jaw sitting squarely the grass and whites of his eyes on full display as he watches you and Chris stroll away.

Hyunjin laughs with his whole fucking body. Changbin whips out his phone and takes a picture.

When you finally breach the topic, it’s because you don’t think you can physically study for another minute—but also because, after multiple long months of fruitless sparring, your curiosity finally wins.

Your boyfriend is seated in your desk chair, feet kicked up onto your mattress with his laptop propped up on his thighs. His features have rearranged themselves into an expression of intense focus as he pores over his production homework. You can hear music blaring through his headphones from all the way here.

You uncross your legs from below you, scootch across your bed, and lift your hands to cradle his cheeks. He startles as if coming out of a trance, then begins to smile when he reads the words hi, Channie off your lips.

His headphones fall around his neck. He sets his laptop down onto your desk with a dull thunk. The next thing to drop is you when Chris seizes you by the waist and tackles you into the mattress. The somber atmosphere of your study session is shattered by your muted laughter and Chris pressing his lips to every inch of your exposed skin he can. He saves your mouth for last.

“Hey, beautiful,” he answers, but only after kissing the living daylights out of you, the syllables soft and silky with adoration. “Missed me?”

You drag your eyes from his brown irises with blown pupils to his sloping nose, from his disheveled dark locks to his cordate lips, so plush and warm against your own that you swear you still feel them there. You brush a hand over the back of his neck, your head now spinning so badly that you barely remember what you wanted to ask him.

“Always,” you say. “I was starting to feel jealous of your homework.”

He chuckles. “Shit, I’ll drop out of college right now, baby. Just say the word.”

“You’re perfect,” you hum.

“Says you,” he murmurs, nudging the tip of his nose against yours.

Your lips find each other’s again—needless to say, your study sessions aren’t known for their productivity. Some time passes before you come up for air. Even afterwards, Chris doesn’t let you go far, pulling you into his chest by the curve of your waist, nuzzling his cheek into your hairline. You only need to whisper for him to hear your question.

“Can I ask you something?”

“'Course,” he returns, and you’re close enough to sense him tighten with apprehension. “Everything okay?”

“Yes, don’t worry.” You print a kiss to the side of his neck for extra reassurance. “It’s just…I’ve been meaning to ask how your friends feel about me.”

He tightens with something else now: surprise, you’re guessing; you’re hoping. You hadn’t seriously considered that the answer could be negative, but it’s dawning on you now that the possibility of that isn’t zero.

“Where’s this coming from?” Chris inquires, his tone opaque.

You hesitate, mentally reviewing your interactions with your boyfriend’s social circle. Hyunjin and Jisung can’t make eye contact with you when they speak to you. Minho does nothing but make eye contact with you whether he’s speaking to you or not. Jeongin and Seungmin can maintain small talk for about ten seconds before they start looking like they’d rather be anywhere else. Changbin is the only one you’ve held a conversation with, and only because you were going up the same stairs at the same time and the alternative would have been mind-numbing silence.

What is the best way for you to say this?

“Well,” you begin, “I can’t help but notice that they act a little—when I’m around, they’re a bit, uh—”

“—crazy,” Chris offers. “Completely fucking bat-shit crazy.”

“Yes. Exactly that.”

Chris threads a hand through your hair, the comforting gesture doing nothing to assuage your worry. It seems there’s some truth behind your impressions. Your next words are tinged with a quiet sadness.

“I’m not imagining things, then?”

“No, angel,” he sighs. “But not for the reasons you think.”

A beat passes. Chris perceives your silence as a chance to backtrack, to opt out of this conversation if it’s one he’s not ready for. He would’ve leapt at the opportunity once.

But he realizes in that moment, with your voice gentle against his ears and your touch so doting upon his skin, how much has changed since he met you: from the color of the sky to the word home and everything in between, including his cynicism towards love and all the iterations of forever it holds. 

With that epiphany comes another, then another: he wants you to know why his friends are acting insane, wants you to know about him and his past and all the wounds of his you never know you healed, wants you to spend the rest of this forever with him.

His pointer finger dusts beneath your chin, a wordless request for you to look at him, and he nearly liquifies when you do and he finds entire constellations in your eyes. 

“It’s a lot,” he mumbles, though he suspects you know that already; he suspects you know about the other stuff, too. 

You bring your hand to the side of his face, bring your forehead to rest upon his. Your closeness washes over him like a low summer tide lapping over sandy shores, a soothing balm spreading over scorched flesh. 

“It’s you,” you breathe. “I will love it just the same.”

Chris' held breath comes out in shudders.

So this is warmth.

Minho and Felix are watching anime on the couch when a knock comes at their door, unfortunately during a pivotal moment of a pivotal episode. 

Minho hits pause with a ghastly groan. Felix laughs and rises to his feet, dashing into his room to grab the two silver necklaces he’ll be loaning out for the evening. “Coming!”

Outside, Chris is standing alone, hips and thighs accentuated by a pair of tight-fitting dress pants, sculpted chest and collarbones framed by a thin, cream-colored shirt with the top three buttons undone. Most of his hair has been pushed off his forehead, leaving a few locks free to fall over his right eyebrow. He’s rolling up his sleeves when Felix opens the door, veined forearms flexing as a result of the effort.

“Well?” He asks. Minho cranes his neck to look past Felix.

Both boys start to holler and whistle like excited macaques.

“What in the Calvin Klein is this?” Felix shouts, spinning Chris around by the shoulders. “You look insane, bro. Holy fuck.”

“What’s the occasion, young man?” Minho inadvertently sounds like a gruff uncle. “Where are you going dressed like that, huh?”

Chris' laugh comes easier nowadays. What’s more, it comes in a way that reaches the rest of him, that ends in a tiny, high squeak that you really have to look for in order to hear.

Felix and Minho can't help but replicate his smile. Those clothes look good on him, yes—but happiness looks better.

“You guys are silly,” Chris giggles. Dimples indent his cheeks as he accepts the necklaces from Felix. “Thanks, man. I’ll give ‘em back tomorrow.”

“No rush,” Felix replies, grinning. “Have fun, yeah?”

“We will.” Chris starts to retreat down the hallway, hands moving to clasp the jewelry around his neck, but not before he blows the both of them a kiss.

“Be back before ten!” Minho hollers; Chris laughs again, turns a corner, and disappears.

Felix closes the door. His smile falters fast. Minho has brought his face mere centimeters away, his expression thoroughly humorless.

“Tell me only the truth, Lee Yongbok,” he deadpans.

“O-okay—”

“Is Chris in a relationship?”

“—oh.” Felix frowns. “Well, yeah.”

Minho blanches. “How—how long?”

“One year, give or take? Anniversary’s today.”

Minho is stunned. Felix is stunned that Minho is stunned.

© 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐱 (est. 090323) · liked this work? please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending me an ask to let me know; or, read my other writing here. thanks so much for the support ♡

[xxgoldie]

lighter x reader, alcohol (lighter is drunk, nitro-fuel is alcoholic here), otherwise just pure fluff

thinking about lighter, stumbling up to you, the smell of nitro-fuel on his breath (and his shirt - he'd definitely spilled some on himself earlier, though with how unstable he was standing, you were hardly surprised). a bit of a party atmosphere had developed around steeltusk's bar tonight, and lighter had definitely had more than he should have. you had barely joined the gathering for a few minutes, relaxing a bit further from the bar, but as soon as he'd noticed you, he had made a (very wobbly) beeline for you.

"(Y/N)."

his hands went to your shoulder, using you to stabilise himself, even though his weight made you stumble a bit too.

"hi," you laughed, a rare sight to see the champion so discomposed, though he was looking into your eyes with a slightly nervewracking seriousness through those shades.

"we should get married."

it took you a couple beats to process his slurred words. heat rushed to your face, one you hoped, if someone noticed, you could blame on the one drink you'd had so far. you searched his face for the punchline, or any sort of elaboration. all you found was a similar searching - he was waiting for you to answer. he was almost pleading with his eyes, swaying a little from the alcohol - this was absurd.

"you are so drunk," was all you could muster, chuckling in disbelief. lighter collapsed against you, arms wrapping around your neck and head on your shoulder, and you swore you heard a very uncharacteristic whine leave his mouth.

"you don't want to marry me," he pouted - just how many drinks had burnice given him, that lighter lorenz, infamous red scarf of the sons of calydon, was pouting?

"hey, i didn't say that," you comforted him, instinctively petting his hair in a way he seemed to enjoy. and it wasn't a lie - it was something you had dreamed about several times, but... "i just feel like you've skipped a few steps here, you know? we're just friends, lighter. and you really are very drunk."

he picked himself up from your shoulder to look at you again, but he was so close this time, the tip of his nose barely an inch from yours, his full bodyweight still leaning on you. for the first time, you really realised the position the two of you were in, and so publicly, the crowded bar not far away. but you couldn't quite get yourself to focus on them, not when there was so little space between you, and his stupid handsome face took up your entire field of view. the musky scent of his cologne cut through the smell of nitro-fuel and it made your thoughts brain spin even more, so you waited for him to say something. you doubted you could come up with any more coherent thoughts.

"what's step one?" he said eventually. you frowned, not sure what he meant. "what?" "you said I skipped steps. what's step one?" "to marrying me??" "yeah."

once again, you had to pause to process. was this his weird, misguided, honestly really cute, way of confessing to you? there was no way - but there was a sincerity in his gaze that went past alcohol. the best answer would probably be 'ask me on a date when you're sober', but he was too pretty to be considering best answers, and your mouth moved faster than your brain did.

"probably this," you muttered, then pulled him forward by the scarf, closing the distance between you. even drunk, his reaction time was instantaneous - you were the one to initiate the kiss, but his hands were around your waist so quickly it surprised you, pulling you somehow even closer into him. it was clumsy but full of heat, and you could feel his mouth form a victorious grin against yours.

when you eventually pulled away, though, your gaze was immediately drawn away from his to the rest of the sons of calydon, who were whooping and cheering from the bar.

"yes! i told you it'd go well, lighter!" caesar called, shooting you a wink. Lighter only responded to her with a thumbs up, his head returning to rest on your shoulder again.

"did you tell him to do that?" you yelled back, head still reeling from the kiss.

"so what? neither of you were gonna take the leap sober," she replied, and you realised she wasn't behind his words - not intentionally, anyway.

"he proposed to me!"

a round of shocked laughter from the gang, except for lucy;

"he WHAT?"

i truly had no idea how to end this. but like. i love lighter so so much but i especially love him being dorky and down bad. wc: 757

[alchemistc]

"What're you doing over there?"

Buck glances up from his exploration of Tommy's side, lips following fingers up the line of the scar on his torso. "Planning out my next tattoo," he says, mouthing at the mottled flesh.

Tommy hums, one eye half open, arm thrown over his head, fingers dragging through Buck's too-long hair.

He hisses when Buck darts a tongue out. "Sweetheart, I am way too old for third rounds unless you want me to start popping pills."

Buck lets the skin go with a pleasant little pop. Stares a little more. Traces his fingers, again. "Apple blossoms," he says after a moment, and Tommy cranes his neck, both eyes open now.

"What -"

But Buck's already rolling away, tilting his head down, sizing out the area on the left side of his ribcage. He's aware that he and Tommy are having two different conversations, but he's down the rabbit hole now, too enamored by the idea forming. Buck shifts so that they're side to side, ribs flush, thumb and forefinger of his right hand reaching across to Tommy's scar to measure it.

"Evan," Tommy says, still questioning. And Buck is aware that the pace Tommy has been meeting him at is Autobahn levels of crazy. They're - it's been six months. Buck told him he loved him a month and half in and he's never been more sure of those words in his entire life. And there's a lot of people he loves unquestionably.

Buck sits, tilting enough so that Tommy doesn't have to continue to strain his neck to see what's going on. "Apple blossoms. Right here." A mirror of Tommy's scar, right below his heart, and - Tommy frowns, disbelieving, and then purses his lips, corners of his mouth twitching sideways, a sure sign that he's trying to keep a smile off his face. A hand darts out from under the duvet, palm stretching out for the wide swath of unmarked skin below Buck's pec, fingers spread wide wide wide. Tommy's voice is soft, intimate, still a little disbelieving.

"Yeah?"

If he could, Buck would prefer to just crack open his ribcage and tuck Tommy in there, keep him nestled in amongst the viscera. But a tattoo will do the job. "I don't have any color, yet," Buck admits, and Tommy's brow rises, something no doubt clever on the tip of his tongue. Buck waits for it, practically vibrating, but - Tommy just traces two fingers up and down the ridges of Buck's ribs.

"Evan," he repeats, fond, a little wobbly. The hand reaches up to shift over his birthmark, and Buck can't stop the smile from erupting on his face.

"That's - uh - a little less subtle," he teases, and Tommy grins, tugging at Buck's earlobe, a little too insistently to be anything but a request for a kiss. Buck obliges, lets them both get lost in it for a while. Eases himself up only when Tommy starts to flag, again, only gets as far as lifting his head before Tommy is shifting his fingers to the back of Buck's neck to hold him in place. Close like this, Buck can see the circle of green around Tommy's irises, the thickness of his lashes dashed across his cheek, the sharp jut of his cheekbones. That thing behind his eyes that always makes Buck feel like Tommy's never going to fall behind when Buck surges on ahead.

"I love you," Tommy tells him, and Buck knows that. He knows. He buries his face in Tommy's thick neck, curls a hand over Tommy's heart, feels the ridges of the scar pressing into his skin, subtle except for the way it feels a bit like a brand, burning into his side. "I think that ring you've been hiding in your dress shoes for two weeks will do, for me."

-----

Loosely inspired by this gorgeous gorgeous art.

[krakenartificer]

Leverage AU where Nate does go into the priesthood … but still ends up doing the same thing.

“Bless me, father, for I have sinned.”

“Go on.”

“I knocked over a liquor store.”

“And why did you do that?”

“Well my mom’s sick. We can’t afford the pain medication, and I know alcohol is a bad pain reliever, but I don’t know how to break into a pharmacy, so …”

“OK, my son, what we’re going to do is, we’re going to get your mom her medicine. But I’m going to need your help. I need you to call the health insurance company, and tell them —“

“Is… is this my penance?”

“Uh yeah. Sure. Penance. Yeah.”

[streetsweepershenanigans]

Out of all the '86 flyboys who became like uncles to little Bradley, it wasn't Mav, it wasn't Slider, it wasn't even Wolf or Wood- who taught him his first swear word, it was Ice He'd done it with his nieces and nephews and little cousins before, so why would Bradley be any different? Of course, he figured one of the others would have beat him to it, but the shocked and speechless look on Maverick's face told him otherwise.

When no one had been looking, he'd quietly beckoned Bradley over with a "Hey, baby Goose, com'ere." When Bradley's little voice had proudly chirped "fuck" over the dinner table, Maverick had immediately choked on his food and dropped his fork while Carole immediately burst out in laughter so contagious, Ice couldn't help but catch on. Mav's pale face and shocked expression only making the situation funnier.

"Carol, I swear- I didn't- I never-" Maverick rushed to defend himself.

"Oh honey, I know. And I know I didn't, which means," Carol turned on Ice then, and damn. He didn't think of that. He figured Maverick would've already pulled the stunt. "Mr. Goody two-shoes, Thomas 'Iceman' Kazansky, is the first person to teach my son a swear word." Carol cackled while pointing and accusing finger at him.

"Ice-" Maverick implored in disbelief.

"Well, I figured-" Ice gestured over to Maverick while struggling to conceal his grin.

The conversation turned from their to all three adult coaching little Bradley on how, yes- that is a word, and no, it's not a very nice one that should ever be used, all while desperately trying to suppress their laughter.

However it was Ice who would suffer the unforseen consequences of his little prank, as over the years, neither Maverick nor Bradley- now proudly Rooster, would ever let him forget that it was Admiral Thomas "Iceman" Kazansky, Commander of the Pacific Fleet who had taught him his first swear word.

[noyzinerd]

Derek's Journey Into House Husbandry

Listen, Derek's inheritance was $117 million, same as Peter's. Derek's childhood was spent in a multimillion dollar mansion, with his multimillion dollar family, and he's had an affinity for expensive muscle cars. Then, all the places he lived in after the fire were decrepit safety hazards.

What I'm saying is this boy was a pampered little rich kid for most of his life before living as a hobo for the rest of it.

I like to think that for the first few months of Stiles and Derek living together, Stiles learns very quickly that Derek isn't exactly well-acquainted with "middle-class living".

Just imagine:

When Stiles gets home from work, he asks if Derek could start boiling two cups of water so that Stiles can make rice for dinner after he takes a shower. To which, Derek says "Um...sure."

However, once Stiles finishes and comes to the kitchen, he's met with this:

So, okay, that's on Stiles. Sure, he noticed Derek ordered food a lot and ate out constantly, but it had never occurred to him that he was literally living on takeout because he could afford to. The only reason he wasn't right now was because Stiles had cracked down on takeout (Stiles still had to stay relatively healthy for his job, afterall).

Unfortunately for Stiles, this isn't a one off.

When it's time to tidy up the place a little bit, Stiles tells Derek that he'll vacuum the carpet if Derek will sweep the hardwood.

Unbeknownst to Stiles, Derek hasn't ever needed to sweep before. So, about a half hour later, Stiles checks in, and Derek is just-

sweeping side-to-side, kicking up dust in the air and just spreading it to different areas of the room like a cartoon character because he doesn't know that you're supposed to use the broom to gather the dust into a centralized area (the dust pan) to be thrown away.

But Stiles doesn't have it in him to find it anything other than endearing. It's hard not to when Derek is so fucking earnest. He wants to be helpful. He wants to know how to take care of a house of his very own. Fortunately, Derek's eager to learn and a very quick study.

He learns that dish soap does NOT go in the dishwasher. He learns about the difference between laundry detergent and fabric softener, about emptying the lint trap, about changing the A/C filter, about ironing, about all the vacuum attachments and how to change the bag.

And every time Derek succeeds a little bit at adulting, Stiles sees this spark of joy and sense of accomplishment that is absolutely adorable.

It's not long before Derek takes to being a house husband like a fish to water. Which, honestly? Suits him. It isn't unusual nowadays to find Derek baking bread and watching telenovelas while Stiles is at work, or comparing cantaloupes at the grocery store in a cable knit cardigan and sweat pants.

Watching Derek do a little fist pump to himself every time he earns gas points on his rewards card at the grocery store makes Stiles want to melt into the floor.

[boypied]

HI KING

So uhm Eric Dane 🥰

Eric’s exercising in his home gym. His boyfriend (the reader) checks in to deliver some water, only to be caught up in the sight of his sweaty, worked-up boyfriend.

Eric sits up from his bench press, having the reader sit in his lap. He quickly strips them both of their shirts, before putting his (Eric’s) onto the reader.

Ahem ahem sweat and musk kink right there

After decreeing that the reader looks cute wearing his (sweat-soaked) clothes, he opts to carry him to ✨bed✨

You only went in there to deliver your boyfriend some water while he was working out, just in case he got thirsty, you know. But you couldn't take your eyes off your very own McSteamy. The way sweat drips down his biceps is making you go feral, he kept taking deep breaths, You walked over to him to get a closer look to save in your spank bank for later.

Eric smirks as he watches how flustered you are getting just watching him working out, so he pulls you onto his lap. Your eyes widen in shock as he tears your shirt off your body, revealing your smooth chest to him. He pulls his sweat soaked vest off his body revealing a glorious sight of his smooth yet extremely muscular body.

You lean down and begin to lap up all of his sweat, breathing in the musky scent from his hairy armpits. "Fuck" you moan out as you taste and sniff his glorious pits causing Eric to let out a dirty little chuckle as he squeezes your ass gently. You scoop up his vest from the floor, and you pull it onto your body feeling his sweat cling to your body. Just by wearing his sweat soaked and smelling vest got your cock harder then ever.

"Fuck this" Eric groans out as he feels your hard cock press against his abs as he lays against the bench press. Eric scoops you up and carries you to the bedroom. He throws you on the bed and rips your joggers off, revealing your hole. He presses his hard tip against your hole and thrusts inside of you, his grips on your hips tightening.

Eric pumps into you like a you're a fleshlight, treating you like a dirty slut as he jerks you off while fucking you rough. It doesn't take long for you both to reach the ultimate climax as you cum at the same time, you hole tightens around his cock as he pumps his load inside you painting your walls white. "I love you McSteamy" you say to him in a jokey way causing him to chuckle and gently slap your ass.

[mortal-kingss]

“I guess the Corruption likes you as a moth. I think it’s fitting. Do you know what a moth is to a spider, Jon?”

“You know I don’t.” His back is to Martin, and he can feel another set of hands creep to his waist.

“Prey.” Martin whispers into his ear, taking his hands as he laughs softly.

—

HELLO!!! i made a fic for this piece, its an au!!! please check it out, i spent a long time working on it i hope u enjoy it <3 https://archiveofourown.org/works/49448209

[rabiessnail]

please somebody write a story where greg and mycroft are married but whilst on an arrest greg gets injured & put in a medical coma to keep him safe

when he wakes up mycroft is beside him--the doctors said gregs memory would be temporarly gone whilst he recovered but now greg wont stop hitting on mycroft and its getting to the stage were its increasingly difficult to keep a straight face when talking about medication

"owch hey mister cute umbrella can u move the pillow abit:)??"

*mycroft fixes pillow inches away from gregs face*

greg: *whistles* "i'd kiss u so hard right now if i didn't have six broken ribs, a punctured lung + a fractured hip."

myc : gregory your parents are in the room

--

mycroft: ah- the doctors have given me some more pills, these ones are a bit large so hopefully you wont have much trouble swallowing them"

greg: *takes a look* nah its fine im good a swallowing....uhhh big things *wiggles eyebrows half asleep* geddit

mycroft: gregory MY parents are in the room

[mrsjellymunson]

⏱ Time Me ⏱

Written for the @steddiemicrofic December prompt ‘time’ | WC target: 485 | Rating: E 🔞 MDNI NSFW | CW: Smoking weed, allusions to other drugs, oral sex, a little bit of longing? | Tags: Pre-S4, enemies to enemies-with-benefits?

“Hey, King Steve. Watcha doin’?”

Eddie yells sarcastically towards the sports field on his way to his spot in the woods, watching Steve Harrington. He’s running up and down the worn-out track, checking his probably-much-fancier-than-Eddie’s digital watch every time he stops.

Steve punches a button and frowns, muttering a goddamnit before turning to face the least athletic-looking person he’s ever met.

“Just trying to improve my times, break my own record.”

Bitingly, he adds,

“Not that you’d know anything about self-improvement, freak.”

Eddie blows a derisory raspberry with his lips, lifts his arm and shakes his lunchbox.

“Well, if you’re interested I’ve got some things in here that might help.”

Steve responds,

“No thanks, I’m against artificial enhancement. And I don’t think a blunt’ll make me run any faster either. Most likely the opposite.”

Eddie retorts, sardonically,

“Maybe not, but I sure know a thing or two about post-game relaxation. You’ve gotta balance your training, Steve.”

He smirks, concluding,

“It might make you care a little less about your timings, too.”

Eddie cackles as he wanders off between the trees, leaving Steve to watch his retreating form with incredulity, and a little fascination, on his face.

That first time was coincidental. Steve, intrigued, followed Eddie into the woods, and they shared one of Eddie’s pre-rolls. Steve’s sprint times did indeed slip from his mind, and they talked and laughed more than either’d anticipated. Perhaps they’d leaned in and bumped shoulders a little too often. Perhaps Steve also spent a little too long staring at Eddie’s lips. Perhaps Eddie’d liked it a little too much…

Now, Steve finds out when Eddie’s going to be in his spot, and then takes some private track time exactly then. To work on his sprint, or whatever.

Moments after his battered lunchbox clatters against the old table, Eddie’s on his knees in the dirt, his own cock in his hand. Steve, with his head thrown back and arms spread across the edge of the tabletop, groans as his sweaty shorts are pulled aside and his long cock fills Eddie’s mouth and starts to nudge the back of his throat.

Eddie’s already taken it as a personal challenge to see how fast he can make Steve cum. Now he’s worked out what gets him going, it’s become surprisingly easy. Self-improvement, right?

But today, instead of a quick blowie in the woods, he wants Steve to stay a bit longer. Maybe agree to do this somewhere a little nicer, perhaps even somewhere indoors. He pulls off of Steve with a wet smack, continuing to fondle his balls and languidly stroke his own dick with his other hand.

Confused, Steve’s head drops forward, and their eyes connect. Smiling salaciously, Eddie murmurs,

“So, Stevie, right now I don't want you to finish in record time. How about we see if we can set another record? Today, I wanna see how long you can last…”

Thanks so much for reading!

You can find more Eddie and Steddie in my masterlist, and my general taglist is open, just ask 🖤

Taggidy-waggidy: @joejoequinnquinn @jamdoughnutmagician @guiltyasquinn @madaboutmunson @airen256 @sunshinepeachx @the-unforgivenn @skrzydlak @comeonatmebruh @jamiecb66 @80s-addict @abellmunsonmovie @definitionwanderlust @sheneedsrocknroll92 @munson-blurbs @wonderlanddreamer @daisy-munson @maedesculpaeusoubi @kurdtbean @mediocredreams @in2tswft @micheledawn1975 @littlebebebunny @12thatsanumber @alastorssimp @the-baby-angel @eddie-is-a-god @wolfqueenxxx @losingmygrasponreality @richter-raccoon @1deverland @evileyeandthecattywhumps

[betweenlands]

Jimmy Solidarity's Guide To Dying First

Congratulations and/or sorry that happened! Dying first in a series is always really rough, and people are probably going to feel bad they ended your series early. Unless you're me. They don't feel bad about killing ME off first, which is probably why I beef it a lot.

Anyway, here's some specific ways you might have your death invalidated or made about me:

Are you new to this series? Oh my god I am so sorry. The Watchers are about to be SO weird about you and I honestly hope I die next so I can take some of the heat off you.

Did we die in the same incident? Expect the Watchers to say I died first anyway.

Are you Lizzie? Expect the Watchers to say it's because of our ~sibling bond~.

Are you Scott or Tango? Expect the Watchers to make up something about our whirlwind romance dooming us both.

Were you TEAMED with Scott or Tango? See above, except it's actually because my "curse" is super contagious or something.

Were you teamed with ME? See previous two points.

Are you Pearl or Grian? Expect the Watchers to say it was totally, definitely because of wanting to ensure the same person didn't win twice, even at the cost of the canary curse being broken.

Are you Martyn? Same as above but also -- Lol. Nerd.

What else should you expect?

You're going to start growing feathers. Sorry! The Watchers are going to try to "canary-code" you too, so they don't have to stop being weird about me.

The Watchers loooove to take credit for things that were barely even them. If anything happened involving the two of us for five or more seconds, it's a sign that I "cursed" you to die first.

If you're really lucky, the Watchers will make up some nonsense about toxic fumes or something that ensures I still get the brunt of their weirdness.

See you soon, probably, because for some reason Martyn has decided to cater directly to the Watchers and make it his sole goal in life to ensure I permadie as soon as humanly possible!

Love or whatever, Jimmy Solidarity

[forlix]

𝘀𝘂𝗯𝘁𝗲𝘅𝘁・l.f.

— in which you forget that your hot housemate follows you on twitter.

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱𝘀・1.1k 𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴・roommate!felix x gn!streamer!reader 𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲𝘀・fluff, flirting, kind of an smau, implied friends to lovers, humor if u count jeongin being a piece of shit

𝗮/𝗻・saw this tweet the other day and it was so painfully lix coded that i knew i had to write something asap. contains a tiny bit of gaming jargon but is hopefully comprehensible. ENJOY ♡

y/n ꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱₊˚⊹ @ y/nxx

if someone brings you fresh cut fruit to your table when you're gaming, they either like LIKE you or it's your mom

11:23 A.M.・Oct. 2023・220.2K Views

bokkie 🐣 liked your post.

“My tweet?”

You read aloud the newest text in your chatroom, and your face brightens when you remember the one in question.

“Oh, about the fruit—no, it’s so true though. And I love my mom, don't get me wrong, but I have an inkling she did it to guilt trip me." You change your posture and adopt your best motherly tone of voice. "‘This is your tenth consecutive hour wasting your young adulthood in front of that damn screen. I am now going to hand deliver apple slices straight to your mouth.’ That kind of vibe, y'know?"

A slew of messages follows your anecdote, but it is a comment from one of your moderators that catches your eye first:

je0ng1n: what about the other option tho 👀

You groan at the sight of his username. “Man, why are you always here? Don't you have a job?"

je0ng1n: i’m on break je0ng1n: taking a dump je0ng1n: ungrateful bitch

You brandish a middle finger to the camera. “Hope the dump sucks."

je0ng1n: HEY je0ng1n: don’t even joke about that :(

An involuntary cackle precedes your next words. “If you’re actually wondering, though, the only person who’s brought me fruit while I’m playing video games is indeed my mother. Heartbreaking, I know.”

At this, the steady flow of messages morphs into a gallery of depressed cat emoticons; your audience never fails to impress you with their way with words.

“But if someone other than your disappointed parent is bringing you fruit,” you go on, “they might as well get on one knee in the process, honestly. That's such an adorable, loving thing to do.”

Suddenly, the words MATCH FOUND splash across your monitor, and you move your cursor to accept the game invite—only to be met with a pop-up window and a familiar error sound that grates on your ears like screeching tires.

You know how this story ends: the lights in your mouse go dark, and you look on in dejected silence.

je0ng1n: LMFAOOOOO je0ng1n: bro’s mouse definitely just exploded again

“You guessed it," you sigh. “Hang tight for a sec, guys."

Half an hour ago, you could’ve sworn you heard sneakers being kicked off, a set of keys falling against plastic. Now, you pull one side of your headphones off and roll your chair a few feet backward, calling through your half-open door: “Lix, are you home?”

You pick up on a soft clunk that sounds like metal hitting wood—the cutting board, maybe?—and then your housemate's low, accented answer bounces off the walls of your shared hallway.

“Yeah, you alright?”

“The mouse,” you say helplessly.

“Ah.” It’s not the first time you’ve summoned him for this. “Be right there.”

A few seconds later, you remember to tack on a hurried disclaimer: “I’m live, by the way!”

“I know.”

This brings a bashful smile to your face, though the expression quickly turns to one of pure dismay when you return to your desk and witness the disastrous state of your chat.

Felix has become a regular guest on your stream by now, always popping in to show you a TikTok or ask for your opinion on a new pair of jeans or simply give your camera an awkward wave—but he may as well own your channel with how completely and unequivocally he has captured the hearts of your viewers. They’re convinced he’s the sexiest person to ever grace the earth, with his chiseled features and coffee-colored eyes; with a grin that could set entire estates on fire and a voice that could scrape the nadir of the Grand Canyon.

Do you agree? Absolutely.

Do you have any intention of voicing this sentiment, so long as you’re splitting rent with him? Absolutely the hell not.

Another of Jeongin’s messages—GET ME HIS NUMBER OR I GET VIOLENT—inspires you to minimize the stream window before Felix gets here. It’s for the best.

A few moments later, the door opens, and the air shifts inside your room. A hand comes to rest on the top of your head; a familiar silhouette appears in your periphery. There is a fond grin plastered across your face and a bright greeting sitting readily on the tip of your tongue.

But then, Felix places a plate of freshly cut fruit in the empty space to the left of your keyboard—here, he hums, the sound falling against the shell of your ear like a drop of melted chocolate. And the gears of your brain grind to a complete stop.

There is no further acknowledgment; no supplementary explanation for what he's just done. He simply picks up your mouse and gets to work.

The words of your tweet swim dizzyingly before your eyes, not unlike those halos of stars and birds that revolve around disoriented cartoon characters. And you’re suddenly, achingly aware of your roommate's arm nudging against yours as he tinkers away; of the aromas of vanilla and laundry detergent that always come with his proximity; of the heat that’s risen to your face, and the plethora of questions that have surfaced to your mind.

A soft huff of laughter follows a gentle utterance of your name, and you snap out of your trance. Felix’s eyes are glinting with amusement when you meet them.

“It’s been recalibrated,” he says, handing back your mouse. “Just give it a few minutes.”

Your fingertips brush over his palm when you accept the object, and even this blink of contact has your heart performing an elaborate hopscotch routine across the plane of your chest.

It’s either your mom, or…

“Thank you,” you mumble, finally retrieving your larynx from the bottom of the Atlantic.

“Anytime,” Felix returns, and you know he means it. “You need a duo, by the way?"

“Yes, please.”

He gives you a warm smile at this, and there’s a hint of something else—something new—in the curve of his lips. “Give me two.” And he’s gone as quickly as he'd come.

You will never know how Felix slips his phone out of his pocket the second he emerges from your room, his pulse hounding his ears as he turns a nervous gaze upon his screen.

There is now a supersonic blur of messages saturating your chatroom, a colorful cacophony of moving emotes and capital letters, but he is focused wholly on the person in front of the camera and how you slowly lift a hand to your mouth, deathly silent despite your every viewer demanding your comment on the matter, your sanguine cheeks visible even through the gaps of your fingers.

That is all he needs to know.

Felix sinks into the leather of his gaming chair and bends to power on his computer. Only after a deep breath blows past his lips does his smile start to stretch into a grin, every bit as embarrassed as it is relieved.

je0ng1n: no way je0ng1n: no fucking way je0ng1n: my heart fluttered je0ng1n: wtf je0ng1n: how’d you pull HIM??

y/nxx has removed je0ng1n as a moderator of this channel.

𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸? please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending me an ask to let me know; or, read my other works here. thanks so much for the support ♡

© 𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘅 (est. 090323) · all works are pieces of original writing and all characters and relationships are purely fictional. please do not repost or reuse for any reason.

[xxgoldie]

kinich x reader, modern au, gamer!kinich, gn!reader, established relationship, probably ooc kinich or he's just that down bad for u

thinking about kinich, who is reminded of your wedding while chatting to his gaming buddies between matches, and doesn't understant the outcry when he finishes his anecdote.

"you're MARRIED!?!?"

the exclamation rang so loudly through his headset that the sound became warped.

"yeah? I have been for a while."

"what the fuck dude. since fucking when??"

"like nearly three years now? our anniversary's next month- have I seriously not mentioned this?"

"no!! I mean, I knew about (Y/N), but you've never mentioned being married!"

the revelation struck kinich into silence. sure, it wasn't the kind of group that regularly talked about their personal life, but he must have mentioned being married to you - he had been gaming with these people since barely after your wedding. he spoke of you often enough, albeit in passing.

...though, now he thought about it, he did usually just refer to you by name. and it had taken him a little while to break out of the habit of calling you his partner, so maybe that's what he had introduced you as. shit, had he really not told them you were married?

"i- you know what, let me turn on my camera. (Y/N)!"

soft footsteps, and then you poked your head into the bedroom.

"what's up, kin?"

"c'mere," he beckoned, arm snaking around your waist when you reached his chair. you noticed the camera was on, and gave a shy wave, never having shown your face to his online friends before, "so, uhh. apparently i never told them we're married."

you could hear the guffaws and teasing through the headset, no doubt laughing about how he's gonna be in the doghouse for this one. but once his sheepish words finally processed in your mind, all you could do was look at him and laugh, first in disbelief before it turned into full, chest-aching laughter.

"you what??" you managed, resting your forehead in his hair as you continued to laugh, "how on earth did you manage that?"

"i honestly don't know," he responded, beginning to laugh with you. in his ear, his teammates were chuckling about how he was lucky to have such a forgiving spouse, but he was more focused on your body pressed against his side and your infectious laugh as you extracted yourself from his hair to look down at him with a bemused smile. he just knew he was never going to hear the end of this, but that adoring gleam in your eyes had him as besotted as he had been approximately two years and eleven months ago.

"well, guys," you turned to face his grainy camera, your face next to kinich's to speak into his mic. you held your hand up, proudly flashing your wedding band, "believe it or not, the rumours are true. kinich is my husband."

you didn't catch the lovestruck look he was sending you, but through his headset, you just about caught someone calling him a simp.

modern au gamer kinich always has my heart. wc: 493

[do-androids-dream-ao3acc]

Happy New Year, BuckTommy nation...

... have a little treat!

"First coffee of the new year," Evan says with a smile as he lazily spreads his whole body against the bed frame. 

The smile spreads across his whole face, etching a hollow in his birthmark, and then – it must be magic – takes a leap onto Tommy's features. He’s standing beside the bed, coffee in hand; their fingers touch lightly as Evan takes the cup, a tiny jolt of electricity, but not because of the lack of humidity. There’s no lack of moisture and friction between them, not at all.

“Right,” Tommy replies nonchalantly, his mind wandering over to Buck's naked torso, up and down the tattoos, and he thinks sweet, the coffee is sweet, like you. It’s cheesy, sure, but what else is he supposed to think?

What is he supposed to think after spending the night on sweaty sheets with this guy, this power plant of a body; heat spreading from the inside that cannot be extinguished, not even by a firefighter. That’s a funny thought. 

Evan clutches the cup with both hands as if he were cold, while Tommy is still standing there, heat between his thighs he shouldn’t be capable of, not after this night. Memory fragments: hands clawing at each other, teeth digging into his shoulder, the slippery feeling of sweaty thighs rubbing against each other. But also: a curl tickling his collarbone, Evans' head a familiar weight in the crook of his arm. A hand holding his own in a tight, confident grip. Lips pressed to his neck, a vibrating voice telling stories for hours. 

There's more to this, more honesty, even more intimacy. As if they’d peeled each other of their outer shell to reveal a core, raw and unpolished, but ready for each other. 

Tommy's own cup becomes heavy in his hand, as if it were filled not with coffee but with possibilities. Almost somnambulantly, he slips back into bed, next to Evan, who’s still smiling and sucking the steam out of his cup as if the product from Tommy's Italian coffee machine were just another intoxicant.

“Happy New Year,” says Evan, not for the first time today. 

They clink their cups, just like they did a few hours ago with that expensive champagne. Nothing tastes as good as Evan, Tommy thinks, and maybe, maybe that sparkle in Evan’s eyes means the same. 

Words tumble out of Tommy's mouth, “I want this year and all the following years with you.”

Was that too much? It's a risk Tommy is willing to take now. Or maybe it’s no risk at all, because Evans's features seem to melt at the sound of those words. 

“I want that too. It's going to be an amazing year.”

Every year is gonna be amazing with you, Tommy thinks, his lips still hot from the coffee – or maybe more - as he leans over to kiss Evan’s birthmark. 

[fanaticsnail]

snail! my favorite writer, my idol, i have a request.

i am sick at the moment (it's not bad but it's not great) and i had a thought: the one piece men caring for their sick partner.

honestly just thought it would be cute and fluffy. and since you (in my humble opinion) are the best writer, would you consider writing this little drabble, this little writing exercise?

like it could be the straw hats or it could be cross guild, take your pick.

sincerely,

your #1 fan :)

Masterlist here

Pulling a Galadriel, my dear sweetheart: “I asked her for one hair from her golden head… and she gave me three.” And three, my dear, you shall have. Sending my love and desire for a swift recovery for you @bonedaddi3!

Warnings: fluff, not established relationship, sick!reader, gn reader, kissing. Word count: 200+ per character (Zoro, Sanji, Mihawk)

Get Well Soon

As your illness spreads through your body, you realize your every fiber is aching with each small movement. Your performance is dropping, your energy is dwindling. The overwhelming desire to sleep where you stand has you cathartic and longing for its quick slumber to claim you in its restful embrace.

Zoro

From his reclined position lying on the deck of the going merry, his skin basking like a reptile under the heat of the glowing sun; he peeked through the smallest crack of his eyelids to examine you. Huffing out a breath of frustration, he growls as he immediately springs up to his feet and charges at you. As he drew himself as close to you as he could without touching you, narrowing his eyes and furrowing his brows at you. 

Exhausted, you forced your chin upwards and looked at the first-mate through half-hooded eyes and attempted a lazy smile at him. This seemed to force his scowl deeper, his eyes more intense as he crouched down and immediately grasped the back of your knees to thrust you over his shoulder and effortlessly carry you below decks. 

“Zoro! What are you doing?” you shrieked, huffing as the world began to swirl further in your grogginess. He grunts in response, using his heavy boots to kick his way through doors rather than to utilize his free hand.

As you witnessed the light of the sun begin to become shielded by the hallway’s door, you physically slumped against the wide and muscular shoulders of the swordsman. After several further turns and doors open, you find yourself being unceremoniously thrown onto the plush mattress of your bed. As soon as your back meets with the duvet, you begin to hastily rise up onto your elbows behind you - only to find yourself met with the splayed fingertips and open palm pushing you back onto the bed. 

“Sleep,” he growled at you, his frown continuing to hold firm and unwavering on his face. 

“But I-,” you began, your words being removed from your lips by another hard shove onto the mattress and another command from the first mate. 

“-Sleep,” he again commanded, holding his hand firmly atop your chest and giving you on last little shove to hold you in place before removing his hand from your chest and stomping his heavy footsteps over to the door. He halted one final time, fingers almost brushing with the door handle before he turned back around and briskly walked back over to you. 

Hesitantly, he stooped low and pressed his chapped lips atop your burning forehead. This gentle gesture from the first-mate had your eyes widening and heart pounding within your chest, his kiss feeling completely foreign but not unwelcome. As he drew his lips away from your head, his cheeks tinted with a small hue of pink, he uttered quietly.

“Get well soon.”

Sanji

As if sensing your illness before you had even truly allowed it to embrace you yourself, two strong arms immediately wove themselves around your shoulders with a heavy, weighted blanket. You couldn’t process the hastiness of his guidance, opting to wordlessly allow him to lead you wherever he decided to take you.

Circling your body in a cocoon, the chef of the going merry chaperoned you within his embrace into the kitchen and shepherded your body into the corner booth atop the comfortable pew. He looked over your face without his gaze meeting your eyes, adjusting the heavy duvet to circle around you and join at the front with ease. He crouched down and removed your shoes, tucking them beneath the suspended dining table and looking into your eyes. 

“Comfortable, dear?” He asked you, a warm smile adorning his lips as he stared his gray eyes deeply into your own. That small question is what finally broke you, the innocence in his face as he humbled himself before you had your heart soaring in appreciation. You allowed yourself a small nod to bob your head in confirmation. Sanji chuckled, placed a small, chaste kiss atop your knee and rose from his crouch towards the sink. 

Pouring burning water from the tap, he began soaping up his hands before retrieving a stainless-steel knife from his collection and sharpening rod. He began dragging the knife to and fro to ensure its peak condition twirling the blade between his fingers once he had finished.

“I’m going to make you something,” he declared, walking over to the fridge and flashing you a winning smile, “All you need to do is sit there, look pretty,” he shot you a small wink, “And get well soon.”

Mihawk

“Again,” he barked, watching as you fought through the pain to swing your claymore against the target and meet the board with a less than stellar connection. Mihawk’s displeasure was written all over his face, his eyes narrow and lips curled into a deep scowl.

“Run the drill again,” he commanded you, rising to his feet and stalking slowly to approach you. You huffed out a frustrated breath, your body screaming at you to stop forcing it to perform; but the overwhelming desire to please your mentor by serving him with your skill drove you on. 

His eyes scanned you, noticing your slight change in hue. The amount of sweat pouring from your temple down your chin didn’t seem to be in reaction to the drill you were running, but rather your lethargy in illness. But he refused to allow you the luxury of commanding you to stop. 

“My lord,” you panted, dropping the tip of the blade to the floor and keeling over in pain at your body’s inability to continue fighting, “My lord, I’m sorry. I’m letting you down. I just want to make you proud-.”

“-There is nothing you could ever do to make me less proud of you,” he sliced through your words and immediately found himself at your side, “And the greatest thing you can do when fighting an unwinnable battle is to ask for help.” He wove himself beneath your right arm, hoisting you up by hooking his right arm around your knees and cradling you into his chest with his left. 

As he raised you within his arms, you couldn’t help but lace your arms around his neck and shoulders as he carried you back towards the gloomy castle of Kuraigana. You placed your forehead against the skin of his bare shoulder, almost causing a small flinch at the elevated temperature from your mentor.

“Thank you,” you whispered into his flesh, closing your eyes as he carried you and beginning to fall into a slumber. Mihawk checked over you, watching as your breathing steadied as the final wave of exhaustion crashed against you and toppled you into bliss. 

“Allow me the luxury of nursing you back to health,” he whispered against your hairline, placing his lips gently atop your fallen strands, “I need you to get well soon, and I will do anything in my power to ensure you’re returned to your prime once more.”

Mini, apprehensive, tag list: @gingernut1314 @since-im-already-here @writingmysanity @feral-artistry @sordidmusings