#my god it’s like fuck this day entirely

[urdreamgirls-dreamgirl]

“vickie!” eddie practically screams from his kitchen, rage coursing through him as he stares down at the tabloids spread out in front of him on the counter. “get in here! now!”

eddie’s had an issue with his rage lately. well. he’s had an issue with a lot of things, since he got famous, really. but that’s not his problem right now.

his problem is he’s looking down at image after image of himself on the covers of people and us weekly and entertainment tonight being dragged out of last night’s night club by his own security team with blood pouring from his nose. he looks angry. he looks crazed.

just then, a stranger walks into his kitchen.

“who the fuck are you?” he blurts out at the man, who’s wearing a dark green sweater vest over a white t-shirt and tortoise-shell glasses.

“i’m steve,” the weirdo stalker says, smiling brightly. he has surprisingly swoopy hair for an insane fan. “i’m your new assistant.”

“where’s vickie?” eddie asks, rubbing at the sore spot on his nose. thank god it’s not broken.

“you fired her,” steve tells him. “two days ago.”

“i fire her all the time.”

“ok, well… i guess this time it stuck,” steve shrugs. “chrissy hired me.”

“fucking chrissy,” eddie says under his breath, rolling his eyes. he pulls out his phone from the pocket of his sweatpants and speed dials chrissy. “chris, what the fuck?” he doesn’t even give her the chance to say hello.

“good morning, eddie. i’m doing really well, how are you?”

“not fucking well, that’s how i am!” eddie practically yells into the receiver. “what the fuck? did you see the pictures? and who the fuck is this guy in my house?”

“yes, eddie, i saw the pictures.” eddie can hear the eye roll in her voice. “we’re handling it. nancy’s already on it with the team. what was the other thing?”

eddie knows she’s fucking with him and that pisses him off even more. “who is this freak in my house wearing a goddamn sweater vest?!” he feels like a blood vessel in his eye is about to pop.

“hey,” steve protests softly from across the kitchen where he’s started to pull shit out of eddie’s fridge. he didn’t even know there was anything in that fridge.

“that’s not a very nice way to talk about your new assistant,” chrissy’s voice comes loud and clear through the phone.

“christina fucking cunningham, you know i have final say on all hiring decisions when it comes to my assistants.” he rubs at his sore nose again.

“you had final say on all hiring decisions until you fired vickie for the thirteenth time and she refused to come back, even with a three hundred percent raise. we’re going in a different direction now.” chrissy sounds entirely too pleased with herself.

“well, i fucking hate him,” eddie grumbles and watches steve to make sure he’s heard him. steve doesn’t even react, just continues doing whatever the fuck he’s doing with the frying pan he’d found in the cabinet.

“you don’t even know him, eddie. give him a chance. anyway, i have to go, i have brunch plans with my very beautiful, very intelligent, perfect fiancée,” chrissy tells him, gloating, before hanging up on him.

eddie wants desperately to throw his phone across the kitchen, but if he breaks this one that would be his fourth phone in three weeks and he couldn’t bear to have to ask this steve person to go buy him a new one. he settles for squeezing it in his hand until it creaks while taking several deep breaths through his nose.

“what are you doing?” he grits out.

“are you always this rude?” steve asks, ignoring his question.

“to weirdo freak strangers showing up in my house unannounced? yes.”

“it’s not unannounced, chrissy wrote it on your calendar.” steve gestures toward the paper calendar hanging on the side of the fridge where chrissy writes his major life events and which eddie mostly just ignores before sliding a plate full of food toward eddie.

“what is this?” eddie sneers.

“it’s an omelette with cheese and mushrooms,” steve replies, smiling. he’s always fucking smiling.

“i’m allergic to… omelettes,” eddie says, just to be a dick.

“no you’re not. you’re allergic to blueberries and dust.” steve doesn’t stop smiling pleasantly.

“did you get access to my medical records? that’s a violation of my… whatever rights.” eddie waves a hand through the air.

“no, i didn’t go look at your medical records, jesus. i’m not a stalker. chrissy told me when she hired me.”

“whatever. i still fucking hate you.”

“okay,” steve shrugs again. “eat your breakfast.”

eddie has every intention of leaving the kitchen, full plate of food and all, but. he is hungry.

so he eats.

and he’s pissed that it’s actually good.

~*~

eddie spends the rest of the day being a general nuisance to steve any time he tries to do his job. when steve answers the phone before handing it to eddie, eddie “accidentally” hangs up on whoever it is on the hand off & makes sure to blame his new assistant when the person finally calls back. when steve has to drive him to his meeting with nancy and the pr team, eddie tries to give him the wrong directions, but steve’s too smart for that. when steve has to do the grocery shopping, he makes steve go to the erewhon all the way across town during rush hour because the one down the street “just doesn’t have the same vibe, steve.”

and all the while, steve just does his job, still smiling, not getting angry at all even though it’s beyond obvious eddie’s being a little shit to him.

which honestly just pisses eddie off more than anything else today.

“here’s some aspirin,” steve says, placing two white pills on the coffee table in front of eddie, along with a mason jar of water. eddie, lounging on his big squishy couch, pulls the ice pack away from his nose, which has started throbbing again. “you didn’t have any glasses.” steve shrugs when he sees eddie’s arched eyebrow looking skeptically at the jar of water. “if you don’t need anything else, i’ll take off for the day.”

it’s past 8pm already, long after steve should have left for the day except that eddie had made him stay to organize his extensive tshirt collection by color, shade, and design before he could even think about going home. it was an emergency, after all.

“i’ll have to check the t-shirt closet first,” eddie replies, before swallowing the aspirin dry. steve shrugs again and rolls his eyes. eddie would say something about his blatant rudeness, but he’s too exhausted.

eddie pulls himself off the couch and makes his way down the hallway to his “t-shirt room.” it’s so stupid, but he has all this space and he’d started collecting the tshirts so long ago. they’re not worth anything, they’re just his wardrobe but… they remind him of wayne and the thrifting they used to do every saturday morning.

the organization eddie had been having steve do was entirely arbitrary. it’s not like eddie plans his outfits. he mostly just pulls whatever out of wherever, unless it’s an event and then he pays someone to do the deciding and dressing for him anyway.

but. steve’s organized the t-shirts by genre and subgenre and then by band alphabetically and finally color. more than eddie had even asked him to do.

eddie had come in here fully prepared to rip steve a new one, but even he can be shocked into appreciation.

steve notices eddie’s silence and grins.

“can i tell you something?” steve says pleasantly and then continues without even letting eddie respond to the question. “i know i look like a nice polite guy next door that moms totally love—it’s the sweater vests, i think.” steve plucks at his top. “and that’s true. i am a nice polite guy and moms do love me. i’m awesome.” his grin widens. “but i got kicked out of my parents house when i was 18 and i lived in my car for a while. i’ve been on my own for seven years. i made a life in LA out of nothing. so you can throw your little temper tantrums and tell me how much you hate me. you can make me go to the erewhon all the way across town and you can make me look incompetent to my colleagues. but i need this job. i’ve worked hard for this job. this job pays more than any other job i’ve ever had combined. and you’re hardly the biggest asshole i’ve ever met. so you can continue trying to make my life miserable—hell, i’ll even give you my dad’s number, you guys can swap ideas!” steve laughs at his own joke before turning serious for the first time all day. “but i’m not vickie. you won’t make me cry. you can’t fire me. i’m not going anywhere.” he claps his hands together. “anyway, i’m gonna take off, since i have plans with my actual friends. but hey, i’ll see you tomorrow, huh?” and he smiles again, giving eddie a small waggle of his fingers, before heading out through the door.

eddie’s still just standing there in the middle of his tshirt room when he hears the front door slam shut.

part two

[seat-safety-switch]

For many good reasons, the ancient practice of "funny bumper sticker" has fallen away in recent years. And bad reasons, too. In their stead, the "angry bumper sticker" has begun to dominate America's bumper-based highway discourse.

I am certain that a sociologist would be able to tell you exactly when this happened, and why. Maybe it's Milton Friedman's fault. Actually, it probably is, fuck that guy. Still, the temperature needs to be taken down a notch. I don't want kids in school buses to be getting their entire political concepts from the words in inch-high text: "Fuck Government, Taxes Bad." Crude and a rudimentary analysis at best. That's why I had to do something.

You might be surprised to hear this, but the sovereign nation of China has a whole bunch of bumper-sticker-printing factories. It's where all of our bumper-sticker-printing factories went after we closed them during the great decline of bumper stickers. They're still going, servicing the world's demand for bumper stickers in every glorious language. And for about twenty bucks, you can get a stack of bumper stickers half a foot thick mailed to your door. Those bumper stickers can say whatever you want.

Me and the bunch, we like to hang out at the gas station and slap these bumper stickers on the back of passing motorists. Don't worry, they come off easily and don't damage any paint (if they did, I'd have a lot more holes in my bumper.) What they do do, however, is make everyone else on the highway honk and wave, gleeful to be seeing someone taking a brave stand and making their day just that little bit better. Sure, the operator of the car is probably insanely upset when they get home, but until they figure out what happened, they've brought happiness to so many other folks.

Yep. You could call me a modern-day hero, but I'm just a guy with several hundred Don't Honk At Me, I Will Be So Mad I Swear To Fucking God bumper stickers, doing the only thing he knows how.

[kashverse]

can i request babykuna when she was still in the womb? like sukuna being all sweet and caring to reader when she’s pregnant and talking to her baby bump.

the day sukuna found out you were pregnant, he screamed. not in fear, not in shock—but in sheer, unfiltered, snotty-nosed joy. one moment, he was staring at the positive test in your hands. the next, he had his face buried in his monogrammed handkerchief, honking out the loudest, wettest happy sobs you’d ever heard.

you wondered if you had accidentally married a goose.

“oh my god,” you muttered, watching him go through all five stages of parenthood in under a minute. “we’re having a baby,” he sniffled, pulling you into his arms like he was never letting go. “holy fuck, we’re gonna be parents.”

“yeah, that’s kinda what happens when you—”

“shhh.” he dropped to his knees, pressing his ear to your stomach. “the baby’s listening.”

“… sukuna, i am barely six weeks. there's nothing to listen to.”

he ignored you, humming deeply like he was communicating with the soul of the unborn child. then, after a few moments of wise, fatherly contemplation, he sat up and clapped his hands.

“both of you need rest. now.”

“but i—”

“now.”

and thus began the nine-month saga of sukuna baby-proofing the entire planet.

he refused to let you lift a finger. not even a pinky.

“babe, can you—”

“no.”

“but i just—”

“no.”

you reached for a glass of water right in front of you. he intercepted. he became the ultimate husband, reading baby books, forcing you to take naps, buying enough pregnancy pillows to construct a small fortress. one day, you caught him in the study, wisely reading through the classics.

he squinted at the page, frowning. “… countenance.”

silence.

he flipped the page back. then forward. then he snorted.

“why the fuck does this word exist? just say ‘face,’ dumbass.”

he built two entire walk-in closets for babykuna. one for a boy. one for a girl. “you never know,” he said wisely, surveying his masterpiece.

“sukuna, it’s one baby.”

“you never know.”

it didn’t matter, though. he didn’t care about the gender. “as long as the kid’s happy and healthy,” he muttered one night, resting his hand over your belly, his voice soft, reverent. then, after a beat: 

“but if it’s a boy, i am not naming him after me. too much pressure.”

when the day finally came, and you held babykuna for the first time—her tiny fists curled, her chubby cheeks already resembling her father’s, her rebellious little tuft of hair standing up in defiance—sukuna knew he knew he was right where he was supposed to be.

"she looks like you," you whispered, exhausted but happy, brushing her soft little cheek. he snorted, reaching over to push a strand of hair from your face. "nah," he said, smirking, voice thick with emotion. "she's got your hair."

and for the first time in his life, sukuna felt complete.

[hrrtshape]

EMMA±??±?±?±?±??!?!?!?!OMGORMGOGMG????? STORYTIME HELLOW WHERE DID U EVEN SHIFT TO

i spent 15 days in the upper east side and now i have an existential crisis about my real life (but in a hawt way)

unlike my previous shifts, where i’d spend 10 minutes, maybe 20, dipping my toes into a life so much better than this one, i spent fifteen whole days in my better cr. fifteen days ago, i woke up in my king-sized bed with 1000-thread-count sheets and realised i had, in fact, won in life.

i had done it. no brief glimpse, no fleeting moment before snapping back to my real-world peasantry. fifteen days. enough time for a full socialite saga and to meet my beau!?!?!??! enough time to wake up in pyjamas which might as well been the most comfortable thing i've ever worn, hear the distant clatter of someone else in the other rooms, and stretch luxuriously as if i were in a renaissance painting. i could smell money in the air FOLKS!?!?!!!! not new money, but old money, the kind that sits heavy in the walls (!??!?!?), the kind that makes people say your last name like it means something. and this was my life. MY LIFE. at last. took it long enough.

the first morning, and you have to understand my main character syndrome for this, i stepped out onto the balcony, the manhattan skyline.....mhmhmhmhmhm....mhm. mhm. mhmm. stretching before me like a personal prophecy, and i felt it in my bones!!!!!!: this was home. MY HOME. okay. so. then i went around, you know, exploring my little room (not little...) and girl the moment i stepped in front of a mirror.......WHO'S THIS BABE???? yea. yea. i even had a cat !!!!

then i went to school. sorry, went, i mean DRIVE. now, here’s the dealio. i had scripted myself into this effortlessly put-together, socially untouchable, well-adjusted manhattan teen heiress life. but there were gaps in my logic. big ones. like, for example: i couldn't drive. i didn't know how to drive !!!

and yet, there i was in the morning in my super super super sSUPPPERRR cutesie school uniform, keys in hand, standing in front of a car (a Porsche, people, a porsche!!!) that looked like it cost more than my entire life back in my cr. so, i acted like i totally knew what i was doing. slid into the driver’s seat with the confidence of someone who had done this a thousand times before, adjusted the mirrors like i had a clue, and started the car.

and then? i picked up lily-rose depp.

(she's not an actress in this dr, by the way. just my best friend. which is infinitely cooler.)

she didn't even question everything. just said i looked really hawt today. i was blessed. seriously. like i'm typing this and also screaming i want to go back.

somehow. miraculously. i got us to school in one piece. st. lazarus international college. it looked like a cathedraland felt like a warzone. we pulled up alongside a line of obnoxiously expensive cars (not a single honda in sight!?!?!?!?), and i barely had time to breathe before stepping out onto the pavement, uniform pristine, COACH. MOTHAUFCKING COACH TOTE bag slung over my shoulder like i was about to solve world hunger instead of sit through calculus (that shi fucking sucked btw !!!! but my school's classrooms were drop dead gorgeous).

anyways. i now have to brush upon something that made me almost let out a humongous squeal when i saw him. CORIOLANUS. yes. yes. yes. yes. yes,ewfygweuvbuihweiusvbgiweu`rs. i saw him. yep. yep. i had to slap myself. metaphorically.

SO. i had scripted that on my first day, i would give coriolanus snow a nosebleed.

and !?!??!?!?!!?! IT SUCCEEDED. when i first saw him, he was leaning against a row of lockers like he owned the place and i swear to god i almost moaned. crisp white shirt, tie loose, cheekbones sharp enough to wound, eyes narrowed. pray.

HO. HE WINKED AT ME. and then i walked past him with my bfffffff lily-rose and. and. and. nosebleed. bro. bro. bro. BROSKI. the way he blinked..........the way his breath hitched just a little as the first drop of blood slid over his cupid’s bow. the WAY he tilted his head back, tongue darting out briefly over his lip. oh my god. i was actively fighting to not go and jump on him and like do vile disgusting things.

i had won the war, but at what cost?

because he was so hot.

SO FUCKING HAWT.

uh. so. yeah. that was just the first two hours of my better cr, and it was already putting my entire existence to shame. like, objectively, scientifically, undeniably better than anything i have ever done in my cr.

ssssoooooo. IF ANYONE WANTS TO HEAR MORE…do let me know. because, hands clasped, eyes glistening, heart on the verge of combustion, i am being so serious. this was the peak of my human experience. i have tasted divinity PEOPLE. i have lived too well. i fear i must go back, or else i will experience genuine withdrawals from the lack of my paramour’s face in my daily visuals.

so yeah. if you’re curious… hit me up. (evil, knowing laughter echoing into the abyss)

OH AND. whenever i'd go to sleep there i'd like cry out of fear that i'd wake up in my cr but whenever i'd wake up just...there...i'd literally pray to god. BECCAUSE EIJISEJFEWUSHFIHEJI. i'm there.

anyway, i am so not okay about this. i keep coming back to edit, rewrite, relive. but okay. listen. if you ever had even a sliver of doubt about shifting, i am kneeling right now, hands clasped, eyes wide with conviction, telling you!!!!!!!

SHIFTING IS SO FUCKING REAL.

it’s real in a way that defies logic, in a way that makes the air feel electric, in a way that rewires your entire understanding of existence. so real. so unimaginably real.

[princesseilish]

PARROT

Billie Eillsh x Fem!Mom!Reader

Warnings: slight swearing, use of y/n? a pinch of funny

Synopsis: billie couldn’t help herself, and now Rosie can’t help herself either

It was supposed to be a simple grocery trip.

Y/N had explicitly instructed Billie to keep it together. They were just grabbing a few things for Rosie’s upcoming second birthday party—balloons, snacks, maybe a cake mix. Nothing complicated, nothing that should’ve been an issue. But Y/N should’ve known better.

“Babe, do we need more of that organic juice Ro likes?” Billie called from the next aisle, pushing the cart with Rosie sitting happily inside, her tiny hands wrapped around the bar.

Y/N, examining a box of birthday candles, glanced over. “Yeah, grab a couple bottles. The mango one.”

“Got it.”

It was going fine. Too fine, actually.

Until they hit the produce section.

Billie was trying to grab a bundle of bananas from the display when, naturally, the entire pyramid of fruit decided to betray her. A bunch tumbled to the floor with a loud thud, rolling in every direction. Billie, already flustered, muttered under her breath, “What the fuck.”

Y/N’s head snapped up like she’d been electrocuted.

“Billie,” she hissed, eyes darting to their daughter.

But it was too late.

Rosie, wide-eyed and always eager to mimic her favorite person in the world, opened her tiny mouth and proudly repeated, “What the fuh!”

Y/N’s soul left her body.

Billie froze, bananas still in hand, her face a perfect mix of horror and disbelief. “Oh, shit.”

“Billie!” Y/N practically dropped the candles as she rushed over, grabbing Rosie from the cart like she could somehow squeeze the word right out of her.

Rosie giggled, thinking it was all a fun game. “What the fuh! What the fuh!”

Y/N’s jaw clenched so tight she thought her teeth might crack. She turned slowly to Billie, who was trying—and failing—not to laugh.

“Billie Eilish,” Y/N said in a tone that could curdle milk, “what the actual fuck—I mean—heck—heck is wrong with you?!”

Billie bit her lip, attempting to stifle a snort but failing miserably. “Babe, I didn’t mean to—”

“Didn’t mean to?” Y/N’s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper as she pointed at their gleeful toddler. “Her second birthday is in three days. Do you really want our daughter to be the kid who blows out her candles and yells ‘what the fuh!’ in front of everyone?”

Rosie clapped her hands excitedly. “What the fuh!”

Y/N shot Billie a glare so sharp it could’ve sliced through steel. “No, Ro, that’s a no-no word. Bad Billie.”

Billie winced like she’d been physically slapped. “Hey, c’mon, it’s not like I taught her on purpose.”

Y/N set Rosie back in the cart and grabbed the bananas out of Billie’s hands with a dramatic huff. “You’re on cleanup duty. And you’re explaining this to my mom if Ro slips up.”

Billie groaned, rubbing the back of her neck. “Your mom already thinks I’m a bad influence.”

“Well,” Y/N muttered, pushing the cart down the aisle, “now she has proof.”

Later that night, after Rosie was tucked in—without uttering any forbidden words, thank God—Billie shuffled into their bedroom looking like a guilty puppy.

Y/N was curled up with a book, doing her best to ignore Billie’s presence, even as Billie flopped dramatically onto the bed beside her.

“Babe,” Billie whined, nudging Y/N’s arm. “I’m sorry.”

Y/N didn’t look up from her book. “You corrupted our daughter.”

Billie groaned, rolling onto her back. “It was an accident! I swear, I’ll fix it.”

Y/N finally glanced at her, arching an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? And how exactly do you plan on fixing that?”

Billie grinned, pulling Y/N’s book out of her hands and tossing it onto the nightstand. “Simple. I’ll just teach her other words to say instead.”

Y/N sighed, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “Like what?”

Billie sat up, her face serious. “Like… ��What the fudge!’ Or ‘What the flip!’” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Or we could go full grandma and teach her to say, ‘Oh, sugar!’”

Y/N finally laughed, shoving Billie’s shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But you love me.” Billie grinned, leaning in and pressing a kiss to Y/N’s cheek. “And I love you. And Ro. Even if she’s a tiny parrot.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but her heart melted all the same. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Billie wrapped her arms around Y/N, pulling her into her chest. “Lucky? Nah, I’m just smart. I got you and Ro, didn’t I?”

Y/N sighed, snuggling into Billie’s warmth despite herself. “Just… try not to turn her into a sailor before preschool, okay?”

Billie chuckled, kissing the top of Y/N’s head. “Deal. But if she slips up… I’m blaming you for teaching her ‘heck.’”

Y/N groaned, but she couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips. Life with Billie might’ve been chaotic, but it was theirs—bad words, bananas, and all.

[peace-hunter]

Question for baby prime Orion au: how do the rest of the gang take that Orion is the "lost" prime. Because here's the reaction I think they'll have:

D-16:oh primes my friend is a prime and I punch him in the face yesterday!?

Elita: oh primes, this trouble making bot is a prime!?

B-127: one of my new friends is a prime, this is awesome!!

"How well am I taking that one of my friends is actually a demi-god?" reactions from best to worst:

you're pretty much right with Bee. this has been the wildest day he's had since forever, he's very much just along for the ride and he's kinda just "this may as well happen :)"-ing through everything. he's also lowkey clinging to the one (1) good new he's gotten from this whole affair for dear life. like. he could freak out about the fact his entire life has been a lie and he's been working himself to death for a tyrant that's betrayed their entire race to their sworn enemies. or he could be happy his new best friend is extra cool now. so. y'know. glass half-full half-empty kinda deal.

Dee's reaction is,,,, complicated. obviously.

on one hand holy crap his friend is a prime that's the coolest fucking shit ever he's friends with someone directly related to megatronus prime-

on the other. this is just one more thing he's been wrong about for cycles. everything he thought was true is turning out to be a lie and even if this isn't a betrayal like sentinel's it's still something he has to accept is not what he thought it was. Orion, his best friend, the person he trusted the most, is not what he thought he was.

and even though Orion didn't know (which... is also a point of contention between them with Dee not being quite able to believe one could forget such a thing even as Orion swears over and over again he had no idea) there's still a divide between them that wasn't there before. now Orion is this almost mythological being directly created by their god for greater things while Dee is just... a miner.

now Orion is a Prime. and Dee has just found out what happens when you trust a so-called Prime.

and he also can't help but wonder, as he remembers all those times Orion ignored what he said and involved him in his crazy schemes with no regard for what he thought about it, if it's just in the nature of Primes to do as they wish without considering what it means for everyone else.

but the real victim here is elita who is experiencing a level of cringe that hasn't been seen in cybertron before nor will be seen again until maybe four million years and a war later during peace negotiations. pray for her.

baby prime orion au

[enhaniki-san]

Nishimura Riki as your boyfriend and remembering some of your first times with him

warnings: smut, nsfw, niki's slightly sadistic, cursing, etc.

♱ boyfriend!ni-ki who likes to annoy the shit out of you and will not say sorry at all unless you get so angry or really about to cry.

♱ boyfriend!ni-ki who's not a fan of pda but will rest a hand on your nape or hold your wrist instead of your hand. it might seem possessive outside but he's just a sweet boy who likes keeping you close.

♱ boyfriend!ni-ki who isn't one to get sick often but when he did, you saw how it hit him hard, insisting he was fine even though his messages gets more dramatic by the hour.

niki: i'll rest so i can see my girlfriend right away.

you: yes, do that.

niki: then she can kiss me again.

niki: baby, i think i'm dying.

you'll sigh, shake your head as you read his texts. then he will send you a picture of his thermometer reading 39°C with a caption:

you might as well say your goodbyes.

♱ boyfriend!ni-ki who loves to help you give him handjobs.

the first time it happened is when you and niki were cuddling peacefully, his feverish body was warming both of you.

you felt his shaft harden, pressing insistently on your ass, making cheeks heated as you became very aware of his body's conscious or unconscious reaction to being close to you.

and niki who's oblivious, buried his face deeper into your shoulder with a low groan, mumbling "i don't want you to leave" with his drowsy voice, heavy with sleep but his crotch pressed harder, as if seeking more friction.

you turned to face him, your hand gently combed through his hair while clearing your throat softly. unsure of how to address his hardening length. "niki..." you started hesitantly.

"hmm?" he replied with sluggish tone like he was on the verge of falling asleep but then, as if he finally caught on to your stiffened posture, his grip loosened immediately.

you remembered him sitting up a little. his flushed face brighter than before and not just entirely because of the fever that had been keeping him in bed for days.

"oh my God..."

"i didn't mean for that to happen-"

you bit your lip, unsure whether to laugh at the awkwardness or save him from further embarrassment. "it's... okay."

then your hands travelled from his hair down slowly to his back, fingertips were grazing the dips of his spine as it drifted lower, ghosting over the curve of his ass before wrapping around his stiff length and giving it experimental strokes.

niki gasped, mouth opening and his eyes were fluttering shut, breathing "ahh, shit." while arching into your touch. you continued to pump his shaft, it's twitching while you smear the drops of precum to ease the glide.

he was so hard for you already that it made your own arousal surge. you can feel your pussy throbbing in response.

slowly, niki leaned, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss and he tasted like sleep, medicine, but underneath that, fuck... he was all male heat.

a moan vibrated in his throat as you worked on his cock, his hips were rocking into the tight circle of your fist and you swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss while your free hand roamed the lean muscles of his chest.

niki's hand wrapped around yours, helping you stroke his dick faster. you both looked down at where you were connected, watching his hard dick into your joined fists over and over again.

melting under your touch, niki's hand started fondling the soft fat of your tits, completely at your mercy as you brought him closer to the edge then your eyes met, heavy-lidded and full with lust, he crashed his mouth to yours again.

it's sloppy, all tongue, teeth, and desperation.

niki's breaths grew ragged, his fingers moved and dug into your shoulders and with a firm squeeze to the head of his cock, it urged him over.

niki came with a broken cry of your name. cum spurted over your hands, fingers. painting his stomach, your knuckles, and the bed.

"i love you so much."

♱ boyfriend!ni-ki who likes it when you asks him for anything whether it'll be something simple as helping you carry things or... something like asking him for head.

he will wrap his arms around you after and pull you into a tight hug, asking "it's good, right?"

"s-stop."

he will just laugh and rest his chin on your shoulder.

"god, this is so stupid."

"it's not, okay?" he will say firmly and look into your eyes. "i told you, you can ask me for anything. i mean it."

"we-well…" you'll try to change the subject by asking "do you wanna go downstairs and eat or something?"

"i just ate you."

♱ boyfriend!ni-ki who seems to lose control when it comes to eating and fingering your pussy. he loves your taste, the texture of your sensitive petals, the way you writhe and moan... it's utterly intoxicating. he becomes completely consumed by it and just can't stop pleasing you even after you already came.

your body spasms, your legs started shaking and quivering while your eyes were also already watering from the intensity of your climax that you just might black out from overstimulation, yet niki's unable to pull away from your slick folds.

his tongue continued to lap at your clit, fingering your hole that juices started gushing out the sensitive flesh and niki's just groaning in delight, totally unbothered by your gasps and whimpers.

"niki, wait..." you'll plead breathlessly, trying to push him back. "please..."

niki also knows that you'll get mad at him after and that he might earn a slap on his pretty face but like a man on a mission, his objective right there is to make you cum over and over until you're a mewling mess and going down on you is the only way he knows how to achieve this feat.

niki can feel your pulse against his tongue and it drives him wild. you've already orgasmed multiple times but he thinks you might just have more climaxes inside you and he won't rest until they're spent.

♱ boyfriend!ni-ki who chuckled after hearing you blabber nonsensical words because of the mixture of pain and pleasure that you couldn't quite articulate while having sex with him for the first time. he'll whisper "my poor baby" while peppering soft kisses to your cheeks which is a contrast to the powerful movements of his hips.

♱ boyfriend!ni-ki who always misses you already while you were just sleeping beside him. he tucks your hair behind your ear as he watches you breathe, pouting because he can't talk to you. he'll gently lifts your arms, wrapping them around himself before burying his face into your neck, sighing dramatically like he's suffering.

a/n: i'm back, the cute outline was inspired by a heesung fic i read here but i can't find it anymore TT

please read Nishimura Riki as your classmate

read part-timers!niki x reader

read part-timers!niki x reader part 2

read snitch - reader x niki

read touché - niki x reader

read touché - niki x reader part 2

read exes - niki x reader

[hoondolls]

PAINTER BABY. 박성훈

pairing: f!reader x park sunghoon

notices and warnings: non idol au, fluff, neck kisses established relationship, cursing, slightly suggestive ?, painter!reader , guitarist!sunghoon, someone for the love of god tell me a good word counter website 🙏🙏

Sunghoon’s guitar is fucked again. or maybe he’s the one who’s fucked, but it’s easier to blame the strings than admit he’s been playing too much.

he’s stretched out on y/n’s lap, fingers twisting at the tuning pegs, brows furrowed like this is some great dilemma. it’s not, but sunghoon likes to act like his entire livelihood depends on this. in reality, he just plays at underground gigs with his friends and makes enough for soju and convenience store ramen.

y/n hums, half-listening. her hands are busy mixing paint on an old plastic palette, the kind that still has dried specks of colour from last week. she’s not painting anything serious, just playing with shades, seeing what looks good together. this is what she does when she has the time—paint for no reason, just because it feels nice, there’s a comfortable silence, the kind that only exists when two people have known each other long enough to not fill it. sunghoon’s weight is warm against her thighs, his hair fanning over her hoodie. his guitar lets out a dull pluck as he tests the strings.

“i think my e string’s about to snap,” he mutters, adjusting the tuning peg. he stares at it for a second, like he’s mourning something. then, without warning, he shifts, sitting up and turning to face her properly. “paint something on it.”

y/n looks up, paintbrush still dragging through cerulean blue. “what?”

���my guitar,” he says, tapping the wooden body. “paint something on it. a flower. a little guy. anything.”

she raises a brow. “why?” Inspecting the clearly worn out guitar.

he shrugs, like he hasn’t just admitted to the most sentimental thing ever. “because it’s dying, and i don’t want to think about it.”

y/n blinks. sunghoon meets her gaze like it’s nothing, like he’s not asking her to imprint a piece of herself onto something he loves, something he spends most of his time with. something that’s carried every song he’s ever played.

she exhales, rolling her shoulders. “fine.”

his lips twitch into a smile. he shifts again, resting the guitar across his lap, fingers drumming against the wood. “what are you gonna paint?”

y/n tilts her head, scanning the scratched-up surface. “something sad, since you’re grieving.”

sunghoon groans, letting his head fall back. “you’re the worst.”

she smirks, dipping her brush into white. “you asked.”

he lets her do her thing, watching as she starts with the base—soft petals forming at the edge of the pickguard, curving slightly where the wood is most worn out. her hands are steady, moving with ease like she’s done this a hundred times before. sunghoon feels something tighten in his chest. maybe it’s the reality of his guitar’s last days, or maybe it’s just her, existing in a way that makes things feel less heavy.

he exhales, leaning back on his hands. “i like watching you paint.”

y/n scoffs, but there’s a hint of pink on her ears. “you always say that” she leans back, brush hovering in the air as she takes in her work. the bouquet blooms across the wood, soft pink petals overlapping in clusters, tiny green leaves curling around them. it looks delicate, almost too pretty for sunghoon’s beat-up guitar, but somehow, it fits.

“there, all done.” she smiles, satisfied, but as she shifts, she doesn’t notice the streak of pink smudging across her nose.

sunghoon does.

he tilts his head, grinning. “you’ve got paint all over your face, baby.”

y/n blinks, raising a hand to touch her cheek. “where?”

“everywhere.”

she frowns, trying to wipe it off blindly. it only makes it worse.

sunghoon watches, amused. then, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world, he says, “can i lick it off?”

y/n freezes before scowling, her hand drops, eyes snapping to his. “what.”

he blinks at her, all wide-eyed and innocent, like he hasn’t just said the most unhinged thing ever. “what? it’s non-toxic, right?”

she stares. “you’re insane and disgusting .”

he shrugs. “So can I ?.”

y/n groans, shoving at his shoulder. “don’t talk to me.”

sunghoon just laughs, leaning in anyway, eyes flicking to the smudge of paint she still hasn’t wiped off. “fine,” he murmurs, voice laced with amusement. “but you should clean it before i change my mind.”

He didn’t even wait for her to finish wiping the pain then he stared pressing slow kisses just below her jaw.

y/n tenses. “sunghoon—” but he doesn’t stop, trailing soft kisses down the side of her neck, his hands already moving to brace himself on either side of her. her breath catches as he pushes her back, his weight pressing her into the couch.

“You’ll get poisoned I have paint on me—” she starts, but her voice is already faltering, and sunghoon smirks against her skin.

“mm?” he hums, lips grazing her collarbone like he’s not doing anything at all.

y/n swallows hard. “you’re getting paint on yourself.”

sunghoon just laughs, low and warm against her throat. “It’s alright .”

[pan-kojiwa]

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 ➻ 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐌𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥 𝐊𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐮𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧?

[Characters] ➻ 𝐒𝐚𝐞 𝐈𝐭𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢 | 𝐌𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥 𝐊𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫 | ??? |

[CW] ➻ SFW, stranger to lovers, whipped Kaiser, a bit ooc.

Waffle’s note -> that was long… tbh I didn’t know where I was going with this at some point… I should’ve just made a boyfriend!kaiser *sigh* well anyway, it’s still about cute aggression but with a little bit of obsession??? Also, does it feel like I tried to headcanon my way out of an 2k OS? Yes? Yh me too… it happened twice.. anyways u_u’

❦ 𝐌𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥 𝐊𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫

✮ Michael Kaiser was used dealing with malice, to the point it became a second nature to him. After all, it was all he had ever known. Hurting people just came that easily. But everything changed when you showed up, and it’s still the case till this day. Michael Kaiser is mean, arrogant, and overly confident, yet all of that disappears in your presence. In fact, the first time he saw you, he couldn’t even speak. All you did was smile— yet he stood there, stunned. Your smile… so timid, but so bright… it almost blinded him. And your eyes… God. Those innocent sparkles in your eyes when you looked at him… he lost the war before it even began that day. You literally destroyed the thick walls he spent so long building around himself. Yes— the walls that hid the most ugliest parts in him, they got blown up. With just one look. And since then, he’s been craving your gaze— your attention. He’s drawn to it, like a moth to a flame.

✮ Kaiser can be really selfish sometimes. From the first time he saw you, he knew he wanted you all for himself. He can’t help it, your entire being is calling to him. It's almost turning into an obsession at this point— and resisting the urge to be all up in your space is becoming hard. He wants to be the only person that you see, just as you're the only one he sees. Your smile when you're happy, your cries when you're sad, your rosie cheeks when you're being shy. Aah—He’s overwhelmed. Feeling so many emotions at once while picturing how cute you are— oh... he would love to have you all to himself.

✮ Kaiser never thought he would become a big, hopeless idiot when in love. Then again, it’s not surprising for someone who spent his life pushing people away and experiencing nothing but hate. But now, being hated, receiving or giving malice, manipulating people… he doesn’t care about any of that. Yeah— It doesn’t matter anymore. All he wants is you. You. The way his name rolls perfectly on your tongue like it was meant for it. The way your ears and nose turns a bright red when he tilts your chin up just to tease you. The way you always take a step back, completely flustered whenever he gets too close—he wants it. He needs it. God no— he craves it. He’s longing for a taste of your love, and he’s ready to do whatever it takes to have you by his side.

✮ Since you’re his first love, or more like the first person he’s allowed himself to love, sometimes he doesn’t quite understand his feelings. Well, he knows it’s love. What he doesn’t understand are the overwhelming urges to touch you, to feel your skin under his fingertips, to hold you in his arms, to grab you and kiss you all over, the urges to bite you just from looking at you smile… He just can’t seem to control himself around you. And he just can’t leave you alone either.

You’re passing by when someone suddenly yanks you into on of the meeting rooms. Luckily, the lights are on, so you could immediately see the face of the culprit.

“Kaiser?! What the fuck!? You scared the shit out of me!”

You quickly push the door closed, just in case someone passes by. You definitely don’t want to get caught in an empty room with one of the players.

Kaiser chuckles with a smirk as he leaned on the table behind him.

“ - Oh really, liebling? My apologies, I didn’t mean to.”

You raise an eyebrow, sceptical. Because from where you stand, he clearly did. Yet, you couldn’t figure out what he was thinking.

“ - What are you doing here? Aren’t you gonna shower with the others?”

“ - Too crowded.” He replies, stepping closer to you with that playful smirk.

Your heart starts racing, and a faint blush creeps on your cheeks. You instinctively back away, your breath hitching. The door was behind you so you know you’re absolutely not trapped in the room. But with him so close, all up in your space feels like all your senses are being tickled. And not to mention how Kaiser had been acting strange lately. He’s always been a bit pretentious with everyone— even when he was alone— but now it seems like he’s paying extra attention to you. At first, you were thrown off, but the way he treats you like you were the most amazing person in the world makes you curious. Or flattered?

“ - Should I give you the key to the staff bathroom?”

“ - Oh my, I’d like that—only if you come with me.”

You blush furiously, your head dropping as you stare at your shoes, completely flustered.

“ - I—”

Kaiser grabs your chin, carefully lifting your head to meet his gaze. His gaze is intense yet soft on you. You could see his inner conflict swirling in those blue eyes, just like a storm.

“ - I know you were about to go take care of the team… He pauses. But… I wanted you all to myself.” He says bluntly freeing your chin, before taking one of your hand in his. He then gives it a light squeeze lifting towards his lips to place a soft kiss on it.

Your flustered look as well as your fluttering eyes makes him clench his jaw. Why are you making this so much harder for him? Why your little pout drives him mad like this? Why is it so hard— so impossible to resist you?

When he’s around you he can’t seem to control his emotions. So his only option left, is to let you go.

“ - If I make you stay here any longer, I might end up never letting you go.”

He tucks a lock of your hair behind your ear and then lets you out of the room, confused and heart pounding hard in your chest

✮ When he sees you, on the bench, wearing a jersey—a little too big for you— with his number and his name, his heart skips a beat. A warm feeling invading all his senses. He can’t see your expression completely from that distance, but he can definitively imagine your sweet lips silently cheering for him as well as your doe eyes, focused on him—full of anticipation for his goal. Suddenly, all he wants is to run to you— grab your head and kiss every inch on your adorable face. Yet he brushes off all this chaos of emotion it with a confident smirk, only sending a flying kiss towards you as he scores a goal for you. He was so close to ditch the whole match just to shower you with kisses.

✮ Kaiser is pretty much an open book once you get to know him. You’re completely aware of how whipped he is for you, even if he still tries to deny how much effect you have on him. The way you nervously play with your hair, or the way your fingers brush against his when you hand him his water battle during the team training— It’s almost ridiculous how it makes him go insane. So much that he can’t believe how much he just wants to hold you in his arms and hide you away.

✮ He likes to scoop you up in his arms. He always says that you look cuter that way but really, you both know it’s just an excuse to hold you in his arms. The way you circle your arms around his neck— pressing your chest tightly against his as your head rests on his shoulder. The way you hide your flushed face in the crook of his neck— oh… He swallows hard, an overwhelming warmth spreading through his entire body. He swallows again as the sensation began to migrate towards his heart. Fuck… it feels like it’s melting. He desperately wants to kiss you… to bite you… you’re so cute to the point he doesn’t even know what to do with himself. If you knew how much his heart is begging for your love right now… would you want him as much as he wants you?

✮ Kaiser always tries to mask what he truly feels with arrogance or confidence— because after all he’s “superior to all those plebeians.” So of course vulnerability isn’t something he comfortable with. He needs complete control over his emotion to feel secure. But it’s impossible with you around. And no matter how hard he tries to resist, he just can’t hide how much your cuteness affects him.

“ - Micheal!”

He turns around as he hears a very familiar voice calling him from afar—your voice. Your beautiful voice. The voice that could bring him down to his knees, even if he tried so hard not to fumble.

The cheerful tone you only use when you see him or when he smiles at you never fails to make his heart burst in flames. He can’t stay away from you, so that probably explains why his feet moved on their own, rushing toward you. And right there, you’re killing him— or more like your expression is. How can you be so cute? Your shy smile—your eyes shining with pure joy and affection— it’s making his heart swell with a softness that he sure isn’t used to—and it’s like a punch in the face.

But he can’t let you see this weak side of him. He can’t possibly let you know that he’s pathetic without you.

“ - Well, well, look who’s back to see this poor, miserable man.”

He stops right in front of you slightly leaning forward.

“ - You make it sound like I abandoned you.” You laugh softly hearing the dramatic tone dripping from his voice. But there’s something else in it—something that you can’t quite put your finger on.

“ - Oh, but you did.” He grabs his chest like what you just said hurt him deeply.

“ - Without any pity for my poor soul, you left me all alone for an entire week.” You tilt your head at the tone in his voice. It was back. That sad tone—no, not sad. Sorrow? You just couldn’t put your finger on it.

“ - I was sick… sorry, I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

The way your voice softened to reassure him, how you’re actually scearching for his gaze to make sure he’s okay, it must have done something to his heart, because before you even know, one of his hand is on your chin, tilting your face toward him. But his touch feels hesitant—because in reality he knows that being so close to you, feeling you skin under his fingertips— this is a risky move—but he couldn’t stop himself.

Your hopeful gaze, the way your lips parts as if you wanted to say something but didn’t—

He’s down bad. He wants to hold you, to hug you and kiss you everywhere. You’re too cute for your own good. His heart is pounding in his chest as if it could burst any minute from now.

But Instead, he simply gives you an enigmatic smile, while his fingers slowly let go of your chin.

“ - It’s okay, mein liebling, you don’t have to apologize. I’m just happy you came back to me.”

And with that, he turns away, glancing at you one last before walking away.

“ - Wait—don’t go!” You grab his arm before he can get too far.

“ - Oh? Can’t live without me already?”

You look down, nervous and unsure, blushing slightly as you bite your inner lip. And something in Kaiser snaps. Something he’s been trying—desperately—to control. He can’t stand it anymore. You’re just too fucking cute, too precious.

“ - Fuck…”

He quickly grab your face, pressing a gentle kiss on one of your cheek, then the other. You then close your eyes as you feel him moving toward your left eye, then the right one.

“ - I need you… I need you so badly in my life. I can’t resist anymore… please…”

Your eyes went wide and you feel your heart swell in happiness— you even tear up from the emotions. Without wasting any more time, you wrap your arms around his head , pulling him into a tight hug with his head resting in the crook your neck, a relieved smile on his face.

Silently, you hug each other.

✮ The way you pout sometimes, when you’re looking for him silently scanning the room with your eyes. And the way they instantly light up when you finally spot him— god you’re so cute. It always makes him want to grab you, bite your shoulder or cover your face with kisses.

✮ The way you only look at him— like the other players don’t even matter. The way you massage his shoulders during breaks to help him relax, while you completely ignore the other players— giving him all your attention. It never fails making him feel like he’s special. Your favorite. God, the way you always run to him first with that sincere and genuine smile of yours, shining so brightly on your face. You’re just so perfect in his eyes. To the point, the only way he can manage to regain control is by nearly choking himself.

✮ He likes to tease you. He noticed how much his teasing fluster you and seeing you blush and whimper like that with your adorable doe eyes when he gets close to you makes his heart explode. And he’s addicted to this sensation.

✮ The way you get jealous is so endearing to him—you’re just like an angry little kitten when fans and random people try to flirt with him. He doesn’t even look at them—because they’re not you after— still, he can see how much it pisses you off. Well it’s fine by him. He gets to have you all for himself right?

You and Kaiser are heading toward the training ground entrance, chatting about you are in such a good mood. Well— until a sudden screech resonated in your ears. Of course it’s yet another fan trying to get his attention, screaming his name and saying all kinds of bullshit about how he can “get it.”

You turn around instantly, glaring daggers at whoever said that. Violence isn't an answer. It's a question— the answer is yes. Fully understanding this quote you prepare yourself to throw hands. But before you can even take a step, Kaiser stops you with a smirk. And, really, he doesn’t fucking know where he finds the strength not to pinch your puffed up— angry cheeks. So damn pretty.

With some convincing, you finally step inside the training ground holding in hand. However, the second you’re out of the public eye, you slam him against the nearest wall, gripping his collar.

“ - When are you going to ask me out?” You hiss, frowning and lips pressed into an adorable pout.

Kaiser smirks chuckling as he tilts his head slightly.

“ - Oh, but Liebling... He then slides his hands on your hips, pulling you closer while lowering his head in the crook of your neck. You feel his teeth faintly grazing your skin before pressing a soft kiss on the same spot. You're already mine.”

[laswells-ashtray]

this is the rant of someone tired and pissed off so it shall probably be gone by some time tomorrow morning.

but anyway, sick of people hating fat people. sick of being surrounded by size fours who constantly ask the biggest people they know if they look fat and then tell those plus size people about the absolute disgust they feel about ever being that person's size.

im also fucking sick of the way people write fat characters or tiptoe around writing them. if you only write "chubby characters" who's entire being revolved around being a healthy weight, but oh dear God, she has thick thighs... how will she survive... or a fat character, actually fuck that, any character with a little meat on their bones and all you can write about is how much they hate that about themselves. they have to be insecure and their weight has to be a point of contention then fuck you. you're a shitty writer, there i said it.

just because a character is anything but a skinny person or someone with a muscular build it doesn't give you the write to reduce them down to someone who hates themselves for it.

write fat characters who're happy. give me a plus-size woman who wears shorts under her dresses so that her thighs don't chafe to the point of bruising. a fat character with stretchmarks and cellulite who doesn't give a shit about it. give me a fat guy who overheats easily and sweats like fuck but who actually cared about such a human quality because bodies aren't something to be embarrassed about.

coming from a fat bitch who's spent a life time listening to people's utter hatred at the thought of even looking like me, yeah I don't fucking like it either but if you can't help but reduce a fictional fucking character down to their weight and how that's a sore spot for them then you're an asshole.

daily reminder that if you like any of my Laswells content then Sarah Laswell is a big woman who's riddled with stretchmarks and cellulite that she doesn't give a fuck about. she sweats like, to quote my grandmother, a hooker in church when she overheats. her thighs have chafed to the point of bleeding, and she whined to Kate about it for days. she isn't skinny and she is very happy in her own fucking skin. and her wife loves her because I feel that important to mention.

[fortuitousfolly]

memes that describe each arcane character (I still haven't moved on🎀🤭)

Jinx: THE VOICES THE FUCKING VOICES

Victor after hexification™: DO NOT FUCK WITH ME I HAVE THE POWER OF GOD AND ANIME ON MY SIDE *wait* AHHH

Vi after sesbian lex probably: I love you bitchhh. I'm never gonna stop loving you bitchhh

Mel: a girl called me ugly I said "bitch where?" She said under all that makeup I said "BITCH WHERE?!"

Jayce: I need everyone, all day long , to like me so much i-

Ekko teaching the undercity kids: the cow goes moo, the butterfly don't say nothing, the pig says you have the right to remain silent-

Sevika: *some random council person: can I get a sip of your water?" It's not water "ooh vodka I like your styl-" it's vinegar ".. what?" It's vinegar pussy

Heimerdinger after a long day of jayvik buffoonary: two shots of vodka *pours entire fucking bottle*

[scoutofmymind]

Hiii, I’m not entirely sure if you do au one shots, but if you do please write a princess x knight trope with Luigi. Him looking out for you during his night shift, watching you with the fiancé your father chose for you despite you two being madly in love.

Your writing is gorgeous, btw! In awe <3

I’m Your Man — {Luigi x Reader}

Content: NSFW— MINORS DNI, kissing, p in v, virgin Luigi, fucked up kingdom politics, reader is a princess with an evil king father lol, this is NOT alpha/Omega or whatever, Luigi was raised as a wild animal killing machine, once again inspired by Mitski

Wc: 6,143

Notes: Like a wolf with its leg in a trap, he'd said, that familiar cruel smile twisting his lips. They'll tear through their own flesh to survive. Imagine what they'd do to yours.

Pain shapes them. The cold hardens them.

A common solider dies for his kingdom, a Grimguard kills for it.

AN: Thank you so so much for this request 💕 I once again took this and ran with it. It actually wasn’t my first Luigi x princess reader request sitting around in my inbox, so come one, come all! I have an inkling I might have questions about this one, so lemme know! I enjoyed writing this very much x

Ps: in order to keep this Drabble length and not fic length, I definitely cut out some backstory . But I hope despite that, it’s easy to follow along xo

You're an angel, I'm a dog

Or you're a dog and I'm your man

You believe me like a god..

I'll destroy you like I am

— I’m your Man, Mitski

Ironmere lies suffocated beneath its winter shroud, the castle's hundred hearths cold and dark save for one — your father's study. You've no choice but to seek its warmth, sprawled across a leather chair that's seen generations of royal lectures.

The fire pops and hisses, each crack of burning wood another tick in your mental count, anything to dull the familiar sermon.

"I must remind you," your father says, pipe smoke coiling around him. His shadow stretches across the study walls, cast by flames that paint the room in shades of amber and gold. "That the Grims are bred for loyalty, my dear." He turns to study your face, but you keep your eyes fixed on the dancing flames, refusing to meet his gaze. "Can be no more your equal than a well-trained dog."

The fire swallows his words, and you wonder if it, too, finds them bitter.

Since catching you at your balcony, tracing the Grimguards' movements with hungry eyes, your father has waged his own quiet war; each day brings a new warning, each meal seasoned with thinly veiled threats meant to plant fear where fascination grows.

But seeds of warning find no purchase in frozen earth.

"Speaking of which," he says, abandoning his chair to stand before the frost-kissed window. Beyond the glass, the Ironmere mountains pierce the steel-gray sky, their jagged peaks collecting snow. The ancient evergreens bow beneath their white burden, branches dripping crystal daggers of ice. "We've taken a new pup out of training. Young one, but promising. He'll be stationed near the South Tower."

They're bringing in a new generation again, stealing youth and binding it in black armor and cold metal muzzles.

Your father's cruelty wears a gentleman's mask, polished and pristine as the rings that adorn his fingers. Time has taught you to see beneath it, to recognize the calculated malice hiding behind words like duty and tradition.

The South Tower stands like a frozen sentinel, eternally facing winter's fury. It's where your father plants his fresh seeds of war, watching come morning with clinical interest as frost either hardens them into soldiers or claims them for the grave.

No coincidence leads new Grimguards there.

They either wake to see another dawn, their breath clouding behind their muzzles, or they join the nameless others whose bones might still rest beneath the tower's foundations.

This is how he plays at being divine — selecting who lives and dies with the casual interest of a man trimming roses; Nature's selection, he calls it, as if nature ever intended for young men to be bound in iron and left to freeze.

"Another child?" The words slip past your guard and your head turns toward him, though the fire still claims most of your attention, its warmth a mockery of comfort.

"No younger than yourself, my love." The endearment falls from his lips like frozen honey — sweet, yet somehow wrong. He speaks of sending a boy your age to stand in winter's cruelest depths, guarding a tower that has stood empty since before your grandmother drew breath. "We've discussed this before," he says, finally abandoning his view of his frost-touched kingdom to fix you with that measured stare. "You ceased being a child the moment you became heir to Ironmere."

You answer with silence and the loud protest of leather against leather as you shift in your chair.

Let him interpret the sound as he wishes — rebellion or resignation, it matters little. In this moment, you think of another young man who whose breath will freeze behind a muzzle while you sit before this fire, counting the ways your father fashions cruelty into crown.

"The muzzle ceremony is their rebirth." His voice takes on that familiar, aristocratic lilt—the same tone he uses when discussing wine vintages or the value of old tapestries. As if he speaks of art rather than chains. "This one's training scores are exceptional. He'll serve the crown well."

You've watched these ceremonies before, hidden in gallery shadows. Seen how they strip away names and replace them with numbers, how they forge living flesh into living weapons. The muzzles aren't just metal — they're shackles of status, marking each Grimguard as something less than human but more than beast. A perfect servant for your father's perfect kingdom.

In your mind, you see another humans eyes, bright with unshed tears as cold iron meets warm skin — another soul bound to Ironmere's frozen heart, while your father speaks of service as casually as one might discuss the weather.

Through frosted windows, you've studied their brutal dance since childhood.

The Grimguards train in Wolfdens outer courtyard where the stones are perpetually slick with ice, where one misstep means more than just a fall. They move like shadows given form, their black armor drinking what little sunlight winters here permit.

The training starts before dawn, when breath freezes mid-air and fingers can barely grip steel. They fight with those peculiar curved blades — somewhere between sword and sickle — that have become as much their signature as the muzzles that cage their faces.

The weapons are deliberately unwieldy at first, designed to strain muscle and test resolve.

Many break their own wrists learning to wield them.

You've counted the phases of their training through seasons.

First, the endless drills until their movements become reflex, then the sparring that leaves red droplets crystallizing on white snow. The masks come early — crude training ones at first, heavy iron things that make it hard to breathe, harder still to see. They learn to fight half-blind, to rely on instinct over sight.

To become creatures of pure reaction.

But it's the endurance training that haunts your dreams.

They stand for days in the bitter cold, perfectly still, until ice forms on their armor. They run barefoot through snow until their feet bleed, then run further still, and some disappear during these tests, their names never spoken again, as if Ironmere itself had swallowed them whole.

Your father calls it necessary refinement.

You call it what it is.

The systematic breaking of human beings until all that remains is loyal steel wrapped in obedient flesh.

It was the whimpering that drew you from your chambers — a sound so foreign in these stone halls where weakness dares not echo. Your footsteps fell like fresh snow as you traced that desperate keening, following it until it transformed into a metallic chattering, silver bars rattling as violent tremors wracked a body fighting to remember warmth.

He doesn’t turn when you found him in the South Tower's breezeway, though surely he heard you.

His silhouette matches the template they all conform to eventually — broad shoulders carved by endless drills, frame solid as the mountain itself, training blacks clung like a second skin, running from throat to wrist in an unbroken line of shadow. Only his gloved hands betrayed movement, fingers flexing and unflexing in a rhythm that matched his shivering.

The new muzzle catches what little moonlight filtered through the frost-laced windows, shaped like a snarling dogs snout, throwing silver patterns across the walls. Too new to have darkened with use, too rigid yet to have molded to his face.

Another wolf being broken to the bit, another hound learning to embrace his cage.

The closer you drift toward him, the more your father's warnings drum against your skull.

Never approach a new Grimguard alone. They're most dangerous before the muzzle takes hold.

The metallic chattering quickens like a death rattle, and the cold seems to deepen, carving into your marrow with ancient teeth, and memory washes over you as you recall exactly what they become — watched them train in the courtyards below your window, witnessed how they move like poetry written in violence, how they strike with the precision of winter's first killing frost.

But this one.

This one still trembles.

His control fractures with each shudder, and you remember how father once told you that a Grimguard is most lethal in the moments they're breaking.

Like a wolf with its leg in a trap, he'd said, that familiar cruel smile twisting his lips. They'll tear through their own flesh to survive. Imagine what they'd do to yours.

Pain shapes them. The cold hardens them.

A common solider dies for his kingdom, a Grimguard kills for it.

"Are you cold?" The whisper escapes before wisdom can catch it, and the transformation is immediate — his trembling ceases as if frozen in time, muscles locking into place with military precision.

Whether it's training or pure shock that stills him, you can't tell.

These new ones are always unpredictable, balanced on a knife's edge between their old instincts and their new purpose.

"I heard you whimpering," you continue, the words hanging dangerous and delicate in the space between you. Through the silver teeth of his muzzle, his breath comes in short, controlled bursts, each exhale creating ghost-white clouds that dissipate against the metalwork.

The pattern is deliberate now — mechanical — as if he's forcing each breath through a carefully memorized cadence, the same measured rhythm you've watched the veteran Grimguard use during their drills, when they're trying to master pain.

You wonder if he's already learning to lie with his body, or if he's simply too terrified to show weakness.

You hover in the uncertainty, unsure what response you're seeking.

The Grimguard are like shadows given form and function — you've spent years watching them from windows and walkways, learning their peculiar language of violence and restraint.

They move in packs through the fortress halls, all lethal grace and barely contained aggression, but you've also witnessed the moments they think no one sees.

A Grimguard pressing their muzzle against a packmate's shoulder after a brutal training session, the silent comfort shared between two hounds who lost their third to a snow bear's claws at the North Gate, and there’s something almost gentle in how they lean into each other then, these weapons your father has forged, finding warmth in the spaces between their brutal purpose.

But those moments are never meant for outsiders' eyes.

They're certainly not meant for the kings daughter, whose very presence reminds them of the hand that holds their leash.

You've seen how quickly they can shift from deadly grace to deadly intent, how the muzzles hide everything except the truth in their eyes.

He turns — slowly, deliberately — and you catch your first glimpse of eyes behind the silver latticework.

They're brown, almost gold in the dim light, and far too lucid for comfort. Not yet hollowed out by more training, not yet carrying that vacant winter-wolf stare that marks the veteran Grimguard.

These eyes study you with an unsettling clarity, as if cataloging every detail of your presence.

His head tilts, just slightly, reminding you of the hunting hounds when they catch an unfamiliar scent, and the motion is too natural, too human. Somehow that makes it worse, as most Grimguard move like they're reading from a manual of precise angles and measured steps.

The muzzle shifts as his jaw works beneath it, and you realize he's trying to decide if he's allowed to speak to you. New recruits often struggle with this — the complex hierarchy of who can command their voice and who must be met with silence.

The princess falls into a grey area their training hasn't covered yet.

Finally, his gloved hand rises, not toward you but to his own throat, fingers pressing against the high collar of his blacks where you know the control runes are etched.

The control runes are your father's masterwork — ancient symbols seared into the skin at throat and spine, binding each Grimguard to the fortress's will.

You've seen them during the marking ceremonies, watched how they burn with a cold blue light as they're carved, how they fade to silvery scars that pulse with each heartbeat.

They serve as both leash and collar, limiting how far a Grimguard can roam from the fortress walls, how much force they can use, who they can harm.

"My Lady." The words emerge like broken glass wrapped in velvet — smooth on the surface but jagged underneath. His voice carries that telltale distortion all new recruits have, as if speaking through layers of frost, but there's something else there. A tremor of defiance, perhaps, or desperation. "The cold is necessary. Part of our conditioning."

He swallows hard, the muzzle's intricate metalwork shifting with the motion. The runes must be burning now — you can see how his fingers dig deeper into his collar, tendons standing out against the black leather of his gloves, but he holds your gaze, those amber eyes still too present, too aware.

Most pups learn to lower their eyes by now.

You notice a tension in how he stands, like a bowstring drawn too tight, and you recognize the stance from watching new recruits, called the Unblooded, in the training yards.

"Necessary," you echo, tasting the word's bitter edge. You've heard your father use that same justification countless times in his workshops, watching dispassionately as fresh recruits screamed through their first exposure to the killing cold. The cold that reshapes them, hardens them, strips away everything warm and human until only the Grimguard remains.

His breathing hitches — just slightly — at your tone.

The runes pulse again, brighter now, a steady rhythm like heartbeats beneath his collar. You notice how his other hand has curled into a fist at his side, leather creaking with the strain, Fighting the compulsion to kneel, perhaps, or fighting the instinct to run.

Both would be equally futile.

"And who told you that?" The question slips out softer than intended, almost gentle — It's dangerous, this curiosity about their lives before the muzzles, before the markings. Your father has warned you repeatedly about seeing them as anything more than what they are now: tools, weapons.

But there's something about this one's eyes, about the way he still holds himself like he remembers another life, that makes you reckless.

You can hear the slight scrape of metal teeth as his jaw clenches beneath the muzzle. When he finally speaks, his voice has splintered, "The Keeper himself, my Lady. Your father."

You hear the sound of boots approaching, the groundslurkers making their rounds to assure everything is just-so.

"Inside," you murmur, touching the frozen door behind you. Not a command, but an invitation. A dangerous one. No Grimguard is allowed in the royal quarters unless specifically ordered by your father.

The punishment would be severe.

He knows this.

You see the conflict ripple across what's visible of his face, the way his fingers twitch toward his turtleneck collar, but the patrol's footsteps are getting closer, and you've already seen too much.

You push the door open wider, letting candlelight spill onto the frost-rimed stones. "Choose quickly."

For a moment, he's perfectly still, like the ice sculptures in the winter garden, then he moves — one fluid step through the doorway, silent as snow despite his armor, and you close the door just as the patrol rounds the corner, their heavy boots echoing past without pause.

In your chambers, he looks desperately out of place.

The black armor and cruel angles of his muzzle stark against the rich tapestries and furs. He stands rigid, carefully not touching anything, as if afraid his mere presence might taint the warmth of the room.

In all your life in the palace, you've never dared to get this close. The Grimguard are your father's shadows, his weapons — to be glimpsed from afar, never examined.

But now.

You circle him slowly, studying the way frost creeps along the joints of his armor, how it crystallizes in delicate patterns where leather meets metal. Up close, you can hear the soft crackle of ice forming and reforming with each breath, see how the cold radiates from him in barely visible waves that make the air shimmer.

The muzzle is even more intricate than you'd imagined.

Delicate silverwork overlays darker metal, creating a lattice of thorns and frozen vines that cage the lower half of his face. You can see now why they call it a muzzle rather than a mask — it's fitted precisely to his features, allowing just enough movement to speak when commanded, but designed to remind both wearer and observer of its purpose.

Control.

Your hand lifts before you can stop yourself, drawn to the impossible intricacy of it. His whole body goes rigid, but he doesn't step back. This close, you can see the minute tremors running through him — fighting against something you don't fully understand, or reacting to your proximity, or both.

"Does it hurt?" you whisper, fingers hovering just above the metalwork. "All the time, or only when-“

"Yes." The word comes out rough, barely above a whisper. He hasn't spoken this long without a command in who can say exactly how long. "Always. But more when..." He trails off, eyes flickering to your still-raised hand, then away.

More when fighting whatever's been done to him, you realize.

More when showing any trace of humanity.

Your hand trembles slightly, caught between pulling back and closing that final distance. The cold radiates against your skin, a warning or an invitation— you're not sure which.

You've never heard one of them admit to pain before.

They're not supposed to feel anything at all.

But he does feel.

He hurts.

His eyes widen, a flash of something — fear, hope? — breaking through their frozen surface.

"Let me help you," you say softly, reaching for the intricate clasps of the muzzle nestled in his wavy, black hair. "Just while we're here. No one will know."

"You can't," he says, the words strained. Even this small act of refusal seems to cost him. "The cold will hurt you. And if the Keeper—"

"My father isn't here," you interrupt, your voice steady despite the way your heart pounds. "And I'm not afraid of the cold."

You're close enough now to see how the metalwork digs into his skin, how even the simple act of speaking makes the thorns beneath the sides of his muzzle bite deeper.

All these years, you never knew the muzzles were lined.

Never wanted to know.

His breath catches as your fingers brush the first clasp, but he remains perfectly still, caught between what he's been made to be and what you're offering him — a moment of freedom, no matter how brief.

The clasp comes free with a sharp click, and his whole body jerks as if struck. A soft sound escapes him — pain or relief, you can't tell, as frost spreads rapidly across the metal where your fingers made contact, but you refuse to pull away.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, working on the next clasp. "I'll be quick." The cold bites into your fingertips now, sharp and hungry, but you can see how the muzzle's grip has already loosened slightly, allowing him to take a deeper breath. “Are they all like this?”

His hands clench at his sides, trembling with the effort to remain still, and each release of a thorn seems to send shockwaves through him, as if the very act of being freed is its own kind of agony. But he doesn't stop you, doesn't pull away — and that tells you more than words ever could.

The facade of silver and shadow begins to come apart under your careful touch, revealing glimpses of what lies beneath; you try not to think about how long it's been since anyone has seen his true face, or why your father thought it necessary to cage him so thoroughly.

"No," he manages, voice tight as you work on another clasp. "Not all. This one is special." There's a bitter edge to the word that makes you pause.

The implications sink in slowly. Your father must have designed this one specifically for him — more thorns, more pain, more control. Because he was different somehow. Because he fought back.

You examine the cruel metalwork with new understanding, noting how the thorns are positioned to punish speech, expression, any hint of defiance, your fingers tracing a particularly deep puncture mark, and he goes completely still, hardly breathing.

"Almost done," you promise, though your hands are nearly numb from the cold now. Each clasp reveals more evidence of long-term torture disguised as restraint. The more you see, the more questions burn in your throat, “Why’d they give you one like this?”

He's quiet for so long you think he won't answer, the final clasp coming free under your trembling fingers, but he makes no move to remove the muzzle completely.

"I remembered," he finally says, "Something I wasn't supposed to. My name." His eyes meet yours, and there's something terrible in their depths — not just pain, but knowledge. "They take everything when they make us, but I kept one thing."

He stops abruptly, as if even this small confession costs him dearly, and you can see the thorns pressing deeper as he speaks, drawing pinpoints of darkness that might be blood, might be something else entirely, yet he hardly reacts.

The pain hardly registers.

A weapon isn't supposed to remember who it used to be.

But this one does.

“What’s your name?”

His breath catches at your question, and you can see him fighting against years of conditioning, against the very magic that binds him, and the room grows colder, frost crystallizing on the windowpanes.

"L-" he starts, then gasps as if the very attempt causes him physical pain. His hands clench. "Luigi," he finally manages, the name coming out in a rush of frozen air.

You repeat the name softly, testing its weight, and he shudders at the sound of it from another person's lips. How long has it been since anyone has called him by his real name? How many years of being nothing but a number, a weapon, a Grimguard?

This is where it began.

And soon, you find yourself inventing excuses to avoid Duke Aldrich of Brindsborough's tedious evening calls. Instead, your nights belong to these stolen moments; you and Luigi seated on the floor of your chambers, knees touching, sharing whispered confessions in the candlelight.

He teaches you how the Grimguards sleep — bodies intertwined for warmth in the cold stone kennels, finding comfort in the press of limbs and shared breath. The first time he shows you, hesitantly arranging your bodies so your back fits against his chest, you understand.

It's not just for warmth — it's about trust.

You learn to read the minute changes in his expression, the things he can't say even without the muzzle. He learns your tells, too — the way you twist your rings when you're anxious, how your laugh changes when you're truly happy versus when you're playing the perfect princess.

These evenings become your refuge whilst the rest of the castle prepares for your upcoming marriage to a man you barely tolerate, you and Luigi build something fragile and precious in secret candlelight.

You tell him about the time you were seven, and you snuck your injured falcon into your bedroom instead of letting the gamekeeper "take care of it." You'd splinted its wing with strips torn from your favorite dress and fed it scraps from your dinners for weeks. Your father had been furious when he found out — not because you'd ruined the dress, but because you'd shown weakness.

Mercy was unbecoming of a princess.

The next memory stands out sharp and clear — that particular night when everything shifted.

You'd barely managed to secure the door's heavy lock before Luigi abandoned his usual restraint, muzzle yanked off. One moment you were turning, the next your back hit the floor with a soft thump, driving a surprised laugh from your chest.

His movements were pure instinct, almost feral — nothing like the rigid control the Grimguards usually displayed. Cool lips and nose traced your neck once you’d pulled his muzzle away, your collarbone, your hair, erasing every lingering trace of Duke Aldrich's cloying cologne. Each brush of contact sent shivers down your spine, not from cold but from the intensity of his need to claim, to possess.

"Marking your territory, are you?" you whispered through breathless giggles, fingers threading through his hair. The words made him pause, and you felt him tense — caught between embarrassment at his display and a deeper, darker urge to continue.

You could feel his breath against your throat, quick and uneven. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough. "He touched you. I could smell him on you all evening. I couldn't. I can't-“

Instead of pulling away, you tugged him closer, understanding flooding through you. This wasn't just possession — it was protection, desperation, love transformed by whatever magic had remade him into something wild and fierce. "I'm here," you whispered. "I'm yours."

A sound rumbled deep in his chest — not quite human, not quite animal—and his grip on you tightened almost painfully. The temperature plummeted, frost blooming across the flagstones in intricate spirals, but you weren't cold.

Not where he touched you.

"Mine," he breathed against your skin, the word holding years of denied wanting. His control, already fragile, splintered further. You felt the magic that bound him surge and twist, fighting against this claiming that went against everything they'd bred him to be.

Grimguards weren't meant to want.

Weren't meant to possess anything but their duty.

Yet here he was, trembling above you, eyes dark with need as they met yours. One hand cradled your face with impossible gentleness, even as the other gripped your waist with bruising intensity. The contradiction of him — deadly weapon and tender protector, ice and burning want — made your heart race.

"Say it again," he pleaded, voice rough with desperation.

You reached up, traced the scars where the muzzle had been, and watched his eyes flutter closed at your touch. "I'm yours, Luigi," you whispered. "Only yours."

The moment your fingers trace those scars, Luigi shudders violently, a full-body tremor that sends cascades of ice crystals shimmering through the air. His breath hitches, catches — no one has ever touched him there, not with such tenderness, not since they first bound him.

But then he does something that steals your breath — he leans into your touch. Like a half-wild thing learning trust, he presses his face against your hand, nuzzling into your palm.

His skin is cold as ever, but his breath comes hot against your wrist. When his lips brush your skin — tentative, questioning — you feel the ghost of frost patterns blooming up your arm.

"Warm," he murmurs, sounding almost drunk on the sensation. "You're so warm." His eyes are half-lidded now, tension melting from his shoulders even as his grip on your waist remains possessive, and the contradiction fascinates you — how he can seem so dangerous and so vulnerable in the same moment.

You trace another scar, and this time he makes a sound that's almost a purr, deep in his chest. The ice spreading across your chambers takes on a soft, pearlescent glow, as if reflecting his pleasure. It's intoxicating, this power to gentle him with just your touch, to make the fearsome Grimguard melt like snow in spring.

When his eyes open to meet yours again, they're heavy with an emotion that makes your heart stutter. The gold in them has darkened to midnight, pupils blown wide. "More.” he whispers, and it's both a plea and a demand.

With trembling fingers, you map the constellations of his scars, each touch drawing new sounds from him — soft gasps and broken whimpers that make your chest tight. The marks are smooth beneath your fingertips, silver-white against his olive skin. You trace them all; the deep grooves where the muzzle's straps cut in, the lighter marks across his jaw where they tested different bindings.

His control slips further with each caress, and frost flowers bloom and fade on your skin where his hands roam, leaving trails of delicious cold that make you shiver. When your thumb brushes the corner of his mouth — where the metal once forced his silence — he catches it gently between his teeth, eyes locked on yours as he presses a kiss to your fingertip.

"They told us we couldn't feel," he murmurs against your hand. "That the binding stripped everything but duty.” He presses his forehead to yours, breathing ragged. "With you, I feel everything."

You curl your fingers into his hair and pull him down, eliminating the last space between you. His lips are cool against yours, but they warm quickly as you show him this new way to be close, to trust, to want.

He learns fast, desperate and eager, like a man who's been dying of thirst finally given water.

You feel it in every desperate roll of his hips, that untamed creature beneath his skin — the one the Grimguard could never fully bind. It surfaces in the frost that spreads beneath his palms where they bracket your head, in the way his breath comes in ragged pants against your neck, hot despite his perpetual cold.

He's beautiful like this — composure shattered, cheeks flushed an impossible pink against his beautiful skin, and his eyes are blown wide, that ethereal chestnut brown nearly swallowed by black, and they catch the light like stars when he gazes down at you.

There's something almost painful in his expression — wonder and desperation and disbelief all tangled together.

The friction between you draws broken sounds from his throat, primal and unrestrained. His movements are instinctive, graceless — so different from his usual precise control, each roll of his hips against your thigh becoming more frantic than the last, his whole body trembling with need.

"Please," he gasps, though you're not sure what he's begging for. You’re almost certain he doesn't know either. His fingers curl against the floor, "Please, I can't- I need-"

You reach up to thread your fingers through his hair again, drawing him down until his forehead rests against yours, and he whimpers at the contact, hips stuttering in their rhythm.

This close, you can see every emotion flash across his face — vulnerability and hunger and love so intense it steals your breath.

The wild thing in him recognizes its match in you, and neither of you want to tame it anymore.

His voice trembles as he tries to find the words, years of enforced silence warring with raw need. You cradle his face in your hands, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.

"Tell me," you whisper. "I want to hear you say it."

"I-" he starts, then breaks off with a shaky exhale.

"I need to be closer.” He whispers, his movements between your legs desperate and juvenile, but there’s something so, so sweet about it.

He’s reduced himself to raw and visceral need, and cares little for how it makes him look, this feared Grimguard, a hound who sleeps in piles with his pack, a weapon of mass destruction, a human being. He’s flayed himself open for you, guts spilling forth, red hot and oxblood — this primeval need, this unfiltered want.

It simply is not something you’d ever find in anyone else.

Specifically the Fiancé your father has hand-selected.

Luigi groans as you guide him where you need him, the sound low and broken against your throat. Your nightgown rides higher, silk cool against fevered skin. His grip on your hip tightens instinctively, and you gasp at the perfect pressure of frost-touched fingers.

Each roll of his hips is hungry, instinctive — like his body remembers what his mind was forced to forget. You wonder if he dreams of this, if behind those crystalline eyes he imagines all the ways he could unravel you. If during those long, cold nights in his chamber, thoughts of you haunted him like this.

The friction builds a delicious heat that makes your head spin. You arch against him, chasing more, and his breath hitches at the way you move. His eyes are wild when they meet yours — desperate and wanting and almost afraid of how much he needs this.

The etiquette mistress would faint if she knew the thoughts that filled your head during lessons now — memories of frost-touched skin and desperate sounds and the way Luigi says your name like a prayer.

You guide Luigi beneath you, and he goes willingly, eyes wide with wonder as you settle above him, his hands tracing paths of up your thighs, mapping you like something precious, something sacred, each touch leaving ghostly patterns on your skin that fade like morning mist.

The silk of your dress whispers between you as his fingers trail higher, catching on your collarbone where your necklace rests, transfixed by the way the pendant rises and falls with your quickening breath, by how the gold warms against your skin while his touch remains winter-cold.

"Closer," you echo, fingers curling in the hem of his black shirt. You draw it up slowly, exposing him inch by inch, the moonlight streaming through the window catching on old scars that map his abdomen like constellations — some precise and surgical, others jagged and cruel.

Your heart aches at their implications, but now isn't the time to count his wounds.

Not when he's looking at you like this, like you're everything he was told he could never have.

His breath hitches as your hands explore the newly exposed skin, and the temperature drops further with each touch, frost spiraling out beneath him in intricate patterns that match his racing pulse.

"Please," he gasps, and you're not sure if he's begging you to stop or never stop. Maybe both. The wild thing in him is closer to the surface than ever, making his eyes glow like arctic stars in the darkness. "I need- I don't know how to-"

You lean down until your foreheads touch, breaths mingling in the frost-edged space between you. His skin radiates winter's chill everywhere except where his heart beats strong beneath your palm. You can feel him trembling, power barely contained.

"Let me show you," you whisper against his lips, cradling his face. His eyes are luminous in the darkness, filled with vulnerability and desperate trust. The temperature drops as his control frays further, delicate patterns of frost blooming across every surface.

"I've never-" he starts, voice breaking.

You silence him with a gentle kiss. "I know," you breathe. "I've got you. You're safe, Lu."

His fingers flex against your arms as emotions war across his face — years of isolation and fear battling with his need to be known, to be accepted exactly as he is. The wild thing in him strains closer to the surface with each passing moment. "Let go," you tell him softly. "I got you."

You pour all your love into another kiss, wet and hot, showing him that he's worthy of gentleness, of care.

That he doesn't have to hold himself back anymore.

And he doesn’t.

You watch in wonder as his composure fractures, that usually fixed expression melting into something vulnerable and raw, his hands grasping you like an anchor as his careful control slips further.

The temperature drops with each shared breath, but you've never felt warmer.

His face — usually so guarded, bearing scars that speak of battles fought alone - is transformed. Open. Trusting. His lips part on silent pleas as his eyes lock with yours, glowing like arctic stars, and the wild thing in him is closer to the surface than ever.

You've never seen anything more beautiful than this proud, powerful man allowing himself to be soft for you. To be vulnerable. His fingers flex against your skin as another tremor runs through him.

"You're safe," you whisper, rocking your hips against his in a slow rhythm that allows the both of you to adjust. "You're mine."

The sound he makes is something between a sob and a prayer, raw with years of loneliness and need. You kiss him deeply, showing him with every touch that he's worthy of this — of pleasure, of care, of love freely given, and he takes just as his heart desires.

It hardly takes him any time before he’s got the hang of it, raw and needy, soft but strong.

He shoves his face in your neck once you’ve been laid on your back again, his teeth biting gently into the soft flesh of the curve in your shoulder, his instincts still lingering, but you welcome them and each mark he leaves against your skin, the rhythm of his hips sloppy and wild but achingly free, your own body cherished as if he’d come undone at your altar.

He worships you, just as the Grimguards are meant to worship their Keeper — his devotion raw and unfiltered, his gaze defiant and steady, “I love you.” He says, the words feeling like a foreign language, but one you had taught him to speak. “So much it hurts.”

[slcmml]

teacher! charlie & reader — me + you = ♡

i don’t know who agrees with me on this, but i’ve been onto math teacher! charlie & english teacher! reader since dinosaurs went extinct..

♡ i’m thinking a middle school setting.. eighth grade, perhaps. you’re across the hall from each other, but don’t talk too often. not much apart from the shy waves in the morning and small talk while waiting outside of your classrooms to greet your students.

♡ well, that was until charlie started having computer issues. now, don’t get me wrong, he’s a very intelligent man! but he fucking hates these school issued chromebooks they’ve handed out to students.

♡ he usually assigns most work on paper since it’s math, but the school asked for him to start using ixl or fucking khan academy, i don’t know. something online that students can access in case they lose their papers.

♡ but you? you used chromebooks all the time! you weren’t cruel enough to make your students write their papers by hand!

♡ none of charlie’s students could figure out what was wrong with the chromebooks, and neither could he, so he went across the hall to get some help (all embarrassed too.. so cute).

“hi! sorry to interrupt, but i’m having trouble getting my students chromebooks to work? do you think you could help?”

♡ of course, being a nice person, you invite him into your classroom and happily help the man. you explain to him why it was broken and how to fix it etc (he wasn’t listening btw, was staring at you the entire time, he thinks you’re so beautiful).

♡ and after that interaction, charlie tries to talk to you more. (YOU’RE SOOOOO BEAUTIFUL HE JUST WANTS TO BE AROUND YOU) in the break room, he’ll ask how your classes are going, and at lunch, he’ll stop by to see what you’re doing, and even at the end of the day, he’ll check up on you to make sure you don’t stay at the school too late.

♡ his students do not fail to notice this. in fact, they encourage it. “but mr dalgeish, my chomebook is broken! can you please ask them to fix it? i want to finish my work so i don’t have to do it at home!” how could he turn down an opportunity to see you?

♡ he tells his class to keep a low volume while he leaves the room for a moment, walking over to your classroom with his student’s chromebook before knocking.

“hello. sorry, again, for interrupting. i’m not quite sure what’s wrong with this chromebook… could you help?” “oh, don’t worry about it! of course i’ll help!”

♡ you start to take a liking to mr dalgeish too.. he’s quite cute, isn’t he? :) he seems so nervous to talk to you outside of the routine good mornings, which you adore.

“so, uh, how was your weekend?” “it was nice! i got to relax and not worry about grading, so what more could i ask for?” “haha, yeah, i, uh, i agree!”

♡ your students probably get so sick of you both. smiling at him while he stumbles over his words like an idiot. one of his students probably try to stage a note, but it’s so obvious that it’s from said student LMAO.

‘dear beautiful english teacher please date me - mr d’

♡ you put a note on his desk with the note from the student attached.

‘so mr d, do you know what this is about?’

♡ oh GOD. he’s so embarrassed. he spends THIRTY minutes of class lecturing them on how that was unprofessional and inappropriate.

♡ talks to you at some point during lunch break.

“i’m so sorry about them—they can get really out of hand and they really like to meddle in other people’s business which is an entirely different conversation—” “charlie, it’s fine.” “i-it’s fine? ‘charlie’?” “oh, is that okay? i mean, i thought—” “no, no, no, it’s more than okay. i like it.” JUST KISS ALREADY.

♡ so. much. fucking. tension. YOU’RE BOTH TEETERING ON FRIENDS/MORE THAN FRIENDS AND IT ANNOYS EVERYONE.

♡ i can assure you right now, if you or charlie don’t make a move, your students or even a fucking coworker will do it for you. (enter: teacher! jschlatt and teacher! ted nivison)

© slcmml

[28harryssunflower]

It was always you

“You know, I think I’m actually cursed.”

Harry barely looked up from his phone as you flopped onto his bed with a dramatic sigh, burying your face in his pillow. “Yeah?” he said lazily. “What kind of curse we talking about? Eternal clumsiness? Never getting the last slice of pizza?”

You groaned and threw a pillow at him, which he dodged effortlessly. “No, you idiot. A love curse.”

That got his attention. He smirked, locking his phone and tossing it onto his nightstand. “Oh, this could be good. Go on, then. Tell me about your tragic, love-deprived existence.”

“I’m serious, Harry!” You sat up, hugging the pillow to your chest. “I’ve never had a boyfriend. Never even had my first kiss. Meanwhile, you’re out here hooking up with a new girl every week like it’s your part-time job.”

“Full-time, actually,” he teased.

You rolled your eyes but continued. “I just… I want someone to love me, you know? Someone who looks at me and thinks, ‘Yeah, she’s the one I want.’”

Harry watched you for a moment, his smirk softening into something more thoughtful. Then, with his usual smugness, he leaned back against the headboard and stretched out his arms. “Well, lucky for you, you’ve already got me. No need to search any further.”

You scoffed. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious!” he grinned, opening his arms invitingly. “Come on, I’ll even cuddle you, since you’re always so lonely.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are, still talking to me.”

You flipped him off but, despite your protests, you eventually curled up against his side, sighing softly as his warmth surrounded you. It was familiar. Comforting. Safe.

But safety wasn’t love.

And that was the problem.

So when you finally got a boyfriend, you were ecstatic.

Harry had been just as excited for you at first, grinning as you rambled on about your dates, about how sweet your boyfriend was, about how it felt to finally be wanted.

But slowly, things started changing.

It started with little things - canceling plans last-minute, leaving his messages on read. Then, you started avoiding him altogether, barely sparing him a glance in the halls. When he tried to talk to you, your boyfriend would pull you away, whispering something in your ear that made you frown but ultimately follow him without a second thought.

The worst part was, you didn’t even seem to realize what was happening.

And then you forgot his birthday.

Harry spent the entire day pretending not to care, but he did. God, he did. His mum had even asked why you weren’t there - because you were always there. But he just muttered something about you being busy, shrugged off her concerned look, and spent the rest of the day staring at his phone, waiting for a text that never came.

But he didn’t go to your house to confront you. He didn’t text you. He didn’t call you.

This time, he just let it go.

By Monday, he didn’t even bother trying anymore.

You were his only friend - had always been his only friend. Without you, he was alone.

So he leaned into it.

He walked through the halls with his hood up, earphones in, ignoring everything and everyone. He leaned against his locker alone, scrolling through his phone. He was just another body in the hallways now, and maybe that was fine.

Until he heard the laughter.

Harry didn’t even have to look to know who it was.

Your boyfriend and his friends stood at the other end of the hallway, their laughter carrying over the dull roar of students. He was pointing at Harry, smirking as he whispered something to his friends.

Harry clenched his jaw and slammed his locker shut. He wasn’t in the mood for this.

But, of course, your boyfriend had other plans.

“Oi, loser!”

Harry exhaled slowly through his nose but didn’t respond.

“You deaf too?” Another voice chimed in - one of his friends, probably. “Or just fucking pathetic?”

Harry gritted his teeth, gripping the strap of his bag. Just walk away.

But then your boyfriend stepped in front of him.

“You know, it’s sad, really,” he sneered. “You following her around all these years like a lost puppy. Guess she finally got tired of your pathetic ass.”

Harry’s fists curled.

“What?” Your boyfriend smirked. “Nothing to say?” He shoved Harry’s shoulder, making him stumble back a step. “No comeback, huh? Figures. You were always just a waste of space-“

Harry swung.

His fist connected with your boyfriend’s jaw, sending him staggering back. But before Harry could do anything else, hands grabbed him from behind, shoving him hard against the lockers.

And then the punches started.

One to his stomach. Another to his ribs.

A fist slammed into his jaw, snapping his head to the side.

A knee to his gut knocked the air from his lungs, and suddenly, he was on the ground.

More kicks. More fists.

Blood filled his mouth. His vision blurred. His head spun.

And then he heard your voice.

“Harry?!”

The beating stopped instantly.

You pushed through the crowd, your heart stopping when you saw him.

Harry was barely breathing, blood smeared across his face, his lip split, bruises already forming along his jaw. His arms trembled as he tried, and failed, to push himself up.

Your chest tightened, tears blurring your vision as you shoved your boyfriend out of the way and dropped to your knees beside Harry.

“Oh my god,” you choked out, cradling his face in your hands. “Harry, stay with me, okay? Don’t fall asleep. Just- just keep your eyes open.”

He groaned, barely conscious.

You snapped your head up, looking at the crowd. “Someone call a fucking ambulance!”

No one moved.

“Now!”

Finally, someone fumbled for their phone.

Your boyfriend scoffed behind you. “Why are you wasting your time? He’s a loser.”

Then he reached for you.

The second his hand touched your arm, you whipped around, eyes blazing.

“Don’t you dare fucking touch me, you prick.”

He blinked. “What?”

You shot up to your feet, shoving him back. “It’s over.”

He laughed. “Oh, come on. Don’t be dramatic-“

“Piss off!” you screamed, voice breaking. “Get the fuck away from me!”

A few teachers finally arrived, pushing through the crowd. Someone pulled your boyfriend back, while another crouched next to Harry, checking his breathing.

Minutes later, sirens blared outside.

You held Harry’s hand the entire way to the hospital, whispering apologies through your tears, telling him to just stay awake, that you were so, so sorry.

He squeezed your hand weakly. “Told you… you don’t need… anyone else.”

A broken sob left your lips. “Shut up, idiot.”

When his parents arrived, you barely got the words out before breaking down entirely, burying your face in Anne’s shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” you sobbed. “It’s all my fault.”

Anne just held you tighter. “Oh, sweetheart.”

You didn’t leave Harry’s side. Not for a second.

Because maybe love had been right in front of you all along.

The hospital room was too bright, too sterile, too quiet except for the steady beep of Harry’s heart monitor.

You sat beside his bed, gripping his hand tightly, even though he was barely conscious. The sight of him like this - bruised, battered, barely able to open his eyes - made your chest ache with guilt.

You had let this happen.

And you weren’t leaving him again.

“I want a second bed in his room.”

The nurse blinked at you, glancing between you and Harry’s sleeping form. “I’m sorry, but only family members-“

“I don’t care,” you cut in, voice shaking but firm. “I’m not leaving him.”

The nurse hesitated, clearly torn, but then she sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.”

That night, they wheeled in a second bed for you.

It was small, uncomfortable, and cold, but you didn’t care. It was close enough to Harry. That’s all that mattered.

You barely slept.

Every time he shifted, every time he let out the faintest groan of pain, you were up, adjusting his pillows, checking his IV, making sure he had everything he needed.

Sometime in the middle of the night, his hand found yours.

“You’re still here?” he mumbled, voice hoarse, eyes barely open.

Tears welled up in your eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His lips quirked up just slightly, the ghost of a smile. “Good.”

And then he fell back asleep, his fingers still loosely wrapped around yours.

The hospital stay lasted a week.

A week of helping him sit up when his ribs hurt too much. A week of spoon-feeding him shitty hospital food because he was too drugged-up to do it himself. A week of pretending not to cry when the doctors explained how much pain he’d be in for the next few months.

A week of never leaving his side.

By the time he was discharged, you had practically memorized his breathing patterns, the way his eyebrows furrowed when he was uncomfortable, the way he clung to your hand every time he fell asleep.

And despite everything, despite the pain, despite the bruises, despite the way you had abandoned him for so long - he still wanted you there.

You didn’t understand it.

But you weren’t about to question it.

The first night at his house was rough.

He could barely move, every breath sending a sharp pain through his ribs. You helped him get into bed, carefully adjusting his pillows, setting his pain meds and water on the nightstand.

“You really don’t have to-“

“Yes, I do.”

He looked at you for a long moment, then sighed. “Alright, Nurse Bossy.”

You rolled your eyes, sitting down on the bed next to him. “Shut up and take your meds.”

He did. But when he winced, shifting slightly, you immediately reached for him, helping him lean back.

His gaze softened. “You’re gonna take care of me, huh?”

You swallowed. “Of course I am.”

Harry studied your face, something unreadable in his expression. “Even after everything?”

Guilt twisted in your chest. “I don’t understand how you can even look at me after what I did,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

He exhaled slowly, his fingers brushing against yours. “Because you’re you.”

You blinked at him, eyes stinging. “I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you.”

Harry tilted his head slightly. “That’s not for you to decide, is it?”

Your breath hitched.

After a moment, you sighed and carefully curled up beside him, resting your head on his good shoulder.

“I’m still sorry,” you murmured.

“I know,” he whispered. “But you’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

The next few weeks changed everything.

You never left his side. Every morning, you helped him sit up, made him food, made sure he took his meds. You helped him shower, helped him dress, even sat through hours of shitty reality TV just to keep him entertained.

And through it all, Harry changed too.

Gone was the playboy who hooked up with someone new every weekend. Gone was the smug flirt who never took anything seriously.

He still joked around, still teased you endlessly, still acted like the Harry you had known your whole life. But something was different.

He wasn’t looking for anyone else anymore.

Because he already had you.

Neither of you spent a single night alone after that.

If he wasn’t staying over at your place, you were at his. You always shared a bed, sometimes he stayed up late watching movies while you fell asleep against his shoulder.

But no matter what, you were together.

Always.

One night, weeks after everything, he traced lazy patterns on your arm as you lay curled up beside him.

“You’re really never leaving me again, huh?”

You swallowed. “Never.”

He exhaled, pulling you a little closer.

“Good.”

If anyone had told you a year ago that you and Harry would end up like this - tangled together every night, inseparable, happy - you would have laughed in their face.

But now, lying in his bed with his arms wrapped around you, his lips brushing lazily over the top of your head as he mumbled half-asleep nonsense, you couldn’t imagine life any other way.

Everything was just… good.

Better than good.

Perfect.

School was different now.

Where Harry used to be surrounded by girls hanging off his every word, he was now only ever with you. He still had his cocky smirk, still joked around with his old friends, but when it came down to it, he only had eyes for you.

And he made sure everyone knew it.

Whether it was his arm slung over your shoulder in the halls, the way he pulled you into his lap when you sat with him at lunch, or the way he casually shut down any girl who so much as batted her eyelashes at him - it was clear.

Harry Styles was taken.

And he wouldn’t shut up about it.

“My girlfriend’s actually the smartest person in this school,” he’d brag to your teachers when you aced a test.

“My girl made the best fucking pancakes this morning,” he’d tell his friends, even though he had literally helped you burn them.

“My girl,” he called you. All the time. And you secretly loved it.

You rolled your eyes at his antics, but every time, you’d find yourself blushing, hiding your smile as he grinned at you like you were his entire world.

Because, well… you were.

Your families were just as obsessed with your relationship as Harry was.

Anne had always loved you like a second daughter, but now that you were officially dating her son, she took it to a whole new level.

“I knew it,” she’d say every time she saw you two cuddled up on the couch. “Knew you’d end up together. Should’ve placed a bet.”

Harry groaned. “Mum-“

“You two were practically married as kids anyway,” she continued, waving him off. “Might as well make it official.”

You laughed. “We’re still in high school, Anne.”

She just shrugged. “You’ll get there.”

Your own parents weren’t any better.

Your mom practically beamed every time Harry walked through the door, already treating him like a son. Your dad had been a little skeptical at first (probably remembering Harry’s less-than-stellar reputation), but after seeing how much he adored you, he came around quickly.

“Just take care of her,” your dad had told him one evening, clapping a firm hand on Harry’s shoulder.

Harry had looked him dead in the eye and said, “Always.”

That had been the moment your dad fully accepted him.

From then on, family dinners turned into “future planning sessions,” where your parents and his would casually drop comments like, “When you two get married,” and “Your future kids are going to be adorable.”

You’d groan and hide your face in your hands while Harry just smirked, clearly enjoying it.

“You hear that, love?” he teased one night as you lay in his bed, scrolling through your phone while he played with your fingers. “They want grandkids.”

You shot him a look. “You’re literally seventeen.”

He shrugged. “So? You think they’re wrong?”

You sighed, setting your phone down to look at him properly. “Do you?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. He just studied your face, eyes soft, thumb brushing over the back of your hand.

Then he smirked. “Nah, they’re definitely right.”

You rolled your eyes and shoved his shoulder. “Idiot.”

He just laughed and pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “You love me.”

You sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately.”

But he knew the truth.

And so did you.

Being with Harry felt like breathing - natural, effortless, something you didn’t even have to think about.

When you were alone with him, the rest of the world disappeared.

No teasing from your families about marriage and grandkids. No whispers at school about how Harry Styles finally settled down. No past mistakes, no guilt, no fears.

Just him. Just you. Just this.

Nights at his house were your favorite.

It usually started with a lazy movie night, where Harry would let you pick something - though he always found a way to distract you before the ending. Sometimes with kisses pressed against your jaw, other times by burying his face in your neck and mumbling about how you smell so good, love, what is that? until you finally gave in and let him pull you into his arms.

You always ended up in his bed, tangled together, legs hooked over his, your head resting on his chest as his fingers traced slow circles on your back.

Harry loved to touch you.

Not in a desperate, needy way - though, let’s be honest, sometimes it was that too - but in a constant way.

His hands were always on you, even in the smallest ways. His fingers brushing over your knuckles when you walked side by side. His palm resting on your thigh when you sat next to him. His lips pressing against your temple whenever you leaned against him.

And when you were alone, when it was just the two of you wrapped up in his sheets, his touch was even softer.

He’d run his fingers through your hair, whispering little nothings, sometimes teasing, sometimes serious.

“Gonna marry you one day,” he murmured one night, voice heavy with sleep.

You huffed, your fingers lazily tracing patterns on his stomach. “You’re obsessed with me.”

Harry chuckled, shifting so he could press a kiss to your forehead. “Obviously.”

You smiled against his skin, feeling his heartbeat beneath your cheek.

This was home.

Mornings slow and filled with warmth.

Harry was not a morning person. He liked to stay in bed as long as possible, groaning dramatically whenever you tried to move.

“Don’t leave,” he mumbled one morning, voice muffled against your shoulder.

“I have to pee.”

“Pee later.”

“That’s not how it works, idiot.”

Harry groaned, tightening his grip on you. “Fine. But you’re coming back.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled, kissing his cheek before slipping out of bed.

When you returned, he had stolen your pillow, hugging it to his chest like some sort of oversized teddy bear.

“You’re ridiculous,” you said, crawling back in beside him.

“Mm.” He tossed the pillow aside, pulling you into his arms instead. “Better.”

You let him be clingy, let him tuck his face into your neck, let him hold you like he was afraid you’d disappear.

Afternoons spent doing absolutely nothing and everything at the same time.

Some days, you stayed in bed all day, wrapped up in each other, talking about everything.

Harry loved to ask questions.

What’s your happiest memory?

If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?

If we were stranded on an island, would you eat me or let me eat you first?

(You didn’t dignify that last one with a response.)

Other days, he’d convince you to go on little adventures with him - late-night drives with the windows down, ice cream runs even when it was freezing outside, sneaking into the neighborhood pool just to float on your backs and stare at the stars.

Everything was better with him.

Even the boring, ordinary moments.

Some nights, you didn’t sleep at all.

You’d stay up talking, whispering under the covers like kids sharing secrets.

One night, after hours of just being with each other, Harry tilted your chin up, eyes soft in the dim light of his bedroom.

“I never really knew what love was,” he admitted. “Not before you.”

Your breath caught. “Harry…”

He swallowed, his fingers brushing over your cheek. “I know I’ve said a lot of stupid shit in the past, and I know I was a dick before, but I-“ He exhaled sharply. “I love you. You know that?”

You stared at him, heart swelling in your chest.

“I know.”

His shoulders relaxed. “Good.”

You smiled, cupping his face in your hands. “I love you too.”

Harry let out a breathy laugh, like he still couldn’t believe this was real.

And then he kissed you.

Slow and deep, like he had all the time in the world. Like he was never letting you go.

And he never did.

You and Harry barely fought.

Sure, you bickered all the time - about who got the last slice of pizza, about his terrible taste in reality TV, about the way he always stole the covers at night. But it was never serious.

Until tonight.

And it was stupid.

It started with Harry forgetting to pick you up from school when he had a day off and you weren’t driving home together.

You waited outside for over an hour, your phone battery slowly draining as you sent unanswered texts, your frustration growing with every passing minute.

By the time you walked home - freezing, exhausted, and pissed off - Harry was sprawled out on his bed, completely oblivious.

“Oh, hey, love,” he greeted casually, grinning. “Didn’t hear you come in-“

“You forgot me.”

Harry’s grin faded, eyebrows furrowing. “Shit.” He sat up, running a hand through his hair. “I- I didn’t mean to, I just-“

“Oh, you just what?” you snapped, throwing your bag on the floor. “Got too distracted being lazy to remember your girlfriend?”

Harry scowled. “I wasn’t being lazy! I was studying.”

You scoffed. “Studying what, Harry? The inside of your eyelids?”

His jaw clenched. “I said I didn’t mean to. What more do you want?”

“I want you to care!”

“I do care-“

“Not enough.”

Harry stood up then, his expression darkening. “Don’t fucking do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like I don’t love you just because I made one mistake.”

Your nostrils flared as you glared at him. “It’s not just one mistake, Harry. You never take things seriously. You’re always so fucking carefree-“

“Oh, I’m so sorry for not being miserable all the time,” he shot back sarcastically.

Your hands balled into fists. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re a pain in my ass,” he snapped, stepping closer.

You stepped closer too. “I hate you.”

His chest was heaving now, eyes burning into yours. “Yeah? I hate you more.”

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft. It was desperate, angry, all teeth and heat and hands gripping a little too tight.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you flush against him, his body pressing yours against the wall.

You gasped into his mouth, nails raking down his back.

He bit your bottom lip in retaliation, his breath hot against your skin as he muttered, “So fucking annoying.”

You dug your nails in deeper. “You love it.”

His response was a growl, his lips crashing back into yours, his hands grabbing, pulling, taking.

You didn’t stop. Not when he lifted you onto the bed. Not when he hovered over you, his hands gripping your wrists. Not even when he smirked and whispered, “Still hate me?”

Afterward, you lay beside him, panting, your limbs tangled together, skin still burning from his touch.

The room was silent for a long time.

“I hate you,” you muttered, turning your head to glare at him.

Harry chuckled breathlessly, rolling onto his side. “I hate you more.”

You both stared at each other, eyes narrowing - until, suddenly, you both cracked.

A laugh bubbled up from your chest, and before you knew it, you were giggling, your forehead dropping against his shoulder.

Harry grinned, his arms wrapping around you, holding you close. “We’re so fucking stupid.”

You nodded, still laughing softly. “Yeah.”

His fingers traced lazy patterns on your back. “But you still love me.”

You sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately.”

Harry smirked. “Guess you’re stuck with me, then.”

You lifted your head, meeting his gaze. His eyes were warm now, soft, all the anger from before completely melted away.

You leaned in, pressing a slow, gentle kiss to his lips.

He sighed against your mouth, his fingers threading through your hair.

After a moment, he pulled back just enough to murmur, “Still hate me?”

You smiled, “Yeah.”

He grinned, kissing you again.

[brawberryz]

You're a fucking weird hacker

Batfam Yan! × Troll Hacker! Reader

《Platonic!》

You were a fucking pain

For months you had been bothering the batfam with your stupid pranks, they started off as mild as sending viruses to their emails or making up gossip on the internet

But now? Now you were just annoying, you managed to piss off the whole batfam even batman himself

You managed to hack the batcomputer and fill it with viruses, you even managed to hack Barbara which was quite surprising, your skills with technology went beyond what they had anticipated

No matter what they did they simply couldn't find anything about you, it's like you only existed on the net

One thing was clear, you were much smarter than all of them and you used that intelligence to make their lives miserable and annoy them

But the straw that broke the camel's back was when you threatened to show their secret identities to the world, it wasn't an empty threat you sent them evidence and it was clear that you weren't lying

You had the most important family of heroes in the palm of your hand

From that moment on they became more serious with their investigation, they tried to find anything that could tell them something about you or your information

But every time they found a clue it was just a joke yours, you yourself put those "clues" which were links with viruses that would easily render a computer useless or to weird porn pages and when I say they were weird, they were WEIRD

You were always two steps ahead of them, what surprised everyone the most is that you did nothing with that information

You just wanted to scare them and have fun for a while, your jokes continued but they were no longer as constant as before

Until days after the incident an anonymous email arrived, batman hesitated to open it but after confirming that it was not some kind of virus or joke he read it

He was surprised when he saw that it was a huge world document where you detailed with evidence the next plan of riddler

He was surprised at how well detailed and written it was, you had put the date, place, time and even minute of the attack

At the end there was a small message in the email that confirmed that it was clearly you who had sent that

"Take this as a small apology for my bad behavior :3"

A A small smile formed on the man's face, maybe you weren't as bad as he thought

And so the days went by, from one day to the next you had changed now you helped them by filtering information about villains and criminals making their plans fail

In that short period of time you made the negative opinion of the batfam that they had of you change

In that time, you became great friends with Barbara and Tim

You and Barbara loved technology and programming, while with Tim you were both nerds with similar tastes

Of course, you communicated with them from anonymous messages but they still managed to get to know you a lot more

But then a small slip occurred, when you sent one of your reports about a future plan of Joker you forgot to use an anonymous email and you sent it from your main account

That's where your problems began, in a few hours the entire batfamily had your information, from your age, face and address

They discovered that you were barely a teenager with apparently too much free time

They also discovered You didn't have parents, you were an orphan teenager who lived in a small apartment and worked on weekends in those geeky or otaku stores.

Clearly you almost fainted when you opened the door to your apartment thinking it was the pizza delivery guy, you were surprised when you found Batman staring at you.

God, he looked even bigger in person.

"What are you doing here!?"

You said surprised walking backwards, you didn't imagine that he would be able to find your address, although you shouldn't be surprised it was Batman having literally doxed you was the calmest thing he could do

"I want to talk to you"

He tried to sound as serious as possible but it was almost impossible, in his mind he could only think about the person who literally made him lose his mind in person looked so fragile and small

"Well I don't want to talk, so get out"

You were already tired of this, you thought that if you helped him in his cases he would leave you alone but it seems that you awakened that protective paternal instinct

When you were about to close the door he held it tightly preventing you from closing it

"Really?"

You looked at him angrily, you couldn't believe he was so stubborn You let out a sigh of defeat and let him in

"Well, what do you want?"

You said as you laid down on your little couch, he just stood there looking at you

"This place is very dangerous"

That made you raise an eyebrow, why did he care about you?

"So?"

"You should move, the crime rates in this area went up too much"

You just frowned at that comment, who did he think he was to tell you where to live

"I don't care, I've lived here all my life I know how to take care of myself, I don't need your protection"

You didn't need a man you barely knew to take care of you, you had been alone since you were 13, you knew very well how to take care of yourself

After that strange interaction with Bruce you started receiving checks in his names, the water bill, the electricity bill and even your apartment were paid

But apparently it wasn't enough with the man's visit if he didn't also come to visit every fucking member of the batfamily

It started with Richard coming at night and opening (breaking) your window and talking to you as if you were some kind of younger sister, it made you uncomfortable the way he thought he knew you in every way besides being too clingy like hugging you for hours or not wanting to let go

Then he arrived Jason, you didn't have that many problems with him, the only thing you couldn't complain about was that at least he respected your personal space

He used to talk to you about books he read or was reading while you pretended to listen but deep down you just wanted him to get the hell out of your house

Tim wasn't as talkative as Jason or Richard, but still his presence just seemed irritating and annoying to you

It seemed like he thought that just because you had the same tastes you were going to be friends, you hated that he didn't respect your personal space and filled you with questions

Damian, how I hated that little demon he only came to your house to bother you and ask you (force you and threaten you) to fix his things, like his Robin gadgets or to improve something

At least he paid you with the food Alfred made and if you were honest it was delicious, it was worth putting up with his orders if that meant being able to try that kind old man's food

With Barbara you only talked by text, although it bothered you how insistent she could be

Cass was very quiet, she used to come to your house at night and enter your room and watch you work, sometimes she went just to rest a while from the patrol or sometimes she just enjoyed your presence but even so you considered it weird or strange

Steph treated you as if she knew you all your life, she forced you to go shopping with her and go to spas together

It's not that you didn't enjoy it, you just hated being surrounded by people with all your being, plus you felt like she didn't even listen to your opinions, you felt like she was just using you like a toy

You did everything possible to stop talking to them, you even thought about moving somewhere else, with the money that Bruce sent you it was going to be more than enough to go to another city far from Gotham

Far from them

But you knew it was going to be useless, they knew everything about you, you knew that they were even capable of putting cameras hidden around your apartment just to keep a closer eye on you

If you tried to talk to Bruce and tell him he wasn't respecting your privacy he would just use the excuse that he just wanted you to be safe

You hated that he had control over you, that they had any kind of control in your life

It was too late to regret, all eyes were on you

And they weren't going to let you escape from them that easily

I'll leave this here before I go to sleep

byeee

[munsonsmixtapes]

Just You and Me: Part Two

On every part of this series, there will be a poll where you can vote whether you want reader to end up with Steve or Eddie or both! This has been so much fun to write and I hope y’all enjoy!

summary: you debut your “relationship at Corroded Coffin’s gig at The Hideout, unknowingly hurting the both of them.

cw: hurt/no comfort, angst, mention of alcohol

part one

Steve is sitting on the couch in your living room while you show him the entire time frame of your “relationship” that you’ve mapped out on a piece of poster board. You put it up on an easel and even got a collapsible metal pointer to really show him how serious you are about the whole thing.

Though, he seems more interested in the bag of potato chips he’s snacking on as opposed to the whole point of why he’s even at your apartment. He knows he’s supposed to be focusing, but how can he when you’re wearing that skirt that drives him crazy? Your legs just look so good and he’s so desperate to run his hands up and down your thighs as he lies on top of you, kissing you until you’re both-

“Steve, hello,” you’re waving your hand in front of his face and he’s quick to snap back into reality.

“Huh?” He asks, still partially in his daze and you snatch the chip bag from his hand and see them down on the coffee table that sits between you, making sure it’s just out of reach for him.

“Focus.“ You hit the pointer against the poster board to try to get his attention, but he’s still got that dreamy look in his eye. You wonder what’s so important that he’s not listening to you. It seems like he’s been in his own head for days.

“Sorry.” Now he feels like a jackass. You’re going through all of this effort and all he’s doing is staring at your body. He brings his focus back to the board and for the first time, he’s actually looking and holy shit, with how much thought you’ve put into this whole thing, it might just work.

“Where is your head today?” Up his ass, apparently. He can’t think about anything except how beautiful you look and it’s fucking with his head.

“I’m sorry. I was just up really late last night.” He’s actually not lying. He couldn’t sleep because of you. Because of this whole thing and how he isn’t exactly sure how it’s going to play out.

“Right, with your flavor of the week?” He hasn’t actually slept with anyone in a long time. He would just keep wishing it was you so he just stopped altogether because he didn’t want to lead anyone.

“Nope, just me and my hand, unfortunately.” He holds up said hand and wiggles his fingers which causes you to grimace.

“Gross.”

“So when does this whole thing start?” He asks, leaning against the couch with his arms sitting along the back.

“Tomorrow night. Corroded Coffin is performing at the Hideout so it’s a perfect opportunity.”

“So, no practice? We’re just going balls deep?” How the hell are you going to pull this off without practice? That makes no sense and no one’s even going to believe you if you can’t be convincing.

“First of all, don’t ever say that again. Second, we’re going to practice right now so just chill out, alright?” You head over to the couch and sit down next to Steve. Your thighs are touching and he can feel the heat from you through his jeans. If things were different, he’d have you straddling his lap, his hands resting on your back as he kisses you until you’re both breathless.

“Practice what?” He asks. Maybe if he actually read everything on your easel, he wouldn’t be so confused.

“Hold my hand,” you tell him and he hates that his cheeks are blushing. He’s held your hand so many times, but this is different. It’s supposed to be romantic, or implying that it is to other people.

His hand slides into yours, fingers intertwining and when he looks up at your face, you’re staring at him like he’s just hung the moon. God, you’re good. You’re acting, right? You have to be. Because if you weren’t and actually in love with him then you wouldn’t even be doing this whole stupid thing.

“You’re a natural,” you tell him with a smile.

“I’m just holding your hand, l/n. It’s not rocket science.”

“Still,” you shrug. “You know exactly what to do.” And he does. You’d never admit it, but his hand feels nice in yours. It’s soft and smooth and the way that his thumb is rubbing back and forth along yours. You almost don’t want to let go.

“Is this it?” Steve asks, still feeling his heart hammer in his chest at the feeling of your hand in his. He’d never tell you how right it feels to him. How he wants to hold your hand forever and never let go.

“No,” You shake your head, your hand reluctantly slipping out of his. You turn your body fully to face him and he mimics you, trying his best to not reach for your hand again. “I was wondering if you’d be comfortable practicing kissing.” Would he be comfortable? He’s only dreamed about kissing you every day for the majority of his life. He’s so ready and trying to not show just how eager he is.

“I’m open to it,” he nods and you bring your legs up onto the couch, crossing them over each other. And once again, Steve mimics you, doing the exact same thing. He watches as you take a deep breath. Could it be possible that you’re just as nervous? That would actually make him feel a whole lot better.

Your hands slowly reach up and grab hold of his face, cradling it gently. He hums at your touch, his eyes fluttering closed. Is this actually real? Or does this dream just seem so realistic? As soon as your lips touch his, he’s sure that it’s real. And it’s perfect, everything he ever dreamed it would be.

His mouth moves with yours as one hand rests at the back of your head, the other resting on your waist. And of fucking course you’re a good kisser. You’re good at everything. It’s only supposed to be short, but neither of you want to be the first to break away.

So you stay like that for just a little longer. You even go as far as licking into his mouth to deepen it, so close to climbing into his lap, but you refrain. It isn’t supposed to be like this. It’s just practice. But you’re enjoying it way more than you thought you would. So much so that you’re not even thinking about why you’re doing it or Eddie for that matter. All you’re thinking about is Steve and how much you want him inside you.

Steve lets out a moan and you’re quick to pull away, finally pulled back into reality. His pupils are blown wide and his lips are a pretty shade of pink from being kiss bitten. He runs his hands through his hair and god, he’s just so pretty. You’ve always thought that, but especially tonight. You have to pull yourself out of your thoughts, trying to think about Eddie. That’s your main focus.

You don’t like Steve. This was just you getting caught up in the moment. That’s all it is. You just have to make sure that you don’t go that far again so you don’t do something you know you shouldn’t. As long as all of your kisses are around other people, that shouldn’t be a problem.

“How was that?” You ask before rolling your lips into your mouth.

“That was-” Steve cuts himself off, his cheeks turning a bright pink. “That was-I mean, wow.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” You’re unsure, but you’re hoping so. He wouldn’t have kissed you for that long if it was bad, right?

“Yes.”

“Well, good. I think we’re going to be convincing.” So you still want to go through with it. Eddie is still your goal. He doesn’t know why he thought that his kiss would make you want to call the whole thing off. Clearly all Steve will ever be to you is your best friend.

The rest of the night is spent role playing different scenarios and acting accordingly. Steve tries his best to play it off like he’s fine, but really, all he wants to do is throw in the towel. He wants to just quit and tell you that you’re on your own because it’s all just hurting too much.

But because he’s just such a great friend, he doesn’t. He can’t. You’ve already gotten this far and now you have to see it through. He also doesn’t want you asking Robin. Partly because he knows Robin can’t lie for shit and partly because he’d just be super jealous. So he’s going to do it and he’s going to do it with a big smile on his face because he doesn’t want to hurt you.

The Hideout is pretty empty when you and Steve show up. This is the usual turn out for a Tuesday night, but you and your friends are going to cheer for the band just like you always do. They’re setting up their equipment on the stage and you and Steve make a beeline for them, you trying to not seem so excited to see Eddie.

He looks so good in his leather jacket, cropped t-shirt, and jeans that hug his body in all the right places. He catches sight of you out of the corner of his eye and cuts his conversation with Gareth short as he hurries over to you.

He jumps off the stage and Steve’s quick to pull you back so you don’t get hurt, trying his hardest not to glare at the guy. That’s one of his best friends and is he really going to be the kind of guy who lets a girl get in between them? No way. Their friendship is way more important than that.

“You made it,” Eddie smiles, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

“I always do,” you smile back and Steve doesn’t like the flirty looks you’re giving each other. “And I even brought Stevie to be another one of your cheerleaders.”

Eddie watches the way Steve wraps his arms around your middle, resting his chin on your shoulder. This doesn’t surprise him since you’re always touchy with each other, but this time, it seems different. And when Steve kisses your cheek, he knows it is.

“So, you two, huh?” He asks, pushing hands further into his pockets, balling his fists as he tries his best to hide how upset he is. He always knew this day would come. The two of you are meant for each other and everyone knows it. He just wished he would have had a chance before the two of you made it official. But he supposes that you were always bound to end up together. That’s how that kind of shit always goes for Eddie.

“Yeah,” you nod with a smile, looking up at Steve and Eddie feels like his heart is being ripped out of his chest because it’s not him who you’re looking at like that. “For a couple weeks now, wouldn’t you say so, honey?”

“I’d say so,” Steve nods, not even having to try to look lovingly at you.

“Well, I’m happy for you. It was a long time coming.” He’s smiling through the pain, trying his best to pretend like he can’t hear his heart breaking.

There’s a look on his face that you can’t quite make out and you really wish you knew if he was telling the truth. But then again, Eddie is one who’s known for being honest, even brutally so. And you’ve been friends long enough that you expect him to tell you the truth when something is bothering him.

But Eddie would never tell you the truth, not about how he feels about you, anyway. He’s taking that shit to the grave now since you’re with Steve. He excuses himself to head back to the stage to make sure that everything is all set and you’re starting to think that went too well. He really wasn’t even a little jealous?

You and Steve head to the bar and he’s squeezing your shoulder to show you that he’s sympathetic to the situation. Because as badly as he wants to be with you, he really just wants you to be happy in the end even if it’s not with him.

The two of you sip on your drinks, standing even closer to each other than you normally would, feeling the need to touch each other in any way you can to make the whole thing believable. You have to admit that Steve is a much better actor than you had initially thought. If you didn’t know any better, you would have thought that he was in love with you.

How devastating that would be if he was? You would have felt so horrible for asking him to pretend to be your boyfriend if you knew that was what he was wanting from you all along. That would really make you feel like a dick because how cruel would that have been to make him pretend to be something he’s wanted to be all for the purpose of trying to get the attention of someone else?

You reach up and brush some hair out of Steve’s face and he’s trying so hard to reel back his feelings. He’s been thinking about that kiss since it happened and if he had the balls, he would have asked you if you could price again. He’s desperate for more, so close to pulling you yo the bathroom to have his way with you, fucking you senseless until you completely forget Eddie’s name, Steve’s being the only one to fall from your lips.

You’re nudging him from his fantasy and he’s immediately snapped back to reality. How long was he out? His fantasies seem to be lasting way longer lately, much more real. He’s getting even more pathetic by the second and he’s not sure how much more he can take.

“It's about to start. Let’s go.” You grab him by the hand and he follows you to the front of the stage where you’re beaming up at Eddie who’s at the front of the stage, introducing the band into the mic before going into the first song.

He watches you the entire time, hating how Steve’s got his arms wrapped around you, his chin making a home on your shoulder. He’s filled with more anger than he knows what to do with. Seeing how you’re looking at each other makes him so jealous that he’s so close to diving off the stage and tackling Steve, which he knows is wrong.

Because truly, neither of you are doing anything wrong. You’re just a couple and Eddie was actually counting down the days, trying to slide in before you got together, but he’s too late. And he’s kicking himself for it.

He’s so focused on you and Steve that he’s not even paying attention to what he’s doing. He’s actually not even sure how he can keep up with his bandmates. He’s trying to focus on the lyrics he’s singing. The lyrics he wrote for you and how he feels about you.

You can’t believe how talented Eddie is. How this is what he’s really meant to do. You just know he’s going to make it and pretty soon, Corroded Coffin is going to sell out arenas, The Hideout being just the beginning.

He’s so into what he’s singing, his eyes closed. But you don’t know that he’s only doing it so he doesn’t have to see you with Steve. The song is so romantic, unlike the band’s other songs. Eddie’s voice sounds so pained and you hope that he’s not speaking from personal experience. Even though it hurts thinking about him being with someone else, you’d hate for him to not be able to be with who he’s interested in.

He’s grabbed your attention as he goes into his guitar solo, the cords slower than what he’s used to. You’re hypnotized by the way his fingers slide across the strings, doing it so effortlessly that you can’t help but be impressed.

Steve sees the way you’re staring and pulls you closer to him to get your attention. How will it look if his girlfriend is looking at the lead singer like he’s hung the moon? He knows no one cares, but he does. He honestly only cares because of how badly he wants you to look at him like that. That’s all he’s ever wanted and he knows that he’s not going to get it. Because it’s just his luck that he'd be in love with someone who isn’t in love with him. He’s never anyone’s first choice.

The set ends and the two of you wait as Eddie and the band pack up their equipment. You’re supposed to go out to dinner with them afterwards and Steve is absolutely dreading it. He just wants to go home and drown himself in the bottle of tequila he bought the other night and listen to your favorite record on repeat.

You wait until Eddie is distracted and wrap your arms around Steve's neck, throwing your head back as a loud laugh escapes your lips. Steve somehow catches on and he laughs as well, his genuine because yours is just so damn contagious.

Eddie looks up from where he’s putting his guitar away and that feeling in his gut he’s been having since the two of you showed up gets even worse, to the point where it starts to hurt. Yeah, he’s not going out tonight. He’s going to curl up in his bed and write some of the most devastating lyrics.

And when he watches the two of you lean in for a kiss, well, you might as well have ripped his heart out of his chest. That would have hurt a lot less. Gareth follows Eddie’s line of sight and doesn’t even have to ask to know what Eddie is thinking.

He doesn’t see how no one else knows how Eddie feels. He’s so goddamn obvious that it’s become painful to watch. And he knows you like him too so seeing you show up with Steve really threw him off. He knows that Steve likes you too, so this whole thing is really just a mess. He doesn’t want anyone to get hurt, especially not Eddie because he’s always getting the short end of the stick.

The rest of the members go out to dinner which you politely decline the invitation to since Eddie’s not going. You just have Steve drop you off at your apartment because being by yourself suddenly sounds so inviting. You just want to be by yourself because of how hurt you are that your plan is failing and it’s only started. How the hell are you going to continue when it’s not even effective?

So, the three of you wallow in your self pity in your respective rooms, hating how everything is turning out. It’s all so painful and unfair. Tears are shed and alcohol is drunk like water to numb the pain that you’re all feeling. Something that should be so simple has been complicated because you just had to go and pull Steve into your scheme instead of just being honest with him. And it seems like you’re going to pay for it, unknowingly hurting the both of them.