#not caring about them looking neat or perfect just like. doing it

[until-the-house-shakes]

First Day of Hogwarts

Wolfstar raising Regulus / Werewolf! Regulus

Microfic

-

Regulus’ first day at Hogwarts went well, much better than Remus thought. Despite being under his and Sirius’ care for a little over a year, the kid was still a nervous wreck with an uncontrollable temper, especially on the week of the Full. Remus wouldn’t lie and say he had no doubts about the young werewolf having a perfect first day. He still remembers his own first day, ten years ago, and how terrifying and anger inducing it was- and it wasn’t anywhere close to a Full! But despite all the odds, Regulus seemed to have a perfect day.

The sorting ceremony was what Remus feared the most. All the Marauders told Regulus a million times over that none of them would think of him any differently when he got sorted into his house. Sure, they were all Gryffindors, but they weren’t about to be like the poor kid’s parents and scare him into begging for the same house. They all wanted for him to be sorted fairly.

Plus they all had a few running bets on what house Regulus would he sorted into. Sirius and James- ever the fanboys of their own house- fully believed he would be a Gryffindor, while Remus and Lily thought he would be a Ravenclaw. Peter was the odd man out with Hufflepuff (‘I don’t actually believe it but imagine how mental everyone would go if I am correct’). And lastly with Slytherin was Marlene, Mary, and Dorcas- Marlene’s Slytherin girlfriend who Regulus was infatuated by.

To only Regulus’ surprise, the dusty old hat screamed ‘RAVENCLAW’ the second it touched the boy’s black curls. The young werewolf shot his gaze over to the older werewolf, looking a mix of shocked and terrified, but when he saw the jaw breaking smile his guardian wore, he instantly felt much better about his placement and rushed over to the Ravenclaw table. Once everyone was sorted, Regulus was crowded by three other Ravenclaw first-years; A boy named Barty, and a set of twins- Evan and Pandora Rosier. Even though Remus didn’t know anything about the kids, it was safe to say that Regulus found his ‘forever mates’ as Sirius would call them.

-

The rest of the evening went off without a hitch. Remus was now fully unpacked and settled into his professor suite, and was about to change into his pajamas before he heard a soft knock at the door. “Coming.” Remus called out, a bit confused on who could be knocking so late into the night, and on the first night no less.

To his surprise, the sight of neat black curly hair, and a much too big jumper on a small pale boy, welcomed Remus. “Cub, what are you doing here?” He stepped aside so Regulus could enter his room, and the small boy did exactly that, before turning around and throwing himself into Remus’ arms. The older man was quick to pick up the smaller boy, allowing him to get as close to him as possible. Remus closed the door and walked to his bed, sitting them both down.

“Cub, what’s wrong? Did something happen?” Remus gently rocked the boy back and forth, rubbing his back- trying to offer as much comfort to the kid as possible.

“This is all too much. I’m scared and I want Siri.” Regulus whimpered, not daring to take his face away from the crook of Remus’ neck. That was always his favorite place to hide when he was overwhelmed or upset and it wouldn’t change for a long while.

“We can floo call him. I’m sure he will love to talk to you.” Remus felt awful hearing how scared his cub was. Hogwarts was meant to be a fresh start for him. He no longer had to deal with big expectations from abusive family, hell he was already on his own path by being sorted into Ravenclaw. Remus thought he was in safe hands, especially after seeing how nice the other first-years were with him. But he should have known that his sensitive, traumatized, and dramatic cub would have had some sort of breakdown by the end of the first week, he just wasn’t expecting it to be the first day.

“Please? I really want Siri.”

-

An hour has passed, and Regulus was now fast asleep in Remus’ bed with the older werewolf gently brushing his curls with his fingers. The floo call was only about thirty minutes long. It consisted of Regulus talking about his new friends, Sirius promising the both of them that he is perfectly fine alone, and a new story about baby Harry and a frazzled James and Lily.

Once the call ended, all hell seemed to break loose, however. Regulus instantly started crying again, saying he didn’t want to go back to his dorm- that the boys scared him and he wanted to go back home for good.

“Cubby, is there something you’re not telling me?” Remus sighed, trying his hardest to get to the bottom of what was truly bothering his kid. It’s been fifteen minutes since the call ended, and Regulus was still quietly crying to himself, curled up in Remus’ lap.

“…Barty had this book. About magical creatures… and the cover had a werewolf on it. He talked about how scary werewolves were and how he wanted to meet one to see if they’re really as awful as everyone says they are.” The whispered words broke Remus’ heart. It was only the first night at Hogwarts, and Regulus was already facing discrimination for his ‘furry little problem’.

“Oh cub, I’m sure that was scary. I’m so sorry you had to deal with that.” Remus was already thinking of ways to deal with that little shit. He could talk to Flitwick about moving Regulus to stay with the second years, or he could talk to Dumbledore about moving Regulus into his own suite for the time being. It was hard for the young werewolf to trust anyone, especially kids his own age, and maybe forcing him to share a room with rude, snotty nosed children wasn’t the best idea! He should be allowed to settle into school for a few weeks, and then slowly integrate sharing a room with those assholes into his routine.

“They seemed so nice, but… now I’m scared. I don’t want to go back in there.” Regulus’ small voice took Remus out of his own internal rants. “Trust me Cub, you won’t go back there until you’re ready.” Remus kissed the top of Regulus’ head, sealing his promise.

The kid fell asleep not long after their short conversation, and remus has spent that time watching his cub sleep peacefully in his bed, playing with his hair, and thinking of all the ways he can keep him safe. Remus was already a very protective (‘possessive’ if you ask Sirius) person, but when it comes to Moony’s cub? He was another form of protective. He really hoped that Barty gets better, because he didn’t feel up to getting thrown in Azkaban for nearly killing a child.

-

As if it was a pattern, right before he could fall asleep himself, there was another knock at the door. Remus couldn’t help the unconscious growl that came from his gut. Who in their right mind wants to bother him and his cub this late at night?

“Hello?” Remus grumbled, opening the door to see two small boys. The same two small boys he saw at the Ravenclaw table with Regulus earlier that evening- which means one of these assholes were the reason why his cub spent the last hour crying and terrified.

They better have a good ass reason for being here.

“Professor Lupin, I’m Evan, this is Barty. Is Regulus here? He ran out of the dorm room crying an hour or so ago and we’re really worried about him. We’ve been all over the castle looking for him and I really hope he’s here. If not… we might have some issues.” The kid- Evan, said while rocking back and forth on his feet. It was clear both boys looked terrified. Whether it was about the wellbeing of their roommate or it was fear of facing the wrath of Regulus’ guardian- Remus wasn’t sure.

“I’m really sorry to bother you sir, but we’re both very worried… and thought you should know as his dad.” The last part took Remus by surprise. His dad? Did Regulus really tell these two boys that he was Regulus’ dad?

Huh.

Remus did not mind that one bit.

“Yeah, he’s in here. Got really homesick and wanted some comfort. Thank you for checking on him, but I promise he’s safe with me. You two should head back to your own beds and go to sleep. You’ll see him tomorrow.” Remus assured the two boys before sending them off back to their dorms.

Maybe they weren’t all that bad, they did seem genuinely worried about Regulus.

But their worry wasn’t what had Remus’ spirits so high.

‘As his dad’

Regulus saw him as his dad.

[marzipanandminutiae]

I saw some of your posts and I just wanted to let you know that your roommates sound awful and you sound perfectly nice and neat, and also that if we knew each other irl or I was less socially anxious online/didn’t want to come off as creepy I would love to be friends with you and hang out!!! You seem cool and it suck’s that people around you seem to be treating you poorly

I appreciate it!

I am decidedly NOT perfect as a housemate. I freely admit that. I'm not good at direct communication and my hair gets everywhere and I tend to assume that the microwave is fine without being wiped down every time it's used as long as it's dry inside, even if there's a bit of pasta water spillover or something dried on the tray. Because we're human.

One housemate is bad about rinsing her dried toothpaste out of the bathroom sink. Another sometimes leaves bits of vegetable in the kitchen sink after cooking, and still another, bits of her cat's wet food after she cleans his dish. We all have little flaws. That's just how this goes.

And I assume we are none of us 100% perfect re: the kitchen. Like I said, there are crumbs on the stovetop. I have no idea how they got there. I barely use the stovetop, so it can't have been me. But I wasn't going to make a fuss about any of these things, because they are MINUTE concerns. I'm talking "thing I maybe fix if it really bothers me and then forget about ten seconds later because I have other things to worry about, or just ignore entirely since it's not that big a deal and the regular cleaning happens on schedule, so it'll get taken care of before long anyway." That's Living With Other People. The house has, without exaggeration, never been what I'd call dirty. Since I moved here in September.

Because not word one was said to me about this since the last meeting in the fall, I figured we were good and they were all doing the same. So to find out that this has been an issue for all of them still and they've been like...conferring about it behind my back, I guess? Really stings.

Anyway now I'm taking pictures before and after I use the kitchen, every time, as documentation. They all look pretty much identical, and free of visible mess. Shocker.

[jackass-jones]

(Per ur last reblog) if you try to make it perfect you won't make it AT ALL!!

okay im going 🥺

[makiswirl]

can i just say. and this is probably a niche hill to die on. that i am so gobsmacked every time someone vaguely hints at the idea that jotaro doesn't care meaningfully for the other crusaders, usually particularly kakyoin and joseph, when those two actually tend to be the ones he reacts to being hurt the hardest

like he cares for his loved ones!!!! that literally plays into his character motives in every single part he shows up in!!! stop lying to me!!!!!!!

[acid-ixx]

a loving family, an unpalatable desire

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

a/n: would anyone hear me out if i ever wrote romantic yan! bruce (ft. platonic yan! batfam AND romantic yan clark kent alongside the superfam ofc) with a neglected spouse reader... because uhm, i've been thinking about it lately just yk... so anyways PLSPLSPLS send in asks about this, ive been thinking about it so much lately.

imagine wanting to raise a family so badly with a man who adopts problem children as a side hustle. you're not some invasive spouse, you've always been good, always been loving, so... so accepting, never questioned where or how he picked them up from the side of the streets, never once complaining about the hickeys on his neck or the once neat tussles of his hair now tangled accompanying lipstick stains on his white suit.

you love your children, you tell yourself all the time. you love them, you love bruce— even if he doesn't love you. you said it in your vows, despite it being scripted, despite your family finally sighing in relief in the sidelines at finally being able to sell you off to one of the wealthiest man in the world, rather than being wasting off under their care— your vows are real.

you wanted someone to love you, unconditionally, so viscerally eternal that it eats you up.

really, all you wanted was to play that fantasy life of trophy house spouses. all you wished for was a loving, healthy relationship. the american dream: the picture perfect family frames, your husband kissing you on the cheek as he leaves for work, your children bickering at the dining room, with the scent of homemade meals wafting about the vicinity. all you wanted was the warmth in your chest to flicker like candlelights. all you dreamed about was that domestic life, an escape from the abusive household you were raised in.

yet the manor is too cold, too unforgiving for a soul such as yours.

the longer you stay inside claustrophobic, yet oh-so large hallways, the quicker you drown in a neverending pool of self-hatred.

but you're not allowed to show them your sufferings. they've been through much worse, you tell yourself. they've suffered more, and as what good spouses do, as what you're taught, you stay silent, enabling them to turn you into their own emotional punching bag.

you only allow yourself to cry at the dead of the night, under the sheets of your too-cold blanket and your too-hot pillows. when the manor is filled with deathly silence and a looming sense of dread and ill fitting thoughts of ifs and when they'll come back in one piece, will you grant yourself temporary respite; worry for a family who never even called you their parent.

yet you've always been so considerate. despite the pang in your chest every time bruce flirts with anymore potential love interest at a gala, you chose to instead monitor your chaotic children, who have always never bat an eye on you despite you always gazing lovingly at them.

you know of their interests, they don't know yours, yet you still give them extravagant gifts on their birthdays, with tired, yet glinting eyes, and a silent excuse to return to your room; one separate from bruce.

you know of bruce's hardships, but you don't push too hard, don't force him to talk, only provide him your silence and an offer to serve him dinner; all the time he refuses without looking at you. you give him comfort only if he ever allows you, only if he allows his walls to crumble— but not even his spouse can amount to a warm, crackling fireplace. to him, you're probably only a matchstick under the deadbeat glaze of the snow in a winter night.

maybe that's why you're such a ghost in the manor, stalking through the hallways, looking out for any of your children in case they come across you with any injuries. maybe that's why eventually your resolve weakened.

and maybe the absence of familial love led you to find comfort in another man's arm.

''til death do us part,' is such a tragic saying in your case, because you know it in your fragile heart that bruce's love for you was never alive in the first place. and yet you allow him to play you like a fiddle, allow him to slowly allow you to slip away from his nonexistent grasp.

and now, you're a stand-in parent for clark's son, jon, after the tragic loss of his wife. now, your world seems a lot less bleaker, as you play the fantasy of a loving house spouse, fully abandoning the life you left behind, a life you've never been gifted with until now. you want to feel guilty, you want to feel absolutely terrible but the heartache of neglect has become too much and all you do was allow clark to warm you up each night, kissing away your tears and spooning your deep-seated anxieties away.

you don't let the past eat you up, not when the present is too perfect, too freeing, too delusionally beautiful.

your son, jon provides you every joy a parent could have. parent's day gifts, heartfelt letters at every nook and cranny of your shared bedroom with clark— even reading him bedtime stories, allowing him to sleep in your lap after he slowly nods off, with clark knocking softly on polished wooden doors, greeting you with a loving kiss on the lips and a bouquet of your favorite flowers in hand—

it's everything a parent wants, needs even.

and you're everything clark, and especially jon wants, needs in their life.

so it's such a stupid mistake, really. a slip of the tongue, a too-enthusiastic smile, incredibly bright, shining eyes. it's not jon's fault, you still love him either way. but it's an error still— one a complicated matter at hand, so dreadful for you, that jon accidentally, all-too-suddenly, mentions you as his parent to damian.

a loving, wonderful parent, he says, with a picture of you in his wallet shoved right in front of his friend's face.

[buckiverse]

☆ warnings: mdni, this is literally just a cock analysis for sylus, zayne, and caleb

☆ a/n: SYLUS HOLD MY HAND—CALEB IS ABOUT TO DRAG ME AWAY!

rafayel and xavier ver.

S8GSBTV - #b0685a

As we all know, Sylus is tall, with a broad, muscular frame and an imposing set of shoulders. He’s strong—insanely strong. The man boxes, for god’s sake. I would hate to take a liver shot from him; he might accidentally send me straight to the afterlife. He’s in phenomenal shape, with stamina to match—because, of course, it’s a requirement for his sport.

And his cock? Well, it follows suit. A solid eight inches (20.32 cm), and yes, he’s a shower. I mean, have you seen that perfect print in his pants??? He doesn’t even know where to put all that. It’s big—long, thick, girthy. No wonder he has a size kink. And let’s be real, so do you. The stretch is delicious, always leaving you working to take him all the way.

The head? A deep, rich brown (go look at the hex code <3). His pubic hair? Trimmed, but left a little longer—just how he likes it. And side note? He loves when you do the same. Says he wants to "explore the jungle." Oh, and let’s not forget: it’s straight and a slightly darker gray than his hair. Perfection.

And the veins—the veins. His cock is thick with them, pulsing, prominent. The most sensitive part? That sweet little slit. Run your tongue along it, and he will hiss, grip your hair, and growl something like, “Don’t do that unless you want me to come in your mouth, kitten.”

And, of course, you’ll keep doing it anyway. Hehehe.

Z7LSLCGBPLT - #9C524F

As we all know, Zayne is tall, with a lean yet well-built frame and broad shoulders. He’s strong—moderately muscular—but more refined in his strength. Being a doctor, he has a natural responsibility to stay in shape and take excellent care of himself.

And his cock? It follows suit. A solid seven point three inches (18.542 cm), and he’s a grower. The print in his pants might be deceiving at first, but don’t be fooled—it’s big. Not just long, but with an ideal girth. The best part? It leans slightly to the left, and when he’s inside you, he knows how to move his hips just right, angling to hit that perfect, sensitive spot.

The head? A beautiful brownish pink. His pubic hair? Trimmed low—because he understands the importance of keeping some. He’ll never go completely bare, and honestly? He prefers when you don’t either. And yes, it’s perfectly straight.

Unlike some, his cock isn’t overly veined—but what it lacks in texture, it more than makes up for in sensitivity. The head? Insanely responsive. Pull back his foreskin, drag your tongue along his frenulum, and just like that, he might lose control—maybe even come all over your face.

C7GGPTV - #DF9796

As we all know, Caleb is tall, with a lean yet powerfully built frame. He’s easily the most muscular of the bunch—his body honed to perfection. Being a fighter pilot demands peak physical fitness, not just for endurance but for absolute control in the cockpit.

And his cock? It follows suit. A solid seven inches (17.78 cm), and he’s a grower. The print in his pants might not always give it away, but trust—it’s big. Long, with just a bit more girth than average, making every inch of it something to savor.

The head? A gorgeous pink. His pubic hair? Trimmed low for convenience, though he’ll go completely bare if that’s what you prefer. Naturally, though, he keeps it neat, with a slight, loose curl to it.

And let’s talk about that vein. A single, prominent one that runs up the length of his pretty shaft—one he loves when you trace with your tongue. Oh, and let’s be clear—he’s uncut. Don’t care, won’t argue on that point <33

☆

btw this is what the codes mean (excuse my behavior because now that I actually typed it out i realize how crazy i look rn):

S8GSBTV: sylus-8inch-girthy-shower-brown-trimed-veiny

Z7LSLCGBPLT: zayne-7inch-left slant-long cock-grower-brownish pink-light trim

C7GGPTV: caleb-7inch-grithy-grower-pink-trimed-veiny

[jiangshiu]

۶ৎ cho hyun-ju x reader — braiding her hair

slightly edited as of 1/7

her hair is tangled, nowhere near as styled as it was upon her arrival.

your fingers gently thread through the brown mess — the texture is not as brittle as you'd expected, pleasant to the touch just enough that you want to keep your hands buried in it for just a while longer.

so, for a few more minutes, you allow yourself to slack off, to enjoy the feeling of hyun-ju's surprisingly soft locks. she doesn't utter a word as you play with and twirl her hair, not even when you accidentally tug at the ends a bit too roughly.

it's only when you pull away, about to start working on your masterpiece (or in other words, the braid) that she finally speaks up, her voice quiet, timid, “...i've never had anyone do this for me before. thank you again.”

her confession makes you pause. for a moment, your brain struggles to pick an appropriate reaction. you want to express pity, console her, ask her more, but you'd rather not open any old wounds.

instead, you settle for the simple truth; “in that case i'm honored to be the first one to do this.”

with that said, you finally get to work. you divide hyun-ju's hair into three neat sections, interlacing the strands together. you take your time, treating each piece of the braid like it might break if you as much as twist it the wrong way. every piece falls into place perfectly like a puzzle as you intertwine the dark locks, your pace intentionally slow, leisurely.

a shaky breath slips through hyun-ju's lips, her shoulders slinking back a bit as she lets herself succumb to the gentle motion of your hands. despite not being able to see her face, you're certain her eyes are closed, drowning in the sensation.

“if...” you start, nearing the split ends of her hair, “when we get out of here, i think we should try out more hairstyles. and get ourselves some cute hair accessories. oh, actually, we should go to the mall and buy some pretty clothes as well! what do you think?”

it's like you can hear her lips curl into a small, appreciative smile, “i'd like that,” she admits.

as you secure hyun-ju's locks with a hair tie, a smile blooms on your face as well, “i'm counting on it then.”

“there,” your fingertips follow the length of the braid — truthfully, it's far from perfect, a few stray strands sticking out here and there, but little do you know she won't really mind.

hyun-ju turns around to face you. her black eyes carry a hint of uncertainty, like she's unsure of herself, “thank you,” she repeats, “it means a lot.”

the reluctance in her voice is loud and clear. she doesn't want to lose this precious moment of serenity just yet. because neither of you know when you'll have the opportunity to do something like this again, or if there even is a chance to escape this death filled land.

“actually, hold on, i'm not done yet.”

for the final touch, you tuck out two strands at the front. curling each strand in between your index fingers to give them a temporary wave, you catch hyun-ju's eyes slowly trailing down your face. she seems to be absolutely entranced by you — from the way your lips are pursed in concentration, to the kindness in your gaze that nobody else here has bothered to show her.

“you're watching me like a hawk,” you tease her with a toothy smile, tugging on one of the strands lightly.

that seems to pull her out of her trance-like state. she blinks a few times and looks down at her lap in shame, nervously wringing her hands, “sorry...”

“don't apologize,” you shake your head. you fluff up her bangs a bit as you continue, “i don't mind it if it's you looking at me.”

hyun-ju clears her throat. a faint blush dusts her cheeks as her fingers brush against her new hairstyle, careful not to dishevel it, “how do i look?”

your smile brightens.

“as beautiful as ever.”

[quarterlifekitty]

I just read the baby trapping HC’s… what if it was the reverse? reader baby trapping THEM

I think that depends entirely upon how cleverly you went about it! I’m gonna answer this with the assumption that they match your freak on the matter lmao

cw: dubcon, baby trapping

And as a preamble: it’s literally so easy for you. For any of them. Because quite honestly if they’re hard, and you say you’re on birth control, they’re gonna believe you. And really, most of them probably would’ve just assumed you were if you let them hit it raw. But we’re gonna say you lied about being on the pill for this ask.

Gaz is such a sweet guy. He’s literally just like “I’m happy if you’re happy, love” when you tell him the news. These things happen, and he has no reason not to believe you, right? What does it matter as long as you’re both happy?

Soap has his suspicions about it. But again, it’s not like he was really pressing you for reassurance that it was safe when he came inside you— when he gets like that, the dog in him takes over and there’s no stopping him. And maybe he’s not sure initially, to be honest, but then he thinks about a little bundle that has the same eyes as you, and he just can’t bring himself to be upset. Even if you are a liar.

Ghost, regardless of how he feels on the news, is going to investigate. He can’t help himself. Fucker is nosy. And you would’ve known this! So you’ve got it all set up for him to find. Water glass on your nightstand, the drawer just slightly ajar— not even enough to see inside, but enough to make him curious. He opens, sees the round of pills, and the timing all checks out. All taken right up until recently— when you tested positive. And you’re not careless to leave them in the trash. They were flushed. And from before that— you have drawer in the kitchen where you often shove the stray contents of your handbag. And there are receipts. A few months worth, from the pharmacy, with exactly what you bought. If you have a menstrual/symptom calendar app on your phone, it’s all logged. There are notifications in your reminder app telling you to refill your prescription. A number in your contacts that matches up with the doctor listed on the prescription. It’s the fact that it’s too neat that tips him off. Every piece of evidence he could’ve ever asked for is there, and that’s how he knows it isn’t natural. And it makes him smile. It’s touching— how much care you put into securing him in your life forever. Kid’ll be a terror, with the two of you as the parents. Too capable.

Price had a feeling in his gut when you told him you were on the pill. He thought about pulling out just to see how far you’d take things. In the end, finishing inside of you was like calling your bluff to him. He’d be fine with waiting a month or two to see if he was right. In the meantime, he’ll be looking at paint swatches for the nursery.

König is not looking a gift horse in the mouth. But if he does find out, he’s actually grateful. Saved him the trouble of asking you to have his baby, which was just one of a few questions wracking his nerves when it came to you. And this provides him the perfect opportunity to ask you to marry him! Doesn’t have to torture himself with sussing out your ring size, the kind you’d want, waiting for just the right moment. He asks you when you tell him you’re pregnant— it’s like everything is coming together. It’s a fairy tale ending for him!

Nikolai confronts you when you tell him that you’re pregnant. There’s a sly smile on his face. He teases a bit. Isn’t that just so strange? That you’d be unlucky enough for that tiny little chance of it failing was enough. And he has a way of making you squirm, of prodding you until you tell him what he wants. You can’t help but smile when he smiles, feeling a little giddy. He makes it seem all light and cute— so you do spill the truth. And he’ll pick you up and spin you as he laughs. His malyshka is so naughty, isn’t she? Lying to him like that, like he wouldn’t find out. Like wouldn’t give her a baby just as soon as she asked. Like he wasn’t planning on pulling a similar move in the near future.

[aardvaark]

the way the leverage team make a mess of nate’s apartment on multiple occasions is so much funnier when you consider that none of them are particularly messy people. in the pilot, hardison has a very nice apartment that he is clearly proud of & has kept very tidy. parker’s warehouse is almost disturbingly neat, her tools and weapons are kept clean & shiny and are laid out in perfect rows, her bed is made, her clothes and rappelling gear is hung up. eliot likes things done properly and certainly at least cares for his car’s cleanliness. idk about sophie, but she would at least know how to act neat for a grift, and she’d be aware of how a guest to supposed to treat their host’s home.

but they all put unwashed dishes in nate’s sink, do spur of the moment renovations, set up new gear in his living room, leave clothes/costumes, plans & random items strewn about the place, and even tear up his stuff without fixing it. i love it. his apartment is their playground. they half live here now. nate just needs to chill out and let them saw into his walls, geez calm downnnn. i know nate’s eye was twitching when he saw that parker’s warehouse was so perfect meanwhile there’s probably 5 bowls of unfinished cereal hidden in his house like a damn look-and-find puzzle

[pure-smut]

the taste of you.

featuring: Laios Touden x f!reader

contains: you're a succubus and Laios wants to eat you (out), cunnilingus, mention of death

word count: 1.4k

note: all characters are 21+!

MDNI | 18+ content

series: 1. the taste of you | 2. the feel of you

masterlist

You’re lounging in the small, rocky pool of your home, dipping your head back in the water to clean your hair. Your floor of the dungeon resembles a mini paradise, all fresh water and cherry blossoms and soft, vibrant grass. You love living here, your own space shared with no one – except the odd dungeon crawler, traipsing through your home with their dirty boots and loud voices.

You don’t mind though. You have to eat sometime.

You’re not a bad monster, you just get hungry. And it’s not like the men who stumble across you aren’t willing, they just forgo all logic and think with that thing between their legs. Once you’ve had your fill, drained the life from their bodies as they spill their seed inside you, you leave their bodies by the entrance as a kindness.

You’re starting to get hungry again, starting to wonder when someone new will visit, when you hear the rasp of metal armour. You smooth your wet hair back and turn to the source of the disruption.

A tall man with fair hair stands at the edge of your pool.

Perfect.

You rise from the water, exposing your bare chest, and smile sweetly at him.

“A weary traveller,” you say. “In need of refuge.”

The man only stares at you, a notch between his brows. It’s not the same hungry look that men usually give you, their instincts already taking over before you even touch them. You wait a moment for him to say something but he doesn’t, only studies you.

“Your name?” you ask, trying a different tact.

“Laios,” he replies.

“Laios,” you repeat, rolling his name around your mouth.

“And yours?”

You smile. Only a few men have ever asked your name, some of them thinking it will save them from their fate. It doesn’t.

“Y/N,” you tell him and he considers this.

After a beat, he offers his hand out to you. You take it, stepping out of the pool to stand naked in front of him. When Laios looks you up and down, it doesn’t feel the same as the other men. It feels… curious.

“Come, Laios.” You keep holding his hand, guiding him to a clear area of soft grass. “Sit with me.”

Laios does what you say, kneeling politely in front of you. You sit opposite and spread your legs for him, leaning back on your arms. Laios’s eyes trail down to your glistening lips, making you smile. He is still a man after all.

“You’re tired,” you say sympathetically. “Your body is sore, your mind is weary. Take some respite with me, Laios. I’ll take care of you.”

Laios’s golden eyes flick up to yours.

“You’re a succubus,” he states. You smile and shrug.

“I am.”

He holds his chin in thought as you wait for him quietly.

“Will my body be recovered? he eventually asks.

You huff a laugh in surprise. No one’s ever planned their death in advance before. There’s always a hint of hubris, of thinking they can pull back at the last moment, not knowing you have them as soon as they’re inside you.

“Yes.” You reward his honesty with your own. “I leave the bodies by the entrance so they can be found.”

Laios looks pleased, gifting you his first smile since he arrived.

“Not many monsters care about that,” he says.

“Well, I have to eat, that's all.” You shrug again. “Otherwise I’ll starve.”

Laios’s eyes brighten.

“I’m hungry, too,” he says.

Huh, that’s a weird thing to say. You shake the thought off as Laios moves closer to you, gently pushing your knees apart to make space for himself. His eyes are glued on the fruit between your legs, his tongue flicking out to lick his lips. You grin and rest back further, sinking onto your forearms. You’re looking forward to your meal – little do you know that Laios is as well.

Laios stands to tugs off his armour, carefully laying the pieces down in a neat pile, leaving himself in his undershirt and drawers. When he falls back down to his knees between your legs, you expect him to pull his cock free, to sink himself into you as soon as possible.

You don’t expect him to bend down and run his tongue along your pussy.

You inhale sharply, nearly pulling back in shock. You stare down at him as Laios raises his head, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“Sweet,” he says, rolling his tongue in his mouth. “A slight tang and… hm. Something else.”

It takes you a second to realise he’s talking about you. About your taste.

With wide eyes, you watch Laios as he lies down on his stomach to get more comfortable. He wraps his arms around your thighs, pulling you to him and licks another stripe along your folds. His broad tongue splits your lips as he finds your hole, the source of your nectar. Laios makes a content noise as he pushes his tongue inside you.

You shudder with pleasure, reaching down to slide your fingers through his hair. His strong nose nudges your clit, heightening your enjoyment.

Laios laps at your hole, delighted by the taste of you, your flavour dancing along his tongue. You’re not like he expected, much sweeter and earthier, but delicious either way. And he’d be lying if he said he isn’t enjoying the noises you make, the little quiver of your thighs. Eating is an experience, he knows.  The way you whimper and scratch at his scalp is part of the experience, part of why you taste so good.

Laios moves away from your hole, licking his way up to your clit. He finds it swollen and slippery with more of your arousal so he flattens his tongue and swipes broad strokes over it. You tug his hair a little tighter, your moans a little louder.

You’re leaning back, supporting yourself on one arm as you look down at Laios, watching him feast on you, his lips flush to your mound. His eyes are closed in bliss, his brows pushed together in the middle.

Laios sucks softly on your swollen bud and moans into your pussy. You cry out, pleasure seizing you in a vice grip. You squeeze his head between your thighs, the dungeon echoing with your ragged moans. When you’re too sensitive to continue, Laios moves back down to your hole, lapping at you once more, eager for the juices he just caused.

You lay back, chest heaving as Laios continues to lick you deep. You let him, enjoying the feel of his tongue against your less sensitive nerves. Laios only pulls back when his jaw cramps, stopping him.

You prop yourself back up on your forearms to look at him. Laios’s mouth and chin is shiny with your arousal, which he doesn’t bother to wipe off.

“Definitely sweet,” he confirms, his eyes alight and a grin on his face. He absently rubs his jaw, trying to work away the cramp. “Which makes sense – succubus tend to eat a lot of fruit.”

You listen to him, still slightly dazed from your orgasm, as Laios continues thinking out loud, theorising your taste and growing more animated by the second. His excitement is palpable and you can’t help but smile at him but you’re distracted. There’s a strange feeling in your stomach, something familiar but unfamiliar at the same time. You’re still trying to place it when Laios interrupts your train of thought.

“I’m curious about something though,” he says, flexing his hands and looking down at them. “Why haven’t I died?”

You scrunch up your face in confusion.

“What?”

“I thought I’d be dead.” Laios looks equally confused. “Isn’t that what a succubus does? Drains energy?”

Huh. You guess you’d never thought about what would happen if someone had sex with you without penetration.

“You know, I’m not sure,” you answer truthfully. “I’ve only ever drained them through their…”

You pointedly look down, noting that Laios is sporting a sizeable tent in his drawers despite his curious enthusiasm.

“Oh.” He looks down before glancing up again, his knuckle pressed against his lips in thought. “That’s interesting. Would it need to be genitals or would fingers work? I definitely had my tongue inside you so we can rule that out.”

Laios goes onto another tirade again, his face alight. You watch this adorable weirdo enthuse about what appendage he could safely put inside you and feel your face breaking out in a smile.

You enjoy being alone, being in your own company, but it’s been a while since you were this entertained.

“Laios,” you say, interrupting him gently.

“Hm?”

You beckon him closer, brushing your thumb across the light stubble on his jaw. He’s quite handsome, you think. How did you not notice before? You grin at him.

“Why don’t we try some of your theories out?”

[jungwnies]

sfw alphabet | park sunghoon (en-)

୨ৎ : synopsis : sfw a-z alphabet for park sunghoon

୨ৎ : word count : 1366

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

(a/n) : don't forget to like & reblog !! my requests are open!

a ⤖ affection (how affectionate is he? how often does he show affection?)

sunghoon might not be the type to shout his love from the rooftops

but his affection is a quiet fire that burns steadily.

he'll leave you little notes hidden in your pockets

remember your favorite flower and surprise you with it "just because"

and his eyes will hold a special warmth when he looks at you.

b ⤖ beginning (what would he be like as a bsf; how would the friendship start?)

imagine bumping into him at a cozy café, both reaching for the same book on the shelf his dry wit and unexpected humor would draw you in

you'd find yourselves talking for hours, discovering a shared passion for music, art, or maybe even the quiet beauty of a snowy day.

c ⤖ cuddles (does he like to cuddle; how would he cuddle?)

oh, he absolutely loves to cuddle. picture this: a rainy sunday afternoon, soft blankets, and sunghoon holding you close, his chin resting on your head as you both get lost in a movie.

he'd be the perfect big spoon, his embrace a safe haven where you can let go of all your worries.

d ⤖ domestic (does he want to settle down; how good is he at cooking and cleaning?)

while he thrives in the spotlight, a part of him longs for the quiet comfort of a home with you.

he'd be surprisingly good at keeping things tidy, maybe even a bit of a neat freak.

cooking might be a learning curve, but he'd be eager to try new recipes with you, turning kitchen mishaps into laughter-filled memories.

e ⤖ ending (if he had to break up with you; how would he do it?)

breaking up would be his absolute last resort.

if it came to that, he'd do it with the utmost respect and honesty.

he'd choose a quiet place where you could talk privately, his eyes filled with sincerity and regret as he explained his reasons.

he wants to make sure you know it's not your fault.

f ⤖ fiance (how does he feel about commitment; would he want to get married quick?)

commitment is not something he takes lightly.

he'd want to be absolutely sure before proposing, ensuring that you're both ready for a lifetime together.

he wouldn't rush into marriage, but when he finally gets down on one knee, it would be a moment filled with deep love and a promise of forever.

g ⤖ gentle (how gentle is he; emotionally + physically?)

sunghoon's gentleness is woven into his very being.

he'd handle your heart with the care of a sculptor, always mindful of your feelings.

his touch would be feather-light, a whisper against your skin that sends shivers down your spine.

h ⤖ hugs (does he likes hugs; how often does he hug you; what are his hugs like?)

his hugs are rare but precious, a silent language of love.

he'd pull you close when you need it most, his arms a warm cocoon that melts away your stress.

his hugs would linger, a quiet moment of connection that speaks volumes.

i ⤖ i love you (how fast does he say he loves you?)

those three little words would be sacred to him.

he'd wait until the moment feels perfectly right

j ⤖ jealousy (how jealous does he get; what does he do when he is jealous?)

he's not the possessive type, but a flicker of jealousy might cross his face if someone gets a little too close.

he wouldn't make a scene, but he might subtly pull you closer or hold your hand a little tighter, a silent reminder that you're his.

k ⤖ kisses (what are his kisses like; where does he like to kiss you; where does he like to be kissed?)

his kisses are slow and tender, savoring every moment.

he'd adore kissing your forehead, a gesture of affection and protection.

he'd melt under your kisses on his jawline, a secret spot that sends shivers down his spine.

l ⤖ little ones (how is he around children?)

he might seem a bit awkward at first, but his playful side would emerge around children.

he'd be patient and kind, engaging them in imaginative games and making them laugh with silly faces.

m ⤖ morning (how are mornings spent with him?)

mornings with sunghoon would be slow and peaceful.

he'd wake you up with soft kisses and whispered "good mornings," followed by a leisurely breakfast in bed

definitely enjoying each other's company before the day begins.

n ⤖ night (how are nights spend with him?)

nights would be a blend of quiet intimacy and shared passions.

you might find yourselves curled up on the couch, lost in a good book, or sharing headphones as you listen to your favorite music

but the silence is 100% filled with unspoken affection.

o ⤖ open (when would he open up; does he say everything at once or does he wait to reveal himself?)

he'd open up like a blooming flower, slowly revealing his deepest thoughts and feelings as your bond deepens.

late-night conversations would become a sanctuary where you share your dreams and vulnerabilities

p ⤖ patience (how easily angered is he?)

his patience runs deep

he'd approach conflicts with understanding and a willingness to listen

always seeking a peaceful resolution.

q ⤖ quizzes (how much would he remember about you; does he remember every little detail; or is he forgetful?)

he'd be a keeper of your secrets, big and small.

he'd remember the way you take your coffee, your favorite song lyrics, and the story behind that tiny scar on your knee.

your life would be etched in his memory, a testament to his love and attention.

r ⤖ remember (what is his favorite moment in the relationship?)

his favorite moment might be the first time you looked at him with pure, unguarded love in your eyes

in that moment he knew he was falling for you just as hard as you were falling for him.

s ⤖ security (how protectice is he; how does he protect you; how would he like to be protected?)

he'd be your silent guardian, always looking out for you, whether it's holding your hand as you cross a busy street or defending you against unkind words.

he'd appreciate a partner who offers him emotional security, a safe space where he can be vulnerable without fear of judgment.

t ⤖ try (how much effort does he put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

he believes in quality over quantity.

dates would be thoughtfully planned, anniversaries celebrated with heartfelt gestures, and gifts chosen with your personality in mind.

he'd show his love through everyday acts of kindness, from making you breakfast in bed to surprising you with your favorite takeout after a long day.

u ⤖ ugly (what are some of his bad habits?)

he might be a bit too hard on himself sometimes

always striving for perfection in everything he does.

he might also overthink things, getting lost in his own thoughts.

v ⤖ vanity (how concerned is he with his looks?)

he takes pride in his appearance, but it's more about self-care than vanity.

he understands the importance of looking his best

w ⤖ whole (would he feel incomplete without you?)

while he values his independence, you'd become an essential part of his life

for him, you're a source of joy and strength.

he'd cherish your presence, your laughter filling the spaces in his heart he didn't know existed.

x ⤖ xtra (random headcanon for him)

he secretly writes you love poems in his spare time, hiding them away in a special notebook

y ⤖ yuck (what are some things he wouldn't like; in general or in a partner?)

he wouldn't like dishonesty, rudeness, or people who try to pressure him into things he's not comfortable with.

in a partner, he'd value kindness, understanding, and a shared passion for life.

z ⤖ zzz (what are his sleeping habits?)

he might be a cuddler in his sleep, subconsciously seeking your warmth and comfort.

he might also talk in his sleep occasionally, murmuring sweet nothings that make your heart melt.

2021-2024 © jungwnies on tumblr | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate.

[snowluvvie]

₊˚⊹ ♡ . rafe cameron x apple pie!reader

Rafe didn’t understand what everybody was always running their mouth about when they said shit like “you’ll meet a nice girl” “you’ll wanna settle down” because, in his experience, nice girls were atrociously boring and no one he ever wanted to be around. He was sure he’d shack up with some bitch and get married and pump out a couple kids because he had to, because that’s what he was supposed to do, but not because he loved someone so much he wanted to

That was, until he met you.

You, with your gentle beauty and the way your hair was always so close to perfect but never quite. The pleated skirts and the way you always smelled of cinnamon and, faintly, soil. Warm as a kitchen at dawn, quiet except for your laugh, which was loud enough to scare the birds out of the forest.

The thing about girls with rickety front porches and warm hands, though, is that you have to be on their best behavior around them—that’s what Barry said, at last: “Man, she’s not gonna want your coked-up ass. That typa chick wants a dude who builds a fuckin’ fence and shit. They don’t like rich dudes. Give it up.”

And unfortunately, Rafe was pretty sure he was right. You mostly kept your head down when you walked, and no matter how many things he leaned against, or how many times he casually smoked a cigarette near you, he just couldn’t get you to look his direction—and if you did, you didn’t grant a second glance to his crisp white shirts or his backwards hat.

His crowning last-stitch move was when he made a big show of helping his dear sister carry her bag when she was walking down the dock—it looked heavy, he wouldn’t want her hurting herself! She’s family, after all! Sarah had tried to wrestle the bag back and she flipped him off after he put it onto the boat for her, but it’d already had the desired effect… your eyes lingered on him for a moment. Family was important, after all. You were the kinda girl who cared about those things.

When the two of you started going out, he felt like his life was spinning out of control and simultaneously clicking into place. You had expectations for him, real ones. And a lot of the time when you said shit like “I’m making dinner tonight, don’t be late” or “wash your hands” Rafe wanted to tell you to go fuck yourself, because you weren’t his damn mother—except when he looked over at you and saw your face, that wide-eyed, imploring look you always gave him, the words died in his throat. What the hell was wrong with him?

He’d do something nice for you and you’d nudge his arm. “What, you sweet on me or somethin’?” He’d wonder who even talks like that, it’s weird. Then he’d find himself grabbing your pretty face and kissing you so hard you think he might break your nose.

Rafe was so, so well behaved with you. He kept it together so nice, all his unstable shit wrapped up into a neat little package tied with ribbon. He acted as a guy who smiled semi-often, and said thank you sometimes, and maintained eye contact with you when he was fucking you—all things that were new and unfamiliar to him. When you told him what time dinner was, he came over in time. He kissed your forehead and he meant it. For you, he did it all. Barry had been right. You wanted a well-behaved guy, and Rafe wanted to watch the way your smile took over your face when you were happy and the ecstatic look on your face when you came, so he was well-behaved.

That was, until he wasn’t.

He was supposed to come over at nine. You would’ve just gotten out of the shower (or maybe you’d still be in, if he got lucky) and you’d put your cute little plaid PJs on, and you’d climb on top of him and put your weight on his chest while the two of you watched some 90’s movie. The movie would get boring in act three and he’d watch you ride him, and then he’d cum on your stomach like a gentleman, and the two of you would fall asleep wrapped up in eachother.

Instead of that carefully constructed, lovely, dreamy evening—Rafe showed up at nearly three in the morning, covered in blood.

He knew you’d be asleep, he’d have time to wash his face and toss his shirt in the trash can out back before climbing into your bed with you. He didn’t wanna go home. He wanted to press kisses to your throat and apologize for being late, swear that it would never happen again and then make it up to you in the morning by making you cum over and over in your crisp red plaid bedsheets.

Instead, he found you sitting on a stool in your living room, head leaned against the wall, eyes heavy with sleep. Waiting for him. Rafe froze like a deer in headlights and waited for the inevitable, for you to call him a psychopath and beat him off the property with a broom.

You didn’t. You didn’t speak, just led him to the bathroom and wiped the blood from his face, carded your fingers through his hair. Threw his clothes into the rattling washing machine with a tablespoon of hydrogen peroxide, and then let him crawl into bed with you anyway. The two of you were silent, and he slung an arm over you. You settled into the crook of his armpit and fell asleep with your face smushed against his bicep, and he felt something horrible and unfamiliar blooming in his chest.

You could never leave him, he decided. He wouldn’t allow it. He couldn’t survive that.

[tinytennisskirt]

Behind Closed Doors

socialite good girl! reader x patrick zweig

summary: heavily based on the lyrics of behind closed doors by lana del rey, patrick zweig takes genuine interest in one of the 'matches' his parents have thrown at him to try and rope him back to high society. she takes him and herself by surprise, finding she's not all spoiled, perfect, and innocent. nobody is rooting for them, but they don't care. if it feels good. then it can't be bad. behind closed doors.

part one: reader goes through the motions of her first date with patrick, her first cigarette, and the debrief that follows suit. warnings: mentions of sex, smoking, kissing, slight corruption vibe

When Patrick pulled out his pack of cigarettes in the restaurant parking lot, you knew for certain he wasn’t your usual type of guy. As if the date itself didn’t already tell you so. His wandering eyes, his hands tapping the table, the way he asked to split the bill. He was an asshole in a way that you could tolerate for the first time in your life. And he was gorgeous, tall, with nice biceps and a pretty nose. He had curls you stared at quite a bit and interestingly blue eyes that didn’t seem all that blue in the lighting of the parking lot.

You just kept noting that he was nothing like the other guys your parents would send you out with. The setups were usually awful, but with Patrick here, there was no beige sweater tied around his shoulders like a white-collared asshole with a business dream. He was Patrick Zweig, in a dark green sweater and jeans and a cigarette between his lips and he was leaning against his car, smoke blowing in your face. He was new and it was refreshing and it felt… dangerous. He didn’t mention the stock market, he said you looked nice in your dress, and never in your life had you ever wanted to remove your clothes faster. That was bad.

It was dangerous because one, you were a virgin, and two, he was not the kind of guy you’d dreamed about losing that to. You pictured a Prince Charming, groomed, dress shirt, whiskey neat, and in a setting of pretty rose petals, not red, but pink and romantic candlelight. Here Patrick was in front of you destroying that vision. With every word that slipped his lips, those pink rose petals turned red. The lush sheets you’d imagined turned into the backseat of his car. Prince Charming turned into a twenty-four-year-old tennis player. 

You tucked your hair behind your ears, “Do they taste how they smell?” You asked him, tilting your head just slightly to the right, your eyes wide and unknowing. You reminded him a little bit of a deer, or a kitten, or something innocent. It was something about him being four years older, which wasn’t that much now. But he could see that little difference. And you were shorter than him, which wasn’t helpful in your case, but then again nor were those curious eyes. Patrick smiled just a little bit at the question. 

“The cigarettes?” 

“Mhm.” 

“Worse.” He nodded. You were the daughter of some family friend, some nose-upturned chair member on some sort of big fucking social pyramid that his own mother was also at the top of. You were the daughter of that high society, so looking at you all doe-eyed in your pink dress, it was only fitting for Patrick to fall into character and ask you, “Do you want to try?” He coughed just a little asking it, but smirked all the same. 

He liked the way you looked a little startled by his ask. Your eyelashes fluttered, it was cute. He’d played nice the entire time he was out with you, asked all the questions you ask the heir of two socialites, and listened to all the answers. He couldn’t believe after so much time away from the scene he’d want to hear about Saturdays at the Country Club, but you were that sort of girl and for once, he didn’t mind it—something about you. You blinked hard and you giggled just a little, “Oh, I- don’t- it’s…” 

“Just an offer.” He nodded, enjoying how flustered it made you. He wondered what else he could do to produce that sort of reaction. 

“I-um- I’ve never- I don’t know how,” you admit. Patrick felt a smirk tug at his lips. He felt a little evil and he knew that he was, too. You weren’t that kind of girl and he knew it to his core that giving you a cigarette was an act rooted in a bit of corruption, but it was so cute how you just couldn’t say no. Some part of him would give anything to have that pretty pink lipgloss on the end of his cigarette. And the end of something else as well. “Should I?”��

His smirk broke free and his eyes met yours as he blew smoke out into the air again. “Only if you want to.” He nodded, chuckling. “You don’t have to. You won’t like it.” He held it out toward you and you brought your hand up and down twice before you took it, turning it around—perfect French tips on a burning cigarette. You looked at him, some form of determination taking over that curious look.

“What do I do? Can I do it wrong?” 

“Inhale like you’re taking a deep breath, hold and exhale.” He said, stepping just the slightest bit closer to you. He realized that his replies were coming off a little short, unintentionally. He was used to the stance of it when he went out with other entitled girls. You were coming off different, he blinked off his bias and smiled at you. “Can’t do it wrong, you might just not get any of the…” He fixed the way you were holding it, “-Smoke.”

You laughed a little nervously, “Mmm, no. I can’t. Take it back.” 

“You’re sure?” 

“I’m sure. Kind of. Could I get hooked?” 

He stepped closer again, “Depends on if you have an addictive personality.” 

“How do I know-” 

“It’s burning out, princess,” he said, pointing to the cigarette. The nickname nearly caught you more off guard than the cigarette did. He watched your lips part just slightly. He knew you were different. “I’ll take it back if you don’t want it.” He reached forward and you narrowed your eyebrows. He backed off, “Alright, alright.” 

His words echoed around your head. The nickname princess was one you resented yet somehow, from his lips it was even worse in the best way. How he was the son of two people whom you respected very much for their cleanly little dinner parties and charity organizations and white-wearing yacht parties, you didn’t know. He was so… opposite. So it was easy to be the opposite of who you were as you warily raised the cigarette to your lips. 

Patrick pressed his grin into a straight line, his eyes carefully watching as you looked at it, then him. He tried to keep his smile down to not intimidate you any further. He offered it almost to taunt you, but here you were, with it raised to your lips. A soft, pretty girl in a pink dress, even your shoes went against the look of a cigarette in your hands. You inhaled just slightly, the smoke didn’t make it very far, burning harshly against the back of your throat. You coughed immediately, head-turning away from him. Your heart was beating fast, the adrenaline of doing something wrong was coursing through your veins in a fiery hot struggle to breathe again. It wouldn’t stop, it hurt, it burned. Getting clean air seemed impossible- you choked.

Patrick stepped forward, his hand on your shoulder just bracingly, chuckling at how hard you were coughing and how hard you were trying to stop yourself from coughing. “You’re okay, breathe,” he was trying not to smile or laugh but he couldn’t help himself. The daughter of a pedestal socialite was coughing up her lungs because of him. He just knew your parents had made a mistake letting you go out with him. It wasn't the first time they’d thrown a good girl in his face to try and lure him back to his ‘rightful lifestyle’, but out of every girl, you were the only one to actually go against all of your good girl training and try. He liked that. 

You could not catch your breath. It still burned in your chest and in your throat. Patrick’s hand on your shoulder was a small help for comfort, his body so close to yours, your cough faded out but your heart was still beating hard. Fuck a headrush, you were feeling the adrenaline and the rush of something bad. Something wrong. His hand still on your shoulder to keep you steady and offer some semblance of comfort, you could meet his eyes now and in the height and heat of everything, you figured you had already went against your character- why not some more? 

You didn’t see it coming yourself, the way you acted so abruptly. You moved spontaneously into him, grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him into a kiss. Out of all the things to happen, a cigarette turning into a kiss was an unexpected move. The cigarette hit the pavement, sparks bouncing across the pavement as your lips connected with his, both arms around his neck now. His strong hands, stronger than any that had ever been on you, held your waist tight and kept you close, pressed against him. He didn’t see it coming either, but the way you kissed, he’d never complain. 

You were a good kisser, he noted. Good, too good. At twenty though, you’d made out with enough potential guys to know how. He grinned against your lips a little evilly as he let his hands slip over your hips, the silk of your dress making it easy for his hands to slide down over your ass. You tasted like strawberry lip gloss and as his tongue dipped into your mouth, you found he tasted like smoke and bad choices, but god, it felt so good. 

He moved a step, pressing your back against the side of his car. Your hands slid up into his hair to pull just gently on his curls that you’d admired all dinner. It was quite possibly one of the most exciting, thrilling, and invigorating kisses of your lifetime. One of the best of his as well, dwelling on the fact he had his tongue in the mouth of such a sweet girl. Sweet in more ways than one now, he noted, squeezing your ass just gently before having his hand travel back up your hips, back to your waist. Not once did either one of you come up for air as the cigarette on the ground burned out for real this time. 

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

“The Zweigs don’t have a single photo of him around. Every time I go over with my parents, the walls are lined with vacation photos and paintings by prestigious artists, a new one every time, but never anything to do with him. Hell, I haven’t even seen a baby photo. They hide him well. What does he look like?” Your friend Mia asked, shopping bags bustling against each other as you walked through the mall. 

“Dying to know how it went, too,” your other friend Olive added, her extra-detailed Starbucks drink in hand. “Spill.” 

“Okay, okay,” you smiled. “So he’s tall. Not abnormally tall, but tall, like over six feet.” 

“The Zweigs are so short though,” Olive replied. “No way he’s anything more than five foot eight, I don’t believe it.” 

“Believe it. He was up here,” you gestured above you to where his height would be. Both girls grinned a little wider. “He has shorter hair, but it’s a little bit curly, dark brown. It’s a very Zweig brown. But god, he’s gorgeous. Like asshole gorgeous, too gorgeous. To me, at least. Big nose, blue-ish eyes.” 

“That’s your type.” Mia agreed. “I need a photo of him now. You feel like sharing?” 

“Dreamboat. I love big noses.” 

You grinned, “Me too. Okay, but his smile, I have to note. His grin was crazy, he has dimples like big dimples and I couldn’t stop staring when he smiled.” 

“I love dimples, my god, he sounds great, why do they hide him? I want to meet him.” Olive pretended to swoon as you turned the corner and into the bookstore. “So what happened?” 

You picked up a copy of some Shirley Jackson book, looking over the cover as you spoke, “Well, he’s not like the Zweigs at all. I mean, off the bat, his elbows were on the table. And he was charming and a little bit witty but very down to earth, talked to me about the last yacht party and we talked a bit about tennis, he’s a tennis player.” You walked over to the candles, the girls were so invested in your story they didn’t stop to smell any of them. “He’s not like any guy from our scene, no sweater vests or dreams to be his dad’s mini-me, it’s hot. It was hot. Sweater and jeans hot.” 

“I’m still hung up on the elbows thing,” Olive chuckled. “Maybe I’m just religious.” 

“Or anal,”  Mia giggled. “It’s bad, it’s rude, but maybe redeemable though I hate when guys wear jeans, it feels wrong. Okay, sorry, continue.” 

“So when dinner was over we split the bill, I’ve never done anything like it. Half and half. And then we go outside and we stand by his car and he smokes.” 

“Smokes? What, cigarettes?” You were turned away from the view of both your friends and the disgust on their faces. “Split the bill? As in made you pay?” 

You nodded, picking up a candle scented like baked goods, “Mhm. I didn’t mind, but it was strange. And yes, cigarettes. Oh, and I tried it.” You looked up at them for a split second. The two girls were posed in shock. “Okay, well, hardly, but I still tried.” 

“You smoked a cigarette?” Olive questioned, her face still puzzled and a little disgusted. “Did he force you?” 

“He offered. I only tried to inhale once and when I did I coughed forever but he was really sweet about it, put a hand on my arm and everything.” You rebutted. “Then we kissed… a bit.” 

Mia shook her head, “We’ll return back to a few of those points- How was the kiss? Was it good? Is he good at it?” She reshuffled the way she was holding all her shopping bags, moving past displays of stacked books. Olive, though still grossed out, seemed just as intrigued. 

You couldn’t help but hide your face, giggling just a little, “Really good, actually. Like perfect. He kisses with tongue, but not too much. Tasted like smoke. His hands were on my waist, he grabbed my ass, I’ve never had anyone grab my ass like that, it sent chills through my body.” 

“God, you’re so untouched,” Mia giggled. “Just wait until you get the other chills. Sometimes I forget you’re a virgin.” 

“That’s enough,” Olive grinned. “You’ve barely had sex yourself, Mary Magdalene.” You rolled your eyes, paying attention to another shelved book while they bickered until Olive cut back in. “But you’re not seeing him again, right? Like ew.” 

“Patrick?” You turned. 

She nodded, “Yeah. The kiss was probably great and he sounds hot, but you’re not seeing him again? Like- you literally smoked because of him, do you know how bad that is? And splitting the bill is so… so unfitting for you. The elbows on the table and the cigarette, Y/N… What?” 

Mia nodded too. “He might be a Zweig, but now you know why they hide him. He sounds cheap and a little trashy. I mean if you’re smoking at least make it a cigar, I mean, where’s the class? Did he even drive a good car?” 

“It was a normal car.” 

Olive put her drink down to gently brace your upper arms, “Y/N, this guy and his normal car are not for you. You’re a Y/L/N, why would you settle for some cigarette-smoking-elbows-on-the-table-split-the-bill black sheep? That’s so not you and god, if your parents found out, you’d be grounded for two years. And you even kissed him, that’s crazy. With tongue? Ass grabbing on the first date, tell me you’re following.” 

“I’m following, I just- hm. He was fine otherwise.” 

Mia frowned, “You’re hearing yourself? He was fine otherwise?”

“He was! He’s a good guy, he listens. He’s nice, drove me back to my dorm and everything.”You nodded. “And he’s a really good kisser like you wouldn’t believe. And I’m not opposed to having my ass grabbed-” 

“Y/N,” Mia whined. “He’s not it just because he’s different. You can find differences in a good-mannered guy. One who doesn’t smoke and one who drives something nice.” She nodded. “Like- Oh my god, Olive, we could set her up with Matty Bronson.” 

Olive gasped, tapping Mia on the arm. “He’s exactly that! Say no more, I have his number, he slipped it to me when I saw him the other day on campus.” You sighed, rolling your eyes. You loved your friends but sometimes they just didn’t get it. How could they? They never questioned their lifestyle, they never thought twice about all the high society coming out parties and summer vacation houses. They were also a little clueless- Matty Bronson had liked Mia all through high school and into the second year of college. There was no way now that you’d end up with him.

You picked up another book and read the back of it as you thought about the plans you’d already made to see Patrick again tomorrow night. This time, he picked the place. It was a thrilling thought, but after what they’d both just said, you knew maybe you shouldn’t tell them that you were seeing him again.

PART ONE > PART TWO

[luveline]

I don’t really have a request I just love anything you write💗 maybe something with girly!reader?

thanks lovely💗

Spencer wrings his hands behind his back, shifting from one foot to the other unhappily. He hasn't felt this nervous since he was young —his PhDs have acted as a shield for years now. Even if he doesn't know what to do, he physically cannot be stupid. 

He feels pretty stupid. Less when you look up, smile blinding and sticky with gloss. He's thought about how it would feel to kiss you before and he tries desperately to push the thought away now, his hands shaking where they're hidden. 

"Hey, Spencer Reid," you say, lightly teasing as you wave him toward you. "How are you?" 

"I'm good." 

"Yeah?" You gesture at the empty seat in front of you. "Are you having lunch?" 

The bureau cafeteria is less of a cafeteria in the kitchen sense and more of a staff room, though hot food is served at the very back. There are couches toward the patio of an outdoor area to the left. You sit at one of the tables near the doors. The air is cold around his ankles as he sits with you. 

"No, I– I came down for coffee, but the jug is empty." It's a bad lie. Luckily you have no idea that there's a kitchen in the BAU offices. "You're not?" 

You turn your laptop screen to him. "I ate my lunch at my desk. I'm just catching up with my show." Your laptop has stickers around the screen, silver shiny stars and tiny pink hearts that look like they're made of jelly. There's a closed bottle of nail polish resting near the keyboard. "And I'm gonna touch up my nails, too. They're always chipping." 

"They look perfect to me," Spencer says. 

You beam at him, beatific, so, so pretty, he could die. He might. "Thanks, honey. You'd look cute with painted nails, have you ever thought about it?" 

Spencer honestly forgets about his nails. He should take better care of them. He thinks about hiding them under the desk. "I don't think I could do it." 

"No one's good at it, at first. I'd paint them for you, if you wanted. I have a couple of things in my bag." 

Spencer's relieved to present freshly trimmed nails to you for painting. Your polish is a light blue colour, milky, and he assumes it'll be the one you use on him, but you decide to ruin his life, taking his hand into one of yours. You hold his fingers in a way that presents the nail as you brush cuticle oil around the edges of his nails with a small pen brush. You chatter as you do in your way, all sweet and gentle in mirror of your touch. 

He's proud of himself for keeping his cool. To have you touching him for so long, so kindly, to have your attention, it has him squirming with a mixture of pleasure and horror. He wants to be seen by you but he doesn't know if he likes what you're looking at. 

"You have really lovely hands," you say, using the tip of one of your nails to scrape stray wet polish off of his skin, "do you play piano?" 

"You can tell?" he asks. 

"Pianist's fingers," you say. "That's a thing, isn't it?" 

"I haven't played much since I was younger. I got distracted by other stuff." 

"Maths," you surmise. "And criminology?" 

Everything. He pushed away a want for human connection with books and education until it got too much. Even the wisest of honeybees will brave heavy rain for a beautiful flower, and that's sort of how he feels about you. He knows it's stupid, knows it's doomed, but he couldn't not try to speak to you. You're the prettiest girl he's ever seen, all your lip colours and shimmery eyeshadows, the chirpy way you talk, the earnestness of your please and thank yous. 

Your hands. The silver ring on your index finger dotted with tiny pink stones. Your bracelets. The smell of your perfume and your soft sweaters. 

"Done," you announce, an uncharacteristic hesitance to your tone. "Are they okay?" 

You've done a perfect job. "They're so neat. Thank you. I– I love it." 

Your eyes linger on his hands. "I love when guys wear nail polish. You're even handsomer now, it's crazy. I didn't know it was possible." 

Spencer should have more style for sure, but he asks you to dinner right then and there. 

You smile until the lashes kiss in the corners of your eyes and say yes. This new place opened just around the corner from your apartment, and you've been trying to drum up the courage to ask him all week. When Spencer hears that he almost passes out. 

[bi-writes]

hello 🐝!! hope ur doing well, luv!

was thinking about bff!roommate!simon loving readers food. the reader starts baking and cooking for fun and uses simon as a test subject to rate the food LOL. reader's food slowly becoming one of his comfort things and maybe him risking cooking for/with them

just pureeee fluff!!

had this idea while looking at my burnt brownies LMFAO

wish ya the best ⚡

this is so sweet. this came out much angst-ier than i intended lol.

more bff!roommate!simon (part 7/?)

cw: mature language and content, suggestive language and content, simon is big 👁️👁️, the mask doesn't come off, aNgSt and LoNgInG

it's one of the first dinners that simon spends with you in your new apartment. he has never lived in a home that he didn't hate coming back to.

when he was a child, he feared his father. when he was an adult, he feared the loneliness and the quiet; it left room for the thoughts in his head to manifest and grow claws. but now, he found himself in the back of a car after deployment without dread in his chest.

when he steps into the foyer, the apartment is warm. there is no dust on the forgotten, bare counters. there is no screaming, no crying, no hushed voices and angry eyes. there is a warm yellow glow throughout the apartment; the lights you have put up since he left cast such a comforting shadow across the inviting furniture, the pictures you've hung on the wall are happy, the books you've put away and the candles you've lit are familiar.

and there's a smell. something smells so good. he closes the door behind him and locks it, setting his bag down. he follows the sounds coming from the kitchen. there's the sound of something simmering, cutlery hitting a wooden cutting board.

when he emerges into the kitchen, something in his chest constricts. you've got your bottom lip between your teeth as you concentrate on peeling some potatoes, trying to be careful not to nick the tip of your finger. there's a pot on the stove, a low fire lit as something cooks. there's more candles, a glass of wine there, a neat mess of vegetable scraps and ingredients.

he doesn't know what to call it; the taste of the word in his mouth sounds something like home.

"simon!"

and there's your smile. a bright, shimmering thing that comes over your face, relief in those gorgeous eyes and glossiness in your gaze as you hold back the excited tears you're overwhelmed with. you drop the knife you were using, hurrying around the counter to greet him, and simon grunts as your arms fling around his neck, bringing him down to your level as you hug him tight. there it is again--something tight and mean in his chest, something that feels good but something he can't say out loud.

"y-you're home--" you pull back gently. "you're back."

you smile, and simon catches the tear that escapes before it can run down your cheek.

"w-welcome home," you whisper, and you mean it, and his breath is stuck in his throat because something was waiting for him here, and it is you, and you are perfect.

"'ello, luv," he murmurs. "somethin' smells nice."

"yeah, i--" you sniffle, taking his arm and bringing him into the kitchen. simon is still fully dressed in his gear, sturdy jeans with holsters fastened around his thighs, a thick belt, a tactical vest tight around his broad torso. you pick up a tasting spoon, dipping it into the stew and holding it up to him. "tell me how it tastes. i'm...trying something new."

simon meets your eyes from under the mask before he lifts up the fabric slightly. you don't pay attention to the corrugated skin you see, the discoloration; you just smile and feed him the spoon.

he closes his eyes gently. he has been living on ready-made meals in the field and the food prepared in the mess halls. the food isn't bad--but it isn't made like this. it doesn't come with an angel feeding it, it doesn't come with an apartment filled with peace, it wasn't made with that unspoken thing that is shared between the walls of this place.

it tastes wonderful. it's warm, and it sits so nice in his stomach, and simon wants more immediately.

"still needs some time, got to get the potatoes done," you say, as if reading his mind. "it'll give you some time to wash up."

and when he comes back, you're still there. he blinks; this isn't a dream. you're still in the kitchen, asking him how he's feeling, your hair in front of your eyes as you pick up plates and bowls and more things you must have picked up when he was gone--what the fuck is going on?

who's house am i in?

what kind of fucking dream is this?

when do i wake up--when does this all get taken away from me? because i don't fuckin' deserve this--ghosts don't eat--ghosts don't get to live, and they don't get to share these memories, and they don't get to fall in lo--

"simon," you say softly, putting a small bowl into his gloved hands. his dark eyes fall, focusing on the curve of your lips and the softness of your skin and the way you feel in front of him. "ready to eat?"

yes. yes, yes, yes--

simon has been waiting all his for this feeling. the domesticity of home, the familiarity of not being alone, the serenity in something not unknown. and this would not last--he knows this deep in his bones. dead men do not get to savor these moments; he knows his demon will come to collect the time he's stolen, but for now, he will sit at the table he shares with you, drink in the warmth that you bring. he will listen to the gentleness of your voice, and he will fight tears one day in the field trying to remember exactly how you sound at this exact moment in time.

and he will try again to keep this feeling. he will pick a day that you work, a day when you are gone, and he will try and recreate the homecoming you gave him. he will fuck it up--of course he will, because simon was never taught how to love someone else like this. but somehow, he knows you won't care.

you will look at him the way you're looking at him now--simon puts the stars in the sky, the moon into orbit, gravity in motion, he brings the heat of the sun and the snow in the winter, and maybe he doesn't do this with the world you live in, but he does it with whatever lives inside of you, and it's enough for you to know that this is all that matters.

his hand along your thigh, his eyes on yours, the thing that is stuck between his teeth that he won't say but that you can feel in the air.

the thing between you that follows you, even when you go to bed that night in separate rooms. the thing that keeps you up at night knowing he is just across the hall, that he's right there, he's right fucking there--

he's right there.

so why can't i just have him?

[evilminji]

You know what's my JAM?

Extremes being treated as the Serious Dangers they ARE, even when they aren't "oooh its a spooky Grey morality and BADness!" Extreme.

Like? No, people. ALL of them are bad. They are ALL face melting dangerous. The void may crush your soul, but look upon the Face Of GOD? Not gonna be having a fun time! Doesn't MATTER if he's a cool dude! Face melting!

We are creatures of BALANCE. Tiny, fragile, little motes of dust. That can only exsist in the careful, blended, dances of territories and powers that be. We squishy.

Ghosts? Less squishy.

Poor impulse control, too. Especially ones with Fenton genetics. ABSOLUTELY ones with Fenton genetics and a trauma based aversion to therapy. That one? Pretty hardy. Made pretty tough, what with being Fates third favorite chew toy. But? Still gets the Sads, you know? The slightly longer then just seasonal depression.

Would medicine and some therapy help? Oh like a dream!

If medicine WORKED on his Ectoplasmicly contaminated ass. And he TRUSTED therapists.

But... surely, Danny thinks, as he sits grossly in his Depression sweatpants and eats suspect pizza on the floor of his moldering shoebox of an apartment, there must be SOME way to address his Depression? He should... he should DO something about it. Take a break maybe. Look up some ghost doctors or something.

.....

Oooooooooor..... >.>

He could break out that OMENIOUS af, bound in suspect leather, Big Book Of Forbidden Knowledge(TM) that he got from Pariah's.... what, fourth? Fifth? Library? Fuck that Lair is huge. He's STILL cleaning it out and it's been over half a decade. He swears it spawns more floors just to mock him. Bastard. Don't know HOW a building can be a Bastard, but it sure found A WAY.

Anyway!

Book it is! *horrifying Eldritch light as he opens it* huh. Neat. Comes with its own visual effects. *another bite of suspect pizza* Funky.

And so! Danny, the depressed King Of The Zone... fucks of to go cheer himself up in the Fields Of Bliss(TM), an area of Absolute Bliss. Which! Sounds GREAT in theory, now don't it? Lovely even.

Remember that little comment about extremes?

You can ENTER those fields. But no one leaves. No one CAN. The deeper you go? The more doomed you become. Less will to do anything at all. Eat, talk, move. So much as think. Like ALL extreme "Goods", it sounds lovely, but the reality is no gentle little thing.

It's a glue trap.

But how could Danny have known? Honestly, who would have TAUGHT him? Textbooks can only go so far, after all. And placing blame will not rescue the young monarch.

I imagine it's one of his helpers that pieces together what's happened. Come for further clarification on WHERE exactly he wants certain statues moved. Only? Your Majesty? Your Majesty...? Where ever could he BE? Oh? He's left out some of his books. Well, I'll just assist by putting them away for-.....

Oh.

OH ANCIENTS, NO.

But! What can the poor man DO? Ghosts are Beings of Will, Emotion, and Obsession. Were it some sort of Holy Blade or Sentient Tree, you know, something INDIVIDUAL with a will they could FIGHT? Oh no problem. But an area of effect? Especially an EMOTIONAL area of effect!? Ooooooh, this is bad. The Zone can't AFFORD to lose ANOTHER King!

We JUST GOT THIS ONE!!!

Wait. He's heard that there's an organization for this! That loudly cursing fellow who got violently thrown back into the Zone. "Ruined his fun" and all that! Perfect! He'll just hire THEM!

Smashcut? To a nice, peaceful, everybody's screaming Justice League Meeting. John's cursing life, extremely hungover. Zatana still has three cracked ribs. Wonder Woman is enjoying the new sword she... liberated... mid battle. Truely stunning craftsmanship. When?

Knock Knock!

Heads swivel. There... is a glowing green... accountant? Dandy? Dandy accountant. With an equally radioactive day glow green Actual Pirate's Chest Of Treasures, floating next to him. In the void of space; Just beyond the glass. What, the, fuuuuuu-

He seems to be under the impression they are some sort of Heroic mercenaries. And has come to request the retrieve-

"NNNNNOPE! Pariah can SHOVE it!" Snarls a suddenly very awake John Constantine, sitting up straight for the first time in hours. The rest of Dark grimly nod in agreement. Let the fucker rot. It's a kinder fate then he deserves.

No, no, NO! King PHANTOM! Pariah's SUCCESSOR by right of combat! They are not, and were never, allied in any way!

Well, all right then. Road trip to save a young idiot then.

@the-witchhunter @hdgnj @hypewinter @lolottes @mutable-manifestation @nerdpoe