#ripped pages // drabble

[lastborne]

Tell me about if/when Maheen learns what happened to Alloran, how she reacts. What does she do about the hive mind?

Headcanon - @crookedtouch - Spoilers for the end of Act 3.

Magic infuses the land of Faerûn, people who were once dead can be brought back to life, and if not wholly, than as a ghoul or skeleton. Telepathically able to send messages with Sending. Because of that, the fabled 'twinepathy' of our world exists in theirs.

That being said, she absolutely knew something was going on with him when he started to block that bond. She had tried to warn their parents, their siblings. But everyone claimed it was just a part of growing up. She knew different, knew something was wrong when the bond went completely silent before coming back fuzzy. She could no longer tell where he was in the vague sense she could before. It was like he was in multiple places at once.

Finding the hive mind when going to destroy the Steel Watch had her break in a way that finally let her understand on some level what her elder sister went through. Even more so the dark corners of her mind whispered. Alloran and her had been attached at the hip since that very first day. 'She remembers sideway glances with him before bursting into giggles and their mama's experated exhaling chuckle when they spoke in 'twin-speak.' before running off to play in the backyard.

Remembers finally accepting she didn't carry the innate magic of their bloodline and remembers him stealing a book and giving it to her, whispered words of encouragement, that if anyone could study magic and learn, so could she, she wasn't going to be left behind.

Alloran who just wanted to help people, who curved and trained his magic to heal rather than hurt was now hurting people outside his control. When her mind touched his, there was a feeling of confusion followed by panicked fear as he was able to push through the tadpole control before being smothered again, a faint pleading for release before nothing.

It took everything in her to destroy that jar that was what was left of him, but she did so in an empty sense, eyes hazed with trying to control her tears. Her brother was gone, so why did she feel his blood on her hands? She didn't seem to hear her friends as she continued on to destroy the foundry, when they left and all they had to do was hunt down Gortash for the final stone. Her head was silent in a way she loathed. The little static feeling in the back of her head was gone, and even though it meant that something was wrong, at least he was still there. Now there was nothing, and she was alone.

The irony, only hit her until later in that, when she passed the bodies of her parents in the hall that she felt her magic react in a way it had never before, and used all her training to keep it from exploding out of her. Rage was building, felt like it was burning her from the inside, not only had Gortash taken her brother, but her parents too? Were her older siblings okay? Did she lose them too?

Seeing that man, hearing his mocking tone had her yelling in rage alongside Karlach, her magic bursting out of her and wildly snapping at anything close by. She wasn't strong, never thought about using a weapon once she started her studies, but she didn't need to be physically strong when her magic lashed out and was strong enough that the only reason she swung her mace was for cathartic revenge at the sound of bone crunching under metal. She may not be able to hurt him emotionally, but she could make damn sure no other family would have to go through what she did.

[helreginn]

🕯️

send me 🕯️to hear my character’s inner thoughts about your character.

Hel had always been able to speak into the minds of others. Since a child. Something to do with faring forth; To have one's soul leave their body is no easy feat. Having learned that? Projecting a voice came easy.

Too easy, sometimes. To the point of unconsciousness. Like talking to one's self, sometimes you don't realize you're doing it even in company.

The first time it happened, they were in Helheimr. He'd come just as she'd finished mentally sorting out her plans for the week. And her inner monologue never quieted.

Him again. He cannot let well enough alone.

Quiet filled both the space and her thoughts as she turned away just in time to miss the incredulous expression on his face as Lucifer tried to grapple with what he was experiencing.

I hope he never does.

The voices in our heads are not meant to have volume. A scream or a murmur, all the same. But it came as a whisper in his mind. An unsure thought that flittered from her mind as readily as it's wings brushed along his ears.

I wish I could just.. let him stay. Go with him. I wish I were not cursed. This is torturous. I should tell him he'll rot if we sleep together again. No.. Death didn't scare him. He'll see right through that.

She turned back on a sigh and her expression was entirely blank. Like a woman carved from marble; Still and flawless. A unique gift she possessed. To slow the worlds and her pace enough that she appeared as pretty as a rested corpse.

The words kept rolling in her mind.

Please. She tried to will him with her eyes alone. Go. I don't have the heart to force you away. But that is the only way we can both exist."

He let it slip fairly quickly. Confusion bursting forth in words that made her hate her own magics. Her instincts were to run but how could he not pursue as it slowly clicked into place that she wanted him with her?

Hel, tragically, was smaller and faster. She slipped away before he was able to pursue.

~*~**~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~

Far later, after many such incidents, Hel came to be a little less timid about it. Aside from the very rare impulsive thought that would and did make even the devil blush.. she had nothing to hide or feel ashamed of. Even before her mind's filter kicked in.

The goddess breathed shallowly as she lay nestled against his side, her head on his breast as she dozed and daydreamed. Her arm lazily slumped over him.

Don't sleep, Hela. It's a trap. You'll never wake up again. He's so cozy. And he'd let me. I bet he wouldn't move if I slept fifteen hours. He knows he's cozy. If he puts his wing over me, I'm done for.

Hel begrudgingly opened her eyes but couldn't bring herself to move.

Ugh. Five hours wouldn't hurt. And the heavens knew she needed it. Lucifer too.

When he started running his fingers up and down the length of her forearm and every so carefully laid his wing over her back, Hel let out a loud sigh, "Youuu bastard." She sleepily admonished, a giggle to follow, "You heard that, didn't you?"

[animamii]

lockedup!toji lovessss receiving letters from you. 💌

"Fushiguro, you got mail," one of the corrections officers would knock on his open cell door. Toji always had this smirk tugging at his lips when the guard said those words. Although it was only a mask for the thrum he felt in his heart. He would always be handed a nice little stack of letters, all from you. The envelopes would be different colors, pinks and reds and purples. You'd really put a lot of effort into these [mostly love] letters. Even going as far as buying the cutest stamps you could find. He would never admit it out loud—he'd rather choke— but Toji loves when you put those cute little Hello Kitty stamps on the letters. Toji didn’t seem like the type to care for stuff like that, but those letters? Oh, they meant everything.

His name would be written in your cute handwriting, Toji Fushiguro with a little heart next to it. Flipping over the letter, you'd alway put a cute sticker over the seal. Or a heart if you couldn't find a sticker you'd like. He never rushed to open them, though; instead, he’d take his time, flipping through the envelopes, savoring the sight of your adorable scribbles. Toji loved the scent of them, always smelling like the spritz of perfume you'd put on the paper (thank you for the idea, Grease). He loved it just as much as the lipstick kisses you'd put on every blank space of the envelope and letter. Even if you weren't much of a lipstick user, you made sure to keep some different shades in stock so you can send Toji kisses through the mail.

It was the highlight of his day, pulling open the envelope with a rare softness in his usually rough hands. Always being ever so careful not to rip the envelope or the sticker you so thoughtfully sealed it with. He’d sit on the edge of his cot, back resting against the cold cement wall, eyes scanning over your handwriting. Every curve of your letters, every word you wrote, he soaked in every little thing. You wrote about every little thing; what you ate, what you listened to, what you watched. Your little girlish gossip. Toji preferred to read multiple pages of you rambling on about whatever came to your pretty little head. Made him feel like he was with you again, sitting there babbling to him like you always did.

After reading through one of your letters for the first time, Toji would lean back, holding the paper loosely in his hand, a rare softness washing over his sharp features. His lips would curl faintly at the edges, almost like he could hear your voice through the words on the page. He’d trace over your little doodles in the corners—the hearts, the smiley faces, even the exaggerated stick figure versions of you and him. Toji wasn’t a sentimental man by nature, but these small things? They clawed their way into the part of his chest he thought was hardened long ago. Sometimes, the other inmates would glance his way, curious about what kept the infamous Fushiguro so quiet. He’d shoot them a glare that said, Mind your own damn business. No one dared ask questions.

Toji had a little ritual for your letters. After reading through them, he’d carefully fold them, put it back in its respective envelope, and tuck them into his pillowcase. It wasn’t much, but it kept them close to him, right where he could feel that connection even when he wasn’t holding the paper. Later, when the lights dimmed and the prison settled into its eerie quiet, he’d pull one out again, holding it under the faint glow of the moonlight seeping through the bars. It didn’t matter if it was the same letter he read last week or one you’d just sent—it still carried that same warmth.

"Y’know," he muttered to himself one night, voice low enough not to carry. "You’re making me soft, sweetheart." But he didn’t really mind. Those letters gave him something to look forward to, something worth counting down the days for.

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y'all I wanna write more drabbles like thiss. Also I'm thinking... maybe some letters from Toji himself? Or from reader? both?? o.O lemme know bebecitas I wanna write what y'all wanna read!! xoxo

taglist ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ @psoycy (aka my favee)

[honeyryewhiskey]

⋆｡°✩ no mini-skirts allowed

synopsis ✩ teasing older!dean has become your favorite pass time here comes trouble intro page for more age gap drabbles

warnings ✩ 18+ descriptions of dean being horny, skimpy outfits, undressing, flaunting/teasing, restraint 1.8k words

Dean’s pushing fifty, he’s seen every kind of mini-skirt a woman could wear—denim, snakeskin, pleated, painted-on tight. And you—you’ve got one of each.

Every damn day, it’s something new. One morning, it’s a little plaid number, all flirty and preppy, barely covering a damn thing as you lounge on the couch. The next, it’s tight denim, hugging every curve as you bend over the Impala’s hood, pretending to be interested in whatever he’s fixing. Then there’s the snakeskin one—hell, that one nearly did him in. Slinking around the bunker like some kind of walking temptation, flashing him that wicked little smirk every time you caught him looking.

But today—it’s the black one.

The shortest, clingiest, most offensive thing you’ve ever worn. And it’s been a problem all day.

Maybe it’s because you’re practically flaunting it in his face. Maybe you damn well know what you’re doing. Maybe it’s because Dean knows if he was his younger self, he’d have spent the whole day with his hips locked between your thighs—but you’re a case. A spritely little thing he swore to protect, not defile. Either way, Dean’s been fighting a losing battle, his patience wearing thinner with every step you take.

And you’re enjoying every second of it.

This morning, when he stepped out of the gas station, he damn near dropped the bag in his hand at the sight of you bent over the Impala’s vinyl seat, half inside the car, digging around the floorboards. The fabric was stretched to its absolute limit, clinging to every dip and curve, and that little triangle of pink lace peeking out from between your thighs was down right offensive to his resolve.

Dean stopped dead, heat crawling up the back of his neck, his grip tightening on the plastic bag until the rustling of it was the only sound he could process. That sliver of lingerie was a goddamn bullseye, branding itself into his brain. His stomach clenched, jeans tightening around his cock far too much for a man standing in a parking lot at eight in the morning.

He ripped his gaze away, clearing his throat like that might dislodge the image from his brain. “You lose somethin’?”

You wiggled. Hips twitching as you hummed back, “mhm. My phone.”

Dean turned on his heel so fast it nearly gave him whiplash, muttering something about being careful as he yanked open the driver’s side door and tossed the bag on the dash. No way in hell was he standing behind you. Instead, he slid into the seat, reaching under the passenger side until his fingers curled around the cool, smooth shape of your phone.

“Here,” he grumbled, practically shoving it into your hand without looking at you.

You only smiled, sweet and cunning—like you knew just how much you’d wrecked his entire damn morning.

Later, while Dean was working on Baby in the garage, he was trying—really trying—to focus on the engine in front of him, but that damn skirt was making it impossible.

You’d perched yourself on a barstool a few feet away, flipping lazily through some magazine like you had no care about what you were doing to him. Legs crossed just enough to hike the fabric higher, teasing the soft skin of your thighs.

He forced himself to keep his eyes on his work, tightening a bolt with more force than necessary. But his resolve slipped when your legs parted—slowly—before crossing again, like you were stretching just for the hell of it.

Dean caught the flicker of a smirk on your lips.

Son of a bitch.

He gritted his teeth, wrench working double time to keep his hands occupied. The garage was warm, but it wasn’t the heat making sweat gather at his collar. He knew better than to look again—knew damn well that every glance was just giving you ammunition.

But then you hopped down from the stool, the movement making the hem of that tiny excuse for a skirt ride up just enough to give him a peek at the curves of your ass. The little top you have on doesn’t help, the hem doesn’t even cover past your belly button. The plush skin of your stomach pokes out between the two pieces, another taunt. Another image burned into his brain that’ll creep back into his mind when he’s alone in his bedroom at night. 

Dean muttered a curse under his breath, dragging a hand over his stubbled jaw. You didn’t adjust the fabric, didn’t even pretend to be modest as you strutted past him like you hadn’t just shortened his lifespan by a couple years.

“That skirt’s a safety hazard,” he grumbled, voice rougher than he meant it to be.

You didn’t even glance his way, just laughed, light and teasing, as you bent over to grab a drink from the cooler. The motion made the back of your skirt ride up again, and Dean had to snap his gaze to the ceiling before his self-control completely crumbled.

“Right,” you chided, cracking open a bottle of water. “You worried about my safety, big guy?”

Dean exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders like that might shake the tension out. “Yeah,” he muttered, wrench clanking against the metal. “Somethin’ like that.”

But you heard the strain in his voice. And from the way you licked a stray drop of water off your lip, eyes meeting his like a damn challenge—you knew you had him closer to where you wanted him.

The breaking point comes when you crouch in front of a bookshelf in the bunker’s library, back to him, that godforsaken skirt dipping low. The waistband sliding down your back enough for the strings of your panties to come fully into view. Slung around your hips, material so thin Dean figures it’d take one pull to tear the lacey pink from your skin. 

Dean’s hands clench at his sides. His jaw locks. His restraint is hanging by a damn thread, and he’s too tired to keep up his composure.

“All right, that’s it,” he announces, voice gruff, decisive. “No more skirts.”

You glance back at him over your shoulder, blinking wide, innocent eyes. “No more skirts?”

His stare is locked onto you like a man staring down a loaded gun, like he’s already taken the hit but is too damn stubborn to go down. “You heard me.”

Slowly, deliberately, you rise to your feet, turning to face him, that little smirk playing at the corners of your lips. “I don’t know what you mean, Dean,” you say sweetly, approaching him with your hands behind your back. “It’s just a skirt.”

Dean exhales sharply through his nose, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

Your head tilts, mischief gleaming in your eyes, and then—without breaking eye contact—you take another slow, deliberate step into his space. Close enough that the air between you turns thick. Close enough that he can smell the vanilla in your shampoo, feel the heat radiating off your skin.

“Take it off me, then.”

The words go straight to his growing bulge, all the heat in his body coursing to his core. He prays you don’t glance down, because he knows that triumphant little smirk will come back and he can’t do anything about it. 

Dean stills. His fingers twitch at his sides like he’s fighting the instinct to grab. His gaze flickers over your face, lingering on your lips for a beat too long, before dropping—just for a second—to the hem of that damn skirt. At the lace still peeking over the waistband because you, apparently, are refusing to adjust it today. 

For half a second, you think he might actually do it.

His hand lifts—just an inch, just enough for his fingers to graze across your hip and naval, the heat of his fingertips burning against the soft exposed skin of your stomach. A touch so fleeting, so barely-there, but enough to make your breath hitch.

Dean hears it. His jaw flexes, nostrils flaring.

And then—just as quickly—his fingers curl into a fist, like he’s physically snatching his own control back.

With a rough exhale, Dean steps back, shaking his head like he’s trying to clear it, like he's some damn teenager again, knocked flat by the first girl who ever looked at him like she wanted more. His restraint is hanging by a thread, fraying fast. “Go to your room,” he mutters, voice like gravel.

You laugh, soft and teasing, the sound sliding down his spine like a warm hand.  “Go to my room?”

Dean’s jaw clenches, fingers flexing at his sides. “Before I do something stupid,” he grits out. “This—” he motions between you, frustration rolling off him in waves, “can’t happen.”

His voice is strained, rough-edged, but his eyes—the heat in them, the way they drink you in like you’re something dangerous tells you that there's hardly any grit behind those words.

He’s not giving in yet, fine, but can't happen and won't happen are two different things. And besides, you’re sure as hell not done toying with him for the day. You tilt your head, all wide eyes and faux innocence, “Fine. I’ll take it off.”

Dean doesn’t even have time to process the words before your hands are slipping under the waistband, pushing the little black scrap of fabric down your thighs. The air in the room shifts, charged, like a storm gathering on the horizon.

Dean’s throat works as he swallows hard, pulse hammering in his ears as the skirt pools at your feet. His gaze—traitorous, desperate—flickers downward before he can stop it.

Pink lace. Thin. Damn near sinful.

Heat licks up his spine, tightens his stomach, makes his skin prickle like he’s seventeen again, fumbling through the backseat of a car with a girl he has no business touching. Only this is worse. Because he’s not some dumb kid—he knows better. And yet, he still can’t look away.

Then you turn your back to him and bend at the waist. Slow. Deliberate.

Dean grips the back of the chair beside him like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to sanity, fingers digging into the worn wood. His jaw flexes so tight it aches. His eyes watch shamelessly as you give him full view of everything he's craving. Skin he can't let himself touch, hips he wants to grip onto while he fucks some of that attitude out of you.

And you—like you don’t even feel the heat radiating off him, like you didn’t just wreck him beyond repair—saunter toward the door in nothing but that little top and pink panties.

At the threshold, you pause. With a wicked little smile, you toss the discarded skirt over your shoulder.

It smacks Dean square in the chest.

He catches it on instinct, fingers fisting in the fabric, knuckles going white. The soft material, still warm from your body, feels like a brand against his skin, like evidence of the war he’s losing.

“You are gonna be the death of me,” he mutters, voice low, wrecked.

You glance back at him over your shoulder, a smirk playing at your lips. “What a way to go, huh?”

Dean doesn’t answer. He just stands there, burning, watching you disappear down the hall, still gripping that damn skirt like it might be the only thing keeping him from chasing after you.

You never got that black mini-skirt back. 

tags ✩ @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @daylighted @jollyhunter @soldiersgirl @bejeweledinterludes @bluemerakis @cowboysandcigarettes @littlesoulshine @couturewinx @ultravi0lence14 @figthoughts @snowluvvie

[alwayslurkinginthebackground]

Anger - A Joel Miller Drabble

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader Rating: E (is there anything else with him?????) Truly this is the least crazy thing I've written in days. Unprotected p in v. Word Count: 1155 a/n: Sometimes I spend all afternoon trying to write Joel and get nothing and other times I write 1000 words in less than 30 minutes. There is no in-between. Written for TLOU Sundays!

"You've really gotta do something about him," Ellie tells you from where she's sitting at the kitchen table.

You're barely through the door, coat still covered in a layer of snow from outside. "Well hello to you, too, Ellie," you respond, pulling off your boots before you track any more water into the house. It's strange, how something like keeping the floors dry didn't matter for twenty years and now suddenly again it does. "You're the fourth person to say that to me today though, so I assume you also are talking about Joel?"

She's flipping through the pages of a comic, barely paying you any attention. "Yes, Joel," she emphasizes, not that you need any further confirmation. Maria had cornered you at the saloon, the other half of your patrol had been on your case, and you had a run-in with Jackson's resident grandma first thing in the morning, who gave you an earful about how you needed to learn how to satisfy your man so he would stop torturing the entire town with his bad mood.

You sigh, shucking your coat and flexing your toes in your thick socks as you make your way into the kitchen. "Any idea what's wrong with him? He seemed fine this morning."

Ellie shrugs, still engrossed in the pages in front of her. "I don't know, Dina just told me he was being a real fucking asshole. You know how he gets."

That you do. You're well aware of the way Joel Miller can make or break an entire day based on his mood, especially since you've been at his side to witness it longer than anyone else.

Before you can contemplate further, the man in question storms through the door, a grumble on his lips before it's even closed behind him. Ellie meets your gaze, glancing over at him before turning back to you and then quickly rising. "I've gotta get going," she says quickly, sneaking past Joel to grab her jacket.

She's out the door before he can even say a word.

"Where the fuck is she going?" he questions, ignoring the way his boots squeak on the floorboards as he makes his way to the couch, collapsing into it. A part of you wants to scold him for the wet spots now littered all over the floor, but based on the furrow in his brow, there's no use, and you simply follow him instead, swinging a leg over his thigh to climb into his lap and settle there.

Only he has the audacity to grumble. Again.

"Joel," you say sternly, "don't do that."

"Don't do what?" he fires back, and now you know exactly what everyone had been warning you about. "I didn't do anything."

"What's up with you today?" It's a simple question, an inquiry that he should have no problem answering, but he doesn't, so you continue with a follow-up request, "Just tell me why I had four separate people tell me that I needed to figure out who you're so angry today."

"I'm not angry."

You frown. "Bullshit, Miller. Tell me what the fuck is wrong."

His answer is to seal his lips to yours, his rough grip dragging your hips against his so you can feel the hard press of him between your thighs. This felt familiar, especially since he'd been in an equally shit mood the day you first met, something you'd promptly fucked out of him later that night. And usually, that did the trick, but there was always something else lingering beneath the surface.

Not that you have time to contemplate what it might be because he pushes any thought of his mental well-being from your head when he rips your shirt from your body and latches onto one of your breasts. Likewise, any train of thought is gone just as quickly as the remainder of your clothing.

It's a good thing Ellie left quickly, because within minutes he has you spread out on the couch beneath him, one of your legs hitched around his hip as he pounds into you. There's little space left between you, the moment feeling intimate even with the intensity of the way he's pressing you down, grunting with each thrust until he has you clenching around him.

His fingers are on your clit before you come down from your climax, already drawing you higher a second time. "Joel, fuck, I can't," you whine, gripping at his hand.

"You can," he emphasizes, "you're gonna take every fucking inch of me."

And then you can see it. The rage behind his gaze, the emotion that has his eyes glassed over. The anger he has to unleash somehow. It scared you when you first met him, the first time he had you like this back in Boston, pressed up against the door, the first time you watched his fist collide with a FEDRA officer who tried to touch you, and the first time you saw him have to kill someone who definitely wasn't infected.

But now, you know better. You know that he won't hurt you, but he still needs a way to release the pent-up emotion that boils beneath the surface. You don't know what happened to get him here today, but you do know how to fix it.

Joel groans when you shift to wrap your legs fully around his waist, pulling him down so the soft expanse of his stomach presses against your own, increasing the pressure of your walls wrapped around him. It's all he can do to rut into you, your back slowly snaking up the arm of the couch as he fucks you. The angle changes the higher you move, guiding his lips to yours so he can catch the scream that rips from your throat when you clench around him a second time.

He follows you into the abyss, pulling out seconds before he spills against your center, jerking himself off until the last drops drip down onto the fabric.

When he regains his breath he stands, cock softening as he moves to grab a cloth to wipe his spend from your core. And then he's pressing you into the couch again, settled in the safety of your thighs as his head rests on your chest.

"Do you wanna know what Mrs. Davis told me today?" you ask softly, fingers curling through his hair.

Joel rests his chin on your breast as he looks at you, eyes softer now, more playful. "Fuck, what did she say?"

You smile. "She saw me at the store and pulled me into the corner to tell me that I needed to get you home and ride your cock because she was sick of your shit."

His laugh is rough, but he says nothing else as he settles back against you.

"Was she right?" you ask, your own laughter threatening to bubble up.

He doesn't answer, but he doesn't deny it either.

[momotonescreaming]

STWG Daily Drabble - Doodle

Steddie | G | 814 words

Their phone was hooked to the wall near the end of their kitchen counter — a rather inconvenient place if you were trying to talk on the phone while someone else cooked — but the apartment was cheap enough no one really complained.

In fact, Robin joked it was in the perfect position. She could talk on the phone to Vickie, and keep Steve company as he cooked at the same time. He had no trouble hip-bumping her out of the way when she stretched the cord and wandered into the middle of their very tiny kitchen.

It only became a problem when Eddie ended up having tense emotional conversations there, right where everyone could hear him. When he tried to convince Wayne to give up the night shift and move away from Hawkins like he did — trying to keep him safe. Or when he talked to Jeff and the Corroded Coffin boys about school and how they were doing at college and they got all weird about them getting in and Eddie not even bothering to apply.

But that was neither here nor there. Steve and Robin were both really good at giving him space when he needed it, and he hoped he was just as good in return.

So he focused on the good things. He was doing that a lot lately. Steve had stolen a notepad and some nice pens from work, and they had it set up next to the phone so they could take notes. So they didn't have to go hunting through the house for them, Steve said. Because you always needed to write something down as soon as you weren't near any paper.

Naturally, there were hardly any proper notes on that pad of paper. Dates to coordinate calls with Dustin, times and amounts the pizza delivery gave them, notes on how to repair things Wayne gave them over the phone. But that was about it.

So when Eddie was on the phone, hunched over the counter, chatting with Wayne — he doodled. Drew skulls and guitars and goblins. Spiders and snakes and various dragon-like creatures. A wizard he tried to make like Gandalf.

And Steve, Eddie shortly noticed — started doodling too. He drew lines and patterns and slowly started colouring in the whole page with his pen. He drew sports equipment and car parts. A weird looking creature he thinks was supposed to be Dart?

It was cute, seeing all the little things Steve doodled while on the phone. But Eddie's favourites, he was finding out, was when Steve added onto Eddie's doodles. He gave Gandalf a basketball and tennis shoes. Doodled a guitar of his own in the goblin's hands and sunglasses on it's face. Gave his flaming skull a flower crown and a speech bubble that said 'I smell'.

So Eddie returned the favour. He took the baseball bat Steve doodled and drew nails sticking out of it — like the infamous baby he'd heard so much about. He tried to make the car Steve doodled look more like the Beemer — he's not so sure he succeeded, so he added a little label. He took a little pattern of stripes and spots Steve had doodled in the corner and turned it into a little knight wearing Steve's pattern on his tabard.

They didn't say anything to each other, but Eddie could hear Steve looking at the doodles he was adding and huffing a laugh out of his nose. It made his heart flutter, just a little, knowing Steve liked his silly little doodles. That this was a thing between them.

Robin, never covered or added to their doodles. She always started a new page, drawing smiley faces and flowers and little stick figure ladies with big boobies.

He tried hard not to read into it too much, despite the fact that he really wanted to read into it. Maybe this was just a Steve and Eddie thing. Maybe this was a sign. Or maybe he was just being silly.

The next time Eddie went to call Wayne, hunched over the kitchen counter, the notepad had been flipped over to a blank page. Right in the middle, in Steve's familiar scrawl — was a little doodle of Eddie. Mop of curly hair, tiny band shirt, ripped jeans and his guitar in one hand.

Lips curling up into a smile, almost involuntarily, Eddie felt his chest bloom with warmth. Turning, pen in hand, he looked to see Steve sitting on their living room couch. Shy smile of his own, but he wasn't looking away. He didn't say anything — not with Eddie waiting for Wayne to pick up — but he gave him a coy little look that said I hope you like it.

Eddie did, of course.

So he turned back to the paper — still waiting for Wayne to answer the phone — and started to doodle a little Steve holding doodle-Eddie's hand.

[moonstruckme]

face masks - send me a character + an au for a drabble

I'd LOVE to see your take on a college AU - maybe a meet cute? - with Lily?? no pressure at all, I just love your style and scenery so it feels like a cozy prompt! congratulations on 10k - I'm NOT surprised at all!

Thank you so much angel <3

cw: non magical uni au, written with the 70s in mind except there's no homophobia

Lily Evans x fem!reader ♡ 526 words

The pretty redhead who sits in front of you is wilting over her desk. Her cheek lays atop her notebook, uncapped pen still in hand and eyes closed. It’s the day of your exam review, but you don’t blame her for falling asleep when she did. Conjugating in the pluperfect is dreadfully boring. 

She doesn’t wake until class is dismissed and the students around her stand, all in a hurry to get to their next class or to the library to study or outside to enjoy the sunny day. She sits up with smudged ink on her cheek (adorable) and a dazed look that quickly turns to alarm as she realizes what’s happened. 

“Bollocks,” you hear her whisper. You have to bite down on a smile as you lean forward to tap her shoulder. 

“Hi,” you say, your voice softening with apology. Her eyes landing on yours feels like pop rocks fizzling in your middle. You rip a page from your notebook and hold it out to her. “Here. I made a copy.” 

Those eyes, still bleary but sharpening by the second, fall to your notebook. “You…took two sets of notes?” she asks. 

“He speaks so slowly.” You give an awkward little laugh. “Leaves lots of time for writing, and I know you’d usually take your own, but…” 

“Thank you.” The girl finally grasps your outheld page. Her gaze lifts to yours again, brilliant green eyes framed by lashes tinted auburn. Her lips tilt in a tentative smile. “That’s really kind. I don’t know what happened, honestly, I’ve never napped in class before. I knew I should have stopped for coffee.” 

“I still have some left,” you say, before realizing how ridiculous this is. Why on earth would your pretty classmate want the watered-down dregs of your half finished iced latte? But you offered it to her without thinking, because you really don’t think there’s anything you wouldn’t gift her to keep her looking at you like that. 

And maybe it’s charity in the face of your heart-shuddering awkwardness, but she takes the cup you hold out, sipping from the same straw your lips had touched. 

She sighs in blissful relief. “I have to be going through withdrawal or something. This is so good. Thank you, really.” 

The smile she sends you now is bigger than the last, more awake and more sure and all the lovelier for it. Your cheeks tingle warmly. “It’s no problem,” you say. 

“No, you’ve given me your notes and now I’ve just stolen your coffee,” she laughs. “You have to let me pay you back. Can I buy you another?” 

You blink. “Oh, you really don’t have to—” 

“No, I want to, please. Unless you have another class?” 

You press your lips together, shaking your head. She smiles. 

“Perfect. I know a place just around the corner.” 

While you start to gather your things, she turns your cup in her hand, reading the scrawl of black sharpie on the side. “Y/n?” She says your name like she’s testing the feel of it in her mouth, giving it a taste. Her eyes flit up to yours again. “I’m Lily.”

[spideyjimin]

Adieu mon amour | jjk

⤷ adieu mon amour, french for goodbye my love

—  pairing: jungkook x female reader 

—  genre: angst 

—  summary: jungkook released two days ago a song about saying goodbye to a loved one.

—  words: 894

—  warnings: crying, mention of dead, heartbreak, and grief

—  author’s note: sooo this extremely sad drabble was written a while ago, but i never felt confident to post it. but a french artist released a song called “adieu mon amour”, and somehow, i felt like i could post this. i lost two dear people not a long time ago and writing this helped me putting into words my grief. this is not perfect and might contain mistakes, but i don’t want this to be perfect because pain isn’t.

MASTERLIST

The crowd fills the concert hall with the soft glow of their phone lights. Jungkook sits at the piano, his fingers resting on the keys as he performs the song he just released. It’s a heartbreaking ballad. A ballad that tells the story of two people that never got their happy ending. A ballad that tells his story with you.

A week ago, he found out that you passed away. The pain he felt that moment was something he never felt before. It’s the kind of pain that eats you alive. His heart aches so much and sometimes he feels like he’d be able to rip it out from his chest. This pain is simply overwhelming.

Three days ago, he assisted to your funeral with an aching heart, shaky legs, swollen eyes, and tears streaming down his face. He never imagined saying goodbye to his first love. He never imagined you’d no longer be a part of his life at 27. He never imagined a life without you.

His sweet voice sings the first notes of the song, his mind brought back to the many memories he cherishes. He closes his eyes and let your smile irritate his world one more time. A smile he’ll never see again. Without realizing it, tears run down his face, but he doesn’t hold them back.

After your funeral, he received a letter. A letter you wrote right before dying. A letter he never imagined receiving. It’s a love letter you wrote months ago, one where you told him just how much you love him. In the entire page, you kept telling him how lucky you felt to have him by your side all these years. And you also kept mentioning how proud you were of him.

He never leaves without the letter. He carries it with him everywhere. It’s all he has left of you. Your final words, the love you left behind, something to hold onto in a world without you. It’s a symbolic way to carry you with him as you are no longer here. The mere thought that you won’t be home when he finishes his show breaks his heart in ways he can even express.

His voice breaks. Then he hears you. ‘I love you.’ The words cut through him. His heart bleeds, and he doesn’t know if he can finish the song. His manager told him earlier that he didn’t need to sing the song if it was too hard for him, but Jungkook wanted it. Jungkook wanted to do it for you. For the only woman he ever loved.

Even though there’s a knot in his throat, he keeps singing. He wants to finish the song for you. For the love of his life. For the only person that ever made his heart truly beat. It seems like it’s the only thing he can do right now. For you, he can find the strength to finish this song.

He never imagined himself writing and singing this type of song. He never imagined writing a song about losing someone, and that’s the most heartbreaking thing. But music is the one of the few things that keeps him going. If he stops for a second, he just falls apart. He could have taken a break, put this world tour on hold, but for his own sanity, he can’t. And he knows that the second the show ends, he’ll just cry his heart out.

‘How is he supposed to live without you?’ is the question that constantly echoes in his mind. Time seems to move so slow without you by his side, and he doesn’t know if he can bear all of this any longer. There’s only been a week, and he still has a lifetime to live.

But there’s the little Arya. Your daughter. She’s the reason why Jungkook keeps going. She’s the reason why he bears this pain. She’s only four and doesn’t deserve to lose her mother. She doesn’t deserve any of this, just like Jungkook.

Jungkook opens his eyes and finally looks at the crowd. The view is breathtaking. This is so beautiful. On top of it, he’s surprised to notice that some fans already know the lyrics to the song he released two days ago.

The other heartbreaking thing is the fact that nobody knows what and who this song refers to. Nobody knows it’s about losing a loved one. Nobody will ever know Jungkook just lost you and how much he loved you. People don’t even know about Arya because he always protected you and will forever do it.

“I hear your laughter everywhere,” he sings. “In my souvenirs of you.”

From wherever you are, he hopes you can hear his words and see this crowd, his fans. If you were still here, you would most probably shed a tear. Whenever there was a sad song, the beauty of the moment would made you cry. It was something he loved about you.

The last harmonies of the song echo in the room. Jungkook is already sad to finish this song. He doesn’t want it. He wants this song to last forever, but he knows he can’t. He engraves in his soul this painfully beautiful moment, and he knows he’ll hold it dearly in his heart.

And he finally says the last words of the song.

“Goodbye my love.”

[wendichester]

｡𖦹°‧ i see you in my dreams,

summary. sam only ever sees you in his dreams

pairing. sam winchester x dreamwalker!reader

wordcount. 464

The first time Sam sees you, it’s in a dream.

He doesn’t realize it at first.

He’s in a library, one that feels half-familiar, the air thick with the scent of old books and something softer—vanilla, maybe, or honey. He’s paging through a tome he’s never seen before, something ancient, Latin scrawled in ink that shifts as he tries to read it.

Then you’re there. Sitting across from him like you’ve been there the whole time.

“You look tired,” you say, tilting your head, studying him with something between amusement and fondness. “Long day?”

Sam frowns. Something about you tugs at his mind, like a word he can’t quite remember.

“I—yeah,” he says slowly. “I guess you could say that.”

You smile, soft, knowing. “Then maybe you should rest.”

The dream fades before he can reply.

It keeps happening.

You show up in different places. A motel room, a roadside diner, the middle of a forest under a sky full of stars. You always greet him like an old friend. You never explain how you got there, or why.

And Sam—he stops questioning it.

Because when you’re there, he feels lighter. He’s spent his whole life carrying too much weight—responsibility, grief, the burden of always being one step from losing the people he loves.

But in these dreams, with you? That weight disappears.

You laugh at his bad jokes. You listen when he talks about things no one else ever asks about. You challenge him, tease him, but there’s warmth in your voice, in your touch when your fingers brush his.

It’s intoxicating.

And maybe that should scare him.

But it doesn’t.

Then one night, everything shifts.

He’s standing in a dimly lit room, something about it making his skin prickle with unease. You’re there, but this time, you’re watching him carefully, your expression unreadable.

“Sam,” you say softly.

Something in your voice makes his stomach twist. “What?”

You hesitate, and for the first time since he’s known you, you look…nervous.

“I need you to wake up.”

Sam blinks. “What?”

Then hands—claws—burst from the shadows behind him, yanking him backward.

His breath rips from his throat as his body jerks—

And suddenly, he’s awake.

Heart hammering. Chest heaving.

Dean is standing over him, gripping his shoulder. “Dude, you good?”

Sam looks around. They’re in a motel. A real one. Not a dream.

But his skin still burns from where he was touched.

And he can still hear your voice, whispering through the back of his mind.

I need you to wake up.

The next time he dreams, he grabs your wrist before you can disappear.

“Who are you?” he demands, voice rough.

Your eyes search his, something like regret flickering there.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t ask,” you whisper.

And then—

Everything goes black.

⋆.˚ ★— read part 2

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[nymphomatique]

special affair

dbf!miguel o’hara x fem!reader

art credit: _insomniac_red_ on ig. pictures are for mood setting, reader has no specific race or physical descriptions.

cw: a lil angsty, this is just shameless smut im sorry guys i don’t know what came over me, daddy kink, dbf!miguel <3, unspecified age gap but reader is legal, rough sex, squirting, unprotected sex, miguel is not a good man, conflicted reader, creampie, lowkey breeding kink, degrading language, choking/breath play, face slapping, spitting, mentions of oral (m), overstimulation, crying/dacryphillia, pubic hair grinding? lmao idk, reader is alluded to being in sub space. not proofread lol. 18+ only.

wc: ~1.5k

❤︎ an: hi my loves!! this is a sorta part two to this drabble, but can be read as a stand alone one shot. tbh i wrote this w my pussy.. i’m ovulating rn i’m so ashamed of myself 😔 nevertheless, enjoy! if you guys want more don’t hesitate to lmk!!

from that first night he fucked you from behind, you knew you strayed too far from the status quo in your life, you’re at the point of no return. that night, when he finished pounding you from behind and defiling you further with his seed all over your back and ass, you had laid in that position— spent and on your stomach- for the rest of the night, silently sobbing. you had betrayed your father, that much you were aware of the day you started rubbing at yourself meekly in the dead of the night thinking about his best friend.

you had long come to terms with that guilt, accepting whatever image of a burning inferno there is in the afterlife. what you cannot come to terms with, is the fact that he- miguel- had actually fucked you, indulged in what you considered your own taboo thoughts, ripping them from page and making your crude thoughts a sick reality. the worst part of this all is that amidst it all, the mental beratement, the nights you spent crying, the sick feeling the memories of miguel’s cock stretching you absolutely thin, showing you a climax like no other— you want to hate yourself for it, for being weak. for being such a bad girl. but you didn’t know why your body decided to betray your brain, the physical craving for the older man’s body possessing you whole. you can’t bear this feeling, holding it up inside you and trying to keep it at bay. fuck- you needed to talk to someone, you had to, even if it’s the last person you want to speak to.

nevertheless, you end up two houses down, sniffling and heaving in the dead of the night, knocking the door as hard as your trembling hands would let you. the door swings open and at the sight of him you keen, your body aching at the sight of the burly muscles covered in sun kissed skin. dark brown hair streaked with grey at the temples. a slight five o’clock shadow, he must not have shaved this morning. and then you look into those eyes, swallowing you up whole and you begin to tear up again. miguel is silent, leaning against the door with messy hair, glazed eyes and clad in boxers, and boxers only. fuck, you shouldn’t have come here.

“I-.. Miguel, it hurts,” you sob quietly, aflame with shame and embarrassment at how little resolve you had. He grabs your face with his warm hands and you’re trembling now, ready for him. your lips ghost for a moment before he breathes out. “i’m not a good man, sweetheart. if you don’t say no, i’m gonna break you.” he sounds sincere with his words and his eyes go stern. you wish you had some self of self control, or maybe having better discernment. but the only thing you say to him only confirms what you already knew about yourself; you’re a terrible fucking person. 

“violate me.”

your lips are smashed against each other, tongues dancing and it feels so good to be in his embrace again. your tears fall down your cheeks, meeting at the junction of your mouths in a pool of saliva. miguel groans and you know why, remembering what he had said to you the last time.

“i like when you cry.”

you’re grabbed up at the hips, legs wrapped around a thick torso, pressed up against a firm chest and a heavy cock. the moments up to the bedroom are cloudy, drunk off his lips against yours. you come to slightly when cold plush sheets hit your back and a pair of lips leave yours. you whine, yearning for his touch again. he looks down at you, bringing your right foot to his mouth, he licks lightly up the sole- kissing the ball of your foot before he leans down, caging your between his elbows, face to face.

“you gonna be good for your daddy?” he asks softly, kissing between the bridge of your nose once. 

“y-yes,” you breathe out with a slow nod. 

“mmm. gonna let me violate this tight little body too?” he asks, still soft in tone and you think you’re gonna go crazy by the end of the night. “yes, daddy,” you murmur, lost in his eyes. 

“sick fucking little girl. but that’s how i like it,” he chuckles, kissing you softly before getting up stripping you bare.

“letting your daddy undress you like a good girl. so obedient f’me,” he coos at you, touching you softly and you’re almost in tears. you need him. and you let it be known. a lone tear falls down your cheek and you mewl, “n-need you to make it better down there, daddy.”

his large hand engulfs you cheek, thumb wiping your tear softly before squishing your face, putting his tear stained thumb in your mouth. “you think you’re a big girl now, hmm? telling your daddy what to do?” you look up at him teary eyed, suckling his thick finger.

“you take what i give you, when i give it to you.” he squeezes you cheek a little harder before softly slapping your cheek and you squeak at the contact. a rough laugh leaves miguel’s mouth at your reaction. “you have no idea how bad i’m gonna treat you, baby.”

you’re non verbal at this point, mouth agape and leaking saliva down your jaw seeping into the sheets and the junction of your neck and chest. a hand slaps your cheek again, you’ve lost how many that is now. “i fucked you stupid already?” miguel laughs, hard thrusts sending you flying up the bed. his hands on your hips bring you down back to him each time, poking you right in that sweet spot in your pussy. you’ve lost count of how many orgasms you’ve head, body wracked and numb with pleasure. throat hoarse from the near-violent throat fuck he gave you.

a glob of spit hits your forehead and you groan a bit. the one thing you’re sure of is that you look a goddamned mess. a crude picture of the activity you’ve been partaking in for the past two hours. a hand leaves your hip to wrap around your neck and squeeze roughly, making you gasp for air, your body finally moving.

“there we go, got you moving now. thought i fucked you to sleep for a second.” 

your eyes are glossy, at the lack of air and building pressure. your hand meekly wraps around his wrist as he fucks into you. you know you shouldn’t like the way he toys with you like this, waking the line of torment and pleasure with no care in the world. but you do. and you can’t deny it anymore.

“you’re tightening up on me again. you gonna cum for me again?” miguel asks you, and he laughs after knowing you can’t even answer him. “sick little girl. you like it when i choke you? make you feel weak? worthless?” 

it’s barely audible, but the moan you let out vibrates in your neck and miguel can feel it with the hand pressed against your throat. he throws his head back with a groan. “nasty, naughty girl. fuck baby, gonna cum in that little pussy.”

you’re almost there, and quite frankly impressed that you haven’t fully passed out yet. your head feels light, and you begin to tremble violently, gushing out spurts of liquid as your head falls to the side. if this is hell, you’re not so sure you could give this up for heaven. your eyes close and you feel so close to falling asleep when he removes his hand from your neck, grabbing your head by the nape of your neck, craning you up to where you can see his thick cock slip and slide between your thighs. you groan at the image. 

“need you awake to see me cum in you, don’t i?” miguel groans. “you like watching me fuck you, like letting me dirty you.”

 his tuft of black pubic hair rubs against yours as his thrusts become increasingly sporadic and intense, and it has you trembling at the stimulation it gives your clit. you weakly squirt each time his pelvis brushes against your clit, your body letting you know you have only so much left in you before you’re drained empty.

“fuck, love it when you wet the bed. my pissy little girl. daddy loves the messes you make.” he’s nearly breathless and you pray he’s going to cum in the next minute, the ache in your neck and dull sensation in your pussy building slowly.

“c-cum in me. wanna give you a baby,” you moan, looking up from the fast thrusts and into miguel’s eyes. 

“fuck! so n-naughty, baby. gonna give me another one, huh? fucking take it, then.” with a final thrust, you feel the warmth of his cum shoot and blossom somewhere deep within you. you moan weakly, one final weak spurt of squirt coming out of you. miguel pulls out and you watch him look at the mess he made of you and your pussy, covered in spit, cum and the beginnings of handprint bruises blossoming on your hips and ass from how hard he gripped and spanked you. 

you can feel his cum slowly trickle out of you, and your body feels like it’s no longer your own. after so many orgasms, your limbs are on fire, and you can do nothing but breathe and weakly murmur a “d-daddy..” while your eyes close.

tags: @realhotgirlshitah @obsessed-with-miguels-ass @maxiethestrange

message me to be removed!

[novasintheroom]

030. Snowflake

♡ Pairing - Vash x Reader

♡ Word count - 1k

♡ Warnings - none

♡ Description: Vash wonders about something.

Part of the 150 Bullets drabble series on AO3

He wonders, sometimes.

What would it be like if…? 

Vash sits behind you, legs splayed on either side while you lean into his chest. You’re concentrating. He sees it in the way your shoulders line up like soldiers, ready to perform the task you’ve given yourself. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine the grim line of your lips, the flash of your eyes as your fingers play with the two balls of yarn you’ve bought at the nearby market. Finger crocheting is not what he thought would come from that trip, but here you are. 

It makes him wonder, again.

What would it be like if…?

He puts his chin on your shoulder, arms wrapped around your stomach. He’s managed to worm a hand under your shirt to caress the soft skin there. Just because. Just to hold you better. The yarn is blue and a garish green. Probably dyed from bug guts, he thinks.You’re stuck on figuring out how to make the slipknot to start the whole thing. The book on your lap is faded and ripped in places, missing pages, yellowed. You’re doing this half blind. 

His eyes flutter with tiredness. Trekking for the past three days across desert sands will do that. The inn is full, so you’ve camped out under the shade of a red boulder near town. It’s too hot to really sleep, though. The suns are starting to descend toward the horizon, but not fast enough. Vash feels a bead of sweat roll down his back. Waiting, waiting. It’s all you can do, sometimes - wait for the next event, the next project, the next thing to happen.

What would be the next thing for you two?

What would it be like if…we got our own house?

You jerk in his grip. He fears he’s spoken the thought out loud, that he’s scared you off like a skittish lizard. But then you crow, “Ah-ha!” and present your newly minted slipknot up to him. His breath fans your neck as he chuckles. “Good job,” he murmurs.

Your head bonks his gently in affection, but you don’t look up from the yarn and book. He nestles back down to your shoulder, pressing his sweaty forehead to it and sighing. It’s stupid. He’s an outlaw, you’re a traveling librarian. You’d both have to give up a lot for a house, and - 

“Have you ever thought about settling down?”

He should be used to how in-sync you two are now, but that was scary. He looks up at the back of your head. “Huh? Like…what?”

Your fingers hook and twirl the yarn. “I mean like getting a house somewhere. Trying it out.”

Your tone is nonchalant. You aren’t asking for him to settle down, not really. It’s more curiosity than anything. Still, he swallows. “I don’t…think it would work for me.”

“Why not?”

He shrugs and smooshes his cheek right between your shoulder blades. “I mean, look at me. Can’t go anywhere without destroying something.”

“Stop it,” you slap his thigh in reproach, then tangle back into the yarn. “If you knew you wouldn’t destroy anything - and you won’t - would you do it?”

With you? He wants to ask. Is it alright to ask? His lips part. “I don’t know. Maybe for the right reason.” For the right person. 

You laugh. “What kind of reason? You don’t need a reason to get your own place.”

“But I want one.”

“A reason?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

You hum. You’ve managed a chain in the green yarn now. A page is flipped, and you look it over for a moment before continuing. “You and your need to have a purpose to everything. What if I asked you to? Would that be a good reason?”

Vash tenses. His eyes flick back and forth across the nearest dune. Would it? He’s got plenty of reasons not to do it - Nai is out there, somewhere, and there are Plants that need his help. He needs to atone for his mistakes in putting humanity on this forsaken planet, eking out a pitiful existence. He’s barely accepted that you actually want to be in a relationship with him. Finding a reason to make the jump feels more like the impossible, like finding a needle in a haystack ten stories high, or a snowflake in the desert before it melts.

But then he thinks of walking through a street, knowing more than just how to find a blacksmith but actually knowing the smith’s name and their sons and daughters. Memorizing and then forgetting the names of shops because he visits them everyday and they just become part of the routine, sees the same people everyday. And then walking through a door to you mending something on the couch with a book in your lap, ready to cook dinner together in your kitchen. Something settles in his chest, like a cat nesting down in a ray of sunlight. Hey, that doesn’t sound so bad, does it?

You’ve started humming something while waiting for him to answer. Gently, he squeezes you and kisses your neck. “Maybe. Yeah. I think so.”

You laugh. “That took some thought. You sure about it?”

No. But when is he ever sure about anything? His body moves without thought most of the time, even when his mind is made up. So, he kisses your neck again and sighs. Maybe someday. Maybe soon. “Let’s…just think about it, yeah?”

You snort, but your hand squeezes the knot of his own on your stomach, and you go back to sitting in the shade, making something out of yarn dyed by bug guts. A secret smile presses itself into his mouth, though. Yes, he’ll think about it. A lot.

A/N:

Sorry for the long pause. One of my birdies died in May, and I didn't feel like writing much because of it. But! I am healing from the loss, and he is out of pain now and happy over the Rainbow Bridge. Also, introducing my new hobby: crochet! Chapter posted: 4 June 2025

[dollwrites]

Just stumbled to your page, if you dont mind i wanna see you write for kaito again😭🙏 like the fic you made about him is so shskshsks🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶‼️‼️

— ⟡ dizzy drabbles disclaimer !!

all dizzy drabbles are written when i am extremely high ( or, dizzy ) and they don’t contain a trigger warnings list. if there’s no indication by the request, you can assume that the fic is nsfw + dark-leaning, if not blatantly dark. these pieces are never proof read so mistakes are probably present. < 3 enjoy your experience

thunk! thunk! thunk!

it was all you could do to keep your focus solely on the sound the desk made underneath you— the legs pounding against the solid floor in tandem with the judge’s rabid thrusting into you from behind— so that you didn’t have come to terms with what this was.

what you were.

a bribe.

the jingling of golden coins are muffled in the small purse as you grip it with one hand close to your chest, whilst the other tries desperately to hold on to the edge of his desk for some sort of stabilization. you bite your lip, in hopes to muffle the pathetic, humiliating mewling that seemed to seep out each time Gallerian bottomed out, filling you to his hilt, but it was no use.

you’d never been so roughly handled, nor had you been prepared for the judge you’d visited so late at night to bend you over, hike up your dress, and make your pussy part of the bargain.

struggling to stay balanced, pressing your balls of your feet and your toes against the floor in an attempt to plant yourself there, you can feel the harsh recoil of his hips when they snap against yours.

you would’ve simply dropped your head in shame, splayed your upper body across the desk in hapless submission but hid your pleasured expression from him if only he’d let you. if only his hands were both clasped around your neck, fingers locked at the front of your throat to keep you steady as he fucked you without remorse, or concern. the shame of being so exposed— dress pushed down around your waist to reveal your jiggling breasts and skirt tossed over your lower back, panties around your ankles, and your legs spread to accept his greedy cock barreling what felt like a hole through you— was almost too much to bear. “S—stop…”

it’s a whispered plea, one that Gallerian either didn’t hear, or didn’t care about, because his fingers tightened around your neck, and he pulled you back against him. he was derobed, and you could feel the sheet of sweat that covered his chest as it smeared against your back. “Let’s feel that sweet, little cunt tighten up, my pet.” he pants against the shell of your ear, “Show me how grateful you are for my… generosity.” he didn’t have to command it; his cock was digging into a hypersensitive bundle of nerves within your depths and sending you into a gasping, whining, squirming tizzy. “Very good, girl.” Gallerian grunts, keeping his grip on you firm and unyielding, holding you in place as he battered those nerves until your whining turned into yelping, and eventually, ragged panting. your squirming turned to twitching, then to trembling as he ripped the orgasm from your body.

you screamed out, and closed your eyes against the ferocity of the sensations, stomping your feet and bucking your body forwards, only to be pulled right back in as he forced you to ride out the unwanted pleasure, all the while he planted hot, sultry kisses against your ear and down your neck.

sometime in your erotic turmoil, Gallerian also came undone. he gripped your throat tighter, his drilling became more precise and deliberately cruel and deep, and to punctuate your climax’s conclusion, you felt warmth engulfing your insides— filling a pouch in your lower belly, and you gasped, nails scraping at the desk. “W—wait—!”

but it was much too late for that, and you knew so when Gallerian sighed and pushed you off of him, taking a step back to admire his handiwork.

you were still shaking, legs cramped and spread, with his release leaking from your thoroughly used core that still twitched and clenched, remembering the way his girth stretched your sensitive, inner walls. you took a couple of heavy breaths, feeling his gaze upon your destruction, before you finally found the strength to straighten your posture. your skirt falls down into place, and you take baby steps, a small series, to turn around and face the main that had just deflowered you so brutally.

he was smiling, his eyes drifting from your puffy, swollen eyes and your tear streaked cheeks, down to your bare breasts and the coin purse clutched in your hand. his own reaches out, fingertips tracing your breast in a soft caress, but they don’t stay there. they careen to pluck the purse from your grasp.

“All your little hovel was worth fit in such a tiny purse, not nearly the sum I usually accept.” he chuckles softly as he weighs it, bouncing it up and down in one hand, before he looks at you with the devil sparkling in his eyes, “but I suppose the feeling of your warm cunt milking my cock settles the remainder of the balance.” he takes a step closer, and runs his hand up the length of your chest, neck, and finally caresses your warm cheek, smearing a tear into it as he grins wider. “Don’t cry, silly girl. You should be overjoyed. You just saved your mother from the gallows.”

[studiogrimm810]

I'm Not Asking

// Est. Sam Winchester x you

summary: sam leaves to help dean with a case, but he tries to sneak out in fear of confronting you about the truth of the supernatural. after a week of helping dean, sam finally goes back home to you and lays it all out // 2.1k // base content: angst, leaving in the middle of the night, reader finds out about sam’s old life, jack is god, destiel mentioned, minor abandonment, reader gets ‘the talk’

A/N: soo,,lol….this started as a 2 part drabble, but i could help myself so it’s all here cause it looks nice and drabbles limit me too much -n- enjoy!!

p.s. this is inspired by this fic by @wendichester i hope you don’t mind, i just couldn’t help myself, i LOVE this idea smmm

Sam packs a quick getaway bag as quietly as he can with you passed out under your shared bed sheets. He hates leaving in the middle of the night, but Dean called for help and he had to go.

Embarrassingly enough, he was more scared of waking you to tell you than he was to find whatever trouble Dean was in. Sam hoped a note would suffice in his absence. He scribbled a quick ‘Gone to see Dean. I’ll call’ on a page in his journal and ripped it out to place it on his pillow beside you.

Sam never clued you in on his retired, on-call, freelance work that took more than it gave, and each day that dawned by, that you two shared under this roof, felt like he missed his opportunity more than once.

He wants to kiss you before he leaves, but he can’t risk waking you.

The bag slung over his shoulder is light, he never thought to pack an emergency bag after Jack left. He got too comfortable, and now, he feared you would reap the consequences of his foolish settlement.

Keys are next, lazily discarded on the kitchen counter, up the hall, after last night's dinner date that Sam treated you to with his saved up paychecks.

Shoes too. Big, clunky boots that he hadn’t sported in ages. They felt like home on his feet and it made his stomach churn in painful nostalgia.

Sam mindfully steps to the front door, reaching for the knob but unable to turn it as soon as your sleepy voice traps him.

“Sam?” You sound so confused. Hurt.

Sam’s eyelids fell and his shoulders followed suit. He swallowed, eyes squeezing shut.

“Where are you going?” The room is dead silent and he can hear the small footstep you take to come closer. Like you’re approaching a skittish animal.

He forces himself to turn and face you, his heart breaking at the wide, cautious fear in your sleepy face. Your arms are crossed over your chest from the cold, his note in your hand.

“Dean needs me.”

“Yeah, I got that,” you nod defensively, keeping your confused gaze locked on him. His head ducks shamefully, how is he supposed to justify this? “Why didn’t you wake me? I care about Dean too, yaknow. I can help.”

“You can’t,” Sam shakes his head, looking back up at you.

“Well I can at least understand,” you combat.

“You can’t,” he repeats, this time a little targeted. Your expression flickers.

Your grip crinkles the note in your fingers as you dart your gaze down for a moment.

“Sam, you can’t just leave in the middle of the night without at least waking me up,” you shake your head, taking another step closer. “What’s wrong with Dean?”

“Nothing, he just needs my help.”

“With what?”

Sam utters your name with a sigh.

“No! Don’t act like my concerns are problems. Just tell me what’s going on.” It’s all you ask.

“I have to go,” he starts with your name again. “Just trust me on this,” he steps up to you, hands on your shoulders. “I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, you know that.” His hand guides up your chin, your arms still folded over your chest.

You swallow, staring up at him.

“I love you, honey,” he kisses your lips lightly. “I’ll be back, just stay here,” he whispers against your skin, following with a firmer kiss.

He turns to the door, his back to you and hand reaching for the knob again. He doesn’t wait to hear you say it back, he doesn’t feel worthy of it right now. He hates lying to you.

“I want to come with,” you speak up.

 “I’m not asking,” he says over his shoulder, not turning to fully see you.

And with that, he’s out the door and you’re alone.

———

Dean’s situation took about a week. Sam had to call out of work and he barely heard from you in all that time. He made an effort with calls and texts, but he could tell you were pushing him away. You only answered one call, but almost every text.

He dreaded the conclusions you’d draw up, the accusations he was ready for.

Sam talked to Dean about it before they parted ways again and Dean strongly advised that Sam ‘give you the talk’. He justified it by reminding Sam of Jack taking over and the significant decline of cases over the past few years. It was safe. Safe enough.

Sam took the long way home, back roads and highways to avoid the interstate. He needed time to think. To plan what he was going to say and how he’d say it.

Even with the silence and serenity of a beautiful, late-fall drive, he still stood outside his front door, clueless and wildly unprepared. He couldn’t even decide whether to use his key or knock. The crickets in the trees mocked him.

He deems the key. After all, his name is on the lease.

He kicks off his boots, gladly sticking them on the bottom corner of the shoe rack. He hoped he wouldn’t need them again anytime soon.

The house is quiet so he treads carefully, looking up the hall and into the bedroom. Everywhere seemed clear. The kitchen too. He started to fear the worst. That you’d packed up and left, echoing his own betrayal.

He’d never forgive himself if the paper on the kitchen island were a similarly vague note in your handwriting. He dropped his duffle at the arch of the kitchen, reaching for the crumpled paper just to find that it’s his own note that you hadn’t thrown away yet. Though, it was now quite wrinkled and a little torn.

From the island, he looks up to find you sitting on the patio. A dim porch light lit to illuminate you like a spotlight.

This is it, he’s just gotta say it. He has to tell you the truth.

Sam can handle taking the blame for a lot, he piles it on his shoulders and trudges along, but he can’t stand you feeling the way you do towards him without the whole truth.

Once you know, he’ll take your reaction at face value and trust what you need next.

He slides the porch door open, startling you from your lax position stretched over a lounge chair. You push up, looking right at him. He wants nothing more than to progress to you and wrap you up in his arms and apologize.

“Hey,” he settles.

“You’re back,” you state, not standing up.

Sam swallows, walking to the chair beside yours and sitting down. “If that’s okay.”

“It’s your house.”

Indifference. Figures.

“I’m sorry I left like that,” he starts, his fingers intertwined with his own as he picks at his calluses. “It wasn’t fair to you. I thought avoidance was easiest. For both of us.”

You wet your lips and look down, gritting your jaw so you don’t bite out something unwarranted that you’ll regret.

“I know that was selfish and completely not the right call. It’s just that the truth is a lot,” he finds your eyes again and doesn’t miss the squint of skepticism. “I never wanted to tell you this. I thought that we could go on and keep this safe haven and never taint it with this burden.”

“Sam, you’re scaring me.”

Fuck.

“The family business isn’t Dean’s old auto shop. In fact, that place never existed. It’s just a cover. We used to hunt things. Bad things. The things that shouldn’t even exist- ghosts, vampires, demons. A lot happened and it consumed our entire lives until we finally found peace.” He decides to push off the mention of when he demoted God or caged the Devil. “We retired, kinda. Dean and Cas still work on cases they come across. Cas got in some trouble and I had to help Dean get him back.”

The twisted contort of disbelief, and almost annoyance, on your face makes Sam sick.

“Everyone’s fine now. Safe and sound. But that’s why I left as quickly as I did. It was too dangerous to explain, but I should’ve told you earlier,” he sighs, planting his forehead in his hands. “I never thought I’d have to go back like that. That I’d have to explain something like that. Usually, I just-.”

“Usually?”

Sam looks back up.

“How often have you lied and left town to play ghostbusters?”

He loves how funny you are. He hopes he’ll remember your greatest jokes when you kick him to the curb.

“Honey, no, not like that. I never lied about being at work or somewhere else,” he shakes his head and hesitates, “but sometimes it was the reason I’d go to see Dean for a couple days,” he admits.

“Why are you saying this?” You stand, pacing away with a dry scoff.

“Because I need to be honest with you,” he stands with you, letting you walk away. You stop and turn back to face him.

“Demons?” You ask, confused, but doused in fear that you’re trying to mask in anger.

“We’re safe, I’ve made sure of it,” he shakes his head, taking a few steps closer. He watches as your gaze glosses over to sort through your thoughts. Then you look down at your chest, slowly reaching for the locket of a heart with odd scratches on the inside that he insisted would never hold pictures, despite your efforts. “They’re sigils. I’ve got ‘em all around this place,” he explains, watching your fingers flick with the locket.

Crickets continue to chirp over Sam’s thoughts, edging him on a ledge of buzzing anxiety that forces him to make a list of where he’d go when you decide you’re done with him. He’d let you keep the house. It’s the least he could do.

“You’re telling me the truth?” You ask, eyes lost on no spot in particular over the grass.

“From here on out,” he promises. Not that he’s ever really lied before, but now he has no reason to.

Your lips waver, looking back up at him and his heart breaks. The shocked fear and delayed understanding had taken its obvious toll. You stumble back to the edge of the lounge chair and Sam crouches in front of you, taking your hands that thoughtlessly search for his.

“How long have you been doing this?” You ask, running the pad of your thumb over his knuckle.

“Our dad raised us in The Life.”

“What? How has this not come up?” You shake your head, hurt eyes finding his again.

“Because I avoided it. And Dean and Cas agreed to do the same.”

“Why?”

God, that’s what he was hoping not to answer, but you deserved to know.

“That’s a loaded question that I’m more than willing to answer, but you have to be prepared for what it involves. How it paints me,” he can’t help but reach up a hand to push your hair out of your face.

“You’ve left me out of the loop for long enough.”

He snickers.

“The quick answer is that for the longest time, my life was laid out for me by forces I was unaware of for plans I wanted no part in. Jess got in the way and she died because of it. Those forces are handled now and rid of, but the fear never left. I was terrified to trust this life with you and I couldn’t justify spoiling your peace for something that wasn’t my responsibility anymore. At least, I thought it wasn’t,” he sighed, placing a hand over your thigh as the other still held your hands.

It’s quiet for a while as you digest his words. He fears you’ll spit them back up and demand a new plate, but you don’t. You let them settle and you listen even in silence.

“Promise we’re safe?” You finally break the streak.

Sam reaches a hand up to encompass your cheek, holding you close as he looks right in your eyes to speak, “I promise.”

Your eyes brim with tears that he hates he caused. A part of him wishes he never walked into that coffee shop two years ago. He wishes he chose a different street or different hour. If he had just avoided you, then you’d be blissfully unaware of the horrors stalking over Sam’s back.

“Okay.”

But then he’d never know your love. He’d never know what it feels to be ‘normal’. To have a job, a home, and a hidden ring in his bedside drawer with similar engravings to the locket he gifted you on your first birthday as a couple.

He’d never know the relief he felt in this very moment when your arms wrapped around his neck and your breathy voice assured him of your love.

He’d never know the prize he won if he didn’t know what it was to lose everything.

thank you so much for reading!! <3

>>check out my other works here

tags: @blossomingorchids @areswasneverhere @bejeweledinterludes @funkenniffler @iamaslytherin0

[motthe]

greetings! i’d like to ask for a drabble with (married with kids) + (Christmas morning) with (Eddie Munson) and a (fem)reader!

You were watching the coffee maker at work when a pair of inked up arms slithered around your waist. You leaned back into a sturdy chest, smiling as he went straight for your neck. Eddie practically lived there when you were cuddling.

“Merry Christmas,” he mumbled, kissing under your ear. His voice was rough, still half asleep.

“Want some coffee?” you hummed, holding his arms. He grumbled something into your shoulder. You took it for a yes.

He stayed like that as you fixed the two mugs, sugar and creamer to taste. He finally came up for air when you brush your hand over his jaw, holding the steaming liquid up.

“Thank you.” He stepped next to you, clinking his cup against yours before taking a sip and eyeing the doorway behind you “How much longer before the stampede?”

“I’m sure we’ll hear Derek waking Page up,” you chuckled.

It was a few more sips of coffee before the thundering of footsteps and a door opening echoed. Eddie smiled into his mug as your little boy yelled for his older sister to get up.

“Like clockwork,” you said, pushing off the counter to head to the living room. Eddie trailed behind you.

He was the first on the couch, letting you sit your drink on the table before he pulled you down next to him.

“Mama, Dad!” came Derek from what sounded like your bedroom.

“Down here!” Eddie shouted, smiling at his sleepy-eyed daughter as she eased down the steps. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

She mumbled back, groggy but there was still a glimmer of excitement as she noticed the presents under the tree. She was getting into her teen years now, but she still had some Christmas spirit. Enough to tease her brother that Santa was watching when he did something bad throughout the year.

Derek flew down the stairs with all the speed of a bullet to check the cookie plate. It was nothing but crumbs thanks to your husband.

“There’s soot on the fireplace!” Derek yelled, pointing to the bootprints on the brick.

“Looks like we need to clean that chimney,” you said, nodding to your girl as she pointed towards the gifts. She liked to hand everyone’s out.

“Grab the stockings, D,” Eddie asked.

“It’s heavy!” he gasped, pulling his down first.

“You get coal?” Page snickered.

“No!” he whined, holding the opening up for her to see. “It’s full of stuff, see?”

“Pass me mine and Daddy’s?” you hummed, twiddling your fingers at your boy. He nodded, only struggling a bit with his height to unhook them.

Once Page had the gifts in neat piles, she joined you on the couch to empty her stocking with her brother. Candy and trinkets, some you’d grabbed over the course of the year to help the dent in your wallet Christmas left behind.

You watched them empty the socks, heart full as they oohed and ahed. It wasn’t until lights were flashing that you realized Eddie had pulled out the camera. You smiled for the pictures, gathering the trash as wrapping ripped. Eddie took over to give you the camera, but not before you snapped some of him.

It wasn’t until the kids were done with their gifts that either of you started on yours.

“How did you…?” Eddie flipped the record over, mouth open. “These sold out!”

“I have my ways,” you hummed, smiling at the look he gave you.

“God, I love you,” he murmured, leaning over to kiss you.

You laughed into him as your kids gagged in the background.

“Get a room,” your daughter complained.

“This house is our room!” Eddie teased, smothering your face with more kisses.

Your kids fell over the both of you to get him off, all of you laughing.

It was another beautiful Christmas at the Munson household.

[amica-aenigmata-naboo]

Libidinosa

Matthew de Clermont x Y/N - drabble - 583 WC NSFW 18+

Masterlist

Warnings: SMUT, female reader, sex pollen kinda fic, consent, romance, sweet Matthew

---------------------------

You writhed on the bed, tears pricking the corner of your eyes. You pulled at your clothes, feeling so hot you were sure you saw steam rising from your skin. 

“What is happening?” Matthew asked, demanding answers.

“It’s a curse… there’s no medical explanation for their symptoms otherwise…” Marcus stated, holding your wrist to feel your erratic pulse. 

Matthew couldn’t bear to watch you in pain, he placed a gentle hand on your chest, feeling your heart himself. You moaned at the contact, arching your back and shutting your eyes. You whimpered the second he pulled away, “No!” you spat before pulling his hand back to you. You felt his hand ghost over your chest and down your torso. Everything in you felt like it was on vibrate.

“I think… I think it's a lust curse…” Marcus said, slight confusion on his face as he watched how you reacted to Matthew.

“Libidinosa?” Matthe asked, “Nobody has used that curse in ages. Last I recall it was the witch trials. Used to lure men in so witches could harvest life power…” he said.

Marcus shrugged, “There is only one way to make it go away…” Marcus said, slowly walking backwards out of the room.

“You can’t be serious…” Matthew replied, looking to Marcus before you slid his hand between your thighs.

“As a heart attack. I’m gonna go take a walk…” Marcus said, shutting the bedroom door.

Matthew looked down at you with pity, “Unfortunately mon coeur he is right…” yet he didn’t move his hand, waiting for your consent.

“I… got myself… into this mess… help me out… please…” you begged him; you cursed yourself for trying a spell from a ripped page, not knowing it would lead to this. 

“Are you sure?” he said hesitantly.

“Yes!” you squealed, trying to rub yourself through your clothes. 

Matthew unbuttoned his shirt as he walked over to you, discarding it on the floor. As soon as he climbed on top of you he felt the heat radiating from you. Your skin was on fire as he touched you, your body lurching at the contact.

“Should I just get straight to it?” he asked, not entirely sure what you needed.

You ripped your underwear off, lifting your skirt up. “Now!” you whined. 

Matthew kissed right above your clit, teasing you before he dove in. He devoured you like a man starved, licking and sucking furiously. Your body shook as he held your hips down, your back arching off the bed. He slid his fingers into your greedy, dripping cunt. Pumping them in and out slowly before picking up speed. You could feel yourself starting to topple over; clutching his hair and pushing his face into you. Your eyes rolled back as you came hard on his face. He didn’t let a single drop of your essence go to waste, kissing over your inner thighs as you started to relax. You weakly reached out for him. 

“Thank you…” you said sleepily, feeling the spell fade away from you. 

Matthew pulled your skirt down, helping you adjust so you could sleep. “My pleasure,” he smiled cheekily. “You should sleep. It’ll help after all you’ve been through today.” 

You nodded, not putting up a fight. You did, however, pull him down with you. You snuggled into his chest appreciating his soft skin while you traced over his various scars. You both found it therapeutic. 

“Goodnight, mon coeur.” he said, kissing the top of your head. 

“Je t’aime.” you mumbled.

------------------------------

Naboo's Note:

Hello all! Super short fic, hope that's ok! Feeling pretty exhausted this week. Will try to write more fics next week. Thank you for all the support and patience, I recently hit 900 followers and it legit wanted to cry. 'm so thankful for everyone who reads my stuff. XOXOXOXOXOX!!!!!!!!!!

[moonstruckme]

poly!marauders drabbles (2/3)

page 3

☁︎ = headcanon ✩ = 18+, mdni ♡ = mae's favs

Poly!marauders x stage actress!reader ☁︎

The boys' with a reader who's always cold ☁︎

They support your acting career ☁︎

The marauders x an introverted party girl ☁︎

They react to you crying over a movie ☁︎

Poly!marauders x reader who wasn't in primary school ☁︎

Your emt boyfriends come get you after an accident

You want your boyfriends to take charge

You have chronic pain, and they know how to take care of you ♡

Slytherin!reader is soft only for the marauders ♡

Whimsical!reader totally knows Remus' secret

Your boyfriends worry about your clumsiness

They wrangle you after getting your wisdom teeth out ♡

You have health anxiety, and your emt boyfriends reassure you

You take care of emt!marauders, for a change

Poly!marauders x golden retriever!reader

The boys comfort you after you leave home

They deal with a drunk and horny you ♡

Your emt boyfriends fret when you faint

Remus and James put sun lotion on you and Sirius

The marauders comfort you when you're dealing with insomnia

Emt!marauders are comforting when you injure your neck

They fret when you come home with a bruise

The boys best your poor appetite

They comfort you when you're grieving

Nb!reader gets top surgery (they're obsessed)

The boys talk you through a nosebleed incident

Your emt boyfriends discover you in A&E

Emt!marauders comfort you through a fear of throwing up

Your emt boyfriends bring you home from surgery

You hide a small injury from emt!marauders

They're supportive when you quit smoking

Your boyfriends worry when you lose your voice

They respect your boundaries ♡

The marauders calm you down when you're feeling anxious

The boys poke fun at you and James for being sleepy

Your emt boyfriends talk you through getting stitches

They take care of you with a concussion ♡

Your boyfriends fret over your aching back

You and Sirius get home after a rough night

The marauders are protective when you're assaulted at work

Your emt boyfriends come to your rescue when you overheat

They're infatuated with their goth gf

You and James cry during a film

It's your first sleepover with the boys

They fret when you have a cold

Your emt boyfriends comfort you in the hospital

Your cramps aren't cramps, but luckily you have emt boyfriends

You're nervous about moving in

You're jumpy during a scary movie, and they're the worst

The boys comfort you over the phone

Your messy eating habits lead to...shenanigains

They argue that visually impaired!reader is more than enough

You have a migraine, and your emt boyfriends are dying to help

Your emt boyfriends comfort you when you're terrified of needles

Your emt boyfriends are soft and concerned when you're feverish

You try to avoid emt!marauders when you're hurt

You pick emt!Sirius up after he gets hurt at work

Your emt boyfriends learn you're nursing a concussion

Emt!marauders take care of visually impaired!reader

Your emt boyfriends comfort you when you're injured and anxious

Emt!marauders check on you when you're struggling with your mental health

They're protective when you look hot(ter than usual)

You all miss James ♡

Emt!marauders come when you get in a bad car crash

You have POTS, and your emt boyfriends worry about you

A tipsy you gets cuteness aggression

The boys support you when you're depressed

Your emt boyfriends patch you up when you scrape your knees

Sirius rips your tights

They help when you're stressed about school

You're newly diabetic, and your emt boyfriends help

The marauders comfort you after a nightmare

You hide from your boyfriends to study

You ask emt!marauders to go to A&E during a flare up

Your emt boyfriends take care of you when you faint

You and the boys watch slasher movies

They find you baking when you can't sleep ♡

Emt!marauders feel bad when you're more sick than they thought

The boys help you manage your OCD compulsions ♡

Whimsical!reader comforts Remus after a full moon

You inadvertently scare emt!Remus with your costume

Your friend gets hurt, and emt!marauders are spellbound by you

Emt!marauders nurse you back to health after a bad blood draw

Your boyfriends fret over you while they think you're sleeping

Poly!marauders and dirty talk ✩♡

They teach you to use your mouth ✩

You fall too deep into subspace ✩

Your boyfriends delight in your torment ✩

The marauders x inexperienced reader ✩

Coquette!reader gives rockstar!marauders a show ✩