#silver ink pad

[jessiarts]

Lagoon Just a creepy-cute lady chilling in a Lagoon.

Drawn for Drawlloween 2020 Find me elsewhere

[sparklingchim]

number 7; m | jjk

pairing: jungkook x reader

word count: 3k

rating: 18+

genre: hockeyplayer!jungkook, richgirlie!oc, brother’s best friend, college!au

warnings: v jelly googie 😐, brat oc & brat tamer jk !! 🫢, mirror sex, overstimulation, possessiveness, squirting, dirty talk, marking, they love bickering, cum eating, spanks, jaykay's lowkey a simp <3, taking kinda? naughty pictures 😋, choking, tummy bulging, size kink, name calling

summary: pov: your jealous fuck buddy pounds you in his jersey.

a/n: i couldn't resist 👩🏻‍💻 m tew obsessed w him what can i say ✋🏼

⭒☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆⭒

You don’t know how exactly this situation unfurled.

It just kind of happened.

One minute you were on your way to Jungkook’s shabby dorm, padding briskly across the dim campus to fetch your journal that you accidentally misplaced in his apartment – and the next, Jungkook is fucking you in front of his mirror while you are clad in nothing but his jersey.

The correlation between your initial ambition and your current circumstance is a tiny mix of fragmented thoughts in your mind as Jungkook unceasingly thrusts into you.

You just wanted your journal back.

But Jungkook gave you his dick instead.

His oversized jersey swallows your body. He has the soft material tightly bundled in his hand at your lower back.

“God, Jungkook.”

His cock stretches your cunt deliciously, rutting into you with full force.

Your palms are placed on Jungkook’s fully-body mirror, and you feel partly guilty for dirtying it with your fingerprints. But it’s not like either of you genuinely care about producing a mess the way Jungkook fiercely pounds into you from behind. You both are destined to create a mess when you’re together.

Your eyes meet in the mirror. “Look at yourself,” Jungkook rasps. His palm smooths over your clothed back, pulling your hair to the side to get a clearer view of the imprint.

Jeon Jungkook. 7.

Seeing you in in his jersey sprouted carnal desire in Jungkook, something plainly self-indulgent. It dwindled his freshly blossomed possessiveness from recent events but made his need for you grow even bigger.

“Such a filthy girl, aren’t you?” He returns your stare in the mirror, mussed bangs fluttering over his forehead.

“Harder, Jungkook,” you demand breathlessly.

“What’s the word?” You see his eyebrow twitch slightly in the mirror.

“Please - please fuck me harder, Jungkook.”

His hands are firmly anchored in your hips and he changes his lunges to sharper, rougher ones. Your heartbeat roars in your ears, legs trembling as his length is deeply sheathed inside, his tip kissing places that elicit the softest whines from you.

“You like this, don’t you?” His big hand snakes around your throat. “Like getting fucked like a slut?”

The pads of his fingers press into you and your eyes blur. Just the sight of his inked hand on your throat makes your pussy squeeze his cock, the giddiness flourishing everywhere, reaching your fingertips and bringing tears to your eyes.

“Pretty princess loves to get fucked like a slut, hm?” he whispers.

“Yes, yes I do – fuck.”

His hushed, dirty words kindle the tingle in your tummy and you fall apart beneath him, a sniffled moan scurrying past your lips.

A dark scoff hits the base of your neck. “That’s a good girl.” He plants the tiniest kiss on your shoulder, releasing your throat from his grip. “Always so good.”

Jungkook draws you into his arms, moving to his bed with you.

“On your back,” he instructs, pushing you down on his bed.

You get comfortable on his soft duvet, legs spread. Jungkook’s hand is braced at the back of your thigh. He eases his cock back into you, tongue darting out as your tight walls enclose him again.

He tugs the jersey up, staring at the way he vanishes between your velvety pussylips, your tummy bulging when he bottoms out. Jungkook moves leisurely, the way he moves his hips so sinful and practised, the thin curb chain in silver he is wearing dangles over your face.

“Pretty,” you chunter. You reach out and play with it a little as Jungkook places his palm on your tummy with a little pressure. “Mhmm, Jungkook.” Your toes curl in pleasure and he smirks, giving your knee a tiny peck. “You’re so big,” you slur.

“Your little pussy takes me so well,” he praises. His hand disappears under his jersey, and he palms your supple breast. Your tiny nub pops out when Jungkook pinches and plays with it.

You choke on a gasp. Your legs impulsively wrap around him to drag him closer.

“Mine.” Jungkook’s fierce eyes trail down your body. “All mine.”

A sprinkle of playfulness sets on your face. “You’re still jealous because of Chanyeol?”

A day has passed since the kiss cam made Chanyeol and you kiss. You weren’t able to see Jungkook after the game because his team went out for dinner after their win.

As usual Taehyung invited you, but you declined. The way your brother spoke to you with cold eyes was reason enough to stay home instead. Jungkook was following your little conversation from the back, his secret glances prickling your skin.

When Taehyung came back home, he didn’t waste a second to reprimand you. As soon as he stepped into the living room, he interrupted your Sims 4 gameplay, rudely disregarding the reality tv show that was blasting on tv, with his annoying nagging and unnecessary enquiries.

He even dared to ask is Chanyeol your boyfriend? And you wanted to answer yes just to annoy him.

But you also wanted to resume building a house for your Sims family and watch your reality tv show in peace, so you grimaced, a harsh no rolling off your tongue.

Jungkook’s tongue pokes his cheek. “ ‘m not,” he denies, thrusts turning keener.

“Sure you’re not.” The pad of your fingers trickle along his broad front. “Chanyeol-” His name leaves your mouth as a moan when Jungkook pounds into you deep, his cock reaching spots that make you breathless for a moment. “Chanyeol is a good kisser.”

“He can have your mouth.” Jungkook’s leans down, shadowy eyes staring straight into yours. You inhale shakily. “He can have a little kiss.” His tone is tinted with mockery, combined with a condescending undercurrent. “But your pussy,” ��� Jungkook lifts your chin with his thumb – “is mine.”

Your heart beats abnormally in your chest.

“Prove it.”

Jungkook is not in the least swayed by your provocation. He’s become used to it by now.

His brow twitches, the challenge twinkling in his eyes. Jungkook stops, his hand is on the curve of your hip, demanding you to flip over.

“Ass up.” He tugs your ass up in the air. His palm rests on the back of your head. “Face down.”

There’s nothing that makes you heart flutter more than sparking the fire in Jungkook.

He squeezes his cock between your plush pussylips. A forceful push of his hips coaxes a whiny moan from you.

“Prove it?” Jungkook ridicules you. “Fucking take it then.”

His hips clash against your body and you nuzzle your face deep into the pillow as a cry flies past your lips. Jungkook pounds you into his mattress, his fingers digging into the flesh of your ass.

He eyes keep wandering to his name printed on the jersey. Your tiny, stunning body swathed in what belongs to him. It reminds him that you want this just as badly as he does – that you keep coming back to him because you want to be with him as much as he wants to be with you. That you can’t get enough of his cock as he can’t from your pussy. That you keep this secret arrangement going because neither of you is ready to let go.

And Jungkook makes sure it remains that way by fucking you the way he knows you will inevitably cum around his cock.

“Always so naughty, so bratty,” he spits, striking your ass. “You wanna act like a brat?” He smacks you again, harder. “Then you’re getting fucked like one.”

Jungkook wears a frown on his face. The wet sounds of his cock ruining your pussy spurs him on. His skin slaps against yours, creating obscene sounds that are one of Jungkook’s favourites.

After wetting his thumb with his spit, he dips his pad into your other hole, just to tease a little. You wriggle beneath him, whiny sounds erupting from you.

“Let me tease,” he shushes, spitting on your puckered hole and circling his thumb over it. “Gonna fuck your ass the next time you behave like a fucking brat.”

“God,” you mutter into the pillow.

“You’d love that wouldn’t you?” Jungkook removes his finger just when you started relaxing, earning a prolonged whimper from you. “You’re not the only one who gets to tease, princess.” Jungkook feels your walls clamp together. He hisses at your tight pussy, swallowing his own desire to fill you up and focusing on you instead.

“G-gonna cum. Fuck – I’m so close.”

“That’s what I thought.” His voice is dripping in contempt, but that’s exactly what prompts you to reach your high like a whirlwind. “Moan my fucking name when you cum.”

“Jungkook.” You meekly whine his name, heavy puffs hit the pillow as the feeling in your tummy expands into your entire body.

“Good girl.” His saccharine lilt dispels your drowsiness, gently drawing you back to reality.

Jungkook withdraws his cock from your clenching walls. You complain in a sulky grumble at the loss.

You lift your head and crane your neck around.

His doe eyes shimmer in a way that you can’t quite pinpoint. Before you can ask him, Jungkook spreads your cheek apart with one hand, his other plunging two fingers inside your soft pussy.

Your head plops down again as a shrill squeak springs from your chest.

“I’m not done with you yet.” His fingers are fast, unyielding. “You’re gonna cum again for me.”

“Too much.”

“Yeah? Too much?” Mock sympathy bleeds from his voice. The pad of his fingers rub over your sensitive spot. “I know you can take it,” Jungkook says. “I know my pussy can take it.”

Your fingers claw at the pillow beneath your face, muffled mewls flying across your lips. He gets you to the point of losing yourself in another climax fast, his deft fingers know precisely how to move inside you, how to get your walls spasm around them as the feeling builds up in your tummy.

“Huh, princess?” His other hand delivers a teasing spank on your ass. “You’re gonna cum again, aren’t you? Always so greedy.”

You want to say no I’m not gonna cum, want to act bratty again just because, but your head answers his taunting question with little, desperate yeses like a mantra.

The muscles in your belly contract when everything in your body begins to tingle. You tremble, pussy pulsating from the sensitivity. It’s so intense your hands hurt from gripping the pillow for dear life. The sounds in the room are nasty, so wet. More prominent than usual.

You are frazzled, a quivering mess lying limply on his rustled sheets.

Jungkook’s fingers are still sheathed between your fluttering walls, but his movements have stopped. “Fuck, princess,” he says with wonder. “You squirted everywhere.”

Your perplexity wins over your need to catch your breath and you turn your head, blinking in confusion. “I did what?”

“Squirted,” he curtly repeats in a mumble, popping his fingers into his mouth to lick them clean.

It has happened before, just very rarely. But every time you have, Jungkook eyes sparkled in a lustful and dreamy way – like right now.

“Was that good, huh?” He ribs, lips curving up into a smirk.

With a tired sigh, your cheek meets the cushiony pillow. You mumble something incoherent.

Jungkook stoops down. His hand brushes over your hair, smoothing some flyaways that sprouted from your wriggling.

“Don’t underestimate me.” His voice is low, eliciting tingles on your skin, but the kiss he plants on your cheek is soft, feather light.

You smile, a little deliriously, a little awestruck.

You roll onto your back. “Where do you wanna cum?”

Jungkook sits on his heels, lazily stroking his cock. He ogles your body, tiny puffs bubbling from his mouth. Instinctively, your catch your lower lip with your teeth. Watching Jungkook pleasure himself, the view of his tatted hand in general, makes your fingertips itch in anticipation.

You exchange your hand with his while he still muses over his choices.

He gazes at you slack-jawed. “Face,” Jungkook utters between desperate moans.

You shake your head. It is tempting, considering Jungkook’s yearning eyes, but you don’t want to ruin your make-up. “I still have somewhere to go.”

A frown twists his features. “Where are you going? It’s late.”

“It’s not late,” you argue.

“It’s dark outside. I should bring you home.” His hand closes around yours, signalising to tighten your grasp on his cock. You do, pumping him with a little more pressure. The soft sounds from his lips that follow are like music to your ears.

“It’s just the stationary shop. Need to stock up on some things.”

“Stickers?” he questions, brows furrowed when your hand moves faster.

“Yeah. And my black gel pen too.”

“The 0.5 mm one?”

You giggle. “Yes, that one.”

You lean closer to add a little spit on his dick, but you can’t help but tease him a little. You glide your tongue over the underside of his cock, swirl around his flush tip and suck a little on it.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Mouth feels so good.”

You continue with kitten licks, eyes casted upwards to catch every reaction. The visible muscles on Jungkook’s tummy strain as he nears his climax.

“Gonna cum,” he chokes out.

You draw back, pumping his cock as breathy, helpless moans escape Jungkook. Strings of white land on his defined abdomen and you watch him release with avid eyes.

“So much,” you mumble, flicking your finger through the mess on Jungkook’s glistening skin and sticking your cum covered pad into your mouth.

Gaspingly, Jungkook reaches for tissues on the bedside table. He cleans himself up before he orders you to lie down. He spreads your legs apart by pushing your thigh and tenderly cleans you as well.

He haphazardly tosses the dirty tissues back on his table.

“Wanna take a shower?” Jungkook mutters into the crook of your neck.

You throw your leg over his cinched waist. “I gotta go. The stationary shop will close soon.”

Jungkook pulls his jersey up, leaving a trail of kisses from your neck to your collarbones and down to your tits. He shortly teases your sensitive bud with his tongue before he presses a kiss below your boob. You feel him suck your skin between his puffy lips and utter a whiny complaint.

“No marks.” You lightly kick him with your heel on his ass.

Jungkook grouses against your skin. “No one’s gonna see it here.” He says affronted.

“I couldn’t wear the cute top I wanted today because of this.” You point to the faint purple mark beneath your collarbone.

“You look cuter in this anyway,” he retorts smoothly, giving your tit one last peck. “Should wear it more often.” He covers your body with his jersey again.

You grow shy beneath his stare, but you push him off your body and stand up. Jungkook fluffs the pillow and lets his back hit the mattress.

He has a cheeky smile plastered on his face. “You look so fucking sexy in my jersey.” His tongue swipes over his pink bottom lip. “Do a little twirl for me.” With his palm tucked under his head, he watches with relish as you spin.

You giggle mid-turn, a bubbly feeling swelling in your chest.

“Pretty.” Jungkook grabs his phone from the nightstand. “Lemme snap a pic.” He sits up.

You turn your back to him, and he gently pulls your hair to the side.

Jungkook has a vast collection of pictures of you from numerous nights spent in each other's bed. He takes joy in photography, and being Jungkook’s muse feels oddly fulfilling – but only on condition that your face is not visible in any of his snapshots.

You gasp when your feel Jungkook’s sneaky hand pull up his jersey and grab a handful of your ass. He chuckles at your reaction and takes quick pictures of the pretty ass in front of him.

“Yah,” you scold him, turning around again.

He flashes you the softest, dimpled smile and you are momentarily struck dumb by his effortless prettiness.

He grabs your hand and pulls you onto his lap. “Lemme come with you.”

You arrange his tangly bangs. “You know we can’t.” You’re very careful not to be seen with Jungkook. Rumours spread quickly here.

“No one will see us in the stationary store,” he insists.

“Why do you even wanna go there.” You quirk an eyebrow. “There’s nothing for you there.”

Jungkook shrugs indifferently, but you catch the corner of his lips lift faintly. “You’re there.”

“Stop playing,” you say, nudging his shoulder. But you can’t help the smile that forms on your face.

“Watchu doing tomorrow?”

“Shopping for a dress. Mum said I should dress nicely for the dinner with Minho and his parents.”

You don’t want your parents to come over for the weekend. And you certainly don’t want to have dinner with their friends, whose son they’re trying to set you up with.

“We won’t see each other then?” Jungkook asks, squeezing your bare thigh.

Your fingers find his necklace and you toy with it a little. “Probably.” You lean closer to catch his mouth in a kiss before you get up. “I’m gonna head out now.”

“Send me pics,” Jungkook tells you in his sweet voice.

“Huh?”

“In that dress you’re gonna buy. I wanna see you in it.”

You titter at his shamelessness. “Behave for once, Jungkook.”

Jungkook clicks his tongue. “Say that again and I’ll throw you over my lap.”

He knows exactly what he is doing. He sports a proud smile on his face, cocking his head in provocation.

You muse over it as you step into your panties. Your eyes land on your journal on Jungkook’s desk.

You’d like to stay, but the stationary store. You wanted to spend a cosy evening in your room, journaling with some new supplies to finish off the hectic day.

You remove Jungkook’s jersey from your body. His round eyes immediately land on your naked figure.

Mischievousness contorts your features. “Next time,” you promise.

⭒☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆⭒

read pt 1 here if u haven't <3

[macfrog]

If you ever feel up to it - a little short story from the scom universe about reader and Joel deciding to have a second baby or finding out they're pregnant for the second time would warm my cold dead heart <3

i am. so. sorry. for the word count on this i truly do not know what happened. but i had a lot of fun with it, so. hopefully y'all do, too. happy fathers day! x

jellybean ~4k words | series masterlist warnings: pregnancy symptoms (feeling and being sick, horniness + sleepiness. aka me even when not pregnant), 99% just duckie vs her mom

Duckie spills the secret on a Friday.

The morning is lazy, slow. The breathing of the sea across a plain of beach. Your fingers sift through her hair like the breeze through sun-bleached pages. The way she and the sun tint the room peach.

Sarah sprawls out across the spot still warm on her dad’s side of the bed. She’s in a habit of waking up early to sneak through to your room, lift the bottom of the covers, and army crawl between your bodies.

Joel’s in a habit of stirring to the heat of her at his back, her tiny toes at his spine, and turning to scoop her in one arm. They sleep curled into one another, mouths catching flies.

This morning, though, she’s up to something. She brought a secret.

She’s flat-out on her stomach, pens scratching at the paper. There’s the scent of cherry and lemon and green apple tangling in the air. Taut frown on her face, tongue poked with concentration. She looks just like her dad.

She pauses and looks up at you. “What color is this part?” she asks, dabbing at the blank hubcap.

“Silver,” you reply, fixing the cap back onto the grape pen before it stains your sheets.

She huffs. “I don’t have silver, Mama.”

You tap on the page. “Daddy’s wing mirrors are black, but you did ‘em green. The colors don’t matter, do they?”

But it’s seven a.m., and you’re sharing only the red jellybeans for something of a pre-breakfast snack (the four-year-old’s idea), and you’re exhausted despite having slept the full night, and she keeps halting any time Joel’s humming quietens – just in case he spoils his birthday surprise.

She hunkers down with the lemon pen to nail the emblem of his truck, and you figure – color is just the least of it. Truthfully, to your kid – and so, to you, too – nothing has ever mattered more.

You cup her cheek and lift her gaze back to meet yours. “How about I grab you a glitter pen today, just for the wheels?”

She grins. Little milk teeth, gappy and gummy. Peach fuzz cheeks, sweet as the rest of her, a perfect fit in the palm of your hand.

I love you I love you you’re my whole world I love you, you want to say.

Instead: “Only if we tidy your room later. Deal?”

“Deal, Mama,” Sarah giggles, and her little ink-stained hands splay out across the page again.

She scribbles only a few more splotches of color before you both notice it.

The sudden silence.

The water’s stopped running. The shower screen rattles as he pulls it back. Dripdripdrip from the showerhead straight down to the empty basin.

Sarah twists to watch Joel’s disembodied arm blindly grab for a towel folded on the sink. It whips off out of sight, and he calls through from the bathroom.

“Duckie? You still there?”

“Gogogo,” you whisper, helping your daughter cover her dad’s drawing with blank sheets. “Leave the jellybeans, Duck, save yourself!”

She finds the entire thing hysterical. Swinging her masterpiece under one arm, two fistfuls of rainbow pens, springing from the mattress like it suddenly caught flame. She throws herself from the foot of the bed and dashes across the hall to her own room, candy scattering in her wake.

Joel’s head cranes around the doorframe. “Where’d she go?”

You smile, shrugging. Chewing innocently on a jellybean. “That’s funny. She was here a second ago.”

He pads over to the bed, towel slung loose around his hips. Smirks, when your hungry eyes descend his figure – the bearlike shape of him, all muscle and fur, toned where he needs it but soft where you want it.

He cages over you, dark hair dripping with the smell of citrus, skin sticky.

His lips are like velvet against yours. Tongue still singed with coffee. A low growl from his throat when you lean forward to lick into his mouth.

“Smell so goddamn good,” you murmur, dipping your head to bury into the crook of his neck.

His beard is fuzzier when it’s damp, natural masculine musk melded with the fresh soap and rich aftershave he uses. All honey and oatmeal, mixed with a woodsy scent – and fuck, it’s intoxicating. Moreso than usual – stronger and sexier.

You take his hands and lower them to your hips, letting his fingers knot around the baggy material of your – his T-shirt. Tugging on it, exposing the slip of delicate lace on your hips.

“Darlin’,” Joel warns, “we’re late. We still gotta drop Duckie off – If she walks in –”

You groan, huffing back into the mattress. The weight between your legs ripples over the horizon, pulses into weak nothing.

Joel fixes the shirt back down to your thighs just as the thunder of his daughter’s footsteps rumbles back into the room.

Tonight, he breathes, slicking some of the hair from his face.

You grin, taking his hand to pull yourself back up.

Sarah materializes in the doorway, a lingering half-girl. Smiling from behind the frame, twisting the ball of her foot into the floor.

“Hi, Duck,” Joel says, still playing with your fingers.

“Hi.”

“You look guilty.”

Her grin widens. She totters into the room, launches herself onto the bed, and nuzzles into your side. She squirms when Joel digs his fingers into her waist.

The beats of her laughter drum against your ribs, the same way her fists used to when she lived inside you.

“Alright.” You cradle her, her little head tipping back to wake the rest of Austin up with her squeals of glee. “Are we ready for some actual food, now?”

Joel chuckles, reaching for his mug.

Sarah nods from your lap. Her eyes drift down to the print on your tee. “Mama?”

“Mhm?”

“Do they like jellybeans?”

You frown. “Does who like jellybeans?”

Her finger prods lightly into your tummy. “The baby.”

Joel chokes, splattering coffee into his fist. He slams the mug down, pounds his chest clear of liquid.

“There’s no – Jesus, Joel,” you swipe mocha flecks from the sheets, “Told Sarah to be careful with her pens and then you spray coffee all over the…”

Sarah rolls off, cackling. “Silly Daddy,” she hoots, leaping on the bedroom floor.

“Hey,” you usher her over to the door, “Why don’t you go pick out what you wanna wear today? I’ll be right behind you. Quit tryna give your dad a heart attack, okay?”

“The baby, Mama,” she’s repeating, walking like a little convict. She turns over the threshold to her room like it’s a cell, her pink pajama uniform and guilty expression to go with it. Still laughing, swallowing the ticklish bursts when she notices you’re shaking your head.

“There is no baby.” You kneel before her, repeating, “No baby. Just you. How about your T-shirt with the butterflies?”

It seems to distract her enough. Thank Christ. She gasps, inspired, and twirls off to find the tee.

“Fucking hell,” you sigh, pushing back to your feet.

Joel’s flapping the sheets when you slip back into your room, still clearing his throat. Half-dressed: a white T-shirt over his broad chest and a pair of black boxers. Soaked hair clinging to the back of his neck and drying in flicks across his forehead.

Jesus, you want to pull him back over you and let him have his way.

You close the door over and spin, hands on your hips. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Me?” he croaks. “Did you hear what she just said?”

“You’ve known this kid for four years, Joel, you really can’t tell when she’s fucking with you? She’s my kid, keep up.”

“Just seemed an awfully –” he thumps his chest again, “– awfully specific thing to say.”

“She’s in a phase I think,” you reply, catching the pillow he tosses across. “She’s telling stories. Last week, her pre-K teacher congratulated me our supposed wedding. Asked to see pictures of the Mickey Mouse officiant.”

“Jesus,” he grumbles. “She really bought that?”

You mimic the breezy voice: “Sarah was very convincing.”

Joel scoffs. “I don’t know if I can take a lying phase and a copying phase at the same time. Every goddamn word I say, she’s gotta repeat it.”

“She idolizes you,” you straighten the sheets, “I think it’s endearing.”

“Hm. Just wait until it’s you.”

He wanders around the bed, pulls your back against his chest. His arms cross over your tummy, lips pressing into your shoulder where his shirt has slipped.

“How much harder would two be?” he mumbles into the bare skin.

“Two Sarahs?” You scoff.

Joel laughs. “Yeah, you’re right. I forget she runs on chaos and jellybeans.”

“Yup,” you turn in his arms, linking yours behind his neck, “And there ain’t no point in talking about it anyways, because I am not fucking pregnant.”

He rolls his forehead against yours, stealing bristly kisses. “Okay.”

“I’m not, Joel.”

“I believe you, baby.”

Sarah’s bedtime is a liberal eight, eight thirty on weekends. She likes to sit up, lodged between you and Joel on the couch, and help pick the movie you two will watch once she’s in bed.

Once – and only once – Joel tried to fool her by pretending to play her choice, then switching as soon as she went down.

The kid quizzed him on the movie the next morning. He failed. She’s never forgotten.

Tonight, though, Joel’s out. Some game that you know and care too little about sports to learn the name or importance of. He’s with some buddies at the local bar, probably nursing his second beer in as many hours, and counting down the minutes until he can come home to his girls.

Sarah snores soundly, slumped at your side as though butter wouldn’t melt. The flicker from the TV across her face, the gentle mumbling of the voices onscreen. Her hands limp in her lap, fingers idling in a pink snack bowl.

You admire her, stealing a piece of her popcorn. Teeth grinding down when you remember dishing it for her earlier, hearing her curious voice ask whether or not the baby likes popcorn more than jellybeans.

Nope, you sang, tossing a handful in your mouth as you passed her the bowl. Imaginary babies don’t eat popcorn.

She snorted (which unnerved you, because what the fuck is this kid finding so funny?), and followed you to the living room so close that you could feel her toes at your heels.

Some of the kids in her class have siblings. Some older, but mostly younger. It’s the only fucking explanation, the only thing that explains this sudden interest in the real estate of your uterus.

She’s going through a phase, you tell yourself, suckling on popcorn. But then – how many fucking phases do kids go through? Which phases did you go through?

Barney & Friends. That was a fucking phase. Refusing to leave the house without the hoodie your mom bought you from the Museum of Natural History, even in the height of summer. Ketchup and broccoli, your boyfriend at seventeen, frisbeeing your neighbor’s newspaper and aiming for his flowerpots.

Phase, phase, fucking phase.

Does she know something you don’t?

…No. You took a test just last week. Shut up. Stop letting the kid into your fucking head.

Joel’s keys jangle on the other side of the door, shunting into the lock with a sound which stills your brain.

You tilt your head over the back of the couch, your man’s beard tickling your nose as he kisses you. “Evening.”

“Missed you,” he whispers against your lips. He straightens and tugs the jacket from his shoulders. “She not in bed yet?”

“She fell asleep down here,” you reply. “I got too tired to carry her up.”

He caresses your forehead, big pillowy palm. “You feelin’ okay?”

“It’s been a long day,” you grumble.

Joel smiles. He flops down onto the couch beside you, reaching over to stroke Sarah’s head.

You roll, solid as a rock, curling into his side. “She keeps saying it, Joel. She keeps fucking saying it.”

His chest jumps, tectonic plates moving with a laugh. “You’ve met your match, honey. Produced a professional little shit.”

“One of the other moms from her class is pregnant,” you mumble. “That’s gotta be it, right? That’s where she’s getting it from?”

“Maybe,” Joel muses. His fingers link with yours. “Why don’t you take a test anyways? Settle it in your mind?”

It startles you awake, even if only enough to prove the fucking point.

“No, Joel!” you hiss, body jerking. “If I take a test, and it turns out negative – which it will – she wins! My four-year-old fooled me. No,” you pluck spilled popcorn from your lap, pinging it back into the bowl, “I know this kid. I gave birth to this kid. She is not fucking winning.”

“Alright, baby,” he coos, “it’s okay. I won’t let the four-year-old fool you.”

You glower. “Thanks, asshole.”

He chuckles. “She’d make the best big sister, though. She would,” he insists, when you huff back against his chest. “She’d love being the oldest. Get to be bossy, get to call the shots. Get to protect them, no matter what.”

Your voice feels so small, as inquisitive as your daughter’s when you blink up at him. “Were you protective over Tommy?”

“Oh, yeah. I mean, he was annoying as all hell – and I told him so – but anyone else had anythin’ to say about him, and – well, they had me to deal with.”

“Big scary Joel Miller,” you whisper, yawning into his shirt. “I knew him once.”

“Mhm,” he rumbles, “You sure did.”

You look up again, blinking all doe-eyed and dreamy. Already half-asleep.

“He never scared me,” you whisper.

Joel smiles.

“Well, you scared the hell outta him.”

Saturday morning, you wake to an empty bed. No snoring man, no scribbling girl. Just you – a starfish on the mattress. Bathing in waves of late-morning sun, sheets for coral, body as heavy as though you really are at the bottom of the ocean.

Her giggles carry all the way upstairs. Sarah. They surf into the room on a sunbeam, sounds like bubbles which shatter and sprinkle over your aching body.

You smile into Joel’s pillow, breathing in the smell of him, and peel your eyes open.

It’s ten thirty. Definitely – you blink three times and rub at your eyes, just to make sure. Ten thirty, and something’s swirling behind your navel. Something that sharpens, sours, when you push yourself upright.

“Oh, shit,” you rasp, and throw yourself across the room.

You barely make it, collapsing in a heap at the toilet. Your stomach empties in seconds; three heavy, painful gags and your head is in the bowl, choking on last night’s dinner.

“Motherfucker,” you spit, gasping, “Oh, Jesus.”

You’re sick. You’re just sick. Sarah probably caught something from pre-K, passed it on without even knowing. And, hey – you feel better, now that that happened.

You’re just sick. Nothing else.

“Mornin’,” Joel calls, watching as you stagger into the kitchen.

Sarah mimics his drawl. “Mornin’, Mama.”

“Hi, Duckie.” You crumple into the chair beside her, shoulders hunched. The smell of burnt toast and grape juice twists up your nose, and you suck in a slow breath.

Joel sweeps a hand over your forehead. He tips your jaw up to face him. “You alright? Thought we heard running.”

Sarah rips a slice of toast in two. She stares at the fluffy insides, the jam dripping from the tear. The sight of it lifts the hairs on your skin, the gloopy mess splattering onto her plate.

“Just feel kinda…funny,” you slur, turning away.

“Funny? Funny how?”

“Funny how?” your daughter parrots.

You shrug. Every word, every inhale makes you feel even more nauseous. “Probably just ate something.”

“Heard that one before,” Joel drones, and you throw him a flat look.

Sarah licks the jam from her fingers. She holds her tiny hands up to her dad, snorts when he pretends to bite at them.

“Eat your breakfast, Duckie,” he says then – in his Dad voice. And in something softer, kinder: “Can I make you somethin’?”

You swat the idea away, but it’s already churning in your stomach again. “Just gotta – get over whatever it – is.”

The table falls silent. Joel and Sarah stare blankly at one another. When you turn to look at your daughter, she’s staring straight back. Smirking.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you clip, wincing again at the dribbling jam.

“Alright,” Joel utters, “I think you oughta take a test now.”

“That is not what this is,” you groan, petulantly pushing up from your chair.

He takes your hand, steadying you. “No? I was thinking about it, baby, and I don’t think we’ve been safe enough to be so sure.”

You dump your golden toast in the trash and turn, crossing your arms. Your shoulders lift. “We’re not being any less safe than we have been the last four years.”

“Safe,” Sarah says, and Joel holds a finger up.

“No,” he tells her. “No. Not that word. Go back to funny.”

She beams at him. “You’re funny, Daddy.”

He sighs, pacing over. “Look,” he lowers his plate into the sink, “I’ll take Duckie to the park. Let you rest up, give you a quiet house for the morning. But darlin’, if you’re not better by tonight, you’re takin’ a test.”

You grimace. “But she –”

“I know –” he grits his teeth, “– I know you don’t want her to be right. But I want you to be okay, more ‘n I want to prove my child wrong. Like it or not, you’re taking a damn test.”

Your eyes flit across to the kid swinging her legs in her chair, the splotch of jam down her Peppa Pig T-shirt. Your greatest accomplishment and your biggest challenge, wrapped up into a hundred-centimeter, jellybean-fueled monster.

Her cheeks lift, jam-covered and smug.

“Funny,” Sarah says, nodding.

The afternoon strings the sun high in the sky.

You’ve been home alone for the better part of an hour, busying yourself by cleaning to take your mind off the nausea tugging at your esophagus. Making and remaking beds, folding laundry until your fingers cramp.

Sarah’s room has never been tidier. Joel’s workshop has never seen so little dust. And you have never been more determined to prove your four-year-old wrong.

You’re lingering in the bathroom, the window gaping. Sucking in breath after breath of fresh air – which only serves to tickle the acid burning its way up your throat, entice it further.

You’re emptying the cabinets, reorganizing them into some senseless order. Playing Tetris with boxes of Band-Aids, slotting in tubes of toothpaste. You blindly reach behind your hip for the next box – a nearly empty thing which rattles when you lift it, jitters as though nervous.

You glance down.

“Fuck off,” you hiss, throwing it on the shelf beside some tampons.

It stares back at you, as blinding as the sun. The two display window examples, pregnant and not pregnant, like a wink peering out from the dull cabinet.

Your gums taste of bitter bile, rancid. Teeth furry and aching. Your entire body aches – though nothing quite so bad as the space below your ribs, still tender from all your retching.

Slowly, your hands slip down your front to cup your lower tummy. Rounder than before, suppler – bloated, even.

“’s from all the throwing up,” you tell nobody in particular. Maybe yourself. There’s a desperate edge to your voice, almost a plea.

But then – a plea to who? For what? There was nothing you loved more than carrying Sarah for nine months. Duck. Start saying duck. Baby Duck.

You were never on your own. She was right there. Someone to talk to, someone to complain to. Someone to weep to, in the quietest lulls of night.

Her language came to you as easily as your own. All her kicks and punches, her fucking acrobatics while you tried to sleep. It was love, in its most chaotic form.

And you loved her, the very moment you saw those two lines. The very moment you realized she’d been in there the whole time.

You realize now, squatted on your bathroom floor, that it feels the exact same. A warmth, radiating from your very core, if only you’d pay it enough attention to feel it.

Like there’s someone there. Right there.

“If you’re fucking with me,” you warn your stomach, reaching for the single test, “I will lose my shit.”

Love, in its most chaotic form bursts through your bedroom door no less than half an hour later.

“Hi, Mama!” Sarah sings, tearing through the room with her hands behind her back. Her knees bump against the side of your bed, the air about her summer-warm and pollen-sweet.

“Hi, little Duck,” you mumble, voice swollen. You wipe sleep from your eyes, asking, “How was the park?”

She answers with a wide grin on her face, whipping out a small, shabby bunch of flowers. Dandelions and daisies tangled around one another, loose petals scattering over your bedsheets.

“Oh, baby,” you push yourself up, ignoring the sickly weight in your stomach, “Are these for me?”

She nods. She dusts her hands free of grass when you take the bouquet. And then, as you smell them and hum with delight, she turns.

First, over to the dresser. She stares at her reflection, pokes at some of the makeup on the table. Then over to the window – where her breath fogs the glass. You hear the whack of Joel’s tailgate closing, and she tracks him into the house, before examining the windowsill.

You watch nervously as she drifts back over to the bed, a curious hop to her movements. Inspecting, like she knows there’s something waiting to be found. Someone.

“Did you have fun with Daddy?” you ask.

“Yep,” her small voice says, distant and distracted. She disappears into the dim bathroom.

You slump back down on the mattress, dropping the flowers in a clump on your bedside table. “I don’t even know when I fell asleep, baby girl,” you say through a yawn.

Sarah doesn’t reply.

“Duckie?”

“What’s this?”

You lift your head. “What’s wh…Oh, n-no, Duckie, wait –”

She flees past you, one fist raised and wielding the pregnancy test.

“Sarah! Jesus, fuck –”

You’re chasing after her before you have a chance to consider it – nausea be damned. She’s squealing something, roaring with laughter, blitzing out into the hallway. She swivels, ladders down the stairs backwards, leaps straight into the arms of –

“Christ, Sarah –”

Joel stumbles backwards with the force she throws at him. She’s safe in his arms by the time you reach the top of the stairs, waving the stupid stick around his head like it’s a magic wand.

“Daddy!” Sarah cries.

He glances up to you: hunched over the top step, panting, clutching your stomach. He pinches the test from her grasp. “What do we got here, baby duck?”

She kicks her feet. She has no fucking idea what they have, but she knows you didn’t want her near it – and if you know your kid, you know that’s all the catalyst she needed to fucking take it.

You slowly make your way down towards them, smirk growing the nearer you draw.

Joel glances down to the test. The creases by his eyes deepen. He hugs Sarah closer.

“Two...two means...pregnant, right?” he asks.

You sigh, nodding. “Mhm.”

His head lifts.

He breaks, the second he sees your expression. Eyes glassy, tears spilling onto your cheeks. The same smile you wore that June morning: sleep-deprived and shellshocked, a love pumping through your veins so strong that you thought you might burst with it.

Joel reaches for your hand, reels you in against his body.

“Shit,” he laughs, holding the test up.

Your shaking hands take it from him – though you already knew what it says. You were dreaming of it all when Sarah broke into your room.

Dreaming of linked hands and echoed giggles; of bunkbeds and matching surnames, of all four seats in the truck filled and all four chambers of your heart spoken for.

Dreaming of one on each hip, one in each hand. Dreaming of them tag teaming Joel, of the word kids slung with his southern twang. My kids, the kids, our kids. All ours.

Dreaming of two Sarahs, goddamn it. Because nothing ever completed your life as effortlessly as one Sarah, and – hell, she was born to follow in her dad’s footsteps and become the elder Miller sibling.

“Shit,” you agree, turning to sob into Joel’s chest.

“Duckie,” Joel says, voice hoarse and choked by tears, “You’re gonna be a big sister.”

She giggles, tracing the damp lines down your cheeks. As she reaches your jaw, the elation on her face slowly dwindles into something of a frown.

Your lips part to repeat it – a big sister, Duck – when her tiny voice steals the air from your lungs.

“Shit!”

[mariasont]

THE BIMBO RECEPTIONIST WAS SO CUTE

now id like to introduce, goth/metalhead!bimbo!reader x spence ( more of the opposites attract vibe )

super dark clothes and jewelry and looks like elvira a little bit, maybe a few piercings and tattoos for spencer to oogle at

Brooding - S.R

a/n: EEK i hope u love this as much as i loved writing it :)

bimbo reader has my heart <3

masterlist

‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧

pairings: spencer reid x goth!bimbo!reader

warnings: mmm none! fluff! just two cuties being cute!

wc: 0.6k

Your pen was a flurry of motion, streaking bold lines upon the sketchpad. Technically, you should be sorting through the endless stack of files, keeping them pristine and accessible for the agents. You were always ahead of your tasks, and this job, while not earth-shattering, mattered to you. But when you had a muse as captivating as yours, it was hard to put the pen down. 

That muse being the man rifling through the files before you, his face a masterpiece of pretty lines and angles, unaware of the intensity of your focus. You contemplated expressing your admiration aloud, but the idea seemed a little too forward. So, you poured that impulse into a portrait, tracing the contours of his handsome face.

But it proved difficult to accomplish with his relentless pacing. Each step he took sparked another round of redos on the pad. Your tongue, tipped with a silver piercing, unconsciously found its way to your lip as you wrestled with the proportions of his nose, erasing furiously to get it just right.

You let out a sigh, louder than intended, and it was enough to pause his steps. "Sir, can you please stand still?"

He looked utterly baffled, lifting his brows toward his hairline. As your eyes met, he pointed to his chest, his question simple and unsure, "Huh? Me?"

A quick nod sent a ribbon of dyed hair fluttering before your eyes as you beamed at him. "Yes, you! Please, if you don't mind," you murmured, your fingers racing over the paper. "I just need, like, one more second."

He stood frozen, brows remaining quizzically raised. Why he complied, he couldn't say, but the sight of you, so engrossed in your art, your necklaces chiming in time with your movements, and how your bold makeup seemed to frame your face perfectly kept him rooted to the spot.

You peered up through your lashes, giving him a sheepish grin, cheeks lightly flushed as you set the pen down.

"All done! You're free to go. Thanks for being so patient," you chirped, gently waving the paper in the air as if to dry the ink faster.

"Can I at least see the result of my patience?" Spencer asked, his approach casual yet expectant. 

You hugged the sketchpad to your chest, a gentle laugh escaping you. "Well, I don't usually just let anyone see my work, especially strangers."

Spencer's smile was tinged with amusement.

"Considering I'm the subject, I think I have some claim to it," he joked. "And by the way, I'm Spencer Reid. There, we're practically acquaintances now."

You couldn't contain the goofy grin that spread across your face, and a giggle bubbled up from your throat.

"Well, since you put it that way, I suppose I can make an exception," you said, drawing out the last word with a wink.

The portrait made Spencer do a double-take--it was him, but as if seen through a gothic, moody lens. His usual composure cracked, and a deep, genuine laugh broke through. 

"I never knew I had such a brooding side," he commented with a smile. "I look like I stepped out of a Brontë novel. Perhaps Heathcliff on one of his better days?"

Your head cocked to the side, hair cascading over one shoulder, looking at him through lashes heavy with mascara as you shrugged.

"Heathcliff, huh? I'll take your word for it, but I get the brooding part," you said, with a bubbly laugh. "Come on, it's so you."

Spencer fiddled with his tie, raising a brow.

"I'm not sure if I should be flattered or concerned," he said, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards as he felt a pleasant heat rise to his cheeks.

You squinted sightly, pretending to mull it over.

"Flattered, for sure," you said. "Broody types are just secretly plotting world domination, right?"

He grinned. "Well, maybe not world domination, but certainly plotting something."

Your voice was light, but your question was pointed. "So, what are you plotting, Spencer? Should I be worried?"

He tried to remember what Morgan had taught him.

"Absolutely. But some things are worth the wait--patience, you'll see, can be quite rewarding."

And with a promise like that, you found yourself more than willing to wait. 

taglist: @hotchhner @khxna

[nelapanela94]

Falling, falling, drowning.

Levi jolts from his sleep, clammy, heaving, clutching his chest as he grasps for air. The room is dry. He rolls up his sleeves, only sweat clings to his skin. Gray eyes dart around, and as they focus, he recognizes the place, the bookshelf, the tea table, the old leathered couch. He screws his eyes shut, crinkling at the corners, squeezes his fists, resting them on his tights, and breathes in long controlled puffs. His body starts to relax, the terror ebbing through every pore as he leaves the bone-stiffed trance.

He shakes his head, pats his cheeks and opens his eyes again. The candle light is weak; a smear of ink blotching the last paper he was signing before falling asleep. He clicks his tongue and puts the quill back on the curlicue-carved holder. He sighs, blows off the candle and spins around on his chair. The window is opened and the yard is swarmed by the silver light of the moon. He rises to his feet, takes off his jacket and slides it on the top back rail. Slings off his suspenders, lets them hang about his thighs.

What are you doing now?

Probably sailing your third dream of the night.

The corridors whistle with emptiness, the fires deadly still. He opens your door, slowly to muffle the screech and wedges into your room. Soft snores unshackle from you, your hair unruly and tangled over your face. A single bed. He scuffs off his boots, nimbly pads closer, snuggles under the covers.

"Levi." His lips curve in a smile at the euphony of your sleepy voice . "What you doing here?"

"I didn't mean to wake you up." He presses a kiss on your head and wriggles closer and closer, though his ass will sleep in the air, there is hardly any space, an excuse to be even closer to you. He cocoons you in his arms, nuzzles his face in the curve of your neck.

"A nightmare?"

"mmhmm." A red hue creeps over his face.

You shift around, kiss him on the cheek. "It's ok. You're safe with me."

[leiawritesstories]

The First Concert

Rowaelin Month 2024, Day 16: Opening of the Royal Theater (canon) @rowaelinscourt

Word count: 1.2k

Warnings: none!

posted late bc college lol. enjoy!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The morning of the opening of the Royal Theater of Terrasen dawned bright and sunny, clear skies and a crisp chill in the autumn air. The queen had been restless, and as the sun crested the mountains in the east, she stood on her balcony, silk robe wrapped loosely around her frame, and watched the dawn paint the sky in hues of rose. 

You’re awake early. Her mate’s sleepy rumble drifted across her mind. 

Couldn’t stay asleep. 

Footsteps padded across the tiled floor, and it was only a moment before warm, thickly muscled arms banded around Aelin’s waist. It will be a good day.

She leaned back into his embrace. How can you be so sure?

Because our people love you, and they love what you have done for them. Rowan kissed the top of her head. Besides, if you get bored of shaking hands, I know you had a private box built. 

Naughty buzzard. With a half-smirk, she turned to face him, drinking in the sight of his calmness, so rare in the years they had spent together. “I just want it to go well,” she said, quietly. 

Unconsciously, his fingers traced the wings inked across her back. “It will,” he promised. 

“Good.” She pressed her lips to his, lingering in the kiss for a long, sweet moment. “When did you get all the optimism?” 

“When the world ran out of crazy-ass demons trying to kill us all.” Rowan’s tone was completely deadpan. 

Aelin laughed, bright and clear as the Orynth sky. I love you, Ro.

I love you too, Fireheart.

~

Aelin had insisted on coordinating finery for the evening, reveling in Rowan’s suppressed groan when she brought out the linen shirt and emerald silk jacket with silver embroidery that she’d had made for him. He grumbled, but he put on the fine clothes, and she stunned him speechless with her emerald silk dress, its cuffs and hem detailed with the same silver thread, the back a plunging V that dipped nearly to her hips, revealing her tattoos in all their glory. The kingsflame crown sat atop her head, its weight light but solid, grounding the queen in the solemnity of her position. 

“Beautiful,” Rowan murmured, touching his lips to the back of her neck. 

She sucked in a gasp, sparks climbing her spine at the subtle teasing. “Later, my love.” 

He smirked and linked his hand with hers, thumb tracing the obnoxiously large emerald on her wedding band. “As my queen commands.” Together, they ascended the cobblestone steps that led to the entrance of the Royal Theater, exchanging smiles and greetings with the crowd of Orynth’s residents that had gathered for the opening concert. 

At the top of the steps, a forest-green carpet had been rolled out, a matching ribbon looped across the handles of the soaring mahogany double doors of the entrance. Aelin’s court waited there, beaming proudly at the queen who had brought the theater back to its home, and she felt tears prickle at the corners of her eyes at the sheer joy on her family’s faces. 

Even Lorcan was…not scowling, though she supposed that had more to do with Elide than the theater. 

Aelin and Rowan stopped beside their court, and with a twist of her hand, flames curled around the prongs of her crown, adorning the symbol of Terrasen, and a twin circlet of fire wove around her mate’s brow. Aelin of the Wildfire, the crowd murmured, a soft rumble of support for their queen. She smiled. “My beloved people!” She kept hold of Rowan’s hand, drawing her strength from him lest she be overcome with emotion. “Welcome back to the Royal Theater of Terrasen!” She pinched her first two fingers together, and a fine ribbon of flame sliced neatly through the ribbon on the doors. Rowan spun out a cool northern wind, and it wrapped around the door handles and tugged them open to the people. 

And they walked into the theater, footsteps falling on plush carpet and polished hardwood, eyes wide at the marble sculptures and gilded frescoes worked into and across the walls and vaulted ceilings. Tales of their beautiful nation—from Brannon to Gavin and Elena all the way down to Rhoe and Evalin, to Orlon, to Aelin. She had protested at first when the artists showed her the sketches, saying she did not need to be pictured all over the walls, but Rowan was…very convincing. 

Overhead, a bell sounded, calling the people into the theater itself, and they slowly filed in, filling the emerald velvet seats that lined the floor and the galleries and the balconies curving around the massive stage. The thick stage curtains were drawn back for the arched tiers of chairs that filled the stage floor, and as the members of the symphony walked onstage, applause rippled up in waves from the crowd. From the royal box, which Rowan had specifically situated in the third tier of balcony boxes on stage left, Aelin was beaming as she applauded. 

The conductor appeared to joyous applause, and he bowed to the audience and to the queen before he stepped onto his podium, tuned the orchestra, and, with a flourish of his baton, launched into the opening chords of the Stygian Suite. Aelin’s hand flew to her mouth, and the tears that had been hovering behind her composure all evening broke free, dripping soundlessly down her face. 

Rowan’s hand splayed on her thigh, warm and firm and reassuring. Are you alright?

It’s…it’s been twenty years since this music was played. In her glassy eyes, he saw a reflection of the child she had been when she snuck into the opera house in Rifthold to hear the symphony, and a reflection of the young woman who had brought the music to life on the keys of a forgotten pianoforte on a spring afternoon. Did you know?

Perhaps. She flicked him a glance, and he chuckled softly. Yes. I asked the conductor if he could prepare this piece for the opening. For you.

The music swelled to a crescendo, the notes bursting into a waterfall of descending arpeggios that crested and swept through the theater like water over the audience. As the final triumphant chords echoed around the vaulted ceiling, Aelin brought her hands together and rose to her feet, leading the standing ovation with tears still tracked down her cheeks. 

She waited for a long while before she left the box, heading down the stairs to greet the orchestra along with the rest of the audience. Most of them had already gone home, and Aelin spoke gratefully to the conductor, wiping the tears from her face. He shook her hands eagerly and introduced her to the symphony members, who were a mix of awestruck and overwhelmed at the appearance and support of the queen. 

“And we have a few particularly special members,” the conductor continued. “You see, Your Majesty, these five were part of the last ensemble to perform this piece—the orchestra that vanished. Five of them made it through the war and chose to come to Terrasen.” 

Aelin’s throat thickened. “I cannot possibly express how much that means,” she choked out. “Thank you. Thank you, so very much.” 

One of the symphony members, a woman with dark hair shot through with silver, set down her violin and took the queen’s hands. “And we can’t thank you enough, my queen, for welcoming us home to Terrasen. For giving us a new home.” 

Aelin could only nod wordlessly, and she was silent all the way back to the palace, overcome with emotion from the performance and the people who had created it. Tucked into bed behind her, sensing the swirling of her mind, Rowan linked his fingers with hers. 

For you, Fireheart. All of it is for you.

~~~

TAGS:

@live-the-fangirl-life

@superspiritfestival

@thegreyj

@wordsafterhours

@elentiyawhitethorn

@mariaofdoranelle

@rowanaelinn

@house-of-galathynius

@tomtenadia

@julemmaes

@swankii-art-teacher

@charlizeed

@booknerdproblems

@earthtolinds

@goddess-aelin

@sweet-but-stormy

@clea-nightingale

@autumnbabylon

@llyncooljones

@silentquartz

@renxzs

@anarchiii

@fauna-flora11

@cynthiesjmxazrielslover

[iridescentprose]

Try again - Luca x reader insert [The Bear]

summary; in which you catch the chef smiling at you.

author's note; short but sweet fic about Luca. Just fluff. Please enjoy!

"Worse. Try again."

"Yes, chef."

It was 5:36am.

The numbers of the digital clock above you weren't moving any faster. You had been here for less than an hour and already you were being critiqued on how to properly layer strawberries on top of a crème brûlée custard.

Whatever plans you had of pleasing the chef next to you were slowly diminishing. Your hands shook with self doubt as you pricked at the red fruit, angling it so the mandala spirals could continue. You stepped back, overall pleased with what you had done.

"Better."

It was all you were going to get for now, you knew. But you took his response with pride. After all, you had made significant progress in the past week. Your shoulders relaxed, though your victory was short-lived.

"But."

You lifted a brow. "But?"

He shifted closer to you, his tattooed arm brushing up against yours, making butterflies flutter in your stomach. Your eyes remained downward, concentrated on the different doodles that littered his skin. You wondered what each stroke of ink meant and if they were drawn with intent or if they happened to be the result of a reckless decision.

Or decisions.

"You lack confidence," he said. Even though his eyes were focused on the custard, you could tell he was doing this on purpose—teasing you. The furrowed brow, the slightly scrunched up nose, and the craned neck. What gave away his concentrated act was the corner of his lips, tugged in a meaningful, if not, arrogant fashion.

Despite the heat spreading across your cheeks, you didn't take his criticism to heart. It was true. After all, Carmy set this all up for a reason. You needed the extra practice to hone in on your skill before the upcoming opening. But opening day was weeks away and you already felt too far behind to make a good impression.

"I'm exhausted," You said without thinking. It wasn't the best excuse for your lack of confidence or skill, but it was all you could muster in response. You dropped the miniature metal tongs and braced your hands on the edge of the silver cooking island.

You could hear him chuckle but you didn't bother lifting your gaze to defend yourself. A week of private training wasn't enough to increase your knowledge as quickly as you had hoped. You wanted to be good—better than good. You wanted to be the best version of yourself and you wanted others to experience that through your desserts.

"Good," he said, as you kept your gaze downwards, fixed on his shoes that were inching closer to yours. "For a second I was worried you weren't." He smirked. "Here, try again."

You lifted your head and straightened your posture as he reached across the table for the metal tongs. He handed them to you and you took them into your hand automatically, prying a strawberry that happened to be cut in half, from a small bowl.

Slowly you guided it towards the custard, though it didn't make it's final destination without a little help. In a ghostly fashion, Luca's hand loomed over yours. His rough palm settled over your knuckles — which happened to be stained with flour and vanilla extract.

He did most of the heavy lifting, using a method of confident concentration that you had been trying to master all week. Your hand shook as the strawberry reached its destination, overlaying the endless spiral masterfully.

"Slow and steady wins the race," he mumbled, his breath fanning your cheek. He gently squeezed your fingers prompting the metal tongs let go of the red fruit. "Consistency is key."

The pads of his fingertips brushed over your knuckles as he let go of your shaking hand. Smudges of strawberry paste lingered on your skin as he pulled away.

"Understand?"

You lifted your head, your eyes meeting his. He looked relaxed, if not intrigued by your bravery. A glimmer of a smile came to his lips, though it vanished before you could capture it in your mind. You shook your head free from whatever trance you were under.

"Yes, chef."

With a nod, he swiftly reached for the towel that hung off his shoulder and tossed it to you. You took it, swiping the remnants of sweet ingredients he left on your fingers from his demonstration.

You turned to look over your shoulder, finding him leaning against the metal cabinent, arms crossed and muscles tight.

He met your gaze quickly, almost as if he had been caught watching you. His slight smile diminished, and you couldn't help but shake your head in amusement.

"Again, chef?" You asked.

Testing his reflexes, you tossed the towel and he flinched, but caught it with ease as it hit his chest. A shade of red - the same pigment that stained the towel you had used to wipe your hands - was visible in his cheeks. His lips flickered upwards as he fought the playful smirk flirting with his mouth.

"Yes, chef," he mumbled, tossing the towel over his shoulder and taking his spot next to you. Naturally, his arm brushed up against yours again as he began cutting up more strawberries. "Again."

[danikamariewrites]

I’ll Always Have You

Rowaelin x reader

Warnings: tattoo needle

Sitting on the padded table I anxiously shift around. My thigh bouncing involuntarily as I wait for Rowan. Aelin gives my hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

Looking at her calm face I feel the anxiety in my stomach loosen.

“Don’t be scared,” Aelin murmurs. “The needle only hurts at first, then you get used to it.” I let out a long sigh, releasing my nerves. But the longer Rowan takes the more I think about having a needle repeatedly poked into my skin.

Rowan finally returns, ink and needle in hand, an excited look on his face. He sets everything down on a side table, laying out the sketch of your tattoo.

Rowan doesn’t talk about his artistic abilities much. He gets very shy when Aelin and I bring it up, which is very cute. The big fae warrior getting all blushy because of compliments from his mates.

Staring at the sketch again I smile. It’s a physical reminder of the love I share with my mates created by Rowan with all the thought and love in the world.

Rowan gently grasps my chin, tilting my face to look at him. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. We won’t be upset with you,” he says softly.

I shake my head. “I want to. I’m ready.” He softly kisses my forehead before instructing me to take my shirt off and get comfortable.

Aelin runs her nails against my scalp, pulling my hair forward and off my back. My shoulders jerk from the chills she gives me.

“Hey,” Rowan chastises her. “She can’t be moving so hands off.” I can see Aelin roll those stunning eyes of hers without looking. “Buzzard,” she mutters.

I sneakily link my pinky with hers, turning my head to give Aelin a smile. She leans down and lightly pecks my forehead before scolded again.

“Ok,” Rowan holds the needle ready with ink above the middle of my back, “If you need a break don’t be scared to tell me. And remember to breathe through the pain.” “Ok,” I respond, already taking calming breaths.

On the first prick of the needle my eyes started to water. I held my breath for a few more stabs until my body adjusted to the pain. Remembering Rowan’s instructions I start to breathe again, squeezing Aelin’s hand.

After two long hours Rowan set the needle down, wiping gently at my back. My accelerated healing already closing the small wounds across my skin.

Rowan presses a soft kiss to my shoulder. “You did amazing, love.”

I groan, pushing up on my elbows, careful not to aggravate my skin. “Thanks Ro,” I sit up, crossing my arms to cover my chest. Aelin quickly slips one of Rowan’s undershirts over my head.

“Can I see it?” Rowan nods excitedly. Leading us to the bathroom he turns my back to face the mirror above the sink while he holds another in front of me. Lifting my shirt my breath catches and tears line my eyes.

“Rowan,” I breathe out. My eyes widen in shock at the beautiful black ink decorating my back. “It’s beautiful.” Silver lines my eyes as I stare in awe.

A pair of wings spread across my shoulder blades, the feathers made up of the Old Language. Our story together. My story, my survival and strength, finding my path to my mates.

“You really like it?” He asks, a little timid. I look up at him, disbelief on my face at Rowan asking such a thing. “Of course I do.”

Pushing up on your toes, you wrap your arms tightly around his neck. Rowan hugs you back, careful to not aggravate your tattoo. “We love you, y/n. So much.”

[scrapsovereign]

Kinktober Day 18 - Body Worship

Prompt List

Word Count: 3.1k - ish (I swear I didn't intend for it to be this long)

Pairing: Fat Female Reader/OC x Ascended Astarion

Rating: Explicit

Additional tags: Astarion is kinda soft but also kind of a dick, internalized fatphobia, maybe some feeding....maybe???, slavery, masturbation, is it body worship if HE makes YOU do the praising?, vampires love fat girls those are the rules and I didn't make them up

This work is HEAVILY inspired by “A Night With The Ascendant” by PursuitsEternal, the brain rot set in when I started to daydream about what it would be like to be Astarion’s pleasure slave and it never let go

(posted with LITERAL MINUTES to go before 12am PST bahahahhaahha)

“Come along now, don’t dawdle, girl. Let’s not keep the master waiting.”

You barely register the raven-haired man’s clipped words. Your feet covered in silk slippers pad along the cool marble floors, calves aching as you try to keep up with his pace. The attire (if it could be called that) of fine gold chains and gossamer chafes and stimulates the sensitive parts of you underneath the beautiful, buttery silk robe that covers it as you move along. 

He leads you through a labyrinth of hallways that twist and turn, some in various stages of renovation and repair. While great care has been taken to preserve the craftsmanship of the halls, the decor is significantly different from one area to the next. Rich burgundy and mahogany are replaced with ivory and gold, heavy velvet window treatments to block out the sun being replaced by airy chiffon. 

Not at all how you’d expected the place to look.

The act of assessing your surroundings as you walk swiftly behind the pale, raven-haired man quickly drains your energy reserves. Your head spins as you reach a set of doors at which he turns around to face and address you. 

“You are to address the master as ‘master’ or ‘my lord’. Do not speak unless you are spoken to. If you displease him, you risk the fate of your mortal life ending in a giant bloody puddle on the floors. I advise against this, as this was the fate of your predecessor and I don’t much feel like cleaning up that sort of mess again. When your time here is done, you will exit these doors and wait for someone to collect you and bring you back to your room. Am I understood?”

“Yes,” you lie, struggling to keep yourself upright. 

He grunts in approval, turning to knock a pattern on the set of doors, the anticipation of what’s behind them making your empty stomach lurch. 

“Enter.”

You are hardly given a moment to collect yourself and take a steadying breath before you are thrust in front of him. He follows closely behind you as you make your way to a  desk before a panel of glass windows, the sheer curtains ruffling gently in the midday breeze. 

An elf with attractively mussed silver curls peers down through reading glasses at a large, musty tome- one of many crowding the surface of his desk. He scribbles furiously with his quill on a scroll you cannot see, stopping only once to refresh the implement with ink before he continues. He worries the corner of his lower lip gently with an elongated canine, hunching over to squint as he re-reviews the passage in the ancient book before him. 

“The girl you summoned, my lord.”

He gives you a cursory glance of bored indifference before he freezes, slowly trailing his crimson gaze up your curves to really, fully take you in. 

Your eyes meet with his for only a moment before you remember yourself, looking down obediently to the floor. 

Away from the face of the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.

You jump at the sound of the book being slammed shut, cringe at the forceful exhale made through his nose as he rises from his desk. Adrenaline sets your heart hammering in your ears, your senses made sharp once again. He makes his way over to you and you flinch where you stand, using every last bit of your willpower to stay still as he raises his elegant, manicured hand. 

Not to strike your face, but to caress it. 

“Gods below us, what have you done to her?” he snarls at the raven-haired man. 

“She was…larger than described, so I thought to lean her out a bit before she was presented to you,” he sputters, his voice thin and reedy. 

The hands that hold your face in his tender grasp are warm- similar to the sunlight that streams in through the room’s large, open glass windows. 

“I never ordered this,” the elf snaps, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “Tell me darling, when was your last meal? What did they serve you?”

“Last night- a few bites of roast chicken and a handful of vegetables…my lord,” you add quickly, your face heating with shame at almost forgetting to address him properly. 

He scoffs, the displeasure radiating off of him in waves as he inspects you. 

His touch, however, remains gentle. 

“Hardly enough to sustain one’s self. For how long?”

You look up at the raven-haired man again, seeing the sweat that is starting to form on his brow. “Since I arrived a tenday ago, my lord. The same meal, once every day.”

The elf’s jaw twitches in response.

“I see. We should still have the dried, smoked tuna and the salted salmon in our stores,” the elf states, removing his glasses and placing them on the desk with care. “Do you remember the dish that…he would prepare for our mortal guests when they were ill? Have the kitchens prepare it and send one of the staff to bring it to us.”

“It will be done, my lord.”

“Oh, and Dufay?”

“Yes, my lord?”

“Your meals shall be limited to one goblet, once per day for a tenday. Starting now-”

“Master, I-”

“Starting. Now,” the elf growls, and you swear that you see his red eyes glow…though you might be hallucinating in your hunger. “Pick your jaw up off the floor, and begone from my sight before I change my mind.”

The raven-haired man gives a single bow from the hinge of his hips to acknowledge his orders. He disappears from sight, as quiet as a whisper of smoke. 

Your heartbeat begins to race as you realize you’re now alone…with him. 

The man that had chosen you as homage in place of coin or crops from his lands. The man that, according to Dufay, had reduced the person brought to him before you to nothing more than viscera and blood. The man who was rumored to be the only and first day-walking vampire, his powers bought and paid for with the sacrifice of 7000 tortured souls. 

“He’s lucky that I need him to run the damned place, and between us I think he knows it,” he confides in you, the warmth of his hand moving down to the column of your throat to rest on your pulse. “On to more pleasant matters. What’s your name, pet?”

You almost don’t say it, and when you do, it comes out as a trembling whisper.

He repeats your name, his velvety drawl wrapping around you in a cocoon that soothes your ragged nerves. 

“Pretty,” he comments with a cock of his head to the side, pulling his hand away. Your chest aches at the loss of his touch, the world seeming a little less bright as he distances himself from you, setting himself down in a plush chair by the fireplace. 

“Come to me.”

You move obediently towards him, your legs wobbling like a newborn fawn with every step forward. A dull headache sets in as you ponder what’s going to happen next. If any of the tales you’ve heard are true, your fate has been sealed as a lamb sent to slaughter. You make up your mind to endure the last few moments of your life peacefully- with what dignity you have left after you’d been isolated, starved, then dressed up and trotted out before him.

He giggles then, the high-pitched sound of his odd laughter piercing your chest. 

“Poor darling. I suppose you’ve heard all sorts of stories about me, haven’t you?” he inquires, reaching out to gather your hand in his. Your heart soars with his touch, filling with that addictive, intoxicating warmth. He guides you into his lap and nestles his head against your breast, sighing with contentment. “What’s the thing that’s shocked you the most?”

Oddly enough, it’s not the fact that he could be a vampire. It was an open secret that the lord that previously held these lands was one himself. 

No, there’s another fact that’s sitting at the front of your mind, something far more personal.

“That you would agree to accept me as tribute.”

A young tiefling woman appears then, silent as a ghost as she sets a side table before you. She catches you staring at her as she sets the table and winks at you, revealing a bowl of steamed rice with bits of pink salmon over the top. She pours a honey-colored liquid into it from a teapot, setting it down and disappearing before you have the thought to thank her. 

The elf reaches over and picks up an oddly-shaped spoon resembling a miniature ladle, gathering a little bit of everything into it before he raises it to his mouth.

Your eyes are drawn to his plush, soft lips, blowing on the contents of the spoon to cool them down. Heat pools low in your belly as you imagine how they would feel on yours, how sweet they might taste. 

“Eat.”

He raises the spoon to your mouth and you consume the strange, delicious contents with hesitation- aren’t you supposed to serve him? Isn’t this supposed to be the other way around?

“This dish is called ochazuke. You could say it’s an old family recipe,” He begins before cooling another spoonful and raising it to your mouth. “Good, no? It should give you some strength back.”

After a few more spoonfuls consumed in tense silence, he speaks again. 

“Why do you believe yourself to be unworthy?” 

You look down to the floor, away from him. 

“My lord, I’m sure that there were prettier-” Your speech is interrupted by the eating utensil shoved in your mouth, not leaving until you swallow its contents down. 

“Any idiot with eyes can see how lovely you are,” he intones harshly. “Try again.”

The compliment goes straight between your legs in spite of its delivery. Your mind races through the fog of lust that threatens to set in, trying to find the best way to hedge around the owlbear in the room. His broad, lean chest has enough width to accommodate you, but isn’t he feeling cramped for space? Aren’t his muscular thighs complaining from having you atop his lap?

You accept the last of the savory and sweet rice dish, your courage returning with your body’s renewed vigor. 

“It is because of my size, my lord.”

He chuckles, leaning forward to politely set the utensil aside, next to the bowl.

“And there it is. I believe you deserve to have a little fun for your honesty, no?” He purrs, ensuring you are gathered in his arms.

“Hold on tight to me, little love.”

You yelp with surprise as your lord stands, lifting you as if you weighed nothing, carrying you out of the room. 

“Where are we going?” You ask impulsively, cringing inwardly when you realize you’ve spoken out of turn. 

“A place where I can teach you a lesson,” he says with a bit of a growl. You bite down on your lower lip, feeling your pussy clench in hopes that it’s the sexy kind. “ Alright then, here we are.”

The double doors in front of you open with a wave of his hand, your lord carrying you over the threshold of one doorway, and through another. The decor of the rooms matches that of the rest of the new renovations, with the elevated staples you’d become accustomed to in your time here. Silken fabrics, plush imported carpets, painstakingly crafted furniture- and you’re guessing that by the size of the innermost room and the presence of the massive, 4-post bed that this is his personal bedroom.

As you near the bed, your legs squeeze together and your clit twitches when you spot the silken fabric tied around the posts. Is this how he’s going to teach you a lesson? By tying you up and having his way with you?

He chuckles then, a low, dark sound of amusement as if he can read your thoughts. “Maybe another day. I have a different activity in mind.”

You enter his wardrobe, a room that is easily the size of your family’s meager home in Tumbledown. He sets you down to stand in front of a large ornate mirror, coming up behind you, pressing the warmth of his body against the thin silks of your robe.

It is then that you notice what is unmistakably his erection pressed against you, poking at the small of your back. 

“We’re going to play a game,” he drawls, the heat of his breath against the nape of your neck making a shiver run through you. “You’ll look upon yourself and name what you like. If you can list at least ten things, I’ll give you a reward of your choosing.”

“Yes, my lord,” you assent, already wondering how bold you can be with your prize.

“Let’s give it a go then, hmm? Untie your robe for me.”

Your trembling fingers hastily undo the knot at the front of the silken robe, resisting the temptation to look away when his deft fingers slide it off your shoulders. 

The sharp inhale from the man behind you and the twitch of his hardness pressing into your back does not go without your notice. 

You meet your own gaze, slowly acknowledging the sinful vision of golden chains and jewels artfully draped around your figure. The deep v neckline of the gathered, gossamer silk gown you wear above the layer of body jewelry splits over each leg high on the hip, teasing a preview of what it hides below. You’d never thought in your wildest dreams you’d wear anything that resembles this. It must be custom-made, the way that it brings attention to the right places, hiding the spots you feel insecure about.

A small smile forms at the corners of your mouth- whoever picked this out knows what they’re doing. 

And If you’re being honest? You’re a little turned on by how sexy you look. 

Your lord takes a deep inhale, as if he’s caught the scent of something addictive in the air. 

“Don’t keep a man waiting,” he leans in, rumbling the words inches away from your ear. “Tell me what you see.”

You start in safer, known waters at first. “I like my eyes, the makeup that the maids put on really brings out the color.”

“And my freckles, even though I used to get teased for them when I was a kid,” you add with defiance, squaring your shoulders, standing a little straighter. 

This pleases your lord, your heart beating a little faster when a smile graces his lips. 

Encouraged by this, you continue. 

“I like…how I look in the dress that’s been chosen for me,” you say, letting the words fall from your lips without a second thought before you have a chance to doubt yourself. “I like the way it shows off my cleavage, it makes me look like I have legs for days.”

“Indeed you do,” he breathes, your ears picking up the sound of fabric rustling behind you. “Go on then, what else?”

“It shows off my arms, which I’ve always liked,” you admit, proud of the strength you’ve built over the years. “And the curve of my calves.”

“And what of the curves that your dress disguises?” He asks, his voice a low, seductive purr. “Take it off.”

The command to fully reveal yourself is the key you need to unshackle the chains of shame that have held you back. You loosen the ties that keep the dress held in place, letting the fabric fall away from you, pooling on the ground at your feet. 

You have three more things to name but many more reveal themselves, a veritable galaxy of discoveries waiting to be called out. 

“I like how shapely my rear is,” you observe, your eyes widening in shock as you feel the warm, velveteen rod that pushes up against it in mutual appreciation. 

“As do I, but I’m quite certain you’re aware of that by now,” he laughs, his amusement giving way to a lusty groan as you feel his cock glide across the curves of your backside. 

You watch the rise and fall of your chest, admiring the shape of your nipples pebbled underneath the gold chains that frame them. You ponder how appropriate it is to mention until you spot him reaching into his coat pocket, opening up a small vial you suspect is lubricant. His kohl-lined eyes squeeze shut in relief as he empties the contents, begins working his arm up and down on his length. 

All decorum has officially left, flown out the window now that he strokes himself, giving you the courage to speak your musings out loud. 

“I like the shape of my nipples,” you declare boldly, a glint in the mirror catching your eye as you speak. 

Following the glimmer, your attention is drawn to the apex of your thighs, stealing your breath away. Your labia is swollen with desire, your cunt dripping clear, slick juices of arousal down your thighs. A whimper escapes from your throat as you see your clit twitch, the enlarged nub begging to be touched- worshiped by the man pleasuring himself from the sight of you- ALL of you. 

“I like how my…” your voice cracks and goes dry- Gods, are you really about to say this out loud? 

“I like how my…pussy looks, wet like this and ready for you, my lord.”

Strong arms grasp at you and whirl you around. He captures your jaw with his thumb and forefinger, forcing your chin up to look at him, to meet his burning ruby gaze.

“I have a suggestion for your reward,” he rasps, his body trembling as he speaks. “I’d like you to watch me lick that delightful cunt of yours clean and make you cum with my mouth and my fingers, and then watch you bounce on my cock in front of the mirror.”

He licks his lips, his eyes fixated on the wetness between your legs. “And by the looks of things, I’d say that's what you want as well.”

“Yes, my lord,” you admit breathlessly, “I can’t think of anything I’d like more.”

“Good.”

His lips mash yours in a hungry, open-mouthed kiss. His tongue thrusts itself forcefully between your lips, and when you submit to him, the sinful moans he sings into your mouth are the sweetest song you’ve ever heard.

A sharp object in his mouth catches the bottom half of your lips, creating a small cut that he noisily sucks at. He wrenches himself away and you whine from the loss of him, leaning forward into the space he previously occupied.

“Ahhh…delicious,” he groans obscenely before pushing you backwards onto a wide tufted bench centered in the mirror’s view, falling to his knees before you. He grasps on to your hips and drags you to the very edge, wrenching your thighs open. 

“One more thing, pet- I want to hear you call out my name when you cum.”

You nod with gusto in response. “Which is, my lord?”

He pauses to give you a rakish, dangerous smile before he leans down to taste you, devour you.

“Astarion.”

[queserasora]

LAW X FEM READER / NSFW (minors dni, don't make me say it twice) word count: 5.7k content warning: toxic relationship, situationship, law is kind of an ass in this but what's new, lot's of suggestive talk, vaginal penetration, oral (female receiving and male receiving), reader is obsessed with law and I do mean obsessed so read at your own risk, choking, several mentions of ejaculation (and what comes after so you know what I mean), biting, jealousy, knife play, drug use.

all you give me is a heart beat

Law feels your eyes on him not for the first time that day, and makes a pointed effort not to look at you. Surrounded by the rest of his crew, the last thing he wants to do is to cause misunderstandings. He knew later he’d find you in some corner of the submarine, marking check boxes on some form he had deemed necessary; anything to keep you busy enough from demanding answers from him.

It is true that perhaps he had made a mistake when he first kissed you in his office. You had melted under his attention, become pliable under his expert hands as he brought you to ecstasy right there on his work desk. Law hadn’t predicted your eyes to be shiny with expectation the following morning at the mess hall. It should have made him reconsider, instead, he asks you into his office again. And again. He continues to do this until there’s not a corner you’re unfamiliar with, until every book and wall knows the way you sound at orgasm, the faces you make when he buries his cock inside you.

Where he is difficult to hold, you are easy. You make no demands. You’re earnest as you wrap your warmth around him, when you breathe his name in a raspy tone against his ear. Goosebumps skitter down his back and away from him. It’s cowardice, he knows, that he continues to allow this but he is selfish, and your pussy is just way too good for him to give up.

There’s also a strange ‘something’ about you. 

He catches glimpses of it at a certain slant of light. He sees it in the thin line your plush mouth draws when Ikkaku settles close to him; the way you purse your lips and force a smile, a dimple hanging perilously from one cheek. It entices him, spurs him on to place a large hand on Ikkaku’s shoulder. Law leans forward. He smells Ikkaku’s shampoo as he whispers into her ear. His golden eyes are honed in  on your face, on your hand that picks up the silver steak knife. The glint of the blade as you bring it down on the table sparks a fire inside him.

That night he laughs at your fury as you ride him on his desk, your frigid fingers wrapped around his throat. His own inked fingers curl around your wrists and he squeezes until you flinch and let go. There’s laughter in his voice as he murmurs your name. You huff, hips moving, desperate for release while his thick cocks twitches inside your gummy walls. 

“That’s no way to treat your captain,” he says as he pries your hands away from his neck. His thumbs rub circles on the inside of your wrists. Your blood pulses underneath his touch, heartbeat tethered to the pads of his thumbs. He tries to control the smirk that stretches his bruised lips but it’s futile; a wasted effort. He kisses your fingertips, the center of your palms. He relishes in how this is all it takes to make your shoulders relax, how it was enough to bring your guard down.

He flips you over, your hot back hitting the wooden desk, and finds you immediately submissive. You spread your legs for him, inviting him to your dripping pussy. It is an offer he could never refuse; and how could he when you were practically begging him? It would be a disservice to your kindness. The least he could do was get on his knees. His hands are warm as he pushes your legs apart, shouldering his way towards your heated core. His breath is hot against your swollen nub as he leans closer. He takes in your scent as he opens his mouth to drag his large tongue over your slit. His licks are careful, measured; an inappropriate form of an apology.  The way your fingers grasp his hair is reminiscent of the way he sees you grasp at straws, at the invisible seams that hold whatever this is together. As he hears you moan even through the loud slurping noises he forgets all apprehensions. 

you’re hard to hug, tough to talk to

There was a sickness inside you, of this you were sure.

It was the only thing that could explain your senseless attachment to the one man who refused to be kept. At worst he was cold, a chill in the night, the kind that would make your limbs go numb and keep you up, sleepless and deranged. At best he held onto you with detached interest, a contradiction you tried to ignore by seeking his tongue past his treacherous lips.

There was a sickness inside of you, sure, but if that was true then perhaps there was one within him too.

When it was just the two of you alone, the world melted away. He’d let you find refuge in his lap as he sat at his desk, reading up on recent medical literature. You’d curl into him, bury your face in his neck seeking the slippery scent of intimacy. No matter how quick, or how deep your breath was, the taste never lingered on your tongue.

You tried to find it woven in the threads of Law’s bed sheets. You’d plaster your nose against his pillow, mouth open in desperation. You’d spread your fingers against the fabric of the pillowcase, feeling for any of his secrets you could keep.

He falls asleep with his arms around you, and you break free gently to watch the stillness of his face. You take in his brown skin, and run your fingertips over his exposed arms. Electricity seeps into your fingers, lighting up your being. 

Law seemed so vulnerable there, laying on his side, inky hair partially covering his tired face. He was completely unguarded, defenseless, absolutely at your mercy.

You could kill him if you wanted to. If you really wanted to.

You swoop in towards his bicep, run the tip of your nose from one forearm to his shoulder. The breath you take in is ragged, rattling in your chest as your mouth floods with saliva. Sea salt and ink takes over your senses. You feel him stir inside you, his essence burying itself within your cells. 

A need possesses you. You gently push against his shoulder to force him on his back. Stealthily you slither over his body to press your hands over his abdomen. You feel his hardened muscles under your palms as you slide them up and over his chest. His heart thumps underneath your hands. It beckons you closer. You press your ear to his chest, eyes fluttering close. 

At the sound of his heart beating you picture the blood that gives it life. You can see its journey red hued and electric in perfect detail in your mind. Goosebumps erupt on your skin and your toes curl, picturing the blood in Law’s veins, how it makes his body warm.

You feel it now, that warmth of his body that lulled you into a false sense of security. How could someone so beautiful be the source of both your anguish and content delirium? How could he sleep next to you, as innocent as a child, and tear your heart in two the next morning when he’d refuse to meet your gaze in front of others?

Heartless. He was heartless; he could be. 

You see yourself sinking your hands into the cavity of his flesh, parting sinew and bone with ease. You hear the crackling of ribs prickle your ears. You can almost taste iron in the air as you pluck it out, bring it up to Law’s horror. His mouth drops open and he screams and screams, unable to move, unable to do anything. 

His heart beats in your bloodied hands, his hot blood oozes down your forearms, souvenirs of the fight you claimed from him; of the things he stole from you a long time ago.

You blink to bring yourself to the present, to still see him slumbering beside you, unaware of the storm birthing inside of you.

It takes a moment to quiet your breathing, to match it to his. You drape his arms over you once more, cocoon yourself into the shape of him with one hand over his chest.

when we get undressed

He slots his lips against yours, hating his own timidness. It wasn’t inexperience that made his fingers tremble; the ones he buries in your hair in hopes of keeping this one secret from you. It was his own vulnerability that he fought against–the sudden and desperate need to kiss you past your breath. There’s a warmth that blooms treacherously in his chest; an invasive species of the trailing vine kind. He tears at it with his fingers, dirt burying itself under his nails in the form of your whimpering.

He silences you with kisses, forceful and clumsy. You gasp against his sudden hunger, and he consumes even that from you, leaving nothing to waste.

His tongue is slippery as he strokes your own, his hips rutting against your heated core at a slow pace. It’s torturous, the way he feels your wetness against his erection. Law has half a mind casting gentleness aside to slip inside you in one stroke but he perseveres, and captures your tongue for a slow and noisy suck. He waits for you to bury your fingers in his hair, to scrape his scalp with your long acrylics. He even waits for your plush thighs to wrap around his bony hips, to hear you mewl and beg for him before he succumbs.

It’s so easy to bury himself inside you. You’re soaking, slippery and hot, more than eager to receive him. The tightness of your pussy still surprises him no matter how many times he thrusts inside it. It’s a heaven on earth he feels almost undeserving of. Almost.

There’s a small smile that tugs on a corner of his lips, one that is languid and full of secrets. He slithers one hand up between your jiggling breasts, still slapping his hips against yours. His balls are loud against the wetness of your skin, the sound making you blush all over. Law continues to move his hand upwards at a slow pace, until his fingers stroke up your neck. He lifts it slightly, brushes the back of his knuckles against it before he sighs.

In a swift move, he squeezes your delicate neck between his fingers. You gasp and moan as he applies pressures to the sides of your neck. Your cunt twitches around his cock as he continues to thrust in and out of you. Your brown eyes, blown wide and unfocused, roll to the back of your head when he picks up the pace. Law can’t help but laugh, even as he represses a moan of his own.

“I’m close,” he tells you breathlessly, mouth hanging open. There’s a flush on his cheeks he ignores. He blames the horrible ventilation system on the submarine. Law makes a note to have someone fix that immediately. “I’m so close, doll,” he says, not letting go of your neck. “Tell me,” he commands. You hum, and he frowns down at you, unsure if you heard him. He squeezes your neck tighter for good measure. When you gasp and choke, gagging on a moan when he viciously slaps his hips against yours, he grits his teeth. “Where do you want me to cum on you?”

You don’t answer him. Law thinks perhaps you’re just not able to. His chuckles are dark, and gritty, sandpaper against your sensitive skin. He continues his vicious thrusts, touching the deepest part of you with the tip of his cock. He feels you tightening around him, and he knows before you cry out that you’re at the precipice. Your orgasm pulls out his own from within him, and he quickly slips out of you.

His hand grasps his slippery cock, to pump furiously. White cum spurts out of his tip, and lands on the heated skin of your belly.

Law sees your chest rise and fall, sees your swollen lips parted as you try to catch your breath. Your neck and breasts are littered with blooming bruises in the shape of his teeth. He tuts, almost ashamed. There’s a strange pull in his chest that he wishes to bury. He moves away from you slowly.

“Stay there,” he tells you, voice clipped. You blink up at the ceiling, arms spread wide on his bed as you lay on his back. The sight of your tits is too tempting, and while he is spent, he still leans forward to drop a few more kisses over the slope of each one. “Don’t move,” he mumbles against your skin, and nips at the skin before retreating into the bathroom.

When he returns, there’s a wet wash rag in his hand. His golden eyes take in the mess he made himself on your soft belly. There is precision in his work, he manages to clean you up quickly and efficiently, before he discards the wash rag in the waste bin. He’d take care of it later, for now, he wants to forget everything and hold you. He slides behind you as you curl on your side, and kisses your shoulders.

“Law,” you start, trying to look at him over your shoulder. Law tightens his arms around your waist. “I want to ask you–”

He shushes you quickly, and kisses the spot behind one ear. “Let’s talk in the morning. You should sleep now.” He ignores the way your body tenses at his tone. He ignores the way he feels your fingers tap nervously over his hands, fingers locked over your belly. He ignores the way your nails dig into his forearm when he doesn’t give you more attention.

He ignores this conversation you have tried to start several times before. Law continues to ignore you, and everything else, until he falls asleep.

That morning, Ikkaku is in the mess hall, chastising Penguin over the massive plate of stacked pancakes he was carrying. Law smiles at her expression, unable to ignore the scene. He walks over, long legs making breaching the distance a very easy task. 

“What’s the problem?” Law asks, reaching over Ikkaku’s shoulder for a plate. He watches with barely restrained humor, as she shrinks under his body. Her cheeks color. Law’s eyes light up at their brightness. “There should be enough pancakes for everyone.”

“Those are all the pancakes I made!” she argues back, as she tries to take a step backwards. Law immediately steps forward, reaching around her for prepackaged units of grape jam. “I’m not making more. It’s not like Penguin was on kitchen duty. He should show some consideration.”

“No more fighting,” he says offhandedly. While Law’s tone is flat, his eyes sparkle with hidden mirth. He glances sidelong at Ikkaku who hovers to the left of his elbow. Law grabs a piece of toast for his plate, and steals two pancakes from Penguin’s. He places them on Ikkaku’s plate and leans forward to whisper: “I stole these for you. Now smile. Smiling uses less muscles. Don’t you know?”

He reaches up as he pulls away, to flick Ikkaku’s forehead with nimble fingers. As Ikkaku rubs her forehead, cheeks turning a bright shade of pink, Law feels a pair of eyes on him. He knows, without even turning around, that it’s your presence he feels; suffocating, and interrogative.

He raises a brow in your direction, and smiles politely. You don’t return his gesture, instead you drop your breakfast, plate and cutlery and all into the wastebasket. Law watches you quietly as you leave without a word, a cold thrill shooting up his spine. He knows he should do better. He knows that he is far too old for games but he can’t help it. You bring the worst out of him. It was a poor excuse, but he clung to it as he seeks you out at random throughout the day. 

You don’t play along this time. Your look is impassive at best. Your responses are clipped, and you’re very good at making excuses–anything to keep yourself away from him. 

His ego tells him it’s jealousy. His ego, and his arrogance tell him that you’re doing it to yourself. It tells him he has done nothing wrong, that there is no need for him to seek you out as if he was apologizing, as if he was one to beg for scraps of your attention. Whatever power you think you are clutching in your little hands, he ignores. He tries to snatch it back by pretending there is nothing bothering him; that he doesn’t care when you refuse to touch him back when he slides his hand over the small of your back.

Law thinks he has you beat in the lab, when he leans down to brush his lips against yours, but you turn away from him. You tell him he’s interrupting your work, and that it is very dangerous to distract a woman who was working with volatile chemicals.

you don’t love me, big fucking deal

There’s only so much a girl can take. After all, even girls are still made of flesh and blood.

You’re not ignorant to his attempts at dark seduction. His words are honeyed and practiced. You’re slow to respond but you muddle through it, dragging your legs through the heaviness of it, clinging desperately to your convictions. 

There was no turning back now.

There was no point in regretting it.

You tell yourself this as you work quietly in the operating room, placing pairs of mosquito forceps, and tweezers into sterilization bags. You’re in the midst of labeling, when you hear feet dragging in your direction. It sickens you the way you identify the owner almost immediately. The bags are sealed, and you run your fingers over the edges of them repeatedly, anything to keep you busy. Your frown deepens when you feel Law move right behind you. His hands find the curves of your hips too easily. They rest there, as if they belonged nowhere else. There’s a tug at the pit of your stomach, one that shames you and makes you hot all at once.

You’re sick of the way you are weak against him. It’s almost painful the way you crave him–need him, desperately. It has only been a day but you feel yourself falling apart without him, his touch, his kisses, the feel of his cock moving inside you. When his breath tickles your ear, you shut your eyes briefly, seizing an unsanitized scalpel in one hand.

Your body leans back, finding his hardened body comforting. You’d do anything to make him yours. Anything at all. You’d do anything to keep him there, tethered to your skin, almost as if one single body.

“What are you doing?” he asks against your ear. Law’s large hands travel the length of your arms, down your forearms. He grasps your wrists, but you don’t let go of the scalpel. Your hand shakes, as your knuckles whiten. “That can wait, can’t it?”

You blink, trying to sort your thoughts. Before you can help yourself, you wiggle your hips, rubbing your round ass against his crotch. Law doesn’t move away from you. In fact, he folds over you even closer, trapping you within his tall and lanky frame.

“Now, now,” he whispers before nipping at the top of one ear. You shudder against him, eyes fluttering close. He lets go of one wrist to bring it up to your neck. He squeezes gently, before slipping his hand further up to grasp your chin. Law tilts your face up to look at him. At the sudden press of his hips against your backside, your eyes fly open. You watch the image of him, upside down–his moistened lips, the dark lidded gaze to his eyes. “You shouldn’t be moving like that with a knife in your hand. It’s dangerous. This is an operating room. You’re supposed to be a professional.”

You laugh, thrilled at the prospect of charming him. It was always like this–a push and pull of dark tides, a barely moonlit ocean where the perils of the depth were too obscure and distant to predict. Still, you rise up among the waves, challenge him by spinning in his arms. His head jerks immediately at the glint of the light on the blade. Law’s breathing is erratic. There is a pink tint to his cheeks, as you bring the scalpel closer to his neck.

“I am always a professional, Captain” you tell him with pursed lips. Law’s adam’s apple bobbles as he swallows. His gaze is trained on your face. His dark lashes fan over his cheekbones, full of promises if only you could get him to commit. “Now, why don’t you be a good patient and get on that table for me, hmm?” 

Law hesitates. His eyes are cast down over his long nose, as if he was weighing his options. You press your lips together, and the scalpel against his skin. A tiny bead of red blooms over the skin of his neck. You almost miss the wrinkle of his nose–the tiny tell-tale sign of his discomfort, but as you press your body against his, you feel his erection against your belly. The hardness of it pressed against the soft rolls of your belly is enough incentive to throw away all doubts.

“Are you going to get on the table, or do I have to strap you down to it? What’s it gonna take?”

Your full lips pull into a crooked grin. Law swallows saliva. His mouth waters at the sight of you, your brown skin glowing under the fluorescent lights, the way the halo of the light bulbs lingers on your dark irises. They’re sirens pulling him towards the sea. He feels his body react to you. Desires touch their fiery fingers to every nerve, singing away his common sense. Finally, he obeys, as he walks backwards away from you and towards the table.

You follow him, his eyes never leaving you, as he slowly undoes the remaining buttons of his shirt. You chuckle softly, and tilt your head, scalpel still in one hand as you continue to approach him. Law stops when his ass collides with the edge of the operating table. You advance towards him without giving him room to think or breathe. Your free hand slides over his exposed belly, long acrylics scratching his skin lightly as you drag your nails up to his chest. Law hisses, goosebumps scattering across his skin.

Law knows it’s a dangerous gamble–to push you the way he wants to while you hold a blade, but he finds his hand reaching out for you. He buries his fingers in your curls, and pulls you forward towards his mouth. His lips collide with yours roughly, a bit too much teeth and spit, but you swallow it up, drink it all as if starving. His facial hair is ticklish against your jaw as he kisses up to your ear. His teeth tug at your earlobe, and you almost drop the scalpel. His free hand–the one not keeping you close to him by your hair–roughly grabs a breast.

A part of you threatens to fall apart. You want to slice at your own clothes, to perforate your own skin, and make room for him to slip inside–to stay there forever, as a part of you. You moan against his mouth, his tongue stroking the roof of your mouth before it swirls around your tongue. As you break away from the kiss, you gasp, your free hand pushing his chest so he can lay down on the table. You straddle him quickly, blade still in one hand. Carefully, you drag the blade over his skin, lightly so as not to cut him.

Law breathes harshly, and shudders as the cold metal runs its course down the middle of his chest. You stop the point at the edge of his jeans, carefully stroking the dark hairs of his happy trail with the point of the scalpel.

“What are you planning on?” he asks you, as you lose interest in the thick dark hairs. You hum contemplatively, and drag the scalpel further down. You follow the path of the zipper of his jeans, and trace the shape of the imprint of his hardened cock as you straddle his thighs. Law swallows, enjoying the weight of you over his legs, trapping him underneath you. He is ashamed at how the danger of the blade over his denim covered erection makes him feel as his cock is twitching for more.

“I’m not planning anything,” you say quietly, giving in to the way your mouth waters. You undo the button expertly with one hand, and pull down the zipper, slowly pulling out his cock through the hole of his boxer briefs. “As long as you behave.”

Law laughs, even as you grip the tip of his cock with one hand. You stroke the glistening drop of precum on his tip, and smear it down with one thumb. Law swallows a moan, as his back arches slightly off the table. 

“You make it sound like you’re in charge. Aren’t you getting the wrong idea?” he asks you, reaching for one of your breasts. There is a look that you toss his way that he isn’t sure if he imagined; equal parts impassive and murderous. Law ignores it, as he tends to do, and slips a hand under your shirt, seeking the softness of your skin. His calloused thumb against your erect nipple, makes the coil under your belly tighten. You move your hips slowly, feeling your panties moisten with your arousal.

“I think I have the right idea,” you tell him, before biting your lip. When he pinches your nipple between index finger and thumb,  you try to swallow the moan that follows. “I have the perfect idea, really.”

In an effort to gain control, you lean down, and swirl your fleshy tongue around the mushroom head of his cock. Law groans, and throws his head back on the operating table with a thud. You hollow your cheeks, and take him into your mouth, allowing the thickness of him to take up space inside. You bob your head up and down, eyes closing at the salty taste of his skin, at the slight musky scent of his pubic hair. 

You slurp around his length noisily, your own drool sliding slowly down your chin. Law’s fingers find your curls again, and he tugs at them roughly. It doesn’t take long before he’s snapping his hips, fucking up into your mouth. Your eyes water when the tip of his cock hits the back of your throat. You fight your own gag reflex by digging your nails into one of his bony hips. When he ignores your warning, and grips your hair harder, you nip at his other hip with the tip of the blade.

You hear him cuss under his breath as you pull away from his cock, gasping for air. The image of him sprawled under you is blurry as tears spill out of your eyes. You wipe at them haphazardly, trying to clear your vision. There’s a small drop of blood that loses its way down the sharp angles of his hip. 

“You could have just used your words,” he reprimands you breathlessly. You laugh sardonically, grabbing his still erect penis with your free hand. You grip the base and slowly squeeze your way up, taking in the way his jaw tenses, how his mouth drops open a second after you squeeze the tip.

“Kinda hard to do when you’re trying to shove your dick down my throat,”  you respond. He laughs and watches you adjust yourself above him, how you lean on your knees on the table, to move your lab coat aside. Your hand snakes into your skirt, and you push your panties aside. Law grits his teeth as you grip his cock to guide him to your entrance. “You should try putting it in here instead,” you murmur, as you lower yourself on his cock. It takes  a brief moment to adjust to his girth. You move your hips slowly at first, testing the waters, absorbing every expression on Law’s face.

You slide one hand over his belly and stop in the middle of his chest. You use it to keep balance, and to steady yourself as you increase your pace. The pressure builds inside you with every snap of your hips, you follow it towards the edge as your mouth drops open, small moans echoing in the stillness of the operating room. Your slick coats his lower pelvis, making it a slippery effort to stay on rhythm. You drop the scalpel. Law flinches as he hears it clatter on the ground. Your hands go to his chest for support, as you bring yourself up to your haunches and bounce on his dick.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you think you should be ashamed at the sounds you are making. Your cries sound impossibly loud to your own ears. You had spent days ignoring him, trying to act like you didn’t need him, and here you were, willing to ride him until your knees gave out. Law moans softly as he palms your ass. He grabs fistfuls as he plants his feet on the operating table. Law grunts as he lifts his hips, toppling your forward over him. You cry out, feeling him push deeper in your throbbing pussy. 

“What?” he laughs against your cheek. He brushes his lips against the burning flush on them. “Not there? You told me to put it in,” as he finishes his words, he thrusts his hips upwards, repeatedly fucking up into you. His balls slap against your dimpled ass, slightly coated by your own arousal. The wet smacking sounds somehow makes your arousal all the more intense. He fucks you without an ounce of affection, as if he didn’t care if you broke. You cry out as your orgasm nears, and wrap both your hands around his neck.

His hand is in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your neck, as pleasure ripples throughout your body. The fluorescent lights blind you, filling your vision with white as you cum. Law loses his hold to wrap his long arms around your waist. He pulls you close as he mumbles confessions against the column of your neck. You’re squeezing around his cock so tight he thinks he might die. He tries to tell you this–how close he is to his own undoing when he feels a pinch on his neck.

Panic seizes him, he tries to push you off of him as his vision blurs. He clamps a hand over his neck, cursing under his breath.

“What–have you…done?” he slurs, as he watches you sit above him, a blurred image of some kind of syringe in your hand. His vision doubles–triples, and he grows nauseous at the sight of multiple of you. 

“Calm down,” he hears you say in an impatient tone. “It’s not like I hurt you or anything.”

Anger threatens to choke him. He feels it bubble up, feels its origins start at the base of his stomach. Law tries to cry out, to curse your name once, ten times, thousands of times, but the weight of his body is too big for him to fight against. 

Darkness comes, as it does for everyone.

And in the darkness, he wakes up again. Law feels his eyes open, he senses his hearing returning. He can smell the seawater, and hear it dripping gently on metal. He blinks in hopes of shaking off the film over his eyes–but he still can’t see anything. He tries to move and hears the clanking of chains, he doesn’t get far as it drags him back to the wall it is attached to. He fumbles in the dark, seizing whatever is wrapped around his neck, the cold metal around his fingers tells him there’s nowhere to go; made of sea stone he is held prisoner. There are cuffs around his ankles and wrists; one around his neck.

A chill touches his exposed skin, as his eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, Law realizes he is in nothing but his underwear. Shame and anger makes his mouth water. He screams out, but it sounds garbled to his ears. As he tries again, his body sore and sluggish, he hears your footsteps.

“Y/N!” he groans, trying to lunge for you. The chains pull him back to the wall, and the metal cuff around his neck gags him. 

You squat in front of him, a knife in your hand. His vision blurs, even as he fights the drugs.

“Stop this,” he whines, unable to feel embarrassment at the weakness in his voice. “Just let me go.”

“Let you go?” you ask him, eyes wide. Your brows arch high over your forehead. Your lips, the ones that had always tempted him to kiss you, are like knives he’s cut himself open on by mistake. They stretch into a smile so sinister Law swears his insides have been torn apart. “Never!” you hiss quietly, as you swoop towards his face. Law flinches as you grasp his face with one hand. You bring up the knife, and trace the sharp line of his jaw with the tip of it. “I’ll never set you free. You’re mine now, always, until forever, and then after.”

[daryascurse]

𓆩♡𓆪 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭ο𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲 / 𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐤ἰ𝐧𝐠

02: Levi Ackerman x Reader

“Do it,” you whisper again, and Levi’s hand constricts at your throat. You can barely register the sensation. You can feel your palms flatten on the mattress and freeze. The side of his thumb, spread wide across your throat, pushes, and you choke on the slip of air that escapes. “Does it hurt?"

⟡ reader: POV second person, AFAB, nongendered pronouns, content compliant w/ implications of scout life ⟡ content: break-their-heart-to-save-them trope; kinda maso-reader vibes; angst; chokἰng; implied interrupted oral; fingering; rough sεx, semipublic ⟡ wordcount: ~2.4k ⟡ ao3 link ⟡ playlist

ɴꜱꜰᴡ ᴍᴅɴɪ. I have a very strict adult-only interaction policy. Ageless, blank, and clearly minor-run blogs that interact will be blocked. If you have questions about what that means, please read the byf in my pinned post.

Additionally, this fic is a FIC. If you are interested in this irl, DO RESEARCH, AND GET AFFIRMATIVE, ENTHUSIASTIC, AND ONGOING CONSENT. NOTHING here is meant to be instructive in any way. Be responsible.

Eyes like ice, like glass, stare down at you through the silky curtain of his eyelashes. In this moment everything is still.

“I can’t be with you,” his last words, hang in the stale air of the room like a ghost.

Neither of you speak because there’s nothing to be said. Everything is deathly still as Levi Ackerman shudders over you, as if he’s the getting left behind and discarded.

It had burst out of nowhere, as your clothes were shed and limbs started to tangle together on the bed. Your knee was crossed up over his thigh, Levi’s slender fingers ghosting over your ribs as he kissed his way down your stomach. He had let his hand expand, running over all of you on his way between your parted thighs. His tongue started working to part you, opening you to the cool air of this little basement hideaway. You were already beginning to moan his name, and when he opened his mouth for a kiss, it pulled a gasp so loud from your lungs that he jerked his head up in alarm. You let out a light whimpering “sorry,” but he sat up at that. Levi was panting as he pushed his hair away from his forehead, streaks of ink being swiped back. And when he did, you saw it clearly with another “oh” – the fresh bandage stretched tight in an angry slash over his bicep muscle.

“It’s okay,” Levi said when he saw where your gaze fall, the clouds of lust drifting away from your eyes, the knit of your forehead as your brows began to pull together.

Of course he’s okay. To him, this is just another wound to heal into a harsh scar silvering his skin. To you, it’s a natural reason to worry. And Levi knows that. He usually lets you air kiss over the stitches, change his bandages, barely winces at a bruise or a sprain and fucks you easily over the table without thought. But something was different in his expression as he stared at your shock.

He hesitated, and instead of lowering himself back between your legs, he knelt over you, bringing your chin between his thumb and forefinger in a gentle hold.

This is where the painful words came.

“I make you worry too much. I wanted to talk about this later. We can talk about it later. But I can’t be with you anymore. I can’t make you hurt, make you worry. I can’t be with you.”

“I love you,” your only response.

Levi is crouching over you, his knees against the side of your thighs, the cut of his jaw sharp and clenched. One hand is palmed at your thigh, pulling your hips down and flush against the mattress. The other has moved down, spread over your neck. He caresses at your throat, the pad of his thumb rolling in uneasy, slow strokes. You swallow. The pressure of his hold is light but noticeable in a way that makes you want to swallow again.

And Levi’s grey visage is unreadable.

You press your lips together, release them.

“Why?” Levi says. His voice is tight and cold.

“Why?”

Your throat hums against the side of his thumb, and he strokes it again.

“Why do you say that?” Levi asks, and he leans down, shoulders hunched like a predatory animal as his face comes inches from your face. “You’re not stupid. I know you’re not. You didn’t choose this, the Scout life, the way I live. You don’t need it to hurt you.”

Leaving me out of your life is what hurts. That’s what you want to say.

“You don’t hurt me,” you say softly.

The corners of Levi’s eyes tense. “I could.”

And I don’t want to do that hangs in the breaths between you.

“I could hurt you. I don’t want to.”

“Do it,” you say.

The hand at your hip is moving again, the heel of his palm hard at the soft flesh under your belly, and Levi’s fingers open when his wrist turns. His middle finger comes teasing at your folds, already warm, glistening with the first tastes and touches. He spreads his fingers, rubbing at you, and your hips twitch and turn with the muscles of your inner thighs beginning to clench at the friction.

“Do it,” you whisper again, and Levi’s hand constricts at your throat.

You can barely register the sensation. You can feel your palms flatten on the mattress and freeze. The side of his thumb, spread wide across your windpipe, pushes, and you choke on the slip of air that escapes.

“Does it hurt?”

You can’t nod, you can barely widen your eyes. Levi’s fingers have hooked into you, two, maybe three. You can’t make out the details. You just know something curled up into you is pressing, plunging higher and higher but nothing high enough. They flutter into your cunt and beat at teasingly soft places, and then they fold and concentrate that touch somewhere else – but again, not enough, not hard or long enough before they stretch up again. You’re getting wet, pooling across Levi’s fingers as he fucks you shallowly with them.

“Your legs are shaking,” Levi says in a cracked, low voice, and it feels like his thumb rubs against your clit now in fat half-circles.

But you’re starting to go numb, pinpricks of feeling rippling across your body. Your knees are jerking as much as they can, and above you, Levi’s teeth form in a grit as he nudges between your legs to spread them.

“Oh,” you get out, slurring the sound against the trap of his hand.

The pressure releases a moment. The need to cough is most urgent, and you inhale, strangling on the air as it comes in. You cough, and Levi lets go. You rub at your neck, but Levi’s looking down, at the curl of his fingers pulling out of you. The blood rush makes you feel hot, puffy, and you whimper.

“Does it hurt?” Levi asks again.

And you say, “no,” unsure if it’s a lie as your thighs tense, urging to rub together, to grind down into the mattress or back up to his touch.

Levi’s fisting his cock, the offending hand at your throat soft now on your inner thigh to coax your legs down and relaxed once more.

“Ah – ah – ”

His cock traces at your entrance and then presses in.

“Oh –!”

You reach for him, anxious to grab at Levi, but his hand sweeps away from your thigh to snatch your wrists in his hold. The precision is clinical, expert. It almost takes your fragile breath away, and you whimper at the back of your throat.

Levi tightens his fist, raising your arms in an ache to pin them over your head at the pillow as he leans forward. His hips snap down and the push of him all the way in you is agonizing. Every teasing push and gesture of his fingers has made your walls so tender, aching at the swell he forces through you.

“Fuck.”

“It’s so – ”

“You feel so good.”

Your next whimpering response dies on your lips and your eyes roll, up to the shag of his hair falling onto your face as he leans down, over you again. The grip on your wrists slacks, slides, holding only one now as his fingers spread and hook to catch the other. You shift your hips, Levi’s legs crossed over you, and moan again as you try to shift your hips up to meet him.

“Keep them up there,” Levi says, his voice a harsh groan.

“H-h-what?”

“Don’t move your hands.”

Levi’s hand leaves your wrists free, and you feel the loose fists your fingers curl and form. You nod in agreement, or maybe just let your body shift with the force of Levi fucking into you. He turns his head, the slope of his nose sharp in the light, and you tilt your chin to kiss him. His lips sink into yours. Your tongue slides between his teeth, and when you withdraw it, he catches your lower lip in a gentle bite.

“Ah,” you spill into his mouth, and his hand wraps around your throat again.

Your mouth is still open when Levi lifts his neck, looking down at you with eyes of stone. Weak remnants of air move from you with each thrust Levi makes into your body, and your moaning sounds come faint. You’re barely whimpering and it’s senseless.

The side of his hand pushes up, just under your chin, and it keeps your head back and eyes straight up at him. The pressure at the side of your gaze begins to beat.

“Oh,” you say in a slur.

Levi keeps his fingers from locking a dangerous grip at your throat, but it’s strong enough to push static into every extremity and make you run wet between your thighs as he pushes you down. He fucks you deep, and either it feels deeper, or he’s losing control, losing his gentleness. Everything seems to melt and pool together.

Your vision goes black at the edges. The features of Levi’s straining face above you face when his fingers flex and tighten again. Your own fingers flutter weakly.

But you can hear Levi, can feel him even when your eyes roll back again and again, when he lowers his face to lean to the side of your own. He’s panting, moaning against the shell of your ear, as his thighs move frantically against yours.

“You want to be mine? You want me to hold you down - like this – hurt you, like this?”

You struggle out a garbled, choking whine. Levi’s cock is rubbing, pushing right there, at every sweet, aching spot. He’s filling you, and his hand on your throat keeps you close to bursting.

It hurts, and it feels so lovely, so good.

You love it.

Levi’s hand is a vice against your neck, getting tighter and tighter and tighter. Your head is spinning. Your heart is stopped one second; beating with a hummingbird’s fury the next. Any cry you could muster wheezes into nothingness and dies in the cave of your mouth. The darkness creeping at the corners of your vision could be Levi’s hair moving with each furious thrust he makes in and out of you, or it could be the threatening abyss of unconsciousness.

He’s hissing and groaning, in words you can’t make out anymore.

Of course Levi is strong. Of course you’ve known this, as everyone’s known this. But you can’t think of it, can’t connect the dots, with his fingers curled around your neck and the endless thrust of his cock beating against your cervix with a force threatening to bruise. Your body is jerking with him, your hands obediently high over your head, but only because you lack any strength to move them anywhere else.

“I love you, too.”

And there, Levi’s voice cuts through the cloud with the clarity and sharpness of steel blades. Your eyes are rolling, in a direction you can’t even discern, but there, you find his eyes -and his gaze is nothing frozen, nothing cold after all. The grey is soft, bright, like the wings of doves against the sunlight. The grey is glowing, glistening, shining. You’re in its warmth.

You stutter out a pathetic cry.

Levi lets go.

The tension in your chest is painful and you gasp, lungs swelling, saliva stringing off your tongue as you pull at the air for breath. As you get an inhale in, Levi’s hips slam and then push, right into you, just at the right way. The acceleration of feeling rushes through you, your blood so hot and so cold at the same time, and your exhausted body comes to a cresting wave.

“Le – vi … I’m coming, I’m coming -”

Your voice is raw and hoarse, but the snapping inside of you has already broken, everything already rushing and flooded free. The muscles of your walls tighten around Levi and he’s the one choking on a groan.

“Fuck, fuck.”

You gasp with him, pitched, broken. Levi groans, and comes, so hot and hard inside you that your muscles milk it out of him with each jolt, so fervent that another, smaller orgasm erupts in you at the sense of his warmth trapped at the friction of your slick. Levi’s shuddering, you’re shivering.

The curl of his fingers edges away, and Levi sits up before pulling out of you.

“Are you okay?” he asks after a moment.

You’re falling still, pressed into the bed as if for fear it could burst and give way. Your neck is throbbing, your head is beating. The urge to cough is still wild and you give into it a few times.

“Was that too much?” Levi asks again, and his voice has a steel to it.

You barely can look at him, forcing your abdomen to curl and bring your head and arms down instead of bending your neck. It’s easier to shift like this.

He’s kneeling on the bed, his face flushed furiously, thighs slick with the both of you. And his eyes are iron again, those walls back up as he gauges the situation.

“I’m fine,” you say. Your voice is too thin and shaky to even sound like you. You clear your throat – and it hurts – and try again. “I don’t need medics or, or anything like that.”

Levi nods, and looks away. He balls his fingers into fists.

“I meant it,” he says. “What I said. We can’t see each other anymore.”

You don’t say anything.

“This life isn’t for you. It’s going to hurt you.”

Again, the unspoken words hang in the air – and I don’t want to hurt you.

You extend your arm, watching the movement across the mattress. Your fingers tap the back of Levi’s hand, and after a moment, he opens it. His palm is red, angry with the bite of his fingernails.

You stroke your thumb across the marks. “I can take a little pain.”

Levi turns his head, looks down at the motion, and you get the words out:

“I can, if it comes from you.”

[toonafeesh]

$5 Minimum Donation - Baihe & Danmei edition

These are baihe (FGEP, JWQS) and danmei (svsss, mdzs, tgcf) merch I am giving away in exchange for a minimum of $5 donated to a Palestinian or Sudanese fundraiser! Please see this post with more details if you’re interested in anything.

For the other $5 merch check HERE!

1x JWQS sticker sheet - one has a small crinkle in the middle, the other is slightly misaligned

5x FGEP misaligned sticker sheets - as shown in the third image

4x FGEP regular sticker sheets

1x FGEP Gold Foil Washi Stamp (new, still in packaging)

2x Nangong Jingnu wooden charms - one already assembled, one isn't

3x Qi Yan wooden charms - none are assembled

For the wooden charms I can send them with the unassembled parts: 1 yellow, 1 red and 3 blue (without the tassel part). Just let me know if you want them with the tassels or not!

The above are all wooden charms!

1x Liu Qingge (no keyring but I can find one for you)

Hualian

Jiang Cheng & Jin Ling

Wei Wuxian

Wen Ning

Hualian Shrine

Quanyin charm

Ling Wen candy charm

Shi Qingxuan candy charm

He Xuan candy charm

He Xuan button

Ming Yi stamp (comes with ink pad)

Jin Ling plushie charm

Lan Jingyi plushie charm

Double sided shuangxuan/beefleaf pillow charm

Xie Lian manjuu

Gengar enamel pin (not mxtx but he's there anyway)

Bunny hard enamel pin

Dianxia enamel pin

Xian Le trio heart button

Jiang Yanli/WWX/JC heart button

Jiang Cheng & Nie Huaisang charm

MDZS kids heart charm

Yi City charm

MDZS kids & Wen Ning charm

Wangxian charm

Wangxian linked charm

Liushen charm

Moshang charm

Hualian charm (heart clasp)

Hualian lantern charm

Hualian charm (star clasp)

Silver foil butterfly Hualian charm

Silver foil calligraphy Hualian charm

Hua chongus charm

Long Weasel charm

Hualian photo charm

F!Shuangxuan/beefleaf charm

Shuangxuan button shaped charm

Shuangxuan star shaker (clasp broke off)

Shuangxuan tangyuan charm

Yinyu/Huacheng/Mingyi charm

Shuangxuan acrylic shaker charm (lobster clasp but it's hidden in the photo)

Shuangxuan (heart hands) charm

SQX flower charm

Ming Yi flower charm

Shuangxuan falling charm

Double sided chibi SQX/MY charm

Shuangxuan wedding charm

Shangxuan cup charm

Shuangxuan table charm

Shuangxuan heart (green) charm

Double sided Shuangxuan charm

Shuangxuan charm

Shuangxuan window backdrop charm

F!Mingyi holo star charm

F!SQX holo star charm

Silver foil stars shuangxuan charm

Fan charm

He Xuan in bowl charm

He Xuan & sea bunnies tassel charm

He Xuan brown tassel charm

Yin yu holo charm

Mingyi holo charm

SQX holo charm

[floofysmallbob]

spent the whole day at the airport and nearly forgot this

I did something different, and decided to sketch this traditionally(I’m better at sketching on paper) and then trace and color it digitally!(I’m less afraid and better at coloring/inking(if I even do ink) online), so hopefully it looks okay

so while I’m doubting my French skills like shit have a redesign of Invisible Hero: Prism

reference photo is an edit of official art, it’s edited by @m0chicakes

sorry if I accidentally tagged you and you didn’t wanna be tagged

but the official art has her in her canon costume(aka naked and barely covered) so I used an edit, just for the skin and hair reference

she’s not that pale I just have it on low opacity

low ponytail

I’ve seen a lot of ‘oh her clothes are made out of her DNA’ but I’ve got some problems with that

wouldn’t her dna be invisible too? How are you supposed to work with that?

so instead, her clothing uses spectral cloaking! I’m not quite sure how developed it is in real life, but mha is futuristic, so it would probably be a thing!

she can also disable it with her quirk

everything can turn invisible unless otherwise stated

gloves aren’t invisible, they go into the bag on her hip when she’s not wearing them

reinforced knuckles

the bag functions essentially the same way it works when she eats, once it’s in the bag it’s not longer visible

boots don’t have a pattern on the shoe for stealth purposes

knee/shoulder/elbow pads are made of faux glass

it’s essentially the same and has the sturdy properties without the fragility

LED mask

lights up to show different faces for optimal communication

oh I should shut up

COLD WEATHER VERSION:

lined turtleneck

fuzzy!

longer, lined gloves

darker palms

cloak! (silver)

get it it’s an invisiblity cloak

taller boots

longer, thicker leggings

HOT WEATHER VERSION:

you can really see how pale she looks with the low opacity

tank top

biker shorts(I think that’s what they’re called)

slightly shorter, thinner gloves

shoulder pads are separate instead of attached to the shirt

Oh wow this is long

as always, tips and advice are appreciated!

[curiositydooropened]

Late Checkout • Teaser

The cursor blinked.

A writing retreat at an exclusive 5-star ski resort. A New Years Eve party in the moody lodge bar. A handsome heir. A bratty bad boy. A snowstorm blocking every guest from the outside world.

Pairing: Rich!Steve Harrington x Writer!Reader, Eddie Munson x Writer!Reader

Wordcount: 1328

Warnings and Tags: Modern AU, femme!reader, strangers to lovers, angst, smut, voyeurism, fantasizing, longing, isolation, snowstorm, skiing, writer's block, murder, blood, gore, recreational drug and alcohol use. This is an 18+ blog, minor DNI please and thank you. Please check chapters for further warnings.

Navigation • Masterlist

Fic Masterlist • Moodboard

---

Your thoughts drifted back out to the veranda. Sun poured over the mountain side and bounced off stark white snow. Golden rays cast down and carded through his chestnut hair. Your fingers ached. 

He tilted his face into it, eyes closed, lashes fluttering freckled cheeks, ecstasy evident as his features softened.

You licked your bottom lip. 

The woman with him reached for his cheek and procured an eyelash, holding her finger skyward. 

His eyes opened, amber and honey. A smile pulled at the corners of his pink lips before he pursed them to blow. His cheeks puffed up and hollowed, dotted with freckles, bone structure immaculate. Wish sufficiently made, his face lit in amusement, brows raised.

What did man like him wish for? He had the money, the looks. You hadn’t seen his car in the lot, but you were sure it was as luxuriously as the parka stretched over broad shoulders. The woman by his side was stunning, a Scandinavian supermodel with legs and curves for days.

So what was it then?

He swirled his glass in an ungloved hand, tips of his fingers reddening as he brought the amber liquid to his pink lips for a drink. What did a man with mid-afternoon Scotch wish for? Maybe he wished to bag a new account at the firm. Maybe he wished for his offer to go through for that rental on the Cape. Maybe he wished for his secretary to wear that YSL skirt again, with those pantyhose he could tear off with his perfect teeth.

You sputtered a cough, accidentally inhaling some of the saliva filling your mouth. Face warm, you mopped at the corners of your lips with a sweater cuff.

At your bistro table, your laptop screen had gone to stand-by. With a sigh, you clicked the track pad until the screen revived. On the blank page, the cursor blinked.

“You done with your coffee?” A busgirl approached, cheeks pinched pink and a smile across freckled features.

“Oh,” you handed her your mug and saucer. “Thank you.” 

“Sure,” she nodded, and you were surprised when she leaned in. She smelled of espresso and vanilla. “Hey, this guy in the corner? The cute one with the man bun and the leather jacket? He paid me a really big tip to give you this,” she slipped a drink napkin in front of you. 

Beneath the lodge’s bright orange logo were chicken scratched letters in black ink. 

I hope the novel you’re working on has a better ending. 

“He also offered to buy you another drink,” the barista informed, taking in your reaction with wide eyes. “But if you’re totally disgusted, I will be more than happy to call security and get his ass escorted right out of here.”

You snorted and glanced over your laptop at the far corner of the room. Your Critic from the previous day sat in his same corner, long limbs draped over the sides of the furniture like he he lived there. Slender hands folded the spine of a new novel, decorated in silver rings. His curls were pulled up into a loose bun, exposing a prominent widow’s peak, and a playful smile pulled at the corners of plump lips. 

“You don’t need to kick him out,” you smiled, crumpling the napkin into your discarded mug in her hand. The last drops of coffee soaked into the paper. “But tell you what. Why don’t you and your coworker buy yourself lunch on his dime? I’ll double his tip.” 

“You got yourself a deal,” she flashed a grin and made her way back behind the counter. 

You went about closing your laptop and packing your things into your bag, avoiding the gaze on you from across the room. Zipper zipped, you schlepped the bag over one shoulder, adjusting your sweater beneath the strap. Your table was cleared, save the pen you capped. When you finally looked up to leave the little cafe, you found yourself leveled under a honeyed stare.

Mr. Harrington, the handsome stranger on the veranda, had noticed you through the window. Well that, or the windows were tinted enough to capture his attention, and judging by the darkening of his eyes and the soft smile etching itself onto the corners of his perfect lips, he enjoyed his own reflection. He waved, almost imperceptibly, and mouthed a hello. 

You smiled and nodded. 

Then, the women he brought with him came into view, all freckles and blue eyes, stunning, full lips. 

You turned on your heel and left before you had a chance to wither under her scrutiny, staring at the orange and cream hexagonal tile as you walked through the threshold and back into the lobby. 

“Hey,” another voice startled you, impossibly close, the sting of cigarette smoke mixing with espresso in the air. 

“So the last book inspired you after all.” You sighed, halting before a head-on collision with a family of seven. 

“What?” Your critic crashed into you, capturing your shoulders in large hands to stop you both from barreling into the last set of twins. 

You huffed him off with a shrug. “The Vanishing was about a stalker.” 

“Oh,” he flashed that charming grin of his, scratching at the stubble on his jaw. “How do I know you aren’t stalking me?”

You snorted and swept past the convenient store, the pro shop, narrowly avoided a sled dog near the exit to the veranda. “Don’t flatter yourself.” 

Your stalker barked a laugh and managed to trail you past the bar and ballrooms and into the back hallway. “Alright, sweetheart, you caught me. I’ve been following you for weeks.”

You stopped in front of the resort gym. Two middle aged women chatted on ellipticals in matching leggings. “What?”

He didn’t seem like the usual incel fan of yours. They were less clean, less put-together. The ones who managed to weasel your real name and location through hours of research on the dark web usually showed up to a local coffee shop and sent a text message to your laptop from a restricted number. 

This guy had a charcoal sweater made of cashmere and designer cologne. His jacket smelled of real leather. You spotted the glint of a silver watch beneath one sleeve. 

The Cheshire Cat grin fell from his face when your reaction sunk in, and he shook his head, eyes going wide. “I’m totally kidding. That’s probably creepy and terrifying, I’m sorry. I promise I’m not stalking you. I don’t even know your name.” 

Instead of offering it, you turned and headed back down the hall. 

“Hey, okay. My name’s Eddie,” he scrambled to catch up, all the bells and whistles jangling on his leather jacket, “and if you want me to leave you alone, I swear I will. But if you’d be at all interested in letting me buy you a drink tonight, can you let me know? Because I’m scaring the spa receptionists.”

You glanced at the two girls behind the nearest desk. They giggled behind their hands. 

“I’m sorry I insulted your favorite book.” Eddie’s voice softened.

With a sigh, you tucked yourself into a nearby alcove. “It’s not my favorite.” You’d published a handful of others you liked better, all of them less popular.

“Well what is your favorite?” The smile slid itself back onto his features. He remained a few paces away, giving you a respectable amount of space.

You weighed your options. You’d planned evening room service and sweatpants and drafting, endless drafting. Or, you could let someone else pay for your martini, and maybe his refreshing (albeit rude) perspective on your library of work could spark some much needed inspiration.

“I’ll tell you over drinks tonight.” 

“8 o’clock?”

Your stomach flipped at the proud look on his face, and you nodded. 

“See you then, princess.” He bowed so low his bun flopped, and he backed out of the alcove, wagging fingers at the giggling spa receptionists. He whistled as he left.

[sailtomarina]

I don't like it

Hermione could feel the burn of his stare in her back from the moment she’d sat down. How that could be true despite several rows of students between them as they all practiced their tortoise to trumpet transfiguration, she wasn’t sure, but the ever-pressing stare was there in between her shoulder blades like a hot knife sliding into the slotted space.

She refused to turn around and meet the steely-eyed gaze with her own. She focused entirely on her tortoise as it happily munched on a strawberry. She beamed with pride as Headmistress McGonagall praised her silver trumpet in front of the rest of the class. She even managed a few toots on the mouthpiece for good measure.

“Please bring your work to the front of the class. Three rolls of parchment discussing the theory and application of this spell are due next week, including special emphasis on your own work today as an example. Make sure to evaluate every angle of the process that resulted in your final product.”

As Hermione dropped off her instrument and turned to gather her belongings, she finally crossed paths with Malfoy as he walked up with his own silver trumpet in hand. Of the entire class, theirs were the only ones matching in color and quality, the rest being variations of gold, bronze, and tortoise-shell. 

She couldn’t help the slight rise in her brows, and his lip twisted up in acknowledgement.

“Meet me after class,” he muttered in a voice just low enough for only her to hear as they brushed by one another.

The fluttering in her stomach turned into outright flips as she struggled to keep her composure.

This was new.

She lingered as she stacked her books and carefully slipped her quill and ink jar into her stationary pouch. Each move was painstakingly slow as she waited for the classroom to empty.

“Good show today, Ms Granger,” Headmistress McGonagall said fondly as she, too, walked out, a trail of trumpets floating in her wake.

By the time Hermione flipped her bag strap onto her shoulder and turned to follow, only her and Malfoy remained. He looked to have been ready for a while, sitting as he was on top of his desk and flipping his wand in lazy twirls.

The eyes of the two golden cat statues flanking the doorway seemed to watch as she approached him one step at a time, silent as she’d learned to be when on the run. Despite her efforts, her breathing sounded heavy in her own ears. Desperate.

She didn’t stop until her hands brushed his hip. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath—pine, woodsmoke, a hint of fog.

She let it all out as a touch, almost too light to be felt, traced her jawline to her lips.

Her eyes opened to find him directly facing her and coming in closer.

She could step away. She could stop him with a hand to his firm chest. 

She could…let him.

His lips brushed softly against hers, as tentative as his fingertips had just been, but then pressed more insistently when she fisted his sweater. Their heads tilted and mouths slanted against one another, finding purchase and drinking each other in with gasps and a sliding of tongues.

The flipping in her stomach had stilled, and now Hermione simply felt warm, as if she’d been floating aimless and finally touched down onto the earth, only Malfoy was her landing pad. He grounded her in a way she’d never expected, but now craved with a voracity that left her twisting in her sheets at night.

He broke their kiss with a hand clenching the curls at the base of her neck, twisting just so until she panted up at him, her dark eyes wide in anticipation.

“I don’t like it, Granger,” he muttered, eyes roaming her face, an indecipherable expression contorting his features.

The fluttering was back, nervousness clawing her insides. “You don’t like what?”

“Waiting.”

This time it was her turn to blanche as she tried to pull away. His fist tightened, and she grunted at the force keeping her in place.

“What do you want to change, then?” she forced out behind gritted teeth.

Please, please don’t say you want to end whatever the hell this is.

Silence filled the space between them as his brow furrowed and his pretty pink lips parted. 

She readied herself with bated breath for his ultimatum. This little thing of theirs had started suddenly without any premeditation on her part. One moment, they’d been yelling at each other in a deserted corridor, and the next they’d been entwined, snogging and rutting like animals in heat. He’d brought her to orgasm pinned against the stone wall, then left her alone to smooth down her skirt and catch her breath.

She thought it had been a one off.

Then it happened again, and again.

Before she knew it, they were sneaking off a few times a week. Always in secret. Never in sight of others. In public, they acted like they always had—sniping at one another every chance they could, unless they were ignoring one another.

Hermione slept better at night than she had in the months leading up to their return to Hogwarts. Her nightmares were mostly gone unless something triggered their return. She knew he felt the same, if the disappearance of the circles underneath his eyes was any indication. 

She didn’t want to stop meeting him.

“I want more.” He basically snarled the words into her face, eyes flashing. He maintained his grip on her hair, but the other hand came around to roughly grip her hip and pull her up against him.

“So you want to fuck? Is that it?”

They hadn’t actually gone that far…yet. They always stopped just short, and she’d been fine with that until today.

At her words, his hold loosened and he simply held her in place with his palms open against her. The scowl disappeared, and the lines wrinkling his brow smoothed out.

“That’s not what I mean.”

She could almost throw up with how forcefully her innards twisted in on themselves. Was it terror or hope tossing her into disarray like this?

“Then what do you mean?” she asked.

“When I said ‘I don’t like it’, I was referring to the way you and I sneak around. It was exciting at first, but I’m over keeping how I feel about you a secret. I want to touch you like this wherever and whenever I please.”

Hope, it was definitely hope filling her to the brim, with perhaps a thin layer of fear.

“Does that include your house mates?” He shrugged at her question. “What about your parents?”

The hand at her hip moved up and he cupped her face gently in both hands, bringing his forehead down to press against her own.

“As far as I’m concerned, they no longer have a say in what I do or don’t do. Not after everything. Not ever in regards to you.”

She didn’t resist when he kissed her so sweetly that she felt tears welling up beneath her lids. She allowed herself to be wrapped up into his arms, clutching the soft wool of his sweater and not wanting to ever let go.

She thanked the stars above for whoever it was that had decided to send them all back for a final school year. It had seemed pointless, at first, someone’s optimistic attempt at rewinding time and expecting the pieces to fall into place. It hadn’t at all been peaceful at the start.

She wasn’t sure when it started, but as the structured days passed—filled with classes, coursework, individual and group therapy sessions, and encouraged co-mingling of houses—that optimistic attempt became reality. People exploded, yes, like she had with Malfoy, but they seemed better for it afterward.

If she had refused the mandate, had accepted the Ministry’s offer to begin work and ventured out on her own, then she very likely would still be alone.

Instead, she was here with Draco Malfoy, and she wanted to stay that way.

“Okay.”

WC 1352

Twitter prompt from DramionePrompts

Cross posted on Tumblr and AO3

It’s been a bit since my last update, and when I mean a bit, it’s been maybe just once this week? I’ve been a bit overwhelmed with a few fest projects I picked up this season and am still working on, which resulted in a drop off of daily exercises like this one. I hope you like it!

[alexthefly]

Spilling Tea

This was supposed to be an entry for this week's @flashfictionfridayofficial, but life got in the way and I went really over time (😅), so it's just a silly little something now, bringing a well-loved TOS character to the TAG universe. Enjoy!

Fandom: Thunderbirds/Thunderbirds are Go

Content: mention of Pen & Ink (canon events only)

Spoiler warning for TAG episode 1:10, Tunnels of Time

Or read it on AO3

**********

Lillian and her trusty scouring pad had just reached a particularly stubborn bit of baked-on sauce at the back of the oven when she heard the kitchen door go, followed by a great clattering of boot and chair.

“Cor Lil, do us a cuppa would ya? H’I’m gasping, I am!”

Of course, she thought. There's only one person in the world who could make that much noise just entering a room. 

Master thief my backside…

“You’ve got legs, haven’t ya? Get it yourself,” she called, not looking up. “Can't you see I’m busy?”

“Aww, but I’ve ‘ad an ‘ard day. H’I’m dead on my feet!”

“You’ll be dead under my feet if you keep carrying on,” she grumbled. “Though on second thought,” - she extricated her head from the oven and took off her marigolds - “I'd better do it for you. Who knows what you might set fire to if I left you to it.”

She clambered slowly to her half-asleep feet and finally looked over to see Nosy Parker seated at the kitchen table, covered in dust, trying and failing to stifle a chuckle.

“Looks to me like you’ve been burning a few things yourself, girl. Get a look at your face!”

Eh?

She limped over to the hob and checked her reflection in the shining silver kettle there, only to see a grime-smeared ragamuffin staring back at her.

“You could be an extra in H'Oliver!” Parker chortled, clearly delighted with his joke.

She just barely resisted the urge to fling the kettle at him - she had only just polished it, after all - and instead wiped her face with a nearby tea towel before flinging that at him instead. He spluttered some sort of outrage at the assault, but she noted that he never actually stopped smirking at her.

“Whatcha so ‘appy about anyway?” she asked, filling the kettle and setting the hob on. “I thought you was bone-tired.”

Parker yawned and stretched, kicking his boots off under the table, which earned him a royal scowl.

“I am. Been traipsing round a bleedin’ temple all day, ‘aven’t I? I’ve been shut in, shot at, gassed, nearly buried h’alive…”

“Well that's bad luck. Still, perhaps they’ll get you next time.”

He glowered at her, but carried on.

“Frankly I’m just glad we made it out in one piece. No thanks to Gordon Tracy of course - ‘e was no ‘elp at all. All that equipment ‘e brought, and what good did it do us? ‘Er Ladyship said the same thing. Well, not in so many words…”

“Is she alright?” Lillian asked, leaning casually on the countertop. Her Ladyship was a tough lady indeed, but for all his catastrophising it sounded like they'd had quite a time of it.

“Oh yes, right as rain,” replied Parker. “Save perhaps for a smooshed nose, courtesy of that great fishy lummox.’

“Gordon did that?”

Lillian quickly scrolled through her various kitchen utensils in her head, considering how they might best be inflicted on a young Tracy’s sensitive bits. A jaded old bird she may be, but she didn't mess about when it came to Lady Penelope’s wellbeing.

That was one thing she and Parker had in common.

Perhaps sensing impending bloodshed, Parker held up his hands in an attempt to placate his companion.

“He never meant any ‘arm, Lil. It was my fault really, setting off that booby trap like that - he was jus’ trying to save ‘er from a fatal stabbin’. And ‘Er Ladyship gave ‘im a right ol’ earful over it, so I reckon the poor lad’s suffered enough.”

The kettle whistle blew and Lillian straightened to go and make the tea, still quietly plotting.

“The truth is,” he continued, “I think ‘e might be a bit sweet on her."

She was so surprised she almost dropped the kettle on her foot.

"Really? Gordon?"

He nodded. "Like a puppy, ‘e is, following ‘er around, trying to h’impress ‘er, like; he’s like a little blond labrador.”

“A dogfish,” she suggested, grabbing a packet of biscuits from the overhead cupboard.

“Ha! H’exactly!” he chuckled. “Wet nose and wet behind the ears, that one!”

Carefully, she balanced the full cups on a tray and took it over to the table.

“But ‘e’s not that young though, is he? Twenty-four?”

“About that,” replied Parker, shovelling a hobnob in his mouth. “Seems younger though, somehow. Too young for ‘er, anyway.”

“You would say that though, wouldn’t ya? Nobody's ever gonna be good enough for her s’far as you’re concerned.”

He grinned sheepishly and reached for another biscuit.

Lillian stared into her teacup, thinking.

“You don’t think she might like ‘im too, then?”

Parker’s biscuit fell in his cup.

“You wot?”

“Well I was just thinkin’,” she said, handing him a teaspoon to fish his biscuit out, “all this talk about how annoying he is and ‘ow he’s always getting into scrapes ‘n’ all that…” She took a sip. “It just seems that if she didn't like ‘im, she might not care quite so much what ‘e does.”

“Don't talk soft, woman!” exclaimed Parker, forgetting all about his slowly-disintegrating hobnob. “She’s fond of all those Tracy boys, Gordon included. It's part of her nature to worry after ‘em. Nothing more than that, I'm sure.”

“Hmmm. If you say so…”

They sat in silence for a minute, pondering.

“Though…” Parker started. “...Nah.”

“What?”

“S’nothing.”

She picked up another teaspoon. “I’m going to stick this somewhere painful if you don't come out with it.”

"You wouldn't dare," he scoffed.

"...Sideways."

A gulp.

“A moment?” She leaned forwards.

“Alright, alright, keep your ‘air on! It's only that I was just thinkin’, back there, there was a… a moment.”

“Between the two of ‘em, when we were up on that stairway, starin’ death in the face…”

He paused, waiting for sympathy.

She brandished her spoon at him. “And?”

He rolled his eyes.

“Well, we all thought that might be it - ‘The H’End’, as it were…”

“Uh-huh?”

“An’ he was saying something about us not having much time, and it being now or never…”

“Yes?”

“And the way they was looking at each other, it was like…”

“Yes?!”

She was right on the edge of her seat, tea and spoon both entirely forgotten.

He shrugged. “Well anyway, then next thing I knew, we was grappling into the air and out the roof to safety.”

She blinked.

“...What? That's it?!”

She picked up the tea towel off the table and threw it at him again.

“You almost ‘ad me then, you bleedin’ tease! Gettin’ me all invested like that…”

“What? That's what ‘appened!”

She was fuming. “I thought you’d at least say he kissed her hand or something. ‘A look’, he says!”

He flushed. “It was more than that-”

“Load of nonsense. You’ve been watching too many of those serials on telly!”

She got to her feet and stormed over to the oven.

“I can't be sittin’ here listenin’ to this rubbish all day. Got things to do,” she grumbled, pulling her rubber gloves back on.

He folded his arms, glowering. “Well that's just fine then! Last time I tell you anything.”

“Fine!”

“Fine!”

And so they retreated to their respective corners to sulk; her scrubbing the oven, him harrumphing in his chair, stormclouds hovering between.

A minute passed. Then two.

“...You can finish up your tea before ‘elping me with the dinner, if you like?”

“...Yeah, alright then.”