#sorry for my incoherent mumblings of a post

[metatronhateblog]

Okay I usually try not to make posts back to back but have we considered that if ducks are spies of some sort (if of course, that's a big if) and demons can turn into their designated animal (eg. Crowley into a snake.) Then whose to say there isn't a demon whose associated animal isn't a duck? Whose to say that the ducks aren't spies because a demon is a duck????

[thedreadblog]

I just had a Hypothetical Thought:

It's odd to me that Solas ends up trapped in his own prison. It's odd to me that he so readily gives a total stranger the reins in trying to fight his two escapees, Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain.

And just now, while re-watching one of the videos posted here on tumblr (which I'm not gonna reblog, videos get reblogged AFTER game release, it's so much easier to spoil people in videos and I'm not gonna.) I wondered if he might pull a Vetinari:

"Never build a dungeon you can't get out of".

In Terry Pratchett's Guards! Guards!, the patrician of the city Ankh-Morpork gets locked up in his own dungeons. When the main character of the story, Captain Sam Vimes, ends up in the dungeon with him, he learns that Vetinari has actually made himself quite comfortable until it is safe to leave again. Vetinari tells Vimes that one should never build a dungeon they wouldn't like to live in themselves, nor should they build one they can't escape.

And I know that Trick is a Discworld reader. They've talked about several of the main characters of the series on Twitter. I know that several of the other devs are as well...they might've gotten inspired.

Look, if this is a thing that happens, I'll be fucking delighted.

[allisluv]

aaahh yay for a new charger!! Hmmm ok if it tickles your fancy, can I request a Finnick x reader fic post-rebellion where she’s feeling perhaps a touch soft, maybe not even realizing it (like just a heavy/triggering day where she’s feeling anxious) and Finnick knows, doesn’t comment on it, just hovers/takes over stuff for her to lessen her load? (Sorry if it doesn’t make sense - I got excited & wanted to send something in hahaha)

farmers market.

pairing: finnick o'dair x shy!wifey

content warnings: reader is having a rough go of it, use of petnames, pre-established relationship, set post-rebellion, finnick is so soft and sweet it's giving me a tooth ache (/pos), teasing, banter, fluff with a sprinkle of angst, not edited.

word count: 2k

author's note: elle, i hope you don't mind me writing this one for finnick x shy!wifey! i hadn't intended to originally but i started writing and i was like this is so them coded for me not to, you know? so, without further ado... here's my first finnick x shy!wifey oneshot. requests for them are open!! please do note that this can be read as a finn x reader insert too if you prefer that!! also this is my first time writing in a hot minute so please be kind. reblogs and comments are appreciated <3

Bad days tend to creep up on you like the calm before the storm, and without really knowing why, you welcome those days back like an old friend.

Its strange, when you think about it; you would think that the promise of a life without a constant war would feel reassuring but in reality, all it does is instil you with greater fear, and that is saying something.

In no way shape or form are you saying that you would have preferred to live under Snow's rule-- even less under Coin. You're simply saying that it feels terrifying to have this glorious taste of freedom, when in the back of your mind, there's a voice that reminds you it could all be taken away from you in a matter of seconds.

Finnick can tell something is weighing heavily on your mind when you toss and turn in bed all night. He combs his fingers through your hair, and presses soft kisses to your forehead, but no amount of comfort is able to soothe those reeling thoughts.

Eventually, you manage to doze off with Finnick's arms wrapped tight around you. Still, your sleep is broken and even then, you cant escape your anxiety.

Finnick watches over you as you rest. When a crease forms between your brows, an indicator that your dreams are not being kind to your weary soul, he uses his thumb to smooth it out. When a pitiful whine slips past your parted lips, he holds you closer and mutters words of reassurance into your hairline.

It's nearing noon when you finally start to stir. Finnick's arm had gone dead long before now, but he figures the pins and needles that shoot through his arm are well worth it if he has you in his arms like this. He watches as your eyes lazily flutter open and you absentmindedly sink deeper into his embrace. "Hi," He whispers into the silence. You wipe your eyes and mumble something incoherent. He smiles. "Welcome back to the land of the living."

You hum sleepily as you nuzzle your cheek against his bare chest. He is warm and soft and he smells like home. You can't help noticing the absent scent of saltwater and a frown tugs at the corner of your lips. "You didn't go swimming?"

Finnick wraps his ankle with yours under the duvet. "Didn't want to."

Your frown deepens and even in your half-asleep state you know he's lying, so naturally, you call him out on it. "I call bullshit." You try to sit up straighter but he eases you back down onto his chest with a quiet hum. "Why didn't you go? You always go swimming in the morning."

He kisses your forehead. "Maybe I just wanted to stay here with you." His fingers trace a path up your back. He normally does go swimming every morning; it's somewhat of a ritual for him. But he doesn't want to leave you when he knows you're having a rough go of it, especially when you're almost as stubborn as him and won't ask for his help. "Is that okay with you?" He teases.

You fight the urge to roll your eyes, but his hands are gentle and soft on your body, and it eases some of the pent up tension in your frame. "Hmph. I suppose so." It's meant to be a joke, but your voice falls flat.

He doesn't seem to mind. He knows you're bound to be snippy or sad or on edge or all of the above. Hes had his own fair share of triggering days since the war ended and he's been the exact same. He just gives a quiet hum so you know he isn't ignoring you, and then he allows the silence to settle.

There's still a pit of unease in your stomach, but it's lessened slightly by his presence. "What time is it?" You ask after a while.

Finnick cranes his neck to one side to check the alarm clock on the bedside locker. "One."

You swear you give yourself whiplash as you shoot up and he grunts softly at the loss of contact. "In the afternoon?"

"No, in the morning. See the stars outside?" Finnick deadpans, trying to lighten the mood. You shoot him a withering look, and he grins and sits up now, too. "Its alright, angel. We're allowed to have a lie in every now and then." He soothes, pressing a soft kiss to your bare shoulder blade.

"We've got to go grocery shopping today," You argue, but it's a weak protest, even to your own ears.

"And we've got plenty of time," He responds patiently, smoothing his hand up and down your back once more. "It's a Sunday. The market doesn't close until seven. Just relax, my love. It's all okay." He knows you need to keep yourself busy on days like this; it's a way to remind yourself that you're controlling something.

He shifts onto his knees, the bedframe creaking underneath him, and wraps his arms around your midsection. "It's all okay." He promises. A kiss to your shoulder again. "We can get changed and leave right now if you want to, alright?"

You melt into his touch before giving a stiff nod. Maybe if you're out of the house, it'll ease your worries a bit, or at the very least distract you. Your eyes flutter shut as he presses a kiss to your neck this time around. "Okay."

"Yeah? That sound like a plan?"

You nod, more relaxed this time. "Yeah."

Finnick gets changed in a matter of minutes, and is ever so patient as he waits for you. He watches you flit between your wardrobe three or four times, choosing an outfit and changing your mind once you go to put it on,

"I'm sorry," You say quietly on your fifth time around. Your deft fingers anxiously toy with the hem of your sleep shirt as you sift through the contents of your wardrobe.

He's perched on the edge of the bed, and he offers you a gentle smile as he sees your fingers move to your mouth. You gnaw on a hangnail, and he pushes down the urge to lovingly scold you. "It's okay. Take all the time you need, angel. I'm in no rush."

Once you're finally dressed and out of the door, Finnick can't help but notice the way your eyes dart around nervously. He knows that you're no doubt feeling more wary, and he wants nothing more than to help soothe your heightened emotions. "So, angel, I was thinking." He slips his hand into yours as you move. He doesn't seem to mind how damp your palm is.

"Hm?" Your head whips around to see him. "Sorry?"

"I was thinking." He repeats patiently, matching your pace. He knows that you need a distraction right now and he Is more than eager to be of assistance. "There's this lovely cove off the coast. Malcom-- you'd know him, he's the coast guard-- was telling me about it. It's about an hour or two from here by boat. It's meant to be gorgeous out there. I was thinking we could go snorkelling there one day, if you'd like."

"I've never been snorkelling," You remind him softly.

He squeezes your hand. "I know. I could teach you." He offers. "We'd be able to make it a day trip. We could bring a picnic for the boat and we could sail for a while before getting to the cove." He presses a kiss to your cheek. "What do you think?"

The weight in your chest is shifting now that you're not tangled up in your thoughts. You can breathe a bit easier. "Yeah." You nod. "It could be fun. When were you thinking?"

Finnick hums in thought. "Maybe the day after tomorrow? If you're up for it. We can always do it later, I'm easy." He shrugs.

You nod. "Sounds like a plan."

The market is practically empty when you two arrive. Finnick insists on carrying the wicker basket you brought with you, and he follows your lead as you drift between stalls.

On your way out of the market, he tugs you toward a jewellery stall. Without even giving you time to ask what he's doing, he holds up a necklace, testing it against your complexion, before turning to the seller. "I'll take this one please."

You arch an eyebrow and give his hand a tug. "What're you doing?"

"Buying you a necklace." He replies simply.

"Why?"

"Because I want to."

"You don't have to."

"I said I want to, not that I have to." He corrects you, pressing a kiss to your joined hands. He pays the vendor for the necklace and secures it in the basket before letting you lead him out of the gazebo.

It doesn't take long to get back home, even with your goods from the market weighing you down. Finnick flicks on the air-con once you are inside, and once he sees you moving to turn the stove on, he secures his arms around your waist and practically manhandles you all the way back to the sofa. "Nope. Not happening."

"What are you--"

"Youre gonna sit there and watch something or read or... I don't know, do whatever you want while I cook dinner." He grins as he lets go and you flop down on the sofa. You open your mouth to complain, but he simply kisses you quiet before pulling away and pecking your head. "I have it covered. Don't worry about it, okay? Just relax. It's fine. Relax."

You sigh, but admit defeat, anyway. "Alright. Just... don't burn the house down."

Finnick arches a brow. "Are you doubting my cooking abilities?"

"Yes."

"Says the one who nearly did burn the house down making toast on my birthday."

"That was one time! And I was doing something nice!"

Finnick laughs and pecks your forehead again before sauntering into the kitchen. He's glad you seem to be feeling a bit better. "I know. But it still happened." He calls over his shoulder.

It doesn't take long for you to follow him into the kitchen; you're a tad bit clingy when you're feeling anxious like this. He doesn't make any remarks on it; he simply taps the countertop beside him in invitation and goes back to stirring a pot of sauce.

You swing your legs back and forth before finally finding your voice. "Finn."

He glances up from the pot. "Yeah, baby?"

You sigh. You've never been very good at naming your feelings, even when you were a kid. It makes you feel stupid. "I'm anxious today." You finally blurt out.

Finnick turns down the heat on the stove to give you his undivided attention. He nods sympathetically. "I know. Do you wanna talk about it?"

You shake your head. "No. I'm just letting you know."

He nods. "That's okay. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"You've done more than enough," You rush to say.

"That's not what I asked." He retorts gently. "Is there anything you need?"

You gnaw on the inside of your cheek. Asking for what you needed or wanted was also another thing you weren't very good at, but Finnick doesn't make you feel silly for it, and it feels easier to tell him. "Can I have a hug?"

Finnick wastes no time in reaching for you. His arms fit around you as snugly as possible but it doesn't feel constricting. It just feels safe. He rests his chin atop your head and nuzzles his nose into your hair. "Love you."

"I love you," You reply, melting into him. You can't help the smile that tugs at the corner of your lips when you see the steam bubbling from the pot over his shoulder. "Hey, Finn?"

"Yeah, angel?" He pulls away just enough to smooth your hair out of your eyes.

"Guess I'm not the only one who's awful at cooking."

He frowns and looks over his shoulder when you laugh. "Shit!"

[studioeisa]

what the fuKCKENFR IM SO MAD I CANT REBLOG YOUR POSTS OR MSG U ON MY SIDEBLOG RN COS ANOTHER??? HOZIER??? FIC????

(work song next WHHAT WHO SAID THAT)

so full of love (i could barely eat) 🍒 seungcheol x reader.

★ established relationship, pet name ['baby'], inspired by hozier's work song. viv, i know this was supposed to be in response to worship in the bedroom (and not really a serious request), but the thought of cheol x work song did not let me go. a little gift for u. <3 word count: 755.

It’s nearly two in the morning when Seungcheol gets home. 

One of those days, he likes to call it. He had been out of the apartment before the sun rose up, had jumped from one schedule to another with something akin to reckless abandon. Fan meet. Radio show. Practice. Meeting.

When he’s busy, the exhaustion is kept at bay. There’s no time to think about the phantom ache behind his knee, the pesky soreness of his thigh.

But then he walks through the front door and it all comes crashing down on him. Suddenly, he is Atlas, bearing the heavens on his shoulders. 

He toes off his shoes with a soft sigh. Evidence of you is apparent from the entryway. The kitchen light has been left on. The humidifier is spewing one of his favorite scents. A collection of sweet nothings, none of which he thinks he deserves.

Had he even texted you today? Seungcheol isn’t certain. He remembers seeing your texts light up his screen, though. Gentle reminders from morning to evening. 

Don’t forget your vitamins. 

Grab lunch. 

Bundle up. It’s snowing, and your bones are weak to the cold. 

Seungcheol had listened at each turn, whether or not he realized it. A multivitamin from Seungkwan. A sandwich hurriedly eaten on the way to the studio. The scarf you had given him, the one that still faintly smelled like you.

He knows there’s probably food waiting for him in the microwave, knows you’ve likely set aside a plate in anticipation of his late arrival. Seungcheol bypasses it in favor of heading for your shared bedroom. 

Sure enough, you’re already asleep. He’ll realize a little later that you texted about that, too— a message of might be asleep when you get home, I love you— but for now, he only lingers by the doorway as he watches the gentle rise and fall of your chest. 

He feels everything then. The gnaw of guilt. The overwhelming affection. The urge to protect and provide. 

As quietly as he can manage, Seungcheol crosses the room. He can already predict how you’re going to react to him sinking into bed and sliding underneath the covers with you. 

You stir in your sleep at the feeling of Seungcheol snaking his arm around your waist. Despite being half-awake, you have the wits to mumble, “You’re still wearing outside clothes.” 

Bingo. 

Seungcheol knew it, and the thought of that— of correctly predicting what you might do or say— fills him with an odd sense of pride. He doesn’t give voice to it, though, not wanting to rouse you more than he already has. 

“I’ll change.” His voice is a murmur even though there’s no other soul in the apartment besides you two. Something about the early hour and the low light makes him feel like he should tread carefully, like the moment is as fragile as ice on a lake. “Just wanted to hold you for a bit, baby.” 

You grumble something incoherent, the words lost to the way you bury your face into the front of Seungcheol’s shirt. And suddenly Seungcheol can’t help himself. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. Then one to your forehead. Then one to your temple. Then—

“Cheol.” You whine out his name, your tone edged with exhaustion. You never did take kindly to your sleep being interrupted. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he huffs. 

He kisses the tip of your nose for good measure. 

It’s one of those days. Seungcheol is bone-tired, and home late, and he missed you. If he were a stronger man, a better man, he’d let you sleep. Stalk off to eat his microwaved dinner and change into his pajamas so you don’t gripe about dirty sheets in the morning. 

Seungcheol decides: He’s not a good man. And so instead he holds you a little tighter, leaves a couple more kisses across your face, allows his body to let go of the day’s weight. 

After his nth kiss to your face, you let out another low grumble. He’s about to apologize, about to tell you that he’ll finally, finally let off, when you tilt your head up to lazily slot your lips against his. You’re barely coherent, and yet you’re still giving him exactly what he wants needs. 

Soft, sleepy, sweet. His, his, his.

Seungcheol’s eyes flutter close. He makes no move to deepen the kiss, to ask for more than what you can offer. 

In your arms, he feels a little less like Atlas. 

In your arms, he’s just Seungcheol. 

There's nothin' sweeter than my baby I'd never want once from the cherry tree 'Cause my baby's sweet as can be She'd give me toothaches just from kissin' me

[zyafics]

i love love love your writing<3

rq: rafe had came up to tanneyhill's balcony for some peace at his own party. though he didn’t expect reader to be there, looking utterly lost. he knows reader is new. seen you before, too, hanging out with sarah’s crowd; under a pogue’s arm whenever they see him around, telling you rafe isn't anything worth talking, or interacting with.

first off, i am so sorry it took me so long to get this done (as with a lot of my requests) but thank you so much for enjoying my writing!! 🩷 i hope i do this prompt justice (literally shaking in my boots as i post this 😭)

ANGRY GOD | Rafe Cameron

MASTERLIST (Series)

Pairing — S2!Rafe Cameron x (F)Reader

Content — fluff, angst, Rafe spiraling (S2 Canons), Enemies Tension, Rafe growing possessive of Reader.

Word Count — 3.2K.

Dedication — to @mintforadollar who listened to me rant about this plot a month ago, only for it to now be completed <3. Prompt credited to this on c.ai!

Rafe wants to be alone.

His mind is caught in a tailspin, muscles singing with ache from his latest altercation. It didn't help that the fucker managed to get some good swings in, ripples of pain spread from his jawline to his left eye. When he enters the second floor of Tannyhill, all he wants is to catch a breath of fresh air away from the party. His party.

He didn't expect to see you.

"Out." Rafe commands gruffly. You flinch at his abrupt command. "Second floor is off-limits."

He adds nothing else as he marches over to the edge of the balcony, digging his scraped palms into the smooth ridges of the handrails. He didn't want anyone here to witness the brunt of his frustration and disappointment, or how his mind swims with disoriented and incoherent thoughts. He wants to be alone.

But you won't let him.

Cautiously, you take a step forward—not in the direction of the exit, as he hoped—but towards Rafe instead. Lifting his head at the sound of your faint footsteps, agitation flushing through his expression at your proximity. "Didn't I tell you to get out?"

"You got into a fight." You mumble your observation, examining his hardened profile to discover the bruise that decorates his jawline, swelling with discoloration, the darkening under his left eye, and the split of open skin right above his brow.

He scoffs. "No shit."

"And you're bleeding."

He is? He didn't know that. All consumed by the adrenaline rushing through his system—that has yet to wind down—Rafe lifts his hand to run his fingers over the most prominent aches around his face. When he presses against something wet, he withdraws, finding a fresh coat of blood over his fingertips.

Rafe grimaces at the sight—not the blood, he's used to that—but the fact that his opponent succeeded in cutting him too.

Now, he definitely doesn't want you here. Before Rafe has the chance to kick you out the third time, you offer assistance. "I can help," you say meekly, messing with the hems of your top.

He didn't catch it over the loud thumping of his heartbeat in his ears. "What?"

"I can help," you repeat, louder this time, wincing at the projection of your own voice. You don't like the strain in your tone, the desperation seeping through. You'd do anything to avoid returning to the party. "I know how to patch up wounds. I'm training to be an EMT."

"I didn't ask for a life story." He snaps, a mechanical response to any aid. The idea of someone taking care of him is unheard of; unfamiliar and uncomfortable. He doesn't know how to react other than complete and utter rejection. "Besides, I can take care of myself."

Rafe assumes his harsh words would drive you away. The bite behind each syllable has been enough to scare off everyone else but you remain firm in your position. If anything, your expression softens, eyes washing over his rigid posture with a sympathetic look. He hates it.

"I know," you start slowly, eyes cascading down his face, carefully monitoring his reaction. "But... wouldn't it be nice if you didn't have to?"

His expression breaks.

Your kindness strikes directly to his chest and his heart clutches at the way you address him. With humanity. Even when he's been nothing but a complete asshole to you, demanding your departure, you respond with a sense of warmth. Rafe clenches down his jaw.

When he doesn't answer quickly enough, a sign of his contemplation, you add. "Please."

Reluctantly, Rafe gives in. "Fine."

Rafe moves from the balcony deck to reenter Tannyhill, not bothering to check if you're following behind. He heads straight to the ensuite connected to his bedroom, checking under the sink for his first aid kit, before throwing the box over the counter.

That's when he catches a glimpse of himself through the mirror, the ugly bruising that lines his face, the dried blood that stains his temple. His jaw tightens at the sight.

You enter shortly after, seeing him with his back to the mirror, his spine pressed against the rim of the porcelain sink. Your eyes do a quick sweep of your surroundings, before landing on Rafe and his rigid form, arms crossed over his chest, and a cold look on his face. He just wants to get this over with.

You glance outside, to his room, with its openness, before meeting his gaze. "Can we go to your bed?"

His answer is immediate. "No."

You frown but ask nothing more. Rafe's trying to make this difficult for you, refusing to cooperate because it's easier than submitting to your grace. Easier than admitting he'd like the help. You work around that.

Grabbing the antiseptics from the kit, you proceed to clean his wounds, softly massaging his flesh in the process. For a moment, it feels too good and Rafe fights the urge to lean into your hand before a sharp pain rips through him from the open cut and he hisses.

You immediately pull back, mumbling a quick apology.

His eyes squeeze shut, it takes a moment for the throb to cool down, and once it does, Rafe reconnects his gaze with yours to find the remorseful look behind your stare, the softening of your features met with utmost concern. You don't make another move to try again.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine." He bites out, wanting to rid you of that look. He's not weak. Stop looking at him as if he is. Despite the reassurance, you have yet to continue. "You're not going to be a good doctor if you shy away every time your patient gets hurt."

"I feel bad." You admit, chewing on your bottom lip.

"Why? You didn't do this."

He's the one who got into the fight. The one who swung first. While he may have won in the end, having knocked out the guy in the middle of the yard, it doesn't neglect the damage done to him in the process. But, at the end of the day, it's his fault.

You don't see it that way. "Because you're hurting."

You're too soft. That's what Rafe determines. Every little moment, little sprouts of empathy, every inch of sensitivity, is going to hurt you in the end. It won't save anything.

"I don't need your pity," Rafe snaps, giving you the first taste of reality under his razor-sharp tongue. He could be considerate, and understanding, but he isn't. That's how he learned.

"It's not—" You sigh. You don't want to argue and relent against his jabs. Without further commentary, you continue forward with your duties: aiding in his treatment and biting through the humane urge to sympathize with his pain.

Rafe takes the silence to observe you while you work. He knows you grew quiet because of his rough manners, and he won't lie to himself and say he enjoys it. He doesn't. But it adds to the list of everything else he has done wrong in his life; his long string of failures that his father can't wait to remind him of.

In the quietness, Rafe recognizes something about you. It takes a moment, after all the aches and throbs, but the recognition dawns on him that you're new. You hang out with his sister, Sarah, and the rest of the filthy group of no-good Pogues on the other side of the island. There have even been occasions when he saw you under JJ's arm, slinging around red solo cups and a grim soak of southside.

"Where's your friends?" Rafe asks, surprising you with the roughness behind his voice.

You lift your gaze to his. "Hmm?"

"The Pogues. Don't you hang out with them?"

You swallow hard, feeling like a child being caught with their hand in the cookie jar. You hoped your newcomer status would be enough to shield yourself from Rafe's wraith, especially his hatred towards your selected group. "Why?"

Rafe immediately picks up on the shift in your demeanor, the rigidness in your shoulders that tells him exactly what he needs to know. "You've heard about me, haven't you?"

You hesitate to answer. Rafe presses on. "What'd they say?"

Your friends have told you many warnings about the notorious Rafe Cameron. It all comes down to one conclusion: he's dangerous. He's irrational, self-centered, and narcissistic. He isn't worth talking to because all he cares about is himself.

However, you like to find out for yourself.

Rafe leans forward, lowering himself to meet your height and his face is right in front of yours. An arrogant smirk rises to his lips, a challenge for you to answer. "Come on, princess, don't tell you came up here without doing a bit of research beforehand."

You recognize this as a facade, a way for him to hide his true feelings because it's easier to disturb others. To mess with people and not reflect on your own. You place a hand against the solid of his chest and gently push him back, forcing him to reinstate the safe distance established before. You continue back to your line of work.

Your little push surprises Rafe. It also intrigues him too.

"They said you weren't worth talking to," you say softly, avoiding eye contact as he follows your every move. "That you're dangerous."

He scoffs at the reveal, but it pinches his heart that his own sister would agree. He values her opinion more than he'd like to admit. Drawing out a noncommital shrug, pretending not to care, he declares. "They're right."

You hum. "Maybe."

He looks directly at you with a raised brow. "Maybe?"

Your eyes finally connect with his, "I'm still figuring that out." You pull back, setting the supplies back into his aid box. "Done."

You're about to take a step back when Rafe grabs your wrist, holding you in place. Your breath shortens, and you peer down at the place of your contact before raising your gaze to his.

"What do you mean by that?" He demands, his expression hardens but his eyes are pleading. That juxtaposition, between who he is and what he wants, is the exact thing you're trying to uncover.

You aren't afraid of him. Not like the others.

"I don't know," you answer truthfully, sweeping over his face, reading the conflict his features can't seem to contain. Rafe, you're slowly unraveling, is someone who puts his heart on his sleeves. He just hasn't had anyone who cares enough to look for it. "I just don't know if I truly believe that."

"Why not? The rest of the island does."

It's almost a spiral. An edge closer to it. You think it's because Rafe finally has someone who looks past his mask, his deception that the rest of the island gladly takes. They're afraid of him; he engineered that reputation by hand. But you've met your fair share of burnt souls to know they're all worth saving.

You answer him.

"Your eyes." You explain gently. "They say it's the windows to someone's soul."

"And?"

"And, Rafe Cameron, you're someone who isn't as heartless as you'd like the rest of the world to believe."

His grip loosens from your words and you take the opportunity to slip out of his grasp and settle your arms by your side. Rafe watches as you offer him a soft smile, one that reaches your eyes, and you're about to return to the balcony deck for some peace when he follows you into his bedroom.

"That's not fair." He denounces, halting your exit.

You turn around to face him. "What is?"

"You can't come in here and make those assumptions. You don't know shit about my life."

Rafe doesn't like to be read so clearly; to know that whatever he's trying to front isn't deluding you. For some reason, he needs to convince you that every rumor and gossip is true. That he is bad. The idea of it is embedded so deeply into the crevices of his self-worth, that he's having a hard time believing anything else.

Rafe expects your reaction to meet his fury, but the slope of your brows furrow together calmly. A delicate practice over years of training. "I never said I did."

"You're acting like you do."

You frown. "Now you're making assumptions about me," you refute, pointing out his hypocrisy, and a tinge of sharpness slips through. "You asked and I answered. You can't be mad because you don't like them."

"Then why?" He snaps, irritation spewing with his venom. "Who the fuck are you to make that judgment?"

"I thought you didn't want to hear my life story."

He huffs. Rafe finds himself at a crossroads. While you're standing there, with your collected composure, he feels like he's unraveling by the seams. There's something about you. The way you read through him like glass. He doesn't know if he likes it or not. If he needs it or not.

"Bitch," he mutters under his breath at your lack of compliance, and your breath hitches at the term, a flash of anger goes through you like a surge. He recognized that look; it was something he was all too familiar with.

You turn around, about to sprint for the exit once again when Rafe calls out. "Wait."

You don't want to turn around this time. Rafe had managed to make you break through your own facade, your own composure that you spent years trying to cultivate. Something about being in the same room as the eldest Cameron makes you regress into your formative years.

"Turn around."

Your jaw is slighted, but you try to hold it together. You loosen your features before you turn on your heel. You still don't think Rafe is the person he's trying to present to the world, and you doubt that he truly carries that much cruelty in one body, but that doesn't mean you have to be in the same room as him.

But something made you stay.

Rafe crosses the large space, standing just in front of you. His breath is hot against yours, his eyes sharp. You tilt your head, meeting his stare, but to contrast his intensity, your gaze is soft yet firm, your eyes unwavering. Just because you are kinder than he is doesn't mean you are weak.

"You know what it's like, don't you?" He murmurs gruffly, his voice straining at the exposure. This questioning also carries the weight of admission underneath; to bridge a kinship. "Or are you a liar?"

You're not. But no one's ever asked the questions Rafe is asking either. Not your friends back home or the new ones with the Pogues. They treasure your friendship but they don't understand your depth.

"No."

"No, what?"

"I'm not a liar," you bite out. Rafe's mouth curls into a satisfactory smile, and he gets a glimpse of your real character. The true you underneath all that dignity. It's like his own dirty secret. "I know."

You saw through Rafe because you understood him. You shared the same sentiments. You groomed the same callousness. Every act he performs, you went through first. You can't point at his reflection without looking at the mirror yourself.

But you're a bit different. You learn to control it. You discovered that all that anger was something else. Hurt, pain, injustice. You take it all and put it in a box, caged behind thick chains and hard locks. Never to be touched again. Rafe takes it out to the open, free to play. You may come from the same origin but you take two different routes.

However, Rafe sees you much clearer now. To know you can understand him, see through his perspective, and filter out his incoherent thoughts. That's something he'd never experienced before in his life.

"The voices, anger, and impulses?" His voice shrinks, eyes searching yours. You hesitate before nodding once. "You get that too?"

It comes out when you're most hurt. "I do."

He feels like can breathe for once, to not feel completely isolated from the rest of the world. Rafe always feels off, like something is wrong with him. Nothing can be explained; nothing is allowed to be explored. Even when he sought therapy, his father denied his request. He thought he‘d be forever alone in all this.

He steps forward, closing in the distance until there's only an inch of space separating you. But even that feels too big. Oxygen stuck in your throat, Rafe connects his gaze with yours to whisper. "You're like me, aren't you?"

You swallow hard. You didn't realize understanding someone could be a reflection of your own damning soul. You don't know if it's a good thing. "Yes."

His pupils are dilated and nearly pitch-black. His breathing shortens, and his gaze pools with desire. You feel it too. Your heart accelerates beneath your ribcage, your stomach knotting with want. When Rafe leans forward, about to capture your lips on his, you ready yourself to let it all in.

But you're a bit different.

You turn your head away at the last second, his contact coming to your cheek.

"I'm..." You exhale, squeezing your eyes shut. "I'm with JJ."

The world stills on its axis, and you feel the gravity of it beneath your feet. You slowly peel your eyes open, only to find Rafe having pulled back, his hand, midway through the air to hold your chin, closes into a tight fist.

You let out a shaky breath, your eyes swimming with regret.

The look on his face is heartbreaking because you know him in parallel, you know what he's feeling. You take a step back, for your sanity or his, it’s unclear. All you know is the distance was safe. Until it wasn't.

"I should go." You whisper.

Rafe says nothing as you pad your way across his room, slipping out of the door. He remains motionless in the same spot, his jaw set, his fists clenched by his side. The adrenaline pulses return through his veins.

Fuck.

It takes a minute to gather himself. Hearing nothing but the throbbing bass beneath him, pulsing through the floor. His heart is wretched, his stomach full of nausea.

Rafe returns to the balcony to pull away from his room, the place where you had been, and he steps closer to the ledge. Everything in his mind is too quiet; sterile and white-screeching. He doesn't know how to fathom this change.

His blue eyes search across the lawn and he easily picks you out of the crowd. He knows you well now. Those brief, fleeting moments attached to his soul are permanent memories.

You rejoined the party with Sarah and the rest of the Pogues, while JJ saunters over and throws his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close and whispering something in your ear. You smile and laugh, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes.

When you look up, you find Rafe already watching. His eyes are set on yours, unmoving, and the intimacy of his gaze strikes something deep. You had to turn away to preserve yourself.

Rafe slowly comes to his understanding on his own. He never had someone who understood him, much less in such a short time. You unravel him behind gentle stares and quiet observations. You knew him because you knew yourself, and he doesn't want to lose that. He doesn't want to lose you. He can’t. 

So, he decided.

You weren't his.

But he's taking you anyways.

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Navigation — Part 01 | Part 02

[yuujispunches]

Six o'clock sharp ~ N.K.

Pairing: Nanami Kento x Reader

Summary: Gojo somehow manages to get Nanami drunk and you know it’s bad when your favourite salary man sends you an SOS but you expected chaos but not a confession.

CW (content warning): drunk Nanami, Gojo causing chaos, drunk confession, nothing else really this is mainly fluff and chaos.

AN: Hi guys! Take this as an apology for my other Nanami works, no more angst just fluffy and drunk Nanami, your welcome 😌 As always a reminder that English isn’t my first language and I’m typing this in my phone so I’m sorry if there’re any typos/mistakes. Enjoy and let me know what you think! :)

Requests are open so feel free to send yours! (you can check the list of characters I write for on my pinned post)

Masterlist

You’re halfway through brushing your teeth when your phone buzzes on the sink.

You glance at the screen, expecting a spam call or maybe Ijichi politely reminding you about a mission change. But it’s neither. It’s Nanami.

At 11:52 PM.

You freeze, foamy toothpaste threatening to escape from your mouth. Nanami Kento does not call people at 11:52 PM. Nanami Kento does not even acknowledge the existence of 11:52 PM. His world ends strictly at six o'clock.

You spit out the toothpaste and wipe your mouth before answering. “Nanami?”

There’s a pause, and then a suspiciously groggy voice murmurs. “Ah. You answered.”

You blink utterly confused. “Are you okay?”

He sighs. “Not particularly.”

“Are you hurt? Where are you? Do I need to-” You fired questions quickly, clearly worried about him.

“I’m at a bar.” He says, a little too proudly, as if it’s the most rebellious thing he’s ever done. “They made me come.”

You can hear the muffled sound of someone yelling in the background, definitely Gojo’s voice, loud and obnoxious, followed by Shoko’s unmistakable laugh.

“Oh no.” You whisper as realisation downs on you. “They got you.”

“They did.” He replies, mournful. “Shoko threatened me with a sedative.”

You wince. “That… tracks.”

“I’ve had… alcohol.” Nanami announces, like he’s confessing a grave sin to a priest.

“Clearly.” You’re trying to stifle your laugh at this point.

“You should come get me.”

Your eyebrows raise. “You want me to come get you?”

“I don’t trust Gojo.”

“Valid.”

“But I do trust you.” He adds quietly. Then, as if embarrassed by his own words, he mumbles something incoherent. “Anyway. I’m at that place with the weird squid logo. I don’t like it.”

“You went to Drunken Cephalopod? That’s where Shoko took you?! That place has drinks named things like ‘Cephalopod Squeeze’ and ‘Invertebrate Hangover.’”

“They made me drink something called ‘Tentacle Passion.’”

“Do I need to call an exorcist?”

He doesn’t answer. Just groans and you can clearly hear Gojo in the background yelling. “KENNNTOOOOO’S GETTING SOFT.”

You sigh. “Okay, I’m coming.”

“You’re… nice.” He says, and then promptly hangs up.

——————————————————————————

You arrive twenty minutes later to find the bar exactly as you imagined it: a chaotic mess of off-duty sorcerers, the smell of deep-fried food, and someone loudly trying to argue that cursed spirits are “just misunderstood.”

Nanami is slouched in a corner booth, tie loose, hair slightly ruffled, and a pink blush across his cheeks. He looks like someone who’s spent the last hour in a low-level existential crisis and only survived because someone shoved a cocktail into his hand every fifteen minutes. Which was probably what happened.

“Hi.” You say, approaching carefully, like he’s a wounded animal that might bolt.

Nanami lifts his head slowly. His eyes light up when he sees you. “You came.”

“Of course I came. You sounded like someone drugged you with sake and made you watch Gojo do karaoke.”

“He did do karaoke.” Nanami mutters darkly, as if he was reminiscing on something deeply traumatic. “It was Bon Jovi.”

“Oh god.”

“He pointed at me during the ‘shot through the heart’ part.”

You try not to laugh, but it escapes in a snort. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”

Before he can move, Gojo suddenly appears, sliding into the booth beside Nanami like an overly caffeinated gremlin. “Heyyyy, look who showed up! You’re here for your emotionally constipated work husband?”

“I’m here to rescue your victim, yes.”

Nanami frowns. “I am not emotionally constipated.”

Shoko appears next, holding what looks like her sixth beer. “He kind of is. But it’s endearing.”

You tug on Nanami’s arm. “Let’s go before they start singing again.”

He doesn’t resist. In fact, he leans on you.

Heavily.

“Oh wow.” You mutter, bracing yourself as you rey yo Keep your balance and prevent Nanami from face planting into the floor. “You’re not even a little sober, are you?”

“I'm fine.” He insists, voice muffled against your shoulder, sounding almost offended before his voice softens again. “You smell nice.”

You freeze.

Behind you, Gojo cackles. “Oh this is gold. Someone record this.”

“You’re drunk.” You mutter, steering Nanami toward the exit.

“Yes.” He agrees solemnly. “But not hallucinating. You really do smell good.”

You glance back, and Shoko gives you two thumbs up before pretending to puke into her beer.

——————————————————————————

Once you get him to your car and buckle him in like a fussy toddler, Nanami slumps into the seat with a sigh.

“This is undignified.” He grumbles.

“You called me for help, besides you lost the right to dignity when you drank something called ‘Tentacle Passion.’”

He winces. “It was fruity.”

“I don’t want to know.”

There’s a long pause as you start the car. Then, softly, he says. “I’m glad it was you.”

You glance at him. “Huh?”

“I didn’t want anyone else to come.”

The words are quieter than before, as if he’s falling asleep mid-sentence. But there’s something tender in his tone, something that tugs at your chest in an unfamiliar way.

You say nothing. Just drive, trying to convince yourself that it was just the forbidden fruity drink talking. That didn’t stop your heart from hammering inside your chest though.

——————————————————————————

You manage to get Nanami into your apartment with only minor difficulties, mostly involving him insisting on taking off his shoes “properly” then forgetting halfway through and staring at them like they’ve wronged him.

He’s sitting on your couch now, tie undone, hair floppier than usual, brows furrowed in sleepy confusion as he examines the decorative pillow in his lap like it’s a cursed object.

“You’re going to feel so gross tomorrow.” You say partly amused, bringing him a glass of water.

“Don’t remind me.”

You hand him the glass. He takes it like it’s a sacred offering, cradles it in both hands, and blinks up at you with a grateful expression that makes your heart do something unprofessional.

He doesn’t drink it. He just holds it.

“You know…” He says slowly. “You have a very… soothing apartment.”

You raise an eyebrow. “It’s got two pieces of IKEA furniture and a plant that’s currently dying.”

“Yes. Peaceful.” He leans his head back against the couch cushion. “Like a cave, but cleaner.”

“You think that’s a compliment?”

“For me? Yes.”

You sit on the edge of the coffee table, watching him. He’s flushed, his posture is loose, too loose for his usual mannerisms, and his usual precise speech has softened around the edges. The Nanami Kento you know is meticulous, almost severe in his discipline. This version? This version is warm and slouchy and entirely too affectionate for your emotional wellbeing.

“I should’ve taken a video for blackmail.” You muse aloud.

He groans. “Please don’t. Gojo would make it a ringtone.”

There’s a beat of silence before he adds, voice a little quieter. “He said I needed to ‘lighten up.’”

You snort. “So their plan was to get you smashed and emotionally compromised?”

“Apparently.” He shifts, letting the pillow slide off his lap and onto the floor. “It’s exhausting. This… all of it. Sorcerer life. Constant death. Even Shoko, who jokes all the time, has seen more than anyone should.”

You blink. That was… heavier than expected.

You ease into a seat beside him. “You okay?”

He exhales slowly, shoulders sinking. “I don’t know. Maybe. Just… tired. I think I’m always tired.”

You glance over at him. His eyes are half-lidded, lashes long, the curve of his mouth soft in a way it rarely is when he’s sober. He doesn’t look tired. He looks... open. Vulnerable. Like a wall’s come down you never realized he kept so high.

“I don’t blame you.” You say gently. “It’s a lot. And you carry too much of it alone.”

He turns to look at you, slow and deliberate. Then, all of a sudden, he frowns.

“You’re always kind to me.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Yes-No. I… I don’t know but it’s… dangerous.”

You blink. “I- what?”

“You’re dangerous.” He says again, more stubbornly, as if what he was saying made all the sense in the world. “Because when you’re kind, I think I might start hoping. And that’s worse than cursed spirits.”

You stare at him. He stares back.

Then, abruptly, he slumps forward and his forehead lands directly on your shoulder with a solid thump.

“Nanami-!”

“I am… resting.” He mumbles.

“You’re using me as a pillow.”

“You’re an excellent pillow.”

“You’re going to regret everything you’re saying tomorrow.”

“Mmm.” He nuzzles into your shoulder. “I regret nothing.”

Your heart is trying very hard to climb into your throat.

You let him stay there, because he’s warm and clearly too drunk to move. Also because you’re a little afraid that if you shift, he’ll say something else like “you smell like hope” or “I’d die for you” and your central nervous system will just shut down.

But instead, he sighs. “Why are you always the one I want to call?”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“You’re my first thought.” He says simply. “Whenever something happens. Good or bad.”

You don’t move. You doubt you were even breathing at that point.

“I don’t think I realized how deep it went until tonight.” He adds. “Until I was drunk and stupid and wanted to be near you more than anything.”

You’re 90% sure this is a hallucination. Or a genjutsu. Wrong franchise, but still.

Then he says something, very softly. “I like you. Too much.”

Your brain blue-screens.

You sit frozen on the couch, Nanami half-asleep on your shoulder, blissfully unaware that he just casually tore open your ribcage and planted a bomb where your heart used to be.

Did he really just say he likes you? Too much? You think as you turn your head slightly to look at him.

He’s completely relaxed now. Eyes closed, lips parted slightly in sleep, his breath slow and warm against your collarbone. He’s practically draped over you, and if it were anyone else, you’d be tempted to shove them off. But it’s him. And the truth is, you don’t want to move.

You also don’t want to believe any of this.

Because if it’s the alcohol talking… if he wakes up tomorrow and doesn’t remember, or worse, regrets it…

Well. That would hurt more than any curse ever could.

Still, there’s something oddly comforting about this moment. Like the world has paused for just a second and let you peek behind the curtain of Nanami Kento. The real one. Not the stoic salaryman exorcist, but the man underneath, tired and careful and too full of feelings he doesn’t know how to carry.

You gently brush a bit of hair from his forehead and whisper. “I like you too, you idiot.”

Of course, he chooses that exact moment to mutter, “You’re warm. Don’t move.”

You laugh under your breath. “You’re basically a weighted blanket. I couldn’t move even if I wanted to.”

——————————————————————————

When morning comes, Nanami wakes up with the intensity of a man realizing he's made several poor life choices the night before.

He sits bolt upright on your couch, disheveled and groggy, blinking at the glass of water on the table and the blanket draped over his lap like they’ve appeared via cursed technique.

You’re in the kitchen, wearing sweatpants and making coffee like it’s just another Tuesday, which it is. Except for the part where Nanami confessed to having disturbingly tender feelings for you while wine-drenched and emotionally compromised.

“Oh no.” He says out loud, mortified.

“Morning.” You chirp, entirely too casual.

He squints at you. “How drunk was I?”

You hand him a mug of coffee. “You told me I smell like hope.”

He lets out a strangled noise.

“You also used me as a human pillow.”

“I see.”

“And confessed to liking me.”

His eyes widen behind his glasses.

You sip your own coffee. “Too much, I believe were your words.”

Nanami stares into his cup like it might contain the answers to life, the universe, and how to rewind time.

“I see.” He repeats.

You raise an eyebrow. “Do you want to take it back?”

There’s a long pause. So long you start to feel nervous.

Then, he speaks quietly, but clearly. “No. I don’t.”

Your breath catches.

“I meant what I said.” He continues, setting the mug down. “I like you. Not just in the soft, platonic way. In the ‘I think about you too much and care about you more than is reasonable’ way.”

You blink. “That’s… a lot of words for someone hungover.”

“I have regrets.” He says. “But not about you. Just about the whole karaoke thing.”

You laugh. He looks at you like it’s his favorite sound in the world.

“I was planning on saying something eventually.” He admits. “I just didn’t expect it to be slurred and with Gojo being partially involved in it.”

“Oh, don’t worry.” You say with mock cheer. “He’s already texted me three times this morning with quotes. And memes.”

Nanami makes a noise of utter despair.

“He called you ‘Simpnami.’”

Another groan.

You move to sit beside him on the couch again. This time, you’re both a little more aware of how close you are and neither of you pulls away.

“You know…” You trail off softly, “for a guy who’s always talking about professionalism, you’re surprisingly good at romantic declarations.”

He gives you a sideways look. “That was not a romantic declaration.”

“It kind of was.”

“I called you a pillow.”

“An excellent pillow.” You point out as if it made all the difference.

He huffs. “Please never repeat that.”

You grin, and before you can overthink it, you lean in and kiss him.

It’s soft. Gentle. Just a press of lips, like a question.

He answers by cupping your cheek, thumb brushing your skin, and deepening it ever so slightly, still tender, still careful, like he’s learning the shape of this new thing between you with reverent hands.

When you pull back, his expression is a little dazed.

“You’re even better at that than declarations.” You murmur.

He clears his throat. “Noted.”

——————————————————————————

Back at the school, Gojo is waiting with a smug grin and a T-shirt that says “Team Nanami’s Hot Mess Era” in neon bubble letters.

Shoko claps slow and sarcastic when she sees you both walk in together.

Nanami looks like he’s calculating how many crimes he’d need to commit to flee the country.

“You two are glowing.” Gojo says way too enthusiastically, the grin on his face matching that of an absolute sociopath.

“Drop it.” Nanami warns.

“Oh, I’d never.” Gojo wiggles his eyebrows. “I just think it’s cute that you finally got a life outside your nine-to-six martyr complex.”

Nanami sighs. You press a hand to his back, stifling your laughter.

“Don’t worry.” You whisper. “You’re still terrifying. Just… slightly emotionally available now.”

“Wonderful.” He mutters.

But his hand brushes yours on the way out, a subtle gesture meant just for you. And even with Gojo singing “Shot Through the Heart” again in the background, everything suddenly feels lighter.

Like maybe six o’clock sharp doesn’t have to be the end of his day anymore. Maybe, with you, it can be the beginning of something better.

——————————————————————————

Nanami doesn’t kiss you again until four days later. Not because he doesn’t want to. In fact, he very clearly does. You catch him looking at you often now, eyes lingering a little too long, lips twitching like they want to say something meaningful but the moment passes before he lets them.

No, the delay isn’t about doubt. It’s about precision. Nanami doesn’t do things impulsively. Even when he’s accidentally confessing under the influence of a drink named after sea creatures, he somehow makes it poetic. That’s just who he is.

So when he shows up at your door after work on Friday , six o’clock sharp, of course, with a bouquet of shockingly tasteful flowers and a bottle of wine he swears is not from the Drunken Cephalopod, you know something’s up.

“You’re either here to propose or kill me.” You joke as you let him in.

“Neither.” He says. “Though I do appreciate your morbid sense of humor.”

He sets the flowers down on your kitchen counter and gives you a look that could melt steel.

“I’m here” He says. “to properly ask you on a date. A sober, intentional, well-planned date. With no cursed cocktails, and absolutely no Gojo.”

“That last part is crucial.”

“I thought so.”

You lean against the counter, smiling. “Okay, Mr. Intentional. Where would this theoretical date take place?”

He actually pulls out a folded list from his jacket pocket. “I did some research.”

You laugh. “Of course you did.”

“According to my sources, a café with low ambient noise and limited foot traffic would be ideal for uninterrupted conversation. Also, they serve excellent pastries.”

“Let me guess. Your source was Shoko?”

He hesitates. “Tengen, actually.”

You pause. “Tengen?”

“I didn’t ask directly. I asked Ijichi, who asked someone else, who apparently-”

“You crowdsourced our date venue.”

“It was efficient.”

You want to tease him. Really, you do. But the earnestness in his face makes your heart ache in the best possible way.

“Okay.” You say. “Pastries and low ambient noise sound perfect.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for four days. “Good.”

——————————————————————————

The date is, of course, perfect.

He’s polite and charming and still slightly awkward in a way that’s so deeply Nanami it makes you want to pinch his cheeks and ruin his whole stoic aesthetic.

At one point, you catch him watching you over the rim of his coffee cup, a soft, rare smile tugging at his lips.

“What?” You ask, trying not to blush.

“I’m wondering if I get to do this more than once.”

You pretend to think. “Hmm… I guess that depends on whether you ever let me pick the venue.”

“Absolutely not. Gojo might sabotage it.”

“True.”

He sets his cup down and leans in slightly. “I wasn’t exaggerating the other night. I really do think about you too much.”

Your heart stutters.

“I think that’s allowed now.” You whisper.

He nods. “Good. Because I don’t want to stop.”

——————————————————————————

By the following week, it’s an open secret.

Utahime just smiles knowingly when she sees you both arrive to a mission together. Shoko pretends to be scandalized, but hands Nanami a pack of gum with a smirk and speaks. “For when you start making out behind convenience stores like teenagers.”

Gojo is the worst.

“Hey, lovebirds!” He yells across the courtyard one day. “Need me to officiate yet? I already picked out my robe!”

Nanami doesn’t respond. He just grabs your hand and walks away like he didn’t hear anything. You follow without protest.

“You know…” You say after a beat. “he’s not going to stop.”

“I know.”

“He’s going to be so much worse when we move in together.”

Nanami stops walking.

You freeze. “I mean-! Hypothetically! Someday! In the distant, really distant-”

He squeezes your hand. “I’d like that.”

You blink.

He looks at you with that same warm, unreadable expression he wears when evaluating cursed spirits. Except he is softer, gentler. “When the time is right.”

You try not to beam like an idiot. Fail spectacularly.

——————————————————————————

A few days later, after a long mission and a longer nap at his place, you find yourself in his bed, tangled up in sheets and warmth and the quiet comfort of someone who finally lets himself rest when you’re near.

“You know what’s weird?” You murmur into his shoulder.

“Hm?”

“This all started because you got drunk.”

He chuckles low in his chest. “I was emotionally ambushed.”

“By alcohol?”

“By Gojo, which is worse.”

You hum in agreement.

“But I was lucky.” He adds after a moment.

“Because you didn’t end up vomiting on my couch?”

“No.” He tilts his head, brushes his lips against your forehead. “Because you came.”

You press your face into his chest, smiling like a fool. “Of course I did.”

“And you stayed.”

“You made that part pretty easy.”

He pulls you closer. “I should get drunk more often.”

You snort. “Don’t you dare.”

He laughs again, soft and fond, and the sound settles deep in your chest like a secret only you get to keep.

You fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, steady and warm beneath your cheek, and think that maybe six o’clock sharp isn’t the end of the day after all. Maybe it’s the beginning of home.

Tags: @pickledsoda @noooo-onee @hawkwithsocks

Taglist is open so if you want to be added for future works let me know! :)

[sungiescheotluv]

can i call you tonight? ⭑.ᐟ park jisung

pairing: park jisung x gender neutral reader

word count: 1.5k

tags/warnings: fluff, friends to lovers, hidden feelings, incoherent writing of me being soft of jisung 🥹

summary: they say absence makes the heart grow fonder. in your case, your night-time calls with your long-time friend, jisung, reveal a lot more than the darkness of the sky.

notes: wow, wow, another post! wasn't expecting to post so soon, but i was writing for another project i'm working on and saw this post and said what the heck, let's give this a go! ☝🏾🤓again, this may be incoherent because i don't proofread this until later on (sorry for any errors) and because my feelings are a bit all over the place lmao. anyways, hope you enjoy and hope to see you soon! much luv <3

A lethargic film coats your eyes, the familiar sting of exhaustion winding your eyes shut. You should go to sleep. Quit this charade and call it a night. And yet, in the darkness of your bedroom, you pat against the soft expanse of your sheets, feeling around for a phone so bright you squint when brought to eye level.

No new notifications.

You huff into your pillow, definitely not pouting. Your long-time friend, Jisung, is away, chasing his dreams with his closest friends, NCT Dream, who are currently on tour. A busy year filled to the brim with schedules make it hard to keep in touch, much less meetup, but Jisung makes the effort. Whether it's at the crack of dawn or late into night, you can always rely on a call from him, explaining his day's events and asking about yours. You work odd hours, sleep odd hours too, so in a way, despite the distance between you, things still work like they had all those years ago.

From what he last texted you, he’d be able to call you in three hours - after the concert. It's a battery in your back, lighting up from a long day at work. It’d be late for you, but it didn’t matter. You wanted to hear from him -  his muffled chuckles at your lame jokes, his endless interest in what you were up to (even if it was never as interesting) and have his deep voice lull you to sleep. It was like he was right there with you, shrouded in the lowlights of your room, holding you close and never letting go. Not oceans away, not out of your grasp and out of your mind.

Just as you’d given up on his call, your phone buzzes against your pillow, the lowtone reserved for Jisung. With a tired groan, you press Accept.

“Did I wake you?”

It’s amazing what years spent together did to you two, no need for words to convey any and all thoughts. Well, some of them anyways.

“No, I was just dozing off,” you mumble. “How was the concert?”

“Good. The energy was threw the roof, the guys and I really enjoyed ourselves,” Jisung falls into his routine, back supported by a heaped blanket with his phone against his chest. “How was your day?”

“Same old, same old,” you huff. “Any interesting signs?”

“None if you don’t tell how your day went,” he argues, and you roll your eyes.

Classical Jisung. Always attentive, always seeing right through you.

You relay your day to him, pinpointing how gorgeous the sky looked on your way back and how he would’ve loved the view.

“The picture I sent you doesn’t do it justice,” you explain.

“Getting to see it through your eyes is good enough.”

You cough, momentarily caught off guard by how much that made your heart flutter. “Anyways, the signs. We were talking about signs.”

Jisung lags a bit, an unconvinced hum coming through before he speaks. “Not any I haven’t told you about,” he hums, the drum of his fingers thumping through your phone speaker. “There was one that asked me to put my ring on their finger.”

“If you gave away that wrapped nail ring, I swear-”

“I didn’t even give it to them, I just took it off my finger and had it in the air,” he chuckles, stirring something warm in your chest. “What are you talking about?”

A wave of sheepishness washes over you, face buried into your pillow as you mumble. “It’s just…a nice ring, is all.”

“You think so? I would’ve thought you’d prefer the Chrome Hearts one.”

“It’s nice, but the nail one's better”

“Oh, I see,” he teases, all-knowing and you hope he’s none the wiser. Hiding things from each other is not your norm, but when they involved feelings that could fundamentally change the fabric of your relationship, you tried to embrace change. Maybe some hope too. That maybe he wasn’t calling you at late hours because you were available, but because he wanted to be with you as much as you did. “That’ll be the first place I visit when I get back.”

“What place?’

“The jewelry store where I got the ring,” he explains, dull fingernails tapping against the surface of his phone. It’s one of the things he does when he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, a habit you’re sure he’s totally unaware of. Regardless, it soothes the elevation in your heart rate, tingles running down your back like hot water. “Well, first stop is your place, then the store.”

“Matching rings is a bit..”

“What?” he asks, in that low tone that makes you putty in his large hands. “We’ve got matching shoes, hoodies that I had to restock because you keep stealing mine and matching necklaces. I don’t think rings are much of a stretch.”

You couldn’t argue there. Especially since you curled up in your bed in your latest steal - a simple black hoodie that is oversized and still smelt like him. You couldn’t bring yourself to acknowledge how the faint scent of citrus, jasmine and him didn’t force you to count sheep. You also couldn’t bring yourself to admit the eruption of goosebumps over your skin when Jisung clasped the necklace on you, his fingers grazing your exposed skin in the process. It took everything in you not for your knees to give out right then and there.

“You’re only convincing me because I’m half asleep.”

“I see how it is. I’ll take it anyways,” he hums, a closed mouth giggle vibrating off his chest. It’s oddly intimate, being so close yet far away from him. “I wish you were here.”

Something ceases in your chest. Your heart? Your lungs? You’re unsure, but whatever it is has your eyes shooting open, a vague thump of your heart echoing through your weightless limbs. Usually, you’d be able to tread this line carefully, a tight-rope you’ve perfected to a science, but something about the darkness, the late hour makes you more vulnerable. More forthcoming.

You don’t deflect in a joke, or find some way to turn this back on him. You simply answer back. “Me too,”

You hesitate. “I missed hearing your voice.”

“Wow, I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me in the last five years.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“No, no - don’t go,” he chuckles, but there’s something in his voice that’s pleading. That makes you stay. “I guess, I just…that was sweet of you. Thank you.”

You turn your head, as if scorched by his loaded gaze. “Don’t mention it.”

A quietness falls between the two of you, one that doesn’t call upon ideal conversation but allows you to gather your cloud-like thoughts, to drift further into your dreamstate where in one reality, you’re able to confess your feelings and get your happy ending.

“If I fall asleep, just hang up,” you mumble, like the words escape you. “No need for an earful of my snoring.”

“It’s not that bad,” Jisung argues, and if you could, you’d roll your eyes. “It’s like white noise.”

“Are you seriously comparing my snores to white noise right now?”

“It helps me sleep, so I’d say so,” and then silence. Almost a deafening one, as if he’d realised the weight of his words and wasn’t sure what to say next. You gulped. “You know,”

“What?”

“You’re the only one I’ll talk to this late, right?’

You shift, suddenly hyperaware of every sensation inside and outside your body. “No.”

He hums, as if to say Huh. “I thought I was a bit more…obvious about things.”

That has your attention, your hand clawing just beside your lit-up phone. “Obvious about what?’

Silence again. And in all the years of your friendship - days spent indulging in sugary ice cream on sunny days playing hopscotch, running through your high school hallways to get lunch first, the prideful smile he had on your university graduation day - no silence has felt this way. Something other than comfortable, like the moment you teetered on the edge of your seat and held your breath for.

“You’re really gonna make me say it?’

And there he is, so sweet and bashful. Probably hiding his beautiful face behind his pretty hands, a downturned smile and flush against his soft skin. Oh, what you’d do to kiss the beauty mark against his cheek.

“Considering I don’t know what it is, then yes. I am.”

You have an inkling, because you’ve spent the better part of your life with him, but you’re not one for assumptions. You’d rather hear it from him.

“When I come back,” he starts, cautious yet earnest. “I’d like to take you on a…real date.”

“Platonically or?’

“There’s nothing platonic about the way I feel about you,” and you can hear it, the smile in his voice. And now, you’re the bashful one, again burying your face against bundled feathers as your cheeks burn like the sun. “What do you say?”

“That I’m glad I didn’t miss your call,” you chuckle, the leaps your heart fluttering against your chest that tickled with delight. “Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes,” you smile. “Hurry back soon.”

“I’ll be home before you know it.”

And before you know it, he's at your door, smile sheepish and ring in hand. His hands tremor ever so slightly and it melts your heart, your hands folding over his as you lead him inside, a new chapter of your lives together unfolding.

[crybabystilinski]

FIRST TIME

pairing — bsf!stiles x bsf!reader

warnings — 18+ minors dni. sexual content. oral f!recieving, fingering, stiles cums in his boxers, implies going further

word count — 1.4k

a/n — don’t mind the gif being malia in both posts, their scenes just work well😭 also this is actually my first time writing smut ever sooo don’t judge too harshly lol part two of this

how you got yourself in this position? you weren’t exactly sure. well, you obviously know how you got in this position, but doing it with your ’best friend’? what the hell happened?

as you walked up the stairs, your confidence was slowly fading. you honestly hadn’t expected stiles to want to kiss you, much less anything else.

but here you were, standing in his room together.

him shirtless.

his dad was at the station, so there were no worries about that part going wrong. but it didn’t help to ease the nerves. him not locking the door? was he being polite or was he just not worried about it? were you overthinking things?

going against everything in you telling you to stop, you walked up to stiles and reached behind him. locking the door, your eyes on his, you knew he would get the message.

he smiled at you—boyish and shy at once—but didn’t move.

“stiles.” you breathed out, fighting a smile.

“hm?”

“you know you have to touch me to do this?”

he sputtered out a mess of incoherent vowels and sounds, his cheeks burning a deep pink.

“i know that, obviously.”

you simply laughed, grabbing his hand and spinning you around to face his bed. walking him backward with your hands to his chest until his legs hit the mattress, he quickly sank down.

“i think i’m gonna bust in my pants if you don’t stop.”

he popped a cheeky grin, no shame in his face.

“do you want me to stop?”

he shook his head quickly. “please don’t.”

you grabbed his hands again, leading them to your hips. “i need you to touch me, stiles.”

he nodded, a hesitant guilt behind his eyes when he gripped your waist harder. “that’s ok?”

“mhm.”

you straddled his lap, your thighs on either side of his. his hard bulge pressed right against your clit, adding pressure of indescribable pleasure. stiles heard the squeak you failed to surpress, and in turn you felt his pants twitch.

“sorry.” he mumbled.

“don’t apologize.” you shook your head as you leaned in to kiss him again. he could feel the subconscious rock of your hips against his, causing his already throbing cock to strain more.

but the moment you tugged on a strand of his hair?

something in him switched.

he (gently) flipped you over, shuffling around until he found himself pressed between your legs. his nose tickled your neck as he nibbled and sucked at a soft spot just under your jaw. “jesus, stiles.” you breathed out heavily, a slight whine to your voice that had stiles reeling.

but it also worried him.

“not good?” he asked breathlessly as he pulled back.

you couldn’t resist a giggle at him. your best friend, so so sweet and considerate, but he was completely lost when it came to stuff he joked about every hour of the day. it was surprising how little confidence he had about it, especially since it’s a frequent topic on his mind and tongue.

oh, his tongue.

you were excited to find out how he used that one.

you shook your head, mind still focused entirely on him. his pressure, his warm mouth, his hazel eyes staring into yours, his pinkish nose and even pinker lips. “all good. promise.”

he smirked, nodded, and restarted his process.

smug bastard.

he was at your collarbone, slowly working his way down. when he eventually got to your tits with his mouth, he also started to push up your tanktop. he was testing. making sure he could take it off without more questions, since he felt more stupid at each one he asked.

you nodded, leaning up to fully take it off.

you laid back down in just your lacy red bra, not once breaking eye contact with stiles as his hand slid up your arched back. he stopped when he reached your bra, then fumbled with the hooks until they released.

your bra dipped forward, just barely hanging on by your arms.

he slowly dragged it off, letting out a gutteral groan when he saw your pert nipples.

bringing them into his mouth, he spent his time sucking and licking one while massaging the other, then swapped.

he mouthed at the skin between your breasts, tickling you with a stroke of his tongue. he pressed sweet, quick pecks down to your navel area, only taking a break to breathe and get oxygen back in his brain since his blood wasn’t going very far up.

you felt heat pool low in your stomach, a sudden urge for friction of any kind. you could feel the quick throbbing of your own pussy, silently begging for stiles.

“stiles.” you practically moaned and stiles grinned.

he leaned back to take in the sight of you. messy hair, pj shorts still on but no shirt, makeup just slightly smudged, lips full and swollen from kisses, and a few hickeys littered from your neck down.

his hands lightly trailed up your leg, from your knee to your hip, his finger dipping into the waistband of your shorts.

“can i?” barely even waiting for your small nod, he began pulling them off. he slid a finger over the growing wet patch on your panties. “so pretty.” he murmured.

with your small nods and hums in approval, stiles was getting more and more confident. his dominance was beginning to come out, and you couldn’t be more pleased.

not only because it’s what you wanted, but you felt proud.

he seemed to be getting more confident, in himself and what he was doing.

he leaned down further, his warm breath fanning over your pussy. he gave a gentle peck to your bikini area, just outside where you needed him.

just enough to feel good yet not be what you need.

and then he paused.

“are you sure? i don’t think i can let you go after this. you’re mine.” it came out kind of rushed and almost incoherent, like he didn’t actually want you to hear it, but needed you to know.

“i’m yours, stiles.”

he didn’t wait much longer before sliding your panties down your legs. he subtly pocketed them, and stuck a finger between your wet folds. he slid it up to your clit, rubbing, circling, full of pressure and slick.

you whined, not expecting him to be good, since this was his first.

but you greatly underestimated those long fingers you’ve had a million and one wet dreams about.

his fingers slid back down, stopping at your pulsing hole. you saw the smirk on his face as his fingertip first breached your tight cunt. letting out another whimper as he pushed it in further, deeper.

pushing in fully, pulling it out, repeating slowly and picking up speed until your body was ready for more, for faster. all while he sucked and licked at your nipples and began rubbing his thumb on your clit.

your eyes instinctually closed, only aware of what you could feel.

your eyes shot open when you felt what you had to assume was his tongue, which you saw was. he taking hesitant licks, flattening his tongue and giving just the right pressure.

“fuck.” you moaned a string of curses, enveloped in the pleasure.

he was licking, sucking, and still fingering in every way he needed to. he was a natural at this, and he was getting almost as much pleasure from it as you were. debatably more.

you didn’t even realize how close you were until stiles muttered a small, “come on, cum for me.” right before it.

you came crashing down with harsh tugs at his hair, noticing his own subtle grunts and groans. “that’s it.”

he only stopped when you pulled his head away.

“hm?” he hummed, leaning up to kiss you again.

you gave him a quick peck back, but pulled away. “your turn.”

stiles looked confused for a second before he looked down, then realized.

“oh. no, i already—”

you looked at his soaked-through sweats with a satisfied grin. of course you noticed him rocking on the bed, but it didn’t click in your head until that.

“you don’t want to a second time?”

he quickly shook his head. “i do, no, yeah, obviously.”

you laughed, reaching for his jean zipper. stiles had his hands up and spread in the air, unsure of what to do but watch. you looked up at him, smirking.

“i’m gonna bust in my boxers again if you keep looking at me like that.”

[vampydrabbles]

MDNI, UNEDITED SMUT AHEAD YOU'VE BEEN WARNED!!!!

simon riley x (fem) reader

cw: he's a little nasty. nothing too crazy- a bit of praise, a bit of degredation. p in v, some fingering, possessive simon

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first post here thanks for reading <33

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He stares down at you, eyes cold- unreadable. He keeps his hand on your hip, keeping your back pushed down into the plush mattress. He watches your chest heave, rough hand sliding down your thigh before reeling back- a loud *smack* and a yelp from you making his cock twitch.

"Pretty girl-" He hums, rubbing at the stinging handprint he's just left on you, a subtle apology before he slaps it again, making you whine. " So perfect. Look at you- " he growls, eyes raking up and down your exposed form. "You look so good for me like this, love." He leans down over you, hot breath on your face through the fabric of his mask. "Gonna be a good girl for me, yea?" He asks, his free hand sliding up to your throat, giving it a gentle squeeze. You whine and nod, body pricking with goosebumps. "I'll be good, Si-" you whimper. He's still looking at you with that dark gaze, and it sends a chill down your spine. That hard look is the last thing so many men have seen, a look thats feared, - and for some reason, that sends a wave of heat over you.

His gaze flits over your body again, before locking with yours again. Suddenly he grabs your hips, yanking you towards the edge of the bed like you weigh nothing. You barely have enough time to process the movement before he's running his fingers over the damp spot of your panties- those little black lace ones that drive him wild - his movements deliberate. Calculated.

You whine and tilt your hips up, desperate for more friction. He releases your throat to smack at the fat of your thigh again, leaving another stinging handprint.

"*Don't fucking move.*" he hisses, digging his hand into your thigh, keeping your hips pinned down.

"You said you'd be a good girl for me. Fucking act like it." His voice is low and dangerous, he knows you love it when he talks to you like that. You just nod and mutter out a "sorry". He seems to take the apology, at least for now, and palms over your center a bit harder now- just over your clit. You whine, but know better than to try to seek more.

"Good girl. You're learnin. My smart girl-" he hums again, tugging your panties to the side. His thick fingers find their way between your folds, dragging a moan from you when he rubs at your clit. You close your eyes, soft whines and whimpers tumbling from your lips.

"Fuck, baby, you're so pretty.." he mumbles. "You need it- need ta get fucked, love-" he growls. You watch as he fumbles with his belt, he can't get it off fast enough.

He discards his jeans and boxers on the floor along with his shirt and your clothes (which have long since been gone).

You move to take off your panties but he grabs your wrist.

"Leave em on, lovie. Wanna make a mess of em." He says, no room for arguement. You just nod, watching as he presses your legs apart, rubbing the tip of his leaky cock over your panties. You swear you can see the outline of a smile under his mask, but your not sure. He slips your panties to the side again, sliding his dick along your slit, gathering up your arousal. He groans softly. "Fuck, baby.. I'm gonna ruin you.." He hisses as he bullies the tip of his dick into you, drawing a mewl from you. It's always an adjustment for the first couple of minutes, no matter how well he preps you. He suddenly snaps his hips forward, burying himself into you with a groan. You let out a squeal, clenching around him.

"God, you take it so well.." he mumbles. He slowly draws his cock back out of you, his eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of you around him. "So wet- fuck-" he huffs. "Feels so good, love. My pussy-" he snaps his hips forward again, rutting into you at a relentless pace. You're just incoherent babbles and moans, hands gripping his biceps that flex under your touch. The sounds you make are obscene, the rhythmic "ah- ah- ah-" in time with the sounds of the headboard hitting the wall. He says he'll fix it, but he won't. Some sick part of him hopes the neighbors hear, so they know who you belong to.

He moans, fingers digging into your hips as he pulls you onto him.

"My pretty pussy- fuck, she feels so good- takes me so well-" he mumbles out. You're not even sure if he knows he's saying anything outloud, but it doesn't matter. His words make you even more wet, heat pooling in your tummy. Your eyes are fixed on the way he looks- his huge arms and hands keeping you against the bed, the way his brows furrow and his eyes squeeze shut. You wish you could see his face, see how his lips are parted as he moans.

"You deserve this-" he growls. "Deserve to get fucked, God youre perfect-" he huffs, his pace growing more relentless. He presses himself over you, his cock stretching you out and hitting everything at once. God forbid anything ever happens between you two- he's ruined you for any other man.

"Simon-" you cry out, mascara smudged, thighs trembling.

"Shh- you can take it. I'm so proud of you-" he huffs, pressing you down into the mattress more. His hands roam your body, feeling every inch before lifting his mask for just a moment just to spit on your puffy pussy, reaching down and circling your clit.

"Cum on my cock." A demand. The room is filled with the sounds of his breathing, of your moans, and the lewd impact of his hips against your ass. That heat pooling in your tummy shoots further down now, your pussy sucking him in more.

"Fuck- I'm gonna cum-" you cry, just in time for that white hot wave of pleasure to rack your body. You moan, hips bucking a bit, but he doesn't stop. He keeps rutting into you wildly, chasing his own high.

"There's my good girl-" he growls. "Gonna cover you, yeah? Get these sweet little panties all messy-"

You can feel his cock twitch and get harder, you know he's close.

"My little toy- fuck, she feels so good.. you like it when I use you like this, huh baby?" His chest heaves, and his eyes lock with yours. "Gonna make a mess of you-" he growls, his eyes squeezing shut again. He pulls out with just enough time, thick ropes of cum shooting over your panties and onto your tummy, his moans drowning out any thought you might have had.

It takes a moment for him to open his eyes, shoulders heaving as he gets his breathing under control. He looks down at the mess he's made of you, and you're sure that this time he's got a cheeky smile under the mask.

"Let's get you cleaned up, angel."

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[leeny-leens]

Knives Out (Wounds In) | BCJ x Reader

Pairing: bsf!Barty Crouch Jr x bsf! Reader

Summary: You accidentally stab Barty and he...asks for more?

Warnings: BLOOD, STABBING, INJURIES, Barty has issues,I've never dressed a thigh wound before, description of injury being taken care off, Barty likes pain (and blood), proceed with caution okay I'm sleep deprived

Content: Barty and the Reader are a little unhinged, Barty is having a crisis, Barty being called doll (courtesy of @vun3r4b13xwrites for this brain rot), not proofread or edited, Barty makes like one really dark joke abt dying but it's not too dark

WC: 3.83k

AN: this was inspired by a post of @unconventional-lawnchair and honestly idek what happened, it somehow spiraled into being something much longer and ??? than anticipated so have this. Also tagging @esotericloser BCS ya said ya want it <3

Being friends with Barty meant that there wasn't much that could actually traumatize you anymore when it came to gory horror. Oh no, you’re bound lose that ability quite quickly in his company, with the way he walked around looking like a splasher horror victim half of the time. He barley ever had an explanation for it either, always shrugging and mumbling something incoherent about where the blood on him came from.

So really, you'd say you're pretty desensitized when it came to blood and injuries, especially when it came to Barty being bloodied and injured.

Nothing however, could have prepared you for the sight of your very own dagger piercing his thigh, blood spilling and splashing on the ground and wall.

It's your worst nightmare come true; a loved one injured and bloodied because of you and your stupidity, though Barty would go on a tangent, chiding you for the self deprecating notion of that thought.

The boy in question, you just noticed, stood by the open door, his face pulled into a blend between amusement and a grimace of pain as he stared between the dagger and your frozen form on your bed.

“Damn Precious, when I said your stare could throw daggers at me I didn't think you'd take it seriously,” he said, painfully failing to conceal the wince in his voice as he joked.

The sound of his voice was apparently all your brain needed to reboot itself and jumpstart again. Immediately, you hurled yourself up from the bed, standing by his side in a few quick strides as you crouched down to examine the injury on his thigh.

“Merlin I’m sorry Bee, I was doing that stupid Charms assignment and- and you just came in and I panicked and oh my god are you gonna die?” there was seemingly no stopping you the moment you began to speak, the words stumbling out in no rhyme or rhythm as you tried to remember what little you’d learned about first aid.

In your panic, there wasn't much you remembered aside for needing to stop the bleeding somehow and making sure to keep his leg raised high, or was it keep it low to prevent bleeding? You couldn't recall it, your mind too riddled with guilt and terror at the vast amount of blood staining the carpet.

“You can't die on me,” you whimpered, tears barley held at bay “They're gonna expell me if they find out I killed you-”

The sudden realization of who your best friend was hit you harder than any hex you've sustained in your lifetime before you stared up at him with terror blown eyes “Oh my god your father is sending me to Azkaban for killing his only heir.”

This was evidently the straw that broke the camels back, Barty finally doubled over from laughter, his barking voice probably resonating through the entirety of the dormitory. His laughter quickly turned into pressed coughs as he tried to straighten back up again, mild gasps of pain escaping him in-between. Quickly, you're on your feet again, gently yet firmly guiding him to your bed and hissing at him to not put any weight on his injured leg.

To his credit, he let you push him around like a pliant ragdoll, following your instructions and keeping his pretty mouth shut aside for a few pained noises here there. His eyes flickered between you and the dagger, regarding the latter with a glimmer of fascination and you could tell it took everything in him to not poke at the metal protruding from his flesh.

“Relax Precious,” he said in an attempt to reassure you “ ’M not gonna die yeah? 'Tis but a scratch.” As if trying to convince you, he tapped the dagger lightly, smiling at you with that wide expression, his lips pulled apart so much it brought his dimple out. “See? I've survived worse,” he added, and to your utter dismay, it did help calm you down.

“Right, it's probably worse than it looks like” you muttered, taking a few deep breaths to compose yourself before finally gathering your thoughts to help him. “Okay, stay right there and don't move okay?” you threw him a warning glare before disappearing into the bathroom, occasionally glancing over your shoulder to make sure he was following your instructions. You knew staying still was hard for Barty, his natural inclination to always be in motion was one of the biggest hurdles he faced in his day to day life. He couldn't sit still for longer than a few minutes, not without bouncing his leg or tapping his fingers against the nearest surface or hell, rocking back and forth. Don't get him started on people telling him to be still, that somehow made it much harder to comply than if he tried to do it on his own.

He was however, trying his best to stay still, probably to not worry you more than he already had, and you appreciated his cooperation immensely.

Returning back to his side, you knelt down at the bedside and set down a plain white box and opened it, revealing various bandages, potions and vials along side bandaids and scissors of different types and sizes.

Barty decided to stay silent, watching your movements with an attentive, hawk-like gaze and arched his eyebrows in surprise as you grabbed the biggest pair of scissors, only to bring it to the hem of his pant leg, quickly cutting through the dark fabric.

“You know,” he said amused, watching you cut apart his pants “This is not how I imagined you undressing me for the first time would go, could've taken me out to dinner first at least.”

“You're so lucky you already have a stab wound,” you replied dryly, moving the fabric away to reveal the pale skin of thigh and barley held back your grimace at the sight of the dagger lodged into it. “Otherwise that comment would've gotten you one.” you grabbed a whole bunch of gauzes and disinfectant, slowly trying to assess how bad the wound was in order to decide your next course of action.

This was the part you'd feared the most, the one where you pulled the dagger out.

As if he’d read your mind, Barty reached out to take your hand into his, bringing it to his lips so he could press a kiss on your knuckles. “It's gonna be okay Precious,” he murmured softly “I trust you, you're bloody brilliant and you don't have to be scared of this.”

It was comical really, how he'd gotten hurt because of you and yet was the one to offer you comfort and reassurance. Had this been anyone else, you would've scoffed and thrashed against the gesture, but this was Barty, your Barty, who'd watched you overcome every obstacle in your life for the last six years, your Barty who knew you like the back of his hand and studied you like you were the biggest mystery in the universe to be unraveled. You could only nod in agreement, squeezing his hand tightly as you steadied your breath to pull out the dagger.

You vaguely remembered how Madam Pomfrey would talk up injured students to distract them from procedures, and you decided that if the matron of the hospital wing did it, it couldn't be that stupid of an idea to try out.

“Why did you come into my room?” you asked suddenly, and he leaned back into the nest of pillows you had propped against your headboard.

He shrugged, a lopsided grin on his face. “No reason, just wanted to see my favourite person,” despite all the years with him as your best friend, the response still managed to draw out an over exaggerated eyeroll from you, one that did nothing to mask the smile that tugged at the corners of your lips.

You questioned him some more, asking about his day and what he was going to do, and because this was your Barty, you knew he wouldn't pass up an opportunity to talk your ear off, the dagger in his thigh quickly forgotten. Fortunately for you, that meant you could pull it out with one smooth movement, granting Barty barley any time to register the pain before you began to press a mountain of gauzes against the wound. The white fabric quickly became a soaked, scarlet mess and you could hear his breath hitch at the sight, not the way it would've from pain, but rather from something akin to speechlessness. He watched you press against the wound, switching out gauze after gauze whenever it became unusable after soaking up too much blood, and he was sure the blood rushing to his head at the sight of your fingers gleaming with the red liquid of him was significantly more fatale than the stab wound to his thigh. There was just something so primitively alluring about the sight, your face contorted into a grimace of worry and concentration as you applied moderate yet firm pressure against his thigh, not minding how dirty your hands became in the process. It didn't help that it was him sullying your pretty hands, and he swore his soul left his body when you moved a stray strand of hair out of your face, cursing when you felt the blood smear on your cheek.

He wanted nothing more but to lean forward and wipe it off, perhaps clean it up with his own mouth just to see how he tasted on you, but he remained rigidly seated like a statue, his mind a battle field of desire and rationality.

You were none the wiser to his predicament, taking his sudden silence as a side effect of pain or shock. You took to murmuring encouragement and random things about your own day, partially to fill the silence and partially to make sure the boy was still rooted into reality instead of floating into the realm of dark memories, just on the off chance that the sight of his own blood and the feeling of pain brought them forward. You told him about the stupid Charms project you’d taken up for extra credit, letting a dagger float around in a coordinated pattern, and how you'd been sitting at it for hours on end before he barged into your room, startling you into sending the dagger straight at him. He made the occasional grunt of agreement or let out a snort at a particularly funny joke you cracked, and after a few minutes that felt like an eternity, the bleeding finally seemed to stop enough for you to be able to actually inspect the wound.

It looked worse than it actually is, not too deep and not too long, and your entire body slumped in relief at the realization. For a moment, you rested your head in your hands, muttering thanks to whatever might hear you. “Thank Merlin, you're not gonna die,” you said once you looked at Barty again, whose attention had been on you the entire time. “What a pity,” he replied almost too plainly, yet the grin on his face betrayed the self deprecating statement. “Here I was looking forward to bringing joy into my father's life for once,” you rolled your eyes so hard you worried they might actually fall out, and you could only lean forward to hit his shoulder with a warning scoff. “Don't be mean to my best friend,” you chided “That's my job, I can't afford to lose it in this economy.”

“So true, the prices are ridiculously high these days,” he mused, eyes glimmering as he watched you disinfect the wound and bandage it up.

“Exactly! I mean come on, 5 galleons for a pack of chocolates frogs? Do they think all of us are made of trust funds and old money?” Barty, unable to hold in his snort at your statement, reminisced how you haven't let it go ever since your last trip to Hogsmeade nearly a month ago. If anyone knew how to hold a grudge, it was his Precious for sure.

Absentmindedly, your fingers traced slow circles around the red, angry skin of the gash, careful to not press or touch anything that might elicit unnecessary pain. Barty’s entire body went stiff at the soft touch, so gentle and soothing, like he was made of porcelain and too fragile, the lightest press of your thumb against his thigh a breaking hazard. It was a stark contrast to how he was usually treated, but he’d come to accept it from you. While he hated being seen as vulnerable and weak — because he was everything but that—, he found himself relishing your touch and care, for it stemmed not from pity or underestimation but genuine care and love. And oh how he soaked up every ounce of affection you gave him, starved of it for his whole life but finding you there to give it to him like a steady stream flowing from the creek of your heart.

You took his stiffness as a sign of discomfort and swiftly withdrew your hand to stop the ministrations, almost missing the imperceptible whine of dissatisfaction that barely escaped the boy’s lips. When you stared at him with a puzzled look on your face, he greeted you with one of his own, cleverly covering for his mindless slip-up.

When it seemed like he hadn’t actually made any sound, you were content to get back to treating the wound, your fingers brushing over the tools in the first aid kit.

After realising the wound wasn't life threatening, your mind had cleared up significantly, rendering you able to think and remember what you needed to do to properly take care of the gash. You grabbed a bottle of blue disinfectant alongside more of the gauze, dousing the latter in the blue solution before pressing it against the injury.

The lack of warning, coupled with the sudden action, had Barty hissing and bucking in pain, even if the momentary sting left an aftertaste of pleasure in its wake.

You glanced up at him, your expression one of sheepish apology, before dapping the gauze carefully on the cut.

“’M so sorry, just a bit more yeah doll?” you murmured, your other hand coming up to rub along his knee. Barty wasn't sure what knocked out the breath out of his lungs first; the endearment, the touch or perhaps the sincerity and care that he could feel seeping into his cold and hollow bones with every second he spent in your presence? If getting stabbed by you meant he could have you this close, this warm and soft and attentive all for him? Merlin, he'd let you stab him over and over again, like he was your personal pin cushion.

He tried to keep the noise to a minimum, alongside the flinching in fear of losing your touch. The last thing he wanted was for you to let go of him, as selfish as that sounded. He quite liked having your full attention on him, like nothing else in the world mattered as much as he did.

Selfish and self-centred? Maybe.

Did he give a fuck? Not in the slightest.

A tap against his knee brought him out of his reveries, and his eyes met yours in a questioning manner. “Whadya say, darlin’?” he asked, trying his best to sound casual “Too busy enjoying your hands on me.”

His comment drew an amused chuckle from you, much too used to his flirtations. You never quite knew whether he meant it or not, all those playful jabs and nudges that toyed the line between friendship and something more, yet neither of you made a move to explore that territory, too afraid to lose what you had.

“I said I’m putting some of that scarring ointment on the wound,” you said, repeating the statement that had been lost on him. You’d already grabbed the small tub with the greenish paste. When you uncapped it, dipping your finger into it to apply it to his wound, you were surprised by his sudden recoiling, as if the mere notion of applying the ointment would sear his skin down to his bones.

“Bee?” You asked, surprised to see him flinch away from you.

He was mortified at his own reaction, not having had enough time to control his movements. He didn’t quite know how he could explain this to you, why he flinched away when you’ve been nothing but a perfect caretaker, inspecting and treating his injury.

Just as he began to sputter out a messy apology and an explanation, realisation dawned on you. You weren’t stupid, just like Barty knew you better than anyone else, you had the privilege of knowing him like no one else had. You’d watched him get into fights more often than you could count. You’d talked to him plenty about it of course, unable to just stand by as he destroyed himself, body and soul, over and over again. What had bothered you the most was him never properly taking care of his injuries, opting to let them fester and scar until his entire body was littered with gashes and cuts of various sizes. Over time, you’d come to understand that he didn’t necessarily enjoy the act of fighting itself, but rather how alive he felt with each punch, with each crack and broken bone. The scars were a testament to his existence, proof that he hadn’t been complete worn numb by life and its hardships. He liked the reminders, liked to look at them and trace along their edges whenever he felt himself slip away into the darkest corners of his mind, and you’d figured that this gash was no exception.

“You want it to scar,” you said, not a question but rather a fact. You watched as colour rushed into his pale face, mouth falling open and closing in a comical fashion. He could muster up nothing more than a nod, knowing that trying to talk his way out of this wasn’t an option.

Softly, you traced along the edge of the gash, your eyes never once leaving his. “Why?” There wasn’t an ounce of judgment in your voice as you posed the question, just pure curiosity and the need to understand him.

Silence blanketed the room as you patiently waited for him to answer your question. His eyebrows furrowed in that typical Barty manner, the one that made the silver piercings in his eyebrows more visible, catching the lights around him. When he spoke up, his voice was quiet, almost too quiet, as if afraid that speaking any louder might shatter both you and him.

“I want your mark on me,” out of all the answers he could’ve given you, this one was the last one you’d expected, yet somehow the most perfect Barty answer of them all. His love had always been that way, all teeth and scratches, leaving marks in its wake as evidence that he had been there. In the same fashion, it made sense that he wanted love in the same manner; with marks left on him to prove that he was loved.

It was crazy, really, how much you understood him. It should’ve scared you, weirded you out at least, but no such sensations arised. There was only love and understanding cursing through your body for the boy you called your best friend.

Emboldened by his vulnerability, you found yourself leaning in closer, your lips ghosting over the edge of the gash before pressing them down in a gentle kiss. “It’s alright,” you mumbled “You can keep it Bee, ‘m not judging you.”

His breath hitched at the feeling of your lips pressed so closely to the wound, mind reeling at having you so close, so understanding and so incredibly loving despite him being so himself, a warning in and out of itself.

“Does that mean you’d be down to giving me another one?” He asked jokingly, trying his best to lighten the mood by even an ounce.

“Maybe,” you quipped back, pulling one of the bandaids out to put it over the wound. “If you ask nicely, I might,” you grinned up at him, enjoy in seeing him squirm for once. His eyes drifted to the dagger, mind running wild with anticipation.

“Please?”

“Is that the best you got, doll?”

“Bold statement for someone who just stabbed me,” he retorted “And took off my pants without asking!”

With a snort, you stood up, patting his thigh softly before putting the first and kit on the ground to sit beside him. “Well when you put it that way, I have no choice but to oblige, no?” You grabbed the dagger, twirling it in your hand before you ever so slowly lowered it down to graze the skin of his thigh.

He was completely still beneath your touch, his breath shallow as he waited for your next move. There was no hurry in your movements, the glinting tip of the dagger barely tracing across his flesh. “What do we say when we want something, doll?” You asked, amused by the extreme change in his behaviour. You’d never seen Barty so complacent and mellow in all your years together, much less because of you.

“Please,” he mumbled “Give me another one?” Subconsciously, he’d leaned in closer to you, hazel eyes almost completely swallowed up by the darkness of his pupils.

A small smile tugged on the corners of your mouth, and not wanting to tease him any further, you pressed the blade into his skin.

You watched as he bit his lips, trying to the best of his abilities to not wince in pain and spurred on by the heat of the moment, you closed the distance between the two of you, crashing your lips against his. The sounds of pain he let out were swallowed by your mouth, moving in frenzied hunger as you let the dagger blade dig deeper into his thigh.

In that moment, you realised two things.

One: You were in love with Barty Crouch Junior, your best friend since first year.

Two: You were incredibly and thoroughly fucked, for you would go to the ends of hell for this boy, the same way you knew without a doubt he would do the same.

And here, in the quiet of your dorm room, your mouth on his and the distinct, metallic smell of blood, you didn’t quite mind going to the ends of hell if it meant you could have Barty by your side.

[rekino2114]

How would the ddlc ladies react to their partner telling motioning them over, only to be kissed on the forehead and called a good girl?

The ddlc girls' reaction to being kissed and praised

M/n:thanks for requesting someth-

A/n:Monika....what are you doing in my author's note?

M/n:it's been ages since you wrote something about me, I just wanted to thank the anon for requesting

A/n:they didn't request you specifically you know?

M/n:I'm sure they did that to not make the other girls feel bad, I'm definitely their favorite

A/n:just get out this is already too long

M/n:No way, not only do you not write anything about me for so long, but you also forbid me from breaking the fourth wall? That's literally my thing

A/n:Fine, I guess you can stay here when I write ddlc stuff if the readers are fine with it

M/n:hehe, good boy

A/n:...........

M/n:what? It fit with the post

Monika

It's me ˆᵕˆ

What did I tell you?

Is confused at first but just giggles and accepts it

She quickly kisses you back, on the lips this time, and you just start making out passionately

She also praises you back for how well you kissed her

"Hm? What is it darling?"

Before Monika could say anything else, you kiss her on the forehead

"Good girl"

She stands there for a second before a teasing smile appears on her face, and she giggles

"Oh, I see. Well, since I'm such a good girl"

She hugs you closer to her and whispers in your ear seductively

"Then you be good too and give me a real kiss"

She kisses you passionately as you two fall on the bed and wrap your arms around each other while making out

Yuri

Yuri.exe stopped working.......genuinely you might have broken her

She was already blushing when you kissed her, and she went the reddest you had ever seen her when you praised her

When her brain fully processed what you just said and did, she just fainted from emotion

"Is something wrong y/n?"

Yuri blushed as you got close, and her cheeks got even hotter when she felt your lips on her forehead

"Good girl"

Her brain short circuited when she heard you say that, she mumbled an incoherent string of words struggling to come up with a response

"E-eh....w-ha d-did you- just......w-what w-why-"

When she finished, she fell on the bed with an even redder face

"A-are you ok yuri?"

Sayori

She blushes for a bit before thanking you and kissing you on the cheek as thanks

Meanwhile, in her mind, she's processing all that:it actually felt really good when you called her good girl, you helped her discover she might have a thing for being praised

After this, she'll try to do more stuff for you in hopes that she'll get praised for it. It's really adorable

"What's up babe?"

"Oh, nothing, just wanted to do this"

You kissed sayori's forehead and she blushed but still kept her beaming smile

"Good girl"

"E-eh?"

"Oh, sorry do you not like that?"

"N-no......actually I kinda liked it.....a lot"

Sayori started playing with her fingers and blushing more, you giggled and pat her head

"You're such a good girl, you know that?"

"T-thanks"

Natsuki

She kinda ignored you when you first motioned her over, but eventually went where you were

She blushed so much when you kissed her, and when you praised her, she might have considered slapping you

She'll try to act mad at you for giving her unprompted affection, but she easily caved when you hugged her and started to cuddle (she's just a grumpy cat fr)

"*sighs* what is it?"

"Finally!"

"If it was something important, you could have used your words"

"Well, you still came so"

You pressed your lips on her forehead and watched as her face became as pink as her hair

"I guess you're still a good girl"

"W-what did you just call me you idiot?"

"Good girl, is there a problem with that?"

"Y-yeah there is, don't call me like that again dummy"

"I dunno, I think you liked it~"

"S-SHUT UP!"

[demontonic]

can you do a gn TASM smut with a more subby peter 🙏🏽🙏🏽 i’m living for men whimpering rn

I LUUUUUV MEN WHIMPERING BABE I GOT YOU🫶🏼

Peter Parker (TASM) x GN reader - Pretty Boy

You’d been teasing Peter all day, you always did. You had more than enough knowledge on his every like and dislike when it came to intimacy, but nothing could’ve prepared you for today. Peter had you sat on his lap as he showed you the pictures he’d taken last night on patrol. His leg was bouncing like it always did, usually he tried to refrain whike you were on his lap but he was too distracted with talking to you.

Eventually he went quiet, his responses coming short and quick and his leg had come to a stop. You leaned against his chest and looked up at his face, his jaw was tense and his eyes were trained on the small camera screen. It wasn’t until you moved slightly that you felt the growing bulge in his thick sweatpants. The sound if him holding his breath only confirmed what your thigh was brushing against.

“Baby I-I’m sorry I didn’t mean to-“

“Don’t worry pretty boy, just keep telling me about your night.”

By now you were in his room, laying in between his legs as he cums in your mouth for a second time. His teeth were biting down on the sleeves of his hoodie as your hand still pumped his sensitive shaft. The sounds coming from his throat were the closest thing to the sounds of heaven. His whimpers sounded so strained and desperate all it did was turn you on even more. His free hand stayed glued in your hair, gripping tight like you were the only thing keeping him on Earth.

“O-Oh ba- ugh fuck baby please I-I can’t.”

“Shh one more please Peter you’re doing so good for me I know you can give me one more baby.”

A quiet moan fell from his lips as his big brown eyes stared at you pleadingly. Yours were heavy lidded, high off of the sounds and reactions coming from the taller man beneath you. Tongue teasing the underside of his cock as his breath began to pick up again. A heavy sigh fell from his lips as he hesitantly nodded his head, your lips quickly finding their way back to his aching tip. The prominent veins pulsing in your mouth made your eyes roll to the back of your head. His hips jerked lightly before you pushed down on his hips so you could take his entire length.

“Oh- fuck baby wai- ohmygod.”

He mumbled incoherently as you continued to suck him off tauntingly slow, dragging out his torture. When you finally pulled off and began jerking him with your hand again his thighs flexed with every move.

“I-I can’t take it anymore please just let me cum.”

You pondered the proposal as his hands grasped at your body like a needy child.

“Fine, I can’t say no to my pretty boy.”

Your mouth made quick work of his tip, your hand jerking most of his length as your free hand rested on his sluty waist. His legs began to shake, his hips lifting deeper into your throat as he came hard. Your name falling from his lips like his saving grace, your ego being boosted miles above as he crumbled under you. His chest rose and fell quickly as he tried to regulate his breathing, his hands still holding onto you. A smile tested on your lips while he stared at you in a daze, like he’d never see anything more intricate than staring at you.

“I love you.”

“You better, because my jaw hurts.”

its really short but i wanna start doing small drabbles rather than doing 2k+ word stories! anyway if you want more from me check my email masterlist, I update it every time I post a new fic!

[mariwritess]

friend ⋆·˚ ༘ * Itoshi Rin x Reader

Hiya! This is my first ever fic, so I'm sorry if it's written in a weird format... I'm also not used to writing, so please cut me some slack

૮ ․ ․ ྀིა. I probably won't post regularly, but please enjoy!

warnings: none, apart from the fact that I haven't checked my spelling

trope: fluff, friends(ish?) to lovers?, past/present rin

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

To say you and Rin were friends would be an odd statement indeed– and yet, there wasn’t exactly any other term to define what you two were. Yes, you’d known him since nappies and drool-covered plastic dinosaurs. Yes, you’d known him when he lost his first tooth– the tiny, wailing boy rushing over to his brother for comfort. Yes, you’d known him when you’d started school– big, toothy grins plastered onto both your faces (your mother never really would get rid of that embarrassing photo). And yes, you’d known him when his world came crashing down into pieces after his brother– the very one who'd always make sure to ruffle his hair and soothe his endless worries– disregarded him entirely upon returning from Spain. You never really knew what happened for Sae to undergo such a transformation in such little time, and you had a hunch that you never really would. 

It had all happened so suddenly. You had chosen to stay behind– opting to give the brothers some much-needed time to reunite. Rin's room had never been anything spectacular; the deep, navy walls were scarcely ever decorated, save for a framed photo of his first football game with his brother– perched carefully upon his desk beside his monitor, and several trophies accumulated over years of playing alongside Sae. 

The gentle click of the front door was what had caught your attention, pausing whatever horror film you had found amidst Rin's extended collection. Your head swivelled towards the bedroom door, neck  rained and ears strained as you frowned; it was too quiet. No voices, no shuffling feet against the carpet, nothing. Something's off, you thought to yourself as you rose from Rin's desk chair and moved towards his bedroom door. Rin was never silent around Sae. 

Before you could even call out to him, the door had swung open– missing your face by mere centimeters. You had jumped back, startled by Rin's sudden entrance.

“Oh, Rinnie! You're back alread—”

Your words fell on deaf ears as he brushed past you, heading straight for his desk. Your frown lifted and your eyes widened, a cold wave of realisation washing down your spine as you had watched him grab the very frame he had insisted on keeping for years– and hurl it against a wall. The glass had shattered with ease, cutting through your screams as you had crouched in an attempt to dodge any shards. A sickening wail had torn through your throat in a desperate attempt to ground yourself. Fortunately for you– Rin had come to his senses reasonably quick, squatting down to your level as he mumbled incoherent apologies, trembling hands raised to gently stroke your hair. It was only once you had raised your head to look at him that you’d realised something had gone wrong– terribly wrong.

“Rin, what…”

The words had seemed, at the time, to shrivel up and turn to dust in your mouth, leaving a bitter taste on your tongue as you swallowed down the torrent of questions buzzing through your veins. Rin had let escape a small, shaky breath before glancing at you– his teal eyes now reflecting anything but the boy you knew.

“Nii-chan, he— he said he— I don’t—”

At last, your senses had returned to you as you hushed him gently and had coaxed him into your arms, your initial shock wearing off and leaving you numb as he had broken down the minute you’d held him, tears streaming down his face and soaking into your shoulder.

“Oi. Are you even listening to me?”

The low grumble of Rin’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts– a rather rude awakening from memory lane, if you will. You smile, giving him a (hopefully) innocent smile and a nod of your head– which soon turned into a sheepish mumble of an apology when faced with his ever-so-stoic stare.

“How on Earth did you pass the entrance exam with such a mediocre attention span?” Rin deadpans, looking at you as if you’d suddenly grown a second pair of arms.

“Hey! Who do you take me for?!” You laugh in disbelief, tossing your rubber in his direction (which he caught without much effort). You frown, sticking out your tongue in defiance before looking at him— really looking at him. When had he gotten so tall? Where’d the adorable pudge in his face go? And yet, despite the radical changes in his appearance, he was still here, with you, by your side. His hand no longer smacked yours away whenever you reached out for it, his knee no longer shifted away from yours when the two of you had mindlessly ended a little closer to each other than planned, and his eyes no longer avoided yours after being caught staring at your lips. 

Rin was your friend. You’d do everything friends would do, and sometimes more. Rin was your friend. Until he wasn’t.

[gumballavocadoharry]

Wisdom:

Harry, with his perpetually rumpled dark brown hair and kind green eyes, fussed over Yn like a mother hen preparing a chick for its first flight. Yn, equally endowed with warmth and a spirit as sunny as a summer afternoon, tried to reassure him, though a nervous tremor still vibrated in her fingers as she clutched his hand.

“Harry, darling, relax,” she said, her voice a little higher pitched than usual. “It’s just wisdom teeth. Millions of people get them out every year.”

Harry squeezed her hand back, his usually bright eyes clouded with concern. “I know, I know, but still…teeth being…extracted. It sounds rather barbaric, doesn't it?” He shuddered dramatically, then softened his expression, looking at her with an affectionate gaze that always made her heart melt a little. “I just want you to be alright, love.”

Yn smiled, touched by his unwavering care. “I will be. You’ll be there to take care of me when I’m loopy on painkillers, right?” She winked. “Think of the entertainment value.”

Harry chuckled, the sound warm and comforting. “Oh, I have no doubt there’ll be entertainment. Remembering when you had that slight cold and declared war on the pigeons in the park…” He trailed off, shaking his head with fond amusement. “I just hope the loopy version of you is as lovely as the sober one.”

“Impossible,” Yn said, her chin tilting up playfully. “Loopy Yn is a legend in the making. You’ll see.”

The morning crawled by with agonizing slowness. Harry made Yn a light breakfast of toast and chamomile tea, hovering around her as she ate, making sure she took small sips and didn't rush. He checked the time every five minutes, his anxiety radiating off him like heat from a radiator. Yn teased him gently, trying to lighten the mood, but even her own cheerful disposition was battling the gnawing anticipation of the dental surgery.

Finally, it was time. They drove to the oral surgeon’s office, Harry gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly, Yn humming softly to a pop song on the radio, trying to appear nonchalant. The waiting room felt sterile and cold, despite the pastel-colored walls and the fake ficus tree in the corner. Yn was called in after what felt like an eternity, and Harry was left to pace the waiting room, his imagination conjuring up all sorts of horrifying dental scenarios.

An hour and a half later, a slightly dazed but otherwise intact Yn was wheeled out in a wheelchair, a gauze pad bulging in her cheek and Harry rushing to her side. Her eyes were slightly glazed, but she managed a weak smile when she saw him.

“Hey,” she mumbled, her words a little slurred.

“Hey yourself, you brave warrior,” Harry said softly, taking her hand. “How are you feeling?”

“Mmfph,” Yn replied eloquently, gesturing vaguely at her cheek. “Like a squirrel stored nuts in here for winter. But mostly…sleepy.”

Harry helped her into the car, carefully adjusting her seat so she was comfortable. As he drove, Yn drifted in and out of sleep, occasionally mumbling incoherently. Harry, however, was completely unprepared for the full force of post-anesthesia Yn when they arrived home and he settled her on the sofa with a soft blanket and a pillow.

“Are we there yet?” Yn asked, blinking owlishly at the ceiling.

“We’re home, love,” Harry reassured her, gently smoothing her hair back from her forehead.

“Home?” Yn repeated, her brow furrowing. “But… but where are the llamas?”

Harry blinked. “Llamas?”

“Yes, llamas! The fluffy ones! They promised me llamas after the… the… toothy business.” She waved a hand vaguely in the direction of her face.

Harry suppressed a chuckle. “I think there might have been a slight miscommunication, darling. No llamas were promised.”

Yn looked deeply offended. “Lies! Big, hairy lies! They said! Fluffy! Llamas! For brave girls!” She puffed out her cheeks indignantly.

Harry knelt beside the sofa, taking her hand again. “I’m very sorry about the lack of llamas, my brave girl. How about I make you some tea instead? No llama-flavored tea, I’m afraid, just chamomile.”

“Chamomile?” Yn considered this seriously. “Does it come with… sprinkles?”

Harry had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. “Sprinkles? In tea?”

“Well, why not?” Yn demanded, her voice gaining a little volume. “Everything should have sprinkles! The world would be a much happier place with sprinkles.”

“You know what, you might be onto something there,” Harry said, playing along. “Sprinkle-infused chamomile tea it is! Hold tight, I’ll be right back.”

As Harry busied himself in the kitchen, Yn surveyed the living room with a critical eye. “This sofa… it’s… insufficiently sparkly,” she declared to the empty room. “Needs… glitter. And… and… feathers! Yes! Feather boa sofa! Genius!”

Harry returned with a mug of lukewarm tea, trying his best to keep a straight face. “Sprinkle-less chamomile tea, as per… uh… lack of demand.”

Yn took the mug gingerly, sniffing at it suspiciously. “No sprinkles,” she confirmed, her voice mournful. “Tragic. Utterly tragic.” She took a small sip, then made a face. “Tastes like… sadness. And… and… slightly damp socks.”

Harry choked back a laugh. “Damp socks? Really?”

“Yes! Don’t argue with me! I’m a professional tea taster,” Yn announced with an air of authority. “It’s my… my… calling.”

“Of course, of course,” Harry said soothingly, patting her hand. “Professional tea taster.” He decided to change the subject before damp sock tea became a recurring theme. “How about we watch a movie? Anything in particular you’d like to see?”

Yn’s eyes widened. “Ooh! Can we watch… the one with the… the… singing carrots?”

Harry racked his brain. Singing carrots? He couldn’t for the life of him think of a movie with singing carrots. “Uh… which movie is that, love?”

“You know! The one with the carrots! They sing! And… and… they wear tiny hats!” Yn insisted, her voice rising in pitch again.

Harry’s eyes widened in dawning realization. “You mean… ‘The Lord of the Rings’?”

Yn gasped dramatically. “Yes! The Carrot Rings! That’s it! You’re a genius, Harry! Pure, unadulterated genius!”

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “Right then, ‘The Carrot Rings’ it is. Though I’m pretty sure there aren’t any singing carrots.”

“There are if we want there to be!” Yn declared emphatically. “Imagination! Use it, Harry, use it!” She tapped her temple sagely.

As they settled down to watch the movie (which, surprisingly, Yn seemed to believe was indeed populated by singing carrots with tiny hats), Yn’s commentary became increasingly bizarre and hilarious.

“Look! There’s Carrot-do! He’s very brave for a carrot,” she whispered conspiratorially during a scene with Frodo.

During the battle scenes, she yelled encouragement at the screen. “Go, carrot soldiers! Chop those… those… broccoli monsters!”

And when the Ring was finally destroyed, Yn clapped her hands with delight. “Hooray! The singing carrots have triumphed! They get all the sprinkles now!”

Harry found himself laughing until his sides hurt. He’d expected some post-surgery silliness, but Yn’s imagination, fuelled by anesthesia, was operating on a whole new level of delightful absurdity. He watched her, his heart overflowing with affection. Even loopy and nonsensical, she was utterly enchanting.

As the movie ended, Yn’s eyelids started to droop. She leaned heavily against Harry, her voice fading to a mumble. “Harry… you’re… a lovely llama… fluffy… and… sprinkle-y…”

Harry carefully shifted her so she was lying down comfortably on the sofa, pulling the blanket over her. He watched her sleep, a soft smile playing on his lips. He may not have gotten promised llamas that day, but he certainly got a whole lot of laughter and a reminder of just how wonderfully unique and hilarious Yn was, even when her wisdom teeth were gone and her brain was temporarily scrambled.

He quietly cleared away the mug of slightly damp sock flavored tea and picked up the remote, switching off the television. As he looked at Yn sleeping peacefully, muttering something about sparkly sofas and singing carrots still, he knew this was a day he would cherish, not just for its comedic value, but for the unwavering sweetness and affection that shone through, even in her anesthetic-induced ramblings.

And yes, he decided, perhaps tomorrow he would buy some edible glitter and sprinkle it on her morning tea. Just for the sheer silliness of it, and because, well, everything should have sprinkles.

[covenofagatha]

it's me!! worm anon!! (confession: i wrote the whole thing on the train and had to squeeze my thighs together multiple times. horrible time to have to go to work)

i got a little scared ngl cause i thought i got too freaky.... glad to know so many people enjoy it 🤭

anyway, just wanted to chime in with the FOURTH installment of my brainworm (sorry covenofcovenofagatha), but consider this:

(cockwarming obviously, power bottom reader, dirty talk, jealousy, breeding kink, daddy kink, the usual)

after agatha riles you up (maybe because she's been getting a bit too close to someone else, and you decide it's time for *her* to get punished), she's left restrained on the bed, and you're sitting prettily on her cock. the rules are simple: she's not allowed to move, and more importantly, she's definitely not allowed to cum before you do.

you, however, are. you take the opportunity to remind her how full you are, so full of her, and how good she fills you with her cock. you play with yourself, rocking yourself against her while you play with yourself. one hand moves to squeeze your tits (and you don't forget to remind her, "wish it was your hands on me, daddy, but i guess you'd prefer __") while the other hand reached down to rake your nails under you, over the dip between her thighs, running them over her balls.

she's writhing beneath you, begging you to stop teasing, and her sounds just make your walls clench a bit tighter, resulting in her moaning louder as her cock *throbs*, and the cycle starts again. you're not sure how much more she can take, but she's holding out considerably well.

cooing at her, you mock her condescendingly, "daddy, your balls are so full, is that all for me?" and "what's got you so worked up, daddy?", while she mumbles incoherently about how you're most definitely getting punished for this, and she's going to spank your ass till you turn red.

maybe you decide that she needs to make you cum for each time she flirted incessantly with someone else, each time agatha showed up in her post with her arm snaked around their waist. and if that happens to also edge agatha all three or more times (you doubt she'd be able to hold out any longer), it's *just* a coincidence. she's reduced to mumblings, "i'd all the way up so you'd leak all over the house, bet i'd breed you so good baby", eliciting a "daddy, please, you feel so good in me", driving agatha absolutely insane.

the breaking point (and agatha) comes when you do for the final time, and you babble nothing but "mine, mine, mine", and finally, "cum for me, daddy, you're mine, fill me up with your cum, breed me" as you bounce on her cock. she groans before she holds true to your promise, and fills you with so much cum that it trickles out of your sensitive cunt, and agatha rushes to swipe it with her fingers (finally broken out of her bindings) and stuff her fingers into your mouth to suck as she ruts into you.

.. anyways, hope everyone has a happy lunar new year... i know what I'll be doing tonight...

-worm anon, with lots of love 💜

Oh my god 🫠 you have me absolutely speechless

I don't even know if the story I write is going to be able to be hotter than this request jesus but I'm going to try my best (you need to start writing if you aren't already)

Um yeah I'd say it's safe to say that people enjoy it

[comet-forgot-you]

handprints

river x fem!reader

summary: you cant let river walk home in the rain :/

warnings: 18+ pls. smut lol. car sex, strap-on use (river receiving), river gets called mamas, bottom!river, smoking, idk if theres more.

a/n: sorry for not posting in forever, i forgot who i was. all souls came out and i cant find any river fics so here i am. once again written in an hour, sorry. do not repost for any reason.

you stood in an empty alleyway, back pressed against a cold brick wall as you stared at the door you had gotten used to watching river come out of. you dig around in your pocket, searching for the pack of cigarettes you had just bought, before pulling them out. you open the case, picking one out and stuffing the box back in your pocket and lighting it.

as you take your first inhale, a metal door slams open. you turn your attention to the girl you had been waiting for, her focus solely on the stack of cash she had just received. you take the cigarette from your lips and exhale.

“river,” you call out. she turns her attention to you, fighting a smile. she stuffs the money into her pocket and walks over to you.

“y/n,” she mumbles, taking the cigarette from your fingers. she places it between her lips. “what are your doing here?”

you smile, looking away from her for a split second before returning your gaze to her. “had to make sure a pretty girl i know didnt walk home in the rain,” you tease. she rolls her eyes, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

“ahh, my knight in shining armor,” she pokes back. you let out a laugh.

“right this way, princess,” you fake a curtsey before offering your hand for her to take. she smiles, slapping your hand away.

“you’re so stupid,” she says. she drops the cigarette to the ground, stomping it out before following you to your car.

-

“fuck,” she moans out, head falling back in pleasure. she presses her hand against your backseat window for some sort of stability as you fuck up into her.

you and river both knew this was going to happen. it was never just taking her home for either of you. not when you couldnt keep your thoughts from drifting to her, especially while you were on duty, and definitely not when you became the second person she looked forward to seeing after every shift.

you sneak your hand up her sweater, palming a tit over her shirt. river lets out a shaky breath, holding onto the headrest like her life depended on it.

your free hand moves from her thigh to thumb at her clit and river cant help the moan that escapes her lips. you roll her clothes nipple between your fingers, thrusting up into her like her high was the only thing that mattered to you. in this moment, it felt like it was.

“taking my strap so well, mamas. you gonna cum all over it? hmm?” you mumble out, rubbing her clit in tight circles.

“fuck, yes. yes i-“ a moan cuts her sentence short as your strap hits a spot inside of her that makes her see stars. “oh fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck,” she mutters it out like a prayer. “m’ gonna cum, y/n. okay? gonna cum on..” a whine leaves her throat as your cold fingers make their way under her shirt to pinch at her nipples. “your strap,” she mumbles.

you smile at her broken sentences. “go on, then.” you pull her hips down, the entire length of the strap nestled in her cunt, your fingers working wonders on her nipples and clit, she couldnt stop the orgasm that washes over her even if she tried go. she grinds against the strap, doing her best to ride out her high.

she mumbles incoherent words, her hand falling from your fogged up window to hold herself up by your shoulder.

“did so good, mamas. one more?”

a/n: the way i view/perceive characters comes from the way other ppl see them, so if yall dont think this is what she seems like, im sorry 💀💀