#spotted gum stain

[artoftimber]

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[luveline]

Hi, I’ve never actually sent a request before so hopefully this is okay, but maybe Hotch’s adult daughter calling him dad for the first time when she’s in trouble or hurt which could also open up an opportunity for Hotch to see her mother for the first time since he found out about her

You’re gonna throw your pants in the trash when you get home. The blouse is a loss —getting blood out of champagne material is a pipe dream. But the pants were unscathed until now. 

“Can you look at me?” 

You lift your pounding head. The EMT cups your cheek, her lips quirked into a deep frown as she raises a small flashlight to your eyes. “Just gonna check your pupils again,” she murmurs, shining the light in your eye. 

Each flash has a heated knife of pain slamming into your brain. You moan in pain and tip your head forward, wanting more than anything to lay down. 

“What can I do to make you more comfortable?” the EMT asks. 

“I want to go to the hospital,” you say. Surely they can fix the carving agony behind your face. 

“I know. As soon as the ruckus upstairs is clear, we’re going to take you there.” 

“I don’t want to sit here.” You grimace at the clammy stone under your legs. The subway is not a good place to touch things. 

“It’ll be over soon. There’s a heavy police presence. You’ll be okay.” 

“Got blood on my shirt,” you mumble. 

“I’m sure someone will wash it for you.” 

“My dad,” you say without thinking. 

If you asked, Aaron would wash the blood from your shirt. He could buy you a whole new wardrobe and he would if you let him, but he would just as happily stand at the sink scrubbing away your stains. 

“Ah, Mr. Hotchner,” the EMT says. “I’ve heard about him, I think we all have. He’s a very important man.” 

“He’s just my dad,” you whisper. 

You’re not really talking to her anymore, the thumping pain behind your eyes a wave you can’t get past. It hurts with every breath. When you hold out your hand, the EMT knows without asking that you’re going to throw up. 

She’s more alarmed after that. “Okay, I’m gonna take you upstairs now, okay? I’m sorry there’s no gurney, but we just have to get to the top of the stairs.” 

Each step sucks. You taste blood and vomit alike on your tongue, the daylight is too bright as you ascend the steps, and the EMT isn’t taking enough of your weight. You moan something incomprehensible even to yourself on the second to last step and cover your eyes, aware of the sirens, the roaring crowds, glass shattering at your feet. 

“Shit,” the EMT says. 

You search for your phone blindly, your hand lost in a pocket full of gum wrappers and tissue. “I don’t have my bag... I want my phone. Need to call my dad.” 

“It’s okay,” she says, giving you an encouraging jostle to look out at the clearing sidewalk. “I can see him.” 

Aaron is speed-walking through the crowd. He’s surrounded by people in Kevlar vests, but he himself wears nothing more than his usual suit and tie. His face changes when he sees you from glaring to a strange flitting panic. 

“Are you all right?” he asks, jogging those last few metres to take you by the elbows. “Sweetheart, are you all right?” 

Your eyes are tired. “Somebody hit me,” you say. 

“I know.” His sympathy is warm, his hand smoothing up your arm as he turns on the spot. “Morgan, can we get better access down this street?” 

One of the Kevlar vests doubles back the way they came. You’re trying to make sense of who you’re seeing, and what’s happening, but the confusion since you got hurt is enthusiastic. You can’t make sense of anything but the splitting pain in your head. 

Aaron’s talking five miles a second and ushering you up those last few steps, a gentleness to his touch that’s absent in his barked commands. 

You’ve never heard him shout like that. You can’t help staring at him. 

“This is an attempted insurrection. The aggression is only going to get worse. JJ, see if you can coordinate with metro PD, make sure there aren’t any other injured civilians in the subway. Dave, I need you to run the operation while I go with her.” 

“Aaron,” you say, watching his frown deepen. 

“Reid, you’re with JJ. Prentiss, I want you to find who laid hands on her–”

“Aaron,” you say again, shocked. 

He gives your arm a placating squeeze. 

“They could still be here.” Everything he says is unarguable. He’s suddenly a monolith, and he’s freaking you out, and you’re no closer to being in the back of the ambulance than you had been ten minutes ago. “Have Garcia pull the security footage–”

“Dad,” you say in a short breath, your hand grasping weakly at his arm. 

He falls silent for a moment. The agent you’re unfamiliar with becomes the man who brings you teddy bears at dinner and sends encouraging missives in the morning. 

“What, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” he asks. Not gentle, but hushed.

“I think I’m gonna be sick again.” 

The EMT passes you a paper bag. 

—

You could hear a pin drop in your hospital room. Your broken nose has its own heartbeat, but that’s a feeling, rather than a sound. Aaron hasn’t spoken in a long time, he just sits there with his hand on your arm, waiting for a cue you don’t give. You’re so embarrassed about calling him dad you’ve decided to never speak to him again. 

His hand occasionally comes to life, giving your arm a soft up and down. 

It’s strange to suddenly have a father, but not bad. His paternal caring is a comfort with all the pain, and it doesn’t feel stilted. With Aaron it never has, he found out you were his and he immediately began to act like it, though you suppose you’ll never know how he would’ve loved you as an adult if he’d known you as a child. This feels genuine. Careful, but genuine. 

“Time to take it off,” he says. 

You meet his eyes. 

“The ice pack,” he explains. 

You drop it onto your leg, and he takes it and sets it on the rollover table instead. 

“You can come and stay with me for a few days,” he suggests quietly.

“I’ll be okay.” 

“Your mom’s working. I can take the time off.”

You give him a dubious look. “And then you’ll get called away and it’ll be just me and Haley in the house. That won’t be awkward at all.” 

He shakes his head. “You’re hurt. You’re gonna feel dizzy for at least another day, and that’s not thinking about how hard it’s gonna be to breathe for a while. I’ll stay home, and you can get familiar with my guest room.” 

“You don’t have to look after me.” 

“But I want to.” He holds your wrist. “I know we aren’t a conventional father and daughter…” His brow furrows, and he looks at your hand just below his rather than your face. “I want the chance to look after you. How many times were you sick as a kid? Hundreds of times. Mostly colds, a runny nose. Maybe you– maybe you broke your arm, I don’t know. But I wish I did. I owe it to you to take care of you now.” 

You give him a small smile as he raises his head. 

“Just think about it,” he says, “we’ll be here all night anyways.” 

“You can go home.” 

“Don’t be difficult,” he says, his sincerity swapped for teasing as he stand. “I have to go find you something to eat.”

He stoops to give you a warm hug across your shoulders. You should want it to be over quickly, you smell like blood and sick and sweat, your clothes are ruined, and you’re not used to him seeing you like this, but let the feeling of his hand on your back persuade you into closing your sore eyes. 

“Okay?” he asks. 

“I’m okay.” 

“Okay. I need to do a lap before your mother gets here anyhow. I might… be more unkind than I plan on being, otherwise.” 

You laugh at his half-joke and hurt your face. He is very sorry. 

[thedragonagelesbian]

it's edited! but im sleepy so uhhh posting tomorrow if the dentist doesnt kill me.

Class got out early so im gonna try to get the cyrusXvarric fic edited tonight!!

[avocado-writing]

Idk if you know Mortal Kombat, especially mileena (she's my favorite) but may I please get a Wolverine and/or Deadpool with a gf who has a mutation like Mileena.

She thinks she's ugly when she uses it but the boys think otherwise 🎀

(I'M LITERALLY IN HEAT EVERYTIME I THINK ABOUT THEM)

This is (my wife) Mileena

When Wade fights with you at his side, your carnage is always prefaced with a quiet request. 

“Please don’t look.”

And, because he is fundamentally a good dude, he doesn’t.

Fuck. He really wants to, though.

The noises that you make when he turns his back to focus on a different opponent are… interesting. It sounds like a bunch of really wet celery being snapped in half to a symphony of screams. When he’s done slicing people into teeny tiny chunks he turns around and sees you standing there in a pool of blood, trying to get the stain of it off your jacket.

He’s never been so curious about something in his entire life.

You’re so lovely. Loveliest thing he’s ever met. How the fuck he managed to convince you to give him a chance he’ll never know. God, the stars, and luck must have all been on his side that day, when after you’d finished taking down a cartel he’d asked you to grab a coffee and you’d said yes. Ever since then it’s been great. He loves spending days on window-shopping dates with you, fingers intertwined as he leaves you breathless with laughter; lazing on his sofa with some stupid rom-com playing with a bucket of popcorn between you both; snuggled in his usual corner booth at his favourite pizza place playing footsie beneath the table.

Perfect. You are perfect in every way.

So if all it takes is looking away when you ask him to then it’s a pretty easy compromise.

Unfortunately what you don’t take into account is that he is an idiot.

Wade catches the sight of you in the reflection of his katana the next time you’re out on a job. He’s just liberated some dude’s head from the rest of his body and is cleaning his blade when he spots you. 

And he cannot turn away.

Your mouth is open so wide it could rival a snake’s. Rows of jagged teeth which help you dismember the man who has been caught in the vine of your tongue, struggling to get away as he screams for help. When your jaws snap shut the man is silenced. You spit out the remains of his face onto the ground beside you like discarded gum.

“Holy shit!” says Wade. You squeak when you realise he’s caught the reflection of you, covering your mouth with both hands as it returns to its normal soft, kissable line.

“Oh no!” you whisper. Wade dispatches the last guy who’s running for him with a well-aimed bullet before coming to gather you in his arms.

“Baby, hey, it’s okay!” he says quickly when it’s obvious that you’re about to cry. You look up at him with glistening eyes.

“But Wade, I look so ugly,” you manage, “I thought… if you saw… you might not want to…”

Be with me any more, are the words which hang unspoken in the air. Wade guffaws.

“Are you fucking kidding me? Babe, that was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen!”

Your eyebrows crease together in confusion. He wants to use his thumb to smooth it out, but instead chooses to wipe a tear off your face.

“Yeah?”

“Of course! Shit, you’ve got that fuckin’ Venom thing going on? Like Mileena from Mortal Kombat but sexier? Come on, I’d be a fool if I wasn't rocking a semi right now!”

This makes you laugh properly, from your stomach, and all your worry is forgotten.

“I shouldn’t have worried…” you sigh when you get your wits back.

“Nah, of course not. You’ll always be my boo, okay?”

You grin up at him, before an idea very clearly crosses your mind.

“Oh! That means now I can show you what my tongue can do.”

He isn’t proud of it, but that promise almost makes him cum in the suit.

taglist: @falsewordz @malfoys-demigod @belilwen @mildly-salted @tvwebs @childeslegstrap @getmeoutofhell @s1eep-o @just-a-beatlemaniac69 @yrthr @momopad @sugarplumz100 @captainjinkx @madspads @acrosstheunivcrse @yeethaw13 @na-is-salty @florduarte @hunterispunk @starfleetteddybear

[kamesama]

Hiii, I have a request! Ok so hear me out, what if Sukuna finds another woman and replace reader. make it as angsty as possible with a happy ending pretty please with a cherry on top🥹

you have no idea how excited i got when i read this, and then i got disappointed when i ( after my 3rd time reading the request ) noticed you said a happy ending. BUT SINCE IT HAS A CHERRY ON TOP, i will oblige. i would have made this worse if it wasn't for the happy ending.

— favourite: ryōmen sukuna.

— notes + warnings: *cracks knuckles* utter, sheer, disgusting sensation of feeling replaced; jealousy; mentions of self-loathing; mentions of intimacy/intercourse ( sukuna sleeping w/ another woman, etc ); implication of violence / cruel sukuna moment ( what do you expect? ); happy ending tho ( ? ); hurt/comfort ( ? ); unspecified but it's heian era / true-form! sukuna; concubine w/ an attitude! reader. — word count: 1224

oh, to be the apple of one’s eye — utterly adored, all-too-greatly desired, cherished beyond measure. irreplaceable.

oftentimes you felt like so, when sunken into the mattress for the sake of being ravished. when preyed on by an intense blood-hued gaze. when cradled almost gently upon the throne that was sukuna’s lap. 

but how foolish of you to think that you were the single person privileged to chant his name in ecstasy. how adorable of you to think that only your fingernails could claw down his back to leave incoherent trails of pleasure you always lost yourself in. how pathetic of you to think that it was solely your own luxury to occupy the spot upon his thighs. how audacious of you to think that your lips, and your lips alone, were entitled to the act of worshipping his skin; from the sharp angle of his jaw, down his beating pulse, across the expanse of his broad chest. how bold of you to think that your tongue was the single one capable of conjuring up tales that could tickle his fancy and shackle his interest and entertain his unpredictable whims. 

and so, you pondered. when another had come to occupy his chamber after dark, with her lush skin and silken hair and slender legs, you pondered, for what else could you possibly do, contained between the walls of your room? 

have you rotten already?

you’ve seen her march and stomp to his chamber, leaving an invisible trace of the scent so strong you could swear it still haunted your nostrils. her lips glistened in the candlelight as if coated with a thick layer of honey that she must have rubbed into her tongue and gums earlier that eve. she wore her eroticism proudly; the subtle arch of her mouth was an aphrodisiac of its own. 

the walls were always thin, but that night, they seemed thinner than ever. you could swear you’ve heard every gasp, every moan, every writhe. the curl of her toes, the grip of her slender digits at the sheets as her back arched in that wondrous curve. did his lips touch every inch of her body? from the saccharine spot on her neck to the delightful mounds on her chest? the thin skin of her hip; the lush softness of her thighs?

did his tongue utter praises of her performance, of her appearance, of her? did he claim her with nothing short of delight coursing through his accursed veins?

the sole thought made you so sullenly disappointed. your own bedding had never felt colder.

“you look miserable, woman. what is it with that attitude?” as blunt as ever, sukuna questioned, his knuckles sunken into his cheek as he watched you peel a pomegranate. despite the skillfulness faithfully coating your movements, your digits remained stained with the rich hue of the fruit’s insides; despite the effort to be flawless.

your lips pursed in response, a small sign of displeasure standing hand-in-hand with reluctance. perhaps you are acting coy — sukuna concluded — lacing your foul mood with a girlish act and bratty demeanour. not that it would render him surprised. rather, it tickled his curiosity, fueled his fantasy, and made him just a tidbit of something somewhat akin to concern.

“speak, princess,” he cooed, deciding to humour your wits with barely a mouthful of niceties. he leaned back in his seat, patting his lap with one of his hands, whilst one rested on the thigh of his other leg. the remaining two were crossed over his chest either out of boredom or superiority; or perhaps both. 

you wanted to disobey; to turn your head away with a huff as your fingertips dug into pomegranate seeds. to maintain your shred of pride, wearing your displeasure with a sense of dignity out of sole respect for all the umbrage and anguish lulling you to sleep on the nights when you weren’t worthy enough. 

but you didn’t.

almost too eagerly, you put away the fruit into a bowl to bleed, nearly crawling to his lap. despite the willingness of your body to nest so closely against his, however, your face remained with its little scowl, your eyes almost overfilled with chagrin. 

“am i not your favourite?” 

the audacity soaked your words, dripping heavily off them. sukuna sensed it; the thickness of envy in your voice, and all the more loathing that nearly looked like some deranged form of self-pity.

his slit brows rose up, his crimson gaze intense enough to have made you feel that — if he were to look just a little deeper into your eyes — he would see the way your hands massaged your own breasts as if to grasp whether or not they were shapely enough; the way you trailed one same line underneath your eye time and time again in an attempt to determine if sleeplessness has made you revolting.

“why should you desire another to warm your bed?”

a grin tugged at the corners of sukuna’s mouth as a sense of understanding weighed on his shoulders. a small hum of acknowledgement sounded from the top of his throat, his eyes closing as he took your stained hand and brought it up to his lips.

“so that’s what this is about,” he mused, his tongue shamelessly trailing across your digits to lap up the sour sweetness coating them, “jealousy is a pesky thing, little one.”

“i don’t care,” you scoffed, trying to ignore the way he gently sucked on the tip of your finger before looking at you, one of his hands absentmindedly caressing up your thigh through the silken material of your clothing, “it should be me. just me. i am the only one you summon to peel your fruits and to accompany you while you write, so why call upon another to please you at night?” you demanded. it seemed to amuse him all the more.

he raised a brow at your words and their curious tone, “you’re forgetting your place, woman,” he spoke coldly, yet the edge of his statement was somewhat softened by a dash of entertainment. nonetheless, it was enough to send shivers down your spine as his fingers sunk into your cheeks, making your luscious lips pucker. he observed your features; that small tidbit of defiance standing in defence of your vulnerability, your need, your craving. it made him grin with a certain kind of wickedness.

“but i do suppose that makes you my favourite,” he uttered, “no one else would dare be such an audacious thing…” his thumb grazed over your lower lip, parting your mouth open just enough to catch a glimpse of the pink flesh inside, “i could rip your tongue out for your insolence,” he cooed slowly, as if imagining your bleeding mouth, filled to the brim with crimson, “and you’d still be just as pretty.”

a shiver ran down your spine enough to make your bones feel frozen to the marrow, yet his touch left your body scorched; blood boiling with desire for whatever wicked debauchery his mind could conjure up.

“but i do appreciate your tales. very much so.” he spoke, easing his grasp on your face, instead morphing it into an almost appreciative caress.

the uncharacteristically gentle kiss planted to your brow seemed to calm your pounding heart for a mere few moments.

“perhaps i have some reminding to do.”

thank you for reading!

— kamesama.

[macfrog]

I miss our beloved scom family. How are they doing this fine day?

god, i miss them too. here's what they probably got up to today.

something blue 3.6k words | series masterlist warnings: y'all know the drill: being a mom.

Sarah leads Ellie, the way she always does, into the kitchen at seven a.m. sharp.

She stops by Joel first, squeezes into his size at the counter, and pushes onto her tiptoes. When he sidesteps to let her see (even though he point-blank refused to let you), she wraps two arms tight around her sister and hoists her up.

“Pancakes!” the three-year-old squeals, and loses her grip on her plastic dinosaur. He falls headfirst into the counter.

“Shh!” Sarah hisses, slinging Joel a disgruntled look. She sighs and swipes the T-Rex from his hand.

“The heck you lookin’ at me for?” he grumbles.

The girls eye you the entire walk over to the table. One as suspicious as the other. Sarah moves smooth, floats over to her spot with her chin skyward.

Ellie thumps at her heels, staring you down and almost stumbling into a chair.

“Careful, Nel,” you whisper, and her poker face cracks. You turn to Sarah. “I know it’s pancakes. It’s the only thing your dad ever figured out how not to burn.”

Joel’s shoulders jump. He swallows the laugh in his chest and says nothing.

Ellie sucks the chocolate clean from her dinosaur’s head. Last week, she decided his name was Bill. You, Joel, and Sarah are still trying to figure out where the hell she came up with it. Whoever he’s named after, she doesn’t like him much – not with the rate she lobs him around.

Kid’s an enigma. She suits it just fine.

She stares at you, still, as Sarah helps her up into her chair. Judders forward with each shove under the table. Comical, the two of them; like Pinky and the fucking Brain, you once told Joel – though you’re still not sure who’s who.

Your eyes drop to a stain on the toddler’s outfit. “You want me to wash that yet, Gagarin?”

She looks down. An arm swishes up to dab at the tangerine splotch. She grins, amused with herself, and shoves the dino back between her gums.

Sarah shakes her head. She turns back to you and flashes a trademark Joel frown. Eight years old and somehow, she manages to encapsulate the same fifty-six-year-old, unimpressed glower.

“Nel,” she turns, uttering between teeth, “You can’t wear dirty clothes today, remember?”

“I don’t think spacesuits are allowed at preschool,” you sigh as you push yourself up. “Much too sophisticated – huh, baby girl?”

Ellie giggles and flings her arms to the ceiling, sending Bill in a somersault across the table. She’s in nothing but pull-ups underneath the onesie – although it’s rare for her to ever be in much more than her pull-ups and, usually, one loose sock.

The suit means she’s feeling fancy. But what the fuck for?

All of Sarah’s leftover chaos, the magic she left in your veins after she was born, seems to have poured into her little sister. Smaller, mightier – more reckless, but not half as savvy.

Rarely seen without one of her prehistoric pals in her fist; evidence of what she had for lunch smeared around her lips. Chasing after Sarah, after Shimmer, after a butterfly that found itself trapped in her bedroom last month.

She scaled a chest of drawers trying to reach it. Joel caught her just in time. Some nights in bed, you can still feel his heart pounding from the scare she gave him.

Chalk and cheese. Sarah and Ellie. The former calm, composed. Candid and levelheaded, book smart and (alarmingly) wise beyond her years.

The latter – well.

It’s her first time on the planet, too, you try to remember.

You wander over to the washer, tossing the suit into the drum. You dig an elbow into Joel’s side and he flinches.

“Can I see yet?”

He turns, shielding whatever’s in front of him with a wide shoulder. “Not yet, baby. Not done.”

“You’re taking fuckin’ forever,” you mumble, pressing the words into his shoulder blade. From the corner of your eye, you watch the girls babbling to each other, scratching Shimmer between her floppy ears.

Joel twists, still hiding with his hands, and dots a tiny kiss on the tip of your nose. He smells like coffee and toothpaste. It still dizzies you every time he’s near enough for you to breathe it in.

“I’m almost done. Promise.”

You steal a kiss from his lips and smirk, stepping away. “Okay,” your eyes drift down to the counter, “If you say s…Alphabet sprinkles?”

His jaw slackens, moves like a bubbling fish. “Uh – they’re for – they’re for somethin’…Duck?” he clears his throat, “Tell your mom what they’re for, would ya?”

Sarah freezes. She stammers just like her dad. She does a lot just like him.

“A…a…a school project,” she says, and stares down at the dog.

“A – a – a school project?”

Your daughter nods. Still fixed on the smudges of sable around Shimmer’s eyes. “Bake sale.”

“You never told me about any bake sale,” you cross your arms, “What’d you make?”

She’s quick as lightning. “Cupcakes. But we haven’t made ‘em yet. Tonight, right, Dad?”

Joel’s voice is hoarse with panic. “Tonight,” he rasps.

You lean back against the counter, eyes shifting to the right. A different tactic. A rogue tactic, that’s for sure, but she has her moments. “…Nel?”

Your youngest looks up from her belly button.

“Not Nel,” Joel pleads, catching your eye for half a second.

“Why not Nel?”

His voice drops. “That kid would spill a state secret if you dangled a marshmallow in front of her.”

You tsk. “That’s mean. And wrong, anyways. The reason they have state secrets is ‘cause of kids like her. We should be proud, Miller.”

Ellie’s clutching the dinosaur when you look back over, chewing on his tail. She blinks back, and you wonder if there’s anything other than mastermind plans of mischief behind her eyes.

Joel says she has the same look in her eye that you do. Like you’re in on something the rest of the world has yet to catch up on. Twins, from the moment she stumbled ass over foot out of your body.

She talks just like you, and acts just like you, and – some nights, chatting sleepy gibberish under the slow turn of her rocket ship nightlight – you figure she must think just like you, too.

The perfect little riot.

Joel nudges you away, whispering, “Go on,” and you snicker, pushing off.

The sun combs through the room, glinting off cutlery and radiating from your daughters’ smiles. They chat and giggle and kick their feet; Sarah blows raspberries and Ellie sprays saliva all over the table when she tries to copy.

This is life, now.

You used to wake up to a silent house, sip your coffee and watch the oven clock count down the minutes until you had to leave for work.

You used to keep the radio on, even when you were out back – just to feel like someone was home with you. You used to sing to yourself as you flicked every light off at the end of the night.

Now, the laughter lives in the walls. It echoes even when you’re home alone. The oven clock counts down until there’s another pair of smaller hands in yours; until your man’s arms are back around your waist where they belong.

Come nightfall, you pluck odd socks and toy cars from under the couch. You tuck your children into bed, nuzzle your nose into their cheeks. You curl up beside Joel and trace shapes into his palm.

I love you, you write, some nights.

Dickhead, on others.

It takes a village, they all say. And sure, sometimes it does.

Sometimes, though, all it takes is two neighbors, a handshake deal, and a little bump named Duck.

“Woah, Nellie,” Joel chuckles, setting the first plate down. He clicks his teeth and taps a light knuckle on the girls’ hands, locked in a death grip. “Play nice. I got yours here, too, kiddo.”

Ellie straightens immediately. She watches, eyes fixed and glasslike, as her own breakfast is presented to her. And then she breaks into a wide grin, cheeks swelling. Her heels thud thud thud on the legs of her chair.

You lean over, cocking your head to see.

Two stacks of fluffy pancakes – a healthy dollop of chocolate spread on Sarah’s, and Ellie’s drizzled in golden syrup. Shards of strawberry and slices of banana scattered over the towers; blobs of whipped cream like clouds.

And on top of each, in clumsy sprinkle letters: Duckie and Nellie.

Sarah grins, two front teeth brand new and beautiful. She picks up her cutlery and raps them against the table, a nervous jitter about her.

You realize, just as her eyes flicker across yours, that she’s not beaming at her pancakes.

You realize, as he sways over to your side, that she’s beaming at him.

He’s holding two more plates. He sets his own down, a messy crater carved into the chocolate.

Your brows pull. “What happened –?”

“Bill happened,” he scoffs, shooting Ellie daggers.

She’s too busy tearing her stack apart, mixing a paste from syrup and cooked batter. There are few things the kid loves more than food and mess – and nothing she loves more than both at the same time.

She looks out of her mind happy, smothering the glossy mixture all over her cheeks, chewing in contentment.

“Like ‘em?” Joel asks, and you glance up.

“Yeah,” you laugh, eyes welling, “I love them. What’s the occasion, Miller?”

“Just…” his head wobbles as he considers it, “…we wanted to ask you somethin’.”

You turn to Sarah.

She’s still smiling, wider than you’ve ever seen. So bright that you worry she might shatter the glassware on the table.

“We?” you ask, smiling much the same.

She gives nothing away, and yet, at the same time – everything. Her knee bounces with excitement. Her breathing quickens.

“You wanna read yours?” Joel asks, tilting the plate in his hand.

You laugh, shaking your head. “No,” you sniff, “I’m scared.”

He lowers the plate.

The letters blur in and out of focus as you blink.

Red, green, yellow, pink. The second M is an upside-down W. The Rs lean into each other, chocolate pushing from the middle of the letters. A question mark crafted from a C and half of another letter.

Your lungs jump, though you knew it was coming. Though you’ve talked about it for months, now.

Let’s just get it outta the way, make it easier for the girls when we’re older. Few forms to fill out then it’s done. We don’t gotta make a big deal of it.

Can’t afford to make a big deal of it, anyway.

Wouldn’t want to make a big deal of it.

You’ve never been one for big deals.

This is a big deal. This is a big fucking deal, Joel.

All multicolored, flecks of whipped cream on them. Silly little alphabet letters.

Marry me?

Joel kneels as you swivel around to him. He kisses your cheek, takes your hands, rubs his thumbs across your knuckles.

“Look,” he says, voice trembling, “I know we said we wouldn’t make a big deal of it. But…you gotta let me make a big deal of it, honey. You gotta let me make a big deal of you.”

You laugh, tears spilling down the front of your shirt. Your heart is pounding, body alight with nerves or excitement or both, in one lightning bolt of feeling.

It’s everything you ever wanted, and nothing you ever expected.

“Everything I have –” Joel says, “– the kids, the house, the dog – I found it all with you. Because of you. I love you so much, and I can’t – I can’t take another minute that we’re not…”

His hands squeeze yours, and you swear you feel your pulses align. Beating together, two hearts on the same bassline.

He swipes the tears from your cheek, catches them in his palm. “…It don’t have to mean anything, I know that – but you, darlin’…you mean everything. What do you say we go do it?”

It’s the easiest thing in the world. And not just because you knew it was coming, knew to expect it soon enough.

Joel could’ve asked you the minute you found out you were pregnant with Sarah, and you reckon you would’ve said yes.

It’s easy. Loving him is so easy. Being with him is so fucking easy.

Coffee at sunrise, low volume TV in the bedroom. Skin and sheets, marks on your neck and chest and thighs. Laughter for breakfast, homework for dinner. Two bodies squeezing into one tiny shower cubicle, Joel’s hand over your mouth to muffle your giggles.

“Today,” you whisper, cupping his jaw. “I want to do it today.”

“Today?” his eyes flash over your shoulder to his daughters, “We gotta take the girls to –”

“No, we don’t,” your head shakes, “Do we have a marriage license?”

“Got it last week.”

“Then they come with. We get all dressed up, all four of us, and head down to the courthouse. We’re married by the end of the day.”

He laughs, loose and disbelieving. Shakes himself back into the room. “Today,” he repeats. “As in, right now?”

“Right now, baby.”

“Okay. Yeah, alright. Today.”

“Ask me.”

Joel’s cheeks lift. Tears disappear into his beard.

You lean forward, lining your forehead against his. “Ask me, Miller,” you whisper.

It’s no big deal. It’s a regular Wednesday. Packed lunches and dinosaurs with Nutella in their teeth.

It’s no big deal, but when he asks you, time stops.

“Will you marry me?”

“Fuck yeah, I will.”

Sarah takes forty-five minutes to apply your mascara, some powder, and a pink lip. She promises she’s being neat, and you tell her you don’t care – you’ll love it either way.

She says she knows, but she promises she is anyway.

Ellie curls up in your lap and twists your necklace around her fingers. She asks four times if her spacesuit is dry yet.

“Ellie,” Sarah warns – and you know it’s serious when she uses her sister’s real name – “You can’t wear a costume to a wedding.”

“Mama is!”

“No she ain’t! Brides are s’posed to wear white. Mama’s dress ain’t white. What you got on is fine,” she decides.

Ellie knows better than to keep arguing. She catches her heel in her hands, huffing. “Wanted to be an ass-traut.”

You catch Sarah’s eye. Don’t.

She bites her giggle.

“You are an astronaut,” you squeeze your toddler, “Our astronaut. Whether you’re in your spacesuit, or you got your big bare butt out for us all to see.”

She giggles into herself, a sound sweet enough to convince the sun to rise at dawn. Her baby teeth are small and wonky. She snorts, settles in your arms again, and watches Sarah lean in with the lipstick.

You lift your chin, holding steady. “Is Dad ready?”

She pauses, letting go of her breath. “He says he’s been ready the last half hour,” she mutters, and dabs more color on.

“Is he nervous?”

Her eyes lift. Eyelashes long and thick – black mascara that you made her pinkie swear she’d wipe clean the moment she gets home.

She smirks. It’s like looking in a mirror. “Are you?”

You press your lips together, blending the pink. “Little bit. You think that’s a good sign?”

“Mhm.”

Sarah straightens, capping the lipstick. She smiles at her masterpiece. “You look beautiful, Mama.”

“Well,” your chest fills, “I’m only beautiful ‘cause you made me that way, Duck.”

Joel’s voice sails upstairs and into the little pink room.

“Courthouse is closin’, sun’s almost down, they’re diggin’ my damn grave already. Are we good to go, or what?”

Sarah grins and leaps over an upturned toybox in the middle of her room. She pirouettes out to the landing, pursing and then smacking her lips together.

You fix Ellie’s skirt and lead her out after her sister. “’s go, Nellie.”

“Mama,” she tugs at the fabric, “I gotta…Need…need…”

“Shit,” you whisper, watching the ballerina twirl downstairs to her dad. “Uh…Duckie?”

“Hi, pretty Duck,” Joel calls, catching her in his arms. He spins her around and the skirt of her dress billows.

Her little heels click when he lets her down. She keeps on spinning, watching herself in the mirror.

“Baby?” Joel calls. “Y’all ready?”

“Nel’s gotta go!” you reply.

He scoffs. “She nervous or som’?”

“Or som’,” you sigh, walking the kid into the bathroom.

Ellie takes about as long as a three-year-old should, to be fair to her. It requires an amount of determination that right now, neither of you have the focus to lend it. Potty training doesn’t wait up, even for weddings.

Eventually, she announces with a triumphant shout that she’s done, Mama! – and claps her hands as the toilet flushes.

You carry her downstairs, heels clunking on the solid wood. At the bottom you set her free – and she sprints out to join her sister on the lawn.

The pair run circles around one another. They cartwheel on the grass; they race Shimmer and use the flowerbeds as hurdles. They dirty their dresses – ivory stained with bursts of green – though they look better that way, anyway.

They take turns playing Swingball with the only remaining racket (a mysterious disappearance that neither will own up to, and both are most certainly involved in). Sarah tells Ellie that she won – and the smaller girl throws her fists in the air and roars in victory.

Joel stands on the porch, hands in his pockets, watching. Even from behind, you can see the shape of his cheeks: he’s smiling. He crosses one foot over the other and taps his heel against the wood.

You emerge from the house slowly, quietly. “We didn’t get matching corsages this time,” you say, and he turns.

He starts, as though he glitches for a second. As though his world tilts on its axis, just from looking at you. His expression softens, his lips curve into a smile.

Then he breathes a laugh – a shaky thing, like he’s seventeen again, watching his homecoming date saunter over.

“That’s alright,” he replies, and slips a hand into his suit pocket. He fishes out two white tulips. “Remembered Alice dropped these off the other day. Here.”

Delicately, lighter than the breeze, he tucks the flower behind your ear. He steps back to admire his work, just like his daughter did.

All the best parts of you, you reckon, are the parts that are loved by them.

“How do I look?” you ask.

Joel sucks in a shattered breath. “Beautiful,” he chokes, like it’s all his voice will allow. He sniffs, drags his knuckles across the bottom of his nose, and says, “You ain’t never looked more beautiful.”

“Your turn.”

You take the second tulip from his fingers and drop it into his breast pocket, turning it until it looks perfect. “There,” you pat his chest, “Now we both look beautiful.”

He steps forward, dipping his head to kiss you. Arms around your waist, hands splayed on your back. He laughs against your lips. “Don’t think I don’t know what this is,” he mumbles, tugging at the pale material.

“It still fits!” you say, running a palm down the smooth silk. Flashes of light, a squealing guitar, heated kisses and a thudding bassline. It spins past your eyes as he leans in again.

He tastes the same. Less alcohol, sure – but that same, sweet-as-honey, instantly intoxicating taste. Like you were a goner before you even hit the mattress.

You look back up, and Joel’s eyes are on yours.

“After two kids, it still fits,” you whisper.

“Hm,” he muses, glancing down. His hands slip around your ass. “Looks even better than it did then, Mama.”

You laugh against his lips. “It’s my something blue.”

“Oh, yeah?” He lifts an eyebrow. “What else you got?”

“Well, something borrowed –” you hold your left hand up, a plastic ring glinting in the sunlight, “– Duck gave me some of her finest jewelry. Something new –” you wiggle your earlobe, “– Mother’s Day earrings, and…something old…”

Joel tilts his head. His expression tightens, tightens, tightens – until he understands. He clicks his teeth and steps back. “Funny. You’re so funny, I ever tell you that?”

You giggle, letting him drag you across the porch. “I’m just bein’ realistic, man. What else do I got that’s as old as you?”

He ignores you. It makes you laugh even harder.

It always did.

The wind surfs through silk, lifting your skirt as you stride over the driveway. Your hands stay interlocked – and you know that, secretly, Joel’s as nervous as you.

He whistles and his daughters look up.

“Serena, Venus,” he calls, nodding to the truck. “Get in.”

They skip over. Sarah takes her dad’s hand – the picture of royalty as he aids her up into the backseat – and Ellie swings into your arms.

You strap them in, point fingers to warn them not to bicker, and climb in the front.

The doors slam closed and you exhale slowly. Two kids aren’t any more complicated than one – especially in yours and Joel’s case – but holy shit, they’re tiring.

They compare dresses in the backseat. What color is yours, Duck? Pink, Nel. Is mine’s pink, Duck? Yours is yellow, Nel.

Joel’s hand slips around your knee. He smiles. Gives your leg a little squeeze. He flicks the radio on, and an Eagles track sways through the cabin. He fixes the tulip in your hair, peppers kisses along your wrist.

His voice is as soft as Henley’s, when he asks –

“Wanna go to a wedding?”

[a-leg-without-fear]

Entre, Rouge🩸🔥

this is very silly

Ship: Logan Howlett x Mutant!Fem!Reader 🩸

Rating: 18+

Wordcount: 666

Warnings: story is told from Wade's perspective. need i say more?

Phew!

Okay, that last Wolverine didn’t quite work out. Several stab wounds in the shape of adamantium kebabs aside, I just wasn’t a fan of his vibe. The puffy hair, the leather ensemble, and the missing hand? No thank you. I’d like an intact Wolverine with access to a shower and a hairbrush to help repair my universe.

I sat on the log I once shared with the extremely-departed Logan. Lots of blood and guts spilled everywhere, pieces of TVA agents and metal bones strewn about the snow, thick snowflakes falling through the naked trees and onto my illustrious red suit.

Oh, I should probably introduce myself.

The name’s Wilson. 

Wade Wilson. 

Wade Winston Wilson. 

Doctor… Esquire. 

Also known as the ever sexy and permanently alive Deadpool. Sure, I look like the gum-covered underside of a highschool desk, but it doesn’t mean I’m gonna stop in my quest to fix my universe and save my friends. Like Lancelot and his Holy Grail, I’m going to find a Logan and shove him into my timeline until he fits. Or do whatever happens in that story.

The little dimension doohickey I nabbed from discount Mr.Darcy sat in my gloved hand. Lots of retro graphics and shiny buttons made it look like a flip phone, but fancier. I was scrolling through universes to try and find my next target.

“420? No, I don’t think I want pothead Logan. 69? Now that’s just too obvious,” I muttered with a laugh while flipping through universes. The numbers scrolled by like etch-a-sketched fruit in a slot machine. Except without the pants-tightening excitement of winning a jackpot.

My yearning for walking through rows of old geezers sitting in their own piss puddles while mindlessly playing the slots was overtaken by a fascination in the universe that filled the screen. Confetti exploded in my head like an edged bottom who’d held out as long as he could.

“Bingo!” I said, jumping up from my spot on the crumbling log. My fabulous boots made a nice crunching sound as I walked through blood-stained snow.

Earth-80085.

The Legiverse.

A universe filled to the brim with horror, trauma, copious sex scenes, and hyperfixations switching faster than Nosferatu fiddling with his light switch. You know the one.

I jammed the “go” button on the doohickey and a huge portal appeared in front of me. Orange, glowey, translucent, door shaped. Kinda looked like jello if you squinted.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” I asked myself, naïvely, “I’ll get burst like a blood-filled water balloon by Leg’s OC of the week? Nah, she wouldn’t do me like that.”

Taking in one last chilly breath of determination, I skipped through the portal.

What I was not expecting to step into was a bedroom.

Pale green curtains blocking out any sunlight, wooden walls with cutesy pictures, cat towers and toys scattered on the carpeted floor. And…

Is that… moaning?

My head whipped in the direction of that delicious sound. Rumpled and soaked sheets, wooden headboard slamming into the wall behind it, bed creaking under the rapid movement.

And there, tangled together in the way God definitely didn’t intend, were you and Logan. Him driving into you, toned abs flexing with each thrust and fluffy hair bouncing, with you squirming and moaning beneath him. Logan’s rough hands felt along your lucky hips.

“Damn,” I whispered. Why did you get to have all the fun? Can’t I get a little Lo-Lo action?

I hung my head, disappointed, as I pressed the “leave” button on the doohickey. It wasn’t fair! Readers get to fuck whoever they want, however they want, whenever they want. They even fuck me on a regular basis! And where does that leave poor Deadpool? Either in another fanfiction or taking care of myself the ol’ fashioned way.

Ignoring the growing discomfort in my rather-flattering pants, I stepped back through the stupid doorway to continue my search.

Why are all the good ones fucking, crucified, killing me, or Henry Cavill?

i got drunk and watched the third "night at the museum." this popped in my head while watching hugh be a silly man

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[goldenroutledge]

par for the course

pairing ⤜ rafe cameron x fem!kook!reader

word count ⤜ 3.2k

summary ⤜ in which you forgive your childhood nemesis, rafe cameron.

a/n ⤜ season one reminiscent? i’ve had a draft of this piece forever so i decided to finish it!

rafe cameron masterlist

© goldenroutledge || do not plagiarize, repost, or translate my work in any way

The slam of your bedroom door echoes through your house and the fall onto your bed is cushioned by the decorative throw pillows on top of it, drowning out your exasperation for the moment. A deep exhale fell past your lips as reality sunk in. The nags of your parents reached an all time high so far this summer, as they went on and on about how you were going to be stuck in the house with nothing to do.

Unfortunately, your explanation didn’t cut it. In the back of your mind, you were well aware that your friends would be busy doing their own things. You just chose not to believe it until it came true. John B and JJ became camp counselors for some group of kids over the summer, those poor kids. Pope decided to fill his free time with summer classes, and Kiara was tied up at The Wreck. And with John B going away, Sarah didn’t have a reason to stick around either, much to your displeasure. She’d decided to visit her cousins overseas. Not that you really blamed her, or any of your friends for that matter.

But it was slightly embarrassing to have nothing to say when it was your turn to reveal your plans for the next few months. Any other time, you’d always assumed your plans would be with any one of them.

And now, your problems were a whole lot bigger. Judging by your lack of plans, your parents went ahead and made some for you. And with the last person you would’ve wanted to spend your summer days— or any days at all— with, Rafe Cameron.

Both of your fathers had worked together in the past, and they still kept a friendship because of it. If that’s what you call two middle-aged businessmen drowning in drinks and making small talk at the occasional kook event.

To put it simply, Rafe had it out for you. Just the mention of his name made you shudder; your horrific childhood experiences with the boy forever carved in your memory.

His bratty behavior towards you began at about age 9 or 10. For instance, when you wouldn’t budge off of his favorite swing at the park. It would be impossible to forget how he popped one last bubble from his piece of bubblegum, faded pink and chewed thin, before wading it up and planting it right in your hair.

You lunged off the swing towards him immediately, screams of terror piercing the serene island air. He ran in circles, cackling mischievously as you chased him. All for Rafe to ‘take back’ his spot on the swing while he had you distracted.

As years went on, the memory became less and less vivid— except for that moment when he popped in another piece of gum, one bigger than all his teeth combined, before shouting: “Thanks for keeping’ it warm for me.”

And without an inkling of remorse, he began swinging gleefully while you ran to find your mother, hot tears cascading down your cheeks. The tear stains remained for another day or so. The sadness and frustration was simply too much for your nine year old self to handle. Not to mention the wad of gum that had to be cut out of your hair later that day. And it was all Rafe’s fault.

So it couldn’t be chalked up to anything less than betrayal, really. For your parents to coordinate summer golf lessons with your childhood nemesis. It was pure treachery. Especially after your strong argument of course, not failing to mention the dreaded gum incident. Only to be told off by your mother, as she assumed any child of Ward’s would mature into nothing short of an upstanding citizen. If she only knew.

Days later, you were throwing on a Ralph Lauren polo and a tennis skirt to match, hating every minute of it as you knew what was to come. You couldn’t deny how the material hugged your body just right; and a shred of your subconscious hoped that Rafe would notice too.

For no reason other than revenge, of course. How dare he terrorize you as a child and not be consumed with regret years later? His unforgivable acts couldn’t go unpunished.

Grabbing your keys and phone, you sped off in your car without so much as a goodbye to your mom before leaving. No amount of time could help you process what you were in for, and no amount of forethought would make this reunion any more bearable.

-

Scanning the cream colored walls of the Island Club, it didn’t take long to spot the tall Cameron leaning up against one of its pillars, scrolling on his phone with an expression of pure boredom. His foot tapped the floor occasionally, his eyes lifting every minute or so in search of you.

Just two taps on his shoulder was all it took to grab his attention. Rafe’s lips spread into a smirk just as quickly as he turned around to meet your irritated gaze. That stupid smirk, one you knew all too well.

“Long time no see, Y/n. Missed me?”

“Not a chance in hell. I’m here against my will.”

“Yeah, right. I bet you were just begging for a chance to see me again.” Rafe whines dramatically.

“Delusional as ever, huh, Rafe? I guess some things never change.”

“Childish as ever, huh, Y/n? Good to know we agree about something. And to think I had hope that you’d leave the hostility at home.”

“Didn’t you get suspended from the Academy for fighting? Twice?”

His expression shifts from smug to scowl.

“That was a long time ago. You ready to get started or what?”

You smile at him with faux innocence, glad to have landed a punch in this endless match between you two.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

—

The silence remained as thick as molasses, tension lingering that not even the sharpest of machetes could slash through.

Rafe steered the golf cart in silence, movements hasty and abrupt as an expression of his frustration. Your memory wasn’t as short as he’d expected; and now he was subjected to a summer of what he anticipated to be vengeful torture.

Lost in thought, he came to a stop at your destination. And by the looks of it, you were more than ready, willing and able to carry on without him as you began teeing up.

“Aren’t I supposed to be teaching you how? Isn’t that the whole reason why we’re here?”

With a sigh, your eyes darted to the clear blue sky, silently praying to a higher power to keep you sane. “I’ll ask for your help when I need it.”

You resume lining up your footing and the club with the ball, envisioning your swing before Rafe interrupts once again.

“Why bother showing up here if you’re gonna act like a bitch?”

“I was sent here against my will, remember?”

“So you say.”

“And I’m not a bitch. Not to those who don’t deserve it.”

“I couldn’t tell the difference.” Rafe scoffs. “And I never said you are a bitch, I said you’re acting like one.”

A cold chuckle makes its way out of your throat at his blatant contradiction. “You do not wanna go there with me, Cameron.”

After the mumble fell from your lips, you were set on taking a swing at the golf ball. Until Rafe opened his mouth once again, as if he was just waiting for you to swing, to piss you off even further. Provoking you at this point.

“Actually, let’s go there. I’d love to go there. Please enlighten me as to why you feel entitled to be so rude to me. Especially since I am the one doing you this little favor, aren’t I? Giving you a break from those losers on the Cut you love so much.”

“Isn’t it disrespectful to talk when I’m trying to hit a ball?” You query, quoting his very own words during an encounter with the notorious blond pogue. “Learn some etiquette, my friend.”

“Pathetic. So it’s Maybank? He’s been whispering in your ear? What, is he your boyfriend?”

“As if I haven’t experienced enough of your obnoxiousness firsthand. Trust me, I hate you plenty on my own. And he’s not my boyfriend, idiot.”

Rafe raises an eyebrow, his smirk returning at your defensiveness. “Though from what I hear you have some ‘losers’ of your own these days. Barry, isn’t it? Would be a shame if Uncle Ward found out.”

Rafe rolls his eyes at your disingenuous mention of his father. Sure, your fathers were somewhat close friends, but for some reason, it made his blood boil. “What’s it to you? Don’t tell me this is your attempt at blackmail.”

You shrug, grip still firm on the golf club. “Not necessarily. Have to admit it does feel good to get under your skin, though.”

“Touché.”

—

You moved through the golf course rather quickly, nearing its end. Both of your intentions were evident that you were eager to get home, and best of all, away from each other. Rafe slides into the driver's side of the cart, but doesn’t pull off immediately.

“You never actually answered my question, by the way. About why you’re being such a pain in the ass to me.”

You stop scrolling on your phone to look at him, trying to understand his purpose for bringing this up again. “You don’t happen to have some sort of short-term memory loss, right?”

“You said you hate me plenty on your own. But what fucking reason have I ever given you to?”

“Oh?”

“I told you to go there, didn’t I? I’m giving you a chance to let out your grievances. And that’s one more than I should, you know patience isn’t my strongsuit.”

“Can’t a girl just hate Rafe Cameron with no strings attached? I’m sure it’s not the first time.”

He looks over to you, blue eyes staring into yours. “You and I both know there’s always strings attached.”

“What can I say, Cameron? Guess it’s just par for the course. Or are you so desperate to know because you crave my validation?”

“What can I say, Y/l/n? I guess you wouldn’t be able to understand what it means to learn from your mistakes.”

“You’re full of it.”

“No more than you are, peach cake.”

“Just drive us back to the club already.”

“Not until you confess.” He protests, dangling the keys in your face before sliding them into his pocket. Rafe leans back, unintentionally manspreading as he does so, and drapes an arm over your shoulder. “We could be here all day.”

The exasperation was pretty much dripping off of you. His antics felt so familiar in the most intense way possible, and it made you want to scream. He was the same Rafe bullying you out of the playground a decade ago. The same Rafe you were now wondering had you misjudged. Or judged a little too harshly over some measly childhood rivalry.

“Primrose Park.”

“Excuse me?”

“Primrose Park.” You reiterate. “Don’t feign amnesia. I know you know.”

“How could I forget? I was the king of that place for years.”

“King? More like dictator.”

He shrugs. “I had a delicate ego back then.”

“As well as no patience or manners. If I didn’t know any better I would’ve thought you were raised by wolves.”

Rafe chuckles, amused by your memory of him as a child. “Blame it on Uncle Ward.”

“Sarah and Wheezie were always sweet as pie, so I don’t know if that’s fair.”

“Probably just caught me on a bad day, Y/n. I, too, am sweet as pie.” He defends, eyes twinkling as he smiles.

“Like hell you were! Do you recall wading up your gum and sticking it in my hair? Does that ring a bell?”

His eyebrows furrow as he recollects the memory.

“When we were kids at the park, you got all pissed that I wouldn’t give you a turn on the swings, so you spit your gum in my hair.”

He chuckles at first, but his laughs grow much louder as he ponders the memory.

“It’s really not that funny, Rafe. My mother had to cut that chunk of gum out of my hair.” You remind him. “You’re lucky I don’t shave your damn head right now!” You take a swat at his cap, knocking it to the ground as he’s struggling to get his laughter under control.

“And after all these years you never forgave me? It’s been decades, Y/n.”

“You never apologized.”

“Well I’m sorry, now. If that means anything.” He mumbles the last part, apologies being a foreign art to him. “But you should be thanking me, actually. You have no idea what you were in for had you stuck around.”

“What?”

“Henry Haberstroh. He was gonna give you another one of those stupid bouquets of weeds.”

“The dandelion bouquets?” Your mouth hangs open at the revelation, remembering the boy with an incessant crush on you. A crush so intense in fact that he wouldn’t stop giving you bouquets of dandelions he’d picked from the grass— not until you’d agreed to a playdate with him despite being painfully uninterested.

“The gum idea was more of a last resort but I thought you might wanna get out of there. I mean, dandelions? You’re allergic to bees.”

“And how do you know this exactly?”

“As King of Primrose Park I was privy to information. And was subtlety ever Henry’s thing? The kid was a blabbermouth. He never shut up about you.”

“Well I must say I’m impressed, Cameron. That’s quite a scheme you pulled off. Not that you’re forgiven or anything. But Henry was a creep.”

“Couldn’t take a hint to save his life, either. I don’t think I’ve seen you run away from someone so fast, not even from me.” Rafe teases, nudging your arm with his as you giggled.

“The bees!”

Rafe gives you a look of disbelief, knowing damn well it wasn’t the pollinated dandelions you were running from.

“Seriously, I’m really allergic! But you already knew that?”

“What kind of secret admirer doesn’t know his admiree’s allergens?”

His blue eyes lock with yours, smiles replacing the scowls on both of your faces from earlier. You raise an eyebrow at him in question.

“Shame on Henry.” Rafe critiques, realizing the implication of his words.

“Yeah. Shame on Henry. But I wouldn’t call us even quite yet, so sleep with one eye open just in case.”

The two of you share a genuine laugh for the first time all day, before Rafe begins driving towards the next hole.

“Remind me to lock my windows when I get home.”

—

You move towards your ball once again, but gaze at your target uneasily. Maybe you still had a thing or two to learn about the sport. Rafe leans up against the cart, arms crossed and biceps stretching the fabric of his shirt much thinner. The tension was almost gone in comparison to how you started the afternoon. Almost.

Now looking at Rafe, it felt different. How could you be angry anymore? Holding a vendetta against him took too much energy at this point when it was no longer warranted.

To your luck, you could excuse the fiery feeling rising to your cheeks as a result of the sweltering sun. No matter how hard you tried, your former memory of him melted away. You could no longer see Rafe as the pesky little boy he once was. Perhaps a symptom of heat stroke, you thought. Hopefully it would be temporary, you still had the whole summer with Rafe ahead of you.

“I almost forgot you’re supposed to be teaching me how to play this joke of a sport.” You gripe. “Will you show me?”

Rafe bites his bottom lip to avoid cracking a smile. That you had finally cracked, giving in to ask him for help. “That’s what I’m here for.”

Leaning off the cart, Rafe saunters over to you. “I need you to start on your form first. May I?” He offered, gesturing to set his arms over yours for some adjustment.

With a slow nod, you decide to taunt him further. He’s not gonna get away that easy. “You’re not chewing any gum are you?”

“No, Y/n.” He responds, and you can just hear the smirk in his tone. Hearing your name roll off his tongue makes your stomach flutter— now feeling his body against yours, the heat increasing tenfold.

“Hold the club firmly, and swing through the ball, not at the ball.” He guides your arms with his, mimicking how to prepare for a swing. As his head peers over your shoulder, you swear you hear his breath hitch at the faint aroma of your perfume. Rafe almost seems relaxed, doing the movements with you a few times over again before stepping back to let you try it.

You do just as he taught you, and Rafe repeats the instructions under his breath as he watches you take your swing.

From the woosh of the ball leaving the grass, your eyes follow as it lands in a close proximity to the cup. With a scream of victory, your hands collide with Rafe’s in a high five, before wrapping your arms around his neck, his hand instinctively falling to rest at your waist as he pulls you into a hug. “Atta girl!” He marvels.

“I did it!” You cheer, smile beaming off your face. Once the initial shock wears off, you realize whose arms you’re engulfed in, stepping back from the embrace abruptly. “Uhm- I’m sorry. I didn’t…” You begin, trying to explain yourself and your sudden outburst of physical affection.

“Don’t apologize.” Rafe assures, reaching his hand out for yours. You accept it with a shy smile. “You did great for your first big swing. Can’t say I’m surprised, though, you do have one hell of a teacher.”

“He’s not bad.” You confess. “Actually, better than I thought.”

Rafe quirks an eyebrow, his cerulean orbs gazing into your eyes, finding for once they held not one drop of bad blood while looking back at him. He steps forward, the space keeping you both apart dwindling. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Don’t tell him I said that, it’ll go straight to his head.”

His eyes flicker from yours then to your glossed lips, which is the final straw before giving into your growing urge to kiss him. Rafe’s free hand clings to your cheek immediately as he deepens the kiss; as if a magnetic pull between you two had clicked.

Pulling away, the surprise on Rafe’s face is evident, but the confidence in his voice made it impossible to tell a difference. “I’m glad to see you came to your senses and forgave me.”

“Jumping to conclusions already? What makes you think you’re forgiven?”

Rafe shrugs, and that familiar look of pride returns to his expression. His thumb grazes across the apple of your cheek, and his hand gives a gentle squeeze to your waist. “Call it a wild hunch.”

taglist @ilovejjmaybank @missevi @nxsmss @cameronsrafe @msgorillagripcoochie @bibliophilewednesday @tovvaa @rudybarnes @annab-nana @reawritesthings @moniamaybank @outerbankspreferences @laneylaneylaney @jjpouggues @milkiane @mildkleptomaniac @whcclxr @mrs-cameron @alanniys @amourology @luversgirl @fallingwallsh @scenesofobx @bradleybeachbabe @chrisevansfuturewife @drewstarkeysbitchh @littlementalpolaroids @destourtereaux @iammirrorball

[savorypink]

need late sias!alex as a barista and u as the annoying customer who comes in during closing time. he angry fucks you in the bathroom cuz u annoy him

“cuz u annoy him” makes me giggle, but here you are anon!

“...and that’s why I stopped paying my taxes!” 

You speak into your phone’s speaker, swinging the doors of the small cafe open. Caught up in a conversation over the phone, you miss the scowl on the barista’s face as you saunter towards the counter. The lights of your favorite coffee spot have warmly dimmed, the minimal lighting enhancing the coziness of the atmosphere. This lighting, however, is an indication that closing time is near. To the dismay of the night shift barista, Alex, you have always made it your business to show up right before the doors close. Your horrible timing isn’t entirely your fault, though; 1) you’ve got things to do, 2) the cafe has become rather popular recently, and your patience isn’t the best. Why would you want to wait in line? 

Your conversation continues even when faced with the barista, completely ignoring the chairs sitting on the empty tables, the lemon scent of cleaning products breezing past your nose entirely. The barista’s cute, large doe eyes look up at you from the counter he’s wiping down with a bleach-stained rag; he doesn’t seem happy to see you. 

“Hold on just one second...” you say to the barista and your rambling friend on the phone. Digging into your bra, you pull out the crumpled-up bills and coins for your usual drink, all in exact change. You hand him the money with a warm, lip gloss-coated smile. You’ll see if he’s worthy of a tip. 

“You know what to do.” You finish with a wink before he takes the money out of your manicured hands. Your perfume's pleasant candy scent lingers when you turn your heel to the tables behind you, dizzying and addictive to his nostrils, but he scowls as soon as you pick up a chair. Plopping down, you continue entertaining your friend on the phone, and you aren’t quiet about it.

“Yeah, I’m at the cafe now. It’s so cute!” you squeal. “You should totally hit it up sometime. Make sure the Elvis-looking guy makes your drink, though. He’s the best.” 

Your words wash away the barista’s annoyance as he prepares your drink, knowing your preferences like strings on a guitar, pure muscle memory. Your loud mouth quickly tarnishes this somewhat peaceful moment.

“It’s the ginger-haired girl you gotta watch out for. Ugh, she’s the worst! Can’t make a drink for shit. And guess what? I found a hair in my muffin! When I flipped out on her, she kept saying, ‘Calm down,’” You do perhaps your worst impression of the nasally lady, “and she was like, ‘Do you want another muffin?’ No! I want my money back, Ed Sheeran!”

Your friend on the other line laughs alongside you, a bubbly yet ear-piercing cackle that makes Alex almost crush the mixer in his hands. His brain bounces from wanting to hear your laughter again to shutting you up with a kiss. As your gums continue flapping, you allow your eyes to examine the barista behind the counter. His backside is as cute as his front, the lean muscle of his shoulders contracting under his white t-shirt, strong arms flexing as he scoops up the ice and pours it into the mixer. You put a gelled nail between your teeth as you watch him, shifting in your seat as your panties become uncomfortably wet.

“Hey! Are you still there?” Your friend calls on the other line.

“Yeah!” Your cheeks warm up at the interruption, “Like I said, make sure Elvis makes your drink. You’ll know exactly what he looks like. If his back is turned, just look for the one with the cute butt.”

Alex is thankful his back is turned, your words tinting his face a rosy red. The silver bell on the counter dings once your drink is prepared. You don’t bother putting the chair back as you approach the counter. You thoroughly look through the transparent cup, ensuring the amount of ice and the number of dried fruit is accurate; you have no notes. Taking a sip, you let the liquid linger on your tongue before swallowing. Cold, sweet, and punchy; you couldn’t ask for more. You reenter your bra, dig out some change, and place it into the tip jar near the register. Your sunny, warm smile conflicts with the barista’s snowy, freezing shoulder.

“Thanks, Alan!” 

“Alex.”

Your eyes dart to the pastry case behind him, a croissant drizzled with chocolate catching your eye. “How much for that croissant? It looks tasty…”

“For you? Free of charge.” He’s more concerned with getting you out of here before you give him gray hairs. 

“Wow, really?” you beam in amazement. “You’re so kind! Alan, you’re the best! You’re way nicer than that ginger chick who tried to poison me. Ugh, she doesn’t work here anymore, does she? So unprofessional. She’d be better at scrubbing toilets than making drinks.”

Alex smirks at your remarks as he hands you the pastry in a white paper bag. “You mean my boss?”

“That’s your boss?” You immediately take the pastry out of the bag, biting into the flaky treat. “She’s in the wrong line of work if you ask me!” 

“Oh, yeah? Do tell.”

Your mouth moves before you can detect the sarcasm in his voice. You’re oblivious to the flakes falling into your shirt, decorating your cleavage as you continue munching and talking. Alex second-guesses giving you a napkin before handing you a few from the dispenser. If he didn't, he’d have more reason to stare at your chest. Flakes and chocolate stain the corners of your mouth and lip, and he hates to admit it, but you’re looking very…cute.

“Anyway,” you finish, wiping yourself clean, “You should totally be running this place, Alan. It doesn’t hurt that you’re super hot, too. Just work on the resting bitch face, and you’ll be amazing!”

Your final comment digs painfully into his skin, and it’s a shame. He was starting to like you.

“You’re too pretty to be talking with your mouth full,” Alex crosses his lean arms over his chest. “ I could teach you proper etiquette if you’d like. I’m a tough teacher, though. Be warned.”

Offended, you blink wildly before smiling at the compliment he snuck into his invitation. You gladly accept.

“You think I’m pretty?”

---

The cold marble of the bathroom sink raises the tiny hairs on your skin. You claw at it to no avail, sheepishly bent over the sink with your thong and velour tracksuit pants hugging your ankles. The empty bathroom echoes a slapping sound, a mixture of wetness and the noise of your ass against Alex’s relentless hips. His cock drives in and out of you at a brutal pace; each thrust angrier than the next. 

“You’re awfully quiet,” his large palm comes down on your ass with a vicious spank. “Come on…you were mouthin’ off about a muffin just a minute ago.”

Your cunt gushes at his words, the tight walls of your core needily squeezing him in a vice grip. Lust clouds your brain, unable to form a witty comeback to his statements, your weak moans becoming a new language. Before you lay your head on the marble, Alex fists your hair in a ponytail, tugging you upwards to face the mirror. Ignoring the messy reflection, you allow your eyes to roll into your skull, heat beginning to pool in your stomach, his cock hitting the right spots repeatedly and harshly.

“We’ll figure out a use for your mouth in the next lesson. You're doing a great job at taking me, muffin.”

[princessbrunette]

Just thought about Spiderman!JJ affected by the Venom suit feeling the urge to visit shy!reader in the middle of the night 🤭

the venom suit bringing out mean!jj??? i’m hooked.

౨ৎ🕷️ ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

there’s something different about him when he arrives at your window in the pouring rain, the darkness of your apartment doing little to illuminate the figure you recognised as him sprawled on your fire escape. you’re quick to yank him inside, not even caring when your thin little silk night gown gets splattered with rain drops.

“are you okay?” you breathe, your hands on his strong arms as you attempt to eye him over the best you can in the dark of your living room.

“oh, better than ever, sweetcheeks.” you can hear the smile in his voice before he yanks his mask off, fluffy head of blonde hair popping out into shape almost comically. he didn’t seem injured, minus the slightly bloody cut on the corner of his mouth. he’s still grinning, and as your eyes adjust on his glinting canines you catch the glimmer of dark red blood staining his gums, evident he’d been in some kind of tussle.

“did you get into some kind of trouble tonight?” your voice is quieter, concerned and you gently lift your quivering palm to cup his cheek, wanting to turn his face to get a better look at him from the light of the window. his face is cold, and where he’d usually lean slightly into your touch— he doesn’t move, just continuing to stare you down with an expression you hadn’t seen him wear before. hungry, slinky, smirky. you remove his hand on instinct for some reason, and take a step back. “jay you’re being weird.”

“am i?” he asks, beginning to walk you backwards. “‘cus i told you already that i’m feelin’ great, princess. what, you’re not digging the new suit? i’m hurt. thought you of all people would be the first to notice.” your back hits the wall, and he closes in on you— lips curled up fully once he tongues at the cut on the corner of his mouth. his hand leans against the wall beside your head, and you’re trapped. “y’know… seein’ as it’s totally clear how bad you want me to give it to you good. think i didn’t notice? s’cute, like actually.”

your lip quivers at the humiliation, eyes filling with tears as they flicker between his. it’s then, you drop your gaze to his suit and finally notice the lack of colour. where a vibrant red and navy blue would usually illuminate against him, there was simply black in its place. your brows knit together.

“you’re… not you. somethings happened. you’re different — you’re worse.” you try to be brave, but the sentiment seems to irritate him, his hand shooting out to grip your jaw.

“ouch. s’not very nice of you, mama.” he tilts his head in faux sympathy. you’re frozen, staring up at him — half in fear and half in shameful arousal. as if sensing this, he chuckles — warm breath wafting over your lips with how close he was. if jj was finally going to kiss you, you wasn’t sure if you wanted it to be like this.

as if there had been some kind of divine intervention, there was a crash — sounding like it came from a few blocks away, followed by yelling and sirens. his pupils dilate further in curiosity and he turns his head a little, spidey senses honing in on the source. finally, he pushes off the wall— eyeing you down once more.

“yeah, uh— gonna have to cut this short.” he strolls to the window tugging his mask back on, slinging a leg out and sitting on the window sill before turning his head to face you. from this spot of your dark apartment, his silhouette was illuminated by the lights of the city behind him. “should really start lockin’ your window, cupcake. might let in unwanted spiders.”

with that, he swings off into the city— leaving you wondering who or what that was.

౨ৎ🕷️ ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

[stealingyourbones]

Submitted Prompts #98

Danny and Raven are both hybrid supernatural creatures. Which means, they end up meeting during a couple of pagan celebrations.

They get to talking, and realize they get along really well. So, since on Raven's side of things, she still hasn't met the Titans yet, Team Phantom just essentially adopt her. Sam adores her new goth friend. They help her feel normal, and she gives them precious advice on magic and how, sometimes, defeating an enemy comes at the cost of their life, because they might not give you much of a choice...

Soon, Raven meets the Titans, while Danny goes along his usual business of keeping Amity Park safe. They keep meeting up for celebrations, birthdays and random meetings for no reason other than a slightly feral sense of "I missed your presence at my side" they all have with each other.

The Titans are very curious on why she keeps disappearing every year at the exact same time, but all they know is the bare bones "magical meeting of magical entities that practice magic".

Until one day, when Raven almost tore Titans Tower apart while desperately trying ANYTHING to contact a friend who seemed to be "gone, and nothing can reach him. What did that idiot do?!?!?!" They are...justifiably concerned...and Robin smuggles the Batplane out of it's hangar so they can help their friend, who's always so composed, actually get to Amity with some backup in case things are going wrong.

Nothing would have prepared them for the SMOKING GODDAMN CRATER in the ground where a town should be. Raven can't reach past the Veil. The way seems to be blocked (since Amity, in the Ghost Zone, has the Ghost Shield up and running) and her powers are going a little wonky and unstable, random rocks lifting and orbiting her and the town limits as the Titans investigate as much as they can.

Until, with roaring thunder, Amity is thrown back into it's proper spot. But something's wrong. Phantom is easy to feel. He's always been a shimmering beacon in Raven's senses, but right now he feels...subdued, and yet swelling with new power...

It's not until Twam Phantom goes to meet her, that raven realizes what's wrong. She knows that Crown, and the Ring her friend is cradling in his hands. Ectoplasm is staining his hands, his suit, and, most noticeable, his teeth.

He looks like he'd rather be anywhere than here, and Sam goes in for a hug, and tells Raven they're calling a "Code Panda" (because pandas have a startlingly high chance of abandoning their Cubs before adulthood, and are generally idiots).

Robin volunteers to destroy the portal when they're ready to go, while the rest of the Titans start closing ranks around the seemingly traumatized teenage hero in case he needs help. The most he reacts is to let Raven float to him and hug him as he whispers a soft "Hey Ray...I had to follow your advice..."

(I imagine that Raven's own experiences would help Danny come to understand that, even if his Rogues can be reasoned with, there will eventually come a time where a new one might not. So they have to be prepared for that eventuality. So Danny treats Pariah's Core like one of those chewing gums with the liquid in the center of it, when he realizes the Old Tyrant King isn't going to go quietly, nor will he listen to reason. And hearing his parents talk about how Phanton would have to be exterminated soon before he "got too powerful" leads Danny and his friends to get out of Amity ASAP. Luckily, they have a friend who's very happy to have them around. Is this an "Everlasting Trio+the DC character they fell for" thing? Not necessarily, but my brain pictures them as starting to date while Raven got busy with the Titans, and when they're all together, they platonically drag Raven to their cuddle pile, where they romantically confess their shared feelings for her. But it's really up to interpretation of whoever reads it.)

[artoftimber]

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Visit at: https://artoftimber.com.au/

[peachdues]

necrosis

a peach original, I guess??

CW: 1.5k • dark content • dead dove do not eat • body horror/rotting • abusive relationship • gaslighting

Toxic love except it actually rots you from the inside, out.

It starts with a spot of black that appears on your tongue one morning. You scrub at it with your toothbrush, your tongue scraper, yet it won’t budge. You rinse with the most stringent mouthwash known to man until it burns your throat and stings your nostrils, but when you hold your tongue out to inspect it, the black lingers.

You make a doctor’s appointment even though you hate them, but when you sit in the examination room, fingers digging into the armrests of your chair as a metal tool is shoved into your mouth, the doctor cannot give you an answer.

“I see nothing wrong,” she says, sitting back and snapping her gloves off. “It looks perfectly healthy to me.”

But when she turns her back, click clacking her notes into your chart, you find a mirror and stick your tongue out.

The black spot has grown larger.

—

“Do you see it?” You ask him that night, when he comes home later than he should, a hint of perfume that isn’t yours lingering on his neck.

It isn’t the first time. You never mention it.

“See what, love?”

“The spot.” You hold your tongue out for him to inspect. “Thee?”

He studies your mouth and a small smirk curls up the corners of his lips. “I see only my love for you.” He taps his index finger right atop the small black mark and you nearly hiss at the eruption of pain that explodes under his touch.

Out of the corner of your eye, you swear he grins as you wince, but when you look to him, his frown is the portrait of concern.

“Let me kiss it better,” and he swoops down on you before you can protest. His lips feel like a blade sawing back and forth over your mouth and yet, there’s a sweetness to his kiss. A comfort in the violence he bestows upon you that has your hands tangling in his hair, begging for more.

Beneath the pain blooms pleasure, the kind you’d known in the early days of your romance, hot and honeyed and addictive.

When you wake up the next morning, you find your entire tongue is black.

—

Weeks later, he brings home your favorite pastry.

It’s a distraction; one to keep you from asking about the lipstick stain on his neck the night before.

The sugary diversion is unnecessary; you’d learned not to ask him about the trophies he receives from others years ago, when your nagging had been met with the sharp sting of his palm against your cheek.

Do you want me to leave? He’d asked, bitter and cruel. Do you want to be all alone in this world?

Alone.

The word had filled you with dread, made your skin turn gooey with sweat. You’d fallen to your knees, begged him not to go, to stay, to love you.

He knelt down with you, pinched your chin between his fingers, and promised he would.

As long as you apologized.

Your mind railed against you, shouted and screamed that you had no reason to apologize, that it was he who should be begging your forgiveness —

The words rolled right off your tongue, effortless and earnest.

And as he brought his lips to yours with sage smile that was all self-righteousness and pride, your heart had whispered its thanks. You would not be alone.

So no, the bag containing your favorite croissant from down the street isn’t necessary to keep you in check. But it’s there, held out to you like a prized offering, and you tell yourself it’s because he loves you.

“It’s your favorite,” he says with a grin too full of teeth, glossy and sharp. “Go on. Eat.”

You mimic his smile and bring the croissant to your lips. You take a large bite, the layers of crisp pastry and sugar crackling under teeth that sit too loose in your gums.

You make a sound of delight, and his smile only grows.

“Again.” He commands. Like always, you obey, repeating the motion again and again until there’s nothing left but crumbs and powdered sugar clinging to your hand.

His fingers latch delicately around your wrist, and he brings your hand to his mouth. Slowly, sensually, he licks each of your fingers clean.

When he’s done, you bring your hand back to your lap and you try and ignore the way the skin of your knuckles splits; how your fingers swell with gangrene.

He gives you a knowing smile. “Good, right?”

You smile and nod. You always do.

You don’t tell him you haven’t been able to taste a thing in weeks.

—-

The black stagnates for a month after he brings you the pastry. It is kept strictly to your tongue, and no one seems to notice apart from you and him. You decide you can live with it; so what if you can no longer taste anything that isn’t the burning fire of his lips? Food and drink were only necessities; you have all the pleasure you could ask for, sleeping beside you at night.

But then that pleasure disappears for a morning, two, three, before he returns home again. He offers no explanation and you ask for none; you only peel the blankets off your cold body and invite him in to warm you up.

The next morning you sit at your vanity, readying to face another long day at work when you catch sight of yourself in the mirror.

The compact of powder you’d been holding clatters to the floor, its ashes spilling across the hardwood.

Your skin has turned gray; dry in some spots, melted in others. More black whittles its way under your skin, inking the veins that creep toward your eyes.

You hold out your tongue to reveal a dark, shriveled lump. Ink coats the inside of your mouth in place of where your saliva once gathered, staining teeth that now seem too large, too brittle. A maggot peeks out from between them, its pale, fat little body wriggling against your receding gums.

He saunters in a few moments later, undisturbed by your earlier disquiet. He smiles at you through the mirror as he eases up from behind, dropping his head to plant one kiss atop your bare shoulder.

The skin shrivels under his lips.

“Beautiful,” he says as you stare in horror at your reflection. “You’re so beautiful, and you’re all mine.”

He fists the hair at the nape of your neck and tilts your head back for a kiss. When he pulls away, his mouth is covered in an oily slick that he cleans with his tongue.

“I love you.”

Your heart flutters against your thinning sternum, each beat sending small fissures along the porous bone. You smile at him and a fly escapes your mouth.

“I love you, too.”

He withdraws his hands from you and you spy a clump of your matted hair tangled between his fingers.

——

You make another doctor’s appointment.

“There is nothing wrong with you,” she insists even as you stain the thin paper sheet of the examination table black, soddening it down with your rot until it disengages. “You’re as healthy as a horse. Perhaps you need a psychiatrist.”

“Perhaps I do,” you try, but your echo is garbled by the teeth that fall into your lap. “Thank you, doctor.”

She looks at you with something like disgust and at last, you think she might finally see.

But then she turns and closes the exam room door firmly behind her, leaving you and your black alone.

——

By the time you learn the word for your affliction, it is too late.

It’s a necrosis; one that spreads from tongue to lips, until your teeth turn to dust and black slime seeps from your mouth. It drips down your chin, splashing onto your chest where it rots away the skin over your heart.

You’d been taught that the sternum is the most resilient bone in the human body; hard and thick, a near impenetrable fortress that guards the human heart.

If that were true, then how is it that the black slime spilling down your chest sinks so easily beneath your skin? How can you see the weakening beat of your heart pulsing under rotting flesh as though no rampart of bone ever existed?

He lays beside you in bed, unaware or uncaring at the way you seep into the mattress. Flies circle your head, born from the maggots that nest in the corners of your eyes. If you looked down, you would see the emporium of wriggling things that feast on your carcass, have made their home among your bones.

He does not care that he fucks a dead thing; he has loved you into his image. To rot is to be whole for him and you have let yourself fester into perfection.

He lovingly plucks a worm from the gape of your nostril and you almost thank him.

“I love you,” he says, fingers brushing away a flake of mottled, decaying skin from your cheek.

What’s left of your mouth stretches into a smile. Your tongue has long since rotted away, but you try to mouth the words back.

I love you.

divider from @/saradika-graphics!

[strangelittlestories]

It was 4am and Treasure was forcing down a third can of energy drink when thing got *weird*.

The library was hazy with that kind of quiet hysteria that blooms late at night, when impending deadlines crush the soul down into fertile soil for strangeness.

The fluorescent strip lighting and insufficiency of windows didn't help any.

Treasure was tired in a way that banished coherent thought and made sleep an impossibility. Her eyes kept trying to close, but when they did, she just saw spots of dark light floating on the inside of her eyelids.

She stared at those spots, daring them to make sense.

Imagine her surprise, then, when those spots - those holes in the reality of her - began to stare back.

Treasure opened her eyes. She looked down at the energy drink and considered setting it aside (she did not). She looked up again and found she had opened a new document on her laptop.

"MAKE AN OFFERING" It read in bold Grotesque font, each letter an oddly elegant blunt instrument.

Treasure looks from the energy drink to the laptop. Her hand moved on its own, pouring a splash of blue neon liquid onto the keyboard. She resisted the urge to wipe it off. She failed to resist the urge to swear.

The liquid fizzed and hissed on the keyboards and there was a scent of sickly fruit tinged with ozone in the air. The keys, already gummed up by solidifying chemical sweetness, began spitting out characters onto the document.

At first, they were nonsensical - no words, just a jumble of letters, punctuation and blank space. But as Treasure's eyes began to unfocus, the whole mess began to coalesce like one of those magic eye images (but made out of ASCII art).

The figure on the screen was a mess. Eyes like black holes. Lines running down them like cracks or oily ramen stains. Hair like thunder.

"What are you?" Treasure whispered.

Amongst the slurry on the screen, a few letters became bold and spelled out a sentence.

"I AM OVERDUE. GODDESS OF BURNOUT."

"Do you..." Treasure's voice was quiet, reverent, hesitant; a hymn in the key of awkward. "...do you want me to worship you?"

The letters swam. Rearranged.

"YOU ALREADY DO."

"What do you want from me?"

"GET SOME SLEEP."

"I ... I can't. I have a paper on Applied Theurgy due tomorrow."

"NOT A REQUEST."

Treasure's eyes closed. Sleep came.

When she awoke, days later. She found out that she had submitted a paper to the Arch-Professor. It was junk. The same mess of forehead-smashed input through which the goddess had appeared to her.

She had received a B minus.

The title of her paper was "It Is Better to Fade Away: An Accidental Communion."

It had been submitted with the note: "Please Give My New Disciple A Good Grade."

Treasure went in search of coffee.

[zqombi]

ORAL FIXATION ☆ FT MIGUEL O'HARA.

★. masterlist ᡣ𐭩

☆. headcannons for miguel ! coming soon…

★. currently listening to… ON DAT BXTCH - LUMI ATHENA

☆. this fic contains… intentional lowercase. everyone is 18+ ! miguel o’hara x reader. fem bodied reader. blackcoded but anyone can read it. chubby!reader. spiderwoman!reader. reader wears a pink spider suit. miguel calls you spiderbarbie as a insult because of your suit. miguel o’hara. miguel has a nose piercing. also has salt/pepper brown hair because he be stressin’. miguel speaks spanish. masterbation (fem.) kissing. pet names. hair pulling. throat fucking. heavy dirty talk. not proofread so mistakes are def present .

★. summary… you’ve always had a persistent oral fixation. since you were small you always had your mouth on something, but miguel wants to help fix that nasty habit once and for all. (I’m terrible at descriptions.)

☆. word count aprox… 2k.

★. notes… hi! I’m kinda back into the writing scene? I originally posted this on a03 but decided to also move it here for some reason, just with a couple of tweaks. Hopefully during the summer I can write more and produce some more fics/head cannons or whatever. Main goal rn is to clean out my drafts to declutter. Until then, see ya later ! <3

one of the many, many strange things about miguel o’hara was his attention to detail. his keen observation and good memory grants him the ability to notice even the smallest, minute changes. doesn’t matter if something is slightly moved from its original spot or if old paint starts to lose its tint, it never escapes his vigilant, hawk-like eyes, not even you. to him, your sucker seemed like an inseparable part of you, which he was absolutely right about. ever since you were little you’ve always had a knack for putting things in your mouth—chewing pen caps, biting water bottle tops. your bad habit offered a bit of comfort, especially during anxiety inducing moments. gum became a temporary solution, always at hand to help your needs, but over time gum became boring so you moved on to the next big thing: candy. a sweet, textured solution of various sizes that seemed to be helpful. though, out of the millions and millions of options, only suckers stuck: a pink lemonade flavor. the taste left a soft tingle in your mouth which you couldn’t get enough of. you weren’t exactly new to the world of suckers but this one you really liked a lot. like a lot, a lot. the first time you let the ball of sugar rest on your tongue you bought almost $133 worth of suckers off amazon and almost finished them in the same week. between battling villains to regular day job hours, you always had one in your mouth. the feeling of something so heavy and so sweet resting on your tongue just felt so good.

your obsession soon extended to the spider society, stashing suckers in your spidey belt or around the base. there was even a time miguel found some taped under his control pad, which he was obviously not happy about. when you arrived at headquarters your mask was pulled over your nose to expose your mouth at work. signature lollipop hidden between your soft, glossed lips. the candy’s hue stained them a charming baby pink, a shade that complimented you cutely. as you traversed the corridors you greeted a couple of members you happened to pass by—some familiar faces. others new arrivals. flashing them with your gorgeous smile and a wave you continued your way towards the meeting room, you knew gwen, peter b, jessica, patrick, and of course miguel were all gonna be discussing something important. the moment you enter you catch miguel’s gaze immediately. a viscous glare that shows his impatience clearly. "well look who finally decided to show! oh don’t mind us, spiderbarbie," he says, voice oozing with mockery, "we were just y’know, waiting here for you so you can grace us with your presence!" a mean smile sits crookedly on his handsome face. afterwards he formally greets you with a venom laced "you’re late." before rubbing his temples with the pads of his fingers. still standing in the doorway you mock his expression. “i’m not late, you’re just early.” your remark causes some of your coworkers to snicker.

of course, miguel doesn’t like your snarky tone. with a scoff of irritation he rolls his scarlet eyes with a disapproving smack escaping, a sound that’s unique to him. “if you’re just gonna show up late, why do you even—you know what? whatever. it doesn’t matter just get in your seat.” he just bears his vampire-like teeth in hope of being more authoritative but it never works, especially not with you. you move away from the closing doors to your assigned spot at the meeting table. miguel says nothing, his towering presence does all the talking for him. tough, broad shoulders squared in a stance that radiated his disappointment, strong arms crossed firmly over his chest, fingers gripping the fabric of his suit as if channeling his discontent into a physical grip. as the others dived into details of the mission, you found yourself becoming more and more bored with the conversation. It wasn’t long before your focus turned to something else, something more fun. subconsciously, your hand reached for your sucker, the vibrant swirl of sweetness was your favorite diversion. the plump rim of your mouth wrapped sensuously around the candy again.

as minutes stretched into an eternity of plans and contingencies, miguel's authoritative voice droned on. anomalies here, some dimension rifts there with the occasional bickering with lyla about the shared info. you, however, were busy letting your mind wonder, sucking and savoring that not so subtle, lemonade escape. miguel catches the shift in your attention. slowly but surely frustration began to etch its way across his features once again. it was that stupid, rose colored candy twirling in your mouth. while lyla was keeping the others engaged miguel crumpled a old sticky note behind his back and with a swift, precise motion, he balled up a piece of paper in his hand tightly. the tension between you two momentarily thickened as he aimed and then, without a second thought, he flicked his wrist, sending the paper flying across the room. the paper sailed through the air, landing with a soft thud on the side of your thigh. your eyes followed the trajectory back to its source, meeting miguel's intense gaze, his eyes speaking volumes as they bore into yours, he quietly formed the words “pay attention.” but instead of complying, you stuck your middle finger up at him before casually shifting your attention to the projections, a sly smile spreads on your lips. soon the sucker became more like a prop. a deliberate instrument of play. you trace the outline of your lips in a teasing manner, your slow, deliberate movements contrasting with the urgency of the discussions.

throughout the whole meeting miguel tried his best to focus on the conversation but of course he found himself entranced by the dance of candy and saliva. his eyes couldn't help but follow the slick trail the drool left in its wake, tracing its glistening path over your luscious lips. It was an act that blurred the line between innocent indulgence and tantalizing seduction. you shoot a side glance at him, loving the way his nose scrunched up at you and that gorgeous vein on his forehead getting more and more taut. miguel clenches his jaw, trying to maintain his composure in the face of your teasing. as you finally withdrew the sucker from your mouth, his hand instinctively rose to rub his forehead, a feeble attempt to hide the blush creeping up his cheeks. the telltale signs of his embarrassment were evident in the deepening hue of his ears, glowing a dark shade of red. as the meeting pressed on, miguel's patience wore thin. clearing his throat, he shifted his gaze away momentarily to the rest of the group. lyla gives one more rundown on the situation at hand before miguel creates pairs to help with the investigation. peter and gwen had been paired off to place more anomaly trackers. jessica was tasked with helping close up rifts between universes. however, when she suggested a partnership with you, miguel's voice cut through like a whip-crack. "i got her." he asserted, his tone firm, leaving no room for negotiation. "patrick can go with you. barbie—" his gaze shifted to you, “you’re with me.” with the decision settled, a swirling portal manifested, miguel took the lead, beckoning you to follow. you were in a futuristic city, similar to miguel’s but this one felt more ghostly. it was quiet, tranquil. rain lashed down in sheets, the droplets hitting the ground with a force that sent up sprays of water. soft lightning forked across the dark, brooding sky, illuminating the scene in stark, brief flashes. the only thing that protected you from the onslaught of water was a rust torn metal sheet hanging about you attached to a brick wall, a dry halo surrounds you that ends at the tip of the roof. the moment the portal closed behind you the proximity changed the tone between you two. miguel turned to you, his eyes no longer weighed down by sternness, but instead ablaze with a different intensity. eyes fixed on the sucker, now sticking to the side of your mouth, he speaks up.

"I see you have a bad habit," he taunts. "and I need to fix it."

miguel tucks some of his silver colored strands behind his ear and wrinkles his pierced nose. “you’re so fucking annoying,” he growls, “you and that stupid sucker.” that's when miguel takes his time, eyeing you as he torturously drags his clawed hand against his stomach, the holographic layer slowly rippling apart. the disturbed film revealed parts of his muscular thighs and already semi hard cock, bulging and twitching. he was huge, veins strewn about like vines, if dick analysis was a club somewhere you would be the ceo of it. using a wave of his hand, miguel was able to remove his hologram suit completely, “i don't like you. you never listened to me, did whatever you wanted…” your legs clenched tighter together where you sat, “but I liked it. still do.” you softly moan to yourself when his hard cock hits his stomach. you needed to lick him up real soon, it’s almost inhuman the way he looks down at you. “keep looking at me like that, amor,” he huffs, “keep those pretty eyes on me.” he guides your face a bit closer to him. you place your hands on the cold, concrete floor for a bit of stability, still sitting on balls of your feet . miguel grabs the base of his cock and rubs the tip on your lips. spreading a mixture of precum and drool across them. “ngh—just fucking—” miguel stretches his arms out as a force of habit, holding each side of your head so he can work his pretty cock in nice and easy. “don’t move your head, please, just stay here,” you can see his earlier irritation start to crumble, turning him into a desperate mess. you keep eye contact with him, placing a couple of kisses on the head before wrapping your lips around the tip with a smile. he was fixing to say something (probably something that helped him fake some control) until you take him further down your mouth.

his thighs twitch as he lightly moves his hips, trying so hard to meet your lips, and when you let him a gasp flees from his agape mouth as you gag and suck. releasing him with a wet pop and maintaining eye contact you ask, “so you like me?” you watch him look around for a couple of seconds before he closes his eyes with a sigh and whispers a soft “yes, yes I like you.” you could barely hear him over the rain but his confession made butterflies dance around in your tummy. with a devilish smirk you slick your puffy lips along the sides of his cock, darting your tongue out and moaning deeply. you remove both hands off the ground to wrap one around the base and the other on his balls. you place on your lips to start sucking on the tip as you work both hands simultaneously. saliva building, bubbles forming the quicker you bob your head and stroke his dick. you heard him huff out soft whispers of ‘si si si, buena chica’ before you switch gears. you release his cock with a loud pop before going lower. the hand that was once massaging his balls was used to support you. you nudge his balls with your tongue before sucking one of them into your mouth, keeping your rhythm stroking mostly the tip, a low growl escapes his pretty lips. “no pares por favor no pares! dios mío, te amo.” from the way he’s howling you know that's his most sensitive area, his breathing is frantic, a waterfall of drool drips down his jaw and some droplets land on you nose.

you spread your fingers languidly, sticky with his precum and your spit, you can feel the blood pulsing in his cock, rotating your hand and sucking the heavy sack as the whimpers that vibrate in your throat travel to him. “dios mío, lo estás haciendo muy bien, amor,” he babbles, “sigue así, sí, sí, sí just like that.” miguel’s eyes are scrolling back. if the universe didn’t know any better you could say that he was possessed. the sound he makes is so needy that it makes your clit throb even harder, you slip a finger inside your spider suit, going lower and lower until you reach the elastic of your laced panties, slipping inside. Using some of your arousal you rub tiny, tight circles on your clit to help the ache go down and your legs begin to shake. you have to clutch onto miguel’s thigh so you don’t lose your sense of reality.

when it becomes too much and your clit gets super sensitive, you know you’re close, ending the fun too soon, and so you stop. You let him go, you take a step back to lock at your work. miguel was a mess, hair wildly laying on his head, face decorated with drool and sweat, his eyes are all on you. you could have sworn you saw some hearts beating in his irises. “what- why’d you stop?” you give him your most innocent look. “wanna play with you some more,” you whisper. you go to wipe your jaw with your forearm but he stops you, a firm grip on your wrist. “don't fuckin’ tease me, mocosa or i swear-” but before he could finish you giggle, purposely pissing him off further. the vein on his forehead goes taut again. “f-fuck!” he curses angrily, groaning with pain and pleasure stirring inside. his dick jumping for attention. you pout, voice oozing with mockery, “you want it?” reclaiming your position previously with your hand wrapped around his cock again, tightly gripping the base, miguel’s jaw clenches, sharp nails balling into fists as he tears into the wall behind him. “please, fuck just please- please let me have it. I need it. I need you, fuck, just-” he rambles, pratically growling. without another word you decide to ease the teasing and suck him off as you rub your clit again. you moan out with each rotation, alternating from circular motions to flicking motions. you’re trembling again. your breathing is sporadic, heart is pounding in your chest, you’re close. “f-fuck, { ur name }. g’na cum. voy a correrme en tu maldita garganta, fuck!” he grips the wall even tighter, the bricks slowly turning to powder from the sheer force. he could feel the hitching in your breath, “ joder si, cum with me, cum with me yeah? please cum with me.” and you do. your orgasm almost knocks the wind out of you, and the cherry on top was when miguel released a deep, guttural moan as he came down your throat. after you fully come, you remove your slick webbed fingers from the front of your panties, wiping them on your thigh, before you slide down to your knees. miguel, tired and slumped against the wall, reached out, his hands gentle as he cupped your cheeks. his touch was gentle, caring. "lo hiciste muy bien, amor" he murmured, voice soft, his words a caress against your ears. "you did so, so well for me, moscota." miguel, who’s usually stern and serious, found himself softening in your presence, a strange yet relaxing thing to witness. a small, appreciative smile tugged at the corners of your lips. his exhaustion momentarily forgotten, he leaned down, his lips first brushing against your nose in a sweet, lingering kiss before finding their way to your pretty mouth. It was a soft, tender moment."¿Quieres agarrar algunas empanadas?" he asked, his voice warm and inviting, suggesting a moment of shared comfort in a simple meal. When your head cocked adorably to the side he rephrased his sentence, “wanna get food? know this good spot back home.” before you could respond, jess interrupted, her heavy sigh drawing both of your attention "you forgot to turn off the voice receiver," she said, her tone a mix of annoyance and amusement.

how in the hell were you gonna explain what just happened?

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© SATOTOKii 2022 — All rights reserved. do not modify, copy or claim my work without permission. oh ! and don’t you dare copy my layout, i will get someone to eat ur house ‹𝟹

[iolite-moodboards]

scooby gang vibes

things i associate with the scooby gang!!

requests for these are open if you're interested!

fred jones~♡

diners in the middle of nowhere

late-night drives to think

coffee with cream and sugar

butterscotch

his playlist is either motivational 80s or 2000s music

saturday morning cartoons

diner pancakes

fresh, clean smell

geo guesser

lends his jacket if someone is cold

early mornings

always buying new accessories (steering wheel covers, fuzzy dice, little pine trees) for the mystery machine

attempting to read a map while driving

blue jeans

history books

interviewing priests for answers about hauntings in the area

camping

forgets to drink water

messy bedroom

daphne blake~♡

aliens and anything outer space

iced matcha

fun cereal

scrunchies

always offering to pay

binge watching tv

going to the planetarium

girly music

boxing

sneaking in past curfew

peaches

freckles

dragging friends out to stargaze

sheet masks

strawberry ice cream

taking notes with glitter gel pens

conspiracy theories

grwm tiktoks filmed in the back of the mystery machine

pinkpantheress

almond nails

velma dinkley~♡

library trips

hydro flasks

pasta

conspiracy theories pt 2

mothman

freshly brewed coffee

ballpoint pens

falling asleep on the bus

staying up until 4am reading

oversized sweaters

rock collection

digging on reddit to find their next cryptid spot

cinnamon

sunscreen always in her bag

jack stauber

lip oil

doodling stars in her notebook

sitting by the coast

gummy worms

charcoal stained fingers

shaggy rogers~♡

pizza

indie music

skating

beanies

naps

cd collection

stopping for snacks at shady convenience stores

track

skipping stones

keychains

bubble gum

an old mp3 player he won't get rid of

plants in his room

baja blast

rocky road ice cream

stealing daph's sunglasses

afraid of the dark

french fries

always smells both like he just got done grilling and like dog

superstitious

scooby-doo~♡

fancy dog shampoo (literally titled "le ham")

loves going to the beach

fetch

stealing the gang's french fries

sleeping in the back of the mystery machine

oreos

Big Stretch™

unreliable guard dog but he tries his best

hiding behind shaggy

scooby snacks