#test cricket final

[amitgopal390]

टेस्ट क्रिकेट मैच कब और कैसे शुरू हुआ | टेस्ट का पूरा विश्लेषण

टेस्ट क्रिकेट मैच कब और कैसे शुरू हुआ | टेस्ट क्रिकेट का पूरा विश्लेषण भारत में क्रिकेट की लोकप्रियता बहुत ज़्यादा है। भारत में इस खेल को इतना ज़्यादा पसंद किया जाता है कि हर गली,मोहल्ले और नुक्क्ड़ पर बच्चे क्रिकेट खेलते हुए मिल जायेंगे। इस खेल के जनक अंग्रेज़ थे। उन्होंने ही इस खेल की शुरुआत की और देखते ही देखते यह खेल दुनियाभर में बहुत ज़्यादा लोकप्रिय बन गया। क्रिकेट के कई फार्मेट होता है जैसे…

[aeb-art]

even in a story with reader insert, i'm still putting myself in there separately ahahaha so here's another lil thing with some of @venomous-qwille's characters

and then the moment they leave the room:

[kyogos]

its really weird seeing pundits talk about t20 being the format that young people cling to and will be the outlasting format as someone who got into cricket ~6 months via test cricket

[tajanews247]

1 मैच 300 रन... जब रोहित शर्मा के बल्ले ने विजाग में उगला था आग, विदेशी गेंदबाजों को किया तहस-नहस

नई दिल्ली. नई दिल्ली. भारत और इंग्लैंड (India vs England) के बीच दूसरा टेस्ट विशाखापट्टनम में खेला जाएगा. दोनों टीमें इसके लिए तैयार है. मुकाबले में किस खिलाड़ी का बल्ला चलेगा. ये देखना दिलचस्प होगा. उम्मीद है कि रोहित शर्मा (Rohit Sharma) मुकाबले में कमाल कर सकते हैं. आखिरी बार जब वह इस मैदान पर बल्लेबाजी करने उतरे थे तो उन्होंने एक टेस्ट मैच में 300 रन ठोक डाले थे. दरअसल, साउथ अफ्रीका के खिलाफ…

[bi-writes]

gIvE mE yOuR bAbY !!!!!!! (previous part, dark?reader x ghost, 18+ !!!!!)

you throw the pregnancy test angrily into the trash. you're staring at the mirror now, practically snarling at your reflection. you've been fucking your lieutenant for weeks now, and nothing.

nothing, nothing, nothing.

the fucking brute doesn't even want a baby--he's appeasing you, giving into you, but you know it won't be long until your lieutenant becomes just a little coherent and realizes he might not want this, might not need this, not as much as you.

but you're focused. it's him, god dammit, and it will be him. no matter what.

it's late, but you make your way across base anyways. there's no one around, not even the crickets, or maybe the rushing in your ears is too loud for you to hear anything but your beating heart. you fit your key into the lock, shoving his door open, and you see the sorry bastard sleeping in his cot.

he's fully clothed, the paranoid little shit. his belt is nowhere to be found, and he had the good idea to leave his tact vest on the floor by the door, but he's still wearing his cargo pants and a standard issue shirt, his mask hanging off his fingertips. he snores loudly, his nose broken too many times to offer him a night of quiet sleep, and it angers you to see him so peaceful.

you shut the door and lock it, taking the band off of your wrist and tying your hair up before shoving your pants off and tossing your shirt into the corner of the room. you reach over him, undoing the button of his pants and shoving them low. he blinks away the sleep from his eyes just as you straddle him, trying to get his pants just that much lower on his hips.

"the fuck are y'doin'?!" simon growls, his hands gripping your hips on instinct.

"i'm not pregnant," you snap. "now shut up and do what you do best. take these--" you yank on his pants again, but he's more than two hundred pounds of solid fat and muscle, and your tugs don't even budge, not even a little. "--take your fucking pants off!"

he grunts as he finally lifts his hips enough to pull them just low enough. you whine with relief, slipping a hand over him, spitting on his cock before spreading it over his thick length. he hisses, leaning his head back, chubbing up immediately.

"christ," he groans, licking his lips. "never gets old."

"yeah, daddy?" you coo, leaning down and kissing him wet. "'s too bad it hasn't taken yet..." you pout a little. "it's not working, why isn't it working?"

"'cause y'pout too much," simon scoffs. "y'r such a brat."

you whimper, pulling your panties to the side, scooting up as you sink down on his cock easily. you're positively sopping, and he breaches your cunt without much resistance. you fall over him, your hands on either side of his head, and you rock your hips gently as he gets even harder now that he's inside of you.

"simon--" you cry, leaning your head back. "i just want it so bad..." you start to bounce, your eyes rolling back as you hear the smack of your ass against his thighs. "want your baby, simon..."

"ackk..." he hisses. "i know. i know y'want it, luv. ahhh--cunt's beggin' fer it."

you nod, your eyes fluttering shut, and you keep up the pace, the squeak of his cot rattling as you throw your hips back harder.

"fuckin' hell, swee'eart..." he grits his teeth. "really workin' for it..." he chuckles breathlessly, reaching back and gripping your ass with both hands, easily supporting you to bounce a little harder with just the flex of his arms. "fucked ya just this mornin', and y'r already cryin' for me..."

you reach down and grip his jaw, licking over his bottom lip.

"need it all the time," you whisper against his lips. "n-need to be full...a-always..."

simon hums, nodding, "yeah? tha' wot it is? not fillin' y'r cunt often enough, tha' wot y'r sayin', baby?"

you kiss him hot and heavy, your hips bouncing a little more frantically as you lick into his mouth. all teeth and tongue, all wet and slobbery, positively drunk on the way his cock punches into you. you're needy and angry and so, so desperate for it, and you need all the time, need him to just, please, please, please, keep me this full all the time, please--!

"y'r such a needy little girl," he growls. "always so wet..."

"shut the fuck up, simon, and just cum--!" you gasp, cut off by the smack to your ass that he chides you with.

"y'listen t'me--" he grips where your hair is tied up, yanking on it, forcing your neck back and baring the soft skin to him. he sits up, shaking you practically, manhandling you until you're underneath him now, scratching at his biceps as you try to gain control again. it's pointless, really--he can pin you down with one burly leg, and he's got the weight of his entire body holding your hips down as he forces his cock so deep, you feel him right in your stomach. "listen t'me, little brat, you'll get wot i give ya, and you'll like it, yeah? you'll take it, and you'll say thank you, lieutenant, olright?"

you whine, pushing your hips back, feeling the heat of him, and you don't stop crying until he cums. it isn't even about getting off yourself; you just need to be full of him, all the time, always, whenever he's near.

you lose none of your enthusiasm. simon wakes up with your mouth wrapped around his thick cock, and he falls asleep with you pushing back against him as he fucks you from behind. you grab him by the vest as he passes by where you're hidden in a supply closet, and you fuck him fast and hard before sending him off to training again. you slip into his office and take him on his desk, crowd him in the corner of the room that you both are sitting in when you're out in the field. you give him no room to breathe, you just force his trousers as low as holsters will let you and fuck him until he gives you what you need.

"insatiable little girl," he always says into your ear, but you can't help it. your lieutenant is not just your certified baby daddy, he's everything you've been looking for in a man. disgusting, all brute strength, a taker, selfish, obsessed. he isn't normal, and you adore that--you fucking hate normal. you don't want someone passive and sweet, you want someone possessive and a little fucked up, and it's just a bonus that his cock matches his size and that he knows exactly how to use it to make you boneless and feral.

he's just so hot. rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, you drool at the sight of his tattoo sleeve. as he gets dressed in the morning, you catch a glimpse of his bare ass, and you have to fuck yourself on your fingers to refrain from making him any later. seeing him smirk under the mask, it drives you insane, especially when he gives you those eyes--the eyes that say fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. you especially love him making his way back after an op, his body hot under his gear and smelling like sweat and sand and smoke. you lick the ash off his fingers and make him fuck you with his mask stuffed into your mouth because you want to taste the essence of him at his most authentic--adrenaline hungry and bloodthirsty.

"gonna milk me fuckin' dry," he murmurs one evening, running a thick hand over his length. you lay beside him and mewl, your knees still open from when he was just on top of you. your back arches as you feel his spend dribbling out onto the bed, and you reach down and use your fingers to stuff it back inside. as he massages himself, he grunts, the squelch of your slick making it easy for him. "twice olready, 'n y'wanna go again, tha' it?"

you give him big eyes, squirming under his gaze. you slip your fingers out, putting them into your mouth and sucking soft. when you let them go, you smile at him lazily.

"yes, daddy," you whisper, nodding. "p-please...please give me more..."

he chuckles, breathless, and he nods.

"woteva y'want, baby. turn over. give it t'me."

fuck, it makes you so wet all over again to hear him say it. to hear him tell you that you can have it all, have all that you want, that he'll give you whatever you need. it makes your head spin, it makes you dizzy and giggly. you've only ever heard him bark orders outside of this room, but when you're alone, he caters to you and only to you--he's wrapped around your finger, and he doesn't know it, and it makes you positively hungry and satiated all at the same time. hungry for more of it, satisfied knowing it's yours and only yours.

it's days later, when he has you cock-drunk (again) and utterly exhausted that he speaks to you again, really speaks. he smooths a hand over your stomach, pulling back your hips until you're nestled under his arm and pressed back to chest against him. he nuzzles his nose against your jaw, kissing under your ear.

"y'not pregnant yet?" he murmurs. "y'sure of tha'?"

you close your eyes, humming as you nestle into the warmth that he gives off. you shrug, trying to blow it off, trying to seem nonchalant and unbothered. you don't know what he'll do once he finds out. you don't know if he'll push you away, knowing he's given you what you asked for. you want to stay like this, basking in the post-orgasmic bliss of simon's incredible fucking, and you want to think of nothing else but gathering enough energy to do it all over again.

you can tell him about the positive pregnancy test later. right?

"guess not," you whisper, and you moan unexpectedly when you feel him chub up against your ass. fuck, he can go for hours--his stamina knows no bounds.

he doesn't tell you that he found that little test, in a plastic baggie stuck behind the extra toilet paper in the bathroom. instead he grins wide, knowing you've lied, and he hikes up your knee as he pushes into you.

"hmmm..." he growls in your ear. "then we won't stop. won't fuckin' stop until y'ave it. until y'r tits are fat, and 'm fuckin' sure y've got m'baby there--" he cups your pussy as he bottoms out, swirling two fingers around your puffy, abused clit. you nod, slipping his fingers into your mouth, sucking on them desperately.

you won't stop. you'll never stop. you'll never let him go.

[iplpro]

રવિચંદ્રન અશ્વિન: ભારતીય બોલિંગ મેસ્ટ્રોનો 700-વિકેટનો વિજય

ભારતના જાણીતા સ્પિનર રવિચંદ્રન અશ્વિને 700 વિકેટો વટાવીને તેની આંતરરાષ્ટ્રીય ક્રિકેટ કારકિર્દીમાં એક મહત્વપૂર્ણ સીમાચિહ્ન હાંસલ કર્યું હતું. વેસ્ટ ઈન્ડિઝ સામેની ભારતની ટેસ્ટ મેચના પ્રથમ દિવસ દરમિયાન, અશ્વિને તેની અસાધારણ બોલિંગ કૌશલ્યનું પ્રદર્શન કર્યું, વેસ્ટ ઈન્ડિયન બેટિંગ લાઇનઅપને તોડી પાડ્યું અને પાંચ નિર્ણાયક વિકેટો લીધી.

ICC મેન્સ ક્રિકેટ વર્લ્ડ કપ ઇન્ડિયા 2023 ફિક્સ્ચરની જાહેરાત કરવામાં આવી

ભારતે વેસ્ટ ઈન્ડિઝ ટેસ્ટ અને ODI શોડાઉન માટે પાવર-પેક્ડ સ્ક્વોડનું અનાવરણ કર્યું

ICC મેન્સ ક્રિકેટ વર્લ્ડ કપ 2023: ભારત વિ પાકિસ્તાન ક્લેશ પૂર્વાવલોકન

આ સિદ્ધિ હાંસલ કરવા માટે, અશ્વિન પ્રતિષ્ઠિત બોલરોના એક વિશિષ્ટ જૂથમાં જોડાય છે, જેમાં મુખ્યત્વે સ્પિનરોનો સમાવેશ થાય છે. આ યાદીની ટોચ પર ભારતના ક્રિકેટ દિગ્ગજ અનિલ કુંબલે 956 આંતરરાષ્ટ્રીય વિકેટના નોંધપાત્ર રેકોર્ડ સાથે છે. સ્પિન ઉસ્તાદ હરભજન સિંહને નજીકથી અનુસરવામાં આવે છે, જેમણે આંતરરાષ્ટ્રીય ક્રિકેટમાં 711 વિકેટની પ્રભાવશાળી સંખ્યા એકઠી કરી છે.

વેસ્ટ ઈન્ડિઝ સામે ચાલી રહેલી સિરીઝ ખુલી રહી છે ત્યારે અશ્વિન પાસે હવે હરભજનના રેકોર્ડને તોડવાની તક છે. વેસ્ટ ઈન્ડિઝ સામેની તેની તાજેતરની પાંચ વિકેટે તેની ત્રીજી ટેસ્ટ પાંચ વિકેટ તરીકે ચિહ્નિત કરી, જેનાથી તેની એક પ્રચંડ બોલર તરીકેની પ્રતિષ્ઠા વધુ મજબૂત થઈ.

શિખર ધવન એશિયન ગેમ્સ 2023માં ભારતીય ક્રિકેટ ટીમનું નેતૃત્વ કરશે

બાંગ્લાદેશ ODI અને T20I માટે ભારતની મહિલા ટીમની જાહેરાત કરવામાં આવી છે

વેસ્ટ ઈન્ડિઝ સામેની T20I શ્રેણી માટે ભારતની ટીમની જાહેરાત: મુખ્ય ખેલાડીઓ અને સમયપત્રક”

ભારત વિ આયર્લેન્ડ T20 શ્રેણીની જાહેરાત: સૂર્ય કુમાર યાદવ કદાચ કેપ્ટન

ACC ઇમર્જિંગ ટીમ્સ એશિયા કપ 2023: ટીમ, સ્ક્વોડ અને શેડ્યૂલ

અશ્વિનની 700મી વિકેટ ત્યારે બની જ્યારે મોટો સ્કોર કરવા આતુર અલ્ઝારી જોસેફ અશ્વિનના ભ્રામક કેરમ બોલનો શિકાર બન્યો. જોસેફે ડિલિવરીનો ખોટો અંદાજ કાઢ્યો અને માત્ર એક જાડી ધારને જ સંભાળી શક્યો, જયદેવ ઉનડકટના હાથે આરામથી કેચ થયો. 11 બોલમાં માત્ર ચાર રન બનાવીને જોસેફ ક્રિઝ પરથી વિદાય લીધો હતો.

એકંદર મેચ પર ધ્યાન કેન્દ્રિત કરીને, યજમાન ટીમ શરૂઆતના દિવસના ત્રીજા સત્ર દરમિયાન માત્ર 150 રનમાં જ આઉટ થઈ ગઈ હતી. સ્પિનરોએ કાર્યવાહીમાં પ્રભુત્વ જમાવ્યું હતું, જેમાં અશ્વિન અને જાડેજાએ તેમની સંયુક્ત કુશળતાનું પ્રદર્શન કરીને આઠ વિકેટ મેળવી હતી.

સમગ્ર દિવસ દરમિ��ાન, વેસ્ટ ઈન્ડિઝની ટીમે નોંધપાત્ર સંઘર્ષનો સામનો કરવો પડ્યો, બંને પ્રારંભિક સત્રોમાં ચાર વિકેટ ગુમાવી. મજબૂત પુનરાગમન કરવા માટે નિર્ધારિત, તેઓ શરૂઆતના દિવસના અંતિમ સત્ર દરમિયાન બોલ સાથે અસાધારણ રીતે સારું પ્રદર્શન કરવાનો પ્રયત્ન કરશે, તેમના પ્રારંભિક આંચકાને દૂર કરવાનો લક્ષ્યાંક રાખશે.

[amittarora]

🏏 #TEST Match #WTC23 Final #LIVE #Today - #INDIAvsAUSTRALIA !

At #TheOval, Kia #Oval, in #Kennington, borough of #Lambeth, south #London, #UK !

@IndianCricketTeam !

#INDvsAUS ... #INDIA vs #AUSTRALIA ~

( #5Day #International #Cricket #TestMatch #Match - #Finals is it)

N Cmon #TeamINDIA #Cmon, You ought to #Win this n lift this very #WorldCup too Guys!

Heartiest #Wishes,

#AmittARORA

[sadbhawnapaati]

इंदौर के होलकर स्टेडियम पहुंची भारतीय टीम, अभ्यास करते दिखे विराट कोहली  

Indore News in Hindi. बॉर्डर-गावस्कर ट्रॉफी के तीसरे टेस्ट के लिए भारतीय टीम के ज्यादातर खिलाड़ी इंदौर आ चुके है। रविवार को टीम इंडिया ��े खिलाड़ियों ने होलकर स्टेडियम पहुंच कर मैच का अभ्यास भी किया। टीम इंडिया के कप्तान रोहित शर्मा आज इंदौर आएंगे। 1 मार्च को भारत और ऑस्ट्रेलिया टीम के बीच इंदौर के होलकर स्टेडियम में मैच खेला जाएगा। Holkar Cricket Stadium Indore – कल सुबह अभ्यास करने स्टेडियम…

[r3starttt]

KISS ME

PAIRING: Jackson! ellie x reader

CW: request. outbreak | tlou universe.

SUMMARY: Ellie takes care of you after patrol.

DON'T BUY TLOU | PALESTINE MP PALESTINE LINKS | DAILY CLICK

TAGLIST | - ellie taglist: @ilovetaylorrr @imdrowningindispair @rkivedpages

The night sky stretches above you, a deep canvas of blue-black, with only a few stubborn stars daring to puncture its vastness. The moon, however, shone with an almost ethereal glow, casting a silvery light that softened the edges of the night. It illuminated your path home. Yet, its light did little to ease the weariness clinging to your body. Every muscle ached, each movement sending a fresh wave of pain through your tired limbs.

The ground beneath your feet felt distant, as if you were walking on shattered glass, each step a jagged reminder of the day’s relentless toll. It felt as though the very bones in your feet might shatter with the weight of the exhaustion that clung to you, heavy and unyielding.

From the moment you left the safety of yours and Ellie's shared walls, it was a relentless march through the wilderness, every mile weighing down on you like a stone.

The hours went by in a haze of heat and sweat, the sun’s unforgiving rays beating down on you until you felt as though your very essence was melting away. The memory of that heat still lingered, a phantom pain that sapped what little strength you had left.

Your legs had carried you far beyond what should have been your limit. Every patrol was a test, pushing you to the edge, but it was always the final stretch—the steps that brought you back home—that hurt the most. The pain of a long day wasn’t truly felt until you stood on the threshold of safety, when the body, sensing the nearness of rest, began to unravel, finally allowed to release.

The night was quiet, the crickets were quieter tonight, their usual chorus subdued, as if they, too, were tired. Instead, the usual symphony had been replaced by the distant air, a murmur of voices- the sound of the town coming alive in the evening.

People greeted the returning patrols, their voices carrying a mix of relief and fatigue, like echoes of a world that still held onto some semblance of normalcy. Your own group had been particularly weary tonight, the day’s struggles etched into the lines of their faces as they shared tired smiles and half-hearted jokes. Last voices you heard were tinged with exhaustion, drifted to you, words that blended together in a chorus of shared fatigue.

But the sounds of the night could not drown out the ghosts that clung to your mind—the groans and cries of the infected, the hollow echoes of what once were human beings. Their twisted forms a grim reminder of what awaited those who let their guard down.

A smear of dried blood clung to your cheek, the crimson stark against your sweat-streaked skin. Every inch of you was covered in the grime of the day, the sun having left its mark in the form of a relentless burn that sapped your energy and left you feeling hollowed out.

The bruises and cuts scattered across your body throbbed with a dull ache, a heavy weight that seemed to settle in your stomach, twisting it into tight knots. It felt like you’d been running on empty, forcing yourself through sheer willpower, and now that you were so close to rest, the pain was finally catching up to you.

Your fingers brushed against the rough wood of Ellie’s porch door, the familiar texture grounding you for just a moment before it was pulled open. The door swung inward with surprising ease, and there she was—Ellie. The first thing you saw was her eyes, green orbs filled with worry as they drank in the sight of you. She had been waiting, her anxiety palpable in the way her fingers fidgeted nervously, tangling together as if she could knit away her fear.

Without a word, she reached for you, guiding you inside with a gentle hand on your arm. You stumbled through the doorway, the weight of your body dragging you down, but before you could even think to shrug it off, Ellie was there, the moth tattoo peeking out from beneath her sleeve as she motioned for you to turn around. Your body moved on autopilot, dragging itself to obay her command, sluggishly.

Ellie had barely waited for you to move before she was easing the heavy backpack from your shoulders, her fingers deftly undoing the straps as if they were second nature. Too enveloped in the warmth, in the soft glow of the Christmas lights adorning the room and adding to the feeling of safety that she always manages to create around you- barely registering the weight of your backpack being lifted from your shoulders.

“Hey, you okay?” Her voice was soft, a quiet melody tinged with concern, though you could only manage a nod, your throat too tight to form words. The day had stolen your voice, leaving you with nothing but the heaviness in your chest. But Ellie’s voice wrapped around you like a blanket, soothing in its familiarity.

The space enlightened in a gentle, golden hue. It felt like a safe haven, a sanctuary where the world outside could not reach you.

You stumbled toward the couch, your hands fumbling with the laces of your boots. On your ears echoed the faint rustle of fabric as Ellie hung up your—her—jacket on the hook by the door, the simple act somehow grounding you even further.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she murmured, her gaze lifting to meet yours, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. Despite the exhaustion pulling at your very soul, you found comfort in that smile, in the way she always knew how to take care of you when you couldn’t take care of yourself.

Yet the calm faded with a frustrated groan that escaped your lips as you encountered a stubborn knot, the simple task suddenly insurmountable in your current state. Ellie noticed immediately, her eyes softening with sympathy as she was already there, kneeling down in front of you, "Stop, you’re gonna make it worse,” she chided gently, her hands brushing yours aside with that lopsided smile you knew so well.

“Let me,” her whisper insisting once again, preventing you from even thinking on fighting her back. Ellie's tone low and husky, a sound that always sent a shiver down your spine. Her fingers worked deftly at the knot, untying it with ease, her touch careful and deliberate. As she did, she glanced up, her voice dropping to a softer, more husky tone, as if trying to coax a response out of you. “Did you hear what I said?”

You managed a half-hearted reply, more of a mumble than anything else. “Get me cleaned, yes.” her fingers finally loosening the stubborn knot, helping you out of your boots. It felt as if the weight of the day begin to lift, replaced by the comfort of knowing that you had her with you, in this very moment to finally provide you safeness.

She would never say it, but you could see the relief in her expression, the way her worry eased just a fraction realizing the same thing. After a long day, she had you there, safe.

"Come on," you groaned, tilting your head back as you sighed deeply. Inside your mind, you counted down from five before finally taking her hand and standing up.

The stiffness in your feet began to ease as you pressed your feet against the cold, hard concrete floor. Its coolness and firmness, in contrast to the warm flesh, added just enough pressure to make you feel better.

Ellie led you into the bathroom—it was only a few steps, really. Her hand was a steadying presence, her fingers resting gently on your opposite arm with each step you took. The small space was dimly lit, a single candle flickering and casting soft, dancing shadows on the walls. Ellie’s bathroom was simple but functional—a small tub, a sink, and a water system. A barrel of water sat near the ceiling, connected to a series of tubes that fed into the showerhead, sink, and toilet. It wasn’t much, but it worked, and in this world, that was everything.

The absence of her touch contrasted with the tender atmosphere. From your viewpoint, you could see her hair, messily tidied into a bun, with a few baby hairs and stray strands adorning her neck and the area behind her ears. You wanted to kiss them.

She knelt by the tub, her movements loud as she filled a bucket with water. The sound of the water splashing into the bucket was soothing, a gentle reminder that you were finally safe—finally home.

Ellie set the bucket down next to the tub and looked up at you, only then realizing you were already looking back. It was quiet, aside from the sound of the water, but everything felt blurry in her presence.

You shifted slightly, resting the back of your arms and elbows against the sink to keep your composure, making enough space for both of you and allowing her to stand up.

She reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against your cheek, wiping away the dried blood that clung stubbornly to your skin. "Arms up," she said with quiet determination, an unspoken promise that she wouldn’t let anything else be a struggle tonight.

You nodded, too tired to do much else, and let her help you out of your clothes. Each piece of fabric that left your body and fell to the floor felt like another layer of the day’s grime and exhaustion being peeled away. By the time you stood there, bare and vulnerable, you felt lighter—still weary, but no longer weighed down.

The tub was cold and stiff, making your bones ache. But it was all easily forgotten. Ellie dipped a sponge into the bucket and began to gently cleanse your skin. She worked in silence, her touch tender and methodical as she wiped away the dirt, blood, and sweat that clung to you. The water was cool against your overheated skin, soothing the burns left by the sun and the aches buried deep in your muscles. The sponge moved across your body with a kind of reverence, as if she were handling something precious. In that moment, you were—precious to her, and safe in her care.

When the sponge had done its work, Ellie carefully poured the dirty water over you, rinsing away the last remnants of the day and ensuring your hair was thoroughly wet. The water cascaded down your body, carrying away the grime and blood, leaving you feeling half-clean—both physically and emotionally.

You let out a soft sigh, feeling as though the water was rinsing away more than just dirt. It was washing away the tension, the fear, and the exhaustion, leaving you with nothing but the comfort of being home, of being with her.

Ellie reached for the soap, lathering it between her hands before gently running them over your skin. The smell of it—something mild and earthy, a scent she had traded for a few weeks back—filled the small bathroom. The soap felt comforting against your battered skin, and Ellie’s hands moved with the kind of care that came from knowing just how fragile you felt in that moment.

She repeated those same motions later, with the soap on your body, her fingers careful not to apply too much pressure whenever there was a cut, bruise, or anything that could cause pain.

“Let me know if it hurts,” Ellie murmured, her voice a low, comforting hum that resonated in your chest. You managed a weak nod, closing your eyes as you surrendered fully to her care. The world outside ceased to exist, reduced to the sound of water splashing against porcelain and the feeling of Ellie’s hands moving over your body in a slow, rhythmic dance.

Finally, she reached up and pulled the chain that controlled the flow of water from the barrel, letting a gentle stream of water fall over you from the showerhead. It wasn’t much—she had to be careful with how much water was used—but it was enough.

"Here," she whispered, planting a kiss on your forehead as she handed you a small towel. It was barely enough to properly dry your hair, but you always managed to make it work.

Too focused on the wet sounds in your ears coming from your hair being dried, you barely noticed the commotion Ellie made while searching for a proper towel for you. She swore she had a clean one left—or maybe she had just convinced herself earlier to avoid doing laundry today. But you didn't know that, so she had to hurry.

When she finally appeared in the doorway, you tilted your chin up, meeting her hands first and then the towel she held. "Come here," she murmured. In a matter of seconds, she had the towel wrapped around your shoulders and was guiding you out of the bathroom and, much to your relief, into the very desirable bed.

She knelt in front of you again, her hands busy with the towel, drying you off with the same care she’d shown throughout. As she worked, her eyes kept flicking up to meet yours, as if she needed to reassure herself that you were really safe, here.

"Can I?" she asked, her fingers lightly grazing the skin of your thighs. Her hazel eyes, dilated pupils, focused on all the bruises, all the wounds. And again, you didn't reply verbally but simply moved the towel aside, exposing yourself before her and allowing her to reach every inch of skin that needed the tenderness of her touch.

It took some pain, hisses, and a kiss here and there. The needle was probably something no human could ever get used to, nor the sensation of the thread between your skin. But you made it work; you had to.

Ellie was gentle, helping you into a clean set of clothes—something soft and warm that smelled faintly of her. You could barely keep your eyes open by this point, the weight of the day catching up with you now that you were finally clean and comfortable.

"Hey," Ellie called softly, taking your hand and gripping it just enough to reassure you. You turned your chin up, meeting her pretty eyes and that sheepish smile. "Let's go eat, come on."

As you did every morning, you forced yourself out of bed. Just as you had done with the couch when you first came in, you took a deep breath, counted to three, and stood up.

Dinner most nights was something she threw together while you were out on patrol. Today, the aroma of a hearty stew filled the room, mingling with the faint scent of herbs.

Usually you’d joke about her cooking, mocking her “chef talents”—she wasn't the best. But tonight, the words stuck in your throat, weighed down by exhaustion and the thought of simply touching the bed again, it looked so inviting.

You slid into your seat at the table, the day's exhaustion making your limbs heavy. Ellie chuckled, her usual dorky grin present but softened by concern. "It's not fancy, but—" she said, sliding a plate in front of you. "It's edible."

She watched as you took tentative bites, her hand resting on your back, offering silent encouragement. As usual, she didn’t touch her own food until she saw you eat.

The silence between you was comfortable, the warmth of the stew seeping into your bones, grounding you after the chaos of the day. Yet, as the meal progressed, your appetite remained low. You gave small glances at Ellie, considering your usual reluctance to eat her cooking.

"I know you’re tired, but you haven't had proper food since breakfast."

You knew that if you refused again, she’d let it slide, waiting until you were sound asleep before eating anything herself just to avoid an argument.

But after all she’d done to take care of you tonight, you couldn’t bring yourself to fight her on this. "I’ll wait with you. We can eat together.” With a quiet nod, you picked up your spoon again and took another bite.

Relief. Ellie could only stare at you with relief. The adrenaline of every time you went out on patrol never really fading until next day- for her, it wasn't only the thoughts of you getting hurt, but killed, taken by anyone and being hurt. She feared humans mostly.

And then, seeing you in front of her- yes, hurt, but nothing else- it was like all the anxiety finally made any sense. What would it be if any day you didn't come back, how could she ever manage to eat dinner herself, alone.

Having you in front of her, so close. Feeling the warmth of your skin under her hoodie- the fact that you're the one on her clothes, right next to her. The fact that she's having to force you to eat. It's always a relief, to know you're here, with her, that she has you.

It wasn't until her brain finally realized it was all good that she started to eat.

You always finished first. Only waiting for your stomach to feel full enough, with a gentle move, you pushed the plate away slightly to let her know you were done. Ellie always replied with a nod and a quick glance. Her hand on your thigh as she finished the last few bites of her meal.

The usual banter and teasing were absent, replaced by a quiet understanding—a silent agreement that tonight was about more than just food or sleep. It was about taking care of each other, about finding comfort in the little things. Like—no dishes to be washed tonight. That's future you both's problem.

“Let’s get you to bed,” she whispered, her voice a soothing balm to your tired mind.

You didn’t argue, letting her lead you to the small bed you shared. The sheets cool against your skin as you slipped under them, Ellie sliding in beside you. She pulled you close, her arms wrapping around you in a comfortable and tight enough embrace that felt like the safest place in the world. The steady rhythm of her heartbeat against your back lulled you.

You could feel the rhythm of her breathing against your neck. It all creating the most desirable sanctuary. And after hours that felt endless, you could close your eyes, focusing on the feeling of normalcy—the simple, precious moment of being held by someone who cares deeply, knowing that no matter what tomorrow brings, you'd wake up next to her, ready to face it together.

[strangerstilinski]

𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐤𝐢 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝟏𝟖+

𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐩𝐭. 𝟐 — 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐟

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬; 𝐧𝐨 𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲/𝐧, 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐞𝐱 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞?

minors/ageless blogs please DNI.

REBLOGS are important. please reblog to share/save.

| 𝐩𝐭. 𝟏 | ⋆ | 𝐩𝐭. 𝟐 | ⋆ | 𝐩𝐭. 𝟑 | ⋆ | 𝐩𝐭. 𝟒 |

It's the worst day you've had in a while.

Each of your classes dragged entirely too long, leaving you glancing at the clock only to find mere minutes had passed since the last time you'd checked.

Then, on the way to the courtyard where you planned to sit in the sun and relax, you'd dropped your lunch. The contents of your takeout container had created a truly heartbreaking splatter across the pavement, and then you hadn't even had enough cash left on you to buy anything else, so you'd had to settle for munching on the bruised apple at the bottom of your bookbag.

And, after an already exhausting morning had tested the strength of your sanity, you had your scheduled office hours in the afternoon. Said meeting was with one of your least favorite professors to discuss an upcoming term paper, and the hour spent in his stuffy office had proved to be grueling and overall unhelpful, which only resulted in you biking home from campus sporting a decidedly bad mood to pair with your rumbling stomach and the beginnings of a stress headache.

When you finally collapse face-first onto your bed a few hours later and release a little scream into your pillow, the sound of it is muffled into no more than a quiet cry. Through the smothering cotton, you fight to pull in a steadying breath, if only so that you might have enough air in your lungs to scream in frustration again.

The sky outside is dark, crickets creating a loud symphony in the distance, and the breeze coming in through your window brings goosebumps along the backs of your thighs where the baggy tshirt you've chosen for pajamas has rucked up to settle in the curve of your spine. The cool air meets your flushed skin like a blanket of ice, your body still warm from a shower in which you'd spent a little longer than usual beneath a cloud of steam and hot water in a failed attempt at releasing some of the lingering tension from the day — But even an extra few minutes breathing in the aromatics of your body wash clinging to the steam-thickened air wasn't enough to settle you. The irritating buzz of the stress still made itself known underneath your skin, the itch of it making your body feel just a little too tight for all of the frustration building up inside.

You can't even find it in you to flinch at the sound of something scrabbling at your bedroom windowsill, nor do you lift your head at the small crash and thump that follow a few seconds later. There's a small rustling of fabric and limbs, shoes thumping against the baseboard as they're kicked off, what you assume is the sound of your backpack being placed back where you'd thrown it on the cushioned bench beneath the window when you'd first gotten home.

There's a moment of silence as Stiles drinks in the sight of you. Hungry eyes rake across every inch of your exposed skin, trailing the length of your legs up to where they meet the supple curve of your ass, and with the way your shirt has bunched up underneath your belly, the soft skin of your backside is hidden from him only by your underwear. He spares a second to admire how the pretty fabric clings to your flesh, the cut high and revealing on the cheeks of your ass.

It takes a few slow seconds for him to reorient his thoughts to something slightly less salacious, but after an audible breath, he manages.

“Are you..? Hey.. 're you sleeping?” Stiles' voice comes out a little incredulous but still hushed, as if he's actually worried about waking you in case you truly had somehow slept through the cacophony of noise he'd caused when he climbed in through the window.

You only give a pitiful whine into your pillow in response, feet kicking a little petulantly as you finally roll to face him to reveal the lack of sleep in your eyes, “Scott isn't home,” You tell him weakly, voice still a little smothered by your pillow, “You coulda jus' come in through the front door.”

Stiles is at the edge of the bed already, kneeling on the mattress and making to join you now that he knows you aren't asleep. He looks deliciously soft, gray sweats hanging low on his hips, his sweatshirt already stripped away in a heap on your bedroom floor to leave him in a cozy-looking tshirt, the fabric of it soft with wear.

“Where's the fun in that?” Stiles asks with a quiet laugh, urging you onto your back and crawling on top of you without warning. His weight settles atop your body and his nose nuzzles into the softness of your breasts over your shirt as he burrows his face into the space between them.

He's so warm. Body heat is quick to seep out from his clothes and through your own with the way he's settled heavily on top of you. It's all a little smothering, the way that his weight is making it a bit hard to breathe, your lungs not quite able to get a full inhale — but it's also grounding, the heavy blanket of warmth he provides managing to alleviate just a little bit of your anxiety.

“One of these days you're gonna hurt yourself, or worse, you might break something of mine with a flailing limb when you inevitably trip and come tumbling through the window,” You tease weakly, pinching your eyes shut as you try to push away that lingering tightness in your chest, “I'm serious. You're gonna break something and I really hope it isn't your face.”

Your fingers come up to tangle in his hair and he hums in appreciation, a content grumble rising in his throat as he settles his cheek onto the plushness of your breast like it's his own personal pillow.

His hand slips down your thigh, fingers blindly drawing little patterns around the top of your knee as he scoffs, “Oh, real exciting. Yeah, next time I'll just use the front door, like some kind of common loser. As if.”

“You are a loser.” You say quietly, the small smile in your voice not quite managing to hide the discontented sigh that slips out as your mind wanders back to the events of the day.

Stiles pushes up onto his elbows at the edge in your voice and your hands fall from his head with the movement. He frowns as his big brown eyes flick over your face in scrutiny, “What’s wrong?” He asks immediately, long brows drawn together as his lip juts out in a pout of concern.

Your eyes fall shut again and you give his biceps a squeeze even as your nose scrunches up, “Just.. Stressed. Had a really shitty day.”

He hums in understanding, sitting up to settle on his knees between your legs and draping your thighs over his own, big hands slipping underneath your hips to rub at the base of your spine. You let out a little noise of appreciation at the rough dig of his fingers massaging the muscles there, hips lifting up from the mattress just a little to give him more room.

“Oh, you like that?”

He's teasing, you know he is, but the way his grip on you tightens, the way his fingers press into the fat of your thighs so that he can tug you just a bit higher up on his own lap — it makes your breath hitch. Your sleep shirt has bunched up just above your navel and it leaves your panties exposed from the way your ass has settled over him. Your body is tilted at an angle, your hips in the air with how he's propped you up on his thighs while your knees press in on either side of his waist.

One of his hands leaves your spine to give the soft dough of your thigh a squeeze before making a slow trail up, settling his palm over the thin cotton at the apex of your thighs. His thumb presses down softly against your clit through the fabric and Stiles watches intently as you let out a breathy sigh when he draws a slow circle against you.

You still haven't dignified him with an answer, opting to pinch your lips together as his thumb slips down a little further to press into the wetness that's begun to soak through the fabric, his finger dipping in and pushing cotton into your opening with it.

“Need me to make you feel better, honey? 's that it?” Stiles asks. The grin in his voice is audible, but when you blink your eyes open to get a good look, you find him peering down at you with awe and hunger swimming in his eyes. When he catches your gaze, the corners of his lips pull up a little more and his thumb moves back to rub at your clit over your underwear, “Need me to make you a little stupid? Huh? Work some of that stress outta your head?”

Your jaw has gone a little slack with the way he's circling your bud with easy drags, knowing exactly how much pressure to use and what angle feels the best and- He asked you a question — What had been the question?

“Huh?” You ask quietly, the sound half a question and half lost to the moan working it's way up your throat.

The smile on Stiles' face goes soft and he leans forward to press a kiss to your cheek, right at the corner of your mouth. Your lips purse and your chin tips up in an attempt to meet him, but he's already leaning back so that he can watch the drag of his finger over your panties.

“You going stupid on me already, baby? I've barely gotten started.”

The circles he's been drawing slow, growing unhurried and leisurely. The movement of his thumb is agonizingly slow now and you huff in frustration and cant your hips up in a silent demand.

“Stiles.” You plead simply.

“Alright, alright,” He laughs, leaning in to press one quick kiss to your mouth before he begins to make his way further down, leaving a trail of kisses along your jaw and neck in his wake, “Settle down. I got you.”

He makes a small detour at your chest to bunch your tshirt up at your collarbones, exposing your tits so that he can leave a cluster of bites to the supple flesh. You gasp at the sharper bites, keening a little, but he's already peppering kisses over the abused skin and moving farther down. His tongue dips out between his lips, the warm wetness making you squirm a bit as he moves in a slow line down your stomach. Lower, lower. When he reaches the waistband of your panties, he hooks his fingers under the fabric and pulls just a little, exposing the sliver of sensitive skin just above your patch of trimmed curls. You gasp again at the sharp sting of his teeth when they scrape harshly over your hipbones and your hips lift up again on instinct.

Stiles takes pity on you and finally eases your underwear down your thighs. The tension is broken for a brief moment as he struggles to coax the fabric past your knees and around your ankles without dislodging you from his lap, a small huff of laughter escaping you when he curses quietly.

He rids you of the article but immediately brings your ankle up to nip at your foot in reprimand, pushing your thigh up against your stomach with the movement.

“You gonna behave?” He asks while he curls his fingers around your ankle.

“Mhm.” Your hum and the small nod of your head are paired with a coy smile.

“See, I don't know if I believe you,” Stiles says with a small laugh and an absentminded peck to your skin, his teeth scraping the bottom of your calf with his grin as he does so, “You've got that look in your eye.”

“What look?” You question curiously, a little lightheaded with the way his lips press a small line of kisses from the top of your foot all the way up to your shin and then back down again.

“The look that says you're feelin' a little bratty.” He tells you.

You scoff in indignation and his teeth nip at your ankle bone again, successful in cutting the sound off before you can say anything to the contrary.

“You gonna let me take care of you, or what?” He asks seriously, eyebrows raising a little as he fixes you with a stern look.

You nod and your eyes go a little wide at the tone of his voice, your cunt clenching with the flash of warmth that rushes down your spine.

“Good girl.” Stiles murmurs with a grin, already beginning to kiss a slow trail up from your ankle. His lips press into your skin in an irregular pattern of teeth and tongue, briefly broken up with gentle pecks as he makes his way up the length of your leg toward your naked cunt.

As he finally reaches his destination, he urges the bend of your knees over his shoulders, your legs framing his head nicely as he dips to press an agonizingly gentle kiss to your clit. You fight the jolt in your hips, making an effort to keep your muscles taught, but then he does it again, his lips parting just enough to nudge the little bud with the tip of his tongue, and you're lifting toward him without really meaning to.

“Sorry, sorry.” You're apologizing breathlessly before he can scold you, fingers curling into the duvet as you settle your hips against the mattress again.

“Atta girl.”

He kisses your clit gently again and you bite back a whine at the soft press of lips against you. His wide palms run up and down the outside of your thighs and he turns his head to where your legs are draped over his shoulders to suck softly at the sensitive skin on the inside of your thigh. Your brows furrow at the sting of the bruise he's leaving there but you manage to stay still and the praise he murmurs against your skin in return makes your head feel a little light.

Another small series of kisses mark his path back to where you want him most and his voice is quiet as it reaches your ears, “No more stress babe. You know I got you, right?”

“Mhm.” You agree quickly, fingers tightening around the blankets in anticipation.

“Good. Good..”

And then his mouth is on you again and you find it a little hard to breathe. He doesn't ease into it, there are no teasing licks up the length of your folds nor are there anymore agonizingly gentle kisses. His mouth closes around your clit, sucking softly, tongue laving over the bud before he's sucking again.

A weak little cry pushes its way out of you, another coming just a moment later when Stiles scrapes his teeth against you gently as he works, his tongue quick to sooth over the sensitive nub in apology. He kisses your clit like he can't get enough, licking and leaving wet little pecks only to close his lips around it again a second later.

Minutes pass. Your mouth doesn't even close between moans anymore, lips permanently parted to let out a near-constant stream of tiny whines and breathy gasps and desperate whimpers. Your whole body feels like a live-wire. The nonstop stimulation to your most sensitive muscle leaves you teetering on the edge of something earth-shattering despite it not actually managing to peak yet.

“F-ffuck,” You manage to get out, lips trembling as you look down and catch sight of the way Stiles is devouring you, the dim lamplight creating golden patches in the dark locks of his hair, his head bobbing as he works. “Stiles.. St-Stiles! 's.. 's so g-fuuck.. 's so good-”

He doesn't slow, nor does he glance up at your first real words since he started, sheer determination pushing him to continue at the same brain-melting pace.

His teeth catch against you again and you gasp sharply, the sound tearing from your dry throat as your hand shoots up to grab a fistful of his hair.

“J-jesus, nngh- God! Stiles-”

Your back arches of its own accord, hips canting toward his mouth as another choked sound drags its way out of your throat. You feel like you could come any second — have felt a little like you might come any second for the past ten minutes at least — and it's making everything a little fuzzy around the edges. Your shower-damp hair is cool against your flushed skin when you tip your head to the side against the pillows while warmth creeps along your neck and spreads down your spine. It crawls all the way to your toes as your eyes pinch shut, fighting to hide the way that they're starting to cross embarrassingly from the pleasure.

“Fuck,” You whine with a stuttered breath at the feeling of his lips closing around you again, sucking so delicately at your sensitive bud, tongue rolling against it softly within the suction of his mouth. “Fuckfuckfuuucck-”

He finally gives you a small response, a quiet, noncommittal hum that rumbles through your cunt and has your hips spasming with a thrum of pleasure. Stiles brings one hand from where it had been drawing absentminded patterns along the length of your thigh and drops it to rest over your torso instead. He firmly pushes your hips back down without ever slowing his skillful mouth and you can't hold back a quiet whimper as you're immobilized, the restless movement transferring almost immediately into a tremble in your thighs and stomach, the muscles beneath quivering and jumping under your skin.

His palm is warm and heavy where the weight of it is spread over your ribs. The width of his hand has his fingers curling around your waist while his thumb begins to drag back and forth over your tummy in long, smooth strokes. His soothing touch is a tether in the dark and you cling to it desperately, your fingers tangling tighter in his hair as you grapple for something to keep you steady amidst what's beginning to feel a little like it might be a constant, never ending orgasm.

A noise rips from you so choked off that it sounds a bit like it might've been punched out of your chest and your hips jump again. The shakes in your thighs and stomach seem to spread, your whole body beginning to quake throughout stuttered breaths that might actually be sobs.

It's then that Stiles finally peers up at you, brown eyes meeting your own and taking in the mess you've become under his minstrations. He still doesn't pause, doesn't slow, but he does raise his eyebrows in silent question as his fingertips dig into the doughy flesh at your waist.

You don't manage more than a garbled, “Yes!”

Your free hand grabs ahold of his forearm with an iron grip and a few tears actually break free and fall back into your hair when the warm fog creeps impossibly further across your body, clouding what little remained of the blurred edges of your mind. Any shreds of lucidity are gone as your eyes roll back with a high keening moan. Your hips stutter wildly now, thighs tightening around Stiles of their own accord as your never-ending orgasm seems to finally crest and send you hurtling over the edge that you've been dragging on for so long.

It's possible you black out. The next thing you become aware of is Stiles pressing loud, smacking kisses to your pelvis, the insides of your thighs, your belly and ribs, his lips are gentle against your skin as the soft sound of the kisses breaks through the fog in your head. By the time he settles on top of you, hands slipping beneath your sweat-slicked shoulders to rest his weight on his elbows underneath you, the heavy beat of your heart is a loud echo in your ears.

He's wiped his face off at some point, but his swollen lips still glisten lightly from the time spent between your thighs as you pant warm breaths against his mouth. The cool smugness that Stiles had worn before is gone and now he looks at you with nothing but adoration, chocolate brown blinking down at you as if, even flushed and sticky with sweat, you might be the prettiest thing he's ever seen.

You intend to bring a hand up to fix the wild tufts of his hair where your hands made a home earlier, but your arm feels entirely too heavy when you lift it and you hardly manage more than a brush of your fingers over his cheek before your hand falls limply to the pillow beneath your head. Stiles chuckles softly at your attempt and tangles his fingers with your own, dipping his head to press a few playful kisses to your cheeks and the tip of your nose until you reward him with a breathless laugh.

“You okay?” He checks quietly, thumb stroking over the side of your own, “Wasn't too much was it?”

“Okay,” You assure him, “Very, very okay.”

The way his sweatpants rub against your naked legs is soft when he readjusts, manhandling you onto your side so he can wrap you up in his embrace, the quilt from the end of the bed being draped over you as he settles in. His arms go around your shoulders and you curl your own around his back in return, your nose pushing into the warmth of his chest as your body continues to come down.

“Hey,” You murmur into his shirt, craning your head back to look up at him and tangling your bare legs with his as you continue, “You're big-spooning me. 'm usually big spoon.”

“Yeah. Not tonight your not.” He says easily, wide palm dragging soft up and down in the space between your shoulder blades.

His hips unconsciously nudge forward just a little and you feel the warm stiffness of his neglected cock against your hip, erection straining against his sweats where he's pressed against you. It makes you gasp almost comically.

“Wha'bout you?” You mumble in sleepy realization, batting your eyes with heavy blinks in an attempt to keep sleep from claiming you.

“Don't worry about me, alright? Seriously, I'll just jerk off in the shower later,” He tells you, fondness in his voice, “Now shut up and let me hold you.”

You hum, burrowing back into his chest contentedly, “Yes, sir.”

A quiet groan meets your ears as the soothing motions of his hand stutters, “None of that, come on.” Stiles huffs quietly, voice laced with self-deprecating laughter, “I know you know you're gonna get me worked up sayin' shit like that.”

You did know that.

Your lips pull into a grin, brain lax and floaty and sleepy. Your arms tighten around him for a moment before relaxing again, “Sorry.”

He grumbles something to the contrary as your eyes slip closed, your body finally free of the tight-coiled tension that had followed you around like a shadow all day.

Stiles Stilinski is loud and weird and passionate to degree that's concerning at times. He's bumbling and he's awkward, often to the point of it being a little adorable and entirely endearing, but then he still always manages to surprise you — With his eagerness to please. With the way he can shift into something else, someone else entirely, behind closed doors. Just for you.

That night, wrapped up in the arms of your brother's best friend you realize that, at some point along the way, after all this time, he might very well have become your best friend too. And finally, feeling warm and safe and cared for, you find yourself slipping into a blissful sleep.

𝐚/𝐧; 𝐢 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐬𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐢 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧'𝐭? 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐰𝐚𝐲! 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭! 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠/𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐢 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐢𝐧𝐩𝐮𝐭! — 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞'𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐌𝐜𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐥!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 🤍

again, REBLOGS are important.

please have the curtesy to reblog to share/save.

[myspacebrat]

𝟏𝟖+ 𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈 𝐛𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐱 “𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭” 𝐟𝐞𝐦 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Three light taps on your window pull you out of the reverie of your favorite romance novel. You can’t help but to clutch your pink nightie closer to your icy skin as you tiptoe across your room and slowly with shaky hands move your curtain to the side to get a good look at who the silhouette belongs to. It’s none other than Steve Harrington, the king of Hawkins high and your bully.

It started about a week ago, you were lucky to get through most of high school with your head down and completely unscathed by the bitchy hierarchy of teenage popularity. That was until Steve who sat behind you in English, noticed that you aced the mid semester test; which cost half your grade.

Since then you’ve been doing all of his book reports for him, you couldn’t deny you didn’t like the attention, even if he did make fun of you for being a prude nerd. So, this last book report you had devised a plan. Steve was always threatening to punish you and you wanted to see if he’d follow through with said threats, which left you to purposely bomb it.

You slowly lift your window, letting the cool air and the chirps from the crickets fill your room. “Hurry up!” Steve pressed, before climbing through rather clumsily. After he fully stood and dusted off his knees, he took a folded paper out of the back of his jean pocket. “What the fuck is this? Huh?” You can’t help the excited chill that runs through your body from his tone.

“What’s what?” You say, feigning innocence as you blink up at him with your biggest doe eyes. You were so close, you could practically feel the anger radiating off of him. “Don’t play stupid, me and you both know you’re not.” Steve chides, as his brows furrow down at you. “Why’d you purposely fail my book report, huh? Didn’t I tell you there’d be consequences if you don’t do what I say?” He grits and his jaw tenses before his eyes fall to your tits that are now peaked from the cold, the thin fabric of the nightie isn’t doing the best job at concealing them from the jock.

“I fucking meant it, okay? I’m gonna have to punish you.” His harsh tone doesn’t match the soft touch of his fingers that slide over your clothed nipples. “What do you want me to do, Steve?” You purr up at him as you bat your lashes. “You know how I’m always calling you a prude, baby? Well today’s your lucky day. I’m gonna show you how to suck a cock. Get down on your knees.” Steve demands.

Little did the king of Hawkins high know, you knew how to suck cock; you were experienced in pretty much everything sexual. Thanks to your fuck buddy and drug dealer, Eddie.

But you indulge his delusions by keeping up the innocent virgin act, just for a bit longer.

You quickly pop the button of his jeans and slide the zipper down its track, being met with a pair of tighty whiteys that you assume by the deep flush of his cheeks; he was just remembering he had on. “Cute.” You giggle, making him fist a hand in your hair and pull until a stinging sensation has you whimpering as tears sting your eyes. He finally removes himself from his confines—

His cock is huge, but you show no traces of even acknowledging that fact, last thing king Steve needed was an even bigger ego.

“Open up you fucking brat.” He hisses while his hand still tugs at your tresses. The soft tugs cause you to soak through your panties and leave you eager to rub your needy clit on anything for some relief. “That’s it, good girl.” Steve praises as he rubs his leaking tip across your wet tongue. Your lips finally close around it, before inching down and taking him expertly into the back of your throat. “Holy shit!” He jerks at the unexpected pleasure, as you continue to bob and gag on him. It’s almost too much considering he thought not even two minutes ago that he was going to have to guide you and talk you through it. No fucking way were you a prude virgin like he suspected, he’s been with plenty virgins. Nah, you were a little cock slut and fuck did he love the thought of his own personal whore who milked his cock and did his school work so he could stay the captain of the basketball team.

A deep groan falls from his lips when you begin to fondle his balls while you continue to suck him for all he’s worth. Spit falls onto the carpet below and you’re canting your hips as if a bitch in heat. You take two hands and twist around his shaft as you suck the tip, working him like a fucking pro. You look up at him with tears running down your soft cheeks and hunger in your eyes, and that absolutely does the jock in. You quickly notice the way his thighs shake and his moans grow louder, leaving you to lull your tongue out as you lick at his frenulum and continue twisting your hands around his spit soaked cock, ready to catch all of his warm creamy spend. Steve watches as his come shoots onto your tongue and down your throat, you swallow it all before sticking the pink muscle back out to show him how good of a girl you’d been by swallowing everything he’d so graciously given you.

“You’re a slut.” Steve states, with a blissed out look on his face. “I thought you were a virgin, why didn’t you tell me you weren’t a fucking prude?” He can’t help but smile from just receiving the best blow job of his life. Something about the little innocent girl who he makes do his work, but is actually a secret slut has him feeling possessive and as if he now has to assert some kind of claim over you.

“You didn’t ask.” You shrug as you wipe your chin. “Now can we move this along? The guy that taught me how to give that dynamite blow job will be here soon and I don’t wanna screw up my chances of getting fucked because he finds King Steve in my room.” You hand him his paper and push him back towards your window. “Your- wait what?” He asks in disbelief.

“This was fun, but you have to go. See ya later, Stevie.” Steve moves down your trellis in shock at what had just transpired. There was no way he was letting you go that fast, so when he made it to his car he decided to sit for a few, in order to catch a glimpse of who you were talking about. Just as Steve got comfortable against his leather seat, a beat up van was pulling up to the side of your house. But it wasn’t just any van, no it was Eddie Munsons van.

Well that just won’t do, come tomorrow morning you’re gonna know exactly who you belong to, no matter what Steve has to do in the process.

part two!

[lou-struck]

Up All Night

Belphegor x reader

~Belphie gets splashed with Night Cricket essence and is cursed to hear their calling all through the night.

W.C: 3.5k

Warnings: Brief mention of Obey Me Chapter 16, slight angst, Belphie being crabby and kinda mean since he is tired.

Poor Belphegor can hardly keep his eyes open. It may be the early afternoon, but the Avatar of Sloth just arrived back at the House of Lamination after taking a make-up test at RAD. The reason he had to retake the test was not because he got a poor grade or anything; he just was too tired the day off and chose to sleep through all three of his alarms and, subsequently, the exam.

But now that that's over with, he can finally take his afternoon nap,

His head hangs low as he sluggishly trudges through his home. Searching for the perfect place to rest his head. His favorite cow-printed pillow secure in his arms as he pokes his head into your room.

Much to his disappointment, he sees that you are still out running errands or doing something equally as exhausting. Normally, he would have no problem falling asleep in your bed, but today, he is feeling a bit adventurous.

Today, for some reason. He is home alone which means he is presented with with rare opportunity to fall asleep anywhere. 

But where should he go?

Lucifer's office?

Leviathan's Bathtub?

That really comfy carpeted spot in Asmodeus' closet?

All this thinking only tires him out more as he wanders into the quiet living room. And when his violet eyes come to rest on the long plush sofa, he knows what he must do.

'I haven't slept there in a while," he says to himself. His legs feel like they are made of lead as they carry him toward the rose-scented cushions. He doesn't even bother to pay attention to the Akuzon package that rests on the little side table that he passes.

His pillow bumps the table and sends the little package tumbling to the ground. The box rolls a bit, and the sound of breaking glass reaches his ears.

'I hope that wasn't important,' he yawns, shrugging off any concerns he had and plopping down onto the couch and falling into a deep sleep.

Unaware of the nightmare he has created for himself.

~ 

The front door had just shut behind you when you heard a shrill screech of horror coming from the living room. Your breath hitches as you drop your floral printed tote bag to the ground and rush towards the sound, magic brimming at your fingers, ready for anything.

But as you rush through the doorway, you see the purple-haired Avatar of Envy on his knees, hunched over a fallen Akuzon package. The magic at your fingers fizzles away, and you sigh, seeing that Belphegor still sleeps comfortably on the couch despite his older brother's meltdown.

"Belphie, what did you do to my package?" Levi screeches, reaching over the couch and shaking his youngest brother roughly from his slumber.

He stretches out like a cat and smacks his lips sleepily as he sits up. "Oh, hey Levi. What's in the box?"

Levi sighs and looks down at the open box. Pulling out what looks to be the neck of a broken bottle. "It was the night cricket essence I ordered, but you broke it."

The Avatar of Sloth looks lazily between the box and his brothers. "Oh? I guess I did. I'm sorry, Levi."

"What's night cricket essence?" You ask, stepping into the room and sitting on the edge of the sofa where Belphie's legs are.

"Night crickets are a special kind of bug known to keep demons up at night; I wanted to put a few drops of their magic into my energy drinks so I can stay up all night to play games."

Your eyes widen at Levi's explanation; the Otaku hardly gets enough sleep as it is; he doesn't need some hardcore magical caffeine supplement to keep him wired. "No, you definitely should not do that, ever."

He crossed his arms and huffs, "It's not like I can anymore. He broke the bottle, and the shop I got it from just got shut down."

"I wonder why?" Belphie chimes in, sitting up just a bit more to grab your hand. Even though you are seated on the same couch as him, he feels like you are too far away.

Levi's face is a deep crimson color and he looks like he is ready to burst. "That's not the point. You broke my package and now I won't be able to play through my new game all in one sitting. Everyone is going to find all the hidden items before me, and I'll look like a complete loser on my server."

"Yeah, that is what will make you look lame." The avatar of sloth quips back with youngest sibling-level sass. You bite the inside of your cheek as you try to keep a straight face and not damage Levi's already fragile ego. 

"Anyways," you clear your throat, trying your best to desolate this situation. "Levi, you really shouldn't buy things like that. It could really mess you up. And I hate to see you uncomfortable."

Levi looks at you with a grateful smile. "Oh, Mc, you really do care. Even if I am just a pathetic little shut-in. I'm going to make my avatar in the game look just like you as extra motivation to stay alive." he grins, rushing down the hallway, ready to play his game.

Now alone, you look to Belphie, who looks like he is about to fall back asleep holding on to your hand. "Don't you dare," you scold, taking your hand out of his. "You are on dinner tonight, and you are not sleeping through it again and buying takeout."

"But everyone loves Hell's Kitchen." he yawns, looking at you with a pleading expression. 

Standing strong you ignore his puppy dog eyes and give him a knowing look. 

"Fine, you win Mc." He sighs, taking your hand. "But you have to help me since it's too tiring for me to do it all on my own." You fight the chuckles as he leads you into the kitchen to be his sous chef for the evening."

~

Hours later, Belphie finds himself in his bedroom. His stomach is full, his teeth are brushed, and he slips on a cool pair of pajamas. 

He may be able to fall asleep anywhere, at any time, in any condition, but it always feels better to slip into something cool and soft against his skin at the end of the day. 

Beel emerges from the bathroom, a tired smile on his face as he wipes a bit of toothpaste from his lips with the back of his hand. "The Roasted Cockatrice you made tonight was delicious; you should make it more often, Belphie."

He smiles at the taller demon as he slides under his lavender-scented covers. The softness of his quilted down, embracing him like an old friend. "Thank you, Beel; if you like it so much, I can make it again for you sometime, and you can eat as much as you want."

Beel gives him a big, happy smile as he gets into his bed on the other side of the room. "I think I am going to dream about it tonight."

Belphie laughs as he sets his DDD down on its bedside charging port. "Careful Beel, the last time you dreamt about dinner you ended up eating your pillow in your sleep."

He frowns and looks at his mattress, "I really liked that pillow too," recalling the memory foam pillow you got him from the human world. He sighs and slips into his sheets. "Goodnight Belphie."

"Good night, Beel." With a flick of his wrist, he turns the bedroom light on and lets his head rest against the pillow, ready to head off into dreamland.

Minutes turn to hours as his cool sheets heat up uncomfortably, and the enviable sound of Beel's soft snoring can be heard from the other side of the room.

This feeling of restlessness is unknown to the Avatar of Sloth as he tosses and turns, waiting for sleep to take him, but it never comes…

~

The next morning, you find yourself at the breakfast table sipping on a chilled glass of freshly pressed blushberry juice and basking in the early morning shenanigans of the Avatars of Sin. 

Next to you, Beel is devouring a mountain of protein waffles after what you can assume to be an intense early morning workout.  

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Mammon sneakily trying to pluck all the blood strawberries out of the communal fruit bowl without anyone catching him. And so far, no one has. Especially since Asmo's flash keeps going off as he takes and retakes pictures of the adorable latte art Satan made for him. 

At the table head, Lucifer reads the newspaper, the ghost of a smile on his face as he tries to hide his contentment with this family time.

All of a sudden, Asmo drops his phone and lets out a gasp. "Oh Belphie, what happened to you? You look horrible hon."

Your head snaps to the doorway, and your gut fills with concern as you take in Belphie's appearance. His skin is sickly pale, his hair is ruffled beyond what one would call bedhead, and his usually bright violet eyes are framed by deep dark circles.

Had he slept at all last night?

"Shut up, Asmo," he grumbles, dragging himself to his seat and grabbing the pot of coffee from the center of the table.

You could hear a pin drop in the room as everyone watches him pours an impossibly tall mug for himself. He completely ignores the thick wisps of steam that dance on the lip of the mug and inhales the entirety of the dark roast-like air.

Beel swallows the waffle that had been caught in his throat and gently places a hand on his twin's shoulder "Belphie, are you okay?"

"Does it look like I am okay?" he snaps, jerking his shoulder out of his grasp "I heard you stomping all over the place this morning. It's impossible to get any sleep when I have to listen to you all night long."

Your eyes widen. Did Belphie really just say that to his twin? His favorite being in the three realms? Beel's face falls, and he is about to utter a small apology, but he is interrupted by a firm cough from Lucifer, who sets his newspaper down on the polished table.

"Clearly someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed," he says, staring down his youngest brother with a gaze of fiery crimson. "You should think about what you are about to say next, Belphegor, or you will deeply regret it."

"Whatever, you guys aren't worth my energy." he gets up and walks out of the room, leaving the room in uncomfortable silence. You glance over to Lucifer and meet his gaze. His jaw is clenched, but he gives you a nod of encouragement that has you exiting the room to try and find Belphie and figure out what has gotten him so upset.

You don't have to go very far. Belphegor's steps are unenergized and painstakingly slow, allowing you to easily catch up to him in the hallway. Gently, you reach for his hand to stop him.

"Belphie, what is wrong with you?" you ask, "You never get mad at Beel like that."

His gaze narrows, and he rips his hand out of your grasp way harder than he usually would. "Well, maybe if he learned how to function without sounding like a stampede of elephants is marching through the room when I'm trying to sleep, I wouldn't have to get mad at him."

"Belphie…"

"And why did you follow me?" He says, his features twist into a cruel smirk that has you taking a hesitant step backward. "Is the nosy little human trying to make themselves feel all important by getting involved in our business? Why don't you get out of my face and get back to the human world where you belong."

Ouch…

Pain flashes in your gaze and he finally realizes that he went way too far. "Mc, I-i didn't mean it~" he tries to come closer to you, to apologize, but it's too late."

Your reply to him is cold and dismissive. "Just go get some rest Belphegor. You obviously need it." You glare at him and turn to walk back towards the dining room.

"Mc, wait." He tries to call after you, but you're gone. And when you sit back at your seat at the table you notice that your breakfast tastes far less sweet than it did a moment ago.

~

You have avoided Belphie for the better part of the day, and you have tried not to think of his cruel words. You want to give him time to fix his cranky attitude, but honestly, you don't know if you want to talk to him right now.

It is now way too late in the evening you are hunched over at your desk working on something for RAD when you hear a weak knock on your door. You glance at your little clock. It's 3:45 in the morning. 

Who would be knocking on your door at this hour?

You pad across the carpet and open the door slowly to reveal the disheveled (and honestly pathetic-looking) Belpheghor. 

"What do you want?" you say, tightening your grip on the door, ready to shut it in his face if he says anything rude, but you freeze when you take in his appearance. He looks worse for wear than he did earlier. Clearly, he did not take your advice and rest earlier.

"Please," he murmurs out. "Please let me in"

He looks so pitiful, your cave; opening the door wider to allow him inside. His head hangs low as he drags his feet across your carpet in a zombie-like fashion.

He slowly sits himself down on the edge of your mattress and stares down at his hands as if there is some kind of apology tattooed on his fingers.

"M'sorry." he mumbles at last, his voice raw from frustration. "After what happened last time… I told myself I would never do anything to hurt you ever again. I just wasn't thinking, and it slipped out."

"Clearly," you huff sourly, still licking your wounds from yesterday morning. "If that's really what you think of me, then that's fine, but Beel doesn't deserve to be snapped at either."

He opens his mouth in protest, "It's not like that; you know how much you mean to me, Mc. I'm just not acting like myself." He looks like he is about to cry, and it tugs at your heartstrings. "It's no excuse, but I'm tired."

"Then how about you just go to fucking sleep already then?" you respond. You may just be a human, but the demons aren't the only ones capable of inflicting hurt.

"Because I can't." he raises his voice, and you flinch under the sharp edge to his voice. 

Immediately, he steps back for your comfort. This small act of consideration, even in the heat of the moment, makes you see him not as the monster in your mind but as a piece of your heart.

You think about what he is trying to say.

He can't sleep.

How is that possible?

 He is literally the Avatar of Sloth.

 One time he fell asleep on a rollercoaster because it took too long of a pause at the top before zooming downward.

"What do you mean you can't sleep?" you ask softly. Your feet move on their own, gently closing the distance between your bodies as you sit down next to him on the edge of your firm mattress. "What's going on Belphie?"

Your proximity is like a weighted blanket to him, and he leans in closer to your touch. "I haven't slept at all since that nap I took two days ago by the fire."

"Two days?"

You may not know the ins and outs of the effects that each brother's sin has on them, but you know that Belphie doesn't just sleep all the time because he wants to; he has to. Two days for him must be agonizing. 

Thinking back to the other day you try to think of any little details that may lead you to why the poor demon next to you is unable to catch a wink of sleep. 

You remember sitting next to Belphie on the couch…

And Levi was screaming about a package…

The Night Cricket Essence!

"I think I know why you haven't been able to sleep," you say, reaching for your DDD and pulling up your browser. Searching for anything you can about the demonic caffeine supplement thingamabob. 

The effects pop up instantly, along with several warnings about the consumption of the product. You make a mental note to talk to Levi about his purchase history later, but you continue to scroll about the product. 

"What are you looking at?" Belphie asks, leaning over your shoulder. He is so exhausted he slumps into your side, but you don't mind in the slightest. 

"The effects of Night Cricket Essence," you reply. "It says here that you should only add a few drops into a drink to keep you awake, but it must've vaporized when you broke the bottle.

"So I inhaled the whole bottle?" he blinks.

"I think so," you muse; it seems to be the only way to explain how someone as powerful as him could be affected.

"When will it wear off?" he groans, leaning back onto the mattress. 

"No clue, sorry. I'll keep looking," you murmur, trying to find some kind of a cure. 

You scroll and scroll and scroll until you stumble across something that sounds promising. 

If consumed in excess, the effects of Night Cricket Essence may be counteracted with a cup of chamomile tea.

Is that all it takes? A cup of tea?

It's worth a shot

"Come with me, Belphie, I want to try something to help you." Despite his restless exhaustion, your soft voice and kinder eyes are able to coax him onto his feet. He follows you out your bedroom door and into the kitchen.

He sits down at the counter as you scamper about the room, grabbing everything you need to make the both of you a nice cup of tea. 

For demons, getting ahold of human world tea is next to impossible, but you had just come back from a trip with Barbatos to stock up on some hard-to-find blends. Chamomile included. 

It doesn't take long for the tea kettle to whistle as you pour him a cup. You hand it to him carefully before pouring your own. 

"Let's hope this works," you mumble, blowing on your own glass, but he wastes no time. He drinks it desperately, and a few droplets strip down his chin and onto the tabletop.

By the time he comes up for air, the cup is empty, and you know this is an immediate difference in his appearance. His eyes droop, and he looks at you with a sleepy smile. 

"Thash goose" he stumbles out. You may not have the same twin telepathy that he and Beel have, but you know what he means as he sets the cup down clumsily. 

"How are you feeling?" you ask, sliding around the counter and pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of his head.

"Tired," he mumbles, tilting his head up so you would kiss his lips. His movements are sluggish, but the sensation of your lips on his is enough to keep him going a bit longer. “Can I has slee in yer ruum?” 

"You want to sleep in my room?" you ask, watching as his lids get heavier and heavier.

"Yesh, wanna cuddle."

You smile as he clings onto wakefulness, waiting to hear your answer. "You can stay with me." Your acceptance brings a smile to his face as he sinks onto the tabletop; his head hits the wood with a thud as he finally dips into his well-deserved rest. His soft breathing fills the room as you finish your tea. Once your little tea break is over, you will have to put him on your back and carry him to your room.

~

Three days later, you are once again at the breakfast table. When Belphie finally emerges from your bedroom looking extremely well rested. The others, having been made aware of the situation, breathe a sigh of relief when he takes a seat next to Beelzebub. 

"Good morning Belphie." Beel smiles hesitantly at his twin through his breakfast sandwich.

"I'm sorry for how I acted earlier; I hope you're not too upset with me to go out for lunch."

The smile that appears on Beel's face makes your heart melt as he nods eagerly. "Can Mc come with us too? Food always tastes better when I eat with both of you."

Belphie glances over to you as you nod and directs his attention back to his brother. "I think that can be arranged."

Tagging: @enchantedforest-network

[the-golden-comet]

✨👑Character Profile Tag 👑✨

Thank you for this tag, @willtheweaver , here @paeliae-occasionally , @mundanemoongirl here, @illarian-rambling here, @theink-stainedfolk here, and here @saturnine-saturneight ! 💛✨

Okay, PETER TAKE A SEAT. We’re gonna let BENJAMIN answer this. ✨

Name: Benjamin Matthias Bartholomew

Nickname: Benji

Kind of Being: Human

Age: 21

Sex: Male

Appearance:

“Prince Benjamin was a red-headed dynamo: short hair with long strands in front of his freckled lobes, lining the contour of his soft jawline. A slender-bodied, slightly curved twink dressed in royal purple silk. He, too, had side-swept bangs to cover his slightly-sunburned forehead. His face was also dotted in many freckles that extended down his neck, past his shoulder and arms. He rolled his emerald green eyes as he crossed his arms across his chest.”

Occupation: Prince of Port Mayor

Family members: Father—Matthias Bartholomew (Duke of Port Mayor), mother unknown

Pets: None

Best friend: None

Describe his/her room:

Finally, swinging first his arms over the window pane, then his legs, Peter tucked and rolled inside the lavish room. It was adorned with golden accents, royal purple sheets, and heavily ornamented furniture. Standing quickly, the blonde pirate dusted off his hands and took stock.

“Right….” He looked around the room, observing his surroundings. “….Vanity, check. Wardrobe, check…..hm?” Peter knelt down on one knee and looked underneath the bed. A few sheets were preemptively tied together, as if the person this room belonged to had been planning an escape. “Ah, well that makes my job easy…..”

The Golden Pirate pulled out the makeshift rope, pulling the sheets taut as he tested the integrity of the tied ends. “….Though, whoever made this needs a few tips on tying knots….” Peter reinforced the sheets in his own sailor knots, satisfied that they would hold his weight. Then, he draped the rope of sheets over the bottom of the window, outside the room as they billowed down to a foot above the ground. Tying the other end tightly to the foot of the heavy bed, he secured his exit and got to work scavenging the room for loot.

Way of speaking: British accent, speaks like a royal.

Physical characteristics (posture, gestures, attitude): very dynamic, perpetually pissed off, carries himself like a prince not because he wants to, but because that’s what he had to do in the castle.

Items in his/her back pocket/ purse: nothing

Hobbies: Ballroom Dancing, writing.

Favorite sports: Cricket 🏏

Abilities/Talents/Powers: Bilingual (English and French), somehow being both the luckiest and unluckiest man alive.

Relationships (how he/she is with other people): distrusting, gradually has to warm up to the person

Fears: Megalophobia, Hemophobia

Faults: naive, cynical, lofty daydreamer, idealistic, abrasive, blunt

Has Vasovagal Syncope with triggers from blood (more of a medical condition than a fault)

Good points: fiercely loyal, can stand his ground, knows exactly what he wants, shows bravery in multiple instances of fear.

What he/she wants more than anything else: To be loved by a man who adamantly loves him back, a romantic at heart. To have freedom to love who he wants, and live the life he wants.

Tag! @tragedycoded , @sableglass , @cowboybrunch , @wyked-ao3 , @gioiaalbanoart , @alinacapellabooks , @authorcoledipalo , @mysticstarlightduck , @ominous-feychild , @drchenquill , @finickyfelix , @autism-purgatory , @willtheweaver , @aintgonnatakethis , @moltenwrites , @kaylinalexanderbooks , @agirlandherquill , @astramachina , @leahnardo-da-veggie , @yourpenpaldee , @48lexr , @thecomfywriter , @thatuselesshuman , @rotting-moon-writes , @lychhiker-writes , @davycoquette , @katenewmanwrites , @leatafandom , @thebearthatreads , @tabswrites , @words-after-midnight , @theaistired , @theverumproject , @theink-stainedfolk , @ceph-the-ghost-writer , @cybercelestian , @differentnighttale , @jadeglas , +open tag! ✨

[autisticlancemcclain]

Everything is burning.

For too long he doesn’t move. His limbs are leaden, pulled heavily to the ground, and his neck is too weak to keep up his head. Smoke curls in the air and settles sleepily into his lungs. Shredded metal and broken glass glint and shine under the full moonlight, and through his half-lidded eyes it looks like stars. Every inhale is laborious, but the churned earth feels shaped to the contours of his body, like a mattress designed specifically for him. He could close his eyes, just for a moment, and rest, recover from the strain of the crash before moving forward. It would be easier. Just a short rest, a moment to sleep, to heal. 

Sounds of a forest surround him. A steady chirping that must be crickets, a hooting that can only be an owl. If he strains his ears farther, there’s the chittering of something scurrying up and down trees, and the heavier thumps of something bigger stomping about. Behind that, there are voices. 

Shouting. And the bark of what has to be dogs, and the ever so faint revving of vehicles, slamming doors.

Get up, urges a voice in the back of his head. Get up now.

He tries to comply. He cracks open his eyes – when did he close them? – and hisses at the onslaught of light, of beams of searching torches and painful flashes of red and blue. All of a sudden he’s made aware of the flames inching closer to his legs, and the wing of his ship, torn off the body, pressing him into the ground.

“Not good,” he croaks, trying to wiggle his toes. Thankfully, he can, although movement reminds his body of itself, and the aches and pains start to come alive – his entire head pounds, and nausea coils around his stomach, and something burns and pulses in the meat of his calf. 

But still he can move.

Forcing his arms to function, he grounds his hands under him, pushing upright. His body feels heavier than it has ever felt before; the task feels herculean. The unrest in his stomach becomes violent, swirling, and he has to stop before he’s even sitting upright, eyes stinging, teeth clenched, breathing deliberately and sharply through his nose until the nausea settles again. The world spins, when he’s finally sat upright, and he has to give himself a moment for that to pass, too, but the shouting voices and stomping feet get louder, and he knows he doesn’t have much time.

“Okay,” he whispers to himself, praying that Perseus and Ursa and Leo guide him. “Okay, let’s get out of here.”

He curls his gloved fingers under the ruined edge of the wing, careful of the sharp shards of torn metal, and heaves, pushing and biting back a loud cry as the effort of freeing his legs tears something in his shoulders, hurts something in his back. The wing is heavy and he’s lucky he’s merely trapped under it rather than pinned; if the ground wasn’t supporting so much of its weight then the onus would be on his legs, and he’s sure he would lose them. His body is sorer than it has ever been in his life, and everything hurts, but he is grateful for that at least. 

With the freeing of his legs comes the hard part. He doesn’t trust them to hold them, at least not at first, and he’s scared of what might happen if his brain tells them to move on their own. So he wraps his hands around his ankle and pulls, so his foot slides close to his rear and bends his knee, and does the same with the other, so he is sitting with his knees nearly pressed to his chest and his feet flat and steady on the floor. 

“Okay,” he whispers again to himself, shaky this time. He bites off any other words, snapping his mouth shut, focusing on breathing. Okay. He braces his palms on the cracked and sparking remains of the control board the pushes with all his strength, steadying himself on wobbling legs and knocking knees. He holds himself steady, breath held in his lungs, for the count of fifteen ticks, carefully testing with his hands still steadying himself, the ability of his legs to hold him up. 

Carefully, nervously, he lifts up his hands. He sways, for a moment, but manages to stay upright. On the high of that success he straightens to the best of his ability and surveys the smoking remains of his crashed ship. It’s not very salvageable. Scrap metal, maybe, but everything else…

He swallows. It has been two deca-phoebs since he left home. Six pheobs since he last passed a satellite up to date enough to talk to his family face-to-face. He hasn’t seen home in so long that sometimes he struggles to remember what it felt like to lie in his bed, not just the nest he built in the cab of his ship. The ship, with its purple glowing lights and well-worn buttons and weird old sounds and familiar walls is the only piece of home he has left. Maybe forever, now.

He shakes himself. The voices are closer, now, the barking of dogs closer still. He doesn’t have time to dwell. He forces himself to shift around some of the ruins, digging through cracked polymer and cracked glass to find anything salvageable and portable; anything he can find in under thirty ticks. He manages – thankfully – to find his pack, half-burned as it is, that he knows holds some clothes and supplies. He finds his comm, too, although it’s cracked clean in half. He brings it anyway. 

His head swivels to the treeline as he hears a barked order that sounds like it’s barely out of eyesight. He has to go. He doesn’t have any more time. 

Choking back tears from two different kind of pain, he stumbles his way out of the wreckage and sprints for the trees, as far away from the voices as he can manage. He only hopes that he’s not trailing blood – and that the humans aren’t faster than he is.

———

Keith grew up on stories of Earth.

His father told him hundreds. It’s like a hundred planets in one, he liked to say, and when Keith was young and still fit in the crook of his father’s arm he’d look at him with wide eyes and try to imagine it. Dozens of nations all trying to coexist in one space. All the culture and language you could ever dream of, naui jag-eun tamheomga, everywhere, at once.

When Keith was a kid he couldn’t get enough of it. When he was a teen he couldn’t, either; he’s never not been fascinated with the heritage he’s never shared with anyone he’s ever known. His bedtime stories were of scientific discoveries his father witnessed in real time, of athletic feats of which Keith could barely conceptualise. And when he ran out of real stories, he told Keith stories of thousands of years of myths, of gods and angels and monsters. And of course when Keith had the first inkling of an opportunity he packed a ship, kissed his mother goodbye, and flew off on a several hundred million lightyear journey, his field journal blank and begging to be filled and his father’s voice echoing in his head.

His father prepared him for everything. Keith knew every star on the journey, recognised the curve of every planet in the solar system. Upon sight of the Great Blue Dot he could barely contain his excitement, thrusters at full force.

His father told him everything. As far as Keith knew and has always known, his father knew everything.

His father didn’t tell him that the second his ship showed up on government scanners, he’d be shot out of the sky.

Keith found that one out the hard way.

———

There’s a light up ahead.

It’s yellowed, and old. The bulb has not been changed in a long time, and dead moths pile inside the class lamp cover. Cobwebs wrap delicately around the iron frame. The light seems out of place with the cottage it guards; not in appearance, but in liveliness: the cottage is dark and well-maintained. The ancient beckoning of the lamp post seems at odd with the sleepy youth of the red-bricked little house.

Keith is starting to get a little delirious, maybe. 

Stumbling, he approaches the cottage. He has long since lost the voices and hunters, if that’s what they were, distracted no doubt by the remains of his ship. He hasn’t heard them in hours. 

But the moon crests higher and higher overheard. And the torn flesh of his leg – cut deeply by a shard of shrapnel – bleeds sluggishly with no sign of stopping. And he is tired, and every step is harder, and the adrenaline only continues to fade, and the point in which he will no longer be able to go on is rapidly approaching.

And, most damning. Humans are pursuit predators. As far as he goes – if he is not sheltered, they will find him. Now or days from now, he cannot stay hidden. 

He’d like to choose the terms in which he is discovered. 

He forces himself to the cottage, injured leg dragging behind him, vision getting blurrier with every step, breaths getting shallower and shallower. The steps are real wood, cured and stained and worn, and Keith mourns for a moment that he is about to ruin them with the spill of his own blood and the tracked mud and grease on his clothes. His father wore a necklace, every day of his life, a leather cord with a rubbed-smooth charm of carved wood. In all the many planets Keith has visited, he has never seen real wood. Dried plant matter, in abundance, and every kind of polished stone, polymers created from nothing and glass melted from every kind of sand, but wood is, at least as far as anyone knows, completely unique to Earth. Keith has always been fascinated by it.

His strength leaves him at the door. Like his strings were cut, he falls to his knees with a heavy thud, and must claw his way close enough to knock. The tap of his fist against the worn green door is hardly loud enough to be audible, but it is all he has strength to do. He slumps against the doorframe and mentally apologises to whatever old lady lives in this house, because she is going to have the fright of her life seeing his corpse on her doorstep when she wakes up in the morning. That, or a trail of blood from where the people who shot him down are going to drag him away. 

Either way, not good.

He’s sad, as he lay there dying. That is of course not a revolutionary feeling to have, but it’s of no consequence. He wishes he saw more of Earth. He wishes he got to stop at all the places his father talked about so fondly. He wishes he was able to tell his mother goodbye. He wishes, perhaps most urgently, that dying hurt less. He had been too shocked to hurt, when he first crashed, but it’s been hours now and his body won’t let him forget it. Everything hurts, and his throat is dry. He hates it when his throat is dry. The wooden doorframe digs into his back, at least, and it’s not a pleasant sensation but he reaches out and strokes the grain of the wooden door anyway, feeling the chipped away pent, squeezing his eyes shut and pretending he’s running his thumb around his father’s pendant. 

The texture of the wood suddenly disappears, and his back hits the ground. His eyes flutter open, whole seconds after he is laid flat on the ground, and hovering above him is the blurry silhouette of a man glowing gold; curls of hair shining flinted silver in the bright light of the moon, stars dotting the apples of his cheeks and bridge of his nose, mouth curved like the arm of the Milky Way, and eyes the deepest, darkest, widest brown he has ever seen, like two glowing black holes boring into his soul.

“Oh,” are Keith’s dying words, faint and echoing and awed. “Dad was wrong. Angels are real.”

———

The tips of cool, uncalloused fingers brushing under his hairline rouse him from slumber, frowning. Mom must be wearing – gloves? But that doesn’t make sense. He’s never seen her wear gloves before, even when he’s been sick. Her claws tear right through the fingers. It doesn’t make sense.

“Mom?” he murmurs, voice scratchy, trying and failing to force open his heavy, heavy eyelids. 

“Go back to sleep,” she whispers, not sounding like herself at all. She must be sick, too. “You’re still all fucked up. You need it.”

Keith’s eyebrows furrow. He wanted to talk to her. There was something he wanted to say to her. There’s something faint and muted pulling at the back of his mind; something about his mother, about talking, about pain and sleep and sorrow. He needs to wake up.

But he’s so tired. And his eyelids are so heavy. And sleep pulls, at every corner of his mind.

“Okay,” he sighs, and sinks back into it.

———

“Whatever the hell you are, you’ve made a mess of yourself. Dumbass.”

———

There are voices again. Arguing. Fear pricks at Keith’s veins, and it’s enough to propel him out of whatever blackness he’s been resting in, enough to force his eyes open. He squeezes them shut again on reflex, hissing at the onslaught of sunlight pouring in from the wide, open window, counting to three before opening them again under the shield of his hand. 

He doesn’t recognise the room he’s in.

It’s strangely shaped. Almost cave-shaped, really, with rounded edges instead of sharp corners. Except the window is so big it bleeds light into every single crevice of the room, leaving no room for any cave-like impressions. The walls are painted with soft, muted murals, of hanging vines and falling leaves and ants marching a line on a tree. Dozens of shelves are filled with more rocks than Keith has ever seen in one place, even in his godfather’s labs and archives. The bed itself is huge, taking up half the room, enough so that Keith could sprawl if he pleased and not touch any edge. The comforter is huge and thick and almost stiflingly warm. The door is contrasting to the energy of the rest of the room, covered in vibrant stickers and sprawled in messages and almost graffiti-like lettering. It’s cracked open slightly, and through it Keith can hear two voices arguing: one stiff and demanding, the other angry and shrill.

“I have no idea what the hell you’re on about,” hisses the angry voice, defensive. “No one has shown up at my door. I’ve seen nothing strange. Everything is as normal as it always is. The only odd thing is the slew of trespassing assholes dressed in uniform who won’t leave me the fuck alone –”

Keith’s head lolls backwards, strength seeping out of his body. The sunlight is warm and smells good. The fear that had dragged him awake has ebbed, somewhat, because the voice – the angry voice – is protective. There is someone guarding Keith’s six. 

He lets sleep swallow him again.

———

He dreams, finally, of flying on wings of hollow bones and stretched skin, and being shot out of the sky. And of a bright yellow canary, snatching him from his freefall and floating him gently to the earth.

———

“If you woke up soon I’d appreciate it, you know. I’m running out of excuses to buy saline bags. Shit is getting suspicious and if the local town thinks I’m a vampire trying to keep my personal bloodbag alive, I’m fucked.”

———

Keith awakes, finally and fully, in the middle of the night. A half moon shines bright into a bedroom that feels unnervingly familiar, like the watercolour memories from a dream. The cloudiness that’s been ever present in his head has finally faded, and the only thing rolling in his stomach is hunger. There’s still a heavy ache in his leg, but it’s manageable. It’s dark enough that his eyes don’t sting.

His mouth tastes like something died, then was revived, then shat on his tongue. It’s unpleasant. 

Nervously, fully expecting a half-movement to crumble his body to dust, he peels back the disgustingly fluffy comforter, slowly pivoting his half-upright body until his feet are planted on the rug-covered floor. He rests there a moment, frankly a little breathless, but braces on palm on the nightstand and one on the bedspread and readies himself. Teeth grit in determination, he pushes, leaning on shaky arms until he trusts his legs to hold up his body.

They do. His one leg aches in a pain he’s only felt in Marmora training, but it holds him, and when he tests a tiny step forward, it holds him then, too. 

Slowly, conscious of his space and his body, Keith inches forward. 

It takes him longer than he would like to cross the minimal space between the bed and the door, but he does it, and he ignores the sardonic voice in his head that wants to do anything but celebrate. He rests again at the door frame, hand clutched at the top of it, stretched out in a way that feels unbelievably good (well, as stretched out as he can be with his head brushing the doorframe). His lips quirk up when he realises it’s made of wood, half-remembering his dying internal rambles. He wonders if building with wood is a common Earthen practice, or if whomever owns this cottage is just unbelievably wealthy. Maybe all Terrans are. 

Once his breath has evened again and he thinks he’s good to go, Keith peeks down the hallway, nerves dancing down his spine. The two rooms branching off are dark and soundless, but there’s a small light on at the end of the hall where it opens up, and the soft sound of clinking glass. Someone is awake.

He closes his eyes, pulling back from the doorframe and closing his shaking hands into fists. “Just do it,” he whispers to himself. It’s not like they don’t know he’s here – someone has been keeping him alive, after all. He didn’t just recover – well, half-recover – from a massive crash by himself. That kind of thing kills a person, actually. “Stop stalling.”

Jaw set and shoulders square, Keith stalks forward. It’s hard to stalk with a heavy limp, but he thinks he manages. His cousin has always told him that power comes from audacity, and she has plenty, so. He should be fine so long as he emulates her, which he would rather crash from space again than admit but he does often.

He turns the corner at the end of the hallway and it opens up into an open kitchen and living space. There are no overhead lights but lamps and candles litter the space, making everything glow quietly. A light floral scent fills the air, but Keith isn’t sure if that’s from the candles or the bouquet of purple flowers that might be lavenders placed carefully on the centre of a – wooden – table. More shelves line the walls, filled with more than just rocks this time, and the walls are painted with bright swatches of colours; muted in the low light but visibly more sunshiney and abstract than the bedroom. The fridge is covered in photos so thickly that the door isn’t even visible. The counters are a mess of opened ingredients, some of which Keith recognises, and a slew of utensils and bowls in various states of disarray.

A man stands at the centre of it all, back turned to Keith. 

Keith clears his throat.

The man whirls around, startled, and when he sees Keith he screams at the top of his lungs, mixing bowl clattering to the ground and splattering batter all over the floor and half the cupboards. Keith steps back, heart pounding in his ears, hands held defensively in front of him, mind screaming with various iterations of oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. He’d thought he was safe, that his presence was known, that –

“Oh my shitballs,” the man wheezes, hunching over slightly. “Oh Joseph and Mary and Sweet Baby Jesus. Fuck. My heart just clawed its way up my esophagus and threw itself out of my mouth, actually. Holy shit.”

“What,” Keith croaks, still frozen in fear.

For a moment there’s silence. Then the man still stands crookedly, but straightens enough to look Keith in the eyes. And Keith – 

Keith stops breathing, because he knows those eyes. 

The deepest, darkest, widest brown he has ever seen, like two glowing black holes boring into his soul. 

“I am. So sorry,” he says, “for yelling. That is my bad. That is On Me. Probably freaked you out good.” He sighs, bending back down and scooping up the mixing bowl. He stares for a long moment at the mess of batter, weighing, then sighs again and more deeply and reaches for a rag. “I don’t mean to be xenophobic, promise. I swear I knew you were there. I just. Haven’t slept. In so many days. Would’ve screamed if anyone popped out, promise.”

“What,” Keith repeats, a little desperate. 

The man doesn’t seem to pick up on his tone, though, continuing to work on the rapidly drying mess and rambling. 

“– and it’s not your fault, anyway. Been a rough couple of weeks. You really freaked the hell outta the military, huh? I’m glad you’re up now because there was only so much I could do to keep them away. I’m sure they’ll come knocking again eventually, but we’ll figure it out then. Or you’ll go home? I’m honestly not sure. Whatever works. You can stay. I dunno. My brain’s on three percent at this exact moment.”

“You’re…not sleeping?” Intentionally, Keith avoids the whole military thing the man mentioned, because. Well. That freaks him out, if he’s being entirely honest, and he really doesn’t want to hear it. Right now he’s pretending that’s a problem for someone else. He has enough shit to deal with. 

The man sighs. He looks dejectedly at the mess. Slowly, so as not to startle him again, Keith walks over to the sink, careful to avoid smears of whatever the man was making, and wets a rag to help him. 

He figures it’s the least he can do. 

“Yeah, well. I’ve never slept great outside of my bed. It’s cool, though. Sometimes I blink for a few seconds longer than usual and it’s like a micro-nap.”

Keith looks at him in concern. He’s staring off into space, rubbing at a spot that’s been clean for at least two doboshes now. Keith’s not even sure if he’s noticed him beside him. “That seems bad.”

“Eh. Now that you can move around, I can sleep if you’re ever up. All is well.”

“...Wait.” Keith shifts so he’s deliberately in the man’s space, which makes him startle, proving Keith’s earlier guess. “I’m sleeping in your bed?”

“Well, yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious.

Keith flushes purple. “I didn’t know I was in your bed!” It’s not that he’s…you know…never slept in anyone else’s bed before, but usually he knew he was doing it. And never a stranger’s, as evidently kind as this stranger has been. 

The man blinks. “I have a guest bedroom, but you’re too tall for it.”

“Still!”

“Dude. You showed up at my door in the middle of the night after crashing into the woods so hard the trees shook, bloodied to hell and back and near death. I couldn’t just – shove you in a bed too small for you. It was my bed or the floor, and I sure as shit wasn’t going to make an injured person sleep on the floor.”

“That’s…fair, I suppose,” Keith concedes. But he’s still a little troubled. “But I’m good, now. I can – sleep in the guest room?”

He trails off a little as he suggests it, realising, abruptly, how absurd this whole thing is. He doesn’t know this person. He’s shown up as an unexpected guest to his home – hell, to his planet. And now they’re…making sleeping arrangements? Arguing about sleeping arrangements? Is Keith even planning on staying? What are his other options? How is he going to get home? What happened to his ship?

His head starts to pound again. The man must notice, because he softens. 

“Man, just sleep in my bed,” he says. “You’re still hurt.” He gently pries the rag out of Keith’s hand, tossing them both into the sink and standing. Hands still gripped together, he pulls Keith up too, careful of his hurt leg and generally aching body. He begins to tug Keith back to the bedroom, guiding him around the mess on the floor.

Keith squares his shoulders stubbornly. “No.”

“Oh, for the love of –” 

The man pinches the bridge of his nose, staring at Keith in exasperation. 

“This is what I get,” he says, shaking his head. “For not listening to Hunk about the light. I deserve this. This is Karma.”

“I’m not just going to steal your bed and let you be sleep deprived,” Keith insists. 

“Well, I’m not going to let you not steal my bed! And it’s my house, so checkmate!”

“Not doing it.”

“I’ll drag you,” the man threatens. “I did before. I will do it again, do not test me.”

“You dragged me when I was a deadweight,” Keith points out. He straightens to his full height, ignoring the screaming burning in his leg. He has a Point to make. “Go ahead and try when I’m actively resisting.”

The man glowers at him, arms crossed over his chest and fingers drumming on his bicep. He has very long fingers, Keith notices. Kind of – elegant. In a scrawny way. Keith kind of gets those vibes from him as a person.

“Oh,” the man says triumphantly, standing to his full height, too – although he still has to look up to meet Keith’s eyes. “I’ll just sleep on the floor. So you’ll have to use my bed. Ha.”

Keith shrugs. “I’ll just sleep on the floor, too.”

The man glowers at him for several doboshes. Keith stares right back, eyebrows raised. 

“Are all aliens this annoying?”

“Are all humans this stubborn?”

A smile twitches at the corner of the man’s mouth. “This is stupid.”

“It is,” Keith agrees, smiling back. 

“Just – sleep on the bed.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“What if I sleep in it, too? Compromise.”

Keith’s cheeks heat again, although this time he doesn’t look away. That would be – embarrassing. Far more embarrassing than simply sleeping in someone else’s bed – sleeping with them in it.

But it would get them both to sleep faster. Plus, Keith would be unconscious, so how embarrassing could it be, really? And the bed is huge, so double plus! They probably won’t even be that near each other.

“Compromise,” Keith relents, finally. The man beams, but notably there’s a bit of a flush to his ears, too.

“Come on,” he says, reaching down to grab Keith’s hand again. He does it very easily. Keith tries not to notice. “God, I’m so pumped. I love sleeping. This is going to be the best.”

“...Right.”

Keith follows him, meekly, down the hallway, straight through the second door on the left, and into the bedroom. It has remained unchanged – the comforter is turned over as Keith left it, and the light curtains are swaying, slightly, in the breeze from the open window. The man wastes no time crawling right in, on the right right, sighing loudly as he sinks into the soft mattress. Keith is much more hesitant. 

“There,” the man says, as they’re finally settled side by side. “Hopefully it’s not – the worst.”

“It’s not,” Keith tries to assure, voice strangled. He lies as stiffly as he can, careful to keep his limbs to himself, not to crowd. He doesn’t want to – suffocate the man, or something. Who knows. This is a real-life human. Mom says they are largely fragile.

“Goodnight,” the human whispers, several doboshes later. His voice is hushed, sleep-thick. Keith chances a look, and finds him melted into the pillows, eyes closed, face lax. He doesn’t seem to be – bothered. By Keith. By his clawed hands, or big ears, or height. Or proximity.

Keith exhales, and lets himself relax. 

“Goodnight,” he murmurs, and sinks back into unconsciousness. 

— — —

next

later in the universe