#there's so much I want to draw..but for now I need sleep

[gloomwitchwrites]

LOVED the sit down fics. Please consider: US telling THEM to sit down. What are they going to do? Argue and sleep on the couch? (Love your works!! Always makes my day when I see a new one)

AHHHHHHHHH! ANON OMG! I love this. I giggled and kicked my feet the entire time I was working on these. I had so much fun jumping back into the Imagines Series after Kinktober with this prompt. While I'm still working through the 3.5k Spooky Bingo event, I am returning to my usual content.

For those curious, THIS is the fic that Anon is referring to.

Presented in four double drabbles.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): established relationship, suggestive themes, flirting, arguments, swearing

Word Count: 800

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

“John. We have to talk about this.”

“We are talking.”

“No. We’re arguing. And you’re not listening.”

“Of course I’m listening, love.”

“Then what did I just say?” you ask, exasperated.

John opens his mouth and then pauses. He loses steam, the gears turning as he realizes he’s wrong. He takes a deep breath and then holds up his hands. “If I’m being honest, love—”

“Fuck. Sit down, John.”

Your tone is sharp, and John drops into a chair, completely silent, his gaze locked in on you.

“If you are not going to listen to me, then I’m ending this discussion. We can come back to this later. When we’re calm.”

John is always the steady one. He’s your rock, but for whatever reason, this one discussion has transformed into an argument.

There is silence after, and you have no idea what John thinks of your sudden authoritative demeanor. His face is blank, and then his mouth turns up into an amused smile.

“What?” you ask, suddenly flustered.

John relaxes into the chair, spreading his thighs wide in invitation. “You’re so fucking beautiful when you’re angry, love.”

“Don’t distract me, John,” you mutter, the irritation beginning to melt away.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

"We're having this out," says Kyle, grabbing your upper arm. He tugs you against him, head tipping forward in an intimate gesture.

"I don't want to argue with you," you reply.

"And I'm not done." His tone is calm but firm. Whenever Kyle sets his mind to something, it can be difficult for him to change course.

"Well, I am." Kyle's hold on your upper arm tightens a bit. It's not painful, but he draws you closer. "Now, sit down."

"Wha—"

"Sit. Down."

Kyle draws back, startled. His hold loosens and descends to grasp your wrist as he sinks onto the sofa. You rarely assert yourself, but you're frustrated with him.

“I am done fighting about this. Either we find a compromise, or we end this discussion.” Kyle breathes deep, his gaze intense as you continue. “You can sleep out here if you won’t budge.”

“I sleep beside you,” replies Kyle.

“Then talk to me. Don’t push me around.”

Kyle’s hand on your wrist softens, his thumb gently caressing the inside of your palm. It makes you shiver, and Kyle pulls you closer. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, voice soothing.

"Can we talk now? No fighting?"

"No fighting," he agrees.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Irritation bubbles under your skin, creating a buzzing sensation that puts you on edge. You and Simon rarely fight but the two of you always circle back to the same issue.

“I’m sick of talking in circles. We have to figure this out.”

The corner of Simon’s mouth twitches. “I’ve already told you how I feel about it,” he says.

“I understand but we have to find a compromise.”

“I’m not willing to budge on this.”

“Simon—"

He pushes in, invading your space. “You’re the one that’s undecided.”

You hate being bossed around, and you hate it more when Simon flaunts his dominance during a disagreement.

“Sit down,” you growl.

Simon blinks, startled. “What?”

“Sit. Down.”

Simon’s gaze narrows, the middle of his brow creasing. But he sits, settling on the sofa.

“I understand how you feel but I need you to listen to how I’m feeling. This is a big decision, and I want us to talk through things. I’m not just going to bend over and take it.”

“But you like it when I bend you over.”

“Simon Riley!”

Simon smirks “Need to let out a little steam?”

“Yes,” you mutter, flustered. “But this conversation isn’t over.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

Arguments with Johnny almost always end in sex.

He’ll use his tongue, his fingers, and then eventually his dick until you’re blissfully fucked out of your head.

“You are not distracting me,” you say sharply as Johnny moves in, a sly smile on his face.

His hands settle on your waist, gripping tightly. You know if you don’t get a handle on this now, you’ll be face down in the bed with ass in the air in moments. It’s Johnny’s favorite position.

Placing your hands on Johnny’s chest, you give him a bit of a shove, creating space. “Sit down, Johnny.”

Johnny’s eyebrows rise suggestively. With a sauntering sway, Johnny sits on the edge of the bed. He’s shirtless and wearing grey sweatpants. They hang dangerously low on his hips.

You cover your eyes. “We need to have a conversation that doesn’t end in sex.”

“I don’t see the issue.”

“Of course you don’t,” you mutter.

“I like it when you boss me around.” You can feel his heat just before his arms slide around you.

“Oh my God,” you groan, pushing at his chest. “Sit down.”

Johnny teasingly nips at your neck. “Only if you sit in my lap.”

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@ash-tarte @marispunk @gingergirl06 @certainlygay @greeniegreengreen

[redeemingvillains]

obliviate - mattheo riddle

summary: when voldemort finds out about you and mattheo, he devises the perfect way to keep you apart.

word count: 5k

a/n: okeeey i know this is longer, but i actually adore it so much! kinda put my heart + soul into this one! extremely special shoutout to @pizzaapeteer's research on mattheo's favorite quidditch team, which provided a name i needed at the very end (hint hint!) ♡

warnings: angst (but also fluff, pls, it's me), use of the cruciatus curse, voldemort being voldemort.

soundtrack: dancing to the sound of a broken heart - galantis

OBLIVIATE (v.) -- To forget, to wipe from existence.

You noticed before he did.

It was early; the morning sun was just barely sneaking past the curtains in the window that fluttered gently in the autumn breeze, setting his bedroom in a deep golden hue. Your limbs were heavy with sleep and you were settled warmly in Mattheo’s arms, you could feel the rise and fall of his chest at your back, his warm breath on your neck. Normally this was your very favorite way to wake up, but something was off, something had made your eyelids flutter open, a feeling, a foreboding.

You didn’t want to wake him, gods knew he needed his sleep, so you squinted slowly around the room until your eyes rested on the very arms that were wrapped around you.

It was his dark mark, writhing against his skin.

No— you thought, but in an instant, Mattheo jolted awake, breathing heavily like he was coming out of a nightmare, or coming into one, and within a moment he was pulling his arms out from around you and you immediately felt cold for their absence.

“Matty” you whispered, turning to face him and reaching out for him, but he was already up and out bed, pulling his clothes on haphazardly.

He turned at the sound of your voice, looking longingly at you for the briefest moment, tangled in his sheets, perfect in the morning glow, your eyes begging him not to leave.

“Stay?” you asked quietly, and his stomach lurched. Fuck if you didn’t have the ability to bring him to his knees with just one word; but his arm burned and ached with impatience… He wouldn’t be kept waiting much longer and Mattheo could only come up with so many excuses as to why he was always late without exposing the truth, desperate to protect you.

“I have to…” he started, but he didn’t finish the statement, didn’t want to say what exactly he’d have to do and thank the gods you never asked.

“I know” you sighed.

“I love you” he said, leaning forward to kiss you sincerely, his fingers brushing your jawline, taking one last piece of humanity and goodness with him.

“I love you more” you whispered as his form disappeared in front of you, leaving you alone.

Mattheo knew the moment he arrived that something was deeply deeply wrong.

He recognized his surroundings at once: the Riddle family manor. The halls echoed with a silence so familiar to him and his childhood it felt like his heart stopped beating so as not to make a sound. Besides silence, though, he also felt the other hallmark of his childhood: loneliness. He was alone; not one in a mistakable mix of followers that he could slip into undetected, he was home, and he was alone, and he felt an uneasiness, a sickness settle over him as the hairs on the back of his neck began to rise and he turned to see his father stepping out of the shadows.

“Twelve minutes” he said by way of greeting, avoiding Mattheo’s eyes as he approached him like a predator would its prey.

“Twelve minutes. From the time I summoned you, until now. What, pray tell, was so pressing, so urgent as to cause your delay?”

Mattheo’s mind swept quickly over the image of you in his bed, your hair splayed on his pillow, the smile on your lips and your soft whisper as he’d apparated, but he quickly dismissed the thought.

“S’early” he said, kicking himself for how his voice waivered in its reply.

Voldemort nodded in mock understanding, like he was considering this, drawing out the silence between them, painfully so.

“So not only are you late, but you are also lying” he said, emphasizing the last word, spitting it like a hiss, his black eyes snapping to Mattheo’s in way that caused him to jolt in reply, an automatic defense mechanism against the only living being capable of scaring him as Voldemort stormed towards him, entering his personal space as his voice rose.

“Do you remember what happened to Alexei Donovan when he lied to me?” he asked.

Mattheo’s eyes shifted between his fathers, swallowing, vividly remembering watching Nagini devour Donovan limb from limb.

“ANSWER ME!” his voice boomed.

“Y-y-yeah” he stuttered.

“Yes, my Lord” Voldemort corrected him.

“Yes, my Lord” Mattheo repeated.

And then Voldemort’s tone changed completely, as he took a step back and a smile spread across his inhuman face, which was somehow more disturbing than the alternative.

“But I am a merciful Lord, aren’t I?” he asked, his head cocked, daring Mattheo to disagree.

“Yes, my Lord” he said.

Voldemort nodded in approval.

“Yes, I am. And what a relief that must be to Ms. YLN at this very moment, hmm?” he asked, his eyes clocking Mattheo’s reaction as the blood drained from his face, his eyes blew wide and his shaking hand reached for his wand.

You watched the empty space where Mattheo had apparated like he might change his mind and come back, perhaps willing him to, before you laid back down, settling for his lingering warmth and his smell against the sheets when you heard footsteps outside the door.

You sat up, excited...naive you would think later, so fucking naive with the hope that he had returned, only to feel the blast of the door getting blown off of its hinges as you moved to cover your face from the flying debris.

Mattheo was breathing erratically, his chest visibly rising and falling with pure, unadulterated rage mixed with a fear so palpable it was like he could taste it on his tongue. He was desperately trying to rein in his emotions and failing miserably as his mind catapulted over every worst case scenario.

He spoke, finally, conjuring the only thing he could think to say as his brain continued in overdrive.

"Don't" he said firmly, threateningly, his voice level for the first time that morning.

His father smiled broadly without an ounce of kindness behind his eyes as they narrowed.

"You never learn… What did I tell you? What have I always told you? This—" he said, gesturing to Mattheo's body shaking in fight or flight mode "—is weakness. Look at you!" he said with disgust, with disdain, "You're worthless. You can't decide what to you, your mind is divided when it should be focused; you're thinking of her when you should be thinking only of yourself!"

Mattheo heard every word he was saying, but all he could think about was you, about how to get back to you, how to stop whatever had already begun; but it was like chasing a train on foot that had long since left the station, no matter how badly he wanted to jump in front of it, it was far too late.

"So, one question remains" Voldemort said, circling him again. "You...Or her?" he asked, sneering.

Mattheo's eyes flicked darkly to his father. "Me or her what?" he said through gritted teeth.

"Surely you understand that I can't allow this relationship to continue with the way it's destroying you, and while the Carrows provided me with a lengthy list of ways we could enforce that" he said, smiling, letting the threat of his most devoted followers linger. "I have something much simpler in mind." He stopped pacing, snapping to face Mattheo fully, his robes flourishing around him.

"I will have your memories" he said proudly. "And one of you will forget their feelings for the other... forever" he whispered as Mattheo felt weak in his knees, like they'd buckle beneath the weight of what had been said.

"So, whose will it be?" Voldemort asked.

You felt excruciating pain in every limb, every tendon, every bone, and when you opened your mouth to scream, the Carrows took your words.

All you could do was watch them through the tears that poured out of your eyes in your silent struggle, willing, praying for Mattheo to come back, pleading with him in your mind; please, please, please you thought even as you felt your resolve and strength waning.

Mattheo's mouth had run dry and there was bile in the back of his throat at the impossible decision before him: Either forget the brightest light in his life, perhaps the only thing keeping him steady in an ever-spiraling world, forget the way your skin felt under his fingertips, the smell of your shampoo, how tightly you squeezed him when he hugged you, or the sound of your laugh, the way you listened sincerely to him with your full attention or rubbed his back when he couldn't sleep; forget the only and most sincere feeling of love he’d ever experienced.

Or worse, meet your eyes and not see a light behind them, the way they'd twinkle with adoration for him, watch you forget him completely and live life instead as your friend, a bystander, maybe even watch you fall in love with someone else... His stomach lurched.

...But in a way, isn't that what you deserved? To live a life free of all of this, free of him and the pain he caused you, constantly, every time he had to leave, every time he had to live this second life. You were meant for more than this, you deserved to be loved by someone who could give you everything in return.

"Hers" he spluttered. "Take her memories" he said quickly before he could change his mind.

Voldemort nodded obligingly before waving a hand, dismissing him.

Your eyes fluttered open as you lay in your four-poster bed, a soft smile on your lips as you saw the morning sun just barely sneaking past the curtains in the window that fluttered gently in the autumn breeze, setting your bedroom in a deep golden hue.

Your limbs were heavy with sleep and you were settled warmly in your sheets. You felt refreshed, though you had the smallest echo of a headache that you attempted to rub away as you got ready for the day.

You made your way down to breakfast, settling in amongst your friends.

"Good morning!" you said cheerfully as you took your usual seat between Pansy and Blaise.

"Good morning, babes!" Pansy chirped as the boys nodded, waved, and greeted you in various acknowledgements. You grabbed a pastry and pressed closer to Blaise to help him with the crossword puzzle in the Daily Prophet. You were deeply focused on the black and white print when Mattheo wandered in, sliding onto the bench across from you. His movement caught your eye and you glanced at him and offered a small wave before returning your attention to the paper.

And that was all he got.

A glance, a smile that he tried to hold on to, to see if there was even a glimmer of recollection behind it. But there was nothing.

The spell was strong. It had tied up every lose end. Your things were gone from his room, your pictures together wiped clear by the time he returned, even your hair tie had disappeared from his wrist. And when he crawled into his bed, and realized your scent was gone from his sheets, he pulled his pillow over his head to mask his muffled sob.

Now not even his friends remembered your relationship, he realized, as he looked around at them, all totally unphased by the fact that you weren't glued to each other's side. At once he craved the way Theo complained incessantly about your PDA, and Blaise teased him for being whipped. He would give anything anything for something other than the complete ignorance in front of him.

He'd never felt so alone.

A few days later, you noticed Mattheo was...off. Even moreso than usual. You were used to him being standoffish, reserved, a total closed book, but you sensed something different about him. You had never been close, but something about his demeanor kept catching your attention.

"Are you okay?" you asked him that weekend at the Slytherin house party.

You'd had to raise your voice to be heard over the crowd and the loud music and his eyes snapped to yours, almost in shock, before they began intently searching your face.

You looked back at him, confused, waiting for a reply.

"M'fine" he said finally, taking a long drink from his cup in an effort to occupy hands that desperately wanted to pull you into him and lips that desperately wanted to tell you a truth that didn't exist anymore.

"Lighten up, Matty!" you said, gently shoving him on his chest as you walked away, and he nearly choked on his firewhiskey, because there was only one person in his life that had ever called him that, and it was you, beginning the night you'd first time told him you loved him.

He watched you walk away and fade back into the crowded party, wondering, daring to hope that there was a way to get you back.

After that night, Mattheo’s attention on you increased tenfold. The following morning he'd squeezed his way next to you at breakfast, nearly knocking Blaise off the bench as he slid you your favorite coffee.

"Oh!...Thank you?" you'd said, surprised as you peered over his shoulder at Blaise and then looked down at the latte. "How did you—?"

"—Can I walk you to class?" he asked eagerly, a smile on his face.

"Suuureeee" you said hesitantly.

Then, he wanted to walk you to every class, and he'd even offered to carry your books. It was kind, endearing even, but it felt misplaced, so out-of-the-blue that it caught you off guard and confused you.

"Mattheo, I really want to thank you for everything you've been doing for me" you said finally as you walked out of your potions class to find him waiting for your eagerly, like a puppy, a smile on his face. Your eyes shifted to the classmates that walked by, eyeing the two of you together. "I just want you to know, I'm not really looking for anything serious. We're friends, that would be a little...weird, you know?" you said gently.

A moment.

And then he felt a chasmic split in his heart that he didn’t think he’d live through once, let alone twice. It had never occurred to him that there was a world in which you wouldn’t fall madly in love with him again as your words brought a memory rushing forward...

"Is this going to be weird?—" you asked, breathless, until his lips cut you off again, crashing to yours as his hands pulled you further against him in the broom closet. "—Darling, I could not care less" he murmured against you, and you laughed as your fingers tangled into the curls at the base of his neck and he felt your tongue against his own. “Mmm our friends are going to lose their mind” you whispered, grinning wickedly at him.

"Matty?" you asked, concerned at the look on his face, pulling him out of the memory, even as he tried and failed to hold on to it.

His eyes refocused on yours as his face darkened.

"Why are you calling me that?" he asked abruptly, his eyes narrowing.

"What?" you asked, taken aback at his tone.

"Matty. Why are you calling me that?"

"I—" you started before looking up at him, confused, feeling the dull ache of one of your more frequently occurring headaches coming on. "I-I don't know" you said quickly, a blush rising to your cheeks as you pushed past him.

He turned and punched the wall forcefully, feeling his knuckles crack in response.

Weeks went by. Every second in your existence was a painful reminder of what he would never have again, and yet he refused to distance himself, desperate for your laugh even if was for someone else, your smile, even if he wasn't the one to put it there.

Sometimes he swore he saw the slightest recollection in your eyes; he'd catch you looking at him, and you'd smile when he caught your eye, but it was always friendly, never like the look you used to give him, with the glimmer of something sinfully mischievous beneath it that had the two of you tumbling into his bed between classes.

The whole situation was setting him on edge, making him more anxious and fidgety than he'd ever been. But, of course, no one seemed to notice, his friends either chalking it up to his normal idiosyncrasies or bewitched to ignore his unusual behavior.

Now he was staring at the book in his lap, reading the same line over and over and over again, his mind running ragged as you sat beside him. At this distance he could smell your perfume, could feel your warmth radiating next to him and his heart ached at your proximity.

He hadn't realized he was doing it at first, but his leg was jiggling incessantly between the two of you, his jitters working at the pace of his mind, his body's panicked response to being so tantalizingly close to you, so desperate for you and not being able to have you. Suddenly he felt a warm hand on his leg, resting there gently as fingers began to trace a familiar pattern on his thigh, causing his jittering to slow along with his heart, which had now dropped into his stomach.

He glanced sidelong at you, afraid to move an inch, terrified that you would stop. He noticed you hadn’t broken your concentration on your book, perhaps hadn’t even realized you were touching him, it was like your body was moving on autopilot to comfort him in the very way you used to, tracing hearts on his thigh before nuzzling into him or pressing a warm kiss to his cheek.

He held his breath with the hope that this might mean something deeper, that there was a piece of you that remembered him as he closed his eyes, and tried to focus on the pattern of your fingers, the simple touch nearly bringing him to tears as he tried to let himself live in the memory of you.

You were right at the very best part of your book, the plot finally taking off, when you felt the familiar ache in your head that very quickly turned to a throbbing that brought you back to the present moment, and made you realize your hand had been resting on Mattheo’s thigh.

“Oh, gods!” you said suddenly, pulling your hand back quickly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—” you started until you saw the pained expression on his face, his eyes closed, his head hung as his hand carded through his hair. Your headache was pounding in full now, enough to make you wince and touch your temple. His eyes fluttered open, looking at you with concern.

“YN—?”

“—S-Sorry!” you said quickly, gathering your things and beelining for your room.

“Have you noticed anything… different with Mattheo recently?” you asked Pansy that weekend.

You were laying on your stomach on your bed, flipping casually through a magazine as she sat next to you, admiring her nails as she painted them a deep emerald.

You’d tried to ask as nonchalantly as you could, but she looked up at you with an eyebrow raised in question.

“I don’t know he’s been so… strange with me. He’s wanted to walk me to class, and carry my books, he wants to hang out all the time and he somehow knew how I liked my latte…?” you trailed off, leaving out the way your hand had ghosted over him, the expression on his face, and your recurring headaches that didn't feel like a coincidence anymore, flaring up every time you were around him.

A moment passed but Pansy didn’t reply and when you looked at her you saw that her expression hadn’t changed; she was staring blankly at you, not saying a word, which was extraordinarily odd to put it mildly.

This was the type of gossip that would usually have her on her feet, screaming, spiraling, devising a messy plan to get two of her best friends together, but you were getting nothing in return, less than nothing.

“Pans?” you goaded, prompting a response.

Her head tilted slightly, abnormally in a way that was starting to creep you out as her blank stare continued and you slowly pulled yourself upright and away from her.

“Let it go” she said flatly. “You’re imagining things.”

You were taken aback and started to respond before she interrupted you.

“—I mean, you can’t think that he’s into you or something, do you? He would never go for you… what would he see in you? What could you possibly have to offer the Dark Lord’s son YN? He’s got girls lined up out the door for him.”

You felt tears sting your eyes as you sat up fully now. Never once in your almost ten years of friendship had she ever said anything like that to you before. You were hurt, but you also couldn’t help but feel like something was very very wrong as fear fluttered in your heart at her dark words and unnatural expression.

Suddenly, your mind snapped black for a moment to another time you felt foreboding, felt fear in your bones, screaming silently with no one to hear you and you stumbled to your feet, wiping the tears from your eyes as your head throbbed so hard you were afraid you were going to be sick.

Pansy looked up at you, and smiled, unphased by the way you were shaking or swiping at your running mascara as she smiled. “Want to go to dinner babes?” she asked cheerful again, like she had forgotten everything she’d just said to you.

“I-I’ve got to go” you said quickly, as you made your way for the door, desperate to find the person you sensed was responsible for this all.

You made your way to the common room in slow motion, like one of those dreams where you’re running but not actually going anywhere. You felt flushed and feverish as your body began to tremble and the room felt like it was distorting itself. You looked around frantically and found Mattheo walking in your group of friends on their way to dinner.

“YN!” Blaise cheered, noticing you approach as Draco and Theo turned in concert, smiling widely at you with uncannily happy expressions.

But the minute Mattheo’s eyes landed on you, his smile dropped to concern and he quickly approached you, closing the distance between you.

“What’s wrong?” he asked immediately, reaching for you before pulling his hands back awkwardly.

“Can I talk to you?” you winced as your headache intensified “Please?”

“Yeah, of course” he said eagerly, motioning to his friends, “I’ll catch up with you” he said, nearly ignoring them completely as he led you back towards their now empty room.

He shut the door behind you both and you swayed on your feet before moving between the four poster beds and sitting on the edge of his.

There were five identical beds in the room and he tried not to read too much into the fact that you’d known which was his, even though in this reality you’d never been here. And then he tried to calm the erratic beating of his heart of you being here, alone with him, in his room, shaking the thought from his mind quickly as he took in the pained look on your face, your eyes pinched closed as you rubbed your temple

He came quickly to you, kneeling in front of you, moving to place his hands on your legs and pulling back, never knowing what the fuck to do with them anymore around you.

“What’s going on—” he started.

“—What did you do to me?” you whispered harshly, your eyes fluttering open, your face scrunched angrily in accusation.

“What?” he asked, confused.

“Mattheo, something is very very wrong, and you can’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

He stopped breathing. It couldn’t be.

“Our friends aren’t normal, people around us aren’t normal, and I feel like my insides are on fucking fire” you said, grimacing. “And it only happens when I’m around you. I’m not an idiot, Mattheo, is this because I turned you down?”

For his part he looked like he was about to cry, he didn’t look threatening or guilty, just enormously sad as he looked up at you with his amber eyes and your headache split to a nearly debilitating degree and tears flowed from your eyes in pain.

“My head” you said in a muffled sob.

You felt his warm hands rest on your legs, the first time he’d let himself touch you in months and you felt another flash in your mind, him smiling down at you with a lopsided grin in a way you’d never seen him look at you before, with adoration, with longing, with love, but it didn’t feel weird this time, it felt normal, so familiar…

“YN?” he whispered and your eyes fluttered open to see his transfixed on you, scanning your every feature, his expression full of concern. “Please hear me when I say I would never ever hurt you.” A lie he realized too late as he looked at you now.

“I-I know that?” you said shakily. “Somehow I know that but I don’t know how else to explain this or how I’m feeling” you said, sniffling.

“Fuck!” he muttered in frustration as he stood up and started pacing, running his fingers through his hair. He was certain that something was happening and yet he had no idea how to help you, the image of you crying in pain on his bed making him physically ill.

You sniffed again and said the next sentence so softly he swore he'd dreamt it.

“You have a scar on your shoulder, here” you said, gesturing over your own shoulder blade, tracing the same pattern of the raised skin on his back.

“You take your tea with milk and two sugars” your voice wobbled but was gaining strength as you kept speaking and he turned to look at you.

“You write left-handed but play quidditch right handed.”

Your eyes squeezed shut, words tumbling from your mouth now, like a broken dam.

“You always wanted a dog growing up and if you’d had one you would have named him—"

“—Zoryn” you said simultaneously. He moved to approach you, crouching in front of you again as he stared at you in awe, unable to believe what was going on.

Your eyes opened at his voice.

“After my favorite quidditch player” he said. “YN you’re the only person who knows that.”

“Why do I know these things?” you asked, pained.

He opened us mouth but nothing came out.

“Matty” you were practically beginning him to help you understand but he was too scared to be wrong, too scared to tell you the truth.

“...I’m the only one that calls you that” you whispered, and he nodded encouragingly.

“Yeah, you are” he said quietly, gently.

You reached out tentatively, your hand trembling and touched his cheek and he let his head fall against the palm of your hand, nuzzling into you as his eyes fluttered closed. You sniffed again.

“It’s okay, love, I’m here” he said tenderly.

“B-But you weren’t there” you said, breathing heavily all of a sudden, panicked. “I-I was scared and I wanted you there and you weren’t there…” and just like that your eyes blinked to his and memories came like an avalanche as you stood and he rose his feet beside you.

The first time he kissed you, the feeling of his warm palm in yours, tangling your fingers in his curls, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his chest in bed, the way he’d pull you onto his lap at breakfast and everyone would moan about it, him nuzzling into your neck, his arms around your waist and his hand at the small of your back in the corridor between classes. His lopsided grin as his amber eyes twinkled down at you and he whispered “Gods, I’m crazy about you, darling”

“I remember! I remember!” you said finally looking up at the real Mattheo standing in front of you, his face somewhere between sheer panic and shock and suddenly the inches between you were too much as you flew into his arms, wrapping yourself around him as he lifted you off the ground.

“Fuck baby” he said as you felt him shaking beneath you. “I’m sorry I’m so fucking sorry. He made me. M-made me choose, your memories or mine and—“ he choked up as hand came to rest on the back of your head, holding you closer to him “—I didn’t want you to live a moment in any reality thinking I didn’t love you.”

“It’s okay, Matty, it’s okay” you murmured against him, clinging to him, to the moment.

“None of this is okay” he said back.

“It’s ok now” you reassured him.

He made to pull back but you squeezed him tighter, afraid.

“I don’t want to forget” you mumbled into his neck.

“You’re not going to” he said through a laugh, the first time the sound had left his lips in months.

“Let me guess” you sniffed against him, fighting the knowing smile on your lips, “because you’re unforgettable” you grumbled at his cocky humor.

“Well, yeah” he said, laughing genuinely now, even as you pinched him.

“But more importantly—” he said as he took a step forward to lay you down on his bed so he could look at you, could finally see the sparkle of recognition in your eyes that he had been craving. You were looking back at him like you were committing his every feature to memory, your stomach flipping at how beautiful he was, at how you could ever forget it, tracing the scar at his eyebrow, his flushed cheeks, his lips and noting the twinkle in his eyes.

“—You’re not going to forget because the most powerful wizard alive already tried to make you, and it didn’t fucking work.”

You smiled at him, resolutely. “I could never forget you.”

“That’s right, baby” he said as he leaned down to brush his lips against yours, lingering for just a moment, savoring it like it was the first time all over again.

taglist: @dustie-faerie, @urfavfrenchgrl, @darlingshecried, @thegoddessofnothingness, @kenjikishimotoswifey, @mattiesgf @sleepiibunniiii @girllblogging777 @foivetimesacharm @clar2aa @broadwaybaby123 @slytherinscreamqueen @sectumsempraaa

[yanderelionwrites]

I'll Stay Here - Yandere!Leona x Reader

Content Warning: (soft) yandere, implied kidnapping/captivity, I fear the Stockholm Syndrome has ARRIVED

Word Count: 607

(Again, kind of a part 3 to this, but can be read on its own)

You really need to stop forgetting your things in Leona’s room. Luckily, he doesn’t mind you coming and going, but it’s still a pain to have to walk all through the palace to get there.

You’ve been keeping him company as of late, just sitting in his room while he naps or plays chess, meaning you like to bring your own stuff over to entertain yourself. Today, you left behind a book you were reading earlier, so you thought you would pop by really quick and take it back. Even though it was late in the evening, Leona would most likely be taking a nap right now, so he wouldn’t even bother with trying to engage with you.

Poking your head into his room, you confirm that he’s asleep before tip-toeing over to the table you left your book at. You grab it and turn to sneak back out, but you stop yourself when you glance at Leona’s face.

His expression appears so…soft. Free of the stresses his family, the servants, or even you sometimes cause him. He looks the most at peace he’s ever been…

It makes your heart swell, which is very alarming because you’re supposed to hate this man. And yet, despite it all, you still find yourself drawing nearer to him. Just to get a better look.

Leona sleeps soundlessly on his stomach, with his arms hugging the pillow his head is buried in. You can’t help but smile at the way his ear twitches; he looks like a napping kitty. It’s such a stark contrast to how he acts when he’s awake.

This is so frustrating… One minute you feel like you wish you never met Leona, and other times, you’re thinking it’s not so bad staying here with him. You have everything you need, and anything you want (other than freedom) can be given to you when asked. And Leona himself isn’t awful to be with… He makes sure you’re taken care of and remains respectful around you.

But do you love him enough to want to stay?

…You don’t want to admit you don’t hate him anymore.

Inching ever so closer to his sleeping body, you tentatively reach out to brush a strand of hair out of his face.

You shouldn’t…

Hesitantly, you lean down so that your face is hovering right over the crown of Leona’s head. You place the quickest and gentlest kiss on top of his hair, before immediately withdrawing from him. Trying to leave like you were never there, you turn towards the exit, but jump when a hand grabs your wrist.

A small yelp escapes your lips as you’re pulled backward onto Leona’s bed. Arms wrap around your waist, not too tight but firm enough to let you know that you won’t be leaving anytime soon.

“L-Leona?!” is all you can stutter out, hands uselessly pushing at his arms.

“Just stay here…please,” he utters into your ear, voice husky and surprisingly pleading.

“...Only for a few minutes,” you relent, letting him pull you against his chest.

A few minutes is all Leona needs. He’ll take what he can get.

He feels you relax next to him, and he couldn’t be more content. This was only a small step towards the future he envisions for you both, but it was still important progress. Leona bets you don’t even know how much he’s been holding back, how much of his feelings he’s repressed to make sure you’re comfortable here first. But with this small gesture, you’ve opened the doors to so much more.

You’ve walked into the lion’s enclosure, and there’s no getting out of it now.

~~~

Probably the last part to this little series. I've been cooking up something Savanaclaw related though, so stay tuned for that 👀

Reblogs and comments are always appreciated!

[cuubism]

If you’re taking prompts, I’d love more chronic pain retired!dream stuff!

oh yeah we need emotional support dream hurt/comfort today

( i assume you meant in regards to this fic )

-

For the first few months after dying and becoming human, nearly all Dream had known was pain.

It was an adjustment, to fold and cram an amorphous existence into a rigid human body. And there was the psychic change, the constant feeling of stepping and missing a stair, as he instinctively reached for the Dreaming and found it gone. He had thought, then, that he regretted his choice, that perhaps he should simply have died, or, stranger, that he should have remained Dream--though, by the end, that was not truly an option for him.

Strange, to miss something that had wrapped like a pillory about his neck for so long. But that was change. The familiar, sometimes, was a comfort even in the suffering it brought.

Eventually, he decided that he did not, in fact, wish that he had died, or that he had remained Endless. Hob had cautioned patience during that time and he had been correct. It helped, too, to eventually learn that the level of physical pain he was experiencing was, in fact, abnormal. Dream was often tired and struggled to find the wherewithal to do anything about it. But Hob seemed determined to make it better for him, to the extent that he could.

One of these ways was through the application of comfortable items. Dream now had an extensive collection of blankets, including a weighted one that helped him sleep, and a heated electric one that soothed a lot of his muscle soreness and which he'd taken to essentially living under on cold days. Sometimes Hob would leave in the morning to go to class, leaving Dream curled up on the couch under his blanket, only to return hours later and find Dream still there. "You're like a cat," he'd say, running his hand through Dream's hair.

Dream thought cats were favorable creatures to be compared to.

On this night, he was once again wrapped in his heated blanket, curled up on the couch. Stubbornly drawing in his sketchbook despite the persistent ache in his shoulder. It was kind of his own fault, that. Slightly too vigorous in bed last night. But Dream had been restless and he'd wanted Hob to be vigorous and he didn't regret it, though it was annoying him now.

He was shading in the bird he'd sketched, piece of charcoal held sideways in his fingers, when he realized. Despite the ache in his shoulder. Despite the lingering stiffness in his hips. Despite the fact that he was still waiting for Hob to get home and so couldn't yet crawl on top of him and take advantage of heat sources on both sides. He felt... content.

He didn't realize, until he was sitting there, sketchpad in hand, blanket around his shoulders, pain a distant ache deep in the muscles of his back... that part of what had been unsettling him so in these recent weeks was actually... a lack of another pain.

Stepping. Missing the stair.

But this missed stair was not the familiar touch of the Dreaming. It was a darkness. He kept going from one day to the next, stepping forward, and expecting darkness to swallow him. Without knowing he was expecting it. Without knowing it was there. Falling, and then jerking awake, falling and jerking awake again--when the darkness didn't catch him.

His conversation with Hob came back to him.

How much pain are you in? Not right now--I mean usually.

Upon what metric is the scale?

Upon what metric?

By the time Hob got home, Dream had paused drawing, his charcoal suspended over the page, staring off into the distance. Lost in thought. He didn't come back to himself until Hob had crouched in front of him and was swiping his fingers over Dream's cheeks. "Love?"

Dream didn't realize until then that he was crying. Just silently, tears streaming down his face. Hob watched him with concern, but waited for him to speak.

"I--" Dream started, and his voice cracked. He tried again. "I. Hob."

"Yeah, love?"

"I. Don't think I hurt anymore."

Hob's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?" He well knew that Dream's body wouldn't just stop hurting, not for good.

Dream wiped at his eyes. This, another adjustment: his body was so much more susceptible to visible displays of emotion than it once was.

"Before," he said, and didn't have to specify when he meant. "It hurt. I did not realize."

He had been so used to the way he felt that he did not realize he was feeling anything. He didn't realize, until the pain left him.

"My shoulder still hurts today," he continued. "But. I do not. And. Regardless. I want to be here."

"And I want you here," Hob said, and pulled Dream close, wrapping him in his arms. Dream pressed his face into Hob's shoulder, tears streaming again, but they did not feel sad. They felt cleansing.

"Come here," Hob said, and sat beside him on the couch. As Dream had fantasized, he pulled Dream close, letting him sprawl atop him, wrapped in his blanket, absorbing Hob's body heat. Dream clung to him, legs twisted up with Hob's. It made his hip twinge, but he didn't care.

"I'm glad you're not hurting," Hob whispered, lips brushing Dream's hair. "I'm so glad."

Dream was still hurting, in a sense, but the pervasive soul-deep ache he'd accepted as foundational to his existence, so foundational he'd stopped noticing it entirely, had gone. An ancient weight had lifted off his chest. He felt breathless with it.

His shoulder hurt more now from how he had his arms wrapped around Hob and it would probably hurt tomorrow but if this was the exchange then he would not take it back.

All the human pains in the world in trade. He would not trade back.

[eupheme]

mean wade or just him playfully making fun of you as he makes you cum consecutive times until you squirt? I'm so down bad for this man it's worrying 😭

Ohh I am 👀💖 anon! I went with a smug/teasing Wade for this (and also a sort-of follow-up to this fwb!wade drabble), I hope that is ok!! Thanks so much for sending this to me!

flood it | wade wilson x f!reader

800 words | multiple orgasms, fwb!wade, piv, squirting

It’s white against pink, as his lips stretch wide. Parting teeth as he pants, a stripe of red across his nose where his mask has been tugged up.

His scarred chin glossy. Smeared by the back of a hand, not more than ten minutes after he slipped through your bedroom window.

All too eager to answer your text. Still in his suit, grime worked into the creases as he laid you out on the floor of your room, unable to make it to your bed.

Your sleeping shorts had still been on, then - panties tugged to the side so his tongue could slip against your slit in greeting.

Record time, before your thighs were clamping around his ears, hips lifting into the air - hand stifling your cry.

The scarred tip of his cock rutting against your core, as your other hand clung to his wrist.

“Turned you a horny little monster, didn’t I?” He coos, “You still need it that bad?”

The sound of annoyance you make turns high, as he notches himself at your entrance - fitting every inch inside.

“S’okay.” It’s murmured out - just as he draws back, before hilting himself again, “I like that you can’t get enough.”

Another cry pulled from you, with the pump of his hips, the swirl of his fingers. Pleased - his lips meeting yours, halting the filth that pours from them.

He tastes like you, as you open for him, and that does more to you than it should. You can never resist him, that ache of want that lingers beneath your skin. Him and his mouth, and every inch of those six foot two inches, as he curves over you.

A hand splayed across the ankle that’s hooked against his shoulder. Near bending you in half, intent on finding the exact spot that has your nails sinking into the woven rug.

“There we fucking go. Bet you can give me another.” His hum low, when he finds it, “Bet I can make you gush all over my cock.”

You’re still not used to his enthusiasm. A late-night message sent in desperation that he was too eager to answer. Still intent on making up for all your supposed ‘lost time’.

Intent on making sure that your experiences with him eclipse all others.

“Can’t, Wade.” It’s sighed out - but even as his hips move, that dull twinge of overstimulation bleeds into pleasure, “Haven’t-“

But he only groans - the words husked out as eyes dip down to where you’re joined.

“You will for me.”

A greedy moment - his tone low. Possessive, for a flicker of a second, before he’s grinning.

“It was the request, after all,” He winks, his tongue peeking out, tasting you against his lips, “And I’m always happy to prove you wrong. Again, I might add.”

And maybe you want him too. Maybe it’s in the look you give him - heavy-lidded eyes, your hips lifting into the sharp snap of his.

A moan, at the slick way you grip him. Capturing your hand that slips down to help - pinning your wrists above your head.

“Uh uh.” Wade’s head shakes, “This is gonna be all me.”

The steady pound of his cock sending you higher, that deep pressure inside you building swiftly towards another peak.

“When your toes are cold because you ruined this rug by gushing all over it, you’re gonna be thinking about this.”

It makes you moan. This thing between you had gotten messy - deeper feelings caught somewhere between that first kiss to now. Don’t know how to tell him that he’s all you think about.

Not sure how to name the flip inside your belly - a tight, twisting ball of pleasure - so close to coming from just his cock. Your eyes wide as it begins to swell - his name whimpered out as you squirm on the floor beneath him.

“Fuck. Yes.” He pants, “Want you to fucking flood it, come on.”

Your gaze on his, when you do. Seeing how the white eyes of his mask widen - curving with his smile when your head tilts back.

Crying out, as he makes you come hard. As he fucks you through it, the sound filthy with the clap of his hips against yours. Leaking with each flutter of your cunt around his cock, dropping down to dampen the coarse hairs at the base of his cock.

Wade’s rhythm going sloppy as his ego soars - your foot slipping from his shoulder, wrapping around his waist just as his mouth presses to yours again.

Slick still leaking down his cock, the red leather at his groin glistening when he throbs inside you. Spilling with a rough groan, fingers pinching at your hips as he holds you flush.

Only then, does his other hand leave your wrists. Fingers entwining with yours instead, still keeping you pinned. A smirk, as he catches his breath.

“So.”

It’s huffed out, as the rock of his hips pushes another messy drip out of your cunt. His release and yours mixing together, just as it should.

“What else do you think you can’t do?”

[leighsartworks216]

Clair de Lune

Sylus x gn!Reader

Typed this up instead of doing my hw, which I now am staying up late to do 👍

Warnings: none, just fluff

Word Count: 591

Main Masterlist

Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

Sylus peeks his eyes open for a brief moment. He sighs, tilting his head back against the armchair. “What are you doing all the way over there, kitten?” he murmurs, voice low and gravely. He opens his arm and flicks his fingers in a beckoning motion. “Come here.”

Your stuff hits the ground with a heavy thud. Even without the weight, you’re hunched over in exhaustion. Your muscles hurt, your bones hurt, your very soul hurts. The time it took to get to the N109 Zone almost felt like it wouldn’t be worth it.

That is, until you miserably cross the floor and squeeze yourself into the chair with Sylus. He supports you with one hand, drawing you into his lap and against his chest like he needs you right there to survive. You melt against him with a sigh, slipping your hand into the v–shaped neckline of his sweater to rest it over his heart, beating slower right now than usual as he rests. You bury your face into his shoulder, eyes closed and mind shut off in favor of letting him wash over you.

He smells the spice and warmth, like a fire after being in the snow or a hot drink after a long day. It completely envelops you. It floods your senses until it’s all you can smell.

His hand squeezes your hip affectionately where he holds you. Fingers work silently to pull up the hem of your shirt enough to slip his hand inside, where it simply rests against your skin. With his strong arm around your back, you’ve never felt so secure, and yet it’s the same way you feel every time you’re in his mere presence. His head shifts to rest on yours. It’s probably not comfortable for his neck, but he doesn’t stop.

His chest rises and falls under you, lifting your hand with each inhale, and lowering it with every exhale. The quiet sound of each breath washes over your ear like waves on a beach. Like a lullaby or the sound of the ocean, it slows your own breathing down and eases your heart to beat slower.

Even with your eyes closed, you feel the weight of your eye bags weighing them down. Your shoulders release the built up tension held within them. And yet sleep diligently evades your attempts to grasp it. You desperately reach out for it, but it never comes. You huff quietly, heart picking up again in your mounting frustration.

Sylus rubs his thumb along your ribs, his nose nuzzling against your head. “Would the bed be better?” he asks.

You hum, a whiny and annoyed sound. “Probably,” you say, “but I don’t wanna move.”

“That makes two of us.” He sighs softly through his nose as he wraps his other arm under your knees. Despite both of your desires to stay put, he knows you’ve been up for much too long. You need your sleep, and he wants to make sure you get it, even though he should just be getting up at this hour. He lifts you up without any trouble as he stands.

Cradled in his arms, the gentle rocking of his steps further draws you down into sleep. When he lays you down in his large bed, you’re on the precipice. And when he lays down next to you, wrapping you in his arms and hooking his leg over yours, burying his face in your neck and breathing you in, you finally fall. Down, down, down, into the sweet embrace of sleep.

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @huen1ngk41 @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter

[rayshippouuchiha]

Hi Ray!

Random question - do you have any specific ideas in mind for what Fullmetal Sky Ed looks like, outfit-wise?

Because istg one of these days I'm gonna get around to drawing one of your posts (dunno which one yet) but I don't want to default to "Canon-Ed's design w/out the automail" (Think he has different variations of his coat? Like, a sleeveless vest or short sleeve style one so he doesn't overheat in summer, a winter coat version, ect?)

Thanks!

(also, wrench whirlwind keeps trying to kill me, it's too goddamn funny)

I do think that, overall, it's pretty accurate to say that, overall, FMS!Ed's style pretty much is canon-Ed but without the automail.

Cause that's who he is.

His soul is a lot older than his body so his tastes are pretty cemented into place.

But, that being said, given their circumstances, I do think he has a bit more variety in his wardrobe. Not only is society, and thus the clothing, different but they have a home and places to actually store a full wardrobe.

So black jeans/slacks/cargo pants/etc are an option for him now instead of black leather pants 24/7 but I feel as if he'd still consider shorts to be a sleep and/or training thing instead of everyday wear. (Arco are gonna see his crop top-shorts combo for training and never be the same)

Absolutely yes on the different styles for his coat because it's HIS and without the automail he can experiment with it a bit. I also think he'd be fond of vests and hoodies both.

Combat boots are a must though because Ed never lost that need/habit of being ready to throw down any time/any place.

Hair is obviously still long and glorious, his eyes still bright and gold.

[fqrcefields]

checkmate!

chapter two <3

summary _ , april finally puts jennifer's phone number to use.

⋆ tags : smut! ⭑ࣶࣸ 

read on ao3.

 ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀────୨ৎ────

April hasn’t been able to stop thinking about her all week.

She hasn’t even finished a full chapter of her book, the business card still tucked between pages as a makeshift bookmark causing a flood of images to dominate April’s mind, distracting her entirely from the work of fiction. Along with said distraction, she is graced by the most embarrassing of blushes on a face that never does so, drawing too much attention to herself, forcing her to retreat to the bathroom to regain composure. No, she does not read the book. Yet it is seemingly surgically attached to her now, not allowing the enclosed phone number to travel any more than an inch from her fingertips at a time.

Her coworkers’ hate-fueled focus on Jennifer certainly is not helping. Everywhere April turns, there’s a video playing of Jen on another early-morning talk show, a picture of her face in the paper, with that big, toothy grin that makes April’s heart swell. To say it’s been difficult for April to fit in with this group of people so vehemently anti-Jennifer Barkley is an understatement. Though she’s never been one to share her emotions very publicly, even the smallest mention of Jen has April smiling like an idiot. Luckily, everyone around her is so consumed by their own want to win that they ignore the way April fades into the background.

It takes a full week of hopeful pining for April to muster up the confidence to finally text her.

It’s far too early in the morning, but the entire team had been called to watch Jen and Bobby discuss their campaign on Pawnee Today, and it’s not like April would ever give up the chance to see the woman on whom she harbors such a debilitating crush. She sits in the back of the conference room, nursing the biggest cup of coffee imaginable, hugging her book tight to her chest, which beats twenty times faster than usual. It must be the caffeine that’s given April such the adrenaline rush and enabled her fingers to send off the text message. Caffeine, and a need to see Jen— to smell that divine perfume that probably costs more than April’s entire wardrobe combined— that outweighs all of April’s typical anxiety.

what hotel are you staying at?

She sends first. Then, after a few minutes:

in case i want to murder you in your sleep or something.

Jennifer receives the texts right as she steps out of the soundstage, on the way to her car. It takes her a moment to register who it’s from, the area code far from the 202 she’s grown so used to. When it clicks in her mind, however, an immediate smile rises to her lips. Such a smile, in fact, that her idiot client asks after it, to which Jen simply responds with a bewildered eyebrow raise and a wave of the hand. She has to conceal her wild, cackling laughter until she finds the safety of her car.  

Jen responds once she’s home, not giving in to her own excitement, wanting to force her mouse’s anticipation. She would never want to come off as desperate, even though her fingers (along with every single other ounce of her being) are furious to send a text back. She does, once it’s been a little less than an hour, giving her soon-to-be murderer the name of the hotel. No, not hotel, motel. Because why should Jen have the luxury of a warm shower and more than one pillow? Hopefully her little raven will show up at her door soon enough and save her from shag carpet and thin robes. Though, if April is soon to be the one wearing the robe, Jennifer won’t mind its thinness.

Show up she does, but only once the sun has gone down. It’s after Jen has read through all of her daily newspapers and refreshed Politico nearly a thousand times, leaving her to deal with her own boredom the way anyone outside of D.C. would. She can’t deal with Perd Hapley’s voice anymore and would quite literally rather die than listen to Pawnee public radio. So, when April appears at her door, Jen can’t conceal her relieved smile— as much as she plays it off as being coy.

“I figured you’d be bored of diner food.” April shrugs slightly, trying to hide her own smile behind sarcastic manor and feigned disinterest. She doesn’t want Jennifer to know that she’d driven all the way to Eagleton to pick up the only food within a hundred miles that could scratch the surface of Jennifer’s refined palate, but there’s something within April that’s so eager to please, so restless to hear Jen tell her she’s done something right. Though, there’s also something within her that yearns for the degradation, that so wants to be yelled at in the way that Jen yells at people she finds stupid.

“Good girl,” Jennifer purrs, subtly undoing the top buttons of her blouse as she ushers April into the room. She admires the younger woman’s outfit, for what it’s worth. Though her affinity towards skinny jeans and zipper hoodies is far from Jen’s own style, she finds the tight-fitting clothes entirely intoxicating. Jen takes her sweet time admiring the brunette, her own lower lip captured between teeth so desperate to feel skin that they’re nearly drawing blood. She leans against the end of the bed, simply to observe, to enjoy every tiny, slow movement of her opponent. Though, she can’t be all too calculating, when an absolutely divine smell tickles her nose.

“My God,” she hums, her stomach growling its approval. “I didn’t know this town was capable of good food.” Jen laughs, stepping forward to join April at the small motel desk. “Color me impressed.” She places a hand on the younger woman’s lower back, middle fingers sneakily looping through the belt loop of the black jeans, grip firm on the denim beneath. This elicits the smallest gasp from April, which she attempts to cover up with words that never fully form. She’s lost all of her typical off-putting charisma now, merely left an unthinking form of flesh that begs to be molded by Jennifer.

“It isn’t,” April finally musters, and leaves it at that. If she’s going to be so incredibly vulnerable around this woman, she’ll try her best to protect the very last bit of mystery she can conjure. Jennifer appreciates this, finds it impossibly charming, a challenge that she’s insatiably hungry for after so many hours spent on the least challenging campaign of her life.

Once they’ve plated themselves what is, to Jen at least, a meal equivalent to Jesus’ last supper, Jennifer takes a seat at the desk’s rolling chair, looks up to April with her proudest smirk.

“Only one chair.” She pouts, legs spreading a little as she gets as comfortable as possible in the degrading pleather. Jennifer stares at April with all of her might, daring the girl to stare back, to enter this arena of eye contact, but April is unable. Despite her usual menacing Kubrick stare, the moment she comes into proximity with Jennifer Barkley, April completely falls apart at the seams. It’s not something she’s ever experienced, but April is so impossibly intimidated by Jennifer, so incredibly turned on by the woman’s tempting smirk, that she barely even feels like herself anymore. It's as if her brain has been invaded, taken over, melded into something of Jennifer’s control.

April’s eyes migrate down, forcing themselves out of the magnetic pull of Jennifer’s own, looking toward the floor as is her preferred avoidant posture. Though, as she looks down to the floor, she is interrupted by a hand that moves ever so slightly against grey material. A movement so brief yet so very taunting, as if beckoning April to it. Her eyes flick back up to Jennifer’s once more, note the way her pupils have expanded, the way she pensively chews on her lip, the tautness of her lifted brows. Everything about Jennifer oozes confidence, but more so now than her usual talk show pretension. Now, she’s undone. Hair messy, shirt so unbuttoned that April can see the lace border of her bra. She’s illuminated by a single yellow lamp, not the hundreds of fluorescents that April is used to seeing her under. Jennifer is domestic now, human, no longer the Washington robot from the news. She is warm flesh and blood, and it’s entirely impossible for April to keep her hands away from that very warmth.

April has never known herself to be the initiator, so she finds it hard to comprehend what it is that takes over her as she straddles herself over Jennifer’s thighs and plunges her lips onto the brunette’s. It must simply be the pent-up need, the seven days she’s spent doing truly nothing other than thinking about Jennifer, fantasizing about her, praying that she might walk in through the office doors again. It is that desperation that finds April tugging on the woman’s string of pearls, kissing her so very deeply that they nearly spill out of the small chair.

April lights up with the vibration of Jennifer’s chuckle— which either comes from amusement or pure pleasure over April’s forwardness— but she is far too intoxicated by Jennifer’s perfume to even pay the short laughter any mind. Her already swimming mind is only further done in by the patchouli and bergamot that still lingers on Jennifer’s collar even the end of the day, so strong that she feels drugged, her mind’s only real thought being the one that keeps her kissing Jennifer. She kisses the older woman with such fervor that it takes all of the breath from her lungs, her eyes gone fuzzy when she eventually pulls back for air. When April realizes her own action, sees Jennifer leaned back, signature smirk of Chanel Rouge now smudged, she can’t help but apologize. She’s never wanted anything so much so that she’s taken action to get it, so she finds herself simply shocked, amazed, power hungry, yet entirely apologetic, nervous from her own wanting.

Jennifer’s own chest has begun to buzz. She had entirely expected that their chess game would take hours— that’s how long Jennifer would employ her teasing. She was ready to watch April’s walls crumble over the span of a night, not mere minutes. Yet here Jen sits, her own breath stolen from her, her grip so tight around April’s ass that her knuckles threaten to turn white. Everything within her wants to joke, to tease, to make that little pout on April’s lips remain for as long as possible, but there’s a teeny, tiny little piece of Jen that just fucking wants to kiss this girl already.

“Bed,” she says sharply, her chest still heaving a bit to fully catch up. Jennifer grins as April does just as she’s said, and though she is not too far behind, Jennifer takes a moment just so that April knows exactly who is in control of the board. Once she hears that awful squeak of the mattress, knows that April has found herself laying in the highest thread count available in Pawnee, Jennifer stands. Though it pains her to turn her back to their spread of food, her stomach growing furious at her for the betrayal, Jennifer dares not sully this moment with such a feeble need as hunger.

The vision of April laying on the bed, pupils blown out and bangs already sticking to her forehead from the lack of central air in this room, is enough to bring Jennifer to her knees. Well, not exactly to her knees. But it’s enough for her to speed up her steps, to land on the bed above April, to press a taunting kiss to her lips before pulling back, not allowing the younger woman any more than that. At least, at first. Jennifer hovers over April, hands dipping under the thin fabric of thrifted long-sleeve, holding her so tenderly. She feels so differently for April than she does the others she’s been with. In D.C., it is merely sex. Something that she is very good at, yes, but for the most part, something to be tossed aside once it is done. This is not at all to imply that Jennifer does not enjoy random hook-ups in club bathrooms, but it is to say that she has not felt a real affection for someone in the way that she feels for April. There is an innocence behind those huge, dark eyes that Jennifer just wants to nurture, something in the teasing attitude that Jennifer never wants to be far from.

April attempts to lift herself, to kiss Jennifer, to finally release the tension that has been building between them for far too long, but she is met by a hand on her cheek, pinning head to pillow. Jennifer is not yet ready— she wants to appreciate this for the time it will take, does not want it to become yet another body in her count. The older woman cannot help the stare with which she holds April, cannot stop her thumb from sliding across her cheek until it eventually lands in April’s mouth, who eagerly accepts it atop her tongue. The large eyes staring back, the quiet noises of April’s mouth around Jennifer’s finger— it all proves too much for Jennifer, she cannot waste any more time staring.

The brunette dips her head, and though she misses the warmth of April’s mouth when she removes her thumb, the softness of her lips replacing themselves upon Jennifer’s is apology enough. Jennifer kisses her all too greedily, not giving the younger a second before her tongue darts into the woman’s mouth, her hands lifting to cradle the sides of April’s head so that she does not shift out of the way. Jennifer’s hips begin their instinctual rocking against the scratchy material of April’s jeans, but the pencil skirt hugging her own thighs is far too restrictive for such a move. As she lifts herself to hike said skirt up to her hips, April takes the opportunity to undo the rest of the buttons of her shirt, finally releasing flesh, finally pressing her fingers to the skin beneath the silk. The touch elicits such a reaction from Jennifer that neither expected: a sharp gasp, a plunge back into kissing so feverish that a voyeur would believe these two were reconnecting after years of one being missing. This past week very well could have been a year or more, for the desperation that it has built within both April and Jennifer.

Jennifer’s hands leave April’s face, the nails that were once perfectly manicured, now horribly chipped, running over goosebumps until they land at April’s belt. She undoes the raven-haired girl’s jeans as if her most basic human function— despite having not even spoken to anyone wearing jeans in ten odd years. April’s breathing becomes halted as Jennifer’s hand slips beneath the fabric, toying gently at the fabric of her underwear, lace. As much as she’d like to tease April for it, for purchasing a new set of lingerie just for their little rendezvous, the only thing that escapes Jen’s lips is a groaning ‘fuck’ when she finally notices just how wet the underwear is.

April’s vocabulary has similarly been reduced to only curses, with the occasional ‘Jen— God—’ moaned loudly enough she’s sure to be heard down the hallway. The latter is what sends Jennifer reeling, drunk on the way that her own name sounds coming from April’s lips. She has grown so used to ‘campaign manager Jennifer Barkley’, that to hear such a casual nickname, something so humanizing and domestic, is so incredibly arousing to her.

April’s back begins to arch from the slightest brush of movement against her underwear, her body under touched for far too long. As Jennifer finally pulls April’s jeans around her knees, she presses kisses to her belly, then her thighs— the kisses become significantly rougher here, teeth gently grazing over the plump flesh that they find. April’s hands fling to Jennifer’s hair, the perfectly set coif of curls now falling loose at her shoulders, April’s overwhelmed tugging not doing much for the style’s stability.

It's the harshest of all of April’s tugs that finally has Jennifer pushing the underwear to the side, slipping two fingers into the woman’s cunt. The action forces the loudest of April’s moans, a volume so rarely met by April’s vocal cords, yet in Jen’s presence, becoming all too common. The sweet moans are downright obscene, so very dirty that Jennifer can barely keep her head on her own shoulders. Her kisses to April’s stomach have become sloppy; she’s practically drooling all over the younger woman. Jennifer’s hips have continued their feverish rocking by now, and though April can barely conceive a thought beyond Jennifer’s name, she is just lucid enough to kick up her leg, pressing her thigh firmly into the politician’s clothed cunt. The contact sends white-hot pleasure coursing through Jennifer, but it is more April’s own pleasure which Jennifer seeks. Her free hand holds firm around the girl’s thin hips, holding her off of the bed so that her pumping may hit the perfect spot, may elicit more of those salacious moans from lips that begged to be kissed.

Jennifer greedily returns to said lips, her own grown swollen and over-hydrated from fervent caressing that they sting when April takes them between her teeth. The pain is more than welcome, as is the way that April’s hands force up Jennifer’s shirt, her nails clawing down skin. They are both sure to be covered in purple bruises come morning. Jennifer revels in the very thought that April will have to see Jennifer’s staked claim each time she gets dressed, that she will blush at the very sight of herself in the mirror, will get hot and bothered all over again before the workday has even started.

April has gone nearly breathless, her body tense in Jennifer’s grasp. She would not be surprised if her jocular threat of death were to become real. The way that Jen’s thumb lightly strikes her clit and then recedes, teasing, proving that Jennifer is still the one in control, sends a shiver through April. This sends her body only closer into Jennifer’s arms, who greedily accepts this nearness, for someone who has quite literally pushed away every single person that has attempted so much as a hug. She can feel herself being so corrupted by April, her very nature being distorted, becoming humanized, becoming tender. It sickens Jennifer, but she cannot possibly focus on her own morality when there is such a beautiful woman riding her fingers.

April’s muscles have gone tense, are threatening to cramp from how tightly she holds Jen between her thighs. Jennifer finally relents, allows April the pleasure she’s begun begging for, presses her thumb firmly to April’s clit. What soft groans were once pleading are now simply pathetic from pleasure, all caution for privacy thrown to the wind. Jennifer’s kisses have moved to April’s jaw, sure to leave her territorial markings there, and as her position allows, she whispers soft, teasing degradations about just how naughty the rest of the motel’s occupants must find her. Everyone will know how good I make you feel, she reminds the raven countless times, her laughter dark against April’s ear, her tongue sliding along sharp jaw.

April’s fingers nearly rip Jennifer’s shirt when the pleasure in her stomach finally builds up so much that she cannot take it anymore. She grips onto the silk as if for dear life, squeezes her thighs around Jennifer’s own so tightly that neither woman can move very much.

“Good girl.” Jennifer repeats, her head still nuzzled into the mess of hair in the crook of April’s neck, her hand’s movements unrelenting so that April becomes ever so slightly overstimulated. Jen doesn’t want to overdo it, she’s sure this is the first time April’s been fucked in years. At least this well.

 “I can’t see why you would possibly want to stay here tonight… But I’d like you to.” Jennifer grins as the two slowly return to normal breathing. She gently pushes the hair from April’s face, pulling her hand to her mouth, staring deep into April’s blown out pupils as she indulgently accepts the dripping fingers onto her own tongue.

“I’ll stay…” The younger stutters. April’s voice has gone weak, and has dropped back to its typical nonchalant cadence. Though there is no nonchalance in the way her voice shakes, in the lack of air in her lungs, in the way her hips still rock slightly against Jennifer.

Jennifer takes a moment to admire what she’s made of April. She laughs softly to herself, remembering just how stoic and timid April had once looked behind her office desk. The laughter causes concern to wash over the younger woman’s features, but as Jennifer buttons her shirt back up, she leans forward to press a gentle kiss to April’s lips, dissipating the fear entirely. She can feel something in the pit of her stomach telling her not to get attached, that she’ll only be here for a while and there’s just no way that a young girl like this would want to move her entire life to another state. She wouldn’t to get April caught up in the world of Washington. And yet, here she is, feeling incredibly dedicated to April, so very enthralled by that slanted smile and slightly baffled knitted brows.

As difficult as it is for her to get up—physically, because April is still wrapped around her body like a python— Jennifer slides out of the bed, into her slippers, walks toward the bathroom.

“C’mon baby,” she hums, barely tossing a glance over her shoulder. “We’re not done.”

[yuseirra]

It's gonna be a good day good night

[b4kuch1n]

siren

[skunkes]

[luck-of-the-drawings]

"And soda; runs off into the street..." "...and soda... is totally okay!"

[a-s-levynn]

A new era

[somegrumpynerd]

They're so lovely, your Honour. Dadmare is king, his boys forever goofy. I refuse to stop complimenting your art-

The one where Nightmare, he HIGHLIGHTED concerning lyrics that he PRINTED OUT to show CROSS. It's so wholesome- he's such a dad and I love it. I love your art, it's so sweet. I love it.

Asdbkjbfjk STOP I'M GOING TO DIE hello 911 somebody's being nice to me on the internet help

Thank you!! <3 You are FAR too kind, I am sending 1 million good vibes directly to your home as revenge >:3c

He just worries! He wants his sons- I mean boys- I MEAN UNDERLINGS to be happy and when he hears one of them absolutely wailing about feeling numb and disappointed he wants to check in. Also he finally learned to use the printer without help and he's taking advantage of it.

It's also important to note this is all Pigeon's fault for having such amazing cool ideas and going feral with me about them, which is how we get things like this

Smooth.

[deoidesign]

.

[idunnowhattowriteheretbh]

Soooooooooo I finished the weapons :D

I don't have much ideas for what to write in here so imma just drop the designs and continue suffering in school skkskskksk

First we gooooot

Bear Axe 2

@beartitled (apologies for the puns I couldn't help myself)

Then we have the comically large hammer

Le Bonker 1000

@insomniphic I'm kinda curious to see how would you lift ot ngl

And then we have the last weapon for Captain! :D

Captain's Staff

@braisedhoney

The staff was the most fun to draw tbh

Also I was this 🤏 close to fully shading the axe and the staff lmao

Anyway time for me to skedadle back into my cave before COL finds me /silly

- CR2868