#though words meanings are also cool sometimes

[00valentina-writes00]

ellie with reader who has selective mutism? love your workk

♡♥︎Ellie with a girl they has selective mutism♥︎♡

♥︎ Ellie’s got a big mouth—always has, always will—but the moment she realizes you have selective mutism, she dials it back. Not in a way that makes you feel weird or different, but in a way that says, Hey, I see you. I get it.

♥︎ She never pressures you to speak. If you want to, cool. If you don’t, also cool. She reads your body language like a damn expert, catching onto little things—the way you shift, the way your eyes dart—before you even realize you’re communicating.

♥︎ That being said, she still talks a lot. Not to fill the silence, but just because she wants to share things with you. Her day, a dumb joke she thought of, how she absolutely destroyed Dina in a game of poker (she’s lying).

♥︎ Ellie’s the type to get really protective when people try to force you to talk. If anyone’s being pushy or making you uncomfortable, she’s immediately stepping in with a sharp, “They don’t owe you shit, dude. Move along.”

♥︎ She picks up on your nonverbal cues fast. If you glance at the door at a party, she’s already grabbing your hand to lead you out. If you shift uncomfortably when someone tries talking to you, she redirects the conversation smoothly.

♥︎ Writes little notes and passes them to you when you’re both chilling. Sometimes they’re stupid doodles of a buff giraffe (her artistic skills are questionable), sometimes they’re just little things like u hungry? wanna get outta here? u look cute btw.

♥︎ Over time, she gets used to the different ways you communicate—gestures, nods, writing things down. If you’re comfortable, she’ll even help you practice speaking in a low-pressure way, like whispering to her when no one else is around.

♥︎ She talks to you in the same casual, unfiltered way she talks to anyone else. She never makes you feel fragile or different, never acts like she’s walking on eggshells.

♥︎ Lowkey brags about understanding you better than anyone else. If someone’s confused about something you meant, Ellie’s already translating like, “They mean no, dude. Can you not tell?”

♥︎ If you ever do decide to talk, even just a word or two, she never makes a big deal out of it. Just gives you this soft little smile, like she’s proud of you but doesn’t wanna put you on the spot. Later, though, when you’re alone, she might squeeze your hand and be like, “That was cool, babe.”

♥︎ Hums and sings under her breath around you. Sometimes she does it just to make the silence feel shared rather than empty. If you have a song you like, she’ll learn it on her guitar and play it for you without expecting you to say anything about it.

♥︎ Lets you take the lead in physical affection. If you reach for her hand, she acts all casual about it, but inside she’s melting. If you tug on her sleeve for attention, she turns to you immediately, giving you her full focus.

♥︎ If someone asks why you don’t talk, Ellie is the first to shut that down. “That’s none of your business,” she’ll say, jaw tight. She doesn’t need an explanation to respect you, and she makes sure no one else does either.

♥︎ Gets really good at interpreting your facial expressions. A raised eyebrow? She’s smirking. A side glance? “Okay, yeah, that dude is weird-looking.” She makes it feel like a secret language between you two.

♥︎ If you ever get frustrated with yourself, she’s the first to reassure you. “Hey, you don’t need to talk to be heard, alright?” She’ll sit with you through whatever you’re feeling, no pressure, just warmth.

♥︎ Teaches you dumb hand signals for things. If you’re across the room and she wants to make you laugh, she does something goofy, like a dramatic thumbs down when Dina’s being annoying.

♥︎ If you text her instead of speaking, she responds in the same way—never makes you feel like it’s weird. Sometimes she even sends voice memos in response, all lazy and affectionate, like, “Babe, you should’ve seen Jesse’s face when I beat his ass in cards today.”

♥︎ Winks at you a lot. Not in a flirty way (okay, sometimes in a flirty way), but mostly in an I got you kinda way. If you’re struggling, if someone’s being annoying, if she just wants to make you smile—wink.

♥︎ At the end of the day, she never sees you as “the quiet one.” She just sees you. The way you light up when you’re happy, the way you make her feel safe without saying a word. And in return, she makes sure you always know: you don’t have to say anything for her to hear you.

[harmless-variety-of-garden-snake]

So this is 5k words. Didn't mean for that to happen. This is for BuckTommy Fluffebruary Day Sixteen: Didn't Know They Were Dating AU. This is the one fill that doesn't take place in the same timeline as my other fills and is set in some nebulous period between 405 and 409. So Buck knows about Daniel. Jes-Yun isn't born yet. You can also read this on AO3 here. Tagging @bucktommyfluffebruary

They meet one night when Maddie is asked to cover a shift at the last minute and Chimney begs Buck to step in for a karaoke trivia thing he'd been invited to. When he arrives at the bar, Chimney is sitting with two big guys at a table. One of the guys introduces himself as Sal, and he seems cool enough. The other guy is Tommy, and he's definitely really cool.

“My girlfriend's brother is stepping in for her,” Chimney explains.

“H-hey,” Buck says, waving awkwardly. “I'm Evan. Buck. Evan Buckley.”

It's the least smooth way he's ever introduced himself in his adult life, but he keeps wondering what the hell Tommy's diet and exercise routine is. The guy is massive. He's so warm, though, when he shakes Buck's hand. Literally, because his hands are radiating heat, but he also smiles with his whole face instead of just a polite tilt of his mouth. Buck finds himself smiling back and ducking his head when Tommy lets his hand go.

“Wasn't your girlfriend the secret karaoke weapon?” Sal asks.

“Yeah, but this guy's the secret trivia weapon,” Chimney says, clapping Buck on the shoulder. “You said science and history always gets you, right? Here's your solution.”

Buck flushes and shrugs when Tommy's eyes sweep over him. “I hope I can help.”

He settles in for a night of karaoke trivia, and he's not much help on the pop culture stuff. But there's an entire series of questions themed around popular animals at the LA Zoo, and Buck gets all of them. As he answers, Tommy's blue eyes stay on him, and Buck finds himself answering with more and more confidence. When Celestial Bodies turns out to be the next category, he's quick to answer everything he knows instead of waiting politely for everyone else in the group.

By the end, the Worst Responders (Sal’s idea) win the night, and they sit with a pitcher of beer, their pride, and a Visa gift card each. When Chimney goes to take a call from Maddie and Sal gets up to use the bathroom, Buck suddenly doesn't know what to say to Tommy.

“That was pretty amazing, Evan,” Timmy says, raising his glass.

Buck opens his mouth to correct him, but instead he clinks their glasses and says, “Not so bad yourself, Tommy.”

Tommy's eyes dip as they both take long drinks of their beer, and Buck hopes he doesn't have something on his chin. He wipes it with the back of his hand just to be on the safe side.

“Man, I can't believe you can fly,” Buck says, settling back into his chair. “That's so cool.”

“Well,” Tommy says, the corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile, “I need the aircraft to fly.”

Buck makes a face at him. “Yeah, I know, but it's amazing. I always wanted to learn. When I was traveling, I'd end up on these tiny planes sometimes and always thought it would be fun.”

“I could maybe show you a few things,” Tommy says, resting his elbows on the table. “My rates are pretty competitive.”

Buck’s reply is cut off by Chimney plopping down next to him.

“Heard a girl talking about you,” Chimney says, nudging Buck and nodding back toward the bar.

He glances but doesn’t really see anyone specifically looking at him. He figures she’ll find him if she’s really interested. His focus goes back to Tommy, who is sliding a coaster around under his finger and smiling to himself a bit, but he doesn’t look all that happy. Instead, he’s just sort of…resigned.

“How competitive?” Buck asks, and Tommy blinks at him.

Tommy looks between Chimney, Buck, and something behind Buck before his eyes settle back on him. “We can figure something out. Honestly, I don’t usually charge friends. Except Sal.”

“For what?” Chimney asks, frowning at his phone screen.

“Thought I might take up flying,” Buck says, shrugging.

Chimney snorts. “Yeah. That’ll last. This kid’s got more hobbies than anyone I’ve ever met. Dude, I think someone stole my credit card number again. Hold up, I gotta call my bank.”

He disappears again, and Buck looks over his shoulder to see Sal is talking to a pretty girl at the bar, and she glances at Buck. When she sees him looking, she smiles shyly before looking back at Sal. If she’s the girl Chimney was talking about, she is pretty cute.

“I don’t have a lot of hobbies,” Buck says, turning his attention back to Tommy. “Well, kind of. I have a lot of interests, I guess. Which, yeah, is kinda weird, but I like the idea of flying. So I would absolutely be down to learn, and I’d be happy to pay for the fuel or your time or whatever. It’s like learning a superpower.”

Tommy smiles and slides his phone over. “Go ahead and put your number in.”

Buck does, noticing that the contact name is already filled in as ‘Evan,’ and he doesn’t bother correcting that either.

By the time they all leave, Buck has Tommy’s number in his own phone and realizes he forgot to get the girl’s number.

–

Flying is so cool, but Buck thinks Tommy might be a maniac. He’ll do maneuvers that don’t feel like they should be physically possible, and then he laughs over the headset. It’s terrifying and amazing, and Buck is flushed and breathless by the time they land on the tarmac at Harbor Station.

“That was awesome!” he says. “Okay, yeah, I owe you a beer. A dozen beers.”

Tommy takes off the headset and smiles. “How about dinner?”

Buck smiles back, though he feels like he’s still trying to catch his breath. “Yeah, okay. I could do dinner.”

–

Micelli’s is nice, and they’ve apparently got good beer and good food. Buck finds out that Tommy’s half Italian on his mom’s side, which explains a lot about his looks. His nose is so regal from the side, and Buck’s found his eyes tracing its shape more than once. His mom was first generation, so Tommy was practically raised by a bunch of older Italian women and his grandfather until he was in high school.

“So when you say the food here is good, you know what you’re talking about,” Buck concludes, and Tommy nods. “Alright, I believe you.”

“What about your family?” Tommy asks, and Buck shrugs. “You don’t have to answer that.”

“No, they’re…fine,” Buck says, shrugging again. He still feels raw when he thinks about his parents. “They’re, uh, back in Pennsylvania. Except Maddie. I think we’re British? Just sort of, uh, WASP-y? But I don’t really know a lot about my family.”

Hell, he knew even less than he ever realized.

“I don’t know a lot about my dad’s family,” Tommy says, and it feels like he understands based on the way he says it. It loosens some of the anxiety that had been building in Buck’s chest. “Scottish, Irish? Something like that. But I never looked too hard. Italians, though, you’d be hard-pressed to find a family that doesn’t want every generation to know every story and legend and the name of every town everyone was ever born in.”

“Family recipes?”

Tommy snorts. “I have a box of them. I’ve been trying to transcribe them just in case something ever happens to them, but there’s so many.”

Buck shrugs. “I could help.”

“Yeah?” Tommy looks surprised at his offer.

“Yeah, I’m kinda good at that kind of stuff,” he admits. “Plus, hey, I wouldn’t say no to learning some new recipes. I feel like I’m finally really getting the hang of cooking. Maybe I can even teach Bobby a thing or two.”

They start talking about the 118, and Buck is surprised at just how different it used to be. From the sound of it, Tommy was really different. Sal, too. And then Tommy felt like he was able to get a new start at Harbor.

“I just didn’t want to die in a closet, you know?” he says, and Buck tries to parse what that could mean. “I wasn’t out at the 118. Everyone thought I was straight until, I don’t know, my last month there? I finally told them right after my transfer went through.”

Buck blinks, realizing he’d somehow totally missed that Tommy’s gay. He realizes his silence could be taken for discomfort and panics. “Th-that’s great! I’m glad you were able to do that. It’s hard. It’s a hard thing to go through.”

“Yeah,” Tommy agrees, smiling softly. “Well, it’s actually just…freeing. Once you get past actually saying the words.”

“That sounds amazing,” Buck says, sighing. It does. The idea of feeling free has always felt like something he’s been looking for. Being at the 118 is the closest thing he’s ever found to that, but he wonders if it feels the same.

Tommy hesitates and starts to say something, but then their server arrives to take their food orders. Buck forgets to ask him what he was going to say, because he starts second-guessing what he was going to order and leans across to ask Tommy about one of the dishes. When Tommy leans in to look at where Buck’s pointing on the menu, his forearm presses against Buck’s and radiates heat the same way his hand did when they met, the same way his whole body did when he'd hugged Buck after their flight and when they met outside the restaurant. He wonders if it's a natural thing for him or if it's his muscle mass that does it.

“So you do like mushrooms?” Tommy asks, and Buck nods. “Yeah, you'll love that, then. But save room for dessert.”

“Okay,” Buck says, unable to keep himself from ducking his head and smiling as Tommy confirms with the server that Buck is getting whatever the hell it was Tommy had pointed to. He hadn't been paying attention.

–

He loves Tommy’s house. It’s got books and movies and records crammed into every available shelf in the living room, and there are cool old tiles in the kitchen and bathrooms that Tommy’s never going to touch even when he updates the rooms.

“Kitchen’s next, but I did a lot of the hard work with the electrical and plumbing already,” Tommy explains. He goes to a cabinet above his fridge and reaches in for an old cigar box. When he stretches for it, his shirt rides up and Buck blinks at the strip of skin that’s exposed. He suddenly feels guilty for staring and forces himself to look at the view of Tommy’s backyard from the window above the sink. “Here they are.”

Tommy sets the box on the counter and flips it open. Inside are old recipe cards, torn out recipes from magazines and ads, swooping writing on yellowed paper, and what looks to be more than one recipe torn out of cookbooks.

They’re killing time before a movie that’s playing at the theater by Tommy’s place, but Buck wants to dive into the recipes and figure out what it was that his family liked or what was important to them, what they held onto across generations, and which ones made little Tommy love desserts so much.

“Can you tell who wrote them?” he asks, carefully turning over a recipe card for some kind of soup made with lentils and sausage.

“Some of them,” Tommy says, leaning over and looking at the card he’s holding. “That was Prozia Camilla, I think. She always wrote her Bs really weird.”

“What’s that?” Buck asks, looking over at Tommy. He realizes he’s close, but it’s not making him uncomfortable. He feels a little warm, but it’s not from discomfort or embarrassment. The heat might be on in the house, or it's just Tommy being a human space heater. “Aunt?”

“Great-aunt,” Tommy clarifies. “Aunt is zia, uncle is zio—pretty easy. Nonna, Nonno–grandma, grandpa. Cugina, cugino–cousin, female or male. You add pro for great-aunts and -uncles, bis for great-grandparents. There’s one that’s in a baggy from Bisnonna Valia, I think she wrote it down when Mussolini was in power.”

Buck carefully picks through the box until he finds it, and he doesn’t take it out. He does inspect it, though. The paper is translucent and faded, the ink a brown-ish color. “What’s it for?”

“Canestrelli. It’s kind of like a shortbread cookie.”

He likes how Tommy says the words in Italian, the way his mouth shapes the vowels and kind of rolls the Rs but not really, the syllables he emphasizes a little differently than the way Buck probably would if he read the word from a page. He’d asked Tommy if he spoke Italian, and he sort of did. He mostly just understood it, but he sounded like he knew it whenever he said any of the words.

“These are amazing,” Buck says softly, rubbing his thumb along the edge of the paper inside its protective plastic. “Is it weird that I wish I knew them? All the people who wrote these down.”

When he glances at Tommy, Tommy’s looking at him and not at the recipe anymore. “No,” Tommy replies softly. “I don’t think that’s weird at all. They would’ve loved you.”

Buck grins. “Really?”

“Definitely.”

He flushes happily at the thought, even if Tommy’s just being nice. When he sets the recipe back in the box, the alarm on Tommy’s phone goes off.

“I kind of want to just look at these,” Buck admits. “But you said the movie’s really good.”

“Evan, it’s Casablanca,” Tommy says dryly. “It’s literally one of the greatest movies ever made.”

“Well, then I guess we have to go,” Buck teases, closing the box and handing it over to him.

When Tommy puts the box back, Buck’s eyes dip to his ass this time. It’s really a work of art. He wonders what kind of squats he does.

–

Buck’s a mess.

“You didn’t tell me it would be sad,” he moans as he snacks on the last of his popcorn on the way to Tommy’s truck. He’d driven, because it was easier than trying to find parking for two cars near the theater.

“A lot of the best romance movies are,” Tommy says. “But I don’t think it’s that sad. He loves her, and he knows she’s going to be happy. It’s not like Ghost or Moulin Rouge or Brokeback Mountain or anything.”

“I’ve never seen those,” Buck admits. “How can it get any sadder?”

“I mean, one of them could’ve died.”

Buck sighs. “Yeah, I guess. But—can you imagine finding the person who makes you feel like that and having to watch them walk away with someone else? People don’t realize how awful it feels to just be left behind.”

He realizes he’s projecting a lot onto a movie that’s eighty years old, but it does suck. Buck would know.

“Sometimes you just want to be the one people will stick around for,” he mumbles.

Tommy bumps their shoulders together gently as they walk. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Buck smiles and bumps his shoulder back. “You say that now.”

“I can’t imagine wanting to leave you behind if I could help it, Evan.”

The way he says it makes Buck’s heart thud in his chest, and for a moment he’s worried about another blood clot. He looks over at Tommy, who’s looking at him, and he smiles.

“Thanks,” he says softly.

Tommy puts an arm around his shoulder and squeezes him close for a moment before they get to the truck. Buck gets into the passenger seat and considers the few kernels of popcorn left. He wonders what Tommy’s favorite happy romance movie is and what it’s like, what he likes about it and the characters, if he identifies more with one than the other.

“So that’s the best romance movie?” he asks instead.

“I mean, that’s subjective, right?” Tommy says, turning on the truck and pulling away from the curb. “I think it’s pretty close to being the most objectively perfect one, yeah.”

“Is it your favorite?”

Tommy considers the question for a moment. “It's up there. It changes, honestly. I really like Love, Actually, but Princess Bride and Moonstruck are amazing, too. Casablanca is pretty perfect, though.”

“Thank you for inviting me,” Buck says, smiling. “I did like it. It just, y’know, made me a little sad. Also, I didn’t realize that whole ‘Here’s looking at you, kid’ thing was a reference. I’ve heard so many people say that and thought it was some idiom I never learned.”

Tommy snorts and shakes his head. “I swear, I will expand your knowledge of movies.”

Buck normally doesn’t really care. He doesn’t have the same attachment to movies that a lot of his friends have, but he likes Tommy showing him things. The flying, the restaurant, the recipe box, the movie—maybe Muay Thai? He knows Eddie does it. Buck’s never really had an interest in it, but Tommy had offered to teach him and Buck had twirled his pasta around his fork and said he’d be interested because nothing sounded cooler. Now that he’s seen the set-up in Tommy’s garage, it would be kind of awesome to have one-on-one lessons and then go inside to make old family recipes.

He looks over at Tommy as he drives, and he notes that Tommy seems as at ease behind a wheel as he is doing anything else. He had also seen the car lift in Tommy’s garage, currently empty but awaiting a Chevelle he’d had his eye on that needed work, and he wonders if he’s always liked cars.

As he watches, he also realizes that Tommy’s side profile is pretty perfect. It’s not just the nose, it’s his entire face. Tommy’s a really handsome guy.

“Evan?” Tommy asks, sounding amused.

“Yeah?”

“Are you okay?”

Buck slides down in his seat a little, feeling caught out for some reason. “Yeah. Sorry.”

Tommy slows to a stop at the light and looks over at Buck. He smiles and squeezes Buck’s wrist briefly, his huge hand almost engulfing it. He doesn’t understand how someone his height can be so big. With his free hand, he reaches over and picks up Tommy’s hand, manipulating the digits until they’re flat, and he presses their hands together to compare the size. Buck’s never met someone with bigger hands than his who wasn’t at least six and a half feet tall, but Tommy’s fingers stretch a little further, his palm is a little broader.

Then Tommy turns his palm just a little and curls his fingers until they’re between Buck’s, and Buck curls his fingers, too. He smiles and looks up at Tommy, who’s looking at him intently. It makes Buck’s heart pound again.

A car honks, and Tommy startles a little. He laughs to himself as he continues driving toward his house, both hands back on the wheel, and Buck feels his hand close around nothing, feeling empty.

–

Tommy is walking him to his car, even though it’s parked right in front of his house. They’re talking about the next series of movies the theater is showing—old noir stuff, some of which Tommy’s never even seen.

“That could be cool,” Buck says, putting his hands in his jacket pocket so he won’t reach for Tommy’s hand again. It would be weird. “We can see when our shifts line up.”

“They do them all in two month blocks,” Tommy explains wryly. “So that’s going to be a lot of calendar checking.”

“We can always share them to each other,” Buck points out. “Figure out other days we can do stuff.”

Tommy’s eyes look between Buck’s, down to his chin, and back at his eyes again. “Like what?”

Buck smiles and shrugs. “Anything. I mean, we’re kind of the perfect bar trivia partners. We can go around town and hustle all of them out of their gift cards and small cash prizes. But I really do want to help you with the recipe thing. You really think your family would’ve liked me?”

“Evan, do you have any idea how likeable you are?” Tommy asks, leaning his shoulder against Buck’s door.

“Hey, you’re pretty likeable yourself,” Buck says shyly. “You’re kind of the coolest person I’ve ever—”

He doesn’t get to finish, because there are two fingers under his chin and a pair of lips on his. For a moment, he freezes, because Tommy is kissing him. That should be weird. He’s never had a male friend kiss him on the lips unless it was during Spin the Bottle or under mistletoe, and those were always pecks or done with some reluctance on their part. But he can feel Tommy start to pull away and wants anything but that, so he brings his hand up to Tommy’s shoulder and keeps him there while Buck kisses back.

Tommy’s lips are soft, though his stubble is a little scratchy, but Buck doesn’t mind it. He really doesn’t mind it.

“Was that okay?” Tommy whispers when he does finally pull back.

Buck nods and his eyes drop to Tommy’s lips, which don’t look any different than they did a minute ago, but now he knows how they feel against his. He still has a hand on Tommy’s shoulder and brings his other one up to cup his jaw to keep him still when Buck goes in for another kiss.

It feels better than okay. It feels like a real first—well, second now—kiss. He feels like an alarm bell should be going off somewhere in his head, but all he’s getting is a need to feel more of him, to taste more of him.

They’re kind of making out against Buck’s Jeep, and Buck is definitely going to need to talk to Hen about this. If he likes kissing a guy just as much as he’s liked kissing a girl—hell, more than he’s liked kissing some girls—what does that mean?

Tommy pulls away again and presses their foreheads together. They’re both breathing hard, and Buck wonders if Tommy will ask him to come inside.

“I meant to take this a lot slower,” Tommy says. “You seemed…new. I know Howie doesn’t know, but does anyone?”

Buck wonders if he’d missed something in their conversation. “Know what?”

“That you’re—” he gestures between them. Then he pulls back more and searches Buck’s face. “You are, aren’t you?”

“What?” he asks again, feeling very slow. He doesn’t love the feeling, but he's also still really stuck on the feeling of Tommy's lips.

“Wait, are you?”

“Oh, my god, Tommy, am I what?” he asks, laughing.

“Into guys?”

Buck blinks. “I don’t—I’ve never really thought about it?”

Except for that one time in Texas, but he knew that he came off as flirty sometimes when he didn’t mean to. That hadn’t been TK’s fault. Hell, TK was gorgeous and a really good firefighter, and—oh.

“Oh,” Buck says, raising his eyebrows. “Huh.”

“Are you okay?” Tommy asks, searching Buck’s face for something. He’s not touching Buck anymore, which kind of sucks.

“Yeah.” He looks at Tommy and smiles. “Yeah, I’m great.”

He is. He really is. It’s a little bit of a shock, but he’s pretty sure he’ll be fine. Well, he might need to talk to Hen and Maddie and Bobby.

Then it hits him—Tommy walked him to his car. While the sun was up. In a good neighborhood. After the movies. He’d done the same thing after Micelli’s, after they’d flown, and he’d hugged Buck every time. It had felt good and warm and safe. But Tommy always walked him to his car.

“We were just on a date, weren’t we?” Buck says slowly, then counts. “Like, our third one. Wait, did you take me flying for our first date?”

“I thought I did,” Tommy says, his brows raised. “Did you really have no idea that I was asking you out?”

Okay, yeah, Tommy had said they should go out sometime before they’d left the bar the night they’d met, and Buck had agreed and Tommy had grinned. It had been really distracting.

“Huh,” he says again. “Wait, you waited until our third date to kiss me?”

“I thought you needed me to take it slow,” Tommy says, leaning his elbows on the hood and burying his face in his hands. “I thought you were new to this.”

“I mean, I am,” Buck points out. The way Tommy’s leaning makes his ass pop out a little, and his jeans are tight enough that they definitely qualify as date jeans. “Maybe not that new, actually. It’s normal to check out a hot guy’s ass, right?”

Tommy looks at him incredulously. “Evan, how would I know what straight guys do? I’m a Kinsey six.”

“Right,” Buck realizes, though he’s still not clear on the second part. “What’s a Kinsey six?”

“It’s a scale for sexuality. I’ve never actually been attracted to any women.”

Buck frowns. “Really?”

He’s found a lot of guys attractive, because that was just a thing Buck could see as a person with eyes. Hell, one of the first things he thought about Connor was that he had a killer smile. Then he had followed him to Los Angeles. From Peru.

“Oh,” he realizes, pulling out his phone and looking up ‘Kinsey.’ “Two? I don’t know, actually. I’ll have to think about it.”

Tommy huffs out a laugh. “You’re not, I don’t know, mad?”

Buck frowns and puts his phone back in his pocket. “Why would I be mad?”

“A lot of guys get mad when another guy kisses them if they weren’t really expecting it.”

“That doesn’t make sense. You can just tell someone you’re not interested.” His eyes flick down to Tommy’s mouth. “Or figure out that you are.”

“Are you sure—”

“You should come over so I can cook you dinner,” Buck says, suddenly wanting nothing more than to see Tommy in his loft and at his table. In his bed? Yeah, probably. “Saturday?”

Tommy smiles. “You mean tomorrow?”

Buck thinks about it. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

When Tommy kisses him again, Buck wraps his arm around his shoulders and spreads his hand over Tommy’s side. Tommy moans softly against his mouth, and Buck’s lips part further so he can tease his tongue against Tommy’s lips.

“Jesus, kid,” Tommy breathes when the kiss breaks, and it sends a bolt of heat through Buck’s belly. So, yeah, definitely guys. Guys are good. At least one is.

Buck’s phone goes off, and he reluctantly checks it. Maddie’s due pretty soon, so he can’t ignore his phone just in case it’s her.

It is, and Buck answers quickly.

“Maddie?” he says before mouthing an apology to Tommy. “Are you okay? Is the baby—”

“Buck,” she says. “Are you still coming over for dinner?”

Oh, right. The reason they’d done the matinee show for the movie. Buck’s supposed to be having a sibling dinner with his sister. He’s now late for it and feels like a dick.

“I am so sorry, I forgot. I’ll be there in twenty, twenty-five minutes? Do you need me to get anything on the way?”

“If you could get me enough garlic bread to fill your car, I’d be so happy.”

Buck snorts. “I can get some. Maybe not that much. But I’ll stop, just turn the oven on. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Okay!” she says brightly. “Bye.”

“Bye,” he says, hanging up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize what time it was, and I did actually forget. I got, uh, distracted.”

Tommy smirks. “‘Distracted’?”

Buck swallows and nods, his eyes going to Tommy’s lips again. “Yeah.”

“God, you’re adorable.”

He’s never had a guy call him that before. He likes it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Tommy says. “When do you want me over?”

“S-six?” Buck says, feeling himself sway toward Tommy like they’ve got magnets in their mouths. “Five. You start early on Sunday, right?”

“So do you,” Tommy points out.

“Oh, yeah,” Buck says dumbly. He goes in for another kiss, but it’s quick. Tommy pushes him back gently with a hand to his chest and nudges their noses together briefly before stepping away. “Bye.”

“Bye, Evan,” Tommy says, smiling and going toward his house.

Buck fumbles with his keys before he finally unlocks the Jeep, and he watches Tommy until he goes inside. It’s a thing he’s always done on dates. When Tommy waves before heading inside, Buck waves for a long time until the door is closed.

“Fuck, okay, garlic bread,” he says, turning the Jeep on. He grins the entire way to the store.

While he walks through Ralph’s, he also looks for stuff to use for the dinner he’s going to make for Tommy. On their date. Their fourth date.

Buck knows he’s standing in the middle of the baking ingredients aisle and smiling at his phone like an idiot. He knows that he’s going to spend half of his Saturday trying to perfect some kind of dessert. He knows he can’t wait to see Tommy and that he’s felt that way every time he’s seen him since they met.

[distracted-milkshake]

Like ‘Em Weird - Steven Grant x reader

Warnings: bri’ish reader, non explicit sex, snogging tf out of Steven, general embarrassment, slight jerk Marc

Words: 4k

Rating: M

Summary: A fast moving relationship halts abruptly when the cute guy you met at a cafe wakes up a completely different person.

or

How you helped Steven figure out his body has multiple tenets, and that he doesn’t mind sharing it it’s you

I haven’t actually finished Moon Knight, so any inconsistencies or straight up false stuff is on me. Other guy isn’t here because I haven’t met him yet

Whipping up 1-5k oneshots while I can't get even ten in on my wip is such a me thing it's not even laughable anymore

Also! I have read a lot about DID and talked with friends who have it, and the portrayal of the reader does not represent kind or correct treatment of people with such issues at all, just wanted to be clear that I as the author know that and this isn’t any sort of handbook

AO3 link

“You gonna talk to me or just keep staring?” 

Steven blinks, immediately feeling his hands and cheeks go hot. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was staring–!” He quiets as you stand and drag your metal chair the few feet across the cafe patio to his table, plopping into it. 

“Hi.” He murmurs, eyes dropping to his lap as he wrings his hands. 

”Hey,” You reach your hand over the table, flashing a smile, introducing yourself. 

“Steven Grant.” He shakes it, adjusting in his seat.

“No worries, by the way. I never know how to start a conversation either.” 

“I am so sorry, really, I hadn’t noticed. I uh, I don’t do that, I swear, I was just sort of spaced out.” He sucks in a breath and lets it out slowly, running a hand through his hair to get it off his face. “I don’t usually see a lot of pretty girls around, not ones that I find pretty– well, I mean there’re plenty of pretty girls, just not as– you just…” he swallows, wishing he could sink far enough into his chair to disappear from the face of the Earth. 

“God I wish I could start over.” He says. 

“This conversation, or since you started staring?” 

“My life at this point.”

“Take as long as you need.” You grin. 

“My name’s Steven, I work in a gift shop.” 

“At the museum?” 

“Yeah,” he nods, sitting up straighter. 

“I knew it, I’ve seen you before! I love that place.” 

“Ah! Me too! It’s ahm, probably about my favorite place in the world.” 

He goes off about something having to do with history, half of which you don’t quite follow, but you listen anyway. 

He tells you about several different exhibits from the museum he works at, stuff that isn’t on the little plaques, going on tangents here and there about the origins of popular misconceptions. 

“…and that’s just off the top of my head; numerous examples of it.” He takes a sip of his coffee, suddenly seeming to realize something. 

“Shit. Im sorry, I’ve been talking entirely too much. You want to tell me about you?” 

“No, it’s cool, I get it.” You laugh. “You read a lot.” 

“Oh loads, anything that interests me, I love books.” 

“Music's my thing.” You say. 

“Oh, do you play?” 

“Nah, I collect. CDs mostly, vinyl sometimes.” You finish your drink, setting your cup aside. 

“I’d love to get into it, but I should be going. Do you wanna get dinner sometime?” You ask. 

“Yeah,” he nods and you pull out your phone, handing it to him to put his number in.

“I’m vegan, but anywhere you like is fine though. Saturday work?” He says. 

“Saturday’s brilliant.” You click your phone closed when he turns it back to you, tucking it back in your pocket. 

“Brilliant.” 

“I’ll call you with the place. See ya then.” 

“See ya.” 

Saturday rolls around, and you get off the bus to a lovely little Indian place with a bounce in your step. 

You had double checked thy had plenty of vegan options, spending the last few days trying and failing not to text Steven every half hour. 

“Sorry! I got put on inventory again.” Steven huff as he bounds up to you, making you feel a little silly as he’s all dressed up. 

“You’re right on time actually. I just came early.” 

“Oh, thank goodness.” He says, exhaling heavily and straightening his back. 

He holds up a “Um, these are for you.” 

“Oh my God.” You smile, taking them from him and turning them over. 

“I hate flowers, but that has got to be about the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me.” 

“Sorry, I’ll uh, I’ll remember that.” 

“Nothing to be sorry about, I appreciate it. Shall we?” You gesture to the restaurant door. 

“Oh– Of course,” Steven sidesteps to hold open the door for you, and you both head in. 

Seated with your food on the way, you look your date up and down expectantly, to which he sets his drink down and explains. 

“I am keeping my mouth sealed unless spoken to. Even if it means I’m staring.” He jokes at the end with a smirk. 

“Sure you’re going to be able to stick to that?” You tease, taking a long sip from your mango lassi. 

“Sure am. Talk to me.” 

So you do. 

You tell him all about where your from, your favorite band, the kinds of movies and shows you like, and he chimes in with his own, careful not to dominate the conversation with his preferred topics, which as much as you love the sound of his voice, you’re grateful for. 

“You know there’s something special about you maybe.” He says when you’re about finished with your meal. “I feel like I just click with you. Is that weird?” 

“No, it’s not weird.” You shake your head, meeting his eyes. “That’s not weird at all.” 

You walk with him down the street, hands in your pockets from the slight chill, but keeping close enough your arms are almost touching. 

It’s quiet, and it’s a comfortable quiet, but you can’t help but feel nagged at by a lack of something. 

You come to an intersection, and Steven turns to you. 

“Well, thank you, for going out with me.” You take him in, framed in the streetlight, messy hair and nice clothes, pretty eyes catching the light. 

“I hope you have a great rest of your night–” 

You push him against the brick wall of the building closest and catch his lips in a kiss, startling him as his hands hover over your shoulders, then your arms, before finding your back and waist, pulling you close. 

He kisses back confidently at first, then out of sync, then trying to pull away, saying something muffled. 

“Good?” You break the kiss to ask, wetting your lips. 

“Yeah. S’prised me’s all.” He says, breathing heavy. “I just wanted to say I think you’re gorgeous.” 

You pull him back into it with almost feverish urgency, pushing your tongue past his lips and to the roof of his mouth where you find his and press and move against it roughly, hand finding the back of his head to tilt just enough to have the perfect angle to explore. 

You recede to let him breathe and Steven catches a dribble of spit with the back of his hand, looking mortified as he having no where else wipes in on his coat. 

You bite your tongue to keep from laughing, wiping his bottom lip with your thumb. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “Sorry that’s gross, I dunno if I’ve ever been kissed like that, I’ve no idea how,” he wipes his lips again. 

“It’s not like movies. Very, very wet.” 

“You talk a lot for someone who stares.” 

“In the restaurant. Out here I’ve dropped it now. You know I don’t know if I want to be remembered as that guy in your head.” 

“Something else, then?” 

“I’m cool with gift shop guy.” He says as you give him lighter pecks on the mouth. 

“Much better than spaced out Steven.” You giggle, tracing his cheekbone around back to his ear and down his beck, letting your thumb slip under his collar as you press your forehead against his. 

“Yeah well, I find it hard to get a good night’s sleep.” 

“I’d like to get a good one with you.” 

“Hmnn?” His eyes flit to your lips and then back up to yours, bewildered. 

“Oh, oh you mean!” He pulls back and gives an enthusiastic nod, a wide smile on his face.

“Hells yeah.” 

“I like your apartment,” Steven says under his breath between dizzying kisses in your entryway, watching you alternate between his throat and kissing him with utter fascination, unsure how to keep up or what to do with just how expertly you’re making him fall apart. 

“You haven’t seen it yet.” 

You pull him by the wrist through your living space, past the couch to your bedroom, where you shut the door and shuck off his jacket. 

“Do you have a condom?” He asked before you can devour any attempts he has at talking again with your mouth. 

“Yeah, one sec.” You dig around in your nightstand drawer, pulling one out and turning back to give Steven a gentle shove onto the bed, climbing atop him and undoing his buttons with your free hand. 

“I can’t believe this is really happening,” Steven says when you finish with his top and strip off your own, tearing the condom open and sitting back on your haunches. “This is unbelievable.” 

You grab him by the chin, making his heart skip a beat. “Let’s aim for unforgettable.” You say. 

Steven lays on his back, hands on his chest, having finally caught his breath. 

“That was lovely.” He says. 

“Lovely?” You repeat, stretching your spine, side eying him. 

He turns on his elbow you look at you. “Lovely. Amazing. Mind blowing. All of the above.” 

“Been awhile?” You chuckle, tracing his collarbone to his shoulder before hooking your arm over it. 

“You have no idea.” As lost in your eyes he is, he pulls away to check the time, sitting up. 

“I um, I should get back to my apartment,” he moves to get off the bed, and you sit up after him, catching his wrist. “Hey wait. Don’t be ridiculous, stay.”

“No, I uh…” Steven stops himself, not wanting to mess this up. If he told you he had some weird sleep condition, that he literally bolted himself to his bed to sleep every night for fear of missing hours or waking up places he didn’t recognize, he was certain that was the kind of thing that would scare you off. 

That look you're giving him, that half lidded, cocksure smile, still topless and not even trying to cover it, it’s convincing enough on its own. 

“That’d be just fine. Yeah. Yeah okay.” He relaxes back into the bed and you lean up and kiss him. 

“Great.” You murmur, pulling him in and tugging the covers back over you. 

Maybe just one night would be fine. 

Marc wakes up in an unfamiliar room, with an unfamiliar woman in bed next to him.

You stir, burrowing your face into the pillows before you feel the bed spring back, blinking your eyes open and pulling yourself up just enough to see him retrieving his clothes from the floor. 

“Hey, no rush, it’s Sunday, come ‘ere.” 

“I’m sorry, you seem nice and all, but I was not supposed to wake up here.” 

“What happened to your accent?” You laugh humorlessly, brow knitting. 

“Accent? Jesus, I don’t have time for this, I’ve got to be in Madripoor in like two hours, that idiot was supposed to be back at his apartment.” 

He gathers up the rest his things as he mutters to himself. “Yeah yeah I know, I can get to the justice after I get back to his apartment and sort things out there. I swear if this is what gets him… yes. Of course I’m grateful. I will handle it.” 

“Hey, wait!” You pull a t-shirt and pajama pants on, following him into your living room, but by then he’s already got his shoes on. 

He opens and struts right out your front door without another word, slamming it behind him. 

Monday afternoon you take your lunch break to head down to he museum, stomping right up and into the corner gift shop, where sure enough, Steven sits twiddling a pen while he reads. 

He sets aside both when he sees you, smile falling when he sees your face. 

You plant your palms and lean directly over the counter, huffing. 

“Hey, you know I really can’t believe I fell for your shy soft boy act, you pull that on everyone? Or was I just ‘special’ enough to catch your attention?” 

“What? I– what are you talking about– hey!” He jumps up from his seat as you push back from the counter, folding your arms. 

“I mean what on Earth is wrong with you!” You stare him down as he rounds his station to speak with you. 

“Hey, whatever I said, I’m sorry? I don’t– I didn’t mean it– will you please tell me what you are talking about?” 

“You jerk. Can you go one minute without lying? Rhetorical, because you obviously can, if it’s convenient to getting in my pants. God! I can’t believe I slept with you.” 

“You slept with me?!” He exclaims, hunching over as a couple passerbys give him looks, making you roll your eyes. “Holy shit, I thought I dreamt that.” He says mostly to himself, tugging at the hair behind his ear. 

You look at him, jittery, wrinkled clothes, chewing at his thumbnail. 

“Are you high?” You ask, tilting your head to get a better look at his face, trying to make out if it’s a bruise or just bags under his eyes. 

He quickly shakes his head. “No, no-no-no, I-I don’t do pills or anything. I mean, maybe I should, to be honest– but I’ve never done drugs of any kind.” 

You throw up your hands. “Why would I believe you after yesterday!” 

“Yesterday? Why– What happened yesterday.” 

“Unbelievable. You know, you aren’t worth this. Don’t text me anymore.” You turn to the door, but his whirls around you in a panic, blocking you. 

“Wait! Wait, please. Look I don’t know what happened the other night, but I assure you that's not me, I’m not like that, I would never say stuff like that, I’d never use you, I like you! I really like you, and I don’t want to never see you again.” 

You study his expression, torn between how completely devoid of any sort of dishonesty it looks, paired with how desperate his tone is, and just who you remember walking out of your apartment. 

“You’re acting completely different now.” You shake your head, hanging it and letting out a long sigh before looking back up at him, which you immediately regret because he has the saddest puppy eyes you’ve ever seen. “I have to get to work. If you think you can explain to me just what the hell is going on with you, meet me at the park at six thirty, I’ll… I’ll hear you out.” 

“Thank you,” he folds his hands, needing to shout after you as you make to leave. “I won’t let you down, I promise!”

You give a dismissive wave as you head out museum's front doors. 

“…and that’s all I know, I swear.” You’re seated on a bench in the park. By now the sun has set, and the lights are the only illumination with a cloudy night sky. 

“I believe you.” You sigh, letting the leg you’d been sitting on down from the bench to stretch. “How often does this happen?” 

“Most nights. I’ve been trying not to sleep because of it.” 

You shake your head. “Why the hell haven’t you gone to a doctor?” 

“Because I can sort it, it’s fine. You go to a doctor if you're sick, I’m not sick.” He fiddles with his hands, realizing your looking at them he smoothes them down his pants and keeps them on his knees. 

“Sleepwalking isn’t sick. It-it’s just like, stress, or something.” Even saying it aloud he didn’t believe it, but what was the alternative? That he was legitimately mad? 

“Steven, look at me. You need to get help for this. That's mental. It’s not normal. Tell me you’ll get help.” 

“I’ll look into it.” He scratches at his 

You frown. “And mean it. You need help.” 

“I mean it, I will get help.” He nods when you put a hand over his, pulling him into a side hug. 

“Thank God.” You murmur. 

Two months later, you and Steven are kind of dating. 

Though your relationship had taken a big step back, you still texted and called him frequently. You didn’t feel like you could bring yourself to getting any closer, not when you still didn’t know who you had woken up in bed with. 

Today he’s over for tea, on your couch with his hands folded, helping himself to the biscuits you put out. 

You come back from putting the water on, stuffing a couple cookies in your mouth before he can eat them all. 

“Oh! I erm, I got you a copy of that new CD from that band you like.” Steven digs around in his bag, pulling out a still wrapped album, handing it to you. 

“Holy cow.” You scoff as you take it. 

It was the newest release from your favorite band, and had been sold out everywhere for more than two weeks. 

“I can’t believe you remembered. I’m putting this on right now.” You pop on the stereo, slow rock jams filling the apartment as the water boils and you bring the pot to the table, filling Steven’s cup. 

“So how are you doing?” You ask. 

“Oh, mostly good. I still haven’t figured him, Marc, out much, but I am sleeping better.” 

“You figure out just what ‘he’ is yet.” 

“No, still no diagnosis. I’m having trouble finding a therapist I like. I also, you know, not keen on institutionalization.” 

“Right. Well I mean so long as he doesn’t decide to go on some break.” You grimace, wondering what the hell he could’ve had been up to in Madripoor of all places, if he’d even been serious. 

“Beg your pardon?” 

“Never mind.” You give your hand a wave.” I still can’t believe I’m how you found out.” 

“Hey now hang on, I knew, I just didn’t know why.” He stands up to be at your height, annoyed. 

“Or how, or what.” You give him a look. 

“Yeah. But I did know.” He shrugs. “Even though he was trying to keep it from me.” 

“Well yeah, probably because you’re the nice one. Marc is a prick.” 

“The hell did she just say about me!?” Marc growls, catching his eye in his reflection in your tea kettle. 

Steven blinks. “He didn’t like that.” 

You draw your brow, frowning. “He can hear me?” 

“Apparently? I don’t get most of it myself, I didn’t think he could hear me till like last week.” 

You push off the back of the couch. “Tell him to come out here and talk to me right now.” 

“Uh, right, sure, yeah. Marc, you heard her.” He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. 

When he opens them again, you slap him across the face. 

He cups his cheek, turning to look at you. “Still Steven!” 

“Shit– I’m sorry!” You cover your mouth. 

“You were going to smack him? But that’s me!” 

“I thought– I didn’t think it through, really. Is he not there?” 

“I can’t really make him come out, he just kind of does it if I let him.” 

“I’m sorry I hit you.” You say. 

“No,” he shakes his head. “He totally deserves it. Prick is right on the money.” 

“Even so, I shouldn’t have done that.” 

“Already better.” He smiles. “Though a kiss wouldn’t hurt…” 

You raise a brow and smile, pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

You hang out a while longer before heads home, leaving you to think. 

“I want to date her too.” 

“What?” Steven looks up at his mirror from across the room. “You won’t tell me where you’ve been pissing years of my life away, what you’ve been doing, but now you want to meddle with the one good thing that’s happened to me, after you nearly screwed it all up? That’s rich.” 

“I didn’t want much of anything to do with her until I saw the way she slapped you, I mean, that was unexpected.”

“She’s for sure, isn’t she? All the more reason you will not seeing her unless she asks.” 

“Let me talk to her or I’ll break up with her.” 

“We’re not together…ish. I don’t know, it’s not the simplest.” 

“I’ll ghost her. Delete her contacts. You know I will.” 

“Alright! Okay, fine. Jesus.” 

He picks up his phone. “Don’t you negotiate in anything but threats?” He starts to dial your number, then stops. 

“Hang on… you’re jealous, aren’t you?” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“You're jealous I have a girlfriend and you don’t. And she doesn’t talk nicely about you.” 

“I’d stop talking now.” 

“Holy shit, that’s hilarious. You act like you think my life is boring, but you envy it.” 

Marc glares at him, jaw working. 

“I’ll tell you what, I will set you up, but you have to tell me what you’ve been doing, and where you've been taking me.” 

“Khonshu’s not gonna like that.” 

“Again with bloody Khonshu. You’re flipping bending over backwards for that fool. Figure it out, cause that’s that.” 

“Fine.” 

“Perfect. Done deal.” 

He hits dial. “Hey so uh, Marc wants to meet you. Properly. I’ve told him he needs to apologize.” Marc rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything. “Right. Yeah. Can you meet me?” 

“This… Marc the Merc, the pissy one?” You say, looking him over. You’d met Steven not far from the museum, and held his hand while he relaxed and let Marc take over. 

“Yes, it’s me again. Hi.” You meet his eyes, feeling oddly bothered by just how the same they look. It’s Steven, but it’s not. 

It’s painfully not him, and yet you can’t put into words how. 

“Hey,” you say, not sure what else you’re supposed to. 

“Let’s get this part out of the way: I’m sorry I walked out on you. It’s Steven’s fault we were there at all, and I had shit to attend to, but I was less than curt about it.” 

“Accepted, if that’s the best I’m going to get.” You nod, and he gestures for you to walk with him, so you do. 

“I haven’t been keeping tabs. What’s he been telling you about me?” He says. 

“Not a lot. I mean, he barely knows you, and neither do I.” 

“There’s not a lot to tell. He’s not supposed to be tangled with my life, but, since he is, I figure we might as well share.” 

You stop, and he does too. 

“What?” He says. “I’m willing to be more open if you are.” 

“What are you talking about? Are you saying you want to get with me?” 

“Would you like to?” 

He looks you right in the eyes, catching you off guard. Before you can answer he cups your face and kisses you, arm around your lower back, nearly lifting you off the ground. 

You pull away, eyes wide, breath ragged, trying to get your brain to catch up with your body, realizing you're right in the street where everyone can see you. 

“Too much?” He asks. 

“No,” you shake your head. “Just– just surprised me.” It’s quiet for a moment. 

“His apartment’s not far,” he finally says. “If you wanna see just how much of a prick I am.” 

You stare up at your boyfriend’s apartment ceiling, wondering what the hell you’ve gotten yourself into. 

You turn when you hear footsteps coming back to the bed. 

“Hi,” he gives you a little wave, holding out a cup of tea. 

You sit up on your elbows, slowly taking it. “Steven?” You say tentatively. 

“Yep, it’s me.” You stand up, throwing back half the cup and setting it aside, swallowing. “Everything go okay?” He asks.

You nearly knock him over in a hug, burying your face into his shoulder. 

“Better than okay,” you say, smiling against his bare skin. 

“Really? Oh, Gods, that's a relief.” He wraps his arm around you, pressing his nose to the top of your head. 

“Marc was different than I thought.” 

“Now we’re even, he said he’d cooperate with me some more, so I think it all works out?” 

“I love you. Both of you.” 

“Really? It’s not too weird?” 

“Hey,” you press a kiss to the bridge of his nose. “I like ‘em weird.” 

Even though you had next to no idea what was to come, between you, Steven, and Marc, you were confident you would figure it out.

[tellyouily]

again, i'm fallin' headfirst

dnf - pure fluff - 2.3k words

read on ao3

-

George thinks a lot about how love is a chemical in his brain.

More than anything, he thinks it’s kind of cool: here is this big feeling; this warm, fluttering truth that lives inside him and seems so impossible to describe – that, really, is no more than a mix of the right chemicals being released at the right time.

It’s cool. It’s knowledge that makes it a little less overwhelming to be right in the middle of it. 

George thinks, or rather, he has come to realise, that he is one of those people who feels things very strongly.

He remembers every sad movie he has ever watched, unable to forget them, and really good days have him wishing they will never end. He feels fully at home in Florida, at the same time as he sometimes misses London more than he will ever say out loud.

He’s not just in love with Dream – he’s so in love with him that he sometimes thinks it’ll seep into his lungs and make him choke.

Figuratively speaking, that is.

What he means is that he gets in his own way sometimes. In Dream’s way, too, really. Probably.

For George, loving Dream means wanting to shield him from all the bad stuff. Even the unpreventable bad stuff, which is an impossible task. He is practically bound to worry about Dream, which in return, is bound to make Dream worry about him back.

It’s less than ideal, to say the least.

But maybe it’s also just how loving someone works – caring so much that it hurts a little. George thinks so, anyway. It’s a part of the pact.

Ten a.m. finds him half-sitting up, half-lying down in Dream’s bed; wearing Dream’s clothes, scrolling through Reddit on Dream’s laptop.

The trip to Argentina had the unexpected effect of fixing his sleep schedule completely, a development which he has somehow managed to maintain in the last few days since he got home. In an unprecedented move, he fell asleep at a Normal time last night and woke up less than an hour ago, after a full, uninterrupted eight hours.

Dream, still fast asleep next to him, must be well into his tenth by now.

He’s lying on his stomach with one arm thrown across George’s waist under the covers. Somehow he is breathing just fine even though he has his face pressed into the bunched up sheets by George’s hip.

George knows it probably isn’t great to sleep much more than nine hours a night, but he is not about to wake Dream up. Sleep is kind of holy for them, it always has been.

Plus, there is a calmness to this particular morning, to them lying here together like this, that George doesn’t want to disturb. He’d like to stay here forever, actually.

Dream does wake up eventually, though, all on his own.

George is in the middle of reading a random post when Dream’s arm tightens around his middle, bringing him out of his focus. George turns and looks at him.

“Hey,” he says quietly, reaching out and running his fingers through Dream’s hair.

Dream shuffles closer, closing space between them that George didn't even realize was there. 

“Morning,” he mumbles.

Twisting one of Dream’s curls around his finger, George feels it was over him – that love he has for Dream – with a distinct warmth. He wishes there was a way to whisk Dream away to somewhere safe while simultaneously staying right here.

He supposes he just wishes right here was safer, its treatment of Dream more gentle.

Sleep is the medicine, though. And for Dream, distraction works well, too.

It was years ago that George first pledged to be there for Dream no matter what; to distract him from the bad stuff. To give him problems he can solve – something he can actually do something about.

Like George’s allergies, for example.

Although they have proven to be pretty unfixable, he has Dream to thank for the improvement since he first moved to Florida. As opposed to those initial few months, George is now no longer suffering in the mere presence of grass, or of Patches. Or of any of the million other things he is apparently allergic to.

Dream’s air purifier, the one that was bought specifically for George’s benefit and is currently humming softly from its place on top of the dresser making it so George can actually breathe, is proof of Dream’s efforts.

Along with every other purifier and humidifier placed strategically around the house.

George loves how much Dream cares. He loves that he is reminded of it every time he takes a nice, deep, uncongested breath.

Dream opens his eyes, pushing himself up enough to get a view of the laptop balanced on George’s stomach. Instinctively, George quickly closes the Reddit tab before Dream has settled down.

It’s dumb anyway, he doesn’t think he has seen a single good take all morning.

“Is that my laptop?” Dream asks, his morning voice zapping right down George’s spine.

“Yeah,” George hums. “Been reading all your secret emails.”

Dream huffs, probably too tired to laugh for real. It makes George smile, anyway. He settles his hand on the curve of Dream’s nape.

“From all your lovers,” he says.

Dream’s smile peeks out from the sheets.

“Yeah?” He asks.

“Yeah.”

George sniffles, sinking deeper into the pillow behind him.

In an instant, Dream’s eyes are on him, something like concern written in them. George smiles at him, sniffling again.

“Allergies,” he says.

Then, before Dream can ask if the air purifier has stopped working, like George knows he’s about to do, he adds: “I think it’s from the trip. It left some residue in my system or something.”

His best guess is that dust from the flight home, or from the stuffy airport, is still clinging to his nose. Or wherever it is that dust gets stuck. Either that, or it’s not allergies at all, but a cold that’s making him sniffle. He has been feeling a little warm lately…

“ Residue ,” Dream parrots him, mirroring his smile as well. Then, reading George’s mind, he says, “I hope you’re not getting sick or anything.”

George runs his fingers through the hair curling at the back of Dream’s neck.

He doesn’t say what he’s really thinking, which is that a solution to the problem is for Dream to breathe into his mouth 24 hours a day. That way no allergens can enter George’s system at all. A one hundred percent reduction of residue.

Upon closer inspection, though, it’s a pretty terrible idea. They’d be sharing the air, yes, but that means one of them would probably die from carbon dioxide poisoning at some point.

George doesn’t need Dream to tell him that.

“I’m not getting sick,” he says instead. “But guess what.”

He raises his eyebrows down at Dream, whose expression softens into one of openness. Like he just wants to hear George talk, regardless of what he has to say.

It’s a common Dream-expression – George tries not to let it get to his head.

“Happy Valentine’s day,” George says, pressing his lips together proudly.

He’s been waiting for the right moment to say it, and for once, he got to it before Dream. Not that it’s a competition.

Dream is clearly surprised.

“Yeah, happy Valentine’s day,” he says, sounding bewildered.

George smiles. “I won.”

“Yeah,” Dream laughs. “I’m actually impressed.”

“Thanks.”

Come to think of it, it kind of is a competition.

Dream is always first with these kinds of things – birthdays and Christmas Days and anniversaries – so George can’t help but feel a little smug. He won .

Dream lays his arm across George’s middle and leaning his head in his hand. “I have something for you,” he says.

He effectively blocks George’s view of the snoozing laptop screen by moving, but really, George would consider this an upgrade. He brings his hands to Dream’s stubble, cupping his cheeks.

“You have something?”

Dream nods. “A gift. For Valentine’s day.”

George pauses, raising his eyebrows. “You didn’t get me a gift.”

“I did,” Dream says, looking pleased with himself.

“You’re gonna kiss me or something and say that’s the gift.”

“I’m not!” Dream laughs. “I mean, I can do that too, if you want, but that’s not actually it”

Chances of him joking are high, George knows this. He narrows his eyes, trying to pierce through the innocent, honest look on Dream’s face to see if he’s just being an idiot.

It gets him nowhere, though. Dream doesn’t falter even a little bit under his gaze – his grin just gets bigger.

“I’m not lying, I promise,” he says. “Look, I’ll go get it right now. Stay here.”

“Wh–”

But before George can argue, Dream is out of bed, pulling a hoodie over his head on his way out of the room.

George stays, like he’s been told to do, his heart thumping in his chest for reasons he can’t quite place.

For one, he had no idea they were doing gifts this year. He doesn’t have anything for Dream, unless the stupid trinkets he bought for him in Argentina count. He’s pretty sure they don’t. He also has no idea what to expect from this so-called gift to be. Part of him still thinks Dream is making this all up, that there’s no gift – except for maybe that kiss they were talking about.

Surely Dream didn’t actually get him anything; between them, they are probably among the two people in the world who care the least about Valentine’s day. So surely not.

…unless he did.

Oh god , Dream totally does have a gift for him. An actual one. The realization has George sinking further into the pillows. He is determined to not be one of those idiots who smiles to themselves at the thought of their partner, but it’s taking some effort right now.

He can’t be seen like that. Especially not on Valentine’s day – that’s like a double offence.

Just then, Dream comes back through the door.

He still has that pleased look on his face, except now there is something in his hand, too. Something small and – George squints – white?

Dream crawls back into bed.

“I hid it in Patches’ room upstairs so you wouldn’t find it,” he says, a little out of breath.

George laughs. “Did you sprint there or something?”

Dream settles back into the same position as before, drawing a small ‘oof’ from George.

“Yeah,” Dream answers, smiling. “Here.”

He hands George what turns out to be a white jewelry box, sending George’s heart racing all over again.

“Oh no,” George says, staring down at it.

“Open it,” Dream counters, leaning his head in his hand again; watching him.

The box is light, the velvety paper smooth in his hands. George can feel Dream’s expectant gaze on him. He flickers his eyes up to meet it.

Dream’s expression is one of unabashed fondness. He laughs softly at whatever he sees in George’s face.

“Why’re you nervous?” He asks.

“I’m not nervous,” George lies.

“Well, good. You shouldn’t be.” Then, a moment later: “It’s not a ring, I promise.”

It makes George laugh, succeeding in dissolving some of his nerves. Emphasis on some .

“Okay,” he says, but the traces of hesitancy in his voice gives him away.

Under the covers, Dream’s hand slips under George’s (Dream’s) hoodie and settles warmly on the curve of George’s ribs.

“Open it,” Dream says again, more gently this time.

So finally, George does.

He grabs the lid and pries it open carefully – it’s one of those that comes off all the way – letting it slide down the sheets between them.

He expects a chain of some kind, but peering inside…

George almost doesn’t know what it is at first. He gives Dream a confused look and takes out the gold charm, small enough to hold between his thumb and pointer finger, and then–

Recognition dawns on him all at once.

He smiles. “No way.”

It’s gold instead of yellow, but the shape is unmistakable. It even has navy blue detail on its overalls and a mix of black and silver for its glasses. Or goggles – whatever they are. It’s perfect.

George looks up at Dream. “Where did you even find this?”

Dream laughs, shrugging. “At the jewelry place. It was like the first thing I saw when I came in, and I immediately thought of you.”

He went to the jewelry store . George raises his eyebrows. “So what, you went in there just to get me something for today?”

“I would never,” is Dream’s reply, paired with a smile that tells George all he needs to know.

That yes , he did go there just for this. Because of course he did.

“Thank you,” George says, putting the charm back in its box and letting his hands gravitate back to Dream’s face. Dream’s face with his idiot little smile.

“You’re very welcome. I’m glad you like it.”

He sort of sinks into George’s palms, making him look even more like an idiot. George barely resists the urge to lean in and kiss him.

He places his thumbs on the corners of Dream’s lips, instead.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything,” he says.

“That’s okay. I would’ve bought it for you anyway, Valentine’s day or not.”

“Still.”

George does mean it. Had he known they were doing gifts he would have put the effort in. He would have gotten Dream those shoes he was talking about.

“I don’t want your money, though,” Dream says, smiling.

George huffs, pressing his thumbs into Dream’s lips. “Yeah, you have enough, already.”

“Exactly.”

George isn’t entirely convinced, but he knows Dream is being honest. Dream has never been one for gifts, only for giving them. He’d probably just end up feeling bad if George got him anything expensive. Even those shoes.

“I know what you can give me though,” Dream says.

George has some idea of what he’s getting at.

He leans in and presses a single kiss to Dream’s mouth, which is soft and warm; smooth from his vanilla chapstick.

“This?” George asks.

Dream smiles, chasing his lips. He nods, “This.”

[krockat]

favorite word?

hmm. hard ask. there are so many excellent tasty and scrumptious words.

those three words are very nice!

but otherwise, in Swedish the word olyckan i think is very slay cunt.

also, placeholder. that's a cool word.

also fantastisk in Swedish is a cool word!

i think what makes a good word, the best words, is how tasty it feels on your tongue. even just when you're writing it it, thinking it.

[icewindandboringhorror]

finally finished all of one character's entire quests/optional dialogue/questions/etc.... 100,000 words... .... aughhh

[nomstellations]

i have a cooler head now but im still going on hiatus. this is my final message for a while and if you wanna contact me do it via dms or my vore server.

Its not exactly thrilling or comforting to be vagued and blocked for being willfully misunderstood. how am i harassing people on my own blog for *checks notes* saying minors should only explore their interest in vore with their peers ? and not adults who can lie about their intentions because this has happened many times in the past ?

[jeezypetes]

I listened to 94 audiobooks in 2024 and these were my 9 favorite novels :)

[starpros-sunshine]

I think the reason I'm so uncomfortable in conversation with cis men is because in my life the image I've grown up with is that from the American movies and while there's so much to be said about how women in those are basically objects or exclusively love interests or just Really Really forgettable I feel like there's also something to be mentioned about how most of these men are all the same pseudo-tough-guy character that's cool and suave and sexy and the only emotion he's capable of is nonchalant banter (it feels worth mentioning that the American movies I'm referring to are all from the last century I have no idea if that's changed in these last years but a gut feeling tells me no) and I also barely talk to the guys from my grade so the result of kind of growing up with that is that I just genuinely can not imagine real cis men with a complex inner emotional landscape. Maybe this is also an empathy thing but I genuinely can not imagine most cishet guys doing normal people things in their free time that aren't gaming or going to the gym or...idk. making music too I suppose. It's quite comical really but I just can not imagine cishet men with interests or doing stuff like having crushes and it's so strange because I know for a fact I am generally speaking not a sexist person but this little tidbit of apparently just not being able to view cishet men as normal people? Can't get that to go away even if I logically know it's silly. There's a point in this post about how toxic masculinity is a huge issue and affects even those not affected by it and runs really really deep or whatever but I'm too tired to coherently put it together. On the positive side now I get really happy when I see men online talk about how much they love their wives and all that because it's like "wow! Crazy you really are just a normal dude and not some James Bond knock-off like I thought every cishet man was supposed to be! Thank god!"

[broke-on-books]

Ok turned in my port assignment. I'm abt an hour late on the submission but I'm going to hope she just doesn't care + I apologized in my email soooooo I think we're good. She's going through it atm anyways so I'm hoping the flexibility goes both ways and whatnot. That said I did ask for a 1 day extension on the last writing assgmt too back in early November so she could be justified in taking off points but like why would she pleaseeee Rachel nooooo. I did write my email in English though so maybe I need to die for that idk

I guess we'll see but it'll be fine. Besides we had a quiz earlier, the writing activity due tonight and an exam Friday just in this class like I think we can let 50 minutes slide here

[weezerlvr228]

It's giving the...main character syndrome. like who tf does she think she is??? Y/N???

NO OH MY GOSH ANON. LET ME TELL YOU. LET ME FRIGGIN TELL YOU.

[readymades2002]

smiling so happily and serenely and kicking my legs a little bit because i can name things in my fantasyworld however i want and no one can tell me not to. la la la

[captain-hawks]

OVERRATED // matsukawa issei x f!reader

You’re convinced that getting fingered is overrated. Your roommate shows you otherwise, since you’ve clearly never been with someone who knows what they’re doing.

2.6k — 18+, roommates to lovers, fingering, mattsun and those goddamn hands

A woman sits in a dark booth in the back corner of a restaurant, lower lip tucked between her teeth, fingers digging into the edges of her seat as she tries not to make it obvious that the man beside her has his hand up her skirt. 

“There’s no way it feels that good for her,” you scoff, arms crossed, eyes narrowed as you stare judgmentally at the television screen. 

Matsukawa looks from you, to the movie, and back again. “Getting fingered?”

Your eyes flit over to where your roommate’s sitting on the opposite end of the couch, one brow raised as he lifts a can of soda to his lips.

The woman on the television screen moans.

(This isn’t porn, for the record.)

“Yeah? I mean this is like, false advertising.”

Matsukawa blinks. “I literally do not think I’ve ever met a girl who doesn’t enjoy being fingered.”

A sudden surge of heat licks at the back of your neck at his words, and you force your attention back to the screen. “And just how many girls have you—actually, you know what. Nevermind. Don’t answer that.”

He lets out a quiet huff of a laugh, and the two of you are silent for another five minutes or so before he speaks up again.

“So you’ve never had an orgasm just from being fingered then.”

Matsukawa says it bluntly, plainly, like he’s completely unbothered by the prospect of casually discussing sex with you on your couch on a Friday night. 

“Nope,” you shake your head, popping the ‘P’ for emphasis.

He’s not looking at you when he replies, “That’s a shame.”

—

Your phone lights up with a notification for a text message from Matsukawa on Sunday morning while you’re still in bed. You’re pretty sure he left the apartment early to get breakfast with Hanamaki, and he’s yet to return.

Mattsun: can you text makki and tell him you think getting fingered is overrated Mattsun: he doesn’t believe me >>: …. >>: so like >>: sometimes makki can just maybe not know things Mattsun: you spent twenty minutes last week telling both of us about your last date who couldn’t get it up Mattsun: in detail Mattsun: with a donut and >>: OKAY YEAH YEAH Mattsun: :)

Collapsing back against your pillows, you groan before opening your text thread with Hanamaki.

>>: getting fingered is overrated, makki Hanamaki: wow he wasn’t kidding  Hanamaki: wild >>: now can you make sure he brings me home a coffee Hanamaki: k Hanamaki: u act like he would ever forget something u asked for >>: what’s that supposed to mean Hanamaki: also though Hanamaki: when are u guys going to fuck

You drop your phone on the mattress, looking around the room as if Hanamaki himself is sitting in the corner snickering at you. 

>>: i’m sorry what >>: who >>: how did we get here Hanamaki: at least ask HIM to finger u  Hanamaki: because this shit is DEpressing >>: i’m blocking your number Hanamaki: u’ve seen his hands right >>: bye Hanamaki: cool i’ll email u xo

Groaning, you bury your face under the covers. 

—

“I had an idea. A really dumb idea, actually. It’s kind of Makki’s fault, but—“

Matsukawa looks up from where he’s pouring a glass of water, brows furrowing. 

“—and honestly just feel free to say no and forget this ever happened—“

He blinks, putting down the cup and leaning against the counter, crossing his arms as he waits for you to fumble through this never ending lead up to a question that’s been eating at the back of your mind all week. 

“Can you uh…could you maybe…”

Matsukawa moves a little closer to you, leaning in, as if his proximity is going to help encourage you to drag the rest of the words from where they’re clinging to the backs of your teeth. 

“CouldyoufingermeinaplatonicwaysoIcanfigureoutifI’mjustbrokenorsomething.”

You say it all in a single breath. 

Matsukawa chokes. 

“You think you’re the problem?” he asks, taken aback. 

“I mean, yeah? If it’s supposed to feel good, and it doesn’t for me, then maybe I—“

“Go put on something that makes you feel sexy,” he interrupts you calmly.

Your heart lurches in your chest. “What? Right now!?” you squeak. 

Matsukawa walks over to the kitchen sink, glancing back at you over his shoulder as he slowly presses down the pump on the foaming soap and thoroughly washes his hands. 

You’re not sure how or why that sight alone already leaves your throat dry. 

He nods. “Put on whatever makes you feel good. It doesn’t matter what it looks like. We’re not going anywhere. And then go in my bedroom, lay down in my bed, and text me when you’re ready.”

Fifteen minutes later, you find yourself on your stomach in Matsukawa’s bed, legs idly kicking in the air to expel the nervous energy simmering in your gut. 

And while it was borderline mortifying trying to pick out something “sexy” to wear before tiptoeing into his bedroom, you realize why he said it now as you hit send on a message that simply reads “Ready.”

Because now that you’re lying here in a short, pleated skirt that’s lived in the back of your closet for years, thigh high socks, a delicate, lacy bralette that you’ve yet to find a reason to wear, and a thong with a little pink bow nestled just above your ass—

Now that you’re wrapped up in the familiar scent of Matsukawa’s body wash in a way that’s far more intimate than stealing his clothes or falling asleep on his shoulder on the couch—

Now that you know he’s seconds away from seeing you like this in his bed, from slipping his fingers beneath your skirt—

Well, you can already feel it—the slick, sticky arousal soaking its way into your panties. 

“Wow,” Matsukawa murmurs as he walks in, striding over to the foot of the bed. “Nice socks.”

You go to roll over, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious, and he shakes his head. “No, stay like that.”

Turning back onto your stomach, you push your phone aside, hugging one of his pillows to your face—though you almost regret it when you subsequently end up burying your nose in the warm and admittedly dizzying scent of him once more. Meanwhile, you feel the mattress dip as he climbs atop it. 

“If at any point you want me to stop, let me know, okay?”

You nod, and he slowly starts to run his hands up the backs of your thighs, stopping just shy of the hem of your skirt. 

“Didn’t you wear this to that costume party at Oikawa’s a few years ago?”

The first and only time you wore it, given how its meager length leaves almost nothing to the imagination. 

“Yeah,” you laugh, though it’s a little weak, given the way he’s now rubbing soothing circles with his thumbs against the inside of your thighs. 

Unintentionally, you spread your legs somewhat for him at the sensation, toes curling. He chuckles quietly. 

Matsukawa’s fingers finally slide up your skirt, his large hands resting on either of your ass cheeks. You try to fight the sudden urge to arch your spine into his touch. 

“Is this still okay?”

You nod, and he squeezes. 

A moan slips out past your lips before you can stop it. 

“Oh,” you breathe out, fingers grasping his silky dark green sheets for purchase as he begins to massage the globes of your ass. 

“Does that feel good?” he asks. 

He squeezes a little harder, and there’s a euphoric release of tension that seeps through your muscles.

“So good,” you mumble, face pressed sideways against his pillow. Which you may or may not have drooled on. 

Cool air licks and settles against your backside as Matsukawa grasps your skirt and pushes it out of the way. Your thong tightens against your skin with tension for a moment, snapping back lightly once he lets it go.

Sliding his palm down the center of your ass, he brings his hand back to your thighs and stretches his fingers outward, effectively spreading your legs further. You inhale, toes pressing down into the mattress at the foot of the bed. 

“Oh, do you want me to take these off?” he pauses, idly toying with the string of your thong. 

And while it would certainly be easier, there’s something about the evidence of your arousal soaking into the material, something about the way the lace tugs against your skin—

You shake your head. 

“Good, the bow is cute.”

He runs a finger over the delicate piece of ribbon, and you’re thankful he can’t see the embarrassing way you swallow in response. 

“Is flattery a part of the process?” you ask. 

You can almost hear the grin on his face as he slowly feathers a finger against the wet spot on your panties and replies, “Is it not working?”

“You’re terrible,” you laugh, despite the shiver that runs through you. 

“Save your breath.”

You turn slightly to look back at him, brows furrowed. “For wha—“

Your words are cut off by the moan that crawls up your throat without warning as the pad of Matsukawa’s middle finger suddenly slides down the length of your creamy slit. 

It catches you off guard, how good that little bit of contact feels. How sensitive you are for him. How—

“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re wet,” he murmurs, one digit now circling around the rim of your puffy, fluttering entrance while another long finger draws through your folds once more. 

He’s hardly doing anything, and it already sounds obscene. 

Your chest burns, and your heart thunders in your chest as you find yourself arching your ass up off of the bed. The skirt flops back down over your backside in the process, and Matsukawa’s quick to push it back out of the way, his large hand pressing into the small of your back. 

The pillow case grows more damp against your cheek as you quietly pant against it. 

“Matsukawa,” you whine, hips pressing backward again as he ghosts a finger over your swollen clit before dragging two digits back through your folds. Your cunt aches. 

“You have to tell me if you don’t like how it feels, okay?”

He runs his thumb across your dripping hole. 

“Matsukawa,” you gasp again, one hand tightly grasping the top edge of the mattress. 

“Just tell me to stop, and I will,” he promises, slipping the tip of a finger into your entrance. Barely past the fingernail. 

“Issei, please,” you nearly sob, spreading your legs even further for him. “Don’t—don’t stop.”

He lets out a noisy, rough exhale. One that’s a stark contrast to his easy, syrupy tone. 

But you can hardly hear it as he slides his finger into your cunt, not stopping until he’s at the last knuckle. 

You can hardly hear it over the desperate, needy moan that he drags out of you on one finger alone. 

Matsukawa takes his time exploring your tight inner walls, alternating between pumping his finger in and out while you keen for him and keeping it lodged inside as he curls and strokes your wet channel. 

It’s never felt like this. 

Not with anyone. 

Not even with your own fingers. 

But this—

It feels like you’re burning from the inside out, like your nerves are on the verge of going up in flames. 

It’s just one long, deft finger sliding in and out of the eager, needy grip of your pussy. Your tight, soaking wet pussy that’s nowhere near full enough yet still pulsing and dripping with pleasure all the same. 

It’s just a single finger, and yet your voice is going hoarse from the moans tumbling from your lips, the repeated whimpers of Matsukawa’s name as your sticky arousal slides down the palm of his hand. 

“You’re so fucking wet,” he rasps, voice a little rougher than it was before. 

“I’m probably making a mess all over your bed,” you mutter against the pillow. 

“Good,” you swear you hear him breathe out before he asks, “Still overrated?” His free hand slides beneath the waistband of your thong,  wrapping around your hip bone. 

“It’s never, I’ve never—“ you gasp. 

“Because you sleep with guys who do it for themselves, who see it as a necessity to getting their dick inside of you,” Matsukawa replies in a calm tone that’s a stark contrast to the way you’re unravelling beneath him. “I just want you to feel good. This isn’t about me.”

And you’ve also never been fingered like this—face down, prone. With your pebbled nipples rubbing against your lace bralette and a too-short skirt rucked up around your waist. In a sopping wet thong that keeps rubbing against your clit every time Matsukawa nudges it out of the way, with thigh high socks that continue to slip down lower and lower as you writhe in pleasure against the mattress. 

You’ve never been fingered by Matsukawa Issei. Your roommate and your best friend who’s a little too handsome for his own good. Who you’ve had more wet dreams about than you can count. 

Matsukawa Issei and his stupidly long, dexterous fingers. Two of which are now stuffed in your tight hole, massaging your inner walls while you drool on his pillow like it’s his cock that’s stuffed inside of you instead. 

Matsukawa Issei, who’s somehow on the verge of making you forget every dick you’ve ever had inside of you by fucking you with his fingers and his fingers alone. 

“Don’t flatter me that much yet, not till I make you come,” he murmurs, stroking your throbbing clit. 

And oh—you fucking said that last bit out loud. 

Not that you can bring yourself to care when the coil of heat in your gut is wrapped so tight you can hardly breathe. Every muscle in your body tenses under the liquid pleasure that sears its way down your spine with a bite that has you trembling, sheets slipping beneath the feeble grasp of your shaking hands. 

You end up pushing yourself onto your knees as Matsukawa purposely slows his pace, like he’s not ready for you to come yet. Like he wants to edge you until the whole goddamn mattress is soaked.

“Issei,” you whimper in a small, breathless voice that you can hardly believe is your own. 

And suddenly you find yourself being tugged backwards into his lap, your legs spread, your back to his chest. You barely have time to marvel over the feeling of his hard cock pressing into your ass through his pants, not when his lips ghost against the shell of your ear before he rests his chin against your shoulder. 

Matsukawa slides his fingers back inside of you, and you moan at the angle, at the way his mouth ends up tucked into the crook of your neck when you roll your hips into his touch. His lips are hot against your skin as he traces the column of your neck, cunt squelching wetly while your pussy greedily takes in the stretch of his digits over and over. 

And then he presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your pulse point, biting and sucking at the sensitive spot while your cunt throbs, as you shake with a full-body shiver, as the damn of pleasure inside of you snaps and overflows with an orgasm that leaves tears in your eyes as you sob his name. 

Matsukawa tilts your chin and finds your mouth with his, claiming your lips in a messy, spit-soaked kiss as you ride out your climax. 

It’s only once you stop shuddering in pleasure that you remember how hard he felt beneath you, and you go to slip a hand between your bodies—

“It’s okay,” he exhales, sounding just as out of breath as you feel.

“You don’t want me to—“ You try not to sound as disappointed as you feel over his sudden rejection.

His eyes go a little wide. “No, no. No, it’s that. I just…uh…I already…”

You blink at him. “I didn’t think that was actually a thing that happens.”

Did he really just come in his—

Matsukawa rubs the back of his neck, biting his bottom lip. “It’s never happened to me before, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Oh?”

For some reason, you feel more than a little smug at these words.

“First time for everything I guess,” he grins.

“Overrated?” you ask coyly, warmth swelling in your chest.

Matsukawa shakes his head, lips brushing against yours when he leans in and murmurs against your mouth, “Definitely not.”

[yandere-romanticaa]

˚˖𓍢ִ໋🍒✧˚.🎀༘⋆ 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜.

❝ heaven is my baby, suicide's her father, opulence is the end. ❞ - lana del rey.

various! yandere! honkai star rail men on how they claim you ~

🎀 I just wanted to make a little post which features my favorite male HSR characters lolz. Also, there's zero reason why I picked the song for the title other than the fact that it is for the ✨ aesthetic ✨!

❥ 𝐉𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐔𝐀𝐍 !

What better way than to leave a mark on his beloved than by his mere presence alone? Jing Yuan is a simple man in his core, even if his tactical nature or even mischievous side can get carried away at times, The General is all too aware of his influence on the Lofu.

The sun could stop shining, the sky could fall and darkness could envelop the whole galaxy but not even that could erase the impact that Jing Yuan has left on you.

Wandering eyes follow you everywhere you go, quaint whispers have become a daily occurrence for you as the entirety of the Lofu knows who you lover is. Some praise and envy your position as The General is known to be handsome, kind and strong. They secretly spit at you and curse your very existence, nasty jealousy rotting them to their core as you march on like a solider to war, aimless and uncertain.

There is also of course the opposite end of the spectrum - adoring fans who just gush about your so called relationship with the dashing general. Hours are wasted scrolling away on your phone as you browse through the endless sea of lovey dovey articles, pictures taken you weren't even aware of that existed, and a plethora of other things you could even bother to remember.

All he needed to do was to just give you a nice golden collar to seal the deal. At least that would be the more obvious way of him trying to brand you as his own sweetheart.

He had his own little secret though. A velvet box was kept hidden away in his desk, ready to be opened on a special occasion.

Depending on how you got on with the general in the future, the little thing in the box was either going to make you the happiest person in the world or, he really would finally shackle you with gold.

❥ 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐘 !

Sunday, ever the gentleman, would try to remain subtle about his feelings towards you in public. There are just some things that you do not do, nor share with the outside world.

This is a rule he always tells you to follow.

Still, all he needs to do is to speak. Honeyed words fall from his lips like candy, always so sweet, so addictive, so passionate. Even a man like Sunday, who is known for keeping his cool, cannot hide his infatuation with you. He rambles and rambles, sometimes even losing himself in his thoughts as he sings his praises for you, like the lovesick fool that he is.

Sunday likes to think that he is being cool, suave, but he is literally anything but.

Sometimes, he gets a little too carried away. Sometimes, his darker desires get the better of him, which can set you off a little. He's always so sweet and apologetic whenever he upsets you...

Please, he says through gritted teeth.

Don't mind my ramblings. They don't mean anything. Truly, they do not.

Disregard those pleas entirely as they are nothing but hollow. All one needs to do is to look into his crazed eyes, and that is where you will find out just how true everything he's saying really is.

❥ 𝐉𝐈𝐀𝐎𝐐𝐈𝐔 !

This sly fox has such a hard time keeping his hands to himself... In all honesty, can you even blame him? Whenever he sneaks up on you, Jiaoqiu cannot help but to place his hands literally anywhere on your soft body and he is not shy about showing his true feelings.

Bearing his pearly white fangs, Jiaoqiu likes to bite from time to time.

The desire to do so is further enhanced with every sweet noise you make. Now now, don't cover your mouth, be nice! Every squeal, sigh, groan, even scream are so precious to him... Don't deny him the pleasure of not being able to listen to you.

It's very cruel of you, he says with a pout.

In the cover of night, he likes to trace the markings he left on you with his tongue, maybe even adding even more marks in the process. If you bleed a little, it's all fine and dandy.

You always taste sweet to him.

And the thought of other people being able to see the red bruises which bloom into hideous purple in green bruises on your neck... My goodness, he thinks to himself.

He could just devour you whole.

[unboundprompts]

Hello! Can you help me and/or give me examples of how to write a pre-teen? Specifically a slightly mature for their age but still socially-awkward, selfless, empathetic, extroverted 10-year-old

How to Write a Pre-Teen

Voice and Language

Simple but specific vocabulary: Pre-teens might not use very complex words, but they often know and throw in some “big words” they’ve recently learned or mimic words they hear adults use. Don’t overdo it, though—they’ll often misapply or half-understand these terms, which can create natural, humorous moments.

“It’s totally, like, a catastrophe that I forgot my project.”

Expressive dialogue: Pre-teens are enthusiastic and often exaggerate. They can also shift quickly between emotions, from excitement to frustration.

“That was the best movie ever!” might turn into “Actually, I mean, it was kinda boring in some parts, but, you know, overall…”

Thoughtful yet blunt: Kids this age often haven’t fully learned the “filters” adults use. They can be direct and say things that are surprisingly insightful or unexpectedly honest.

Thoughts and Perspective

Developing identity and opinions: They’re beginning to form their own beliefs but still echo the views of family, teachers, or friends.

“Mom says people should never lie, but I wonder if little lies are okay if they help people feel better…”

Questioning and introspective moments: Pre-teens are curious about life, relationships, and “big ideas.” They may ask questions, but sometimes keep their deep thoughts to themselves, exploring them internally.

“If friends are supposed to be there for each other, why do I feel alone even when they’re around?”

Struggle with abstract concepts: At this age, they’re just beginning to understand abstract ideas like justice or friendship but often approach them in straightforward, literal ways.

Behavior and Actions

Impulsivity and energy: They might shift quickly between activities and emotions, getting distracted or excited without much control over it. They may also blurt out ideas or act before thinking, especially if they’re extroverted.

For instance, a character might immediately jump up to help someone even if they aren’t sure what to do, or they might “borrow” something without fully considering the consequences.

Physical awkwardness: Pre-teens can be a bit clumsy as they’re still growing into their bodies. This can lead to endearing, awkward moments.

They might knock something over, trip over their own feet, or feel self-conscious in ways that show they’re still figuring themselves out physically as well as socially.

Friendships and Social Dynamics

Navigating social rules: Pre-teens are very aware of social “rules” but may not fully understand them. This is an age when they care a lot about what their friends think, but they’re also just beginning to question these dynamics.

A pre-teen might want to befriend the “cool” kids but feel conflicted when they realize their values don’t align. Or they may try too hard to impress friends and feel self-conscious afterward.

Conflicted loyalties: Friendships are often intense at this age, and they might struggle with conflicting feelings if friends argue or if they feel left out.

“I really like hanging out with Sarah, but I know Emma doesn’t. Maybe if I can make them both laugh, we could all just… get along?”

Small gestures: Pre-teens often show they care in understated ways, like sharing snacks, giving a small gift, or cheering someone up when they’re down. For a socially-awkward pre-teen, these gestures may come out clumsy but sweet.

Insecurity and Self-Awareness

Self-consciousness mixed with bravery: Pre-teens often fluctuate between trying to fit in and wanting to stand out. They might do something brave but then doubt themselves or quickly retreat if things don’t go as planned.

For instance, a character might volunteer to speak in front of the class only to feel panicked once they’re in the spotlight.

Hyper-awareness of themselves and others: They’re beginning to notice how others perceive them and may get flustered easily or worry about little things, like if their clothes look okay or if they sounded silly.

“I shouldn’t have laughed like that… I bet everyone thought I sounded so weird.”

Joking as a defense: Pre-teens often use humor to cope, covering up their awkwardness or discomfort by making jokes.

Reactions to Conflict and Emotion

Quick emotional shifts: They might go from laughing to frustrated to embarrassed in just a few minutes. They feel emotions intensely and may have outbursts or react strongly to things adults might dismiss as minor.

Heroic ideals vs. real-world disappointments: Many pre-teens have an idealized view of right and wrong, fairness, and heroism, and they may be disappointed when things don’t align with these ideals. They’re just starting to understand that people aren’t all good or all bad.

“I don’t get it… why would she lie about something like that? Friends are supposed to be honest!”

[bokunoheros]

TAGS/WARNINGS: reader is gender neutral but afab (keigo does talk ab making you a mommy tho, and you refer to yourself as his girlfriend once), reader is a civilian, this is pre-war, reader and keigo are dating, no lube no protection (all night all day), baby trapping lowk????, idk he nonconsensually cums in you and then proposes (you accept tho), creampies, cockwarming, kinda lazy ending?? idgaf GENRE: smut SUMMARY: it’s the start of mating season and keigo had just saved a mother and her child at work today, so it’s only natural for him to come home with the overwhelming need to knock you up. WORD COUNT: 2.6K 🦊’s A/N: keigo they could Never make me hate you…. anyway hope yall enjoy this fr

     not only was today the first day of his rut, meaning his last day of hero work until the spring was over, but he had also gone out of his way to save a mother and her crying child while off-duty. he’d been heading home after an eventful and tiring patrol when he ran into them being threatened by a petty mugger—nothing he couldn’t handle, especially after the day he’d had, but he can imagine having a gun pointed to your face must be scary to an untrained civilian. now, he was brimming over with emotions, barely keeping his cool as he walks through the threshold of your shared home, slamming the door loudly behind him, wings all puffed up and ruffled.

     “keigo? honey, what’s wron—” you’re suddenly cut off by a small flurry of his feathers sweeping you off your feet and carrying you from the kitchen towards where he stood in the living room, in the process of stepping out of his boots and shrugging his jacket off. you’re immediately taken aback by his serious demeanor and you open your mouth to say something, except that no words come out. what should you say?

     “how was your day..?” you ask tentatively after a brief moment of silence. 

     rather than verbally answering you, he lets out a long, drawn out sigh and shakes his head — a response you’re unfamiliar with. usually, he isn’t afraid to yap for at least fifteen minutes about how his day went, what happened, and sometimes even the people or fellow pros he talked to! so for him to remain silent…. well, it’s safe to say you’re starting to get worried. 

     had you done something wrong? was today exceptionally challenging? your heart rate increases as your anxious thoughts swirl around in your foggy mind, and you don’t know where to go from here.

     keigo knew what to do, though; he knew exactly how to relieve this stress.

     taking a step in your direction, he narrows his eyes, intense, predatory gaze locked onto yours, and suddenly, he’s leaning in for a kiss as he backs you up against the nearest wall. 

     the way he kisses you is controlled and barely put together, and you can tell he’s on edge, like he’s about to snap, so you say what you think he needs to hear.

     “you can rough me up a bit, kei, i promise i won’t break.”

     his eyes fly open at your words before narrowing as he nods before leaning back in with much more passion and any restraint right out the window. but he himself has said it before, he’s awful—he has no self-control; something that rang especially true when it came to you. 

     he’s spent whole evenings with his head buried between your thighs, eating you out until you’re crying and begging him to stop, saying it hurts, it hurts!, to which he always asks you for just one more. “one more” never meant one more, of course—keigo was greedy in this sense. he could never seem to get enough of you, always wanting more, more, more. if he could, he’d devour you whole, make you his entirely, and—that’s exactly what he was going to do tonight. he had been planning to propose for a while now, anyway. he had a ring and everything! he’d.. just been working up the courage to ask. so, then what better way than by deciding to knock you up on a whim. 

     well, …was it really a whim if he had fantasized about it before? the two of you had been dating since the summer of last year, meaning you haven’t seen him during his ruts yet, and, while he’s mentioned it briefly in the past, he didn’t actually expect to last this long with you so he never divulged the details of it—not because he wasn’t in love with you, but because he gave up on the dating scene because he’s always the one being dumped for being so. so. !!!! outwardly nonchalant about most things! or being married to his work, whatever they meant by that; he only worked so hard so he could have a future to relax in! no one ever seemed to understand that…. until he met you.

     something just clicked between the two of you upon your first meeting—you were probably the most interesting person hawks had ever saved, be it your quirk, your personality and mannerisms, or even something as simple as a remark you had made in the five something minutes it took to save you; he found himself unable to get you out of his head for days afterwards, eventually causing him to seek you out to ask a bewildered you on a date—just one, he had originally said.  

     you said yes immediately for a multitude of reasons—he was fine as fuck, he’d literally saved your life the other day, not to mention he was witty, and spoke his mind, too—something keigo hadn’t been expecting. he knew all of the above things, and yet, found himself somewhat nervous as he handed you a bouquet of pale red carnations, red camellias, and baby’s breath. he’d stayed up all night researching flower language and symbolism, deciding on the perfect ones to give to you, as he knew it was rude to show up to somebody’s house empty-handed, and, also, because… he’d never really felt this way about anyone before. there was something so magnetic between the two of you….

     but that’s enough reminiscing—he needs to be in the present moment, needs to focus on fucking you so good you go braindead on his dick, focus on cumming so deep in you, there’s no way you couldn’t not be pregnant with his child. keigo understood that having children as the number two pro hero would be no easy feat, but he thinks with you by his side, he can do anything. 

     sliding his tongue over the seam of your lips, one gloved hand comes up to squish your cheeks enough to force your lips to part for him and he easily slips the wet muscle into your mouth, taking his time sliding it along the insides of your cheeks, the grooves of your teeth, and the roof of your mouth, carefully exploring every inch and committing it to memory (as if he hadn’t already). 

     meanwhile, his other hand settles on your hip, massaging it lightly for a moment before his grip quickly tightens and he’s coaxing your tongue out of your mouth and into his as he begins to suck on it.

     “mmh,” you hum pleasantly, starting to drool as you let keigo decide how to use you in order to relieve his stress. 

     “missed ya t’day, dove,” he murmurs against your lips before nipping at your tongue and you feel your heart flutter. what had gotten into him? you weren’t necessarily complaining, but you still felt a little worried about him if you were being totally honest.

     keigo, sensing your unease, slowly pulls away from the kiss to ask if something was wrong, just for you to deflect the question back onto him. 

     “‘m fine, it was just a long day is all,” he tells you in earnest, leaving out the part about the beginning of his rut. “need’a feel you s’bad, though,” he breathes out, moving to kiss you again; tilting his head, he slots his lips back over yours, and it feels like he’s going to eat you alive. and, truthfully, he just might.

     before you even realize what he’s doing, he’s picking you up, wrapping your legs around his narrow waist, and carrying you into the bedroom where he’s pinning you to the mattress, wings spread wide for you to admire as you look up at him. you’re sure his words held a bit of truth to them, but he was behaving a little oddly for reasons you couldn’t put together yet. 

     him being a horny little shit wasn’t the unusual bit, but rather, his upbeat demeanor was nowhere to be found—even if it was an act almost all the time, it still felt weird to see him so serious looking.

     “kei…”

     “shh, stop worrying, sweets,” he shushes you, leaning in for another hungry kiss. you oblige him of course, parting your lips and poking your tongue out to meet his as you close your eyes

     his large wings create an almost dome around the two of you, shutting out the world, only leaving room for the two of you, and not another soul. 

     perhaps it would be best to sit back, relax, and let your boyfriend play with you… so that’s exactly what you do, settling fully onto the soft bed and wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him in closer—something that had him smirking against your soft lips. 

     it’s not long before you’re both naked, having grown too hot for the unnecessary layers separating your bare bodies, and soon, you suddenly have a pillow tucked under your hips, keeping them at an angle—something that confuses you.

     “keigo?”

     “just relax, dove.”

     he leans in closer, bringing his lips to yours as his one hand grasps at your hip, blunt nails (that he has to trim daily, mind you, lest they grow into talons) digging into the tender flesh there while his other grabs at his leaky cock, tapping it against your clit a couple times before lining it up with your slit and slowly pushing in, doing his best to show restraint and not bottom out in one fluid motion. you both groan at the feeling, the stretch so deep you almost feel nauseous.

     bringing two fingers down to your pulsing clit, he rubs semi-rough circles against the little bud, trying his hardest not to overwhelm you, but needing to hurry up and get you off so he can stuff you full of his cum.

     “mmmh,” you moan quietly as he focuses on working you up to your first orgasm out of many for the long night he had planned for you.

     it’s not long before you’re cumming with a cry and suddenly, keigo’s got his dick lined up with your slick little hole, easing himself in as he bites his bottom lip, trying not to whimper. 

     “fuuuck, you’re so tight, sweets,” he groans, rocking his hips into your, unkempt pubes brushing against your neatly trimmed ones. 

     your hands come up to wrap around his neck in an attempt to pull him closer, before you’re tugging at his wings, and you feel his dick twitch inside you.

     “don’t,” is all he’s able to get out, burying his face in the crook of your neck, where he begins sucking and biting at the skin there. 

     “why not?” you grin like an idiot, already knowing the answer. you knew damn well just how sensitive keigo’s wings were—already having had this discussion when you first started having sex and you went to grab at them for the first time.

     “don’t ask stupid questions when you know the answer, dove,” he warns.

     you, ever the brat, decide to start stroking on his wings, and you feel his hips stutter and teeth sink into the column of your throat. 

     “nngh–!” you whine, tugging on the bright red feathers. keigo moans loudly at this, and quickly grabs the backs of your thighs to fold you in half and start fuckin’ pounding into you—his thrusts are fast and sloppy, and the sound of wet skin slapping against wet skin turns you on even more, pussy drooling around his dick.

     it doesn’t take long before keigo’s cumming deep inside you without warning, something that has your eyes flying open. 

     “k–keigo–! y– you just— you..!” the words aren’t there as panic begins to settle in. something you had both agreed on before you started fucking was that even if you did it raw, he had to pull out—kids were a big no for the both of you.

     but here was your boyfriend, fucking you throughout his orgasm and working his way up to a second as he looks down at you with a gaze so intense, you feel small beneath him. 

     tugging at his wings again, you cry out his name as he fucks his cum into you, just for him to ignore your pathetic mewls and pleas.

     “k– kei—!”

     “gonna knock y’up so good—g’nna— fuck— g’nna make you a mommy—”

     your face flushes deeply at his words—is this what had gotten into him? the urge to breed you? knock you up?

     “f–fuck!” you pull at his wings, rolling your hips upwards as best you can as he desperately ruts into you. this triggers keigo’s second orgasm, his pelvis pressing flush against yours as he cums hard. 

     “nngh—! hnnmg—fuck,” keigo moans as his hips still while he spills another load deep within you. “shit— y’feel so fuckin’ good, baby—” 

     this continues for what seems like ever, but in reality is maybe fifteen minutes of your boyfriend fucking into you until he physically can’t cum anymore, until tears are running down his cheeks from how overstimulated he is, and he’s collapsing on top of you with a tired sigh.

     “k–keigo— we— we can’t—” can’t what? “‘m gonna get pregnant— y’gotta let me get up,” you try to say, shoving at his chest; but it was no use, he was dead weight. 

     “good,” he says breathlessly, nuzzling his face into your neck. 

     “n–no! not good! i— we’re only dating! what would the media think if they found out the number two pro hero went and knocked his girlfriend up?!” your concern is genuine, but also stems from selfish reasons. you’re sure the reporters would hound you the moment they caught a whiff of something fishy, and—

     “then marry me.” his words are so serious sounding that they immediately break you out of your own mind and your eyes go wide with shock and awe. had he seriously just. proposed?! while still being balls deep in you!? 

     “huh!?” you sound just as caught off guard as you look, and keigo cranes his neck up to look at you, expression the most serious you’d ever seen it. …okay, so he obviously wasn’t joking around, but, but–!

     “you heard me. …i’d been meaning to get you a ring for a little while now, but couldn’t find one i thought you might like, so…..” his cheeks are flushed and face sweaty, hair sticking to his forehead as he gazes at you so tenderly, your heart can’t help but feel full.

     “i— keigo, i…” he waits patiently as you fumble with your words. “yes,” finally falls from your lips, a grin tugging at the corners of them.

      unable to say anything else, you cup his cheeks with both hands and press kisses all over his handsome face before you slot your lips over his and lean in slowly, almost teasingly.

     keigo, ever impatient, leans in to close the gap, one large hand coming to cradle the back of your head as his hips twitch and he pushes further into you, causing the disgusting amount of cum stuffed in your cunt to form a creamy ring around the base of his cock, and drip down to your puckered asshole. after that, it doesn’t take much longer for keigo to fuck you both to sleep.

     and that’s how you found yourself in the exact same position one year later, having put your first child to bed no less than an hour ago, with your now husband pinning you to your shared mattress, talking about how he wants a second kid—how beautiful you looked pregnant the first time, and how he’d love to see you like that again. so, he makes it happen. and then one more time after that.

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