#throws him into a pile of leaves and elbow drops him

[shrapnelstars]

Babe, wake up. New Josh Dry Face fighting fantasy book stream just dropped.

There better be some lunging, or else -5000/10.

[axelsagewrites]

Ragnar Lothbrok*Pet

Pairing: Ragnar x f!captured reader

Kinktober Day twenty-four: thigh riding/dry humping with Ragnar Lothbrok – after taking a Christian girl prisoner he decides to show you the pleasure a heathen can feel

Word count: 1491

Warnings: talks of religion, religious corruption, religious guilt, teasing, heavy flirting, mini crisis of faith ig, being ragnars pet/prisoner, making out, thigh riding, smut 18+

Masterlist Here

Kinktober List Here

“She is a Christian,” Floki whispered in Ragnars ear as the pair studied the girl presented to them, “We should get rid of her, not drag her around with us. She will only slow us down,”

While Floki’s eyes bore into Ragnars skull the kings’ eyes lingered elsewhere. They had taken your village some days ago when one of his men found you hiding in the forest. The sight of you on your knees, even if it were to pray to a false god to survive, was enough to convince Ragnar.

“I should like to keep her,” he said, watching how your lips wrapped around the words you mumbled, “Untie her hands,” he commanded one of his men as Floki sighed.

“What is it with you and your Christian pets? At least keep her hands bound,” he tried to reason but Ragnar just shook his head. He knew you wouldn’t run.

A couple of weeks had passed of successful raiding and gold was beginning to pile up around him. Ragnar sat at the makeshift feast they had decided to throw after taking another village however his eyes were once again on the Christian girl who sat across from him. At first you used to flush under his gaze, a sight he enjoyed and often tried to tease out by whispering pretty words in your ear.

Ragnar leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, “What are you thinking about?” he asked, your eyes snapping up to meet his.

“That I may sleep soon. The night is growing long,”

“That is an excellent idea. Perhaps I should join you,” he said, smirking at the way you began to stutter and flush, “Tell me something. Where you married before?”

You paused for a moment before answering, “No, why?”

Ragnar shook his head, “well I heard,” he said, leaning in closer and grinning as you did the same as his voice dropped to a whisper, “that it is only the married ones who get fucked,”

“I-well-I- yes it would be a sin otherwise,” you stuttered out, face growing hot as Ragnar poured himself another glass of wine. “I’m not even supposed to talk about…that,”

“Why not?”

“It is a sin,”

“Why?” he asked, tilting his head like a curious child.

The awkward smile worn on your lips made a real one grow on his face, “Because god said so,”

“Have you spoken to god,”

“Well, no,”

“Then how do you know?” a frustrated sigh left your lips that made Ragnars grin widen. He was getting to you and enjoying every moment of it. he leaned in closer once more, whispering for your sake more than anything,” Why would a god create something so beautiful then not let you appreciate its wonders?”

“It is a sin,” you clung to the excuse, realising you did not know why either.

The laugh that left his mouth however caught you off guard and your lips twitched, almost forming a smile at the smile on his face. That was until he spoke again, “Perhaps we should sin together one time,” he said, standing and grabbing his cup of wine. Before he could leave, he sauntered over to whisper one last thing in your ear, “And the idea of you falling apart on my cock is enough to make me believe in my god,”

A few more weeks had passed and soon you would be heading back with the raiders to their land. Despite still being wary of many of the men some, Ragnar specifically, had grown on you. “Where will I stay when you take me back with you?” you asked one night as you began to brush through your hair.

Ragnar glanced at you as he began to unlace his boots. While he had unbound your hands, he had insisted on keeping you in his tent, thankfully on your own bed, thought you wondered if this was for his entertainment or safety, “I will find somewhere for you,” he answered simply before reaching to pull his shirt over his head.

Despite seeing this sight many times, the way his muscles flexed, and his tattoos gleamed against his skin made a tingle shoot through your spine. “So, I won’t be a slave? Or is it a thrall you call them?”

Ragnar paused for a moment, his eyes scanning over you, “You need not worry little one. I will take care of you,”

A moment passed before you allowed yourself to smile, “Thank you Ragnar,” you said and a small smile crept onto his lips as he settled himself above his sheets, his eyes scanning over you.

“Come here,” he said, nervousness washing over you, “Trust me,”

You paused at first before standing from beneath your covers. Your underdress was the only thing to cover you now as you crossed the tent. Ragnar patted the spot beside him and cautiously you sat down, picking at your thumbs. His hand closed over yours, “You’ll make yourself bleed,” he said, and you just nodded as his eyes continued to study your face.

“Has anyone ever kissed you?” he whispered.

You swallowed before answering, “Once,” you said, tempted to pick at your skin but somehow resisting, “But I wasn’t very good at it,”

“Perhaps you should try again,” he whispered, his hot breath fanning over your skin as he moved to rest his forehead against yours.

“Perhaps you could teach me,” you whispered, a spark lighting in his eyes, “if I am to go back to your land perhaps it is time I Learned your ways,”

“All our ways?” he asked, his hand reaching over to run his fingers lightly up your thighs making you shiver, “Is that what you desire little one?”

“Would it be so wrong if I did?” you asked and the way your wide eyes gazed into his made Ragnars cock begin to harden.

His hand trailed slowly up your leg, torturously so until it arrived at your hip. You gasped when he grabbed it, pulling you over to straddle his thigh. “Ragnar- “you gasped, when he bent his leg up, propping you up on his strong thigh, “What are you doing?”

“Teaching,” his hands reached for your hair, pulling your lips down onto his. This was far different from the last time someone had kissed you. this was rough and needy and made whines leave your throat as one of his hands moved to your hips.

You couldn’t even question what he was doing before he began to move your hip, making you grind down onto his thigh. The way you whimpered made Ragnar wonder if Odin himself had blessed him. Ragnar guided your hips and soon your body took over, rubbing your clit against his strong thigh as his hand squeezed the flesh of your hips.

When he pulled his lips away yours chased after his making a chuckle leave them before he began to kiss down your jaw. “You don’t need to be quite little one,” he mumbled against your skin as a soft moan left your mouth, “No one will judge,”

His lips soon found the crook of your neck, kissing it in a way that made a knot in your stomach tighten. Since your hips now moved of their own accord his hands were free to travel up your frame, taking your tits in his hand and making you gasp as he squeezed them softly.

He felt his cock twitch at the feeling of the Hardened buds beneath your shift. His fingertips trailed slowly around your nipples at first, enjoying your needy whines before he finally began to roll them between his fingers.

“Oh god,” you moaned as he pinched them gently, but your words just made him want you more and groan against your skin.

It didn’t take long for a tight feeling to spread across your body, “What is happening to me?” you asked but it came out as more of a whine.

“Enjoy it little one,” Ragnar said, his lips moving to kiss your check, “Let yourself let go,” he said before your lips slammed onto his even catching yourself by surprise. Your moans allowed him to slip his tongue in, the kiss becoming messier and more desperate as you grinded against his thigh.

He felt your body jerk and Ragnar smirked into the kiss knowing what was about to happen. Your lips broke apart only for your head to fall in the crook of his shoulder, “Oh god,” you began to moan again before you felt your peak wash over you like a tidal wave.

sensing your body tensing and hips slowly Ragnar reached for your hips, moving them for you so he could watch you ride out your peak on his thigh. Curses left your lips before you finally slumped into his chest. Ragnar let out a small chuckle, letting his leg lay flat and holding you against his chest. Ragnar had defiantly made the right decision he thought.

[symbiomancy]

LAUNDRY —ryomen sukuna

summary: Step-brother Sukuna finds your panties. He's only borrowing; you'll get them back later.

cw: stepcest, masturbation, panty stealing

wc:. 1,2k

also on ao3

Coexisting with you is unbearable.

You’re everywhere, he can’t escape the traces of your existence. What was once just his room and Yūji’s room with a small guest room (that they moreso used as a storage space than an actual bedroom) on the second floor of the house, is now their rooms and yours.

He can’t escape. The lingering smell of your perfume—strawberry—and an array of body and face products, make-up, hair items littering all surfaces of the second-floor bathroom. Time and time again he removes your shampoo and conditioner bottles from his shelf in the shower only to find them there again within the week. You leave your clothes all over the place, all of them skimpy, barely covering your chest and ass when you prance around the house—he doesn’t think he’s ever seen you wearing a bra, always averting his eyes from the stiff peaks underneath your cropped shirt whenever you breeze by.

Sukuna stares at yet another pile of clothes on the bathroom floor. Fuck, you’re messy, leaving your stuff everywhere that isn’t your room. He’d folded one of your black shirts with his laundry the last time he ran the dryer, had grabbed your strawberry yogurt from the fridge because it was right next to his unflavored yogurt and the cartons look exactly the same—fuck, he’s essentially been walking you to and from school like some sort of bodyguard or a lame boyfriend for nearly two months because his father had asked him to show you the way the first week or so.

Coexisting is unbearable and yet it is utterly impossible to escape your presence.

He grabs the crumpled clothes, intent on throwing them at your head when he walks past your door to his room but something catches his eye. Right there, in the middle of the pile, nestled between what he thinks is an unholy union between a skirt and a pair of shorts and a shirt that’s more zipper than fabric. He pulls it out of the pile—underwear—hot pink, lined with frilly lace—and runs a thumb over the seat of them. Still warm, only barely so.

He pockets the offending item and drops the rest of the pile back onto the floor where he found it. His cock is straining uncomfortably against his boxers as he slips out of the bathroom, glancing down the hall to check you’re not there, one hand in his joggers’ pockets, twisting your panties around his fingers.

He kicks his door closed and throws himself onto his bed, pulling down the waistband of his pants and boxers. His cock springs out, already hard, and slaps against his abdomen. It leaves a dribble of sticky precum on his skin. He thumbs the slit at the tip with a low hiss from the back of his throat, then drops his hand to circle the head in slow, deliberate motions.

His mind conjures up an image of you in nothing but one of those skimpy excuses for a shirt you’d pulled out the moment the season turned to mid-spring, and the pink panties in his hand, dragging them along the length of his cock. A shudder rocks through him and—no, no, that’s—that’s not his imagination, but a thinly-veiled memory of your early days in this house. He’d thrown the bathroom door open one morning to find you sitting on the toilet lid, elbows resting on your knees, brushing your teeth, white dribbling from between your lips. You’d stared at each other for a few long moments, his eyes dipping to your cleavage in the nearly see-through white shirt, your nipples perked. He only barely avoided the shampoo bottle aimed at his head.

That’s right; you’ve been a tease since the day you moved in, walking around in shorts so short he sees more cheek than fabric, not locking the bathroom door when you shower—he’s barged in to piss while you’re in the shower more times than he can count. He’s let his eyes wander from his reflection in the mirror to your figure hidden behind the opaque shower door when washing his hands.

His hand twists and curls in rapid motions around his cock, the texture of your underwear a welcome change of pace from just his hand, even though they barely qualify as underwear with how little there is to them. Yeah, you’ve seen him, held eye contact with him in the middle of the night when you’re leaned over the table, ass up, eating a sandwich while the TV played a rerun of some shitty vampire show in the background. A flimsy shirt, halfway unbuttoned, giving him a clear view of your cleavage. He didn’t miss the way your eyes dipped to his gray sweats, lingering there for a moment too long to be considered an accident. He’s not insane, no, he’s seen the lingering looks you’ve been sending him ever since that night, noticed the way you press so close to him when you need anything in his immediate vicinity, tits straining out of your shirt, caged between your upper arms as you lean over to look at something.

He’d bend you over the kitchen table if he could, plunge his cock into your wet, tight heat, and take you right there with the curtains drawn back so that anyone walking past the house could see him claiming you, filling you up with his cum.

His cock twitches in his hand and thick ropes of cum spurt out. It splatters on your panties and his joggers, and a few drops land on his chest. His chest is heaving, thin beads of sweat decorating his forehead as he breathes in the stale summer air. His muscles relax, your panties sandwiched between his hand and his softening cock, and he sinks into the mattress. A pleasant haze settles over him.

He’s a fucking pervert. Holy shit, he’s a disgusting, sleazy pervert.

Sukuna drags his free hand down his face with a long exhale to recalibrate himself.

His bedroom door opens with a flourish and you lean inside, one hand gripping the doorframe for balance, mouth open as if you’re about to say something before you abruptly stop. Your eyes dart from his face to his cock still fisted in his hand, some of the hot pink frilly lace peering between his fingers. Your face goes blank for a moment, then you manage a smile, something too saccharine to be genuine.

“I was looking for those,” you say, pointing a finger towards your underwear. “I’m doing laundry. Throw ‘em in when you’re done but don’t take too long!”

The door slams on your way out and Sukuna is left there, staring after you, jaw slack. He sits up in a flash, lets go of his cock, and hikes his pants and boxers up with one hand, the other clutching the cum-seeped pair of underwear. He almost trips over his rug in his haste to the door and throws it open.

You pause at the top of the stairs and raise an eyebrow at him, your small laundry hamper under one arm. Sukuna shakes out the tension in his shoulders and throws the balled-up underwear and you catch the pair with ease.

You stare at the pair in your hand, run a thumb over a glob of cum and press it into the fabric. Then, you look at him, smile that too-saccharine smile again, before disappearing down the stairs.

divider & banner from @/cafekitsune

[evieskiesss]

PSYCHO KILLER- TOM KAULITZ

𝙒𝘼𝙍𝙉𝙄𝙉𝙂𝙎: 𝙤𝙗𝙨𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣, 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙛𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣, 𝙥𝙨𝙮𝙘𝙝𝙤 𝙠𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙧, 𝙟𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙮, 𝙜𝙤𝙧𝙚, 𝙠𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜

a/n: HAPPY MF HALLOWEEN SLUTS. I HOPE YALL LIKE THISSSS

-

"have you heard?" Lana asked in a whispered tone. You turned to her, eyebrows furrowed, "heard what?"

She jerked her head toward the crowd of people in the hallway. "Otto from math class was found dead yesterday." Your head whipped toward her, your jaw dropping. You slowly walked further into the school hall, people crowded in front of a locker.

Piles of flowers, letters and writings, all surrounded by the photo of Otto. Your heart sank, you stood in front of the locker as you got a clear view.

You weren't close friends with Otto, you two only occasionally spoke during your math class, especially since he sat directly next to you. "shit... i spoke to him yesterday.."

Lana raised her eyebrows, a slightly sorry expression on her face. The small interaction between you two from yesterday played in your mind. You bit your lip, staring at the photo of him. His pearly smile showing, the small chip in his teeth evident. It was from a small accident he had when he was little.

The bell rang, indicating the next class had started. "shit," Lana cursed under her breath. She grabbed your wrist, pulling you along, "let's go!" You silently ignored her, your eyes not leaving the boy's image as she pulled you away.

You both silently entered your math class, sneaking your way into your seat, setting your bag down. You look over to the seat next to yours, it was empty. You bit your lip again, fingers gently reaching over to his empty spot.

Your fingers grazed his small doodles on the table, suddenly, a hard smack of a book bag on the table startled you. Your body jumped in its seat, your arm retracting itself immediately. A laugh came from above you, you looked up to see the familiar boy.

Tom snickered, now taking his bag off the table as he plopped himself into the ,what used to be, empty seat. "scared ya?" he smiled, his black piercing perfectly adorning his lip.

You chuckled, hand on your chest as your heart beat out of your chest, "yeah," you breathed out with a flat smile. "you've been really easy to scare lately," he smiled cockily, adjusting himself in his seat.

     "yeah.. i guess it's just with what's going on lately," you chuckled nervously, looking down at your hands. You shook your head, "i don't know who could even do something like that.. you gotta be some type of... psycho killer to do that."

    His head whipped towards you, staring. His tongue poked through his cheek, "psycho killer?"

You turned to him, nodding. "yes. you've got to be some type of insane to do that.."

Tom stayed silent, his tongue now playing at his tongue ring, "yeah.. i guess you do," he agreed, a strange smile on his face . Something about his tone was just.. off..

Nine victims. Nine people dead in the past 3 weeks. All found stabbed, bloodied & with their mouths wide open. The killers signature was established right after the second murder, using the victims blood to write next to them, GHOSTFACE, which has been used throughout every single one.

Police have gone insane trying to find this masked killer. Some witnesses have reported having seen the killer, dressed in a costume of the infamous Ghostface from the well-known Scream movies.

The murders stayed on your mind constantly. Paranoia consumed you everywhere you went, whose to say you weren't going to be the next victim?

The worst part, was that you knew all of them.

You now always looked behind you, to your sides. One earphone out of an ear, just to hear if someone was near you.

And even then, you were startled completely when Lana threw herself onto your back. "hello!" she squealed, throwing herself on you. You grunted, nearly falling forward, "fuck- lana! i almost just fucking elbowed you in the face!"

Lana laughed, rolling her eyes. "whatever," she smiled. She looked around her for a moment, making sure no one was listening. "haven't you heard?" she asked, her toothy grin showing.

Your heart sank, "..another murder?"

She made a face, hitting your shoulder. "no, silly! gosh- you with those murders. anyway, Hänsel is going to ask you out!" she whispered harshly, shaking your arms with excitement.

You furrowed your eyebrows, "what?". She nodded rapidly, chewing her gum, "mhm! i overheard it during physics and wait- wait, now he's coming!"

You freaked out by her excitement, her constant shaking of your arms now causing nervousness to bubble. You heard someone clear their throat behind you.

You turned to see Hänsel. He was tall, pale, his hair was a messily straight, light brown. Rosy cheeks & a broad nose. "hi," he smiled.

You smiled back, "hi." He bit his lip for a moment, "not to sound weird but, are you doing anything special tonight?". His eyes wandered down, leaving your eyes to meet your cleavage.

He shamelessly stared, then let his gaze wander downward again. You felt a tight squeeze on your wrist, you could recognize Lana's touch even with your eyes closed.

"uh- no, i'm not," you chuckled. His eyes snapped back to yours, "great. i'll send you my address," he smiled again before walking off.

You turned back around, a large smile on Lana's face. She jumped with excitement, "you have a date tonight!". You chuckled, "yeah, i guess."

From the corner of your eye, a tall figure moved around, cutting down the corner from the hall. You only were able to catch a glimpse of what you could only find familiar from the person, black braids.

       You turned back to look at yourself in the mirror, "i don't know, lana! what if he's not what i think he's like?" you pouted, sitting on the edge of Lana's bed. She groaned, throwing a sock at you.

    "oh, shut up! he asked you out for a reason. plus, haven't you kinda had a thing for him since like.. middle school?" she asked obviously referring to the many times you'd commented on his attractive appearance.

    You rolled your eyes, "well, yeah.. but.. i don't know," you rubbed your nape. "i just... feel weird," you mumbled, rubbing your own arms. She groaned louder, "gosh- here you go again with these murders!" she complained.

    You sighed, looking around the room to avoid her scolding. "you've gotta let that go! i know, it's bad- really bad.. but, c'mon! you can't let that just control your life!"

    You looked back down to your hands, chipping at the fresh nail polish. She wasn't wrong. Ever since the murders started, you really let yourself go. You never went out, only stayed in, refused to go anywhere that wasn't crowded (for more witnesses).

"just let loose, that's not a crime. now let's go, we have 15 minutes to get you there," she smiled, grabbing your bag. You sighed, following her out the door.

It didn't take long for you to arrive at Hänsel's house. The front porch light was on, everything around was quite quiet. The house was slightly isolated, you didn't exactly expect for him to leave near a woody area.

The sounds of bushes rustling filled your ears, the tree leaves falling as the wind blew harsher, a natural whistle coming from its strong blowing. The door opened, a smiley Hänsel standing, "hey," he stepped aside, letting you in.

"hi," you chuckled, stepping in. He closed the door, locking it behind him. The house was dimly lit, it was strangely cold.. and oddly quiet. "we can head to my room, I put a movie on for us," he took your hand, leading you.

You nodded, swallowing as you followed him. You entered his room, it wasn't as dark. His lights were low , the bed done, along with a couple of snacks.

He sat down on the bed, patting the place next to him as he scooted over. "i hope you like Bride of Chucky," he joked, turning it on. You sat down next to him, smiling, "i love that movie."

"so do i," he replied, dimples showing. He was attractive, his lips very tempting as he licked his lower lip. His hands managed to travel around your shoulders, holding you close as the movie progressed.

It started off at a distance, both of you slowly gravitating toward each other until your bodies were pressed against the other. It felt nice. He was warm, the snacks were yummy & the movie was great.

But again, there was a strange feeling that you couldn't shake off. Especially, with the occasional floor creaking. You'd whip your head each time towards the door, but nothing. The paranoia began building up on you.

The tapping on his window, which he explained to be the tree branches. The creaking, the loud gushes of wind, so many things began to build up on you, even, the hand of his that began to travel down.

His hand left your shoulder, slowly inching down to the top of your breast. His breath slowing as you could feel his lustful gaze from the corner of your eye. You kept your eyes glued to the screen, thinking that if you'd ignored it, it would just go away.

It didn't work, as you can feel his breath grow closer, nearly hitting your ear directly. You cleared your throat, sitting up abruptly, ripping his hand away. "where's your bathroom?" you asked, not looking at him.

He was taken aback, and to say the least, disappointed. He didn't respond for a moment, bringing his arm back to his side. "door to the left," he mumbled, clearly upset.

You hopped on your feet, leaving his bedroom and entering the first door to your left. You locked it, your hands finding the door as you placed them flat. You steadied your breathing, "fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck."

You closed your eyes, taking deep breaths. You should've known he wasn't looking for a romantic night. You looked at yourself in the mirror, staring at your reflection. "you're okay.. you're okay," you comforted yourself.

You gulped, turning the water on as you collected some wet water to pat on your neck. You swiped some water across your chest, trying to freshen yourself up.

The sounds from the movie were loud, Chucky's cackling heard from the bathroom as what you presumed to be, stabbing sounds. You shook your head again, fingers tightly gripping the sink. "get yourself together. it's fine, it's fine. just tell him you're feeling sick."

You took another minute, collecting yourself & your thoughts, rehearsing your line over & over again. You brushed your fingers through your hair before taking a deep breath, & leaving the bathroom. Your steps were loud compared to the quiet home, the movie loudening as you grew closer to his room.

The door was slightly opened, only an inch or two from it being completely shut. You looked at your feet, pushing the door open before taking your steps inside. "Hänsel, I think I should just go-"

You stopped in your tracks, your voice caught in your throat as you took in the scene in front of you. Hänsel laid on his bed, sprawled out in a starfish position. His sheets were soaked in blood, wide holes in his shirt. His eyes were wide & bloodshot, deadly staring back at you with no life.

His mouth was wide open, blood pouring out as he gurgled. He coughed, tongue shaking as he tried to speak. Blood splatters painted his walls, drops of it all across his face. His shirt was slightly lifted, you only caught a glimpse of the numerous deep wounds that oozed red liquid.

You screamed, an ear piercing, chilling scream. You stumbled back rapidly, eyes never leaving his wounded body until you collided with something harsh. You whipped around.

"boo," he smirked. You shrieked, stumbling back. He laughed at your reaction, "you really are getting easier to scare." Your breathing became heavy, your head spinning as you couldn't believe it. It was Tom.

    The thick black cloak covered him entirely, the bloodied Ghostface mask in his right hand. He held the bloodied knife in his left, head cocking to the side. "what, honey? don't tell me you're scared," he said pouting, fauxing a sympathetic tone as if he were talking to a child.

      He took a step closer to you, to which you stepped back. Your whole body trembled with fear and confusion. "T-tom.. h-how could you?" you asked, hurt in your voice. The boy you'd known for so long, was the killer.

     He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "you still don't get it, do you?" he asked, tapping his knife to his forehead. He took a step closer, his hand firmly holding your arm, digging into your flesh to hold you still.

    He pulled you close to him, you winced as his tight grip never faltered. "honey, i did this for you. for- for us," he explained, a smile on his face. You felt sick to your stomach at his tone, at his wicked smile.

      He chuckled as your face clearly showed your struggle to comprehend, your arm still trembling. "gosh, my love. i know you're not that dumb," he cooed, his hand loosening on your arm but now cupping your cheek.

     He chuckled as he explained again, "honey, all you had to do was not talk to all of these guys but.. look what happened," he turned you around, making you face the dead boy.

     Your breathe got caught in your throat, tears threatening to spill out of your eyes. You shook your head, not wanting to believe he was dead. dead because of you.

    You choked out a sob, backing up, attempting to leave the room. Your back collided with his chest, your own heaving as you let the tears leave. He wrapped his arm around you lovingly, moving your hair to one side, leaving it bare for him.

     He nuzzled his head into the crook of your neck, closing his eyes as he breathed in your scent. His nose nudging against your neck caused goosebumps to rise all over your body. His embrace oddly soothed you.

      He kissed your neck softly, his lip piercing gently grazing the sensitive skin. "did this all for you, baby," he whispered sadly. You shook your head, closing your eyes tightly. "why? why?!" you shouted.

    He turned you around again, making you face him. He smiled wickedly, his eyes soft on you. "because you're mine," he held your jaw, "nobody belongs with you except me."

     Your glossy eyes stared back at his, your breath steadying as you took in his words. His fingers were coated in blood, smearing it on accident across your face & clothes. He smiled softly, "c'mon honey, let's get you cleaned up," he whispered.

      He pulled your hand to the bathroom, quickly swooping you onto the sink. By wetting some paper, he wiped your face gently, making sure to rid you of another boy's blood. You were silent, staring at his face intently as you watched him be so loving after murdering someone.

     He'd smile at you occasionally, obsession coursing through his veins. He slipped the bloodied papers into his pocket, sighing as his hands now held your thighs. His face was so close to yours, his breath fanning against your face.

     "i knew you'd be so understanding," he sighed happily. You stared back at him, silent, mouth slightly agape. He held your head, pressing his lips softly against your forehead. His thumbs rubbed your cheekbones,

    "i love you... you're never leaving me."

[campingwiththecharmings]

driver!jake x rich girl!reader

👀👀👀👀

i...am 99.9% sure @melodygatesauthor has probably written this (or something similar lol) but i am happy to put my spin on it as well 😌

---

You're wearing that skirt again.

The one he's sure you know drives him crazy, the one that's so short it barely covers anything, the edges fluttering slightly as you walk, granting him glimpses of the tantalizing treasure beneath.

He tries not to stare, really he does, knows it's not the most professional thing to do (especially as an employee of your father's) but...it's just so hard (in more ways than one).

You certainly don't make his job as your driver easy. Dancing and drinking into the early hours of the morning with your friends (all of whom have tried to pick him up at least once), drunkenly piling into his limo in your designer dresses and heels, giggling and screaming as he quietly drives you back to your penthouse (where the party will likely continue). If he wasn't paid so much, he might be more annoyed at the state of his backseat after he's dropped you off--more than once, he's had to have his (normally) pristine limo professionally cleaned after one of your overserved friends has puked all over his leather seats.

Yes. You're definitely lucky he's paid so well.

Tonight had started as it usually did, with you and your friends asking to be dropped of at some club downtown. It's 1 a.m., and Jake knows he still has a few hours before the club closes for the night. Deciding to stretch his legs, he exits the vehicle, shucking his jacket and tossing it in the driver's seat. He closes the door with his hip, rolling the sleeves of his dress shirt up to his elbows.

Briefly, he considers taking a walk but this part of town is a tad sketchy and he's not too comfortable leaving his car unattended here in the street. Instead, he opts to lean against the side, pulling a cigarette from his pocket. He lights it, groaning softly as he takes a pull, the smoke filling his lungs as he inhales deeply. Jake closes his eyes to savor the pleasant buzz in his head from the nicotine, tipping his head back a little and exhaling slowly. He opens his eyes just as the last tendrils of smoke are blown away by the warm, night breeze, and sees you.

There you are, standing alone on the sidewalk in front of him, designer coat folded over your arm, soft smile on your lips. Jake starts, immediately throwing the cigarette down and stomping it out, his back going rigid as he stands to attention.

"Oh, ah--Ready to go, Miss?"

Your lips twitch, eyes dragging slowly down the length of him before you say, "Yes. Take me home, Mr. Lockley."

Jake nods, briefly wondering where the rest of your group is as he pulls open the door to the back of the limo for you. When you don't get in immediately, he looks back, questioning.

With a twinkle in your eyes that he hadn't noticed before, you tell him, "I'd rather sit up front this time, actually."

He nods slowly, wondering what game you're playing with him now. "Of course, whatever you'd like."

Jake closes the back door and turns, pulling open the passenger door for you instead. You make eye contact with him as you brush past, the delicious scent of you invading his senses.

Yeah. He's in big trouble.

Absently, he wets his lips, closing the door once you're inside. He takes his time making his way back around to the driver's side, trying to compose himself for the ride back to your penthouse.

You've always been a hard one for him to read. You've teased him before, sure, but...he'd always figured you were just having fun, that you were just toying with the hired help--that's just what spoiled, little rich girls did, right?

He tosses his jacket into the back and gets in, closing the door and pulling his seat belt on. The engine purrs to life when he turns the key in the ignition, the sound calming his nerves a little. He puts the car into gear, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. You're looking out the window, head turned mostly away from him, body angled so you can rest your elbow against the door. He takes a moment to admire your profile, the soft line of your neck, the way the material of your skirt pulls against your thighs. Then, he clears his throat.

"Seat belt."

You look over at him, teasing smile returning to your painted lips as you look at him from beneath your lashes. For a moment, he thinks you're going to talk back, to argue, to tell him you can do whatever you want, but instead, you wordlessly buckle yourself in, eyes never leaving his. He nods, swallowing thickly as he returns his attention ahead.

Your penthouse isn't far from the club you'd been at, and it normally doesn't take long for him to make it back there after your nights out on the town, but he remembers too late that you left earlier than usual this evening and hits a little more traffic than he'd like. You've been quiet the entire drive, simply staring out the window, shifting in your seat every now and then. He can't be sure, but he feels like you might be doing it on purpose, to draw his attention to the fact that your skirt has ridden up so high on your delectable thighs that he can see a flash of the white lace panties beneath them. Jake fights the urge to groan, instead keeping his attention on the road a head of him.

He's relieved when he spots the familiar building that houses your penthouse, internally breathing a sigh of relief as he smoothly halts at the entrance. The doorman rushes out to open the door for you, but you wave him off, instead turning back toward Jake, that gleam still in your eyes.

"Would you mind walking me upstairs, Mr. Lockley?" you ask, your voice soft and far more innocent than the look in your eyes. "I'm not used to being up there all alone."

Jake pauses, considering the repercussions. If he says no, will you complain about him to your father? He could lose his job. But if he says yes, and you do what he thinks you're going to do, he'll lose it anyway, won't he? (that, or your father will kill him)

So either way he's screwed, it seems. Least he can do is have a little fun first.

Jake nods, wetting his lips again as he steers the car toward the garage beside your building. He parks in the spot marked for the penthouse (a spot that's conveniently located right beside the elevator), and helps you out of the vehicle. The edge of your skirt has risen up so high, he can see the curve of your ass cheeks peeking from beneath it as you walk ahead of him to the elevator. He stifles another groan, trying his best to remain professional just in case he's misreading this situation.

The ride up in the elevator is excruciating. All he can think about is pinning you up against the side and shoving his face between your legs. He wonders how you taste (he imagines something rich and sweet, like champagne), how you'd sound, how you'd look just as you're about to come.

The elevator chimes, startling him from his thoughts, the doors opening into the foyer of the penthouse. It's lavish, elegant, but also somehow understated. Perhaps a little like you, he thinks.

Inside he breaths a sigh of relief, thinking his task is done, that he's free to return to his car and go home for the evening...but as you step off onto the white marble floor, you turn slightly, waving him inside.

"Come in, have a drink with me."

Jake hesitates, and you must see it because you chuckle and say, "It's the least I can do for making you walk me all the way up here."

He smiles, nodding his thanks as he makes a waving gesture with his hands. "Please, Miss, there's no need. I'm just doing my job."

Disappointment clouds your eyes at his words and you look away with a quiet sigh, one he only catches because he's watching you so closely. Suddenly you look so....lonely. Standing there in this grand penthouse, all alone. He shouldn't feel bad for you, you have everything you could ever want, everything he doesn't, but...he can't seem to help himself.

Knowing he'll likely end up regretting it, he steps inside, his shoes squeaking slightly on the floor. Your head swivels back toward him at the sound, a light in your eyes when she realizes you've decided to stay. The sight makes something warm unfurl in his chest.

Half an hour later, you're both sitting in your living room (on the most uncomfortable couch he's ever had the misfortune of sitting on), glasses in hand and a bottle of Macallan whisky between you. Your ridiculous heels lay discarded on the floor, delectable legs curled up beneath you as you both laugh about something one of you had said.

Jake's always prided himself on being able to hold his alcohol but, honestly? He's pretty certain that, if he's not drunk now, he is well on his way. He can't stop staring at you, at the way your smile lights up your whole face, the way your eyes sparkle when you say something cheeky...the way your skirt is still riding up your thighs.

He takes another sip from his glass (which he should really stop doing if he's planning on driving himself home later), the liquid burning down his throat. Jake licks his lips, eyes glued to your thighs, wondering idly how soft your skin is, how you'd react if he pushed his calloused hand beneath the hem of your skirt, his fingers dancing along the edge of your panties--

"Jake?"

His eyes shoot back to yours, heat flaring in his cheeks at being caught. You're close (when had you gotten so close?), so close he can smell you, can feel the heat of you through your clothes.

He hums in response, not trusting that his mouth is capable of coherent speech at the moment. You smile, putting your arm against the back of the couch, the length of your body pressed along the side of his as you lean in to whisper in his ear.

"I want you."

Jake groans softly at your words, unable to contain himself any longer. He feels you smile against the side of his neck, your lips dragging along the skin there. You press a feather-light kiss just below the hinge of his jaw and he leans back a little, giving you more space. You hum, nipping at another spot and soothing it with your tongue. Your fingers find their way into his hair, plunging into his soft curls, and gently angling his head where you want it.

You kiss him and he groans again, eyes fluttering shut as your lips move tentatively against his. His hand cups your cheek and you sigh, the action making something tighten in his chest. Soon you're straddling his lap, skirt ridden up so far you might as well not be wearing it (which would be just fine with Jake). His hands are everywhere--cupping your face, slipping beneath your top, clutching your ass, pushing up your thighs toward the hem of your skirt--

You break the kiss with a gasp as his fingertips skim over the delicate lace covering your pussy, your thighs quaking on either side of him.

"Please," you whine breathlessly, mouth falling open as you chase his touch.

Obligingly, Jake slips a finger inside, groaning softly at how warm and wet you are. He swirls his fingertip around your clit, gently teasing it, and dragging the most delicious sounds from between your lips. He watches transfixed as you writhe in his lap, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth parted. You moan as he slips his fingers further south, briefly teasing your entrance before dipping inside. Your fingers clench in his shirt as you move against his hand, his name spilling from your mouth like a prayer.

"That's it, bebita," he breathes, his chest heaving a little as he watches you. "Take what you need."

You moan again as he circles your clit, leaning forward to press your forehead against his, breath fanning against his lips. You whine his name again and he groans, the sound going straight to his cock. When you come, he swears it's the most beautiful sight he's ever seen, your breath hitching, mouth slack, eyes closed in ecstasy, body shaking as your orgasm rocks through you.

Jake brings his fingers to his lips as you try to catch your breath, moaning as the rich taste of you explodes on his tongue. He wants more, wants to devour you, to make you come over and over and over again on his tongue until he's swallowed every last ounce of your essence.

He wonders if you'd let him.

You kiss him then, slow and sensual, humming a little as you lick into his mouth. He groans when your hand slips inside his trousers, taking him in your hand.

"Need you, Jake," you pant, lightly rubbing your thumb over his tip.

He throws his head back against the edge of the couch, cursing under his breath in Spanish. He hears you chuckle, your delicate hands working him from his pants.

He clutches at your hips as you sink down onto him, that silly little skirt bunched up around your waist. His fingers dig into your soft flesh as you ride him, your hands fisting in his thick hair as you pull his mouth back to yours. You're squeezing him, your cunt fluttering around his length as he fucks up into you, searching for the spot he knows will fling you over the edge. You break the kiss with a gasped moan when he finds it, whimpering and whining into his ear as he hits it again and again ("Oh fu--right there, Jake. Yeah, just like that. Oh God. Oh fuck---"). You gush around him when you come, soaking and squeezing his cock. He follows you over the edge, spilling himself inside you with a broken groan.

He ends up staying the night (and if he makes you come a few more times before the sun rises, well, who's to say?).

**apologies for any mistakes, this was absolutely not proofread lol**

If you enjoyed this, please let me know! I appreciate every single reblog and/or comment. Thank you. 💖

🌟 Masterlist 🌟

i am no longer doing a taglist. please follow @charmingupdates for updates and turn on notifications.

PART 2

[danikamariewrites]

Sunball Sunday

Ruhn x Lidia

A/n: To kick off Ruhn week Ruhn treats his new family to a Sunball game outing. @ruhnweek

Warnings: !Major CC3 spoilers!

“Come on guys, we’re going to be late!” Lidia yells, already standing by the front door ready to go. She had been ready for over thirty minutes now. Males, she groans loud enough in her mind for Ruhn to hear. “I’ll be out a minute I swear.” Her mate responds mentally.

Brann ran from his bedroom right into Ruhn and Lidia’s. The shifter throws her head back in annoyance. Why can’t they just be ready on time? Ace emerges from the room he shares with his twin, dressed in a Crescent City Sunball shirt along with a matching hat. “Thank you, for being the only one ready.” He gives his mother a small smile going to stand next to her.

After five more impatient minutes Ruhn and Brann are finally ready to leave. Without words Lidia ushered her boys out the door and down to the black car waiting for them. The ride over to the stadium was the happiest Lidia had ever been. Yes, she had been ecstatic when her and Ruhn got engaged, and seeing her boys again. But this happiness was something else. Watching Ruhn and her boys talk animatedly about Sunball and just getting along in general is everything.

Pulling up to the back entrance of the stadium Ruhn noticed Lidia staring, returning her loving gaze. “What’s that look for?” He asked mind-to-mind, not wanting to interrupt the Ace and Brann’s conversation about player statistics. “Nothing, I’m just happy. Today’s going to be a good day.” The smile evident even in her minds voice.

Once the car stops the twins are the first to jump out, full of excitement to get to the private box they’ll be sharing with the rest of the family. Today was their first time going to a game which, according to Ace, is much better than watching it under water.

“You must be the Danaan-Cervos family,” a woman dressed in a stylish suit says brightly. Ruhn and Lidia were both taken aback by the words. Never hearing their last names and ‘family’ together before. They look at each other, feeling more alive than ever at the peace they’ve found in each other. Ruhn opened his mouth to answer, only to be beat by Brann, “Yup, are you showing us to our seats?”

Lidia put a hand to her mouth to stop the sob creeping up her throat. Family. They are a family. Ruhn puts an arm around her, pulling Lidia into his side. Pressing a kiss to her temple for good measure.

“Yup, right this way.” The woman’s smile never faltering as the boys followed and bombarded her with questions about the team. Walking through the stadium Lidia watched her boys take in the busy stadium, in awe at the merch and food stands.

“Can we, mom?” Ace asked, breaking Lidia from her trance. Both boys look up at her and Ruhn with hopeful faces. Looking at Ruhn for help he smirks at her. “New shirts before or after the game.” He says nonchalantly filling Lidia in on the conversation she had tuned out. Looking back down at her boys she squints, pretending to think. “I say now.” The twins cheer and follow the guide into the shop.

After spending twenty minutes raiding the gift shop the Danaan-Cervos family made it to their private suite. The guide opened the door for them, revealing Bryce & Hunt, Flynn & Dec with Mark. Ithan and Perry seated in front talking with Sathia and Tharion, drinks already in hand.

Bryce lights up (literally and figuratively) at the sight of them. They rush to hug her and Hunt, who point out all the food and sodas they can gorge themselves on. Dropping their merch bags they head over to make a plate.

“Took you guys long enough,” Flynn teases, “I can’t believe I was here before you, never mind Bryce and Hunt.” Bryce elbows the lordling in the ribs, giving him a smirk at the wince of pain he lets out. “They already look like they’re having the time of their life.” Bryce says with a smile as she stared at the boys piling chicken tenders and pizza on their plates. “Yeah,” Lidia nods. “Thank you again for this. They are so happy to be here.”

The music blaring from the field announcing one minute until game time. Everyone goes to take their seats, watching as the teams run out on the field from the tunnels.

As the game went on Ruhn found himself watching Lidia and the boys more than the Sunball players on the field. Any chance he could Ruhn snapped pictures of the three of them. Selfies of them during time outs and with Aunt Bryce and Uncle Hunt. Dec even took pictures of them, seeing how important this moment is to Ruhn.

By the boys’s next weekend visit Ruhn had a few of the pictures printed and framed for the apartment. One for the living room, Ruhn and Lidia’s bedroom, and one of the boys meeting their favorite player in their room. Placing the last frame of their little family on the wall Ruhn stood back admiring the picture.

Lidia came up behind him, wrapping her arms around his middle as she stared at the picture. Perfect. It was all Lidia could think. It was perfect.

[infinityerlingx]

Baby Fever

P A R T 2

pairing - erling haaland x (fem)reader

genre - fluff / smut

warnings - smut !!! please do not read if you’re under 18 <3 swearing, breeding kink, size kink, unprotected sex, minors dni

read part one here !!

part 3 !

As soon as Isaac had been picked up, Erling couldn’t keep himself away from you. Now he knew that you both wanted to try, his mind went into overdrive. Thinking of everything he could, how you would look pregnant, how much of an amazing mother you would be, and the best part, he would be a dad.

You weren’t anywhere close to being pregnant however, you were always careful when having sex, making sure that you were on the pill, you hadn’t been taking your pill for a couple of weeks now, wanting to stay away from it, however you prayed every month that your period would come, but now your mind was working too quick for your liking as well. You were ready for it. You knew that this is what you both wanted, what was stopping you? And all it took was a day with his nephew.

Next thing you knew you were in bed, Erling slotted in between your legs. His left elbow propping himself up and his right hand trailing down to grip your waist, your arms thrown around his neck, pulling him ever so closer. Your lips met his in a heated kiss, his tongue battling with yours for dominance, you gave up letting him explore your mouth. You let out a quiet moan, Erling squeezed your hip in response.

He pulled away from your lips, sitting himself up and pulling you up with him, both of you sitting up, his hands trailed to the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and over your head, throwing it on the floor, his eyes landing on your bare chest, his head dipped down in between your breasts, leaving a kiss there, before going to the left one, swirling his tongue around your nipple, popping it in his mouth and sucking at your skin, his hand trailing up to give your right breast some attention before he swapped over, your hand rested on top of his hair, your nails scratching at his scalp, making him moan onto your boobs.

He pulled away a few moments later, your hands reached for the hem of his hoodie, pulling it up and over his upper half, he kicked his joggers off and pulled your shorts down, throwing them in a pile in the room. He was quick to lie you back down, your chests pressed together as his lips met yours again, his length, already hard, pressed into your inner thigh, sending butterflies straight to your stomach. The only barrier between the two of you being your underwear. Your hand trailed down, squeezing his bulge before trailing your hand under his boxers, pulling them down, Erling helped in taking them off fully. Kicking them straight to the floor.

Erling was still resting above you, his elbow keeping him from dropping all his weight onto you. Your hand had trailed down again, finding his cock, you gripped the base of it, before jerking upwards and swiping your thumb across his tip. You did all of this whilst looking into Erling’s eyes which were now dark, filled with lust. Your thumb worked across his tip a few times before you jerked him off again. A moan escaped Erling’s lips, which just spurred you on even more, working your hand a bit quicker. Erling let his free hand slip in between your bodies, pushing your panties to the side, your pulse quickened as he lifted his hand back, sucking on his middle and ring finger before going back down, pushing his fingers straight into you without warning. Your hand stopped jerking him as his movement shocked you, however you quickly got back to it.

You knew that you wouldn’t need much foreplay, your insides twisting with excitement already. Erling sat up on his knees, removing his fingers from your pussy, licking them clean, your hand lost contact with his cock. You pushed yourself up on your elbows watching his every move. He was quick to remove your underwear, you lifted your hips to help him before he threw them down with everything else on the floor.

Once he had positioned himself back in between your thighs, he leant down, pressing small kisses to your inner thighs, before sitting back up again. Your hand reached down for his cock once again, guiding it towards your entrance. Erling sent you a smirk, removing your hand and replacing it with his own, leaning down again, his lips pressed to yours as he pushed his length into you, he was halfway in and your eyes were watering, no matter how many times you had sex with Erling, the size of him would always be a surprise to you.

“Taking me so well kjære” He spoke, kissing you softly. Before pushing in the whole way, you felt him so deep inside of you, he stilled any movements, letting your walls adjust to him.

“You can move now love” You whispered against his lips, that made Erling’s mind switch, pulling almost all out of you before pushing straight back in again, his cock dragging along your walls. Your hands made their way to his hair, pulling it from the confinement of the hair tie, your fingers pulling on his blonde locks. You were both moaning into each other's mouths.

He reached for one of your hands, bringing it down to rest on your lower stomach, his hand pressing yours down, you could feel his cock bulging every time he hit inside of you.

“Can you feel me right there?” He spoke cockily, a smirk evident on his face. You couldn’t comprehend any words, his hips slamming into your own. You nodded your head, letting him know your answer, even though he already knew, he just wanted to get it out of you.

“Fucking me so good, I’m close” You spoke breathless. Erling took your words time for him to switch positions, he sat back up on his knees, pulling one of your legs up over his shoulder, you moaned loudly at the new depth he was hitting you at, Erling pressed kisses from your ankle, down to your thigh. You could tell he was getting closer, his thrusts stuttering.

“Gonna fill you up, put a baby inside of you” His hand came down to press on your lower stomach again “Gonna look so pretty with my baby in here” He pressed down a bit more, bringing your orgasm on quicker than expected, his hips still hammering into you.

“Let go baby, I’m right with you” With that you released, your orgasm washing over you, which brought on Erling’s release, his cum shooting far inside of you, strings of moans and curses left his lips. His head thrown back as his pleasure took over him, a sight you adored to see. His thrusts slowed down, riding you through your highs.

Your leg dropped from his shoulder and Erling’s body fell atop of the bed, his cock pulling out of you, making you feel empty, Both of you breathing heavily, you scooted closer to Erling, your arm coming around his body, your nails lightly scratching down his back, Erling sighed in content. You both lay like that for a couple of minutes, until your heart rates were back to normal. He was first to get up, leaning back and looking at your body in its post orgasmic state, he loved seeing you like this, a state that only he would see you in, sweat glistened off both of your bodies. You were both exhausted, but the best thing being that was probably the best sex you had both had.

You sent Erling a tired smile, you needed to go clean yourself up, feeling a mix of your orgasms spilling from you. Erling took himself off to the bathroom, getting a warm cloth, cleaning himself down first before coming back to you. Slotting himself in between your thighs again, the sight he was looking at was enough to make him hard again, if he wasn’t as tired as he was. He cleaned up the mess on your thighs, the warm water on the cloth made you sigh, however your pussy was so sensitive it made you flinch slightly. Erling apologised, leaning down and pressing a kiss to your stomach.

He got back off the bed, throwing the cloth into the washing basket in the bathroom, before wandering back into the bedroom. “Do you want any clothes? Or sleep naked” He asked, a smile on his lips.

“Hm, naked” You smiled back and Erling couldn’t argue with you on that one, his favourite way to sleep. He was quick to join you back in bed, getting you both under the covers, you half lay on him as he lay on his back. Your leg draped over his waist. Your hand rested on his chest, along with your head, your ear just above his heart, his heartbeat sending you into a light sleep already. Erling’s large arm wrapped around you, cuddling you closer into him. His head dipped down, kissing your hair.

“Jeg elsker deg” He whispered, looking down and you were asleep soundly on his chest, he squeezed your body a little, a smile on his face as he felt his eyes drooping, sending himself off into a deep sleep.

[antiromantic-astronaut]

Habit

Choi San x GN Reader

fluff

Content Warnings: exhausted San, showering together (non-sexual)

When San gets home, he slips his shoes off and shrugs out of his coat. He hears soft music playing in the bedroom and smiles, happy you’re home. After six weeks living in the dorms, he’s so excited to be home with you for a small break in promotion preparations. He leaves his bag on the couch and knocks on the bedroom door. He hears you exclaim his name and stumble to the door. 

There you are, your curly hair wild and frizzy around your face, your frame draped by a massive sweatshirt with a frog reading a book on it. He grins until his cheeks dimple and sweeps you into a warm hug.

“I’ve missed you so much!” He says, warm breath tickling your neck. 

“We spoke this morning,” you laugh. 

“It’s not the same,” he whines. “Didn’t you miss me?” 

You pull away and squish his cheeks between your hands and assure him that you’ve missed him so, so much. He moves quickly and catches one of your fingers between his teeth. You pull your hand away from his mouth and poke him in the stomach. 

“No bites!” 

He laughs, raising an eyebrow at you suggestively. You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays your amusement. 

“Okay, some bites,” you concede. “Have you eaten?” 

“Nope.” He steps further into the room, wrapping his arms around your waist. “What’d you have in mind?” 

“Hm, how about pho?”

“Perfect!” 

You spend the evening catching up on each other’s day-to-day and eating delicious food. San feels so refreshed being home with you. He’s sore and tired, but he’s so happy. You can see the exhaustion in the shadows beneath his pretty eyes and the stubble that he can’t be bothered to shave. 

“I have an idea,” you say, standing up and holding your hand out to him. He takes it without question, grinning as you pull him back into the bedroom and through to the bathroom. You strip out of your sweatshirt and underwear, tossing it all out of the bathroom, and turn to him with an expectant eyebrow raise. 

“Strip,” you laugh. 

He looks you up and down and nods, loving this idea so far. He strips out of his clothes quickly, throwing them into the pile you made just outside the door. Satisfied that you’re both sufficiently naked, you close the door and turn on the shower, steam quickly filling the room. 

You grab San’s hand and pull him under the stream. You take him by the shoulders and rotate so his back is to the water.

“I like when you manhandle me like this,” he laughs. 

You grin up at him, “It’s for your own good.” 

Your hands drop from his shoulders to his waist, fingers lingering against his skin for not nearly long enough for his liking. You grab your favorite body wash and lather it into a soft rag. You tilt his chin upward and gently massage the soap into his neck and shoulders. He hums, pleased with your work. His muscles begin to release some of the tension they’ve carried for the last month and half under your careful ministration. 

You touch his elbow and pull him so he turns to face the stream, and you wash his back. After his skin is completely lathered, you hang up the rag and focus entirely on soothing the knots in his muscles away with practiced pressure. He moans when you work on his right shoulder, and again when you massage his waist. 

His eyes are closed when you turn him around one more time, but he reaches out and pulls you into his chest. You hug him as the water rinses him. 

He frowns when he feels the goosebumps on your skin, “You’re freezing.” You begin to protest, but he spins around so that you’re warmed by the shower. You moan quietly as your body soaks in the heat. He holds you close, hands rubbing your biceps to smooth away the goosebumps. 

“Thank you,” you sigh, relaxing into him. 

“Thank you too,” he chuckles. “This was a great idea.” 

You hum in agreement. 

“Is it a wash day?” He asks, gently tugging on one of your ringlets. 

“Mhm,” you look up at him and poke one of his dimples. 

He hugs you closer and rotates again, which makes you laugh because you’re beginning to feel like an old washing machine stuck on the rinse cycle. 

He lets go of you so he can grab your shampoo. You’re always so impressed when he measures out the perfect amount in his first attempt. 

“Close your eyes,” he commands and you obey. 

His fingers work the shampoo through your curls with great care not to tug on any knots. You wince slightly when his thumb gets caught in a tangle. 

“Shit, sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it, you’re doing amazing.” You assure him with a gentle squeeze of his hip. 

He thoroughly rinses your hair, remembering how itchy your scalp had been the first time he washed your hair and he didn’t get all of the soap out. The light scratch of his nails at your temples feels so good. 

Next is conditioner. He lets the conditioner sit for a few minutes and then kindly detangles your hair like you showed him before, and he’s damn proud of his work. You praise him and his chest warms with pleasure. When it’s finally time to rinse, he twirls you around one more time. 

You finally open your eyes to look up at him, he grins and you return the gesture. He reaches around you and turns off the water. He leaves your side briefly to grab a big towel. He wraps you up in it, careful not to get your hair caught in it. He also hands you his towel and giggles when you drape it over his whole head. 

Once you’re both mostly dry, you return your towels to their rack. He puts his hands on your hips and cozies up behind you so you have to waddle out of the bathroom, nearly tripping over your pile of discarded clothing. You leave his grip to tidy the dangerous little pile and then climb into bed. You pat his side of it so he’ll join you, which he does without objection. 

Under the comforter, he pulls you close to himself and kisses you sweetly on the lips. You smile into it and he does too. You can tell he wants more. 

“San,” his name comes in a breathless whisper. “You need sleep.”

“I need you,” he counters with a smirk, raising an eyebrow. 

You trace the shadows beneath his eyes with your thumbs and shake your head. “Sleep first. Please.” 

He playfully narrows his eyes, but a big yawn betrays him. He sighs. 

“Okay, sleep first.” 

“Thank you,” you kiss his nose. 

Your skin against his and the fresh scent of your hair are so soothing that he falls asleep within five minutes. It takes you a little longer, but you follow his lead. You both sleep deeply and restfully, cuddled up close. 

[petrichor-idyllic]

aaaa this might be a really lame request, but would it be possible for a minho x reader where she splits up with him when brenda and thomas go back and instead of brenda getting bitten by a crank it was the reader (maybe she got bitten saving brenda) and how he reacts to seeing her get ill / recover? 🥲 seeing an active tmr blog the delivers such good content in 2023 actually made me gasp so like even if you don’t write this, i will be actively reading anything you write!

Oooo I actually really like this idea, of course I'll write it :))

Also I appreciate your continued support, you guys are the best.

Inaccurate dialogue to the films because I'm too busy to watch the movies for reference, but you get the jist.

IN ADVANCE OF GRIEF

MASTERLIST | MINHO MASTERLIST

SUMMARY: See above. Fem! Reader x Minho. Movie based fic. You came up with Teresa.

WARNINGS: Inappropriate language, you nearly die (again)(there's becoming a theme with my Minho fics)(I'm really putting this man through it), the Flare works differently in the movie vers. and all we get are the visual symptoms so I'm making this shit up, WICKED being WCKD because movie.

This wasn't meant to happen.

You just went after Thomas when he ran after Brenda - you couldn't leave him alone with a stranger.

And look where your kindness has gotten you. Biten by a Crank.

You're not really sure how it happened, but when that psycho tried to attack Brenda, you were the one to dive to her rescue. It's a blur, but once that glass broke and Thomas managed to catch Brenda, and you narrowly avoided death- you didn't even notice the pain in your leg.

It's fine.

It's no big deal.

You're probably immune.

You were in the Maze, after all.

The memories of waking up with an unconscious Teresa next to you are only from a few days ago, but now it feels like an eternity.

Though, you thought you were all immune. And look what happened to Winston.

You managed to hide it from your companions, only checking the injury when they weren't looking. But Brenda seemed to catch onto something not being quite right.

You lose Thomas and Brenda in the daze of a party you accidentally got dragged into, though you're pretty sure you see them kiss, (and Brenda get rejected,) before your body hits the floor.

"Rise and shine, shank," Minho gently pushes you awake as your eyes flicker up to meet his. He smiles at you.

Minho.

Minho.

You don't really know when your feelings for him started, especially since you don't think you've ever actually stood still. But whilst Teresa was unconscious and you were having some kind of mental breakdown, Minho made time to make sure you were alright - even with his ventures into the Maze.

Newt had his hands full running the place with Alby out of commission and Gally was throwing a paddy because Thomas had achieved the impossible. So, Minho and the Medjacks were the only ones around to keep you sane.

Maybe if you arrived at a different point, things would be different.

But they're not.

Thomas and Brenda are already awake. Brenda is sitting in a chair, looking forlorn and anxiously glancing at you. Thomas is talking to Teresa, which is also a bitter sight for Brenda.

"What happened?" You grumble, pushing yourself up on your elbows. You've been lying on a pile of cushions on the floor.

"You got wasted at some Crank party, passed out - the klunk you took was stronger than Gally's special brew," he snickers, offering you a hand to pull yourself up. Your eyes flicker up to his face and you smile.

He yanks you up and you stumble slightly. "Woah, easy, girly," he chuckles, placing his hand on the small of your back, stabilising you.

Your head feels foggy from the drugs, but your main concern is the throbbing sensation in your ankle. It stings and pulses, like something is living under your skin.

Minho notices your hesitance as your stomach drops.

You're not immune.

If you were, your whole leg would feel like it's covered in cobwebs and on fire.

Shit. What do you do now?

You don't want to worry your friends, they have enough on their plate. And maybe your body will take more time to fight the infection. Maybe it's too soon to tell.

You're lying to yourself, but it's all you can do.

"Hey, you feeling okay?" You force yourself to smile at him.

"Yeah, yeah, just a bit shucked up - where are we?" You look around the room as Minho lets go of you. There's a man tied to a chair in the middle of the room as Jorge yells at him.

"We found Marcus," Minho says simply.

"That's Marcus?" You and Thomas say in unison.

It's the same guy that spiked you earlier.

You step forward, a jolt of pain slicing you in two, making your leg twist awkwardly and your stomach flip.

"Shuck-! Christ, (Y/N)," Minho jumps to catch you before you manage to catch yourself. "Are you sure you're good?"

"Y-yeah," you try to push out a chuckle, but it comes out as pained. "Think I twisted my ankle before - nothin' I can't handle."

Minho looks unsure, his eyes flickering to your leg and then back up to your face. He can't show how much he cares.

How much he wants to say fuck this and just figure out a way to survive in the Scorch with you. You were gone for one night and now something's wrong - he knows it's wrong but he can't quite put his finger on what.

He's tired of fighting, of running, of everything.

But he figured things would be alright because he had you now.

Brenda moves to let you sit down in the armchair. She's seen it before, and if it were her in your situation, she wouldn't want everyone knowing either. And you proceed to completely zone out.

Too many thoughts swarm your head. Minho. The Flare. The state of your immunity. Who this guy is and how the fuck you're going to actually find the Right Arm.

That's a lot of ground to cover.

So, obviously, you steal a car. Marcus' car, to be more precise.

Bastard deserved it.

You all squeeze in the car, and you're stuck between Minho and Aris. Normally, being this close to Minho would send your brain foggy and have you blushing, but your body is literally rotting from the inside out.

The sickness set in pretty early into the car ride. Then the sweating and fever followed. You're struggling to keep your head up, which is less than ideal when you're trying to act completely normal.

But at least you're not walking.

So, you're less than pleased when you have to stop due to a pile of cars in the road.

You try your best to keep going, but everything everyone's saying is like static in your ears. Everything hurts, and it's a good thing Minho is paying attention when the gunshots start.

He yanks you behind a car with him and Newt - and he's not the only one noticing your state as Newt looks at you.

"What's wrong with her?" Newt asks, like you're not even there despite the current circumstances of being shot at.

"I don't know." Minho says bluntly, eyes scanning you as you lean back against the vehicle.

"You don't think-"

"Slim it, Newt," Minho snaps, "I don't wanna think."

"I'm fine," you say, adjusting yourself. "Just shucked up my ankle, that's all."

"Come on, get up! Up!" You jump out of your skin at the voices of two girls breaking your static state.

Who apparently knows Aris.

Small world, I guess.

Sonya and Harriet lead you through the mountains, shoving you into another set of vehicles and leading you to the Right Arm base camp.

By this point, the world is a blur and direction doesn't matter to you. You're just absent mindedly stumbling in the direction of sound and blurred images of your friends.

You hear Minho say something, touching your wrist but you yank yourself away as it feels like you've been burnt.

Harriet and Sonya introduce you to Vince, whose name you don't even catch.

He gives some speech about checking for infection and how he doesn't trust you all.

And that's when your body caves in and you hit the floor.

"Shit! (Y/N)!" Minho snaps, diving forward to catch you. His knees hit the floor, pulling your upper half onto his lap. He moves strands of hair out of your face - your eyes are sunken, and your face is sweaty, your eyes involuntarily rolling back into their sockets repeatedly as you desperately try to regain soke kind of control.

His heart sinks into his stomach. He knew. He knew something was wrong, and he just let it slide because you said so. And now look at you, crumpled on the floor, unable to breathe. You're seriously ill, and he did nothing to help.

"What's wrong with her?" Vince asks as the Gladers swarm you.

"What's wrong?" Frypan asks. "Minho? What happened?"

"I-I, I don't know," Minho stutters out, "I don't know."

The Gladers repeat your name and the world spirals around you. You look up at the boy who's cradling you.

This is it. This is how you die.

Minho's looking at someone else, his blurred face trying to make sense of everything. You reach out, your fingers brushing against his face - which is easier said than done with the awkward angle and your weak arms.

"Thanks, Minho," you whisper as he looks down at you. "You were always my favourite."

"Shit!" Vince snaps, making Minho jump out of his skin. Vince has moved the piece of cloth from your ankle, revealing the bite in your leg. "She's infected!"

The crowd swarms away as Vince pulls a gun out. Minho tries to shield you, shouting something you can't make out.

He's yanked away by some Right Arm members, fanatically trying to break free.

The Gladers, along with Brenda and Jorge beg for your life.

"Please," Thomas begs, "we can do something- can't you help her?"

"Yeah, I can put her out of her misery," Vince points the gun at your dying body.

"No!" Minho screeches. "Don't! Please! Don't!"

"Stop!" An unfamiliar voice says. "Let him go! Now. What's going on here?"

A woman, Mary, walks over, forcing the men to let Minho free.

"She's infected - we can't help her." Vince explains.

"No, but he can," she smiles at the boy, "hello, Thomas."

Everyone is left confused, but Minho is too busy on the floor by your body again.

Mary explains how she knows Thomas, and that he can make you better again, even just for a little while.

"Get your girlfriend up," she says to Minho, "come on, we'll help her."

"She's not my girlfriend," Minho huffs, slipping his arms under yours and pulling you up, before picking you up bridle style.

Mary looks at him, smirking. "Are you sure?"

He looks at Thomas who simply shrugs.

They follow Mary into the medical tent, Minho lays you on the bed, taking a seat on the far side as he gently plays with your hand. She sets up her equipment and takes blood from Thomas.

"Minho's also from the Maze - couldn't you take his blood?" The boy asks.

Mary sighs. "Well, I'm sure you know by now that not everyone from the Mazes was immune. And I don't know the status of your friends. But I know you are because we used to work closely. Minho's blood might work, but I'm not willing to risk waiting."

It makes sense, and Minho doesn't care about that.

She injects your arm with the serum. She rubs Minho's shoulder. "She should be awake soon. We'll leave you be." She gives him a reassuring smile. "Come on, Thomas. Let's give them some space."

She walks out the tent, but Thomas lingers for a second.

"Did you know?" Minho asks. "Did you know she got bit?"

Thomas simply shakes his head. "No, but I think Brenda did. She didn't seem as shocked." Minho doesn't bother looking at his friend, he just stares at you. "She's gonna be alright, yanno."

"Yeah, but for how long? It doesn't last forever." (Little does he know)

Thomas settles into a silence before sucking in a deep breath. "You love her."

"What?" Minho snaps to finally look at his friend.

"You love her, don't you?"

Minho's jaw tightens, his eyelids fluttering. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out, so he rubs his face with his hands instead.

"You love Teresa," Minho retorts, taking the pressure off himself.

Thomas scoffs. "Yeah - but at least I can admit it."

Minho presses his lips into a thin line. He doesn't exactly like being called out like that.

Thomas exits the tent, leaving him with you.

He looks at you. "He's right, yanno," he mumbles to himself. "I do shuckin' love you. How shucked is that? I've known you for less than a week, and I..." He trails off, not really sure how to put it into words, even just to himself.

So, instead, he leans forward, placing a kiss to your forehead.

Though, he did not expect your eyes to be open when he pulled back. Your eyes flutter, looking up at him. You smile.

"Hi."

"Hey," he chuckles, sitting back in his seat. "You scared the klunk outta me, yanno that?"

"I didn't mean to." You groan, trying to sit up. Your body still feels messed up and groggy, but it's still a massive relief.

"Woah, hey," he shakes his head, pushing you back down. "Take it easy, shank. You nearly died today."

"Yeah, well, it's not like that's anything new."

He glares at you, and you chuckle.

"What did you mean earlier?" He asks after a brief pause.

"Hm?"

"You said I was your favourite," you cringe at that detail. "And you said thank you. For what?"

"For everything," you respond simply. "You looked out for me, so..."

"That wasn't anything special."

"It was to me."

You turn on your side, resting on your arm as you look at him. There's something behind Minho's expression that you can't quite read as be stares at you. It fades as quickly as it came though when he resorts back to his sarcastic ways.

"So, am I really your favourite? Because you seem to like Frypan's food a bit too much."

"What? Fry's cooking is good - you shanks just act too high-and-mighty to appreciate his hard work." Minho fiegns offence, dramatically gasping and putting his hand to his chest.

"Hm, I don't know, there's definitely some favouritism going on there-"

"Slim it," you snort, before dropping your gaze and suddenly becoming serious. "You're my favourite, Minho. You always have been."

He struggles to fight the smirk that crosses his face. "But, I guess I'm yours too, eh?" You grin. "Since you love me, and all."

Minho freezes completely, his face dropping. He blankly stares at you for a good few seconds.

"Ah, shuck," you burst out laughing as his face turns red, his hands coming to cover himself and his embarrassment. "So, you heard me..?"

"Yep, I heard."

"Right, yep, cool - shucking brilliant."

You smile. You've just had a near death experience, so an accidental love confession really isn't fazing you at all. Sitting up, it hurts but you don't care as you throw your legs over the side so you're sitting directly in front of him.

You pull his hands away from his face, taking them in your own. His eyes meet yours and you smile at him. Leaning in, you kiss him on the cheek.

"I love you, too," you mutter, almost into him as you only pull away a bit. He scoffs, and it looks like he's about to say something but his words fail him.

So, he decides to do something else instead. He presses his lips to yours and you immediately kiss him back.

It's short and sweet, and you're both smiling as you part.

"I'm so relieved you're okay," he mumbles.

"I'm always gonna be okay," you kiss the tip of his nose. "I've got you looking after me."

Another cute piece for my main boy.

Requests might be lacking for a bit since I'm away for the next few days but I'm gonna see what I can do.

I hope you enjoyed :))

[t1oui]

pranksters: a microfic about how the marauders met the rosier twins :)

James Potter doesn’t really care what house he ends up in. His Dad was in Gryffindor, yes, but his Mum was in Slytherin. 

“Never judge someone for their house,” his Mum was always telling him. “Judge them for their character.”

On the train, James meets three boys named Sirius, Remus, and Peter. He already knows Sirius — or knows of him, at least. Sirius is a member of the Black family, and everybody knows them.

“What houses do you all want to be in?” Peter, a small, roundish boy with sandy blonde hair and pale blue eyes asks. “I like the sounds of Hufflepuff and Gryffindor.”

“Don’t care,” Remus shrugs. He’s a lanky guy with brown hair and scars all over his face. James knows it’s rude to point them out, so he doesn’t, but he really wants to tell Remus how cool they are. He bets Remus already knows. It’s the only thing keeping him quiet. 

“Practically my whole bloodline’s in Slytherin,” Sirius says. “But practically my whole bloodline is evil, so I guess that makes sense.”

James makes a face. “Slytherins aren’t evil,” he says. “My Mum was one. She’s very nice.”

Sirius thinks about this for a moment before he nods and shrugs and says he just doesn’t think he’d do very well in Slytherin is all. They drop the subject there.

As it turns out, all four of them are Gryffindors. James finds his friend, Mary — also a Gryffindor — and sees that she’s made a few friends of her own. 

“There were some others, too,” she tells him. “Evan and Pandora Rosier. Twins. They got sorted into Slytherin.” She nods to them across the Hall. They’re around the same height with dark skin and blonde hair, though the girl’s is more white-blonde than honey blonde like the boy’s. Two of her new friends, though, are Gryffindors named Lily and Marlene.

Marlene has choppy black hair and dark eyes and lots of freckles and a loud voice. She also has a big grin. James can relate. 

Lily, though. She’s got straight red hair and bright, bright green eyes and millions of orange freckles and she might just be the prettiest girl James has ever seen. He decides right away that he loves her. 

“No way,” Lily says the first (and last) time he asks her out. “First of all, we’re eleven. Who dates at eleven? Second of all” — she holds up two fingers — “I like girls. Sounds like you’re out of luck.”

Except he’s not. Because then, they become the best of friends. 

Marlene is the only one of the group who not only shares James’s love of quidditch, but also his skill for it. Even though the school brooms are terrible, she and James ride them around the pitch whenever they can. Sometimes Mary and Sirius come to cheer them on, leaving Lily, Remus, and Peter sitting off to the side with a pile of textbooks and bored looks on their faces. Even if they’re alone, they still manage to have a good time. 

The first time James gets a good look at the Rosier twins is after curfew. 

See, he, Sirius, Peter, and Remus turn out to be quite good at pranks. They started small, just a way to cheer Remus up since he gets ill so often. But it turns out Remus is also sort of a genius when it comes to pranks, so tonight, they’re heading for the Restricted Section of the library. Remus swears he has a plan to get them in.

They don’t expect anyone other than the grumpy caretaker, Filch, to be walking around, so when they hear footsteps, they dive into an alcove and pull James’s Invisibility Cloak over them. It’s quite large, and they’re quite small, but there’s still four of them, and Remus’s elbow is in James’s gut, and Sirius has managed to get his hair in all of their mouths. Needless to say, it’s quite uncomfortable. And it’s also completely unnecessary. 

The Rosier twins turn the corner, Evan holding a Lumos up in front of them. 

“That’s not Filch,” Sirius says, accidentally saying it loud enough for the twins to hear them. Remus elbows him in the ribs, Sirius yelps, and Peter hastily throws the Cloak off of them before Evan and Pandora can run away. 

“Sorry,” Peter says. “We thought you were a teacher.”

“Right,” Evan says. He narrows his eyes at them. Both he and Pandora have amber-colored eyes that’re almost gold in the moonlight. It’s a bit unsettling. “Where are you all going?”

They all glance at Remus, who thinks for a moment before nodding to James.

“Library,” James says. He figures he got chosen to speak since, generally, he and Peter are the most friendly looking. “We’re trying to get into the Restricted Section.”

Evan’s eyes widen, and Pandora’s face lights up. “Us too!” she says, and she hops over and extends a hand to help James and Remus up. Grudgingly, Evan helps Peter and Sirius. 

“Let’s go together,” Pandora says, still sounding overly excited. “The more the merrier!”

Evan does not appear to agree, and neither does Remus, but neither of them argue with the logic, especially when James takes Pandora’s arm and agrees, “Six is far better than four and two.”

He and Pandora lead the group, and James spends the whole walk thinking of his two new friends. There’s no doubt about it: this is gonna be a great year. 

[montrealmadison]

Tater 27 please ?

i have never written tater before - ever! - so this was incredibly fun! thank you so much for the prompt and for helping me stretch my writing muscles a little bit ❤️ the only things i know about patater are inspired by a frankly shocking quantity of sidgeno rpf so make of that what you will

27. tater + i’m so tired by lauv & Troye Sivan for @shygryf

Strangers, killing my lonely nights with strangers And when they leave, I go back to our song, I hold on Hurts like heaven, lost in the sound Buzzcut season like you're still around Can't unmiss you, but I need you now

Tater’s letting some girl he doesn’t know shoot tequila out of his belly button when he gets the text.

Kent Parson: you awake? Kent Parson: sorry know it’s late

It is late, three or so, and the club’s fun but the idea of not being here is just as good. Maybe it’s rude, but he doesn’t care; he props his elbow on the table for better leverage and sends back, yes, and then ok?

Kent Parson: no Kent Parson: popped my achilles Kent Parson: we're out

Shit. That means the end of their playoff run, which in turn means about five hundred other things. He doesn’t even have the chance to formulate a response before Kent adds, will you come?

A cold thing settles in Tater’s chest, a weighty purpose that he doesn’t stop to examine. Maybe it's the shots making this seem like a good idea; of course he will, and that’s the end of it. There’s something about clambering up off the table, tequila soaking down into his open fly, and shouldering his way to the exit without a word that makes him feel about a thousand feet tall.

read more below or on ao3 | request a fic here

Kent lives in a nice building. Not nice enough for the security guy downstairs to make any real effort to stop Tater from getting in, but then, Tater is six foot seven and built like the desks that lesser men hide behind. He hits the button for the elevator and zips upward, chewing on his lip, watching the numbers tick higher.

This is stupid. This is an absurd way to spend a thousand dollars and God knows how many days, catching a frantic red-eye to Vegas like he’s going to be able to do anything the Aces’ trainers haven’t already tried. It’s more absurd that he stands in the hallway with his fist poised to knock on Kent’s front door for at least five minutes, wondering if he should have brought food. Does the kid even eat? He’s awfully tiny.

He finally gets over himself and knocks. There’s a voice from inside at once: “Open.”

Tater does.

The apartment is nice, modern. It’s also a complete fucking mess. There are ostentatiously dirty shoes scattered all over the entryway, possibly-related scuff marks up the bare white walls. Tater has to do this dainty hop through a minefield of Yeezys just to make it to solid ground, and is very glad that no one can see him. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Parson?”

“In the living room.”

Tater drops his bag in the kitchen and heads for the voice. The close little hallway seems much more inviting than it did in the dark last time he was here, and the living room is spacious and airy without a couple hundred bodies packing it. There’s a big TV on one wall, running something trashy. In the middle of the room is that ugly couch, brown suede and covered with cat hair, and in the middle of the couch is Kent.

Relief spreads through Tater at once, numbing the tingle in his hands. Okay, so maybe he spent the whole five-hour trip picturing the worst-case scenario. Guys in their line of work are not, as a rule, great at handling their injuries, especially later in the season; Tater only has to look at Jack for proof of that one. But Kent’s eyes are clear, if tired and a little wet-looking, and he’s sprawled out comfortably with his hand in Kit’s fur and his wrapped ankle carefully supported by a pile of throw pillows. He’s wearing ratty old sweats, white socks gone gray on the bottoms, a couple days’ worth of scruff that marks his sorry excuse for a playoff beard. 

“Shit, man,” he says, seeing Tater in the doorway. “You came.”

“You call.” 

It’s not quite that simple, but somehow, faced with the fact of Kent’s obvious, boneless relief at having him here, it feels like the right sentiment.

“I did,” Kent says. He sounds croaky, exhausted. The deep shadows under his eyes make them look more green. Tater wonders if he’s slept, or how much. “Thanks.”

He has this weird impulse to poke the bear, which maybe isn’t fair to Kent, but it’s all he knows how to do. 

“You miss me?” he asks, slouching further into the room. Kit lifts her head imperiously to watch him settle a polite distance away on the couch. “That why you ask me, not teammate?”

This is the dynamic they built at the bar, in the darkness of Kent’s bedroom: push and pull, catch and release. Things are still too new, too fragile between them; they’ve never implied a sense of belonging to each other, or at least not the kind that prompts something like this. 

As it stands, Kent doesn’t play along with the teasing, and that’s what finally gives Tater a sense of how shitty he feels. 

“Let ‘em grieve, right?” he says listlessly, tipping his head into the back of the couch. “Shit game. Didn’t wanna bother them.”

You were okay with bothering me, Tater thinks but does not say. A guy you’ve hooked up with twice who lives across the country. What the fuck does that mean?

He knows what he wants, what he wants it to mean. It’s part of what caught his eye in the first place: this kid is so, so young to be a captain, to bear this weight. The Aces are out of the playoffs not because they played their hardest, but thanks to a non-call and an injury that’ll have Kent in PT all summer. Now he’s curled up on the couch in his disaster of an apartment with only the cat for company, his teammates pushed away or otherwise nowhere to be found. It’s incongruous with the spitfire who finds a reason to drop gloves every time they share the ice, who likes to have his wrists pinned down and kisses with too much teeth and, holy hell, called Tater in Providence when he got hurt.

“Bother me anytime,” Tater says before he can bite down on it. He scoots a little closer, clasping his hands briefly between his knees. “Poor Parson. Need friend when teammates being sad.”

Kent’s laugh turns into a cough and Kit scrambles off his chest, affronted. 

“Is that what you are?” he asks. “My friend?”

“Maybe,” Tater hums, pretending to consider. “Well. Maybe not yet.”

“Not yet,” Kent echoes. He sounds puzzled. “Okay?”

“We not really know each other,” Tater says. Maybe it’s mean, the way this is lighting him on fire. Kent likes to bottom, but never to lose control; even in bed he runs his mouth like everything that comes out of it is gospel truth. Opportunities to catch him on the back foot are few and far between, and—well. Tater likes to take care of his people, likes to show them love, and above all likes a challenge.

“We don’t—”

Tater decides to take pity on him. “Sex not knowing, Parson. Think maybe you think that way.”

Okay, yeah, this is definitely mean. Kent’s breath is coming faster, and the line of his jaw is set and trembling. But Tater wants to push him a little bit, get his money’s worth for the flight, the worry; Kent can pay him back in kind, and will. Tater just has to help him get there.

“So what if I do?” Kent asks. His laugh is tiny. “Man, I’m confused. Not like we’ve had much more time to figure each other out.”

And yet you asked me here, Tater thinks, and decides to play his trump card.

“It’s summer. You not play, I’m not play.” Tater spreads his hands wide, goes for broke and scoots in close to curl a hand slow and sinuous around Kent’s good ankle. “Need rest, someone to take care. Seem like good time to me.”

Kent’s breath catches in his throat. He smells sweaty and kinda gross, but his smile is soft, a fragile thing, and Tater knows he’s gotten it right. 

“Captive audience,” Kent says, barely a whisper.

“Yes,” Tater agrees, and leans in to meet his mouth.

[whorekneecentral]

Rough fucking + overstimulation with achraf hakimi

this fucks. so does he. 

3 - 0. 

PSG had lost their match for the first time in a while, and the fact that your boyfriend had made a goal and it was disallowed made it ten times worse. 

You had a feeling Achraf would be returning home in a pissy mood so you were planning to leave him be, let him stew in his anger until he was ready to come talk. The last thing you expected was him to come and drop himself down on the couch next to you as soon as he got home. 

He lays his head on your lap as you read your book. You move the book to one hand, the now free hand moving to run through his wet hair.

“I want you.” He blurts.

You glance down at him, shutting the book and setting it on the coffee table. “Okay.”

He sits up once again, pulling you to sit on his lap. Achraf kisses you, it was heavy, hands all over each other as you tried to rid the other of clothes. There’s a few piles of clothes scattered across the floor when you get undressed. 

Achraf’s hands resting on your lower back, fingers dancing up and down the curve of your spine. They run up once more before they stop on the clasp of your bra.

He unhooks it, letting the straps slide down your arms and land on your lap. He brings his hands around to your stomach, once again his fingers slide up your soft skin before resting on your tits.

“Babe,” you call, eyes fixed on him. He hums, his focus on your tits rather than anything you had to say. Gripping his chin between your fingers, He finally looks at you. 

“Please,” you mumble, the desperation all over your face.

He laughs; this man laughs in your face. “Please what?”

“What?”

“What are you asking for?”

You roll your eyes, he fully well knows what you’re asking for but he’s just being difficult. “C’mon, don’t be like that.” You tell him, you know this was just him taking out his anger on you. 

He gives you a light shove off his lap, letting you land on the couch. Achraf pushes and pulls you by the hips, propping you into your elbows and knees, face buried in the couch. You can hear him shuffling behind you, a hand smacking your ass pushing you back into the couch when you lift up a bit.

He gives you no warning, pushing into you. The sound coming from behind you was nothing if not filthy.

He always jokes about getting a noise complaint but tonight, you might.

Your cheek pressed to the cushion, he listens to you ramble on about needing him, needing to cum. His fingers squeezing hard enough to leave behind marks.

“Please-” you cut yourself off with a moan, “fuck, mhm like that.” you call out to him, his hips digging into you with each thrust.

He was set on fucking away his anger and you weren’t complaining but your legs were starting to feel jelly like, orgasm after orgasm and you were certain your body was gonna give out on you sooner than later. 

At this point, Achraf feels a little bad. 

You’re all teary and overstimulated but he's having too much fun and you didn’t say stop. A hand reaching under you, fingers pressed to your clit. 

Your boyfriend glances over your shoulder to see the tears on your eyes. He knows it’s too much for you and he knows you’re close.

Maybe he’ll let you off this time.

“C’mon baby,” he hums, leaning down to kiss your back. “Cum for me.”

Between his words, his cock and his fingers, he pushed you over the edge. His name falling from your lips, his thrusts sloppy and he follows right behind you.

He gives you a minute before pulling out, letting you lay flat on the couch. your face is buried in the cushions when you feel him rub your back softly, “I love you.” He tells you and you mumble back something resembling the same words but you were too tired to even move. 

“C’mere,” he nudges you to move, the two of you repositioning yourselves so you were cuddling, the throw blanket over the two of you. 

[shadowqueenjude]

Lucien finally loses his shit and does something batshit crazy part 5

Everything I did in my adolescence, I did for my sisters. And you would take that away from me? After Lucien makes a bargain with the Mother, the Inner Circle finds itself in a full panic due to the missing feysand mating bond.

Lucien pulled out of the fervor dream to find himself on the floor. Nesta was hovering over him, water in hand and slapping his face. “Wake up,” she muttered. “Wake up!”

“I’m awake, I’m awake!” Lucien yelled. Nesta relaxed and sighed in relief. Lucien slowly sat up and realized he had bled from his mouth at some point. It must have been the result of the overload of magic he had used just to get to the bottom of the bond. And as he had cleaved his way to the bottom, it became clear why no other had succeeded. At the root of every bond was the Mother herself.

And he had struck a bargain with her.

And the evidence had been marked on his body, though it appeared nothing like a Night Court bargain tattoo. No, this tattoo was a mosaic of all the colors fire took and stretched from his right elbow all the way to his shoulder.

“You just…dropped to the ground. Out cold. I was about to go search for a healer,” Nesta said. Her voice was calmer now, but it still trembled ever so slightly as she lightly traced her fingers over his new tattoo.

“Stop that. You’re making me itchy,” Lucien grumbled. Indeed, as Nesta’s hand mercifully fell away, he scratched it intensely. Then her words hit him. “Were you…worried about me?”

Nesta snapped, “More like worried about how I’d carry your dead body back to Feyre. You’re quite bulky.”

Lucien smirked. “There’d be no need for that. It is Autumn Court tradition to be cremated, so that we return to the element we are made of.”

Nesta stared him down. “Are you an Autumn Court male? Last I heard, you’re practically an exile there.”

Lucien waited for the sting that usually followed such words directed at him, but somehow it didn’t quite hit the mark. Perhaps because he and Nesta were the same, in many ways. “Exile though I may be, I still have fire in my veins.” Lucien’s power was drained, but he gave himself over to the animalistic instincts present in every Fae. He knew his face was completely feral as he stared into Nesta’s eyes. He could’ve sworn her eyes simmered silver in kind. “And I’m the son of a High Lord. They’d have no choice but to do me justice.”

Nesta rolled her eyes. “You Fae males and your arrogance.” Lucien didn’t bother to deny it. Then she snapped her fingers. “Well, since you’re clearly just fine, you’re cleaning that up.” She gestured with her chin at the pile of blood that Lucien must have spit out at some point. Lucien stood up and gave her a mocking bow. “As you wish, Lady Nesta.” He could’ve sworn Nesta smiled for a ghost of a moment before her signature glare returned.

Meanwhile, back at the Night Court Palace…

Rhysand’s face was pale and sweaty as he impulsively pulled at invisible lint on his suit. There was now a hole in his clothing from where he had been plucking “lint,” but Rhysand didn’t seem to have noticed at all.

He was screaming at Azriel. “How did you not detect this?! Go check the kitchens! Cassian, go do something! You’re so useless just standing there!”

Cassian practically ran out of the room, running into a desk and knocking everything on it to the ground. Rhysand snarled and pounced on Cassian, throwing him halfway across the room.

“Rhysand! What the hell is wrong with you?” Feyre screamed. Feyre had seen Rhysand angry, but like this… it was terrifying.

“Why are you reacting this badly? It’s only a mating bond, for Cauldron’s sake! It doesn’t change anything! Leave my friend alone!”

Rhysand snarled at her too. A bite of magic, and her mouth was sealed. “It is so much more than that. This means somebody is messing with us. Probably your bitchy sister figuring out how to use her magic. I’m going to go kill her.”

Feyre couldn’t speak, but that didn’t stop the terror from rising to her face. Her sister. For Nesta and Elain, she had sacrificed everything. She couldn’t let Rhysand take that away from her. She didn’t know who this madman before her was, but it certainly wasn’t her husband.

Feyre reached for the Day Court High Lord’s kernel of magic, unsealing her magic. “You dare mute me, High Lord?”

Rhysand stilled at pure venom in Feyre’s voice. “Feyre darling-“

“Don’t call me that,” Feyre hissed, and stalked towards Rhysand. “You’d kill my sister?” she said quietly.

Rhysand’s portrait of wrath faltered. “If she did this-“

“I don’t give a shit about a stupid mating bond! Everything I did in my adolescence, I did for my sisters. And you would take that away from me? For a stupid bond? What the hell would that change between us?”

Everything, Feyre suddenly realized. Everything. Everything Rhysand had done for her had come at a cost. And how much of it would he have done had he not been her mate, had he not been able to read her mind?

Feyre started second-guessing every moment between them. “You don’t even know Elain. The mating bond is just a physical reaction override your good sense.”

“Is that what it did to you and Rhys?” A conversation between her and Lucien ages ago. She wondered if he had been right.

As realization dawned on Feyre, horror spread on Rhysand’s face. “Feyre, please-“

He reached for her, but Feyre threw a hard shield over herself. The look of surprise as Rhysand landed on his ass was nearly comical.

“You’re a liar! And a cheat!” Feyre screamed. “If you think I’d want that, you clearly don’t understand me at all!” Azriel had come back into the room with Nuala, Cerridwen, and Elain in tow. The sight of Elain with a pie in her hands and Azriel beside her with a sword in his hands, shadows whirling as he debated whether he needed to defend his High Lord was nearly comical.

High Lord, Feyre realized. Azriel’s loyalty was and will always be to Rhysand. Same with Cassian.

She suddenly found it very difficult to breathe. What had she done, what had she done, what had she done.

She couldn’t be here, in this palace, in this court. It was suffocating. She did the only thing she could. She winnowed.

Rhysand just continued to sit there on the floor, gaping like a fish, as Azriel and Cassian fussed over him like nannies. Elain quietly walked out of the room, nobody even registering her presence as Rhysand started hyperventilating.

“She was far more cunning than we ever realized,” Rhysand breathed after about 45 minutes, where Azriel and Cassian had carried him to a bed. “That power,” Rhysand shuddered as he recalled the behemoth he had felt that day in Hybern. The only Fae he feared. The only Fae stronger than him. A Fae who possessed a sharp mind to go with that cauldron of power. “I’m scared, Cass Cass,” was all he managed to get out before sleep overtook him.

[tomurderornottomurder]

if we could just pretend; peter parker

pair. ceo!peter parker and male!reader

summ. peter reunites with an old friend. his old friend is a recovering drug addict. his old friend doesn't recover.

gen. angst, fluff, hurt/no comfort

wc. 8.8k

tw. death, drugs, addiction, overdose descriptions, blood, injury descriptions, decomposition descriptions, body descriptions from drug use, alcohol, guilt, food/eating mentions

note. can you tell i'm clearing out old drafts? song is if we could just pretend by flatsound. this has been sitting in my drafts forever and also this is the longest oneshot i've ever written. this has been two years in the making simply because i forgot it existed and got stuck several times and i did not know how to end it, so please enjoy and feedback is appreciated. as it's been sitting, my writing might show some of it's age but overall, i think it's solid. lastly, disclaimer that i have never dealt with drug addiction myself but have been around people who have so if anything is incorrect please let me know so i can improve/change it.

Where did you go, and what did you do,

With all that time, you too scared to move?

"I really appreciate this, Pete." You slap a hand on his shoulder, "I promise to make it up," You point a finger at him, "and you can hold me to that, alright?"

"You don't owe me anything, you know that," Peter replies, holding one of your bags.

The elevator dings and you step out. Peter's penthouse is extravagant and honestly just not like him. "Holy shit," You mumble. "You sure you live here?" You turn to him with raised brows.

Peter laughs softly, "I've got a few spare rooms so let me know which one you like best."

You throw your arms around his neck and press a kiss to his cheek. "Peter!" You drop your arms to wrap around his torso, "Ah, thank you so much."

Peter freezes up as his face turns bright red. He drops your bag to reciprocate your hug and rubs a hand up and down your back, "It's no problem." He's forgotten how affectionate you can be.

"You're the best, Petey!" You give him a squeeze before pulling away. You laugh softly, "Sorry 'bout the kiss, I'm just so excited! And oh my god have I missed you!" You wrap him into another hug and squeeze.

"Can't breathe," He mutters.

You pull away and put your hands on his shoulders, "Sorry, man." 

"Well, I hate to leave you but I'm going to be late for a meeting. I should be back soon, feel free to explore."

"You sure?" You quirk a brow at him, putting your hands on your hips.

"Definitely. Enjoy yourself,"

"Oh," You laugh as Peter heads to the elevator. "Peter Parker, you have made a mistake giving me such freedom."

He just laughs, "Don't burn the place down." He flashes a smile before the elevator doors close.

You twirl around in amazement, "You have really outdone yourself, Pete." You tour each room and finally pick one down the hall from Peter's. You unload your things and roughly set up your room to keep yourself busy. You explore the penthouse to get an idea of the layout and your mind piles questions up to ask Peter later. Out of pure curiosity and boredom, you peek into Peter's room. You smile at the light blue walls and vintage, framed posters. You take a step inside to get a better view and quirk a brow at a discarded bra on the floor. "Oh," You mutter. What have you been up to Peter?

"I'm back!" Peter announces, stepping out of the elevator. 

What is it like, to be by yourself, for three and a half years

For roughly three and a half years

"Welcome home, Pete." You smile at him. "So, what's on the menu?"

"I'll just cook something," Peter shrugs, taking off his suit jacket and hanging it up. "What do you like?" 

You shrug, "Anything you cook, I'll probably eat." 

"Great," He flashes a smile but you can clearly see how tired he is. He rolls the sleeves of his button-up to his elbows as he strides into the kitchen.

You follow Peter into his kitchen, taking a seat at the island while he sifts through pots and pans. "So, the famous Peter Parker doesn't have a personal chef or something?" You rest your head on your hands as you lean your elbows onto the island. You watch Peter as he gracefully pulls out ingredients and prepares them.

"I like cooking," is his simple reply.

"For your lady friends?" You smirk.

He cranes his neck in your direction with wide eyes, "What?"

You laugh, "I saw a bra on your floor. Is it from a girlfriend or a mistress?" You bite your lip to hold in another laugh as you watch Peter become more and more flustered. This is the Peter Parker I know. 

"I don't have a girlfriend or mistress," He points a pan at you. "But it's probably from a one-night stand," He shrugs, turning back to his stove.

"One-night stand? Is this my Peter Parker who couldn't ask out Liz Allan or Mj? How's Mj doing by the way?" He really has changed. 

"She's in Europe right now," 

"Good for her," You reply. "But back to my point, since when has Peter Parker been a one-night stand kind of person?" 

He shrugs, "I grew up I guess." 

"Being rich turned you into Tony Stark?" You chuckle, looking at him with pure adoration. He shakes his head with a low giggle. "Onto my next line of questioning then," You get up from your seat walking to his side. "You have alcohol?" He points to a cabinet. "Great. Now that wasn't my question," You reach up and grab some alcohol of your choice. "Why do you have so many paintings?" You lean onto the island, alcohol in hand.

He shrugs, "I enjoy art." He starts throwing ingredients into a pan.

"Are you okay? Did your meeting turn to shit?" 

He quirks a brow and looks at you as he tosses in more ingredients. "Why?"

"You're kinda snappy today. You can tell me what happened," You grab the bottle of alcohol and offer it, "and have a drink." 

He sighs, "Sure, pour it." He throws in a few more ingredients before pouring a bit of vegetable oil. 

"Anything special?" You ask, grabbing a glass from a cabinet. He shakes his head, focusing on his cooking. You smile and decide to whip him up the same thing you had when you got him to drink alcohol for the first time. "This is a classic, Peter Parker. And frankly, if you don't recognize it, I'll be offended." You smile at him as you mix his drink. 

He chuckles and shakes his head before turning his attention back to cooking. His mind is all over the place, especially with you here and by his side, he needs to focus on his cooking though.

"We make such a great pair," You start as you finish pouring his drink. "You can cook and I mix a mean drink." You slide over his drink and start downing your own. You sigh, leaning onto your hand and watching Peter. This is a nice moment, a nice break from the hell of your life.

Silence takes over the kitchen with the only noises being the moving of glasses and sounds of the food cooking. Peter's entire focus is on his cooking while your mind wanders. You watch him for a bit before momentarily drawing your attention away to refill your glass every so often. You think about how much he's changed since high school. How he's still the same yet vastly different. How your worlds greatly differ and how lucky you are for your path having come across his again. 

"Peter," You start -a bit too quiet for your liking- with your throat burning, guilt coming up just like puke does. "Peter," You repeat and this time your voice is at a volume you like. "What did you do?" You ask this too quickly. You catch how vague the question is and expand further, "I know we weren't the closest and we still aren't and I'm sorry but what did you do? What did you do in those years I was gone? I know I didn't keep in contact like Mj and everyone else did- and Ned stayed here so-" You cut yourself off. You're rambling too much. "I shouldn't have left like I did. No contact, not even a text or DM. That was shitty but I want to know what you did? What did you do by yourself?"

Peter turns to you with a soft smile but you can feel the sadness behind it. He really doesn't know what to say. "It's okay, you know?" His head is tilted down but his eyes peer up to look at you. "It's okay that you left," He wants to assure you and hope he does. He can't be sure that he's reassuring though because he's not sure the words he's using are right. "By myself," He mumbles to himself but doesn't realize it. He sighs before explaining what happened after graduation, how he graduated college early, and lastly how he inherited some of Tony Stark's company and started his own. 

"God," You shake your head after Peter finishes. "I wish I could say the same," You chuckle sadly. Your mind wanders back to before now, before college, just at the beginning of the disaster that your life is.

If we could just pretend, that I went to college

And that is why you, you haven't seen me

Your future looked bright. You just graduated and were sorting through college acceptance letters. Peter was doing the same with his Aunt. You really wanted to go to a college out-of-state; you'd lived in New York forever and wanted to branch out. Not only did you want to attend college across the country but you planned to study abroad; hopefully the college you chose to attend had one of those programs. You needed a new adventure and sure there was always something going on in New York with all the battles and things but you needed to be the adventurer. 

Your first weeks of summer were spent thoroughly vetting the few colleges that truly spoke to you. You were planning to visit each campus, even one with Peter though he was set on attending school near his home. It made you kind of sad to think about; you and Peter were set on different paths. But you knew Peter would keep in touch; he never broke a promise. He was good like that, such a good person, such a good friend.

---

Two weeks into college; things were rough. You liked- well, no. You loved it. A new atmosphere was really what you needed. It's just that starting over is hard. You knew no one, had to navigate campus virtually by yourself, and classes were difficult; nowhere near what high school was like. It was exhilarating, too! So much to learn, so many people to meet, so many opportunities. You were honestly so caught up in all the newness you had forgotten about Peter; obviously, you knew he existed, and every so often something would remind you of a memory you had with him but when he texted and called, you never answered. You were just so busy and every time you checked your messages, it was late and you didn't want to bother Peter; you were sure you'd get back to him soon enough. 

A year had passed before Peter stopped texting and calling. You didn't blame him and soon he completely left your mind. He hadn't been new enough for you and the guilt of this still burns in your chest.

Two years in and you were abroad in France. The country was beautiful, the people were interesting, the nightlife was exciting, and the drugs... the drugs were out of this world. The drugs took off the edge, they helped you forget, and they came in handy to crank out assignments. Well, that's how they started off, that's always how it started.

It wasn't long before you were in a week-long bender and lost in France. While high, you dropped out of college in a short, curse-filled phone call. You had missed your flight back to America anyway. From then on, you went spiraling further and further. Your mind was a blank slate and France held no consequences. You weren't native to the country and whatever happened there would stay there. You could abandon the country and fly home and forget it all ever happened. At least you thought you could.

I wanted to go, but not for this long

"Why can't you? What happened?" Peter asks as he slides a plate over to you and takes a seat next to you. He's truly worried, he hasn't seen you in what feels like forever and he just wants to know. He wants to be able to help someone he used to and still holds so close to himself.

You shake your head. You can't tell Peter what happened; there is no way you won't throw up if you do. You shrug and twirl the pasta Peter had made around your fork. "Well, I didn't graduate, unfortunately," You bite your lip. Fuck, I think I'm going to cry. Your childhood dream of graduating slipped through your fingers and all you have to blame is yourself.You choke down a sob before continuing with a chuckle to cover for yourself, "But hey! At least I got to get out of New York and I even went to France!" You beam at him before trying the pasta he's made you. Filling your mouth with Peter's wonderful cooking helps to stave off the sobs and quiet the burning sadness within you if only for a little bit.

"You can always go back," He proposes. "That's what Mj did," He adds, looking up at you with that bright smile of his. 

That smile sends you back to high school and all the good times you had with Peter. Your heart is full, swelling, bursting at the seams. This is a good feeling, you miss this; feeling good all over, your whole body filled with goodness. "I guess," You shrug. "But it feels like it's too late." The statement is one of defeat and both Peter and you know that. You gave up so easily and you can only hate yourself for it.

"It's never too late," Peter beams at you again. 

You can't help but smile back before replying, "I mean-" You sigh, "I guess I could but money's kind of a problem and I don't know if I can do the whole uh, going to lectures and mingling thing." You want to believe his words because some small part of you does but it's too real for you to face right now.

Peter wants to act laid back but he quickly replies, "I could always pay for it. I- I wouldn't mind at all," He suggests. "And if you want, we could sign you up for online courses! You could um," He bites his lip. Should I? And he does, "Stay here and attend your classes." It was hopeful and a stretch but Peter wants it. He misses you. He is worried about you. He doesn't quite realize it yet but now that you are back in his life, he wants to keep it that way; to keep you around and more importantly, keep you safe. He can't lose you again, that's too real for him to face.

You don't know what it is. Maybe having someone care for you is too much. It is terrifying. It's even sickening in a strange way. You really haven't kicked your addiction yet and it is so easy to get drawn back in. You wish it weren't but it just is. And now you're lying on Peter's living room floor, foaming at the mouth, eyes rolling to the back of your head, and reaching out for someone who isn't there.

I overdid it

I overdid it

Well, Peter is there. He steps out of the elevator but he doesn't see you right away. Your body is blocked by his sofa but your coughs and gurgles fly over it. Peter's ears perk up and his spider-sense starts going crazy. He dashes and then jumps over the couch. He kneels beside you, his eyes wide, mouth going a mile a minute as he tries to say something- anything coherent. He quickly calls 911, holding your hand throughout and swiping his thumb over the top of your hand. He assures you that you'll be fine and keeps repeating that he's there.

Soon enough sirens flood the building and paramedics stampede into Peter's loft. Yelling and screaming ensue as Peter screams, fighting to stay by your side while police and paramedics yell. Three police officers have to not only drag Peter away but hold him down as he fights relentlessly to stay by your side. He just wants to know- he needs to know that you are okay. He can't lose you, it's too real.

As his body and mind calm so do his thoughts. His mind explores the possibility of him getting in the way of paramedics saving you and so he gives up, letting the officers restrain him with ease. But his mind wanders further and further. How did you get drugs? Why? Did he do something to set you off? What had he done? 

Of course, none of his thoughts hold any truth but the possibility that they could, begin within Peter a ceaseless torrent of tears. He's sure by the time you leave the building and the police finally let him go, he could fill thirty pools with all the tears he's shed. But there's no time to dwell on his thoughts, he has to get to the hospital and be at your side! He won't let you leave him so easily, not again.

Why did you say, that I was one in a million? 

Everything's been a blur. This moment now is blurry but you are present within it. Peter is sitting at your side, slumped over in a chair, one hand holding yours and the other holding his forehead as he mumbles curses to himself. 

Slowly, you turn your head and unknowingly squeeze Peter's hand. In an instant, he's looking up at you and your eyes are open staring back at him. He could just scream! "Y/n," Your name rolls off his tongue and out of his mouth breathlessly, desperately. You both hold each other's gaze and each other's hand. The moment is blurry but it is nice.

"Peter," You whisper back, voice sore and croaky. You squeeze his hand again, it says more than your words ever could. 

The pooled tears that have been swimming next to Peter's eyes finally fall and flow down his cheeks. Most tears follow the red paths down his already tear-stained face, a few divert creating new paths for the seemingly endless stream of tears. "I-" His voice and his pain catch in his throat. What can he say? What could he possibly fucking say? 

"Why did you have so much faith in me?" You have to ask. You have to know. And you assume by now he has lost all that faith and so you must phrase the question the way you do. Your chest and whole upper body hurt like hell. There's a burning near your heart and in your throat, there's a tightness strangling your throat and crushing your ribs but the look Peter gives you hurts much more. The guilt within you burns hotter than Hell could ever be imagined to.

Because I believed it

You lean into Peter and Peter into you as he helps you walk out of the hospital. At the very moment that your foot hits the pavement, rain starts to fall, pelting you both in a way that can only be seen as some divine punishment. Even so, to you, the rain is heavenly and a respite from the thick cleanness and infuriatingly boring white inside the hospital. Peter quickly slips his jacket from his shoulders and carefully pulls you closer to him before covering both of your backs and heads with the jacket the best he can. 

He rushes with you to the passenger side first, letting you slip into the seat he closes the door for you. You watch him only for a moment as he reaches the driver's side. You keep your head down, looking at your lap, and unwittingly begin to pick at your fingers. Your nerves are through the roof now more than they ever were in the hospital. At least in the hospital, you can expect Peter to be mostly calm but now you don't know how he might act. He's changed so much after all this time and who's to say he won't scream and yell at you? You swallow down your nerves as you hear Peter plop into his seat next to you.

Surprisingly and thankfully, the car ride is quiet. The rain pelting the car helps to ease your mind if only for a bit. You allow yourself a quick glance at Peter. His expression is almost unreadable if not a bit sad. Quickly, you turn away before you can start crying yourself and watch as cars and people and buildings pass you by.

Peter's mind is swirling with thoughts and question after question bounces around in his head. He wants to ask so many things but he can't and he knows that. He doesn't want to make you feel worse than he knows you're feeling right now. He just wants to let you have this time and hopefully, you can gather your thoughts enough to answer him when you're back at his loft. The whole time he drives though, his knuckles burn white as he grips the steering wheel too tightly. There's a tension that won't leave his body.

---

You two reach the building and before Peter reaches your side of the car, you step out, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, head held down as rain pelts the back of your head. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. The pelts of the rain help you keep a rhythm as you silently curse yourself and demean yourself with names. Each drop of rain against your skin serves as an insult your brain must deliver to itself. It isn't going to help but it does make you feel better. All the while you've been standing just outside the car, Peter has pulled his jacket over himself and motions for you to come under. You shake your head and trail a foot or two away still following him.

In minutes, you reach an entrance into the building and Peter holds the door open for you. You step through the threshold, head still down, and arms still wrapped around yourself. It's almost as if you were to move your arms away, your body would simply fall to pieces. Peter is at your side in a moment and you continue to follow him into the elevator. You both stand awkwardly and shivering a few feet apart as your clothes and body drip rain onto the marble floor of the elevator. This ride is as silent as the car but has a more threatening ambiance. 

The elevator dings and Peter motions for you to go first before he follows. "You should take a shower," He proposes quietly.

It must have been some coincidence because right at that moment a shower is exactly what you crave. You nod at him, following him to the nearest bathroom. You try to peel your shirt off while Peter fetches you some towels but you have no luck.

"Do you need any help?" Usually, he would be asking this in a teasing manner but the words could not have left his lips any sweeter than they just did. His voice is quiet and calm, a little wavering but not so much as to cause concern. He's still shivering and dripping wet himself yet he stands there looking at you with such kindness.

You nod, "Please."

He shuffles to your side and slowly peels your shirt from your torso. He lifts it slowly, softly asking you to put up your arms. He gets a quick glimpse of your bones just barely being held behind your skin and bruises littering your torso. His face is close to yours as he pulls the shirt over your head and you can feel his breath. One more moment and he is pulling the shirt off of your arms. He gets a glimpse of the bruised injection sites on your arms and has to hold his expression. "There," He smiles, looking into your eyes.

"Thanks," You immediately cross your arms back over your chest, both from the cold and embarrassment. God, I probably look like shit. 

Peter hasn't seen you like this since high school gym class and even then it was rare to catch you without a shirt on. 

"I've got it from here," You tell him and he nods before closing the door.

Peter lets his mind wander to high school gym class. You hated it so much but Peter needed it. He had so much energy and he needed an outlet. That was of course before he had become Spider-Man and then he joined in on your hatred of the class though, he always did better than everyone there. 

He wanders into his room to change before grabbing a towel to dry his hair as his mind wanders to a  vivid memory of one of the only times he had seen you shirtless back in high school.

The class had gotten done swimming and everyone was out of the locker rooms, except Peter who had to do extra laps and had just gotten out of the pool. He dried his hair as he walked over to his locker but stopped in his tracks when his spidey sense started to go crazy. He looked in every direction but there wasn't anything he could see. A few more steps revealed you, sitting on one of the benches, your shirt laying in your lap and a towel wrapped around your waist. 

That did catch Peter off guard but there was another thing: you were crying. Peter's stomach twisted in knots as he looked down at you. Suddenly, your eyes were on him. Shit! Why hadn't he said something? Now, he just looks creepy!

"Peter?" You asked in a hushed tone. You had looked like you'd been crying for a while. Your whole face was red along with your eyes, you looked terrible.

"Y/n," He returned your tone. He took a few steps forward and bent down a bit. "Are you okay?" 

You shook your head. You were in no mood to avoid your feelings. You hurt and you hurt bad. "No," You answered bluntly.

Peter took a seat beside you. "What happened?"

The memory isn't the most pleasant but he remembers how after that you stayed at his apartment for three days and that seemed to have done you good. He wonders what happened to the Y/n he knew back then. He doesn't feel any differently toward you, not at all but what happened to you to make you so miserable now?

He finishes changing and drying himself off and steps out into the hall. At the same time, you step out of the bathroom. Peter meets your eyes and walks over. He looks you over and smiles, you have a towel tightly wrapped around your waist and a towel thrown over your head. "Here," He places his hands on top of the towel at your head and dries your hair. 

You stand there, heart beating wildly as Peter helps you dry off. You notice his change of shirt and before fully thinking about it, reach out with your hand to slip it under his shirt before rubbing your thumb over the top of the fabric. You're sure Peter already saw the marks littering your body and right now you just didn't care. You want to feel his shirt and that's all you want.

Peter stiffens as you have a hold of his shirt. Your fingers aren't touching his skin since you hold the shirt out a bit but they did for a brief moment and the tingles it sent up his spine are unlike anything he's felt before. He accidentally stops drying your hair but continues as soon as he realizes that he's stopped. He sets his eyes upon you and it's a good thing you can't see his face. Anyone could see right through him at this very moment and pinpoint where his thoughts are. 

He finishes drying your hair with the towel and slides it behind your head, letting the towel rest on the back of your neck. For a moment, he holds each end of the towel toward himself and he can't meet your eyes now. His head is down but he is looking at you. 

Your head is down but you're looking at him. Your eyes dart from your hand still holding his shirt to the pecs you can just make out underneath his shirt. This is a moment of safety, of home, of tenderness, of friendship, of love. There's a silent agreement between you two and so, for the time you separate. You go to your room to get dressed as Peter goes into the living to wait for you.

"It's cold, isn't it?" Peter asks as you settle on his large couch. You nod and Peter sets a blanket over you. "I've got some hot chocolate on the stove," He knows that's your favorite. "It should be done soon." 

I thought i had something that you

Were too scared to lose

You nod again, wrapping yourself in the blanket. "Thanks," You whisper.

He takes a seat next to you with his own blanket wrapped around his legs. He swings his legs so they rest on the couch and leans in, his shoulder touching yours. "What's on your mind?" 

He genuinely wants to know, what the hell? You let out a deep breath and lean your head against his shoulder. "I was just thinking about high school. We used to be so different. I used to be so different. What happened to me?" You turn your head and stare into his eyes.

You don't know either. "I-" He's at a loss for words. "Whatever happened," He pauses and places his hand over yours. "It's not all bad." He smiles at you before standing. "Hot chocolate's ready," He says before walking off to the kitchen. 

You start picking at your fingers again as you wonder what you're going to do. You can't rely on Peter for everything, that's just not how you are. You didn't even have any money after blowing what little you had on what you OD'ed on. God, why are you so stupid!? Peter's nice enough to let you crash at his place and what do you do?

"Hey," Peter's presence pulls you from your thoughts. "Here," He bends over as he hands you a cup of hot chocolate. He takes his seat next to you again, sitting a bit more straight this time so as to not spill his drink on you. "'Thinking about something?" 

You nod, "Yeah, just..." You bring your cup to your cheek and bask in the warmth. It's been too long since you've truly felt any warmth like Peter's been showing you this whole time. "I can't stay with you forever," You muse, flicking your eyes to his, unsure of what he might say.

Peter chuckles, "Well if you want to, you can." He flashes that boyish smile of his at you and it hurts. His eyes and nose crinkle and his features are so bright. "I said it before, Y/n. I'll do anything for you." 

God, that hurts. He cares about you too much. "Peter," You stop him in his tracks. He shouldn't be saying stuff like this. He needs to protect himself from you. "Don't say that." He's too attached, you can't let him be this attached.

Peter's soft expression turns puzzled and he turns to look at you. "Y/n?" He's looking at the side of your face while you keep your gaze straight ahead. "If it's about staying with me, I can get you your own place. I know-"

"Peter," Your voice is stern but tinted with softness as you cut him off. "I've got to do this stuff on my own."

"No," Peter protests immediately. 

"What?" You sit up straighter now, looking at him deadly serious.

"You don't have to do anything alone. If it were me, you would say the same! I won't let you be alone with this." He sets his drink down on the coffee table as he continues to speak passionately. "I love you, Y/n." It's a confession masked as a friendly gesture of affection. "You're my friend." This covers his tracks though he wishes he didn't have to cover them in the first place. "I'm going to take care of you." It's the truth and it's real and he means it.

You can only look at him in awe, utter awe. He's serious about this.

"I-" He starts out confident but falters. Should I really say this? He catches the thought and tosses it aside. His confidence is back, only a bit less than before. "I can't lose you."

Something in you wants to slap him. He can't lose you? What the fuck!? You hold yourself back, hands tightly gripping your cup. You hang on his every word. Just what is he thinking?

Peter sighs, looking down momentarily, shaking his head. "I don't want things to be like before. I want to see you and be around you; I want to know that you're okay. And I want you to be happy."

You swallow his words and let them digest. They don't sound bad, at all. But there's a knot in your stomach and a scribbly, black haziness in the back of your mind setting off alarms.

Peter leans in as he says, "There's nothing wrong with asking for help." He sits back again, "You don't even have to ask, I'll just do!" He reaches out for your free hand, "I'm here for you." He gives your hand a small squeeze. "Just let me be here for you." It's a plea and it's all he can do.

Peter's greatest fear is loss. He's lost so many people in his life already he surely doesn't need to lose another. But losing you isn't exactly his main concern, it's seeing you live up to what you've always wanted, it's letting you chase your dreams and catching them, it's waking up every day with some real purpose, it's seeing you change for the better. His concern is you. His concern is your life. His concern is your well-being. His concern is your happiness and fulfillment. His concern is your recovery. And his concern is your change. He's lost you once, he won't lose you again.

It was all in the past now, you had nothing to be scared of. The road ahead is fruitful with opportunity. Peter is by your side. You're recovering. You can handle this. You've got it.

So if we could just pretend that I went to college

And traveled abroad, and did something different

Things go well for weeks and weeks, it feels as though nothing bad has ever happened before. But something sets you off. You see something on the street and return to Peter's loft as you cry like a maniac. You feel foolish for breaking down like you are, crying as hard as you are, and being unable to move from Peter's living room floor as you are. And even worse, Peter comes home.

He's taking off his coat casually as he normally would until he hears your sobs, then he rushes to your side. He rests his hand on your back and leans in close to ask what's wrong. 

Your body refuses to let you answer and so, you just cry as he sits there before slowly pulling you closer and into his lap. He pets your hair and smooshes his cheek against your forehead as he quietly whispers. You two sit like this for about an hour before you finally calm down. 

You try to wipe your tears away as fast and as best you can as you quickly crawl out of Peter's grasp, sudden and overwhelming embarrassment coming over you. "Please," You beg with your head held down, trying your best to keep Peter from seeing your face. "Can we just forget this all happened?" You're bent over now almost like you're praying even with your hands clasped in front of your head as your eyes though closed are pointed toward the ground. "Pretend I'm not some massive loser that wasted his life when you- you were here doing great things and I was just-" You sigh loudly, your head finally collapsing against Peter's floor. "Please," You cry out as tears start flowing heavily and you can feel a sob start to rack through your body, "please."

Your head hangs, chin pressing against your chest. Your eyes feel hazy and you can't see much. Your back is pressed against the cool brick of the wall behind you that you can barely feel due to the thick sweater and bloated jacket that warms your torso. Your legs are out in front of you and you laugh at their strange longness. You look at your feet next, the shoes they're adorned in, and how they too look strange and funny to you. You start laughing more and more, finding everything oh-so-funny. 

Anything but just sitting at home

For three and a half years

Writing song, after song, after song

Your arms now look as if shooting targets were made out of Swiss cheese. The holes only seem to get larger and darker, like the darkness could swallow your body whole if you weren't careful. And you weren't. Your eyes had always been dark but now they were pits, black holes of nothingness, no knowledge held there, nothing, just nothing. Your face is sunken like the tar roads in the summer, always sinking deeper and deeper or like the deep trenches of the sea where something terrible lies. Your lips are chapped like the hands of the working man, skin always peeling off, and never able to be quite comfortable because they are raw and red and always rubbing against each other. You're as thin as a needle, legs barely able to function as you walk bone on bone, the grinding like that of teeth against teeth. Speaking of teeth, yours seem to keep falling out, leaving your mouth pouring blood flowing like the divine wine of Jesus.

Where was Jesus now? Not here to save you. Your Jesus, your divine savior, Peter Parker is far away now, not because he chose to be but because there is nothing else he could do, nowhere he could be, not for you. And you chose your new savior, it was not him. It used to sting your arm but it doesn't seem to do just that anymore. It helps you ascend but not as long as it used to. Your belief is starting to wane but not quick enough, not quick enough.

So what is it like to be by yourself

The elevator dings as Peter reaches his loft. He steps out with his coat hanging off his arm. The place is quiet, the only noise being made by Peter as he hangs up his coat and steps into his kitchen. He opens his cabinet, the grip on the little knob staying far longer than it needs to before he opens it and lets the knob go. He reaches up just like you had on your first night. He grips the bottle tightly and sets it on the counter, it makes a noise too, a sort of clinking sound almost. He grimaces as he grabs the neck of the bottle and opens it, the smell stings his nose as he brings it close. His lips kiss the bottle and he swallows some down. 

The bottle accompanies Peter to his large and lonely couch, his tight grip around its neck, carrying it carelessly. He takes out the DVD that you left, your favorite movie, he's careful with it as he sets it in the DVD player (something you had ragged on him for not having when you were first there). (Something that he hadn't used since, not until today). (Something he would probably never get rid of now, only being thrown out when he was dead). He stumbles back over to his couch, falling onto it not as clumsily as he could manage but enough to shake up the alcohol in him. He extends his arm, pointing the small remote that came with the thing at the television and pressing play. His arm falls against the couch as the remote leaves his fingers, finding a new home in the arms of the faithful couch.

He watches almost angrily, there isn't anything like it, this emotion Peter feels. Is it really anger? Contempt even? Surely, not toward you. But the drug, toward the drug. ...Right? Or was he even angry? Hateful maybe. Toward you, toward the drug, toward himself. What was this that he was feeling? It's like an ache with no name or possible description. Empty isn't the right word. He's not hollow inside, he's all filled up, some even splashing out of him but what is it? What is this substance, this feeling, this emotion, spilling out of Peter Benjamin Parker? What is this thing that spills past his lips and fills up his head? Is it... you...? Surely not, that's ridiculous!

Peter doesn't notice until now, too focused on the movie he's seen far too many times, but his hands are trembling. His knuckles are a soft red, his veins are all in place, those little clumps of blueish-skin-pigment below the reddened knuckles, his fingers long and intermittently pale the ends a bit darker than the rest, all shake in chorus. He flexes his fist, bending his fingers and splaying them out, then he checks again. They shake just as much as they first did. 

And not feel like you'll die around everyone else?

Your hands were shaking, that was the first thing you noticed. It's almost exhilarating, they shook like they did when you first shot up. It was heaven. This was cloud nine. You were in paradise, lost in it. Your head was delirious, your eyes were bleary, your lips trembled as much as your hands, you were about to lose it all and all you could think about was how great this high was. You were about to die outside a house, just on the steps, of a den of drugs, a place filled with people dying just like you were about to, and all you could think about was how great this high was. 

Quickly, your thoughts shift to how awful this was. Your body lost control. You fell. Your head split against the concrete of the makeshift porch. Your back fell into the stairs that sat on either side were two dying drug addicts. Foam spilled past your lips and for a brief moment you thought of Peter then you were back to focusing on dying. You couldn't control your body. Your eyes would not work with you to see. They were gone now, they no longer wished to see the world. Your hands wouldn't do what you told them to. Your ears were ringing, there was so much noise, noise, noise! Why couldn't there be quiet!? Everything just needed to stop for a second, so that you could get a grip on things. You would set things straight. You wouldn't be found in places like this anymore. You would die somewhere resectable. But death doesn't care about respect, for him, there is no respectable place to die, and you are just another soul to be collected. Indifference is his gift but the indifference of the junkies you died next to led to searching through your pockets and hands all over your body and privacy violated and nothing left on you but the things they didn't care for. Your ID, some crumpled note you'd shoved deep into your pocket, a few too many wrappers for too many different things, and something else.

I thought I was one in a million

The distant clattering of silverware and private conversations set the stage as Peter sits across from a fine, young gentleman. He holds a menu in front of himself, his hair slicked back something you had told him made him look handsome you had said, his feet nervously sliding back and forth. Words come out of the gentleman's mouth and everything starts to fade out like watching a movie as your eyes blink more and more before you fall asleep.

It didn't go well whatever that was. A date, Peter supposes, an awful date. 

Peter holds a large bouquet of red roses. The dark red is contrasted by the white plastic that wraps around them. He holds them with both hands. He shifts his shoulders uncomfortably, his lips moving awkwardly against each other. His stride isn't really a stride, rather a walk but a quick one, like he has somewhere to be. A date perhaps? 

Well, thanks for nothing

Peter's stride leads him into a cemetery. He passes headstone after headstone, a few full-on statutes, and some grave markers. The roses are strange in his hands in this cemetery. He shifts his grip on them a few times. His collar feels like it's choking him and sticking his finger under it hasn't done anything. His thoughts don't consume him this time like they usually seem to do; some are seething, others are sad, most are guilty, and a lot are what-ifs. Never helpful, those what-ifs. Peter accidentally passes your grave before stepping back.

He reads the engraving as he always does before taking careful steps over. He sits above your dead body (that's buried several feet down), in front of your headstone (that stares back at him like a gargoyle), and underneath a weeping willow (that he wished he could see you under, not like this, not like this). "Well," Peter starts, setting down the roses, "he was allergic to roses." He sighs. "I miss you." He leans over, resting a hand on top of your headstone and closing his eyes.

He talks some more and if anyone were watching him, they might think he was having quite the conversation with a headstone. He moves his hands and looks at the headstone like a person, making eye contact with it, maybe even willing it to respond. It never does. And it never has. It's too bad you didn't have a spirit, you might have sat underneath that willow, leaning back against it, and watching Peter just for something to do. But you were dead and that was that. There was no coming back from being dead. Your body was buried beneath the earth and now you belonged to her. 

Peter groans as he gets to his feet, "Well, buddy," He rests his hand on your headstone, patting it almost like you would a dog, "I've got to get going. I'll see you tomorrow, alright?" He pauses, not intentionally but he lets the silence hang in the air in hopes he might get a response. He never gets a response. There is no satisfaction or catharsis for him, only the silence of the whistling wind and the whipping of the willows as they reach as far off their branches as they can. Maybe if he hoped hard enough, one day he would get that long-awaited response and you wouldn't have died for nothing.

Peter's lids are heavy as he tries to blink away sleep. This never works just like all those other things. He always falls asleep; you never answer him. He just wishes you would answer him. Peter's eyes close rather quickly this time and nothing matters but the dream he can feel is real and he feels apart of it.

Thank you

Thank you

Peter's hand reaches out as you fall, your fingers graze his. He can see the desperate look in your eyes like a dog begging for its life. Your eyes are not only desperate but terrified too. (Like a dog that knows it's going to be put down, he thinks). Some noise comes from you, some words but his ears can't decipher them, like everything in his dreams they are distant, blurry, and unmemorable. He just wants to know what you're screaming. He can see the extension of your jaw, the crinkling and wrinkling in your face, and the raise of your brows but he still can't hear what it is you're saying.

Then the scenery shifts. You slipping past his fingers is no big deal as you fall onto a hospital bed. You look at him all tired like and puppy dog kicked. You are worn out and bruised like a dropped fruit or a childhood blanket. You look like you might be molding. Your face is sunken in, your eyes hauntingly dark and blank, the flesh of your nose beginning to rot away, and the plush of your lips gone now replaced by the hard, cold warning of your teeth. You're missing a few and your gums are starting to turn yellow. Peter can't save you. He can't do anything. He watches as you rot. He tries to leave the chair he's stuck in but he can't, his arms won't even lift off the sides. He can't get to you. You're so far away.

Before your body can fully decompose and shift into sand and fly away in the wind, again, the scenery changes. Paris. He can really only recognize it by the Eiffel Tower. You had talked about it before. A lot. Before you left. Before what happened, happened to you. Peter wanted to go there with you. He never got the chance. At least you had seen it yourself. He finds it strange that he stands in Paris but he can't see you ...like you're gone. But then everyone is screaming and there from the clouds falls a body. Your body is falling, your arms are spread out, and you're limp like a fish. In seconds, your back is pierced by the spire of the Eiffel Tower. Killed by the very thing you love. Or loved. Or did you even love it all? Did you just talk about it? 

There is no time for Peter to process seeing someone he loves getting killed right in front of him. He's in an alley now like the one you died in. There are homeless people and drug addicts, drug dealers, and you. You stand there like an angel with your skin glistening thanks to the sun and despite the grime in the air. Peter can't take his eyes off of you. He doesn't want to anyway. He needs to see you like this, happy and aware and bright-eyed and in good standing with life. He can't bear the reality of flesh and bone and blood and six feet underground. It's always been a flaw of his. Feeling those that are dead are not really, not really. They still linger, he feels them, he can't see or hear them but he knows them. He can feel the brush of fingers against his back or the jostle of his loose curl. They live within him, just outside of him, in his fingers and feet and the way his eyes move follows them though he can't really see them there.

A blood-curdling crack stops everything. In a moment, you're lying on the ground with blood running from your forehead down past your chin and drip-dropping against your neck. And Peter is down on his knees in front of you, holding your torso, pulling it up onto his lap, and he holds your head like a kid holds a teddy bear. He strokes your hair as you gurgle up blood. He can't do anything for you. He's stuck. He's not allowed to save you. He is not allowed to save you. You did not need saving. He didn't know what you needed and neither did you. With your head in his arms and his nose pressed against the line of blood down your forehead and your limp body against his thighs, he rocks back and forth, whispering things he doesn't know and you can't hear. You'll be okay. I've got you. I won't leave you. You can't leave me. You will live through this. And your dead, limp body is not motivated to live.

And there you lie, next to him in his bed, your head turned toward him, and you're smiling. The sun shines on both of you; Peter can feel it on his skin. Like being kissed by a god. Like being kissed by you. He's a cat in a sunspot and you're stretching out toward him. Your fingers brush against his cheeks and you're smiling at him. He fills your vision; Peter can see his reflection in your big, beautiful eyes. He wants to kiss you and you move closer. Your eyes stay on him the whole time, if it weren't so beautiful, it'd be unnerving. 

You're on top of him now. Your hands -fingers and palms- caress his chest, trace his collarbone, feather down his ribs to his hips. He shudders under your touch. He wants it again. He wants it real. He doesn't realize it isn't yet. On all fours, over Peter's body, you lean down and kiss him. It holds, lasting long enough for him to hold your cheek and to satisfy him if for a fleeting moment. You pull back, your eyes staring into his; he's in love. (You're not real). Your hands trail down his chest again as you sit on top of him. You're just looking at him.

And when Peter turns, now awake, he's alone; you're not there by his side. He reaches out across the sheets like you would reach out if you could. Poor Peter, he doesn't know. 

[atsadi-shenanigans]

Feeding Alligators 46 - Not Quiet on the Western Front

Y'all leave camp. Is that blood?

On AO3.

You offer back the blanket Astarion brought out to the woods. He gives you a delicately offended face and says he’s never seen it before. And then he’s turning away, done talking to you because you are nothing to him now, and Shadowheart shoots you a—it’s not quite sympathetic, but it’s in the same family—look.

The rest of camp emerges as you dress in your second-cleanest clothes.

You avoid eye contact. Especially with Karlach, who greets you with a grin that falters when you nod and brush past to get to the egg scramble Gale throws together.

Astarion doesn’t join, y’all. You catch a few glances thrown his way from the others, some silent conversation passes around you like a flurry of group chat text you ain’t included on.

Great. Awesome. Just what you wanted. Not awkward at all.

But either Shadowheart does a great job silently deflecting everybody, or they communally decide to let sleeping dogs lie; nobody outright asks you about it.

Then y’all bust up camp and set out to find this goblin camp and the druid who might be able to do magic brain surgery or whatever.

And Astarion immediately sidles up to Gale with a tone you now recognize. Not even twelve hours later, and he’s completely ditched you. All because you wouldn’t spread your legs.

That explains the pile of lovers, don’t it? He’s a fuck boy, is what he is. And you are an idiot for not seeing that sooner (of course the only one chasing you would be the one with the loosest standards).

You increase your pace to join Lae’zel and Wyll up front. Wyll glance to you, smiles, and thank fuck he don’t say nothing.

Lae’zel, unfortunately, stares at you a second, and then, “You smell of the bloodsucker, but not of mating. Was he not satisfactory?”

You don’t even see the rock that trips you—points to Wyll who manages to catch your elbow and keep you from eating dirt.

“Fuck’s sake, Lae’zel!” you whisper-shout. “You can’t go asking people that!”

Y’all are at the front. There is a chance, however small, the words didn’t carry back to the fuck boy bloodsucker.

“Why not? If you have no claim to him, then others may make one. But if he is an inadequate partner, I would be less likely to do so.”

You stare. Wyll, beside you, looks horrified.

Lae’zel scowls. “Is this another istik oddity? Your people complicate all things for no reason. Speak plainly.”

And it is silent behind you. No idle chitchat, no scoffing; Karlach isn’t even humming. Oh sweet fucking christ on a cracker. This is not happening.

“Lae’zel,” Wyll tries.

But she fucking hisses at him. “I was not addressing you.”

Maybe you can override the blood potion you slammed back not too long ago and force your soul to separate from your body. Maybe you can negate the dirt potion if you bash your head into a tree enough to give you brain damage. Or at least pass out so it hits whatever bullshit magic timer it needs so it stops working.

Lae’zel stares at you. She ain’t letting this go. And you are not going to turn around. If you turn and see the others, you’ll have to acknowledge this is, in fact, happening when it so clearly ain’t. This is a dream. This is a horrible, nightmare dream.

“Um,” you say, your voice all high. “It, um, that’s…is that blood?”

There is blood in the path, actually! Thank fuck! It is also fresh, as indicated by the body in the grass and the pile of scooped out guts not much further along. Flies buzz over them, but ain’t no maggots, so it can’t have been lying there too long.

Considering all the other bullshit y’all’ve run into recently…

***

It’s gnolls. Of course it’s fucking gnolls. A whole fucking pack of them and you have the presence of mind to not drop your fucking stick this time. Wyll helps a lot with that by staying out in front of you, hitting them with spells that boil the skin off their faces if they get too close.

Karlach takes the worst of it. Tends to happen when one screams, “Eat it, fuckers!” and charges in like a pack of suburbanites on a Black Friday store opening. Shadowheart has to make her sit so she can jesus hands shut the massive gash opening up the tiefling’s thigh down to the bone.

Karlach takes it all in stride. “Ooh, think it’ll scar? I’m gonna tell everyone I got it chopping through a Beholder!”

You leave them to it, and follow Wyll and Gale into the cave the gnolls were trying to get to. Three more dead people lie in clustered pieces. You stand over the nearest a moment before kneeling.

“Sorry, friend,” you say. “I hope you find what you’re looking for and get some rest.”

And you slip your fingers into his pockets. Some gold and a handkerchief. Well.

The others poke around boxes and baskets, retrieving the still-edible food and anything of value. You wander alone, until something catches your eye. A fancy box wedge between two rocks. You crouch to peer at it in the gloom.

The lid does not lift. There’s a lock on the front. Astarion has been getting y’all into this shit so far. And it ain’t like you know how to pick the damn thing open.

You spot him up a ladder on a ledge nearby, patting down a dead man of his own. That new and exciting dread washes over you. Surely you can figure this box out? Maybe hitting it hard enough will pop the thing free?

It does not pop the thing free. It does attract Gale’s attention. He ambles over, saying something about an unlocking spell, but his mojo is running dry and it don’t work.

You can feel Astarion’s gaze on the back of your neck. But you refuse to turn. It’s probably childish, and definitely petty as hell, but he tossed you out like garbage, like you are nothing. No hesitation, no attempt at talking it through. You didn’t put out and he was done with you, and two can play at that, motherfucker. You are not the metaphorical bigger person.

Eventually, Karlach saunters in.

“Trying to get into that?” she says, noticing the both of you armed with sticks, standing around the damn thing like a couple of uncles holding beers and staring at a car engine that won’t turn over. “Want Mama K to take a crack at it?”

Mama K. You go a little weak in the knees. “Yes, please.”

She lifts her ax and brings that sucker down so hard it makes you jump. Metal bangs, and y’all flinch, but Karlach is a fucking monster with that ax, and her aim is dead-on. The front wall of the box falls off, neat as cut paper.

“You’re amazing,” you say.

She guffaws, but there’s a teeny duck of her head, and you have a suspicion that if she wasn’t red and literally on fire, there’d be some blush on her cheeks.

Inside is a letter, some gold, and a funny looking bottle. Scratch that, an evil motherfucker of a bottle. It’s made of metal, with the most sinister fucking face glowing on its surface. Fucker screams poison. You ain’t dealing with that right now, but it might come in handy on a druid rescue (Ancient Romans used to poison the wells around an enemy army, perhaps?).

What you don’t want is for the bastard to wiggle open in your bag and like, melt it from the inside or whatever. You grab the top and twist to make sure it’s on tight.

Except this ain’t Earth. And righty does not mean tighty in Faerun; nor does lefty mean loose-y.

You unscrew it.

Only a little! The barest wiggle before you catch it! But it’s right as Gale spots it, squints, and starts to say, “I’d be very careful with—”

The bottle explodes. Black fumes pour out. You drop the thing and fall back, waving your arms before the sense bubbles up through your brain and you wrench the front of your tunic out of the stays to cover your mouth and nose. The others cough and swear, and the air shifts. Goes cold to freezing so fast your skin prickles in confusion. You stagger out of the cloud just in time to catch Lae’zel shout something in her language and something big moves above you.

“The fuck,” you start.

A giant fucking eyeball over a goddamn fucking maw of teeth longer than your forearm. Fucker is huge and hovering over you. Four tentacles lift up from its back, and each of those ends in an eyeball, too. They blink all out of sync, and you’re backing away, but one of them stalk eyes spots you, and the entire thing turns to look.

Your bladder nearly gives.

“Spectator!” Wyll shouts. “Eleanor, get out of there!”

The thing rises up silent, a goddamn UFO made of teeth. You can’t breathe. All thought fails, leaving only mindless gibbering and your body is a dead thing around you.

“Shka’keth!” Lae’zel shouts. A silver blur streaks past you as she vaults up and tried to bury her sword through that big ass eye.

But the UFO dodges and roars. The sound slaps even the gibbering right outta your head. Your body turns, and bolts. No thought. Just run. Away from the sound, away from the horror and the teeth.

Impact lances up your shins. Air claws at your throat. A stitch pulls at your side sharp and hot and still, you stagger on.

 Flash of the others around you—Gale lifting his staff, his eyes glowing. Karlach roaring. Wyll pointing a magic blast.

You run past them all. Sprint—it’s too much, you can’t do this anymore—for a pile of rocks. Throw yourself behind it and try to catch your breath. Your heart tries to burst outta your ribcage.

More roars and shouts behind you. Light flashes and the thunderclap swats you and the thing screams. Your hands clap over your ears. You shut your eyes and burrow into your knees as best you can.

It needs to stop. This all needs to stop. All too much and you can’t. You’re so done. You just want it all to go away. You been strong and resilient and all them fancy words people like to throw around and you cannot anymore.

A thud and a scrabble.

Lae’zel lands in the dirt next to you. Blood coats the side of her face. She starts to roll up, spots you. Her lips pull back in a sneer.

“Gah! Useless,” she hisses. And then she vaults off, leaving you sitting there in the dirt.

Fuck, they’re fighting. They’re hurt and they’re fighting and this one really, really is your fault. You don’t know what you’re doing and you don’t know this place and Lae’zel is right. You can’t do magic or swords. You dropped your staff again. You are a pathetic, useless little shit.

“Wyll!” Karlach shouts.

Oh god. You turn and peer around the outcrop. Spot the man down, Karlach standing over him with her teeth bared at the advancing UFO thing.

Oh no. Oh god, no. No. You have…you have to do something. Do anything.

Bag. See what’s in the bag.

Next thing you know, all your worldly possessions are strewn out on the dirt as you scramble through them. Water, rations, clothes, a rusty fork. Something useful, something you can…

A misshapen little thing. Roundish, but in patches with nasty little holes all over it. Lae’zel had called it something when you picked it up. What was it? What—?

“A void bulb,” Not-Sasha’s voice echoes in your head the fucking bitch. You almost drop the damn thing (is this fucker watching you twenty-four seven? Is it listening in on this, too? How was that view yesterday of you taking a shit—) “Use it.”

In an instant, you see it in your head. What it is. What it does.

And oh. Oh very much yes.

You can’t think. Can’t let yourself. You’re staggering up on jittery legs and stumbling out. The UFO monster fires some kinda beam that Karlach barely dodges. Something is very wrong with Gale—he’s on his knees, batting at shit you can’t see. Astarion pops out from an outcrop much like your own to fire an arrow that don’t do more than turn one of them stalk eyes towards him to blast another fucking laser beam (Astarion ducks).

This is stupid. This is so stupid, and you’re gonna die but y’all are gonna die if you fucking stand here—

“Hey! Fucker!” you say. Voice reedy, higher than a toddler, strained almost to a superhuman screech.

One stalk eye turns towards you. That ain’t gonna cut it. Which is why you grabbed the other bottle, the one Gale had called “arsonist’s oil.”

You lob it. The thing goes spiraling, misses by a good ten feet, and bursts in a ball of fire close enough to Shadowheart for her to dive out of the way. But you ain’t really aiming to hit it (well, you are, but you know it’s a goddamned long shot). The real goal was all them eyes focusing on you. It was the thing shuddering, spikes rippling along its back as it pivots to you, opens its maw, and howls.

“C-come on,” you stammer. Probably not audible. Don’t matter. The thing lifts over the fire. Passes through the column of black smoke. Drifts close and down, down, down over you.

You got one chance at this. And if you fail, your death is gonna be fucked up.

The monster shrieks again and it’s three different sounds twisted around each other, each one loosening bowels and turning limbs to pudding and brains to scrambled eggs.

Closer. Closer. Your hands don’t feel attached to your body. You got them tucked behind you now—don’t know if that fucker is sentient enough and can’t risk it.

Until you can’t wait no more. The thing opens that godawful mouth, puffs itself up, and you got to move.

You throw. A Hail Mary chuck. Except the thing sees it, starts to duck to the right.

One of the stalk eyes brushes that little void thing.

The void bulb detonates.

It’s too fast to track. A rapid wh-wh-UMP, faster than a hummingbird’s wings. Your ears pop so hard it hurts, and your sinuses damn near explode right outta your face.

The air shifts itself so hard it drags you forward and you fall to your knees (ah fuck! Your bad knee!). The crew shouts and curses, and then it’s over.

You missed. You’d aimed dead center. But it hadn’t mattered too much there in the end.

Damn thing created a void, alright. Sucked in everything nearby so fast and so hard matter collapsed in on itself. Part of the monster was within range. The rest wasn’t, and the implosion was so sudden and brutal, it ripped that flesh right off.

Half the UFO thing comes crashing down. Its right side is torn clean off, eyeball popped and shriveled like a deflated balloon.

The resulting silence is deafening. Until you catch movement: Shadowheart waving, her mouth moving, yet no sound comes out. All you hear is sharp ringing.

Oh cool. You gone deaf. Totally fine. Nothing to see here.

Except you start to stand and the dizziness puts you flat on your back. Which then makes it feel like you’re lying on a microwave plate, spinning around and around under that big, blue sky.

You close your eyes. Swallow a few times.

A shadow falls over you and there’s Gale with a potion. You don’t even ask. Just slam the thing back. Sweet burning, and pain spikes in your ears and the ringing goes shrill…and then quiets. Dirt crunches. Wyll grunts. Shadowheart murmurs for her jesus hands.

“’S everybody okay?” you say.

Gale helps you sit up. Your spine cracks in three places. Wyll lies prone, Shadowheart over him while Karlach hovers anxiously. Lae’zel stands next to the halved monster, staring speculatively. Then she shakes her head all disgusted (hard to make a trophy outta half a head and a popped-ass eyeball).

She turns that look on you. Her expression does not lighten.

“I think Shadowheart has Wyll in order,” Gale says. “And I don’t believe there were any other serious injuries. Are you alright?”

No. You’re a fucking useless goddamn liability.

“Yeah,” you manage. You don’t look away from Lae’zel, who spits out a gob of blood and dirt. She gives you a last, withering look, and turns.

“Good,” Gale says because he wasn’t paying attention and is now unaware of the internal catastrophe kicking off in your head (she’s done, she’s done with you, it happened, you made a bad call and she’s going to abandon you and this is how it starts). “Through this debacle, I think we may have found a suitable object for you.”

“What?” you say. It’s hard to pay attention over the internal screaming. But he, blessedly oblivious, holds up the evil potion jar (monster prison) with a flourish.

“I sensed a strong binding spell on this when you first picked it up,” he says. “And that magic remains. And if it can hold a spectator within, I believe it can hold one human soul.”

Evil jar with an evil face. He’d mentioned that before, hadn’t he? The blood potion was just to keep your soul from wandering off, a type of mystical toddler leash. But here’s something to stuff it inside long enough for you to deworm your brain and find a fucking way home.

He lets you take it, feel the cool metal and the smooth ridges of that fucked up little goblin face on the front. A soul jar, just for you.

Previous - Index - Next Chapter

[ravensilversea]

Title: You can take them out of the mafia (but that doesn't make them civilians)

Author: Raven_Silversea

Rating: T

Pairing: Hibari Kyoya/Kurokawa Hana/Sasagawa Ryohei

Prompt: Rain Day: Retired Assassins AU / Opposites Attract

Tags/Warnings: Post-Canon, Retired Assassins AU, Established Relationship, Attempted Break-In, Fights, Attempt at Humor

Summary: In their defense, the guy chose the wrong house to break into.

Ao3

There's a moment where they're all looking at each other. Ryohei holding a plate that he's in the middle of drying, Kyoya elbow-deep in the kitchen sink washing dishes, and the man dressed in black who just broke the window in the breakfast nook and is currently perched on the windowsill. 

“Wao,” Kyoya says. A bloodthirsty smile slowly spreads across his face as he turns off the water and reaches a hand towards Ryohei.

Ryohei hands Kyoya the towel and sets the plate on the counter. It's one of the nice plates with a yellow flower design along the edges, and Hana would be very disappointed with them if they broke yet another piece of the set. He cracks his knuckles, grinning broadly at the man still frozen in the window. “You EXTREMELY chose the wrong house,” Ryohei says.

In the intruder’s defense, he very quickly attempts to back out of the window and run. Unfortunately for him, Ryohei is much faster and grabs him by the shirt collar, yanking him out of the window and sending him skidding across the floor.

Before the man can stand, Kyoya slams a tonfa into his face. There’s a crack! and bright red blood spurts from the man’s nose. He reaches up to staunch the blood with one hand, the other reaching for the countertop as he begins to stand.

This time it’s Ryohei sending a left hook directly to the man’s ribcage, and he falls flat on his face with an “Oof!”

The pattern continues. Intruder attempts to stand and escape, maybe retaliate against the unending attacks. Kyoya and Ryohei smack him back down with increasingly strong attacks. At some point, the yellow flowered plate is thrown at Kyoya, who dodges, and the fight stops long enough for them all to watch as the plate shatters against the wall.

The man attempts to inch his way across the floor to the broken window while Ryohei and Kyoya examine the plate shards. Then Kyoya turns. “For your crimes,” he says slowly, “you will be bitten to death.”

Before the man can do more than whimper, Kyoya slams a tonfa down on his head. The man slumps.

Kyoya and Ryohei stare down at the broken, bleeding man unconscious on their kitchen tile. The wind blows in through the broken window, lilac curtains billowing out. Throwing knives stick out from the lemon wallpaper, a blood trail spans across much of the floor, and the yellow flowered plate is only one of the piles of glass shards needing to be swept up. Not even the cabinets escaped the fight with one door hanging on by a single screw and squeaking in the wind.

A key turns in the lock, and the front door opens. There’s a moment when they’re all looking at each other. Ryohei holding a frying pan ready to swing, Kyoya with his tonfa held loosely in his hand, and Hana, who had just come home from a business trip to Italy, still carrying her suitcase. 

“You. Are. RETIRED!” Hana yells, slamming the door shut behind her. “Why can I not leave the two of you home by yourselves for a week?!”

The intruder groans, and Ryohei smacks him back into silence with the frying pan. Hana pinches her nose with a heavy sigh. “Take him out the back and drop him in front of the police station,” she says. “I’ll make sure there’s a warrant for him in their system.”

Kyoya hums appreciably and picks the man up by his shoulders while Ryohei gives Hana a thumbs up. “Right on! You can tells us all about your EXTREME trip when we get back! Welcome home!” He picks up the man’s legs and together they shuffle towards the back door.

Hana waves a hand dismissively as she pulls her laptop out and settles down on the couch. “Yeah yeah, good to be back. Hurry home, menaces, I want some cuddle time before bed.” The shuffling sounds increase as her partners pick up their pace. She shakes her head with a soft smile, preparing the warrant as promised. 

The back door slams shut, and Hana props her feet up on the coffee table. Ah, it’s good to be home, even if she has to deal with her menaces’ mess. Again.