#way longer than a drabble

[shotmrmiller]

in which johnny gifts the love of his life a sex toy outta nowhere

when you mumble into the phone that you miss him, johnny, he pauses for a second, then tells you he's going to bring you a gift back home. "to keep ye company, hen." after, he locks himself in a bathroom stall and watches you play with yourself until you both come.

but you'd thought he'd bring you a pet. a live animal that needs a cage to be brought across the world, not a long, slim unmarked box.

it's a sex toy. and it's rather large, at that. your hand wraps around the base, fingertips still a good inch apart.

"and i'm supposed to be using that?" his arms wrap around your waist, his thick stubble grazing the sensitive skin of your neck, raising goose flesh.

"don't like it? only had ye in mind, hen." he presses a wet kiss on your fluttering pulse. you've never really talked about toys in your relationship. you don't need them, of course, and johnny more than makes up for the time lost between you two whenever he's home but this?

"i don't know," you mumble. "a bullet would've made more sense, i think. at most a rose." his hands run up your sides, to the swell of your breasts and give you a gentle squeeze. he doesn't believe the tripe of people valuing size over all else, does he? the thing is easily as thick as your forearm and it's corded with veins. and it's uncut. whoever is making these are going to extreme lengths to make it as realistic as possible.

he bucks his hips, prominent bulge in his jeans coming to rest in the small of your back. of course he'd get excited. menace.

"ye willnae have t'use it alone now tha' i'm here. 'sides, i think ye'd look perfect with my pretty kitty stretched thin around it." johnny grabs your hips firmly, creating small divots as his grip tightens. "maybe i'll watch ye fuck yerself on it, hm? lap at yer clit while ye do." liquid heat pools in your belly, pulsing hot between your legs.

he really wants you to use it, given by his ragged breathing and he rutting himself against you. fine. "okay. just, not right now, yeah? i want only you in me." his eyes burn fluorescent as he nods, his large hand cradling your head as he pulls you in for a kiss.

you missed this. the sweet sting of his cock sliding home in your aching cunt, the sharp pinch below your navel when his tip comes to sit snugly against the plug of your womb. you've missed this. missed him.

maybe he'll forget all about that monstrosity sitting in the box.

-

he doesn't. he's bringing it up hours later, his spend still dripping warm on your thighs. johnny cannot be serious.

"course i am, hen." his fingers sweep at the hair stuck to your sweat-slick forehead. "is it a crime to want to see ye split open on some- something else?"

you think nothing of his stutter. "alright," you groan. if that's what he wants. it'll be interesting to see just how much you can take. you'll never tell him that your pussy clenched around nothing at the thought, his cum trickling out faster, pooling on the sheets.

-

it's not warm. the tip of it presses against your swollen entrance, cold in contrast to your heated flesh. johnny watches you swallow a gasp, your trembling hands reaching for his as you slide down an inch, two, three. johnny's cum is wonderful lube, but the searing burn- the size of toy is overwhelming, your walls being wrenched apart as you glide down further. johnny presses a prickly kiss on your cheek, cooing in your ear all the while his clever fingers draw gentle circles on your clit. "focus on breathin', bonnie. yer tensin' up."

desire begins to bubble beneath your skin, pleasure causing your muscles to warm and slacken, and after a long couple of minutes, you find yourself at the base.

but then johnny grabs your hips from behind and pulls- oh. "that's it." if you'd thought the toy had originally been in your stomach, it's now in your throat. "pretty as a peach, hen. jus' wha' i wanted to see." a shiver dances up your spine, notches trembling as you get used to the unforgiving stretch of the toy. his breath warms the side of your neck. "on yer go."

you come around it no less than three times, leaving it milky and johnny cleans it up with his mouth before he cleans you up.

-

the girth of it is something you'll never get used to but it does get easier. when johnny goes back to work, he tells you that all he asks for are videos of you using it. for his collection, he greedily says.

you send him as many as you can, no matter the hours. just a quick nsfw text before getting his thumbs up and away it goes. it's incredibly fun. the relationship hadn't been dull by any means, but this just feels invigorating. you feel rejuvenated. that johnny is your biggest cheerleader while using it is such a bonus.

you oughta marry him. maybe you'll elope the next time he's home. but when the next time comes, johnny calls you instead of messaging you the usual be home soon text.

and it sends you reeling.

bonnie. the toy treat ye well while i was gone?

no better than you could me, but yeah. i'm still sore from using it in the last video i sent you.

that's great. if ye like the toy then ye'll love the real thing, i ken. we'll be there in 10.

[maxlarens]

Max and 10 please <3

10) spooning at night

Despite the soundproofing you’d installed during Covid, you can still hear Max’s pedals going thunk against the walls of the apartment. The sound accompanied by faint chattering, occasional laughter, cries of outrage as he talks to his friends on stream.

He worries sometimes. But you’d tell him if it bothered you— besides, you like hearing sounds of life in the apartment. You’ve not quite adjusted to the sheer square footage of Max’s penthouse apartment yet, even though you’ve lived with him for years. You grew too used to New York apartments where your bedroom, kitchen, and dining room were always piled on top of each other. It’s strange to have so much space, more rooms than you know what to do with.

Anyway, no, the noise doesn’t bother you. You like to hear him enjoying himself, laughing with his friends, doing something that doesn’t have so much pressure attached to it. You don’t like to take him away from that prematurely, even if you’re missing him.

And you are missing him.

It’s the middle of the night. Maybe past midnight now. You’ve got the windows in your bedroom open, letting in the Monaco sea breeze in a futile attempt to cut through the sweltering heat. The overhead fan whirrs above you. Some mindless show you love drones quietly on the TV, casting you in ever changing colours as you twist and turn in the sheets. Trying to keep your mind off things you shouldn’t be worrying about.

You wait a while, watch an episode.

Then you give in to your selfish tendencies and pull up your Discord chat with Max on your phone, sending off a simple message— come to bed?

You put your phone back on the nightstand and try not to smile too wide when you hear the sim rig thunk and thud as Max climbs out of it a few minutes later. His footsteps on the hardwood floors as he stops by the kitchen and then makes his way to the bedroom.

The door creaks open. Max comes inside, stepping quietly as if you’re already asleep.

“Sorry, liefje,” he says softly, before he ducks into the closet to change, “I didn’t mean to keep you up.”

You shake your head even though he can’t see, “You didn’t. I just couldn’t sleep.”

“You should have told me,” he sighs, coming out of the walk in closet wearing the oversized cat shirt you’d bought him and worn sweat-shorts with holes in the waistband, “I don’t mind cutting the stream short, not for you. They will survive without me.”

You hum and nod placatingly, knowing you wouldn’t ever ask him to do that. At least not for something like this. You’d only sent that message tonight because you knew he’d already been on for hours and would be wrapping up soon anyway.

“Got it,” you say, opening your arms and beckoning him to get into bed already.

He sighs again, an exasperated little exhale through his nose, and then climbs under the single sheet you’ve got draped over you. He shuffles into your space, pressing a wet kiss to the side of your chin as you press a kiss into his forehead and adjust your arms around him.

“Where are the cats?”, you ask, while Max busies himself with turning around.

You feel Max shrug. He’s adjusting the sheet so it sits over him perfectly and then fluffing his pillows so his head sits comfortably. You reach out to scratch the back of his neck, with three fingers, the same way you scratch the cats out of habit.

“Jimmy’s sleeping in the spare room,” he says, reaching blindly behind him to catch your shirt and drag you closer, “Dunno where Sassy is.”

“Causing trouble,” you laugh, slotting into place at his back.

You nudge your nose into his shoulder and sling your arm over his waist. Curling it around to press into his stomach. Your legs end up tangled, one of yours bent and hiked on his hip. Later, he’ll nudge it off because it twists the material of his shorts, but he tolerates it until you’re asleep.

“Mm,” he agrees, finding your hand splayed flat on his tummy and intertwining it with his own, “Always.”

[moonriverrise]

Steve has a secret, well “secret” may not be the correct way to describe it. He has something for himself, thats what. Ever since he stopped playing basketball and doing swim competitions once he graduated he's had way more free time, which at first he filled with shifts at Family Video, or bothering Robin.

Then, when she started school he started doing art more. Which, may come a surprise to many, as he never really talked about his interest in paintings and old art.

Greek sculptures that are able to show life in a still ethereal way, while still being able to twist it at their will. Renaissance oil paintings, capturing tragedy yet still being able to portray it as beautiful, in their own terrible twisted ways.

He likes sketching on paper, painting on canvas. His paintings aren't usually too different from the things he sees around him. Honestly thats the only things he paints, people, his friends, places he goes, things he sees that stick with him, dreams, moments that play on repeat in his head.

Around his Junior year, after the Demogorgon, Steve had turned the sad basement in his sad empty house, into his own space. A place where he can go and do his art, hang it, play music on his walkman, or using the record player he got from a pawn shop a few months prior. Somehow the basement is the only space that actually feels like his in his house, not even his bedroom.

Steve’s art was not very consistent to be honest, mostly the kids and Robin, landscapes that he liked, the Demogorgon/dogs, the Mindflayer (he needs some way of getting those out of his head, and somehow drawing them down feels freeing.) He does have a few paintings of Nancy from when they were together, she’s become less of a model for his work after everything though.

The last time he painted her in a painting alone, was one of that bathroom in a girl he barely knows’ house, a spilled drink on Nancy’s dress, and red solo cups littering the counter.

Steve’s art shifts though, after a moment that will never leave his mind. He knows who Eddie Munson is, obviously. How could he not? Honestly Steve isn't that surprised Henderson and the others befriended the guy, he does run a DnD club.

But then, Henderson needs a ride home after their club meetings because his mom is working late, and then Lucas and Mike’s parents are also asking Steve to pick them up too. Babysitting duty, as per usual.

Steve arrives a bit earlier than he planned. He didn't have any project to consume himself into, hitting an art block begrudgingly. But then, Steve sees Eddie Munson, sitting on a fake throne, watching the kids and other club members argue, he has his chin rested on his fist, and he's wearing a white tank top, showing off his shoulders, given the fact it’s still September.

The lighting of the small theater room captures Steve’s interest like a moth to the flame, and he is regretting having left his sketchbook at home, even though he never draws around the kids or anyone he knows.

Eddie Munson’s face and curly locks fill up the pages of Steve’s journal and some canvases for months after, and Steve rarely genuinely complains about coming to pick the kids up.

Afterwords, months later from that day. Chrissy Cunningham dies, and Eddie Munson almost goes with her. God, or whatever deity that was looking down upon him, was on Steve’s side in that moment, when he was able to revive Eddie and then drag him out of the Upside Down.

Steve gets closer with Eddie after that, they become actual friends. Steve was so used to witnessing his muse from afar, it was so…exciting, to see Eddie in all his glory, just a few feet away, and his smile being directed at him.

“Do you even have any hobbies, Harrington?” Steve blinks. Him, Eddie, Robin, Nancy, and the party, are all hanging out by the pool. Steve is lounging on one of the chairs, sunglasses over his eyes as Eddie talks beside him.

“What?” Steve responds.

“I mean…I like barely ever see you do anything besides sort Movies at Family Video, or boss around the kids. Like, what do you do when we're not all together?” Eddie asks, moving his hand a little as he talks. Steve thinks for a moment.

“Funny,” Steve answers instead. Eddie scoffs.

“I'm being serious, man! What do you do?” Eddie laughs a little, most likely at the ridiculousness of it all. What would Steve know, Eddie is like a puzzle, and Steve has to take every minute slowly, deciphering everything he lays out for him, via tongue or action.

“I don't know, what do you do?” Steve says, almost carefully.

“Band stuff, DnD, Writing,” Eddie lists. “And I guess saving the world now, but thats a bit of a side hussle.” Steve scoffs.

“Whatever, man.” And thats that, they don't talk about it again. But it sticks with Steve, because his friends really do think he doesn't do anything with his life. It's not like he has college classes to study for, so what does he do?

Later, maybe two or three weeks after, Steve decides he wants to show Eddie his space. The two of them are alone, Robin is in Nevada, visiting her grandparents, so the trio’s usual movie night is cut down to a duo’s movie night.

Although Steve finds himself mostly focusing on Eddie and his beautiful hair sitting next to him, than watching ET. The little alien scares him a bit anyway. Eddie notices him staring though, his eyes flickering to meet Steves, then a smirk spreading across his lips.

“We are watching a movie, lover boy.” Eddie says. Steve goes red, his gaze shifting to his lap. Steve furrows his eyebrows then stands and shuts the TV off. “Woah! Hey!”

“I want to show you something.” Steve says, it's a bit quieter than he meant it to be, but his tone indicates something to Eddie, which has him staring at Steve, starstruck.

Steve walks out the room and hears Eddie follow him. He gets to the basement door and opens it, flicks on the stair light.

“Basement- woah- okay, guess I'm getting murdered. Thought I’d go out in a more metal way than this.” Eddie says as they walk down. Steve laughs a little and shakes his head.

“I just think you should see this.” Steve says. “Nothing life threatening, I promise.”

“Alright, I trust you, Stevie.”

“Good.”

Steve turns and flicks on the light as they step onto the concrete. The lights flicker on, revealing the paintings on the walls and art supplies on the tables and counters.

“Woah-” Eddie says. “Is this, all your stuff?” Steve sighs, he folds his arms and faces Eddie. He looks shellshocked.

“Yeah.” Steve says. “You said I don't have any hobbies, I do, actually.” Eddie looks around, walking slowly.

“Is that Henderson? Why is he wearing yellow gloves?” Eddie asks. Steve walks over to a painting of Dustin from Steve’s angle while they were walking on the train tracks, a bucket of raw meat is in one hand and he's wearing the headphones for his radio.

“D’Art,” Steve says. “That was when we were leading him away. I made that one after everything happened. I was trying not to think about the Demogorgon stuff and everything, so I just drew him. I have one of Max from that day I never finished painting in a stack I think too.” Eddie doesn't say anything for a minute after Steve is done explaining.

“You can paint.” Eddie says, though not like a question. “These are beautiful…” Eddie looks around and walks to another one he sees. It's one of the Byers and Hopper’s, all hugging while laughing. El looks the happiest. Steve had painted that after they had all gotten together after everything. “Why…didn't you tell anyone?”

“About what?” Steve asks, folding his arms as Eddie brings up a hand to touch the painting.

“This- Steve, you're amazing at this. These are…” Eddie trails off as something catches his eye, he slowly starts to walk towards a big painting propped up behind one of the tables laid out in the middle of the room. Steve walks to him to see which one he's looking at.

An angel, knelt over a puddle, crying as it stares at his reflection, which is blurred and dark. He stands in a forest, his wings are long and huge, sprawling out above him.

It’s one of Steve’s bigger ones, the inspiration came from a dream he had after they had read about Icarus in his english class back in Highschool.

“It’s… magnificent.” Eddie whispers. Steve smiles gently at Eddie’s reaction. Eddie backs up a bit and looks away from the painting. “Is that me?” Steve follows his eye, to the painting. Eddie walks towards it, Steve stays behind him. It’s the first one Steve ever made of Eddie, the one of him on the throne.

“Yeah, it is.” Steve says. “I made that the first night I came to pick up the kids.” He says. “The first time I met you, actually met you.” They share a look.

“You are incredible, Steve Harrington.”

[afewproblems]

I think Steve needs a secret creative hobby that he springs on the group, surprising everyone.

Sometimes, it can be a little depressing to believe that everyone you love sees you as this one guy, this dumb jock. Intellectually, he knows that the kids and Robin, Nance, and Eddie don't think he's stupid, but that doesn't make the feeling go away.

What if his mom had put him in a ballroom dancing class when he was younger? From age 7 to 12, he took dancing through an independent studio with the other rich kids. It started with ballroom, which continued into swing-dancing. He loved it.

And Steve was good.

He was fluid and graceful, an absolute natural the instructor would remark to his mother when she would come to pick him up. In fact, they were picking kids to participate in the upcoming tournament for the youth category, and Steve was a perfect candidate, the instructor said.

That was until his dad made the executive decision to pull Steve out and force him into sports after catching Steve dancing with his mom in the kitchen. Watching his son twirling around with Susan Harrington, a small indulgent smile on her face, was the final straw for Richard.

"No son of mine is going to prance around like that, like a little fairy," he snarled as he dragged Steve away from the kitchen, his firm white-knuckle grip holding Steve's small arm as they made their way up the stairs to his room.

Steve tried not to make a sound as he covered his ears to the yelling match taking place in room below him.

Steve ended up in little league the next day.

Steve still practiced though, on his own.

It wasn't as though he hadn't made friends in that class, kids who kept on with it.

He missed it, he missed them. He missed how he felt when dancing.

It was freeing.

Carla Neilson taught him the new steps, things she continued to learn while Steve played baseball, basketball, and eventually made the swim team in highschool.

Swimming would probably be the closest he would get to that feeling of gliding along the floor, that grace and fluidity never really leaving him.

He had been a decent player at one time because of his quick feet, but that was before Billy Hargrove rolled into town. Steve never quite learned how to plant his feet because dancing always kept him moving, Hargrove seemed to enjoy pointing out how truly 'fairy-like' he was as he made his way across the court. Those words, the same words his father had hissed at him, all those years ago left him cold and hurt.

He stops dancing after that.

It's not until years later, after Vecna, after Billy dies and his Father disowns him, after he kisses Eddie for the first time and he finally feels like he can breath again that the group finds out.

It's at a party. Everyone of age is a little tipsy or faded at this point in the evening and playing a question game, the kids roll their eyes at their older friends antics and stick to the Nintendo across the living room of Steve and Eddie's apartment.

The question of, 'What is your hidden talent,' comes up and everyone takes their turn.

Robin recites the alphabet backwards, not blinking or pausing the entire way which everyone applauds for once she's finished.

Nancy does a quick handstand and takes three steps backward before dropping her legs back to the ground, she curtsies with a sly smile and laughs as she sits next to Robin again who is staring at Nancy like shes never seen her before.

Eddie thinks for a moment before lifting his hand to his mouth and blows out an impressively loud whistle that prompts Mike to tell them all off for being loud.

Jonathan blows a giant smoke ring while Argyle moonwalks around the living room, earning the pair of them a chorus of woops and applause.

Everyone turns to Steve once Argyle drops back to his seat next to Jonathan, "Alright brochacho you're up man," he says with a hazy smile.

Steve thinks for a moment, looking around at everyone, all of these people who love him, and makes a decision.

"Uh, yeah okay, I've got one," he says slowly before standing up from the loveseat he's sharing with Eddie, "but I'll need a volunteer and some music".

"Oh my God," Robin stage whispers to Nancy, "is he going to do magic right now? Steven Harrington can you do magic??"

Steve snorts and rolls his eyes, "I think I found my volunteer," he holds out his hand for Robin to take as Eddie stands up to turn on their second-hand record player they got from Uncle Wayne as a house warming.

"Uh, one of mine Eds," Steve says with a slight shake to his voice, "something with a beat".

"Oh shit," Robin chokes out as Steve tugs her close. She nearly stumbles, but his arms hold her up.

Eddie smirks like it's a challenge and pulls out Whitney Houston, earning a smile from Jonathan and a small, 'really?' from Nancy.

Argyle laughs, "Heck Yeah man, Whitney rocks dude, turn that shit up!"

Steve smiles and takes a deep breath, his heart is racing but he doesn't care in this moment, he looks at Eddie who is grinning at him, a slightly curious look on his face.

And it's like riding a bike, he leads Robin across the small space twirling and dipping her as she squeals and tries to follow.

Steve probably could have picked a slightly less clumsy volunteer, but he loves Robin and showing her, showing them all, this part of himself after hiding it for so long just means the world to him.

He keeps his own feet fast, keeping the beat but moving Robin where she needs to be as they glide over the carpet, he spins her out and then back into his arms as the song ends, they are both breathing heavily by the time the last note rings out and Robin can't contain her hands from smacking into Steve's chest as she yells, "Who the fuck are you! Dingus how could you hide this!"

Steve blushes as Eddie comes up behind him to hook his head over his shoulder as his arms come up to wrap around Steve's waist.

"Fancy footwork dude," Argyle says nodding at Jonathan who is looking at Steve with fascination.

"When did you learn to dance?" Nancy asks, her voice soft and kind, as though she knows exactly how big this is for him.

"I will accept the fact that you did not pick me to dance just now if I can be your partner next time," Eddie says into Steve's ear, letting his teeth graze the lobe slightly making Steve shiver and laugh.

El and Max refuse to let him sit down for the rest of the night, insisting that he do that spinning move with each of them until all of the kids demand a turn.

Even Mike.

And he loves them all, happy to have finally shared this piece of himself with all of them. His heart is full.

[binniebakery]

ʚ thinking about yeonjun as the cute barista who works at the cat cafe that just opened ʚ you and your friend stumble into this new cafe and its like!! finally!! something to do since you moved to this town!! you weren’t all about clubbing or partying so this was definitely a safe haven for you to hang out with friends. ʚ the atmosphere is fresh and vibrant. green plants are everywhere and soft jazz fills the air along with the smell of coffee beans and fresh pastries. not to mention the cats?? literally everywhere?? ʚ its all too cute and you feel as if you're in heaven as you sit lazily on the plush couch with a nice cup of your favorite drink ʚ maybe you are just in heaven because who is that cute guy with the thin round lenses cleaning the table across from you?? ʚ you feel your fingers grip you glass a tad bit tighter than needed. and your heart starts to flutter when he suddenly glances up your way ʚ its like some type of cheesy anime scene. the way you both look at each other and immediately turn away the second you realize you were staring at each other a little too long, cheeks flushed and you almost miss the small smile the cute worker gives you ʚ you bite the inside of your cheek as you wrack your brain for ideas on how to start a conversation because well... obviously you cant waste this one chance to talk to the most attractive guy you've ever seen.. </3 ʚ its almost as if the stars align when your friend gets up to use the restroom. leaving you to your thoughts ʚ a small orange cat jumps into your lap, pawing at your leg gently for attention. unfortunately the poor thing knocks over your drink in the process :((( ʚ and of course. its just your luck that the drink spills, scaring the poor creature away and leaving you with a stained outfit. ʚ fortunately for you. mr glasses witnesses the whole thing (because he totally hasn't been staring at you the entire time..) and immediately he jumps to action ʚ "oh no!! I'm so sorry, mango has a habit of being too friendly" he apologizes and immediately uses the rag he had already been using to wipe the table down. ʚ he's so handsome up close. cheek bones prominent as he lets out an apologetic smile. ʚ its your silence that has him awkwardly laughing as he hands you some napkins to clean off the remaining drink from your clothing ʚ "so.. is this your first time here? I've never seen you here before." ʚ right. you had a voice to use. ʚ you nod, "y- yeah um.. first time here with a friend! i- it's really nice!" you stutter out and the young man takes a seat next to you as he watches you pat down your lap. ʚ "well the cats seem to like you.. you should come here often. i didn't catch your name by the way?" he inquires. ʚ "y/n. and you?" "yeonjun." he points to his nametag and you want to smack yourself for not noticing it before. ʚ "well y/n. it's lovely to meet you. it's nice seeing new faces. especially good looking ones." he continues with a smile. ʚ you almost choke from his comment. a bit forward but it seemed so genuine coming from him. you freeze as you try to think of a proper response ʚ "oh! ah- thanks.. ! you.. you're face is... nice too." you trail off shyly. yeonjun lets out a soft laugh and you mentally kick yourself for once again being the most awkward person on the planet ʚ but also his laugh is gorgeous and you could listen to it all day so maybe your embarrassment was worth it. ʚ the timing couldn't have been worse when you see your friend walking back from the restroom. but before she could reach you both yeonjun leans close. ʚ "tell you what y/n. come back again when I'm working and you can get to know this nice face a little more." his voice is quiet and it barely reaches your ears. you feel the warmth of his breath and find yourself turning redder than ever. ʚ you look up at him as he stands from his seat. yeonjun waves as he walks off and you find yourself smiling awfully stupidly because how could you deny such an offer?

♡ Recipe Notes: this isn't proofread at all but i wanted to write something cute and simple <3 yeonjun has been on my mind lately fr. enjoy!

[fbfh]

leo with baby fever? 🥹

i've always wondered what would he be like with babies of his own? 🥹💞

AAAAUGH. thank you for this one my dearest darlingest tumblr user pdlrnjlm. I'm violently sobbing over this one /pos. also excuse any egregious typos, I just woke up from a dream where my dyslexic ass couldn't spell "chris evans fine" to the point that autocorrect was beyond useless (and probably laughing at me).

ANYWAY. Leo with baby fever is... lethal. as previously stated, Leo is the motherfucking ceo of "one wouldn't hurt" but he sounds so... convincing when he says it. he says it so sweetly you start to think huh. maybe one wouldn't hurt. within a day or two his fyp is just cute baby fever inducing videos. he casually learns everything there is to know about child development and parenting in a matter of days. he starts treating your cat like a baby, talking to them and holding them on his lap while he works and good GOD if it doesn't start to hit you too. The tension and soul aching need to see you all big and preggers with his baby, your baby that you made together is almost too much. Then one fatal day, you run out of clean pajamas. It’s laundry day, and the only comfy thing you have on hand is a floral mumu from walmart that looks like something a grandma would wear, but you’re desperate and it’s soft and loose and comfy. So Leo, after spending hours rotting his brain with baby thoughts and thinking about how nice it’ll be to be a dad and how fulfilling it’ll be to come home and see a wrinkly little newborn having tummy time on your chest while you’re both half asleep to barrio sesamo playing on the tv. After a full day of ruminating on that, he comes home and sees you in your floral lil granny nightgown and good GOD something inside him snaps. You have this man feeling you up, snarling and growling, purring in you ear before he bites it. Something has gotten into him and taken full control of the primal part of his brain. And let’s be real here. You might as well consider yourself pregnant from the first “c’mon estrella, one or two couldn’t hurt… they’re so little, you won’t even notice them.” into your neck while he hugs you from behind. But yeah. Leo with baby fever is so simultaneously sweet cute fluffy domestic and rearrange your guts at the same time that it’s kind of inevitable. If Leo kisses your neck and rubs your tummy and says “you’d look so cute pregnant, baby…” you’re gonna fold. You have to. No one can resist that. And who would want to????

[gingerteawrites]

Your Biker boyfriend surprises you - Geto Suguru

A/N: Thank you so much @princessofenkanomiya for your ideas! I did not think I would write another part, but this is the part 2 in the series of thoughts for this drabble, so make sure you take a look at that one first :)

Content: college student au, biker Geto, fluff, Geto x female reader (he refers to her as a girl once), not beta read.

Your relationship with Geto brought you an immense sense of comfort. His mellow energy managed to calmed you right down, and you had begun to start craving his presence in the middle of your day when things grew hectic.

You were finally off from classes for the day. The professor had gone on a tangent about his dog and you did not have the energy to care anymore. Walking out of your last lecture hall, the sound of a familiar revving engine caught your attention, causing you to whip your head around to confirm its source.

And there he was in all of his glory, Geto Suguru, your boyfriend, who sat on his gorgeous bike almost like on a throne, donning his signature glossy black and purple helmet and matching jacket.

His eyes locked with yours when he flipped the visor upwards, his eyes crinkled into a smile.

Heart beating at a pace of 200 horses while frozen in space, you were quite literally short circuiting. Suguru looked absolutely breathtaking, his leather-clad body seeming to glisten under the sun. His dark eyes focused solely on you.

You shook yourself out of your daze and jogged over to the man, moving past all the other students who were squealing about his appearance.

Geto's head was leaning against his arm, which rested on the handlebar of his bike, titling it up to look at you through his visor

"Hey," he greeted, smooth voice echoing from within his helmet.

You pressed an arm to your chest and lowered your head dramatically "Geto Suguru, you can't do this."

He sat up straight, pulling off his helmet and letting his black hair cascade down his shoulder, his expression betraying his confusion. "What do you mean?" he asked, tone softening inquisitively.

"I mean that you're going to give me a heart attack if you keep pulling up looking so damn attractive." You hit his arm playfully, and immediately, his easy smile returns. "Look at all the people ogling behind me." You whisper.

Geto spared a moment to look behind you, catching the gaze of a few people who either giggled or look away bashfully after being caught staring.

"Well, it's not like they've never seen me before." He shrugs "I literally go here."

You wanted to argue that it was different now that he was here in full gear looking nothing short of one of those gorgeous F1 racers, but you decided against it, only shaking your head with a playful scoff.

"Okay, never mind. What's the occasion?" You asked, looking him up and down with a smile "This is your first time pulling up like this." You readjust your backpack on your shoulders.

"I have a surprise for you." He said, handing you the usual spare helmet he brought along when you rode together.

"Really? What is it?" You beamed with excitement, adjusting your hair before slipping the helmet on.

"Now, it wouldn't be a surprise if I told you, would it?" He joked when you sat behind him, wrapping your arms around his middle in a way that had become habit.

You rolled your eyes, resting your head against his back after he put on his helmet again and revved the engine.

"Why do I have a feeling you just rolled your eyes at me?" He chuckled, looking straight ahead before taking off.

He took you along the scenic route you had grown used to, admiring the city view from the winding roads that went up the hill. The air around you was cool, but the warm radiating from his body made you nuzzle closer, closing your eyes to enjoy his proximity. You eventually reached the top of the hill, which happened to be host a secluded picnic spot. You got off the bike, and looked up at him curiously.

"We've never been all the way up here." You remarked. He climbed off the bike, and removed his helmet and gloves, slipping his fingers between yours to lead you away.

"I know." He continued to pull you along, walking towards a more wooded area.

"Suguru did you bring me here to murder me?" You asked, and he turned around, face twisted with offense. "Just kidding, just kidding." You laughed "But I wouldn't have to wonder if you just told me where we're going."

"Okay okay, just wait for a few more moments. We're almost there." He squeezed your hand, rubbing your knuckles while keeping up the pace. The gesture was enough to placate you.

You finally arrived at a small open area, where the setting sun illuminated the wildflowers in flares of deep orange. You marveled at the scene, unintentionally letting go of his hand, but failing to notice the picnic blanket set not far from where you were standing.

Geto chuckled when he saw you pull out your phone to capture the scene, letting you wander away for a few moments with your mouth agape. After snapping a few pictures, you turned around to face him again, seeing his eyes crinkled in a sincere smile.

"Alright, can I show you the REAL surprise now?" He asked, returning to grab your hand. You nodded eagerly, and he brought you to the picnic blanket laid on the ground.

He made you sit before a box labeled for my dear, and sat across from you, his smile widening in anticipation.

"Come on, open it." He urged, and you complied, pulling off the lid of the box to reveal a brand new helmet, with a shiny black base and a [favorite color] dragon design that gracefully swirled around it.

You gasped in shock, cradling the helmet in your arms like it was the most precious thing you had ever seen.

"There's more," he added, voice filled with mirth at your reaction. You looked at the bottom of the box, and retrieved a black riding jacket with a similar design on it, hands growing shaky from all the feelings that brewed inside. You looked up at your boyfriend, tears threatening to pool at your eyes before jumping into his arms for a hug.

The impact knocked the air out of him a little, but he circled your body with his strong arms, as you nuzzled in the crook of his neck "Really, Suguru you shouldn't have." You whispered, not trusting your full voice to not be shaky.

"I absolutely did," he rubbed your back soothingly, then pulled you away so he could look at your eyes, his hand gently cradling your face "Sharing this passion with you has been as much of a gift to me as you think it has been to you, if not more," his thumb rubbed gently against your cheek, his eyes boring into yours fondly. "Thank you for everything, my girl."

Unable to string together words in a coherent reply, you settled on kissing him, your lips entangling in a soft embrace. Lavishing in the tender moment. You finally pulled apart with his hand still resting on your cheek.

"Still think I was trying to kill you?" He joked, eliciting a laugh from you.

"It's your fault for not explaining," you chuckled in return, drawing closer so you could rest your head on his shoulder, his arms enveloping you in a warm hug. You stayed in silence for a few more moments, looking at the setting sun and the city that seemed so far away now. Like you were in your own little Eden.

"Cloud cover is supposed to be very low tonight, and we're far enough from the big city lights. Care to spend the evening stargazing with me?" He asked, looking up into the sky.

"Of course," you replied, your heart full. Truly, loving Suguru brought a sense of contentment to your life that you never imagined you could have. And there was nothing you could do to thank the heavens enough for the blessing of him being yours.

[vinelark]

wednesday wip for the hades au?

i suppose i can do that ☀️☀️

———

“No, no,” Superboy says, “I’m the taxi.” He points a thumb at his own chest; hovering like he is, his hand nearly brushes Tim’s cheek. “You ever travel by sunbeam before?”

“No,” Tim says. “It’s…not usually an option.”

Superboy wrinkles his nose. “Right.”

“You need a barge over some lava, though, I’m your guy,” Tim adds, partially to diffuse some of the strange tension lingering around them, and partially to remind Superboy that Tim isn’t so easily dazzled, thank you very much.

At least not outwardly. Because it turns out, as Superboy rolls his eyes and holds out his hand—as Tim takes it, Superboy’s palm just this side of too hot against his own—as Superboy whisks them into the sky in a way that feels less like foregoing gravity and more like gravity just ceasing to exist—that traveling by sunbeam is, in fact, pretty dazzling.

[brotherwtf]

So I read @stereobone wartime drag au (losing my mind, by the way) and it got me thinking about a modern mota au where Gale is a drag queen at the club where John is a go-go dancer

A little drabble below the cut

John really needed a job. At this point, he was willing to do anything for some money, but he never suspected that Curt would come to him with a go-go dancing position at a nearby club. John was hesitant at first; he didn't know much about the club scene or dancing in general. Curt reassured him, though, that the dancers and the "girls" would help him feel more comfortable and make him feel at home.

John's first couple of days dancing were not... uncomfortable, but were enjoyable and fun at the end of the night. The tips, and the drinks, were flowing and John would feel emboldened more and more at the end of each night. The other go-go dancers, Douglass, Hambone, and Demarco, quickly accepted John as a dancer and started cracking jokes with him. Everyone, including Curt, kept mentioning "the girls" when talking to John about advice, but every time he just laughs along like he understands. There were no female go-go dancers at this club, at least that John knew about, so he just pretended to know what was going on when the other dancers mentioned them.

One night, the club was buzzing more than usual, and the dancers were kicked out of the large dressing room they usually occupied. John started to fuss, complaining that his pre-show ritual was ruined (AKA drinking four shots and flirting with anyone with a pulse) and that he wouldn't get as many tips as usual. Douglass overhears his whining and laughs out loud.

"Don't expect that many tips tonight. It's all going towards the girls,"

John finally snaps, frustrated that he still doesn't understand these mysterious "girls" everyone was talking about.

"Who are 'the girls'! Jesus, all I hear about is how amazing they are and I don't fucking know who they are!"

The dancers in the dressing room look at John almost incredulously. Hambone is the first to break and burst out laughing.

"Come on, Bucky. It ain't that serious. There's a big drag show every Saturday, and we call them 'the girls'. You'll meet them tonight,"

John shifts in his chair and shrugs his shoulders dejectedly. He's ashamed he didn't suspect that drag queens would frequent a gay club; he's seen some patrons in drag before. He just never suspected that the spotlight would be off of him.

----

John danced like he normally did that night, not wanting to let "the girls" distract him. He didn't really know what to expect when it came to the drag show; he had never been a part of the club scene before he was thrown into it as a dancer. After the first number of flipping and splitting to high energy songs, John found he was able to tune it out easily enough. After the fourth girl threw herself off the stage into the crowd, John rolled his eyes and kept up with his routine.

During the break after a particularly violent lip sync, John is too busy grabbing the tips by his feet that he barely notices the lights dimming on the stage. He notices when he stands up to start his routine again that the music has slowed to something sultry and sensual. It grabs his attention and he turns towards the stage. The other dancers in the club have stopped dancing, and John notices that they're all turned to the stage, also entranced by the sudden change in energy.

The red curtains are closed and a long, pale, leg shoots between the fold and a slender, nailed hand delicately traces the length of it. The music crescendos and the curtain is thrown open by a queen that John is almost immediately entranced by. They have long, slender legs, that they peek out from behind a silk white robe. Their makeup is demure, but John can still call it sexy, with bright blue eyes that pierce through the crowd. It didn't look like they were wearing a wig; their soft blonde curls gently falling over their forehead.

John cannot take his eyes off of the performer and ignores the shiny grin that Hambone throws him from his dancing podium.

The music is sexy and makes something stir deep in John's stomach. The queen's piercing eyes roam the crowd and land on John, winking and keeping their gaze trained on John's face. The music slows and they throw the silk robe they're wearing towards John and it lands at his feet. He takes it in his hands and the queen keeps their eyes trained on him as they walk down the stage stairs towards John. The robe reveals a stoned bodice that show off the queen's legs and arms. They're obviously feminine, but have the strength and masculinity that intrigues John.

The queen stops in front of John's dancing podium, extending a slender hand towards him in an invitation to pull them up. John obliges, bringing the slender queen up to the narrow podium and pulling them against his chest. The queen gracefully pulls a bill from John's back pocket and places it between his teeth. They take John's hands and place it on the back of their bodice.

"Why don't you take it off of me, honey?" They ask, voice uncharacteristically low and husky.

John almost gasps, taking the dainty zipper in his hands and pulling it downward. The bodice falls to the floor, and reveals a thin, slender body with a white panty hugging their slim waist. The queen leans in towards John's face and he holds his breath, thinking that they're going to kiss him. They demurely grab the bill in between John's teeth with their own front teeth, taking it into their mouth. A similar feeling stirs in his stomach as the music finally slows to stop and the queen turns to the audience and poses against John like he's part of the scenery.

The audience cheers raucously as the host comes back on the stage and announces the next performer. The queen looks back at them almost nervously, which makes John's stomach turn. After the whole performance, it appears the queen only has the sultry behavior while the music is playing.

John bends down and hands the white robe back to them.

"What's your name, doll?" John asks, purposely grazing his hand against the queen's.

They flush, uncharacteristically, and throw the robe over their shoulders.

"Gale," They say simply.

John chuckles, helping Gale down from the podium.

"Well, Gale, that isn't quite the name for someone as beautiful as you, is it?" He says.

Gale glares at him playfully and still hasn't let go of John's hand.

"Well why don't we go back to my dressing room and talk about names there, huh?" Gale says, the familiar flirtatious tone back in his voice.

He turns and looks over his shoulder, gesturing his head towards a door that exits the club, and John follows him like an infatuated puppy.

[woobiedoovo]

What do you think of fem! Stan?!? Do you have any hcs regarding her?? How do you think the timeline would change if she was a cis girl and how would that impact stancest?? Would their dynamic have any differences or is it the same with a few minor changes

Oh!!! Hello there !! Before I start rambling I just want you to know that you’re one of my first Anon’s and I love you let’s get married *mwuh* 🥰

ANYWAYS—

I love fem! Stan. I feel like a major difference would be Ford realizing his feelings for Stan and accepting them WAY sooner.

So first things first, I 100% believe Ford would be WAY more possessive of Stan. Especially when they grow older and puberty hits. When they were younger Ford was able to see Stan as just his best friend, his twin, the one person who seemed to understand him. Love wasn’t really something he cared about, not when he had Stan by his side.

But as they grew older and Stan started *ahem* maturing, Ford realized his feelings were maybe a bit less platonic than he thought. When she started dating, Ford would go mental. He would try to convince Stan that they were just trying to use her for sex. Anytime she had a date he would have to know when and where it was happening so he could make sure she was safe. And whenever they inevitably broke up, he would wipe away her tears and tell her how she deserved so much better. That they were idiots for thinking they will ever do better then Stan.

And when Stan would fall asleep, Ford would be so smug. Every break up just proves how it’s supposed to be Stan and Ford. He would have never left her for something as petty and idiotic as “holding out,” on him. Stan and his first time would be precious, something memorable and romantic. Just like how Stan likes it.

(Never mind most of Stans high school relationships ended because Ford was driving her boyfriends away with his possessiveness.)

And when Stan saves Ford from the portal? He goes absolutely feral at how well Stan has aged. She’s just as beautiful as the day he lost her.

Here’s some general head canons I have for fem! Stan:

- 100% chubby queen and we love her for it

- She secretly did boxing, but also did ballet because her Ma wanted her to

- Just like canon Stan (at least in my mind), she has been in love with Ford since childhood

- her homeless years were ROUGH, even worse then canon Stan’s (being a homeless teenager in the 70’s with no high school diploma is bad, being a girl on top of that makes it worse.)

- has a tattoo on her crotch (because I said so)

- still strong as hell, like she deserves !!

[cryscendo]

Hi, how about an abrupt,  heated kiss during the middle of a fight for Klaine?

i bet you didn’t think i would ever respond to this!! well i will say that i kinda ran away with this plot a bit. does it fit the prompt? only vaguely. BUT it’s another thrilling installment to my angel/demon au with a bit more lore thrown in. dedicating it to you as well as @porcelainvino for their various art pieces for this au <3 hope you love it and sorry for the wait!!

Paring: Kurt Hummel/Blaine Anderson

Word Count: 2030

Rating: T

AU: Angel/Demon AU

fic can be read under the cut <3

There were a lot of things that turned out to be just as unpleasant about falling, not including the actual falling part.

For one, he was weaker than he used to be. He did suspect that would happen, but it still hurt his ego a bit. He used to have so much power that he often didn’t even know what all to do with it. Not that he really could do much with it anyway; the big men upstairs never allowed much fun to be had. More time was spent existing as a militant entity than was spent actually basking in the alleged splendor that was heaven.

If given the option between going back to that or experiencing the pain of falling all over again, Kurt would choose to fall every damn day.

Besides, angels don’t get to play with humans like they’re Barbie dolls. And that’s way more fun.

The man before him, unsuspecting and ignorant, saw Kurt at a bar and thought he’d be an easy target. Kurt knew he perfectly looked the part of a young man getting his first drink at a bar as a twenty-one year old. Aging was such an earthly concept and Kurt was not burdened with it. But to an older man, the illusion of wide-eyed innocence was all too compelling.

Kurt claimed he ‘knew a spot’, which was just as cliché as it sounded, but it was effective nonetheless. Apparently intelligence didn’t always come with age.

It wasn’t long after he got the man to the abandoned storage facility that he knew something was terribly, terribly wrong. Not soon enough, though, for Kurt had already made quick work of knocking the man out and handcuffing him to a chair. When he came to once more, it was in a fit of panic.

“Look, I didn’t sign up for this kind of crazy! So just let me go, okay?” The man pleaded with Kurt and it was charming if nothing else. Kurt leaned over him, one knee braced against the chair in a way that could be seen as provocative in any other circumstance.

“What, am I too old for you?” Kurt asked in a mocking whine. “I swear, I’m only twenty, maybe thirty centuries old!”

“Whatever game you’re playing here, kid, I’m not interested so just let me-”

“Let him go, Kurt,” a voice spoke up behind him. Kurt grinned as he straightened up. Of course he would show up. It was impossible for him to stay away. He made a bit of a show of turning around to face the new arrival — his favorite little angel.

He turned towards the voice, maintaining his flirty tone. “Just can’t stay away from me, can you?”

“You could say that,” Blaine replied and that’s when Kurt saw it — the glint of a blade held discreetly in his palm. He recognized the weapon, as it was a piece from Heaven’s arsenal. See, a regular knife couldn’t kill Kurt.

But that one could.

Kurt’s grin dropped as he backed away from the man strapped to the chair, and subsequently also away from Blaine. “What do you think you’re doing with that?”

“You attract too much attention to yourself.”

“Well, I can’t help but pull focus,” Kurt responded in a rather clipped manner. The man in the chair began to panic even more upon being approached by Blaine.

“Listen, man,” the guy began quickly, “you don’t need to kill him or anything! Just let me go and I’ll be on my way!”

Blaine’s eyes flickered down to the stranger, eerily calm. “You don’t need to see this,” he said simply and before the man could even begin to reply, Blaine rested his palm to his forehead, immediately knocking him out. Putting a human to sleep rather than killing them; that was so painfully just like Blaine to do.

“Why do you have that thing?” Kurt interrogated the second that the man was unconscious.

Blaine turned the knife a bit in his hand as if observing it. “Come on, Kurt, you know exactly what this is.”

Kurt maintained a semi-safe distance. “Why do you need that thing to kill me? You’ve never needed that for a demon before.” It was true. Blaine could take down a demon easily. It made them cruelly unmatched. Blaine had never threatened to kill him before, but it would be undoubtedly easy for him to do so should he want to. For Blaine, a demon is an easy target. He was an easy target.

Unless…

Kurt’s grin returned. “You can’t kill me, can you?” He asked coyly.

Blaine remained serious, but Kurt could see a crack in his expression letting on that he was nervous. Kurt seemed to always have that effect on him. “Not at my rank, no,” he said simply, but Kurt knew what he meant. He wasn’t strong enough to take out Kurt. An ordinary demon, he’d have no problem. But as luck would have it, Kurt wasn’t an ordinary demon.

Kurt took a risk. He moved a few steps towards Blaine and the weapon he possessed. “You’re not going to kill me.”

“I could.”

A few more steps. “But you won’t.”

“I might.”

“But you won’t.” Kurt was directly in front of him now. He knew it was a dangerous game, but he had a point to prove. “Because if you were going to, you would’ve done it already. So tell me angel, was this a direct order from one of your bossmen, or are you just simply that obsessed with me?”

“Don’t push your luck, Kurt,” Blaine spoke, gravely serious.

“Or what?” Kurt challenged. He could feel Blaine’s steady breaths from just how close they were. Blaine’s gaze met his evenly. “If you’re going to kill me, then do it. I’m wide open.” Kurt tilted his head a fraction, his eyes alight with the rush that comes with toying with Blaine. His tone shifted into something devilishly flirtatious as he spoke again. “So, y’know, take me, I’m yours and all that.”

It was then that Blaine sprung into action. With quick work, he managed to securely grip onto the collar of Kurt’s shirt, using his strength over the other to force Kurt backwards. There was a time where Kurt may have been stronger than him. But Kurt gave all that up, and he still refused to regret it.

That didn’t mean he loved Blaine constantly using that fact against him.

Blaine got him against a wall with one particularly rough push. Kurt felt the brittle wall crack slightly behind him. Fuck, Blaine was strong.

Blaine was strong.

Once Blaine has Kurt pinned defenseless against the wall, he brings the blade down. Kurt doesn’t know whether it was thanks to adrenaline, or his own sense of speed in the face of self-preservation, but he reached up and circled his fingers around Blaine’s wrist before he could manage to connect the weapon.

The blade stilled, suspended in the air between them. Kurt imagined the scene was almost picturesque in a way — him pressed between Blaine’s firm body and the unforgiving wall, his long fingers locked around Blaine’s wrist. Angel and demon. Lovers. Enemies.

Blaine really was going to kill him.

Their shared breathing revealed the exhaustion that their overexertion had caused. Kurt knew, given his current position, he was fully at Blaine’s mercy. The mercy of an angel who just tried to kill him.

That gave Kurt little other choice. Slowly, he tugged at Blaine’s wrist until the blade was sitting just above his throat. He leveled Blaine with a steely look, deathly serious. “Well, go ahead, angel. Do what you gotta do.”

“I don’t want to kill you, Kurt,” Blaine clarified, but didn’t pull the blade away.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he bit out before he could even think to check his tone. This was, in large part, his own doing. He opened the door for Blaine to corner him, he really had no right to be upset about it actually occurring. Even in his current position, Kurt couldn’t refrain from looking down his nose at Blaine, hoping to properly demonstrate his distaste from his present circumstances. “I’m guessing you got assigned a job from one of the big men upstairs?”

“You’re lucky that it’s me and not someone else.”

“Oh yeah, I sure feel lucky.” Kurt’s fingers twitched around Blaine’s wrist as he continued to hold the blade close to Kurt’s throat. But hasn’t pressed in yet, and Kurt cannot fathom why. He has the perfect opportunity. Kurt is basically giving him a free pass, so why isn’t he going for it? “Well?”

Blaine’s grip on the weapon slacked just a bit. “Nothing is ever easy with you.”

“So why don’t you take care of the problem?”

Blaine said nothing, did nothing. He only stood and continued to watch Kurt in silence, and Kurt could practically see the flurry of thoughts swirl around in Blaine’s head. Kurt almost felt bad for the guy; he knew that he didn’t make Blaine’s job simple, and admittedly, does very little to combat that fact.

Eventually, though, Blaine shakes his head. “You’re right. I won’t do it.”

The sound of the metal blade clattering to the ground reverberated discordantly off the walls of the warehouse.

Kurt took no time to ponder Blaine’s decision to spare him. Instead, he kicked the weapon away from the two of them and then, in quick succession, flipped their two positions. Blaine didn’t put up any fight with being pushed up against the wall himself. He could break free if he really wanted to. He chose not to.

“Do you still love me, Blaine?” Kurt asked, not ready for the words to fall from his mouth before they did.

“Are demons even capable of love?”

Kurt wasn’t sure. Maybe demons who never experienced love aren’t. Love is formed from soul, grace, and humanity, of which demons have none.

But Kurt wasn’t always a demon, and he still didn’t really fit the mold of one. Fallen angels are different from regular demons. They still possess morality, at least to some extent. It was just like Kurt to never really fit in anywhere.

“Do you? Still love me?”

Honey colored eyes gazed at Kurt with something akin to sympathy, which would burn his blood if it weren’t for the fact that he so desperately needed a response.

Blaine nodded.

Kurt kissed him. He didn’t even hesitate. With Blaine pinned up against the wall, it was easy for him to leverage a searing, bruising kiss against soft lips. Blaine always tasted the same, like coffee, — such an earthly pleasure that he achieved no benefit from and only chose to indulge for its luxury — and something else a touch more divine. Kurt couldn’t quite pinpoint it, but it tasted vaguely familiar from the holy kingdom that he was no longer welcome to.

Kurt pulled away with a sigh. Blaine panted quietly, a faintly pink blush forming under tanned skin. Kurt was right about one thing, Blaine was an angel — in every sense of the word.

“I don’t suppose I can convince you to disappear for your own safety?” Blaine eventually asked.

Kurt smiled. “Not a chance in hell.”

Blaine nodded in understanding, as if he already anticipated Kurt’s response. “You always were stubborn to a fault.”

Blaine wasn’t wrong. And as much as he would love to stand here with Blaine forever, it wasn’t wise to hang around angels for too long — even if the angel in question was Blaine.

He finally stepped away from Blaine, allowing the man some space. Kurt glanced over to the man tied to the chair. He had forgotten that guy was here. He was simply a means to an end, afterall.

“You may want to wipe that guy’s mind, angel. Or else he’s going to be a real problem when he wakes up.”

Kurt headed towards the exit of the building, but not before Blaine called out to him. “Suddenly not so keen on sticking around?”

Kurt grinned, if not mostly to himself. “Oh, don’t worry, you’ll find me again. And who knows? Maybe you’ll actually have it in you to kill me next time.”

[hijackalx]

FORLORN +18

SUMMARY: Gortash attempts to fill the void you left with your changeling kin.

WORD COUNT: 3020

UNDER THE CUT: F!reader, dark urge reader, gortash fucks orin in your shape, lowkey angsty, dom!gortash, brat!orin, they dont like each other, stripping, blindfolding, cowgirl, choking, gortash keeps his clothes on, experimental with POVs lol

Enver swirls the scarce amount of liquor around in his glass, staring at his warped reflection inside.

His reach falters after glancing over at the bottle on his desk, realizing that it has just a few measly drops remaining. He huffs, slumping deeper into his seat. The hand resting in his disheveled hair falls down his face, tugging at his flushed cheeks.

You've been gone for a month now. Orin told him that she hurt you— that she did something terrible. The details of the event are lost on him, as she won't even spare as much as the exact time it happened.

He supposes that's for the best, otherwise he'd find ways to blame himself worse than he already does. He should've kept Orin away from you, he should've seen the signs.

But he didn't. And now you're gone.

In his grief, images of you in his mind satiate him temporarily; how you'd laugh at his jokes with blood lacing your teeth, how you'd dance for him in the viscera of your victims. His dearest remembrance may be the way you always clung to him, glued to his side like an attack dog awaiting its next order. You were so eager to please, just as he was eager to reward you.

As per usual, these images gradually spiral into something more risqué, a haunting reminder of how deeply your connection had evolved just before you disappeared. A memory of you responding coyly to his praise turns into you looking desperate and pliant beneath him. An accidental graze of your hand turns into you scratching and tearing at his skin while he has his way with you. He reaches over his shoulder to grace one of the affected areas, making note of how much it's healed, taking any traces of you with it in the process.

More importantly, he recalls the way his hands felt on your body. The rough, warmth of his palms knew every inch of your skin, though it seems nowadays their memory grows hazy. He can't forget, and he'll take whatever measures he has to in preventing that.

Even if those measures in-dignify him like no other, he'll do it— for you.

He stares at the button on his desk with reluctance. A pit opens up in his stomach as a hesitant finger hovers over it. Gods, has he drank too much? Or is he going to be sick with humiliation?

He clears his throat, preparing to maintain a steady impression of sobriety.

"... Somebody locate and escort Orin to my office."

He wonders if they've caught on to what that means by now. The thought is brief as he shoos it away like a burdensome fly, his chair creaking while he sinks into it once again.

It isn't long before the doors open. Orin enters the office accompanied by a Steel Watcher, the machine following her close behind.

She smugly approaches his desk, a conquering grin on her face that he'd like to wipe off with methods he shouldn't say aloud.

The Steel Watcher turns on its heels, taking a few heavy steps before leaving them in the quiet of the room.

Alone.

Enver downs the last of his drink in one, quick motion. His dark eyes follow Orin's figure, though they almost seem to look right through her.

She circles him like a vulture, her hand trailing over his arm. "Well," she starts, her voice as theatric and ear-piercing as always. "I do hope you have something different in mind for today, little lord."

His lips hold a tight line, his gaze fixing on the scattered papers atop his desk. "Change," he demands.

Orin huffs exasperatedly from behind his chair. "Agh! Again with the pouting and moping—!" her voice warps mid-sentence, carrying a familiar lilt that makes his heart skip a beat. "— you're no less of a sorry excuse for a tyrant than when I was around to see it."

His head turns quickly as she comes back into view, no longer herself, but you. He swallows harshly, his mouth parting as he gazes upon your dearly missed features.

It's like you're really there— as long as he avoids your eyes, that is. She can never get them quite right, and they pull him out of his fantasy like a sucker punch.

He reaches out for you, his plated grasp cooly caressing your wrist. Flipping your hand, he runs his thumb over your palm, admiring every line and crevice. How often he tended to the wounds gifted by your own fits of violence, how often he'd kissed your blood-stained fingertips.

Orin sneers and roughly jerks herself away. "Cease your bleeding heart," she hisses. "Lest I rip it out."

She laughs in his face cruelly, relishing in the idea of clawing through his chest and pulling the blood-pumping organ from its chamber.

He shakes off the surprise from being slung back into reality so coarsely. With grit teeth, he catches her by her forearm and yanks her face just inches from his. "Behave, or I will do away with you like any other useless object."

Stunned, her irises dart back and forth between his, her features contorting into a mixture of fear and submission. Through frowned lips, she utters with a shaky breath, "... you'd really do that to me?"

For a moment, her disguise is all too convincing, and he finds himself instantly regretting his loss of temper.

Orin's trickery becomes obvious as she bursts into another fit of maniacal laughter. "You're weak, little lord! Oh, how I wish to carve your expression into your face so you might carry it forever!"

Enver slouches, his fingers massaging his temple while she prattles on. How much of this is really worth it? He gets to see you again, but not without paying the price of mental torment.

"Every second they're gone, you soften like the flesh of a babe!"

A deep exhale leaves his nose. "I've changed my mind. Away with you." He waves her off dismissively. He supposes he'll just have to find you in the dark room of a brothel instead.

Her cackling ceases, the split corners of her mouth falling. She appears to contemplate for a moment before dropping to her knees. "No, no," she begs, crawling closer so she can lay her head in his lap. "I'll be good."

He stares down at her with little regard— at how she looks up at him with a hint of desperation. She's in character again, but for how long? He's had enough of her games.

Just as he's about to double down, she speaks once more, "You know I can be good—" her lips pull into a convincing smile, sly and quick. "—Enver."

The sound of you speaking his name again is so much sweeter than anything his imagination could ever conjure. It grabs him by the jaw, paralyzing him.

He becomes heavily fixated on how your fingers tease at his inner thigh, the digits so delicate and nimble; how they wander so endearingly with their faux innocence. His breaths heighten, the tendons in his hand becoming prominent as he flexes it to maintain composure.

She lifts her head as he cups her cheek. Her look of triumph is ripped away when his slithering hand burrows into her hair and yanks, angling her head upward. She responds with a glare and a scowl.

Slowly, he leans closer, anticipation looming in the air before he speaks. "Undress," he orders, the alcohol on his breath filling her flared nostrils.

After she's released, she takes stance just outside the parting of his knees. Holding the intensity of his gaze, she reaches for the buttons of your blouse. She knows the drill— strip for him, nice and slow. It's the same every time.

Once she undoes the final button, she lets the soft fabric slip down your shoulders, revealing your supple breasts. He stares from under his brow as she runs her hands over them, using her thumb to play with your nipple.

Letting the shirt fall to the floor, she moves on to your pants. They wriggle off of your hips, revealing silky, touchable skin.

He runs his tongue over his lip as she sneaks a finger under the hem of your panties, letting them snap back against your body teasingly.

A warning glance is sent her way as she takes double the time removing the final garment. She rolls her eyes, dropping them to the floor with the rest of your clothing.

His chest rises with a slow, deep breath, reveling in the sight of you; how badly he wishes it weren't a facade.

As she approaches him, his lustful gaze follows your figure from the bottom up. Once he reaches your eyes, he stops there, lingering. His expression becomes rigid, and he puts out a hand to stop her from climbing onto him.

She leers at him with an already-knowing stare, then scoffs before wandering off towards his bedroom.

"Such a demanding, scrutinizing little bastard," she can be heard mumbling in the distance, distaste on her tongue.

When she returns, she has a black piece of fabric in her palms. She offers it to him, and he raises it to her face. It covers her eyes, blinding her once he ties a knot at the back of her head.

He's almost taken aback as he looks her over again— now, without traces of Orin in your gaze, he sees you.

You're finally allowed access to his lap. Although, your face has tensed, a deepness to your brow. "I make no mistakes. Any imperfections you notice are merely a reflection of your own sickly, deteriorating mind." You cradle him, letting his hands run over your body. "Perhaps you'd like me to take a look inside and fix that for you."

He ignores the words spoken under the guise of your voice, instead focusing on how your skin feels in his grasp once again. It's so warm and soft, so impossibly smooth. His fingertips trace over your beauty marks and scars as if to ensure they're where he remembers.

One of his bare fingers runs through the folds of your cunt, reinforcing the memories of its wet, velvety touch. His cock twitches, recalling how you'd tighten while you came— how he'd pump you full of his own cum time and time again.

Impatient, you grind down on his hard-on, and he responds with a sharp inhale. You continue the motion, getting off on how he feels through his pants.

He rakes in his bottom lip as he watches your lower half stir. His burly hands find purchase on your hips, the golden points on his fingers threatening to draw blood.

Unable to put it off any longer, he frees his cock from his boxers, giving himself a few pumps with his hand while ogling your figure. He uses his thumb to bring precum to your lips, which you clean off with your tongue.

An anticipatory groan erupts deep in his throat as he adjusts himself so that you can take him in.

Since you can no longer see, you rely on him to guide you onto his length. He's so large and difficult to accommodate— that was something you always struggled with.

He lolls his head back as his tip breaches your entrance, your pillowy walls satiating the hunger in him that'd been brewing so deep.

A few moments pass and he's able to sink into you a bit further. He knows it aches as it forces your legs wider apart, but he loves that you try. You've always tried for him.

A shuddering exhale leaves his lips as you begin to move, gripping his forearms while he steadies you by your waist. His hold is secure, yet an underlying buzz of anxiousness hides within it.

You let out sounds of slight discomfort as he stretches you out. His hand lifts to comfort you, but it quickly retracts before making contact. He had almost forgotten that you are not you.

His face hardens at the realization, a sudden wave of hatred and anger rattling his bones. It's Orin's fault you're not here, why's he wasting his time being gentle with her?

With a curl to his lip, his gold fingertips latch onto her, and he forces her the rest of the way down. She yowls, a pained arch in her back.

In a quick act of retaliation, she smacks him across the face. The noise reverberates through the room's tall ceilings, followed by silence. He turns to look at her again, a red mark beginning to taint his cheek.

"I will hang you from the rafters by your own intestines!" She shrieks at him, her nails digging into his exposed chest. Leaning close to his ear, she hisses, "I may look like your spineless little whore, but I can assure you our similarities are few and far between—!"

Her sentence is cut off as a hand wraps around her throat, pushing on her esophagus with increasing pressure. She chokes, pulling at his decorated fingers to no avail.

"If I hear you utter such disrespect again, I'll see to it that you're rendered unrecognizable and scattered throughout the trenches of this city," he threatens lowly and quick, a snarl on his face while he watches her squirm.

He can practically see his threat playing out in her mind like some sick fantasy. The corners of her mouth twitch before spreading into an uncontrollable smile. "Quite... the Lothario... tyrant boy," she pushes a moan past his grip that evolves into excited laughter.

His hold loosens as she begins to move up and down his length once more. Her jaw— your jaw— falls slack as you take pleasure from him filling you up. He finds himself captivated by how your cunt strains around him, leaving a creamy residue behind.

"Fuck," he mutters defeatedly, feeling himself weaken by the second. For as long as she looks like you, she has the upper hand.

Once the strength of his chokehold wavers, he allows you to take his hand and touch yourself with it, guiding it over your breasts and waist. Your hands contrast heavily; he's quite fond of how dainty yours look in comparison.

His touch settles at your hips, fastening you in his grasp as he begins to fuck you from beneath. He stares up at your partially covered face as you bounce in his lap, watching how each sound you make leaves your mouth.

He starts to feel that familiar anxiousness once again— he needs more control, he needs to dominate. In one swift movement, he picks you up and lays you over the documents on his desk, scattering most of them to the floor.

He directs your thighs around his torso, spreading you open further. Your back arches as he bottoms out in one quick thrust, the hair at his base brushing against you.

With one hand he secures your wrists above your head, then balances himself with the other. The jewelry lacing his clothing clatters as he slams into you repeatedly, a throaty moan leaving his lips.

There's a sense of deprivation to him, so much so that it drips from his every movement, every touch, every sound. He starves like a lowly stray, and you've always been the only hand he won't bite.

You begin to glow with a sheen of sweat, though he refrains from tasting the salt on your skin. The harsh reality of your condition hangs in the back of his mind, and he worries that even a grain of intimacy will enable it to come forward. Despite how badly he wishes to kiss your lips and bruise your neck, he just can't.

He moans as his body grows tense, his pace losing its consistent rhythm. His cheeks are flushed, a haziness to his gaze as he grips your wrists tighter, leaving marks behind.

With bared teeth, his eyes screw shut. He reaches his climax, and you let out soft whimpers as he rams into you with a few final hard thrusts. In just seconds, hot, thick cum stains your walls and threatens to leak onto the desk.

His head hangs wearily as he catches his breath, allowing himself to come down from his high. He looks you over— how you lay, unmoving and quiet. Something that can only be described as remorse twists in his stomach, though it's not unfamiliar in this circumstance.

Then, there's silence. It infects the atmosphere of the office, bordering on unsettling.

He exhales, running his fingers through the hair sticking to his forehead. Pulling out of you, he begins the process of recomposing himself. While adjusting his pants, he notices your body writhing and twitching in his peripheral.

Every trace of your likeness slowly withers away, transforming you back into your true form— Orin.

She lifts the blindfold from her eyes, a terribly wide grin on her black lips. She sits up on the desk, taking delight in the slight horror on his features. "How could I ever tire of that look?" she hums.

With a thick swallow, his expression contorts into anger. He observes the mess they've made— the paperwork strung all over the floor, the spilled ink dripping from its canister. "Get out." A crease forms between his brows as he starts gathering documents.

She lingers a moment longer, swinging her crossed legs as they hang off the edge.

Her lack of urgency is enough to make the already-taut rage in him snap. "GET OUT!" he shouts in her face, the papers in his hand crinkling under his unforgiving grip.

She hops onto the floor, her hands folded behind her back as she stares up into his glower. The tension grows between them like an unsightly weed while neither shies away.

As if in thought, her mouth parts before she finally speaks, "... I'll see you again soon, lordling."

Shortly after that, she turns to leave, his eyes following.

Her words ring in his ears, causing his upright shoulders to sink. His hand pulls on the lower half of his face defeatedly, a loud sigh escaping his nose.

[robloxmythoids]

hiiii :) could you pretty please do a (PLATONIC!!!!!!!) PartyGuest & kid reader where the reader's panicking because they're lost and Pest calms them down? kind of a hurt/comfot thingy I guess

(a drabble would be preferred but if headcanons are easier then you can do that instead!!)

poob & pest helping a kid reader !!!!

kid reader lost at the subway :-(

HIII IM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG stuff got in the way :-( its extra long just for u tho as an apology !!! idk if you're into partybeetle (poob/pest) i kept their relationship vague so anyone can interpret it in any way . reader also really likes bugs 🙏🙏🙏hope u enjoy anony !!!!

Tears well up in your eyes as you aimlessly wander around what feels like the maze of your busy city. Your parents had deemed you old enough to start going home on your own instead of bothering to come pick you up, leaving you all alone in the middle of a city. Clearly, you didn't practice your route home enough, because you were anxiously trying to get home.

The city was big. Like, really really big. Big enough for a tiny child like you to hopelessly walk around, desperate to find any sort of familiar store or house. The soon to be setting sun makes your growing nerves flare, your eyes sting from the sight. You miss the warm wooden floors, the big soft carpet in the middle of the living room that your mom told you to stop laying on even though it was really comfy.

Shoving back tears, you stare down at the concrete, aimlessly walking around and traversing It feels like you've been walking for forever, and even though it's only been 30 minutes, it's too much for your little legs to handle. You pick up the pace, trying to walk faster and find your house and escape this horror.

Soon, you start running, dashing along the streets as your sort-of-too-big-bag hits against your back. Where's my house!? You think to yourself, tears blurring your vision. You're only a kid, you don't wanna end up on the streets!!! What if your parents never find you!? What if you end up as a kid on the back of a milk carton!?!? What if—

With blurred vision, you flinch as you bump into someone, jumping back. As a child, it's nothing to have to crane your head to look up at people, but this person is tall. Taller than you've really had to deal with. Sniffling, your eyes dart around, examine your surroundings.

A subway, you think, based on how dim it is now. You remember your parents taking you here when the car was broken that one time. How did you get here? You look back to person you bumped into.

They were tall, bright yellow skin and big blue eyes staring back down at you. A party hat sits lopsided on their head and one of those party horn things, the ones that you like hearing at birthday parties. "Huh?" They ask, peering down at you. Their fluffy hair bounces with their movements, looking blurry in your tear filled vision.

You open your mouth to apologize for bumping into them, but all that comes out is a choked sob. A few of the tears you were struggling to hold back cascade down your face, one, three, four, five, until hot and wet globs of salty liquid pour down your cheeks. It's too much. This is too much. You wanna go home, not talk to some random robloxian, as cool as their party hat was!!!

"Ah– Hey, don't cry!!" They quickly try to comfort. You flinch a little as they pick you up, holding you with somewhat ease and pulling you up to be eye to eye. They stare at you, a concerned frown on your face. "Whaddya doing here? Are you lost?!" They ask frantically, clearly not very good at comfort.

Still, it's good enough. Shakily, you nod, your throat feeling too closed up to let out anything that won't be embarrassing. The party themed robloxian blinks at you worriedly, not quite sure how to address the situation. They try to help anyways, thinking.

"Where r u coming back from??" They ask, tilting their head at you. You mutter out the broken answer of "*School,*" and they pout just as much as you at the mention of that wretched place. "Blegh." They mumble playfully, sticking out their tongue in mock disgust. "I hate that place."

Both you and the robloxian picking you up jump at the sudden voice of someone speaking, a voice a bit deeper than the one in front of you. You turn, blinking before shrinking back in surprise at the sight of him. Another robloxian, muttering something in another language.

He looks pretty standard for a robloxian, normal cap, porcelain white skin, a sweater with stylized red text that look like the Roblox logo on it in, just in a different language. What really gets you, though, are his manibles, chittering as they huff. Their eyes are a piercing red, a shade casted over their gaze from their cap. Normally, you would've been terrified, but they look like a beetle!! You love beetles!!!

"Pest!" The other person says excitedly, smiling happily at the beetle-like person. The name certaintly adds up. "Do u have ur phone on u? I forgot mine at home, and this guy needs to call their parents..." They ask, and he tilts their gaze towards you.

Pest just sort of blinks at you, clearly not having expected his (who you think is) friend to be holding a child in their hands. Still, he sighs, obliging. "Yes, I do, Poob." They murmur, fishing through their pockets and pulling out a phone. You squint. It's an android.

"Thank u!!" The party robloxian, Poob apparently, smiles. They set you down and Pest tugs you along to a bench, sitting you down inbetween him and them. You awkwardly sit there, stealing little glances at the beetle next to you. They have beetle horns. It's so cool.

Poob hands you the phone and you awkwardly fumble around with the keypad, trying to think. ...You sorta don't remember what your mom's phone number was. But that's okay!!! You can figure it out. You read a book that said your gut will tell you which one is right. Somewhat nervously, you try and find the right one. Settling on what you pray is the correct one, you hand it back to Poob, letting them dial it and wait to see if it picks up.

As Poob works on calling your parents, you turn to look at Pest sitting next to you. You stare in awe and excitement at him. Mandibles. Beetle horns. How cool is that!? You wish you had horns!!! Curiously, you reach out to him, poking their mandible lightly.

As soon as you poke at Pest, he jumps away from the touch, flinching back. He yelps something in that same language as before. He narrows his eyes on you and you giggle, wanting to feel the sharp edges of them more. "DO NOT." He hisses at you, clearly not sharing the sentiment as they lean away from you.

Giggling, you lean closer, all previous fears of ending up as a missing child poster forgotten as you poke at him again. Another yelp comes out of him and Poob chuckles behind you, watching as you torment poor Pest.

Eventually, Pest gives up to his fate. He mutters under their breath about being unable to hurt a child as you giggle and poke at them with excitement, feeling his horns and looking at his extra arms. Poob stifles their giggles as they speak on the phone to your parents, informing them of your location. You can hear Pest let out soft grumbles as you giggle joyfully.

Soon enough, the familiar sound of your mom calling for your name catches your attention. Poob and Pest look up, watching as your mom tugs you up out of your seat. "Bye bye!!" Poob does a mock salute, picking you up again and holding you up to eye level. They blow their party horn at you, and in response you blow a raspberry back, soft giggles escaping the both of you.

As Poob sets you down, you immediately rush to hug Pest, and he freezes in place. Still, he hugs you bag, giving you a gentle squeeze that makes you beam. It's brief, but comforting nonetheless. Your mom thanks them for the help and you walk away, beaming with the knowledge that you have two new friends. Maybe you should visit the subway more often!!

[thief-of-eggs]

Sokka kisses him first. It’s quick and rash and over before Zuko even knows it’s happened. It leaves his mind scrambling to catch up as Sokka walks away with a smirk, Zuko’s fingers gently coming up to touch at his lips, wondering if he’d imagined the whole thing. The water tribe boy leaves him alone beside the fire, and Zuko can’t decide if the heat on his cheeks is from the flames before him, or perhaps something else within him.

The second time is Zuko’s doing. It’s after the end of the war, when Zuko catches his first glimpse of Sokka and- he’s all right. Zuko doesn’t think, just stalks right up to him, grabs him and pulls him close, his hands on Sokka’s waist as he kisses him hard and rough. Sokka startles for a moment and then he’s kissing him back, melting into his arms as everyone around them gapes.

The third kiss is more mutual. Sokka finds sleep to be an elusive thing after the war, and in the absence of rest he takes to strolling the palace. It’s different at night, so calm and peaceful, the usual hustle and bustle gone.

It’s on one such night that he takes a different turn than usual, and comes upon a beautiful pond nestled deep within the palace grounds. Something inside draws him closer, guiding his feet through the lush grass- and then he spots him. Kneeling by the pond, the water reflecting the moonlight and lighting up his face is Zuko, his eyes as weary as Sokka’s own.

His heart warms with something he can’t quite place.

“Hey,” Sokka murmurs as he comes to stand behind him. “Can I-?”

“Yeah,” Zuko answers without turning around, and so Sokka kneels. Neither of them say a word for quite some time, their gazes fixated on the leaves that gently float on the pond’s surface. Sokka’s just beginning to regret interrupting the fire lord’s peace when finally, Zuko speaks.

“I’m glad you’re still here. At the palace.” Sokka turns to gaze at him, but Zuko is still looking out over the pond. “I uhm. I don’t know what I would’ve done. If I was alone for all this,” Zuko explains.

Sokka smiles, his expression as soft as the pond before them. “Yeah, me too,” He winces at how that sounds. “I mean- I’m also glad I’m here, not that I don’t know what you would’ve done without me-“

Zuko laughs, the sound soft and gentle and barely even there, but still so shocking to Sokka’s ears that he stops talking. He’s not sure he’s ever heard Zuko laugh. He wasn’t sure the guy knew how.

“I know what you mean,” Zuko says, turning to offer Sokka a soft grin. It’s a tentative thing. Something so delicate that Sokka worries about it breaking, if it’s not treated gently enough.

Still, Zuko doesn’t look away, so Sokka doesn’t either. Everything around them seems to fade into the background. Nothing else holds any importance besides the two of them, right there, safe and sound and sharing eachothers company while neither of them can sleep.

Neither of them know who moves first. Maybe they both do. But suddenly they’re leaning in, carefully this time, and this kiss is so much gentler than either of the first two. This one is promises that neither of them can hope to keep but they desperately make anyway. This one is spring rain and new blossoms and a soft summer breeze that cools your skin, the burst of sun from the clouds after a storm.

There’s a wetness on Sokka’s cheeks, and it takes him a moment to realize that it’s not him who’s crying. He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he reaches out to brush away Zuko’s tears, holding his face when he’s done.

They don’t speak when they pull back. They gaze carefully into eachother’s eyes, and Sokka can’t help but notice that Zuko’s eyes are a calmer shade of amber in this light. He commits the color to memory, intent on painting it if he ever has the time.

And then Zuko is moving closer, and Sokka holds his breath. Softly, Zuko leans his head onto Sokka’s shoulder, and Sokka feels like the weight of the world is resting on him right here next to this little pond, because oh that Zuko would trust him with something as fragile as his happiness.

The two of them remain there all night, the moon aglow in the pond, Zuko’s head on Sokka’s shoulder and a million things left unsaid in the air between them. But somehow, Sokka doesn’t think anything needs to be said.

Because everything important they’d said with their touch, with their feather soft kiss beside the pond. And maybe, just maybe, Sokka wonders if that could be enough.

[whump-queen]

“You did so well”

It’s the way whumper says it—the way they speak to whumpee. It’s their voice—half the time angry, biting, and degrading, only to mutate into something sickeningly sweet in the aftermath of the pain, when whumper leans in close with sticky murmurs of affection—of mocking praise.

A toxic, slimy liquid that drips from whumper’s lips and oozes thick and heavy down whumpee’s ears and neck and shoulders.

It makes whumpee’s skin crawl. 

Or at least, it did.

At first. 

But there comes a point, during the more creative of whumper’s tortures, where the pain becomes too much, where the excruciating burn of the knife or the sear of the brand is blacking out whumpee’s brain and shoving their head deep underwater, shrinking their existence down through a tiny pinhole, only to be materialized again on the other side, dazed beyond belief, panting and shaking and still bound in whumper’s arms. 

It’s those precious few moments of reprieve in the aftermath, where the warmth of whumper’s shoulder against their cheek is enough for whumpee to sink into it— For their teeth to unclench, for their shoulders to slump against whumper’s torso, for their shaking knees to crumple into whumper’s lap.

For each part of them to give up—to give in— until they’re spilling hot tears into the fabric between shaking, heaving breaths, staining whumper’s shirt with the small beads of blood that still weep from their bitten lip.

Whumper only holds whumpee’s head tightly against their shoulder and let’s them ride out the sobs. 

tags—>

taglist: @whumpshaped  @whumpsday  @emmettnet  @a-whump-sideblog  @whump-it-like-its-hot  @wolfeyedwitch  @whumper-soot @unorganisedalienrubbish  @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @hidden-dreamland @whumpedydump @lonesome--hunter @ashh-ed @whump-in-the-closet @oriantthegiant @banditosong @anonymustyou @feralwhump @jieunie-23 @whumpasaurus101 @morning-star-whump @whmp @captain-bo-bob-bobby @the-beasts-have-arrived just ask to be added or removed <33

[mickeym4ndy]

idk if I’ll ever write a full fanfic but I do like writing little ficlets on here so I might start posting them but idk