#homecoming drabbles

[astroboots]

Okay so I just saw this on Twitter and immediately thought of Homecoming Frankie and Santi… the three of them tucked away in a cabin somewhere remote with nothing to entertain themselves with except this crappy old ping ping table. And it’s two against one and they are getting VERY competitive and they’re ganging up on you but it’s hot down there in that cabin basement and so you start to remove layers and notice it’s distracting them so you start stripping, watching them fumble and stutter, their mouths hanging open…

HOMECOMING: TWO AGAINST ONE

OH MY LORD! THIS IMAGE! You are sending me! So firstly I do actually have a wip that is very similar to this one, but because you sent me this depravity I wrote a little something, just for you. I LOVE YOU, I don't deserve this gorgeous, amazing, sexy thought you've sent me.

Homecoming Drabbles | Homecoming Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist

Brat.

Obnoxious brat.

Short, obnoxious brat!

"What's wrong Cariño?" Santiago says, with a grin across the table from you, as you have to tuck your metaphorical tail between your legs as you walk across the room to pick up the little plastic ping pong table that ricocheted from Santiago's latest move and is now bouncing mockingly against the wooden floor in the corner.

Next to him, Frankie is shaking his head, with a sheepish expression on his face, clearly regretting being pulled into your competition with Santiago (as always).

"Thought you said you could take us both," Santiago adds.

From the way his voice is almost cracking with amusement at the edges, you know that double entendre is on purpose.

God, he's such a fucking brat.

You're better than Santiago at this game. You know it and he knows it. It's why you had bragged, perhaps a bit too confidently and a bit too loudly about how there is no handicap in the world that could have Santiago winning a game of ping pong over you.

It's why when Santiago had suggested two against one, you had readily taken him on. You just hadn't expected the two of them to be so coordinated and in sync with their movements.

In retrospect, that was a novice move. Because of course those two would be. You don't spend half a lifetime in the army together, watching each other's six only to end up on the other side of it, not being in tune with each other.

The bastard's still grinning at you.

Fuck your life.

Rolling up the sleeves of your sweatshirt, (Fuck it's warm in this cramped and stuffy basement--whose fucking idea was it to voluntarily do physical exercise), you bend over, picking up the tiny little ball.

You drag your eyes back to the table, where Santiago is practically lit up like the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center, bouncing on his feet, as he takes a step back, in preparation, widening his stance, in some ridiculous half-wrestling move. He takes this game way too seriously (which, yes you know, you know: this is very pot calling the kettle black, considering the way you're already craning your neck from left to right in preparation for the next round).

He has no fucking right to look this good. Silver-black curls, bouncing on his forehead, as the sweat glistens off his thick neck. Bare-armed, as white fabric of his tanktop clings onto his chest. His fingers thread through his heat-furled curls, matted with sweat.

At the sight of it, something sharp and electric zaps through you, from the tip of your toes right into the center of your belly. For an infinitesimal second, you're not entirely sure if the sensation comes from the all-too familiar competitive streak between you or just how fucking attractive Santiago looks in this moment as he's grinning back at you. Gleefully happy and excited in a way you might not have seen him since you were both kids.

It makes your mouth dry out, heart pumping even faster (which isn't really ideal considering how high your heartbeat already is from the strenuous exercise you've already been victimised under from this stupid bet) and if the heat in this room hadn't already beat you to it, you'd be pretty sure your face would be burning too.

Frankie must see your plight, because his brows scrunch in concern as he looks at you.

"Baby, we don't have to keep doing this. We can call it a draw and just put on a movie upstairs instead," Frankie offers sympathetically.

"No Frank, game doesn't end until she calls uncle and admit she's lost, them's the rule," Santiago counters, as he taps his paddle tauntingly on the table. "Buckle up sweetheart, next round."

You make a sound in your throat that sounds much like a growl.

Brat. You weren't going to take Frankie's offer anyhow. Would much rather die from a heat-stroke than have to listen to Santiago's taunting all night about how everyone knows he's "technically the winner" if you hadn't begged for mercy.

A lone drop of sweat trickles down the back of your neck and fuck, that is it. You can't take the heat. Putting down your paddle and the ping pong ball on the table, your hands come to the hem of the grey army-sweatshirt, dragging the constraining cotton up your torso and off your neck, before you fling it onto a chair nearby. As soon as the itchy grey fabric leaves your skin, leaving you in your strapped cami blouse, you feel like you can breathe again. Thank god for linen.

Your skin is almost dewy from the sweat and perspiration, you feel disgusting. Stupid Santiago and his stupid competitive games, and his stupid army sweatshirt.

"Fish, don't get distracted. She's doing this on purpose."

You look back up, confused by Santiago's reprimanding tone until your eyes meet Frankie, and the way he's staring at your newly revealed skin. It's not until you look down, you realize, that your bra is showing under the near transparent material of your top.

Frankie's eyes round, almost comically, the black eating into the rest of his gorgeous eyes, until it's nearly pitched black.

"Uhm--yeah," Frankie responds, but you can tell from the thick drawl in his tone, the way his words goes slow and clumsy, the way it sounds like melted sugar burning under low heat, that he's not really hearing Santiago.

Santiago can tell too.

"FRANK!"

That snaps the man right out of it, he blinks repeatedly, as if waking up from a daze. The dark, near-blackness of his eyes, softening, until it's all warm and light hazel gentleness.

"Right, right," Frankie murmurs, as he drags his eyes away from you, eyes lowering to his feet, even as the flushed pink continues to climb.

And oh, bless this sweet summer child, you do love him so much.

So easy, your Frankie.

Bending over the table, you stay there, lingering languidly in your movements, until you're sure, from the way that Frankie swallows hard in his throat, that he's seen the lace of your bra peek out from the top, before you pick up the ball and lean back up.

Then you wink at your husband, and even though the loose sweats he's wearing provides him with some legroom, you know that the obvious bulge there is not from Frankie hiding a goddamn tree log in those pants.

If your next serve is a little bit more exaggerated in your movements for Frankie's benefit, well... there are no rules against that.

It's a comical sight. Santiago goes left, and Frankie clumsily fails to track the ball's movements, and missteps, until Santiago crashes into him with a loud curse.

The ball pings off the table and onto the floor, and you can practically see the fumes rising from the top of Santiago's head as he walks off to the corner, with pendejo and horny idiot scalding hot on his tongue.

With his back turned, you seize your chance, tilting your head coquettishly at your husband, as you drag your index finger along the flimsy collar of your top, dragging it down along the swell of your breasts until you can hear the groan wrenched from his throat.

"Foul!" Santiago's voice shouts from across the room. "That's fucking cheating and you know it!"

"How exactly am I cheating?"

"You're confusing Fish, flirting and stripping!"

"You're nuts, he's my husband! I'm allowed to flirt with my husband!"

"Not when we're playing, you're not!"

You stare at him in silence, a stand-off, neither of you willing to blink or back down from your irrational stance. The seconds ticking over from one to five to thirty until you must stand there for a full minute.

Until finally Santiago blinks. "Fine!" he growls, as he throws the paddle down on the table and his hand comes to the hem of his tanktop and pulls it off.

You blink in confusion. "What are you doing?"

"Different game," he announces as if the logic makes perfect sense and he pulls off and kicks off the sweatpants to a far off corner in the room, standing in his half-naked glory, with only his boxers clinging onto his thick thighs and round ass.

Santiago must have lost his mind. The heat must have finally gotten to him. Because if he thinks that him stripping is going to make Frankie more concentrated in this game, then clearly Santiago's brain must have fried.

In front of you, Santiago is advancing on you, practically marching, until he's close enough that he can grab your arm and pull you to him, warm, rough palm against the back of your neck, as he presses his mouth against yours. It's hungry, it's frustrated, it's everything. Tongue licking into your mouth as he opens you up to him. The oppressive heat of the room strikes you again, the room spinning around you until your head is buzzing and you nearly lose your footing in his arms as you melt against him.

He pulls away from you. "Different game," Santiago repeats against your lips, "same rules though."

You're still confused, completely uncomprehending of what his words mean until he turns his face in Frankie's direction, with that mischievous grin still plastered on his spit-slick lips, "you comin' Frank?"

Santiago is grinning, eyes glittering with competitiveness. Heat licks against the bottom of your spine, as it finally click for you. Different game, but same rules: two against one.

FUCK

a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow @astroboots-writes and turn on notifs 🤡💖🤡

#oscar isaac #pedro pascal #santiago garcia #santiago garcia x reader #santiago garcia x you #triple frontier #frankie morales #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #triple frontier fanfiction #triple frontier fanfic #triple frontier fic #homecoming drabbles #cici writes #💌 asks

[magpie-to-the-morning]

Hello my love!

Saw you bringing that prompt list back around 👀

How “intimate” with our mutual favorite soft cowboy, Whiskey? Pretty pretty please and thank you??

Les!!! This was so fun to write and I make no apologies about how unbearably sweet and domestic it is 😘

You’ve barely sat down all day. There’s just been too much to do: putting clean sheets on the bed, wrestling the down comforter into the linen duvet, swiping what felt like a layer of grime from the windows, cleaning the floors, polishing the banister with orange oil until it gleamed, hell, you’d even made a pie. With Jack away on a mission, so many of the household chores you usually split had fallen further and further from your radar. You’d hate for him to come home and feel like he has to set things to rights - especially when you know he’ll have other things on his mind.

It’s why you left yourself plenty of time to shower and put on the dress he loves so much on you, the one that brushes the tops of your thighs and just barely edges out of tunic territory. You don’t dare where it in public anymore (“You try keepin’ your hands to yourself in the face of such temptation, darlin’.”) but with a meal pre-ordered from his favorite barbecue place and coke drinks in the fridge, you doubt there’s anywhere he’d rather be.

By the time you hear the creak of his truck’s door and the familiar jangle of his keys in the lock, excitement is fizzing in your veins. You bounce up and down on the balls of your feet in the hallway, forcing yourself to stand still by sheer force of will.

And then after weeks of waiting, between one blink and the next, Jack is there, a tired grin on his face as he steps through the doorway. 

“There she is.”

You’re already moving. You fling yourself into his arms before his bag has even hit the floor, running through the same silent inventory you do every time he returns from Statesman business. Two legs holding him up, two arms locking around you in a crushing embrace. No bandages in sight, no grunt of pain when you’d launched yourself at him. Closing your eyes you offer up a silent “thank you” to whoever might be listening that he’s returned in one piece. 

You wonder if Jack isn’t doing the same when his hug turns vice-like and he murmurs something you can’t quite catch into his hair before finally setting you down.

“How’s my girl?” His hands move to your hips, grounding you, holding you steady when your heart feels light enough to pull you right off the ground.

“Better now that you’re here. I missed you, Jack.” Your hands tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, slightly longer than you’re used to but you like it, using the leverage to pull him into a deep, searching kiss.

“You have no idea, baby,” he mumbles against your lips. Jack shudders against you, his hands fisting the back of your dress and rucking the skirt dangerously high. His voice has a dull, hollow quality you’re not used to, one that makes you pause. But then his lips are moving against your forehead and you press yourself closer.

“Let me show you,” you croon. “Let me show you how much I missed you.” Taking one of his hands, you guide it slowly up your thigh. Jack’s mouth falls open when his searching fingers meet bare heat and he groans.

“Wait baby, let me look at you?”

“Wanna see you, too,” you gasp, already pushing his jacket from those broad shoulders you love and tugging at his shirt before dropping to your knees. “Fuck, Jack, I need you so bad.” 

Memories of homecomings past thrum hot and needy in your blood. The time Jack had only remembered to close the front door when he went to fuck you against it. The time you’d welcomed him home wearing nothing but wispy lace that never stood a chance against his eager hands and teeth. The time the two of you started having sex on the stairs before collapsing into giggles over both of you being “too old for this shit” and heading, hand in hand, to your king-sized bed. 

It’s only as you’re fumbling Jack’s belt buckle open that you realize this time feels… different.

Rocking back on your heels you look up at him. Jack’s smiling at you, his hand soft against your cheek and while his expression is loving, it’s not frenzied. 

“Is everything… okay?” Self-doubt creeps in quickly and before you can stop yourself you’re running through your preparations, worrying that there might be something you’ve missed.

Jack hauls you to your feet before you can overthink any further. “Everything’s okay,” he says firmly, though that strange distance is still in his voice. 

“Do you not want  - “

“Oh, I want plenty.” Humor lights the honied chestnut of his eyes and your thundering pulse eases at the sight. “But before all that, lemme just hold you, darlin’?” 

The questioning tone, the faint uncertainty nearly takes your legs out from under you. As if you’d ever deny him such a simple request. As if you’ve thought of anything these past weeks but wrapping yourself around him and never letting go.

You take him by the hand and lead him the few steps it takes to enter the living room. You’d been busy here, too: a small fire crackles in the wood burning stove and a few candles are already lit, filling the room with an amber glow. There’s a plaid woolen blanket laid over the artfully scuffed leather couch and the room smells of pine resin and home. 

“Come here.” 

Jack sinks into the corner of the sofa and tugs you into his lap in one smooth, practiced motion. He buries his face in your neck and breathes deeply once, twice, his arms back around your waist to hold you close.

A few minutes pass this way while you run your fingers through Jack’s hair, half murmuring, half humming, until he relaxes into your touch. 

When he finally lifts his head to kiss your temple, you cup his cheek and ask softly “Do you want to talk

about it?” He’s never been this quiet after a mission, this desperate to just… hold you. 

He pauses, considers, but shakes his head. “Maybe another time but not tonight.”

When he doesn’t add anything else you nod. “Okay.”

Jack nuzzles your cheek, his hands playing slowly over your body as you sit together. His arms tighten again when a burning log snaps and cracks in the wood stove but you go back to stroking his hair until he settles again.

“It’s okay, baby, I’ve got you.” 

“I know. Thought about this every night I was gone. Getting home. Seeing you.”

“I’ve been sleeping in one of your shirts,” you admit. It’s worth the slight embarrassment to feel the pleased rumble of Jack’s laughter against your chest.

“Is that so? What, did the laundry pile up that badly while I was away?”

You give a playful nip to his shoulder. “The chores ran like clockwork, I’ll have you know.”

“Uh-huh,” Jack drawls. “I’d believe you if there weren’t vacuum tracks in the carpet and a bottle of Windex left by the windows.”

You jerk your head towards the spot Jack is nodding towards, giving you away before you can stop yourself. 

“Busted, darlin’,” Jack grins. The shadows have retreated from his eyes and you decide that’s worth a little teasing. 

“Fiiiiine,” you sigh, rolling your eyes and sitting up. “Dinner should be here soon, by the way. And if you stop giving me a hard time about my cleaning habits there might even be pie for dessert.”

Ultimately, Whiskey decides to have his dessert before dinner, though the two of you don’t start in on the peach pie you’d baked until breakfast. 

#Jack 'Whiskey' Daniels x Reader #Jack 'Whiskey' Daniels x F!Reader #Jack Daniels x Reader #Jack Daniels x F!Reader #Jack 'Whiskey' Daniels #Jack Daniels x Fem!Reader #Prompts #Fic #My Fic #Drabbles #Homecoming

[inlocusmads]

Hii 🥰

I saw these picture prompts and I thought I’d send them your way. You can create anything you’d like. Moodboards, edits or even write a story, whatever makes you happy.

The most important thing is that you have fun (and don’t worry you can answer the ask whenever you have time or feel inspired) 🥰

Thanks for the prompt Peonie!

Empty Wallets, Terrible People & Other Signs of Spring: rowan stone & stevie sun (murder at homecoming)

wc: 502, teen and up for strong language

a/n: this takes place before the events of murder at homecoming - i.e when they're sophomores

____

“Stevie, what the fuck.”

Rowan threw her hands up in exasperation. She examined one of the peaches to find some rotten mold stuck to their skin. It wasn't Stevie’s fault, clearly - given it was the contractor to blame but Rowan was a bit bummed nonetheless. She was now answerable to the Spring Fair committee, which involved dealing with a bunch of crappy seniors who took great pleasure in bullying the fuck out of a bunch of worker-bee sophomores. It wasn't like they could call Gabriela to fix the problem, as per usual. The amount of times Rowan would need her to bail them both out was too many to count on a few fingers.

Stevie had just finished up drawing a sign and balanced it on a crate.

“Don't worry about the ones that look dead, I'll have some guy get it thrown out.”

“Good sign.” Rowan pointed out.

“Right?”

“Can you squeeze peaches?”

“Dude.” Stevie rolled her eyes, exasperated.

“I'm kidding.” Rowan burst into laughter. “No, this will piss off like - uh, seven people.”

Don't squeeze me until I'm yours. The sign read. 

“Piss off all the right people, you mean.” Stevie delivered a light punch at Rowan’s shoulder. “Guess who's in charge of exhibits?”

“That guy? Fuck.”

Rowan knew Stevie had been having some problems with Brett Morris, but the nature of it was unknown. Rowan didn't want to press on the subject either. It wasn't like she was close enough with Stevie to warrant a reason, much less get comfortable enough to laugh at her jokes. 

“Well, if he's giving you problems -”

“Nah, he's -- he's --” Stevie struggled to get through her sentence. “Y'know what, it's his problem. Fuck Brett.”

“Yeah, erm- fuck him.”

“As a matter of fact I should - like draw some stuff on the cardboard- make his job answering to a bunch of kids a lot more difficult.” 

Rowan noticed a little bit of discomfort at the mention of Brett but as quickly as she let herself express it, Stevie had let it pass by. 

A pause. 

“You want to go grab some churros?” 

“Aren't we supposed to take care of the peaches?”

“They're just peaches, right?” Rowan shrugged nonchalantly. “Pretty sure nobody even -- eats fruits anymore. Let's go get some churros, c'mon.”

Stevie gave her an amused smile. “This is the most pathetic way I've ever been asked out.”

“No - what the - no, no, this is - dude, it's food. We're grabbing food.”

“Yeah, you give someone else those wet cat sad eyes and they'll toss a diamond carat ring at your forehead.” Stevie laughed. “I'm kidding. Come on. God, you're like - so uptight and everything. Also I'm broke, so you're paying, sorry about that.”

“I've got like five bucks. In this economy we can't even afford half a churro in this overpriced fundraiser.”

“Quarter of a churro it is, then.” Stevie settled. “You can afford a quarter churro, right?”

“I mean- you can get nothing and everything for five bucks.”

“Pretty sure the economy doesn’t work like that, Rowan.”

____

A/N: this was just a really quick drabble I thought of ahaha. Also yes, this takes place a year after Brett Morris almost sexually assaults Stevie. I'd like to think at this point, Rowan and Stevie aren't exactly the best of friends, but sort of like 'hallway friends' - you know the kind where you meet at hallways and say hi, so it takes a lot longer for both of them to kind of start talking to each other - between Stevie's own reluctance to put her trust in a good place and Rowan to actually open up.

So they're kind of dancing on the "hey I want you to be my friend but -- uh, I don't know how to talk to you" line.

I'm still trying to figure out a nice cohesive relationship timeline for them, so prompts like these really help out. Thank you so much!

Tagging: perma: @quixoticdreamer16 @tessa-liam @stars-are-within-me @thosehallowedhalls

(since I don't have an MAH-exclusive tag-list yet, I'll just tag some perma people who might be interested)

#askboxed #peonierose #stevie x rowan #murder at homecoming #w:inlocusmads #my drabbles

[light-imperfected]

Nothing has changed.

One breath in the City of Spirale and the next he's in Hell. Back here. The weight of his sins swell back on his shoulders like they had never left. And that familiar feeling of the Father's Light—kept in stasis, somehow, by the city—burning out of his body—leaving him hollow. He has hours left.

Well.

He always knew this would end. He has always been walking on borrowed time, this whole stolen year. He wishes, maybe, that he had held Sun Wukong closer, carried his warmth for longer, been braver, kissed him sooner, seen one more time the way a genuine smile graces his face, memorized the way their bodies fit together. For all the shame he carries, he still misses his presence so badly it hurts. There is a kind of unspeakable grief in that glimpse of what might have happened, in some other lifetime. Gabriel had accepted his death long ago—but it stings, knowing that perhaps he could have lived.

But there's no time left to mourn, or to regret, anymore. He looks up. Stands up from where he's been kneeling. What was it that he wanted to do, all that time ago?

---

When he dies for the last time (arm ripped away, blood in his throat, strange satisfaction and no shortage of nails in his gut), he's ready for it. When he dies for the last time he opens his eyes and he's in Spirale again and he could scream in frustration. Plants he doesn't recognize sprawl across the streets, roots cracking concrete, glitched visions of worlds he'll never know stitching together and coming apart in bursts of static. His hands clench, the one he lost returned and shaking. The Light he had just felt dwindle away, back at the low steady pulse it's been at all year. And he is so, so sick of the Stars fucking with him.

It's a pretty speech they give, but—he doesn't listen. He's spent far too much of his life working for a God that never truly cared. Gabriel sorts through the noise and searches for any fragment of the man he loves. And so he slips away from this city into another, one that's survived a few recent apocalypses of its own, but is very much still kicking.

---

He does not find Sun Wukong. He does find some paper cutout of Monkey King with prerecorded voicelines selling a line of his own plushies, which is when he finds out his boyfriend is famous. Gabriel doesn't honestly know much about Wukong's past, which he doesn't mind; he's equally cagey about his own.

A bit dazed, he asks someone where he could find Monkey King? The kid in the banged up delivery vehicle lights up at the question and rattles off an answer before pointing into the fucking sea, which Gabriel can't do anything with. "Flower Fruit Mountain's that way," he says, "or you can check the Shame Temple, in the mountains."

Gabriel snorts at the name. Squinting at the cart's logo, he realizes with a start that this must be someone who worked the infamous noodle shop where he and Monkey King met, all that time ago, deep in the Mists.

He asks for directions and within the hour he's sat at the counter listening to a pig grumble about the fact that he can't eat and a guy with glasses trying to get the pig to give him free noodles. A girl with green in her pigtails snickers and tells him, "Don't worry, this happens every day with these two." (Pigsy: Don't you excuse this behavior! Tang laughs: You know you love meeee.)

It's nice, to watch the daily rhythms of people who care for each other dearly. But Gabriel doesn't know them. The person he's looking for isn't here.

"Classic Monkey King," Pigsy grumbles, sliding Tang a bowl of noodles, "always running off to who knows where without any sort of warning." Gabriel has to swallow the sudden defensiveness swelling in his chest, surprised by its intensity.

"Don't worry," says Mei, a bit over-brightly, "he'll come back. That's the ol' immortality for ya."

MK swings through the door (Mei: 小天！), deliveries taken care of, and waves at Gabriel. "Oh, hey, you're still here. I can take you to Flower Fruit Mountain if you're still looking," he offers (Pigsy: Oh, boy. You better not be late tomorrow, MK. The boy laughs sheepishly. Pigsy sighs, good-natured). "I could get some training in, anyway."

---

The ride is uneventful, MK nervously chattering questions at Gabriel (so how did you meet? are you like, a celestial? i haven't seen you around before, do you wear armor all the time? is that helmet your head?). The angel's terse, doesn't want to explain the whole multiple-universes thing. For all the practice he's had in Spirale, he hasn't shaken off his own fucking death yet.

MK shows Gabriel through the waterfall; Monkey King looks up and opens his mouth when he hears them. But Gabriel's already flashed across the room. The trail of blue he leaves in his wake fades, slowly, as he pulls a familiar furry body into a tight hug, heavy and solid in his arms like he'd never left. To his credit, Wukong doesn't say a thing, just returns the gesture, though not without a grumble of annoyance that he gets mostly a faceful of armor for his trouble.

Something soft spills over in him and he thinks it's relief. He knows he would be crying if he could, every feeling too sharp and overwhelming. Wukong is squeezed closer. His mouth can't make the words he wants desperately to say: i love you. i thought i'd never see you again. i'm already dead so many times over but i still want to hold onto you. i hope i love you for as long as spirale lets me do it. i love you.

"Um, Monkey King?" MK says, watching from the entrance after a full five minutes of silence, "What's, happening?"

#event: homecoming #its both parts so same tag whatever #cw: gore #<- very brief but there is some detail of gross wounds #cw: death #drabble #closed #wc: [checks document] oh my god what is wrong with me #wc: 1003

[sunsage]

partner drabble to this one

There are no lights turned on in Monkey King's house, not when he's there alone, so he doesn't recieve the warning Stars were 'kind' enough to give them. He simply blinks, closing his eyes on the bed in his house and opening them in the middle of a clearing near his mountain. The night chill seeps into his fur and he blinks again, but the stars above remain the same. He checks his phone for the date and when that doesn't help, checks the message app. Last message is from MK, listed as today's afternoon.

Was his time on the island all a dream? A stress hallucination of some sort (he never had one this long before but who knows)? Or was he really somehow brought to a different world for- what, over a year? - and only returned now, same moment as he left? Well, it doesn't really matter, he supposes. He's home now.

It doesn't matter. Even if it was real, he still always knew that place was a temporary haven (a forced vacation spot, he called it under his breath) and sooner or later he'll have to come back. It shouldn't matter, except-

If it was real, he wonders if Gabriel also returned to his world or if he is still in the city, without him. The idea sends an unexpected pang of pain thorough him. Of course he wouldn't want to be the source of the angel's pain, wouldn't want to inflict the hurt of someone you- care about leaving. But he can't deny that there's more to that. There is no way to control whether he ever goes back to the city. And if he never does, they will never see each other again.

He will never see Gabriel again.

One hand comes up to hold onto his chest when something inside contracts, hurts, bleeds at the thought and he's not going to pretend that he doesn't know what it means. Fuck, he was really trying to avoid that. He was supposed to be more careful- except he wasn't at all, jumping straight into it, blowing past every warning sign as if he didn't know how it will end. Falling for someone means either getting caught or hitting the ground, and maybe one of these days he will stop slamming himself down in front of people he knows can't stay with him.

Ha. As if.

==

Old rhythms are easy enough to fall into, at least, even when his heart isn't in it. Monkey King works on fixing up his home, takes care of his subjects, hangs out with MK and, on occasion, the rest of the gang. Tries to contact Macaque a couple times to no avail, but that's nothing new - the guy is evasive and likes his space at the best of times. Would've been nice to at least ask if he also remembers the Spiral city or not, but Wukong lets it be. They'll see each other sooner or later.

Even with all the distractions, trying not to think about - well - isn't easy. More than once Wukong catches himself noticing things he'd like to show to Gabriel, places he'd want to take him to. Looks up over his shoulder at nothing, reaches for a hand to hold that isn't there, writes texts to a number that doesn't exist.

He tries to at least not be too obvious about it and fails there too.

("Monkey King, are you ok? You've barely touched your noodles." "I don't know, kid, I... I think I'm in love." "Ooooh, with who? Oh, wait, it's Macaque, isn't it?" "What, no. Well, I mean that- That's a different thing." "Uh-uh, sure. Wait, but who is it then?" "I'd rather not talk about it." "...Okay, if you say so. But that's a good thing, right? I mean, I've never felt it but, yknow, they always say how wonderful love is on TV. Do they love you back?" "Yeah. I think so." "That's great!" He doesn't have the heart to tell the kid that no, it really isn't.)

===

He knows he shouldn't feel relief when he steps out of his junk treasure room only to tumble into a semi-familiar street of Fibonacci, but he does anyway. Of course, nothing is ever simple in this world (any world, he'd come to learn) and right away he's forced to focus on saving his universe first, and his feelings second.

(He wants to see his angel so bad that it hurts, but he's used to ignoring his own pain for the good of the world. It's fine. He wouldn't be able to rest knowing his home is in danger anyway).

So he seals off all the portals he can find, pulling them closed by force, much like what he did in the scroll except in reverse. Not the most elegant solution but it works, and he really is in a hurry.

Soon enough there is only one portal remaining and he walks through, planning to check for stragglers so nobody who shouldn't be there gets locked in a wrong world. His clones rush off in every direction to cover more ground while he takes off for the Flower Fruit Mountain. The first portal he saw was in there after all and he very much doesn't want to leave anyone in his house who shouldn't be there. Especially not in his treasure junk room.

He's so focused on his task that the sound of water curtains sliding open catches him off-guard (MK? Oh no, were they supposed to train today?). And he barely gets half a second to process what is happening before he's trapped in an embrace that would knock the air out of anyone more mortal than him. Gabriel. Here, in his world, in his home. Looking for him. Hugging him like he thought they would never see each other again. All the tension leaves his body in an instant and he'd fall to the ground if Gabriel wasn't holding him so tightly, if he wasn't clinging back in return. He thinks he says something, a joke probably, anything to stop the burning in his eyes from spilling over in front of-

-oh, right, MK.

"Hey bud, can you wait outside for a second?" Monkey King rasps out, his face, burning hot, pressed against the cool armor. MK, a wonderful kid but not the brightest one, thankfully gets the hint and backs out the entrance with a nigh incomprehensible 'ohoksureuhyoutwotakeyourtimeimjustgonnacallmeiaboutsomethingrealquick'. There is a splash of the waterfall and then they are alone (as alone as you can be, at least, on the mountain). Wukong takes a steadying breath and pulls back, not enough to break the embrace but just enough to see the other's face again, enough to reach up a little and place a kiss on the front of the helmet.

"Missed you too." He smiles, soft and warm and loving before leaning in to press his cheek against Gabriel's. "My angel."

Later, he'll probably have to explain things to MK, and maybe he will have just enough time to take Gabriel on a quick tour of his world before they have to leave. Maybe they'll even have enough time for a quick date, somewhere nice. Maybe they can even sneak into Heaven for a look. And later still, they can go back to the city and spend as much time- ah, what's the point of hiding it anymore- they can spend as much time being in love as the Stars allow them to and it will never be enough and it will always be worth it.

But all that will happen later. Right now, held so tightly by the man he loves, there is no other place he'd rather be.

#ir event: homecoming #wasn't going to participate but then someone twisted my hand #didnt mean. to make it this long. cut out a LOT from it too #isola drabble

[darkenforcer]

homecoming pt 1

oh, this return trip came... sooner than he'd expected.

yuri's starting to think he's had enough of all of this inter-worldly travel-- this is his, what, fourth go at it? and it's still thrown him way off kilter! the least those damn stars can do is choose a place and stick to it... which brings him to his current dilemma: where the hell have they decided to drop him off now?

luckily, it only takes a quick (and admittedly dizzy) glance to gather all he needs to know. it's exactly where he'd left off. castle zaphias, at the foot of the commandant's window.

...and there, sitting at his desk with pen in hand, is sir commandant flynn himself, peering over at him with a funny little scrunch in his brow. poor guy's gotta be annoyed, having been torn away from his oh-so-very important boring duty of signing dozens of documents on the daily, only to find yuri looking at him like he's the one out of place in his own office.

psh, now imagine how crazy i'd look if i started explaining where i've been all this time-- hold on. where... i've been...?

that can't be right; he isn't supposed to remember, is he? then, that island... why does he remember that island? he isn't supposed to, if his last trip back-and-forth is anything to go by. he seeks out repede for confirmation and the dog beside him stares right back, sighing past the pipe in his mouth. 

he remembers, too.

are their retained memories a screw-up on the stars' part, or...? well, he supposes the exact reason doesn't matter-- he's home. that's the glaring reality he's woken up to, regardless of whatever they'd left in his head. there's the familiar set of fluttering curtains over the windows, the cool, crisp zaphias air caressing his cheeks... and flynn in the midst of it all, going about his bureaucratic business per usual. this isn't like the mist and its phony replicas, this is as real as it gets.

"um... yuri? are you alright?"

"huh?" yuri freezes at the sound of his childhood friend's voice, the pause before his own response just a touch too long to be considered casual, "am i alright? you're the one looking at me funny. your face'll get stuck like that, yknow."

an indignant scoff escapes flynn's throat, but the crease doesn't disappear-- if anything, it deepens. fortunately, it doesn't seem like he feels compelled enough to push the issue. either that, or he really needs to get those documents sorted.

as flynn resumes his work and the room is left in silence, yuri tries not to think back to the recent reunions he'd had in spirale-- break's tackle and frye's outburst, or eiden and indigo's excitement upon seeing him. it all trickles into a pool of guilt he doesn't want to -- or rather can't -- acknowledge, for his sake. he's where he's meant to be. there's no reason to complicate his return with memories of people he can't visit unless some higher power deems him to. he knows them well enough; they'll be fine, with or without him.

pretty cruel of the stars, though. it must've been easier last time when he hadn't had those experiences on his mind, and he could go back to life as if it'd never happened. it's not like he won't move on, of course, nor does he have any regrets, but it's... weird.

a whine pulls him from his thoughts, repede's wet snout bumping into his hand. attentive as always...

"seriously," flynn pipes up again, accompanied by the sound of his chair scratching across the floor. great, now his chronic inability to mind his own business is kicking in. "by now you would've been trying -- and succeeding -- to make it impossible for me to get anything done. what happened?"

"i've got no idea what you're talking abou-- wh-- hey, knock it off!" yuri protests when the back of the other man's hand presses against his forehead, likely checking for a fever. sure, he probably looks a little woozy, but he's not sick, dammit!

flynn huffs with a specific brand of testiness that's only ever been reserved for the vigilante himself, "i can tell something's on your mind, yuri, why're you being so difficult? you were the one who barged in here, remember?" 

he did barge in, huh? before his life got flipped upside-down by the stars again. of course he remembers. he remembers that and much, much more than flynn realizes. 

but the blond's reaction -- his worry -- isn't wholly unjustified; yuri's back on terca lumireis, home to the lower quarter, to brave vesperia, to estelle and rita and patty... hell, even raven. he should be celebrating!

so why does he feel off? underneath that very-real sense of relief, he still feels... expectant. what's his intuition trying to tell him...?

yuri turns away in order to shut the office window (or to avoid his friend's piercing blue gaze, at least to some extent), and the lock's click rings out in the large, sparsely-decorated room.

"dunno, just taking it all in... it's nice to be home again," he finally offers flynn something that isn't complete b.s., plopping down on the windowsill with an expertly-handled nonchalance.

"that's it...? you always visit the capital between guild work."

"hah. what's with the interrogation, commandant?" yuri parries the question as he stares out over his shoulder, past the glass, "i got a newfound appreciation for this place, that's all."

that earns him a laugh, disbelieving, yet underlined by a hint of warmth, "who are you and what've you done to the real yuri?"

flynn's unintentionally ironic jab is left hanging in the air, unanswered. yuri doesn't even know where to begin on everything that's happened to the "real him" right now, so he instead chooses to occupy himself with the city below, a hand running rhythmically through repede's fur.

...that's funny. never noticed you can see my old room at the comet from up here... been a while, hasn't it? 'bout time i paid the owners a visit. hanks and ted, too.

#ic #event: homecoming pt 1 #drabble #'nice to be home' bro u r so fucked lol #VERY stream of consciousness but i wanted to get his main thoughts down before i do pt 2 stuff!! #(i like to think he got blooped out of canon during that one part in the credits where hes climbing through flynn's window) #q

[sxnburst]

You're going to stay in there until you've learned your manners.

Sun remembers how Bentley would keep the small monkey boy imprisoned in the makeshift cell made just for him. Yeah, boy...because at that time without his memories and the knowledge of who he truly was, Sun Wukong had been just a lost boy hadn't he? An adult who didn't know anything better about the world. He, who blindly followed his master's orders.

Sun's memories of his home was riddled with nothing but torment, agony, and suffering. There was nothing beautiful about this place and yet the boy from back then would have said otherwise, wouldn't he?

Are you lonely?

Kinda. But being around you guys doesn't make me feel too alone.

Liar. Sun had never been one to lie, but in the face of Bentley's close friend, the only friend that treated Sun with even an ounce of humanity, Sun would lie. To protect himself. To protect the friend.

Liar. You are lonely. You know you are so much more capable than being a dog in a dog fight. Bentley is my friend and I've said this before but...Sun...

Bentley was his friend. One of his most trusted friend and yet this friend always was in Sun's corner. He had wished for Sun's freedom.

If you one day were to ever snap...Heh, Heh, I don't think any of us would have the right to get mad or even judge you for it. You know? You continue to go through so much and no one steps in. Not even me. So....if you were to snap..

CRACK

And snap he did. Sun remembers that day so well. It was as if that friend of Bentley had seen this coming. Or perhaps it was a green light for Sun. All he needed to hear was those words. It had been a blood bath at the underground fight club. Every audience that ever watched, gone. Bodies piled on top each other, tangled, a mess. A massacre. It was a slaughterhouse and the only one who had managed to escape in the heat of it all; Bentley. The one who had escaped should have been the friend and yet, Bentley had left his friend for dead to save his own skin.

...I would be okay with that. Even if I were in that crossfire. I would have deserved it.

If anyone deserved it as much as the rest who watched, it would have been Bentley.

He's back in his world...

Sun closes his eyes, exhales through parted lips and exhales calmly through his nose. His tail curls casually to his side as he stands in the bustling sidewalk of Chicago. He wasn't able to locate Bentley then and back then Bentley remained hidden, refusing to search for his dog. Certainly, he'd want his dog back, right?

Sun Wukong is home.

A small smile etched at the corner of Sun's mouth and as he slides both hands into his pockets, he sets off in the direction. He walks tall and confident. He will show Bentley and he won't fail this time.

#isola event homecoming #Drabble #ooooh boy here we go #tw abuse #tw #trigger warning #tw blood #tw imprisonment #please let me know if theres anything else for me to tag #mobile #tw dog fight mention #tw death mention

[differentbydust]

#whump fic #drabble #oneshot #iron man #spiderman #irondad #spiderson #fatherless behavior #spiderman homecoming

[irishhills]

takeout with the donnellys

Blair lies on her bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to A Hard Day’s Night on her stereo. It’s her go-to album when she feels like shit, and she feels like shit. She doesn’t even have ballet to escape into until Monday night. It’s a painful Thursday, and all she can do is listen to The Beatles before the psychedelic turn.

When “I’ll Cry Instead” starts over for the second time, there’s a knock on her door.

“Go away!” Blair yells.

So, of course, her little sister Lennie opens the door and lets herself in. Lennie recently turned eleven, and she still thinks she’s entitled to everything Blair says, does, and owns. It doesn’t matter that she’s in junior high now, and she should want her own privacy. What’s Blair’s is hers, even when Mom and Dad try to mediate.

“We’ve got your dinner on the table,” Lennie says. “Dad picked up Chinese. Almond boneless chicken, no gravy. Because you’re a freak.”

Blair sits up and throws a pillow at Lennie, but she diverts the path at the last second. Lennie’s more annoying than anyone in the world. Doesn’t mean Blair wants to hurt her, even for half a second.

“What’s wrong with you?” Lennie asks. “You didn’t even say hi to us when you came home from Eliza’s house.”

“Because I did not want to,” Blair says.

“Why?”

Blair sighs. Lennie doesn’t get it, and she probably never will. Right now, she’s eleven, but when she’s two or three years older, she still won’t get it in the same way. Blair can tell by looking at Lennie that she’ll grow up to be slim and spotless. She also has this long, gorgeous red hair that Blair’s never really seen on anyone else before. Add all that to how outgoing she is … how daring, how fun, how uproarious … Lennie will have to break a lot of hearts. Not Blair. She just doesn’t look right. She has bizarrely muscular legs and a soft tummy she can’t get rid of. Not exactly the figure anyone dreams about. At least, not the kind of figure Chris dreams about.

Come to think of it, Blair has no idea what Chris likes in a girl. If he likes anything at all.

“You said there’s dinner?” Blair asks.

“Yeah,” Lennie says. “Mom says be sure to shut off your stereo.”

Blair gets up from the bed, rolls her eyes, and shuts off the stereo, anyway. She meets up with her family at the table, and for a second, she forgets to be sad. It’s hard to be sad when your parents won’t stop grinning at you.

That’s one thing Blair has never had to worry about. Her parents are there for her, even when it’s embarrassing. She was born to a couple of college students who’d been together since seventh grade (the age Blair was when Chris first kissed her, if anyone is interested), and they wanted a baby badly. Blair was born at the start of their junior year. Ever since Blair put the pieces of her conception and birth together, she’s given herself a kind of deadline. If she’s not at least madly in love by the start of her junior year, then she’s unlovable. On some level, she knows it’s unfair. But on some other level, she can’t help but think fifteen is too old to not have a boyfriend – at the very least, a date for the homecoming dance.

“Hi, Blair!” Dad says. “See what I got you for dinner?”

Blair nods and sits across from her takeout box.

“Thanks,” she says.

She sticks her fork in the white rice and takes a bite that’s probably too big. She sees Mom’s face out of the corner of her eye and worries she must be judging her.

“Peter,” Mom says slowly, trying to get Dad’s attention away from the plum sauce container that’s giving him trouble, “Peter. Look at me.”

Dad looks up, a bit confused.

“What? Oh. Rose. What’s the matter?”

“Blair had a bad day,” Mom says. “She hasn’t told us anything about it.”

“Mom!” Blair says.

“What? We’re your family, Blair. We want to hear what’s bothering you. We’re not going to judge you. We just want to help you.”

Blair rolls her eyes. They’ll judge her as soon as they hear it’s about something shallow. Her mother is such a staunch feminist, she even talks about gender rights with her seventh graders. Her father is gearing up to quit his high-paying corporate job to pursue his real dream of teaching art and art history. Integrity is practically their blood type. If they knew how much Blair already thinks about bodies, boys, dating, and sex … maybe they’d be humiliated. Disappointed.

“I’m just going to skip the really weird part for now,” she says. “And I’ll get to the medium weird part because that’s … that’s the worse part. Eliza asked Chris to the homecoming dance, and he said yes. They’re going together.”

“Going together?” Mom asks. “Like … they’re boyfriend and girlfriend?”

“Not yet. I meant … going to the dance together. But we all know what that leads to.”

“Not necessarily,” Dad says. “When I was in the sixth grade, I took a girl named Laura to our very first school dance, and after that night, we barely spoke.”

“Sixth grade, Dad. Who did you start dating in seventh?”

Mom and Dad look at each other like they’re human disasters. If only they knew how far off they were.

“Your father and I are anomalous,” Mom says. “I’m sure if Chris and Eliza are going to the dance together, it’s just as friends.”

“False,” Blair says. “If Chris wanted to go with a friend, as a friend, he would have gone with me when I offered.”

“You offered?” Dad asks.

“Yeah. Of course I did. I saw my opportunity, and I took it. Isn’t that what you told me to do this summer?”

Dad pauses. He probably doesn’t remember the conversation he and Blair had on their drive back from Blair’s haircut in Ann Arbor. Blair was almost in tears about Chris not liking her back, and Dad said she either had to make a move or stop pining. It got through to her.

“Yes,” he says, “but, honey – I’m sorry, I just assumed that if you asked him out, he would say yes.”

“Yeah,” Blair says. “So did I. But he picked Eliza, and I guess I should just … stop trying and buy a cat or a dog or something to get my mind off him.”

“Blair!” Mom says. “First thing, don’t stereotype single women. Second, you are fifteen.”

“Which is old.”

“Which is not old. Not by a long shot. Just because it’s the oldest you’ve ever been doesn’t mean it’s old.”

Blair rolls her eyes. She knew her mom would say something like that. It’s logical, of course, but Blair can’t care about logic when she’s hurting like this. Not at all.

“Maybe Chris was scared to go with you because he likes you,” Lennie offers.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Blair says.

“Yeah, it does. Maybe he doesn’t want it to go wrong.”

Blair sighs. In her brief hopefulness on the way home from Eliza’s house, she thought maybe that could be the case. But it’s far-fetched and absurd, the thing only an eleven-year-old could come up with. She can’t let herself have those thoughts. She’s not eleven.

“Well, I don’t want to speak for anyone else,” Mom says, “but I don’t think Blair’s goal should be to get Chris to like her. I don’t think she should want anyone to like her.”

“But I don’t want to be alone!”

“You’re not alone. You never will be. You think these high school kids who go out on dates are any less alone than the rest of us? Do you think they like each other? Do you think they have good conversations?”

Blair shrugs. She’s pretty sure most of them don’t talk at all, but if talking was all she was looking for, she wouldn’t care whether or not Chris kissed her again.

“You’re worth so much more than whether or not a boy likes you, honey,” Dad says. “And boys don’t usually know what they’re doing.”

“You did.”

“Your mom and I are the exception, not the rule.”

If Blair had a nickel for every time she heard that one, she’d be able to pay her way through any elite university that might want to let her in. But she’s not holding her breath about that. She’s not holding her breath about any of the dreams she used to have.

So, why can’t she stop thinking about Chris?

“Do you still want to go to the homecoming dance?” Mom asks. “Even if Chris is on a date with someone else?”

To her own surprise, Blair nods.

“Good,” Mom says. “I saw this incredible dress at the mall the other day, and I can’t wait to take you to try it on. I think you’re going to love it. For you.”

Blair smiles. Mom’s encouragement is sweet. It’s just that it does little to make Blair stop feeling like she’s bad at being a teenager. She always knew she’d be bad at it, but she never expected to fail this much and this often.

She takes another bite of her rice and tries not to think about Chris, Eliza, or Chris and Eliza dancing together in the middle of the room while everyone watches.

It almost works.

#drabble #writeblr #food #ch: blair donnelly #ch: lennie donnelly #ch: rose donnelly #ch: peter donnelly #year: 1989 #mini series: a sort of homecoming

[eoieopda]

homecoming | knj

pairing: kim namjoon x reader summary: your husband is out-of-town for two weeks. he may have to keep his hands to himself in the meantime, but that doesn’t mean he can’t tell you what to do with yours. au: lacuna!verse, est. relationship (marriage) type: drabble (smut) wc: 2.8k (yes, i’m still calling this a drabble) rating: 18+ — minors do not have my consent to interact cw: LAJOONA, afab!reader (gender identity not explicitly stated but is referred to as “wife”), phone sex, voice kink ig?, reader is noted to speak in a(n unspecified) regional dialect, namjoon w/ dom undertones??, guided masturbation (v fingering, clit stim), literally so much dirty talk, multiple orgasms + squirting, praise for zest, various pet names because i’m all over the place, a brief appearance by a beloved side character. a/n: so, uhhhh…. here’s some self-indulgent filth for the dash, lmao. this makes sense out of the context of the lacuna series, but i think it’s more fun if you’re familiar with these two 💕 these events take place after the main series (aka present day). a/n 2: reader is referred to (once) by namjoon as “mrs. kim” — it’s a pet name. i’m aware that name changes after marriage aren’t a thing in korean culture.

Kim Namjoon knows home when he hears it.

Even in hushed tones, it rings loud and clear through his AirPods, humming so closely to the source of his wandering thoughts that he can picture himself there. Despite the slight rasp brought on by exhaustion, its intonation follows the same, steep highs and lows he’ll never get enough of. It sounds like a dialect from a city he’s never lived in, but it’s home, nonetheless.

“I thought the point of this retreat was to… retreat,” you tease. “Don’t know how effective that is if you call your distraction, Joonie.”

To be fair, Namjoon wasn’t the one who called you a distraction. He certainly wasn’t the one who decided he’d spend two weeks sequestered in the middle of nowhere, either. That was all Yoongi, top to bottom.

Come to think of it —

“If Yoongi didn’t think to confiscate my phone, that’s a Yoongi problem.” Namjoon shrugs, smiling to himself.

With a muffled grunt, he then leans back against the mattress and stretches his arms overhead. It’s nowhere near as comfortable as the one you’re currently occupying — mostly because you’re there and not here — but it could be worse, he knows. The separation could’ve been indefinite, like it used to be, with you thousands of kilometers and a handful of time zones away.

This round has a definitive deadline.

This, he can tolerate.

Once he settles in, Namjoon lets his eyes drift shut, mostly so he can imagine you curled up next to him. “I think he’s punishing me, honestly,” he huffs. “Dragged me out to the forest without you and put me in lyric jail because he’s sick of all the shit I’ve written about being in love.”

At this, you snort; Namjoon knows without seeing you that you’re rolling your eyes. “And being ridden. You’re getting pretty suggestive in your old age, love.”

Old? 

Damn.

Namjoon opts to leave that bit alone for now. Knowing you, that was the only part of what you just said that was intended to get a rise out of him — but the rest of it gets him thinking. After the fight he put up initially, he may have to concede that Yoongi was right about the strength of your influence. There’s only one image flashing behind Namjoon’s closed lids now.

And he pulls no punches, so he says as much out loud:

“If you knew what you looked like on top of me, you’d write poetry about it, too.”

Namjoon laughs a little when he says it, if only to mitigate some of the tension seeping into his muscles. Each cell in his body is demanding action that he can’t take at a distance. He’s restless in a way he hasn’t been in a long damn time, grabbing handfuls of the comforter below him because he can’t do the same to you.

It doesn’t hit the same.

You’re softer to the touch.

You sense that there’s a reason why he’s gone quiet all of the sudden; he knows you do. In fact, Namjoon suspects that your mind is wandering down that same, useless path. All he hears is your quiet breathing and the faint rustle of sheets while you struggle to get comfortable alone.

Suddenly, Namjoon can’t help himself. He wants the picture painted for him, wants to savor and study it in the few remaining nights that he has to spend in this fucking cabin. Needs to know if you’re in that little sleep set he likes so much — the one with the silky top and those tiny, little shorts that leave nothing to the — 

“What are you wearing?”

Thank fuck for the huskiness of his voice just then for the way it covered how embarrassingly he blurted that question out. It feels juvenile as hell to ask, like he’s texting his first girlfriend from his parents’ phone plan, thinking he’s playing it cool. The bulge growing in his sweatpants over something so minimal feels juvenile, too.

Fuck.

Has he always been so bad at this?

You reply on a breeze, and it’s clear that you’re covering, too — and that you’re messing with him, as usual. “Why? Worried I’ll catch a chill?”

“So, not much, then?” He counters, eyebrow twitching reflexively. 

When you respond, the smirk is evident in your tone. “I wouldn’t go that far. Your shirt is pretty big on me.”

Goddamn.

Namjoon’s first thought is that he’d like to retract his previous statement. Those little pajamas of yours can fuck right off; your current state is the one he likes best. This is what fucks him up the most: picturing his wife draped in his clothes, leaving them smelling like vanilla and honey.

His second thought is to wonder whether or not you hear him sigh when his hand drifts from his side to the cock throbbing in his sweatpants. Palming himself through the fabric, he decides immediately that your hand feels better, even though it’s smaller.

“Theft is a crime, Mrs. Kim.”

It comes out the tiniest bit strained, but Namjoon doesn’t care. He’s doing his best, isn’t he?

“Be careful what you admit to.”

“Then I’ll just admit to missing you, Mr. Kim.”

His grip on himself tightens literally but by no means figuratively. Holding back a groan, Namjoon eggs you on. “Prove it, then. I want to hear how much you do.”

If he wasn’t listening intently for any sign of his impact on you, Namjoon might not have noticed the way you cursed under your breath just then. He didn’t, though. He heard that perfect little slip-up, and he needs to hear it again — that, and any other sounds he can pull from you. It’s only been a week since he last heard them in-person; he doesn’t know how he’s managed to go even that long.

“Tell me how,” comes your little plea on an exhale. He lets a second pass in silence, building tension so you’ll ultimately resort to begging.

In the end, you do.

“Please, Joonie.”

Goddamn.

There are a million reasons why you’re thankful for Kim Namjoon, but for now, the one at the forefront of your mind is his innate ability to stay one step ahead of you.

When your phone rang earlier, you didn’t have to reach for it; it was in your hand already, and you were trying to talk yourself out of bothering him. You’d kept to yourself since he left for that reason: the fear that you’d throw a wrench in his creative process, or that you’d wind up haunting his voicemail like some bored, lonely, ever-horny specter.

He beat you to it.

Later, when you were halfway into your conversation — him filling you in on his surroundings and works in progress — you struggled to focus on what he said because of how he said it. Voice almost rough from how little he’s used it in the past few days, hushed in order to complain about the friend on the other side of the wall. You’d closed your eyes and could almost feel him murmuring directly in your ear the way he would be, if he were laying next to you.

The hand not holding your phone to your ear kept migrating with every — distinctly non-sexual — word he gifted you, drifting down the length of his t-shirt and coming to a stop at the waistband of your underwear. You didn’t go any further, no matter how badly you needed to. In fact, you tried your best to concentrate; to listen past his tone and hear him.

You froze when Namjoon asked after your outfit, as if he’d caught you out somehow. For a minute, you wondered if he could hear the cotton through the phone and sense that you’d nicked it from him shortly after he left. Then, it dawned on you.

His thoughts had already raced off where yours were heading. He needed a visual while he waited for you to catch up; and when you took too long, he decided to get you there himself.

“Please, Joonie,” you beg, refusing to move your hand any lower until you’re given the green light.

If you can bring yourself to be honest about it, part of the reason you hesitate is that you’ve gotten worse at this. Although there was a long stretch of time where you were all you had, those days are long gone now. These days, you’re spoiled rotten. You don’t have to do this yourself. 

What if you can’t now?

Namjoon simpers in the way he always does when his ego’s been boosted. The way that drives you insane, every time. “You shouldn’t be wondering if I can make you cum from this far away,” he tuts.

Caught out once again, you swallow hard.

“Ask yourself how many times.”

A needy, little whimper slips out of your lips before you can bite them. 

It’s a bit embarrassing how desperate you’ve gotten in such little time apart, but really, who could blame you? Who could have this menace on the other side of the line and hold out longer? His voice alone has you halfway to gone already.

There’s a slight shift on his end that sends your thoughts spiraling again. Squeezing your eyes shut tighter, you listen for the small change in his breathing to confirm that he needs to mimic your touch, too.

“Slip your hand down between your thighs,” he instructs in a low tone. “Tell me how it feels.”

You listen, fingers slipping under the waistband of your underwear, trailing over the mound of your cunt. When your middle finger dips between your folds, you let go of a breathy whine and drop your head back against the pillow beneath it.

“Embarrassingly wet,” you admit with your cheeks starting to burn. “It’s — god, Joon, what did you do to me?”

“Inviting, isn’t it? Fucking perfect.”

That’s not a way you’d thought to describe yourself, but now that it’s being murmured so reverently into your ear, you can’t find it in you to disagree.

“Do me a favor,” Namjoon hums. “I can’t tease your clit myself, so I need you to do it for me, baby. Tide yourself over with your fingertip until you can have my tongue.”

It’s not the most articulate statement you’ve ever uttered, but you mean it more than most things when you hiss, “Fuck.”

The pad of your middle finger swirls languidly over your clit, and the closer you find yourself to the edge, the easier it is to forget that it’s your touch ushering you there. With your eyes shut and his voice guiding you, your brain fills in the blanks, envisioning your husband in the space between your legs. You swear you can feel the heat rolling off his body. But then again, it’s his narration that’s really got you burning up.

“I’m still trying to decide what I want to do with you when I get home,” he says before sucking a thoughtful breath in through his teeth. You hear his tongue click, playful yet confident. “Maybe I’ll start by burying my face in that perfect pussy of yours, so I can feel you gushing firsthand and lap it up.”

Shit, shit, shit.

Thank fuck for your vivid imagination and the visual it gives you of Namjoon flicking the tip of his tongue over the button of your clit. His chin already shining, heavy-lidded eyes fixated on you as he licks, nips, and suckles. Daring you to look away while knowing you’d never dream of it.

“I’ll have to hook my arms under your thighs to keep you open for me — gotta keep you pinned where I want you, even when you shake.”

You’re panting now. There’s a light sheen of sweat breaking over your forehead, though it doesn’t do a thing to fight the heat that swallows you whole.

“Hold me however you need to,” you moan. “Don’t let me go.”

“I think you want to let go, baby.” 

He sounds so cocky, and you can’t fault him for that; he’s right. You’re so close to your orgasm that you can feel its tingle building from the crown of your head to the tip of your toes. The arousal seeping around your finger makes it harder to find purchase, but you pick up the pace anyway, pressing harder against the bundle of nerves.

“You’ve listened so well, so far. You deserve to cum, don’t you?”

You nod so eagerly and pathetically — so completely unseen by the person you’re attempting to respond to — but can’t vocalize much more than a wail. 

“Say it out loud, and I’ll let you, sweetheart.”

Your desperation reaches a fever pitch.

“I do!” You damn near yelp, “I deserve it — I need it. Wanna cum so badly, Joonie, please let me.”

You can hear the soft smile in his voice when he tells you to cum. That’s all you hear; everything that comes after it is muffled when the bomb inside you detonates and leaves your ears ringing. Back arching off the bed, waves of pleasure roll through your limbs, and your body shivers involuntarily.

Through your wanton mewling, Namjoon gives you an additional instruction: “Slip two fingers inside. Fuck yourself through the crash, beautiful.”

“Oh, my god,” you hiccup uselessly.

Have you always been this eloquent?

Fuck.

Even if words have failed you, your body hasn’t. It scrambles to follow your husband’s directive with an eagerness you may never have experienced before, like your muscles were waiting for his signal, rather than the one from your own neurotransmitters.

Your middle and marriage fingers slip through your slick without resistance, burying themselves in your dripping cunt while a low groan rips through you. Your walls are still fluttering, contracting wildly as you sink inward to your second knuckles.

“I’m jealous of you, you know. I wish I could be the one you’re clamping down on now.” The low timbre of his voice vibrates down your spine. “I bet you can still feel that orgasm rolling through you. What do you think, sweetheart? Can you give me another one before the first fades away?”

If you manage to survive the night, you may have to kill him for how deadly he’s proving to be, but you swallow that thought down with whatever feral, gasping sound you threaten to let go of next.

“Curl your fingers upwards for me. Stroke that sweet spot the way you like — wanna see if you can make yourself squirt like I do.”

Everything that follows seems to happen around you, not to you, because your soul starts floating somewhere near the ceiling fan that hangs over your spent body. The flood comes, and you lose whatever grip you have on reality, as well as the one you had on your phone. It tumbles somewhere off to the side. Maybe? There’s a scream, you think, which presumably flies out of your mouth.

Delirious and out-of-breath when the tide ebbs, you reach out your hand and pat blindly around the mattress for your cell phone. Somebody needs to inform your husband that his exorcism was, in fact, successful — or that you’ve died — if he couldn’t hear as much himself. You suppose that someone will have to be you.

Namjoon is doing his best to keep his quiet laughter to himself when you ultimately snatch your phone off the floor and pull it back to your ear.

“I wasn’t sure if that thud was your phone or your body,” he teases. “You good, sweetheart?”

You collapse back against the bed with an unceremonious grunt, screwing your eyes shut only to find that the stars are still there, swirling aimlessly. “Ask me again in ten minutes,” you mumble, sounding even more pathetic than you did earlier. “Or call my time of death. Dealer’s choice.”

Namjoon sighs forlornly, “Rest in peace. Our time together was far too short.”

You’d roll your eyes if you had the strength to open them, but you don’t. Instead, you let your limp neck give out; your head rolls to the side until your cheek winds up pressed to your pillow. It comes out garbled and breathless, trailing off at the end: 

“Did you…?”

“Nah.” He chuckles again once he senses where your question was headed. Quickly, he elaborates, “But don’t worry about me, baby. There’s only one place I plan on finishing, and it’s not a cabin in the fucking woods.”

You pout, although the suggestion makes you everything but sad. “Come home soon, please.”

“I think home already came.”

When you finally exhume yourself from your sheets the following morning, it’s only because your phone vibrates so loudly against the nightstand that you had no choice left. Curiosity, as always, gets the best of you.

You scoot closer to the edge of your bed in order to reach the source of the buzzing, fully anticipating some photo of whatever Namjoon has scrounged up for breakfast — proof that he actually can navigate a kitchen without you present to supervise.

Namjoon’s name is listed when you open the thread. Unfortunately, not as the sender.

Yoongi [07:47]: ATTENTION KIM FAMILY! keep an eye on your mailbox. my therapist will be billing you both directly for the shit i had to overhear last night.

Your eyes widen far enough that they might fall out. The rest of you cringes so completely that your already-sore muscles ache even worse, although you might deserve that.

Before you can even begin to formulate a response, another pair of texts vibrates into your rigid grip.

Yoongi [07:48]: btw, joon - i made breakfast. you’re NOT allowed to look me in the eye while you eat it. Yoongi [07:48]: filthy ANIMALS

bts permanent taglist:

@sailoryooons @ugh-yoongi @gimmethatagustd @chimmisbae @somerockstarsgf @mgthecat @whatthefsposts @kookstempo @xjoonchildx @quarter-life-crisis2 @persphonesorchid @ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhintothevoid @firesighgirl @iadelicacy @cowboylikeyoongi @minholykingofkorea @serendididy @withluvjm @bbyorchid @nonbinary-demonbrat @piecsblog @myimaginationsrunningwild @zelchena @take-u-2-an0ther-w0r1d @pamzn @cyanide-mustard @taegeum @purplebeebs @i-purple-buff-bunni

multi permanent taglist:

@jihopesjoint @bahng-chrizz, @variety-is-the-joy-of-life

also paging @daechwitatamic, @yoongiphoria and @here2bbtstrash because they vibed with the main series, lmao.

#namjoon #namjoon smut #namjoon drabble #namjoon x reader #bts smut #bts drabble #bts x reader #kim namjoon #bts #re: lacuna #re: homecoming #jade writes #jade’s drabbles #kvanity

[curseshared]

She couldn't have fallen asleep. The change in scenery is much more sudden, as if she had simply blinked and the world around her was replaced.

The cold light of dawn filters in from some unseen gap, finding her curled up in a heap on... what must be the floor, judging by the angles of the room. In place of a cot or blanket, she seems to be entangled in something long, and heavy, and alive. Like the sinuous form of some kind of weird bird-worm...

"Hootsifer?!"

The house demon's head pops up attentively. "Is naptime over already?" he asks with a yawn, and starts to straighten himself out. He doesn't seem surprised to see her at all.

Lilith is more than surprised. The mere sight of Hooty's face brings tears to her eyes.

"Um, Lulu?" A section of his tube-like body is pinned under her, impeding his efforts to reel himself back into his temporary home. However he does that, the beautiful freak of nature. But his focus drifts away from his own struggle as he notices the tears now spilling down Lilith's cheeks. "Are you okay?"

Lilith whimpers pitifully. She's more than okay—she's overjoyed. So why does it hurt? She feels as though her heart might burst.

"Hootsifer...!" she sobs, throwing her arms around him. "Oh, Hootsifer, I missed you so much..."

"Aww, hey. I miss you when you're asleep, too, Lulu." The sound of his voice, grating to many, is a source of comfort now. "But I didn't wanna wake you up. We don't have a lot of time to rest before the Day of Unity."

Before... what?

Hooty carries on, "And you really needed a break. Though, I'm not sure if it helped. You seem even more exhausted than before."

She's far from calmed down, but the confusion is enough to interrupt her crying. After all the time that's passed... how can it still be the Day of Unity? Has she time-travelled again? Does it even work like that?

"...I was gone. Didn't you notice I was gone?" Lilith sits up properly, and Hooty retracts until he's just long enough to drape himself over her shoulders.

He gives her a worried look. "What are you talking about? You've been here the whole time."

"I... have?"

"That must've been a weird dream!" And just like that, Hooty sounds like his usual chipper self again. But she knows he isn't ignorant; he's trying to reassure her. She almost wants to believe him.

But it doesn't make any sense. She's spent so much of her time in Spirale worrying if she might not have a home to return to—but this is home. Or, close enough. She can place it now: the rebels, the briefing, the resolve. They're on their way to stop Belos, or die trying.

Probably the latter, as she's spent many long nights in fear of.

She remembers the eclipse: the darkening sky, the shadows creeping in distorted shapes across the floor, a sight long since turned mundane. She remembers the stillness of anticipation—followed by an explosion of sheer panic. She remembers the cold weight of helplessness, one she had trained her whole life to carry, settling over her like a shroud.

"What? No, I..." Was that all a terrible dream, too? Or a portent of a darker future? She was never an oracle, even as a hobby. "I went to another world. I've been there for months." Or was it longer? Years? It couldn't be years since the last time she went home. The passage of time in Spirale was a muddled blur... oh Titan, it sounds bad when she puts it that way.

"Oh, it was one of those dreams, huh? I had a really long dream once, it was like, you know when you go somewhere in a dream, but it's not really that place, it's somewhere else? So, I was at the Owl House, but..."

Despite everything, Lilith can't help but smile. At least she can be sure he's real. Hooty's nonsensical narration continues as Lilith picks up his backpack-house and puts it on her back. The familiar weight is like a hug. Like a welcome home, for whatever it's worth.

#ir event: homecoming p1 #drabble tag #man i'm gonna need hooty icons....

[inlocusmads]

for the writing slump asks, any oc of your choice trying to read Rowan’s handwriting!

thank you 🌺

Thank you so much for this prompt!!

Title: "I have no idea how this got worse"

Rowan's friends are less than thrilled with her chicken scratches. (Murder at Homecoming)

wc: 581, warning for strong language

a/n: Just needed an excuse to swear a lot in words lmao.

“What the fuck is this?” Rowan slammed a stack of loose papers on the cafeteria table, clearly indicating she’d hit her frustration threshold, enough to rip the stapler off of them.

Stevie looked up from her sandwich. “Seriously?”

“Motherfucker gave me an F.”

“Language!” came a voice.

“Good morning to you too, where were you?”

Donovan sighed, as he set down his tray of lunch, the sad mac and cheese staring back at him. He grabbed a sachet of pills, popped one in and took swigs of water, raging alcoholic style. “This headache is killing me, the nurse hates my existence and the pieces of shits at the newspaper club gave me a hard time over cleaning up some photos. What’s new, Rowan?”

“I got an F in Timothy’s class.”

“Ah, rough. Been there. I never took AP World History because of this.” Donovan poked and prodded at his mac and cheese. “Is this cheese even real?”

“Get your own lunch from home damn it.” Stevie dusted off the crumbs from her hands. “Suck it up, Ro, it’s tough.” - she picked up her essay from the table, going through the pages, “Okay, but what the fuck is this?”

“Right?”

“Rowan, what’s this?” Stevie asked, as if she’d just found a rotten banana in her backpack that she’d forgotten years ago.

“What? It’s everything about the Industrial Revolution.” Rowan replied, as if it was obvious.

“I can’t even read this.”

“Give it to me.” Donovan motioned and took a quick look at the page. “I literally can’t read this.”

“What? Is my handwriting that bad? None of you guys can ever read it?”

“Yes.”

“Look -- look, the title clearly says The Industrial Revolution and its Impact.”

“One, Tim does not like unclear essay titles - you gotta hammer in the specifics and two, I read that as ‘The Industrial Eggs’. How do you even cross your T? It looks like a g, more like ‘eggs’ with a million g’s inside it.” Donovan added. “Three, add a paragraph break, jeez, who writes like this?”

“Okay, Donovan, let’s be nice-” Stevie pacified the table, turning to Rowan. “No, but damn, who raised you? What even is this? I suck at history and even I know the Industrial revolution didn’t happen in the 1630s.”

“No- no that’s an eight. It's not a three, it’s a two.”

“Of course it’s an eight. For the love of God, get the thing printed-”

“You can’t. Timothy’s one of those weirdos who expect you to handwrite all your essays. You’re fucked, Rowan. Sorry.” Donovan poured a bit of ketchup on his chicken nuggets, expecting them to counter the otherwise bland taste. “No, this is terrible. Do we have time to hit up the diner?”

“You guys are of no help.” Rowan buried her face in her hands. “This is an F.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’ll get over it. It’s deserved though.”

“You too, Stevie?”

“This has been a problem with you from the ever beginning of time, I swear to God-”

“I cannot believe you’re saying this-”

“No, it’s always this with you - I can never get you to sign a card properly, remember the time when we all pitched in for a giant birthday card for Luke’s party - yeah, Donovan remembers - and you wrote Happy birthday in the most illegible font ever to the point where people seriously thought you were saying-”

“-- never did anything and ANOTHER thing-”

“Fuck it.” Donovan sighed, “I’m going to the diner by myself.”

___

#murder at homecoming #w: inlocusmads #my drabbles #stevie x rowan

[mystictechbo]

Hmu if anyone wants to go to New York (cooler (got magic and creatures now)) with Donnie. Hmu if you want to chill in the sewer/subway system with the weirdest family unit. Eat pizza. Chill on rooftops. Normal teenage stuff.

#ir event: homecoming #doubt anyone would but just in case #likely will just do a drabble for him for this event cause i do want him to drop back home for a bit. would be good for him to see his fam

[tasteleeknow]

masterlist

my fictional original works are intended for entertainment and do not represent any real person in any way. they contain content that is not suitable for minors.

© tasteleeknow — do not repost, modify, or translate my work.

to see all my writing, make sure you change your content settings to show posts marked with sexual themes.

s = smut | f = fluff | a = angst

OT8

hurt/comfort with skz | 4.6k f, a

inner child with skz | 4.5k f

CHAN

sweet | 4.1k s ↳ brothers best friend.

koala | 4.3k s, f ↳ roommates to lovers.

push, pull | 3.1k s, f, a ↳ established relationship.

between | 5k s, f ↳ established relationship. poly. [minho]

⇢ drabbles

LEE KNOW

taste | 4.3k s, f ↳ established relationship.

addicted to you | one week, homecoming | 3.1k s, f, a  ↳ established relationship.

bridges and storms | 3.2k s, f, a ↳ established relationship [husband!minho].

watermelon | 2.4k s ↳ established relationship [husband!minho].

bunny | one, two | 12.7k s, f, a ↳ stangers to lovers, neighbours!au.

horror house | 6.2k s, a ↳ enemies to lovers.

make a wish | 3.9k s, f ↳ established relationship.

lovely & sweet | 6.3k s, a, f ↳ virgin!reader.

goddess of lust | 3k s ↳ enemies to lovers.

camping | 2k s, f ↳ established relationship.

hello stranger | approx 50k s, f, a ↳ soulmate!au.

iridescent | 4.8k s, f ↳ fairy!minho, fantasy!au.

good kitty | 2.8k s ↳ established relationship.

spiderweb | 7.4k s, a ↳ roommates to lovers, brothers best friend.

strawberries | 5k s ↳ established relationship [minho]. boyfriend’s best friend [jisung]

warm | 2.8k s, f ↳ established relationship.

zipper | 9.8k s, f, a ↳ established relationship.

everything and no one | 14.3k s, f, a ↳ royal!au, prince!minho, maidservant!reader, forbidden love.

call of the siren | 5.7k s, f ↳ fairytale au, siren!minho.

feast | 2k s ↳ established relationship.

between | 5k s, f ↳ established relationship. poly. [chan]

honey | 3k s, f ↳ established relationship. poly [seungmin].

⇢ drabbles

CHANGBIN

lift | 2.9k s ↳ established relationship.

HYUNJIN

lollipop | 4k s, f ↳ roommates to lovers.

⇢ drabbles

JISUNG

given | 4.5k s, a ↳ succubus!reader.

strawberries | 5k s ↳ established relationship [minho]. boyfriend’s best friend [jisung]

FELIX

⇢ drabbles

SEUNGMIN

honey | 3k s, f ↳ established relationship. poly [minho].

JEONGIN

⇢ drabbles

#lee know smut #lee know x reader #lee know fanfic #kpop smut #stray kids smut #kpop imagines #skz smut #stray kids imagines #stray kids imagine #kpop scenarios #stray kids scenarios #stray kids x reader #skz x reader #masterlist #stray kids fluff #bang chan smut #hyunjin smut #skz imagines #skz scenarios #* #my writing

[ijuststareatstuffhereok89]

I bow before you my liege and would like to submit a virginity/innocence kink as tribute

(Sorry i have no idea what the actual name is!!!!!!!!!)

Haha, I think you have it right. My liege, eh? Perhaps you should not label me so nobly until you sample my wares...

"The Greatest Gift"

Loki comes home from war to claim the one who promised herself to him.

Content Warning (18+ ONLY): smut, virginity kink/loss, a sprinkling of size kink

Word Count: ~580

“Please be soft with me,” you whispered with anxiety. “Now that it’s time, I’m afraid I--I--”

“Shhh,” Loki replied with a long, thin finger against your trembling lips. “I know, sweet. You waited for me. Tonight will be a reward for both of us. I promise I will be gentle.”

Lying back against the fainting sofa in your library, you were welcoming Loki home after a lengthy conscription (years!) that had seen him grow from boyhood to manhood. The day he left, you’d promised to save your virginity for the night of his homecoming. He accepted your offer with a tender kiss that you carried on your lips for the entirety of your adolescence. 

There was something about the way you looked underneath Loki as he laid kisses all over your bare body, both needy and frightened, that forced his heart into his loins. You were such a worthy partner to receive him, and yet so innocent at once, putting every ounce of faith that he would pull you into the pleasures of carnality without bringing harm or pain to you. 

“Loki…” you muttered again, raising your arms and begging for him to fall into them. 

“I can guide you through it if you wish,” Loki offered. “I love a good, heated narration.”

You slowly shook your head. “I must be such a bore compared to your old mistresses!”

“Oh no,” he replied, taking a moment to caress your face and kiss you. “They were all one and the same. This gift is more precious to me than anything anyone has given before. I have been thinking of nothing other than making you mine for weeks.”

He ran his hands over your breasts. “Just the thought of being the only one with the honor of burying my cock inside inside you…feel how it makes me quiver, darling!”

Taking your hand, he guided it over his leggings, his erection filling your hand so full your fingers stretched. 

“How…oh norns…” you were both excited and hesitant. 

“I know what you’re thinking, sweet,” Loki purred, slowly moving your hands up and down his member as he began to make his clothes melt away with magic. Eventually, your hands cupped him. “You are wondering how it could possibly fit inside you.”

You nodded. Loki gave you another gentle kiss, which settled your quaking nerves. 

“It will fill you full, your walls will stretch nice and wide for me, and it may feel strange for a moment,” he warned, positioning himself between your split legs, completely in the buff now, his erection sprung free from its mooring to further intimidate you even as you grew soaking wet. “But the pounding pleasures you will take from it will send you into ecstatic fits. This is my promise. You will always feel heat rise in your face when you remember this night: the night I made you a bride.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “What?”

Loki shrugged as he leaned over you, cock in hand, the tip scarcely touching your opening, taunting you with promise. “I thought that was implied. We will wed soon, but I took one look at you this afternoon and knew that I couldn’t possibly wait until our nuptial hour to break you in.”

“Ohhh,” you moaned, his dulcet words relaxing your muscles, finally making you fully ready for your Prince. 

“This is our wedding night,” he asserted. “My triumph is not complete until I finally make you mine...and only mine.”

With this last declaration, he slowly entered you. 

ENJOY! :) Visit my new KINK DRABBLE MASTERLIST

@queen-paladin @fictive-sl0th @lokisgoodgirl @mochie85 @muddyorbsblr @glitchquake @gruftiela @xorpsbane @loopsisloops

#loki #fanfiction #mcu #mcu loki #loki fanfiction #loki x reader #mcu fanfiction #loki laufeyson #loki/reader #loki smut #virginity kink

[guess-my-next-obsession]

An Elementary drabble idea 🫶🏻

Joel coming home in a sour mood after a long and frustrating and just plain tiring day at work, but all of that immediately melts away when hears Reader and Sarah laughing and then spots them playfully dancing in the living area / kitchen / outdoor patio / wherever (lol). And he watches them for a minute, soaking in the precious moment, until they notice him and pull him in on the dancing that leaves the three of them in a happy, playful little mess. And… yeah :’)

Thank you!

A Hard Day

pairing: pre-outbreak!joel miller x f!reader (Elementary-verse)

rating: F (irritable joel but only for a split second, joel attempts a twerk, just ridiculous fluff what can i say)

wc: <1k

series masterlist | joel masterlist

It had been a while since someone had managed to cut through the thick layer of peace your love had built around his heart, but today someone did it. It was the goddamn city inspector, of course, those fuckers having nothing better to do than nitpick over every possible fault. Joel had gritted his teeth all afternoon, holding his tongue so that they could pass the inspection only for the guy to fail them over an non-permitted deck the owners paid Joel under the table to build.

Now, walking into the house, he was afraid he was going to bring this anger home to the two most undeserving ladies in the world. He felt it in his bones, his snappiness brewing, surely bound to spill over onto you once you inevitably pressed him for answers.

He didn’t find either of you in the living room or kitchen like he expected, but he heard Sarah’s boom box outside playing her new Destiny’s Child cd she’d just gotten for her birthday. He felt irritability bubble in his chest, constricting his breath as he walked over to the patio door, finding you spinning Sarah around on your finger.

As if your laughter carried some sort of magical property to it, he felt every sour feeling in his body burn to ash as he watched the two of you giggle in between singing along off-key to Bills, Bills, Bills.

He leaned against the frame of the sliding glass door and crossed his arms over his chest, a content smile replacing the scowl he’d worn since noon as he watched the performance like a true fan.

When you caught his eyeline, he shot you a wink, expecting you to smile and go on dancing but you had other ideas. Sauntering over to him with your arms stretched out, you unfolded his arms from over his chest and tugged him onto the patio, forcing him to become a part of the performance.

“Nah, I—“

“Dance and I’ll give you a blowjob,” you whispered in his ear and Joel instantly became enthusiastic.

You and Sarah cackled, doubled over as you watched Joel shake his hips to the music, his lips puckered and eyes closed as he moved. When he started to attempt a twerk, you lost it, shaking your head at him as you laughed breathlessly. You walked over and guided his hips to stop, but secretly used the opportunity to slip his wallet and cellphone from his back pocket so that you could…

Splash.

Joel’s body hit the sun-warmed water of the pool with a splat as you pushed him in, Sarah gasping before she let out another breathless laugh. When he rose to the surface, shaking out his hair and smoothing his palms over his wet face, his eyes found you, full of pride and mischief as you knelt down by the edge of the pool to greet him.

“Thought that was funny, huh?” he asked, a half-smirk on his face. “You forget, I got an assistant to do my dirty work for me.”

“Huh?” Before you could even get the sound out, Sarah was pushing you over the edge and into the pool, Joel’s boisterous laughter sounding out long before you emerged from below the surface. When you did, you shot Sarah a betrayed, open mouthed smile, watching as she innocently shrugged before jumping in the water to join the three of you, all of you in your street clothes but none of you caring.

Joel splashed you with some water as he approached you for his homecoming kiss, only to get stopped by your palm pressing against his lips.

“You started it,” he mumbled against your skin before giving your palm a nip. Giggling, you decided he was right and lowered your palm to give him a sweet peck.

“How was work?” you asked as he hugged you tight to his body and swam with you to the middle of the pool. Sarah had busied herself with floating around the two of you on her back, at peace with the water and summer breeze blowing over her.

“Don’t get me started,” he sighed, hugging you tighter as you watched Sarah pass the two of you, her eyes closed to block out the sun. “But I don’t think any of it matters any more. Not when I have you two to come home to.”

“Even if I pushed you into the pool?” you asked with a cutesy smile, Joel’s half-smirk turning into a grin of pure affection.

“Even then,” he confirmed, giving you one more quick kiss. “And good luck gettin’ me out. I think I threw my back out tryin’ to shake my ass.”

“Why do you think I stopped you?”

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