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fauustic · 10 months

Text

don't cry, my treasure.

soft miguel o'hara x gender-neutral reader drabble

had to write this and get it out of my brain before i post my miguel series..

summary: you accidentally stir miguel awake while you're dealing with insomnia, he decides to take care of you. fluff. comfort.

warnings: brief mentions of previous injuries (fighting crime is serious business!!), just miguel being a silly little thing.. i love sleepy miguel sm.

words: 3k

Sleep came in waves, pushing against the lid of your eyes and taking you away in its current just to spit you back out into reality.

You were always tired, you've realized as you stretched your aching bones and rubbed your swollen cheek– spider suit catching your eye as it was thrown haphazardly on your bedside chair like an afterthought.

And nightmares, nightmares kept you up like a stalker always two steps behind– waiting, preying on your frazzled mind like a parasite constantly leeching off your sanity. So here you were, grasping at the sleeveless sleep-shirt as it clamped onto your sweat-sleek stomach like a second skin.

Shallow breaths escaped from your trembling lips like you were just dumped into a pool of ice-cold water, spider senses lit aflame with the abrupt, irrational fear stabbed through your heart.

You tried to stay quiet, you didn't want to be any more of a burden when you knew how much your lover struggled through insomniac nights as well– he had just gotten back from countless hours stove away in his dim and dark lab after a few days of power naps and caffeine. Miguel was downright exhausted, snores meeting your ears whenever you'd wake up from a dark turn in the dreams you do have.

But this time was different, as you shied away from his back that you were latched onto like a koala. Your skin peeled off his, and if you were with anyone else you would have thought it was gross. But Miguel loves closeness, the affection you just can't help but give and he takes and takes like a starved man. His muscles on his shoulders rolled and neck cracked as Miguel stirred, a breathy little groan hissing past the fangs he unknowingly had on full display when he shifted on his back– scarlet gaze screwed shut as his hands reached towards your usual spot on your shared bed. The pads of his fingers melted into your hip, little claws kissing the unveiled flesh from the lack of control he had over himself from still ebbing away the sleep hazing his mind.

Your name rolled off his tongue like a blessing, raspy and a bit puzzled; "Everythin' alright?" Miguel slurred, face barely leaving the pillow as his tied-back hair came askew; the little tendrils, that usually would never see the lines on his forehead, brushing against his eyebrow and curling ever so slightly. Call you love-struck, but you swear the curl shaped a little heart. "Miss you so close already," he huffed into the domestic atmosphere, thumb swirling imaginary shapes into the canvas of your skin.

With every month passing by, the intimacy came easier; Miguel's thoughts came and went in the bubble of security you brought him. The clinginess you never would have expected from the man who has the Spider Society at his beck and call rivalled the mimicry of a grizzly bear secretly being a very soft teddy bear. And with you, he was nothing less than a man who acted as if every drop of love you had for him was his last.

It took a long time for him to open up his heart for you to create space for yourself, but as you leaned back into his space to cup your palm into the angle of his jaw– everything felt worth it. Like you belonged here.

"Bad dream." Was all you said, kissing the ridge of his nose like Miguel was the most fragile thing in the world. And he practically became putty in your hands, eyes fluttering open accompanying a subtle frown. Drool pooled at the corner of his mouth, sharp canine peeking through the plush of his lips. Though he looked like he had just woken from hibernation, his features glazed with gentle understanding.

"That's no good," He murmured into your touch like a prayer, sitting up until the duvet pooled in his lap. Miguel hogged most of the bed unintentionally with his almost seven-foot self, the height that had many opposed to him on their knees in angst, but when he sat up and leaned towards your form like a magnet– Miguel was nothing more than a man who worshipped you. "Déjame cuidarte, ¿de acuerdo? (Let me take care of you, okay?)"

Before you even had the mind to protest, he pulled forward until his lips met the damp hair curled against the back of your neck. "Migs, you need rest–" you began but to no avail, he was already adjusting his boxers and shuffling towards your bathroom with a slumped posture. It had your stomach churn with butterflies even after all these months, the sweetness he's learned all over again despite the trauma he's endured leaking into your daily life and becoming something you absolutely adored about him.

Silence enveloped the apartment amidst the sleepy fumbling from within the washroom, flashes of vibrancy peering into the curtains you had against the windows that took up the wall closest to the busiest flow of air traffic. A memory was brought to mind as you peeked through the fabric, met with the city of stars and man-made comets passing by the skyscraper your home is within.

Funnily enough, you had wanted to live in the underground district of Nueva York, finding yourself more enraptured by the architecture that hid machinery and structures that kept the top afloat. But that was before you met Miguel and was thrown into the ring of being a part of the Spider Society– so you just made Miguel come along with your weekly trips to the landmarks hidden away.

"C'mere, muñeco." The fallen angel on your mind interrupted the delicate quiet of your home, calling through the cracked door after a moment of the water running, warmth seeping into the bedroom and tickling the flesh peeking out from your loose-sleepwear.

When you pushed through the threshold and granted with the presence of Miguel bent over the tub and testing the temperature of the water mumbling to himself, you were already in the process of ripping off your shirt– but you couldn't help but stutter to a halt in a flustered mess when he turned his attention to you– glasses framing his sleepy eyes like a weapon within itself. Breath hitched and sweat coating your palms in lovesick anxiety, you fumbled into the dim light of the washroom.

Clumsily, you bumped your hip into the counter as your shirt finally came off, an uncharacteristic yelp coming from you and surely you expected to meet the cold tile floor until a pair of hands settled on the curves of your hips– claws indenting on the skin barely above his boxers holding into your figure for dear life.

"Easy now, mi sirenita." Miguel practically cooed into your ear, kissing the shell of it before trailing down the column of your neck– nibbling into the blemished canvas of your clavicle. A faint bite mark etched your skin like oil paint, muddied with purple and red hues. Just as it was fading away, Miguel's lips grazed the dent with admiration before settling his blunt canines into the desired point and biting down. You gasped breathily, heat pooling your cheeks and your knees threatening to give out.

The unspoken desire of his want to care for you was written in your hips when Miguel caressed into where you had hurt yourself from your clumsiness, yet his lack of self restraint was symbolized through the bite just below your neck– very rarely absent without the pierce-marks of fangs. But he wanted to be delicate with you tonight, treat you as one of his most prized possessions when he truly just loved you a little too much.

Pushing him away with the palm of your hand on his chest, a gentle scold resting on your tired expression like an empty threat. "Ew, Migs. That's too cheesy." You whined, allowing him to slip the briefs from your body before taking your hand in his and leading you to the tub. You sunk down into the sudsy, bubbling water with a splash that had him sighly fondly. Drips of bubbles coated his frames and before he had the chance to wipe them off, your hands wrapped around his neck just to tug him closer to the edge of the tub.

Miguel furrowed his brows at your antics as you kissed his cheek, his hands finding purchase on the edge so he didn't take the risk of slipping into the bubbly water. The thought makes you giggle as his fingers cup the angle of your jaw, calculated and a bit sorrowful. Miguel hated seeing you hurt, so knowing that your miscalculations in a mission with him had a right hook land on your 'good side,' he felt as if he had failed you. Didn't change the fact he pummelled the pesky little anomaly in your honor – but you didn’t miss the misty eyes he held so sadly for you as he patched up your bleeding nose.

And here he was, kissing the corner of your lips with so much delicacy that you could almost cry.

A faint whimper left his lips as they grazed the sudden wetness dripping down your cheeks, the sleepy look in his eye blanketed with haste concern as he checked your body for any other sores inflicted from the bad feud– and as Miguel’s kisses were met with bubbles and blemished skin, he whispered against your flesh like a saint worshipping their holiness. “No llores, tesoro, por favor no llores.. (Don’t cry, treasure, please don’t cry) Hate seeing that look on your face, can’t stand it.” He breathed into your neck, any care about getting wet was out the window of your apartment when a strangled choke erupted from your throat like a hiccup.

“Just missed you,” You admitted as you shifted into the water that submerged your legs, leaning into his warmth as close as you could. A sniffle had Miguel folding into your damp hair, his own tied-back curls kissing your forehead.

Miguel shuddered, the stoicism he was able to keep up in your presence throughout the daylight behind black sunglasses and a subtle pout in the rare moments where he leaves his lab crumbled the moment he heard you express your craving for him. “I.. missed you too. Shock, I missed you too–” Miguel breathed into your lips, his face angled towards you in a way that ruined everyone else for you. His lashes drooped addictively as you let out a stifled giggle at his lingo he’s never been able to shake.

“Come join me,” you murmur as you escape his space and instead sink lower into the bathtub. You swear he practically whined, his fang peeking just slightly into your view as Miguel’s face scrunched into displeasure. His bottom lip rolled against the pointy canine, something he was always a bit self-conscious of– but with you it was like he never needed to think that he was anything different.

“You know last time– I could barely even fit in the damn thing,” He complained yet he still stripped off his loose sweatpants nonetheless, shameless as his free hand, middle finger specifically, pushed his frames up with a steadiness that proved alone he was the leader of such a "pretentious" society. Had you mentioned the thought aloud, Miguel's signature frown and deadpan stare would have replaced that sweet look in his eye in an instant. So you just smiled and opened your arms in a warm welcome.

Miguel grunted in response, faux annoyance coating his tone when you could depict the subtle curl of his lips– he was always more than content with himself whenever he was able to get as close to you as possible. You scooted forward to allow some kind of space for him, and soon enough his chest was used as a pillow for the back of your head and your hims were encompassed by his legs, feet dangling from the tub because he was right; Miguel’s stature was never fit any anything deemed for the average person. And Miguel was anything but normal, and he hated himself for that.

You could hear the mumbles of curses that slipped from his tongue when he slipped further into the bubbly water, shoulders hunched and arms resting on the cusp of the tub. It was a tight fit, your back nestled into the heat of his abdomen as his chin rested on the top of your head– and by the way Miguel shifted and oozed with insecurity you could tell your wishes he so easily obliged was backfiring from his poisoned trauma. From the mirror in the washroom, you could see the scrunch of his nose as he laid his glasses aside, atop the lid of the toilet just beside where you two sat intertwined.

Reaching back, you found his hands and clutched onto them as if he was a fading star, gentleness contrasting the explosion rumbling in his throat as his thoughts laced with venom swarmed his very being. It reminded you of the first glances you got of him when you first was recruited to the society, a downcast stare always miles underneath the horizon and a frown that never left his face. But as your fingers found comfort within his bruised knuckles, washing away the tainted sin the moment you brought the bruises to your lips and left fluttering touches– Miguel melted into your bared soul like a stray desperate for love and affection.

To you, you were his food. He feasted on what you gave, that warm feeling that curled into his ribcage and soothed his aching heart and whatever else is rotted in that dark imprisonment. Miguel took and took and took, nestled into your physicality as you ceaselessly gave and gave and gave.

But for you, all you needed to see his eyes blink into reality, grounded by what he was so depraved of growing up. Miguel’s tension left his cheeks, softening as you intertwined your hand into his and the other brushing against the fat of his thigh– squeezing reassuringly. Like a switch was turned on, Miguel devolved into a puddle around you as a huff of relief caressed the shell of your ear.

Miguel’s shins kicked up water, splashing your nose and drenching your nostrils with the scent of bubblegum. And you laughed heartily as his chin met your shoulder– nibbling so softly as if he was chewing the stress from his mind. His arms that once rested on the edge wrapped around the underneath of your arms, cupping your waist before he finally settled his hands on the core of your stomach. His deep breaths filled the silence of the bathroom, and you could practically hear snores before you broke the sweet quietness.

“You’re so pretty,” you murmured into his cheek when you turned towards the chin digging into your shoulder and then you feathered your lips onto the bone of his cheek, “such a pretty thing. My sweet thing.” Praise rolled off that sleepy ooze of warmth inside your heart, and when you felt Miguel shift and his mouth that once formed an “o” contort into an upside down close-lipped smile, you knew you hit gold.

He shook his head in disbelief, breath meeting the nestle of your neck when his cheeks lit aflame and sputtered in broken Spanish. A whimper rumbled against your bare skin, and soon enough purring vibrated your back like a cat knowing it’s being spoken to. “Sabes, eres... eres increíble. Too much, you’re too much. Christ.”

Bubbles popped around the two of you, the lights set on the lowest option so Miguel didn’t develop on one those terrible migraines that pounced the moment he was at his most vulnerable: a rare dinner date he had reserved, making out in the luminescence of his lab’s technological panels, the first time you had spent the night at his own apartment before you had moved in together.

You hummed as he begrudgingly separated his hands from you, only to lather the shampoo you love in between his fingers and starting on your scalp. He was too tender with you tonight, but you needed this treatment more than anything. Your love for him leaked from your pores and intermingled with his muscles, relaxing the both of you without even needing to say anything. But you felt the urge to tell him, to tell him everything on your mind that very moment. Yet, sleep was a fickle thing and you were exhausted, so you only huffed out a whisper before submitting to the skilled massage on your muscles.

“Love you, honey.” You breathed into the domesticity of it all, his claws peeking from the pads of his fingers just the way Miguel knew you liked against your scalp. The purring in his chest only increased tenfold, scooting closer to your back if that was even possible. The both of you hold these memories close to your intertwined hearts, knowing you only had so much time together outside of your shared second lives. You haven’t been able to reassure your feelings for him in quite a few days, and despite not needing to really say your affections aloud– Miguel preferred physicality anyways, you still caught on that vocalizing your feelings for the other had you running laps around his mind every minute and every hour of the day.

He only kissed the back of your head, just upon the mole you didn’t know you had. Without a word, the sudsy kisses trailed further down until it met where your spine began, and he bit down just faintly.

“I’m so glad I found you,” He murmured into the soap pooling down your shoulders, soft but echoing around in the walls of the bathroom like a promise, a truth that will forever hold its meaning. Within this city of stars, the only celestial he had eyes on were you.

“Te amo, mi tesoro. Te amo mucho, cuidaré de ti para siempre (I will take care of you forever).”

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #across the spiderverse #spiderman 2099 #into the spider verse #miguel o'hara comfort #x gender neutral reader #x comfort #x fluff #miguel o'hara fluff #miguel o'hara imagine #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara drabble #miguel ohara #atsv miguel #miguel ohara x reader

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scuderiasundays · 1 year

Text

trophy boyfriend

summary: a high school reunion with a special appearance by yours truly

words: 809

a/n: my first and most likely last drabble. the product of my latest dreams and delusions. bon appetit 👩🏻‍🍳

“Time flies when you’re having fun.” You wondered why no one had thought to mention how painstakingly slow time passes when you’re doing the opposite. You had graduated high school seven years ago and to say that you had drifted from your friends would be an understatement. The daily updates about everything from dorm room decor to upcoming deadlines had withered down to annual “Happy birthday! Hope you’re doing well.” texts. This is why it came as such a surprise when an invitation for a class reunion showed up in your inbox.

“It looks like they’re planning a high school reunion now that the pandemic has settled down. I won’t be going, of course.” You casually brought up the topic over dinner with Carlos, your boyfriend of three years. Life was busy enough as it was, and this was one of those rare nights you had him all to yourself. No late-night cramming for you and no post-race briefings for him. You couldn’t help but wonder how you got so lucky to end up with the doe-eyed Spaniard sitting opposite you. Carlos had devoted the whole evening to making his signature burgers, only pausing for the occasional dance break with Piñon.

“You know what? I think you should go.” The uneasy look on your face was enough for him to reach across the table to hold your hand. “Hey, look at me. No one knows what you’ve been up to and you’ve come so far.” Carlos was right about you disappearing off the face of the earth. You kept a low profile on all social media platforms, preferring to keep your inner circle small. The only people who knew where you were at any given moment were your mom, Carlos, and your study group at medical school. The shift to online classes during the pandemic had allowed you to follow your boyfriend from race to race but you had somehow managed to stay out of the public eye. You treasured what the two of you had, a love that was just yours.

It took a walk to the gelato shop and Carlos running you a hot bath with bubbles to finally convince you to go. It just so happened that the reunion was happening on a Sunday. “It would’ve been more fun with you by my side. I could’ve introduced you as my trophy boyfriend.” You joke, mentally calculating the travel time between the venue and the circuit. “I’ll see what I can do, amor.” He says, giving you a kiss goodnight before turning out the lights.

Sunday came and your eyes were glued to your phone screen as you checked Carlos’ location on the “Find My” app. It was obvious you were using your phone as an escape from interacting with the crowd slowly gathering in front of you. “Hi! We didn’t even think you’d show up, Y/N. We’re all dying to know what you’ve been up to!” You heard a shrill voice approach you from behind and immediately knew it belonged to the former class president. You chatted back and forth, slowly dying inside as you were bombarded with questions from left and right.

You had gone to an all-girls school, and it wasn't long before the topic of significant others came up. "Are you seeing anyone? What line of work are they in? Medicine? Finance, maybe?" You hadn’t prepared for this one: “He works with cars.” That was all your frazzled brain could muster. “Oh, a mechanic! Give me his number. I need to get my car detailed,” someone said. Way to jump to conclusions, you thought as you politely excused yourself from the hustle and bustle.

You were walking back to rejoin the crowd when you noticed everyone gathered around the only man in the room. He appeared to be holding up a gleaming, gold trophy, truly captivating his devoted audience. “No, it can’t be,” you thought as you edged closer. You could hardly believe your eyes but there he was in all his glory. “Lots of driving for one day but it looks like I made it just in time.” Carlos says, lighting up the room with his infectious charm.

A million selfies and autographs later, you were being driven home in Carlos’ 812 Competizione. Carlos’ hand lay softly on your thigh as you leaned into the breeze seeping through the car’s open window.

“I realized something tonight, Carlos. I don’t need emotional validation from people I hardly know anymore. None of them would be crazy enough to fight post-race pain and fatigue just to make me happy. You, my love, are all that matters.” It all comes out like word vomit, but you mean every single word. He takes a quick glance at you and chuckles. “Te quiero tanto. It was my honor being your literal trophy boyfriend, even if it was just for the night.”

#carlos sainz imagine #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz x y/n #carlos sainz x you #carlos sainz edit #carlos sainz jr #carlos sainz fluff #f1 imagine #carlos sainz #carlos sainz one shot

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thezombieprostitute · 2 months

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Thoughts on sleepy prompt 33 with Lloyd? Not soft Lloyd, not dark Lloyd, just like, decent equal partner Lloyd?

…and possibly 12, too, bc that’s just so him

Lloyd's Soulmate - Drabble

"decent equal partner Lloyd"... I'm gonna have to channel @eulalielatibule 's Suburban Dad Sunday Lloyd for this because she's the best at writing this kind of Lloyd. That being said, I'm gonna go ahead and use my Soulmate Lloyd, but they've definitely settled in together.

A/N: this was mostly written on my phone!

Ask based on this.

33. “Look me in the eyes and tell me what time you went to bed last night. Or if you went to bed, for that matter.”

12. “No offense, but you look like you haven’t slept in days.”

It's been almost a year since your soulmate, Lloyd, kidnapped you. The first few weeks were quite the learning experience for the two of you. It was a lot of tit-for-tat learning how to live with someone like Lloyd but the two of you actually made it work.

Go figure, Lloyd was an absolute softy for positive reinforcement which you were happy to give when he started respecting your boundaries and needs. The power dynamics were always in flux but both of you seemed to thrive on that. Arguing over what to watch was just foreplay.

Lately, though, you hadn't had the energy for arguing. You would give in to Lloyd a lot easier, which had him paranoid about retribution. Maybe it was depression? You were doing a lot more sleeping and eating. The latter was definitely affecting your figure but, thankfully, Lloyd didn't seem to care other than fully enjoying your bigger breasts.

Lloyd came back from a mission and found you groggily eating some ice cream on the couch.

"No offense, but you look like you haven’t slept in days," he says.

"No offense, but you like you need a shave," you snap back.

"If you really, truly want me to shave the clit tickler you beg to ride every night, I will," he threatens. "But I don't think you really want that."

"Yeah, you're right," you sigh. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm just always tired and hungry and my clothes aren't fitting anymore. Maybe I need a workout program or something."

Lloyd considers for a few moments before going to his phone.

"What are you doing," you ask.

"Checking the period tracker," he replies.

"You've been tracking my periods??"

"Well one of us has to! You have no idea how many headaches I've spared us both by making sure I know when to restock the chocolate."

You cross your arms and pout on the couch while he goes back to his phone.

"Shit," he mutters. You look up at him, eyebrow arched. He takes a deep breath, "you're late. And not just a few days late."

Your eyes widen, "shit, shit, shit! I need a test! Now!" You try to get off the couch but Lloyd gestures you to stay seated.

"I'm getting someone to pick some up right now," he soothes. "And, just to be certain, I'm getting you an appointment with Dr. Beck, okay?" He sits next to you and you immediately cuddle up to him, holding his arm in a hug.

"In the meantime," he smirks, "another way to test is to see if you taste differently."

"Lloyd, this is serious," you gently smack his arm.

"And I'm being serious," he tells you as gently pushes you onto your back. You grab him and pull him into a kiss, needing the comfort of his weight on top of you as your brain was frazzled trying to figure everything out. Maybe a good orgasm really would help, and Lloyd was damn good at giving you those.

Two positive pregnancy tests later you're now waiting on the Doctor's office to confirm or deny the results. You feel like you've been in a state of shock since the first positive test. Thankfully Lloyd has been doing the heavy work and the thinking. Making sure you're getting the medical checks you need, making sure you eat.

"We really should talk," you tell him over dinner.

"Absolutely, Sweetheart."

"Do you want the baby?"

"It'll be an adjustment," he admits. "But so were you. And I haven't been happier since I got you."

You chuckle at that. "But a baby? So soon?"

"I've got the means to take care of you both. You won't have to worry about a thing."

You put a hand over your stomach, "promise you'll treat them even better than you treat yourself?"

"I promise," he says without hesitation.

"Okay," you nod. "Then, when the doctor gives us confirmation, we'll go into full parent mode. Okay?"

"Of course."

A few days after the confirmation from the doctor you're starting to feel better. Getting proper nutrition, knowing what's going on, and not getting angry at yourself for your clothes not fitting were all very good for your mental health. You've even been getting better sleep.

Unlike Lloyd. You woke up from an actually good night's sleep to find Lloyd on his computer looking like he hadn't slept since he fucked you into a coma last night.

"Lloyd," you call, getting his attention. "When was the last time you slept?"

"I've been sleeping here and there. I'm fine." He waves you off.

You spin his chair so that he's facing you, "Look me in the eyes and tell me what time you went to bed last night. Or if you went to bed, for that matter."

"If you're telling me you don't remember what we did in bed last night I'm running you to the emergency room, Sunshine."

"You know what I mean, Lloyd."

"I'm doing research. I've never been a parent before so I want to make sure to get some intel."

"You've got months to prepare. You don't have to push yourself this much this early." You stand up and cross your arms but that's when you see what's on Lloyd's screen. "Have you been buying baby clothes?"

"No! I've been getting ideas for my tailor! No way is our baby going to wear anything cheap!"

You laugh for the first time in weeks. A deep, big belly laugh. Lloyd is happy to hear it but also confused about what's so funny. You end up laughing so hard you have to sit on his lap as he holds you.

Finally catching your breath you tell him, "you really never do things half-assed, do you?"

Lloyd chuckles, "with an ass like mine? No way."

Tagging @alicedopey and @icefrozendeadlyqueen because I promised I would.

#lloyd hansen x reader #zombie asks #soulmate au

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bookyeom · 1 year

Text

Tylenol (KSY)

Pairing: Soonyoung x Reader Genre: drabble, eestablished relationship Rating: G Word Count: 654 Summary: You're sick, and Soonyoung is a mess.

A/N: Hi!! it's my first time posting a SVT fic on here. They mean so much to me and it's scary but also it's Not That Deep (she says to herself unconvincingly). Let me know if you like it!!

“Hi, baby. I'm here.”

You vaguely register the feeling of the bed beside you dipping with the weight of your visitor, and you let out a hum in greeting. You feel a familiar hand gently move to run through your hair, pushing it over your shoulder and back, and you shiver at the contact.

“I brought Tylenol. Can you take some now? Are you cold? What else do you need? How can I help? Should I order food? What would be good for-“

“Shh,” you manage, cutting your intruder off. “My head hurts.”

The room falls silent, and your eyes slowly open to meet the concerned gaze of your boyfriend. Despite how awful you feel, you can’t help but smile a bit at the sight of him. He looks so terribly worried, and you can practically see his brain running a mile a minute - you know that he hates to see you like this, even just with a minor cold. For as smart as you know he is, when he’s concerned or stressed he tends to forget even the most basic human functions. For example, he’s currently so frazzled that he’s forgotten to take off his shoes and his coat, and you can’t help but be entirely charmed by him - for the millionth time.

“Are you staying for a bit?” comes your mumble.

You can tell he’s surprised by your question. “I was planning to, yeah, if that’s okay. Was gonna make you some tea and see if I can-”

You close your eyes again as you hum in affirmation, cutting him off. Your head is pounding. “Take off your shoes then, silly.”

It’s silent for a moment, and you can almost imagine his face as he realizes he’s still completely dressed from his trek outside. You feel him stand up and then hear the soft sound of footsteps as he retreats to the hall, and you drift back off to sleep with a fond smile on your lips. You barely register him coming back in, coaxing you into swallowing some Tylenol with a glass of water he brings from your kitchen, before you’re out like a light again.

When you wake up next, the sun is starting to set, and you feel incredibly disoriented. What time is it? How long were you asleep? It had been a strange day, that was for sure. You manage to roll over, eyes opening as you finally register the calming presence that’s next to you.

“Hey.”

Soonyoung smiles down at you. He’s sitting up next to you, back against the headboard as he flips through his latest read. You smile when you see that it’s the book you’d given him earlier that month.

“Hi,” you mumble back.

“How are you feeling?”

“Shitty.”

He sets his book down, a hand lifting towards you, and you use the opportunity to shift closer so that you’re tucked into his side. His fingers begin to trace slow circles across your upper back, and you hum contentedly at the feeling.

“Sorry I suck at helping,” he says with a soft laugh, and you smile at that.

“You help by being here.”

He lets out a whine, and you watch as his cheeks flush pink. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

(You are being serious. You’re also teasing him... Just a little bit.)

His hand moves to rest against your forehead, and you nuzzle into his palm like a kitten. He giggles at that, and you close your eyes again as you wrap an arm around his waist, your head against his shoulder.

“What’s the diagnosis, doc?”

“You’re not too hot anymore,” he concedes. “Guess the Tylenol probably helped.”

“Nope,” you say, snuggling even closer into his side. You feel like teasing him again (a sure sign that you’re on the mend) as you open your eyes to look up at him once more. “The Tylenol didn’t do anything. It was definitely all you.”

Tagging some angels: @savventeen @wqnwoos

#seventeen drabble #seventeen fluff #hoshi x reader #ksy x reader #hoshi x you #svt fluff #svt drabble #my writing #ksyfic #ksy fic rec #soonyoung x reader

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muselin · 1 year

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another one because my current yuta brain rot made me dream about that man and it's kinda embarrassing but let's go

don't ask me why my unconscious made such a dream like this but for some weird reason yuta ended up helping me stretch my hole after for some reason i brought it up to them (127) that i was small pls what the hell

This is brilliant. I have like half a dozen things to finish but my brain is frazzling and just wants to write NCT smutty drabbles and bits. I'm not sure which hole you meant but I've ended up turning this into a little anal training headcanon lol 🔞⛔️

Anal training with NCT127

Taeyong

Prefers to do it the old-fashioned way, with his fingers and with his face buried in your pussy the whole time. Gets you to sit on his face while he does it.

"Does it hurt? No? I'm going to put one more in, okay?" He raised his head and his eyes searched yours before he dipped back down, tongue swirling around your clit as he added a third finger and kept moving them in and out of your ass slowly, stretching you out.

Taeil

He prefers to start by eating your ass. You're comfortably laid out on your front, Taeil between your legs giving you a hell of a rim job. He teases you, tongue dipping in and out of your entrance as he wants for you to start whining and humping the mattress until he starts putting fingers in your little hole.

"You sure you're ready? It'd be fun to make you cum just with my tongue first..."

Johnny

A little adventurous, a little traditional. Johnny gets you used to anal beads quite quickly. He gets you on all fours, his long form blanketing yours as he works the beads in slowly and his long fingers stretch to tease your clit. He gets really hard hearing you moan as he starts to pull the beads out and you back your hips up against him, brushing against his cock.

"You seem ready for the bigger set already. This will be a piece of cake."

Yuta

Loves his toys and he's got you sitting in his lap riding a cone-shaped grooved dildo that he holds for you, gradually getting you to work the wider parts at the base inside of you. Runs a vibrator over your clit as you go and watches you like a hawk, doesn't want to miss any little noise or face you make.

"Getting tired yet? I hope not, it'll be so much more fun when it's me inside of you."

Doyoung

Cautious and uses loads and loads of lube. Uses his fingers or different sizes of dildos to get you used to the feeling but he's partial to becoming impatient so he indulges in different flavored lubes.

"As if you weren't tasty enough already but I quite like the cherry," His voice was muffled by your ass and his tongue was teasing around your rim as it stretched around a small dildo.

Jaehyun

Similar to Taeyong prefers to use his tongue and fingers but he's got you pretzeled up into whatever position lets him get the deepest inside of you. Usually on your back with your leg being pressed up towards your chest. Groans against your pussy and humps the mattress whenever he works another finger into your ass.

"Does it feel good? Look how much more you can fit now, almost ready".

Mark

Mind goes a mile a minute and his fingers are twitchy and nervous as he's working different sizes of butt plugs in and out your hole. He has you over his lap on all fours and he's so concentrated and methodical that you start to whine and make him hurry up. He spanks your ass and palms the flesh, kneading it and stroking.

"You made me lose track of which one we got up to. Don't make me spank you again."

Haechan

Shy to ask but gets really into it. Steals one of Yuta's toys and it's a bullet vibrator which he uses to get you ridiculously wet, which he then uses as lube because he forgot to bring any. Uses his fingers for the rest and likes to hold you against him so you can feel how hard he is while he works you up.

"Still feels tight. How are you ever going to fit my dick in there? I'm getting blue balls just thinking about it."

#nct smut #nct hard hours #nct 127 smut #nct 127 hard hours #nct smut reactions

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embe95 · 2 years

Text

Safe

Hwang Hyunjin drabble <3

Word count: 1576

Mood: mostly angsty, just confusion all around

I can’t believe I ran into my ex, I don’t need this, I don’t want this. There’s nothing to discuss here.

“I promise, I tried,” Hyunjin blurts as he stares at the ground.

I was so close to ending this encounter before it even properly began, why did we have to run into each other? I’ve been so good at avoiding him.

A sniffle shakes him slightly. He’s crying?

“Tried? Jin, I don’t-”

“To forget,” he interrupts suddenly, looking up with an agonized stare. His eyes take me by surprise; he is crying. “To let go, to stop... loving you. I tried so hard.”

I feel my eyebrows furrow in confusion and annoyance. Was loving me so bad? Something to try to get rid of? Something to shake? I don’t need to listen to this.

Why am I still here?

“Okay...” is all I can mumble out, the only word that escapes the maze of questions swarming in my brain.

Silence. I have to look away.

After a shaky, unnecessarily shallow breath, I choose to make my escape.

“Well, thank you for... this. See you later,” I turn, eyes fiercely focused to the now-blurry street lights that I needed to head towards to get home.

His hand closes around my wrist. It’s cold. Soft. Familiar. Strong.

“Please-” he chokes. “I’m not good with words, I’m sorry. I broke up with you because I was stupid. I was scared.”

“No Hyunjin!” I rip my hand from his hold and flip back around. Enough. “You don’t get to do this! You wanted to see what else was out there, you wanted something different and new and exciting, to see what you were missing out on!” my screams echo in the streets. People turn to stare but unlike usually, his eyes don’t falter towards them in concern, not even once. He stares at me, small pangs appearing to hit his heart with each of my claims. This has been bottled up for so long.

Well... that’s not entirely true. I had written about this, cried about this to my friends. But I’d never gotten the chance to tell him. I knew what it was, why he decided to do what he did.

“You got bored,” I state, voice now slightly hoarse but the determined tone still going strong to my surprise. “How is it going for you? Is the grass emerald green on that side? Are you satisfied now?”

His lower lip trembles and two consecutive tears roll down his cheeks as he shakes his head.

“No...” he gasps. “No, no, no...” head hanging heavy now, I can see the tears fall a few seconds apart. A sob shakes his entire frame as he seems to start bending over more.

I can’t help it. The icy shell encasing my heart is blown to pieces at the sight.

My arms reach out, slipping around his waist in an attempt to get his tall body back upright. His limbs grab me, each muscle gripping my back and shoulders, moving like he’s trying to cover me.

His head is still shaking from side to side. It’s frantic.

Hyunjin has never cried this much in front of me. He didn’t cry when we broke up. He didn’t cry when I left to visit my family. He didn’t cry when I cried. The only two times I’d seen him cry was when he was forced to go on hiatus and when he found out he could return to his family. The first was a horrifying afternoon. The second was one of the best nights of my life.

The way he’s holding me, the way we’re holding each other, is otherworldly, or something primal passed down from our ancestors. The back of my trench coat must be in shreds, he’s clawing at my muscles so hard, like begging me to believe him, to understand how sorry he is.

“Hyunjin,” I whisper after a lifetime has passed. Arms letting go, shoulders stiffening to push him away, I do my best to signal I want him to stand up.

He’s quick to react. A frazzled head of hair snaps up, shaky hands flying to wipe his puffy face, embarrassed, apologetic, confused.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have...” I hear him mumble.

“No, no... I was the one who... I shouldn’t have...” I reply in kind, same tone and volume.

“No, I’m happy you- I mean... thanks.”

Silence, broken only by slight hiccups from Hyunjin’s mouth, engulfs us.

“Do... you... think...” he forces out between sobs, Adam's apple bouncing. “You could ever... consider-”

“Yes.”

He stares at me through the glossy veil in front of his eyes. The gaze along with the single-syllable word I just uttered startle me.

“No. Maybe. I don’t know,” I continue quickly.

His chin falls and rises slowly. He’s trying to understand. I probably made him very happy for a second there. My vagueness isn’t anything new, indecisiveness is apparently a trademark for both of us. Would I ever consider letting him back into my life? As a friend? Romantically? Intimately? Could I ever trust him not to do the same thing again? Should I give him a second chance, or is that the job of the next person he’s going to love, to help him be better?

“You really hurt me. Even if I could forgive you, I don’t know how long it’ll be before I can trust you again. How do I know you won’t do it again? And... why did you want to stop loving me so badly?”

He stammers. “It was so... safe.”

“Safe?”

“Everything with you was safe, familiar, reliable... I thought love was supposed to be bigger somehow, more somehow.”

“More?”

“You know... fireworks, butterflies, seeing red, seeing green, running after you in the rain-”

“How do you know you love me then?” I speculate, throat tight. All these things, they aren’t positive, good, happy. He wanted to be jealous? To fight more?

Hyunjin stares at me, mulling over my question as it floats in the air.

“Because...” he reaches for my hand. I let him hold it, but the limb remains limp.

“I haven’t felt safe since I sent you away.”

The tears keep falling but his expression is calm now. Just sad.

“I’ll never forgive myself.”

His voice is just a whisper. Once again my need to show care overpowers my hurt, and my hand grips his tightly.

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

My ex’s hands fling under my arms, gripping me closer by the elbows. He looks almost angry because of my words. He could be serious, I guess. Maybe his dramatic self without a force to constantly balance it is becoming too much. But he was fine before me, just fine. He has his brothers, he has his career, his family, his passions. He just misses sex. Which also makes no sense because there’s no way he hasn’t pull-

“It is. I never knew how calm I could be, how amazingly peaceful and peacefully amazing everything could feel. I miss how your skin glows in the morning sun combing its way through my curtains, and the way you giggle at animations, and how Kkami loves you more than me, how you love the members and bake those cookies for us, your boba addiction, how you feel in my arms. I miss you.”

I’m rarely speechless, my friends will testify to that. Now though...

“Please,” Hyunjin whispers, hands sliding up my shoulders. We’re suddenly forehead to forehead. “Forgive me.”

His scent, those eyes. Whatever happens after this moment, I just know I want those pink lips on mine now.

God, I’ve missed him so much.

Intrusive thoughts win by a landslide as I lean in and press my entire being against him.

His response is imminent, he was already halfway there before I moved. The kiss is passionate, rougher than ever before. Hyunjin’s mouth tastes like americano. I never want to stop tasting it, no matter how much I actually hate coffee.

“Does that mean-” he breathes, chest heaving.

“-what I think it does?”

I shake my head sadly, burying my face in his chest, grabbing his coat. “I don’t know, Jin,” I mumble.

His chin rests on the top of my head, strong arms around my upper back. I haven’t felt this safe and encased since he last held me. I hear and feel the air going through his nose and out his mouth, an effort to calm down his breathing. His heartbeat remains fervent.

I’m sorry about being indecisive in this moment, but I’m not going to say it because I won’t be able to explain what I’m sorry about. He’s the reason we’re here. He made this mess. I’ve allowed myself to become this mess.

But kissing him feels so good. Holding him and being held by him feels so good. I don’t know how to feel. He said such awful things. What if he gets bored again? What if this is just an effort to alleviate the pain, something that could’ve just as easily been done by someone else, someone new? We just happened to run into each other out here, after all.

In the last ten minutes, we’ve hugged, held hands and kissed. I feel so confused. I also feel lighter.

“Are you free now?” I look up at him. He nods.

“Let’s go grab some boba. Let’s talk.”

Maybe it’ll turn into a new first date, who knows. If I really make him feel safe, I want him to feel like it again, at least for an evening.

#straykids #stray kids #stray kids oneshot #stray kids fanfic #stray kids hyunjin #hwang hyunjin #hwang hyunjin imagines #hwang hyunjin x reader #stray kids x reader

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missycolorful · 2 years

Text

This path we carved for ourselves, we do not have to travel it alone

(So... in my current canon-complaint story, there’s a large csandduo scene, that I wanted to get done before Wilbur's stream but didn't. Not that I'm bothered just adding "canon-divergence," more so that I want my work to fit the characters as best as possible. And if csandduo interaction… doesn't go the way I'd like, I'd feel disheartened to go too different a route? idk, brain be weird.

Anyway, this is a very rough draft of that scene I cobbled together, so people can enjoy one interpretation of how the stream might go. I’ll likely still keep it in the story, though knowing me it'll be vastly different from the final project. Again, very rough.

ALL THIS TO SAY. Here’s a 4k c!sandduo drabble about apologies long left unsaid and a father and son trying to fix what is broken, and if everything I wrote about these two is wrong, I will cry but at least I got this out there)

With a slow, eerie creak, the door opened. Phil’s hands stilled from their stitch up work on Tubbo’s winter pants. Something about Tubbo and Tommy fighting over the last batch of cookies they had between them. Said goat hybrid sat on the chair adjacent the couch in a pair of shorts, tapping his knees and rambling about Michael. The spark in his eyes seemed to reignite now that Ranboo was back, their family reunited if not entirely as it was.

With the noise at the door, though, Tubbo’s mouth snapped shut. Phil wondered if Technoblade had returned. He came back from another journey the other day, but left once more shortly after, busy as ever. Phil glanced toward the door and—

Guilt stumbled into his chest when Wilbur tilted his head to walk through the doorway. Of course. Even though Wilbur’s presence in the cabin had been scarce, Phil still offered the cabin as a proper home for him. Yet Wilbur stood stiffly at the corner like a stranger. A tense expression wrinkled his face.

Philza straightened his posture, sitting taller on the couch. Concern etched his brow. “Hey, Wil,” he said. “D’you want something to drink? I-I should have extra snacks lying around if you need—“

“Uh, no, no, I don’t need anything right now. Well,” Wilbur interrupted. His shoulders drew rigid, the posture of a man with business to attend to. “I was sort of hoping to talk to you.”

Phil froze, fingers twitching with the needle and thread.

“Alright, that’s my cue, I’ll be taking that, thank you, Philza!” Tubbo exclaimed all in what felt like one breath, shattering the tension that was thick as steel. He stood up, yanked the cloth from Phil’s grasp, and began to exit the house.

“I, fuckin—Tubbo, I didn’t even finish—“

“And if I get frostbite on my ass, that’ll be the consequences of my actions. Bye!” With a single, curt wave, Tubbo was out the door in seconds, slamming it shut with more force than necessary. Even Wilbur cringed slightly from the sound.

Philza tried to show off his best poker face. Wilbur continued to stand close to the corner, and nothing was being said, so naturally, Philza’s mind liked to wander and assume the worst of this future conversation.

His mind was scattered, but the unsettling feeling was not unfounded. Not after the last time Wilbur and he spoke, though that was more akin to a one-sided shouting match on Wilbur’s part.

“How could you do that?” Wilbur shouted, right in his face, a snarl curling his lips and revealing gritted teeth. “After all he’s done, you just let him out!”

Philza forced himself to keep still, to not recoil at the sudden rise of anger bursting from Wilbur like a prodded balloon. Things had been going swell until Tommy walked in to join the two. The conversation, some way or another, led to Wilbur discovering Phil helped Dream escape prison and forced a frazzled Tommy to deal with his abuser all over again. Phil dragged a calloused hand over his eyes,

“It was... it was just business, like I told Tommy. Technoblade had his own thing to do, and I was just... making sure nothing went wrong.”

“Business? You just let out a criminal ‘cause it’s business?” Wilbur continued, and Tommy stood beside him, awkwardly at that. He never once spoke up. He eyed Wilbur every time his voice rose or he mentioned his name, but otherwise, the boy held no courage to discuss his struggles. “Since when were you buddy buddy with the guy, Philza?”

“We’re not friends,” Phil spat with no hesitation, offended by the notion. “Not like I ever gave a shit ‘bout him.”

“But you still let him out, don’t you understand? You’re responsible for making Tommy afraid for his own life again. You can’t just say you feel bad now, it’s too late. Not after what Dream put Tommy through.”

“Okay, ‘cept I barely know what he's ever done to Tommy,” Phil said, irritation riling like a volcano ready to erupt, but he had to keep it under the surface. He wasn't going to fight against his son; he couldn't. He threw his arms out. "Fuck’s sake, I still barely know shit 'bout a lot of things."

Wilbur shook his head in disbelief, a sickly grin on his face. “Wh-you can't be serious."

"I can't know everything going on in this server, Wil," Phil pressed, shoulders sagging as if to emphasize his exhaustion.

"But I know," Wilbur replied, his voice low. "I've been back a lot less than you have. I know plenty, and I know you made a mistake." He gestured with a finger close to Phil's heart.

"Okay, I'm aware of that now," Phil bit back, voice rising as it inched somewhere between anger and desperation. Because it wasn't fair it wasn't fair...

"But that's the problem. After all this time, you didn't know? Do you really care so little? Or are you playing ignorant, old man?” he asked in a honey-suckle voice that had an acidic exterior. And hearing Wilbur speak to him like that hurt worse than any punch or sting.

“No, it’s that no one fucking tells me anything!” Philza snapped back against his viciously pounding heart. Blood pumped in his ears drums, a cacophony of noise, noise, noise. “How can I help if I’m kept in the dark all the time? What good can I do when I don’t know fuck all about you?!” He clamped his mouth shut before the tides came crashing in, but the damage was done, the sand swallowed by sea. His chest heaved.

The fire in Wilbur's eyes was more like an ember, as opposed to the billowing inferno from a minute ago. He took a moment to respond. “You never asked,” he whispered, the change in his tone threatening to cause whiplash.

Something lodged in Phil’s throat. A million thoughts surged through his brain like lightning striking flat land.

I wanted you to come to me.

I was afraid to.

I didn’t think you’d want me to.

Phil released a long and painful breath. “Y-yeah, you’re right... I-I couldn’t... I didn’t.”

No one said a word. Phil wondered if the world would shatter if a floorboard creaked, or one of the crows made a sound. Wilbur looked down, eyebrows furrowed. Phil was afraid to decipher his expression, so he gripped his chair and stared at the ground.

“I-I-I need to go,” Wilbur hastily said, turning on his heel and throwing the door open. “C’mon, Tommy.”

Tommy didn’t even look back at Philza before following Wilbur through the door, which was slammed shut. The picture above shuddered before going still. Phil collapsed into his chair, burying his face in his hands.

It had been over a week since then. Phil didn’t know where his son had gone off to in that time, or who he talked to. Wilbur had been in the midst of seeking redemption and forgiveness when he had thrown open Philza’s door with Tommy lagging behind him. Now he was back, he was alone, and he looked tired.

Did Wilbur learn about Phil’s hand in New L’manberg’s destruction? Or anything else that would break the camel’s back?

It was all coming together, Philza realized. For all he knew, Wilbur was here to rescind his forgiveness toward his father, because it was Phil’s fault, after all. He was here to tell Phil he never wanted to hear from him again. The thoughts crept through his mind for months and never relented, but now Frankenstein's monster was coming alive, but there was no kindness here, only cruelty and truth. Philza would not be okay with it for a long time, but at least the worry about what if's would no longer plague his mind like an illness as to whether his son even wanted him around or not—

“Phil?”

A voice spurred him from his spiraling. Phil flinched, and he sunk back into his body. He grabbed his cane to help himself to his feet. Blue eyes returned to Wilbur. “If you need to talk, we can. You don’t need to stand there the whole time,” he said, whirling around to step into the kitchen. “Go ‘head and sit down, I can grab some wate--“

“I’m leaving.”

Phil’s hand had been on the doorway when he stopped. His grip tightened, hiding the trembling of his fingers. Don’t turn back, don’t look back.

“What’s that?”

“I’m leaving the server. And I'm not really coming back.”

Fuck. Phil glanced over his shoulder. Wilbur’s hands were shoved into his pockets, and he stared directly at Philza with weary eyes. He had the face of a man who had seen several lifetimes.

Did something happen?

Is everything okay?

I just got you back.

Let me help you.

“O-oh,” Phil struggled, leaning heavily onto his cane. “Okay. That’s... you know, maybe it’ll be good for you to... to get away from all this." Phil gestured vaguely into the air before slapping his hand back at his side. "If you think that's best, go out and explore, mate. Has, uh, everything be going good? Wi-with everyone you’re talking to?”

Wilbur nodded. “Yeah, it’s been...” He carded through his hair, and lowered himself onto the couch. The fire cackled right beside him, casting orange shade to the side of his face. “It’s been hard, not gonna lie. But reaching out to everyone was for the best. It helped a lot. I learned a lot, too.”

Phil nodded, hurrying to grab a pair of glasses. He returned and placed two cups of water onto the coffee table. As Phil rounded the table, Wilbur spoke up.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

Wilbur brought one leg to his chest, leaning his cheek against his arms as they rested on his knee. “Why did you do it? Blow up L’manberg, I mean?”

There was nothing accusatory to his voice, no anger, no disappointment. It sounded like a simply, curious question, like asking someone how they wanted to spend the day. Not asking why someone would commit terrorism.

It didn’t calm the worry seeping into Phil's skin. “Who told you?” he asked, a genuine question as opposed to anything blunt or demanding.

“A few people, actually. Tommy, for example, but th-that’s not what’s important here,” Wilbur made vague gestures with his hands as he spoke. He scratched at his hairline. “I’m asking why you did it.”

He tried so hard to read his son’s tone, but the boy seemed to do well in concealing what lied in his heart. Like he wanted to throw a sucker punch only when it would hit the hardest. But Phil would never be ready for the sudden blow. He sat in the chair closest to Wilbur, his hands clasped in his lap.

“Mate, I… fuck, whatever version of L’manberg you made was not the one I saw. You weren’t there to see th-the…” He gestured weakly with a hand. “How fucked the government was. All these people getting corrupted by greed and shit and-and…” His voice petered off, and he whispered, “And seeing that that country... i-it destroyed you. And I didn’t want that to happen again. That's... that's why, really.”

“I see,” Wilbur muttered, straightening his posture. His eyes drifted toward his hands, buried in the fabric of his worn pants.

“You know, I helped start building it back up. I wanted to help,” Phil continued, thinking back to his first days in the server. The air still tasted like ash, but among the ruins, there was beauty to be found underneath, he just knew. And Phil wanted to seek it, only to later discover the ugly in the cracks and corners. He sighed, a tragic smile playing on his lips. “It just all fell apart. I dunno what happened, but... would you believe me if I told you I did it ‘cause I care?”

“Even if it destroyed the homes of the people who say you care about? Tubbo and Tommy were quite upset by it--”

“Lot of people were hurt by that place. Niki and Ranboo told me themselves. Just… I swear, if you were there, you’d understand,” Phil emphasized, leaning forward, his fingers twitching from how close they were to his son’s hands. How he desperately sought to hold them and never let go. He shook his head. “I’m trying, I really am.”

“Somehow, I understand,” Wilbur said, his voice a touch far away. “Seeing as that was, well, part of my reasons.”

"Is... really?” Phil tried desperately to hold back how desperate he sounded, because that split moment of connection meant more to him than anything else in that moment.

“You see, Phil,” Wilbur’s curls bounced over his eyes when he tilted his head toward his father. He stapled his fingers together. “You destroyed it out of regard for others--perhaps yourself, as well, I can assume. Pretty drastic actions for it, but who am I to critique that? ‘Cause I, too, saw my own country fall into the hands of a tyrant. Just-just the mere existence of that country, the one I built, created tyranny. So I destroyed what had to be destroyed, but…”

“But?” Phil pushed, leaning forward to place a hand on Wilbur’s knee. I’m here I’m right here.

Wilbur leaned back, his guarded expression on full display. A smile tugged at his lips, one that did not meet the exhaustion that sunk his eyes. “Except your wrong. Well, at least about the old L’manberg. The new one, my memories are... faint, happy, but all of Ghostbur’s memories are, so they’re not that helpful. But the thing is, Philza, is that L’manberg didn’t destroy me.” He kicked his leg up to cross it over his other knee, prompting Phil to retract his palm. “I was the bad guy, it was all me, the system I created. I started my own downfall because I was a terrible person who did terrible things. I hurt all those people, and... you were right, when we last spoke. Y-you have no idea how much I’ve done.” And through it all, he smiled, though it wavered the longer he spoke.

“I...” Word abandoned Phil. What was he supposed to say, what could he say he had to say something!!

“I’ve done so much wrong, and I died because that’s how it was supposed to happen. Yet here I am,” Wilbur shook his head, eyes misting over, “sitting across my father, who just… accepted me in his house without question, and all these people I’ve hurt are forgiving me way too easily, and I don’t get it. You all should be afraid of me, fuckin’ hate me, so… why not?” he asked, looking Phil directly in the eye, practically pleading for some semblance of understanding. The walls were tumbling down, his expression completely open, utterly heartbreaking.

And Philza’s face crumbled. He turned away to fight back against another tsunami of emotions that assaulted him. And Wilbur was waiting for him to say something, but now, now he had an idea as to what to say.

Because Wilbur truly was his son, because he had been staring at a version of himself, one still forging his path.

“You know that, uh, I have done some bad things too,” he began, trying to keep everything under control. For now. “I’m a fucked up guy, I’m not perfect--well, none of us are, but… god, you don’t even know the extent of all the shit I’ve done…” His smile faded. “Though you know plenty about what I’ve done here.”

“Like you guys breaking Dream out of jail--god, Phil, that was so fuckin’ stupid--”

“I didn't know," Phil again argued, in vain, so he added, "It’s why I’ve been trying to help Tommy, as a way to apologize. But all that? Would you say I’m a bad guy?”

Wilbur didn’t respond right away, the gears in his head turning. “In someone’s story, perhaps," he said.

“Alright, fair, that’s fair,” Phil conceded, nodding. "I know what it looks like to others, the things I did. I’m not stupid. I must look like the biggest dick.” He pressed a hand against the wrinkled folds of his pants, smoothing the fabric. “But that’s… the world isn’t that simple, never was. Villains, heroes, it’s all in stories, nothing more. At worst, we just do bad things, even if we think we have good reasons.” He glanced out the window, thinking back to the afternoon when he had returneded to this cabin on a day where smoke from what was once L’manberg could still be seen, even from afar.

How there was no feeling of satisfaction or joy or even anger or resentment. There was no catharsis. That would imply Doomsday was to make him feel good, when he wanted to bury everything that trembled inside of him in debris and ash.

“But after everything I’ve done," said Wilbur, again dragging Phil from deeply hidden memories, "my friends forgave me. Shouldn’t they hate me?”

Phil thought about his conversation with Kristin, about cavorting death and about second chances, and he shook his head. “I think it’s why you were given a second chance--”

“But Phil, Dream was just using me against Tommy. That’s the reason he brought me back.”

Philza sneered. Great, another piece to add to the pile that made it really hard to just not find and kill Dream on the spot. “I--well, I’m… I’m talking in the more whole, like, universal way. Fuck Dream, doesn’t matter why he did that. But you came back, and you’re given a chance to work things out with everyone you hurt, because you do care about them. That’s what’s important.

“Wilbur.” Phil stepped forward on weak knees and placed both his hands on Wilbur’s shoulders. Wilbur glanced up at him, looking small and younger. “You shouldn’t have died that day. I don’t care if Kristin even says it was supposed to happen. It fucking--I think every day about it, it was so fucked up. You deserved to come back and be alive.”

Wilbur’s jaw dropped, the wrinkles around his eyes emphasizing a deep sadness that twisted Phil’s heart. “But what do I do now, Phil?” he nearly begged. “I’ve gone to almost everyone I want to give forgiveness to, but after that… where does my story go from here?”

"Stories, that's..." Phil’s fingers tightened on his son’s dirty, dirty coat. He needed to give that a good wash later. He sighed. “You just live, mate.”

“But what does that mean?”

Phil’s mouth fell open, but no words came out. Maybe years and years ago, he’d be upfront and tell him that he wanted to give a good answer but couldn’t, and that was that. Because he had been lost and confused and had let eons of survival consume everything about him.

“I don’t know any legit answer, if there’s even one. F-fuck if I know, but...” But the years had made him soft. So his face, too, softened, as he said, his smile pained but honest, “Just... do better than me.” He squeezed Wilbur’s shoulders. “Be better than me, Wilbur. I think you can do that much.”

Wilbur’s lip quivered, and for a brief second, Phil thought oh god, that didn’t help at all.

Until Wilbur rose to his feet and threw his arms around his back, dragging Phil into a strong embrace. With his heart hammering in his chest, Phil scrambled to wrap his arms around his son. Against his shoulder, Wilbur took in a shuddering breath. Philza fell silent, at a loss for words. All he knew what to do was refuse to let go of his son, never again. Then...

“I’m sorry, Phil,” Wilbur muttered into Phil’s shoulder.

Phil adjusted himself to pull Wilbur back, as he assessed what was going on. Confusion swamped his mind. After all, Wilbur said he had asked for forgiveness from almost everyone he wanted, but… no, that didn’t make sense. Heavy stones sat in Phil’s gut.

“Mate, I...” He scoffed. “Sorry, but what’re you apologizing to me for?”

Wilbur’s eyes furrowed. “Huh?”

“I’m just, that's not how..." Phil shook his head. "I-I killed you. That literally gives you a free pass in-in not needing to apologize. I…” He tried to pass off a laugh, but it was weak. “I don’t even know why you’d apologize.”

Wilbur considered for a moment, arms crossed. “Y’know, for a bit there, in limbo… there was a time where I wasn’t… happy with what happened. What you did. I… I think I hated you.” Blue eyes met brown, and honesty carved every feature of his face.

Phil nodded, gulping back the bile in his throat. “And you have every right to--”

“But now, Phil?” Wilbur straightened his posture and stared down at his hands, like they were stained with uncleansed blood of the past. “Being brought back and seeing what I had done to everyone, including you--”

“Wilbur, I hurt you,” Phil emphasized hurriedly, and he didn’t want to fight his son on this, but if Wilbur truly wanted to insist on it, then he’d gladly rage into war. It was better than this! “I should be the one apologizing, not you." His body sagged, and he clasped his hands onto Wilbur's wrists. "Because I am sorry. I carried that grief with me every fuckin’ day, because I promised I’d do anything to get you back. C-couldn’t even do that, though… I fucked up, and my mistake fucked you over, too.” He brushed a hand over his face, feeling the burn of tears against his eyes,. “And I-I’m sorry for that, but I’m not letting you apologize for dying.”

Wilbur blew air through his nostrils. “That’s not fair, Phil!” he exclaimed, stepping back and throwing his arms out. “You tell me to go out and apologize to people, and everyone knows I’ve done terrible things and treated them horribly. And now you’re telling me what I can’t apologize abo-“

“That’s not...That’s not the point.” Phil sighed, digging his fingers between his eyes. The heavy weight of the conversation dragged over his back, threatening to pull him under. He reached over for his cane before his legs betrayed him. "What reason could--"

Once he gathered himself, his eyes locked on Wilbur, whose attention was directed at something beside Phil. More specifically, to his right, where his tattered wing twitched against the floorboard. The distance in deep brown eyes reflected how far into the past Wilbur was drifting as his focus sharpened on matted feathers.

“Wilbur,” Phil said, voice stern but not cruel. Determined. Wilbur's eyes were glazed over when his gaze returned to his father. “I’d do it again if I had to.”

Wilbur’s eyes fell shut, and he took a long and steady breath. He dragged both hands through messy brown curls, locking his hands together atop his head. When he opened his eyes, they were stone cold. “Did you know after my talk with Fundy he threw himself off a cliff?”

“What?” Horror washed over Phil like a freezing tidal wave.

“Yup.” Wilbur slapped his palms over his legs. “Jumped right off. He’s still around, but… did it right in front of me. He was just that sick of me.” He smiled, though the tears in his eyes said enough.

“Christ, Wil--“

“But that’s when I realized,” Wilbur's voice fell so quiet, Phil just barely managed to catch it. He folded his arms across his chest again. "That… there is nothing worse than watching your son kill himself. And he didn’t even put a sword in my hand; he just… jumped. B-but I forced you into this position, asked you to kill me. Isn’t that horrible?” He blinked at his father with eyes that were staring far away, where the memories were firmly stored, never to be forgotten.

Phil thought about that moment, and how in that moment, when Wilbur shoved the sword into his shaking hands, the world felt small and condensed, a tragic thing for someone who didn’t do well with tight spaces. How his throat tightened, because he had no idea how to handle that kind of situation, he didn’t know the right thing to say. How mind was spinning, his back was horrifically numb, and the world was screeching and loud against his eardrums...

And he killed his son.

A particularly hard breath caught in Phil's throat. “Well, isn’t it horrible that I listened? I--why the fuck--” His hands clenched, tense before he dragged them across his face. He coughed out a bitter sigh. “I can’t answer that, Wil.”

Wilbur deliberated, then looked back down at his hands, at the grime in his fingernails and the dust in the carves of his palms. “I’ve come to understand that forgiveness isn’t just about me, it’s about... the person I’m asking to forgive me. Gives them closure, o-or at least it can. Might not always, but… they can heal and move on, rather than sit in the damage I’ve done.” His head tilted back up, hands still splayed right by his chest. “You said you want me to live, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, of course.”

“We both hurt each other, and we both did stupid shit, but… if you forgive me, if I’m allowed to live,” he said, pointing to himself, and when he spoke again, he poked Phil gingerly in the chest, “so are you.”

“... You know I’d forgive you in a heartbeat. For anything, no holds bar.” The weight of the words, their honesty and depth and love, threatened to crush the world and kill all in its wake. His eyes felt damp, and he hurried to brush the tears away. His hands were shaking. How long had they been like this?

“And I forgive you, Phil, I really do,” Wilbur said, unaware of how Phil’s heart leapt against his chest because this was too good to be true. He ducked his head, curls hiding the top half of his face. “You know, someone told me that, after he gave me his forgiveness, I had one other person--besides you, mind you--I had to forgive. That being myself. And I’m still not…" He sighed, his body dragging with the rhythm of his exhale. "I have no idea how to do that, but... I’m gonna get there.”

Phil began to hesitate, ready to sit back on the sidelines, but realized he didn’t need to. “Can I join you?”

Wilbur peeked over, side eyeing Philza with a small smile. “I’d rather you did.”

“Gods,” Phil let out an awkward laugh, more out of feeling the stress roll of his back than anything else, “when did you get so smart?”

“Don’t give me any credit, someone else smacked me with a load of truth earlier. Really made me open my eyes.” Wil's focus fell toward the window, where a bunch of blond curls suddenly disappeared from view. “And talking to everyone else, too. It really helped, actually. Thank you, Phil.”

That broke the dam, and the tears were thick as they overwhelmed him.

Wilbur reached out into a drawer in one of the chests and retrieved a box of tissues. He offered it to Philza, a playful smile on his lips. “Never seen you cry this hard, Philza. Gone soft on me since I was gone?”

Phil snickered, wiping the tears off his face. “Oh, I’ve been a fuckin’ softie for a while now; you just never noticed. Have been since you came around, to be honest.”

“Oh,” Wilbur muttered, his face calming. He grinned, his hands tugging into his coat pockets once more. “Guess everything’s my fault then. Sorry about that, too,” he added, though Phil had trouble distinguishing whether the apology was genuine or a mere tease.

“Ah, shut up,” Phil said regardless, tossing aside the tissue box. “‘S a good thing. You can’t help that you made me feel human. For the first time, like, ever.” He shrugged.

“R-really?”

“Oh, ‘course.”

“And I’m assuming that’s a good thing?”

“I’m still working on it, but it’s pretty good if I do say so myself.”

#philza #wilbur soot #c!sandduo #dsmp fanfic #dream smp fanfiction #c!wilbur #sand duo

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ali-annals · 1 year

Text

from all the memories stored in my heart

For @/the-coffee-fandom | Prompt: “Don’t forget who you belong to,” but SFC (Safe for Coffee)

Pairing: Timari

Rating: G

WC: 1.3k

A/N: This was supposed to be a one-sprint drabble but then Plot snuck in and I spent a lot more sprints finishing it:) Not beta’d.

Tim blinked slowly, then jolted awake, used to going from 0 to 60 when he fell asleep working on a case.

The last thing he remembered wasn’t a case, though, it was-

“Marinette!” he called, looking around the cave…when had they moved from Marinette’s atelier to this spot?

Detective brain now fully engaged (though he would like some coffee or maybe a Monster), he scanned his surroundings carefully.

The cave appeared to have been carved out of a cliff, and they weren’t in Kansas anymore (okay, Paris). It appeared that they were now much further east, likely around the mountain range the League of Assassins was in.

This wasn’t nearly as dramatic as the League’s usual Bat-nappings were, and the tapestries were too brightly coloured to be the League’s black and green, and the symbols embedded in them were like nothing he’d seen before, except for one place…Marinette’s sewing box, the one she never let him touch, even when he was closer to it than her and could hand her whatever sewing implement she needed.

What had his lovely innocent girlfriend been hiding from him?

The door in the wall opened and the woman in question stumbled in, looking the most frazzled he’d ever seen her (which was saying a lot, considering how busy she’d been during Fashion Week a couple months ago). The person who’d pushed her in muttered something like “your final grace” and looked kind of like a Tibetan monk, but definitely was not.

She smoothed her clothes, which were tattered and…were those scorch marks? And took a deep breath before approaching him.

“Tim, I am so, so sorry for this. I thought I had more time-I was so close to figuring out a way–” she broke herself off and leaned her hands heavily on his shoulders.

“I never wanted it to be like this, Tim. I only have a minute to say goodbye–”

“Mari, what is going on?” Tim put his hands on her shoulders to ground her. “Breathe, and tell me.”

She shook her head, loose hairs swinging limply. “I really loved you, and I am so sorry you were mixed up in all of this. I’m going to forget you now, and it’s up to you to choose if you want to forget me as well. It would be better if you did.” She choked back a sob and covered her mouth with her hand, turning away to face the monk(?) who had returned.

“Is there really no other way?”

“Don’t forget who you belong to, Marinette Dupain-Cheng. You chose this life when you took up the Order’s markings.”

They escorted her firmly out the door, Marinette casting a long glance back at him. “I’m sorry. I promise it was real.”

~~~

Tim muttered an excuse and sidestepped the woman standing outside the boutique, barely lifting his eyes from his phone as he typed a rough draft of a contract that needed to go out later.

“Excuse me.”

He rolled his eyes and turned around, prepared to give his secretary’s number or some cash after someone recognized him as Tim Drake-Wayne.

Tim paused, struck by the blue eyes and light freckles on the woman’s face. “May I help you?”

The woman paused, smiling a little self-consciously. “I’m sorry for bothering you, but…do you know me? You seem quite familiar, though I’m not sure why.”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t, I’m sorry. I’ve been told I have one of those faces,” he grinned.

Her face fell a little. “Alright, thank you. Have a lucky day!” she turned and headed in the opposite direction.

Tim continued his path, finishing his draft and sending it off to his secretary to clean up. A strange interaction to be sure, but he’d had weirder–this was Gotham, after all.

Alternate Ending:

Marinette quickly strode away, brushing the tears that fell away. “Of course he doesn’t remember you, he chose to get his memories wiped. Why would he want to remember a lying, secretive, fake girlfriend he knew for a year, anyways?”

She looked back once again, catching the last sight of his back as he turned the corner, busily typing away. “I’m sorry. I promise it was real.”

Alternate Alternate Ending:

Tim glanced back at Marinette and found her staring at him. “I’m sorry. I promise it was real,” she mouthed.

He startled. Those were the last words she had said to him, before she erased her memories of anything not Order-related.

When the monk returned, he had given him a worn envelope, his name scrawled on it in Marinette’s font.

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng requested I give this to you as her final goodbye.”

“What are you doing to her?” he asked, straining against what seemed to be magic bonds.

“What she signed up for when she took our Order’s oath. Her memories of anything not related to the Order, of which you are included, will be erased.

“As her final wish, she requested that we give you the choice to erase your memories or keep them, and to give you her letter.”

“I’d like to keep my memories, thanks.”

The bonds dissolved with a snap and he stretched eagerly, wondering if he could make a break for it and rescue Mari.

The monk left the room before he could make up his mind, and a glowing purple portal appeared in front of him.

He probably shouldn't step into said glowing [purple portal, but since when had he acted rationally?

Tim stepped into the flowing purple portal and appeared back in Marinette’s atelier.

Once he flew home (he should really look into those glowing purple portals), he sat on the edge of his bed and looked at the letter.

Finally he opened it and started reading.

“Dear Tim,

If you’re reading this, it means I failed. I had to give up my memories. I’m sorry.

If you’re reading this, it also means you chose not to erase your memories of me. Why? Why did you choose not to forget me?

I suppose I owe you an explanation. I am part of the Order of Guardians, a group of magic users in charge of the Miraculous. I hope you remember what I told you of Ladybug and Chat Noir so I don’t have to re-explain everything.

I was Ladybug, and I became the Guardian of the Miraculous. Once Hawkmoth was defeated, the Order, which had mostly died out over the years, approached me and I agreed to stay Guardian. The kwami didn;t need more upheaval after the past years of fighting Haekymoth, and the newly-recovered ones needed time with the others out and about to recover from their trauma.

I was sworn in as the official Guardian and was given a grace period of five years to live my life before I joined in rejuvenating the Order and erased my memories of anything not-Order-related.

I chose to erase my memories when I was sworn in, but requested the grace period to explore the world and see if life was worth not being Guardian with no Hawkmoth around.

Everything was fine until I met you, and then I started searching for a way to extend the time or undo that vow altogether. It appears I have run out of time, and I am sorry that we never got to fully explore our relationship with no secrets or deadlines between us.

I think we could have taken over the world;)

I wish you good luck with your life.

All my love, Marinette”

Tim sighed and flopped on his back, resting his arm over his eyes.

Ah, Marinette. That explained a lot.

Good luck, Marinette.

Now he headed back to the woman on the sidewalk. “Are you sure you don’t know me? Why did you just say those words?”

She stared up at him wonderingly. “You remember?”

He smiled grimly. “Yes. The question is, why do you remember?”

~~~~~~~~

Why does Mari remember? I don’t know, you tell me.

#timari #ali writes #fic #DCxMLB

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atozfic · 3 years

Note

Hi please can I request (dom) yeosang and dumbification? <3 idk why but him and that kink go so well together

send me a kink + a member for a smutty drabble!! (closed.)

pairing: kang yeosang x reader. | genre: rival!yeosang, nerd!yeosang, nerd!reader, smut. | warnings: dom!yeosang, sub!reader, oral (m receiving), face fucking, dumbification kink, degradation kink. | word count: 755. | hyde’s input: i'm all about self-empowerment but,,, i would let kang yeosang degrade me any day of the week. this is unedited!!!

nobody likes the taste of defeat.

it’s stomach twisting, ego bruising, confidence shaking. with a fear for failure present in humans since the dawn of time, failing to find success can leave a person confused, frazzled, unsure of what to do next and how to make sure such a thing never happens again. defeat tastes of sickeningly sour candy and rotten milk and achievements not reached.

or, at least it did before.

defeat now tastes of salted skin and unshed tears and aching jaws, humiliation soiling your soul while your body busies itself with soiling your underwear, covering it in the sickening slick of your sinful arousal.

“open your mouth wider, whore.” his hand is struggling to undo his tie, his once perfectly styled hair now a disheveled mess of dark locks. his other hand has found a grip on your hair, gripping and pulling and tugging it to try get your head in the perfect angle for his own gain, his own pleasure.

teary eyes meet his disinterested ones, staring up at him and his stupid gold medal from the ground below. you shift and choke back a whine as you feel your knees scrape against the hard surface of the floor. the noise seems to please him, urging him to give an experimental roll of his hips, taking away the little control you had over the situation.

with fascination, and a level of marvel he’ll never admit to, kang yeosang, the newly named champion of the debate team, watches his hardened cock slide in and out of your waiting mouth, dragging over your tongue and brushing the back of your throat. the laugh he gives as you choke on his tip is sadistic, borderline evil.

just once, you’d wanted something for yourself. a place where you could thrive, have fun a something you were good at without it having to become a great challenge for you. but, no, of course the devil that is kang yeosang just couldn’t let you have that, signing up for the team only a week after you.

involuntarily, you whine when he pulls back completely, mouth now empty and eyes focused on the leaking tip in front of you and the pretty vein that runs along his hand as slowly wraps it around his cock.

“did you just- did you just fucking whine for my cock, y/n?” he’s bewildered, more surprised and turned on that he’d ever like to admit. this isn’t even the first, second, third time in your rivalry that he’s had you on your knees yet it’s getting to him more than ever, something about the way your cheeks are still stained in the tears you’d cried after losing to him yet your eyes- and mouth- don’t seem to have the will-power to leave his hardened member sending his brain into overdrive. “do it again- shit. please do it again.”

he’s the one begging yet, somehow, the humiliation is yours, increasing by tenfold when you obey his command and whine again, a wordless, near breathless plead to have him use your mouth again.

yeosang snaps back into action, hand griping your air tighter than ever before while the other safely guides himself back into the warm, wet cavern of your mouth, a fucked out expression taking over him for a moment when your tongue flattens against the underside of his cock.

and then, he’s thrusting.

in and out, overwhelming your every sense and clouding every rational part of your mind with unbridled lust. when his hips thrust at a relentless pace, gone are the fears of ruining your makeup. when his balls slap against your face, gone are the worries of being too loud. when his cock hits the back of your throat over and over, gone are the possible scenarios where a fellow student or, worse, an event manager catches you two int he cramped bathroom stall.

“you like this, huh? like having your pretty face fucked?” yeosang is at a loss for breath, but not even that will stop his taunts. you can’t answer, mouth stuffed full and brain fuzzing over in arousal. “shit, you can’t even conjure up an answer, uh? what, is the little baby too dumb to give a simple yes or no? that’s okay, we both know your mouth was never meant for talking anyway.”

for you, the taste of defeat is kang yeosang.

who, for all the brains he owns and all the wit he carries, is yet to realise you’ve spent years losing to him on purpose.

#ksmutclub #ateez smut #kang yeosang smut #kys.writings #ateez.writings #smut.writings #atozfic.writings

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jangofctts · 3 years

Text

oK SO LIKE EJKKJHRKEJH I CANT FIND THE ASK FOR THE LIFE OF ME BUT IT’s FROM @jango-fettish and it said “Imagine sending Blanche nudes when you know he is in a mission briefing. He gets the ping on his holopad and opens it just to quickly see what it is and has to do a double take.”

so ENJOY A DRABBLE KEJHKJH

cc-8352 Commander Blanche // fem!reader

warnings; you send him a nude

The debriefing is atrociously boring. Between that and needing to check the hangar every ten kriffing minutes so that Kami and Fuse don’t resort to blowing things up for fun. He grimaces, recollections of their plucky pilot enthusiastically attaching downright banned engine and weapon mods to the sides of the ship last week. It’s still a mystery as to how Kami managed to even find that type of stuff.

Y’know what, Blanche decides, he doesn’t even want to know.

With a sigh he shifts his weight and straightens his back. Maker—how long does it take for two Jedi to figure out a battle strategy. Hours apparently. General Tavik and Kenobi are notoriously stubborn when it comes to battle strategy—completely different styles of warfare that lead into prickly debates. It’d be amusing to watch if Blanche had got more than a couple hours sleep—right now all it does is tax his own nerves. Rhyssa Tavik’s face is notoriously grim, stony and difficult to read—hell—Blanche still has trouble deciphering her jokes from her regular monotonous timbre. But he’s known her long enough to tell when she’s annoyed. She pulls a strand of dark hair out from her boxer braids, twirls it around her fingers and purses her lips. Her eyes, sharper than a vibroblade cut to Kenobi.

The low sound of her Coruscanti accent rolls off her tongue. “I am not risking the lives of my men to defend that pass. The rock will crumble from the blaster fire.”

Kenobi pinches the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. “Rhyssa, I don’t see any—“

General Kenobi’s voice becomes fuzzy as Blanche zones out—unless they need his opinion he and Commander Cody are content to linger in the shadows. Naturally his mind wanders to thoughts of you—his one little solace in the horrors of war.

He met you in that diner—the only diner willing to serve clones in a five mile radius for free. The same diner his men had hounded him for ages into going with them. Blanche never found it anything special—it’s a typical late night diner, flashing neons, air that smells of salt and grease while the portions of the food could clog a man’s arteries ten times Blanche’s size. At least the caf is decent…among other things…

The moment Blanch stepped in, jostled between an over enthusiastic Kami and a brooding Void, he spotted you. It struck him strange that you weren’t a server droid—the typical choice for a waiting occupation, but Maker. Blanche gets why this is a clone favorite, second to 79s. Frazzled hair from a long shift, coffee and food stains splattered over your apron as you flit around the network of busy tables and rowdy vods.

You’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

It doesn’t help that everyone else in the dinner thinks so too.

Yes, ok, maybe it was a bit odd that Blanche made the entire squad stay right up until the end of your shift just to get the chance to sneak in a couple words in—but whatever. It worked. He scored your number, scribbled on a crumbled napkin and he’s been seeing you every chance he gets.

“Blanche?”

The commander jerks his head up, his cheeks flushing with heat when he finds all eyes are trained on him. He clears his throat and straightens to attention. “Yes, General?”

Tavik waves her hand in dismissal. “You’ve been up for nearly a day—go rest.”

“Are you sure, General? I can—“

“Go.” Tavik orders. “Make sure the rest of your men rest too. Force knows you all need it if we’re going to follow Kenobi’s plan."

Can’t argue with that. Without a word, Commander Blanche salutes and leaves the briefing room before he hears another one of Kenobi’s irritated quips. Wandering down the sterile space gray halls, his feet carry him to the hangar.

The members of Sunburst Squadron are all splayed out and over the floor and a couple of cargo crates. Just as Commander Blanche expects—up to no good.

“What are you doing, Kamikaze?” Blanche says with an exasperated sigh, zeroing in on the head of vibrant red hair.

Kami’s tongue peaks out in concentration as he aims the rubber band at the back of Bruiser’s head. “Target practice, sir.”

The band launches off Kami’s forefinger and thumb with a snap and hits the middle of Bruiser’s neck. Bruiser whips around with a glare, his meaty hand launching up to rub the red slash the band left behind. “What the fuck, Kami.”

Kami raises his hands in defense, biting his lip to keep his roguish smile from peaking through. “It was Fuse, big guy. I swear.”

Fuse scowls and jams an elbow into Kami’s ribcage. Kami doubles over with a wheezy chuckle. “Fuck off, you tool.”

“Shut up, all of you,” Void growls, his body wedged between the apex of two crates to sneak in a well deserved nap. “Don’ make me open m’eyes.”

A litany of blame sprouts between the boys, useless bickering that adds to Blanche’s building headache. He sighs for the thousandth time and drops his head to his vambrace at the little bleep, bleep, bleep of an incoming message. He taps at the little button and fuck--

His heart leaps into his throat when his brain catches up to what you’ve sent him. You, spread out over your bed, naked and dipping two of your fingers inside of your wet center. A heated spark of arousal tears down his spine--Maker he needs to exit the holopic before someone--

Blanche’s heartbeat skyrockets as a hand clamps down onto his shoulder. Blanche curses and scrambles to shut off the datapad as Max whistles low in approval. “I always wondered what she looked like under that apron.”

Blanche rushes to shut off the image, snarls at his brother and jabs a armored elbow into Max’s arm. “Shut up.”

Max rolls his eyes and ruffles Blanche’s hair. “Heh--just make sure no one else sees that. I'm sure the boys would love getting their hands on that.”

A dark flush collects in Blanche’s cheeks. Never. Not in a million years. You’re his pretty little waitress.

#THIS IS LAME AND RUSHED IM SORRY ERKJHEKJ #sunburst squadron #my writing #clone oc x reader #clone trooper x reader #clone trooper oc x reader #the clone wars #tcw

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silkling · 3 years

Text

So, @pastelpaperplanes, I did it again. Apparently a) I have no self control, and b) my brain wouldn’t stop screaming at me till I wrote this. The song for this drabble is at the end of the post, but be warned there’s a very minor twist after the “keep reading”, so try not to spoil yourself by getting to it early. I hope you all enjoy this! (Maybe now my little gremlin brain will let me go back to my Dojo Ghost Prowl AU)

Yoketron watched Lockdown with a critical eye, stepping in when the youngling’s stance was too wide to nudge his feet closer. His student looked at him, eyes curios and demanding an explanation. The ninja smiled, fond. This was why Lockdown was one of his favorite students. The young mech always wanted to learn and understand. He didn’t mindlessly listen and obey, but rather questioned so he could better know why things were done instead of just how they were done. It was refreshing.

He blinked, both he and Lockdown freezing in place when there was a knock at the door. That was...unusual. He’d always made it very clear that he wasn’t to be disturbed when he was in a lesson, unless it was a true emergency. He glanced at his student, pondering his next actions for only a moment before nodding. “Lockdown, you may take a break. I will see if this is not something I can solve without halting your lesson.” When the youngling nodded and folded himself down to begin a series of easy stretches, Yoketron turned and walked to the door. He blinked, resignation settling in his chest as he was greeted with who was on the other side.

It was his son, Prowl, held in the arms of his most recent caretaker. His very frazzled looking caretaker. The femme made a sound of manic hysteria, shoving the infant into his Sire’s chest as soon as she saw him. He brought his arms up on reflex, hands curling around the small frame as he allowed his son’s back to settle into the curve of his arm. “I can’t do this anymore!” the wild looking caretaker wailed. “That is not a normal sparkling! I quit!” With that, she whirled around and sped off as if the Unmaker himself were at her heels.

Yoketron stared after her for a moment, then with one hand he slid the door shut and turned an unimpressed look onto his son. “Again, little one? That is the third caretaker in a month. You cannot keep doing this.” he scolded. Though, it clearly had no effect, because the little bot only looked pleased at the attention being directed to him. Prowl gave a soft whuff of a breath, one hand lifting and pressing the knuckle of his thumb to his mouth as he stared up at his Sire.

The Dojo Master heaved a sigh, briefly turning his gaze heavenwards as if praying to Primus for some form of a sign. His son wasn’t a poorly behaved sparkling, not really. He never screamed, or cried, or broke things. He never made a mess, and was he really was very quiet and peaceable. If he had done any of those things, then Yoketron knew that caretakers would be able to handle him. But no. His son acted out in more...discreet ways. He refused to listen to anything that was asked of him. He stared his caretakers into a terrified silence whenever they tried to talk to him. He somehow appeared suddenly in front of them in places they hadn’t left him. He got into extremely dangerous situations that his panicked caretakers would take ages to figure out how to fix and wander off to disappear while they were doing the fixing. He deliberately hid from them, doing it so well that none of them could ever find him and they had to get his Sire to find and retrieve him. He even hid their belongings. Rather than be loud and destructive, Prowl had mastered the art of infant physiological warfare. So far, he had driven 18 separate caretakers into a stress induced breakdown. Well, now 19, he supposed.

“You are, I think, far too attached to me for anyone’s good.” Yoketron informed his son succinctly. Prowl just tiled his head curiously as his Sire looked down at him, then wrinkled his nose and sneezed. He looked very irritated at his body’s action once he’d done so. Yoketron sighed, shaking his head before he turned back to his student. Unfortunately, there was no one else in the Dojo who could take care of Prowl right now. That meant that for today, at least, he had to keep his son with him.

Lockdown had finished his stretches, and by now was staring curiously. “Who’s that?” The youngling asked, head tilted as he padded over slowly. Yoketron hummed, lowering his arms so his student could get a better look at his child.

“My son and heir.” he remarked dryly. “He is very fond of me and absolutely no one else. I’ve yet to find a caretaker who can handle him for more than a week. The longest lasted a month, I believe.” he sighed.

Lockdown just blinked, staring at the sparkling. His plating was thin and dull, his colors not yet fully settled and intense as they’d be on an older mech. It made his coloring look softer, which combined with rounded, squishy features made the small bot look very unthreatening. “This pipsqueak is that much of a terror?” he asked incredulously. “What does he even do that’s so bad? Throw a few too many tantrums?”

Yoketron only sighed. “I only wish that were the case, my student.” he stated, turning his head to give his son a look. “No, this little menace has somehow mastered his own unique form of psychological warfare.”

Lockdown stared at the sparkling, who had turned his head to pin him with a startlingly intense look. After a moment, the infant’s eyes narrowed, as if deciding he didn’t like this smaller-than-an-adult newcomer. “...he what.” he deadpanned. “How does a baby even use psychological warfare?” he asked.

His master only sighed. “That, I do not know. He is far to smart for his own good.” he grumbled, then straightened and tucked his son more firmly into his chest with one arm, his other lifting to place a hand on his student’s shoulder. “I apologize, Lockdown, but I will have to keep him with me for the remainder of your lesson.” he said.

The youngling only shrugged. “Don’t matter to me. Not like there’s much time left to it today anyway.” At Yoketron’s gesture, the youngling returned to the center of the mat. The older ninja paced around the younger, eyes narrowed and focused.

“Metallikato, Forms 34 and 56.” he instructed. Lockdown nodded, then obediently shifted through them. Yoketron watched his student with a critical eye, calling out corrections where they were necessary, but otherwise remaining silent. A glance at his son showed that the sparkling was starring unerringly at Lockdown, his gaze sharper and more intense than most youngling’s his age would be. Yoketron knew his son was observing, and learning as much as he could at his current level of mental and physical ability.

Prowl was a clever sparkling, with more cunning than even some adults Yoketron knew. He didn’t have complete mobility yet, and his limbs were still soft with infancy, but already he could see his son’s frame beginning to develop its own hidden strengths. He knew the sparkling would grow into a powerful ninja one day. Perhaps, one even more so than himself.

He returned his attention to his student, continuing to give out forms for the youngling to practice, until their lesson came to an end. Lockdown turned, bowing his his mentor before leaving the room. Alone with his son, Yoketron turned his attention to Prowl, who only looked deeply pleased that Lockdown was gone. Yes, the infant was far to attached to his Sire.

Yoketron only gave a huff of laughter, shaking his head and carrying his son to his room. Prowl’s crib was in the corner, but the ninja simply ignored it in favor of grabbing his favorite scroll from the shelf and settling on his bed to read. He had long mastered the ability to read his scrolls one handed, so one arm remained curled under his son as he settled against his pillows and opened the scroll. He read for a while, stopping only when the clock on his nightstand informed him it was time to eat.

He went to the kitchen, grabbing dinner for both himself and Prowl, before returning to his room. After he ate, he prepared Prowl’s bottle of sparkling energon and fed it to him, watching fondly as the little bitlet gripped at the nozzle of the bottle with small hands and suckled almost lazily. When the sparkling finished, Yoketron quickly returned the dishes to the kitchen before he returned to his room. There, he made his way back to the bed, settling in comfortably. He ignored the scroll for a moment, curling both arms under his son and lowering his head to look the infant in the eye.

Prowl stared at him, burbling softly and reaching out with a little hand to grab his father’s nose. He gave a tiny, pleased coo at his success. Yoketron’s gaze became infinitely softer as a delighted smile pulled the sparkling’s lips, humming gently as his son babbled something at him. He pulled his nose free, then lifted his head and pressed a kiss to Prowl’s forehead, in the middle of the tiny chevron. “You may be trouble, my little one, but I am so very pleased to call you mine.” he murmured fondly.

He settled the infant against his chest again, directly over his heart since he knew Prowl liked to listen to his heartbeat. He freed one arm, then reached for the scroll again. This was perhaps his favorite story. Prowl was too young for it yet, but Yoketron had read it countless times. The scroll told the tale of an old man who was beloved by his family. He had only one child, but he considered all in his house to be family, though of course his most beloved family member was his son. One day, a terrible calamity swept the land. A drought so bad and so hot the ground burned the feet of those who walked it. The old man, who remembered the old tales that most of the town had forgotten, knew what he had to do.

He went to the old temple in the forest, and prayed to the gods to save his home and his family. The gods had answered, but they had demanded a price. The old man would be forgotten by the town, as if he had never existed at all. He was distraught, but when he remembered his weakening son he agreed. It rained the very next day, and all in the town forgot who the old man had ever been. All of then, that is, except for his son, for he too knew the old stories and had always carried a protective talisman with him. When he realized that no one remembered his beloved father, and that the rain had come so suddenly, he knew it was the work of the gods. He went to the temple himself, and demanded the return of his father. The gods, who had spirited the old man away so he could be truly forgotten, were surprised. They had not expected anyone to remember, had not expected anyone to stand against their magic. The gods refused, however, for a deal had been struck and the son had played no part in it. Then they retreated to their own realm, leaving the son alone.

The son, overwhelmed by grief, abandoned his home and struck out to find the gods. He would have his father returned, even if he would die doing it. And so the son travelled for years and years, always trying to chase down the gods who had stolen his father from him. Along the way, he found on old falcon who became attached to him, and stayed by his side for his journey. What he didn’t know was that the falcon was his father, who the gods had given a new shape to ensure his old life would be forgotten by all who might know him. The son and the falcon travelled long and far, and there were many records of their adventures in the many towns which they took rest in. No one knew what became of the son, but some say that in the dark of the night, if you go to the last place he had been seen alive, you can see two pale, misted falcons, flying into the moonlight above.

It was a story of love and fatherhood and loss, and though there was no happy ending, or even any true ending at all, Yoketron had always enjoyed the deeper meanings of the story. By the time he finished the scroll, night had fallen and the rest of the Dojo was quiet and peaceful with sleep. The ninja stood, returning the scroll to its place and stepping towards the crib. Immediately, Prowl made a noise of discontent, and Yoketron heaved a sigh. He didn’t want to deal with his son’s stubbornness tonight. So, he simply turned to his bed, placing Prowl down on it so he could get them both dressed in sleeping clothes. Then he picked his son up, tucking them both under the covers and pulling Prowl to his chest. He knew Prowl would not fall asleep easily, but he had one trick that always worked.

Yoketron lifted his son closer to himself, humming deep in his chest. Immediately, the little one’s attention snapped to him, rapt. He smiled, warm and fond, and lowered his head to press his forehead to his son’s. Prowl’s eyes closed at the soothing hum he heard from his Sire, though he obviously wasn’t falling asleep. Yoketron’s lips twitched into a bigger smile, and as he stared at his son he opened his mouth to croon an old lullaby.

“Goodnight my angel, time to close your eyes...”

Prowl woke with the echoes of an ancient lullaby in his ears. A song he’d thought he’d forgotten years ago. He stared at his ceiling, his room deep and dark enough to tell him that it was still night out, and wondered why he was awake. There was a breeze from the cracked open window, and his cheeks felt cool. He startled, sitting up slowly and lifting his fingers to touch his cheek. They came away damp, and his sleep-heavy mind struggled to understand why.

Something dropped to the blanket pooled on his lap. He looked down, noting a small wet spot, as if a drop of water had soaked into the fabric. He stared down, uncomprehending, and another joined it. That’s when it clicked. He was crying. His cheeks were wet with tears. Tears he was still shedding. But why...?

Then he remembered his dream. His Sire. It hadn’t been a dream, it had been a memory. An old one. He didn’t know how he was able to remember that. He’d been so young. He shuddered, still able to hear the peaceful rumble of Yoketron’s voice as he crooned that old lullaby. Without realizing it, he found himself grabbing the old ribbon from under his pillow, the only scrap of his Sire he had left. He clutched it in a fist, bringing his hands to press the heels of his palms into his eyes as he choked on a sob. He had forgotten that his Sire used to sing him that lullaby. It had always soothed him, even when he’d been big enough to think he didn’t need soothing.

Another ugly sob tore from his throat, and his shoulders shook as he fought to silence himself. He missed the Dojo. He missed the gardens. He missed the training hall. He missed the smell of old paper and ancient, well treated wood. He missed the sounds of training. He missed the peace. He missed Jazz him. He missed his Sire. He missed that lullaby. He missed home.

Prowl forced himself to lie down, curling his hands into his chest and rolling onto his side. He shuddered and heaved as he cried silently, his pillow soaking in the tears that fell. He screwed his eyes shut, knowing it wouldn’t help, but wanting only to fall back asleep and forget this breakdown ever happened.

He did drift off, eventually. As another breeze swept into his room through his open window and dried his tears, his mind, half-asleep and unfocused, could almost hear the echoes of a song on the wind that caressed his cheeks.

“Someday we'll all be gone

But lullabies go on and on

They never die

That's how you and I will be....”

✧

Also, probably fairly obvious, but the song for this drabble is Lullaby (Goodnight, My Angel) by Billy Joel. Listen and W E E P.

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thezombieprostitute · 3 months

Text

Dream Come True - Drabble

A/N: I just got done with an hour long meeting that was mostly debating the minutia of capitalization. I'm writing this because I desperately need to dumb down my brain for a minute as a result.

++++

You're finally home from a long day of putting out fires, trying to find solutions, and dealing with idiots. You end up closing the door much more harshly than you intend, startling yourself. You sigh, lock the door and start putting your things away.

Curtis comes over to you, eyes full of concern, "what's wrong?"

"Just a long day," you shake your head. "Just need to shut my brain down or something. Get some actual rest so I can get back to thinking but instead I'm so frazzled and---"

Curtis interrupts you with a kiss, that firm-with-just-the-right-amount-of-gentle that makes your knees weak. Without breaking the kiss he pushes you against the wall and you lean into him, returning his kiss. His hands roam, squeezing you in all the right places, as he starts removing your clothes.

He pulls away to take off your shirt and whispers, in that authoritative tone he knows makes you wet, "you're gonna lay on the bed, legs spread, and I'm gonna use my tongue to make you come so many times you can't even remember your own name."

#curtis everett smut #curtis everett x reader #garbage men au #mob!curtis everett #dream come true

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kaislittleheadliner · 3 years

Text

Dark Roast (Colin Zabel x Fem!Reader) - Part Three

Read Part One here. Read Part Two here. This is part three of the drabble that kinda took over my brain and became something else entirely. If you want me to tag you in this or future fics about Evan’s characters, let me know and I will be happy to add you to my taglist! I have maybe 2-3 chapters more planned, so stay tuned!

[A/N: I’m sorry if any characters are OOC. I have seen exactly 0% of “Mare of Easttown.” I just think Colin is a sweet detective boy and wanted to write about him. Also he’s not gonna die, because fuck that.]

Word Count: 1874

Warnings: Crime scene stuff - nothing too detailed or gory, but a body is mentioned because detectives investigating a crime. Swears like the “fuck” word. Use of coffee as a coping mechanism. Colin being an adorable puppy detective.

~*~

Colin and I arrived on the scene just in time to see Mare go up to the beat cop who’d answered the call of a reported gunshot. We listened as Mare got his story, and I glanced over his shoulder at the crime scene.

“And nothing has been touched, right?” Colin asked, and the constable answered that all he’d done was check the victim’s pulse to determine his status. “Good work. That’ll be all. Go make an official statement at the station, and we’ll take over from here.”

With that, the constable ambled away, leaving the three of us and the crime scene photographers to examine the room before forensics came in to do their work. We all donned rubber gloves and went about our tasks. Mare went to look at the body, calling out points of interest, Colin checked the locks on the windows, and I located the bullet and bagged it as evidence. As I knelt by the baseboard beside the door, I noticed something odd: there were two holes parallel to each other on either side of the door frame as if something had been screwed in and then removed. I gestured to the photographer to come over and make sure he got a shot of it. It may have been insignificant, but there was no harm in being thorough.

“Right, let’s start questioning the neighbors,” Mare said as she finished making a few notes. “Zabel, you and the junior detective start next door, and I’ll start across the street.”

I saw Colin’s jaw clench, but he nodded his head in acknowledgement before turning to me. I snapped a quick photo of the holes on my phone as well since the official crime scene photos still needed to be printed. Standing and giving Colin a soft smile, we made our way out and to the house next door.

- - - -

The first house was inhabited by a frazzled single mom with two young children. She hadn’t heard anything at the time of the murder, but had heard an argument earlier in the day. The house on the other side of the victim’s had stood empty for several years, so no luck on that front. Several houses later and without many more details to note, we finally found a neighbor who had been out running at the time. He’d heard what sounded like the pop of a champagne bottle, so he assumed there’d been a celebration.

When I asked him about the holes in the baseboard and shown him the photographs, he clammed up. None of the others we’d questioned even reacted to them beyond a confused denial of knowledge. When Colin and I thanked the man for his time and stepped outside, we gave each other a look. Clearly he knew more than he was letting on. The question was, what?

Mare met us near the squad cars and said she was going back to the station to go over preliminary forensics. We agreed we’d meet her there in a bit after wrapping things up at the crime scene. After taking statements and going over the room again, we made our way back to Colin’s car with more questions than we’d begun the day with.

“Colin?” He gave a hum in response, and I carried on. “Is the last scene still roped off?”

He looked up at me curiously.

“Yeah, why? You got a theory?” At his question I nodded my head quietly, and he smiled. “Well hot damn. Alright then, let’s go.”

As we got in his car, I noticed our travel mugs sitting side by side in the cup-holders and a pang of - longing, or maybe familiarity or comfort - washed over me at the casual domesticity of it all. For a split second, I couldn’t help but imagine our coffee cups side by side like this on the way to work every morning. Was it normal to get sentimental over coffee mugs of all things?

Probably not, which is why I said I was fine when Colin asked instead of telling him how I’d just imagined the impossible. We were silent for a couple of minutes as he started to drive, and I found myself fidgeting with my nails quietly.

“I’m sorry.” The small, quiet words startled me out of my anxious thoughts, and I looked up at Colin confused.

“What? What are you sorry for? You’ve been so kind to me, I mean, you’re even indulging this silly theory of mine.”

“I’m sorry you always get stuck with me. I know I’m not the one you’re trying to impress - not that you need anyone to impress, because you’re already amazing. I-I just meant, I know you’d rather show Mare what you can do since she’s been underestimating you,” he spoke quickly as though he was scared to say what was on his mind. “Don’t get me wrong, I love spending time with you and I love seeing the way your mind works. I just...I’m sorry you’re stuck with me all the time.”

I could do no more than blink a few times in absolutely stunned silence. Of all the things I thought he might try to say, that...that was definitely nowhere on the list. This sweet, self-conscious man...

“Colin...” I breathed his name as we reached a stop light at an empty intersection, and his eyes met mine. He seemed scared of what I was going to say, so I reached over and took one of his hands off the steering wheel, holding it gently but firmly in my grasp. “Don’t you ever apologize for me getting to work with you. I’m so much more comfortable and happy around you than I am around Mare or any of the other detectives, for that matter. Being stuck with someone means you want to get away, and...honestly, I don’t want to stop working with you. Obviously, if you get tired of working with me, then I’ll ask for a department transfer, but until then I’d like to stick with you, if I may.”

“O-Of course! I don’t ever want to stop working with you. Working out puzzles with you just feels...natural. And talking to you...I’ve never been so comfortable around anyone before. I absolutely love working with you,” he said giving one of my hands a squeeze and bringing it to his lips. I felt my cheeks heat up and my lips stretch into a smile at the small, intimate gesture. “Besides, you’re my coffee buddy. O-Or you can be, i-if you want to.”

“I would love to be your coffee buddy, Colin,” I said with a wide smile. The two of us grinned like idiots until a car behind us blew its horn, forcing us to let go of each other and move through the now green light.

- - - -

After finding similar holes in the baseboards of the previous crime scene, Colin and I took photos and puzzled over what it could mean. Nothing like a tripwire had been found, but that lack of evidence was consistent with the rest of the case as a whole. Every bit of evidence we did find was wrong somehow. This was more orchestrated and planned than any of these single deaths seemed on their own.

As we were walking out of the room, I looked to the side and something gleamed from under the side of the couch. I knelt down with my gloves on and picked up what looked like a hook - the kind normally used to hand bird feeders on porches. One end was a nearly complete loop, and the other had the metal threads of a screw.

Bingo. I bagged it with a small triumphant sound and turned to see Colin raise his eyebrows. I smiled happily and tossed the closed bag to him. He put two and two together and the smirk that crossed his lips was way sexier than it should have been. We raced back to the station to get our find down to the lab for fingerprinting.

“We’ve got ‘em now, I feel it in my bones,” Colin said as we strode down the hall to the office to tell Mare what we’d found. “I think we have all the pieces, we just have to figure out how they all fit together.”

“I’ve got an idea about that. Well, two actually, but only one can be true. It depends on the information forensics gets from today’s scene, though,” I said turning the problem over again in my mind for good measure. Before we reached the office, a warm hand sliding into mine stopped me in my tracks.

“No matter what happens with this case, I-I just want you to know that I’m really proud of you. You’ve only been here with us a few weeks, but you’re...fuck, you’re exceptional.” Colin’s words were warm, quiet, and they made me blush.

“No, Colin, I-” Before I could finish my thought, the door opened revealing an irritated Mare.

“And where the fuck have two been? You said you’d be right behind me. It’s been over an hour.” She stepped aside just far enough to let us in, and we both went toward Colin’s desk.

“Well, Junior had a theory,” he said tossing a wink in my direction. “We went to the scene of the last death and found exactly what she thought would be there.”

“It’s a hook of some kind. We took it to the lab,” I said pulling out my phone and showing her the holes I’d found. For once, her expression shifted from one of annoyance to something a little closer to being analytical.

“Huh...it’s small, but you never know. It could be important. Good work,” she said reluctantly, but reluctance or not she’d praised me. I kept my expression neutral as I took a seat and pulled out my notepad. “Right. Time to beat our heads against a concrete wall again. Let’s talk theories.”

- - - -

By the time we left the office that night, I was still ecstatic that I’d finally managed to do something right in Mare’s eyes. Colin seemed to share my joy, because he didn’t stop smiling all day. He’d offered to give me a ride home again, and this time as we walked out together toward his car, he flung his arm around my shoulders.

“I can see the headline now: Junior Detective Rises to Chief Inspector in Record Time!” I giggled a bit, but when I didn’t say much, he looked at me. “What is it?”

“Don’t count your chickens before they hatch. We have to solve this case before anything else. Besides, I wouldn’t want the credit anyway. I’d much rather the headline read: Hero Detective Solves Impossible Case and Awes Easttown!” I gave him a wink, and he blushed a bit. “You don’t give yourself enough credit, Detective Zabel, so I’ll just have to do it for you.”

The drive home that night was warmer, somehow. Maybe it was Colin’s hand holding mine the whole way there. This time we were so deep in conversation that he walked me to my door, and I couldn’t help but wish he’d kissed me before I went inside.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Taglist: @anonymushhy

#colin zabel #colin zabel x reader #colin zabel and his coffee #bc we all know that's the real ship #colin zabel fic #sfw #kaislittleheadliner fics #dark roast

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