#not in a...not in a combative way but in a sincere way. and its like. i dont think i even responded i was fucking flabbergasted

[readymades2002]

it is very frustrating because my mom does not know What The Deal Is but she certainly Suspects (for good reason. to be fair to her.) and she has Insinuated and she has Implied but she has not asked anything specifically. and its...not unreasonable for her to do this i guess because the last relationship i was in i didn't tell her for a year and a half. because the relationship BEFORE that was my first and it was with a girl and i asked her EXPLICITLY AND URGENTLY to not tell my dad about it because he was a massive homophobe and i knew this and saw this where she did not and she told him anyway and i have not trusted her since though, having few other options, i have continued to confide in her things that i should not confide in her that have then mysteriously made their way through all our shared coworkers back to me. and its.....its so. i don't know what to do about it. she..."stalked" is the wrong word but she followed my blog against my wishes and knowledge as a child and the more i lost trust in her and stopped talking to her the more she pried into my private life. i know my sister had similar experiences with her. and it has created this cycle where i keep trying to keep her out for my own privacy and dignity and safety and she just gets even more desperate and pathetic trying to get in after breaking my trust over and over and OVER again but i live with her and depend on her for far too many things and so it just. is this. awesomesauce

#have talked about it a bit with a few people and its...difficult? #i have always felt like i was the person standing between my parents when my dad was at his worst #and as kind of like. someone who failed to protect my family from him #and the last few months ive started recognizing patterns where 1) when my parents were united #was when there was a common threat and that common threat was ALWAYS me and my insanity. which feels. bad #and 2) my mother had no one to talk to about the horrific shit he said and so often ended up relaying #some of the worst things youve ever heard to me and my sister very conversationally #every thing he said about me that haunts me i heard when she told me and then went 'ha! isnt that so stupid he would say that?' #like. i guess its. she was a...i hate using it here but a Victim in thatsituation but im also starting to learn #that she was also a collaborator. and that she failed to protect us or take care of us often because she was scared of him #or sometimes because she agreed with him or hated/resented us or whatever. its. um #it is difficult. and every time i try to change and talk openly around her instead of being passive aggressive as i learned from her #she responds in the same guilt trippy icy way and says i am pissy or i think too black and white or do i think shes a bad person #and so i cannot...i cannot grow with her because it HURTS. every time. and ive just kind of...found it harder and harder to talk to her #at all. and her pain fills the apartment because she sees it happening. and it makes coming back here every day #even more unbearable even more crushing and i don't know what to do about it #it has been so weird. ive been trying to...change and grow. to be Real. to be truthful and to communicate well #for my friends and coworkers and family and i feel i've come so far sometimes #and then when it comes to her i just don't know how to do it because i don't trust her. #and when i try it only hurts both of us and i can't explain that to her because she WILL take it personally and she #she...everyone is capable of change. i believe that. to be alive is constant changing. but she refuses. #when she asked me if i thought she was a bad person she answered her own question going 'i dont think so. #i think you see things so much more black and white than i do and you're so easily offended and sensitive. i think im a good person' #not in a...not in a combative way but in a sincere way. and its like. i dont think i even responded i was fucking flabbergasted #where do you even GO from a statement like that lmao!!! god. its so frustrating. it is so so so fucking frustrating

[pinchofhoney]

broken promises, part one

part one | part two | part three »

coriolanus snow x fem!reader

word count: 1.8k

warning: none

summary: In Snow's world, only one thing mattered more than his family's reputation—you. But that was before he met Lucy Gray.

a/n: coryo is the type of person i sincerely hate and i'm glad that there are no such arrogant people in my life, who think they are better than others and who in crisis situations only care about themselves and to save their own arse. but at the same time i'm aware that young snow could be someone i'd catch a crush on at school. so why shouldn't i hate him even more?

pages that may interest you: masterlist ♡ taglist ♡ who i write for

taglist: you told me to tag you everywhere, so i'm back to doing it again; @wolfmoonmusic

gif is not mine, credit to the owner

The problem with snow is its tendency to melt, mirroring the way we once thought our feelings would endure forever. Yet, shouldn't emotions, particularly those nestled in our hearts, last longer?

You had known Coriolanus since childhood, and your families had always been close. You had grown up together, surviving the hardships of the war-torn Capitol side by side, and now, in the post-war era, you were still inseparable. There was an unspoken understanding between the two of you going above a simple friendship. Your connection ran deep, like the roots of the oldest trees in the Panem's forests.

Coriolanus was an intriguing character, a puzzle you had been solving together since you were children. He was the embodiment of Capitol charm, with his perfectly tailored suits, polished manners, and charismatic smile that could sway even the most skeptical of Capitol elites. But you knew that beneath that carefully constructed facade was a mind as sharp as a blade and a heart that carried the weight of his family's fallen reputation.

Yet, when he was with you, it was as if a different side of him emerged. The hard lines on his face softened, and his icy demeanor melted away. With you, he could be himself, unburdened by the expectations of Capitol society. It was a rare glimpse into the man behind the mask, and you cherished those moments even more than your favorite jasmine tea and the cat you found shortly after the war had ended.

You couldn't help but admire his intelligence, his quick wit, and his relentless determination to succeed in a world that often seemed stacked against him. His family's name might have been tarnished, but Coriolanus was determined to reclaim their lost glory. He was driven by a burning ambition that flickered like an eternal flame, and you were his unwavering support, the one who fanned that flame to keep it burning bright.

In your eyes, he was more than the sum of his flaws and ambitions. He was the boy you had shared secrets with under moonlit skies, the man who had held you when the world crumbled around you, and the person who knew you better than anyone else. With him, you felt safe, cherished, and loved in a way that no one else could replicate.

Your love for him was boundless, and you were content in the knowledge that you were his confidante, the one person he could be truly vulnerable with. Your relationship with Coriolanus was the envy of many in academy, a seemingly perfect match of two souls intertwined by fate and affection. You were the golden couple, a shining example of love and devotion in a world that often lacked both.

But you wished you had known sooner that it's often the things we love most that destroy us, as Coriolanus Snow's world was about to collide with that of a girl named Lucy Gray and you were not ready for it to happen.

As the day of the tribute's arrival approached, you had been by Coriolanus's side more than ever. The weeks leading up to this moment had been filled with your unwavering support. You had reassured him countless times, sitting together in your cozy bedroom, his head resting gently on your thighs while you combed your fingers through his soft blonde curls. It was a calming gesture, one that had become a comforting routine. You listened to his concerns, his fears, and his ambitions, and you were sure that everything would be fine, that he would be just perfect as a mentor, and that his scholarship and dreams of continuing his studies at the university were within reach.

Your words were like a soothing melody to him, a reminder that he wasn't alone in this daunting new role. He would look into your eyes with his cold ones, filled with gratitude, and you could see the weight lifting from his shoulders, if only temporarily. And in those moments, you felt like his anchor, the one who kept him grounded amid the chaos of his own thoughts.

Now, you both stood at the nearly deserted train station, the oppressive heat of the day hanging heavily in the air. The scorching sun beat down relentlessly, casting shimmering waves of heat across the empty platform. It seemed that most of the Capitol's citizens had chosen to stay indoors, seeking refuge from the sweltering weather.

The only other souls present were a handful of stoic peacekeepers, their pristine white uniforms stark against the dull backdrop of the station. The silence was broken only by the distant hum of the city beyond, a reminder of the bustling Capitol life that lay just outside the station's borders.

Coriolanus tightly held a single white rose plucked from his grandmother's garden, a symbol of his intent to make a lasting impression on his tribute. It was a stark contrast to the vibrant colors of your academy uniforms. The simplicity of the white rose spoke of his sincerity and dedication to this new role as mentor.

With no clear timetable for the tribute train's arrival, the two of you stood patiently, pretending that the day's weather didn't bother you, the weight of uncertainty hanging over you like a heavy cloud. Coriolanus shifted his gaze between the tracks and the single white bloom in his hand.

You observed him closely, and when his gaze finally met yours, you offered a reassuring smile. “Remember, Coryo,” you murmured, “no matter what, you'll be the mentor she needs; your sincerity and kindness will shine through.”

“I hope you're right, Y/N,” he replied softly, his voice filled with a hint of doubt. “I need her to survive on the arena as long as she can,” he added, as if the idea of a group of vulnerable youths engaging in brutal competition in just a few days were the most ordinary occurrence in the world.

But that was precisely what it represented for the Capitol residents – the Hunger Games, an annual spectacle of entertainment.

Time seemed to stretch endlessly under the unrelenting sun, and the station remained eerily devoid of any signs of life. It felt as though hours had passed, but in truth, you couldn't be sure. Beads of perspiration formed on your brows, and you could feel the heat radiating from the platform's surface.

You and Coriolanus were on the verge of giving up and returning to the cool embrace of your penthouses when, at long last, the distant rumble of an oncoming train reached your ears. The sound grew steadily louder, and you looked at each other, exchanging tired glances.

Coriolanus's grip on the white rose tightened as he turned his gaze towards the approaching train. As he rose from the bench where you had sat, his anticipation peaked. You stood beside him, wanting to be his support, but you had no idea that your role was about to change very soon.

The train pulled into the station with a hiss of steam and the screech of brakes, billowing clouds of moisture and smoke into the scorching air. The two of you watched the machine in silent, your heart pounding in your chest. This was the moment when you would come face to face with people from the Districts, individuals whose lives were so far removed from the opulence and extravagance of your own. It was a rare and humbling experience, one that left you with a slight quiver in your step as you clung to Coriolanus, seeking solace in his reassuring presence.

For what felt like an eternity, nothing happened. The train's doors remained sealed shut, as if holding its cargo of tributes in a reluctant embrace. The only thing that reached you was an unpleasant stench wafting from the carriages, a stark reminder of the grim reality that these young souls were about to face.

Finally the impatient peacekeepers took matters into their own hands. They descended upon the train, their authoritative presence enough to scare the tributes out of their temporary sanctuary. One by one, they were herded onto the platform, their expressions ranging from fear to defiance.

And then, your eyes locked onto a figure unlike the others. A girl stood there, her presence a stark contrast to the muted palettes of others tributes. She wore a rainbow-colored dress that shimmered with vibrancy, a flare of color and individuality amidst the sea of old attire. You recognized her immediately from the television screens, a girl whose name had already become a part of your daily life even before this encounter.

Lucy Gray Baird.

The very name whispered in the hushed tones of Capitol citizens as they watched her on the screens, intrigued and fascinated by her enigmatic presence from the Reaping. Her gaze swept across the platform, and for a brief moment, your eyes locked onto each other's.

You couldn't help but break into a warm, welcoming smile. With a cheerful wave of your hand, you signaled to her that both you and Coriolanus were eagerly awaiting her arrival, hoping to ease the initial tension of this life-altering moment.

Lucy Gray's response was a hesitant yet appreciative smile in return. Her steps were slow and cautious as she walked slowly toward you, a palpable sense of curiosity radiated from her, her eyes flitting between the unfamiliar faces that lined the platform.

Your gaze briefly shifted to Coriolanus, a subtle expectation in your heart that his eyes would mirror the warmth you felt. But when you looked at him, you noticed something different. It was as if his eyes were magnetically drawn to Lucy Gray, locked onto her with a nearly unwavering intensity that bordered on fixation. Those eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, now held an expression you had never quite seen before. It was as though he had stumbled upon a priceless museum exhibit, left captivated, awestruck, and undeniably intrigued.

A soft, knowing smile played at the corners of your lips, silently acknowledging his reaction to the girl before you. You gently squeezed his hand, a gesture of affection and solidarity. You understood that this moment bore immense significance for him, that he was on the corner of a journey filled with unforeseen challenges. Lucy Gray was the keynote of this new chapter in his life, and you couldn't help but admire her from a distance, captivated by her unique presence and the aura that surrounded her.

Before you could utter a word, Coriolanus took a determined step forward, his eyes still locked on the girl. He extended his hand, offering her the pristine white rose he had clutched throughout the wait and with a subtle nod, he greeted her in a tone that resonated with formality and welcome.

“Welcome to the Capitol.”

part two »

#do you hear that? it's the sound of snow falling #the hunger games #the hunger games fanfiction #the hunger games headcanon #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #the ballad of songbirds and snakes fanfiction #10th hunger games #coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow fanfiction #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow imagine #coriolanus snow scenario #established relationship #tom blyth #tom blyth fanfiction #hunger games #hunger games fanfiction #hunger games headcanon #hunger games x reader #ballad of songbirds and snakes #ballad of songbirds and snakes fanfiction #lucy gray baird #sejanus plinth #x reader #x y/n

[macfrog]

walking through fire | one shot

just something that's been on my mind the last few weeks. i hope that you're all ok going into this difficult time of year. and if there's any part of this, big or small, that you find yourself resonating with - there will always be a warm, cozy chair in my inbox/dms, free for you to come sit, hang; we can talk about everything or nothing at all. love you guys. 🤍

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader

summary: you’re neck-deep in a bout of seasonal depression. your boyfriend suggests an autumnal walk. (better than most healthcare systems offer amarite)

warnings: quite literally about depression & anxiety so please read at your own discretion. established relationship, fluffy soft!joel takes care of his girl, implied suicidal thoughts, use of medication to treat depression/anxiety, feelings of worthlessness/burdening, but hope! in the end! a wee sliver of hope!

word count: 2.7k

main masterlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🖤

November turns on itself all too quickly.

Your body feels like lead, sinking deep into the mattress. Like a broken, rusted shipwreck at the bottom of the ocean; your hand lying limp above the bedsheets like a sailor’s last attempt at reaching over the waves for help.

Joel opened the blinds today. Nuzzled into you, the scruff of his beard sharp on your numb skin, and then stood up and slowly unveiled the glaring light of white cloud. You shrunk further into the bed, your hot breath suffocating you under the sheets. Inhaling and exhaling, breathing in your own rotten air.

He pushes the door open and shuffles across to the bed. Your sea dips when he lowers into it, two arms slipping around your waist like a lifebuoy. He pulls you into his chest; his warm body melting the ice of your bones.

“Hey,” he whispers, and drags his nose across your cheek. He kisses your temple, combs his fingers through your hair. Dabs his thumb along your bottom lip and then says again, “Hey, darlin’. You awake?”

Your eyes flutter open, only enough to see the blurry shape of him; the strong curve of his shoulder, the binary of dark cotton and pale skin.

“Hi, baby. How you feelin’ this mornin’?”

The words catch on the dry cliff of your throat, dangling for a few seconds like panicking climbers, before plummeting into the abyss. You settle for an incoherent mumbling, a vibration on your lips that Joel understands through the pad of his thumb.

“Yeah,” he sniffs, “not so good, huh? That’s okay. You know how much I love you?”

And that peels your eyes open a fraction more. Only enough to sharpen the image of him, to find the dark pools of his eyes and the way the flame in them flickers as he says it.

“Love you so much,” he whispers. The tiny fire thaws the very bottom of your heart, even if only enough to keep the blood pushing heavily through your veins.

Your eyes close over again, and you take his shirt in two weak fists, pulling yourself into his body. Your head fits in the crook of his arm, burying into his side.

“You feel like leavin’ the house today?” he asks, voice sweet and earnest. “Just for a little while? We could go for a walk, could go for a drive. Just you ‘n me, sweet girl.”

You shake your head, your eyes prickling from the sincerity of his question. The guilt beginning to creep its way over your shoulders.

“No? You don’t wanna?” He lifts his head, staring out at the view from the window. “’s a nice day out. Cold, but it’s dry, ‘n the leaves are all orange and yellow, just like you like. Not even for a half hour?”

That same guilt – sneering, bullying – pokes a sharp-clawed finger in your ribs until you answer him. “Tired,” you mumble, screwing your eyes shut until you see the sudden, violent assault of stars in your vision.

“I know you’re tired, baby,” Joel says, stroking your back. “But it might do you a little good to get some fresh air. And you’d be with me, and we can come back home whenever you decide.”

Your fear and shame seem to cower beneath his words; melted by the soft timbre of his voice. They retreat inward, burrowing deep between the cage of your ribs, twisting and mangling around your pale bones.

“We can come back whenever?” you whisper, defying their threats.

“Whenever, darlin’. Promise.”

You surrender yourself, letting him take you in his arms and carry you over to your closet, where he sets you down gently. Keeping an arm around your waist, Joel waits patiently as you pick an outfit, and then helps drape it over your frame. You feel more statue than human – solid substance rather than plush flesh. Cold and brittle; the tender touch and lively glow drained from your skin the same way it drains so quickly of energy.

You’ve been fighting for years. Months and months and months of one step at a time and just keep going. Being told you’re more than what’s going on in your brain, being told not to let it become you. But there are days when you stand before the mirror, and you don’t recognize the figure staring back at you. The dark tunnels in place of eyes, the thin line of her lips.

There are days you can see the marks on your skin from how tight your anxiety and depression bind you; wrapping like ivy around your body until there’s nothing left of you to see through the dark green leaves. Just a haggard, shapeless thing. A skeleton too tired to carry the weight of yourself; a heart too weary to beat in time.

There once existed a time you had smiled, even laughed – you know it, you have the lines scored deep into your cheeks to prove it. Sometimes they ache when you think about it, like even they miss the feeling. Joel knows it, too – you sense it whenever he tells some dumb joke, sense that he’s searching your face for the slightest lift, the slightest dip of a dimple. And it fucking kills you, when you realize you have nothing sincere or true to offer him. No swollen cheeks, no flash of teeth. At best, a heavier exhale pushed from your nostrils.

It all feels so long ago, that lighter, fresher, happier you. It feels so far from your clutches. Like you’re drifting further and further from the surface, disappearing into the murky depths of your own mind.

The doctors, the articles, the fucking motivational posts on Instagram all say the same. Keep fighting it. Confront your illness. Prove it wrong. But you’re so fucking tired of fighting. Fighting it the entire drive to work, your heart threatening to burst; fighting it every conversation you have, your façade slowly cracking. Swallowing the panic like you swallow the medication; both of them sticking in your throat and refusing to go down.

There is no fighting it. There is no overcoming through confrontation. If you broke your leg, shattered every bone to dust, would they say the same? You gotta walk on it straight away to make it strong again. You don’t think so.

Joel doesn’t seem to think so, either. Joel, with a heart of molten gold, ready at every turn to let it pour onto your skin and paint it the color of sunlight when you can’t do it yourself. Joel, with his strong arms and wide reach, bundling you up over the top of all that foul ivy and snapping its thick stems with just his fingers.

Joel, who will sit at the edge of your bed and watch you take your meds; kiss your forehead and squeeze you tight when you show him your empty mouth. Joel, who will hold you in the dead of night and tell you stupid stories about his brother when they were kids, rubbing your back and chasing the dark ghosts from your mind.

Joel, who still sees something in you – whether he’s imagining it or not – and decides each day that it’s worth protecting. Worth saving. You’re worth saving, even on the days you don’t believe it yourself.

He drives for ten minutes, a little out of the suburbs and into a thicket of fire-colored leaves and solid, frozen ground. Fall sinks its teeth deep into the roots of the earth, drying up the bloom of summer and replacing it with something harder, something tougher. Nature is dying in the November breeze – the amber leaves painted the color of the trees’ blood as they fight a losing battle against the shifting of time. You feel yourself decaying with it: a drawn-out, painful surrender to the bleak days and dark nights.

Joel keeps his hand on your thigh the entire ride; you keep your fingers intertwined with his. The fluttering in your chest gets quicker and quicker, spreads its wings wider the further you feel from home. Your mouth dries up, forcing you to swallow after every third breath. But his hand stays there, planted on you like the root of an ancient tree: never shifting, no matter how strong the wind throws punches.

A shaky breath falls from your lips when he slows to a halt, the truck parked by a long wooden gate. He cuts the engine and turns to you, squeezing your leg lightly.

“We’re just gonna walk down there,” he nods out the window, “and back again. As slow as you like, ‘n we turn back when?”

“Whenever I want,” you whisper, nodding.

“Whenever you want, darlin’. Just say the word, alright? Sound good?”

You nod, blinking away the strain of tears across your vision. Your knee bounces, the metal buckles on your boots clinking in the footwell.

Joel rubs his thumb against your cheek. Lifts your free hand and places a delicate kiss to your knuckles. “I am so proud of you,” he mumbles against them, like scoring it into the bone.

You fill your cheeks, flattening your lips together, and he pulls on his door handle.

Five paces from the car, you realize how cold it is. The bitter air snaps at your cheeks, drags the salty tears from your eyes. Joel quickly fixes the collar of your jacket and pulls your scarf over your face.

“You bring gloves?” he asks.

Your head shakes in response.

“Here.” He fishes in the pockets of his tan jacket for a dark brown pair, flicking his fingers for you to hold your quivering hands out. He slips them on, all too big for you, and then knots his fingers through yours and leads you on down the sloping backroad.

Bordered by tall trees on either side, you feel secluded and hidden from the rest of the world. It fills you with equal parts comfort and terror: nobody else is here. No one can see your vacant eyes, the wet stain of fallen tears on your cheeks. Not the vice grip you have on your boyfriend or the weak quiver of your voice.

And at the same time: nobody else is here. No people, no sign of life. Just an isolated track, the looming trees overhead, the squelch of muck and the bite of fall for company.

Joel matches your pace, strolling along by your side with your arm through his and his hand resting on top of yours. He catches your glances over your shoulder, sees the jittery movements of your head as you scan the scene around you, and pats the back of your hand tenderly.

“Take a deep breath for me.”

You fill your lungs with a chilly gulp of air, pushing it back out again as steadily as you can.

“And again.”

You repeat the exercise, your chest swelling against your buttoned up coat.

“You’re doin’ great,” he says, looking down at you. “You feelin’ okay?”

“I’m – Yeah, I’m just…” you twist back to search for the wooden gate, “…can’t see the truck anymore.”

“’s right there, promise ya. You wanna go back?”

He pauses, and your boots scuff to a halt on the stony terrain. You chew the inside of your cheek, eyebrows arching to release more tears from between your lashes. “No,” you breathe, “I wanna try to go further.”

“Then let’s try to go further. Yeah?”

You nod, setting off when you realize he’s waiting for you to take the lead.

The fields on either side of you are strung with a thick blanket of mist from one end to the other, masking the trees at the opposite side and obscuring the line between earth and sky. Your body close to Joel’s, your heartbeat attempting to match the steady pace of his, you feel safe, protected. The promise that you can call it a day whenever your body begins to weigh too much, whenever your lungs begin to falter.

Somewhere between the thinning of the hedgerows, another slanted, shabby gate materializes. Its crisscross panels and worn wooden posts separating you from the first company in your twenty-minute walk.

“Joel,” you call, loosening your grip on his arm and wandering over to the long, dewy grass towards a chestnut horse, a sliver of white fur diving deep between her eyes.

She slowly thumps over, huge hooves sinking deep into the soft dirt. Her long tail swishing, navy rug wrapped around her midriff. She docks at the gate, puffing a heavy breath – hot, thick clouds shooting from each nostril.

“Hi,” you say quietly, lifting a floppy-gloved hand for her to sniff. “Joel?” you say again, glancing down at her swollen belly, the low droop of the rug. “I think she might be pregnant.”

She tosses her head up, ears flicking, and nuzzles into the soft material of Joel’s glove. You feel her wrinkled muzzle, the strong, solid bridge of her nose. She blinks slowly; huge, deep brown eyes twinkling in the late-morning light, and you swear she’s trying to communicate something to you.

“Hey, girl,” Joel says, running a careful hand down her mane.

The horse sighs serenely, eyes flitting between the two of you. Her nostrils flare gently, light brown lashes fluttering. You tilt your head, stroking her and letting her teeth graze the sleeve of your jacket. Her bulky head turns to-and-fro, glancing up and down the trail you’re stood on, contently waiting for the passage of time. Enjoying her view from the misty field before it all changes again.

Unexpected and unwelcome, the absence of compression in your chest suddenly makes itself known. Dread spills into your lungs, thick like tar. You turn on your heel and cast Joel one fleeting glance.

He catches it, and without missing a beat, asks, “You ready to go?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Is that okay?”

“’s more ‘n okay, baby. You did so good today. Didn’t she?” he asks the horse, who huffs another hot breath. Joel tosses a thumb towards her. “See?”

You step back over to the animal, now preparing to wander back on home, and give her one last tender stroke. She blinks twice, tosses her head a final time, and her broad body turns, thudding off back up the slope.

As he links your arms again, Joel blinks down at you, the corners of his mouth slowly lifting.

“What?” you ask, shyly.

“Look at you,” he says, nudging your shoulder with a glint in his eye. “You’re smilin’.”

Autumn flashes by as Joel drives you home – ginger and bronze and honey and cinnamon blurring into one as you pass them by. You settle back against the headrest, moving with the sway of the truck, your tired fingers tracing blind shapes on Joel’s palm.

Nature is burning. Perhaps dying is too harsh a term. Burning in preparation for the winter, when it will lay dormant and restful. Quiet, save for the crunch of snow beneath your feet. Bland, save for the sparkle of frost on your windowpanes. The droplets of beauty laced through, the little reminders that not all has been lost.

I am burning right now, the earth says, but wait until you see what I can become.

The days will turn to night. The sun will tear the sky to tatters, set the whole thing fucking ablaze, go down in a battle stained in red and orange and deep, dark blue – and she will still return, spilling golden all over the horizon. She always does.

The clouds will cover overhead, dampening the color on earth. The blues will fade to gray, the yellows will undoubtedly pale. And then the sky will clear, when it is ready; the clouds will break in two to let a ribbon of cerulean burst through.

The leaves will fall to the ground and feed the soil; new ones will sprout from buds left in their wake. The ground will thaw, will soften again in time to welcome the push of daisies and burst of heather. The horse will foal, the birds will sing to their babies, the buzz of insects will irritate your ears; the rivers will gush and the trees will sway and you will be okay again.

You will be okay again.

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller au #joel miller fluff #the last of us #tlou #tw mental illness #tw depression #tw anxiety

[gentrychild]

O great Owl and thou noble fic-finding rats I come because I have failed to find that which I need.

There is a work, apart of your Anyone universe, where Izuku is writing a Quirk Analysis Paper and he wakes AfO up so he can see a mutation quirk which enlarges AfO's arm. I have combed through all of Anyone and then through your side works that take place in this universe. But I found nothing.

The only thing I can think is that it was a tumblr post or a fanfic one of your blog mates wrote for you. But alas, I am still here.

In exchange I swear that if my firstborn ever starts stealing quirks I will buy all the therapists, and if that fails I will leave him to your fic-finders with no rivers in sight. And they may nibble on him for all of forever.

With reverence and sincerity, -me

I have some bad news and good news for you. The bad news is that his is something I wrote and posted on Tumblr, and you will never find it again even if you scroll through the entire Anyone tag. The good news is that you must be especially lucky as I found it by pure luck in a file I had forgotten.

----------

Izuku, sitting on his bed, books and notebooks opened on all of its surface, clicked his pen. Once, twice, thrice, the sound echoing in the silent apartment without doing anything to bring the answer the teenager desperately needed.

Usually, deadlines weren’t a problem for him. For some obscure reasons, the teachers in his high school were trusting him no matter what he did and forging his mom’s signatures to excuse his many absences had become the routine. However, he needed to finish this paper for tomorrow morning, so Hebisuga could read it and save her grade in Meta Analysis. That way, she would stop worrying so much about this subject, focus back on her Japanese, and write once again her ridiculously good flash cards that she always accepted to share with Yuuto and him.

But right now… Izuku’s brain just wasn’t cooperating.

He got up, his back protesting as he stopped hunching over for the first time in a couple of hours, and he left his bedroom. His notebook in hand, he walked past the bathroom and knocked at the door of the master bedroom, currently invaded by the bane of his existence while his blissfully ignorant mother was away.

The door opened in the second, All for One appearing in front of him, his hair messy and his face showing the trace of the pillow but no sign of sleepiness. The villain was one of those persons who immediately passed from sleep to alertness while Izuku needed three cups of coffee to be semi-conscious.

“What is it?” the villain asked. “Did you-“

“Show me your mutation quirks, please. Preferably the one that can offer some kind of protection.”

“What makes you think that-“                                                                       

Izuku clicked his pen once again and just stared at the quirk-stealing-fiend.

All for One finally obliged, making his arm grow in size, muscles growing until it had gruesomely swollen up, and he even added some spear-like bones. Bewildered, he answered every questions Izuku had about the drawbacks, the weight, how much he could still move his arm, and so on.

Because if analyzing quirks was his passion and could become a job, words in a book didn’t mean anything to Izuku. He needed to ask questions, to make theories, to see them in action.

Once he was done and had all the elements he needed, he thanked All for One and walked back to his room without offering any explanation. But of course, his roommate didn’t need one.

“Did you just use me to finish your homework? At three AM?”

#anyone fic #anyone snippet #Thank you for doing your part in preventing the birth of a new AFO

[boneblushed]

Untouchable

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

synopsis It is crucial that the head boy and girl of Kildare Academy learn to work together. Too bad the head girl is you and the head boy is Rafe Cameron.

wc 3k

When Rafe walks into the library on Wednesday afternoon, he tries hard to act as though he didn’t mean to arrive on time. You’re already set up at that table near the back, the one that he knows you’re partial to — another fact he’ll pretend to forget. Sturdy oak bookshelves surround the study area, shielding your figure from prying eyes.

“Cameron,” you acknowledge as his footsteps near, keeping your gaze trained on the book in front of you. The words jumble. His overgrown locks, erring on the softer side of damp, drip thick water droplets onto the table as he halts just short of it.

“Y/L/N,” he responds, equally as formal. A little less as he takes a seat beside you, recognises your closeness. He’s a heady mix of chlorine and vetiver cologne, the body heat on his skin pressing over you in waves.

You blink. He isn’t late, like you’d expected him to be, so you find yourself grappling for another critique to fill the air. You and him have always preferred cutting jibes over menial pleasantries.

Well, mostly you. “Swim practice?” You ask, turning your head to face him.

“Small talk?” He returns, raising his eyebrows playfully. He doesn’t expect your eyes to widen the way they do before you look away again, almost as though the insinuation has you feeling a little abashed. It’s fleeting, but Rafe Cameron notices anyway. He wills himself not to read into it.

“You’re right,” you say, feeling your cheeks warm and clearing your throat in dissent. “No need to make this meeting any longer than it needs to be.”

“Not what I meant,” Rafe replies, leaning back in his chair until it’s balancing on its hind legs. “Just surprised that you’re being nice to me for once.”

You scoff. “That was hardly nice.”

“So you agree?” Rafe asks, cocking his head to one side. “You’re playing hard to get on purpose?”

“I’m not playing anything,” you respond irritatedly, your traitorous cheeks burning. “I just have zero interest in being your friend.”

Rafe rests his hands behind his head matter-of-factly, the posture change dropping your gaze to his broad torso. “Who said anything about friends?”

“Cameron,” you warn, bringing your eyes back up to his face.

“Colleagues,” he adds in lieu of an apology, raising his eyebrows. “Partners. Why? What’d you think I was implying?”

“You know what,” you accuse, not answer, folding your arms across your chest.

He grins at this, triumphant, which only makes you want to do the opposite. “And here I thought you were somehow immune to my flirting.”

“You call it flirting,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him, “I call it harassment.”

Rafe falters. The hind legs of his chair hit the ground with a low thud, and he leans forward a little, the furrow in his brow evident. You aren’t used to him so sombre. Something in your stomach twists at the revelation.

“Damn,” he replies then, his voice lower now, gruffer. “That bad?”

Maybe it’s his sincerity that throws you. “I — okay, not quite,” you say, back-tracking without meaning to. “I don’t know. A little.”

Rafe combs his fingers through his damp hair, sheepish. Droplets of warm water fly onto your open notebook. “I thought you liked arguing with me.”

“I wouldn’t say —” you falter at his knowing expression, drawing your bottom lip between his teeth, “— okay, maybe a bit.”

“I thought it was our thing.”

You frown. “We don’t have a thing.”

“Shit, clearly,” Rafe replies defeatedly, dropping his hand back onto the table. “I… have you always felt like this?”

“Pretty much since that prank in sophomore year, yeah,” you mutter abashedly, a tell-tale heat creeping up your cheeks.

Rafe furrows his brow. “Prank?”

“Don’t make me repeat it, Cameron,” you say, the heat growing ten-fold.

“I don’t remember a prank, though,” he replies, frowning bemusedly. “You don’t mean that time I fucked with the light fixture before our math test, right?”

“No,” you pause, frowning in tandem. “Though to be fair, that was a major pain in everyone’s asses.”

“What then?”

“When you asked me out, you douchebag,” you reproach, reasonably incensed. “How can you not remember that? Yelling across the classroom with your little posse surrounding you?”

Rafe angles back in surprise, his blue eyes widening. “What? That wasn’t a prank.”

“Cameron,” you say, in an as if sort of tone.

“Y/L/N.” His voice is rougher, gravelly around the edges. Desperate sounding. “I mean,” he runs his fingers through his hair in a rush, “fair enough that you thought it was — not exactly my greatest moment. But you had to have known I had the biggest thing for you back then. I thought I made it so fucking obvious.”

“A thing for me?” You echo, warm cheeks becoming an overwhelmingly warm neck.

“Fuck,” he exhales, “clearly I didn’t though, huh? Shit, I’m sorry. This whole time you thought —”

“It’s fine,” you say abruptly. Talking about this is making your stomach hurt more. “I didn’t think anything, alright?”

“Let me make it up to you,” Rafe tries. “Stop with the silly comments.”

You don’t know how to tell him that will somehow make it worse. At least with his wayward flirting and cocky jibes, you always know exactly what to expect from him — nothing. You have a funny feeling a rogue Rafe Cameron will hurt you more than a predictable one. Be harder to keep at arms length, an ignorable distance away from you.

“You know how you can make it up to me?” You ask, pointing down at the notebook in front of you. “By pulling your own weight.”

“Pulling it? I mean… I can definitely bench it.” He tries not to grin when this earns a glare. “You’re right, sorry. Force of habit.”

You eye him warily before looking away, the half-filled page below you an obnoxious white. “I’m not interested in your excuses, Cameron.”

“No. Of course not.” Rafe nods agreeably, reaching into his bag and pulling out his Macbook. “You’re interested in a collaborative effort.”

“Actually,” you say, making a face. “That’s what Cromwell’s interested in.”

“My six-pack, then?”

“Cameron.”

“Sorry, shit, listen,” Rafe replies, grinning sheepishly. “Pulling my own weight, yeah? I’m already doing that Y/L/N.”

He opens up a half-written speech on his laptop, sliding it across the hardwood table toward you. His elbow grazes the side of your torso as he does so, nudging a bolt of static through your skin and into your ribcage.

You squint down at the document in front of you, the frown on your face acquiescing a smidge. “You did this?” A skeptical pause. “All on your own?”

“Shit, you’re right,” Rafe replies, leaning in to look over the script in tandem. His bicep feels warm as it presses into you, chlorine and musk, overwhelming body heat. “No way a jock could actually know that many words, huh?”

You roll your eyes at him, trying to hide your mirth. “You’ve missed more classes for Varsity crap than I can count on my fingers, Cameron.”

“Damn,” he murmurs, ducking his head closer. “Didn’t realise you kept tabs, Y/L/N.”

You realise then that Rafe has zero concept of personal space. “Because I don’t,” you say, clearly your throat awkwardly. “Let’s stay on topic.”

“Yes ma’am,” Rafe responds, his voice still low, a little rough. He pulls his laptop back toward him, glancing over the brainstorm scrawled over your notebook’s pages.

Slowly but surely, you manage to collate your ideas into a coherent opening speech. The fact that you share the same goals, a similar vision, definitely means that this process is far easier than you’d expected. It’s strange, agreeing on so much whilst being so different. Perhaps you didn’t expect him to care about the Academy as much as you do.

By the time your penultimate draft is typed up, the Autumn sun is beginning its descent into the horizon.

You lean over his forearm as the pair of you read over it, his neck bowed a little, dirty-blonde locks flopping over his forehead. Once damp, they’re fluffy with static, completely dry. Not to mention, his shoulder is paperweight heavy, a comfortable wall to rest on as you backspace or enter.

Too comfortable. The pair of you read over the last line in tandem, once, twice, three times, an excuse to linger against each other.

As your gaze drops to the bottom of the screen, it glosses over the time in the corner. 5.30pm — has it really been that long? You clear your throat abruptly, pushing away from him with a start.

“I think that’s good,” you say.

He regards you for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Yeah. I’m pretty happy with it.”

“Well then.” You gather up your belongings and reach for your tote; it’s clear that you’re in a hurry, a revelation that makes Rafe’s chest feel funny. “I guess I’ll see you —”

“How’re you getting home?” Rafe interrupts.

“Walking?” You reply, sending him a funny look. “I don’t live very far.”

As you push back your chair and make to stand, Rafe’s hand on your shoulder demands a pause. It presses warm static into the skin underneath your blouse. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure, Cameron,” you huff, shaking him off reluctantly.

“Alright, well,” he pauses, scratching the back of his neck, “you’ll be here early on Friday morning?”

You nod. “Of course I will.”

“Let me pick you up, then,” he says. “Save you the trouble of walking.”

“Walking isn’t a trouble.”

“It’s meant to rain on Friday,” Rafe lies.

You raise your eyebrows at him. “I’ve got an umbrella.”

“And I’ve got a free seat in my car,” Rafe returns, throwing his laptop into his bag and standing up too. It forces your gaze to move up as he straightens to his full height, the evening sun creating a golden halo around his head. “C’mon. I’ll even let you play deep-cut Taylor Swift on the way.”

“And why,” you accuse, narrowing your eyes out of habit, “would you let me do that?”

“Because we’re friends,” Rafe answers simply.

“Partners,” you correct.

“Same difference, though, yeah?”

“Hm,” you say, turn around and beginning to walk away. “Is it, though?”

“I sure hope so.”

—

On Friday morning, Rafe Cameron breaks a record. He manages to elicit anger at an alarmingly early seven o’clock.

When you climb into his pick-up truck with worn-out limbs and a tired expression, you don’t expect to find an iced latte sitting in your cup holder.

You frown down at it reproachfully, sending him an accusatory look. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Rafe raises his eyebrows, his own beverage already half-finished. “Who said it was for you?” He asks, his blue eyes full of mirth. “Maybe I need two coffees this early in the morning.”

“Cameron,” you groan.

“You’re allowed to say thank you, you know,” he replies, putting the car into drive. He nudges the drink expectantly before resting his hand back on the gearshift, his rough fingers flexing and relaxing intermittently.

“Thank you,” you mutter, accepting it begrudgingly.

“Fucking hell,” he murmurs back, trying not to smile. “You’d think I was making you drink poison or something.”

You take a frustrated sip before responding to him. “I just — you didn’t have to do that, alright?” You repeat. “Next one’s on me.”

“This isn’t an IOU, Y/L/N, think my mom’d roll over in her grave if it was,” Rafe replies, and then he falters, as if he hadn’t meant to mention her so casually. “Partners buy each other coffees all the time, yeah? It isn’t a big deal.”

It’s a big deal to me, you think. You have a funny feeling partners will prove a slippery slope when it comes to him.

“Whatever,” you mutter, taking another pull of your coffee. Miraculously, it’s been made exactly the way you like it — with oat milk and a pump of vanilla, notes of brown sugar sweetening every sip. You try not to read into this.

“Got any plans for the weekend?” Rafe asks, evidently making small talk.

“None.” A pause. “You?”

“Kelce’s having a thing,” Rafe responds, glancing over at you fleetingly. “Saturday night. Meant to turn into a pretty big rager.”

“Right,” you say. “Cool.”

Rafe slows to a stop at the traffic light preceding the Academy, its brilliant turrets painted a sunrise ochre. “Come.”

“Are you asking or commanding, Cameron?” You return, raising your eyebrows at him.

“Neither,” he replies, grinning roguishly. “Begging, actually.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“None of my friends are going,” you answer simply, raising your eyebrows at him. His head is lolled to your side and yours to his, close enough in proximity to discern every handsome crease on his face.

“I’m going,” he replies, his gaze falling over your features, slow.

The light turns green, then, saving you from having to think of a response to his admission. You turn away from him and take another sip of your iced latte, waiting for him to pull into a park before promptly changing the subject.

“Straight to the assembly hall, you think?” You ask, unbuckling and getting out of his pick-up truck.

“Crommy’ll already be there, yeah,” Rafe responds, slurping down the last of his beverage before aiming it at the rubbish bin in the distance. When he propels his plastic cup towards it and misses, you can’t help the peal of laughter that bubbles out of you.

He turns his head toward you, pleasantly surprised by your mirth. It isn’t often that Rafe Cameron is on the receiving end of your pretty giggle.

“Damn, Cameron,” you say, polishing off your own drink before doing the same, your cup landing cleanly in the bin in juxtaposition. “Don’t you play, like, three different varsity sports?”

“And none of them involve shooting hoops,” he responds, faux-defensive. “Funny how that works, huh?”

“I got it in easy,” you say matter-of-factly

“And I’m sure that has nothing to do with your dad being the basketball coach,” Rafe returns, raising his eyebrows.

This brings a weighty pause. You know that he doesn’t mean to insinuate anything by it, but you always get defensive when your father is brought up. It’s no secret, really, that he’s the only reason you’re at the Academy; your family is middle-class at best, and you’d never have been able to afford the fees without his aforementioned employment benefits.

Perhaps it’s why you feel the overt need to prove yourself at every step.

You clear your throat awkwardly, breaking eye contact and pushing past him. “Let’s go.”

It takes a beat for Rafe to pick up his discarded up and throw it into the bin, another to grapple with your sudden change in demeanour. He locks his car over his shoulder and jogs forward to catch you up, his large shoulder nudging yours as he falls into your step.

“You good?” He asks tentatively, frowning down at you.

“More than,” you answer curtly, the handsome assembly hall looming overhead. “You ready?”

And just like that, your guard is up again. You exchange pleasantries with Mr Cromwell and take your designated seat on the stage, but Rafe can tell that the smile on your face isn’t genuine — there’s something hidden within it, something pained that makes him ache.

He needs to see your real smile again, bad. He takes a seat beside you and watches the student body file in, your proximity filling the air with vanilla and bergamot perfume. Your skin looks softer up close, as if that’s fucking possible, and your hands are clasped neatly in your lap as you look out into the crowd. Rafe is struck with the sudden, overwhelming urge to reach out and squeeze them.

Instead, he leans into your side and ducks his head, his lips at the shell of your ear. “You remember the head boy and girl when we were freshers?”

The gravelly timbre of his voice makes you shiver without meaning to. “Yeah, Lance and Peyton. Why?”

“Christ,” he murmurs, faux-wistful. “Peyton fucking Saunders. I remember walking into this hall for our first assembly and seeing her sitting up here just like you are right now. It was genuinely love at first right, y’know that?”

“Of course it was,” you huff, less indignant and more amused. “The whole school was obsessed with her, huh?”

He nods. “Reckon that’s what happening out there as we speak?”

“What d’you mean?” You murmur back, frowning bemusedly.

“All these scrawny kids heading in,” he whispers, his lips still at your ear, ever-present. “Reckon they’re all falling in love with you in this very moment?”

“Shut up,” you admonish, breathing out an exasperated laugh. “I am not Peyton Saunders.”

“It’s fucking tragic,” he adds lowly, ignoring you. “All the tiny hearts you’re going to break this year. I feel for them, really.”

“Cause you were so heart-broken when Peyton didn’t give you the time of day?” You muse.

“Still recovering, Y/L/N, show some compassion,” Rafe answers mock-reproachfully, shaking his head.

“For you, Cameron?” You ask, your true smile shining through now, a beam of golden light. “Never.”

Triumphant, Rafe simply grins in tandem, settling back in his chair as Headmaster Cromwell approaches the podium. His opening address, succeeded by the not-so-shocking announcement of his upcoming retirement, receives deafening applause, a teacher-led standing ovation.

Though it’s a tough act to follow, you and Rafe recite your speech beautifully. There’s harmony in the way that you divide it up between the pair of you; a togetherness that feels natural, almost as though you were born to be partners.

Near the back of the assembly hall, Kelce Smith shares a knowing look with his friend, Dalton Haynes.

“They’re definitely going to hook up before we get to winter break,” he whispers through the corner of his mouth.

Dalton thinks on this for a moment. “Winter break? No way. Have you met Y/N? Reckon it’ll take her until just before prom.”

“Yeah?” Kelce raises his eyebrows. “How much are you willing to bet on that?”

Dalton grins roguishly, sending a furtive glance around the assembly hall. “Hundred bucks?”

“You’ve got a deal, Haynes,” Kelce mutters under his breath, just as you and Rafe finish speaking.

As they shake on it, the room dissolves into applause. Winter break or prom, it appears that your togetherness is inevitable.

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron fanfiction

[peachirambles]

I'm doing these two together because of their similarities and figured it would just be best to answer both of them at once.

As a preface: Qiu and the MC do have a crush on each other but neither of them have acted on it. So right now they are Very close friends but Tamarack and the MC are best friends. I went with a more fem leaning MC but they are still using they/them pronouns and are still nonbinary. Just because of who will be showing up in this drabble 😭

With that out of the way, here's the drabble! Hope yall enjoy Qiu being a certified #asshole

Qiu wasn't a jealous person. In fact, they were quite the opposite, growing up as the residental young boyish heart-throb of the young population had other people jealous of them for many reasons. Popularity, good looks, funny, and with a perchant for being kind to everyone they meet; they had heard the rumors of how some of the "friends" Qiu had were secretly trying to push others away from them just to horde their affection. Of course, Ren and Baxter always snuffed out those particular people's issues. Though that didn't stop Qiu from finding out that they unknowingly made people jealous of them. For a while, they had grown accustomed to it.

But then they moved in.

With their sincerity, kindness, and love; they ruined Qiu so thoroughly, down to their very being. Yet, Qiu couldn’t even complain. They would absolutely let the MC do it again and again to them. They were everything to them, and all they had to do was look pretty and bat their eyelashes at them to get them to do anything. They were completely head over heels screwed for them.

And it's what led them here now, sitting at the lunch table, silently fuming on the uncomfortable bench.

Fuming because they were the reason they were completely and madly green with envy at the sight of the MC being so close with Tamarack.

"Tamarack, your hair is so silky and has such gorgeous curls!" The MC preened as they started to make a small braid with some strands of Tamarack's hair.

"Ah, are they really?" Was Tamarack's reply, soft and questioning. For a second, it would have sounded truly genuine, and it might have been, but Qiu knew better.

Tamarack had lost all of her boisterous energy and know-it-all attitude that she wielded back in 2010, replaced with insecurities about everything and anything about herself. It was like watching a turtle shrink back into its shell, and a part of Qiu understood why.

But as they watched the MC comb and weave their beautiful fingers through Tamarack's sparkling hair; a much louder, nastier part of them yelled and screeched.

She's obviously fishing for compliments, she knows her hair is her best quality!

Her hair isn't even that pretty to begin with!

Why is the MC braiding her hair? She doesn't deserve it.

Is my hair not good enough to be braided?

Why her and not me!

"Anddd done!" The MC squeaked, snapping Qiu out of their momentary spiral as the group cooed and awed at the small braid, dangling next to Tamarack's ear. Much to Qiu's utter displeasure, Tamarack had the nerve to be bashful.

"It's so cute!" Serenity, one of Tamarack and the MC's friend, piped up. "Now you have two braids!"

"It does look very nice." Vianca hummed in approval, which made Tamarack fidget in place.

"You did a good job MC." Renee or Ren for short, the only ally Qiu supposedly had at this godforesaken table and the only reason why they were even sitting there, smiled at the both of them.

Why the hell was she on Tamarack's side?Almost everyone here don't even know she's a girl! Why are we even here?!

Qiu couldn’t help but grit their teeth in pure frustration. They couldn't even lie, it was a perfect braid and it suited Tamarack perfectly. But, if they were being honest, they had rather Tamarack have no-

"Qiu."

Qiu, once again, snapped out of their thoughts and turned to the source of the voice. It was Vianca of all people, with a smirk on her face. Usually, they didn’t a single shit about her, but for some reason, that shit eating smirk made Qiu's stomach drop.

"Aren't you going to... you know? Join in on the conversation or compliment the braid? You havs been staring at Tamarack for a hot minute now." She sneered at them, and Qiu's eyes widened as they realized she was completely right.

Tamarack had noticed Qiu's stare on her. Otherwise, she wouldn't be fidgeting with the hem of her sweater, her smile dropping into an uneasy line, and her plucked eyebrows furrowed. God, she made them truly sick sometimes.

"Qiu probably thinks it's fine." Ren chuckled, though it was obvious that there was nervous energy coating each sound. They felt a small jab on their foot, and they looked up to see Ren's hazelnut eyes staring back at them.

"Right, Qiu?"

Qiu knew what was happening. They made Tamarack feel bad, and now they had to sit there and pretend that they thought her and her stupid mini braid that the MC made was cute to save face. Their hands balled up into fists on the table for just a second before they took a simple breath in and exhaled, and their hands relaxed once more.

The MC is in front of them for fuck's sake, they can pretend to be fine.

"Sure. It's cute." Was Qiu's stiff reply.

There was a collective breath of relief from most of the table's patrons, and Tamarack glanced up at them for just a second, her eyes searching for something before-

"I'm so glad!" The MC nearly squealed before pulling Tamarack into a close hug, giddy from all the praise, and all poor Tamarack was able to muster out was a solid squeak.

"I been practicing and practicing with Tamarack's hair the past few days after school. I love messing with hair, and once I get better, I want to do-"

There was a solid slam that reverberated on the table that not only silenced them but silenced most of the chatter in the cafeteria. Qiu's palms stinged and burned from the impact of the force, but they didn't care.

Why should they when all they been hearing was just bragging and idolizing someone that wasn't quite frankly worth the MC's time?

"I am sooo happy that you love to do Tamarack's hair and that you just loveee to do everything with her." Qiu laughed but it wasn't remotely happy or earnest, but instead filled with a deep malice.

"Qiu-" Ren snapped but Qiu pressed on.

"But I quite frankly don't give a fuck enough to be caring about her damn braid to be complimenting it."

There was audible gasps and even some giggles from the other students who were listening in. Vianca, Renee and Serenity's faces were twisted in a state of shock and disgust. The nasty pit in them were reveling in it.

At least that was the case until their eyes wandered on Tamarack's face, flushed hot with embarrassment and shame. Her head was ducked down but they could hear her eyelashes furiously batting away the tears that were starting to form beyond the drumming of Qiu's heart in their ears.

And if that didn't make Qiu falter, then the look on their face certainly did. It wasn't shock, it wasn't anger; it was pure and unfiltered hurt and disappointment. That was easily enough for Qiu to stop, but as if feeling like they were controlled on strings, they spoke again.

"Now if all of you excuse me, I'm going to do something better with my time."

The poison in their words even shocked them, but before they could even process that, they felt their limbs run on auto pilot.

They snatched their bag and stormed out of the cafeteria much to the confused shouts of the group, but Qiu didn't care.

They had to get out of there! They had to!

Qiu felt the blood rush to their face in so many emotions, eyes stinging as tears filled their vision. As they side-stepped both faculty and students as they ran up the stairs, thoughts were running at them a mile an hour.

Why did I do that?!

Why didn't I do it sooner?!

Did you see the look on their faces!?

I made Tamarack cry!

It was so funny!

What is wrong with me?

It was great!

As Qiu barreled past the door and onto the rooftop, stopping to take a breath of fresh air, one single though ruminated in their head.

I hurt them. I hurt my best friend.

Qiu wasn't a jealous person. That's what they thought. But as they sat down on a bench, holding their head in their hands, that thought just wasn't true anymore.

They realized that maybe, just maybe something nasty had taken residence within them underneath their watch. Whatever that nasty thing was, Qiu thought, it had rotten them to their core.

Or worse, that nasty pit was there the entire time and Qiu was too tired to fight back anymore.

#our life now and forever #qiu lin #tamarack baumann #renee murray #olnf qiu #olnf tamarack #olnf renee #olnf vianca #olnf serenity #candy drabbles #yeah this one kinda got away from me? #i really liked exploring the nastier side of qiu #especially since That part of them rears its ugly head when their jealous #but i also wanted to write them realizing that they Do have a nasty side #way more than their inital cold front leads on #sm sm they let the intrusive thoughts win badly

[dmitriene]

excuse me ma'am☝️🤓 i'm a big fan of your work <3

may i please request a domestic fluff ghost fic where they're doing chores together? :3

꒰ hii sweetie! and i'm a fan of yours, and of course, this is such an cute idea, thank you for your request and i hope you'll like it! 🤍 ࿐ ꒱

title — homecoming content — simon ghost riley x gn reader tags — fluff, comfort, domestic established relationship, good amount of romantic intimacy.

please enjoy your reading!

Simon Ghost Riley had many names in his line of work, and each of them represented a different aspect of his life, and besides call signs and code names, there was one name that meant everything to him, a name that whispered warmth and love — yours.

His life was a web of secret missions, blood stains on his hands and a constant shadow of uncertainty, but every time he returned home, he was greeted with the knowledge that you, his beautiful and beloved soulmate, were waiting for him, in the safety of your arms he could give up the image of a ruthless killer and simply become a sincere and loving person.

Late last night Simon returned home, tired from yet another mission, he collapsed on the bed and his bag remained unpacked in the corner of the room, he had a habit of sleeping next to you, holding your sleepy, fragile body close to him, using you as his personal refuge.

As the morning light filtered through the curtains, he expected to be awakened by your enthusiastic voice and shining eyes that looked at him as if he were the center of your world, but this time he was greeted by silence.

He blinked awake, brow furrowed in confusion.

Where have you been?

A few moments later, your absence became obvious and he heard the soft hum of the shower running, a smirk tugged at the corners of his lips — he knew exactly where you were, with a chuckle he threw back the covers and rose from the bed, feeling a sense of completion that he only found in your presence.

Simon walked into the bathroom and opened the door with a mischievous glint in his eyes, steam rose up when he noticed you — still half asleep, standing under the warm streams of water, his heart filled with love at the sight of you, your hair combed back and drops of water, glistening on your skin.

— «Good morning, my beautiful distraction» he muttered, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind and burying his face in the crook of your neck, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin, leaving soft kisses as you sighed contentedly.

— «Simon» you moaned, tilting your head to give him better access — «You had to rest»

He chuckled, the vibrations of his laughter resonating through your body — «I can't rest when you're around, my love, you're my cure for all the chaos around»

He reluctantly released you from his embrace, gently pushing — «Come on, finish, we have a whole day ahead of us»

With a loving smile, you nodded and he left you in the shower while you got ready, Simon taking the liberty of unpacking his packed bag, thoughts of the day ahead running through his mind — grocery shopping, household chores and the simple joy of being together.

After you left the bathroom, Simon grabbed you with his strong arms, causing you to chuckle in surprise — «My knight in shining armor» you teased.

— «Always for you» he replied, his eyes sparkling with love, he carried you to the sink and insisted you bathe first, watching you with adoring eyes as you splashed water on your face.

The sun hung lazily in the sky, bathing the quiet suburban area in warm golden light, it was the day that promised rest and togetherness, Simon Ghost Riley stood at the door, a satisfied smile on his lips as he watched you collect your list and reusable grocery bags.

— «Ready to tackle the supermarket, love?» Simon asked, his eyes filled with love.

You turned to face him and a smile touched your lips — «Absolutely, Simon, let's do it»

The two of you walked side by side to the car, the pavement was hot under your feet, Simon's hand naturally found its way to the small of your back, his touch gentle but commanding, his fingers slid lightly down your back and you couldn't help but lean into his touch, and this simple gesture made your heart flutter.

As you approached the car, Simon unlocked it with the press of a button and the doors clicked open, holding the passenger door open for you with a gallant smile — «After you»

You slid into the seat, the car's interior greeted you with a familiar scent, Simon settled into the driver's seat, and as he pulled out of the driveway his hand found its way to your thigh, his touch warm and soothing, his fingers making little circles on your skin.

— «So, lovey» Simon began in a quiet voice filled with teasing love — «What's on the menu today? Anything special you're craving?»

You looked at him with a playful glint in your eyes — «Well, someone had just returned from a dangerous mission, so i thought we could celebrate it with your favorite dish»

Simon grinned and the sound was music to your ears — «Ah, my favorite, huh? I'm intrigued, you'll have to keep me on my toes a little longer»

Your lips curled into a mischievous smile — «Consider this as a surprise, my dear»

The trip to the supermarket was filled with casual conversations and laughter, you discussed trivial matters, shared stories of what happened while apart, and occasionally indulged in little touches and stolen glances, Simon's hand remained on your thigh, his comforting presence serving as a constant reminder of his love and affection.

Inside the store the atmosphere had changed, the bustling aisles were filled with the chatter of other shoppers, the smell of freshly baked bread and the colorful displays of fresh produce, you both grabbed the shopping cart, your fingers brushing against each other.

Simon reached for a bag of ripe tomatoes, examining them with a critical eye — «They're perfect for whatever you're planning»

You nodded in agreement, grabbing a head of garlic — «And I'm going to need it for the sauce»

Walking through the store you carefully selected every ingredient for your special dinner, Simon's presence turning even the most mundane tasks into an adventure, his playful teasing continued and he couldn't help but joke about how much he missed you.

As you browsed through the shop, his teasing returned again — «You know, i missed you» he said with a sly grin — «Though i did get to shoot some bad guys»

You rolled your eyes playfully — «I missed you too, even if my day didn't involve any high stakes actions»

As the cart filled with groceries, you couldn't help but steal glances at each other, your eyes talking of love and longing, a simple shopping trip together becoming a cherished ritual, a reminder of the normalcy and happiness you brought to each other's lives.

Finally, the cart was filled with ingredients, including a few items that you took just for the two of you to enjoy, Simon guided the cart towards the checkout and the cashier greeted you both with a warm smile, Simon paid for the groceries with a wink, and you couldn't help but blush at his charm.

After loading up with your bags you headed back to the car, Simon skillfully stowed the groceries in the trunk, his movements efficient and confident, once everything was secure he turned to you with a smile.

— «Home, sweet home» he said, and his voice was full of anticipation.

A feeling of comfort washed over you as you pulled into your driveway and stepped into the warm cocoon of your home, Simon wasted no time and with a playful smile he scooped you into his arms, making you giggle in delight.

— «Simon!» you exclaimed, wrapping your arms around his neck.

He grinned at you, his eyes were full of love — «I missed your hugs, lovey»

Carefully placing you down on the floor, you headed straight to the kitchen, eager to begin preparing the long awaited dinner, Simon followed behind you, his eyes never leaving you as you gracefully moved around the kitchen, collecting ingredients and utensils.

As you worked side by side, the playful atmosphere continued, Simon couldn't resist sneaking up behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist, pressing his lips to your neck in a sweet, lingering kiss, your laughter filling the room and you leaned into his hugging, enjoying the feeling of his body next to yours.

— «Simon, you're going to distract me from cooking» you teased, but there was no real protest in your voice.

He gently buried his nose in your neck — «That's the idea, my love, i missed you so much»

With a sigh of contentment you turned in his arms, capturing his lips in a passionate kiss, it was a moment of pure bliss, a reminder of the deep love and connection you shared.

You eventually broke the kiss, your cheeks flushed with desire — «Okay, let's finish dinner before we get carried away»

Simon grinned, his fingers tracing patterns on your back — «Agree»

You two returned to the cooking, but the tension in the air was unmistakable, every now and then your hands touched each other, sparking desire, and as the sauce simmered on the stove, Simon couldn't help but pull you towards him.

He pressed you against the kitchen cabinet, his lips pressed into yours in a passionate kiss, his hands roamed your back, and you impatiently responded by wrapping your arms around his neck as the world outside faded away, igniting a spark of longing between you.

— «Simon» you muttered, barely above a whisper as he broke the kiss.

He chuckled softly as his eyes met yours — «I'm sorry, my love, i couldn't help myself»

Finally, the dinner preparation was over and you both settled on the sofa with plates in your hands, you sat on Simon's lap, the warmth of his body enveloped you as he fed you with a fork, each bite was a symphony of tastes, but the most delicious was the love and tenderness that filled every moment.

While you ate, Simon peppered the top of your head with kisses, a silent promise of his love and devotion, some forgotten movie was flashing on the TV, but your attention was solely on each other, with every stolen kiss, playful teasing and gentle hug, the outside world faded away, leaving just the two of you in a bubble of love and comfort.

At that moment there was no need for code names or secret missions, there was only Simon, and there was you, his anchor in a chaotic world — his home.

please, don't copy my works as your own, and if you want to post them somewhere else - contact me.

© dmitriene - my masterlist or ao3

reblogs, likes and comments are very much appreciated, thank you for reading! ♡

#📋 july request's ༉‧₊ #꒰ 🌸༉ — rose ꒱ #[ ✒️july writing ] #simon ghost riley fanfiction #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley fluff #simon ghost riley fic #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost x you #simon riley fluff #simon riley fanfic #simon riley fic #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x gn reader #simon riley x gender neutral reader

[shootybangbang]

In which the part meets the whole [Part 5]

[Ao3 link]

[Pairing]: Arthur Morgan/Reader

[Rating]: Explicit

[Content Advisory]: this has omegaverse (alpha/beta/omega) dynamics, elements of psychological dissociation, and light dubcon (see note at end)

[Part 1][Part 2][Part 3][Part 4]

------

Something in this feels like fracturing. A ramifying split between the you who’d woken up this morning fevered and dizzy with the assumption that you were simply sick— and the you now, with her thighs wrapped around an alpha’s hips and his seed pooled impossibly deep. An irreparable divide, unnavigable.

But there’s nothing at all conflicted in Arthur’s expression. He looks more content now than you’ve ever seen him. Some essential bitterness carved out of him, at least for the time being. You hadn’t known that he could look so gentle, and it tightens a strange, sweet twinge in your chest to see him like this. Girlhood hopes, the ones you’d drowned inside of yourself the moment you’d realized the truth of your condition, come swimming to the surface now like starved fish. Rippling, flashing a mockingly bright fin here and there through the water.

You comb back the dark blond hair falling into his eyes with your fingers, then greet him with a quiet, hoarse, “Hey.”

He smiles. “Hey,” he answers— casually, as though he weren’t currently hilted inside of you.

“How, uh… how long do you usually…”

“‘Bout twenty minutes. Sometimes thirty.”

“Thirty minutes,” you echo. “Good.”

His weary chuckle carries in it a familiar hint of self-deprecation. “That’s good? Means you’re stuck with me like this for the next half hour.”

It’s as though a barrier has fallen away, nothing left to trap what you’d otherwise be too shy to put to words. Sincerity bleeding through that you know you’ll regret in the grey dawn of rationality. “Of course it’s good. Because I like this,” you flatten your palm over the stretch of skin beneath your navel. “Having you right here.”

Arthur breathes in sharply. “Gonna be forty minutes if you keep talkin’ like that.”

“So I should keep at it, then? I should tell you how much I like having your come inside me, h-how warm it is, and—”

“Omega,” he growls. and the word strikes a forlorn chord in you, those three syllables previously a curse, but they sound so fucking good when he says them now, as certain and right as your own name. And you vaguely register that you ought to be horrified by the power this gives him over you: that submission tied by blood, the ruling of your own body to his will. But with the dizzying sensation of being tied, the worry is shoved away in pursuit of pleasure.

Arthur presses his hand against the back of your neck and loosely cups it there like he’s going to scruff you. “You want me to take you again, omega?” He grinds himself against you as he speaks, and the sparking friction of it has you whimpering helplessly, shamelessly. “D’you want me to… ah…” he pauses and seems almost embarrassed to say it. But the same delirious lack of inhibition must have him in its grasp as well, because he continues, “D’you want me to fuck another load into you?”

The unprecedented crudeness of his speech shocks you into silence, and it’s all you can do to nod.

“Then you best stop rilin’ me up, because the longer I’m like this, the longer you’re gonna have to wait.”

You nod again, suddenly docile and obedient as a church mouse.

“You gonna be good for me then, omega?”

“Yes,” you whisper. God, that word. Makes you a captive through your own pleasure. Lashes you to him like leather cords passed through your bones.

“That’s what I like to hear.” 

His mouth grazing your own feels like a seal as absolute as red wax dripped on an envelope. Your own fate folded inside, its destination set. No way out. Not now. Maybe not ever. 

But as long as it’s Arthur— the fucking asshole who’d made you scream yesterday when he’d feigned falling off a bridge, the man who’d foraged for and forced you to drink a disgusting concoction of yarrow and meadowsweet when you’d run a temperature this morning— you can bear it, you think. The damnation of being owned. 

You ain’t just a thing for me to use, he’d said. A pretty thing to hear, and something you’d have agreed with once, back when you still had notions of egalitarianism. Before you’d seen firsthand the near universal hell others of your kind inevitably find themselves bound to, all the fire ground out of them, only the grey-ashed cinders of their past selves any indication of any life they might have lived outside captivity.

And yet he treats you like a person. Would have left you untouched if you hadn’t begged him to fuck you, you’ve no doubt about that. Even went so far as to decouple completely when you’d flinched beneath him, prioritizing your own useless comfort over the dictate of his rut. 

Arthur smooths his hand over your shoulder, following the curve all the way down to your forearm. He peers into your face like he’s searching for something lost beneath clouded water, and asks “You alright?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Just had a feeling.”

He’ll be angry if you tell him. Not with you, but with himself. The slow decay of regret will sink into all this and take away this peaceable surrender. “Thinking about what happens after,” you reply, and it’s not a lie, not really. Only an omission.

It’s an unwelcome intrusion of the reality beyond the quiet pocket of reprieve this isolated outcrop has become. His thumb finds the inside of your wrist and swipes gentle arcs against the tendon ridged there, and after a brief silence during which you can’t meet his eyes, he says, “Things’re comin’ to a head soon, I reckon. Dutch said after one last score, we’ll be able to—”

“Don’t talk about Dutch when you’ve got your cock in me,” you grumble.

He dashes an apologetic kiss against your forehead. “When,” he says. “And I mean when, not if… when we’re both clear of all this, where d’you want to go?”

“What, with you?”

“No, I meant just you by yourself— ‘course I mean with me, dumbass.”

With him. With Arthur. The dismal, eager leap of your heart at the very thought of it. “I dunno.” You have to fight to keep your voice level. “It’s a big country, and I haven’t seen hardly any of it yet.”

“Yeah? Where to first, then?”

You begin rattling off a litany of destinations previously relegated to daydreams and wishful thinking. The canyonlands, those redstone basins sliced and worn smooth by centuries of water and wind. Or maybe the desert with its white dunes glinting like hills of heaped snow. Or the Grizzlies, all its bleak crags that come alive with greenery in the spring, when meltwater runs bright through the pines…

“Christ, woman,” he groans. “You askin’ me to take you on a goddamn tour from West Elizabeth to California?”

“Well, you don’t have to take me to see all of them…”

“Should start with the Grizzlies. ‘Cause it’ll be slow goin’ for a while, else the altitude’s gonna make you real sick.” He says this quiet with the burden of thought, plotting out a future like twining the fraying filaments of your lives together. “Stop in near Denver for supplies, and from there we can go Southwest, towards Painted Desert.”

As he sketches out that tenuous path, you close your eyes and press your cheek against his chest, counting out the low thrum of his heart. You listen drowsily as he lists possible routes and puzzles over hunting locales and difficult terrain, and you interrupt him periodically with idle and ignorant observations that he gently derides you for. The weight of his palm at your back is like a centering stone, anchoring.

He’s in the middle of dissuading you from visiting the Great Salt Lake (“nothin but brine flies and buzzards out there”) when he pauses and braces your hip with his hand. “Hold on,” he says. “Think my knot’s gone down enough that I can…” 

Arthur grimaces as he slides his softening cock from between your thighs, and the ensuing ache of withdrawal is tempered somewhat by the warm drip of his release, the quiet reminder of what you’re for. An omega: just a thing to be fucked and used and bred. There’s no denying it now— not with the baptism you’ve just been given, this induction into an existence marked by your own inescapable submission. 

He’s hard again from just beholding it, and regards the beading precome at the tip of his cock like a ripening curse. Hastily, he says, “We don’t have to… I mean, you gotta be sore from…”

“Again,” you demand. 

The look on his face, the raw adoration— you’d wrap the leash around your neck yourself to have this every day. Let it choke you to an inch of your life. You can feel it closing in now, as he kisses you and slips his hand between your thighs to feel the flow of seed and slick coating his fingers. 

He’s less cautious this time, now that you’ve taken him once without breaking. When he pushes himself back inside, he fills you with a single, drawn out stroke, every second of that renewed penetration a sweet agony of anticipation. And when he fucks into you, he seems to be entranced by the view of his previous release still glistening at your slit, the new smoothness of his thrusts with his own come to ease the burn. 

That first time had all the careful tending of observation, his own pleasure set aside in worry of what the simple force of him might do to you. But if not gone wholly, it is diminished now. There is a self-indulgence in his movements now, a roughness that you had but caught glimpses of before.

It’s indescribable, the intensity of having him this second time. The drip of what he’d given you before spilling down the backs of your thighs, each thrust weighted with eager anticipation of what he’ll soon replace it with. He groans when you brace a hand against his shoulder and hold his torso at arm’s length, all the better to watch the pumping of his hips, the shine of mingled release on his shaft that disappears and renews with each thrust— and oh, the silver fire of his eyes as he takes in the sight of you beneath him. You grin to have caught him off guard, and he echoes it as he shifts your hips up and mounts you in such a willful, dominant way that all your smug satisfaction dissolves into weak, fervent whimpers. He presses the backs of your thighs against your chest and drives into you as if the fluid friction of fucking was the purpose of his creation.

“You take me so well,” he says, so sweetly that it makes you servile, and draws out a depth of devotion antithetical to your temperament. Like pulling up a line from an ocean lure, coaxing from that unexplored territory something strange and sharp-toothed and possessed of an unknown trepidation. God, right now you would expose to him even the bright red jewel of the heart beating in your chest, give him every bit of yourself until there were nothing left to use.

Arthur hooks both your knees over his shoulders and pauses a second to press a kiss to your calf. His stubble scrapes against the delicate skin there, and you feel the gentle curve of him smiling against you. 

What can you do but give in?

The position that he takes you with now is one you’ve never experienced before. He keeps you on your back, near immobile and trapped by both the weight of his body and the unmitigated affection in his expression. There is a domination in it that you would have refused anyone else, but that you offer willingly to him, knowing that he’d free you up if you should so much as frown at him. And it really is absurd, the kind of power he’s allowed you over him. Contrary to natural law, building up a tenuous new order in its place.

“Look at you,” he croons. “All soft and sweet for once. Didn’t think you’d ever let me see you like this.”

You turn a luminary shade of crimson heretofore seen only in the plumage of certain exotic birds. 

“And so fuckin’ cute.” Arthur slides your legs down from his shoulders, straddles your thighs round his hips as he leans forward. Skin to skin again, a growl rising up in his chest with a tenor like longing, as though the act of kneeling before you had been one of deprivation. A sacrifice that he’d been forced to make, choosing between the view of you desperate for him, or the twine of your arms around his neck. “That noise you make whenever I call you ‘omega’.”

It catches in your throat, the responsive little whimper that you let out like an animal yipping in eager response to her master.

“The way you tighten up when I say it. It makes me— christ, it makes me…”

“Arthur—”

He bucks into you hard and kisses you near violently, as if in substitute to some deep-seated urge. A kiss almost like a bite. “Makes me want you all to myself,” he says hoarsely.

You nearly present your throat to him right then and there, and only manage to stop yourself by the last grasping thread of your diminishing self control. But he senses that conflict in you somehow, raises his workworn palm to your neck and wordlessly shields it from the threat of himself. Gentle, even in the harshness of his thrusts now, the jumping pulse of his pleasure approaching fast, and the swell of his knot heavy against your slit. 

It takes him just three staggered thrusts to lock into you this time, and with each one he whispers reassurance amidst that brief sting of pain, his own teeth clenched from the sheer intensity of his high before he fits himself completely and gives you that beautiful, helpless moan of his— a sound that is new to you still, and that you would gladly learn by heart. Arthur ruts a few short and jerky strokes that do little more than shift the length of him to a tight and aching friction, and it takes less than a minute of that priming before he shivers and gasps, the muscles of his hips and thighs taut as he fills you with the sudden warmth of his spend. The thick pulse of his seed like the frantic beat of his own blood, the liquidsmooth heat of it trickling deep, the guttural gasp that he muffles against your skin as he presses his mouth to your shoulder, as if the sinful force of his pleasure was such that he could not stand to face the eyes of its source— christ, it’s enough to seize at the core of you, plunge you headlong over the edge of your own vertiginous fall.

After, when your ears have stopped ringing and the soft abatement rests quiet over you both, he turns red and awkward when you ask him coyly what exactly “all to himself” entails. Arthur clears his throat, changes the subject. “You, uh. You hungry at all?”

“Probably.”

“After this, we should both eat somethin’. Figure out what we should do ‘bout provisions.”

“Or we can go for round three.”

“Food first,” he says sternly. “Then fucking.”

The firm underpinning of authority in his voice winds a current of unease in you as tight and hard as a dead man’s knot. And it’s stupid; he often takes this tone with you when he thinks you’re being unreasonable, but you can’t help but blurt out, “So now that you know I’m an omega, you think you can boss me?”

“What? No.” Judging by his naked bewilderment at the accusation, it wasn’t a line of thought he’d come remotely close to. “That don’t matter none to me. You bein’ an omega, that is. In my eyes, you’re still the same little fool I rode out with this morning.”

Ah christ. He looks like he really means it. His eyes full silver, his cock still holstered full and tight inside you, the well of your body slick and warm with two loads of his seed— every conquering sign plain to see, and still he persists in maintaining this false veneer of equality. When he touches the tips of his fingers to your cheek and directs you to look him full in the face, you turn your head slightly to brush your lips against his palm.

“Which means I can boss you because you still got barely a clue how to set up camp, let alone get along by yourself out here.” He kisses your forehead; you go as weak as if it were a bullet he had planted there instead.

When he withdraws this time, he pointedly keeps his head turned away from you and pulls up his trousers with a businesslike yank of his waistband, all the while pretending that he isn’t struggling to button his fly over the stiff and eager jut of his cock. You’re too exhausted to do more than whine out a few wheedling complaints in an attempt to lure him back. It’s cold without him there, you pout, and he’s too goddamned honorable to do anything more than retrieve his leather jacket from his saddlebags and chuck it in your general direction.

There isn’t much to eat. He’d been planning on hitting town this evening to restock, he admits, splitting two loaves of sourdough and a few strips of dried venison between you both, and says he’ll lay the hoop net in the river before sundown.

“I’ll help you,” you tell him through a mouthful of crusty bread.

“Like hell you will. You’re stayin’ right here.”

“What, why not?”

“Because if you come with, that net’s gonna end up floating away downstream while we fuck on the bank.”

The fabric of his trousers is strained tight over his erection, and though he makes every effort to look away, every contour of his body seems to tug in your direction. He is a conduit of compulsion, the current of his blood surely as vocal as your own, whispering in inverse. So it’s not hard to sway him— a clumsy bit of flirtation, the wheedle of your voice soft and sad— the kind of performance that yesterday’s you would have turned her nose up at, but she fades now sure as sunlight in the face of your own setting fate.

You trudge behind him through bramble and pine as he clears a way through the underbrush, with his spare shirt wrapped around yourself like an oversized tunic and your inner thighs swiped to gleaming with every step, wet with the steady drip of his come. Each unsteady footfall is an admonishment, the slickness of seed at your center as insistent as a new wound, as arousal itself.

The river is not cold. Its shallows are sunwarmed, silt bottomed and soft. Shoals of silver-sided fry fragment and dart when you shuck off your boots and wade in calf deep, wisping through the water like swirls of bright dust. You bend to pick up rocks to weigh down the net with, and catch him staring at the pale streak of him that runs down your leg, swerving at the hollow behind your knee. 

He swallows hard, red-faced, standing there on the shore with his hands untangling the net. The bottom of his pant leg soaks dark as he takes a sudden step into the water, and his pupils are dilated so wide that the silver of his iris is an emaciated ring of hunger. And will he take you like this, with the mark of his release gleaming on your skin, and ought you let him, ought you present yourself like a doe with wolves’ teeth ringed gentle in her open throat, like a good omega, like a proper omega—

But he blinks. Busies himself with work, though his fingers are shaking and the muscles of his arms and back tight. When you splash over to help anchor the net with foraged sticks and stones, your submerged hand brushes his; he touches the cupped cradle of your palm, but lets his momentary touch trail away with the parting current, and says nothing. Only when the task is complete does he smile at you with the angle of his mouth still somewhat bashful, gesturing with his thumb towards the camp in which he’s fucked you twice in as many hours, and in the end you can’t even make it halfway back before pressing your heat sodden body against a high-branched oak and dragging him into you by the buckle of his belt.

Rough scrape of bark along your back, a strew of monarch butterflies startles and scatters through the air in a shiver of orange and black wings, and it’s transfiguration that is on your mind as he pulls you flush. A worm will spin her bed of silk, sleep through the liquefaction of her body and the slow crystallization of poisoned wings. When she wakes, does she mourn what she has shed? And when Arthur inevitably puts his teeth to your neck and clamps down, will you grieve the unbonded past?

Omega like any other. Little breeding bitch with your heart on a rope.

But it’ll be alright, so long as it’s him. It always is.

------

Author's note: I've always thought that being an omega was a horrifying concept in many ways, given the potential loss of personhood involved. Here, the reader is having an EXTREMELY intense heat, and her thoughts are spiraling out of control in ways that are not at all obvious to Arthur right now. Not entirely sure where I'm going with this, very much testing the waters, but I'll state up front that though this may touch on darker territory, I'm very much intending this to stay consensual. It's a delicate topic though, and feedback/criticism is very much welcomed.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan/reader #arthur morgan/oc #omegaverse #alpha/beta/omega dynamics #fic #my work #smut #in which the part meets the whole #also sorry again for how much this showcases my personal kinks i am pressing the publish button with extreme shame and possible regret...

[rizzyu]

▵▿— Red Wine on Christmas Night

Pairing: Chuuya Nakahara, x gn! reader

Category: Fluffffuff

Warning: alcohol consumption, cussing, m o r i.

Summary: As Christmas strived closer and close by the day, the Port Mafia hosted a Christmas dinner at its headquarters to celebrate. Chuuya had a little bit too much to drink and started being a little bit too clingy with you.

A/N: I made this one significantly shorter than Dazai’s one cuz I don’t really wanna write another long ass fic

“I AIN’T WEARING THAT SHIT”

“Cmonnnnn put it on before Y/N get here, it’ll be funny”

“ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NOT”

You just arrived at the Port Mafia’s headquarters to see Tachihara and Higuchi try to convince Chuuya to wear a santa costume. “Uhhhh what’s going on?” Chuuya slowly turned his head towards you, teeth gritted and face burning in red. “HEY STOP LOOKING” Chuuya pointed at you “AND DON’T YOU DARE IMAGINE ME IN A SANTA COSTUME GOD DAMMIT”

You flashed a cheeky grin “Of course not.”

“Settle down little ones.” Kouyou stepped in the room with a glass of red wine in her hand. “We would be heading in the meeting room quite soon, so I do wish you would behave well in front of the boss.” Kouyou took a sip from her glass when Mori opened the door “Please come in.”

Chuuya sat down next to you. “I sincerely welcome all my executives and important members to this dinner.” Mori held up his glass. “Tonight we shall celebrate another year of the Port Mafia’s high achievements.” Everyone held up their own glass and toasted to this year’s Christmas.

▿▵▿▵▿

Chuuya poured himself another glass of wine after already downing his first. “So how was your recent mission?” He asked you out of the blue, his face was already flushed from the alcohol. “It was alright, just another silly little group who wanted to challenge the Port Mafia. It wasn’t that difficult to have them retreating like chickens.” You watched as Chuuya had already downed half of his second glass. “Hey stop drinking so fast, I can’t have you passing out like last time.”

“Hah?? The hell you talking about? I’ve only drank a little”

“Yea… keep telling yourself that—eh?” You quickly snapped your head around to look at Chuuya the moment he plopped his forehead against your shoulder. “Chuuya you should really stop drinking for tonight.” “Have anyone told you that you look so fucking beautiful tonight?” Your lips quirked upwards, clearly amused by how much of a lightweight Chuuya is, despite his obsession with alcohol.

“God ‘m so tired. ‘ve been getting to many missions lately.” Chuuya quietly muttered. You lightly chuckled “Where did the energetic Chuuya I saw earlier go?” “That Chuuya gotta get his rest too yknow…” You smiled softly before combing his hair through your fingers. The way Chuuya’s tensed muscles relaxed made the butterflies in your stomach flutter around.

“I feel like I should record this” Higuchi suddenly spoke from across the table. “It seems that we’re intruding something going on between these two.” Tachihara nods in agreement.

“WHAT? What do you mean— hold up! How long have you all been watching???” You felt your cheeks warm up. “Pretty much since you two started flirting with each other…” “We-we’re not flirting what do you mean??”

Kouyou sighs as she put down her cutlery. “Don’t mind those two, it’s not like this is the first time this has happened.” You chuckled nervously, secretly thanking your senior for trying to changing the subject.

Your eyes slightly widened when you felt Chuuya completely plop his head onto your lap. Soft snores left his lips as he slept soundly. You smiled to yourself when he nuzzled himself closer to you in his sleep, you leaned down to place a kiss on the crown of his head.

“I told you not to drink so much…” You sighed. “Merry christmas Chuuya.”

#riyugu writing #yorutenshi riyugu #bungou stray dogs #bsd x reader #bsd #chuuya x reader #chuuya nakahara #bsd chuuya

[comicallylargemango]

Reigen x reader

Takes place when everyone goes to Reigen's house after mob defeats Suzuki toichiro (shou's dad)

Pairing: Reigen Arataka x reader

Warnings: mention of kissing, swearing, Reigen being stupid, Reigen Dies as a joke (he doesn't actually die)

Desc: Reigen has had feelings for reader, 'n before the claw incident he planned to confess using the "the moon looks beautiful tonight" tactic (wowser)

And it just so happens that when all the kids are asleep, the moon shines bright, creating the perfect moment for Reigen to tell reader how he really feels

Reigen finds himself staring up at the sky, specifically at the moon which was covered by the divine tree at the moment. He sighed tiredly as he took another puff of smoke from his cigarette. The night is silent, in a good way. He closes his eyes, enjoying the serenity of the moment, as he lets his mind drift off to you for the thousandth time today.

Today was exhausting for Reigen, mentally and physically. He couldn't stop worrying about you and mob. As He takes another long drag of his cigarette, nearly choking when he hears the door to his balcony slide open.

He whips his head around to find you sleepily rubbing your eyes, with your hand falling limply to your side.

" 'Taka? What are you doing ... It's late out. "

your voice below a whisper, your eyes now looking deep into his own. Even in your drowsy state, you looked as beautiful as ever.

"Ah, y'know.." just looking at you was enough to get him tongue tied. "Couldn't sleep."

He rubbed the back of his neck, turning back around to stare at the moon. He silently compared the moon to your beauty, you we're like the moon itself. Despite being surrounded by so many stars, yet you still stood out, your smile bright enough to rival the sun. He caught himself smiling softly.

He was startled when you suddenly appeared beside him, leaning on the rail much like he was doing. Maybe it was his nerves or the feeling of anxiety still lingering around after the fight.

" Reigen, you're being real jumpy right now. Something wrong?" You put your hand on his shoulder, with that soft, smooth voice of yours. He thought he was gonna melt right then and there with the way you were so tenderly looking at him.

Reigen took a puff of his cigarette once more to calm his nerves. Blowing the smoke away from his face before replying.

"Mhm- yeah, it's just that- y'know, so much has happened today. I'm just a little-"

"Stressed?"

"Yeah."

He felt your hands travel to his back, rubbing it comfortingly. His heart nearly stopped at that very moment, for the millionth time in his life, he cursed his genes for making him so sweaty. Fortunately you retracted your hand in time so you wouldn't notice.

He missed the warmth of your hand instantly, the restraint it took to just not take your hand in his. Pull you close as you gently comb through his blonde locks, reassuring about everything and nothing all at once. the things he'd give for it to just happen.

He looked at you, to find you staring at the moon, a soft smile on your face. He couldn't look away, the way the moonlight perfectly highlighted your features, eyes practically glistening as they reflected the moon. The way you smile was enough to make Reigen smile solemnly.

You turned your head to find Reigen staring at you, a smile on his face. Not one of those reassuring smiles he'd give to his customers, not the cocky smile he'd put up with his confident facade. No, it was much more... Sincere.

Heat began to make its way up your neck and onto your cheeks, painting them a soft shade of pink. A contrast to the dark and grey surroundings.

Fuck, you were perfect. Correction: you are perfect.

Reigens eyes started flickering to your eyes, then to your lips. He swallowed his saliva in an attempt to wake himself up, but he found his eyes glued to your lips.

You find yourself admiring Reigen's coffee brown eyes, almost gleaming in the moonlight.

Suddenly Reigen clears his throat and looks away, reverting his gaze back to the moon. It's finally risen enough for it to be seen just over the divine tree.

Should he confess? It does seem like the perfect moment, but what if you don't feel the same? Reigen debated whether or not to confess, but his body had a mind of his own.

"Hey, uh..“

"Mh?"

"The moon is beautiful, isn't it?"

"It sure is, huh?"

You reverted your gaze towards the moon, seemingly unaware of Reigen's indirect confession. «fuck, they don't get it.» Reigen mentally slaps himself for not taking it into consideration.

He continues mentally beating himself up as he takes another puff of his cigarette. before he hears your soft chuckles.

"I love you too, Arataka."

Reigen nearly fucking dies, he chokes on the smoke before regaining his composure, he was over the moon in that very moment. He couldn't stop the stupid, goofy, lovesick smile forming on his face, as his heart beats for you, He nearly dies for the second time when he feels lips on his rosy cheeks, your lips. He looks to his side to find you smiling at him. Suddenly the cool night breeze did nothing to help cool down the warmth spreading through his body, physically and mentally, mostly physically as Reigen started sweating. Alot.

Reigen was at a loss for words, so he did what he does best. Be stupid. As His hands start moving a mile a minute he manages to stammer out;

"T-thats great to hear!"

"Just kiss me you idiot."

Reigen is fucking dead.

#reigen arataka #mp100 reigen #mob psycho reigen #arataka reigen #reigen x reader #arataka x reader #reigen arataka x reader #arataka reigen x reader

[hanlimz]

synopsis: jungwon loves you, in sickness and in health. pairing: jungwon x gn!reader genre/warnings: pure fluff, However .. reader is in the bath .. clothing is left ambiguous, but 1) this is in no way by Any means sexual and 2) i did write this scene w them wearing a bathing suit in mind (i just didn't write it explicitly bc it was awkward to work around) word count: 1.3k (me when i'm so normal and chill and cool and normal) a/n: this is for @nyxvrse bc hopefully soft won sickfic will make being Actually sick a little bit easier :,,((&lt;33 (it's also partially for me bc midterms r almost over n im Emotional)

[7:07PM] jungwon thinks there's an innate beauty in not being able to reach one's own back; to him, it reinforces the indubitable nature of being human—weakness, fragility, the ability to be torn apart and put back together by the existence you thrive in, but are inevitably doomed to. paradox after paradox, he sits and combs through one after another like he always does to your hair after you arrive home from a stressful day at work. jungwon loves the feeling of your head in his lap; its soft weight grounds him in reality, and it floods him with a strange sense of gratitude—inexplicable, all-consuming, tender.

"won," you manage to croak out through all of the mucus that has collected in your throat, "i feel so gross. my head hurts, and i'm sweating—and, my snot is all over your sweater, and i'm so sorry ..." your tears begin to breach the cotton material of his hoodie as you burrow further into his stomach, and jungwon finds himself physically fighting the urge to giggle at the sincere apology. he appreciates the way in which you've made a home for the two of you inside your heart; jungwon feels the warmth of your love like a plush blanket being tugged up to his chin on a cold winter's night.

he thumbs at your ear and almost flinches at the sheer heat that radiates from your body. "you don't have to apologize, [y/n] ... i just wish i could make it go away," jungwon hums, attempting to coax you out of your hiding place. "i know how you hate being sick ... i could make you some ramen, or i could run you a bath—if you want."

you pull away from him with a feeble smile, and he has to force down another bout of laughter because good god—jungwon is nothing if not a fool for you. the sight of your puffy, bloodshot eyes is enough to send him into cardiac arrest. there's a prominent indentation of the fabric of his jeans present on the side of your face and a matching patch of drool on his thigh that he notices when you glance up at him. your expression is glassy and faraway, and he resists the calling to snap a picture of you and set it as his new homescreen. jungwon thinks you look as gorgeous as ever. he thinks you look human, even if you don't feel it at the moment, and that is beautiful.

"bath would b'nice, won," you reply, "think i wan' to lay on the tile ... c'n you bring me to the bathroom?"

jungwon nods while helping you onto his back, and he begins to meander through his own thoughts once again. they all come back to you, but he doesn't mind; jungwon would choose to think about you forever if that were possible. he sees you in the fluid dance of cirrus clouds above his head, he feels you when the rays of the sun shine on the apples of his cheeks, and he hears you in the stillness of night. the smell of vanilla and citrus always seems to follow close behind you, and he realizes just how much he's begun to associate his existence with yours. jungwon is full when you're with him.

the two of you reach your destination, and he sets you down on the porcelain, white tiles, watching as you visibly relax as they cool down your skin. jungwon reaches to turn on the water, making sure to keep the temperature moderate as to not aggravate the illness holding you hostage even further. outstretching an arm, he brushes his knuckles from your temple to your jaw and begins to hum an old folktune.

it's one that you recognize from your childhood, and the fog that clouds your brain manages to transport you back in time. the grass outside of your grandmother's house seems to be a more vibrant green, the continuous hum of cicadas is transformed into a delightful melody as opposed to their usual drone, and jungwon is there. one moment, he's chatting with your mother while helping her weed the garden and making her laugh. the next, he's pouring your grandmother a glass of fresh lemonade with one of the brightest smiles you've ever seen. your grandma loves him, your mom loves him, you love him—

after a firm squeeze of your shoulder, jungwon catches the subtle fluttering of your eyelids; he welcomes you back into the land of the living with that same blinding grin you had seen mere seconds ago. "bath's ready, sweetheart," he says, helping you to your feet. "i can go make some tea for after—"

"no," your denial is resolute, and it makes jungwon's body go rigid. "stay—stay with me, please."

jungwon's heart bursts in his chest; the resounding pop of every single blood vessel is deafening, and the only thing that stops him from floating away into the abyssal darkness of the cosmos is the feeling of his sleeve trapped in your fist. he chooses to reply with a simple: "anything you want," because anything more would've resulted in the loss of his dignity. no words are exchanged as you begin to undress; the quietude is soft and comforting as though it's welcoming you back from a long, tiring journey. it envelops the both of you in an embrace that neutralizes any negativity threatening to seep through from the earlier happenings of the day. jungwon, though so accustomed to planning things ten steps ahead, thinks it's nice to live in the present with you.

"won ... you added bubbles?" your voice wobbles as you ask your question.

he laughs—free and open, this time, "i just thought you'd like them."

"thank you," you respond, voice heavy with emotion.

jungwon shakes his head and motions for you to step into the water; he holds his breath as you settle against the wall of the tub and relish in the way the warmth seems to soothe the ache in your bones. soon after, however, he cranes over the mountain of foam you've collected and grabs the huge bottle of strawberry body wash the two of you share; its sweet aroma permeates the air as he squeezes some into his hands to create a thick lather. with a cautious touch, jungwon rubs the soap into your skin; he traces over the expanse of your shoulders with the utmost care, almost as if he were trying to memorize all the tendons connecting each muscle to its respective bone. and, jungwon is, if he's being truthful; he wants to know every part of you like the back of his hand.

"lean forward for me?" he coos, giving you a gentle push with the tips of his fingers.

like a marionette wooed by its strings, you find yourself hanging onto jungwon's every word. his voice is barely above a whisper, and the mere conceptualization of this sacred togetherness has the color returning to your skin. as jungwon's hands massage the tension from your back muscles, tears well up behind your eyes once more. "thank you for taking such good care of me, won," your voice cracks, and you sniffle while trying to will away the impending cough making its way up your throat. "you love me so well ... makes me feel complete."

jungwon's breath hitches before he chuckles and presses his lips to the top of your head. words always seem to fail him in moments like these; his mind—thoroughly beguiled by you—is unable to conjure up any semblance of a coherent reply. but, in all honesty, jungwon isn't even sure an hour long speech in front of every living being in the world would suffice when it comes to expressing his the pure adoration he has for you. he wants to scream out; he wants to thank the universe and expound upon how grateful he is to have found the person he can be human with, but he chooses to remain silent.

for however long you let him, jungwon will continue to wash your back.

and, when the time comes, he knows you will wash his.

that is more than enough.

#enhypen fluff #enhypen headcanons #enhypen reactions #jungwon fluff #jungwon headcanons #jungwon reactions #enhypen #enha fluff #enha headcanons #enha reactions #jungwon imagines #enhypen imagines #enha imagines #enhypen x reader #jungwon x reader #jungwon x y/n #enhypen jungwon

[nothingenoughao3]

favorite horror film you just recently discovered

(From this meme)

Uuuuuuuh yeah that's Re-Animator.

Writing tons of porn fic for it, watched it probably fifteen times in the last month, built a whole deck of Arkham Horror cards for it... the obsession is real

It hits a very specific, great spot for horror. It's zany and campy. The effects are bonkers in some places, but really goddamn good in others. The stuff that should be awful instead comes across as camp, because it watches as though everybody in this film really seriously believed in the projected and wanted it to succeed.

I know Combs gets a lot of deserved credit for how he refuses to turn in a lackluster performance, but I think everybody here does a great job. I love that David Gale had almost quit acting and then did this one "last" film that turned into a mini-career with people who loved him to the end of his life and beyond. I love Bruce Abbot's protagonist accent and utter sincerity. I love the rightfully-crowned scream queen of Barbara Crampton. And can I get a shoutout for Robert Sampson? He basically plays three characters throughout the whole fucking movie and nails every single one of them.

Most importantly, though, it does the Shaun of the Dead trick of balancing comedy and horror throughout the film--then, at the exact right moment, shifts all its gears towards horror. I unironically believe that everything that happens after Dr. Hill hisses "So... do... I..." in the morgue is some of the greatest horror action I've ever seen.

The makeup jobs on the reanimates? Amazing. The acting? Also amazing. There's maybe one or two tension-relieving jokes, but broadly, the silliness is traded for horror in a way that's astoundingly effective. The blocking, the fights, Dean Halsey trying to save his daughter, Dan trying to save Herbert, how every single element was subtly pre-established in earlier scenes so nothing feels like a cheat, that droning music that plays over the chaos in the emergency ward...

I'll make jokes about how gay Dan and Herbert are for each other along with everybody else, but I don't think we'd all feel this strongly about the movie unless there was there there. And there is. What a fun movie.

#asked and answered #ask box meme #horror movie meme #reanimator #re animator #reanimator 1985 #jeffrey combs #barbara crampton #bruce abbott #david gale #robert sampson

[dawn-moths]

Can i ask for 21 and 18 for Dabi/Touya? Daddy pls/j🥺

haha ok i got u 💕

prompt: brushing through the other's hair while talking & developing own terms for everything

character: dabi/touya (boku no hero academia)

words: 1100+

content warning: no warnings apply! just some cute, innocent fluff.

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“Wow…” you remark, fingers loosely threaded through Dabi’s inky spikes. “I’m actually surprised, y’know. I thought you’d have a lot more knots and tangles.”

From where his head is resting in your lap, Dabi tilts his face slightly more your way, half-lidded cobalt gaze meeting yours. He looks serene like this, all relaxed and pliable as he rests between your gently folded legs, but as the ghost of a smirk tugs up at one corner of his scarred lips, a spark of mischief wiggles its way in.

“Why?” he asks. Simple. Like he’s testing you.

Your soothing, stroking motions cease for a moment, staring down at him with a flicker of guilt. “I dunno,” you shrug, breaking eye contact for a second as you sarcastically roll your eyes. “Maybe because I’ve never seen you do anything to your hair besides embrace perpetual bedhead?”

At this, he puffs out a small breath of a laugh, lazily amused at your little quip.

“Yeah, and why would I…?” Reaching a big, slender fingered hand up to cup the smooth skin of your cheek, he concludes with, “When I have someone who’ll comb their fingers through it whenever I ask?”

The sincerity of the comment flusters you for a moment, but then you’re wearing that soft, sweet smile reserved only for him and melting further into his rough palm, eyes fluttering shut as you sigh against his familiar touch.

“I let you get away with too much,” you joke, continuing your rhythmic combing through his course dark hair, the first flurries of his natural snow white color just beginning to show at the roots. “Next thing I know, you’ll be asking me to dye it for you too.”

Dabi gives that some thought, then he says, voice dropping to a low, sated lull, “Y’know, that’s actually not a bad idea,” which earns him a teasing pull on his hair as you curl a loose fist through the strands and gently tug. “What?” He chuckles, beginning to reach further back to twine his fingers through your own hair, mimicking your tender ministrations the best he can from his current position. “Don’t like the idea of having your hands stained blue for weeks on end?”

If it was for you, you want to say, I wouldn’t mind at all. But what comes out instead is, “Better watch out or you might end up with neon blue in the end, if I feel like messing with you that day.”

“Oh, if you feel like messing with me, huh?” Dabi playfully mocks, winning another one of those melodic giggles from you, the kind he lives for. The kind that makes him forget, even if just for one fleeting moment in time, all the hardship he’s had to endure up until now. Will likely have to endure in the future to come. “You’d be in for one hell of a payback for that.”

You and him mutter some harmless banter back and forth for a little while longer until eventually a silence falls over you again. It’s the kind that almost had Dabi dozing off before you’d made the comment about his hair, the kind that keeps you mesmerized enough that you could absentmindedly comb through his spikes all afternoon.

“I wish things could stay like this forever…” you murmur under your breath, so quiet you’re not even sure Dabi heard you, the way his eyes are once again closed and his breathing is slow and shallow, no doubt on the precipice of unconsciousness.

But then he sighs out, without opening his eyes, “Me too…”

A couple seconds pass and then his head is reluctantly lifting from your lap, shifting his position to sit upright. You let out a small whine of protest but he’s quick to beckon you back into his arms, your back resting against his chest and feeling safe and comforted as his body heat seeps through the fabric of your clothes, cradling you in warmth.

“You know we gotta make that supply run today…” he reminds you, pulling you both back to the reality that is being a bunch of wanted criminals hiding out with not much to their names, having to sneak around the city and steal cheap food from convenience stores just to survive week to week, sometimes even day to day.

“Yeah, I know…” you mutter, not trying to hide your blatant not wanting to make that supply run today. You nuzzle your head closer into the crook of his neck and say, “Sphynx will have a meltdown if we’re not back before sundown…”

Dabi smirked to himself, then said, “Well we can ask Ragdoll to come along. She’s been complaining about being cooped up in here for too long…”

Now it was your turn to smile. Because it had been your idea to code name the other members of the League as different cat breeds. At first, Dabi scoffed at your little game, asked you why, so you’d just shrugged and answered, “Because it’s fun,” and then, after a moment’s hesitation and a devious expression forming on your face, you added, “And this way we can talk about people without them knowing, if they decide to listen in.”

And so the joke had stuck.

Tomura was, obviously, “Sphynx”, Toga was “Ragdoll”, after she’d caught wind of your guys’ inside joke and wanted to choose her own breed to be referred by. As for the others, Jin was “Persian”, Spinner was “Devon Rex”, Atsuhiro was “Russian Blue”, and Kurogiri was “Bombay”.

Just for fun, you’d assigned one to Dabi— “Calico”— and for you, you’d chosen “Siamese”.

There had even been a few times when Tomura had been nearby while you two had been talking about him, butting in to ask, “Who the hell’s Sphynx?” only for you and Dabi to exchange smug glances and then reply, “No one. Don’t worry about it,” and then try to contain your laughter until he walked away lest you blow your entire cover.

It was just some silly, harmless fun, but it helped make the dingy, mundane, day to day of slumping around the bar that was currently serving as the main HQ a little more bearable, so Dabi didn’t mind playing along.

“Guess we should get ready to head out…” Dabi looked down at you, now settled in his lap, and quirked up one dark brow, “Don’cha think?”

You hummed out a twinkling giggle, Dabi’s heart stuttering a beat at such a genuine, jovial sound. You said, “If we have to. But this time you’re gonna be on lookout while I grab the goods. Deal, Calico?”

He flashed a grin that was half challenging, half proud. “Deal, Siamese.”

He’d taught you almost everything you knew, since you’d been taken in by the League. He felt pride in knowing, for as sweet as you were with him when you two were alone, he’d also been the one to corrupt you, in one way or another.

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send me a number from this prompt list + one of the characters i write for and i’ll write a short lil something for you 💕

#i took ‘developing own terms for everything’ as in like inside jokes and stuff #hope that makes sense #honestly that one was a little hard to think of so i hope what i did suffices #dabi #touya todoroki x reader #dabi x reader #dabi x you #dabi x y/n #touya x reader #touya x you #touya x y/n #mha #mha fanfiction #mha x reader #mha x you #mha x y/n #bnha #bnha fanfiction #bnha x reader #bnha x you #bnha x y/n #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #my hero academia fanfiction #boku no hero academia fanfiction #dabi bnha #dabi mha #kodis requests

[savage-rhi]

hey uh .. I saw an Ashley x leon request here and I was wondering if I could request something about them . like imagine if Leon's leg got stuck into a bear trap and he got injured and then they had to find a shelter so he could rest for a while. (make it smutt if you want) but if you want to write something fluff please write something that would give me butterflies. like I just wanna see them literally fall in love thank you :)

Sure thing! Coming right up!

"You're doing great! Keep leaning on me, it's okay." Ashley cheered softly while Leon adjusted his weight against her right side. She felt his left arm tighten around her shoulders. Sensing Leon was still unsteady, Ashley stopped them both from walking further and her right arm wrapped around Leon's waist, giving more support.

"T-thanks," Leon winced. A throbbing pain shot up and down his left leg as it pulsed. He groaned, biting his bottom lip while his face turned red. Leon couldn't recall the last time he was in such misery. Being shot was one thing, he had experienced that time and time again, but getting caught in a bear trap was a whole other game that even a seasoned agent would never get used to.

"I promise this will be over soon," Ashley reassured, and coaxed Leon to continue walking. Words couldn't express the guilt she felt making him go the extra mile, but given who the enemies were, it wasn't safe to be in this area for long. They had to find shelter outside of the village territory. It was the only shot Leon had to recover in peace.

"I should be--the one telling you that," Leon chuckled weakly.

"Sorry to bust your bubble, Mr. Hero." Ashley sighed, shaking her head faintly. She furrowed her brows and focused on their surroundings. "If we go around the outpost, I think we'll be okay."

"Sure," Leon nodded and groaned once more when he felt another wave travel down the wounded leg. He heard Ashley whisper a few apologies, but the rest was a blur while his consciousness began to fade in and out. Despite being patched up, Leon knew he was going into shock. He hoped that Ashley would have the strength to handle it, knowing it was not a matter of if but when at this point.

A few hours came and went, but eventually shelter had been found and Leon had been resting. Ashley sighed while glancing out of the window to the abandoned house they resided at. There was luckily no signs of anyone, let alone infected. She silently prayed to whatever was listening, that this peace would remain.

"If you keep scouting, you'll only get more paranoid." Leon grumbled while stirring from rest. He smiled lopsidedly when Ashley turned her attention to him, looking startled.

"Don't scare me like that." Ashley mocked and made a face. Relief began to make its way upon her expression as her eyes traveled over Leon's leg. She scooted closer to him. "Are you holding up?"

"Barely," Leon mused, lifting the upper half of his body from the floor. His eyes combed over the tattered blankets Ashley had thrown upon him and smiled. "I see me passing out didn't scare you off."

"You'd be wrong there," Ashley sighed with a laugh. "I thought I was going to wet myself when you fell. I thought you died until I found a pulse."

"I'm sorry," Leon said sincerely then offered a shrug. "What can I say, I love being theatrical."

They both laughed at the ridiculous remark. It seemed to be the only thing keeping them alive these days. At least that's how Ashley saw it once the antics died down.

"You okay?" Leon furrowed his brows, noticing Ashley's eyes were on the verge of tears. It was so sudden, he thought it might've been the joke and was about to say an apology until she spoke up.

"The bear trap---it was my fault," Ashley sobbed. "I wasn't paying attention cause we were arguing and---that should've been my leg. You shouldn't have had to--"

"Hey, hey, hey, it's okay." Leon grunted, ignoring the sting in his leg and wrapped his arms around Ashley. He could feel her face nuzzle into the crook of his neck while she cried. Leon's right hand pat the back of her head a few times. He wished he had more energy to offer comfort, but this would have to do.

"It's not your fault Ash," Leon shook his head. "I promise, it wasn't your fault."

"But I--"

"Shh," Leon murmured. "I don't blame you for any of this. It's okay."

"Leon, I don't--"

"Do you trust me?"

Leon felt Ashley nod against him and he smiled. The grip of his embrace grew tighter. There was no way he'd fail the mission, nor would he fail her. It would take more than a bear trap to ensure both their fates.

"Trust me when I say, this wasn't your fault."

The words echoed throughout Ashley's mind as she closed her eyes and enjoyed the hug. The monsters and the creatures that were set on destroying her were far away. All that mattered right now, was that Leon wasn't out of the game. He was alright, and that was enough.

If you like my work and feel generous, feel free to donate to my ko-fi account or my cash app account!

Cash App: $JayRex1463

#drabbles #leon kennedy #ashley graham #resident evil #resident evil fandom #re leon #re ashley #resident evil leon #resident evil ashley #leon x ashley #ashley x leon

[reddie-fangirl24]

Richie stood behind Eddie, a wide grin spreading across his face as he held a comb in his hand. "I'm trying to fix your hair, so hold still," Richie playfully scolded, his voice laced with affection.

Eddie rolled his eyes but complied, turning slightly to face his husband. "My hair didn’t need fixing! It was yours that’s a trainwreck! And you better not make it worse, Trashmouth!" he teased, unable to hide the fondness in his voice.

Richie chuckled and ran the comb through Eddie's soft locks, his fingers occasionally brushing against his scalp. It was a simple act, but it held a deep intimacy that only they could understand. When Richie was a kid, his mother was not patient or gentle when it came to brushing his hair. The brush picked roughly at the knots, making his scalp ache for the rest of the day.

As Richie meticulously adjusted Eddie's hair, he couldn't help but recall the countless times he had teased his friend about his meticulous grooming habits back in Derry. He used to joke about Eddie's fanny packs and how his hair always had to be perfect. But now, as they stood together as adults, Richie realized how much he adored those quirks and how they had become an integral part of who Eddie was.

Eddie watched his boyfriend’s reflection in the mirror, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Despite the years that had passed since their terrifying encounter with Pennywise, Richie still had a way of making him feel safe and loved. It was a feeling he cherished every day.

Finished with his task, Richie placed the comb on the bathroom counter and turned to face Eddie, his eyes shimmering with affection. "There you go, Mr. Perfect," he said, his voice filled with a mix of playfulness and adoration.

Eddie blushed, his gaze meeting Richie's. "Thanks, Trashmouth. We should get going now. We don’t have a lot of time," he replied, his voice filled with sincerity.

Richie closed the distance between them, his arms encircling Eddie in a warm embrace. "Do you think Ben and Bev would hold their wedding for us?" he teased, his eyes lingering towards the bed.

Although Eddie couldn’t resist Richie’s affection, he shook his head to resist his intentions. Later, he said in his mind. “We just fixed your hair. You’re going to look like Big Foot’s brother.”

They stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, cherishing the love they had fought so hard to preserve, their own version of happily ever after. They were attending Ben and Beverly’s wedding today, another love story that had its falters due to Pennywise’s curse against Derry. 

Richie nuzzled his face into the crook of Eddie's neck, his voice muffled but filled with mischief. "Come on, Eds. We've got time for a quick detour," he whispered, his warm breath sending shivers down Eddie's spine.

Eddie chuckled softly, his fingers gently tracing patterns on Richie's back. "You're insatiable, Richie. We have important things to attend to, remember?" he replied, a mix of playfulness and affection in his voice.

Richie pulled back slightly, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, important things. But we deserve a little fun, don't we?" he countered, his lips curling into a playful grin.

Eddie couldn't help but smile, his heart swelling with love for the man who had brought so much joy and laughter into his life. Richie had a way of making even the most mundane moments feel like an adventure, and Eddie cherished every second of it.

As much as Eddie was tempted to give in to Richie's playful advances, he gently extricated himself from the embrace, a hint of reluctance in his eyes. "We really should get going, Richie. Ben and Bev have been waiting for us," he said, a touch of regret in his voice.

Richie pouted playfully, his eyes widening in mock disappointment. "Fine, Mr. Responsible. But you owe me a rain check," he replied, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Eddie rolled his eyes, but a soft chuckle escaped his lips. "Deal," he said, his voice filled with warmth.

Hand in hand, they made their way out of the room. As they stepped into the day, their hands intertwined, Richie and Eddie embraced the future that lay before them. 

Eddie took a breath. That moment will come, he thought to himself. Just when to ask the love of his life to marry him was a tough question.

Something I may continue. Let me know what you think!

#Reddie #Reddie Fanfiction #Reddie Fluff #Richie Tozier #Eddie Kaspbrak #Losers Club #Benverly

[ibrithir-was-here]

Posting a very self indulgent Endless Heirs AU drabble I wrote a while back. Takes place after the main story (so spoilers but they probably wont make much sense if you haven't read it 😅) when Daniel and Wish have taken over permanently as Dream and Desire of the Endless, but are still getting used to the roles and what embodying them means, hence why their names aren't used in the narration,as they're rather in bewteen identies.

(Technically takes place in the Romance version of their story but could also fit in the Platonic one, they're just very close friends xD)

Golden eyes blink languidly back at him from across the bed, gleaming in the soft darkness that surrounds them, as a breeze blows across the raised dias, billowing the star-strewn bed curtains out like unfurling nebulae.

"What are you thinking about?"

The voice to which the eyes belong murmurs, soft and deep as a gently rolling ocean wave, pulling him back from the depths of his thoughts to land on a soft, welcoming shore.

"You" He says simply, leaning out across the space between them to place a kiss against the pale brow, brushing away a stray curl which glints golden in the faint starlight that shines from his own night black eyes.

"Hmm" A content purr escapes their lips, a sound that he feels echoing down to his bones, amplified in this space they've made on the nebulous border of their two realms. "What about me?"

"I was thinking about how beautiful you are.''

He says simply, and is not offended by the stifled snort of laughter that followed his remark.

"Oh very original"

"I'm too asleep to be flowery, I can only be sincere"

"You don't sleep"

"I'm too bone-tired to be flowery then"

A moment of silence, and then he is the one being kissed on his brow, pale hands brushing even paler hair from his face.

"Hmm I suppose I can settle for sincerity under those circumstances"

They shift closer to him, pulling him to them like the moon pulling in the tides. He hears the breaking of waves below them, the Sea conjured up to join them in this place by his own musings. His head is laid down to rest against a moon-white, cloud-soft chest, and he hears the steady murmur of his own heart beneath the pale skin.

"...Is it really that draining?" They ask, hands carding through his hair in gentle undulations that comb the ache from his temples with each stroke.

He ponders on how to respond. He is not discontented, not overwhelmed. It's just…

"There's just--so much of it. So much and all the time. I don't know how Dre--"

He stops--and the hands stop as well, waiting for him--as once more the realization sinks into him that that is his name now, well and truly as the one given to him by his predecessor and his mother. It still feels odd to think so. Not wrong per se, but as if it were a piece of clothing he has finally grown large enough to wear, but not yet broken in.

"How Dad did it" He finishes, and to his relief their hands resume their gentle caresses.

"I don't know how you do it" He whispers, turning his face into the softness of their skin, willing the heart that beats below it to beat gentler, so as not to disturb the beautiful being that holds it safe within them. He can feel their own heart twinge slightly in the hollow of his chest, in sympathy with what he has just divulged.

"Well, I did get a bit of a leg up, having all of Desire's experience sloshing about in me when we came back together"

They say simply, ignoring his faint wince as the memory of that terrifying moment passes through like the sharp flare of a shooting star. and then fades away once more as their careful administrations continue.

"But it still took time for me to figure out how to do things in my own way"

Their fingers trail down from his hair to cup his face, raising his head from its resting place to meet their gaze.

"You'll figure it out" They say softly, pulling him further up and closer in, and he finds himself willingly lost within their golden gaze.

"And you have an advantage as well" They add, tapping him softly on the noise and breaking his willing entrancement as his eyes cross.

"You don't have to do it alone. You've got Morpheus--"

They tap again, emphasizing each name they list, "And your counselors--"

tap

"and Hob--"

tap

"and the Family"

tap

"And me"

This time they reach down and kiss him on the nose.

"You'll do splendidly, I have no doubt. Now do try and rest, that's rather the point of this little getaway if you remember"

They smile down at him, fond and gentle, and he sinks down into them once more, head cushioned on their lap as the wish they both have for him to do just that works between, pulling him down into the closest he can get to sleep now, and he feels the ache finally begin to leave him, born away on the stroking of hands as light as the sea breeze.

#my writing #my art #endless heirs au #daniel hall #wish of the endless #dream of the endless #desire of the endless #sandman #hob gadling #the endless #the sandman #morpheus #lord morpheus