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seeingivy · 5 months

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pretty girl

ryomen sukuna x f!reader

an: kind of suggestive? reader is super insecure + sukuna might be ooc but ??? yk. it is what it is. come get yall juice.

**part of my best friends (older brother) fic

when sukuna’s phone rings - for the third time, signaling that he actually has to pick up now - he definitively decides that he is going to move far, far away. maybe if he lived in shibuya, or even as far as kyoto, his stupid little brother wouldn’t call him every time he got too drunk to drive him and his idiotic friends home.

and when sukuna walks straight into the bar - blaring music, haphazard puddles of alcohol all over the floor, and the most pungent, putrid sweat smell hanging in the air - he’s almost positive that he’s going to start looking for a new apartment tomorrow.

it takes him approximately thirty-five seconds to find yuuji. though he supposed he should have noticed faster that the pink haired idiot standing on top of the bar, with a black sea urchin shaking at his legs was exactly what he was looking for.

sukuna makes his way over, shoving megumi hard in the shoulder as he looks over, eyes glazed and cheeks pink. after almost seven times of doing this, sukuna knows exactly how this is going to go. that despite the tattoos, the entirely different facial structure, and physique, megumi is going to confuse sukuna for yuuji.

“yuu’? how’d you get over there so fast?” megumi murmurs, reaching to cup the side of his face.

right again. sukuna smacks his hand out of his peripheral as he looks up at yuuji, who hasn’t even noticed that he’s arrived yet.

“move over.” he responds, irritated.

the second megumi lets go, sukuna all but shuffles yuuji off of his balance, making it a point to somewhat break his fall off of the countertop. only somewhat, because naturally he wouldn’t injure his little brother. but that doesn’t mean he’s not deserving of sometime of retribution for all the times he’s had to do this.

yuuji’s groaning in his arms as he pulls him up, as he halfheartedly makes grabby hands for fushiguro who was three feet away.

“‘gumi, cm’here.”

“we’re leaving. you can sit next to your gumi in the car.” sukuna states sternly, curling his nose at the godawful nickname, as he drags the two of them straight out into the cold air.

he’s all but opening the doors for the two of them, getting more irritated as the two of them excitedly look up at the sky, pointing at all the little stars together before he all but shoves them again.

“look yuuji. it’s us.”

“where?”

“the two stars next to each other.”

sukuna watches yuuji’s eyes go wide, cheeks bright pink, as he wraps his arms around megumi. and fights the urge to gag.

it’s only then - when he’s wrestled seatbelts onto the two of them and stopped megumi from being the affectionate drunk that he is - that they make it a point to share an important piece of information.

“kugisaki and y/n are still in there! we can’t leave.” yuuji whines, leaning his head against megumi’s as his eyes quickly start drooping, almost fluttering shut before he can ask where the two of you could possibly be.

sukuna shuffles back through the group of bodies, this time looking for the other pair of the set. it takes more effort - because he’s sure that kugisaki is going to be sucking face with someone in the back corner and he’s going to have to put an end to it. and you. you were always particularly hard to find.

he spots the red hair three feet away and takes a deep breath. she’s almost entirely sitting on the girls lap - green hair, shitty glasses - as he makes it a point to tap on her shoulder. naturally, she doesn’t stop and he gets more disgusted as it goes on. he never thought she’d be so…handsy. or that he’d have to see it.

he does the next best thing. reaches to her side and tickles her, just enough to stop her and start the godawful, obscene screaming that worsens tenfold with every consecutive pint of alcohol she drinks. and of course, she’s just as predictable as the last.

“yuuji?! where the fuck do you get off doing that?”

he reaches for her wrist, shooting a polite smile.

“maki. always a pleasure. kugisaki, we’re leaving.”

“i’m not leaving.”

maki gives him a halfhearted shrug as he all but throws her over her shoulder, tuning out the insults that are streaming out of her mouth as he all but carries her through the group of bodies. if you weren’t regulars here, sukuna was positive that he’d get arrested for that profanities coming out of her mouth - that, and the fact that it looked like he was abducting her. but no one turns a blind eye, almost irritated that she’s at it again.

that makes two of them.

when nobara’s tucked into the back, he makes it a point to throw a water bottle at each of them - specifically square in the face for yuuji and megumi who are cuddling in his backseat - as he glares at all of them.

“okay, kugisaki. where’s y/n?” sukuna asks.

she’s leaning her head back against the headrest, eyes fluttering shut, as she murmurs something unintelligible.

“she….ugly.” kugisaki murmurs.

“she’s ugly?” sukuna deadpans.

well, she’s certainly not ugly.

“ugly…bathroom.” she murmurs again, taking it as his best option.

sukuna marches back into the bar, for the third time, and beelines straight into the bathroom in the back. and there you are, crumpled up on the floor with your knees hiked to your chest, with big tears in your eyes and two girls sitting right across from you.

sukuna finds the sight rather…unusual. he knew that girls were quite different than guys, having heard you go on your spiels about womanhood and female friendship too damn often to know that it was a whole thing that was beyond him. but really, he finds it sincerely odd that the two girls sitting across from you are comforting you in your puddle of tears.

it’s not that sukuna’s stereotyping. or being judgemental. or he is a little, but he doesn’t frankly care. because labels, or groups or whatever existed for a reason. people who were similar flocked to one another. it’s how people were comfortable. how they functioned.

which is why sukuna’s unsure why these two girls - who are actually dressed up to be at the club - are sitting on the tiles with you, when you’re wearing one of those pink ribbons in your hair, that of course, matches the one on your bag.

but granted, this is you he’s talking about. he’s spent enough time trying to figure you out, before he naturally gave up. he always found that you transcended normal groups that he assigned.

you look up at him through your tearfilled eyes, a half smile on your face.

“sukuna, you-you’re here.”

sukuna ignores the fact that he’s pleased, very pleased, that you didn’t just confuse him with yuuji, as he holds his hand out to you and grabs your purse with the other one. and when you place your hand in his, you can feel the heat rushing up your body, more so when he leans down, lips few feet apart as he murmurs to you.

“we’re leaving. now.” sukuna states, glaring at you.

you feel the heat rush to your cheeks, acutely aware of every detail on his face. that his hair is slightly messy - because he must have woken up to come get you - and that his eyes are almost tired. you fight the urge to smile...at how sweet It all is.

“okay. thanks for coming to get us.” you respond, giving him a smile.

the two girls sprawled on the floor stand up, yanking their dresses down the slightest amounts as they flash you warm, kind-hearted smiles.

sukuna, really, truly does not understand it. at the way that you’re so open with them, despite the fact that they must be strangers.

“you, give him hell. and you, i’m really happy for you. i’m sure your wedding will be beautiful.” you state, pointing at the two girls who had been accompanying you on the bathroom floor for the past hour.

“and you. stop letting people call you ugly and taking it to heart. the bows are cute. your fashion is amazing. and men don’t deserve shit.” the first girl slurs.

you give her a smile, as sukuna all but tugs you out of the bathroom by the wrist, arm secured around your shoulder as he leads you through the crowd. sukuna drops his arm around you as the crowd gets thicker, hands straight on your waist as he steadies you in front of him. and when he leans down to whisper in your ear, it sends a shiver down your entire spine.

“do i even want to ask?” he sneers.

“it’s her bachelorette party! and that’s her best friend, though she seems kind of…off her rocker. but in a good way. power to her for being bold.” you respond.

sukuna rolls his eyes as he pushes you out into the cold air last, reaching for the front seat door and opening it for you. except when he looks back, you’re staring up into the sky just as yuuji and megumi were, the softest of smiles on your face.

sukuna makes a mental note of the dark, black tear streaks on your cheeks and your sniflfy nose as he clears his throat to get your attention.

“oh. sorry, i’m here. i’m here.” you respond, quickly shuffling into the car as you wipe your face.

sukuna shuts the door behind you, pausing to look up at the sky too. and silently wonders what exactly it was that you thought when you looked up at it.

sukuna makes it a point to take you out of the car last. because naturally, he’d save the easiest job for the end. by the time he had turned onto his street, you were snug asleep against the window of his car, creating a small indent into your forehead from the plastic of the door as he parked on the street. and he’d give you the few seconds of peace as he wrangles the rest of them out.

megumi and yuuji were easy to wrangle. because if sukuna too one out, the other one would quickly follow - and mope a great deal. megumi was on the side closer to the door, meaning he had to brace himself for the confusion once again, as he shrugged him awake.

“‘yuu. are you going to carry me to bed?” he murmurs.

“absolutely fucking not.” sukuna responds, yanking him out as yuuji follows up the stairs. he sets the two of them on the couch, a surefire way to ensure that they don’t do something heinous to his sheets during the night - or the morning after - as he braces himself for kugisaki next.

when he slings her arm around his shoulder, the obscenities start.

“maybe if you had a job or something, maybe we wouldn’t bother you so much. It-”

“i have a job, kugisaki. a job that just payed for your drinks, mind you.”

it seems that in his rusk of getting ready, yuuji had accidentally swiped his wallet on the way out. and of course, it was his turn to pay for the drinks.

“you need to get a hobby. have you thought of sewing?” she asks.

“that would be useful. then i’d have hundreds of needles to stick in your eyes.”

“when was the last time you felt the touch of a woman, sukuna?”

“when was the last time you went on a date? are the middle school makeout sessions hitting the mark for you, kugisaki?”

“shut the fuck up.” she sneers, reaching to smack him as he shoves her straight on to the guest bed and quickly shuts the door behind him.

he’s satisfied when he hears no inclination of her following, which always seems to be a gamble depending on how much she’s downed that night. or how short he cut off whatever it was she was doing with maki.

when sukuna makes it back to the car, he half debates just leaving you in there. because you look so comfortable, with his stray jacket strewn over your shoulders, and your breath that’s fogging up the glass of the mirror. but the fact that your neck is at an awkward angle and the cold air solidify his decision.

he open the door and you halfhazardly jolt awake, blinking your eyes as sukuna comes into your line of vision. you shoot him a smile as he holds his hand out to you, locking them together as he drags you up to the apartment, straight into his bedroom.

“can i use the bathroom?” you ask.

“you know where it is.” he responds, noting and particularly hating the biting tone in his voice.

“thank you!” you respond, shuffling into the room and shutting the door.

albeit weirdly, sukuna presses his ear to the door to confirm his suspicions. and the soft clinking of bottles, of the water running on and off, tells him enough.

that you’re doing your longwinded skin care routine in his bathroom. that you shoved all of your serums and moisturizers in your purse because you couldn’t skip out on it for even one day.

he’d make it a point. to slam the door open and make fun of you for it. but he bites down any retort he has when he hears soft sniffling and pushes the door open for an entirely different reason.

“what the hell is your problem?” he asks.

“huh?”

“you and your friends get obscenely drunk. then, you call me in the middle of the night and wake me up. and right when i’m about to go to bed, you’re crying in my bathroom. so what the hell is it? just tell me.”

you sniffle.

“do you really want to know?” you whisper.

“you’re wasting more of time with your shitty attitude. i’m not going to stand here and coax it out of you, so just tell me straight up or stop crying.”

you sigh.

“if you put lipstick on a pig, it’s still a pig.”

sukuna wants to smack you. of course you feel the need to talk in tongues.

“in english this time?” he asks.

“you can try to look nice as much as you want. but even all that…makeup…fancy skincare. it can’t change the fact that i just look like this. that if you put lipstick on a pig, it’s still a pig.” you state.

“you think you’re a pig?” sukuna asks.

you sigh.

“maybe.” you murmur.

sukuna tosses you the extra set of clothes he dragged out, tossing them straight at you as you send him a grateful smile.

“thanks, sukuna.” you murmur.

“for what?”

he could barely even muster a response, a coherent one that you deserved, in response to what you shared with him.

“dunno. i tell other people and they just kind of go…but you’re so pretty!! and…it falls flat. it’s nice to not be coddled. just said things as they are.”

sukuna can feel a burning feeling in his chest that increases tenfold when you press a kiss into the softness of his cheek. and he stands there dumbfounded, watching you smile and make a move to walk away. he instinctively reaches for your bicep and pulls back, a sweet smell emanating from whatever you’ve just smeared on your face, as he looks down at your lips.

there’s some type of glitter on them. whatever you’ve just put on makes them look bigger, fuller. he wonders if some trace of it is left on his cheek.

“did you need something?” you ask.

“sleep in my bed.”

“huh?”

“i’ll take the couch. get in the bed.” he utters.

the following morning, sukuna wakes up to three plates of breakfast with an annoying sticky note pressed on top.

thanks for coming to get us sukuna!!! :DD

it’s the first time the thought crosses his mind. that his preconceived notion might be incorrect.

that it’s not that you’re too good for him. it’s that everyone else isn’t good enough for you.

the next time you see sukuna is when you’re teetering past tipsy to fully drunk in your childhood bedroom, on christmas eve. well, he’s not exactly inside the room, more knocking on the door frame.

you gesture for him to come in, setting the wine bottle down, as he takes the seat next to you.

“where’s yuuji?” you ask.

“still at megumi’s.”

sukuna loosens the tie around his neck and unbuttons the top three buttons of his collared shirt, as he slides closer to you. you've never been one to shy from his touch, settling into his embrace, as he racks his mind, desperately, on how to broach the topic, that’s been on his mind for weeks.

sukuna slides his arm around your shoulder to your nightstand, to a little bundle of dried flowers. he opts to leave his hand pulled around you, as he pulls it closer to the two of your faces, resting his temple against yours.

“what’s this?”

“it’s my corsage from prom. like sixty years ago.”

“who did you go with?” sukuna asks.

“no one. i never got asked. i just bought one because…you know how all the girls line up in a row and stick their hands out to show their corsage off? i didn’t want to be left out of that picture.” you state.

“so you ordered it yourself?”

“mhm. pink flowers, white bow. it matched my dress.” you hum.

“always the bows huh?”

sukuna sets the corsage down in your lap, as he leans closer into your space and digs into his pocket. you can smell his cologne, strong and musky in your space, as it mixes with your own flowery perfume and gives your head a slight rush.

he pulls out his keys and sets them flat in the palm of your hand, as you inspect each little accessory on his ring. there’s two keys - one for his apartment and one for his house - and two keychains. one of him as a lego, which you know yuuji bought him for his birthday, and another one from alaska, that you and yuuji had bought him on your school trip in eighth grade.

but the third is a ribbon, secured right on the ring of his keychain. you inspect it between your fingers, and he supplies the answer before you can ask.

“you left it at my house.” he states.

“so…so you put it on your keys?”

“wanted to make sure it was on me. in case i saw you.”

you make a move to pull it off the ring, but he closes his hand over yours.

“it’s mine now.” he states.

“then why did you show it to me?” you whispers.

sukuna’s not sure what it is that drives him to do it, merely the fact that he has no patience and surely no self control, but he hooks his hand straight under your thigh, securing you straight on his lap. you can feel your breath hitch in your throat as he leans his forehead straight against yours, his hands on your thighs burning your skin.

“what are you doing? yu-yuuji will eventually get here you know.” you whisper.

“do you like him?” sukuna asks.

“what? no-no, he’s with megumi. and he’s gay.” you whisper.

“so why are you thinking about him when you’re here with me?”

“i-i’m not. you just-”

sukuna swallows hard, taking a deep inhale of your smell, before he slithers one of his hands around your neck and pulls you closer. he can feel you fidget in his lap, nearly knocking over half the things behind you as you twitch in his lap and he murmurs into your skin.

“relax.”

you take a deep breath, grounding yourself by digging your hands into the muscle of his arms.

“okay. you-”

“the guy at the bar. what did he say to you?” he whispers.

“which guy?”

“when i picked you up last. when you slept in my bed.”

you feel your cheeks burn in embarrassment.

“nothing. he-”

sukuna’s squeezing into the plush of your thighs, his hands firm and warm as you fight the urge to yelp.

“tell me what he said.”

“nothing, sukuna. i didn’t want to kiss him yet. and he leaned in. got-got offended. just said some things before he walked away.” you mumble.

“things like?”

“like you know. the usual stuff.”

“that you’re ugly?” he asks.

it's almost embarrassing, but his look is so unrelenting that you have to give in. you nod, as sukuna takes his hands off of your legs, bringing them up to cup the side of your face this time. he snakes one of his hands into your hair, yanking the bow out as he curls it in his hand.

“do you believe him?” he asks.

“no.” you respond.

sukuna leans closer, his lips brushing against yours as you instinctively shut your eyes. that it burns too much to look at him.

“are you lying to me?”

“n-no.” you mumble back, as you try to lean in but feel sukuna pull back.

when you open your eyes, you can’t but pout as he smiles at you, as he grins at you after pulling away.

“don’t be a tease, sukuna.”

he laughs into your neck, before the warmth blooms on your neck as his lips connect to your skin, as he leaves a trail of warm kisses up the side of your neck. each new spot he touches has you nearly melting in his touch, as he can feel you slouching onto him, leaning your entire body weight against his.

he continues that way, refusing to kiss you full on the mouth, as you feel your skin bloom warmth with every new place that he touches. each of your cheeks, the tip of your nose, even your eyelids that you’ve fluttered shut this entire time. some part of it is agonizing, that he continues to give but won’t receive in return.

you take his collar into your hands, crumpling the fabric as you yank him straight and feel him smile against your lips.

“needy?”

“please. i want to-”

sukuna cuts you off before you can finish your request, the first inclination of your begging snapping the very little patience he had in the first place. your lips are soft and warm against his, as you surely spread that glittery nonsense over him, over his neck as you start peppering kisses over him. from how shy and awkward he’s seen you, he swallows down the surprise at how eager you are, at the way you’re basically pawing at him through his shirt.

except you pull back, wide eyed, when the two of you hear pounding up the step, accompanied by two voices getting louder in your ears.

“y/n!!! y/n, y/n merry christmas!!!” yuuji bellows, as you shove sukuna onto the floor and sit upright as he pads into the room and wraps you in a hug.

sukuna wipes his lips with the back of his hand as he stands up, giving megumi a nod, as yuuji turns to him and shakes hands. sukuna can’t help but smile at how pink your cheeks are, swollen lips and glazed eyes, as megumi and yuuji settle into both of your sides, arms wrapped around you.

you swallow hard as you look at sukuna, wide eyed as you noticed all the lipgloss that you left over him. and pale when megumi notices the big red mark on his neck.

“is that a rookie mark, sukuna?”

sukuna brings his hand up to his neck, only to be met back with the glitter on his fingers as he smiles - or more appropriately, grins at you - as you feel your cheeks go pink.

“who gave you that sukuna? your neighbor?” yuuji asks.

you feel your eyes go wide, as sukuna pinches his eyes at yours before responding.

“no. i haven’t talked to her in a while.”

you tuck away the detail, making sure to ask him about it later. it’s only now that sukuna’s reputation comes to the forefront of your mind, as you realize you might have made a grave mistake by letting sukuna indulge in whatever infatuation it is he’s having with you.

“yuuji. did you say hello to y/n’s sister?” he asks.

“she’s back in town?” he asks, turning to you.

“mhm. got back in today.” you murmur, as the two of them shoot you a smile and shuffle back into your room.

sukuna lifts you up by your wrists, as he starts fixing your appearance little by little. you can feel him zipping up the back of your dress - entirely unsure when he even had the time to do that - as he snags the little bow from his pocket and smooths it back into your hair.

“whose your neighbor?”

“jealous, princess?” he asks.

you turn around, poking one of your hands into the muscle of his chest.

“sukuna. i am not going to be one of your little lack-”

“you are not a lackey.” he whispers.

you pout at him, entirely disbelieving, as he wraps his hands around your face, the kiss sweeter, softer than the ones the two of you had just shared on the bed.

“you’d kill me if you did that.” you murmur.

“you think i relish in your pain?” he asks.

“dunno. you-”

he leans your head up again, tucking his head into the softness of your neck as he starts peppering kisses you again. your hands are a futile attempt to stop him, as he laughs into your skin.

“i’m here to make you feel good. i’ve been thinking about it for weeks.”

“oh?”

“let me. you- you’ve always been my pretty girl. and no one can make you feel good, treat you like you should, better than me.”

you push him off again as megumi and yuuji come back, with your sister in tow, as they gesture for you to join them downstairs. and sukuna follows behind, as you fight the urge to beam, when he secures his hand into yours behind their backs.

next part linked here

an: do NAWT ask for a part 2 bc I will do it. my brain is steaming. I am thinking thoughts.

taglist: @porridgesblog @k0z3me @kayleegomez @yihona-san06 @bsenpai @sweetenertea @skzismyhome @mykyoon @violetmatcha @rebeccawinters @luna0713hunter @shotenvinsoot @itzmeme @gojoswifeyyys-world @cutiejg @chilichopsticks

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lovebugism · 8 months

Note

Ok but what about Eddie dating a reader who snores and the gang is like wtf but he finds it cute.

ty for requesting anon! this is dedicated to everyone who gets sleepy at 5pm like i do hahah — eddie's girlfriend falls asleep during movie night and it's a big deal in the sweetest way (sleepy gf!reader, established relationship, 1.4k)

fictober (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

A masked serial killer slaughters a group of pretty teenage girls. Their screams are high-pitched and painfully artificial. The murderer’s chainsaw is way too loud and far too dramatic a weapon. The bright red blood splatters across the baby pink bedroom in several obnoxiously vivid splotches.

Eddie Munson has never been more grateful to be alive in the golden age of slasher films — the absolute peak of godawful cinema.

He turns to the pretty little thing dozing on his shoulder and grins quietly to himself.

You’re the purest essence of beauty in all forms, but especially compared to the barbaric horror flashing across the television screen across the room. In the darkness, the neon glow paints you in varying shades of blue, green, and dark red.

You’re so pretty it hurts.

Eddie didn’t think he could love anything more than dumb slasher movies. Not until he met you, anyway.

“Tired?” he whispers to you when your lashes flutter across the apples of your cheeks.

It’s hardly seven o’clock — the sun has just barely set over the horizon — and more than anything, the tiny trailer is filled with fake screams and faker blood. Most people would be too horrified to be so drowsy. Not you, though.

Everyone’s always admired your relationship with sleep, but maybe just a little extra now.

Your features are blurry with the longing of slumber. They scrunch in refusal when you shake your head, cheek rubbing against the soft cotton of Eddie’s thrifted tee. “No,” you hum with a softness that says otherwise. “‘M just cozy…”

Everyone knows what that’s code for.

All the gang was over for movie night — some more begrudgingly than others (Steve, namely). The brunette boy shares a side eye with Robin on the other side of the couch before both of them turn to look at you.

Lucas sits on the floor and stuffs his face with popcorn, which he almost chokes on when he laughs. Max giggles at the boy in response from where she’s sandwiched between him and Dustin.

Each of them can practically count down the seconds until you’re fully asleep.

You inhale once — deeply, sharply. The curly-haired boy turns his wrist to check his watch.

“7 p.m…” Dustin observes with raised brows. He nods to himself like he’s impressed. “That’s gotta be some kinda record, right?”

“I’m pretty sure she was out by six when we were at Steve’s yesterday,” Robin tells him as she leans over Lucas’ shoulder for the popcorn bowl he’s holding hostage.

“Full on snoring by six-thirty,” Steve concurs through a mouthful of candy. “And her legs were on my lap, too, so I couldn’t move for, like, two hours.”

“What about last movie night?” Max questions with pinched brows. “I’m pretty sure she was asleep before it even started.”

Lucas shakes his head. “She was just napping, right? I’m pretty sure she woke up, like, halfway through.”

Dustin nods — the official connoisseur of you and all your sleepiness. You had been asleep by the time Steve turned The Outsiders on, but your internalized love for Dallas Winston had woken you part of the way through.

“It had to be scrubbed from the records,” the boy explains like it’s something a whole lot more official than you just being tired. “It only counts if she stays asleep.”

“What if her eyes are closed, and she’s using your arm as a pillow, and you don’t have any feeling left in your fingers?” Robin questions with narrowed eyes, recounting the events from the last movie night in question. “What about that?”

“Still doesn’t count,” Dustin shakes his head with a feigned sympathy.

Eddie listens to them with a distant smile on his face. They’re not making fun of you exactly, just noticing all your little idiosyncrasies that he loves so much. It’s what makes you you — the quiet, sleepy girl that’s all but the glue of the group.

If you’re somewhere else when everyone’s all hanging out together, and not snoozing on someone’s shoulder, something just doesn’t feel right.

“Isn’t she the fuckin’ cutest?” the boy muses amidst the light-hearted banter, the horror movie long forgotten.

His bright smile and twinkling eyes are met with a group of deadpanned stares.

It isn’t because you aren’t cute, because you are. Why else would Robin and Steve let you use them as pillows even after their appendages have long gone numb? You’re like a cat sleeping on their stomach — it’s too much of an honor to wake you.

Their dumbfounded gapes are more so a result of Eddie’s adoration for you. Because you’re you, and Eddie’s… Eddie.

You’re polar opposites.

You’re quiet and sweet and gentle, and Eddie’s never been any of those things once in his life.

You’ve brought out a softer side of him — one that none of them thought a brash metalhead like him could ever have. He talks to you far sweeter and far more gently than he’d ever speak to the rest of them. Mostly because he knows you get spooked too easily and that you always wince whenever people yell. And his PDA is an innocent kind, full of held hands and forehead kisses and boops to the tip of your nose.

Eddie Munson is so soft for you that he lets you drool on his shoulder and unknowingly steal all the covers from him when you fall asleep during movie night.

He’s so far gone for you that he’ll let you drag him to bed when most people his age are heading out to party for the night — just so you can drool on him and take all the covers from him in his bedroom, where you can sleep more comfortably than on the couch.

It’s all so sweet, it’s downright disgusting.

“It’s gross how in love the two of you are,” Steve monotones, the only one brave enough to say it out loud even though they’re all thinking it.

“I know,” Eddie affirms with a wide grin. “It’s amazing, huh?”

They all grumble under their breaths about it, obviously not as mushy with adoration as he is.

It isn’t his fault they’re miserable because they don’t have their own soulmate who gets tired at 5 p.m. and snoozes on their shoulder accordingly. They’d be a lot less crabby if they had someone like you to gush about.

Not you, though. ‘Cause you’re his and everything. But someone just like you, maybe.

Everyone dissipates when the credits of the movie start to roll — either to get more food, or use the bathroom, or stretch their aching limbs.

Eddie stays unmoving. He doesn’t want to wake you up.

You begin to rouse on his shoulder, shifting as you wake with a deep inhale-exhale. Your eyes flutter slowly open, and through the haze of sleep, you notice the empty living room and the scrolling names on the television screen.

“’S the movie over?” you question, slurred with the heaviness of slumber.

Eddie nods lazily against the couch.

He’s about as tired as you are now, with his legs cocked up on the coffee table and his head lolled back against the cushions. “Yeah. It’s okay, though. You didn’t really miss anything,” he assures with a crooked smile.

“Didn’t mean to fall asleep…” you murmur, like you’re embarrassed to have slept so soundly.

“I know,” the boy hums softly to you. “’S okay…”

Your temple rests against his shoulder once more. “Wake me up before you start the next movie?” you ask when Eddie presses a lingering kiss to your hair. Your eyes are already fluttered shut again.

“Sure,” he answers, despite lacking any real intention to wake you.

He’d much rather let you sleep. He knows you need it. He doesn’t mind that you get tired before the sun has set, even though he knows how much you hate it. He couldn’t love it more, personally.

So, he lets you fall back asleep on his shoulder and tries to ignore how much it makes his heart swell. His ribcage shakes with the intensity of how much he loves you — how privileged he feels that you trust him enough to drool on his shoulder and not be embarrassed about any of it. You know he loves you too much for any of that.

“She still asleep?” Steve questions when the gang settles back in the living room. He rattles M&Ms in his palms before chucking a handful into his mouth. When Eddie nods, the boy snorts. “I’m glad it’s your arm falling asleep this time and not mine.”

Eddie’s glad for it, too.

#published by bug #eddie munson x reader #stranger things x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson #stranger things #stranger things imagine #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfiction #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fluff #st drabbles #eddie spaghetti drabble #event: fictober!

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delphi-shield · 6 months

Text

push and pull // leon s. kennedy & jill valentine

Leon x Reader x Jill Smut wc: 2,860 mdni - 18+

the plumber at my house reading this over my shoulder: 😲 this has been in my drafts for like two months, i finally ripped the bandaid off and touched it up. i cant believe people want the jill/leon ship name to be jilleon when 'breakfast sandwich' is right there. ohh nooo i had to cut the scene where they high-five after you cum...... guess i'll have to write more jill and leon......what a tragedy.....

summary: Jill said she'd be home two hours ago. She's stood you up for dinner again. You're so upset, Leon's got to fuck you about it to make you feel better.

content: fem!reader, all porn no plot, piv (reader receiving), some praise from leon & some degradation from jill, spit, crying, hair-pulling, masturbation, blowjob, dom!jill, use of strap-on, established poly relationship, sorry yeah there's more religious imagery, stealing the jill & leon dynamic from this post, fucking your relationship problems away does not work and you should not attempt. very loosely proofread.

Jill's late.

She promised. You cooked, you cleaned, and she promised she would be here. Bought a special candle and everything, three wick, fresh linen scent. Not your kind of thing, but you know she likes those clean, bright smells.

The first half hour, you’d clung to the idea that her physical therapy appointment was just running late. Forty-five minutes in, three unanswered texts, your hope diminishes. An hour, and Leon’s helping you put the food up and clean the dishes.

Leon’s not exactly happy with Jill. This isn’t the first time she’s done this to you. He hates to see you pout. Even more than that, he hates to see the way you’re trying not to cry in front of him. He does everything he can think of to make you feel better. Watch one of your godawful shows with you, play with your hair for you, give you a nice bath if you wanted - none of his offers made much of a difference. He knows better than to take it personally. He’s not Jill. He can’t fix what she broke.

He can fuck you about it, though. That always seems to take your mind off things, at least for a little while.

He let you use him however you like, dealer’s choice. You wanted him in the dining room chair, wanted to ride him slow, grind down on that fat cock till you unwound and your pretty tears weren’t because your girlfriend stood you up, and that’s what you’d get. Not his first choice, but he’s not the one who looks so pretty with those big, wet eyes.

The only downside is that you can't hear Jill's key turning in the door when Leon's got his cock stuffed so deep in your pussy you can feel him in your ribs, when you’re too busy rocking yourself to a gradual, slow-built end. You'd missed your ringtone too - and Leon's for that matter. You weren't intentionally being petty, but intentions never did soothe Jill's moods.

"Nice," she drawls, dropping her bag with a thud. "Real nice."

Your head falls back just enough to get a look at her, pouting in the doorway. Maybe it's supposed to be intimidating. Really, she just looks like a dejected cat, all puffed up for attention. The hand splayed on Leon’s chest flops back uselessly, reaching for her.

“Jill -”

Leon’s hips jut up, reminding you he's here, reminding you who's inside you. Whatever you were going to say melts away into a whine so pathetic even you want to roll your eyes.

"Got started without you," Leon says, callous on your behalf. His hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you back to him. It doesn’t take much prompting for you to curl back into his chest, walls fluttering around his cock, gripping him like your life depends on it. "Saved you some dinner. It’s in the fridge."

How can he be so casual? Feels like you’ve got lava running through your blood. His hands settle on your hips again, push-pulling you back and forth to get you to grind again. You oblige, faster than before, mouthing open kisses against his neck. They ought to canonize him for his patience, crown him Patron Saint of Not Plowing You Into The Carpet.

Jill doesn't say a word. She marches off to the bedroom, leaving her boots behind as she goes. Her cardigan gets flung over the couch - poor thing. It didn't do anything wrong.

She’ll come out when she’s ready, you tell yourself. Ignoring the ingrained need to manage Jill’s emotions for her is hard, but not quite as hard as Leon’s dick. Makes it a little easier to forget. You press your moans into Leon’s skin, let him have them for safekeeping.

Her footsteps pound back into the room. You don't know what she's done that's so funny, but Leon shakes with a laugh. You move to look, and his palm pressing against your cheek stops you. Something clatters onto the dining room table, a heavy thunk and buckles. He presses a light kiss to the crown of your head, strokes your hair.

"Go ahead and finish up, baby. Doin' so good. All yours."

It's all the permission you really need. It doesn’t take long - you’re good for him, after all. So good, you don't even need his help. You just need him to hold you up when that slow heat finally expands, spreads like fire through your limbs and leaves you making a mess of his lap, baptizing his cock with your release and moaning hymns for him.

You slump against him, eyes heavy and limbs loose. Your head nestles against his chest, his heart hammering like crazy. Poor guy. So patient. So sweet. You want to offer to take care of that for him - he's still inside you, sitting so still and so good, the stretch all you need. It feels like a bomb went off in your skull, though, scattered all your thoughts around the apartment. You need a moment before you can be considerate, before you can formulate any kind of offer. You reach up, pat his cheek gently to tell him how good he made you feel, lazily kiss at the hollow of his throat.

Jill's got plenty of words, though. She's not the one who just fell apart.

"You so needy you can't wait forty-five minutes?"

"Closer to an hour," Leon counters, and for the first time you hear the strain in his voice. "More like two, actually."

Jill’s irritation boils over. "Shut up. Why don't you go jerk off in the corner?"

After all, he's supposed to be on her side. He's the one who knows what this life is like, the one who knows what their work entails and the stress of it all.

He's also the one who texts when he's running late. He's the one still on active deployment, the one who hadn't been dodging home like the plague. He got over himself a year ago, figured ways to deal with his emotions that didn’t include running as fast as he could, drinking until they drowned, or working himself to the bone.

Jill’s still working on that part. Again - saint-like patience.

“Maybe I will,” he says, casual as he can. He jostles you in his arms. He’d say it’s to keep you awake, but it’s mostly to keep his dick hard. You pulse around him, groan into his t-shirt and drool a little dark patch onto his shirt.

You’re all soft and pliable when her hands slide up your sides, fingers curling in the spaces between your ribs. You lean back to her, longing for the softness of her tits under your head, and you glide back through the air unsupported, like you’ve faded through the ghost of her. Your head lolls back, pretty, pathetic pout on your swollen lips.

“Gonna be good?” She asks, staring down her nose at you, eyes half lidded. You nod your head. Her eyes narrow. “Words.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Shifting you off of Leon's lap is a group effort, one that Leon doesn't particularly care to be too enthusiastic about. His poor dick is lonely, and fucking his fist is a poor substitute for the sticky warmth of your cunt. Jill cradles you in here arms - the first hint of tenderness you've had from her all night - and settles you on the floor in front of the couch. She kicks your legs into position, sways back to appraise your form, and gives you a long-suffering sigh that's a far cry from approval.

"Whatever," she mutters under her breath. "It'll do. Don't move."

She shuffles off to the side. You hear the rustle of fabric. You turn your head to look, and -

"I said don't fuckin' move."

Your head snaps to the front again, hands fisted against the tops of your thighs. No arguing with that tone. Your back is ramrod straight. There's movement to your right, and Leon finally comes into view, settling against the far side of the couch. He's at least kind enough to give you a show, stroking his cock for you in long, slow strokes, massaging his palm over that shiny red tip and sliding his own fluid down to squeeze at the base. Makes your mouth water just looking at him.

Not that you have to wait long for a treat. Jill finishes her prep work, drags herself back over to the couch and drops down in front of you, strap-on making you go crosseyed.

“Go on,” she sighs, waving her hand lazily. Like she’s doing you a favor.

And she is. It’s a privilege to suck her strap.

You rock onto your knees and take too much of her at once, gag yourself right off the bat in your eagerness. They both groan, Jill in exasperation, Leon because holy fuck, if he hears you make that noise again he's going to blow his load immediately. His hand shucks his t-shirt up. He's not trying to stain this shirt with cum. Not his cum, anyway.

"Your mouth is so perfect for this," Jill says, leaning forward and fisting a hand in your hair, "and you're still so bad at it. Do I have to show you how to do everything?"

You nod uselessly, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. Jill rolls her eyes, smothers the hint of a smile that threatens to twist her lips up. She guides your head back to the head of her silicone cock and sets an easy pace for you. Lets you take it nice and slow, get accustomed to the weight of her cock on your tongue as if you haven't done this a hundred times - as if she knows you went too hard right off the bat just to get her to guide you like this.

"There you go," she drones, the praise feeling like anything but. You bob your head freely, her hand in your hair just a suggestion now. "Finally figured it out. Not as dumb you look."

You push further, tucking your thumb tight in your fist and gagging only a little when the head of her cock prods at the back of your throat. Leon's hips buck into his fist, quick and rhythmless, swearing under his breath. His leg kicks out, nudges Jill's calf and you swear she's going to snap at him.

Your eyes cut from Jill to Leon, a tear rolling down your cheek, and that’s the final push that has him cumming all over his stomach, head tipped back into the arm of the couch, pretty moans so loud, so perfect that it makes you feel your heartbeat in your pussy.

You don’t have time to savor the way that he looks, paint him in your mind and hang it up on the walls around your skull like a pin-up. Jill lifts you off her cock, stuffing her hands under your armpits like you’re a stray kitten. You would be, for her, if she asked. Let her slip a pretty collar around your neck, hope you’re lucky enough that it’s got a bell.

She doesn’t wait for Leon to recover, just manhandles the pair of you so your back is pressed to his chest, his cum smearing against your skin. Leon’s got that loose limbed laziness that comes with a release that built-up.

“Hold her,” Jill growls. “Stop fucking around.”

Leon's hands curled around the back of your thighs, spreading you wide for Jill. A warm chuckle rumbles through his chest and pours into you. His head ducks down, mouth by your ear.

“She's mad ‘cause I had you first.”

You turn your head, stifle your giggles in his shoulder. The silicone head of Jill's cock slides through your sopping folds, nudging at your clit. Her hips rock agonizingly slow. It’s tough to tell whether she’s teasing you or herself at this point, but your sensitive body twitches and jerks with every pass of her spit-slick cock.

“Gonna make a mess?” Her hand grips your jaw tight, pulling your face from Leon's shoulder. It’s less a question and more a demand. You nod as best you can in her grip, remember too late to try and bumble out words. She taps your cheek twice, hard enough to sting, hard enough to make those pretty eyes water again.

Jill doesn’t wait for you to say it. She enters you in a quick, jerky thrust, no hint of warning, your breath stuttering and back tensing. She rabbits her dick into you, your moans falling as staccato as her pace. Her head bows to spit a fat glob of spit onto your clit. Her fingers rub you frantically, a pace so at odds with the slow push and grind of her hips that it makes you burn. You try to squirm back, the way your blood starts to singe a little too quick for your liking, but there's nowhere to go when you're pressed so tight against Leon's broad chest.

His hand slithers up and over the point of your hip, pressing down firmly just below your navel. Betrayal. You thought he was on your side. Your whining sharpens into a moan that has to have rattled the windows. Jill huffs a laugh, low and cruel. She pulls back just far enough to leave you wanting - and when you claw at her shoulders to drag her back home she's already moving, hard and slow, the light dancing in front of your eyes, her hips driving the breath out of your lungs, your chest caving in. It feels like you've imploded, blood on fire, singeing your bones and leaving the ash to remember it by.

She’s not done. You promised her a mess. Your voice is splintered, her hips still driving into you. You don’t feel yourself gushing around her until it’s already happening. You sniffle, your moans choppy and your tears falling quick, humiliation warming the embers in your stomach. Her pace slows and finally stills, finally lets you find yourself in the pile of ashes.

"Already?" Jill mocks, hands rubbing your quivering thighs soft and sweet despite the way she sneers.

You want to scoff, but you haven’t got the breath. Already, she says, like she hadn’t just ripped that orgasm out of you fast enough that you’ve got cartoon tweety-birds spinning around your head.

“My turn,” Leon pipes up.

“Fuck off. You’re not even hard. I'm just getting started.”

“Shoulda thought about that before you made her cum.”

God, they’re like lions fighting over a piece of meat. You push yourself up on shaky arms, give Jill your best gazelle-trying-not-to-get-eaten pout.

“M’tired,” you slur, your brains thoroughly fucked out. You form a T with your hands, calling for a time-out. “Need a break.”

Jill looks like she wants to bite anyway. But you were good, used your good girl hand signal and everything. She sighs, her shoulders slumping, and loosens the straps around her hips.

“C’mere, pumpkin.” Leon gathers you into his arms easily. “Gonna get you all cleaned up. Tuck your ass in.”

You ache when he moves you, in places you weren’t quite sure could ache. It’ll be worse later. Always is. They always have to fuck you at some weird angle. Can’t ever let your muscles get used to it, like you’re some kind of glorified exercise equipment. At least they wipe you down after they use you. Very polite of them.

Leon hands you your water bottle and settles in behind you, slotting up against your back. He’s got the both of you cleaned off even though he seems just as tired as you, bless him. Say a prayer to the patron saint of the bedroom.

Jill found dinner, apparently. You hear the microwave beeping distantly and share an amused look with Leon. Sure enough, she’s got a bowl of food in her hand when she settles at the end of the bed, legs crossed.

The silence lays somewhere in-between battlefields, landmines hidden all around your bedroom. Everything you want to ask is too loaded, too heavy. You’re not even sure you have the energy to stay up for a serious conversation, much less an argument. Jill looks so soft right now, the bags under her eyes seeming lighter in the warm lamplight of your bedroom. You don’t want to see her eyes sharpen. You don’t want to hear her teeth click together when she bites back her words. You search for some other topic, something that will make the tension evident in her shoulders melt away.

"We should do one of those clone-a-willy kits," you murmur, eyes shut, head tipped into the pillow. You open your eyes just enough to gauge her reaction. Warmth blooms in your chest when you see her eyes crinkle and her smile lines deepen.

"Why?" Jill laughs.

"You don't wanna fuck me with Leon’s dick?"

It’s the first time you’ve heard Jill laugh like that in a while. Pride spreads in your tired little grin. Leon's cock gives a tired twitch against your thigh. He groans, pressing his forehead to your shoulder blade.

“You two are gonna fuckin’ kill me.”

#leon kennedy x reader #jill valentine x reader #resident evil smut #resident evil imagine #leon kennedy smut #jill valentine smut #resident evil x reader #x reader #resident evil #jill valentine #leon kennedy

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piratefishmama · 4 months

Text

I Wish | Part 3

He barely recognised his friends. He was just glad they were themselves though. That somewhere along the way to a stardom he didn’t remember going through, his band hadn’t lost anyone. That someone hadn’t been replaced.

That happened a lot, didn’t it? Bands losing members due to circumstance, arguments over direction, infighting... but they were there. Older, Gareth had a little grey in his hair, Jeff had shaved his down completely, he didn’t have braces anymore, taller too, neither as weathered as Eddie but… definitely older, and Dougie...

Fuck, he'd slimmed down.

Eddie didn’t know if that was an improvement or not, he instantly found himself missing what had once been, he was still big, still broad, but... where disarming chub that Eddie had on more than one occasion fallen asleep on had been, soft muscle resided in its place and Eddie found himself wondering just how the biggest of four of them had done it. Whether it'd been through healthy choices or godawful ones like himself.

It was muscle though, it looked like healthy muscle, so... probably healthier than him. Good for him.

“Oh look who's joined us in the land of the living!” Gareth chirped, his mouth half full of pancake, syrup dripping down his lips.

Jeff, to his left “Saw Louie stormin out kicking up a storm, that shit for good this time?” Asked with a tone laced in caution, as if the subject was touchy. God what had Eddie done in the past that made his friends think they couldn’t rib him about relationships?

That was like... their whole thing back in high school, Eddie, and his disastrous non-existent dating life. He’d trusted them and them alone with who he was, with what he liked, and while there were the obvious ‘do you find me hot?’ questions at first, the playful ribbing, the teasing, the jokes only friends could share… he had them. They weren’t afraid of him. Afraid to hurt him because they knew they never could.

How had he lost that?

Eddie looked to Steve in a bid for help, Steve wasted no time in coming to his aid “One can only hope” with obvious exhaustion in his retort, his hands on his hips, a deadpan expression that Eddie couldn’t stop himself from smiling at.

Gareth snorted a little laugh and followed with “Amen to that, dude.”

“He’ll be back though, he always is.” Dougie piped up around his own bite full of some oat concoction, it looked gross. “Once he sees his job offers dry u—what?” The other two were giving it the kill signal, twin expressions of panic, as if he’d said too much… god who was he? “You fuckers know I’m right, Eddie knows I’m right, he’s a clout chasing pretty boy riding Eddie’s coattails to fame, just cause you’re too chicken shit to say anything to him doesn’t mean I am.”

Eddie looked to Steve again as Dougie spoke, only to receive a silently raised brow in return, he was on his own. “Well—” Eddie began, the other three froze, even Dougie’s attention was on him now, all three clearly expecting something “not anymore! Dunno what I saw in him, but I’m done, Steve, if you would… uhm… make sure he can’t contact me again?”

“Want me to block his number?”

“What?” Eddie whispered behind his hand, brows furrowed in confusion, block? A number? What?

“I’ll sort it.” Steve would sort it, and of that Eddie had zero doubts. He wouldn’t doubt the genie about anything ever again. Louie and his overly manicured entire self would never darken his doorstep again, of that he was certain.

“Holy shit, who are you and where did Eddie go?” The panic gone, Gareth seemed genuinely surprised by his declaration. He'd missed too much, too many things he didn’t know, too many things he’d done that he couldn’t apologise for because he didn’t know what he'd be apologising for. it'd be cheap, it'd be pointless.

Eddie hated everything. He could have probably lived with it, with his lost time, had this not been his first experience of the day with people he recognised. He couldn’t. Not like this. Not with his friends looking at him like he were a bomb ready to go off.

He could put on a brave face though, even if the muscles in his face felt foreign, even if he felt tired... he could act the part. “Turnin over a new leaf I guess... self reflection, new path, bachelor life never hurt me too bad, right?” His friends shared looks, a silent communication happening between them that made Eddie feel isolated, othered, outside, and alone.

He wanted out. To run.

And as if he knew, Steve’s hand found his shoulder and squeezed grounding him in place. He was there, the Genie was there, he'd fix it if Eddie wished him to. He wasn’t stuck, Steve just wanted him to live the day. Experience it. Be brave, it wasn’t permanent.

Jeff broke the silence though, he stood up, crossed the distance between them, that gigantic chasm that seemed so impossible to cross seconds before, and clapped his hands to both of Eddie's biceps, his straight toothed smile blinding “nice to have you back then, Eds, now eat your fuckin breakfast an let’s get this stupid talk show shit over with, yeah?” Okay... maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

Fuck the ‘old' Eddie, the Eddie who Eddie himself had never met and never wanted to meet, he had his friends, he'd be fine. Maybe he could even stay.

“Sounds good, what's for breakfast?”

“For you? Nothin but the good stuff, man, ordered you some wholemeal toast with avocado an egg whites” so many words, so little recognition in his eyes.

What the fuck was an avocado? Was that a real thing?

“...Can I not have pancakes like Gareth?” Gareth with his syrupy monstrosity.

Dougie scoffed around his oatmeal, swallowing before he responded because at some point during the last thirty years he’d developed manners. “With your cholesterol? Fuck off, dude, we don’t want you having a heart attack on stage.” Steve only offered him a sympathetic smile in consolation. The beautiful bastard. “It's avocado toast or oatmeal, your choice old man.”

Strike being able to stay. He wanted to go home.

Eddie didn’t like Avocados.

He decided this the moment a semi-hard glob of green mush touched his tongue, lightly seasoned, mixed with something tangy, he hated it, hated the smell, hated the unexpected texture, hated the taste but he ate it. He pushed through like a little champ when every instinct he had told him to rebel against it, to demand French fries or something stupid that definitely didn’t come as a breakfast food.

Maybe he could swing fast food later, see what the future held for the fast food joints.

Later seemed too busy though, the moment they were done with breakfast, the band were whisked away into some kind of car, something way fancier than Eddie had ever seen, to get to the venue and prepare. Hair, makeup, the usual routine that Eddie wished he had an ounce of experience with because back at the Hideout it was just… them climbing up on the rickety old stage Bev’s late husband put together on the fly and letting loose.

There was no pre-gig warming up, no hoard of professionals tugging them into various chairs and rooms to make sure their hair was the correct brand of artful frizz, or mess of floof, or women with brushes coated in powders to minimize the shine from the studio lights that’d make their skin too shiny for the cameras to work with.

Wardrobe was fool proof as they were presented with options that ranged from smart casual to red carpet. Everything suitable for a talk show and nothing fit for a ‘metal’ band, which was strange considering they were advised to go for something they could move in as they were going to be performing during their run through, maybe more than once to make sure all angles were covered.

It was a lot, it was a hell of a lot, Eddie kept finding Steve in his peripherals though. Always there, silent, and observant off to the side, close enough to step in should anyone cross any boundaries but staying out of the way of the professionals so they could work unhindered.

It was grounding in a way, him there, even if he looked so very human despite what he knew Steve to really look like, having him there, knowing the man could get him out of the chaos at any time was grounding.

All those people touching him, all the noise around him, sounds, smells, lights, the pushing, and pulling, and the tugging on his hair, he wanted to scream, he wanted to get away from it all, he wanted—

“Alright, five minute break.” Steve stepped in, his voice firm, without room for argument. “Rockstar needs a breather.” Eddie could have kissed him, genuinely. The relief as all those professionals took a few steps back was instantaneous, that feeling only growing when Steve managed to corral them out of the room entirely, leaving just them in there.

The other band members were in their own rooms, Eddie clearly some ‘big shot’ that he didn’t quite get. Sure he was the front man but… they always said they’d be equals if they made it big. They’d always scoffed at the idea of multiple green rooms, of putting single members on pedestals, that was how shit went sideways, that was how infighting and breaking apart happened. They’d stay grounded, stay real.

They didn’t want that bullshit and yet there he was. All on his own, his friends elsewhere being prepped without him. He hated it. How had it happened? “I should be used to this, shouldn’t I?”

“What makes you think that?” Eddie damn near jumped out of his skin when Steve was just. Right there. Stood beside him in the reflection of the mirror. No longer looking all that human, he looked like himself, golden and beautiful, wearing the clothes he first saw him in.

When he turned around, the human looked back at him, smiling as if he knew what Eddie was looking for. Reflections showed the truth then. Interesting.

“I’m—fuck that's a cool trick, man... but i'm a fuckin rockstar! I should be, I dunno… used to it.” At the very least his old man brain should have caught up by now, right? He should have gotten used to it all, muscle memory of thirty years having passed should have at least kicked in a little, right?

He still felt like that kid from the trailer park on the inside, still felt completely overwhelmed.

He’d just been dropped into a life with no memory of living it.

“Who said you ever got used to it?” Steve hadn’t said that. In fact Steve had painted a pretty sad story of addiction and self-destruction. “Eddie… some people aren’t meant for this kind of life, yes, you’re very talented, you’re absolutely good enough to get this far, and once you’re on stage you are incredible—” for a moment, just a moment, Eddie felt warmth, a teeny sprinkle of warm pleasure trickle through his weary soul at the easily spoken praise. “The weariness fades away and you’re… yourself, everything that you are shines through and it’s breathtaking.” Eddie really did try not to blush, but he felt the heat in his cheeks anyway, as it turned out, older men could definitely be flustered by a cute guy thoughtlessly praising them “but the rest of it… everything that goes along with it… not that I’m an expert or anything, but I don’t believe it’s who you are.”

“I can’t just adapt?” All Steve offered was that similar look of sympathy he’d had in the bathroom back at the hotel. No… no Eddie knew the answer before he’d even asked it. He’d never been able to adapt. “Why?”

“If it helps at all, there’s millions of people out there who feel seen whenever you talk about your struggles with what happens behind the glamour, so many people who love you and support you for the very things that make you struggle so much, for the fact that you keep going, you made it despite them. I’m not going into the why’s and the how’s, but adapting really isn’t something you’re very good at, Eddie, there’s no changing that. You get overwhelmed, that’s just you.”

“Can I wish to change it?” Did he even want to? Not really, something told him it’d backfire somehow, not by Steve’s design, not on purpose, but… it just would.

“You can… I can work my magic, but you wouldn’t be you. You wouldn’t be the person your friends love, the louder than life DnD loving nerd, you wouldn’t be that anymore, and I like that person, he’s very sweet, so I really don’t want to.” There it was. At least Steve wasn’t just letting him make that mistake. “There’s a life out there that is perfect for you, and trust me you will find it, this just isn’t it. Do you want to go home?” Steve wasn’t going to force him to stay, he wanted Eddie to experience it for this very reason, to see the truth behind one of his biggest dreams, see the chaos behind the curtain of a life that maybe he just wasn’t suited to.

He could go home if he wanted to, but… “No. Not yet. I wanna experience it, just once, y’know? Even if it’s gonna suck, I think you were right, I think I need to.” If only to really drive it home that maybe fame and fortune wasn’t everything.

That maybe he didn’t have to be famous, maybe he didn’t have to be some metal legend, he could just… be. And that would be okay.

“Got it.”

“Will I at least know the song we’re meant to be performing here?” Given how little he knew about his present self, the very real possibility of his music having evolved, of new songs being written, it was an issue he really should have thought about by now, but Steve snapped his fingers, an otherwordly light flashing in his hazel eyes for the briefest of moments, and then he smiled.

“You will now.” And that made him feel a little better. Just a little. Until the chaos continued and the professionals filed back in to finish their jobs, the five minutes up.

Part 5

#PirateWrites #IWishFiclet #Steddie #No Upside Down AU #Genie!Steve

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here2bbtstrash · 1 year

Text

it's sweet (explicit)

genre: a fluffy lil sickfic

pairing: taehyung x reader

summary: you forgot to call out sick from your dick appointment, but he stays anyway.

word count: 4.3k

contains: no smut just fluff????? new year new me 😎 but as this is fuckbuddies to maybe-lovers and there are certainly a few references in here to sex, because of who i am as a person, it's enough that i'm tagging it explicit anyway lmao. but this is all fluff! reader has the flu, tae is a sweet sweet boi and takes care of her, it's all a bit sappy~ 🤧

A/N: happy new year!!! and a very happy belated birthday to my capricorn prince 💜 this soft little idea got stuck in my brain and wouldn't let go, and i had a lot more fun writing it than expected. plus i feel like i only wrote tae as a menace in 2022 (sorry to tae 👹) so i had to right my wrongs with this one lmao. it was a nice interlude before i jump into LDOMLT ch11 (the final chapter 😭) - i hope you all enjoy and that your 2023s are off to a pleasant start!!!

read on AO3!

~*~

You genuinely enjoy being single.

With your last relationship officially in the trash, you’ve found yourself settled into a comfortable peace. There’s no man in your life to mess up your plans, to force you to have to compromise or share anything, to suck up your energy and domestic labor like some kind of emotional vampire. You can do what you want, whenever you want, and you have a reliable rotation of both sex toys and fuckbuddies to keep you physically satisfied when the need arises.

Being single, you have come to learn, is fucking great.

Except when you get sick.

A knock at your apartment door drags you out of your DayQuil-induced slumber. You move to sit up with a sniffle before letting yourself drop back into your veritable nest of blankets on the couch, struck with the immediate recollection: it’s just the food you ordered. You’d specifically put in a request that they leave it at the door, but maybe the delivery person is just being nice and letting you know it’s there.

Except then they knock again.

And ring the doorbell.

“Jesus,” you groan to yourself, aggressively enough that you’re nearly sent into a fresh coughing fit, but you manage to choke down the spasm in your lungs as you drag yourself to standing. You cross the short distance from your couch to the front door, sure you look like death warmed over, and swing the door open.

At first, you’re certain it’s the DayQuil fucking with you.

“Taehyung?”

The corner of his mouth pulls up as he blinks sweetly at you, expressive almond eyes peeking out beneath untidy dark hair— extra fluffy today, like he’s just washed it and waltzed out of the house without any styling. His clothes tell the same story, a plain gray hoodie and joggers, creased a little like he’d just pulled them off his bedroom floor, though everything looks fresh off the runway on him.

As your eyes trail down his frame, you take in the container of ramen you ordered, held easily in one of his large hands, his long fingers hooking over the side.

His presence is typically a welcome one, particularly on Friday nights like tonight, but those are circumstances where you tend to be a little more… put together. So why is he here tonight?

“When did you start working for D—”

The food delivery service name dies on your tongue as your thoughts finally catch up with your mouth. He’s here tonight because it’s Friday, and this is what you do on Fridays. He’s here because you didn’t cancel. You’d had the thought in a drowsy half-awake state between naps, then had promptly rolled over and pressed your face into the pillow, telling yourself you’d remember to text Taehyung when you woke up.

Which of course, you did not. And so here he is, having clearly intercepted your delivery. And, it now occurs to you, having to witness how absolutely godawful you must look in your stained sweatpants, your hair surely a mess from a day spent napping on the couch.

“Oh fuck,” you mutter, quickly crossing your arms over your baggy t-shirt, suddenly very aware of the fact that you’re not wearing a bra. Why that matters when you’re standing in front of a man who regularly leaves hickeys all over your tits, you’re not sure, but in this moment it somehow feels like it does.

“Tae,” you take a step back, trying to keep him out of your germ radius. “I’m so sorry, I forgot to text you. I’m super sick, I think it’s the flu. You should go.”

He frowns a little, his eyes jumping from you down to the takeout container in his hands. “This is like, barely warm.”

That makes you smile a little despite yourself. A very Taehyung greeting.

“Yeah, well.” You roll your eyes. “I pay twice as much so it can take an hour and be cold by the time it gets here. Makes sense, right?”

His dazzling smile at your sarcastic remark only heightens your own self-consciousness, and you quickly extend a hand for the container.

“Sorry to make you come all this way. Hopefully next week I’ll be back to normal.”

Taehyung nods, yet makes no move to hand over the soup he’s currently holding hostage. “You should rest. Let me heat it up for you.”

You can’t help but wonder what he expects to happen when he crosses the threshold, and that makes you heave a sigh, then quickly bury the cough that chases after it into the crook of your elbow.

Thankfully your voice doesn’t give out when you manage to answer him. “I’m serious, Tae. I’m not—” you pause, considering how to phrase it: desperate to be railed? “—you know, the way I usually am on Fridays. Nothing’s gonna happen tonight. Except maybe you’ll get sick.”

He shrugs, like there are worse things. “I get it. But you shouldn’t be alone.”

At least he’s been sufficiently warned, you think to yourself, and then you relent, leaving the front door of your apartment swung wide as you step back across the living room to promptly collapse onto the couch again. You bury your face in the blankets with a muffled groan as you hear Taehyung shut the door behind him, then make his way into the kitchen.

As is typical with any man that enters your kitchen, you expect to have to walk Taehyung step-by-step through how to do everything. But, to your surprise, he asks no questions: he seems to find a good-sized pot and figure out how to work the stove all on his own, and you can hear him humming softly to himself as he goes.

Truly a credit to the male species, you think to yourself with a bitter laugh.

You collapse back against the cushions, a little too aware of the fuckbuddy in your kitchen to be able to drift off to sleep entirely. Nevertheless, you still find yourself slipping into a haze, your eyes dropping shut just to snap open again at the tap of a bowl being set down on the coffee table in front of you.

Your eyes widen as you sit up and stare down at your ramen, only to find two halves of a soft-boiled egg staring back up at you. You’d ordered from your favorite place in the city, which is easily the best ramen you’ve had in your life, but you know those fuckers charge extra for an egg. Which is why your cheap ass never orders one.

But here one is. So that means…

Taehyung drops down onto the couch next to you before you can even finish compiling the thought in your brain, but he must be able to read the look on your face. “Oh, do you not like eggs?”

“I— no,” you answer quickly. “I mean yes. I mean, I like them, I just… Thank you.”

You glance up in time to see him shrug, his mouth twisting a little, like he’s suddenly made shy by his own kindness. “Gotta get your protein in,” he offers casually, and you laugh over the steam rising up from your bowl.

He keeps a tentative cushion’s distance away from you, but you can feel his eyes watching as you take your first sip of the rich, warm broth. While you slurp it down, you tell yourself not to get greedy with Taehyung’s time: you expect this will be it, that with his act of kindness done for the day, he’ll get to his feet and be on his way. As soon as your front door slams shut behind him, he’ll probably be pulling up his text messages with one of the many other options that must be available to him.

You try to ignore the way that thought makes your stomach twist, to just eat your damn soup and not think about it. It’s fine. It doesn’t matter.

But to your surprise, Taehyung leans forward and snatches the TV remote off your coffee table with a triumphant sigh before slumping back against the couch, like he’s settling in. “Do you wanna watch something?”

You shake your head as you take another sip before answering. “You really don’t have to stay, Tae. I can appreciate that I’m not a lot of fun to be around tonight. And obviously you didn’t come here to watch me eat ramen.”

Already starting to scroll through your streaming services, Taehyung runs his free hand through his hair with a knowing, slightly horny smile. “Depends on what you mean by eat ramen.”

You nearly choke on a noodle, but he’s otherwise distracted, mouth dropping open a little as he clicks into one of the options.

“Oh, I know what we can watch.”

When he pulls up A Charlie Brown Christmas and promptly presses play, you can’t help smirking. “Christmas? You’re, what, five days late?”

Taehyung’s mouth opens again, like he’s going to say something, and then he just smiles that same self-conscious smile. “Ah, I just like the music.”

His long fingers splay out in front of him, miming along to the opening melody while he adopts the faux-cool expression of a jazz pianist. You hide a giggle in another sip of broth, and he quickly shrugs the impression off, crossing his arms over his chest as if to keep his limbs under control.

“And it’s cute,” he adds, voice halfway between shy and sentimental. “The little tree.”

It occurs to you now that you’ve never seen Taehyung so… your brain can’t find the right word. He’s just different tonight.

You nod as you slurp up a strand of noodles, and you can’t deny that he’s right as the movie plays on. It’s been years since you’ve seen it, not since you were a kid, but it’s just as enjoyable now, somehow timeless. You find yourself smiling softly as you finish your meal and settle back against the couch, tugging the blanket up to your chin.

All at once, Taehyung jumps up, and you watch dumbfounded as he silently scoops up your dishes and disappears off to the kitchen. When you hear the tap switch on, your jaw drops in sheer disbelief, and you sit up again, peeking over the back of the couch to get a glimpse of him: he’s pulled on the dishwashing gloves you keep tucked next to the sink and is making short work of not just the bowl and the pot, but the takeout container too, and your various other sick-person dishes you’d regrettably let pile up. Humming to himself along with Vince Guaraldi, like it’s something he does every day.

Your head spins as you drop back down against the cushion. What is happening? Did you take too much cold medicine?

That thought only reverberates louder in your brain when he returns, still humming the last few notes of the song. This time he chooses to settle in right beside you on the couch, as if entirely unconcerned about the contagious virus running rampant in your body— he just pulls you into his side, one arm wrapped over your shoulders, fingertips casually starting to play with the ends of your hair. Like it’s that easy.

You glance up at him, shaking your head a little, and Taehyung looks down to meet your gaze. “What?”

“This is just…” An incredulous laugh cuts off the end of your sentence. It’s hard to believe you’re looking at the same person. This can’t be the man who wraps his hand around your throat as he spits into your mouth, who will keep you in his bed for hours until you’re crying from overstimulation, who fucks you so good you can hardly walk the next day.

“I didn’t expect you to be like this,” you admit, pairing the words with a finger driven gently into Taehyung’s ribs. He squirms a little. “You’re… sweet.”

Taehyung’s lips part, and then he pauses, clearly considering how exactly to answer you. His mouth turns up soft at the corners, hesitant, as if he’s embarrassed to say what comes next. And then he says it. “You didn’t seem like you wanted sweet.”

The words settle over you, offered quietly in the low, rich tones of his voice, and as you keep gazing up at him, it strikes you: he’s not wrong. If he’d pulled this cozy domestic housewife act on you any earlier, on a normal Friday, you would’ve sent him packing without hesitation.

That thought makes you a little sad.

You tuck back in against Taehyung’s side, trying to refocus on the TV screen as you snuggle in under the blanket. Pressed close like this, you can feel the sturdy thud of his heartbeat in his chest, at a rhythm not dissimilar to yours.

“Well, I won’t tell anyone,” you breathe, and you swear you can hear him smile.

His touch lingers as the last few minutes of the movie play on: slipping from the ends of your hair to trace over the fabric of your shirt, then sliding further up to dip beneath the collar of it. The talented fingers you’ve become well-acquainted with work their magic in a new way, pressing firm circles into the muscles of your shoulders, muscles you didn’t realize were pinched so tight until he starts to work them open.

“Fuck,” you murmur, shifting a little to allow him better access as he continues. “That feels so good.” You can’t quite help the laugh that flutters out after your words; it’s certainly not the first time he’s made you say them.

There’s a small huff of breath from Taehyung beside you, and then his hand moves up to cup the back of your neck and give a gentle squeeze. It’s a comforting motion, and just arousing enough to make you sigh a note, your eyes briefly dropping shut. When they flutter open again, you realize the movie has ended, that he’s looking down at you, a knowing smirk toying at his lips.

“Don’t start,” you warn, unable to keep your voice entirely serious. “I meant what I said, I’m tapped out for the night.”

Taehyung raises his palms in the air, as if to claim his innocence, and you find yourself instantly missing the heat of his hand on your skin. “All I was thinking is that I kinda want dessert. Too tapped out for that?”

“I’ll never say no to dessert,” you admit with a soft smile. “I think I have ice cream in the freezer.”

Something glints in Taehyung’s eyes at your words. All at once he untangles himself from you and, rather than standing up and walking the long way around like a normal human, chooses instead to vault himself over the back of the couch, as if to get your freezer as fast as possible. You tip back against the cushions, momentarily overcome with laughter, and thankfully, it doesn’t trigger a cough attack.

After a second, you cocoon the blanket around yourself, then get up to follow after him, dropping unceremoniously down onto one of the barstools tucked on the far side of your kitchen island.

Taehyung glances up, clearly surprised, then continues trying drawers until he finds the silverware and retrieves two spoons.

“Just want to keep you company,” you say by way of explanation as he hands you one, and you reach down to pry off the lid of the pint of chocolate ice cream he’s set down on the counter. It’s only as you glance up again that you realize he’s grabbed something else, too, and is continuing to rummage through your cupboards. “Wait, what are you doing?”

There’s an innocent look on Taehyung’s face as he rights himself, the handle of a pan clutched in one hand. “I found something when I was looking for the ice cream. It’s my favorite. And I thought it might make you feel better, too.”

“Uh huh,” you intone, though your mouth is already starting to tick up, endeared. “A completely selfless act, I’m sure.”

“Of course it is,” he answers with an over-exaggerated wink, flipping the pan cooly in his grip. You squint at the bag as he thuds it down on the counter beside him, then sets the pan on the stove and flips on the burner beneath it.

Hotteok. You’d completely forgotten you’d even picked the bag of frozen sweet pancakes up a few weeks ago, that you had purposefully tucked them into the back of your fridge for a particularly good— or bad— day.

“Chef Kim,” you ask, feigning the tone of a journalist conducting an important interview as you fish your phone out of the pocket of your sweatpants. “Can I interest you in some background music, or do you prefer to cook in absolute silence?”

Taehyung glances back over his shoulder at you, his grin nearly too big for his face. “How about Sinatra?”

You raise one eyebrow at the admittedly unexpected suggestion. “Frank or Nancy?”

He pauses for a moment, as if considering. “Either.”

It’s only a few taps, and then Come Fly With Me is floating out of your Bluetooth speaker, and Taehyung is singing along to himself as he drops a frozen disc onto the heated pan, occasionally turning back to deliver lines to you with an extended hand.

You roll your eyes as you drag your spoon through the top layer of softening ice cream, sucking it into your mouth in an attempt to hide the grin that’s spread over your face.

By the third song you find yourself humming along too, trying not to put too much strain on your still-weak throat. The kitchen has started to smell of sweet, toasted dough as Taehyung works diligently at the stove, and he finally flips the burner off before turning back to you, a plate in each hand and a thick pancake stacked atop each plate.

“Sous chef, will you please apply the ice cream?” he asks, eyes wide and blinking as he sets the dishes down.

Quickly playing along, you nod as you begin to scoop a healthy amount onto each plate. “Yes, chef!”

“And sous chef, do you, uh… have any chocolate sauce?”

You bite back a laugh as his roleplay falls apart as quickly as it began. “It’s in the fridge.”

Taehyung promptly turns and pulls the door open, eyes searching the shelves before he finally spots the dark brown bottle and lets out a triumphant hum. He nudges the fridge shut again with his hip before striding back toward you.

“Plating is key,” he muses. You answer with an appreciative nod and a giggle when he uncaps the sauce, then leans down close to the plates, feigning intense focus as he drizzles each dollop of ice cream with stripes of chocolate.

Once his artful design is complete, he steps back, his tongue toying at the corner of his mouth as he spins one plate to admire his handiwork.

“What do you think, chef?” you tease, and he nods once, decisive.

“It’s perfect.” He glances up, shooting you a grin that knocks the breath from your lungs, and you try to collect yourself as he nudges a plate toward you, encouraging you to take a bite.

You carve your spoon through the pastry, right down the middle where it’s stuffed full of sweet brown sugar syrup. The flaky layers pull apart at the impact, warm enough that you can see steam rising off of the golden dough. You pair a small piece of pancake with a wedge of ice cream on your spoon, then bring both into your mouth at once, and the contrasting mixtures linger on your tongue: hot and cold, sticky sugar chased by rich chocolate. It’s so good that you can’t help but make a soft, appreciative noise as you press your hand to your mouth and chew.

“Do you want to know something?” Taehyung’s voice pulls your attention back, and you look up at him.

“What?”

“Today’s my birthday.”

There’s a split second where you wonder if this is another imagined scenario, and then your eyes widen as you take in the look on his face and realize he’s entirely serious.

“Wait, Taehyung, really?”

He nods once, bringing a spoonful of ice cream to his lips.

“I-I had no idea,” you stammer, suddenly feeling like an asshole. His birthday, and he’s here waiting on you hand and foot, while you haven’t so much as said a word of felicitations. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, he’s waving away your apology with his spoon, then proceeding to answer around his bite of food. “It’s not like I expected you to know. I don’t really make a big deal of it.” He shrugs. “I tend to… I don't know. I get sort of melancholy this time of year. The holidays, my birthday. It’s a lot all at once. A lot of pressure. To be happy. To have everything figured out.”

Nodding slowly, you let his words fully wash over you before you respond. “I get that,” you finally murmur, working off another piece of hotteok. “Nobody ever talks about it, but I feel like birthdays are kinda weird as an adult. You have enough of them and it just starts to feel like a day, you know? Not special.”

“I usually find myself just hiding out, waiting for it to be over,” Taehyung admits.

You take a second to think back. “Yeah. I didn’t even do anything on my birthday this year.” A self-pitying laugh rises up before you can stop it. “Honestly, this whole year was such a flop. I’m glad it’s nearly done.”

Taehyung makes a face like he can’t disagree. “Hey, sometimes that’s life.” He pauses, brow furrowing slightly, then reaches a palm across the table. “Can I play a song?”

“Go ahead,” you offer, pushing your phone into his hand. You scrape your spoon along your dwindling dessert, and haven’t even managed to bring the assembled bite to your mouth before the music changes— from one Frank Sinatra song to another, this one with a driving blues rhythm.

Taehyung is already on his feet, hips starting to sway. “Ah, come on. You have to dance with me.”

He’s closed the distance between you before you can even protest, his hands smoothing across the blanket still wrapped over your shoulders.

“Let me take your coat, ma’am.”

You shift off the stool and onto your feet with a smile as he unwraps the blanket from around you and tosses it toward the back of the couch, missing by at least a foot.

“Why thank you,” you tease, feigning some kind of Transatlantic lilt to your voice that makes him really laugh. “Such a gentleman.”

Taehyung turns to face you again, and then you feel his large hand pressing to the small of your back, warm even through the fabric of your shirt, and your heart stutters a little. You take his other hand in yours and let him lead, let him pull you all the way in until you can turn your head and press your cheek to the firm plane of his chest.

Frank Sinatra croons on about how you can’t let life get you down, and suddenly there’s a weight settling in the pit of your stomach.

“I feel bad, Taehyung,” you admit, and when you glance up at him, he’s looking right back down at you. “That you’re here with me tonight.”

“Why?” he asks, like he really doesn’t know.

“Because,” you shake your head. “I don’t know. There’s a million better places you could be. I can’t even give you birthday sex.”

“I wouldn’t have stayed if I didn’t want to,” he answers simply, then leans back, guiding you under his arm for a spin.

A little giggle bubbles up in your chest, catches on the first syllable of your reply as you twirl. “A-are you sure?”

Taehyung nods, thoughtful, when you come back to center again. “This is a good reminder that… I like taking care of people. It’s been a while since anyone’s let me.” The hand holding yours gives a gentle squeeze, and you can’t help but squeeze back.

“Well, thank you for taking care of me,” you answer softly. “You did a good job. Pretty sure I’m on the mend already.” You blink up at him through your lashes, and the way his eyes are fixed on you makes your heart squeeze, too.

It’s nearly overwhelming, taking him in like this, close enough that you can see every stray beauty mark kissed over his handsome features. Fluffy-haired, big-dicked Kim Taehyung— who would’ve thought?

Taehyung’s adam’s apple jerks in his throat as he swallows, and you feel a sudden rush of heat all over, one you don’t quite think you can blame on a fever. It hardly even occurs to you that the two of you have come to a complete standstill now, barefoot in the middle of your kitchen, Taehyung’s palm pressed to your back, the fingers of your joined hands now shifting to lace together.

“Taehyung,” you’re breathing his name before you even realize it. “Would you… want to stay here tonight? Like, sleep together, literally?”

The smile that flashes over his face is nothing short of brilliant. “Yeah, okay.”

Your voice dips a little lower, teasing, as you smile back. “I really do think I’m feeling better, so. Maybe in the morning I can take care of you, too.”

Taehyung’s fingers brush the length of your jaw, then reach up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear as you continue.

“I’ve got this spray that makes my throat totally numb, so.”

He pauses, his mouth so close to yours that you can feel his breath ghosting over your skin, but he can’t quite keep a straight face. “Fuck, why is that so sexy?”

You’re laughing against his lips when he kisses you.

#taehyung fluff #taehyung x reader #taehyung x y/n #bts fluff #bts x reader

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cordeliawhohung · 4 months

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Dunno if you've answered this but what are our Mafia men like drunk? How often do they do so? How high are their tolerances?

you know what, this is only fair since we've been talking about the girls and them being drunk lmao

mafia!Price probably drinks the most out of all of them, but doesn't drink so much to the point that he gets drunk. he likes to have a pint after a hard days worth of work and whatnot, so alcohol is probably in his daily/weekly diet. because of this, i imagine he has a higher tolerance than normal, but not like, anything too high. when he does get drunk, i imagine he's pretty smiley. maybe not all that talkative but he's a good listener. and the staring. jfc this man and his blue eyes. if you're in the room, he's staring at you. thinking about you. touching you if he can. wants you in his lap, wants his lips on your skin. and if you're not in the room? or anywhere close? he's texting you. wanting to call you. just wants to listen to you. he def strikes me as a sappy sort of drunk (which is probably why he doesn't get drunk all that often lmao) and he just wants to be close to you ):

mafia!Simon probably has the highest tolerance out of all of them, simply for his size if anything else. he enjoys his whiskey every now and then, but i feel like he very rarely gets plastered or anything. always been put off by it because of how his dad acted when he was drunk. if he were to get drunk, though, i'd imagine he'd be pretty loud. not like, shouting and yelling loud but just... his voice is booming. that is, if he does talk, otherwise he's on a goddamn mission to play pool, darts, or what have you. the man cannot and will not sit still. i also feel like he'd be a sleepy drunk lmao. like he'll be moving around and doing all this shit, but the moment he's sitting on a couch or leaning on the counter, he's dozing off. his poor liver is working overtime to process the godawful amount of alcohol he had to shove into his system. because of that, he uses you as his personal stuffed animal when he's drunk. oh, you're cuddling and now you're too warm? maybe you're suffocating a little? too bad. try again come morning.

mafia!Gaz is a fucking lightweight. i'm sorry. he really is. the guy is really proud of his physique, and he works out a lot at the gym, and going out for beers all the time won't really do him much good. besides, it's rare that he does go out, and drinking alone feels depressing, so why bother? but when he does get drunk? this man will not shut the fuck up. he's already got a nice voice but when it's all groggy from the alcohol? god, it's impossible to not fall in love with. and he'll just talk about anything. he'll respond to something you say with something completely unrelated to what you had brought up in the first place. he also will use his drunkenness to get out his real thoughts. sure he can talk a big game when he's sober, but he is going to tell you that you smell nice and that he likes your hair and that he wouldn't mind bending you over the couch, whoops.

mafia!Soap has a pretty high tolerance simply because he drinks so goddamn much. he'd probably be right under Simon as far as tolerances go. and this man is loud. like, loud because he's yelling. he's watching footie on the tv. he's playing pool with Simon. he's yelling about both of them. he's trying to get Kyle to take a shot with him. he's asking Price about his beard. he's whispering to you how he wants to eat you out in the bathroom. he's the hard party guy, probably the most akin to a frat boy. but once he hits that point where his tummy feels sick? he's the biggest fucking baby ever. wants you to run your fingers through his hair, wants forehead kisses, wants to rest his head on your thighs, he wants it all. you have to force him to drink water. have to tuck the man into bed like a toddler. it's endearing for a little while, but you get a bit annoyed with it once he starts throwing up lmao.

#mafia!141 #mafia!price #mafia!simon #mafia!ghost #mafia!soap #mafia!gaz

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tciddaemina · 4 months

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so i had a dream last night about a svsss bingqiu dating sim story set post-epilogue where Shen Qingqiu and Luo Binghe hadnt gotten together. idk how that would even be set up but like maybe they stopped Maigu ridge but didnt bone but its still revealed Binghe is into Shen Qingqiu, and now its in the peace afterwards where things have more or less gone back together and Shen Qingqiu has finished his sexuality crisis and decided he absolutely needs Binghe to rail him

and so its this situation of Shen Qingqiu in a dating sim, but his only romance route is Binghe and hes just trying to select the correct dialogue route to getting rawed over the nearest desk except he has no romantic experience except reading godawful stuff like PIDW and so he keeps fucking it up by saying the most unhinged shit, and it keeps making Binghe blush and run away or misunderstand him because hes so used to Shen Qingqiu being dense and misunderstanding all flirting that now that Shen Qingqiu is explicitly and deliberately trying to flirt with him he keeps explaining it away

and so Shen Qingqiu is like tearing out his hair and choosing increasingly more unhinged dialogue options and dressing in increasingly raunchy clothes to try and get Binghe to do something and its just like. 10000% pure crack

And its like

Shen Qingqiu sitting across from Binghe, the two them drinking wine together after dinner. The hour is late, the day stretching long and the two of them enjoying their rest after a day of endless meetings. The breeze is sweet with the scent of golden night jasmine, the candle light is dim and intimate.

Shen Qingqiu bites his tongue, an impatient itch running up his spine. It's a fine evening, but he can't enjoy it - all day it's felt like his nerves have been ground down to a find powder. All week, his nerves have been ground down. He just about tastes his impatience now, so thick its grown, its given a physical taste in his mouth.

He glances at the dialogue boxes hovering before him resentfully.

1. BOLD. "This master is tired of waiting. He has wanted Binghe too long." [Lean over and kiss him.]

2. EXTRA BOLD. [Let your actions speak for you! Start removing clothing and reach for him! Get it started!]

3. SUGGESTIVE. "Binghe has been a good boy. Why not allow this master to show his favor?" [Glance demurely at Binghe's crotch.]

4. SLY. "How have Binghe's energy levels been? Is he he still feeling unbalanced from Xin Mo? Perhaps this master can help..." [Offer dual cultivation.]

5. COP OUT. The weather is fine today, is it not?

And Binghe sits up, eyes softening, touched by Shen Qingqiu's concern. A soft ping rings out, an alert appearing in the corner of Shen Qingqiu's vision [+15 affection points]. Still, he appears a bit abashed, ducking his head.

"Ah, shizun need not worry. Mu-shishu has been taking care of this disciple - this disciple has been meditating each morning in the spiritual caves," Luo Binghe says, hurrying to reassure Shen Qingqiu and completely missing the point. "Shizun shouldn't concern himself - he has his own energies to worry about. Has Without A Cure been acting up again?"

Fuck Without A Cure!! Shen Qingqiu almost screams. This isn't about that! Tens of millions of words of Binghe fighting and fucking his way through the plot of PIDW, suave as anything, and yet here he can't see a flag being waved in front of his face! What next? Will Shen Qingqiu get out a flag and wave it, shouting Please fuck me??!!!

Binghe! Please be more conscientious of your poor master and think with your dick a little more!! Where is that insatiable lady-killer when you need him??? Shen Qingqiu is so frustrated he feels like he might spit blood! Please do something about it Binghe!!

Shen Qingqiu just smiles and inclines his head. "It has been manageable," he says, and tries a little harder, attempting to redirect the conversation. "Though... with our energies in such a state, perhaps we might find a way to help one another..." He looks at Binghe shyly over the top of his fan, lashes lowered. He bites his lip, a small thrill of shy anticipation running through him.

Binghe brightens, eyes clearing. He straightens. "Of course!" he says eagerly. "This disciple would be honored in taking over for Luo Qingge in balancing shizun's meridians each week! This disciple will ask Mu-shishu for a lesson on the proper way to circulate energies through the meridians of the wrist!"

So dense!! Shen Qingqiu's jaw twitches, and he almost throws his fan down onto the table. He smooths out his expression immediately, mask serene and implacable. "Ah," he says delicately, because fuck it, maybe he needs to be more explicit. "This master was perhaps thinking another way..."

And Binghe nods, realization washing over his face. "Of course," he says. "If human solutions are not working, but perhaps a demonic method-"

Yes! Like the divine pillar! Please fuck this master! Binghe is finally catching on!!!

"- the demon realm probably has entirely different healing practices and methods! Why have we never thought to look before? Maybe they will have something. Shizun, I will go immediately-"

"That wasn't quite what I-"

"Shizun is so wise! Wait for me shizun! I'll be back before you know it!"

Whoops there's a part 2.

#my writing #svsss #bingqiu #shen qingqiu #luo binghe #just fucking around really #writing idea #scum villan unhinged dating sim au

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skzooweemama · 8 months

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I’ve just been thinking about eepy cuddles with Seungmin 🥺 just so soft 😖💗

What are your thoughts? Seungmin is so underrated and has my whole heart

stoppp he's been bias wrecking me so hard lately- I HAVE SO MANY THOUGHTS TO SHARE!

~~~

first of all, he is unfairly cute when he's eepy? like unsure if ya'll have seen that video w him asleep on the couch, but like it's precious? go look it up rn 🔫

anyway, i am a firm believer that seungmin is suchhh a good cuddle buddy. platonic or romantic, you got yourself some 5-star cuddles!(heh see what i did there?)

his arms are long and they just engulf you. he pulls you close and keeps you there. if you get hot, no you don't you're fine. let him cuddle you.

the type of person to stay in one spot for the entire night. this man is literally a god send if you get lowkey angry (me) when you're sharing a bed w someone and they fcking annihilate your back with their knees/legs (this is han or hyunjin 100000% those two sleep so chaotically). but seungmin... he falls asleep in one spot and he wakes up in that same spot in the morning :)

and he's cute when he wakes up too! he's got it all! 148 i love seungmin!!

~~~

it was 3am and you could not sleep. no matter what you tried, sleep just alluded you completely. you thought about getting up to get some water- maybe walking would help your body realize this was a godawful time to be awake?

however, the sleeping body beside you gave you some pause. seungmin was still fast asleep and you didn't want to risk waking him with your midnight wanderings. instead, you turned to your side and watched him sleep.

creepy? possibly. he was just too cute to not watch, though. his plush lips were pursed and his brow was slightly furrowed, making him look kind of angry. you wondered if he was having a bad dream and pressed a featherlight kiss to his arm to soothe him in case he was.

apparently that was enough to rouse him.

seungmin groaned, eyes fluttering open just enough to take in your figure in the darkness. he reached for you, encouraging you to come closer. "ya okay?" he asked, his voice thick with sleep.

you nodded, scooting towards your sleepy boyfriend and wrapping him up in a hug. "mmm... i'm sorry for waking you, baby..." you whispered, one of your hands rubbing his back soothingly.

seungmin wrapped an arm around your waist and linked one of his long legs with yours, cuddling you to his chest like a child would cuddle a stuffie. he was hardly awake and craved you so obviously; you swear he made your heart ache on purpose. when you kissed his shoulder, he let out a sigh of contentment.

"'s okay... are you sure you're alright?" the vibrations of his voice send tingles through you. you just nodded and seungmin pressed a kiss to your hair, humming in acknowledgement. "kay... love you..."

"i love you more." you told him. seungmin snuggled closer and you swore you could just about feel his pulse match yours. the sound of his breath evening out and the pressure of his arms around you seemed to be your remedy, and you started to feel your eyelids get heavy.

you pressed one last kiss to seungmin's shoulder and breathed in his scent before your eyes slid shut and finally, finally, you fell asleep.

~~~

#stray kids fluff #fluff #stray kids x reader #skz x reader #stray kids fanfic #seungmin x reader #kim seungmin #kim seungmin x reader #skzooweemama.asks #skzooweemama.writes

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incorrectbatfam · 1 year

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Who would get snapped by Thanos?

(also on Ao3)

Of all places, he was buying fucking cigarettes when it happened.

Jason was digging through his wallet when the woman behind him suddenly screamed. He whirled around and—

Hang on, didn't she have a kid with her? He could've sworn there was a toddler whining about candy just now. But when he looked, his eyes were met with a pile of dust and the lady staring at her hand, face pale.

Behind her were a group of teenagers. The shortest one—couldn't have been more than 14—turned to the others and said, "Guys, something's wrong." But before anyone could react, his skin cracked and he crumbled to pieces, leaving his friends scrambling.

The cashier dialed the police. Someone demanded to know what was going on. Without his helmet or guns, it wasn't as though Jason could say he got this all taken care of. Cigarettes forgotten, he slipped away from the crowd and called Bruce.

No answer. So he tried again, and on the third time he left an expletive-filled voicemail before hopping on his bike.

He zipped past the changing signals and swerved around the three-car pileup forming as he tried Dick's number. But all he got was that godawful singsong voicemail that Dick recorded years back.

That was two down already.

No.

No, he wasn't gonna think like that. Those two knuckleheads were fine. Hell, with a family of detectives, they were probably cracking the case as Jason broke a red light.

He picked another number.

It clicked.

"Roy, are you—"

"Jason." Roy's ragged breathing almost made his words unintelligible. "It's Lian. She—she..."

"It's happening everywhere," Jason said. "I don't know who's behind this but I'm gonna keep you updated."

There was nothing on the other line. Not a breath or panicking keen. His heart dropped.

"Roy?"

After several attempts, he had no choice but to hang up.

He didn't even wait for his motorcycle to stop completely, dumping it next to the others.

"Guys?"

The Cave was far, far too quiet. Jason grabbed his domino and a batarang lying on a bench.

"Hello? Anyone?"

He stuck a comm in his ear. It crackled to life.

"Guys, we have a situation. Is anyone reading me right now?"

Silence.

He spotted a familiar wheelchair in front of the glowing Batcomputer and let out a sigh of relief.

"Oracle! I'm glad you're—"

But there was no red hair or keyboard clacks to go with it. A steaming coffee cup was tipped over, soaking a case file and dripping onto the floor.

Alfred had to be okay. He's Alfred.

Jason raced upstairs, almost missing the three piles on the couch with purple, yellow, and orange video game controllers buried among them. In the cat bed is another one. His lunch crawled up his throat, but he swallowed it down and moved to the next room.

"Alfred?" His boots echoed through the halls with each step. "Anyone here?"

He checked the kitchen, but it wasn't Alfred he found. Rather it was Damian, staring at his ash-covered fingertips just like the lady at the store.

"They were right here." Damian's voice trembled. "Me and Cain and Pennyworth, we were talking and... and..."

He stumbled forward. Jason caught him.

"I got you. I got you." He wrapped his arms around the kid.

"Akhi?"

Something about it made Jason's blood run cold.

"I don't feel so good."

"Don't say that. You're fine." He squeezed tighter.

"I—I don't want to go. Not again." Damian's fists—oh God, they're so tiny—clung to Jason's shirt.

But all the pleading in the world amounted to nothing as the atoms of his baby brother slipped through his fingers. And even though it felt like everything was bubbling to the surface, he couldn't scream or cry out. All he could do was kneel there, numb, wondering who would have the audacity.

After who-knows-how-long, he felt Ace nuzzle against his ribs.

"You're still here."

"Arf!"

"You're right." Jason swiped the tears from his face and stood up. "Fetch me my guns. There will be hell to pay."

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captainjamster · 5 months

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Price x Reader - Shower Comfort

Pairing(s): Price x fat!Reader (SFW) Warnings: Non-sexual nudity and intimacy, mentions of sex, disordered eating and body image issues Wordcount: 3.1k Summary: John knows how to protect you from every knife, gun, bomb and other weapon he can think of, but he doesn't know how to protect you from the deep-rooted dislike you throw at your body. It takes him some time, but John realises that the best protection he can give you is unbreakable self-confidence, supplied by his endless love and adoration. AO3 Link: Right here! <3

A/N: Realised that this was only on my AO3 so I thought I'd post it here. The world needs more fat!readers and lord knows John Price is the right man to appreciate them. As I mentioned in my AO3 upload, this is inspired by 391780 and their Soft fic!

Full fic is under the cut <3

It’s your first shower together since a long, eight-month deployment. The times you spend together under the water are few and far between, even though it seems like a given for couples living together, but John understands why. When you first hesitantly agreed to a shower together, he thought that his wishful thinking had finally become so strong that he was desperately hearing things. For a man who wakes most mornings with the ringing of screams and gunshots within his ears, the self-deception of his senses isn’t entirely abnormal. Yet when he turned from the door to see you peering bashfully out past the glass, steam curling around you in lazy tendrils as it beckoned him in, he swears that he had never undressed faster – not even during the timed, godawful recruit showers.

He frequently asks; never pushing or demanding, but allowing you an opportunity to decline the invitation. After sex, as the shower warms under his hand and he watches you lay on the bed, hair spread out angelically as you catch your breath, he always lets you shower first. Calling your name, watching you sit up and draw the covers against your body with those wide, shy eyes, as if the bruises of his fingertips and mouth don’t rest on every part of your plush body that he could reach. You hide in the draping sheet as it trails along behind you (and John has to forcefully ignore how similar it is to the long, white dresses he dreams of seeing you in), pressing a gentle, thankful kiss against his cheek before playfully ushering him out the slowly steaming room. His reminders are playful each time – “just give us a shout if y’need any professional help with your hair, love – I mean, just look at these chops” - and he adores the roll of your eyes, the giggles, scoffs and huffs, maybe a poked-out tongue and a scrunched-up face he glimpses before you disappear behind the door.

Sometimes - to the displeasure of his guilt - he feels grateful for, even thanks your disposition to shyness. It keeps you docile, so sweet and nervous amidst the company of others, shying from the light and attention. If another man – another woman, anyone – found the side of you that he has, he would be beyond lost. He has no clue how he would stop them falling in love as fast and deeply as he did. John supposes, though he would never admit it to you, that he’s fond of the introversion you hold yourself with; certainly not fond of why you’re so withdrawn, feeling himself bristle at the reasons you’ve shared with him each time, furious at the way it manifests into your low self-confidence and insecurity. But he can’t help but love that you trust him enough to give him growing glimpses into the person that you keep reserved inside your mind, wrestling with a fierce possessiveness that wants to keep it only for himself.

For these reasons, John immediately notices that you’re much more shy than usual when he comes home. There’s no less enthusiasm in his greeting, your arms wrapping around him tightly as he stands in the doorway. This is his favourite part of coming home – being hit with the smell of you, breathing in whatever meal you’re welcoming him home with, the warmth and tenderness that permeates his worn, tired body as you pull his exhausted soul from its hollow depths and nurture it with all the love you’ve been holding onto in his absence.

He drops his bags, arms coming up to envelope you in a crushing hug, noticing no change in heft as he picks you up – despite your squeals – and swings you carefully, playfully. He does notice the way you pull down your sweater as he puts you down, tugging at the material to distance it from clinging onto your figure. If you asked John, he would honestly answer that you look beautiful in everything. Yet he knows that the clothing you wear can give him little insights into your mind – in the few years you’ve been together, John has learnt that sometimes your actions speak more than you do, and he recognises the loose fabric concealing your silhouette in a swathe of fabric. His concern remains poised, not hasty or assumptive, but ready to strike at the confirmation of your wavering self-confidence.

Your round cheeks flush red as you beam at him, and you look so happy to be reunited in his arms that he tempers his worry to a simmer, on the back burner until it flares again. The optimist in him hopes it’s just a bad day, compared to a loss of progress in his determination to build your self-love, that he can’t help but resent his dedication to the military for causing. However, that chance wilts as the evening drags on, catching the trails of something bigger brewing within the fortitude of your mind.

Your portion is smaller than his, just incrementally, to the point that someone who cared less wouldn’t notice – but John pays close attention to these things. You eat less than you talk as you’re curled up on the couch, hands busy with the glass of water as he quietly rumbles about his deployment. Your flesh melds into his, limbs twisted and tangled together on the soft couch. The fork you occasionally pick up off the plate dances around its rim, pushing the food mindlessly until you finally spear a less than reasonable amount to chew on.

John can work out that nothing else is overtly wrong, and he makes it his duty to soak up everything he’s missed in his absence. His knowledge is supplemented by the weekly calls he salvages in the midst of chaos, whether staring at the blank tent walls nestled in his bunk, or crouched in a vacant street as he listens to the sound of distance bombs and gunfire as your fuzzy voice informs him of your going-ons. You clue him into the normalities now he’s home, updating him about the new neighbours and gossip your dear old neighbour shares when you bring her bins in. He’s proud of you for the small talk, watching you glow with a pleased embarrassment when he tells you so. As the conversation stays lighter with no give-way to any reason for the changes he’s sensing in you, John becomes surer that the body issues you attempt to hide from him are creeping back into the shaky foundations of self-compassion and respect that he tries to instil within you. Though he can’t work out what’s caused it, he knows that there’s not always a reason why, and he’s not going to force it out of you unless he suspects it’s important. That doesn’t stop him from wondering though, mind busy as he cleans up the kitchen, listening to you giggle at the movie playing softly.

In his list of priorities to you, his highest, most valued one is acceptance – perhaps the easiest to keep, considering how sharply your life contrasted with his. John almost thinks it’s ironic; every reassurance he utters to you feels warped, and he wonders how the roles aren’t reversed, how he isn’t on his knees begging for your acceptance. Whenever he comforts you in the depths of your struggles, renewing every vow of love and adoration he’s ever had for you, he can’t help wondering how such a filthy and broken man like him can truly show you what it feels to be cherished.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, pressing his wet hands into his jeans as you thank him for washing the dishes. Always thanking him for doing such menial tasks, so grateful for the smallest thing. He smiles at another predictable ‘thank you’ falling from your mouth as he moves to the bathroom to turn on the shower.

You let him disappear for months at a time, and you worry that he would find anyone else to come back to. He would never tell you that he holds his breath with every return, searching pessimistically for signs of life, a goodbye note on the door, divorce papers on the doormat. Any indication that you’d finally realised what a depraved, moral-less machine his career had turned him into, or recognised that stretched nights apart with nothing but the company of longing and fuzzy, broken-up phone calls are the most he can offer until he retires – if he gets to retire.

He takes a moment to examine the bathroom as he waits for the shower to warm, where he knows that your troubles rage on the most. The scales are peaking out, shadowed by the cabinet they hide under. With a nudge, he scoots them back under, considering the idea of replacing the batteries with dead ones – maybe not. Something to think about later. The mirror is covered by a towel that drapes across it, obscuring the most of its reflection. He’s staring at it as you enter the room, enough towels for the two of you that are placed on the counter. Your entrance distracts his postulations, drawing his gaze as you cross the room. You turn to the shower, opening the door to stick a hand under the stream, and John knows this his natural cue to go. Though his brain sends the conscious thought, imagining his arm extending for the knob and walking out the door, his feet stay in place. Instead, he does something that he’s never done before, pushing boundaries for the both of you. The fat of your bicep is soft, warm as he reaches for your upper arm, holding you back. Surprise colours your face, an inquisitive look at his grip, and he musters back an apologetic smile. “Sorry, sweetheart. Would… Would y’mind makin’ space for one more in there today?”

He can see the instantaneous dilemma that his question puts you under, torn between your comfort and fulfilment of his request. When you open your mouth, he expects an apologetic but firm no, and he can’t stifle the way his lips turn up in delight as you resign with a small yes. Turning and pretending to be occupied with getting his razor ready at the sink, he gives you a moment to slip out of your clothes, tossing them into the hamper and stepping into the shower. He relishes the sight of your backside as you disappear, stirring a desire he wills down for a more appropriate time.

After giving you a moment to settle, he spins back around to pull off his own clothes, discarding them in the same hamper. As he opens the mottled glass door, the blurriness of your figure dissipates, and John feels the urge to wrap his arms around you and clutch you tightly itch through his limbs. Stepping in, the water is the same blistering heat you like. You always grumble that it’s really a mild temperature, and John’s just accustomed to his cold showers, but John loves arguing back that it wouldn’t be as cold with a lovely partner such as yourself with him.

John is not an oblivious man, and he cannot ignore the signs. He notices the way you face the showerhead, shielding the softest, most vulnerable side of your body from his view. Like his little sunflower, always drawn back to the source of warmth flooding your figures. But John is not a cruel man, either, and he won’t force you to do anything. He nestles himself into the crux of your shoulder, pressing gentle, loving kisses as his arms wrap around your plush figure, feeling the way the fat tenses and sucks in under his pressure, and his heart squeezes in a similar way. You don’t pull away, however, and he takes it as a sign of consent.

“D’you wanna talk, lovey?” He mumbles gently, no petulant expectation or leading to an answer he wants to hear. The question is genuine, to be rejected or accepted, without judgment or consequence. He feels you deflate within his grip, your fortitude crumbling as he probes at things you were hoping to keep hidden for at least another day.

“That obvious, huh?” You huff, a hand coming up to run through his damp hair. The hum of his affirming response vibrates against your neck, and he can smell the fading perfume from when you applied it this morning. “I’m an attentive man, what can I say.”

He can’t help the smile that he presses into your neck as your shoulders shake, pleased to bring small moments of happiness to your day as you respond. “It’s stupid. Gained some weight that just… Fuck, I just can’t shake it.” Your fingers mindlessly run against his, tracing the wrinkles of his knuckles. “Just a few pounds, but it feels like the end of the world.”

John hums apologetically, rubbing his thumb up and down against a patch of your skin. “Why’s it the end of the world, my little dove?”

There’s a quiet hesitance before you confess. “Everyone… All the people you work with must be so fit. Strong, toned, athletic. I don’t know how you spend so much time with such attractive bodies, but feel happy coming home to mine.”

The problem solidifies within his mind, and there’s a relief in understanding what you’re thinking more clearly. “Hear me out, sweetheart,” he asks softly, waiting until you indulge him with a nod. “You could be the smallest or biggest person I’ve seen, and I’d love you no matter what. The fuckers I work with? Their bodies are built for the conditions they’re forced to survive in, ‘course they’re fit darl. Bein’ fit is kind of in the requirements.”

You snort at that, humming with a disgruntled amusement as John continues on. “They want us like that for deployment. Sendin’ us to war-torn countries, usually because of wars we cause, and seein’ the citizens there…” He trails off, taking a breath against your neck as he reminisces. “Kids so skinny that they don’t look real, babies so dehydrated they don’t even cry anymore. Parents going hungry to have their kids eat scraps for just one more day.”

Your silence knocks him into realisation as he ponders, your breathing faster as he notices the way your nails dig into the pad of your skin, and he realises how patronising he sounds without the context of his thoughts.

“I’m not sharing this to make you feel guilty, dove, m’sorry. Not my intention in the slightest.” Apologetic kisses brush up and down your neck, peace offerings to soothe the unintentional lecture as he clarifies his thoughts. “You – your body - reminds me what I’m fightin’ for, love.” He breaks himself off with a long, appreciative kiss on the point of your shoulder. “You are plump, round, well-fed because we have access to food. Because we have a stable house, we don’t walk for miles in need of shelter or a place to sleep. Because we have safe transport, and you can get where you need without walking until your feet bleed. It's somethin' everyone should have, but they don't.”

You turn in his grip, the water streaming down your body as it hits your head. Your eyes look red and a little puffy, and the shower provides a very convenient cover for any tears that might be slipping from your waterline, gazing up at him while he speaks.

“S’isn’t some ‘appreciate your conditions’ speech, sweetheart. I’m tellin’ you, your body is a beautiful reminder for me. Seeing you like this… It reminds me you’re warm, safe, fed - unexposed to the cruelty of my career 'n the havoc that we follow.” A hand comes up to cup your cheek, running a thumb along the skin affectionately. Yours comes up to rest against it, soaking in the warmth of his contact.

He can see your brain processing the information, and he knows that some part of you is looking for doubt, scrutiny at his declarations, that he pokes at teasingly. “Ey, before that little mind of yours runs off – even if your body changes, it stays the same. You lose weight? I’m happy you can do it voluntarily. Y’gain weight? I’m glad you’re eatin’ well, and you know I’ll always work with you if you want to lose it; but you’re not changin’ your body for me, only with me.” He knows the words ring true, looking at a flush of shame in being caught that lights your cheeks at his words, a sheepish, watery smile tugging at your lips as you prepare a defence.

He soldiers on, cutting off whatever argument you’re mustering up. “I know how y’feel about yourself won’t change with some words, darl. I’ll remind you any time, until you believe me. 'Til then, I’ll love you enough for both of us."

There’s a pause as you stare wordlessly, mouth slightly agape as you try to find a response. John’s confused as your hand leaves his, coming up to rest against his own cheek as your expression becomes a determined adoration. Questions are on the tip of his tongue, but you shove them back down his throat as your lips meet, and it’s John’s turn to find himself wordless. He’s captured by your act of affection, feeling the wetness of your cheeks as your nose bumps with his. Despite that you pull the slightest bit back, John doesn’t let you shy away from your stomach and chest pressing against his, running his hands along the dips of your back and holding you close.

It's only the need for air that has him pulling back to breathe, seeing your nose scrunch as the hairs of his beard tickle your face. A rush of affection floods through him so fiercely it almost sweeps him off his feet, squeezing at your hips. “I was doin’ so badly you had to shut me up, huh?” He jokes, underhandedly checking whether he had really helped. Satisfaction fills him as you roll your eyes, grinning as your head comes to rest against his chest, diverting the rivulets dribbling through his chest hair. “Always the pessimist. Maybe it was a reward for doing so well, John.”

He can feel his own chest rumble with a surprised laugh, steadying your head from jumping with each chuckle using a gentle hand. “You’d love me if I came home half a person, sweet thing. I don’t need a reward; I’ll love you no matter how much fat is on you.” His hand is slick as it runs down your hair, petting you gently. The shower is a warm blanket that cascades over your entangled figure, and as he feels you relax further into his body, John can’t help but hope that just maybe, you’d let him shower with you more frequently.

#price x reader #john price x reader #price x fat!reader #john price x fat!reader #cod fanfic #call of duty fanfic #call of duty #jams writings

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blackshadowswriter · 1 year

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Always Here┃Matt Murdock

Summary: Even the Devil got nightmares sometimes. Luckily, you would always be there for him to pick up the pieces. Tysm to @cioemyr for the request! 🖤

Words: 1875

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, nightmares, dreams about losing a loved one, Matt's Catholic guilt that you have to slap out of him (not literally ofc, boi is traumatized)

AN: Guess who finally sat down and wrote out requests from months ago. I'm sorry it took so long, but it's here now! It is a little shorter than what I usually write, but I had to rewrite this several times, so this is the best I got.

That night, you awoke to a heartbroken plea from the Devil, echoing through the darkness.

When your eyes first shot open, darting around in the dark space of the bedroom, you couldn't remember what had awakened you for a few seconds.

Until Matt twisted in the sheets besides you with a shaken cry of "Foggy!"

You were shooting upright in a heartbeat, scooting closer to Matt's side of the bed and calling his name softly. Usually, you wouldn't have to move too far to find Matt in the bed since he normally spooned you like a giant, Devil-sized koala bear. However, tonight, it seemed that he had writhed away from you, plagued by the tortures of his mind.

This wasn't the first time Matt had been trapped in a nightmare, so you knew what to do. When he was like this, touching his hypersensitive skin was a great way for you to get decked in the face, courtesy of Matt's unfailing but rather violent reflexes, the first of which was to lash out at whoever touched him. It was something you couldn't exactly blame him for, especially when his nightmares usually involved being attacked or losing someone to an attack. This time, you were guessing that said someone was Foggy.

Instead of trying to touch any other part of his twisting body, you gently brought your hands up to his hair, carding through the damp strands slowly, hoping he could sense it was your touch. For a moment, Matt's body locked up at the new sensory detail, his anguished movements stilling to something a little more controlled—twitches running along the broad, muscular plane of his body.

Seeing him calm ever so slightly, you incorporated your voice.

"Matt," you called softly. "It's alright. You're okay."

In the faint illumination of the neon lights, spilling through his windows from that godawful billboard across the street, you could see Matt's face, shining with sweat and something you suspected were tears, contort in agony as his body shuddered again in his nightmare.

"It's just me, Matty," you continued, keeping your voice sweet and soft, knowing you didn't have to speak loud for his sensitive ears to pick up on it. You could only hope your voice was cutting through the fog of his dream-addled mind. "Come on, wake up, honey, you're safe here."

With a gasp, Matt's eyes flew open, and he bolted upright, clawing at the sheets, dark eyes darting around the room as if looking for a nonexistent enemy that he could not see. He tried to stagger out of bed, probably trying to go fight an invisible battle in his boxers.

"Hey, hey, hey, Matt!" you called, reaching out to gently catch his wrist. His head snapped towards you at the touch, but you weren't alarmed. You could never be afraid of Matt, and you knew that his erratic behavior was due to the fact that he usually had trouble orienting himself when waking up, especially from a terrible dream.

You said your name aloud, hoping the familiar word would break Matt out of his haze. "It's me, Matt. You're at home. You're safe. I'm safe. We're both safe, remember?"

Slowly, Matt relaxed in your hand, tension seeping out of his tightly wound form like blood washed away. He whispered your name in a shattered voice that sounded so vulnerable, so broken that your heart ached for him.

"Yeah, I'm here, Matt," you assured him quietly, dropping your hand down from his wrist to lightly entwine in his fingers. He clung to yours as though it were a lifeline in the whirlpool of his drowning mind. His body sagged back down into the bed and fell against you limply, no energy left in him. You caught his heavy weight as best as you could, gently shifting him until he could lay his head against your chest where you knew the sound of your steady heartbeat would comfort him.

"I got you," you murmured, adjusting the two of you so that you said with your back against the headboard and Matt's comforting weight across your front.

He kept his head over your heart for a few moments, breathing deep but shaky breaths before turning his face to bury it in your neck. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry—"

"Don't be," you said firmly. "Don't be sorry."

"I woke you up—"

"And I would gladly wake up a hundred times whenever you need me." You ran your hand through his sweat-slick hair, gently scratching that spot near his neck that made him purr. "The same way you wake up for me when I need you."

A shudder ran through his body, and you pretended like you didn't feel the hot, wet tears sliding down your neck for Matt's sake—the man was somehow convince that crying meant bothering you, and it had taken you months to assure him that no, Mathew, crying is normal, and I am very much fine, stop with the Catholic guilt.

"Tell me about it?" you asked softly. "If you want?"

You felt the warm air from his slow exhale skate across your collarbone and waited patiently for him to speak. If he didn't want to talk about what he had dreamt about, you weren't going to push him, the same way he had never pressed you for more details than you wanted to share on your own nightmares. But if he did need to talk, you were going chase out the stupid voice in his head telling him he deserved to suffer in solitude and make sure that Matt knew he could talk to you.

Eventually, Matt seemed to have found his voice. "Foggy," he croaked. "I dreamt about Foggy." He drew in a terse, shaky breath and pressed his face against the soft skin of your neck, taking in your comforting scent for a few moments. "He got—hurt, and it was my fault."

"I'm sure it wasn't—" you started to say, but Matt shook his head firmly, his hand fisting in your shirt.

"It was," he said hoarsely. "I wasn't fast enough—wasn't good enough to save him. They took him, and I couldn't do anything about it."

Silently, you took in his words while your fingers absently stroked the nape of his neck. You didn't bother to ask who "they" was, knowing the many enemies that hounded Matt's subconsciousness. It could have been any one of them, and who it was didn't really matter right now—only that Foggy had been hurt, and Matt blamed himself.

Of course, it was entirely possible that, in his dream, something he had done had either directly or indirectly caused whatever had happened to Foggy. However, it was equally likely that Matt had had nothing to do with it and simply blamed himself like he did with so many other things that were not his fault.

Without knowing exactly what had transpired (and Matt didn't seem too keen to share details), you were fumbling in the dark, unsure of how to reassure Matt.

You settled for the safest option. "It was just a dream," you soothed Matt, brushing your lips over his sweaty forehead. "Foggy is okay."

"I don't know that." Matt stiffened suddenly as if just realizing something. "I don't know that," he repeated, moving to sit up. "God, I need to go check on him—I need to make sure he's okay—"

You shushed Matt gently, tugging him back into your arms. "Foggy is okay," you reiterated quietly. "He sent me a meme about penguins at 2 in the morning, just 30 minutes ago. He's definitely okay," you told him in amusement.

Slowly, Matt sank back into your arms, apparently reassured by his best friend's rather irritating tendency to text you the most irrelevant things in the middle of the night. You resumed the pace of your fingers in his hair, and after a few moments, Matt went so quiet and still that you almost thought he had fallen asleep.

Until he shifted slightly and turned his face up to press a kiss against your jaw. "I love you," he rasped. "I love you so much. Thank you for...for putting up with this—putting up with me. I don't deserve you."

Oh, Matthew. My sweet, wonderful, dear, idiotic boyfriend.

You slid your hand underneath Matt's jaw and tilted his face up towards yours until you could take his tormented expression, face twisted with guilt. Even without hearing him speak a single word more, you could already hear the self-beratement running through his head.

"Matt," you said slowly, "I want you to listen very carefully to me. I know you can do that. So I want you to open those bat ears of yours and listen to me, okay?"

He cocked his head to the side slightly, evidently bewildered, but Matt humored you and nodded, licking his lips slowly.

"I do not put up with you," you said firmly. Matt's brows scrunched together (adorable, your distracted brain input), confusion blooming on his face as you continued. "I put up with my shitty coworker who hits on me every day. I put up with that ridiculously enormous rat that lurks outside your apartment and hisses at me every goddamn morning. I put up with the grumpy old woman who comes in every day to my work with an attitude dating back to 500 B.C."

You paused to watch the slight twitch of amusement on Matt's lips, glad you could cheer him up even that little.

"But," you said in the voice you used to take to your childhood dog when it misbehaved, "I do not put up with you. I take care of you when you need me to, the same way you take care of me when I need you to. Do you know why I do it?"

Matt let out a hoarse laugh. "That's what I've been wondering ever since you came into my life, sweetheart," he murmured in that self-depreciating tone you hated.

"Because I love you, Matthew Michael Murdock," you said sternly, smirking at the way he grimaced at the last part.

You just got middle named, Murdock.

You tilted your head down and kissed him softly, reveling in the way Matt sighed against your lips, practically turning into putty in your arms. "I love you, Matt. And when people love each other, this is what they do. You don't like the fact I get up in the middle of the night for you? Too fucking bad because I'm going to do it anyways. I fucking love you, Matthew, you hear me?"

"I hear you," he murmured. "And I love you too. This has to be the most aggressive declaration of love I've ever heard though."

You kissed him again. "Someone has to knock some sense into that Catholic-guilt-riddled brain of yours."

Matt huffed out a laugh against your lips, bringing his hand up to cup the side of your face. "You do it rather well," he decided. "I love you so much, sweetheart."

Kissing his hair, you nudged Matt and scooted the two of you down into the sheets until you both were more or less back in the same position you had fallen asleep him: Matt curled around you like your Devil-shaped teddy bear.

With a sleepy, content sigh, Matt nuzzled into your neck again, lips brushing over your pulse point gently. "I love you, sweetheart," he whispered again.

"I love you, Matt," you said quietly, reaching your fingers up to stroke his hair. "And I'll always be here for you, I promise."

═══════ ∘◦ ❈ ◦∘ ═══════ ∘◦ ❈ ◦∘═══════ ∘◦ ❈ ◦∘ ════════

AN: I'm on a roll with these Matt fics, the brain juices are finally flowing! I have so much I wanna write now even if it puts me so behind on my homework. Oh well 😬

If you enjoy, please remember to like, comment, and reblog!🖤

My Matt Murdock Masterlist

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gregorovitch-adler · 9 months

Text

"SHERLOCK!" John bellowed, as his best friend and the love of his life jumped off the rooftop of that godawful building.

Everything was gone within a few seconds. Sherlock's body hit the pavement, which drew the attention of the passersby, and just like that, the eighteen glorious months that John had spent with Sherlock as his flatmate, were all but a memory.

It wasn't just Sherlock who had died. John's heart shattered into a thousand pieces and it was as though his life had been sucked out of his body in an instant.

John rushed across the street to be able to be close to Sherlock's body as soon as he could.

"He's my friend!" He kept running to close the seemingly infinite gap between himself and Sherlock. "Please, let me through. He's my friend," he said with a broken voice.

Strangely, John felt as if he was running on a treadmill. His eyes widened and his heart pounded with horror when he wasn't being able to physically reach out to Sherlock's corpse. "Sherlock!" he yelled again. None of the passersby noticed him, though.

It was like John didn't even exist to them. Nobody was making way to let him through.

John's eyes snapped open. He realised he was in Sherlock's bedroom, lying on the bed on his right side, with Sherlock spooning him from behind.

"John!" Sherlock's arms tightened around John's chest and abdomen.

John was awake, but his heart was still racing. He was breathing frantically as if his life depended on it. He tried to swallow but couldn't, because of his dry mouth.

"John, wake up. You're okay, John, please wake up right now."

"I'm up," John said in a hoarse voice as he tried to take deep breaths.

"Another nightmare?"

John nodded. His breathing rate was slowly becoming normal.

Of course, that's what it was. Sherlock was back in London a few months ago. There had been one not-so-nice interaction between them, but they had found each other shortly after.

"Er, sorry if I woke you. What did I do, this time?"

Sherlock's arm tightened around his waist. He placed a kiss on the top of his head. "You were shaking - head to toe. And you shouted my name, too, just now. Are you all right?"

John was glad he wasn't facing Sherlock. "Jeez, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-"

"Don't be stupid," Sherlock said and kissed John's temple. "Tell me what you saw, this time."

"It was you again," said John in a low voice and swallowed. He felt a prickly sensation behind his eyes.

"You jumped off the building and died. This time, I wasn't able to reach out to you. Your body was lying on the front on that pavement but I just couldn't close the distance. It was ugly." John was tearing up.

Sherlock was silent for a long moment. "You know there wasn't any other way."

"I know! I can see why you had to do it. At least now that we've had a talk about it. That's not going to make the nightmares disappear, though. The one I had just now was the worst. It was like I'd become a ghost to everyone else in the world."

Sherlock kissed John's hair once. Then again, then a few more times on the different areas of his scalp.

John's eyes fluttered as he closed them to live in the moment. He grabbed Sherlock's forearm - that was still pressed against his stomach.

Sherlock moved his kisses down to John's nape, sending shivers down his spine.

"I know," Sherlock said between his kisses. "Just wanted to ensure you knew the reason behind all that. Moriarty knew that you were the one I cared about the most and that I would've done anything to ensure your safety."

John closed his eyes and nodded as he leaned back against Sherlock's body on the bed.

"If you felt that you'd become a ghost, you should've been able to tell that it's a nightmare. You'd never be invisible or a ghost to me. That's simply impossible."

John blinked furiously at Sherlock's words.

"As ever you see, but you don't observe."

A couple of tears rolled down John's cheek as he chuckled. He wiped his face and turned around to face Sherlock. He held Sherlock's face gently in his hands.

"Yeah, well. You're the fantastic detective here, not me."

Sherlock opened his mouth but instead of replying, he looked away and cleared his throat.

John could tell he was blushing even in the dark room. He let out a fond laugh as he pulled Sherlock close, to kiss him as deeply as he could.

***

Sherlock September Challenge by @onesmallfamily

Prompt: Spoon

Tagging: @lisbeth-kk , @gaylilsherlock , @helloliriels , @topsyturvy-turtely @curlyjohnlock , @peanitbear .

#johnlock #bbc sherlock #ficlet #september prompts #angst with a happy ending #angst and fluff #established relationship #ptsd #sherlock x john #sherlockian #sherlock headcanon #new ficlet

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lucydoodlessometimes · 4 months

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the Lunar secret weapon and the King's best kept secret, one Carswell Thorne!

original au

Au-specific character info under the cut

Thorne knows his full name here, which means he could track down his birth records and thus parents- if he wasn't convinced there was no point, as they voluntarily submitted him to die. so.

He braids his hair in much the same way that cress wraps hers around her wrists as stress relief. I didn't find a good way to draw it, but its there.

Thorne is more unsure than in canon in this au, but he is very interested in making cool romantic moments (as opposed to Cress, who was very interested in having them but rarely tried to make them.)

he has a little Thorne! just as eager and cheerful as little cress, but a bit more utility-focused. He quickly got bored of the background work slog, even as a child, and thus programmed little thorne to take over lots of the early searching, filtering, and sourcing of the research Sybil often asks for.

the haircut cress gives him post-satellite is, admittedly, rather good for a newly blind woman.

However, if you have functioning eyes, you can probably tell that it is godawful.

Fortunately, Cress also manages to pick up an escort body for Nansi, who delights in fixing it for him.

(on that note, I think I might change up her look from Iko's even though it doesn't really make a ton of sense? mostly because I want to. Talk me out of it in the tags)

Thorne gives Cress her eyedrops and is very extra special careful about it because he doesn't wanna mess up this thing he's got going on in her direction. He's worried about her!

I made a pass at a butterfly outfit here- I confess, I'm very excited for the blue "dress"

(I may or may not let it be a dress, I think that futuristic sci fi can accommodate a man in a dress so it's really just whatever I wanna draw that day and whatever i think he looks good in)

either way, i let the butterfly sleeves instead take on a capeish feel, as I don't think the draping feel works as well on this kind of jacket. Future changes may occur!

His satellite outfit was kind of meant to give this yucky hospital gown feel, as I imagine Sybil to be rather,,,,, uninterested in the fashion of her little tool.

That's all I got! hope you enjoyed and feel free to add on <3333

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thesandsofelsweyr · 1 year

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What is the 'wild card' option do?

from Headcanon Game - A to Z (NSFW)

It means I get to share a sexy headcanon of my choosing, so of course it's gonna be scar related 😎

(This is not the aforementioned scar headcanon post. Still working on that one.)

⚠️ cw: here be more angst than smut 😅, torture mentions

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

Scars: he’s covered in them—from his scalp to the soles of his feet. Joker made use of nearly every square inch of flesh available on his “canvas” for his “artwork” 😞 Jay doesn’t want them seen: by himself, by others, by you especially. He feels like anyone can read his entire humiliating history from his scars, because all he sees are flashing advertisements for his many failures, for his cowardice, for his weakness. So he wears hats and hoodies, long sleeves, pants, and even gloves year-round (sexy driving gloves in the warmer months 😎). He’ll let you tug down his pants and boxer briefs to his thighs, but that’s as much of his ruined flesh as he wants showing, especially since he’s already feeling emotionally vulnerable when you two are intimate.

Touching his scars brings up a knotted tangle of emotions in him. They’re ultra sensitive. Not physically, per se, but the sensation reminds him that they’re there, reminds him of what happened to him. He remembers all of the times he “let” Joker touch him… how the man would trace the ridges of scar tissue almost tenderly, admiring his masterpiece, his plaything, his boy toy… His… and that godawful feeling makes him want to puke. But then you touch them—the crude mockery of the Robin logo carved into his breast, the puckered “HAHAHA” cut into his stomach, the Clown’s laugh permanently imprinted into his flesh—you trace them gently, absently with your fingertip while you rest your head on his shoulder in bed, and he can’t help but feel as though you’re reclaiming them and him from the Clown.

You place a soft kiss on his brand, and immediately that red hot iron is sinking into his cheek again—he can feel the Clown’s cruel fingers twisted into his matted hair, yanking back his head, can hear his wail of agony echoing off the walls of his torture chamber, can smell his flesh as it cooks, can taste the salt of his tears pouring down his permanently disfigured face—but then it’s your fingers combing through his hair, your soothing voice reminding him you want him, love him even, it's the scent of your perfume filling his nose, the taste of you lingering on his lips…

Over time you carve out much of the hatred, the pain, the blackness left by the Clown, and fill that hollowed out shell back up with your love, your loyalty, your light… and he trusts that you see more than the scars that litter his naked body… that you don’t see him as a coward or a failure, that you’ll never abandon him like the others he thought had loved him, that you don’t care about his past mistakes, only his future. With you 💕

(A/N: GOD, I could talk about his scars all day long, hehe. I love that he finds them disgusting, while all of us find them sexy as hell 😋)

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pjohoo-reclists · 7 months

Text

Percy Jackson & Grover Underwood Fic Recs

Part 2. A list of fics featuring Percy and Grover's platonic friendship. Requested by @evadne01 Enjoy!!

embarrassing middle school stories by orphan_account

G | 400 words | Complete

Percy Jackson/Annabeth Chase, Percy Jackson & Grover Underwood

Good friend Grover Underwood, Friendship, Bromance

Leo wants Grover to tell embarrassing middle school stories about Percy.

An Easy Target by newwwwusername

G | 600 words | Complete

Percy Jackson & Grover Underwood

Grover Underwood is a Good Friend, Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria, Book 3: The Titan's Curse

Percy is hurt after what Thalia said to him in the car. Grover helps.

Endemism by mouserat

G | 900 words | Complete

Percy Jackson & Grover Underwood

Pre-The Heroes of Olympus

Grover Underwood has absolutely no idea why Percy Jackson is his best friend.

Grover and His Grievance by Spacing-Outtt (Lunarifie)

G | 1.0k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Grover Underwood,

Best Friends, Percy finally acknowledges Grover's efforts, Family Loss

Percy tries to console his friend after he just faced a familial loss. An understanding is shared between the two of them.

let's see you try, punk by maverickk

T | 1.2k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Grover Underwood

Percy Jackson is a Good Friend, Scary Percy Jackson, New Rome

New Rome University gets its first encounter with Percy Jackson's visceral hate of bullies. If the students know what's good for them, this will also be its last encounter. Grover just wants to get to lunch now, please.

Don't get too close. by StormRoad

G | 1.8k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Grover Underwood

First Meetings, Friendship, Pre-the Lightning Thief

Grover knew he needed to stay away from the half-blood this time. After Thalia, he knew he couldn't get too close to the half-blood as that made it too dangerous. He needed to stay away, be impartial and guide the kid to camp as neutrally as he could, lest he forgets the reason he was doing this in the first place. Though, why was this black-haired boy who reeked of human-like nothing else defending him?

The Last Olympian: Contemplating Friendships and Prophecies by dhpanya10

G | 2.1k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Nico di Angelo, Percy Jackson & Grover Underwood

Missing Scene, Empathy Link, Percy is amazing and loved

The scene where Percy and Grover reunite in front of Orpheus' Entrance to the Underworld + a missing scene thrown in from the perspective of Nico di Angelo.

crack baby (you don't know what you want) by rainymarcel

Not Rated | 3.9k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Grover Underwood

Abusive Gabe Ugliano, Good Parent Sally Jackson, Percy Jackson Needs a Hug

From the very beginning, Grover knew. Maybe it was the way he carried himself, always curled in, eyes wandering and mistrusting, as if anticipating an attack. It could have been the way he spoke quickly and quietly, as if him speaking was a crime. But whatever it was, Grover knew from the very beginning that Percy was his best friend. Or: Grover and Percy have a rough start

stay down by bipercabeth

T | 5.1k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Grover Underwood

Suicidal Thoughts, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending

An AU in which Grover is on the Argo II as protector instead of Hedge, because I say so. He and Percy get to have an actual conversation about the effects of Tartarus + that godawful conversation with Jason.

bring the forgotten dawn by poisedwalrus

G | 22k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Annabeth Chase, Percy Jackson & Grover Underwood, Nico di Angelo & Percy Jackson

Time travel fix it, Percy is a bad child therapist, Annabeth is ready to kill a god, Grover is a little scared

“What is it?” Grover asks, “What’s with that weird look on your face?” “Just trying to figure out if turning me in will get us enough bounty money to buy our way to LA.” Percy says, craning his neck towards the news van. “We are not turning you in to the police.” Grover presses his head back into the alleyway. “Why not?” Percy says. They could use a bit of cash. “You guys can just break me out afterwards, right?” Annabeth looks like she’s considering it. “No, guys,” Grover says. “No.” If Percy has to spend the rest of his life cleaning up after the gods, then he might as well start from the beginning.

Will of Our Own by Sand_wolf579

G | 50k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Luke Castellan, Percy Jackson & Grover Underwood

Good Luke Castellan, Developing Friendships, Child Neglect

Percy understood why the master bolt needed to be retrieved, but if he was going to do it he was going to do it on his own terms. Percy was tired of everybody taking advantage of and using him, so when Annabeth volunteered to go with him on his quest just so she could prove herself, Percy said no.

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