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pilfappreciator · 5 months

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Brandi and Bruce’s S/o looking after the bakers dozen on their own, what shenanigans occur?

Anon this is?? Literally so cute what the hell??? Also referring to them as the "bakers dozen" is so genuis sfhjjfdadfggh—

Reader & the Bakers Dozen: babysitting solo

Includes: GN! Reader, mentions of polyamory, mentions of Vacay Lovers, slightly Parental! Reader, the Bakers Dozen

CW: Bruce Jr.

🍪 POV: your partners go off to some fancy convention to promote their business, leaving you to watch after all 13 of their kids. Chaos ensues

🍪 These little shits are already a lot to handle, so when you suddenly find yourself being the only adult in the house responsible for them? Yeah, babes, you've definitely got your hands full

🍪 Luckily, you've spent enught time at the Vacay Lovers household that things are at least a little easier for you lol

🍪 They definitely behave much better for you compared to other babysitters. Partly because you're smoochin their parents (and don't wanna get in trouble), and partly because they genuinely like you :3

🍪 But they're still little shits thru and thru, don't forget that

🍪 If they happen to have school? Chances are Bruce and Brandi already took care of their lunches and stuff before they left, so it'll be up to you to pick them up (WARNING: THE KIDS WILL TRY TO CONVINCE YOU TO GO ORDER AT THE NEAREST FAST FOOD PLACE! Unless you've got money for 13 happy meals, prepare to hit em with a firm refusal). Definitely helps if you blast some music in the van! They've kinda lost interest in Velvet & Veneer after learning the two literally tortured their dad and uncles...

🍪 Play Brozone. They'll go crazy and shout-sing along with Bruce's parts lol

🍪 Later in the day you can expect a few to come up to you for homework help. They might also wanna help with dinner, but fyi there WILL be a mess. Pasta sauce on the floor, flour all over the counters, stains on your clothes— the whole shebang

🍪 Want the least amount of casualties? Just let them set the table (no worries, all the plates and stuff are made of plastic ajdjakkala)

🍪 A few of them have some dietary restrictions tho so keep that in mind!! Luckily, you can always find a list of reminders/examples up on the fridge courtesy of lovely muppet wife Brandi <33

🍪 If the kids don't have school that day, then be prepared. You're gonna have very little time to yourself ://

🍪 Like they've each got their own interests and hobbies to keep them occupied, but sometimes they'll need you to reach somewhere up high, or for you to play tiebreaker/settle an argument, or they honestly just want you to join them for a game of hide and seek which???

🍪 "Aw, you sure you guys don't mind me joining in?"

"Yeah! Just cuz you're old doesn't mean you can't have fun, too!"

"...Gee, thanks :D"

🍪 They're merciless

🍪 They've all got their own set of chores they need to do. Each and everyone will try to worm their way out of them. All of them. Everytime

🍪 Sure, they can be a little hyper sometimes, but they're like 6-8 years old so that's expected. For the most part, they're all pretty chill

🍪 It's Bruce Jr. who you've gotta watch out for

🍪 He is a shit- stirer and I WILL FOREVER STAND BY THAT

🍪 This guy won't hesitate to rally his siblings into whatever plan he's been cookin in that feral little head of his. Prepare yourself because you're MOST DEFINITELY getting pranked. It's like a requirement or something

🍪 One nice thing i have to say about Bruce Jr. is that he's actually pretty resourceful. Like this little dude is using everyday household items like he's staring in his own Home Alone movie AKSJSJAKA—

🍪 Rest assured, tho, none of his pranks are seriously harmful or anything but like... at the end of the day, expect:

1) to be covered in craft supplies

2) your clothes/skin/hair a mess

3) to have one limb stuck in a bucket

4) all of the above

🍪 Honestly I feel like Bruce and Brandi would be surprised if they came back and DIDN'T find you sporting paint-stained clothes or with glitter in your hair. Maybe a few stickers slapped on your forehead??

🍪 The trick to dealing with this little agent of chaos is to either keep him separated from his siblings long enough so he doesn't manage to rope anyone into his schemes, or strike some kinda deal with him. Considering he's got 12 siblings, all of whom you need to be watching over at the same time, chances are the second option is your safest bet

🍪 Chances are he'll ask for something semi-illegal, or at the very least something that DEFINITELY requires adult supervision

🍪 DO NOT LET THIS BOY TALK YOU INTO BUYING ANYTHING RELATED TO FIRE. Seems like an easy task, I know. Unfortunately this little shit enherited his dad's charm so watch out o_o

🍪 He'll settle for a happy meal tho. Hopefully you didn't already cave and take him and his siblings out to eat earlier, otherwise you're spending even more money ajsjakkala

🍪 If any errands need to be run during your time there, you BETTER BELIEVE they're all coming with. You'll need to be incredibly vigilant during this time cuz these kids are even more rowdy in public than they are at home. If you're smart about it, you can turn the whole thing into a game! If everyone manages to grab everything off the grocery list in a certain amount of time or if they're able to find the best quality (but relatively cheap) brand of laundry detergent, then you'll buy each of them candy or something uwu

🍪 You can count on them to be cooperative, but like... bring the family child leash just in case

🍪 Cough cough (Bruce Jr.) cough cough

🍪 MOVIES BEFORE BED! It's a bit of a family tradition in the Vacay Lovers household. Yknow, just some way for the kids to spend time together before the day ends

🍪 You're most definitely gonna be playing tiebreaker when the time comes. All 13 of them have wildly different tastes

🍪 Absolutely no scary movies tho. They'll try to argue that theyre able to handle it, but at the end of the night expect to find yourself under a pile of frightened children who've ctawled into bed with you

🍪 Their collective nightly routine is literally?? So chaotic??? Like all of them are simultaneously trying to squeeze into the same bathroom just to brush their teeth... running in and out of their respective rooms... trying to sneak some extra dessert before bed

🍪 Literally never a quite moment in this household jshskakakam

🍪 You might have to read a few bedtime stories or sing a lullaby—

"Dad does it better"

"Just go to bed, Benji"

—but once they've settled in under the covers? Out like a light. They are unconscious the moment their heads hit their pillows

🍪 You'll probably have a mess (or two... or three) to clean up afterwards, but once they're taken care of? Dishes washed? Counters clean? You're more than welcome to crash on Bruce and Brandi's bed <33

🍪 Said couple returns home the next morning...

🍪 Just to find their kids drawing on your face with marker. Cross your fingers that none of its permanent 💀💀

Hope this was good! I know I call them all little shits BUT I MEAN IT AFFECTIONATELY OKAY AJSJAKA

Ngl I feel like this could have been like... more colorful? Like I was very general about the kids and their behavior as a whole, but now I'm super tempted to make a post describing each of them and all their little quirks! Just something fun to do that'll help me write them better in the future ;3

#anon i hope you know im using Bakers Dozen as an official term from now on #big brain move #love that for you <33 #i shall continue to slander bruce jr. till the grave #trolls #trolls band together #bruce trolls #brandi trolls #Vacay Lovers #Bakers Dozen #trolls x reader #brozone x reader #spruce trolls #x reader #headcanon #ask

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lillythecoolest · 6 months

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hi!! i was wondering if you could do some dating velvet headcannons with a fem reader please ! thank you!

Velvet x Fem Reader HCs!⭐️🩷

Warnings: None

•ALWAYS brags to Veneer about you

•Never shuts up about you

•Definitely gossips about Crimp with you

•Always defends you, I’m 100% sure she can kick ass

•Like if someone had an issue with you two being together or just being homophobic? She’d like actually murder them

•If you’re okay with it, she’d do a couples duet with you!

•She’s probably one of those people who celebrate one week anniversaries

•If you were ever insecure about ANYTHING, she’d hype you up so much you’d forget what you were thinking about!

•You’re like the only person she ACTUALLY gives a shit about, the only other one being herself

•Probably buys you a yacht once a week

•And for pet names, she’d totally call you Princess or Queen!

thank you anon!

#lillythecoolest #trolls 3 x reader #trolls 3 #velvet and veneer #velvet trolls #velvet x reader

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comicwritesstuff · 5 months

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do you think you could write some velvet x fem reader headcannons (nsfw and sfw) if you're ok with it if not that's ok thank you!

YES OFCCC

Velvet x Fem!Reader headcanons!! (They have natural talent and trolls thing never happened) NSFW AND SFW (aged up)

SFW:

She teases you a LOT, its one of her favorite things to do, the way you blush after each comment, she absolutely loves it.

Calls you darling, babe, or just your name.

She's extremely possessive, and gets jealous super easily even though she knows you only have eyes for her.

If you guys are at a party and she sees you talking to someone she doesn't know, she's walking over, hugging you from behind, kissing your cheek and introducing herself to the person as, "Hi, who are you? I'm y/n's girlfriend."

She acts like she doesn't like physical touch, but she's the type that loves it but doesn't know how to act when she gets it. So give her a hug :)

Spoils the living hell out of you. At some point if you go shopping w Velvet and Veneer you just have to look down the whole time cause if you even glance at something then she will buy three of whatever u looked at.

She does your makeup all the time. And hair. And picks out outfits for you. You get zero say in it.

Velvet is bad with emotions, but if your ever upset or crying, like say she finds you in your room crying, the first thing she'll probably say is, "Did someone hurt you? Who tf do I need to kill?" If there is someone who hurt you then she probably will find a illegal legal way to kill them. If your just stressed out or something else, she doesn't really know how to respond or comfort you but she would let you talk about it, (tries to not respond cockily) probably while she's cuddling you, she's the big spoon.

I honestly don't think she cares that much if Veneer is your best friend or you talk with him a lot. She'd rather you talk to him then someone she doesn't know.

NSFW:

She's the dominate one, she doesn't like being the sub, she likes having power and control over you, and being sub has basically none of that.

She definitely degrades you during sex, afterwards is when she praises you, "You did such a good job for me baby~"

The more sounds you make the better, she loves hearing you moan no matter how pathetic it is.

Velvet makes you beg a lot, loves it when you are embarrassed or desperate for her.

Loves giving you hickeys, bruises, bite marks basically anything that proves she was all over you.

Doesn't let you cover up the hickeys the next day, she wants everyone to know you're hers.

She has multiple straps she uses on you.

Loves when you scratch her back, she will wear clothes with an open back the next day and show them off.

She will say stuff like, "Who owns you?" "Who do you belong to?" "Your such a good little pet"

Basically just loves having power over you.

Girly gives the best head ever. Type of shit that makes you almost pass out.

I feel like she would do it in fairly public places, but before she does she would sorta weigh the risk of getting caught. She isn't stupid about it, but she loves to see you scared and trying to hold back sounds.

She is actually really good with aftercare. She loves to shower with you, or if your to tired for even that she will just cover you with blankets and soft kisses to your forehead or cheek. She turns on a show like dance moms or some other shit and lets you fall asleep on her.

#velvet x reader #velvet trolls #velvet and veneer #trolls3 #trolls veneer #trolls velvet #trolls 3 band together #trolls #trolls band together

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 1 year

Text

gevivys (beauty) │ Chapter 5: Resolve

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Daemon returns to King's Landing after ten years in exile, intent on rekindling his affair with Rhaenyra. He wasn't expecting you - the revelation changes everything.

Hello, all! I know, it’s so soon! But this one is a cobbled-together piece of stuff you’ve already seen, just padded out a bit more. I figured I might as well push it on out now, so here ya go! Featuring Jason Lannister for the very first time, to finally bring all this shit together a bit more cohesively. As always, thank you to my boobear @ewanmitchellcrumbs for reading though this and reassuring me it isn’t total shite!

TRIGGERS: incest, purity culture, age gap, general Daemon grottiness, allusions to non-consensual sexual situations.

According to most, Daemon Targaryen is a man in possession of little capacity for feeling beyond what is required to partake in lechery and barbarism. He knows himself; his disparagers are not entirely wrong. Except for one important, essential truth—he would die for his family. He loves his family.

Love, as he understands it, is what he has always felt when looking upon his brother, upon Rhaenyra. No matter the strife that has torn him from his kin time and time again, he can freely acknowledge that such sentiments will remain everlasting.

A kicked hound is one most loyal, he thinks with no small degree of bitterness. Or perhaps the meanest hound is more loyal. Either way, I am the hound—and my master, the King.

Love is what has wrenched harsh and twisting in his heart whenever he laid eyes on you, a toddling girl-child eternally eager for the cossetting attentions of your uncle, your kepa—and he had always been kepa, never Viserys, no, your father had never received an honour beyond being called ‘papa’ like any common pauper—now a stranger in so many ways.

The garden and the morning repast had served to ignite the wellspring of all his wildest desires, delivering to him seemingly all he had ever wanted in a prospective bride; young and beautiful, obedient and good-tempered, Valyrian of colouring and of status. But you had seemed smaller than your younger self—trapped in a prison of your own making, hidden beneath layers and layers of chaste courtesy and painstaking banality. And then, accompanying you to the Dragonpit had given him a curious glimpse into the power you kept hidden, the ancient strength of your lineage slipping through the cracks in your genteel veneer.

Regal. Arcane. These are the words that had come to mind watching you interact with your mount, none other than the famed Cannibal himself; something of the majesty of the Conqueror lay within you, waiting for the necessary spark to kindle the flame. Your exchange with Athfiezar—your silent fearlessness, your devotion to your savage beast, your unassuming poise—reminds him that, for all your equally meek and mild-mannered nature, you are still Targaryen. You are still his sweetling.

It is this that elicits a consuming curiosity to know more.

You are an interesting puzzle, a strange contradiction, one whose buttermilk skin and pert teats and spit-shine lips should herald as a welcome to sample the delights hidden by the fabric of your darling little gowns. Yet, you act not as a silly young thing learning of her sway over men—teasing with fluttering lashes and bit lip and lilting tone as Rhaenyra had—but as a docile girl disinclined to press the limits of propriety as all maidens do. You ride the most savage dragon in the known world, and yet there is no such quality in you that echoes your mount’s disposition; instead, a loveliness that is near to cloying, pure and unadulterated and surely too good to be true. You are a fucking princess, and yet you are perfectly content to fade into the periphery, drawing little notice to yourself and seeking none from those around you, not even your own blood. A scholar, quick-witted and erudite, but somehow still so sweetly unknowing of the depravities that rule the minds of men who lay eyes on you.

You fascinate him. And his newfound realisation does not lessen his temptation to fuck you—to ply you with praise and charm and no small hint of avuncular affection (the reminder of your shared blood thrills him to the bone as always) so that, over time, you might be swayed to give your maidenhead to him—but, rather, that it results in a metamorphosis, a muddling, his longing mingling the base needs of the flesh with a rekindling of his fondness for you.

Which is why he cannot stand the presence of Jason Lannister.

“Why are you entertaining this farce?” Daemon asks, fists clenched at his sides. “A pompous fuck like him has no business anywhere near her.”

“Whatever is the problem, brother?” Viserys says distractedly, hunching over his miniature of Old Valyria and studying the replica of the Targaryen manse on the outskirts with intent. “Jason Lannister is Lord Paramount of the Westerlands. By any standard, I would think he is the best contender for her hand.”

That fucking model of his. Daemon resists the urge to smash the King’s stone city into rubble, though doing so might grant him the attentiveness he is sorely lacking from the man. “Are you not hearing me? He’s an arrogant cunt. He’d bore her in a sennight, let alone whatever hellish span of time an entire marriage would last.”

Viserys hums noncommittally. “She will make do”—he waves Daemon off—“as all noblewomen must when their fathers command them to marry. That is her lot in life. Besides, Lord Jason is one of the wealthiest men in the Realm, and I am told he is rather pleasing to a lady’s eye. She could do worse than he.”

His brother’s remark is a fair one—of the trio, Jason is the preferable choice. And what a fucking miserable choice it would be.

He rolls his eyes. This is going nowhere. “And Tyrell? Your idiot son? Are they the ‘worse’ you speak of?”

Between that foppish peacock, his spiteful little twit of a nephew and the prancing Lion, the latter just barely scrapes by as the best of the bunch.

“Enough, Daemon.” The King sighs, finally deigning to look up from his pile of rock. “These are the suitors she herself has chosen. I care not for the particulars; only that the girl should be wed before her eighteenth name day. Each of them possesses some quality I am sure she finds worthwhile…”

At that, he pauses, brow furrowing. He squints up at Daemon. “What is your interest in the matter, anyway? It has naught to do with you.”

Shit. Daemon makes an evasive comment—something about sullying the purity of their noble lineage—and departs as quickly as he can, eager to escape the risk of Viserys’s suspicion falling on him. It would not do for the man to suspect his intentions toward yet another of his daughters.

He does not intend to seek you and the Lord out, truly; but it nonetheless does not surprise him to realise that, upon freeing himself from the wrathful spiral of his own musings, his feet have taken him to the very same garden where he had first laid eyes upon you again after so many years, where you are now enduring the attentions of the insufferable Lannister patriarch. On this occasion, Cole is nowhere to be seen, and the entry is instead guarded by one of the Cargyll twins.

Daemon spies you on the path just inside, a careful distance placed between you and Jason. Though he cannot make out your expression from his vantage point, he observes well enough the flourishing bow the lord proffers in your direction, the polite curtsey you extend in return, his smug prancing step as he leaves your company. He sees the manner in which your shoulders droop, your head bowing as you turn to wander past the great tree and out of sight. My poor girl.

And then his view is blocked by a garish wash of red and gold.

“Prince Daemon,” Jason says with a haughty simper. With a curt nod, Daemon wordlessly returns the salutation. His lack of warmth is noticed; the Lannister lord hesitates for a moment before returning to his condescending civilities, forcing a relaxed stance. “I was most glad to hear of your return.”

He doubts that. There is little love lost between him and the lord. Jerking his chin toward the garden, he asks, “Leaving so soon, are we? I had thought the entire afternoon was devoted to this little outing.”

Jason chuckles awkwardly. “Well.” He scratches his beard. “The Princess has another engagement to attend to. Something about a tutor.”

Thank the gods for that Lysan fellow. They had never met, but Daemon is certain he’d like the man well enough.

“Doesn’t concern you?” he asks, scarcely bothering to conceal the scepticism from his tone. At the confusion on Lannister’s face, he clarifies. “That she’d rather spend time with her tutor than with you?”

“Why would it, my Prince?” is the answer, self-assured as ever. “He is old, and frail. Best for her to spend as much time with him as she can before she leaves for Lannisport.”

That genuinely irritates him, and not simply the notion of you being shipped off to the lurid monstrosity that is Casterly Rock. Even he knows that your meetings with your tutor are less obligations and more gatherings of friendship—your spirit would surely crumble if you were denied your dearest companion after being coerced to marry.

Daemon suppresses a sneer. “Your confidence is… admirable.” If misplaced, he wants to add.

“There is little competition to be found,” Jason says with a toss of the head. His tawny hair rustles in the gentle breeze, giving him the appearance of the sigil his House has claimed. Fucking ridiculous. Then, the man has the audacity to clap a palm against his arm. “Never fear—I shall take utmost care of her. She’ll want for nothing as my lady wife.”

He shrugs off the over-familiarity, stepping out of reach. “For a time, perhaps. And in a decade? Two? A Princess of the Realm has no business playing nursemaid to her husband in his dotage.”

He is older than I, he thinks. And if she is truly considering him above the others, then…

“I might be the eldest of her suitors, yes,” the man says, a tense smile disguising his offense poorly. “But I have a rather substantial inheritance, unlike the Prince Aegon; and my constitution is more… pleasing than the Lord Tyrell, I’m sure.” His mouth curves into a knowing smirk at that, leaving Daemon with no uncertainty as to what he really means. That little—“I would not dismiss Jason Lannister from the competition just yet. She will choose me; I suggest you accustom yourself to reality, Prince Daemon.”

He grunts dismissively, incensed. There is no reply he can give in this moment that won’t incite the Lannisters to break faith with House Targaryen; and so, he chooses to remove himself from the odious man’s presence entirely, stalking past with nary a word of farewell.

You sit where your younger half-sister had a scarce moon’s turn ago, eyes fixed toward your lap, turning an ornament about with your small fingers. As he nears, the lion salient glimmers in the sun, gold against gold in dazzling vulgarity. Of course, he’d gifted her something with his own fucking sigil on it. What a worthless bequest.

When he calls your name, you hardly react. Your gaze flickers up to him for a mere moment before falling once more, resuming your surveyance of the item in your grasp. There is a pensive expression lingering in your frown, the crease in your brow. It tells him all he needs to know of your true feelings for the Lannister lord, regardless of the man’s own delusions.

“Why—you look positively miserable, sweetling,” he says, settling himself beside you. You glance up at him again, sullen pout puffing out your lower lip. Though your disposition is so downtrodden, it is tempting to press his thumb to that lip, to push inside and feel the wet warmth of your tongue pulse against his flesh in a coquettish tease. “Not enjoying being courted? The gifts, the attention, the romance…”

You take the bait beautifully. Starting at his reference to the pendant in your hold, your nostrils flare exasperatedly. “No. No. I—I just—” You stop, shaking your head. “Never mind.”

“Go on,” he cajoles gently, lowly. “Tell Uncle Daemon.”

It is all the encouragement you need. “There is little romance to be found in this—this charade.” You sigh, eyes fixed on some minute detail past his head. He’s struck by the melancholy in your voice. “These men—Lord Jason, Lord Denys, Aegon—they do not want me. They want an idea of me; a Targaryen bride with pale hair and Valyrian blood. One who will give them children they shall make little effort to raise, a silent doll to clasp onto and show off at feasts and balls… as though possessing me is somehow meaningful. They do not—they do not see me.”

It’s here your voice cuts off strangely. He wishes it hadn’t, for he finds himself enthralled by the mournful monologue that paints a picture of the loneliest girl in King’s Landing. There is something yearning and haunted in that saccharine stare of hers, he thinks. A babe with her arms held out, wailing at the world as it leaves her abandoned in the crib. It’s an eerie echo of a conversation that took place a decade prior, though the lead role lacks the infantile petulance of the previous star.

He finds himself retracing those steps almost without realising.

“Idīnnon dēmalio syt verdilla mērī issa. Dīnakson toliot, gaoso gaomagon kostas.” He is testing, prodding, waiting for what might result from his efforts. Marriage is only a political arrangement. Once you are wed, you can do as you like.

The words make your cheeks flush fetchingly and your brow wrinkle once more, glancing back at him apprehensively. Pretty pink girl with a pretty pink blush; how far down does it spread? You swallow; pause; look away, wrestling with a thought. You peep back up at him.

“Se skorverdon jessivo aōt kesrȳsi jiōrtas?” you ask with surprising cynicism. You exhale loudly, staring at some fixed point in the distance. “Ābrazȳri buttā, riñar daor, mērpāves… Tolī jaelan.”

And how much joy did this bring you? you say. A wife you hated, no children, loneliness… I want more. The quiet longing in your voice is palpable.

He grimaces at the mention of his bronze bitch—he’d rather not know how widespread the knowledge of the circumstances around her… accident… had been in the wake of his departure.

“What is it you want, then?” he asks, switching back to the Common Tongue, the corner of his mouth already contorting in anticipation of the naïve response. True love, a happily ever after… We don’t get to have happy endings, he thinks to himself.

“I want someone who loves me,” you say, pressing on crossly at the huff of laughter that escapes him. “I never said I would love him!”

The pessimistic elucidation takes him aback. Again, it is not exactly what he had been expecting. Full of surprises today. He tips his head consideringly at you, inviting you to continue.

You hesitate for a moment.

“I… They say my father loved my mother. I believe it, but—” You swallow, the corners of your mouth turning down as you mull over your words. “They say he had a choice when baby Baelon was born. That he could cut her open to get the babe out, but that it would mean her certain death.”

Gods above. Where in the Seven hells had you learned that piece of information? Viserys had kept the circumstances of Aemma’s death under tight wraps, never even deigning to mention it to his own brother. It was pure happenstance that one of the maids he enjoyed fucking at the time had been present on the unfortunate day.

Your eyes glisten as you speak, limpid pools of lilac glowing like fire in the light. “I do not think I could ever choose my own life over my child’s—but they say he did not even ask her, that he just… held her down while they—How could I ever trust a man to raise the babe I bore him if he would be willing to butcher his own wife in her childbed?”

He watches as you clench your eyes tight, set your jaw and exhale a few shuddery breaths. When they blink open, they are no longer so tear-bright. Daemon suddenly admires you for it, for the way you so ruthlessly suppress weakness. He wonders how often you’ve been made to force back your own pain for the good of your family.

“What happened to your mother was a terrible tragedy, sweetling.” He reaches forward to finally grip your small, pale hand in his. It is cold and dwarfed entirely in his own. “But you cannot live in fear forever.”

You make to pull your hand away. He closes his grip tighter upon it, coercing you to look up at him properly.

“When hope is gone, what choice left is there but fear?” It is a whisper, carried on the breeze, and the thinly veiled misery pains him in the chest.

I thought that beating thing was black and dead by now, he thinks to himself.

You shake your head, smile. The picture of the melancholy maiden fades from view as you affect an appearance of energy once more, gentle and muted as it is. “I know my father loved my mother, and so love is no guarantee of loyalty; but it would be helpful, I think.”

“You see love and loyalty as intertwined, then?” he cannot help but to ask. He is intrigued by this rare showing of spirit, of vitality, a resurrection of his baby niece from long ago. It is you, finally; his little girl, only now you possess the curves of a gold-gilded whore and the thousand-year gaze of an ancient, arcane being.

“Do you not?” Your head is tilted like an inquisitive bird’s, artlessly assessing. “You cannot have one without the other. Loyalty without love makes for an easy traitor, and love without loyalty makes for an unhappy marriage.”

He laughs again at the latter part of your pronouncement. A sweet, trusting little filly waiting to be broken in.

“There are many ways to love someone, Princess.” He ogles you shamelessly, savouring the affectation of outraged bewilderment painting your countenance. “I imagine you’ll find few of them in the marriage bed.”

He waits for you to question him—to ask him what he means, to ask him to explain, to teach you, show you—but instead, you pull back, taking all the warmth from his palm with you.

“I dislike your implication, Uncle,” you say stiffly, returning your hand to your lap and nestling it between your thighs to retain the heat.

Fuck.

He backtracks raising his hands in a jesting show of defeat. “I meant nothing by it, gevivys.”

Beauty. It is an apt title. an underwhelming one, even. Surely there is little else more beautiful than the sight you make here, now, a rich blush spreading along the unblemished expanse of your chest—regrettably enclosed by pale damask just above the protrusion of your tits—the planes of your throat, not quite travelling up to decorate your cheeks.

You sigh. “You never do.”

Daemon lets the conversation lull, deciding to instead look upon the little revelation before him. You are an interesting puzzle, one whose decorum in the face of his gentle compulsion—that same persuasion he had so often utilised to get fetching girls to strip bare for him and show off their equally-as-fetching cunts—had instead left him lacking. The body of a slut and the mind of a scholar, all wrapped up in wide eyes and honey-sweet words and wild hair the shade of Old Valyria. Of home.

A wild thought seizes him. If he leans forward, he could do it. He could grip you by the back of the neck and pull you to him, press his lips to yours and coax you past your panic and fear and into a hot, sweeping rhythm, a push and pull of tongue and teeth that would set you both alight. And from there, how simple would it be to murmur pretty praise as he lowers you down, raises your skirts up, cleaves you open until your blood wets his cock with the proof of his claim, incontestable, not even by the King himself? The deed would be messy, perhaps distressing and no doubt painful, but it would solve several issues at once. He would be free to do as he likes with his lascivious desires after you are made to wed him, and you would be free from your pitiful suitors and given a husband worthy of you. In time, the hurt and shock and fright would fade, he knows it.

He could. He could. He—

The spell is broken. Your attention is diverted by the squeals of a dark-haired boy as he bowls his way to you, throwing himself across your lap with a cry of your name. Daemon tries not to glare at young Lucerys as he tries to roughhouse with you. Having somewhat learned the schedules of his family, it baffles him somewhat that the child is not at his daily lessons. Should Laenor not have him now?

The thought must conjure the man himself, the Velaryon scion appearing seemingly out of nowhere. Laenor’s expression is forbidding as he strides over to you and his son, silver locs swinging with the velocity of each step. With his glare affixed to his face, he reaches a hand down to you in silent command, staring daggers at Daemon all the while.

What the hells is his problem?

You take hold of your goodbrother, bewildered, and allow him to tug you gently from the bench beside Daemon. Lucerys slides from beside you with a rustle, easily revolving around to dart toward the grass. You are already grabbing at the boy’s hand to stop him running off.

Daemon watches Laenor attempt to rearrange his countenance into something less violent. “Would you take Luke off to the training yards, sister?”

A look of vague incomprehension cross your face at the question.

At least she senses the oddity, too, he acknowledges.

Laenor’s head turns down to where he sits, and it is then that it dawns on him that his nephew-by-marriage had very possibly been watching him stare at his baby niece’s tits for longer than he could claim plausible deniability of.

Ah, shit. The darting, mistrustful gaze suddenly makes sense.

“Of course, Laenor,” you say sweetly, biddably.

Daemon cannot help but wonder what else you might comply with if gently persuaded. He glances up at you from where he sits, smirking playfully as you turn to him.

“It seems we must part for now, sweetling,” he tells you. He ignores Laenor’s grimace from behind you.

“It does.” You shift lightly. It is clear to see that there is something about your shared conversation that has unnerved you. The notion sends a trail of perverse excitement through him. He wonders what other reactions he might prompt out of you with gentle teasing. “I—thank you, Uncle. For listening.”

The words are honest, free of artifice. It is surprisingly warming to hear. When you make to depart, he calls you back.

“What—no goodbye kiss for your beloved uncle this time?” he asks, hoping he’ll bait you into action. He determinedly disregards Laenor’s huff, eyes trained on you as you swallow with trepidation before quickly making the short few steps back to him.

Your knee settles on the seat beside him, clearly meant to be no more than a brief resting place so that you may carry out his implicit request and leave—if not for the way in which your skirts gather around your leg in a manner assured to result in your toppling over should you attempt to rise without fixing them. Daemon turns his head to yours as you free yourself from the tangle. Up close, closer than he would ever dare get usually, he can see each lash that frames your eyes, the hairs that sprout from your brows, the slick cherry bloom of your mouth—a whisper-sweet gather of plump, plush fruit he wants, needs, to take a bite from.

Would you let me, little girl? he wonders.

You gasp, a short little breath of surprise, and lurch away lightly at the closeness. A brave little thing, you return to him, pressing those precious petal-soft lips to the skin of his cheek. Your covered breasts press involuntarily against his arm.

Fucking hells.

“Sȳz bantis, kepus.” Good evening, Uncle, you say in that light little accent of yours, an unintended provocation of his basest yearnings.

With that, you bundle the boy up in your capable little hands and make for your destination, the Cargyll knight falling into formation behind you.

“Care to explain—well, all of that?” Laenor asks.

Oh—yes. Daemon pushes himself from his seat, deliberately stalling while he thinks of a response that isn’t what the fuck how the fuck when the fuck and why.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he says idly, slyly, glancing over at him.

“No!” His goodnephew leans forward into his space. He is taken aback by the vehemence in his tone, uncharacteristic of the bumbling, affable man. “You don’t get to do this to her; not this one, not this time.”

“Whatever do you think I plan to do to her?” Daemon laughs, wondering at the answer himself.

Whatever would she let me do to her?

Laenor sighs, steps back. “Look.” He lightly nudges him to walk alongside him as they make for the garden’s entry. “She’s not one of your whores, Daemon. She’s just a girl. She’s not the type to play your twisted little games, so leave her be—please.”

He is warmed by the defence of your goodbrother, an admission of familiarity and care that is sure to have flourished since the man’s entrance into the family some years ago.

“What makes you think I have any intention of—how did you put it—playing games with her?” If he were a little less honest with himself, he would be affronted by the manner in which Laenor had jumped straight to an accusation. But Lord Flea Bottom’s reputation is inescapable, even after so many years. “Perhaps my objective is pure and wholesome.”

“Right.” Laenor snorts, shaking his head as he folds his hands behind his back. “You’re far more likely to fall in with her horde of suitors than to believably claim familial interest.”

True. And yet… why not? He’s conceived all manner of plots to satiate his wants, from drunken fumbles in the dark to his half-baked impulse from but a moment ago. Unlike his previous conquests, though, he doubts the need will dissipate after a single fuck. You are too important to him—his precious girl turned darkest desire, the only woman he could ever deign to carry on his line with.

Viserys has been pressuring him to seek out a bride. He mightn’t be happy with the prospect of his brother asking for his daughter’s hand, exactly, but there is surely no debate that he is the best contender. Not Jason. Not Denys. Not fucking Aegon. Daemon. And, well, if the asking should go poorly—how simple would it be to whisk you away to Dragonstone, to speak the vows and seal the deed before it can be undone? There is no risk this time, no Iron Throne to lose, no treaty or agreement that cannot be broken…

He can see it now. Your sweet little face peering up at him, marked with his blood, lip dripping red with the pledge of entangling your souls together in savage Valyrian custom. Your pretty little eyes wide with maidenly shock as he breaches your untried cunt, tight and pulsing and hotwetwarm, binding you to him irrevocably. The slow waddling of your gait as you round with child, his child, his sweetest babe bringing forth life of her own, belly ripe with seed and leaking his spend—

“Laenor,” he says slowly, eyes glinting as his lips upturn in a wide grin, “I do believe you have the best ideas.”

Read the story on AO3 here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/42100623/chapters/120880855

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carolperkinsexgirlfriend · 7 days

Text

Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 116

Part 1 Part 115

Steve’s counting the days until winter break. Something’s settled within him, now that things have been hashed out with Eddie, and he’s ditched his car and old house key. He wants to go home. But there’s a good week left of pretending to still care about schoolwork along with the rest of the seniors.

High school, as always, is a powder keg Steve can’t wait to get out of – all it takes is a single lit match and the whole barrel’s going up in flames, taking all nearby bystanders down with it. Steve’s never been good at keeping his distance.

Carol and Tommy used to be his crutches. They both know how to look out for the striking of the match, when to step back, and when to blow it out. They’d circle him like feral wolves protecting their fresh kill.

Steve’s always been good at reading people’s moods, but never the room. And now that Carol’s on the fringes of the in-crowd, and Steve’s drop-kicked himself out entirely, all they’ve got left is Tommy, and he’s more likely to be holding the match.

Steve’s dressed down for gym for the first time in weeks, his doctor’s note apparently the only stay of execution he’d receive. He’s excited, is the thing. He’s not even particularly bothered by the looks the other guys are throwing him in the locker room, knows there are scars now that there weren’t the last time he was in here: most notably shiny pink burns speckled across his back.

It doesn’t matter. He wants to move.

Hargrove snorts. “I knew you were into some kinky shit, Harrington,” he drawls from across the locker room. “But this is sick, even for you.”

Steve pulls his shirt down and slips his shoes on without untying them, ready to get out of there. It doesn’t stop Hargrove from calling after him.

“Is that what you let those freaks do when you were all tied up?”

Steve doesn’t mean to turn back, but he does, confusion taking over his higher brain functions. Hargrove’s smirking, a few of his cronies hanging on to his every word and laughing right along with him.

Hagan’s not laughing. His fists are bunched and he’s glaring at Steve, but Steve still knows him. Tommy has never been an angry guy. The anger’s always been a veneer, spread thin, to cover up something else. His hands are shaking right now, like he’s not sure whether to punch Steve or hug him. He’s sucking on his bottom lip like he wishes it was Steve’s.

Steve turns his back to him, and hears his laugh, a smack of skin. He doesn’t look back.

There will probably always be a Steve that lives inside of him that misses Tommy Hagan. The same Steve that remembers being small in the backseat of his parent’s car and just wants the idea of them back. But, that’s the Steve of years ago from a simpler, shallower time. The Steve of now has people who love him enough to stay when things get hard.

Would Tommy ever have opened his home to Steve when he got kicked out? Would Tommy have ever walked through hell to get him back?

Soccer’s not a high-contact sport, but Hargrove sure does his best to make it one.

Basketball skills don’t translate well to it, but there’s a certain level of athleticism that makes most hand-to-eye coordination tenible. None of which explains the way Hargrove’s foot keeps slipping when he tries to kick the ball and bashing into Steve’s shins.

None of which explains the way his shoulder checks Steve’s with enough force to send him sprawling. Twice.

And he keeps saying shit.

“I get why you’d let those two redheads fuck with you,” Hargrove calls, looking up and down Steve’s own body like he’s trying to picture something tawdry. “Hell, Carol’s a tight piece of ass.”

He grins smamirly over at Hagan, either not noticing or simply not caring that Hagan’s face has dropped all its forced joviality.

“But those kids? My sister?” he continues, still grinning like it’s funny. “What are you, some sort of pedophile?”

“I don’t know your sister, man,” Steve calls, disgust twisting in his stomach, knotting his intestines up in creative bows.

Steve kick, kick, passes the ball around Hargrove’s weak defense, hoping Hargrove will follow the ball. He doesn’t.

“Even worse, you let Munson in on that action?” he taunts, staring Steve down.

Steve looks past him, watching his temporary teammate score an easy goal against a goalie who’s clearly never played a sport in his life. He doesn’t know what Hargrove’s on about, but engaging with vipers never leads anywhere good.

It doesn’t stop him from spewing more poison. “I always knew you were a freak.” He says it like he’d rather fling a different word that starts with the letter F.

The teacher blows his whistle at them, shouting complaints about lazing about and lollygagging, so they’re all three forced to run to the other side of the field and catch up with the rest of the game. That doesn’t stop Hargrove from running his mouth.

“Hell, I heard all sorts of rumors about the three of you, back when you were the king. Carol, Tommy, and Steve, the inseparable trio.” Even through all the monologuing, he doesn’t even have the decency to be out of breath.

Steve’s lived a far more sedentary life this past year, and he’s panting now, forehead tacky with sweat. But, there’s a certain level of athleticism it takes years to lose, so he still keeps up.

“I know Carol was Tommy’s girl,” Hargrove continues, lunging around Steve to stop the ball, kicking it from foot to foot with coordinated ease. “But I heard you were taking it just as much as she was.”

Hargrove feints left, right, scores a goal, running backward to get back on defense without turning his grinning face away from Steve’s.

“Who would've thought King Steve was a fa–”

Tommy Hagan’s fist interrupts Hargrove’s little speech. It connects with a meaty thwack! with Hargrove’s jaw, hard enough to make his teeth clack together.

So: powder keg, lit match, ka-boom!

“What the fuck were you just going to call me?” Hagan snarls.

He swings again until Hargrove rolls them over and starts swinging back. Steve stares, stunned as the teacher blows his whistle and starts running.

He can almost hear Eddie’s soapbox rant. Something about testosterone, and projection, and the homoeroticism of high school sportsball.

Both boys are bloody and seething by the time they’re pulled apart and escorted to the principal’s office.

He intercepts Carol at Barbara’s car after school to tell her what happened, unsurprised when she just laughs.

“Serves him right,” she says grinning and peering into the parking lot like she might catch sight of his bloodied face.

“Should we do something about the rumors?” he asks, whispering the last word like if someone hears it, they’ll immediately spew homophobic slurs in both of their directions.

Carol just waves her hand dismissively. “Nah, that’ll just fan the flames.” She wraps her hand around his waist and squeezes, fingers tucked proprietarily beneath his t-shirt. “Go home and this’ll all blow over by next week.”

He tells Eddie what happened on the way home.

Eddie cackles. “Of course it would happen in gym,” he says, grinning as he runs a vacant stop sign without even a rolling stop. “All that testosterone running through their bodies until they’ve just got to touch each other.”

Steve settles in to listen to his rant, delighted when he guessed most of the beats Eddie would hit just right.

He should be surprised when Hargrove and Hagan are sitting next to each other at lunch the next day, laughing and shit-talking as if the whole school isn’t still atwitter about their all-out brawl the day before.

He should be, but he’s not. Tommy and Carol have always been good at playing the game, and it looks like Tommy’s determined to stay on the board.

Steve and Carol trade a commiserating lunch, and go back to their respective conversations. Tommy’s been given chance after chance to make a different choice, but he never does. Steve’s not about to light his own match for an old friend who’d never burn right along with him.

Steve counts down the days until he can go home, and stay there with Eddie, for weeks on end. Four, three, two, one.

Home.

Part 117

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #my fic #steddie upsidedown au #I lied. editing this in the airport lol #Steve is once again having Tommy feelings. I just think this is one of those things that will always linger for him.#They were friends for too long for it not to!

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barbsgirlfriend · 5 months

Text

Velvet & Veneer headcanons

Genre: Headcanons

Fandom: Trolls

Warnings: none!

Pairing: a little bit of Veneer x Kid Ritz

⭑

Veneer 🌟

Bro is a bitch 😭

Veneer is mean just like Velvet but in a more sophisticated way. She’s straight up mean and he’s more of the fake mean. He’ll pretend to like you then talk shit about you behind your back.

BOY KISSER!! GAY?! LIKES MEN??

Veneer is bisexual but has a preference for guys. He also might have a crush on the Bop on Top interviewer. 🤭

He’s very sensitive

He’s a very emotional person. No matter what, his feelings control him. However, Veneer’s better at managing it than Velvet. Did someone just insult him? He’s pissed off. Did someone just hug him? He’s very happy.

Veneer can bust some moves bro 🤯

He isn’t really that much into singing. Veneer only agreed to become a pop star because his sister wanted to. Veneer is much more into dance. He took ballet and jazz dance classes when he was younger and loved dancing ever since.

He struggles with impostor syndrome

Now, Veneer is… okay at singing and dancing. He struggles with his self image when performing and is scared of disappointing Velvet.

Veneer has veneers 🤓☝️

He was doing something stupid with Velvet when he was younger and fell. He knocked some of his teeth out and damaged some others. So he had to get veneers and dental implants. He also has a small gap in his front teeth.

Fashionista who???

Veneer only wants to look good. He makes sure all his clothing is presentable and expensive. Veneer pretty much picks out the outfits he and his sister wear. He isn’t that good with hair and makeup though :(

Velvet 🌟

Nice when you get to know them friend

Most people think she’s a bitch (which she is) but she can be extremely caring for her close friends and family. Veneer prob says: “oh she’s actually nice you just gotta get to know her”

Lives on caffeine

Velvet CANNOT survive without some caffeine in her system. She likes to get espressos from Starbucks. She’ll sometimes drink Red Bulls, but only when she’s performing.

She’s one of the girls 😍

Velvet likes women. And that is that

Velvet’s on the spectrum

She was diagnosed with high functioning autism when she was like twelve. Velvet struggles with empathy and understanding other’s emotions. She’s also very mean as a way to protect herself.

Expert song writer

She might not be good at singing songs… but she’s excellent at writing them! Velvet wrote some songs that the other famous Mount Rageons sang.

Emotional af

It doesn’t take much to make her snap. Velvet gets teary eyed when she’s angry and yells. She also gives really bad silent treatment. The reason she ran away when the trolls were yelling about her kidnapping BroZone is because she runs away from her problems instead of facing them head on.

(Anyway, I hope you like my silly headcanons! I’ll try to make more soon)

#trolls #trolls 3 #band together #velvet and veneer #velvet trolls #trolls veneer #kid ritz #headcanon #trolls velvet and veneer #trolls band together #trolls headcanons

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makethatelevenrings · 1 year

Text

Broken Heaters // J. Todd x gn!reader

Requested? Yes!

Warnings: none!

Summary: The heater is broken in your apartment two days before Christmas...and a huge blizzard is about to hit Gotham. Your unlikely friendship with Red Hood pays off and your Christmas gift to him sweetens the deal.

Snowflakes drifted past your face as you made your way down the streets of the Bowery. Folks greeted you with small smiles and a wave as you passed, but no one stopped to chat. It was Christmas Eve Eve and everyone was hurrying to get home due to the weather report of an oncoming blizzard on Christmas Eve.

As a nurse at the Bowery clinic with Leslie Thompkins, you were well-known around the area. It was as if some kind of invisible protection ward surrounded you as you walked down the streets. For one thing, you had treated and helped a good portion of the gang members or their families in the area. Another reason was that, after finding him bleeding out in an alley and saving his life one night, the Red Hood ensured that everyone knew you had his protection.

“Merry Christmas, Mrs Donahue!” you called as you entered your apartment complex. You were instantly made aware of the lack of warmth seeping from the walls and you cursed under your breath, fishing your keys out of your bag as you climbed up to the third floor. Once you unlocked your door and pushed it open, your suspicions were confirmed.

The heating was broken.

“Fuck,” you muttered. You weren’t worried about yourself, you were worried about the other occupants of your complex. Fuckfuckfuck. Could you get them all a hotel this close to Christmas? You knew your shithead landlord wasn’t going to do anything, so that meant you needed to get working.

“Fucking hell, it’s cold,” a voice said from your bedroom. You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms in waiting as the familiar leather jacket and red helmet came into view. A fluffy Santa Hat sat on the already blazing red helmet and you pursed your lips at the sight of Hood’s attempt at holiday spirit.

“Are you hurt?” you asked.

“Pretty sure my balls sucked back into my body the second I walked in here, but no, I’m good.” He looked for any broken windows or another reason as to why it was freezing in here.

“Heater’s broken,” you explained. “Fuck. And that piece of shit fucking landlord won’t do anything to help.”

You turned in a circle, your eyes scanning the room as if the answer would be written on the walls. First, you needed to make sure that the elderly found a warm place to stay. Mrs. Tran was in Bludhaven to see her daughter for the holidays so that left Mrs. Donahue and Miss Macios. But then there was Liz on the fourth floor who had a toddler and a baby. Her husband was away for business and he had already called you asking to check up on his family while he tried to get an earlier flight back before the storm hit.

“Hey.” A steady hand landed on your forearm and you brought your gaze up to meet the familiar red helmet once more. “What can I do to help?”

Relief surged through your chest and your shoulders sagged in relief. Usually, the burden of caring for others rested solely on your shoulders. It was a task you loved and devoted yourself to, but you were exhausted from the constant worrying.

But here he was, standing before you, and offering himself to help. Ever since that night when you found him in the alley and stitched up his bullet wound, Red Hood had been a constant presence in your life. You appreciated his sharp wit, dry sense of humor, and under all of that tough veneer, the softest person alive rested under his armor.

“I don’t think you can help me with this,” you admitted quietly. “I need to find hotel rooms or somewhere warm for sixteen people. Unless you can pull a rabbit out of a hat for this one, I’m screwed.”

Hood pulled away from you and turned, lifting one finger as a way to let you know that he was doing something. You could hear him mutter something low and indecipherable and then he waited a moment before nodding and turning back to you.

“The Wayne Foundation has a warming center nearby that still has beds open. Free of charge. I also can send someone over today to fix your heater.”

“I-” Words failed you. In just a few seconds, he has pulled a rabbit out of the fucking proverbial hat. The man standing before you was highly dangerous and yet so very kind. He had millions of people to look after, but he was standing in your apartment and solving an issue way below his paygrade.

“I don’t know how I can thank you,” you murmured. Hood shrugged and shoved his gloved hands in the pockets of his leather jacket.

“No thanks necessary,” his modulated voice replied. “Need help telling your neighbors?”

Sure, because the look on Henry’s face who lived two doors over being greeted by the Bowery’s armed protector was enough to send you into hysterical laughter.

Once the two of you knocked on every door and left notes to those who didn’t reply with directions, you found yourself back in your ice cold apartment. You packed a duffle bag of your own to head to the local warming station when he joined you.

“Before I forget,” you said, dashing over to your closet. You reached up to the top shelf and pulled down a wrapped gift. Extending it to the hero, you waited until he grabbed it before focusing on packing once more. The soft sounds of paper tearing met your ears and then a startled gasp.

“Is it bad? I can exchange it at the store for credit. I just saw it and remembered you mentioned growing up and reading them, so I figured…”

In his hands was a boxed set of the Lord of the Rings books. The buttery soft covers seemed fragile in his large hands, but he touched them delicately, as if he would break them if he pressed any harder.

“It’s perfect,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

“Merry Christmas, Hood.” You hefted your duffle bag up on your shoulder. “Not to be rude, but I’m heading out so shoo.”

“Where are you going?”

You frowned. “Uh, the warming center, obviously?”

Hood shook his head and extended his free hand, the other cradling the books to his chest. “I have a safe house nearby that has heat. If you…if you want to join me.”

You considered his offer. Red Hood was no stranger to you. You had been handling late night meetings with him for eight months now. He had taken off the helmet a few times, letting you see his dark hair tinged with a shock of white and those full lips that always seemed pulled up in a smirk. The domino mask over his eyes concealed his identity, but you didn’t care much about who he was. Because you knew who he truly was, deep down, and that was a good man.

Someone who served the “lesser” population of the Bowery. Someone who saw the hurting in the world and wanted to fix it. Someone who brought you cookies from a local bakery the one time you were sad and brought you chicken soup when he came by and found you with a cold.

“Okay,” you breathed. You grasped his hand tightly and smiled. Little did you know that after being stuck together for the three days due to the blizzard, you would come to know Jason Todd.

tag list: @khaetiin @mcrmarvelloki @gone-batty-fics @someoneimsure @perpetual-fangirl900 @visagebrise @cursedandromedablack @alexxavicry @havingarebelliousstage @the-wayward-daughter @raging-trash-of-mind @kimm4710 @kat-nee @khaylin27

#jason todd x reader #jason todd imagine #red hood x reader #red hood imagine #red hood fluff #jason todd fluff

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genuine-wrestleboy · 9 months

Text

the attraction (1/2)

words: 5,031

(here on ao3)

It isn’t that you’re easy to scare, no matter what your friends say. So maybe heights make you nervous, and blood, and the concept of eternity, but none of that has ever stopped you. On the contrary, you like it. Love it, even—the adrenaline, the thrill, that tingle down your spine. Haunted hayrides and rollercoasters and horror films, anything that strips away the thin veneer of safety for long enough to get your heart really pumping. That’s why you’d accepted the invitation tonight, even though you don’t know the first thing about Freddy Fazbear’s, or the rumors your friends excitedly discuss on the drive over.

“Wait, there were, like, real, actual murders here?" you ask, peering out the windshield at the grungy-looking building. It's smaller than you'd expected, the neon sign above the doors flickering weakly.

“That’s what I’ve heard,” your friend tells you with gruesome excitement.

You frown a little. “That seems kind of tone deaf, doesn’t it?”

Another friend rolls their eyes. “There weren’t any real murders, it’s–ugh what's the word? Urban legend. Creepypasta shit.”

The final member of your group cuts the ignition. “If we see a photonegative Foxy I will fully shit my pants, just warning you guys now.”

Your friends laugh, and you turn back to the old pizzeria, something warm and familiar kindling in your chest. Anxious anticipation; the first sparks of fear.

It's a predictable pace from there. You made sure to get here as close to opening as you could, so the line's not too bad, but the tickets are steep.

"This better be terrifying," your friend groans.

"I better be able to fuck Freddy Fazbear himself," agrees another.

"Yeah? Is that gonna be before or after you shit yourself?"

A shrug. "Depends on what Freddy's into."

"Guys, the line's moving." You love your friends, but if you have to listen to another second of this there are going to be very real murders here tonight.

"Ooh, nice, you wanna go first or last?"

You give this question the consideration it deserves. Which kind of scared do you want to be? Do you want to face the horrors ahead and force yourself to push through them? Or do you want the eerie unknown of endless possibility at your open back? Either way is bound to get a scream out of you, which you know is mostly why your friends offer you the choice.

"Last, I think."

"Alright! Get thee behind me, scaredy!"

"Harr harr," you reply dryly.

Single file and giggling, you friends put their hands on one another’s shoulders and shuffle through the blacked-out doors. You follow suit, but the friend in front of you slaps your hand off their shoulder like a bug.

“You know you grab too hard,” they whisper harshly.

“Right, sorry.” You knot your hands into the front of your shirt instead.

It’s a bit like losing a sneeze, at first—tension building and building and then fizzling out into one long, empty corridor after another. Dim, streaky fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting strange shadows in the corners, but there’s not much else for them to work with besides the creepy crayon drawings tacked to the walls.

Then, slowly, other things start to appear: the rusted skeleton of an animatronic, strung together with wire like the bones of a museum dinosaur; a dark-stained purple vest and bowtie behind a pane of glass alongside a picture of a waving yellow rabbit suit; a skillful reproduction of a red animatronic head with a loose, toothy jaw that your friend tries to stick their hand into.

Somewhere near the shadowed ceiling, a speaker crackles to life.

“Please don’t touch the displays,” says a muffled, tired-sounding voice.

“Boo,” hisses your friend, retracting their hand. “It’s not like there’s anything else to do. This place is fucking boring.”

The rest of your friends mutter in irritated agreement. You pinch your mouth shut before you can say something you’ll regret. This hasn’t been what you’d expected, sure, and you’re not exactly scared, but you’re definitely interested. Maybe it’s just because you didn’t know anything about Fazbear’s before coming here, but you think if they just pivoted a little and turned up the lights this place could be really cool, part horror and part history.

Or they could've hired some actors or something, you suppose, but that's neither here nor there at this point.

The next hallway is entirely wallpapered with vintage advertisements and framed posters, faded photographs and glossy magazine pages and a huge full-blown painting of a goofy-looking bear with a top hat and gentle eyes.

"Mr. Fredbear, I presume." As you lean in to squint at it more closely, you notice a newspaper article pasted on the wall next to it, photocopied and blown up in size to make the letters legible even in this near-dark.

Kids Vanish At Local Pizzeria—Bodies Not Found

Ah, the creepypasta bullshit. Your eyes briefly scan the body of the article. There’s a surprising amount of detail, considering, you suspect, that not many people are expected to read it. A couple steps further along the wall, you spot another article, and you hold your phone up to it for a little extra reading light. You pause for a moment, in case the voice on the speaker has an objection, but if he does it’s apparently not big enough for him to mention it.

Five Children Now Reported Missing. Suspect Convicted.

“...where a man dressed as a company mascot lured them into a back room, eugh.” If they’re giving you backstory now, maybe this is where it starts to gear up, where the story comes in and the scares really start.

“Hey, guys, check this out.” They’ll like this, you think, gesturing them over. You hope so, anyway. “Guys?”

You look up to another long, empty corridor, and your heart drops into your stomach. Your friends are gone.

Shit, they’re going to be so annoyed if you get yourself left behind.

You abandon the articles reluctantly and follow the only path until you hit a bend in the hallway. To the left, there's a glass window, and then what looks from here like a dead end. To the right there’s a makeshift plywood door marked Cast Only, but the sign is in rough shape, and the door itself is hanging slightly ajar, like someone has just gone in.

Feeling a little dumb, you reach out and try a tentative knock. At least if it is actually an employee-only area there might be someone who can help point you in the direction of your friends.

From behind the door comes the sound of movement—heavy, halting footsteps, the beginnings of a cry. Then a sort of wet cracking sound, echoing silence. A thrill goes through you, and you feel suddenly perfectly clear, excitement honing you like a blade. That's terrifying. As you push open the door, you wonder if they only replay the track when someone is close enough to hear it or whether it's on a loop, whether you'd hear it all again if you stayed put and waited long enough.

You pass through into a cold, dank room that reeks of mildew. The only light comes from an abandoned industrial flashlight on the floor, the bright arc of its cracked bulb swaying ever so slightly side to side, as if it's only just been dropped. It makes the room into a funhouse mirror of itself, shadows stretching off in every direction like hungry searching fingers. It also makes it impossible to tell how big the room actually is, the opposite walls lost to darkness.

Fortunately, you’re no amateur, and you know the best way out of a labyrinth. The wall is distressingly sticky under your hand, but you keep your fingertips pressed steadily against it as you make your way forward. The humid air of the room is like wearing a damp sheet over your head, and your skin tingles with gooseflesh beneath it. Everything feels muffled, your own racing heartbeat the only thing your straining senses can detect.

The flashlight on the floor wobbles one more time and comes to a rest.

Your next step nearly takes your feet out from under you. Your shoe slips on the floor, the surface suddenly slick, and you barely manage to catch yourself on the wall before you go down. You let out a little involuntary yelp of surprise; it sounds like a gunshot in the otherwise silent space. Clapping a hand over your mouth, you stare out into the darkness, still as a startled rabbit. Nothing stirs, but you could swear you feel the weight of someone else’s gaze.

You pause, scarcely breathing, to give your eyes time to adjust, and slowly the floor separates into grimy checked tile and a spreading pool of thick, dark liquid. A little further down, you can just make out the limp shape of a figure slumped in the corner. Curiosity draws you closer, and you pick your way carefully around the blood, leaving shoe-shaped smears around the edge as you go. That has to be a safety hazard, right? It’s amazing that no one has fallen and gotten hurt yet—or sued Fazbear’s Fright, more likely. Maybe they have really good lawyers.

The figure in the corner seems to be a young man, blonde and ponytailed, wearing what looks like a security guard’s uniform. You brace yourself for a jumpscare as you approach.

Then you see the angle his neck is at. His back is propped against the wall, but his flat, lifeless eyes stare straight up at the ceiling, mouth hanging slack. There’s a faint trace of blood on his teeth, and a great deal more where a considerable section of his shoulder has been torn away completely. It’s an incredible piece of work, but—honestly it’s edging on a little too realistic. A deep, nauseous discomfort settles thick in the back of your throat, and you step backwards, away from the wall and the corpse, and straight into something else.

You turn, hands raised, and look up and up into the grim, grinning face of an animatronic rabbit.

"Hello!" Adrenaline spikes through you, the one-two punch of terror and delight. It’s always made you a little prone to blurting.

The rabbit stills, one broken ear flopping as the sculpted head tilts slowly to the side. You do your best not to touch the actor as you duck around him and flee in the opposite direction, away from the door you entered through.

After a moment, you hear him follow, the same slow, metallic footfalls that had enticed you in here to begin with. You feel yourself grin so hard that it hurts; this place is fucking good.

The beam of the flashlight clings by its nails to a bank of bulky steel lockers near the center of the room, and it’s these that you aim for. They give off a bluish light of their own, maybe not lockers, after all, but some sort of machinery with faintly glowing panels on their pitted faces. You follow the line of them until there’s enough room to go around, and though there are glowing panels on this side, too, the light from the flashlight is all but blocked. You have about two feet of dimly-illuminated floor before the room descends again into utter blackness. Behind you, the hiss and click of struggling hydraulics tells you that the actor in the animatronic suit is closing in fast.

Okay, deep breath. What’s your next move? Fight and flight tangle in your chest, knotting themselves together as effectively as a noose.

“Run, rabbit, run, rabbit, run, run, run."

You freeze. Horror slithers down your spine and coils cold in the pit of your stomach. How can he do that with his voice? It sounds…shredded, like the throat that produced it barely remembers what it is. Your own throat activates automatically in sympathy.

But he’s singing. You can’t tell what direction it’s coming from, but you can tell that it’s getting closer.

“Run, rabbit, run, rabbit, run, run, run.”

Two knocks, trailed playfully along the barrier behind you. Then one deafening bang. You jump, the spell broken, all but throwing yourself into motion.

A mitted hand snaps shut around your wrist and yanks you back. Before you can even process what's happening, your back hits metal with enough force to knock the breath clean from your lungs. The rabbit animatronic leers down at you, both long arms caging you solidly in place. Washed in blue, the finer details of his face are lost, but you recognize enough to connect him to the drawings on so many of the posters in the lobby.

“Hello,” says the Springtrap. The smell that rolls out of his mask when he speaks is a bit of a demented touch.

"Oh wow," you breathe. “I didn’t know you guys were allowed to touch us.”

Springtrap makes a gravelly, gargling sound that you realize belatedly is laughter. He leans in, leans down, looming ghoulishly as he stares you down with unblinking interest. His eyes reflect the cold blue light like polished silver, half-hidden by the suit’s heavy lids. You meet his gaze and feel suddenly strangely exposed, like you might as well be standing here in nothing but your socks. Your heart races in your chest, and, humiliatingly, another, lower part of you starts to respond, too.

Lifting one huge paw, the actor in the Springtrap suit runs the pad of his thumb down the side of your neck, and a gasp drops from your lips. The texture of his fur is like greasy velvet rubbed the wrong way, waxy and matted, and you feel the bite of metal as he hooks the digit into your shirt collar and drags it aside. Your skin tingles in the wake of his ungentle touch.

“Can you feel that?" The question bursts out of you like nervous laughter. “I mean, those gloves, do you, are they easy to use? I’m not—I don’t want to seem like one of those assholes who think they’re too good to be scared, I’m honestly terrified, you’re just—” don’t say hot, don’t say hot “—gorgeous.”

Oh god, that is so much worse.

“Gorgeous,” he repeats, and you could swear he sounds amused.

A blush tears its way across your face. “Wait, no, I meant—I mean, I did mean it, I just, mostly I meant that whoever made that suit must be, like, incredible, it looks amazing, I—I am so sorry, I babble when I’m scared. Usually not this much though."

You hear that broken laughter again, and Springtrap reaches and spreads the broad length of his hand along your windpipe. He doesn't press down, but he doesn't have to; one sharp fingertip traces the underside of your jaw, and your breath stutters and catches hard.

"And what if I told you," he says, "that I made this suit?" There’s a grin in there somewhere—you can hear it, even if you can’t see it. There’s also, you think, the hint of an accent, something round hidden in the harsh rasp of his consonants.

"Did you?" you ask dumbly.

"I did," he confirms.

"Well you totally killed it. It’s—it must’ve been a real labor of love." Jesus, what has your life come to? You're making first-date small-talk with a haunt actor who has his hand around your throat and you're barely resisting the urge to grind against the seam of your jeans.

"It was." His grip tightens, and you do your best not to go completely boneless against him. You can hear how breathless you are when you speak, but it feels sort of fuzzy and far away.

"It's cool that you get to wear it, too, then. Instead of just, like, watching someone else do it."

Springtrap stills. "That I get to wear it," he says. His voice rests on a precarious note between wistful and annoyed.

A beat of silence, snapping-tense. He stares at you, thoughtful in a way that doesn’t feel like he’s contemplating your words so much as he’s contemplating you. When he turns your face towards the wall, you let him, swallowing hard against his palm. Hot, foul air stirs your hair as he nuzzles along the juncture of your jaw, your pulse fluttering madly at his fingertips.

“Funny, frightened thing." There's something almost wondering in his voice, almost soft. "What am I to do with you?”

You honest-to-god whimper at that, a thoroughly telling sound you don't quite manage to stifle.

Springtrap chuckles, rumbling and low. “You seem like you have ideas.”

This might be the most embarrassed you have ever been in your life. Unfortunately, the same could probably be said for how turned on you are.

“Are they, uh, bad ideas?” you ask.

A single trailing finger scrapes itself down your throat, your chest, and the topmost button on your shirt pops free and clatters away.

“There's a very good way to find out.”

The thing is, you don’t need him to tell you that it's a bad idea, it is an objectively bad idea. He’s a stranger, and you’re in public, and there are—oh god, oh no no. The voice on the speakers, don’t touch the displays, and it’s not that you think Springtrap counts as a display, per se, but.

“Don't they—aren’t there cameras?”

Something about the question seems to strike him as funny. He tilts his head, and you can see the flash of a leer behind his teeth. Another button snaps off with a snk.

“Not in here.”

"Oh," you say.

"Oh," he confirms smugly.

With a flourish, Springtrap claims a third button, putting your shirt officially past the point of damage that is going to require explaining to your friends later. That, and the red, raised line bisecting your chest, a stinging arrow that leads directly to where his finger pauses with intent between your tits. A low rumble rattles through his chest, the shredded suit honing the harmonics into something snarling and inhuman.

God, you are so fucking wet.

"Fuck," you breathe. You catch yourself pushing your chest forward, tempting his touch like some horny, preening bird. His hand returns to your throat, steady, merciless pressure until your vision starts to soften at the edges.

"Language," teases Springtrap idly.

"Yes, sir,” you laugh wheezily. You can't help it; maybe it's the oxygen deprivation.

The sound melts on your tongue as he takes your breast in one huge paw, kneading the sensitive flesh experimentally. Heat thrums between your legs, and he hums, pleased, at the needy little noises it draws out of you instead. Despite the hand on your throat, he touches you with this strange, unexpected tenderness, like he hasn’t touched anyone else in a long time. Hesitant. Hungry.

“How refreshing to find someone who knows their place,” he murmurs softly, and, god, that does something terrible to you. You gasp as his thumb brushes roughly over your nipple, once and then again, panting into the stale air as you cant your hips unthinkingly in his direction. He chuckles, rubbing soothing circles against your rabbiting pulse point. “As I thought. You’re just a slut, aren’t you?”

“Hn–!” It hits you like a shock, white heat touching every nerve in your body. Your pussy aches for attention, throbbing and slick and so sensitive you’re pretty sure you could come with a single touch.

“Hm?” prompts Springtrap blithely.

You swallow a moan. “Yes, sir.”

"Good," he says approvingly. His voice is rough as he leans in, "And good little sluts who know their place deserve a reward, wouldn't you agree?"

"Holy shit." If you were any more coherent you'd shove his hand down your pants yourself. "Yes, please, yes, yes, sir."

Mercifully, whatever playful objections Springtrap might have to your language this time don't stop him from obliging. He makes quick work of the rest of your shirt, the remaining buttons sliced apart like butter. The skin beneath them feels burning hot.

This is such a bad idea, what are you doing, are you insane? Are you stupid? Springtrap dips a teasing touch low along your stomach, and you have your jeans undone and around your thighs before your brain even has time to process the thought. He laughs, hooking a claw under the waistband of your panties.

“Greedy,” he says fondly.

“God,” you gasp. Your face flushes with heat, but it’s impossible to distinguish from the heat taking you apart everywhere else.

Springtrap growls and tears your panties open with an effortless twist of his wrist. “Close enough.”

The first hint of pressure on your clit almost makes you howl. You bite down on the heel of your hand, your head hitting the metal behind you with a hollow thunk. Springtrap rubs you in slow, steady circles, watching you raptly with his bright, pale eyes. Pleasure builds fast—you’re already so worked up, it won’t take much to send you over the edge at this rate. His finger eases back towards your eager hole, and you buck your hips forward, a cry falling from your helpless lips.

He presses his fingertip to your entrance. "That's right," he coos sweetly, "Show me how badly you want it."

You know some of those fingers are sharp, you have plenty of evidence on your skin to attest to that fact. It should matter more, probably, but then again a lot of things should probably matter more to you than they do. Right now all you can bring yourself to care about is the slow, ready stretch as you lower yourself onto him, glorious fullness that feels like you've been waiting for it your entire life.

Springtrap allows the movement, following without ever fully removing his grip from your throat. Between his hands, your breath tears into desperate shreds, tight, shallow inhales that leave you dizzy and loose. You roll your hips, pleasure bleeding lazily through you, and it's so good you could sob.

"What a shameless display." His voice wants to be light, but there's a red thread of hunger in it that he can't quite hide. "You'd let anyone have you like this, wouldn't you?"

You keen high in your throat and shake your head, too overwhelmed to form proper words.

"No?" he asks. His thumb grazes your clit, and your whole body jerks at the wave of heat that rolls through you. "You expect me to believe that, with how easily you spread your legs for me?"

You think, giddily, that you might never spread your legs for anybody else again. Springtrap hooks his finger, pressing against a spot that makes you see stars. A moan rises and spills, liquid and sweet, from your tongue, and honestly there’s a chance that you’re maybe also drooling a little, too. He laughs, curves himself to speak directly into your ear.

“Or, let me guess,” he says conversationally, “—is it because I’m gorgeous?”

He punctuates the final word by thrusting another finger into your pussy, and you cling to his arm reflexively as your trembling legs threaten to give out beneath you.

“Ohhh, god, yes.” You’re wet enough that the pain is only an echo, pleasure the screaming constant. He feels huge inside you, like something you’ll never properly recover from, something you’ll need forever. He ghosts brief bursts of pressure against your clit, knowing and cruel, his breath ragged as you fuck yourself raw on his fingers.

“Needy thing, I can feel how close you are, shall I let you come?”

“Please,” you gasp, “please, yes, please let me come.” Everything is swimmy and tingly and sweet, your world reduced to the tight coil of heat in your core and the places where Springtrap touches you.

Sharp fingertips dig into your neck. “Watch your manners, slut.”

Fuck. “Yes, sir, please, sir.” You feel like a match just struck, stuck suspended in the moment before consuming ignition.

Springtrap growls, angling his wrist to slam a thrust home to meet your desperately rocking hips. “Good. You’re so good for me.”

Anything, you think senselessly, you could do anything if it meant he’d tell you that you’re good, and you would, you want to, you—

“Go ahead, come for me, darling,” he hisses, and you clamp your thighs shut around his hand and obey.

Climax consumes you, blissful combustion at last, wrings a hoarse shout from your abused throat and whites out every other sensation in its blazing wake. Springtrap waits patiently as you ride it through, his touch gentling, leaving a litany of little nonsense niceties against your skin as your senses return to you. His fingers slip out of you, soreness already blooming. But bright, giddy joy seeps in to fill your chest, and you laugh, feeling it reverberate against his palm.

“Would it be weird if I asked to give you my number?”

He pets your hip idly, chuckling warmly into the crook of your shoulder, and for a moment you think maybe you’re on the verge of the world’s best and most inexplicable meetcute.

Then you hear the door on the other side of the room creak open. Reality takes you by the shoulders and shakes, and you’d jump back if you had anywhere to go. Springtrap stills, head tilted, listening with an obvious tense recognition. A voice—familiar, the same voice from the speaker, muffled and tired, only now it’s obvious that he’s in the room, and he’s—

He’s calling your name.

“Are you in here?”

You look to Springtrap but he’s just…gone. Without so much as a goodbye, all six foot huge of him, silent as a ghost into the darkness. All the warmth in your body floods away–and you get it, sort of, at least you try to, but mostly now you’re left standing here feeling stupid and—oh fuck. You scramble to get yourself sorted, yanking up your jeans over a cold, uncomfortable wetness and clutching the ruined edges of your shirt together. You turn just in time to see the edges of a light bob across the floor.

“Shit. Shit." He calls your name again, this time noticeably more frantic.

"I'm here!" Your voice is a dry rasp; you clear your throat, not without pain, and try again. "Hi! Here!"

A figure rounds the corner wearing what you recognize now as a security uniform. His hat is pulled low over his forehead, and whatever it doesn’t obscure is covered by one of those paper surgical masks. His light cuts across you; you lift a hand to shield your eyes. He pauses, then seems to start, freeze a little. Then he rushes over to you, pushing his hat back and bending to examine you, half reaching out as he does.

“Please tell me you’re alright.”

“What?” you ask. “I—yeah, of course, I’m fine, I—” You’re probably a little scratched up, but most of that is at least still partially hidden by your disheveled clothes. You look down at yourself, the mess now illuminated by the guard’s cold white light.

You’re covered in blood. Smeared low on your stomach, on your hip, poking suspiciously out from under your shirt. Your hands are tacky with it, too, leaving a trail of smudges everywhere you’ve touched yourself. You pointedly do not check the flies of your jeans.

“Oh, it’s fine! It’s not real,” you tell him awkwardly.

The guard has been made up for the house, and he’s wearing these incredible contacts, black scleras that turn his pupils bright white. They dart over your face with something that feels terribly akin to pity.

“You saw him?” he asks. This close, his voice sounds as rough as yours.

“Him?” you parrot dumbly.

“Shit,” says the guard, glancing away. “Never mind. I, uh, need you to come with me, okay? It’s not—your friends were looking for you.”

“They were?” you ask. You feel sort of stunned, swarming inside like a hive of angry bees, too full of buzzing emotions to hear any one more clearly over the others.

The guard waves a hand in front of your eyes. It’s skeletally bony and painted in bruisey purples, presumably to match whatever they’re doing with the rest of his costume.

“I think you might be going into shock. Can I touch you?”

You nod. He takes your arm gingerly, and you sort of sag against him, your own weight suddenly a lot to ask yourself to handle. Together, you pick your way back across the dark room—he brings you the opposite way, avoiding his mannequin counterpart—and into the building proper, where he lets you lean against the wall in the dim hallway. It feels cool out here, making you very aware of everywhere that you’ve sweated through your clothes.

“Wait here,” says the guard. “I’ll be right back, I’m gonna get you something.”

Something? you wonder, but he’s back almost as soon he goes, tossing you a bundle of fabric. You shake it out curiously. It’s a sweatshirt, faded purple and soft with age, the remnants of white lettering arcing across the front: H-U-R-R-I-C-A-N-E.

“Thought you might need it more than I do,” the guard tells you. He has a faint accent, you realize, just like.

Just like Springtrap. What’s going on here?

“You don’t care if I get it dirty?” You lift your bloody hands illustratively.

“It’s seen worse,” the guard assures you. Little crinkles appear at the corners of his eyes. You wonder if they’re grey under those contacts.

“Well, thank you. I really appreciate it.” You pull the sweatshirt over your head, immediately relieved to have none of your undergarments a sneeze away from being on display.

The guard shrugs, sweeping his flashlight across the hallway like he’s looking for something. “Least I could do. Do you feel like you can walk?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m—” you flash a thumbs-up. “I’m golden.”

That makes the guard laugh, a hard, cold snort of mirth. He gives you another long look, familiar in its surveying weight. Then he lifts his hand slowly, taps a bandaged finger against a coppery nameplate on his uniform shirt.

“Hi, golden, I’m Mike.”

#springtrap #springtrap x reader #my fic #THERE'S CHOKING IN THIS TOO THAT TAG IS EDITED ON AO3 BUT HEADS UP #william afton #william afton x reader

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weirdly-specific-but-ok · 5 months

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Pt I wash it down but i've never watched it... and neither have you.

Well, hello there, remember when you guys tried to explain Goncharov to me and I said I wanted to create a fake movie/show? Have it, beautiful maggots. Wash It Down the TV show, mostly accurately explained. Kind of. You know me by now.

Everything is a metaphor, except for the things that are subtext.

The rich blonde girl Carla turns into a deranged psychopath, but in a way that is vaguely inspiring. In the year of our lord and damner 2024, any kind of character development is vaguely inspiring. Especially when it's done by Saoirse Ronan.

Purple hearts this RWRB that, you guys are SLEEPING on Nicholas Galitzine's role in Wash It Down. Which is mostly being disappointingly straight, until he isn't, and inspiringly revolutionary, until he isn't. Dan is honestly just a whole neurotic mess, and we at tumblr do love us a good neurotic mess.

It's a tale as old as time, really. Girl meets boy, girl falls for boy, girl meets girl, boy betrays girl, girl falls for girl, boy falls for girl. Just your average love story.

American cops being shits, just another day on planet earth. The DARE program failing miserably, just another day on planet earth.

Yasmin Finney the gorgeous as Talitha, who is very gay, very angry, and disturbingly obsessed with making paper dolls. Which I'm sure will not come into play later in the s--nvm it's another metaphor for the paper-thin veneer of civilised society in a world on fire with rage.

There is a lot of alcohol. Mostly wine. White wine. Which isn't significant, until it is because it is now also a metaphor.

Inappropriately timed renditions of the Mary Poppins 1964 soundtrack, that are guaranteed to slowly ruin your childhood until the word sugar inspires the inner arsonist in all of us.

First-Twilight-movie-levels of intense blue saturation of, well, everything. It's for the metaphor, guys, I'm sure the filmmakers knew what they were doing.

Carla and Dan are absolute OTP, until they aren't, and Carla and Talitha are absolute OTP, until Carla pulls a gun on Talitha and sings a lullaby to her. I am no longer sure the filmmakers knew what they were doing.

The world is Bad Bad Very Bad. Which I'm sure none of us can relate to.

Love is complicated and unstable, but like, in a shippy way. Mostly.

An oddly specific ring of imagery that becomes so convoluted that it starts to parody itself until the show is a metaphor for the show itself and even Christopher Nolan is raising his glass in reluctant admiration.

Senseless cliffhangers that are an interesting directing choice for sure. Bold, but interesting.

More Mary Poppins. Your childhood is entirely ruined. You become an arsonist.

The paper dolls catch fire. You are now part of the metaphor.

Very cute romance with a lot of attempted murder and societal rebellion thrown in. Hallmark is shaking.

Accurate? Who knows. Not you. Not me. Not anyone... yet.

@queermarzipan @madfangirlontheloose tagged for no suspicious reason.

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transmutationisms · 2 months

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Lmao yeah not rly discourse but tons of ppl being like ‘I hate when celebrities get veneers’ and ‘we never see natural teeth anymore’ which is funny bc like … do celebrities have what they are referring to as ‘natural’ teeth? Unclear

zjskskxjs ok what's annoying about this type of shit is first of all, yeah, define 'natural' and explain what makes it intrinsically better. and second, people will act like they're performing some kind of vital social service by bemoaning celebrity aesthetic interventions, as though hollywood cosmetic dentistry is the sole and unidirectional cause of dental beauty standards writ large. like as though celebrities just randomly started doing this for shits and giggles and there was not possibly any preexisting pressure to have even white teeth that was enforced by things like pay discrepancy and extreme social stigma. like you will not find me crying for millionaires but why does every conversation about beauty turn into a referendum on what they look like. they're ghouls i don't care what they do and even if they all started walking the red carpet au naturale tomorrow, the rest of us would still be subjected to the regime of beauty as currency. none of these people matter <3

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blondeboyfriend · 11 months

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𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐍𝐈

[ PAIRING ] Zeke Yeager x f!reader [ AUTHOR'S NOTE ] This is HEAVILY inspired by the business card scene in American Psycho. (I wrote this back in 2021 for a collab.) [ SYNOPSIS ] Zeke's perceived inadequacy leads him to a situation that only exacerbates his insecurities. [ WORD COUNT ] 3.2k [ CONTENT ] Modern AU (duh), not a big fan of the term "crack fic" but that's basically what this is, Zeke's only a few years older than the rest of the Warriors, sharing nudes without consent, smutty stuff is mentioned, alcohol, marijuana, body horror (Zeke describes scaphism in great detail), Zeke's probably ooc because I basically turned him into Patrick Bateman.

Zeke’s standing in the back of the bar, cornered by his friends. His life is in shambles because you dragged him to a birthday party in the nicest part of the city on the very night he decided to make a major life choice. Tonight was the night he said fuck it and shaved off his beard.

“You look like a baby,” Porco laughs.

“Like an angular baby, like a baby with good cheekbones,” Bertholdt, the birthday boy, mutters to himself.

“Can I touch your face?”

Zeke clenches his jaw and goes to speak only to be interrupted by Reiner's tender touch.

“Wow, that is soft. You got really soft skin. What do you use?”

Zeke smacks Reiner's hand away and uses the sleeve of his flannel to wipe away his residual touch. The meathead’s compliment was sufficient; there was no need to make physical contact.

“Sisley’s Black Rose Skin Infusion Cream.” Zeke sighs, accepting Reiner’s interpersonal failure. “How drunk are you?”

Reiner grins.

“I don’t know but your girlfriend’s the one that’s making them,” Reiner says before dissolving into the crowd.

Zeke questions whether or not Reiner was actually there in the first place. He could have merely been an anxiety induced hallucination.

“I have to… go,” Zeke abruptly blurts out to no one in particular as he pushes himself through his group of friends.

Free from their grasp he kicks himself for being so inarticulate in such a genuine way. Usually his nerves were hidden by a veneer of stoicism, but now he wonders if maybe it was just the beard.

The bar is packed and Zeke stands on his tippy toes trying to see your little head bobbing around somewhere. So many people look like you from this distance. He takes off his glasses and squints but it does little to assist him. He nearly drops them as he maneuvers them back onto his face. Eventually he hears you cackling close by. He sighs heavily once he spots you behind the bar. You look angelic, a beacon of light in a sea of complete fucking bullshit. You look him in the eyes and smile, relief washing over him.

“Don’t you have to have a license or something to be back there?” he asks you, hiding his anxiety behind a facade of smugness.

You shrug and lean over the bar to kiss his forehead.

“They ain’t kicked me out yet so… I guess not.”

Zeke sits down on a bar stool and holds his head in his hands. He remembers that this is a private party and the likelihood of anyone actually giving a shit is slim to none.

“Reiner called you my girlfriend.”

“Ew, why?”

Zeke peers up from his hands, the rest of his face still obscured. Anything to hide his lack of facial hair.

“Because we showed up together and he probably heard us fucking in the bathroom earlier. Can you hold these for me? I almost dropped them.”

Zeke hands you his glasses and you tuck them away in your purse.You pat his head and ruffle his wavy blonde hair. He relishes in the gentle touch of your hand.

“Reiner’s an idiot. Want a shot?”

“Two. You know what I like.”

You grab a bottle of whiskey and overpour two shots. You pass one to him and go grab the other for yourself. Zeke grabs your wrist and stares up at you.

“They’re both for me.”

You shake your head and pour yourself one. Zeke downs the whiskey, savoring the smokey taste it leaves behind on his tongue. Just as he goes to ask you about how your day was Marcel fucking Galliard taps him on the shoulder.

“Buddy, it’s been too long. How ya been?”

Marcel is hammered and he lifts Zeke off the stool into a bear hug. Zeke feels the whiskey crawl up his throat, the most painful tickle he’s been subjected to.

“Ni—nice to see you. It has been awhile,” he chokes out.

Marcel loosens his grip and takes a seat next to Zeke. He looks impeccable, his hair perfectly quaffed. His skin was practically glowing. How could such a drunk guy look so put together and handsome?

“It has been a fucking while!” Marcel exclaims once more.

Zeke scratches his ear and then subtly waves you off. You slowly walk away backwards from the men, bumping into the actual bartender.

“Colt! Coltie Boy!... Damn, dude, you alright? You look tired.”

Marcel has mistaken Zeke for Colt Grice, one of the other tall blonde guys in their friend group. It seems logical because Colt works at the same middle school as Zeke doing the same exact thing he does, teaching language arts to seventh graders. Though Zeke thinks he’s smarter and more relatable to his students. It certainly doesn’t help that he hasn’t seen Marcel in years, who likely has forgotten what he looks like.

“Well I haven’t been getting much sleep. You know me, burning the midnight oil and all.”

Marcel laughs way too hard at Zeke’s joke which wasn’t even a joke in the first place.

He grabs Zeke’s shoulder and continues. “Great, that’s great. Such a hard worker. So uh, shit what’s her name… That girl you’ve been seeing.”

“Pieck.”

Marcel snaps his fingers and grabs Zeke’s shoulder again.

“Yeah, yeah, how’s Pieck? She’s a keeper. A great girl.”

“She’s good, couldn’t be happier with her. We’re thinking about getting a dog.”

“Wow, that’s—that’s great. You deserve it, man. You’re a good guy. Not like that dork Zach Yeager.”

“His name is Zeke, Marcel.”

“Who cares? You,” Marcel pokes Zeke in the chest, just barely missing his nipple, “you’re a good guy. You got your life together. Fuck Zach, man.”

Zeke nods in agreement.

“He’s a fucking dick, you know? Sure, yeah, I haven’t seen that weirdo in years, but I don’t even have to see him to know he’s—” Marcel pauses to burp into his hand. “excuse me. To know he’s a piece of shit.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever been a fan either.”

“Fucking wears dumb glasses, like dude get a normal pair.”

“I know, right?”

“Grandpas wear those glasses, Coltie. Grand. Pas.”

Just as Zeke feels like he’s going to vomit into his own lap Bertholdt pops up from behind Marcel, eyes full of concern.

“Hey Marcel, Porco’s out back and he’s not looking too good.”

Bertholdt’s a dirty liar and everyone except Marcel knows it. Porco’s tolerance is god-like, an unwavering cognitive marvel. Marcel sighs and stands up, stumbling out the door to the patio, Bertholdt trailing behind. He hits his forehead on the door frame on his way out.

“Are you gonna be okay?” you quietly ask, eating a maraschino cherry you stole from someone’s drink.

Zeke smiles and shakes his head.

“It could’ve been wor—”

“Oh shit! What happened? You kinda look like dad!”

Eren is standing in the doorway with a pair of wayfarers on. He definitely stole them from someone; there was no way he’d drop money on Ray Bans. He comes over and hugs Zeke from behind. Zeke appreciates Eren’s affection but it does nothing to soothe verbal assault he received from Marcel.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I know that was fucked up,” Eren coos. “But I am right. I can’t help that.”

It doesn’t matter if Eren is right or not. Zeke’s ego is crushed beyond repair. You shoo his brother away and drag Zeke into one of the booths, sitting across the table from him. He frowns.

“Can you sit next to me?”

The alcohol is taking hold of him. He needs attention and affection, but not too much. Anything beyond you sitting beside him, holding him close, is simply unbearable. You switch sides and scoot close to him.

Zeke notices you staring at him. Your gaze is kind, kinder than a shithead like him deserves. He can’t remember a time in his life where he felt more insecure and unworthy of you. When your soft hand caresses his bare face he is slightly startled. However it’s a welcome gesture.

“I think you look good,” you purr.

He slinks down into his seat, bathing in your praise.

“I’m a little jealous of your jawline too.”

Zeke blushes.

“I look that good, huh?”

“No, you look like shit. I was lying the whole time. You’re the ugliest guy here.”

“Stop you’re going to make me fall in love with y—”

“Colt! The fuck?! What about Pieck, man?!”

You both turn to see a very drunk, very disheveled Marcel being carried out of the bar by Porco and Colt. Colt turns around, looking fresh as daisy, not a single line or wrinkle on his face; his skin smoother than a baby’s ass. He flashes an apologetic grin and lets go of Marcel, walking towards the two of you with utmost confidence. Porco crashes into a table because Marcel might as well be the most cumbersome person on the planet at this moment.

“This is probably the worst time to ask, but do you think I could use your study guides for my class tomorrow? I didn’t have time to throw anything together because Pieck and I were settling into our new apartment.”

Zeke wants to die right then and there. Zeke, who lives in a studio apartment with a chinchilla named Robert. Zeke, who will never own any form of home in his life. Zeke, who’s skincare routine will never make up for years of smoking and sitting in the sun.

“Wow! That’s so cool, Colt!” you pipe up, wrapping an arm around Zeke. He leans into you, desperately trying to disappear. He wants you to make the situation go away, to wrap it up with a little bow and toss it out a window.

“It’s a lot of work getting all that furniture into the penthouse that’s for sure.”

“I can imagine,” you reply eagerly, making up for Zeke’s awkwardness.

Colt just stands there grinning.

The lull in the conversation is too much for Zeke bear. He realizes he needs to open his mouth and speak.

“Uh, you can use my study guides.”

“Oh thank you! You’re a lifesaver.” Colt turns around to see the nuclear disaster that is the Galliard brothers. “I hate to cut this short, but I have to take care of that,” he laughs. “Let’s do dinner sometime!”

Once Colt is out of earshot Zeke falls to pieces.

“Let’s do an execution sometime, Colt. Just boil me alive, send me to the boats.”

Zeke notices the quizzical look you give him and tosses his head back and groans.

“It’s a form of execution where you trap someone between two boats—row boats not ocean liners.” He knows you all too well, your perception prone to the absurd. “And you force feed them milk and honey, and you cover them with it too. And then you leave them to fester and rot in the sun like in a lake or a river.” He coughs. “Death doesn’t come quickly obviously. Flies lay eggs in your wounds, feasting upon your infected flesh. Mosquitos rise from the putrid water and buzz around you. Your body decays right before your eyes.”

“Uh,” is all you can manage to spit out.

He can’t hide his disappointment, and avoids your gaze.

“I know something that’ll cheer you up.”

“What?” he asks.

“Wanna see some dick pics?”

Zeke’s attention is thoroughly piqued. He clears his throat, trying to mask his blatant curiosity.

“Sure. Whose do you have?”

You smirk. “I got everyone.”

“Do you go around showing these to everyone?”

Zeke panics remembering the series of dick pics he sent you one night after smoking two blunts by himself. So many different angles and his face was definitely in a few of them.

“Oh god no, I don’t show them to anyone.”

He bathes in a sea of relief.

“Okay good. Let me see.”

You pull out your phone and go to your hidden photos. A barrage of dicks show up on the screen all in various states of turgidity.

‘Wait, I want to see mine first.”

“Fine. Weirdo.”

You scroll down to find a picture of Zeke’s hard cock. A solid six inches. Circumcised. A few veins running along the length of it, more on the green side. It’s framed by curly, untrimmed, flaxen pubic hair which suddenly Zeke is weirdly self conscious about. He can’t help but wonder if Colt has untamed pubes.

“Should I wax?”

You look at him like he has three heads.

“What? No. I like them even if they get caught in my teeth occasionally.”

You pinch his cheek and Zeke lets out a little “phew”. He doesn’t know what he’d do if you told him otherwise. The idea of ripping out his body hair terrifies him. Shaving’s bad enough, the resulting emotional anguish a burden he struggles to bear. He might die if he added physical pain into the mix.

“I appreciate the angles,” you say. “It’s artistic. The lighting hits the cum dripping off the tip perfectly.”

Zeke basks in the light of your praise.

“Nice and erect, not floppy and flaccid. It’s one of my favorites.”

He shivers at the thought of sending you a photo of his limp dick. He’s a grower, not a shower, a fact that left him feeling inadequate if he thought too hard about it.

It was seemingly unfounded. You never expressed any displeasure when you’d pull his cock out of his pants and see it in its flaccid state. No hint of judgment when you got down on your knees and sucked him off. Just pure, unadulterated joy.

“Gimme a name.”

“Let’s see the birthday boy.”

You pull up a poorly lit photo of an incredibly erect cock. No veins, very smooth with an even coloring. Zeke notices he’s uncircumcised and tries to convince himself that his dick being circumcised makes him a better person than Bertholdt.

“It’s very long,” you say, zooming in on the dick and scrolling down. “Not super thick though.”

“I’m not impressed.”

Zeke takes pride in his cock being thicker than Bertholdt’s.

“Can I ask why you have a pic of his dick?”

“He was drunk and meant to send it to Annie.”

“And you kept it?”

“Hey, whoa. I did ask.”

Zeke gives you a quizzical look. He is having trouble discerning the situation at hand and it makes him feel like he’s dying. You pat his back.

“I was like, ‘Bertl, can I keep this?’ And he was like, ‘If you feel so compelled.’ And let me tell you... I was compelled.”

“Next one,” Zeke says, glaring at the dick on your phone screen.

“Okay,” you flip through your photos, “Porco.”

You hold up your phone, showing Zeke a still image of Porco furiously masturbating on the bathroom floor.

“D—did he set up a timer on his phone?”

“Yeah, grandpa, welcome to the 21st century. We’re happy to have you.”

“You’re two years younger than me, grandma.”

You stick your tongue out at him and zoom in on Porco’s cock. His cock curves upward quite a bit, veiny but not nearly as veiny as Zeke’s. The tip is a pearlescent pink. Porco managed to catch himself in the middle of his orgasm, cum spurting upward like a geyser.

“What do you think?” you ask him.

“Cum looks a little thin, watery even.”

Zeke wants to tack on that his cum is more robust, but he realizes how pathetic it is to brag about.

“I like it when it’s thicker. Like if someone is going to come on me I wanna feel it splatter on my skin, you know?”

Zeke doesn’t know.

“Yeah I get that,” he lies.

“I appreciate the action of the shot, but it’s too busy. I see a bottle of Acqua di Gio on his bathroom counter. His plunger is in the background. I don’t like that his bathroom rug is orange.”

Zeke could hear you talk shit about Porco’s nudes all day.

“You lookin’ at Porco’s nudes?”

Reiner slides into the other side of the booth. He’s pretty drunk, skin a little pink, but he seems mostly there.

“Has everyone seen them?” Zeke asks in a panic.

“No. I overheard you guys talking,” he chastises. “You guys are really harsh critics.”

“I have standards, Reiner.”

“If people can be film critics, why not dick critics?” Zeke asks, genuinely wanting an answer.

“Hey!” You smack Reiner’s arm. “Can I show Zeke your dick?”

“I’d be offended if you didn’t. I’m not an artist, but I’ve been told I have an eye for color,” he brags.

Zeke rolls his eyes. “Hush. Let’s see the dick.”

You pull up Reiner’s dick on your phone. It’s a lower body shot, just his torso and cock in view, it’s standing straight up. His body is framed by his earth toned bedding that makes his skin look divine. He’s statuesque, like a Greek god.

“Check out my cum gutters.”

“Reiner,” you exclaim. “Gross!”

“So Zeke, what do you think?” Reiner asks eagerly.

“Impressive,” Zeke chokes out. “Very nice.”

Zeke’s ready to move on. Reiner’s color coordinating bodybuilder nudes make him want to wear clothes for the rest of his life. He pictures himself dressed in his pajamas, standing in the middle of his shower, arms crossed, looking absolutely miserable.

“Hm, I think that’s all I have. Wait. Oh my god, I forgot I have your brother’s.”

Zeke is conflicted. On one hand he feels protective of Eren and wants to destroy your phone, preserving Eren’s honor. But on the other he wants to rip Eren’s head off for sending you a picture of his dick.

“I have one!” Reiner pipes up.

“Whose?” Zeke and you ask in unison.

“Colt’s.”

You start to shake your head. “No, no more dick pics. We’re done for the night.”

“No,” Zeke says, clenching his jaw. “Let’s see Colt Grice’s cock.”

You toss your head back and stare at the ceiling, preparing yourself for Zeke’s reaction. Reiner winces, realizing his mistake. But still he pulls out his phone.

“Why do you have a picture of his dick?” you ask.

“He needed a creative consultant,” he replies plainly.

Reiner goes through his phone and breathes heavily. He looks up from his phone, his lips a flat line, and he holds up Colt’s dick pic.

It’s a full body shot of Colt. His cock is thick and long, the same look and size as Zeke’s. He grabs Reiner’s phone and stares at Colt’s throbbing erection. It’s taken in his bathroom and unlike Porco's, his counter is organized, only a small bottle of expensive hand soap lurking in the corner. His dick is the perfect shade of pink, the head of his cock picturesque. It’s smooth, but not in a creepy way. It’s like it was sculpted by Rodin, rock hard and tremendous.

“Oh my god. His pubes are so trim,” Zeke mutters.

His hand shakes and he drops the phone. Reiner grabs it, slips it into his pocket, and looks away from Zeke. The three of you sit in silence, the only sounds coming from the party.

“Is something wrong, Zeke?” you ask. “You’re sweating.”

Zeke doesn’t say anything. There isn’t anything to say. This isn’t something that can be buffed away with pity. The wounds inflicted are too deep. The pain radiating through his being will never cease. There will be no relief from his festering inadequacy. Happiness and hope for the future are rendered foreign concepts.

The man is irreparably damaged.

#zeke yeager x reader #zeke jaeger x reader #zeke yeager smut #zeke jaeger smut #aot smut #snk smut #aot x reader #snk x reader #attack on titan x reader #shingeki no kyojin x reader #zeke aot smut #.fics #.aot #.zeke #.reiner #.colt #x reader #reader insert

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sandcobangevent · 29 days

Text

The Sickbed of Sherlock Holmes

by @anmaje and @nonoweid-blog

The blackout curtain had been pulled down over the rectangular Georgian window, and although no sharp blades of sun shot through the room, the incessant bullet fire of rain still intruded on the sickbed of Sherlock Holmes. The sickbed was of course his regular bed, but it had an altered status as demanded by the good Doctor John Watson. John was currently tiptoeing round the kitchen in an attempt to let his friend find some sleep. Both men were unsuccessful.

The detective sighed deeply, it was not only assaulting London rain and his well-meaning flatmate that hurt his ears. He could hear his own blood rushing, the pipes as well and the world outside going on without him. Millions of people meeting, parting and leaving a wide palette of delectable mysteries. None of which he could reach. A hot scent of such a mystery was waiting out there in the grey. He had followed it through the cold night, and when the morning came, he realised his keen interest had not been enough to protect him. A cold, and a fever. Those were the spoils of his hunt. John had freaked out.

“You’re burning up mate! What were you thinking?”

“He clearly wasn’t.”

“Damn straight, Mariana. Upstairs, Sherlock, change your clothes and then straight to bed. I’ll get the thermometer-”

“No, please Watson, I’m fine-”

“Upstairs! Now! Or I’ll shove the thermometer up your arse myself.”

John had not ended up needing to follow through on his threat, but the rectal thermometer had done its job. 39.4 degrees celsius. It had then steadily crept to 39.7. A bag had been packed for a hypothetical A&E visit. It stood by the front door. Looming.

Sherlock could not remember having had such a fever before. Though the world seemed muffled and blurry, everything, sudden or expected, was attacking his senses. Light was a knife, sound a hammer, he could taste only bile and the feeling of temperature was inconsistent. The worst thing anything usually defined by fact could be. The only sense keeping the peace was his decided lack of smell. But his stuffed sinuses, blocked and barricaded, seemed to make up for the little mercy his immune system had granted. He had been rendered useless. Sharp mind stumped and reduced to fog thicker than that which usually carried through the streets of London. That fog hid a suspect, a murderer, whose scent was slipping from Sherlock. Not that he’d be able to smell anything now.

Despite the sensory hellscape he lay in, under-stimulation was bound to find him, he needed to see this case through. But his chances of escaping his sickbed were slim, only a restroom visit was his ticket out. Food was brought to him, and taken away again, mostly untouched. A water bottle stood on his nightstand, filled dutifully by his own private doctor, making rounds and checking his temperature. He had everything he needed at a word, but work. He reached for his water, arm and hand unsteady. That was when he heard and felt the buzzing.

Two long and a short. Pause. One short, a long and two short. Stop.

His phone lay screen down on the nightstand. It was on do not disturb, but some people had the privilege of being let through. Several inspectors at Scotland Yard, and one other person. Said person dropped a glass in the kitchen just then. A muffled shit followed, and a no Archie don’t step there! He would be rightfully furious if he knew what Sherlock was considering. But the screen was still lighting sharply up against the cheap veneer of the particleboard nightstand from IKEA.

The buzzing sounded again: G. L.

He knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't help himself. He picked up the phone and read the text. Dark eyes were cut by blue light, and Sherlock promptly dropped the phone onto his own face. He peeled it off, turning to lie on his left.

The text read as follows:

Inspector G. Lestrade (Scotland Yard)

Holmes. Your podcaster called to tell us you’re on sick leave. What does this mean?

- Lestrade.

Found your suspect. Can’t make an arrest without evidence. Respond ASAP. Keeping him under watch.

- Lestrade.

She was all energy and tenacity. Sherlock could imagine her frowning and typing rapidly. The second message was no doubt dictated to an unlucky constable in the passenger seat of a police vehicle. It wasn’t jealousy he felt, he mainly felt too hot and horribly dizzy, but he wished he had her energy. Perhaps his mind would then let him think. He sniffed, blinked, and attached what photos he had captured the night before. The proof of drug-dealing might get the Yard a search warrant, and hopefully thereby a murderweapon. Nothing was certain, and nothing was as it usually was. He typed a pitiful fever and pressed send.

Through the fog that had surrounded him, Sherlock heard careful footsteps. He had no energy for panic, but still shut off his phone and sat up to put it back on the nightstand. His blood rushed through his head, a threat of fainting, he heard nothing else as his vision blurred. The taste of bile arose just as the door opened slowly. A whisper made it through the feverish fog.

“Hey Sherlock. I brought you some Ribena, it’d be good to get some sugar in you, when you have no appetite- why are you sitting?” John walked through the dark room, putting down the glass on a coaster, the blurry frame of him was familiarity itself. Language escaped the sick detective. He focused on deep breaths as he looked up, trying to make out his friend’s face.

“Woah, woah, mate. D’you need to throw up?” A steady hand held his forehead, pushing wavy hair from his face. He leaned into the warmth of it.

“No. No, I don't think so.” His voice quivered, he felt embarrassed at that.

“Oookay, let’s lay you down, yeah? Slowly now.” John's hand then held his heavy head at the nape. His other securely on his arm. When he was finally lying again and getting a hold of his breathing, Sherlock had to squint as sharp light and buzzing came from his up-facing phone. Warm hands left him.

“What?- … Why is Lestrade texting you? I specifically told her you’re sick.” John was scandalised, but quickly and silently flipped the bright phone over. Sherlock felt embarrassed again.

“I need stimulation. I need work- ”

“You need rest. Work may be stimulating, but it is, decidedly, not rest.” John said. Sherlock could now make out the face of his friend. Concern etched into every line. He sighed.

“Then give me stimuli.”

“What do you need? A hug?” John was smiling ever so slightly. Thank god.

“Pressure would be most appreciated.” Sherlock said, attempting a smile.

“Alright.” The mattress sunk and the warmth of a body invited him in.

“C’mere, Sherlock.”

Steady hands and arms were around him again. The fog surrounding him became slightly more bearable. His inconsistent temperature was helped by a warm body. The taste of bile was quickly replaced with that of sweet berries. Even the sound of assaulting rain was lessened by a constant heartbeat and calm breathing. The sickbed of Sherlock Holmes would soon regain its previous lonely status, but for now it was a nurturing place.

“... Is it now I ask you to take your temperature again?”

“Shush, John.”

#submission #sherlock & co #sherlock and co #fanart #event #fanfiction #flash bang #creative collaboration #john watson #sherlock holmes

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