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eilidh-eternal · 6 months

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Hmmm, how about some Little Red Riding Hood reader and Big Bad wolf-shifter Price???

18+ MDNI | This is a DARK FIC | cw: blood, drowning, predator and prey dynamics

You heard drowning is quick. Painless.

Whoever said that has never drowned before.

In the bleak midwinter, when water turns to stone, the blades beneath your feet find fissures and fractures and carve a place for you in the dark depths beneath the ice.

Falling through ice feels a lot like stepping beyond the warmth of one’s home into the howling, biting wind of a winter storm. It hurts, for a moment, before it numbs you. Right down to the bones. But this is an all encompassing numbness, the kind that seeps through fabric and flesh and bone—that kind that floods burning lungs and creeps into your mind.

Layers of winter garb, thermals, sweater, down coat and jeans, all soak up the frigid water and turn to a leaden weight on your body. You kick, claw at the fading sliver of caustic light, but it slips through your fingers like the rest of the water does—flickers and wavers at the disturbance. A sick parting wave as you sink further and further beyond reach. Beyond saving.

The burning in your lungs from the cold is a thousand times worse when you suck in nothing but water, unable to fight the instinct to draw breath 10 feet below the surface. Thrashing against the frigid clutches of the frozen lake is meaningless. A foolish final attempt to fight for life above the surface, to save yourself from a watery grave.

Another burning breath.

More gelid water to fill your lungs.

Another.

The world grows darker. Maybe it’s because the light at the surface is so, so far away now. Maybe it’s your body succumbing to its fate.

One.

Final.

Breath.

Everything hurts. Glacial waters are good at numbing one’s pain in their final moments, but millions of crystallized frozen droplets feel like they’re slicing into your skin as you cough and splutter, heaving up lungfuls of water and bile. Trying to roll, to wretch onto the frozen ground packed with snow to spare your clothes, is a moot point. You’re already soaked.

The whipping wind off the frozen lake is likely to fuse the fabric to your skin too, and the longer you lay here the quicker frostbite, and hypothermia, will set in. You need to get up. Get up and get moving, or whatever miracle that dragged you from the water will be squandered.

Lifting your head is a monumental effort. It throbs, feels like a ton of bricks, and the cold stiffness that’s settled in your bones creaks and pops as you go, until you can see your bare toes, already turning a dangerous hue in the cold. You linger on that.

Bare feet.

No skates.

No thick wool socks.

An unfamiliar jacket draped over your shivering body like a blanket.

Pushing through the ache in your muscles and the cramping from the cold, you manage to get yourself upright and you quickly pull the collar of the jacket closer to you as a gale of wind barrels into you, plastering wet strands of hair to your face. A shuddering intake of breath fills your nose with the scent of pine and musk. Not the synthetic kind you find concentrated in pretty bottles on a perfumers shelf at the department store. Something wild and incapable of being replicated.

There’s a pile of discarded clothing, a man’s by the look of the enormous boots, flannel shirt and canvas work pants, and tracks in the snow leading away from you into the forest. Wherever they came from, and wherever they’ve gone to, is your best chance at finding warmth.

But wait… Someone had saved you, given you their jacket, stripped, and then left? Maybe they’d stripped down before they’d jumped in, no heavy clothes to weigh them down in the water. They look dry, and that’s motivation enough for you to maneuver stiff, frozen limbs through the snow to get to them.

When you twist to drag yourself closer pain slices from your hip up to your ribs and you suck in a sharp breath that comes out in a strangled moan and a cloud of air in front of your face. Peeling away the jacket reveals the tattered thermal that clings to your skin, grey fabric stained a deep crimson where blood seeps from a gash in your side, dripping onto the snow beneath you.

Fuck. Must have clipped the ice on the way down…

Gritting your teeth against the searing pain that radiates from the wound you manage to reach the clothes, dry by some miracle, and strip down as quickly and carefully as you can. Waterlogged jeans are traded for canvas that still feels warm despite laying in the snow for god knows how long, bloodstained and torn thermal for thick flannel, and you waste little time slipping on the socks and boots, lacing them extra tight. It’s all big, you practically swim in it, but you won’t complain about a little extra fabric to bundle up with inside the similarly large jacket.

Getting to your feet feels like twisting a knife in your side, and you take gasping breaths as you push off your knees, bite down on a whimper when you finally get your feet under you and a fresh wave of pain lances through torn muscle. But you’re up. You have dry clothes.

Someone pulled you out of the water. You’re still here.

Bleeding.

Breathing.

Alive.

Trudging through the snow in boots nearly twice the size of your feet slows you down even more than the shin deep drifts, and you have to stop frequently to take a break, to let the pain subside. Blood has begun to seep into the flannel, fabric clinging to your skin beneath the coat, and it drips, stains the beige fabric at your hips, and splatters onto the snow. A trail of blood left like breadcrumbs as you follow the tracks between towering pines.

It would seem your streak of luck has run its course though. The tracks have vanished, come to an abrupt halt in the middle of the forest.

Panic creeps up on you like a prowling wolf, slinking up your spine and lunging, sinking claws and teeth into your terror-stricken mind.

No, no, no! This was supposed to be your way out, dammit!

You twist around, looking for more tracks in the snow, wincing against the stinging pain in your side, and a scream bubbles up in your throat when you find none.

How the fuck do tracks just disappear?!

Gripped tight by the claws of panic your mind reels with worst case scenarios. Blizzards. Hypothermia. Frostbite. Too busy spiraling to notice the very real threat that stands at your back.

A snarl carries on the wind like a knife, slices through the air and buries itself in your back where the hairs stand on end, every single one from your nape to the tips of your fingers.

A low growl, closer this time, sends a shudder down your spine. But you haven’t come all this way, survived this long, just to tuck tail, curl up and accept defeat. So you steel your spine, ball your hands into fists, and turn to face whatever predator has no doubt followed your crimson trail advertising your weakened state.

A wounded little fawn, separated from its herd. Easy prey.

You may be brave enough to face the thing that’s hunted you down, but it doesn’t stop your eyes from widening, doesn’t stop the fresh wave of panic that courses through your chilled veins and drains the blood from your face, when you’re face to face with the massive fucking wolf ten meters away, golden eyes narrowed with a single-minded focus.

His hunt is over. All that’s left is the killing blow.

Part 2>>>

©️Eilidh-Eternal.2024 ~ The intellectual property of Eilidh-Eternal is not permitted for reposting, transcription, translation or use with AI technologies.

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sluttywonwoo · 5 months

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I have such a gross fantasy of Joshua Hong fucking me gently in front of a fire in a cabin while it snows. That man is so romantic and sweet I have a toothache

"warm now, baby?"

you smile and hum in affirmation as you hug your knees to your chest, watching joshua stoke the fire.

he joins you on top of the blanket he'd laid on the floor a moment later when the flames are roaring and the firewood is crackling in the hearth.

then he wraps his arm around you and kisses you on the forehead. "what about now?"

"even better," you answer. "but i think i could stand to be even warmer."

joshua raises his eyebrows. "oh yeah?"

"mhm."

you shrug off his arm and lay down on the blanket, pulling him with you so that he's hovering over you. he gets the hint instantly, probably because it wasn't so much of a hint as it was an obvious invitation, and kisses you on the lips. he's tugging at your thermal top in almost no time, pausing only when he remembers just how cold you had been up until this point.

"are you sure you want to do this now? we can wait."

"yes, i'm sure. i want you now, shua," you whine, wrapping your legs around his waist and locking your ankles behind his back to pull him closer.

he half laughs, half moans as you grind up into him, feeling him start to harden through his sweatpants.

"okay, why don't we keep your shirt on then? we can take everything else off."

it's not really a compromise you want to make but you settle for it anyway, too desperate to try and protest further.

joshua pulls your shirt back down over your tummy and moves on to your pants, getting them and your underwear off in one fluid motion. he whistles under his breath at the sight between your thighs.

"no wonder you were so impatient. you're already soaked for me."

you've been dating for so long that you shouldn't get flustered when your boyfriend says things like that but you feel your cheeks warm in embarrassment all the same. he smirks at your reaction which makes you even wetter, something you hope he doesn't notice.

"poor thing. i won't make you wait too long, baby. just a second..." joshua yanks his t-shirt off over his head and lays it underneath yours like a pillow before shimmying out of his sweats and slotting himself between your legs. "ready?"

"yeah, give it to me."

"so romantic," he mutters, pushing himself inside of you anyway.

it isn't often that joshua fucks you without any foreplay but the main goal today is to warm you up and anything that isn't straight-up fucking you would leave part of your body exposed to the cold. like this, he can lay his body on top of yours like a weighted blanket and keep you warm as he gently fucks into you. it's exactly what he does, draping himself over you as he starts to move.

already, you feel warmer. whether it's due to the fire, his body heat, or his dick inside of you, you can't be sure but if you were a betting woman, you'd put your money on it being a combination of the three.

he's going slow to let you adjust to the stretch but it still feels like he's splitting you in half with every thrust. it feels heavenly, though. almost too good. you swear you're seeing god every time he bottoms out and the way he's praising you like you are one is making it impossible to stay grounded.

"i love you," joshua whispers, pressing his lips to your neck. "i love you so much, you're taking it so well for me."

it's all too much. too much and not nearly enough and you want to stay like this with him forever but you also want to fucking cum over and over and...

and he looks so pretty in the firelight. the ever-changing glow flickering against his skin makes him appear radiant, like all the colors of the sunset are being projected on him in waves.

"feels so good, shua," you gasp, back arching off the floor.

he strokes your cheek. "i can tell. you're crying already, my love."

you sniffle, giggling deliriously as you try to blink the tears out of your eyes. his figure is blurred behind them and you want to see him clearly. "i d-didn't even notice. 'm sorry."

"don't apologize, baby. you know i love making you cry- well, in this context, of course. means i'm doing something right."

"you're doing everything right," you confirm.

joshua sucks in a breath to steel himself before continuing. "for what it's worth, you f-feel so good too, baby. you're so fucking warm and tight... i don't know how long i'm going to last."

he sounds apologetic about it but you shake your head and grip his shoulders like you're going to give him a pep talk. "we have all night," you assure him. "we can go as many times as we want, as long as you're here keeping me warm."

#hbd shua love of my life #with like twelve minutes to spare #answered #anon #seventeen smut #svt smut #joshua smut #joshua hong smut #joshua hong x female reader #seventeen x female reader

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nsharks · 7 months

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bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part eleven —other parts

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader words: 2.6k tags: death. blood. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn't here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: here ya go

A dry mouth and a symphony of aches awaken you.

Ambery light spills through the cracks of the hunting cabin, catching the silvery glint of dust particles in the air. It must be morning or possibly even noon based on how rested you feel. As your eyes peel open, you can see everything better than last night. The cramped space is mostly barren. There are some rusted animal traps in the corner and a faded poster with dancing bears and cheesy lettering: NATURE BE OUT HERE WILDIN'. Blue's head lays upon your shoulder. Gently, you maneuver it off, but her lashes flutter open despite your efforts.

"Twix?"

"Hey," you whisper. "Everything's okay. You can go back to sleep."

"Can you... get me some water?"

Ghost's backpack is likely off-limits, but you go through it, anyway. Beneath cigarettes and tools you don't even know the name of, you retrieve the canister of water and usher it to her lips. She sips weakly. The blanket covering her falls to her waist, revealing a bare, bandaged leg. Ghost must've taken off her blood and urine-stained jeans. You tuck the insulated blanket back over her and touch her forehead, relieved to feel the skin is cool.

"How are you feeling?"

She lays back down, wincing. "It hurts. And... and I'm tired."

"That's normal. Your body is working hard to heal. Do you need anything else?"

There is the smallest shake of her head before her slack eyelids lower back down.

Ghost is leaning against the side of the cabin when you slip outside. He must have a tolerance for the cold to have stayed out here all night without his jacket. Only a black thermal hugs his chest, a dried stain at the side where you nursed his wound. His stare instantly finds you, alert yet ringed with faint lines of fatigue.

"She's doing good," you announce quietly. "Still sleeping and no fever. Did you see anything out here?"

Ghost clears his throat before speaking, voice rougher than usual from the hours of disuse. "No." His eyes flicker down to your legs. The jacket, although leagues warmer than your own, falls above your knees, leaving them shuddering against a crisp gust of air.

“Should be dry now," he says, motioning to a nearby tree where your clothes are draped over a branch. He must've put them there because you have no memory of doing so.

"Oh. Thanks."

Begrudgingly, you change behind the cabin, your muscles and joints groaning. Despite the dip in the river, your clothes still bare faint stains of blood and whatever fluid came out of that dead Grey. They don't offer the same physical comfort that his heavy loaner did. You can't say you don't miss it when you hand it back.

"You should sleep, too."

He shucks it on, eyes glued to the distance. "I'm fine."

“You think there’s more of them, don’t you?”

He takes a moment before answering. "I took out five, then there's the two that attacked you. Big group. They would've left one or two behind to watch their camp."

It's true, and the thought grazes your teeth against the inside of your cheek. Either they will realize something happened to their companions and go looking for you, or they will be wary of the threat and keep to their turf. You aren't too concerned with Ghost here, but if they’re stocked on military-grade gear like he said, then it's better not to let your guard down.

"Look, you won't be able to keep her safe if you pass out from exhaustion. I can stay out here."

Finally, he exhales deeply, his chest moving beneath all the gear. "Wake me up if you see anything."

"I will."

You watch him go before a sudden realization hits you.

"Ghost, wait—"

He halts, eyebrows raising in question.

"My bow... I think I lost it. In the river."

There is a long pause of thought before he reaches for the handgun at his waist, offering it to you with a firm look.

"Just for now, in case there's anything."

Keeping watch is far from enjoyable. Every little movement makes your fingers curl tighter around the gun. You keep your gaze up and alert while making a small fire to purify some water from the river, drinking until your stomach feels tight. Then, you settle on a tree stump by the cabin and take out the single dried squirrel you brought. But when you bite in, a strange taste floods your mouth. Blood. Cartilage. Human flesh. You spit it out, your stomach expelling more watery vomit.

"For later, then," you whisper, wiping your mouth.

The plan was never to stay here for more than a night, but with Blue's recovery, you'll have to find more food. It could be three or four days before she’s ready for the long trip back. You ponder how you can make do without the bow, and figure you can use those animal traps. There's also a bush by the cabin that, if Paul's teachings did you any good, appears to be unripened salmonberries.

Hours drone by, each one more tedious than the last. The scent of moisture in the air begins to grow stronger. It's not until dark, swollen clouds roll in from the north that Ghost reemerges from the cabin.

"I didn't see anything, but I think it's going to storm." You gesture to the sky.

The abrupt arrival of sharp lightning and pillaging rain brings both of you back within the shelter. The storm clouds quickly swallow all the light, which leads Ghost to start another fire with the dry wood he has left. You find a few candles dressed in cobwebs and ignite them with your newfound lighter. It's not long before Blue wakes up, likely unable to sleep with all the sounds and the steady leak of water that begins to drip from the ramshackle ceiling.

Ghost may have brought a lot with him, but he doesn't have anything to patch up a leak, which leads to a small puddle taking up space and pushing the three of you uncomfortably closer. Of course, Blue is the only one lying down. You tuck your knees under your chin while Ghost bends his long legs into a crossed position. He's wide enough that his knee and shoulder brush against you no matter how much you try to inch into the corner.

Though, you secretly can't complain. There seems to be an everlasting heat that radiates off him, even here, as the fire struggles to sustain itself and the rain thrums incessantly.

He shifts around to fish something out of his backpack. Crackers.

"Here, kid."

"I'm not hungry."

"You need to eat something."

He has to practically force little bites into her mouth, cradling her head up with his gloved hand. The sight makes your stomach howl, but you refrain from eating the squirrel in case you throw up again. You don't suspect either of them would appreciate that.

Blue goes back to staring dully at the wall after she eats, and Ghost continually peeks out a crack in the boarded-up window. The whole thing is quite miserable, even though, at the very least, you are all alive. The look in her eyes reminds you of how Joseph would get sometimes, and you hate it.

At some point, you take out the book you found.

"Hey, Blue. I... I found this. Want me to read it to you?"

Her gaze shifts to you. "Oh. What's it called?"

"Um." You glance at the cover, cringing when a male model and corny title stare back at you. That's right. It was the only book in the store for a reason. "Well, maybe not. It doesn't look very good."

"You could tell me a story," she suggests in a murmur. "Ghost isn't any good at that."

You glance at him. He must be listening, but he pretends not to. Rather, he fiddles with the magazine of his rifle: taking it out, counting what's there, putting it back in.

Under the roar of thunder, you murmur a story to her. That one your mother used to tell you. Then, you move on to memories. The happiest ones you can recall, mostly about your sister. You tell her about the time your parents surprised the two of you with a hampster, and how you argued over who got to name it, only deciding after a fierce battle of rock-paper-scissors in which you won.

"So what did you name him?"

"Frank."

"Frank," she repeats. A weak smile. "That's a terrible name."

The storm ebbs on for another day. You and Ghost set up a silent routine of taking turns to sleep, though with how he leans against the wall and clutches the rifle with his eyes closed, you wonder if he is even really sleeping. Blue is only awake to eat, drink, and listen to a few stories. You steal peeks at her wound when he redresses it, pleased to see no evidence of infection.

You finally bring yourself to eat, taking small bites and forcing it down. The pain in your limbs starts to fade, and the cuts on your face and hands are already scabbed over. When the rain clears, you set up the traps. Paul used to have ones like these. It's not long before you've got yourself another squirrel to eat. The salmonberries are terribly sour, but you wolf down a bush's worth.

Two days. You've been here for two days, and no one has snuck in an attack. There hasn't been a trace of rot in the air. You should feel relieved, but something in the way Ghost behaves makes you wary. He keeps looking through his backpack, fiddling with his guns. Perhaps over the past month, you've grown so used to his mood only shifting between hostile and indifferent, that it's easier to pick up on the signs of his unease.

Before you can decide to question him what's wrong, he confronts you.

"Twix. We need to talk."

He's caught you with berry remnants around your mouth as you sit on the tree stump and finish your meal. You swipe your tongue across your lips, staring up at him. It's sort of awkward, craning your neck as he towers above you.

"What is it?"

"I need to leave."

You inhale sharply. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," he takes the rifle off his shoulder, "I've got five bullets for this one. And," he juts a finger to the handgun, "One magazine for this one."

Understanding sinks to the pit of your stomach. He's running low. Of course. Between the people and all the Greys, he must have used up a lot.

"That's not enough to get us back?" You tuck some hair behind your ear.

"If we run into all those fucks like before, then no. I don't feel comfortable with this much."

"So what are you going to do? Go loot their bodies?"

"I already did that," he almost growls, frustrated. "This is what I've got including what they had on 'em."

"Their camp, then. You want to go find it?" When he nods, you glance behind you at the cabin where Blue rests inside. "No. No— I don't like this idea. I have nothing to protect her with while you're gone."

"I'll leave you a gun."

"I'm not good with a gun," you protest, curling your fingers into your palm as you frown. "She can barely walk, and I can't carry her if shit happens."

"Well, I can't get us all back safely if I don't have fucking ammo. You think I want to leave her? I have no choice here."

Everything he's saying makes sense, and yet, you hate it. You just barely protected her the first time he left you alone, the memory of desperately biting that guy's nose off being evidence of that. Admittedly, you don't know what to do once someone gets close. If something were to happen while he was gone, you’re not confident that you could keep her alive again. But he needs this. The trip will be a waste if he doesn’t get this ammo— the risk to all your lives would’ve been for nothing.

"What if—" Your eyes slide shut as you swallow thickly. "Fuck— what if I go get it?"

Immediately, he scoffs. "That makes no sense."

"Your priority is keeping her safe. You stay here and do that."

"You have no bow," he reminds you, roughly shaking his head. "Don't be stupid."

"You said there's likely only one or two people guarding it. I don't have to fight them. I just have to find their place and steal from them, right?"

"Why?" He demands, eyes narrowing from their typical half-lidded state. They sweep over your face, from your forehead to your chin. "Why would you do this? Risk your life?"

It's a fair question, and you realize how ridiculous you must sound even suggesting this idea. Looking at the ground, the first answer comes to you quickly. You value Blue's life more than your own at this point. Like you told Ghost, you don't know why you even bother fighting. She's a kid. A piece of light in this world. He can protect her better than you can, and he needs the ammo to do so. But there are a few other reasons you find yourself willing to do this for him, and those are the ones you decide to share with him.

"Because like you said, you need the ammo to get us all back safely. Plus," you look back at up him, "They probably have some things I need, too. Like more medicine." It's something you've pondered quite a few times since realizing how healthy and populated their group was. You lucked out in the village. There will never be another opportunity for medicine like this. "But... if I can get your ammo, then you owe me."

A deep breath expands his chest, then he huffs it out. "What would you want?"

You mull it over. "The couch," is the first thing that comes to mind. You imagine having to sleep in a flooded shed, which will undoubtedly happen with this northern weather, and the thought alone makes you miserable. "When we get back, I want to sleep inside on the couch from now on. And a new bow. You can make me one."

He stares at you for a few seconds before shaking his head to himself, grumbling something under his breath. He slings the rifle back over his shoulder, and you think he's ready to rightfully tell you how stupid you are again, but instead, he grits out, "Anything else?"

"A few shirts and your jacket," you breathe out, eyeing the fabric that fits his broad shoulders much better than it did yours. "And..." a flush threatens the base of your neck, "I also want you to teach me how to better defend myself. Once someone grabs me, I panic."

There's something detectable that passes through his eyes, maybe the memory of how helpless he rendered you not so long ago. He looks at the cabin, shaking his head again, before returning his stare down at you.

"I'm going to tell you exactly how to get this done. You're of no use to me dead, Twix. Get me a backpack full of ammo, and we'll have a deal."

#simon riley x reader #cod #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost #fanfiction #zombie apocolypse au #forgot to tag this

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toxicanonymity · 1 year

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You really are trouble. Silence can never be bought, only rented (pt. 3 of 6)

Can read STANDALONE, or Story Master List

4.4k words | dbf!Joel Miller x F!Reader | 18+ nsfw

Summary: You go back to campus and Joel shows up. You stay with him for a night.

He chuckles then checks you out and a hunger comes over his face. He looks down at himself before he lowers his voice and meets your eyes again. “What, you wanna souvenir? I’ll send you a picture.” The way he's looking at you. . . you can practically see the reflection of your naked tits in his pupils, even though you're fully clothed. He adjusts his jeans and looks out the passenger window behind you.

thx for moodboard @dark-scape. | joel master list

Next: Part 4

content notes/warnings: age gap, protective!joel, reader can wear Joel's jacket & Chad mistakes Joel as her dad (in hindsight I would try to do this a different way but it is what it is and I've left it because it reveals something about her dad), ample sexual tension, non-graphic violence, ref to gaslighting, light hurt/comfort, light stalking, blackmail/manipulation themes, begging, mild dubcon, cunnilingus, cumshot, slasherfucker easter egg🥚, Joel says he can wear something of hers to sleep.

As you drive back to campus, you try to think logically about Joel. On one hand, fucking him might give you even more leverage, if you could stay detached, but you're smart enough to recognize the poor odds of that. You also wonder if you should question his motives. He's never so much as hit on you until now that you have something over him. To be fair, it isn't out of nowhere - you held eye contact with him while he fucked your stepmother. You could’ve walked away as soon as your suspicion was confirmed, but you didn't walk away until he came, eyes locked with yours. Then, the next day, you went to his pool, took your top off, and made him jerk off.

When you get to your apartment, you bring Joel's jacket inside and drape it over your upper body, all the way up to your nose while you lie on your bed and scroll your phone. Chad, your kind-of ex, asks if you can talk. You start typing something, but when he texts you again to add a question mark, you decide to ignore him. You put on the jacket. There’s a scrap of thermal paper with gps coordinates in the pocket. Out of curiosity, you search the coordinates and they're near Uvalde, but you don’t find an address. The closest thing is an abandoned mall.

You put down your phone and turn up the jacket collar, then inhale it with your eyes closed. You get another text and it’s Joel. For a moment, you feel warm and fuzzy, until you open it.

“Thinking of you.” It’s a surveillance picture of you topless in his pool. A pit opens in your stomach.

You can just picture his smug smile as his big stupid thumb pressed send. The picture disappears as your ears get hot. What does he think he’s doing? You text him accordingly. You seethe. But there’s another part of you – a hot, wet part of you, that only wants Joel more with every depraved thing he says and does. You almost wish the picture didn't disappear so you could admire his back and imagine what else could have been. . .

Imagine Joel getting in the pool with you, pinning you to the edge, his thickening cock pressing into you, rock-hard. Joel wrapping his arm around you, shoving his hand between your legs, pulling your swimsuit to the side, taking you from behind. His cock filling you up, one hand on your tits, the other between your legs. Bouncing you on his cock, zero gravity, your knees spread and bent. You get yourself off with very little effort by imagining this. It only briefly crosses your mind that, worst case scenario, the oxytocin of each orgasm may work to his advantage.

You have to work at the cafe the next day. It’s gotten slower since summer session ended, but the bookstore still gets traffic from families visiting campus and whoever's still around. And as long as the bookstore gets traffic, so does the cafe.

Chad, your kind-of ex, comes in. You try to remain composed and professional, but it’s humiliating having to serve him after he cheated on you then tried to gaslight you that you were never "together" after almost a year. He’s wearing a t-shirt from the venue where you met when you saw his band play.

Your heart races as you write his name on a cup and he tries to get you to take your break. You refuse. He invites you to a party, then sits alone in the cafe for a few minutes, manspreading like he owns the place, watching you. Eventually, he leaves and your eyes well up in tears. You wipe down tables as a way to get a moment alone to compose yourself.

When you finish wiping down the last table, you stand up and get startled by someone standing way too close behind you.

Joel’s low, gruff voice asks, “I reckon that's Chad?”

Your heart jumps to your throat. “What are you doing here?” Naturally, you’re still mad about the topless picture – or at least, you feel like you should be mad.

“Comin' back from a job. You okay?”

You turn around and meet his eyes. And forearms. His denim shirt is fitted and his sleeves are rolled up. Jesus.

“I don’t have anything to say to you.”

“I know. You can delete it yourself. Come out to my truck for a minute.”

“Seriously?”

“What, you trust me to do it myself?”

You roll your eyes and take your break, following him outside.

Joel opens the passenger door for you. When he gets in the truck, he pulls out an iPad and opens his home surveillance app.

“We’re on my hotspot. Here, delete the whole day if you want. Then go to the trash and empty it.” He hands you the iPad. “Can’t be too careful these days, Trouble.” he adds.

Your cheeks burn with exception. Resentment. “Can’t be too careful ‘cause a creep like you might record me?”

“See that black bar?" He points. "Means no data for that time. ‘Cause I turned’em off, just not fast enough.”

“Conveniently, right before you took your cock out.”

He chuckles, then checks you out. A hunger comes over his face. Maybe it was hearing you refer to his cock. He looks down at himself before he lowers his voice and meets your eyes again.

“What, you wanna souvenir? I’ll send you a picture.” You can practically see the reflection of your naked tits in his eyes. He adjusts his jeans and looks out the window behind you.

Your face gets hot. You compose yourself and look him up and down. “If I wanna see your cock, I’ll tell you to take it out.”

His eyebrows shoot up. "Attagirl." He whistles as he shifts in his seat. “God damn, Trouble. You really are.” He puffs his cheeks as he exhales and shakes his head. "Who knew," he adds under his breath, looking absently through the windshield.

You hand the iPad back to him and an alert pops up, catching your eye. It’s your stepmother’s car at his gate. It quickens your heart rate. You study his face for an answer.

He sighs. “She keeps callin’, comin’ by. I changed the gate codes. . . I’ll text you your new one." His brow furrows as he stares into space, then he scratches the back of his neck. "I reckon I should prolly stay away for a couple days, let her get it out of her system.”

He deletes the app and reaches behind the seat to pull out an Apple Store bag. He puts the iPad in the bag and hands it to you. “Keep it.” It’s blue like the phone from yesterday. You should’ve known.

“Real creative. This is your whole plan? Buy me an Apple store?” you hand it back to him. "I'm not walking back in there with that."

"Fair enough." He smiles to himself and leaves it in the truck as you both get out. He puts on his Ray Bans.

Joel pulls up his pants and puts his hands on his hips, shifting his weight to one leg and popping out a knee. Your gaze drifts to the bulge below his belt. His brow furrows as he looks off.

“Now. . .'bout Chad. . . I reckon I got nothin’ but time now if he needs a lesson in manners.” Once again, you hate him for bringing up Chad.

Your face tightens despite your best efforts. "Don't bother."

“Aw, shoot.” He always knows. “Com'ere, sugar.” Joel opens his big arms. You can’t resist his bear hug. You feel safe.

You sniffle and he whispers, “Hey, Trouble. What did the white grape say to the purple grape?"

"Hm?"

"Breathe."

You can't help but laugh. He hadn't told one of those in a while. Fitting, too.

“There she is.” He smiles as you pull away.

“I have to get back to work.”

“Reckon I'll be 'round if you need anything.”

“Okay, creeper.”

When you get home from work, your roommate is watching the news. The newscasters are talking about a body found in an underground bunker outside Uvalde near the border. You look up and do a double take.

“Holy shit.” Your heart races.

“What”

“Oh, I thought I recognized that mall.”

You consider texting Joel about it, but something tells you not to. You don't text him at all. You google it. There are rumors it was a cartel boss.

Your roommate is planning on going to the party Chad invited you to to meet up with a guy you and Chad introduced her to. You resist her invitation, but she begs you to come just for a few minutes so she doesn’t have to show up alone, and eventually, you relent. You do a little pregaming at home before heading to the party. You wear something hot to make Chad sorry – leather pants and a low-cut, lace top – with Joel's jacket over it.

Chad is already drunk when you get there. He herds you and your roommate to the drinks. The guy she’s talking to went on a beer run. Aside from the two of you, it’s almost all guys, so you’d feel guilty leaving her there. You decide to stay just until her guy gets back from his beer run.

This takes longer than you expect. Chad keeps trying to talk to you, telling you how good you look, until someone distracts him with beer pong. You have to wonder if your roommate's guy is really on a beer run, or with another girl. These guys are all the same. You feel guilty for Chad introducing them. When the guy finally shows up, he does have beer in hand, but not nearly an hour’s worth when the store is just a few blocks away.

As you’re getting ready to leave, Chad steps in front of the door. He begs you to talk to him just for a few minutes. You refuse and open the door to leave, but he doesn’t back down. He yanks the door shut, then towers over you and pins you to the foyer wall.

Within seconds, the front door swings back open.

“Get your hands off her,” Joel booms as he charges in, then grabs Chad by the shirt and slams him up against the wall. Chad is an inch or two taller than Joel, and yet Joel seems to tower over him.

“You told your dad?” Chad asks you, incredulous.

“Get in the truck,” Joel tells you sternly, pointing out the door. You leave the door open behind you to watch and listen as you very slowly inch toward Joel's truck.

Joel tells him, “If she told her dad, you wouldn’t be breathin'. I'm fixin' to save your life right now."

He releases Chad just long enough for him to turn around and face him so it's a fair fight. Then, Joel decks Chad in the face. Chad goes stumbling across the foyer holding his jaw.

“Get in the truck, now!” Joel yells out the door at you, neck vein bulging, then pulls the door shut and stays inside with Chad.

You get in the truck and the shock catches up to you. You can’t stop the tears. Your mascara runs and you don’t have any tissues. You open the center console and don’t find any. He’s a man, of course he doesn’t have any. You open the glove box anyway. A few scattered condoms, no surprise there. Registration. Not much else. It's super shallow.

You lift the tray out. In the hidden chamber, there’s nothing but a gun and a cylinder. . .a silencer. In Texas, it'd be weirder if he didn't have a gun. But a silencer? Who is he, John Wick? What kind of contractor carries a silencer? . . . No. The blood drains from your face. You quickly replace the tray and close the glove box, your heart racing. Was it a bullet wound scar you caught a glimpse of at the pool?

The mental image of him pulling off his jeans makes you forget about the silencer. If your leggings weren't leather, you'd probably soak right through them.

Joel comes out and slams the door behind him. His muscles and veins bulge as he charges toward you.

"Are you okay?" He asks as he gets in the truck. He leans over to buckle you in. You can smell his sweat and musk.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"That's the guy you were seein' for damn near a year? That damn fool?"

"Don't," you warn.

You ride in silence and he calms down.

"Sorry," he says at a stoplight. He rests his massive hand loosely on your thigh. "I shouldn't'a said that " His veins are still bulging.

"You're right though," you sigh. Your eyes won't leave the vein on his hand.

You shift in your seat, the lightest contact of his big, masculine hand literally opening your legs. You fold your left heel under you, which has the effect of shifting his hand to your inner thigh. He inhales deeply but leaves his hand resting loosely on your inner thigh.

"Well, I reckon it's over now," he says.

He doesn't take his hand back until he needs it on the steering wheel.

"This isn't the way," you tell him.

"You're stayin' with me tonight," he responds, then stretches his jaw. “Got a suite on the river.”

You absently fiddle with the scrap of paper in your (his) left jacket pocket. You ask him what job he was coming back from. He does a double take and holds out his hand.

"Gimme that," he says sternly.

“I just like to hear about what you’re building.”

"Now."

"What, your trash?" you hand it over and he lifts his butt out of the seat to shove it in his pocket. In effect, the motion is a pelvic thrust. It makes you forget about everything else.

He's staying at one of the nicer hotels on the Riverwalk. He pulls up to the entrance and asks the valet for a minute.

Joel comes over and opens your door. "Come on, let's go." He notices the mascara on your face. "Shit." He pulls a first aid kit from under the seat and gives you an alcohol pad and uses one to clean the blood off his knuckles. He glances at the glove box contemplatively, but doesn't open it.

The lobby has an overly modern chandelier. He gives you a key card. On the elevator, you rest your head on his shoulder. It's a suite with two bedrooms. His stuff is already in one of them.

He gestures to the empty room, scratching the back of his neck, making his bicep look even more enormous. "If you want to, uh. . . Do you need anything? I can go to the store"

"Like what," you implore.

He leans against the door frame and crosses his imposing arms.

"I dunno what you need in general, so. I dunno," he shrugs. “You’ve got a toothbrush and stuff in there.” He nods to the bathroom.

"Is there a blanket?" You ask.

"You got it." He disappears, opens a few doors, and comes back with a blanket and the iPad. "Put a couple movies on there for ya. If you wanna cast one to the TV."

He swipes it open and gives it to you, and you almost want to cry. He can tell. He turns the TV to the right mode for you.

“You can wear something of mine if you want,” he offers, then leaves to take a shower.

“I always sleep in leather pants,” you say deadpan.

You may take him up on that later, but not now. You freshen up and take off his jacket then lie down on the bed, on top of the comforter, but under the blanket he fetched. You start watching Scream.

After his shower, he comes back in boxers and a t-shirt and asks if you're okay.

You were fine until he asked. You swallow down your emotions. "Stop asking me that." You sit up and pull your knees to your chest.

He approaches the bed and sits down on the edge. He lays a hand on your knee, and you ogle its masculine knuckles and prominent vein as he says "I know it's been a rough week." He doesn't seem to know what else to say, but his eyes look sincere.

You scoot over to make room for him on the bed and lift up the blanket. He lies down and lets you into the crook of his arm. He smells good. You watch most of the movie like that, not moving. Just inhaling his scent and lusting after him, your wits battling your carnal need. He falls asleep for awhile but wakes back up.

On the screen, Billy Loomis sucks blood off his own fingers. Joel says, “There he is.” He's seen your canvas tote bag with that image on it. “See? You’ve always had bad taste in men.”

You punch him in the chest playfully and he acts like it hurts. His smile kills you.

You’re on a bed with him, snuggled up with him, your head on his enormous bicep, and he feels far away. Why doesn’t he try to fuck you? It hits you like a punch in the gut that if you want something, you're going to have to take it. And God, you want something. You know better, but you want it.

You wet your lips and watch his face. The pattern of his facial hair is so perfect. Every little blank patch is perfectly placed. Every touch of gray and silver. It’s all of him, really. Every broken capillary on his skin, every line. It’s the most perfect design. It’s almost unbearable.

You hook your far leg over his. He glances at you. You pause the movie. He does a double take when he sees the way you’re looking at him. You’re trying to work up the courage to make a move. Your lips part, and your hand glides up his chest to his neck, resting by his vein. His heart rate quickens.

“Terrible taste,” he mutters, reading your eyes like a book.

You slowly lean in. He intercepts your mouth, controlling the nature of the kiss. He kisses half your bottom lip, then trails his lips down your chin. You tilt your chin up and he kisses its underside, open-mouth. He pivots over your leg to be on top of you with one leg between yours. His expansive hand runs down the side of your lacy top to your free leg, and he grabs your hamstring as your knee bends around him. Your hips lift and you grind into his thigh, desperate for whatever he’ll give you. He hardens against your inner thigh and you hear yourself gasp softly.

Joel gets between your legs entirely. He moves slowly. He lays his hardened boxers against your leather pants right where you throb and ache for him. His lips land lightly in the hollow of your neck, and he sucks gently. His hard-on only rolls into you once, sending a jolt of electricity through you before he cruelly takes it away as he works his way down your body.

He tenderly kisses your collarbone, then the lace border of your slutty top. He lifts your shirt up and you pull it over your head, along with your bra. His lips press between your breasts, his beard lightly tickling their soft skin. He palms one breast while his nose nudges your other nipple and they both harden painfully. He sucks just below your nipple and his hand trails down to your pants, grazing over your zipper, then engulfs your entire crotch. His flattened fingers rolling firmly but gently into your clit, over your pants. He breathes heavily.

You arch your back and he breathes, “God almighty,” before taking your other tit into his mouth.

Then, he continues his slow journey down your body. He plants two open-mouth kisses on your stomach. You’ve never been so wet or ready. His kisses trail down below your belly-button, to your leather pants.

All this instead of just kissing you on the mouth like you wanted. It feels like heaven, but it also doesn’t sit right.

"It's not happening," you say.

"What?"

"I'm not gonna fuck you." You're saying it to yourself more than to him.

"Oh, I'm not gonna let you, sugar," he rumbles in a near-whisper. Then, his nose digs into the leather between your legs.

"Just wanna taste you. Make you forget everything else."

He has both his thumbs on your mound and presses his mouth into just the right spot, a wave of pleasure washing over you, lifting your hips. His mouth presses and consumes you slowly, but so hungrily that his beard would be hurting you if your pants weren’t on. You're already twitching.

He looks up and his tired eyes swallow you whole.

You feel exposed. You’re extremely aroused, and he feels far away. You would much rather be making out, with his whole body wrapped around you, his hardness grinding into you. Still, you can't deny this feels very, very good.

His fingers curl into the front of your waistband, and he looks up.

“I'm not into that," you tell him. “Can you kiss me?”

“I’m about to. Ever had it from a grown man?” he asks. “Or hell, a woman?" he adds.

You don't answer.

“You don’t know if you’re into it.”

He craves you badly - it’s all over his face. You do want to see how hot he looks doing it.

"You have thirty seconds to convince me," you tell him.

"Only need ten." You're throbbing so bad that might be all it takes, period.

His thumbs unbutton you. He starts to unzip you and inhales sharply when he sees you're commando. You let him peel off your pants. He does it slowly, looking at your pussy like a juicy burger the whole time. He pauses to thumb you, like he can’t resist.

“Fuck me,” he says when he feels how wet you are. He thumbs your clit with one hand while pulling your pants down with the other. Then he finishes taking them off, prowls back toward you, arms bulging, and puts your thighs over his muscular shoulders.

It's surreal seeing Joel between your legs. He feels your naked breast and hooks his other hand under your thigh, holding your hip loosely. Tension is coiling deep in your core, throbbing, looming, tighter, more desperate than you knew it could be.

The hand on your breast slips down your torso as he kisses your inner thighs, his beard scratching you lightly. He plants a kiss on your mound, opens his mouth, and licks his way down to your clit. He’s careful not to drag his facial hair against your most sensitive skin. He nudges the side of your clit with the bridge of his nose. You throb and squirm, and his large hands on your hips hold you still. He seals his mouth around your clit and the top half of your dripping seam. He applies suction while his strong tongue languidly laps you.

With a groan, you release a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You want his cock. You can hardly stand it.

Between heavy breaths, you tell him, “Time’s up. Come here.”

But he keeps devouring your pussy. You tangle your fingers in his hair and whine, “Joel, please” and he laps you more firmly, makes eye contact with you. He flicks his tongue, sucks, drags his tongue down, plunges his tongue inside you and you moan.

“Take your cock out,” you tell him. You're aching to be filled.

He pulls his face away, shiny and red from the nose down, replacing it with his hand. He pulls his boxers down. The sight of it makes your temples weak. He thumbs your clit and slips one, then two fingers inside you, making your head fall back as you clench around him. It’s not what you want, but it’s so much better than nothing.

"So tight," he marvels. He gathers your wetness and lubes himself with you. Not what you had in mind. You at least want to feel his hardness against you. You beg him upward toward you, but he won’t go.

He strokes his stiff manhood as his head returns between your legs, his tongue tracing your folds up to your clit. You begin to squirm and he holds you down with one hand, a sight that makes you weak. He hums "Mmm" and moans into the apex of your folds. You're throbbing desperately, your hips move on their own, and he must feel it.

"Come for me, sugar," he mumbles into your warmth. Then he opens his jaw, firmly plants his lips, and digs in again.

Your thighs tremble, threatening to close in on his cheeks. You dig your head into the pillow. With each pass of his tongue, each push of his lips, the tension in your core coils tighter until it can’t hold anymore and springs open all at once. As your hips lift against his mouth, his lips press back and he swallows you hungrily.

Pleasure blooms from your core in rhythmic pulses. Your arms and thighs jerk randomly in unison, your abs lift you off the pillow. You’re a prisoner to the pleasure, moving at its will, until your climax wanes. The release floods your chest and you pry his head off you. You finger his clean, messy hair.

Joel flattens his fingers to take more wetness from you and you shudder with an aftershock. He sits up on his knees and his brow furrows painfully. You're too busy memorizing the look on his face to fully appreciate the way his ass clenches as he starts to come. Relief covers his face and he grunts as his hot load shoots onto your stomach.

He pulls his boxers back up, sits back on his knees, and breathes. His tan, masculine hands affectionately rub your thighs, and you watch his chest rise and fall. Somehow he never looks vulnerable, even right after he comes.

Joel steps away and comes back with tissues. He cleans you up and runs you a bath.

"Good night, Trouble." His thumb affectionately brushes your temple and he kisses you on the head. Then, he goes to his own room.

tysm for any reblogs/comments, I love to know what y'all are thinking 🫶

Tags: @jbcalway @daddy-din @angelmenace @silkiers @axshadows @legs0pen4dilfs @fan-fiction-floozy @grnherbs @icuminurbutt @lokanda @not-a-unique-snowflakewflake89 @likeanimagepassingby2 @witchy-jadda @mxtokko @missannwinchester @cannolighost @anxiousankylosaurus @montenegroisr @97cityy @lillyrob @billyloomiswhore4 @cloudroomblog @boysddontcry

#joel miller x reader #dbf!joel #joel miller smut #toxicanonymity ☠️#joel miller x you #joel miller #dbf!joel miller #tlou joel #one shot #joel miller fanfiction #dark!joel miller #toxicdbf #sluttified!joel #joel jacks off #PPCU jacks off #PPCU jacks off ☠️

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inkwingsinc · 1 month

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ok so about my lack of update. I got sidetracked writing about the nightmare horse (!!!!spoiler!!!!) and the other flesh gifts Feyd is going to give Laera. Harkonnen giftgiving traditions are atrocious, I've decided. Also I've re-written chap 21 like three times and I'm pretty sure some of my readers will unionize to beat my ass if I don't post eventually. ~tee hee~

Here, have some random headcanons related to BMGWMBGG because I'm deranged:

the Harkonnen tradition of offering "flesh gifts" to the bride is essentially the manifestation of that one post that's like "my love language is acts of service and all I know how to do is kill"

given that Geidi Prime has to pump groundwater since the planet has no oceans and little rainfall, there are likely thermal pools/natural springs somewhere in the Fortress. They function like bath houses, essentially. Feyd-Rautha visits them frequently.

the Harkonnen tradition of draping their brides in betrothal chains came from the practice of having to physically restrain their wives because uhhhhh they did not often consent to marriage. Now the chains are just brutally pretty jewelry, but in ye olden days Harkonnens would kidnap their brides caveman style

the ceremonial lyggal warpaint is mixed with human blood. often the wearer's

Harkonnen men totally get married half-naked covered in warpaint. How else is the bride supposed to take her blood rite if he's all covered up? :(

Geidi Prime has a renowned rave scene. Party drugs? Evil techno? That's basically Tuesday for the upper classes

Despite keeping appearance of the contrary, Feyd-Rautha is not a hedonist with all pleasures. He holds himself to the standard of a warrior and forces purity of mind and body so that he can feel superior to others. Baby boi deffo has an eating disorder and like six different hangups about eating in front of others. Violence is his chief vice but sex is a close second, so he's not a monk all the time...

Feyd-Rautha thinks it's just so charming that women have a menstrual cycle. oh his partner lifts her skirt? and she's already bleeding? it's like Christmas came twice.

Feyd-Rautha has met Princess Irulan on two occasions prior to Arrakis. He was buck-ass naked during their first meeting (I will not explain) and covered in blood for their second. The Baron offered Feyd as a marriage prospect to the Emperor's daughter both times. "isn't my nephew strong? isn't he capable? wouldn't you like to give him children?" *gestures to the horrible little man covered in blood*

Feyd-Rautha is freaked out by horses. It's the spindly legs...

Feyd-Rautha's favorite food is nutrient paste. I am not joking

#inkwings rambles #bmgwmbgg #Feyd-Rautha headcanons #Dune fanfiction #am I writing? yes. am I writing what I should be writing? no #sorry y'all. I totally made you read this with your own two eyes #I <3 disseminating my horrible little ideas and making them other people's problems #congrats! you are now infected with my brainrot

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sparxwrites · 1 year

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The Body Shots Incident

A prequel-ish to this nonsense, aka "the origin story of the Hermitcraft server party tequila ban". cw for lots of alcohol consumption and excessive innuendo [ao3]

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” asks Mumbo, fiddling with the buttons of his shirt. He’s trying to delay the inevitable – primarily, being shirtless in front of a lot of people with Scar ‘Godlike Abs’ Goodtimes right next to him for comparison. It’s not working very well. “Just, I can think of, off the top of my head, oh, sixteen ways this could go wrong. At least three of them end with us respawning. At least.”

“Oh, no!” Scar, already reclining across a table in a distinctly louche manner, is nude from the waist up and looking distinctly self-satisfied about it. If anybody present knew who Jeff Goldblum was, multiple comparisons would have already been made. “It’s a terrible idea, and it’s going to go horribly wrong.”

Scar, unlike Mumbo, had taken his shirt off with precisely zero shame and absolutely maximum enthusiasm as soon as the whole concept had been suggested. It had taken three people – Bdubs included, remarkably – to stop him from removing his belt and pants as well.

Mumbo’s unclear whether the nearly-double-digits-worth of brightly coloured cocktails are to blame for Scar’s enthusiastic stripping, or whether this is just a Scar Thing. Probably just a Scar Thing, if he’s being honest. The man’s shredded. If Mumbo had pecs and abs like that, he’d take his shirt off all the time too.

“Okay, both of you, lie down,” says Pearl, officiously. Or as officious as one can be, after multiple bottles of Prosecco and a round of Jaeger bombs – which is frankly not very. She’s wielding a salt shaker in one hand, like it’s a hand grenade; two lime slices in the other, like– some other kind of weapon. Or something. Mumbo’s not exactly sober right now, either. Similes are a little beyond him at this point.

Scar, already draped elegantly across his own table, gestures to Mumbo with a raised eyebrow.

Mumbo, very reluctantly, sheds his shirt.

Grian, loitering next to Impulse, wolf-whistles in what Mumbo assumes is supposed to be a supportive sort of way. It doesn’t feel very supportive. Doesn’t do much to actually support him, either. Mostly, it just makes him go bright red – brighter red than he’d already gone, anyways, at having so much skin exposed in a room full of people.

Though admittedly not that many people, realistically. There’s him and Grian, as a team; Scar and Bdubs, as the opposing team; and Impulse, the judge of this ill-conceived competition. And Pearl, of course, as his self-proclaimed beautiful assistant. But pretty much every other Hermit is on the other side of the room, busy getting drunk and being noisy. Usual server party stuff.

It’s only them over here, with the two tables in the room not currently covered in alcohol and cups, because Grian and Bdubs had had a stupid argument, and decided that clearly the best way to solve it was a body shots competition, of all things. Which, yeah, sure, tracks as far as drunk Bdubs and Grian logic goes, but– Mumbo’s not even sure how you score a body shots competition.

That’s what they have Impulse for, though. Impulse knows how to judge a body shots competition. Probably.

So there’s not that many people watching, by the grace of any god paying attention. It’s just that, well. Mumbo has his shirt off. Right next to Scar Goodtimes, abs god extraordinaire. And Mumbo’s got no abs, and skin pale enough a vampire would flinch from it, and a soft little belly, and enough body hair it probably technically counts as thermal insulation.

And, to put the icing on the misery cake, pert little nipples. It’s not his fault it’s bloody cold with his shirt off but, for some reason, he doesn’t think that’s going to stop anyone from commenting on their pertness.

“Nice nips, Mumbo,” says Grian, as though he’d read Mumbo’s mind in the worst, most malicious way possible. He cackles when Mumbo turns self-consciously pink. “Hey! That was a compliment!”

Impulse clears his throat. “No– no commenting on competitors’ nipples without their explicit consent. Well-established rule of body shots competitions that I definitely didn’t just make up. I mean. Preferably no commenting on nipples at all but–”

“Don’t worry, Grian,” interjects Scar, cheerfully. “You can comment on my nipples all you like.”

“Thanks, Scar. That’s great. I appreciate the offer.” Grian does not, under any possible stretch of the imagination, sound like he appreciates the offer.

“Hey!” snaps Bdubs, immediately, outraged on a reflex. “No commenting on my competition partner’s nipples, okay?! Get your own!”

Grian, moderately drunk and visibly bewildered, flounders. “Get… my own nipples…?”

“Yeah! Get your own nipples, Mister!”

“Anyway,” says Impulse, loudly, clapping his hands together. Several Hermits look over. A few drift over for a closer look. Mumbo’s insides curl up like a dying spider. “If we could, uh, get things started…? Pearl–?”

Pearl crosses her arms.

“–sorry, my beautiful assistant, Pearl, could you do the salt, if our contestants want to lie down…?”

“On it!” says Pearl, with entirely too much glee. She approaches, menacing, salt shaker and lime slices in hand.

Both Scar and Mumbo, rather hurriedly, scramble to arrange themselves appropriately for their salting, and then endeavour to lie very, very still. They get a lime slice placed besides their head for their troubles.

Mumbo is chosen as the first victim for salting. He holds himself frozen on the table – deer-in-the-headlights frozen, even – as Pearl, tongue between her teeth in concentration, begins to tip salt in a line down his chest, right between his pecs. It’s a pretty wobbly line. Mumbo blames the Jaeger bombs.

“This is ridiculous,” mutters Grian, watching his half-naked best friend get salted like a slug by a drunk Australian. This, Mumbo feels, is a bit rich coming from the man who enthusiastically agreed to the idea when Bdubs proposed it.

Bdubs glowers at him by way of reply. Impulse just looks tired.

When Mumbo has had the appropriate salt applied, Pearl moves onto Scar. She wields the salt shaker like a loaded gun, and is doing a poor job of muffling her giggles. Those in her way move out of the way, very quickly, as she heads to Scar’s table.

“Do not get that on my nipples, by the way, Pearl,” says Scar, firmly, craning his head up as she approaches to watch the proceedings. “I don’t want any chafing!”

Pearl, already struggling to keep anything so much as approaching a straight face, barely manages to set the salt down before she doubles over in hysterics. “Im– Impulse–” she manages, wheezing, her grip on the edge of the table the only thing keeping her upright. “Gonna– tagging– tagging you in, mate, oh, oh my–”

Impulse, with an apologetic twist of the mouth in both Mumbo and Scar’s directions, takes up the salt.

His attempt at setting up a line of salt down Scar’s chest goes significantly better than Pearl’s did with Mumbo, primarily because he’s not a bottle and a half of prosecco down and sloppy drunk with it – just a few beers tipsy, instead. In short order, the pair of them are salted, with a lime slice ready to go in their mouths when the competition begins. Then he heads off to fill shot glasses of tequila, with the tongue-between-teeth concentration and unsteady hand of the moderately inebriated.

Bdubs and Grian take the opportunity to approach and examine their victims.

“Cute,” says Grian, and pokes Mumbo in the bellybutton.

Mumbo yelps, raising a hand to swat at him, before freezing when he remembers the salt. “Hey! No– no. I am sensitive. No poking.”

“Ooh,” interrupts Bdubs, peering nosily over at the competition. At Mumbo’s chest, specifically, and the thick fuzz of dark body hair growing across it. Much of the salt has ended up across it – or, rather, beneath it, within it, and amongst it. Mumbo’s not looking forward to tomorrow’s shower. “Look at that. Very nice. Lucky you!”

Grian raises an eyebrow. “Lucky?” he asks, disbelievingly. “I– look, no offence, Mumbo, I’ve got nothing against a good bit of chest hair, but… I’m just not convinced licking it is going to be the best sensation in the world.”

“Lucky,” repeats Bdubs, firmly.

“You want to swap…?” Grian is once more visibly bewildered. Though, admittedly, that’s not an uncommon expression to find people around Bdubs wearing. “Because that’s fine, I don’t mind–”

“I do not want you two to swap,” mutters Mumbo, nervously.

He’s concertedly ignored by everyone involved.

“Aha!” Bdubs grabs Grian by the front of his jumper with both hands. “So it is true. You are trying to steal Scar from me, and you do want to lick his– Scar! Stop laughing, you’ll ruin your salt.”

Scar manages to muffle himself down to stifled sniggers, with what looks like a Herculean effort of drunken willpower. “C’mon, Bdubs. Leave poor Grian alone. We can discuss him licking me when I don’t have salt, uh, perilously close to my delicate nipples.”

“How’re you managing pel– perir– pelirousy after nine cocktails?” demands Mumbo. “You can’t even bloody say that sober!”

He is, once again, ignored.

“I don’t want to discuss him licking you! I want him to not lick you! That’s not his job.” Bdubs sounds aggrieved. He does, however, obediently release the front of Grian’s jumper, stepping back to give the other man the stink eye. “He’s not Deputy Mayor, now, is he.”

Bdubs is, technically speaking, not Deputy Mayor either. It’s several months and an entire world since he was Deputy Mayor. But everyone present is aware that, for Bdubs at least, Deputy Mayor is less a job title and more an eternal-obsessive-crony-to-Mister-Scar-Goodtimes state of mind.

“Since when has licking the Mayor been part of the Deputy Mayor’s job?” asks Mumbo, of no one in particular, though he suspects the answer is since Bdubs got the job.

“I do not want to lick Scar,” says Grian, firmly. “I’d just, you know, prefer not to lick Mumbo’s chest hair. No offence, Mumbo.”

“Some taken, mate, I’m not gonna lie.”

Scar pouts. “You don’t want to lick my–?”

“Ladies, gentlemen, and uh, sentient mosses,” says Impulse, returning with the shot glasses. Pearl has given up on proceedings entirely, sinking down to sit against one of the table legs and looking distinctly out of it. Not out of it enough, however, to have surrendered the prosecco bottle she has in a death-grip. “If we could maybe get back on track with the competition…?”

“How’re we scoring this?” asks Grian, because of course he does. Grian plays to win, after all.

“Uhhh.” Impulse, preoccupied with setting the slightly precarious shot glasses down on Mumbo and Scar’s belly without spilling them, flounders. “I was thinking maybe, like, speed, and style, and… Spanish-ness…?”

“Tequila’s from Mexico, idiot,” interjects Bdubs, helpfully.

“Mexican-ness, then.”

“None of us are from Mexico, though,” Grian points out. “Or Spain. Or anywhere in South America or Europe, actually.”

“Fine! Fine, speed and style, fine, can we just– god, I need a drink. Can we get this over with so I can get a drink?” Impulse’s voice has picked up the whining desperation of a man powerfully regretting several recent life choices.

“Yes,” agrees Bdubs, emphatically. “I would really like to get started, oh yes.” He’s looking at Scar, laid out on the table, as though he’s a slab of particularly well-cooked steak. Scar – somewhat worryingly – preens beneath his hungry gaze.

Mumbo’s relieved when Grian, deciding for reasons known only to himself to be reasonable for once in his life, tosses Impulse a casual salute by way of agreement.

“Alright.” Impulse inhales, and exhales, as though to centre himself. Or perhaps brace himself. Either way, it adds an unexpected gravity to the situation which Mumbo could really do without. Bad enough he’s shirtless on a table covered in salt, without it feeling like some big deal. “Ready, everyone? Right. Lime slices in your mouths, Scar and Mumbo. Bdubs and Grian– On your marks. Get set. Go!”

Grian goes for speed. He’s done the shot, licked the salt, and bitten the lime out of Mumbo’s mouth before Mumbo even really knows what’s happened. He’s kind of grateful for it, honestly – like ripping a bandaid off.

Bdubs, of course, goes for style.

The noise Scar makes as Bdubs drags a tongue up his belly is positively pornographic. Bdubs is flushed red-cheeked from the shot, and Scar is flushed red from a tongue dragged across sensitive skin and taut muscle. By the time Bdubs cranes his head up to take the lime from Scar’s mouth, it’s more of a lewd, open-mouthed kiss than anything else. It’s like watching a train wreck. None of them can look away.

“…Well.” Impulse clears his throat, awkwardly. His nose looks a little pink. Even odds on whether it’s from the alcohol, or the display he’s just witnessed. “I, uh… I think I’m gonna have to call that one for Scar and Bdubs, guys? Um.”

Scar whoops, gleeful. “Yes! Bdubs, it’s official. We’re the best.”

“I,” announces Bdubs, with the smug delight of a man who’s just licked a line of salt off of Scar Goodtimes’s abs and gotten an award about it, “am going to find us some more tequila. To celebrate.”

He’s gone before any of them have the time – let alone the inclination or recovered cognitive faculties – to point out that that’s probably a bad idea.

There’s a long moment of silence, as they all slowly come to terms with what they’ve just done.

“Oh, god,” says Grian, miserably, breaking the quiet. He sticks two fingers in his mouth, and comes back with something dark and wiry clutched between them. “I’ve got bloody– Mumbo hair, in my mouth–”

Mumbo is not looking at Grian. Mumbo is busy staring at Scar, still laid out across the table and looking quite pleased with himself. “Yeah, well,” he says, “I think the rather more pressing issue is that Scar’s got–”

“Absolutely no need to comment on that,” says Scar, cheerfully, finally sitting up. There’s still a little salt clinging to his abs, shimmering and crystalline. It draws the eye to it, and then encourages the eye to move further down, to his happy trail, and then on to his– “Perfectly natural reaction to getting your stomach licked. You wouldn’t shame a man for his natural reactions, now, would you, Mumbo?”

Suddenly unable to make eye contact with Scar, Mumbo averts his gaze. As he does, he mutters something that sounds remarkably like, “Bloody well would.”

He is, once again, ignored.

Scar is saved from having to discuss the particulars of his natural reactions by a loud crash from the opposite side of the room. Grian, sensing trouble occurring that he’s not yet involved with, whips his head around with velociraptor-like enthusiasm and speed.

“Bdubs, please, I just really think you don’t need any more–”

“I won!” Bdubs is yelling, holding the bottle of half-full tequila above his head as high as he can – which, given his height, is not very. Somehow, despite being far taller and significantly more sober, Xisuma’s attempts at grabbing it are going exceedingly poorly indeed. “I won, I licked Mayor Scar so, so good and I won, which means I get to celebrate, okay? With tequila.”

“No– no, Bdubs, you– come on, please, that’s very– you know what you get like when you drink too much of that, please, I really don’t–”

“Let him drink!” yells Keralis, from the sidelines, with both his characteristic lasciviousness and the motivated enthusiasm of a man who had an excellent time last time Bdubs drank too much tequila. “It’s a democracy, Shishwammy. Let Bubbles drink! Or at least let us vote on whether he can drink. I vote yes.”

If it goes to a vote, Mumbo knows, Xisuma will lose. Keralis is not the only person who had an excellent time last time Bdubs drank too much tequila. Far from it, in fact.

“Bdubs–” wails Xisuma, now weeping openly. Bdubs is stanced for combat, knees bent and arms wide like a sumo wrestler, the neck of the tequila bottle gripped in one fist. His moss hoodie and undershirt, somewhere in the proceedings, have vanished from his body. A circle of interested Hermits, sensing the evening’s entertainment, is beginning to gather around the scene.

Scar, Grian, and Mumbo watch from the other side of the room in companionable silence for a long moment – soaking up the general chaos, and attempting to process what’s just happened, respectively.

Then Scar swings his legs off the table, and stands up, with an admirable amount of grace and balance for a man nine cocktails down and counting. It’s an ongoing, server-wide mystery that Scar somehow becomes more coordinated and better with his words when drunk, and it’s always struck Mumbo as deeply unfair. “…Do you think we should go help?” he asks, mildly, watching Xisuma make yet another failed grab for the tequila.

“Absolutely not,” says Mumbo, immediately and very firmly.

As he watches, Bdubs downs two large mouthfuls of the tequila without flinching, and manages to duck Xisuma’s lunge with the poise of a ballet dancer. Xisuma, regrettably helmetless, lunges head-first into a table full of bottles instead. The resulting crash shakes the floorboards. “I do not want to get mixed up in that, thank you.”

“I think we should go and make it worse, actually,” says Grian, brightly. He is, Mumbo notices, holding a prosecco bottle – prised from Pearl’s now-empty hands where she’s slumped half-snoring beneath the table. He takes a sip, directly from the bottle, and hums appreciatively.

“Why,” says Mumbo, weakly.

“‘Cos it’ll be funny. Duh.” Grian offers the bottle to Mumbo, and wrinkles his nose when Mumbo doesn’t take it.

“Excellent point, Grian.” Scar swipes the bottle instead, tilting it up and taking a hearty chug – because that’s the part of the evening they’ve gotten to, apparently. Chugging prosecco from a bottle. “See! This is why you’re the brains of the operation. However, consider– you could also go make out in the bathroom.”

“With who?”

Scar strikes a pose, arms out, abs flexed. “With me, of course!”

“Eww. No,” says Grian, as though he hasn’t made out with Scar at nine out of the last ten server parties. Mumbo should know. He’s been keeping track. For the Boatem Pool, of course. It’s important to have those kinds of numbers to crunch, when you’re trying to work out how and when your best friend and your other best friend are going to have sex for the first time. Which is, of course, a perfectly normal thing to be trying to work out, thank you very much.

“I just want you both know,” Mumbo interrupts, “that I want no part in this.”

Grian turns to look at him, and Mumbo quails beneath the intensity of the mischief in his gaze. “What,” he says, “not even the bathroom makeouts?” as though he hadn’t been objecting to said makeouts mere moments ago.

Mumbo is just a heartbeat too slow in his denial.

“Mumbo. Mumbo!” says Scar, brightly. He’s grinning at him, a salesman’s smile, a snake’s smile, all teeth and smirk. “If you want the rewards of bathroom makeouts, you have to submit to the mortifying ordeal of doing crimes with us! You should know that by now.”

“What does that mean?!” Mumbo’s beginning to wish he’d taken the prosecco when it was offered.

“It means you should come with me and we can both take our pants off in front of Xisuma,” whispers Scar, secretively. “As a distraction. So Grian can do crimes, while everyone’s distracted by our ahmayzin’, uhhh– underwear.”

Scar’s natural reaction, Mumbo cannot help but notice, has not quite subsided yet. And, despite his trousers sitting low on his hips, there’s not so much as hint of underwear peeking out above the waistband.

“Underwear,” Mumbo repeats, slowly. “Right.”

“Absolutely not,” says Grian, but Scar is already gone, sprinting towards the Hermits ringing Xisuma and Bdubs’ ongoing tequila battle. “No! Scar–! Keep your damn pants on!” And then he’s gone, too, chasing after Scar. Or the promise of chaos.

Or, more realistically, both.

In their aftermath, Mumbo sinks – miserable, shirtless, belly hair still faintly damp from being licked – to the floor. Consumed by his own bewilderment, it takes him a moment to realise there’s a hand on his head. Pearl, apparently awake again, is petting his hair gently.

“There, there, mate,” she says, sympathetically. Her eyes are bleary, but her hands are remarkably steady as she pulls a fresh bottle of prosecco from god-knows-where and uncorks it with her teeth in a manoeuvre that leaves Mumbo staring, impressed. “Prosecco?”

“…Yeah, actually,” says Mumbo, as the noises of tequila-based disaster from the other side of the room increase, abruptly, in volume. “Yeah. You know what? Why not.”

They sit in silence for a moment, watching the chaos unfolding. Xisuma is on the floor, weeping. Bdubs is shirtless, teeth bared, wielding a now mostly-empty bottle of tequila. Scar is invisible through the throng of other hermits now watching, heckling, egging them on – but Grian is yelling, “Scar! Put your trousers back on!”, which gives them a pretty clear mental picture.

“They’re going to have sex in that bathroom, aren’t they?” says Mumbo, absently, after a while. The prosecco has settled, warm and fizzy, in bottom of his already thoroughly alcohol-lined stomach. A pair of trousers just flew out of the middle of the Hermit huddle, which is rapidly looking less like a circle and more like an active, good-natured brawl.

“Yeah. Probably.” Pearl pauses, thoughtfully, and makes grabby hands at the prosecco bottle. Mumbo obediently passes it over. “That is, if they don’t just give up and fuck right in the middle of the party.”

Mumbo ignores that last bit, because if he starts thinking about that then he’s a bit concerned he’s going to have a natural reaction of his own. Across the room, Bdubs has begun wailing in misery, in the way only Bdubs can. “I should probably be there,” he says. “If they are. For Boatem Pool purposes, you know?”

“Boatem Pool purposes,” repeats Pearl, solemnly. “Totally.”

She passes the prosecco back, and fist-bumps the bottle in solidarity when he takes it. And then they sit there, in silence, sharing the rest of the drink between them as the sounds of tequila-based disaster fill the rest of the room.

#scarian #mumscarian #scardubs #hermits crafting #fic #hermitfic #this is both absolutely absurd and possibly the best thing i've ever written #please read it please reblog it it's like several thousand words of complete crack and it''s so good

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ladamedusoif · 6 months

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Scarf (Javi Gutierrez x gn!Reader)

A Merry Fic-Mas - December 4

Part of A Merry Fic-Mas: A Holiday Fic Calendar - click for masterlist. FYI: I'm having so much trouble with taglists at the moment that I'm not going to use them for now - if you want to keep updated, follow @ladameecrit and turn on notifications.

Pairing: Javi Gutierrez x gn!reader

Rating: Teen

Word count: 658

Warnings: Reader can knit (try it, it’s fun!); reader gives Javi a Christmas gift but consider this a secular Christmas; no use of Y/N, no use of gendered pronouns, no physical descriptions of reader; mild angst.

Summary: Once upon a time, your first Christmas gift to Javi was a perfectly imperfect handmade scarf.

He always ended up gazing at your hands while you knitted.

It was hypnotic, almost: the repetitive little gestures with your clever fingers, the yarn over, yarn under, turn the work; the way you would furrow your brow just so and purse your lips as you counted the stitches.

The way he always had to suppress a giggle when you swore at whatever you were making, sighing in exasperation.

Javi could never quite grasp how you managed it without looking. He asked about that, once, when you were cosied up beside him on his long couch, blanket over your knees, knitting away while your eyes were trained on Paddington 2 playing on the TV.

“It’s muscle memory by now,” you’d explained. “I learn the pattern, I memorise what I need to, and then I can tell by touch what the next stitch is and should be. It’s just a matter of practice - anyone could do it.”

Javi shook his head, still transfixed by your hands working busily away. “It’s not practice, mi amor. It’s your magic.”

For your first Christmas gift to him, you’d made him a scarf. Soft merino yarn, a relatively simple pattern, in a beautiful shade of cornflower blue that you knew would look perfect against his beautiful olive skin and dark hair.

You knew there were a few mistakes in it - a repeated purl stitch when it should have been a knit, a dropped stitch here and there that you’d had to patch in a little clumsily. But every stitch was invested with care and meaning, a manifestation of your desire to keep him warm, safe, and know that he was loved.

You had even found a little woven label that you hand-stitched onto the back of the scarf, stating simply: Made With Love.

When he opened the gift box, Javi’s eyes twinkled as he took out the scarf and ran his fingers carefully over the knitted fabric, taking in every detail.

“It’s not perfect, Javi, and it’s a far cry from your cashmere scarves, but it will keep you warm when it’s cold, and I thought the colour would -”

He stopped you by cradling your face in his hands and kissing you over and over as he murmured his thanks. He picked up the scarf and draped it around his elegant throat, closing his eyes happily as he felt its warmth and softness on his skin.

“It is the most beautiful thing in the world. Apart from you, that is.”

Javi is greeted with the spectre of freezing, early morning London fog when he pulls back the curtains in his hotel room. He shivers reflexively, and goes to the wardrobe to find his warmest clothes for that day’s round of meetings. A grey turtleneck, a thermal undershirt, a charcoal suit, and his perfectly-cut houndstooth woollen overcoat. Perfect.

The sight of the scarf nestled alongside his socks in one of the hotel room drawers stops him in his tracks for a moment. He reaches down and runs his hand over its careful stitching, like he did the day you gave it to him.

So long ago, now, and so hard to understand what had transpired in the time since.

Some winters he cannot look at it, let alone wear it. But there is something inviting in its sturdy warmth today, something that whispers to him of comfort and joy.

Javi turns to the full length mirror and takes in his reflection.

He is well put-together, but incomplete.

He drapes the scarf around his neck, fingering the little tag as he appraises himself again.

Made With Love.

For a moment, he feels whole again.

#a merry fic-mas #holiday fic calendar #javi gutierrez #javi gutierrez x reader #javi gutierrez x you #javi gutierrez x gn!reader #javi gutierrez fanfiction #tuwomt #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedrostories #pedro pascal

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2jaeh · 2 years

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first snow | haechan

your mischievous boyfriend wakes you up to enjoy the first snow of year

genre: fluff

content: gender neutral!reader, established relationship, boyfriend!haechan

word count: 611

- lin

christmas fic masterlist (2022)

"Hello? Good morning? Excuse me? Good morning!"

Your eyes were closed, your body warm and bundled under three layers of blankets. You were having a good dream, relaxing on the balcony of your luxury apartment, sipping a mug of coffee as you watched the bustling city beneath you. You were alone, but your boyfriend's voice nagged from behind you. And he wouldn't stop. He kept talking and talking and talking…

You jolted up in your bed, your eyes shooting open when something wet and icy cold made contact with your face. In your delirious state you turned your head to see Haechan standing at the side of your bed, still dressed in his sleepwear but his thick thermal jacket was draped over his shoulders. His guilty hands were outstretched, his palms damp and flushed a light red colour.

"Hyuck… What the…" You barely managed to get out a single sentence, your morning voice hoarse and groggy.

"I did have a snowball to smash on your face, but it melted as soon as I got back into the house." Haechan grinned mischievously, wiping his hands dry on his pants.

You rubbed your eyes tiredly, yawning until you fully grasped what your menace of a boyfriend had just said to you. You were now fully awake and glaring at him.

"Excuse me what!?"

"It's snowing babe!" Haechan exclaimed, completely ignoring your clear annoyance, "if you'd just woken up when I tried earlier then I wouldn't have to go to such drastic measures."

"Well apologies for not waking up at six in the morning." You rolled your eyes, throwing yourself back in the bed and pulling the blanket up to your chin.

"Come ooon!!" Haechan whined, laying himself on top of you and wrestling you out of the blankets.

"Please let me sleep!" You begged playfully, managing to get him into a headlock as he tapped out frantically.

"Okay, okay, now that you're awake enough to beat me up, can we go outside?" Haechan laid on your lap pathetically, his doe eyes pleading.

"Fineee." You sighed, beckoning him off your lap as you got out of the bed.

Once you stepped outside, you were met with a gush of cold air and the fresh smell of morning dew. It was the first snow of the holiday season and Haechan was already standing ankle deep in it. You stood safely on the concrete pathway leading to your apartment building while Haechan excitedly trudged through the snow. You couldn't help the smile that adorned your face as you watched him cup some snow into his hands, moulding it into a small ball. The smile dropped from your face the minute he turned around, his expression telling you exactly what he was plotting.

You immediately darted in the opposite direction, ducking behind a tree and scooping up some snow to defend yourself. Haechan's mischievous laughter filled your ears as he raced towards you, slamming the snowball onto your head. You shrieked at the sensation before smashing your own snowball into his face in retaliation.

"Oh you're gonna pay for that one!" Haechan yelled as he grabbed hold of you, initiating the second wrestling match of the day.

You tried to wriggle out of his grip, but eventually you both tripped over each other's legs, falling flat onto the soft, snow covered ground beneath you.

"So much for payback, you almost broke your ass." You spoke through your laughter, nevertheless holding him in your arms as he winced in pain.

"And it's all your fault, I need a kiss to feel better." Haechan mumbled, a pout on his face.

"You want me to kiss your ass?"

"Oh God, shut up!"

#haechan #lee donghyuck #haechan fluff #haechan imagines #haechan scenarios #nct haechan #haechan x reader #nct #nct 127 #nct dream #nct dream imagines #nct dream scenarios #nct dream fluff #nct dream au #nct 127 fluff #nct 127 drabble #nct 127 imagines #nct 127 scenarios

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nicetown · 11 months

Text

Turning the Tables on Temperatures with Thermal Curtains

Once upon a time, in a house not too dissimilar to yours, there was a battle of epic proportions taking place. The adversaries? Your cozy living space and the pesky outside weather. Sweltering summer heat would turn your living room into an unwanted hot yoga class. The frosty winter winds would sneak in, leaving you wrapped up like an Eskimo indoors.

The knight in shining armor to rescue you from these unwelcome guests? Thermal curtains! Yes, indeed, these aren’t just your average window dressings. Thermal curtains, also known as insulated curtains, thermal insulated curtains, and thermal drapes, have been endowed with magical powers to keep the villains of extreme temperatures at bay.

Now, imagine if your windows were wrapped up in the coziest, snuggliest blanket you ever did see. That’s pretty much what thermal curtains do! They’re a clever concoction of foam layers, a reflective film, and good old heavy fabric, all designed to combat the harsh realities of fluctuating weather.

Insulated curtains, the summer superheroes of the curtain world, have a superpower that would make Superman green with envy. They can reflect heat! Yes, you heard right! So, when the sun plays the villain and attempts to invade your peaceful abode with its fiery hot rays, these curtains are there to deflect the heat right back where it came from. A big, resounding “No entry!” for Mr. Sun!

But what about the chilling winters, you ask? Enter thermal insulated curtains, your personal indoor fireplaces. They keep the warmth inside your room, preventing it from escaping. The result? Your heater can finally get a day off, and you’ll notice a pretty sweet reduction in those energy bills.

The heavyweight champions, the true divas of this realm, are thermal drapes. They’re a layer of opulence and a layer of insulation rolled into one, serving an added purpose of sound absorption. These drapes are the ones you need if you live next to a busy street or a honking goose — they’ve got the power to hush that brass band right outside your window!

Remember, size does matter here! The bigger the curtain, the stronger its power to fight off temperature troubles. Just like a superhero’s cape, it should sweep the floor, covering your window from head to toe, ensuring no sneaky drafts can wiggle their way in.

Oh, and did we mention they are quite the fashionistas too? With an array of colors, patterns, and styles, there’s a Nicetown thermal curtain out there to match every interior décor theme you could dream of.

So, in the war against weather, insulated curtains, thermal insulated curtains, and thermal drapes are your trusted allies. They’re here to protect your home, save you money, and look absolutely fabulous while doing it. Why not give them a chance to transform your living space and feel the magic for yourself?

#Soundproof Curtains #Insulated Curtains #Thermal Curtains #Blackout Curtains #Thermal Drapes #curtains #soundproof #home improvement #thermal #window treatment

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anadytop · 2 years

Photo

Teal Blue Patterned Window Curtains Thermal Ceiling Drapes

The teal blue drapes are circle fireworks patterned curtains, beautiful color with nice quality, room darkening & thermal, you can use them as a room divider curtain or ceiling drapes for decor.

Shop now -> https://bit.ly/3AqOov1

#cheap curtains #teal blue curtains #patterned curtains #window curtains #thermal curtains #ceiling drapes #room divider curtain #darkening curtains #eyelet curtains #bedroom drapes #thermal drapes #dining room drapes

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michelle-anadytop · 2 years

Photo

Teal Blue Patterned Window Curtains Thermal Ceiling Drapes

The teal blue drapes are circle fireworks patterned curtains, beautiful color with nice quality, room darkening & thermal, you can use them as a room divider curtain or ceiling drapes for decor.

Shop now -> https://bit.ly/3AqOov1

#teal blue curtains #bedroom curtains #bay window curtains #room divider curtain #farmhouse curtains #sliding door curtains #teal curtains #63 inch curtains #pinch pleat drapes #ceiling drapes #dining room drapes #thermal drapes

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sommerregenjuniluft · 4 months

Text

@hpsaffics feb 10 - voyeurism/exhibitionism - 3.2k words (apologies hjfkjds) - NSFW

for ino @veryinnovative <3

There’s a sigh from behind Dorcas and then a body draping over her back where she’s in the pleasantly hot and salty smelling water all the way down to her shoulders.

A smile tugs at her lips and she reaches behind through the water for the backs of Pandora’s knees as the other tangles her arms above Dorcas’ chest.

Another heavy sigh, put upon and bordering on melodramatic—god, she really is so cute. Dorcas is gonna have to put her in timeout. Or maybe herself, for everyone’s collective safety.

She keeps wading them through the water, following Regulus’ black head of curls, and then it’s a noise, a chilly nose nuzzling at the crook of Dorcas’ neck from behind and she can’t help but snicker, “Something wrong, mon cheri?”

Pandora sighs, like she’s faced with a pile of her least favourite work instead of the relaxing thermal bath they’re currently in.

“C’mon, sweets,” Dorcas gently scratches her short nails against Pandora’s bare knee, “Talk to me.”

Pandora mumbles something unintelligible into the hinge of her jaw and Dorcas dips lower into the water to mask the shiver that goes through her whole body.

“Couldn’t quite hear you there.”

Pandora harrumphs, legs tightening in the old around Dorcas’ hips. “Just– dunno,” she deflates slightly, cheek smushed against Dorcas’ shoulder, “Can’t seem to get out of my mood.”

Dorcas hums knowingly, drawing soothing circles on top of her thighs where she’s still holding onto her. Pandora and Evan had been arguing the whole car ride, she told Dorcas she’d slept awfully and when she dropped an open tupperware of fruit as they were packing Pandora nearly started crying.

“Here,” Dorcas says, turning in the loose embrace and tugging the other girl around to her front, “C’mere, babe.”

Further up front it seems Barty has found a seating ledge under the water which he’s currently taking up as much space on as physically possible while Evan tugs Regulus closer, hooking a chin around his shoulder and watching Barty’s shenanigans with a smirk and glare respectively.

Once Pandora is settled in front of her, legs hooked around her hips and an adorably pitiful pout on her face, Dorcas can’t help but coo at her a little. Wide honey eyes, flecks of gold and her bleached curls sopping wet at the ends where they’re already dunked in the water. The sweetest rosy lips, the small, dark mole under the right corner of her mouth. Dorcas lifts a hand to hold her still by the chin and places a soft kiss on the tip of her nose.

Pandora’s eyelids flutter a bit, the crease between her eyebrows mellowing and Drocas grins, feeling warmer from the inside out, which shouldn’t be quite possible given the bath temperature but never underestimate the charm of a Rosier, she guesses.

The Rosiers got that distinct air around them, too, that no matter the size of your balls makes you start to squirm after only so many minutes of them simply staring at you. Mustering, eyeing, scrutinising, assessing and Dorcas tries to ignore it now on Pandora as she manoeuvres them to one of the underwater pressure nozzles built on the side of the pool wall.

“How’s that feel?” Dorcas mumbles as she positions them in line of the nozzle, directed at Pandora’s back.

Her mouth falls open a little and then her eyes roll back with a groan, legs tightening around Dorcas once more and she has to swallow. Their breasts bump and there’s glitter on the white triangles covering Pandora’s but Dorcas can still see her pert nipples whenever they come up above the surface. Honestly, it’s highly distracting.

“This is better than sex,” Pandora announces, eyes closed in bliss right in front of Dorcas’ face.

A tug in Dorcas’ gut but her mouth tips into a grin, “Then you probably haven’t had any good sex lately.”

“You know I haven’t,” she whines, leaning back and it does something to Dorkas again. Yep, timeout should definitely be something to seriously be considered as of now.

Pandora tips her head back down and fixes Dorcas with a considering glance, lips contorted like it happens when she’s thinking.

Uh oh.

“Cass,” and it’s unbearably sweet.

“Yeah?”

Pandora’s expression mellows and slips so fast into an amused grin Dorcas feels like experiencing whiplash. Her whole face lights up, pink colour returning to her tan skin and teeth shown in a brilliant smile, a gap between the two front incisors. And then she’s leaning in, giggling and whispering like she’s telling a secret, “The nozzle is blasting away my panties.”

Dorcas blinks and then her hands quickly abandon where she was kneading the muscle of Pandora’s thighs to scramble for the fabric of her swimming underwear. It is indeed all the way down at the crease of her thighs and Dorcas quickly tangles her fingers in to yank it back up as she side-steps the nozzle.

Pandora is laughing like it’s the most amusing thing in the world and Dorcas slips her tongue into the side of one cheek, glaring at her friend as she shakes in Dorcas’ hold.

They stay like this for a few moments, everything around them blurring to an unimportant background muffle as Pandora giggles sweetly into Dorcas’ neck and Dorcas tries not to bite into the elegant rounding of her shoulder or the jut of her collarbones. She’s wearing a small golden chain with a star pendant and a little purple amethyst. Dorcas’ birthstone.

Once she’s calmed down, Pandora pulls back but not far, grinning a little lopsided as she looks at Dorcas.

Dorcas wants to kiss her.

A bleached eyebrow raises pointedly, a predator playing, “You can take your hands off my ass now if you want.”

As if on reflex, Dorcas’ fingers tighten and she barely represses a noise when she, indeed, feels the meat of Pandora’s ass in them. Her heart skips a beat in her chest and then picks back up a little too strongly, “What if I don’t want to?”

Pandora hums, catching her bottom lip between her teeth, “Then don’t.”

Dorcas nods, lips tugging into a smirk and she leans in to place a kiss against Pandora’s cheek, to murmur in her ear, “Feel any better now?”

Pandora nods, her curls tickling Dorcas’ nose. “Still tense though.” Fingers slipping up between the roots of her braids.

“Think I can help with that?”

Another nod, a hum that’s more of a little moan and Dorcas tugs Pandora forward against her, delighting in the gasp she elicits.

Her mouth pulls into a grin, “Legs down, sweets.”

Pandora makes a noise in protest but she lets herself be handled when it’s clear Dorcas is pulling her over one of her thighs in the water.

She throws a look over the back of her shoulder to confirm that the others are still mostly outside of ear shot and otherwise occupied.

When she turns back Pandora is gazing up at her through her lashes with a slack mouth and Dorcas makes a noise in appreciation before she grabs her by the hips and starts a slow rhythm against her bare thigh.

It takes a moment to figure it out, what with the water slowing their movements but Dorcas knows it works when Pandora makes a little noise that sounds equally surprised as it does needy. One of her hands comes down to clutch at her waist, fingers slipping under the belly beads Dorcas is perpetually wearing and Dorcas can’t help but tug a little rougher on the next shift of hips.

“Kiss me?” Pandora whimpers, their noses only a hair width apart but Dorcas tips her head to the side and out of reach.

“We’re gonna get found out, love,” and Pandora’s eyebrows furrow again, a small, pathetic noise slipping out of her. “I know, baby, I know.” Dorcas coos, agitated, and throws another look over her shoulder.

It’s still relatively empty, the boys busy with themselves and only another middle-aged woman farther back.

Well, fuck public decency. Dorcas turns and immediately captures Pandora in a kiss, a wet slide of lips that has Pandora’s hips stuttering and a whimpering like she’s getting it so good. Dorcas’ blood is thrumming with it.

It’s not like they haven’t done this before. Fumbling, inexperienced hands and shy giggles in Dorcas’ dorm once they’d both figured out they were onto women but it’s different now that they’re older. Adult, more sure of themselves, have dated and loved and tried themselves with others.

Still, it’s like driving by your childhood home, that’s not your house anymore but the tree still stands in the same place in the backyard and you still know which room exactly used to be yours. Where the kitchen is, where you used to eat your meals and where you piled on the couch for your parents to take a photo with an old digital camera of you and your friends all dressed up on your birthday.

Dorcas sucks the plush meat of Pandora’s lower lip between her lips, palm digging in right above her tailbone and a heel hooks around her ankle as Pandora shudders through her arousal, fingers clenching on Dorcas’ hip.

The fabric of her panties keeps dragging against Drocas’ skin and it’s dizzying, her hands moving on their own as they go to grab at Pandora’s ass again.

She slumps forward, forehead against her collarbones and moaning when Dorcas pushes her down more vigorously.

“Shh,” Dorcas makes, grinning and fucking high off bringing her best girl friend off, “Gotta stay quiet for me, angel.”

Another pitiful noise and Dorcas angles her face up again to steal another kiss, licking into Pandora’s mouth when it pliantly parts for her.

“Cass,” an audible swallow, “Cassy.”

Dorcas sucks in a breath when Pandora starts palming at the swell of her breast, “Hm?”

“’s not enough,” her shoulders draw up helplessly as she grinds down deliriously. “Need mgh—”

“More?” and Pandora nods her head furiously, kissing at Dorcas’ neck, hot and open mouthed. “Want my fingers, bébé?”

“Ah– oui. Please, please.”

Dorcas detaches her gently, hands cupping her cheeks for another slow kiss before she turns Pandora in her arms and leans her against the edge of the pool.

“Keep breathing for me, love.”

Pandora tzks, throws an eye roll over her shoulder as she wiggles her hips underwater, “I know how to breathe.”

Dorcas’ grin stretches so wide her cheeks stain from it, “Try telling me again once I have you on the edge of your orgasm, yeah?”

Pandora’s mouth drops open, slightly affronted, but then closes it quickly as he lets out a whine through clenched teeth when Dorcas slides her panties to the side without preamble.

It’s easy enough to slip the tip of her finger through where Pandora is slick, satiny heat, heaven on earth and they let out a mutual, soft groan when she sheathes it in all the way to the last knuckle. Twisting, turning and then pumping in and out at a pace that makes Pandora’s grip turn white knuckled.

“More,” she gasps after a few moments, toes curling into Dorcas’ calf.

Dorcas hums, places a sweet kiss on the jut of her shoulder blade, “Where are your manners, Dora? Patience is a virtue.”

“Cassy,” the tone of her voice like sharp claws swiping out for Dorcas’ aorta. A frustrated whine, “Need you.”

Dorcas’ grin widens and she lets her teeth graze against her neck, watching her shiver, “Ask nicely?”

A noise that says fuck you, then relenting, “Please.”

“‘Please’ what?”

Her head sinks between her drawn shoulders, the straps of her white bikini top stretched taut, “Please, give me another finger, putain.”

“See?” Dorcas teases, prodding at her wet entrance with the tip of her ring finger, “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Pandora moans into the crook of her own arm, “Remind me why we’re doing this again?”

“Mm, because you were basically begging for me to fuck you?”

“Cass.”

“Because you were in a foul mood and I’m such a good friend I’ll go to any lengths to make you feel better—even though you’re being a difficult little brat,” Dorcas snakes her second hand under the garment, circling Pandora’s clit, immediately making her stutter on her inhale.

Pandora grits her teeth, throwing a glare over her shoulder that’s ruined by her swollen mouth and the blush tinting her cheeks, “Since when have you become someone to put people in their place during sex.”

Dorcas grins and leans in, letting their lips brush, “Since you’ve become more confident and quick to open your smart mouth and talk back.”

The helpless moan tumbling out of Pandora gets swallowed by Dorcas’ hungry mouth. Their teeth click with the angle, lips catching on each other and once Dorcas properly rubs over that small bundle of nerves Pandora starts erratically jerking her hips, fucking herself back on Dorcas’ fingers but also grinding into the stimulation.

There’s a loud bark of laughter from behind and Dorcas’ head spins around to watch Barty try and entangle himself with Evan. Regulus is half in their menacing clutches as well, looking entirely unamused but Dorcas knows it’s a harmless farce from the lack of crease between his brows.

They make eye contact for a second and then Regulus’ head snaps back around to her again, mouth falling open a bit and Dorcas’ ministrations falter for a second.

Pandora makes a displeased noise and Dorcas would literally rather drown herself right now than stop so she places a placating kiss to the side of Pandora’s neck before she turns again, giving Regulus a pleading look.

Regulus cocks his head a little, eyes narrowing in a way that say Really? and maybe if Dorcas wasn’t two fingers deep in their girl friend’s delightfully slick pussy she’d stick out her tongue at him. Like this, she simply matches him, daring him to say anything that would steer attention towards and interrupt them.

And because Regulus is a good friend, he turns with an eye roll and makes an effort to sidle up closer to Barty and Evan to keep their attention focused away from what ungodly things the latter’s twin sister is subjected to at the other end of the pool.

“Fuck,” Pandora mutters, throwing her head back against Dorcas’ shoulder, back arched beautifully, hiccuping a breath when Dorcas rolls her clit between thumb and index.

Dorcas’ sucks on the soft skin of Pandora’s neck in response, “How’s your breathing, doll?”

“Fuck you,” she gasps out and Dorcas chuckles against the hot skin, “Don’t fucking stop.”

Dorcas grunts, wrist aching but she wouldn’t dream it, “Promise, sweets. Just be as pretty and good for me as you always are.”

Pandora moans, high pitched, “Good for you?”

“So good,” Dorcas groans, the pulse between her own legs throbbing, “Love having you with me all the time. Smartest girl, prettiest thing to look at.”

Pandora nods—so good for her—and then presses out a strangled, “Love you.”

Dorcas nods, too, braids slipping over her shoulder. “I know,” because she does know. They all love each other unconditionally, irrevocably, unquestionably and they all know it.

The sweetest guttural noise evades Pandora, a distinct edge to the sound that makes Dorcas’ hair stand on end, vibrating with how bad she wants her. “Gonna cum for me, sweets?”

“Yeah,” Pandora whimpers, breath coming in short little bursts, working up to her orgasm as Dorcas keeps the stimulation up, mouthing at the tendons of her neck besides the stupid white bikini halter string.

Her noises increase in pitch, body tensing between Dorcas’ arms and cunt tightening around her fingers and because when Dorcas wants something she goes all in she presses her mouth up against the shell of Pandora’s ear, “Just for me, huh? All for me, sweets, c’mon. Be good and cum for me.”

“Cass,” Pandora chides, moans, and then she’s falling apart. Trembling and shaking, panting and whimpering as she convulses around Dorcas’ fingers in lapping waves of blinding hot pleasure.

Dorcas tips her head forward and watches greedily as Pandora’s lips drop open in a silent cry, brows furrowed, the water lapping between her cleavage and looking like a god damn piece of art. She slows her fingers, keeps the two inside unmoving, pressed deep inside and strokes against her clit gentler as Pandora comes crashing back down gradually.

She slumps back against Dorcas with an exhausted moan, voice raspy and panting shallowly. Slowly coming to again, eyelids fluttering and blowing out an errant curl that’s fallen into her face.

It makes Dorcas’ lips slip into a satisfied grin and she presses a lingering kiss against the other’s flushed cheek, trailing a flutter of closed lips down her jaw and neck as she carefully removes her fingers and slides the swimwear panties back into place.

Pandora makes a little mournful noise but she tips her head to the side in welcome, sighing sweetly when Dorcas’ arms come together in front of her stomach.

The second Dorcas detaches her lips Pandora turns in the embrace and slinks her own palms up Dorcas’ stomach and around, fingers tracing the knobs of spine as she eagerly chases Drocas’ mouth for more.

They stay like this for a few moments, a couple minutes maybe, where they just let their bodies do what they do best—be close with each other and do what feels good. It feels familiar and a little oddly so, like they’re practised in it, almost, like it’s something they do on a daily. But Dorcas basks in it, in the way Pandora’s tongue nudging against hers with the perfect amount of pressure just feels right.

When they draw back Pandora looks less flushed but her cheeks are rosy all the same and her mouth ridiculously swollen, looking downright edible where she licks at the little spit Dorcas left there, whiskey eyes drunk but not hazy and fond where they look right back at her.

“So?” Dorcas asks, stealing another kiss.

Pandora rolls her eyes with a grin, “‘So’ what?”

“Nozzle or sex?” Dorcas smiles toothily.

Pandora’s face slips into a put upon frown, “Now don’t let this get to your head.”

“Oh,” Dorcas makes, waving a hand, “That’s already too late, I’m afraid to say, mon cheri.”

“Incorrigible.”

Dorcas hums, smiling against Pandora’s lips when she tips her chin back up for another kiss.

“Well, well, well,” Barty’s voice comes leering from right behind Dorcas and she sighs. Every era of peace must come to an end, she supposes. “What do we have over here, huh? The two beauties all entangled in each other?”

Regulus is hanging off of his back and watching with a self-satisfied expression, like Dorcas owes him now that he successfully distracted his fucking boyfriends for a continues five minutes so she could take care of Pandora in her time of need.

“Keep your tongue out of my sister’s mouth where I can see it, hm, Meadows?” Evan drawls, sidling up next to Barty.

Dorcas looks back over in time to see Pandora scrunching her nose at Evan childishly and then immediately licking a flat stripe up the side of Dorcas’ face.

A muscle in Evan’s jaw ticks and then Pandora’s fingers are digging into the hinge of Dorcas’, making her open her mouth and shamelessly licking inside, making a whole show of doing exactly what her brother asked her not to do.

God, Dorcas is gonna put a fucking ring on her.

#yeah this turned into a whole fucking oneshot #pandorcas #pandora rosier x dorcas meadows #dorcas meadows #pandora rosier #pandora lovegood #slytherin skittles #rosestarkiller if you squint #rosier twins #theyre all dancing tango with the line between platonic and romantic #might upload this to ao3 #pandora lovegood x dorcas meadows #ino tag #lune’s tiny fic #lune writes #hpsafficsfeb24 #hp femslash #femslash february #femslash feb 2024

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sunnynwanda · 10 months

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Supervillain gets sick. Very, VERY sick. Will someone help him or is life about to get much, much worse for the master criminal?

Supervillain is sick

The air feels cold against their clammy skin, sending chills down their spine and arms. Their chest movements are uneven as they try to suppress another fit of coughs choking on their throat. Supervillain squeezes their eyes shut, waiting for it to pass. Their eyelids are heavy as lead when they try to open their eyes. They attempt a deep breath but end up wheezing through another cough.

Superhero be damned.

That ice-cold bath in the frozen river must have been the last straw. They had landed on the bridge to wipe the perspiration off their forehead and run a hand through their damp hair. Meningitis was the last thing they wanted to die from, not after such a brilliant career as a master criminal and head of everything underground. Superhero didn't entirely mind the state of affairs in the city either. Their battles were nothing more than a warning. A display of power on both their ends to ensure no one attempted to defy the balance they had achieved.

Supervillain huffs out a shuddering breath, pressing a palm against their chest. It hurts all the way up to their throat and head. Their back feels stiff despite the softness of their couch. They did not expect the push and had to regroup under the surface, loosing precious time and, apparently, their lungs to the water.

The room is getting too hot, so they throw their blanket off, allowing the air to touch their burning skin. They inhale sharply at the sensation before realising they are no longer alone in the room.

"That's not a good idea," Supervillain glances in the general direction of the voice. What an astute observation. Had they not been this exhausted, they would have jumped up or searched for a weapon. Superhero shakes their head, walking out of the shadows.

"I'm not known for good ones," Supervillain admits, earning a low chuckle from their nemesis.

"How long have you been burning up like this?" Superhero asks, seizing them up. Supervillain raises an eyebrow watching Superhero point at their eyes. Ah, yes. Thermal vision.

"What day is it today?" They ask. Their mouth is dry, but when they take a gulp of water, it feels stale against their tongue. "I've been down since Monday night."

"Are you out of your mind?" Superhero's voice goes unusually high. It must be about a week then, Supervillain assumes. They suspect it is pneumonia, and judging from the frown in Superhero's brow, they must be correct in that diagnosis. They want to ask how bad it is but opt for a safer route.

"I didn't exactly throw myself into a goddamn frozen river, did I?" They retort before going into a violent coughing fit. Superhero pulls them into a sitting position, rubbing circles on their back until they calm down. "You did."

"I know," Superhero looks ashamed, which they thoroughly enjoy despite the fever and weakness. They lean back against the couch, resting their spinning head. Dehydrated, Superhero mutters under their breath. "What do we do?"

Supervillain has to suppress a laugh at the risk of going into another uncontrollable fit. Their chest hurts from constant coughing. "How would I know? You're the ex-doctor here."

"There's no such thing as an ex-doctor," Superhero smiles, collecting their thoughts. They need ibuprofen, coughing syrup, some antibiotics, rest and lots to drink. "I wish I could listen to your lungs."

"Can't you do that with your eyes?" Superhero can't help the laugh that escapes their lips.

"Just how clueless are you?" They don't wait for a reply, marching into the kitchen only to come back with a new glass of water and some medicine in their hand. "Take this. It'll help you sleep while I make run for the pharmacy."

For some unfathomable reason, Supervillain obliges without question. They must be really weak, Superhero figures. They drape the blanket over Supervillain's form and find another for when their fever drops and they start shaking. They make a cup of lemon tea and place it on the coffee table, ordering Supervillain to drink it before their return.

Superhero knows who is to blame for the ice water bath, yet they can't help but wonder why there's no one taking care of the master criminal. No henchmen, no followers, no minions. Just them, alone in their lair. Their life behind the curtains feels eerily identical to Superhero's.

They glance back, wondering who and what they are fighting for and find no answer. Would anyone notice if one day Supervillain went missing? Seeing them now, they could as well be gone, and no one would come looking for their lifeless body. They could die alone in their living room, and no one would know. Would anyone notice if it were Superhero? They didn't know. They didn't want to know.

Hi, lovely anon! I might have taken this into a slightly different direction from what you expected but I hope you still find it fun. Thank you for the request :)

Masterlist

#supervillain #superhero #sick supervillain #caring superhero #but then again it's their fault #in the first place #existential thoughts #hero and villain #villain x hero #community #creative writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #requests open #sunnynwanda

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