For you, my dear, I had planned to write some bottom Derek smut, but all my ideas for this had feelings all over them. So I wrote them all instead of picking one. I hope you enjoy it!
Four times Stiles and Derek say “Don’t go,” and two times they are exactly where they want to be (for @pale-silver-comb)
Derek’s voice is sleep roughened but edged with a practiced concerned awareness, gained from too many late night emergency phone calls, “Stiles? What’s wro-”
“Derek!” Sites interrupts with his usual exuberance, tinged with the softened slur of unaccustomed drunkenness, and Derek relaxes marginally as Stiles continues. “How are you man? I haven’ seen you in like- wha’ time izzit?” Stiles whips his phone away from his ear to check the time, but he’s too intoxicated to fight his own momentum and ends up twirling after the arc of his arm, stumbling. He barely manages to catch himself before he falls to the ground, but Derek is on his feet and getting dressed as soon as he hears the muttered “Oh, shit.”
Before he can yell for the human, he hears an honest to god giggle through the tiny speaker, and he relaxes ever so slightly. He can hear the indistinct baseline of something irritating and popular distantly playing in the background, the sound of the wind a low whistle through the phone line, and Stiles, laughing.
“Stiles, where are you?” Derek is grabbing his keys and toeing on shoes as he prepares to collect the human before he can get into trouble. Beacon Hills is relatively safe, if you don’t count the supernatural threats, but a good looking and clearly intoxicated seventeen year old shouldn’t be out wanting the streets at one thirty in the morning.
“I wuzzat a party with Scott. But he left with this girl, an’ he said I shouldn’ stay long, but he was ‘sposed to be my ride, and Der’k, I’m drunk,” he finishes seriously. “I’m drunk, an’ I can’t call my dad, and you’re like, my bes’ friend, an’ your car is awesome, an’ i-“
Derek is caught off guard by the sincerity in Stiles’ voice, but he focuses on the rising panic and cuts him off with a gentle, “Hey, just tell me where you are, I’ll be right there.”
Stiles slurs through his location, and Derek is relieved to hear it’s only a few minutes away. He keeps Stiles talking as he speeds to close the distance faster, and the wave of pure relief that washes over him at the sight of Stiles slumped against a lamppost is like an electric shock.
Stiles pours himself into the passenger seat with more grace than he usually possesses and flashes Derek a grateful smile. He’s more tired and regretful drunk than boisterous drunk now, and he lets his head rest heavily against the seat as Derek drives at a much slower speed toward the Stilinski house.
“Thank you for coming to get me, Der,” Stiles’ voice is clearer, but small sounding, his words not quite their usual crispness. “I’m glad it’s you, because I don’t have to worry about not saying how burning hot Derek is, or how I want him to push me up against a wall and kiss me, because you’re not him, and, oh fuck! You’re you!” he says accusingly, as if Derek had forgotten who he was talking to, and not the other way around.
Derek can feel the hot blush color his ears and flash down his neck at the image Stiles paints with his accidental confession.
“Stiles,” he begins, gently, but Stiles doesn’t let him finish.
“Derek, can we please blame the alcohol and forget that pretty much this whole night happened?”
Derek considers it. Stiles is clearly embarrassed, his scent gone sour and his heartbeat unsteady. It would be easy to ignore it, he’s had plenty of practice ignoring his feelings. But if Stiles wants him, and he doesn’t have to pretend he doesn’t want him back- why should he? “What if I don’t want to?”
Stiles gasps, and it sends a shiver down Derek’s spine. “You- what?”
“We’ll talk when you’re-recovered. Alright?”
“Yeah, sure,” Stiles doesn’t sound convinced
After a brief internal argument, Derek reaches over and takes hold of Stiles’ hand and gives a reassuring squeeze. He’s immeasurably gratified when Stiles sighs happily and the tension melts out of him, his scent spiking sharply with contentment, fingers wriggling slightly to settle between Derek’s. Derek can hardly suppress the echoing sigh from his own chest.
Stiles careens back to drunken rambling quick enough to make Derek’s head spin, but since Stiles is now using their clasped hands to gesture as he speaks, he lets a fond smile curl his lips as a steady stream of mostly nonsense tumbles from Stiles’ lips.
As they reach the Stilinski house, Stiles speech has slowed and gone heavy with sleep, Derek tries and fails to not find it endearing, especially in combination with the lazy drag of Stiles’ thumb along the back of his hand. Derek opens the passenger door to assist Stiles in exiting the car, both of them making small surprised sounds when Stiles stumbles and crashes into Derek’s chest. Derek steps back reluctantly, draping Stiles’ arm over his shoulders and holding his waist. Stiles leans heavily against him, murmurs things like “You’re so strong,” and “All that scruff and you’re so soft under the grrr,” as he draws a finger along Derek’s jaw and stares through barely opened eyes gone hazy with sleep and liquor.
Derek manages to get Stiles upstairs and into his bedroom, settles him on the bed and kneels to remove his shoes. Stiles groans above him and something that sounds an awful lot like “Not fair you’re on your knees and I’m too wasted…” and Derek can feel the rush of blood through his entire body as he catches the meaning. By the time Derek is done with Stiles’ shoes, Stiles is flailing above him, half trapped in the sleeves of his shirt. Derek is torn between watching him struggle and helping him, but the strained, frustrated sound Stiles makes pushes him to help. He very pointedly does not look when the overshirt catches his t-shirt, lifting it to reveal a tantalizing strip of creamy pale skin and a hint of hair leading into the waistband of Stiles’ jeans.
As Stiles falls back into the bed, Derek helps to guide him onto the pillow, wrestles the covers from under him and tucks them gently around the sprawling form of Stiles’ body. He can’t help but smooth Stiles’ hair away from his forehead, the gesture hopelessly fond, and Derek is fairly certain he’s never done it so easily before.
Derek turns to leave the room, return to his own bed to try to sleep, knowing the clock will mock him and that all he’ll be able to do is hear Stiles’ drunken declarations on repeat in his head. As he makes to step away from the bed, his feet gone heavy and uncooperative with reluctance, he feels the brush of clumsy fingers at his wrist, wrapping around it in a loose grasp and sending a pleasant tingle through Derek’s arm, settling warmly in his belly.
Stiles’ voice is sleep soft, but steady, the words cutting through Derek painfully, “Don’t go. Please? I don’t want to be alone, I’m always- please. Don’t go.”
In the face of Stiles’ plea, Derek finds himself not only powerless, but having absolutely zero desire to turn back toward the door. The relieved whimper that Stiles releases as Derek drops gently onto the edge of the bed and turns his hand so their palms meet, threading their fingers back together, is like a punch and an embrace all at once.
They wake in the morning wrapped around each other, and it’s shockingly easy to smile at each other as they untangle their twined limbs.
When Derek is visiting Cora, his phone rings, and he smiles at the ridiculous picture Stiles set as his profile. “Hey, you,” he answers fondly, voice going soft and light like it always did now that he and Stiles were DerekandStiles. It quickly bleeds into panic tinged concern at the hitch in Stiles’ breath; the realization that Stiles has been fighting tears, has a reason to be, is a painful weight in Derek’s chest. “What’s wrong, Stiles. What is it?” His urgency is a palpable thing, an uncomfortable sizzle under his skin.
Stiles releases a shuddering breath, “God, I will never not appreciate how the sound of your voice makes everything feel better.” Derek’s worry is ameliorated slightly by the knowledge that he’s a comfort for the hyperactive human he calls his mate.
“I’m glad to hear that, babe, but what’s going on?”
“You’re going to hate it,” Stiles is hesitant, his voice is tinged with uncertainty, and Derek wishes he were there to wrap his arms around Stiles, to hold him and reassure. He makes an affirmative, encouraging sound, “Try me,” he says with more enthusiasm than he feels.
“So, there’s this… thing. Some kind of monster. We haven’t figured it out yet…” Stiles goes on, details a truly horrible plan, one that relies heavily on Scott’s frankly laughable leadership and Stiles as some kind of glorified bait. It’s a shit plan, and Derek does in fact hate it. Hates it so much he’s growling, actually, and it takes Stiles’ pleading “Der, please,” to break him out of it, to wash the red tinge from his vision.
All Derek can do is choke out a pained “Don’t go!” He knows it’s desperate and can’t bring himself to care, “Stiles, please. Please don’t go. This plan is fucking terrible. You know it is. I will get on a plane, I will be there tomorrow morning, just wait. Don’t go, any of you, but you can’t. Please?” He’s begging, and will continue to beg until Stiles agrees, “I can’t lose you. Don’t go. Remember, the night we started this? You asked me the same thing, please, Stiles.”
“Ok, Der, ok, ok. I won’t go. Please, don’t cry. I won’t go.”
Derek takes a deep breath, it catches in his chest, but he pushes past it, “Thank you. Thank you thank you, thank god.”
Derek is on a plane two hours later. Twelve hours after that, Stiles is in his arms; unruly hair sweet smelling and tickling his nose, wide, smiling lips pressed into his own.
When Derek needs to leave Beacon Hills, Stiles understands, he really, truly does. But it also feels like he’s being slowly pulled apart.
They stand quietly in Derek’s loft, silently embracing, Stiles still in his dressy graduation clothes, intermittent tears running down both their faces, until Stiles grips the front of Derek’s shirt tightly, hauls him impossibly close to devour his mouth in a desperate kiss. Their teeth clack, and their tongues swirl together in practiced rhythm, lips dragging slick and wet together. A great, sob of a moan tears out of Stiles’ throat and he buries his face in Derek’s neck.
“I can’t ask you, I know I can’t, but I want to, Der. I want to ask you to stay with me. I want to beg you. To scream ‘Don’t go!’ But I won’t. You deserve to go, to be ha- to find happiness, even if-”
Derek feels his heart breaking; hurting Stiles is killing him. He can’t bear the ache in Stiles’ voice, the sorrow laced through his scent. “Come with me,” rushes past his lips with force and sincerity, and he can’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before.
Stiles looks at him, hopeful but unsure, so he kisses the confusion off his face, cradles his jaw with careful hands. “I mean it, Stiles. It’s summer, you don’t start school for months. Come with me. Please?”
The smile that breaks over Stiles’ face is bright and honest, it’s everything Derek loves about the boy.
“Yeah. Ok, yeah, let’s go,” Stiles replies eagerly, peppering Derek’s face with kisses, hands restlessly petting as thigh assuring himself Derek is still there.
Derek laughs lightly, “I thought maybe we’d have a last go in a real bed, before it’s all motel rooms and truck stops for a while. And you know, pack, first.”
Stiles makes a considering sound, “Both good things. I’m especially interested in the first part,” he grins as he grabs Derek’s hands, walking backwards toward the bed.
Two and a half incredible months later, they’re laying naked in a motel bed, tangled together and still catching their breath, trailing gentle fingertips over one another’s faces, cataloging details. Preparing for time apart.
Stiles’ half packed suitcase sits on a luggage stand across the room, taunting them with the short time they have left measured out in clean and dirty socks.
Derek traces the curve of Stiles’ mouth, their eyes searching, but unwilling to leave the others gaze for more than a second or two. “You know-” the words are stuck in his throat, heavy on his tongue, he clears them away with a hard swallow, “I want to ask you. I guess it’s my turn to know better, huh?” He laughs without a traces of humor, and Stiles kisses his furrowed brow, smooths it with a long finger.
“You’re not ready to not be moving, and Berkley is pretty stationary, babe,” Stiles answers easily, his voice tinged with regret. “I understand,”he says, quieter than the rest, but without a stutter in his heartbeat, and Derek would know it’s true even without the added senses. Because Stiles understands Derek probably better than Derek does, and the loss of his constant presence is already aching dully in his chest.
“I’m going to have to say it. Just once. It’s practically tradition, now,” Derek attempts to joke, but the truth is it feels like the words are tearing at his throat.
Stiles kisses him, long and slow, as if to cool the burn of the things he can’t say. It almost works. They part reluctantly, hands and lips both clinging together, and it breaks out of him with a sob, “Don’t go.”
Stiles gathers him close, let’s Derek bury his face in his chest, strokes his back in soothing circles and holds his neck. “I have to,” he says simply, pressing kisses to Derek’s head. “But I promise I’ll always come back to you, wherever you are, until you’re ready.”
When they wake some time later, Stiles has to leave. Derek drives him to the bus station, because Stiles wouldn’t let him set a foot in California until he was ready to. Derek isn’t sure he will be, but he wishes he was now so he could steal those last miles with him.
They wake to cool morning light filtered through the curtains, and the muted sound of a cell phone ringing in the other room.
It’s been six months since they last got to wake up together, and it feels indulgent and surreal all at once. Video chats and constant phone calls and texts are an ok way to bridge the distance, but there is nothing so wonderful as waking up like this. Sleep warm skin and muscled limbs tangled together, warm breath on the back of his neck. Stiles is afraid it’s a dream.
Derek wakes, runs his nose along Stiles neck and places a long, hot kiss there. “Morning,” he says sleepily, arms tightening briefly before he shifts in the bed. Stiles panics, grabs Derek’s forearms in suddenly shaking hands, “Don-.”
Before he can finish, Derek is wrapping himself around him again, “Not going anywhere, babe. You’re not either.”
Stiles takes a deep breath, calms his heartbeat. “Sounds perfect, because I have plans for us that don’t involve leaving this bed unless it’s to hydrate or pee.”
Derek laughs into Stiles’ shoulder, the sound rich and deep, the rumble in his chest echoes through Stiles’ chest pleasantly. “I like the sound of that.”
A small cry pierces the predawn quiet, and Stiles and Derek startle awake at the same time. They blink tiredly at one another for a moment, taking time to acclimate and assess.
Stiles smiles at Derek, notices the slight greying of his still artful stubble, the lines starting to show around his eyes that he knows are from laughter instead of worry.
Derek smiles back, taking in the defined jawline, and the more beard than stubble that his husband has favored these last few years.
They say in unison “I’ll go,” and then laugh, kiss. Let it linger just a moment until the baby reminds them why they’re awake so early. Stiles places a quick kiss on Derek’s cheek, runs his thumb over his jaw briefly.
“You got her down last time, it’s my turn. Go back t’ sleep.” Derek makes a sound that Stiles takes as agreement, and he heads to the nursery across the hall, scooping up the small, unhappy bundle from the crib and settling her against his chest.
When Derek stumbles in moments later, Stiles is in the rocking chair, cradling their daughter and dozing slightly. Derek crosses the distance with a few long strides and moves to take the baby from her current Daddy shaped pillow and back to her own bed, intending to do the same with Stiles after, when he feels familiar fingertips against his wrist.
He looks down to where Stiles is holding him, turns his palm so their fingers thread together with the ease of years of practice. They smile at one another for long moments, until the sun starts to rise and add a warm glow to the soft lilac walls.
This is part twelve of a series of Seventeen imagines. Feel free to message me and say who you want to see confessing next! Requests get done fast ;)
Movie nights with Dino have become a tradition lately, and you both managed to make time for at least two per month since you started doing it. That’s why this month, on the very last day, you suddenly receive a panicked text from your best friend saying he just realized that you haven’t had your second movie night yet. He knows he’s been very busy lately with Seventeen things and but he scolds you for not reminding him. The tradition is very important to both of you, after all! And he wants your friendship to be a priority!
It’s very flattering really, considering how much Dino cares about his career, that he would get so worked up over scheduling some time together. You can’t help smiling down at your phone for a while before you shake yourself out of it and reply.
“Here we go again.” she hissed through gritted teeth. Setting her jaw in annoyance and determination, she violently jerked herself from his stong hold, sitting bolt upright on their pallet bed. She turned and glared at him, her nostrils flaring in her attempt to remain calm. He just lay there, propping himself up on one elbow, shooting her an equally withering look.
“Yes wife, indeed. Here were find ourselves again.” he countered. “Our nightly game of chess, if you will.” he mused on, a smug little grin creeping onto his lips. “Except unluckily for you, wife, I have grown tired of letting you win.”
She scoffed at him. A snarl curling into her lip. Before she could retort, his hand shot out and enclosed her wrist in a crushing grip, he roughly wretched her halfway across the bed before rolling his body atop hers,
overwhelming her with his sheer size and weight.
He moved so fast, she had no time to think or react. He had never manhandled her quite like this before. Momentary panic giving way to a traitorous warmth that began to build in between her legs.
“I have been going much too easy on you…wife.” he hissed in her ear. The last word was drawn out and punctuated with venom.
“Urghhh!” she grunted and writhed about underneath him in a futile attempt to free herself. It was useless, despite the affliction with his legs, his upper body was solid as a rock, he had her caged. He was too strong. His arms were wrapped around her body in a vice grip, his breathing was erratic, his mouth sucking greedily at her neck, trying to mark her surely. She could feel his hardness pressing into belly. She continued to struggle and spit curses under her breath.
“Ivar! You’re suffocating me.” she pleaded, finally managing to slip her arms up in between their bodies and push at his chest. It was like pushing against a solid brick wall.
Growing tired of his onslaught, she tried and failed to headbutt him in a last ditch effort to end it. He was too fast. Her bold action only seemed feed his lust. He merely laughed, bucking into her with his hips and ravishing her neck and with even more teeth and more fervor. She attempted to knee him in the groin. This time her bold action was answered with a sharp bite to the soft flesh atop her breast. She couldn’t stop the pained yelp from escaping. To her dismay, the yelp was followed by an involuntary whimper.
He groaned into her flesh. Laving the affected area lovingly with his tongue, he gazed up at her through dark lashes. Not a trace of blue remaining visible, his pupils were blown out wide, his eyes now dark and filled with a look so bordering on animalistic, she felt in that moment she had lost the game. She might as well just give up and give in.
She wasn’t in the mood, she hadn’t been since their wedding night when he had unceremoniously pushed her on to the pallet bed, pulled her shift up over her hips and proceeded to rutting into her like an absolute animal. He had collapsed and fallen asleep fully clothed, breeches pushed down to mid thigh, cock laying flaccid on his stomach. He’d left her alone and curled up in the fetal position on their wedding night, body bruised, maidens blood still trickling down her leg. She had endured all that from her husband on their wedding night and he hadn’t even managed to spill his seed in her. She didn’t sleep at all that night. Ivar never stirred. He didn’t hear her quiet whimpers that night nor did he see her tear stained cheeks. She vowed that night, that she would never let that bastard see her cry. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
Defeated for now, she ceased her struggling. She let out the breath she didn’t know she had been holding and let her body go loose, sinking down into the furs. Feeling her body go slack with surrender, he lessened his hold on her and eased back a little. Supporting himself with his arms, he gazed down upon her questioningly. Thinking she had seen a flash of vulnerability there, she tentatively reached up and ran the palm of her hand along his cheek. He closed his eyes and leaned into the touch.
“I am too exhausted to play anymore tonight, so you win Ivar. Ok? You win. Just get on with it so we can both get some sleep.” she breathed with quiet exasperation, withdrawing her hand and rolling her head to the side, avoiding his gaze.
Ivar rolled over and threw himself back on the furs. A fleeting growl left his lips, followed by a heavy sigh of frustration. He made a big show of tossing about a few times, loudly wrestling with the covers and kicking his feet as best as he could, considering. Huffing and grumbling under his breath. Finally settling in under the blankets, he glared at her over his shoulder.
“I don’t need you to let me win anything, woman. We will call it a stalemate tonight, seeing as you don’t seem to know how to play by the rules.”
Liam has a decision to make—fulfill the promise he’s made to Sophia or go after Zayn.
[Chapter 2/2 of Little Swell of Maybe (a Wedding Crashers AU, based on an ask found in Chapter 1)] (ao3)
By the time Harry’s made his way back to the dressing room, any relative composure Liam’d had in front of Zayn has now flooded out of his body, leaving his cheeks chalk white and his shoulders slumped. His body has shriveled practically to half of its size, and Harry squeezes his eyes shut at the sight.
This isn’t how—this shouldn’t be how— He thinks somberly.
But it’s not his wedding, is it? And it’s not his choice to say, nor has it ever been.
“Liam?” Harry asks gently, dragging his feet over to where Liam has his hands pressed firmly against the top of the circular, wood table. Seeing that his arms are shaking as he stands over it, Harry breathes out through his mouth slowly before carefully stepping closer to Liam. He’s careful not to touch or crowd him, instead only offering him a concerned look as he waits in stunted silence.
Liam’s eyes flicker to his right just barely, but he doesn’t acknowledge him with words. Instead, his breathing stutters. Finally, Liam croaks, “I can’t do this, Haz.”
There’s a pause, a moment of panic where Harry attempts to come up with some elegant way to respond. “Is that because of the lad that just left?” Harry sighs finally, not quite sure how to help except to prod for more answers. “Renaldo?”
Liam lets out a wet, low chuckle, though, in all reality, it sounds more like his throat has been forced through a grater.
“His name’s not actually Renaldo,” Liam says easily. This part he can get out without emotion tainting his words. The other parts? He’s not so sure. “That was Zayn.”
Recognition flashes across Harry’s face as he pieces it all together. “The Zayn that you fell in love with in London when you were in uni, the Zayn you would not shut up about when I first met you in that dorm in America, the Zayn that fucking broke your heart? That very same Zayn?”
Liam forces himself to lift his head up and then down in some sort of response. He hums, “That’s the one.”
Anything with sick eren and caring armin is literally awesome! Maybe a college au if youre feelin it?
AUs are not my specialty, but I tried my best! Sorry that this took me so long to write!
Whatever Armin was expecting when he returned to his dorm room, it certainly wasn’t finding his roommate sprawled out in the middle of floor, a starfish beached on the carpet of their room. “Um, Eren?” he begins tentatively, shifting his weight from foot to foot awkwardly. “What exactly are you doing?”
“Stargazing,” Eren mumbles, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. He doesn’t even glance over in Armin’s direction. Besides the fact that he’s staring blankly at the white popcorn ceiling of their dorm room with glazed eyes, another obvious sign of illness is the way his voice cracks in the middle of the word, plunging him into a wet coughing fit. He brings a shaky hand up to cover his mouth.
“We’re indoors,” Armin points out, sighing heavily. “You must have caught that flu that’s been going around. I told you to get your flu shot.”
“Don’t like needles,” Eren grumbles, sounding all of five years old. “Sides, aren’t you not supposed to speak ill of the dying?”
“It’s don’t speak ill of the dead, and you’re not dying, it’s just the flu. Now how about we get you into an actual bed instead of the floor?”
“The floor ’s comfy,” Eren protests vaguely. His voice sounds like sandpaper scraping against his vocal cords.
“I promise that your bed is much more comfortable,” Armin says, kneeling next to Eren and easing him up into a sitting position, before slinging Eren’s arm around his own shoulders and slowly bringing them both to standing. Fortunately Eren cooperates, as there’s no way Armin could lift his taller, more muscular roomate up all by himself.
In a matter of minutes, Armin manages to maneuver Eren over to his bed, wrestle him under the covers, and coax him into taking some medicine. “There, isn’t that better than the floor?”
Eren, sleepy and pliable, grins broadly. “Thanks, Armin,” he whispers, voice slightly slurred with exhaustion.
Remember that time in Yorkshin where a crowd fucking cheered for him because he was such a damn good negotiator? and ended up buying two cellphones for much cheaper than in the price they were being sold at?
also that time he used the wrestling matches as a cover-up for sneaking into important places and meeting important people?
and it worked?
Gon, Killua and Kurapika can do abnormal shit and look badass as fuck while doing it, but only Leorio can survive in the real world. He’s street smart and knows his shit. he has an “urban charisma” the other three lack.
falls asleep on the couch- Elain, probably. She was sewing or reading or…Something and it was just so very warm and comfy and nice and she dropped right off. Depending on the time of day Lucien will either very gently wake her up (usually with a cup of tea or something to properly bring her back to the land of the living) or he’ll scoop her up and carry her to bed while she mumbles grumpily and nuzzles against his neck.
makes friends with the neighbors- ELAIN. Lucien leaves her alone for like five minutes and comes home and finds her hosting a tea party with the entire street and just !!!! Lucien look I’ve made friends with so many people isn’t it great!! and he’s just…yes that’s wonderful, dove O_O they’re all in love with her, obviously. The reviews on Lucien are more mixed but they’re all so fond of Elain no-one ever complains.
is the adventurous eater- Lucien I think, definitely. He can usually encourage Elain to eat least try things from his plate but she doesn’t usually like them? Especially not spicy foods, they make her pretty little face turn a very bright red.
hogs the covers at night- Elain. She just rolls over and steals them all and she’s too damn adorable for Lucien to get mad with…She either does this or she just like…aggressively attaches herself to Lucien like an octopus because she wants to sook up all his warmth. Lucien doesn’t object to that either.
forgets to do the dishes- Probably Elain. She gets them all piled up in the sink, filled up, soap in, all ready to go….Then gets distracted by something. She wanders off and it’s like three hours later and she and Lucien are chilling and cuddling and she’ll suddenly sit bolt upright and just “The dishes!” Lucien always laughs and goes in to help her.
tries to surprise their partner more often- Lucien does little surprises, sweet notes and new seeds/plants for her garden/a nice night out. And those are good Elain is very fond of them. Sometimes he does big, huge, overwhelming dramatic surprises like whisking her away for a long weekend holiday and she…Likes that too. Elain likes to be spoiled just a little bit and Lucien is very good at doing that.
leaves dirty laundry on the floor- I want to say they’re both guilty of this actually, Elain maybe a little more so than Lucien.
stays up til 2 AM reading- LUCIEN. He can’t sleep and it’s a really good book. He usually reads in bed and Elain nestles into him while he does so he has to be really careful while turning pages to make sure he doesn’t wake her. At some point though she’ll stir and, without opening her eyes, will sleepily tug the book out of his hands, blow out the candle, and wrestle him under the covers while she grunts “sleep time” at him. He doesn’t argue with her.
sings in the shower- ELAIN. Well, it’s less singing and more like…Warbling. She’s not very good at it?? But Lucien thinks it’s fucking adorable and never tries to dissuade her. (They totally duet when they’re showering together. Lucien can carry a tune quite well actually. The first time he joined her Elain stopped mid-word to just go all :OOO because it was so good/unexpected)
takes the selfies- Hmmm, I want to say Elain? but they’re always couples selfies she very, very rarely takes any of just herself, Lucien has to be in them too.
plans date night- Lucien. he must make sure his mate is appropriately wined and dined after all.
Gabriel looks out the window—through the clear bullet holes
more likely since the rest of the class is too tainted with dirt and blood to
see through. He looks over the others facades of Eichenwalde houses and
buildings, destroyed and hunted with ghosts. Doors off hinges and burnt
furniture. His eyelids threatened to close on him and he shuts them hard for a
few seconds, telling himself to stay awake. When he snaps his eyes open, they
burn with desire to rest. They ache for darkness, but he fears for what he will
see in the void.
Gabriel turns around when he hears muffled grumbling from
the old, abandoned couch in the room. Jesse McCree sits up as his hat falls
from his face where it was bringing him cover.
“My shift, boss,” Jesse says as he stretches and groans.
“It’s fine.” Gabriel walks towards him. “Things seem to be
calm so far.”
“Exactly, which means we could be ambushed at any moment.
And you need to rest.” He points at his boss as he grabs his tablet from the
coffee table Jesse had brought from another room earlier.
Blackwatch had been sent to Eichenwalde after sightings of
gangs collecting old parts of the omnics and using them to create their own
weapons. At first, no one believed it would work, but then other gangs started
showing up with weapons similar to how the Bastions work. Once Blackwatch
captured one of the thieves, they spilled the next raid.
Gabriel and Jesse were set in the south, near the pub.
Kimura and Rainer were watching from above in the tower before the first gates
towards the castle. Taylor, Velez and more Blackwatch agents had spread out
after the gates, setting themselves on corners and the castle itself.
“I’ll be fine,” Gabriel says as he grabs his own tablet to
check in the footage of some of the cameras. He shuffles through the channels
until he captures Velez, working on the wires of a destroyed Bastion. Gabriel
watches closely how his agent fidgets with the robotic parts while chewing on
her bottom lip. Sparks flash and she pulls her hands with a hiss.
“Velez, what the hell are you doing?” Gabriel ask through
“I noticed a few of these have potential to still work, sir.
Figured if I found them, I could bust them out good. Delay the gang from
finding the good ones.”
Gabriel curls his lips. “Keep the working ones on the
bridge, we can trap them there from both sides.”
“Think you could build a suit from the good parts, jefe?”
“I sow, I’m not Tony Stark.” Gabriel sits beside Jesse with
enough space to spread his legs and give them a nice stretch.
Jesse chuckles before they fall on a comfortable silence.
Gabriel can see Jesse also checking the cameras and listening in on
conversations his teammates are having near them. Gabriel closes his eyes,
trying to ignore the voices. He doesn’t need to know every bit of information
on his agents. He can find out what he needs or wants whenever he wants easily.
Besides, most of what Jesse is snooping on is gossip.
Gabriel crosses his arms and leans back into the couch to
try and rest his eyes. He doesn’t know how much time passes, but his body gives
up and leans to the side as he drifts into darkness and stays there floating in
You wake up when a soft breeze tickles your nose, the white curtains fluttering as wind dances into the bright bedroom. Scrunching your nose, missing the bliss of sleep, you quickly rub the tickle away and pull the covers up to your eyes, kicking your feet around the sheets as you attempt to sink into dreamland once again.
Of course, your efforts are fruitless–your ears already picking up on the sounds of leaves rustling and birds chirping outside. So, you give up and groan cutely, hands tracing over your faces as you brush the remaining traces of sleep away.
As you wrestle the too-warm covers off of you, you feel a reminiscent ache in your bones–one that has memories of last night flashing into your mind–and you smile tiredly.
Oh, Kim Namjoon. A man without much control–especially after having been separated from you for so long.
“You awake, babe?” a groggy voice calls out at that moment, and when you notice the space beside you is vacant, you push onto your elbows and look around. And there, on the tiny balcony that’s attached to your bedroom, is Namjoon. Aging book firm in his hand and his rarely used glasses perched precariously on the tip of his nose. He’s only dressed in a baggy white t-shirt and a pair of old sweats, but he still pulls the look off so well–his fading pink hair mussed from sleep.
At seeing that you’ve finally risen, Namjoon gently snaps his book closed and pushes off from the railing he’d been leaning against. You can only imagine that before you’d woken up he’d been stood there silently, looking out at the trees and life around you, basking in the warm spring breeze and appreciating the freshly bloomed flowers and trees.
“Your pink hair would look nice with cherry blossoms,” you mutter quietly, sinking back into the sheets as he approaches, and when Namjoon’s happy chuckle reaches your ears you smile.
“Hmmm…should I get a pink flower crown?” he contemplates, sitting on the edge of the mattress beside you. “Fans always want us to wear them at meetings.”
“Yes, I’m sure it’d look lovely on you, princess,” you joke cheekily, and Namjoon rolls his eyes, gently smacking your shoulder.
“It’s too early for this,” he sighs, unable to hide his amused smile, and you jokingly pout.
“Too early for me?”
“No,” he responds immediately, his hand smoothing over your hair and moving to rest on your jaw, his thumb gently running over the skin of you cheek. “It’s never too earlier for you.”
Your heart flutters, cheeks feeling warm. He always manages to get to you during peaceful moments like this–where it’s just the two of you, and the rest of the world doesn’t seem to matter.
“…Even if I decide to get up at 4am?”
“Aish,” he laughs, running a hand through his hair. “If it’s 4am and I’m sleeping…then…well…”
“I would never do that to you,” you giggle, patting his thigh, and Namjoon smiles. Dipping down, he presses his lips to yours gently, the world stilling as your realize just how perfect Kim Namjoon really is.
“I love you,” you say as soon as he pulls back, fondness and sincerity flooding into your gaze. At first, Namjoon is surprised, but within a few seconds his face reflects your, a tender smile gracing his lips as his leans down and kisses you again–his lips firm against your forehead.
“I love you too.”
“…then make me breakfast?”
He rolls his eyes.
“Do you want me to burn down the kitchen?”
“Alright,” you laugh. You sit up and cling onto him, and with a huff Namjoon lifts you up and carries you towards the kitchen, your arms secured tightly around his neck.
“Don’t worry, sweetie,” you say, kissing his cheek. “We’ll do it together.”
this was inspired by @bxngtxnfluffandotherstuff. she gave me the inspiration for it while we were talking earlier, and I heard she wanted a Namjoon fluff anon, and while I’m not an anon, I figured I could do a little something. Hopefully you like it!
I LOVE THE LITTLEST WINCHESTER SERIES THING YOU HAVE. THEY ARE LITERALLY THE CUTEST THINGS OF ALL TIME. Also could you do one about her having a nightmare, and then refusing to sleep the next day or two. THANKS BABE
Word Count: 1,343
In the dead of night Dean is woken the frightened cries of his four-year-old daughter. With the door to his room closed the sound is muffled, but it’s enough to make him kick off the blankets and leap out of bed. He yanks the door open and bursts out into the hallway in search of his daughter.
“Daddy!” She cries. “Daddy, where are you?!”
“I’m right here, sweetheart.” Rounding a corner, he finds the girl standing in front of her bedroom door, her small figure a silhouette in the dark.
Too scared to move, the toddler waits for Dean to come to her, whereupon he scoops her up in a tight embrace, and she balls her fists in his shirt and cries.
Can you handle if I man handle you?
Burn all these candles;
Look in your eyes as my hands-make plans for you.
I’ll find your fantasy.
Your body language makes the perfect map.
Not in a rush,let’s take a little time.
Dripping from sensual kisses to your spine.
You say I’ve been feeling distant.
But I’m there in a moment
You burning Incense.
Listening to Erykah
With your hair up.
Badu that is.
I stare from across the room.
Magnitude of your beauty keeping-me deeply consumed shaking me deep within.
All of your perfect imperfections-this blessing should be a sin.
I don’t wanna fight tonight.
Let’s wrestle under the covers.
Instead of screaming tongue-twisters.
I wanna tongue kiss you.
Put out your fire satisfying your-deepest desire.
Take you higher than you ever-imagined,
Or even fathomed.
Gazing up at the stars.
Lets leave the planet and plant our-roots.
Let our footprints be the place- that gives wilting lovers a boost.
Can I rest my head upon your-shoulder?
Drunk in love, cushion my fall-
Lets never be sober.
Until our time is over.
Summary: Bucky x reader shenanigans on a sleepless night
A/N: So this is one I started over a month ago and sort of forgot about, but I’ve finally finished it! It’s the longest oneshot I’ve written, but I just couldn’t bring myself to cut any of the scenes. I don’t think I’ve ever put so much time and effort into a fic before (I mean, his scrabble score is legit. I actually went into my games cupboard at like 12am to check bc I get caught up on pointless shit like that lmao) so I would be so grateful for any feedback you have! x
Genre: little bits of angst, playful and romantic fluff, and even a little bit (; at times (which is not where I expected it to go, but hey, Bucky started it) Warnings: bit of adult language and neck kissing if that’s worth mentioning
A blood curdling cry filled my ears, jolting me out of my sleep and rattling through my body. It was a sound that was unsettlingly familiar. Countless times it had happened, but it still shook me to my core whenever he screamed in his slumber, unable to escape the terror that lay there waiting for him.
Trembling, jerking, moaning, wailing, his legs thrashing with the violence. “Bucky. Bucky, wake up. You’re dreaming, Buck. It’s all just a dream.” I stroked my hand across his human arm, trying my best to rouse him gently away from his demons. It took all I had not to reach out and wrap him in my arms, but in these moments his space was vital. He still hadn’t forgiven himself for the time I had, and ended up on the business end of his metal arm, pinned to the wall as if I weighed no more than air itself.
He inhaled sharply, his eyes bulging open in fear and confusion as he was wrenched from his nightmare. His eyes were red and swollen with tears. His cries were reduced to a panicked breath that heaved his chest and dried his throat. His eyes remained lost and stunned, staring into the dark, but in the blue glow of the moonlight I saw his hand reach out in search of me. I crawled over to where he sat upright on the bed and buried myself against his chest.
“Shhh… It’s ok James… It was all a dream.. I’m here… you’re ok… we’re safe..” I breathed my comforts into his neck, holding him tight in my arms as his trembles became less and less. “I’m here…”
“Y/N?” Bucky whispered from next to me in bed. “Are you awake?” “Mfhmmf…” I mumbled into my pillow. I felt the bed shift as Bucky sat up. “Whasa mtter?” I asked, my words slurred with sleep. “I can’t sleep.” He sighed heavily. I rolled over to face him and traced my fingertips over the skin on his arm, the way I knew always made him feel better. I felt the rigid muscles relax under my touch.
“They’re always just so… real.” Bucky’s voice wavered on his last word, making my heart sink like a rock in my chest. “Do you want to talk about it?” I asked him softly, a little more awake now. He shook his head weakly in response. “Do you wanna do something?” I suggest, willing to try anything if it had a chance of helping him. “Help you take your mind off it?” “Like what?”