— eternity ’

࣪ ۫𓂅 welcome to the post office🪽 . ⟢

—-- etty, british, she / her, 18

send your letters through my asks !

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ֶָּ֢ ֶָ֢. i write for . . . : jjk, csm, challengers, the boys / gen v, dispatch, DC, marvel, mha, aot, star wars, stranger things, lotr, lotf , twd and more !

(ask and i'll see if i can get to it)

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۫◟ ｡ = ۪ ͜ ݂۫ ׄ extras :

i do NOT write mature content for minor characters

if you enjoy a post, interact with it / tell me you wanna see more !

may write characters ooc sometimes ( oops )

don't be scared to ask for things ! i'm a pretty nice person

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naoya x fem!reader

0.9k words (drabble i cba to properly do)

content: slapping, naoya is misogynistic, naoya is patronising, naoya, reader kinda likes it tho, reader is kinda obedient sorry guys GUYS IM SORRY (talking to myself btw), not proofread good luck

song: ultraviolence - lana del rey

Naoya takes pride in the fact that he can command women to do as he pleases. He can make them listen to him, make them follow orders, make them play the role of mothers and tend to him at his beck and call. So it’s utterly baffling to him why you can’t respond the same for the simplest of things.

Not that you try to be disobedient or anything like that -- you’d had some background knowledge on your husband before being married off to him and now try to act as appropriately as possible -- it’s just that some of your habits get under his skin. Deep under it, actually.

The final straw on the camel’s back is on a cloudy Sunday afternoon in March. Spring is right around the corner, and the plants outside the house have begun their process of blossoming, though their beauty goes unappreciated when everyone remains inside due to the risk of rain. You’ve been perched by the window for an hour or so now, reading some sappy book with swirly words that don’t hold much meaning; in a house without much entertainment, you have to make do with the resources around you.

Just as the main character starts yet another dramatic confession of their love, you hear the front door open, and the heavy footsteps of your husband marching down the hallway. Someone’s not in a good mood -- you wonder if you’ll have to cheer him up by running a hot bath and rubbing his shoulders until he calms down. Before you have time to think about which bath salts you’ll sprinkle in, the man himself is standing in front of you, amber eyes squinting as they look upon you.

“Did you have a good day today, lovely? I missed you.” Your words are honey-sweet and your smile is even sweeter, as automated as it is. He might as well be talking to a customer service robot, albeit one that is actually pleasant to communicate with.

His lips part to speak, probably something along the lines of ‘of course you did, how couldn’t you, I’m great,’ etc. etc., and you fold the corner of your page in advance to prove you’re an active listener (one less thing for him to complain about). But his face darkens, brows furrowing as he snatches the book from your hands.

“Don’t call me names.” He starts, words sharp. “And don’t disrespect me like that.”

You look nothing short of confused. “Sorry? What have I do--”

“And you’re questioning me. God, what sort of wife is this?” Naoya asks this question to his imaginary audience, gesturing at you. Disapprovingly, he turns his gaze from you like an annoyed teacher, smoothing out the crease you made on the page, and you can’t help but murmur a response.

“Sir, I really don’t--”

A loud crack sounds out, echoing slightly with the acoustics of the mainly empty room. Your hand shoots up to your face, pure heat blooming beneath the flesh of your cheek, though whether it’s from the contact of the back of his hand or the shame of messing up, you can’t tell.

“Sir? What am I, a stranger? I’m your husband, woman, act like it.” His voice is quick, almost shaky if you listen closely, as if the adrenaline from his action that’s currently shooting through his veins is too much for his body to handle. “You don’t call me stupid things, and you don’t damage my property.”

This is a silly new rule he’s put in place on the spot, and he knows it, because it’d be so easy for him to purchase a whole bookshelf of this same book in mint condition. Not that he’d want to, because it belongs in the trash, but still. And as for what you’re allowed to call him, it doesn’t leave much wiggle room -- no lovey-dovey pet names, but nothing too serious either. Maybe you shouldn’t address him at all.

“Do you understand?”

No reply comes from you, and he tuts.

“I said,” another crack of his hand against your still-raw flesh, “do you understand?”

He’s about to do it a third time when you finally meet his eyes, and he’ll be damned if yours aren’t twinkling. You’re supposed to be ashamed and put in your place, not.. enjoying it, not at all! And despite this, you apparently do, based on the way you so swiftly tilt your head up to look at him fully, allowing him to observe the mark he’s left on your delicate skin. 

“Oh my god. You really are disgusting, aren’t you, wife?” The words ring in your ears, and your head drops in shame. But it isn’t long before he cups your cheek in a manner that’s suspiciously gentle, bringing his face down to your level. Part of you thinks he’s going to spit in your face.

The part of yourself that you hate the most really hopes that he will.

It’s silenced, though, by another harsh slap. Your eyes are wet, shining with a fresh layer of tears. Naoya smiles (or, rather, smirks, in that stupid smug way that makes you want to rip it off his face), pausing for a moment before he turns on his heel. Your own lips turn down into a frown, though he’d describe it as a childish sort of pout if he saw it.

“I’ll allow you to find me when you stop being so odd. Oh!” He looks over his shoulder at you, watching the way you still gaze up at him from your lower position, obedient, “And don’t fold the pages of my books.”

And then your husband is gone, and your face is left stinging.

guys im ngl i just wanted this out of my google docs im ashamed by this

people who like to get slapped tell me how to actually write it pls

featuring... yuji itadori, nobara kugisaki, megumi fushiguro

cw: fluff fluff and more fluff

song: be my baby - the ronettes

yuji itadori

boyfriend!yuji who... is obsessed with showing you off to everyone he meets. even if you’re not there, or the conversation is completely unrelated, he’ll make sure to flash his lockscreen (one of his favourite pictures of you) just to bring you up.

boyfriend!yuji who... loves cinema dates more than anything in the world. it doesn’t even have to be his choice of movie, so long as he gets to watch the screen light up your face, the reactions that you give. plus he loves the cliche moment of bumping hands while digging in the popcorn

boyfriend!yuji who... has an entire highlight on his instagram dedicated to just you. you don’t even know how he gets half his photos

boyfriend!yuji who... really really really loves having his arm wrapped around your body at any given moment. it’s the perfect position to squeeze you in, and he gets to feel your warmth next to him. yes please!

boyfriend!yuji who... constantly changes the name you’re saved as in his phone, though it’s always something super sappy. angel, perfect, my beautiful amazing sexy gf/bf who i love, whatever it is, it’s always something sweet

nobara kugisaki

girlfriend!nobara who... always goes to you first when she needs to tell someone something. doesnt matter if its something extremely personal or shallow gossip, you’re the first person who’s gonna find out

girlfriend!nobara who... adores holding your hand. its something so simple, and yet its the closest thing to heaven on earth to feel your fingers intertwined with hers as you’re walking down the street

girlfriend!nobara who... offers to do anything to make your life a little easier. okay, not anything, shes not perfect, but she will carry your bags when out shopping, or lend you cash when you don’t have any on you. just remember to do the same for her when she needs it

girlfriend!nobara who... somehow always has the snacks you like on hand. sources say that its because she actually likes you, but who can be sure?

girlfriend!nobara who... loves that you can be yourself around her, and vice versa. she’s allowed to be happy and excited, but can also have her bad days without judgement, and she’ll be damned if you don’t get the same treatment. guess thats what happens in such healthy relationships

megumi fushiguro

boyfriend!megumi who... ragebaits you by being nonchalant. sometimes he doesnt mean to, but most of the time he knows how to get under your skin just enough for it to be funny. never lets it get serious enough for you to be genuinely mad though

boyfriend!megumi who... isnt a big fan of pda whatsoever, but when you're in private don't even doubt that hes not hovering around you 24/7. lying on the couch tangled up together, or in the kitchen in such close proximity that you can't help but brush against each other

boyfriend!megumi who... doesnt understand a lot of the things you send him. yeah, hes a member of the younger generation, but it doesnt mean he knows who the fuck ash trevino is or why you insist on using her face as reactions to his texts. wishes you'd stop saying that he's “not even there in the cabeza” followed by “sorry y'all dont know spanish”

boyfriend!megumi who... really likes watching you nerd out about the things you're into. it’s just nice seeing you get so passionate, what can he say?

boyfriend!megumi who... does mention you in conversation, just not to the extent that yuji does. every now and then when he's starting an anecdote he’ll say “oh, my (girl/boy)friend..” or “that reminds me of when my partner..”. you should be flattered you're on his mind so much. and impressed that he can keep it inside so well.

divider by @/mieluno

no i am not an ash trevino fan

scream challengers au

2.9k words

challengers!billy x challengers!stu x fem!reader

cw: lots of kissing, swearing, alcohol, one(?) use of Y/N, reader is called a girl one time i think, dialogue pretty much just taken from the transcript of challengers

song: uncle ACE - blood orange

An hour. That’s how long has passed since Stu and Billy offered an invitation to their shared room to some hotshot new tennis player, (Y/N), or whatever, at a party. To be fair, they’d been more focused on other things than names when striking up the conversation. Not that it mattered when you didn’t even care to show up.

Okay, maybe that’s pessimistic thinking. You haven’t shown up yet.

The hotel room they’ve been assigned is fuzzy this summer night, dreamlike, like time moves slower inside it. Music plays from a radio, faint, though neither boy recognises it well enough to go out of their way to turn the volume up. The air sits static for the time being even with the window open. They suppose they can’t complain, since there is a fan, albeit a clunky, oscillating one, which only satiates both boys enough to leave them wanting more. 

With a posture that his mother would scold him for, Stu drapes himself over his armchair, casting a glance at his double’s partner laying on the bed. (that is definitely one way to describe Billy. The boys have been attached at the hip since childhood when they’d met at their tennis academy). And he doesn’t need to be a psychic to know what’s passing through his head, since it’s already in his own: how fucking boring is this?

Because Christ, all they’d been hoping for was that you’d come back with them, take your pick, and let the lucky guy get it on. Not just leave them waiting and fiending for anything, anything at all. Even a hug would be fine, and that is saying something when considering their standards.

“She’s not coming,” Billy declares after a while, stretching like a cat atop the thin covers of the bed. “She’s not coming ‘cause you made it sound weird.”

“What? What did I do?”

“You made it sound like..” He pauses, trying to find the right words. “I dunno, like we wanted to fuck her in here or something.”

“But we do.” Stu sounds genuinely confused, still not lifting his head from his sprawled position.

Billy furrows his brows.

“Okay, yeah, but what did you think would happen? We keep shooting our shot ‘til she takes pity on one of us, hopefully, and the other one just, like, sits in the bathroom?”

Now he’s gone and done it. “What, is that beneath you?”

“I think it’s beneath her.” He turns now, looking at the peeling wallpaper closest to the bed. If he squints, it looks like a smiley face.

“Oh, do you?” Stu smiles, mainly to himself. “And what if she chooses you? Can’t handle all that without me in the room?”

“She’s not coming, dude!”

As if manifesting it into reality, a knock sounds out from the far side of the room, sending the pair both bolt upright in their respective seats. A glance to each other, then the door, then each other again, like they’re in some old cartoon, and they both sprint over.

Stu’s the one to actually open the door, though both are quick to greet you loudly over the top of each other.

“Are you guys, like, soulmates?” Your question acts as acknowledgement to both of their eager attitudes. They snort at it, but you hesitate, as if to make it seem more real. “What? You seem like brothers. You’ve got the connection.”

A look is shared between them -- them? brotherly? really? -- and you think that you’re just gonna have to ignore it until Billy shrugs. “Guess that’s what boarding school does for you.” His voice is nice, you think, relaxing, like he could be a radio show host. You’d surely tune in as often as possible.

Realising you’ve been standing in the hallway for too long to be polite, Stu takes a quick step aside and ushers you into the messiness of their room. How they’ve achieved such a level of disarray in one day is a feat in itself, and you almost find yourself in awe of it. Almost, because you also think it’s kinda gross.

Still observing the room around you, you gingerly sit on the floor between the two twin beds that the hotel supplied, and the pair quickly follow suit, forming a circle like they’re in elementary school. You note that they’ve pushed the beds together to make one big one, whatever that implies about them, and store it for later. Both of them lean in toward you like they’re anticipating your words, and you try not to let it boost your ego too much. 

“Are you sure your girlfriend won’t mind this?” You finally speak, turning your gaze toward Stu. “I mean, I thought you mentioned something about another girl earlier.”

Surely this has to be the last thing that he could want someone else to think when he’s trying to hook up with them. Clearing the dryness from his throat, he rushes to answer. “Not my girlfriend. Just a girl. Who is a friend.”

It comes out in such a matter of fact way, like he’s making himself believe it, that it makes you snicker. Oh, and you’ve got a nice laugh, too. He supposes he should take pride in being the one to bring it out of you and puffs out his chest a little.

Your attention turns to Billy now, though he doesn’t falter under your look. “Okay, and what about you? Are you pretending not to have one too?”

Just as he opens his mouth to speak, Stu jumps in again to do it for him, at which Billy silently curses him for. He’ll get his karma sooner or later for it. “Oh, Billy’s between ladies at the moment.” A sharp, joking nudge of his elbow makes the dark haired boy frown harder.

“Don’t say it like that. It makes me sound like I’m some sort of..” He trails off, though for dramatic effect or lack of words, you’re not sure.

“Manwhore?” You offer, just in case. He shakes his head at it, though it’s more of a playful reaction than anything.

Stu nods. “Exactly! He does fine for himself.” You don’t find it hard to believe, but he keeps going. “I mean, just look at that face.” He’s nudging the other boy again, purposefully antagonising until he’s physically swatted away.

And then it’s another temporary silence, air hanging hot over your neck, your back. You rub the palm of your hand absentmindedly in an attempt to stop it from cramping, not that it works, and you find yourself wishing you hadn’t put as much effort into your match earlier. Would’ve been an easy win anyways. Meanwhile, the duo seem to be communicating solely through eye contact again, and you wonder if it was one of the language classes at their special academy. Maybe it’s not too late for you to learn it, too, and start deciphering these secret codes they send one another.

You clear your throat, straightening your spine. Show off your confidence, though it’s not like you have to. “So, how often does this happen?”

They move in sync, tilting slightly to convey their lack of understanding.

“Going after the same girl, I mean.”

A shake of heads. “Not as often as you’d think, actually. There’s usually not an overlap in our types.”

You smile. “So I should be.. flattered?”

Stu’s occupied with biting his thumbnail, but speaks anyway, so the words come out muffled. “Aren’t you everyone’s type?” 

Flattery will get them anywhere if they lay it on thick enough.

Billy takes a sip from the half-empty beer can he’s been nursing for the entire conversation, and you gesture for him to pass it, at which he complies. It’s quiet as they watch you drink, beholding the masterpiece that is the subtle movement of your neck. If they didn’t know any better, they’d say they were actually salivating at the sight (and it isn’t much whatsoever). You wipe your mouth, and they slowly recline back in their previous positions, nearly embarrassed with themselves.

“And the two of you?” Your index pointed between the pair, inquisitive.

Stu seems to grasp your meaning, but he doesn’t react, instead waiting for Billy to do so first. And so he does. “Wha-- oh! Oh, no.”

Now he chimes in. “No, no.”

Billy pauses, squinting. “What, is that surprising?”

A small smile slips onto your face. “Well,” a moment as you decide whether or not you’re going to tease him any further, before you decide against it, “no.”

There’s a malicious glint in the other boy’s eyes like he’s had his very own lightbulb moment. “I mean..” he starts, but Billy realises what he’s doing and cuts him off.

“Stu. Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” You query. Sure, you were just kidding around before (partially), but now there are actual facts behind the theory. The darker-haired boy seems to be glaring at you for asking, however you don’t think he’ll make you go without knowing, because he cups Stu’s mouth with his palm so he can’t speak. 

“Don’t let him tell you. He’ll start making stuff up to make me sound bad. I’ll do it. It was just a stupid thing in the summer after we graduated 7th grade, and we were playing this game--”

“Truth or dare.” Stu’s stifled voice supplies helpfully.

“--right, obviously it was truth or dare, you idiot. Anyways, we were dared to kiss, or whatever, and I’m not a chicken, so I did it.” After the look you give him, he groans, adding: “just on the cheek!” 

Stu worms his way out of his friend’s grip just to irritate him. “Really? Could’ve sworn I felt you going in with your tongue.” This makes you giggle despite its childishness, and Billy looks to the ceiling.

“Whatever, man.”

You interject before he can start sulking. If he’s even the type to sulk -- you don’t actually know the two of them well enough to discern their personalities. “No! I think it’s cute. It’s a cute story.” 

Stu reaches out for the can sitting at your feet, shaking it slightly. Of course it has to be empty right when he gets thirsty. A sigh. “We’re out of beer.”

Warm wind finally flutters through the open window, gently rattling the thin panes of glass as if attempting to fill the quiet that follows. It’s a shame they’ve been placed up in this shithole with everybody else, you think momentarily -- they deserve a little better, and so do you. It’s getting late already. Probably a sign for you to stop playing around, as you quickly decide, lifting yourself onto their joined beds.

They seem to not catch on, staring blankly, until you pat the spaces next to you. “Come here.” And they’ll be damned if they don’t listen, scrambling up to sit either side of you.

“So which one of us did you want to..” Billy starts, not so much nervous as he is excited. “First come first served, right?” Maybe it’s this stupid reasoning that makes you lean into him first, soft lips finding purchase atop his own.

It’s hard for him to just sit there and contain himself, which you catch on to when his nimble fingers slip up your thighs and onto your hips, moving himself closer. A little overconfident as he tries to guide your mouth open for himself, but he’s earned it after the humiliation Stu has put him through. Right, Stu. Stu, who’s watching over your shoulder, mouth agape like he’s just won the lottery.

When you finally pull away, Billy is still leaning in for more, eyes half-closed. But you’ve turned to his friend, who meets you and your mouth halfway. He’s a little messier with it, you notice, maybe trying to impress you with his boldness. Or the fact that he has no shame. Either way, it kinda works, because you’re drawn into him despite yourself. If you’re really paying close attention, you can note that his lips are a little drier, to compare the two.

He probably did need that last bit of the beer more than you did.

Before he can show off to you anymore, you pull back from him the same way you did Billy. Both sit dazed, happy, waiting for more. Your hands forge a path up the back of their necks, reaching the softness of their hair and gripping, just enough to feel the beginning of a sting. Like you’re playing with dolls, you draw them in closer to you, close enough to feel their hot breaths against your cheeks, short and sharp and needy. Close enough to admire the way their eyes twinkle, reflecting the overhead light that they’ve left on (couldn’t have expected to go too far, then.) Close enough to bring them to your lips to let them worship. They do, actually, and they do it well. 

Noses smush together, reckless, not holding back, though you swear you hear an “ow, dude, move” come from Stu. Billy seems to comply whether he heard it or not, as he shifts lower to graze his teeth over your neck. A shiver runs down your spine, and you feel the cause smile against you, placing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the length of it. Stu fights for your attention at your lips, his hand snaking towards your own hair to tug at it. You make a noise that both of the boys assume is a result of their own actions, egos swelling.

Billy doesn’t resist when your hand pulls him back up to where you and Stu are, finding his spot at your lips like he’s magnetically pulled to them. Might as well be, with how close you all are at this moment. It’s getting harder to tell them apart when they’re this close -- all you’re picking up is the heat, the wet, the speed. These guys sure do like to rush it, you think, leaning back to observe them by themselves. It’s a sneaky move, sure, and if they catch you they’ll probably send you out of their room in a fit of rage. But it’s fucking hot.

So, so hot, watching Stu clutching the back of his friend’s shirt collar like someone’s going to steal him away, lips forcing onto his, open and speedy. Not that Billy’s any better, because he’s doing just the same. The music from the radio is still too unknown to care about, but it makes it feel like you’re watching a movie play out in front of your eyes. Hands travelling anywhere and everywhere so long as they get to be touching the clothed body of their closest friend? It’s something you like to see.

However, not something you like enough to watch them tear off each other's clothes with their teeth, which is where you think this might be going. 

“Okay.” You clear your throat, obnoxious, and their heads whip around to look at you. Their faces are flushed, hot and pink, and their lips glisten with saliva.

They glance at one another again, realising what you’d watched, and quickly separate. Like they’d blacked out and were different versions of themselves and can now feel the shame seep back into their bodies. You stand from the bed, adjusting your t-shirt as you do so.

An exaggerated yawn. “I’m going to bed.”

Stu looks confused. “I thought we were getting your number.”

“I thought I told you earlier, I’m not a homewrecker.” You had said this to them after hiding away from the rest of the party, at which they’d called it an open relationship. Now you can’t tell if they were joking.

Stu fakes a laugh, but Billy looks a little more serious (or is it desperate?), not pretending to smile.

He attempts to meet your eyes, and you’d be lying if you said you don’t find it at least a teeny bit cute. His voice is softer than earlier --  still with its edge, though. “Please.”

You exhale a sigh, placing your hands atop your hips, taking a second to think. “I’ll be watching your game tomorrow. Whoever wins can have my number, ‘kay?”

Billy looks to the floor, not insecure in his abilities, but rather annoyed. Why can’t you just make up your mind like a regular person? Stu sits where you were only a moment ago, feeling the warmth of the essence of your body. If he tries hard enough, he can smell your perfume.

“You can beat him, y’know.” This is to the one still standing. “You should beat him, actually.” 

Billy perks up a little, squinting as though trying to gauge your intention. “Are you saying you want me to win?”

“I’m saying you won’t get my number if you don’t.”

“But what do you want?” He’s dragging it now, trying to get you to admit to something that isn’t even true.

“I want to watch some good fucking tennis. Goodnight.”

And then you’re gone, just as quick as you’d come to them. Like the ghost of Christmas future advising them of what they’ll miss out on if they mess it all up. It works, to be fair. Billy looks to Stu, nudging his shoulder from his taller position.

“Remember when you said you’d let me win?” If it sounds like he’s joking, he absolutely isn’t.

Stu pushes his hand away. “Dude, that was forever ago.”

“What about my parents?” Billy might as well be pleading now, though he would never really. Not for Stu, at least.

“Man, I hope they get fucking.. ax-murdered.”

divider by @/nynem

yes this is a repost i hated the og

1.9k words

bunny corcoran x fem!reader

cw: allusions to sex, alcohol, dubcon? not really in detail/described, reader doesn't fit in with the rest of the greek class really but whatever, NOT proofread sorry

Edmund Corcoran is worse than Satan himself. He’s plenty funny when he wants to be, and there’s a certain charm to him that you’re certain nobody else could replicate and get away with it. He’s sweet enough to you, and there's a sort of mutual liking. But apart from this, there is no upside to knowing him. At least, that's what you think for the first 20 minutes of Sunday morning, watching his overly-comfortable body take up the majority of your bed. From your spot on the floor, you envision what it would be like to stab him to death. 

The only noticeable sensation for the first quarter of this time is the pounding headache currently working on splitting your head in two. If only you hadn't lent the bottle of aspirin in your bedside table to the girl next door, you briefly think, mourning the loss. Oh well. Hurts to be so generous.

So you force yourself up from your wooden mattress, trudge to the bathroom, and opt for shoving your head into the sink to catch the water flowing from the tap. Hydrating enough, you suppose. It subsides the pain in your skull for the most part for a few minutes. At least you’ve got that.

But there’s always a downside. Always, always, always, because now you’re just about able to remember what got you into this. And you’d bet your life savings on the fact that Bunny is the main culprit.

--

Saturday night was supposed to be the most fun you’d had in a while. Mountains of faulty translations sat upon your desk, and the essay you were supposed to have written was already overdue with barely any progress made. After a week of working yourself to death, surely you had earned some free time, some fun. This is where Bunny had swooped in to suggest a harmless drink or two at the bar for the entire class, sweeter than sugar. Except Henry had been quick to cancel (in his words, he could feel a stomach ache coming on, and would rather endure it in the comfort of his own bed) and the others decidedly followed suit.

But this wouldn’t spoil the night. You wouldn’t let it.

Even if he had picked the dullest bar possible, full of older gentlemen, instead of some nice club like every other young person would. Even if he insisted that he’d brought his wallet this time and promptly made you pay for your drinks with that sheepish smile of his. Even when you’d dressed up for an entirely different place, and now felt like you stuck out awfully. Even after all this, it was going to be fun.

The place itself was just a little too warm, enough to form a slight sweat at the nape of your neck that was just noticeable. Peeling yellow wallpaper made it seem even less welcoming -- really, it could’ve been put up 50 years ago for all you knew -- and it clashed with the strangely sticky mahogany furniture. The lightbulb must’ve needed to be changed, because it was far too dim to be intentional. Not dim enough to not see Bunny’s stupid face, though. 

“What? What’s that look fo-- come on, girlie, it’s nice,” Bunny had insisted after seeing the look in your eyes, leaning against the bartop without a care in the world, “it’s nice. Nicer than wherever you’re thinking of, I’ll tell you that.”

“Sure, Bun.” was the only response you could bother with.

However, it grew increasingly easier to believe him after three or four drinks, at which point your tongue had begun to loosen and your brain was vaguely numb. As per usual, the blond was yammering your ear off, going on and on about some nonsense he’d certainly stolen from a different conversation, and all too loud not to be heard by every other patron. “...isn’t that funny, huh, sweetheart? I said, isn’t that funny?” He’d smiled then, awaiting a response and sipping his lukewarm drink. Only a half-hearted laugh was given on your part, and it crossed your mind that perhaps this was how the rest of your life would go. Sitting in bars, listening to assholes obsess over themselves.

A shudder. 

No, it was time to leave, to pack up and go back to your house on campus.

Not exactly a successful night out, though, was it? Maybe your hopes had just been too high, and you’d expected the company of Francis, or the likes, who were half as obnoxious. Either way, it was a disappointment; was this the reason you stayed put a little longer, or was it something else?

“I think I’d better get back now,” you’d suggested at around 11, as the sky became less blue and more of a charcoal grey. This itself set Bunny off -- you knew how he was, could’ve predicted this ten times over -- and he stood at once, grabbing your hand.

“Naw, come on, we’ve only just started,” he began, frowning like a child going without ice cream before dinner, “I’ll pay for the next ones. What do you want? Really, tell me, I’ll buy it. A martini? One of your little fruity, uh, cocktails?” This, you thought, was extra stupid, as the bar most likely only served from the taps, and he’d already confessed as to having avoided bringing along any form of payment. The image of him stumbling all the way to his home to get his card amused you, though it was entirely fiction.

“I’m serious, Bunny, m’gonna get a cab back.”

“Isn’t it a little late to go alone? I mean, you might be in danger, and we don’t want that.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Well, at least let me take it with you, so I can be sure I haven’t gotten you killed. How about that?”

A smile, despite yourself. “You don’t know when to quit, do you?”

He took pride in this, puffing out his chest. Really, he never seemed to stop preening under your attention, for one reason or another. Fumbling in the pockets of your coat, you forked out a wad of cash from your wallet (what a cheapskate he was), and thanked the bartender. It was more than likely that the poor man wanted the both of you out as soon as possible, for all the loud chatting was a disturbance to the majority of the other, higher paying customers. Probably spiked their blood pressures, and they all seemed quite fragile.

Outside was far colder than you’d anticipated. Sure, it was still barely becoming spring, and therefore freezing unless insulated correctly, but your more drunken self was apparently not the most logical. Funny, how these things work. Bunny would’ve offered up his coat if it weren’t too cold for him. So you stood in your little black dress, shivering with only the useless protective layer of your pantyhose to keep you warm. 

The cab itself wasn’t much better, when one finally decided to arrive, but you had Bunny’s warmth pressed into your side, and it did enough to conduct the heat through your frozen bones.

At this point, you only really wanted to sleep.

So how did you end up perched on your bed together, drinking wine stolen from a housemate, giggling and smooching like schoolchildren? How did you let yourself go along with this?

Probably because it was so fun. Everyone assumed they knew what it was like to be around the man you were currently getting frisky with, because there were so many guys in the same genre as him. But he was a sort of out-of-body experience, although you hated to put him on a pedestal. When his hands wandered across your body, and he murmured and snickered and let you do just the same, it was nothing short of liberation.

Because Christ, all the other little Greek nerds were so boring when it came to this stuff. You were pretty sure there was some serious friendcest going on (and maybe some slightly worse -cests), because everyone seemed to be interested in everyone in some form, but nobody did anything. Just plain boring. That was what you liked about Bunny -- he didn’t hold himself back.

He was true to who he was, and you had to have some respect for it. Just… if he could have some slightly better opinions to wear on his sleeve, that could’ve been good.

--

You wonder, now, how you ended up on the floor in the night. Perhaps you got up to go to the bathroom and couldn’t fully get yourself back in. Maybe his fat ass kicked you off while he was tossing and turning. Fingers dig under the straps of the bra you’re still wearing from yesterday, uncomfortable, and you trudge over to wake him up.

The good thing about it is that you don’t have to do it politely.

Slowly, you lean down to hover over him, lightly pinching his ear between your fingers. Lips brush the shell of it, so close to being intimate, and you open them.

“Get up! Get up, get up, get up,” you blare, almost siren-like, and you brace yourself for your housemates' angry complaints later on. But for now you hop backwards, more bunny-like than him, and watch him startle.

“Oh my god, you’re a bitch,” he grumbles, burying his face into your pillow. You should reprimand him for his insult, but you can’t be bothered, instead observing his actions. It’s going to smell like him in your room for a while now. It always seems to when he stays over, that obnoxious cologne he insists is the peak of masculinity.

“Am not.”

“Are too. Get back into bed and stop bitching, girl.”

He talks about it like it’s his own, like he gets to show some sort of domesticity with you, even when he’s being annoying. It nearly makes you gag.

But before you can start retching, you find yourself clambering back under the covers (where you should’ve been all night) despite the stench of alcohol lingering on his breath, and the suspicious wet patch near your feet which you hope is just spilt wine. 

His big, warm palm snakes around to hold your waist, surprisingly gentle, and you don’t tense up like you might have a few years ago. He isn’t half as bad when he’s only just awake, and you wonder if you can keep him like this forever. Just slip sleeping pills into each of his meals and keep him tied to the bed. 

No, he’d get the wrong idea from that.

Your head gently slots into the space between his neck and shoulder, vulnerable, and you absorb every part of him. There’s the faint scent of his natural musk beneath his deodorant that you don’t seem to mind, and you pick up traces of the smell of his shampoo from the nape of his neck.

It’s actually quite sweet, just lying together, warm and dazed.

“Do you wanna go for round tw--”

“Go back to sleep before I kick you out, Bun.”

bunny corcoran they will never make me form a solid opinion on you

posted this for myself it's still buns

760 words

waterboy x regularperson!reader

cw: mentions of sex (none actually happens), CRYING, kissing aww

divider by @/angeliicide

The name Waterboy really applies to your boyfriend pretty well, as you’ve come to find out. Because it’s your first time being this close, and as slow as you’re taking it, he’s the most nervous, sweatiest human being on earth, possibly in the history of time itself. The overhead light in the bedroom was flicked off long ago to set the mood, so you can just about make out the slim features of his face in front of you.

It’d look like a slumber party to an outsider, with the pair of you nervously sitting in your underwear facing each other on the bed. Between awkward little semi-laughs and light pecks on one another’s lips, you half-expect to start painting nails and braiding hair. But it’s sweet, and it’s slow, and that’s supposed to be the way you go about this.

After all, a first time together is no measly thing.

You clear your throat.

“We don’t have to do this now if you don’t want to,” you offer, finger tracing the lines of his palm. Clammy, not that you really mind.

He jolts, shaking the mattress a little. “No! I do, I do, I really do.” Then he smiles that nervous little smile, and you mirror it.

But it’s this, then silence again. Every time your lips brush against his cheek to try to bring him back to earth, to do something, anything, he just flushes and blinks too many times to be normal. Maybe it’s something wrong with you. He’s just not interested anymore.

No, because that would mean something was wrong with him to think something was wrong with you, right? Then your thoughts are sent into a whole spiral of blame and it all gets confusing to think of because you’re losing track of who’s done what wrong, and so you stop. Stop and think.

Stop and think and look at him. Flop back on the bed so that your head thuds against a pillow. 

He looks confused for a second, but copies, trying to meet your eyes.

“We can do it now if you want to. I can do it for you,” he murmurs after a second, slightly muffled by the pillow against his own cheek. “You know I really want to.”

There’s something about the sound of his voice, so desperate to please, that makes you melt from the inside out. Your eyes meet his in the darkness of the room, soft. He really does look like a normal guy when he’s right next to you, not Waterboy, not someone who needs to play a role. Just a person.

“You don’t have to do that,” you start, gentle, as though trying to help a stray cat (although he’s nowhere near as aggressive -- more of a mouse). Index finger drawing a line down his nose, you look away. “We could just, I dunno, watch a movie, or something.”

And it surprises him. It does, because he genuinely doesn’t feel like awkwardly forcing himself through something that he’s not ready for, and you’re so, so patient. Where some people would mock him, you smile and wait, or squeeze his hand a little tighter. So when he gently lifts your fingers from his face, he doesn’t expect to feel a burning sting behind his eyes.

He does, though, and before he knows it hot tears are streaming down his cheeks, dampening the pillow. 

God, he’s just so sweet. Your hands cup the back of his head to hold him just a little closer, and he realises he doesn’t need to hold back. It’s kinda therapeutic, actually, to sob into your shoulder in the dark without judgement. Salty liquid soaks your flesh, bared just for him. Intimately, yes, but in a different sense.

After a few minutes he sniffs, rubbing the back of his slender hand across his face to clear himself up. Through the shadows you can make out the puffiness of his doe eyes, the flush of colour spurting up across his face to coat him in pink. Surprisingly, you’re able to hold yourself back from squeezing his face between your palms until his head pops.

Though you do smile at him again, less nervous and awkward and more so warm and comforting. Well, who would he be if he didn’t smile right back, pressing a gentle kiss to your still-moist shoulder.

“...What movie were you thinking of?” The words vibrate against your skin, and you snicker.

If he isn’t perfect for you, you don’t know who else is.

sorry guys i was gonna do something a little freakier about the crying but i didn't feel like it.. send an ask if you're down for that

also this was really short because i didn't have much to say ok sorry bye

1.3k words

homelander x gentle(ish)!reader (idk how to describe them i'm sorry)

cw: reference to sexual acts in the first bit, pretty sure there's ooc homelander, CRYING, NOT proofread good luck

divider by @/mieluno

Homelander cries a lot for someone so stubborn about his image.

The first time he does it anywhere in your vicinity is when you’re lying in his bed (not his bed, per se, because it’s in some fancy hotel, but the room is his), the air in the room warm and fuzzy in the afterglow of it all. He’s lying on your right, back turned, and you’re cautiously waiting for him to pull out an NDA for you to sign so he never has to think about it again.

A one-off, of sorts.

But he doesn’t. The room is dark, originally lit by the setting sun when you’d rushed in and now only in the filtered moonlight can you make out the shape of his body. It’s quiet. So quiet you wonder if perhaps you’re dreaming, and that your brain just can’t fill in the plot points of what happens after the good stuff. Wouldn’t that be nice.

Whilst your mind drifts, a sort of grunt sounds out next to you, and your natural instinct is to rest your hand against his shoulderblade to check that the supe next to you is ok. Obviously he is -- why wouldn’t he be? -- but for the time being, you don’t know that. And he knows that you don’t know that. Yet your hand is so warm against his skin in contrast to the cool breeze of the night, and even though he doesn’t mean anything to you at this moment in time, you still care enough to wordlessly check on him.

Is it embarrassing for him to acknowledge this is the first time that’s ever happened?

Is it more embarrassing for his shoulders to start silently shaking beneath your touch?

Because they do.

Your brows furrow, confused, not that he sees (yeah, he’s got superpowers, but not eyes in the back of his head), though there’s a warmth in the eyes beneath them. You don’t say a word when a choked little sound emerges from his throat, merely rubbing that hand gently up and down the length of his back, and he appreciates it.

God, he’s like a baby. After a while of making you sit through this, he gets the tears out of his system. Thank goodness for that. His head lolls against the pillow on his half of the bed, and you bite your lip, trying to minimise any amount of sound so he doesn’t remember you’re here and kick you out. To your surprise, it seems to work.

The next morning feels like a memory you’re reliving, even when you’re actively in the moment. Homelander is one of the most direct guys you’ve met -- he tells you not to tell anyone along with a couple of consequences, tells you not to go out of your way to contact him, and allows you to tidy yourself up and get out of there.

The second time he cries in front of you is when you’re both at the park together. It’s a beautiful, sunny day, and everyone on earth seems to be outside to savour it. John is dressed like a regular person, and while you’ve learned he’s pretty far from it, it’s nice to play pretend sometimes. You wish he’d get more into the made-up lives that you invent for the pair of you to become when you bump into people -- he just sighs and keeps walking. There’s an ice cream in your hand that’s actively dripping down onto your palm, sticky and sweet, but you ignore it in the hopes that he’ll gently use the tissue around the cone to wipe it away for you.

So mundane.

He seems to be in a good mood today (maybe because of all the sun), you note, as he willingly sits and chats with you on a bench. Even takes a lick of your sweet treat despite what he tells himself.

The conversation finds its rhythm quickly, and you realise you never really talk like this with each other. Not in public, at least. And when a young boy of about 3 trips and falls a couple of feet away, your eyes meet, and both of you crack into laughter. Not your proudest moment, sure, but it comes from seemingly nowhere, and it’s the shock of it combined that sends you over the edge.

Whatever. You don’t need to make excuses for your inner monologue. Especially not when the man you care so strongly for is practically bent backwards over the backrest of the bench, obnoxiously loud, though he’d hate it if you pointed that out.

Hell, by the time he stops, he’s wiping tears from his eyes. You almost want to tell him it wasn’t that funny, but why take away from a sweet memory? No, instead you bask in it, smiling because he smiles, and that’s all you need.

He wonders if you know that he smiles back for so long because you are.

If only you’d taken a picture.

The third time he cries is when you’re curled up on the couch watching some shitty film on Vought+. Neither of your first choices, but you’ve got the subscription, and it’s just easy. The volume’s on low, lights dim, and your fingers gently scratch the back of his neck from your position half-atop him. The perfect night in.

You peel your eyes off of the screen mindlessly to glance at John, and your face scrunches when you find him already looking at you. Many, many months ago he would’ve instantly averted his gaze and denied it until you gave up, but he’s not really the same with you now as he was then. It’s already warm and fuzzy beneath the blanket you share, and the feeling seems to spread inside of you deeper and deeper as he holds your gaze.

Part of you wants to make fun of him for indulging himself in something as childish as a staring contest. The other part of you really wants to win.

Some explosion or another from an action shot on the TV sounds out, but it barely registers as you squint at one another. The burning in your eyes gets intense faster than you’d anticipated. Shit. Reluctantly, you blink away the sensation, spying the blurry image of his smile through watery eyes. You suppose you’ll let him have this win.

Only because he’s so perfect. So cozy, so comfy. Your head rests in the connection between his shoulder and neck, and you inhale deeply, taking in his scent and storing it in your memory (though it’s silly, because you already know it off by heart). The stereotypical manly cologne that you usually have a vague distaste for, but a hint of the vanilla from being around you. You like that a lot.

You like him a lot.

Like?

Like?

Is that what he thinks you feel about him? That can’t be right.

You can’t let it be right, because it doesn’t come close to encapsulating a fraction of the emotions in your heart towards him.

“You know I love you, right?”

Yeah, the words sound casual, but you’re certain he can feel your heart thudding through the layers of flesh and clothes. No kidding, you’re sweating bullets, and for good reason. So you resume your previous position and try to forget you said anything. Hopefully he will too.

But he doesn’t. No, instead you hear a quiet sniff like he’s holding something back, and before you know it his whole chest is shaking, slow, drawn-out sobs rattling his body. Your hand shoots back up to stroke his hair in a feeble attempt at comfort, and his little whimpery sounds turn to a croak. Poor thing.

A-Train in the movie says some dumb commercial line, and you wish you had the effort in you to reach for the remote to turn the TV off because jeez, man, read the room. Really not the time.

Dumb movie or not, this is how you spend the rest of your evening, with a supe’s head in your hands and his shaking body beneath you, gently shushing him until he’s calm and capable enough to whisper a barely-audible “I love you too,” in your ear.

ok im sorry for the wait & sorry if this is a let down