#madi writes

Price realizes you’ve never had a reliable man in your life exactly the second time he discovers you looking up DIY home maintenance for very simple projects.

It missed him the first time because he was deployed. You’d mentioned offhand how you were figuring out how to rebalance a ceiling fan, and he’d just automatically assumed that you were doing it yourself because he wasn’t there, so he simply praised you for your resourcefulness and lived for the next three weeks off of the way you’d absolutely glowed at his words.

But then he gets home, and one evening on the couch he catches you googling “how to fix a leaky sink.”

“What’s that?” he asks you, tamping down on the sudden feeling of masculine inadequacy that reared up almost immediately at the discovery.

“Faucet handle’s leaking all over my counter when I turn it on,” you say, not looking up from your phone. “Landlord’s out of town and can’t fix it.”

“I’m in town, ain’t I?”

You look up at him then, brows raised. You hadn’t even considered asking him, then.

“Oh—I didn’t want to bother you, John, you only just got back, and you’re tired…”

You trail off at the droll expression on his face.

Price has learned a lot of lessons from his previous marriage. The foundational one: just because he hasn’t been asked to help doesn’t mean he is believed to be unreliable. Adding that lesson to his knowledge base about you—young, modern, independent—calculates out an obvious answer that curtails any sour mood that might have sprouted up over the issue.

He puts his hand over your phone screen and lowers it down to your lap. “I’m fixin’ the sink,” he says simply.

He enjoys the way your eyes dilate at the assertion.

The next day, he shows up at your flat wearing old work clothes and carrying his heavy toolbox in his hand.

(You don’t live together yet—something he’s keen to rectify—but he has a toothbrush in your bathroom and permanent space in your bedroom drawers. He can be content for now.)

And you—you answer the door in the filmiest of sundresses, the ribbon tie on one shoulder hanging at a loose angle.

“Heard you need some plumbing done,” he says in the gruffest of voices, already understanding the game.

“Oh, thank goodness you’re here,” you say, barely able to hide your giggle, “I’ve been so worried.”

He steps in close to you, close enough to feel the heat of your body radiating off of your bare skin. He has half a mind to put the charade aside and lift your skirt here and now, but another lesson helpfully springs to mind: anticipation of the act makes the finale all the sweeter.

“I’ll show you to the kitchen,” you murmur, looking up at him with warm, dreamy eyes.

When he gets under the sink, he finds the problem easy enough to fix—the cold water supply line simple isn’t screwed in tight enough, and when he wiggles the whole contraption by the valves he finds that nothing has been tightened up to standard. A couple of years knocking the thing around had probably loosened up the locknut.

He elects to fix the whole problem in one go, while in the meantime you stand off to the side, watching him. He feels your eyes on his legs, trailing up to the hair on his belly exposed by his shirt riding up.

“Sir, I’m sorry, I should’ve said before,” you simper, “but I’m not really sure how I’m gonna pay for this.”

His cock jumps in his jeans, and he feels your gaze move to it as if it’s a physical touch.

He levers himself out a little and meets your eyes, keeping a stern expression on his face.

“I’m sure you’re gonna figure it out,” he says. Looking down at his groin and then back up at your face might be a touch unsubtle, but clear communication had been the most important lesson of all.

He slides himself back under, and pretends he doesn’t feel you approach, or lower to your knees between his spread legs. He ignores your gentle hands falling on the closure of his jeans, the pop of the button coming undone, the parting of the zipper as you pull it down.

“Of course, sir,” you say, “I’m sure I will.”

The softness of your hand meets his growing erection, caressing the head of his cock with your thumb—followed very close behind by the wet, liquid heat of your mouth.

they don’t have a crazy wild height difference but Derek does have a few inches on him, so that Stiles can press his face right up against his warm neck when Derek grips his waist and tugs him forward against his chest, smelling oil and soap and earth, feeling the gentle timbre of his greeting where Stiles has pressed his lips to his neck

he’s so soft-spoken and polite, humble and understated but also dry-witted and wickedly, surprisingly funny. maybe possibly the only person Stiles has met who can meet him tit for tat when it comes to banter, and the juxtaposition of the two contrasting characteristics just makes him all the more alluring to Stiles

drawing him in and driving him crazy

when Derek quietly fixes small things out in public without bringing any attention to himself, a crooked sign or a tipped over flower pot, not doing it for the praise but the simple satisfaction of leaving something better than he found it

when Derek said ‘yes, sir’ to the navy vet who passed on one of their preserve hikes, asking if the two of them were staying out of trouble, then pushed Stiles off the trail and back against a hidden tree once they’d turned the corner so he could suck Stiles off till he shook and slid down to the forest floor, Derek Pleased above him and leaving kisses all over his his neck and lips)

when he’s studying across from Stiles in his living room, his bowed head making the tendon in his neck a distracting curve from his jaw down into his shirt, his dad in the next room cooking dinner and Stiles wishing he wasn’t so that he could sink in between Derek’s knees on the floor and replace the calculus textbook in his lap with Stiles’ mouth

when Derek automatically kneels when his baby cousins or siblings come toddling up to him at his house, big fat tears in their eyes or scrapes on their knees or captured toads to show off or a story to tell, and Derek takes them soo seriously every time. patient and focused on whatever they need from him

((the way his biceps flex and stay flexed when he picks them up and carries them in his arms. when he does this in a black crew neck—))

his eyes when Stiles rides him in his bedroom with the curtains open on a full moon, iris’ full pupil as he stares up at him, hair wild, jaw slack, glasses riding down his nose and the moonlight twined around them making Stiles’ stupid teenage brain think whatever this is between them must be a little bit magic

“Are you sad, Uncle nolo?”

Nolofinwë jumped despite himself, before looking around for the source of the squeaky voice belonging to one tiny elfling with silver hair.

The prince sighed and massaged his aching eyes before managing a smile.

“Tyelko…no, pitya. I'm just…thinking.”

“Thinking about sad things?”

Nolofinwë wasn't sure what he was expecting. Certainly shouldn't have been entertaining the idea of Tyelkormo giving up so easily. The child was too curious for his own good.

“Some, yes.”

Tyelkormo’s lips pouted, and his faint, silvery white brows drew together in a thoughtful frown. It took everything in Nolofinwë’s power to not scoop him up in his arms and give him a hug.

Both he and Findekáno were in that age when they insisted to be treated like grown ups, but while Findekáno still accepted hugs and affection with grace, he doubted he would have the same luck with Tyelkormo.

Instead, he patted his lap gently and Tyelkormo, after looking around and finding no other comfortable place in that deserted hallway of his Haru’s palace, empty of any seats but the chair he himself occupied, came forward and climbed up his lap with some effort. Nolofinwë was not stupid enough to think about offering any assistance.

They sat like that for a while, watching the reflection of Laurelin’s light on the great pond in the western garden. 

Until Tyelkormo, having sat still for too long, started fidgeting, throwing him careful glances with the same frowning face. Until he could not bear the silence any longer.

“Did what Atya said earlier make you sad?”

Nolofinwë froze in his place, not daring to look down and meet the eyes of a child.

How Tyelkormo had come to hear their conversation? True, it was not anything Fëanáro would think twice about before saying it in front of children, but Nolofinwë found it uncomfortable.

And it was not something he had not heard before, either.

You're not my brother, and no son of my father. Stop calling me that, Indis Son. I don't need to be your charity case. I have all the family I need.

But for some reason, today was one of those days that his heart decided to allow itself to feel the hurt. And by his luck, his little nephew was also privy to the hurtful words and his own broken heart.

“You were not supposed to hear that, Tyelkormo.”

He allowed so sternness to cloud his voice, and he felt Tyelkormo’s nervous shifting.

“I…Finno and I were playing hide and seek. I didn't want to eavesdrop. I know it's not something a good elfling does.”

Nolofinwë couldn't help but smile.

“No. It's not. And what should you do now, sweet one?”

Tyelkormo’s hand fell on his, where it rested protectively over the child's waist.

“I'm sorry, Uncle. Will you forgive me?”

Nolofinwë looked down to find huge blue eyes staring at him, shame and guilt evident, but there was some hope also.

He kissed his head, and if Tyelkormo was mad, then he could deal with it.

“Forgiven and forgotten.”

Relief washed over Tyelkormo's face, and he grinned and hugged his middle as much as his small arms could reach.

Nolofinwë returned it, and just like that, his pain was forgotten, even if for a little while.

Tyelkormo raised his head all of a sudden, his eyes nervous and he quickly looked away when his eyes found him. He clearly had something to say, but wasn't sure if he was allowed to.

People often called him a brat and inconsiderate, but if not blinded with anger, the child knew when to say what, and when he couldn't.

“You have something to say. Say it, my boy. I won't be mad.”

Tyelkormo’s gaze found his quickly, not any less nervous, but definitely more confident. He nodded, nonetheless, and what exited his mouth was a welcoming surprise.

“Atya lies. He wants brothers. No, he needs brothers! Being a big brother is great! And Curvo also loves me like you love Atya. I think…I think he's saying that because he feels like being mean, and you're the one closest to him. I do that sometimes, but I always apologize, because I don't want Káno or Moryo to be sad because of me.”

Nolofinwë’s jaw hung open, and despite himself, he could feel his eyes swimming with tears he had refused to shed until then.

Tyelkormo's proud smile fell when he saw that, and a look of immense guilt overcame him. He could see the child's lip starting to tremble slightly, frustration at himself bringing tears to his eyes.

But before he could, Nolofinwë’s arms tightened around him in an embrace, so that his face was buried in his stomach. He couldn't bear to look at him.

“Why Moryo? And Kano? Why not Nelyafinwë? Or even Curvo?”

He found himself asking before he could think. He didn't know why it mattered, and his mouth seemed to have a mind of its own.

Tyelkormo took a minute to respond, and when he did, his voice came out muffled, but with stuttering or hesitation.

“Because…they get mad. And they get sad, so I know they care.”

They get sad…so I know they care.

Arafinwë cared not for their eldest brother’s affection. He did not insist on calling Fëanáro brother. He was just as proud as their mother. He didn't beg.

Not like Nolofinwë did.

They get sad…so I know they care.

Curious how the answer to years of pain and heartache came from the mouth of a child barely out of toddlerhood. But maybe it should not have been so, for what is their disagreements and arguments but two brothers butting heads and scuffling like mere children?

“Tyelko! I'm gonna get you! And then your candies will be all mine!”

Findekáno giggled loudly from across the hallway, still out of sight.

Tyelkormo tensed and started struggling to get out of his arms, and Nolofinwë let him. He slid down his lap, held a finger to his lips to silence him, and disappeared down the other end of the hall like a silver tornado.

Nolofinwë sat there, unmoving but for the fond smile growing on his lips.

Findekáno did not take long to appear, small, bare feet soundless against the carpeted floor.

His eyes lit up the moment he saw him, and he bounded towards him with sweet giggles and wide arms, ready for a hug, and how could Nolofinwë deny him?

His son was scooped up in his arms easily, his slight figure disappearing amidst his own long and stuffy robes.

“Atya! Have you seen Tyelko? I've been seeking for hours! I can't keep seeking!”

He exclaimed loudly, and if Nolofinwë strained his ears, he was sure he hear the squeaky giggles of another child, hiding somewhere down the hallway.

Nolofinwë grinned, and held a finger to his lips.

“Can't say. It wouldn't be fair now, would it? I believe in you. Go find him and get your ransom, son!”

And he set him on his feet again, and sent him away with a pat to his back. Findekáno pouted at first but seeing his serious face, determination replaced his sour expression and with a small wave of his hand, he was gone.

And Nolofinwë sat there, no longer solemn but full of hope he had not felt in a long time.

Plot: You can’t stop shivering and Daryl can’t sleep. (Season 2-3 interim)

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader

Word Count:
 1.2k (I can't believe I wrote something this short)

A/N: it has been so cold lately, hence this small, barely proof-read fic. I hope it gives u some warmth :*

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The farm fell and winter came. 

There wasn’t a moment more heartbreaking to lose your home. Where the walls that fostered generations of Greenes would’ve warmed your heart, the cold and sprawling forest took their place. 

Some nights the walls of a different home kept you warm. Homes that once belonged to people you would never know, absolute strangers that were just gone; dead or lost.

Tonight was not one of those nights. 

Tonight, there were no strangers whose pictures still lined the walls— because there weren’t any walls. Only the forest and a small fire. Barely embers. 

“They might see.”

Rick’s voice echoed in your head frequently these days. An hour wouldn’t pass before he had another demand to make. His last, before patrolling the camp’s boarders with T-Dog and Daryl, was to keep the fire down. Since the incident with Randall’s group and the herd that ripped through the farm, you had a pretty good guess who they were; the living and the dead. A fester of fear and exhaustion lodged in the back of your throat the night you lost the farm, and it’d kept you in line with Rick’s order since. 

The fire was nothing but a soft glow. Enough light to see the colour of the fallen leaves beside your head, but that was it. No warmth and certainly no comfort was found in the glowing ashes. 

Your shivering had started an hour ago and despite your best efforts to curl under the scratchy blanket, the damp floor of the forest chilled you to the bone. The others had fallen asleep by now, lulled by the aches of exhaustion and the body heat of their closest family, and if you hadn’t spent an extra hour on guard duty, you were sure Lori would’ve pulled you in alongside her and Carl. But the constant worries in your mind kept you awake and alert— so your guard shifts lingered longer and longer with each night, and by the time you retreated, your ‘bed’ for the night was only yours. 

Months ago, when the farmhouse had been packed with suitcases and sleeping bags, you would’ve cherished the space. That was before the empty air became cold and bitter, biting at whatever slivers of exposed skin it could find. 

Now, being alone felt almost like another type of fight. A struggle to just get through the night without catching frostnip. 

There were footsteps ahead of you. It took a moment too long to register it— blame the exhaustion— but when you had, your mind was awake again. Light and calculated, they avoided the crunch of crisp fallen leaves like they knew the forest floor off by heart. 

Daryl. 

You knew it even before your eyes peeked open. Fighting against the weight of your eyelids, you narrowly watched his shadowy frame sneak through the sleeping bodies of your people, until he moved around the fire and behind you. Your eyes shut again and you listened for the soft rustle of him laying down a blanket. 

Another shiver hit and your muscles clenched.

Beyond the clatter of your teeth, a second or two passed in silence. Eventually, your shiver subsided and your body relaxed again, but your jaw was still stiff from the frigid air. You yanked the blanket up further, covering you up to your red-tipped nose, and waited for the tension to pass. 

Something touched your shoulder— a hand— and your head snapped to the side. It was Daryl, crouched behind you. 

“’S jus’ me,” he mumbled. 

“What’s wrong?” 

He didn’t answer. 

In one swoop, he draped his blanket onto yours and laid down on his side beside you. 

“Come ‘ere,” his voice was low. Not only quiet but soft, like he was worried it might break if he spoke any louder. 

The blanket helped initially, you felt an extra layer of coziness engulf you, but when he finally moved closer... 

It was almost instant, the way your body melted into his. 

So tender and whole that every bit of you that had frozen from the constant death and heartbreak cracked open. It’d been months since you felt even a hint of comfort, since you’d even been touched beyond Maggie’s supportive hand at your shoulder. The way you curled into him was almost instinct; your nerves, once turned to ice, finally thawed again and felt. 

Against your better wishes, your voice shuddered, “Are you sure?” 

His arm snaked around you, pulling you closer by the waist. 

“Can’t sleep with your teeth clatterin’ so loud.” 

You huffed a breath, huddling your shaky fingers closer to your lips to catch a moment of the hot air. Even with his body heat sinking into your skin, your body was still stiff with the last effects of the chill, and you shivered once more. 

He moved you— you couldn’t register where his hands touched specifically, but there were spots of heat up your arms and around your shoulders, like the touch of his skin was separated by thick gloves instead of the thin sweater you wore. You vaguely registered how cold your skin must’ve been for the sensation of his touch to be so numbed. Without any protest, nor much thought, you followed his directions, guiding you deeper into him. Even if it hadn’t been for that pesky crush of yours making you a willing listener of the man, his body heat alone was enough to convince you entirely. As long as you never had to feel that cold and disheartened again, you’d do whatever he asked. His hands stopped moving when you were facing him, forehead touching his chest and face almost completely hidden under the blanket. 

Save those big, beautiful eyes that you looked up at him with. 

“Thank you,” your voice was smothered under the thick fabric, but he knew what you meant from your stare alone. 

He mumbled something, but you barely heard it, finding distraction in the way his chest rumbled with the effort— or the quick pound of his heart. 

Daryl wasn’t particularly known as an affectionate man, hell, the stories you’d heard of his interactions with Merle sounded more like resentment than love. And for a while there, when he pulled away after Sophia, you wondered if he knew love existed beyond what his brother defined it as. 

His pounding heart made sense, then. A life of inexperience didn’t give him the necessary bravado for sudden, almost intimate, contact with a person he only met a few months ago. No matter how necessary it might’ve been with the dropping temperature, holding you in his embrace seemed like an understandable source of nerves. 

The feeling along your back, the slow rub of his thumb down your spine, became less fuzzy as your skin warmed up. By the time you lost your last chill, his heart slowed to a steady pace, and you could even feel the way he’d chewed his nail down to the edge through your shirt. 

Thump. 

When you inhaled, the air was still cold, but it was tolerable. 

Thump. 

His heat sunk into you, deeper with every beat of his heart.

Thump. 

Daryl held you throughout his sleep. You weren’t sure how inviting your body could have been after hours of lonely shivers, but he held you closer and closer as the night passed. 

Perhaps he just needed a little comfort, too. 

———————————————————————————

A/N: if daryl was ooc in this... no he wasn’t <3

also-- not sure if I should put a read more on this or not bc its so short... please lmk if it was taking up too much room in the tags/on ur dash :) 

new chapter: SPY × PSYCHO

Chapter 19/? Fandoms: Mob Psycho 100, SPY × FAMILY Relationships: Teru/Mob, Teru & Anya & Mob, Loid & Reigen Characters: Hanazawa Teruki, Kageyama “Mob” Shigeo, Anya Forger, Reigen Arataka, Loid Forger | Twilight, Kageyama Ritsu, Yor Briar Forger | Thorn Princess, Inukawa Mameta, Kurata Tome, Telepathy Club Additional Tags: SPY × FAMILY setting, Slow Burn, Comedy of Errors, Rivals to Rival-Friends to Rival-Lovers, Trans Teruki Hanazawa, expy cold war setting means Mob has a brand new complex about his powers, it starts out a little like three men & a baby in reverse except the 3 men are 2 psychic teens and they don’t even know about the baby at first, third-wheeling gremlin little sister Anya, Embarrassingly Oblivious Pining

As Reigen, Teru, and Loid all race to the scene, Mob comes dangerously close to hitting his limit. What will happen to Anya when she’s at ground zero for a psychic explosion?

-

If Spy Wars has taught Anya anything, it’s the power of a good redemption arc, so when she realizes that the only two other espers at Eden College are one of the school’s top bullies and his new rival, she makes it her mission to make sure they become best friends — even if it means a little (a lot of) meddling.

Or: Teru’s ready to prove that he’s worthy of being Mob’s rival by any means necessary. Mob’s just happy to make a friend at his new school, but everyone around him worries he’s being bullied when the most popular boy in his year starts sticking to him like glue.

Excerpt From too little, too late:

“The gasp punches out of him. Pure, unadulterated elation vibrating inside Chat like a nuclear reactor as the brilliant pink detransformation light fades and leaves - 

Marinette.

Marinette.

Chat Noir can’t breathe.”

you can find it on tumblr and on quotev (please don't judge me i just hate wattpad and ao3), chapter 1 is up now and chapter 2 is in the works!

it's a little bit wargames and a little bit alien and whole lot sci-fi horror so if you're into any of those, come over and check it out! <3