[orqhideia]

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⋆ latest : drummer!bbf!eric love & first impressions

michael bluth x teacher!reader

lion kaminski x neighbor!reader

ao3 : catherineswheel (under construction!)

[melanqole]

where the greenery stings.

[orqhideia]

drummer!bbf!eric love & first impressions — 4.3k words

extras: no use of y/n or she/her pronouns; mentions of drinking & smoking; reader & eric’s povs; brother is around 22/23, reader and eric are 20/21; pre-established situationship/relationship duh; i do describe what reader is wearing at one point, but it isn’t overly specific, so feel free to use your imagination however you’d like; one (1) kiss on the forehead for eric raahhh

NOTES: wanted to focus more on both their personalities rather than the juicy stuff. i am well aware this should’ve come first, but oh well! also originally intended to write this in bulleted form but my hands slipped and suddenly 4k words appeared. apologies for the spam, working on bluth x bookkeeper!reader next! listened to ‘my need’ by janet jackson and ‘deeper and deeper’ by madonna if any of y’all care

/ original moodboard & context, thank you @bluesycatharsis for your big beautiful brain; gif by maurawrites

“Can I... help you?”

Sunlight bleaching eyelids contently shut, a façade for premature impatience in the creases, he winks one open. Smoke comes from his mouth first, steam for the early summer morning that he almost forgot he offers. He lifts the side of his headphones that face you and squints eye-level with your bags at your shoulder and in a stiff bulk in your hand.

He looks behind his back at the house’s front door, locked though he was told it wouldn’t be in assured messages. Instead, he’s been sitting on the front steps, elbows at his knees showing off skin rouged at the joints—from sunburn, scrapes, blisters at the knuckles that pretty the cigarette he holds.

Your question raises his brows and a rippling of his forehead. It softens the guise his buzzed head gives, his own placid inquiry before words wave off smoke. A curse tucks itself in your skull, his appearance already some baited distraction as you reach for your own key.

“... You live ’ere?”

The nod gives him the impression it should be obvious, though he doesn’t immediately spit out a lukewarm defense; you seem just as confused, no reason to bicker with you.

You look down at him, dropping the heavier duffel to your feet. Ask if he knows your brother, to which he mimics your nod prior and circles his headphones around his neck, a singer leaking just enough.

A smile pries at his lips at your sigh of airy disbelief. His own question is choked short as you shove your key into the lock and tilt your head to imply he can follow you in.

There’s an echoing somewhere soft under long-sore skin that his posturing now is a clean slate for himself to impress rather than word of mouth thumbing prints first, fresh anatomy for you to discern alongside him. At the thought, denim scratches against warmed concrete as he stands, taking a hold of your bag you dropped before you pocket the key and can reach for it yourself. Your ‘thanks’ is meek but appreciative.

It’s clear he’s been inside before. Comfortable in his walking behind you to the kitchen, like the key was his hand pushing on the door, the teeth scars in the carding of his fingers.

You put the smaller bag hung from your shoulder on the skimpy dining room table, careful of loose show papers and a near empty bottle, and he, an arms-length to your side, gently sets your duffel down. A purse of your lips is your second thanks, to which he responds with something indiscernible around his cigarette. You busy yourself—more so pretend to—with what obscures the table, skimming the handmade posters as he leans back against the counter. Should you ask him if he wants something to drink? He isn’t your guest, you hadn’t called him over. Maybe why he was out on the steps; you entertain the thought that this is some sort of set-up of your brother’s doing from a well-needed, albeit late, change of heart.

Now inside, an itch at his nape prods him to talk. People muster talk in dining rooms all the time. He lets his gaze trail not to where you are but just short, atop the counter, twirling his cigarette out on an ashtray, an act you barely catch out of your peripheral—he’d really rather the smell not muddy his almost shy try at conversation.

It lays half-done, a dessert too sweet to some, and you wonder if the dish is there just for him, matching the color of his eyes.

But before either of you can ask the other’s name—and why you’re both unaware of each other but familiar with the same home—a sudden push of the door causes your heads to turn at the then sound of marching down the hall you just passed through. The gait embodies a stress not needing you to look up when it ceases close, and you await whatever it is he has to say. A ‘good morning’, maybe; ‘glad to see you in one piece’.

Your brother’s annoyance comes through quick in just labored breathing as he stands before the two of you, directing his lowered brows to, not yourself, but the stranger behind you. “I told you I wouldn’t be long.”—like the fault was on anyone but himself, but it holds no real distaste. Your eyes flit to peek at his figure, unchanged since you last saw him save for patched stubble at his chin, up the sides by his earlobes.

A scoff from his friend. “Y’also said the door would be open.”

Continuing your shuffle through your things, ensuring everything managed the short trip, you let them bicker with your right in between. Rehearsal times and where to tack posters, your name somewhere in the muddle like you were to be dealt with much like the rest of an itinerary unknown to you.

You hear it again, a test for how it feels in the mouth—you can’t help but like the way it sounds around his voice. Somewhere indulgent in the bones of your ribs and over the pit of your stomach wants it repeated. At the lilt, you meet his eyes once again, the early greed shelved for another time in a limb or two.

They’re round, brows raised—much like when he sat outside the door—to confirm. Your shared look is enough for him to chuckle.

Before they can argue, your brother changes the subject, and you’re grateful as you shoulder your bag. You’d rather not be pulled in some odd dispute over why he doesn’t have the courage to admit someone else lives with him in the summer months, had until you moved for school. His friends never seemed that interesting, anyway, you think, though you realize you’re staring at his friend’s profile as their talk starts once again; well, maybe one is.

A buzz in your brother’s khaki shorts interrupts them; fishing it out, he narrows his eyes at the screen while his friend crosses his arms. Your duffel is still at his feet; you’ll get it afterwards.

“Oscar needs us t’meet at his place ’cause his bike’s bust.” (Oscar you remember only blearily, a head of red hair pulling along a lanky figure, only known to you because of the annual yearbook photo from years ago with a quote underneath you are soon to hear again during a rehearsal two doors down.)

His friend simply bites at his cheek. Shrugs his shoulder to say an unfazed ‘alright’.

Your brother juts his chin towards you. “Ride here was good?”

You nod. He does the same, telling you he’ll be back in a couple hours. “Nothin’s changed much.”

A turn of his heels, a muttering about using the bathroom before leaving. It’s in the opposite direction of your room, and you revel the fact as you weave behind his friend to the next hallway, whose eyes trail after you (which you don’t notice with your back turned), and he once again takes hold of your bag at the guess you’re heading to your room—or wherever it is your stuff is to stay considering you live here, something a part of him believes is some joke.

The possibility comes to the furrow of his brow when you stop at a door he’s been told time and time again is just storage. Not like he could try opening it—it’s been locked since they agreed on practices in the spare office space.

The place lets little sunlight in where you stand, and what is granted latches to tendon in his arms like a desperate grace, saturating the pink in his hands—it’s almost like there’s no excess weight tugging his shoulder down. The secondary ease causes you to stare for a fraction of a moment longer; he notices, corner of his lips ticking to seam a tease from slipping.

With an amusement the poor hallway lighting fails to capture, he watches as you reach into your bag and pull out another key, the teeth still sharp. Déjà vu from your first interaction not far from present barely dizzies his mind, and the creak of the door breaks the ripe memory so he sees you instead, gesturing with a nod and an almost apprehensiveness in your eyes that he can simply set your bag down, no need to let him in a second time.

He does, of course; steals a look to what the crack allows his curiosity to meddle with as it’s put to your feet. There’s a joke on his tongue, a replacement for his cigarettes, but he doesn’t waste his breath.

Rather, another hint of a smile comes to his lips before they split, though a different voice sounds, loud and distant from another body.

“Eric? You ready?”

Eric.

──────────────

Your brother’s words ring in your ears whenever the guitar does the same: “Just don’t bother us.” You don’t need a reminder when someone else doesn’t seem to include himself within the insistence.

Knowing it’s you who inhabits the room he never thought twice over, the hall to rehearsal guides his eyes to your door, light behind it a thin-framed testimony, gone just as quick as he mentally jeers at himself for acting like a teenager. You share the sentiment, noting the time in your own schedule. Not that you do so to start conversation, at least after their first few rehearsals; more so engrossed by his proximity, hoping he isn’t perturbed as your initial interactions are quick, usually soundless, friendly at best. (He doesn’t mind.)

Indulgence comes to you in the first evenings as the music is enough to conjure an image: sweat beading in tandem at his neck and down to the snare and floor tom, a boyish glow housing deep breaths once the last note rings, a laugh in gravel from a cigarette tucked behind his ear like jewelry. Shaking your head makes you feel like it’ll fall to the floor and under your bed, an awakened dream for the nighttime to dissolve by morning.

The others are there too, of course: Oscar and Josh, though you don’t care for them. Oscar isn’t much to talk, which you appreciate—Josh lifts an ego on both shoulders that then hangs to his guitar and a pick and back up again, threatens to buckle his knees.

Juvenile romance encourages an endearing dance where the other’s form is just out of reach, yet the heat of their body, ready despite perspective, prods you to move anyway, across the house with the confidence they follow along. You’re practically tipsy. And though Eric’s calm is the product of a clogged throat, his heart pulsing heavy there, some attempts clear through the mess over time—some stick more than others.

A quip about what they’re practicing:

Returning the smile you give him as you meet his eyes, he juts his head to their practice room as you happen to leave your room, still a mystery he crafts in the dark. Guitar whines—has solely been for the past fifteen minutes—in time as he keeps a fair distance between the two of you, and he raises his voice so you can properly hear: “Whaddya think?”

You look over your shoulder; he thinks you’re real pretty in the color you wear even in dismal lighting and his eyes drop to the nape of your neck. Any color, really, but he tries his best to chew the flattery down, afraid he’ll sound too much like Josh. (You wouldn’t think so, but the hesitation festers nonetheless.)

“Honestly?” You think he resembles a lost dog: not only his eyes, but the way he almost subconsciously leans into the timid insouciance of your path to the kitchen, though he certainly doesn’t need a lure. He doesn’t stray far when you grab a glass from the cabinet and pour yourself a drink, either. “Could be better.”

Across from you, he rests a socked ankle over the other, leaning against the counter. He pretends to crane his head back down the hall for any other ears, his neck bare and the lowering sun already at the bend. To you again, a quiet click of his tongue at his canine.

“Y’know, it’s ’cause I ’aven’t been doin’ me part. They’ve been tryin’ to figure out how their guitars oughta sound.”

You play along, facing him with a smile warped by the glass at your lips. “Really.”

He nods. Tries to string together a reasoning that he knows what he’s talking about, not just a means to garner another endearing smile. “Drums make everythin’ more... complete. ’s a groove.” The giggle sunk into your drink, not at him but rather a compliment to his description, is enough for him to continue.

You listen as he briefly goes on about other genres (“Really, anythin’. Like, ska. Or... folk. R&B, o’course.”), then asking what one of your favorite songs is. Too casual from someone who you shouldn’t be engaging with, according to someone a few feet away. You only shrug, not letting the question linger for long. He gives you a disbelieving grin and you swear your knees click and go limp.

“Ah, c’mon, everyone has one.”

You weren’t about to admit that his voice substituted any song you ever listened to recently, the CDs and posters in your room blurry like the ink turned runny from late rain.

He doesn’t pry during your pause, pursing his lips instead. “Well, whatever it is,” he pushes himself forward to head back, loose t-shirt wrinkled over a graphic print (and the back you’ve imagined underneath), “probably better than the shit they’re messin’ around with.” He tosses you a tired wink before he disappears around the corner, tender for the night like a blown kiss that makes your chest tight and imbeds into your pillow.

Or once when he’s a little late for practice:

The door follows through with his careless push. Fifteen minutes allotted to his neighbor who needed help putting furniture in their trunk, ‘bringing it over to a friend’s for a proper look’.

Fifteen minutes late that meets him in the form of you on the couch in the living room. An embarrassed ‘sorry’ slips from his lips almost instantly, contrast to his sure figure walking in. Then, he really looks over at you to say some evening pleasantry, acknowledge you for a bit even with his bandmates waiting, maybe a joke about being his manager with the way you’re by the door.

He thought you were trying to watch something on the television, maybe reading a book, hence the apology. But you’re going out; it’s clear by what you’re wearing. Black sequins drown in their own iridescent winks at your chest, make room for the dark denim at your hips.

It’s clear he’s staring: shakes his head after he closes the door behind him as if a bug rattled into his skull, like you’ll vanish, a dreamy vision to swirl with the sparkle of your top. The fact makes your stomach churn like a Cupid’s arrow pierced the flesh, and you find it hard to keep a smile from gracing your lips.

You should tease him, you think. Stretch to imitate sultry across the couch, like you were waiting for him to show and not your friends. Hook his eyes into this nightly dress of you to remember for later, perhaps when he’s in his own bed.

And you want to, especially with the flush like pressed roses at his ears and cheeks. But you don’t goad. If anything, you contract, crossing your legs. Mutter a ‘hi’ instead. Not because you don’t like his attention, but because you still don’t know what you should do with it, how to convince yourself not to worry about everything that comes as an effect of accepting that you are drawn to him and not anyone else.

He was going to stride straight to their rehearsal, wave off any complaints with a sneer that he could’ve not shown up at all. They’d laugh and tune and blare whatever song needed polishing.

But his jaw lowers a breath at the sight of you, mouth splitting like it needs to blow smoke from a cigarette in his pocket he is yet to light.

“Y’look really nice.”

He wants to preserve what crosses your feature, like his affection cracks a shell for just a moment. The shine atop your grin makes it harder to look away, and your shoulders raise in an assured shrug like you’re trying to fit his words into your body for later. “Thanks.”

Having heard the sound of the front door, Josh enters the living room, eyes going from Eric to you. They briskly drag from your sternum to where your ankle rolls in the air.

“You be careful lookin’ like that, yeah?” he juts his chin, eyebrows lowered, expecting a powdered affirmative. You only huff, shoving your palm under your chin and an elbow at the armrest to force your head towards the door.

You hear a slap at a chest, a mess of sharp whispers from a voice that moments before made your bones warm and thaw, Josh defensive.

“Hey, what the fuck—whatever, mate, c’mon.”

Eric’s brows are furrowed as his bandmate retreats to the hall. He turns to look at you once more, obviously cold, indifferent to Josh’s pry. Picking at a nail and checking the time—your friends would be arriving soon.

He clears his throat. “Have fun.” Upturning your eyes to meet his, he continues. “Y’can, uh, text me if y’need anythin’.”

An amused tick of your lips behind your palm brings spit behind his Adam’s apple. You think the color still left at his ears emboldens you, makes you forget about your brother for just a moment as you say, attention fleeting back to the front door: “I don’t have your number, Eric.”

You watch from your peripheral as he steps forward until his knee just meets your elevated foot. A part of you that brews in the privacy of your room pictures him lower and lower, denim knees to the rug and maybe pressing a cheek to clothed calf with a pitiful exhale, entranced—you blink the wish away.

Instead, he tucks his chin in to look down at you, lidding patient blues—you swear you see your top reflecting in the iris, an intimate swim. “Would y’like it?”

For the rest of the night, you tell your friends not to let you text him, worried you’ll say something stupid with alcohol in your wrists. They giggle when you hide your face in your hands at the mere mentioning of Eric, poking at your arm that you better contact him when you get home, at least. Maybe you’ll be gutsy by the lack of face-to-face, they tease.

You do; you didn’t have too much to drink, so you type out a ‘just got home’—then, figuring it wouldn’t hurt (and that you could blame it on inebriation), ‘goodnight’. Afterwards you feel like you’ll throw up and you feel silly for the sensation, shoving a pillow over your eyes to darken any mirage in his image.

Before you lay for bed after a shower, his response makes you roll your eyes, weakly fight a smile: ‘Sweet dreams. Drink some water yeah?’

Unbeknownst to your brother it’s Eric who should be chided, and from you. But you don’t, knowing the remark would be dead and fruitless before he even hears because your smile and flustered laugh refute any bite of the sort.

It becomes harder to care about your brother and his words. And yet, you can only bring yourself to a certain point before retreating like a lit wick victim to a breeze. You aren’t sure how to handle crawling into something all for your pleasure, but you revel in seeing Eric there with the behavior of an outstretched hand waiting for your own. Perhaps a secret can be hidden by two willing to take part in its affair.

Your dance is less clumsy after a time. A fluidity still young yet ever more defined even in an absence of touch, limited to hallways and thin walls.

The evenings are more of the same: low conversation in between practice with his crooked smile and sweet tries at knowing more about you, which you always enjoy even with your timidity. Eric doesn’t know how to word it properly, and especially not to you, but he sees you like celestial reflections in calm waters, an enchanting rippling that begs his eyes not to look away, to stay yet allow it to glimmer in every hour. He just doesn’t want to muddy your shine by grazing a pinky over your own, worried the tide will pull or a cloud will curtain over, wonders of the temperature of the water.

Their next rehearsal goes on for longer, a gig scheduled two days later frantic in their limbs as they play through their set list. Miniscule changes to rhythm in a few bridges, quickened or lengthened notes and mutes for the choruses. It is sloppy but coherent soon enough; you find yourself liking a new rendition of a few.

That night, you lay on the living room couch in an attempt to tire your body. Though they already left, you hear hollow chords and assume your brother, ever the shoddy perfectionist, is considering a switch in key for a measure, or a new song already.

An old fashion magazine slows your mind some, the models dolls for an erelong dream. Flipping the pages turns into a low, domestic hypnosis, one you are suddenly brought out of at Eric cautiously walking in for the front door. You scramble to sit up with a squeak once he’s in your peripheral, shoving the magazine under a pillow as if you were caught dawdling on the clock.

His smile is so apologetic you want to kiss it away, though it must be the models’ makeup plastering itself to a third-person version of yourself in a hazed fantasy for the early morning.

Silently, he asks if he can sit beside you with a raise of his brows, a slow stride. You nod, yawn-veiled enthusiasm stringing the motion, teeter slightly as he sinks into the cushions. Knees a space from knocking makes you all the more aware how close he is.

His head hits the top of the couch, bent to expose the hill of his Adam’s apple. “Did I wake ya?” His voice is a coarse whisper, ripe for remembrance later.

You shake your head. The lamp you turned on drowns his skin a romantic stain and he smells like sweat and cologne. He closes his eyes, mutters an ‘alright’ in a low exhale.

He lets his spine contort in place against the back of the couch. There’s a bone or two that crack, and a sound reminiscent of a whimper falls from his lips. He winces, teeth like broken pearls in their shape when his top lip curls and nose scrunches.

“Sorry.”

You drink his voice in like tea, assure him it’s ok.

After practice, he feels limbless. Doesn’t realize just how tired he is. Like he’s just a bloody current rushing to calm down, leaking to a mouth wanting to talk to you without your brother acting as a net between.

Truthfully, he could not care less, but another section in his skull echoes pessimistic woes: you deserve someone not bogged down by such stupid rules, both supervised like little kids for different reasons. Less to muddle in your head.

His thoughts are zipped shut, thrown to an unseen corner when you ask about the gig. He peeks an eye open and with the look you throw at him, a sweet and tired authenticity with the lamplight a tempting outline, along with a smile at his almost cartoon-esque features, he has half a mind to kiss your temple in response and tell you you ought to get to bed, he doesn’t want to keep you up, unless you need another heartbeat to fall asleep to, an intimate white noise he’s more than willing to provide.

He can barely string his words along. Mumbles the name of the bar, how the manager saw one of their posters and called. What time they’re playing and how he doesn’t know what to wear.

You listen, not only because the cadence at which he recalls makes your stomach turn and your blood warm, but because it rests on a gentle confidence you admire. His chuckles scrape from his throat, a sniffle not unlike a child’s pillows the sound.

“Y’can come, if ya want.” The invitation is spoken so softly you almost think he’s already fallen asleep, talking to someone made of a simple mirage by his brain, a reference of parts.

But he hasn’t—not yet. Raises a questioning brow at the absence of your answer, knocks your knee with his almost subconsciously. Continues with a dull grumble from his chest: “I don’t care if your brother doesn’t want ya there—I do.”

Confessed into the quiet of your living room, you shove an oh so pleased sigh, a fairy tale-like return, into your guts. Instead, you trace the curve of his lashes fluttering to his cheekbones with exhausted eyes, needing as many angles as possible to ensure the memory is perfect even in your state.

A response is dead on your tongue, cut by a familiar withdrawal. Eric wants you there, you spin like sheep over fence. Eric, Eric, Eric.

Rhythmic breathing drags you back to where you sit next to him, sleeping now.

With a charmed smile, you lean over and press a kiss to his forehead. Delight in the hitch that comes in the next breath.

“Goodnight, Eric,” you whisper, using any strength left in your body not totally succumbed to the hour to return to your room.

Better safe than sorry. For the time being.

[aegisrising]

‿̩͙‿ ༺ slip n' slide

or;    you dedicate yourself to the study of dean's back

⊱ warnings / tags: gn!reader, pre-established relationship, back kisses, vulnerable dean, tooth-rotting intimacy, fluff, faint allusions to smut

‿̩͙‿ ༺

Dean’s astray.

He can’t get a hold of himself. He’s sure of it, because it should be easy to roll sideways and let you fall onto the mattress, and when you gawk, to flash you a smile and say he can’t have you crushing one of his best assets. He’ll get an unimpressed look, but you’ll move to sit beside him and pick up the conversation in a preferably more normal way. 

But what’s left of his will seems to be limp, dissolving away with the rest of his body. 

You’re talking. One of your theories for the case. The only remaining tether he has to the real world, which is taking him his darndest to parse through and conjure up answers to so you’ll keep going. If you stop, his senses will take over, and they’re already clamoring for him to just let go and feel this. He frowns into the pillow as another soft quake races down the pathway of his spine, trailing after careful fingers until your palm is just inches from his waistband. The chill of your skin brings down the burn of the sun to a gentler warmth. You say something about secondary locations that slips right past him.

He’s gone loony. You’re just theorizing, and he’s dying, hyperconscious of the sound of your breathing, the way your weight is pressing on top of his ass, your thighs caging him in. Your hands; mixing in with his warmth, switching between flat presses and featherlight traces – ever so gentle. 

"--y’s and a good old stake, shouldn’t be too hard for us," is the only bit he hears when your voice comes back, and his eyes fly open in alarm. 

“Huh? Uh– yeah,” he clears his throat. Totally listening. He shouldn’t have taken off his shirt. “‘Course it won’t. We’ve ganked worse bastards.”

"Well, yeah. But these things can be a little sly."

“Mmh,” he grunts. “Nothin’ we can’t handle.”

He’s back to merging with his pillow, but he can sense the smile on your face. You’ve sat back up to simply rest your palms against the dips of his waist, eyes mapping out each plane, bruise, scar, and freckle into some little constellation of its own. 

It’s pretty, and sort of a representative picture of Dean. Not the first time you’re graced with the sight, but not like this – hands poring over his every mark of skin, which you’ve always longed to do but deemed a long shot. Not that he’s shy – this is Dean, but you knew it was simply a sort of territory he tended to leave uncharted, and you were the last thing from a pushover. Not with him, and not when it took so much to even get here. 

He seems to be letting you have it right now, though. 

You’d draw it; if you could ask as such without pushing your luck. You’re still half-expecting Dean to clamber out of your grip any second, so while he’s not actively wrestling for an out, you could commit this to memory. 

You’re being awfully quiet. 

Dean has half the mind to turn over and figure out why the hell that is, but that position would make you slip off of him just as he’s starting to warm up to his newfound fate, and he doesn’t think he can manage a redo. 

He lets out a muffled grumble of your name, and you hum, thumb tapping against him.

“Keep talkin’.”

You blink, having at some point surmised his acceptance as exhaustion. Guess you’ll have to scratch that. 

“Oh,” you murmur, suppressing a smile. “Okay. Um..” 

You look back down and pause over a particularly jagged line near his left shoulder blade – a knife wound from a ghoul attack you helped patch up. That was the very first time he’d given in to your aid. Your lips twitch, gently pressing it. 

"You remember this?" 

"Yeah," he said, angling his face sideways. "Got that in Nebraska. Stung like a bitch.”

You can’t help but sneer as you trace the scar. “Sam had to give up his new flannel,” you remind him – just because you know Sam still gives him shit for it – and it pulls a frown out of him. “And you still bled onto the carseats. Funny that you seemed pretty convinced you could’ve stitched it yourself.”

Dean scoffs, no matter that it had taken him a full hour just to get the needle through. Still. How many people can say the same? 

“Because I could. I think I know what I can and can’t do, sweetheart, and that was on–”

“Apparently not.”

His eyes shoot open, and he cranes his neck enough to be met with your smug smile. He returns it with a sardonic one. “Hilarious,” he mutters before plopping back down – not his fault, your free hand started stroking his hip. “I could’ve. Only reason I let you do it was ‘cause you and Sammy wouldn’t stop pestering me ‘bout it.”

“Gee, I wonder why.” 

Dean’s rebuttals die at the tip of his tongue when you press a kiss over the old wound – immediately stiffening under you – and you freeze, hands flying to your sides in an instant. “Shit– uh.” Great. Good going, idiot. Of all the times you’ve been able to hold back,  this is the one you can’t manage?

“Sorry, I wasn’t–”

“Do that again.”

You must be hearing things. 

The surprise is palpable as your gaze snaps down to him, and Dean swallows. 

“What?”       

“....Do that again,” he says the words quietly. A mumble against cotton, looking almost bashful. 

You remember then that this is much tougher for him than you. It should’ve scared him off. You’ve got a dozen reasons why. None of which supported the plausibility that he’d be willing to try. But here you are. 

Your mouth snaps shut into a smile. Dean’s fingers twitch, about to ask why you’ve gone so silent again when he feels a peck on the same scar from earlier. 

He feels you shift your weight before pressing another tentative kiss to its left.

“Is that okay?” 

“..Yeah.”

Only then do you continue. His eyes flutter shut as you pepper more upon his shoulders. Across, along, then moving down. You don’t skip a thing: old burns, scratches, cuts. Every freckle, mole, and sunspot.

At some point, Dean lets himself go. 

It’s difficult not to. Not when you’re taking your sweet sweet time, particularly with the scars. When a whine isn’t jumping to his throat, he makes sure to get a breath in on the intervals you place before every kiss – at times with a run of your thumb – as if recalling the memories associated with it, and wondering at the ones you hadn’t been there for. 

This doesn’t mean it was easy. 

He’s spent the past hour doing the opposite, after all, afraid of what it would do if he gave in – because this is a tenderness he’s longed for all his life, rushing over him on a random Thursday afternoon with no warning. 

“Jesus,” he breathes out, gripping the sheets beneath him when you find your way back to his spine – languid, lingering kisses along where it curved. You had to crawl down – chest now propped on the back of his thighs, so the hand resting on his loin becomes his new tether. This time, he feels your smile when it curls up against him. 

He doesn’t get why you’re like that with him. Gentle, in your quieter moments together. Eager, even with the most mundane, tedious shit he could possibly think of. Stakeouts, beer runs, waiting for Sam, sitting on the sink when he shits. His friggin back. 

Well. You do like him. That’s why he’s here. That’s why you’re here, but sometimes he doesn’t get that part either. Because you seem to almost savor Dean. And he’s still learning how to take without knocking anything over. 

His last spot a little further below, except this one wasn’t exactly battle-bourne. He feels you kiss where he’s pretty sure your teeth bared into him a couple nights ago. 

You pat it with a contented hum, sounding way too pleased with yourself. “Still holding up.”

“‘m still gonna get you back for that.”

A snort. “And I’m still waiting,” you say, moving back up to lay atop his slack figure and rest your cheek close to his shoulder. Which part he’s groaning about, you’re not sure. Both of you seem too content to care. 

“Do you really still think you could’ve sutured yourself that day?”

“What, the Nebraska thing?” he huffs, pulling at the bedsheets. “Yeah. I told ya, I was halfway through m’first stitch when y’an Sam came barreling in.”

You smirk. “You were flailing around like a highschooler with gum on his back.”

“At least gum’d be easier to get off my back.”

“And yet you didn’t when you had the exact, literal chance.”

The headboard receives his unimpressed glower. 

You know something’s wrong when he doesn’t jab back, but then Dean moves. You’re tossed to the mattress with a yelp, smugness wiped clean off your face, mirrored instead on the face of a towering Dean. 

He raises a brow as you catch your breath. “Looks like you spoke too soon, huh?”

“Not really. That was a reactive decision, kind of a little late for it to pr–”

Because you’ll drag this into a debate for your own cruel fun, Dean stops you with a kiss. You melt into it all the same, even if your grin refuses to cease – thankfully, it spurs him on. 

“You’re a fucking pain,” he says into your mouth, pulling away only to press a kiss to your temple. “You know that?”

“I revel in that fact, actually.”

Your grin only widens when he scoffs. 

One of these days, he’ll muck up the nerve to tell you to at least warn a man before you do things like that, or say that he doesn’t revel in that fact. 

For now, he’ll let his face slip into the crook of your neck and let your hands lull him to sleep. 

｡𓃉 a/n: i. (crawling through the dirt) fi..nally .. (wheeze of agony) got it done . dean's back is so smooth and clean in the show and to that i holler in objection. likely for the same understandable reason they didn't end up giving him tattoos but. still. enjoy the sprinkles of sub!dean.

[samwspn]

tag game ֶָ֢ᐟ — 3 animals that represent you?

⋮ ⌗ ┆ deer, bears and wolves :3

npt:: @wintrynightz @heart-of-alex @pittsick @rogersgal @kismetsfawn @amourflores @userhotd @im-miss-worldblog @prettysouled @severedlamb @dontlistentodaisy @deadbeatpup @fawnrott @gilmrres @gengarwebs @heapingfern @lilahthedoll @carmysdoll @cup1dssorrow @cumkissed @vlarrtrgryn @beafond @nuitts @meiyokstarr

[orqhideia]

thank you helena x

jaguar — hummingbird — poodle

@: @bluesycatharsis @loverssalvation @dontlistentodaisy

[orqhideia]

this is a moodboard for today

[dontlistentodaisy]

𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒌𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒔 : 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕

summary — being loved by dean has taught you that it's okay to exist outside of the constraints you have always lived within. on a night where that love is extended beyond his own needs, you can't help but thank him in the sweetest way you know how.

pairing — dean winchester x reader genre —sleepy dean fluff! word count — eight hundred & ninety

warnings — love love love love love. mentions of a repressive/limiting upbringing. reader learning to open up, and exist loudly. dean being a lovely, supportive partner. soft, sleepy dean. & obviously goodnight kisses!

first installment 💋

          this was the deal: when you talked, dean listened. 

you came from a family where children were seen and not heard, and that mentality had followed you throughout the years. your input had never been valued as much as your ability to make yourself small. you existed conveniently instead of allowing yourself to exist as boldly as you possibly could. any and every thought or idea that you shared was meticulously planned in order to be accepted and approved of. the very same could be said for your actions. 

you never took up more space than was necessary, even when it was yours to take. 

when you'd first met dean winchester, this reality seemed to mesh well in the presence of someone like him. dean never tended to shy away from sharing his opinion, even when it cost him. he was headstrong, and usually said the first thing that came to mind, and the confidence he exuded—no matter how performative—was something you admired. you hid in the shadows of dean, comfortable to do so until it was suddenly inconvenient.

it was inevitable that once the two of you began to grow closer, dean would hit a wall. you both craved something deeper, and that kind of closeness required you to share more than you usually were willing to—or even felt the need to. you were seen, not heard, but dean made it very clear that when it came to you, he wanted to listen. very gently, he’d pointed out the fact that you felt like half of a person sometimes, existing just above the surface of the depth of your being. 

you had gone so long without sharing that depth that it had taken some time to open yourself up, but eventually, you’d found a light powerful and strong enough to chase away the shadow you had belonged in for far too long. 

it was never too much for dean to handle, and every part of you was always welcomed. he had come to hear you, even in the silence, but he was particularly fond of the version of you that practically wouldn’t stop sharing. the version of you that could talk for hours on end, sharing just about every thought you had with him. dean had created that safe space for you, and it was obvious that it had nurtured the part of you that had been neglected for years. he didn’t take it for granted that there was a time when he could barely get two sentences out of you, let alone an hour long yap session like the one you were subjecting him to now. 

from the impala, to the motel, through showers and patching each other up, you’d been rambling on and on about the case you’d just finished—and of course, dean listened. 

there had been a mutual consensus on how tired the job had made the both of you, and yet there you were, pushing off sleep in favor of your fascination of the supernatural. a mode that turned on whenever you knew that you were free to ramble without the fear of being seen as too much. 

you were tucked into the motel bed, cuddled up next to dean with your forearm pressed against his chest as you continued to share your thoughts. dean had been doing his best to follow along, fighting high levels of sleep and exhaustion that were slowly starting to win the fight.

you had paused mid-sentence, finally noticing how sleepy he had become, and you watched him for a moment, smiling to yourself as he blinked back at you with slumberous eyes. 

“i was listening. i promise.” he insisted, words slurring in a way that made your brows furrow with empathy despite your laughter. 

dean adored your laugh, and a smile as beautiful as the stars graced his face at the sound of it. your eyes scanned his features, heart aching at the sight of your beautiful, sleepy boyfriend. slowly, you began to shake your head back and forth. 

“you’re annoyingly beautiful, you know that?” you told him.

“..’m sorry.” was his quiet response. it was all he had to offer, really.

you doubled over, laughing quietly at his words, dean’s grin now hidden by your hair. he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head before you pulled back, your eyes falling over his face again. 

“you should get some sleep.” your urged gently with a sweet smile. 

“i was listening, you know.” dean insisted again, wanting you to know that no matter what, he always would be. 

“i know, but you need your rest.” you said, reaching up to run your hand through his hair.

dean leaned into your touch, eyes finally falling shut, and what you did next came as naturally to you as breathing. 

you moved closer, leaning in to thank him for loving and acknowledging every part of you by pressing a soft kiss against his forehead, followed by a couple more across the tops of his cheeks, one for each eyelid, one on the tip of his nose, and the sweetest of them all bestowed upon his soft lips. 

“goodnight, dean.” you whispered, pressing another to the corner of his mouth. 

his breathing had already begun to even out, and you made yourself at home in the comfort of his embrace, head coming to rest on his chest—perfectly content, and entirely loved. 

p.s — it's been a minute! life has been a lot to deal with lately, but i am still here xx hope you guys enjoy this sweet fic! much more to come !!

— daisy

taglist ♡ @ladycain00

[orqhideia]

drummer!bbf!eric love x reader — 918 words

extras: 18+ mdni, smutty/no overly explicit smut: lots of touching & kissing, implied oral (r!receiving); no use of y/n or she/her pronouns

NOTES: little scenario that crawled its way into my head bc this au is too good to not add to. can also be read as genderbent!eric, as is shown in annie’s moodboard! again i cannot take myself seriously so i hope this doesn’t sound stupid af!!

/ prev post, credit to @bluesycatharsis [moodboard, context]

You had nearly forgotten you were in your room. Your body must have been taken aback by your posture, for it should have been upright and donning the familiar cotton of your uniform as the hands of the clock above the door kept you from leaving. (Your boss was to blame. You were given an uninterrupted evening, short-lived when the knock took you to the door and he brought you back in with the reason of leaving something behind.)

Instead, you sat halfway bare with an old shirt covering your chest and Eric shadowing the rest, obscuring the time with hands of his own. Just as slow, but welcomed.

“Y’can touch me.” The reassurance, having been whispered into the crease of your thigh, needed no repetition of any kind, though you didn’t immediately oblige—too much velveteen fog behind your eyelids. On the chance you hadn’t heard, he guided the hand you kept atop your sheets to the plane at his nape and shoulder blade, warm and flexing underneath your palm—the other was already interlocked with his own at your side. You took his word and indulged; he thought it cute how affected you were, that another scratch of your nails would surely bribe a heavy whine from somewhere dizzy in his throat.

He laid steady and strong, praises passing every now and then through spit-shone lips like he needed them out of his mouth. Apt brushes of his thumb at your hipbone brought bumps to be smoothed over in the same second. Even with the one hand he could pacify any cant, any rise, lowering you back into your bed with a prideful laugh stuck behind his teeth. ‘There? Hm?’ he would ask, other variations of it; he just wanted to hear the struggle in your hilted cadence, a pretty pull for him to continue.

No need to say the name when the sound came from your nightstand. Both your heads turned to the noise—you figured he was about to grab it with the way his shoulders shifted, taking with them what little light the moon allowed the two of you from the window.

“Shame.” But he didn’t. Released the hand you pried, bit at your thigh, kissed it better, open-mouthed as a substitution for the words. Irritation at your brows dissolved as he then went to the bend of your knee, eyes coming to meet yours in lazy increments, like you anchored them to where they ought to look and it was a chore to reach above night-miraged water.

His name was already on the tip of your tongue to be delivered harsher than times prior. Eric spoke before you could—until he was done, he only wanted to hear it on a breath, a note solely for his pleasure.

“G’on.” He let a hand trace from your hip to where his lips were moments before, calloused palm over your kneecap. Where he positioned himself ought to be an afterthought.

The ringtone was cut as you brought the phone to your ear, not without an innocuous glare in his direction, his suspect change in demeanor; you put a hand to his forehead when the movement blurred in your peripheral. Eric let out something akin to a giggle, boyishly rough by cigarettes having curled aloof at the Adam’s apple. Nonetheless, he played into your request. Let his eyes cast over the bare stretch of your neck as you spoke to your brother.

Eric allowed the conversation to tangle, ripple into disinterested noise when he felt your hand loosen after a few moments, palm to fingertips. Positioned his own beside your hips so he hovered over your lower half instead, hearing the sheets correspond to where your legs flattened against them without his weight to keep them where he wanted.

Your breathing, calmed to a regular pace, hitched at the question directed to you on the other line. Suddenly his attention was diverted to where you spoke at the headboard, itching to hear every word.

“Where are ya at, anyway? Back from work yet? I dunno if I left the door unlocked... anyway, I gotta go. Talk to ya later.”

“Oh, no, I’m, uh, at a friend’s right now. Bye.”

Eric drank in the glance you shot him. Not entirely a lie, if you explained yourself right: your brother’s friend, you should have specified; you meant to say ‘underneath’ rather than ‘at’. Harmless mistakes.

A casual ‘alright?’ barely formed—or so you desperately hoped—in the hour’s dim just before you quickly ended the call. Something from the television, you’d say if your brother asked (and hadn’t recognized the voice).

You turned to shove your phone into the nightstand’s drawer, an easy excuse. As you did, a quicker and harder close than you intended afterwards bringing an amused smile to his lips, Eric slowly crawled upwards the rest of the way, his nose dropping to drag at the apple of your cheek.

“Your friend must be nice, lettin’ ya stay with ’em this late,” he cooed with a kiss there. The mock, a gesture so close to friendly and coming after where he had been for the past half an hour, made you scoff.

“You’re so dead.” The bitter finish fell, as did his thigh. You flinched at the press, worn denim against sensitive skin—not uninvited, just sensitive. Like he was reminding himself, and you, where you had urged him to stay and he had eagerly done so, would for a little while longer.

He only hummed. “Good place t’die, I think.”

[cuntbitchandthebottlemen]

imagine coming home after a long day at work and this is your fine shyt

[mxdsummer]

one word, many words ♡

roy goode x fem!reader ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ Some fluffy fluff from the back of my notes. Synopsis: You catch Roy staring at Jim's letter, and he asks you to help him read it. (Reader is a stray taken in by the Fletcher household before the events of the show.) Word Count: 1358 enjoy! xx

When you stumble around the corner of the stables, the last thing you expect to see is Roy with a letter in his hands.

Conversations with Alice flood back to you. The letter is recognisable, of course, from the late night whispers in the warm enclosure of bed. Being as the house was small, and the extra beds were for Iyovi and Truckee. It was for this that the only left space for you, when you'd shown up to their home one afternoon, was in Alice's bed. Somewhere in the back of your mind you remember sharing beds like this with the girls of your family, way back when. At the ranch, with Alice, you'd lay cuddled together on cold days and poles apart on the hottest.

Most nights Alice liked to pillow talk; telling you things she'd die before admitting to her son or to his grandmother. Listening to her came easy, her voice the steady warmth of sisterly whispers and ears neither of you otherwise had. She'd tell you her inner thoughts, her most secret tales, her plans, her wonderings. And most nights you'd be lulled to sleep by her talk before ever hearing the full of it.

For days after Roy's arrival, the shared bed whispers were far more of a conversation than they usually were. You'd both eagerly chatted, low voices wavering between bewilderment and wonder. And when Alice told you about the letter she'd found - *Roy Goode, Lucy Cole, Jim Goode, California...*it had taken Iyovi's vexed visit to your room to get you to stop talking about it and at last surrender to sleep.

The letter, she'd said, was unopened. Now, having seen Roy staring down at the folded, yellowed paper the way he was, you could only surmise that he'd at last worked himself up to reading it.

You try and duck back around the corner, but Roy calls you right back inside on the instant. His voice is low when he calls your name, but not hesitant. Purposeful. Soft.

"It's alright. Really," he beckons. "You come here needing something?"

"Nothing much. Just wanted to check on Maybelle," you nod to one of the horses in confession. "Would hate to interrupt. I'll just go on and get."

"No, no, you’re not interruptin' none. Fact I'd welcome the company. Won't you join me?"

This time you let your hands fall down your skirts in defeat and meander your way back in. The sand coloured beauty you'd called Maybelle nudges her face happily into your hands when you greet her, and you giggle lowly when you feel a puff of her hot breath between your fingers. Maybelle is all the more eager when you give her a gentle scratch about her ears, ever the easy lover.

"You got a real way with 'em," Roy mentions.

"Comin’ from you that means a mighty lot. Truckee and I got to agreeing that you're some sorta horse whisperer, you."

"Oh, is that so?" He nods in approval, "Well. My point still stands. You got a real way with them yourself, Milady."

"You always call me that. Milady. I'm no lady, Roy. I'm just some girl who the old wind blew the wrong way and won't take back." Your voice catches when you deliver the words, and you swallow, busying yourself with Maybelle's tangled mane in order to hide your expression from Roy. Talking about your old life, remembering wandering the woods, and the Iyovi found you…it always brings a catch to the back of your throat, a sting in your eyes.

"Seems to me you could be a lady, being as you're so lost,” he tells you gently. “You could be a real regal lady, and we'd all be none the wiser, you could be. I'd believe it."

Your tears disappear before they're realised.

"And we don't know none about you, either. Seems to me you could be some Lord and we'd not know."

Roy laughs low. "I'm no Lord, Milady. That much I do confirm." He nods his head toward the pistol lying atop his jacket, over by his feet. "That ain't the common object of a Lord now, is it? Least not in my books. Well, wouldn't be if ever I read me some. Books."

"You can read them aplenty now. Thanks to Alice and Truckee and Callie's old primer, you'll be reading up a damn storm."

"Thanks to you too, Milady."

"You know you're always welcome. I'd help you over again if you needed it," you tell him. You stare into his eyes when you say it, way into his soul. You mean it. Every word.

"Help me now," Roy whispers. Slow. His ask comes in a gentle wave, entirely at the mercy of your answer. His want, the sea to ask, your willing, the moon to accept. Roy picks the letter back up and smooths the creases over his knee. "Help me read it."

"Your brother's letter? Isn't it?" Roy nods slowly.

"I need you to help me read it. If you want to, like. If you want to. Please?" The letter flutters shut on his lap, and he sighs, running a hand wearily over his face. "It's just that...I'm afraid I don't know to read nearly enough words."

"Sure you do. I've seen you sounding them all out, and you get ‘em all eventually. You'll be dandy."

"I'm not so sure I wanna take that chance. Not with this. I wanna understand everything he's saying to me." For a moment the two of you only stare. Maybelle nuzzles your shoulder. Roy's soft blues pierce.

Hell. Jim's letter sure ain't no primer.

"What do you say?” Roy punctuates his question by patting the hay beside him.

You'd never much enjoyed sitting in the hay, being rough, scratchy and poking as it is. Sometimes the stuff would stick right in places you'd rather it didn't, and other times would strike through ripped holes of the thrice mended skirt you wore. Alice's old one, naturally, faded and many times patched, thin enough to make sure you'd feel every bit of that hay. Still, the invite of Roy's morning blues was proving themselves a feat to resist.

Roy smooths out his letter after he unfolds it. When he begins to stumble over the words, you realise he's sitting so close you can feel the vibration of his voice through his arm, pressed against yours.

Later, in bed, you lie awake for hours longer than is your usual. Sometime after too much tossing and turning, you lie flat on your back and admit your truth with a breathy sigh.

"He wanted me to read his brother's letter with him," your whisper is sleek and barely there in the night. "And I did."

A lilt of silence drifts as a stray breeze cools your shoulder. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say Roy Goode is a fool in love." Alice's words have you smiling stupidly into the dark. You had not known if she was awake to hear you, though you were not surprised; Alice was always there when she was needed, and Alice was always right.

The afternoon memory is a ghost in front of you, as if you're watching it all happen in the shadows of the night. His letter fluttering to the floor. His hand finding yours. Your arms encircling him. His arms tight around your back, hand on the back of your head. The way your hair stood on end as his breath graced your neck.

Then, as if she can see the memory with you, Alice laughs a soft laugh. "And I'd say that you are too. Whatever are we to do with you?”

You roll over onto your back. It’s a few minutes later when Alice’s muffled breathing announces she’s at last surrendered to sleep.

“Will you miss me when you go on to your brother?”

Roy Goode had taken your face in his hands. From this angle, the sunlight hit his glistening eyes just right. From this angle, the face of this wanted killer was fragile, expectant.

“Not if you come with me.”

dividers by @uzmacchiato -`♡´-

[scarymonsters-protectivespirits]

[orqhideia]

drummer!bbf!eric love x reader — 1k words

extras: heavily suggestive, ends before any actual smut; no use of y/n or she/her pronouns; pet names ‘sweetheart’ & ‘love’; kissing & touching & lowkey some very brief bumping and grinding; mentions of smoking & drinking; reader and eric are of similar age (20/21); disregard my attempt at his accent please

/ credit to @bluesycatharsis for this moodboard and overall context, i was genuinely salivating reading through it so i hope this short n’ sweet fic does it some justice! everyone say thank you annie

Today’s not a rehearsal day—you rolled your eyes as you stood in front of the door to their practice room, light from the other side yellowed and splayed underneath the wood, begging you with a careless posture to push it the rest of the way open. Their voices were boyish and jumpy, hacked and hushed, decorative fodder for the cigarettes and drinks that quieted them for the briefest of moments.

Fingertips glowing in a drowsed outline met a sticker ripped at its edge as the door obliged to your touch. “Hey, I thought you said you wouldn’t be practicing tonight.”

Any bite in your voice, however delivered, possibly slack-jawed and loosened due to your jaded stature, seemed to be lost on them. Your brother, his guitar laid across his lap and a drink in his hand, looked over; the others did the same, though you really only felt—cared—about one.

“We’re not,” he retorted. “Just talkin’ about our next gig.”

A nod from the friend that sat next to him—Oscar?—and a rough ‘yeah’ from Josh leaning against an old desk.

“You could still keep it down a bit,” you continued as if it were just the two of you. “I told you I was coming home late.”

He only muttered a ‘yeah, yeah’ under his breath, something about them packing up and leaving in a few—minutes, hours, the word disintegrating as quickly as it left his mouth, for it slid into the bottle of whatever he was drinking.

Your body turned to leave, already wanting to be anywhere not littered with night-invited chatter encouraged by clouded blood and mind.

Before you could: “Nice uniform.” Josh gestured with his chin, bass propped at his side like some sharp extension of his lukewarm figure.

You didn’t respond, didn’t allow your face to show that if your mouth split you’d probably gag.

Eric spoke before your hand curled at the door’s edge—more natural to you than the handle in the moment—spread legs shifting at where he sat behind his drum kit, though you didn’t notice.

“We’ll keep it down, love.” (You did catch the sneer in Josh’s direction, molding to then take the shape of the cigarette after he addressed you.)

They didn’t. Or you just couldn’t tell—the early morning had a habit of making everything a burdened, scrappy song in the comfort of a cool watch outside. Like the sounds could finally come up with everyone’s sleep, for it was too hot earlier and they would melt into an unidentifiable mess of a noise.

You stared at your ceiling, what you could make of your nails as your eyes adjusted post some lazed attempt at falling asleep. If you couldn’t rest after your body wanted to, maybe it needed some more encouragement. Some water would do you good if the walk didn’t.

Your bed creaked as you swung your legs out from under your sheets, left with the pressed weight of you to return.

You only managed to take one step, maybe two out your room—you pulled back more than anything to not collide with his chest.

He resembled a fantasy in dusk with the silence at which he came to and stood so close to your door. If you hadn’t met his eyes, you would have missed the near juvenile shine like a second pulse around enlarged pupils.

“What are you doing?” you whispered, brows pulled together and glancing over his shoulder to the end of the hall, back to him.

Eric only shrugged, “’m the last one ’ere,” responding to the worry blanketed in your features, then softer, spoken through a sly lilt to his lips and a shine to his canines, a light to ogle in the dim of the hour, “Wanted to say goodnight to ya first.”

Before you could tell him he couldn’t’ve been serious, he leaned into the underside of your jaw, pressing more so when he found you pliant. What you were anticipating ghosted just over the skin before they merely dragged along wherever he could reach, like an attempt to find the right spot in the dark.

“Then say it,” you said with a faux wavering indifference and placing a hand at his shoulder to trace the neckline of his shirt, catching the amused hum he gave in return.

“You’re pretty hot when you’re pissed,” he whispered into your neck, ended with a kiss, another, like a note’s signature.

You rolled your eyes at his change of conversation. “That’s not going to work on me, Eric.” Chided with a breath, a bite ebbed to a sigh. He put one hand to the wall beside your head, the other opposite where his lips lay, resting in the divot and guiding you to bend—your hand came to the wrist to keep it there.

You felt his smile at the skin. “What?”—the mocked innocence and opposing touch made you squeeze your eyes shut—“Me words, or...” His lips substituted their own name, placed now at the corner of your mouth, though only because the sound of your brother’s bedroom door stole his turn. You gripped the fabric of his shirt—you swore he let out a laugh.

“Don’ worry,” he purred. He must’ve felt how your bones gave in, grabbing your thigh and bending it against the low-waisted denim of his hip with ease. You canted your waist to meet the weight before you realized it moved. “He thinks I already left.”

His words stuck heavy from swollen lips to exposed skin flushed from their path, not quite meeting your ears. You could tell he liked the way both his hands and whatever came from his mouth splintered any resolve in you so late—you heard it in the whimper he failed to conceal, the jump just underneath his navel as you lowered a hand to the band of his boxers peeking over the button of his jeans.

You almost didn’t register his next plea, delivered with a shaky curse to your lips. “Will ya let me in?” You would have stayed just outside your door if he asked lowly enough.

At his words you could only nod, not trusting how you’d sound if you broke the seam and he wasn’t there to immediately swallow your response.

“Yeah?” A pant into your mouth, barely whine-like. Another kiss, bruising and deep; a gentle peck to follow. “I’ll make ya feel so good, sweetheart, ya won’t even remember Josh...”

[orqhideia]

watched adult world last night.. who would like an au raise your hand

i just don’t know who i’d write it with, so if you guys have any suggestions pretty please lmk

[violained]

݂ ໋. ⎯͟͟ ͟ㅤㅤ.‎ ‎ ‎‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎‎surrender !

summary in the backseat with dean <3

content MDNI 18+, gn!reader, reader is slightly shy, dry humping, gentle nipple play (dean receiving mhm) #happy trail dean! he is needy and very in love, use of baby, angel, and pretty !

masterlist ; divider

wc 816

Dean kisses your bare sternum with the same delicacy that he uses to kiss your cheeks and jaw and the smooth of your calf. His lips are feathering plum pink; he's kiss-bitten and happy to be. The heat of a gentle bite stings his neck.

He likes when you bite, though you'd been shy about it. The feeling always plunges him into hazy dizziness. Your knee shifts and bumps his stomach lightly, he spreads molten fingers over the plush of your thigh and pushes down to flatten the bend.

"Come on," he whispers. "Tell me what you want, pretty."

Too many options. You weigh them. He'll give anything, you could ask for his mouth or thick fingers or dick. Could push off your back and clamber onto his lap. He's a mess but hiding it well, save for telling pinched brows.

"Wanna see you better."

He sits high on his knees and blinks at you, trying to focus. It's hard, when you're a glowing vision in his backseat and nude besides underwear. An angel. Splayed and running a tender hand along his chest, your thumb coaxes his nipple.

"Fuck," he hisses, dark lashes aflutter.

You smile. Rarely are you the one doing the teasing.

"Sensitive," you coo and pinch quick. "Oh, you like that."

Ribbons of silver moonlight bleed through the windows, strapping across his abdomen. They set the honey-blond hairs above his belt flaming white, flowing down his navel in a band, beckoning to be licked and touched.

You twist his nipple between a delicate thumb and index. He barely swallows a whimper.

"Baby." He scrambles to hitch your thigh up his waist, holding it there while he helplessly grinds the swell of his jeans against you. "Fuck, you're so- so good. A fuckin' angel."

Your hand falls and settles on his bicep. He ruts slow and stuttered, lowering himself to press the point of his nose beside your ear. Powdery fragrance, he breathes in and in again, chest flowering with sticky, sweet love.

"Dean, I... oh."

He raises his head, fingers kneading at the dough of your leg. His rings indent cold and your half-lidded eyes tug his heart achingly. You've such a breathy, faraway voice and he hasn't even fucked you stupid yet.

"Good?" he checks. "Feels good? You like this?"

You nod feverish, catching his chin with a sloppy, pillowed kiss. He's got enough sense to grin lopsided and swallow your mouth whole, tongue needling for yours. This earns him a dreamy, lilting sigh that pits straight to his gut and pools there in welling heat.

"Y'sound like..." he starts, mumbling and blissed, following a connecting string of saliva back towards your lips. Can't ever get his fill, mind a mantra of you, warm, soft, sugary. "Heaven. What does heaven sound like?"

A shaky breath passes from your nose. "Heavenly, I'd guess."

He licks a stripe on your throat. Your arms cross over his shoulder blades, palm scooping through spiked hair, hips lifting to meet his movement. A small, hiccupping sound flies from him traitorously, bordering on plea.

"Jesus- shit," he says. His clothed thrusts become sloppy.

"Here," you offer, reaching for his belt. "Please."

There's nothing else to think about, to feel, except for your fingertips grazing past that musky trail on his low stomach. He slows, missing the friction as it wanes, but adoring your cautious expression. Excitedly nervous. Your pinkie curls around a belt loop. His palm skates the length of your thigh.

"Y'don't have to," he murmurs. "It's okay, baby."

Dean decides you must be magic, when your eyes find his. Glittering jewels amidst the dim light in the car. He can see your smile, a perfect, curling thing, and holds back from kissing you again and again until your brain is mush.

"Want to," you reply. His belt comes undone with a clink.

The button of his jeans pops out lazy under your tentative touch, but he doesn't rush. Rolls his lip beneath a shiny canine as you slide the zipper down and stifles a whiny beg. You're soft and pretty and he wants to bury himself in your skin forever.

You work his jeans to his knees and then pause to watch him quietly, ignoring his straining boxers, your chest pulling with prolonged rises. He wonders where that brief teasing went but loves you just as much, like this. Affected.

"Hey," he whispers. Leans quickly to give a smacking kiss to your hip bone. "You're beautiful."

"Thank you. You're, um. You're beautiful, too."

His body pangs. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Can you fuck me, now? Please."

Yes, yes, yes.

Clumsy in this small space, he manages to kick off his pants without hitting the top of his head and yanks his wallet from the back pocket to grab a condom. Brings it to his teeth and tears it open. His supply is diminishing.

"Yeah, yeah, baby. Yes. C'mere."

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂

EWW okay. this is just simply a mess don't laugh at me :p i wrote the majority of this half-asleep and barely read it over !!!

[orqhideia]

Hiiii, i have a request, can you make a michael bluth fic, about him and teacher/reader, she teaches george-michael so thats why the know each other, thank you so much, keep writing girl💕

of course, i really liked trying to come up with something for this dynamic, and i hope you like it too! :)

you can read it here

[orqhideia]

michael bluth x teacher!reader

⤿ REQUESTED! “… can you make a michael bluth fic, about him and teacher/reader, she teaches george-michael so thats why the know each other…”

extras: no use of y/n or she/her pronouns; mention of reader wearing makeup & being able to do their hair but nothing too crazy; one (1) kiss on the cheek for reader

- -✁- - -

“ok, mr. bluth, you called—”

“please, call me michael.”

your eyes suggested anything but, yet there was a tick in your lips, a brief molding of your cheeks to the move he most definitely caught.

“you called about george michael’s most recent essay, is that right?” playful dejection showed in his sigh at your dismissal of his quip, the way he shifted in the seat clearly too small for his frame as a means to reshape himself. you were comfortable in your plush desk chair, posture straight as his faltered like your voice guided the push and pull.

he nodded, locking his fingers together and placing them on the desk separating the two of you. “yes, that’s right.”

from the small pile of papers you sorted before he arrived, you flipped through with a patient, mechanical hand and found the one with his name at the top corner. sliding it over so it lay in front of you, you raised a brow at michael for him to continue.

“you know,” he started, lifting his hands and setting them down in a soundless knock, the light at your desk licking at the band of his watch, “we talked about it when he got home a few days ago, and i—uh—would like to hear your thoughts on how he could work on some of the notes you made.” he eyed the red pen in the corners, though his paper had fewer than most.

with pursed lips you quickly ran through the first few paragraphs, not reading, just going from the start of a line to the end and back again. claims and plot points from a book your class had read last month that might as well just have been black crosshatch with the way they sat uniform but without any interest. you read your own handwriting in the margins: nothing to write home about (or make a call to the teacher for). out of your peripheral, you saw the way he watched you do so, as if ready for any word to come out of your mouth. calm, but with a low fidgetting that wanted to exercise itself once the clock hit seven sharp.

you hummed; he raised his brows slightly at the sound. he waited to meet your eyes as his went from the way your hair was done after hours; was your makeup different, or was the low lighting to blame?; he thought the color you wore looked nice on you.

“michael, you’re gonna have to stop staring at me like that if you want me to take you seriously.”

at that, his façade broke, as did the seam of his lips, teeth in a sly smile. “i’m a bad actor, aren’t i.” not a question, nothing for you to answer since you both knew just as much.

you sucked in a breath, releasing it in a ‘yeah’ as you dropped the paper back atop the table. “i nearly hung up on you when you called lying through your teeth in the first place.” all the papers were back in their original pile, though none of the others needed any additional looking over: you wanted to at least make your environment believable.

“yeah, but you couldn’t resist my voice, could you?” he leaned forward to cross his forearms on your desk, careful of your pens and strewn documents. he smiled at the roll of your eyes. “besides—you need a break from grading and i figured some food would help.” gesturing to the bag he had set down beside him when he arrived, you watched as he began to place your order wherever space would allow it.

and it did in your limited sliver of time. only half an hour, and at the confirmation he had crooned a ‘perfect’ through the phone as if scheduling a dinner and a movie. you, at hearing him mention a time you had told him you’d be free during your grading block after hours over coffee a few days prior, had rolled your eyes and told him you would see him—mr. bluth—the next evening.

you ate; he did ask about george michael, but you assured him there was nothing to worry about with a shake of your head. he listened as you spoke about your deadlines, the lesson plan you had prepared for the next month.

he left with a kiss to your cheek, an easy dessert after your makeshift night out.

you gave him a dramatic gasp in return as he began to make his way to your classroom door, you turning on your computer and rearranging supplies for your next assignments to grade. “mr. bluth, that is hardly appropriate. we barely know each other.”

“you wish,” he called as he stood at the doorframe, adding, “i’ll call you later if i have any more questions.”

[orqhideia]

First time sending you an ask #kindanervoussss but I just wanted to say that all the characters you relate to are such baddies omg!! And I'm not surprised at all. You totally are a baddie 💅 but yeah I used to have such a huge crush on Velma as a kid it was actually embarrassing how much I loved her (still do cuz I have a thing for nerdy women/men so y'know). SLAYYYY ‼️

omg hiii annieee lovely to see you here

thank you, you are too kind from one baddie to another. velma has always been my #1 having grown up on scooby doo so hey shoutout all my nerds and especially my fellow glasses-wearers bc i too love a nerdy woman/man 🙂‍↕️