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anantaru · 6 months

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BONUS KINK — BODY WORSHIP

kinktober 2023. — masterlist | ao3

a/n. the last bonus kink is about them worshipping you just the way you deserve <3 and thank you for supporting this year's kinktober, enjoy <3

𖧡 — including — diluc, zhongli, childe, alhaitham

𖧡 — warnings — fem! reader, all about how much they love your body and putting your pleasure first, very passionate & rough, oral (fem! receiving), fingering

𖧡 — DILUC

the closer diluc got to his mansion, the more he realized that he had missed you this entire day— and he desires you with every inch of his being, in a special way that wasn't temporary but made him believe that love wasn't a hoax after all, and that he wasn't hard to love either, because you made him feel again.

the idea of losing you could truly ruin him.

and sometimes he catches himself become embarrassingly jealous of the glinting sun rays being eminent in the sky, for they can kiss you whenever he cannot.

a primal rush of pleasure shivers through him when he first places both hands on top of your hips, waiting for a moment and dwelling on your warm frame diffusing the stiffness of abused muscles located around his shoulders and chest as he absorbs the vibrations of your tranquil mewls into his aching body.

"i missed you, diluc," you say, "so much," before teasing his shaft with your walls and constricting ever so wonderfully, remembering the shape of his length as you wince at the additional pressure his cock sent straight into your core, clenching your muscles rhythmically that the rest of his body would shiver whilst pressed against your own, your facial expression continuously satisfied with the treatment he always gave you.

diluc clears his throat and attempts to hide the scarlet redness manifesting on his bristling cheeks, "i missed you," he whispers and emphasizes the last word with an octave higher, "been thinking about you all day," before lapping wet streaks over the areas on your neck that he knew were the most sensitive, it was the combination of one bite and a possessive huff on the wet flesh that made you whimper softly on the next thrust— not to forget that your body was simply divine to the red haired, each curve and bend reacting when he pumps you full of his cock, letting it glide smoothy in and out of your warm hole as you moan out his name, your face ecstatic with release.

you knew you wouldn't last very long, and as you continued to be fucked with diluc's precise thrusts consisting of long, slow movements, you felt a tightening in the pit of your stomach, your throbbing cunt hot and tight sealed around his shaft as it took every ounce of restraint for diluc to not just cum and release his seed to pulse in hot rivulets on your inflamed walls.

it's almost too much to bear— but alas, that was what diluc craved, and even if he didn't say anything too directly or would admit it to you, he's been secretly hard and painfully throbbing for the majority of his day that consisted of nothing but work on top of work, his pulsing erection unbearably hard and rubbing against the rough confines of his pants as he day dreamed about his current reality.

alas, he was able to feel this now, feel you now— turning it evident that he wanted to please you more than anything else, even if just for a split second.

𖧡 — ZHONGLI

lowermost the brilliant stars ablaze within the moonlight sky and a chilling draft welcoming your frames, zhongli made love to you in an unforgettable matter— and the man has found himself wholly entranced by the fullness of your beauty.

you look up at him in a daze, and your eyes were the first out of many things that drew him into complete obsession, your sultry, lowered gaze in particular— the type that appeared to be seductive without trying as he grabs your knees and hoists them over his shoulders, the new position allowing him to lean forward enough to place a passionate kiss to your dampened forehead before pushing himself deeper.

an icy chill shoots like a cold lightning down his spine when you exhale tremulously once he was fully inside, a proud smirk represented on his darling lips as he found himself pleased by your reactions.

the atmosphere manifests in a sensual tone, tenser, and your heart beat was pounding so fast and loud that it almost entirely dulled out the penetrative sound of your hips bucking against each other in quick, sloppy slaps. your mouth panting and eyes squeezed shut with every new meet of his cock rolling inside of your walls, your arousal sticking to his shaft and marking him sinfully— it's like those sweet traces and his hips bouncing in a steady pace ignited something inside you, your figure melting from heat when zhongli touches the very depths of you.

zhongli groaned inwardly, and by his very nature, seeing you mewl and sob, with your hips swirling up and down his cock to handle more of him, such submission was almost too erotic, and his body responds in a feral perception, his length mapping through every rill and spongy spot that his low eyes and long lashes look down on you with twisting lust, your thighs shifting against each other as his hips rock back and forth against the softness and the feeling of just how good you felt.

𖧡 — CHILDE

"you drive me insane," for a moment, childe let his gaze follow over the soft, glimmering skin on your sensitivity, his eyes lingering on the way your cunt was practically awaiting to be claimed by him— your face contorting in pleasure when he lastly, presses a soft kiss to the pulse point on your clit, licking inside and dipping his head lower.

suckling gently, you writhe and mewl under him, your back arching up a little for an extra amount of contact from his tongue as one large hand skims over the expanse of your chest, palming over your breasts while the other prods at your hole as childe coats his chin and cheeks with a generous amount of your arousal.

"you're perfect," he mutters into your flesh, every nerve in your body quivering when he put you into the deepest sensations of euphoria— a trance of which you do not wish to be freed from, and neither does childe want to stop pleasuring you, on top of being allowed to taste your beauty on his tongue, losing all his strength as he fell head first again, just like he always did whenever he admired what was his.

he lightly traces around the tight opening, fluttering his eyes up to your face before sliding one finger inside, immediately feeling you tense down, then moan out angelically when he scissors you lightly, his tongue leisurely lapping out the very surface of your glistening folds while he keeps a steady pump on your hole, continuing his careful ministrations and pressing his digit deeper, always more, and maintaining the pleasurable torture until you would whimper at him, only the slightest bit desperate, at least that's what you believed it looked like.

you clench your jaw to brace yourself, whimpering softly at each press of his fingers hitting your sweet spots almost a little too good, the next pleasured mewl escaping your aching throat when childe seals his lips on top of your clit before trapping the tingling skin in between his mouth, sucking gently.

"ajax.." you hiss softly, "need to feel you," as he repeatedly enters you with his slender digit, the stimulation overflowing your lower area as an intense burning sensation settles on your wet sex, deliciously limiting your noises so that you're hiccuping in shattered words and phrases.

𖧡 — ALHAITHAM

"you are deliberately provoking me," there wasn't a realistic possibility for you to keep something hidden from alhaitham, and he observes you thoughtful and stoic, a devious glimmer creasing around his eyes when he pins your wrists above your head, watching your clouded expression contort in pleasure as if you wanted this to happen.

he holds you down effortlessly, and while in any other case, alhaitham wouldn't let you play him like a violin, he cannot help himself but think about how lucky he truly was— or, how utterly enchanting your figure looked even while squeezed underneath his larger one.

to know that you had this power over him was dangerous, to know that he needs you like air to breathe was lecherous, or to know that the pleasure you placed on him concealed his vision with no doubts in his mind.

momentarily, he resists the flourishing desire to pay you back with skilled teasing and a robbed orgasm when he softly soothes one palm over the curve of your trembling body and stifling a groan in his throat when he slides his tip into you, the chaste downward flutter of his long, pretty eyelashes contrasting the strong set of his jaw clenching the second he tastes the hotness of your sex engulfing him.

you take him like he was begging you to, his biceps flexing enticingly as he braces himself up for what's to come when he crowds you with his inches in slow, tantalizing movements, the hot edges of your mewls burning violently through alhaitham's lust as he moans deeply, pushing into you with a hard buck of his hips reaching your softest spots.

you shudder, a harsh bolt of heat shooting through your tensed muscles as you clench your thighs around his hips, your hands wiggling underneath his palm that were keeping them pinned as you arch your back off the mattress, unable to take control of the passion infused jolts yearning for his searing touch as his rigid cock sinks hard enough to sting with a mild pain into you that evidently enough made you unravel into a trembling, dazed mess of a person.

"fuck, ahh," the pitch of your needy moans and whines manifest into crushed tunes with each convulsing thrust into your heat twisting you apart, shuddering and spattering all aver his length as you coat him with your arousal, the liquid rush of intense thrusts hitting you from nowhere as alhaitham throws his head back in ecstasy, releasing your hands from his grasp to fuck you deeper, so you're on the brink of splitting in half from the sheer intensity.

your hands find the softness of his hair as you merely wince at him, absorbed in your own pleasure and reveling on those sweet and personal caresses that felt like his skin was fusing with your own.

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felicityplanet · 2 years

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This form will allow you to send an email directly to our support team. Email - [email protected]

#Brass Impeller #pump diffuser #submersible pump rubber bush #impeller #pvc impeller bowl set

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sillysillygoofygoose · 1 month

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Miguel's Personal Hairdresser

*wavy/curly haired, dilf, dad bod! Miguel propaganda!! Miguel is literally 40, i do not even care*

"I look like a neglected dog, baby." Miguel stares into the mirror, ruffling the grown out undercut that cascaded down his neck before huffing in annoyance.

"Noooo, I love your hair, Miggy! You look so handsome, you CAN'T cut it... those men at the barbershop always mess it up, they don't know how to do it." You whine, rushing into the bathroom where your older boyfriend is grabbing at the slightly frizzed waves framing his masculine face.

"¿En serio? They don't know how to do their jobs, baby?" Miguel smirks, glancing down at your tempered form as you begin opening and closing drawers frantically, pulling out a plethora of products.

"I think I've been going to Mateo since before you were even born..."

"Okay, you are NOT that old."

...

Miguel never paid too much mind to his hair... he just didn't care. Not until he met you, at least.

You couldn't care more, always resorting to brushing back stray whisps when cuddling with him, wrapping a tighter wave around your finger, watching it unravel.

Miguel didn't truly understand how much you loved his hair until you almost fell to your knees one particularly hot summer, after he swore he was gonna shave it all off.

...

"You're taking such good care of me sweetheart." Miguel hums as you massage at his damp hair, gently untangling his thick hair.

"Only the best for my man." You smile as he slightly readjusts his broad body in the stiff kitchen chair you dragged into the bathroom, pudgy arms crossed across his chest. His sharp but smiley eyes follow your movements as you section his hair off, the hair clip barely latching onto the small amount of hair you separate. You feel him tense under you as you reach towards the hair scissors resting on the counter.

"You have to trust me, Miggy. Do you trust me?"

"Mm course I do, baby."

...

Miguel laughs in response to you telling him to stand up, readjusting the skeletal-like chair (that was making his plump ass way too sore) away from the mirror as to not "ruin the surprise". As you re-situate, Miguel quickly glances down at the tiled floor, secretly breathing a sigh of relief when he doesn't see his entire head of hair resting at his feet.

Grabbing his soft stomach, you walk him back to the chair, patting his hip to have him sit down before you pump a dime of curl cream into your hands, smoothing it through his hair and finger coiling some especially droopy waves. Miguel rests his eyes as he feels your fingers dancing all around his head, completely releasing the weight of his head into your hands when you scrunch his strands up to the crown of his head, face heating up when you kiss his forehead.

"Sooo handsome... you're so pretty, Miggy. " You hum and Miguel swears he's seeing stars. Hearts pounding in sync, Miguel pulls you closer by the waist, thick hands skimming up and down your sides before he slightly lifts up your top, cranning his neck to press his lips to the exposed skin. He feels so sleepy, so intoxicated, and you can tell. His eyes slump in on themselves, half shut as he dreamily stares up at you. Your touch was putting him to sleep, like a big, strong baby.

"I'm almost done... and you look very dapper." You giggle, releasing his curls as you move to grab your diffuser.

...

"Ahhh, okay, okay!! Baby, you look soooo good! Tell Mateo to move over, I'm taking his chair."

Miguel chuckles as your excited hands block his vision, feeling you shake and jump out of pure pride.

"Okay! Three, two, one, tada!!!!!" You gasp, almost in surprise of your own skill as Miguel grabs his glasses off of the counter and pushes them onto his face.

"Maybe you're right baby, poor Mateo... you're gonna put him outta buisness." Miguel leans towards the mirror, smiling in astonishment at how curly his hair can really be when nourished.

"You like it?" You hug his chubby side as he continues studying himself.

"I do, baby. I love it. You really worked your magic on me, huh? Thank you bebe."

...

"Do you think you could dye this?" Miguel's question catches you slightly off-guard, making you turn to look at him as he sits on the couch. There he is, your big, beautiful man absent-mindedly twirling a unique wave around his finger as he read a comically large novel. The strand lacked the color of the rest of his dark-chesnut hair, marking his many years of being, simply put, human. It layed against his tan forehead, isolated and bold.

"Why would I do that?" Your shocked tone tears his attention away from his book, furrowed brows forcing a small laugh from his throat.

"Well... don't you think it makes me look... old?"

Unsure of himself, feeling silly, he mumbles almost to himself as he returns to his book.

"Aye, put the book down. You know how beautiful you are?" You sit yourself on his lap, holding onto his cheeks as he places his book mark into the inner spine of his book. You feel him softly chuckle against you.

"I'm serious." You reiterate, face stoic.

"I'm very lucky to have you. So good to me... I just hope you know I can keep up with you." Miguel smirks, covering up his slight slip of insecurity, both of his hands encasing your hips.

"Mhmm... why don't you remind me?"

Hope you enjoyed! Xoxo

Gotta get back into it, feeling so rusty 😫

#fem reader #size difference #age difference #miguel o'hara #miguel headcanons #miguel x reader #miguel spiderverse #miguel spiderman #dadbod!miguel

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mo-mode · 3 months

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Back on my Screenwriter soap box while watching PJO: They should have bought a bunch of oil diffusers.

(Edit: This post was made before someone pointed out to me that I missed a key line of dialogue, but my points and theories still stand for the same reasons backing up my original post so I’m not changing anything. The dialogue I missed lets us know that Hermes told Percy the lotus was being pumped into the air off-screen. It’s also implies (? I’m still on the fence about this one?) that Hermes told him what day it is, but I missed these during my first three watches because of how quick and vague it was. Which actually kind of supports my point on why visual indicators are so important. Without these, it’s easy to miss key information. And remember, it’s a kid’s show. ANYWAY my conclusions haven’t changed, and I still believe these edits would work better than the quick line of dialogue so just keep this in mind. Thanks.)

(I’m not being nit-picky. I swear. Just hear me out.) So the weirdest thing to me in episode six was how Percy just…learned everything so quickly without any visual indicators? Like they know time passed because it’s dark outside, but how did he know it was Thursday? They know they were affected by the lotus flowers, but how does he know it was pumped into the air? This irked me because even if he’s smart enough to figure some of this out himself (which he is) we as the audience should still be able to follow his thought process instead of learning after the fact.

What if there were oil diffusers?

So imagine the trio walks into the Lotus, figures out this is like the Odyssey, and decides not to eat anything. They waltz in super confident that they cracked the code, but they were wrong. How do we know? Because the moment they enter the crowd, we get an establishing shot of a lotus-branded oil diffuser letting out steam.

Immediately, we as the audience realize their mistake, making it just that more tantalizing to watch. As the episode continues, we realize they’re everywhere. There’s a diffuser in the plants, on the counter, between the game tables, always right out of the corner of our eyes. They just keep churning out lotus-scented oil into the air, which we can infer because we’re smart. (Remember that.)

Now when Percy realizes what’s going on, we know HOW they’re doing it and HOW Percy knows without being told!! Because they were there the whole time.

Onto Thursday.

Consider: A watch.

What if Hermes has the only watch in the casino until the trio walks in with their own?

Let’s give Annabeth one of those cheap, funky watches that gives the time, day, month, year, etc. Something you get from a kids toy catalogue. It’s waterproof, glows in the dark, has an alarm or whatever. I feel like Annabeth would have one of those. (And honestly, she might already. I forgot.) The most important feature for us, though, is the day. It clearly tells us the day of the week.

It’s pretty easy to establish that Annabeth has the watch. Just do it the same way they establish the date: Percabeth arguing over it in the truck. Annabeth shows him the watch. Establishing shot of the watch’s face. That’s it. No bells or whistles necessary. Then when they get to the casino, Annabeth checks it one more time (without an establishing shot, she just does it casually) and they walk in.

(It’s so easy. I promise.)

While Grover is walking around alone, he tries to check the time and realizes there’s no clocks. (Which ngl is super common in casinos already, but it’s creepy nonetheless.) Yada yada, he gets sucked in by Augustus and that’s how he gets got.

Meanwhile, Percy and Annabeth keep meaning to check the time, but every time they do, someone tries to hand them an appetizer or a drink, which makes them forget OR Annabeth’s hubris keeps her from checking. (Percy: Time check? Annabeth: Its only been five minutes. We’re fine. We need to focus.)

And that brings us to Hermes. After their chat, yada yada, Annabeth “leaves” and Hermes gets all cryptic, then he makes a BIG show of checking his watch, and THAT’S when Percy realizes something’s wrong because oh no they haven’t checked the time. So he finds Annabeth, they see it’s dark outside, they check her watch, and it’s Thursday.

“But we didn’t eat anything!” Annabeth says. Percy looks at the diffusers by the entrance. It dawns on him. “They’re pumping it into the air.”

That’s how you VISUALLY SHOW US THINGS instead of Percy just figuring everything out off-camera and telling us!!!!

Now, you may be thinking “Oh but do they have the budget for that??” Do you know how cheap these props are? Just bulk buy like six oil diffusers, slap a homemade sticker of a lotus flower on them, and keep moving them into every shot. And they’re quiet!! They wouldn’t interfere with the sound, the steam is visible enough to be caught on camera without messing with the lighting, they actually look really cool in some lighting, and they fit the atmosphere of a hotel/casino!! Then the watch is like $15, fits with Annabeth’s character, and totally matches her outfit.

It’s CHEAP! It’s EASY! It DOESN’T CUT INTO THE RUN TIME! It’s AESTHETICALLY PLEASING! ANNABETH GETS A SICK WATCH!! NO DOWNSIDES!!!!

The biggest problem with this show isn’t how accurate it is to the book or how much money they have or that they’re “Disney-fying” it. The problem is they are TELLING US things instead of SHOWING us. And not to beat a dead horse because everyone’s heard of “Show Don’t Tell” but like??? This is exactly why everyone is taught this over and over again in school?? Because people still do it anyway all the time???

There’s also something else I learned (or really just picked up) when I got my B.A. in Creative Writing: Good shows are predictable.

Whether it’s a case of the audience learning what’s going to happen before it happens or them watching the show again and realizing how obvious the answer was the whole time, audiences always want to feel smart. They want to interact with the material. If you don’t give them the opportunity to pick apart the mystery themselves by setting down clues, they’ll give up on interacting with the show and lose interest. That’s why you SHOW them things. There are several moments where this show is completely unpredictable, not because it’s complex but because it doesn’t let you predict it. That doesn’t make it bad—the comedy and character development is doing a great job of carrying the show’s weight so far. But it definitely doesn’t make the show good.

It’s like Rube Goldberg machines. Or dominoes! We don’t watch those crazy 1000+ domino videos so we can watch the last one fall. We watch it to see HOW they fall. Take one domino out, and it’s unsatisfactory. It doesn’t work anymore.

But some oil diffusers and a watch??? Little clues that make the realization that more visually appealing??? THAT’S SATISFYING

Anyway, these are just two things that could have been done, but weren’t. Most of the show is stellar. I think it just needs a little bit of editing here and there. I studied this for like years, and I needed to get this off my chest. That’s it.

Rick Riordan, if you ever see this, I am available for hire :) I would love to be a script doctor please please please please

#THIS IS SO IMPORTANT TO ME YOU DONT UNDERSTAND #I swear I can be so helpful Rick #hire me #i’m a screenwriter i promise i’m legit #btw this is NOT an opportunity to say you hate the show in the notes I will find you #percy jackson #pjo #percy jackon and the olympians #percy jackson and the olympians #pjo tv show #percy jackson tv show #pjo spoilers #percy jackson the lightning thief #pjo series #screenwriting #grover underwood #annabeth chase #hermes

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pureaimasc · 1 year

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#muscle #biceps #bodybuilder #pecs #arm veins #handsome #bodybuilding #pump #hunk #flex #ai generated #stable diffusion

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m00nlight-ramblings · 5 months

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Together

The aftermath of Elminster's visit created an implosion between Gale and Tav, but their love will help them pick up the pieces.

Pairings: Gale x female Tav/Reader

Requested: yes

Warnings: hurt/comfort, swearing, mentions of suicide. 18+ MINORS DNI.

Word Count: 1.7k

The crickets chirped brightly, their noise matching with the twinkling of the stars overhead. The air around camp was thick, heavy - weighted in a way that only came after dark knowledge was discovered. This knowledge was dropped like a bomb - which, for this situation, was an apt metaphor.

"Tav..." Gale started, his back to you. He watched as Elminster - fucking Elminster, with his awful news he brought with a smirk - left camp, no doubt happy to have his belly full with our cheese, and our bread, and our wine.

"Don't," You interrupted him, the anger rising in you. Like a simmering stew, it boiled in your heart, causing you to hear the pumping of your blood in your ears. Your hands shook slightly as you ran them through your hair, taking on a life of their own. "Don't you dare say anything."

The other companions stood around the campfire, a few feet away from you both. The news of Gale's new "mission" that Elminster delivered to us - to blow himself up for the sake of possibly all humanity - hung between you all. Gale...the kind, goofy, open-hearted wizard that filled our nights with laughter and friendship, was now expected to kill himself. Which, he agreed to.

Gale...the love of your life. The man who held you countless nights, who celebrated your victories in battles and who made you scream and tremble with pleasure.

Willingly agreed to die.

Imagining a future where he no longer existed - dead by his own hand - caused tears to spring to your eyes quickly. And not delicate, lady-like tears...hot, blobbing, uncontrollable tears. Unable to deal with the reality of the situation, you turned on your heels to take off to the woods. You heard Gale call your name, followed by a stern (but gentle) Karlach try to diffuse him.

The small stream on the outskirts of camp babbled lightly, as you finally stopped and broke down. Not only in tears, but also physically - you found yourself on your knees, a groan escaping your lips and turning into a wail, uncontrollable.

You sobbed into your hands, tears and snot mixing on your face. You hiccupped through the sobs, strangling your throat and echoing off of the trees. A few moments later, the sound of footsteps mixed with your sobs.

The only two sounds in the woods.

"Tav..." Gale's voice was low, barely above a whisper. You didn't look, but you felt him sit next to you, immediately wrapping his arms around you. You fought him, trying to push him off of you, but his strength held on strong, and he didn't let go.

"Stop! Stop it!" You tried to pull away, wriggling underneath him, "How could you?! How could you agree to this? This-this...suicide mission!" Your voice sounded like a caricature of itself as you beat your fists into Gale's chest. He allowed it, letting you strike the weak blows to his body.

"Tav, Tav - stop. Listen to me," He said gently, shaking you slightly to break your erratic behavior, "Stop it. Look at me." He slipped his arms off of you and held your cheeks in his palms, your hands instinctively wrapping around his wrists. You were mere inches from each other, and while you were a mess, you felt your face turn to stone as you looked into his eyes.

Your anger - or rather, your hurt that you didn't want to show - pulsed through your body as Gale searched your eyes, running his thumbs of your cheeks. The air stilled - suddenly, you noticed tears in Gale's eyes, his mouth turned downward into a slight frown.

You broke down into tears again, leaning into Gale's shoulder. Again, he wrapped his arms around you and let you sob in his nook as he stroked your hair, murmuring in your ear.

"How could you do this?" You asked again, in between sobs, "How could you agree to do this? Was it because of Mystra?" You pulled back suddenly, jealousy somehow pushing past your grief and anger, "Fuck, did you agree to do this so that Mystra would forgive you? Do you still-"

"If you are about to ask me if I still love Mystra, I'd advise you to not," Gale said, wiping your tears gently. A playful smile quickly appeared on his face and disappeared just as fast, "After all the nights we've spent together? All the words, and kisses, and moments we've shared, and you think I could possibly have love in my heart for her still? When you've taken up all the space there possibly is?"

"Then why, Gale? Why did you agree to this?"

Gale sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. He paused a moment, pulling away and looking up into the sky. He looked back at you, searching your face.

"My entire life, I've dreamt of something...more. I always thought I was destined for greatness. Not only because I felt it, but because I was told so. I worked so hard for everything...and wanted to do things no other man has done," He sighed, shaking his head slightly, "What a fool I was. Look where it's gotten me," Looking at you, he smiled sadly and absentmindedly felt the marking of the orb on his chest, "A mistake that easily has cost me my life in many regards. But...if I could do something to stop all this...I must try."

His words hung in the air as you looked out, past the stream and through the clearing. Tortured by the idea of never seeing Gale again, you grabbed his hand and held it tight, giving it a quick squeeze.

"I can't let you do this," You said, whispering, "I refuse to let us come this far for it all to be for naught. I refuse-" You voice caught in your throat, breaking as you spoke, "...I refuse to live in a world without you."

"Darling-" Gale started, but you quickly interrupted him.

"I refuse to live in a world where you, and me, and Tara aren't living in your tower in Waterdeep. I refuse to believe I won't have a life watching the sun set with you, a life where I don't wake up next to you. A life where you don't cook me your famous dinner you've talked about so much-" You heart lurched, seeming to break into a thousand pieces, "You promised you'd cook me dinner." The last words came out as a cry more than a sentence, causing Gale to grab you fiercely and hold on to you.

Soon, you realized you weren't the only one sobbing. A strangled, wet cry landed in your ears as Gale held you close, and now it was blaringly obvious he wasn't doing it just for your sake. You wrapped your arms around him, clutching on to his back just short of digging your fingernails in.

"Your life is not any less important than anyone you would save," You said, gently kissing his neck, "Please remember that. Please remember that you aren't alone, and all of us are here to find another solution. I am here to help find another solution."

"I cannot fail," He said, gently pulling back and looking at you. His eyes, red and shimmering from crying, were mournful. "...I cannot be a failure."

You shook your head gently and took both of his hands into yours, causing him to look down, "You are not. You are a hero....you..." You trailed off, trying to find the words. Were there any words that could encapsulate Gales heroism, the painfully wonderful mark he was already making on the world?

"You are so much more than The Wizard of Waterdeep." You finally said, smiling gently and tucking a piece of hair behind his ear. He slowly looked up at you.

"What can possibly be more than The Wizard of Waterdeep?" He asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Leaning in, you touched your forehead to his.

"Gale," You spoke, "Being Gale is so much more than being The Wizard of Waterdeep."

A small breath escaped his lips as he chuckled lightly, a tear escaping his eye. He kissed you - passionately, his hands finding the back of your head and burying themselves in your hair. His tongue gently opened your mouth as your bodies pushed closer, your hands resting on his chest.

Your heart beat rapidly, the butterflies caused by the kiss fluttering at the same speed as your pulse. You loved this man so ferociously that sometimes it hurt. You'd do anything to protect him, to help him...to save him.

Eventually, he pulled away and looked into your eyes.

"We will find another way," He said finally, gently. "I...will find another way."

You nodded encouragingly, a smile playing on your lips, "We will. The world cannot lose you because the 'Mistress of the Weave' says so. I won't allow it."

Gale laughed at his, running a thumb down your cheek, "Bold words."

"Bold words that I plan to force into action, if necessary." You spoke, matching his smile.

"You are fierce, my love," Gale said, gently rising and offering a hand to help you up. You accepted it and he pulled, wrapping you in his arms, "You are a fierce thing. There is no one like you."

"And there is no one like you," You retorted, inhaling his scent as he held you, "World famous or not." Pulling away, you took his hand and started to lead him back to the camp, "Life will not be complete until we are back in Waterdeep. Together. Forever."

Gale nodded. "You're just saying that because you want me to cook you my famous roast dinner."

Laughing, you looked at him, his eyes twinkling. You felt at home as you searched his face, the familiar lines causing your heart to speed up.

Gale was your heart, your home. Your present and your future, and where there was him, there was joy. Notoriety or not, nothing on this planet could make you happier than him.

Elminster and Mystra be damned, you would fight this thing tooth and nail.

The two of you. Together.

-----

Thanks to the anon who requested this! I'm an unabashed Gale lover (tm) so I was so glad when this popped into my inbox!

Reminder: my inbox is open for requests!

#bg3 gale #bg3 #gale oneshot #gale headcanon #gale fan fiction #gale fanfic #gale headcanons #gale of waterdeep #gale x tav #gale dekarios #gale x reader #baldurs gate 3

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50cal-fullauto-astarion · 6 months

Text

horny, sulky, kinda mean, kinda roughhousing könig thought bc it's my birthday, it's 2:50am, i have been horny like a fuckin werewolf for like a week now. f!reader ig for talk about pussy.

So our man König doesn’t keep normal hours—not that you do, but dude is two days back from KorTac and pretty much strung out on the “fun” amphetamines KorTac req officers pass out like candy if you even wave smth that looks like a form at them. So kind of out of the worst of it, exhausted, but wired and feeling kind of shitty and toothy and wound up.

He wants to fuck. Easiest way to diffuse, decompress, and he’s hard as shit by the time he lumbers his way into bed with you—over you—all around you. You were reading off your kindle, not anymore. He plucks that shit right out of your hand and puts it behind him, tangling those long, heavy limbs around you like a boa constrictor.

“Was wondering when this was going to happen,” you say, hissing when he’s none to kind in nipping the skin of your neck, wrapping his arms around your torso, pushing your breasts up under your t-shirt. “Shit, you’re moody,” it’s half a laugh, and a grapple at not immediately just folding and giving into him. You like to bite, too.

“Give me your mouth,” he grunts, nose pushed into the spot behind your ear. He’s pushing down your underwear, singlemindedly stripping you down. His words make your skin humid, “Gonna play with your pussy, want you fucking wet for me.”

You give that little bit, turning your head over your shoulder, smirking into a kiss that drives deliriously deep as soon as contact is made. König isn’t a prim kisser, but a primal one. It’s not a clean act; sloppy, yes, and somehow tinged with something kin to restrained violence. Challenge? Dick swinging? Maybe something more biblical in nature—gluttony, or greed.

He’s a fearsome thing, and he may only be beautiful to you. A needful thing, too, twisting nest of starved serpents—6 feet 10 inches and pushing-300-lbs of fucking muscle, battering-ram-body housing more than thirty years of neglect-crushed memory out for retribution.

But you never were a target. He didn’t have a choice in that matter. You both know good and goddamned well that you picked him. Everything he gets away with is at your allowance, and good fucking Christ, he loves you for it.

His cock throbs against your bare ass through his boxers as his arm wraps around you, craning his hand to pump two big fingers into your sopping cunt, angling his wrist so he can press and rub your clit with his thumb.

Man’s got his perversions, and he’s the most physical person you’ve ever met in your life. He’s had a fraction of the sex he’s fantasized about, but you’ve covered hectares of that ground since you’ve gotten together. He’s a quick study, and his mind’s a nightmare of steel trap memory. He never forgets what you like.

Two fingers turn to three, and he almost pushes it to four—assured torture, too much stretch too fast—before you snap a hand around his wrist and buck hard back against him, seething his name in warning. “Don’t fucking dare.”

“Ja. Ja, Schatzi,” he mumbles, breathing hard and too collected. You’re both sweating already, and the bed feels too damn warm, but neither of you shift. The spooning position is perfect as-is, only needs acted upon. In the mean time, he draws his slicked fingers up, leaving them in the air before your mouth in question. He groans and shudders harshly when you take the digits into your mouth, almost laughing at the ever-fresh amusement of your own taste. Salt and cold coins, your own metallic tang a complement to the one on his skin. His voice shakes as he warns, “Time, now. It’s time, bitte, aw, fuck.”

Just like that, he sinks right into you, to the base, balls pressed tight against your lips due to your body’s contortioning to meld against his form. An ungodly moan bellows out of his throat, rattling from his chest into yours, arms tightening around you. You meet the fuck-weird noises, turning your head to keen into your pillows and pressing back against him. Your hand anchors behind you on his hip, as if pinning him in place, affixing your bodies together.

You both hang in a moment of suspension, hearts pounding, minds blank, stomachs rising as if careening over a hill with momentum not sparing you a moments reprieve.

When that finally snaps, you have to force him to focus, to fuck, and he’s slow about it, grinding into you as your cunt sucks him deeper.

That huge hand you know so well drops between your legs, right back to toying with you. Oh it doesn’t take long to get you off, bent in half on your side, holding onto him and gasping as you’re hit with wave after wave of pleasure.

He’s not subtle to signal when it’s his turn. He pulls you back up and clamps his teeth into your shoulder, biting down hard through the fabric of your shirt, fucking you rough, now, and unheeding, like an animal in heat. When he finally finishes, spasming and jolting all over now that his balls have been emptied into you, he leaves his heavy arm over your waist, keeping you close. “Good shit,” he mumbles, throat sticking to itself it’s so dry as he pants, parched, “we split a smoke?”

You’re not much better, even though you’ve bravado to fucking spare. “I smoke. You go the hell to sleep now,” you try to sound stern and dismissive, but there’s a laugh in your tone some place. And fondness, undeniably. You feel his grin against your neck, his body purring mhm in question. “Feel better?” you ask, at length, stroking the hair on his forearms.

“Yes,” he says after a moment, weak and sweet with relief, “can sleep now.” A pause, you can hear him thinking. “Won’t, though. Because you were an asshole and had to bring it up first.” His laugh wheezes, low and susurring.

#konig #könig #call of duty #cod mw2 #mw2 #konig mw2 #konig call of duty #konig x reader #teehee and as usual it's just my oc dressed up as a reader yall know the drill by now

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ozzgin · 7 months

Text

I was pondering on what horrors to write for Halloween and when I remembered how many times I’d hoped for Valak content…I ran and whipped out my Grimoire and started typing in delirious inspiration.

Yandere! Valak x Reader

Featuring the Infernal President and a blissfully unaware reader backpacking through Romania. Warning: NSFW, blasphemy, non-consent

[Horror Masterlist]

“Mommy told me something

A little kid should know

It’s all about the Devil

And I’ve learned to hate him so

She said he causes trouble

When you let him in the room

He will never ever leave you

If your heart is filled with gloom”

"Now, you can't really say you've visited Romania until you see at least one monastery! Most Romanians are very religious, so churches and monasteries are popular attractions for tourists and locals alike." The tour guide is awfully enthusiastic for a cloudy Sunday morning. You nod politely and follow the group, although you can already feel yourself become distracted.

You're mostly interested in the old castles and bucolic hiking trails that Transylvania has to offer. Religious places...not so much. Alas, it's part of the experience. You check the flyer containing today's travel plans and google the location mentioned by the guide. Cârța Monastery. Seems to have some ruins included, and you'll be right on time for the Sunday chorus service, huh. Maybe that's why they picked today for a visit.

You hurry along the cobblestone path until the first traces of a building come into view. Somehow you can't shake the feeling that something is off. You scan over the visible windows, wondering if someone is watching from above. Nothing. Once you lower your gaze again, you notice the tour guide vigorously waving his arm and encouraging you to enter the church with everyone else. You were at the very front of the group, so how long did you stare at walls? You flash an apologetic smile and rush inside. The wooden door closes with a grating creak and you fumble to the first available seat. There's a few coughs and shuffles and eventually the Liturgy begins. Your eyes wander until they find a clear window, so you entertain yourself with the sights outside. It's not like you understand the words of whatever is currently happening, and you're not religious to begin with.

"How long is this going to take?" you groan internally and switch your focus to your hands, intertwined and resting in your lap. The monotonous chants cause your eyelids to feel heavy and they gradually lower themselves until all you see is black. It's okay, you're not sleeping. It's just a short nap, until...huh...the voices of the singing men diffuse as if distorted by distance and now everything is quiet.

"Took you long enough."

You jolt awake. You turn your head to check if whoever is sitting next to you has just spoken, but the room is suddenly empty. You jump from your seat and the thud of your feet hitting the stone floor creates a cavernous echo that sends a shiver down your spine. Ah, could it be that you're dreaming? The candles of the chandelier flicker, as if startled by a breeze, and abruptly go out.

"I don't like waiting. Especially for mere humans like you."

The same voice as before reverberates through the chamber. It's deep and jarring, sounding almost unnatural. You don't like it. You tilt your head, afraid to find the source of speech but too curious nonetheless. It's a person dressed like a nun. For a brief second you relax your shoulders, assuming it's one of the people living here. But after one step ahead the figure becomes vaguely illuminated, and you can discern the features bearing on this creature's face. Blood drains from your face and you can feel the bile pooling at the back of your throat. A blasphemous deformity, oozing with blight and evil. From within the hollow, dark sockets, two yellow orbs glisten with raw malice. You realize you've held your breath until now as your lungs contract in a pitiful attempt to pump more oxygen. The movement brings back your senses and your flight instincts kick in. You immediately sprint for the door and use your elbow to slam it open, nearly collapsing to the ground. Your eyes squint under the flash of bright light.

As you pant for air you notice you're back outside. There's people taking photos and talking cheerfully, and inside the church your group seems to have gathered before the iconostasis, listening attentively to a hearty discourse from your guide. The liturgy ended. What on Earth did you just witness? Before you can ponder the event, you feel a tug at your sleeve. It's an old lady, short and comically hunched. She's dressed all in black, with a head covering that hides most of her face, though you can still see the deep wrinkles that cross her features.

"Oh? Sorry, I don't speak-"

"L-am văzut și eu. Diavolul, maică. Aici nu mai e demult casa Domnului. Pleacă cât mai poți, am să mă rog pentru tine."

Her voice is shaky and she seems in distress. She strokes your arm once before limping away hastily. You blink and spend a moment trying to collect your thoughts. There's no one else nearby to ask for a translation, so you can only hope she finds help somewhere else. You return to the group and hope you won't have to deal with any other adventures.

"This is the annex. You can still see some details in the arches." Your guide points around the pillars and mossy brick patches. You take out your phone for some photos and your arms tremble slightly.

"It's suddenly very cold here, don't you think so?" you remark to your neighbor.

"Really? I'm quite literally sweating right now" they respond, baffled.

"It's a shaded area, that's probably why."

"Or you're just that excited to see me again."

Your eyes widen. It's the voice. You blink, and you find yourself in the empty church once more. No, no, no, this isn't happening. No. You're dreaming. This is an absurdity. Some hallucination of sorts. You try the door handle, except this time it's locked.

"It's not often I become interested in a mortal. In fact, this is the only time."

The nun is sitting on a bench, hands together in a praying motion. There's a mocking grin on its face.

"Maddening, truly. Deplorable, disgraceful, outrageous. Humiliation would await me if they suspected my intentions with a perishable being like you."

"Who the hell are you?" you interrupt the erratic monologue. The nun stands up and locks eyes with you, instantly making you nauseous.

"The Sixty-second Spirit, President Mighty and Great. His Office is to give True Answers of Hidden Treasures, and to tell where Serpents may be seen. The which he will bring unto the Exorciser without any Force or Strength being by him employed. He governeth 38 Legions of Spirits."

"What?"

"Valac." the creature extends a hand, as if expecting a handshake. "At least that's how they introduce me in the Lesser Key of Solomon." The fingers spread out and you feel a gravitational force pull you closer. It chuckles.

The cold fingers sink into your back and feel like claws digging your flesh. You let out a scream of protest and try to push away without success. It hurts. The touch burns your skin and spreads out like a wicked plague. What would this fiend even want from you? You search your mind for potential meanings and explanations. Truth be told, however, you're not well-versed in theological fantasies.

"You can't just possess someone's body. I won't accept it. You don't have my permission."

The creature erupts in hysterical laughter and you feel your knees weaken at the sharp, grotesque teeth that creep their way out. Everything about it is vile, scandalous. Unholy.

"If you want to call it like that...Then sure. But for this kind of possession I don't need your input, I'm afraid."

Your limp body is picked up and sloppily thrown over the altar table. The impact of the hard surface against your stomach causes you to gasp. You try to turn your head and look behind, but the large, clawed hand locks around your neck and keeps you in place. You can only glance ahead. You can sense your garments being ripped apart with one swift move and shudder at the unexpected contact with the cold air on your bare body. The creature's other hand slides over your forms before stopping on your bottom, adjusting it. The realization sinks in and you begin to panic. Is this the time to say a prayer? You don't know any.

"Our Father..." you mumble, trying to remember the continuation.

"Go on. I'm sure He'd love to hear from you while you're being fucked on His altar. Send Him my regards."

He forces your hips upwards, exposing your intimacy. Without any further delay he thrusts his member in, painfully stretching your entrance around it. Tears well up in your eyes at the sudden discomfort. The iconostasis in front of you blurs and sways with each violent plunge into your frail body.

"Oh, God" you sob.

"God ends here."

#the nun #the nun 2 #the conjuring #valak #valac #valak x reader #valak smut #the nun smut #yandere #yandere x reader #demon x reader #ars goetia

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blindmagdalena · 6 days

Text

Guilty Pleasures ( chapter three )

18+ 7.3k homelander x plus size f!reader. workplace harassment, stalking, voyeurism, assault (not perpetrated by HL), violence, smol murder, manipulation/gaslighting, hurt/comfort. nebulously takes place post s1. part 3/4. AO3 link. CH I CH 2 CH 4

Homelander will do whatever it takes to convince you that he's the hero you need.

hello, friends! hopefully this chapter being longer than the first two combined makes up for the fact it took me three months to write it. as you can tell, it sort of spiraled out of control from being two chapters, then three, and now four. the good news is that chapter four (the last one! i promise!) is complete, and i'll be posting it next week. i hope you enjoy it! 🖤

It’s shortly after one o’clock when Homelander knocks a whimsical melody against your office door, deciding he shouldn’t be precisely on time, lest he look as eager as he feels. He can already smell your perfume wafting through the doorway–the same scent he feverishly pumped his cock to the night before–as a teaser of what’s to come.

“Come in,” you call from the other side.

Homelander takes in a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. He screws his eyes shut, pinching his expression in a tight squeeze before he replaces it with a flashy grin, squaring away his anticipation in favor of his showman persona.

“Goooooood afternoon,” he drawls, strolling in with the same feigned level of confidence he’s entered every other moment of your life since stumbling across you, whether you knew it or not. He’s taken aback almost immediately, slowing in how he closes the door behind him.

You look nicer than usual. Your hair is styled with more conscious effort, and he’s been in show business long enough to recognize the makeup on your face. The shine of your blouse is a quality silk blend, and he can’t hear the scrape of cheap cotton underneath it anymore. No, you’re wearing something nice below, too. His lips slowly spread into a self-satisfied smile.

You dressed up for him.

Homelander takes the seat set across from you, sweeping his cape to the side with a flourish. He watches you tuck an empty container–your lunch, presumably–into a side drawer of your desk. His eyes closely track the way you lift your thumb to the corner of your mouth and swipe residue from it, sucking the mess from your digit. A distinct pang of arousal hits him just watching your cheeks hollow.

Imagine what she could do with that mouth.

“And good afternoon to you, Homelander,” you respond, straightening up in your seat. His gaze briefly dips to the swell of your breasts as you adjust yourself, casually dusting away any remnants of your lunch. Saliva gathers on his tongue at the instant memory of you scantily clad in your sleep wear, nothing but a thin sheet of worn fabric between you and his hunger. His eyes snap back up before you can take notice of how they wandered.

Lucky for him, you’re busy splaying out the folder he brought you the day before, scanning over the list of bullet points he’d slapped together for the sake of having enough talking points.

“I wanted to start with your concerns regarding the marketing for your upcoming miniseries,” you say, glancing up at him.

He clicks his tongue. “Wow, alright. Straight to business then,” he says, absently rolling his palms over the ends of the armrests on either side of him.

“I’m very bad at small talk,” you say. Probably to diffuse any notion that you were being rude on purpose.

“Ch’yeah, I’ll say,” he says, smiling thinly. “Lucky that you’re good at your job.”

“Shockingly, I was actually a personality hire. I don’t know what any of this means,” you say, matching his thinly veiled snark while gesturing to the spread of documents in front of you. He snorts softly. You have a knack for using that sharp wit to diffuse, but he doesn’t feel manipulated. You actually are funny. “I was hoping you’d explain your concerns.”

Smooth segue, he thinks, his eyes narrowing appraisingly. He’s worked enough interviews to know when he’s being led, but he takes the bait anyways, widening his smile.

“Sounds great.”

Homelander knows that you’re sharp, good at your job, but he needs to needle you into giving him what he wants. He wants to understand you, and the stack of his films he found hidden in your apartment. What he gets in the meantime is ample taste of your silver tongue, parrying his every jab with an equally sharp counter.

He can’t keep the smile from his face.

Gradually a level of familiarity slips into the air between you. He can see some of that tension in your shoulders easing. He’s steadily wearing down the walls you’ve managed to construct.

“I still think audiences will be confused,” he says, feigning a profound concern, stretching out the time of your little appointment.

“Well, audiences are a lot like celebrities,” you say, the hard candied shell of your professional exterior thinning with every back and forth, poised to crack at any second. “They’re smarter than we think they are.”

“Oohh, ouch,” he purrs. “Nice backhand you got there.”

A twitch at the corner of your mouth. He knows you’re fighting a smile of your own, and pride blooms warmly in his chest. He likes sparring with you, but he likes pleasing you even more.

“I disagree about market confusion. Your diehard audience will already be up to speed, your broader target audience will show up for anything with your face on it, and anyone more casual than that likely won’t have seen the miniseries anyways, so there’s nothing to confuse it with,” you say, scanning down through one of the pages of the document he gave you.

Perfect opening.

“And which audience is it you fall into, exactly?” He asks, cocking his head a degree. “I mean, given your position, I have to imagine you’ve seen my range of film and television.”

“I’ve done my due diligence,” you say vaguely. You’re good at answering without answering. Normally it would irritate him, but your forced aloofness combined with your closely guarded–and inexplicably secret–veneration of him makes it into tantalizing bait begging for the sharp sink of his teeth.

“So you’ve seen all my movies, then?” He extrapolates, setting a line of his own.

You chuckle, gaze flickering to him before back down to the pages. Too brief a glance to even come close to satisfying his hunger. “I didn’t say that.”

He scoffs lightly. “But you’re a fan of mine?”

“I definitely didn’t say that.” He can sense he’s hit a vein, and like any good predator would, he’s eager to bite into it.

“C’mon. Don’t tell me you’re shy,” he continues to prod, leaning forward slightly in his seat.

You inhale a breath that you barely prevent from sounding too obviously irritated. His grin remains untarnished by the scrutiny of your unwavering stare. There it is, that’s what he wants. The weight of your gaze upon him, evaluating, taking him in fully. He doesn’t care how he gets it, he just knows he wants it.

“You are shy,” he accuses, knowing you aren’t.

“I’m not shy, I’m a professional,” you say curtly, the scratch of your pen scathing while you write notations on the document.

Good, he thinks. More likely to slip up now.

“Jeeze,” he laughs. “You’re wound up tighter than my fictional manager in Darkest Day.”

“You didn’t have a manager in Darkest Day, that was Origins,” you correct. After a beat, your hand stills.

Homelander’s gaze slowly slides to meet yours. He watches your face fall and clicks his tongue. He positively relishes how your mask of indifference slips into subtle dismay at your misstep. Such a simple bit of trivia, and yet it spoke volumes.

Got’cha.

“You do watch my movies,” he said, tone dropping to a near whisper. He revels in the quiet way you groan, leaning back in your chair.

“Only the ones I was paid to,” you say, straightening up in your chair, but he can hear the defeat in your voice.

“Liar,” he says through his perpetual grin. “Don’t be embarrassed. How long have you been a fan?”

“Stop,” you say, burying your face in your hands. Oh, this is good. Was he your first crush? Your favorite hero? He must be still, judging by the flush of heat moving through you. All that pretense, all that haughty glowering, and beneath it all you’re a fan girl. He almost laughs at the thought of the face you’d make if he called you that.

“Which was your favorite?” He asks, burying the knife deeper, eager to cut through flesh and muscle and bone to get to the heart of truth beneath. “Bright World? Rise of a Hero? Justice Dawning?”

“I despise you,” you say melodramatically, digging your thumbs into your temples. “Also, Justice Dawning was cheesy, I’m offended you’d even offer it.” You try not to smile, but it happens anyway, and as soon as that secret little smile sneaks onto your lips it brightens Homelander’s eyes, reflecting your amusement back to you. Not just that, but amplifying it.

“You’ll learn to love me,” he tells you with confidence. You drop your hands, looking at him with subtle surprise. He holds your gaze. The earnestness of his words seems to dispel your mortification and replaces it with something more difficult to define, but he likes the shine it brings to your eyes.

The taste of your defeat is sumptuous. He’d prefer licking it straight from your tongue, but he’ll settle for this for the time being. An easiness settles into the air between you, deeper even than before your hackles rose with the lurking reality of your hidden opinion of him. It’s like a bubble has popped, dissipating uncomfortable tension, replacing it with something warmer.

He has every intention of turning up the heat even further.

The meeting moves forward. You work your way through his folder, and during a natural lull in conversation, he finally broaches the topic that’s been plaguing him since he stepped into your office.

“So,” he begins, interlacing his gloved fingers in his lap. “Gonna tell me what you’re all dressed up for?” He asks, wearing the same smile and speaking in the same tone he had when he baited you into admitting your secret love affair with his cinema.

He wants to hear you say that it’s for him, but he’ll settle for a flustered deflection. They’re as good as the same.

“Oh,” you huff with an airy little laugh, the sound like silver bells chiming. “I have a date tonight.”

You say something else, but Homelander doesn’t hear it over the tidal-like rush in his ears. He watches your pretty lips form words that he can’t understand. Everything falls out of focus as he tightly reins in the white hot rush of furious jealousy that floods his gut and erupts up the back of his throat like bile. He swallows the burn of it, jaw tight, and manages a tense smile.

“Great,” he barks, not realizing–or perhaps not caring–that he interrupted you. “First date?”

“First date,” you confirm, your tone less conversational than it had been a beat ago. The walls are going back up, but he’s too fixated on what feels like a stabbing betrayal.

“Exciting,” he says, adjusting his tone and mannerisms until they once more resemble something genuine. Something civil, despite the hostility in his gut. “Someone you know? Going anywhere special?”

“No, and not really,” you say evasively. He loathes how withdrawn you’ve become. You should be pleased he’s put off. Gloating even. It’s proof he cares, isn’t it? “It was his suggestion.” His. The leather of Homelander’s glove creaks subtly in the fist he makes. “I forget the name of the place,” you say, avoiding his gaze.

His right cheek tics. Liar, liar, pants on fire. People always underestimate his ability to read them.

You’ll learn not to lie to him.

“But you have an out if you need it, don’t you? Someone to bail you out in case he turns out to be some kind of freak,” he says, huffing the word with a lick of venom. It takes significant effort to keep the disdain from his face to imagine you as you are now sitting across from some nobody schmuck, lit by candlelight and smiling sweetly for them instead of for him.

“I always do,” you say, smiling thinly. He curates his own tone often enough to hear it in yours, and it pierces his ears like a thistle. He taps his fingers on his thigh, scrounging for something, anything else to needle you for, but your responses don’t give him much to work with.

“Well. If you did need someone–”

“I’m a big girl,” you interrupt, surprising him. He’s rarely interrupted. “I can take care of myself.”

At that, a thought strikes him. The slack line of his lips curls into a thin smile, and his hands relax on the armrests of the chair.

“I’m sure you can.”

Shaking off the aftermath of your one-on-one with Homelander proves to be more difficult than you’d anticipated. You replay it nearly moment for moment in your mind while freshening up after work.

Homelander has an uncanny knack for moving through demeanors as though he’s trying hats, determining which one best suits the situation. One moment he’s a slick carnivore licking his chops in anticipation of his meal to come, and the next he’s every ounce the hero they market him as. He’d been relentlessly charming during the meeting, his charismatic smile becoming one you’d wanted to earn again and again.

Then came the news of your date, and all at once Homelander possessed the ominous calm of a sentient statue. The moment still sends an eerie chill down your spine, even in recollection. How radically his appearance can change with mood or thought alone. You’d hate to ever see him truly angry.

“Get a hold of yourself,” you say to the bathroom mirror. You have a date tonight, and the last thing you need is to bring this kind of nervous energy to it. Powers or not, the commonality of man is easy to rely on, and you’ve developed the tactical mindset of an aloof cat. Never beg for what can be given freely. Never give more than you get. Never settle. “Be the cat,” you tell yourself affirmatively.

A directive which, unfortunately, winds up being exceedingly easy to follow through the course of your date. James, bless his heart, struggles to wring more than the occasional piteous chuckle from you. Conversation with him is akin to drinking seltzer water–he is neither offensive nor particularly exciting, being only a step above plain water.

Perhaps James’ blandness isn’t entirely his own fault, but rather the basis of comparison he is subjected to. Throughout the night, you find yourself critical of the way he looks at you–or rather, the way he fails to look at you. Your thoughts keep drifting back to your meeting with Homelander and the way he looks at you. The intense ocean-blue caress of his eyes summons a blush to your cheeks even in hindsight.

He looks at you in a way that no one else does. It's as if he's trying to memorize the smallest details in your skin, to uncover every secret trapped behind your guarded gaze. He has a stare determined to lay you entirely bare to him.

James’ wine dulled ogling could hardly hold a candle to that. Looking into his eyes, you see only the planning for whatever dullard comment he was going to make next.

Still, it’s not until the end of your date–an exceptionally long two and a half hours thanks to a mishap with your order–that James displays a behavior unsavory enough to elicit a truly unpleasant feeling in you. He’s quite clingy after a few too many glasses of wine. He walks you out of the restaurant with an arm around your waist, and more than once you have to bat his hand away from the seam where your blouse is tucked into your skirt.

“You in the parking garage or the back lot?” He asks, smiling in a way he must mean to be salacious, eyes half-lidded like he’s lost control of them.

“The back lot.” Parking was a nightmare with how late you arrived after work. “Is that where you are?” You ask, hoping it isn’t.

“No, no, I actually took an Uber in,” he says, and you know immediately by the way he starts tapping your hip with his index finger why he chose to do that.

“Want me to wait for you here until your Uber arrives, then?” You ask, turning out of his grasp to stand face to face with him outside of the restaurant. It’s late enough now that the streets have calmed some, at least by New York’s standards.

James’ expression falters, but he tries for a recovery with a hopeful smile. “Well, you know, I was sort of hoping we might continue this elsewhere,” he says, slipping his hands into his pockets. Is he trying to look suave?

“Oh, no,” you say, putting forth your very best sympathetic head tilt, matched with a well placed brow furrow. “No thank you.”

This time his expression doesn’t recover. His hands lift from his pocket and he makes a helpless gesture with them, very nearly pleading. “Really? I thought we were having a nice time.”

“And I’m so glad for that,” you say, and even you can hear the corporate edge sliding into your tone, which doesn’t seem to soothe him any. “But it’s for the best that we part ways here, James. Thanks for your time.”

“But–” Your inarguable dismissal staggers him. He gropes for recourse. “I paid,” he blurts out, which proves to be his final mistake.

Your polite facade drops. “For what?“ His booze addled panic shifts into confusion. “F…For dinner, but I didn’t mean–”

“And that entitles you to fuck me?” No sense in mincing words now.

His expression morphs again, this time into mortification. “No! No, but–”

“You thought this would be a transaction? God, and here I was thinking your gravest flaw would be how mind-numbingly boring you are. But to be boring and stupid?” You scoff, waving a dismissive hand. “Goodnight, James,” you say, the kindest dismissal you can muster. You turn on your heel before he can sour the evening any further, and luckily for him, he doesn’t pursue you further.

Unbelievable. As if you hadn’t offered to split the check. As if he expected it to be a transaction that he cashed in your bed. As if the cost of dinner was worth anything more than a polite smile from you. As if.

New York doesn’t sleep, but it does grow very, very dark. You’re on a narrow street, not an alley exactly, but not a main road, either. Still riled up, you bring up the parking app on your phone as you walk, swiping through to get ready to pay for your crummy back lot space. A clatter brings your attention up, and that’s when you see them—two men. One wearing a black leather jacket, the other with a kerchief slung around his throat.

You stop walking, caught between turning around, which would mean putting your back to the men up ahead, or continuing forward, which would mean passing within arm’s reach. They haven’t noticed you yet, or at least they’re pretending not to, but now they look right at you and smile.

The men don’t look dangerous, not like they do in the movies, but you know that means nothing—plenty of the worst people in the world looked safe. Yet the longer you stay put, the more you sense the ill intent wafting off of them like cheap cologne. “Hey, baby,” says one of them, moving toward you. “You lost?”

“No,” you say curtly, taking a step back. “Not lost. Excuse me.”

“You sure? We’re real good with directions,” says the second man, leering. Your eyes snap between them, phone clutched tight in your hand. “Y’look like you could use some.”

“No,” you say again, louder. How loud would you need to be for anyone to hear you over the sounds of the streets? Panic swells in your throat.

You don’t know how they got so close so quickly, but as you turn to run, a hand catches your collar. The guy in the leather jacket wrenches you back against him, one arm wrapping around your shoulders. Your phone clatters to the ground.

“Hey now, what’s the rush?” He asks, yanking you backwards. “Get off me,” you snarl, but he’s squeezing you tightly across the chest, making it hard to think, let alone breathe. You struggle until you feel something hard dig into your hip. A knife? No. You realize coldly that it’s a gun, the handle of it jutting out from his waistband and digging into you. In a desperate bid, you twist in his grip, trying to grab it.

“Careful,” says the other one, moving in front of you, closing in. “She’s got spirit.”

You kick out at the other guy but he jumps back, laughing at you. They’re both laughing, relishing in your fear. Your fingers skim the gun, but you can’t quite get it.

The first man’s breath is hot and sour on your cheek. “Come on, now, let’s have some fun.” You slam your head back into his nose—or try to, but you only manage to clip his chin. Still, you hit bone, hear the crack of a tooth, and just like that you’re free, stumbling to your hands and knees as the man reels. You hit the ground hard, the shock of landing lancing pain through your arms and legs. The gun tumbles from his waistband. Without thinking twice you lunge for it, fingers successfully closing around the grip right before one of the men grabs your ankle and pulls.

The street bites into your elbows and scrapes your knee bloody as you twist around and raise the gun, barrel leveled at the man’s heart. “LET GO!” You scream, heart hammering against your chest. “Oh shit,” says the man in the kerchief, eyes wide at seeing you armed, but the other one sneers at you, blood spilling from his mouth. There’s fury in his eyes, and the unmistakable intent to hurt you. “You ever held a gun that big, baby?”

“Let go,” you say again, voice firmer than the tremble of your hands. Your finger flexes on the trigger.

“You even know how to use it?” He asks, using his grip on your ankle to pull himself over you, his other hand falling to your thigh. He gives a pointed squeeze as he lifts himself up to tower above you. He reaches to take hold of you again, but you won’t let him. Can’t let him.

“Yes.” You squeeze the trigger as you say it, bracing for the recoil, the bang. It’s always so loud in the movies.

Nothing happens. You panic, looking at the weapon in your hands in dull shock. The safety isn’t on. You pull the trigger again, but the chamber rings hollow. It isn’t loaded. You look up at the man as his shadow falls over you. He bares his teeth at you, painted an ugly dark red with the blood spilling from his mouth. The man laughs, a short barking sound, and knocks the gun from your hands with a harsh slap. It goes skidding away.

“Stupid bitch,” he says, raising his boot as if you were an oversized bug, something to crush. You close your eyes and scream as he brings it down hard.

Or at least, he started to, but his leg locks up halfway, and then he topples, a single horrifying sound leaking from his clenched teeth. Your eyes open just in time to see his body hit the ground, a smoldering wound smoking from his chest. An instant later, the second man falls. This time you see the flash of crimson light that drops him.

Homelander’s cape billows in the wind with all the majesty of the flag it’s designed after as he descends from the sky. He lands in front of you, backlit by the distant street lights that give him an artificial glow. He’s beautiful, a perfectly manufactured angel delivered straight from some market tested Heaven.

“Hey, you hurt?” He asks, reaching for you.

Awestruck, all you can do is stare at his outstretched hand. Tears well in your eyes. Shock is setting in the aftermath of all that adrenaline in your veins crashing your system. Through the blur of your tears, Homelander’s expression shifts from concern to that of determination.

“It’s alright, I’m here now. They can’t hurt you,” he says, bringing your arm around his neck while he slips his own around your waist, effortlessly lifting you from the ground. Before your gaze can drift to the corpses–whose burning flesh you can smell mingling with the acrid city air–Homelander rotates, taking them from your line of sight.

With a flourish, he unhitches his cape from his shoulders and swings the fabric over yours. It settles on you heavier than you expected it to be, and impossibly warm. Moving back in, Homelader readily takes you back into his arms. He cradles you in his embrace, one hand cupping the back of your head, the other drawing lines up and down your back.

You try to choke out a sound, to ask him, how? How did he find you? How did he know you needed him? But none of the noises you make form any actual words. Your throat is too tight, and your tongue feels too big for your mouth, gnarled silent by panic. Everything is just too much. Your breaths only grow sharper as tears burn hot streaks down your face.

“Sssshhhhhhh,” he shushes by your ear, lifting you just enough to keep you on your feet, but take the weight of your body from you. His hold is compressive, but not oppressive. It takes everything you have left to lift your other arm around his neck while the sobs overtake you. He continues to hush you, whispering a menagerie of honeyed assurances in your ear, the core sentiment always the same.

I’ve got you. You’re safe now. I won’t let anyone hurt you.

You cry harder, coiling your arms tighter around his neck. He lets you cling to him, lets you sob away your makeup and soak the collar of his suit with the mess of it.

You don’t know how much time passes in your addled state of panic, but eventually your breaths begin to even out, though your heart continues to thunder. Your body isn’t convinced that the danger has vanished yet, eager to turn to flight now that your fight has gone.

“That’s it, just like that,” Homelander praises. “Breathe. Breathe. Good… Light as a feather now, okay? Like you can fly,” he tells you. The weightlessness you feel in his arms helps the idea, helps you to feel like you aren’t being crushed by the terrible weight of such a moment of horror. That’s all it had been, a moment–two at most–and yet the torment of it had felt hours long. Exhaustion falls over you in the wake of adrenaline, and you’re glad for Homelander’s arms around you. You doubt you’d be standing without them.

“Home,” you manage to croak. “Please.” You can still smell the man’s sour breath, the memory even more powerful than the stench of reality.

“I can take you home,” he coos, maintaining that same soothing tone of comfort. “Is that what you want?”

You nod, focusing instead on the vetiver fresh smell of him. You’ve never been near enough to him before to notice it, but now you fixate on it. Anything to drown out the stink of the alley. He smells so much cleaner, like fresh linen drying over green grass in the summer sun.

His arms flex around you before he adjusts them, lifting you smoothly into his arms. Your stomach flips the way it does when you go down a hill in the backseat of a car, gravity loosening its hold on you. You can feel the motion all around you, the wind ghosting over you, but Homelander himself feels motionless against you.

Flying. He’s flying. And so are you.

His cape shields you from the night air bite, pulled snug around you and secured where your bodies are pressed together. You haven’t felt like this since you were a child, cradled with such care and strength that feels beyond your comprehension. Homelander serves as both place and person–somewhere safe, someone kind–and you tuck yourself closer into the sanctuary of his arms, hands fisted in the protective fabric of his cape.

“I’ve got’cha,” he assures you, voice warm in your ear.

Without a shadow of a doubt, you believe him.

Homelander doesn’t need to ask where you live. It’s an easy detail to brush off if you question him. He doubts you will with the way you’re clinging to him, though. You feel good in his arms, settling so naturally against the contours of them he might convince himself you belong here. He doesn’t mind your weeping when it comes with your arms around him, fingertips brushing the nape of his neck.

A small shiver rolls down his spine.

Of all the ways Homelander expected the evening to unfold, he hadn’t properly anticipated you. While he cradles you, he replays again and again the moment you were snatched. You fought without hesitation. You wrenched the gun free. The fierceness in your eyes as you aimed it had been exquisite. The resolve in your gaze as you fired it even more so.

He’d known you were confident, but that kind of clawing survival can only be learned of a person in action. He’s known many supposedly strong people–supe and human alike–who walk as stone giants, but shatter like glass when faced with any real danger.

You couldn’t have known that you weren’t in any real danger. You couldn’t have known that he’d told those thugs to scare you, but not hurt you. You couldn’t have known he’d ensured the gun wasn’t loaded. You fought as though it was for your life, and it enthralled him.

He hadn’t planned on killing them in front of you. They would have been loose ends to tie up after his heroic rescue, but somewhere along the line that stupid bastard lost the thread. He hurt you, bloodied those pretty knees of yours, and he moved to strike you. To grind you beneath his heel as if you were the vermin instead of him. For that–and for so flagrantly going against Homelander’s own direct order–you witnessed his downfall.

As far as he’s concerned now, everything happened precisely as it needed to. You’re in his arms now, and he’s still half hard from witnessing you choose fight when your instincts kicked in. You’re too fragile to choose it so readily. Your bones feel bird-like compared to the scope of his strength. Hollow and brittle. You would make for a hell of a supe, though.

Still, he won’t break you. He’s spent his entire life learning what it takes to snap bones like party favors, and more crucially, what it takes not to. Yours are safe from him. In fact, you’re the safest person in the whole world now.

Homelander glides down to a soft landing on your driveway. Your car will be an issue for another time. For now, he walks you to your front door before gently placing you on your feet.

“Believe this is you, young lady,” he says, leaving space for plausible deniability. If it occurs to you to interrogate him about it, it doesn’t show on your face. With hands still softly trembling, you fish your keys out of your purse. He watches you fumble with them for only a moment before he steps in behind you, one hand gripping your upper arm to steady and pause you while the other covers your shaking hand, helping you to slide the key into the lock and turn it.

Your hand fits nicely in his.

“Thanks,” you whisper. It’s the first thing you’ve said since asking him to take you home. He takes the liberty of opening the door for you while he’s at it, swinging it wide to allow you in. You grab his forearm, and he thinks you’re only balancing yourself, but when you don’t let go he steps with you, letting you lean on him as you guide him into your home. He closes the door behind the two of you, smiling to himself.

He may not need an invitation to enter, but it’s charming to have one.

Your movements are stiff, a slight limp to your gait. You fell hard, and the delicate flesh of your knee had ripped apart against the concrete when you were dragged. You hesitate at the stairs, but Homelander doesn’t. You inhale sharply when he scoops you back up into his arms with ease and starts up the stairs. He keeps his gaze ahead, but he can feel yours on him.

“Thanks,” you say again, the word barely more than a hiccup, adjusting his cape over yourself like a blanket.

“It’s what heroes are for.” He smiles. It’s a party line, one he’s said a hundred thousand times before, but you make him mean it. This is what heroes are for. To be worshiped and loved, understood deeper than pop stars and false idols like them. There’s a reverence in your stare that transcends the vapid starstruck way most people look at him. You understand now. You know how much more he is.

He brings you to your bedroom and sets you on the edge of the bed, adjusting his cape back up over your shoulders. You’ve scarcely let go of it since he wrapped you in it. Will you sleep with it tonight? He bets you will. The thought sends a pleasant tingle through him.

“Alright, let’s get a look at those knees,” he says, crouching in front of you. There’s blood running down your left shin. He lifts the edge of your skirt hem just enough to catch a glimpse of shredded skin. It looks rough, dirty and embedded with bits of debris. He blows out a breath. “Got a first aid kit?”

You nod numbly. “Under the bathroom sink.”

It’s odd to see you so subdued. He forgets sometimes that you humans can be as emotionally fragile as you are physically. Surely the death of two measly thugs isn’t enough to break you.

Rising, he moves to your bathroom. He feels slightly unbalanced without the sway of his cape behind him, the garment as integral to his physicality as any limb. He rummages through until his hand lands on a bright red fabric pack with a zipper. He gives it a little toss and catches it, bringing it back to you, alongside a wetted towel. He gives the pack a victorious little shake.

“H’okay, down to business.” Homelander kneels before you, splaying open the kit and placing it on your lap. He’s never used one of these before, but he’s pretended to do it on set. How different can it be? He cups your leg, thumb absently smoothing back and forth on your skin while he uses the towel to gently wipe up the blood, dirt and debris from your shin and knee.

You flinch, tense a moment before you relax. “Homelander, you really don’t have to–”

“Am I doing a bad job?” He asks, glancing up at you through his lashes. There’s a playful lilt to his voice.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say, the smallest hint of exasperation in your voice. He’s pleased to hear it. Perhaps you’re less wilted from the encounter than he thought. “I just mean that I can–”

“I know you can,” he says, and this time he definitely sees a flare of annoyance. You don’t like being interrupted any more than he does, but you don’t protest further. He smiles, triumphant, and focuses back on the task at hand, petting you the same way one might soothe a wild animal.

There’s a novelty in doing this for real that he hadn’t anticipated. It’s entirely unlike wiping away congealed red corn syrup from an actor. Your skin is sweeter, softer. He suddenly resents his gloves for the barrier they provide, despite his usual reliance for that very thing. He’s meticulous in flicking out the little stones embedded in your skin, spotting each one with ease.

Next, he tears open the alcohol wipes with his teeth and uses them to disinfect, rubbing at the sores. You flinch, sucking in a loud breath through your teeth. “Oopsy-daisy,” he says, switching to gently patting. He has no real concept of what you’re feeling right now. He’s never had a scraped knee before. The scientists at Vought had to get much more creative in order to gauge his capacity for healing.

He imagines they were disappointed to realize that, once damaged, he healed as slowly as a human.

“How’d you find me?” You ask, snapping him out of his unpleasant reminiscence. Your shock seems to have worn off entirely. You look more present, alert to his every move.

“Heard you scream,” he answers simply, unraveling a roll of gauze. That much is true.

“But how? How did you know where I was?” You push, watching him wind the white material around your knee.

“I didn’t,” he lies smoothly. He’s followed enough scripts in his life to do so very well. “If I’d known exactly where you were, I would have been there sooner. I was minding my business on 5th Avenue when I heard you. Familiar voices can…” He makes a vague gesture. “Cut through the din. Voices I want to hear.”

He thinks he catches you flush at that. Just a touch. He bites back a smirk, pleased with himself. Does it matter if it’s true when it makes you look at him like that?

“I didn’t know your hearing worked like that,” you say, fidgeting with the hem of his cape.

His gaze flickers up every so often to watch your finger pick at the seam, inexplicably charmed by it. “Well, there’s some things not even a super fan can glean,” he teases, securing the gauze with tape. He expects to see a familiar indignation in your expression, but when he looks up, he’s caught off guard by the unmistakable fondness in your eyes.

“I was over the moon when I got my job at Vought,” you say quietly, like you’re whispering in a confessional. “I always wanted to work with heroes.”

“With me?” He pushes, lifting his brows.

Very slightly, you smile. “Yeah. With you.”

“Busted,” he says, his own voice equally soft.

You give him a little nudge with your foot. “Gauze won’t stay by itself. Need to use a roll of self-adhesive wrap,” you say, plucking the beige roll from the kit. He likes the shy warmth in your voice. He would have done much worse to see this side of you. Have the intimacy of your pain, fear and relief all to himself. This glowing affection you’re so full of. He feels drunk on the cocktail of it all.

“Right, obviously,” he says, taking the wrapping from you. “I knew that.”

“Probably should have put a gauze pad under it, too,” you continue, eyes heavily lidded, expression soft.

“Everyone’s a critic,” he laments, affixing the textured bandage around the gauze. You laugh, and the sound of it feels like a space he could belong in.

He checks your other knee, your elbows and your palms, but nowhere else on you calls for anything more than some antiseptic and a few bandaids. With the wrappings secure, he shuffles the mess of supplies haphazardly back into the kit, zipping it up much more bulging and misshapen a state than he found it in. He pushes it under the bed with the towel atop it, standing.

“Good as new. Or close to it,” he says, making a small show of dusting off his hands for a job well done.

You stand, letting his cape slide off of your shoulders for the first time since he put it on you, the fabric pooling on the bed. You step forward, and of all the things he expects in this moment, you blow them out of the water by suddenly wrapping your arms around him, the soft curves of your body slotting against his in a way that trips something primal and needy in him. He puts his arms around you the second the shock wears off, holding you with the barest fraction of his strength.

Tension drains from your body. Were you nervous he wouldn’t reciprocate? It’s an endearing thought. He gives a deeper, brief squeeze. He can’t remember the last time someone held him.

“Thank you,” you say after a long beat, drawing back. He reluctantly loosens his grip, but not by much. He’s loath to relinquish you so soon after he’s gotten hold of you. “It’s not enough, but I don’t know what could ever be.”

I could make a few suggestions, he thinks, but he doesn’t give voice to the lewd thoughts that follow.

“I’ll never forget what you did for me tonight,” you say. Your face is so near to his, it makes it difficult to focus on anything other than the curve of your lips as you speak.

Instead of responding, Homelander leans in, eyes falling shut.

“Oh,” you say sharply, your soft body suddenly going tense in his arms, stopping him in his tracks. Both of your hands are braced against his chest now, creating a distance that feels craterous.

He blinks, brows furrowed in confusion. “What?”

“I’m really tired,” you say, tone shifting to mild diffusion. It reminds him of the way you spoke to James, and his ego stings with both the rejection and the comparison. He’d laughed listening to you reject that pathetic, simpering man. It seems less funny now.

He scoffs an incredulous little huff. But I saved you, he thinks, indignant panic flaring in his chest. To his dismay, however, the thought doesn’t sound like his own voice. It sounds like James’.

But I paid!

Repulsed, Homelander swallows the thought like bile. If the comparison comes so readily to his own mind, there’s no way you won’t make the connection yourself. He feels his skin prickle like there are fire ants crawling beneath his suit. The memory of James’ pathetic begging is the only thing that keeps his composure together.

“Of course you are,” he says tightly. His smile is forced, slightly too wide. “You should sleep. Rest up. Take the day off tomorrow,” he says stiffly, rattling off lines like they’re pre-recorded. Only then does he surrender his hold on you, hands moving to his hips instead. You take a step back, and he stands straighter to disguise the sting of rejection.

“Thank you,” you say, tone indecipherable. It’s full to the brim with something, but nothing Homelander can parse in his current state. “I–”

“No need,” he dismisses, jumping on the opportunity to end the conversation on his terms. “Really. Just doing my job,” he says, tossing you a little two-finger salute off of his brow, already moving towards your balcony door. You don’t move, watching him from the foot of your bed, arms wrapped around yourself.

“Catch you at the office,” he says. He knows he’s speaking too quickly, but it’s all he can do to keep himself in check. Anger and misery broil in him like vinegar and baking soda, the caustic brew threatening to erupt.

“Okay,” you say, which isn’t particularly what he wants to hear. He turns his back to you, and his smile drops, his ego violently stung. With a force that billows wind through your bedroom, he takes off into the night sky.

You just weren’t ready, he tells himself, gritting his teeth. It’s easier to be angry than embarrassed. He wants to make as much distance between himself and your rejection, flying higher and higher until frost begins collecting on his lashes. He flies until there’s no sound, no oxygen, no life but his own. He flies until gravity releases him and he can finally relax, suspended by cold, vast space.

The earth glows beneath him, reflecting the light of the sun where it illuminates a distant portion of the globe.

Closing his eyes, he tips his head back.

He’ll fix this.

( chapter four )

#heavy breathing #icb i actually did it #tysm to everyone who let me scream and cry at them about this fic as i wrestled nonstop with it #homelander x you #homelander x reader #x reader #homelander fanfiction #yandere x reader #my writing

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zorosdimples · 7 months

Text

CHAPPED

pairing ༄ kakashi x gn!reader

warnings ༄ slightly suggestive, reader and kakashi are in an established relationship, and there is an implied age gap. this is mostly fluffy fluff (who am i?)

word count ༄ 1129

notes ༄ happy belated birthday to the man who started it all! my first 2d love <3 dedicating this to my kakashi girlies: @honeylavendr, @strawberrystepmom, @purpleskyvenus @rookie98writes and @delirious-donna!

it’s late—too late to be up on a work night, you think as you glance out the window, curtains not yet drawn closed. the moon is suspended high in the black satin sky, countless stars twinkling in adoration, graced by her brilliance.

diffused lamplight and flickering candle flames illuminate your bedroom, their warmth bathing everything in a dusky orange. your nightstand acts as a makeshift workstation, tools at the ready: rose water spray, moisturizer, lip treatment, and a headband.

your boyfriend pads out of the bathroom shirtless, dark pajama pants slung dangerously low on his narrow hips. “all done,” kakashi announces before smoothing a large hand down your back and pressing his still-wet lips to your forehead.

“i told you to pat your skin dry after you washed your face,” you pout, wiping away the chilly droplets that prickle your skin in the wake of his kiss.

kakashi settles on the edge of your shared bed, feet firmly planted on the plush rug. when you first moved in with him, you insisted the rug would feel cozy under your feet on a cold morning—a stark contrast to the unforgiving hardwood floors of your apartment. as usual, you were correct.

your comfort is more important to kakashi than anything else; a truth he probably shouldn’t admit as hokage.

“i did my best, love,” he hums, pulling you in by the hips, lithe fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts to knead the supple flesh.

you grip kakashi’s strong shoulders to keep your balance, willing yourself not to melt into him, knees trembling as he nuzzles your neck. his day-old silvery stubble grazes your throat and sets your nerves afire.

“can’t we just go to bed?” he murmurs, chapped lips moving hotly against your skin. your pulse thrums under his heady breath.

“kashi, you promised,” you whine—overdramatic? yes, but you’re eager to pamper him. “the sooner you cooperate, the sooner this is over,” you tease, pushing yourself away from him to swipe something from the nightstand. the ninja cocks a pale eyebrow when he sees the headband: cheap and fuzzy with a pair of pink and black cat ears.

ridiculous.

“to keep your hair out of your face,” you explain with a mischievous smirk as kakashi rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, tolerating your antics. he opens his mouth to speak, but clamps it shut when you comb your fingers through his unruly hair, pushing the snowy mane out of his face. gently, you slide the headband in place. tufts of hair poke out in front of his ears, his expression that of a disgruntled cat.

your lighthearted giggle has his slate irises fixed on your carefree radiance as he prods (voice betraying his amusement), “what’s so funny?”

you shake your head and press a delicate kiss to his cheek before grabbing the rose water spray. “nothing. you just look cute.”

“i think you’re the only person who would describe me as cute,” he chuckles, sharp incisors glinting in the low light. you think of contesting his statement, but his naïveté is endearing.

at your instruction, kakashi’s eyelids flutter shut. you spritz the rose water onto his face, the refreshing mist coating his skin, beading on his ivory eyelashes and at his cupid’s bow. you then pop the lid off of your moisturizer bottle, pumping some of the product onto your fingertips.

kakashi doesn’t ask what all the steps mean, nor do you feel the need to explain. he has watched you do your skincare routine day and night more times than he can count. he knows each product you use by name, what purpose they serve, and the order in which they need to be applied. it’s not like you asked him to memorize all of this; it’s just a habit of his—soaking in every detail about you, what you care about, and what you do.

as you massage the buttery moisturizer into his skin, your boyfriend keeps his thoughtful gaze on you: the furrow of your focused brow, the way your front teeth catch your bottom lip, the slight flare of your nostrils. your touch is featherlight as you rub tender circles of the product all over his face, careful to not get too close to his eyes, taking it up to his hairline and down his neck.

satisfied with your work, you rub the remnants of the moisturizer into your hands. kakashi seizes the opportunity to pull you into his lap and guide your legs to wrap securely around his waist.

“what?” you squeak in surprise.

“what?” kakashi parrots back, drinking in the alluring metamorphosis of your features from shock to annoyance to amusement.

you cup his face—large in your soft embrace—admiring the beauty of the man you love. “your skin is perfect, it’s not fair,” you playfully huff, smoothing your fingertips across his high cheekbones and down the distinct cant of his nose.

kakashi barks out a laugh, falling on the sheets to his back. you follow his lead, leaning over him, hair framing you both in privacy. “i’m pushing forty, my love. my skin is nowhere near perfect.” one of his scarred palms cradles your head while the other traces down your bare arm to rest on your waist. “you have youth on your side,” he rumbles, uncharacteristically wistful.

he isn’t wrong. there’s the jagged scar that bisects his left eye, a sigil borne of recklessness. kakashi once lived as though he had no future; life was merely death’s antechamber—a brutal purgatory of violence and meaningless suffering. he lived with no regard of himself as a person, but rather as a vessel of retribution, a tool to be hidden in the shadows away from light and life.

now, kakashi has proof of life, etchings across his flesh to mark the passage of time: his gambles and failures, his missteps and wrongs. but as your fingers map the planes of his face—fair skin, sinuous veins, laughter lines, dappled moles—you realize that his supposed shortcomings only make him more perfect to you. he’s just a man, after all. he’s fallible and flawed but he’s yours.

“your lips are a little chapped,” you warble as you reach over to the nightstand. you open up the jar of your favorite lip treatment and scoop out some of the balm using your pinkie.

as you move toward his mouth, kakashi catches your wrist, pearly eyes ablaze. without breaking eye contact, he leads your hand to his face, guiding it so that the product on your finger spreads across his lips. when your wrist falls, he wraps you in his arms, any space between your bodies too much to bear.

“you need to rub the balm in,” you whisper.

“sure,” your lover sighs before smearing his lips against your own.

#idk how i feel about this tbh #i tried but i’ve spent too long agonizing over the details #it’s messy but hopefully? full of love #hbd to my first love #kakashi x reader #kakashi hatake x reader #naruto x reader #kakashi fluff #naruto fluff #kakashi hatake fluff #kakashi hatake #hatake kakashi #naruto

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lorelune · 8 months

Text

braised

|| blade x reader || M || captive reader x necrobiome blade || wc: 3.2k || ao3 || previous + next ->

The Stellaron Hunters and their newest prize settle in and find routine.

minors, antis, and ageless blogs dni

a/n: HELLO >:3c this lil story has me gripped!! this piece is meant to be read after "scrap metal" but can be read as a standalone. mind the tags and enjoy 💕

CW: dark content, captive/pet reader, violence, implied/partially depicted physical abuse, force-feeding, general talk about food and eating, thoughts of violence toward the reader

"They didn't eat again."

Silver Wolf tosses the metal bowl on the counter with a frown. It’s full, heaped with eggs, kixi wafers, and some yogurt-based sauce. It’s untouched, sauce gelatinized from being out in the open air.

Kafka clicks her tongue from the cockpit, pausing her scrolling. Her gaze flicks up, "Not a bite?"

"Nope." Silver Wolf frowns and fidgets. "They didn't even look at me when I gave them their lunch either."

"They haven't eaten since the day before yesterday then. That’s no good." Kafka sounds concerned, but there's an edge to it.

Blade feels antsy. Out of his skin. He doesn't know why.

“They haven’t been drinking much either.” Silver Wolf frowns. “They’ll shrivel up and die at this rate."

Kafka nods, "That’s more than likely their intention, even if it's a long and foolish way to die. That’s a shame. I thought they'd be better than this."

Blade drums his stiff fingers over the hilt of Shard Sword. He hardly remembers summoning it.

"Bladie, dear? Try and convince them to have a bite or two tonight." Kafka's attention almost drifts back to her phone before she meets his eyes. Her own are clear, pupils intact. "Be careful, though. Hungry pets will still bite the hand that feeds them."

Blade doesn't reply with anything other than a jerky nod. He ferries himself across the ship to a padded training room and shreds two dozen practice dummies until they're nothing more than piles of polymer leather and filler.

...

Kafka had implemented a rotation. A 'feeding schedule' to acclimate you to your new environment, and get you used to your new comrades. You’re pricklier than she originally anticipated, but she doesn't seem concerned.

(If anything, she seems... delighted. She has a spring to her step that she usually doesn't. She leaves your room glowing.)

It’s Blade's turn to bring you dinner. Your meal is piled into the same metal bowl. Heaps of rice, covered in a sticky sauce with chunks of meat and veg. It’s still steaming as he walks silently to your cell— room. cell. He's not sure.

He undoes each lock (seven) and enters your room without any announcement.

The room is... less destroyed than it was yesterday. When Blade brought you lunch the day before, your mattress had been dragged onto the floor, sheets torn to shreds and spread around the room. You’d thrown a book at his head when he'd entered.

(Which he caught and gave back to you. You looked terrified when he got at all close to you.)

Blade didn’t like it. And he isn't sure why.

Today, you're less frantic. Instead, you’re balled up on your mattress, tucked in a corner with your knees up. Your head is down. You only flinch when Blade enters, but don't regard him otherwise.

Blade's frown deepens.

"Dinner," he says, and sets the food on your nightstand. Kafka has replaced the diffuser you broke the day prior. A new one pumps out an herbal-scented mist. "Eat it."

"Just leave it,” you reply, voice scratchy and raw. You rarely speak to him.

"No. Eat it now."

"I will later."

"You won't. You aren't eating."

"And what's it to you?" You unfurl just a fraction and shoot him a glare. It’s angry. vitriolic and guarded. (But a scared stray will bear its teeth and bite, won't they?)

(What is it to Blade? Other than Kafka's order. There’s something there. There has been something there since he saw you muzzled and dead-eyed, and Blade's always half-aware of it. How it refracts and shudders and fills him with such intense unease. He knows the feeling— recognizes it like the scent of an old lover. But he does not like it. It does not feel like it is his.)

He’s struck with the particular urge to throw you against a wall and watch your skull splatter against the metal paneling.

He doesn't. Because his mara isn't that uncontrollable, not now anyway. Instead, he frowns at your scowl.

"You'll die if you don't eat."

"Ah, and if I die, you'll lose an asset, right? I'm not stupid, I know how these things work." You sound... almost petulant. Blade does not know how to approach you, or it, or this attitude.

"You'll die. You shouldn't die. You should eat and live."

"Fuck you." You snap at him, fist balling up in the sheets at your side. You've picked your nails short and raw. "Fuck you."

Blade doesn't know what to do.

He pushes the bowl closer to you on the nightstand before departing.

Kafka catches him as he heads to the training rooms (again, because he needs to shatter a few holograms with his bare fists if he wants to feel close to sane in the next few hours.)

"Any luck, lovely?" Kafka's expression is kind. She must already know.

"No."

Kafka sighs, and shakes her head. "I'll take care of it, Bladie. I suppose we’ll have to do things the hard way.”

...

Kafka is the one to bring you breakfast the next morning. Blade does not normally keep track of Kafka's morning routine, because she is insane, but considering it involves you, he's more keen to it. Kafka prepares a light breakfast of garlic and shash rice, and secondarily, a shake of greens and nutrient powder.

(He... he thinks he knows the substance. Recognizes the acrid, must-driven smell of it, and remembers how awful it tastes. Like bile mixed with metal shavings. Who knows where Kafka acquires it from. He has smudged out memories of choking it down when Kafka first pulled him out of a crater, covered in blood and scarred— but not dead. Never. Never, never dead— )

Blade fractiously goes to your room and waits outside your door. Kafka is still inside when he arrives, speaking to you in that sweet, syrupy tone that drips into muscle and bone like molten metal.

"You need to eat, darling."

"Fuck you—"

"The more you fight, the harder this will be. Why don't you be good and let me help?"

"Don’t fucking touch me—!"

There’s the muffled sound of a struggle, which Blade assumes isn’t much of a struggle because Kafka is far stronger than she looks. Blade leans against the wall, next to your door. He can feel vibrations of a fight in the soles of his shoes through the floor. The thump of a body hitting the wall echoes.

Blade hears crying. You’re crying.

"Oh, tears? I’ve hardly done anything."

"You’re fucking monsters. Just let me go—!"

"You know that won't happen. Play nice.”

"Don't—!"

You sob, probably, and there's another sharp sound of flesh on steel. Blade would've flinched if he wasn’t an abomination.

"Let me take care of you, sweetheart. The sooner you give in, the easier this is. This doesn't need to be difficult."

"Get off of me—!"

More struggling. Blade closes his eyes and tries to imagine it. Kafka is ruthless in getting what she wants. She knows how to pry people apart, pick at their inside, and pull strings until they fracture. It is why Elio is such a fan of hers. It is why Blade keeps her close, as she knows the delicate, bowstring dance of keeping his mara in check.

He wonders what Kafka sees in you.

(He wonders what he sees in you. You're nothing like— like— who? Who are you so different from?)

Blade has a headache.

The sounds echoing from your room dissolve into muffled sobs and the occasional sharp cough. A gag. Inhaling and what must be your fist beating against the metallic paneling of the floor. He hears Kafka hush you, over and over. Quietly praising you after each gag and retch.

Blade's not sure how long it goes on before things feel still and quiet.

The sound of a kiss, audible, "See, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

"... F-fuck you.

"Such a filthy mouth. Do you need me to wash your mouth out with soap? I'm happy too."

"Wait, don’t— no—“

Blade realizes his shoulders have hiked up. He forces them to lower. You scream and fight just feet away, really. All that separates you is seven locks.

Kafka seems to be handling things. The sounds continues, and become dull background noise. Shouts and pants fade into his thoughts as they get sap-sticky.

(Someone beloved, something far away. Bitter liquor on each other’s lips. Blade can’t recall the name.)

(A comet with a tail burning yellow. It is cold. A blade, driven into his chest. A blade stabbed into his eye. A blade put sidelong through his skull. A blade splitting his throat. Cold, cold, cold, cold.)

(Do you know cold? Do you know how frostbite turns flesh black? Do you know necrosis? What pain do you know?)

Blade, startlingly, does not want you to know pain. He wants you to eat your meals.

Kafka exits, almost startling him. She does not look surprised to see him hovering. She rearms the locks and glances at him from the corner of her eye.

“Down, loverboy. A scared dog will bite.”

“Do not call me that.”

"Alright, alright,” she laughs and her grin grows sharper. “I’ll be taking care of their meals for the next few days. Listen, grab a medkit, the poor thing needs it. Though, I’ll let them hurt for a while first.”

Kafka walks off, and Blade follows at her heels. There are indentations in Kafka's gloves-- half-moon bite marks of teeth.

He decides he is going to break his own fingers, maybe. He can watch them heal back into place.

It’s meditative.

...

Several days pass with your ‘new routine’. Kafka handles each meal. Blade stays away from your room. The entire wing you’re located in feels nuclear. He stays in the training room. Throws himself at matted walls until his shoulders dislocate, only to pop them back into place to repeat the cycle.

He makes a point to check the kitchen after each of your meal times. There’s always an empty dish, a clean plate. A chunky-looking film left on a glass in the sink. Kafka is diligent, Blade doesn’t doubt this.

The whole thing fills him with unease.

He asks Kafka to wipe his memory, but she denies him. She’s in the cockpit, swiveling in her seat.

“You don’t need that yet, Bladie. Give it some time.”

“But—”

“Discomfort isn’t mara suffocation, dear.”

“You’re patronizing me.”

She sizes him up, sighing, “Listen to me, keep it together. You’re alright. How about this, you can feed your pet starting tomorrow for lunch. Would that make you feel better?”

It would. He’s not sure why.”

“It would.”

Kafka looks pleased with the outcome of the conversation. She tells Blade to get some rest, pats his cheek, which does take the edge off the mara rooting around in his psyche for purchase.

Blade takes a long route through the ship to his chambers. A deliberate path that brings him in front of your door. He doesn’t dare to enter, only listen. It’s late, you could be sleeping given the hour— but Blade can hear you shuffling around. Grumbling to yourself. One of your feet is dragging on the floor as you walk. Blade wonders how it was injured.

He departs after hearing the shifting of your sheets, and the light under your door goes out.

(He feels insane. Insane in a way that isn’t mara-ridden, which is more terrifying. He knows the gnawing beast of Abundance that crawls around inside his skull and bones, he doesn’t know madness that has burrowed itself between his ribs. It feels light, like the carbonation bubbles in the bottled soda back on the Luofu. His palms sweat when he becomes aware of it with each thought of you.)

(Maybe he’ll try tearing out his organs again. That could fix it.)

Blade returns to his room and paces, before stripping and climbing into bed.

It’s only when he’s half-asleep that he realizes he’s hard.

He’s not sure why.

...

Lunch is some takeout. It scalds his hands through the bowl he heaps it into. Braised trelk ribs with scallion and carrot, ladled over a bed of chewy-looking noodles.

"Bladie," Kafka tells him from the cockpit. She glances at him with a curling smile. "Be careful, they're sensitive."

Blade does not know how to be... careful. Not like how Kafka is implying he thinks anyway.

Silver Wolf snorts from her seat, speaking through a bite of noodle, "You’re asking a human-shaped hydrokenia bomb to be 'careful'?"

"Blade's a good boy, I'm sure he'll do great." Kafka's eyes are that spatial, nebula magenta. He feels pleasantly high when she looks at him. "Won’t you?"

"Yes."

Kafka looks pleased, "Listen, take your meal too. Eating with them will get them comfortable."

Silver Wolf raises an eyebrow, "Is that really a good idea?"

"I think so. Blade can handle it if they get testy."

She looks at him with a grin that's collapsed empires and immolated planets. Blade leaves the room with two bowls in his hands.

When he arrives at your cell— room. It's your room. He unlocks the locks methodically and enters without a greeting.

Today, you are not tucked in the corner of your bed. You’re instead perched in the rounded window, gazing at the starscape. Your knees are raised, and your arms are wrapped around yourself. You look small and defeated, eyes darkened and downcast. Blade watches you rub your shoulders.

You look up when he enters. Blade sets the bowl on the ledge next to you, and sets a pair of chopsticks on top, "You will eat."

It's not a command, but a statement of fact.

You scowl, looking so angry. Alive with it. He recognizes vitriol so easily. It's in your eyes and in the way you bare your teeth at him, ready to strike. Maybe you'll bite down on him, into him, until you taste blood. Blade's sure you wouldn't leave a scar— he heals too quickly from the types of flesh wounds to give him a lasting mark.

(There's something enticing about you trying. Blade does not know the floating, filmy part of himself that suggests such a desire.)

You carry Kafka's mark. There are bruises around your throat, the clear shape of hands. There are lumps across your jaw, darkened in color. Scratches of nails over your neck, down to your collarbones. Your eyes are red-rimmed. Your lip is split, barely scabbed over. You're shaking.

You open your mouth, ready to snap. Maybe you'll spit venom— Blade doesn't know your species. You could.

(Blade remembers your expression on different faces from the glitter of your canines. It reminds him— of—? Jingliu was colder. Frigid in her rage. Dan Feng was always so calm with his, Only shattered near the end, like a tide that swelled too high on the shore to swallow the world whole. Your expression is white-hot, like metal pulled fresh from a stoked forge. Desperation and terror make dull teeth sharp. Actions become erratic and desperate.)

(Blade has not remembered so much, so clearly in a long time. He really needs Kafka to wipe his memory again.)

The mara in him writhes. It’s a necrosis, a vitality that has long since sank into his marrow and will not leave. It rolls through him. Blades tips back his head and rolls his shoulders. There's a high to it, followed by an immediate and tumbling withdrawal and dread and clarity—

And it's all interrupted by the little gasp you make. The abrupt jolt you take backward, into the window, closer to the depths of deep space. Your body thumps against the glass.

('Fragile', Kafka had said.)

Your mouth closes, and your bloody lower lip wobbles. Tears glitter on your lash line as you retreat. Maybe, Kafka broke you. She’s good at that.

"Fucking— I-I mean, fine. I’ll fucking eat." You stumble over your words with a sniffle. Your voice is raw and strained. You rub your nose on your sleeve and scramble for the bowl and utensils.

Blade stares as you eat your first bite. Then your second. Followed by your third. You start crying after the fourth, sobbing with the fifth, and hiccupping between mouthfuls. You're eating too fast, occasionally looking at him with an expression he recognizes as terror. He's used to seeing a look like that at the end of his blade. Frozen before draining of blood and death.

He frowns. You should not look that way..

"Slow down," he says, sitting next to you.

You look at him and wipe over your mouth, lips parting, but seem to think better of speaking. You take another bite, chewing slower. Blade picks up his own bowl and eats small, meticulous bites.

(He shared a meal all the time. Shoulder to shoulder with Dan Feng, splitting casks of viridian wine in the moonlight. Food tastes better when someone you... like is near.)

You finish before him, and don't stop crying. If anything, you cry harder. It sounds painful.

Blade pauses his meal, idling. searching. There's something there. A feeling coated in the roots of mara, but... perhaps it's a delicious agony. Not so much a memory, but a want. Something other than— than what and why—

Blade stands. He departs to your bathroom (there are blood stains on the counter) and grabs a cloth towel. He dampens it with water, letting the sink run until it's pleasantly warm.

He sits closer to you when he returns. You flinch away in retreat, leer away as he comes close, hands up—

"Please, don't, what are you—"

"Hold still." Blade grabs your wrist and you wince.

With entirely conscious thought and great effort, he loosens his grip. And... gently, Blade brings the cloth to your face. He dabs around your eyes, then your cheek and nose, and lastly your mouth. you're frozen, wide-eyed, and still shaking.

When he's done, he grabs a blanket from the bed. He wraps it around your shoulders. It feels... somewhat right.

"You should rest." He tells you. "You need it."

Blade thumbs over a swollen round on your jaw. You tremble, eyes wide.

But maybe a little less scared.

"... Are you gonna stay while you finish eating?" You eye his half-full bowl.

"Yes."

"... 'kay... and you're not gonna rough me up like Kafka did?"

"No." He has no plans to.

"... Fine."

You cautiously make your way back to your little bed, sitting at the head of it, and half-slipping under the covers. It's... cute.

(Blade has not thought of anything as cute in several centuries.)

Blade wants to break your legs.

When he finishes, he collects both bowls, and looks around your room. It's sparse, though. There are a few books on the nightstand.

"... Are you bored?"

"Huh?" You ask. You'd been lost in thought, eyes lost. "Oh, I mean. yeah? There's not much to do."

"I'll bring some things. Bear it until then."

"Oh! Okay." You wrap the blanket around your shoulders tighter. "You're... Bladie, right?"

"Just Blade."

"Oh, okay. sorry." You wring your hands. "Thank you, Blade."

The thing in his chest blooms. A monstrous flower, mycelium under acres of land in a network that eats and never dies. Undergrowth that does nothing but rot and grow, grow and rot.

Blade doesn't reply as he leaves the room. He gets halfway to the training wing before he has to pause, withdraw his phone, and send Kafka a frantic text: 'Meet me in the weaponry room.’

He pockets his phone before punching the wall. Clumsy fingers break upon impact, and the indentation of the fist remains in the metal.

#lore writes #blade x reader #blade x you #hsr x reader #hsr x you #tw dark content #tw yandere #blade's pov is so :3c #guy is nuts!! bonkers!!!#(affectionate)#alright gonna go farm for fu xuan eheh ENJOY!!

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