#gentle density

[archi-playground]

"Stealth Density", "Disguised Density", "Gentle Density"

How Architects tactfully design and pitch infill housing that responds to context and the politics of upzoning.

#stealth density #discussed density #gentle density #upzoning #urban infill #housing #yimby #missing middle #GSD

[flametrashiraarchive]

Reader teaching Haganezuka how to eat that kittykat and fuck it properly because we all know he's a virgin still uwu

(bonus points for size kink, implied age gap [reader 20s])

(bonus points and cookies for Haganezuka being so focused, listening very intently to the puss eating lesson but gets super into it and tunes out reader as he begins to figure what to do and he can't stop himself from overstimmulating reader, which has reader smacking his head so he finally lets go)

Argh yes okay here we go! I love this beautiful nutjob and I got carried away. (I left the age of the reader ambiguous because personally I am old as shit, but I think I get cookies still for the overstimmulating?)

Also... I really want to write a part 2. I want us to take care of him after the events of season 3 because I just know that once the adrenaline wore off this poor man was hurting so bad.

Anyway, enjoy!

UNBREAKABLE, UNQUENCHABLE.

F!Reader x Hotaru Haganezuka

Content Guidance: cunnilingus, fingering, unprotected vaginal sex, overstimulation, not stopping when reader tells him to (reader is still into it though)

Minors DNI.

"I don't make swords for civilians," the swordsmith said, his voice deep and his tone final. He turned away from you, continuing his journey down the mountain path, the soft thud of his footsteps accompanied by the gentle tinkling of the windchimes hanging from his hat.

Your heart sank for a moment before you steeled your resolve and renewed your determination. It was never going to be easy and you'd mentally prepared for rejection. This swordsmith was infamous for his unbending resolve and temper. 

Running a step ahead of him, you turned to stare into the wide bug-eyes of his hyottoko mask. "Please, Haganezuka... I need a nichirin blade."

He continued walking as if he expected to simply pass through you. "No."

"But it's the only thing I can use to kill demons."

He paused. "Demon slayers kill demons. Not civilians. No sword for you."

"I am a demon slayer, just not an official one." You brace yourself for a telling off. Usually whenever you admitted to going rogue you were met with lectures about the proper way to do things and told to leave things to the demon slayer corps— but their numbers were dwindling and you'd never quite figured out breathing styles well enough for your sensei to agree to send you to final selection. Still, hacking and slashing got the job done with the right blade. "Please, Haganezuka. I had a sword with your stamp on it before. It was the best blade I've ever had and—"

"Where did you get it?" His voice was strained as if forced between gritted teeth.

"I found it..."

"SOMEONE LOST MY SWORD?"

"Yes... maybe, but I found it. It served me well and I really want another."

He turned his face away from you slightly, making the windchimes ring. "What happened to it? Did you lose the sword too?"

"No, it broke."

You could've sworn he was vibrating. "m-m-m-m-m-m-my SWORD???"

The elongated lips of the mask poked your cheek as he stepped right up against you. His haori concealed the true size and density of his body, but with him standing so close, you could tell he was muscular and incredibly strong. He was also apparently unhinged, but then again, you reasoned, what was life without a little zest?

“YOU BROKE MY SWORD??”

You'd been pre-warned that his swords were the key to winning him over, so you kept your voice level as you emptied your arsenal. "Your sword was the finest sword I have ever seen. It was an honor to wield it, Mr. Haganezuka. Not even the blade of a hashira could compare to the sublime craftsmanship of that sword. I dream about that sword." You placed a hand on his chest, feeling the heat of his body pulse against your palm as you added in a lower, more sultry tone. "And I've dreamed about meeting the artist who forged such a perfect sword for a very long time."

His chest rose sharply as he pushed out the only response he could manage; a strained, breathless grunt.

Taking his broad, calloused hand in yours, you gazed into the eyes of his mask. "Mr. Haganezuka... please make me a sword?"

The trees swayed overhead, the sigh of the leaves the only break in the utter silence between you and the swordsmith.

"Mister Haganezuka?"

The windchimes tinkled. "Tell me your name."

You told him, and he repeated it back, slowly and carefully as if trying it out.

The mask's mouth moved to your nose as he stared you in the eyes. "Mine is Hotaru. Do you need a husband?"

"I... uhh..." you stammered, suddenly feeling very warm as the heat of his burly frame pulsed against you. "Do I need a..."

He carefully removed the hyottoko mask and with it, removed every particle of air from your lungs. Ravenette hair threaded with silver, amber eyes which glowed like the forge, dark, severe eyebrows which slanted downward as he awaited your answer. He was... beautiful, treading the fine line between painfully pretty and achingly rugged.

"Yes." You said firmly. "Yes I do need a husband."

-------------------------------------------------------

Two days later you were married to Hotaru and about to spend your first night at the Swordsmith Village. Ordinarily, outsiders had to undergo a lengthy initiation process to ensure the village remained a secret, but the village chief fast-tracked your application and damn near pulled you through the gates himself.

It seemed he was just as keen as you were to get your marriage to Hotaru underway. In fact, the whole village pitched in to ensure your wedding went ahead quickly and without a snag.

“Thank you for marrying Hotaru,” the village chief whispered while you were in the middle of your vows. “You have no idea the relief you have brought to the village. We were beginning to lose hope. He has never shown any interest in anything besides swords. Once Hotaru finds something to focus his attention on it's nigh impossible to tear him away from it.”

Before you knew it, you were a wife, married to a man so introverted he spent the majority of your wedding day hiding behind a tree, peering out at you as you chatted to the villagers. In fact, he only came out from behind the tree when someone walked over to congratulate him on the marriage, and even then it was only to find a different tree to hide behind.

"Hotaru..." you sighed adoringly as you slipped away from the crowd to stand beside your husband in his hiding spot. "Are you unhappy?"

He shook his head. "No. I'm happy."

"Ah... You just prefer to be alone?"

"Yes. With you. I want to be alone with you."

He was a strange man, but he melted your heart with every other word. And Gods, he was beautiful. You yearned for him like no other. You craved him.

"Husband, for my wedding gift, will you—"

"No sword for you," he said firmly. "No fighting demons. No risking your life. You are my wife now and it's my job to protect you, even if that means protecting you from yourself. So no sword."

You couldn't help but smile. It seemed Hotaru's dedication to being a husband was as intense as his dedication to smithing.

"I promise, no more demon slaying, but I wasn't going to ask about the sword."

"Oh?"

You leaned in and whispered against his ear. "I was going to ask you to take me to bed."

His orange eyes snapped to your lips as though he couldn't quite believe what you had said. He cleared his throat and tried to speak but only managed a choked grunt.

Silence descended between you until he finally found his voice. "I don't know how to do… those things."

"I can teach you."

He didn't speak. He simply took your hand in his and led you away from the wedding party and deep into the woods. After a minute he looked back at you and picked you up, carrying you against his burly chest.

"Where are we going?" you asked.

"A place where we can be alone. They won't find us."

He carried you a little further, to a small, seemingly abandoned work shed. Inside there was a small forge and smithing tools, and a small living area with a bed and basic amenities. The air was thick with the lingering tang of smoke and molten steel.

"Is... this our home?"

Hotaru shook his head. "This is where I come to work in peace when I really need to concentrate.''

He set you down carefully beside the bed and waited. Except, he wasn't simply "waiting." Hotaru's eyes drank you in, gazing at you with soft reverence. He was so big, so intimidating and by all accounts completely lacking any kind of social skills, but you had won his heart entirely. He was softer than molten steel for you, and more than willing for you to hone and hammer him into the shape you desired him to be.

"Teach me," he said. "I'm ready."

You nodded, your heart thrumming with the anticipation of what was to come. "Okay. Would you like to use your fingers? Your tongue? Or your cock?"

"Yes. All. Teach me how to use them."

Marrying this strange man had definitely been one of your better decisions.

Closing the space between you, you wrapped your arms around your husband's neck and gazed into those fiery eyes. "Well, we should start with a kiss. Do you know how to do that?"

His brow knitted. "Yes of course I know how to kiss."

"Good. Then kiss me, Hotaru."

He leaned down and pecked your cheek.

"Was that good?" An expectant look lingered on his face, faltering by the second. "I... that's what you want, isn't it? Do you want more? I can give you more."

Gods, the man was completely uninitiated.

Still, you couldn't help but smile as he eagerly peppered your cheek with little kisses; dozens of them, soft and dry and so sweet. His brow remained furrowed in concentration throughout, and you remained patient as he expressed his devotion. But when they inched closer to the corner of your mouth you turned your face to press your lips to his. 

The moment your lips touched, he froze, eyes wide as you gently and slowly pulled him into your kiss.

His lips were still and stiff beneath yours as he adjusted to the new sensation. And then they softened. Gradually, tentatively, he followed your lead. His lips crept across yours, careful and slow like he was learning the steps to a new dance and didn't want to tread on you.

You licked the seam between his lips, easing your tongue through the gap as he inhaled sharply and he brought his hands to your waist.

And then something inside him snapped. A restraint cut loose.

He wound his arms around you, lifting you off the ground. The strength in his arms was breathtaking; forged by decades of tireless labor, and now wholly dedicated to you as he pushed you down onto the bed and slipped his tongue into your mouth, exploring this newfound pleasure.

Your kisses awakened a voracious appetite in him and before long he was devouring you with heated passion, barely giving you time to breathe. It was as if he had gone his entire life without intimacy, but once the dam had cracked it was impossible to stop the flood.

His tongue stroked yours again and again as his tough hands skated up the length of your legs. When he reached your knees he granted your tingling lips a reprieve, kissing your throat as he pushed up the skirt of your wedding dress and squeezed the tender flesh of your thighs with a wanton groan. 

"My pretty wife," he growled as you shifted beneath him, craving his touch. "Tell me how to make you feel good."

You parted your legs, pulling your skirt up all the way to reveal yourself to him. A sharp intake of breath expanded Hotaru's chest as he looked down at your pussy. A muscle in his cheek danced and his grip on your thighs tightened as his eyes filled with a look of pure hunger.

"Do you want to touch me?" you asked, your breaths coming in shallow bursts as anticipation coiled in your belly.

His answer was barely a whisper. "Very much." He swallowed hard. "May I?"

"Please... please do," you whispered, your need for him drowning out the rest of the world. It was just you and Hotaru, and nothing else mattered. 

The sound of his shaking breaths was the only break in the silence. His hand left your thigh and he gently brushed his fingertips along the edge of your folds. 

“Soft,” Was the only word which emerged from his lips as he stared and explored the shape of you. His orange eyes were focused, his perpetually furrowed brow somehow even more severe. Hotaru was lost in concentration, entirely focused on mapping the curves and ridges of your cunt.

You lay there on the bed, letting him find his bearings. His gentle exploratory touches sent shivers through your body. Those rough, calloused fingers touched you with such care and attentiveness. His eyes snapped back to yours every time you made a sound or breathed a little harder.

Hotaru was a devoted craftsman– his hands finely tuned tools– and they were dedicated entirely to your pleasure. He found your entrance and pushed a finger into you, watching intently as your pussy clenched around it.

You sighed in pleasure. "Gods, Hotaru, you're making me so wet…"

"Is that good? Am I making you happy?"

"Yes. That's good."

"Hm," he muttered, as if filing the information away. "A wet wife is a happy wife."

A sharp gasp escaped you as he nudged the hood of your clit with his thumb and his lips curved into a smile. 

"You like this, don't you?" He hummed pensively and circled your clit, spreading your wetness.

Squirming beneath him, you nodded as the heat on your cheeks blossomed. "Yes, Hotaru. Keep doing that."

Gods, those rough hands. They sent jolts of pleasure surging through your body as he lavished attention on your clit, fascinated by the way it swelled as he worked with dogged determination. He added another thick finger to your cunt, stretching you deliciously.

A quiet groan emerged from him as you began to fuck yourself on his fingers, hard and fast as he rubbed your clit. He watched you intently, his lips parting in sync with your cry as your first orgasm of the night rocked through your body.

"Oh look at you, my pretty wife with your sensitive little bead." He moved down your body, lowered his head and nuzzled your clit with his nose. 

"Ho-taru…"

The wet heat of his mouth closed over your tender bud, pulling another cry from your lips. 

"Ah! You like that too," he murmured as he knelt between your knees, his long, dark hair spread like strands of seaweed across your thighs. 

"Yes. D-do it again… please… use your tongue."

“My tongue?”

You sucked in a breath as he licked your clit with the tip of his tongue, tasting your essence. 

He groaned. "Mm~ fuck, this is good." 

"More… please…" 

In response to your demand, he raised his hand to press his thumb against your lower lip. "Show me how to lick you well."

Gods, this man. You took his thumb into your mouth, showing him exactly what to do, licking the tip of it as if it was your clit. He groaned as you lapped his thumb, his eyes fluttering shut as his jaw clenched. 

"That feels… huh…" He bit back a groan before burying his face in your pussy and replicating the motion on your clit.

Thank the Gods he has the foresight to take you away from the village, because the sounds he pulled from you were unholy. He was eager and so receptive to your lessons.

Hotaru put everything he had into eating your pussy; the slick, sucking sound of his mouth and his hot, wet tongue accompanied by your desperate cries. With every passing moment his confidence grew, pumping those thick fingers into you and curling them against your walls, his mouth and fingers working in tandem to give you more pleasure than you ever expected. 

As he pleasured you, he ground his hips against the mattress, groaning as he pushed his fingers deeper into your mouth. It was too good, too intense. Your senses were flooded with him; the sight of that beautiful man devouring you, the acrid scent of the forge, the lewd wet sound of his mouth on your cunt. And Gods, nothing had ever felt so good before. 

Hotaru was born to forge swords and eat pussy, and he did both with unbreakable focus. 

You sucked his fingers and he sucked your clit, groaning as he voraciously lapped the sensitive nub, driving you higher… higher…

An immense wave of pleasure crashed through you as you reached your peak, the force of your orgasm making your legs tremble. His name tore through you like a cry to the heavens, his answer a soft moan which vibrated through your core as he kept on licking. On and on, lapping at your pulsing clit as you gasped and bucked your hips against his insatiable mouth.

"Ho-taru… you did it… you made me–"

Taking his fingers from your mouth, he slung a heavy arm across your belly and continued eating you out, unrelenting, pulling another choked cry from you. Hotaru was drunk on you, on the taste and the knowledge that he was pleasing you; groaning, grinding his hips against the mattress, breathing in the intoxicating scent of you as he fluttered his tongue over your overstimulated clit.

The village chief had told you his focus was unbreakable, and now that attention was dedicated to your pussy. He was lost in you, wholly devoted to pleasuring you. You tangled your fingers in his hair, torn between needing respite and craving more. 

He propelled you from your second orgasm right into your third. Intense pleasure drove your head back against the pillow as you screamed in ecstasy and torment, your pussy throbbing beneath his lips as your nectar ran down his chin. And still, he licked you with an unquenchable thirst.

"Hotaru! Ho- oh it's too much.” 

He hit a spot inside your cunt which made the world shatter around the pair of you, sending you careening into another climax which turned your blood to liquid steel. “Too much! I can't!" You swatted at his forehead, smacking him with your fingertips as you wriggled out from beneath him. 

Your husband stared at you, dazed and breathless, his lips glistening with your slick juices. "Did… did I do it right?"

You gasped for air, trembling down to your bones. “You did it perfectly, Hotaru.” 

He pulled you into him and kissed you. You licked the taste of your desire from his lips, swallowing the low groan which rolled from his chest. His lips caressed yours with deep, undying passion, his hand dropping to the bulge tenting his hakama trousers.

“Let me take care of you now,” you whispered into his ear as your hand joined his, cupping his cock and making him moan. “Lie back for me, my love.”

He did as you asked without protest. It was true that you wanted to take care of him and give him as much pleasure as he had given you, but in a more practical sense, being on top of him allowed you to have control. You were already so fucked out, and from the feel of things–from the girth and weight of it through his trousers– control was definitely going to be necessary.

You stood from the bed and undressed as he gazed up at you, languidly palming his cock in his broad hand and drinking in the sight of you.

“Such a lovely wife,” he whispered, his orange eyes heavy with desire.

“And I have such a handsome husband…” you replied as you undressed him, revealing his big, muscular body inch by firmly hewn inch. He was a mountain of a man, and Gods, there wasn’t a thing you would change about him. “A handsome husband who pleases me well…” You kissed him, gently pushing him back and straddling his hips. “And who makes the very best swords in all the world–”

“Ohh…” He groaned, gripping your hips as you brushed the fat tip of his cock against your pussy. “Say that again.”

“Hm? That you’re the best swordsmith in the world?” You eased the top inch of him in, letting your body adjust to the sensation. “That your swords are works of art?”

“Gods, I want you,” he hissed, baring his teeth and gazing up at you from the pillow. A deep, longing groan emerged from him as you inched your way down his length. “You… you are…so warm… so wet… beautiful.”

You skated your hands over the plain of his abdomen, taking him deeper, your back arching as he stretched you even at that slow pace. When you finally reached the bottom of his shaft, you were breathless, tingling at your core. Hotaru was even less composed than you. 

The swordsmith growled, bending his knees to slide his legs up and down the mattress, fighting the urge to fuck up into you. His cock twitched inside you as you rocked forward to kiss him, your breasts pressed against his burly chest, his rough hands skating up your back. 

“I love you, Hotaru,” you whispered before rocking back to start riding his cock. 

“I–ngggh ohh… ohhh!” he groaned, eyes widening, fingers digging into your hips with bruising ferocity as you bounced on top of him. His control slipped almost immediately. 

He fell apart, groaning and thrusting up into you with a loud moan. His eyes screwed shut, his face flushed scarlet, and he trembled beneath you as his cum flooded into you, spilling out onto the base of his cock.

Pulling you down into an embrace, Hotaru held you in his arms, his heart thrumming beneath your ear. His big, broad hand stroked your back as he kissed the top of your head and his cock softened inside you.

After his breathing returned to normal, he gathered his senses long enough to ask, “Do you need more, my love?”

“I’m more than satisfied,” you said with a smile. 

He was asleep a second later. 

You lay there, pinned by his arms, crushed up against this strange, wonderful man you called your husband, and there was nowhere else you would rather be. 

#hotaru haganezuka #kny haganezuka #haganezuka x reader #haganezuka smut #demon slayer haganezuka

[nanamiluvs]

nanami nsfw alphabet !

hi! made a new acc bc i love nanami kento sm i wanna put him in my pocket <3

pairing : nanami kento x reader

rating : explicit

wc : 2.1k

warnings: smut content, reader is afab but no pronouns used, nanami being a sweetheart, aftercare, overstimulation, breeding, nanami is gentle and rough at the same time, creampies, praising, literally so much praising, teasing, begging, size kink!!, slight bondage, slight belly bulge, mentions of pregnancy, pussydrunk!nanami, oral (both receiving), jealousy, implied possessive sex, nanami is so in love with you it's unbelievable

a : aftercare

nanami makes sure you have everything you need by your side, be it getting you a cup of water or him hugging you to sleep. he will clean you up gently, asking if you're alright or if he can help in any way. he will hug you and tell you how well you did, how much he loves you and how lucky he is to have you by his side.

b : body part

nanami has never really thought about it before, but he really likes his thighs and how they look in his formal dress pants. he also likes the way the muscles flex when you grind yourself on it, leaking slick down his thigh, chasing your release. for you, he can never choose a single part because of how much he adores you, in his eyes, every part of you is perfect beyond reach.

c : cum

nanami won't ever try to come inside you or your mouth unless you ask him to for the first time. it feels so intimate to him, how you're willing to swallow his cum or have it fill you up. absolutely a man who loves cumming inside simply because of how precious it is to him, being with you like this. his cum has an off-white color, thicker in density. he cums a lot.

d : dirty secret

nanami is a gentleman. nanami places a hand on the small of your back to guide you, he pulls your chair for you to sit, pays for your dates. he loves you, adores you, cherishes you so much that he holds you like you were made of glass. having sex with nanami is no exception to this, as the man is the most gentle lover you can find even as he pushes his thick cock inside, trying to make it fit while making it as less painful as possible. yet, sometimes, he can't help but have the desire to go rough on you, especially on the days he gets too stressed from work. he wants to let go and fuck you relentlessly, a break from how he usually likes things to go. he thinks low of himself for even having the desire to do such thing, how could he do that to you? so when you go and tell him how you want him to be rough, beg him to use you- he can't help how his cock twitches at the thought.

e : experience

nanami thinks of sex as a very intimate act. he's had only a handful of partners before, not as experienced as you think he'd be because of how skilled he is at it. the fact is, he wants to impress you, wants to pleasure you so bad to the point he researches everything beforehand. he may not be very experienced, but nanami is a quick learner when he wants to be one.

f : favorite position

nanami doesn't mind as long as he can see your face. he wants to be as close to you as possible. he's also a classical man, so sex with nanami is usually done in missionary or a mating press. he likes kissing you through it, whispering in your ear, telling you how much he loves you as his hips meet your pelvis. he wants to hug you as he pushes in deeper, wants to feel your arms wrap around his neck, nails scratching his back to hold on for leverage.

g : goofy

nanami, as i said before, thinks sex is very intimate so he acts the part. usually, he's very calm and loving, but the rare times he's stressed or angry he gets quite serious. in his normal state, he can't help but smile at your words.

h : hair

nanami is a well-groomed man, because he prefers to see himself like that and because he thinks you'd prefer it like that. it really doesn't matter to him if you have hair down there or not, he simply thinks you're too beautiful for him.

i : intimacy

nanami, for the third time, is the most intimate man in existence when it comes to sex. he's so romantic, whispering how beautiful you are, how lucky he is, how well you are taking him, how he would do anything for you. nanami is a man who worships the ground you walk on.

j : jack off

nanami, at his age, doesn't really masturbate since it's unnecessary for him. he's already too busy with work, and when he's not, he has you. for you, he won't ever control you but he would prefer pleasuring you himself instead of you doing it own your own. he sees it as his duty.

k : kink

nanami doesn't think he's the type to have many kinks, or any for that matter. yet with you, he discovers parts of himself he didn't even know was there.

‎ ‎ ‎ bondage : nanami didn't think that tying your hands up with his tie would get him so aroused. he can't help but want to see you, naked with your hands tied or eyes blindfolded with his tie while he had only taken that piece of fabric off. he thinks you're just so adorable.

‎ ‎ ‎ breeding : it's no surprise to him that nanami wants to start a family with you, to have a baby. but when he cums inside you for the first time, something in his gut clicks, and he's scared that he might get addicted to the feeling. it's so endearing, you trusting him, loving him to the point you'll let him to do this, to the point you want him to do this. he wants you so badly, so the thought that you might also want him even a little bit as much as he wants you drives him to tears. that is, on the emotional level. on the physical level, this man will go fucking crazy over the thought of filling you up with his cum, over and over until he sees your belly bulge, until he knows you're pregnant. he fucks his cum back into you, telling you what a waste it is, spilling out when they could be filling your tummy so nicely. nanami is feral about breeding you.

‎ ‎ ‎ overstimulation : nanami adores how you break down on his fingers, pulling orgasm after orgasm from you, telling you how you can give him "one more". he loves the fact that he's the one who has you all messed up like this, whining from overstimulation as he bullies his thick fingers into you. you're on his lap and he's whispering sweet nothings into your ear while sending you to hell and back.

‎ ‎ ‎ size : nanami is a large man. larger than most of his peers, tall with a muscular build. what he won't ever tell you is that how much he cherishes you being smaller than him. he gets this sense of pride from the fact, being able to wrap you up in his embrace or how you tell him he's just too big. he puts his much larger hand on top of yours as he fucks you, pressing down with the force of his thrusts. he loves how you accomodate to his size.

l : location

nanami prefers to do it on the bed, but if it's inside the house, anywhere you want will be okay with him. also likes doing it in the shower, but is scared that you might think it's weird, so he waits for you to approach the idea first.

m : motivation

nanami can't help but get hard when you try to seduce him or flirt with him, or even imply that you want him. the idea that you want him is still so foreign to him, how could someone like you even think of desiring him? nanami is very respectful, he won't approach you with the want to have sex until you teach him it's okay to do so. and then, don't be surprised that he turns out a lot more needy of being one with you than he seemed to be before.

n : no

nanami would die rather than to hurt you, so anything involving serious harm to you is off the table with him. he's also very strict with the idea of public sex, as he thinks sex should take place in intimate areas like your home.

o : oral

nanami gets pussydrunk so easily that it's almost funny. he prefers little to nothing than to go down on you, to have the smell of your arousal, the taste of your slick intoxicate him. he loves it when you come on his face, grab his hair and tell him it's too much. he may as well be a magician by the way he uses his tongue, curling and reaching so deep than coming up to suck your clit with a groan. he fucking grunts while eating you out, his hips keep grinding against the bed because of how much it turns him on to have you pressed on his face like this. nanami eats pussy like a starved man, nanami eats you for his pleasure. your moans and whines make him even more desperate to make you finish and finish all over again until you can't. he would also love being on the receiving side, being pleased by a being as perfect as you, but what pleases him the most is your own pleasure.

p : pace

nanami has a mostly sensual and normal pace when it comes to sex, often involving loving words whispered in your ear and hands caressing your body with his adoring touch. when he gets closer to his own high, his pace quickens and he starts slamming into you like it's the last thing he's going to do before stilling inside and crashing over the edge. when he's being rough, his pace doesn't even give you time to breathe, leaving you panting and whining in his ears while grabbing onto his shoulders for life.

q : quickie

nanami doesn't like quickies, except maybe in the mornings before work. he would much rather have his time with you, to shower you in his love and pleasure you the best he can.

r : risk

nanami will try most things you want to do if you ask him enough times. as for his own curiosity, he's most probably going to hide any new idea he wants to try until, again, he learns it's okay to do so.

s : stamina

nanami can go for as long as you want him to go, but he doesn't like cumming more than two or three times. when it comes to you, though, he wants you to have as many orgasms as you possibly can because of him.

t : toys

nanami is pretty vanilla when it comes to toys, but he may use them if you really want to do so.

u : unfair

nanami may not seem like it but the man is a lowkey tease. he acts oblivious to your advances, wanting you to openly say you want him to fuck you. you're telling him to put it in already and he says how you're not ready yet and dives back with his tongue, overstimulation being one of his biggest turn ons. you ask him to go faster yet he's pulling himself in and out so slowly it drives you insane. he adores how easily you get teased, and does it more out of love than anything else.

v : volume

nanami usually doesn't make any sounds except for his words during sex. surprisingly, he talks a lot during it, he just can't stop mentioning how beautiful you are today while pushing it in. when he's being rough, he's a grunter, can't help himself with how much it's pleasuring him. he only gets moaning during being on the receiving side of oral or getting a handjob, he feels so loved and the low moans he gets out are so pleasing to hear.

w : wild card

nanami secretly likes it when you tease him or make him jealous, flirting with other men at a gathering of some sorts. he knows you do it on purpose, that you just want him to put you back in your place- he's more than happy to do so. ıt gives him a reason to fuck, not make love, and he knows that's your goal all along. you can just ask him to do so, but where's the fun in that when he's not angry even a little bit?

x : x-ray

nanami has a pretty dick to no one's surprise. he stands long with little to no curvature, above than average thickness but not to the point it hurts. though, it's always a tight fit- something nanami won't admit he likes. the shaft is slightly darker than his normal skin tone, and the mushroom tip stands in rosy shades. tell him how beautiful he looks and he's so hard.

y : yearning

nanami doesn't really have a guttural desire for sex, rather, it's you who makes him want it. he can go for a long time without having sex but that doesn't mean he doesn't like being on top of you and pushing inside you. his sex drive only spikes when you rile him on, showing off a new lingerie or a tight dress, grinding against him to show you how much you want him. he doesn't want you to think he only wants you for sex so he feels bad that he gets turned on to you at random times, it's the opposite, he wants you so much to the point he wants to have sex with you.

z : zzz

nanami is not necessarily sleepy after sex, but he just loves cuddling you and listening to you snoring after an act so intimate. he will press kisses on your cheeks, neck, shoulders until you fall asleep, wanting you to have the best sleep and the nicest dreams.

anyway bye i love nanami

#nanami x reader #nanami smut #jujutsu kaisen #nanami kento #nanami kento x reader #jjk x reader #nanami kento smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #nanami x reader smut #nanami x you #jjk nanami #kento nanami #kento x reader #jujutsu kaisen nanami

[marshmallow---pillow]

Batfam Headcanon

Batfam Headcanon that Dick might be the most open to cuddles. But it's Jason who's the best to cuddle with. (Part 1)

Listen that dude's huge. He has the muscle mass of a bull, and he has the visceral fat to support it. He's the ideal cuddle density. Enhanced metabolism means he runs warmer than a goddamn furnace.

But here's the issue: He's more likely to kneecap the person in hugging range than cuddling them.

So, it's starts with Cassandra, surprisingly.

They're staking out at the harbor on a December night. Cassandra's teeth can be heard chattering a mile away, while Jason looks—completely fine—no indication of any emotion whatsoever, but Cassandra can see the nervousness radiating off the kid's body in seismic waves, shoulders slight curled defensively, and the subtlest lean of his posture towards her.

Suddenly it clicks, and she inches near his hulking form slowly and presses to him. Dick's fabled furnace warmth was right, Jason's so warm, despite the layers of kevlar.

Jason stills, and so does Cassandra, she thinks she's broken something very delicate, maybe irreparably, Jason doesn't have a lot of good memories associated with touch, she should've asked, she should've—but Jason just breathes,

"Jesus Christ, Cassie", and puts an arm around her small frame, and Cassandra doesn't know who sinks further. Her, or Jason into the touch. When was the last time someone held him? Touched him without the intent to harm?

Suddenly she remembers being alone, the aching hollowness no fire or fireplace could chase away. That was only filled by hugs and gentle touch and hair brushing and curling up next to Baba and—

It's an aching hollowness she knows so intimately well.

Jason drapes his jacket over her, it's like being engulfed in a heated blanket, and Cassandra puts her arms around him wordlessly.

She's so warm and comfortable and safe in the hold. (They have their differences, but her brain never registered anything unsafe in Jason the idea that Jason might hurt didn't even cross her conscious mind). She doesn't realize when her eyelids start getting heavier.

"Wake me up if I fall asleep", She says, just incase.

/|\ ^._.^ /|\

Jason doesn't, she wakes up curled up in the Batmobile, assailants apprehended, Jason's jacket wrapped around her.

The NEWS says there were no casualties.

#jason todd #cassandra cain #batman #dc #red hood #orphan #black bat #batgirl #Kay's Batfam Headcanons

[suempu]

THE EVENING TAX?!?! are you kidding that’s sooooo cuteeee💕 if you have any more Laios as a parter headcanons I’d love to hear them!!!

we first gotta find out “how do i bag this man?” cause he’s HARD to get. this man is oblivious as fuck (when it comes to romance or just interactions in general)

you really gotta put your pants on and tell him straightforwardly.

“laios, i would like to pursue an exclusive, monogamous, ROMANTIC, relationship with you.”

you got him, congrats.

let’s start this with the fact that he’s incredibly loyal. he loves so deeply and he adores with all his heart.

when he loves you, oh he LOVES loves you. laios is a gentle person, but being in a relationship with a person he genuinely cherishes and not some assigned fiancé? this man will give you his all (once he actually knows what to do)

being with him will be bumpy at first. it’s his first time having a partner after all, he doesn’t really know what to do.

in the beginning of your relationship, he might come off as neglectful since he won’t initiate anything with you. this usually results to the party (mainly marcille, with falin helping) lecturing him about romance.

“laios, i’m cold. i heard body temperature can help you keep warm.”

“wait, let me light a fire instead.”

he has no experience at all, so be patient with him. if you express your concerns with him properly, he’ll think of ways to improve and to love you better.

if you crave affection and physical touch, it won’t happen right away. you have to slowly build up your relationship with him.

but, when you’re at that point where you two are comfortable with each other then thats where he really shines as a lover.

he has your traits all observed and noted down. he has a small journal filled with doodles of you, your likes and dislikes. you’re probably the next most interesting thing compared to monsters for him.

laios is very casual and chill. so let’s assume you’ve been together for a while, he will randomly rest his head on your shoulder, or put his hand in yours. thats when you both realize that he actually likes physical touch

he is very caring about your safety whenever you go dungeon crawling, he often places your mats next to each other just to feel closer to you.

while others dislike laios for his density, ehem shuro, you’ve grown to love him for it. he is a very simple man and you can’t fault him for it. plus you think he’s adorable.

once he turns king, he becomes very stressed and busy. one thing he likes to do is to lay his head on you while you read a novel to him out loud. the novel is a monster story of course, he’s still a nerd through and through lmao.

#dungeon meshi #laios x reader #delicious in dungeon #<3 asks #delicious in dungeon x reader #dungeon meshi x reader #laios touden #laios touden x reader #dunmeshi x reader #dunmeshi

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER TWELVE: FRUIT

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, implied child abuse

This is chronologically the twelve chapter

READ AFTER THE CUT...

-

You ascend to your room alone, glancing back over your shoulder in the paranoia that one or the other man pursues you like night after the sun.

Neither have taken you by way of carnality since Will rutted you against the wall. It seems an unnatural strike of fortune, and one unlikely to last.

There is too much lust between these beings, hunger of such echoing depths that the sensual urge is but one chained within. Their eyes all evening have picked you to the bone like carrion set at by desert birds. Your cunt parts, empty, about the memory of Will’s fingertips; there is a sense of art unfinished, a crescendo in the crashing of keys only the hands of men can bring into violent birth.

In dread of missing the sound of their approach across the landing you lie quiet in your bed, no music nor comforting hum of the television as your night-time companions. Yet footsteps only halve the house when your captors go to bed, each in their own room, an anti-climax. 

You think of Hannibal, tossed amidst the curse of unsung ardour, then of Will, crushed under the density of an unsated sleep. Such lonely men, in their way, divided by what lies unchartered between them, and with you.

Though by now settled, the skin which Will has touched—struck—still seems to burn with him. Five fingers, the rounded oblong of a palm, a hand that feeds dogs, has fired a gun, has rocked you, fucked you. A hand that Hannibal Lecter reaches for across dead miles of darkness to know as you have, and to love what you have loathed.

Unsettled, you roll on your stomach, but the pulse you hear when overwrought seems to peal through your very bones in its jeering song.

Filth, sin, soil: you taste your shame in its salt, as you have each night since long ago. Yet before your taking for the purpose of this ritual science there had never been pleasure in it, only the experience of staring always at the edges of things. The corners of ceilings, the light at the top of a door, a wall torn to grain by the night, liminality your legacy of innocence.

With Will, with Hannibal, you cannot look away, are made to witness and to partake in every aggression and gentleness with the same focus of attention. For that is what they want, your immersion in the devil’s playhouse. For you to be a doll, a daughter, embraced after the most inclement incident into a state almost soothed.

You cry yourself to sleep, wanting such a practice of love from someone who’s never once hurt you.

*

Hunger wakes you in the night, a restless drumroll that compels you upright in its rallying beat. As you stretch, thinking morosely of the marvel it is to have gorged and still not be full, you hear someone stumble in the nearby hallway, thudding against the adjoining wall.

A fight? Some drunken struggle? An intimacy overheard? No—

There is but a sole pair of scuffing footfalls on the floorboards beyond, too unbalanced to be Dr Lecter’s.

In consternation you go to your door and try the handle. It gives way easily under your hand, allowing you to peer out into the black mystery beyond.

Will lists against the right-hand wall, his eyes glazed and rolling under twitching lids. As you stare, abashed, his limbs fall under him, and he sprawls thrashing in unconscious spasms of animation.

There is blood on his face where he’s bitten his tongue, ebony in the negation of light. An oil spill on a seabird, drowning. A splash of mud on a bog's sunken dead.

You should let him suffer, step over his convulsing form and dart for nearest open window or outer door, but horror shakes you senseless of the thought before it takes full form.

Will’s fit continues, throwing the young man’s slim frame about like a machine caught in the throes of grim malfunction.

God help you: you pity him. He is human, and you are, as well.

“Will?” you say, stepping gingerly towards him. “Daddy? Can you hear me?”

It occurs to you that Will’s death is also yours, your lifelines enmeshed, a symbiosis in which only he would survive your parting. You kneel with your palms hovering over him, recalling very little that you know of First Aid, and entirely terrified of making him worse.

Hannibal’s voice comes from your left, uttering your name with a softness that somehow bears all the authority of a bellowed command.

He steps up quickly behind you, his hair disrupted from its usual tidy arrangement.

“Will’s having a seizure,” you say, in despair. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I’ll help him,” says Hannibal. “Go back to your room.”

You stare at him, dumbfounded by his apparent calm.

“But—”

Again Dr Lecter says your name, without raising his voice, or with any particular emotion. Yet you scuttle back the way you came, jarred by the suggestion of temper in that subtle repetition.

You hear Hannibal calling to Will, the sound of him lifting the other man and carrying his dead weight back to the spare room. The door closing, the subtle murmur behind it of Will rousing, his friend's soft, reassuring reply.

Silence, as of an exhibition ended.

Half an hour edges by, and not once do you stop shaking despite the heat of the autumn night.

Presently a knock comes at your door, and the doctor enters, his eyes lowered in remorse.

“I apologise if I spoke harshly to you. I know that you weren’t being deliberately disobedient. It wasn’t my intention to imbue your evening with additional distress.”

“It’s not your fault,” you say, quite disarmed by the apology. “It’s nobody’s fault. I mean, I shouldn’t have left my room, but I couldn’t just not go out there and see what was going on.”

Hannibal’s expression is opaque, a mask of ivory.

“I detect a concern for Will that isn’t entirely manufactured for my benefit,” he says. “Could it be that such a little cynic loves something other than her hunger?”

“What choice do I have but to care about Will?” you ask, shrilly. “What’s wrong with him?”

Adrenaline runs so high within you that you see the room on a tilt like some demented circus mirror reflection.

“What’s wrong with him?” you ask, again.

This time Dr Lecter answers, his tone low and even so as not to incite further upset.

“I suspect that Will is suffering from a combination of stress and fatigue, although I can’t deny the possibility of a neurological disorder.”

“Jack said he was sick,” you mumble. “And the other night, when I— you know. He looked awful.”

Will's face is punched into your retina like a flash of light, all blinding awfulness.

“And he’s been getting so angry with me,” you say, in a panicked rush. “Even though sometimes he’s almost nice. Is that why? Because he’s not well?”

“Will’s health has certainly contributed to his recent outbursts,” says Hannibal, smoothing your rumpled coverlet with fastidious hands. “The absence of control he feels amidst his fever leads to acts of impulse, particularly when in an environment he’s uncertain of, or feels threatened in.”

“I’m not threatening him,” you insist, hotly. “How could I?”

“I don’t mean in the literal sense. Will has very few close confidants, and those he possesses he guards dearly— that, or it is he himself that Will defends against his competition.”

You look up sharply, and Hannibal smiles, all benign conspiracy.

“Yes, little one. Having considered your thoughts on Will's dislike of you, I suspect that he also fears you may supersede him, or else share intimacies with me that he alone would otherwise possess. Yet Will’s envy is more complex than mere romantic ire, for unlike other rivals he has contended with, Will finds himself in the position of dizzying power over you.”

Dr Lecter pauses, his head at a rueful incline.

“For my part, I admit that it was rash to elect Will as the disciplinarian between us without taking all factors into account. It seems that I underestimated how antagonistic your relationship would become as his immersion in your treatment progressed.”

This you do believe, at least in that the doctor’s dissuasion of Will’s most outrageous verbal lashings is clearly genuine. Your bickering, in its familial likeness, he enjoys: an outright skirmish, repellent it its indecency, he does not.

“As you’ve indicated,” says Dr Lecter, going about your room to address its customary disorder, “Will’s becoming aware that his resentment is not entirely warranted as he finds himself increasingly sympathetic to your case. Such feelings are at odds with his desire to be alone in my company— an intricate conflict for any mind, let alone one so fiercely ablaze.”

“Ablaze?” you repeat. “What do you mean?”

“If my suspicions are correct, then Will’s condition may have been agitated by the ingredients in various dishes served in my home these past few weeks. The symptoms are closely matched to Will’s behaviour— disorientation, loss of consciousness, personality changes, mood swings. It’s unfortunate that I didn’t notice this much sooner.”

There is something performative in Hannibal’s guilt, his unshed tears like the glass eyes of a taxidermy animal. He’s known of Will’s ailment far longer than he suggests, and as he turns his back to close your chest of drawers you feel relieved, no longer forced to entertain this show of lies.

“You mustn’t mention any of this to Will until he’s received a formal diagnosis,” says Dr Lecter. “It may be that he’s simply mentally unwell, which would be a far more complicated outcome to navigate. But what you’ve seen of him lately is merely a conjunction of symptoms and heightened territorial emotions. Will’s true self you’ve yet to meet.”

The assurance is of little comfort to you, being that the nearest you’ve come to perceiving Will at his most natural and honest is in his private conversations with Dr Lecter. Through these you’ve glimpsed a complex creature, one that approaches evil with a newborn’s chary exploration.

You want to believe, for your own sake, that the sensitivity you’ve received from him sporadically evidences the continued persistence of his soul. Yet you cannot decide if he began a good man, changed through Dr Lecter’s influence, or if he’s always been a hunter, each kindness a flash of marsh fire luring you to drown.

The image of Will—twitching, defenceless—ultimately overrides this dilemma of thought.

“So what do we do now?” you ask. “We have to help him.”

Pleased by your concern, Hannibal leans across the bed to kiss the downturned corner of your mouth.

“I’ll reschedule tomorrow’s appointments so that I can tend to him. Will needs rest, first and foremost. As for his role here, it would be safest for him to delegate the majority of his more strenuous duties until he's recovered. I’ll continue them, in his stead.”

Choosing not to linger on the implications of this, you ask, “What about me? What can I do?”

“Healing Will is not your responsibility, little one.”

“But I’m making things worse,” you say, fretfully. “I know it. How can I make him like me?”

Not without humour, Hannibal says, “You can begin by tempering that sharp tongue a bit. Like Will, you rarely attempt to sweeten your words. I’ll never encourage you not to bite, but it is important that you roll on your back when we bid it. You must be our good girl, above all else, or if not good then charming, at the very least.”

You roll onto your side, crushing your face into a valley of pillows.

“I guess I really haven’t been playing along enough,” you mutter.

Hannibal chuckles.

“Not nearly enough, for all your promises. But it’s early days yet, sweet girl. We’ll see how you are once we're used to one another.”

*

 

Morning comes rudely, stalling the excitement like an opera’s intermission.

You take breakfast with Hannibal, only distracted from the usual struggle of eating by the presence of Will’s vacant seat. Having thought of him without respite for hours you’re in state of nervous delirium, your flinching knee a seismic force under the table.

“I want to see Will,” you blurt out, at last. “I want to see if he’s alright.”

“I’ll be taking a tray up to him in a few minutes,” says Dr Lecter, scarcely bothering to hide his delight in this new interest. “Don’t ask him too many questions. No doubt he’s feeling somewhat delicate this morning.”

You watch as Hannibal prepares a separate meal for the other man, cutting fruit and stewing tea leaves with loving ceremony. When he puts a strawberry to your lips you take it, your tongue rasping the juice gamely from his fingertips.

The shock of the previous night has amputated your mulish declination to humour him; even the disgust that meets your every concession is hushed, made redundant by a renewed vow to leave this house on soft feet rather than screams.

Other women have befriended their keepers and lived, as will you, if you can bear to pander to Dr Lecter as long as they.

*

Accompanying Hannibal to Will’s room you find that you’re oddly excited, even gleeful in anticipation of the visit. You’re taken with the notion that his seizure will incur some unknowable change, though whether in Will himself or the dynamics of the households you cannot predict.

Never have you seen him so utterly fragile, the dilapidation of a man. You think of a child, foisted on a detached father by a mother Will had never seen fit to name.

Will he be ashamed that you’ve seen that self so clearly? Will he be angry, indifferent, or else fear the power his weakness allows you as though your thumbs press deep in the fluttering dell of his very throat?

There is another possibility, however, the one your morning-fresh hopes hang onto by their nails: that he’ll remember how you’d crouched at his side and called to him as he shook in the darkness.

“Wait here for a moment,” says Hannibal, as you crowd up behind him at Will’s bedroom door. “I’d like to speak to him alone first.”

You hang back as Dr Lecter goes in, pressing your ear to the door the moment it shuts at his back.

“You’re awake,” says Hannibal, simply. “How are you this morning?”

There is a pause as he sets down the beautifully arranged tray somewhere in the room.

“I feel like I could sleep for another forty-eight hours,” says Will, his voice thick and slightly nasal, a sickbed tenor. “I should probably get up and head home. I need to check on the dogs.”

“I called Alana and asked her to look in on them,” Dr Lecter replies. “It’s inadvisable to drive in this condition. Try to eat. You’ll revive much quicker if you line your stomach with something.”

“Yeah, well. I can’t make any guarantees of keeping it down.”

You hear the metallic scraping of a fork about Will’s plate and writhe in envy. Even unwell he eats without thought of the fat that disallows your enjoyment of any meal. You live vicariously through him, in that moment, imagining the liquor of fruit across his tongue, the forbidden pearls of white sugar.

What you’d give not to be a slave to thinness, the goal whose end will never form.

Hannibal says, "Present issues aside, I can't help observing that you've been conflicted, as of late, Will. One might even say confused."

"Have been since the start of all this,” says Will. “The clouds still haven’t cleared. A bilious forecast.”

"Yet you've no wish to abandon this project for brighter climes."

Will gives a little snort of derision.

"I'm too enmeshed in this household to extract myself now. The night I first touched her was my signature at the end of the page. Indelible ink. No taking it back."

You flatten your face to the door so as to better interpret Hannibal’s silence.

"You feel a genuine duty to our little one, for all your misgivings,” he says, at last. “I was beginning to question if I’d made a mistake."

"She's abrasive,” says Will. “Not exactly malleable. I believe you know what you’re doing, but on paper it seems like an ill-fitting adoption."

"Children are reflections of their parents, and so far she’s shown herself to be a mirror of you. Towards me she is cool, distant, and distrustful. With you, there is an attraction of sorts. Not sensual, nor even familial, but it’s enough that, in spite of your every rebuttal and harsh word, she’s beginning to develop something of a rapport with you."

Laughing tersely, Will says, "Not sure I see it."

"You don't allow yourself to,” says Hannibal. “But you’re aware of that truth, all the same. Each time you relent into even momentary tenderness you turn against her in savagery that is vastly unearned.”

“You asked me to punish her,” Will says, sharply. “Encouraged me to— relish it.”

The admission does not move you; these men have knifed ecstasies of you like oyster flesh enough times to have indicated their tastes.

It is the why you listen for, the object they skirt about with the same flirting avoidance of a tryst that cannot be.

“I’m not referring to punishment,” says Dr Lecter. “This I have openly supported. It’s how you address our charge that’s beginning to make her feel displaced.”

“Are you criticising me, Dr Lecter?” asks Will, with a smile in his voice.

“Certainly not. I’m merely observing a pattern of behaviour, and its impact upon my patient.”

To this Will says nothing, but the tension between the two men is as visible as the door that stands between you.

"If you yearn for the hours that you and I once spent alone, I'm able to accommodate by replenishing that time together,” Hannibal says, at last. “But the blame for that neglect is solely mine. I've foisted our little one upon you without consideration of what response such an abrupt change would elicit."

"You don't have to apologise,” says Will, as surly as ever. “It’s an adjustment. I’m getting used to it.”

Your ears catch the delicate action of him lifting the tea cup on his tray, then of setting it down again.

“I spoke to her alone last night,” he says, abruptly. “Told her of my intentions to stay part of this. For a moment it felt like we connected. Like that was the promise she was looking for. But when I refused her something she wanted, she accused me of being ‘like him’. I figured you'd know who she was referring to.”

“Yes,” says Hannibal. “I can make what I imagine is an accurate guess.”

“Whatever parts we try out here, I don’t want to become the unnamed shadow that stands at her shoulder. It made her the way she is. There’s a tastelessness to that kind of evil.”

"I know. It’s more than apparent that you repel her less through genuine hatred, and more through the necessity to protect yourself from what it would mean to know her, and for her to know you in return.”

As Will replies you hear the huskiness of genuine emotion forced out between gritted teeth.

“All this would be a wasted effort if she were ever taken from me.”

“That won’t happen again,” says Hannibal, at once. “The pillar of salt left when you looked back at Abigail will never form with our new charge. When our second daughter turns to me with the same thirst for intimacy she’s developed for you she’ll be, at last, our Chloris, the nymph turned mistress of flowers."

He speaks with such tender compassion that it starts an ache somewhere in the underwing of your ribcage. What necromancy he conducts here to wake your dead and mangled innards into a living heart you cannot guess, only fear the compassion you’re capable of towards such creatures as would destroy you.

"Our little one would like to speak to you, it seems,” says Dr Lecter, closing the previous subject with a seamless finality. “Should I let her in?”

Will shifts uneasily on the bed, creaking its springs.

“She asked to see me?” he asks.

“She did.”

You imagine the younger man scraping a tangle of hair back from his temples as he gathers his thoughts.

“Where is she?”

Thus your cue to enter announces itself: you open the door, peeping at its edge, oddly shy.

"Hey,” you say, in a semi-whisper.

Will is as grey and moist with feverish sweat as deep-sea stone. His vast eyes nest in violet shadow, the whites a thread work of capillaries.

You pity him, this shambling experiment of Dr Lecter's creation, one of many, no doubt.

"Hello,” says Will, dully. “Sorry about last night."

Edging into the room, you allow Hannibal to slip discreetly away behind you with a light pat on your shoulder.

"Are you okay?" you ask. “How are you feeling?”

"Tired, mostly,” says Will. “I'll get over it. Need to. I’ve got a case to work on."

He scrutinises the half-empty tray before him from under lowered lashes.

"I'm surprised you helped me. You could have run off. Hit me over the head with one of Dr Lecter's vases."

"I wouldn't do that,” you retort. “You even said so. That I— can't."

"No, but you could have gotten away. So why didn’t you?"

There is no surprise in his voice, nor even suspicion, which you’d expected. He merely sounds ill, and trying to be interested, in spite of it.

“I don't know,” you admit. “I felt bad for you, seeing you like that. I didn’t want to leave you."

A weary cynicism twists Will’s features into momentary ugliness.

"You were afraid of being alone with someone you could never hope to understand without me."

"Not just that,” you insist, alarmed by the truth of the insight. “I was scared for you. Really. You should go to a hospital. You need tests. Meds. Scans and stuff, maybe.”

Will searches your face with eyes like dull rain, and some of the guardedness falls away from them.

"If it gets any worse, I will,” he says. “Just not today.”

You see how much he detests his own weakness, the potential to be devoured like an animal fallen in a savannah. If you strike, he will struggle, and sick as he is, you will lose.

So you offer him the gift of submission instead, the cunning exertion of a child's mite power.

"Okay, Daddy.”

You feel rather than see Will straighten in response to the word.

"Don't think I'll ever get used to that,” he says. "It’s alright to use my name. There aren't any rules against it."

"No, but he wouldn’t want me to.”

“When have you ever cared what Dr Lecter thinks?”

Shrugging, you mumble, “I guess I’m just sick of fighting all the time.”

The sick man scrutinises at you for so long that you hop from foot to foot in discomfort, itching your sole against your calf.

“It’s going to be hard for me to trust you,” says Will. “You’re probably just going to pretend until you see an avenue to get out of here.”

“Everything’s pretend, here,” you say, smartly. “Nearly all the conversations in this house are about myths and dreams. Dr Lecter talks about them like they’re real, or something.”

Amusement lights the sunken dark of Will’s gaze.

“He finds their philosophies more valuable than the moral structures most people follow.”

“And me?” you ask. “Am I valuable to him?”

Being that you’re still convinced that your worth to Dr Lecter is entirely reliant on Will’s continued interest, you only ask to discern if he himself understands this, or if he believes Hannibal would love you of his own accord.

With a tired caution, Will says, “Right now, I think you entertain him. What else he feels about you I don’t know.”

“And what do you feel?” you persist. “Still don’t like me?”

At this the young man laughs and shakes his head.

“Ask me again once I’ve gotten to know you. If you can agree to a truce, that is.”

“Fine,” you say, and you put out your hand for him to shake. “Truce. Let’s try that.”

With a wry grin Will accepts, letting go almost at once with a sharp inward breath.

“You’re freezing!”

“Haven't you noticed?” you say, hastily stuffing the offending hand under one arm. “I always am.”

It’s an unfavourable symptom of your hunger, this blood and touch of ice. Under even the sweltering gasp of summer’s heat you’ll shiver, knock-kneed, and suffer at the slightest feather of a draught.

Still, that cold affirms you. Were you to be warm again you’d hate yourself, having regained enough of the weight your system craves to regulate its heat.

Glancing up, you notice Will examining his own hand as though he shares your temperature, his fist a twin to frost.

"Come along, little one," says Hannibal, materialising in the doorway again. "Will needs more rest. Perhaps you’ll see him later on.”

But by late afternoon Will has dragged himself home without saying goodbye, and as before his absence eats a crescent into the house.

*

Some days later you pass an evening with Hannibal like so many others, yet unlike for the new state induced in you through his medicinal enterprise.

You're accustomed to the concoction of drugs that regresses you to a needy youth, the sleepers, the stimulants, the tea that lowers you from the electric heights of righteous hysteria into something slowly numb.

Yet whatever element comprises the pill flushed down by water from today’s gently tipped glass elevates you to orbit a heaven above you, so removed from your imprisonment that you observe all below with an objective eye.

Dr Lecter has bestowed upon you the rare trust that you may eat without prompting or assistance, and you have done so, temporarily rescinding your disordered agitation to a mycelium half-dream.

Thus entranced, you watch yourself drape the tines of your fork back and forth across your half-eaten plate, enthralled by patterns on the porcelain that are not there.

Your eyes drift repeatedly to a painting on Hannibal’s wall, mounted coyly for any dinner guest to comment on.

Naturally, you’ve seen the piece many times before, and have been, in turns, startled and disturbed by its subject.

Now you find yourself dully intrigued, as you were by the Japanese prints. This attention does not go unnoticed by Dr Lecter.

“What is it, little one?” he asks, intently. “Do you have an interest in art?”

“I don’t know,” you say, confused by the banality of the question. “It’s just this picture. Isn’t it... rude?”

Hannibal smirks, eyeing the image with a fond appreciation.

Its focus is a supine young woman, draped, half-naked, on a rumpled bed towards which a curious swan approaches with its curved neck bowed.

Likely it is the original painting, procured at auction, its price unimaginable; all things in this house are ripe with expense, even you, its demanding charge.

“Artistic nudity is only considered rude by children,” says Hannibal, blithely, “or else by shallow and ignorant adults. Does the depiction of genitalia offend you, my darling?”

You gaze up at the cowrie of a cunt under its shadow cap of hair, pinkly presented on spread silk, and think how often your own has been arranged likewise for Will or Hannibal to admire.

“Why is it in this room, specifically?” you ask.

You struggle with the syllables of the words, spitting the sibilants in a manner unbecoming of so distinguished an event as dinner with Dr Lecter.

“Doesn’t it put people off their food?”

“I find it makes for an amusing conversation piece,” says Hannibal, pouring himself another generous glass of wine like the blood of some celestial giant.

You attempt to grimace, none of your muscles quite taking to the motion.

“I don’t think it’s funny at all. Just creepy. Sad.”

“Are familiar with the story of Leda and the Swan? Zeus, a virile and insatiable God, looked upon the queen of Sparta and desired her. So, in order to seduce her, he transformed himself into a swan so that she would be fooled by his beauty and appearance of vulnerability to take him to her bed.”

“He tricked her,” you say, quietly. “He didn’t seduce her, at all.”

Dr Lecter’s face scarcely moves, but there is something of laughter in the lines of his strange beauty.

“So it’s the deception that unnerves you,” he says. “The pretence that he was an innocent creature rather than the all-powerful and lustful deity he truly was.”

You nod, not wanting to admit that you see your own face mirrored in the brushstrokes of the damned queen.

Prophet-like, Hannibal interprets the gesture with flawless vision.

“You empathise with Leda. Recognise the parallels between her story and your own.”

“Is that why you put it there?” you retort, emboldened by the miles between you and the girl slumped in the dining chair. “Because you think you’re the swan?”

“The bird is a shield for the truth, remember,” says Hannibal. “So what would the swan be, in me?”

Dropping the fork with a discordant clatter, you consider.

“The polite, handsome doctor,” you say, at last. “You fool everyone: Jack, Alana Bloom. My parents. They would never have left me here if they knew what you really were.”

Hannibal turns his head at a slight angle, as though by doing so he might uncover some mystery in your face.

“And what am I, little one?”

“I... don’t know,” you admit; a killer, certainly, though there is more to him even than that. “There are a lot of things you’re hiding from me.”

“Tell me your perceptions, then. There’s no need to spare my feelings; after all, you so rarely do.”

Amidst your mushroom-made divinity, you are fearless in your answer.

“You’re a bad person. You’ve done things that would get you into a lot of trouble. Hurt people. Not just me. Not just Tobias. And you don’t feel bad about it. You think that everything you do is right, somehow. Like you should be allowed to do it. Like you’re the gods in all these stories.”

Hannibal absorbs this with the silence of having been sated by your answer.

“And what about Will?” he prompts, some moments later. “Is he, too, a starving monster under the cunning guise of a tender animal?”

“No,” you say, with less certainty. “He’s... sick. You're using him, making him think that this is what he wants.”

Your captor laughs over the rim of his wine glass.

“That’s where you’re wrong, little one. The Will you think you see is only one wing of a swan. Soon, you will glimpse beyond that fragile veil, and feel the mythic need of all immortals to plunder from the weak, merely for the pleasure of knowing that they can.”

A sudden sadness tugs you back to earth like a choke chain, iron-like the lump in your throat.

“So you don’t want to help me, after all,” you mumble. “It really was all a lie.”

Taking your hand across the table, Hannibal presses a thumb to the pulse at your wrist, a soothing motion.

“Not at all,” he says, firmly. “I’m quite fond of you. I wish you to be strong. Each time you find yourself resenting Will and I you must remember that Leda did not die after Zeus bedded her: she became a mother. In you, I seek another outcome. More than one, and not all of them so horrible as you imagine. There will be beauty in this conversion, as well.”

You gaze at him with disbelieving eyes, close to rejecting the hope he grooms in you.

“What other outcomes are you looking for, Dr Lecter? How can I become all the things you want if I don’t understand them? What’s really going on?”

Hannibal kisses your knuckles and places your fork back into your hand.

“Nothing you need to think about at the moment,” he says. “Now, finish what’s on your plate. I’d like you to move on to dessert.”

Just like that, you are his little girl again, the moon having passed across the sun.

#tw eating disorders #tw noncon #tw rape #tw fatphobia #tw anorexia #hannibal fic #yandere will graham #yandere hannibal lecter #hannibal lecter x reader x will graham #hannibal lecter x reader #hannibal lecter x will graham #will graham x reader #manna fic

[ohtobeleah]

Battle Scars // Bob Floyd

-> An Official Flight Deck Blurb

Summary: Robert Floyd doesn’t take his shirt off at the beach. But when the shirt stays on during sex? You start to wonder what he’s hiding.

Warnings: Mentions of parental Abuse. Mentions of Child Neglect. Foster Care Systems. Mentions of family trauma. Bob Floyd x Female!reader.

Word Count: 2.1k

Author Note: Day Nine of Whumptober. Prompt I chose: ‘Scar reveal’ Thank you to @ailesswhumptober for the prompt list.

Whumptober Masterlist | Main Masterlist

People have secrets they keep close to their chest. Some are small enough to not cause a ripple effect onto others, and some are big enough to destroy lives, crush dreams, alter realities. 

Bob Floyd wore his secrets across his chest. Scars that made his torso look like the Rocky Mountains. Littered with small to medium size scars that healed wrong, healed over, or healed with anger. 

They weren’t pretty. If anything he wore a roadmap of abuse on his body that was hard to face in the mirror every morning. He never wanted to subject anyone to the sight of his scars, some red and raised, others faded but turned a deep purple in the cold. 

“Mornin’ gorgeous—“ Bob's morning voice was something you’d never get tired of hearing. Those lazy Sunday mornings where you’d wake up to find the Naval Aviator already awake and reading whatever book he brought with him in his overnight bag were starting to become your favourite thing. “How’d you sleep mama?” 

“Like a log.” You yawned, creeping closer and closer to where Bob sat on the opposite side of your bed. His T-shirt clad back pressed up against the headboard while his legs stayed covered by the sheets and covers of your warm, inviting bed. “I thought I had an early body clock.” Being a single mum and small business owner left little to no time for sleep-ins, which usually meant you were up before the sun got a chance to kiss the horizon good morning. “But here you are, Mr Military Man with your internalised alarm system.” 

Bob couldn’t help but to chuckle as he closed his book and placed it on the bedside table you cleared just for him. Whatever this was between you and Robert Floyd you really liked it. He was the first man you’d ever paid attention to since your fiancé died. Bob was like a breath of fresh air and so was North Island. No one knew you, no one judged you, no one cared about the demons that haunted you. 

“Force of habit I guess.” He shrugged before he sunk lower and lower, meeting your eyeline once again as you both settled in under the warmth of the covers. “How long do you think we have before Oliver wakes up?” 

“Hmmm—“ You tried to hide your eagerness through a hum that kept your lips pressed together in a fine line. “He knows Sundays are bacon and egg roll mornings.” You began as your arms wrapped around Bob's shoulders. 

His lips were hot against the supple skin of the juncture of your neck, in response your body ignited, sending waves of energy through your body that only Bob could create. He was just different. 

“So like, five? Ten minutes maybe?” Bob looked up from where he’d been leaving small

but affectionate kisses against your collarbone and met you with a lust filled gaze. He was falling head over heels in love with you. “Because I only need like two—“ 

“Oh well in that case we have time for two rounds.” You teased before rolling yourself up and over to straddle Bob's waist. He let you easily. If he wanted to, he could have fought back. The thing with Robert Floyd was that he had a sleeper build. He wasn’t as buff as some of the other Naval Aviators that frequently stopped by the Flight Deck for their morning or mid afternoon caffeine hit. With the amount of sugar and caramel syrup you dosed Hangman with on a regular basis you weren’t entirely sure how he managed to maintain his muscle density. 

But for as much as Bob was a gentle soul, he was strong and fast. He enjoyed a long run every now and again. But for all intents and purposes—he let you be on top. He liked the view. After all, he was just a simple man. Boobs were pretty cool. Especially your boobs.

“Can I ask you a question?” You cooed all the while Bob's hands trailed up your hips. You wore nothing but one of those silk nightgowns that made you look like an angel. The bed hair was cute, Bob liked you first thing in the morning. It was a side of you only he got to see. The side before the makeup, before being put together– he liked it. The authenticity. For what it was worth, Bob just really liked you. 

“Depends what the question is?” Bob replied as his hands squeezed at your hips, rolling you gently back and forth over his boxer brief clad length. “I’m kidding, ask away.” 

He had been expecting the question sooner rather than later. And with how things were going between the two of you Bob knew he would have to come clean. He was just afraid of what you might say. What you might think, and if his scars would be a deal breaker. They were, after all, a part of him that he couldn’t get rid of. 

But even expecting the question to come didn’t make it any less hard to hear. 

“How come you never take your shirt off?” You wanted to approach the question as politely as possible. “You don’t have to tell me, if you aren’t comfortable, I just—I’ve just noticed.” You saw the hesitation in Bob's baby blue eyes as he searched your face for any kind or fear. “Again, you don’t have to tell me.” You reminded the man lying beneath you as his hands stilled on your hips. “But I want you to know that if you’re hiding some sort of third nipple under there—I’m all for it.” You tried to make the conversation a little more lighthearted, Bob could appreciate that. He smiled softly at you while his hands needed at your hips like dough. 

Bob didn’t say much after that, he simply laid beneath you stroking his hands up and down your exposed thighs as his mind ran rampant with memories. He hated his scars, but most of all he hated the people who gave them to him. 

“You’re a waste of space!” The memories were all too prominent even after all these years. “I wish I never gave birth to you!” His mothers words were as cruel as she was violent and unpredictable. 

“You’re the abortion I wish I fucking had.” The abuse Bob endured went with him everywhere, even well into his adult life. He learned not to complain, to cause a scene. “Stop crying for fucks sake kid.” He learned not to show emotion when it wasn’t asked or needed. 

“You did this to yourself, if you had stayed out of the way, none of this would be happening.” But most importantly he blamed himself, for hiding his scars that clearly showed how strong he really was. 

Bob sat up to meet your eyeline. For a man haunted by so many scars he certainly had the softest of eyes. He gently tucked your hair behind your ear and placed a fleeting kiss against your forehead, all before he reached up and over to take his shirt off over his head. 

What you saw rendered you speechless for a few moments as you took in the terrain that was your, well, you wanted to say boyfriend but Bob wasn’t even officially that, torso—littered with scars he surely would have called ugly on the best of days. 

“It’s a lot.” Bob whispered just barely above an audible level as he chucked his shirt off to the side. “But they’re not going away, ever.” It was almost as if Bob had struggled with that notion himself. He wished he could have them removed—expunge from his record. The tales of parental abuse he suffered before collecting more in the foster care system. 

“Oh Bob—“ You tentatively reach out to glide your fingers over one of the many scars that were angry, red and what seemed to be risen. “You don’t have to hide these from me, ever.” Bob's heart was racing a million miles inside his chest, no one had ever touched him the way you were now. With so much love, with kindness, with understanding. “What happened here?” Your fingers gently glided across the scar down near the waistband of Bob's boxers. Right above his hip bone. 

“One of the kids in one of the foster homes I was in.” Bob began, you could tell he was uncomfortable talking about it, but you didn’t stop him. You knew if anything he would stop if he didn’t want to talk about it. “I think his name was Ryan, had an old bow with those barbed edges on it.” You knew where the story was going. “It got wedged in there deep when we were playing around, but our foster parents didn’t have insurance, so they weren’t gonna take me to get it removed—so they ripped it out and poured bourbon over it.” Your heart sank into your stomach. “I was nine.” 

“That must have hurt a lot.” You replied gently as Bob laid back down in your bed with his hands resting behind his head. His roadmap of scars on full display. “What happened here?” You moved your hand to the longer scar across his left peck. It seemed less angry, more healed, but the story attached was just as heartbreaking. 

“When I was eighteen I went back to see my parents.” Bob's eyes were tearing up. He hadn’t ever spoken about this to anyone. Not even the people he trusted with his life. You were the only one. “It was a mistake, I shouldn’t have, but I needed some closure.” Your fingers gently ran the expanse of the scar that had never been touched but another person. Bob wanted to stop you out of fear you’d leave—but he willed you to continue because it felt comforting to be touched with such warmth. “My dad ran at me with a knife the second he saw me—I remember he was rambling on about how I broke my mum's heart when I went with CPS. I’m lucky it was only a graze, he still got me good enough to leave a scar though.” 

“Bob, honey, I don’t even know what to say.” You were a mother yourself. You couldn’t ever imagine doing anything of the sort to your son. Bob reached up to guide your hand across his torso to his wrist—you’d seen those small circle cluster scars time and time again but never bothered to ask what they were from. 

“These are from where my mum and my foster mum would put their cigarettes out on me.” Again, it made your heart sink, but Bob never faulted as he guided your hand around his body, back up to his stomach just above his belly button. Ridged abs peaked through the softness of his skin. “This one is from when I had to have surgery after I got an infection. Doctor said I could have died if my friend and I didn’t walk ourselves to the emergency room.” 

Bob wanted you to touch every last scar that littered his body, he wanted your gentle touch to heal his old wounds. So you let him guide you as your straddled his waist and looked down at the roadmap of torture. 

“These smaller ones are from when my dad swung the whipper snipper at me, I was in his way, I shouldn’t have been there, I remember they wouldn’t stop bleeding and ruined a bunch of my shirts.” 

“None of these are your fault.” All his life, until he joined the Navy and ran as far away as he could, Bob had been told every scar he collected was his fault. The abuse he suffered as a child, from his parents and in foster homes, was his fault. “Someone who loves you doesn’t do this to you.” You reminded the man who laid beneath you. He could hardly breathe with how hard his heart was hammering in his chest as your hands trailed over the expanse of his torso. “Bob I don’t know your history, but from what I can gather about you in the present you are all but the problem.” You were the first person to ever tell him he didn’t deserve the scars he wore, the scars he hid. 

“You’re a really good person, you know that right?” Flashes of your own war blinded your vision for a moment. The lies and haunting rumours that had you running as far away as possible could came flooding back to you in a blur as Bob sat up to kiss your lips softly, tenderly, and all so lovingly. “You don’t know how much you mean to me baby.” The term of endearment sent a shiver down your spine you weren’t expecting. But you welcomed it nevertheless. Bob was a dream, your new beginning. 

“I reckon you’ve got about three minutes to show me.” You teased, deciding now was not the time to bring up your dead fiancé. “With the shirt off—“

***~***~***~***~***~***~

Whumptober Tags 🏷️ @xoxabs88xox @oldermenaremyreligion @slut-f0r-u @emma-is-cool @armydrcamers @topguncortez @topgun-imagines @kmc1989 @els-marvelvsp @blindedbythelightt

#ailesswhumptober2023 #leahs whumptober masterlist #bob floyd x female reader #flight deck // bob floyd #bob fliyd angst #Bob floyd whump #bob floyd x reader #top gun bob #top gun imagine #top gun fan fic #tw: parental abuse #tw: mental health #tw: scars

[entomolog-t]

I love stupid superhero G/t scenarios so much cause it just adds so much variety to the typical dynamic.

Like character A has the power to control their weight/density and is just an absolute tank and very much likes it.

Character B is a sizeshifter and is also an absolute tank. They also really like being "the tank."

They can't stand one another. Absolute rivals despite having the same friend group. They're always trying to assert some kind of dominance over the other. Like A will make themselves incredibly dense so B can't pick them up (which to any bystanders is downright hilarious). B, who in reality is short than A, will continously grow just a bit taller than them in everyday setting, or downright loom over them at their larger size if given the opportunity.

Like the comedy potential for the tiny to just be able to pin down the giant ?? Amazing.

Or imagine A is more freaked out by the size than they've been letting on; Some sort of danger happens and A is left unable to walk and they need to get away fast. Maybe an explosion is imminent, maybe a building is about to collapse, either way they need to move fast. B goes to pick them up but they make themselves heavier, refusing to move.

"Nows not the time A- we need to move -" B freezes. A was crying. They've never seen A cry. Just how hurt were they?

B feels guilt well up. Did A not trust them that much? Sure they fought, but they had to know they would never actually hurt them...

"A, please, we have to leave. I'll be careful, I promise. I've done this with civilians hundr-"

"-Please..." A's normally confident voice is nothing short of a whimper. Their eyes squeezed tight, refusing to look at B. "I'll make myself light, just... please don't pick me up like that."

What??

What was that supposed to mean? What difference did it make?? With no time to argue B shrinks down and picks them up. They've never felt A lighten themselves and it's a jarring feeling picking someone up at their normal size with them weighing next to nothing. There was time to dwell on how bizzare this was becoming.

B ran, awkwardly caring the oversized yet underweight body of A as they raced to clear the area. So what if they added a few extra inches to themselves between strides? They needed to get out of here fast and time was running out.

They wouldn't make it. Not at this height.

There was no time to argue.

"A," Their voice is gentle but firm, leaving no room for debate, "Close your eyes."

They've delt with this before. Children afraid of them, victims of Kaiju attacks. Size could be scary to some... they just never imagined A would be amoung them.

They feel A press their face against their shirt, hands balled into fists. They cover A with their hand, shielding them from the sight of the world lurching as they grow.

ANGST ANGST ANGST ANGST

#I have the most gutwrenching reason for why A would be scared but i didnt want to traumatize my follows on a monday afternoon #also if anyone has any G/t superhero fics they recommend?? please?? send my way?? #i love me some angst #g/t #giant/tiny #g/t community #g/t prompts #g/t shitpost

[truegoist]

##CHIGIRI BOYFRIEND HCS ! requested by anon(s) !!

WARNINGS: g/n reader , bathing together (no sex pipe down) this got requested twice & im a whore w no understanding of time so I’m sorry okay

-how does it feel having a boyfriend prettier than you??

-seriously though it can be annoying how effortlessly pretty he is, but hey that also means you’ve the perfect dress up doll in your hands

-style his hair, dress him up. He’ll scowl and nag at you saying he can do all that himself, thank you much. even if he does say that, chigiri never actually attempted to stop you for real (he’ll never admit taking a liking to that. never)

-his sister and mother did that a lot to him so he’s actually a pretty good model

-chigiri is so gentle with you, even while holding your hand he makes sure to never squeeze much, his touch on your skin is always gentle and his kisses always start light as feather

-normally, he prefers to take quick showers before starting the day but he’s always down to have a bath with you, even the idea of sitting inside the warm water with you in his arms with a few candles light is so relaxing to him

-still, even if how much he might want to bathe with you, you will always have to ask him first. he just can’t bring himself to ask you for such thing.

-he also likes to lay on your lap, especially after training. play with his hair while whispering him random things and he will fall asleep almost immediately. bad for you though as he’s a real light sleeper and any move you make will wake him up. good luck on not moving an inch for hours

-He’s a GREAT listener btw he doesn’t talk much but he just knows exactly where to ask questions and how to make you know he’s still listening. You could be talking about the most boring thing he ever heard but he will still listen to you just because you want to talk about it

-Downside of having such a pretty boyfriend is that everyone too, is head over heels for him and it’s like he’s genuinely oblivious to that??? You can’t figure out if he ignores the looks he gets or really does not notice but your boyfriend sure is dense when it comes to confessions, even you had to try at least 3 times for him to get you had romantic feelings for him

-His density only increases when he starts dating you, as now his eyes only see you and no one else isn’t even in question

-Chigiri likes to be the big spoon, it doesn’t matters if you’re a head taller than him, he just likes to put his chin on top of your head while you’re snuggled close to his chest. it makes him feel warm

-other than training almost all his time is spent with you, and he doesn’t wants it any other way. Being able to spend so much time with someone without getting bored is a new experience to him, considering most of his life he preferred to keep a reasonable distance from others

-whenever your opinions differ he just tells you the one who goes from a to b fastest is right. curse him for that

-overall he’s definitely an amazing boyfriend (one of the best among blue lock fr)

#pretty boy #blue lock #bllk #blue lock x reader #chigiri hyoma #hyoma chigiri #blue lock chigiri #chigiri #chigiri x reader #chigiri x you #bllk chigiri #blue lock x you #blue lock x gn reader #blue lock x y/n #bllk x gn!reader #bllk x reader #bllk x you #blue lock headcanons #gender neutral reader

[infernalodie]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞 || 𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐳

Inspo: Emile Mosseri - Jacob and the Stone

Pairing: Maddy Perez x Gn!reader

Summary: The stone that stood tall and would never full leave her memory...

Warnings: Angst throughout with mentions of suicide.

Words: 1770

DNI IF YOU’RE YOUNGER THAN 18!

There was this stone Maddy used to go to.

Somewhere in the density of a forest right outside of Highland. Practically resting near the long breaks of the open countryside, this place resided.

It’d been a complete chance that she came to this location. Her car broke down with her friends and their goal to live the night up was still on the list of plans. So, they ventured into this forest and found this large stone.

She remembers Cassie being a ruckus and being the emotional drunk she was. Lexi was reserved and just talked with Kat. Rue and Jules were holding one another. But Maddy found you staring at this stone, perplexed or fascinated by it.

Maddy remembers you dragging your hand across the texture of the rock. Lips twitched faintly as the tips of your fingers gently caught the grooves; scars of its past and present. And something about it made you say, “It’s beautiful.”

Everyone knew you found beauty in the strangest of places. If it is some random obscured painting or one of those poems you would write in your free time–there was nothing you couldn’t find positives in. It had been what made Maddy fall in love with you in the first place.

And she remembers how you looked back at her. A look in your eye that was almost contentful. Like something had been decided the moment you saw this large stone. You had said, “If I ever die, I want to be buried here. I’ll even write it in my will.”

She punched your arm for saying something like that. Warning you that she would be the one to do the job if you brought something like that up. You smiled and laughed. And she remembers your arms curling around her and holding her against your chest tightly. Your face tucked in her hair where you pressed gentle kisses.

That had only been a week before everything happened. That was the last memory she had of you before you were gone. Swept up and taken wherever was after this life. And now, even after all these years, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to go back to that forest–to relive that moment all over again in a place that she imagine still had your lingering presence.

Today, it was the anniversary of your death. So, with the urging encouragement of Lexi and Rue, she drove up to the forest. She walked amongst the trees that the further she got, blocked out the sun that had been beating down on her since she got back from Highland. It left a massive veil between her and the outside world that hoped hadn’t desecrated this sacred land.

Then she finally arrived at the stone. It stood tall- maybe even taller than she had once realized. Its exterior was jaded–chips having fallen off from years of weather conditioning. And in a traditional fashion, your initials were etched into its face. Your name, your birthday and the day of your passing. Each letter and number is rough around the edges, but perfect as its own; much like you.

Flowers were scattered around the marked grave. Much of them came from friends that had specifically come down to visit and pay respects to you. There were postcards from Jules; she believed that in some way, they might make it to you somehow. There were stuffies from Rue who knew of your unhealthy obsession with said items. Lexi left some of your favourite books from your guys’ friendship being built from that.

But Maddy had nothing to offer. Perhaps she thought her visit was enough considering the time she’d pushed to avoid the inevitable.

Exhaling heavily, she forced a smile. “Hey, baby.”

She sat beside the grave with the faint outline of where it had been dug. She clasped her hands together, saying, “I would ask you how you were doing, but I think we both know that would just be stupid of me.”

Painful silence. She didn’t know what to say. What was there to honestly say? You had given up. Maybe you lost sight of the beauty in this world. Lost all hope for society and decided to clock out before you saw anything get worse. Or maybe you had been depressed the whole time but she was too blind to see it. People wore masks–some of who no one would expect. Maybe you were a part of that few.

But since you left, she tried to keep to what she had been before you left–be the person that you loved. So, she wasn’t going to try and beat around the bush with any fruitless questions or statements. “I want to say you left because you couldn’t handle living anymore. But somehow-” she laughed, shaking her head. “-something tells me your sick mind thought that becoming one with the earth was beautiful, huh? I mean, we both know that’s how your mind worked.”

In some way, with your passing, she felt like she had finally grown as close as she could get to you. With your family left in shambles from your death, Maddy had taken it upon herself to be the one to pack your belongings up. Place your clothes in boxes, trinkets in boxes, and all the little handwritten notes that lined your walls. And on the final day, there was only one poem left and she just sat in the center of your room and stared at it. Then she cried. Harder than she ever thought she could. She screamed and fought against the harsh grasp of reality that was; once she took that final paper, you were officially gone. You would be gone from her life forever.

But from time to time, when she came down to Highland to visit her parents, she stopped by your family’s house. She had dinner with them, talked about life, made plans for future holidays and then she would ask to look at the boxes.

There would always be a silence that fell over the kitchen. The uneven breaths from your mother who would purse her lips, forcing a broken smile that could crack as she grabbed Maddy’s hands and hold them tightly. Which would always be contradictory because of the tears in her eyes. And your mom would always say, “Honey, don’t ever feel like you need to ask.”

And your dad would sit there quietly, avoiding eye contact that could betray the tough exterior he had to keep. When, in fact, the wound of your passing was still fresh and it would always stay that way. No child is supposed to go before their parents.

But you did. You defied every expectation; good and bad. You believed in most people who didn’t deserve it. You found lessons in situations you had labelled, “misconstrued control”. Each of those lessons made you grow and in any way you could, you tried to pass this knowledge on to others. But you gave up and in Maddy’s mind and that substituted everything else out. Your action to leave so soon was unforgivable to her.

You gave up when things were getting good for the two of you. When your guys’ story was starting to pick up make things interesting.

“I started reading some of those poems you had taped up on your walls.” A faint smile twitched on her lips. “They almost looked like etchings of thoughts you never said to me.” Maddy’s lips trembled. She remembered clearing out your room and spending hours sitting in the center of that room. Unable to take her eyes off of all the deep and meaningful quotes that you were so infatuated with. If she’d known that she returned to your house in her dreams, finding you standing and staring at each poem with a smile, she would’ve never laid a foot inside that room.

Bowing her head slightly as she swayed. Sniffling harshly, she said, “If you must die, I’ll envy even the earth that wraps around your body.” Her tearful eyes lifted to the inscription of your name carved meaningfully into the boulder. Face twisting with her voice giving way. “And I fucking miss you, Y/n. I hate knowing something else will give you warmth when I could’ve filled that spot for you.”

Her voice cracked. A sob fell from her lips. “I shouldn’t be sad. You fucking left me!” She fell to her hands, slowly lowering herself where blades of grass brushed across her rosy cheeks that kissed the earth. Her body trembled as she sought the feeling of your arms once more. Fingers delving into the dirt, hoping to find your hands interlocking with hers the further she reached. “But I want you here. Even in my dreams, I just want one more day with you.”

It was a distant and unforgeable wish, she knew that. But she was desperate. She had to wake up most nights and cry herself back to sleep because that would be the only way to reunite with you once more. Through the pain, she was healed by your smile. And she trying to find a middle ground between acceptance and refusal.

But that was the thing–no one can have both. When someone is gone, we can’t do anything to bring them back. And with time, we will heal. It’ll hurt like hell and it’ll feel like that wound will always be open, but that’s what comes with acceptance. And when we least expect it, when we find someone that makes our hearts skip a beat like the person before once did, we’ll realize how far we’ve come. How much pain we were able to take and keep moving forward.

It's a sign to try again.

And it hurt Maddy to admit it, but she wanted to keep going. Keep you close to her heart, but far enough that she was allowed to think about the good times instead of the worst.

And what helped was for her to think about how your mind worked–your beliefs that she never could wrap her head around. With time, she learned more about herself and where she stood on the unappreciated qualities of life and the world she lived in. Maddy believed that in some alternate reality, the both of you were still together and thriving. And acknowledging that was beautiful in its own way because she got to experience it for some time–a small sliver compared to a counterpart, but still a gift. But a different version of her would feel it until her last breath.

Something like that was poetic, wasn’t it?

#maddy perez euphoria #alexa demie #maddy perez x gn!reader #maddy perez x gn reader #maddy perez imagine #maddy perez fanfiction #maddy perez angst #maddy perez x reader #maddy perez #euphoria #euphoria fanfiction #euphoria imagine #euphoria maddy perez #x gender neutral reader #x gn!reader #x gn reader #x reader

[starrierknight]

𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐲

“Everyone has a thousand wishes before a tragedy, but just one afterward.” ― Fredrik Backman, Beartown

MASTERLIST | AO3

wc— 2.7k

pairing— gn!reader x gojo satoru

cws/tags— implied established relationship, soft angst -> fluff, dialogue heavy, bittersweet dramatic irony (sorry…)

Satoru shuffled through the entrance of his apartment, his broad shoulders slumping under the burden of accumulated exhaustion that stemmed from a relentless cascade of recent missions and back-to-back meetings. The air was cool and stagnant, a result of his prolonged absence, and the darkness possessed an extra density on this particular night, with shadows on the ground like a coat of sombre tar. The inevitability of time's unyielding march weighed on him—no respite for anyone, regardless of strength, regardless of fervent wishes for a momentary halt.

With a mechanical motion, Satoru toed off his shoes and pulled down his blindfold, the weariness etched on his face illuminated briefly by the feeble glow emanating from his phone's small screen. In the dimly lit hallway, a fleeting moment of recognition swept over him as he squinted at the clock reading a quarter past midnight. It was the 7th of December, and only then did he realise—or perhaps chose to forget—that today marked his own birthday.

A resigned sigh escaped him as he stowed his phone away, and he quietly padded through the hallway. The living room, to his surprise, was bathed in the warm glow of switched-on lamps. Did he leave them on again? It was a habit, an awful one that had persisted since his childhood. Some things, it seemed, never changed.

Surveying the living room, he navigated past two inviting beanbags, a plush sofa, and an elegant armchair—each pristine and untouched. Their unblemished surfaces silently bore witness to the neglect they endured, patiently waiting for someone to sink into their embrace.

The air in the living room hung heavy with an eerie quietude, punctuated only by the soft murmur emanating from a television left on in the background—the neighbours, presumably. The muffled banter of comedians echoed in the hushed room, a re-run of a variety show that had been popular some time ago. Whispery peals of laughter broke the silence as the comedian did something particularly funny, like a playful ghost.

Satoru stole a glance at his reflection in the darkened screen of his own television. The wear and tear of recent months deepened contours of his countenance, with dark circles having taken up a permanent residence beneath his fatigued eyes. His fingers instinctively reached up to touch them, yet the weariness persisted—an unyielding toll.

A stark realisation settled in, an unwelcome guest—the remainder of his birthday would unfold in solitary confinement. No vibrant cake adorned with candles, no cheerful singing, no thoughtful gifts, and no laughter to punctuate the stillness. Just him. Little solace could be found in the accolades of his power, and disillusionment set in like an old friend. Strength, it seemed, could earn you many things, but company wasn't among them. A master of sorcery, a prisoner of his own solitude. C’est la vie.

“Happy birthday to you… Happy Birthday to you…”

A soft, warm light spilt from around the corner, catching Satoru's attention with its gentle glow unmistakably emanating from candlelight. A soft, nervous voice wove a melody through the air, and it took a moment for Satoru to register the familiar tune, sung with a touch of hesitation.

As the melody unfolded, the source of the enchanting light revealed itself—a single candle flickering on a cupcake clutched in your hands. The unexpected sight left Satoru momentarily frozen, the weariness that had draped his shoulders moments ago dissipating in the face of this surprising and thoughtful gesture. You moved slowly towards him, the melody continuing, though perhaps a bit off-key, until you stood a mere metre or so in front of him.

A curious expression danced across Satoru's face, an attempt to conceal the genuine surprise that coursed through him. A brief pause hung in the air before he blinked, shifting his gaze towards you. Speechless for a moment, he absorbed the surreal reality of the situation. He had given you a key to his place strictly for emergencies, and while this didn't fit the traditional definition, it certainly seemed to qualify.

Satoru's gaze locked onto the cupcake, its lone candle reflecting the fire that glimmered in your eyes. A subtle, amused smirk began to form on his face. "How long were you holding on to that for?"

Your sheepish smile grew, and you took a step closer, your pyjama-clad figure gracefully kneeling before him as he sat on the sofa. It was evident that you were barely half awake, and Satoru couldn't help but marvel at the fact that you likely roused yourself from sleep just for this impromptu celebration.

The cupcake hovered between you, and you extended it towards him, the candle flickering in the air. "Make a wish," you whispered.

Caught in the infectious glow of your smile, Satoru mirrored your expression as he reached for the cupcake. His fingers hesitated for a brief moment before gently taking hold of the sweet treat. His gaze shifted between the candle's soft glow and your eyes, contemplating the wish he was about to make.

In a familiar motion, Satoru extinguished the flame with care. He liked the way your nose wrinkled when you smelled the smoke. Uncharacteristically, he didn't immediately indulge in the cake, but instead, his gaze locked onto you.

"I wish for you.”

"You already have me, though. I'm right here," you replied, chuckling softly.

Satoru's attention returned to the cupcake, and he took a small, deliberate bite, savouring the sweetness that graced his tongue. He looked up after the first taste, a momentary pause hinting at a forthcoming response. Finally, he broke the silence with a smirk, his eyes filled with mischief—flickering back to life at the sight of you.

“I guess I'll settle for you as a birthday gift, then.”

Your teasing smile persisted as you rested your elbows on Satoru's knees, observing his amused grin as he indulged in cupcake. The close proximity didn't escape either of you, and Satoru found himself cracking a grin.

"Apologies for the disappointment.”

"No need to apologise. I think I hit the jackpot," Satoru replied with a quiet chuckle, savouring another bite of the cupcake. He paused, and then he added, "Although, I do have one gripe."

Curious, you prompted him with an, "Oh?"

Satoru's smile widened. "You forgot the most important part of a birthday." He paused to chew and swallow, then his free hand wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you closer. "You haven't given me my birthday kiss yet."

With a playful tilt of your head, you teased, "Really? I haven't heard of that tradition before."

Satoru's heartbeat quickened as you settled onto his lap. The remaining cupcake was abandoned on the coffee table, and his gaze remained fixed on you. Anticipation hung in the air, but instead of a kiss, a request was made.

"Come on. You know the drill." His tone was uncharacteristically earnest, and you recognized the sincerity beneath the teasing. 

However, you decided to play along, purposefully trailing off as you asked, "Are we talking one birthday kiss, or...?"

Cupping his cheeks in your palms, you pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. Satoru's breath caught in his throat, his eyelids half-shut, and his expression transformed into one of pure contentment. Realisation soon dawned upon him—his requested kiss hadn't been fulfilled—and he swatted you away.

"I meant a kiss on the lips, you dimwit," he asserted, retaining a hint of genuine longing.

Your initial impulse to deliver a biting remark was quelled by the generosity of the occasion, leaving you with a scoff and a genuine laugh. The realisation that it was his birthday earned him a begrudging admission: 

"I can't even say anything mean. Damn you," you muttered.

Satoru, basking in the triumph of his birthday immunity, allowed a smug curve to grace his lips. His hand ascended, fingers brushing against the nape of your neck. A subtle adjustment followed, pushing the label of your t-shirt back under the fabric, his gaze fixated on your lips.

"So… About that birthday kiss?" 

"Is that what the birthday boy wants?" you cooed, teasing him.

As your fingers threaded through Satoru's hair, the softness still surprised you. Strands of silk glided effortlessly through your fingertips, thick and luscious. A subtle warmth emanated from his scalp, a comforting contrast to the cool air enveloping you. His hair seemed to have a life of its own, smoothly intertwining with your fingers, inviting you to explore further, as if daring you to unravel a secret—like Satoru needed to be more enigmatic.

Satoru shivered when your fingertips brushed against the shorter hair of his undercut, prompting him to lean forward, closing the gap between you. His lips brushed against the smooth skin of your cheek, a gentle prelude to the desired kiss.

"Yes. That's exactly what he wants," he confessed, his warm breath caressing your skin, and he added with a note of urgency, "You can't tease me like this."

"Can't I?" you mumbled, brushing your lips against his jaw.

The unexpected movement prompted a jolt from Satoru. He tilted his head toward you, his gaze softening as your lips brushed against his jawline. A smirk played on his lips, and he responded by placing his hands on your waist. Leaning in, he subtly adjusted your position, allowing him to gently pull you closer. Cupping your face in his hands, Satoru's expression took on a bemused quality, and he raised a brow.

"I have feelings, you know?"

"Really? That's news to me," you retorted with a teasing lilt, eliciting a laugh from Satoru. He leaned in toward your ear, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah. Keep laughing," he whispered before placing a light kiss on your neck, followed by a soft, childish giggle. "It turns out I'm not completely heartless after all."

As he tilted his head back, eyes shimmering in the warm lamplight, a slight blush adorned his face. You rolled your eyes, conceding.

"Fine. Close your eyes, okay? I'm gonna count down, and we'll do it properly. First kiss of the year for you, y'know?"

He narrowed his eyes slightly, reluctantly closing them, his attention shifting to the distant sounds of the neighbour's television.

"Tell me when," he requested.

You obliged, gently running your fingers through his hair with a surreal lightness. "Three."

Satoru listened intently, eyes closed. He felt a slight discomfort but chose to ignore it, wanting to immerse himself fully in the unexpected warmth. As you continued counting, he took a deep breath, as if steeling himself for a significant moment. The anticipation lingered, and Satoru waited with bated breath.

"Two."

As you drew closer, he felt the warmth of your breath against your skin, and he murmured back, even softer, "One."

And then, it happened. 

Your lips met his, igniting a subtle gasp from him. A playful smile danced on your face, relishing in the delicate tension. Satoru, unable to resist, leaned in, reciprocating eagerly. His arms enveloped your back, pulling you into an embrace that sought to bridge every inch of distance. A soft sigh of pleasure escaped him, music to your very ears, the kind you could never tire from hearing.

Everything spoke—his lips, his tongue, his hands, his eyes. The rapid cadence of his heart and the hastening of his breath attested to the profound longing he harboured during his time away. His gaze, now softened, traced the contours of your face, absorbing the profound simplicity of the gesture. In this brief interlude, he held time in abeyance; kissing you always filled in the spaces between words, a language only the heart—your heart—was fluent in.

Breaking the silence, his voice carried an unusual softness as he uttered, "Thank you."

You tenderly stroked his cheek, and the gentle touch of your lips graced the tip of his nose. "Happy birthday, Satoru," your sweet murmur lingered in the air.

A blush painted Satoru's face a delicate shade of pink, his warm smile blooming in response to your affection. He reciprocated by reaching out to caress your cheek, his expression gradually transitioning from surprise to curiosity.

With a playful glint in his eyes, he quipped, "Since I've had my birthday kiss, I wanna ask a question."

"Ah, a birthday question?" 

He shrugged a shoulder. "Well, I wouldn't call it a birthday question, but it is a question I wanted to ask on my birthday." Pausing for effect, he leaned in towards your ear, his breath teasingly warm. "Can I kiss you one more time?"

Tilting your head, you whispered back, "That seems an awful lot like a birthday question.”

"I know, I know. This question doesn't fall within the scope of birthday questions, but just allow me to be an exception today." Satoru's wide grin and the playful flutter of his long, white eyelashes added a theatrical touch before he continued, "Please? It's my birthday."

You responded with a long-suffering, dramatic sigh, your hands finding their place on his cheeks. “It is your birthday.”

The unexpected touch of your hands on Satoru's cheeks momentarily left him dazed. He struggled to snap back into reality, staring at you in disbelief, searching for the right words. Ultimately, he could only nod his head in appreciation. Leaning in as if to initiate a kiss, he pulled away after a few tantalising moments, flashing a mischievous grin. 

"You're too easy."

Your snort of laughter followed. "Wow. That was kinda mean."

His grin widened as you laughed, and Satoru glanced away momentarily before turning back with another smirk. "Nah, you’re too easy. I’m just playing."

He chuckled quietly, the sound resonating with a mixture of satisfaction and playfulness. Suddenly, he leaned forward again, capturing your lips. Afterwards, he smoothly pulled you onto his lap, a familiar gesture.

“I’m allowed to be a bit selfish,” he remarked, a subtle plea for indulgence in his voice.

"You're not wrong," you acquiesced with a knowing smile.

As your fingers ran through his hair, his smile transformed into a dreamy expression. Yet, he swiftly shook off the enchantment, refocusing his gaze into your eyes, only to find himself a bit dazed once more.

“‘Course I'm not wrong. It’s my birthday,” Satoru mumbled, a hint of self-satisfaction evident in his tone.

"Right, of course. I forgot about birthday omniscience.”

He looked down at you for a moment before leaning in for another lingering kiss. Pulling away, he gently stroked your cheek, his touch both tender and possessive, before finally speaking again.

"My birthday. I deserve to be pampered."

"Because clearly, you're undeserving of being pampered every other day of the year," you drawled.

An eyebrow raised in surprise, his expression shifting from amused to somewhat curious as he gazed down at you. For a moment, he narrowed his eyes in thought before teasingly responding:

"Did you just compliment me?"

You gave him a wry smile. "I might've. Don't get used to it. It's a birthday compliment."

The grin instantly returned to Satoru's face, genuine warmth seeping through his entire response. He erupted into laughter, the kind that didn't just reside in his throat but resonated from the depths of his being. The corners of his well-loved eyes crinkled, and the sound wrapped around you. He shook his head, looking down at you adoringly.

"It's too late. I'm already getting used to it in my head."

“How sentimental.”

"It's my birthday. I’m allowed to be as sentimental as I want. It's the one day where I'm entitled to feel all mushy and sentimental. And you're stuck dealing with it."

He rested his face against your shoulder, nuzzling it slightly, and hugged you close to his chest. "Besides, you don't mind, right?"

"I guess not,” you said quietly, fondly. "Same time next year?"

Satoru leaned heavily against your shoulder, his nuzzles gentle and his breathing calm. The ease with which he rested against you spoke volumes, his breathing slowing with the rhythm of your hand running through his hair. Your question was largely in jest, but it didn’t matter. 

"Next year, and the year after that, and the year after that."

a/n: oof. I rushed to get this out on time lol. I’ve been busy working on smth substantial for getou and nearly forgot my 1# pookie’s bday!!!! *in Lemongrab’s voice:* UNACCEPTABLE!!!!!!!!!!! >:/

this work belongs to STARRIERKNIGHT . please refrain from plagiarising any of my works and do not repost/translate/modify/copy onto any platforms.

#꒰ ✎ ꒱ — tongues in trees #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #jjk fanfic #jjk x reader #jujustu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader #gn!reader #gn reader #gender neutral reader #gojo satoru x reader fluff #gojo satoru fluff #gojo x reader #gojo x reader fluff #satoru gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x y/n #jjk x you #jjk x y/n #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen x y/n #gojo fluff #jjk fluff #satoru gojo fluff #jujutsu kaisen fluff #gojo drabbles

[nanamiluvs]

wriothesley nsfw alphabet !

pairing : wriothesley x reader

rating : explicit

wc : 1.7k

warnings : smut content, reader is afab, wriothesley being both a cutie and an ass, handcuffs, biting, breeding, choking, oral (both receiving), wriothesley is clingy, slight cum play, roleplay, jerking off, spanking, creampies, rough sex, it's wriothesley what do you expect, dirty talk

a : aftercare

wriothesley gets cuddly after sex. it may or may not lead to another round, but he loves the feeling of aftermath with you in his arms. has mad separation anxiety, leading him to make sure you're not leaving his side by pulling you closer into his embrace, whispering sweet nothings in your ear.

b : body part

wriothesley is everything but a humble man. he knows his body is one sculpted by gods and wouldn't shy away from admitting it. if he has to choose one, he would pick his biceps or torso. if you asked him about his favorite body part of yours, he'd say hips and ass without hesitation.

c : cum

wriothesley is generally a messy person, and there's no exception when it comes to sex. he likes it messy. he likes seeing your body covered in ropes of white cum, loves filling you up to the brim and then fucking his cum back into you. off-white in color and a little thick in density. he also cums a lot, so there's that.

d : dirty secret

wriothesley loves being handcuffed and dominated. treat him like he's some filthy criminal and he's cumming in his pants. also likes it when the roles are reversed, and most likely not going to hide that version of the scenario.

e : experience

wriothesley has had a fair share of men and women in bed before and it's quite obvious. he knows he's experienced, he knows how to make you beg for mercy and come untouched. not proud of it, but not embarrassed either.

f : favorite position

wriothesley's favorite position is doggy style and he doesn't even try to hide it. he loves holding your hips while thrusting into you, fucking like an animal and watching as his cock disappears inside. he would lean forward, press his chest against your back and bite your neck, kitten licks and kisses following. he likes it especially as he can whisper filthy things directly in your ear. that being said, wriothesley fucks in a lot of different positions and likes to try them out, so nothing is off the table with him.

g : goofy

wriothesley has a variety of moods when it comes to sex. if it's usual, he's going to be the little shit he is. if it's intimate and gentle, he will whisper reassurements and praises, repeating how much he loves you and how well you take him. if he's jealous or stressed, it's obvious from how angry he gets.

h : hair

wriothesley likes body hair in general, and doesn't prefer to groom himself often. he's not at the level where it gets in the way, but definitely likes it to be there. he likes it better when you're also not shaven, but it's only a preference for him and not really a game changer. he loves seeing the hair down there get sticky with your mixed fluids, like i said, wriothesley likes it messy. he would shave if you tell him to because he wants to appear as the best form of himself in your eyes. won't tell you he did it because of you, instead saying he had a change of mind.

i : intimacy

wriothesley doesn't see sex as a necessarily romantic thing. yes, it can be, but most of the time it's the pleasure and release it brings. on rare moments of vulnerability, when the your usual act of fucking becomes making love, wriothesley is whipped. he will caress your body, holding you in his arms as he slides into you. he doesn't believe he deserves this moment, not with you. making love is very intimate to wriothesley and it takes a long way of trust to get to that point. regardless, wriothesley mostly fucks and wouldn't change that.

j : jack off

wriothesley isn't shy at jerking off to the thought of you. at work, when he's especially stressed, he doesn't mind palming the bulge formed in his pants, wishing you were there to help him out. he prefers to do it with you, obviously, but when you're away and he has no choise he's alright with masturbating. he also likes to watch you get off by yourself, dick hardening to the sight of you chasing your high.

k : kink

wriothesley has a long list of kinks up his sleeve.

‎ ‎ ‎ biting : wriothesley is a biter. doesn't matter where, doesn't matter when, he will bite and that's that. he will bite your lips while kissing, bite the insides of your thighs before going down on you, bite your neck while pounding into you, just bite and bite wherever he can.

‎ ‎ ‎ breeding : wriothesley would get aroused to the thought of cumming inside you, filling you up with his cum over and over until he sees your belly bulge. he loves to see the cum gush out of your hole, sore with the way he abused it with his cock. also loves it when you say you want to breed him. breeding is one of the things he won't admit he particularly likes, yet it's so obvious with the way he grunts and groans in your ear.

‎ ‎ choking : wriothesley loves having control of you and you having control of him. his hand reaches out to wrap around your neck, pressure just enough for you to feel it yet need more. he would also get turned on when you do the same, choking him while you ride him, he thinks you're just too adorable with your hands around his neck.

‎ ‎ ‎ spanking : considering you have given him the permission to do so beforehand, wriothesley loves spanking you as he fucks you from behind. he thinks it's just so cute seeing your ass redden with the impact, his large palm immediately coming down to soothe the area with his touch.

l : location

wriothesley may get off to the risk of getting caught but he doesn't want anyone else seeing you like that. so sex with wriothesley is mostly in his office, your bedroom, the shower, any closed space where you two are alone can be a place to fuck.

m : motivation

wriothesley gets turned on to everything about you. he's generally a quite horny person, so just seeing your body writhing under his much larger one is enough to keep him going. he's also motivated to pleasure you the way no one else can.

n : no

wriothesley is very much larger and stronger than you and sometimes fails to control his strength. so with him, things like knife play are out the window. he may be extremely kinky and like it rough, but he would never forgive himself if he actually hurts you.

o : oral

wriothesley is a man who will eat you out for his own pleasure. he loves the taste of you, loves dipping his tongue between your folds and lapping up your slick, the taste getting him drunk the more he has it. he wants you to come on his face, to squirt on him. his tongue will work you through your orgasm, careful not to waste a single drop while your walls clench around the small muscle. regardless of how much he likes going down on you, he thinks it's even better when it's your pretty lips wrappiny around his cock, your saliva mixing with his precum and staining your chin. he would hold your head and thrust inside of your mouth, lost in the feeling of your tongue swiping across his member. he likes to cum inside your mouth but he wouldn't mind cumming on your face either.

p : pace

wriothesley is ruthless when it comes to bed. he can and will pound into you without mercy, the bed creaking with the force of his thrusts. no matter he's being fast or slow, wriothesley knows how to push in deep.

q : quickie

wriothesley is up to every single kind of sex, so quickies aren't off the table with him. but he would much prefer a long, dark night to spend with you, to take his time relishing in your body and pleasuring the both of you.

r : risk

wriothesley is talented when it comes to sex, almost everything he tries turns out to your likes. he's very experimental and thinks trying everything at least once won't hurt anyone.

s : stamina

wriothesley can go longer than you ever can. it takes a lot for him to cum, and even then, he can last several rounds with ease.

t : toys

wriothesley doesn't really care about toys unless it's for binding. he loves being handcuffed, he loves handcuffing you, he loves tying you up and he loves getting tied up by you. anything restricting movement is a turn on for him.

u : unfair

wriothesley may as well be a criminal the way how cruel he is during sex. he will use anything and everything against you, wanting to get you all riled up before even properly touching you.

v : volume

wriothesley doesn't moan, but he's definitely a groaner and grunter. almost guttural as he pounds into you, voice deep and low with vibrations straight down to your core. he speaks a lot, too, with dirty talk being an indispensable tool to him.

w : wild card

wriothesley likes being dominated every once in a while. he wants to be at your mercy, to give up the authority and power he has to bear all the time and just submit to you. you wanting to dominate him makes him want to fight back, turning it into a battle of power igniting the thrill in his gut.

x : x-ray

wriothesley is longer than average and quite thick down there with a slight curve to the right. the shaft is a shade darker than his skin, the tip having a reddish tone underneath. has veins sparking up here and there, overall, wriothesley likes the way it looks.

y : yearning

wriothesley has quite the high sex drive, he's going to be up for the act whenever you want him to be.

z : zzz

wriothesley wants to hold you in his arms and drift off to sleep after making sure you did. he tires himself out during each session so it doesn't take long for him to fall asleep. he can stay awake if he wants to, but honestly, why would he?

i might expand on the dirty secret with a drabble if someone requests it bc i know i want that.

#wriothesley #wriothesley x reader #wriothesley x you #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact wriothesley #wriothesley smut #wriothesley x y/n #genshin impact smut #wriothesley genshin #genshin x reader

[badbatchsprincess]

Heated ~ pt. 1

Pt.1 ~ Pt.2 ~ Pt.3 ~ Pt.4 ~ Pt.5 ~ Pt.6

Masterlist

Summary: This is an ABO Bad batch!Poly x Omega Reader smut with a plot. This takes place as an AU before order 66. Y/N previously served under the 501st before being transferred to Special Forces 99. This is her adventure with these rowdy Alphas in a quickly changing universe.

THIS IS AN ABO AU ABOUT THE BAD BATCH (NO CANON OMEGA!) Due to the unfortunate situation of her name being Omega… Omega the child from the canon series is not going to be apart of this fanfic/porn with a plot. I feel obligated to put this warning in because it makes my skin crawl thinking anyone could make that mistake. 

No warnings for this, just world building... welcome lol.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

After approximately 90 rotations aboard the Marauder, give or take a few days, you were ready to disembark. 

Tech, of course, calculated the accurate amount of time, but you were running on inner planetary standard time. You were exhausted. Truly and totally exhausted. The battles along the outer rim were beginning to overtake every waking thought, and the war only seemed to be escalating. Even though you were just a medical technician, it seemed like you never had a moment to breathe.

The boys had been sent on one mission after another to the most backwater planets you’d never even heard of. In the beginning of working with Clone Force 99, you were thrilled. 

Tired of being on the front lines with Captain Rex and General Skywalker, you thought this would have been a cakewalk compared to tending to the 501st. (Or as you liked to call them, the most reckless GAR unit in history.) Boy, were you wrong…

Rex assigning you to Clone Force 99 had been one of the most challenging places you think a young medic like yourself could have gone. 

These men, in particular, were a unique kind of reckless, and they always seemed to end up in the craziest situations. 

That didn’t mean you didn’t come to grow fond of them, but as GAR procedure demands, they must return to Coruscant for their quarterly medical examinations, and you were relieved. 

While you didn’t particularly care for the bustle of the high-density planet, you could appreciate not being shot at, chased, or bombed at any given second.

The Marauder also didn’t offer the same level of comfort as the Venator Attack Cruisers you’d become accustomed to staying on for months at a time. But it’s alright, you’ve come to enjoy your time with special force 99. 

For a bunch of chaotic Alphas, they were pleasant company. 

Sergeant Hunter was the leader and a remarkable tracker. You couldn’t help but marvel at his heightened abilities; it was really interesting from a medical standpoint. Tech had the brain capacity of a supercomputer and his ex-arc trooper friend, Echo. You actually had known Echo from your early days serving under the 501st. 

It was nice having him around; he seemed to keep the peace and offered some much-needed familiarity. Then there was Wrecker, the sweetest man-child you’d ever met. He had a love for blowing things up, which you found hilarious, and finally, there was Crosshair. You never really knew where you stood with the man. Echo told you it’s because he’s not used to strangers hanging out with his brothers, but you weren’t quite sure. The Alpha was quiet and calculated. He didn’t miss a thing, not with his heightened reflexes. He never said much to you; he often operated in silence unless it was to piss off Hunter, which seemed to be more often than you realized. 

He, however, treated you indifferently. It was just odd for an Alpha to not acknowledge an Omega. Not to say you needed his attention, it was just different. You speculated it had to do with his genetic mutations; maybe he was too good at focusing on his objective. Omegas hardly phased him.

“You ready, Pip?” Wrecker gave your shoulders a gentle shake. 

You smiled at the nickname. “Yeah Wreck, ugh I just really want a real shower.” You sighed, getting a little impatient. 

The Marauder was waiting for landing clearance while you made quick work stowing away the last few stray supplies. You made notes of all the supplies that had been depleted, which was most of it. You shook your head; you’d be raiding the GAR supply facility before deployment for certain. 

“You and me both,” Hunter snorted and settled down in one of the chairs in the cockpit.

Poor guy, you realized, probably had the worst of it all. Living amongst five sweaty dirty men and one medic had his scent on overdrive. Not to mention the dulled pheromones. Being surrounded by so many alphas, the stench was probably awful for him. 

You, however, being an omega on the smaller side, couldn’t smell much, not with your implant which was due for replacement this quarter. Hunter never mentioned anything to you about smell. You just hoped it wasn’t too much for him with all of your implants thankfully. It never seemed like an issue for him. 

“We’re clear for landing,” Echo chirped from the copilot seat. Everyone came up to the front to strap into the jump seats. Crosshair brought your packed bag up with him and placed it gently under your feet before he took the seat next to you and strapped in. You thanked him, and he gave you a silent nod still chewing on his toothpick. 

Echo and Tech gently landed the Marauder in the GAR main hangar bay and finished up the last cross check before disembarking. Wrecker was kind and offered to carry your duffle filled with your civvies and toiletries. You thanked him and followed him out of the Marauder. Taking a deep breath of fresh air, you smiled at the feeling of real sun on your skin. 

Looking down the steps, you squealed, noticing all of the white and blue plastoid on the other side of the hangar bay. Running at full speed, you nearly tripped over your own feet, flinging yourself at Kix. 

He noticed you last minute and swooped you up into his arms, “Hey Tiny! I didn’t know you were on rotation already?” He picked you up and spun you around before putting you down. Your excitement to see your old unit was overwhelming; you couldn’t help but smile as more of your friends on the 501st ran over to give you a hug or a playful shove.

You missed the way Wrecker gawked at your reaction to the Regs. “Well, she certainly doesn’t do that with us,” Tech noted, watching you rub up against the alphas in a comforting manner, purring under their affection. 

“Fucking Regs,” Crosshair groused. 

Echo remembered how fond you are of the 501st. He remembered when you were a newbie just starting your medical field days bonding with General Tano as teens. He felt a little nostalgic watching you with his vod. He laughed remembering how Ahsoka would scent you before sending you out into the field. They loved you so much. 

Tech noted how comfortable you were with their touch and scenting. Something no one in their unit ever attempted with you. Of course, they were aware of your designation, but they tried their hardest to be respectful. Hunter had made it extremely clear no one was supposed to touch you unless necessary. It had been six months of your service on their unit, and no one has ever gotten this close with you except Wrecker, but it wasn’t anything like that. 

The alpha in Tech was a little upset by this. Why didn’t the omega feel comfortable with them? 

Hunter listened to the way you preened under their attention, and his chest pained a bit hearing your purrs. Was he… jealous? No. That’s his medic, that's all. He had read your file; you’d been with them for most of the war. Of course, that would make you closer. He could smell the happy pheromones you spread from where they were. You were happy with the 501st’s attention; it wasn’t something he knew you craved.

“I’m here for quarterlies,” you tapped your shoulder, “And I’m due for replacement.” You sighed. “Ahh,” Kix smirked, “Difficult enough dealing with us reg alphas huh? Gotta deal with defects now too huh? Got that implant working overtime.” 

You rolled your eyes and shoved him. 

A cough behind you caught your attention. You spun around to see your unit catching up, looking a little perturbed, especially Crosshair. He’s never warmed up to the Regs and didn’t particularly like you sharing your fond stories about them. You usually keep to yourself in his presence or else he’d get a little hostile. 

“Sarge,” Kix greeted with a head tilt. 

“Kix,” Hunter gave him a polite nod, “Captain.” He looked beyond you. 

You spun around, “Rex!” You ran at him, wrapping yourself around your old captain. “Hey kid,” he laughed, giving you a pat on the head looking down at you.

 “I’m older than you, Captain,” you rolled your eyes with a smile. 

“So you like to remind me,” he laughed, suddenly realizing how much he had missed you. 

You stepped back with a huge smile. Suddenly everything was starting to feel good again. 90 rotations didn’t seem so terrible anymore. You giggled as they all filed in demanding to know how you’ve been.

 “We’re heading to 79’s later,” Jesse smiled, “You gotta come Y/N. I wanna hear about your adventures to the outer rim.” 

“Especially me,” Fives trotted forwards shoving you playfully aside before embracing his brother Echo, “Vod!” He hugged Echo tight. Echo relaxed into his hug and gave him a curt smile. “How you doing?” Fives asked, wrapping his arm around Echo’s shoulder before walking off with him towards the barracks to no doubt catch up. 

“I got a replacement due,” you sighed, “I can’t drink but I’ll stop by for a bit to catch up!” 

They all seemed to light up at that, “See you there, kid!” Captain Rex gave you a nod and turned on his heel to get back to work and make sure the General’s Venator was getting proper maintenance. 

“C’mon, Pip,” Hunter was leading the others towards the medical campus for their quarterlies. 

You huffed, “Coming, Sarge.” 

“Pip?” You heard the others laugh a bit at your new nickname when you trailed off behind your new unit. Damn their long legs you were struggling to hold pace with them. 

Crosshair gave you an incredulous look watching you try to catch up. You gave it right back to him. 

“Miss your precious Regs?” He sneered. You didn’t miss the way Tech’s shoulders stiffened. Wrecker and Hunter pretended not to hear, but you knew they did. You suddenly missed having Echo as your defense. 

“What?” You looked at him. 

“You heard me,” he growled. 

“Of course I missed my old unit. I haven’t seen them in six standard months, Crosshair.” 

“That all?” He was cold. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” You stopped and crossed your arms forcing him to stop walking. 

Crosshair pointed his toothpick at you, “Throwing yourself at a bunch of alphas like a bitch in hea-”

 “Enough!” Hunter growled. 

Your cheeks burned red. How dare he. You looked to Wrecker and then Tech but the looks on their faces didn’t exactly show any support for you. Did they agree?…Maker. Wrecker lowered his gaze which surprised you the most. 

Crosshair never really said much to you besides if you asked him an immediate question about his health or an injury. He usually somewhat avoided you. But you never thought he disliked you, at least up until now. The disgust was obvious on his face. 

You just shook your head and continued stalking towards the medical campus, ignoring Hunter’s call. Your shore-leave was becoming more and more desirable by the second. You wanted space especially from Mr. dark and gloomy. 

Deciding you’ve had enough of them, you detoured for your department entrance leaving them to go into the main medical campus alone. You knew Tech had all of your reports stowed on his datapad records. They would survive without you at least for now. You thought you heard Wrecker whimper behind you, but the sound of ion engines priming drowned out the rest before you stepped inside the medic clinic. Fuck Crosshair. What a dickhead.

You shook your head knowing you had other things to focus on besides his stupid little attitude. 

Passing through multiple security clearances, you stepped into the sterile clinic’s main lobby. 

“Medic Y/L/N?” You heard a familiar soft voice. 

“Hi Layla.” You smiled sweetly at the nurse who you came to know during your training program. Being an omega, she opted to stay on base instead of venturing out into the battle fronts she was definitely more gentle mannered than yourself. You preferred some action and excitement. 

“In for your quarterly’s?”

"Yeah, and I need a new replacement implant," you muttered as you trailed behind Layla toward one of the deserted exam rooms. The clinical white walls felt suffocating, a stark contrast to the chaotic memories you shared here. You reminisced about your early days serving the GAR, where Layla and you tended to wounded soldiers and even brushed shoulders with the occasional Jedi. But that was before you were transferred to General Skywalker’s unit, thrust into the heart of battle and endless repairs for him and his Padawan. You missed the simplicity of those days, the camaraderie with Layla.

”How’s the 501st treating you?" Layla's voice broke through your reverie as she handed you a crumpled paper gown.

"I got transferred to Special Forces 99," you replied, shedding your uniform behind the flimsy curtain. "They’re a different breed, that's for sure."

"Clone Force 99?" Layla's eyebrows rose in curiosity.

“Yeah.” you confirmed, feeling a flicker of amusement at her reaction.

As Layla chewed on her pen, a mischievous glint danced in her eyes. "The Sergeant’s pretty hot."

Your cheeks flushed, and you nearly stumbled over your words before recovering. “Layla…” You gawked.

She giggled and sat down on her roller stool. "Don’t lie and say you’ve never thought about it."

Well, obviously you’ve thought about it. They’re all honestly pretty hot, but you’d never admit that out loud.

"Now where have you seen Hunter like that?" you giggled at her cheekiness.

"I watch the holonet streams every once in a while. Especially after the retrieval on Skako Minor, General Skywalker and Sergeant CT-9901 were all over the holonet for weeks," she mused. "An omega’s wet dream."

You screamed and threw your boot at her. You two looked at each other momentarily before bursting out into a fit of laughter. Man, you missed Layla. Honestly, you just missed having another girl to talk to. This was such a refresher from the overwhelming amount of Alpha.

You hopped up on the table, lying down, trying to get comfortable.

"What’s he like?" her tone shifted into mischief.

You hesitated, memories of Hunter flooding your mind. "He’s… different. Polite, I guess."

Layla raised an eyebrow, her expression demanding the truth. “Girl…” she slapped your shoulder, grabbing her scanner to document your entire system from head to toe.

"Well, I don’t know!" you put your hands up in defense. "He’s quite the gentleman. None of them so much as look, Layla, I swear."

She just looked at you with a raised brow while she continued her work, “Yeah right.”

"But…" you smirked, watching her work, "I do know the tattoos go to his feet…" you bit your lip.

Now it was her turn to choke. "You’re lying…" Her interest was piqued.

You shook your head. "Full skeleton all the way down his arm, ribs, thigh…"

You two sighed.

She finished her scan and input the data before sliding her roller chair right next to you. "Everywhere?"

You raised a brow. "Everywhere," you confirmed with a nod.

She put her hand over her chest in a dramatic manner before prepping the numbing agent for your implant.

You remembered the day you found out this information about your Sergeant. Up until this point, you’d only seen maybe an arm or some knuckles in your medical repairs, but this time Hunter had taken a pretty bad hit to his side and thigh. Multiple blaster wounds had torn him up, and Tech had helped him limp back to the ship before they both collapsed on the floor. You had flung yourself out of your bunk at the commotion only to realize what had happened.

Tech helped you tear off Hunter’s armor and helmet, trying to figure out where the wounds were. Luckily, they hadn’t gone through, and it was mostly just surface wounds, but you still had to cut through his blacks to get to it, leaving his entire left side exposed. He had growled at you, but Tech had set him straight. He was just in pain.

That’s when you realized his entire left side was tattooed like his face, all the way down to his feet. You mumbled a quick apology before starting your cleaning process and bacta application.

The wounds had healed up nicely, but he had to re-tattoo the fresh skin the next time they had shore-leave. You had also stowed away the information of how muscular he was. The man was truly a work of art.

A sharp jab snapped you out of your memories when Layla removed the old suppressor implant. You yelped when the new one went in, making you a bit dizzy with pain. You hissed when she retracted the mechanism.

"There we go," she beamed. "Good as new."

"Thanks, Layla," you said, sitting up, letting her bandage the small incision wound with a bacta patch. The soothing coldness was immediate. You sighed in relief as the pain dulled.

"I told Rex I’d be at 79’s later, if you want to come?" you offered, slipping from the table to give her a hug.

"As much as I’d love to play with the captain, I have so much work to catch up on for quarterly's. I better stay here," she sighed, pushing her chair back into place. "But you have fun, and enjoy your time off. Come back to visit if you get bored."

You giggled. "I will." And with that, she left you to change back into your uniform before leaving the medic’s clinic. The hangar bay was significantly more empty now as you made your way over to civilian transport. After exiting the security checkpoint, you made your way over to the clone transport. "Can you take me to residential?" you asked the officer in the pilot’s seat. He gave you a nod, and you settled back into the transport’s seats. With a sigh, you were finally starting to relax a bit. You knew the boys were probably already back at their barracks after their examinations, so you knew they wouldn’t be bothering you for at least a few rotations.

When you finally arrived to the GAR residential building you gave the driver a thanks before hoping out and skipping over to the front door. You couldn’t wait to get to your quarters and enjoy a long hot shower. Swiping your clearance card, you dashed into the elevator to your floor and into your room. It smelled like you needed to open a window but other then that is was just as you left it. Knowing you’d have to get some food delivered, you gave a dramatic sigh while kicking off your regulation boots. You went to unzip your uniform top when you heard the swish of clothing and a familiar scoff. 

You turned suddenly seeing Crosshair standing in your kitchen in his civvies looking tall and menacing. 

“Maker! Crosshair!” You put a hand on your chest, “You scared me!” 

“Sorry little one.” He didn’t sound sorry at all. 

You looked around suddenly remembering you’re in YOUR apartment. 

“What the hell are you doing here Crosshair?” You narrowed your gaze at him getting mad all over again. 

“Hunter is making me apologize for earlier.” He grumbled around his toothpick. 

You hummed, “How did you get in here?” 

He held up the Sergeant’s entry card. Of course… dammit Hunter.

“Here.” He slid your duffle across the floor to you. A peace offering. You were grateful for that at least. 

A deep pang in your shoulder made you grimace “Thanks.” You unzipped your uniform top leaving you in your bindings not caring if he looked. He didn’t seem phased anyways. The bacta patch stained red with your blood. He narrowed his eyes to the incision. You knelt down to your duffle and pulled out your field kit. You grabbed a dose of pain killer and brought the injector up to the wound site. You pressed the mechanism and the needle stabbed you quickly injecting the medicine. You rolled your shoulder and replaced the bacta patch seeing the wound turning to a simple line. Soon it would be gone in a few hours. 

“So?” You looked at the tall sniper. 

He lifted a brow. 

You crossed your arms, “Your apology?” 

He snorted and stood up straight before walking past you. 

“Sorry.” He mumbled before stepping back out into the hallway and disappearing. 

You sighed knowing that was all you’re going to get from the grumpy soldier. Whatever, you’d take it. 

~~~

The shower that followed was worth it. You had never felt so clean in your few years in this universe. The piping hot water cleansed you of three standard months of sweat, bomb residue, and blood. You scrubbed and scrubbed until your skin flared red before you stepped out of the shower to get ready. Throwing on your favorite civvies and some makeup, you quickly dried your hair before throwing on your regulation boots. Grabbing your com and a few credits. You practically skipped out of your apartment making a beeline for 79’s. You couldn’t wait to catch up with your old friends.

When you arrived, you heard an uproar of men yelling your name. You looked over to see Fives, Jesse, Kix, and the others wave you over. 

“Tiny!” You got tackled by Fives. He put you in a headlock and ruffled your hair despite your cries. You shoved him off of you knowing he must have scented you in the process. 

“Ugh! Fives you reek.” You scrunched your nose smelling the alpha on him it was stronger then usual.

“Sorry tiny.” He laughed rubbing the back of his neck, “We gotta get our implants replaced too.” 

You shook your head and plopped down in the booth next to Kix with a laugh. He shoved the snack plate in your face continuing his conversation with another soldier to his right. You were starving and started munching down on the mantell mix.

“Hope that wont be a problem kid.” Rex smiled at you. 

You just yanked your collar down to show them the patch, “All good captain.” 

That made them relax. The 501st is many things, but they were always chivalrous towards you. Being their favorite omega and all, they had always taken a very protective stance with you. None of them tried anything and they had always kept away the creeps. You were thankful for their protection. 

Your current hoard of alphas though, you didn’t really know where you stood with them. They kind of pretended like you weren’t there. You quickly realized they weren’t used to working with strangers, and an omega of all things. At first they treated you like a fragile little thing. Like they were worried they’d step on you. They couldn’t help but stare. You didn’t really blame them. Eventually it wore off and they seemed to become a bit more comfortable with your presence. Until it became normal. Except Crosshair, he never seemed to warm up to you and kept you at arms length. 

“So how’s your new unit?” Fives asked sounding a bit jealous. 

You giggled, “They’re.. nice.” 

They all looked at you. 

“What?” You shrunk under their looks. Even Rex stared. 

“Nice?” Jesse laughed. 

“That’s not exactly the word I’d use.” Rex raised a brow, “You’re okay, right kid?” 

You opened your mouth in shock, “Guys I’m okay. I swear.”

They visibly relaxed. 

“Look, it took some getting used to. I don’t think they’ve ever been around strangers before they’re very close. Clearly. Eventually they warmed up. Except the sniper. I think he might actually not like me.” 

Fives just scoffed, “It’s because your’e hot cyar’ika”

Jesse punched him in the stomach. Fives doubled over and everyone at the table grumbled at him. You just felt your cheeks burn up and you hid behind Kix’s shoulder. 

“Fives…” Rex sighed. 

“What?” He choked out, “I’m just saying. I don’t think those defects have been anywhere near a woman much less an omega. Aye!” He blocked Jesse’s punch again. 

“What omega?” You heard a gruff voice approach. 

It was Commander Wolffe and the pack still in uniform. Rex got up and clapped him on the shoulder getting him settled in. He placed his helmet on the table and peered over at you. 

“I don’t think we’ve met cyar’ika.” He grinned at you showing off his scar and grey iris. 

You felt your heart rate increase under his intense stare. You could tell this alpha was seasoned, first generation from the looks of him. You were certain that if you didn’t have your implant, you'd be keening for his attention. Instead, you submissively lowered your gaze and leaned into Kix a bit. He wrapped an arm around you and looked up at the Commander, saying, “This is Y/N; we call her Tiny.” He shook you playfully, adding, “She used to be our medic. Now she’s with the 99’s.”

Wolffe let out a low whistle. “The 99’s? Must be exciting. Nice to meet you, Y/N,” he said, extending a hand, which you took, giving it a good shake. His calloused fingers lingered a bit as he ran them over your soft knuckles.

Looking up at him from beneath your lashes, you said, “Nice to meet you, Commander,” giving him a polite smile.

He smiled back, clearly pleased with your attention. Oh, he liked you, you thought to yourself. He then gently released your hand and turned to his men. “Let’s get a round of drinks. We’re off for quarterly’s!”

His men let out a whooping shout, and the waitress took down their orders. The pack quickly became rowdy, opting for roughhousing with each other and the shinies. After a long while of dodging his gaze and eating the food Kix placed in front of you, you decided you needed a cold glass of water and squeezed out from under Kix’s arm. The stench of so many alphas was starting to become too much, even with the implant. You were praying they couldn’t smell the nervousness on you.

Walking up to the bar, the woman smiled at you. She recognized you, as you usually spent your time with the boys when you were off. She gave you a little wave and bounced over, asking what you wanted.

“Just water for me,” you smiled. She smiled back and went to fill up your glass.

“What’s a pretty little omega doing in a place like this?” a shiny walked up to you, placing himself uncomfortably close to your back. You turned, facing him square on. Despite all clones being created as alphas, this one was young and stupid. Your omega instincts told you he’d be a weak mate. You noticed the lack of markings and scratches on his armor. He’s barely seen anything, you realized.

“I’m here with my friends,” you replied curtly, taking the glass of ice water from the bartender with a nod. You went to move away, but he caught your arm in a tight grip. Not tight enough to hurt, but tight enough to assert his dominance and stop you from leaving. You just looked at his hand and then up to his face.

“I wasn’t done with you… omega,” he leered, leaning forward to run his nose closer to your scent glands. Your heart rate increased for all the wrong reasons. Fear started to creep up inside you the longer he had his hands on you. Now you wished Fives had scented you for real. 

“Why are you messing with my medic?” 

You stiffened. 

Hunter’s smokey voice cut through the music of the club making your entire spine tingle. Hunter had used his Alpha tone making you tremble in spot. The shiny suddenly looked up eyes going wide. He quickly released you and saluted Hunter.“Sorry Seargant. I didn’t know she was yours.” 

“Hmm” Hunter dismissed him and grabbed you by the same arm the shiny had just moments ago, except this time the touch didn’t feel dangerous. Instead it made your stomach flip. He’d never touched you unless it was for medical purposes. You couldn’t help the little preen inside you bubbling up. Alpha Protects. He lead you past the shiny and over to an empty booth in the back of the club. You could hear Layla’s voice ringing in your head. She’d be eating this up right now. You prayed your pheromones didn’t give you away.

He finally let you go when you reached the booth waiting for you to slide in. You immediately missed the warmth of his bare hand. You realized they were all in their civvies, well except tech, he still had his helmet near by. The rest of them slid into the booth following suit. 

“She’s smells like Regs.” Wrecker crinkled his nose. Between, Fives, Kix, and the shiny you knew you reeked.

“Sorry.” You mumbled taking a sip of your water still a little pissed with them.

“You okay pip?” Hunter asked looking you in the eyes. You suddenly shied away from his gaze looking down at his shirt collar nodding. His eyes were too intense. You usually didn’t have a problem, but you were still trebling from the effects of his voice lingering. 

“Did something happen?” Tech asked from around Hunter’s shoulder. 

“I’m alright. Just a dumb shiny.” You felt like you were being suffocated by their stares. 

They laughed a bit at that. 

“Okay, I can’t take it anymore.” Wrecker shoved you under his arm and rubbed his scent all over you. You coughed and sputtered trying to shove him away but it was no use. Crosshair rolled his eyes.

“Alright Wrecker enough.” Hunter sighed looking down at you drowning in alpha, “She’s covered.” 

“Ugh.” You tried to straightening out your hair and top a bit, “Easy next time big guy. I think every alpha for a mile can smell me now.” 

He just gleamed. You couldn’t help but be a bit grateful. It seems like everyone was due for an updated implant. The smells were getting to be out of control. No one would come near you now. Even the rough housing seemed to be a little aggressive than usual. They had asked you about the wolf pack but you just shrugged watching their rough housing turn into full on brawls.

The boys continued talking about something random that Tech had info dumped about and Wrecker of course was confused. You continued to sip on your ice water before you heard your name being called. You popped your head up from the booth to find Fives looking for you. You sighed and put your cup down. Part of you didn’t want to go back because of the attention the commander was giving you, but the other part of you wanted to spend some time with Rex and the boys. Damn these alphas. 

Opting to stay where you were, Fives and the boys decided to come over towards you. Knowing this was probably going to go badly, you shrunk into the booth. Hunter eyed you before he heard Crosshair snarl. A large group of Regs came trotting over to come socialize like a bunch of drunk pups. They all pulled up chairs and surrounded the booth with their rambunctiousness. 

“Where’d you go Tiny?” Jesse was sloshed. Leaning over Fives who was barely holding himself together. 

“Tiny, did you see the way the commander was looking at you?” Fives shoved Jesse off of him, “I think he’s trying to-” he jiggled his brows suggestively at you and you just shook your head and wanted to melt into the table. Please not this. Not with my commanding officer present. Not my very hot commanding officer present. You wanted to slap Layla why did she have to start putting these thoughts into your head. 

“Commander Wolffe?” Tech asked for clarification. 

Fives just nodded taking another big sip from his cup.

“Someone shoot me.” You covered your face you were too sober for this conversation. You could feel Crosshairs smirk from across the table.

“Awh pip.” Wrecker just grabbed you again and shook you around, “The Commander thinks you’re prettyyyy.” 

Fives and Jesse giggled. Hunter and the others just looked uncomfortable. Obviously they weren’t the most social, nor playful. This was just embarrassing. Your only comfort was Wrecker. He was always the nicest anyways. You just tucked yourself into his side forgetting his betrayal earlier. 

“The Commander wants to rut with Y/N?” Tech asked. 

“Maker.” You wanted to dissipate into thin air.

“Mhmm.” Jesse and Fives nodded with cheesy grins, “she gave him the eyes.” 

You scoffed, “I did not!” 

“Yeah you did!” Fives giggles. He then looked at Jesse and re-enacted the whole scene dramatically, “It’s nice to meet you commander.” He fluttered his eyelashes at Jesse and held his hand. You groaned and put your head down on the table. 

“I need a drink.” You whimpered not able to take the teasing.

“Is that wise?” Tech chimed in, “You just had your implant replaced. It’s advised to not drink for the first 24 hours or else it may be ineffective.” 

“Kriff.” You sighed. 

“And that’s my cue to come rescue Tiny.” Kix interjected and yanked you up from the booth taking you far away from this painfully awkward conversation. You thanked him profusely letting him guide you.

“You’re nervous when you’re sober.” He laughed walking over to the dance floor with you. 

“I’m nervous because of my Sergeant.” You whisper in his ear. He just gives you a questionable look. You laugh and shake your head, “A friend of mine said something today and I can’t get it out of my stupid omega head.” 

“Oh?” He raised a brow dancing to the beat. 

“Shut up.” You laughed praying Hunter couldn’t hear you over the yelling and music, “They also don’t like the “Regs,” you shook your head. 

“Well I know why.” He replied spinning you around. 

“Why?” You asked swaying to the beat. 

“Everyone was so mean to them growing up. Kids are horrible you know. But because they’re different they definitely dealt with a lot during training days.” Kix informed you. Suddenly everything made sense. Especially why Crosshair can’t seem to socialize with Regs to save his life. 

“Plus, the Captain decked the sniper on Skako Minor.” Kix said cheekily. 

You dropped your jaw, “Rex?” You couldn’t believe it. There’s no way level headed Rex lost it with Crosshair.

“Oh yeah.” He laughed, “They got into it while trying to find Echo.” 

“No way.” You couldn’t believe it. While dancing you peered over at the table to find the four 99’s watching you completely ignoring the drunk shenanigans from the 501st boys. The only one interacting was Echo. You could tell there was a part of him that missed his brothers. They continued to drink and talk amongst themselves while you and Kix danced on the floor. Some of the other 501st boys joined you before linking up with pretty omegas vying for their attention. Clearly their interests were else where.

You definitely didn’t miss the way the Commander seemed to be unable to take his eyes off of you from his chair. You chose to ignore him. 

An alpha like that could send you into heat with or without an implant. You however had a job to do, and being stuck in his bed for a week wouldn’t suffice. The mortification of even thinking about returning to the Marauder after that. You couldn’t even go there. Crosshair would literally never let you hear the end of it. He might shove you out of the airlock when you weren’t expecting it. 

Kix seemed to be reading your mind and elected to giggle. You slapped him on the arm and he feigned injury. Just then, you noticed the Commander stand and seemingly decide to come your way. Feeling there to flee, you quickly hugged Kix and made a dart for the door. Grabbing your comm you let the boys know you’d be returning to your apartment but to your dismay, Hunter replied…

“Don’t bother we just got special orders. We’re shipping out tonight.” He sounded tired. So much for shore-leave.

“Ugh.” You whined turning to the taxi waiting by the club entrance. You put your comm away in your pocket and fished around for a few credits ignoring the way the cool evening air chilled your skin.

“Something wrong Cyar’ika?” The gruff voice you were dreading came from behind you. Damn your omega tendencies. You turned keeping your eyes lowered. 

“Everything is alright Commander.” You replied sweetly, “I just got informed my break has been cut short. We ship out again tonight.” 

He sighed stepping forwards and placed his pointer finger under your chin to tilt your head up. You nearly whimpered looking into his scarred eye. Alpha’s strong. Alpha likes you. Alpha smells good. Really good. You wanted to whine when his eye zeroed in on yours. He wanted your eyes on him that was for certain. Maybe a breakout heat with the Commander wouldn’t be too bad…

“Well if you ever need anything you let me know, yeah?” The Commander smiled wolfishly at you and released you. You took a deep breath and took a step back and nodded your head. 

“Y/N?” You heard Tech’s call come to your rescue, “Do you need a ride?” 

You grabbed your comm and quickly responded with shaking hands, “Yeah that would be nice thank you Tech.” 

It wasn’t long until their speeder arrived and you turned back to the Commander who had no issue walking you over to your unit. You could tell by Hunter skeptical glance that he was trying to figure out the situation. The Commander passed you over to your men and have you a nod before putting his helmet back on and walking back into the club. 

“What was that about?” Hunter asked with a raised brow. 

“I really don’t want to talk about it.” You shook your head and practically dove into the speeder. 

“Did the Commander proposition you?” Tech asked pushing his glasses back up. 

You squeaked and hid in the backseat. 

“Stop bothering her.” Echo shook his head. Thank the maker for Echo. 

“It was a harmless question.” Tech justified, “As we were talking about his strange attentions earlier and Y/N’s even more unordinary response according to the Regs.” 

You looked out the window of the speeder at the endless city below, “I’m going to jump.” You half joked. 

“Tech please drop it.” Echo implored, “You’re making her uncomfortable… and me.” 

“It’s just biological responses.” Tech grumbled into his data pad, “Nothing to be embarrassed about.” 

You sighed. This was going to be another long mission, and then you were going to take it upon yourself to insure you got a vacation. Hopefully there was something Rex could do to get you some time off for real this time far away from all of these men. 

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

This part one, I'll be posting regularly to this story, I hope y'all enjoy!

#bad batch #abo #abobadbatch #smut #fanfic #hunter #crosshair #wrecker #tech #echo #501st #cloneforce99 #79's #star wars #clonewars

[invisibleanonymousmonsters]

chapter i – gust & flame

Eris Vanserra x Reader

Eris Vanserra has been a prisoner in his own home since the day he was born. He has done what he had to in order to survive and protect the few he loves. And he is playing the long game. Waiting, waiting, and waiting for the right time to make his move, to usurp his wicked father and become High Lord of Autumn Court. But things become even more complicated when a human girl drops into his life. Perhaps Eris can wait no longer to take his throne.

Word Count: 2,600+

Warnings: violence, mentions of human trafficking, spoilers for entire ACOTAR series

masterlist

Another war was just around the corner, and Eris swore he could feel it in the air. An evil waited to pounce, to force Prythian to choose sides once more. Only this time, his father was exhorting such evils to break out.

Eris was quiet as he rode his horse through the forest he knew like the back of his hand. These days, the forests in Autumn Court felt like the only escape from his father and all the vileness that he brought with him. 

His sentries surrounded him while still staying just a couple paces behind him, so he could easily direct them where he saw fit. 

The only sounds they brought to the forest were the gentle steps of their horses’ hooves and his hounds sniffing about. 

The troop was surveying their borders. Eris had his duties and this was one of the few that he did not mind. Because he’d find any excuse to get out of the suffocating Forest House. He was good at playing games – probably too good. But it did weigh on him after awhile. 

Suddenly his hounds stopped abruptly and became alert. 

All their snouts pointed in the same direction and their tales were pointed, signaling to their master. 

Without hesitating, Eris jumped off his steed and stepped forward, looking into the direction his hounds watched while growling. 

Suddenly, a gust of wind hit them. It was far too powerful for the woods, usually the trees blocked such wind due to their density in this area. 

It was unnatural, that much Eris was sure of. 

He clicked his tongue, signaling to both his dogs and his men to follow his lead. 

His dogs went into the hunting formation that had been trained into them since they were puppies. But one hound sprinted forward to see what dangers laid ahead for his master. 

And Eris’ men flanked him, weapons at the ready. 

With a clench of his fists, both of Eris’ hands were covered in flames. 

It was only seconds of stepping forward when the hound returned to his master. But Eris was confused to hear the dog whining desperately and sitting down, looking up as if trying to plead with him. 

More confident now, Eris marched forward, silently maneuvering around the thick branches to still maintain the element of surprise. 

But he didn’t expect what he found on the other side. 

There was a small break in the trees, offering an opening. It was covered in fallen leaves that were bright red and orange. 

The sun filtered through, lighting up the intruder as if she were some sort of sprite. 

A female.

No, a young woman. A human. 

And around her were three dead male fae, two still groaning in pain as their blood escaped from their bodies and stained the forest floor. 

The woman was covered in blood, gasping as if she couldn’t catch her breath. And there was a dagger in her right hand, still dripping with blood. 

One of the hounds whined, and Eris' neck snapped down to scold his pet for giving away their presence. This behavior was most unlike the dogs. 

The girl turned. No, she swayed. But slowly faced Eris. 

She looked exhausted by the mere sight of him. As if she just saw him as another male she must kill. 

And she was beautiful, even by fae standards. 

But as soon as their eyes met, Eris felt it. His heart was beating heavily as if it gained size and was trying to burst from his chest. 

“No,” Eris gasped at the feeling. 

At the same moment, the woman took a step, but her body swayed before taking another. The dagger slipped from her hand just before Eris watched her eyes roll to the back of her neck and she fell to the ground unconscious. 

Without even realizing he had started moving, Eris rushed to her side. 

She was breathing, though it was shallow. 

“My Lord?” One of his sentry asked. 

“I’m fine,” Eris snapped. 

“Oi, the lots done it now,” another groaned as he studied the mess before him after also emerging from the line of trees. 

“Explain,” Eris demanded. 

“The merchants, I’ve heard rumblings about them before.”

“Merchants?” Eris repeated. 

He managed all trade in and out of Autumn Court. Clearly these men were hiding something, for they’d taken an unbeaten path in a dangerous forest. This was not the route of any merchant that he had approved. 

“Of…unsavory goods.” The sentry cleared his throat awkwardly. “These males are in the business of selling humans, My Lord. Women and children, usually. Taken from their homes in the mortal lands and sold to fae.” 

Eris’ eyes shot down to the girl who was unconscious before him. He hissed, “And why is this the first I am hearing of it?” 

“The High Lord is more than aware of it. He allows these males to travel through Autumn…for a price.”

Eris ground his teeth. Of course his father would have no issue with such trading. As long as he gets a bit of coin, he’d pretend he had no hand in it. He needed money to finance an upcoming war, after all.

To all of his sentries surprise, Eris picked up the girl in his arms gently. 

“What do you mean to do with her?” One asked. 

Eris looked into the gaze of every single male. “You are to never speak of this. To anyone. Is that understood?”

They all nodded. 

These males were loyal to Eris and Eris alone. Whatever he wished would be granted. 

“Bury the bodies. I shall return by tonight.”

He caught the questions in their eyes, but they knew better than to question him for details. 

And then Eris winnowed out of the forest. 

————

Eris arrived at the House of Wind's entryway, but could go no further due to the protective barriers. 

“Rhysand!” He bellowed. 

Eris knew there was another place the High Lord and Lady – and their friends – lived, that was not the House of Wind. But he was not trusted enough to know where that was – and he figured he never would be. 

“RHYSAND!” Eris yelled again. 

“I don’t believe I invited you…” a voice spoke from the shadows. 

The High Lord of the Night Court walked out into the light. Then its High Lady also came storming around the corner. Followed by their precious inner circle. 

Good. They were all already here. 

“What’s this about, Eris?” Feyre asked harshly, moving to her mate’s side. 

Then her eyes caught sight of the human girl in his arms and her eyes widened ever so slightly, but she quickly composed herself. 

“I come asking for your help,” Eris looked at both Rhysand and Feyre.

Then his eyes switched to his brother's mate.

“Help her,” Eris demanded, locking eyes with Elain. He knew very little of her, but still recognized she was the softest of them all. 

Elaine stepped forward, hypnotized. Her eyes looked at the girl with sympathy, as if she was looking at her old self, before she had been turned fae against her will. 

“She’s covered in blood,” Elain pointed out in a whisper. 

“It is not her own,” Eris answered. 

“How comforting,” Nesta huffed as she followed Elain.

“Who is this woman to you?” Azriel finally asked, glaring at him. 

“She is no one,” Eris answered evenly. 

“What have you done to her?” Cassian asked, arms crossed and giving Eris a look of rage. 

“None of it was my doing. I found her in this state,” Eris sounded even colder than usual. 

But Cassian still stepped forward and carefully took the human from Eris’ arms. And it took every ounce of control for Eris not to snap at Cassian for touching the girl. 

His eyes snapped back to the High Lord and Lady. “May I speak with you alone?” 

“What trickery is this?” Azriel interrupted. 

But Rhysand held up a hand, and Azriel knew to say no more. 

“You have interrupted our dinner. Whatever this is, you better explain,” Rhysand warned, but both he and Feyre still led him to a study. 

They waited for Eris to speak. 

“Keep her in Velaris. Safe. It is all I ask.”

Rhysand and Feyre shared a look. Eris knew they were speaking to each other. It was expected. But he purposely addressed Feyre equally, because he knew he would need her sympathy on this particular matter. 

Rhysand finally cleared his throat. “Humans do not bode well in fae lands. You know this.”

“She is not safe in the moral lands any longer. And Autumn Court is no place for her.” 

“Eris,” Feyre said carefully, “Who is she?” 

“No one,” Eris answered callously. Then he stood straighter, putting his hands behind his back, looking like he was about to share an official report with them. “It was brought to my attention that my father has been allowing fae merchants to move human slaves through my court.”

“For a cut, I can only presume,” Rhysand added. 

“Unfortunately,” Eris confirmed. “While patrolling the border, I fell across those merchants. I found them dead by – from what I presume – the hands of that girl.” 

“And why is she our problem now?” Rhysand asked. 

Eris knew he cared. He knew of the High Lord’s mask. Rhysand tried so hard to appear cold and even sometimes evil. But Eris knew, despite having no connection to the human, Rhysand had an interest in making sure she was alright. 

“If I leave her in Autumn, she will either die trying to survive on her own or my father will find her and kill her so no one can know about his little side trade.”

“And why do you care?” Feyre asked. “When did you get such a heart of gold, Eris?”

“I do not wish to tolerate such trading in my court. She is innocent and I am simply trying to right the wrongs of my father.” 

Rhysand tilted his head slightly. “Careful, Eris. Some might start to think you have a moral compass.”

Eris scoffed, but he was running out of reasons excuses and lies. 

So, he would just give them what they wanted. 

Eris took in a shallow breath. “When I become High Lord of Autumn Court, I promise an unbreakable alliance between our courts. Whatever course the Night Court may take, I swear loyalty and support from Autumn – no matter what. The only thing I ask for in return is that you give her refuge and keep her safe.”

And to prove how serious he was, Eris held out his hand. 

Feyre’s eyes widened as she looked at his open palm, offering it to Rhysand. 

A bargain. That will be sealed with a tattoo on both Eris and Rhysand’s skin. If either of them broke their oath, they would die. 

Now, both Rhysand and Feyre were digging in Eris’ head. He could feel them scraping against the walls. But he had trained diligently on protecting himself from such attacks. And so they found nothing. 

Rhysand lost all amusement now. He stepped closer to Eris, staring into his sharp, amber eyes with nothing but sympathy. 

“Who is this woman to you?” Rhysand said so quietly it was almost a whisper. 

And Eris swore for a second, the High Lord understood. That he saw through Eris' facade of apathy.

“She is no one,” Eris repeated his earlier lie. “I do not even know her name.” 

“How do we know she is not a danger?” Feyre asked carefully. 

“I would say, ‘What human girl could ever be a danger to our kind?’” Eris began and then he sneered at her. “But we all know the damage you did before you became fae, dear Feyre.” 

“We agree to your terms. For as long as she resides in Night Court, she shall be safe,” Rhysand finally answered. 

Clearly the two of them had settled it telepathically. 

Eris bowed his head and tried not to show his relief. 

The two men grasped each other’s right forearms. 

Feyre watched as a tiny maple leaf etched onto the back of her mate's thumb, right between the two knuckles. Meanwhile, a similar one appeared on the inside of Eris’ right wrist. 

“She will be safe here,” Rhysand vowed. 

“Thank you,” Eris told them both. “I must get back to my court.”

And just before he was going to winnow away, Feyre stepped toward him quickly. “Will you be back? To visit her?”

Eris looked torn. 

“No." And he vanished. 

Feyre and Rhysand shared an open and honest look with one another now that they were alone. 

“She can’t be,” Feyre answered his suspicion. 

“There was something so familiar about his desperation, Feyre. And then I realized… I saw myself in him.”

“But she is human,” Feyre argued gently. 

“I think Cassian is proof that it does not matter.” 

“That was the most civil I have ever seen Eris. He said, ‘Thank you.’ It took all of my power not to let my jaw drop when I heard the words drop from his lips.” 

Rhysand chuckled. “Let us go check on our new guest, shall we?” 

They found Elaine, Nesta, Azriel, and Cassian waiting outside the door of one of the many guest rooms in the House of Wind. 

“Madja’s in there with her,” Nesta told the two of them. “I don’t think she had any injuries. Just exhaustion, and clearly she’s malnourished.”

“She will be staying here,” Rhysand clarified. 

“For how long?” Nesta spat out. 

“Until it is safe in Autumn Court, I suspect,” Rhysand answered. “She can stay here or at the River House. It’s up to you, Nesta. This is your home after all.” 

“Why did you agree to this?” Azriel asked. 

“Eris promised Autumn Court’s loyalty and allyship to the Night Court – when he becomes High Lord, that is,” Feyre answered. 

Rhysand raised his thumb, showing the group his new tattoo as further proof. 

Azriel stepped forward, “She could be dangerous.”

Before Rhysand or Feyre could respond, Madja exited the guest room. 

“How is she?” Elaine asked softly. 

“She will be quite alright – physically, that is. But I fear she has seen a great deal. The damage to her mind and heart is surely far greater.” Then she gave a warning look to Feyre and Rhysand. “I advise the two of you do not go snooping around in her head. She has already been violated in so many other ways. Her mind needs just as much rest as her body.” 

The High Lord and Lady nodded in understanding. 

“Let her rest. When she wakes, only give her small portions of food to begin with. Some broth and maybe a piece of bread. And plenty of water. Human bodies are feeble. Too much food too quickly, and she’ll be sick after being deprived of it for what seems to be weeks.”

Nesta looked up at the ceiling, “Hear that?” 

“Thank you, Madja.” Feyre told the healer. 

But her face turned serious then. “I sensed there is something more to the child.” ‘Child’ because every human seemed like a baby compared to Madja. “There is power inside her.” 

“Power?” Rhysand asked with the raise of an eyebrow. 

“Nothing like fae magic. But it’s something no human should possess.”

“A witch?” Cassian asked. 

Madja turned to him with a thoughtful look. “Perhaps.” She pat Rhysand on the shoulder. “I shall retire for now. If anything changes, please let me know.”

“Thank you, Madja.” Rhysand answered. 

“A witch? Why make such a bargain?” Azriel asked. “She could be a plant, someone to destroy Night from the inside. Eris promised loyalty, but what if his intentions were to have the Night Court for himself?” 

“His desperation was not political,” Rhysand corrected. “It was personal.” 

“How?” Cassian asked. 

“We believe she is his mate,” Feyre told the group. 

“If Beron would kill one of his son’s lovers for being a lesser fae,” Rhysand began. “What do you think he would do to a human girl who was his heir’s mate?” 

“Well, I pity her, being stuck with that bastard for the rest of her life,” Nesta thought aloud. Then she cleared her throat, “To answer your earlier question, she may stay here at the House of Wind. If she does have ulterior motives, it’s better to keep her contained all the way up here. I don’t want her anywhere near my nephew.” 

Rhysand smirked at the subtle protectiveness Nesta often showed for Nyx. 

“I shall be back in the morning,” Rhysand told her. “Hopefully she’ll be awake by then and I can speak with her.”  

----

Let me know what ya'll think. This is my first fic in the ACOTAR fandom and I truly don't know how of many of there are out there on tumblr. I could be just throwing shit into a void for all I know.

chapter ii

#eris vanserra #autumn court #eris vanserra x reader #eris x reader #eris acotar #autumn court acotar #a court of thorns and roses #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acosf #Prythian #fae #eris vanserra fic #beron vanserra #inner circle #night court #rhysand #feyre archeron

[punk-in-docs]

Prince Paul spreading his wife over a dining table so he can eat her relentlessly 🤤🤤🤤

🥀The Matter of a Good Taste 🥀

AN: relentlessly you say? *Cracks knuckles*

I’ve written so much Prince Paul pussy eating I’m starting to think it’s my kink that I always seem to get this man on his knees to give some amazingly fantastic head when irl he probably never even ate a pussy once but you know what? Fuck it. Also this came out far sweeter than I had intended? Idk how. TW: none really apart from some serious pent up need oral.

Nights at the palace slip in all soft. Slippery and holding the gentle density of clouds.

It’s a rather stark change to the brutality of court in the day. All the velvet draped daggers and sugar faked smiles. The grins that then vanish in passing.

Snide acidic comments designed to poke like sharp gleaming needles. Designed to find the space between the ribs. Whispers wriggle like hissing snakes at your bodiced silk back.

Mornings are a parting wrench. You don your costume to please them all. Tie the stays tight. Lip rouge the colour of split blood. Heartthrob red.

You far prefer the nights. Time that narrows down - tapers, whittled - right the way down to you and Paul. When the candles burn their tongues of gold and spin the room to shadow and gems. Sparkling like the Crown Jewels.

You sit down to dine together and pour way too much wine. A heavy dinner. Always heavy. The same pallid creamy white soup. Roast meat - bloody and smothered sticky with dark wine sauce. Potatoes and onions with thyme and sage. A meal that sits heavy and clunking in your belly.

You chat about your days. You tell him about the tea party for the girls orphanage, and the earned shreds of gossip whispered out the side of Milena’s mouth. He tells you about the military coup, the uprisings. The jagged feeling towards the crown.

When the staff fade away with their chattering’s and cease heavy footfalls on the parquet. That’s your favourite. When peace descends. Thick like a smothering eiderdown.

The exquisite squeeze when your maid undoes your stays. When you can finally breathe out. The hot steam of a bath clearing your sinuses. Clean spice of tuberose soap and being wrapped in a cool cloaking chemise for bed. The smooth cotton sheets crisp and cold that you slide into, as you wait on Paul to join you.

You’d never tell him your habit. That each night as you lay in your bed, you listen out for his footfalls. You smile when you hear them coming closer outside the doors.

And you wait an awful long wait, tonight.

He doesn’t appear to be coming.

The carriage clock on the huge golden mantel strikes twelve. The chimes mock you with their tinny echoing cry. He should be in here, arms stuck wrapped around your back. Lips in your neck. Maybe a rough tumbling fuck if the day has been hellish.

Another half hour. And before the next can come, you throw the covers off and go in search of your absent husband.

Padding barefoot over the numerous antique rugs. Through the gilded doors. You find him in the dining room. Firelight shines wetly off the polished surface of the table. Ripping and curling orange. He’s staring. Transfixed by it.

He’s sat there in his shirt, undone waistcoat, and breeches. Ruffled neck wide open. Whisky eyes cast and doused in flame. Dormant like one of the outer crust of the stuffed animals displayed on these walls. The brushed hyde of glassy eyed stags or the great still plumage of some exotic bird eternally perched.

You lean against the huge door. Hips pressed to the golden handle. Stay to your silence. Watching him for a moment.

When day was done it was a release for you. An undressing. Unwind. For Paul it seemed less so.

Sometimes the tranquility that undid you, paved the way for a whole crush of thoughts in his head. Sisyphus and his boulder up that hill. The press of a frown pinching brows.

Heavy was the head that cannot yet seize the crown.

No one else gets this view of him. You made your mind up to adore it. He was all cherubim beauty. So striking. You thought the very same thing the first time you laid eyes on him. Definitely not a weak chin.

The pillow set of pink lips made to mouth at. Made to bite. The melty eyes that swing between venom and boyish levelled at you. The lush line of his jaw and the way his hair is set with a natural curl. The flick of doe lashes that really should be flecked with dew, they’re so girlish-pretty.

“Something vexes you?” You ask. Crossing your arms and gently intruding into the room. Hair loose down your back tickling your waist.

He looks over at you like he’s startled. Eyes all big and flame captured. Lips part softly. Like he’s a bunny been caught out by the hawk.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” He asks. His tone ripe with accusation. Throat bobs where he swallows.

You lay your vicious tongue to rest tonight. There’s no need for your dagger sharp words.

“You don’t escape my notice that easily.” You level shrewdly.

Not like how you escape hers.

The woman who is surely preying on his head right now. The glorious Empress, whose long casting shadow governs and hovers his every tiny step.

He doesn’t really respond. In the way he does when he can’t lay his thoughts to bed. Where his head is too heavy and buzzing full to lay on the pillow beside yours. Too itinerant.

You walk to his side. Hesitate before touching him. In case he snaps and insists he needs his space.

He tips his eyes across your body. Sees you whole where you’re stood.

The fire brushed strokes of fuzzy apricot across your chemise. He can see the shape of your naked body barely concealed underneath. Soap skimmed skin. Pillow crease caught in your cheek. Warm dewy from rest.

“Rough day.” He finally answers.

You nod. Just nod.

“Shall I keep to my rooms tonight, Tsarevich?” You enquire. Face a cold bed. Space gaping. Unfilled on the pillow opposite.

You say it without teasing. Without jest. You don’t purr flirt at him. You ask genuinely.

“Don’t.” He answers weakly. Throat bobs again.

You tip your head to the side.

Decide finally to slide towards him and run your fingers through his hair. Hip against the table. Stroking fingers through his pretty curls. The fire shot yellow gold some of the tresses. Chestnut too.

You want to tell him to lay it to rest. Whatever it is. Be done with it now. That the beast plaguing him will seem less daunting - will have its sharp teeth blunted by the dawn after a full night of rest.

He leans to you. Hands come for your hips and tugs you in.

Rests his head against your belly. Rubs his forehead into you there. Mashes his face to your soft body. Rolls to you the way the tide rushes to meet the shore. Breathes perfume and soap. You.

You in pure gunpowder shot form. Dynamite strong. Closes his eyes. Hugs you like he’s been lost at sea for months. Drugged on nearness.

Intoxicated on the fact you’re impossible and bolshy. Hardest, sharpest woman he’s ever met; yet you’re being so easy for him now. No challenge laid before him.

“Anything I can do?” You ask. Feeling the warmth of his skin under your palms where you slide down his shoulders. Kneading skin. Nails withdrawn tonight.

The air shifts on those words. Tumbles away like ash on the breeze.

He pulls back and gazes up at you. Flick of long lashes. Something stirs in his eyes. He looks up at you before suddenly he’s rising to his feet with the scrape of the chair slicing into the silence.

He cups the back of your neck and kisses you firmly. Cotton sleeves drape to your body as he pressed his whole self to you. His lips becomes insistent. Kiss warps into hunger.

He’s ripping away to nip your neck and lick kisses at your shoulders. Back pressed firmly up against the hard edge of the table. His body keeps you there. He’s pawing at your chemise. Melting his mouth to yours again as fumbled hands slip your skirts up.

He’s giving you kisses that make your heart slip to warm treacle. Pouring down your ribs and melting. Stunning your lips drunk that this is how he wants to soothe a bad day. With the endless press and utterly blotting sensation of you.

His cheeks are furiously pink. Eyes black savage pits. Lips all sore. He keeps his hold on your mouth and makes your breath come short.

He plucks you up off the floor and spreads you on the table like you’re the next dinner course. Whips your chemise up to your knees. Lays you back.

You gasp. “Paul. Here?”

He can offer no answer.

His eyes burn shiny with the newly unveiled skin of your thighs right down to your toes. The arch of your legs. Plump thigh. Shapely calves. Delicious pussy all bare. Lips plump and cast in firelight. Ready for him.

He throws one of your chunky thighs over his back, and takes to one knee to eat you out.

Bliss bites right through you - clean through - spiking your blushes to top pitch. Making you shiver. Thighs seek to curl around his head and your hand shoots up to rake your nails through his silky hair. 

You groan with the puffy glide of his fat tongue over your pussy. Lathing and searching. Swiping for your taste and diving for more. You taste like every tart sweet fruit - sugared and full with juice. Ripe to burst.

He doesn’t rush a single thing about this; takes his time to prod his tongue into you. Spread you open with tongue alone. Opens the bowl of your hips wide, wider, with his hands digging to the meat on your thighs. Fingers leaving dips in flesh.

Licks and laps at the new fresh slick he coaxed free. He’s chasing your pleasure. Not his. He’s going on search of it; a determined conquest. Touching you like you’re the holiest thing he’s ever known. Ever tasted.

You’re all sighs and easy moans as he digs his face into your mons. Inhaling the smell of your soap that clings to your curls. Eyes flutter closed with the pleasure of it.

“I love when you melt for me.” He says. Breath bursts in warm puffs over your pussy when he speaks. When you uncurl from being impossible and stubborn.

You catch sight of his lips. Glossy. He’s wearing a wet orange smear in the low amber light of the fire.

“I don’t melt for anyone. My angel.” You sigh. Hips leaping to his face as he suckles your clit like a nursing babe. Whining high as you slip your fingers through his scalp.

“Just you.” You gasp. Bliss draped upon every word.

His spit squelches into you. He spits and drools to make you wetter. He likes it. Spitting frothy globs into you, and scooping it out with his tongue when the taste has changed entirely to you. Swirling it around because he loves to have you dripping.

Juices are flowing out of you and dribbling slowly to leave a slippery stain on this shiny table. When he next eats a meal here, in this very chair. He’ll smile remembering this moment.

He twists his head to lap at a new angle. Eyes focused on yours. And it hurts to tear away. You watch him and it makes him want to cum in his breeches right then and there.

It’s hypnotic to have him work you over with his mouth. You adore it when there’s hate-fucking and anger involved; you simply shatter to incomprehensible pieces when there’s slow romantic passion, mixed into the bargain.

He eats you like he’s trying to study you with his tongue. Like he can root out some answers in your taste. That heady flavour of flesh and sex and woman - somehow tangy somehow sweet. Elixir of life;

He swirls tiny sloppy circles around the swelling bead of your clit. Fingertips coming into play - the man was a studying military strategist. That came into use in times like these; rubbing your folds - up down up down - before pushing those slick fingertips in. Sinking deep enough to earn a rise out of you.

He eases back, takes his tongue away to watch as he used just his fingers instead. Watching your face. Watching the glide and pump of curling them to you until he finds a rhythm that drags that silken and soaked giving spot a teasing tickle inside you.

When your hips start to jump and you start squirming. He knows he’s found what he’s after.

That divine spread inside you that rose with every knuckle deep thrust of his fingers. Every vicious swipe with his tongue that cracks flickers of lightning across your nerves. Makes you throb with it. God he’s good.

Suction coming relentless and heavy from his mouth, scorching patterns in harsh zig-zags across your swollen lips. Fingers encouraging that all encompassing pang of pleasure that will wipe out your brain to blank when you cum.

He’s digging his face right in and eating determinedly - relentlessly, to get after that leg shaking portion of your climax that’s steadily growing.

Terrifying trapping fingers travelling up your cunt walls as they flutter fast on his fingers. You’re laying back on the dining room table, near sobbing with the need to cum.

He’s just drinking in every sensation soaked second as he gulps you down. Half to ease away his tensions; half because making you cum has become an occupation that’s scored its devotion on his heart. When he dies he hopes they crack open his chest and find it sat there in bleeding tattooed letters. It feels like it should be.

Wordlessly, he brutally shoved you to the knife edge of your orgasm that has you literally bursting. The shudder of your hips betrays it first. How he doesn’t alter his pace; he keeps steady as he coaxed you through: the way you taught him.

Don’t speed up just because I’m close. Keep steady with whatever it is you’re doing.

You’d taught him that on your honeymoon hazy watercolour memories all misty to recall. With your clit captured in his mouth and your fingers fisted in his hair.

He’s a good student. He makes you gush into and all over his mouth. Spurting across the table top and he hums with the bliss of your release and doesn’t stop just because you do.

He drives and drags and slurps up every tender drop. Nurses you into the aftershocks with his tongue. Gentle gathered little noises as he swallows and gains his breath again. Tries to take control of his heart and the buzzing in his ears.

You’re slowly fading from shouts to whines. Fingers grappled into his on your now clammy thighs. Where you’d thrashed and wailed. Your hands held firm to him like anchors.

“My god, you give good head, my love.” You sigh. Back arching and your eyes still flicked closed.

“I was instructed by the best.” He insists. Before dropping an open mouthed kiss right on your cunt.

“Same time tomorrow?“ You ask with an impetuous smile. The clock strikes two.

He gazes back at from between your legs. Smile finally having returned. Eyes all slippery warm with passion.

“Minx.”

“Yes, but entirely yours.”

“Bed?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

~

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#Prince Paul #prince paul x you #prince paul x reader #prince paul x oc #prince paul fanfiction #prince paul smut #joseph quinn #prince paul catherine the great #catherine the great 2019 #prince paul imagine #prince paul fanfic #and prince paul #smutty #so much smut #so much hatefucking

[justburningdaylight]

Icarus and the Sun | S.H.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Female Reader

Summary: Reader's in love with her best friend. Considering she can’t tell him about this particular secret, she instead entrusts it to her diary, neglecting to remember Steve’s old habit of reading said diary.

Warnings: fluff (finally!), best friends to lovers, a little bit of kissing, multiple references to the greek myth about icarus and daedalus, glorification of bob dylan, spoiler free!

Word count: 3.4k

a/n: hi besties ! sorry i’ve been quiet lately but vol.2 dropped so here’s a lil somethin’ i wrote just for you <3 it’s one of my veeeery favourite works so far. i’m a firm believer in best friends to lovers supremacy and i figured it was time i gave y’all something sugary sweet instead of the usual mountain of angst. let me know what you think ! p.s. asks are open, come chat with meee !

Certain as the crashing tide always rises and the conflagrant sun always sets, you’re positively resolute that the secret you’re so strenuously harboring will always remain just that; A secret.

It’s trivial, you think, arduous, to venture into the plethora of prominent memories you benevolently share with your best friend and attempt to pinpoint the precise genesis of your affections.

Would it be helpful to reminisce upon the exact juncture in which love became love?

Would it be helpful to identify when, in your mind, his eyes stopped being brown? When they instead transformed into the purest shade of delectably rich milk chocolate. When the sticky, syrupy sweet pools of golden honey began to hold such a brilliant tepid glow to them that the sun itself could have seemed dull in comparison; the world itself could have seemed dull in comparison.

Would it be helpful to establish the specific moment that his laughter was no longer a sound? When the aforementioned laughter transmogrified into a mellifluous, harmonious symphony. When no vinyl or cassette tape that you owned could compare to the melodic original composition of his euphonic joy.

Would it be helpful to remember the first time a friendly touch led way to an ever-hastening heartbeat? When the gentle grazing of his fingertips against your skin set a metaphorical wildfire to the surrounding area, leaving the searing warmth no choice but to take up semi-permanent residence within your body, the remaining smoke loosely floating its way through your airways and constricting your heart in a biting display of affection.

Would any of this prove helpful? Considering you’ve inadvertently managed to fool Steve into a smooth and blissful ignorance of these feelings, why should it be helpful to dwell on the origins of your tender yearning?

The verisimilitude of the situation is as follows; You’re desperately in love with your best friend and he’s none the wiser to it. This is precisely how it should always remain; A secret held as though it were an oath, forged in love and kept in fear. You’ve not a doubt in your convoluted mind that the revelation of your feelings would negatively alter the course of your friendship, which is simply not something you’d ever be willing to risk.

But it’s been tearing you apart. The sheer density of the secret weighing you down is nearly unbearable and you need to emit your innermost sentiments before the tear gives way and splits you in two; One half of you finally free from carrying around the burden of unrequited love, whilst the other wanders around aimlessly, aching on the precipice of being demolished from the unwavering mass of her devotion.

For obvious reasons you find yourself unable to relinquish this information to Steve, the only person you would ordinarily trust with a secret so immense. Taking the current circumstances into account, you’re left with only one viable option to break your internal confidentiality.

Your diary.

The juvenile undertones of writing to your diary about this situation are not lost upon you, but desperate times call for the invocation of desperate measures. 

You don’t fight the triumphant simper that overtakes your lips when you manage to skillfully locate the well-worn diary, comfortably wedged on the bottom shelf between the sturdy wood of your trusty bookcase and your near-deteriorated copy of Little Women.

You’re instantly regretting the gentle blow of air you gave in an attempt to efface the wispy layer of dust coating the cover, your throat constricting as you breathe in the primitive particles. It’s been longer than you thought, you suppose, since you last publicized your internal conflicts in the pages of your diary.

Here goes nothing.

“-And it’s like, yeah, I get it, you wanna watch Top Gun, so does every other teenage girl on earth, that’s why we don’t have it right now!” Steve sibilates exasperatedly, tumbling jauntily onto your bed and landing on his back in the space beside you.

“I don’t really get the whole Tom Cruise thing,” You start, referencing the noticeable crush of whichever teen-aged girl it is that’s gotten under Steve’s skin at the video store today, “If we’re talking heartthrobs, he’s not coming anywhere near Rob Lowe.”

“Wha- Rob Lowe? Seriously? C’mon (y/n), did you even watch About Last Night? The best thing about that movie was Seger on the soundtrack.” Steve retorts, turning on his side to face you directly.

You make the intrepid decision of cultivating direct eye contact, instantly filling your insides to the brim with equal parts gratitude and regret.

His eyes hold all the warmth in the world, and you know this for a fact because the sun itself is resting contentedly inside of them. The longer you look, the more fervently the warmth spreads through you, and yet you can’t resist it. You find yourself no different from Icarus, flying ever-closer to the sun solely to bask in its warmth. And just like Icarus, you crave the proximity, consequences be damned. It was the death of him and you’re sure it’ll be the root of your own demise, but at this very moment you can’t find it within yourself to descend the smallest of distances, not even as you feel the wax starting to melt the feathers from your own back, dripping down carelessly into the sea below, you’ve simply no sense to heed Daedalus’s warning. This is the end, you think, and what a seraphic way to die.

“(y/n)? Did you hear me? ‘Cause usually you’d be fighting me to the death right now or something.”

“Yeah- Yeah I heard you, I just- I thought you needed a long silence to really soak in the idiocy of your words. You know, let it marinate a little.” You snap out of your reverie, grateful there’s no residual burn from your trip to the sun.

“Oh I’m marinating like a big juicy steak right now,” He scrunches his nose in a darling display of antipathy, a visible opposition to your words, “I just don’t get what you see in that guy.” There’s a certain deflation laced amongst his words as the sentence dies off. He wants to say more, he longs to say more, but at the potential of anything interfering with your friendship, he bites his tongue instead.

“Whatever. And to think I never said anything about that Jane Fonda poster you used to have hanging in your room.” You state with a deadpan delivery, quickly erupting into a fit of laughter once you catch sight of Steve’s mouth gaping like a fish, a playful expression of mock betrayal painting itself like a masterpiece upon his heavenly features.

It’s then that he regrets holding it in, with the canorous sound of your laughter floating impeccably through the air, with the empyrean sight of your face delicately scrunched up in amusement, with your hand right within perfect holding distance, practically begging to be intertwined with his own, it’s then that he wants to blurt it out. Hey (y/n), did you know that I’m wildly in love with you? Hope this doesn’t mess with the friendship we’ve had since we were six, he thinks, yeah that won’t backfire at all.

Your laughter gently subsides and you’re all too aware of Steve’s eyes on you as you cast your gaze upon the ceiling, as desperate as you are to bore your eyes into his own once again, you still feel the tepid remnants of your previous vacation to the sun inside, and you’re not ready to head back into the miraculously searing warmth just yet.

They take their time, his eyes, exploring each carefully crafted curve and bend delicately lining the gentle expanse of your face. They stop and ponder at how such true beauty can emanate from behind your eyes, even when they’re not directed at him.

There’s a shine to them, he notes. A glimmer of the moon he’s almost certain is carefully encased behind the irises of your eyes. When they look at him, really look at him, he can see the glisten of that fractured moonlight, gently casting its glow upon a quiet dark night. When they sparkle after one of his particularly atrocious jokes, he sees a shooting star soaring swiftly through the sky, illuminated by the moon aside it, he can almost feel it falling from your eyes and landing gently inside the confines of his own heart where it’s sure to thrive, fuelled by his admiration of it, fuelled by his admiration of you.

The modulation of your ringing doorbell snaps the two of you from your thoughts, leaving you both vexatiously unaware of how similar the meanings of those thoughts are.

“Not it!” You call, your voice combining with Steve’s.

“Noes goes!” Steve states, hurriedly placing his finger to the tip of his nose, not attempting to hide the confident and optimistic smile resting upon his tender pink lips.

“Ugh, no fair. You’re the one who wanted to order pizza in the first place! I have a perfectly good frozen one that could’ve been in our stomachs by now.” You gripe, reluctantly pulling yourself up from your bed and away from the ever-present warmth of your best friend.

“Yeah, ‘cause I’m gonna let you near an oven again. I still have nightmares about the last ‘pizza’ you cooked for me. No thanks.” He throws up air quotes around the word pizza, as if you had intentionally burnt the thing to an unrecognizable crisp. He’s the one who still ate it.

“Alright, fine. Just trying to offer you a nice home-cooked meal and this is the kind of thanks I get.” You sigh, placing a hand above your heart to further dramatize your dialogue.

He lets out a soft chuckle as he repositions himself on the bed, now laying his head on your pillow. You almost whisper an unintelligible thank you to the universe as you’re now certain your pillow will carry the delectable scent of Steve’s shampoo.

You’d likely have retracted those unspoken words of gratitude if you didn’t turn out of the room and head for the door so quickly. Perhaps if you waited just a moment more, you would have seen the somehow charming look of physical discomfort on Steve’s face as he feels a rigid protrusion from underneath your typically plush pillow.

He lifts his head, perplexed. After sliding his hand beneath the pillow, his nimble fingers form a grip on the source of his discomfort. He can’t repress the smile that graciously overtakes his lips as he pulls it out and discerns what it is.

Your diary.

He hasn’t seen the thing in ages, you had stopped writing in it years ago. His smile grows as he vividly remembers an excerpt from the time he’d read it in seventh grade, Bob Dylan is the greatest songwriter alive, and so incredibly handsome too… He teased you about it for months, it even led you to arguing over which of his albums is the best, a disagreement the two of you haven’t settled to this day. You, being of sound mind, are aware that Blonde on Blonde is one of the greatest albums ever written, but Steve swears it doesn’t top Highway 61 Revisited.

He lets out a diminutive snicker at the memory and decides he’s going to find that page and dredge up the old jokes he used to not-so gallantly taunt you with.

His lithe fingers move quickly and precisely as he gently unwraps the twine enveloping the book closed. There’s still a pen inside, acting as a bookmark. Maybe she had the same idea, he smiled to himself as he opened the diary to the marked page, his eyes wandering toward the first sentence scrawled across the slightly curled up piece of paper.

It’s hopeless to feel this way, and even more conceivably lame to be writing about it in a diary like a middle-schooler, but I have to get it out somehow and it’s not like I can tell Steve

Can’t tell Steve what? He thinks, eyebrows creasing together in confusion, we tell each other everything. Well, almost everything. Another thought occurs to your best friend, should I be reading this? But then he remembers that you likely haven’t touched the book in years, this is probably something you’ve long since forgotten about, just more fuel for the jokes he’s sure to aim your way. So he reads on.

I mean how would that conversation even go? “Hi Steve, I know you only see me as a friend considering we’ve been that to each other for over half our lives, but did you know that I’m completely in love with you? Oh you didn’t? Cool, well I’ll just see you later I guess” I don’t even know why I wrote that because I’m getting nauseous just thinking about it.

There’s no point in telling him anyway, he’d never feel the same way. And then I would ruin our friendship. Oh god I don’t even want to think about that. Why would I say that? This whole thing was entirely unhelpful. Another great idea (y/n)! So, bye I guess? Do you write that in a diary?

A quick glance at the date scribbled across the top of the page informs Steve that this was written only yesterday.

There should be a word for what Steve is feeling right now, a word to describe the complete and utter happiness, bewilderment, and relief coursing through his body. You loved him? You loved him? He can’t count on both hands how many times he’s backed out of telling you how he feels, ruled by the fear that his affections could be unrequited. Come to find out you feel the same way in all regards. There should be a word for what he’s feeling, but all he can think about is how grateful he is for the existence of words in general; For words, your words, are how he found out that you love him.

He’s donning a splendid, blinding smile. He feels as though it’s splitting his face in two, but he couldn’t subdue it if he tried. He’s aware that there’s a conversation to be had about privacy and personal boundaries but his grin just keeps growing, it’s nearly touching his ears when you finally return to your room, plates in your grip as you simultaneously and near-unsuccessfully attempt to juggle two glasses of water in your hands.

“Ummm. Little help? Please?” You murmur confusedly, taking in the paradisiacal sight of Steve’s broad smile.

“What? Oh-Uh yeah, yeah I gotcha.” He speedily grabs a plate and a glass from your hands, the gentle brush of his fingertips against your hand causing a trail of goosebumps to form along your flesh.

“What are you smilin’ about? You’re watching one of those Fonda aerobics tapes in your mind, aren’t you? Little perv.” You’re joking, but as heavenly as the view is, you’re questioning the sincere origins of his smile.

“Huh? No actually, I was- I was just thinkin’ about your diary. You remember this?” He’s still smiling that blissful smile as he holds up the aforementioned diary, wholly unaware of the dread that’s now coursing throughout your body.

Oh god, oh god, oh god. Please tell me he didn’t read it. Please, please, please.

“Y-yeah, mmhmm, yep. ‘Course I remember the ‘ol girl,” What are you saying right now? “Spent many a night wishing I never wrote about Bob Dylan on the cover of Street Legal,” You attempt a giggle but it verbalizes more as a nervous wince, “Definitely got your fair share of torture material out of that thing, didn’t you?” You end off with a shaky smile, disastrously attempting to quell the nerves soaring through your veins like a jet plane.

“Yeah. Yeah I did.” He states with that same smile, walking closer to you and discarding the plate and glass you’ve been clinging onto for dear life, placing them swiftly on your nightstand alongside his own. “Thought it would be fun to do a dramatic reading tonight, y’know? Bring some attention back to your love for old Bobby,” He’s still smiling as he takes another small step toward you, he’s still smiling and you think you’re going to pass out because you’re almost positive that he’s seen it, “I was gonna spend some time on it too, y’know? Really craft out my jokes.” He takes one final step toward you, and though every bone in your body is screaming for you to look away, you chance a look into his eyes once more.

You’re surprised by the sheer admiration you find inside them, dancing in perfect rhythm alongside the sun. “But then I read somethin’ else.” His voice is lower now, a quiet harmony of earnest elation and disbelief, almost as though he’s the one who can’t believe this is all happening. “I read somethin’ else and I need to know that it’s real. That you really mean what you wrote,” He’s almost whispering as he finishes his final sentence, bringing up a gentle hand and resting it tenderly on your cheek, his thumb grazing back and forth slowly as he gazes into your eyes, “Please tell me that you mean it.”

You can almost hear Daedalus now; See? It didn’t work out for you either and you had Icarus as an example! Because you did fly too close to the sun. The wax melted, trickling away like warm water, and the feathers followed suit, leaving you too close to the sun with no means of transportation. But you didn’t plunge into the hungry sea below. You didn’t meet a salty oceanic demise, because you had a paramount advantage over Icarus; The sun rose for you.

Suck it, Icarus.

It took you a moment, to recapture the breath Steve knocked out of your lungs with his lighthearted monologue, to think of anything besides the perfect sensation of his skin resting against your own, his thumb still rubbing indistinguishable shapes onto your cheek. When you belatedly muster up the courage to respond, you’re already smiling, “I’ve never meant anything more in my whole life.” 

That’s all Steve needed to hear, that’s all he’s ever wanted to hear. His eyes flicker down to your lips and back up to your own eyes, a silent request to stop talking about it and instead show each other just how desperately you both want this. You barely have time to nod your head before his lips are on your own.

There’s no word deserving enough to describe the way you feel when his lips brush delicately against your own, gentle and precarious, as though he’s expecting you to pull away, you don’t. You move in closer to him, deepening the kiss ardently as you place your arms around his neck, gingerly weaving your fingers through the hairs resting against the nape of his neck. He kisses you back fervently, his hands having found a new home on your waist, letting out a deeply delectable hum of bliss when you give a light tug to the tresses of his hair.

“God, I love you so much (y/n).” Steve murmurs against your lips, only pulling away long enough to utter the words before bringing your lips back to his own.

When you finally make the mutual decision to come up for air, you’re tenderly resting your forehead against Steve’s own, content to live in this moment for as long as humanly possible.

“I love you Steve. You probably figured that out by now but just thought I’d tell you, you know, in case you can’t read.”

“Oh yeah? Thanks, wouldn’t wanna let my illiteracy stand between me and my girl.” His girl? Guess the whole diary thing actually was a great idea.

“You know that was, like, a complete invasion of my privacy, right? Reading my diary? It wasn’t cool in seventh grade and it’s not cool now! Well- Actually, I guess it is kinda cool just this once ‘cause we- Just, don’t do it again, okay? I mean it.” You’re giving Steve your best attempt at a stern tone but you’re aware of the bright smiles covering both of your faces during this speech.

“Got it, no more diary reading. Hey, just to be clear, do you maybe think I’m so incredibly handsome?” He jokingly references your seventh grade diary entry once again with a ravishing smile, leading you to internally debate whether you should throttle him or kiss his delicate lips. You choose the latter, again.

“At the risk of slandering a legend, Dylan’s got nothin’ on you.”

“Woah! Big talk. I must be special.”

“Rob Lowe on the other hand…”

“Ha Ha,” 

“That was a joke right? I’m better than Rob Lowe?”

“Sure Steve.”

Certain as the crashing tide always rises and the conflagrant sun always sets, you’re positively relieved that the secret you’ve been so strenuously harboring is no longer a secret, but is instead the genesis of something new entirely.

You flew too close to the sun and lived to tell the tale.

#stranger things #steve harrington x reader